summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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      The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, by Charles Dickens
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life And Adventures Of Nicholas Nickleby, by
Charles Dickens

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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Life And Adventures Of Nicholas Nickleby

Author: Charles Dickens

Release Date: April 27, 2006 [EBook #967]
Last Updated: August 8, 2014

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICHOLAS NICKLEBY ***




Produced by Donald Lainson and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF <br /> <br /> NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Containing a Faithful Account of the Fortunes, Misfortunes, <br />
      Uprisings, Downfallings and Complete Career of the Nickelby Family
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Charles Dickens
    </h2>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0011m.jpg" alt="0011m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0011.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0029m.jpg" alt="0029m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0029.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0047m.jpg" alt="0047m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0047.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0048m.jpg" alt="0048m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0048.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0049m.jpg" alt="0049m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0049.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0050m.jpg" alt="0050m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0050.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> AUTHOR'S PREFACE </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER 1 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER 2 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER 3 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER 4 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER 5 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER 6 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER 7 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER 8 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER 9 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER 10 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER 11 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER 12 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER 13 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER 14 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER 15 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER 16 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER 17 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER 18 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER 19 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER 20 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER 21 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER 22 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER 23 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER 24 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER 25 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER 26 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER 27 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER 28 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER 29 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER 30 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER 31 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER 32 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER 33 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER 34 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER 35 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER 36 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER 37 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER 38 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER 39 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER 40 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER 41 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER 42 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER 43 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER 44 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER 45 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER 46 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER 47 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER 48 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER 49 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER 50 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER 51 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER 52 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER 53 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER 54 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER 55 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER 56 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER 57 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER 58 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER 59 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER 60 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER 61 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER 62 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER 63 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER 64 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER 65 </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>

    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      AUTHOR'S PREFACE
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his story was begun, within a few months after the publication of the
      completed "Pickwick Papers." There were, then, a good many cheap Yorkshire
      schools in existence. There are very few now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard of it
      by the State as a means of forming good or bad citizens, and miserable or
      happy men, private schools long afforded a notable example. Although any
      man who had proved his unfitness for any other occupation in life, was
      free, without examination or qualification, to open a school anywhere;
      although preparation for the functions he undertook, was required in the
      surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world, or might one day
      assist, perhaps, to send him out of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the
      butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; the whole round of crafts and
      trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although schoolmasters, as a race,
      were the blockheads and impostors who might naturally be expected to
      spring from such a state of things, and to flourish in it; these Yorkshire
      schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten round in the whole ladder.
      Traders in the avarice, indifference, or imbecility of parents, and the
      helplessness of children; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few
      considerate persons would have entrusted the board and lodging of a horse
      or a dog; they formed the worthy cornerstone of a structure, which, for
      absurdity and a magnificent high-minded <i>Laissez-Aller</i> neglect, has rarely
      been exceeded in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      We hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified medical
      practitioner, who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to heal it.
      But, what of the hundreds of thousands of minds that have been deformed
      for ever by the incapable pettifoggers who have pretended to form them!
    </p>
    <p>
      I make mention of the race, as of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, in the past
      tense. Though it has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling daily. A
      long day's work remains to be done about us in the way of education,
      Heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities towards the attainment
      of a good one, have been furnished, of late years.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot call to mind, now, how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools
      when I was a not very robust child, sitting in bye-places near Rochester
      Castle, with a head full of <i>Partridge, Strap, Tom Pipes, and Sancho Panza</i>;
      but I know that my first impressions of them were picked up at that time,
      and that they were somehow or other connected with a suppurated abscess
      that some boy had come home with, in consequence of his Yorkshire guide,
      philosopher, and friend, having ripped it open with an inky pen-knife. The
      impression made upon me, however made, never left me. I was always curious
      about Yorkshire schools&mdash;fell, long afterwards and at sundry times,
      into the way of hearing more about them&mdash;at last, having an audience,
      resolved to write about them.
    </p>
    <p>
      With that intent I went down into Yorkshire before I began this book, in
      very severe winter time which is pretty faithfully described herein. As I
      wanted to see a schoolmaster or two, and was forewarned that those
      gentlemen might, in their modesty, be shy of receiving a visit from the
      author of the "Pickwick Papers," I consulted with a professional friend
      who had a Yorkshire connexion, and with whom I concerted a pious fraud. He
      gave me some letters of introduction, in the name, I think, of my
      travelling companion; they bore reference to a supposititious little boy
      who had been left with a widowed mother who didn't know what to do with
      him; the poor lady had thought, as a means of thawing the tardy compassion
      of her relations in his behalf, of sending him to a Yorkshire school; I
      was the poor lady's friend, travelling that way; and if the recipient of
      the letter could inform me of a school in his neighbourhood, the writer
      would be very much obliged.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went to several places in that part of the country where I understood
      the schools to be most plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to
      deliver a letter until I came to a certain town which shall be nameless.
      The person to whom it was addressed, was not at home; but he came down at
      night, through the snow, to the inn where I was staying. It was after
      dinner; and he needed little persuasion to sit down by the fire in a warm
      corner, and take his share of the wine that was on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      I am afraid he is dead now. I recollect he was a jovial, ruddy,
      broad-faced man; that we got acquainted directly; and that we talked on
      all kinds of subjects, except the school, which he showed a great anxiety
      to avoid. "Was there any large school near?" I asked him, in reference to
      the letter. "Oh yes," he said; "there was a pratty big 'un." "Was it a
      good one?" I asked. "Ey!" he said, "it was as good as anoother; that was
      a' a matther of opinion"; and fell to looking at the fire, staring round
      the room, and whistling a little. On my reverting to some other topic that
      we had been discussing, he recovered immediately; but, though I tried him
      again and again, I never approached the question of the school, even if he
      were in the middle of a laugh, without observing that his countenance
      fell, and that he became uncomfortable. At last, when we had passed a
      couple of hours or so, very agreeably, he suddenly took up his hat, and
      leaning over the table and looking me full in the face, said, in a low
      voice: "Weel, Misther, we've been vara pleasant toogather, and ar'll spak'
      my moind tiv'ee. Dinnot let the weedur send her lattle boy to yan o' our
      school-measthers, while there's a harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a
      gootther to lie asleep in. Ar wouldn't mak' ill words amang my neeburs,
      and ar speak tiv'ee quiet loike. But I'm dom'd if ar can gang to bed and
      not tellee, for weedur's sak', to keep the lattle boy from a' sike
      scoondrels while there's a harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to
      lie asleep in!" Repeating these words with great heartiness, and with a
      solemnity on his jolly face that made it look twice as large as before, he
      shook hands and went away. I never saw him afterwards, but I sometimes
      imagine that I descry a faint reflection of him in John Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      In reference to these gentry, I may here quote a few words from the
      original preface to this book.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It has afforded the Author great amusement and satisfaction, during the
      progress of this work, to learn, from country friends and from a variety
      of ludicrous statements concerning himself in provincial newspapers, that
      more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster lays claim to being the original of
      Mr. Squeers. One worthy, he has reason to believe, has actually consulted
      authorities learned in the law, as to his having good grounds on which to
      rest an action for libel; another, has meditated a journey to London, for
      the express purpose of committing an assault and battery on his traducer;
      a third, perfectly remembers being waited on, last January twelve-month,
      by two gentlemen, one of whom held him in conversation while the other
      took his likeness; and, although Mr. Squeers has but one eye, and he has
      two, and the published sketch does not resemble him (whoever he may be) in
      any other respect, still he and all his friends and neighbours know at
      once for whom it is meant, because&mdash;the character is <i>so</i> like him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "While the Author cannot but feel the full force of the compliment thus
      conveyed to him, he ventures to suggest that these contentions may arise
      from the fact, that Mr. Squeers is the representative of a class, and not
      of an individual. Where imposture, ignorance, and brutal cupidity, are the
      stock in trade of a small body of men, and one is described by these
      characteristics, all his fellows will recognise something belonging to
      themselves, and each will have a misgiving that the portrait is his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Author's object in calling public attention to the system would be
      very imperfectly fulfilled, if he did not state now, in his own person,
      emphatically and earnestly, that Mr. Squeers and his school are faint and
      feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept down
      lest they should be deemed impossible. That there are, upon record, trials
      at law in which damages have been sought as a poor recompense for lasting
      agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the treatment of the
      master in these places, involving such offensive and foul details of
      neglect, cruelty, and disease, as no writer of fiction would have the
      boldness to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged upon these
      Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond the reach of
      suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the perpetration of
      which upon neglected or repudiated children, these schools have been the
      main instruments, very far exceeding any that appear in these pages."
    </p>
    <p>
      This comprises all I need say on the subject; except that if I had seen
      occasion, I had resolved to reprint a few of these details of legal
      proceedings, from certain old newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      One other quotation from the same Preface may serve to introduce a fact
      that my readers may think curious.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To turn to a more pleasant subject, it may be right to say, that there
      <i>are </i>two characters in this book which are drawn from life. It is
      remarkable that what we call the world, which is so very credulous in what
      professes to be true, is most incredulous in what professes to be
      imaginary; and that, while, every day in real life, it will allow in one
      man no blemishes, and in another no virtues, it will seldom admit a very
      strongly-marked character, either good or bad, in a fictitious narrative,
      to be within the limits of probability. But those who take an interest in
      this tale, will be glad to learn that the <i>Brothers Cheeryble</i> live; that
      their liberal charity, their singleness of heart, their noble nature, and
      their unbounded benevolence, are no creations of the Author's brain; but
      are prompting every day (and oftenest by stealth) some munificent and
      generous deed in that town of which they are the pride and honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      If I were to attempt to sum up the thousands of letters, from all sorts of
      people in all sorts of latitudes and climates, which this unlucky
      paragraph brought down upon me, I should get into an arithmetical
      difficulty from which I could not easily extricate myself. Suffice it to
      say, that I believe the applications for loans, gifts, and offices of
      profit that I have been requested to forward to the originals of the
      <i>Brothers Cheeryble</i> (with whom I never interchanged any communication in my
      life) would have exhausted the combined patronage of all the Lord
      Chancellors since the accession of the House of Brunswick, and would have
      broken the Rest of the Bank of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Brothers are now dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is only one other point, on which I would desire to offer a remark.
      If Nicholas be not always found to be blameless or agreeable, he is not
      always intended to appear so. He is a young man of an impetuous temper and
      of little or no experience; and I saw no reason why such a hero should be
      lifted out of nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>

    <h2>
      CHAPTER 1
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>
    <i>
      ntroduces all the Rest
    </i>
</p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one
      Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head
      rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough
      or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an
      old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the
      same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money,
      sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the life-matrimonial, may
      perhaps suggest, in this place, that the good couple would be better
      likened to two principals in a sparring match, who, when fortune is low
      and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure of the
      buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold good; for,
      as the adventurous pair of the Fives' Court will afterwards send round a
      hat, and trust to the bounty of the lookers-on for the means of regaling
      themselves, so Mr. Godfrey Nickleby and <i>his </i>partner, the honeymoon being
      over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying in no inconsiderable
      degree upon chance for the improvement of their means. Mr. Nickleby's
      income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated between sixty and eighty
      pounds <i>per annum</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and even in London
      (where Mr. Nickleby dwelt in those days) but few complaints prevail, of the
      population being scanty. It is extraordinary how long a man may look among
      the crowd without discovering the face of a friend, but it is no less
      true. Mr. Nickleby looked, and looked, till his eyes became sore as his
      heart, but no friend appeared; and when, growing tired of the search, he
      turned his eyes homeward, he saw very little there to relieve his weary
      vision. A painter who has gazed too long upon some glaring colour,
      refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and more sombre tint;
      but everything that met Mr. Nickleby's gaze wore so black and gloomy a hue,
      that he would have been beyond description refreshed by the very reverse
      of the contrast.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, after five years, when Mrs. Nickleby had presented her husband
      with a couple of sons, and that embarrassed gentleman, impressed with the
      necessity of making some provision for his family, was seriously revolving
      in his mind a little commercial speculation of insuring his life next
      quarter-day, and then falling from the top of the Monument by accident,
      there came, one morning, by the general post, a black-bordered letter to
      inform him how his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and had left him
      the bulk of his little property, amounting in all to five thousand pounds
      sterling.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the deceased had taken no further notice of his nephew in his lifetime,
      than sending to his eldest boy (who had been christened after him, on
      desperate speculation) a silver spoon in a morocco case, which, as he had
      not too much to eat with it, seemed a kind of satire upon his having been
      born without that useful article of plate in his mouth, Mr. Godfrey
      Nickleby could, at first, scarcely believe the tidings thus conveyed to
      him. On examination, however, they turned out to be strictly correct. The
      amiable old gentleman, it seemed, had intended to leave the whole to the
      Royal Humane Society, and had indeed executed a will to that effect; but
      the Institution, having been unfortunate enough, a few months before, to
      save the life of a poor relation to whom he paid a weekly allowance of
      three shillings and sixpence, he had, in a fit of very natural
      exasperation, revoked the bequest in a codicil, and left it all to Mr
      Godfrey Nickleby; with a special mention of his indignation, not only
      against the society for saving the poor relation's life, but against the
      poor relation also, for allowing himself to be saved.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a portion of this property Mr. Godfrey Nickleby purchased a small
      farm, near Dawlish in Devonshire, whither he retired with his wife and two
      children, to live upon the best interest he could get for the rest of his
      money, and the little produce he could raise from his land. The two
      prospered so well together that, when he died, some fifteen years after
      this period, and some five after his wife, he was enabled to leave, to his
      eldest son, Ralph, three thousand pounds in cash, and to his youngest son,
      Nicholas, one thousand and the farm, which was as small a landed estate as
      one would desire to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two brothers had been brought up together in a school at Exeter;
      and, being accustomed to go home once a week, had often heard, from their
      mother's lips, long accounts of their father's sufferings in his days of
      poverty, and of their deceased uncle's importance in his days of
      affluence: which recitals produced a very different impression on the two:
      for, while the younger, who was of a timid and retiring disposition,
      gleaned from thence nothing but forewarnings to shun the great world and
      attach himself to the quiet routine of a country life, Ralph, the elder,
      deduced from the often-repeated tale the two great morals that riches are
      the only true source of happiness and power, and that it is lawful and
      just to compass their acquisition by all means short of felony. 'And,'
      reasoned Ralph with himself, 'if no good came of my uncle's money when he
      was alive, a great deal of good came of it after he was dead, inasmuch as
      my father has got it now, and is saving it up for me, which is a highly
      virtuous purpose; and, going back to the old gentleman, good <i>did </i>come of
      it to him too, for he had the pleasure of thinking of it all his life
      long, and of being envied and courted by all his family besides.' And
      Ralph always wound up these mental soliloquies by arriving at the
      conclusion, that there was nothing like money.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not confining himself to theory, or permitting his faculties to rust, even
      at that early age, in mere abstract speculations, this promising lad
      commenced usurer on a limited scale at school; putting out at good
      interest a small capital of slate-pencil and marbles, and gradually
      extending his operations until they aspired to the copper coinage of this
      realm, in which he speculated to considerable advantage. Nor did he
      trouble his borrowers with abstract calculations of figures, or references
      to ready-reckoners; his simple rule of interest being all comprised in the
      one golden sentence, 'two-pence for every half-penny,' which greatly
      simplified the accounts, and which, as a familiar precept, more easily
      acquired and retained in the memory than any known rule of arithmetic,
      cannot be too strongly recommended to the notice of capitalists, both
      large and small, and more especially of money-brokers and
      bill-discounters. Indeed, to do these gentlemen justice, many of them are
      to this day in the frequent habit of adopting it, with eminent success.
    </p>
    <p>
      In like manner, did young Ralph Nickleby avoid all those minute and
      intricate calculations of odd days, which nobody who has worked sums in
      simple-interest can fail to have found most embarrassing, by establishing
      the one general rule that all sums of principal and interest should be
      paid on pocket-money day, that is to say, on Saturday: and that whether a
      loan were contracted on the Monday, or on the Friday, the amount of
      interest should be, in both cases, the same. Indeed he argued, and with
      great show of reason, that it ought to be rather more for one day than for
      five, inasmuch as the borrower might in the former case be very fairly
      presumed to be in great extremity, otherwise he would not borrow at all
      with such odds against him. This fact is interesting, as illustrating the
      secret connection and sympathy which always exist between great minds.
      Though Master Ralph Nickleby was not at that time aware of it, the class
      of gentlemen before alluded to, proceed on just the same principle in all
      their transactions.
    </p>
    <p>
      From what we have said of this young gentleman, and the natural admiration
      the reader will immediately conceive of his character, it may perhaps be
      inferred that he is to be the hero of the work which we shall presently
      begin. To set this point at rest, for once and for ever, we hasten to
      undeceive them, and stride to its commencement.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, who had been some time before
      placed in a mercantile house in London, applied himself passionately to
      his old pursuit of money-getting, in which he speedily became so buried
      and absorbed, that he quite forgot his brother for many years; and if, at
      times, a recollection of his old playfellow broke upon him through the
      haze in which he lived&mdash;for gold conjures up a mist about a man, more
      destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings than the
      fumes of charcoal&mdash;it brought along with it a companion thought, that
      if they were intimate he would want to borrow money of him. So, Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby shrugged his shoulders, and said things were better as they were.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estate until he
      grew tired of living alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of a
      neighbouring gentleman with a dower of one thousand pounds. This good lady
      bore him two children, a son and a daughter, and when the son was about
      nineteen, and the daughter fourteen, as near as we can guess&mdash;impartial
      records of young ladies' ages being, before the passing of the new act,
      nowhere preserved in the registries of this country&mdash;Mr. Nickleby
      looked about him for the means of repairing his capital, now sadly reduced
      by this increase in his family, and the expenses of their education.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Speculate with it,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Spec&mdash;u&mdash;late, my dear?' said Mr. Nickleby, as though in doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' asked Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because, my dear, if we <i>should </i>lose it,' rejoined Mr. Nickleby, who was a
      slow and time-taking speaker, 'if we <i>should </i>lose it, we shall no longer be
      able to live, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fiddle,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,' said Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's Nicholas,' pursued the lady, 'quite a young man&mdash;it's time
      he was in the way of doing something for himself; and Kate too, poor girl,
      without a penny in the world. Think of your brother! Would he be what he
      is, if he hadn't speculated?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's true,' replied Mr. Nickleby. 'Very good, my dear. Yes. I <i>will</i>
      speculate, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Speculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing of their
      cards at first starting; gains <i>may </i>be great&mdash;and so may losses. The
      run of luck went against Mr. Nickleby. A mania prevailed, a bubble burst,
      four stock-brokers took villa residences at Florence, four hundred
      nobodies were ruined, and among them Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The very house I live in,' sighed the poor gentleman, 'may be taken from
      me tomorrow. Not an article of my old furniture, but will be sold to
      strangers!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The last reflection hurt him so much, that he took at once to his bed;
      apparently resolved to keep that, at all events.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cheer up, sir!' said the apothecary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mustn't let yourself be cast down, sir,' said the nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such things happen every day,' remarked the lawyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And it is very sinful to rebel against them,' whispered the clergyman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what no man with a family ought to do,' added the neighbours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby shook his head, and motioning them all out of the room,
      embraced his wife and children, and having pressed them by turns to his
      languidly beating heart, sunk exhausted on his pillow. They were concerned
      to find that his reason went astray after this; for he babbled, for a long
      time, about the generosity and goodness of his brother, and the merry old
      times when they were at school together. This fit of wandering past, he
      solemnly commended them to One who never deserted the widow or her
      fatherless children, and, smiling gently on them, turned upon his face,
      and observed, that he thought he could fall asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 2
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>
<i>f Mr. Ralph Nickleby, and his Establishments, and his Undertakings, and of
      a great Joint Stock Company of vast national Importance
    </i>
</p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what you would call a
      merchant, neither was he a banker, nor an attorney, nor a special pleader,
      nor a notary. He was certainly not a tradesman, and still less could he
      lay any claim to the title of a professional gentleman; for it would have
      been impossible to mention any recognised profession to which he belonged.
      Nevertheless, as he lived in a spacious house in Golden Square, which, in
      addition to a brass plate upon the street-door, had another brass plate
      two sizes and a half smaller upon the left hand door-post, surrounding a
      brass model of an infant's fist grasping a fragment of a skewer, and
      displaying the word 'Office,' it was clear that Mr. Ralph Nickleby did, or
      pretended to do, business of some kind; and the fact, if it required any
      further circumstantial evidence, was abundantly demonstrated by the
      diurnal attendance, between the hours of half-past nine and five, of a
      sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat upon an uncommonly hard stool in
      a species of butler's pantry at the end of the passage, and always had a
      pen behind his ear when he answered the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although a few members of the graver professions live about Golden Square,
      it is not exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere. It is one of the
      squares that have been; a quarter of the town that has gone down in the
      world, and taken to letting lodgings. Many of its first and second floors
      are let, furnished, to single gentlemen; and it takes boarders besides. It
      is a great resort of foreigners. The dark-complexioned men who wear large
      rings, and heavy watch-guards, and bushy whiskers, and who congregate
      under the Opera Colonnade, and about the box-office in the season, between
      four and five in the afternoon, when they give away the orders,&mdash;all
      live in Golden Square, or within a street of it. Two or three violins and
      a wind instrument from the Opera band reside within its precincts. Its
      boarding-houses are musical, and the notes of pianos and harps float in
      the evening time round the head of the mournful statue, the guardian
      genius of a little wilderness of shrubs, in the centre of the square. On a
      summer's night, windows are thrown open, and groups of swarthy moustached
      men are seen by the passer-by, lounging at the casements, and smoking
      fearfully. Sounds of gruff voices practising vocal music invade the
      evening's silence; and the fumes of choice tobacco scent the air. There,
      snuff and cigars, and German pipes and flutes, and violins and
      violoncellos, divide the supremacy between them. It is the region of song
      and smoke. Street bands are on their mettle in Golden Square; and
      itinerant glee-singers quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices
      within its boundaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      This would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transaction of
      business; but Mr. Ralph Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding, for many
      years, and uttered no complaint on that score. He knew nobody round about,
      and nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the reputation of being immensely
      rich. The tradesmen held that he was a sort of lawyer, and the other
      neighbours opined that he was a kind of general agent; both of which
      guesses were as correct and definite as guesses about other people's
      affairs usually are, or need to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, ready dressed to
      walk abroad. He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue coat; a white
      waistcoat, grey mixture pantaloons, and Wellington boots drawn over them.
      The corner of a small-plaited shirt-frill struggled out, as if insisting
      to show itself, from between his chin and the top button of his spencer;
      and the latter garment was not made low enough to conceal a long gold
      watch-chain, composed of a series of plain rings, which had its beginning
      at the handle of a gold repeater in Mr. Nickleby's pocket, and its
      termination in two little keys: one belonging to the watch itself, and the
      other to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling of powder upon his
      head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but if that were his purpose,
      he would perhaps have done better to powder his countenance also, for
      there was something in its very wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye,
      which seemed to tell of cunning that would announce itself in spite of
      him. However this might be, there he was; and as he was all alone, neither
      the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the eyes, had the smallest effect, good
      or bad, upon anybody just then, and are consequently no business of ours
      just now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby closed an account-book which lay on his desk, and, throwing
      himself back in his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction through the
      dirty window. Some London houses have a melancholy little plot of ground
      behind them, usually fenced in by four high whitewashed walls, and frowned
      upon by stacks of chimneys: in which there withers on, from year to year,
      a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few leaves late in
      autumn when other trees shed theirs, and, drooping in the effort, lingers
      on, all crackled and smoke-dried, till the following season, when it
      repeats the same process, and perhaps, if the weather be particularly
      genial, even tempts some rheumatic sparrow to chirrup in its branches.
      People sometimes call these dark yards 'gardens'; it is not supposed that
      they were ever planted, but rather that they are pieces of unreclaimed
      land, with the withered vegetation of the original brick-field. No man
      thinks of walking in this desolate place, or of turning it to any account.
      A few hampers, half-a-dozen broken bottles, and such-like rubbish, may be
      thrown there, when the tenant first moves in, but nothing more; and there
      they remain until he goes away again: the damp straw taking just as long
      to moulder as it thinks proper: and mingling with the scanty box, and
      stunted everbrowns, and broken flower-pots, that are scattered mournfully
      about&mdash;a prey to 'blacks' and dirt.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was into a place of this kind that Mr. Ralph Nickleby gazed, as he sat
      with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. He had fixed his
      eyes upon a distorted fir tree, planted by some former tenant in a tub
      that had once been green, and left there, years before, to rot away
      piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in the object, but Mr. Nickleby
      was wrapt in a brown study, and sat contemplating it with far greater
      attention than, in a more conscious mood, he would have deigned to bestow
      upon the rarest exotic. At length, his eyes wandered to a little dirty
      window on the left, through which the face of the clerk was dimly visible;
      that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned him to attend.
    </p>
    <p>
      In obedience to this summons the clerk got off the high stool (to which he
      had communicated a high polish by countless gettings off and on), and
      presented himself in Mr. Nickleby's room. He was a tall man of middle age,
      with two goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a rubicund nose, a
      cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (if the term be allowable when they
      suited him not at all) much the worse for wear, very much too small, and
      placed upon such a short allowance of buttons that it was marvellous how
      he contrived to keep them on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was that half-past twelve, Noggs?' said Mr. Nickleby, in a sharp and
      grating voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by the&mdash;' Noggs was going to
      add public-house clock, but recollecting himself, substituted 'regular
      time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My watch has stopped,' said Mr. Nickleby; 'I don't know from what cause.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not wound up,' said Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes it is,' said Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Over-wound then,' rejoined Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That can't very well be,' observed Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Must be,' said Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' said Mr. Nickleby, putting the repeater back in his pocket;
      'perhaps it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of all disputes
      with his master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and (as he rarely
      spoke to anybody unless somebody spoke to him) fell into a grim silence,
      and rubbed his hands slowly over each other: cracking the joints of his
      fingers, and squeezing them into all possible distortions. The incessant
      performance of this routine on every occasion, and the communication of a
      fixed and rigid look to his unaffected eye, so as to make it uniform with
      the other, and to render it impossible for anybody to determine where or
      at what he was looking, were two among the numerous peculiarities of Mr
      Noggs, which struck an inexperienced observer at first sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am going to the London Tavern this morning,' said Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Public meeting?' inquired Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby nodded. 'I expect a letter from the solicitor respecting that
      mortgage of Ruddle's. If it comes at all, it will be here by the two
      o'clock delivery. I shall leave the city about that time and walk to
      Charing Cross on the left-hand side of the way; if there are any letters,
      come and meet me, and bring them with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Noggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at the office bell. The
      master looked up from his papers, and the clerk calmly remained in a
      stationary position.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The bell,' said Noggs, as though in explanation. 'At home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To anybody?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the tax-gatherer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No! Let him call again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Noggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much as to say 'I thought so!' and,
      the ring being repeated, went to the door, whence he presently returned,
      ushering in, by the name of Mr. Bonney, a pale gentleman in a violent
      hurry, who, with his hair standing up in great disorder all over his head,
      and a very narrow white cravat tied loosely round his throat, looked as if
      he had been knocked up in the night and had not dressed himself since.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Nickleby,' said the gentleman, taking off a white hat which was
      so full of papers that it would scarcely stick upon his head, 'there's not
      a moment to lose; I have a cab at the door. Sir Matthew Pupker takes the
      chair, and three members of Parliament are positively coming. I have seen
      two of them safely out of bed. The third, who was at Crockford's all
      night, has just gone home to put a clean shirt on, and take a bottle or
      two of soda water, and will certainly be with us, in time to address the
      meeting. He is a little excited by last night, but never mind that; he
      always speaks the stronger for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It seems to promise pretty well,' said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, whose
      deliberate manner was strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other man of
      business.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pretty well!' echoed Mr. Bonney. 'It's the finest idea that was ever
      started. "United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
      Punctual Delivery Company. Capital, five millions, in five hundred
      thousand shares of ten pounds each." Why the very name will get the shares
      up to a premium in ten days.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And when they <i>are </i>at a premium,' said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When they are, you know what to do with them as well as any man alive,
      and how to back quietly out at the right time,' said Mr. Bonney, slapping
      the capitalist familiarly on the shoulder. 'By-the-bye, what a <i>very</i>
      remarkable man that clerk of yours is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, poor devil!' replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. 'Though Newman
      Noggs kept his horses and hounds once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay?' said the other carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' continued Ralph, 'and not many years ago either; but he squandered
      his money, invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and in short made
      first a thorough fool of himself, and then a beggar. He took to drinking,
      and had a touch of paralysis, and then came here to borrow a pound, as in
      his better days I had&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done business with him,' said Mr. Bonney with a meaning look.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just so,' replied Ralph; 'I couldn't lend it, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, of course not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open the door and so forth, I took
      him out of charity, and he has remained with me ever since. He is a little
      mad, I think,' said Mr. Nickleby, calling up a charitable look, 'but he is
      useful enough, poor creature&mdash;useful enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add that Newman Noggs, being utterly
      destitute, served him for rather less than the usual wages of a boy of
      thirteen; and likewise failed to mention in his hasty chronicle, that his
      eccentric taciturnity rendered him an especially valuable person in a
      place where much business was done, of which it was desirable no mention
      should be made out of doors. The other gentleman was plainly impatient to
      be gone, however, and as they hurried into the hackney cabriolet
      immediately afterwards, perhaps Mr. Nickleby forgot to mention
      circumstances so unimportant.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as they drew up,
      and (it being a windy day) half-a-dozen men were tacking across the road
      under a press of paper, bearing gigantic announcements that a Public
      Meeting would be holden at one o'clock precisely, to take into
      consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the
      United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual
      Delivery Company, capital five millions, in five hundred thousand shares
      of ten pounds each; which sums were duly set forth in fat black figures of
      considerable size. Mr. Bonney elbowed his way briskly upstairs, receiving
      in his progress many low bows from the waiters who stood on the landings
      to show the way; and, followed by Mr. Nickleby, dived into a suite of
      apartments behind the great public room: in the second of which was a
      business-looking table, and several business-looking people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear!' cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr. Bonney presented
      himself. 'Chair, gentlemen, chair!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The new-comers were received with universal approbation, and Mr. Bonney
      bustled up to the top of the table, took off his hat, ran his fingers
      through his hair, and knocked a hackney-coachman's knock on the table with
      a little hammer: whereat several gentlemen cried 'Hear!' and nodded
      slightly to each other, as much as to say what spirited conduct that was.
      Just at this moment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore into the
      room, and throwing the door open with a crash, shouted 'Sir Matthew
      Pupker!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, and while they
      were clapping them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by two live
      members of Parliament, one Irish and one Scotch, all smiling and bowing,
      and looking so pleasant that it seemed a perfect marvel how any man could
      have the heart to vote against them. Sir Matthew Pupker especially, who
      had a little round head with a flaxen wig on the top of it, fell into such
      a paroxysm of bows, that the wig threatened to be jerked off, every
      instant. When these symptoms had in some degree subsided, the gentlemen
      who were on speaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker, or the two other
      members, crowded round them in three little groups, near one or other of
      which the gentlemen who were <i>not </i>on speaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker
      or the two other members, stood lingering, and smiling, and rubbing their
      hands, in the desperate hope of something turning up which might bring
      them into notice. All this time, Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other
      members were relating to their separate circles what the intentions of
      government were, about taking up the bill; with a full account of what the
      government had said in a whisper the last time they dined with it, and how
      the government had been observed to wink when it said so; from which
      premises they were at no loss to draw the conclusion, that if the
      government had one object more at heart than another, that one object was
      the welfare and advantage of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin
      and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the proceedings, and a fair
      division of the speechifying, the public in the large room were eyeing, by
      turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in the Music Gallery. In these
      amusements the greater portion of them had been occupied for a couple of
      hours before, and as the most agreeable diversions pall upon the taste on
      a too protracted enjoyment of them, the sterner spirits now began to
      hammer the floor with their boot-heels, and to express their
      dissatisfaction by various hoots and cries. These vocal exertions,
      emanating from the people who had been there longest, naturally proceeded
      from those who were nearest to the platform and furthest from the
      policemen in attendance, who having no great mind to fight their way
      through the crowd, but entertaining nevertheless a praiseworthy desire to
      do something to quell the disturbance, immediately began to drag forth, by
      the coat tails and collars, all the quiet people near the door; at the
      same time dealing out various smart and tingling blows with their
      truncheons, after the manner of that ingenious actor, Mr. Punch: whose
      brilliant example, both in the fashion of his weapons and their use, this
      branch of the executive occasionally follows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loud shout
      attracted the attention even of the belligerents, and then there poured on
      to the platform, from a door at the side, a long line of gentlemen with
      their hats off, all looking behind them, and uttering vociferous cheers;
      the cause whereof was sufficiently explained when Sir Matthew Pupker and
      the two other real members of Parliament came to the front, amidst
      deafening shouts, and testified to each other in dumb motions that they
      had never seen such a glorious sight as that, in the whole course of their
      public career.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but Sir Matthew
      Pupker being voted into the chair, they underwent a relapse which lasted
      five minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupker went on to say what must be
      his feelings on that great occasion, and what must be that occasion in the
      eyes of the world, and what must be the intelligence of his
      fellow-countrymen before him, and what must be the wealth and
      respectability of his honourable friends behind him, and lastly, what must
      be the importance to the wealth, the happiness, the comfort, the liberty,
      the very existence of a free and great people, of such an Institution as
      the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
      Punctual Delivery Company!
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bonney then presented himself to move the first resolution; and having
      run his right hand through his hair, and planted his left, in an easy
      manner, in his ribs, he consigned his hat to the care of the gentleman
      with the double chin (who acted as a species of bottle-holder to the
      orators generally), and said he would read to them the first resolution&mdash;'That
      this meeting views with alarm and apprehension, the existing state of the
      Muffin Trade in this Metropolis and its neighbourhood; that it considers
      the Muffin Boys, as at present constituted, wholly underserving the
      confidence of the public; and that it deems the whole Muffin system alike
      prejudicial to the health and morals of the people, and subversive of the
      best interests of a great commercial and mercantile community.' The
      honourable gentleman made a speech which drew tears from the eyes of the
      ladies, and awakened the liveliest emotions in every individual present.
      He had visited the houses of the poor in the various districts of London,
      and had found them destitute of the slightest vestige of a muffin, which
      there appeared too much reason to believe some of these indigent persons
      did not taste from year's end to year's end. He had found that among
      muffin-sellers there existed drunkenness, debauchery, and profligacy,
      which he attributed to the debasing nature of their employment as at
      present exercised; he had found the same vices among the poorer class of
      people who ought to be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to the
      despair engendered by their being placed beyond the reach of that
      nutritious article, which drove them to seek a false stimulant in
      intoxicating liquors. He would undertake to prove before a committee of
      the House of Commons, that there existed a combination to keep up the
      price of muffins, and to give the bellmen a monopoly; he would prove it by
      bellmen at the bar of that House; and he would also prove, that these men
      corresponded with each other by secret words and signs as 'Snooks,'
      'Walker,' 'Ferguson,' 'Is Murphy right?' and many others. It was this
      melancholy state of things that the Company proposed to correct; firstly,
      by prohibiting, under heavy penalties, all private muffin trading of every
      description; secondly, by themselves supplying the public generally, and
      the poor at their own homes, with muffins of first quality at reduced
      prices. It was with this object that a bill had been introduced into
      Parliament by their patriotic chairman Sir Matthew Pupker; it was this
      bill that they had met to support; it was the supporters of this bill who
      would confer undying brightness and splendour upon England, under the name
      of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
      Punctual Delivery Company; he would add, with a capital of Five Millions,
      in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and another gentleman having
      moved that it be amended by the insertion of the words 'and crumpet' after
      the word 'muffin,' whenever it occurred, it was carried triumphantly. Only
      one man in the crowd cried 'No!' and he was promptly taken into custody,
      and straightway borne off.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second resolution, which recognised the expediency of immediately
      abolishing 'all muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders in muffins (or
      crumpets) of whatsoever description, whether male or female, boys or men,
      ringing hand-bells or otherwise,' was moved by a grievous gentleman of
      semi-clerical appearance, who went at once into such deep pathetics, that
      he knocked the first speaker clean out of the course in no time. You might
      have heard a pin fall&mdash;a pin! a feather&mdash;as he described the
      cruelties inflicted on muffin boys by their masters, which he very wisely
      urged were in themselves a sufficient reason for the establishment of that
      inestimable company. It seemed that the unhappy youths were nightly turned
      out into the wet streets at the most inclement periods of the year, to
      wander about, in darkness and rain&mdash;or it might be hail or snow&mdash;for
      hours together, without shelter, food, or warmth; and let the public never
      forget upon the latter point, that while the muffins were provided with
      warm clothing and blankets, the boys were wholly unprovided for, and left
      to their own miserable resources. (Shame!) The honourable gentleman
      related one case of a muffin boy, who having been exposed to this inhuman
      and barbarous system for no less than five years, at length fell a victim
      to a cold in the head, beneath which he gradually sunk until he fell into
      a perspiration and recovered; this he could vouch for, on his own
      authority, but he had heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact) of a
      still more heart-rending and appalling circumstance. He had heard of the
      case of an orphan muffin boy, who, having been run over by a hackney
      carriage, had been removed to the hospital, had undergone the amputation
      of his leg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing his occupation on
      crutches. Fountain of justice, were these things to last!
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the department of the subject that took the meeting, and this was
      the style of speaking to enlist their sympathies. The men shouted; the
      ladies wept into their pocket-handkerchiefs till they were moist, and
      waved them till they were dry; the excitement was tremendous; and Mr
      Nickleby whispered his friend that the shares were thenceforth at a
      premium of five-and-twenty per cent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The resolution was, of course, carried with loud acclamations, every man
      holding up both hands in favour of it, as he would in his enthusiasm have
      held up both legs also, if he could have conveniently accomplished it.
      This done, the draft of the proposed petition was read at length: and the
      petition said, as all petitions <i>do</i> say, that the petitioners were very
      humble, and the petitioned very honourable, and the object very virtuous;
      therefore (said the petition) the bill ought to be passed into a law at
      once, to the everlasting honour and glory of that most honourable and
      glorious Commons of England in Parliament assembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, the gentleman who had been at Crockford's all night, and who looked
      something the worse about the eyes in consequence, came forward to tell
      his fellow-countrymen what a speech he meant to make in favour of that
      petition whenever it should be presented, and how desperately he meant to
      taunt the parliament if they rejected the bill; and to inform them also,
      that he regretted his honourable friends had not inserted a clause
      rendering the purchase of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon all classes
      of the community, which he&mdash;opposing all half-measures, and
      preferring to go the extreme animal&mdash;pledged himself to propose and
      divide upon, in committee. After announcing this determination, the
      honourable gentleman grew jocular; and as patent boots, lemon-coloured kid
      gloves, and a fur coat collar, assist jokes materially, there was immense
      laughter and much cheering, and moreover such a brilliant display of
      ladies' pocket-handkerchiefs, as threw the grievous gentleman quite into
      the shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      And when the petition had been read and was about to be adopted, there
      came forward the Irish member (who was a young gentleman of ardent
      temperament,) with such a speech as only an Irish member can make,
      breathing the true soul and spirit of poetry, and poured forth with such
      fervour, that it made one warm to look at him; in the course whereof, he
      told them how he would demand the extension of that great boon to his
      native country; how he would claim for her equal rights in the muffin laws
      as in all other laws; and how he yet hoped to see the day when crumpets
      should be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin bells should ring in her
      rich green valleys. And, after him, came the Scotch member, with various
      pleasant allusions to the probable amount of profits, which increased the
      good humour that the poetry had awakened; and all the speeches put
      together did exactly what they were intended to do, and established in the
      hearers' minds that there was no speculation so promising, or at the same
      time so praiseworthy, as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and
      Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, the petition in favour of the bill was agreed upon, and the meeting
      adjourned with acclamations, and Mr. Nickleby and the other directors went
      to the office to lunch, as they did every day at half-past one o'clock;
      and to remunerate themselves for which trouble, (as the company was yet in
      its infancy,) they only charged three guineas each man for every such
      attendance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 3
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>r. Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, but bears up nobly
          against the Intelligence communicated to him. The Reader is informed how
          he liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and how kindly he proposed to
          make his Fortune at once.</i>
        </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Having rendered his zealous assistance towards dispatching the lunch, with
      all that promptitude and energy which are among the most important
      qualities that men of business can possess, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a
      cordial farewell of his fellow-speculators, and bent his steps westward in
      unwonted good humour. As he passed St Paul's he stepped aside into a
      doorway to set his watch, and with his hand on the key and his eye on the
      cathedral dial, was intent upon so doing, when a man suddenly stopped
      before him. It was Newman Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Newman,' said Mr. Nickleby, looking up as he pursued his occupation.
      'The letter about the mortgage has come, has it? I thought it would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wrong,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! and nobody called respecting it?' inquired Mr. Nickleby, pausing.
      Noggs shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What <i>has </i>come, then?' inquired Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What else?' demanded the master, sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' said Newman, drawing a sealed letter slowly from his pocket.
      'Post-mark, Strand, black wax, black border, woman's hand, C. N. in the
      corner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Black wax?' said Mr. Nickleby, glancing at the letter. 'I know something
      of that hand, too. Newman, I shouldn't be surprised if my brother were
      dead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think you would,' said Newman, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not, sir?' demanded Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never are surprised,' replied Newman, 'that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby snatched the letter from his assistant, and fixing a cold look
      upon him, opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having now hit the
      time to a second, began winding up his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is as I expected, Newman,' said Mr. Nickleby, while he was thus
      engaged. 'He <i>is</i> dead. Dear me! Well, that's sudden thing. I shouldn't have
      thought it, really.' With these touching expressions of sorrow, Mr
      Nickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on his gloves to a
      nicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowly westward with his hands
      behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Children alive?' inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that's the very thing,' replied Mr. Nickleby, as though his thoughts
      were about them at that moment. 'They are both alive.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Both!' repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the widow, too,' added Mr. Nickleby, 'and all three in London,
      confound them; all three here, Newman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously twisted
      as by a spasm; but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward laughter,
      nobody but himself could possibly explain. The expression of a man's face
      is commonly a help to his thoughts, or glossary on his speech; but the
      countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was a problem which no
      stretch of ingenuity could solve.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go home!' said Mr. Nickleby, after they had walked a few paces: looking
      round at the clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely uttered
      when Newman darted across the road, slunk among the crowd, and disappeared
      in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Reasonable, certainly!' muttered Mr. Nickleby to himself, as he walked on,
      'very reasonable! My brother never did anything for me, and I never
      expected it; the breath is no sooner out of his body than I am to be
      looked to, as the support of a great hearty woman, and a grown boy and
      girl. What are they to me! I never saw them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Full of these, and many other reflections of a similar kind, Mr. Nickleby
      made the best of his way to the Strand, and, referring to his letter as if
      to ascertain the number of the house he wanted, stopped at a private door
      about half-way down that crowded thoroughfare.
    </p>
    <p>
      A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame screwed
      upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon a black velvet ground,
      two portraits of naval dress coats with faces looking out of them, and
      telescopes attached; one of a young gentleman in a very vermilion uniform,
      flourishing a sabre; and one of a literary character with a high forehead,
      a pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There was, moreover, a touching
      representation of a young lady reading a manuscript in an unfathomable
      forest, and a charming whole length of a large-headed little boy, sitting
      on a stool with his legs fore-shortened to the size of salt-spoons.
      Besides these works of art, there were a great many heads of old ladies
      and gentlemen smirking at each other out of blue and brown skies, and an
      elegantly written card of terms with an embossed border.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt, and gave a
      double knock, which, having been thrice repeated, was answered by a
      servant girl with an uncommonly dirty face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is Mrs. Nickleby at home, girl?' demanded Ralph sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her name ain't Nickleby,' said the girl, 'La Creevy, you mean.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby looked very indignant at the handmaid on being thus corrected,
      and demanded with much asperity what she meant; which she was about to
      state, when a female voice proceeding from a perpendicular staircase at
      the end of the passage, inquired who was wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Nickleby,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the second floor, Hannah,' said the same voice; 'what a stupid thing
      you are! Is the second floor at home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Somebody went out just now, but I think it was the attic which had been a
      cleaning of himself,' replied the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better see,' said the invisible female. 'Show the gentleman where
      the bell is, and tell him he mustn't knock double knocks for the second
      floor; I can't allow a knock except when the bell's broke, and then it
      must be two single ones.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here,' said Ralph, walking in without more parley, 'I beg your pardon; is
      that Mrs. La what's-her-name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Creevy&mdash;La Creevy,' replied the voice, as a yellow headdress bobbed
      over the banisters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll speak to you a moment, ma'am, with your leave,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice replied that the gentleman was to walk up; but he had walked up
      before it spoke, and stepping into the first floor, was received by the
      wearer of the yellow head-dress, who had a gown to correspond, and was of
      much the same colour herself. Miss La Creevy was a mincing young lady of
      fifty, and Miss La Creevy's apartment was the gilt frame downstairs on a
      larger scale and something dirtier.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' said Miss La Creevy, coughing delicately behind her black silk
      mitten. 'A miniature, I presume. A very strongly-marked countenance for
      the purpose, sir. Have you ever sat before?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mistake my purpose, I see, ma'am,' replied Mr. Nickleby, in his usual
      blunt fashion. 'I have no money to throw away on miniatures, ma'am, and
      nobody to give one to (thank God) if I had. Seeing you on the stairs, I
      wanted to ask a question of you, about some lodgers here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss La Creevy coughed once more&mdash;this cough was to conceal her
      disappointment&mdash;and said, 'Oh, indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I infer from what you said to your servant, that the floor above belongs
      to you, ma'am,' said Mr. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes it did, Miss La Creevy replied. The upper part of the house belonged
      to her, and as she had no necessity for the second-floor rooms just then,
      she was in the habit of letting them. Indeed, there was a lady from the
      country and her two children in them, at that present speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A widow, ma'am?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, she is a widow,' replied the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A <i>poor </i>widow, ma'am,' said Ralph, with a powerful emphasis on that little
      adjective which conveys so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I'm afraid she <i>is</i> poor,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I happen to know that she is, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Now, what business has
      a poor widow in such a house as this, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very true,' replied Miss La Creevy, not at all displeased with this
      implied compliment to the apartments. 'Exceedingly true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know her circumstances intimately, ma'am,' said Ralph; 'in fact, I am a
      relation of the family; and I should recommend you not to keep them here,
      ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should hope, if there was any incompatibility to meet the pecuniary
      obligations,' said Miss La Creevy with another cough, 'that the lady's
      family would&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No they wouldn't, ma'am,' interrupted Ralph, hastily. 'Don't think it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I am to understand that,' said Miss La Creevy, 'the case wears a very
      different appearance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may understand it then, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'and make your
      arrangements accordingly. I am the family, ma'am&mdash;at least, I believe
      I am the only relation they have, and I think it right that you should
      know I can't support them in their extravagances. How long have they taken
      these lodgings for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only from week to week,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Mrs. Nickleby paid the
      first week in advance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you had better get them out at the end of it,' said Ralph. 'They
      can't do better than go back to the country, ma'am; they are in
      everybody's way here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands, 'if Mrs. Nickleby took
      the apartments without the means of paying for them, it was very
      unbecoming a lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course it was, ma'am,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And naturally,' continued Miss La Creevy, 'I who am, <i>at</i> <i>present</i>&mdash;hem&mdash;an
      unprotected female, cannot afford to lose by the apartments.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course you can't, ma'am,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Though at the same time,' added Miss La Creevy, who was plainly wavering
      between her good-nature and her interest, 'I have nothing whatever to say
      against the lady, who is extremely pleasant and affable, though, poor
      thing, she seems terribly low in her spirits; nor against the young people
      either, for nicer, or better-behaved young people cannot be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, ma'am,' said Ralph, turning to the door, for these encomiums
      on poverty irritated him; 'I have done my duty, and perhaps more than I
      ought: of course nobody will thank me for saying what I have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure I am very much obliged to you at least, sir,' said Miss La
      Creevy in a gracious manner. 'Would you do me the favour to look at a few
      specimens of my portrait painting?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're very good, ma'am,' said Mr. Nickleby, making off with great speed;
      'but as I have a visit to pay upstairs, and my time is precious, I really
      can't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At any other time when you are passing, I shall be most happy,' said Miss
      La Creevy. 'Perhaps you will have the kindness to take a card of terms
      with you? Thank you&mdash;good-morning!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning, ma'am,' said Ralph, shutting the door abruptly after him to
      prevent any further conversation. 'Now for my sister-in-law. Bah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Climbing up another perpendicular flight, composed with great mechanical
      ingenuity of nothing but corner stairs, Mr. Ralph Nickleby stopped to take
      breath on the landing, when he was overtaken by the handmaid, whom the
      politeness of Miss La Creevy had dispatched to announce him, and who had
      apparently been making a variety of unsuccessful attempts, since their
      last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean, upon an apron much dirtier.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What name?' said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Mrs. Nickleby,' said the girl, throwing open the door, 'here's Mr
      Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A lady in deep mourning rose as Mr. Ralph Nickleby entered, but appeared
      incapable of advancing to meet him, and leant upon the arm of a slight but
      very beautiful girl of about seventeen, who had been sitting by her. A
      youth, who appeared a year or two older, stepped forward and saluted Ralph
      as his uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh,' growled Ralph, with an ill-favoured frown, 'you are Nicholas, I
      suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is my name, sir,' replied the youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Put my hat down,' said Ralph, imperiously. 'Well, ma'am, how do you do?
      You must bear up against sorrow, ma'am; I always do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mine was no common loss!' said Mrs. Nickleby, applying her handkerchief to
      her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was no <i>un</i>common loss, ma'am,' returned Ralph, as he coolly unbuttoned
      his spencer. 'Husbands die every day, ma'am, and wives too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And brothers also, sir,' said Nicholas, with a glance of indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs likewise,' replied his uncle, taking
      a chair. 'You didn't mention in your letter what my brother's complaint
      was, ma'am.'
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0072m.jpg" alt="0072m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0072.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      'The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,' said Mrs
      Nickleby; shedding tears. 'We have too much reason to fear that he died of
      a broken heart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh!' said Ralph, 'there's no such thing. I can understand a man's dying
      of a broken neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a broken head, or a
      broken leg, or a broken nose; but a broken heart!&mdash;nonsense, it's the
      cant of the day. If a man can't pay his debts, he dies of a broken heart,
      and his widow's a martyr.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,' observed Nicholas,
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How old is this boy, for God's sake?' inquired Ralph, wheeling back his
      chair, and surveying his nephew from head to foot with intense scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,' replied the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nineteen, eh!' said Ralph; 'and what do you mean to do for your bread,
      sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not to live upon my mother,' replied Nicholas, his heart swelling as he
      spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'd have little enough to live upon, if you did,' retorted the uncle,
      eyeing him contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever it be,' said Nicholas, flushed with anger, 'I shall not look to
      you to make it more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,' remonstrated Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas, pray,' urged the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Ralph. 'Upon my word! Fine beginnings, Mrs
      Nickleby&mdash;fine beginnings!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby made no other reply than entreating Nicholas by a gesture to
      keep silent; and the uncle and nephew looked at each other for some
      seconds without speaking. The face of the old man was stern,
      hard-featured, and forbidding; that of the young one, open, handsome, and
      ingenuous. The old man's eye was keen with the twinklings of avarice and
      cunning; the young man's bright with the light of intelligence and spirit.
      His figure was somewhat slight, but manly and well formed; and, apart from
      all the grace of youth and comeliness, there was an emanation from the
      warm young heart in his look and bearing which kept the old man down.
    </p>
    <p>
      However striking such a contrast as this may be to lookers-on, none ever
      feel it with half the keenness or acuteness of perfection with which it
      strikes to the very soul of him whose inferiority it marks. It galled
      Ralph to the heart's core, and he hated Nicholas from that hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mutual inspection was at length brought to a close by Ralph
      withdrawing his eyes, with a great show of disdain, and calling Nicholas
      'a boy.' This word is much used as a term of reproach by elderly gentlemen
      towards their juniors: probably with the view of deluding society into the
      belief that if they could be young again, they wouldn't on any account.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, ma'am,' said Ralph, impatiently, 'the creditors have administered,
      you tell me, and there's nothing left for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you spent what little money you had, in coming all the way to London,
      to see what I could do for you?' pursued Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hoped,' faltered Mrs. Nickleby, 'that you might have an opportunity of
      doing something for your brother's children. It was his dying wish that I
      should appeal to you in their behalf.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know how it is,' muttered Ralph, walking up and down the room,
      'but whenever a man dies without any property of his own, he always seems
      to think he has a right to dispose of other people's. What is your
      daughter fit for, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate has been well educated,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. 'Tell your uncle, my
      dear, how far you went in French and extras.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor girl was about to murmur something, when her uncle stopped her,
      very unceremoniously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must try and get you apprenticed at some boarding-school,' said Ralph.
      'You have not been brought up too delicately for that, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, indeed, uncle,' replied the weeping girl. 'I will try to do anything
      that will gain me a home and bread.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' said Ralph, a little softened, either by his niece's beauty
      or her distress (stretch a point, and say the latter). 'You must try it,
      and if the life is too hard, perhaps dressmaking or tambour-work will come
      lighter. Have <i>you </i>ever done anything, sir?' (turning to his nephew.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas, bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I thought not!' said Ralph. 'This is the way my brother brought up
      his children, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nicholas has not long completed such education as his poor father could
      give him,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, 'and he was thinking of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of making something of him someday,' said Ralph. 'The old story; always
      thinking, and never doing. If my brother had been a man of activity and
      prudence, he might have left you a rich woman, ma'am: and if he had turned
      his son into the world, as my father turned me, when I wasn't as old as
      that boy by a year and a half, he would have been in a situation to help
      you, instead of being a burden upon you, and increasing your distress. My
      brother was a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs. Nickleby, and nobody, I
      am sure, can have better reason to feel that, than you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This appeal set the widow upon thinking that perhaps she might have made a
      more successful venture with her one thousand pounds, and then she began
      to reflect what a comfortable sum it would have been just then; which
      dismal thoughts made her tears flow faster, and in the excess of these
      griefs she (being a well-meaning woman enough, but weak withal) fell first
      to deploring her hard fate, and then to remarking, with many sobs, that to
      be sure she had been a slave to poor Nicholas, and had often told him she
      might have married better (as indeed she had, very often), and that she
      never knew in his lifetime how the money went, but that if he had confided
      in her they might all have been better off that day; with other bitter
      recollections common to most married ladies, either during their
      coverture, or afterwards, or at both periods. Mrs. Nickleby concluded by
      lamenting that the dear departed had never deigned to profit by her
      advice, save on one occasion; which was a strictly veracious statement,
      inasmuch as he had only acted upon it once, and had ruined himself in
      consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half-smile; and when the widow had
      finished, quietly took up the subject where it had been left before the
      above outbreak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you willing to work, sir?' he inquired, frowning on his nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I am,' replied Nicholas haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then see here, sir,' said his uncle. 'This caught my eye this morning,
      and you may thank your stars for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this exordium, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper from his pocket,
      and after unfolding it, and looking for a short time among the
      advertisements, read as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      '"<i>Education</i>.&mdash;At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at
      the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth
      are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided with
      all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics,
      orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes,
      algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification,
      and every other branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas per
      annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in
      town, and attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow
      Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary 5 pounds. A Master of
      Arts would be preferred."
    </p>
    <p>
      'There!' said Ralph, folding the paper again. 'Let him get that situation,
      and his fortune is made.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he is not a Master of Arts,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That,' replied Ralph, 'that, I think, can be got over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But the salary is so small, and it is such a long way off, uncle!'
      faltered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, Kate my dear,' interposed Mrs. Nickleby; 'your uncle must know
      best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' repeated Ralph, tartly, 'let him get that situation, and his
      fortune is made. If he don't like that, let him get one for himself.
      Without friends, money, recommendation, or knowledge of business of any
      kind, let him find honest employment in London, which will keep him in
      shoe leather, and I'll give him a thousand pounds. At least,' said Mr
      Ralph Nickleby, checking himself, 'I would if I had it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellow!' said the young lady. 'Oh! uncle, must we be separated so
      soon!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't tease your uncle with questions when he is thinking only for our
      good, my love,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Nicholas, my dear, I wish you would
      say something.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, mother, yes,' said Nicholas, who had hitherto remained silent and
      absorbed in thought. 'If I am fortunate enough to be appointed to this
      post, sir, for which I am so imperfectly qualified, what will become of
      those I leave behind?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your mother and sister, sir,' replied Ralph, 'will be provided for, in
      that case (not otherwise), by me, and placed in some sphere of life in
      which they will be able to be independent. That will be my immediate care;
      they will not remain as they are, one week after your departure, I will
      undertake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and wringing his uncle's hand,
      'I am ready to do anything you wish me. Let us try our fortune with Mr
      Squeers at once; he can but refuse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He won't do that,' said Ralph. 'He will be glad to have you on my
      recommendation. Make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to be a
      partner in the establishment in no time. Bless me, only think! if he were
      to die, why your fortune's made at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure, I see it all,' said poor Nicholas, delighted with a thousand
      visionary ideas, that his good spirits and his inexperience were conjuring
      up before him. 'Or suppose some young nobleman who is being educated at
      the Hall, were to take a fancy to me, and get his father to appoint me his
      travelling tutor when he left, and when we come back from the continent,
      procured me some handsome appointment. Eh! uncle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, to be sure!' sneered Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And who knows, but when he came to see me when I was settled (as he would
      of course), he might fall in love with Kate, who would be keeping my
      house, and&mdash;and marry her, eh! uncle? Who knows?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who, indeed!' snarled Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How happy we should be!' cried Nicholas with enthusiasm. 'The pain of
      parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again. Kate will be a beautiful
      woman, and I so proud to hear them say so, and mother so happy to be with
      us once again, and all these sad times forgotten, and&mdash;' The picture
      was too bright a one to bear, and Nicholas, fairly overpowered by it,
      smiled faintly, and burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      This simple family, born and bred in retirement, and wholly unacquainted
      with what is called the world&mdash;a conventional phrase which, being
      interpreted, often signifieth all the rascals in it&mdash;mingled their
      tears together at the thought of their first separation; and, this first
      gush of feeling over, were proceeding to dilate with all the buoyancy of
      untried hope on the bright prospects before them, when Mr. Ralph Nickleby
      suggested, that if they lost time, some more fortunate candidate might
      deprive Nicholas of the stepping-stone to fortune which the advertisement
      pointed out, and so undermine all their air-built castles. This timely
      reminder effectually stopped the conversation. Nicholas, having carefully
      copied the address of Mr. Squeers, the uncle and nephew issued forth
      together in quest of that accomplished gentleman; Nicholas firmly
      persuading himself that he had done his relative great injustice in
      disliking him at first sight; and Mrs. Nickleby being at some pains to
      inform her daughter that she was sure he was a much more kindly disposed
      person than he seemed; which, Miss Nickleby dutifully remarked, he might
      very easily be.
    </p>
    <p>
      To tell the truth, the good lady's opinion had been not a little
      influenced by her brother-in-law's appeal to her better understanding, and
      his implied compliment to her high deserts; and although she had dearly
      loved her husband, and still doted on her children, he had struck so
      successfully on one of those little jarring chords in the human heart
      (Ralph was well acquainted with its worst weaknesses, though he knew
      nothing of its best), that she had already begun seriously to consider
      herself the amiable and suffering victim of her late husband's imprudence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 4
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait
            upon Mr. Wackford Squeers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Snow Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeople who see the words
      emblazoned, in all the legibility of gilt letters and dark shading, on the
      north-country coaches, take Snow Hill to be? All people have some
      undefined and shadowy notion of a place whose name is frequently before
      their eyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number of random ideas
      there must be perpetually floating about, regarding this same Snow Hill.
      The name is such a good one. Snow Hill&mdash;Snow Hill too, coupled with a
      Saracen's Head: picturing to us by a double association of ideas,
      something stern and rugged! A bleak desolate tract of country, open to
      piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms&mdash;a dark, cold, gloomy heath,
      lonely by day, and scarcely to be thought of by honest folks at night&mdash;a
      place which solitary wayfarers shun, and where desperate robbers
      congregate;&mdash;this, or something like this, should be the prevalent
      notion of Snow Hill, in those remote and rustic parts, through which the
      Saracen's Head, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and night with
      mysterious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its swift and headlong
      course in all weathers, and seeming to bid defiance to the very elements
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reality is rather different, but by no means to be despised
      notwithstanding. There, at the very core of London, in the heart of its
      business and animation, in the midst of a whirl of noise and motion:
      stemming as it were the giant currents of life that flow ceaselessly on
      from different quarters, and meet beneath its walls: stands Newgate; and
      in that crowded street on which it frowns so darkly&mdash;within a few
      feet of the squalid tottering houses&mdash;upon the very spot on which the
      vendors of soup and fish and damaged fruit are now plying their trades&mdash;scores
      of human beings, amidst a roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a
      great city is as nothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have
      been hurried violently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has been
      rendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyes have
      glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; and when, in the
      mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch, in his
      all-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one&mdash;not one&mdash;that
      bore the impress of pity or compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and the
      Compter, and the bustle and noise of the city; and just on that particular
      part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastward seriously think of
      falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going
      westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coach-yard of the
      Saracen's Head Inn; its portal guarded by two Saracens' heads and
      shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of the choice spirits of
      this metropolis to pull down at night, but which have for some time
      remained in undisturbed tranquillity; possibly because this species of
      humour is now confined to St James's parish, where door knockers are
      preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed as convenient
      toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not, there they are, frowning
      upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn itself garnished with
      another Saracen's Head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard; while
      from the door of the hind boot of all the red coaches that are standing
      therein, there glares a small Saracen's Head, with a twin expression to
      the large Saracens' Heads below, so that the general appearance of the
      pile is decidedly of the Saracenic order.
    </p>
    <p>
      When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office on your left,
      and the tower of St Sepulchre's church, darting abruptly up into the sky,
      on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on both sides. Just before you,
      you will observe a long window with the words 'coffee-room' legibly
      painted above it; and looking out of that window, you would have seen in
      addition, if you had gone at the right time, Mr. Wackford Squeers with his
      hands in his pockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye, and the
      popular prejudice runs in favour of two. The eye he had, was
      unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental: being of a greenish
      grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street door. The blank
      side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very
      sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his
      expression bordered closely on the villainous. His hair was very flat and
      shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low
      protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse
      manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle
      size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic
      black; but his coat sleeves being a great deal too long, and his trousers
      a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in his clothes, and as if
      he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at finding himself so
      respectable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fire-places,
      fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two of
      extraordinary shapes and dimensions made to suit the angles of the
      partition. In a corner of the seat, was a very small deal trunk, tied
      round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched&mdash;his
      lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air&mdash;a
      diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands
      planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time
      to time, with evident dread and apprehension.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Half-past three,' muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the window, and
      looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. 'There will be nobody here
      today.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to see
      whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened not to
      be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do
      it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Midsummer,' muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his complaint, 'I took down
      ten boys; ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back at eight o'clock
      tomorrow morning, and have got only three&mdash;three oughts is an ought&mdash;three
      twos is six&mdash;sixty pound. What's come of all the boys? what's parents
      got in their heads? what does it all mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Halloa, sir!' growled the schoolmaster, turning round. 'What's that,
      sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, please sir,' replied the little boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, sir!' exclaimed Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please sir, I sneezed,' rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk
      shook under him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! sneezed, did you?' retorted Mr. Squeers. 'Then what did you say
      "nothing" for, sir?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0081m.jpg" alt="0081m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0081.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a
      couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr
      Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the face, and
      knocked him on again with a blow on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,' said Mr
      Squeers, 'and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;ye&mdash;yes,' sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard
      with the Beggar's Petition in printed calico.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then do so at once, sir,' said Squeers. 'Do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      As this admonition was accompanied with a threatening gesture, and uttered
      with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep
      the tears back; and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave no
      further vent to his emotions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Squeers,' said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; 'here's a
      gentleman asking for you at the bar.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Show the gentleman in, Richard,' replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice.
      'Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I'll
      murder you when the gentleman goes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper,
      when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned to
      be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to his
      youthful pupil.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear child,' said Mr. Squeers, 'all people have their trials. This
      early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst, and your
      very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing; less
      than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a father in
      me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful village of
      Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded,
      clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all
      necessaries&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It <i>is</i> the gentleman,' observed the stranger, stopping the schoolmaster in
      the rehearsal of his advertisement. 'Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The same, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, with an assumption of extreme surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The gentleman,' said the stranger, 'that advertised in the Times
      newspaper?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regarding the
      Academy called Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near
      Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,' added Mr. Squeers. 'You come on business, sir.
      I see by my young friends. How do you do, my little gentleman? and how do
      you do, sir?' With this salutation Mr. Squeers patted the heads of two
      hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the applicant had brought with
      him, and waited for further communications.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,' said the
      stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, 'And a remarkably pretty
      name, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger continued. 'I have been thinking, Mr. Squeers, of placing my
      two boys at your school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not for me to say so, sir,' replied Mr. Squeers, 'but I don't think
      you could possibly do a better thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' said the other. 'Twenty pounds per annewum, I believe, Mr. Squeers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Guineas,' rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pounds for two, I think, Mr. Squeers,' said Mr. Snawley, solemnly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think it could be done, sir,' replied Squeers, as if he had never
      considered the proposition before. 'Let me see; four fives is twenty,
      double that, and deduct the&mdash;well, a pound either way shall not stand
      betwixt us. You must recommend me to your connection, sir, and make it up
      that way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are not great eaters,' said Mr. Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that doesn't matter at all,' replied Squeers. 'We don't consider the
      boys' appetites at our establishment.' This was strictly true; they did
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,' continued
      Squeers; 'every beautiful moral that Mrs. Squeers can instil; every&mdash;in
      short, every comfort of a home that a boy could wish for, will be theirs,
      Mr. Snawley.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,' said Mr
      Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad of that, sir,' replied the schoolmaster, drawing himself up.
      'They have come to the right shop for morals, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a moral man yourself,' said Mr. Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I rather believe I am, sir,' replied Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have the satisfaction to know you are, sir,' said Mr. Snawley. 'I asked
      one of your references, and he said you were pious.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,' replied Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope I am also,' rejoined the other. 'Could I say a few words with you
      in the next box?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means,' rejoined Squeers with a grin. 'My dears, will you speak to
      your new playfellow a minute or two? That is one of my boys, sir. Belling
      his name is,&mdash;a Taunton boy that, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he, indeed?' rejoined Mr. Snawley, looking at the poor little urchin as
      if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,' said Squeers. 'That's his luggage
      that he is a sitting upon now. Each boy is required to bring, sir, two
      suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stockings, two nightcaps, two
      pocket-handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats, and a razor.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A razor!' exclaimed Mr. Snawley, as they walked into the next box. 'What
      for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To shave with,' replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was not much in these three words, but there must have been
      something in the manner in which they were said, to attract attention; for
      the schoolmaster and his companion looked steadily at each other for a few
      seconds, and then exchanged a very meaning smile. Snawley was a sleek,
      flat-nosed man, clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters, and
      bearing in his countenance an expression of much mortification and
      sanctity; so, his smiling without any obvious reason was the more
      remarkable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Up to what age do you keep boys at your school then?' he asked at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments to my agent in
      town, or until such time as they run away,' replied Squeers. 'Let us
      understand each other; I see we may safely do so. What are these boys;&mdash;natural
      children?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the schoolmaster's one eye.
      'They ain't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought they might be,' said Squeers, coolly. 'We have a good many of
      them; that boy's one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Him in the next box?' said Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took another peep at the
      little boy on the trunk, and, turning round again, looked as if he were
      quite disappointed to see him so much like other boys, and said he should
      hardly have thought it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is,' cried Squeers. 'But about these boys of yours; you wanted to
      speak to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Snawley. 'The fact is, I am not their father, Mr. Squeers.
      I'm only their father-in-law.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Is that it?' said the schoolmaster. 'That explains it at once. I was
      wondering what the devil you were going to send them to Yorkshire for. Ha!
      ha! Oh, I understand now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see I have married the mother,' pursued Snawley; 'it's expensive
      keeping boys at home, and as she has a little money in her own right, I am
      afraid (women are so very foolish, Mr. Squeers) that she might be led to
      squander it on them, which would be their ruin, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his chair, and waving
      his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this,' resumed Snawley, 'has made me anxious to put them to some
      school a good distance off, where there are no holidays&mdash;none of
      those ill-judged coming home twice a year that unsettle children's minds
      so&mdash;and where they may rough it a little&mdash;you comprehend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The payments regular, and no questions asked,' said Squeers, nodding his
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's it, exactly,' rejoined the other. 'Morals strictly attended to,
      though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Strictly,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?' said the father-in-law,
      hesitating.
    </p>
    <p>
      'None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were so happy,
      and hope they may never be sent for,' rejoined Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing could be better,' said the father-in-law, rubbing his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, as we understand each other,' said Squeers, 'will you allow me to
      ask you whether you consider me a highly virtuous, exemplary, and
      well-conducted man in private life; and whether, as a person whose
      business it is to take charge of youth, you place the strongest confidence
      in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality, religious principles, and
      ability?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly I do,' replied the father-in-law, reciprocating the
      schoolmaster's grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you won't object to say that, if I make you a reference?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the least in the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's your sort!' said Squeers, taking up a pen; 'this is doing
      business, and that's what I like.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having entered Mr. Snawley's address, the schoolmaster had next to perform
      the still more agreeable office of entering the receipt of the first
      quarter's payment in advance, which he had scarcely completed, when
      another voice was heard inquiring for Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is,' replied the schoolmaster; 'what is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only a matter of business, sir,' said Ralph Nickleby, presenting himself,
      closely followed by Nicholas. 'There was an advertisement of yours in the
      papers this morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was, sir. This way, if you please,' said Squeers, who had by this
      time got back to the box by the fire-place. 'Won't you be seated?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I think I will,' replied Ralph, suiting the action to the word, and
      placing his hat on the table before him. 'This is my nephew, sir, Mr
      Nicholas Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you do, sir?' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very much astonished at
      the outward appearance of the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall: as indeed he
      was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you recollect me?' said Ralph, looking narrowly at the
      schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits to town, for
      some years, I think, sir,' replied Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did,' rejoined Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortunately&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,' said Ralph, finishing the
      sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember very well, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Ah! Mrs. Squeers, sir, was
      as partial to that lad as if he had been her own; the attention, sir, that
      was bestowed upon that boy in his illness! Dry toast and warm tea offered
      him every night and morning when he couldn't swallow anything&mdash;a
      candle in his bedroom on the very night he died&mdash;the best dictionary
      sent up for him to lay his head upon&mdash;I don't regret it though. It is
      a pleasant thing to reflect that one did one's duty by him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph smiled, as if he meant anything but smiling, and looked round at the
      strangers present.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These are only some pupils of mine,' said Wackford Squeers, pointing to
      the little boy on the trunk and the two little boys on the floor, who had
      been staring at each other without uttering a word, and writhing their
      bodies into most remarkable contortions, according to the custom of little
      boys when they first become acquainted. 'This gentleman, sir, is a parent
      who is kind enough to compliment me upon the course of education adopted
      at Dotheboys Hall, which is situated, sir, at the delightful village of
      Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded,
      clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, we know all about that, sir,' interrupted Ralph, testily. 'It's in
      the advertisement.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very right, sir; it <i>is</i> in the advertisement,' replied Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And in the matter of fact besides,' interrupted Mr. Snawley. 'I feel bound
      to assure you, sir, and I am proud to have this opportunity <i>of</i> assuring
      you, that I consider Mr. Squeers a gentleman highly virtuous, exemplary,
      well conducted, and&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I make no doubt of it, sir,' interrupted Ralph, checking the torrent of
      recommendation; 'no doubt of it at all. Suppose we come to business?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With all my heart, sir,' rejoined Squeers. '"Never postpone business," is
      the very first lesson we instil into our commercial pupils. Master
      Belling, my dear, always remember that; do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' repeated Master Belling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He recollects what it is, does he?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell the gentleman,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Never,"' repeated Master Belling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' said Squeers; 'go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never,' repeated Master Belling again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good indeed,' said Squeers. 'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'P,' suggested Nicholas, good-naturedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perform&mdash;business!' said Master Belling. 'Never&mdash;perform&mdash;business!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, sir,' said Squeers, darting a withering look at the culprit.
      'You and I will perform a little business on our private account
      by-and-by.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And just now,' said Ralph, 'we had better transact our own, perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you please,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' resumed Ralph, 'it's brief enough; soon broached; and I hope
      easily concluded. You have advertised for an able assistant, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Precisely so,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you really want one?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' answered Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is!' said Ralph. 'My nephew Nicholas, hot from school, with
      everything he learnt there, fermenting in his head, and nothing fermenting
      in his pocket, is just the man you want.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid,' said Squeers, perplexed with such an application from a
      youth of Nicholas's figure, 'I am afraid the young man won't suit me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, he will,' said Ralph; 'I know better. Don't be cast down, sir; you
      will be teaching all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hall in less than a
      week's time, unless this gentleman is more obstinate than I take him to
      be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear, sir,' said Nicholas, addressing Mr. Squeers, 'that you object to
      my youth, and to my not being a Master of Arts?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The absence of a college degree <i>is</i> an objection,' replied Squeers,
      looking as grave as he could, and considerably puzzled, no less by the
      contrast between the simplicity of the nephew and the worldly manner of
      the uncle, than by the incomprehensible allusion to the young noblemen
      under his tuition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here, sir,' said Ralph; 'I'll put this matter in its true light in
      two seconds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you'll have the goodness,' rejoined Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or a hobbledehoy, or
      whatever you like to call him, of eighteen or nineteen, or thereabouts,'
      said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I see,' observed the schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So do I,' said Mr. Snawley, thinking it as well to back his new friend
      occasionally.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has no resources
      whatever, and wants something to do,' said Ralph. 'I recommend him to this
      splendid establishment of yours, as an opening which will lead him to
      fortune if he turns it to proper account. Do you see that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everybody must see that,' replied Squeers, half imitating the sneer with
      which the old gentleman was regarding his unconscious relative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do, of course,' said Nicholas, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He does, of course, you observe,' said Ralph, in the same dry, hard
      manner. 'If any caprice of temper should induce him to cast aside this
      golden opportunity before he has brought it to perfection, I consider
      myself absolved from extending any assistance to his mother and sister.
      Look at him, and think of the use he may be to you in half-a-dozen ways!
      Now, the question is, whether, for some time to come at all events, he
      won't serve your purpose better than twenty of the kind of people you
      would get under ordinary circumstances. Isn't that a question for
      consideration?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it is,' said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph's head with a nod of
      his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Let me have two words with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes Mr. Wackford Squeers
      announced that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby was, from that moment, thoroughly
      nominated to, and installed in, the office of first assistant master at
      Dotheboys Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your uncle's recommendation has done it, Mr. Nickleby,' said Wackford
      Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle's hand warmly, and
      could almost have worshipped Squeers upon the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is an odd-looking man,' thought Nicholas. 'What of that? Porson was an
      odd-looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; all these bookworms are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, 'the coach
      starts. You must be here at a quarter before, as we take these boys with
      us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And your fare down, I have paid,' growled Ralph. 'So, you'll have nothing
      to do but keep yourself warm.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was another instance of his uncle's generosity! Nicholas felt his
      unexpected kindness so much, that he could scarcely find words to thank
      him; indeed, he had not found half enough, when they took leave of the
      schoolmaster, and emerged from the Saracen's Head gateway.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be here in the morning to see you fairly off,' said Ralph. 'No
      skulking!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, sir,' replied Nicholas; 'I never shall forget this kindness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take care you don't,' replied his uncle. 'You had better go home now, and
      pack up what you have got to pack. Do you think you could find your way to
      Golden Square first?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' said Nicholas. 'I can easily inquire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leave these papers with my clerk, then,' said Ralph, producing a small
      parcel, 'and tell him to wait till I come home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding his worthy uncle an
      affectionate farewell, which that warm-hearted old gentleman acknowledged
      by a growl, hastened away to execute his commission.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found Golden Square in due course; Mr. Noggs, who had stepped out for a
      minute or so to the public-house, was opening the door with a latch-key,
      as he reached the steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that?' inquired Noggs, pointing to the parcel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Papers from my uncle,' replied Nicholas; 'and you're to have the goodness
      to wait till he comes home, if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Uncle!' cried Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said Nicholas in explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without another word he led Nicholas into the passage, and thence into the
      official pantry at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair, and
      mounting upon his high stool, sat, with his arms hanging, straight down by
      his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, as from a tower of observation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no answer,' said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a table beside
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting his head forward
      so as to obtain a nearer view of Nicholas's face, scanned his features
      closely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No answer,' said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under the impression that
      Newman Noggs was deaf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman placed his hands upon his knees, and, without uttering a syllable,
      continued the same close scrutiny of his companion's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utter stranger,
      and his appearance was so extremely peculiar, that Nicholas, who had a
      sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, could not refrain from breaking
      into a smile as he inquired whether Mr. Noggs had any commands for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Noggs shook his head and sighed; upon which Nicholas rose, and remarking
      that he required no rest, bade him good-morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a great exertion for Newman Noggs, and nobody knows to this day how
      he ever came to make it, the other party being wholly unknown to him, but
      he drew a long breath and actually said, out loud, without once stopping,
      that if the young gentleman did not object to tell, he should like to know
      what his uncle was going to do for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on the contrary was
      rather pleased to have an opportunity of talking on the subject which
      occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down again, and (his sanguine
      imagination warming as he spoke) entered into a fervent and glowing
      description of all the honours and advantages to be derived from his
      appointment at that seat of learning, Dotheboys Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, what's the matter&mdash;are you ill?' said Nicholas, suddenly
      breaking off, as his companion, after throwing himself into a variety of
      uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the stool, and cracked his
      finger-joints as if he were snapping all the bones in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging his shoulders and
      cracking his finger-joints; smiling horribly all the time, and looking
      steadfastly at nothing, out of the tops of his eyes, in a most ghastly
      manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, Nicholas thought the mysterious man was in a fit, but, on
      further consideration, decided that he was in liquor, under which
      circumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at once. He looked back
      when he had got the street-door open. Newman Noggs was still indulging in
      the same extraordinary gestures, and the cracking of his fingers sounded
      louder that ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 5
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-taking and his
            Fellow-Travellers, and what befell them on the Road</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      If tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve its owner from
      sorrow and misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby would have commenced his
      expedition under most happy auspices. There was so much to be done, and so
      little time to do it in; so many kind words to be spoken, and such bitter
      pain in the hearts in which they rose to impede their utterance; that the
      little preparations for his journey were made mournfully indeed. A hundred
      things which the anxious care of his mother and sister deemed
      indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted on leaving behind, as
      they might prove of some after use, or might be convertible into money if
      occasion required. A hundred affectionate contests on such points as
      these, took place on the sad night which preceded his departure; and, as
      the termination of every angerless dispute brought them nearer and nearer
      to the close of their slight preparations, Kate grew busier and busier,
      and wept more silently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The box was packed at last, and then there came supper, with some little
      delicacy provided for the occasion, and as a set-off against the expense
      of which, Kate and her mother had feigned to dine when Nicholas was out.
      The poor lad nearly choked himself by attempting to partake of it, and
      almost suffocated himself in affecting a jest or two, and forcing a
      melancholy laugh. Thus, they lingered on till the hour of separating for
      the night was long past; and then they found that they might as well have
      given vent to their real feelings before, for they could not suppress
      them, do what they would. So, they let them have their way, and even that
      was a relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or of what was
      home once&mdash;no matter which, for things that are changed or gone will
      come back as they used to be, thank God! in sleep&mdash;and rose quite
      brisk and gay. He wrote a few lines in pencil, to say the goodbye which he
      was afraid to pronounce himself, and laying them, with half his scanty
      stock of money, at his sister's door, shouldered his box and crept softly
      downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that you, Hannah?' cried a voice from Miss La Creevy's sitting-room,
      whence shone the light of a feeble candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is I, Miss La Creevy,' said Nicholas, putting down the box and looking
      in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless us!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting her hand to her
      curl-papers. 'You're up very early, Mr. Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So are you,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the fine arts that bring me out of bed, Mr. Nickleby,' returned the
      lady. 'I'm waiting for the light to carry out an idea.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss La Creevy had got up early to put a fancy nose into a miniature of an
      ugly little boy, destined for his grandmother in the country, who was
      expected to bequeath him property if he was like the family.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To carry out an idea,' repeated Miss La Creevy; 'and that's the great
      convenience of living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. When I want a
      nose or an eye for any particular sitter, I have only to look out of
      window and wait till I get one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it take long to get a nose, now?' inquired Nicholas, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that depends in a great measure on the pattern,' replied Miss La
      Creevy. 'Snubs and Romans are plentiful enough, and there are flats of all
      sorts and sizes when there's a meeting at Exeter Hall; but perfect
      aquilines, I am sorry to say, are scarce, and we generally use them for
      uniforms or public characters.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Nicholas. 'If I should meet with any in my travels, I'll
      endeavour to sketch them for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean to say that you are really going all the way down into
      Yorkshire this cold winter's weather, Mr. Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy.
      'I heard something of it last night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do, indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'Needs must, you know, when somebody
      drives. Necessity is my driver, and that is only another name for the same
      gentleman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I am very sorry for it; that's all I can say,' said Miss La Creevy;
      'as much on your mother's and sister's account as on yours. Your sister is
      a very pretty young lady, Mr. Nickleby, and that is an additional reason
      why she should have somebody to protect her. I persuaded her to give me a
      sitting or two, for the street-door case. 'Ah! she'll make a sweet
      miniature.' As Miss La Creevy spoke, she held up an ivory countenance
      intersected with very perceptible sky-blue veins, and regarded it with so
      much complacency, that Nicholas quite envied her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you ever have an opportunity of showing Kate some little kindness,'
      said Nicholas, presenting his hand, 'I think you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Depend upon that,' said the good-natured miniature painter; 'and God
      bless you, Mr. Nickleby; and I wish you well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed enough
      about its ways to think, that if he gave Miss La Creevy one little kiss,
      perhaps she might not be the less kindly disposed towards those he was
      leaving behind. So, he gave her three or four with a kind of jocose
      gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of displeasure
      than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she had never
      heard of such a thing, and couldn't have believed it possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having terminated the unexpected interview in this satisfactory manner,
      Nicholas hastily withdrew himself from the house. By the time he had found
      a man to carry his box it was only seven o'clock, so he walked slowly on,
      a little in advance of the porter, and very probably with not half as
      light a heart in his breast as the man had, although he had no waistcoat
      to cover it with, and had evidently, from the appearance of his other
      garments, been spending the night in a stable, and taking his breakfast at
      a pump.
    </p>
    <p>
      Regarding, with no small curiosity and interest, all the busy preparations
      for the coming day which every street and almost every house displayed;
      and thinking, now and then, that it seemed rather hard that so many people
      of all ranks and stations could earn a livelihood in London, and that he
      should be compelled to journey so far in search of one; Nicholas speedily
      arrived at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. Having dismissed his attendant,
      and seen the box safely deposited in the coach-office, he looked into the
      coffee-room in search of Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with the three
      little boys before noticed, and two others who had turned up by some lucky
      chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on the
      opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a
      plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment
      intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?' said Mr. Squeers, looking
      down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an
      accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's twopenn'orth, sir,' replied the waiter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!' said Mr. Squeers,
      with a sigh. 'Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the wery top, sir?' inquired the waiter. 'Why, the milk will be
      drownded.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never you mind that,' replied Mr. Squeers. 'Serve it right for being so
      dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Coming directly, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't hurry yourself,' said Squeers; 'there's plenty of time.
      Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles.' As he
      uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold
      beef, and recognised Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers. 'Here we are, a breakfasting you
      see!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas did <i>not </i>see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr. Squeers; but
      he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?' said Squeers. 'Very good;
      don't forget the bread and butter presently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys looked
      very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes; meanwhile Mr
      Squeers tasted the milk and water.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said that gentleman, smacking his lips, 'here's richness! Think of
      the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this,
      little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very shocking, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I say number one,' pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the
      children, 'the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink;
      and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we
      come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' cried all the little boys with great eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast; 'keep
      ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears, and
      you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength of
      mind, Mr. Nickleby,' said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and
      speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas murmured something&mdash;he knew not what&mdash;in reply; and the
      little boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter
      (which had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took
      into his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank God for a good breakfast,' said Squeers, when he had finished.
