Nicholas Nickleby
by Charles Dickens
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 1 of 2

'Infernal cunning,' echoed two voices.

Nicholas was in a perfect agony as the two elderly gentlemen
opposite, rose one after the other and went away, lest they should
be the means of his losing one word of what was said. But the
conversation was suspended as they withdrew, and resumed with even
greater freedom when they had left the room.

'I am afraid,' said the younger gentleman, 'that the old woman has
grown jea-a-lous, and locked her up. Upon my soul it looks like
it.'

'If they quarrel and little Nickleby goes home to her mother, so
much the better,' said the first. 'I can do anything with the old
lady. She'll believe anything I tell her.'

'Egad that's true,' returned the other voice. 'Ha, ha, ha! Poor
deyvle!'

The laugh was taken up by the two voices which always came in
together, and became general at Mrs Nickleby's expense. Nicholas
turned burning hot with rage, but he commanded himself for the
moment, and waited to hear more.

What he heard need not be repeated here. Suffice it that as the
wine went round he heard enough to acquaint him with the characters
and designs of those whose conversation he overhead; to possess him
with the full extent of Ralph's villainy, and the real reason of his
own presence being required in London. He heard all this and more.
He heard his sister's sufferings derided, and her virtuous conduct
jeered at and brutally misconstrued; he heard her name bandied from
mouth to mouth, and herself made the subject of coarse and insolent
wagers, free speech, and licentious jesting.

The man who had spoken first, led the conversation, and indeed
almost engrossed it, being only stimulated from time to time by some
slight observation from one or other of his companions. To him then
Nicholas addressed himself when he was sufficiently composed to
stand before the party, and force the words from his parched and
scorching throat.

'Let me have a word with you, sir,' said Nicholas.

'With me, sir?' retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful
surprise.

'I said with you,' replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty,
for his passion choked him.

'A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry,
raising his wine-glass to his lips, and looking round upon his
friends.

'Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?'
said Nicholas sternly.

Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him
either name his business or leave the table.

Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.

'There, sir,' said Nicholas; 'my business you will guess.'

A momentary expression of astonishment, not unmixed with some
confusion, appeared in the face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name;
but he subdued it in an instant, and tossing the card to Lord
Verisopht, who sat opposite, drew a toothpick from a glass before
him, and very leisurely applied it to his mouth.

'Your name and address?' said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion
kindled.

'I shall give you neither,' replied Sir Mulberry.

'If there is a gentleman in this party,' said Nicholas, looking
round and scarcely able to make his white lips form the words, 'he
will acquaint me with the name and residence of this man.'

There was a dead silence.

'I am the brother of the young lady who has been the subject of
conversation here,' said Nicholas. 'I denounce this person as a
liar, and impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend here, he will
save him the disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name--and
utterly useless one--for I will find it out, nor leave him until I
have.'

Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his
companions, said--

'Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of his
station; and his pretty sister shall save him a broken head, if he
talks till midnight.'

'You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!' said Nicholas, 'and shall
be proclaimed so to the world. I WILL know you; I will follow you
home if you walk the streets till morning.'

Sir Mulberry's hand involuntarily closed upon the decanter, and he
seemed for an instant about to launch it at the head of his
challenger. But he only filled his glass, and laughed in derision.

Nicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and,
summoning the waiter, paid his bill.

'Do you know that person's name?' he inquired of the man in an
audible voice; pointing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.

Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always
spoken together, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.

'That gentleman, sir?' replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knew his
cue, and answered with just as little respect, and just as much
impertinence as he could safely show: 'no, sir, I do not, sir.'

'Here, you sir,' cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; 'do
you know THAT person's name?'

'Name, sir? No, sir.'

'Then you'll find it there,' said Sir Mulberry, throwing Nicholas's
card towards him; 'and when you have made yourself master of it, put
that piece of pasteboard in the fire--do you hear me?'

The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised
the matter by sticking the card in the chimney-glass. Having done
this, he retired.

Nicholas folded his arms, and biting his lip, sat perfectly quiet;
sufficiently expressing by his manner, however, a firm determination
to carry his threat of following Sir Mulberry home, into steady
execution.

It was evident from the tone in which the younger member of the
party appeared to remonstrate with his friend, that he objected to
this course of proceeding, and urged him to comply with the request
which Nicholas had made. Sir Mulberry, however, who was not quite
sober, and who was in a sullen and dogged state of obstinacy, soon
silenced the representations of his weak young friend, and further
seemed--as if to save himself from a repetition of them--to insist
on being left alone. However this might have been, the young
gentleman and the two who had always spoken together, actually rose
to go after a short interval, and presently retired, leaving their
friend alone with Nicholas.

It will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition of
Nicholas, the minutes appeared to move with leaden wings indeed, and
that their progress did not seem the more rapid from the monotonous
ticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of its little bell
which told the quarters. But there he sat; and in his old seat on
the opposite side of the room reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his
legs upon the cushion, and his handkerchief thrown negligently over
his knees: finishing his magnum of claret with the utmost coolness
and indifference.

Thus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour--
Nicholas would have thought for three hours at least, but that the
little bell had only gone four times. Twice or thrice he looked
angrily and impatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in the
same attitude, putting his glass to his lips from time to time, and
looking vacantly at the wall, as if he were wholly ignorant of the
presence of any living person.

At length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coolly to
the glass, and having surveyed himself therein, turned round and
honoured Nicholas with a long and contemptuous stare. Nicholas
stared again with right good-will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his
shoulders, smiled slightly, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to
help him on with his greatcoat.

The man did so, and held the door open.

'Don't wait,' said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.

Sir Mulberry took several turns up and down the room, whistling
carelessly all the time; stopped to finish the last glass of claret
which he had poured out a few minutes before, walked again, put on
his hat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves, and, at last,
walked slowly out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chafing until
he was nearly wild, darted from his seat, and followed him: so
closely, that before the door had swung upon its hinges after Sir
Mulberry's passing out, they stood side by side in the street
together.

There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the
apron, and jumped out to the horse's head.

'Will you make yourself known to me?' asked Nicholas in a suppressed
voice.

'No,' replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an
oath. 'No.'

'If you trust to your horse's speed, you will find yourself
mistaken,' said Nicholas. 'I will accompany you. By Heaven I will,
if I hang on to the foot-board.'

'You shall be horsewhipped if you do,' returned Sir Mulberry.

'You are a villain,' said Nicholas.

'You are an errand-boy for aught I know,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.

'I am the son of a country gentleman,' returned Nicholas, 'your
equal in birth and education, and your superior I trust in
everything besides. I tell you again, Miss Nickleby is my sister.
Will you or will you not answer for your unmanly and brutal
conduct?'

'To a proper champion--yes. To you--no,' returned Sir Mulberry,
taking the reins in his hand. 'Stand out of the way, dog. William,
let go her head.'

'You had better not,' cried Nicholas, springing on the step as Sir
Mulberry jumped in, and catching at the reins. 'He has no command
over the horse, mind. You shall not go--you shall not, I swear--
till you have told me who you are.'

The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high-spirited animal
and thorough-bred, plunged so violently that he could scarcely hold
her.

'Leave go, I tell you!' thundered his master.

The man obeyed. The animal reared and plunged as though it would
dash the carriage into a thousand pieces, but Nicholas, blind to all
sense of danger, and conscious of nothing but his fury, still
maintained his place and his hold upon the reins.

'Will you unclasp your hand?'

'Will you tell me who you are?'

'No!'

'No!'

In less time than the quickest tongue could tell it, these words
were exchanged, and Sir Mulberry shortening his whip, applied it
furiously to the head and shoulders of Nicholas. It was broken in
the struggle; Nicholas gained the heavy handle, and with it laid
open one side of his antagonist's face from the eye to the lip. He
saw the gash; knew that the mare had darted off at a wild mad
gallop; a hundred lights danced in his eyes, and he felt himself
flung violently upon the ground.

He was giddy and sick, but staggered to his feet directly, roused by
the loud shouts of the men who were tearing up the street, and
screaming to those ahead to clear the way. He was conscious of a
torrent of people rushing quickly by--looking up, could discern the
cabriolet whirled along the foot-pavement with frightful rapidity--
then heard a loud cry, the smashing of some heavy body, and the
breaking of glass--and then the crowd closed in in the distance, and
he could see or hear no more.

The general attention had been entirely directed from himself to the
person in the carriage, and he was quite alone. Rightly judging
that under such circumstances it would be madness to follow, he
turned down a bye-street in search of the nearest coach-stand,
finding after a minute or two that he was reeling like a drunken
man, and aware for the first time of a stream of blood that was
trickling down his face and breast.

CHAPTER 33

In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious
Process, from all Commerce with his Relations

Smike and Newman Noggs, who in his impatience had returned home long
before the time agreed upon, sat before the fire, listening
anxiously to every footstep on the stairs, and the slightest sound
that stirred within the house, for the approach of Nicholas. Time
had worn on, and it was growing late. He had promised to be back in
an hour; and his prolonged absence began to excite considerable
alarm in the minds of both, as was abundantly testified by the blank
looks they cast upon each other at every new disappointment.

At length a coach was heard to stop, and Newman ran out to light
Nicholas up the stairs. Beholding him in the trim described at the
conclusion of the last chapter, he stood aghast in wonder and
consternation.

'Don't be alarmed,' said Nicholas, hurrying him back into the room.
'There is no harm done, beyond what a basin of water can repair.'

'No harm!' cried Newman, passing his hands hastily over the back and
arms of Nicholas, as if to assure himself that he had broken no
bones. 'What have you been doing?'

'I know all,' interrupted Nicholas; 'I have heard a part, and
guessed the rest. But before I remove one jot of these stains, I
must hear the whole from you. You see I am collected. My
resolution is taken. Now, my good friend, speak out; for the time
for any palliation or concealment is past, and nothing will avail
Ralph Nickleby now.'

'Your dress is torn in several places; you walk lame, and I am sure
you are suffering pain,' said Newman. 'Let me see to your hurts
first.'

'I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little soreness and stiffness
that will soon pass off,' said Nicholas, seating himself with some
difficulty. 'But if I had fractured every limb, and still preserved
my senses, you should not bandage one till you had told me what I
have the right to know. Come,' said Nicholas, giving his hand to
Noggs. 'You had a sister of your own, you told me once, who died
before you fell into misfortune. Now think of her, and tell me,
Newman.'

'Yes, I will, I will,' said Noggs. 'I'll tell you the whole truth.'

Newman did so. Nicholas nodded his head from time to time, as it
corroborated the particulars he had already gleaned; but he fixed
his eyes upon the fire, and did not look round once.

His recital ended, Newman insisted upon his young friend's stripping
off his coat and allowing whatever injuries he had received to be
properly tended. Nicholas, after some opposition, at length
consented, and, while some pretty severe bruises on his arms and
shoulders were being rubbed with oil and vinegar, and various other
efficacious remedies which Newman borrowed from the different
lodgers, related in what manner they had been received. The recital
made a strong impression on the warm imagination of Newman; for when
Nicholas came to the violent part of the quarrel, he rubbed so hard,
as to occasion him the most exquisite pain, which he would not have
exhibited, however, for the world, it being perfectly clear that,
for the moment, Newman was operating on Sir Mulberry Hawk, and had
quite lost sight of his real patient.

This martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with Newman that while he was
otherwise occupied next morning, arrangements should be made for his
mother's immediately quitting her present residence, and also for
dispatching Miss La Creevy to break the intelligence to her. He
then wrapped himself in Smike's greatcoat, and repaired to the inn
where they were to pass the night, and where (after writing a few
lines to Ralph, the delivery of which was to be intrusted to Newman
next day), he endeavoured to obtain the repose of which he stood so
much in need.

Drunken men, they say, may roll down precipices, and be quite
unconscious of any serious personal inconvenience when their reason
returns. The remark may possibly apply to injuries received in
other kinds of violent excitement: certain it is, that although
Nicholas experienced some pain on first awakening next morning, he
sprung out of bed as the clock struck seven, with very little
difficulty, and was soon as much on the alert as if nothing had
occurred.

Merely looking into Smike's room, and telling him that Newman Noggs
would call for him very shortly, Nicholas descended into the street,
and calling a hackney coach, bade the man drive to Mrs Wititterly's,
according to the direction which Newman had given him on the
previous night.

It wanted a quarter to eight when they reached Cadogan Place.
Nicholas began to fear that no one might be stirring at that early
hour, when he was relieved by the sight of a female servant,
employed in cleaning the door-steps. By this functionary he was
referred to the doubtful page, who appeared with dishevelled hair
and a very warm and glossy face, as of a page who had just got out
of bed.

By this young gentleman he was informed that Miss Nickleby was then
taking her morning's walk in the gardens before the house. On the
question being propounded whether he could go and find her, the page
desponded and thought not; but being stimulated with a shilling, the
page grew sanguine and thought he could.

'Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in great haste
to see her,' said Nicholas.

The plated buttons disappeared with an alacrity most unusual to
them, and Nicholas paced the room in a state of feverish agitation
which made the delay even of a minute insupportable. He soon heard
a light footstep which he well knew, and before he could advance to
meet her, Kate had fallen on his neck and burst into tears.

'My darling girl,' said Nicholas as he embraced her. 'How pale you
are!'

'I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,' sobbed poor Kate; 'so
very, very miserable. Do not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or I
shall die of a broken heart.'

'I will leave you nowhere,' answered Nicholas--'never again, Kate,'
he cried, moved in spite of himself as he folded her to his heart.
'Tell me that I acted for the best. Tell me that we parted because
I feared to bring misfortune on your head; that it was a trial to me
no less than to yourself, and that if I did wrong it was in
ignorance of the world and unknowingly.'

'Why should I tell you what we know so well?' returned Kate
soothingly. 'Nicholas--dear Nicholas--how can you give way thus?'

'It is such bitter reproach to me to know what you have undergone,'
returned her brother; 'to see you so much altered, and yet so kind
and patient--God!' cried Nicholas, clenching his fist and suddenly
changing his tone and manner, 'it sets my whole blood on fire again.
You must leave here with me directly; you should not have slept here
last night, but that I knew all this too late. To whom can I speak,
before we drive away?'

This question was most opportunely put, for at that instant Mr
Wititterly walked in, and to him Kate introduced her brother, who at
once announced his purpose, and the impossibility of deferring it.

'The quarter's notice,' said Mr Wititterly, with the gravity of a
man on the right side, 'is not yet half expired. Therefore--'

'Therefore,' interposed Nicholas, 'the quarter's salary must be
lost, sir. You will excuse this extreme haste, but circumstances
require that I should immediately remove my sister, and I have not a
moment's time to lose. Whatever she brought here I will send for,
if you will allow me, in the course of the day.'

Mr Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposition to Kate's immediate
departure; with which, indeed, he was rather gratified than
otherwise, Sir Tumley Snuffim having given it as his opinion, that
she rather disagreed with Mrs Wititterly's constitution.

'With regard to the trifle of salary that is due,' said Mr
Wititterly, 'I will'--here he was interrupted by a violent fit of
coughing--'I will--owe it to Miss Nickleby.'

Mr Wititterly, it should be observed, was accustomed to owe small
accounts, and to leave them owing. All men have some little
pleasant way of their own; and this was Mr Wititterly's.

'If you please,' said Nicholas. And once more offering a hurried
apology for so sudden a departure, he hurried Kate into the vehicle,
and bade the man drive with all speed into the city.

To the city they went accordingly, with all the speed the hackney
coach could make; and as the horses happened to live at Whitechapel
and to be in the habit of taking their breakfast there, when they
breakfasted at all, they performed the journey with greater
expedition than could reasonably have been expected.

Nicholas sent Kate upstairs a few minutes before him, that his
unlooked-for appearance might not alarm his mother, and when the way
had been paved, presented himself with much duty and affection.
Newman had not been idle, for there was a little cart at the door,
and the effects were hurrying out already.

Now, Mrs Nickleby was not the sort of person to be told anything in
a hurry, or rather to comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy or
importance on a short notice. Wherefore, although the good lady had
been subjected to a full hour's preparation by little Miss La
Creevy, and was now addressed in most lucid terms both by Nicholas
and his sister, she was in a state of singular bewilderment and
confusion, and could by no means be made to comprehend the necessity
of such hurried proceedings.

'Why don't you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he can
possibly mean by it?' said Mrs Nickleby.

'My dear mother,' returned Nicholas, 'the time for talking has gone
by. There is but one step to take, and that is to cast him off with
the scorn and indignation he deserves. Your own honour and good
name demand that, after the discovery of his vile proceedings, you
should not be beholden to him one hour, even for the shelter of
these bare walls.'

'To be sure,' said Mrs Nickleby, crying bitterly, 'he is a brute, a
monster; and the walls are very bare, and want painting too, and I
have had this ceiling whitewashed at the expense of eighteen-pence,
which is a very distressing thing, considering that it is so much
gone into your uncle's pocket. I never could have believed it--
never.'

'Nor I, nor anybody else,' said Nicholas.

'Lord bless my life!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby. 'To think that that
Sir Mulberry Hawk should be such an abandoned wretch as Miss La
Creevy says he is, Nicholas, my dear; when I was congratulating
myself every day on his being an admirer of our dear Kate's, and
thinking what a thing it would be for the family if he was to become
connected with us, and use his interest to get you some profitable
government place. There are very good places to be got about the
court, I know; for a friend of ours (Miss Cropley, at Exeter, my
dear Kate, you recollect), he had one, and I know that it was the
chief part of his duty to wear silk stockings, and a bag wig like a
black watch-pocket; and to think that it should come to this after
all--oh, dear, dear, it's enough to kill one, that it is!'  With
which expressions of sorrow, Mrs Nickleby gave fresh vent to her
grief, and wept piteously.

As Nicholas and his sister were by this time compelled to
superintend the removal of the few articles of furniture, Miss La
Creevy devoted herself to the consolation of the matron, and
observed with great kindness of manner that she must really make an
effort, and cheer up.

'Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,' returned Mrs Nickleby, with a
petulance not unnatural in her unhappy circumstances, 'it's very
easy to say cheer up, but if you had as many occasions to cheer up
as I have had--and there,' said Mrs Nickleby, stopping short.
'Think of Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck, two of the most perfect gentlemen
that ever lived, what am I too say to them--what can I say to them?
Why, if I was to say to them, "I'm told your friend Sir Mulberry is
a base wretch," they'd laugh at me.'

'They will laugh no more at us, I take it,' said Nicholas,
advancing. 'Come, mother, there is a coach at the door, and until
Monday, at all events, we will return to our old quarters.'

'--Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into the
bargain,' added Miss La Creevy. 'Now, let me go with you
downstairs.'

But Mrs Nickleby was not to be so easily moved, for first she
insisted on going upstairs to see that nothing had been left, and
then on going downstairs to see that everything had been taken away;
and when she was getting into the coach she had a vision of a
forgotten coffee-pot on the back-kitchen hob, and after she was shut
in, a dismal recollection of a green umbrella behind some unknown
door. At last Nicholas, in a condition of absolute despair, ordered
the coachman to drive away, and in the unexpected jerk of a sudden
starting, Mrs Nickleby lost a shilling among the straw, which
fortunately confined her attention to the coach until it was too
late to remember anything else.

Having seen everything safely out, discharged the servant, and
locked the door, Nicholas jumped into a cabriolet and drove to a bye
place near Golden Square where he had appointed to meet Noggs; and
so quickly had everything been done, that it was barely half-past
nine when he reached the place of meeting.

'Here is the letter for Ralph,' said Nicholas, 'and here the key.
When you come to me this evening, not a word of last night. Ill
news travels fast, and they will know it soon enough. Have you
heard if he was much hurt?'

Newman shook his head.

'I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,' said Nicholas.

'You had better take some rest,' returned Newman. 'You are fevered
and ill.'

Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing the indisposition
he really felt, now that the excitement which had sustained him was
over, took a hurried farewell of Newman Noggs, and left him.

Newman was not three minutes' walk from Golden Square, but in the
course of that three minutes he took the letter out of his hat and
put it in again twenty times at least. First the front, then the
back, then the sides, then the superscription, then the seal, were
objects of Newman's admiration. Then he held it at arm's length as
if to take in the whole at one delicious survey, and then he rubbed
his hands in a perfect ecstasy with his commission.

He reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laid the
letter and key upon the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph
Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes, the well-known
creaking of his boots was heard on the stairs, and then the bell
rung.

'Has the post come in?'

'No.'

'Any other letters?'

'One.' Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.

'What's this?' asked Ralph, taking up the key.

'Left with the letter;--a boy brought them--quarter of an hour ago,
or less.'

Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as
follows:--

'You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I could heap upon
your head which would carry with them one thousandth part of the
grovelling shame that this assurance will awaken even in your
breast.

'Your brother's widow and her orphan child spurn the shelter of your
roof, and shun you with disgust and loathing. Your kindred renounce
you, for they know no shame but the ties of blood which bind them in
name with you.

'You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May every
recollection of your life cling to your false heart, and cast their
darkness on your death-bed.'

Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fell
into a fit of musing; the paper fluttered from his hand and dropped
upon the floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held it still.

Suddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it all crumpled
into his pocket, turned furiously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask
him why he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved, with his back
towards him, following up, with the worn and blackened stump of an
old pen, some figures in an Interest-table which was pasted against
the wall, and apparently quite abstracted from every other object.

CHAPTER 34

Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader
has been already made acquainted

'What a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this
confounded old cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every tinkle of which
is enough to throw a strong man into blue convulsions, upon my life
and soul, oh demmit,'--said Mr Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping
his boots, as he spoke, on Ralph Nickleby's scraper.

'I didn't hear the bell more than once,' replied Newman.

'Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,' said Mr
Mantalini, 'as deaf as a demnition post.'

Mr Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making
his way to the door of Ralph's office with very little ceremony,
when Newman interposed his body; and hinting that Mr Nickleby was
unwilling to be disturbed, inquired whether the client's business
was of a pressing nature.

'It is most demnebly particular,' said Mr Mantalini. 'It is to melt
some scraps of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling,
demd mint sauce.'

Newman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr Mantalini's
proffered card, limped with it into his master's office. As he
thrust his head in at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed the
thoughtful posture into which he had fallen after perusing his
nephew's letter, and that he seemed to have been reading it again,
as he once more held it open in his hand. The glance was but
momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed, turned to demand the cause of
the interruption.

As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and
grasping Ralph's horny hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he
had never seen him looking so well in all his life.

'There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance,' said Mr
Mantalini, seating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and
whiskers. 'You look quite juvenile and jolly, demmit!'

'We are alone,' returned Ralph, tartly. 'What do you want with me?'

'Good!' cried Mr Mantalini, displaying his teeth. 'What did I want!
Yes. Ha, ha! Very good. WHAT did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!'

'What DO you want, man?' demanded Ralph, sternly.

'Demnition discount,' returned Mr Mantalini, with a grin, and
shaking his head waggishly.

'Money is scarce,' said Ralph.

'Demd scarce, or I shouldn't want it,' interrupted Mr Mantalini.

'The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,' continued
Ralph. 'I don't want to do business just now, in fact I would
rather not; but as you are a friend--how many bills have you there?'

'Two,' returned Mr Mantalini.

'What is the gross amount?'

'Demd trifling--five-and-seventy.'

'And the dates?'

'Two months, and four.'

'I'll do them for you--mind, for YOU; I wouldn't for many people--
for five-and-twenty pounds,' said Ralph, deliberately.

'Oh demmit!' cried Mr Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably
at this handsome proposal.

'Why, that leaves you fifty,' retorted Ralph. 'What would you have?
Let me see the names.'

'You are so demd hard, Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr Mantalini.

'Let me see the names,' replied Ralph, impatiently extending his
hand for the bills. 'Well! They are not sure, but they are safe
enough. Do you consent to the terms, and will you take the money?
I don't want you to do so. I would rather you didn't.'

'Demmit, Nickleby, can't you--' began Mr Mantalini.

'No,' replied Ralph, interrupting him. 'I can't. Will you take the
money--down, mind; no delay, no going into the city and pretending
to negotiate with some other party who has no existence, and never
had. Is it a bargain, or is it not?'

Ralph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, and carelessly
rattled his cash-box, as though by mere accident. The sound was too
much for Mr Mantalini. He closed the bargain directly it reached
his ears, and Ralph told the money out upon the table.

He had scarcely done so, and Mr Mantalini had not yet gathered it
all up, when a ring was heard at the bell, and immediately
afterwards Newman ushered in no less a person than Madame Mantalini,
at sight of whom Mr Mantalini evinced considerable discomposure, and
swept the cash into his pocket with remarkable alacrity.

'Oh, you ARE here,' said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.

'Yes, my life and soul, I am,' replied her husband, dropping on his
knees, and pouncing with kitten-like playfulness upon a stray
sovereign. 'I am here, my soul's delight, upon Tom Tiddler's ground,
picking up the demnition gold and silver.'

'I am ashamed of you,' said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.

'Ashamed--of ME, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charming
sweetness, but naughty fibs,' returned Mr Mantalini. 'It knows it
is not ashamed of its own popolorum tibby.'

Whatever were the circumstances which had led to such a result, it
certainly appeared as though the popolorum tibby had rather
miscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady's affection.
Madame Mantalini only looked scornful in reply; and, turning to
Ralph, begged him to excuse her intrusion.

'Which is entirely attributable,' said Madame, 'to the gross
misconduct and most improper behaviour of Mr Mantalini.'

'Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!'

'Of you,' returned his wife. 'But I will not allow it. I will not
submit to be ruined by the extravagance and profligacy of any man.
I call Mr Nickleby to witness the course I intend to pursue with
you.'

'Pray don't call me to witness anything, ma'am,' said Ralph.
'Settle it between yourselves, settle it between yourselves.'

'No, but I must beg you as a favour,' said Madame Mantalini, 'to
hear me give him notice of what it is my fixed intention to do--my
fixed intention, sir,' repeated Madame Mantalini, darting an angry
look at her husband.

'Will she call me "Sir"?' cried Mantalini. 'Me who dote upon her
with the demdest ardour! She, who coils her fascinations round me
like a pure angelic rattlesnake! It will be all up with my
feelings; she will throw me into a demd state.'

'Don't talk of feelings, sir,' rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating
herself, and turning her back upon him. 'You don't consider mine.'

'I do not consider yours, my soul!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini.

'No,' replied his wife.

And notwithstanding various blandishments on the part of Mr
Mantalini, Madame Mantalini still said no, and said it too with such
determined and resolute ill-temper, that Mr Mantalini was clearly
taken aback.

'His extravagance, Mr Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini, addressing
herself to Ralph, who leant against his easy-chair with his hands
behind him, and regarded the amiable couple with a smile of the
supremest and most unmitigated contempt,--'his extravagance is
beyond all bounds.'

'I should scarcely have supposed it,' answered Ralph, sarcastically.

'I assure you, Mr Nickleby, however, that it is,' returned Madame
Mantalini. 'It makes me miserable! I am under constant
apprehensions, and in constant difficulty. And even this,' said
Madame Mantalini, wiping her eyes, 'is not the worst. He took some
papers of value out of my desk this morning without asking my
permission.'

Mr Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trousers pocket.

'I am obliged,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'since our late
misfortunes, to pay Miss Knag a great deal of money for having her
name in the business, and I really cannot afford to encourage him in
all his wastefulness. As I have no doubt that he came straight
here, Mr Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of, into
money, and as you have assisted us very often before, and are very
much connected with us in this kind of matters, I wish you to know
the determination at which his conduct has compelled me to arrive.'

Mr Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife's bonnet, and
fitting a sovereign into one of his eyes, winked with the other at
Ralph. Having achieved this performance with great dexterity, he
whipped the coin into his pocket, and groaned again with increased
penitence.

'I have made up my mind,' said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of
impatience manifested themselves in Ralph's countenance, 'to
allowance him.'

'To do that, my joy?' inquired Mr Mantalini, who did not seem to
have caught the words.

'To put him,' said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, and prudently
abstaining from the slightest glance at her husband, lest his many
graces should induce her to falter in her resolution, 'to put him
upon a fixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundred and
twenty pounds a year for his clothes and pocket-money, he may
consider himself a very fortunate man.'

Mr Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amount of the
proposed stipend, but when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and
cane upon the floor, and drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, gave
vent to his feelings in a dismal moan.

'Demnition!' cried Mr Mantalini, suddenly skipping out of his chair,
and as suddenly skipping into it again, to the great discomposure of
his lady's nerves. 'But no. It is a demd horrid dream. It is not
reality. No!'

Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr Mantalini closed his eyes
and waited patiently till such time as he should wake up.

'A very judicious arrangement,' observed Ralph with a sneer, 'if
your husband will keep within it, ma'am--as no doubt he will.'

'Demmit!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini, opening his eyes at the sound of
Ralph's voice, 'it is a horrid reality. She is sitting there before
me. There is the graceful outline of her form; it cannot be
mistaken--there is nothing like it. The two countesses had no
outlines at all, and the dowager's was a demd outline. Why is she
so excruciatingly beautiful that I cannot be angry with her, even
now?'

'You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,' returned Madame
Mantalini--still reproachfully, but in a softened tone.

'I am a demd villain!' cried Mr Mantalini, smiting himself on the
head. 'I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign in
halfpence and drown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angry
with her, even then, for I will put a note in the twopenny-post as I
go along, to tell her where the body is. She will be a lovely
widow. I shall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she will
laugh demnebly.'

'Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature,' said Madame Mantalini, sobbing
at the dreadful picture.

'She calls me cruel--me--me--who for her sake will become a demd,
damp, moist, unpleasant body!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini.

'You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a
thing,' replied Madame Mantalini.

'Can I live to be mistrusted?' cried her husband. 'Have I cut my
heart into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given
them all away, one after another, to the same little engrossing
demnition captivater, and can I live to be suspected by her?
Demmit, no I can't.'

'Ask Mr Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper
one,' reasoned Madame Mantalini.

'I don't want any sum,' replied her disconsolate husband; 'I shall
require no demd allowance. I will be a body.'

On this repetition of Mr Mantalini's fatal threat, Madame Mantalini
wrung her hands, and implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby;
and after a great quantity of tears and talking, and several
attempts on the part of Mr Mantalini to reach the door, preparatory
to straightway committing violence upon himself, that gentleman was
prevailed upon, with difficulty, to promise that he wouldn't be a
body. This great point attained, Madame Mantalini argued the
question of the allowance, and Mr Mantalini did the same, taking
occasion to show that he could live with uncommon satisfaction upon
bread and water, and go clad in rags, but that he could not support
existence with the additional burden of being mistrusted by the
object of his most devoted and disinterested affection. This
brought fresh tears into Madame Mantalini's eyes, which having just
begun to open to some few of the demerits of Mr Mantalini, were only
open a very little way, and could be easily closed again. The
result was, that without quite giving up the allowance question,
Madame Mantalini, postponed its further consideration; and Ralph
saw, clearly enough, that Mr Mantalini had gained a fresh lease of
his easy life, and that, for some time longer at all events, his
degradation and downfall were postponed.

'But it will come soon enough,' thought Ralph; 'all love--bah! that
I should use the cant of boys and girls--is fleeting enough; though
that which has its sole root in the admiration of a whiskered face
like that of yonder baboon, perhaps lasts the longest, as it
originates in the greater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime
the fools bring grist to my mill, so let them live out their day,
and the longer it is, the better.'

These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry
small caresses and endearments, supposed to be unseen, were
exchanged between the objects of his thoughts.

'If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr Nickleby,' said
Madame Mantalini, 'we will take our leaves. I am sure we have
detained him much too long already.'

Mr Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame
Mantalini several times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words
that he had nothing more to say.

'Demmit! I have, though,' he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph
into a corner. 'Here's an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry.
Such a demd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind of thing as never was
--eh?'

'What do you mean?' asked Ralph.

'Don't you know, demmit?' asked Mr Mantalini.

'I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last
night, and severely injured, and that his life is in some danger,'
answered Ralph with great composure; 'but I see nothing
extraordinary in that--accidents are not miraculous events, when men
live hard, and drive after dinner.'

'Whew!' cried Mr Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. 'Then don't
you know how it was?'

'Not unless it was as I have just supposed,' replied Ralph,
shrugging his shoulders carelessly, as if to give his questioner to
understand that he had no curiosity upon the subject.

'Demmit, you amaze me,' cried Mantalini.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders again, as if it were no great feat to
amaze Mr Mantalini, and cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman
Noggs, which had several times appeared behind a couple of panes of
glass in the room door; it being a part of Newman's duty, when
unimportant people called, to make various feints of supposing that
the bell had rung for him to show them out: by way of a gentle hint
to such visitors that it was time to go.

'Don't you know,' said Mr Mantalini, taking Ralph by the button,
'that it wasn't an accident at all, but a demd, furious,
manslaughtering attack made upon him by your nephew?'

'What!' snarled Ralph, clenching his fists and turning a livid
white.

'Demmit, Nickleby, you're as great a tiger as he is,' said
Mantalini, alarmed at these demonstrations.

'Go on,' cried Ralph. 'Tell me what you mean. What is this story?
Who told you? Speak,' growled Ralph. 'Do you hear me?'

''Gad, Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini, retreating towards his wife,
'what a demneble fierce old evil genius you are! You're enough to
frighten the life and soul out of her little delicious wits--flying
all at once into such a blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never
was, demmit!'

'Pshaw,' rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. 'It is but manner.'

'It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,'
said Mr Mantalini, picking up his cane.

Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr
Mantalini had derived his information.

'From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,'
replied Mantalini. 'Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.'

'And what said he?' asked Ralph, knitting his brows.

'That it happened this way--that your nephew met him at a
coffeehouse, fell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed
him to his cab, swore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon
the horse's back or hooked himself on to the horse's tail; smashed
his countenance, which is a demd fine countenance in its natural
state; frightened the horse, pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself,
and--'

'And was killed?' interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. 'Was he? Is
he dead?'

Mantalini shook his head.

'Ugh,' said Ralph, turning away. 'Then he has done nothing. Stay,'
he added, looking round again. 'He broke a leg or an arm, or put
his shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib or
two? His neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and
slow-healing injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard
that, at least.'

'No,' rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. 'Unless he was
dashed into such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn't hurt,
for he went off as quiet and comfortable as--as--as demnition,' said
Mr Mantalini, rather at a loss for a simile.

'And what,' said Ralph, hesitating a little, 'what was the cause of
quarrel?'

'You are the demdest, knowing hand,' replied Mr Mantalini, in an
admiring tone, 'the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox--oh
dem!--to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed
niece--the softest, sweetest, prettiest--'

'Alfred!' interposed Madame Mantalini.

'She is always right,' rejoined Mr Mantalini soothingly, 'and when
she says it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and when
she walks along the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say,
with envy, she has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say
with rapture, he has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be
right and neither wrong, upon my life and soul--oh demmit!'

With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the
purpose, Mr Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph
Nickleby, and drawing his lady's arm through his, led her mincingly
away.

'So, so,' muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; 'this devil is
loose again, and thwarting me, as he was born to do, at every turn.
He told me once there should be a day of reckoning between us,
sooner or later. I'll make him a true prophet, for it shall surely
come.'

'Are you at home?' asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.

'No,' replied Ralph, with equal abruptness.

Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.

'You're quite sure you're not at home, are you?' said Newman.

'What does the idiot mean?' cried Ralph, testily.

'He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may
have heard your voice--that's all,' said Newman, rubbing his hands.

'Who has?' demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence he had just
heard, and his clerk's provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of
irritation.

The necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked-for entrance
of a third party--the individual in question--who, bringing his one
eye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph Nickleby, made a great
many shambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with his
hands on his knees, and his short black trousers drawn up so high in
the legs by the exertion of seating himself, that they scarcely
reached below the tops of his Wellington boots.'

'Why, this IS a surprise!' said Ralph, bending his gaze upon the
visitor, and half smiling as he scrutinised him attentively; 'I
should know your face, Mr Squeers.'

'Ah!' replied that worthy, 'and you'd have know'd it better, sir, if
it hadn't been for all that I've been a-going through. Just lift
that little boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and tell him
to come in here, will you, my man?' said Squeers, addressing himself
to Newman. 'Oh, he's lifted his-self off. My son, sir, little
Wackford. What do you think of him, sir, for a specimen of the
Dotheboys Hall feeding? Ain't he fit to bust out of his clothes,
and start the seams, and make the very buttons fly off with his
fatness? Here's flesh!' cried Squeers, turning the boy about, and
indenting the plumpest parts of his figure with divers pokes and
punches, to the great discomposure of his son and heir. 'Here's
firmness, here's solidness! Why you can hardly get up enough of him
between your finger and thumb to pinch him anywheres.'

In however good condition Master Squeers might have been, he
certainly did not present this remarkable compactness of person, for
on his father's closing his finger and thumb in illustration of his
remark, he uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the most
natural manner possible.

'Well,' remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, 'I had him there;
but that's because we breakfasted early this morning, and he hasn't
had his lunch yet. Why you couldn't shut a bit of him in a door,
when he's had his dinner. Look at them tears, sir,' said Squeers,
with a triumphant air, as Master Wackford wiped his eyes with the
cuff of his jacket, 'there's oiliness!'

'He looks well, indeed,' returned Ralph, who, for some purposes of
his own, seemed desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. 'But how
is Mrs Squeers, and how are you?'

'Mrs Squeers, sir,' replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, 'is as she
always is--a mother to them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort, and
a joy to all them as knows her. One of our boys--gorging his-self
with vittles, and then turning in; that's their way--got a abscess
on him last week. To see how she operated upon him with a pen-knife!
Oh Lor!' said Squeers, heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great
many times, 'what a member of society that woman is!'

Mr Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarter of a
minute, as if this allusion to his lady's excellences had naturally
led his mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge
in Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waiting for him to say
something.

'Have you quite recovered that scoundrel's attack?' asked Ralph.

'I've only just done it, if I've done it now,' replied Squeers. 'I
was one blessed bruise, sir,' said Squeers, touching first the roots
of his hair, and then the toes of his boots, 'from HERE to THERE.
Vinegar and brown paper, vinegar and brown paper, from morning to
night. I suppose there was a matter of half a ream of brown paper
stuck upon me, from first to last. As I laid all of a heap in our
kitchen, plastered all over, you might have thought I was a large
brown-paper parcel, chock full of nothing but groans. Did I groan
loud, Wackford, or did I groan soft?' asked Mr Squeers, appealing to
his son.

'Loud,' replied Wackford.

'Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition,
Wackford, or was they glad?' asked Mr Squeers, in a sentimental
manner.

'Gl--'

'Eh?' cried Squeers, turning sharp round.

'Sorry,' rejoined his son.

'Oh!' said Squeers, catching him a smart box on the ear. 'Then take
your hands out of your pockets, and don't stammer when you're asked
a question. Hold your noise, sir, in a gentleman's office, or I'll
run away from my family and never come back any more; and then what
would become of all them precious and forlorn lads as would be let
loose on the world, without their best friend at their elbers?'

'Were you obliged to have medical attendance?' inquired Ralph.

'Ay, was I,' rejoined Squeers, 'and a precious bill the medical
attendant brought in too; but I paid it though.'

Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might be expressive of
either sympathy or astonishment--just as the beholder was pleased to
take it.

'Yes, I paid it, every farthing,' replied Squeers, who seemed to
know the man he had to deal with, too well to suppose that any
blinking of the question would induce him to subscribe towards the
expenses; 'I wasn't out of pocket by it after all, either.'

'No!' said Ralph.

'Not a halfpenny,' replied Squeers. 'The fact is, we have only one
extra with our boys, and that is for doctors when required--and not
then, unless we're sure of our customers. Do you see?'

'I understand,' said Ralph.

'Very good,' rejoined Squeers. 'Then, after my bill was run up, we
picked out five little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure
pay) that had never had the scarlet fever, and we sent one to a
cottage where they'd got it, and he took it, and then we put the
four others to sleep with him, and THEY took it, and then the doctor
came and attended 'em once all round, and we divided my total among
'em, and added it on to their little bills, and the parents paid it.
Ha! ha! ha!'

'And a good plan too,' said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.

'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers. 'We always do it. Why, when Mrs
Squeers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the
hooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged her expenses
among 'em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!'

Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest
approach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr Squeers had
enjoyed the professional joke to his heart's content, inquired what
had brought him to town.

'Some bothering law business,' replied Squeers, scratching his head,
'connected with an action, for what they call neglect of a boy. I
don't know what they would have. He had as good grazing, that boy
had, as there is about us.'

Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.

'Grazing,' said Squeers, raising his voice, under the impression
that as Ralph failed to comprehend him, he must be deaf. 'When a
boy gets weak and ill and don't relish his meals, we give him a
change of diet--turn him out, for an hour or so every day, into a
neighbour's turnip field, or sometimes, if it's a delicate case, a
turnip field and a piece of carrots alternately, and let him eat as
many as he likes. There an't better land in the country than this
perwerse lad grazed on, and yet he goes and catches cold and
indigestion and what not, and then his friends brings a lawsuit
against ME! Now, you'd hardly suppose,' added Squeers, moving in
his chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, 'that people's
ingratitude would carry them quite as far as that; would you?'

'A hard case, indeed,' observed Ralph.

'You don't say more than the truth when you say that,' replied
Squeers. 'I don't suppose there's a man going, as possesses the
fondness for youth that I do. There's youth to the amount of eight
hundred pound a year at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I'd
take sixteen hundred pound worth if I could get 'em, and be as fond
of every individual twenty pound among 'em as nothing should equal
it!'

'Are you stopping at your old quarters?' asked Ralph.

'Yes, we are at the Saracen,' replied Squeers, 'and as it don't want
very long to the end of the half-year, we shall continney to stop
there till I've collected the money, and some new boys too, I hope.
I've brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and
guardians. I shall put him in the advertisement, this time. Look
at that boy--himself a pupil. Why he's a miracle of high feeding,
that boy is!'

'I should like to have a word with you,' said Ralph, who had both
spoken and listened mechanically for some time, and seemed to have
been thinking.

'As many words as you like, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Wackford, you
go and play in the back office, and don't move about too much or
you'll get thin, and that won't do. You haven't got such a thing as
twopence, Mr Nickleby, have you?' said Squeers, rattling a bunch of
keys in his coat pocket, and muttering something about its being all
silver.

'I--think I have,' said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after
much rummaging in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two
farthings.

'Thankee,' said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. 'Here! You go
and buy a tart--Mr Nickleby's man will show you where--and mind you
buy a rich one. Pastry,' added Squeers, closing the door on Master
Wackford, 'makes his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks
that a healthy sign.'

With this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke it out,
Mr Squeers moved his chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph
Nickleby at no great distance off; and having planted it to his
entire satisfaction, sat down.

'Attend to me,' said Ralph, bending forward a little.

Squeers nodded.

'I am not to suppose,' said Ralph, 'that you are dolt enough to
forgive or forget, very readily, the violence that was committed
upon you, or the exposure which accompanied it?'

'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers, tartly.

'Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you
could get one?' said Ralph.

'Show me one, and try,' rejoined Squeers.

'Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?' said
Ralph, raising his eyes to the schoolmaster's face.

'N-n-no, I don't know that,' replied Squeers. 'I thought that if it
was in your power to make me, besides the trifle of money you sent,
any compensation--'

'Ah!' cried Ralph, interrupting him. 'You needn't go on.'

After a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in
contemplation, he again broke silence by asking:

'Who is this boy that he took with him?'

Squeers stated his name.

'Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable or rebellious?
Speak out, man,' retorted Ralph.

'Why, he wasn't young,' answered Squeers; 'that is, not young for a
boy, you know.'

'That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?' interrupted Ralph.

'Well,' returned Squeers, briskly, as if he felt relieved by the
suggestion, 'he might have been nigh twenty. He wouldn't seem so
old, though, to them as didn't know him, for he was a little wanting
here,' touching his forehead; 'nobody at home, you know, if you
knocked ever so often.'

'And you DID knock pretty often, I dare say?' muttered Ralph.

'Pretty well,' returned Squeers with a grin.

'When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt of this trifle of money
as you call it,' said Ralph, 'you told me his friends had deserted
him long ago, and that you had not the faintest clue or trace to
tell you who he was. Is that the truth?'

'It is, worse luck!' replied Squeers, becoming more and more easy
and familiar in his manner, as Ralph pursued his inquiries with the
less reserve. 'It's fourteen years ago, by the entry in my book,
since a strange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and
left him there; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in
advance. He might have been five or six year old at that time--not
more.'

'What more do you know about him?' demanded Ralph.

'Devilish little, I'm sorry to say,' replied Squeers. 'The money
was paid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He had
given an address in London, had this chap; but when it came to the
point, of course nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the
lad out of--out of--'

'Charity?' suggested Ralph drily.

'Charity, to be sure,' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'and
when he begins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this young
scoundrel of a Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the most
vexatious and aggeravating part of the whole affair is,' said
Squeers, dropping his voice, and drawing his chair still closer to
Ralph, 'that some questions have been asked about him at last--not
of me, but, in a roundabout kind of way, of people in our village.
So, that just when I might have had all arrears paid up, perhaps,
and perhaps--who knows? such things have happened in our business
before--a present besides for putting him out to a farmer, or
sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to disgrace his
parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our boys are
--damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don't collar him in open day,
and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.'

'We will both cry quits with him before long,' said Ralph, laying
his hand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.

'Quits!' echoed Squeers. 'Ah! and I should like to leave a small
balance in his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs
Squeers could catch hold of him. Bless her heart! She'd murder
him, Mr Nickleby--she would, as soon as eat her dinner.'

'We will talk of this again,' said Ralph. 'I must have time to
think of it. To wound him through his own affections and fancies--.
If I could strike him through this boy--'

'Strike him how you like, sir,' interrupted Squeers, 'only hit him
hard enough, that's all--and with that, I'll say good-morning.
Here!--just chuck that little boy's hat off that corner peg, and
lift him off the stool will you?'

Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr Squeers betook himself to
the little back-office, and fitted on his child's hat with parental
anxiety, while Newman, with his pen behind his ear, sat, stiff and
immovable, on his stool, regarding the father and son by turns with
a broad stare.

'He's a fine boy, an't he?' said Squeers, throwing his head a little
on one side, and falling back to the desk, the better to estimate
the proportions of little Wackford.

'Very,' said Newman.

'Pretty well swelled out, an't he?' pursued Squeers. 'He has the
fatness of twenty boys, he has.'

'Ah!' replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of
Squeers, 'he has;--the fatness of twenty!--more! He's got it all.
God help that others. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!'

Having uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon
his desk and began to write with most marvellous rapidity.

'Why, what does the man mean?' cried Squeers, colouring. 'Is he
drunk?'

Newman made no reply.

'Is he mad?' said Squeers.

But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his
own; so, Mr Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both
drunk AND mad; and, with this parting observation, he led his
hopeful son away.

In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of a
struggling and lingering regard for Kate, had his detestation of
Nicholas augmented. It might be, that to atone for the weakness of
inclining to any one person, he held it necessary to hate some other
more intensely than before; but such had been the course of his
feelings. And now, to be defied and spurned, to be held up to her
in the worst and most repulsive colours, to know that she was taught
to hate and despise him: to feel that there was infection in his
touch, and taint in his companionship--to know all this, and to know
that the mover of it all was that same boyish poor relation who had
twitted him in their very first interview, and openly bearded and
braved him since, wrought his quiet and stealthy malignity to such a
pitch, that there was scarcely anything he would not have hazarded
to gratify it, if he could have seen his way to some immediate
retaliation.

But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; and although
he cast about all that day, and kept a corner of his brain working
on the one anxious subject through all the round of schemes and
business that came with it, night found him at last, still harping
on the same theme, and still pursuing the same unprofitable
reflections.

'When my brother was such as he,' said Ralph, 'the first comparisons
were drawn between us--always in my disfavour. HE was open,
liberal, gallant, gay; I a crafty hunks of cold and stagnant blood,
with no passion but love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst
for gain. I recollected it well when I first saw this whipster; but
I remember it better now.'

He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas's letter into atoms; and as
he spoke, he scattered it in a tiny shower about him.

'Recollections like these,' pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile,
'flock upon me--when I resign myself to them--in crowds, and from
countless quarters. As a portion of the world affect to despise the
power of money, I must try and show them what it is.'

And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind for slumber,
Ralph Nickleby went to bed.

CHAPTER 35

Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets
with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family

Having established his mother and sister in the apartments of the
kind-hearted miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry
Hawk was in no danger of losing his life, Nicholas turned his
thoughts to poor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman Noggs,
had remained, in a disconsolate state, at that worthy creature's
lodgings, waiting, with much anxiety, for further intelligence of
his protector.

'As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we live, or
whatever fortune is in reserve for us,' thought Nicholas, 'I must
present the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him for
his own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent
I could wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.'

Nicholas said 'they', but his misgivings were confined to one
person. He was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother's
peculiarities, and was not quite so certain that Smike would find
favour in the eyes of Mrs Nickleby.

'However,' thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent errand;
'she cannot fail to become attached to him, when she knows what a
devoted creature he is, and as she must quickly make the discovery,
his probation will be a short one.'

'I was afraid,' said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again, 'that
you had fallen into some fresh trouble; the time seemed so long, at
last, that I almost feared you were lost.'

'Lost!' replied Nicholas gaily. 'You will not be rid of me so
easily, I promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousand
times yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me down, the more
quickly I shall rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take
you home.'

'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.

'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'

'I had such hopes once,' said Smike; 'day and night, day and night,
for many years. I longed for home till I was weary, and pined away
with grief, but now--'

'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. 'What
now, old friend?'

'I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,' replied
Smike, pressing his hand; 'except one, except one. I shall never be
an old man; and if your hand placed me in the grave, and I could
think, before I died, that you would come and look upon it sometimes
with one of your kind smiles, and in the summer weather, when
everything was alive--not dead like me--I could go to that home
almost without a tear.'

'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with
me?' said Nicholas.

'Because I should change; not those about me. And if they forgot
me, I should never know it,' replied Smike. 'In the churchyard we
are all alike, but here there are none like me. I am a poor
creature, but I know that.'

'You are a foolish, silly creature,' said Nicholas cheerfully. 'If
that is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here's a dismal face
for ladies' company!--my pretty sister too, whom you have so often
asked me about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for
shame!'

Smike brightened up and smiled.

'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine--which is
yours of course. If it were defined by any particular four walls
and a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to say
whereabouts it lay; but that is not what I mean. When I speak of
home, I speak of the place where--in default of a better--those I
love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy's tent,
or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.
And now, for what is my present home, which, however alarming your
expectations may be, will neither terrify you by its extent nor its
magnificence!'

So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a
great deal more to the same purpose, and pointing out various things
to amuse and interest him as they went along, led the way to Miss La
Creevy's house.

'And this, Kate,' said Nicholas, entering the room where his sister
sat alone, 'is the faithful friend and affectionate fellow-traveller
whom I prepared you to receive.'

Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at
first, but Kate advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a
sweet voice, how anxious she had been to see him after all her
brother had told her, and how much she had to thank him for having
comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he
began to be very doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and
became still more flurried. However, he managed to say, in a broken
voice, that Nicholas was his only friend, and that he would lay down
his life to help him; and Kate, although she was so kind and
considerate, seemed to be so wholly unconscious of his distress and
embarrassment, that he recovered almost immediately and felt quite
at home.

Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be presented
also. And Miss La Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully
talkative: not to Smike, for that would have made him uneasy at
first, but to Nicholas and his sister. Then, after a time, she
would speak to Smike himself now and then, asking him whether he was
a judge of likenesses, and whether he thought that picture in the
corner was like herself, and whether he didn't think it would have
looked better if she had made herself ten years younger, and whether
he didn't think, as a matter of general observation, that young
ladies looked better not only in pictures, but out of them too, than
old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious remarks, which
were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that Smike
thought, within himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen;
even nicer than Mrs Grudden, of Mr Vincent Crummles's theatre; and
she was a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly
louder, than Miss La Creevy.

At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in; and
Nicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling
her his mother, led her towards the chair from which Smike had risen
when she entered the room.

'You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed, my
dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'so you will be favourably disposed
towards him, I know.'

'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking very
hard at her new friend, and bending to him with something more of
majesty than the occasion seemed to require: 'I am sure any friend
of yours has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must have,
of course, you know, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a
very great pleasure to me to be introduced to anybody you take an
interest in. There can 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
Nickleby, turning round with an air of less reserve than she had
before assumed, 'what your friend's name is.'

'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'

The effect of this communication was by no means anticipated; but
the name was no sooner pronounced, than Mrs Nickleby dropped upon a
chair, and burst into a fit of crying.

'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.

'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke. Oh!
don't speak to me--I shall be better presently.'

And after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all its
stages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a full
tumbler, and spilling the remainder, Mrs Nickleby WAS better, and
remarked, with a feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.

'It's a weakness in our family,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'so, of course,
I can't be blamed for it. Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly the
same--precisely. The least excitement, the slightest surprise--she
fainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, that
when she was a young lady, and before she was married, she was
turning a corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran against
her own hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;--the
mere suddenness of the encounter made her faint away directly.
Wait, though,' added Mrs Nickleby, pausing to consider. 'Let me be
sure I'm right. Was it her hairdresser who had escaped from a bear,
or was it a bear who had escaped from her hairdresser's? I declare
I can't remember just now, but the hairdresser was a very handsome
man, I know, and quite a gentleman in his manners; so that it has
nothing to do with the point of the story.'

Mrs Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her
retrospective moods, improved in temper from that moment, and
glided, by an easy change of the conversation occasionally, into
various other anecdotes, no less remarkable for their strict
application to the subject in hand.

'Mr Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs Nickleby,
after dinner, and when she had been silent for some time.

'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not
forgotten his melancholy history.'

'O dear no,' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Ah! melancholy, indeed. You
don't happen, Mr Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of
Grimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding, do you?' said the good
lady, addressing herself to him. 'A very proud man, Sir Thomas
Grimble, with six grown-up and most lovely daughters, and the finest
park in the county.'

'My dear mother,' reasoned Nicholas, 'do you suppose that the
unfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receive many
cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in the
neighbourhood?'

'Really, my dear, I don't know why it should be so very
extraordinary,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I know that when I was at
school, I always went at least twice every half-year to the
Hawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer than the
Grimbles, and connected with them in marriage; so you see it's not
so very unlikely, after all.'

Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs Nickleby was
suddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an
irresistible tendency to call him Mr Slammons; which circumstance
she attributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names in
point of sound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt
with an M. But whatever doubt there might be on this point, there
was none as to his being a most excellent listener; which
circumstance had considerable influence in placing them on the very
best terms, and inducing Mrs Nickleby to express the highest opinion
of his general deportment and disposition.

Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and agreeable
footing, until the Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself
from it for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the state of his
affairs, and to determine, if he could, upon some course of life,
which would enable him to support those who were so entirely
dependent upon his exertions.

Mr Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate was
acquainted with the whole history of his connection with that
gentleman, his mother was not; and he foresaw a thousand fretful
objections, on her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage.
There were graver reasons, too, against his returning to that mode
of life. Independently of those arising out of its spare and
precarious earnings, and his own internal conviction that he could
never hope to aspire to any great distinction, even as a provincial
actor, how could he carry his sister from town to town, and place to
place, and debar her from any other associates than those with whom
he would be compelled, almost without distinction, to mingle? 'It
won't do,' said Nicholas, shaking his head; 'I must try something
else.'

It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into
effect. With no greater experience of the world than he had
acquired for himself in his short trials; with a sufficient share of
headlong rashness and precipitation (qualities not altogether
unnatural at his time of life); with a very slender stock of money,
and a still more scanty stock of friends; what could he do? 'Egad!'
said Nicholas, 'I'll try that Register Office again.'

He smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for, an
instant before, he had been internally blaming his own
precipitation. He did not laugh himself out of the intention,
however, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he approached the
place, all kinds of splendid possibilities, and impossibilities too,
for that matter, and thinking himself, perhaps with good reason,
very fortunate to be endowed with so buoyant and sanguine a
temperament.

The office looked just the same as when he had left it last, and,
indeed, with one or two exceptions, there seemed to be the very same
placards in the window that he had seen before. There were the same
unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous servants,
and the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable masters and
mistresses, and the same magnificent estates for the investment of
capital, and the same enormous quantities of capital to be invested
in estates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all sorts for
people who wanted to make their fortunes. And a most extraordinary
proof it was of the national prosperity, that people had not been
found to avail themselves of such advantages long ago.

As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman
happened to stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the
window-panes from left to right in search of some capital-text
placard which should be applicable to his own case, caught sight of
this old gentleman's figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyes
from the window, to observe the same more closely.

He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, made pretty
large, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky legs
clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head protected by
a low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy grazier
might wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled double chin
rested in the folds of a white neckerchief--not one of your stiff-
starched apoplectic cravats, but a good, easy, old-fashioned white
neckcloth that a man might go to bed in and be none the worse for.
But what principally attracted the attention of Nicholas was the old
gentleman's eye,--never was such a clear, twinkling, honest, merry,
happy eye, as that. And there he stood, looking a little upward,
with one hand thrust into the breast of his coat, and the other
playing with his old-fashioned gold watch-chain: his head thrown a
little on one side, and his hat a little more on one side than his
head, (but that was evidently accident; not his ordinary way of
wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing about his mouth, and
such a comical expression of mingled slyness, simplicity, kind-
heartedness, and good-humour, lighting up his jolly old face, that
Nicholas would have been content to have stood there and looked at
him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile, that there was
such a thing as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance to be met
with in the whole wide world.

But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not to be
made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of having been the
subject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas; and the
latter, fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the
window instantly.

Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to
placard, and Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his face
again. Grafted upon the quaintness and oddity of his appearance,
was something so indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much
worth, and there were so many little lights hovering about the
corners of his mouth and eyes, that it was not a mere amusement, but
a positive pleasure and delight to look at him.

This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught
Nicholas in the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholas
coloured and looked embarrassed: for the truth is, that he had begun
to wonder whether the stranger could, by any possibility, be looking
for a clerk or secretary; and thinking this, he felt as if the old
gentleman must know it.

Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of
minutes in passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholas
caught his eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the moment,
stammered out an apology.

'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.

This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so exactly
what it should have been from such a speaker, and there was such a
cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas was emboldened to speak
again.

'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as he
motioned towards the window.

'A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have
seriously thought so very often, I dare say,' replied the old man.
'Poor fellows, poor fellows!'

He moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was about to
speak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to
cut him short. After a little of that hesitation which may be
sometimes observed between two people in the street who have
exchanged a nod, and are both uncertain whether they shall turn back
and speak, or not, Nicholas found himself at the old man's side.

'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to
say?'

'Merely that I almost hoped--I mean to say, thought--you had some
object in consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.

'Ay, ay? what object now--what object?' returned the old man,
looking slyly at Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now
--eh? Did you think I did?'

Nicholas shook his head.

'Ha! ha!' laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and wrists as
if he were washing them. 'A very natural thought, at all events,
after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same of you,
at first; upon my word I did.'

'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been
far from the truth,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Eh?' cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot. 'What!
Dear me! No, no. Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to such a
necessity! No no, no no.'

Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.

'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they
could converse with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'

'Merely that your kind face and manner--both so unlike any I have
ever seen--tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger
in this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,'
returned Nicholas.

'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It IS a wilderness,' said
the old man with much animation. 'It was a wilderness to me once.
I came here barefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!' and he
raised his hat from his head, and looked very grave.

'What's the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?' said the
old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking
him up the street. 'You're--Eh?' laying his finger on the sleeve of
his black coat. 'Who's it for, eh?'

'My father,' replied Nicholas.

'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young man to
lose his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?'

Nicholas sighed.

'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'

'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?' said
the old man, looking wistfully into the face of the young one.

'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.

'Fine thing,' said the old gentleman, 'education a great thing: a
very great thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others.
A very fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me
hear it all. No impertinent curiosity--no, no, no.'

There was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which all
this was said, and such a complete disregard of all conventional
restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not resist it. Among
men who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so
contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection
instantly, and ran over the main points of his little history
without reserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as lightly
as possible upon his uncle's treatment of Kate. The old man
listened with great attention, and when he had concluded, drew his
arm eagerly through his own.

'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come along
with me. We mustn't lose a minute.'

So saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford Street,
and hailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushed Nicholas in
before him, and followed himself.

As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless
excitement, and whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediately
interposed with: 'Don't say another word, my dear sir, on any
account--not another word,' the young man thought it better to
attempt no further interruption. Into the city they journeyed
accordingly, without interchanging any conversation; and the farther
they went, the more Nicholas wondered what the end of the adventure
could possibly be.

The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they reached
the Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him
along Threadneedle Street, and through some lanes and passages on
the right, until they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little
square. Into the oldest and cleanest-looking house of business in
the square, he led the way. The only inscription on the door-post
was 'Cheeryble, Brothers;' but from a hasty glance at the directions
of some packages which were lying about, Nicholas supposed that the
brothers Cheeryble were German merchants.

Passing through a warehouse which presented every indication of a
thriving business, Mr Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to
be, from the respect which had been shown him by the warehousemen
and porters whom they passed) led him into a little partitioned-off
counting-house like a large glass case, in which counting-house
there sat--as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed
into the glass case before the top was put on, and had never come
out since--a fat, elderly, large-faced clerk, with silver spectacles
and a powdered head.

'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble, with no less
kindness of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.

'Yes, he is, sir,' replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle-
glasses towards his principal, and his eyes towards Nicholas, 'but
Mr Trimmers is with him.'

'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble.

'He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a man
who was killed in the East India Docks this morning, sir,' rejoined
Tim. 'Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.'

'He is a good creature,' said Mr Cheeryble, with great earnestness.
'He is a kind soul. I am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers
is one of the best friends we have. He makes a thousand cases known
to us that we should never discover of ourselves. I am VERY much
obliged to Trimmers.'  Saying which, Mr Cheeryble rubbed his hands
with infinite delight, and Mr Trimmers happening to pass the door
that instant, on his way out, shot out after him and caught him by
the hand.

'I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I take
it very friendly of you, very friendly indeed,' said Mr Cheeryble,
dragging him into a corner to get out of hearing. 'How many
children are there, and what has my brother Ned given, Trimmers?'

'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your brother
has given us twenty pounds.'

'My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you're a good fellow too,
Trimmers,' said the old man, shaking him by both hands with
trembling eagerness. 'Put me down for another twenty--or--stop a
minute, stop a minute. We mustn't look ostentatious; put me down
ten pound, and Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound
for Mr Trimmers, Tim. God bless you, Trimmers--and come and dine
with us some day this week; you'll always find a knife and fork, and
we shall be delighted. Now, my dear sir--cheque from Mr
Linkinwater, Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor
children--oh dear, dear, dear!'

Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any
friendly remonstrances from the collector of the subscription on the
large amount of his donation, Mr Cheeryble led Nicholas, equally
astonished and affected by what he had seen and heard in this short
space, to the half-opened door of another room.

'Brother Ned,' said Mr Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, 'are you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare
time for a word or two with me?'

'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a voice from the inside,
so like in its tones to that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same, 'don't ask me such a
question, but come in directly.'

They went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of
Nicholas when his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting
with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself--the
same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth,
the same breeches and gaiters--nay, there was the very same white
hat hanging against the wall!

As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted up by
beaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to
behold in infants, and which, in men so old, was inexpressibly
touching: Nicholas could observe that the last old gentleman was
something stouter than his brother; this, and a slight additional
shade of clumsiness in his gait and stature, formed the only
perceptible difference between them. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers.

'Brother Ned,' said Nicholas's friend, closing the room-door, 'here
is a young friend of mine whom we must assist. We must make proper
inquiries into his statements, in justice to him as well as to
ourselves, and if they are confirmed--as I feel assured they will
be--we must assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.'

'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,' returned
the other. 'When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He
SHALL be assisted. What are his necessities, and what does he
require? Where is Tim Linkinwater? Let us have him here.'

Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic and
earnest delivery; both had lost nearly the same teeth, which
imparted the same peculiarity to their speech; and both spoke as if,
besides possessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest
and most unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting
the plums from Fortune's choicest pudding, retained a few for
present use, and kept them in their mouths.

'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.

'Stop, stop, stop!' said brother Charles, taking the other aside.
'I've a plan, my dear brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting old, and
Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don't think
pensioning Tim's mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the
family when his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense for
his faithful services.'

'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half enough,
not half.'

'If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the old gentleman, 'and
prevail upon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleep in
the fresh air, besides, two or three times a week (which he could,
if he began business an hour later in the morning), old Tim
Linkinwater would grow young again in time; and he's three good
years our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother
Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy,
don't you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor Tim!'

And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a
tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

'But hear this first--hear this first, brother Ned,' said the old
man, hastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas:
'I'll tell it you myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman
is modest, and is a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn't feel it right that
he should tell us his story over and over again as if he was a
beggar, or as if we doubted him. No, no no.'

'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely. 'Very
right, my dear brother, very right.'

'He will tell me I'm wrong, if I make a mistake,' said Nicholas's
friend. 'But whether I do or not, you'll be very much affected,
brother Ned, remembering the time when we were two friendless lads,
and earned our first shilling in this great city.'

The twins pressed each other's hands in silence; and in his own
homely manner, brother Charles related the particulars he had heard
from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued was a long one, and
when it was over, a secret conference of almost equal duration took
place between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It
is no disparagement to Nicholas to say, that before he had been
closeted with the two brothers ten minutes, he could only wave his
hand at every fresh expression of kindness and sympathy, and sob
like a little child.

At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together, when
Tim instantly walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in a
very brief sentence (for Tim was ordinarily a man of few words),
that he had taken down the address in the Strand, and would call
upon him that evening, at eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his
spectacles and put them on, preparatory to hearing what more the
brothers Cheeryble had got to say.

'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an
intention of taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?'

Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and quite
approved of it; and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew himself
up and looked particularly fat, and very important. After which,
there was a profound silence.

'I'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,' said Tim,
breaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. 'I'm not going
to sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I'm not going into the country
either. A pretty thing at this time of day, certainly. Pho!'

'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,' said brother Charles,
looking at him without the faintest spark of anger, and with a
countenance radiant with attachment to the old clerk. 'Damn your
obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what do you mean, sir?'