      'Number one may take a drink.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make
      him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who
      gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process
      was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now,' said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three
      into as many portions as there were children, 'you had better look sharp
      with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then
      every boy leaves off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously,
      and in desperate haste: while the schoolmaster (who was in high good
      humour after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked smilingly
      on. In a very short time, the horn was heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought it wouldn't be long,' said Squeers, jumping up and producing a
      little basket from under the seat; 'put what you haven't had time to eat,
      in here, boys! You'll want it on the road!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical arrangements;
      but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little boys had to be got
      up to the top of the coach, and their boxes had to be brought out and put
      in, and Mr. Squeers's luggage was to be seen carefully deposited in the
      boot, and all these offices were in his department. He was in the full
      heat and bustle of concluding these operations, when his uncle, Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby, accosted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! here you are, sir!' said Ralph. 'Here are your mother and sister,
      sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where?' cried Nicholas, looking hastily round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here!' replied his uncle. 'Having too much money and nothing at all to do
      with it, they were paying a hackney coach as I came up, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We were afraid of being too late to see him before he went away from us,'
      said Mrs. Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless of the unconcerned
      lookers-on in the coach-yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, ma'am,' returned Ralph, 'you're the best judge of course. I
      merely said that you were paying a hackney coach. I never pay a hackney
      coach, ma'am; I never hire one. I haven't been in a hackney coach of my
      own hiring, for thirty years, and I hope I shan't be for thirty more, if I
      live as long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should never have forgiven myself if I had not seen him,' said Mrs
      Nickleby. 'Poor dear boy&mdash;going away without his breakfast too,
      because he feared to distress us!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mighty fine certainly,' said Ralph, with great testiness. 'When I first
      went to business, ma'am, I took a penny loaf and a ha'porth of milk for my
      breakfast as I walked to the city every morning; what do you say to that,
      ma'am? Breakfast! Bah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Nickleby,' said Squeers, coming up at the moment buttoning his
      greatcoat; 'I think you'd better get up behind. I'm afraid of one of them
      boys falling off and then there's twenty pound a year gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, touching her brother's arm, 'who is that
      vulgar man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh!' growled Ralph, whose quick ears had caught the inquiry. 'Do you wish
      to be introduced to Mr. Squeers, my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That the schoolmaster! No, uncle. Oh no!' replied Kate, shrinking back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm sure I heard you say as much, my dear,' retorted Ralph in his cold
      sarcastic manner. 'Mr. Squeers, here's my niece: Nicholas's sister!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,' said Squeers, raising his hat
      an inch or two. 'I wish Mrs. Squeers took gals, and we had you for a
      teacher. I don't know, though, whether she mightn't grow jealous if we
      had. Ha! ha! ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      If the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could have known what was passing in
      his assistant's breast at that moment, he would have discovered, with some
      surprise, that he was as near being soundly pummelled as he had ever been
      in his life. Kate Nickleby, having a quicker perception of her brother's
      emotions, led him gently aside, and thus prevented Mr. Squeers from being
      impressed with the fact in a peculiarly disagreeable manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Nicholas,' said the young lady, 'who is this man? What kind of
      place can it be that you are going to?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly know, Kate,' replied Nicholas, pressing his sister's hand. 'I
      suppose the Yorkshire folks are rather rough and uncultivated; that's
      all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this person,' urged Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is my employer, or master, or whatever the proper name may be,' replied
      Nicholas quickly; 'and I was an ass to take his coarseness ill. They are
      looking this way, and it is time I was in my place. Bless you, love, and
      goodbye! Mother, look forward to our meeting again someday! Uncle,
      farewell! Thank you heartily for all you have done and all you mean to do.
      Quite ready, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these hasty adieux, Nicholas mounted nimbly to his seat, and waved
      his hand as gallantly as if his heart went with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, when the coachman and guard were comparing notes for the
      last time before starting, on the subject of the way-bill; when porters
      were screwing out the last reluctant sixpences, itinerant newsmen making
      the last offer of a morning paper, and the horses giving the last
      impatient rattle to their harness; Nicholas felt somebody pulling softly
      at his leg. He looked down, and there stood Newman Noggs, who pushed up
      into his hand a dirty letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr. Ralph Nickleby, who was saying a
      few earnest words to Squeers, a short distance off: 'Take it. Read it.
      Nobody knows. That's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas cried stop, again, but Newman Noggs was gone.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0097m.jpg" alt="0097m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0097.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      A minute's bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a swaying of the vehicle
      to one side, as the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard, climbed into
      their seats; a cry of all right, a few notes from the horn, a hasty glance
      of two sorrowful faces below, and the hard features of Mr. Ralph Nickleby&mdash;and
      the coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones of Smithfield.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little boys' legs being too short to admit of their feet resting upon
      anything as they sat, and the little boys' bodies being consequently in
      imminent hazard of being jerked off the coach, Nicholas had enough to do
      over the stones to hold them on. Between the manual exertion and the
      mental anxiety attendant upon this task, he was not a little relieved when
      the coach stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He was still more relieved
      when a hearty-looking gentleman, with a very good-humoured face, and a
      very fresh colour, got up behind, and proposed to take the other corner of
      the seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,' said the new-comer,
      'they'll be safer in case of their going to sleep; eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you'll have the goodness, sir,' replied Squeers, 'that'll be the very
      thing. Mr. Nickleby, take three of them boys between you and the gentleman.
      Belling and the youngest Snawley can sit between me and the guard. Three
      children,' said Squeers, explaining to the stranger, 'books as two.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not the least objection I am sure,' said the fresh-coloured
      gentleman; 'I have a brother who wouldn't object to book his six children
      as two at any butcher's or baker's in the kingdom, I dare say. Far from
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Six children, sir?' exclaimed Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, and all boys,' replied the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, in great haste, 'catch hold of that basket.
      Let me give you a card, sir, of an establishment where those six boys can
      be brought up in an enlightened, liberal, and moral manner, with no
      mistake at all about it, for twenty guineas a year each&mdash;twenty
      guineas, sir&mdash;or I'd take all the boys together upon a average right
      through, and say a hundred pound a year for the lot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said the gentleman, glancing at the card, 'you are the Mr. Squeers
      mentioned here, I presume?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I am, sir,' replied the worthy pedagogue; 'Mr. Wackford Squeers is my
      name, and I'm very far from being ashamed of it. These are some of my
      boys, sir; that's one of my assistants, sir&mdash;Mr. Nickleby, a
      gentleman's son, and a good scholar, mathematical, classical, and
      commercial. We don't do things by halves at our shop. All manner of
      learning my boys take down, sir; the expense is never thought of; and they
      get paternal treatment and washing in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word,' said the gentleman, glancing at Nicholas with a
      half-smile, and a more than half expression of surprise, 'these are
      advantages indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may say that, sir,' rejoined Squeers, thrusting his hands into his
      great-coat pockets. 'The most unexceptionable references are given and
      required. I wouldn't take a reference with any boy, that wasn't
      responsible for the payment of five pound five a quarter, no, not if you
      went down on your knees, and asked me, with the tears running down your
      face, to do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Highly considerate,' said the passenger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's my great aim and end to be considerate, sir,' rejoined Squeers.
      'Snawley, junior, if you don't leave off chattering your teeth, and
      shaking with the cold, I'll warm you with a severe thrashing in about half
      a minute's time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit fast here, genelmen,' said the guard as he clambered up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right behind there, Dick?' cried the coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right,' was the reply. 'Off she goes!' And off she did go&mdash;if
      coaches be feminine&mdash;amidst a loud flourish from the guard's horn,
      and the calm approval of all the judges of coaches and coach-horses
      congregated at the Peacock, but more especially of the helpers, who stood,
      with the cloths over their arms, watching the coach till it disappeared,
      and then lounged admiringly stablewards, bestowing various gruff encomiums
      on the beauty of the turn-out.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the guard (who was a stout old Yorkshireman) had blown himself quite
      out of breath, he put the horn into a little tunnel of a basket fastened
      to the coach-side for the purpose, and giving himself a plentiful shower
      of blows on the chest and shoulders, observed it was uncommon cold; after
      which, he demanded of every person separately whether he was going right
      through, and if not, where he <i>was </i>going. Satisfactory replies being made
      to these queries, he surmised that the roads were pretty heavy arter that
      fall last night, and took the liberty of asking whether any of them
      gentlemen carried a snuff-box. It happening that nobody did, he remarked
      with a mysterious air that he had heard a medical gentleman as went down
      to Grantham last week, say how that snuff-taking was bad for the eyes; but
      for his part he had never found it so, and what he said was, that
      everybody should speak as they found. Nobody attempting to controvert this
      position, he took a small brown-paper parcel out of his hat, and putting
      on a pair of horn spectacles (the writing being crabbed) read the
      direction half-a-dozen times over; having done which, he consigned the
      parcel to its old place, put up his spectacles again, and stared at
      everybody in turn. After this, he took another blow at the horn by way of
      refreshment; and, having now exhausted his usual topics of conversation,
      folded his arms as well as he could in so many coats, and falling into a
      solemn silence, looked carelessly at the familiar objects which met his
      eye on every side as the coach rolled on; the only things he seemed to
      care for, being horses and droves of cattle, which he scrutinised with a
      critical air as they were passed upon the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weather was intensely and bitterly cold; a great deal of snow fell
      from time to time; and the wind was intolerably keen. Mr. Squeers got down
      at almost every stage&mdash;to stretch his legs as he said&mdash;and as he
      always came back from such excursions with a very red nose, and composed
      himself to sleep directly, there is reason to suppose that he derived
      great benefit from the process. The little pupils having been stimulated
      with the remains of their breakfast, and further invigorated by sundry
      small cups of a curious cordial carried by Mr. Squeers, which tasted very
      like toast-and-water put into a brandy bottle by mistake, went to sleep,
      woke, shivered, and cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholas and the
      good-tempered man found so many things to talk about, that between
      conversing together, and cheering up the boys, the time passed with them
      as rapidly as it could, under such adverse circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good coach dinner, of
      which the box, the four front outsides, the one inside, Nicholas, the
      good-tempered man, and Mr. Squeers, partook; while the five little boys
      were put to thaw by the fire, and regaled with sandwiches. A stage or two
      further on, the lamps were lighted, and a great to-do occasioned by the
      taking up, at a roadside inn, of a very fastidious lady with an infinite
      variety of cloaks and small parcels, who loudly lamented, for the behoof
      of the outsides, the non-arrival of her own carriage which was to have
      taken her on, and made the guard solemnly promise to stop every green
      chariot he saw coming; which, as it was a dark night and he was sitting
      with his face the other way, that officer undertook, with many fervent
      asseverations, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, finding there was a
      solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lighted which she carried in
      reticule, and being after much trouble shut in, the horses were put into a
      brisk canter and the coach was once more in rapid motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night and the snow came on together, and dismal enough they were.
      There was no sound to be heard but the howling of the wind; for the noise
      of the wheels, and the tread of the horses' feet, were rendered inaudible
      by the thick coating of snow which covered the ground, and was fast
      increasing every moment. The streets of Stamford were deserted as they
      passed through the town; and its old churches rose, frowning and dark,
      from the whitened ground. Twenty miles further on, two of the front
      outside passengers, wisely availing themselves of their arrival at one of
      the best inns in England, turned in, for the night, at the George at
      Grantham. The remainder wrapped themselves more closely in their coats and
      cloaks, and leaving the light and warmth of the town behind them, pillowed
      themselves against the luggage, and prepared, with many half-suppressed
      moans, again to encounter the piercing blast which swept across the open
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were little more than a stage out of Grantham, or about halfway
      between it and Newark, when Nicholas, who had been asleep for a short
      time, was suddenly roused by a violent jerk which nearly threw him from
      his seat. Grasping the rail, he found that the coach had sunk greatly on
      one side, though it was still dragged forward by the horses; and while&mdash;confused
      by their plunging and the loud screams of the lady inside&mdash;he
      hesitated, for an instant, whether to jump off or not, the vehicle turned
      easily over, and relieved him from all further uncertainty by flinging him
      into the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>

    <h2>
      CHAPTER 6
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span><i>n which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter,
            affords an Opportunity to a couple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against
            each other</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wo ho!' cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, and running to the
      leaders' heads. 'Is there ony genelmen there as can len' a hond here? Keep
      quiet, dang ye! Wo ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter?' demanded Nicholas, looking sleepily up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Matther mun, matter eneaf for one neight,' replied the guard; 'dang the
      wall-eyed bay, he's gane mad wi' glory I think, carse t'coorch is over.
      Here, can't ye len' a hond? Dom it, I'd ha' dean it if all my boans were
      brokken.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here!' cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, 'I'm ready. I'm only a
      little abroad, that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hoold 'em toight,' cried the guard, 'while ar coot treaces. Hang on
      tiv'em sumhoo. Well deane, my lod. That's it. Let'em goa noo. Dang 'em,
      they'll gang whoam fast eneaf!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth, the animals were no sooner released than they trotted back, with
      much deliberation, to the stable they had just left, which was distant not
      a mile behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can you blo' a harn?' asked the guard, disengaging one of the
      coach-lamps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say I can,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then just blo' away into that 'un as lies on the grund, fit to wakken the
      deead, will'ee,' said the man, 'while I stop sum o' this here squealing
      inside. Cumin', cumin'. Dean't make that noise, wooman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench open the uppermost door of the
      coach, while Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke the echoes far and wide
      with one of the most extraordinary performances on that instrument ever
      heard by mortal ears. It had its effect, however, not only in rousing such
      of their fall, but in summoning assistance to their relief; for lights
      gleamed in the distance, and people were already astir.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, a man on horseback galloped down, before the passengers were well
      collected together; and a careful investigation being instituted, it
      appeared that the lady inside had broken her lamp, and the gentleman his
      head; that the two front outsides had escaped with black eyes; the box
      with a bloody nose; the coachman with a contusion on the temple; Mr
      Squeers with a portmanteau bruise on his back; and the remaining
      passengers without any injury at all&mdash;thanks to the softness of the
      snow-drift in which they had been overturned. These facts were no sooner
      thoroughly ascertained, than the lady gave several indications of
      fainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carried on
      some gentleman's shoulders to the nearest public-house, she prudently
      thought better of it, and walked back with the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with no very great
      accommodation in the way of apartments&mdash;that portion of its resources
      being all comprised in one public room with a sanded floor, and a chair or
      two. However, a large faggot and a plentiful supply of coals being heaped
      upon the fire, the appearance of things was not long in mending; and, by
      the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late accident,
      the room was warm and light, which was a most agreeable exchange for the
      cold and darkness out of doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, insinuating himself into the warmest
      corner, 'you did very right to catch hold of them horses. I should have
      done it myself if I had come to in time, but I am very glad you did it.
      You did it very well; very well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So well,' said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem to approve
      very much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers, 'that if they had
      not been firmly checked when they were, you would most probably have had
      no brains left to teach with.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This remark called up a discourse relative to the promptitude Nicholas had
      displayed, and he was overwhelmed with compliments and commendations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very glad to have escaped, of course,' observed Squeers: 'every man
      is glad when he escapes from danger; but if any one of my charges had been
      hurt&mdash;if I had been prevented from restoring any one of these little
      boys to his parents whole and sound as I received him&mdash;what would
      have been my feelings? Why the wheel a-top of my head would have been far
      preferable to it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are they all brothers, sir?' inquired the lady who had carried the 'Davy'
      or safety-lamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In one sense they are, ma'am,' replied Squeers, diving into his greatcoat
      pocket for cards. 'They are all under the same parental and affectionate
      treatment. Mrs. Squeers and myself are a mother and father to every one of
      'em. Mr. Nickleby, hand the lady them cards, and offer these to the
      gentleman. Perhaps they might know of some parents that would be glad to
      avail themselves of the establishment.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Expressing himself to this effect, Mr. Squeers, who lost no opportunity of
      advertising gratuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and looked at
      the pupils with as much benignity as he could possibly affect, while
      Nicholas, blushing with shame, handed round the cards as directed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma'am?' said the
      merry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as though he were
      charitably desirous to change the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No bodily inconvenience,' replied the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No mental inconvenience, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,' replied the lady
      with strong emotion; 'and I beg you as a gentleman, not to refer to it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me,' said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrier still, 'I
      merely intended to inquire&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope no inquiries will be made,' said the lady, 'or I shall be
      compelled to throw myself on the protection of the other gentlemen.
      Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside the door&mdash;and if a
      green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham, to stop it instantly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The people of the house were evidently overcome by this request, and when
      the lady charged the boy to remember, as a means of identifying the
      expected green chariot, that it would have a coachman with a gold-laced
      hat on the box, and a footman, most probably in silk stockings, behind,
      the attentions of the good woman of the inn were redoubled. Even the
      box-passenger caught the infection, and growing wonderfully deferential,
      immediately inquired whether there was not very good society in that
      neighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner which
      sufficiently implied that she moved at the very tiptop and summit of it
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to get another coach,'
      said the good-tempered gentleman when they had been all sitting round the
      fire, for some time, in silence, 'and as he must be gone a couple of hours
      at the very least, I propose a bowl of hot punch. What say you, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, who was a man of
      very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not past the middle
      age, but his hair was grey; it seemed to have been prematurely turned by
      care or sorrow. He readily acceded to the proposal, and appeared to be
      prepossessed by the frank good-nature of the individual from whom it
      emanated.
    </p>
    <p>
      This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapster when the
      punch was ready, and after dispensing it all round, led the conversation
      to the antiquities of York, with which both he and the grey-haired
      gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. When this topic flagged, he
      turned with a smile to the grey-headed gentleman, and asked if he could
      sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot indeed,' replied gentleman, smiling in his turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a pity,' said the owner of the good-humoured countenance. 'Is
      there nobody here who can sing a song to lighten the time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; that they
      wished they could; that they couldn't remember the words of anything
      without the book; and so forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps the lady would not object,' said the president with great
      respect, and a merry twinkle in his eye. 'Some little Italian thing out of
      the last opera brought out in town, would be most acceptable I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the lady condescended to make no reply, but tossed her head
      contemptuously, and murmured some further expression of surprise regarding
      the absence of the green chariot, one or two voices urged upon the
      president himself, the propriety of making an attempt for the general
      benefit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would if I could,' said he of the good-tempered face; 'for I hold that
      in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers to each
      other are thrown unexpectedly together, they should endeavour to render
      themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake of the little community, as
      possible.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish the maxim were more generally acted on, in all cases,' said the
      grey-headed gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the other. 'Perhaps, as you can't sing,
      you'll tell us a story?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay. I should ask you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After you, I will, with pleasure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said the grey-haired gentleman, smiling, 'Well, let it be so. I
      fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten the time you
      must pass here; but you have brought this upon yourselves, and shall
      judge. We were speaking of York Minster just now. My story shall have some
      reference to it. Let us call it
    </p>
    <p>
      THE FIVE SISTERS OF YORK
    </p>
    <p>
      After a murmur of approbation from the other passengers, during which the
      fastidious lady drank a glass of punch unobserved, the grey-headed
      gentleman thus went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great many years ago&mdash;for the fifteenth century was scarce two
      years old at the time, and King Henry the Fourth sat upon the throne of
      England&mdash;there dwelt, in the ancient city of York, five maiden
      sisters, the subjects of my tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest was in her
      twenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third a year younger
      than the second, and the fourth a year younger than the third. They were
      tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair of jet; dignity and
      grace were in their every movement; and the fame of their great beauty had
      spread through all the country round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was the
      youngest, a fair creature of sixteen! The blushing tints in the soft bloom
      on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the flower, are not more
      exquisite than was the blending of the rose and lily in her gentle face,
      or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegant luxuriance, is
      not more graceful than were the clusters of rich brown hair that sported
      round her brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in the bosoms of
      the young and beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be! If, while our
      bodies grow old and withered, our hearts could but retain their early
      youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows and sufferings!
      But, the faint image of Eden which is stamped upon them in childhood,
      chafes and rubs in our rough struggles with the world, and soon wears
      away: too often to leave nothing but a mournful blank remaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness. Devoted
      attachment to her sisters, and a fervent love of all beautiful things in
      nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesome voice and merry laugh were
      the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life. The
      brightest flowers in the garden were reared by her; the caged birds sang
      when they heard her voice, and pined when they missed its sweetness.
      Alice, dear Alice; what living thing within the sphere of her gentle
      witchery, could fail to love her!
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisters lived, for
      their very names have passed away, and dusty antiquaries tell of them as
      of a fable. But they dwelt in an old wooden house&mdash;old even in those
      days&mdash;with overhanging gables and balconies of rudely-carved oak,
      which stood within a pleasant orchard, and was surrounded by a rough stone
      wall, whence a stout archer might have winged an arrow to St Mary's Abbey.
      The old abbey flourished then; and the five sisters, living on its fair
      domains, paid yearly dues to the black monks of St Benedict, to which
      fraternity it belonged.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time of summer, when
      one of those black monks emerged from the abbey portal, and bent his steps
      towards the house of the fair sisters. Heaven above was blue, and earth
      beneath was green; the river glistened like a path of diamonds in the sun;
      the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the lark soared
      high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air.
      Everything looked gay and smiling; but the holy man walked gloomily on,
      with his eyes bent upon the ground. The beauty of the earth is but a
      breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathy should a holy preacher have
      with either?
    </p>
    <p>
      'With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough to prevent
      his stumbling over such obstacles as lay in his way, the religious man
      moved slowly forward until he reached a small postern in the wall of the
      sisters' orchard, through which he passed, closing it behind him. The
      noise of soft voices in conversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon his
      ears ere he had advanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher than was
      his humble wont, he descried, at no great distance, the five sisters
      seated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying their
      customary task of embroidering.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Save you, fair daughters!" said the friar; and fair in truth they were.
      Even a monk might have loved them as choice masterpieces of his Maker's
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, and the eldest
      motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar shook his
      head, and bumped himself down on a very hard stone,&mdash;at which, no
      doubt, approving angels were gratified.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Ye were merry, daughters," said the monk.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0107m.jpg" alt="0107m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0107.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      '"You know how light of heart sweet Alice is," replied the eldest sister,
      passing her fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to see all nature
      beaming in brightness and sunshine, father," added Alice, blushing beneath
      the stern look of the recluse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination of the head, and the
      sisters pursued their task in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Still wasting the precious hours," said the monk at length, turning to
      the eldest sister as he spoke, "still wasting the precious hours on this
      vain trifling. Alas, alas! that the few bubbles on the surface of eternity&mdash;all
      that Heaven wills we should see of that dark deep stream&mdash;should be
      so lightly scattered!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Father," urged the maiden, pausing, as did each of the others, in her
      busy task, "we have prayed at matins, our daily alms have been distributed
      at the gate, the sick peasants have been tended,&mdash;all our morning
      tasks have been performed. I hope our occupation is a blameless one?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"See here," said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, "an intricate
      winding of gaudy colours, without purpose or object, unless it be that one
      day it is destined for some vain ornament, to minister to the pride of
      your frail and giddy sex. Day after day has been employed upon this
      senseless task, and yet it is not half accomplished. The shade of each
      departed day falls upon our graves, and the worm exults as he beholds it,
      to know that we are hastening thither. Daughters, is there no better way
      to pass the fleeting hours?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed by the holy
      man's reproof, but Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly on the friar.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Our dear mother," said the maiden; "Heaven rest her soul!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Amen!" cried the friar in a deep voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Our dear mother," faltered the fair Alice, "was living when these long
      tasks began, and bade us, when she should be no more, ply them in all
      discretion and cheerfulness, in our leisure hours; she said that if in
      harmless mirth and maidenly pursuits we passed those hours together, they
      would prove the happiest and most peaceful of our lives, and that if, in
      later times, we went forth into the world, and mingled with its cares and
      trials&mdash;if, allured by its temptations and dazzled by its glitter, we
      ever forgot that love and duty which should bind, in holy ties, the
      children of one loved parent&mdash;a glance at the old work of our common
      girlhood would awaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften our hearts
      to affection and love."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Alice speaks truly, father," said the elder sister, somewhat proudly.
      And so saying she resumed her work, as did the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister had before her;
      the device was of a complex and intricate description, and the pattern and
      colours of all five were the same. The sisters bent gracefully over their
      work; the monk, resting his chin upon his hands, looked from one to the
      other in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"How much better," he said at length, "to shun all such thoughts and
      chances, and, in the peaceful shelter of the church, devote your lives to
      Heaven! Infancy, childhood, the prime of life, and old age, wither as
      rapidly as they crowd upon each other. Think how human dust rolls onward
      to the tomb, and turning your faces steadily towards that goal, avoid the
      cloud which takes its rise among the pleasures of the world, and cheats
      the senses of their votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Never, sisters," cried Alice. "Barter not the light and air of heaven,
      and the freshness of earth and all the beautiful things which breathe upon
      it, for the cold cloister and the cell. Nature's own blessings are the
      proper goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly together. To die is
      our heavy portion, but, oh, let us die with life about us; when our cold
      hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating near; let our last look
      be upon the bounds which God has set to his own bright skies, and not on
      stone walls and bars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and die, if you
      list, in this green garden's compass; only shun the gloom and sadness of a
      cloister, and we shall be happy."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The tears fell fast from the maiden's eyes as she closed her impassioned
      appeal, and hid her face in the bosom of her sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Take comfort, Alice," said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead. "The
      veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say you, sisters?
      For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was cast together,
      and that there were dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the convent's
      walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Father," said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, "you hear our final
      resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey of St Mary, and left
      us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directed that no constraint should
      be imposed upon our inclinations, but that we should be free to live
      according to our choice. Let us hear no more of this, we pray you.
      Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us take shelter until evening!" With a
      reverence to the friar, the lady rose and walked towards the house, hand
      in hand with Alice; the other sisters followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, but had never
      met with so direct a repulse, walked some little distance behind, with his
      eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving <i>as</i> <i>if </i>in prayer. As the
      sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace, and called upon them to
      stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Stay!" said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, and directing
      an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister. "Stay, and hear
      from me what these recollections are, which you would cherish above
      eternity, and awaken&mdash;if in mercy they slumbered&mdash;by means of
      idle toys. The memory of earthly things is charged, in after life, with
      bitter disappointment, affliction, death; with dreary change and wasting
      sorrow. The time will one day come, when a glance at those unmeaning
      baubles will tear open deep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and
      strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives&mdash;and, mark me,
      come it will&mdash;turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge
      which you spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fire of
      mortals grows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and there weep for the
      dreams of youth. These things are Heaven's will, not mine," said the
      friar, subduing his voice as he looked round upon the shrinking girls.
      "The Virgin's blessing be upon you, daughters!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'With these words he disappeared through the postern; and the sisters
      hastening into the house were seen no more that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next day the sun
      shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And in the morning's
      glare, and the evening's soft repose, the five sisters still walked, or
      worked, or beguiled the time by cheerful conversation, in their quiet
      orchard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed than many tales
      that are told, of which number I fear this may be one. The house of the
      five sisters stood where it did, and the same trees cast their pleasant
      shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters too were there, and lovely as at
      first, but a change had come over their dwelling. Sometimes, there was the
      clash of armour, and the gleaming of the moon on caps of steel; and, at
      others, jaded coursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female form
      glided hurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the weary
      messenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one night within
      the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of the fair sisters
      among them. Then, horsemen began to come less frequently, and seemed to
      bring bad tidings when they did, and at length they ceased to come at all,
      and footsore peasants slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their errand
      there, by stealth. Once, a vassal was dispatched in haste to the abbey at
      dead of night, and when morning came, there were sounds of woe and wailing
      in the sisters' house; and after this, a mournful silence fell upon it,
      and knight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had gone angrily
      down, tinting the dull clouds with the last traces of his wrath, when the
      same black monk walked slowly on, with folded arms, within a stone's-throw
      of the abbey. A blight had fallen on the trees and shrubs; and the wind,
      at length beginning to break the unnatural stillness that had prevailed
      all day, sighed heavily from time to time, as though foretelling in grief
      the ravages of the coming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights
      through the heavy air, and the ground was alive with crawling things,
      whose instinct brought them forth to swell and fatten in the rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No longer were the friar's eyes directed to the earth; they were cast
      abroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom and desolation of
      the scene found a quick response in his own bosom. Again he paused near
      the sisters' house, and again he entered by the postern.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, or his eyes
      rest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All was silent and
      deserted. The boughs of the trees were bent and broken, and the grass had
      grown long and rank. No light feet had pressed it for many, many a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed to the
      change, the monk glided into the house, and entered a low, dark room. Four
      sisters sat there. Their black garments made their pale faces whiter
      still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were stately yet;
      but the flush and pride of beauty were gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And Alice&mdash;where was she? In Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The monk&mdash;even the monk&mdash;could bear with some grief here; for
      it was long since these sisters had met, and there were furrows in their
      blanched faces which years could never plough. He took his seat in
      silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"They are here, sisters," said the elder lady in a trembling voice. "I
      have never borne to look upon them since, and now I blame myself for my
      weakness. What is there in her memory that we should dread? To call up our
      old days shall be a solemn pleasure yet."
    </p>
    <p>
      'She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet, brought
      forth the five frames of work, completed long before. Her step was firm,
      but her hand trembled as she produced the last one; and, when the feelings
      of the other sisters gushed forth at sight of it, her pent-up tears made
      way, and she sobbed "God bless her!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The monk rose and advanced towards them. "It was almost the last thing
      she touched in health," he said in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"It was," cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The monk turned to the second sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The gallant youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung upon thy very
      breath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime, lies buried on a
      plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rusty fragments of armour, once
      brightly burnished, lie rotting on the ground, and are as little
      distinguishable for his, as are the bones that crumble in the mould!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The policy of courts," he continued, turning to the two other sisters,
      "drew ye from your peaceful home to scenes of revelry and splendour. The
      same policy, and the restless ambition of&mdash;proud and fiery men, have
      sent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbled outcasts. Do I speak truly?"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sobs of the two sisters were their only reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"There is little need," said the monk, with a meaning look, "to fritter
      away the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the pale ghosts of hopes of
      early years. Bury them, heap penance and mortification on their heads,
      keep them down, and let the convent be their grave!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, that night, as
      though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud for their dead joys. But,
      morning came again, and though the boughs of the orchard trees drooped and
      ran wild upon the ground, it was the same orchard still. The grass was
      coarse and high, but there was yet the spot on which they had so often sat
      together, when change and sorrow were but names. There was every walk and
      nook which Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave was one flat stone
      beneath which she slept in peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And could they, remembering how her young heart had sickened at the
      thought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave, in garbs which would
      chill the very ashes within it? Could they bow down in prayer, and when
      all Heaven turned to hear them, bring the dark shade of sadness on one
      angel's face? No.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times, and
      having obtained the church's sanction to their work of piety, caused to be
      executed, in five large compartments of richly stained glass, a faithful
      copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a large window
      until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone brightly, as she
      had so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were reflected in their
      original colours, and throwing a stream of brilliant light upon the
      pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up and down the
      nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Only three were seen
      in the customary place, after many years; then but two, and, for a long
      time afterwards, but one solitary female bent with age. At length she came
      no more, and the stone bore five plain Christian names.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, and many
      generations have come and gone since then. Time has softened down the
      colours, but the same stream of light still falls upon the forgotten tomb,
      of which no trace remains; and, to this day, the stranger is shown in York
      Cathedral, an old window called the Five Sisters.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a melancholy tale,' said the merry-faced gentleman, emptying his
      glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows,' returned the
      other, courteously, but in a grave and sad tone of voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if we
      choose to contemplate them,' said the gentleman with the merry face. 'The
      youngest sister in your tale was always light-hearted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And died early,' said the other, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy,' said the
      first speaker, with much feeling. 'Do you think the sisters who loved her
      so well, would have grieved the less if her life had been one of gloom and
      sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a heavy loss, it
      would be&mdash;with me&mdash;the reflection, that those I mourned, by
      being innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared
      themselves for a purer and happier world. The sun does not shine upon this
      fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe you are right,' said the gentleman who had told the story.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Believe!' retorted the other, 'can anybody doubt it? Take any subject of
      sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it is associated. The
      recollection of past pleasure may become pain&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It does,' interposed the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot be restored, is pain,
      but of a softened kind. Our recollections are unfortunately mingled with
      much that we deplore, and with many actions which we bitterly repent;
      still in the most chequered life I firmly think there are so many little
      rays of sunshine to look back upon, that I do not believe any mortal
      (unless he had put himself without the pale of hope) would deliberately
      drain a goblet of the waters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Possibly you are correct in that belief,' said the grey-haired gentleman
      after a short reflection. 'I am inclined to think you are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then,' replied the other, 'the good in this state of existence
      preponderates over the bad, let miscalled philosophers tell us what they
      will. If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and
      comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between this
      world and a better. But come! I'll tell you a story of another kind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After a very brief silence, the merry-faced gentleman sent round the
      punch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately
      apprehensive that he was going to relate something improper, began
    </p>
    <p>
      THE BARON OF GROGZWIG
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was as likely a young
      baron as you would wish to see. I needn't say that he lived in a castle,
      because that's of course; neither need I say that he lived in an old
      castle; for what German baron ever lived in a new one? There were many
      strange circumstances connected with this venerable building, among which,
      not the least startling and mysterious were, that when the wind blew, it
      rumbled in the chimneys, or even howled among the trees in the
      neighbouring forest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way
      through certain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some parts
      of the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others in
      gloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron's ancestors, being short of
      money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who called one night to ask
      his way, and it <i>was </i>supposed that these miraculous occurrences took place
      in consequence. And yet I hardly know how that could have been, either,
      because the baron's ancestor, who was an amiable man, felt very sorry
      afterwards for having been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a
      quantity of stone and timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a
      chapel as an apology, and so took a receipt from Heaven, in full of all
      demands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Talking of the baron's ancestor puts me in mind of the baron's great
      claims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid to say, I am
      sure, how many ancestors the baron had; but I know that he had a great
      many more than any other man of his time; and I only wish that he had
      lived in these latter days, that he might have had more. It is a very hard
      thing upon the great men of past centuries, that they should have come
      into the world so soon, because a man who was born three or four hundred
      years ago, cannot reasonably be expected to have had as many relations
      before him, as a man who is born now. The last man, whoever he is&mdash;and
      he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught we know&mdash;will
      have a longer pedigree than the greatest nobleman now alive; and I contend
      that this is not fair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was a fine swarthy
      fellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, who rode a-hunting in
      clothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots on his feet, and a bugle slung
      over his shoulder like the guard of a long stage. When he blew this bugle,
      four-and-twenty other gentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln green a
      little coarser, and russet boots with a little thicker soles, turned out
      directly: and away galloped the whole train, with spears in their hands
      like lacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or perhaps encounter
      a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him first, and greased his
      whiskers with him afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrier still for
      the baron's retainers, who drank Rhine wine every night till they fell
      under the table, and then had the bottles on the floor, and called for
      pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking, merry-making blades,
      as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under the table,
      require a little variety; especially when the same five-and-twenty people
      sit daily down to the same board, to discuss the same subjects, and tell
      the same stories. The baron grew weary, and wanted excitement. He took to
      quarrelling with his gentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of them
      every day after dinner. This was a pleasant change at first; but it became
      monotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out of sorts, and
      cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One night, after a day's sport in which he had outdone Nimrod or
      Gillingwater, and slaughtered "another fine bear," and brought him home in
      triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily at the head of his table,
      eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a discontented aspect. He swallowed
      huge bumpers of wine, but the more he swallowed, the more he frowned. The
      gentlemen who had been honoured with the dangerous distinction of sitting
      on his right and left, imitated him to a miracle in the drinking, and
      frowned at each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I will!" cried the baron suddenly, smiting the table with his right
      hand, and twirling his moustache with his left. "Fill to the Lady of
      Grogzwig!"
    </p>
    <p>
      'The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with the exception of
      their four-and-twenty noses, which were unchangeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I said to the Lady of Grogzwig," repeated the baron, looking round the
      board.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"To the Lady of Grogzwig!" shouted the Lincoln greens; and down their
      four-and-twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperial pints of such rare
      old hock, that they smacked their eight-and-forty lips, and winked again.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen," said Koeldwethout,
      condescending to explain. "We will demand her in marriage of her father,
      ere the sun goes down tomorrow. If he refuse our suit, we will cut off his
      nose."
    </p>
    <p>
      'A hoarse murmur arose from the company; every man touched, first the hilt
      of his sword, and then the tip of his nose, with appalling significance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate! If the daughter of
      the Baron Von Swillenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied heart, or fallen at
      her father's feet and corned them in salt tears, or only fainted away, and
      complimented the old gentleman in frantic ejaculations, the odds are a
      hundred to one but Swillenhausen Castle would have been turned out at
      window, or rather the baron turned out at window, and the castle
      demolished. The damsel held her peace, however, when an early messenger
      bore the request of Von Koeldwethout next morning, and modestly retired to
      her chamber, from the casement of which she watched the coming of the
      suitor and his retinue. She was no sooner assured that the horseman with
      the large moustachios was her proffered husband, than she hastened to her
      father's presence, and expressed her readiness to sacrifice herself to
      secure his peace. The venerable baron caught his child to his arms, and
      shed a wink of joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four-and-twenty
      Lincoln greens of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows of eternal friendship
      with twelve Lincoln greens of Von Swillenhausen, and promised the old
      baron that they would drink his wine "Till all was blue"&mdash;meaning
      probably until their whole countenances had acquired the same tint as
      their noses. Everybody slapped everybody else's back, when the time for
      parting came; and the Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers rode gaily
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. The houses of
      Koeldwethout and Swillenhausen were united; the spears rusted; and the
      baron's bugle grew hoarse for lack of blowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Those were great times for the four-and-twenty; but, alas! their high and
      palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and were already walking off.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"My dear," said the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"My love," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Those coarse, noisy men&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Which, ma'am?" said the baron, starting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The baroness pointed, from the window at which they stood, to the
      courtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln greens were taking a
      copious stirrup-cup, preparatory to issuing forth after a boar or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"My hunting train, ma'am," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Disband them, love," murmured the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Disband them!" cried the baron, in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"To please me, love," replied the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"To please the devil, ma'am," answered the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whereupon the baroness uttered a great cry, and swooned away at the
      baron's feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What could the baron do? He called for the lady's maid, and roared for
      the doctor; and then, rushing into the yard, kicked the two Lincoln greens
      who were the most used to it, and cursing the others all round, bade them
      go&mdash;but never mind where. I don't know the German for it, or I would
      put it delicately that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not for me to say by what means, or by what degrees, some wives
      manage to keep down some husbands as they do, although I may have my
      private opinion on the subject, and may think that no Member of Parliament
      ought to be married, inasmuch as three married members out of every four,
      must vote according to their wives' consciences (if there be such things),
      and not according to their own. All I need say, just now, is, that the
      Baroness Von Koeldwethout somehow or other acquired great control over the
      Baron Von Koeldwethout, and that, little by little, and bit by bit, and
      day by day, and year by year, the baron got the worst of some disputed
      question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby; and that by the time
      he was a fat hearty fellow of forty-eight or thereabouts, he had no
      feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, and no hunting&mdash;nothing in
      short that he liked, or used to have; and that, although he was as fierce
      as a lion, and as bold as brass, he was decidedly snubbed and put down, by
      his own lady, in his own castle of Grogzwig.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor was this the whole extent of the baron's misfortunes. About a year
      after his nuptials, there came into the world a lusty young baron, in
      whose honour a great many fireworks were let off, and a great many dozens
      of wine drunk; but next year there came a young baroness, and next year
      another young baron, and so on, every year, either a baron or baroness
      (and one year both together), until the baron found himself the father of
      a small family of twelve. Upon every one of these anniversaries, the
      venerable Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously sensitive for the
      well-being of her child the Baroness Von Koeldwethout; and although it was
      not found that the good lady ever did anything material towards
      contributing to her child's recovery, still she made it a point of duty to
      be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogzwig, and to divide her
      time between moral observations on the baron's housekeeping, and bewailing
      the hard lot of her unhappy daughter. And if the Baron of Grogzwig, a
      little hurt and irritated at this, took heart, and ventured to suggest
      that his wife was at least no worse off than the wives of other barons,
      the Baroness Von Swillenhausen begged all persons to take notice, that
      nobody but she, sympathised with her dear daughter's sufferings; upon
      which, her relations and friends remarked, that to be sure she did cry a
      great deal more than her son-in-law, and that if there were a hard-hearted
      brute alive, it was that Baron of Grogzwig.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when he could bear it
      no longer lost his appetite and his spirits, and sat himself gloomily and
      dejectedly down. But there were worse troubles yet in store for him, and
      as they came on, his melancholy and sadness increased. Times changed. He
      got into debt. The Grogzwig coffers ran low, though the Swillenhausen
      family had looked upon them as inexhaustible; and just when the baroness
      was on the point of making a thirteenth addition to the family pedigree,
      Von Koeldwethout discovered that he had no means of replenishing them.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I don't see what is to be done," said the baron. "I think I'll kill
      myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      'This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting-knife from a
      cupboard hard by, and having sharpened it on his boot, made what boys call
      "an offer" at his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Hem!" said the baron, stopping short. "Perhaps it's not sharp enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was
      arrested by a loud screaming among the young barons and baronesses, who
      had a nursery in an upstairs tower with iron bars outside the window, to
      prevent their tumbling out into the moat.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"If I had been a bachelor," said the baron sighing, "I might have done it
      fifty times over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Put a flask of wine
      and the largest pipe in the little vaulted room behind the hall."
    </p>
    <p>
      'One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed the baron's order
      in the course of half an hour or so, and Von Koeldwethout being apprised
      thereof, strode to the vaulted room, the walls of which, being of dark
      shining wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing logs which were piled
      upon the hearth. The bottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole, the
      place looked very comfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Leave the lamp," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Anything else, my lord?" inquired the domestic.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"The room," replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and the baron locked
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I'll smoke a last pipe," said the baron, "and then I'll be off." So,
      putting the knife upon the table till he wanted it, and tossing off a
      goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw himself back in his
      chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He thought about a great many things&mdash;about his present troubles and
      past days of bachelorship, and about the Lincoln greens, long since
      dispersed up and down the country, no one knew whither: with the exception
      of two who had been unfortunately beheaded, and four who had killed
      themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and boars, when,
      in the process of draining his glass to the bottom, he raised his eyes,
      and saw, for the first time and with unbounded astonishment, that he was
      not alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there sat with
      folded arms a wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk and bloodshot
      eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face, shadowed by jagged and matted
      locks of coarse black hair. He wore a kind of tunic of a dull bluish
      colour, which, the baron observed, on regarding it attentively, was
      clasped or ornamented down the front with coffin handles. His legs, too,
      were encased in coffin plates as though in armour; and over his left
      shoulder he wore a short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a remnant of
      some pall. He took no notice of the baron, but was intently eyeing the
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Halloa!" said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Halloa!" replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards the baron, but
      not his face or himself "What now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What now!" replied the baron, nothing daunted by his hollow voice and
      lustreless eyes. "I should ask that question. How did you get here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Through the door," replied the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What are you?" says the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"A man," replied the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I don't believe it," says the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Disbelieve it then," says the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I will," rejoined the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogzwig for some time, and then
      said familiarly,
    </p>
    <p>
      '"There's no coming over you, I see. I'm not a man!"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"What are you then?" asked the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"A genius," replied the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"You don't look much like one," returned the baron scornfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide," said the apparition. "Now you
      know me."
    </p>
    <p>
      'With these words the apparition turned towards the baron, as if composing
      himself for a talk&mdash;and, what was very remarkable, was, that he threw
      his cloak aside, and displaying a stake, which was run through the centre
      of his body, pulled it out with a jerk, and laid it on the table, as
      composedly as if it had been a walking-stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Now," said the figure, glancing at the hunting-knife, "are you ready for
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Not quite," rejoined the baron; "I must finish this pipe first."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Look sharp then," said the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"You seem in a hurry," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why, yes, I am," answered the figure; "they're doing a pretty brisk
      business in my way, over in England and France just now, and my time is a
      good deal taken up."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Do you drink?" said the baron, touching the bottle with the bowl of his
      pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Nine times out of ten, and then very hard," rejoined the figure, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Never in moderation?" asked the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Never," replied the figure, with a shudder, "that breeds cheerfulness."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The baron took another look at his new friend, whom he thought an
      uncommonly queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took any
      active part in such little proceedings as that which he had in
      contemplation.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"No," replied the figure evasively; "but I am always present."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Just to see fair, I suppose?" said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Just that," replied the figure, playing with his stake, and examining
      the ferule. "Be as quick as you can, will you, for there's a young
      gentleman who is afflicted with too much money and leisure wanting me now,
      I find."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Going to kill himself because he has too much money!" exclaimed the
      baron, quite tickled. "Ha! ha! that's a good one." (This was the first
      time the baron had laughed for many a long day.)
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I say," expostulated the figure, looking very much scared; "don't do
      that again."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why not?" demanded the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Because it gives me pain all over," replied the figure. "Sigh as much as
      you please: that does me good."
    </p>
    <p>
      'The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; the figure,
      brightening up again, handed him the hunting-knife with most winning
      politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"It's not a bad idea though," said the baron, feeling the edge of the
      weapon; "a man killing himself because he has too much money."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Pooh!" said the apparition, petulantly, "no better than a man's killing
      himself because he has none or little."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself in saying this, or
      whether he thought the baron's mind was so thoroughly made up that it
      didn't matter what he said, I have no means of knowing. I only know that
      the baron stopped his hand, all of a sudden, opened his eyes wide, and
      looked as if quite a new light had come upon him for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Why, certainly," said Von Koeldwethout, "nothing is too bad to be
      retrieved."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Except empty coffers," cried the genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well; but they may be one day filled again," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Scolding wives," snarled the genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Oh! They may be made quiet," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Thirteen children," shouted the genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Can't all go wrong, surely," said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The genius was evidently growing very savage with the baron, for holding
      these opinions all at once; but he tried to laugh it off, and said if he
      would let him know when he had left off joking he should feel obliged to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"But I am not joking; I was never farther from it," remonstrated the
      baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Well, I am glad to hear that," said the genius, looking very grim,
      "because a joke, without any figure of speech, <i>is</i> the death of me. Come!
      Quit this dreary world at once."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"I don't know," said the baron, playing with the knife; "it's a dreary
      one certainly, but I don't think yours is much better, for you have not
      the appearance of being particularly comfortable. That puts me in mind&mdash;what
      security have I, that I shall be any the better for going out of the world
      after all!" he cried, starting up; "I never thought of that."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Dispatch," cried the figure, gnashing his teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Keep off!" said the baron. 'I'll brood over miseries no longer, but put
      a good face on the matter, and try the fresh air and the bears again; and
      if that don't do, I'll talk to the baroness soundly, and cut the Von
      Swillenhausens dead.' With this the baron fell into his chair, and laughed
      so loud and boisterously, that the room rang with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baron meanwhile with a
      look of intense terror, and when he had ceased, caught up the stake,
      plunged it violently into its body, uttered a frightful howl, and
      disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made up his mind to
      action, he soon brought the baroness and the Von Swillenhausens to reason,
      and died many years afterwards: not a rich man that I am aware of, but
      certainly a happy one: leaving behind him a numerous family, who had been
      carefully educated in bear and boar-hunting under his own personal eye.
      And my advice to all men is, that if ever they become hipped and
      melancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they look at both
      sides of the question, applying a magnifying-glass to the best one; and if
      they still feel tempted to retire without leave, that they smoke a large
      pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit by the laudable example of
      the Baron of Grogzwig.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,' said a
      new driver, looking in.
    </p>
    <p>
      This intelligence caused the punch to be finished in a great hurry, and
      prevented any discussion relative to the last story. Mr. Squeers was
      observed to draw the grey-headed gentleman on one side, and to ask a
      question with great apparent interest; it bore reference to the Five
      Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquiry whether he could inform him
      how much per annum the Yorkshire convents got in those days with their
      boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      The journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and,
      when he awoke, found, with great regret, that, during his nap, both the
      Baron of Grogzwig and the grey-haired gentleman had got down and were
      gone. The day dragged on uncomfortably enough. At about six o'clock that
      night, he and Mr. Squeers, and the little boys, and their united luggage,
      were all put down together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 7
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>
      <i>r. and Mrs. Squeers at Home</i>
</p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>

<p>Mr. Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and the boys standing with
      the luggage in the road, to amuse themselves by looking at the coach as it
      changed horses, while he ran into the tavern and went through the
      leg-stretching process at the bar. After some minutes, he returned, with
      his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and a short hiccup
      afforded any criterion; and at the same time there came out of the yard a
      rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by two labouring men.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,' said Squeers, rubbing his
      hands; 'and this young man and me will go on in the chaise. Get in,
      Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing the pony to
      obey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to
      follow at leisure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you cold, Nickleby?' inquired Squeers, after they had travelled some
      distance in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather, sir, I must say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I don't find fault with that,' said Squeers; 'it's a long journey
      this weather.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About three mile from here,' replied Squeers. 'But you needn't call it a
      Hall down here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fact is, it ain't a Hall,' observed Squeers drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence much
      astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Squeers. 'We call it a Hall up in London, because it sounds
      better, but they don't know it by that name in these parts. A man may call
      his house an island if he likes; there's no act of Parliament against
      that, I believe?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe not, sir,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this little
      dialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appeared in nowise
      disposed to volunteer any observations, contented himself with lashing the
      pony until they reached their journey's end.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Jump out,' said Squeers. 'Hallo there! Come and put this horse up. Be
      quick, will you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries,
      Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking
      house, one storey high, with a few straggling out-buildings behind, and a
      barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the noise
      of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a tall lean
      boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that you, Smike?' cried Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' replied the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why the devil didn't you come before?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,' answered Smike, with humility.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?' demanded the schoolmaster,
      sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only in the kitchen, sir,' replied the boy. 'Missus said as I was sitting
      up, I might go in there for a warm.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your missus is a fool,' retorted Squeers. 'You'd have been a deuced deal
      more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to see
      to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that night, he
      told Nicholas to wait at the front-door a minute while he went round and
      let him in.
    </p>
    <p>
      A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas
      during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled force when
      he was left alone. His great distance from home and the impossibility of
      reaching it, except on foot, should he feel ever so anxious to return,
      presented itself to him in most alarming colours; and as he looked up at
      the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild country round,
      covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had
      never experienced before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then!' cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front-door. 'Where
      are you, Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in, then,' said Squeers 'the wind blows in, at this door, fit to
      knock a man off his legs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr. Squeers, having bolted the door to
      keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantily furnished with a
      few chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall, and a couple of tables;
      one of which bore some preparations for supper; while, on the other, a
      tutor's assistant, a Murray's grammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and a
      worn letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in
      picturesque confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, when a female
      bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat, gave him two
      loud kisses: one close after the other, like a postman's knock. The lady,
      who was of a large raw-boned figure, was about half a head taller than Mr
      Squeers, and was dressed in a dimity night-jacket; with her hair in
      papers; she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton
      handkerchief which tied it under the chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How is my Squeery?' said this lady in a playful manner, and a very hoarse
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite well, my love,' replied Squeers. 'How's the cows?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, every one of'em,' answered the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the pigs?' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As well as they were when you went away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come; that's a blessing,' said Squeers, pulling off his great-coat. 'The
      boys are all as they were, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, they're well enough,' replied Mrs. Squeers, snappishly. 'That
      young Pitcher's had a fever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' exclaimed Squeers. 'Damn that boy, he's always at something of that
      sort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never was such a boy, I do believe,' said Mrs. Squeers; 'whatever he has
      is always catching too. I say it's obstinacy, and nothing shall ever
      convince me that it isn't. I'd beat it out of him; and I told you that,
      six months ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you did, my love,' rejoined Squeers. 'We'll try what can be done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood, awkwardly enough, in
      the middle of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected to
      retire into the passage, or to remain where he was. He was now relieved
      from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the new young man, my dear,' said that gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh,' replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him
      coldly from top to toe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll take a meal with us tonight,' said Squeers, 'and go among the boys
      tomorrow morning. You can give him a shake-down here, tonight, can't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must manage it somehow,' replied the lady. 'You don't much mind how
      you sleep, I suppose, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      No, indeed,' replied Nicholas, 'I am not particular.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's lucky,' said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady's humour was considered
      to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and seemed to
      expect that Nicholas should do the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      After some further conversation between the master and mistress relative
      to the success of Mr. Squeers's trip and the people who had paid, and the
      people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in a
      Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the boy
      Smike appeared with a jug of ale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different
      boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The
      boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if
      with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was a
      very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once; for it told a long
      and very sad history.
    </p>
    <p>
      It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised
      to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which formed his dress.
      Although he could not have been less than eighteen or nineteen years old,
      and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit, such as is usually put
      upon very little boys, and which, though most absurdly short in the arms
      and legs, was quite wide enough for his attenuated frame. In order that
      the lower part of his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular
      dress, he had a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, which
      might have been once worn by some stout farmer, but were now too patched
      and tattered for a beggar. Heaven knows how long he had been there, but he
      still wore the same linen which he had first taken down; for, round his
      neck, was a tattered child's frill, only half concealed by a coarse, man's
      neckerchief. He was lame; and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the
      table, glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited
      and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you bothering about there, Smike?' cried Mrs. Squeers; 'let the
      things alone, can't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh!' said Squeers, looking up. 'Oh! it's you, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, sir,' replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to
      control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. 'Is there&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you&mdash;did anybody&mdash;has nothing been heard&mdash;about me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers testily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved
      towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a word,' resumed Squeers, 'and never will be. Now, this is a pretty
      sort of thing, isn't it, that you should have been left here, all these
      years, and no money paid after the first six&mdash;nor no notice taken,
      nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing that
      I should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one
      penny for it, isn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to
      recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,
      gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell you what, Squeers,' remarked his wife as the door closed, 'I
      think that young chap's turning silly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope not,' said the schoolmaster; 'for he's a handy fellow out of
      doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should think he'd have wit
      enough for us though, if he was. But come; let's have supper, for I am
      hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr. Squeers, who speedily
      proceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but his
      appetite was effectually taken away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's the steak, Squeers?' said Mrs. S.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tender as a lamb,' replied Squeers. 'Have a bit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't eat a morsel,' replied his wife. 'What'll the young man take,
      my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever he likes that's present,' rejoined Squeers, in a most unusual
      burst of generosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy?' inquired Mrs. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take a little of the pie, if you please,' replied Nicholas. 'A very
      little, for I'm not hungry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, it's a pity to cut the pie if you're not hungry, isn't it?' said Mrs
      Squeers. 'Will you try a bit of the beef?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever you please,' replied Nicholas abstractedly; 'it's all the same
      to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; and nodding to
      Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find the young man knew
      his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meat with her own fair hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ale, Squeery?' inquired the lady, winking and frowning to give him to
      understand that the question propounded, was, whether Nicholas should have
      ale, and not whether he (Squeers) would take any.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner. 'A
      glassful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his own reflections,
      drank it, in happy innocence of all the foregone proceedings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Uncommon juicy steak that,' said Squeers, as he laid down his knife and
      fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's prime meat,' rejoined his lady. 'I bought a good large piece of it
      myself on purpose for&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what!' exclaimed Squeers hastily. 'Not for the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no; not for them,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers; 'on purpose for you against
      you came home. Lor! you didn't think I could have made such a mistake as
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word, my dear, I didn't know what you were going to say,' said
      Squeers, who had turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't make yourself uncomfortable,' remarked his wife, laughing
      heartily. 'To think that I should be such a noddy! Well!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; but popular
      rumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr. Squeers, being amiably
      opposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequently purchased for boy
      consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death;
      possibly he was apprehensive of having unintentionally devoured some
      choice morsel intended for the young gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with a hungry eye,
      Mrs. Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe custody the
      clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, and who were half-way up
      the troublesome flight of steps which leads to death's door, in
      consequence of exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with a light
      supper of porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a small bedstead, to
      warm each other, and dream of a substantial meal with something hot after
      it, if their fancies set that way: which it is not at all improbable they
      did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, made on
      the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for the dissolution of the
      sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholas the ghost of a small
      glassful of the same compound. This done, Mr. and Mrs. Squeers drew close up
      to the fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender, talked
      confidentially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor's
      assistant, read the interesting legends in the miscellaneous questions,
      and all the figures into the bargain, with as much thought or
      consciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a magnetic
      slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it was high time
      to go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs. Squeers and the girl dragged in a
      small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a
      couch for Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickelby,' said
      Squeers. 'Let me see! Who sleeps in Brooks's bed, my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In Brooks's,' said Mrs. Squeers, pondering. 'There's Jennings, little
      Bolder, Graymarsh, and what's his name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So there is,' rejoined Squeers. 'Yes! Brooks is full.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Full!' thought Nicholas. 'I should think he was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a place somewhere, I know,' said Squeers; 'but I can't at this
      moment call to mind where it is. However, we'll have that all settled
      tomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o'clock in the morning, mind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be ready, sir,' replied Nicholas. 'Good-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll come in myself and show you where the well is,' said Squeers.
      'You'll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that
      belongs to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers was again going
      away, when he once more turned back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, I am sure,' he said, 'whose towel to put you on; but if
      you'll make shift with something tomorrow morning, Mrs. Squeers will
      arrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don't forget.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take care,' replied Mrs. Squeers; 'and mind <i>you </i>take care, young man,
      and get first wash. The teacher ought always to have it; but they get the
      better of him if they can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring away the brandy bottle, lest
      Nicholas should help himself in the night; and the lady having seized it
      with great precipitation, they retired together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and down the room
      in a condition of much agitation and excitement; but, growing gradually
      calmer, sat himself down in a chair, and mentally resolved that, come what
      come might, he would endeavour, for a time, to bear whatever wretchedness
      might be in store for him, and that remembering the helplessness of his
      mother and sister, he would give his uncle no plea for deserting them in
      their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of producing some good effect in
      the mind from which they spring. He grew less desponding, and&mdash;so
      sanguine and buoyant is youth&mdash;even hoped that affairs at Dotheboys
      Hall might yet prove better than they promised.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness, when a
      sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving London,
      it had escaped his attention, and had not occurred to him since, but it at
      once brought back to him the recollection of the mysterious behaviour of
      Newman Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me!' said Nicholas; 'what an extraordinary hand!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in such
      cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great
      difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      My dear young Man.
    </p>
    <p>
      I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a
      kindness when there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not be
      bound on such a journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      If ever you want a shelter in London (don't be angry at this, I once
      thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign of the Crown,
      in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner of Silver Street and
      James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come at night. Once,
      nobody was ashamed&mdash;never mind that. It's all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have
      forgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      NEWMAN NOGGS.
    </p>
    <p>
      P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the King's
      Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will not charge you for it. You
      may say Mr. Noggs there, for I was a gentleman then. I was indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had
      folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby's
      eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might have been taken for tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 8
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>
      <i>f the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall</i>
</p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>

 <p>A ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, is one of the best
      softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is even a
      sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over the rough couch of
      Nicholas, and whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were of an
      agreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed, when
      the faint glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a voice
      he had no difficulty in recognising as part and parcel of Mr. Squeers,
      admonished him that it was time to rise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Past seven, Nickleby,' said Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has morning come already?' asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! that has it,' replied Squeers, 'and ready iced too. Now, Nickleby,
      come; tumble up, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas needed no further admonition, but 'tumbled up' at once, and
      proceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper, which Mr. Squeers
      carried in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a pretty go,' said that gentleman; 'the pump's froze.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Squeers. 'You can't wash yourself this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not wash myself!' exclaimed Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, not a bit of it,' rejoined Squeers tartly. 'So you must be content
      with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and
      can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don't stand staring at me, but do
      look sharp, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his clothes. Squeers,
      meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew the candle out; when the voice of
      his amiable consort was heard in the passage, demanding admittance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in, my love,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night-jacket which had
      displayed the symmetry of her figure on the previous night, and further
      ornamented with a beaver bonnet of some antiquity, which she wore, with
      much ease and lightness, on the top of the nightcap before mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Drat the things,' said the lady, opening the cupboard; 'I can't find the
      school spoon anywhere.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind it, my dear,' observed Squeers in a soothing manner; 'it's of
      no consequence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No consequence, why how you talk!' retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply; 'isn't
      it brimstone morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I forgot, my dear,' rejoined Squeers; 'yes, it certainly is. We purify
      the boys' bloods now and then, Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Purify fiddlesticks' ends,' said his lady. 'Don't think, young man, that
      we go to the expense of flower of brimstone and molasses, just to purify
      them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way, you'll
      find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' said Squeers frowning. 'Hem!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! nonsense,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers. 'If the young man comes to be a
      teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don't want any foolery
      about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly because if
      they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine they'd be always
      ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their
      appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So, it does them
      good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough I'm sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her head into the closet
      and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr. Squeers
      assisted. A few words passed between them while they were thus engaged,
      but as their voices were partially stifled by the cupboard, all that
      Nicholas could distinguish was, that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers had
      said, was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. Squeers said, was
      'stuff.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless,
      Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers, and boxed by Mr. Squeers;
      which course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled him to
      suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket, as
      indeed turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously protested,
      however, that she was quite certain she had not got it, Smike received
      another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his mistress, together
      with a promise of a sound thrashing if he were not more respectful in
      future; so that he took nothing very advantageous by his motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,' said Squeers when his consort
      had hurried away, pushing the drudge before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, sir!' observed Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know her equal,' said Squeers; 'I do not know her equal. That
      woman, Nickleby, is always the same&mdash;always the same bustling,
      lively, active, saving creetur that you see her now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable domestic
      prospect thus opened to him; but Squeers was, fortunately, too much
      occupied with his own reflections to perceive it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's my way to say, when I am up in London,' continued Squeers, 'that to
      them boys she is a mother. But she is more than a mother to them; ten
      times more. She does things for them boys, Nickleby, that I don't believe
      half the mothers going, would do for their own sons.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should think they would not, sir,' answered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed the boys in the
      light of their proper and natural enemies; or, in other words, they held
      and considered that their business and profession was to get as much from
      every boy as could by possibility be screwed out of him. On this point
      they were both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The only
      difference between them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged war against the enemy
      openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality, even at
      home, with a spice of his habitual deceit; as if he really had a notion of
      someday or other being able to take himself in, and persuade his own mind
      that he was a very good fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But come,' said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some thoughts to
      this effect in the mind of his usher, 'let's go to the schoolroom; and
      lend me a hand with my school-coat, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting-jacket,
      which he took down from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming himself
      with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the rear of the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together; 'this is our
      shop, Nickleby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract
      attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without
      seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself
      into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part
      might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copy-books and
      paper. There were a couple of long old rickety desks, cut and notched, and
      inked, and damaged, in every possible way; two or three forms; a detached
      desk for Squeers; and another for his assistant. The ceiling was
      supported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters; and the walls
      were so stained and discoloured, that it was impossible to tell whether
      they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0134m.jpg" alt="0134m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0134.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      But the pupils&mdash;the young noblemen! How the last faint traces of
      hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts
      in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay
      around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the
      countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of
      stunted growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear their
      stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together; there were the bleared
      eye, the hare-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion that
      told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their offspring, or of
      young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one
      horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There were little faces which
      should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged
      suffering; there was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its
      beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining; there were
      vicious-faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a
      jail; and there were young creatures on whom the sins of their frail
      parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary nurses they had
      known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every kindly sympathy
      and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling
      flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion that can fester in
      swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in silence, what an
      incipient Hell was breeding here!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features, which,
      in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a smile.
      Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense basin of
      brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she administered a
      large instalment to each boy in succession: using for the purpose a common
      wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufactured for some
      gigantic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth
      considerably: they being all obliged, under heavy corporal penalties, to
      take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, huddled
      together for companionship, were the little boys who had arrived on the
      preceding night, three of them in very large leather breeches, and two in
      old trousers, a something tighter fit than drawers are usually worn; at no
      great distance from these was seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr
      Squeers&mdash;a striking likeness of his father&mdash;kicking, with great
      vigour, under the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new
      boots that bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which the least of
      the little boys had worn on the journey down&mdash;as the little boy
      himself seemed to think, for he was regarding the appropriation with a
      look of most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a long row of boys
      waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled;
      and another file, who had just escaped from the infliction, making a
      variety of wry mouths indicative of anything but satisfaction. The whole
      were attired in such motley, ill-assorted, extraordinary garments, as
      would have been irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of
      dirt, disorder, and disease, with which they were associated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which made
      half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, 'is that physicking
      over?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just over,' said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and
      tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him. 'Here,
      you Smike; take away now. Look sharp!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers having called up a
      little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out
      after him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire and a
      large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were
      arranged upon a board.
    </p>
    <p>
      Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant, poured a
      brown composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without the
      covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was
      inserted in each bowl, and when they had eaten their porridge by means of
      the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished their
      breakfast; whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice, 'For what we have
      received, may the Lord make us truly thankful!'&mdash;and went away to his
      own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the same
      reason which induces some savages to swallow earth&mdash;lest they should
      be inconveniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having further
      disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted to him in virtue of his
      office, he sat himself down, to wait for school-time.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be.
      There was none of the noise and clamour of a schoolroom; none of its
      boisterous play, or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and shivering
      together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The only pupil who
      evinced the slightest tendency towards locomotion or playfulness was
      Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other
      boys' toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable
      than otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      After some half-hour's delay, Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took
      their places and their books, of which latter commodity the average might
      be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed, during which
      Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of
      what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their contents
      by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called up
      the first class.
    </p>
    <p>
      Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the
      schoolmaster's desk, half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows, one
      of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,'
      said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. 'We'll get up a
      Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first boy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please, sir, he's cleaning the back-parlour window,' said the temporary
      head of the philosophical class.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So he is, to be sure,' rejoined Squeers. 'We go upon the practical mode
      of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean,
      verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a
      casement. When the boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It's
      just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,' replied a small voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. 'So he is. B-o-t,
      bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a
      knowledge of plants. When he has learned that bottinney means a knowledge
      of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby: what do you
      think of it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very useful one, at any rate,' answered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his
      usher. 'Third boy, what's horse?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A beast, sir,' replied the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So it is,' said Squeers. 'Ain't it, Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course there isn't,' said Squeers. 'A horse is a quadruped, and
      quadruped's Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar
      knows, or else where's the use of having grammars at all?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where, indeed!' said Nicholas abstractedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you're perfect in that,' resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, 'go and
      look after <i>my</i> horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down. The rest
      of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off,
      for it's washing-day tomorrow, and they want the coppers filled.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in practical
      philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and half doubtful,
      as if he were not altogether certain what he might think of him by this
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the way we do it, Nickleby,' he said, after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely perceptible,
      and said he saw it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a very good way it is, too,' said Squeers. 'Now, just take them
      fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because, you know, you
      must begin to be useful. Idling about here won't do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that
      he must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did not
      say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were
      arranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was soon listening
      to their dull, drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engrossing
      interest which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling-books.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. At one
      o'clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken
      away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some hard salt
      beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his portion to
      his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this, there was
      another hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with cold, and
      then school began again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Mr. Squeer's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of
      report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the
      relations and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the letters he
      had brought down, the bills which had been paid, the accounts which had
      been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took place
      in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the
      boys acquired strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or,
      possibly, because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and
      inflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was wont to indulge
      after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from
      house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school were assembled
      in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers, with a small bundle of papers in his
      hand, and Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered the room and
      proclaimed silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let any boy speak a word without leave,' said Mr. Squeers mildly, 'and
      I'll take the skin off his back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a deathlike silence
      immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you, as
      strong and well as ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this
      refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sights of extra strength with the
      chill on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have seen the parents of some boys,' continued Squeers, turning over
      his papers, 'and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on,
      that there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a
      very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for all parties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but
      the greater part of the young gentlemen having no particular parents to
      speak of, were wholly uninterested in the thing one way or other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had disappointments to contend against,' said Squeers, looking
      very grim; 'Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is, please sir,' rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys are very
      like men to be sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here, Bolder,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over his hands, stepped from his
      place to the master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's
      face; his own, quite white from the rapid beating of his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bolder,' said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering, as
      the saying goes, where to have him. 'Bolder, if you father thinks that
      because&mdash;why, what's this, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket,
      and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you call this, sir?' demanded the schoolmaster, administering a
      cut with the cane to expedite the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help it, indeed, sir,' rejoined the boy, crying. 'They will come;
      it's the dirty work I think, sir&mdash;at least I don't know what it is,
      sir, but it's not my fault.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bolder,' said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and moistening the palm
      of his right hand to get a good grip of the cane, 'you're an incorrigible
      young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, we must see
      what another will do towards beating it out of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers
      fell upon the boy and caned him soundly: not leaving off, indeed, until
      his arm was tired out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said Squeers, when he had quite done; 'rub away as hard as you
      like, you won't rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won't hold that noise,
      won't you? Put him out, Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitate about
      obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side-door, and Mr. Squeers
      perched himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. Squeers, who
      occupied another at his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now let us see,' said Squeers. 'A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while Squeers made a
      mental abstract of the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Squeers: 'Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has
      took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except
      eighteenpence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs
      Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most business-like air,
      and Squeers passed on to the next boy, as coolly as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Graymarsh,' said Squeers, 'he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the letter as
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Graymarsh's maternal aunt,' said Squeers, when he had possessed himself
      of the contents, 'is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends
      her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks she must be an
      angel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too good for this world; but
      hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the
      two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a
      tract instead, and hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence.
      Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. and Mrs
      Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love
      Master Squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no
      Christian should. Ah!' said Squeers, folding it up, 'a delightful letter.
      Very affecting indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's maternal aunt was strongly
      supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be no other than his maternal
      parent; Squeers, however, without alluding to this part of the story
      (which would have sounded immoral before boys), proceeded with the
      business by calling out 'Mobbs,' whereupon another boy rose, and Graymarsh
      resumed his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mobbs's step-mother,' said Squeers, 'took to her bed on hearing that he
      wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by
      an early post, where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles;
      and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's-liver broth,
      after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the
      London newspapers&mdash;not by Mr. Squeers, for he is too kind and too good
      to set anybody against anybody&mdash;and it has vexed her so much, Mobbs
      can't think. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and
      horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind;
      with which view, she has also stopped his halfpenny a week pocket-money,
      and given a double-bladed knife with a corkscrew in it to the
      Missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A sulky state of feeling,' said Squeers, after a terrible pause, during
      which he had moistened the palm of his right hand again, 'won't do.
      Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of
      good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired by the side-door,
      with as good cause as a boy need have.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection of letters;
      some enclosing money, which Mrs. Squeers 'took care of;' and others
      referring to small articles of apparel, as caps and so forth, all of which
      the same lady stated to be too large, or too small, and calculated for
      nobody but young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most
      accommodating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted him
      to a nicety. His head, in particular, must have been singularly elastic,
      for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and
      Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys
      in the school-room, which was very cold, and where a meal of bread and
      cheese was served out shortly after dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest to
      the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, so depressed and
      self-degraded by the consciousness of his position, that if death could
      have come upon him at that time, he would have been almost happy to meet
      it. The cruelty of which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse and
      ruffianly behaviour of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy place,
      the sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state of feeling;
      but when he recollected that, being there as an assistant, he actually
      seemed&mdash;no matter what unhappy train of circumstances had brought him
      to that pass&mdash;to be the aider and abettor of a system which filled
      him with honest disgust and indignation, he loathed himself, and felt, for
      the moment, as though the mere consciousness of his present situation
      must, through all time to come, prevent his raising his head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution he had
      formed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. He had written to his
      mother and sister, announcing the safe conclusion of his journey, and
      saying as little about Dotheboys Hall, and saying that little as
      cheerfully, as he possibly could. He hoped that by remaining where he was,
      he might do some good, even there; at all events, others depended too much
      on his uncle's favour, to admit of his awakening his wrath just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish considerations
      arising out of his own position. This was the probable destination of his
      sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him, and might he not consign her to
      some miserable place where her youth and beauty would prove a far greater
      curse than ugliness and decrepitude? To a caged man, bound hand and foot,
      this was a terrible idea&mdash;but no, he thought, his mother was by;
      there was the portrait-painter, too&mdash;simple enough, but still living
      in the world, and of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph Nickleby had
      conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty good reason, by
      this time, to reciprocate it, he had no great difficulty in arriving at
      this conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that the feeling extended
      no farther than between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the
      upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a
      few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had
      paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed,
      shrunk back, as if expecting a blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Are you cold?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N-n-o.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are shivering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not cold,' replied Smike quickly. 'I am used to it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he was
      such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help
      exclaiming, 'Poor fellow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word. But,
      now, he burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, oh dear!' he cried, covering his face with his cracked and horny
      hands. 'My heart will break. It will, it will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. 'Be a man; you
      are nearly one by years, God help you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By years!' cried Smike. 'Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of
      them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where
      are they all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whom do you speak of?' inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor
      half-witted creature to reason. 'Tell me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My friends,' he replied, 'myself&mdash;my&mdash;oh! what sufferings mine
      have been!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is always hope,' said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined the other, 'no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that
      died here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently; 'but what of him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's side, 'I was
      with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for friends
      he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed
      that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and he died
      at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What faces will smile on me when I die!' cried his companion, shivering.
      'Who will talk to me in those long nights! They cannot come from home;
      they would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it is, and
      shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead.
      No hope, no hope!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual
      listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a
      heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards&mdash;no, not retired; there was
      no retirement there&mdash;followed&mdash;to his dirty and crowded
      dormitory.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 9
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span><i>f Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr. Squeers; and of
            various Matters and Persons connected no less with the Squeerses than
            Nicholas Nickleby</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mr. Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, he betook himself, as
      has been before remarked, to his own fireside, which was situated&mdash;not
      in the room in which Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival, but
      in a smaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady wife,
      his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full enjoyment of
      each other's society; Mrs. Squeers being engaged in the matronly pursuit of
      stocking-darning; and the young lady and gentleman being occupied in the
      adjustment of some youthful differences, by means of a pugilistic contest
      across the table, which, on the approach of their honoured parent,
      subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks beneath it.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, that Miss
      Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If there be any one
      grace or loveliness inseparable from that particular period of life, Miss
      Squeers may be presumed to have been possessed of it, as there is no
      reason to suppose that she was a solitary exception to an universal rule.
      She was not tall like her mother, but short like her father; from the
      former she inherited a voice of harsh quality; from the latter a
      remarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to having none at
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neighbouring friend, and
      had only just returned to the parental roof. To this circumstance may be
      referred, her having heard nothing of Nicholas, until Mr. Squeers himself
      now made him the subject of conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my dear,' said Squeers, drawing up his chair, 'what do you think of
      him by this time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think of who?' inquired Mrs. Squeers; who (as she often remarked) was no
      grammarian, thank Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of the young man&mdash;the new teacher&mdash;who else could I mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that Knuckleboy,' said Mrs. Squeers impatiently. 'I hate him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you hate him for, my dear?' asked Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that to you?' retorted Mrs. Squeers. 'If I hate him, that's enough,
      ain't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much I dare say, if
      he knew it,' replied Squeers in a pacific tone. 'I only ask from
      curiosity, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, then, if you want to know,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, 'I'll tell you.
      Because he's a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use strong language, and,
      moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of a
      figurative kind, as the word peacock, and furthermore the allusion to
      Nicholas's nose, which was not intended to be taken in its literal sense,
      but rather to bear a latitude of construction according to the fancy of
      the hearers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so much as to the
      object on whom they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present case: a
      peacock with a turned-up nose being a novelty in ornithology, and a thing
      not commonly seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak. 'He is
      cheap, my dear; the young man is very cheap.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a bit of it,' retorted Mrs. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five pound a year,' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What of that; it's dear if you don't want him, isn't it?' replied his
      wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But we <i>do</i> want him,' urged Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't see that you want him any more than the dead,' said Mrs. Squeers.
      'Don't tell me. You can put on the cards and in the advertisements,
      "Education by Mr. Wackford Squeers and able assistants," without having any
      assistants, can't you? Isn't it done every day by all the masters about?
      I've no patience with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Haven't you!' said Squeers, sternly. 'Now I'll tell you what, Mrs
      Squeers. In this matter of having a teacher, I'll take my own way, if you
      please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a man under him, to
      see that his blacks don't run away, or get up a rebellion; and I'll have a
      man under me to do the same with <i>our </i>blacks, till such time as little
      Wackford is able to take charge of the school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?' said
      Wackford junior, suspending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious kick
      which he was administering to his sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are, my son,' replied Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh my eye, won't I give it to the boys!' exclaimed the interesting child,
      grasping his father's cane. 'Oh, father, won't I make 'em squeak again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a proud moment in Mr. Squeers's life, when he witnessed that burst
      of enthusiasm in his young child's mind, and saw in it a foreshadowing of
      his future eminence. He pressed a penny into his hand, and gave vent to
      his feelings (as did his exemplary wife also), in a shout of approving
      laughter. The infantine appeal to their common sympathies, at once
      restored cheerfulness to the conversation, and harmony to the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's a nasty stuck-up monkey, that's what I consider him,' said Mrs
      Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Supposing he is,' said Squeers, 'he is as well stuck up in our schoolroom
      as anywhere else, isn't he?&mdash;especially as he don't like it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' observed Mrs. Squeers, 'there's something in that. I hope it'll
      bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very extraordinary and
      unaccountable thing to hear of,&mdash;any usher at all being a novelty;
      but a proud one, a being of whose existence the wildest imagination could
      never have dreamed&mdash;that Miss Squeers, who seldom troubled herself
      with scholastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this Knuckleboy
      was, that gave himself such airs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby,' said Squeers, spelling the name according to some eccentric
      system which prevailed in his own mind; 'your mother always calls things
      and people by their wrong names.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter for that,' said Mrs. Squeers; 'I see them with right eyes, and
      that's quite enough for me. I watched him when you were laying on to
      little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as black as thunder, all the
      while, and, one time, started up as if he had more than got it in his mind
      to make a rush at you. I saw him, though he thought I didn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind that, father,' said Miss Squeers, as the head of the family
      was about to reply. 'Who is the man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he's the son of a
      poor gentleman that died the other day,' said Mrs. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The son of a gentleman!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; but I don't believe a word of it. If he's a gentleman's son at all,
      he's a fondling, that's my opinion.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Squeers intended to say 'foundling,' but, as she frequently remarked
      when she made any such mistake, it would be all the same a hundred years
      hence; with which axiom of philosophy, indeed, she was in the constant
      habit of consoling the boys when they laboured under more than ordinary
      ill-usage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's nothing of the kind,' said Squeers, in answer to the above remark,
      'for his father was married to his mother years before he was born, and
      she is alive now. If he was, it would be no business of ours, for we make
      a very good friend by having him here; and if he likes to learn the boys
      anything besides minding them, I have no objection I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say again, I hate him worse than poison,' said Mrs. Squeers vehemently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you dislike him, my dear,' returned Squeers, 'I don't know anybody who
      can show dislike better than you, and of course there's no occasion, with
      him, to take the trouble to hide it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't intend to, I assure you,' interposed Mrs. S.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' said Squeers; 'and if he has a touch of pride about him,
      as I think he has, I don't believe there's woman in all England that can
      bring anybody's spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flattering
      compliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit or two in her
      day. It is but due to her character to say, that in conjunction with her
      estimable husband, she had broken many and many a one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much more conversation
      on the same subject, until she retired for the night, when she questioned
      the hungry servant, minutely, regarding the outward appearance and
      demeanour of Nicholas; to which queries the girl returned such
      enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many laudatory remarks touching his
      beautiful dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight legs&mdash;upon
      which last-named articles she laid particular stress; the general run of
      legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked&mdash;that Miss Squeers was not long
      in arriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a very remarkable
      person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it, 'something quite out
      of the common.' And so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she would take a
      personal observation of Nicholas the very next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of her
      mother being engaged, and her father absent, and went accidentally into
      the schoolroom to get a pen mended: where, seeing nobody but Nicholas
      presiding over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited great
      confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers; 'I thought my father was&mdash;or
      might be&mdash;dear me, how very awkward!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the
      apparition, unexpected though it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know will he be long, sir?' asked Miss Squeers, with bashful
      hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said about an hour,' replied Nicholas&mdash;politely of course, but
      without any indication of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's
      charms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never knew anything happen so cross,' exclaimed the young lady. 'Thank
      you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought my father
      was here, I wouldn't upon any account have&mdash;it is very provoking&mdash;must
      look so very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers, blushing once more, and
      glancing, from the pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his desk, and back
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, and
      smiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of the
      schoolmaster's daughter, 'perhaps I can supply his place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of
      advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom, as
      though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys; and
      finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with a
      most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?' inquired Nicholas, smiling to prevent
      himself from laughing outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He <i>has </i>a beautiful smile,' thought Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,'
      replied Miss Squeers. 'Oh! as soft as possible, if you please.' With which
      words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, to give Nicholas to understand
      that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to match.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gave it to Miss
      Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up, Miss
      Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together; whereat
      five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud: being positively for the first
      and only time that half-year.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very awkward of me,' said Nicholas, opening the door for the young lady's
      retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not at all, sir,' replied Miss Squeers; 'it was my fault. It was all my
      foolish&mdash;a&mdash;a&mdash;good-morning!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Goodbye,' said Nicholas. 'The next I make for you, I hope will be made
      less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really,' said Miss Squeers; 'so embarrassing that I scarcely know what I&mdash;very
      sorry to give you so much trouble.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the
      schoolroom door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!' said Miss Squeers,
      as she walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      To account for the rapidity with which this young lady had conceived a
      passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, that the friend from
      whom she had so recently returned, was a miller's daughter of only
      eighteen, who had contracted herself unto the son of a small corn-factor,
      resident in the nearest market town. Miss Squeers and the miller's
      daughter, being fast friends, had covenanted together some two years
      before, according to a custom prevalent among young ladies, that whoever
      was first engaged to be married, should straightway confide the mighty
      secret to the bosom of the other, before communicating it to any living
      soul, and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time; in fulfilment of
      which pledge the miller's daughter, when her engagement was formed, came
      out express, at eleven o'clock at night as the corn-factor's son made an
      offer of his hand and heart at twenty-five minutes past ten by the Dutch
      clock in the kitchen, and rushed into Miss Squeers's bedroom with the
      gratifying intelligence. Now, Miss Squeers being five years older, and out
      of her teens (which is also a great matter), had, since, been more than
      commonly anxious to return the compliment, and possess her friend with a
      similar secret; but, either in consequence of finding it hard to please
      herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had never had an
      opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she had no such secret to disclose. The
      little interview with Nicholas had no sooner passed, as above described,
      however, than Miss Squeers, putting on her bonnet, made her way, with
      great precipitation, to her friend's house, and, upon a solemn renewal of
      divers old vows of secrecy, revealed how that she was&mdash;not exactly
      engaged, but going to be&mdash;to a gentleman's son&mdash;(none of your
      corn-factors, but a gentleman's son of high descent)&mdash;who had come
      down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most mysterious and remarkable
      circumstances&mdash;indeed, as Miss Squeers more than once hinted she had
      good reason to believe, induced, by the fame of her many charms, to seek
      her out, and woo and win her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't it an extraordinary thing?' said Miss Squeers, emphasising the
      adjective strongly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Most extraordinary,' replied the friend. 'But what has he said to you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't ask me what he said, my dear,' rejoined Miss Squeers. 'If you had
      only seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome in all my life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did he look in this way?' inquired the miller's daughter, counterfeiting,
      as nearly as she could, a favourite leer of the corn-factor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very like that&mdash;only more genteel,' replied Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the friend, 'then he means something, depend on it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was by no means ill
      pleased to be confirmed by a competent authority; and discovering, on
      further conversation and comparison of notes, a great many points of
      resemblance between the behaviour of Nicholas, and that of the
      corn-factor, grew so exceedingly confidential, that she intrusted her
      friend with a vast number of things Nicholas had <i>not </i>said, which were all
      so very complimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated on the
      fearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuously opposed to her
      intended husband; on which unhappy circumstance she dwelt at great length;
      for the friend's father and mother were quite agreeable to her being
      married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat and
      common-place an affair as it was possible to imagine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How I should like to see him!' exclaimed the friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you shall, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers. 'I should consider myself
      one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. I think
      mother's going away for two days to fetch some boys; and when she does,
      I'll ask you and John up to tea, and have him to meet you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the friends
      parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so fell out, that Mrs. Squeers's journey, to some distance, to fetch
      three new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance of a
      small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for the next day but one;
      and on the next day but one, Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach, as it
      stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle
      containing something in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and carrying
      besides a large white top-coat to wear in the night-time; with which
      baggage she went her way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it was Squeers's custom to
      drive over to the market town, every evening, on pretence of urgent
      business, and stop till ten or eleven o'clock at a tavern he much
      affected. As the party was not in his way, therefore, but rather afforded
      a means of compromise with Miss Squeers, he readily yielded his full
      assent thereunto, and willingly communicated to Nicholas that he was
      expected to take his tea in the parlour that evening, at five o'clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the time approached,
      and to be sure she was dressed out to the best advantage: with her hair&mdash;it
      had more than a tinge of red, and she wore it in a crop&mdash;curled in
      five distinct rows, up to the very top of her head, and arranged
      dexterously over the doubtful eye; to say nothing of the blue sash which
      floated down her back, or the worked apron or the long gloves, or the
      green gauze scarf worn over one shoulder and under the other; or any of
      the numerous devices which were to be as so many arrows to the heart of
      Nicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements to her entire
      satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity-brown parcel&mdash;flat
      and three-cornered&mdash;containing sundry small adornments which were to
      be put on upstairs, and which the friend put on, talking incessantly. When
      Miss Squeers had 'done' the friend's hair, the friend 'did' Miss Squeers's
      hair, throwing in some striking improvements in the way of ringlets down
      the neck; and then, when they were both touched up to their entire
      satisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with the long gloves on,
      all ready for company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where's John, 'Tilda?' said Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only gone home to clean himself,' replied the friend. 'He will be here by
      the time the tea's drawn.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do so palpitate,' observed Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! I know what it is,' replied the friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not been used to it, you know, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers,
      applying her hand to the left side of her sash.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll soon get the better of it, dear,' rejoined the friend. While they
      were talking thus, the hungry servant brought in the tea-things, and, soon
      afterwards, somebody tapped at the room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There he is!' cried Miss Squeers. 'Oh 'Tilda!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' said 'Tilda. 'Hem! Say, come in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in,' cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-evening,' said that young gentleman, all unconscious of his
      conquest. 'I understood from Mr. Squeers that&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes; it's all right,' interposed Miss Squeers. 'Father don't tea with
      us, but you won't mind that, I dare say.' (This was said archly.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter off very coolly&mdash;not
      caring, particularly, about anything just then&mdash;and went through the
      ceremony of introduction to the miller's daughter with so much grace, that
      that young lady was lost in admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are only waiting for one more gentleman,' said Miss Squeers, taking
      off the teapot lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was getting on.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they were waiting for
      one gentleman or twenty, so he received the intelligence with perfect
      unconcern; and, being out of spirits, and not seeing any especial reason
      why he should make himself agreeable, looked out of the window and sighed
      involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      As luck would have it, Miss Squeers's friend was of a playful turn, and
      hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rally the lovers on
      their lowness of spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But if it's caused by my being here,' said the young lady, 'don't mind me
      a bit, for I'm quite as bad. You may go on just as you would if you were
      alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls, 'I am
      ashamed of you;' and here the two friends burst into a variety of giggles,
      and glanced from time to time, over the tops of their
      pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state of unmixed
      astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressible laughter&mdash;occasioned,
      partly by the bare notion of his being in love with Miss Squeers, and
      partly by the preposterous appearance and behaviour of the two girls.