'It's forty-four year,' said Tim, making a calculation in the air
with his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up,
'forty-four year, next May, since I first kept the books of
Cheeryble, Brothers. I've opened the safe every morning all that
time (Sundays excepted) as the clock struck nine, and gone over the
house every night at half-past ten (except on Foreign Post nights,
and then twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors fastened,
and the fires out. I've never slept out of the back-attic one
single night. There's the same mignonette box in the middle of the
window, and the same four flower-pots, two on each side, that I
brought with me when I first came. There an't--I've said it again
and again, and I'll maintain it--there an't such a square as this in
the world. I KNOW there an't,' said Tim, with sudden energy, and
looking sternly about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in
summer-time or winter--I don't care which--there's nothing like it.
There's not such a spring in England as the pump under the archway.
There's not such a view in England as the view out of my window;
I've seen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought to know
something about it. I have slept in that room,' added Tim, sinking
his voice a little, 'for four-and-forty year; and if it wasn't
inconvenient, and didn't interfere with business, I should request
leave to die there.'

'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?' roared
the twins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.

'That's what I've got to say, Mr Edwin and Mr Charles,' said Tim,
squaring his shoulders again. 'This isn't the first time you've
talked about superannuating me; but, if you please, we'll make it
the last, and drop the subject for evermore.'

With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself up
in his glass case, with the air of a man who had had his say, and
was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.

The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen times
without speaking.

'He must be done something with, brother Ned,' said the other,
warmly; 'we must disregard his old scruples; they can't be
tolerated, or borne. He must be made a partner, brother Ned; and if
he won't submit to it peaceably, we must have recourse to violence.'

'Quite right,' replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man
thoroughly determined; 'quite right, my dear brother. If he won't
listen to reason, we must do it against his will, and show him that
we are determined to exert our authority. We must quarrel with him,
brother Charles.'

'We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim Linkinwater,'
said the other. 'But in the meantime, my dear brother, we are
keeping our young friend; and the poor lady and her daughter will be
anxious for his return. So let us say goodbye for the present, and
--there, there--take care of that box, my dear sir--and--no, no, not
a word now; but be careful of the crossings and--'

And with any disjointed and unconnected words which would prevent
Nicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him
out: shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting very
unsuccessfully--they were poor hands at deception!--to be wholly
unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.

Nicholas's heart was too full to allow of his turning into the
street until he had recovered some composure. When he at last
glided out of the dark doorway corner in which he had been compelled
to halt, he caught a glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at
one corner of the glass case, evidently undecided whether they
should follow up their late attack without delay, or for the present
postpone laying further siege to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.

To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances just
detailed awakened at Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that were
done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied in consequence,
is beside the present course and purpose of these adventures. It is
sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr Timothy Linkinwater arrived,
punctual to his appointment; that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as
he was bound to be, of the proper exercise of his employers' most
comprehensive liberality, he reported strongly and warmly in favour
of Nicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed to the vacant
stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble, Brothers, with a present
salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a year.

'And I think, my dear brother,' said Nicholas's first friend, 'that
if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is empty, at
something under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?'

'For nothing at all,' said brother Ned. 'We are rich, and should be
ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. Where
is Tim Linkinwater?--for nothing at all, my dear brother, for
nothing at all.'

'Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,'
suggested the other, mildly; 'it would help to preserve habits of
frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming
obligations. We might say fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it
was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. And I
might secretly advance a small loan towards a little furniture, and
you might secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned; and if
we find them doing well--as we shall; there's no fear, no fear--we
can change the loans into gifts. Carefully, brother Ned, and by
degrees, and without pressing upon them too much; what do you say
now, brother?'

Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be
done, but had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took
possession of the stool, and Mrs Nickleby and Kate took possession
of the house, and all was hope, bustle, and light-heartedness.

There surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as
the first week of that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came
home, something new had been found out. One day it was a grapevine,
and another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of
the front-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on
through a hundred items. Then, this room was embellished with a
muslin curtain, and that room was rendered quite elegant by a
window-blind, and such improvements were made, as no one would have
supposed possible. Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out
in the omnibus to stop a day or two and help, and who was
perpetually losing a very small brown-paper parcel of tin tacks and
a very large hammer, and running about with her sleeves tucked up at
the wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and hurting herself very
much--and Mrs Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and did something
now and then, but not often--and Kate, who busied herself
noiselessly everywhere, and was pleased with everything--and Smike,
who made the garden a perfect wonder to look upon--and Nicholas, who
helped and encouraged them every one--all the peace and cheerfulness
of home restored, with such new zest imparted to every frugal
pleasure, and such delight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune
and separation alone could give!

In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich
Nickleby was alone and miserable.

CHAPTER 36

Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. Showing how
Mr Kenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs Kenwigs was as
well as could be expected

It might have been seven o'clock in the evening, and it was growing
dark in the narrow streets near Golden Square, when Mr Kenwigs sent
out for a pair of the cheapest white kid gloves--those at fourteen-
pence--and selecting the strongest, which happened to be the right-
hand one, walked downstairs with an air of pomp and much excitement,
and proceeded to muffle the knob of the street-door knocker therein.
Having executed this task with great nicety, Mr Kenwigs pulled the
door to, after him, and just stepped across the road to try the
effect from the opposite side of the street. Satisfied that nothing
could possibly look better in its way, Mr Kenwigs then stepped back
again, and calling through the keyhole to Morleena to open the door,
vanished into the house, and was seen no longer.

Now, considered as an abstract circumstance, there was no more
obvious cause or reason why Mr Kenwigs should take the trouble of
muffling this particular knocker, than there would have been for his
muffling the knocker of any nobleman or gentleman resident ten miles
off; because, for the greater convenience of the numerous lodgers,
the street-door always stood wide open, and the knocker was never
used at all. The first floor, the second floor, and the third
floor, had each a bell of its own. As to the attics, no one ever
called on them; if anybody wanted the parlours, they were close at
hand, and all he had to do was to walk straight into them; while the
kitchen had a separate entrance down the area steps. As a question
of mere necessity and usefulness, therefore, this muffling of the
knocker was thoroughly incomprehensible.

But knockers may be muffled for other purposes than those of mere
utilitarianism, as, in the present instance, was clearly shown.
There are certain polite forms and ceremonies which must be observed
in civilised life, or mankind relapse into their original barbarism.
No genteel lady was ever yet confined--indeed, no genteel
confinement can possibly take place--without the accompanying symbol
of a muffled knocker. Mrs Kenwigs was a lady of some pretensions to
gentility; Mrs Kenwigs was confined. And, therefore, Mr Kenwigs
tied up the silent knocker on the premises in a white kid glove.

'I'm not quite certain neither,' said Mr Kenwigs, arranging his
shirt-collar, and walking slowly upstairs, 'whether, as it's a boy,
I won't have it in the papers.'

Pondering upon the advisability of this step, and the sensation it
was likely to create in the neighbourhood, Mr Kenwigs betook himself
to the sitting-room, where various extremely diminutive articles of
clothing were airing on a horse before the fire, and Mr Lumbey, the
doctor, was dandling the baby--that is, the old baby--not the new
one.

'It's a fine boy, Mr Kenwigs,' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.

'You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?' returned Mr Kenwigs.

'It's the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,' said the doctor.
'I never saw such a baby.'

It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete
answer to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the
human species, that every baby born into the world is a finer one
than the last.

'I ne--ver saw such a baby,' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.

'Morleena was a fine baby,' remarked Mr Kenwigs; as if this were
rather an attack, by implication, upon the family.

'They were all fine babies,' said Mr Lumbey. And Mr Lumbey went on
nursing the baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he was considering
under what head he could best charge the nursing in the bill, was
best known to himself.

During this short conversation, Miss Morleena, as the eldest of the
family, and natural representative of her mother during her
indisposition, had been hustling and slapping the three younger Miss
Kenwigses, without intermission; which considerate and affectionate
conduct brought tears into the eyes of Mr Kenwigs, and caused him to
declare that, in understanding and behaviour, that child was a
woman.

'She will be a treasure to the man she marries, sir,' said Mr
Kenwigs, half aside; 'I think she'll marry above her station, Mr
Lumbey.'

'I shouldn't wonder at all,' replied the doctor.

'You never see her dance, sir, did you?' asked Mr Kenwigs.

The doctor shook his head.

'Ay!' said Mr Kenwigs, as though he pitied him from his heart, 'then
you don't know what she's capable of.'

All this time there had been a great whisking in and out of the
other room; the door had been opened and shut very softly about
twenty times a minute (for it was necessary to keep Mrs Kenwigs
quiet); and the baby had been exhibited to a score or two of
deputations from a select body of female friends, who had assembled
in the passage, and about the street-door, to discuss the event in
all its bearings. Indeed, the excitement extended itself over the
whole street, and groups of ladies might be seen standing at the
doors, (some in the interesting condition in which Mrs Kenwigs had
last appeared in public,) relating their experiences of similar
occurrences. Some few acquired great credit from having prophesied,
the day before yesterday, exactly when it would come to pass;
others, again, related, how that they guessed what it was, directly
they saw Mr Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street as hard as ever
he could go. Some said one thing, and some another; but all talked
together, and all agreed upon two points: first, that it was very
meritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs Kenwigs to do as she had
done: and secondly, that there never was such a skilful and
scientific doctor as that Dr Lumbey.

In the midst of this general hubbub, Dr Lumbey sat in the first-
floor front, as before related, nursing the deposed baby, and
talking to Mr Kenwigs. He was a stout bluff-looking gentleman, with
no shirt-collar to speak of, and a beard that had been growing since
yesterday morning; for Dr Lumbey was popular, and the neighbourhood
was prolific; and there had been no less than three other knockers
muffled, one after the other within the last forty-eight hours.

'Well, Mr Kenwigs,' said Dr Lumbey, 'this makes six. You'll have a
fine family in time, sir.'

'I think six is almost enough, sir,' returned Mr Kenwigs.

'Pooh! pooh!' said the doctor. 'Nonsense! not half enough.'

With this, the doctor laughed; but he didn't laugh half as much as a
married friend of Mrs Kenwigs's, who had just come in from the sick
chamber to report progress, and take a small sip of brandy-and-
water: and who seemed to consider it one of the best jokes ever
launched upon society.

'They're not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,' said
Mr Kenwigs, taking his second daughter on his knee; 'they have
expectations.'

'Oh, indeed!' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.

'And very good ones too, I believe, haven't they?' asked the married
lady.

'Why, ma'am,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'it's not exactly for me to say what
they may be, or what they may not be. It's not for me to boast of
any family with which I have the honour to be connected; at the same
time, Mrs Kenwigs's is--I should say,' said Mr Kenwigs, abruptly,
and raising his voice as he spoke, 'that my children might come into
a matter of a hundred pound apiece, perhaps. Perhaps more, but
certainly that.'

'And a very pretty little fortune,' said the married lady.

'There are some relations of Mrs Kenwigs's,' said Mr Kenwigs, taking
a pinch of snuff from the doctor's box, and then sneezing very hard,
for he wasn't used to it, 'that might leave their hundred pound
apiece to ten people, and yet not go begging when they had done it.'

'Ah! I know who you mean,' observed the married lady, nodding her
head.

'I made mention of no names, and I wish to make mention of no
names,' said Mr Kenwigs, with a portentous look. 'Many of my
friends have met a relation of Mrs Kenwigs's in this very room, as
would do honour to any company; that's all.'

'I've met him,' said the married lady, with a glance towards Dr
Lumbey.

'It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to see
such a man as that, a kissing and taking notice of my children,'
pursued Mr Kenwigs. 'It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings
as a man, to know that man. It will be naterally very gratifying to
my feelings as a husband, to make that man acquainted with this
ewent.'

Having delivered his sentiments in this form of words, Mr Kenwigs
arranged his second daughter's flaxen tail, and bade her be a good
girl and mind what her sister, Morleena, said.

'That girl grows more like her mother every day,' said Mr Lumbey,
suddenly stricken with an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.

'There!' rejoined the married lady. 'What I always say; what I
always did say! She's the very picter of her.'  Having thus directed
the general attention to the young lady in question, the married
lady embraced the opportunity of taking another sip of the brandy-
and-water--and a pretty long sip too.

'Yes! there is a likeness,' said Mr Kenwigs, after some reflection.
'But such a woman as Mrs Kenwigs was, afore she was married! Good
gracious, such a woman!'

Mr Lumbey shook his head with great solemnity, as though to imply
that he supposed she must have been rather a dazzler.

'Talk of fairies!' cried Mr Kenwigs 'I never see anybody so light to
be alive, never. Such manners too; so playful, and yet so sewerely
proper! As for her figure! It isn't generally known,' said Mr
Kenwigs, dropping his voice; 'but her figure was such, at that time,
that the sign of the Britannia, over in the Holloway Road, was
painted from it!'

'But only see what it is now,' urged the married lady. 'Does SHE
look like the mother of six?'

'Quite ridiculous,' cried the doctor.

'She looks a deal more like her own daughter,' said the married
lady.

'So she does,' assented Mr Lumbey. 'A great deal more.'

Mr Kenwigs was about to make some further observations, most
probably in confirmation of this opinion, when another married lady,
who had looked in to keep up Mrs Kenwigs's spirits, and help to
clear off anything in the eating and drinking way that might be
going about, put in her head to announce that she had just been down
to answer the bell, and that there was a gentleman at the door who
wanted to see Mr Kenwigs 'most particular.'

Shadowy visions of his distinguished relation flitted through the
brain of Mr Kenwigs, as this message was delivered; and under their
influence, he dispatched Morleena to show the gentleman up
straightway.

'Why, I do declare,' said Mr Kenwigs, standing opposite the door so
as to get the earliest glimpse of the visitor, as he came upstairs,
'it's Mr Johnson! How do you find yourself, sir?'

Nicholas shook hands, kissed his old pupils all round, intrusted a
large parcel of toys to the guardianship of Morleena, bowed to the
doctor and the married ladies, and inquired after Mrs Kenwigs in a
tone of interest, which went to the very heart and soul of the
nurse, who had come in to warm some mysterious compound, in a little
saucepan over the fire.

'I ought to make a hundred apologies to you for calling at such a
season,' said Nicholas, 'but I was not aware of it until I had rung
the bell, and my time is so fully occupied now, that I feared it
might be some days before I could possibly come again.'

'No time like the present, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs. 'The sitiwation
of Mrs Kenwigs, sir, is no obstacle to a little conversation between
you and me, I hope?'

'You are very good,' said Nicholas.

At this juncture, proclamation was made by another married lady,
that the baby had begun to eat like anything; whereupon the two
married ladies, already mentioned, rushed tumultuously into the
bedroom to behold him in the act.

'The fact is,' resumed Nicholas, 'that before I left the country,
where I have been for some time past, I undertook to deliver a
message to you.'

'Ay, ay?' said Mr Kenwigs.

'And I have been,' added Nicholas, 'already in town for some days,
without having had an opportunity of doing so.'

'It's no matter, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs. 'I dare say it's none the
worse for keeping cold. Message from the country!' said Mr Kenwigs,
ruminating; 'that's curious. I don't know anybody in the country.'

'Miss Petowker,' suggested Nicholas.

'Oh! from her, is it?' said Mr Kenwigs. 'Oh dear, yes. Ah! Mrs
Kenwigs will be glad to hear from her. Henrietta Petowker, eh? How
odd things come about, now! That you should have met her in the
country! Well!'

Hearing this mention of their old friend's name, the four Miss
Kenwigses gathered round Nicholas, open eyed and mouthed, to hear
more. Mr Kenwigs looked a little curious too, but quite comfortable
and unsuspecting.

'The message relates to family matters,' said Nicholas, hesitating.

'Oh, never mind,' said Kenwigs, glancing at Mr Lumbey, who, having
rashly taken charge of little Lillyvick, found nobody disposed to
relieve him of his precious burden. 'All friends here.'

Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed to have some difficulty in
proceeding.

'At Portsmouth, Henrietta Petowker is,' observed Mr Kenwigs.

'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'Mr Lillyvick is there.'

Mr Kenwigs turned pale, but he recovered, and said, THAT was an odd
coincidence also.

'The message is from him,' said Nicholas.

Mr Kenwigs appeared to revive. He knew that his niece was in a
delicate state, and had, no doubt, sent word that they were to
forward full particulars. Yes. That was very kind of him; so like
him too!

'He desired me to give his kindest love,' said Nicholas.

'Very much obliged to him, I'm sure. Your great-uncle, Lillyvick,
my dears!' interposed Mr Kenwigs, condescendingly explaining it to
the children.

'His kindest love,' resumed Nicholas; 'and to say that he had no
time to write, but that he was married to Miss Petowker.'

Mr Kenwigs started from his seat with a petrified stare, caught his
second daughter by her flaxen tail, and covered his face with his
pocket-handkerchief. Morleena fell, all stiff and rigid, into the
baby's chair, as she had seen her mother fall when she fainted away,
and the two remaining little Kenwigses shrieked in affright.

'My children, my defrauded, swindled infants!' cried Mr Kenwigs,
pulling so hard, in his vehemence, at the flaxen tail of his second
daughter, that he lifted her up on tiptoe, and kept her, for some
seconds, in that attitude. 'Villain, ass, traitor!'

'Drat the man!' cried the nurse, looking angrily around. 'What does
he mean by making that noise here?'

'Silence, woman!' said Mr Kenwigs, fiercely.

'I won't be silent,' returned the nurse. 'Be silent yourself, you
wretch. Have you no regard for your baby?'

'No!' returned Mr Kenwigs.

'More shame for you,' retorted the nurse. 'Ugh! you unnatural
monster.'

'Let him die,' cried Mr Kenwigs, in the torrent of his wrath. 'Let
him die! He has no expectations, no property to come into. We want
no babies here,' said Mr Kenwigs recklessly. 'Take 'em away, take
'em away to the Fondling!'

With these awful remarks, Mr Kenwigs sat himself down in a chair,
and defied the nurse, who made the best of her way into the
adjoining room, and returned with a stream of matrons: declaring
that Mr Kenwigs had spoken blasphemy against his family, and must be
raving mad.

Appearances were certainly not in Mr Kenwigs's favour, for the
exertion of speaking with so much vehemence, and yet in such a tone
as should prevent his lamentations reaching the ears of Mrs Kenwigs,
had made him very black in the face; besides which, the excitement
of the occasion, and an unwonted indulgence in various strong
cordials to celebrate it, had swollen and dilated his features to a
most unusual extent. But, Nicholas and the doctor--who had been
passive at first, doubting very much whether Mr Kenwigs could be in
earnest--interfering to explain the immediate cause of his
condition, the indignation of the matrons was changed to pity, and
they implored him, with much feeling, to go quietly to bed.

'The attention,' said Mr Kenwigs, looking around with a plaintive
air, 'the attention that I've shown to that man! The hyseters he
has eat, and the pints of ale he has drank, in this house--!'

'It's very trying, and very hard to bear, we know,' said one of the
married ladies; 'but think of your dear darling wife.'

'Oh yes, and what she's been a undergoing of, only this day,'
cried a great many voices. 'There's a good man, do.'

'The presents that have been made to him,' said Mr Kenwigs,
reverting to his calamity, 'the pipes, the snuff-boxes--a pair of
india-rubber goloshes, that cost six-and-six--'

'Ah! it won't bear thinking of, indeed,' cried the matrons
generally; 'but it'll all come home to him, never fear.'

Mr Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies, as if he would prefer its
all coming home to HIM, as there was nothing to be got by it; but he
said nothing, and resting his head upon his hand, subsided into a
kind of doze.

Then, the matrons again expatiated on the expediency of taking the
good gentleman to bed; observing that he would be better tomorrow,
and that they knew what was the wear and tear of some men's minds
when their wives were taken as Mrs Kenwigs had been that day, and
that it did him great credit, and there was nothing to be ashamed of
in it; far from it; they liked to see it, they did, for it showed a
good heart. And one lady observed, as a case bearing upon the
present, that her husband was often quite light-headed from anxiety
on similar occasions, and that once, when her little Johnny was
born, it was nearly a week before he came to himself again, during
the whole of which time he did nothing but cry 'Is it a boy, is it a
boy?' in a manner which went to the hearts of all his hearers.

At length, Morleena (who quite forgot she had fainted, when she
found she was not noticed) announced that a chamber was ready for
her afflicted parent; and Mr Kenwigs, having partially smothered his
four daughters in the closeness of his embrace, accepted the
doctor's arm on one side, and the support of Nicholas on the other,
and was conducted upstairs to a bedroom which been secured for the
occasion.

Having seen him sound asleep, and heard him snore most
satisfactorily, and having further presided over the distribution of
the toys, to the perfect contentment of all the little Kenwigses,
Nicholas took his leave. The matrons dropped off one by one, with
the exception of six or eight particular friends, who had determined
to stop all night; the lights in the houses gradually disappeared;
the last bulletin was issued that Mrs Kenwigs was as well as could
be expected; and the whole family were left to their repose.

CHAPTER 37

Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble
and Mr Timothy Linkinwater. The brothers give a Banquet on a great
Annual Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it, receives a
mysterious and important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs Nickleby

The square in which the counting-house of the brothers Cheeryble was
situated, although it might not wholly realise the very sanguine
expectations which a stranger would be disposed to form on hearing
the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim Linkinwater, was,
nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy
town like London, and one which occupied a high place in the
affectionate remembrances of several grave persons domiciled in the
neighbourhood, whose recollections, however, dated from a much more
recent period, and whose attachment to the spot was far less
absorbing, than were the recollections and attachment of the
enthusiastic Tim.

And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the
aristocratic gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, the
dowager barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the gravel
walks and garden seats of the Squares of Russell and Euston, suppose
that the affections of Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers of
this particular locality, had been awakened and kept alive by any
refreshing associations with leaves, however dingy, or grass,
however bare and thin. The city square has no enclosure, save the
lamp-post in the middle: and no grass, but the weeds which spring up
round its base. It is a quiet, little-frequented, retired spot,
favourable to melancholy and contemplation, and appointments of
long-waiting; and up and down its every side the Appointed saunters
idly by the hour together wakening the echoes with the monotonous
sound of his footsteps on the smooth worn stones, and counting,
first the windows, and then the very bricks of the tall silent
houses that hem him round about. In winter-time, the snow will
linger there, long after it has melted from the busy streets and
highways. The summer's sun holds it in some respect, and while he
darts his cheerful rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery
heat and glare for noisier and less-imposing precincts. It is so
quiet, that you can almost hear the ticking of your own watch when
you stop to cool in its refreshing atmosphere. There is a distant
hum--of coaches, not of insects--but no other sound disturbs the
stillness of the square. The ticket porter leans idly against the
post at the corner: comfortably warm, but not hot, although the day
is broiling. His white apron flaps languidly in the air, his head
gradually droops upon his breast, he takes very long winks with both
eyes at once; even he is unable to withstand the soporific influence
of the place, and is gradually falling asleep. But now, he starts
into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two, and gazes out before
him with eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or a boy at
marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear an organ? No; sight more
unwonted still--there is a butterfly in the square--a real, live
butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the
iron heads of the dusty area railings.

But if there were not many matters immediately without the doors of
Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distract the thoughts
of the young clerk, there were not a few within, to interest and
amuse him. There was scarcely an object in the place, animate or
inanimate, which did not partake in some degree of the scrupulous
method and punctuality of Mr Timothy Linkinwater. Punctual as the
counting-house dial, which he maintained to be the best time-keeper
in London next after the clock of some old, hidden, unknown church
hard by, (for Tim held the fabled goodness of that at the Horse
Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented by jealous West-enders,)
the old clerk performed the minutest actions of the day, and
arranged the minutest articles in the little room, in a precise and
regular order, which could not have been exceeded if it had actually
been a real glass case, fitted with the choicest curiosities.
Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers, pounce-box, string-
box, fire-box, Tim's hat, Tim's scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim's
other coat--looking precisely like a back view of himself as it hung
against the wall--all had their accustomed inches of space. Except
the clock, there was not such an accurate and unimpeachable
instrument in existence as the little thermometer which hung behind
the door. There was not a bird of such methodical and business-like
habits in all the world, as the blind blackbird, who dreamed and
dozed away his days in a large snug cage, and had lost his voice,
from old age, years before Tim first bought him. There was not such
an eventful story in the whole range of anecdote, as Tim could tell
concerning the acquisition of that very bird; how, compassionating
his starved and suffering condition, he had purchased him, with the
view of humanely terminating his wretched life; how he determined to
wait three days and see whether the bird revived; how, before half
the time was out, the bird did revive; and how he went on reviving
and picking up his appetite and good looks until he gradually became
what--'what you see him now, sir,'--Tim would say, glancing proudly
at the cage. And with that, Tim would utter a melodious chirrup,
and cry 'Dick;' and Dick, who, for any sign of life he had
previously given, might have been a wooden or stuffed representation
of a blackbird indifferently executed, would come to the side of the
cage in three small jumps, and, thrusting his bill between the bars,
turn his sightless head towards his old master--and at that moment
it would be very difficult to determine which of the two was the
happier, the bird or Tim Linkinwater.

Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflection of
the kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen and porters
were such sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a treat to see them.
Among the shipping announcements and steam-packet 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.

Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly, on the
morning when he first took possession of the vacant stool, and
looked about him, more freely and at ease, than he had before
enjoyed an opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encouraged and
stimulated him to exertion, for, during the next two weeks, all his
spare hours, late at night and early in the morning, were
incessantly devoted to acquiring the mysteries of book-keeping and
some other forms of mercantile account. To these, he applied
himself with such steadiness and perseverance that, although he
brought no greater amount of previous knowledge to the subject than
certain dim recollections of two or three very long sums entered
into a ciphering-book at school, and relieved for parental
inspection by the effigy of a fat swan tastefully flourished by the
writing-master's own hand, he found himself, at the end of a
fortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to Mr
Linkinwater, and to claim his promise that he, Nicholas Nickleby,
should now be allowed to assist him in his graver labours.

It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater slowly bring out a massive
ledger and day-book, and, after turning them over and over, and
affectionately dusting their backs and sides, open the leaves here
and there, and cast his eyes, half mournfully, half proudly, upon
the fair and unblotted entries.

'Four-and-forty year, next May!' said Tim. 'Many new ledgers since
then. Four-and-forty year!'

Tim closed the book again.

'Come, come,' said Nicholas, 'I am all impatience to begin.'

Tim Linkinwater shook his head with an air of mild reproof. Mr
Nickleby was not sufficiently impressed with the deep and awful
nature of his undertaking. Suppose there should be any mistake--any
scratching out!

Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they will rush
upon, sometimes. Without even taking the precaution of sitting
himself down upon his stool, but standing leisurely at the desk, and
with a smile upon his face--actually a smile--there was no mistake
about it; Mr Linkinwater often mentioned it afterwards--Nicholas
dipped his pen into the inkstand before him, and plunged into the
books of Cheeryble Brothers!

Tim Linkinwater turned pale, and tilting up his stool on the two
legs nearest Nicholas, looked over his shoulder in breathless
anxiety. Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the counting-house
together; but Tim Linkinwater, without looking round, impatiently
waved his hand as a caution that profound silence must be observed,
and followed the nib of the inexperienced pen with strained and
eager eyes.

The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but Tim Linkinwater
smiled not, nor moved for some minutes. At length, he drew a long
slow breath, and still maintaining his position on the tilted stool,
glanced at brother Charles, secretly pointed with the feather of his
pen towards Nicholas, and nodded his head in a grave and resolute
manner, plainly signifying 'He'll do.'

Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing look with
brother Ned; but, just then, Nicholas stopped to refer to some other
page, and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain his satisfaction any
longer, descended from his stool, and caught him rapturously by the
hand.

'He has done it!' said Tim, looking round at his employers and
shaking his head triumphantly. 'His capital B's and D's are exactly
like mine; he dots all his small i's and crosses every t as he
writes it. There an't such a young man as this in all London,' said
Tim, clapping Nicholas on the back; 'not one. Don't tell me! The
city can't produce his equal. I challenge the city to do it!'

With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim Linkinwater struck the
desk such a blow with his clenched fist, that the old blackbird
tumbled off his perch with the start it gave him, and actually
uttered a feeble croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.

'Well said, Tim--well said, Tim Linkinwater!' cried brother Charles,
scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his hands
gently as he spoke. 'I knew our young friend would take great
pains, and I was quite certain he would succeed, in no time. Didn't
I say so, brother Ned?'

'You did, my dear brother; certainly, my dear brother, you said so,
and you were quite right,' replied Ned. 'Quite right. Tim
Linkinwater is excited, but he is justly excited, properly excited.
Tim is a fine fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir--you're a fine fellow.'

'Here's a pleasant thing to think of!' said Tim, wholly regardless
of this address to himself, and raising his spectacles from the
ledger to the brothers. 'Here's a pleasant thing. Do you suppose I
haven't often thought of what would become of these books when I was
gone? Do you suppose I haven't often thought that things might go
on irregular and untidy here, after I was taken away? But now,'
said Tim, extending his forefinger towards Nicholas, 'now, when I've
shown him a little more, I'm satisfied. The business will go on,
when I'm dead, as well as it did when I was alive--just the same--
and I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that there never were
such books--never were such books! No, nor never will be such
books--as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.'

Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr Linkinwater gave vent to a
short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of London and
Westminster, and, turning again to his desk, quietly carried
seventy-six from the last column he had added up, and went on with
his work.

'Tim Linkinwater, sir,' said brother Charles; 'give me your hand,
sir. This is your birthday. How dare you talk about anything else
till you have been wished many happy returns of the day, Tim
Linkinwater? God bless you, Tim! God bless you!'

'My dear brother,' said the other, seizing Tim's disengaged fist,
'Tim Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on his last
birthday.'

'Brother Ned, my dear boy,' returned the other old fellow, 'I
believe that Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty years old,
and is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty; for he's younger
every birthday than he was the year before.'

'So he is, brother Charles, so he is,' replied brother Ned.
'There's not a doubt about it.'

'Remember, Tim,' said brother Charles, 'that we dine at half-past
five today instead of two o'clock; we always depart from our usual
custom on this anniversary, as you very well know, Tim Linkinwater.
Mr Nickleby, my dear sir, you will make one. Tim Linkinwater, give
me your snuff-box as a remembrance to brother Charles and myself of
an attached and faithful rascal, and take that, in exchange, as a
feeble mark of our respect and esteem, and don't open it until you
go to bed, and never say another word upon the subject, or I'll kill
the blackbird. A dog! He should have had a golden cage half-a-
dozen years ago, if it would have made him or his master a bit the
happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear fellow, I'm ready. At half-past
five, remember, Mr Nickleby! Tim Linkinwater, sir, take care of Mr
Nickleby at half-past five. Now, brother Ned.'

Chattering away thus, according to custom, to prevent the
possibility of any thanks or acknowledgment being expressed on the
other side, the twins trotted off, arm-in-arm; having endowed Tim
Linkinwater with a costly gold snuff-box, enclosing a bank note
worth more than its value ten times told.

At a quarter past five o'clock, punctual to the minute, arrived,
according to annual usage, Tim Linkinwater's sister; and a great to-
do there was, between Tim Linkinwater's sister and the old
housekeeper, respecting Tim Linkinwater's sister's cap, which had
been dispatched, per boy, from the house of the family where Tim
Linkinwater's sister boarded, and had not yet come to hand:
notwithstanding that it had been packed up in a bandbox, and the
bandbox in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief tied on to the boy's
arm; and notwithstanding, too, that the place of its consignment had
been duly set forth, at full length, on the back of an old letter,
and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers horrible penalties, the
full extent of which the eye of man could not foresee, to deliver
the same with all possible speed, and not to loiter by the way. Tim
Linkinwater's sister lamented; the housekeeper condoled; and both
kept thrusting their heads out of the second-floor window to see if
the boy was 'coming'--which would have been highly satisfactory,
and, upon the whole, tantamount to his being come, as the distance
to the corner was not quite five yards--when, all of a sudden, and
when he was least expected, the messenger, carrying the bandbox with
elaborate caution, appeared in an exactly opposite direction,
puffing and panting for breath, and flushed with recent exercise; as
well he might be; for he had taken the air, in the first instance,
behind a hackney coach that went to Camberwell, and had followed two
Punches afterwards and had seen the Stilts home to their own door.
The cap was all safe, however--that was one comfort--and it was no
use scolding him--that was another; so the boy went upon his way
rejoicing, and Tim Linkinwater's sister presented herself to the
company below-stairs, just five minutes after the half-hour had
struck by Tim Linkinwater's own infallible clock.

The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, Tim Linkinwater, a
ruddy-faced white-headed friend of Tim's (who was a superannuated
bank clerk), and Nicholas, who was presented to Tim Linkinwater's
sister with much gravity and solemnity. The party being now
completed, brother Ned rang for dinner, and, dinner being shortly
afterwards announced, led Tim Linkinwater's sister into the next
room, where it was set forth with great preparation. Then, brother
Ned took the head of the table, and brother Charles the foot; and
Tim Linkinwater's sister sat on the left hand of brother Ned, and
Tim Linkinwater himself on his right: and an ancient butler of
apoplectic appearance, and with very short legs, took up his
position at the back of brother Ned's armchair, and, waving his
right arm preparatory to taking off the covers with a flourish,
stood bolt upright and motionless.

'For these and all other blessings, brother Charles,' said Ned.

'Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,' said Charles.

Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the soup
tureen, and shot, all at once, into a state of violent activity.