      These two causes of merriment, taken together, struck him as being so
      keenly ridiculous, that, despite his miserable condition, he laughed till
      he was thoroughly exhausted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' thought Nicholas, 'as I am here, and seem expected, for some
      reason or other, to be amiable, it's of no use looking like a goose. I may
      as well accommodate myself to the company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      We blush to tell it; but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting, for
      the time, the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed this
      resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great
      gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began to make himself
      more at home than in all probability an usher has ever done in his
      employer's house since ushers were first invented.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour on the part
      of Mr. Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, with his hair very damp
      from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereof the collar might have
      belonged to some giant ancestor, forming, together with a white waistcoat
      of similar dimensions, the chief ornament of his person.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, John,' said Miss Matilda Price (which, by-the-bye, was the name of
      the miller's daughter).
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel,' said John with a grin that even the collar could not conceal.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to do the honours.
      'Mr. Nickleby&mdash;Mr. John Browdie.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Servant, sir,' said John, who was something over six feet high, with a
      face and body rather above the due proportion than below it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours to command, sir,' replied Nicholas, making fearful ravages on the
      bread and butter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversational powers, so he
      grinned twice more, and having now bestowed his customary mark of
      recognition on every person in company, grinned at nothing in particular,
      and helped himself to food.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Old wooman awa', bean't she?' said Mr. Browdie, with his mouth full.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers nodded assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really was
      something to laugh at, and went to work at the bread and butter with
      increased vigour. It was quite a sight to behold how he and Nicholas
      emptied the plate between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye wean't get bread and butther ev'ry neight, I expect, mun,' said Mr
      Browdie, after he had sat staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty
      plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear the remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ecod,' said Mr. Browdie, laughing boisterously, 'they dean't put too much
      intiv'em. Ye'll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop here long eneaf.
      Ho! ho! ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are facetious, sir,' said Nicholas, scornfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Na; I dean't know,' replied Mr. Browdie, 'but t'oother teacher, 'cod he
      wur a learn 'un, he wur.' The recollection of the last teacher's leanness
      seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the most exquisite delight, for he laughed
      until he found it necessary to apply his coat-cuffs to his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough, Mr. Browdie,
      to enable you to understand that your remarks are offensive,' said
      Nicholas in a towering passion, 'but if they are, have the goodness to&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you say another word, John,' shrieked Miss Price, stopping her
      admirer's mouth as he was about to interrupt, 'only half a word, I'll
      never forgive you, or speak to you again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel, my lass, I dean't care aboot 'un,' said the corn-factor, bestowing
      a hearty kiss on Miss Matilda; 'let 'un gang on, let 'un gang on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It now became Miss Squeers's turn to intercede with Nicholas, which she
      did with many symptoms of alarm and horror; the effect of the double
      intercession was, that he and John Browdie shook hands across the table
      with much gravity; and such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial,
      that Miss Squeers was overcome and shed tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter, Fanny?' said Miss Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There never was any danger,' said Miss Price, 'was there, Mr. Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'None at all,' replied Nicholas. 'Absurd.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' whispered Miss Price, 'say something kind to her, and
      she'll soon come round. Here! Shall John and I go into the little kitchen,
      and come back presently?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not on any account,' rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at the proposition.
      'What on earth should you do that for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking with some
      degree of contempt&mdash;'you <i>are </i>a one to keep company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' said Nicholas; 'I am not a one to keep company at all&mdash;here
      at all events. I can't make this out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, nor I neither,' rejoined Miss Price; 'but men are always fickle, and
      always were, and always will be; that I can make out, very easily.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fickle!' cried Nicholas; 'what do you suppose? You don't mean to say that
      you think&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, I think nothing at all,' retorted Miss Price, pettishly. 'Look at
      her, dressed so beautiful and looking so well&mdash;really <i>almost</i>
      handsome. I am ashamed at you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing beautifully or
      looking well?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, don't call me a dear girl,' said Miss Price&mdash;smiling a little
      though, for she was pretty, and a coquette too in her small way, and
      Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him the property of somebody
      else, which were all reasons why she should be gratified to think she had
      made an impression on him,&mdash;'or Fanny will be saying it's my fault.
      Come; we're going to have a game at cards.' Pronouncing these last words
      aloud, she tripped away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no other distinct
      impression on his mind at the moment, than that Miss Squeers was an
      ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price a pretty one; but he had
      not time to enlighten himself by reflection, for the hearth being by this
      time swept up, and the candle snuffed, they sat down to play speculation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are only four of us, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, looking slyly at
      Nicholas; 'so we had better go partners, two against two.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say, Mr. Nickleby?' inquired Miss Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With all the pleasure in life,' replied Nicholas. And so saying, quite
      unconscious of his heinous offence, he amalgamated into one common heap
      those portions of a Dotheboys Hall card of terms, which represented his
      own counters, and those allotted to Miss Price, respectively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Browdie,' said Miss Squeers hysterically, 'shall we make a bank
      against them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Yorkshireman assented&mdash;apparently quite overwhelmed by the new
      usher's impudence&mdash;and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her
      friend, and giggled convulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We intend to win everything,' said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tilda <i>has </i>won something she didn't expect, I think, haven't you, dear?'
      said Miss Squeers, maliciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only a dozen and eight, love,' replied Miss Price, affecting to take the
      question in a literal sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How dull you are tonight!' sneered Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, indeed,' replied Miss Price, 'I am in excellent spirits. I was
      thinking <i>you </i>seemed out of sorts.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me!' cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling with very
      jealousy. 'Oh no!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well,' remarked Miss Price. 'Your hair's coming out of curl,
      dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind me,' tittered Miss Squeers; 'you had better attend to your
      partner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you for reminding her,' said Nicholas. 'So she had.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with his clenched
      fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity of exercising
      it upon the features of some other gentleman; and Miss Squeers tossed her
      head with such indignation, that the gust of wind raised by the
      multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew the candle out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never had such luck, really,' exclaimed coquettish Miss Price, after
      another hand or two. 'It's all along of you, Mr. Nickleby, I think. I
      should like to have you for a partner always.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you had.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll have a bad wife, though, if you always win at cards,' said Miss
      Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not if your wish is gratified,' replied Nicholas. 'I am sure I shall have
      a good one in that case.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn-factor flattened his
      nose, while this conversation was carrying on! It would have been worth a
      small annuity to have beheld that; let alone Miss Price's evident joy at
      making them jealous, and Nicholas Nickleby's happy unconsciousness of
      making anybody uncomfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,' said Nicholas, looking
      good-humouredly round the table as he took up the cards for a fresh deal.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You do it so well,' tittered Miss Squeers, 'that it would be a pity to
      interrupt, wouldn't it, Mr. Browdie? He! he! he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay,' said Nicholas, 'we do it in default of having anybody else to talk
      to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll talk to you, you know, if you'll say anything,' said Miss Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, 'Tilda, dear,' retorted Miss Squeers, majestically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or you can talk to each other, if you don't choose to talk to us,' said
      Miss Price, rallying her dear friend. 'John, why don't you say something?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say summat?' repeated the Yorkshireman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel, then!' said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavily with his
      fist, 'what I say's this&mdash;Dang my boans and boddy, if I stan' this
      ony longer. Do ye gang whoam wi' me, and do yon loight an' toight young
      whipster look sharp out for a brokken head, next time he cums under my
      hond.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mercy on us, what's all this?' cried Miss Price, in affected
      astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cum whoam, tell 'e, cum whoam,' replied the Yorkshireman, sternly. And as
      he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of tears; arising
      in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to
      lacerate somebody's countenance with her fair finger-nails.
    </p>
    <p>
      This state of things had been brought about by divers means and workings.
      Miss Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring to the high state and
      condition of being matrimonially engaged, without good grounds for so
      doing; Miss Price had brought it about, by indulging in three motives of
      action: first, a desire to punish her friend for laying claim to a
      rivalship in dignity, having no good title: secondly, the gratification of
      her own vanity, in receiving the compliments of a smart young man: and
      thirdly, a wish to convince the corn-factor of the great danger he ran, in
      deferring the celebration of their expected nuptials; while Nicholas had
      brought it about, by half an hour's gaiety and thoughtlessness, and a very
      sincere desire to avoid the imputation of inclining at all to Miss
      Squeers. So the means employed, and the end produced, were alike the most
      natural in the world; for young ladies will look forward to being married,
      and will jostle each other in the race to the altar, and will avail
      themselves of all opportunities of displaying their own attractions to the
      best advantage, down to the very end of time, as they have done from its
      beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, and here's Fanny in tears now!' exclaimed Miss Price, as if in fresh
      amazement. 'What can be the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! you don't know, miss, of course you don't know. Pray don't trouble
      yourself to inquire,' said Miss Squeers, producing that change of
      countenance which children call making a face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I'm sure!' exclaimed Miss Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma'am?' retorted Miss Squeers,
      making another face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are monstrous polite, ma'am,' said Miss Price.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma'am!' retorted Miss
      Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't take the trouble to make yourself plainer than you are,
      ma'am, however,' rejoined Miss Price, 'because that's quite unnecessary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God that she hadn't
      got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder, congratulated
      herself upon not being possessed of the envious feeling of other people;
      whereupon Miss Squeers made some general remark touching the danger of
      associating with low persons; in which Miss Price entirely coincided:
      observing that it was very true indeed, and she had thought so a long
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tilda,' exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, 'I hate you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! There's no love lost between us, I assure you,' said Miss Price,
      tying her bonnet strings with a jerk. 'You'll cry your eyes out, when I'm
      gone; you know you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I scorn your words, Minx,' said Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You pay me a great compliment when you say so,' answered the miller's
      daughter, curtseying very low. 'Wish you a very good-night, ma'am, and
      pleasant dreams attend your sleep!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this parting benediction, Miss Price swept from the room, followed by
      the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas, at parting, that
      peculiarly expressive scowl with which the cut-and-thrust counts, in
      melodramatic performances, inform each other they will meet again.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were no sooner gone, than Miss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of
      her quondam friend by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears, and
      uttering various dismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas stood
      looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but feeling
      uncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced, or scratched,
      and considering that either infliction would be equally agreeable, he
      walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in her
      pocket-handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is one consequence,' thought Nicholas, when he had groped his way to
      the dark sleeping-room, 'of my cursed readiness to adapt myself to any
      society in which chance carries me. If I had sat mute and motionless, as I
      might have done, this would not have happened.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was glad,' he murmured, 'to grasp at any relief from the sight of this
      dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have set these
      people by the ears, and made two new enemies, where, Heaven knows, I
      needed none. Well, it is a just punishment for having forgotten, even for
      an hour, what is around me now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-hearted sleepers, and
      crept into his poor bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 10
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>
      <i>ow Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister-in-Law</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>On the second morning after the departure of Nicholas for Yorkshire, Kate
      Nickleby sat in a very faded chair raised upon a very dusty throne in Miss
      La Creevy's room, giving that lady a sitting for the portrait upon which
      she was engaged; and towards the full perfection of which, Miss La Creevy
      had had the street-door case brought upstairs, in order that she might be
      the better able to infuse into the counterfeit countenance of Miss
      Nickleby, a bright salmon flesh-tint which she had originally hit upon
      while executing the miniature of a young officer therein contained, and
      which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered, by Miss La Creevy's chief
      friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty in art: as indeed it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I have caught it now,' said Miss La Creevy. 'The very shade! This
      will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done, certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,' replied Kate,
      smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I won't allow that, my dear,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'It's a
      very nice subject&mdash;a very nice subject, indeed&mdash;though, of
      course, something depends upon the mode of treatment.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And not a little,' observed Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, my dear, you are right there,' said Miss La Creevy, 'in the main you
      are right there; though I don't allow that it is of such very great
      importance in the present case. Ah! The difficulties of Art, my dear, are
      great.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They must be, I have no doubt,' said Kate, humouring her good-natured
      little friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conception of,'
      replied Miss La Creevy. 'What with bringing out eyes with all one's power,
      and keeping down noses with all one's force, and adding to heads, and
      taking away teeth altogether, you have no idea of the trouble one little
      miniature is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The remuneration can scarcely repay you,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, it does not, and that's the truth,' answered Miss La Creevy; 'and
      then people are so dissatisfied and unreasonable, that, nine times out of
      ten, there's no pleasure in painting them. Sometimes they say, "Oh, how
      very serious you have made me look, Miss La Creevy!" and at others, "La,
      Miss La Creevy, how very smirking!" when the very essence of a good
      portrait is, that it must be either serious or smirking, or it's no
      portrait at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Kate, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are always either the one or the
      other,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Look at the Royal Academy! All those
      beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen in black velvet waistcoats, with
      their fists doubled up on round tables, or marble slabs, are serious, you
      know; and all the ladies who are playing with little parasols, or little
      dogs, or little children&mdash;it's the same rule in art, only varying the
      objects&mdash;are smirking. In fact,' said Miss La Creevy, sinking her
      voice to a confidential whisper, 'there are only two styles of portrait
      painting; the serious and the smirk; and we always use the serious for
      professional people (except actors sometimes), and the smirk for private
      ladies and gentlemen who don't care so much about looking clever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss La Creevy went on
      painting and talking, with immovable complacency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a number of officers you seem to paint!' said Kate, availing herself
      of a pause in the discourse, and glancing round the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Number of what, child?' inquired Miss La Creevy, looking up from her
      work. 'Character portraits, oh yes&mdash;they're not real military men,
      you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire a uniform
      coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag. Some artists,'
      said Miss La Creevy, 'keep a red coat, and charge seven-and-sixpence extra
      for hire and carmine; but I don't do that myself, for I don't consider it
      legitimate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Drawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly upon not
      resorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy applied herself,
      more intently, to her task: only raising her head occasionally, to look
      with unspeakable satisfaction at some touch she had just put in: and now
      and then giving Miss Nickleby to understand what particular feature she
      was at work upon, at the moment; 'not,' she expressly observed, 'that you
      should make it up for painting, my dear, but because it's our custom
      sometimes to tell sitters what part we are upon, in order that if there's
      any particular expression they want introduced, they may throw it in, at
      the time, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And when,' said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, an interval
      of full a minute and a half, 'when do you expect to see your uncle again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I scarcely know; I had expected to have seen him before now,' replied
      Kate. 'Soon I hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than anything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose he has money, hasn't he?' inquired Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is very rich, I have heard,' rejoined Kate. 'I don't know that he is,
      but I believe so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, you may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn't be so surly,' remarked
      Miss La Creevy, who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness and
      simplicity. 'When a man's a bear, he is generally pretty independent.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'His manner is rough,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rough!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'a porcupine's a featherbed to him! I never
      met with such a cross-grained old savage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is only his manner, I believe,' observed Kate, timidly; 'he was
      disappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper
      soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I
      knew he deserved it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; that's very right and proper,' observed the miniature painter, 'and
      Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of your doing so! But, now,
      mightn't he, without feeling it himself, make you and your mama some nice
      little allowance that would keep you both comfortable until you were well
      married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred a
      year for instance, be to him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what it would be to him,' said Kate, with energy, 'but it
      would be that to me I would rather die than take.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heyday!' cried Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A dependence upon him,' said Kate, 'would embitter my whole life. I
      should feel begging a far less degradation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy. 'This of a relation whom you will not
      hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough, I
      confess.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0161m.jpg" alt="0161m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0161.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I dare say it does,' replied Kate, speaking more gently, 'indeed I am
      sure it must. I&mdash;I&mdash;only mean that with the feelings and
      recollection of better times upon me, I could not bear to live on
      anybody's bounty&mdash;not his particularly, but anybody's.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether
      Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeing that her young
      friend was distressed, made no remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I only ask of him,' continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke,
      'that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as to enable me
      by his recommendation&mdash;only by his recommendation&mdash;to earn,
      literally, my bread and remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever taste
      happiness again, depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother; but if he
      will do this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I
      shall be contented.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screen which stood
      between her and the door, and some person knocked at the wainscot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come in, whoever it is!' cried Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave to view the form
      and features of no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickleby himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your servant, ladies,' said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns. 'You
      were talking so loud, that I was unable to make you hear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking at
      his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their thick
      and protruding brows, for an instant, and then displaying them in their
      full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep down the smile which
      parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines about his
      mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the whole, of their
      recent conversation, had been overheard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you
      here,' said Ralph, addressing his niece, and looking contemptuously at the
      portrait. 'Is that my niece's portrait, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes it is, Mr. Nickleby,' said Miss La Creevy, with a very sprightly air,
      'and between you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very nice portrait
      too, though I say it who am the painter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't trouble yourself to show it to me, ma'am,' cried Ralph, moving
      away, 'I have no eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, yes,' replied Miss La Creevy, considering with the pencil end of her
      brush in her mouth. 'Two sittings more will&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have them at once, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'She'll have no time to idle over
      fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma'am, work; we must all work. Have you
      let your lodgings, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not put a bill up yet, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Put it up at once, ma'am; they won't want the rooms after this week, or
      if they do, can't pay for them. Now, my dear, if you're ready, we'll lose
      no more time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his
      usual manner, Mr. Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young lady to precede him,
      and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed
      upstairs, where Mrs. Nickleby received him with many expressions of regard.
      Stopping them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an impatient
      gesture, and proceeded to the object of his visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have found a situation for your daughter, ma'am,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' replied Mrs. Nickleby. 'Now, I will say that that is only just what
      I have expected of you. "Depend upon it," I said to Kate, only yesterday
      morning at breakfast, "that after your uncle has provided, in that most
      ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us until he has done at
      least the same for you." These were my very words, as near as I remember.
      Kate, my dear, why don't you thank your&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me proceed, ma'am, pray,' said Ralph, interrupting his sister-in-law
      in the full torrent of her discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am most anxious that he should, mama,' rejoined Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow
      your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,' observed Mrs
      Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. 'Your uncle's time is very
      valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be&mdash;and naturally
      desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so little
      of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the pleasure of
      having him among us, still, we are bound not to be selfish, but to take
      into consideration the important nature of his occupations in the city.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Ralph with a scarcely
      perceptible sneer. 'An absence of business habits in this family leads,
      apparently, to a great waste of words before business&mdash;when it does
      come under consideration&mdash;is arrived at, at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear it is so indeed,' replied Mrs. Nickleby with a sigh. 'Your poor
      brother&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My poor brother, ma'am,' interposed Ralph tartly, 'had no idea what
      business was&mdash;was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very
      meaning of the word.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear he was,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes. 'If
      it hadn't been for me, I don't know what would have become of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out by
      Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At every
      small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the course of
      the four-and-twenty hours to remind her of her straitened and altered
      circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand pounds had
      arisen before Mrs. Nickleby's mind, until, at last, she had come to
      persuade herself that of all her late husband's creditors she was the
      worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him dearly
      for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is the usual
      lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A decent
      annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train, at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Repining is of no use, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Of all fruitless errands,
      sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So it is,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. 'So it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences of
      inattention to business, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'I am sure you will impress
      upon your children the necessity of attaching themselves to it early in
      life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I must see that,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. 'Sad experience, you
      know, brother-in-law.&mdash;Kate, my dear, put that down in the next
      letter to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty
      sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition, went
      on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      'The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma'am, is with&mdash;with
      a milliner and dressmaker, in short.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A milliner!' cried Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A milliner and dressmaker, ma'am,' replied Ralph. 'Dressmakers in London,
      as I need not remind you, ma'am, who are so well acquainted with all
      matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep
      equipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickleby's mind by the words milliner
      and dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined with black
      oilskin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and fro in the
      streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and were replaced by
      visions of large houses at the West end, neat private carriages, and a
      banker's book; all of which images succeeded each other with such
      rapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than she nodded her
      head and said 'Very true,' with great appearance of satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'I
      recollect when your poor papa and I came to town after we were married,
      that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with white and
      green trimming, and green persian lining, in her own carriage, which drove
      up to the door full gallop;&mdash;at least, I am not quite certain whether
      it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well
      that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that your
      poor papa said he hadn't had any corn for a fortnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners,
      was not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as Kate
      hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very
      intelligible symptoms of extreme impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The lady's name,' said Ralph, hastily striking in, 'is Mantalini&mdash;Madame
      Mantalini. I know her. She lives near Cavendish Square. If your daughter
      is disposed to try after the situation, I'll take her there directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great deal,' replied Kate; 'but not now. I would rather speak to him
      when we are alone;&mdash;it will save his time if I thank him and say what
      I wish to say to him, as we walk along.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that
      were stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while
      Mrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law by giving him, with many tears, a
      detailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had
      possessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute description
      of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs to
      match the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece,
      and had gone at the sale for a mere nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      These reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate's return in her
      walking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the
      whole time of her absence, lost no time, and used very little ceremony, in
      descending into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' he said, taking her arm, 'walk as fast as you can, and you'll get
      into the step that you'll have to walk to business with, every morning.'
      So saying, he led Kate off, at a good round pace, towards Cavendish
      Square.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very much obliged to you, uncle,' said the young lady, after they
      had hurried on in silence for some time; 'very.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm glad to hear it,' said Ralph. 'I hope you'll do your duty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will try to please, uncle,' replied Kate: 'indeed I&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't begin to cry,' growled Ralph; 'I hate crying.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very foolish, I know, uncle,' began poor Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is,' replied Ralph, stopping her short, 'and very affected besides.
      Let me see no more of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and
      sensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene
      of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but it had its effect
      notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few moments,
      and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk through
      the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to the press of
      people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared to lose him in
      the throng; and how the stern and hard-featured man of business went
      doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and then exchanging a
      gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back
      upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed to
      wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But, it would have been a
      stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts that were beating side by
      side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence of the one, and the rugged
      villainy of the other; to have hung upon the guileless thoughts of the
      affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among all the wily plots and
      calculations of the old man, there should not be one word or figure
      denoting thought of death or of the grave. But so it was; and stranger
      still&mdash;though this is a thing of every day&mdash;the warm young heart
      palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions, while that of the
      old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of
      cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or fear, or love, or
      care, for any living thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Uncle,' said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination,
      'I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At home!' replied Ralph; 'where's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean with my mother&mdash;<i>The Widow</i>,' said Kate emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will live, to all intents and purposes, here,' rejoined Ralph; 'for
      here you will take your meals, and here you will be from morning till
      night&mdash;occasionally perhaps till morning again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But at night, I mean,' said Kate; 'I cannot leave her, uncle. I must have
      some place that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you know,
      and may be a very humble one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'May be!' said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the
      remark; 'must be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,' urged Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope not,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But my question, uncle; you have not answered it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I anticipated something of the kind,' said Ralph; 'and&mdash;though
      I object very strongly, mind&mdash;have provided against it. I spoke of
      you as an out-of-door worker; so you will go to this home that may be
      humble, every night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks for her uncle's
      consideration, which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all, and
      they arrived without any further conversation at the dressmaker's door,
      which displayed a very large plate, with Madame Mantalini's name and
      occupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was a
      shop to the house, but it was let off to an importer of otto of roses.
      Madame Mantalini's shows-rooms were on the first-floor: a fact which was
      notified to the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the
      handsomely curtained windows, of two or three elegant bonnets of the
      newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      A liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph's inquiry
      whether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them, through a handsome
      hall and up a spacious staircase, into the show saloon, which comprised
      two spacious drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety of superb
      dresses and materials for dresses: some arranged on stands, others laid
      carelessly on sofas, and others again, scattered over the carpet, hanging
      on the cheval-glasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the rich
      furniture of various descriptions, which was profusely displayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little concern,
      and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped
      his head into the room, and, seeing somebody there, as suddenly popped it
      out again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here. Hollo!' cried Ralph. 'Who's that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sound of Ralph's voice, the head reappeared, and the mouth,
      displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing tone
      the words, 'Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!' Having uttered which
      ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, and shook hands with Ralph, with
      great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with a waistcoat
      and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk neckerchief, and
      bright green slippers, and had a very copious watch-chain wound round his
      body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a moustache, both dyed black and
      gracefully curled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit, you don't mean to say you want me, do you, demmit?' said this
      gentleman, smiting Ralph on the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not yet,' said Ralph, sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha! ha! demmit,' cried the gentleman; when, wheeling round to laugh with
      greater elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby, who was standing near.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My niece,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember,' said the gentleman, striking his nose with the knuckle of
      his forefinger as a chastening for his forgetfulness. 'Demmit, I remember
      what you come for. Step this way, Nickleby; my dear, will you follow me?
      Ha! ha! They all follow me, Nickleby; always did, demmit, always.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagination, after this fashion,
      the gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on the second floor,
      scarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartment below, where the
      presence of a silver coffee-pot, an egg-shell, and sloppy china for one,
      seemed to show that he had just breakfasted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down, my dear,' said the gentleman: first staring Miss Nickleby out
      of countenance, and then grinning in delight at the achievement. 'This
      cursed high room takes one's breath away. These infernal sky parlours&mdash;I'm
      afraid I must move, Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would, by all means,' replied Ralph, looking bitterly round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a demd rum fellow you are, Nickleby,' said the gentleman, 'the
      demdest, longest-headed, queerest-tempered old coiner of gold and silver
      ever was&mdash;demmit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rang the bell, and
      stared at Miss Nickleby until it was answered, when he left off to bid the
      man desire his mistress to come directly; after which, he began again, and
      left off no more until Madame Mantalini appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed and rather
      good-looking, but much older than the gentleman in the Turkish trousers,
      whom she had wedded some six months before. His name was originally
      Muntle; but it had been converted, by an easy transition, into Mantalini:
      the lady rightly considering that an English appellation would be of
      serious injury to the business. He had married on his whiskers; upon which
      property he had previously subsisted, in a genteel manner, for some years;
      and which he had recently improved, after patient cultivation by the
      addition of a moustache, which promised to secure him an easy
      independence: his share in the labours of the business being at present
      confined to spending the money, and occasionally, when that ran short,
      driving to Mr. Ralph Nickleby to procure discount&mdash;at a percentage&mdash;for
      the customers' bills.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My life,' said Mr. Mantalini, 'what a demd devil of a time you have been!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't even know Mr. Nickleby was here, my love,' said Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman must be, my soul,'
      remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' said Madame, 'that is entirely your fault.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My fault, my heart's joy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' returned the lady; 'what can you expect, dearest, if you will
      not correct the man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Correct the man, my soul's delight!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,' said Madame, pouting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then do not vex itself,' said Mr. Mantalini; 'he shall be horse-whipped
      till he cries out demnebly.' With this promise Mr. Mantalini kissed Madame
      Mantalini, and, after that performance, Madame Mantalini pulled Mr
      Mantalini playfully by the ear: which done, they descended to business.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, ma'am,' said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, with such scorn
      as few men can express in looks, 'this is my niece.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just so, Mr. Nickleby,' replied Madame Mantalini, surveying Kate from head
      to foot, and back again. 'Can you speak French, child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma'am,' replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she felt that the
      eyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown were directed towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Like a demd native?' asked the husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned her back upon
      the questioner, as if addressing herself to make answer to what his wife
      might demand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We keep twenty young women constantly employed in the establishment,'
      said Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed, ma'am!' replied Kate, timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; and some of 'em demd handsome, too,' said the master.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mantalini!' exclaimed his wife, in an awful voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My senses' idol!' said Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you wish to break my heart?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with&mdash;with&mdash;with
      little ballet-dancers,' replied Mantalini in a poetical strain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking,' said his wife.
      'What can Mr. Nickleby think when he hears you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied Ralph. 'I know his amiable nature,
      and yours,&mdash;mere little remarks that give a zest to your daily
      intercourse&mdash;lovers' quarrels that add sweetness to those domestic
      joys which promise to last so long&mdash;that's all; that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges, and to make
      a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to powder in
      the process, it would emit a pleasanter sound in so doing, than did these
      words in the rough and bitter voice in which they were uttered by Ralph.
      Even Mr. Mantalini felt their influence, and turning affrighted round,
      exclaimed: 'What a demd horrid croaking!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr. Mantalini says,'
      observed his wife, addressing Miss Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not, ma'am,' said Kate, with quiet contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Mantalini knows nothing whatever about any of the young women,'
      continued Madame, looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate. 'If he has
      seen any of them, he must have seen them in the street, going to, or
      returning from, their work, and not here. He was never even in the room. I
      do not allow it. What hours of work have you been accustomed to?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma'am,' replied Kate, in
      a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For which reason she'll work all the better now,' said Ralph, putting in
      a word, lest this confession should injure the negotiation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope so,' returned Madame Mantalini; 'our hours are from nine to nine,
      with extra work when we're very full of business, for which I allow
      payment as overtime.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and was satisfied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your meals,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'that is, dinner and tea, you
      will take here. I should think your wages would average from five to seven
      shillings a week; but I can't give you any certain information on that
      point, until I see what you can do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate bowed her head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you're ready to come,' said Madame Mantalini, 'you had better begin on
      Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knag the forewoman shall then
      have directions to try you with some easy work at first. Is there anything
      more, Mr. Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing more, ma'am,' replied Ralph, rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I believe that's all,' said the lady. Having arrived at this natural
      conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to be gone, but
      hesitated notwithstanding, as though unwilling to leave to Mr. Mantalini
      the sole honour of showing them downstairs. Ralph relieved her from her
      perplexity by taking his departure without delay: Madame Mantalini making
      many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them; and Mr. Mantalini
      anathematising the stairs with great volubility as he followed them down,
      in the hope of inducing Kate to look round,&mdash;a hope, however, which
      was destined to remain ungratified.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There!' said Ralph when they got into the street; 'now you're provided
      for.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had some idea,' he said, 'of providing for your mother in a pleasant
      part of the country&mdash;(he had a presentation to some almshouses on the
      borders of Cornwall, which had occurred to him more than once)&mdash;but
      as you want to be together, I must do something else for her. She has a
      little money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very little,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A little will go a long way if it's used sparingly,' said Ralph. 'She
      must see how long she can make it last, living rent free. You leave your
      lodgings on Saturday?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You told us to do so, uncle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can put you into
      till it is let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I shall have
      another. You must live there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it far from here, sir?' inquired Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pretty well,' said Ralph; 'in another quarter of the town&mdash;at the
      East end; but I'll send my clerk down to you, at five o'clock on Saturday,
      to take you there. Goodbye. You know your way? Straight on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Coldly shaking his niece's hand, Ralph left her at the top of Regent
      Street, and turned down a by-thoroughfare, intent on schemes of
      money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to their lodgings in the Strand.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 11
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>ewman Noggs inducts Mrs. and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the
            City</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Nickleby's reflections, as she wended her way homewards, were of that
      desponding nature which the occurrences of the morning had been
      sufficiently calculated to awaken. Her uncle's was not a manner likely to
      dispel any doubts or apprehensions she might have formed, in the outset,
      neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame Mantalini's establishment by
      any means encouraging. It was with many gloomy forebodings and misgivings,
      therefore, that she looked forward, with a heavy heart, to the opening of
      her new career.
    </p>
    <p>
      If her mother's consolations could have restored her to a pleasanter and
      more enviable state of mind, there were abundance of them to produce the
      effect. By the time Kate reached home, the good lady had called to mind
      two authentic cases of milliners who had been possessed of considerable
      property, though whether they had acquired it all in business, or had had
      a capital to start with, or had been lucky and married to advantage, she
      could not exactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked, there
      must have been <i>some </i>young person in that way of business who had made a
      fortune without having anything to begin with, and that being taken for
      granted, why should not Kate do the same? Miss La Creevy, who was a member
      of the little council, ventured to insinuate some doubts relative to the
      probability of Miss Nickleby's arriving at this happy consummation in the
      compass of an ordinary lifetime; but the good lady set that question
      entirely at rest, by informing them that she had a presentiment on the
      subject&mdash;a species of second-sight with which she had been in the
      habit of clenching every argument with the deceased Mr. Nickleby, and, in
      nine cases and three-quarters out of every ten, determining it the wrong
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid it is an unhealthy occupation,' said Miss La Creevy. 'I
      recollect getting three young milliners to sit to me, when I first began
      to paint, and I remember that they were all very pale and sickly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that's not a general rule by any means,' observed Mrs. Nickleby; 'for
      I remember, as well as if it was only yesterday, employing one that I was
      particularly recommended to, to make me a scarlet cloak at the time when
      scarlet cloaks were fashionable, and she had a very red face&mdash;a very
      red face, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps she drank,' suggested Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know how that may have been,' returned Mrs. Nickleby: 'but I know
      she had a very red face, so your argument goes for nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did the worthy matron
      meet every little objection that presented itself to the new scheme of the
      morning. Happy Mrs. Nickleby! A project had but to be new, and it came home
      to her mind, brightly varnished and gilded as a glittering toy.
    </p>
    <p>
      This question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle's desire about the
      empty house, to which Mrs. Nickleby assented with equal readiness,
      characteristically remarking, that, on the fine evenings, it would be a
      pleasant amusement for her to walk to the West end to fetch her daughter
      home; and no less characteristically forgetting, that there were such
      things as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every
      week of the year.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be sorry&mdash;truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend,' said
      Kate, on whom the good feeling of the poor miniature painter had made a
      deep impression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall not shake me off, for all that,' replied Miss La Creevy, with
      as much sprightliness as she could assume. 'I shall see you very often,
      and come and hear how you get on; and if, in all London, or all the wide
      world besides, there is no other heart that takes an interest in your
      welfare, there will be one little lonely woman that prays for it night and
      day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, the poor soul, who had a heart big enough for Gog, the guardian
      genius of London, and enough to spare for Magog to boot, after making a
      great many extraordinary faces which would have secured her an ample
      fortune, could she have transferred them to ivory or canvas, sat down in a
      corner, and had what she termed 'a real good cry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep off the
      dreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his
      time, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiff of cordial gin through
      the keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in the neighbourhood as
      agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited for the
      last stroke, and then knocked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Mr. Ralph Nickleby,' said Newman, announcing his errand, when he got
      upstairs, with all possible brevity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall be ready directly,' said Kate. 'We have not much to carry, but I
      fear we must have a coach.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll get one,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't suffer you to think of such a thing,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't help it,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not help it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No; I thought of it as I came along; but didn't get one, thinking you
      mightn't be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, I understand you, Mr. Noggs,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Our thoughts are
      free, of course. Everybody's thoughts are their own, clearly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They wouldn't be, if some people had their way,' muttered Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, no more they would, Mr. Noggs, and that's very true,' rejoined Mrs
      Nickleby. 'Some people to be sure are such&mdash;how's your master?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with a strong emphasis
      on the last word of his answer, that Mr. Ralph Nickleby was well, and sent
      his <i>love</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure we are very much obliged to him,' observed Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' said Newman. 'I'll tell him so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no very easy matter to mistake Newman Noggs, after having once seen
      him, and as Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner (in which on
      this occasion, however, there was something respectful and even delicate,
      notwithstanding the abruptness of his speech), looked at him more closely,
      she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that strange figure
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse my curiosity,' she said, 'but did I not see you in the coachyard,
      on the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs. Nickleby and said 'No,' most
      unblushingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' exclaimed Kate, 'I should have said so anywhere.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'd have said wrong,' rejoined Newman. 'It's the first time I've been
      out for three weeks. I've had the gout.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject,
      and so Kate could not help thinking; but the conference was cut short by
      Mrs. Nickleby's insisting on having the door shut, lest Mr. Noggs should
      take cold, and further persisting in sending the servant girl for a coach,
      for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To both
      conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach came; and,
      after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running backwards and
      forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La Creevy, in the course
      of which the yellow turban came into violent contact with sundry
      foot-passengers, it (that is to say the coach, not the turban) went away
      again, with the two ladies and their luggage inside; and Newman, despite
      all Mrs. Nickleby's assurances that it would be his death&mdash;on the box
      beside the driver.
    </p>
    <p>
      They went into the city, turning down by the river side; and, after a long
      and very slow drive, the streets being crowded at that hour with vehicles
      of every kind, stopped in front of a large old dingy house in Thames
      Street: the door and windows of which were so bespattered with mud, that
      it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a key which he took
      out of his hat&mdash;in which, by-the-bye, in consequence of the
      dilapidated state of his pockets, he deposited everything, and would most
      likely have carried his money if he had had any&mdash;and the coach being
      discharged, he led the way into the interior of the mansion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and dark were the
      rooms, once so bustling with life and enterprise. There was a wharf
      behind, opening on the Thames. An empty dog-kennel, some bones of animals,
      fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks, lay strewn about, but no
      life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, 'and seems as if some
      blight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost
      inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrated within
      these old walls, and that the place had never prospered since. How
      frowning and how dark it looks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord, my dear,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, 'don't talk in that way, or you'll
      frighten me to death.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is only my foolish fancy, mama,' said Kate, forcing a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to
      yourself, and not wake up <i>my</i> foolish fancy to keep it company,' retorted
      Mrs. Nickleby. 'Why didn't you think of all this before&mdash;you are so
      careless&mdash;we might have asked Miss La Creevy to keep us company or
      borrowed a dog, or a thousand things&mdash;but it always was the way, and
      was just the same with your poor dear father. Unless I thought of
      everything&mdash;' This was Mrs. Nickleby's usual commencement of a general
      lamentation, running through a dozen or so of complicated sentences
      addressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched until
      her breath was exhausted.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0176m.jpg" alt="0176m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0176.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Newman appeared not to hear these remarks, but preceded them to a couple
      of rooms on the first floor, which some kind of attempt had been made to
      render habitable. In one, were a few chairs, a table, an old hearth-rug,
      and some faded baize; and a fire was ready laid in the grate. In the other
      stood an old tent bedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber
      furniture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, trying to be pleased, 'now isn't this
      thoughtful and considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not have had
      anything but the bed we bought yesterday, to lie down upon, if it hadn't
      been for his thoughtfulness!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very kind, indeed,' replied Kate, looking round.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture they saw,
      from attic and cellar; or that he had taken in the halfpennyworth of milk
      for tea that stood upon a shelf, or filled the rusty kettle on the hob, or
      collected the woodchips from the wharf, or begged the coals. But the
      notion of Ralph Nickleby having directed it to be done, tickled his fancy
      so much, that he could not refrain from cracking all his ten fingers in
      succession: at which performance Mrs. Nickleby was rather startled at
      first, but supposing it to be in some remote manner connected with the
      gout, did not remark upon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We need detain you no longer, I think,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there nothing I can do?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, thank you,' rejoined Miss Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Noggs would like to drink our healths,' said Mrs
      Nickleby, fumbling in her reticule for some small coin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think, mama,' said Kate hesitating, and remarking Newman's averted
      face, 'you would hurt his feelings if you offered it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs, bowing to the young lady more like a gentleman than the
      miserable wretch he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast, and, pausing
      for a moment, with the air of a man who struggles to speak but is
      uncertain what to say, quitted the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the jarring echoes of the heavy house-door, closing on its latch,
      reverberated dismally through the building, Kate felt half tempted to call
      him back, and beg him to remain a little while; but she was ashamed to own
      her fears, and Newman Noggs was on his road homewards.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 12
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span><i>hereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss
            Fanny Squeer's Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or otherwise.</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when her
      worthy papa returned home on the night of the small tea-party, he was what
      the initiated term 'too far gone' to observe the numerous tokens of
      extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly visible in her countenance.
      Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrelsome mood in his cups, it
      is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her, either on this
      or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with a foresight and
      prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose, to bear the first
      brunt of the good gentleman's anger; which, having vented itself in a
      variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to admit of his being
      persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots on, and an umbrella
      under his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according to
      custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little offices of her toilet,
      and administer as much flattery as she could get up, for the purpose; for
      Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain and frivolous
      withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only the arbitrary
      distinctions of rank and station which prevented her from being one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!' said the handmaiden. 'I
      declare if it isn't a pity and a shame to brush it out!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue!' replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all
      surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers.
      Having a half-perception of what had occurred in the course of the
      evening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable, and proceeded
      on the indirect tack.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I couldn't help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,' said
      the attendant, 'that I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price this
      night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it's very wrong in me to say so, miss,' continued the girl,
      delighted to see the impression she was making, 'Miss Price being a friend
      of your'n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and go on in such a
      manner to get noticed, that&mdash;oh&mdash;well, if people only saw
      themselves!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean, Phib?' asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own little
      glass, where, like most of us, she saw&mdash;not herself, but the
      reflection of some pleasant image in her own brain. 'How you talk!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Talk, miss! It's enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar, only to
      see how she tosses her head,' replied the handmaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She <i>does </i>toss her head,' observed Miss Squeers, with an air of
      abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So vain, and so very&mdash;very plain,' said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor 'Tilda!' sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,' pursued the
      servant. 'Oh, dear! It's positive indelicate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't allow you to talk in that way, Phib,' said Miss Squeers.
      ''Tilda's friends are low people, and if she don't know any better, it's
      their fault, and not hers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, but you know, miss,' said Phoebe, for which name 'Phib' was used as
      a patronising abbreviation, 'if she was only to take copy by a friend&mdash;oh!
      if she only knew how wrong she was, and would but set herself right by
      you, what a nice young woman she might be in time!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Phib,' rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, 'it's not proper for me
      to hear these comparisons drawn; they make 'Tilda look a coarse improper
      sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me to listen to them. I would
      rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at the same time, I must say, that
      if 'Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody&mdash;not me particularly&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes; you, miss,' interposed Phib.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,' said Miss Squeers. 'I must say,
      that if she would, she would be all the better for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,' said the girl
      mysteriously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' demanded Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind, miss,' replied the girl; 'I know what I know; that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Phib,' said Miss Squeers dramatically, 'I insist upon your explaining
      yourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, if you will have it, miss, it's this,' said the servant girl. 'Mr
      John Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn't too far gone to do it
      creditable, he'd be very glad to be off with Miss Price, and on with Miss
      Squeers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with great
      dignity. 'What is this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Truth, ma'am, and nothing but truth,' replied the artful Phib.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a situation!' cried Miss Squeers; 'on the brink of unconsciously
      destroying the peace and happiness of my own 'Tilda. What is the reason
      that men fall in love with me, whether I like it or not, and desert their
      chosen intendeds for my sake?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because they can't help it, miss,' replied the girl; 'the reason's
      plain.' (If Miss Squeers were the reason, it was very plain.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never let me hear of it again,' retorted Miss Squeers. 'Never! Do you
      hear? 'Tilda Price has faults&mdash;many faults&mdash;but I wish her well,
      and above all I wish her married; for I think it highly desirable&mdash;most
      desirable from the very nature of her failings&mdash;that she should be
      married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have Mr. Browdie. I may pity
      <i>him</i>, poor fellow; but I have a great regard for 'Tilda, and only hope she
      may make a better wife than I think she will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble of feelings,
      and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in the language. Miss
      Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts that what the miserable
      serving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying flattery, as did the girl
      herself; yet the mere opportunity of venting a little ill-nature against
      the offending Miss Price, and affecting to compassionate her weaknesses
      and foibles, though only in the presence of a solitary dependant, was
      almost as great a relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel
      truth. Nay, more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion when
      they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high-minded
      and great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie's hand, and looked
      down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness and tranquillity, that
      had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a
      reconciliation; for, when a knock came at the front-door next day, and the
      miller's daughter was announced, Miss Squeers betook herself to the
      parlour in a Christian frame of spirit, perfectly beautiful to behold.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Fanny,' said the miller's daughter, 'you see I have come to see
      you, although we <i>had </i>some words last night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pity your bad passions, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'but I bear no
      malice. I am above it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be cross, Fanny,' said Miss Price. 'I have come to tell you
      something that I know will please you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What may that be, 'Tilda?' demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her lips,
      and looking as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could afford her
      the slightest gleam of satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' rejoined Miss Price. 'After we left here last night John and I had
      a dreadful quarrel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That doesn't please me,' said Miss Squeers&mdash;relaxing into a smile
      though.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lor! I wouldn't think so bad of you as to suppose it did,' rejoined her
      companion. 'That's not it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy. 'Go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After a great deal of wrangling, and saying we would never see each other
      any more,' continued Miss Price, 'we made it up, and this morning John
      went and wrote our names down to be put up, for the first time, next
      Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and I give you notice to
      get your frock made.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. The prospect of the
      friend's being married so soon was the gall, and the certainty of her not
      entertaining serious designs upon Nicholas was the honey. Upon the whole,
      the sweet greatly preponderated over the bitter, so Miss Squeers said she
      would get the frock made, and that she hoped 'Tilda might be happy, though
      at the same time she didn't know, and would not have her build too much
      upon it, for men were strange creatures, and a great many married women
      were very miserable, and wished themselves single again with all their
      hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers added others equally calculated
      to raise her friend's spirits and promote her cheerfulness of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But come now, Fanny,' said Miss Price, 'I want to have a word or two with
      you about young Mr. Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is nothing to me,' interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical symptoms.
      'I despise him too much!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you don't mean that, I am sure?' replied her friend. 'Confess, Fanny;
      don't you like him now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell into a
      paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a wretched,
      neglected, miserable castaway.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hate everybody,' said Miss Squeers, 'and I wish that everybody was dead&mdash;that
      I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear, dear,' said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal of
      misanthropical sentiments. 'You are not serious, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I am,' rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her
      pocket-handkerchief and clenching her teeth. 'And I wish I was dead too.
      There!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! you'll think very differently in another five minutes,' said Matilda.
      'How much better to take him into favour again, than to hurt yourself by
      going on in that way. Wouldn't it be much nicer, now, to have him all to
      yourself on good terms, in a company-keeping, love-making, pleasant sort
      of manner?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know but what it would,' sobbed Miss Squeers. 'Oh! 'Tilda, how
      could you have acted so mean and dishonourable! I wouldn't have believed
      it of you, if anybody had told me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heyday!' exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. 'One would suppose I had been
      murdering somebody at least.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very nigh as bad,' said Miss Squeers passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make people
      civil to me,' cried Miss Price. 'Persons don't make their own faces, and
      it's no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other people's
      fault if theirs is a bad one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue,' shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone; 'or
      you'll make me slap you, 'Tilda, and afterwards I should be sorry for it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young lady
      was in some slight degree affected by the tone of her conversation, and
      that a dash of personality was infused into the altercation, in
      consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a
      considerable height, and was assuming a very violent complexion, when both
      parties, falling into a great passion of tears, exclaimed simultaneously,
      that they had never thought of being spoken to in that way: which
      exclamation, leading to a remonstrance, gradually brought on an
      explanation: and the upshot was, that they fell into each other's arms and
      vowed eternal friendship; the occasion in question making the fifty-second
      time of repeating the same impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued upon
      the number and nature of the garments which would be indispensable for
      Miss Price's entrance into the holy state of matrimony, when Miss Squeers
      clearly showed that a great many more than the miller could, or would,
      afford, were absolutely necessary, and could not decently be dispensed
      with. The young lady then, by an easy digression, led the discourse to her
      own wardrobe, and after recounting its principal beauties at some length,
      took her friend upstairs to make inspection thereof. The treasures of two
      drawers and a closet having been displayed, and all the smaller articles
      tried on, it was time for Miss Price to return home; and as she had been
      in raptures with all the frocks, and had been stricken quite dumb with
      admiration of a new pink scarf, Miss Squeers said in high good humour,
      that she would walk part of the way with her, for the pleasure of her
      company; and off they went together: Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked
      along, upon her father's accomplishments: and multiplying his income by
      ten, to give her friend some faint notion of the vast importance and
      superiority of her family.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily interval
      which was suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly called the dinner
      of Mr. Squeers's pupils, and their return to the pursuit of useful
      knowledge, was precisely the hour when Nicholas was accustomed to issue
      forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered listlessly
      through the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this
      perfectly well, but had perhaps forgotten it, for when she caught sight of
      that young gentleman advancing towards them, she evinced many symptoms of
      surprise and consternation, and assured her friend that she 'felt fit to
      drop into the earth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?' asked Miss Price. 'He don't
      see us yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'it is my duty to go through with it,
      and I will!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high moral
      resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and catchings
      of breath, indicative of feelings at a high pressure, her friend made no
      further remark, and they bore straight down upon Nicholas, who, walking
      with his eyes bent upon the ground, was not aware of their approach until
      they were close upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken shelter
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning,' said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is going,' murmured Miss Squeers. 'I shall choke, 'Tilda.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do!' cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at her
      friend's threat, but really actuated by a malicious wish to hear what
      Nicholas would say; 'come back, Mr. Nickleby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he inquired
      whether the ladies had any commands for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't stop to talk,' urged Miss Price, hastily; 'but support her on the
      other side. How do you feel now, dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Better,' sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of a reddish brown
      with a green veil attached, on Mr. Nickleby's shoulder. 'This foolish
      faintness!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't call it foolish, dear,' said Miss Price: her bright eye dancing
      with merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; 'you have no reason
      to be ashamed of it. It's those who are too proud to come round again,
      without all this to-do, that ought to be ashamed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,' said Nicholas, smiling,
      'although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,' remarked the wicked Miss
      Price. 'Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it
      was not his fault. You hear; I think that's apology enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will not understand me,' said Nicholas. 'Pray dispense with this
      jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to be the subject
      or promoter of mirth just now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't ask him, 'Tilda,' cried Miss Squeers; 'I forgive him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me,' said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder
      again, 'this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have the
      goodness to hear me speak?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned
      astonishment a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a
      few paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden, and went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry&mdash;truly and sincerely sorry&mdash;for having been the
      cause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself, most
      bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the dissension that
      occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and
      heedlessly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; that's not all you have got to say surely,' exclaimed Miss Price as
      Nicholas paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear there is something more,' stammered Nicholas with a half-smile,
      and looking towards Miss Squeers, 'it is a most awkward thing to say&mdash;but&mdash;the
      very mention of such a supposition makes one look like a puppy&mdash;still&mdash;may
      I ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any&mdash;in short, does she
      think that I am in love with her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Delightful embarrassment,' thought Miss Squeers, 'I have brought him to
      it, at last. Answer for me, dear,' she whispered to her friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does she think so?' rejoined Miss Price; 'of course she does.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She does!' exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as might have
      been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' replied Miss Price
    </p>
    <p>
      'If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, 'Tilda,' said the blushing Miss Squeers
      in soft accents, 'he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments are recipro&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop,' cried Nicholas hurriedly; 'pray hear me. This is the grossest and
      wildest delusion, the completest and most signal mistake, that ever human
      being laboured under, or committed. I have scarcely seen the young lady
      half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am destined to
      see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely the same. I
      have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her, unless it be&mdash;and
      I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the real
      state of my own&mdash;unless it be the one object, dear to my heart as
      life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon this accursed
      place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it&mdash;even think of
      it&mdash;but with loathing and disgust.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which he
      made with all the vehemence that his indignant and excited feelings could
      bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more, retreated.
    </p>
    <p>
      But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid succession
      of bitter and passionate feelings that whirled through her mind; are not
      to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked up by
      advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at indefinite
      periods, and 'found' in food and lodging like the very boys themselves;
      and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller's daughter of
      eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks' time, to a man who
      had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have choked in right
      good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and that
      was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness of mind
      and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of Squeers. And
      there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in every day she
      could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction of some slight, or
      insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some effect on the most
      insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so sensitive as
      Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind, Miss Squeers
      made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing that Mr. Nickleby
      was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper, that she feared
      she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her
      affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything
      better, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously
      contemplated the possibility of his being of a different opinion from
      herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing
      and beautiful, and that her father was master, and Nicholas man, and that
      her father had saved money, and Nicholas had none, all of which seemed to
      her conclusive arguments why the young man should feel only too much
      honoured by her preference. She had not failed to recollect, either, how
      much more agreeable she could render his situation if she were his friend,
      and how much more disagreeable if she were his enemy; and, doubtless, many
      less scrupulous young gentlemen than Nicholas would have encouraged her
      extravagance had it been only for this very obvious and intelligible
      reason. However, he had thought proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers
      was outrageous.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let him see,' said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her
      own room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, 'if I don't
      set mother against him a little more when she comes back!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as her
      word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging, and the
      being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid misery, was
      treated with every special indignity that malice could suggest, or the
      most grasping cupidity put upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which
      made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and
      cruelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken kindly
      to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an
      ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little wants
      as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near him. He
      would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face; and a
      word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a passing
      gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an object now;
      and that object was, to show his attachment to the only person&mdash;that
      person a stranger&mdash;who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but
      like a human creature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be
      vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been
      nothing&mdash;Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without
      cause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also he had
      served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner observed that
      he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and
      blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers was
      jealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, and his
      family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, and ground his
      teeth at every repetition of the savage and cowardly attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as he
      paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost bursting
      to think that his protection and countenance should have increased the
      misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution had awakened his
      pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of his
      thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of
      recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some task
      which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers, could have
      conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the crushed boy of
      nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently
      conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he
      was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects that congregated
      about him, but inspired by the one eager desire to please his solitary
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't do it,' said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter
      disappointment in every feature. 'No, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not try,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked vacantly
      round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not for God's sake,' said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; 'I cannot
      bear to see you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are more hard with me than ever,' sobbed the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it,' rejoined Nicholas. 'They are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But for you,' said the outcast, 'I should die. They would kill me; they
      would; I know they would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will do better, poor fellow,' replied Nicholas, shaking his head
      mournfully, 'when I am gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gone!' cried the other, looking intently in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Softly!' rejoined Nicholas. 'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you going?' demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot say,' replied Nicholas. 'I was speaking more to my own thoughts,
      than to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me,' said the boy imploringly, 'oh do tell me, <i>will </i>you go&mdash;<i>will</i>
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be driven to that at last!' said Nicholas. 'The world is before
      me, after all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me,' urged Smike, 'is the world as bad and dismal as this place?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heaven forbid,' replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own thoughts;
      'its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Should I ever meet you there?' demanded the boy, speaking with unusual
      wildness and volubility.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no!' said the other, clasping him by the hand. 'Should I&mdash;should
      I&mdash;tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would,' replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, 'and I
      would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy caught both the young man's hands passionately in his, and,
      hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were
      unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his
      old corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 13
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and
            remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the windows
      of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself on his arm,
      looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as
      though in search of some particular object.
    </p>
    <p>
      It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of sleepers,
      the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed together,
      covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched and ragged clothes, little
      could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale faces, over which
      the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour; with, here and there, a
      gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully
      exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying
      on their backs with upturned faces and clenched hands, just visible in the
      leaden light, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of living
      creatures; and there were others coiled up into strange and fantastic
      postures, such as might have been taken for the uneasy efforts of pain to
      gain some temporary relief, rather than the freaks of slumber. A few&mdash;and
      these were among the youngest of the children&mdash;slept peacefully on,
      with smiles upon their faces, dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and again
      a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that
      some new sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day; and, as
      morning took the place of night, the smiles gradually faded away, with the
      friendly darkness which had given them birth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in
      the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights
      grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who gazes
      upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its sorrowful
      effect in consequence; and, afterwards, with a more intense and searching
      scrutiny, as a man would who missed something his eye was accustomed to
      meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this search,
      and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his quest, when the
      voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then,' cried that gentleman, 'are you going to sleep all day, up
      there&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You lazy hounds?' added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sentence, and
      producing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which is occasioned
      by the lacing of stays.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall be down directly, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Down directly!' said Squeers. 'Ah! you had better be down directly, or
      I'll be down upon some of you in less. Where's that Smike?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Smike!' shouted Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?' demanded his
      amiable lady in the same key.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did the
      greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Confound his impudence!' muttered Squeers, rapping the stair-rail
      impatiently with his cane. 'Nickleby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't you hear me calling?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is not here, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't tell me a lie,' retorted the schoolmaster. 'He is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is not,' retorted Nicholas angrily, 'don't tell me one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall soon see that,' said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. 'I'll find
      him, I warrant you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which assurance, Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and, swinging
      his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner where the
      lean body of the drudge was usually stretched at night. The cane descended
      harmlessly upon the ground. There was nobody there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does this mean?' said Squeers, turning round with a very pale face.
      'Where have you hid him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have seen nothing of him since last night,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeavoured to look
      otherwise, 'you won't save him this way. Where is he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,' rejoined Nicholas in
      a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Damn you, what do you mean by that?' retorted Squeers in great
      perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys whether
      any one among them knew anything of their missing schoolmate.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which, one
      shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):
    </p>
    <p>
      'Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' cried Squeers, turning sharp round. 'Who said that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tomkins, please sir,' rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. Squeers made a
      plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very little boy, habited
      still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression of whose
      countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed to intimate that he was as
      yet uncertain whether he was about to be punished or rewarded for the
      suggestion. He was not long in doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You think he has run away, do you, sir?' demanded Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, please sir,' replied the little boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what, sir,' said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly by the
      arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterous manner, 'what reason
      have you to suppose that any boy would want to run away from this
      establishment? Eh, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr. Squeers, throwing
      himself into the most favourable attitude for exercising his strength,
      beat him until the little urchin in his writhings actually rolled out of
      his hands, when he mercifully allowed him to roll away, as he best could.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said Squeers. 'Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away, I
      shall be glad to have a talk with him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed his
      disgust as plainly as looks could show it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Nickleby,' said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. '<i>You </i>think he has
      run away, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it extremely likely,' replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you do, do you?' sneered Squeers. 'Maybe you know he has?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know nothing of the kind.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?' sneered Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He did not,' replied Nicholas; 'I am very glad he did not, for it would
      then have been my duty to have warned you in time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,' said Squeers in
      a taunting fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'You interpret my feelings with great
      accuracy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottom of the
      stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed her
      night-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's all this here to-do?' said the lady, as the boys fell off right
      and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny
      arms. 'What on earth are you a talking to him for, Squeery!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, my dear,' said Squeers, 'the fact is, that Smike is not to be
      found.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I know that,' said the lady, 'and where's the wonder? If you get a
      parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the young dogs a rebelling,
      what else can you look for? Now, young man, you just have the kindness to
      take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take the boys off with you, and
      don't you stir out of there till you have leave given you, or you and I
      may fall out in a way that'll spoil your beauty, handsome as you think
      yourself, and so I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,' said the excited
      lady; 'and I wouldn't keep such as you in the house another hour, if I had
      my way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor would you if I had mine,' replied Nicholas. 'Now, boys!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Now, boys,' said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as she could, the
      voice and manner of the usher. 'Follow your leader, boys, and take pattern
      by Smike if you dare. See what he'll get for himself, when he is brought
      back; and, mind! I tell you that you shall have as bad, and twice as bad,
      if you so much as open your mouths about him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I catch him,' said Squeers, 'I'll only stop short of flaying him
      alive. I give you notice, boys.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>If</i> you catch him,' retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuously; 'you are sure
      to; you can't help it, if you go the right way to work. Come! Away with
      you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and after a little light
      skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressing forward to get out of
      the way, but were detained for a few moments by the throng in front,
      succeeded in clearing the room, when she confronted her spouse alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is off,' said Mrs. Squeers. 'The cow-house and stable are locked up, so
      he can't be there; and he's not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has
      looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why must he?' inquired Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stupid!' said Mrs. Squeers angrily. 'He hadn't any money, had he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,' replied
      Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, 'and he didn't take anything to eat
      with him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, of course,' said Mrs. S., 'he must beg his way, and he could do
      that, nowhere, but on the public road.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's true,' exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I
      hadn't said so,' replied his wife. 'Now, if you take the chaise and go one
      road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise, and go the other, what with keeping
      our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is pretty certain
      to lay hold of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a moment's
      delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some inquiries
      in the village, the result of which seemed to show that he was on the
      right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon
      discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the
      white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, issued
      forth in another chaise and another direction, taking with her a
      good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout
      labouring man: all provided and carried upon the expedition, with the sole
      object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the safe
      custody of the unfortunate Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever
      might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and
      deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want and
      exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from the
      protracted wandering of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and
      unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was
      little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender
      mercies of the Yorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a
      hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the
      prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on, in
      restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening of
      next day, when Squeers returned, alone, and unsuccessful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No news of the scamp!' said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been
      stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the
      journey. 'I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs
      Squeers don't hunt him down; so I give you warning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not in my power to console you, sir,' said Nicholas. 'It is nothing
      to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't it?' said Squeers in a threatening manner. 'We shall see!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home with
      a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,' said
      Squeers; 'who's to pay for that, do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you,' said Squeers, his usual harsh
      crafty manner changed to open bullying 'None of your whining vapourings
      here, Mr. Puppy, but be off to your kennel, for it's past your bedtime!
      Come! Get out!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his fingerends
      tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man was drunk, and
      that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented himself with
      darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and walked, as majestically as
      he could, upstairs: not a little nettled, however, to observe that Miss
      Squeers and Master Squeers, and the servant girl, were enjoying the scene
      from a snug corner; the two former indulging in many edifying remarks
      about the presumption of poor upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of
      laughter, in which even the most miserable of all miserable servant girls
      joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his head such
      bedclothes as he had, and sternly resolved that the outstanding account
      between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than
      the latter anticipated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the wheels
      of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs. Squeers
      was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody,
      which was in itself a sufficient sign that something extraordinary had
      happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window; but he did so,
      and the very first object that met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so
      bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but for
      his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might
      have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lift him out,' said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes, in
      silence, upon the culprit. 'Bring him in; bring him in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take care,' cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance.
      'We tied his legs under the apron and made'em fast to the chaise, to
      prevent his giving us the slip again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and Smike,
      to all appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the house and
      securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers should deem
      it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the assembled school.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may be matter of
      surprise to some persons, that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so
      much trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of which it was
      their wont to complain so loudly; but their surprise will cease when they
      are informed that the manifold services of the drudge, if performed by
      anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve
      shillings per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, that all
      runaways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of, at
      Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of its
      attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful impulse
      of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs and the
      power of using them, to remain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran like
      wild-fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all
      the morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until
      afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner, and
      further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
      appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of
      portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,
      supple, wax-ended, and new,&mdash;in short, purchased that morning,
      expressly for the occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is every boy here?' asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers glared
      along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and every head
      cowered down, as he did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Each boy keep his place,' said Squeers, administering his favourite blow
      to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start
      which it never failed to occasion. 'Nickleby! to your desk, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very
      curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat,
      without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at
      his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys, left
      the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar&mdash;or
      rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where
      his collar would have been, had he boasted such a decoration.
    </p>
    <p>
      In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
      object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It
      had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their
      seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,
      expressive of indignation and pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
      luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases, whether
      he had anything to say for himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, I suppose?' said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas, as
      if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you anything to say?' demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm
      two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. 'Stand a little
      out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Spare me, sir!' cried Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that's all, is it?' said Squeers. 'Yes, I'll flog you within an inch
      of your life, and spare you that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed Mrs. Squeers, 'that's a good 'un!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was driven to do it,' said Smike faintly; and casting another imploring
      look about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Driven to do it, were you?' said Squeers. 'Oh! it wasn't your fault; it
      was mine, I suppose&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,'
      exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm, and
      administering a cuff at every epithet; 'what does he mean by that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stand aside, my dear,' replied Squeers. 'We'll try and find out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers
      caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his
      body&mdash;he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain&mdash;it
      was raised again, and again about to fall&mdash;when Nicholas Nickleby,
      suddenly starting up, cried 'Stop!' in a voice that made the rafters ring.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who cried stop?' said Squeers, turning savagely round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I,' said Nicholas, stepping forward. 'This must not go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Must not go on!' cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' thundered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released
      his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas
      with looks that were positively frightful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say must not,' repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; 'shall not. I will
      prevent it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his
      head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's
      behalf,' said Nicholas; 'you have returned no answer to the letter in
      which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he
      would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference.
      You have brought it upon yourself; not I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down, beggar!' screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and
      seizing Smike as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wretch,' rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, 'touch him at your peril! I will
      not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of
      ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you,
      if you drive me on!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stand back,' cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have a long series of insults to avenge,' said Nicholas, flushed with
      passion; 'and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties
      practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you do
      raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon your
      own head!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0197m.jpg" alt="0197m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0197.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, and
      with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a
      blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised up a bar
      of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow,
      and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn,
      and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his
      hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for
      mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boys&mdash;with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his
      father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear&mdash;moved not, hand
      or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail
      of her partner's coat, and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated
      adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in
      expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of
      the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's head,
      beat Nicholas to her heart's content; animating herself, at every blow,
      with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, and thus
      imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after her
      mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of the weakest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more than
      if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the noise and
      uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw all his
      remaining strength into half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers
      from him with all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall
      precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form; and Squeers
      striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the
      ground, stunned and motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to his
      thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon
      which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his
      family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he had better
      adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room, but he
      was nowhere to be seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small
      leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress,
      marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortly afterwards, struck into
      the road which led to Greta Bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his present
      circumstances some little reflection, they did not appear in a very
      encouraging light; he had only four shillings and a few pence in his
      pocket, and was something more than two hundred and fifty miles from
      London, whither he resolved to direct his steps, that he might ascertain,
      among other things, what account of the morning's proceedings Mr. Squeers
      transmitted to his most affectionate uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that there was no
      remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld a horseman coming
      towards him, whom, on nearer approach, he discovered, to his infinite
      chagrin, to be no other than Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in cords and
      leather leggings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash
      stick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout sapling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am in no mood for more noise and riot,' thought Nicholas, 'and yet, do
      what I will, I shall have an altercation with this honest blockhead, and
      perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such a result would
      follow from the encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas
      advancing, than he reined in his horse by the footpath, and waited until
      such time as he should come up; looking meanwhile, very sternly between
      the horse's ears, at Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Servant, young genelman,' said John.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel; we ha' met at last,' observed John, making the stirrup ring under a
      smart touch of the ash stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Nicholas, hesitating. 'Come!' he said, frankly, after a
      moment's pause, 'we parted on no very good terms the last time we met; it
      was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention of offending you, and no
      idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it, afterwards. Will you
      shake hands?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shake honds!' cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; 'ah! that I weel;' at
      the same time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas's fist a
      huge wrench: 'but wa'at be the matther wi' thy feace, mun? it be all
      brokken loike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a cut,' said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke,&mdash;'a blow;
      but I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Noa, did 'ee though?' exclaimed John Browdie. 'Well deane! I loike 'un
      for thot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The fact is,' said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the
      avowal, 'the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Noa!' interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a
      giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, in his eyes,
      seemed a mere dwarf; 'dean't say thot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I have,' replied Nicholas, 'by that man Squeers, and I have beaten
      him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse
      quite shied at it. 'Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten the
      schoolmeasther! who ever heard o' the loike o' that noo! Giv' us thee hond
      agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov' thee
      for't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed and laughed again&mdash;so
      loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing but jovial peals of
      merriment&mdash;and shook Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no less
      heartily. When his mirth had subsided, he inquired what Nicholas meant to
      do; on his informing him, to go straight to London, he shook his head
      doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches charged to carry
      passengers so far.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I do not,' said Nicholas; 'but it is of no great consequence to me,
      for I intend walking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gang awa' to Lunnun afoot!' cried John, in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every step of the way,' replied Nicholas. 'I should be many steps further
      on by this time, and so goodbye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay noo,' replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient horse,
      'stan' still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not much,' said Nicholas, colouring, 'but I can make it enough. Where
      there's a will, there's a way, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand in
      his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted that
      Nicholas should borrow from him whatever he required for his present
      necessities.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dean't be afeard, mun,' he said; 'tak' eneaf to carry thee whoam. Thee'lt
      pay me yan day, a' warrant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a
      sovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties that he would
      accept of more (observing, with a touch of Yorkshire caution, that if he
      didn't spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he had an
      opportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tak' that bit o' timber to help thee on wi', mun,' he added, pressing his
      stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; 'keep a good
      heart, and bless thee. Beatten the schoolmeasther! 'Cod it's the best
      thing a've heerd this twonty year!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been expected
      from him, in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of avoiding
      the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, John Browdie set spurs to his
      horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking back, from time to time, as
      Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to
      encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider until they
      disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set forward on his
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly dark,
      and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered the way
      toilsome, but the track uncertain and difficult to find, after daylight,
      save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a cottage, where
      beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of travellers; and,
      rising betimes next morning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge.
      Passing through that town in search of some cheap resting-place, he
      stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred yards of the
      roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary limbs, and
      soon fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had
      been all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up,
      rubbed his eyes and stared&mdash;not with the most composed countenance
      possible&mdash;at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed
      within a few yards in front of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Strange!' cried Nicholas; 'can this be some lingering creation of the
      visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real&mdash;and yet I&mdash;I
      am awake! Smike!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet. It
      was Smike indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you kneel to me?' said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To go with you&mdash;anywhere&mdash;everywhere&mdash;to the world's end&mdash;to
      the churchyard grave,' replied Smike, clinging to his hand. 'Let me, oh do
      let me. You are my home&mdash;my kind friend&mdash;take me with you,
      pray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am a friend who can do little for you,' said Nicholas, kindly. 'How
      came you here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way;
      had watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and had
      feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not intended
      to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he looked for,
      and he had had no time to conceal himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, 'your hard fate denies you any friend but
      one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'May I&mdash;may I go with you?' asked Smike, timidly. 'I will be your
      faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,' added
      the poor creature, drawing his rags together; 'these will do very well. I
      only want to be near you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you shall,' cried Nicholas. 'And the world shall deal by you as it
      does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking his
      stick in one hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and so they
      passed out of the old barn, together.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 14
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span><i>aving the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily
            of a Mean and Vulgar Character</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is a
      bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two irregular rows of tall meagre
      houses, which seem to have stared each other out of countenance years ago.
      The very chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy, from having
      had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the way. Their tops
      are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and, here and there,
      some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to one side, and
      toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking revenge for half a
      century's neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of the garrets beneath.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and
      thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt, and
      which any country cock or hen would be puzzled to understand, are
      perfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners. Dingy,
      ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring
      children, to get a livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to
      stone, in forlorn search of some hidden eatable in the mud, and can
      scarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything approaching
      to a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker's; and even he is hoarse, in
      consequence of bad living in his last place.
    </p>
    <p>
      To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time,
      tenanted by persons of better condition than their present occupants; but
      they are now let off, by the week, in floors or rooms, and every door has
      almost as many plates or bell-handles as there are apartments within. The
      windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified in appearance,
      being ornamented with every variety of common blind and curtain that can
      easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up, and rendered nearly
      impassable, by a motley collection of children and porter pots of all
      sizes, from the baby in arms and the half-pint pot, to the full-grown girl
      and half-gallon can.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought dirtier
      than any of its neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles, children,
      and porter pots, and caught in all its freshness the first gust of the
      thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a large brewery
      hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one room to let within
      its walls, though on what story the vacant room could be&mdash;regard
      being had to the outward tokens of many lodgers which the whole front
      displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the flower-pots on the
      parapet&mdash;it would have been beyond the power of a calculating boy to
      discover.
    </p>
    <p>
      The common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a curious
      visitor who had to climb his way to the top, might have observed that
      there were not wanting indications of the progressive poverty of the
      inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the first-floor lodgers,
      being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table&mdash;real mahogany&mdash;on
      the landing-place outside, which was only taken in, when occasion
      required. On the second story, the spare furniture dwindled down to a
      couple of old deal chairs, of which one, belonging to the back-room, was
      shorn of a leg, and bottomless. The story above, boasted no greater excess
      than a worm-eaten wash-tub; and the garret landing-place displayed no
      costlier articles than two crippled pitchers, and some broken
      blacking-bottles.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on this garret landing-place that a hard-featured square-faced man,
      elderly and shabby, stopped to unlock the door of the front attic, into
      which, having surmounted the task of turning the rusty key in its still
      more rusty wards, he walked with the air of legal owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he took off with
      his hat, and hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a dirty cotton
      nightcap, and groped about in the dark till he found a remnant of candle,
      he knocked at the partition which divided the two garrets, and inquired,
      in a loud voice, whether Mr. Noggs had a light.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster, and it
      seemed moreover as though the speaker had uttered them from the interior
      of a mug or other drinking vessel; but they were in the voice of Newman,
      and conveyed a reply in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A nasty night, Mr. Noggs!' said the man in the nightcap, stepping in to
      light his candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it rain?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does it?' replied the other pettishly. 'I am wet through.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It doesn't take much to wet you and me through, Mr. Crowl,' said Newman,
      laying his hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,' observed Mr. Crowl, in the
      same pettish tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harsh countenance was
      the very epitome of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out of the
      grate, and, emptying the glass which Noggs had pushed towards him,
      inquired where he kept his coals.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and Mr. Crowl, seizing
      the shovel, threw on half the stock: which Noggs very deliberately took
      off again, without saying a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have not turned saving, at this time of day, I hope?' said Crowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman pointed to the empty glass, as though it were a sufficient
      refutation of the charge, and briefly said that he was going downstairs to
      supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the Kenwigses?' asked Crowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman nodded assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think of that now!' said Crowl. 'If I didn't&mdash;thinking that you were
      certain not to go, because you said you wouldn't&mdash;tell Kenwigs I
      couldn't come, and make up my mind to spend the evening with you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was obliged to go,' said Newman. 'They would have me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; but what's to become of me?' urged the selfish man, who never
      thought of anybody else. 'It's all your fault. I'll tell you what&mdash;I'll
      sit by your fire till you come back again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman cast a despairing glance at his small store of fuel, but, not
      having the courage to say no&mdash;a word which in all his life he never
      had said at the right time, either to himself or anyone else&mdash;gave
      way to the proposed arrangement. Mr. Crowl immediately went about making
      himself as comfortable, with Newman Nogg's means, as circumstances would
      admit of his being made.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lodgers to whom Crowl had made allusion under the designation of 'the
      Kenwigses,' were the wife and olive branches of one Mr. Kenwigs, a turner
      in ivory, who was looked upon as a person of some consideration on the
      premises, inasmuch as he occupied the whole of the first floor, comprising
      a suite of two rooms. Mrs. Kenwigs, too, was quite a lady in her manners,
      and of a very genteel family, having an uncle who collected a water-rate;
      besides which distinction, the two eldest of her little girls went twice a
      week to a dancing school in the neighbourhood, and had flaxen hair, tied
      with blue ribbons, hanging in luxuriant pigtails down their backs; and
      wore little white trousers with frills round the ankles&mdash;for all of
      which reasons, and many more equally valid but too numerous to mention,
      Mrs. Kenwigs was considered a very desirable person to know, and was the
      constant theme of all the gossips in the street, and even three or four
      doors round the corner at both ends.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the anniversary of that happy day on which the Church of England as
      by law established, had bestowed Mrs. Kenwigs upon Mr. Kenwigs; and in
      grateful commemoration of the same, Mrs. Kenwigs had invited a few select
      friends to cards and a supper in the first floor, and had put on a new
      gown to receive them in: which gown, being of a flaming colour and made
      upon a juvenile principle, was so successful that Mr. Kenwigs said the
      eight years of matrimony and the five children seemed all a dream, and Mrs
      Kenwigs younger and more blooming than on the very first Sunday he had
      kept company with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beautiful as Mrs. Kenwigs looked when she was dressed though, and so
      stately that you would have supposed she had a cook and housemaid at
      least, and nothing to do but order them about, she had a world of trouble
      with the preparations; more, indeed, than she, being of a delicate and
      genteel constitution, could have sustained, had not the pride of
      housewifery upheld her. At last, however, all the things that had to be
      got together were got together, and all the things that had to be got out
      of the way were got out of the way, and everything was ready, and the
      collector himself having promised to come, fortune smiled upon the
      occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The party was admirably selected. There were, first of all, Mr. Kenwigs and
      Mrs. Kenwigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat up to supper; firstly,
      because it was but right that they should have a treat on such a day; and
      secondly, because their going to bed, in presence of the company, would
      have been inconvenient, not to say improper. Then, there was a young lady
      who had made Mrs. Kenwigs's dress, and who&mdash;it was the most convenient
      thing in the world&mdash;living in the two-pair back, gave up her bed to
      the baby, and got a little girl to watch it. Then, to match this young
      lady, was a young man, who had known Mr. Kenwigs when he was a bachelor,
      and was much esteemed by the ladies, as bearing the reputation of a rake.
      To these were added a newly-married couple, who had visited Mr. and Mrs
      Kenwigs in their courtship; and a sister of Mrs. Kenwigs's, who was quite a
      beauty; besides whom, there was another young man, supposed to entertain
      honourable designs upon the lady last mentioned; and Mr. Noggs, who was a
      genteel person to ask, because he had been a gentleman once. There were
      also an elderly lady from the back-parlour, and one more young lady, who,
      next to the collector, perhaps was the great lion of the party, being the
      daughter of a theatrical fireman, who 'went on' in the pantomime, and had
      the greatest turn for the stage that was ever known, being able to sing
      and recite in a manner that brought the tears into Mrs. Kenwigs's eyes.
      There was only one drawback upon the pleasure of seeing such friends, and
      that was, that the lady in the back-parlour, who was very fat, and turned
      of sixty, came in a low book-muslin dress and short kid gloves, which so
      exasperated Mrs. Kenwigs, that that lady assured her visitors, in private,
      that if it hadn't happened that the supper was cooking at the back-parlour
      grate at that moment, she certainly would have requested its
      representative to withdraw.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'wouldn't it be better to begin a round game?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenwigs, my dear,' returned his wife, 'I am surprised at you. Would you
      begin without my uncle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I forgot the collector,' said Kenwigs; 'oh no, that would never do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's so particular,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, turning to the other married lady,
      'that if we began without him, I should be out of his will for ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear!' cried the married lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've no idea what he is,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs; 'and yet as good a
      creature as ever breathed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The kindest-hearted man as ever was,' said Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It goes to his heart, I believe, to be forced to cut the water off, when
      the people don't pay,' observed the bachelor friend, intending a joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George,' said Mr. Kenwigs, solemnly, 'none of that, if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was only my joke,' said the friend, abashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George,' rejoined Mr. Kenwigs, 'a joke is a wery good thing&mdash;a wery
      good thing&mdash;but when that joke is made at the expense of Mrs
      Kenwigs's feelings, I set my face against it. A man in public life expects
      to be sneered at&mdash;it is the fault of his elewated sitiwation, and not
      of himself. Mrs. Kenwigs's relation is a public man, and that he knows,
      George, and that he can bear; but putting Mrs. Kenwigs out of the question
      (if I <i>could </i>put Mrs. Kenwigs out of the question on such an occasion as
      this), I have the honour to be connected with the collector by marriage;
      and I cannot allow these remarks in my&mdash;' Mr. Kenwigs was going to say
      'house,' but he rounded the sentence with 'apartments'.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the conclusion of these observations, which drew forth evidences of
      acute feeling from Mrs. Kenwigs, and had the intended effect of impressing
      the company with a deep sense of the collector's dignity, a ring was heard
      at the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's him,' whispered Mr. Kenwigs, greatly excited. 'Morleena, my dear,
      run down and let your uncle in, and kiss him directly you get the door
      open. Hem! Let's be talking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Adopting Mr. Kenwigs's suggestion, the company spoke very loudly, to look
      easy and unembarrassed; and almost as soon as they had begun to do so, a
      short old gentleman in drabs and gaiters, with a face that might have been
      carved out of <i>Lignum Vitae</i>, for anything that appeared to the contrary,
      was led playfully in by Miss Morleena Kenwigs, regarding whose uncommon
      Christian name it may be here remarked that it had been invented and
      composed by Mrs. Kenwigs previous to her first lying-in, for the special
      distinction of her eldest child, in case it should prove a daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, uncle, I am <i>so</i> glad to see you,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the
      collector affectionately on both cheeks. 'So glad!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many happy returns of the day, my dear,' replied the collector, returning
      the compliment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, this was an interesting thing. Here was a collector of water-rates,
      without his book, without his pen and ink, without his double knock,
      without his intimidation, kissing&mdash;actually kissing&mdash;an
      agreeable female, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices that he had
      called, or announcements that he would never call again, for two quarters'
      due, wholly out of the question. It was pleasant to see how the company
      looked on, quite absorbed in the sight, and to behold the nods and winks
      with which they expressed their gratification at finding so much humanity
      in a tax-gatherer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where will you sit, uncle?' said Mrs. Kenwigs, in the full glow of family
      pride, which the appearance of her distinguished relation occasioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anywheres, my dear,' said the collector, 'I am not particular.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not particular! What a meek collector! If he had been an author, who knew
      his place, he couldn't have been more humble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, addressing the collector, 'some friends
      here, sir, are very anxious for the honour of&mdash;thank you&mdash;Mr. and
      Mrs. Cutler, Mr. Lillyvick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Proud to know you, sir,' said Mr. Cutler; 'I've heerd of you very often.'