There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its ever
flagging, for the good-humour of the glorious old twins drew
everybody out, and Tim Linkinwater's sister went off into a long and
circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater's infancy, immediately
after the very first glass of champagne--taking care to premise that
she was very much Tim's junior, and had only become acquainted with
the facts from their being preserved and handed down in the family.
This history concluded, brother Ned related how that, exactly
thirty-five years ago, Tim Linkinwater was suspected to have
received a love-letter, and how that vague information had been
brought to the counting-house of his having been seen walking down
Cheapside with an uncommonly handsome spinster; at which there was a
roar of laughter, and Tim Linkinwater being charged with blushing,
and called upon to explain, denied that the accusation was true; and
further, that there would have been any harm in it if it had been;
which last position occasioned the superannuated bank clerk to laugh
tremendously, and to declare that it was the very best thing he had
ever heard in his life, and that Tim Linkinwater might say a great
many things before he said anything which would beat THAT.

There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both the matter
and manner of which made a very strong impression upon Nicholas.
The cloth having been removed and the decanters sent round for the
first time, a profound silence succeeded, and in the cheerful faces
of the brothers there appeared an expression, not of absolute
melancholy, but of quiet thoughtfulness very unusual at a festive
table. As Nicholas, struck by this sudden alteration, was wondering
what it could portend, the brothers rose together, and the one at
the top of the table leaning forward towards the other, and speaking
in a low voice as if he were addressing him individually, said:

'Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another association
connected with this day which must never be forgotten, and never can
be forgotten, by you and me. This day, which brought into the world
a most faithful and excellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the
kindest and very best of parents, the very best of parents to us
both. I wish that she could have seen us in our prosperity, and
shared it, and had the happiness of knowing how dearly we loved her
in it, as we did when we were two poor boys; but that was not to be.
My dear brother--The Memory of our Mother.'

'Good Lord!' thought Nicholas, 'and there are scores of people of
their own station, knowing all this, and twenty thousand times more,
who wouldn't ask these men to dinner because they eat with their
knives and never went to school!'

But there was no time to moralise, for the joviality again became
very brisk, and the decanter of port being nearly out, brother Ned
pulled the bell, which was instantly answered by the apoplectic
butler.

'David,' said brother Ned.

'Sir,' replied the butler.

'A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the health of Mr
Linkinwater.'

Instantly, by a feat of dexterity, which was the admiration of all
the company, and had been, annually, for some years past, the
apoplectic butler, bringing his left hand from behind the small of
his back, produced the bottle with the corkscrew already inserted;
uncorked it at a jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork before his
master with the dignity of conscious cleverness.

'Ha!' said brother Ned, first examining the cork and afterwards
filling his glass, while the old butler looked complacently and
amiably on, as if it were all his own property, but the company were
quite welcome to make free with it, 'this looks well, David.'

'It ought to, sir,' replied David. 'You'd be troubled to find such
a glass of wine as is our double-diamond, and that Mr Linkinwater
knows very well. That was laid down when Mr Linkinwater first come:
that wine was, gentlemen.'

'Nay, David, nay,' interposed brother Charles.

'I wrote the entry in the cellar-book myself, sir, if you please,'
said David, in the tone of a man, quite confident in the strength of
his facts. 'Mr Linkinwater had only been here twenty year, sir,
when that pipe of double-diamond was laid down.'

'David is quite right, quite right, brother Charles," said Ned: 'are
the people here, David?'

'Outside the door, sir,' replied the butler.

'Show 'em in, David, show 'em in.'

At this bidding, the older butler placed before his master a small
tray of clean glasses, and opening the door admitted the jolly
porters and warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below. They were
four in all, and as they came in, bowing, and grinning, and
blushing, the housekeeper, and cook, and housemaid, brought up the
rear.

'Seven,' said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number of glasses
with the double-diamond, 'and David, eight. There! Now, you're all
of you to drink the health of your best friend Mr Timothy
Linkinwater, and wish him health and long life and many happy
returns of this day, both for his own sake and that of your old
masters, who consider him an inestimable treasure. Tim Linkinwater,
sir, your health. Devil take you, Tim Linkinwater, sir, God bless
you.'

With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave Tim
Linkinwater a slap on the back, which made him look, for the moment,
almost as apoplectic as the butler: and tossed off the contents of
his glass in a twinkling.

The toast was scarcely drunk with all honour to Tim Linkinwater,
when the sturdiest and jolliest subordinate elbowed himself a little
in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a very hot and flushed
countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hair in the middle of his
forehead as a respectful salute to the company, and delivered
himself as follows--rubbing the palms of his hands very hard on a
blue cotton handkerchief as he did so:

'We're allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen'lemen, and if you
please we'll take it now; there being no time like the present, and
no two birds in the hand worth one in the bush, as is well known--
leastways in a contrairy sense, which the meaning is the same. (A
pause--the butler unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that there
never was (looking at the butler)--such--(looking at the cook)
noble--excellent--(looking everywhere and seeing nobody) free,
generous-spirited masters as them as has treated us so handsome this
day. And here's thanking of 'em for all their goodness as is so
constancy a diffusing of itself over everywhere, and wishing they
may live long and die happy!'

When the foregoing speech was over--and it might have been much more
elegant and much less to the purpose--the whole body of subordinates
under command of the apoplectic butler gave three soft cheers;
which, to that gentleman's great indignation, were not very regular,
inasmuch as the women persisted in giving an immense number of
little shrill hurrahs among themselves, in utter disregard of the
time. This done, they withdrew; shortly afterwards, Tim
Linkinwater's sister withdrew; in reasonable time after that, the
sitting was broken up for tea and coffee, and a round game of cards.

At half-past ten--late hours for the square--there appeared a little
tray of sandwiches and a bowl of bishop, which bishop coming on the
top of the double-diamond, and other excitements, had such an effect
upon Tim Linkinwater, that he drew Nicholas aside, and gave him to
understand, confidentially, that it was quite true about the
uncommonly handsome spinster, and that she was to the full as good-
looking as she had been described--more so, indeed--but that she was
in too much of a hurry to change her condition, and consequently,
while Tim was courting her and thinking of changing his, got married
to somebody else. 'After all, I dare say it was my fault,' said
Tim. 'I'll show you a print I have got upstairs, one of these days.
It cost me five-and-twenty shillings. I bought it soon after we
were cool to each other. Don't mention it, but it's the most
extraordinary accidental likeness you ever saw--her very portrait,
sir!'

By this time it was past eleven o'clock; and Tim Linkinwater's
sister declaring that she ought to have been at home a full hour
ago, a coach was procured, into which she was handed with great
ceremony by brother Ned, while brother Charles imparted the fullest
directions to the coachman, and besides paying the man a shilling
over and above his fare, in order that he might take the utmost care
of the lady, all but choked him with a glass of spirits of uncommon
strength, and then nearly knocked all the breath out of his body in
his energetic endeavours to knock it in again.

At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater's sister being
now fairly on her way home, Nicholas and Tim Linkinwater's friend
took their leaves together, and left old Tim and the worthy brothers
to their repose.

As Nicholas had some distance to walk, it was considerably past
midnight by the time he reached home, where he found his mother and
Smike sitting up to receive him. It was long after their usual hour
of retiring, and they had expected him, at the very latest, two
hours ago; but the time had not hung heavily on their hands, for Mrs
Nickleby had entertained Smike with a genealogical account of her
family by the mother's side, comprising biographical sketches of the
principal members, and Smike had sat wondering what it was all
about, and whether it was learnt from a book, or said out of Mrs
Nickleby's own head; so that they got on together very pleasantly.

Nicholas could not go to bed without expatiating on the excellences
and munificence of the brothers Cheeryble, and relating the great
success which had attended his efforts that day. But before he had
said a dozen words, Mrs Nickleby, with many sly winks and nods,
observed, that she was sure Mr Smike must be quite tired out, and
that she positively must insist on his not sitting up a minute
longer.

'A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,' said Mrs Nickleby,
when Smike had wished them good-night and left the room. 'I know
you'll excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don't like to do this
before a third person; indeed, before a young man it would not be
quite proper, though really, after all, I don't know what harm there
is in it, except that to be sure it's not a very becoming thing,
though some people say it is very much so, and really I don't know
why it should not be, if it's well got up, and the borders are
small-plaited; of course, a good deal depends upon that.'

With which preface, Mrs Nickleby took her nightcap from between the
leaves of a very large prayer-book where it had been folded up
small, and proceeded to tie it on: talking away in her usual
discursive manner, all the time.

'People may say what they like,' observed Mrs Nickleby, 'but there's
a great deal of comfort in a nightcap, as I'm sure you would
confess, Nicholas my dear, if you would only have strings to yours,
and wear it like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very
top of your head like a blue-coat boy. You needn't think it an
unmanly or quizzical thing to be particular about your nightcap, for
I have often heard your poor dear papa, and the Reverend Mr What's-
his-name, who used to read prayers in that old church with the
curious little steeple that the weathercock was blown off the night
week before you were born,--I have often heard them say, that the
young men at college are uncommonly particular about their
nightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated for
their strength and goodness; so much so, indeed, that the young men
never dream of going to bed without 'em, and I believe it's admitted
on all hands that THEY know what's good, and don't coddle
themselves.'

Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject of this
lengthened harangue, reverted to the pleasant tone of the little
birthday party. And as Mrs Nickleby instantly became very curious
respecting it, and made a great number of inquiries touching what
they had had for dinner, and how it was put on table, and whether it
was overdone or underdone, and who was there, and what 'the Mr
Cherrybles' said, and what Nicholas said, and what the Mr Cherrybles
said when he said that; Nicholas described the festivities at full
length, and also the occurrences of the morning.

'Late as it is,' said Nicholas, 'I am almost selfish enough to wish
that Kate had been up to hear all this. I was all impatience, as I
came along, to tell her.'

'Why, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby, putting her feet upon the fender,
and drawing her chair close to it, as if settling herself for a long
talk. 'Kate has been in bed--oh! a couple of hours--and I'm very
glad, Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to sit up, for
I wished very much to have an opportunity of saying a few words to
you. I am naturally anxious about it, and of course it's a very
delightful and consoling thing to have a grown-up son that one can
put confidence in, and advise with; indeed I don't know any use
there would be in having sons at all, unless people could put
confidence in them.'

Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began
to speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.

'There was a lady in our neighbourhood,' said Mrs Nickleby,
'speaking of sons puts me in mind of it--a lady in our neighbourhood
when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name was Rogers; indeed I am
sure it was if it wasn't Murphy, which is the only doubt I have--'

'Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?' said
Nicholas quietly.

'About HER!' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear,
how CAN you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your
poor dear papa,--just his way--always wandering, never able to fix
his thoughts on any one subject for two minutes together. I think I
see him now!' said Mrs Nickleby, wiping her eyes, 'looking at me
while I was talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas
were in a state of perfect conglomeration! Anybody who had come in
upon us suddenly, would have supposed I was confusing and
distracting him instead of making things plainer; upon my word they
would.'

'I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate
slowness of apprehension,' said Nicholas, kindly; 'but I'll do my
best to understand you, if you'll only go straight on: indeed I
will.'

'Your poor pa!' said Mrs Nickleby, pondering. 'He never knew, till
it was too late, what I would have had him do!'

This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr Nickleby
had not arrived at the knowledge. Then he died. Neither had Mrs
Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation of the
circumstance.

'However,' said Mrs Nickleby, drying her tears, 'this has nothing to
do--certainly nothing whatever to do--with the gentleman in the next
house.'

'I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little
to do with us,' returned Nicholas.

'There can be no doubt,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'that he IS a gentleman,
and has the manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a
gentleman, although he does wear smalls and grey worsted stockings.
That may be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don't
see why he shouldn't be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs,
and so was Daniel Lambert, who was also a fat man; HE was proud of
his legs. So was Miss Biffin: she was--no,' added Mrs Nickleby,
correcting, herself, 'I think she had only toes, but the principle
is the same.'

Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new
theme. Which seemed just what Mrs Nickleby had expected him to be.

'You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,' she said, 'I am sure
I was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my
blood. The bottom of his garden joins the bottom of ours, and of
course I had several times seen him sitting among the scarlet-beans
in his little arbour, or working at his little hot-beds. I used to
think he stared rather, but I didn't take any particular notice of
that, as we were newcomers, and he might be curious to see what we
were like. But when he began to throw his cucumbers over our wall--'

'To throw his cucumbers over our wall!' repeated Nicholas, in great
astonishment.

'Yes, Nicholas, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby in a very serious
tone; 'his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows
likewise.'

'Confound his impudence!' said Nicholas, firing immediately. 'What
does he mean by that?'

'I don't think he means it impertinently at all,' replied Mrs
Nickleby.

'What!' said Nicholas, 'cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at
the heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, and not
meant impertinently! Why, mother--'

Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of
placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between
the borders of Mrs Nickleby's nightcap, which arrested his attention
suddenly.

'He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,' said
Mrs Nickleby; 'blamable indeed--at least I suppose other people
would consider him so; of course I can't be expected to express any
opinion on that point, especially after always defending your poor
dear papa when other people blamed him for making proposals to me;
and to be sure there can be no doubt that he has taken a very
singular way of showing it. Still at the same time, his attentions
are--that is, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course--
a flattering sort of thing; and although I should never dream of
marrying again with a dear girl like Kate still unsettled in life--'

'Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an
instant?' said Nicholas.

'Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,' returned his mother in a peevish
tone, 'isn't that precisely what I am saying, if you would only let
me speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, and I am
surprised and astonished that you should suppose me capable of such
a thing. All I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to
reject these advances civilly and delicately, and without hurting
his feelings too much, and driving him to despair, or anything of
that kind? My goodness me!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby, with a half-
simper, 'suppose he was to go doing anything rash to himself. Could
I ever be happy again, Nicholas?'

Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help
smiling, as he rejoined, 'Now, do you think, mother, that such a
result would be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?'

'Upon my word, my dear, I don't know," returned Mrs Nickleby;
'really, I don't know. I am sure there was a case in the day before
yesterday's paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers,
about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an
adjoining village, because she wouldn't shut herself up in an air-
tight three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him;
and who went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife,
and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed
himself first, and then all the friends, and then her--no, killed
all the friends first, and then herself, and then HIMself--which it
is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,' added Mrs
Nickleby, after a momentary pause, 'they always ARE journeyman
shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers.
I don't know how it is--something in the leather, I suppose.'

'But this man, who is not a shoemaker--what has he done, mother,
what has he said?' inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond
endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs
Nickleby herself. 'You know, there is no language of vegetables,
which converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.'

'My dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the
ashes in the grate, 'he has done and said all sorts of things.'

'Is there no mistake on your part?' asked Nicholas.

'Mistake!' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you
suppose I don't know when a man's in earnest?'

'Well, well!' muttered Nicholas.

'Every time I go to the window,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'he kisses one
hand, and lays the other upon his heart--of course it's very foolish
of him to do so, and I dare say you'll say it's very wrong, but he
does it very respectfully--very respectfully indeed--and very
tenderly, extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest
credit; there can be no doubt about that. Then, there are the
presents which come pouring over the wall every day, and very fine
they certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at dinner
yesterday, and think of pickling the rest for next winter. And last
evening,' added Mrs Nickleby, with increased confusion, 'he called
gently over the wall, as I was walking in the garden, and proposed
marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a
musical glass--very like a musical glass indeed--but of course I
didn't listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear, what
am I to do?'

'Does Kate know of this?' asked Nicholas.

'I have not said a word about it yet,' answered his mother.

'Then, for Heaven's sake,' rejoined Nicholas, rising, 'do not, for
it would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what you should
do, my dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling, and respect
for my father's memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways in
which you can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting
attentions. If you act as decidedly as you ought and they are still
continued, and to your annoyance, I can speedily put a stop to them.
But I should not interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach
importance to it, until you have vindicated yourself. Most women
can do that, but especially one of your age and condition, in
circumstances like these, which are unworthy of a serious thought.
I would not shame you by seeming to take them to heart, or treat
them earnestly for an instant. Absurd old idiot!'

So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and
they retired to their respective chambers.

To do Mrs Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would
have prevented her seriously contemplating a second marriage, even
if she could have so far conquered her recollections of her late
husband as to have any strong inclinations that way. But, although
there was no evil and little real selfishness in Mrs Nickleby's
heart, she had a weak head and a vain one; and there was something
so flattering in being sought (and vainly sought) in marriage at
this time of day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the
unknown gentleman quite so summarily or lightly as Nicholas appeared
to deem becoming.

'As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,' thought
Mrs Nickleby, communing with herself in her own room, 'I don't see
that, at all. It's hopeless on his part, certainly; but why he
should be an absurd old idiot, I confess I don't see. He is not to
be supposed to know it's hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be
pitied, I think!'

Having made these reflections, Mrs Nickleby looked in her little
dressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried to
remember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas was one-and-
twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother than her
son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished
her candle, and drew up the window-blind to admit the light of
morning, which had, by this time, begun to dawn.

'It's a bad light to distinguish objects in,' murmured Mrs Nickleby,
peering into the garden, 'and my eyes are not very good--I was
short-sighted from a child--but, upon my word, I think there's
another large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the
broken glass bottles at the top of the wall!'

CHAPTER 38

Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of
Condolence, which may prove important hereafter. Smike
unexpectedly encounters a very old Friend, who invites him to his
House, and will take no Denial

Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorous
neighbour, or their effects upon the susceptible bosom of her
mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoy a settled
feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which, even in
occasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger.
Living under the same roof with the beloved brother from whom she
had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with a mind at ease,
and free from any persecutions which could call a blush into her
cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passed into a
new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her
step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had
forsaken her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby looked
more beautiful than ever.

Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy's ruminations and
observations led her, when the cottage had been, as she
emphatically said, 'thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-
pots to the street-door scraper,' and the busy little woman had at
length a moment's time to think about its inmates.

'Which I declare I haven't had since I first came down here,' said
Miss La Creevy; 'for I have thought of nothing but hammers, nails,
screwdrivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and night.'

'You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,'
returned Kate, smiling.

'Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanter things
to think of, I should be a goose if I did,' said Miss La Creevy.
'By-the-bye, I HAVE thought of somebody too. Do you know, that I
observe a great change in one of this family--a very extraordinary
change?'

'In whom?' asked Kate, anxiously. 'Not in--'

'Not in your brother, my dear,' returned Miss La Creevy,
anticipating the close of the sentence, 'for he is always the same
affectionate good-natured clever creature, with a spice of the--I
won't say who--in him when there's any occasion, that he was when
I first knew you. No. Smike, as he WILL be called, poor fellow!
for he won't hear of a MR before his name, is greatly altered,
even in this short time.'

'How?' asked Kate. 'Not in health?'

'N--n--o; perhaps not in health exactly,' said Miss La Creevy,
pausing to consider, 'although he is a worn and feeble creature,
and has that in his face which it would wring my heart to see in
yours. No; not in health.'

'How then?'

'I scarcely know,' said the miniature painter. 'But I have
watched him, and he has brought the tears into my eyes many times.
It is not a very difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I am
easily melted; still I think these came with good cause and
reason. I am sure that since he has been here, he has grown, from
some strong cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He feels
it more. It gives him greater pain to know that he wanders
sometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I have
watched him when you have not been by, my dear, sit brooding by
himself, with such a look of pain as I could scarcely bear to see,
and then get up and leave the room: so sorrowfully, and in such
dejection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not three
weeks ago, he was a light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be
in a bustle, and as happy as the day was long. Now, he is another
being--the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving creature--but
the same in nothing else.'

'Surely this will all pass off,' said Kate. 'Poor fellow!'

'I hope,' returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusual
in her, 'it may. I hope, for the sake of that poor lad, it may.
However,' said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful,
chattering tone, which was habitual to her, 'I have said my say,
and a very long say it is, and a very wrong say too, I shouldn't
wonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for
if he is to be my squire all the way to the Strand, I shall talk
on, and on, and on, and never leave off, till I have roused him
into a laugh at something. So the sooner he goes, the better for
him, and the sooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I
shall have my maid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the
house--though what there is to take away, besides tables and
chairs, I don't know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever
thief who can dispose of them to any great advantage, for I can't,
I know, and that's the honest truth.'

So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flat
bonnet, and herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself
tightly into the latter, by means of a large pin, declared that
the omnibus might come as soon as it pleased, for she was quite
ready.

But there was still Mrs Nickleby to take leave of; and long before
that good lady had concluded some reminiscences bearing upon, and
appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus arrived. This put Miss
La Creevy in a great bustle, in consequence whereof, as she
secretly rewarded the servant girl with eighteen-pence behind the
street-door, she pulled out of her reticule ten-pennyworth of
halfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the passage,
and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. This
ceremony had, of course, to be succeeded by a second kissing of
Kate and Mrs Nickleby, and a gathering together of the little
basket and the brown-paper parcel, during which proceedings, 'the
omnibus,' as Miss La Creevy protested, 'swore so dreadfully, that
it was quite awful to hear it.'  At length and at last, it made a
feint of going away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, and
darted in, apologising with great volubility to all the
passengers, and declaring that she wouldn't purposely have kept
them waiting on any account whatever. While she was looking about
for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried
that it was all right--though it wasn't--and away went the huge
vehicle, with the noise of half-a-dozen brewers' drays at least.

Leaving it to pursue its journey at the pleasure of the conductor
aforementioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf
behind, smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or
go on, or gallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient and
advisable; this narrative may embrace the opportunity of
ascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to what
extent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuries
consequent on being flung violently from his cabriolet, under the
circumstances already detailed.

With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfigured
by half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent
pain and fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on
the couch to which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeks
yet to come. Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck sat drinking hard in the next
room, now and then varying the monotonous murmurs of their
conversation with a half-smothered laugh, while the young lord--
the only member of the party who was not thoroughly irredeemable,
and who really had a kind heart--sat beside his Mentor, with a
cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light of a lamp, such
scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as were most
likely to yield him interest  or amusement.

'Curse those hounds!' said the invalid, turning his head
impatiently towards the adjoining room; 'will nothing stop their
infernal throats?'

Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stopped
immediately: winking to each other as they did so, and filling
their glasses to the brim, as some recompense for the deprivation
of speech.

'Damn!' muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing
impatiently in his bed. 'Isn't this mattress hard enough, and the
room dull enough, and pain bad enough, but THEY must torture me?
What's the time?'

'Half-past eight,' replied his friend.

'Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,'
said Sir Mulberry. 'More piquet. Come.'

It was curious to see how eagerly the sick man, debarred from any
change of position save the mere turning of his head from side to
side, watched every motion of his friend in the progress of the
game; and with what eagerness and interest he played, and yet how
warily and coolly. His address and skill were more than twenty
times a match for his adversary, who could make little head
against them, even when fortune favoured him with good cards,
which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won every game; and
when his companion threw down the cards, and refused to play any
longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and caught up the stakes with
a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh, though considerably
lowered in tone, that had resounded in Ralph Nickleby's dining-
room, months before.

While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr
Ralph Nickleby was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.

'Better,' said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.

'Mr Nickleby wishes to know, sir--'

'I tell you, better,' replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon
the table.

The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that Mr
Nickleby had requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it
was not inconvenient.

'It IS inconvenient. I can't see him. I can't see anybody,' said
his master, more violently than before. 'You know that, you
blockhead.'

'I am very sorry, sir,' returned the man. 'But Mr Nickleby
pressed so much, sir--'

The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who, being
anxious to earn his money with a view to future favours, held the
door in his hand, and ventured to linger still.

'Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?' inquired
Sir Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.

'No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr
Nickleby said, sir.'

'Tell him to come up. Here,' cried Sir Mulberry, calling the man
back, as he passed his hand over his disfigured face, 'move that
lamp, and put it on the stand behind me. Wheel that table away,
and place a chair there--further off. Leave it so.'

The man obeyed these directions as if he quite comprehended the
motive with which they were dictated, and left the room. Lord
Frederick Verisopht, remarking that he would look in presently,
strolled into the adjoining apartment, and closed the folding door
behind him.

Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and Ralph
Nickleby, hat in hand, crept softly into the room, with his body
bent forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed upon
the face of his worthy client.

'Well, Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chair by
the couch side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, 'I
have had a bad accident, you see.'

'I see,' rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. 'Bad, indeed!
I should not have known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This IS
bad.'

Ralph's manner was one of profound humility and respect; and the
low tone of voice was that, which the gentlest consideration for a
sick man would have taught a visitor to assume. But the
expression of his face, Sir Mulberry's being averted, was in
extraordinary contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude,
calmly looking on the prostrate form before him, all that part of
his features which was not cast into shadow by his protruding and
contracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic smile.

'Sit down,' said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a
violent effort. 'Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?'

As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and making as
though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but
was determined not to do so, sat down with well-acted confusion.

'I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,' said
Ralph, 'twice a day, indeed, at first--and tonight, presuming upon
old acquaintance, and past transactions by which we have mutually
benefited in some degree, I could not resist soliciting admission
to your chamber. Have you--have you suffered much?' said Ralph,
bending forward, and allowing the same harsh smile to gather upon
his face, as the other closed his eyes.

'More than enough to please me, and less than enough to please
some broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who lay their
ruin between us, I dare say,' returned Sir Mulberry, tossing his
arm restlessly upon the coverlet.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intense
irritation with which this had been said; for there was an
aggravating, cold distinctness in his speech and manner which so
grated on the sick man that he could scarcely endure it.

'And what is it in these  "past transactions," that brought you
here tonight?' asked Sir Mulberry.

'Nothing,' replied Ralph. 'There are some bills of my lord's
which need renewal; but let them be till you are well. I--I--
came,' said Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher
emphasis, 'I came to say how grieved I am that any relative of
mine, although disowned by me, should have inflicted such
punishment on you as--'

'Punishment!' interposed Sir Mulberry.

'I know it has been a severe one,' said Ralph, wilfully mistaking
the meaning of the interruption, 'and that has made me the more
anxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond--that I
acknowledge him as no kin of mine--and that I leave him to take
his deserts from you, and every man besides. You may wring his
neck if you please. I shall not interfere.'

'This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?'
asked Sir Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.

'Noised in all directions,' replied Ralph. 'Every club and
gaming-room has rung with it. There has been a good song made
about it, as I am told,' said Ralph, looking eagerly at his
questioner. 'I have not heard it myself, not being in the way of
such things, but I have been told it's even printed--for private
circulation--but that's all over town, of course.'

'It's a lie!' said Sir Mulberry; 'I tell you it's all a lie. The
mare took fright.'

'They SAY he frightened her,' observed Ralph, in the same unmoved
and quiet manner. 'Some say he frightened you, but THAT'S a lie,
I know. I have said that boldly--oh, a score of times! I am a
peaceable man, but I can't hear folks tell that of you. No, no.'

When Sir  Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bent
forward with his hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its
every line of sternness had been cast in iron.

'When I am off this cursed bed,' said the invalid, actually
striking at his broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, 'I'll
have such revenge as never man had yet. By God, I will. Accident
favouring him, he has marked me for a week or two, but I'll put a
mark on him that he shall carry to his grave. I'll slit his nose
and ears, flog him, maim him for life. I'll do more than that;
I'll drag that pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the
delicate sister, through--'

It might have been that even Ralph's cold blood tingled in his
cheeks at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberry
remembered, that, knave and usurer as he was, he must, in some
early time of infancy, have twined his arm about her father's
neck. He stopped, and menacing with his hand, confirmed the
unuttered threat with a tremendous oath.

'It is a galling thing,' said Ralph, after a short term of
silence, during which he had eyed the sufferer keenly, 'to think
that the man about town, the rake, the ROUE, the rook of twenty
seasons should be brought to this pass by a mere boy!'

Sir  Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph's eyes were
bent upon the ground, and his face wore no other expression than
one of thoughtfulness.

'A raw, slight stripling,' continued Ralph, 'against a man whose
very weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in--I am
right, I think,' said Ralph, raising his eyes, 'you WERE a patron
of the ring once, were you not?'

The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to
consider as one of acquiescence.

'Ha!' he said, 'I thought so. That was before I knew you, but I
was pretty sure I couldn't be mistaken. He is light and active, I
suppose. But those were slight advantages compared with yours.
Luck, luck! These hang-dog outcasts have it.'

'He'll need the most he has, when I am well again,' said Sir
Mulberry Hawk, 'let him fly where he will.'

'Oh!' returned Ralph quickly, 'he doesn't dream of that. He is
here, good sir, waiting your pleasure, here in London, walking the
streets at noonday; carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, I
swear,' said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred getting
the upper hand of him, for the first time, as this gay picture of
Nicholas presented itself; 'if we were only citizens of a country
where it could be safely done, I'd give good money to have him
stabbed to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs to
tear.'

As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented this
little piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat
preparatory to departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.

'Why what in the deyvle's name, Hawk, have you and Nickleby been
talking about?' said the young man. 'I neyver heard such an
insufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has
it all been about?'

'Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,' said Ralph, looking
towards the couch.

'Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has
it, Nickleby?'

'No, my Lord, no,' returned Ralph. 'On that point we always
agree. Sir Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of--'

There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph to proceed;
for Sir Mulberry took up the theme, and vented his threats and
oaths against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.

Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as
this tirade  proceeded, the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht,
who at the commencement had been twirling his whiskers with a most
dandified and listless air, underwent a complete alteration. He
was still more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to speak, the
young lord angrily, and almost unaffectedly, requested never to
have the subject renewed in his presence.

'Mind that, Hawk!' he added, with unusual energy. 'I never will
be a party to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon
this young fellow.'

'Cowardly!' interrupted his friend.

'Ye-es,' said the other,  turning full upon him. 'If you had told
him who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out,
afterwards, that his station or character prevented your fighting
him, it would have been bad enough then; upon my soul it would
have been bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did wrong
too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to
you afterwards, was as much the consequence of accident as design,
and more your fault than his; and it shall not, with my knowledge,
be cruelly visited upon him, it shall not indeed.'

With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, the young
lord turned upon his heel; but before he had reached the adjoining
room he turned back again, and said, with even greater vehemence
than he had displayed before,

'I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister
is as virtuous and modest a young lady as she is a handsome one;
and of the brother, I say this, that he acted as her brother
should, and in a manly and spirited manner. And I only wish, with
all my heart and soul, that any one of us came out of this matter
half as well as he does.'

So saying, Lord Frederick Verisopht walked out of the room,
leaving Ralph Nickleby and Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant
astonishment.

'Is this your pupil?' asked Ralph, softly, 'or has he come fresh
from some country parson?'

'Green fools take these fits sometimes,' replied Sir Mulberry
Hawk, biting his lip, and pointing to the door. 'Leave him to
me.'

Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; for
they had suddenly grown confidential again in this alarming
surprise; and took his way home, thoughtfully and slowly.

While these things were being said and done, and long before they
were concluded, the omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevy and her
escort, and they had arrived at her own door. Now, the good-
nature of the little miniature painter would by no means allow of
Smike's walking back again, until he had been previously refreshed
with just a sip of something comfortable and a mixed biscuit or
so; and Smike, entertaining no objection either to the sip of
something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit, but, considering on
the contrary that they would be a very pleasant preparation for a
walk to Bow, it fell out that he delayed much longer than he
originally intended, and that it was some half-hour after dusk
when he set forth on his journey home.

There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quite
straight before him, and he had walked into town with Nicholas,
and back alone, almost every day. So, Miss La Creevy and he shook
hands with mutual confidence, and, being charged with more kind
remembrances to Mrs and Miss Nickleby, Smike started off.

At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road to
satisfy his curiosity by having a look at Newgate. After staring
up at the sombre walls, from the opposite side of the way, with
great care and dread for some minutes, he turned back again into
the old track, and walked briskly through the city; stopping now
and then to gaze in at the window of some particularly
attractive shop, then running for a little way, then stopping
again, and so on, as any other country lad might do.

He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller's window,
wishing he could take some of the beautiful trinkets home as a
present, and imagining what delight they would afford if he could,
when the clocks struck three-quarters past eight; roused by the
sound, he hurried on at a very quick pace, and was crossing the
corner of a by-street when he felt himself violently brought to,
with a jerk so sudden that he was obliged to cling to a lamp-post
to save himself from falling. At the same moment, a small boy
clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of 'Here he is,
father! Hooray!' vibrated in his ears.

Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyes
downward towards the form from which it had proceeded, and,
shuddering from head to foot, looked round. Mr Squeers had
hooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his umbrella,
and was hanging on at the other end with all his might and main.
The cry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who, regardless
of all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of
a bull-dog!

One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified
creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.

'Here's a go!' cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-over-hand
down the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had got tight
hold of the victim's collar. 'Here's a delicious go! Wackford, my
boy, call up one of them coaches.'

'A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.

'Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the
countenance of Smike. 'Damn the expense. Let's have him in a
coach.'

'What's he been a doing of?' asked a labourer with a hod of
bricks, against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers had backed,
on the first jerk of the umbrella.

'Everything!' replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil
in a sort of rapturous trance. 'Everything--running away, sir--
joining in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master--there's nothing
that's bad that he hasn't done. Oh, what a delicious go is this
here, good Lord!'

The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as
the poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him. The coach
came up; Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed in his prize, and
following close at his heels, pulled up the glasses. The coachman
mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving the two bricklayers,
and an old apple-woman, and a town-made little boy returning from
an evening school, who had been the only witnesses of the scene,
to meditate upon it at their leisure.

Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to the
unfortunate Smike, and, planting his hands firmly on his knees,
looked at him for some five minutes, when, seeming to recover from
his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and slapped his old pupil's
face several times--taking the right and left sides alternately.

'It isn't a dream!' said Squeers. 'That's real flesh and blood! I
know the feel of it!' and being quite assured of his good fortune
by these experiments, Mr Squeers administered a few boxes on the
ear, lest the entertainments should seem to partake of sameness,
and laughed louder and longer at every one.

'Your mother will be fit to jump out of her skin, my boy, when she
hears of this,' said Squeers to his son.

'Oh, won't she though, father?' replied Master Wackford.

'To think,' said Squeers, 'that you and me should be turning out
of a street, and come upon him at the very nick; and that I should
have him tight, at only one cast of the umbrella, as if I had
hooked him with a grappling-iron! Ha, ha!'

'Didn't I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?' said little
Wackford.

'You did; like a good 'un, my boy,' said Mr Squeers, patting his
son's head, 'and you shall have the best button-over jacket and
waistcoat that the next new boy brings down, as a reward of merit.
Mind that. You always keep on in the same path, and do them
things that you see your father do, and when you die you'll go
right slap to Heaven and no questions asked.'

Improving the occasion in these words, Mr Squeers patted his son's
head again, and then patted Smike's--but harder; and inquired in a
bantering tone how he found himself by this time.

'I must go home,' replied Smike, looking wildly round.

'To be sure you must. You're about right there,' replied Mr
Squeers. 'You'll go home very soon, you will. You'll find
yourself at the peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in
something under a week's time, my young friend; and the next time
you get away from there, I give you leave to keep away. Where's
the clothes you run off in, you ungrateful robber?' said Mr
Squeers, in a severe voice.

Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas had
provided for him; and wrung his hands.

'Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the Old Bailey,
for making away with them articles of property?' said Squeers. 'Do
you know that it's a hanging matter--and I an't quite certain
whether it an't an anatomy one besides--to walk off with up'ards
of the valley of five pound from a dwelling-house? Eh? Do you
know that? What do you suppose was the worth of them clothes you
had? Do you know that that Wellington boot you wore, cost eight-
and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the shoe seven-and-
six? But you came to the right shop for mercy when you came to
me, and thank your stars that it IS me as has got to serve you
with the article.'

Anybody not in Mr Squeers's confidence would have supposed that he
was quite out of the article in question, instead of having a
large stock on hand ready for all comers; nor would the opinion of
sceptical persons have undergone much alteration when he followed
up the remark by poking Smike in the chest with the ferrule of his
umbrella, and dealing a smart shower of blows, with the ribs of
the same instrument, upon his head and shoulders.

'I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,' said Mr
Squeers, when he stopped to rest. 'There's inconveniency in it,
but the novelty gives it a sort of relish, too!'

Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, and now
shrunk into a corner of the coach, with his head resting on his
hands, and his elbows on his knees; he was stunned and stupefied,
and had no more idea that any act of his, would enable him to
escape from the all-powerful Squeers, now that he had no friend to
speak to or to advise with, than he had had in all the weary years
of his Yorkshire life which preceded the arrival of Nicholas.

The journey seemed endless; street after street was entered and
left behind; and still they went jolting on. At last Mr Squeers
began to thrust his head out of the widow every half-minute, and
to bawl a variety of directions to the coachman; and after
passing, with some difficulty, through several mean streets which
the appearance of the houses and the bad state of the road denoted
to have been recently built, Mr Squeers suddenly tugged at the
check string with all his might, and cried, 'Stop!'

'What are you pulling a man's arm off for?' said the coachman
looking angrily down.

'That's the house,' replied Squeers. 'The second of them four
little houses, one story high, with the green shutters. There's
brass plate on the door, with the name of Snawley.'

'Couldn't you say that without wrenching a man's limbs off his
body?' inquired the coachman.

'No!' bawled Mr Squeers. 'Say another word, and I'll summons you
for having a broken winder. Stop!'

Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr Snawley's
door. Mr Snawley may be remembered as the sleek and sanctified
gentleman who confided two sons (in law) to the parental care of
Mr Squeers, as narrated in the fourth chapter of this history.
Mr Snawley's house was on the extreme borders of some new
settlements adjoining Somers Town, and Mr Squeers had taken
lodgings therein for a short time, as his stay was longer than
usual, and the Saracen, having experience of Master Wackford's
appetite, had declined to receive him on any other terms than as a
full-grown customer.

'Here we are!' said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little
parlour, where Mr Snawley and his wife were taking a lobster
supper. 'Here's the vagrant--the felon--the rebel--the monster
of unthankfulness.'

'What! The boy that run away!' cried Snawley, resting his knife
and fork upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their full
width.

'The very boy', said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike's
nose, and drawing it away again, and repeating the process several
times, with a vicious aspect. 'If there wasn't a lady present, I'd
fetch him such a--: never mind, I'll owe it him.'

And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and
where, he had picked up the runaway.

'It's clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,' said Mr
Snawley, casting down his eyes with an air of humility, and
elevating his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it,
towards the ceiling.

'Providence is against him, no doubt,' replied Mr Squeers,
scratching his nose. 'Of course; that was to be expected. Anybody
might have known that.'

'Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,' said Mr
Snawley.

'Never was such a thing known,' rejoined Squeers, taking a little
roll of notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were all
safe.

'I have been, Mr Snawley,' said Mr Squeers, when he had satisfied
himself upon this point, 'I have been that chap's benefactor,
feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap's classical,
commercial, mathematical, philosophical, and trigonomical friend.
My son--my only son, Wackford--has been his brother; Mrs Squeers
has been his mother, grandmother, aunt,--ah! and I may say uncle
too, all in one. She never cottoned to anybody, except them two
engaging and delightful boys of yours, as she cottoned to this
chap. What's my return? What's come of my milk of human kindness?
It turns into curds and whey when I look at him.'

'Well it may, sir,' said Mrs Snawley. 'Oh! Well it may, sir.'

'Where has he been all this time?' inquired Snawley. 'Has he been
living with--?'

'Ah, sir!' interposed Squeers, confronting him again. 'Have you
been a living with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?'

But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word of reply
to this question; for he had internally resolved that he would
rather perish in the wretched prison to which he was again about
to be consigned, than utter one syllable which could involve his
first and true friend. He had already called to mind the strict
injunctions of secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had
laid upon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused
and perplexed idea that his benefactor might have committed some
terrible crime in bringing him away, which would render him liable
to heavy punishment if detected, had contributed, in some degree,
to reduce him to his present state of apathy and terror.

Such were the thoughts--if to visions so imperfect and undefined
as those which wandered through his enfeebled brain, the term can
be applied--which were present to the mind of Smike, and rendered
him deaf alike to intimidation and persuasion. Finding every
effort useless, Mr Squeers conducted him to a little back room
up-stairs, where he was to pass the night; and, taking the
precaution of removing his shoes, and coat and waistcoat, and also
of locking the door on the outside, lest he should muster up
sufficient energy to make an attempt at escape, that worthy
gentleman left him to his meditations.

What those meditations were, and how the poor creature's heart
sunk within him when he thought--when did he, for a moment, cease
to think?--of his late home, and the dear friends and familiar
faces with which it was associated, cannot be told. To prepare the
mind for such a heavy sleep, its growth must be stopped by rigour
and cruelty in childhood; there must be years of misery and
suffering, lightened by no ray of hope; the chords of the heart,
which beat a quick response to the voice of gentleness and
affection, must have rusted and broken in their secret places, and
bear the lingering echo of no old word of love or kindness.
Gloomy, indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the long,
long twilight, preceding such a night of intellect as his.

There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but
their welcome tones could not penetrate there; and he crept to bed
the same listless, hopeless, blighted creature, that Nicholas had
first found him at the Yorkshire school.

CHAPTER 39

In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and
to some Purpose

The night, fraught with so much bitterness to one poor soul, had
given place to a bright and cloudless summer morning, when a north-
country mail-coach traversed, with cheerful noise, the yet silent
streets of Islington, and, giving brisk note of its approach with
the lively winding of the guard's horn, clattered onward to its
halting-place hard by the Post Office.

The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-looking countryman on
the box, who, with his eyes fixed upon the dome of St Paul's
Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as to be quite
insensible to all the bustle of getting out the bags and parcels,
until one of the coach windows being let sharply down, he looked
round, and encountered a pretty female face which was just then
thrust out.

'See there, lass!' bawled the countryman, pointing towards the
object of his admiration. 'There be Paul's Church. 'Ecod, he be a
soizable 'un, he be.'

'Goodness, John! I shouldn't have thought it could have been half
the size. What a monster!'

'Monsther!--Ye're aboot right theer, I reckon, Mrs Browdie,' said
the countryman good-humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge
top-coat; 'and wa'at dost thee tak yon place to be noo--thot'un
owor the wa'? Ye'd never coom near it 'gin you thried for twolve
moonths. It's na' but a Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge
for dooble-latthers. A Poast Office! Wa'at dost thee think o'
thot? 'Ecod, if thot's on'y a Poast Office, I'd loike to see where
the Lord Mayor o' Lunnun lives.'

So saying, John Browdie--for he it was--opened the coach-door, and
tapping Mrs Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he looked in,
burst into a boisterous fit of laughter.

'Weel!' said John. 'Dang my bootuns if she bean't asleep agean!'

'She's been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for a
minute or two now and then,' replied John Browdie's choice, 'and I
was very sorry when she woke, for she has been SO cross!'

The subject of these remarks was a slumbering figure, so muffled in
shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter of impossibility to
guess at its sex but for a brown beaver bonnet and green veil which
ornamented the head, and which, having been crushed and flattened,
for two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular angle of the
vehicle from which the lady's snores now proceeded, presented an
appearance sufficiently ludicrous to have moved less risible muscles
than those of John Browdie's ruddy face.

'Hollo!' cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil. 'Coom,
wakken oop, will 'ee?'

After several burrowings into the old corner, and many exclamations
of impatience and fatigue, the figure struggled into a sitting
posture; and there, under a mass of crumpled beaver, and surrounded
by a semicircle of blue curl-papers, were the delicate features of
Miss Fanny Squeers.

'Oh, 'Tilda!' cried Miss Squeers, 'how you have been kicking of me
through this blessed night!'

'Well, I do like that,' replied her friend, laughing, 'when you have
had nearly the whole coach to yourself.'

'Don't deny it, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, impressively, 'because
you have, and it's no use to go attempting to say you haven't. You
mightn't have known it in your sleep, 'Tilda, but I haven't closed
my eyes for a single wink, and so I THINK I am to be believed.'

With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil, which
nothing but supernatural interference and an utter suspension of
nature's laws could have reduced to any shape or form; and evidently
flattering herself that it looked uncommonly neat, brushed off the
sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumulated in her
lap, and availing herself of John Browdie's proffered arm, descended
from the coach.

'Noo,' said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the
ladies and the luggage hurried in, 'gang to the Sarah's Head, mun.'

'To the VERE?' cried the coachman.

'Lawk, Mr Browdie!' interrupted Miss Squeers. 'The idea! Saracen's
Head.'

'Sure-ly,' said John, 'I know'd it was something aboot Sarah's Son's
Head. Dost thou know thot?'

'Oh, ah! I know that,' replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged
the door.

''Tilda, dear, really,' remonstrated Miss Squeers, 'we shall be
taken for I don't know what.'

'Let them tak' us as they foind us,' said John Browdie; 'we dean't
come to Lunnun to do nought but 'joy oursel, do we?'

'I hope not, Mr Browdie,' replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly
dismal.

'Well, then,' said John, 'it's no matther. I've only been a married
man fower days, 'account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin' it
off. Here be a weddin' party--broide and broide's-maid, and the
groom--if a mun dean't 'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it
all, thot's what I want to know.'

So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose
no time, Mr Browdie gave his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in
wresting another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly resistance of
scratching and struggling on the part of that young lady, which was
not quite over when they reached the Saracen's Head.

Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment of
sleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they met
again about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction of
Mr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an
uninterrupted view of the stables.

To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested of the brown beaver, the
green veil, and the blue curl-papers, and arrayed in all the virgin
splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslin bonnet,
and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the inside thereof--
her luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it was
impossible they could come out by any accident, and her bonnet-cap
trimmed with little damask roses, which might be supposed to be so
many promising scions of the big rose--to have seen all this, and to
have seen the broad damask belt, matching both the family rose and
the little roses, which encircled her slender waist, and by a happy
ingenuity took off from the shortness of the spencer behind,--to
have beheld all this, and to have taken further into account the
coral bracelets (rather short of beads, and with a very visible
black string) which clasped her wrists, and the coral necklace which
rested on her neck, supporting, outside her frock, a lonely
cornelian heart, typical of her own disengaged affections--to have
contemplated all these mute but expressive appeals to the purest
feelings of our nature, might have thawed the frost of age, and
added new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.

The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had human passions and
feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed the
muffins.

'Is my pa in, do you know?' asked Miss Squeers with dignity.

'Beg your pardon, miss?'

'My pa,' repeated Miss Squeers; 'is he in?'

'In where, miss?'

'In here--in the house!' replied Miss Squeers. 'My pa--Mr Wackford
Squeers--he's stopping here. Is he at home?'

'I didn't know there was any gen'l'man of that name in the house,
miss' replied the waiter. 'There may be, in the coffee-room.'

MAY BE. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, who had
been depending, all the way to London, upon showing her friends how
much at home she would be, and how much respectful notice her name
and connections would excite, told that her father MIGHT be there!
'As if he was a feller!' observed Miss Squeers, with emphatic
indignation.

'Ye'd betther inquire, mun,' said John Browdie. 'An' hond up
another pigeon-pie, will 'ee? Dang the chap,' muttered John,
looking into the empty dish as the waiter retired; 'does he ca' this
a pie--three yoong pigeons and a troifling matther o' steak, and a
crust so loight that you doant know when it's in your mooth and when
it's gane? I wonder hoo many pies goes to a breakfast!'

After a short interval, which John Browdie employed upon the ham and
a cold round of beef, the waiter returned with another pie, and the
information that Mr Squeers was not stopping in the house, but that
he came there every day and that directly he arrived, he should be
shown upstairs. With this, he retired; and he had not retired two
minutes, when he returned with Mr Squeers and his hopeful son.

'Why, who'd have thought of this?' said Mr Squeers, when he had
saluted the party and received some private family intelligence from
his daughter.

'Who, indeed, pa!' replied that young lady, spitefully. 'But you
see 'Tilda IS married at last.'

'And I stond threat for a soight o' Lunnun, schoolmeasther,' said
John, vigorously attacking the pie.

'One of them things that young men do when they get married,'
returned Squeers; 'and as runs through with their money like nothing
at all! How much better wouldn't it be now, to save it up for the
eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come on you,'
said Mr Squeers in a moralising way, 'before you're aware of it;
mine did upon me.'

'Will 'ee pick a bit?' said John.

'I won't myself,' returned Squeers; 'but if you'll just let little
Wackford tuck into something fat, I'll be obliged to you. Give it
him in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there's lot
of profit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the
waiter coming, sir, shove it in your pocket and look out of the
window, d'ye hear?'

'I'm awake, father,' replied the dutiful Wackford.

'Well,' said Squeers, turning to his daughter, 'it's your turn to be
married next. You must make haste.'

'Oh, I'm in no hurry,' said Miss Squeers, very sharply.

'No, Fanny?' cried her old friend with some archness.

'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently. 'I
can wait.'

'So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,' observed Mrs Browdie.

'They an't draw'd into it by ME, 'Tilda,' retorted Miss Squeers.

'No,' returned her friend; 'that's exceedingly true.'

The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather
acrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a
constitutionally vicious temper--aggravated, just now, by travel and
recent jolting--was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the
failure of her own designs upon Mr Browdie; and the acrimonious
retort might have led to a great many other retorts, which might
have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject of conversation had
not been, at that precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr Squeers
himself

'What do you think?' said that gentleman; 'who do you suppose we
have laid hands on, Wackford and me?'

'Pa! not Mr--?'  Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but
Mrs Browdie did it for her, and added, 'Nickleby?'

'No,' said Squeers. 'But next door to him though.'

'You can't mean Smike?' cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.

'Yes, I can though,' rejoined her father. 'I've got him, hard and
fast.'

'Wa'at!' exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. 'Got that
poor--dom'd scoondrel? Where?'

'Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,' replied Squeers, 'with
him on one side, and the key on the other.'

'At thy loodgin'! Thee'st gotten him at thy loodgin'? Ho! ho! The
schoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I'm
darned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot.--Gotten him at thy
loodgin'?'

'Yes,' replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under the
congratulatory blow on the chest which the stout Yorkshireman dealt
him; 'thankee. Don't do it again. You mean it kindly, I know,
but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That's not so bad, is it?'

'Ba'ad!' repeated John Browdie. 'It's eneaf to scare a mun to hear
tell on.'

'I thought it would surprise you a bit,' said Squeers, rubbing his
hands. 'It was pretty neatly done, and pretty quick too.'

'Hoo wor it?' inquired John, sitting down close to him. 'Tell us
all aboot it, mun; coom, quick!'

Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie's impatience, Mr
Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his
hands, as quickly as he could, and, except when he was interrupted
by the admiring remarks of his auditors, paused not in the recital
until he had brought it to an end.

'For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,' observed
Squeers, when he had finished, looking very cunning, 'I've taken
three outsides for tomorrow morning--for Wackford and him and me--
and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys to the
agent, don't you see? So it's very lucky you come today, or you'd
have missed us; and as it is, unless you could come and tea with me
tonight, we shan't see anything more of you before we go away.'

'Dean't say anoother wurd,' returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him
by the hand. 'We'd coom, if it was twonty mile.'

'No, would you though?' returned Mr Squeers, who had not expected
quite such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or he would have
considered twice before he gave it.

John Browdie's only reply was another squeeze of the hand, and an
assurance that they would not begin to see London till tomorrow, so
that they might be at Mr Snawley's at six o'clock without fail; and
after some further conversation, Mr Squeers and his son departed.

During the remainder of the day, Mr Browdie was in a very odd and
excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion of
laughter, and then taking up his hat and running into the coach-yard
to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantly
walking in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps of
uncouth country dances, and, in short, conducting himself in such a
very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined he was going
mad, and, begging her dear 'Tilda not to distress herself,
communicated her suspicions in so many words. Mrs Browdie, however,
without discovering any great alarm, observed that she had seen him
so once before, and that although he was almost sure to be ill after
it, it would not be anything very serious, and therefore he was
better left alone.

The result proved her to be perfectly correct for, while they were
all sitting in Mr Snawley's parlour that night, and just as it was
beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, and seized
with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the whole company
were thrown into the utmost consternation. His good lady, indeed,
was the only person present, who retained presence of mind enough to
observe that if he were allowed to lie down on Mr Squeers's bed for
an hour or so, and left entirely to himself, he would be sure to
recover again almost as quickly as he had been taken ill. Nobody
could refuse to try the effect of so reasonable a proposal, before
sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John was supported upstairs,
with great difficulty; being a monstrous weight, and regularly
tumbling down two steps every time they hoisted him up three; and,
being laid on the bed, was left in charge of his wife, who, after a
short interval, reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying
intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.

Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, John Browdie was
sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen, cramming the
corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent his roaring out loud
with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded in suppressing this
emotion, than he slipped off his shoes, and creeping to the
adjoining room where the prisoner was confined, turned the key,
which was on the outside, and darting in, covered Smike's mouth with
his huge hand before he could utter a sound.

'Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?' whispered the Yorkshireman
to the bewildered lad. 'Browdie. Chap as met thee efther
schoolmeasther was banged?'

'Yes, yes,' cried Smike. 'Oh! help me.'

'Help thee!' replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instant he
had said this much. 'Thee didn't need help, if thee warn't as silly
yoongster as ever draw'd breath. Wa'at did 'ee come here for,
then?'

'He brought me; oh! he brought me,' cried Smike.

'Brout thee!' replied John. 'Why didn't 'ee punch his head, or lay
theeself doon and kick, and squeal out for the pollis? I'd ha'
licked a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee. But thee
be'est a poor broken-doon chap,' said John, sadly, 'and God forgi'
me for bragging ower yan o' his weakest creeturs!'

Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.

'Stan' still,' said the Yorkshireman, 'and doant'ee speak a morsel
o' talk till I tell'ee.'

With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly, and
drawing a screwdriver from his pocket, took off the box of the lock
in a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and laid it, together
with the implement, on the floor.

'See thot?' said John 'Thot be thy doin'. Noo, coot awa'!'

Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his
meaning.

'I say, coot awa',' repeated John, hastily. 'Dost thee know where
thee livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or
schoolmeasther's?'

'Mine,' replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to the
adjoining room, and pointed out a pair of shoes and a coat which
were lying on a chair.

'On wi' 'em,' said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrong
sleeve, and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive's neck.
'Noo, foller me, and when thee get'st ootside door, turn to the
right, and they wean't see thee pass.'

'But--but--he'll hear me shut the door,' replied Smike, trembling
from head to foot.

'Then dean't shut it at all,' retorted John Browdie. 'Dang it, thee
bean't afeard o' schoolmeasther's takkin cold, I hope?'

'N-no,' said Smike, his teeth chattering in his head. 'But he
brought me back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.'

'He wull, he wull!' replied John impatiently. 'He wean't, he
wean't. Look'ee! I wont to do this neighbourly loike, and let them
think thee's gotten awa' o' theeself, but if he cooms oot o' thot
parlour awhiles theer't clearing off, he mun' have mercy on his oun
boans, for I wean't. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I'll put 'un
on a wrong scent, I warrant 'ee. But if thee keep'st a good hart,
thee'lt be at whoam afore they know thee'st gotten off. Coom!'

Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it was intended
as encouragement, prepared to follow with tottering steps, when John
whispered in his ear.

'Thee'lt just tell yoong Measther that I'm sploiced to 'Tilly Price,
and to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that I bean't
jealous of 'un--dang it, I'm loike to boost when I think o' that
neight! 'Cod, I think I see 'un now, a powderin' awa' at the thin
bread an' butther!'

It was rather a ticklish recollection for John just then, for he was
within an ace of breaking out into a loud guffaw. Restraining
himself, however, just in time, by a great effort, he glided
downstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself close to
the parlour door, to confront the first person that might come out,
signed to him to make off.

Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Opening the
house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled gratitude and
terror at his deliverer, he took the direction which had been
indicated to him, and sped away like the wind.

The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but,
finding that there was no pause in the conversation inside, crept
back again unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a
full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into Mr
Squeers's bed, once more, and drawing the clothes over his head,
laughed till he was nearly smothered.

If there could only have been somebody by, to see how the bedclothes
shook, and to see the Yorkshireman's great red face and round head
appear above the sheets, every now and then, like some jovial
monster coming to the surface to breathe, and once more dive down
convulsed with the laughter which came bursting forth afresh--that
somebody would have been scarcely less amused than John Browdie
himself.

CHAPTER 40

In which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs a Mediator, whose
Proceedings are crowned with unexpected Success, excepting in one
solitary Particular

Once more out of the clutches of his old persecutor, it needed no
fresh stimulation to call forth the utmost energy and exertion that
Smike was capable of summoning to his aid. Without pausing for a
moment to reflect upon the course he was taking, or the probability
of its leading him homewards or the reverse, he fled away with
surprising swiftness and constancy of purpose, borne upon such wings
as only Fear can wear, and impelled by imaginary shouts in the well
remembered voice of Squeers, who, with a host of pursuers, seemed to
the poor fellow's disordered senses to press hard upon his track;
now left at a greater distance in the rear, and now gaining faster
and faster upon him, as the alternations of hope and terror agitated
him by turns. Long after he had become assured that these sounds
were but the creation of his excited brain, he still held on, at a
pace which even weakness and exhaustion could scarcely retard. It
was not until the darkness and quiet of a country road, recalled him
to a sense of external objects, and the starry sky, above, warned
him of the rapid flight of time, that, covered with dust and panting
for breath, he stopped to listen and look about him.

All was still and silent. A glare of light in the distance, casting
a warm glow upon the sky, marked where the huge city lay. Solitary
fields, divided by hedges and ditches, through many of which he had
crashed and scrambled in his flight, skirted the road, both by the
way he had come and upon the opposite side. It was late now. They
could scarcely trace him by such paths as he had taken, and if he
could hope to regain his own dwelling, it must surely be at such a
time as that, and under cover of the darkness. This, by degrees,
became pretty plain, even to the mind of Smike. He had, at first,
entertained some vague and childish idea of travelling into the
country for ten or a dozen miles, and then returning homewards by a
wide circuit, which should keep him clear of London--so great was
his apprehension of traversing the streets alone, lest he should
again encounter his dreaded enemy--but, yielding to the conviction
which these thoughts inspired, he turned back, and taking the open
road, though not without many fears and misgivings, made for London
again, with scarcely less speed of foot than that with which he had
left the temporary abode of Mr Squeers.

By the time he re-entered it, at the western extremity, the greater
part of the shops were closed. Of the throngs of people who had
been tempted abroad after the heat of the day, but few remained in
the streets, and they were lounging home. But of these he asked his
way from time to time, and by dint of repeated inquiries, he at
length reached the dwelling of Newman Noggs.

All that evening, Newman had been hunting and searching in byways
and corners for the very person who now knocked at his door, while
Nicholas had been pursuing the same inquiry in other directions. He
was sitting, with a melancholy air, at his poor supper, when Smike's
timorous and uncertain knock reached his ears. Alive to every
sound, in his anxious and expectant state, Newman hurried
downstairs, and, uttering a cry of joyful surprise, dragged the
welcome visitor into the passage and up the stairs, and said not a
word until he had him safe in his own garret and the door was shut
behind them, when he mixed a great mug-full of gin-and-water, and
holding it to Smike's mouth, as one might hold a bowl of medicine to
the lips of a refractory child, commanded him to drain it to the
last drop.

Newman looked uncommonly blank when he found that Smike did little
more than put his lips to the precious mixture; he was in the act of
raising the mug to his own mouth with a deep sigh of compassion for
his poor friend's weakness, when Smike, beginning to relate the
adventures which had befallen him, arrested him half-way, and he
stood listening, with the mug in his hand.

It was odd enough to see the change that came over Newman as Smike
proceeded. At first he stood, rubbing his lips with the back of his
hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards composing himself for a
draught; then, at the mention of Squeers, he took the mug under his
arm, and opening his eyes very wide, looked on, in the utmost
astonishment. When Smike came to the assault upon himself in the
hackney coach, he hastily deposited the mug upon the table, and
limped up and down the room in a state of the greatest excitement,
stopping himself with a jerk, every now and then, as if to listen
more attentively. When John Browdie came to be spoken of, he
dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into a chair, and rubbing, his
hands upon his knees--quicker and quicker as the story reached its
climax--burst, at last, into a laugh composed of one loud sonorous
'Ha! ha!' having given vent to which, his countenance immediately
fell again as he inquired, with the utmost anxiety, whether it was
probable that John Browdie and Squeers had come to blows.

'No! I think not,' replied Smike. 'I don't think he could have
missed me till I had got quite away.'

Newman scratched his head with a shout of great disappointment, and
once more lifting up the mug, applied himself to the contents;
smiling meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim and ghastly smile at
Smike.

'You shall stay here,' said Newman; 'you're tired--fagged. I'll
tell them you're come back. They have been half mad about you. Mr
Nicholas--'

'God bless him!' cried Smike.

'Amen!' returned Newman. 'He hasn't had a minute's rest or peace;
no more has the old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.'

'No, no. Has SHE thought about me?' said Smike. 'Has she though?
oh, has she, has she? Don't tell me so if she has not.'

'She has,' cried Newman. 'She is as noble-hearted as she is
beautiful.'

'Yes, yes!' cried Smike. 'Well said!'

'So mild and gentle,' said Newman.

'Yes, yes!' cried Smike, with increasing eagerness.

'And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,' pursued Newman.

He was going on, in his enthusiasm, when, chancing to look at his
companion, he saw that he had covered his face with his hands, and
that tears were stealing out between his fingers.

A moment before, the boy's eyes were sparkling with unwonted fire,
and every feature had been lighted up with an excitement which made
him appear, for the moment, quite a different being.

'Well, well,' muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. 'It
has touched ME, more than once, to think such a nature should have
been exposed to such trials; this poor fellow--yes, yes,--he feels
that too--it softens him--makes him think of his former misery.
Hah! That's it? Yes, that's--hum!'

It was by no means clear, from the tone of these broken reflections,
that Newman Noggs considered them as explaining, at all
satisfactorily, the emotion which had suggested them. He sat, in a
musing attitude, for some time, regarding Smike occasionally with an
anxious and doubtful glance, which sufficiently showed that he was
not very remotely connected with his thoughts.

At length he repeated his proposition that Smike should remain where
he was for that night, and that he (Noggs) should straightway repair
to the cottage to relieve the suspense of the family. But, as Smike
would not hear of this--pleading his anxiety to see his friends
again--they eventually sallied forth together; and the night being,
by this time, far advanced, and Smike being, besides, so footsore
that he could hardly crawl along, it was within an hour of sunrise
when they reached their destination.

At the first sound of their voices outside the house, Nicholas, who
had passed a sleepless night, devising schemes for the recovery of
his lost charge, started from his bed, and joyfully admitted them.
There was so much noisy conversation, and congratulation, and
indignation, that the remainder of the family were soon awakened,
and Smike received a warm and cordial welcome, not only from Kate,
but from Mrs Nickleby also, who assured him of her future favour and
regard, and was so obliging as to relate, for his entertainment and
that of the assembled circle, a most remarkable account extracted
from some work the name of which she had never known, of a
miraculous escape from some prison, but what one she couldn't
remember, effected by an officer whose name she had forgotten,
confined for some crime which she didn't clearly recollect.

At first Nicholas was disposed to give his uncle credit for some
portion of this bold attempt (which had so nearly proved successful)
to carry off Smike; but on more mature consideration, he was
inclined to think that the full merit of it rested with Mr Squeers.
Determined to ascertain, if he could, through John Browdie, how the
case really stood, he betook himself to his daily occupation:
meditating, as he went, on a great variety of schemes for the
punishment of the Yorkshire schoolmaster, all of which had their
foundation in the strictest principles of retributive justice, and
had but the one drawback of being wholly impracticable.

'A fine morning, Mr Linkinwater!' said Nicholas, entering the
office.

'Ah!' replied Tim, 'talk of the country, indeed! What do you think
of this, now, for a day--a London day--eh?'

'It's a little clearer out of town,' said Nicholas.

'Clearer!' echoed Tim Linkinwater. 'You should see it from my
bedroom window.'

'You should see it from MINE,' replied Nicholas, with a smile.

'Pooh! pooh!' said Tim Linkinwater, 'don't tell me. Country!'  (Bow
was quite a rustic place to Tim.)  'Nonsense! What can you get in
the country but new-laid eggs and flowers? I can buy new-laid eggs
in Leadenhall Market, any morning before breakfast; and as to
flowers, it's worth a run upstairs to smell my mignonette, or to see
the double wallflower in the back-attic window, at No. 6, in the
court.'

'There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the court, is there?'
said Nicholas.

'Yes, is there!' replied Tim, 'and planted in a cracked jug, without
a spout. There were hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming,
in--but you'll laugh at that, of course.'

'At what?'

'At their blossoming in old blacking-bottles,' said Tim.

'Not I, indeed,' returned Nicholas.

Tim looked wistfully at him, for a moment, as if he were encouraged
by the tone of this reply to be more communicative on the subject;
and sticking behind his ear, a pen that he had been making, and
shutting up his knife with a smart click, said,

'They belong to a sickly bedridden hump-backed boy, and seem to be
the only pleasure, Mr Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many
years is it,' said Tim, pondering, 'since I first noticed him, quite
a little child, dragging himself about on a pair of tiny crutches?
Well! Well! Not many; but though they would appear nothing, if I
thought of other things, they seem a long, long time, when I think
of him. It is a sad thing,' said Tim, breaking off, 'to see a
little deformed child sitting apart from other children, who are
active and merry, watching the games he is denied the power to share
in. He made my heart ache very often.'

'It is a good heart,' said Nicholas, 'that disentangles itself from
the close avocations of every day, to heed such things. You were
saying--'

'That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,' said Tim; 'that's all.
When it is fine weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he draws a
chair close to the window, and sits there, looking at them and
arranging them, all day long. He used to nod, at first, and then we
came to speak. Formerly, when I called to him of a morning, and
asked him how he was, he would smile, and say, "Better!" but now he
shakes his head, and only bends more closely over his old plants.
It must be dull to watch the dark housetops and the flying clouds,
for so many months; but he is very patient.'

'Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?' asked Nicholas.

'His father lives there, I believe,' replied Tim, 'and other people
too; but no one seems to care much for the poor sickly cripple. I
have asked him, very often, if I can do nothing for him; his answer
is always the same. "Nothing."  His voice is growing weak of late,
but I can SEE that he makes the old reply. He can't leave his bed
now, so they have moved it close beside the window, and there he
lies, all day: now looking at the sky, and now at his flowers, which
he still makes shift to trim and water, with his own thin hands. At
night, when he sees my candle, he draws back his curtain, and leaves
it so, till I am in bed. It seems such company to him to know that
I am there, that I often sit at my window for an hour or more, that
he may see I am still awake; and sometimes I get up in the night to
look at the dull melancholy light in his little room, and wonder
whether he is awake or sleeping.