      These were not mere words of ceremony; for, Mr. Cutler, having kept house
      in Mr. Lillyvick's parish, had heard of him very often indeed. His
      attention in calling had been quite extraordinary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'George, you know, I think, Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs; 'lady from
      downstairs&mdash;Mr. Lillyvick. Mr. Snewkes&mdash;Mr. Lillyvick. Miss Green&mdash;Mr
      Lillyvick. Mr. Lillyvick&mdash;Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury
      Lane. Very glad to make two public characters acquainted! Mrs. Kenwigs, my
      dear, will you sort the counters?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Kenwigs, with the assistance of Newman Noggs, (who, as he performed
      sundry little acts of kindness for the children, at all times and seasons,
      was humoured in his request to be taken no notice of, and was merely
      spoken about, in a whisper, as the decayed gentleman), did as he was
      desired; and the greater part of the guests sat down to speculation, while
      Newman himself, Mrs. Kenwigs, and Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal Drury
      Lane, looked after the supper-table.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the ladies were thus busying themselves, Mr. Lillyvick was intent
      upon the game in progress, and as all should be fish that comes to a
      water-collector's net, the dear old gentleman was by no means scrupulous
      in appropriating to himself the property of his neighbours, which, on the
      contrary, he abstracted whenever an opportunity presented itself, smiling
      good-humouredly all the while, and making so many condescending speeches
      to the owners, that they were delighted with his amiability, and thought
      in their hearts that he deserved to be Chancellor of the Exchequer at
      least.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a great deal of trouble, and the administration of many slaps on the
      head to the infant Kenwigses, whereof two of the most rebellious were
      summarily banished, the cloth was laid with much elegance, and a pair of
      boiled fowls, a large piece of pork, apple-pie, potatoes and greens, were
      served; at sight of which, the worthy Mr. Lillyvick vented a great many
      witticisms, and plucked up amazingly: to the immense delight and
      satisfaction of the whole body of admirers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Very well and very fast the supper went off; no more serious difficulties
      occurring, than those which arose from the incessant demand for clean
      knives and forks; which made poor Mrs. Kenwigs wish, more than once, that
      private society adopted the principle of schools, and required that every
      guest should bring his own knife, fork, and spoon; which doubtless would
      be a great accommodation in many cases, and to no one more so than to the
      lady and gentleman of the house, especially if the school principle were
      carried out to the full extent, and the articles were expected, as a
      matter of delicacy, not to be taken away again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everybody having eaten everything, the table was cleared in a most
      alarming hurry, and with great noise; and the spirits, whereat the eyes of
      Newman Noggs glistened, being arranged in order, with water both hot and
      cold, the party composed themselves for conviviality; Mr. Lillyvick being
      stationed in a large armchair by the fireside, and the four little
      Kenwigses disposed on a small form in front of the company with their
      flaxen tails towards them, and their faces to the fire; an arrangement
      which was no sooner perfected, than Mrs. Kenwigs was overpowered by the
      feelings of a mother, and fell upon the left shoulder of Mr. Kenwigs
      dissolved in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are so beautiful!' said Mrs. Kenwigs, sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, dear,' said all the ladies, 'so they are! it's very natural you
      should feel proud of that; but don't give way, don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can&mdash;not help it, and it don't signify,' sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs; 'oh!
      they're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this alarming presentiment of their being doomed to an early
      death in the flower of their infancy, all four little girls raised a
      hideous cry, and burying their heads in their mother's lap simultaneously,
      screamed until the eight flaxen tails vibrated again; Mrs. Kenwigs
      meanwhile clasping them alternately to her bosom, with attitudes
      expressive of distraction, which Miss Petowker herself might have copied.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothed into a more
      tranquil state, and the little Kenwigses, being also composed, were
      distributed among the company, to prevent the possibility of Mrs. Kenwigs
      being again overcome by the blaze of their combined beauty. This done, the
      ladies and gentlemen united in prophesying that they would live for many,
      many years, and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs. Kenwigs to
      distress herself; which, in good truth, there did not appear to be; the
      loveliness of the children by no means justifying her apprehensions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This day eight year,' said Mr. Kenwigs after a pause. 'Dear me&mdash;ah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This reflection was echoed by all present, who said 'Ah!' first, and 'dear
      me,' afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was younger then,' tittered Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' added everybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember my niece,' said Mr. Lillyvick, surveying his audience with a
      grave air; 'I remember her, on that very afternoon, when she first
      acknowledged to her mother a partiality for Kenwigs. "Mother," she says,
      "I love him."'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Adore him," I said, uncle,' interposed Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Love him," I think, my dear,' said the collector, firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you are right, uncle,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, submissively. 'I
      thought it was "adore."'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Love," my dear,' retorted Mr. Lillyvick. '"Mother," she says, "I love
      him!" "What do I hear?" cries her mother; and instantly falls into strong
      conwulsions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A general exclamation of astonishment burst from the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Into strong conwulsions,' repeated Mr. Lillyvick, regarding them with a
      rigid look. 'Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in the presence of friends,
      that there was a very great objection to him, on the ground that he was
      beneath the family, and would disgrace it. You remember, Kenwigs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' replied that gentleman, in no way displeased at the
      reminiscence, inasmuch as it proved, beyond all doubt, what a high family
      Mrs. Kenwigs came of.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shared in that feeling,' said Mr. Lillyvick: 'perhaps it was natural;
      perhaps it wasn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A gentle murmur seemed to say, that, in one of Mr. Lillyvick's station, the
      objection was not only natural, but highly praiseworthy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I came round to him in time,' said Mr. Lillyvick. 'After they were
      married, and there was no help for it, I was one of the first to say that
      Kenwigs must be taken notice of. The family <i>did </i>take notice of him, in
      consequence, and on my representation; and I am bound to say&mdash;and
      proud to say&mdash;that I have always found him a very honest,
      well-behaved, upright, respectable sort of man. Kenwigs, shake hands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am proud to do it, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So am I, Kenwigs,' rejoined Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very happy life I have led with your niece, sir,' said Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would have been your own fault if you had not, sir,' remarked Mr
      Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, at this crisis, much affected, 'kiss
      your dear uncle!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young lady did as she was requested, and the three other little girls
      were successively hoisted up to the collector's countenance, and subjected
      to the same process, which was afterwards repeated on them by the majority
      of those present.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, Mrs. Kenwigs,' said Miss Petowker, 'while Mr. Noggs is making that
      punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that figure
      dance before Mr. Lillyvick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, my dear,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, 'it will only worry my uncle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It can't worry him, I am sure,' said Miss Petowker. 'You will be very
      much pleased, won't you, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I am sure I shall' replied the collector, glancing at the
      punch-mixer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well then, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'Morleena shall do the
      steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the
      Blood-Drinker's Burial, afterwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet, at this
      proposition; the subject whereof, gently inclined her head several times,
      in acknowledgment of the reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know,' said Miss Petowker, reproachfully, 'that I dislike doing
      anything professional in private parties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, but not here!' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'We are all so very friendly and
      pleasant, that you might as well be going through it in your own room;
      besides, the occasion&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't resist that,' interrupted Miss Petowker; 'anything in my humble
      power I shall be delighted to do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged a small <i>programme </i>of the
      entertainments between them, of which this was the prescribed order, but
      they had settled to have a little pressing on both sides, because it
      looked more natural. The company being all ready, Miss Petowker hummed a
      tune, and Morleena danced a dance; having previously had the soles of her
      shoes chalked, with as much care as if she were going on the tight-rope.
      It was a very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal of work for the
      arms, and was received with unbounded applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I was blessed with a&mdash;a child&mdash;' said Miss Petowker,
      blushing, 'of such genius as that, I would have her out at the Opera
      instantly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr. Kenwigs, who shook his head, and
      observed that he was doubtful about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenwigs is afraid,' said Mrs. K.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What of?' inquired Miss Petowker, 'not of her failing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, 'but if she grew up what she is now,&mdash;only
      think of the young dukes and marquises.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very right,' said the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still,' submitted Miss Petowker, 'if she took a proper pride in herself,
      you know&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a good deal in that,' observed Mrs. Kenwigs, looking at her
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I only know&mdash;' faltered Miss Petowker,&mdash;'it may be no rule to
      be sure&mdash;but I have never found any inconvenience or unpleasantness
      of that sort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said that settled the question at
      once, and that he would take the subject into his serious consideration.
      This being resolved upon, Miss Petowker was entreated to begin the
      Blood-Drinker's Burial; to which end, that young lady let down her back
      hair, and taking up her position at the other end of the room, with the
      bachelor friend posted in a corner, to rush out at the cue 'in death
      expire,' and catch her in his arms when she died raving mad, went through
      the performance with extraordinary spirit, and to the great terror of the
      little Kenwigses, who were all but frightened into fits.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ecstasies consequent upon the effort had not yet subsided, and Newman
      (who had not been thoroughly sober at so late an hour for a long long
      time,) had not yet been able to put in a word of announcement, that the
      punch was ready, when a hasty knock was heard at the room-door, which
      elicited a shriek from Mrs. Kenwigs, who immediately divined that the baby
      had fallen out of bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is that?' demanded Mr. Kenwigs, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be alarmed, it's only me,' said Crowl, looking in, in his nightcap.
      'The baby is very comfortable, for I peeped into the room as I came down,
      and it's fast asleep, and so is the girl; and I don't think the candle
      will set fire to the bed-curtain, unless a draught was to get into the
      room&mdash;it's Mr. Noggs that's wanted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me!' cried Newman, much astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, it <i>is</i> a queer hour, isn't it?' replied Crowl, who was not best
      pleased at the prospect of losing his fire; 'and they are queer-looking
      people, too, all covered with rain and mud. Shall I tell them to go away?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Newman, rising. 'People? How many?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two,' rejoined Crowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Want me? By name?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By name,' replied Crowl. 'Mr. Newman Noggs, as pat as need be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman reflected for a few seconds, and then hurried away, muttering that
      he would be back directly. He was as good as his word; for, in an
      exceedingly short time, he burst into the room, and seizing, without a
      word of apology or explanation, a lighted candle and tumbler of hot punch
      from the table, darted away like a madman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What the deuce is the matter with him?' exclaimed Crowl, throwing the
      door open. 'Hark! Is there any noise above?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The guests rose in great confusion, and, looking in each other's faces
      with much perplexity and some fear, stretched their necks forward, and
      listened attentively.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 15
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span><i>cquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption
            described in the last Chapter, and with some other Matters necessary to be
            known</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs scrambled in violent haste upstairs with the steaming
      beverage, which he had so unceremoniously snatched from the table of Mr
      Kenwigs, and indeed from the very grasp of the water-rate collector, who
      was eyeing the contents of the tumbler, at the moment of its unexpected
      abstraction, with lively marks of pleasure visible in his countenance. He
      bore his prize straight to his own back-garret, where, footsore and nearly
      shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded, and disfigured with every mark of fatiguing
      travel, sat Nicholas and Smike, at once the cause and partner of his toil;
      both perfectly worn out by their unwonted and protracted exertion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman's first act was to compel Nicholas, with gentle force, to swallow
      half of the punch at a breath, nearly boiling as it was; and his next, to
      pour the remainder down the throat of Smike, who, never having tasted
      anything stronger than aperient medicine in his whole life, exhibited
      various odd manifestations of surprise and delight, during the passage of
      the liquor down his throat, and turned up his eyes most emphatically when
      it was all gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are wet through,' said Newman, passing his hand hastily over the coat
      which Nicholas had thrown off; 'and I&mdash;I&mdash;haven't even a
      change,' he added, with a wistful glance at the shabby clothes he wore
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have dry clothes, or at least such as will serve my turn well, in my
      bundle,' replied Nicholas. 'If you look so distressed to see me, you will
      add to the pain I feel already, at being compelled, for one night, to cast
      myself upon your slender means for aid and shelter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman did not look the less distressed to hear Nicholas talking in this
      strain; but, upon his young friend grasping him heartily by the hand, and
      assuring him that nothing but implicit confidence in the sincerity of his
      professions, and kindness of feeling towards himself, would have induced
      him, on any consideration, even to have made him acquainted with his
      arrival in London, Mr. Noggs brightened up again, and went about making
      such arrangements as were in his power for the comfort of his visitors,
      with extreme alacrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were simple enough; poor Newman's means halting at a very
      considerable distance short of his inclinations; but, slight as they were,
      they were not made without much bustling and running about. As Nicholas
      had husbanded his scanty stock of money, so well that it was not yet quite
      expended, a supper of bread and cheese, with some cold beef from the
      cook's shop, was soon placed upon the table; and these viands being
      flanked by a bottle of spirits and a pot of porter, there was no ground
      for apprehension on the score of hunger or thirst, at all events. Such
      preparations as Newman had it in his power to make, for the accommodation
      of his guests during the night, occupied no very great time in completing;
      and as he had insisted, as an express preliminary, that Nicholas should
      change his clothes, and that Smike should invest himself in his solitary
      coat (which no entreaties would dissuade him from stripping off for the
      purpose), the travellers partook of their frugal fare, with more
      satisfaction than one of them at least had derived from many a better
      meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      They then drew near the fire, which Newman Noggs had made up as well as he
      could, after the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel; and Nicholas, who had
      hitherto been restrained by the extreme anxiety of his friend that he
      should refresh himself after his journey, now pressed him with earnest
      questions concerning his mother and sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' replied Newman, with his accustomed taciturnity; 'both well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are living in the city still?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And my sister,'&mdash;added Nicholas. 'Is she still engaged in the
      business which she wrote to tell me she thought she should like so much?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman opened his eyes rather wider than usual, but merely replied by a
      gasp, which, according to the action of the head that accompanied it, was
      interpreted by his friends as meaning yes or no. In the present instance,
      the pantomime consisted of a nod, and not a shake; so Nicholas took the
      answer as a favourable one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now listen to me,' said Nicholas, laying his hand on Newman's shoulder.
      'Before I would make an effort to see them, I deemed it expedient to come
      to you, lest, by gratifying my own selfish desire, I should inflict an
      injury upon them which I can never repair. What has my uncle heard from
      Yorkshire?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman opened and shut his mouth, several times, as though he were trying
      his utmost to speak, but could make nothing of it, and finally fixed his
      eyes on Nicholas with a grim and ghastly stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has he heard?' urged Nicholas, colouring. 'You see that I am
      prepared to hear the very worst that malice can have suggested. Why should
      you conceal it from me? I must know it sooner or later; and what purpose
      can be gained by trifling with the matter for a few minutes, when half the
      time would put me in possession of all that has occurred? Tell me at once,
      pray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tomorrow morning,' said Newman; 'hear it tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What purpose would that answer?' urged Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would sleep the better,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should sleep the worse,' answered Nicholas, impatiently. 'Sleep!
      Exhausted as I am, and standing in no common need of rest, I cannot hope
      to close my eyes all night, unless you tell me everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And if I should tell you everything,' said Newman, hesitating.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then you may rouse my indignation or wound my pride,' rejoined
      Nicholas; 'but you will not break my rest; for if the scene were acted
      over again, I could take no other part than I have taken; and whatever
      consequences may accrue to myself from it, I shall never regret doing as I
      have done&mdash;never, if I starve or beg in consequence. What is a little
      poverty or suffering, to the disgrace of the basest and most inhuman
      cowardice! I tell you, if I had stood by, tamely and passively, I should
      have hated myself, and merited the contempt of every man in existence. The
      black-hearted scoundrel!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this gentle allusion to the absent Mr. Squeers, Nicholas repressed his
      rising wrath, and relating to Newman exactly what had passed at Dotheboys
      Hall, entreated him to speak out without more pressing. Thus adjured, Mr
      Noggs took, from an old trunk, a sheet of paper, which appeared to have
      been scrawled over in great haste; and after sundry extraordinary
      demonstrations of reluctance, delivered himself in the following terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear young man, you mustn't give way to&mdash;this sort of thing will
      never do, you know&mdash;as to getting on in the world, if you take
      everybody's part that's ill-treated&mdash;Damn it, I am proud to hear of
      it; and would have done it myself!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman accompanied this very unusual outbreak with a violent blow upon the
      table, as if, in the heat of the moment, he had mistaken it for the chest
      or ribs of Mr. Wackford Squeers. Having, by this open declaration of his
      feelings, quite precluded himself from offering Nicholas any cautious
      worldly advice (which had been his first intention), Mr. Noggs went
      straight to the point.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The day before yesterday,' said Newman, 'your uncle received this letter.
      I took a hasty copy of it, while he was out. Shall I read it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you please,' replied Nicholas. Newman Noggs accordingly read as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Dotheboys Hall, 'Thursday Morning. 'Sir</i>,
    </p>
    <p>
      'My pa requests me to write to you, the doctors considering it doubtful
      whether he will ever recuvver the use of his legs which prevents his
      holding a pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and my pa is one mask of
      brooses both blue and green likewise two forms are steepled in his Goar.
      We were kimpelled to have him carried down into the kitchen where he now
      lays. You will judge from this that he has been brought very low.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When your nevew that you recommended for a teacher had done this to my pa
      and jumped upon his body with his feet and also langwedge which I will not
      pollewt my pen with describing, he assaulted my ma with dreadful violence,
      dashed her to the earth, and drove her back comb several inches into her
      head. A very little more and it must have entered her skull. We have a
      medical certifiket that if it had, the tortershell would have affected the
      brain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me and my brother were then the victims of his feury since which we have
      suffered very much which leads us to the arrowing belief that we have
      received some injury in our insides, especially as no marks of violence
      are visible externally. I am screaming out loud all the time I write and
      so is my brother which takes off my attention rather and I hope will
      excuse mistakes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran away, taking with
      him a boy of desperate character that he had excited to rebellyon, and a
      garnet ring belonging to my ma, and not having been apprehended by the
      constables is supposed to have been took up by some stage-coach. My pa
      begs that if he comes to you the ring may be returned, and that you will
      let the thief and assassin go, as if we prosecuted him he would only be
      transported, and if he is let go he is sure to be hung before long which
      will save us trouble and be much more satisfactory. Hoping to hear from
      you when convenient
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remain 'Yours and cetrer 'FANNY SQUEERS.
    </p>
    <p>
      'P.S. I pity his ignorance and despise him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      A profound silence succeeded to the reading of this choice epistle, during
      which Newman Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of grotesque
      pity at the boy of desperate character therein referred to; who, having no
      more distinct perception of the matter in hand, than that he had been the
      unfortunate cause of heaping trouble and falsehood upon Nicholas, sat mute
      and dispirited, with a most woe-begone and heart-stricken look.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Noggs,' said Nicholas, after a few moments' reflection, 'I must go out
      at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go out!' cried Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'to Golden Square. Nobody who knows me would believe
      this story of the ring; but it may suit the purpose, or gratify the hatred
      of Mr. Ralph Nickleby to feign to attach credence to it. It is due&mdash;not
      to him, but to myself&mdash;that I should state the truth; and moreover, I
      have a word or two to exchange with him, which will not keep cool.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They must,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They must not, indeed,' rejoined Nicholas firmly, as he prepared to leave
      the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear me speak,' said Newman, planting himself before his impetuous young
      friend. 'He is not there. He is away from town. He will not be back for
      three days; and I know that letter will not be answered before he
      returns.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you sure of this?' asked Nicholas, chafing violently, and pacing the
      narrow room with rapid strides.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite,' rejoined Newman. 'He had hardly read it when he was called away.
      Its contents are known to nobody but himself and us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you certain?' demanded Nicholas, precipitately; 'not even to my
      mother or sister? If I thought that they&mdash;I will go there&mdash;I
      must see them. Which is the way? Where is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, be advised by me,' said Newman, speaking for the moment, in his
      earnestness, like any other man&mdash;'make no effort to see even them,
      till he comes home. I know the man. Do not seem to have been tampering
      with anybody. When he returns, go straight to him, and speak as boldly as
      you like. Guessing at the real truth, he knows it as well as you or I.
      Trust him for that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mean well to me, and should know him better than I can,' replied
      Nicholas, after some consideration. 'Well; let it be so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman, who had stood during the foregoing conversation with his back
      planted against the door, ready to oppose any egress from the apartment by
      force, if necessary, resumed his seat with much satisfaction; and as the
      water in the kettle was by this time boiling, made a glassful of spirits
      and water for Nicholas, and a cracked mug-full for the joint accommodation
      of himself and Smike, of which the two partook in great harmony, while
      Nicholas, leaning his head upon his hand, remained buried in melancholy
      meditation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the company below stairs, after listening attentively and not
      hearing any noise which would justify them in interfering for the
      gratification of their curiosity, returned to the chamber of the
      Kenwigses, and employed themselves in hazarding a great variety of
      conjectures relative to the cause of Mr. Noggs' sudden disappearance and
      detention.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lor, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'Suppose it should be an
      express sent up to say that his property has all come back again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me,' said Mr. Kenwigs; 'it's not impossible. Perhaps, in that case,
      we'd better send up and ask if he won't take a little more punch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenwigs!' said Mr. Lillyvick, in a loud voice, 'I'm surprised at you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter, sir?' asked Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming submission to
      the collector of water-rates.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Making such a remark as that, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, angrily. 'He
      has had punch already, has he not, sir? I consider the way in which that
      punch was cut off, if I may use the expression, highly disrespectful to
      this company; scandalous, perfectly scandalous. It may be the custom to
      allow such things in this house, but it's not the kind of behaviour that
      I've been used to see displayed, and so I don't mind telling you, Kenwigs.
      A gentleman has a glass of punch before him to which he is just about to
      set his lips, when another gentleman comes and collars that glass of
      punch, without a "with your leave", or "by your leave", and carries that
      glass of punch away. This may be good manners&mdash;I dare say it is&mdash;but
      I don't understand it, that's all; and what's more, I don't care if I
      never do. It's my way to speak my mind, Kenwigs, and that is my mind; and
      if you don't like it, it's past my regular time for going to bed, and I
      can find my way home without making it later.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was an untoward event! The collector had sat swelling and fuming in
      offended dignity for some minutes, and had now fairly burst out. The great
      man&mdash;the rich relation&mdash;the unmarried uncle&mdash;who had it in
      his power to make Morleena an heiress, and the very baby a legatee&mdash;was
      offended. Gracious Powers, where was this to end!
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs, humbly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't tell me you're sorry,' retorted Mr. Lillyvick, with much sharpness.
      'You should have prevented it, then.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The company were quite paralysed by this domestic crash. The back-parlour
      sat with her mouth wide open, staring vacantly at the collector, in a
      stupor of dismay; the other guests were scarcely less overpowered by the
      great man's irritation. Mr. Kenwigs, not being skilful in such matters,
      only fanned the flame in attempting to extinguish it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't think of it, I am sure, sir,' said that gentleman. 'I didn't
      suppose that such a little thing as a glass of punch would have put you
      out of temper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece of impertinence,
      Mr. Kenwigs?' said the collector. 'Morleena, child&mdash;give me my hat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you're not going, Mr. Lillyvick, sir,' interposed Miss Petowker, with
      her most bewitching smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      But still Mr. Lillyvick, regardless of the siren, cried obdurately,
      'Morleena, my hat!' upon the fourth repetition of which demand, Mrs
      Kenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry that might have softened a
      water-butt, not to say a water-collector; while the four little girls
      (privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle's drab shorts in
      their arms, and prayed him, in imperfect English, to remain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why should I stop here, my dears?' said Mr. Lillyvick; 'I'm not wanted
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, do not speak so cruelly, uncle,' sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs, 'unless you wish
      to kill me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shouldn't wonder if some people were to say I did,' replied Mr
      Lillyvick, glancing angrily at Kenwigs. 'Out of temper!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,' cried Mrs. Kenwigs.
      'It's so dreadful in families. Oh!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, 'I hope, for the sake of your niece, that
      you won't object to be reconciled.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The collector's features relaxed, as the company added their entreaties to
      those of his nephew-in-law. He gave up his hat, and held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lillyvick; 'and let me tell you, at the same
      time, to show you how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away
      without another word, it would have made no difference respecting that
      pound or two which I shall leave among your children when I die.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, in a torrent of affection. 'Go down
      upon your knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his life
      through, for he's more a angel than a man, and I've always said so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Morleena approaching to do homage, in compliance with this
      injunction, was summarily caught up and kissed by Mr. Lillyvick; and
      thereupon Mrs. Kenwigs darted forward and kissed the collector, and an
      irrepressible murmur of applause broke from the company who had witnessed
      his magnanimity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy gentleman then became once more the life and soul of the
      society; being again reinstated in his old post of lion, from which high
      station the temporary distraction of their thoughts had for a moment
      dispossessed him. Quadruped lions are said to be savage, only when they
      are hungry; biped lions are rarely sulky longer than when their appetite
      for distinction remains unappeased. Mr. Lillyvick stood higher than ever;
      for he had shown his power; hinted at his property and testamentary
      intentions; gained great credit for disinterestedness and virtue; and, in
      addition to all, was finally accommodated with a much larger tumbler of
      punch than that which Newman Noggs had so feloniously made off with.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say! I beg everybody's pardon for intruding again,' said Crowl, looking
      in at this happy juncture; 'but what a queer business this is, isn't it?
      Noggs has lived in this house, now going on for five years, and nobody has
      ever been to see him before, within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a strange time of night to be called away, sir, certainly,' said the
      collector; 'and the behaviour of Mr. Noggs himself, is, to say the least of
      it, mysterious.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, so it is,' rejoined Crowl; 'and I'll tell you what's more&mdash;I
      think these two geniuses, whoever they are, have run away from somewhere.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What makes you think that, sir?' demanded the collector, who seemed, by a
      tacit understanding, to have been chosen and elected mouthpiece to the
      company. 'You have no reason to suppose that they have run away from
      anywhere without paying the rates and taxes due, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was about to enter a general
      protest against the payment of rates or taxes, under any circumstances,
      when he was checked by a timely whisper from Kenwigs, and several frowns
      and winks from Mrs. K., which providentially stopped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why the fact is,' said Crowl, who had been listening at Newman's door
      with all his might and main; 'the fact is, that they have been talking so
      loud, that they quite disturbed me in my room, and so I couldn't help
      catching a word here, and a word there; and all I heard, certainly seemed
      to refer to their having bolted from some place or other. I don't wish to
      alarm Mrs. Kenwigs; but I hope they haven't come from any jail or hospital,
      and brought away a fever or some unpleasantness of that sort, which might
      be catching for the children.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Kenwigs was so overpowered by this supposition, that it needed all the
      tender attentions of Miss Petowker, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, to
      restore her to anything like a state of calmness; not to mention the
      assiduity of Mr. Kenwigs, who held a fat smelling-bottle to his lady's
      nose, until it became matter of some doubt whether the tears which coursed
      down her face were the result of feelings or <i>sal volatile</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies, having expressed their sympathy, singly and separately, fell,
      according to custom, into a little chorus of soothing expressions, among
      which, such condolences as 'Poor dear!'&mdash;'I should feel just the
      same, if I was her'&mdash;'To be sure, it's a very trying thing'&mdash;and
      'Nobody but a mother knows what a mother's feelings is,' were among the
      most prominent, and most frequently repeated. In short, the opinion of the
      company was so clearly manifested, that Mr. Kenwigs was on the point of
      repairing to Mr. Noggs's room, to demand an explanation, and had indeed
      swallowed a preparatory glass of punch, with great inflexibility and
      steadiness of purpose, when the attention of all present was diverted by a
      new and terrible surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was nothing less than the sudden pouring forth of a rapid succession
      of the shrillest and most piercing screams, from an upper story; and to
      all appearance from the very two-pair back, in which the infant Kenwigs
      was at that moment enshrined. They were no sooner audible, than Mrs
      Kenwigs, opining that a strange cat had come in, and sucked the baby's
      breath while the girl was asleep, made for the door, wringing her hands,
      and shrieking dismally; to the great consternation and confusion of the
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Kenwigs, see what it is; make haste!' cried the sister, laying violent
      hands upon Mrs. Kenwigs, and holding her back by force. 'Oh don't twist
      about so, dear, or I can never hold you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby!' screamed Mrs
      Kenwigs, making every blessed louder than the last. 'My own darling,
      sweet, innocent Lillyvick&mdash;Oh let me go to him. Let me go-o-o-o!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pending the utterance of these frantic cries, and the wails and
      lamentations of the four little girls, Mr. Kenwigs rushed upstairs to the
      room whence the sounds proceeded; at the door of which, he encountered
      Nicholas, with the child in his arms, who darted out with such violence,
      that the anxious father was thrown down six stairs, and alighted on the
      nearest landing-place, before he had found time to open his mouth to ask
      what was the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't be alarmed,' cried Nicholas, running down; 'here it is; it's all
      out, it's all over; pray compose yourselves; there's no harm done;' and
      with these, and a thousand other assurances, he delivered the baby (whom,
      in his hurry, he had carried upside down), to Mrs. Kenwigs, and ran back to
      assist Mr. Kenwigs, who was rubbing his head very hard, and looking much
      bewildered by his tumble.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reassured by this cheering intelligence, the company in some degree
      recovered from their fears, which had been productive of some most
      singular instances of a total want of presence of mind; thus, the bachelor
      friend had, for a long time, supported in his arms Mrs. Kenwigs's sister,
      instead of Mrs. Kenwigs; and the worthy Mr. Lillyvick had been actually
      seen, in the perturbation of his spirits, to kiss Miss Petowker several
      times, behind the room-door, as calmly as if nothing distressing were
      going forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a mere nothing,' said Nicholas, returning to Mrs. Kenwigs; 'the
      little girl, who was watching the child, being tired I suppose, fell
      asleep, and set her hair on fire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh you malicious little wretch!' cried Mrs. Kenwigs, impressively shaking
      her forefinger at the small unfortunate, who might be thirteen years old,
      and was looking on with a singed head and a frightened face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I heard her cries,' continued Nicholas, 'and ran down, in time to prevent
      her setting fire to anything else. You may depend upon it that the child
      is not hurt; for I took it off the bed myself, and brought it here to
      convince you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This brief explanation over, the infant, who, as he was christened after
      the collector! rejoiced in the names of Lillyvick Kenwigs, was partially
      suffocated under the caresses of the audience, and squeezed to his
      mother's bosom, until he roared again. The attention of the company was
      then directed, by a natural transition, to the little girl who had had the
      audacity to burn her hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small slaps
      and pushes from the more energetic of the ladies, was mercifully sent
      home: the ninepence, with which she was to have been rewarded, being
      escheated to the Kenwigs family.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And whatever we are to say to you, sir,' exclaimed Mrs. Kenwigs,
      addressing young Lillyvick's deliverer, 'I am sure I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You need say nothing at all,' replied Nicholas. 'I have done nothing to
      found any very strong claim upon your eloquence, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He might have been burnt to death, if it hadn't been for you, sir,'
      simpered Miss Petowker.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not very likely, I think,' replied Nicholas; 'for there was abundance of
      assistance here, which must have reached him before he had been in any
      danger.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will let us drink your health, anyvays, sir!' said Mr. Kenwigs
      motioning towards the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;In my absence, by all means,' rejoined Nicholas, with a smile. 'I
      have had a very fatiguing journey, and should be most indifferent company&mdash;a
      far greater check upon your merriment, than a promoter of it, even if I
      kept awake, which I think very doubtful. If you will allow me, I'll return
      to my friend, Mr. Noggs, who went upstairs again, when he found nothing
      serious had occurred. Good-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Excusing himself, in these terms, from joining in the festivities,
      Nicholas took a most winning farewell of Mrs. Kenwigs and the other ladies,
      and retired, after making a very extraordinary impression upon the
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a delightful young man!' cried Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Uncommon gentlemanly, really,' said Mr. Kenwigs. 'Don't you think so, Mr
      Lillyvick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the collector, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, 'He is
      gentlemanly, very gentlemanly&mdash;in appearance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope you don't see anything against him, uncle?' inquired Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, my dear,' replied the collector, 'no. I trust he may not turn out&mdash;well&mdash;no
      matter&mdash;my love to you, my dear, and long life to the baby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your namesake,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, with a sweet smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I hope a worthy namesake,' observed Mr. Kenwigs, willing to propitiate
      the collector. 'I hope a baby as will never disgrace his godfather, and as
      may be considered, in arter years, of a piece with the Lillyvicks whose
      name he bears. I do say&mdash;and Mrs. Kenwigs is of the same sentiment,
      and feels it as strong as I do&mdash;that I consider his being called
      Lillyvick one of the greatest blessings and Honours of my existence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>The </i>greatest blessing, Kenwigs,' murmured his lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>The </i>greatest blessing,' said Mr. Kenwigs, correcting himself. 'A blessing
      that I hope, one of these days, I may be able to deserve.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses, because it made Mr. Lillyvick
      the great head and fountain of the baby's importance. The good gentleman
      felt the delicacy and dexterity of the touch, and at once proposed the
      health of the gentleman, name unknown, who had signalised himself, that
      night, by his coolness and alacrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who, I don't mind saying,' observed Mr. Lillyvick, as a great concession,
      'is a good-looking young man enough, with manners that I hope his
      character may be equal to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has a very nice face and style, really,' said Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He certainly has,' added Miss Petowker. 'There's something in his
      appearance quite&mdash;dear, dear, what's that word again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What word?' inquired Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why&mdash;dear me, how stupid I am,' replied Miss Petowker, hesitating.
      'What do you call it, when Lords break off door-knockers and beat
      policemen, and play at coaches with other people's money, and all that
      sort of thing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aristocratic?' suggested the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! aristocratic,' replied Miss Petowker; 'something very aristocratic
      about him, isn't there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman held their peace, and smiled at each other, as who should
      say, 'Well! there's no accounting for tastes;' but the ladies resolved
      unanimously that Nicholas had an aristocratic air; and nobody caring to
      dispute the position, it was established triumphantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The punch being, by this time, drunk out, and the little Kenwigses (who
      had for some time previously held their little eyes open with their little
      forefingers) becoming fractious, and requesting rather urgently to be put
      to bed, the collector made a move by pulling out his watch, and
      acquainting the company that it was nigh two o'clock; whereat some of the
      guests were surprised and others shocked, and hats and bonnets being
      groped for under the tables, and in course of time found, their owners
      went away, after a vast deal of shaking of hands, and many remarks how
      they had never spent such a delightful evening, and how they marvelled to
      find it so late, expecting to have heard that it was half-past ten at the
      very latest, and how they wished that Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs had a wedding-day
      once a week, and how they wondered by what hidden agency Mrs. Kenwigs could
      possibly have managed so well; and a great deal more of the same kind. To
      all of which flattering expressions, Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs replied, by
      thanking every lady and gentleman, <i>seriatim</i>, for the favour of their
      company, and hoping they might have enjoyed themselves only half as well
      as they said they had.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the impression he had produced, he
      had long since fallen asleep, leaving Mr. Newman Noggs and Smike to empty
      the spirit bottle between them; and this office they performed with such
      extreme good-will, that Newman was equally at a loss to determine whether
      he himself was quite sober, and whether he had ever seen any gentleman so
      heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated as his new acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 16
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being
            unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The first care of Nicholas, next morning, was, to look after some room in
      which, until better times dawned upon him, he could contrive to exist,
      without trenching upon the hospitality of Newman Noggs, who would have
      slept upon the stairs with pleasure, so that his young friend was
      accommodated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The vacant apartment to which the bill in the parlour window bore
      reference, appeared, on inquiry, to be a small back-room on the second
      floor, reclaimed from the leads, and overlooking a soot-bespeckled
      prospect of tiles and chimney-pots. For the letting of this portion of the
      house from week to week, on reasonable terms, the parlour lodger was
      empowered to treat; he being deputed by the landlord to dispose of the
      rooms as they became vacant, and to keep a sharp look-out that the lodgers
      didn't run away. As a means of securing the punctual discharge of which
      last service he was permitted to live rent-free, lest he should at any
      time be tempted to run away himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of this chamber, Nicholas became the tenant; and having hired a few common
      articles of furniture from a neighbouring broker, and paid the first
      week's hire in advance, out of a small fund raised by the conversion of
      some spare clothes into ready money, he sat himself down to ruminate upon
      his prospects, which, like the prospect outside his window, were
      sufficiently confined and dingy. As they by no means improved on better
      acquaintance, and as familiarity breeds contempt, he resolved to banish
      them from his thoughts by dint of hard walking. So, taking up his hat, and
      leaving poor Smike to arrange and rearrange the room with as much delight
      as if it had been the costliest palace, he betook himself to the streets,
      and mingled with the crowd which thronged them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although a man may lose a sense of his own importance when he is a mere
      unit among a busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by no means
      follows that he can dispossess himself, with equal facility, of a very
      strong sense of the importance and magnitude of his cares. The unhappy
      state of his own affairs was the one idea which occupied the brain of
      Nicholas, walk as fast as he would; and when he tried to dislodge it by
      speculating on the situation and prospects of the people who surrounded
      him, he caught himself, in a few seconds, contrasting their condition with
      his own, and gliding almost imperceptibly back into his old train of
      thought again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Occupied in these reflections, as he was making his way along one of the
      great public thoroughfares of London, he chanced to raise his eyes to a
      blue board, whereon was inscribed, in characters of gold, 'General Agency
      Office; for places and situations of all kinds inquire within.' It was a
      shop-front, fitted up with a gauze blind and an inner door; and in the
      window hung a long and tempting array of written placards, announcing
      vacant places of every grade, from a secretary's to a foot-boy's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas halted, instinctively, before this temple of promise, and ran his
      eye over the capital-text openings in life which were so profusely
      displayed. When he had completed his survey he walked on a little way, and
      then back, and then on again; at length, after pausing irresolutely
      several times before the door of the General Agency Office, he made up his
      mind, and stepped in.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found himself in a little floor-clothed room, with a high desk railed
      off in one corner, behind which sat a lean youth with cunning eyes and a
      protruding chin, whose performances in capital-text darkened the window.
      He had a thick ledger lying open before him, and with the fingers of his
      right hand inserted between the leaves, and his eyes fixed on a very fat
      old lady in a mob-cap&mdash;evidently the proprietress of the
      establishment&mdash;who was airing herself at the fire, seemed to be only
      waiting her directions to refer to some entries contained within its rusty
      clasps.
    </p>
    <p>
      As there was a board outside, which acquainted the public that
      servants-of-all-work were perpetually in waiting to be hired from ten till
      four, Nicholas knew at once that some half-dozen strong young women, each
      with pattens and an umbrella, who were sitting upon a form in one corner,
      were in attendance for that purpose: especially as the poor things looked
      anxious and weary. He was not quite so certain of the callings and
      stations of two smart young ladies who were in conversation with the fat
      lady before the fire, until&mdash;having sat himself down in a corner, and
      remarked that he would wait until the other customers had been served&mdash;the
      fat lady resumed the dialogue which his entrance had interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cook, Tom,' said the fat lady, still airing herself as aforesaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cook,' said Tom, turning over some leaves of the ledger. 'Well!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Read out an easy place or two,' said the fat lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pick out very light ones, if you please, young man,' interposed a genteel
      female, in shepherd's-plaid boots, who appeared to be the client.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Mrs. Marker,"' said Tom, reading, '"Russell Place, Russell Square; offers
      eighteen guineas; tea and sugar found. Two in family, and see very little
      company. Five servants kept. No man. No followers."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Lor!' tittered the client. '<i>That </i>won't do. Read another, young man,
      will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Mrs. Wrymug,"' said Tom, '"Pleasant Place, Finsbury. Wages, twelve
      guineas. No tea, no sugar. Serious family&mdash;"'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! you needn't mind reading that,' interrupted the client.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Three serious footmen,"' said Tom, impressively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three? did you say?' asked the client in an altered tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three serious footmen,' replied Tom. '"Cook, housemaid, and nursemaid;
      each female servant required to join the Little Bethel Congregation three
      times every Sunday&mdash;with a serious footman. If the cook is more
      serious than the footman, she will be expected to improve the footman; if
      the footman is more serious than the cook, he will be expected to improve
      the cook."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll take the address of that place,' said the client; 'I don't know but
      what it mightn't suit me pretty well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's another,' remarked Tom, turning over the leaves. '"Family of Mr
      Gallanbile, MP. Fifteen guineas, tea and sugar, and servants allowed to
      see male cousins, if godly. Note. Cold dinner in the kitchen on the
      Sabbath, Mr. Gallanbile being devoted to the Observance question. No
      victuals whatever cooked on the Lord's Day, with the exception of dinner
      for Mr. and Mrs. Gallanbile, which, being a work of piety and necessity, is
      exempted. Mr. Gallanbile dines late on the day of rest, in order to prevent
      the sinfulness of the cook's dressing herself."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think that'll answer as well as the other,' said the client,
      after a little whispering with her friend. 'I'll take the other direction,
      if you please, young man. I can but come back again, if it don't do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom made out the address, as requested, and the genteel client, having
      satisfied the fat lady with a small fee, meanwhile, went away accompanied
      by her friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Nicholas opened his mouth, to request the young man to turn to letter
      S, and let him know what secretaryships remained undisposed of, there came
      into the office an applicant, in whose favour he immediately retired, and
      whose appearance both surprised and interested him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a young lady who could be scarcely eighteen, of very slight and
      delicate figure, but exquisitely shaped, who, walking timidly up to the
      desk, made an inquiry, in a very low tone of voice, relative to some
      situation as governess, or companion to a lady. She raised her veil, for
      an instant, while she preferred the inquiry, and disclosed a countenance
      of most uncommon beauty, though shaded by a cloud of sadness, which, in
      one so young, was doubly remarkable. Having received a card of reference
      to some person on the books, she made the usual acknowledgment, and glided
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was neatly, but very quietly attired; so much so, indeed, that it
      seemed as though her dress, if it had been worn by one who imparted fewer
      graces of her own to it, might have looked poor and shabby. Her attendant&mdash;for
      she had one&mdash;was a red-faced, round-eyed, slovenly girl, who, from a
      certain roughness about the bare arms that peeped from under her draggled
      shawl, and the half-washed-out traces of smut and blacklead which tattooed
      her countenance, was clearly of a kin with the servants-of-all-work on the
      form: between whom and herself there had passed various grins and glances,
      indicative of the freemasonry of the craft.
    </p>
    <p>
      This girl followed her mistress; and, before Nicholas had recovered from
      the first effects of his surprise and admiration, the young lady was gone.
      It is not a matter of such complete and utter improbability as some sober
      people may think, that he would have followed them out, had he not been
      restrained by what passed between the fat lady and her book-keeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When is she coming again, Tom?' asked the fat lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tomorrow morning,' replied Tom, mending his pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where have you sent her to?' asked the fat lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Clark's,' replied Tom.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She'll have a nice life of it, if she goes there,' observed the fat lady,
      taking a pinch of snuff from a tin box.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom made no other reply than thrusting his tongue into his cheek, and
      pointing the feather of his pen towards Nicholas&mdash;reminders which
      elicited from the fat lady an inquiry, of 'Now, sir, what can we do for
      <i>you</i>?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas briefly replied, that he wanted to know whether there was any
      such post to be had, as secretary or amanuensis to a gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any such!' rejoined the mistress; 'a-dozen-such. An't there, Tom?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should think so,' answered that young gentleman; and as he said it, he
      winked towards Nicholas, with a degree of familiarity which he, no doubt,
      intended for a rather flattering compliment, but with which Nicholas was
      most ungratefully disgusted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon reference to the book, it appeared that the dozen secretaryships had
      dwindled down to one. Mr. Gregsbury, the great member of parliament, of
      Manchester Buildings, Westminster, wanted a young man, to keep his papers
      and correspondence in order; and Nicholas was exactly the sort of young
      man that Mr. Gregsbury wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what the terms are, as he said he'd settle them himself with
      the party,' observed the fat lady; 'but they must be pretty good ones,
      because he's a member of parliament.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Inexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not feel quite assured of the force
      of this reasoning, or the justice of this conclusion; but without
      troubling himself to question it, he took down the address, and resolved
      to wait upon Mr. Gregsbury without delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what the number is,' said Tom; 'but Manchester Buildings
      isn't a large place; and if the worst comes to the worst it won't take you
      very long to knock at all the doors on both sides of the way till you find
      him out. I say, what a good-looking gal that was, wasn't she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What girl?' demanded Nicholas, sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes. I know&mdash;what gal, eh?' whispered Tom, shutting one eye, and
      cocking his chin in the air. 'You didn't see her, you didn't&mdash;I say,
      don't you wish you was me, when she comes tomorrow morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas looked at the ugly clerk, as if he had a mind to reward his
      admiration of the young lady by beating the ledger about his ears, but he
      refrained, and strode haughtily out of the office; setting at defiance, in
      his indignation, those ancient laws of chivalry, which not only made it
      proper and lawful for all good knights to hear the praise of the ladies to
      whom they were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon them to roam about
      the world, and knock at head all such matter-of-fact and un-poetical
      characters, as declined to exalt, above all the earth, damsels whom they
      had never chanced to look upon or hear of&mdash;as if that were any
      excuse!
    </p>
    <p>
      Thinking no longer of his own misfortunes, but wondering what could be
      those of the beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, with many wrong turns,
      and many inquiries, and almost as many misdirections, bent his steps
      towards the place whither he had been directed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within the precincts of the ancient city of Westminster, and within half a
      quarter of a mile of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrow and dirty region,
      the sanctuary of the smaller members of Parliament in modern days. It is
      all comprised in one street of gloomy lodging-houses, from whose windows,
      in vacation-time, there frown long melancholy rows of bills, which say, as
      plainly as did the countenances of their occupiers, ranged on ministerial
      and opposition benches in the session which slumbers with its fathers, 'To
      Let', 'To Let'. In busier periods of the year these bills disappear, and
      the houses swarm with legislators. There are legislators in the parlours,
      in the first floor, in the second, in the third, in the garrets; the small
      apartments reek with the breath of deputations and delegates. In damp
      weather, the place is rendered close, by the steams of moist acts of
      parliament and frouzy petitions; general postmen grow faint as they enter
      its infected limits, and shabby figures in quest of franks, flit
      restlessly to and fro like the troubled ghosts of Complete Letter-writers
      departed. This is Manchester Buildings; and here, at all hours of the
      night, may be heard the rattling of latch-keys in their respective
      keyholes: with now and then&mdash;when a gust of wind sweeping across the
      water which washes the Buildings' feet, impels the sound towards its
      entrance&mdash;the weak, shrill voice of some young member practising
      tomorrow's speech. All the livelong day, there is a grinding of organs and
      clashing and clanging of little boxes of music; for Manchester Buildings
      is an eel-pot, which has no outlet but its awkward mouth&mdash;a
      case-bottle which has no thoroughfare, and a short and narrow neck&mdash;and
      in this respect it may be typical of the fate of some few among its more
      adventurous residents, who, after wriggling themselves into Parliament by
      violent efforts and contortions, find that it, too, is no thoroughfare for
      them; that, like Manchester Buildings, it leads to nothing beyond itself;
      and that they are fain at last to back out, no wiser, no richer, not one
      whit more famous, than they went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Into Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned, with the address of the great
      Mr. Gregsbury in his hand. As there was a stream of people pouring into a
      shabby house not far from the entrance, he waited until they had made
      their way in, and then making up to the servant, ventured to inquire if he
      knew where Mr. Gregsbury lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      The servant was a very pale, shabby boy, who looked as if he had slept
      underground from his infancy, as very likely he had. 'Mr. Gregsbury?' said
      he; 'Mr. Gregsbury lodges here. It's all right. Come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas thought he might as well get in while he could, so in he walked;
      and he had no sooner done so, than the boy shut the door, and made off.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was odd enough: but what was more embarrassing was, that all along
      the passage, and all along the narrow stairs, blocking up the window, and
      making the dark entry darker still, was a confused crowd of persons with
      great importance depicted in their looks; who were, to all appearance,
      waiting in silent expectation of some coming event. From time to time, one
      man would whisper to his neighbour, or a little group would whisper together,
      and then the whisperers would nod fiercely to each other, or give their
      heads a relentless shake, as if they were bent upon doing something very
      desperate, and were determined not to be put off, whatever happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a few minutes elapsed without anything occurring to explain this
      phenomenon, and as he felt his own position a peculiarly uncomfortable
      one, Nicholas was on the point of seeking some information from the man
      next him, when a sudden move was visible on the stairs, and a voice was
      heard to cry, 'Now, gentleman, have the goodness to walk up!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So far from walking up, the gentlemen on the stairs began to walk down
      with great alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinary politeness, that
      the gentlemen nearest the street would go first; the gentlemen nearest the
      street retorted, with equal courtesy, that they couldn't think of such a
      thing on any account; but they did it, without thinking of it, inasmuch as
      the other gentlemen pressing some half-dozen (among whom was Nicholas)
      forward, and closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up the stairs, but
      into the very sitting-room of Mr. Gregsbury, which they were thus compelled
      to enter with most unseemly precipitation, and without the means of
      retreat; the press behind them, more than filling the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'you are welcome. I am rejoiced to see
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      For a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a body of visitors, Mr. Gregsbury
      looked as uncomfortable as might be; but perhaps this was occasioned by
      senatorial gravity, and a statesmanlike habit of keeping his feelings
      under control. He was a tough, burly, thick-headed gentleman, with a loud
      voice, a pompous manner, a tolerable command of sentences with no meaning
      in them, and, in short, every requisite for a very good member indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, gentlemen,' said Mr. Gregsbury, tossing a great bundle of papers into
      a wicker basket at his feet, and throwing himself back in his chair with
      his arms over the elbows, 'you are dissatisfied with my conduct, I see by
      the newspapers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Mr. Gregsbury, we are,' said a plump old gentleman in a violent heat,
      bursting out of the throng, and planting himself in the front.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do my eyes deceive me,' said Mr. Gregsbury, looking towards the speaker,
      'or is that my old friend Pugstyles?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am that man, and no other, sir,' replied the plump old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Give me your hand, my worthy friend,' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'Pugstyles, my
      dear friend, I am very sorry to see you here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry to be here, sir,' said Mr. Pugstyles; 'but your conduct,
      Mr. Gregsbury, has rendered this deputation from your constituents
      imperatively necessary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My conduct, Pugstyles,' said Mr. Gregsbury, looking round upon the
      deputation with gracious magnanimity&mdash;'my conduct has been, and ever
      will be, regulated by a sincere regard for the true and real interests of
      this great and happy country. Whether I look at home, or abroad; whether I
      behold the peaceful industrious communities of our island home: her rivers
      covered with steamboats, her roads with locomotives, her streets with
      cabs, her skies with balloons of a power and magnitude hitherto unknown in
      the history of aeronautics in this or any other nation&mdash;I say,
      whether I look merely at home, or, stretching my eyes farther, contemplate
      the boundless prospect of conquest and possession&mdash;achieved by
      British perseverance and British valour&mdash;which is outspread before
      me, I clasp my hands, and turning my eyes to the broad expanse above my
      head, exclaim, "Thank Heaven, I am a Briton!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      The time had been, when this burst of enthusiasm would have been cheered
      to the very echo; but now, the deputation received it with chilling
      coldness. The general impression seemed to be, that as an explanation of
      Mr. Gregsbury's political conduct, it did not enter quite enough into
      detail; and one gentleman in the rear did not scruple to remark aloud,
      that, for his purpose, it savoured rather too much of a 'gammon' tendency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The meaning of that term&mdash;gammon,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'is unknown to
      me. If it means that I grow a little too fervid, or perhaps even
      hyperbolical, in extolling my native land, I admit the full justice of the
      remark. I <i>am</i> proud of this free and happy country. My form dilates, my eye
      glistens, my breast heaves, my heart swells, my bosom burns, when I call
      to mind her greatness and her glory.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We wish, sir,' remarked Mr. Pugstyles, calmly, 'to ask you a few
      questions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you please, gentlemen; my time is yours&mdash;and my country's&mdash;and
      my country's&mdash;' said Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      This permission being conceded, Mr. Pugstyles put on his spectacles, and
      referred to a written paper which he drew from his pocket; whereupon
      nearly every other member of the deputation pulled a written paper from
      <i>his </i>pocket, to check Mr. Pugstyles off, as he read the questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      This done, Mr. Pugstyles proceeded to business.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Question number one.&mdash;Whether, sir, you did not give a voluntary
      pledge previous to your election, that in event of your being returned,
      you would immediately put down the practice of coughing and groaning in
      the House of Commons. And whether you did not submit to be coughed and
      groaned down in the very first debate of the session, and have since made
      no effort to effect a reform in this respect? Whether you did not also
      pledge yourself to astonish the government, and make them shrink in their
      shoes? And whether you have astonished them, and made them shrink in their
      shoes, or not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on to the next one, my dear Pugstyles,' said Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you any explanation to offer with reference to that question, sir?'
      asked Mr. Pugstyles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' said Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      The members of the deputation looked fiercely at each other, and
      afterwards at the member. 'Dear Pugstyles' having taken a very long stare
      at Mr. Gregsbury over the tops of his spectacles, resumed his list of
      inquiries.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Question number two.&mdash;Whether, sir, you did not likewise give a
      voluntary pledge that you would support your colleague on every occasion;
      and whether you did not, the night before last, desert him and vote upon
      the other side, because the wife of a leader on that other side had
      invited Mrs. Gregsbury to an evening party?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on,' said Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing to say on that, either, sir?' asked the spokesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing whatever,' replied Mr. Gregsbury. The deputation, who had only
      seen him at canvassing or election time, were struck dumb by his coolness.
      He didn't appear like the same man; then he was all milk and honey; now he
      was all starch and vinegar. But men <i>are </i>so different at different times!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Question number three&mdash;and last,' said Mr. Pugstyles, emphatically.
      'Whether, sir, you did not state upon the hustings, that it was your firm
      and determined intention to oppose everything proposed; to divide the
      house upon every question, to move for returns on every subject, to place
      a motion on the books every day, and, in short, in your own memorable
      words, to play the very devil with everything and everybody?' With this
      comprehensive inquiry, Mr. Pugstyles folded up his list of questions, as
      did all his backers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw himself further back in his
      chair, came forward again, leaning his elbows on the table, made a
      triangle with his two thumbs and his two forefingers, and tapping his nose
      with the apex thereof, replied (smiling as he said it), 'I deny
      everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur arose from the deputation; and
      the same gentleman who had expressed an opinion relative to the gammoning
      nature of the introductory speech, again made a monosyllabic
      demonstration, by growling out 'Resign!' Which growl being taken up by his
      fellows, swelled into a very earnest and general remonstrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am requested, sir, to express a hope,' said Mr. Pugstyles, with a
      distant bow, 'that on receiving a requisition to that effect from a great
      majority of your constituents, you will not object at once to resign your
      seat in favour of some candidate whom they think they can better trust.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Mr. Gregsbury read the following reply, which, anticipating the
      request, he had composed in the form of a letter, whereof copies had been
      made to send round to the newspapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>My Dear Mr Pugstyles,</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      'Next to the welfare of our beloved island&mdash;this great and free and
      happy country, whose powers and resources are, I sincerely believe,
      illimitable&mdash;I value that noble independence which is an Englishman's
      proudest boast, and which I fondly hope to bequeath to my children,
      untarnished and unsullied. Actuated by no personal motives, but moved only
      by high and great constitutional considerations; which I will not attempt
      to explain, for they are really beneath the comprehension of those who
      have not made themselves masters, as I have, of the intricate and arduous
      study of politics; I would rather keep my seat, and intend doing so.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you do me the favour to present my compliments to the constituent
      body, and acquaint them with this circumstance?
    </p>
    <p>
      'With great esteem, 'My dear Mr. Pugstyles, '&amp;c.&amp;c.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you will not resign, under any circumstances?' asked the spokesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gregsbury smiled, and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, good-morning, sir,' said Pugstyles, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heaven bless you!' said Mr. Gregsbury. And the deputation, with many
      growls and scowls, filed off as quickly as the narrowness of the staircase
      would allow of their getting down.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last man being gone, Mr. Gregsbury rubbed his hands and chuckled, as
      merry fellows will, when they think they have said or done a more than
      commonly good thing; he was so engrossed in this self-congratulation, that
      he did not observe that Nicholas had been left behind in the shadow of the
      window-curtains, until that young gentleman, fearing he might otherwise
      overhear some soliloquy intended to have no listeners, coughed twice or
      thrice, to attract the member's notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that?' said Mr. Gregsbury, in sharp accents.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas stepped forward, and bowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you do here, sir?' asked Mr. Gregsbury; 'a spy upon my privacy! A
      concealed voter! You have heard my answer, sir. Pray follow the
      deputation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should have done so, if I had belonged to it, but I do not,' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then how came you here, sir?' was the natural inquiry of Mr. Gregsbury,
      MP. 'And where the devil have you come from, sir?' was the question which
      followed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I brought this card from the General Agency Office, sir,' said Nicholas,
      'wishing to offer myself as your secretary, and understanding that you
      stood in need of one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all you have come for, is it?' said Mr. Gregsbury, eyeing him in
      some doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas replied in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have no connection with any of those rascally papers have you?' said
      Mr. Gregsbury. 'You didn't get into the room, to hear what was going
      forward, and put it in print, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no connection, I am sorry to say, with anything at present,'
      rejoined Nicholas,&mdash;politely enough, but quite at his ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'How did you find your way up here, then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas related how he had been forced up by the deputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was the way, was it?' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'Sit down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas took a chair, and Mr. Gregsbury stared at him for a long time, as
      if to make certain, before he asked any further questions, that there were
      no objections to his outward appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You want to be my secretary, do you?' he said at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish to be employed in that capacity, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Mr. Gregsbury; 'now what can you do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose,' replied Nicholas, smiling, 'that I can do what usually falls
      to the lot of other secretaries.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that?' inquired Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it?' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! What is it?' retorted the member, looking shrewdly at him, with his
      head on one side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A secretary's duties are rather difficult to define, perhaps,' said
      Nicholas, considering. 'They include, I presume, correspondence?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good,' interposed Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The arrangement of papers and documents?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Occasionally, perhaps, the writing from your dictation; and possibly,
      sir,' said Nicholas, with a half-smile, 'the copying of your speech for
      some public journal, when you have made one of more than usual
      importance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Gregsbury. 'What else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really,' said Nicholas, after a moment's reflection, 'I am not able, at
      this instant, to recapitulate any other duty of a secretary, beyond the
      general one of making himself as agreeable and useful to his employer as
      he can, consistently with his own respectability, and without overstepping
      that line of duties which he undertakes to perform, and which the
      designation of his office is usually understood to imply.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas for a short time, and then
      glancing warily round the room, said in a suppressed voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is all very well, Mr&mdash;what is your name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is all very well, Mr. Nickleby, and very proper, so far as it goes&mdash;so
      far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough. There are other duties, Mr
      Nickleby, which a secretary to a parliamentary gentleman must never lose
      sight of. I should require to be crammed, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' interposed Nicholas, doubtful whether he had heard
      aright.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;To be crammed, sir,' repeated Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      'May I beg your pardon again, if I inquire what you mean, sir?' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My meaning, sir, is perfectly plain,' replied Mr. Gregsbury with a solemn
      aspect. 'My secretary would have to make himself master of the foreign
      policy of the world, as it is mirrored in the newspapers; to run his eye
      over all accounts of public meetings, all leading articles, and accounts
      of the proceedings of public bodies; and to make notes of anything which
      it appeared to him might be made a point of, in any little speech upon the
      question of some petition lying on the table, or anything of that kind. Do
      you understand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I do, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'it would be necessary for him to make himself
      acquainted, from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs on passing events;
      such as "Mysterious disappearance, and supposed suicide of a potboy," or
      anything of that sort, upon which I might found a question to the
      Secretary of State for the Home Department. Then, he would have to copy
      the question, and as much as I remembered of the answer (including a
      little compliment about independence and good sense); and to send the
      manuscript in a frank to the local paper, with perhaps half-a-dozen lines
      of leader, to the effect, that I was always to be found in my place in
      parliament, and never shrunk from the responsible and arduous duties, and
      so forth. You see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Besides which,' continued Mr. Gregsbury, 'I should expect him, now and
      then, to go through a few figures in the printed tables, and to pick out a
      few results, so that I might come out pretty well on timber duty
      questions, and finance questions, and so on; and I should like him to get
      up a few little arguments about the disastrous effects of a return to cash
      payments and a metallic currency, with a touch now and then about the
      exportation of bullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank notes, and all
      that kind of thing, which it's only necessary to talk fluently about,
      because nobody understands it. Do you take me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I understand,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With regard to such questions as are not political,' continued Mr
      Gregsbury, warming; 'and which one can't be expected to care a curse
      about, beyond the natural care of not allowing inferior people to be as
      well off as ourselves&mdash;else where are our privileges?&mdash;I should
      wish my secretary to get together a few little flourishing speeches, of a
      patriotic cast. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought
      forward, for giving poor grubbing devils of authors a right to their own
      property, I should like to say, that I for one would never consent to
      opposing an insurmountable bar to the diffusion of literature among <i>the
            people</i>,&mdash;you understand?&mdash;that the creations of the pocket,
      being man's, might belong to one man, or one family; but that the
      creations of the brain, being God's, ought as a matter of course to belong
      to the people at large&mdash;and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should
      like to make a joke about posterity, and say that those who wrote for
      posterity should be content to be rewarded by the approbation <i>of</i>
      posterity; it might take with the house, and could never do me any harm,
      because posterity can't be expected to know anything about me or my jokes
      either&mdash;do you see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see that, sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You must always bear in mind, in such cases as this, where our interests
      are not affected,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'to put it very strong about the
      people, because it comes out very well at election-time; and you could be
      as funny as you liked about the authors; because I believe the greater
      part of them live in lodgings, and are not voters. This is a hasty outline
      of the chief things you'd have to do, except waiting in the lobby every
      night, in case I forgot anything, and should want fresh cramming; and, now
      and then, during great debates, sitting in the front row of the gallery,
      and saying to the people about&mdash;'You see that gentleman, with his
      hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the pillar&mdash;that's Mr
      Gregsbury&mdash;the celebrated Mr. Gregsbury,'&mdash;with any other little
      eulogium that might strike you at the moment. And for salary,' said Mr
      Gregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for he was out of breath&mdash;'and
      for salary, I don't mind saying at once in round numbers, to prevent any
      dissatisfaction&mdash;though it's more than I've been accustomed to give&mdash;fifteen
      shillings a week, and find yourself. There!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this handsome offer, Mr. Gregsbury once more threw himself back in his
      chair, and looked like a man who had been most profligately liberal, but
      is determined not to repent of it notwithstanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fifteen shillings a week is not much,' said Nicholas, mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not much! Fifteen shillings a week not much, young man?' cried Mr
      Gregsbury. 'Fifteen shillings a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the sum, sir,' replied Nicholas;
      'for I am not ashamed to confess, that whatever it may be in itself, to me
      it is a great deal. But the duties and responsibilities make the
      recompense small, and they are so very heavy that I fear to undertake
      them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you decline to undertake them, sir?' inquired Mr. Gregsbury, with his
      hand on the bell-rope.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear they are too great for my powers, however good my will may be,
      sir,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept the place, and
      that you consider fifteen shillings a week too little,' said Mr. Gregsbury,
      ringing. 'Do you decline it, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no alternative but to do so,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Door, Matthews!' said Mr. Gregsbury, as the boy appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sorry you have,' rejoined Mr. Gregsbury, turning his back upon him.
      'Door, Matthews!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Door, Matthews!' cried Mr. Gregsbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy beckoned Nicholas, and tumbling lazily downstairs before him,
      opened the door, and ushered him into the street. With a sad and pensive
      air, he retraced his steps homewards.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike had scraped a meal together from the remnant of last night's supper,
      and was anxiously awaiting his return. The occurrences of the morning had
      not improved Nicholas's appetite, and, by him, the dinner remained
      untasted. He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, with the plate which
      the poor fellow had assiduously filled with the choicest morsels,
      untouched, by his side, when Newman Noggs looked into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come back?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'tired to death: and, what is worse, might have
      remained at home for all the good I have done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Couldn't expect to do much in one morning,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Maybe so, but I am sanguine, and did expect,' said Nicholas, 'and am
      proportionately disappointed.' Saying which, he gave Newman an account of
      his proceedings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I could do anything,' said Nicholas, 'anything, however slight, until
      Ralph Nickleby returns, and I have eased my mind by confronting him, I
      should feel happier. I should think it no disgrace to work, Heaven knows.
      Lying indolently here, like a half-tamed sullen beast, distracts me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Newman; 'small things offer&mdash;they would pay the
      rent, and more&mdash;but you wouldn't like them; no, you could hardly be
      expected to undergo it&mdash;no, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What could I hardly be expected to undergo?' asked Nicholas, raising his
      eyes. 'Show me, in this wide waste of London, any honest means by which I
      could even defray the weekly hire of this poor room, and see if I shrink
      from resorting to them! Undergo! I have undergone too much, my friend, to
      feel pride or squeamishness now. Except&mdash;' added Nicholas hastily,
      after a short silence, 'except such squeamishness as is common honesty,
      and so much pride as constitutes self-respect. I see little to choose,
      between assistant to a brutal pedagogue, and toad-eater to a mean and
      ignorant upstart, be he member or no member.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly know whether I should tell you what I heard this morning, or
      not,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has it reference to what you said just now?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then in Heaven's name, my good friend, tell it me,' said Nicholas. 'For
      God's sake consider my deplorable condition; and, while I promise to take
      no step without taking counsel with you, give me, at least, a vote in my
      own behalf.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Moved by this entreaty, Newman stammered forth a variety of most
      unaccountable and entangled sentences, the upshot of which was, that Mrs
      Kenwigs had examined him, at great length that morning, touching the
      origin of his acquaintance with, and the whole life, adventures, and
      pedigree of, Nicholas; that Newman had parried these questions as long as
      he could, but being, at length, hard pressed and driven into a corner, had
      gone so far as to admit, that Nicholas was a tutor of great
      accomplishments, involved in some misfortunes which he was not at liberty
      to explain, and bearing the name of Johnson. That Mrs. Kenwigs, impelled by
      gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or maternal love, or all four
      powerful motives conjointly, had taken secret conference with Mr. Kenwigs,
      and had finally returned to propose that Mr. Johnson should instruct the
      four Miss Kenwigses in the French language as spoken by natives, at the
      weekly stipend of five shillings, current coin of the realm; being at the
      rate of one shilling per week, per each Miss Kenwigs, and one shilling
      over, until such time as the baby might be able to take it out in grammar.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which, unless I am very much mistaken,' observed Mrs. Kenwigs in making
      the proposition, 'will not be very long; for such clever children, Mr
      Noggs, never were born into this world, I do believe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said Newman, 'that's all. It's beneath you, I know; but I thought
      that perhaps you might&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Might!' cried Nicholas, with great alacrity; 'of course I shall. I accept
      the offer at once. Tell the worthy mother so, without delay, my dear
      fellow; and that I am ready to begin whenever she pleases.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman hastened, with joyful steps, to inform Mrs. Kenwigs of his friend's
      acquiescence, and soon returning, brought back word that they would be
      happy to see him in the first floor as soon as convenient; that Mrs
      Kenwigs had, upon the instant, sent out to secure a second-hand French
      grammar and dialogues, which had long been fluttering in the sixpenny box
      at the bookstall round the corner; and that the family, highly excited at
      the prospect of this addition to their gentility, wished the initiatory
      lesson to come off immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      And here it may be observed, that Nicholas was not, in the ordinary sense
      of the word, a young man of high spirit. He would resent an affront to
      himself, or interpose to redress a wrong offered to another, as boldly and
      freely as any knight that ever set lance in rest; but he lacked that
      peculiar excess of coolness and great-minded selfishness, which invariably
      distinguish gentlemen of high spirit. In truth, for our own part, we are
      disposed to look upon such gentleman as being rather incumbrances than
      otherwise in rising families: happening to be acquainted with several
      whose spirit prevents their settling down to any grovelling occupation,
      and only displays itself in a tendency to cultivate moustachios, and look
      fierce; and although moustachios and ferocity are both very pretty things
      in their way, and very much to be commended, we confess to a desire to see
      them bred at the owner's proper cost, rather than at the expense of
      low-spirited people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, therefore, not being a high-spirited young man according to
      common parlance, and deeming it a greater degradation to borrow, for the
      supply of his necessities, from Newman Noggs, than to teach French to the
      little Kenwigses for five shillings a week, accepted the offer with the
      alacrity already described, and betook himself to the first floor with all
      convenient speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, he was received by Mrs. Kenwigs with a genteel air, kindly intended
      to assure him of her protection and support; and here, too, he found Mr
      Lillyvick and Miss Petowker; the four Miss Kenwigses on their form of
      audience; and the baby in a dwarf porter's chair with a deal tray before
      it, amusing himself with a toy horse without a head; the said horse being
      composed of a small wooden cylinder, not unlike an Italian iron, supported
      on four crooked pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of red wafers
      set in blacking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you do, Mr. Johnson?' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'Uncle&mdash;Mr. Johnson.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you do, sir?' said Mr. Lillyvick&mdash;rather sharply; for he had
      not known what Nicholas was, on the previous night, and it was rather an
      aggravating circumstance if a tax collector had been too polite to a
      teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Johnson is engaged as private master to the children, uncle,' said Mrs
      Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you said just now, my dear,' replied Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I hope,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, drawing herself up, 'that that will not
      make them proud; but that they will bless their own good fortune, which
      has born them superior to common people's children. Do you hear,
      Morleena?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And when you go out in the streets, or elsewhere, I desire that you don't
      boast of it to the other children,' said Mrs. Kenwigs; 'and that if you
      must say anything about it, you don't say no more than "We've got a
      private master comes to teach us at home, but we ain't proud, because ma
      says it's sinful." Do you hear, Morleena?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then mind you recollect, and do as I tell you,' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'Shall
      Mr. Johnson begin, uncle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am ready to hear, if Mr. Johnson is ready to commence, my dear,' said
      the collector, assuming the air of a profound critic. 'What sort of
      language do you consider French, sir?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0242m.jpg" alt="0242m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/01242.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'How do you mean?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you consider it a good language, sir?' said the collector; 'a pretty
      language, a sensible language?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A pretty language, certainly,' replied Nicholas; 'and as it has a name
      for everything, and admits of elegant conversation about everything, I
      presume it is a sensible one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Mr. Lillyvick, doubtfully. 'Do you call it a cheerful
      language, now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'I should say it was, certainly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very much changed since my time, then,' said the collector, 'very
      much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was it a dismal one in your time?' asked Nicholas, scarcely able to
      repress a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. 'It's the war
      time that I speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language. I
      should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can only say that I've heard
      the French prisoners, who were natives, and ought to know how to speak it,
      talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable to hear them.
      Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir&mdash;fifty times!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs. Kenwigs thought it expedient to
      motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss Petowker
      had practised several blandishments, to soften the excellent old
      gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by asking,
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the water in French, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>L'eau</i>,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, 'I thought as much.
      Lo, eh? I don't think anything of that language&mdash;nothing at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose the children may begin, uncle?' said Mrs. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes; they may begin, my dear,' replied the collector, discontentedly.
      'I have no wish to prevent them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row, with
      their tails all one way, and Morleena at the top: while Nicholas, taking
      the book, began his preliminary explanations. Miss Petowker and Mrs
      Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only by the whispered
      assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by heart in no
      time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and attentive
      eyes, lying in wait for something upon which he could open a fresh
      discussion on the language.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 17
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>
      <i>ollows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby</i>
    </p>
<p>It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort could
      banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the commencement
      of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when its clocks yet
      wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her way alone, amid the
      noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west end of London.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the
      poor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks the
      thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets, making towards the scene
      of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their hurried
      walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight which cheer
      their monotonous existence during the long train of hours that make a
      working day. As she drew nigh to the more fashionable quarter of the town,
      Kate marked many of this class as they passed by, hurrying like herself to
      their painful occupation, and saw, in their unhealthy looks and feeble
      gait, but too clear an evidence that her misgivings were not wholly
      groundless.
    </p>
    <p>
      She arrived at Madame Mantalini's some minutes before the appointed hour,
      and after walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some other
      female might arrive and spare her the embarrassment of stating her
      business to the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which, after some
      delay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped
      jacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is Madame Mantalini in?' faltered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not often out at this time, miss,' replied the man in a tone which
      rendered "Miss," something more offensive than "My dear."
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can I see her?' asked Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the
      inquirer with a stare and a broad grin, 'Lord, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I came by her own appointment,' said Kate; 'I am&mdash;I am&mdash;to be
      employed here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! you should have rung the worker's bell,' said the footman, touching
      the handle of one in the door-post. 'Let me see, though, I forgot&mdash;Miss
      Nickleby, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're to walk upstairs then, please,' said the man. 'Madame Mantalini
      wants to see you&mdash;this way&mdash;take care of these things on the
      floor.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter of
      pastry-cook's trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of rout
      seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeaking a late party on
      the previous night, the man led the way to the second story, and ushered
      Kate into a back-room, communicating by folding-doors with the apartment
      in which she had first seen the mistress of the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you'll wait here a minute,' said the man, 'I'll tell her presently.'
      Having made this promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate
      alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive
      feature was, a half-length portrait in oil, of Mr. Mantalini, whom the
      artist had depicted scratching his head in an easy manner, and thus
      displaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini
      before her marriage. There was, however, the sound of voices in
      conversation in the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the
      partition thin, Kate could not help discovering that they belonged to Mr
      and Mrs. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you will be odiously, demnebly, outr_i_geously jealous, my soul,' said
      Mr. Mantalini, 'you will be very miserable&mdash;horrid miserable&mdash;demnition
      miserable.' And then, there was a sound as though Mr. Mantalini were
      sipping his coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>am</i> miserable,' returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,' said
      Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not,' returned Madame, with a sob.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not put itself out of humour,' said Mr. Mantalini, breaking an egg. 'It
      is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not be out
      of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makes it cross and gloomy
      like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not to be brought round in that way, always,' rejoined Madame,
      sulkily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought round
      at all if it likes that better,' retorted Mr. Mantalini, with his egg-spoon
      in his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very easy to talk,' said Mrs. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,' replied Mr. Mantalini;
      'for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match any
      waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were flirting with her during the whole night,' said Madame
      Mantalini, apparently desirous to lead the conversation back to the point
      from which it had strayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, my life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were,' said Madame; 'I had my eye upon you all the time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!' cried
      Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture. 'Oh, demmit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I say once more,' resumed Madame, 'that you ought not to waltz with
      anybody but your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini, if I take
      poison first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She will not take poison and have horrid pains, will she?' said
      Mantalini; who, by the altered sound of his voice, seemed to have moved
      his chair, and taken up his position nearer to his wife. 'She will not
      take poison, because she had a demd fine husband who might have married
      two countesses and a dowager&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two countesses,' interposed Madame. 'You told me one before!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two!' cried Mantalini. 'Two demd fine women, real countesses and splendid
      fortunes, demmit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And why didn't you?' asked Madame, playfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why didn't I!' replied her husband. 'Had I not seen, at a morning
      concert, the demdest little fascinator in all the world, and while that
      little fascinator is my wife, may not all the countesses and dowagers in
      England be&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave Madame Mantalini a
      very loud kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned; after which, there seemed
      to be some more kissing mixed up with the progress of the breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what about the cash, my existence's jewel?' said Mantalini, when
      these endearments ceased. 'How much have we in hand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very little indeed,' replied Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We must have some more,' said Mantalini; 'we must have some discount out
      of old Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't want any more just now,' said Madame coaxingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My life and soul,' returned her husband, 'there is a horse for sale at
      Scrubbs's, which it would be a sin and a crime to lose&mdash;going, my
      senses' joy, for nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For nothing,' cried Madame, 'I am glad of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For actually nothing,' replied Mantalini. 'A hundred guineas down will
      buy him; mane, and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest beauty. I
      will ride him in the park before the very chariots of the rejected
      countesses. The demd old dowager will faint with grief and rage; the other
      two will say "He is married, he has made away with himself, it is a demd
      thing, it is all up!" They will hate each other demnebly, and wish you
      dead and buried. Ha! ha! Demmit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Mantalini's prudence, if she had any, was not proof against these
      triumphal pictures; after a little jingling of keys, she observed that she
      would see what her desk contained, and rising for that purpose, opened the
      folding-door, and walked into the room where Kate was seated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, child!' exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling in surprise. 'How
      came you here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Child!' cried Mantalini, hurrying in. 'How came&mdash;eh!&mdash;oh&mdash;demmit,
      how d'ye do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been waiting, here some time, ma'am,' said Kate, addressing Madame
      Mantalini. 'The servant must have forgotten to let you know that I was
      here, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You really must see to that man,' said Madame, turning to her husband.
      'He forgets everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will twist his demd nose off his countenance for leaving such a very
      pretty creature all alone by herself,' said her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mantalini,' cried Madame, 'you forget yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't forget you, my soul, and never shall, and never can,' said
      Mantalini, kissing his wife's hand, and grimacing aside, to Miss Nickleby,
      who turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the business took some papers
      from her desk which she handed over to Mr. Mantalini, who received them
      with great delight. She then requested Kate to follow her, and after
      several feints on the part of Mr. Mantalini to attract the young lady's
      attention, they went away: leaving that gentleman extended at full length
      on the sofa, with his heels in the air and a newspaper in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, and through a
      passage, to a large room at the back of the premises where were a number
      of young women employed in sewing, cutting out, making up, altering, and
      various other processes known only to those who are cunning in the arts of
      millinery and dressmaking. It was a close room with a skylight, and as
      dull and quiet as a room need be.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short, bustling,
      over-dressed female, full of importance, presented herself, and all the
      young ladies suspending their operations for the moment, whispered to each
      other sundry criticisms upon the make and texture of Miss Nickleby's
      dress, her complexion, cast of features, and personal appearance, with as
      much good breeding as could have been displayed by the very best society
      in a crowded ball-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Miss Knag,' said Madame Mantalini, 'this is the young person I spoke
      to you about.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0248m.jpg" alt="0248m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0248.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon Madame Mantalini, which she
      dexterously transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and said that
      certainly, although it was a great deal of trouble to have young people
      who were wholly unused to the business, still, she was sure the young
      person would try to do her best&mdash;impressed with which conviction she
      (Miss Knag) felt an interest in her, already.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think that, for the present at all events, it will be better for Miss
      Nickleby to come into the show-room with you, and try things on for
      people,' said Madame Mantalini. 'She will not be able for the present to
      be of much use in any other way; and her appearance will&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Suit very well with mine, Madame Mantalini,' interrupted Miss Knag. 'So
      it will; and to be sure I might have known that you would not be long in
      finding that out; for you have so much taste in all those matters, that
      really, as I often say to the young ladies, I do not know how, when, or
      where, you possibly could have acquired all you know&mdash;hem&mdash;Miss
      Nickleby and I are quite a pair, Madame Mantalini, only I am a little
      darker than Miss Nickleby, and&mdash;hem&mdash;I think my foot may be a
      little smaller. Miss Nickleby, I am sure, will not be offended at my
      saying that, when she hears that our family always have been celebrated
      for small feet ever since&mdash;hem&mdash;ever since our family had any
      feet at all, indeed, I think. I had an uncle once, Madame Mantalini, who
      lived in Cheltenham, and had a most excellent business as a tobacconist&mdash;hem&mdash;who
      had such small feet, that they were no bigger than those which are usually
      joined to wooden legs&mdash;the most symmetrical feet, Madame Mantalini,
      that even you can imagine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They must have had something of the appearance of club feet, Miss Knag,'
      said Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well now, that is so like you,' returned Miss Knag, 'Ha! ha! ha! Of club
      feet! Oh very good! As I often remark to the young ladies, "Well I must
      say, and I do not care who knows it, of all the ready humour&mdash;hem&mdash;I
      ever heard anywhere"&mdash;and I have heard a good deal; for when my dear
      brother was alive (I kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we had to supper
      once a week two or three young men, highly celebrated in those days for
      their humour, Madame Mantalini&mdash;"Of all the ready humour," I say to
      the young ladies, "I ever heard, Madame Mantalini's is the most remarkable&mdash;hem.
      It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so good-natured (as I was observing
      to Miss Simmonds only this morning), that how, or when, or by what means
      she acquired it, is to me a mystery indeed."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may be
      observed&mdash;not that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously
      deferential to Madame Mantalini, since these are facts which require no
      comment; but that every now and then, she was accustomed, in the torrent
      of her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear 'hem!' the import and
      meaning of which, was variously interpreted by her acquaintance; some
      holding that Miss Knag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the
      monosyllable when any fresh invention was in course of coinage in her
      brain; others, that when she wanted a word, she threw it in to gain time,
      and prevent anybody else from striking into the conversation. It may be
      further remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although she had
      shot beyond it, years ago; and that she was weak and vain, and one of
      those people who are best described by the axiom, that you may trust them
      as far as you can see them, and no farther.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, and so forth,'
      said Madame Mantalini; 'and so I'll leave her with you. You'll not forget
      my directions, Miss Knag?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Knag of course replied, that to forget anything Madame Mantalini had
      directed, was a moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a general
      good-morning among her assistants, sailed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Charming creature, isn't she, Miss Nickleby?' said Miss Knag, rubbing her
      hands together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have seen very little of her,' said Kate. 'I hardly know yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?' inquired Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; I have seen him twice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't <i>he</i> a charming creature?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed he does not strike me as being so, by any means,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, my dear!' cried Miss Knag, elevating her hands. 'Why, goodness
      gracious mercy, where's your taste? Such a fine tall, full-whiskered
      dashing gentlemanly man, with such teeth and hair, and&mdash;hem&mdash;well
      now, you <i>do</i> astonish me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say I am very foolish,' replied Kate, laying aside her bonnet;
      'but as my opinion is of very little importance to him or anyone else, I
      do not regret having formed it, and shall be slow to change it, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is a very fine man, don't you think so?' asked one of the young
      ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,' replied
      Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And drives very beautiful horses, doesn't he?' inquired another.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say he may, but I never saw them,' answered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never saw them!' interposed Miss Knag. 'Oh, well! There it is at once you
      know; how can you possibly pronounce an opinion about a gentleman&mdash;hem&mdash;if
      you don't see him as he turns out altogether?'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was so much of the world&mdash;even of the little world of the
      country girl&mdash;in this idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who was
      anxious, for every reason, to change the subject, made no further remark,
      and left Miss Knag in possession of the field.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a short silence, during which most of the young people made a closer
      inspection of Kate's appearance, and compared notes respecting it, one of
      them offered to help her off with her shawl, and the offer being accepted,
      inquired whether she did not find black very uncomfortable wear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do indeed,' replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So dusty and hot,' observed the same speaker, adjusting her dress for
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldest wear which
      mortals can assume; that it not only chills the breasts of those it
      clothes, but extending its influence to summer friends, freezes up their
      sources of good-will and kindness, and withering all the buds of promise
      they once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing but bared and rotten
      hearts exposed. There are few who have lost a friend or relative
      constituting in life their sole dependence, who have not keenly felt this
      chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt it acutely, and
      feeling it at the moment, could not quite restrain her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtless speech,' said her
      companion. 'I did not think of it. You are in mourning for some near
      relation?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For my father,' answered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what relation, Miss Simmonds?' asked Miss Knag, in an audible voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her father,' replied the other softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her father, eh?' said Miss Knag, without the slightest depression of her
      voice. 'Ah! A long illness, Miss Simmonds?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush,' replied the girl; 'I don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Our misfortune was very sudden,' said Kate, turning away, 'or I might
      perhaps, at a time like this, be enabled to support it better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There had existed not a little desire in the room, according to invariable
      custom, when any new 'young person' came, to know who Kate was, and what
      she was, and all about her; but, although it might have been very
      naturally increased by her appearance and emotion, the knowledge that it
      pained her to be questioned, was sufficient to repress even this
      curiosity; and Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt extracting any
      further particulars just then, reluctantly commanded silence, and bade the
      work proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      In silence, then, the tasks were plied until half-past one, when a baked
      leg of mutton, with potatoes to correspond, were served in the kitchen.
      The meal over, and the young ladies having enjoyed the additional
      relaxation of washing their hands, the work began again, and was again
      performed in silence, until the noise of carriages rattling through the
      streets, and of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day's
      work of the more fortunate members of society was proceeding in its turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of these double knocks at Madame Mantalini's door, announced the
      equipage of some great lady&mdash;or rather rich one, for there is
      occasionally a distinction between riches and greatness&mdash;who had come
      with her daughter to approve of some court-dresses which had been a long
      time preparing, and upon whom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by
      Miss Knag, and officered of course by Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate's part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties being limited to
      holding articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them on, and
      now and then tying a string, or fastening a hook-and-eye. She might, not
      unreasonably, have supposed herself beneath the reach of any arrogance, or
      bad humour; but it happened that the lady and daughter were both out of
      temper that day, and the poor girl came in for her share of their
      revilings. She was awkward&mdash;her hands were cold&mdash;dirty&mdash;coarse&mdash;she
      could do nothing right; they wondered how Madame Mantalini could have such
      people about her; requested they might see some other young woman the next
      time they came; and so forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      So common an occurrence would be hardly deserving of mention, but for its
      effect. Kate shed many bitter tears when these people were gone, and felt,
      for the first time, humbled by her occupation. She had, it is true,
      quailed at the prospect of drudgery and hard service; but she had felt no
      degradation in working for her bread, until she found herself exposed to
      insolence and pride. Philosophy would have taught her that the degradation
      was on the side of those who had sunk so low as to display such passions
      habitually, and without cause: but she was too young for such consolation,
      and her honest feeling was hurt. May not the complaint, that common people
      are above their station, often take its rise in the fact of <i>un</i>common
      people being below theirs?
    </p>
    <p>
      In such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nine o'clock, when
      Kate, jaded and dispirited with the occurrences of the day, hastened from
      the confinement of the workroom, to join her mother at the street corner,
      and walk home:&mdash;the more sadly, from having to disguise her real
      feelings, and feign to participate in all the sanguine visions of her
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless my soul, Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby; 'I've been thinking all day what
      a delightful thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take you into
      partnership&mdash;such a likely thing too, you know! Why, your poor dear
      papa's cousin's sister-in-law&mdash;a Miss Browndock&mdash;was taken into
      partnership by a lady that kept a school at Hammersmith, and made her
      fortune in no time at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss
      Browndock was the same lady that got the ten thousand pounds prize in the
      lottery, but I think she was; indeed, now I come to think of it, I am sure
      she was. "Mantalini and Nickleby", how well it would sound!&mdash;and if
      Nicholas has any good fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the
      head-master of Westminster School, living in the same street.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas!' cried Kate, taking from her reticule her brother's letter
      from Dotheboys Hall. 'In all our misfortunes, how happy it makes me, mama,
      to hear he is doing well, and to find him writing in such good spirits! It
      consoles me for all we may undergo, to think that he is comfortable and
      happy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Kate! she little thought how weak her consolation was, and how soon
      she would be undeceived.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 18
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>iss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up
            her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to form
            this Resolution</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      There are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering, which, having
      no stirring interest for any but those who lead them, are disregarded by
      persons who do not want thought or feeling, but who pamper their
      compassion and need high stimulants to rouse it.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their
      vocation, scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in
      theirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy and compassion are every
      day expended on out-of-the-way objects, when only too many demands upon
      the legitimate exercise of the same virtues in a healthy state, are
      constantly within the sight and hearing of the most unobservant person
      alive. In short, charity must have its romance, as the novelist or
      playwright must have his. A thief in fustian is a vulgar character,
      scarcely to be thought of by persons of refinement; but dress him in green
      velvet, with a high-crowned hat, and change the scene of his operations,
      from a thickly-peopled city, to a mountain road, and you shall find in him
      the very soul of poetry and adventure. So it is with the one great
      cardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exercised, leads to, if it
      does not necessarily include, all the others. It must have its romance;
      and the less of real, hard, struggling work-a-day life there is in that
      romance, the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      The life to which poor Kate Nickleby was devoted, in consequence of the
      unforeseen train of circumstances already developed in this narrative, was
      a hard one; but lest the very dulness, unhealthy confinement, and bodily
      fatigue, which made up its sum and substance, should deprive it of any
      interest with the mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would rather
      keep Miss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in the
      outset, by a minute and lengthened description of the establishment
      presided over by Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, as Kate was taking
      her weary way homewards on the first night of her novitiate; 'that Miss
      Nickleby is a very creditable young person&mdash;a very creditable young
      person indeed&mdash;hem&mdash;upon my word, Madame Mantalini, it does very
      extraordinary credit even to your discrimination that you should have
      found such a very excellent, very well-behaved, very&mdash;hem&mdash;very
      unassuming young woman to assist in the fitting on. I have seen some young
      women when they had the opportunity of displaying before their betters,
      behave in such a&mdash;oh, dear&mdash;well&mdash;but you're always right,
      Madame Mantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies, how
      you do contrive to be always right, when so many people are so often
      wrong, is to me a mystery indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has
      not done anything very remarkable today&mdash;that I am aware of, at
      least,' said Madame Mantalini in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, dear!' said Miss Knag; 'but you must allow a great deal for
      inexperience, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And youth?' inquired Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,' replied Miss Knag,
      reddening; 'because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn't have&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,' suggested Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,' rejoined Miss
      Knag most complacently, 'and that's the fact, for you know what one's
      going to say, before it has time to rise to one's lips. Oh, very good! Ha,
      ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For myself,' observed Madame Mantalini, glancing with affected
      carelessness at her assistant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, 'I
      consider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I ever saw in my life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor dear thing,' said Miss Knag, 'it's not her fault. If it was, we
      might hope to cure it; but as it's her misfortune, Madame Mantalini, why
      really you know, as the man said about the blind horse, we ought to
      respect it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,' remarked Madame
      Mantalini. 'I think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever met with.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ordinary!' cried Miss Knag with a countenance beaming delight; 'and
      awkward! Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that I quite love the
      poor girl; and that if she was twice as indifferent-looking, and twice as
      awkward as she is, I should be only so much the more her friend, and
      that's the truth of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for Kate Nickleby,
      after witnessing her failure that morning, and this short conversation
      with her superior increased the favourable prepossession to a most
      surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as when she first
      scanned that young lady's face and figure, she had entertained certain
      inward misgivings that they would never agree.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But now,' said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herself in a
      mirror at no great distance, 'I love her&mdash;I quite love her&mdash;I
      declare I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Of such a highly disinterested quality was this devoted friendship, and so
      superior was it to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill-nature, that
      the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidly informed Kate Nickleby, next day, that
      she saw she would never do for the business, but that she need not give
      herself the slightest uneasiness on this account, for that she (Miss
      Knag), by increased exertions on her own part, would keep her as much as
      possible in the background, and that all she would have to do, would be to
      remain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink from attracting
      notice by every means in her power. This last suggestion was so much in
      accordance with the timid girl's own feelings and wishes, that she readily
      promised implicit reliance on the excellent spinster's advice: without
      questioning, or indeed bestowing a moment's reflection upon, the motives
      that dictated it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon my word,' said
      Miss Knag; 'a sister's interest, actually. It's the most singular
      circumstance I ever knew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Undoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a strong interest
      in Kate Nickleby, it should not rather have been the interest of a maiden
      aunt or grandmother; that being the conclusion to which the difference in
      their respective ages would have naturally tended. But Miss Knag wore
      clothes of a very youthful pattern, and perhaps her feelings took the same
      shape.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless you!' said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at the conclusion
      of the second day's work, 'how very awkward you have been all day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more
      painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me,' sighed Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I dare say not,' rejoined Miss Knag, in a most uncommon flow of
      good humour. 'But how much better that you should know it at first, and so
      be able to go on, straight and comfortable! Which way are you walking, my
      love?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Towards the city,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The city!' cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favour in the
      glass as she tied her bonnet. 'Goodness gracious me! now do you really
      live in the city?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?' asked Kate, half
      smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't have believed it possible that any young woman could have
      lived there, under any circumstances whatever, for three days together,'
      replied Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Reduced&mdash;I should say poor people,' answered Kate, correcting
      herself hastily, for she was afraid of appearing proud, 'must live where
      they can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! very true, so they must; very proper indeed!' rejoined Miss Knag with
      that sort of half-sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight nods of
      the head, is pity's small change in general society; 'and that's what I
      very often tell my brother, when our servants go away ill, one after
      another, and he thinks the back-kitchen's rather too damp for 'em to sleep
      in. These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to sleep anywhere! Heaven
      suits the back to the burden. What a nice thing it is to think that it
      should be so, isn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll walk with you part of the way, my dear,' said Miss Knag, 'for you
      must go very near our house; and as it's quite dark, and our last servant
      went to the hospital a week ago, with St Anthony's fire in her face, I
      shall be glad of your company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate would willingly have excused herself from this flattering
      companionship; but Miss Knag having adjusted her bonnet to her entire
      satisfaction, took her arm with an air which plainly showed how much she
      felt the compliment she was conferring, and they were in the street before
      she could say another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear,' said Kate, hesitating, 'that mama&mdash;my mother, I mean&mdash;is
      waiting for me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't make the least apology, my dear,' said Miss Knag, smiling
      sweetly as she spoke; 'I dare say she is a very respectable old person,
      and I shall be quite&mdash;hem&mdash;quite pleased to know her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As poor Mrs. Nickleby was cooling&mdash;not her heels alone, but her limbs
      generally at the street corner, Kate had no alternative but to make her
      known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last new carriage customer at
      second-hand, acknowledged the introduction with condescending politeness.
      The three then walked away, arm in arm: with Miss Knag in the middle, in a
      special state of amiability.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs. Nickleby, you can't
      think,' said Miss Knag, after she had proceeded a little distance in
      dignified silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am delighted to hear it,' said Mrs. Nickleby; 'though it is nothing new
      to me, that even strangers should like Kate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' cried Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will like her better when you know how good she is,' said Mrs
      Nickleby. 'It is a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to have a
      child, who knows neither pride nor vanity, and whose bringing-up might
      very well have excused a little of both at first. You don't know what it
      is to lose a husband, Miss Knag.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Miss Knag had never yet known what it was to gain one, it followed,
      very nearly as a matter of course, that she didn't know what it was to
      lose one; so she said, in some haste, 'No, indeed I don't,' and said it
      with an air intending to signify that she should like to catch herself
      marrying anybody&mdash;no, no, she knew better than that.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate has improved even in this little time, I have no doubt,' said Mrs
      Nickleby, glancing proudly at her daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! of course,' said Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And will improve still more,' added Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That she will, I'll be bound,' replied Miss Knag, squeezing Kate's arm in
      her own, to point the joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She always was clever,' said poor Mrs. Nickleby, brightening up, 'always,
      from a baby. I recollect when she was only two years and a half old, that
      a gentleman who used to visit very much at our house&mdash;Mr. Watkins, you
      know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went bail for, who afterwards ran
      away to the United States, and sent us a pair of snow shoes, with such an
      affectionate letter that it made your poor dear father cry for a week. You
      remember the letter? In which he said that he was very sorry he couldn't
      repay the fifty pounds just then, because his capital was all out at
      interest, and he was very busy making his fortune, but that he didn't
      forget you were his god-daughter, and he should take it very unkind if we
      didn't buy you a silver coral and put it down to his old account? Dear me,
      yes, my dear, how stupid you are! and spoke so affectionately of the old
      port wine that he used to drink a bottle and a half of every time he came.
      You must remember, Kate?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, mama; what of him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that Mr. Watkins, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby slowly, as if she were
      making a tremendous effort to recollect something of paramount importance;
      'that Mr. Watkins&mdash;he wasn't any relation, Miss Knag will understand,
      to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the village; by-the-bye, I don't
      remember whether it was the Old Boar or the George the Third, but it was
      one of the two, I know, and it's much the same&mdash;that Mr. Watkins said,
      when you were only two years and a half old, that you were one of the most
      astonishing children he ever saw. He did indeed, Miss Knag, and he wasn't
      at all fond of children, and couldn't have had the slightest motive for
      doing it. I know it was he who said so, because I recollect, as well as if
      it was only yesterday, his borrowing twenty pounds of her poor dear papa
      the very moment afterwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having quoted this extraordinary and most disinterested testimony to her
      daughter's excellence, Mrs. Nickleby stopped to breathe; and Miss Knag,
      finding that the discourse was turning upon family greatness, lost no time
      in striking in, with a small reminiscence on her own account.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't talk of lending money, Mrs. Nickleby,' said Miss Knag, 'or you'll
      drive me crazy, perfectly crazy. My mama&mdash;hem&mdash;was the most
      lovely and beautiful creature, with the most striking and exquisite&mdash;hem&mdash;the
      most exquisite nose that ever was put upon a human face, I do believe, Mrs
      Nickleby (here Miss Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically); the most
      delightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she
      had that one failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extent
      that she lent&mdash;hem&mdash;oh! thousands of pounds, all our little
      fortunes, and what's more, Mrs. Nickleby, I don't think, if we were to live
      till&mdash;till&mdash;hem&mdash;till the very end of time, that we should
      ever get them back again. I don't indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After concluding this effort of invention without being interrupted, Miss
      Knag fell into many more recollections, no less interesting than true, the
      full tide of which, Mrs. Nickleby in vain attempting to stem, at length
      sailed smoothly down by adding an under-current of her own recollections;
      and so both ladies went on talking together in perfect contentment; the
      only difference between them being, that whereas Miss Knag addressed
      herself to Kate, and talked very loud, Mrs. Nickleby kept on in one
      unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly satisfied to be talking and caring
      very little whether anybody listened or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this manner they walked on, very amicably, until they arrived at Miss
      Knag's brother's, who was an ornamental stationer and small circulating
      library keeper, in a by-street off Tottenham Court Road; and who let out
      by the day, week, month, or year, the newest old novels, whereof the
      titles were displayed in pen-and-ink characters on a sheet of pasteboard,
      swinging at his door-post. As Miss Knag happened, at the moment, to be in
      the middle of an account of her twenty-second offer from a gentleman of
      large property, she insisted upon their all going in to supper together;
      and in they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't go away, Mortimer,' said Miss Knag as they entered the shop. 'It's
      only one of our young ladies and her mother. Mrs. and Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed!' said Mr. Mortimer Knag. 'Ah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having given utterance to these ejaculations with a very profound and
      thoughtful air, Mr. Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the counter,
      and two more in the window, and then snuffed himself from a box in his
      waistcoat pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something very impressive in the ghostly air with which all this
      was done; and as Mr. Knag was a tall lank gentleman of solemn features,
      wearing spectacles, and garnished with much less hair than a gentleman
      bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually boasts, Mrs. Nickleby whispered
      her daughter that she thought he must be literary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Past ten,' said Mr. Knag, consulting his watch. 'Thomas, close the
      warehouse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and the warehouse was a
      shop about the size of three hackney coaches.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Mr. Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as he restored to its
      parent shelf the book he had been reading. 'Well&mdash;yes&mdash;I believe
      supper is ready, sister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With another sigh Mr. Knag took up the kitchen candles from the counter,
      and preceded the ladies with mournful steps to a back-parlour, where a
      charwoman, employed in the absence of the sick servant, and remunerated
      with certain eighteenpences to be deducted from her wages due, was putting
      the supper out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Blockson,' said Miss Knag, reproachfully, 'how very often I have
      begged you not to come into the room with your bonnet on!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help it, Miss Knag,' said the charwoman, bridling up on the
      shortest notice. 'There's been a deal o'cleaning to do in this house, and
      if you don't like it, I must trouble you to look out for somebody else,
      for it don't hardly pay me, and that's the truth, if I was to be hung this
      minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want any remarks if <i>you </i>please,' said Miss Knag, with a strong
      emphasis on the personal pronoun. 'Is there any fire downstairs for some
      hot water presently?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,' replied the substitute; 'and so I
      won't tell you no stories about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why isn't there?' said Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because there arn't no coals left out, and if I could make coals I would,
      but as I can't I won't, and so I make bold to tell you, Mem,' replied Mrs
      Blockson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you hold your tongue&mdash;female?' said Mr. Mortimer Knag, plunging
      violently into this dialogue.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By your leave, Mr. Knag,' retorted the charwoman, turning sharp round.
      'I'm only too glad not to speak in this house, excepting when and where
      I'm spoke to, sir; and with regard to being a female, sir, I should wish
      to know what you considered yourself?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A miserable wretch,' exclaimed Mr. Knag, striking his forehead. 'A
      miserable wretch.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm very glad to find that you don't call yourself out of your name,
      sir,' said Mrs. Blockson; 'and as I had two twin children the day before
      yesterday was only seven weeks, and my little Charley fell down a airy and
      put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it as a favour if you'll send
      nine shillings, for one week's work, to my house, afore the clock strikes
      ten tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these parting words, the good woman quitted the room with great ease
      of manner, leaving the door wide open; Mr. Knag, at the same moment, flung
      himself into the 'warehouse,' and groaned aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter with that gentleman, pray?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby,
      greatly disturbed by the sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he ill?' inquired Kate, really alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' replied Miss Knag; 'a most melancholy history. He was once most
      devotedly attached to&mdash;hem&mdash;to Madame Mantalini.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless me!' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' continued Miss Knag, 'and received great encouragement too, and
      confidently hoped to marry her. He has a most romantic heart, Mrs
      Nickleby, as indeed&mdash;hem&mdash;as indeed all our family have, and the
      disappointment was a dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully accomplished man&mdash;most
      extraordinarily accomplished&mdash;reads&mdash;hem&mdash;reads every novel
      that comes out; I mean every novel that&mdash;hem&mdash;that has any
      fashion in it, of course. The fact is, that he did find so much in the
      books he read, applicable to his own misfortunes, and did find himself in
      every respect so much like the heroes&mdash;because of course he is
      conscious of his own superiority, as we all are, and very naturally&mdash;that
      he took to scorning everything, and became a genius; and I am quite sure
      that he is, at this very present moment, writing another book.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another book!' repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left for somebody
      to say something.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Miss Knag, nodding in great triumph; 'another book, in three
      volumes post octavo. Of course it's a great advantage to him, in all his
      little fashionable descriptions, to have the benefit of my&mdash;hem&mdash;of
      my experience, because, of course, few authors who write about such things
      can have such opportunities of knowing them as I have. He's so wrapped up
      in high life, that the least allusion to business or worldly matters&mdash;like
      that woman just now, for instance&mdash;quite distracts him; but, as I
      often say, I think his disappointment a great thing for him, because if he
      hadn't been disappointed he couldn't have written about blighted hopes and
      all that; and the fact is, if it hadn't happened as it has, I don't
      believe his genius would ever have come out at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      How much more communicative Miss Knag might have become under more
      favourable circumstances, it is impossible to divine, but as the gloomy
      one was within ear-shot, and the fire wanted making up, her disclosures
      stopped here. To judge from all appearances, and the difficulty of making
      the water warm, the last servant could not have been much accustomed to
      any other fire than St Anthony's; but a little brandy and water was made
      at last, and the guests, having been previously regaled with cold leg of
      mutton and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took leave; Kate amusing
      herself, all the way home, with the recollection of her last glimpse of Mr
      Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; and Mrs. Nickleby by debating
      within herself whether the dressmaking firm would ultimately become
      'Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby', or 'Mantalini, Nickleby, and Knag'.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this high point, Miss Knag's friendship remained for three whole days,
      much to the wonderment of Madame Mantalini's young ladies who had never
      beheld such constancy in that quarter, before; but on the fourth, it
      received a check no less violent than sudden, which thus occurred.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that an old lord of great family, who was going to marry a
      young lady of no family in particular, came with the young lady, and the
      young lady's sister, to witness the ceremony of trying on two nuptial
      bonnets which had been ordered the day before, and Madame Mantalini
      announcing the fact, in a shrill treble, through the speaking-pipe, which
      communicated with the workroom, Miss Knag darted hastily upstairs with a
      bonnet in each hand, and presented herself in the show-room, in a charming
      state of palpitation, intended to demonstrate her enthusiasm in the cause.
      The bonnets were no sooner fairly on, than Miss Knag and Madame Mantalini
      fell into convulsions of admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A most elegant appearance,' said Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw anything so exquisite in all my life,' said Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the old lord, who was a <i>very </i>old lord, said nothing, but mumbled and
      chuckled in a state of great delight, no less with the nuptial bonnets and
      their wearers, than with his own address in getting such a fine woman for
      his wife; and the young lady, who was a very lively young lady, seeing the
      old lord in this rapturous condition, chased the old lord behind a
      cheval-glass, and then and there kissed him, while Madame Mantalini and
      the other young lady looked, discreetly, another way.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who was tinged with curiosity,
      stepped accidentally behind the glass, and encountered the lively young
      lady's eye just at the very moment when she kissed the old lord; upon
      which the young lady, in a pouting manner, murmured something about 'an
      old thing,' and 'great impertinence,' and finished by darting a look of
      displeasure at Miss Knag, and smiling contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madame Mantalini,' said the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ma'am,' said Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray have up that pretty young creature we saw yesterday.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, do,' said the sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of all things in the world, Madame Mantalini,' said the lord's intended,
      throwing herself languidly on a sofa, 'I hate being waited upon by frights
      or elderly persons. Let me always see that young creature, I beg, whenever
      I come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means,' said the old lord; 'the lovely young creature, by all
      means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everybody is talking about her,' said the young lady, in the same
      careless manner; 'and my lord, being a great admirer of beauty, must
      positively see her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She <i>is</i> universally admired,' replied Madame Mantalini. 'Miss Knag, send
      up Miss Nickleby. You needn't return.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon, Madame Mantalini, what did you say last?' asked Miss
      Knag, trembling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't return,' repeated the superior, sharply. Miss Knag vanished
      without another word, and in all reasonable time was replaced by Kate, who
      took off the new bonnets and put on the old ones: blushing very much to
      find that the old lord and the two young ladies were staring her out of
      countenance all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how you colour, child!' said the lord's chosen bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is not quite so accustomed to her business, as she will be in a week
      or two,' interposed Madame Mantalini with a gracious smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid you have been giving her some of your wicked looks, my lord,'
      said the intended.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no,' replied the old lord, 'no, no, I'm going to be married, and
      lead a new life. Ha, ha, ha! a new life, a new life! ha, ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a satisfactory thing to hear that the old gentleman was going to
      lead a new life, for it was pretty evident that his old one would not last
      him much longer. The mere exertion of protracted chuckling reduced him to
      a fearful ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some minutes before he could
      find breath to remark that the girl was too pretty for a milliner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope you don't think good looks a disqualification for the business, my
      lord,' said Madame Mantalini, simpering.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not by any means,' replied the old lord, 'or you would have left it long
      ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You naughty creature,' said the lively lady, poking the peer with her
      parasol; 'I won't have you talk so. How dare you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This playful inquiry was accompanied with another poke, and another, and
      then the old lord caught the parasol, and wouldn't give it up again, which
      induced the other lady to come to the rescue, and some very pretty
      sportiveness ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will see that those little alterations are made, Madame Mantalini,'
      said the lady. 'Nay, you bad man, you positively shall go first; I
      wouldn't leave you behind with that pretty girl, not for half a second. I
      know you too well. Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall be quite
      sure of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lord, evidently much flattered by this suspicion, bestowed a
      grotesque leer upon Kate as he passed; and, receiving another tap with the
      parasol for his wickedness, tottered downstairs to the door, where his
      sprightly body was hoisted into the carriage by two stout footmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Foh!' said Madame Mantalini, 'how he ever gets into a carriage without
      thinking of a hearse, I can't think. There, take the things away, my dear,
      take them away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate, who had remained during the whole scene with her eyes modestly fixed
      upon the ground, was only too happy to avail herself of the permission to
      retire, and hasten joyfully downstairs to Miss Knag's dominion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circumstances of the little kingdom had greatly changed, however,
      during the short period of her absence. In place of Miss Knag being
      stationed in her accustomed seat, preserving all the dignity and greatness
      of Madame Mantalini's representative, that worthy soul was reposing on a
      large box, bathed in tears, while three or four of the young ladies in
      close attendance upon her, together with the presence of hartshorn,
      vinegar, and other restoratives, would have borne ample testimony, even
      without the derangement of the head-dress and front row of curls, to her
      having fainted desperately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless me!' said Kate, stepping hastily forward, 'what is the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent symptoms of a relapse; and
      several young ladies, darting angry looks at Kate, applied more vinegar
      and hartshorn, and said it was 'a shame.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is a shame?' demanded Kate. 'What is the matter? What has happened?
      tell me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Matter!' cried Miss Knag, coming, all at once, bolt upright, to the great
      consternation of the assembled maidens; 'matter! Fie upon you, you nasty
      creature!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gracious!' cried Kate, almost paralysed by the violence with which the
      adjective had been jerked out from between Miss Knag's closed teeth; 'have
      I offended you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>offended me!' retorted Miss Knag, '<i>you</i>! a chit, a child, an upstart
      nobody! Oh, indeed! Ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed, that something struck her as
      being exceedingly funny; and as the young ladies took their tone from Miss
      Knag&mdash;she being the chief&mdash;they all got up a laugh without a
      moment's delay, and nodded their heads a little, and smiled sarcastically
      to each other, as much as to say how very good that was!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here she is,' continued Miss Knag, getting off the box, and introducing
      Kate with much ceremony and many low curtseys to the delighted throng;
      'here she is&mdash;everybody is talking about her&mdash;the belle, ladies&mdash;the
      beauty, the&mdash;oh, you bold-faced thing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      At this crisis, Miss Knag was unable to repress a virtuous shudder, which
      immediately communicated itself to all the young ladies; after which, Miss
      Knag laughed, and after that, cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For fifteen years,' exclaimed Miss Knag, sobbing in a most affecting
      manner, 'for fifteen years have I been the credit and ornament of this
      room and the one upstairs. Thank God,' said Miss Knag, stamping first her
      right foot and then her left with remarkable energy, 'I have never in all
      that time, till now, been exposed to the arts, the vile arts, of a
      creature, who disgraces us with all her proceedings, and makes proper
      people blush for themselves. But I feel it, I do feel it, although I am
      disgusted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Knag here relapsed into softness, and the young ladies renewing their
      attentions, murmured that she ought to be superior to such things, and
      that for their part they despised them, and considered them beneath their
      notice; in witness whereof, they called out, more emphatically than
      before, that it was a shame, and that they felt so angry, they did, they
      hardly knew what to do with themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have I lived to this day to be called a fright!' cried Miss Knag,
      suddenly becoming convulsive, and making an effort to tear her front off.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, no,' replied the chorus, 'pray don't say so; don't now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have I deserved to be called an elderly person?' screamed Miss Knag,
      wrestling with the supernumeraries.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't think of such things, dear,' answered the chorus.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hate her,' cried Miss Knag; 'I detest and hate her. Never let her speak
      to me again; never let anybody who is a friend of mine speak to her; a
      slut, a hussy, an impudent artful hussy!' Having denounced the object of
      her wrath, in these terms, Miss Knag screamed once, hiccuped thrice,
      gurgled in her throat several times, slumbered, shivered, woke, came to,
      composed her head-dress, and declared herself quite well again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Kate had regarded these proceedings, at first, in perfect
      bewilderment. She had then turned red and pale by turns, and once or twice
      essayed to speak; but, as the true motives of this altered behaviour
      developed themselves, she retired a few paces, and looked calmly on
      without deigning a reply. Nevertheless, although she walked proudly to her
      seat, and turned her back upon the group of little satellites who
      clustered round their ruling planet in the remotest corner of the room,
      she gave way, in secret, to some such bitter tears as would have gladdened
      Miss Knag's inmost soul, if she could have seen them fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 19
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span><i>escriptive of a Dinner at Mr. Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which
            the Company entertained themselves, before Dinner, at Dinner, and after
            Dinner.</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The bile and rancour of the worthy Miss Knag undergoing no diminution
      during the remainder of the week, but rather augmenting with every
      successive hour; and the honest ire of all the young ladies rising, or
      seeming to rise, in exact proportion to the good spinster's indignation,
      and both waxing very hot every time Miss Nickleby was called upstairs; it
      will be readily imagined that that young lady's daily life was none of the
      most cheerful or enviable kind. She hailed the arrival of Saturday night,
      as a prisoner would a few delicious hours' respite from slow and wearing
      torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her first week's labour would
      have been dearly and hardly earned, had its amount been trebled.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she joined her mother, as usual, at the street corner, she was not a
      little surprised to find her in conversation with Mr. Ralph Nickleby; but
      her surprise was soon redoubled, no less by the matter of their
      conversation, than by the smoothed and altered manner of Mr. Nickleby
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! my dear!' said Ralph; 'we were at that moment talking about you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' replied Kate, shrinking, though she scarce knew why, from her
      uncle's cold glistening eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That instant,' said Ralph. 'I was coming to call for you, making sure to
      catch you before you left; but your mother and I have been talking over
      family affairs, and the time has slipped away so rapidly&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, now, hasn't it?' interposed Mrs. Nickleby, quite insensible to the
      sarcastic tone of Ralph's last remark. 'Upon my word, I couldn't have
      believed it possible, that such a&mdash;Kate, my dear, you're to dine with
      your uncle at half-past six o'clock tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Triumphing in having been the first to communicate this extraordinary
      intelligence, Mrs. Nickleby nodded and smiled a great many times, to
      impress its full magnificence on Kate's wondering mind, and then flew off,
      at an acute angle, to a committee of ways and means.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said the good lady. 'Your black silk frock will be quite
      dress enough, my dear, with that pretty little scarf, and a plain band in
      your hair, and a pair of black silk stock&mdash;Dear, dear,' cried Mrs
      Nickleby, flying off at another angle, 'if I had but those unfortunate
      amethysts of mine&mdash;you recollect them, Kate, my love&mdash;how they
      used to sparkle, you know&mdash;but your papa, your poor dear papa&mdash;ah!
      there never was anything so cruelly sacrificed as those jewels were,
      never!' Overpowered by this agonising thought, Mrs. Nickleby shook her
      head, in a melancholy manner, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      I don't want them, mama, indeed,' said Kate. 'Forget that you ever had
      them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord, Kate, my dear,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, pettishly, 'how like a child
      you talk! Four-and-twenty silver tea-spoons, brother-in-law, two gravies,
      four salts, all the amethysts&mdash;necklace, brooch, and ear-rings&mdash;all
      made away with, at the same time, and I saying, almost on my bended knees,
      to that poor good soul, "Why don't you do something, Nicholas? Why don't
      you make some arrangement?" I am sure that anybody who was about us at
      that time, will do me the justice to own, that if I said that once, I said
      it fifty times a day. Didn't I, Kate, my dear? Did I ever lose an
      opportunity of impressing it on your poor papa?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, mama, never,' replied Kate. And to do Mrs. Nickleby justice, she
      never had lost&mdash;and to do married ladies as a body justice, they
      seldom do lose&mdash;any occasion of inculcating similar golden percepts,
      whose only blemish is, the slight degree of vagueness and uncertainty in
      which they are usually enveloped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Mrs. Nickleby, with great fervour, 'if my advice had been taken
      at the beginning&mdash;Well, I have always done <i>my</i> duty, and that's some
      comfort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had arrived at this reflection, Mrs. Nickleby sighed, rubbed her
      hands, cast up her eyes, and finally assumed a look of meek composure;
      thus importing that she was a persecuted saint, but that she wouldn't
      trouble her hearers by mentioning a circumstance which must be so obvious
      to everybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Ralph, with a smile, which, in common with all other tokens of
      emotion, seemed to skulk under his face, rather than play boldly over it&mdash;'to
      return to the point from which we have strayed. I have a little party of&mdash;of&mdash;gentlemen
      with whom I am connected in business just now, at my house tomorrow; and
      your mother has promised that you shall keep house for me. I am not much
      used to parties; but this is one of business, and such fooleries are an
      important part of it sometimes. You don't mind obliging me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind!' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'My dear Kate, why&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray,' interrupted Ralph, motioning her to be silent. 'I spoke to my
      niece.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,' replied Kate; 'but I am afraid
      you will find me awkward and embarrassed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no,' said Ralph; 'come when you like, in a hackney coach&mdash;I'll
      pay for it. Good-night&mdash;a&mdash;a&mdash;God bless you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The blessing seemed to stick in Mr. Ralph Nickleby's throat, as if it were
      not used to the thoroughfare, and didn't know the way out. But it got out
      somehow, though awkwardly enough; and having disposed of it, he shook
      hands with his two relatives, and abruptly left them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a very strongly marked countenance your uncle has!' said Mrs
      Nickleby, quite struck with his parting look. 'I don't see the slightest
      resemblance to his poor brother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama!' said Kate reprovingly. 'To think of such a thing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Mrs. Nickleby, musing. 'There certainly is none. But it's a very
      honest face.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy matron made this remark with great emphasis and elocution, as
      if it comprised no small quantity of ingenuity and research; and, in
      truth, it was not unworthy of being classed among the extraordinary
      discoveries of the age. Kate looked up hastily, and as hastily looked down
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What has come over you, my dear, in the name of goodness?' asked Mrs
      Nickleby, when they had walked on, for some time, in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was only thinking, mama,' answered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thinking!' repeated Mrs. Nickleby. 'Ay, and indeed plenty to think about,
      too. Your uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that's quite clear; and
      if some extraordinary good fortune doesn't come to you, after this, I
      shall be a little surprised, that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this she launched out into sundry anecdotes of young ladies, who had
      had thousand-pound notes given them in reticules, by eccentric uncles; and
      of young ladies who had accidentally met amiable gentlemen of enormous
      wealth at their uncles' houses, and married them, after short but ardent
      courtships; and Kate, listening first in apathy, and afterwards in
      amusement, felt, as they walked home, something of her mother's sanguine
      complexion gradually awakening in her own bosom, and began to think that
      her prospects might be brightening, and that better days might be dawning
      upon them. Such is hope, Heaven's own gift to struggling mortals;
      pervading, like some subtle essence from the skies, all things, both good
      and bad; as universal as death, and more infectious than disease!
    </p>
    <p>
      The feeble winter's sun&mdash;and winter's suns in the city are very
      feeble indeed&mdash;might have brightened up, as he shone through the dim
      windows of the large old house, on witnessing the unusual sight which one
      half-furnished room displayed. In a gloomy corner, where, for years, had
      stood a silent dusty pile of merchandise, sheltering its colony of mice,
      and frowning, a dull and lifeless mass, upon the panelled room, save when,
      responding to the roll of heavy waggons in the street without, it quaked
      with sturdy tremblings and caused the bright eyes of its tiny citizens to
      grow brighter still with fear, and struck them motionless, with attentive
      ear and palpitating heart, until the alarm had passed away&mdash;in this
      dark corner, was arranged, with scrupulous care, all Kate's little finery
      for the day; each article of dress partaking of that indescribable air of
      jauntiness and individuality which empty garments&mdash;whether by
      association, or that they become moulded, as it were, to the owner's form&mdash;will
      take, in eyes accustomed to, or picturing, the wearer's smartness. In
      place of a bale of musty goods, there lay the black silk dress: the
      neatest possible figure in itself. The small shoes, with toes delicately
      turned out, stood upon the very pressure of some old iron weight; and a
      pile of harsh discoloured leather had unconsciously given place to the
      very same little pair of black silk stockings, which had been the objects
      of Mrs. Nickleby's peculiar care. Rats and mice, and such small gear, had
      long ago been starved, or had emigrated to better quarters: and, in their
      stead, appeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hair-pins, and many other little
      devices, almost as ingenious in their way as rats and mice themselves, for
      the tantalisation of mankind. About and among them all, moved Kate
      herself, not the least beautiful or unwonted relief to the stern, old,
      gloomy building.
    </p>
    <p>
      In good time, or in bad time, as the reader likes to take it&mdash;for Mrs
      Nickleby's impatience went a great deal faster than the clocks at that end
      of the town, and Kate was dressed to the very last hair-pin a full hour
      and a half before it was at all necessary to begin to think about it&mdash;in
      good time, or in bad time, the toilet was completed; and it being at
      length the hour agreed upon for starting, the milkman fetched a coach from
      the nearest stand, and Kate, with many adieux to her mother, and many kind
      messages to Miss La Creevy, who was to come to tea, seated herself in it,
      and went away in state, if ever anybody went away in state in a hackney
      coach yet. And the coach, and the coachman, and the horses, rattled, and
      jangled, and whipped, and cursed, and swore, and tumbled on together,
      until they came to Golden Square.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coachman gave a tremendous double knock at the door, which was opened
      long before he had done, as quickly as if there had been a man behind it,
      with his hand tied to the latch. Kate, who had expected no more uncommon
      appearance than Newman Noggs in a clean shirt, was not a little astonished
      to see that the opener was a man in handsome livery, and that there were
      two or three others in the hall. There was no doubt about its being the
      right house, however, for there was the name upon the door; so she
      accepted the laced coat-sleeve which was tendered her, and entering the
      house, was ushered upstairs, into a back drawing-room, where she was left
      alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      If she had been surprised at the apparition of the footman, she was
      perfectly absorbed in amazement at the richness and splendour of the
      furniture. The softest and most elegant carpets, the most exquisite
      pictures, the costliest mirrors; articles of richest ornament, quite
      dazzling from their beauty and perplexing from the prodigality with which
      they were scattered around; encountered her on every side. The very
      staircase nearly down to the hall-door, was crammed with beautiful and
      luxurious things, as though the house were brimful of riches, which, with
      a very trifling addition, would fairly run over into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, she heard a series of loud double knocks at the street-door,
      and after every knock some new voice in the next room; the tones of Mr
      Ralph Nickleby were easily distinguishable at first, but by degrees they
      merged into the general buzz of conversation, and all she could ascertain
      was, that there were several gentlemen with no very musical voices, who
      talked very loud, laughed very heartily, and swore more than she would
      have thought quite necessary. But this was a question of taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, the door opened, and Ralph himself, divested of his boots, and
      ceremoniously embellished with black silks and shoes, presented his crafty
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't see you before, my dear,' he said, in a low tone, and
      pointing, as he spoke, to the next room. 'I was engaged in receiving them.
      Now&mdash;shall I take you in?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray, uncle,' said Kate, a little flurried, as people much more
      conversant with society often are, when they are about to enter a room
      full of strangers, and have had time to think of it previously, 'are there
      any ladies here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Ralph, shortly, 'I don't know any.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Must I go in immediately?' asked Kate, drawing back a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you please,' said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders. 'They are all come,
      and dinner will be announced directly afterwards&mdash;that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate would have entreated a few minutes' respite, but reflecting that her
      uncle might consider the payment of the hackney-coach fare a sort of
      bargain for her punctuality, she suffered him to draw her arm through his,
      and to lead her away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire when they went in,
      and, as they were talking very loud, were not aware of their entrance
      until Mr. Ralph Nickleby, touching one on the coat-sleeve, said in a harsh
      emphatic voice, as if to attract general attention&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0271m.jpg" alt="0271m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0271.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      The group dispersed, as if in great surprise, and the gentleman addressed,
      turning round, exhibited a suit of clothes of the most superlative cut, a
      pair of whiskers of similar quality, a moustache, a head of hair, and a
      young face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh!' said the gentleman. 'What&mdash;the&mdash;deyvle!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which broken ejaculations, he fixed his glass in his eye, and stared
      at Miss Nickleby in great surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My niece, my lord,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then my ears did not deceive me, and it's not wa-a-x work,' said his
      lordship. 'How de do? I'm very happy.' And then his lordship turned to
      another superlative gentleman, something older, something stouter,
      something redder in the face, and something longer upon town, and said in
      a loud whisper that the girl was 'deyvlish pitty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Introduce me, Nickleby,' said this second gentleman, who was lounging
      with his back to the fire, and both elbows on the chimneypiece.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir Mulberry Hawk,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Otherwise the most knowing card in the pa-ack, Miss Nickleby,' said Lord
      Frederick Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't leave me out, Nickleby,' cried a sharp-faced gentleman, who was
      sitting on a low chair with a high back, reading the paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Pyke,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor me, Nickleby,' cried a gentleman with a flushed face and a flash air,
      from the elbow of Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Pluck,' said Ralph. Then wheeling about again, towards a gentleman
      with the neck of a stork and the legs of no animal in particular, Ralph
      introduced him as the Honourable Mr. Snobb; and a white-headed person at
      the table as Colonel Chowser. The colonel was in conversation with
      somebody, who appeared to be a make-weight, and was not introduced at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two circumstances which, in this early stage of the party,
      struck home to Kate's bosom, and brought the blood tingling to her face.
      One was the flippant contempt with which the guests evidently regarded her
      uncle, and the other, the easy insolence of their manner towards herself.
      That the first symptom was very likely to lead to the aggravation of the
      second, it needed no great penetration to foresee. And here Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby had reckoned without his host; for however fresh from the country
      a young lady (by nature) may be, and however unacquainted with
      conventional behaviour, the chances are, that she will have quite as
      strong an innate sense of the decencies and proprieties of life as if she
      had run the gauntlet of a dozen London seasons&mdash;possibly a stronger
      one, for such senses have been known to blunt in this improving process.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ralph had completed the ceremonial of introduction, he led his
      blushing niece to a seat. As he did so, he glanced warily round as though
      to assure himself of the impression which her unlooked-for appearance had
      created.
    </p>
    <p>
      'An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick Verisopht, taking
      his glass out of his right eye, where it had, until now, done duty on
      Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring it to bear on Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,' said Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a bad idea,' said his lordship, 'and one that would almost warrant
      the addition of an extra two and a half per cent.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, in a thick coarse voice, 'take the
      hint, and tack it on the other five-and-twenty, or whatever it is, and
      give me half for the advice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry garnished this speech with a hoarse laugh, and terminated it
      with a pleasant oath regarding Mr. Nickleby's limbs, whereat Messrs Pyke
      and Pluck laughed consumedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      These gentlemen had not yet quite recovered the jest, when dinner was
      announced, and then they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar
      cause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an excess of humour, shot dexterously
      past Lord Frederick Verisopht who was about to lead Kate downstairs, and
      drew her arm through his up to the elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, damn it, Verisopht,' said Sir Mulberry, 'fair play's a jewel, and
      Miss Nickleby and I settled the matter with our eyes ten minutes ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the honourable Mr. Snobb, 'very good, very good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Rendered additionally witty by this applause, Sir Mulberry Hawk leered
      upon his friends most facetiously, and led Kate downstairs with an air of
      familiarity, which roused in her gentle breast such burning indignation,
      as she felt it almost impossible to repress. Nor was the intensity of
      these feelings at all diminished, when she found herself placed at the top
      of the table, with Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Frederick Verisopht on
      either side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you've found your way into our neighbourhood, have you?' said Sir
      Mulberry as his lordship sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course,' replied Lord Frederick, fixing his eyes on Miss Nickleby,
      'how can you a-ask me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, you attend to your dinner,' said Sir Mulberry, 'and don't mind Miss
      Nickleby and me, for we shall prove very indifferent company, I dare say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you'd interfere here, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter, my lord?' demanded Ralph from the bottom of the
      table, where he was supported by Messrs Pyke and Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your niece,' said Lord Frederick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has a tolerable share of everything that you lay claim to, my lord,'
      said Ralph with a sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Gad, so he has,' replied the young man; 'deyvle take me if I know which
      is master in my house, he or I.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know,' muttered Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I shall cut him off with a shilling,' said the young nobleman,
      jocosely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, curse it,' said Sir Mulberry. 'When you come to the shilling&mdash;the
      last shilling&mdash;I'll cut you fast enough; but till then, I'll never
      leave you&mdash;you may take your oath of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This sally (which was strictly founded on fact) was received with a
      general roar, above which, was plainly distinguishable the laughter of Mr
      Pyke and Mr. Pluck, who were, evidently, Sir Mulberry's toads in ordinary.
      Indeed, it was not difficult to see, that the majority of the company
      preyed upon the unfortunate young lord, who, weak and silly as he was,
      appeared by far the least vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry Hawk was
      remarkable for his tact in ruining, by himself and his creatures, young
      gentlemen of fortune&mdash;a genteel and elegant profession, of which he
      had undoubtedly gained the head. With all the boldness of an original
      genius, he had struck out an entirely new course of treatment quite
      opposed to the usual method; his custom being, when he had gained the
      ascendancy over those he took in hand, rather to keep them down than to
      give them their own way; and to exercise his vivacity upon them openly,
      and without reserve. Thus, he made them butts, in a double sense, and
      while he emptied them with great address, caused them to ring with sundry
      well-administered taps, for the diversion of society.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dinner was as remarkable for the splendour and completeness of its
      appointments as the mansion itself, and the company were remarkable for
      doing it ample justice, in which respect Messrs Pyke and Pluck
      particularly signalised themselves; these two gentlemen eating of every
      dish, and drinking of every bottle, with a capacity and perseverance truly
      astonishing. They were remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding their great
      exertions: for, on the appearance of the dessert, they broke out again, as
      if nothing serious had taken place since breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Lord Frederick, sipping his first glass of port, 'if this is
      a discounting dinner, all I have to say is, deyvle take me, if it wouldn't
      be a good pla-an to get discount every day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You'll have plenty of it, in your time,' returned Sir Mulberry Hawk;
      'Nickleby will tell you that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you say, Nickleby?' inquired the young man; 'am I to be a good
      customer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It depends entirely on circumstances, my lord,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On your lordship's circumstances,' interposed Colonel Chowser of the
      Militia&mdash;and the race-courses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gallant colonel glanced at Messrs Pyke and Pluck as if he thought they
      ought to laugh at his joke; but those gentlemen, being only engaged to
      laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk, were, to his signal discomfiture, as grave as
      a pair of undertakers. To add to his defeat, Sir Mulberry, considering any
      such efforts an invasion of his peculiar privilege, eyed the offender
      steadily, through his glass, as if astonished at his presumption, and
      audibly stated his impression that it was an 'infernal liberty,' which
      being a hint to Lord Frederick, he put up <i>his </i>glass, and surveyed the
      object of censure as if he were some extraordinary wild animal then
      exhibiting for the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs Pyke and
      Pluck stared at the individual whom Sir Mulberry Hawk stared at; so, the
      poor colonel, to hide his confusion, was reduced to the necessity of
      holding his port before his right eye and affecting to scrutinise its
      colour with the most lively interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this while, Kate had sat as silently as she could, scarcely daring to
      raise her eyes, lest they should encounter the admiring gaze of Lord
      Frederick Verisopht, or, what was still more embarrassing, the bold looks
      of his friend Sir Mulberry. The latter gentleman was obliging enough to
      direct general attention towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here is Miss Nickleby,' observed Sir Mulberry, 'wondering why the deuce
      somebody doesn't make love to her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, indeed,' said Kate, looking hastily up, 'I&mdash;' and then she
      stopped, feeling it would have been better to have said nothing at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll hold any man fifty pounds,' said Sir Mulberry, 'that Miss Nickleby
      can't look in my face, and tell me she wasn't thinking so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done!' cried the noble gull. 'Within ten minutes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done!' responded Sir Mulberry. The money was produced on both sides, and
      the Honourable Mr. Snobb was elected to the double office of stake-holder
      and time-keeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray,' said Kate, in great confusion, while these preliminaries were in
      course of completion. 'Pray do not make me the subject of any bets. Uncle,
      I cannot really&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not, my dear?' replied Ralph, in whose grating voice, however, there
      was an unusual huskiness, as though he spoke unwillingly, and would rather
      that the proposition had not been broached. 'It is done in a moment; there
      is nothing in it. If the gentlemen insist on it&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't insist on it,' said Sir Mulberry, with a loud laugh. 'That is, I
      by no means insist upon Miss Nickleby's making the denial, for if she
      does, I lose; but I shall be glad to see her bright eyes, especially as
      she favours the mahogany so much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So she does, and it's too ba-a-d of you, Miss Nickleby,' said the noble
      youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite cruel,' said Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Horrid cruel,' said Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't care if I do lose,' said Sir Mulberry; 'for one tolerable look at
      Miss Nickleby's eyes is worth double the money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'More,' said Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Far more,' said Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How goes the enemy, Snobb?' asked Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Four minutes gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bravo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you ma-ake one effort for me, Miss Nickleby?' asked Lord Frederick,
      after a short interval.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't trouble yourself to inquire, my buck,' said Sir Mulberry;
      'Miss Nickleby and I understand each other; she declares on my side, and
      shows her taste. You haven't a chance, old fellow. Time, Snobb?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eight minutes gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Get the money ready,' said Sir Mulberry; 'you'll soon hand over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pluck, who always came second, and topped his companion if he could,
      screamed outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with confusion that she scarcely
      knew what she did, had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but fearing
      that by so doing she might seem to countenance Sir Mulberry's boast, which
      had been uttered with great coarseness and vulgarity of manner, raised her
      eyes, and looked him in the face. There was something so odious, so
      insolent, so repulsive in the look which met her, that, without the power
      to stammer forth a syllable, she rose and hurried from the room. She
      restrained her tears by a great effort until she was alone upstairs, and
      then gave them vent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Capital!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, putting the stakes in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a girl of spirit, and we'll drink her health.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to say, that Pyke and Co. responded, with great warmth of
      manner, to this proposal, or that the toast was drunk with many little
      insinuations from the firm, relative to the completeness of Sir Mulberry's
      conquest. Ralph, who, while the attention of the other guests was
      attracted to the principals in the preceding scene, had eyed them like a
      wolf, appeared to breathe more freely now his niece was gone; the
      decanters passing quickly round, he leaned back in his chair, and turned
      his eyes from speaker to speaker, as they warmed with wine, with looks
      that seemed to search their hearts, and lay bare, for his distempered
      sport, every idle thought within them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Kate, left wholly to herself, had, in some degree, recovered her
      composure. She had learnt from a female attendant, that her uncle wished
      to see her before she left, and had also gleaned the satisfactory
      intelligence, that the gentlemen would take coffee at table. The prospect
      of seeing them no more, contributed greatly to calm her agitation, and,
      taking up a book, she composed herself to read.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started sometimes, when the sudden opening of the dining-room door let
      loose a wild shout of noisy revelry, and more than once rose in great
      alarm, as a fancied footstep on the staircase impressed her with the fear
      that some stray member of the party was returning alone. Nothing
      occurring, however, to realise her apprehensions, she endeavoured to fix
      her attention more closely on her book, in which by degrees she became so
      much interested, that she had read on through several chapters without
      heed of time or place, when she was terrified by suddenly hearing her name
      pronounced by a man's voice close at her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The book fell from her hand. Lounging on an ottoman close beside her, was
      Sir Mulberry Hawk, evidently the worse&mdash;if a man be a ruffian at
      heart, he is never the better&mdash;for wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a delightful studiousness!' said this accomplished gentleman. 'Was
      it real, now, or only to display the eyelashes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate, looking anxiously towards the door, made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have looked at 'em for five minutes,' said Sir Mulberry. 'Upon my soul,
      they're perfect. Why did I speak, and destroy such a pretty little
      picture?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do me the favour to be silent now, sir,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, don't,' said Sir Mulberry, folding his crushed hat to lay his elbow
      on, and bringing himself still closer to the young lady; 'upon my life,
      you oughtn't to. Such a devoted slave of yours, Miss Nickleby&mdash;it's
      an infernal thing to treat him so harshly, upon my soul it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you to understand, sir,' said Kate, trembling in spite of herself,
      but speaking with great indignation, 'that your behaviour offends and
      disgusts me. If you have a spark of gentlemanly feeling remaining, you
      will leave me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now why,' said Sir Mulberry, 'why will you keep up this appearance of
      excessive rigour, my sweet creature? Now, be more natural&mdash;my dear
      Miss Nickleby, be more natural&mdash;do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate hastily rose; but as she rose, Sir Mulberry caught her dress, and
      forcibly detained her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me go, sir,' she cried, her heart swelling with anger. 'Do you hear?
      Instantly&mdash;this moment.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down, sit down,' said Sir Mulberry; 'I want to talk to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Unhand me, sir, this instant,' cried Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for the world,' rejoined Sir Mulberry. Thus speaking, he leaned over,
      as if to replace her in her chair; but the young lady, making a violent
      effort to disengage herself, he lost his balance, and measured his length
      upon the ground. As Kate sprung forward to leave the room, Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby appeared in the doorway, and confronted her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is this?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is this, sir,' replied Kate, violently agitated: 'that beneath the
      roof where I, a helpless girl, your dead brother's child, should most have
      found protection, I have been exposed to insult which should make you
      shrink to look upon me. Let me pass you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph <i>did </i>shrink, as the indignant girl fixed her kindling eye upon him;
      but he did not comply with her injunction, nevertheless: for he led her to
      a distant seat, and returning, and approaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who had
      by this time risen, motioned towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your way lies there, sir,' said Ralph, in a suppressed voice, that some
      devil might have owned with pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean by that?' demanded his friend, fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      The swoln veins stood out like sinews on Ralph's wrinkled forehead, and
      the nerves about his mouth worked as though some unendurable emotion wrung
      them; but he smiled disdainfully, and again pointed to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know me, you old madman?' asked Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Ralph. The fashionable vagabond for the moment quite quailed
      under the steady look of the older sinner, and walked towards the door,
      muttering as he went.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You wanted the lord, did you?' he said, stopping short when he reached
      the door, as if a new light had broken in upon him, and confronting Ralph
      again. 'Damme, I was in the way, was I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph smiled again, but made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who brought him to you first?' pursued Sir Mulberry; 'and how, without
      me, could you ever have wound him in your net as you have?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The net is a large one, and rather full,' said Ralph. 'Take care that it
      chokes nobody in the meshes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if you have not
      already made a bargain with the devil,' retorted the other. 'Do you mean
      to tell me that your pretty niece was not brought here as a decoy for the
      drunken boy downstairs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Although this hurried dialogue was carried on in a suppressed tone on both
      sides, Ralph looked involuntarily round to ascertain that Kate had not
      moved her position so as to be within hearing. His adversary saw the
      advantage he had gained, and followed it up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked again, 'that it is not so? Do you mean
      to say that if he had found his way up here instead of me, you wouldn't
      have been a little more blind, and a little more deaf, and a little less
      flourishing, than you have been? Come, Nickleby, answer me that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you this,' replied Ralph, 'that if I brought her here, as a matter
      of business&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, that's the word,' interposed Sir Mulberry, with a laugh. 'You're
      coming to yourself again now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;As a matter of business,' pursued Ralph, speaking slowly and
      firmly, as a man who has made up his mind to say no more, 'because I
      thought she might make some impression on the silly youth you have taken
      in hand and are lending good help to ruin, I knew&mdash;knowing him&mdash;that
      it would be long before he outraged her girl's feelings, and that unless
      he offended by mere puppyism and emptiness, he would, with a little
      management, respect the sex and conduct even of his usurer's niece. But if
      I thought to draw him on more gently by this device, I did not think of
      subjecting the girl to the licentiousness and brutality of so old a hand
      as you. And now we understand each other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Especially as there was nothing to be got by it&mdash;eh?' sneered Sir
      Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Exactly so,' said Ralph. He had turned away, and looked over his shoulder
      to make this last reply. The eyes of the two worthies met, with an
      expression as if each rascal felt that there was no disguising himself
      from the other; and Sir Mulberry Hawk shrugged his shoulders and walked
      slowly out.
    </p>
    <p>
      His friend closed the door, and looked restlessly towards the spot where
      his niece still remained in the attitude in which he had left her. She had
      flung herself heavily upon the couch, and with her head drooping over the
      cushion, and her face hidden in her hands, seemed to be still weeping in
      an agony of shame and grief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph would have walked into any poverty-stricken debtor's house, and
      pointed him out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child's
      death-bed, without the smallest concern, because it would have been a
      matter quite in the ordinary course of business, and the man would have
      been an offender against his only code of morality. But, here was a young
      girl, who had done no wrong save that of coming into the world alive; who
      had patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried hard to please him&mdash;above
      all, who didn't owe him money&mdash;and he felt awkward and nervous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a little nearer;
      then, moved a little nearer still; then, nearer again, and finally sat
      himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on Kate's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, my dear!' he said, as she drew it back, and her sobs burst out
      afresh. 'Hush, hush! Don't mind it, now; don't think of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, for pity's sake, let me go home,' cried Kate. 'Let me leave this
      house, and go home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' said Ralph. 'You shall. But you must dry your eyes first, and
      compose yourself. Let me raise your head. There&mdash;there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, uncle!' exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. 'What have I done&mdash;what
      have I done&mdash;that you should subject me to this? If I had wronged you
      in thought, or word, or deed, it would have been most cruel to me, and the
      memory of one you must have loved in some old time; but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only listen to me for a moment,' interrupted Ralph, seriously alarmed by
      the violence of her emotions. 'I didn't know it would be so; it was
      impossible for me to foresee it. I did all I could.&mdash;Come, let us
      walk about. You are faint with the closeness of the room, and the heat of
      these lamps. You will be better now, if you make the slightest effort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will do anything,' replied Kate, 'if you will only send me home.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well, I will,' said Ralph; 'but you must get back your own looks;
      for those you have, will frighten them, and nobody must know of this but
      you and I. Now let us walk the other way. There. You look better even
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such encouragements as these, Ralph Nickleby walked to and fro, with
      his niece leaning on his arm; actually trembling beneath her touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her to depart, he
      supported her downstairs, after adjusting her shawl and performing such
      little offices, most probably for the first time in his life. Across the
      hall, and down the steps, Ralph led her too; nor did he withdraw his hand
      until she was seated in the coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate's
      hair, close at her uncle's feet; and as he picked it up, and returned it
      into her hand, the light from a neighbouring lamp shone upon her face. The
      lock of hair that had escaped and curled loosely over her brow, the traces
      of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of sorrow, all
      fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man's breast; and the
      face of his dead brother seemed present before him, with the very look it
      bore on some occasion of boyish grief, of which every minutest
      circumstance flashed upon his mind, with the distinctness of a scene of
      yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood and kindred&mdash;who
      was steeled against every tale of sorrow and distress&mdash;staggered
      while he looked, and went back into his house, as a man who had seen a
      spirit from some world beyond the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 20
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span><i>herein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his
            Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streets at the west
      end of the town, early on Monday morning&mdash;the day after the dinner&mdash;charged
      with the important commission of acquainting Madame Mantalini that Miss
      Nickleby was too unwell to attend that day, but hoped to be enabled to
      resume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La Creevy walked along,
      revolving in her mind various genteel forms and elegant turns of
      expression, with a view to the selection of the very best in which to
      couch her communication, she cogitated a good deal upon the probable
      causes of her young friend's indisposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what to make of it,' said Miss La Creevy. 'Her eyes were
      decidedly red last night. She said she had a headache; headaches don't
      occasion red eyes. She must have been crying.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had established to her
      perfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on to
      consider&mdash;as she had done nearly all night&mdash;what new cause of
      unhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't think of anything,' said the little portrait painter. 'Nothing at
      all, unless it was the behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I
      suppose? Unpleasant brute!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was vented upon empty
      air, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini's; and being informed
      that the governing power was not yet out of bed, requested an interview
      with the second in command; whereupon Miss Knag appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So far as I am concerned,' said Miss Knag, when the message had been
      delivered, with many ornaments of speech; 'I could spare Miss Nickleby for
      evermore.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended. 'But, you
      see, you are not mistress of the business, and therefore it's of no great
      consequence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, ma'am,' said Miss Knag. 'Have you any further commands for
      me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I have not, ma'am,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then good-morning, ma'am,' said Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-morning to you, ma'am; and many obligations for your extreme
      politeness and good breeding,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus terminating the interview, during which both ladies had trembled very
      much, and been marvellously polite&mdash;certain indications that they
      were within an inch of a very desperate quarrel&mdash;Miss La Creevy
      bounced out of the room, and into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wonder who that is,' said the queer little soul. 'A nice person to
      know, I should think! I wish I had the painting of her: I'D do her
      justice.' So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said a very cutting
      thing at Miss Knag's expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty laugh, and went
      home to breakfast in great good humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was one of the advantages of having lived alone so long! The little
      bustling, active, cheerful creature existed entirely within herself,
      talked to herself, made a confidante of herself, was as sarcastic as she
      could be, on people who offended her, by herself; pleased herself, and did
      no harm. If she indulged in scandal, nobody's reputation suffered; and if
      she enjoyed a little bit of revenge, no living soul was one atom the
      worse. One of the many to whom, from straitened circumstances, a
      consequent inability to form the associations they would wish, and a
      disinclination to mix with the society they could obtain, London is as
      complete a solitude as the plains of Syria, the humble artist had pursued
      her lonely, but contented way for many years; and, until the peculiar
      misfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted her attention, had made no
      friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to all mankind. There
      are many warm hearts in the same solitary guise as poor little Miss La
      Creevy's.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, that's neither here nor there, just now. She went home to
      breakfast, and had scarcely caught the full flavour of her first sip of
      tea, when the servant announced a gentleman, whereat Miss La Creevy, at
      once imagining a new sitter transfixed by admiration at the street-door
      case, was in unspeakable consternation at the presence of the tea-things.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, take 'em away; run with 'em into the bedroom; anywhere,' said Miss
      La Creevy. 'Dear, dear; to think that I should be late on this particular
      morning, of all others, after being ready for three weeks by half-past
      eight o'clock, and not a soul coming near the place!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't let me put you out of the way,' said a voice Miss La Creevy knew.
      'I told the servant not to mention my name, because I wished to surprise
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nicholas!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting in great astonishment. 'You
      have not forgotten me, I see,' replied Nicholas, extending his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you in the
      street,' said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. 'Hannah, another cup and
      saucer. Now, I'll tell you what, young man; I'll trouble you not to repeat
      the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morning you went away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would not be very angry, would you?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wouldn't I!' said Miss La Creevy. 'You had better try; that's all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss La Creevy at her
      word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped his face; but it was not a
      very hard slap, and that's the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw such a rude creature!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You told me to try,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; but I was speaking ironically,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! that's another thing,' said Nicholas; 'you should have told me that,
      too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say you didn't know, indeed!' retorted Miss La Creevy. 'But, now I
      look at you again, you seem thinner than when I saw you last, and your
      face is haggard and pale. And how come you to have left Yorkshire?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped here; for there was so much heart in her altered tone and
      manner, that Nicholas was quite moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need look somewhat changed,' he said, after a short silence; 'for I
      have undergone some suffering, both of mind and body, since I left London.
      I have been very poor, too, and have even suffered from want.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good Heaven, Mr. Nicholas!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, 'what are you
      telling me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing which need distress you quite so much,' answered Nicholas, with a
      more sprightly air; 'neither did I come here to bewail my lot, but on
      matter more to the purpose. I wish to meet my uncle face to face. I should
      tell you that first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then all I have to say about that is,' interposed Miss La Creevy, 'that I
      don't envy you your taste; and that sitting in the same room with his very
      boots, would put me out of humour for a fortnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the main,' said Nicholas, 'there may be no great difference of opinion
      between you and me, so far; but you will understand, that I desire to
      confront him, to justify myself, and to cast his duplicity and malice in
      his throat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's quite another matter,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'Heaven forgive
      me; but I shouldn't cry my eyes quite out of my head, if they choked him.
      Well?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To this end, I called upon him this morning,' said Nicholas. 'He only
      returned to town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of his arrival until late
      last night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And did you see him?' asked Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas. 'He had gone out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hah!' said Miss La Creevy; 'on some kind, charitable business, I dare
      say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have reason to believe,' pursued Nicholas, 'from what has been told me,
      by a friend of mine who is acquainted with his movements, that he intends
      seeing my mother and sister today, and giving them his version of the
      occurrences that have befallen me. I will meet him there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands. 'And yet, I don't
      know,' she added, 'there is much to be thought of&mdash;others to be
      considered.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have considered others,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but as honesty and honour
      are both at issue, nothing shall deter me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should know best,' said Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In this case I hope so,' answered Nicholas. 'And all I want you to do for
      me, is, to prepare them for my coming. They think me a long way off, and
      if I went wholly unexpected, I should frighten them. If you can spare time
      to tell them that you have seen me, and that I shall be with them in a
      quarter of an hour afterwards, you will do me a great service.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I could do you, or any of you, a greater,' said Miss La Creevy;
      'but the power to serve, is as seldom joined with the will, as the will is
      with the power, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Talking on very fast and very much, Miss La Creevy finished her breakfast
      with great expedition, put away the tea-caddy and hid the key under the
      fender, resumed her bonnet, and, taking Nicholas's arm, sallied forth at
      once to the city. Nicholas left her near the door of his mother's house,
      and promised to return within a quarter of an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for his own
      purposes, to communicate the atrocities of which Nicholas had been guilty,
      had (instead of first proceeding to another quarter of the town on
      business, as Newman Noggs supposed he would) gone straight to his
      sister-in-law. Hence, when Miss La Creevy, admitted by a girl who was
      cleaning the house, made her way to the sitting-room, she found Mrs
      Nickleby and Kate in tears, and Ralph just concluding his statement of his
      nephew's misdemeanours. Kate beckoned her not to retire, and Miss La
      Creevy took a seat in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are here already, are you, my gentleman?' thought the little woman.
      'Then he shall announce himself, and see what effect that has on you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is pretty,' said Ralph, folding up Miss Squeers's note; 'very
      pretty. I recommend him&mdash;against all my previous conviction, for I
      knew he would never do any good&mdash;to a man with whom, behaving himself
      properly, he might have remained, in comfort, for years. What is the
      result? Conduct for which he might hold up his hand at the Old Bailey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never will believe it,' said Kate, indignantly; 'never. It is some base
      conspiracy, which carries its own falsehood with it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' said Ralph, 'you wrong the worthy man. These are not
      inventions. The man is assaulted, your brother is not to be found; this
      boy, of whom they speak, goes with him&mdash;remember, remember.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is impossible,' said Kate. 'Nicholas!&mdash;and a thief too! Mama, how
      can you sit and hear such statements?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had, at no time, been remarkable for the possession
      of a very clear understanding, and who had been reduced by the late
      changes in her affairs to a most complicated state of perplexity, made no
      other reply to this earnest remonstrance than exclaiming from behind a
      mass of pocket-handkerchief, that she never could have believed it&mdash;thereby
      most ingeniously leaving her hearers to suppose that she did believe it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would be my duty, if he came in my way, to deliver him up to justice,'
      said Ralph, 'my bounden duty; I should have no other course, as a man of
      the world and a man of business, to pursue. And yet,' said Ralph, speaking
      in a very marked manner, and looking furtively, but fixedly, at Kate, 'and
      yet I would not. I would spare the feelings of his&mdash;of his sister.
      And his mother of course,' added Ralph, as though by an afterthought, and
      with far less emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate very well understood that this was held out as an additional
      inducement to her to preserve the strictest silence regarding the events
      of the preceding night. She looked involuntarily towards Ralph as he
      ceased to speak, but he had turned his eyes another way, and seemed for
      the moment quite unconscious of her presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everything,' said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only by Mrs
      Nickleby's sobs, 'everything combines to prove the truth of this letter,
      if indeed there were any possibility of disputing it. Do innocent men
      steal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulk in hiding-places,
      like outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle nameless vagabonds, and prowl with
      them about the country as idle robbers do? Assault, riot, theft, what do
      you call these?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A lie!' cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholas came
      into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralph rose from
      his seat, and fell back a few paces, quite taken off his guard by this
      unexpected apparition. In another moment, he stood, fixed and immovable
      with folded arms, regarding his nephew with a scowl; while Kate and Miss
      La Creevy threw themselves between the two, to prevent the personal
      violence which the fierce excitement of Nicholas appeared to threaten.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0287m.jpg" alt="0287m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0287.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas,' cried his sister, clinging to him. 'Be calm, consider&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Consider, Kate!' cried Nicholas, clasping her hand so tight in the tumult
      of his anger, that she could scarcely bear the pain. 'When I consider all,
      and think of what has passed, I need be made of iron to stand before him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or bronze,' said Ralph, quietly; 'there is not hardihood enough in flesh
      and blood to face it out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, dear!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'that things should have come to such
      a pass as this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and brought disgrace on
      them?' said Nicholas, looking round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your mother, sir,' replied Ralph, motioning towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whose ears have been poisoned by you,' said Nicholas; 'by you&mdash;who,
      under pretence of deserving the thanks she poured upon you, heaped every
      insult, wrong, and indignity upon my head. You, who sent me to a den where
      sordid cruelty, worthy of yourself, runs wanton, and youthful misery
      stalks precocious; where the lightness of childhood shrinks into the
      heaviness of age, and its every promise blights, and withers as it grows.
      I call Heaven to witness,' said Nicholas, looking eagerly round, 'that I
      have seen all this, and that he knows it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Refute these calumnies,' said Kate, 'and be more patient, so that you may
      give them no advantage. Tell us what you really did, and show that they
      are untrue.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what do they&mdash;or of what does he&mdash;accuse me?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace of qualifying
      yourself to be tried for murder,' interposed Ralph. 'I speak plainly,
      young man, bluster as you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I interfered,' said Nicholas, 'to save a miserable creature from the
      vilest cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a wretch as
      he will not readily forget, though far less than he deserved from me. If
      the same scene were renewed before me now, I would take the same part; but
      I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such marks as he
      should carry to his grave, go to it when he would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear?' said Ralph, turning to Mrs. Nickleby. 'Penitence, this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear me!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'I don't know what to think, I really
      don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,' said Kate. 'Dear Nicholas, I
      only tell you, that you may know what wickedness can prompt, but they
      accuse you of&mdash;a ring is missing, and they dare to say that&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The woman,' said Nicholas, haughtily, 'the wife of the fellow from whom
      these charges come, dropped&mdash;as I suppose&mdash;a worthless ring
      among some clothes of mine, early in the morning on which I left the
      house. At least, I know that she was in the bedroom where they lay,
      struggling with an unhappy child, and that I found it when I opened my
      bundle on the road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and they have it
      now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew, I knew,' said Kate, looking towards her uncle. 'About this boy,
      love, in whose company they say you left?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hard usage, is
      with me now,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear?' said Ralph, appealing to the mother again, 'everything proved,
      even upon his own confession. Do you choose to restore that boy, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I do not,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You do not?' sneered Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' repeated Nicholas, 'not to the man with whom I found him. I would
      that I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: I might wring something
      from his sense of shame, if he were dead to every tie of nature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Ralph. 'Now, sir, will you hear a word or two from me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can speak when and what you please,' replied Nicholas, embracing his
      sister. 'I take little heed of what you say or threaten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mighty well, sir,' retorted Ralph; 'but perhaps it may concern others,
      who may think it worth their while to listen, and consider what I tell
      them. I will address your mother, sir, who knows the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn't,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      There really was no necessity for the good lady to be much distressed upon
      this particular head; the extent of her worldly knowledge being, to say
      the least, very questionable; and so Ralph seemed to think, for he smiled
      as she spoke. He then glanced steadily at her and Nicholas by turns, as he
      delivered himself in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma'am, and my niece,
      I say not one syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you to judge for
      yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I say that this boy, headstrong,
      wilful and disorderly as he is, should not have one penny of my money, or
      one crust of my bread, or one grasp of my hand, to save him from the
      loftiest gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him, come where he comes,
      or hear his name. I will not help him, or those who help him. With a full
      knowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has come back in his
      selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your wants, and a burden upon his
      sister's scanty wages. I regret to leave you, and more to leave her, now,
      but I will not encourage this compound of meanness and cruelty, and, as I
      will not ask you to renounce him, I see you no more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding those he hated, his
      glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its force, as he
      proceeded in the above address. Innocent as the young man was of all
      wrong, every artful insinuation stung, every well-considered sarcasm cut
      him to the quick; and when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering lip, he
      hugged himself to mark how well he had chosen the taunts best calculated
      to strike deep into a young and ardent spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help it,' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'I know you have been very good to
      us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am quite sure of
      that; I know you did, and it was very kind of you, having her at your
      house and all&mdash;and of course it would have been a great thing for her
      and for me too. But I can't, you know, brother-in-law, I can't renounce my
      own son, even if he has done all you say he has&mdash;it's not possible; I
      couldn't do it; so we must go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can bear
      it, I dare say.' Pouring forth these and a perfectly wonderful train of
      other disjointed expressions of regret, which no mortal power but Mrs
      Nickleby's could ever have strung together, that lady wrung her hands, and
      her tears fell faster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you say "<i>if</i> Nicholas has done what they say he has," mama?' asked
      Kate, with honest anger. 'You know he has not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what to think, one way or other, my dear,' said Mrs
      Nickleby; 'Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so much composure,
      that I can only hear what he says, and not what Nicholas does. Never mind,
      don't let us talk any more about it. We can go to the Workhouse, or the
      Refuge for the Destitute, or the Magdalen Hospital, I dare say; and the
      sooner we go the better.' With this extraordinary jumble of charitable
      institutions, Mrs. Nickleby again gave way to her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay,' said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. 'You need not leave this
      place, sir, for it will be relieved of my presence in one minute, and it
      will be long, very long, before I darken these doors again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nicholas,' cried Kate, throwing herself on her brother's shoulder, 'do
      not say so. My dear brother, you will break my heart. Mama, speak to him.
      Do not mind her, Nicholas; she does not mean it, you should know her
      better. Uncle, somebody, for Heaven's sake speak to him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never meant, Kate,' said Nicholas, tenderly, 'I never meant to stay
      among you; think better of me than to suppose it possible. I may turn my
      back on this town a few hours sooner than I intended, but what of that? We
      shall not forget each other apart, and better days will come when we shall
      part no more. Be a woman, Kate,' he whispered, proudly, 'and do not make
      me one, while <i>he</i> looks on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I will not,' said Kate, eagerly, 'but you will not leave us. Oh!
      think of all the happy days we have had together, before these terrible
      misfortunes came upon us; of all the comfort and happiness of home, and
      the trials we have to bear now; of our having no protector under all the
      slights and wrongs that poverty so much favours, and you cannot leave us
      to bear them alone, without one hand to help us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will be helped when I am away,' replied Nicholas hurriedly. 'I am no
      help to you, no protector; I should bring you nothing but sorrow, and
      want, and suffering. My own mother sees it, and her fondness and fears for
      you, point to the course that I should take. And so all good angels bless
      you, Kate, till I can carry you to some home of mine, where we may revive
      the happiness denied to us now, and talk of these trials as of things gone
      by. Do not keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear girl&mdash;dear
      girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swooned in his arms.
      Nicholas stooped over her for a few seconds, and placing her gently in a
      chair, confided her to their honest friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not entreat your sympathy,' he said, wringing her hand, 'for I
      know your nature. You will never forget them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stepped up to Ralph, who remained in the same attitude which he had
      preserved throughout the interview, and moved not a finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whatever step you take, sir,' he said, in a voice inaudible beyond
      themselves, 'I shall keep a strict account of. I leave them to you, at
      your desire. There will be a day of reckoning sooner or later, and it will
      be a heavy one for you if they are wronged.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph did not allow a muscle of his face to indicate that he heard one
      word of this parting address. He hardly knew that it was concluded, and
      Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely made up her mind to detain her son by force if
      necessary, when Nicholas was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he hurried through the streets to his obscure lodging, seeking to keep
      pace, as it were, with the rapidity of the thoughts which crowded upon
      him, many doubts and hesitations arose in his mind, and almost tempted him
      to return. But what would they gain by this? Supposing he were to put
      Ralph Nickleby at defiance, and were even fortunate enough to obtain some
      small employment, his being with them could only render their present
      condition worse, and might greatly impair their future prospects; for his
      mother had spoken of some new kindnesses towards Kate which she had not
      denied. 'No,' thought Nicholas, 'I have acted for the best.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other and different
      feeling would come upon him, and then he would lag again, and pulling his
      hat over his eyes, give way to the melancholy reflections which pressed
      thickly upon him. To have committed no fault, and yet to be so entirely
      alone in the world; to be separated from the only persons he loved, and to
      be proscribed like a criminal, when six months ago he had been surrounded
      by every comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of his family&mdash;this
      was hard to bear. He had not deserved it either. Well, there was comfort
      in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up again, to be again depressed,
      as his quickly shifting thoughts presented every variety of light and
      shade before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Undergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving, which no one, placed
      in a situation of ordinary trial, can fail to have experienced, Nicholas
      at length reached his poor room, where, no longer borne up by the
      excitement which had hitherto sustained him, but depressed by the
      revulsion of feeling it left behind, he threw himself on the bed, and
      turning his face to the wall, gave free vent to the emotions he had so
      long stifled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of the presence of
      Smike, until, happening to raise his head, he saw him, standing at the
      upper end of the room, looking wistfully towards him. He withdrew his eyes
      when he saw that he was observed, and affected to be busied with some
      scanty preparations for dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, 'let me
      hear what new acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new wonder
      you have found out, in the compass of this street and the next one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; 'I must talk of something
      else today.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what you like,' replied Nicholas, good-humouredly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of this,' said Smike. 'I know you are unhappy, and have got into great
      trouble by bringing me away. I ought to have known that, and stopped
      behind&mdash;I would, indeed, if I had thought it then. You&mdash;you&mdash;are
      not rich; you have not enough for yourself, and I should not be here. You
      grow,' said the lad, laying his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, 'you
      grow thinner every day; your cheek is paler, and your eye more sunk.
      Indeed I cannot bear to see you so, and think how I am burdening you. I
      tried to go away today, but the thought of your kind face drew me back. I
      could not leave you without a word.' The poor fellow could say no more,
      for his eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The word which separates us,' said Nicholas, grasping him heartily by the
      shoulder, 'shall never be said by me, for you are my only comfort and
      stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all the world could give. The
      thought of you has upheld me through all I have endured today, and shall,
      through fifty times such trouble. Give me your hand. My heart is linked to
      yours. We will journey from this place together, before the week is out.
      What, if I am steeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we will be poor
      together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 21
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>adam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss
            Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nickleby unable to resume
      her duties at the dressmaker's for three days, at the expiration of which
      interval she betook herself at the accustomed hour, and with languid
      steps, to the temple of fashion where Madame Mantalini reigned paramount
      and supreme.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in the
      interval. The young ladies still scrupulously shrunk from all
      companionship with their denounced associate; and when that exemplary
      female arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at no pains to conceal
      the displeasure with which she regarded Kate's return.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word!' said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round, to
      relieve her of her bonnet and shawl; 'I should have thought some people
      would have had spirit enough to stop away altogether, when they know what
      an incumbrance their presence is to right-minded persons. But it's a queer
      world; oh! it's a queer world!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in the tone in which
      most people do pass comments on the world when they are out of temper,
      that is to say, as if they by no means belonged to it, concluded by
      heaving a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to compassionate the
      wickedness of mankind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The attendants were not slow to echo the sigh, and Miss Knag was
      apparently on the eve of favouring them with some further moral
      reflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini, conveyed through the
      speaking-tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs to assist in the arrangement
      of the show-room; a distinction which caused Miss Knag to toss her head so
      much, and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of conversation were, for
      the time, annihilated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Miss Nickleby, child,' said Madame Mantalini, when Kate presented
      herself; 'are you quite well again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great deal better, thank you,' replied Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I could say the same,' remarked Madame Mantalini, seating herself
      with an air of weariness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you ill?' asked Kate. 'I am very sorry for that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not exactly ill, but worried, child&mdash;worried,' rejoined Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am still more sorry to hear that,' said Kate, gently. 'Bodily illness
      is more easy to bear than mental.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! and it's much easier to talk than to bear either,' said Madame,
      rubbing her nose with much irritability of manner. 'There, get to your
      work, child, and put the things in order, do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Kate was wondering within herself what these symptoms of unusual
      vexation portended, Mr. Mantalini put the tips of his whiskers, and, by
      degrees, his head, through the half-opened door, and cried in a soft voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is my life and soul there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little
      rose in a demnition flower-pot?' urged Mantalini. 'May its poppet come in
      and talk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly not,' replied Madame: 'you know I never allow you here. Go
      along!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this
      reply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards Madame
      Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss as he came along.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching
      nutcrackers?' said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of his
      life and soul, and drawing her towards him with his right.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I can't bear you,' replied his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not&mdash;eh, not bear <i>me</i>!' exclaimed Mantalini. 'Fibs, fibs. It couldn't
      be. There's not a woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my face&mdash;to
      my own face.' Mr. Mantalini stroked his chin, as he said this, and glanced
      complacently at an opposite mirror.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such destructive extravagance,' reasoned his wife, in a low tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little
      Venus, such a demd, enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating little
      Venus,' said Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See what a situation you have placed me in!' urged Madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No harm will come, no harm shall come, to its own darling,' rejoined Mr
      Mantalini. 'It is all over; there will be nothing the matter; money shall
      be got in; and if it don't come in fast enough, old Nickleby shall stump
      up again, or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex and hurt the
      little&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' interposed Madame. 'Don't you see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters with his wife, had
      overlooked, or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took the hint,
      and laying his finger on his lip, sunk his voice still lower. There was,
      then, a great deal of whispering, during which Madame Mantalini appeared
      to make reference, more than once, to certain debts incurred by Mr
      Mantalini previous to her coverture; and also to an unexpected outlay of
      money in payment of the aforesaid debts; and furthermore, to certain
      agreeable weaknesses on that gentleman's part, such as gaming, wasting,
      idling, and a tendency to horse-flesh; each of which matters of accusation
      Mr. Mantalini disposed of, by one kiss or more, as its relative importance
      demanded. The upshot of it all was, that Madame Mantalini was in raptures
      with him, and that they went upstairs to breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate busied herself in what she had to do, and was silently arranging the
      various articles of decoration in the best taste she could display, when
      she started to hear a strange man's voice in the room, and started again,
      to observe, on looking round, that a white hat, and a red neckerchief, and
      a broad round face, and a large head, and part of a green coat were in the
      room too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't alarm yourself, miss,' said the proprietor of these appearances. 'I
      say; this here's the mantie-making consarn, an't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' rejoined Kate, greatly astonished. 'What did you want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger answered not; but, first looking back, as though to beckon to
      some unseen person outside, came, very deliberately, into the room, and
      was closely followed by a little man in brown, very much the worse for
      wear, who brought with him a mingled fumigation of stale tobacco and fresh
      onions. The clothes of this gentleman were much bespeckled with flue; and
      his shoes, stockings, and nether garments, from his heels to the waist
      buttons of his coat inclusive, were profusely embroidered with splashes of
      mud, caught a fortnight previously&mdash;before the setting-in of the fine
      weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate's very natural impression was, that these engaging individuals had
      called with the view of possessing themselves, unlawfully, of any portable
      articles that chanced to strike their fancy. She did not attempt to
      disguise her apprehensions, and made a move towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait a minnit,' said the man in the green coat, closing it softly, and
      standing with his back against it. 'This is a unpleasant bisness. Vere's
      your govvernor?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My what&mdash;did you say?' asked Kate, trembling; for she thought
      'governor' might be slang for watch or money.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mister Muntlehiney,' said the man. 'Wot's come on him? Is he at home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is above stairs, I believe,' replied Kate, a little reassured by this
      inquiry. 'Do you want him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the visitor. 'I don't ezactly want him, if it's made a
      favour on. You can jist give him that 'ere card, and tell him if he wants
      to speak to <i>me</i>, and save trouble, here I am; that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, the stranger put a thick square card into Kate's hand,
      and, turning to his friend, remarked, with an easy air, 'that the rooms
      was a good high pitch;' to which the friend assented, adding, by way of
      illustration, 'that there was lots of room for a little boy to grow up a
      man in either on 'em, vithout much fear of his ever bringing his head into
      contract vith the ceiling.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0297m.jpg" alt="0297m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0297.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      After ringing the bell which would summon Madame Mantalini, Kate glanced
      at the card, and saw that it displayed the name of 'Scaley,' together with
      some other information to which she had not had time to refer, when her
      attention was attracted by Mr. Scaley himself, who, walking up to one of
      the cheval-glasses, gave it a hard poke in the centre with his stick, as
      coolly as if it had been made of cast iron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good plate this here, Tix,' said Mr. Scaley to his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' rejoined Mr. Tix, placing the marks of his four fingers, and a
      duplicate impression of his thumb, on a piece of sky-blue silk; 'and this
      here article warn't made for nothing, mind you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      From the silk, Mr. Tix transferred his admiration to some elegant articles
      of wearing apparel, while Mr. Scaley adjusted his neckcloth, at leisure,
      before the glass, and afterwards, aided by its reflection, proceeded to
      the minute consideration of a pimple on his chin; in which absorbing
      occupation he was yet engaged, when Madame Mantalini, entering the room,
      uttered an exclamation of surprise which roused him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Is this the missis?' inquired Scaley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is Madame Mantalini,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Mr. Scaley, producing a small document from his pocket and
      unfolding it very slowly, 'this is a writ of execution, and if it's not
      conwenient to settle we'll go over the house at wunst, please, and take
      the inwentory.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Madame Mantalini wrung her hands for grief, and rung the bell for her
      husband; which done, she fell into a chair and a fainting fit,
      simultaneously. The professional gentlemen, however, were not at all
      discomposed by this event, for Mr. Scaley, leaning upon a stand on which a
      handsome dress was displayed (so that his shoulders appeared above it, in
      nearly the same manner as the shoulders of the lady for whom it was
      designed would have done if she had had it on), pushed his hat on one side
      and scratched his head with perfect unconcern, while his friend Mr. Tix,
      taking that opportunity for a general survey of the apartment preparatory
      to entering on business, stood with his inventory-book under his arm and
      his hat in his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price upon every
      object within his range of vision.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the posture of affairs when Mr. Mantalini hurried in; and as that
      distinguished specimen had had a pretty extensive intercourse with Mr
      Scaley's fraternity in his bachelor days, and was, besides, very far from
      being taken by surprise on the present agitating occasion, he merely
      shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands down to the bottom of his
      pockets, elevated his eyebrows, whistled a bar or two, swore an oath or
      two, and, sitting astride upon a chair, put the best face upon the matter
      with great composure and decency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the demd total?' was the first question he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound, four and ninepence ha'penny,'
      replied Mr. Scaley, without moving a limb.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The halfpenny be demd,' said Mr. Mantalini, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means if you vish it,' retorted Mr. Scaley; 'and the ninepence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It don't matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound went
      along with it, that I know on,' observed Mr. Tix.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a button,' said Scaley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said the same gentleman, after a pause, 'wot's to be done&mdash;anything?