'The night will not be long coming,' said Tim, 'when he will sleep,
and never wake again on earth. We have never so much as shaken
hands in all our lives; and yet I shall miss him like an old friend.
Are there any country flowers that could interest me like these, do
you think? Or do you suppose that the withering of a hundred kinds
of the choicest flowers that blow, called by the hardest Latin names
that were ever invented, would give me one fraction of the pain that
I shall feel when these old jugs and bottles are swept away as
lumber? Country!' cried Tim, with a contemptuous emphasis; 'don't
you know that I couldn't have such a court under my bedroom window,
anywhere, but in London?'

With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and pretending to be
absorbed in his accounts, took an opportunity of hastily wiping his
eyes when he supposed Nicholas was looking another way.

Whether it was that Tim's accounts were more than usually intricate
that morning, or whether it was that his habitual serenity had been
a little disturbed by these recollections, it so happened that when
Nicholas returned from executing some commission, and inquired
whether Mr Charles Cheeryble was alone in his room, Tim promptly,
and without the smallest hesitation, replied in the affirmative,
although somebody had passed into the room not ten minutes before,
and Tim took especial and particular pride in preventing any
intrusion on either of the brothers when they were engaged with any
visitor whatever.

'I'll take this letter to him at once,' said Nicholas, 'if that's
the case.'  And with that, he walked to the room and knocked at the
door.

No answer.

Another knock, and still no answer.

'He can't be here,' thought Nicholas. 'I'll lay it on his table.'

So, Nicholas opened the door and walked in; and very quickly he
turned to walk out again, when he saw, to his great astonishment and
discomfiture, a young lady upon her knees at Mr Cheeryble's feet,
and Mr Cheeryble beseeching her to rise, and entreating a third
person, who had the appearance of the young lady's female
attendant, to add her persuasions to his to induce her to do so.

Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology, and was precipitately
retiring, when the young lady, turning her head a little, presented
to his view the features of the lovely girl whom he had seen at the
register-office on his first visit long before. Glancing from her
to the attendant, he recognised the same clumsy servant who had
accompanied her then; and between his admiration of the young lady's
beauty, and the confusion and surprise of this unexpected
recognition, he stood stock-still, in such a bewildered state of
surprise and embarrassment that, for the moment, he was quite bereft
of the power either to speak or move.

'My dear ma'am--my dear young lady,' cried brother Charles in
violent agitation, 'pray don't--not another word, I beseech and
entreat you! I implore you--I beg of you--to rise. We--we--are not
alone.'

As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chair and
swooned away.

'She has fainted, sir,' said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.

'Poor dear, poor dear!' cried brother Charles 'Where is my brother
Ned? Ned, my dear brother, come here pray.'

'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied his brother, hurrying
into the room, 'what is the--ah! what--'

'Hush! hush!--not a word for your life, brother Ned,' returned the
other. 'Ring for the housekeeper, my dear brother--call Tim
Linkinwater! Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir--Mr Nickleby, my dear sir,
leave the room, I beg and beseech of you.'

'I think she is better now,' said Nicholas, who had been watching
the patient so eagerly, that he had not heard the request.

'Poor bird!' cried brother Charles, gently taking her hand in his,
and laying her head upon his arm. 'Brother Ned, my dear fellow, you
will be surprised, I know, to witness this, in business hours; but--'
here he was again reminded of the presence of Nicholas, and
shaking him by the hand, earnestly requested him to leave the room,
and to send Tim Linkinwater without an instant's delay.

Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on his way to the counting-house,
met both the old housekeeper and Tim Linkinwater, jostling each
other in the passage, and hurrying to the scene of action with
extraordinary speed. Without waiting to hear his message, Tim
Linkinwater darted into the room, and presently afterwards Nicholas
heard the door shut and locked on the inside.

He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, for Tim
Linkinwater was absent during the greater part of an hour, during
the whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing but the young
lady, and her exceeding beauty, and what could possibly have brought
her there, and why they made such a mystery of it. The more he
thought of all this, the more it perplexed him, and the more anxious
he became to know who and what she was. 'I should have known her
among ten thousand,' thought Nicholas. And with that he walked up
and down the room, and recalling her face and figure (of which he
had a peculiarly vivid remembrance), discarded all other subjects of
reflection and dwelt upon that alone.

At length Tim Linkinwater came back--provokingly cool, and with
papers in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had
happened.

'Is she quite recovered?' said Nicholas, impetuously.

'Who?' returned Tim Linkinwater.

'Who!' repeated Nicholas. 'The young lady.'

'What do you make, Mr Nickleby,' said Tim, taking his pen out of his
mouth, 'what do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven times
three thousand two hundred and thirty-eight?'

'Nay,' returned Nicholas, 'what do you make of my question first? I
asked you--'

'About the young lady,' said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his
spectacles. 'To be sure. Yes. Oh! she's very well.'

'Very well, is she?' returned Nicholas.

'Very well,' replied Mr Linkinwater, gravely.

'Will she be able to go home today?' asked Nicholas.

'She's gone,' said Tim.

'Gone!'

'Yes.'

'I hope she has not far to go?' said Nicholas, looking earnestly at
the other.

'Ay,' replied the immovable Tim, 'I hope she hasn't.'

Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it was evident
that Tim Linkinwater had his own reasons for evading the subject,
and that he was determined to afford no further information
respecting the fair unknown, who had awakened so much curiosity in
the breast of his young friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse,
Nicholas returned to the charge next day, emboldened by the
circumstance of Mr Linkinwater being in a very talkative and
communicative mood; but, directly he resumed the theme, Tim relapsed
into a state of most provoking taciturnity, and from answering in
monosyllables, came to returning no answers at all, save such as
were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which only
served to whet that appetite for intelligence in Nicholas, which had
already attained a most unreasonable height.

Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself with
watching for the young lady's next visit, but here again he was
disappointed. Day after day passed, and she did not return. He
looked eagerly at the superscription of all the notes and letters,
but there was not one among them which he could fancy to be in her
handwriting. On two or three occasions he was employed on business
which took him to a distance, and had formerly been transacted by
Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help suspecting that, for some
reason or other, he was sent out of the way on purpose, and that the
young lady was there in his absence. Nothing transpired, however,
to confirm this suspicion, and Tim could not be entrapped into any
confession or admission tending to support it in the smallest
degree.

Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the
growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries.
'Out of sight, out of mind,' is well enough as a proverb applicable
to cases of friendship, though absence is not always necessary to
hollowness of heart, even between friends, and truth and honesty,
like precious stones, are perhaps most easily imitated at a
distance, when the counterfeits often pass for real. Love, however,
is very materially assisted by a warm and active imagination: which
has a long memory, and will thrive, for a considerable time, on very
slight and sparing food. Thus it is, that it often attains its most
luxuriant growth in separation and under circumstances of the utmost
difficulty; and thus it was, that Nicholas, thinking of nothing but
the unknown young lady, from day to day and from hour to hour,
began, at last, to think that he was very desperately in love with
her, and that never was such an ill-used and persecuted lover as he.

Still, though he loved and languished after the most orthodox
models, and was only deterred from making a confidante of Kate by
the slight considerations of having never, in all his life, spoken
to the object of his passion, and having never set eyes upon her,
except on two occasions, on both of which she had come and gone like
a flash of lightning--or, as Nicholas himself said, in the numerous
conversations he held with himself, like a vision of youth and
beauty much too bright to last--his ardour and devotion remained
without its reward. The young lady appeared no more; so there was a
great deal of love wasted (enough indeed to have set up half-a-dozen
young gentlemen, as times go, with the utmost decency), and nobody
was a bit the wiser for it; not even Nicholas himself, who, on the
contrary, became more dull, sentimental, and lackadaisical, every
day.

While matters were in this state, the failure of a correspondent of
the brothers Cheeryble, in Germany, imposed upon Tim Linkinwater and
Nicholas the necessity of going through some very long and
complicated accounts, extending over a considerable space of time.
To get through them with the greater dispatch, Tim Linkinwater
proposed that they should remain at the counting-house, for a week
or so, until ten o'clock at night; to this, as nothing damped the
zeal of Nicholas in the service of his kind patrons--not even
romance, which has seldom business habits--he cheerfully assented.
On the very first night of these later hours, at nine exactly, there
came: not the young lady herself, but her servant, who, being
closeted with brother Charles for some time, went away, and returned
next night at the same hour, and on the next, and on the next again.

These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of Nicholas to the very
highest pitch. Tantalised and excited, beyond all bearing, and
unable to fathom the mystery without neglecting his duty, he
confided the whole secret to Newman Noggs, imploring him to be on
the watch next night; to follow the girl home; to set on foot such
inquiries relative to the name, condition, and history of her
mistress, as he could, without exciting suspicion; and to report the
result to him with the least possible delay.

Beyond all measure proud of this commission, Newman Noggs took up
his post, in the square, on the following evening, a full hour
before the needful time, and planting himself behind the pump and
pulling his hat over his eyes, began his watch with an elaborate
appearance of mystery, admirably calculated to excite the suspicion
of all beholders. Indeed, divers servant girls who came to draw
water, and sundry little boys who stopped to drink at the ladle,
were almost scared out of their senses, by the apparition of Newman
Noggs looking stealthily round the pump, with nothing of him visible
but his face, and that wearing the expression of a meditative Ogre.

Punctual to her time, the messenger came again, and, after an
interview of rather longer duration than usual, departed. Newman
had made two appointments with Nicholas: one for the next evening,
conditional on his success: and one the next night following, which
was to be kept under all circumstances. The first night he was not
at the place of meeting (a certain tavern about half-way between the
city and Golden Square), but on the second night he was there before
Nicholas, and received him with open arms.

'It's all right,' whispered Newman. 'Sit down. Sit down, there's a
dear young man, and let me tell you all about it.'

Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquired what was
the news.

'There's a great deal of news,' said Newman, in a flutter of
exultation. 'It's all right. Don't be anxious. I don't know where
to begin. Never mind that. Keep up your spirits. It's all right.'

'Well?' said Nicholas eagerly. 'Yes?'

'Yes,' replied Newman. 'That's it.'

'What's it?' said Nicholas. 'The name--the name, my dear fellow!'

'The name's Bobster,' replied Newman.

'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, indignantly.

'That's the name,' said Newman. 'I remember it by lobster.'

'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, more emphatically than before. 'That
must be the servant's name.'

'No, it an't,' said Newman, shaking his head with great positiveness.
'Miss Cecilia Bobster.'

'Cecilia, eh?' returned Nicholas, muttering the two names together
over and over again in every variety of tone, to try the effect.
'Well, Cecilia is a pretty name.'

'Very. And a pretty creature too,' said Newman.

'Who?' said Nicholas.

'Miss Bobster.'

'Why, where have you seen her?' demanded Nicholas.

'Never mind, my dear boy,' retorted Noggs, clapping him on the
shoulder. 'I HAVE seen her. You shall see her. I've managed it
all.'

'My dear Newman,' cried Nicholas, grasping his hand, 'are you
serious?'

'I am,' replied Newman. 'I mean it all. Every word. You shall see
her tomorrow night. She consents to hear you speak for yourself. I
persuaded her. She is all affability, goodness, sweetness, and
beauty.'

'I know she is; I know she must be, Newman!' said Nicholas, wringing
his hand.

'You are right,' returned Newman.

'Where does she live?' cried Nicholas. 'What have you learnt of her
history? Has she a father--mother--any brothers--sisters? What did
she say? How came you to see her? Was she not very much surprised?
Did you say how passionately I have longed to speak to her? Did you
tell her where I had seen her? Did you tell her how, and when, and
where, and how long, and how often, I have thought of that sweet
face which came upon me in my bitterest distress like a glimpse of
some better world--did you, Newman--did you?'

Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this flood of questions
rushed upon him, and moved spasmodically in his chair at every fresh
inquiry, staring at Nicholas meanwhile with a most ludicrous
expression of perplexity.

'No,' said Newman, 'I didn't tell her that.'

'Didn't tell her which?' asked Nicholas.

'About the glimpse of the better world,' said Newman. 'I didn't
tell her who you were, either, or where you'd seen her. I said you
loved her to distraction.'

'That's true, Newman,' replied Nicholas, with his characteristic
vehemence. 'Heaven knows I do!'

'I said too, that you had admired her for a long time in secret,'
said Newman.

'Yes, yes. What did she say to that?' asked Nicholas.

'Blushed,' said Newman.

'To be sure. Of course she would,' said Nicholas approvingly.
Newman then went on to say, that the young lady was an only child,
that her mother was dead, that she resided with her father, and that
she had been induced to allow her lover a secret interview, at the
intercession of her servant, who had great influence with her. He
further related how it required much moving and great eloquence to
bring the young lady to this pass; how it was expressly understood
that she merely afforded Nicholas an opportunity of declaring his
passion; and how she by no means pledged herself to be favourably
impressed with his attentions. The mystery of her visits to the
brothers Cheeryble remained wholly unexplained, for Newman had not
alluded to them, either in his preliminary conversations with the
servant or his subsequent interview with the mistress, merely
remarking that he had been instructed to watch the girl home and
plead his young friend's cause, and not saying how far he had
followed her, or from what point. But Newman hinted that from what
had fallen from the confidante, he had been led to suspect that the
young lady led a very miserable and unhappy life, under the strict
control of her only parent, who was of a violent and brutal temper;
a circumstance which he thought might in some degree account, both
for her having sought the protection and friendship of the brothers,
and her suffering herself to be prevailed upon to grant the promised
interview. The last he held to be a very logical deduction from the
premises, inasmuch as it was but natural to suppose that a young
lady, whose present condition was so unenviable, would be more than
commonly desirous to change it.

It appeared, on further questioning--for it was only by a very long
and arduous process that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs--
that Newman, in explanation of his shabby appearance, had
represented himself as being, for certain wise and indispensable
purposes connected with that intrigue, in disguise; and, being
questioned how he had come to exceed his commission so far as to
procure an interview, he responded, that the lady appearing willing
to grant it, he considered himself bound, both in duty and
gallantry, to avail himself of such a golden means of enabling
Nicholas to prosecute his addresses. After these and all possible
questions had been asked and answered twenty times over, they
parted, undertaking to meet on the following night at half-past ten,
for the purpose of fulfilling the appointment; which was for eleven
o'clock.

'Things come about very strangely!' thought Nicholas, as he walked
home. 'I never contemplated anything of this kind; never dreamt of
the possibility of it. To know something of the life of one in whom
I felt such interest; to see her in the street, to pass the house in
which she lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks, to hope that a
day might come when I might be in a condition to tell her of my
love, this was the utmost extent of my thoughts. Now, however--but
I should be a fool, indeed, to repine at my own good fortune!'

Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was more in the
dissatisfaction than mere revulsion of feeling. He was angry with
the young lady for being so easily won, 'because,' reasoned
Nicholas, 'it is not as if she knew it was I, but it might have been
anybody,'--which was certainly not pleasant. The next moment, he
was angry with himself for entertaining such thoughts, arguing that
nothing but goodness could dwell in such a temple, and that the
behaviour of the brothers sufficiently showed the estimation in
which they held her. 'The fact is, she's a mystery altogether,'
said Nicholas. This was not more satisfactory than his previous
course of reflection, and only drove him out upon a new sea of
speculation and conjecture, where he tossed and tumbled, in great
discomfort of mind, until the clock struck ten, and the hour of
meeting drew nigh.

Nicholas had dressed himself with great care, and even Newman Noggs
had trimmed himself up a little; his coat presenting the phenomenon
of two consecutive buttons, and the supplementary pins being
inserted at tolerably regular intervals. He wore his hat, too, in
the newest taste, with a pocket-handkerchief in the crown, and a
twisted end of it straggling out behind after the fashion of a
pigtail, though he could scarcely lay claim to the ingenuity of
inventing this latter decoration, inasmuch as he was utterly
unconscious of it: being in a nervous and excited condition which
rendered him quite insensible to everything but the great object of
the expedition.

They traversed the streets in profound silence; and after walking at
a round pace for some distance, arrived in one, of a gloomy
appearance and very little frequented, near the Edgeware Road.

'Number twelve,' said Newman.

'Oh!' replied Nicholas, looking about him.

'Good street?' said Newman.

'Yes,' returned Nicholas. 'Rather dull.'

Newman made no answer to this remark, but, halting abruptly, planted
Nicholas with his back to some area railings, and gave him to
understand that he was to wait there, without moving hand or foot,
until it was satisfactorily ascertained that the coast was clear.
This done, Noggs limped away with great alacrity; looking over his
shoulder every instant, to make quite certain that Nicholas was
obeying his directions; and, ascending the steps of a house some
half-dozen doors off, was lost to view.

After a short delay, he reappeared, and limping back again, halted
midway, and beckoned Nicholas to follow him.

'Well?' said Nicholas, advancing towards him on tiptoe.

'All right,' replied Newman, in high glee. 'All ready; nobody at
home. Couldn't be better. Ha! ha!'

With this fortifying assurance, he stole past a street-door, on
which Nicholas caught a glimpse of a brass plate, with 'BOBSTER,' in
very large letters; and, stopping at the area-gate, which was open,
signed to his young friend to descend.

'What the devil!' cried Nicholas, drawing back. 'Are we to sneak
into the kitchen, as if we came after the forks?'

'Hush!' replied Newman. 'Old Bobster--ferocious Turk. He'd kill
'em all--box the young lady's ears--he does--often.'

'What!' cried Nicholas, in high wrath, 'do you mean to tell me that
any man would dare to box the ears of such a--'

He had no time to sing the praises of his mistress, just then, for
Newman gave him a gentle push which had nearly precipitated him to
the bottom of the area steps. Thinking it best to take the hint in
good part, Nicholas descended, without further remonstrance, but
with a countenance bespeaking anything rather than the hope and
rapture of a passionate lover. Newman followed--he would have
followed head first, but for the timely assistance of Nicholas--and,
taking his hand, led him through a stone passage, profoundly dark,
into a back-kitchen or cellar, of the blackest and most pitchy
obscurity, where they stopped.

'Well!' said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, 'this is not all,
I suppose, is it?'

'No, no,' rejoined Noggs; 'they'll be here directly. It's all
right.'

'I am glad to hear it,' said Nicholas. 'I shouldn't have thought
it, I confess.'

They exchanged no further words, and there Nicholas stood, listening
to the loud breathing of Newman Noggs, and imagining that his nose
seemed to glow like a red-hot coal, even in the midst of the
darkness which enshrouded them. Suddenly the sound of cautious
footsteps attracted his ear, and directly afterwards a female voice
inquired if the gentleman was there.

'Yes,' replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from which the
voice proceeded. 'Who is that?'

'Only me, sir,' replied the voice. 'Now if you please, ma'am.'

A gleam of light shone into the place, and presently the servant
girl appeared, bearing a light, and followed by her young mistress,
who seemed to be overwhelmed by modesty and confusion.

At sight of the young lady, Nicholas started and changed colour; his
heart beat violently, and he stood rooted to the spot. At that
instant, and almost simultaneously with her arrival and that of the
candle, there was heard a loud and furious knocking at the street-
door, which caused Newman Noggs to jump up, with great agility, from
a beer-barrel on which he had been seated astride, and to exclaim
abruptly, and with a face of ashy paleness, 'Bobster, by the Lord!'

The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung her hands, Nicholas
gazed from one to the other in apparent stupefaction, and Newman
hurried to and fro, thrusting his hands into all his pockets
successively, and drawing out the linings of every one in the excess
of his irresolution. It was but a moment, but the confusion crowded
into that one moment no imagination can exaggerate.

'Leave the house, for Heaven's sake! We have done wrong, we deserve
it all,' cried the young lady. 'Leave the house, or I am ruined and
undone for ever.'

'Will you hear me say but one word?' cried Nicholas. 'Only one. I
will not detain you. Will you hear me say one word, in explanation
of this mischance?'

But Nicholas might as well have spoken to the wind, for the young
lady, with distracted looks, hurried up the stairs. He would have
followed her, but Newman, twisting his hand in his coat collar,
dragged him towards the passage by which they had entered.

'Let me go, Newman, in the Devil's name!' cried Nicholas. 'I must
speak to her. I will! I will not leave this house without.'

'Reputation--character--violence--consider,' said Newman, clinging
round him with both arms, and hurrying him away. 'Let them open the
door. We'll go, as we came, directly it's shut. Come. This way.
Here.'

Overpowered by the remonstrances of Newman, and the tears and
prayers of the girl, and the tremendous knocking above, which had
never ceased, Nicholas allowed himself to be hurried off; and,
precisely as Mr Bobster made his entrance by the street-door, he and
Noggs made their exit by the area-gate.

They hurried away, through several streets, without stopping or
speaking. At last, they halted and confronted each other with blank
and rueful faces.

'Never mind,' said Newman, gasping for breath. 'Don't be cast down.
It's all right. More fortunate next time. It couldn't be helped.
I did MY part.'

'Excellently,' replied Nicholas, taking his hand. 'Excellently, and
like the true and zealous friend you are. Only--mind, I am not
disappointed, Newman, and feel just as much indebted to you--only IT
WAS THE WRONG LADY.'

'Eh?' cried Newman Noggs. 'Taken in by the servant?'

'Newman, Newman,' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder:
'it was the wrong servant too.'

Newman's under-jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, with his sound
eye fixed fast and motionless in his head.

'Don't take it to heart,' said Nicholas; 'it's of no consequence;
you see I don't care about it; you followed the wrong person, that's
all.'

That WAS all. Whether Newman Noggs had looked round the pump, in a
slanting direction, so long, that his sight became impaired; or
whether, finding that there was time to spare, he had recruited
himself with a few drops of something stronger than the pump could
yield--by whatsoever means it had come to pass, this was his
mistake. And Nicholas went home to brood upon it, and to meditate
upon the charms of the unknown young lady, now as far beyond his
reach as ever.

CHAPTER 41

Containing some Romantic Passages between Mrs Nickleby and the
Gentleman in the Small-clothes next Door

Ever since her last momentous conversation with her son, Mrs
Nickleby had begun to display unusual care in the adornment of her
person, gradually superadding to those staid and matronly
habiliments, which had, up to that time, formed her ordinary attire,
a variety of embellishments and decorations, slight perhaps in
themselves, but, taken together, and considered with reference to
the subject of her disclosure, of no mean importance. Even her
black dress assumed something of a deadly-lively air from the jaunty
style in which it was worn; and, eked out as its lingering
attractions were; by a prudent disposal, here and there, of certain
juvenile ornaments of little or no value, which had, for that reason
alone, escaped the general wreck and been permitted to slumber
peacefully in odd corners of old drawers and boxes where daylight
seldom shone, her mourning garments assumed quite a new character.
From being the outward tokens of respect and sorrow for the dead,
they became converted into signals of very slaughterous and killing
designs upon the living.

Mrs Nickleby might have been stimulated to this proceeding by a
lofty sense of duty, and impulses of unquestionable excellence. She
might, by this time, have become impressed with the sinfulness of
long indulgence in unavailing woe, or the necessity of setting a
proper example of neatness and decorum to her blooming daughter.
Considerations of duty and responsibility apart, the change might
have taken its rise in feelings of the purest and most disinterested
charity. The gentleman next door had been vilified by Nicholas;
rudely stigmatised as a dotard and an idiot; and for these attacks
upon his understanding, Mrs Nickleby was, in some sort, accountable.
She might have felt that it was the act of a good Christian to show
by all means in her power, that the abused gentleman was neither the
one nor the other. And what better means could she adopt, towards
so virtuous and laudable an end, than proving to all men, in her own
person, that his passion was the most rational and reasonable in the
world, and just the very result, of all others, which discreet and
thinking persons might have foreseen, from her incautiously
displaying her matured charms, without reserve, under the very eye,
as it were, of an ardent and too-susceptible man?

'Ah!' said Mrs Nickleby, gravely shaking her head; 'if Nicholas knew
what his poor dear papa suffered before we were engaged, when I used
to hate him, he would have a little more feeling. Shall I ever
forget the morning I looked scornfully at him when he offered to
carry my parasol? Or that night, when I frowned at him? It was a
mercy he didn't emigrate. It very nearly drove him to it.'

Whether the deceased might not have been better off if he had
emigrated in his bachelor days, was a question which his relict did
not stop to consider; for Kate entered the room, with her workbox,
in this stage of her reflections; and a much slighter interruption,
or no interruption at all, would have diverted Mrs Nickleby's
thoughts into a new channel at any time.

'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'I don't know how it is, but a
fine warm summer day like this, with the birds singing in every
direction, always puts me in mind of roast pig, with sage and onion
sauce, and made gravy.'

'That's a curious association of ideas, is it not, mama?'

'Upon my word, my dear, I don't know,' replied Mrs Nickleby. 'Roast
pig; let me see. On the day five weeks after you were christened,
we had a roast--no, that couldn't have been a pig, either, because I
recollect there were a pair of them to carve, and your poor papa and
I could never have thought of sitting down to two pigs--they must
have been partridges. Roast pig! I hardly think we ever could have
had one, now I come to remember, for your papa could never bear the
sight of them in the shops, and used to say that they always put him
in mind of very little babies, only the pigs had much fairer
complexions; and he had a horror of little babies, 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 nothing but mould for me.'

'Dear mama,' returned Kate, hastily, 'take this seat--do--to oblige
me, mama.'

'No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own side,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'Well! I declare!'

Kate looked up inquiringly.

'If he hasn't been,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'and got, from somewhere
or other, a couple of roots of those flowers that I said I was so
fond of, the other night, and asked you if you were not--no, that
YOU said YOU were so fond of, the other night, and asked me if I
wasn't--it's the same thing. Now, upon my word, I take that as very
kind and attentive indeed! I don't see,' added Mrs Nickleby,
looking narrowly about her, 'any of them on my side, but I suppose
they grow best near the gravel. You may depend upon it they do,
Kate, and that's the reason they are all near you, and he has put
the gravel there, because it's the sunny side. Upon my word, that's
very clever now! I shouldn't have had half as much thought myself!'

'Mama,' said Kate, bending over her work so that her face was
almost hidden, 'before you were married--'

'Dear me, Kate,' interrupted Mrs Nickleby, 'what in the name of
goodness graciousness makes you fly off to the time before I was
married, when I'm talking to you about his thoughtfulness and
attention to me? You don't seem to take the smallest interest in
the garden.'

'Oh! mama,' said Kate, raising her face again, 'you know I do.'

'Well then, my dear, why don't you praise the neatness and
prettiness with which it's kept?' said Mrs Nickleby. 'How very odd
you are, Kate!'

'I do praise it, mama,' answered Kate, gently. 'Poor fellow!'

'I scarcely ever hear you, my dear,' retorted Mrs Nickleby; 'that's
all I've got to say.'  By this time the good lady had been a long
while upon one topic, so she fell at once into her daughter's little
trap, if trap it were, and inquired what she had been going to say.

'About what, mama?' said Kate, who had apparently quite forgotten
her diversion.

'Lor, Kate, my dear,' returned her mother, 'why, you're asleep or
stupid! About the time before I was married.'

'Oh yes!' said Kate, 'I remember. I was going to ask, mama, before
you were married, had you many suitors?'

'Suitors, my dear!' cried Mrs Nickleby, with a smile of wonderful
complacency. 'First and last, Kate, I must have had a dozen at
least.'

'Mama!' returned Kate, in a tone of remonstrance.

'I had indeed, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'not including your poor
papa, or a young gentleman who used to go, at that time, to the same
dancing school, and who WOULD send gold watches and bracelets to our
house in gilt-edged paper, (which were always returned,) and who
afterwards unfortunately went out to Botany Bay in a cadet ship--a
convict ship I mean--and escaped into a bush and killed sheep, (I
don't know how they got there,) and was going to be hung, only he
accidentally choked himself, and the government pardoned him. Then
there was young Lukin,' said Mrs Nickleby, beginning with her left
thumb and checking off the names on her fingers--'Mogley--Tipslark--
Cabbery--Smifser--'

Having now reached her little finger, Mrs Nickleby was carrying the
account over to the other hand, when a loud 'Hem!' which appeared to
come from the very foundation of the garden-wall, gave both herself
and her daughter a violent start.

'Mama! what was that?' said Kate, in a low tone of voice.

'Upon my word, my dear,' returned Mrs Nickleby, considerably
startled, 'unless it was the gentleman belonging to the next house,
I don't know what it could possibly--'

'A--hem!' cried the same voice; and that, not in the tone of an
ordinary clearing of the throat, but in a kind of bellow, which woke
up all the echoes in the neighbourhood, and was prolonged to an
extent which must have made the unseen bellower quite black in the
face.

'I understand it now, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, laying her hand
on Kate's; 'don't be alarmed, my love, it's not directed to you, and
is not intended to frighten anybody. Let us give everybody their
due, Kate; I am bound to say that.'

So saying, Mrs Nickleby nodded her head, and patted the back of her
daughter's hand, a great many times, and looked as if she could tell
something vastly important if she chose, but had self-denial, thank
Heaven; and wouldn't do it.

'What do you mean, mama?' demanded Kate, in evident surprise.

'Don't be flurried, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking towards
the garden-wall, 'for you see I'm not, and if it would be excusable
in anybody to be flurried, it certainly would--under all the
circumstances--be excusable in me, but I am not, Kate--not at all.'

'It seems designed to attract our attention, mama,' said Kate.

'It is designed to attract our attention, my dear; at least,'
rejoined Mrs Nickleby, drawing herself up, and patting her
daughter's hand more blandly than before, 'to attract the attention
of one of us. Hem! you needn't be at all uneasy, my dear.'

Kate looked very much perplexed, and was apparently about to ask for
further explanation, when a shouting and scuffling noise, as of an
elderly gentleman whooping, and kicking up his legs on loose gravel,
with great violence, was heard to proceed from the same direction as
the former sounds; and before they had subsided, a large cucumber
was seen to shoot up in the air with the velocity of a sky-rocket,
whence it descended, tumbling over and over, until it fell at Mrs
Nickleby's feet.

This remarkable appearance was succeeded by another of a precisely
similar description; then a fine vegetable marrow, of unusually
large dimensions, was seen to whirl aloft, and come toppling down;
then, several cucumbers shot up together; and, finally, the air was
darkened by a shower of onions, turnip-radishes, and other small
vegetables, which fell rolling and scattering, and bumping about, in
all directions.

As Kate rose from her seat, in some alarm, and caught her mother's
hand to run with her into the house, she felt herself rather
retarded than assisted in her intention; and following the direction
of Mrs Nickleby's eyes, was quite terrified by the apparition of an
old black velvet cap, which, by slow degrees, as if its wearer were
ascending a ladder or pair of steps, rose above the wall dividing
their garden from that of the next cottage, (which, like their own,
was a detached building,) and was gradually followed by a very large
head, and an old face, in which were a pair of most extraordinary
grey eyes: very wild, very wide open, and rolling in their sockets,
with a dull, languishing, leering look, most ugly to behold.

'Mama!' cried Kate, really terrified for the moment, 'why do you
stop, why do you lose an instant? Mama, pray come in!'

'Kate, my dear,' returned her mother, still holding back, 'how can
you be so foolish? I'm ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are
ever to get through life, if you're such a coward as this? What do
you want, sir?' said Mrs Nickleby, addressing the intruder with a
sort of simpering displeasure. 'How dare you look into this
garden?'

'Queen of my soul,' replied the stranger, folding his hands
together, 'this goblet sip!'

'Nonsense, sir,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Kate, my love, pray be quiet.'

'Won't you sip the goblet?' urged the stranger, with his head
imploringly on one side, and his right hand on his breast. 'Oh, do
sip the goblet!'

'I shall not consent to do anything of the kind, sir,' said Mrs
Nickleby. 'Pray, begone.'

'Why is it,' said the old gentleman, coming up a step higher, and
leaning his elbows on the wall, with as much complacency as if he
were looking out of window, 'why is it that beauty is always
obdurate, even when admiration is as honourable and respectful as
mine?'  Here he smiled, kissed his hand, and made several low bows.
'Is it owing to the bees, who, when the honey season is over, and
they are supposed to have been killed with brimstone, in reality fly
to Barbary and lull the captive Moors to sleep with their drowsy
songs? Or is it,' he added, dropping his voice almost to a whisper,
'in consequence of the statue at Charing Cross having been lately
seen, on the Stock Exchange at midnight, walking arm-in-arm with the
Pump from Aldgate, in a riding-habit?'

'Mama,' murmured Kate, 'do you hear him?'

'Hush, my dear!' replied Mrs Nickleby, in the same tone of voice,
'he is very polite, and I think that was a quotation from the poets.
Pray, don't worry me so--you'll pinch my arm black and blue. Go
away, sir!'

'Quite away?' said the gentleman, with a languishing look. 'Oh!
quite away?'

'Yes,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'certainly. You have no business
here. This is private property, sir; you ought to know that.'

'I do know,' said the old gentleman, laying his finger on his nose,
with an air of familiarity, most reprehensible, 'that this is a
sacred and enchanted spot, where the most divine charms'--here he
kissed his hand and bowed again--'waft mellifluousness over the
neighbours' gardens, and force the fruit and vegetables into
premature existence. That fact I am acquainted with. But will you
permit me, fairest creature, to ask you one question, in the absence
of the planet Venus, who has gone on business to the Horse Guards,
and would otherwise--jealous of your superior charms--interpose
between us?'

'Kate,' observed Mrs Nickleby, turning to her daughter, 'it's very
awkward, positively. I really don't know what to say to this
gentleman. One ought to be civil, you know.'

'Dear mama,' rejoined Kate, 'don't say a word to him, but let us
run away as fast as we can, and shut ourselves up till Nicholas
comes home.'