      Is it only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash? A break-up of the
      constitootion is it?&mdash;werry good. Then Mr. Tom Tix, esk-vire, you must
      inform your angel wife and lovely family as you won't sleep at home for
      three nights to come, along of being in possession here. Wot's the good of
      the lady a fretting herself?' continued Mr. Scaley, as Madame Mantalini
      sobbed. 'A good half of wot's here isn't paid for, I des-say, and wot a
      consolation oughtn't that to be to her feelings!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these remarks, combining great pleasantry with sound moral
      encouragement under difficulties, Mr. Scaley proceeded to take the
      inventory, in which delicate task he was materially assisted by the
      uncommon tact and experience of Mr. Tix, the broker.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My cup of happiness's sweetener,' said Mantalini, approaching his wife
      with a penitent air; 'will you listen to me for two minutes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! don't speak to me,' replied his wife, sobbing. 'You have ruined me,
      and that's enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner heard
      these words pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he recoiled
      several paces, assumed an expression of consuming mental agony, rushed
      headlong from the room, and was, soon afterwards, heard to slam the door
      of an upstairs dressing-room with great violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nickleby,' cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her ear,
      'make haste, for Heaven's sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke unkindly
      to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, my darling Alfred.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who,
      although she did not quite participate in the fond wife's apprehensions,
      was a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being hastily
      flung open, Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his shirt-collar
      symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a breakfast knife by
      means of his razor strop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried Mr. Mantalini, 'interrupted!' and whisk went the breakfast
      knife into Mr. Mantalini's dressing-gown pocket, while Mr. Mantalini's eyes
      rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wild disorder, mingled with his
      whiskers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alfred,' cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, 'I didn't mean to
      say it, I didn't mean to say it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ruined!' cried Mr. Mantalini. 'Have I brought ruin upon the best and
      purest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let me
      go.' At this crisis of his ravings Mr. Mantalini made a pluck at the
      breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife's grasp, attempted to
      dash his head against the wall&mdash;taking very good care to be at least
      six feet from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Compose yourself, my own angel,' said Madame. 'It was nobody's fault; it
      was mine as much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred, come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini did not think proper to come to, all at once; but, after
      calling several times for poison, and requesting some lady or gentleman to
      blow his brains out, gentler feelings came upon him, and he wept
      pathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did not oppose the capture
      of the knife&mdash;which, to tell the truth, he was rather glad to be rid
      of, as an inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt pocket&mdash;and
      finally he suffered himself to be led away by his affectionate partner.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies were informed that
      their services would be dispensed with until further notice, and at the
      expiration of two days, the name of Mantalini appeared in the list of
      bankrupts: Miss Nickleby received an intimation per post, on the same
      morning, that the business would be, in future, carried on under the name
      of Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be required&mdash;a
      piece of intelligence with which Mrs. Nickleby was no sooner made
      acquainted, than that good lady declared she had expected it all along and
      cited divers unknown occasions on which she had prophesied to that precise
      effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I say again,' remarked Mrs. Nickleby (who, it is scarcely necessary to
      observe, had never said so before), 'I say again, that a milliner's and
      dressmaker's is the very last description of business, Kate, that you
      should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don't make it a reproach
      to you, my love; but still I will say, that if you had consulted your own
      mother&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well, mama,' said Kate, mildly: 'what would you recommend now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Recommend!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'isn't it obvious, my dear, that of all
      occupations in this world for a young lady situated as you are, that of
      companion to some amiable lady is the very thing for which your education,
      and manners, and personal appearance, and everything else, exactly qualify
      you? Did you never hear your poor dear papa speak of the young lady who
      was the daughter of the old lady who boarded in the same house that he
      boarded in once, when he was a bachelor&mdash;what was her name again? I
      know it began with a B, and ended with g, but whether it was Waters or&mdash;no,
      it couldn't have been that, either; but whatever her name was, don't you
      know that that young lady went as companion to a married lady who died
      soon afterwards, and that she married the husband, and had one of the
      finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen&mdash;all within
      eighteen months?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourable recollection
      was occasioned by some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had
      discovered, in the companionship walk of life. She therefore waited, very
      patiently, until all reminiscences and anecdotes, bearing or not bearing
      upon the subject, had been exhausted, and at last ventured to inquire what
      discovery had been made. The truth then came out. Mrs. Nickleby had, that
      morning, had a yesterday's newspaper of the very first respectability from
      the public-house where the porter came from; and in this yesterday's
      newspaper was an advertisement, couched in the purest and most grammatical
      English, announcing that a married lady was in want of a genteel young
      person as companion, and that the married lady's name and address were to
      be known, on application at a certain library at the west end of the town,
      therein mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I say,' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, laying the paper down in triumph,
      'that if your uncle don't object, it's well worth the trial.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate was too sick at heart, after the rough jostling she had already had
      with the world, and really cared too little at the moment what fate was
      reserved for her, to make any objection. Mr. Ralph Nickleby offered none,
      but, on the contrary, highly approved of the suggestion; neither did he
      express any great surprise at Madame Mantalini's sudden failure, indeed it
      would have been strange if he had, inasmuch as it had been procured and
      brought about chiefly by himself. So, the name and address were obtained
      without loss of time, and Miss Nickleby and her mama went off in quest of
      Mrs. Wititterly, of Cadogan Place, Sloane Street, that same forenoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cadogan Place is the one slight bond that joins two great extremes; it is
      the connecting link between the aristocratic pavements of Belgrave Square,
      and the barbarism of Chelsea. It is in Sloane Street, but not of it. The
      people in Cadogan Place look down upon Sloane Street, and think Brompton
      low. They affect fashion too, and wonder where the New Road is. Not that
      they claim to be on precisely the same footing as the high folks of
      Belgrave Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they stand, with reference
      to them, rather in the light of those illegitimate children of the great
      who are content to boast of their connections, although their connections
      disavow them. Wearing as much as they can of the airs and semblances of
      loftiest rank, the people of Cadogan Place have the realities of middle
      station. It is the conductor which communicates to the inhabitants of
      regions beyond its limit, the shock of pride of birth and rank, which it
      has not within itself, but derives from a fountain-head beyond; or, like
      the ligament which unites the Siamese twins, it contains something of the
      life and essence of two distinct bodies, and yet belongs to neither.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this doubtful ground, lived Mrs. Wititterly, and at Mrs. Wititterly's
      door Kate Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. The door was opened by a
      big footman with his head floured, or chalked, or painted in some way (it
      didn't look genuine powder), and the big footman, receiving the card of
      introduction, gave it to a little page; so little, indeed, that his body
      would not hold, in ordinary array, the number of small buttons which are
      indispensable to a page's costume, and they were consequently obliged to
      be stuck on four abreast. This young gentleman took the card upstairs on a
      salver, and pending his return, Kate and her mother were shown into a
      dining-room of rather dirty and shabby aspect, and so comfortably arranged
      as to be adapted to almost any purpose rather than eating and drinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, in the ordinary course of things, and according to all authentic
      descriptions of high life, as set forth in books, Mrs. Wititterly ought to
      have been in her <i>boudoir</i>; but whether it was that Mr. Wititterly was at
      that moment shaving himself in the <i>boudoir </i>or what not, certain it is that
      Mrs. Wititterly gave audience in the drawing-room, where was everything
      proper and necessary, including curtains and furniture coverings of a
      roseate hue, to shed a delicate bloom on Mrs. Wititterly's complexion, and
      a little dog to snap at strangers' legs for Mrs. Wititterly's amusement,
      and the afore-mentioned page, to hand chocolate for Mrs. Wititterly's
      refreshment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and a face of engaging paleness;
      there was a faded look about her, and about the furniture, and about the
      house. She was reclining on a sofa in such a very unstudied attitude, that
      she might have been taken for an actress all ready for the first scene in
      a ballet, and only waiting for the drop curtain to go up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Place chairs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The page placed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leave the room, Alphonse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The page left it; but if ever an Alphonse carried plain Bill in his face
      and figure, that page was the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have ventured to call, ma'am,' said Kate, after a few seconds of
      awkward silence, 'from having seen your advertisement.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Mrs. Wititterly, 'one of my people put it in the paper&mdash;Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought, perhaps,' said Kate, modestly, 'that if you had not already
      made a final choice, you would forgive my troubling you with an
      application.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' drawled Mrs. Wititterly again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you have already made a selection&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear no,' interrupted the lady, 'I am not so easily suited. I really
      don't know what to say. You have never been a companion before, have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby, who had been eagerly watching her opportunity, came
      dexterously in, before Kate could reply. 'Not to any stranger, ma'am,'
      said the good lady; 'but she has been a companion to me for some years. I
      am her mother, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Mrs. Wititterly, 'I apprehend you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'that I very little thought, at
      one time, that it would be necessary for my daughter to go out into the
      world at all, for her poor dear papa was an independent gentleman, and
      would have been at this moment if he had but listened in time to my
      constant entreaties and&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear mama,' said Kate, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Kate, if you will allow me to speak,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I shall
      take the liberty of explaining to this lady&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it is almost unnecessary, mama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And notwithstanding all the frowns and winks with which Mrs. Nickleby
      intimated that she was going to say something which would clench the
      business at once, Kate maintained her point by an expressive look, and for
      once Mrs. Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink of an oration.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are your accomplishments?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, with her eyes shut.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate blushed as she mentioned her principal acquirements, and Mrs. Nickleby
      checked them all off, one by one, on her fingers; having calculated the
      number before she came out. Luckily the two calculations agreed, so Mrs
      Nickleby had no excuse for talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a good temper?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, opening her eyes for an
      instant, and shutting them again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope so,' rejoined Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And have a highly respectable reference for everything, have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate replied that she had, and laid her uncle's card upon the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and let me look at
      you,' said Mrs. Wititterly; 'I am so very nearsighted that I can't quite
      discern your features.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate complied, though not without some embarrassment, with this request,
      and Mrs. Wititterly took a languid survey of her countenance, which lasted
      some two or three minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I like your appearance,' said that lady, ringing a little bell.
      'Alphonse, request your master to come here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The page disappeared on this errand, and after a short interval, during
      which not a word was spoken on either side, opened the door for an
      important gentleman of about eight-and-thirty, of rather plebeian
      countenance, and with a very light head of hair, who leant over Mrs
      Wititterly for a little time, and conversed with her in whispers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' he said, turning round, 'yes. This is a most important matter. Mrs
      Wititterly is of a very excitable nature; very delicate, very fragile; a
      hothouse plant, an exotic.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Henry, my dear,' interposed Mrs. Wititterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are, my love, you know you are; one breath&mdash;' said Mr. W.,
      blowing an imaginary feather away. 'Pho! you're gone!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your soul is too large for your body,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'Your
      intellect wears you out; all the medical men say so; you know that there
      is not a physician who is not proud of being called in to you. What is
      their unanimous declaration? "My dear doctor," said I to Sir Tumley
      Snuffim, in this very room, the very last time he came. "My dear doctor,
      what is my wife's complaint? Tell me all. I can bear it. Is it nerves?"
      "My dear fellow," he said, "be proud of that woman; make much of her; she
      is an ornament to the fashionable world, and to you. Her complaint is
      soul. It swells, expands, dilates&mdash;the blood fires, the pulse
      quickens, the excitement increases&mdash;Whew!"' Here Mr. Wititterly, who,
      in the ardour of his description, had flourished his right hand to within
      something less than an inch of Mrs. Nickleby's bonnet, drew it hastily back
      again, and blew his nose as fiercely as if it had been done by some
      violent machinery.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You make me out worse than I am, Henry,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a
      faint smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not, Julia, I do not,' said Mr. W. 'The society in which you move&mdash;necessarily
      move, from your station, connection, and endowments&mdash;is one vortex
      and whirlpool of the most frightful excitement. Bless my heart and body,
      can I ever forget the night you danced with the baronet's nephew at the
      election ball, at Exeter! It was tremendous.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I always suffer for these triumphs afterwards,' said Mrs. Wititterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And for that very reason,' rejoined her husband, 'you must have a
      companion, in whom there is great gentleness, great sweetness, excessive
      sympathy, and perfect repose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, both Mr. and Mrs. Wititterly, who had talked rather at the Nicklebys
      than to each other, left off speaking, and looked at their two hearers,
      with an expression of countenance which seemed to say, 'What do you think
      of all this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Wititterly,' said her husband, addressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby,
      'is sought after and courted by glittering crowds and brilliant circles.
      She is excited by the opera, the drama, the fine arts, the&mdash;the&mdash;the&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The nobility, my love,' interposed Mrs. Wititterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The nobility, of course,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'And the military. She
      forms and expresses an immense variety of opinions on an immense variety
      of subjects. If some people in public life were acquainted with Mrs
      Wititterly's real opinion of them, they would not hold their heads,
      perhaps, quite as high as they do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, Henry,' said the lady; 'this is scarcely fair.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mention no names, Julia,' replied Mr. Wititterly; 'and nobody is
      injured. I merely mention the circumstance to show that you are no
      ordinary person, that there is a constant friction perpetually going on
      between your mind and your body; and that you must be soothed and tended.
      Now let me hear, dispassionately and calmly, what are this young lady's
      qualifications for the office.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In obedience to this request, the qualifications were all gone through
      again, with the addition of many interruptions and cross-questionings from
      Mr. Wititterly. It was finally arranged that inquiries should be made, and
      a decisive answer addressed to Miss Nickleby under cover of her uncle,
      within two days. These conditions agreed upon, the page showed them down
      as far as the staircase window; and the big footman, relieving guard at
      that point, piloted them in perfect safety to the street-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are very distinguished people, evidently,' said Mrs. Nickleby, as she
      took her daughter's arm. 'What a superior person Mrs. Wititterly is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think so, mama?' was all Kate's reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my love?' rejoined her mother. 'She
      is pale though, and looks much exhausted. I hope she may not be wearing
      herself out, but I am very much afraid.'
    </p>
    <p>
      These considerations led the deep-sighted lady into a calculation of the
      probable duration of Mrs. Wititterly's life, and the chances of the
      disconsolate widower bestowing his hand on her daughter. Before reaching
      home, she had freed Mrs. Wititterly's soul from all bodily restraint;
      married Kate with great splendour at St George's, Hanover Square; and only
      left undecided the minor question, whether a splendid French-polished
      mahogany bedstead should be erected for herself in the two-pair back of
      the house in Cadogan Place, or in the three-pair front: between which
      apartments she could not quite balance the advantages, and therefore
      adjusted the question at last, by determining to leave it to the decision
      of her son-in-law.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inquiries were made. The answer&mdash;not to Kate's very great joy&mdash;was
      favourable; and at the expiration of a week she betook herself, with all
      her movables and valuables, to Mrs. Wititterly's mansion, where for the
      present we will leave her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 22
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. He
            encounters Mr. Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made manifest</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to, either in
      possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, after paying his rent and
      settling with the broker from whom he had hired his poor furniture, did
      not exceed, by more than a few halfpence, the sum of twenty shillings. And
      yet he hailed the morning on which he had resolved to quit London, with a
      light heart, and sprang from his bed with an elasticity of spirit which is
      happily the lot of young persons, or the world would never be stocked with
      old ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagre shadows
      flitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionally there loomed
      through the dull vapour, the heavy outline of some hackney coach wending
      homewards, which, drawing slowly nearer, rolled jangling by, scattering
      the thin crust of frost from its whitened roof, and soon was lost again in
      the cloud. At intervals were heard the tread of slipshod feet, and the
      chilly cry of the poor sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil;
      the heavy footfall of the official watcher of the night, pacing slowly up
      and down and cursing the tardy hours that still intervened between him and
      sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the roll of the
      lighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the different
      markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of heavy sleepers&mdash;all
      these noises fell upon the ear from time to time, but all seemed muffled
      by the fog, and to be rendered almost as indistinct to the ear as was
      every object to the sight. The sluggish darkness thickened as the day came
      on; and those who had the courage to rise and peep at the gloomy street
      from their curtained windows, crept back to bed again, and coiled
      themselves up to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before even these indications of approaching morning were rife in busy
      London, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, and stood beneath the
      windows of his mother's house. It was dull and bare to see, but it had
      light and life for him; for there was at least one heart within its old
      walls to which insult or dishonour would bring the same blood rushing,
      that flowed in his own veins.
    </p>
    <p>
      He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of the room where
      he knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. 'Poor girl,' thought
      Nicholas, 'she little thinks who lingers here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate was not
      there to exchange one word at parting. 'Good God!' he thought, suddenly
      correcting himself, 'what a boy I am!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is better as it is,' said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, a few
      paces, and returned to the same spot. 'When I left them before, and could
      have said goodbye a thousand times if I had chosen, I spared them the pain
      of leave-taking, and why not now?' As he spoke, some fancied motion of the
      curtain almost persuaded him, for the instant, that Kate was at the
      window, and by one of those strange contradictions of feeling which are
      common to us all, he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that she might
      not see him. He smiled at his own weakness; said 'God bless them!' and
      walked away with a lighter step.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike was anxiously expecting him when he reached his old lodgings, and so
      was Newman, who had expended a day's income in a can of rum and milk to
      prepare them for the journey. They had tied up the luggage, Smike
      shouldered it, and away they went, with Newman Noggs in company; for he
      had insisted on walking as far as he could with them, overnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which way?' asked Newman, wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To Kingston first,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where afterwards?' asked Newman. 'Why won't you tell me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,' rejoined Nicholas, laying
      his hand upon his shoulder; 'and if I did, I have neither plan nor
      prospect yet, and might shift my quarters a hundred times before you could
      possibly communicate with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,' said Newman,
      doubtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So deep,' replied his young friend, 'that even I can't fathom it.
      Whatever I resolve upon, depend upon it I will write you soon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't forget?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not very likely to,' rejoined Nicholas. 'I have not so many friends
      that I shall grow confused among the number, and forget my best one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Occupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple of hours, as they
      might have done for a couple of days if Nicholas had not sat himself down
      on a stone by the wayside, and resolutely declared his intention of not
      moving another step until Newman Noggs turned back. Having pleaded
      ineffectually first for another half-mile, and afterwards for another
      quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course towards Golden
      Square, after interchanging many hearty and affectionate farewells, and
      many times turning back to wave his hat to the two wayfarers when they had
      become mere specks in the distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now listen to me, Smike,' said Nicholas, as they trudged with stout
      hearts onwards. 'We are bound for Portsmouth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no other emotion; for
      whether they had been bound for Portsmouth or Port Royal would have been
      alike to him, so they had been bound together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know much of these matters,' resumed Nicholas; 'but Portsmouth is
      a seaport town, and if no other employment is to be obtained, I should
      think we might get on board some ship. I am young and active, and could be
      useful in many ways. So could you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope so,' replied Smike. 'When I was at that&mdash;you know where I
      mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I know,' said Nicholas. 'You needn't name the place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, when I was there,' resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling at the
      prospect of displaying his abilities; 'I could milk a cow, and groom a
      horse, with anybody.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha!' said Nicholas, gravely. 'I am afraid they don't keep many animals of
      either kind on board ship, Smike, and even when they have horses, that
      they are not very particular about rubbing them down; still you can learn
      to do something else, you know. Where there's a will, there's a way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I am very willing,' said Smike, brightening up again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God knows you are,' rejoined Nicholas; 'and if you fail, it shall go hard
      but I'll do enough for us both.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do we go all the way today?' asked Smike, after a short silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That would be too severe a trial, even for your willing legs,' said
      Nicholas, with a good-humoured smile. 'No. Godalming is some thirty and
      odd miles from London&mdash;as I found from a map I borrowed&mdash;and I
      purpose to rest there. We must push on again tomorrow, for we are not rich
      enough to loiter. Let me relieve you of that bundle! Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. 'Don't ask me to give
      it up to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me do something for you, at least,' said Smike. 'You will never let
      me serve you as I ought. You will never know how I think, day and night,
      of ways to please you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a foolish fellow to say it, for I know it well, and see it, or I
      should be a blind and senseless beast,' rejoined Nicholas. 'Let me ask you
      a question while I think of it, and there is no one by,' he added, looking
      him steadily in the face. 'Have you a good memory?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I think I had
      once; but it's all gone now&mdash;all gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you think you had once?' asked Nicholas, turning quickly upon him
      as though the answer in some way helped out the purport of his question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I could remember, when I was a child,' said Smike, 'but that is
      very, very long ago, or at least it seems so. I was always confused and
      giddy at that place you took me from; and could never remember, and
      sometimes couldn't even understand, what they said to me. I&mdash;let me
      see&mdash;let me see!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are wandering now,' said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied his companion, with a vacant look 'I was only thinking how&mdash;'
      He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think no more of that place, for it is all over,' retorted Nicholas,
      fixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, which was fast settling
      into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitual to him, and common even
      then. 'What of the first day you went to Yorkshire?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh!' cried the lad.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,' said
      Nicholas quietly. 'Was the weather hot or cold?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wet,' replied the boy. 'Very wet. I have always said, when it has rained
      hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used to crowd round and
      laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. It was like a child, they
      said, and that made me think of it more. I turned cold all over sometimes,
      for I could see myself as I was then, coming in at the very same door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you were then,' repeated Nicholas, with assumed carelessness; 'how was
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a little creature,' said Smike, 'that they might have had pity and
      mercy upon me, only to remember it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You didn't find your way there, alone!' remarked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined Smike, 'oh no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who was with you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A man&mdash;a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at the
      school, and I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, I was
      afraid of him; but they made me more afraid of them, and used me harder
      too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look at me,' said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.
      'There; don't turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who hung
      over you once, and kissed your lips, and called you her child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said the poor creature, shaking his head, 'no, never.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; 'a room&mdash;I remember
      I slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of a house, where
      there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have covered my head with the
      clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: a young child with no
      one near at night: and I used to wonder what was on the other side. There
      was a clock too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember that. I have
      never forgotten that room; for when I have terrible dreams, it comes back,
      just as it was. I see things and people in it that I had never seen then,
      but there is the room just as it used to be; <i>that </i>never changes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you let me take the bundle now?' asked Nicholas, abruptly changing
      the theme.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Smike, 'no. Come, let us walk on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under the impression
      that they had been standing still during the whole of the previous
      dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and every word of this conversation
      remained upon his memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although a dense vapour
      still enveloped the city they had left, as if the very breath of its busy
      people hung over their schemes of gain and profit, and found greater
      attraction there than in the quiet region above, in the open country it
      was clear and fair. Occasionally, in some low spots they came upon patches
      of mist which the sun had not yet driven from their strongholds; but these
      were soon passed, and as they laboured up the hills beyond, it was
      pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish mass rolled heavily off,
      before the cheering influence of day. A broad, fine, honest sun lighted up
      the green pastures and dimpled water with the semblance of summer, while
      it left the travellers all the invigorating freshness of that early time
      of year. The ground seemed elastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were
      music to their ears; and exhilarated by exercise, and stimulated by hope,
      they pushed onward with the strength of lions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed a
      quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time, or youthful features
      by degrees resolving into the calm and serenity of age. But they were
      scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had been in their
      prime; for nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own;
      and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, is but a
      succession of changes so gentle and easy, that we can scarcely mark their
      progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble
      beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though not quite
      so early as the sun: and again afoot; if not with all the freshness of
      yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear them cheerily on.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a harder day's journey than yesterday's, for there were long and
      weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal
      easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated
      perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that
      perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked upon the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl; and Smike listened
      with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone
      which, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by
      night. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore; and
      the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into the hollow
      which gives the place its name. 'The Devil's Bowl,' thought Nicholas, as
      he looked into the void, 'never held fitter liquor than that!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide
      and spacious tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and plain
      to change their verdant surface. Here, there shot up, almost
      perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly
      accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and
      there, stood a mound of green, sloping and tapering off so delicately, and
      merging so gently into the level ground, that you could scarce define its
      limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations shapely and
      uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown negligently
      side by side, bounded the view in each direction; while frequently, with
      unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a flight of crows, who,
      cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if uncertain of their
      course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and skimmed down the long
      vista of some opening valley, with the speed of light itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as they
      had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged once
      again upon the open country. The knowledge that they were drawing near
      their place of destination, gave them fresh courage to proceed; but the
      way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike was
      tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned off the path
      to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of Portsmouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twelve miles,' said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and
      looking doubtfully at Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twelve long miles,' repeated the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it a good road?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very bad,' said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, he would
      say.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to get on,' observed Nicholas, hesitating. 'I scarcely know what
      to do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't let me influence you,' rejoined the landlord. 'I wouldn't go on if
      it was me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wouldn't you?' asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not if I knew when I was well off,' said the landlord. And having said it
      he pulled up his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and, taking a step
      or two outside the door, looked down the dark road with an assumption of
      great indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, so without
      any further consideration he made up his mind to stay where he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a good fire he
      remarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one he
      would have observed that it was very warm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What can you give us for supper?' was Nicholas's natural question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why&mdash;what would you like?' was the landlord's no less natural
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat&mdash;poached
      eggs, but there were no eggs&mdash;mutton chops, but there wasn't a mutton
      chop within three miles, though there had been more last week than they
      knew what to do with, and would be an extraordinary supply the day after
      tomorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Nicholas, 'I must leave it entirely to you, as I would have
      done, at first, if you had allowed me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then I'll tell you what,' rejoined the landlord. 'There's a
      gentleman in the parlour that's ordered a hot beef-steak pudding and
      potatoes, at nine. There's more of it than he can manage, and I have very
      little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I'll do that, in a
      minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' said Nicholas, detaining him. 'I would rather not. I&mdash;at
      least&mdash;pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am
      travelling in a very humble manner, and have made my way hither on foot.
      It is more than probable, I think, that the gentleman may not relish my
      company; and although I am the dusty figure you see, I am too proud to
      thrust myself into his.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord love you,' said the landlord, 'it's only Mr. Crummles; <i>he</i> isn't
      particular.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he not?' asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, the
      prospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not he,' replied the landlord. 'He'll like your way of talking, I know.
      But we'll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying for further
      permission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wisely considering
      that supper, under the circumstances, was too serious a matter to be
      trifled with. It was not long before the host returned, in a condition of
      much excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right,' he said in a low voice. 'I knew he would. You'll see
      something rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of
      it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, which was delivered
      in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he had already thrown open the
      door of the room; into which Nicholas, followed by Smike with the bundle
      on his shoulder (he carried it about with him as vigilantly as if it had
      been a sack of gold), straightway repaired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not for something quite so
      odd as the sight he encountered. At the upper end of the room, were a
      couple of boys, one of them very tall and the other very short, both
      dressed as sailors&mdash;or at least as theatrical sailors, with belts,
      buckles, pigtails, and pistols complete&mdash;fighting what is called in
      play-bills a terrific combat, with two of those short broad-swords with
      basket hilts which are commonly used at our minor theatres. The short boy
      had gained a great advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to mortal
      strait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perched against the
      corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them to strike a little more
      fire out of the swords, and they couldn't fail to bring the house down, on
      the very first night.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0314m.jpg" alt="0314m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0314.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Mr. Vincent Crummles,' said the landlord with an air of great deference.
      'This is the young gentleman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination of the head,
      something between the courtesy of a Roman emperor and the nod of a pot
      companion; and bade the landlord shut the door and begone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a picture,' said Mr. Crummles, motioning Nicholas not to advance
      and spoil it. 'The little 'un has him; if the big 'un doesn't knock under,
      in three seconds, he's a dead man. Do that again, boys.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped away until the swords
      emitted a shower of sparks: to the great satisfaction of Mr. Crummles, who
      appeared to consider this a very great point indeed. The engagement
      commenced with about two hundred chops administered by the short sailor
      and the tall sailor alternately, without producing any particular result,
      until the short sailor was chopped down on one knee; but this was nothing
      to him, for he worked himself about on the one knee with the assistance of
      his left hand, and fought most desperately until the tall sailor chopped
      his sword out of his grasp. Now, the inference was, that the short sailor,
      reduced to this extremity, would give in at once and cry quarter, but,
      instead of that, he all of a sudden drew a large pistol from his belt and
      presented it at the face of the tall sailor, who was so overcome at this
      (not expecting it) that he let the short sailor pick up his sword and
      begin again. Then, the chopping recommenced, and a variety of fancy chops
      were administered on both sides; such as chops dealt with the left hand,
      and under the leg, and over the right shoulder, and over the left; and
      when the short sailor made a vigorous cut at the tall sailor's legs, which
      would have shaved them clean off if it had taken effect, the tall sailor
      jumped over the short sailor's sword, wherefore to balance the matter, and
      make it all fair, the tall sailor administered the same cut, and the short
      sailor jumped over <i>his </i>sword. After this, there was a good deal of dodging
      about, and hitching up of the inexpressibles in the absence of braces, and
      then the short sailor (who was the moral character evidently, for he
      always had the best of it) made a violent demonstration and closed with
      the tall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down, and
      expired in great torture as the short sailor put his foot upon his breast,
      and bored a hole in him through and through.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That'll be a double <i>encore </i>if you take care, boys,' said Mr. Crummles.
      'You had better get your wind now and change your clothes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having addressed these words to the combatants, he saluted Nicholas, who
      then observed that the face of Mr. Crummles was quite proportionate in size
      to his body; that he had a very full under-lip, a hoarse voice, as though
      he were in the habit of shouting very much, and very short black hair,
      shaved off nearly to the crown of his head&mdash;to admit (as he
      afterwards learnt) of his more easily wearing character wigs of any shape
      or pattern.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did you think of that, sir?' inquired Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, indeed&mdash;capital,' answered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't see such boys as those very often, I think,' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas assented&mdash;observing that if they were a little better match&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Match!' cried Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean if they were a little more of a size,' said Nicholas, explaining
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Size!' repeated Mr. Crummles; 'why, it's the essence of the combat that
      there should be a foot or two between them. How are you to get up the
      sympathies of the audience in a legitimate manner, if there isn't a little
      man contending against a big one?&mdash;unless there's at least five to
      one, and we haven't hands enough for that business in our company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' replied Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. That didn't occur to me, I
      confess.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the main point,' said Mr. Crummles. 'I open at Portsmouth the day
      after tomorrow. If you're going there, look into the theatre, and see how
      that'll tell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas promised to do so, if he could, and drawing a chair near the
      fire, fell into conversation with the manager at once. He was very
      talkative and communicative, stimulated perhaps, not only by his natural
      disposition, but by the spirits and water he sipped very plentifully, or
      the snuff he took in large quantities from a piece of whitey-brown paper
      in his waistcoat pocket. He laid open his affairs without the smallest
      reserve, and descanted at some length upon the merits of his company, and
      the acquirements of his family; of both of which, the two broad-sword boys
      formed an honourable portion. There was to be a gathering, it seemed, of
      the different ladies and gentlemen at Portsmouth on the morrow, whither
      the father and sons were proceeding (not for the regular season, but in
      the course of a wandering speculation), after fulfilling an engagement at
      Guildford with the greatest applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are going that way?' asked the manager.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye-yes,' said Nicholas. 'Yes, I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know the town at all?' inquired the manager, who seemed to
      consider himself entitled to the same degree of confidence as he had
      himself exhibited.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as to say, 'If you
      won't be communicative, you won't;' and took so many pinches of snuff from
      the piece of paper, one after another, that Nicholas quite wondered where
      it all went to.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus engaged, Mr. Crummles looked, from time to time, with
      great interest at Smike, with whom he had appeared considerably struck
      from the first. He had now fallen asleep, and was nodding in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excuse my saying so,' said the manager, leaning over to Nicholas, and
      sinking his voice, 'but what a capital countenance your friend has got!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, with a half-smile, 'I wish it were a little
      more plump, and less haggard.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Plump!' exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, 'you'd spoil it for
      ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,' said the manager, striking his knee
      emphatically; 'without a pad upon his body, and hardly a touch of paint
      upon his face, he'd make such an actor for the starved business as was
      never seen in this country. Only let him be tolerably well up in the
      Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with the slightest possible dab of red on
      the tip of his nose, and he'd be certain of three rounds the moment he put
      his head out of the practicable door in the front grooves O.P.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You view him with a professional eye,' said Nicholas, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And well I may,' rejoined the manager. 'I never saw a young fellow so
      regularly cut out for that line, since I've been in the profession. And I
      played the heavy children when I was eighteen months old.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The appearance of the beef-steak pudding, which came in simultaneously
      with the junior Vincent Crummleses, turned the conversation to other
      matters, and indeed, for a time, stopped it altogether. These two young
      gentlemen wielded their knives and forks with scarcely less address than
      their broad-swords, and as the whole party were quite as sharp set as
      either class of weapons, there was no time for talking until the supper
      had been disposed of.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the last procurable morsel
      of food, than they evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and
      stretchings of their limbs, an obvious inclination to retire for the
      night, which Smike had betrayed still more strongly: he having, in the
      course of the meal, fallen asleep several times while in the very act of
      eating. Nicholas therefore proposed that they should break up at once, but
      the manager would by no means hear of it; vowing that he had promised
      himself the pleasure of inviting his new acquaintance to share a bowl of
      punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it very unhandsome
      behaviour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let them go,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, 'and we'll have it snugly and
      cosily together by the fire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep&mdash;being in truth too anxious&mdash;so,
      after a little demur, he accepted the offer, and having exchanged a shake
      of the hand with the young Crummleses, and the manager having on his part
      bestowed a most affectionate benediction on Smike, he sat himself down
      opposite to that gentleman by the fireside to assist in emptying the bowl,
      which soon afterwards appeared, steaming in a manner which was quite
      exhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most grateful and inviting
      fragrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety of stories, and
      smoked tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in the shape of snuff, with a
      most astonishing power, Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His thoughts
      were in his old home, and when they reverted to his present condition, the
      uncertainty of the morrow cast a gloom upon him, which his utmost efforts
      were unable to dispel. His attention wandered; although he heard the
      manager's voice, he was deaf to what he said; and when Mr. Vincent Crummles
      concluded the history of some long adventure with a loud laugh, and an
      inquiry what Nicholas would have done under the same circumstances, he was
      obliged to make the best apology in his power, and to confess his entire
      ignorance of all he had been talking about.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, so I saw,' observed Mr. Crummles. 'You're uneasy in your mind. What's
      the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of the question;
      but, thinking it scarcely worth while to parry it, owned that he was under
      some apprehensions lest he might not succeed in the object which had
      brought him to that part of the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what's that?' asked the manager.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Getting something to do which will keep me and my poor fellow-traveller
      in the common necessaries of life,' said Nicholas. 'That's the truth. You
      guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I may as well have the credit of
      telling it you with a good grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhere else?' asked Mr
      Vincent Crummles, melting the sealing-wax on the stem of his pipe in the
      candle, and rolling it out afresh with his little finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,' replied Nicholas. 'I
      shall try for a berth in some ship or other. There is meat and drink there
      at all events.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Salt meat and new rum; pease-pudding and chaff-biscuits,' said the
      manager, taking a whiff at his pipe to keep it alight, and returning to
      his work of embellishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One may do worse than that,' said Nicholas. 'I can rough it, I believe,
      as well as most young men of my age and previous habits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You need be able to,' said the manager, 'if you go on board ship; but you
      won't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because there's not a skipper or mate that would think you worth your
      salt, when he could get a practised hand,' replied the manager; 'and they
      as plentiful there, as the oysters in the streets.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' asked Nicholas, alarmed by this prediction, and the
      confident tone in which it had been uttered. 'Men are not born able
      seamen. They must be reared, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Vincent Crummles nodded his head. 'They must; but not at your age, or
      from young gentlemen like you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and he gazed ruefully
      at the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man of your figure
      and address could take up easily, and see the world to advantage in?'
      asked the manager.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Nicholas, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then, I'll tell you one,' said Mr. Crummles, throwing his pipe into
      the fire, and raising his voice. 'The stage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The stage!' cried Nicholas, in a voice almost as loud.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The theatrical profession,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles. 'I am in the
      theatrical profession myself, my wife is in the theatrical profession, my
      children are in the theatrical profession. I had a dog that lived and died
      in it from a puppy; and my chaise-pony goes on, in Timour the Tartar. I'll
      bring you out, and your friend too. Say the word. I want a novelty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know anything about it,' rejoined Nicholas, whose breath had been
      almost taken away by this sudden proposal. 'I never acted a part in my
      life, except at school.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juvenile tragedy in your
      eye, and touch-and-go farce in your laugh,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles.
      'You'll do as well as if you had thought of nothing else but the lamps,
      from your birth downwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas thought of the small amount of small change that would remain in
      his pocket after paying the tavern bill; and he hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,' said Mr. Crummles. 'Think what
      capital bills a man of your education could write for the shop-windows.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I think I could manage that department,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure you could,' replied Mr. Crummles. '"For further particulars see
      small hand-bills"&mdash;we might have half a volume in every one of 'em.
      Pieces too; why, you could write us a piece to bring out the whole
      strength of the company, whenever we wanted one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not quite so confident about that,' replied Nicholas. 'But I dare
      say I could scribble something now and then, that would suit you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll have a new show-piece out directly,' said the manager. 'Let me see&mdash;peculiar
      resources of this establishment&mdash;new and splendid scenery&mdash;you
      must manage to introduce a real pump and two washing-tubs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Into the piece?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied the manager. 'I bought 'em cheap, at a sale the other day,
      and they'll come in admirably. That's the London plan. They look up some
      dresses, and properties, and have a piece written to fit 'em. Most of the
      theatres keep an author on purpose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes,' said the manager; 'a common thing. It'll look very well in the
      bills in separate lines&mdash;Real pump!&mdash;Splendid tubs!&mdash;Great
      attraction! You don't happen to be anything of an artist, do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is not one of my accomplishments,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Then it can't be helped,' said the manager. 'If you had been, we
      might have had a large woodcut of the last scene for the posters, showing
      the whole depth of the stage, with the pump and tubs in the middle; but,
      however, if you're not, it can't be helped.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What should I get for all this?' inquired Nicholas, after a few moments'
      reflection. 'Could I live by it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Live by it!' said the manager. 'Like a prince! With your own salary, and
      your friend's, and your writings, you'd make&mdash;ah! you'd make a pound
      a week!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't say so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do indeed, and if we had a run of good houses, nearly double the
      money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution was before him; and
      if he could summon fortitude to undergo the extremes of want and hardship,
      for what had he rescued his helpless charge if it were only to bear as
      hard a fate as that from which he had wrested him? It was easy to think of
      seventy miles as nothing, when he was in the same town with the man who
      had treated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts; but now, it
      seemed far enough. What if he went abroad, and his mother or Kate were to
      die the while?
    </p>
    <p>
      Without more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was a bargain, and
      gave Mr. Vincent Crummles his hand upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 23
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span><i>reats of the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, Domestic
            and Theatrical</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr. Crummles had a strange four-legged animal in the inn stables, which
      he called a pony, and a vehicle of unknown design, on which he bestowed
      the appellation of a four-wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded on his
      journey next morning with greater ease than he had expected: the manager
      and himself occupying the front seat: and the Master Crummleses and Smike
      being packed together behind, in company with a wicker basket defended
      from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were the broad-swords, pistols,
      pigtails, nautical costumes, and other professional necessaries of the
      aforesaid young gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pony took his time upon the road, and&mdash;possibly in consequence of
      his theatrical education&mdash;evinced, every now and then, a strong
      inclination to lie down. However, Mr. Vincent Crummles kept him up pretty
      well, by jerking the rein, and plying the whip; and when these means
      failed, and the animal came to a stand, the elder Master Crummles got out
      and kicked him. By dint of these encouragements, he was persuaded to move
      from time to time, and they jogged on (as Mr. Crummles truly observed) very
      comfortably for all parties.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's a good pony at bottom,' said Mr. Crummles, turning to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      He might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at top, seeing that
      his coat was of the roughest and most ill-favoured kind. So, Nicholas
      merely observed that he shouldn't wonder if he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Many and many is the circuit this pony has gone,' said Mr. Crummles,
      flicking him skilfully on the eyelid for old acquaintance' sake. 'He is
      quite one of us. His mother was on the stage.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was she?' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She ate apple-pie at a circus for upwards of fourteen years,' said the
      manager; 'fired pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap; and, in short,
      took the low comedy entirely. His father was a dancer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was he at all distinguished?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not very,' said the manager. 'He was rather a low sort of pony. The fact
      is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he never quite got
      over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama too, but too broad&mdash;too
      broad. When the mother died, he took the port-wine business.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The port-wine business!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Drinking port-wine with the clown,' said the manager; 'but he was greedy,
      and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself, so his
      vulgarity was the death of him at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The descendant of this ill-starred animal requiring increased attention
      from Mr. Crummles as he progressed in his day's work, that gentleman had
      very little time for conversation. Nicholas was thus left at leisure to
      entertain himself with his own thoughts, until they arrived at the
      drawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr. Crummles pulled up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll get down here,' said the manager, 'and the boys will take him round
      to the stable, and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You had better
      let yours be taken there, for the present.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thanking Mr. Vincent Crummles for his obliging offer, Nicholas jumped out,
      and, giving Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up High Street on their
      way to the theatre; feeling nervous and uncomfortable enough at the
      prospect of an immediate introduction to a scene so new to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      They passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls and displayed in
      windows, wherein the names of Mr. Vincent Crummles, Mrs. Vincent Crummles,
      Master Crummles, Master P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles, were printed in
      very large letters, and everything else in very small ones; and, turning
      at length into an entry, in which was a strong smell of orange-peel and
      lamp-oil, with an under-current of sawdust, groped their way through a
      dark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a little maze of
      canvas screens and paint pots, and emerged upon the stage of the
      Portsmouth Theatre.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here we are,' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to the first
      entrance on the prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed
      clouds, heavily daubed draperies, and dirty floors. He looked about him;
      ceiling, pit, boxes, gallery, orchestra, fittings, and decorations of
      every kind,&mdash;all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is this a theatre?' whispered Smike, in amazement; 'I thought it was a
      blaze of light and finery.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, so it is,' replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; 'but not by day,
      Smike&mdash;not by day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The manager's voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the
      building, to the opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small
      mahogany table with rickety legs and of an oblong shape, sat a stout,
      portly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished silk
      cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair
      (of which she had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each
      temple.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Johnson,' said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name which
      Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs. Kenwigs),
      'let me introduce Mrs. Vincent Crummles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad to see you, sir,' said Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral
      voice. 'I am very glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a
      promising member of our corps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms;
      he saw it was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip as
      that with which she honoured him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this,' said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross
      when they obey a stage direction, 'and this is the other. You too, are
      welcome, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll do, I think, my dear?' said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is admirable,' replied the lady. 'An acquisition indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mrs. Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, there bounded on to
      the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white frock
      with tucks up to the knees, short trousers, sandaled shoes, white spencer,
      pink gauze bonnet, green veil and curl papers; who turned a pirouette, cut
      twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking off at the
      opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches of the
      footlights, and fell into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a shabby
      gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at one powerful slide,
      and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,' said Mrs
      Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said the manager, 'the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on. A
      little this way, if you please, Mr. Johnson. That'll do. Now!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage,
      becoming ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; but the maiden
      avoided him in six twirls, and came down, at the end of the last one, upon
      the very points of her toes. This seemed to make some impression upon the
      savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the maiden into
      corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several times with his
      right thumb and four fingers, thereby intimating that he was struck with
      admiration of the maiden's beauty. Acting upon the impulse of this
      passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe thumps in the chest,
      and to exhibit other indications of being desperately in love, which being
      rather a prosy proceeding, was very likely the cause of the maiden's
      falling asleep; whether it was or no, asleep she did fall, sound as a
      church, on a sloping bank, and the savage perceiving it, leant his left
      ear on his left hand, and nodded sideways, to intimate to all whom it
      might concern that she <i>was </i>asleep, and no shamming. Being left to himself,
      the savage had a dance, all alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke
      up, rubbed her eyes, got off the bank, and had a dance all alone too&mdash;such
      a dance that the savage looked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it
      was done, plucked from a neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity,
      resembling a small pickled cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at
      first wouldn't have it, but on the savage shedding tears relented. Then
      the savage jumped for joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet
      smell of the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and the maiden danced
      violently together, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee, and
      the maiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the
      ballet, and leaving the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty,
      whether she would ultimately marry the savage, or return to her friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well indeed,' said Mr. Crummles; 'bravo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bravo!' cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything.
      'Beautiful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This, sir,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward, 'this
      is the infant phenomenon&mdash;Miss Ninetta Crummles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your daughter?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My daughter&mdash;my daughter,' replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; 'the idol of
      every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about this
      girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in England.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not surprised at that,' said Nicholas; 'she must be quite a natural
      genius.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite a&mdash;!' Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to
      describe the infant phenomenon. 'I'll tell you what, sir,' he said; 'the
      talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen, sir&mdash;seen&mdash;to
      be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'May I ask how old she is?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may, sir,' replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his questioner's
      face, as some men do when they have doubts about being implicitly believed
      in what they are going to say. 'She is ten years of age, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not more!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'it's extraordinary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was; for the infant phenomenon, though of short stature, had a
      comparatively aged countenance, and had moreover been precisely the same
      age&mdash;not perhaps to the full extent of the memory of the oldest
      inhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been kept up
      late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin-and-water
      from infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system of
      training had produced in the infant phenomenon these additional phenomena.
    </p>
    <p>
      While this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who had enacted the
      savage, came up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his slippers in
      his hand, to within a few paces, as if desirous to join in the
      conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he put in his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Talent there, sir!' said the savage, nodding towards Miss Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing in his
      breath with a hissing sound, 'she oughtn't to be in the provinces, she
      oughtn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' asked the manager.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean to say,' replied the other, warmly, 'that she is too good for
      country boards, and that she ought to be in one of the large houses in
      London, or nowhere; and I tell you more, without mincing the matter, that
      if it wasn't for envy and jealousy in some quarter that you know of, she
      would be. Perhaps you'll introduce me here, Mr. Crummles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Folair,' said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Happy to know you, sir.' Mr. Folair touched the brim of his hat with his
      forefinger, and then shook hands. 'A recruit, sir, I understand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An unworthy one,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you ever see such a set-out as that?' whispered the actor, drawing
      him away, as Crummles left them to speak to his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Folair made a funny face from his pantomime collection, and pointed
      over his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean the infant phenomenon?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Infant humbug, sir,' replied Mr. Folair. 'There isn't a female child of
      common sharpness in a charity school, that couldn't do better than that.
      She may thank her stars she was born a manager's daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You seem to take it to heart,' observed Nicholas, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, by Jove, and well I may,' said Mr. Folair, drawing his arm through
      his, and walking him up and down the stage. 'Isn't it enough to make a man
      crusty to see that little sprawler put up in the best business every
      night, and actually keeping money out of the house, by being forced down
      the people's throats, while other people are passed over? Isn't it
      extraordinary to see a man's confounded family conceit blinding him, even
      to his own interest? Why I <i>know </i>of fifteen and sixpence that came to
      Southampton one night last month, to see me dance the Highland Fling; and
      what's the consequence? I've never been put up in it since&mdash;never
      once&mdash;while the "infant phenomenon" has been grinning through
      artificial flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in
      the gallery, every night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I may judge from what I have seen of you,' said Nicholas, 'you must be
      a valuable member of the company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' replied Mr. Folair, beating his slippers together, to knock the dust
      out; 'I CA<i>n</i> come it pretty well&mdash;nobody better, perhaps, in my own
      line&mdash;but having such business as one gets here, is like putting lead
      on one's feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetters without the credit
      of it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman addressed in these latter words was a dark-complexioned man,
      inclining indeed to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very evident
      inclinations (although he was close shaved) of a stiff beard, and whiskers
      of the same deep shade. His age did not appear to exceed thirty, though
      many at first sight would have considered him much older, as his face was
      long, and very pale, from the constant application of stage paint. He wore
      a checked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt buttons, a neckerchief of
      broad red and green stripes, and full blue trousers; he carried, too, a
      common ash walking-stick, apparently more for show than use, as he
      flourished it about, with the hooked end downwards, except when he raised
      it for a few seconds, and throwing himself into a fencing attitude, made a
      pass or two at the side-scenes, or at any other object, animate or
      inanimate, that chanced to afford him a pretty good mark at the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Tommy,' said this gentleman, making a thrust at his friend, who
      parried it dexterously with his slipper, 'what's the news?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A new appearance, that's all,' replied Mr. Folair, looking at Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,' said the other gentleman, tapping
      him reproachfully on the crown of the hat with his stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is Mr. Lenville, who does our first tragedy, Mr. Johnson,' said the
      pantomimist.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Except when old bricks and mortar takes it into his head to do it
      himself, you should add, Tommy,' remarked Mr. Lenville. 'You know who
      bricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not, indeed,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We call Crummles that, because his style of acting is rather in the heavy
      and ponderous way,' said Mr. Lenville. 'I mustn't be cracking jokes though,
      for I've got a part of twelve lengths here, which I must be up in tomorrow
      night, and I haven't had time to look at it yet; I'm a confounded quick
      study, that's one comfort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr. Lenville drew from his coat
      pocket a greasy and crumpled manuscript, and, having made another pass at
      his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro, conning it to himself and
      indulging occasionally in such appropriate action as his imagination and
      the text suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      A pretty general muster of the company had by this time taken place; for
      besides Mr. Lenville and his friend Tommy, there were present, a slim young
      gentleman with weak eyes, who played the low-spirited lovers and sang
      tenor songs, and who had come arm-in-arm with the comic countryman&mdash;a
      man with a turned-up nose, large mouth, broad face, and staring eyes.
      Making himself very amiable to the infant phenomenon, was an inebriated
      elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who played the calm
      and virtuous old men; and paying especial court to Mrs. Crummles was
      another elderly gentleman, a shade more respectable, who played the
      irascible old men&mdash;those funny fellows who have nephews in the army
      and perpetually run about with thick sticks to compel them to marry
      heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-looking person in a rough
      great-coat, who strode up and down in front of the lamps, flourishing a
      dress cane, and rattling away, in an undertone, with great vivacity for
      the amusement of an ideal audience. He was not quite so young as he had
      been, and his figure was rather running to seed; but there was an air of
      exaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the hero of swaggering
      comedy. There was, also, a little group of three or four young men with
      lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who were conversing in one corner; but
      they seemed to be of secondary importance, and laughed and talked together
      without attracting any attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves round the rickety
      table before mentioned. There was Miss Snevellicci&mdash;who could do
      anything, from a medley dance to Lady Macbeth, and also always played some
      part in blue silk knee-smalls at her benefit&mdash;glancing, from the
      depths of her coal-scuttle straw bonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting to be
      absorbed in the recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss Ledrook,
      who had brought her work, and was making up a ruff in the most natural
      manner possible. There was Miss Belvawney&mdash;who seldom aspired to
      speaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white silk hose, to stand
      with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go in and out after
      Mr. Crummles in stately tragedy&mdash;twisting up the ringlets of the
      beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had her likeness taken 'in
      character' by an engraver's apprentice, whereof impressions were hung up
      for sale in the pastry-cook's window, and the greengrocer's, and at the
      circulating library, and the box-office, whenever the announce bills came
      out for her annual night. There was Mrs. Lenville, in a very limp bonnet
      and veil, decidedly in that way in which she would wish to be if she truly
      loved Mr. Lenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with an imitation ermine boa
      tied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr. Crummles, junior, with
      both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs. Grudden in a brown cloth pelisse
      and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs. Crummles in her domestic affairs,
      and took money at the doors, and dressed the ladies, and swept the house,
      and held the prompt book when everybody else was on for the last scene,
      and acted any kind of part on any emergency without ever learning it, and
      was put down in the bills under any name or names whatever, that occurred
      to Mr. Crummles as looking well in print.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left
      him to mingle with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was
      completed by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as a
      prodigy of genius and learning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I beg your pardon,' said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas, 'but
      did you ever play at Canterbury?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never did,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,' said Miss Snevellicci,
      'only for a few moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it, so
      like you that I felt almost certain it was the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see you now for the first time,' rejoined Nicholas with all due
      gallantry. 'I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn't have forgotten
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I'm sure&mdash;it's very flattering of you to say so,' retorted Miss
      Snevellicci with a graceful bend. 'Now I look at you again, I see that the
      gentleman at Canterbury hadn't the same eyes as you&mdash;you'll think me
      very foolish for taking notice of such things, won't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not at all,' said Nicholas. 'How can I feel otherwise than flattered by
      your notice in any way?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! you men are such vain creatures!' cried Miss Snevellicci. Whereupon,
      she became charmingly confused, and, pulling out her pocket-handkerchief
      from a faded pink silk reticule with a gilt clasp, called to Miss Ledrook&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Led, my dear,' said Miss Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, what is the matter?' said Miss Ledrook.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's not the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the same what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Canterbury&mdash;you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But Miss Ledrook wouldn't come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci
      was obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner
      that was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss
      Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after some playful
      whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of
      her hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, who had been writing on
      a piece of paper, 'we'll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten;
      everybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you're all up
      in, so we shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at ten, if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everybody at ten,' repeated Mrs. Grudden, looking about her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,' said Mr. Crummles; 'the
      name's not known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr. Johnson will
      take care of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo!' said Nicholas, starting. 'I&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'On Monday morning,' repeated Mr. Crummles, raising his voice, to drown the
      unfortunate Mr. Johnson's remonstrance; 'that'll do, ladies and gentlemen.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in a few
      minutes, the theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family, Nicholas,
      and Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word,' said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, 'I don't think I
      can be ready by Monday.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh, pooh,' replied Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But really I can't,' returned Nicholas; 'my invention is not accustomed
      to these demands, or possibly I might produce&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Invention! what the devil's that got to do with it!' cried the manager
      hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everything, my dear sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing, my dear sir,' retorted the manager, with evident impatience. 'Do
      you understand French?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a roll
      of paper from it to Nicholas. 'There! Just turn that into English, and put
      your name on the title-page. Damn me,' said Mr. Crummles, angrily, 'if I
      haven't often said that I wouldn't have a man or woman in my company that
      wasn't master of the language, so that they might learn it from the
      original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble and expense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you going to do about your lodgings?' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be an
      uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but he merely
      remarked that he had not turned his thoughts that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come home with me then,' said Mr. Crummles, 'and my boys shall go with you
      after dinner, and show you the most likely place.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr. Crummles gave Mrs
      Crummles an arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike,
      the boys, and the phenomenon, went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs. Grudden
      remained behind to take some cold Irish stew and a pint of porter in the
      box-office.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate execution
      with an animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic fortitude
      which virtue alone inspires. Mr. Crummles, on the other hand, assumed the
      look and gait of a hardened despot; but they both attracted some notice
      from many of the passers-by, and when they heard a whisper of 'Mr. and Mrs
      Crummles!' or saw a little boy run back to stare them in the face, the
      severe expression of their countenances relaxed, for they felt it was
      popularity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Crummles lived in St Thomas's Street, at the house of one Bulph, a
      pilot, who sported a boat-green door, with window-frames of the same
      colour, and had the little finger of a drowned man on his parlour
      mantelshelf, with other maritime and natural curiosities. He displayed
      also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and a brass bell-handle, all very
      bright and shining; and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in his
      back yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are welcome,' said Mrs. Crummles, turning round to Nicholas when they
      reached the bow-windowed front room on the first floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedly glad to see the
      cloth laid.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,' said Mrs. Crummles, in
      the same charnel-house voice; 'but such as our dinner is, we beg you to
      partake of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very good,' replied Nicholas, 'I shall do it ample justice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Vincent,' said Mrs. Crummles, 'what is the hour?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five minutes past dinner-time,' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Crummles rang the bell. 'Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The slave who attended upon Mr. Bulph's lodgers, disappeared, and after a
      short interval reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas and the
      infant phenomenon opposed each other at the pembroke-table, and Smike and
      the master Crummleses dined on the sofa bedstead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are they very theatrical people here?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Mr. Crummles, shaking his head, 'far from it&mdash;far from
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I pity them,' observed Mrs. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So do I,' said Nicholas; 'if they have no relish for theatrical
      entertainments, properly conducted.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then they have none, sir,' rejoined Mr. Crummles. 'To the infant's
      benefit, last year, on which occasion she repeated three of her most
      popular characters, and also appeared in the Fairy Porcupine, as
      originally performed by her, there was a house of no more than four pound
      twelve.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it possible?' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And two pound of that was trust, pa,' said the phenomenon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And two pound of that was trust,' repeated Mr. Crummles. 'Mrs. Crummles
      herself has played to mere handfuls.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,' said the manager's wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Most audiences are, when they have good acting&mdash;real good acting&mdash;the
      regular thing,' replied Mr. Crummles, forcibly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you give lessons, ma'am?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do,' said Mrs. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no teaching here, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There has been,' said Mrs. Crummles. 'I have received pupils here. I
      imparted tuition to the daughter of a dealer in ships' provision; but it
      afterwards appeared that she was insane when she first came to me. It was
      very extraordinary that she should come, under such circumstances.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to hold his
      peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said the manager cogitating after dinner. 'Would you like
      some nice little part with the infant?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very good,' replied Nicholas hastily; 'but I think perhaps it
      would be better if I had somebody of my own size at first, in case I
      should turn out awkward. I should feel more at home, perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' said the manager. 'Perhaps you would. And you could play up to the
      infant, in time, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be a very
      long time before he was honoured with this distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I'll tell you what we'll do,' said Mr. Crummles. 'You shall study
      Romeo when you've done that piece&mdash;don't forget to throw the pump and
      tubs in by-the-bye&mdash;Juliet Miss Snevellicci, old Grudden the nurse.&mdash;Yes,
      that'll do very well. Rover too;&mdash;you might get up Rover while you
      were about it, and Cassio, and Jeremy Diddler. You can easily knock them
      off; one part helps the other so much. Here they are, cues and all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these hasty general directions Mr. Crummles thrust a number of little
      books into the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his eldest son go
      with him and show where lodgings were to be had, shook him by the hand,
      and wished him good night.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments in Portsmouth, and no
      difficulty in finding some that are proportionate to very slender
      finances; but the former were too good, and the latter too bad, and they
      went into so many houses, and came out unsuited, that Nicholas seriously
      began to think he should be obliged to ask permission to spend the night
      in the theatre, after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms up three pair of
      stairs, or rather two pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist's shop, on the
      Common Hard: a dirty street leading down to the dockyard. These Nicholas
      engaged, only too happy to have escaped any request for payment of a
      week's rent beforehand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,' he said, after showing
      young Crummles downstairs. 'We have fallen upon strange times, and Heaven
      only knows the end of them; but I am tired with the events of these three
      days, and will postpone reflection till tomorrow&mdash;if I can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 24
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span><i>f the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of
            Nicholas upon any Stage</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to
      dress, notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and
      was presently saluted by the voices of Mr. Folair the pantomimist, and Mr
      Lenville, the tragedian.
    </p>
    <p>
      'House, house, house!' cried Mr. Folair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What, ho! within there,' said Mr. Lenville, in a deep voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Confound these fellows!' thought Nicholas; 'they have come to breakfast,
      I suppose. I'll open the door directly, if you'll wait an instant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile the
      interval, had a fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the very small
      landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers
      downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, come in,' said Nicholas, when he had completed his toilet. 'In the
      name of all that's horrible, don't make that noise outside.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An uncommon snug little box this,' said Mr. Lenville, stepping into the
      front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in at all.
      'Pernicious snug.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifle too
      snug,' said Nicholas; 'for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great
      convenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or the
      floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your chair,
      still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the most limited
      size.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,' returned Mr. Lenville.
      'That reminds me,&mdash;my wife, Mr. Johnson,&mdash;I hope she'll have some
      good part in this piece of yours?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I glanced at the French copy last night,' said Nicholas. 'It looks very
      good, I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?' asked Mr. Lenville, poking the
      struggling fire with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it on the
      skirt of his coat. 'Anything in the gruff and grumble way?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You turn your wife and child out of doors,' said Nicholas; 'and, in a fit
      of rage and jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I though!' exclaimed Mr. Lenville. 'That's very good business.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After which,' said Nicholas, 'you are troubled with remorse till the last
      act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself. But, just as you
      are raising the pistol to your head, a clock strikes&mdash;ten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' cried Mr. Lenville. 'Very good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You pause,' said Nicholas; 'you recollect to have heard a clock strike
      ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand&mdash;you are
      overcome&mdash;you burst into tears, and become a virtuous and exemplary
      character for ever afterwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Capital!' said Mr. Lenville: 'that's a sure card, a sure card. Get the
      curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumphant
      success.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there anything good for me?' inquired Mr. Folair, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said Nicholas. 'You play the faithful and attached servant;
      you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,' sighed Mr. Folair; 'and we
      go into poor lodgings, where I won't take any wages, and talk sentiment, I
      suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why&mdash;yes,' replied Nicholas: 'that is the course of the piece.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must have a dance of some kind, you know,' said Mr. Folair. 'You'll have
      to introduce one for the phenomenon, so you'd better make a <i>pas de deux</i>,
      and save time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's nothing easier than that,' said Mr. Lenville, observing the
      disturbed looks of the young dramatist.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word I don't see how it's to be done,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, isn't it obvious?' reasoned Mr. Lenville. 'Gadzooks, who can help
      seeing the way to do it?&mdash;you astonish me! You get the distressed
      lady, and the little child, and the attached servant, into the poor
      lodgings, don't you?&mdash;Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into
      a chair, and buries her face in her pocket-handkerchief. "What makes you
      weep, mama?" says the child. "Don't weep, mama, or you'll make me weep
      too!"&mdash;"And me!" says the favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with
      his arm. "What can we do to raise your spirits, dear mama?" says the
      little child. "Ay, what <i>can </i>we do?" says the faithful servant. "Oh,
      Pierre!" says the distressed lady; "would that I could shake off these
      painful thoughts."&mdash;"Try, ma'am, try," says the faithful servant;
      "rouse yourself, ma'am; be amused."&mdash;"I will," says the lady, "I will
      learn to suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honest
      friend, which, in happier days, you practised with this sweet angel? It
      never failed to calm my spirits then. Oh! let me see it once again before
      I die!"&mdash;There it is&mdash;cue for the band, <i>before I die</i>,&mdash;and
      off they go. That's the regular thing; isn't it, Tommy?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's it,' replied Mr. Folair. 'The distressed lady, overpowered by old
      recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a
      picture.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the
      personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the
      best breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid of them, applied
      himself to his task: by no means displeased to find that it was so much
      easier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day, and did
      not leave his room until the evening, when he went down to the theatre,
      whither Smike had repaired before him to go on with another gentleman as a
      general rebellion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcely knew them.
      False hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles&mdash;they had
      become different beings. Mr. Lenville was a blooming warrior of most
      exquisite proportions; Mr. Crummles, his large face shaded by a profusion
      of black hair, a Highland outlaw of most majestic bearing; one of the old
      gentlemen a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch; the comic
      countryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of humour;
      each of the Master Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the
      low-spirited lover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet
      ready spread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, one
      plate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short,
      everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating the
      first scene, which was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter than Mr
      Crummles, through which that gentleman was to make his first entrance, and
      now listening to a couple of people who were cracking nuts in the gallery,
      wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the manager himself
      walked familiarly up and accosted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Been in front tonight?' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas, 'not yet. I am going to see the play.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We've had a pretty good Let,' said Mr. Crummles. 'Four front places in the
      centre, and the whole of the stage-box.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas; 'a family, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Mr. Crummles, 'yes. It's an affecting thing. There are six
      children, and they never come unless the phenomenon plays.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise, to have
      visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon did <i>not </i>play, inasmuch
      as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly two or three, characters,
      every night; but Nicholas, sympathising with the feelings of a father,
      refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr. Crummles
      continued to talk, uninterrupted by him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Six,' said that gentleman; 'pa and ma eight, aunt nine, governess ten,
      grandfather and grandmother twelve. Then, there's the footman, who stands
      outside, with a bag of oranges and a jug of toast-and-water, and sees the
      play for nothing through the little pane of glass in the box-door&mdash;it's
      cheap at a guinea; they gain by taking a box.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wonder you allow so many,' observed Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's no help for it,' replied Mr. Crummles; 'it's always expected in
      the country. If there are six children, six people come to hold them in
      their laps. A family-box carries double always. Ring in the orchestra,
      Grudden!'
    </p>
    <p>
      That useful lady did as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the
      tuning of three fiddles was heard. Which process having been protracted as
      long as it was supposed that the patience of the audience could possibly
      bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell, which, being the
      signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular
      airs, with involuntary variations.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the better which the
      gentlemen displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more
      extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of the manager's box, he beheld
      Miss Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin with a golden hem, and
      Mrs. Crummles in all the dignity of the outlaw's wife, and Miss Bravassa in
      all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci's confidential friend, and Miss
      Belvawney in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing
      to live and die in the service of everybody, he could scarcely contain his
      admiration, which testified itself in great applause, and the closest
      possible attention to the business of the scene. The plot was most
      interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was
      perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody's previous
      information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come
      of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing something somewhere,
      and came home, in triumph, to the sound of shouts and fiddles, to greet
      his wife&mdash;a lady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her
      father's bones, which it seemed were unburied, though whether from a
      peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman himself, or the
      reprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear. This outlaw's wife
      was, somehow or other, mixed up with a patriarch, living in a castle a
      long way off, and this patriarch was the father of several of the
      characters, but he didn't exactly know which, and was uncertain whether he
      had brought up the right ones in his castle, or the wrong ones; he rather
      inclined to the latter opinion, and, being uneasy, relieved his mind with
      a banquet, during which solemnity somebody in a cloak said 'Beware!' which
      somebody was known by nobody (except the audience) to be the outlaw
      himself, who had come there, for reasons unexplained, but possibly with an
      eye to the spoons. There was an agreeable little surprise in the way of
      certain love passages between the desponding captive and Miss Snevellicci,
      and the comic fighting-man and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr. Lenville
      had several very tragic scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting
      expeditions, which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic
      fighting-man (who overheard whatever was said all through the piece) and
      the intrepidity of Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights, and therein
      repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with a small basket of
      refreshments and a dark lantern. At last, it came out that the patriarch
      was the man who had treated the bones of the outlaw's father-in-law with
      so much disrespect, for which cause and reason the outlaw's wife repaired
      to his castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room, where, after a
      good deal of groping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else,
      and took them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of
      confusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; after
      which, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look,
      that he knew all about his children now, and would tell them when they got
      inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion for
      marrying the young people than that; and therefore he joined their hands,
      with the full consent of the indefatigable page, who (being the only other
      person surviving) pointed with his cap into the clouds, and his right hand
      to the ground; thereby invoking a blessing and giving the cue for the
      curtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did you think of that?' asked Mr. Crummles, when Nicholas went round
      to the stage again. Mr. Crummles was very red and hot, for your outlaws are
      desperate fellows to shout.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it was very capital indeed,' replied Nicholas; 'Miss Snevellicci
      in particular was uncommonly good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's a genius,' said Mr. Crummles; 'quite a genius, that girl.
      By-the-bye, I've been thinking of bringing out that piece of yours on her
      bespeak night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friends and patrons
      bespeak the play,' said Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I understand,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see,' said Mr. Crummles, 'it's sure to go, on such an occasion, and
      even if it should not work up quite as well as we expect, why it will be
      her risk, you know, and not ours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours, you mean,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said mine, didn't I?' returned Mr. Crummles. 'Next Monday week. What do
      you say? You'll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lover's part,
      long before that time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know about "long before,"' replied Nicholas; 'but <i>by</i> that time I
      think I can undertake to be ready.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' pursued Mr. Crummles, 'then we'll call that settled. Now, I
      want to ask you something else. There's a little&mdash;what shall I call
      it?&mdash;a little canvassing takes place on these occasions.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Among the patrons, I suppose?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had so many
      bespeaks in this place, that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak
      when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when her uncle died; and Mrs
      Crummles and myself have had bespeaks on the anniversary of the
      phenomenon's birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that
      description, so that, in fact, there's some difficulty in getting a good
      one. Now, won't you help this poor girl, Mr. Johnson?' said Crummles,
      sitting himself down on a drum, and taking a great pinch of snuff, as he
      looked him steadily in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you mean?' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning, to call
      with her at the houses of one or two of the principal people?' murmured
      the manager in a persuasive tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear me,' said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection, 'I
      shouldn't like to do that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The infant will accompany her,' said Mr. Crummles. 'The moment it was
      suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not be
      the smallest impropriety&mdash;Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul of
      honour. It would be of material service&mdash;the gentleman from London&mdash;author
      of the new piece&mdash;actor in the new piece&mdash;first appearance on
      any boards&mdash;it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and more
      especially a lady,' replied Nicholas; 'but really I must decidedly object
      to making one of the canvassing party.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent?' inquired a voice close to his ear;
      and, looking round, he found Mrs. Crummles and Miss Snevellicci herself
      standing behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has some objection, my dear,' replied Mr. Crummles, looking at
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Objection!' exclaimed Mrs. Crummles. 'Can it be possible?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I hope not!' cried Miss Snevellicci. 'You surely are not so cruel&mdash;oh,
      dear me!&mdash;Well, I&mdash;to think of that now, after all one's looking
      forward to it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,' said Mrs. Crummles. 'Think better
      of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of
      his nature, must be enlisted in this interesting cause.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which moves even a manager,' said Mr. Crummles, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a manager's wife,' added Mrs. Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy
      tones. 'Come, come, you will relent, I know you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not in my nature,' said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, 'to
      resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positively wrong; and,
      beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing
      this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it then. I yield.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of
      gratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crummles was by
      any means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her, at
      her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted: he to
      return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the
      after-piece: and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the
      probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have
      two-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings of
      Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at the
      house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded the little passage;
      and the tailor's daughter, who opened the door, appeared in that flutter
      of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical getting up of a
      family's linen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?' said Nicholas, when the door was
      opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tailor's daughter replied in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here?' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, if you please, you're to come upstairs,' replied the tailor's
      daughter, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment on
      the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he judged
      from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and saucers, Miss
      Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're to wait, if you please,' said the tailor's daughter, after a short
      period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had ceased,
      and been succeeded by whispering&mdash;'She won't be long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means (as
      she thought) diverted Mr. Johnson's attention from the room to the street,
      caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had very much
      the appearance of stockings, and darted off.
    </p>
    <p>
      As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas
      looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have
      bestowed upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed pieces of
      music, and a scattered litter of curl-papers; together with a confused
      heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes with large blue
      rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a half-finished muslin
      apron with little pockets ornamented with red ribbons, such as
      waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence) are never seen with
      anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive pair of top-boots in
      which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the little jockey, and,
      folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which bore a very
      suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook,
      displayed in the midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were strewn upon
      the table; and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical notices
      of Miss Snevellicci's acting, extracted from different provincial
      journals, together with one poetic address in her honour, commencing&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth
     Thrice-gifted <i>Snevellicci</i> came on earth,
     To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,
     Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.
</pre>
    <p>
      Besides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary allusions,
      also extracted from newspapers, such as&mdash;'We observe from an
      advertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming and
      highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday, for which
      occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle exhilaration
      in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our fellow-townsmen
      have not lost that high appreciation of public utility and private worth,
      for which they have long been so pre-eminently distinguished, we predict
      that this charming actress will be greeted with a bumper.' 'To
      Correspondents.&mdash;J.S. is misinformed when he supposes that the
      highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly captivating all
      hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre, is <i>not </i>the same lady
      to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune, residing within a hundred
      miles of the good city of York, lately made honourable proposals. We have
      reason to know that Miss Snevellicci <i>is</i> the lady who was implicated in
      that mysterious and romantic affair, and whose conduct on that occasion
      did no less honour to her head and heart, than do her histrionic triumphs
      to her brilliant genius.' A copious assortment of such paragraphs as
      these, with long bills of benefits all ending with 'Come Early', in large
      capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss Snevellicci's scrapbook.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a
      circumstantial and melancholy account of the train of events which had led
      to Miss Snevellicci's spraining her ankle by slipping on a piece of
      orange-peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the paper said,) upon
      the stage at Winchester,&mdash;when that young lady herself, attired in
      the coal-scuttle bonnet and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room,
      with a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the
      appointed time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But really,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'my darling Led, who lives with me
      here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have
      expired in my arms.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Such a fate is almost to be envied,' returned Nicholas, 'but I am very
      sorry to hear it nevertheless.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a creature you are to flatter!' said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning her
      glove in much confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,' rejoined
      Nicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, 'you have better specimens
      of it here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I'm almost ashamed
      to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,' said Miss
      Snevellicci, seizing the book and putting it away in a closet. 'How
      careless of Led! How could she be so naughty!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you had kindly left it here, on purpose for me to read,' said
      Nicholas. And really it did seem possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wouldn't have had you see it for the world!' rejoined Miss Snevellicci.
      'I never was so vexed&mdash;never! But she is such a careless thing,
      there's no trusting her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon,
      who had discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now
      presented herself, with much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand a
      very little green parasol with a broad fringe border, and no handle. After
      a few words of course, they sallied into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the right
      sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being repaired,
      one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be longer than the
      other; besides these accidents, the green parasol was dropped down an iron
      grating, and only fished up again with great difficulty and by dint of
      much exertion. However, it was impossible to scold her, as she was the
      manager's daughter, so Nicholas took it all in perfect good humour, and
      walked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on one side, and the
      offending infant on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in a terrace
      of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci's modest double-knock was
      answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to her inquiry whether Mrs. Curdle
      was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very much, and said he
      didn't know, but he'd inquire. With this he showed them into a parlour
      where he kept them waiting, until the two women-servants had repaired
      thither, under false pretences, to see the play-actors; and having
      compared notes with them in the passage, and joined in a vast quantity of
      whispering and giggling, he at length went upstairs with Miss
      Snevellicci's name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on such
      points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to
      literature and the drama; and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet
      of sixty-four pages, post octavo, on the character of the Nurse's deceased
      husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really had been a
      'merry man' in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his widow's
      affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He had likewise
      proved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation, any one of
      Shakespeare's plays could be made quite different, and the sense
      completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was a great
      critic, and a very profound and most original thinker.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Miss Snevellicci,' said Mrs. Curdle, entering the parlour, 'and how
      do <i>you </i>do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was well,
      as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs. Curdle was dressed
      in a morning wrapper, with a little cap stuck upon the top of her head. Mr
      Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his right forefinger on his
      forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom somebody or other had once
      said he bore a striking resemblance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your
      name to my bespeak, ma'am,' said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I really don't know what to say,' replied Mrs. Curdle. 'It's not as if
      the theatre was in its high and palmy days&mdash;you needn't stand, Miss
      Snevellicci&mdash;the drama is gone, perfectly gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions, and a realisation of
      human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments,
      and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama is
      gone, perfectly gone,' said Mr. Curdle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those
      changing and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is
      invested?' exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What man indeed&mdash;upon the stage,' said Mr. Curdle, with a small
      reservation in favour of himself. 'Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous! Hamlet is
      gone, perfectly gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Quite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed, and
      sat for some short time without speaking. At length, the lady, turning to
      Miss Snevellicci, inquired what play she proposed to have.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite a new one,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'of which this gentleman is the
      author, and in which he plays; being his first appearance on any stage. Mr
      Johnson is the gentleman's name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope you have preserved the unities, sir?' said Mr. Curdle.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The original piece is a French one,' said Nicholas. 'There is abundance
      of incident, sprightly dialogue, strongly-marked characters&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;All unavailing without a strict observance of the unities, sir,'
      returned Mr. Curdle. 'The unities of the drama, before everything.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Might I ask you,' said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he ought
      to assume, and his love of the whimsical, 'might I ask you what the
      unities are?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Curdle coughed and considered. 'The unities, sir,' he said, 'are a
      completeness&mdash;a kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place
      and time&mdash;a sort of a general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so
      strong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as I
      have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have read much upon
      the subject, and thought much. I find, running through the performances of
      this child,' said Mr. Curdle, turning to the phenomenon, 'a unity of
      feeling, a breadth, a light and shade, a warmth of colouring, a tone, a
      harmony, a glow, an artistical development of original conceptions, which
      I look for, in vain, among older performers&mdash;I don't know whether I
      make myself understood?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just so,' said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. 'That is my
      definition of the unities of the drama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with great
      complacency. It being finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought, about
      putting down their names.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know, my dear; upon my word I don't know,' said Mr. Curdle. 'If we
      do, it must be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves to
      the quality of the performances. Let it go forth to the world, that we do
      not give <i>them </i>the sanction of our names, but that we confer the
      distinction merely upon Miss Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I
      take it to be, as it were, a duty, that we should extend our patronage to
      a degraded stage, even for the sake of the associations with which it is
      entwined. Have you got two-and-sixpence for half-a-crown, Miss
      Snevellicci?' said Mr. Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of money.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, but there
      was nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an
      author, and thought it best not to go through the form of feeling in his
      own pockets at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said Mr. Curdle; 'twice four's eight&mdash;four shillings
      a-piece to the boxes, Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the present
      state of the drama&mdash;three half-crowns is seven-and-six; we shall not
      differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not part us, Miss
      Snevellicci?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-crowns, with many smiles and
      bends, and Mrs. Curdle, adding several supplementary directions relative to
      keeping the places for them, and dusting the seat, and sending two clean
      bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a signal for breaking up
      the conference.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Odd people those,' said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I assure you,' said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, 'that I think
      myself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being sixpence
      short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would give people to understand
      that they had always patronised you; and if you were to fail, they would
      have been quite certain of that from the very beginning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      At the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for, there,
      resided the six children who were so enraptured with the public actions of
      the phenomenon, and who, being called down from the nursery to be treated
      with a private view of that young lady, proceeded to poke their fingers
      into her eyes, and tread upon her toes, and show her many other little
      attentions peculiar to their time of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box,' said the lady
      of the house, after a most gracious reception. 'I shall only take two of
      the children, and will make up the rest of the party, of gentlemen&mdash;your
      admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, you naughty boy, leave the little
      girl alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon
      behind, apparently with a view of ascertaining whether she was real.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure you must be very tired,' said the mama, turning to Miss
      Snevellicci. 'I cannot think of allowing you to go, without first taking a
      glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you! Miss Lane, my dear,
      pray see to the children.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by
      the abrupt behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the
      phenomenon's little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while
      the distracted infant looked helplessly on.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,' said good-natured Mrs
      Borum, turning again to Miss Snevellicci, 'I cannot understand (Emma,
      don't stare so); laughing in one piece, and crying in the next, and so
      natural in all&mdash;oh, dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very happy to hear you express so favourable an opinion,' said Miss
      Snevellicci. 'It's quite delightful to think you like it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Like it!' cried Mrs. Borum. 'Who can help liking it? I would go to the
      play, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it&mdash;only you're too
      affecting sometimes. You do put me in such a state&mdash;into such fits of
      crying! Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment that
      poor child so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb; for
      two strong little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were dragging
      her in different directions as a trial of strength. However, Miss Lane
      (who had herself been too much occupied in contemplating the grown-up
      actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings) rescued the
      unhappy infant at this juncture, who, being recruited with a glass of
      wine, was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after sustaining
      no more serious damage than a flattening of the pink gauze bonnet, and a
      rather extensive creasing of the white frock and trousers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls to make, and
      everybody wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others
      comedies; some objected to dancing; some wanted scarcely anything else.
      Some thought the comic singer decidedly low, and others hoped he would
      have more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn't promise to go,
      because other people wouldn't promise to go; and other people wouldn't go
      at all, because other people went. At length, and by little and little,
      omitting something in this place, and adding something in that, Miss
      Snevellicci pledged herself to a bill of fare which was comprehensive
      enough, if it had no other merit (it included among other trifles, four
      pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and several dances); and they
      returned home, pretty well exhausted with the business of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into rehearsal,
      and then worked away at his own part, which he studied with great
      perseverance and acted&mdash;as the whole company said&mdash;to
      perfection. And at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent round,
      in the morning, to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in
      all the thoroughfares; and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches
      wide, were dispersed in all directions, flung down all the areas, thrust
      under all the knockers, and developed in all the shops. They were
      placarded on all the walls too, though not with complete success, for an
      illiterate person having undertaken this office during the indisposition
      of the regular bill-sticker, a part were posted sideways, and the
      remainder upside down.
    </p>
    <p>
      At half-past five, there was a rush of four people to the gallery-door; at
      a quarter before six, there were at least a dozen; at six o'clock the
      kicks were terrific; and when the elder Master Crummles opened the door,
      he was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen shillings were taken
      by Mrs. Grudden in the first ten minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss
      Snevellicci was in such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely stay
      on her face. Mrs. Crummles was so nervous that she could hardly remember
      her part. Miss Bravassa's ringlets came out of curl with the heat and
      anxiety; even Mr. Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole in the
      curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that another
      man had come into the pit.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0348m.jpg" alt="0348m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0348.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      At last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new piece.
      The first scene, in which there was nobody particular, passed off calmly
      enough, but when Miss Snevellicci went on in the second, accompanied by
      the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause broke out! The people in
      the Borum box rose as one man, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and
      uttering shouts of 'Bravo!' Mrs. Borum and the governess cast wreaths upon
      the stage, of which, some fluttered into the lamps, and one crowned the
      temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who, looking eagerly towards the
      scene, remained unconscious of the honour; the tailor and his family
      kicked at the panels of the upper boxes till they threatened to come out
      altogether; the very ginger-beer boy remained transfixed in the centre of
      the house; a young officer, supposed to entertain a passion for Miss
      Snevellicci, stuck his glass in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again
      and again Miss Snevellicci curtseyed lower and lower, and again and again
      the applause came down, louder and louder. At length, when the phenomenon
      picked up one of the smoking wreaths and put it on, sideways, over Miss
      Snevellicci's eye, it reached its climax, and the play proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs. Crummles, what a
      clapping of hands there was! When Mrs. Crummles (who was his unworthy
      mother), sneered, and called him 'presumptuous boy,' and he defied her,
      what a tumult of applause came on! When he quarrelled with the other
      gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols, said,
      that if he <i>was </i>a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room, until
      the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of two&mdash;how
      boxes, pit, and gallery, joined in one most vigorous cheer! When he called
      his mother names, because she wouldn't give up the young lady's property,
      and she relenting, caused him to relent likewise, and fall down on one
      knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the audience sobbed! When he
      was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the wicked relation poked a
      sharp sword in every direction, save where his legs were plainly visible,
      what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the house! His air, his figure,
      his walk, his look, everything he said or did, was the subject of
      commendation. There was a round of applause every time he spoke. And when,
      at last, in the pump-and-tub scene, Mrs. Grudden lighted the blue fire, and
      all the unemployed members of the company came in, and tumbled down in
      various directions&mdash;not because that had anything to do with the
      plot, but in order to finish off with a tableau&mdash;the audience (who
      had by this time increased considerably) gave vent to such a shout of
      enthusiasm as had not been heard in those walls for many and many a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, the success both of new piece and new actor was complete, and
      when Miss Snevellicci was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas led
      her on, and divided the applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 25
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span><i>oncerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, and an elderly
            Admirer who follows in her Train; with an affecting Ceremony consequent on
            their Arrival</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The new piece being a decided hit, was announced for every evening of
      performance until further notice, and the evenings when the theatre was
      closed, were reduced from three in the week to two. Nor were these the
      only tokens of extraordinary success; for, on the succeeding Saturday,
      Nicholas received, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs. Grudden, no less a
      sum than thirty shillings; besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed
      considerable fame and honour: having a presentation copy of Mr. Curdle's
      pamphlet forwarded to the theatre, with that gentleman's own autograph (in
      itself an inestimable treasure) on the fly-leaf, accompanied with a note,
      containing many expressions of approval, and an unsolicited assurance that
      Mr. Curdle would be very happy to read Shakespeare to him for three hours
      every morning before breakfast during his stay in the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've got another novelty, Johnson,' said Mr. Crummles one morning in great
      glee.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's that?' rejoined Nicholas. 'The pony?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else has failed,' said
      Mr. Crummles. 'I don't think we shall come to the pony at all, this season.
      No, no, not the pony.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A boy phenomenon, perhaps?' suggested Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is only one phenomenon, sir,' replied Mr. Crummles impressively,
      'and that's a girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very true,' said Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. Then I don't know what it
      is, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What should you say to a young lady from London?' inquired Mr. Crummles.
      'Miss So-and-so, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should say she would look very well in the bills,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're about right there,' said Mr. Crummles; 'and if you had said she
      would look very well upon the stage too, you wouldn't have been far out.
      Look here; what do you think of this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this inquiry Mr. Crummles unfolded a red poster, and a blue poster,
      and a yellow poster, at the top of each of which public notification was
      inscribed in enormous characters&mdash;'First appearance of the unrivalled
      Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'I know that lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you are acquainted with as much talent as was ever compressed into
      one young person's body,' retorted Mr. Crummles, rolling up the bills
      again; 'that is, talent of a certain sort&mdash;of a certain sort. "The
      Blood Drinker,"' added Mr. Crummles with a prophetic sigh, '"The Blood
      Drinker" will die with that girl; and she's the only sylph I ever saw, who
      could stand upon one leg, and play the tambourine on her other knee, <i>like</i>
      a sylph.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When does she come down?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We expect her today,' replied Mr. Crummles. 'She is an old friend of Mrs
      Crummles's. Mrs. Crummles saw what she could do&mdash;always knew it from
      the first. She taught her, indeed, nearly all she knows. Mrs. Crummles was
      the original Blood Drinker.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was she, indeed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes. She was obliged to give it up though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did it disagree with her?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not so much with her, as with her audiences,' replied Mr. Crummles.
      'Nobody could stand it. It was too tremendous. You don't quite know what
      Mrs. Crummles is yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas ventured to insinuate that he thought he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, you don't,' said Mr. Crummles; 'you don't, indeed. I don't, and
      that's a fact. I don't think her country will, till she is dead. Some new
      proof of talent bursts from that astonishing woman every year of her life.
      Look at her&mdash;mother of six children&mdash;three of 'em alive, and all
      upon the stage!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Extraordinary!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! extraordinary indeed,' rejoined Mr. Crummles, taking a complacent
      pinch of snuff, and shaking his head gravely. 'I pledge you my
      professional word I didn't even know she could dance, till her last
      benefit, and then she played Juliet, and Helen Macgregor, and did the
      skipping-rope hornpipe between the pieces. The very first time I saw that
      admirable woman, Johnson,' said Mr. Crummles, drawing a little nearer, and
      speaking in the tone of confidential friendship, 'she stood upon her head
      on the butt-end of a spear, surrounded with blazing fireworks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You astonish me!' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>She </i>astonished <i>me</i>!' returned Mr. Crummles, with a very serious
      countenance. 'Such grace, coupled with such dignity! I adored her from
      that moment!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupt
      termination to Mr. Crummles's eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards,
      Master Percy Crummles entered with a letter, which had arrived by the
      General Post, and was directed to his gracious mother; at sight of the
      superscription whereof, Mrs. Crummles exclaimed, 'From Henrietta Petowker,
      I do declare!' and instantly became absorbed in the contents.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it&mdash;?' inquired Mr. Crummles, hesitating.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, it's all right,' replied Mrs. Crummles, anticipating the
      question. 'What an excellent thing for her, to be sure!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the best thing altogether, that I ever heard of, I think,' said Mr
      Crummles; and then Mr. Crummles, Mrs. Crummles, and Master Percy Crummles,
      all fell to laughing violently. Nicholas left them to enjoy their mirth
      together, and walked to his lodgings; wondering very much what mystery
      connected with Miss Petowker could provoke such merriment, and pondering
      still more on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regard his
      sudden enlistment in a profession of which she was such a distinguished
      and brilliant ornament.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, in this latter respect he was mistaken; for&mdash;whether Mr. Vincent
      Crummles had paved the way, or Miss Petowker had some special reason for
      treating him with even more than her usual amiability&mdash;their meeting
      at the theatre next day was more like that of two dear friends who had
      been inseparable from infancy, than a recognition passing between a lady
      and gentleman who had only met some half-dozen times, and then by mere
      chance. Nay, Miss Petowker even whispered that she had wholly dropped the
      Kenwigses in her conversations with the manager's family, and had
      represented herself as having encountered Mr. Johnson in the very first and
      most fashionable circles; and on Nicholas receiving this intelligence with
      unfeigned surprise, she added, with a sweet glance, that she had a claim
      on his good nature now, and might tax it before long.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had the honour of playing in a slight piece with Miss Petowker
      that night, and could not but observe that the warmth of her reception was
      mainly attributable to a most persevering umbrella in the upper boxes; he
      saw, too, that the enchanting actress cast many sweet looks towards the
      quarter whence these sounds proceeded; and that every time she did so, the
      umbrella broke out afresh. Once, he thought that a peculiarly shaped hat
      in the same corner was not wholly unknown to him; but, being occupied with
      his share of the stage business, he bestowed no great attention upon this
      circumstance, and it had quite vanished from his memory by the time he
      reached home.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had just sat down to supper with Smike, when one of the people of the
      house came outside the door, and announced that a gentleman below stairs
      wished to speak to Mr. Johnson.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up; that's all I know,'
      replied Nicholas. 'One of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His fellow-lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation of the
      quantity that would be left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he
      had cut for himself, in order that the visitor's encroachments might be
      less formidable in their effects.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is not anybody who has been here before,' said Nicholas, 'for he is
      tumbling up every stair. Come in, come in. In the name of wonder! Mr
      Lillyvick?'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, indeed, the collector of water-rates who, regarding Nicholas with
      a fixed look and immovable countenance, shook hands with most portentous
      solemnity, and sat himself down in a seat by the chimney-corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, when did you come here?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This morning, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I see; then you were at the theatre tonight, and it was your umb&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This umbrella,' said Mr. Lillyvick, producing a fat green cotton one with
      a battered ferrule. 'What did you think of that performance?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So far as I could judge, being on the stage,' replied Nicholas, 'I
      thought it very agreeable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Agreeable!' cried the collector. 'I mean to say, sir, that it was
      delicious.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the last word with greater
      emphasis; and having done so, drew himself up, and frowned and nodded a
      great many times.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, delicious,' repeated Mr. Lillyvick. 'Absorbing, fairy-like,
      toomultuous,' and again Mr. Lillyvick drew himself up, and again he frowned
      and nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms of ecstatic
      approbation. 'Yes&mdash;she is a clever girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is a divinity,' returned Mr. Lillyvick, giving a collector's double
      knock on the ground with the umbrella before-mentioned. 'I have known
      divine actresses before now, sir, I used to collect&mdash;at least I used
      to <i>call </i>for&mdash;and very often call for&mdash;the water-rate at the
      house of a divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards of four year
      but never&mdash;no, never, sir of all divine creatures, actresses or no
      actresses, did I see a diviner one than is Henrietta Petowker.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had much ado to prevent himself from laughing; not trusting
      himself to speak, he merely nodded in accordance with Mr. Lillyvick's nods,
      and remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me speak a word with you in private,' said Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas looked good-humouredly at Smike, who, taking the hint,
      disappeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A bachelor is a miserable wretch, sir,' said Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is,' rejoined the collector. 'I have lived in the world for nigh sixty
      year, and I ought to know what it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You <i>ought </i>to know, certainly,' thought Nicholas; 'but whether you do or
      not, is another question.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If a bachelor happens to have saved a little matter of money,' said Mr
      Lillyvick, 'his sisters and brothers, and nephews and nieces, look <i>to</i> that
      money, and not to him; even if, by being a public character, he is the
      head of the family, or, as it may be, the main from which all the other
      little branches are turned on, they still wish him dead all the while, and
      get low-spirited every time they see him looking in good health, because
      they want to come into his little property. You see that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes,' replied Nicholas: 'it's very true, no doubt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The great reason for not being married,' resumed Mr. Lillyvick, 'is the
      expense; that's what's kept me off, or else&mdash;Lord!' said Mr
      Lillyvick, snapping his fingers, 'I might have had fifty women.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fine women?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Fine women, sir!' replied the collector; 'ay! not so fine as Henrietta
      Petowker, for she is an uncommon specimen, but such women as don't fall
      into every man's way, I can tell you. Now suppose a man can get a fortune
      <i>in</i> a wife instead of with her&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then, he's a lucky fellow,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's what I say,' retorted the collector, patting him benignantly on
      the side of the head with his umbrella; 'just what I say. Henrietta
      Petowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker has a fortune in herself, and I
      am going to&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To make her Mrs. Lillyvick?' suggested Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, not to make her Mrs. Lillyvick,' replied the collector.
      'Actresses, sir, always keep their maiden names&mdash;that's the regular
      thing&mdash;but I'm going to marry her; and the day after tomorrow, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I congratulate you, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, sir,' replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. 'I shall
      draw her salary, of course, and I hope after all that it's nearly as cheap
      to keep two as it is to keep one; that's a consolation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely you don't want any consolation at such a moment?' observed
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head nervously: 'no&mdash;of
      course not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But how come you both here, if you're going to be married, Mr. Lillyvick?'
      asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that's what I came to explain to you,' replied the collector of
      water-rate. 'The fact is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from
      the family.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Family!' said Nicholas. 'What family?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Kenwigses of course,' rejoined Mr. Lillyvick. 'If my niece and the
      children had known a word about it before I came away, they'd have gone
      into fits at my feet, and never have come out of 'em till I took an oath
      not to marry anybody&mdash;or they'd have got out a commission of lunacy,
      or some dreadful thing,' said the collector, quite trembling as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' said Nicholas. 'Yes; they would have been jealous, no
      doubt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To prevent which,' said Mr. Lillyvick, 'Henrietta Petowker (it was settled
      between us) should come down here to her friends, the Crummleses, under
      pretence of this engagement, and I should go down to Guildford the day
      before, and join her on the coach there, which I did, and we came down
      from Guildford yesterday together. Now, for fear you should be writing to
      Mr. Noggs, and might say anything about us, we have thought it best to let
      you into the secret. We shall be married from the Crummleses' lodgings,
      and shall be delighted to see you&mdash;either before church or at
      breakfast-time, which you like. It won't be expensive, you know,' said the
      collector, highly anxious to prevent any misunderstanding on this point;
      'just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a shrimp or something of that sort
      for a relish, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, I understand,' replied Nicholas. 'Oh, I shall be most happy to
      come; it will give me the greatest pleasure. Where's the lady stopping&mdash;with
      Mrs. Crummles?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, no,' said the collector; 'they couldn't very well dispose of her at
      night, and so she is staying with an acquaintance of hers, and another
      young lady; they both belong to the theatre.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Snevellicci, I suppose?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, that's the name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And they'll be bridesmaids, I presume?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why,' said the collector, with a rueful face, 'they <i>will </i>have four
      bridesmaids; I'm afraid they'll make it rather theatrical.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, not at all,' replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt to convert
      a laugh into a cough. 'Who may the four be? Miss Snevellicci of course&mdash;Miss
      Ledrook&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The&mdash;the phenomenon,' groaned the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha!' cried Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon, I don't know what I'm
      laughing at&mdash;yes, that'll be very pretty&mdash;the phenomenon&mdash;who
      else?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some young woman or other,' replied the collector, rising; 'some other
      friend of Henrietta Petowker's. Well, you'll be careful not to say
      anything about it, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may safely depend upon me,' replied Nicholas. 'Won't you take
      anything to eat or drink?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said the collector; 'I haven't any appetite. I should think it was a
      very pleasant life, the married one, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not the least doubt of it,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the collector; 'certainly. Oh yes. No doubt. Good night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, Mr. Lillyvick, whose manner had exhibited through the
      whole of this interview a most extraordinary compound of precipitation,
      hesitation, confidence and doubt, fondness, misgiving, meanness, and
      self-importance, turned his back upon the room, and left Nicholas to enjoy
      a laugh by himself if he felt so disposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without stopping to inquire whether the intervening day appeared to
      Nicholas to consist of the usual number of hours of the ordinary length,
      it may be remarked that, to the parties more directly interested in the
      forthcoming ceremony, it passed with great rapidity, insomuch that when
      Miss Petowker awoke on the succeeding morning in the chamber of Miss
      Snevellicci, she declared that nothing should ever persuade her that that
      really was the day which was to behold a change in her condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never will believe it,' said Miss Petowker; 'I cannot really. It's of
      no use talking, I never can make up my mind to go through with such a
      trial!'
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss Ledrook, who knew perfectly
      well that their fair friend's mind had been made up for three or four
      years, at any period of which time she would have cheerfully undergone the
      desperate trial now approaching if she could have found any eligible
      gentleman disposed for the venture, began to preach comfort and firmness,
      and to say how very proud she ought to feel that it was in her power to
      confer lasting bliss on a deserving object, and how necessary it was for
      the happiness of mankind in general that women should possess fortitude
      and resignation on such occasions; and that although for their parts they
      held true happiness to consist in a single life, which they would not
      willingly exchange&mdash;no, not for any worldly consideration&mdash;still
      (thank God), if ever the time <i>should </i>come, they hoped they knew their duty
      too well to repine, but would the rather submit with meekness and humility
      of spirit to a fate for which Providence had clearly designed them with a
      view to the contentment and reward of their fellow-creatures.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I might feel it was a great blow,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'to break up
      old associations and what-do-you-callems of that kind, but I would submit,
      my dear, I would indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So would I,' said Miss Ledrook; 'I would rather court the yoke than shun
      it. I have broken hearts before now, and I'm very sorry for it: for it's a
      terrible thing to reflect upon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is indeed,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Now Led, my dear, we must
      positively get her ready, or we shall be too late, we shall indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of being too late, supported
      the bride through the ceremony of robing, after which, strong tea and
      brandy were administered in alternate doses as a means of strengthening
      her feeble limbs and causing her to walk steadier.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you feel now, my love?' inquired Miss Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh Lillyvick!' cried the bride. 'If you knew what I am undergoing for
      you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it,' said Miss
      Ledrook.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think he won't?' cried Miss Petowker, really showing great
      capability for the stage. 'Oh, do you think he won't? Do you think
      Lillyvick will always remember it&mdash;always, always, always?'
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no knowing in what this burst of feeling might have ended, if
      Miss Snevellicci had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival of the fly,
      which so astounded the bride that she shook off divers alarming symptoms
      which were coming on very strong, and running to the glass adjusted her
      dress, and calmly declared that she was ready for the sacrifice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was accordingly supported into the coach, and there 'kept up' (as Miss
      Snevellicci said) with perpetual sniffs of <i>sal volatile</i> and sips of brandy
      and other gentle stimulants, until they reached the manager's door, which
      was already opened by the two Master Crummleses, who wore white cockades,
      and were decorated with the choicest and most resplendent waistcoats in
      the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined exertions of these young
      gentlemen and the bridesmaids, assisted by the coachman, Miss Petowker was
      at length supported in a condition of much exhaustion to the first floor,
      where she no sooner encountered the youthful bridegroom than she fainted
      with great decorum.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Henrietta Petowker!' said the collector; 'cheer up, my lovely one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Petowker grasped the collector's hand, but emotion choked her
      utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petowker?' said the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, no, no,' rejoined the bride; 'but all the friends&mdash;the
      darling friends&mdash;of my youthful days&mdash;to leave them all&mdash;it
      is such a shock!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petowker went on to enumerate the
      dear friends of her youthful days one by one, and to call upon such of
      them as were present to come and embrace her. This done, she remembered
      that Mrs. Crummles had been more than a mother to her, and after that, that
      Mr. Crummles had been more than a father to her, and after that, that the
      Master Crummleses and Miss Ninetta Crummles had been more than brothers
      and sisters to her. These various remembrances being each accompanied with
      a series of hugs, occupied a long time, and they were obliged to drive to
      church very fast, for fear they should be too late.
    </p>
    <p>
      The procession consisted of two flys; in the first of which were Miss
      Bravassa (the fourth bridesmaid), Mrs. Crummles, the collector, and Mr
      Folair, who had been chosen as his second on the occasion. In the other
      were the bride, Mr. Crummles, Miss Snevellicci, Miss Ledrook, and the
      phenomenon. The costumes were beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite
      covered with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon, in particular, was
      rendered almost invisible by the portable arbour in which she was
      enshrined. Miss Ledrook, who was of a romantic turn, wore in her breast
      the miniature of some field-officer unknown, which she had purchased, a
      great bargain, not very long before; the other ladies displayed several
      dazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almost equal to real, and Mrs
      Crummles came out in a stern and gloomy majesty, which attracted the
      admiration of all beholders.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, perhaps the appearance of Mr. Crummles was more striking and
      appropriate than that of any member of the party. This gentleman, who
      personated the bride's father, had, in pursuance of a happy and original
      conception, 'made up' for the part by arraying himself in a theatrical
      wig, of a style and pattern commonly known as a brown George, and moreover
      assuming a snuff-coloured suit, of the previous century, with grey silk
      stockings, and buckles to his shoes. The better to support his assumed
      character he had determined to be greatly overcome, and, consequently,
      when they entered the church, the sobs of the affectionate parent were so
      heart-rending that the pew-opener suggested the propriety of his retiring
      to the vestry, and comforting himself with a glass of water before the
      ceremony began.
    </p>
    <p>
      The procession up the aisle was beautiful. The bride, with the four
      bridesmaids, forming a group previously arranged and rehearsed; the
      collector, followed by his second, imitating his walk and gestures to the
      indescribable amusement of some theatrical friends in the gallery; Mr
      Crummles, with an infirm and feeble gait; Mrs. Crummles advancing with that
      stage walk, which consists of a stride and a stop alternately&mdash;it was
      the completest thing ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly
      disposed of, and all parties present having signed the register (for which
      purpose, when it came to his turn, Mr. Crummles carefully wiped and put on
      an immense pair of spectacles), they went back to breakfast in high
      spirits. And here they found Nicholas awaiting their arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then,' said Crummles, who had been assisting Mrs. Grudden in the
      preparations, which were on a more extensive scale than was quite
      agreeable to the collector. 'Breakfast, breakfast.'
    </p>
    <p>
      No second invitation was required. The company crowded and squeezed
      themselves at the table as well as they could, and fell to, immediately:
      Miss Petowker blushing very much when anybody was looking, and eating very
      much when anybody was <i>not </i>looking; and Mr. Lillyvick going to work as
      though with the cool resolve, that since the good things must be paid for
      by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to eat up
      afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very soon done, sir, isn't it?' inquired Mr. Folair of the collector,
      leaning over the table to address him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is soon done, sir?' returned Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The tying up&mdash;the fixing oneself with a wife,' replied Mr. Folair.
      'It don't take long, does it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, colouring. 'It does not take long. And
      what then, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! nothing,' said the actor. 'It don't take a man long to hang himself,
      either, eh? ha, ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table with
      indignant astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To hang himself!' repeated Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      A profound silence came upon all, for Mr. Lillyvick was dignified beyond
      expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To hang himself!' cried Mr. Lillyvick again. 'Is any parallel attempted to
      be drawn in this company between matrimony and hanging?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The noose, you know,' said Mr. Folair, a little crest-fallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The noose, sir?' retorted Mr. Lillyvick. 'Does any man dare to speak to me
      of a noose, and Henrietta Pe&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lillyvick,' suggested Mr. Crummles.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?' said the collector.
      'In this house, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles, who have brought
      up a talented and virtuous family, to be blessings and phenomenons, and
      what not, are we to hear talk of nooses?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Folair,' said Mr. Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency to be affected
      by this allusion to himself and partner, 'I'm astonished at you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you going on in this way at me for?' urged the unfortunate
      actor. 'What have I done?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done, sir!' cried Mr. Lillyvick, 'aimed a blow at the whole framework of
      society&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the best and tenderest feelings,' added Crummles, relapsing into the
      old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the highest and most estimable of social ties,' said the collector.
      'Noose! As if one was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by
      the leg, instead of going into it of one's own accord and glorying in the
      act!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't mean to make it out, that you were caught and trapped, and
      pinned by the leg,' replied the actor. 'I'm sorry for it; I can't say any
      more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So you ought to be, sir,' returned Mr. Lillyvick; 'and I am glad to hear
      that you have enough of feeling left to be so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, Mrs. Lillyvick
      considered that the fittest occasion (the attention of the company being
      no longer distracted) to burst into tears, and require the assistance of
      all four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though not without
      some confusion, for the room being small and the table-cloth long, a whole
      detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first move.
      Regardless of this circumstance, however, Mrs. Lillyvick refused to be
      comforted until the belligerents had passed their words that the dispute
      should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient show of
      reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr. Folair sat in moody silence,
      contenting himself with pinching Nicholas's leg when anything was said,
      and so expressing his contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments to
      which he gave utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were a great number of speeches made; some by Nicholas, and some by
      Crummles, and some by the collector; two by the Master Crummleses in
      returning thanks for themselves, and one by the phenomenon on behalf of
      the bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Crummles shed tears. There was some singing,
      too, from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely there might have
      been more, if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happy pair to the
      spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde, had not sent in a
      peremptory message intimating, that if they didn't come directly he should
      infallibly demand eighteen-pence over and above his agreement.
    </p>
    <p>
      This desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After a most
      pathetic leave-taking, Mr. Lillyvick and his bride departed for Ryde, where
      they were to spend the next two days in profound retirement, and whither
      they were accompanied by the infant, who had been appointed travelling
      bridesmaid on Mr. Lillyvick's express stipulation: as the steamboat people,
      deceived by her size, would (he had previously ascertained) transport her
      at half-price.
    </p>
    <p>
      As there was no performance that night, Mr. Crummles declared his intention
      of keeping it up till everything to drink was disposed of; but Nicholas
      having to play Romeo for the first time on the ensuing evening, contrived
      to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion, occasioned by the
      unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the conduct of
      Mrs. Grudden.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations, but
      by his anxiety on account of Smike, who, having to sustain the character
      of the Apothecary, had been as yet wholly unable to get any more of the
      part into his head than the general idea that he was very hungry, which&mdash;perhaps
      from old recollections&mdash;he had acquired with great aptitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what's to be done, Smike,' said Nicholas, laying down the
      book. 'I am afraid you can't learn it, my poor fellow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid not,' said Smike, shaking his head. 'I think if you&mdash;but
      that would give you so much trouble.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What?' inquired Nicholas. 'Never mind me.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0362m.jpg" alt="0362m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0362.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I think,' said Smike, 'if you were to keep saying it to me in little
      bits, over and over again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you think so?' exclaimed Nicholas. 'Well said. Let us see who tires
      first. Not I, Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Who calls so loud?"' said Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Who calls so loud?"' repeated Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Who calls so loud?"' cried Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they continued to ask each other who called so loud, over and over
      again; and when Smike had that by heart Nicholas went to another sentence,
      and then to two at a time, and then to three, and so on, until at midnight
      poor Smike found to his unspeakable joy that he really began to remember
      something about the text.
    </p>
    <p>
      Early in the morning they went to it again, and Smike, rendered more
      confident by the progress he had already made, got on faster and with
      better heart. As soon as he began to acquire the words pretty freely,
      Nicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands spread out upon
      his stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the
      established form by which people on the stage always denote that they want
      something to eat. After the morning's rehearsal they went to work again,
      nor did they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time to repair
      to the theatre at night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a
      more patient, unwearying, considerate, kindhearted master.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon
      the stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The
      Romeo was received with hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smike
      was pronounced unanimously, alike by audience and actors, the very prince
      and prodigy of Apothecaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 26
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>
      <i>s fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>The place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street; the
      time was three o'clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding, and the
      first hour of morning to the gay and spirited; the persons were Lord
      Frederick Verisopht, and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple of
      sofas, with a table between them, on which were scattered in rich
      confusion the materials of an untasted breakfast. Newspapers lay strewn
      about the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected and unnoticed;
      not, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions
      of the journals from being called into request, for not a word was
      exchanged between the two, nor was any sound uttered, save when one, in
      tossing about to find an easier resting-place for his aching head, uttered
      an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to communicate a new
      restlessness to his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      These appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong clue
      to the extent of the debauch of the previous night, even if there had not
      been other indications of the amusements in which it had been passed. A
      couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt, two battered hats, a champagne
      bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow of its being
      grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive weapon; a broken cane;
      a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a watch-guard snapped
      asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments of half-smoked
      cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;&mdash;these, and many other
      tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly at the nature of
      last night's gentlemanly frolics.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered
      foot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting
      posture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards his friend, to whom he
      called in a drowsy voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo!' replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?' said the lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know that we're fit for anything else,' replied Sir Mulberry;
      'yet awhile, at least. I haven't a grain of life in me this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Life!' cried Lord Verisopht. 'I feel as if there would be nothing so snug
      and comfortable as to die at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why don't you die?' said Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      With which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to occupy himself
      in an attempt to fall asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      His hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table, and
      essayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to the window, then
      loitered up and down the room with his hand to his fevered head, and
      finally threw himself again on his sofa, and roused his friend once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What the devil's the matter?' groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on
      the couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he did not
      seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after
      stretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver that it was
      'infernal cold,' he made an experiment at the breakfast-table, and proving
      more successful in it than his less-seasoned friend, remained there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Suppose,' said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his
      fork, 'suppose we go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?' asked Lord
      Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You take me, I see,' replied Sir Mulberry. 'The girl, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You promised me you'd find her out,' said Lord Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I did,' rejoined his friend; 'but I have thought further of the matter
      since then. You distrust me in the business&mdash;you shall find her out
      yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Na-ay,' remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I say yes,' returned his friend. 'You shall find her out yourself.
      Don't think that I mean, when you can&mdash;I know as well as you that if
      I did, you could never get sight of her without me. No. I say you shall
      find her out&mdash;<i>shall</i>&mdash;and I'll put you in the way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, curse me, if you ain't a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough-paced
      friend,' said the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most
      reviving effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell you how,' said Sir Mulberry. 'She was at that dinner as a bait
      for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' cried the young lord. 'What the dey&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As a bait for you,' repeated his friend; 'old Nickleby told me so
      himself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a fine old cock it is!' exclaimed Lord Verisopht; 'a noble rascal!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Sir Mulberry, 'he knew she was a smart little creature&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Smart!' interposed the young lord. 'Upon my soul, Hawk, she's a perfect
      beauty&mdash;a&mdash;a picture, a statue, a&mdash;a&mdash;upon my soul she
      is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his shoulders and manifesting an
      indifference, whether he felt it or not; 'that's a matter of taste; if
      mine doesn't agree with yours, so much the better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Confound it!' reasoned the lord, 'you were thick enough with her that
      day, anyhow. I could hardly get in a word.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well enough for once, well enough for once,' replied Sir Mulberry; 'but
      not worth the trouble of being agreeable to again. If you seriously want
      to follow up the niece, tell the uncle that you must know where she lives
      and how she lives, and with whom, or you are no longer a customer of his.
      He'll tell you fast enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why didn't you say this before?' asked Lord Verisopht, 'instead of
      letting me go on burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable existence
      for an a-age!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't know it, in the first place,' answered Sir Mulberry carelessly;
      'and in the second, I didn't believe you were so very much in earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed since the
      dinner at Ralph Nickleby's, Sir Mulberry Hawk had been furtively trying by
      every means in his power to discover whence Kate had so suddenly appeared,
      and whither she had disappeared. Unassisted by Ralph, however, with whom
      he had held no communication since their angry parting on that occasion,
      all his efforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore arrived at
      the determination of communicating to the young lord the substance of the
      admission he had gleaned from that worthy. To this he was impelled by
      various considerations; among which the certainty of knowing whatever the
      weak young man knew was decidedly not the least, as the desire of
      encountering the usurer's niece again, and using his utmost arts to reduce
      her pride, and revenge himself for her contempt, was uppermost in his
      thoughts. It was a politic course of proceeding, and one which could not
      fail to redound to his advantage in every point of view, since the very
      circumstance of his having extorted from Ralph Nickleby his real design in
      introducing his niece to such society, coupled with his extreme
      disinterestedness in communicating it so freely to his friend, could not
      but advance his interests in that quarter, and greatly facilitate the
      passage of coin (pretty frequent and speedy already) from the pockets of
      Lord Frederick Verisopht to those of Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and in pursuance of this reasoning he and his
      friend soon afterwards repaired to Ralph Nickleby's, there to execute a
      plan of operations concerted by Sir Mulberry himself, avowedly to promote
      his friend's object, and really to attain his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into the drawing-room,
      the recollection of the scene which had taken place there seemed to occur
      to him, for he cast a curious look at Sir Mulberry, who bestowed upon it
      no other acknowledgment than a careless smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had a short conference upon some money matters then in progress,
      which were scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe (in pursuance of his
      friend's instructions) requested with some embarrassment to speak to Ralph
      alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alone, eh?' cried Sir Mulberry, affecting surprise. 'Oh, very good. I'll
      walk into the next room here. Don't keep me long, that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and humming a fragment of a song
      disappeared through the door of communication between the two
      drawing-rooms, and closed it after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, my lord,' said Ralph, 'what is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby,' said his client, throwing himself along the sofa on which he
      had been previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old
      man's ear, 'what a pretty creature your niece is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she, my lord?' replied Ralph. 'Maybe&mdash;maybe&mdash;I don't trouble
      my head with such matters.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know she's a deyvlish fine girl,' said the client. 'You must know
      that, Nickleby. Come, don't deny that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I believe she is considered so,' replied Ralph. 'Indeed, I know she
      is. If I did not, you are an authority on such points, and your taste, my
      lord&mdash;on all points, indeed&mdash;is undeniable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody but the young man to whom these words were addressed could have
      been deaf to the sneering tone in which they were spoken, or blind to the
      look of contempt by which they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick
      Verisopht was both, and took them to be complimentary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' he said, 'p'raps you're a little right, and p'raps you're a little
      wrong&mdash;a little of both, Nickleby. I want to know where this beauty
      lives, that I may have another peep at her, Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really&mdash;' Ralph began in his usual tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't talk so loud,' cried the other, achieving the great point of his
      lesson to a miracle. 'I don't want Hawk to hear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know he is your rival, do you?' said Ralph, looking sharply at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He always is, d-a-amn him,' replied the client; 'and I want to steal a
      march upon him. Ha, ha, ha! He'll cut up so rough, Nickleby, at our
      talking together without him. Where does she live, Nickleby, that's all?
      Only tell me where she lives, Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He bites,' thought Ralph. 'He bites.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh, Nickleby, eh?' pursued the client. 'Where does she live?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, my lord,' said Ralph, rubbing his hands slowly over each other,
      'I must think before I tell you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn't think at all,' replied
      Verisopht. 'Where is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No good can come of your knowing,' replied Ralph. 'She has been
      virtuously and well brought up; to be sure she is handsome, poor,
      unprotected! Poor girl, poor girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph ran over this brief summary of Kate's condition as if it were merely
      passing through his own mind, and he had no intention to speak aloud; but
      the shrewd sly look which he directed at his companion as he delivered it,
      gave this poor assumption the lie.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you I only want to see her,' cried his client. 'A ma-an may look
      at a pretty woman without harm, mayn't he? Now, where <i>does </i>she live? You
      know you're making a fortune out of me, Nickleby, and upon my soul nobody
      shall ever take me to anybody else, if you only tell me this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you promise that, my lord,' said Ralph, with feigned reluctance, 'and
      as I am most anxious to oblige you, and as there's no harm in it&mdash;no
      harm&mdash;I'll tell you. But you had better keep it to yourself, my lord;
      strictly to yourself.' Ralph pointed to the adjoining room as he spoke,
      and nodded expressively.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young lord, feigning to be equally impressed with the necessity of
      this precaution, Ralph disclosed the present address and occupation of his
      niece, observing that from what he heard of the family they appeared very
      ambitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and that a lord could,
      doubtless, introduce himself with great ease, if he felt disposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your object being only to see her again,' said Ralph, 'you could effect
      it at any time you chose by that means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a great many squeezes of Ralph's
      hard, horny hand, and whispering that they would now do well to close the
      conversation, called to Sir Mulberry Hawk that he might come back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you had gone to sleep,' said Sir Mulberry, reappearing with an
      ill-tempered air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sorry to detain you,' replied the gull; 'but Nickleby has been so
      ama-azingly funny that I couldn't tear myself away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' said Ralph; 'it was all his lordship. You know what a witty,
      humorous, elegant, accomplished man Lord Frederick is. Mind the step, my
      lord&mdash;Sir Mulberry, pray give way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such courtesies as these, and many low bows, and the same cold sneer
      upon his face all the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his visitors
      downstairs, and otherwise than by the slightest possible motion about the
      corners of his mouth, returned no show of answer to the look of admiration
      with which Sir Mulberry Hawk seemed to compliment him on being such an
      accomplished and most consummate scoundrel.
    </p>
    <p>
      There had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, which was answered
      by Newman Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary course of
      business Newman would have either admitted the new-comer in silence, or
      have requested him or her to stand aside while the gentlemen passed out.
      But he no sooner saw who it was, than as if for some private reason of his
      own, he boldly departed from the established custom of Ralph's mansion in
      business hours, and looking towards the respectable trio who were
      approaching, cried in a loud and sonorous voice, 'Mrs. Nickleby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Nickleby!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, as his friend looked back, and
      stared him in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, indeed, that well-intentioned lady, who, having received an offer
      for the empty house in the city directed to the landlord, had brought it
      post-haste to Mr. Nickleby without delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody <i>you </i>know,' said Ralph. 'Step into the office, my&mdash;my&mdash;dear.
      I'll be with you directly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody I know!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, advancing to the astonished
      lady. 'Is this Mrs. Nickleby&mdash;the mother of Miss Nickleby&mdash;the
      delightful creature that I had the happiness of meeting in this house the
      very last time I dined here? But no;' said Sir Mulberry, stopping short.
      'No, it can't be. There is the same cast of features, the same
      indescribable air of&mdash;But no; no. This lady is too young for that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-in-law, if it concerns him to
      know,' said Mrs. Nickleby, acknowledging the compliment with a graceful
      bend, 'that Kate Nickleby is my daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her daughter, my lord!' cried Sir Mulberry, turning to his friend. 'This
      lady's daughter, my lord.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My lord!' thought Mrs. Nickleby. 'Well, I never did&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This, then, my lord,' said Sir Mulberry, 'is the lady to whose obliging
      marriage we owe so much happiness. This lady is the mother of sweet Miss
      Nickleby. Do you observe the extraordinary likeness, my lord? Nickleby&mdash;introduce
      us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph did so, in a kind of desperation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my soul, it's a most delightful thing,' said Lord Frederick,
      pressing forward. 'How de do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kind salutations,
      and her regrets at not having on her other bonnet, to make any immediate
      reply, so she merely continued to bend and smile, and betray great
      agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A&mdash;and how is Miss Nickleby?' said Lord Frederick. 'Well, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is quite well, I'm obliged to you, my lord,' returned Mrs. Nickleby,
      recovering. 'Quite well. She wasn't well for some days after that day she
      dined here, and I can't help thinking, that she caught cold in that
      hackney coach coming home. Hackney coaches, my lord, are such nasty
      things, that it's almost better to walk at any time, for although I
      believe a hackney coachman can be transported for life, if he has a broken
      window, still they are so reckless, that they nearly all have broken
      windows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks, my lord, from riding in
      a hackney coach&mdash;I think it was a hackney coach,' said Mrs. Nickleby
      reflecting, 'though I'm not quite certain whether it wasn't a chariot; at
      all events I know it was a dark green, with a very long number, beginning
      with a nought and ending with a nine&mdash;no, beginning with a nine, and
      ending with a nought, that was it, and of course the stamp-office people
      would know at once whether it was a coach or a chariot if any inquiries
      were made there&mdash;however that was, there it was with a broken window
      and there was I for six weeks with a swelled face&mdash;I think that was
      the very same hackney coach, that we found out afterwards, had the top
      open all the time, and we should never even have known it, if they hadn't
      charged us a shilling an hour extra for having it open, which it seems is
      the law, or was then, and a most shameful law it appears to be&mdash;I
      don't understand the subject, but I should say the Corn Laws could be
      nothing to <i>that </i>act of Parliament.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs. Nickleby stopped as
      suddenly as she had started off; and repeated that Kate was quite well.
      'Indeed,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I don't think she ever was better, since she
      had the hooping-cough, scarlet-fever, and measles, all at the same time,
      and that's the fact.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that letter for me?' growled Ralph, pointing to the little packet Mrs
      Nickleby held in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For you, brother-in-law,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, 'and I walked all the way
      up here on purpose to give it you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All the way up here!' cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon the chance of
      discovering where Mrs. Nickleby had come from. 'What a confounded distance!
      How far do you call it now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How far do I call it?' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Let me see. It's just a mile
      from our door to the Old Bailey.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no. Not so much as that,' urged Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! It is indeed,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'I appeal to his lordship.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should decidedly say it was a mile,' remarked Lord Frederick, with a
      solemn aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It must be; it can't be a yard less,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'All down
      Newgate Street, all down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, down
      Gracechurch Street, and along Thames Street, as far as Spigwiffin's Wharf.
      Oh! It's a mile.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was,' replied Sir Mulberry. 'But
      you don't surely mean to walk all the way back?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. 'I shall go back in an omnibus. I didn't
      travel about in omnibuses, when my poor dear Nicholas was alive,
      brother-in-law. But as it is, you know&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' replied Ralph impatiently, 'and you had better get back before
      dark.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had,' returned Mrs. Nickleby. 'I think I
      had better say goodbye, at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not stop and&mdash;rest?' said Ralph, who seldom offered refreshments
      unless something was to be got by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear me no,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, glancing at the dial.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord Frederick,' said Sir Mulberry, 'we are going Mrs. Nickleby's way.
      We'll see her safe to the omnibus?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By all means. Ye-es.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! I really couldn't think of it!' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Verisopht were peremptory in their
      politeness, and leaving Ralph, who seemed to think, not unwisely, that he
      looked less ridiculous as a mere spectator, than he would have done if he
      had taken any part in these proceedings, they quitted the house with Mrs
      Nickleby between them; that good lady in a perfect ecstasy of
      satisfaction, no less with the attentions shown her by two titled
      gentlemen, than with the conviction that Kate might now pick and choose,
      at least between two large fortunes, and most unexceptionable husbands.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible train of
      thought, all connected with her daughter's future greatness, Sir Mulberry
      Hawk and his friend exchanged glances over the top of the bonnet which the
      poor lady so much regretted not having left at home, and proceeded to
      dilate with great rapture, but much respect on the manifold perfections of
      Miss Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a delight, what a comfort, what a happiness, this amiable creature
      must be to you,' said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice an indication
      of the warmest feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is indeed, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby; 'she is the sweetest-tempered,
      kindest-hearted creature&mdash;and so clever!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She looks clayver,' said Lord Verisopht, with the air of a judge of
      cleverness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I assure you she is, my lord,' returned Mrs. Nickleby. 'When she was at
      school in Devonshire, she was universally allowed to be beyond all
      exception the very cleverest girl there, and there were a great many very
      clever ones too, and that's the truth&mdash;twenty-five young ladies,
      fifty guineas a year without the et-ceteras, both the Miss Dowdles the
      most accomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures&mdash;Oh dear me!' said
      Mrs. Nickleby, 'I never shall forget what pleasure she used to give me and
      her poor dear papa, when she was at that school, never&mdash;such a
      delightful letter every half-year, telling us that she was the first pupil
      in the whole establishment, and had made more progress than anybody else!
      I can scarcely bear to think of it even now. The girls wrote all the
      letters themselves,' added Mrs. Nickleby, 'and the writing-master touched
      them up afterwards with a magnifying glass and a silver pen; at least I
      think they wrote them, though Kate was never quite certain about that,
      because she didn't know the handwriting of hers again; but anyway, I know
      it was a circular which they all copied, and of course it was a very
      gratifying thing&mdash;very gratifying.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With similar recollections Mrs. Nickleby beguiled the tediousness of the
      way, until they reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of her
      new friends would not allow them to leave until it actually started, when
      they took their hats, as Mrs. Nickleby solemnly assured her hearers on many
      subsequent occasions, 'completely off,' and kissed their straw-coloured
      kid gloves till they were no longer visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby leant back in the furthest corner of the conveyance, and,
      closing her eyes, resigned herself to a host of most pleasing meditations.
      Kate had never said a word about having met either of these gentlemen;
      'that,' she thought, 'argues that she is strongly prepossessed in favour
      of one of them.' Then the question arose, which one could it be. The lord
      was the youngest, and his title was certainly the grandest; still Kate was
      not the girl to be swayed by such considerations as these. 'I will never
      put any constraint upon her inclinations,' said Mrs. Nickleby to herself;
      'but upon my word I think there's no comparison between his lordship and
      Sir Mulberry&mdash;Sir Mulberry is such an attentive gentlemanly creature,
      so much manner, such a fine man, and has so much to say for himself. I
      hope it's Sir Mulberry&mdash;I think it must be Sir Mulberry!' And then
      her thoughts flew back to her old predictions, and the number of times she
      had said, that Kate with no fortune would marry better than other people's
      daughters with thousands; and, as she pictured with the brightness of a
      mother's fancy all the beauty and grace of the poor girl who had struggled
      so cheerfully with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart grew too
      full, and the tears trickled down her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his little back-office, troubled in
      mind by what had just occurred. To say that Ralph loved or cared for&mdash;in
      the most ordinary acceptation of those terms&mdash;any one of God's
      creatures, would be the wildest fiction. Still, there had somehow stolen
      upon him from time to time a thought of his niece which was tinged with
      compassion and pity; breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or
      indifference which darkened men and women in his eyes, there was, in her
      case, the faintest gleam of light&mdash;a most feeble and sickly ray at
      the best of times&mdash;but there it was, and it showed the poor girl in a
      better and purer aspect than any in which he had looked on human nature
      yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish,' thought Ralph, 'I had never done this. And yet it will keep this
      boy to me, while there is money to be made. Selling a girl&mdash;throwing
      her in the way of temptation, and insult, and coarse speech. Nearly two
      thousand pounds profit from him already though. Pshaw! match-making
      mothers do the same thing every day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat down, and told the chances, for and against, on his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had not put them in the right track today,' thought Ralph, 'this
      foolish woman would have done so. Well. If her daughter is as true to
      herself as she should be from what I have seen, what harm ensues? A little
      teasing, a little humbling, a few tears. Yes,' said Ralph, aloud, as he
      locked his iron safe. 'She must take her chance. She must take her
      chance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 27
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>rs. Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose
            Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby had not felt so proud and important for many a day, as when,
      on reaching home, she gave herself wholly up to the pleasant visions which
      had accompanied her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry Hawk&mdash;that was
      the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk!&mdash;On Tuesday last, at St
      George's, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend the Bishop of Llandaff,
      Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, North Wales, to Catherine, only
      daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of Devonshire. 'Upon my
      word!' cried Mrs. Nicholas Nickleby, 'it sounds very well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities, to the
      perfect satisfaction of her own mind, the sanguine mother pictured to her
      imagination a long train of honours and distinctions which could not fail
      to accompany Kate in her new and brilliant sphere. She would be presented
      at court, of course. On the anniversary of her birthday, which was upon
      the nineteenth of July ('at ten minutes past three o'clock in the
      morning,' thought Mrs. Nickleby in a parenthesis, 'for I recollect asking
      what o'clock it was'), Sir Mulberry would give a great feast to all his
      tenants, and would return them three and a half per cent on the amount of
      their last half-year's rent, as would be fully described and recorded in
      the fashionable intelligence, to the immeasurable delight and admiration
      of all the readers thereof. Kate's picture, too, would be in at least
      half-a-dozen of the annuals, and on the opposite page would appear, in
      delicate type, 'Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady Mulberry Hawk.
      By Sir Dingleby Dabber.' Perhaps some one annual, of more comprehensive
      design than its fellows, might even contain a portrait of the mother of
      Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father of Sir Dingleby Dabber. More
      unlikely things had come to pass. Less interesting portraits had appeared.
      As this thought occurred to the good lady, her countenance unconsciously
      assumed that compound expression of simpering and sleepiness which, being
      common to all such portraits, is perhaps one reason why they are always so
      charming and agreeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs. Nickleby occupy the
      whole evening after her accidental introduction to Ralph's titled friends;
      and dreams, no less prophetic and equally promising, haunted her sleep
      that night. She was preparing for her frugal dinner next day, still
      occupied with the same ideas&mdash;a little softened down perhaps by sleep
      and daylight&mdash;when the girl who attended her, partly for company, and
      partly to assist in the household affairs, rushed into the room in
      unwonted agitation, and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the
      passage for permission to walk upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless my heart!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, hastily arranging her cap and front,
      'if it should be&mdash;dear me, standing in the passage all this time&mdash;why
      don't you go and ask them to walk up, you stupid thing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs. Nickleby hastily swept into a
      cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely done,
      and seated herself with looks as collected as she could assume, when two
      gentlemen, both perfect strangers, presented themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you <i>do</i>?' said one gentleman, laying great stress on the last word
      of the inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>How </i>do you do?' said the other gentleman, altering the emphasis, as if to
      give variety to the salutation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, and remarked,
      rubbing her hands as she did so, that she hadn't the&mdash;really&mdash;the
      honour to&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'To know us,' said the first gentleman. 'The loss has been ours, Mrs
      Nickleby. Has the loss been ours, Pyke?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has, Pluck,' answered the other gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?' said the first
      gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very often, Pluck,' answered the second.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But now,' said the first gentleman, 'now we have the happiness we have
      pined and languished for. Have we pined and languished for this happiness,
      Pyke, or have we not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know we have, Pluck,' said Pyke, reproachfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear him, ma'am?' said Mr. Pluck, looking round; 'you hear the
      unimpeachable testimony of my friend Pyke&mdash;that reminds me,&mdash;formalities,
      formalities, must not be neglected in civilised society. Pyke&mdash;Mrs
      Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,' said Mr. Pluck&mdash;'whether
      I shall say myself that my name is Pluck, or whether I shall ask my friend
      Pyke (who being now regularly introduced, is competent to the office) to
      state for me, Mrs. Nickleby, that my name is Pluck; whether I shall claim
      your acquaintance on the plain ground of the strong interest I take in
      your welfare, or whether I shall make myself known to you as the friend of
      Sir Mulberry Hawk&mdash;these, Mrs. Nickleby, are considerations which I
      leave to you to determine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk's requires no better introduction to me,'
      observed Mrs. Nickleby, graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is delightful to hear you say so,' said Mr. Pluck, drawing a chair
      close to Mrs. Nickleby, and sitting himself down. 'It is refreshing to know
      that you hold my excellent friend, Sir Mulberry, in such high esteem. A
      word in your ear, Mrs. Nickleby. When Sir Mulberry knows it, he will be a
      happy man&mdash;I say, Mrs. Nickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>My</i> good opinion,' said Mrs. Nickleby, and the poor lady exulted in the
      idea that she was marvellously sly,&mdash;'my good opinion can be of very
      little consequence to a gentleman like Sir Mulberry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of little consequence!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck. 'Pyke, of what consequence to
      our friend, Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion of Mrs. Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what consequence?' echoed Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' repeated Pluck; 'is it of the greatest consequence?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of the very greatest consequence,' replied Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Nickleby cannot be ignorant,' said Mr. Pluck, 'of the immense
      impression which that sweet girl has&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pluck!' said his friend, 'beware!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pyke is right,' muttered Mr. Pluck, after a short pause; 'I was not to
      mention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well now, really,' thought Mrs. Nickleby within herself. 'Such delicacy as
      that, I never saw!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of great embarrassment for
      some minutes, resumed the conversation by entreating Mrs. Nickleby to take
      no heed of what he had inadvertently said&mdash;to consider him imprudent,
      rash, injudicious. The only stipulation he would make in his own favour
      was, that she should give him credit for the best intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But when,' said Mr. Pluck, 'when I see so much sweetness and beauty on the
      one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on the other, I&mdash;pardon me,
      Pyke, I didn't intend to resume that theme. Change the subject, Pyke.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,' said Pyke, 'that we'd call
      this morning and inquire whether you took any cold last night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the least in the world last night, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, 'with
      many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the honour to
      inquire; not the least&mdash;which is the more singular, as I really am
      very subject to colds, indeed&mdash;very subject. I had a cold once,' said
      Mrs. Nickleby, 'I think it was in the year eighteen hundred and seventeen;
      let me see, four and five are nine, and&mdash;yes, eighteen hundred and
      seventeen, that I thought I never should get rid of; actually and
      seriously, that I thought I never should get rid of. I was only cured at
      last by a remedy that I don't know whether you ever happened to hear of,
      Mr. Pluck. You have a gallon of water as hot as you can possibly bear it,
      with a pound of salt, and sixpen'orth of the finest bran, and sit with
      your head in it for twenty minutes every night just before going to bed;
      at least, I don't mean your head&mdash;your feet. It's a most
      extraordinary cure&mdash;a most extraordinary cure. I used it for the
      first time, I recollect, the day after Christmas Day, and by the middle of
      April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a miracle when you come
      to think of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of September.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What an afflicting calamity!' said Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly horrid!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs. Nickleby
      recovered it, isn't it, Pluck?' cried Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest,'
      replied Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But come,' said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; 'we must not
      forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a
      mission, Mrs. Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'On a mission,' exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definite
      proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself in lively colours.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Sir Mulberry,' replied Pyke. 'You must be very dull here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather dull, I confess,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand entreaties
      that you'll take a seat in a private box at the play tonight,' said Mr
      Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear!' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I never go out at all, never.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs. Nickleby, why you should go out
      tonight,' retorted Mr. Pluck. 'Pyke, entreat Mrs. Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, pray do,' said Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You positively must,' urged Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very kind,' said Mrs. Nickleby, hesitating; 'but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs. Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr
      Pluck; 'not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us,
      Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us&mdash;a
      refusal is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you&mdash;twenty
      minutes before seven to the moment&mdash;you'll not be so cruel as to
      disappoint the whole party, Mrs. Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied the
      worthy lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr. Pluck.
      'Mrs. Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice, 'there
      is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence in what I am
      about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard it&mdash;such is
      that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs. Nickleby&mdash;he'd have me out
      before dinner-time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had
      walked to the window; and Mr. Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your daughter has made a conquest&mdash;a conquest on which I may
      congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her devoted
      slave. Hem!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0378m.jpg" alt="0378m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0378.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Hah!' cried Mr. Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the
      chimney-piece with a theatrical air. 'What is this! what do I behold!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What <i>do</i> you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr. Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr. Pyke, falling
      into his chair with a miniature in his hand; 'feebly portrayed,
      imperfectly caught, but still <i>the </i>face, <i>the </i>countenance, <i>the </i>expression.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck in a fit of
      enthusiasm. 'Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with great pride. And
      so it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection
      only two nights before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in his conjecture,
      than he launched into the most extravagant encomiums of the divine
      original; and in the warmth of his enthusiasm kissed the picture a
      thousand times, while Mr. Pluck pressed Mrs. Nickleby's hand to his heart,
      and congratulated her on the possession of such a daughter, with so much
      earnestness and affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand, in
      his eyes. Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable
      complacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by these tokens
      of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even the servant girl,
      who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted to the spot in astonishment
      at the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs. Nickleby went on to entertain
      her guests with a lament over her fallen fortunes, and a picturesque
      account of her old house in the country: comprising a full description of
      the different apartments, not forgetting the little store-room, and a
      lively recollection of how many steps you went down to get into the
      garden, and which way you turned when you came out at the parlour door,
      and what capital fixtures there were in the kitchen. This last reflection
      naturally conducted her into the wash-house, where she stumbled upon the
      brewing utensils, among which she might have wandered for an hour, if the
      mere mention of those implements had not, by an association of ideas,
      instantly reminded Mr. Pyke that he was 'amazing thirsty.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I'll tell you what,' said Mr. Pyke; 'if you'll send round to the
      public-house for a pot of milk half-and-half, positively and actually I'll
      drink it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And positively and actually Mr. Pyke <i>did </i>drink it, and Mr. Pluck helped him,
      while Mrs. Nickleby looked on in divided admiration of the condescension of
      the two, and the aptitude with which they accommodated themselves to the
      pewter-pot; in explanation of which seeming marvel it may be here
      observed, that gentlemen who, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck, live upon their
      wits (or not so much, perhaps, upon the presence of their own wits as upon
      the absence of wits in other people) are occasionally reduced to very
      narrow shifts and straits, and are at such periods accustomed to regale
      themselves in a very simple and primitive manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At twenty minutes before seven, then,' said Mr. Pyke, rising, 'the coach
      will be here. One more look&mdash;one little look&mdash;at that sweet
      face. Ah! here it is. Unmoved, unchanged!' This, by the way, was a very
      remarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to so many changes of
      expression&mdash;'Oh, Pluck! Pluck!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs. Nickleby's hand with a great
      show of feeling and attachment; Mr. Pyke having done the same, both
      gentlemen hastily withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself credit for a
      pretty tolerable share of penetration and acuteness, but she had never
      felt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness as she did that day. She
      had found it all out the night before. She had never seen Sir Mulberry and
      Kate together&mdash;never even heard Sir Mulberry's name&mdash;and yet
      hadn't she said to herself from the very first, that she saw how the case
      stood? and what a triumph it was, for there was now no doubt about it. If
      these flattering attentions to herself were not sufficient proofs, Sir
      Mulberry's confidential friend had suffered the secret to escape him in so
      many words. 'I am quite in love with that dear Mr. Pluck, I declare I am,'
      said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of this good
      fortune, and that was the having nobody by, to whom she could confide it.
      Once or twice she almost resolved to walk straight to Miss La Creevy's and
      tell it all to her. 'But I don't know,' thought Mrs. Nickleby; 'she is a
      very worthy person, but I am afraid too much beneath Sir Mulberry's
      station for us to make a companion of. Poor thing!' Acting upon this grave
      consideration she rejected the idea of taking the little portrait painter
      into her confidence, and contented herself with holding out sundry vague
      and mysterious hopes of preferment to the servant girl, who received these
      obscure hints of dawning greatness with much veneration and respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Punctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was no hackney
      coach, but a private chariot, having behind it a footman, whose legs,
      although somewhat large for his body, might, as mere abstract legs, have
      set themselves up for models at the Royal Academy. It was quite
      exhilarating to hear the clash and bustle with which he banged the door
      and jumped up behind after Mrs. Nickleby was in; and as that good lady was
      perfectly unconscious that he applied the gold-headed end of his long
      stick to his nose, and so telegraphed most disrespectfully to the coachman
      over her very head, she sat in a state of much stiffness and dignity, not
      a little proud of her position.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the theatre entrance there was more banging and more bustle, and there
      were also Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting to escort her to her box; and so
      polite were they, that Mr. Pyke threatened with many oaths to 'smifligate'
      a very old man with a lantern who accidentally stumbled in her way&mdash;to
      the great terror of Mrs. Nickleby, who, conjecturing more from Mr. Pyke's
      excitement than any previous acquaintance with the etymology of the word
      that smifligation and bloodshed must be in the main one and the same
      thing, was alarmed beyond expression, lest something should occur.
      Fortunately, however, Mr. Pyke confined himself to mere verbal
      smifligation, and they reached their box with no more serious interruption
      by the way, than a desire on the part of the same pugnacious gentleman to
      'smash' the assistant box-keeper for happening to mistake the number.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely been put away behind the curtain of the box in
      an armchair, when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisopht arrived, arrayed from
      the crowns of their heads to the tips of their gloves, and from the tips
      of their gloves to the toes of their boots, in the most elegant and costly
      manner. Sir Mulberry was a little hoarser than on the previous day, and
      Lord Verisopht looked rather sleepy and queer; from which tokens, as well
      as from the circumstance of their both being to a trifling extent unsteady
      upon their legs, Mrs. Nickleby justly concluded that they had taken dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have been&mdash;we have been&mdash;toasting your lovely daughter, Mrs
      Nickleby,' whispered Sir Mulberry, sitting down behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, ho!' thought that knowing lady; 'wine in, truth out.&mdash;You are
      very kind, Sir Mulberry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no upon my soul!' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk. 'It's you that's kind,
      upon my soul it is. It was so kind of you to come tonight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So very kind of you to invite me, you mean, Sir Mulberry,' replied Mrs
      Nickleby, tossing her head, and looking prodigiously sly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am so anxious to know you, so anxious to cultivate your good opinion,
      so desirous that there should be a delicious kind of harmonious family
      understanding between us,' said Sir Mulberry, 'that you mustn't think I'm
      disinterested in what I do. I'm infernal selfish; I am&mdash;upon my soul
      I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure you can't be selfish, Sir Mulberry!' replied Mrs. Nickleby. 'You
      have much too open and generous a countenance for that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What an extraordinary observer you are!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no, indeed, I don't see very far into things, Sir Mulberry,' replied
      Mrs. Nickleby, in a tone of voice which left the baronet to infer that she
      saw very far indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am quite afraid of you,' said the baronet. 'Upon my soul,' repeated Sir
      Mulberry, looking round to his companions; 'I am afraid of Mrs. Nickleby.
      She is so immensely sharp.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Messrs Pyke and Pluck shook their heads mysteriously, and observed
      together that they had found that out long ago; upon which Mrs. Nickleby
      tittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed, and Pyke and Pluck roared.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But where's my brother-in-law, Sir Mulberry?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby. 'I
      shouldn't be here without him. I hope he's coming.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pyke,' said Sir Mulberry, taking out his toothpick and lolling back in
      his chair, as if he were too lazy to invent a reply to this question.
      'Where's Ralph Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pluck,' said Pyke, imitating the baronet's action, and turning the lie
      over to his friend, 'where's Ralph Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pluck was about to return some evasive reply, when the hustle caused by
      a party entering the next box seemed to attract the attention of all four
      gentlemen, who exchanged glances of much meaning. The new party beginning
      to converse together, Sir Mulberry suddenly assumed the character of a
      most attentive listener, and implored his friends not to breathe&mdash;not
      to breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'What is the matter?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' replied Sir Mulberry, laying his hand on her arm. 'Lord Frederick,
      do you recognise the tones of that voice?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Deyvle take me if I didn't think it was the voice of Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lor, my lord!' cried Miss Nickleby's mama, thrusting her head round the
      curtain. 'Why actually&mdash;Kate, my dear, Kate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>here, mama! Is it possible!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Possible, my dear? Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why who&mdash;who on earth is that you have with you, mama?' said Kate,
      shrinking back as she caught sight of a man smiling and kissing his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who do you suppose, my dear?' replied Mrs. Nickleby, bending towards Mrs
      Wititterly, and speaking a little louder for that lady's edification.
      'There's Mr. Pyke, Mr. Pluck, Sir Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Frederick
      Verisopht.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gracious Heaven!' thought Kate hurriedly. 'How comes she in such
      society?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Kate thought thus <i>so</i> hurriedly, and the surprise was so great, and
      moreover brought back so forcibly the recollection of what had passed at
      Ralph's delectable dinner, that she turned extremely pale and appeared
      greatly agitated, which symptoms being observed by Mrs. Nickleby, were at
      once set down by that acute lady as being caused and occasioned by violent
      love. But, although she was in no small degree delighted by this
      discovery, which reflected so much credit on her own quickness of
      perception, it did not lessen her motherly anxiety in Kate's behalf; and
      accordingly, with a vast quantity of trepidation, she quitted her own box
      to hasten into that of Mrs. Wititterly. Mrs. Wititterly, keenly alive to the
      glory of having a lord and a baronet among her visiting acquaintance, lost
      no time in signing to Mr. Wititterly to open the door, and thus it was that
      in less than thirty seconds Mrs. Nickleby's party had made an irruption
      into Mrs. Wititterly's box, which it filled to the very door, there being
      in fact only room for Messrs Pyke and Pluck to get in their heads and
      waistcoats.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby, kissing her daughter affectionately.
      'How ill you looked a moment ago! You quite frightened me, I declare!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was mere fancy, mama,&mdash;the&mdash;the&mdash;reflection of the
      lights perhaps,' replied Kate, glancing nervously round, and finding it
      impossible to whisper any caution or explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you see Sir Mulberry Hawk, my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate bowed slightly, and biting her lip turned her head towards the stage.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so easily repulsed, for he advanced
      with extended hand; and Mrs. Nickleby officiously informing Kate of this
      circumstance, she was obliged to extend her own. Sir Mulberry detained it
      while he murmured a profusion of compliments, which Kate, remembering what
      had passed between them, rightly considered as so many aggravations of the
      insult he had already put upon her. Then followed the recognition of Lord
      Verisopht, and then the greeting of Mr. Pyke, and then that of Mr. Pluck,
      and finally, to complete the young lady's mortification, she was compelled
      at Mrs. Wititterly's request to perform the ceremony of introducing the
      odious persons, whom she regarded with the utmost indignation and
      abhorrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Wititterly is delighted,' said Mr. Wititterly, rubbing his hands;
      'delighted, my lord, I am sure, with this opportunity of contracting an
      acquaintance which, I trust, my lord, we shall improve. Julia, my dear,
      you must not allow yourself to be too much excited, you must not. Indeed
      you must not. Mrs. Wititterly is of a most excitable nature, Sir Mulberry.
      The snuff of a candle, the wick of a lamp, the bloom on a peach, the down
      on a butterfly. You might blow her away, my lord; you might blow her
      away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry seemed to think that it would be a great convenience if the
      lady could be blown away. He said, however, that the delight was mutual,
      and Lord Verisopht added that it was mutual, whereupon Messrs Pyke and
      Pluck were heard to murmur from the distance that it was very mutual
      indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I take an interest, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a faint smile,
      'such an interest in the drama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;es. It's very interesting,' replied Lord Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm always ill after Shakespeare,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I scarcely exist
      the next day; I find the reaction so very great after a tragedy, my lord,
      and Shakespeare is such a delicious creature.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;es!' replied Lord Verisopht. 'He was a clayver man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly, after a long silence, 'I find
      I take so much more interest in his plays, after having been to that dear
      little dull house he was born in! Were you ever there, my lord?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, nayver,' replied Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then really you ought to go, my lord,' returned Mrs. Wititterly, in very
      languid and drawling accents. 'I don't know how it is, but after you've
      seen the place and written your name in the little book, somehow or other
      you seem to be inspired; it kindles up quite a fire within one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;es!' replied Lord Verisopht, 'I shall certainly go there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Julia, my life,' interposed Mr. Wititterly, 'you are deceiving his
      lordship&mdash;unintentionally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is your
      poetical temperament, my dear&mdash;your ethereal soul&mdash;your fervid
      imagination, which throws you into a glow of genius and excitement. There
      is nothing in the place, my dear&mdash;nothing, nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think there must be something in the place,' said Mrs. Nickleby, who had
      been listening in silence; 'for, soon after I was married, I went to
      Stratford with my poor dear Mr. Nickleby, in a post-chaise from Birmingham&mdash;was
      it a post-chaise though?' said Mrs. Nickleby, considering; 'yes, it must
      have been a post-chaise, because I recollect remarking at the time that
      the driver had a green shade over his left eye;&mdash;in a post-chaise
      from Birmingham, and after we had seen Shakespeare's tomb and birthplace,
      we went back to the inn there, where we slept that night, and I recollect
      that all night long I dreamt of nothing but a black gentleman, at full
      length, in plaster-of-Paris, with a lay-down collar tied with two tassels,
      leaning against a post and thinking; and when I woke in the morning and
      described him to Mr. Nickleby, he said it was Shakespeare just as he had
      been when he was alive, which was very curious indeed. Stratford&mdash;Stratford,'
      continued Mrs. Nickleby, considering. 'Yes, I am positive about that,
      because I recollect I was in the family way with my son Nicholas at the
      time, and I had been very much frightened by an Italian image boy that
      very morning. In fact, it was quite a mercy, ma'am,' added Mrs. Nickleby,
      in a whisper to Mrs. Wititterly, 'that my son didn't turn out to be a
      Shakespeare, and what a dreadful thing that would have been!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mrs. Nickleby had brought this interesting anecdote to a close, Pyke
      and Pluck, ever zealous in their patron's cause, proposed the adjournment
      of a detachment of the party into the next box; and with so much skill
      were the preliminaries adjusted, that Kate, despite all she could say or
      do to the contrary, had no alternative but to suffer herself to be led
      away by Sir Mulberry Hawk. Her mother and Mr. Pluck accompanied them, but
      the worthy lady, pluming herself upon her discretion, took particular care
      not so much as to look at her daughter during the whole evening, and to
      seem wholly absorbed in the jokes and conversation of Mr. Pluck, who,
      having been appointed sentry over Mrs. Nickleby for that especial purpose,
      neglected, on his side, no possible opportunity of engrossing her
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Frederick Verisopht remained in the next box to be talked to by Mrs
      Wititterly, and Mr. Pyke was in attendance to throw in a word or two when
      necessary. As to Mr. Wititterly, he was sufficiently busy in the body of
      the house, informing such of his friends and acquaintance as happened to
      be there, that those two gentlemen upstairs, whom they had seen in
      conversation with Mrs. W., were the distinguished Lord Frederick Verisopht
      and his most intimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk&mdash;a
      communication which inflamed several respectable house-keepers with the
      utmost jealousy and rage, and reduced sixteen unmarried daughters to the
      very brink of despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening came to an end at last, but Kate had yet to be handed
      downstairs by the detested Sir Mulberry; and so skilfully were the
      manoeuvres of Messrs Pyke and Pluck conducted, that she and the baronet
      were the last of the party, and were even&mdash;without an appearance of
      effort or design&mdash;left at some little distance behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't hurry, don't hurry,' said Sir Mulberry, as Kate hastened on, and
      attempted to release her arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      She made no reply, but still pressed forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay, then&mdash;' coolly observed Sir Mulberry, stopping her outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had best not seek to detain me, sir!' said Kate, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And why not?' retorted Sir Mulberry. 'My dear creature, now why do you
      keep up this show of displeasure?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Show</i>!' repeated Kate, indignantly. 'How dare you presume to speak to me,
      sir&mdash;to address me&mdash;to come into my presence?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk,
      stooping down, the better to see her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,' said Kate.
      'If you find any attraction in looks of disgust and aversion, you&mdash;let
      me rejoin my friends, sir, instantly. Whatever considerations may have
      withheld me thus far, I will disregard them all, and take a course that
      even <i>you </i>might feel, if you do not immediately suffer me to proceed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry smiled, and still looking in her face and retaining her arm,
      walked towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If no regard for my sex or helpless situation will induce you to desist
      from this coarse and unmanly persecution,' said Kate, scarcely knowing, in
      the tumult of her passions, what she said,&mdash;'I have a brother who
      will resent it dearly, one day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, as though quietly communing with
      himself; passing his arm round her waist as he spoke, 'she looks more
      beautiful, and I like her better in this mood, than when her eyes are cast
      down, and she is in perfect repose!'
    </p>
    <p>
      How Kate reached the lobby where her friends were waiting she never knew,
      but she hurried across it without at all regarding them, and disengaged
      herself suddenly from her companion, sprang into the coach, and throwing
      herself into its darkest corner burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Messrs Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue, at once threw the party into
      great commotion by shouting for the carriages, and getting up a violent
      quarrel with sundry inoffensive bystanders; in the midst of which tumult
      they put the affrighted Mrs. Nickleby in her chariot, and having got her
      safely off, turned their thoughts to Mrs. Wititterly, whose attention also
      they had now effectually distracted from the young lady, by throwing her
      into a state of the utmost bewilderment and consternation. At length, the
      conveyance in which she had come rolled off too with its load, and the
      four worthies, being left alone under the portico, enjoyed a hearty laugh
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his noble friend. 'Didn't I tell
      you last night that if we could find where they were going by bribing a
      servant through my fellow, and then established ourselves close by with
      the mother, these people's honour would be our own? Why here it is, done
      in four-and-twenty hours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;es,' replied the dupe. 'But I have been tied to the old woman
      all ni-ight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear him,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his two friends. 'Hear this
      discontented grumbler. Isn't it enough to make a man swear never to help
      him in his plots and schemes again? Isn't it an infernal shame?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyke asked Pluck whether it was not an infernal shame, and Pluck asked
      Pyke; but neither answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Isn't it the truth?' demanded Verisopht. 'Wasn't it so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wasn't it so!' repeated Sir Mulberry. 'How would you have had it? How
      could we have got a general invitation at first sight&mdash;come when you
      like, go when you like, stop as long as you like, do what you like&mdash;if
      you, the lord, had not made yourself agreeable to the foolish mistress of
      the house? Do I care for this girl, except as your friend? Haven't I been
      sounding your praises in her ears, and bearing her pretty sulks and
      peevishness all night for you? What sort of stuff do you think I'm made
      of? Would I do this for every man? Don't I deserve even gratitude in
      return?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a deyvlish good fellow,' said the poor young lord, taking his
      friend's arm. 'Upon my life you're a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I have done right, have I?' demanded Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite ri-ght.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And like a poor, silly, good-natured, friendly dog as I am, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye&mdash;es, ye&mdash;es; like a friend,' replied the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well then,' replied Sir Mulberry, 'I'm satisfied. And now let's go and
      have our revenge on the German baron and the Frenchman, who cleaned you
      out so handsomely last night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the friendly creature took his companion's arm and led
      him away, turning half round as he did so, and bestowing a wink and a
      contemptuous smile on Messrs Pyke and Pluck, who, cramming their
      handkerchiefs into their mouths to denote their silent enjoyment of the
      whole proceedings, followed their patron and his victim at a little
      distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 28
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>iss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
            and the Complicated Difficulties and Distresses which surround her,
            appeals, as a last resource, to her Uncle for Protection</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The ensuing morning brought reflection with it, as morning usually does;
      but widely different was the train of thought it awakened in the different
      persons who had been so unexpectedly brought together on the preceding
      evening, by the active agency of Messrs Pyke and Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk&mdash;if such a term can be applied
      to the thoughts of the systematic and calculating man of dissipation,
      whose joys, regrets, pains, and pleasures, are all of self, and who would
      seem to retain nothing of the intellectual faculty but the power to debase
      himself, and to degrade the very nature whose outward semblance he wears&mdash;the
      reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk turned upon Kate Nickleby, and were, in
      brief, that she was undoubtedly handsome; that her coyness <i>must </i>be easily
      conquerable by a man of his address and experience, and that the pursuit
      was one which could not fail to redound to his credit, and greatly to
      enhance his reputation with the world. And lest this last consideration&mdash;no
      mean or secondary one with Sir Mulberry&mdash;should sound strangely in
      the ears of some, let it be remembered that most men live in a world of
      their own, and that in that limited circle alone are they ambitious for
      distinction and applause. Sir Mulberry's world was peopled with
      profligates, and he acted accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most
      extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day. It is
      the custom to trumpet forth much wonder and astonishment at the chief
      actors therein setting at defiance so completely the opinion of the world;
      but there is no greater fallacy; it is precisely because they do consult
      the opinion of their own little world that such things take place at all,
      and strike the great world dumb with amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reflections of Mrs. Nickleby were of the proudest and most complacent
      kind; and under the influence of her very agreeable delusion she
      straightway sat down and indited a long letter to Kate, in which she
      expressed her entire approval of the admirable choice she had made, and
      extolled Sir Mulberry to the skies; asserting, for the more complete
      satisfaction of her daughter's feelings, that he was precisely the
      individual whom she (Mrs. Nickleby) would have chosen for her son-in-law,
      if she had had the picking and choosing from all mankind. The good lady
      then, with the preliminary observation that she might be fairly supposed
      not to have lived in the world so long without knowing its ways,
      communicated a great many subtle precepts applicable to the state of
      courtship, and confirmed in their wisdom by her own personal experience.
      Above all things she commended a strict maidenly reserve, as being not
      only a very laudable thing in itself, but as tending materially to
      strengthen and increase a lover's ardour. 'And I never,' added Mrs
      Nickleby, 'was more delighted in my life than to observe last night, my
      dear, that your good sense had already told you this.' With which
      sentiment, and various hints of the pleasure she derived from the
      knowledge that her daughter inherited so large an instalment of her own
      excellent sense and discretion (to nearly the full measure of which she
      might hope, with care, to succeed in time), Mrs. Nickleby concluded a very
      long and rather illegible letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Kate was well-nigh distracted on the receipt of four closely-written
      and closely-crossed sides of congratulation on the very subject which had
      prevented her closing her eyes all night, and kept her weeping and
      watching in her chamber; still worse and more trying was the necessity of
      rendering herself agreeable to Mrs. Wititterly, who, being in low spirits
      after the fatigue of the preceding night, of course expected her companion
      (else wherefore had she board and salary?) to be in the best spirits
      possible. As to Mr. Wititterly, he went about all day in a tremor of
      delight at having shaken hands with a lord, and having actually asked him
      to come and see him in his own house. The lord himself, not being troubled
      to any inconvenient extent with the power of thinking, regaled himself
      with the conversation of Messrs Pyke and Pluck, who sharpened their wit by
      a plentiful indulgence in various costly stimulants at his expense.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was four in the afternoon&mdash;that is, the vulgar afternoon of the
      sun and the clock&mdash;and Mrs. Wititterly reclined, according to custom,
      on the drawing-room sofa, while Kate read aloud a new novel in three
      volumes, entitled 'The Lady Flabella,' which Alphonse the doubtful had
      procured from the library that very morning. And it was a production
      admirably suited to a lady labouring under Mrs. Wititterly's complaint,
      seeing that there was not a line in it, from beginning to end, which
      could, by the most remote contingency, awaken the smallest excitement in
      any person breathing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate read on.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"Cherizette," said the Lady Flabella, inserting her mouse-like feet in
      the blue satin slippers, which had unwittingly occasioned the half-playful
      half-angry altercation between herself and the youthful Colonel
      Befillaire, in the Duke of Mincefenille's <i>Salon De Danse</i> on the previous
      night. "<i>Cherizette, Ma Chere, Donnez-Moi De L'eau-De-Cologne, S'il Vous
            Plait, Mon Enfant</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      '"<i>Mercie</i>&mdash;thank you," said the Lady Flabella, as the lively but
      devoted Cherizette plentifully besprinkled with the fragrant compound the
      Lady Flabella's MOUCHOIR of finest cambric, edged with richest lace, and
      emblazoned at the four corners with the Flabella crest, and gorgeous
      heraldic bearings of that noble family. "<i>Mercie</i>&mdash;that will do."
    </p>
    <p>
      'At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet inhaled that delicious
      fragrance by holding the <i>mouchoir </i>to her exquisite, but
      thoughtfully-chiselled nose, the door of the <i>boudoir </i>(artfully concealed
      by rich hangings of silken damask, the hue of Italy's firmament) was
      thrown open, and with noiseless tread two <i>valets-de-chambre</i>, clad in
      sumptuous liveries of peach-blossom and gold, advanced into the room
      followed by a page in <i>bas de soie</i>&mdash;silk stockings&mdash;who, while
      they remained at some distance making the most graceful obeisances,
      advanced to the feet of his lovely mistress, and dropping on one knee
      presented, on a golden salver gorgeously chased, a scented <i>billet</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Lady Flabella, with an agitation she could not repress, hastily tore
      off the <i>envelope </i>and broke the scented seal. It <i>was </i>from Befillaire&mdash;the
      young, the slim, the low-voiced&mdash;<i>her own</i> Befillaire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, charming!' interrupted Kate's patroness, who was sometimes taken
      literary. 'Poetic, really. Read that description again, Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate complied.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sweet, indeed!' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sigh. 'So voluptuous, is it
      not&mdash;so soft?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I think it is,' replied Kate, gently; 'very soft.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Close the book, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I can hear nothing
      more today; I should be sorry to disturb the impression of that sweet
      description. Close the book.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she did so, Mrs. Wititterly raising
      her glass with a languid hand, remarked, that she looked pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was the fright of that&mdash;that noise and confusion last night,'
      said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How very odd!' exclaimed Mrs. Wititterly, with a look of surprise. And
      certainly, when one comes to think of it, it <i>was </i>very odd that anything
      should have disturbed a companion. A steam-engine, or other ingenious
      piece of mechanism out of order, would have been nothing to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did you come to know Lord Frederick, and those other delightful
      creatures, child?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, still eyeing Kate through her
      glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I met them at my uncle's,' said Kate, vexed to feel that she was
      colouring deeply, but unable to keep down the blood which rushed to her
      face whenever she thought of that man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you known them long?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' rejoined Kate. 'Not long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was very glad of the opportunity which that respectable person, your
      mother, gave us of being known to them,' said Mrs. Wititterly, in a lofty
      manner. 'Some friends of ours were on the very point of introducing us,
      which makes it quite remarkable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow conceited on the honour and
      dignity of having known four great people (for Pyke and Pluck were
      included among the delightful creatures), whom Mrs. Wititterly did not
      know. But as the circumstance had made no impression one way or other upon
      Kate's mind, the force of the observation was quite lost upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They asked permission to call,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I gave it them of
      course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you expect them today?' Kate ventured to inquire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wititterly's answer was lost in the noise of a tremendous rapping at
      the street-door, and before it had ceased to vibrate, there drove up a
      handsome cabriolet, out of which leaped Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend
      Lord Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are here now,' said Kate, rising and hurrying away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nickleby!' cried Mrs. Wititterly, perfectly aghast at a companion's
      attempting to quit the room, without her permission first had and
      obtained. 'Pray don't think of going.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very good!' replied Kate. 'But&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For goodness' sake, don't agitate me by making me speak so much,' said
      Mrs. Wititterly, with great sharpness. 'Dear me, Miss Nickleby, I beg&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in vain for Kate to protest that she was unwell, for the footsteps
      of the knockers, whoever they were, were already on the stairs. She
      resumed her seat, and had scarcely done so, when the doubtful page darted
      into the room and announced, Mr. Pyke, and Mr. Pluck, and Lord Verisopht,
      and Sir Mulberry Hawk, all at one burst.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The most extraordinary thing in the world,' said Mr. Pluck, saluting both
      ladies with the utmost cordiality; 'the most extraordinary thing. As Lord
      Frederick and Sir Mulberry drove up to the door, Pyke and I had that
      instant knocked.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That instant knocked,' said Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter how you came, so that you are here,' said Mrs. Wititterly, who,
      by dint of lying on the same sofa for three years and a half, had got up
      quite a little pantomime of graceful attitudes, and now threw herself into
      the most striking of the whole series, to astonish the visitors. 'I am
      delighted, I am sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how is Miss Nickleby?' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, accosting Kate, in a
      low voice&mdash;not so low, however, but that it reached the ears of Mrs
      Wititterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, she complains of suffering from the fright of last night,' said the
      lady. 'I am sure I don't wonder at it, for my nerves are quite torn to
      pieces.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet you look,' observed Sir Mulberry, turning round; 'and yet you
      look&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beyond everything,' said Mr. Pyke, coming to his patron's assistance. Of
      course Mr. Pluck said the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly,
      turning to that young gentleman, who had been sucking the head of his cane
      in silence, and staring at Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, deyvlish!' replied Verisopht. Having given utterance to which
      remarkable sentiment, he occupied himself as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Neither does Miss Nickleby look the worse,' said Sir Mulberry, bending
      his bold gaze upon her. 'She was always handsome, but upon my soul, ma'am,
      you seem to have imparted some of your own good looks to her besides.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To judge from the glow which suffused the poor girl's countenance after
      this speech, Mrs. Wititterly might, with some show of reason, have been
      supposed to have imparted to it some of that artificial bloom which
      decorated her own. Mrs. Wititterly admitted, though not with the best grace
      in the world, that Kate <i>did </i>look pretty. She began to think, too, that Sir
      Mulberry was not quite so agreeable a creature as she had at first
      supposed him; for, although a skilful flatterer is a most delightful
      companion if you can keep him all to yourself, his taste becomes very
      doubtful when he takes to complimenting other people.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pyke,' said the watchful Mr. Pluck, observing the effect which the praise
      of Miss Nickleby had produced.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Pluck,' said Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there anybody,' demanded Mr. Pluck, mysteriously, 'anybody you know,
      that Mrs. Wititterly's profile reminds you of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Reminds me of!' answered Pyke. 'Of course there is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who do you mean?' said Pluck, in the same mysterious manner. 'The D. of
      B.?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The C. of B.,' replied Pyke, with the faintest trace of a grin lingering
      in his countenance. 'The beautiful sister is the countess; not the
      duchess.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' said Pluck, 'the C. of B. The resemblance is wonderful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly startling,' said Mr. Pyke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was a state of things! Mrs. Wititterly was declared, upon the
      testimony of two veracious and competent witnesses, to be the very picture
      of a countess! This was one of the consequences of getting into good
      society. Why, she might have moved among grovelling people for twenty
      years, and never heard of it. How could she, indeed? what did <i>they </i>know
      about countesses?
    </p>
    <p>
      The two gentlemen having, by the greediness with which this little bait
      was swallowed, tested the extent of Mrs. Wititterly's appetite for
      adulation, proceeded to administer that commodity in very large doses,
      thus affording to Sir Mulberry Hawk an opportunity of pestering Miss
      Nickleby with questions and remarks, to which she was absolutely obliged
      to make some reply. Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed unmolested the full
      flavour of the gold knob at the top of his cane, as he would have done to
      the end of the interview if Mr. Wititterly had not come home, and caused
      the conversation to turn to his favourite topic.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My lord,' said Mr. Wititterly, 'I am delighted&mdash;honoured&mdash;proud.
      Be seated again, my lord, pray. I am proud, indeed&mdash;most proud.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was to the secret annoyance of his wife that Mr. Wititterly said all
      this, for, although she was bursting with pride and arrogance, she would
      have had the illustrious guests believe that their visit was quite a
      common occurrence, and that they had lords and baronets to see them every
      day in the week. But Mr. Wititterly's feelings were beyond the power of
      suppression.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is an honour, indeed!' said Mr. Wititterly. 'Julia, my soul, you will
      suffer for this tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Suffer!' cried Lord Verisopht.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The reaction, my lord, the reaction,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'This violent
      strain upon the nervous system over, my lord, what ensues? A sinking, a
      depression, a lowness, a lassitude, a debility. My lord, if Sir Tumley
      Snuffim was to see that delicate creature at this moment, he would not
      give a&mdash;a&mdash;<i>this </i>for her life.' In illustration of which remark,
      Mr. Wititterly took a pinch of snuff from his box, and jerked it lightly
      into the air as an emblem of instability.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not <i>that</i>,' said Mr. Wititterly, looking about him with a serious
      countenance. 'Sir Tumley Snuffim would not give that for Mrs. Wititterly's
      existence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Wititterly told this with a kind of sober exultation, as if it were no
      trifling distinction for a man to have a wife in such a desperate state,
      and Mrs. Wititterly sighed and looked on, as if she felt the honour, but
      had determined to bear it as meekly as might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Wititterly,' said her husband, 'is Sir Tumley Snuffim's favourite
      patient. I believe I may venture to say, that Mrs. Wititterly is the first
      person who took the new medicine which is supposed to have destroyed a
      family at Kensington Gravel Pits. I believe she was. If I am wrong, Julia,
      my dear, you will correct me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe I was,' said Mrs. Wititterly, in a faint voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      As there appeared to be some doubt in the mind of his patron how he could
      best join in this conversation, the indefatigable Mr. Pyke threw himself
      into the breach, and, by way of saying something to the point, inquired&mdash;with
      reference to the aforesaid medicine&mdash;whether it was nice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir, it was not. It had not even that recommendation,' said Mr. W.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Wititterly is quite a martyr,' observed Pyke, with a complimentary
      bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>think </i>I am,' said Mrs. Wititterly, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think you are, my dear Julia,' replied her husband, in a tone which
      seemed to say that he was not vain, but still must insist upon their
      privileges. 'If anybody, my lord,' added Mr. Wititterly, wheeling round to
      the nobleman, 'will produce to me a greater martyr than Mrs. Wititterly,
      all I can say is, that I shall be glad to see that martyr, whether male or
      female&mdash;that's all, my lord.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pyke and Pluck promptly remarked that certainly nothing could be fairer
      than that; and the call having been by this time protracted to a very
      great length, they obeyed Sir Mulberry's look, and rose to go. This
      brought Sir Mulberry himself and Lord Verisopht on their legs also. Many
      protestations of friendship, and expressions anticipative of the pleasure
      which must inevitably flow from so happy an acquaintance, were exchanged,
      and the visitors departed, with renewed assurances that at all times and
      seasons the mansion of the Wititterlys would be honoured by receiving them
      beneath its roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      That they came at all times and seasons&mdash;that they dined there one
      day, supped the next, dined again on the next, and were constantly to and
      fro on all&mdash;that they made parties to visit public places, and met by
      accident at lounges&mdash;that upon all these occasions Miss Nickleby was
      exposed to the constant and unremitting persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
      who now began to feel his character, even in the estimation of his two
      dependants, involved in the successful reduction of her pride&mdash;that
      she had no intervals of peace or rest, except at those hours when she
      could sit in her solitary room, and weep over the trials of the day&mdash;all
      these were consequences naturally flowing from the well-laid plans of Sir
      Mulberry, and their able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke and Pluck.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus for a fortnight matters went on. That any but the weakest and
      silliest of people could have seen in one interview that Lord Verisopht,
      though he was a lord, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, though he was a baronet, were
      not persons accustomed to be the best possible companions, and were
      certainly not calculated by habits, manners, tastes, or conversation, to
      shine with any very great lustre in the society of ladies, need scarcely
      be remarked. But with Mrs. Wititterly the two titles were all sufficient;
      coarseness became humour, vulgarity softened itself down into the most
      charming eccentricity; insolence took the guise of an easy absence of
      reserve, attainable only by those who had had the good fortune to mix with
      high folks.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the mistress put such a construction upon the behaviour of her new
      friends, what could the companion urge against them? If they accustomed
      themselves to very little restraint before the lady of the house, with how
      much more freedom could they address her paid dependent! Nor was even this
      the worst. As the odious Sir Mulberry Hawk attached himself to Kate with
      less and less of disguise, Mrs. Wititterly began to grow jealous of the
      superior attractions of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling had led to her
      banishment from the drawing-room when such company was there, Kate would
      have been only too happy and willing that it should have existed, but
      unfortunately for her she possessed that native grace and true gentility
      of manner, and those thousand nameless accomplishments which give to
      female society its greatest charm; if these be valuable anywhere, they
      were especially so where the lady of the house was a mere animated doll.
      The consequence was, that Kate had the double mortification of being an
      indispensable part of the circle when Sir Mulberry and his friends were
      there, and of being exposed, on that very account, to all Mrs. Wititterly's
      ill-humours and caprices when they were gone. She became utterly and
      completely miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to Sir Mulberry,
      but when she was more than usually out of temper, attributed the
      circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervous indisposition. However,
      as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat taken with
      Kate, and that she, Mrs. Wititterly, was quite a secondary person, dawned
      upon that lady's mind and gradually developed itself, she became possessed
      with a large quantity of highly proper and most virtuous indignation, and
      felt it her duty, as a married lady and a moral member of society, to
      mention the circumstance to 'the young person' without delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly Mrs. Wititterly broke ground next morning, during a pause in
      the novel-reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs. Wititterly, 'I wish to speak to you very
      gravely. I am sorry to have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry, but
      you leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.' Here Mrs. Wititterly tossed
      her head&mdash;not passionately, only virtuously&mdash;and remarked, with
      some appearance of excitement, that she feared that palpitation of the
      heart was coming on again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,' resumed the lady, 'is very far from
      pleasing me&mdash;very far. I am very anxious indeed that you should do
      well, but you may depend upon it, Miss Nickleby, you will not, if you go
      on as you do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ma'am!' exclaimed Kate, proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't agitate me by speaking in that way, Miss Nickleby, don't,' said Mrs
      Wititterly, with some violence, 'or you'll compel me to ring the bell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate looked at her, but said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't suppose,' resumed Mrs. Wititterly, 'that your looking at me in
      that way, Miss Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I am going to say,
      which I feel to be a religious duty. You needn't direct your glances
      towards me,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sudden burst of spite; 'I am not
      Sir Mulberry, no, nor Lord Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby, nor am I Mr
      Pyke, nor Mr. Pluck either.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; and resting her
      elbow on the table, covered her eyes with her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If such things had been done when I was a young girl,' said Mrs
      Wititterly (this, by the way, must have been some little time before), 'I
      don't suppose anybody would have believed it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think they would,' murmured Kate. 'I do not think anybody would
      believe, without actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to undergo!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, if you
      please,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quite surprising
      in so great an invalid. 'I will not be answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not
      accustomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for an instant. Do you
      hear?' she added, waiting with some apparent inconsistency <i>for </i>an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do hear you, ma'am,' replied Kate, 'with surprise&mdash;with greater
      surprise than I can express.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have always considered you a particularly well-behaved young person for
      your station in life,' said Mrs. Wititterly; 'and as you are a person of
      healthy appearance, and neat in your dress and so forth, I have taken an
      interest in you, as I do still, considering that I owe a sort of duty to
      that respectable old female, your mother. For these reasons, Miss
      Nickleby, I must tell you once for all, and begging you to mind what I
      say, that I must insist upon your immediately altering your very forward
      behaviour to the gentlemen who visit at this house. It really is not
      becoming,' said Mrs. Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke; 'it
      is improper&mdash;quite improper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; 'is not this, is
      not this, too cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enough that I should have
      suffered as I have, night and day; that I should almost have sunk in my
      own estimation from very shame of having been brought into contact with
      such people; but must I also be exposed to this unjust and most unfounded
      charge!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs
      Wititterly, 'that when you use such terms as "unjust", and "unfounded",
      you charge me, in effect, with stating that which is untrue.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do,' said Kate with honest indignation. 'Whether you make this
      accusation of yourself, or at the prompting of others, is alike to me. I
      say it <i>is</i> vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it possible!' cried Kate,
      'that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not have seen the misery
      these men have caused me? Is it possible that you, ma'am, can have been
      present, and failed to mark the insulting freedom that their every look
      bespoke? Is it possible that you can have avoided seeing, that these
      libertines, in their utter disrespect for you, and utter disregard of all
      gentlemanly behaviour, and almost of decency, have had but one object in
      introducing themselves here, and that the furtherance of their designs
      upon a friendless, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating
      confession, might have hoped to receive from one so much her senior
      something like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not&mdash;I cannot believe
      it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she
      certainly would not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she
      had been lashed, upon such an injudicious speech as this. Its effect was
      precisely what a more experienced observer would have foreseen. Mrs
      Wititterly received the attack upon her veracity with exemplary calmness,
      and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate's account of her own
      sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held in disregard by the
      gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and this blow was no sooner
      followed up by the remark concerning her seniority, than she fell back
      upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter?' cried Mr. Wititterly, bouncing into the room.
      'Heavens, what do I see? Julia! Julia! look up, my life, look up!'
    </p>
    <p>
      But Julia looked down most perseveringly, and screamed still louder; so Mr
      Wititterly rang the bell, and danced in a frenzied manner round the sofa
      on which Mrs. Wititterly lay; uttering perpetual cries for Sir Tumley
      Snuffim, and never once leaving off to ask for any explanation of the
      scene before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Run for Sir Tumley,' cried Mr. Wititterly, menacing the page with both
      fists. 'I knew it, Miss Nickleby,' he said, looking round with an air of
      melancholy triumph, 'that society has been too much for her. This is all
      soul, you know, every bit of it.' With this assurance Mr. Wititterly took
      up the prostrate form of Mrs. Wititterly, and carried her bodily off to
      bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffim had paid his visit and looked in with
      a report, that, through the special interposition of a merciful Providence
      (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs. Wititterly had gone to sleep. She then
      hastily attired herself for walking, and leaving word that she should
      return within a couple of hours, hurried away towards her uncle's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been a good day with Ralph Nickleby&mdash;quite a lucky day; and as
      he walked to and fro in his little back-room with his hands clasped behind
      him, adding up in his own mind all the sums that had been, or would be,
      netted from the business done since morning, his mouth was drawn into a
      hard stern smile; while the firmness of the lines and curves that made it
      up, as well as the cunning glance of his cold, bright eye, seemed to tell,
      that if any resolution or cunning would increase the profits, they would
      not fail to be excited for the purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good!' said Ralph, in allusion, no doubt, to some proceeding of the
      day. 'He defies the usurer, does he? Well, we shall see. "Honesty is the
      best policy," is it? We'll try that too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, and then walked on again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is content,' said Ralph, relaxing into a smile, 'to set his known
      character and conduct against the power of money&mdash;dross, as he calls
      it. Why, what a dull blockhead this fellow must be! Dross to, dross! Who's
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me,' said Newman Noggs, looking in. 'Your niece.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What of her?' asked Ralph sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman jerked his head towards his little room, to signify that she was
      waiting there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does she want?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' rejoined Newman. 'Shall I ask?' he added quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Ralph. 'Show her in! Stay.' He hastily put away a padlocked
      cash-box that was on the table, and substituted in its stead an empty
      purse. 'There,' said Ralph. '<i>Now </i>she may come in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre, beckoned the young lady to
      advance, and having placed a chair for her, retired; looking stealthily
      over his shoulder at Ralph as he limped slowly out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Ralph, roughly enough; but still with something more of
      kindness in his manner than he would have exhibited towards anybody else.