Mrs Nickleby looked very grand, not to say contemptuous, at this
humiliating proposal; and, turning to the old gentleman, who had
watched them during these whispers with absorbing eagerness, said:

'If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gentleman I should
imagine you to be, from your language and--and--appearance, (quite
the counterpart of your grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in his best days,)
and will put your question to me in plain words, I will answer it.'

If Mrs Nickleby's excellent papa had borne, in his best days, a
resemblance to the neighbour now looking over the wall, he must have
been, to say the least, a very queer-looking old gentleman in his
prime. Perhaps Kate thought so, for she ventured to glance at his
living portrait with some attention, as he took off his black velvet
cap, and, exhibiting a perfectly bald head, made a long series of
bows, each accompanied with a fresh kiss of the hand. After
exhausting himself, to all appearance, with this fatiguing
performance, he covered his head once more, pulled the cap very
carefully over the tips of his ears, and resuming his former
attitude, said,

'The question is--'

Here he broke off to look round in every direction, and satisfy
himself beyond all doubt that there were no listeners near. Assured
that there were not, he tapped his nose several times, accompanying
the action with a cunning look, as though congratulating himself on
his caution; and stretching out his neck, said in a loud whisper,

'Are you a princess?'

'You are mocking me, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby, making a feint of
retreating towards the house.

'No, but are you?' said the old gentleman.

'You know I am not, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby.

'Then are you any relation to the Archbishop of Canterbury?'
inquired the old gentleman with great anxiety, 'or to the Pope of
Rome? Or the Speaker of the House of Commons? Forgive me, if I am
wrong, but I was told you were niece to the Commissioners of Paving,
and daughter-in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Common Council,
which would account for your relationship to all three.'

'Whoever has spread such reports, sir,' returned Mrs Nickleby, with
some warmth, 'has taken great liberties with my name, and one which
I am sure my son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, would not allow
for an instant. The idea!' said Mrs Nickleby, drawing herself up,
'niece to the Commissioners of Paving!'

'Pray, mama, come away!' whispered Kate.

'"Pray mama!"  Nonsense, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby, angrily, 'but
that's just the way. If they had said I was niece to a piping
bullfinch, what would you care? But I have no sympathy,' whimpered
Mrs Nickleby. 'I don't expect it, that's one thing.'

'Tears!' cried the old gentleman, with such an energetic jump, that
he fell down two or three steps and grated his chin against the
wall. 'Catch the crystal globules--catch 'em--bottle 'em up--cork
'em tight--put sealing wax on the top--seal 'em with a cupid--label
'em "Best quality"--and stow 'em away in the fourteen binn, with a
bar of iron on the top to keep the thunder off!'

Issuing these commands, as if there were a dozen attendants all
actively engaged in their execution, he turned his velvet cap inside
out, put it on with great dignity so as to obscure his right eye and
three-fourths of his nose, and sticking his arms a-kimbo, looked
very fiercely at a sparrow hard by, till the bird flew away, when he
put his cap in his pocket with an air of great satisfaction, and
addressed himself with respectful demeanour to Mrs Nickleby.

'Beautiful madam,' such were his words, 'if I have made any mistake
with regard to your family or connections, I humbly beseech you to
pardon me. If I supposed you to be related to Foreign Powers or
Native Boards, it is because you have a manner, a carriage, a
dignity, which you will excuse my saying that none but yourself
(with the single exception perhaps of the tragic muse, when playing
extemporaneously on the barrel organ before the East India Company)
can parallel. I am not a youth, ma'am, as you see; and although
beings like you can never grow old, I venture to presume that we are
fitted for each other.'

'Really, Kate, my love!' said Mrs Nickleby faintly, and looking
another way.

'I have estates, ma'am,' said the old gentleman, flourishing his
right hand negligently, as if he made very light of such matters,
and speaking very fast; 'jewels, lighthouses, fish-ponds, a whalery
of my own in the North Sea, and several oyster-beds of great profit
in the Pacific Ocean. If you will have the kindness to step down to
the Royal Exchange and to take the cocked-hat off the stoutest
beadle's head, you will find my card in the lining of the crown,
wrapped up in a piece of blue paper. My walking-stick is also to be
seen on application to the chaplain of the House of Commons, who is
strictly forbidden to take any money for showing it. I have enemies
about me, ma'am,' he looked towards his house and spoke very low,
'who attack me on all occasions, and wish to secure my property. If
you bless me with your hand and heart, you can apply to the Lord
Chancellor or call out the military if necessary--sending my
toothpick to the commander-in-chief will be sufficient--and so clear
the house of them before the ceremony is performed. After that,
love, bliss and rapture; rapture, love and bliss. Be mine, be mine!'

Repeating these last words with great rapture and enthusiasm, the
old gentleman put on his black velvet cap again, and looking up into
the sky in a hasty manner, said something that was not quite
intelligible concerning a balloon he expected, and which was rather
after its time.

'Be mine, be mine!' repeated the old gentleman.

'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I have hardly the power to
speak; but it is necessary for the happiness of all parties that
this matter should be set at rest for ever.'

'Surely there is no necessity for you to say one word, mama?'
reasoned Kate.

'You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to judge for myself,'
said Mrs Nickleby.

'Be mine, be mine!' cried the old gentleman.

'It can scarcely be expected, sir,' said Mrs Nickleby, fixing her
eyes modestly on the ground, 'that I should tell a stranger whether
I feel flattered and obliged by such proposals, or not. They
certainly are made under very singular circumstances; still at the
same time, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course'
(Mrs Nickleby's customary qualification), 'they must be gratifying
and agreeable to one's feelings.'

'Be mine, be mine,' cried the old gentleman. 'Gog and Magog, Gog
and Magog. Be mine, be mine!'

'It will be sufficient for me to say, sir,' resumed Mrs Nickleby,
with perfect seriousness--'and I'm sure you'll see the propriety of
taking an answer and going away--that I have made up my mind to
remain a widow, and to devote myself to my children. You may not
suppose I am the mother of two children--indeed many people have
doubted it, and said that nothing on earth could ever make 'em
believe it possible--but it is the case, and they are both grown up.
We shall be very glad to have you for a neighbour--very glad;
delighted, I'm sure--but in any other character it's quite
impossible, quite. As to my being young enough to marry again, that
perhaps may be so, or it may not be; but I couldn't think of it for
an instant, not on any account whatever. I said I never would, and
I never will. It's a very painful thing to have to reject
proposals, and I would much rather that none were made; at the same
time this is the answer that I determined long ago to make, and this
is the answer I shall always give.'

These observations were partly addressed to the old gentleman,
partly to Kate, and partly delivered in soliloquy. Towards their
conclusion, the suitor evinced a very irreverent degree of
inattention, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely finished speaking, when,
to the great terror both of that lady and her daughter, he suddenly
flung off his coat, and springing on the top of the wall, threw
himself into an attitude which displayed his small-clothes and grey
worsteds to the fullest advantage, and concluded by standing on one
leg, and repeating his favourite bellow with increased vehemence.

While he was still dwelling on the last note, and embellishing it
with a prolonged flourish, a dirty hand was observed to glide
stealthily and swiftly along the top of the wall, as if in pursuit
of a fly, and then to clasp with the utmost dexterity one of the old
gentleman's ankles. This done, the companion hand appeared, and
clasped the other ankle.

Thus encumbered the old gentleman lifted his legs awkwardly once or
twice, as if they were very clumsy and imperfect pieces of
machinery, and then looking down on his own side of the wall, burst
into a loud laugh.

'It's you, is it?' said the old gentleman.

'Yes, it's me,' replied a gruff voice.

'How's the Emperor of Tartary?' said the old gentleman.

'Oh! he's much the same as usual,' was the reply. 'No better and no
worse.'

'The young Prince of China,' said the old gentleman, with much
interest. 'Is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potato
salesman?'

'No,' answered the gruff voice; 'and he says he never will be,
that's more.'

'If that's the case,' observed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I'd
better come down.'

'Well,' said the man on the other side, 'I think you had, perhaps.'

One of the hands being then cautiously unclasped, the old gentleman
dropped into a sitting posture, and was looking round to smile and
bow to Mrs Nickleby, when he disappeared with some precipitation, as
if his legs had been pulled from below.

Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning to speak
to her mama, when the dirty hands again became visible, and were
immediately followed by the figure of a coarse squat man, who
ascended by the steps which had been recently occupied by their
singular neighbour.

'Beg your pardon, ladies,' said this new comer, grinning and
touching his hat. 'Has he been making love to either of you?'

'Yes,' said Kate.

'Ah!' rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hat and
wiping his face, 'he always will, you know. Nothing will prevent
his making love.'

'I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,' said
Kate.

'Why no,' replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his
handkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. 'That's pretty
plain, that is.'

'Has he been long so?' asked Kate.

'A long while.'

'And is there no hope for him?' said Kate, compassionately

'Not a bit, and don't deserve to be,' replied the keeper. 'He's a
deal pleasanter without his senses than with 'em. He was the
cruellest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed
breath.'

'Indeed!' said Kate.

'By George!' replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically
that he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on. 'I never come
across such a vagabond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor
wife's heart, turned his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into
the streets; it was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil
tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and guzzling, and
drinking, or he'd have drove many others so. Hope for HIM, an old
rip! There isn't too much hope going' but I'll bet a crown that
what there is, is saved for more deserving chaps than him, anyhow.'

With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again,
as much as to say that nothing short of this would do, if things
were to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily--not that he was
in an ill humour, but that his subject ruffled him--descended the
ladder, and took it away.

During this conversation, Mrs Nickleby had regarded the man with a
severe and steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and
pursing up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtful manner.

'Poor creature!' said Kate.

'Ah! poor indeed!' rejoined Mrs Nickleby. 'It's shameful that such
things should be allowed. Shameful!'

'How can they be helped, mama?' said Kate, mournfully. 'The
infirmities of nature--'

'Nature!' said Mrs Nickleby. 'What! Do YOU suppose this poor
gentleman is out of his mind?'

'Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?'

'Why then, I just tell you this, Kate,' returned Mrs Nickleby,
'that, he is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can be so
imposed upon. It's some plot of these people to possess themselves
of his property--didn't he say so himself? He may be a little odd
and flighty, perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and
express himself as he does, respectfully, and in quite poetical
language, and making offers with so much thought, and care, and
prudence--not as if he ran into the streets, and went down upon his
knees to the first chit of a girl he met, as a madman would! No,
no, Kate, there's a great deal too much method in HIS madness;
depend upon that, my dear.'

CHAPTER 42

Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends
must sometimes part

The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all day in the
heat, and the twain Saracens' heads guarding the entrance to the
hostelry of whose name and sign they are the duplicate presentments,
looked--or seemed, in the eyes of jaded and footsore passers-by, to
look--more vicious than usual, after blistering and scorching in the
sun, when, in one of the inn's smallest sitting-rooms, through whose
open window there rose, in a palpable steam, wholesome exhalations
from reeking coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was
displayed in neat and inviting order, flanked by large joints of
roast and boiled, a tongue, a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of
ale, and other little matters of the like kind, which, in degenerate
towns and cities, are generally understood to belong more
particularly to solid lunches, stage-coach dinners, or unusually
substantial breakfasts.

Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered restlessly
about these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies out
of the sugar-basin with his wife's pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a
teaspoon in the milk-pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut off a
little knob of crust, and a little corner of meat, and swallow them
at two gulps like a couple of pills. After every one of these
flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out his watch, and declared
with an earnestness quite pathetic that he couldn't undertake to
hold out two minutes longer.

'Tilly!' said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and
half asleep upon a sofa.

'Well, John!'

'Well, John!' retorted her husband, impatiently. 'Dost thou feel
hoongry, lass?'

'Not very,' said Mrs Browdie.

'Not vary!' repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'Hear
her say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthry
thot aggravates a mon 'stead of pacifying him! Not vary!'

'Here's a gen'l'man for you, sir,' said the waiter, looking in.

'A wa'at for me?' cried John, as though he thought it must be a
letter, or a parcel.

'A gen'l'man, sir.'

'Stars and garthers, chap!' said John, 'wa'at dost thou coom and say
thot for? In wi' 'un.'

'Are you at home, sir?'

'At whoam!' cried John, 'I wish I wur; I'd ha tea'd two hour ago.
Why, I told t'oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell 'un
d'rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi' hoonger. In wi' 'un. Aha!
Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest day o'
my life, sir. Hoo be all wi' ye? Ding! But, I'm glod o' this!'

Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of his
salutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again and again,
slapping his palm with great violence between each shake, to add
warmth to the reception.

'Ah! there she be,' said John, observing the look which Nicholas
directed towards his wife. 'There she be--we shan't quarrel about
her noo--eh? Ecod, when I think o' thot--but thou want'st soom'at
to eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa'at we're aboot to
receive--'

No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing more was
heard, for John had already begun to play such a knife and fork,
that his speech was, for the time, gone.

'I shall take the usual licence, Mr Browdie,' said Nicholas, as he
placed a chair for the bride.

'Tak' whatever thou like'st,' said John, 'and when a's gane, ca' for
more.'

Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs
Browdie, and handed her to her seat.

'I say,' said John, rather astounded for the moment, 'mak' theeself
quite at whoam, will 'ee?'

'You may depend upon that,' replied Nicholas; 'on one condition.'

'And wa'at may thot be?' asked John.

'That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion
for one.'

'Eh! d'ye hear thot?' cried John, laying down his knife and fork.
'A godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly--hear till 'un--a godfeyther!
Divn't say a word more, ye'll never beat thot. Occasion for 'un--a
godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!'

Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as John
Browdie was with this. He chuckled, roared, half suffocated himself
by laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roared again,
persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face and black
in the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off again laughing
inwardly, got worse, choked, had his back thumped, stamped about,
frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a state of the last
exhaustion and with the water streaming from his eyes, but still
faintly ejaculating, 'A godfeyther--a godfeyther, Tilly!' in a tone
bespeaking an exquisite relish of the sally, which no suffering
could diminish.

'You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?' said Nicholas.

'Shall I e'er forget it, mun?' replied John Browdie.

'He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs
Browdie?' said Nicholas. 'Quite a monster!'

'If you had only heard him as we were going home, Mr Nickleby, you'd
have said so indeed,' returned the bride. 'I never was so
frightened in all my life.'

'Coom, coom,' said John, with a broad grin; 'thou know'st betther
than thot, Tilly.'

'So I was,' replied Mrs Browdie. 'I almost made up my mind never to
speak to you again.'

'A'most!' said John, with a broader grin than the last. 'A'most
made up her mind! And she wur coaxin', and coaxin', and wheedlin',
and wheedlin' a' the blessed wa'. "Wa'at didst thou let yon chap
mak' oop tiv'ee for?" says I. "I deedn't, John," says she, a
squeedgin my arm. "You deedn't?" says I. "Noa," says she, a
squeedgin of me agean.'

'Lor, John!' interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much. 'How
can you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt of such a
thing!'

'I dinnot know whether thou'd ever dreamt of it, though I think
that's loike eneaf, mind,' retorted John; 'but thou didst it.
"Ye're a feeckle, changeable weathercock, lass," says I. "Not
feeckle, John," says she. "Yes," says I, "feeckle, dom'd feeckle.
Dinnot tell me thou bean't, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther's,"
says I. "Him!" says she, quite screeching. "Ah! him!" says I.
"Why, John," says she--and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a
deal harder than she'd deane afore--"dost thou think it's nat'ral
noo, that having such a proper mun as thou to keep company wi', I'd
ever tak' opp wi' such a leetle scanty whipper-snapper as yon?" she
says. Ha! ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper! "Ecod!" I says,
"efther thot, neame the day, and let's have it ower!"  Ha! ha! ha!'

Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story, both on account of its
telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare the blushes
of Mrs Browdie, whose protestations were drowned in peals of
laughter from her husband. His good-nature soon put her at her
ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughed so
heartily at it, that Nicholas had the satisfaction of feeling
assured that in all essential respects it was strictly true.

'This is the second time,' said Nicholas, 'that we have ever taken a
meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yet it
really seems to me as if I were among old friends.'

'Weel!' observed the Yorkshireman, 'so I say.'

'And I am sure I do,' added his young wife.

'I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,'
said Nicholas; 'for if it had not been for your kindness of heart,
my good friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know
not what might have become of me or what plight I should have been
in by this time.'

'Talk aboot soom'at else,' replied John, gruffly, 'and dinnot
bother.'

'It must be a new song to the same tune then,' said Nicholas,
smiling. 'I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired
your sympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk of
involving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell
you how 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 not wakken anybody, sir."  "Hallo, there," he
says, and then he stops. "Thou'd betther not aggravate me," says
schoolmeasther, efther a little time. "I'll brak' every boan in
your boddy, Smike," he says, efther another little time. Then all
of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight, and when it cooms--ecod,
such a hoorly-boorly! "Wa'at's the matter?" says I. "He's gane,"
says he,--stark mad wi' vengeance. "Have you heerd nought?"  "Ees,"
says I, "I heerd street-door shut, no time at a' ago. I heerd a
person run doon there" (pointing t'other wa'--eh?)  "Help!" he cries.
"I'll help you," says I; and off we set--the wrong wa'! Ho! ho!
ho!'

'Did you go far?' asked Nicholas.

'Far!' replied John; 'I run him clean off his legs in quarther of an
hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi'out his hat, skimming along oop
to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, and rowling
into ditches, and bawling oot like mad, wi' his one eye looking
sharp out for the lad, and his coat-tails flying out behind, and him
spattered wi' mud all ower, face and all! I tho't I should ha'
dropped doon, and killed myself wi' laughing.'

John laughed so heartily at the mere recollection, that he
communicated the contagion to both his hearers, and all three burst
into peals of laughter, which were renewed again and again, until
they could laugh no longer.

'He's a bad 'un,' said John, wiping his eyes; 'a very bad 'un, is
schoolmeasther.'

'I can't bear the sight of him, John,' said his wife.

'Coom,' retorted John, 'thot's tidy in you, thot is. If it wa'nt
along o' you, we shouldn't know nought aboot 'un. Thou know'd 'un
first, Tilly, didn't thou?'

'I couldn't help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,' returned his wife;
'she was an old playmate of mine, you know.'

'Weel,' replied John, 'dean't I say so, lass? It's best to be
neighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I say is,
dean't quarrel if 'ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr Nickleby?'

'Certainly,' returned Nicholas; 'and you acted upon that principle
when I meet you on horseback on the road, after our memorable
evening.'

'Sure-ly,' said John. 'Wa'at I say, I stick by.'

'And that's a fine thing to do, and manly too,' said Nicholas,
'though it's not exactly what we understand by "coming Yorkshire
over us" in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said in
your note.'

'Yes,' replied John, 'Tilly's bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaid she
be, too. She wean't be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.'

'For shame, John,' said Mrs Browdie; with an acute perception of the
joke though, being a bride herself.

'The groom will be a blessed mun,' said John, his eyes twinkling at
the idea. 'He'll be in luck, he will.'

'You see, Mr Nickleby,' said his wife, 'that it was in consequence
of her being here, that John wrote to you and fixed tonight, because
we thought that it wouldn't be pleasant for you to meet, after what
has passed.'

'Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,' said Nicholas,
interrupting.

'Especially,' observed Mrs Browdie, looking very sly, 'after what we
know about past and gone love matters.'

'We know, indeed!' said Nicholas, shaking his head. 'You behaved
rather wickedly there, I suspect.'

'O' course she did,' said John Browdie, passing his huge forefinger
through one of his wife's pretty ringlets, and looking very proud of
her. 'She wur always as skittish and full o' tricks as a--'

'Well, as a what?' said his wife.

'As a woman,' returned John. 'Ding! But I dinnot know ought else
that cooms near it.'

'You were speaking about Miss Squeers,' said Nicholas, with the view
of stopping some slight connubialities which had begun to pass
between Mr and Mrs Browdie, and which rendered the position of a
third party in some degree embarrassing, as occasioning him to feel
rather in the way than otherwise.

'Oh yes,' rejoined Mrs Browdie. 'John ha' done. John fixed tonight,
because she had settled that she would go and drink tea with her
father. And to make quite sure of there being nothing amiss, and of
your being quite alone with us, he settled to go out there and fetch
her home.'

'That was a very good arrangement,' said Nicholas, 'though I am
sorry to be the occasion of so much trouble.'

'Not the least in the world,' returned Mrs Browdie; 'for we have
looked forward to see you--John and I have--with the greatest
possible pleasure. Do you know, Mr Nickleby,' said Mrs Browdie,
with her archest smile, 'that I really think Fanny Squeers was very
fond of you?'

'I am very much obliged to her,' said Nicholas; 'but upon my word, I
never aspired to making any impression upon her virgin heart.'

'How you talk!' tittered Mrs Browdie. 'No, but do you know that
really--seriously now and without any joking--I was given to
understand by Fanny herself, that you had made an offer to her, and
that you two were going to be engaged quite solemn and regular.'

'Was you, ma'am--was you?' cried a shrill female voice, 'was you
given to understand that I--I--was going to be engaged to an
assassinating thief that shed the gore of my pa? Do you--do you
think, ma'am--that I was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet, as
I couldn't condescend to touch with kitchen tongs, without blacking
and crocking myself by the contract? Do you, ma'am--do you? Oh!
base and degrading 'Tilda!'

With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the door wide open, and
disclosed to the eyes of the astonished Browdies and Nicholas, not
only her own symmetrical form, arrayed in the chaste white garments
before described (a little dirtier), but the form of her brother and
father, the pair of Wackfords.

'This is the hend, is it?' continued Miss Squeers, who, being
excited, aspirated her h's strongly; 'this is the hend, is it, of
all my forbearance and friendship for that double-faced thing--that
viper, that--that--mermaid?'  (Miss Squeers hesitated a long time for
this last epithet, and brought it out triumphantly 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?'

'Oh, come,' rejoined Mrs Browdie, disregarding all the endeavours of
her spouse to restrain her, and forcing herself into a front row,
'don't talk such nonsense as that.'

'Have I not patronised you, ma'am?' demanded Miss Squeers.

'No,' returned Mrs Browdie.

'I will not look for blushes in such a quarter,' said Miss Squeers,
haughtily, 'for that countenance is a stranger to everything but
hignominiousness and red-faced boldness.'

'I say,' interposed John Browdie, nettled by these accumulated
attacks on his wife, 'dra' it mild, dra' it mild.'

'You, Mr Browdie,' said Miss Squeers, taking him up very quickly, 'I
pity. I have no feeling for you, sir, but one of unliquidated
pity.'

'Oh!' said John.

'No,' said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent, 'although I
AM a queer bridesmaid, and SHAN'T be a bride in a hurry, and
although my husband WILL be in luck, I entertain no sentiments
towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.'

Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, who looked
sideways at her, as much as to say, 'There you had him.'

'I know what you've got to go through,' said Miss Squeers, shaking
her curls violently. 'I know what life is before you, and if you
was my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish you nothing
worse.'

'Couldn't you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was the
case?' inquired Mrs Browdie, with great suavity of manner.

'Oh, ma'am, how witty you are,' retorted Miss Squeers with a low
curtsy, 'almost as witty, ma'am, as you are clever. How very clever
it was in you, ma'am, to choose a time when I had gone to tea with
my pa, and was sure not to come back without being fetched! What a
pity you never thought that other people might be as clever as
yourself and spoil your plans!'

'You won't vex me, child, with such airs as these,' said the late
Miss Price, assuming the matron.

'Don't MISSIS me, ma'am, if you please,' returned Miss Squeers,
sharply. 'I'll not bear it. Is THIS the hend--'

'Dang it a',' cried John Browdie, impatiently. 'Say thee say out,
Fanny, and mak' sure it's the end, and dinnot ask nobody whether it
is or not.'

'Thanking you for your advice which was not required, Mr Browdie,'
returned Miss Squeers, with laborious politeness, 'have the goodness
not to presume to meddle with my Christian name. Even my pity shall
never make me forget what's due to myself, Mr Browdie. 'Tilda,'
said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accession of violence that
John started in his boots, 'I throw you off for ever, miss. I
abandon you. I renounce you. I wouldn't,' cried Miss Squeers in a
solemn voice, 'have a child named 'Tilda, not to save it from its
grave.'

'As for the matther o' that,' observed John, 'it'll be time eneaf to
think aboot neaming of it when it cooms.'

'John!' interposed his wife, 'don't tease her.'

'Oh! Tease, indeed!' cried Miss Squeers, bridling up. 'Tease,
indeed! He, he! Tease, too! No, don't tease her. Consider her
feelings, pray!'

'If it's fated that listeners are never to hear any good of
themselves,' said Mrs Browdie, 'I can't help it, and I am very sorry
for it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have
spoken so kindly of you behind your back, that even you could have
found no fault with what I said.'

'Oh, I dare say not, ma'am!' cried Miss Squeers, with another
curtsy. 'Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging and
praying you not to be hard upon me another time!'

'I don't know,' resumed Mrs Browdie, 'that I have said anything very
bad of you, even now. At all events, what I did say was quite true;
but if I have, I am very sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. You
have said much worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have never
borne any malice to you, and I hope you'll not bear any to me.'

Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying her former
friend from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the air with
ineffable disdain. But some indistinct allusions to a 'puss,' and a
'minx,' and a 'contemptible creature,' escaped her; and this,
together with a severe biting of the lips, great difficulty in
swallowing, and very frequent comings and goings of breath, seemed
to imply that feelings were swelling in Miss Squeers's bosom too
great for utterance.

While the foregoing conversation was proceeding, Master Wackford,
finding himself unnoticed, and feeling his preponderating
inclinations strong upon him, had by little and little sidled up to
the table and attacked the food with such slight skirmishing as
drawing his fingers round and round the inside of the plates, and
afterwards sucking them with infinite relish; picking the bread, and
dragging the pieces over the surface of the butter; pocketing lumps
of sugar, pretending all the time to be absorbed in thought; and so
forth. Finding that no interference was attempted with these small
liberties, he gradually mounted to greater, and, after helping
himself to a moderately good cold collation, was, by this time, deep
in the pie.

Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr Squeers, who, so long as
the attention of the company was fixed upon other objects, hugged
himself to think that his son and heir should be fattening at the
enemy's expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary
calm, in which the proceedings of little Wackford could scarcely
fail to be observed, he feigned to be aware of the circumstance for
the first time, and inflicted upon the face of that young gentleman
a slap that made the very tea-cups ring.

'Eating!' cried Mr Squeers, 'of what his father's enemies has left!
It's fit to go and poison you, you unnat'ral boy.'

'It wean't hurt him,' said John, apparently very much relieved by
the prospect of having a man in the quarrel; 'let' un eat. I wish
the whole school was here. I'd give'em soom'at to stay their
unfort'nate stomachs wi', if I spent the last penny I had!'

Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most malicious expression
of which his face was capable--it was a face of remarkable
capability, too, in that way--and shook his fist stealthily.

'Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,' said John, 'dinnot make a fool o'
thyself; for if I was to sheake mine--only once--thou'd fa' doon wi'
the wind o' it.'

'It was you, was it,' returned Squeers, 'that helped off my runaway
boy? It was you, was it?'

'Me!' returned John, in a loud tone. 'Yes, it wa' me, coom; wa'at
o' that? It wa' me. Noo then!'

'You hear him say he did it, my child!' said Squeers, appealing to
his daughter. 'You hear him say he did it!'

'Did it!' cried John. 'I'll tell 'ee more; hear this, too. If
thou'd got another roonaway boy, I'd do it agean. If thou'd got
twonty roonaway boys, I'd do it twonty times ower, and twonty more
to thot; and I tell thee more,' said John, 'noo my blood is oop,
that thou'rt an old ra'ascal; and that it's weel for thou, thou
be'est an old 'un, or I'd ha' poonded thee to flour when thou told
an honest mun hoo thou'd licked that poor chap in t' coorch.'

'An honest man!' cried Squeers, with a sneer.

'Ah! an honest man,' replied John; 'honest in ought but ever putting
legs under seame table wi' such as thou.'

'Scandal!' said Squeers, exultingly. 'Two witnesses to it; Wackford
knows the nature of an oath, he does; we shall have you there, sir.
Rascal, eh?'  Mr Squeers took out his pocketbook and made a note of
it. 'Very good. I should say that was worth full twenty pound at
the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.'

''Soizes,' cried John, 'thou'd betther not talk to me o' 'Soizes.
Yorkshire schools have been shown up at 'Soizes afore noo, mun, and
it's a ticklish soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.'

Mr Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, looking very
white with passion; and taking his daughter's arm, and dragging
little Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the door.

'As for you,' said Squeers, turning round and addressing Nicholas,
who, as he had caused him to smart pretty soundly on a former
occasion, purposely abstained from taking any part in the
discussion, 'see if I ain't down upon you before long. You'll go a
kidnapping of boys, will you? Take care their fathers don't turn
up--mark that--take care their fathers don't turn up, and send 'em
back to me to do as I like with, in spite of you.'

'I am not afraid of that,' replied Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders
contemptuously, and turning away.

'Ain't you!' retorted Squeers, with a diabolical look. 'Now then,
come along.'

'I leave such society, with my pa, for Hever,' said Miss Squeers,
looking contemptuously and loftily round. 'I am defiled by
breathing the air with such creatures. Poor Mr Browdie! He! he!
he! I do pity him, that I do; he's so deluded. He! he! he!--Artful
and designing 'Tilda!'

With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majestic wrath,
Miss Squeers swept from the room; and having sustained her dignity
until the last possible moment, was heard to sob and scream and
struggle in the passage.

John Browdie remained standing behind the table, looking from his
wife to Nicholas, and back again, with his mouth wide open, until
his hand accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale, when he took it
up, and having obscured his features therewith for some time, drew a
long breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang the bell.

'Here, waither,' said John, briskly. 'Look alive here. Tak' these
things awa', and let's have soomat broiled for sooper--vary
comfortable and plenty o' it--at ten o'clock. Bring soom brandy and
soom wather, and a pair o' slippers--the largest pair in the house--
and be quick aboot it. Dash ma wig!' said John, rubbing his hands,
'there's no ganging oot to neeght, noo, to fetch anybody whoam, and
ecod, we'll begin to spend the evening in airnest.'

CHAPTER 43

Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People
together

The storm had long given place to a calm the most profound, and the
evening was pretty far advanced--indeed supper was over, and the
process of digestion proceeding as favourably as, under the
influence of complete tranquillity, cheerful conversation, and a
moderate allowance of brandy-and-water, most wise men conversant
with the anatomy and functions of the human frame will consider that
it ought to have proceeded, when the three friends, or as one might
say, both in a civil and religious sense, and with proper deference
and regard to the holy state of matrimony, the two friends, (Mr and
Mrs Browdie counting as no more than one,) were startled by the
noise of loud and angry threatenings below stairs, which presently
attained so high a pitch, and were conveyed besides in language so
towering, sanguinary, and ferocious, that it could hardly have been
surpassed, if there had actually been a Saracen's head then present
in the establishment, supported on the shoulders and surmounting the
trunk of a real, live, furious, and most unappeasable Saracen.

This turmoil, instead of quickly subsiding after the first outburst,
(as turmoils not unfrequently do, whether in taverns, legislative
assemblies, or elsewhere,) into a mere grumbling and growling
squabble, increased every moment; and although the whole din
appeared to be raised by but one pair of lungs, yet that one pair
was of so powerful a quality, and repeated such words as
'scoundrel,' 'rascal,' 'insolent puppy,' and a variety of expletives
no less flattering to the party addressed, with such great relish
and strength of tone, that a dozen voices raised in concert under
any ordinary circumstances would have made far less uproar and
created much smaller consternation.

'Why, what's the matter?' said Nicholas, moving hastily towards the
door.

John Browdie was striding in the same direction when Mrs Browdie
turned pale, and, leaning back in her chair, requested him with a
faint voice to take notice, that if he ran into any danger it was
her intention to fall into hysterics immediately, and that the
consequences might be more serious than he thought for. John looked
rather disconcerted by this intelligence, though there was a lurking
grin on his face at the same time; but, being quite unable to keep
out of the fray, he compromised the matter by tucking his wife's arm
under his own, and, thus accompanied, following Nicholas downstairs
with all speed.

The passage outside the coffee-room door was the scene of
disturbance, and here were congregated the coffee-room customers and
waiters, together with two or three coachmen and helpers from the
yard. These had hastily assembled round a young man who from his
appearance might have been a year or two older than Nicholas, and
who, besides having given utterance to the defiances just now
described, seemed to have proceeded to even greater lengths in his
indignation, inasmuch as his feet had no other covering than a pair
of stockings, while a couple of slippers lay at no great distance
from the head of a prostrate figure in an opposite corner, who bore
the appearance of having been shot into his present retreat by means
of a kick, and complimented by having the slippers flung about his
ears afterwards.

The coffee-room customers, and the waiters, and the coachmen, and
the helpers--not to mention a barmaid who was looking on from behind
an open sash window--seemed at that moment, if a spectator might
judge from their winks, nods, and muttered exclamations, strongly
disposed to take part against the young gentleman in the stockings.
Observing this, and that the young gentleman was nearly of his own
age and had in nothing the appearance of an habitual brawler,
Nicholas, impelled by such feelings as will influence young men
sometimes, felt a very strong disposition to side with the weaker
party, and so thrust himself at once into the centre of the group,
and in a more emphatic tone, perhaps, than circumstances might seem
to warrant, demanded what all that noise was about.

'Hallo!' said one of the men from the yard, 'this is somebody in
disguise, this is.'

'Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of Roosher, gen'l'men!'
cried another fellow.

Disregarding these sallies, which were uncommonly well received, as
sallies at the expense of the best-dressed persons in a crowd
usually are, Nicholas glanced carelessly round, and addressing the
young gentleman, who had by this time picked up his slippers and
thrust his feet into them, repeated his inquiries with a courteous
air.

'A mere nothing!' he replied.

At this a murmur was raised by the lookers-on, and some of the
boldest cried, 'Oh, indeed!--Wasn't it though?--Nothing, eh?--He
called that nothing, did he? Lucky for him if he found it nothing.'
These and many other expressions of ironical disapprobation having
been exhausted, two or three of the out-of-door fellows began to
hustle Nicholas and the young gentleman who had made the noise:
stumbling against them by accident, and treading on their toes, and
so forth. But this being a round game, and one not necessarily
limited to three or four players, was open to John Browdie too, who,
bursting into the little crowd--to the great terror of his wife--and
falling about in all directions, now to the right, now to the left,
now forwards, now backwards, and accidentally driving his elbow
through the hat of the tallest helper, who had been particularly
active, speedily caused the odds to wear a very different
appearance; while more than one stout fellow limped away to a
respectful distance, anathematising with tears in his eyes the heavy
tread and ponderous feet of the burly Yorkshireman.

'Let me see him do it again,' said he who had been kicked into the
corner, rising as he spoke, apparently more from the fear of John
Browdie's inadvertently treading upon him, than from any desire to
place himself on equal terms with his late adversary. 'Let me see
him do it again. That's all.'

'Let me hear you make those remarks again,' said the young man, 'and
I'll knock that head of yours in among the wine-glasses behind you
there.'

Here a waiter who had been rubbing his hands in excessive enjoyment
of the scene, so long as only the breaking of heads was in question,
adjured the spectators with great earnestness to fetch the police,
declaring that otherwise murder would be surely done, and that he
was responsible for all the glass and china on the premises.

'No one need trouble himself to stir,' said the young gentleman, 'I
am going to remain in the house all night, and shall be found here
in the morning if there is any assault to answer for.'

'What did you strike him for?' asked one of the bystanders.

'Ah! what did you strike him for?' demanded the others.

The unpopular gentleman looked coolly round, and addressing himself
to Nicholas, said:

'You inquired just now what was the matter here. The matter is
simply this. Yonder person, who was drinking with a friend in the
coffee-room when I took my seat there for half an hour before going
to bed, (for I have just come off a journey, and preferred stopping
here tonight, to going home at this hour, where I was not expected
until tomorrow,) chose to express himself in very disrespectful, and
insolently familiar terms, of a young lady, whom I recognised from
his description and other circumstances, and whom I have the honour
to know. As he spoke loud enough to be overheard by the other
guests who were present, I informed him most civilly that he was
mistaken in his conjectures, which were of an offensive nature, and
requested him to forbear. He did so for a little time, but as he
chose to renew his conversation when leaving the room, in a more
offensive strain than before, I could not refrain from making after
him, and facilitating his departure by a kick, which reduced him to
the posture in which you saw him just now. I am the best judge of
my own affairs, I take it,' said the young man, who had certainly
not quite recovered from his recent heat; 'if anybody here thinks
proper to make this quarrel his own, I have not the smallest earthly
objection, I do assure him.'

Of all possible courses of proceeding under the circumstances
detailed, there was certainly not one which, in his then state of
mind, could have appeared more laudable to Nicholas than this.
There were not many subjects of dispute which at that moment could
have come home to his own breast more powerfully, for having the
unknown uppermost in his thoughts, it naturally occurred to him that
he would have done just the same if any audacious gossiper durst
have presumed in his hearing to speak lightly of her. Influenced by
these considerations, he espoused the young gentleman's quarrel with
great warmth, protesting that he had done quite right, and that he
respected him for it; which John Browdie (albeit not quite clear as
to the merits) immediately protested too, with not inferior
vehemence.

'Let him take care, that's all,' said the defeated party, who was
being rubbed down by a waiter, after his recent fall on the dusty
boards. 'He don't knock me about for nothing, I can tell him that.
A pretty state of things, if a man isn't to admire a handsome girl
without being beat to pieces for it!'

This reflection appeared to have great weight with the young lady in
the bar, who (adjusting her cap as she spoke, and glancing at a
mirror) declared that it would be a very pretty state of things
indeed; and that if people were to be punished for actions so
innocent and natural as that, there would be more people to be
knocked down than there would be people to knock them down, and that
she wondered what the gentleman meant by it, that she did.

'My dear girl,' said the young gentleman in a low voice, advancing
towards the sash window.

'Nonsense, sir!' replied the young lady sharply, smiling though as
she turned aside, and biting her lip, (whereat Mrs Browdie, who was
still standing on the stairs, glanced at her with disdain, and
called to her husband to come away).

'No, but listen to me,' said the young man. 'If admiration of a
pretty face were criminal, I should be the most hopeless person
alive, for I cannot resist one. It has the most extraordinary
effect upon me, checks and controls me in the most furious and
obstinate mood. You see what an effect yours has had upon me
already.'

'Oh, that's very pretty,' replied the young lady, tossing her head,
'but--'

'Yes, I know it's very pretty,' said the young man, looking with an
air of admiration in the barmaid's face; 'I said so, you know, just
this moment. But beauty should be spoken of respectfully--
respectfully, and in proper terms, and with a becoming sense of its
worth and excellence, whereas this fellow has no more notion--'

The young lady interrupted the conversation at this point, by
thrusting her head out of the bar-window, and inquiring of the
waiter in a shrill voice whether that young man who had been knocked
down was going to stand in the passage all night, or whether the
entrance was to be left clear for other people. The waiters taking
the hint, and communicating it to the hostlers, were not slow to
change their tone too, and the result was, that the unfortunate
victim was bundled out in a twinkling.

'I am sure I have seen that fellow before,' said Nicholas.

'Indeed!' replied his new acquaintance.

'I am certain of it,' said Nicholas, pausing to reflect. 'Where can
I have--stop!--yes, to be sure--he belongs to a register-office up
at the west end of the town. I knew I recollected the face.'

It was, indeed, Tom, the ugly clerk.

'That's odd enough!' said Nicholas, ruminating upon the strange
manner in which the register-office seemed to start up and stare him
in the face every now and then, and when he least expected it.

'I am much obliged to you for your kind advocacy of my cause when it
most needed an advocate,' said the young man, laughing, and drawing
a card from his pocket. 'Perhaps you'll do me the favour to let me
know where I can thank you.'

Nicholas took the card, and glancing at it involuntarily as he
returned the compliment, evinced very great surprise.

'Mr Frank Cheeryble!' said Nicholas. 'Surely not the nephew of
Cheeryble Brothers, who is expected tomorrow!'

'I don't usually call myself the nephew of the firm,' returned Mr
Frank, good-humouredly; 'but of the two excellent individuals who
compose it, I am proud to say I AM the nephew. And you, I see, are
Mr Nickleby, of whom I have heard so much! This is a most
unexpected meeting, but not the less welcome, I assure you.'

Nicholas responded to these compliments with others of the same
kind, and they shook hands warmly. Then he introduced John Browdie,
who had remained in a state of great admiration ever since the young
lady in the bar had been so skilfully won over to the right side.
Then Mrs John Browdie was introduced, and finally they all went
upstairs together and spent the next half-hour with great
satisfaction and mutual entertainment; Mrs John Browdie beginning
the conversation by declaring that of all the made-up things she
ever saw, that young woman below-stairs was the vainest and the
plainest.

This Mr Frank Cheeryble, although, to judge from what had recently
taken place, a hot-headed young man (which is not an absolute
miracle and phenomenon in nature), was a sprightly, good-humoured,
pleasant fellow, with much both in his countenance and disposition
that reminded Nicholas very strongly of the kind-hearted brothers.
His manner was as unaffected as theirs, and his demeanour full of
that heartiness which, to most people who have anything generous in
their composition, is peculiarly prepossessing. Add to this, that
he was good-looking and intelligent, had a plentiful share of
vivacity, was extremely cheerful, and accommodated himself in five
minutes' time to all John Browdie's oddities with as much ease as if
he had known him from a boy; and it will be a source of no great
wonder that, when they parted for the night, he had produced a most
favourable impression, not only upon the worthy Yorkshireman and his
wife, but upon Nicholas also, who, revolving all these things in his
mind as he made the best of his way home, arrived at the conclusion
that he had laid the foundation of a most agreeable and desirable
acquaintance.

'But it's a most extraordinary thing about that register-office
fellow!' thought Nicholas. 'Is it likely that this nephew can know
anything about that beautiful girl? When Tim Linkinwater gave me to
understand the other day that he was coming to take a share in the
business here, he said he had been superintending it in Germany for
four years, and that during the last six months he had been engaged
in establishing an agency in the north of England. That's four
years and a half--four years and a half. She can't be more than
seventeen--say eighteen at the outside. She was quite a child when
he went away, then. I should say he knew nothing about her and had
never seen her, so HE can give me no information. At all events,'
thought Nicholas, coming to the real point in his mind, 'there can
be no danger of any prior occupation of her affections in that
quarter; that's quite clear.'

Is selfishness a necessary ingredient in the composition of that
passion called love, or does it deserve all the fine things which
poets, in the exercise of their undoubted vocation, have said of it?
There are, no doubt, authenticated instances of gentlemen having
given up ladies and ladies having given up gentlemen to meritorious
rivals, under circumstances of great high-mindedness; but is it
quite established that the majority of such ladies and gentlemen
have not made a virtue of necessity, and nobly resigned what was
beyond their reach; as a private soldier might register a vow never
to accept the order of the Garter, or a poor curate of great piety
and learning, but of no family--save a very large family of
children--might renounce a bishopric?

Here was Nicholas Nickleby, who would have scorned the thought of
counting how the chances stood of his rising in favour or fortune
with the brothers Cheeryble, now that their nephew had returned,
already deep in calculations whether that same nephew was likely to
rival him in the affections of the fair unknown--discussing the
matter with himself too, as gravely as if, with that one exception,
it were all settled; and recurring to the subject again and again,
and feeling quite indignant and ill-used at the notion of anybody
else making love to one with whom he had never exchanged a word in
all his life. To be sure, he exaggerated rather than depreciated
the merits of his new acquaintance; but still he took it as a kind
of personal offence that he should have any merits at all--in the
eyes of this particular young lady, that is; for elsewhere he was
quite welcome to have as many as he pleased. There was undoubted
selfishness in all this, and yet Nicholas was of a most free and
generous nature, with as few mean or sordid thoughts, perhaps, as
ever fell to the lot of any man; and there is no reason to suppose
that, being in love, he felt and thought differently from other
people in the like sublime condition.

He did not stop to set on foot an inquiry into his train of thought
or state of feeling, however; but went thinking on all the way home,
and continued to dream on in the same strain all night. For, having
satisfied himself that Frank Cheeryble could have no knowledge of,
or acquaintance with, the mysterious young lady, it began to occur
to him that even he himself might never see her again; upon which
hypothesis he built up a very ingenious succession of tormenting
ideas which answered his purpose even better than the vision of Mr
Frank Cheeryble, and tantalised and worried him, waking and sleeping.

Notwithstanding all that has been said and sung to the contrary,
there is no well-established case of morning having either deferred
or hastened its approach by the term of an hour or so for the mere
gratification of a splenetic feeling against some unoffending lover:
the sun having, in the discharge of his public duty, as the books of
precedent report, invariably risen according to the almanacs, and
without suffering himself to be swayed by any private considerations.
So, morning came as usual, and with it business-hours, and with
them Mr Frank Cheeryble, and with him a long train of smiles and
welcomes from the worthy brothers, and a more grave and clerk-like,
but scarcely less hearty reception from Mr Timothy Linkinwater.

'That Mr Frank and Mr Nickleby should have met last night,' said Tim
Linkinwater, getting slowly off his stool, and looking round the
counting-house with his back planted against the desk, as was his
custom when he had anything very particular to say: 'that those two
young men should have met last night in that manner is, I say, a
coincidence, a remarkable coincidence. Why, I don't believe now,'
added Tim, taking off his spectacles, and smiling as with gentle
pride, 'that there's such a place in all the world for coincidences
as London is!'

'I don't know about that,' said Mr Frank; 'but--'

'Don't know about it, Mr Francis!' interrupted Tim, with an
obstinate air. 'Well, but let us know. If there is any better
place for such things, where is it? Is it in Europe? No, that it
isn't. Is it in Asia? Why, of course it's not. Is it in Africa?
Not a bit of it. Is it in America? YOU know better than that, at
all events. Well, then,' said Tim, folding his arms resolutely,
'where is it?'

'I was not about to dispute the point, Tim,' said young Cheeryble,
laughing. 'I am not such a heretic as that. All I was going to say
was, that I hold myself under an obligation to the coincidence,
that's all.'

'Oh! if you don't dispute it,' said Tim, quite satisfied, 'that's
another thing. I'll tell you what though. I wish you had. I wish
you or anybody would. I would so put that man down,' said Tim,
tapping the forefinger of his left hand emphatically with his
spectacles, 'so put that man down by argument--'

It was quite impossible to find language to express the degree of
mental prostration to which such an adventurous wight would be
reduced in the keen encounter with Tim Linkinwater, so Tim gave up
the rest of his declaration in pure lack of words, and mounted his
stool again.

'We may consider ourselves, brother Ned,' said Charles, after he had
patted Tim Linkinwater approvingly on the back, 'very fortunate in
having two such young men about us as our nephew Frank and Mr
Nickleby. It should be a source of great satisfaction and pleasure
to us.'

'Certainly, Charles, certainly,' returned the other.

'Of Tim,' added brother Ned, 'I say nothing whatever, because Tim is
a mere child--an infant--a nobody that we never think of or take
into account at all. Tim, you villain, what do you say to that,
sir?'

'I am jealous of both of 'em,' said Tim, 'and mean to look out for
another situation; so provide yourselves, gentlemen, if you please.'

Tim thought this such an exquisite, unparalleled, and most
extraordinary joke, that he laid his pen upon the inkstand, and
rather tumbling off his stool than getting down with his usual
deliberation, laughed till he was quite faint, shaking his head all
the time so that little particles of powder flew palpably about the
office. Nor were the brothers at all behind-hand, for they laughed
almost as heartily at the ludicrous idea of any voluntary separation
between themselves and old Tim. Nicholas and Mr Frank laughed quite
boisterously, perhaps to conceal some other emotion awakened by this
little incident, (and so, indeed, did the three old fellows after
the first burst,) so perhaps there was as much keen enjoyment and
relish in that laugh, altogether, as the politest assembly ever
derived from the most poignant witticism uttered at any one person's
expense.

'Mr Nickleby,' said brother Charles, calling him aside, and taking
him kindly by the hand, 'I--I--am anxious, my dear sir, to see that
you are properly and comfortably settled in the cottage. We cannot
allow those who serve us well to labour under any privation or
discomfort that it is in our power to remove. I wish, too, to see
your mother and sister: to know them, Mr Nickleby, and have an
opportunity of relieving their minds by assuring them that any
trifling service we have been able to do them is a great deal more
than repaid by the zeal and ardour you display.--Not a word, my dear
sir, I beg. Tomorrow is Sunday. I shall make bold to come out at
teatime, and take the chance of finding you at home; if you are not,
you know, or the ladies should feel a delicacy in being intruded on,
and would rather not be known to me just now, why I can come again
another time, any other time would do for me. Let it remain upon
that understanding. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, let me have a word
with you this way.'

The twins went out of the office arm-in-arm, and Nicholas, who saw
in this act of kindness, and many others of which he had been the
subject that morning, only so many delicate renewals on the arrival
of their nephew of the kind assurance which the brothers had given
him in his absence, could scarcely feel sufficient admiration and
gratitude for such extraordinary consideration.

The intelligence that they were to have visitor--and such a visitor--
next day, awakened in the breast of Mrs Nickleby mingled feelings
of exultation and regret; for whereas on the one hand she hailed it
as an omen of her speedy restoration to good society and the almost-
forgotten pleasures of morning calls and evening tea-drinkings, she
could not, on the other, but reflect with bitterness of spirit on
the absence of a silver teapot with an ivory knob on the lid, and a
milk-jug to match, which had been the pride of her heart in days of
yore, and had been kept from year's end to year's end wrapped up in
wash-leather on a certain top shelf which now presented itself in
lively colours to her sorrowing imagination.

'I wonder who's got that spice-box,' said Mrs Nickleby, shaking her
head. 'It used to stand in the left-hand corner, next but two to
the pickled onions. You remember that spice-box, Kate?'

'Perfectly well, mama.'

'I shouldn't think you did, Kate,' returned Mrs Nickleby, in a
severe manner, 'talking about it in that cold and unfeeling way! If
there is any one thing that vexes me in these losses more than the
losses themselves, I do protest and declare,' said Mrs Nickleby,
rubbing her nose with an impassioned air, 'that it is to have people
about me who take things with such provoking calmness.'

'My dear mama,' said Kate, stealing her arm round her mother's
neck, 'why do you say what I know you cannot seriously mean or
think, or why be angry with me for being happy and content? You and
Nicholas are left to me, we are together once again, and what regard
can I have for a few trifling things of which we never feel the
want? When I have seen all the misery and desolation that death can
bring, and known the lonesome feeling of being solitary and alone in
crowds, and all the agony of separation in grief and poverty when we
most needed comfort and support from each other, can you wonder that
I look upon this as a place of such delicious quiet and rest, that
with you beside me I have nothing to wish for or regret? There was
a time, and not long since, when all the comforts of our old home
did come back upon me, I own, very often--oftener than you would
think perhaps--but I affected to care nothing for them, in the hope
that you would so be brought to regret them the less. I was not
insensible, indeed. I might have felt happier if I had been. Dear
mama,' said Kate, in great agitation, 'I know no difference between
this home and that in which we were all so happy for so many years,
except that the kindest and gentlest heart that ever ached on earth
has passed in peace to heaven.'

'Kate my dear, Kate,' cried Mrs Nickleby, folding her in her arms.

'I have so often thought,' sobbed Kate, 'of all his kind words--of
the last time he looked into my little room, as he passed upstairs
to bed, and said "God bless you, darling."  There was a paleness in
his face, mama--the broken heart--I know it was--I little thought
so--then--'

A gush of tears came to her relief, and Kate laid her head upon her
mother's breast, and wept like a little child.

It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that when the
heart is touched and softened by some tranquil happiness or
affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most
powerfully and irresistibly. It would almost seem as though our
better thoughts and sympathies were charms, in virtue of which the
soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse with
the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas! how often
and how long may those patient angels hover above us, watching for
the spell which is so seldom uttered, and so soon forgotten!

Poor Mrs Nickleby, accustomed to give ready utterance to whatever
came uppermost in her mind, had never conceived the possibility of
her daughter's dwelling upon these thoughts in secret, the more
especially as no hard trial or querulous reproach had ever drawn
them from her. But now, when the happiness of all that Nicholas had
just told them, and of their new and peaceful life, brought these
recollections so strongly upon Kate that she could not suppress
them, Mrs Nickleby began to have a glimmering that she had been
rather thoughtless now and then, and was conscious of something like
self-reproach as she embraced her daughter, and yielded to the
emotions which such a conversation naturally awakened.

There was a mighty bustle that night, and a vast quantity of
preparation for the expected visitor, and a very large nosegay was
brought from a gardener's hard by, and cut up into a number of very
small ones, with which Mrs Nickleby would have garnished the little
sitting-room, in a style that certainly could not have failed to
attract anybody's attention, if Kate had not offered to spare her
the trouble, and arranged them in the prettiest and neatest manner
possible. If the cottage ever looked pretty, it must have been on
such a bright and sunshiny day as the next day was. But Smike's
pride in the garden, or Mrs Nickleby's in the condition of the
furniture, or Kate's in everything, was nothing to the pride with
which Nicholas looked at Kate herself; and surely the costliest
mansion in all England might have found in her beautiful face and
graceful form its most exquisite and peerless ornament.

About six o'clock in the afternoon Mrs Nickleby was thrown into a
great flutter of spirits by the long-expected knock at the door, nor
was this flutter at all composed by the audible tread of two pair of
boots in the passage, which Mrs Nickleby augured, in a breathless
state, must be 'the two Mr Cheerybles;' as it certainly was, though
not the two Mrs Nickleby expected, because it was Mr Charles
Cheeryble, and his nephew, Mr Frank, who made a thousand apologies
for his intrusion, which Mrs Nickleby (having tea-spoons enough and
to spare for all) most graciously received. Nor did the appearance
of this unexpected visitor occasion the least embarrassment, (save
in Kate, and that only to the extent of a blush or two at first,)
for the old gentleman was so kind and cordial, and the young
gentleman imitated him in this respect so well, that the usual
stiffness and formality of a first meeting showed no signs of
appearing, and Kate really more than once detected herself in the
very act of wondering when it was going to begin.

At the tea-table there was plenty of conversation on a great variety
of subjects, nor were there wanting jocose matters of discussion,
such as they were; for young Mr Cheeryble's recent stay in Germany
happening to be alluded to, old Mr Cheeryble informed the company
that the aforesaid young Mr Cheeryble was suspected to have fallen
deeply in love with the daughter of a certain German burgomaster.
This accusation young Mr Cheeryble most indignantly repelled, upon
which Mrs Nickleby slyly remarked, that she suspected, from the very
warmth of the denial, there must be something in it. Young Mr
Cheeryble then earnestly entreated old Mr Cheeryble to confess that
it was all a jest, which old Mr Cheeryble at last did, young Mr
Cheeryble being so much in earnest about it, that--as Mrs Nickleby
said many thousand times afterwards in recalling the scene--he
'quite coloured,' which she rightly considered a memorable
circumstance, and one worthy of remark, young men not being as a
class remarkable for modesty or self-denial, especially when there
is a lady in the case, when, if they colour at all, it is rather
their practice to colour the story, and not themselves.

After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening being very
fine they strolled out at the garden-gate into some lanes and bye-
roads, and sauntered up and down until it grew quite dark. The time
seemed to pass very quickly with all the party. Kate went first,
leaning upon her brother's arm, and talking with him and Mr Frank
Cheeryble; and Mrs Nickleby and the elder gentleman followed at a
short distance, the kindness of the good merchant, his interest in
the welfare of Nicholas, and his admiration of Kate, so operating
upon the good lady's feelings, that the usual current of her speech
was confined within very narrow and circumscribed limits. Smike
(who, if he had ever been an object of interest in his life, had
been one that day) accompanied them, joining sometimes one group and
sometimes the other, as brother Charles, laying his hand upon his
shoulder, bade him walk with him, or Nicholas, looking smilingly
round, beckoned him to come and talk with the old friend who
understood him best, and who could win a smile into his careworn
face when none else could.

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the pride of
a mother in her children, for that is a compound of two cardinal
virtues--faith and hope. This was the pride which swelled Mrs
Nickleby's heart that night, and this it was which left upon her
face, glistening in the light when they returned home, traces of the
most grateful tears she had ever shed.

There was a quiet mirth about the little supper, which harmonised
exactly with this tone of feeling, and at length the two gentlemen
took their leave. There was one circumstance in the leave-taking
which occasioned a vast deal of smiling and pleasantry, and that
was, that Mr Frank Cheeryble offered his hand to Kate twice over,
quite forgetting that he had bade her adieu already. This was held
by the elder Mr Cheeryble to be a convincing proof that he was
thinking of his German flame, and the jest occasioned immense
laughter. So easy is it to move light hearts.

In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil happiness; and as we
all have some bright day--many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of
others--to which we revert with particular delight, so this one was
often looked back to afterwards, as holding a conspicuous place in
the calendar of those who shared it.

Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to have been
most happy?

Who was that who, in the silence of his own chamber, sunk upon his
knees to pray as his first friend had taught him, and folding his
hands and stretching them wildly in the air, fell upon his face in a
passion of bitter grief?

CHAPTER 44

Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. It would also appear
from the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and
Wife, may be sometimes carried too far

There are some men who, living with the one object of enriching
themselves, no matter by what means, and being perfectly conscious
of the baseness and rascality of the means which they will use every
day towards this end, affect nevertheless--even to themselves--a
high tone of moral rectitude, and shake their heads and sigh over
the depravity of the world. Some of the craftiest scoundrels that
ever walked this earth, or rather--for walking implies, at least,
an erect position and the bearing of a man--that ever crawled and
crept through life by its dirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely
jot down in diaries the events of every day, and keep a regular
debtor and creditor account with Heaven, which shall always show a
floating balance in their own favour. Whether this is a gratuitous
(the only gratuitous) part of the falsehood and trickery of such
men's lives, or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven itself, and
lay up treasure in the next world by the same process which has
enabled them to lay up treasure in this--not to question how it is,
so it is. And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain
autobiographies which have enlightened the world) cannot fail to
prove serviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angel
some time and labour.

Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding,
dogged, and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond
it, save the gratification of two passions, avarice, the first and
predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second.
Affecting to consider himself but a type of all humanity, he was at
little pains to conceal his true character from the world in
general, and in his own heart he exulted over and cherished every
bad design as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition that
Ralph Nickleby heeded, in the letter, was 'know thyself.'  He knew
himself well, and choosing to imagine that all mankind were cast in
the same mould, hated them; for, though no man hates himself, the
coldest among us having too much self-love for that, yet most men
unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will be very
generally found that those who sneer habitually at human nature, and
affect to despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant
samples.

But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself,
who stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that
worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and spreading them carefully
on the palm of his left hand, and flattening them with his right to
take the creases out, proceeded to roll them up with an absent air
as if he were utterly regardless of all things else, in the deep
interest of the ceremonial.

'Gone out of town!' said Ralph, slowly. 'A mistake of yours. Go
back again.'

'No mistake,' returned Newman. 'Not even going; gone.'

'Has he turned girl or baby?' muttered Ralph, with a fretful
gesture.

'I don't know,' said Newman, 'but he's gone.'

The repetition of the word 'gone' seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby.
He uttered the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as
long as he decently could, and when he could hold out no longer
without attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if
even that were a satisfaction.

'And WHERE has he gone?' said Ralph.

'France,' replied Newman. 'Danger of another attack of erysipelas
--a worse attack--in the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And
he's gone.'

'And Lord Frederick--?' began Ralph.

'He's gone too,' replied Newman.

'And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?' said Ralph, turning
away; 'pockets his bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation
of a word, or seeking the smallest reparation!'

'He's too ill,' said Newman.

'Too ill!' repeated Ralph. 'Why I would have it if I were dying; in
that case I should only be the more determined to have it, and that
without delay--I mean if I were he. But he's too ill! Poor Sir
Mulberry! Too ill!'

Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation of
manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave the room; and
throwing himself into his chair, beat his foot impatiently upon the
ground.

'There is some spell about that boy,' said Ralph, grinding his
teeth. 'Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune's
favours! What is even money to such Devil's luck as this?'

He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, but notwithstanding
his previous reflection there was some consolation there, for his
face relaxed a little; and although there was still a deep frown
upon the contracted brow, it was one of calculation, and not of
disappointment.

'This Hawk will come back, however,' muttered Ralph; 'and if I know
the man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lost
nothing of its violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live in
retirement--the monotony of a sick-room to a man of his habits--no
life--no drink--no play--nothing that he likes and lives by. He
is not likely to forget his obligations to the cause of all this.
Few men would; but he of all others? No, no!'

He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon his hand,
fell a musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose and rang the
bell.

'That Mr Squeers; has he been here?' said Ralph.

'He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,'
returned Newman.

'I know that, fool, do I not?' said Ralph, irascibly. 'Has he been
here since? Was he here this morning?'

'No,' bawled Newman, in a very loud key.

'If he comes while I am out--he is pretty sure to be here by nine
tonight--let him wait. And if there's another man with him, as
there will be--perhaps,' said Ralph, checking himself, 'let him
wait too.'

'Let 'em both wait?' said Newman.

'Ay,' replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. 'Help me
on with this spencer, and don't repeat after me, like a croaking
parrot.'

'I wish I was a parrot,' Newman, sulkily.

'I wish you were,' rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; 'I'd have
wrung your neck long ago.'

Newman returned no answer to this compliment, but looked over
Ralph's shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the
spencer behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed to tweak
him by the nose. Meeting Ralph's eye, however, he suddenly recalled
his wandering fingers, and rubbed his own red nose with a vehemence
quite astonishing.

Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than a
threatening look, and an admonition to be careful and make no
mistake, Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked out.

He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneous
connection, and very odd calls he made, some at great rich houses,
and some at small poor ones, but all upon one subject: money. His
face was a talisman to the porters and servants of his more dashing
clients, and procured him ready admission, though he trudged on
foot, and others, who were denied, rattled to the door in carriages.
Here he was all softness and cringing civility; his step so light,
that it scarcely produced a sound upon the thick carpets; his voice
so soft that it was not audible beyond the person to whom it was
addressed. But in the poorer habitations Ralph was another man; his
boots creaked upon the passage floor as he walked boldly in; his
voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money that was overdue;
his threats were coarse and angry. With another class of customers,
Ralph was again another man. These were attorneys of more than
doubtful reputation, who helped him to new business, or raised fresh
profits upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and jocose,
humorous upon the topics of the day, and especially pleasant upon
bankruptcies and pecuniary difficulties that made good for trade.
In short, it would have been difficult to have recognised the same
man under these various aspects, but for the bulky leather case full
of bills and notes which he drew from his pocket at every house, and
the constant repetition of the same complaint, (varied only in tone
and style of delivery,) that the world thought him rich, and that
perhaps he might be if he had his own; but there was no getting
money in when it was once out, either principal or interest, and it
was a hard matter to live; even to live from day to day.

It was evening before a long round of such visits (interrupted only
by a scanty dinner at an eating-house) terminated at Pimlico, and
Ralph walked along St James's Park, on his way home.

There were some deep schemes in his head, as the puckered brow and
firmly-set mouth would have abundantly testified, even if they had
been unaccompanied by a complete indifference to, or unconsciousness
of, the objects about him. So complete was his abstraction,
however, that Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as any man, did not
observe that he was followed by a shambling figure, which at one
time stole behind him with noiseless footsteps, at another crept a
few paces before him, and at another glided along by his side; at
all times regarding him with an eye so keen, and a look so eager and
attentive, that it was more like the expression of an intrusive face
in some powerful picture or strongly marked dream, than the scrutiny
even of a most interested and anxious observer.

The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and the
commencement of a violent storm of rain drove Ralph for shelter to a
tree. He was leaning against it with folded arms, still buried in
thought, when, happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met those of
a man who, creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a
searching look. There was something in the usurer's expression at
the moment, which the man appeared to remember well, for it decided
him; and stepping close up to Ralph, he pronounced his name.

Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of paces and
surveyed him from head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man, of
about his own age, with a stooping body, and a very sinister face
rendered more ill-favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeply
sunburnt, and thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with the
perfect whiteness of his hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments,
of a strange and uncouth make; and having about him an indefinable
manner of depression and degradation--this, for a moment, was all
he saw. But he looked again, and the face and person seemed
gradually to grow less strange; to change as he looked, to subside
and soften into lineaments that were familiar, until at last they
resolved themselves, as if by some strange optical illusion, into
those of one whom he had known for many years, and forgotten and
lost sight of for nearly as many more.

The man saw that the recognition was mutual, and beckoning to Ralph
to take his former place under the tree, and not to stand in the
falling rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been quite
regardless, addressed him in a hoarse, faint tone.

'You would hardly have known me from my voice, I suppose, Mr
Nickleby?' he said.

'No,' returned Ralph, bending a severe look upon him. 'Though there
is something in that, that I remember now.'

'There is little in me that you can call to mind as having been
there eight years ago, I dare say?' observed the other.

'Quite enough,' said Ralph, carelessly, and averting his face.
'More than enough.'

'If I had remained in doubt about YOU, Mr Nickleby,' said the other,
'this reception, and YOUR manner, would have decided me very soon.'

'Did you expect any other?' asked Ralph, sharply.

'No!' said the man.

'You were right,' retorted Ralph; 'and as you feel no surprise, need
express none.'

'Mr Nickleby,' said the man, bluntly, after a brief pause, during
which he had seemed to struggle with an inclination to answer him by
some reproach, 'will you hear a few words that I have to say?'

'I am obliged to wait here till the rain holds a little,' said
Ralph, looking abroad. 'If you talk, sir, I shall not put my
fingers in my ears, though your talking may have as much effect as
if I did.'

'I was once in your confidence--' thus his companion began. Ralph
looked round, and smiled involuntarily.

'Well,' said the other, 'as much in your confidence as you ever
chose to let anybody be.'

'Ah!' rejoined Ralph, folding his arms; 'that's another thing,
quite another thing.'

'Don't let us play upon words, Mr Nickleby, in the name of
humanity.'

'Of what?' said Ralph.

'Of humanity,' replied the other, sternly. 'I am hungry and in
want. If the change that you must see in me after so long an
absence--must see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow and hard
degrees, see it and know it well--will not move you to pity, let
the knowledge that bread; not the daily bread of the Lord's Prayer,
which, as it is offered up in cities like this, is understood to
include half the luxuries of the world for the rich, and just as
much coarse food as will support life for the poor--not that, but
bread, a crust of dry hard bread, is beyond my reach today--let
that have some weight with you, if nothing else has.'