      'Well, my&mdash;dear. What now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and with an effort to
      master her emotion strove to speak, but in vain. So drooping her head
      again, she remained silent. Her face was hidden from his view, but Ralph
      could see that she was weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can guess the cause of this!' thought Ralph, after looking at her for
      some time in silence. 'I can&mdash;I can&mdash;guess the cause. Well!
      Well!' thought Ralph&mdash;for the moment quite disconcerted, as he
      watched the anguish of his beautiful niece. 'Where is the harm? only a few
      tears; and it's an excellent lesson for her, an excellent lesson.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter?' asked Ralph, drawing a chair opposite, and sitting
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was rather taken aback by the sudden firmness with which Kate looked up
      and answered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The matter which brings me to you, sir,' she said, 'is one which should
      call the blood up into your cheeks, and make you burn to hear, as it does
      me to tell. I have been wronged; my feelings have been outraged, insulted,
      wounded past all healing, and by your friends.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Friends!' cried Ralph, sternly. 'I have no friends, girl.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By the men I saw here, then,' returned Kate, quickly. 'If they were no
      friends of yours, and you knew what they were,&mdash;oh, the more shame on
      you, uncle, for bringing me among them. To have subjected me to what I was
      exposed to here, through any misplaced confidence or imperfect knowledge
      of your guests, would have required some strong excuse; but if you did it&mdash;as
      I now believe you did&mdash;knowing them well, it was most dastardly and
      cruel.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph drew back in utter amazement at this plain speaking, and regarded
      Kate with the sternest look. But she met his gaze proudly and firmly, and
      although her face was very pale, it looked more noble and handsome,
      lighted up as it was, than it had ever appeared before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is some of that boy's blood in you, I see,' said Ralph, speaking in
      his harshest tones, as something in the flashing eye reminded him of
      Nicholas at their last meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope there is!' replied Kate. 'I should be proud to know it. I am
      young, uncle, and all the difficulties and miseries of my situation have
      kept it down, but I have been roused today beyond all endurance, and come
      what may, I <i>will not</i>, as I am your brother's child, bear these insults
      longer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What insults, girl?' demanded Ralph, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Remember what took place here, and ask yourself,' replied Kate, colouring
      deeply. 'Uncle, you must&mdash;I am sure you will&mdash;release me from
      such vile and degrading companionship as I am exposed to now. I do not
      mean,' said Kate, hurrying to the old man, and laying her arm upon his
      shoulder; 'I do not mean to be angry and violent&mdash;I beg your pardon
      if I have seemed so, dear uncle,&mdash;but you do not know what I have
      suffered, you do not indeed. You cannot tell what the heart of a young
      girl is&mdash;I have no right to expect you should; but when I tell you
      that I am wretched, and that my heart is breaking, I am sure you will help
      me. I am sure, I am sure you will!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked at her for an instant; then turned away his head, and beat
      his foot nervously upon the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have gone on day after day,' said Kate, bending over him, and timidly
      placing her little hand in his, 'in the hope that this persecution would
      cease; I have gone on day after day, compelled to assume the appearance of
      cheerfulness, when I was most unhappy. I have had no counsellor, no
      adviser, no one to protect me. Mama supposes that these are honourable
      men, rich and distinguished, and how <i>can </i>I&mdash;how can I undeceive her&mdash;when
      she is so happy in these little delusions, which are the only happiness
      she has? The lady with whom you placed me, is not the person to whom I
      could confide matters of so much delicacy, and I have come at last to you,
      the only friend I have at hand&mdash;almost the only friend I have at all&mdash;to
      entreat and implore you to assist me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can I assist you, child?' said Ralph, rising from his chair, and
      pacing up and down the room in his old attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have influence with one of these men, I <i>know</i>,' rejoined Kate,
      emphatically. 'Would not a word from you induce them to desist from this
      unmanly course?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Ralph, suddenly turning; 'at least&mdash;that&mdash;I can't say
      it, if it would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can't say it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Ralph, coming to a dead stop, and clasping his hands more
      tightly behind him. 'I can't say it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate fell back a step or two, and looked at him, as if in doubt whether
      she had heard aright.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are connected in business,' said Ralph, poising himself alternately on
      his toes and heels, and looking coolly in his niece's face, 'in business,
      and I can't afford to offend them. What is it after all? We have all our
      trials, and this is one of yours. Some girls would be proud to have such
      gallants at their feet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Proud!' cried Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't say,' rejoined Ralph, raising his forefinger, 'but that you do
      right to despise them; no, you show your good sense in that, as indeed I
      knew from the first you would. Well. In all other respects you are
      comfortably bestowed. It's not much to bear. If this young lord does dog
      your footsteps, and whisper his drivelling inanities in your ears, what of
      it? It's a dishonourable passion. So be it; it won't last long. Some other
      novelty will spring up one day, and you will be released. In the mean time&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In the mean time,' interrupted Kate, with becoming pride and indignation,
      'I am to be the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the other; justly
      condemned by all women of right feeling, and despised by all honest and
      honourable men; sunken in my own esteem, and degraded in every eye that
      looks upon me. No, not if I work my fingers to the bone, not if I am
      driven to the roughest and hardest labour. Do not mistake me. I will not
      disgrace your recommendation. I will remain in the house in which it
      placed me, until I am entitled to leave it by the terms of my engagement;
      though, mind, I see these men no more. When I quit it, I will hide myself
      from them and you, and, striving to support my mother by hard service, I
      will live, at least, in peace, and trust in God to help me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, she waved her hand, and quitted the room, leaving Ralph
      Nickleby motionless as a statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surprise with which Kate, as she closed the room-door, beheld, close
      beside it, Newman Noggs standing bolt upright in a little niche in the
      wall like some scarecrow or Guy Faux laid up in winter quarters, almost
      occasioned her to call aloud. But, Newman laying his finger upon his lips,
      she had the presence of mind to refrain.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't,' said Newman, gliding out of his recess, and accompanying her
      across the hall. 'Don't cry, don't cry.' Two very large tears, by-the-bye,
      were running down Newman's face as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see how it is,' said poor Noggs, drawing from his pocket what seemed to
      be a very old duster, and wiping Kate's eyes with it, as gently as if she
      were an infant. 'You're giving way now. Yes, yes, very good; that's right,
      I like that. It was right not to give way before him. Yes, yes! Ha, ha,
      ha! Oh, yes. Poor thing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these disjointed exclamations, Newman wiped his own eyes with the
      afore-mentioned duster, and, limping to the street-door, opened it to let
      her out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't cry any more,' whispered Newman. 'I shall see you soon. Ha! ha! ha!
      And so shall somebody else too. Yes, yes. Ho! ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless you,' answered Kate, hurrying out, 'God bless you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Same to you,' rejoined Newman, opening the door again a little way to say
      so. 'Ha, ha, ha! Ho! ho! ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      And Newman Noggs opened the door once again to nod cheerfully, and laugh&mdash;and
      shut it, to shake his head mournfully, and cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph remained in the same attitude till he heard the noise of the closing
      door, when he shrugged his shoulders, and after a few turns about the room&mdash;hasty
      at first, but gradually becoming slower, as he relapsed into himself&mdash;sat
      down before his desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is one of those problems of human nature, which may be noted down, but
      not solved;&mdash;although Ralph felt no remorse at that moment for his
      conduct towards the innocent, true-hearted girl; although his libertine
      clients had done precisely what he had expected, precisely what he most
      wished, and precisely what would tend most to his advantage, still he
      hated them for doing it, from the very bottom of his soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ugh!' said Ralph, scowling round, and shaking his clenched hand as the
      faces of the two profligates rose up before his mind; 'you shall pay for
      this. Oh! you shall pay for this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the usurer turned for consolation to his books and papers, a
      performance was going on outside his office door, which would have
      occasioned him no small surprise, if he could by any means have become
      acquainted with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs was the sole actor. He stood at a little distance from the
      door, with his face towards it; and with the sleeves of his coat turned
      back at the wrists, was occupied in bestowing the most vigorous,
      scientific, and straightforward blows upon the empty air.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first sight, this would have appeared merely a wise precaution in a man
      of sedentary habits, with the view of opening the chest and strengthening
      the muscles of the arms. But the intense eagerness and joy depicted in the
      face of Newman Noggs, which was suffused with perspiration; the surprising
      energy with which he directed a constant succession of blows towards a
      particular panel about five feet eight from the ground, and still worked
      away in the most untiring and persevering manner, would have sufficiently
      explained to the attentive observer, that his imagination was thrashing,
      to within an inch of his life, his body's most active employer, Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 29
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span><i>f the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the
            Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The unexpected success and favour with which his experiment at Portsmouth
      had been received, induced Mr. Crummles to prolong his stay in that town
      for a fortnight beyond the period he had originally assigned for the
      duration of his visit, during which time Nicholas personated a vast
      variety of characters with undiminished success, and attracted so many
      people to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that a benefit
      was considered by the manager a very promising speculation. Nicholas
      assenting to the terms proposed, the benefit was had, and by it he
      realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to enclose to
      honest John Browdie the amount of his friendly loan, which he accompanied
      with many expressions of gratitude and esteem, and many cordial wishes for
      his matrimonial happiness. To Newman Noggs he forwarded one half of the
      sum he had realised, entreating him to take an opportunity of handing it
      to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the warmest assurances of his love
      and affection. He made no mention of the way in which he had employed
      himself; merely informing Newman that a letter addressed to him under his
      assumed name at the Post Office, Portsmouth, would readily find him, and
      entreating that worthy friend to write full particulars of the situation
      of his mother and sister, and an account of all the grand things that
      Ralph Nickleby had done for them since his departure from London.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are out of spirits,' said Smike, on the night after the letter had
      been dispatched.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not I!' rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession would
      have made the boy miserable all night; 'I was thinking about my sister,
      Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sister!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she like you?' inquired Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, so they say,' replied Nicholas, laughing, 'only a great deal
      handsomer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She must be <i>very </i>beautiful,' said Smike, after thinking a little while
      with his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anybody who didn't know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say
      you were an accomplished courtier,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't even know what that is,' replied Smike, shaking his head. 'Shall
      I ever see your sister?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' cried Nicholas; 'we shall all be together one of these days&mdash;when
      we are rich, Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be
      kind to you?' asked Smike. 'I cannot make that out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, it is a long story,' replied Nicholas, 'and one you would have some
      difficulty in comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy&mdash;you understand
      what that is?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, yes, I understand that,' said Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, it is owing to him,' returned Nicholas. 'He is rich, and not so
      easily punished as <i>your </i>old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is a
      villain, and has done me wrong.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he though?' asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. 'What is his name?
      Tell me his name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ralph&mdash;Ralph Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ralph Nickleby,' repeated Smike. 'Ralph. I'll get that name by heart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock at
      the door disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it, Mr
      Folair, the pantomimist, thrust in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Folair's head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually
      high in the crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the present
      occasion he wore it very much on one side, with the back part forward in
      consequence of its being the least rusty; round his neck he wore a flaming
      red worsted comforter, whereof the straggling ends peeped out beneath his
      threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very tight and buttoned all the way
      up. He carried in his hand one very dirty glove, and a cheap dress cane
      with a glass handle; in short, his whole appearance was unusually dashing,
      and demonstrated a far more scrupulous attention to his toilet than he was
      in the habit of bestowing upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-evening, sir,' said Mr. Folair, taking off the tall hat, and running
      his fingers through his hair. 'I bring a communication. Hem!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'From whom and what about?' inquired Nicholas. 'You are unusually
      mysterious tonight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cold, perhaps,' returned Mr. Folair; 'cold, perhaps. That is the fault of
      my position&mdash;not of myself, Mr. Johnson. My position as a mutual
      friend requires it, sir.' Mr. Folair paused with a most impressive look,
      and diving into the hat before noticed, drew from thence a small piece of
      whity-brown paper curiously folded, whence he brought forth a note which
      it had served to keep clean, and handing it over to Nicholas, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have the goodness to read that, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, in a state of much amazement, took the note and broke the seal,
      glancing at Mr. Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and pursing up
      his mouth with great dignity, was sitting with his eyes steadily fixed
      upon the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair,
      Esq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when he
      found it to be couched in the following laconic terms:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr. Johnson, and will feel
      obliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be
      most convenient to him to meet Mr. L. at the Theatre, for the purpose of
      having his nose pulled in the presence of the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to neglect making an appointment, as
      he has invited two or three professional friends to witness the ceremony,
      and cannot disappoint them upon any account whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      "PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT."
    </p>
    <p>
      Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so
      exquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was obliged
      to bite his lip and read the note over two or three times before he could
      muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile messenger,
      who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the expression of
      his face in the slightest degree.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know the contents of this note, sir?' he asked, at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately
      carrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how dare you bring it here, sir?' asked Nicholas, tearing it into
      very little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger. 'Had
      you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Folair turned his head&mdash;now ornamented with several fragments of
      the note&mdash;towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity,
      briefly replied 'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the
      door, 'you had better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you may
      find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and that within a dozen
      seconds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, Johnson,' remonstrated Mr. Folair, suddenly losing all his dignity,
      'none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman's wardrobe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leave the room,' returned Nicholas. 'How could you presume to come here
      on such an errand, you scoundrel?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh! pooh!' said Mr. Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually
      getting himself out of it. 'There&mdash;that's enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Enough!' cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. 'Take yourself off, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh! pooh! I tell you,' returned Mr. Folair, waving his hand in
      deprecation of any further wrath; 'I wasn't in earnest. I only brought it
      in joke.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,' said
      Nicholas, 'or you may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a dangerous
      reminder for the subject of your facetiousness. Was it written in joke,
      too, pray?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, that's the best of it,' returned the actor; 'right down earnest&mdash;honour
      bright.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which, at
      all times more calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially so
      at that moment, when with one knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled his
      old hat round upon his hand, and affected the extremest agony lest any of
      the nap should have been knocked off&mdash;an ornament which it is almost
      superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, sir,' said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. 'Have the
      goodness to explain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I'll tell you how it is,' said Mr. Folair, sitting himself down in a
      chair with great coolness. 'Since you came here Lenville has done nothing
      but second business, and, instead of having a reception every night as he
      used to have, they have let him come on as if he was nobody.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean by a reception?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Jupiter!' exclaimed Mr. Folair, 'what an unsophisticated shepherd you are,
      Johnson! Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he has
      gone on night after night, never getting a hand, and you getting a couple
      of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at length he got quite
      desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a real
      sword, and pink you&mdash;not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up
      for a month or two.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very considerate,' remarked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional reputation
      being at stake,' said Mr. Folair, quite seriously. 'But his heart failed
      him, and he cast about for some other way of annoying you, and making
      himself popular at the same time&mdash;for that's the point. Notoriety,
      notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,' said Mr. Folair,
      stopping to make a calculation in his mind, 'it would have been worth&mdash;ah,
      it would have been worth eight or ten shillings a week to him. All the
      town would have come to see the actor who nearly killed a man by mistake;
      I shouldn't wonder if it had got him an engagement in London. However, he
      was obliged to try some other mode of getting popular, and this one
      occurred to him. It's a clever idea, really. If you had shown the white
      feather, and let him pull your nose, he'd have got it into the paper; if
      you had sworn the peace against him, it would have been in the paper too,
      and he'd have been just as much talked about as you&mdash;don't you see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, certainly,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but suppose I were to turn the
      tables, and pull <i>his </i>nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I don't think it would,' replied Mr. Folair, scratching his head,
      'because there wouldn't be any romance about it, and he wouldn't be
      favourably known. To tell you the truth though, he didn't calculate much
      upon that, for you're always so mild-spoken, and are so popular among the
      women, that we didn't suspect you of showing fight. If you did, however,
      he has a way of getting out of it easily, depend upon that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he?' rejoined Nicholas. 'We will try, tomorrow morning. In the
      meantime, you can give whatever account of our interview you like best.
      Good-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr. Folair was pretty well known among his fellow-actors for a man who
      delighted in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not
      much doubt but that he had secretly prompted the tragedian in the course
      he had taken, and, moreover, that he would have carried his mission with a
      very high hand if he had not been disconcerted by the very unexpected
      demonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worth his while
      to be serious with him, however, so he dismissed the pantomimist, with a
      gentle hint that if he offended again it would be under the penalty of a
      broken head; and Mr. Folair, taking the caution in exceedingly good part,
      walked away to confer with his principal, and give such an account of his
      proceedings as he might think best calculated to carry on the joke.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state of extreme bodily
      fear; for when that young gentleman walked with much deliberation down to
      the theatre next morning at the usual hour, he found all the company
      assembled in evident expectation, and Mr. Lenville, with his severest stage
      face, sitting majestically on a table, whistling defiance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now the ladies were on the side of Nicholas, and the gentlemen (being
      jealous) were on the side of the disappointed tragedian; so that the
      latter formed a little group about the redoubtable Mr. Lenville, and the
      former looked on at a little distance in some trepidation and anxiety. On
      Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr. Lenville laughed a scornful laugh,
      and made some general remark touching the natural history of puppies.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Nicholas, looking quietly round, 'are you there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Slave!' returned Mr. Lenville, flourishing his right arm, and approaching
      Nicholas with a theatrical stride. But somehow he appeared just at that
      moment a little startled, as if Nicholas did not look quite so frightened
      as he had expected, and came all at once to an awkward halt, at which the
      assembled ladies burst into a shrill laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Object of my scorn and hatred!' said Mr. Lenville, 'I hold ye in
      contempt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of this performance; and the
      ladies, by way of encouragement, laughed louder than before; whereat Mr
      Lenville assumed his bitterest smile, and expressed his opinion that they
      were 'minions'.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But they shall not protect ye!' said the tragedian, taking an upward look
      at Nicholas, beginning at his boots and ending at the crown of his head,
      and then a downward one, beginning at the crown of his head, and ending at
      his boots&mdash;which two looks, as everybody knows, express defiance on
      the stage. 'They shall not protect ye&mdash;boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus speaking, Mr. Lenville folded his arms, and treated Nicholas to that
      expression of face with which, in melodramatic performances, he was in the
      habit of regarding the tyrannical kings when they said, 'Away with him to
      the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat;' and which, accompanied with
      a little jingling of fetters, had been known to produce great effects in
      its time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no very deep
      impression on Mr. Lenville's adversary, however, but rather seemed to
      increase the good-humour expressed in his countenance; in which stage of
      the contest, one or two gentlemen, who had come out expressly to witness
      the pulling of Nicholas's nose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it were
      to be done at all it had better be done at once, and that if Mr. Lenville
      didn't mean to do it he had better say so, and not keep them waiting
      there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of his right coat
      sleeve for the performance of the operation, and walked in a very stately
      manner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to within the
      requisite distance, and then, without the smallest discomposure, knocked
      him down.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from the boards, Mrs
      Lenville (who, as has been before hinted, was in an interesting state)
      rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and uttering a piercing scream threw
      herself upon the body.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you see this, monster? Do you see <i>this</i>?' cried Mr. Lenville, sitting
      up, and pointing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him very tight
      round the waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Nicholas, nodding his head, 'apologise for the insolent note
      you wrote to me last night, and waste no more time in talking.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never!' cried Mr. Lenville.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes&mdash;yes&mdash;yes!' screamed his wife. 'For my sake&mdash;for mine,
      Lenville&mdash;forego all idle forms, unless you would see me a blighted
      corse at your feet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is affecting!' said Mr. Lenville, looking round him, and drawing the
      back of his hand across his eyes. 'The ties of nature are strong. The weak
      husband and the father&mdash;the father that is yet to be&mdash;relents. I
      apologise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humbly and submissively?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humbly and submissively,' returned the tragedian, scowling upwards. 'But
      only to save her,&mdash;for a time will come&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' said Nicholas; 'I hope Mrs. Lenville may have a good one; and
      when it does come, and you are a father, you shall retract it if you have
      the courage. There. Be careful, sir, to what lengths your jealousy carries
      you another time; and be careful, also, before you venture too far, to
      ascertain your rival's temper.' With this parting advice Nicholas picked
      up Mr. Lenville's ash stick which had flown out of his hand, and breaking
      it in half, threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing slightly to the
      spectators as he walked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, and the people
      who had been most anxious to have his nose pulled in the morning, embraced
      occasions of taking him aside, and telling him with great feeling, how
      very friendly they took it that he should have treated that Lenville so
      properly, who was a most unbearable fellow, and on whom they had all, by a
      remarkable coincidence, at one time or other contemplated the infliction
      of condign punishment, which they had only been restrained from
      administering by considerations of mercy; indeed, to judge from the
      invariable termination of all these stories, there never was such a
      charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the male members of Mr
      Crummles's company.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the little world of
      the theatre, with the utmost moderation and good humour. The crestfallen
      Mr. Lenville made an expiring effort to obtain revenge by sending a boy
      into the gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to popular indignation,
      and was promptly turned out without having his money back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas when the first piece was over, and he had
      almost finished dressing to go home, 'is there any letter yet?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Smike, 'I got this one from the post-office.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Newman Noggs,' said Nicholas, casting his eye upon the cramped
      direction; 'it's no easy matter to make his writing out. Let me see&mdash;let
      me see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      By dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrived to make
      himself master of the contents, which were certainly not of a nature to
      set his mind at ease. Newman took upon himself to send back the ten
      pounds, observing that he had ascertained that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor
      Kate was in actual want of money at the moment, and that a time might
      shortly come when Nicholas might want it more. He entreated him not to be
      alarmed at what he was about to say;&mdash;there was no bad news&mdash;they
      were in good health&mdash;but he thought circumstances might occur, or
      were occurring, which would render it absolutely necessary that Kate
      should have her brother's protection, and if so, Newman said, he would
      write to him to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thought of it the
      more he began to fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph. Once or twice
      he felt tempted to repair to London at all hazards without an hour's
      delay, but a little reflection assured him that if such a step were
      necessary, Newman would have spoken out and told him so at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility of my going
      away suddenly,' said Nicholas; 'I should lose no time in doing that.' As
      the thought occurred to him, he took up his hat and hurried to the
      green-room.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0411m.jpg" alt="0411m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0411.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Well, Mr. Johnson,' said Mrs. Crummles, who was seated there in full regal
      costume, with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her maternal arms, 'next
      week for Ryde, then for Winchester, then for&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have some reason to fear,' interrupted Nicholas, 'that before you leave
      here my career with you will have closed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Closed!' cried Mrs. Crummles, raising her hands in astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Closed!' cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tights that she
      actually laid her hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for support.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why he don't mean to say he's going!' exclaimed Mrs. Grudden, making her
      way towards Mrs. Crummles. 'Hoity toity! Nonsense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The phenomenon, being of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable,
      raised a loud cry, and Miss Belvawney and Miss Bravassa actually shed
      tears. Even the male performers stopped in their conversation, and echoed
      the word 'Going!' although some among them (and they had been the loudest
      in their congratulations that day) winked at each other as though they
      would not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an opinion, indeed,
      which the honest Mr. Folair, who was ready dressed for the savage, openly
      stated in so many words to a demon with whom he was sharing a pot of
      porter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although he could not
      yet speak with any degree of certainty; and getting away as soon as he
      could, went home to con Newman's letter once more, and speculate upon it
      afresh.
    </p>
    <p>
      How trifling all that had been occupying his time and thoughts for many
      weeks seemed to him during that sleepless night, and how constantly and
      incessantly present to his imagination was the one idea that Kate in the
      midst of some great trouble and distress might even then be looking&mdash;and
      vainly too&mdash;for him!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 30
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span><i>estivities are held in honour of Nicholas, who suddenly withdraws himself
            from the Society of Mr. Vincent Crummles and his Theatrical Companions</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Vincent Crummles was no sooner acquainted with the public announcement
      which Nicholas had made relative to the probability of his shortly ceasing
      to be a member of the company, than he evinced many tokens of grief and
      consternation; and, in the extremity of his despair, even held out certain
      vague promises of a speedy improvement not only in the amount of his
      regular salary, but also in the contingent emoluments appertaining to his
      authorship. Finding Nicholas bent upon quitting the society&mdash;for he
      had now determined that, even if no further tidings came from Newman, he
      would, at all hazards, ease his mind by repairing to London and
      ascertaining the exact position of his sister&mdash;Mr. Crummles was fain
      to content himself by calculating the chances of his coming back again,
      and taking prompt and energetic measures to make the most of him before he
      went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me see,' said Mr. Crummles, taking off his outlaw's wig, the better to
      arrive at a cool-headed view of the whole case. 'Let me see. This is
      Wednesday night. We'll have posters out the first thing in the morning,
      announcing positively your last appearance for tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But perhaps it may not be my last appearance, you know,' said Nicholas.
      'Unless I am summoned away, I should be sorry to inconvenience you by
      leaving before the end of the week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So much the better,' returned Mr. Crummles. 'We can have positively your
      last appearance, on Thursday&mdash;re-engagement for one night more, on
      Friday&mdash;and, yielding to the wishes of numerous influential patrons,
      who were disappointed in obtaining seats, on Saturday. That ought to bring
      three very decent houses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I am to make three last appearances, am I?' inquired Nicholas,
      smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' rejoined the manager, scratching his head with an air of some
      vexation; 'three is not enough, and it's very bungling and irregular not
      to have more, but if we can't help it we can't, so there's no use in
      talking. A novelty would be very desirable. You couldn't sing a comic song
      on the pony's back, could you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas, 'I couldn't indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has drawn money before now,' said Mr. Crummles, with a look of
      disappointment. 'What do you think of a brilliant display of fireworks?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That it would be rather expensive,' replied Nicholas, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eighteen-pence would do it,' said Mr. Crummles. 'You on the top of a pair
      of steps with the phenomenon in an attitude; "Farewell!" on a transparency
      behind; and nine people at the wings with a squib in each hand&mdash;all
      the dozen and a half going off at once&mdash;it would be very grand&mdash;awful
      from the front, quite awful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with the solemnity of the
      proposed effect, but, on the contrary, received the proposition in a most
      irreverent manner, and laughed at it very heartily, Mr. Crummles abandoned
      the project in its birth, and gloomily observed that they must make up the
      best bill they could with combats and hornpipes, and so stick to the
      legitimate drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the purpose of carrying this object into instant execution, the
      manager at once repaired to a small dressing-room, adjacent, where Mrs
      Crummles was then occupied in exchanging the habiliments of a melodramatic
      empress for the ordinary attire of matrons in the nineteenth century. And
      with the assistance of this lady, and the accomplished Mrs. Grudden (who
      had quite a genius for making out bills, being a great hand at throwing in
      the notes of admiration, and knowing from long experience exactly where
      the largest capitals ought to go), he seriously applied himself to the
      composition of the poster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heigho!' sighed Nicholas, as he threw himself back in the prompter's
      chair, after telegraphing the needful directions to Smike, who had been
      playing a meagre tailor in the interlude, with one skirt to his coat, and
      a little pocket-handkerchief with a large hole in it, and a woollen
      nightcap, and a red nose, and other distinctive marks peculiar to tailors
      on the stage. 'Heigho! I wish all this were over.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Over, Mr. Johnson!' repeated a female voice behind him, in a kind of
      plaintive surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was an ungallant speech, certainly,' said Nicholas, looking up to see
      who the speaker was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. 'I would not have
      made it if I had known you had been within hearing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a dear that Mr. Digby is!' said Miss Snevellicci, as the tailor went
      off on the opposite side, at the end of the piece, with great applause.
      (Smike's theatrical name was Digby.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll tell him presently, for his gratification, that you said so,'
      returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh you naughty thing!' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. 'I don't know though,
      that I should much mind <i>his </i>knowing my opinion of him; with some other
      people, indeed, it might be&mdash;' Here Miss Snevellicci stopped, as
      though waiting to be questioned, but no questioning came, for Nicholas was
      thinking about more serious matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How kind it is of you,' resumed Miss Snevellicci, after a short silence,
      'to sit waiting here for him night after night, night after night, no
      matter how tired you are; and taking so much pains with him, and doing it
      all with as much delight and readiness as if you were coining gold by it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He well deserves all the kindness I can show him, and a great deal more,'
      said Nicholas. 'He is the most grateful, single-hearted, affectionate
      creature that ever breathed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So odd, too,' remarked Miss Snevellicci, 'isn't he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'God help him, and those who have made him so; he is indeed,' rejoined
      Nicholas, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is such a devilish close chap,' said Mr. Folair, who had come up a
      little before, and now joined in the conversation. 'Nobody can ever get
      anything out of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What <i>should </i>they get out of him?' asked Nicholas, turning round with some
      abruptness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Zooks! what a fire-eater you are, Johnson!' returned Mr. Folair, pulling
      up the heel of his dancing shoe. 'I'm only talking of the natural
      curiosity of the people here, to know what he has been about all his
      life.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellow! it is pretty plain, I should think, that he has not the
      intellect to have been about anything of much importance to them or
      anybody else,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' rejoined the actor, contemplating the effect of his face in a lamp
      reflector, 'but that involves the whole question, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What question?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, the who he is and what he is, and how you two, who are so different,
      came to be such close companions,' replied Mr. Folair, delighted with the
      opportunity of saying something disagreeable. 'That's in everybody's
      mouth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The "everybody" of the theatre, I suppose?' said Nicholas,
      contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In it and out of it too,' replied the actor. 'Why, you know, Lenville
      says&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought I had silenced him effectually,' interrupted Nicholas,
      reddening.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps you have,' rejoined the immovable Mr. Folair; 'if you have, he
      said this before he was silenced: Lenville says that you're a regular
      stick of an actor, and that it's only the mystery about you that has
      caused you to go down with the people here, and that Crummles keeps it up
      for his own sake; though Lenville says he don't believe there's anything
      at all in it, except your having got into a scrape and run away from
      somewhere, for doing something or other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Nicholas, forcing a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a part of what he says,' added Mr. Folair. 'I mention it as the
      friend of both parties, and in strict confidence. I don't agree with him,
      you know. He says he takes Digby to be more knave than fool; and old
      Fluggers, who does the heavy business you know, <i>he</i> says that when he
      delivered messages at Covent Garden the season before last, there used to
      be a pickpocket hovering about the coach-stand who had exactly the face of
      Digby; though, as he very properly says, Digby may not be the same, but
      only his brother, or some near relation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' cried Nicholas again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Mr. Folair, with undisturbed calmness, 'that's what they say. I
      thought I'd tell you, because really you ought to know. Oh! here's this
      blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh, you little imposition, I should like to&mdash;quite
      ready, my darling,&mdash;humbug&mdash;Ring up, Mrs. G., and let the
      favourite wake 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Uttering in a loud voice such of the latter allusions as were
      complimentary to the unconscious phenomenon, and giving the rest in a
      confidential 'aside' to Nicholas, Mr. Folair followed the ascent of the
      curtain with his eyes, regarded with a sneer the reception of Miss
      Crummles as the Maiden, and, falling back a step or two to advance with
      the better effect, uttered a preliminary howl, and 'went on' chattering
      his teeth and brandishing his tin tomahawk as the Indian Savage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So these are some of the stories they invent about us, and bandy from
      mouth to mouth!' thought Nicholas. 'If a man would commit an inexpiable
      offence against any society, large or small, let him be successful. They
      will forgive him any crime but that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You surely don't mind what that malicious creature says, Mr. Johnson?'
      observed Miss Snevellicci in her most winning tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not I,' replied Nicholas. 'If I were going to remain here, I might think
      it worth my while to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk till they are
      hoarse. But here,' added Nicholas, as Smike approached, 'here comes the
      subject of a portion of their good-nature, so let he and I say good night
      together.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I will not let either of you say anything of the kind,' returned Miss
      Snevellicci. 'You must come home and see mama, who only came to Portsmouth
      today, and is dying to behold you. Led, my dear, persuade Mr. Johnson.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I'm sure,' returned Miss Ledrook, with considerable vivacity, 'if <i>you</i>
      can't persuade him&mdash;' Miss Ledrook said no more, but intimated, by a
      dexterous playfulness, that if Miss Snevellicci couldn't persuade him,
      nobody could.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. and Mrs. Lillyvick have taken lodgings in our house, and share our
      sitting-room for the present,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Won't that induce
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely,' returned Nicholas, 'I can require no possible inducement beyond
      your invitation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no! I dare say,' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. And Miss Ledrook said,
      'Upon my word!' Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that Miss Ledrook was a
      giddy thing; and Miss Ledrook said that Miss Snevellicci needn't colour up
      quite so much; and Miss Snevellicci beat Miss Ledrook, and Miss Ledrook
      beat Miss Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Miss Ledrook, 'it's high time we were there, or we shall have
      poor Mrs. Snevellicci thinking that you have run away with her daughter, Mr
      Johnson; and then we should have a pretty to-do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Led,' remonstrated Miss Snevellicci, 'how you do talk!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Ledrook made no answer, but taking Smike's arm in hers, left her
      friend and Nicholas to follow at their pleasure; which it pleased them, or
      rather pleased Nicholas, who had no great fancy for a <i>tete-a-tete</i> under
      the circumstances, to do at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were not wanting matters of conversation when they reached the
      street, for it turned out that Miss Snevellicci had a small basket to
      carry home, and Miss Ledrook a small bandbox, both containing such minor
      articles of theatrical costume as the lady performers usually carried to
      and fro every evening. Nicholas would insist upon carrying the basket, and
      Miss Snevellicci would insist upon carrying it herself, which gave rise to
      a struggle, in which Nicholas captured the basket and the bandbox
      likewise. Then Nicholas said, that he wondered what could possibly be
      inside the basket, and attempted to peep in, whereat Miss Snevellicci
      screamed, and declared that if she thought he had seen, she was sure she
      should faint away. This declaration was followed by a similar attempt on
      the bandbox, and similar demonstrations on the part of Miss Ledrook, and
      then both ladies vowed that they wouldn't move a step further until
      Nicholas had promised that he wouldn't offer to peep again. At last
      Nicholas pledged himself to betray no further curiosity, and they walked
      on: both ladies giggling very much, and declaring that they never had seen
      such a wicked creature in all their born days&mdash;never.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lightening the way with such pleasantry as this, they arrived at the
      tailor's house in no time; and here they made quite a little party, there
      being present besides Mr. Lillyvick and Mrs. Lillyvick, not only Miss
      Snevellicci's mama, but her papa also. And an uncommonly fine man Miss
      Snevellicci's papa was, with a hook nose, and a white forehead, and curly
      black hair, and high cheek bones, and altogether quite a handsome face,
      only a little pimply as though with drinking. He had a very broad chest
      had Miss Snevellicci's papa, and he wore a threadbare blue dress-coat
      buttoned with gilt buttons tight across it; and he no sooner saw Nicholas
      come into the room, than he whipped the two forefingers of his right hand
      in between the two centre buttons, and sticking his other arm gracefully
      a-kimbo seemed to say, 'Now, here I am, my buck, and what have you got to
      say to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was, and in such an attitude sat Miss Snevellicci's papa, who had
      been in the profession ever since he had first played the ten-year-old
      imps in the Christmas pantomimes; who could sing a little, dance a little,
      fence a little, act a little, and do everything a little, but not much;
      who had been sometimes in the ballet, and sometimes in the chorus, at
      every theatre in London; who was always selected in virtue of his figure
      to play the military visitors and the speechless noblemen; who always wore
      a smart dress, and came on arm-in-arm with a smart lady in short
      petticoats,&mdash;and always did it too with such an air that people in
      the pit had been several times known to cry out 'Bravo!' under the
      impression that he was somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci's papa, upon
      whom some envious persons cast the imputation that he occasionally beat
      Miss Snevellicci's mama, who was still a dancer, with a neat little figure
      and some remains of good looks; and who now sat, as she danced,&mdash;being
      rather too old for the full glare of the foot-lights,&mdash;in the
      background.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these good people Nicholas was presented with much formality. The
      introduction being completed, Miss Snevellicci's papa (who was scented
      with rum-and-water) said that he was delighted to make the acquaintance of
      a gentleman so highly talented; and furthermore remarked, that there
      hadn't been such a hit made&mdash;no, not since the first appearance of
      his friend Mr. Glavormelly, at the Coburg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have seen him, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, really I never did,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir!' said Miss Snevellicci's papa.
      'Then you have never seen acting yet. If he had lived&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, he is dead, is he?' interrupted Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'but he isn't in Westminster Abbey, more's
      the shame. He was a&mdash;. Well, no matter. He is gone to that bourne
      from whence no traveller returns. I hope he is appreciated <i>there</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying Miss Snevellicci's papa rubbed the tip of his nose with a very
      yellow silk handkerchief, and gave the company to understand that these
      recollections overcame him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Mr. Lillyvick,' said Nicholas, 'and how are you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite well, sir,' replied the collector. 'There is nothing like the
      married state, sir, depend upon it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Nicholas, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! nothing like it, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick solemnly. 'How do you
      think,' whispered the collector, drawing him aside, 'how do you think she
      looks tonight?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As handsome as ever,' replied Nicholas, glancing at the late Miss
      Petowker.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, there's air about her, sir,' whispered the collector, 'that I never
      saw in anybody. Look at her now she moves to put the kettle on. There!
      Isn't it fascination, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a lucky man,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' rejoined the collector. 'No. Do you think I am though, eh?
      Perhaps I may be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn't have done much
      better if I had been a young man, could I? You couldn't have done much
      better yourself, could you&mdash;eh&mdash;could you?' With such inquires,
      and many more such, Mr. Lillyvick jerked his elbow into Nicholas's side,
      and chuckled till his face became quite purple in the attempt to keep down
      his satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the cloth had been laid under the joint superintendence of
      all the ladies, upon two tables put together, one being high and narrow,
      and the other low and broad. There were oysters at the top, sausages at
      the bottom, a pair of snuffers in the centre, and baked potatoes wherever
      it was most convenient to put them. Two additional chairs were brought in
      from the bedroom: Miss Snevellicci sat at the head of the table, and Mr
      Lillyvick at the foot; and Nicholas had not only the honour of sitting
      next Miss Snevellicci, but of having Miss Snevellicci's mama on his right
      hand, and Miss Snevellicci's papa over the way. In short, he was the hero
      of the feast; and when the table was cleared and something warm
      introduced, Miss Snevellicci's papa got up and proposed his health in a
      speech containing such affecting allusions to his coming departure, that
      Miss Snevellicci wept, and was compelled to retire into the bedroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush! Don't take any notice of it,' said Miss Ledrook, peeping in from
      the bedroom. 'Say, when she comes back, that she exerts herself too much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Ledrook eked out this speech with so many mysterious nods and frowns
      before she shut the door again, that a profound silence came upon all the
      company, during which Miss Snevellicci's papa looked very big indeed&mdash;several
      sizes larger than life&mdash;at everybody in turn, but particularly at
      Nicholas, and kept on perpetually emptying his tumbler and filling it
      again, until the ladies returned in a cluster, with Miss Snevellicci among
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You needn't alarm yourself a bit, Mr. Snevellicci,' said Mrs. Lillyvick.
      'She is only a little weak and nervous; she has been so ever since the
      morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'that's all, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, that's all. Don't make a fuss about it,' cried all the ladies
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now this was not exactly the kind of reply suited to Mr. Snevellicci's
      importance as a man and a father, so he picked out the unfortunate Mrs
      Snevellicci, and asked her what the devil she meant by talking to him in
      that way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, my dear!' said Mrs. Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't call me your dear, ma'am,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray, pa, don't,' interposed Miss Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't what, my child?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Talk in that way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I hope you don't suppose there's anybody
      here who is to prevent my talking as I like?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody wants to, pa,' rejoined his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody would if they did want to,' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I am not ashamed
      of myself, Snevellicci is my name; I'm to be found in Broad Court, Bow
      Street, when I'm in town. If I'm not at home, let any man ask for me at
      the stage-door. Damme, they know me at the stage-door I suppose. Most men
      have seen my portrait at the cigar shop round the corner. I've been
      mentioned in the newspapers before now, haven't I? Talk! I'll tell you
      what; if I found out that any man had been tampering with the affections
      of my daughter, I wouldn't talk. I'd astonish him without talking; that's
      my way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr. Snevellicci struck the palm of his left hand three smart
      blows with his clenched fist; pulled a phantom nose with his right thumb
      and forefinger, and swallowed another glassful at a draught. 'That's my
      way,' repeated Mr. Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      Most public characters have their failings; and the truth is that Mr
      Snevellicci was a little addicted to drinking; or, if the whole truth must
      be told, that he was scarcely ever sober. He knew in his cups three
      distinct stages of intoxication,&mdash;the dignified&mdash;the quarrelsome&mdash;the
      amorous. When professionally engaged he never got beyond the dignified; in
      private circles he went through all three, passing from one to another
      with a rapidity of transition often rather perplexing to those who had not
      the honour of his acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus Mr. Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed another glassful than he
      smiled upon all present in happy forgetfulness of having exhibited
      symptoms of pugnacity, and proposed 'The ladies! Bless their hearts!' in a
      most vivacious manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I love 'em,' said Mr. Snevellicci, looking round the table, 'I love 'em,
      every one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not every one,' reasoned Mr. Lillyvick, mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, every one,' repeated Mr. Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That would include the married ladies, you know,' said Mr. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I love them too, sir,' said Mr. Snevellicci.
    </p>
    <p>
      The collector looked into the surrounding faces with an aspect of grave
      astonishment, seeming to say, 'This is a nice man!' and appeared a little
      surprised that Mrs. Lillyvick's manner yielded no evidences of horror and
      indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One good turn deserves another,' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I love them and
      they love me.' And as if this avowal were not made in sufficient disregard
      and defiance of all moral obligations, what did Mr. Snevellicci do? He
      winked&mdash;winked openly and undisguisedly; winked with his right eye&mdash;upon
      Henrietta Lillyvick!
    </p>
    <p>
      The collector fell back in his chair in the intensity of his astonishment.
      If anybody had winked at her as Henrietta Petowker, it would have been
      indecorous in the last degree; but as Mrs. Lillyvick! While he thought of
      it in a cold perspiration, and wondered whether it was possible that he
      could be dreaming, Mr. Snevellicci repeated the wink, and drinking to Mrs
      Lillyvick in dumb show, actually blew her a kiss! Mr. Lillyvick left his
      chair, walked straight up to the other end of the table, and fell upon him&mdash;literally
      fell upon him&mdash;instantaneously. Mr. Lillyvick was no light weight, and
      consequently when he fell upon Mr. Snevellicci, Mr. Snevellicci fell under
      the table. Mr. Lillyvick followed him, and the ladies screamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter with the men! Are they mad?' cried Nicholas, diving
      under the table, dragging up the collector by main force, and thrusting
      him, all doubled up, into a chair, as if he had been a stuffed figure.
      'What do you mean to do? What do you want to do? What is the matter with
      you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike had performed the same
      office for Mr. Snevellicci, who now regarded his late adversary in tipsy
      amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look here, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, pointing to his astonished wife,
      'here is purity and elegance combined, whose feelings have been outraged&mdash;violated,
      sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lor, what nonsense he talks!' exclaimed Mrs. Lillyvick in answer to the
      inquiring look of Nicholas. 'Nobody has said anything to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Said, Henrietta!' cried the collector. 'Didn't I see him&mdash;' Mr
      Lillyvick couldn't bring himself to utter the word, but he counterfeited
      the motion of the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' cried Mrs. Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose nobody is ever to look at me?
      A pretty thing to be married indeed, if that was law!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You didn't mind it?' cried the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind it!' repeated Mrs. Lillyvick contemptuously. 'You ought to go down on
      your knees and beg everybody's pardon, that you ought.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pardon, my dear?' said the dismayed collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, and mine first,' replied Mrs. Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose I ain't the
      best judge of what's proper and what's improper?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' cried all the ladies. 'Do you suppose <i>we</i> shouldn't be the
      first to speak, if there was anything that ought to be taken notice of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you suppose <i>they </i>don't know, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa,
      pulling up his collar, and muttering something about a punching of heads,
      and being only withheld by considerations of age. With which Miss
      Snevellicci's papa looked steadily and sternly at Mr. Lillyvick for some
      seconds, and then rising deliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies
      all round, beginning with Mrs. Lillyvick.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unhappy collector looked piteously at his wife, as if to see whether
      there was any one trait of Miss Petowker left in Mrs. Lillyvick, and
      finding too surely that there was not, begged pardon of all the company
      with great humility, and sat down such a crest-fallen, dispirited,
      disenchanted man, that despite all his selfishness and dotage, he was
      quite an object of compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Snevellicci's papa being greatly exalted by this triumph, and
      incontestable proof of his popularity with the fair sex, quickly grew
      convivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering more than one song of no
      inconsiderable length, and regaling the social circle between-whiles with
      recollections of divers splendid women who had been supposed to entertain
      a passion for himself, several of whom he toasted by name, taking occasion
      to remark at the same time that if he had been a little more alive to his
      own interest, he might have been rolling at that moment in his
      chariot-and-four. These reminiscences appeared to awaken no very torturing
      pangs in the breast of Mrs. Snevellicci, who was sufficiently occupied in
      descanting to Nicholas upon the manifold accomplishments and merits of her
      daughter. Nor was the young lady herself at all behind-hand in displaying
      her choicest allurements; but these, heightened as they were by the
      artifices of Miss Ledrook, had no effect whatever in increasing the
      attentions of Nicholas, who, with the precedent of Miss Squeers still
      fresh in his memory, steadily resisted every fascination, and placed so
      strict a guard upon his behaviour that when he had taken his leave the
      ladies were unanimous in pronouncing him quite a monster of insensibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day the posters appeared in due course, and the public were informed,
      in all the colours of the rainbow, and in letters afflicted with every
      possible variation of spinal deformity, how that Mr. Johnson would have the
      honour of making his last appearance that evening, and how that an early
      application for places was requested, in consequence of the extraordinary
      overflow attendant on his performances,&mdash;it being a remarkable fact
      in theatrical history, but one long since established beyond dispute, that
      it is a hopeless endeavour to attract people to a theatre unless they can
      be first brought to believe that they will never get into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering the theatre at night, to
      account for the unusual perturbation and excitement visible in the
      countenances of all the company, but he was not long in doubt as to the
      cause, for before he could make any inquiry respecting it Mr. Crummles
      approached, and in an agitated tone of voice, informed him that there was
      a London manager in the boxes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,' said Crummles, dragging
      Nicholas to the little hole in the curtain that he might look through at
      the London manager. 'I have not the smallest doubt it's the fame of the
      phenomenon&mdash;that's the man; him in the great-coat and no
      shirt-collar. She shall have ten pound a week, Johnson; she shall not
      appear on the London boards for a farthing less. They shan't engage her
      either, unless they engage Mrs. Crummles too&mdash;twenty pound a week for
      the pair; or I'll tell you what, I'll throw in myself and the two boys,
      and they shall have the family for thirty. I can't say fairer than that.
      They must take us all, if none of us will go without the others. That's
      the way some of the London people do, and it always answers. Thirty pound
      a week&mdash;it's too cheap, Johnson. It's dirt cheap.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas replied, that it certainly was; and Mr. Vincent Crummles taking
      several huge pinches of snuff to compose his feelings, hurried away to
      tell Mrs. Crummles that he had quite settled the only terms that could be
      accepted, and had resolved not to abate one single farthing.
    </p>
    <p>
      When everybody was dressed and the curtain went up, the excitement
      occasioned by the presence of the London manager increased a
      thousand-fold. Everybody happened to know that the London manager had come
      down specially to witness his or her own performance, and all were in a
      flutter of anxiety and expectation. Some of those who were not on in the
      first scene, hurried to the wings, and there stretched their necks to have
      a peep at him; others stole up into the two little private boxes over the
      stage-doors, and from that position reconnoitred the London manager. Once
      the London manager was seen to smile&mdash;he smiled at the comic
      countryman's pretending to catch a blue-bottle, while Mrs. Crummles was
      making her greatest effect. 'Very good, my fine fellow,' said Mr. Crummles,
      shaking his fist at the comic countryman when he came off, 'you leave this
      company next Saturday night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the same way, everybody who was on the stage beheld no audience but one
      individual; everybody played to the London manager. When Mr. Lenville in a
      sudden burst of passion called the emperor a miscreant, and then biting
      his glove, said, 'But I must dissemble,' instead of looking gloomily at
      the boards and so waiting for his cue, as is proper in such cases, he kept
      his eye fixed upon the London manager. When Miss Bravassa sang her song at
      her lover, who according to custom stood ready to shake hands with her
      between the verses, they looked, not at each other, but at the London
      manager. Mr. Crummles died point blank at him; and when the two guards came
      in to take the body off after a very hard death, it was seen to open its
      eyes and glance at the London manager. At length the London manager was
      discovered to be asleep, and shortly after that he woke up and went away,
      whereupon all the company fell foul of the unhappy comic countryman,
      declaring that his buffoonery was the sole cause; and Mr. Crummles said,
      that he had put up with it a long time, but that he really couldn't stand
      it any longer, and therefore would feel obliged by his looking out for
      another engagement.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was the occasion of much amusement to Nicholas, whose only
      feeling upon the subject was one of sincere satisfaction that the great
      man went away before he appeared. He went through his part in the two last
      pieces as briskly as he could, and having been received with unbounded
      favour and unprecedented applause&mdash;so said the bills for next day,
      which had been printed an hour or two before&mdash;he took Smike's arm and
      walked home to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the post next morning came a letter from Newman Noggs, very inky,
      very short, very dirty, very small, and very mysterious, urging Nicholas
      to return to London instantly; not to lose an instant; to be there that
      night if possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will,' said Nicholas. 'Heaven knows I have remained here for the best,
      and sorely against my own will; but even now I may have dallied too long.
      What can have happened? Smike, my good fellow, here&mdash;take my purse.
      Put our things together, and pay what little debts we owe&mdash;quick, and
      we shall be in time for the morning coach. I will only tell them that we
      are going, and will return to you immediately.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he took his hat, and hurrying away to the lodgings of Mr
      Crummles, applied his hand to the knocker with such hearty good-will, that
      he awakened that gentleman, who was still in bed, and caused Mr. Bulph the
      pilot to take his morning's pipe very nearly out of his mouth in the
      extremity of his surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door being opened, Nicholas ran upstairs without any ceremony, and
      bursting into the darkened sitting-room on the one-pair front, found that
      the two Master Crummleses had sprung out of the sofa-bedstead and were
      putting on their clothes with great rapidity, under the impression that it
      was the middle of the night, and the next house was on fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before he could undeceive them, Mr. Crummles came down in a flannel gown
      and nightcap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that circumstances had
      occurred which rendered it necessary for him to repair to London
      immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So goodbye,' said Nicholas; 'goodbye, goodbye.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He was half-way downstairs before Mr. Crummles had sufficiently recovered
      his surprise to gasp out something about the posters.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help it,' replied Nicholas. 'Set whatever I may have earned this
      week against them, or if that will not repay you, say at once what will.
      Quick, quick.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll cry quits about that,' returned Crummles. 'But can't we have one
      last night more?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not an hour&mdash;not a minute,' replied Nicholas, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you stop to say something to Mrs. Crummles?' asked the manager,
      following him down to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't stop if it were to prolong my life a score of years,' rejoined
      Nicholas. 'Here, take my hand, and with it my hearty thanks.&mdash;Oh!
      that I should have been fooling here!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Accompanying these words with an impatient stamp upon the ground, he tore
      himself from the manager's detaining grasp, and darting rapidly down the
      street was out of sight in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, dear me,' said Mr. Crummles, looking wistfully towards the point
      at which he had just disappeared; 'if he only acted like that, what a deal
      of money he'd draw! He should have kept upon this circuit; he'd have been
      very useful to me. But he don't know what's good for him. He is an
      impetuous youth. Young men are rash, very rash.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Crummles being in a moralising mood, might possibly have moralised for
      some minutes longer if he had not mechanically put his hand towards his
      waistcoat pocket, where he was accustomed to keep his snuff. The absence
      of any pocket at all in the usual direction, suddenly recalled to his
      recollection the fact that he had no waistcoat on; and this leading him to
      a contemplation of the extreme scantiness of his attire, he shut the door
      abruptly, and retired upstairs with great precipitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike had made good speed while Nicholas was absent, and with his help
      everything was soon ready for their departure. They scarcely stopped to
      take a morsel of breakfast, and in less than half an hour arrived at the
      coach-office: quite out of breath with the haste they had made to reach it
      in time. There were yet a few minutes to spare, so, having secured the
      places, Nicholas hurried into a slopseller's hard by, and bought Smike a
      great-coat. It would have been rather large for a substantial yeoman, but
      the shopman averring (and with considerable truth) that it was a most
      uncommon fit, Nicholas would have purchased it in his impatience if it had
      been twice the size.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they hurried up to the coach, which was now in the open street and all
      ready for starting, Nicholas was not a little astonished to find himself
      suddenly clutched in a close and violent embrace, which nearly took him
      off his legs; nor was his amazement at all lessened by hearing the voice
      of Mr. Crummles exclaim, 'It is he&mdash;my friend, my friend!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless my heart,' cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager's arms, 'what
      are you about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The manager made no reply, but strained him to his breast again,
      exclaiming as he did so, 'Farewell, my noble, my lion-hearted boy!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0427m.jpg" alt="0427m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0427.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      In fact, Mr. Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity for
      professional display, had turned out for the express purpose of taking a
      public farewell of Nicholas; and to render it the more imposing, he was
      now, to that young gentleman's most profound annoyance, inflicting upon
      him a rapid succession of stage embraces, which, as everybody knows, are
      performed by the embracer's laying his or her chin on the shoulder of the
      object of affection, and looking over it. This Mr. Crummles did in the
      highest style of melodrama, pouring forth at the same time all the most
      dismal forms of farewell he could think of, out of the stock pieces. Nor
      was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was going through a similar
      ceremony with Smike; while Master Percy Crummles, with a very little
      second-hand camlet cloak, worn theatrically over his left shoulder, stood
      by, in the attitude of an attendant officer, waiting to convey the two
      victims to the scaffold.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lookers-on laughed very heartily, and as it was as well to put a good
      face upon the matter, Nicholas laughed too when he had succeeded in
      disengaging himself; and rescuing the astonished Smike, climbed up to the
      coach roof after him, and kissed his hand in honour of the absent Mrs
      Crummles as they rolled away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 31
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span><i>f Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the success
            or failure of which will appear in the Sequel</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In blissful unconsciousness that his nephew was hastening at the utmost
      speed of four good horses towards his sphere of action, and that every
      passing minute diminished the distance between them, Ralph Nickleby sat
      that morning occupied in his customary avocations, and yet unable to
      prevent his thoughts wandering from time to time back to the interview
      which had taken place between himself and his niece on the previous day.
      At such intervals, after a few moments of abstraction, Ralph would mutter
      some peevish interjection, and apply himself with renewed steadiness of
      purpose to the ledger before him, but again and again the same train of
      thought came back despite all his efforts to prevent it, confusing him in
      his calculations, and utterly distracting his attention from the figures
      over which he bent. At length Ralph laid down his pen, and threw himself
      back in his chair as though he had made up his mind to allow the obtrusive
      current of reflection to take its own course, and, by giving it full
      scope, to rid himself of it effectually.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not a man to be moved by a pretty face,' muttered Ralph sternly.
      'There is a grinning skull beneath it, and men like me who look and work
      below the surface see that, and not its delicate covering. And yet I
      almost like the girl, or should if she had been less proudly and
      squeamishly brought up. If the boy were drowned or hanged, and the mother
      dead, this house should be her home. I wish they were, with all my soul.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the deadly hatred which Ralph felt towards Nicholas, and
      the bitter contempt with which he sneered at poor Mrs. Nickleby&mdash;notwithstanding
      the baseness with which he had behaved, and was then behaving, and would
      behave again if his interest prompted him, towards Kate herself&mdash;still
      there was, strange though it may seem, something humanising and even
      gentle in his thoughts at that moment. He thought of what his home might
      be if Kate were there; he placed her in the empty chair, looked upon her,
      heard her speak; he felt again upon his arm the gentle pressure of the
      trembling hand; he strewed his costly rooms with the hundred silent tokens
      of feminine presence and occupation; he came back again to the cold
      fireside and the silent dreary splendour; and in that one glimpse of a
      better nature, born as it was in selfish thoughts, the rich man felt
      himself friendless, childless, and alone. Gold, for the instant, lost its
      lustre in his eyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which
      it could never purchase.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very slight circumstance was sufficient to banish such reflections from
      the mind of such a man. As Ralph looked vacantly out across the yard
      towards the window of the other office, he became suddenly aware of the
      earnest observation of Newman Noggs, who, with his red nose almost
      touching the glass, feigned to be mending a pen with a rusty fragment of a
      knife, but was in reality staring at his employer with a countenance of
      the closest and most eager scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph exchanged his dreamy posture for his accustomed business attitude:
      the face of Newman disappeared, and the train of thought took to flight,
      all simultaneously, and in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few minutes, Ralph rang his bell. Newman answered the summons, and
      Ralph raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if he almost feared to
      read there, a knowledge of his recent thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was not the smallest speculation, however, in the countenance of
      Newman Noggs. If it be possible to imagine a man, with two eyes in his
      head, and both wide open, looking in no direction whatever, and seeing
      nothing, Newman appeared to be that man while Ralph Nickleby regarded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How now?' growled Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Newman, throwing some intelligence into his eyes all at once,
      and dropping them on his master, 'I thought you rang.' With which laconic
      remark Newman turned round and hobbled away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman stopped; not at all disconcerted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did ring.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew you did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why do you offer to go if you know that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you rang to say you didn't ring,' replied Newman. 'You often
      do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How dare you pry, and peer, and stare at me, sirrah?' demanded Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stare!' cried Newman, 'at <i>you</i>! Ha, ha!' which was all the explanation
      Newman deigned to offer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be careful, sir,' said Ralph, looking steadily at him. 'Let me have no
      drunken fooling here. Do you see this parcel?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's big enough,' rejoined Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Carry it into the city; to Cross, in Broad Street, and leave it there&mdash;quick.
      Do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman gave a dogged kind of nod to express an affirmative reply, and,
      leaving the room for a few seconds, returned with his hat. Having made
      various ineffective attempts to fit the parcel (which was some two feet
      square) into the crown thereof, Newman took it under his arm, and after
      putting on his fingerless gloves with great precision and nicety, keeping
      his eyes fixed upon Mr. Ralph Nickleby all the time, he adjusted his hat
      upon his head with as much care, real or pretended, as if it were a
      bran-new one of the most expensive quality, and at last departed on his
      errand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He executed his commission with great promptitude and dispatch, only
      calling at one public-house for half a minute, and even that might be said
      to be in his way, for he went in at one door and came out at the other;
      but as he returned and had got so far homewards as the Strand, Newman
      began to loiter with the uncertain air of a man who has not quite made up
      his mind whether to halt or go straight forwards. After a very short
      consideration, the former inclination prevailed, and making towards the
      point he had had in his mind, Newman knocked a modest double knock, or
      rather a nervous single one, at Miss La Creevy's door.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was opened by a strange servant, on whom the odd figure of the visitor
      did not appear to make the most favourable impression possible, inasmuch
      as she no sooner saw him than she very nearly closed it, and placing
      herself in the narrow gap, inquired what he wanted. But Newman merely
      uttering the monosyllable 'Noggs,' as if it were some cabalistic word, at
      sound of which bolts would fly back and doors open, pushed briskly past
      and gained the door of Miss La Creevy's sitting-room, before the
      astonished servant could offer any opposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Walk in if you please,' said Miss La Creevy in reply to the sound of
      Newman's knuckles; and in he walked accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless us!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting as Newman bolted in; 'what did
      you want, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have forgotten me,' said Newman, with an inclination of the head. 'I
      wonder at that. That nobody should remember me who knew me in other days,
      is natural enough; but there are few people who, seeing me once, forget me
      <i>now</i>.' He glanced, as he spoke, at his shabby clothes and paralytic limb,
      and slightly shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did forget you, I declare,' said Miss La Creevy, rising to receive
      Newman, who met her half-way, 'and I am ashamed of myself for doing so;
      for you are a kind, good creature, Mr. Noggs. Sit down and tell me all
      about Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing! I haven't seen her for this many a
      week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's that?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, the truth is, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy, 'that I have been out
      on a visit&mdash;the first visit I have made for fifteen years.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is a long time,' said Newman, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So it is a very long time to look back upon in years, though, somehow or
      other, thank Heaven, the solitary days roll away peacefully and happily
      enough,' replied the miniature painter. 'I have a brother, Mr. Noggs&mdash;the
      only relation I have&mdash;and all that time I never saw him once. Not
      that we ever quarrelled, but he was apprenticed down in the country, and
      he got married there; and new ties and affections springing up about him,
      he forgot a poor little woman like me, as it was very reasonable he
      should, you know. Don't suppose that I complain about that, because I
      always said to myself, "It is very natural; poor dear John is making his
      way in the world, and has a wife to tell his cares and troubles to, and
      children now to play about him, so God bless him and them, and send we may
      all meet together one day where we shall part no more." But what do you
      think, Mr. Noggs,' said the miniature painter, brightening up and clapping
      her hands, 'of that very same brother coming up to London at last, and
      never resting till he found me out; what do you think of his coming here
      and sitting down in that very chair, and crying like a child because he
      was so glad to see me&mdash;what do you think of his insisting on taking
      me down all the way into the country to his own house (quite a sumptuous
      place, Mr. Noggs, with a large garden and I don't know how many fields, and
      a man in livery waiting at table, and cows and horses and pigs and I don't
      know what besides), and making me stay a whole month, and pressing me to
      stop there all my life&mdash;yes, all my life&mdash;and so did his wife,
      and so did the children&mdash;and there were four of them, and one, the
      eldest girl of all, they&mdash;they had named her after me eight good
      years before, they had indeed. I never was so happy; in all my life I
      never was!' The worthy soul hid her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed
      aloud; for it was the first opportunity she had had of unburdening her
      heart, and it would have its way.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But bless my life,' said Miss La Creevy, wiping her eyes after a short
      pause, and cramming her handkerchief into her pocket with great bustle and
      dispatch; 'what a foolish creature I must seem to you, Mr. Noggs! I
      shouldn't have said anything about it, only I wanted to explain to you how
      it was I hadn't seen Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you seen the old lady?' asked Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You mean Mrs. Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy. 'Then I tell you what, Mr
      Noggs, if you want to keep in the good books in that quarter, you had
      better not call her the old lady any more, for I suspect she wouldn't be
      best pleased to hear you. Yes, I went there the night before last, but she
      was quite on the high ropes about something, and was so grand and
      mysterious, that I couldn't make anything of her: so, to tell you the
      truth, I took it into my head to be grand too, and came away in state. I
      thought she would have come round again before this, but she hasn't been
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'About Miss Nickleby&mdash;' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, she was here twice while I was away,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'I
      was afraid she mightn't like to have me calling on her among those great
      folks in what's-its-name Place, so I thought I'd wait a day or two, and if
      I didn't see her, write.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' exclaimed Newman, cracking his fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'However, I want to hear all the news about them from you,' said Miss La
      Creevy. 'How is the old rough and tough monster of Golden Square? Well, of
      course; such people always are. I don't mean how is he in health, but how
      is he going on: how is he behaving himself?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Damn him!' cried Newman, dashing his cherished hat on the floor; 'like a
      false hound.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gracious, Mr. Noggs, you quite terrify me!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy,
      turning pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should have spoilt his features yesterday afternoon if I could have
      afforded it,' said Newman, moving restlessly about, and shaking his fist
      at a portrait of Mr. Canning over the mantelpiece. 'I was very near it. I
      was obliged to put my hands in my pockets, and keep 'em there very tight.
      I shall do it some day in that little back-parlour, I know I shall. I
      should have done it before now, if I hadn't been afraid of making bad
      worse. I shall double-lock myself in with him and have it out before I
      die, I'm quite certain of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall scream if you don't compose yourself, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La
      Creevy; 'I'm sure I shan't be able to help it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind,' rejoined Newman, darting violently to and fro. 'He's coming
      up tonight: I wrote to tell him. He little thinks I know; he little thinks
      I care. Cunning scoundrel! he don't think that. Not he, not he. Never
      mind, I'll thwart him&mdash;I, Newman Noggs. Ho, ho, the rascal!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of fury, Newman Noggs jerked
      himself about the room with the most eccentric motion ever beheld in a
      human being: now sparring at the little miniatures on the wall, and now
      giving himself violent thumps on the head, as if to heighten the delusion,
      until he sank down in his former seat quite breathless and exhausted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There,' said Newman, picking up his hat; 'that's done me good. Now I'm
      better, and I'll tell you all about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It took some little time to reassure Miss La Creevy, who had been almost
      frightened out of her senses by this remarkable demonstration; but that
      done, Newman faithfully related all that had passed in the interview
      between Kate and her uncle, prefacing his narrative with a statement of
      his previous suspicions on the subject, and his reasons for forming them;
      and concluding with a communication of the step he had taken in secretly
      writing to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though little Miss La Creevy's indignation was not so singularly displayed
      as Newman's, it was scarcely inferior in violence and intensity. Indeed,
      if Ralph Nickleby had happened to make his appearance in the room at that
      moment, there is some doubt whether he would not have found Miss La Creevy
      a more dangerous opponent than even Newman Noggs himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'God forgive me for saying so,' said Miss La Creevy, as a wind-up to all
      her expressions of anger, 'but I really feel as if I could stick this into
      him with pleasure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, it being in fact
      nothing more nor less than a black-lead pencil; but discovering her
      mistake, the little portrait painter exchanged it for a mother-of-pearl
      fruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperate thoughts, she made a
      lunge as she spoke, which would have scarcely disturbed the crumb of a
      half-quartern loaf.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She won't stop where she is after tonight,' said Newman. 'That's a
      comfort.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'she should have left there, weeks ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;If we had known of this,' rejoined Newman. 'But we didn't. Nobody
      could properly interfere but her mother or brother. The mother's weak&mdash;poor
      thing&mdash;weak. The dear young man will be here tonight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Heart alive!' cried Miss La Creevy. 'He will do something desperate, Mr
      Noggs, if you tell him all at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtful look.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Depend upon it,' said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, 'if you are not very
      careful in breaking out the truth to him, he will do some violence upon
      his uncle or one of these men that will bring some terrible calamity upon
      his own head, and grief and sorrow to us all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never thought of that,' rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more
      and more. 'I came to ask you to receive his sister in case he brought her
      here, but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this is a matter of much greater importance,' interrupted Miss La
      Creevy; 'that you might have been sure of before you came, but the end of
      this, nobody can foresee, unless you are very guarded and careful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What <i>can </i>I do?' cried Newman, scratching his head with an air of great
      vexation and perplexity. 'If he was to talk of pistoling 'em all, I should
      be obliged to say, "Certainly&mdash;serve 'em right."'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearing this, and
      instantly set about extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he would
      use his utmost endeavours to pacify the wrath of Nicholas; which, after
      some demur, was conceded. They then consulted together on the safest and
      surest mode of communicating to him the circumstances which had rendered
      his presence necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,' said Miss
      La Creevy. 'That is of the greatest consequence. He must not be told until
      late at night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But he'll be in town between six and seven this evening,' replied Newman.
      'I can't keep it from him when he asks me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you must go out, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy. 'You can easily
      have been kept away by business, and must not return till nearly
      midnight.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then he will come straight here,' retorted Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I suppose,' observed Miss La Creevy; 'but he won't find me at home,
      for I'll go straight to the city the instant you leave me, make up matters
      with Mrs. Nickleby, and take her away to the theatre, so that he may not
      even know where his sister lives.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon further discussion, this appeared the safest and most feasible mode
      of proceeding that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it was finally
      determined that matters should be so arranged, and Newman, after listening
      to many supplementary cautions and entreaties, took his leave of Miss La
      Creevy and trudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as he went upon a
      vast number of possibilities and impossibilities which crowded upon his
      brain, and arose out of the conversation that had just terminated.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 32
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span><i>elating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable
            Proceedings to which it gives rise</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'London at last!' cried Nicholas, throwing back his greatcoat and rousing
      Smike from a long nap. 'It seemed to me as though we should never reach
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,' observed the coachman,
      looking over his shoulder at Nicholas with no very pleasant expression of
      countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, I know that,' was the reply; 'but I have been very anxious to be at
      my journey's end, and that makes the way seem long.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' remarked the coachman, 'if the way seemed long with such cattle as
      you've sat behind, you <i>must </i>have been most uncommon anxious;' and so
      saying, he let out his whip-lash and touched up a little boy on the calves
      of his legs by way of emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      They rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street of London, now
      displaying long double rows of brightly-burning lamps, dotted here and
      there with the chemists' glaring lights, and illuminated besides with the
      brilliant flood that streamed from the windows of the shops, where
      sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of the richest colours, the most
      inviting delicacies, and most sumptuous articles of luxurious ornament,
      succeeded each other in rich and glittering profusion. Streams of people
      apparently without end poured on and on, jostling each other in the crowd
      and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches that
      surrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes and makes,
      mingled up together in one moving mass, like running water, lent their
      ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they dashed by the quickly-changing and ever-varying objects, it was
      curious to observe in what a strange procession they passed before the
      eye. Emporiums of splendid dresses, the materials brought from every
      quarter of the world; tempting stores of everything to stimulate and
      pamper the sated appetite and give new relish to the oft-repeated feast;
      vessels of burnished gold and silver, wrought into every exquisite form of
      vase, and dish, and goblet; guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines of
      destruction; screws and irons for the crooked, clothes for the newly-born,
      drugs for the sick, coffins for the dead, and churchyards for the buried&mdash;all
      these jumbled each with the other and flocking side by side, seemed to
      flit by in motley dance like the fantastic groups of the old Dutch
      painter, and with the same stern moral for the unheeding restless crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor were there wanting objects in the crowd itself to give new point and
      purpose to the shifting scene. The rags of the squalid ballad-singer
      fluttered in the rich light that showed the goldsmith's treasures, pale
      and pinched-up faces hovered about the windows where was tempting food,
      hungry eyes wandered over the profusion guarded by one thin sheet of
      brittle glass&mdash;an iron wall to them; half-naked shivering figures
      stopped to gaze at Chinese shawls and golden stuffs of India. There was a
      christening party at the largest coffin-maker's and a funeral hatchment
      had stopped some great improvements in the bravest mansion. Life and death
      went hand in hand; wealth and poverty stood side by side; repletion and
      starvation laid them down together.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was London; and the old country lady inside, who had put her head
      out of the coach-window a mile or two this side Kingston, and cried out to
      the driver that she was sure he must have passed it and forgotten to set
      her down, was satisfied at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike at the inn where the coach
      stopped, and repaired, without the delay of another moment, to the
      lodgings of Newman Noggs; for his anxiety and impatience had increased
      with every succeeding minute, and were almost beyond control.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a fire in Newman's garret; and a candle had been left burning;
      the floor was cleanly swept, the room was as comfortably arranged as such
      a room could be, and meat and drink were placed in order upon the table.
      Everything bespoke the affectionate care and attention of Newman Noggs,
      but Newman himself was not there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know what time he will be home?' inquired Nicholas, tapping at the
      door of Newman's front neighbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, Mr. Johnson!' said Crowl, presenting himself. 'Welcome, sir. How well
      you're looking! I never could have believed&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pardon me,' interposed Nicholas. 'My question&mdash;I am extremely
      anxious to know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, he has a troublesome affair of business,' replied Crowl, 'and will
      not be home before twelve o'clock. He was very unwilling to go, I can tell
      you, but there was no help for it. However, he left word that you were to
      make yourself comfortable till he came back, and that I was to entertain
      you, which I shall be very glad to do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In proof of his extreme readiness to exert himself for the general
      entertainment, Mr. Crowl drew a chair to the table as he spoke, and helping
      himself plentifully to the cold meat, invited Nicholas and Smike to follow
      his example.
    </p>
    <p>
      Disappointed and uneasy, Nicholas could touch no food, so, after he had
      seen Smike comfortably established at the table, he walked out (despite a
      great many dissuasions uttered by Mr. Crowl with his mouth full), and left
      Smike to detain Newman in case he returned first.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas betook himself straight to her
      house. Finding her from home, he debated within himself for some time
      whether he should go to his mother's residence, and so compromise her with
      Ralph Nickleby. Fully persuaded, however, that Newman would not have
      solicited him to return unless there was some strong reason which required
      his presence at home, he resolved to go there, and hastened eastwards with
      all speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby would not be at home, the girl said, until past twelve, or
      later. She believed Miss Nickleby was well, but she didn't live at home
      now, nor did she come home except very seldom. She couldn't say where she
      was stopping, but it was not at Madame Mantalini's. She was sure of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his heart beating violently, and apprehending he knew not what
      disaster, Nicholas returned to where he had left Smike. Newman had not
      been home. He wouldn't be, till twelve o'clock; there was no chance of it.
      Was there no possibility of sending to fetch him if it were only for an
      instant, or forwarding to him one line of writing to which he might return
      a verbal reply? That was quite impracticable. He was not at Golden Square,
      and probably had been sent to execute some commission at a distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas tried to remain quietly where he was, but he felt so nervous and
      excited that he could not sit still. He seemed to be losing time unless he
      was moving. It was an absurd fancy, he knew, but he was wholly unable to
      resist it. So, he took up his hat and rambled out again.
    </p>
    <p>
      He strolled westward this time, pacing the long streets with hurried
      footsteps, and agitated by a thousand misgivings and apprehensions which
      he could not overcome. He passed into Hyde Park, now silent and deserted,
      and increased his rate of walking as if in the hope of leaving his
      thoughts behind. They crowded upon him more thickly, however, now there
      were no passing objects to attract his attention; and the one idea was
      always uppermost, that some stroke of ill-fortune must have occurred so
      calamitous in its nature that all were fearful of disclosing it to him.
      The old question arose again and again&mdash;What could it be? Nicholas
      walked till he was weary, but was not one bit the wiser; and indeed he
      came out of the Park at last a great deal more confused and perplexed than
      when he went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink since early in the morning,
      and felt quite worn out and exhausted. As he returned languidly towards
      the point from which he had started, along one of the thoroughfares which
      lie between Park Lane and Bond Street, he passed a handsome hotel, before
      which he stopped mechanically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'An expensive place, I dare say,' thought Nicholas; 'but a pint of wine
      and a biscuit are no great debauch wherever they are had. And yet I don't
      know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked on a few steps, but looking wistfully down the long vista of
      gas-lamps before him, and thinking how long it would take to reach the end
      of it and being besides in that kind of mood in which a man is most
      disposed to yield to his first impulse&mdash;and being, besides, strongly
      attracted to the hotel, in part by curiosity, and in part by some odd
      mixture of feelings which he would have been troubled to define&mdash;Nicholas
      turned back again, and walked into the coffee-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very handsomely furnished. The walls were ornamented with the
      choicest specimens of French paper, enriched with a gilded cornice of
      elegant design. The floor was covered with a rich carpet; and two superb
      mirrors, one above the chimneypiece and one at the opposite end of the
      room reaching from floor to ceiling, multiplied the other beauties and
      added new ones of their own to enhance the general effect. There was a
      rather noisy party of four gentlemen in a box by the fire-place, and only
      two other persons present&mdash;both elderly gentlemen, and both alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Observing all this in the first comprehensive glance with which a stranger
      surveys a place that is new to him, Nicholas sat himself down in the box
      next to the noisy party, with his back towards them, and postponing his
      order for a pint of claret until such time as the waiter and one of the
      elderly gentlemen should have settled a disputed question relative to the
      price of an item in the bill of fare, took up a newspaper and began to
      read.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not read twenty lines, and was in truth himself dozing, when he was
      startled by the mention of his sister's name. 'Little Kate Nickleby' were
      the words that caught his ear. He raised his head in amazement, and as he
      did so, saw by the reflection in the opposite glass, that two of the party
      behind him had risen and were standing before the fire. 'It must have come
      from one of them,' thought Nicholas. He waited to hear more with a
      countenance of some indignation, for the tone of speech had been anything
      but respectful, and the appearance of the individual whom he presumed to
      have been the speaker was coarse and swaggering.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0440m.jpg" alt="0440m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0440.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      This person&mdash;so Nicholas observed in the same glance at the mirror
      which had enabled him to see his face&mdash;was standing with his back to
      the fire conversing with a younger man, who stood with his back to the
      company, wore his hat, and was adjusting his shirt-collar by the aid of
      the glass. They spoke in whispers, now and then bursting into a loud
      laugh, but Nicholas could catch no repetition of the words, nor anything
      sounding at all like the words, which had attracted his attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the two resumed their seats, and more wine being ordered, the
      party grew louder in their mirth. Still there was no reference made to
      anybody with whom he was acquainted, and Nicholas became persuaded that
      his excited fancy had either imagined the sounds altogether, or converted
      some other words into the name which had been so much in his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is remarkable too,' thought Nicholas: 'if it had been "Kate" or "Kate
      Nickleby," I should not have been so much surprised: but "little Kate
      Nickleby!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      The wine coming at the moment prevented his finishing the sentence. He
      swallowed a glassful and took up the paper again. At that instant&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      'Little Kate Nickleby!' cried the voice behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was right,' muttered Nicholas as the paper fell from his hand. 'And it
      was the man I supposed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As there was a proper objection to drinking her in heel-taps,' said the
      voice, 'we'll give her the first glass in the new magnum. Little Kate
      Nickleby!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Little Kate Nickleby,' cried the other three. And the glasses were set
      down empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Keenly alive to the tone and manner of this slight and careless mention of
      his sister's name in a public place, Nicholas fired at once; but he kept
      himself quiet by a great effort, and did not even turn his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The jade!' said the same voice which had spoken before. 'She's a true
      Nickleby&mdash;a worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph&mdash;she hangs
      back to be more sought after&mdash;so does he; nothing to be got out of
      Ralph unless you follow him up, and then the money comes doubly welcome,
      and the bargain doubly hard, for you're impatient and he isn't. Oh!
      infernal cunning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Infernal cunning,' echoed two voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Egad that's true,' returned the other voice. 'Ha, ha, ha! Poor deyvle!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me have a word with you, sir,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With me, sir?' retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said with you,' replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty, for
      his passion choked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising his
      wine-glass to his lips, and looking round upon his friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?' said
      Nicholas sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him either
      name his business or leave the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, sir,' said Nicholas; 'my business you will guess.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your name and address?' said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion
      kindled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall give you neither,' replied Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a dead silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;and utterly
      useless one&mdash;for I will find it out, nor leave him until I have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his companions,
      said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!' said Nicholas, 'and shall be
      proclaimed so to the world. I <i>will </i>know you; I will follow you home if you
      walk the streets till morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and, summoning
      the waiter, paid his bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always spoken
      together, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, you sir,' cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; 'do you know
      <i>that </i>person's name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Name, sir? No, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;do you hear me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised the
      matter by sticking the card in the chimney-glass. Having done this, he
      retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;as if to save himself from
      a repetition of them&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man did so, and held the door open.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't wait,' said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the apron, and
      jumped out to the horse's head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you make yourself known to me?' asked Nicholas in a suppressed
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an oath.
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall be horsewhipped if you do,' returned Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are a villain,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are an errand-boy for aught I know,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To a proper champion&mdash;yes. To you&mdash;no,' returned Sir Mulberry,
      taking the reins in his hand. 'Stand out of the way, dog. William, let go
      her head.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;you shall not, I swear&mdash;till you
      have told me who you are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high-spirited animal and
      thorough-bred, plunged so violently that he could scarcely hold her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leave go, I tell you!' thundered his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you unclasp your hand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you tell me who you are?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;looking up, could discern the cabriolet whirled
      along the foot-pavement with frightful rapidity&mdash;then heard a loud
      cry, the smashing of some heavy body, and the breaking of glass&mdash;and
      then the crowd closed in in the distance, and he could see or hear no
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 33
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span><i>n which Mr. Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process,
            from all Commerce with his Relations</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I will, I will,' said Noggs. 'I'll tell you the whole truth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in great haste to see
      her,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My darling girl,' said Nicholas as he embraced her. 'How pale you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will leave you nowhere,' answered Nicholas&mdash;'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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why should I tell you what we know so well?' returned Kate soothingly.
      'Nicholas&mdash;dear Nicholas&mdash;how can you give way thus?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The quarter's notice,' said Mr. Wititterly, with the gravity of a man on
      the right side, 'is not yet half expired. Therefore&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With regard to the trifle of salary that is due,' said Mr. Wititterly, 'I
      will'&mdash;here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing&mdash;'I
      will&mdash;owe it to Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why don't you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he can possibly mean
      by it?' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;never.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor I, nor anybody else,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into the bargain,'
      added Miss La Creevy. 'Now, let me go with you downstairs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better take some rest,' returned Newman. 'You are fevered and
      ill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has the post come in?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Any other letters?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'One.' Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's this?' asked Ralph, taking up the key.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Left with the letter;&mdash;a boy brought them&mdash;quarter of an hour
      ago, or less.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 34
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span><i>herein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has
            been already made acquainted</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      '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,'&mdash;said
      Mr. Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he spoke, on Ralph
      Nickleby's scraper.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't hear the bell more than once,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,' said Mr. Mantalini,
      'as deaf as a demnition post.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We are alone,' returned Ralph, tartly. 'What do you want with me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good!' cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his teeth. 'What did I want! Yes.
      Ha, ha! Very good. <i>What </i>did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What <i>do</i> you want, man?' demanded Ralph, sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demnition discount,' returned Mr. Mantalini, with a grin, and shaking his
      head waggishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Money is scarce,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demd scarce, or I shouldn't want it,' interrupted Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;how many bills have you there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two,' returned Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the gross amount?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demd trifling&mdash;five-and-seventy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And the dates?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two months, and four.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll do them for you&mdash;mind, for <i>you</i>; I wouldn't for many people&mdash;for
      five-and-twenty pounds,' said Ralph, deliberately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh demmit!' cried Mr. Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably at
      this handsome proposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, that leaves you fifty,' retorted Ralph. 'What would you have? Let me
      see the names.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are so demd hard, Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit, Nickleby, can't you&mdash;' began Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Ralph, interrupting him. 'I can't. Will you take the money&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, you <i>are </i>here,' said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am ashamed of you,' said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ashamed&mdash;of <i>me</i>, 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which is entirely attributable,' said Madame, 'to the gross misconduct
      and most improper behaviour of Mr. Mantalini.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray don't call me to witness anything, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Settle it
      between yourselves, settle it between yourselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;my fixed
      intention, sir,' repeated Madame Mantalini, darting an angry look at her
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't talk of feelings, sir,' rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating herself,
      and turning her back upon him. 'You don't consider mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do not consider yours, my soul!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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,&mdash;'his extravagance is beyond all bounds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should scarcely have supposed it,' answered Ralph, sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trousers pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have made up my mind,' said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of impatience
      manifested themselves in Ralph's countenance, 'to allowance him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To do that, my joy?' inquired Mr. Mantalini, who did not seem to have
      caught the words.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0457m.jpg" alt="0457m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0457.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr. Mantalini closed his eyes and
      waited patiently till such time as he should wake up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very judicious arrangement,' observed Ralph with a sneer, 'if your
      husband will keep within it, ma'am&mdash;as no doubt he will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,' returned Madame Mantalini&mdash;still
      reproachfully, but in a softened tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature,' said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at the
      dreadful picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She calls me cruel&mdash;me&mdash;me&mdash;who for her sake will become a
      demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a
      thing,' replied Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,'
      reasoned Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want any sum,' replied her disconsolate husband; 'I shall require
      no demd allowance. I will be a body.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it will come soon enough,' thought Ralph; 'all love&mdash;bah! that I
      should use the cant of boys and girls&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you know, demmit?' asked Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;accidents
      are not miraculous events, when men live hard, and drive after dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whew!' cried Mr. Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. 'Then don't you know
      how it was?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit, you amaze me,' cried Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' snarled Ralph, clenching his fists and turning a livid white.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit, Nickleby, you're as great a tiger as he is,' said Mantalini,
      alarmed at these demonstrations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on,' cried Ralph. 'Tell me what you mean. What is this story? Who told
      you? Speak,' growled Ralph. 'Do you hear me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''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&mdash;flying all at once
      into such a blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never was, demmit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pshaw,' rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. 'It is but manner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,' said Mr
      Mantalini, picking up his cane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr. Mantalini had
      derived his information.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,' replied
      Mantalini. 'Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what said he?' asked Ralph, knitting his brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That it happened this way&mdash;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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And was killed?' interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. 'Was he? Is he
      dead?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mantalini shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;as&mdash;as demnition,' said Mr
      Mantalini, rather at a loss for a simile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what,' said Ralph, hesitating a little, 'what was the cause of
      quarrel?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are the demdest, knowing hand,' replied Mr. Mantalini, in an admiring
      tone, 'the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox&mdash;oh dem!&mdash;to
      pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed niece&mdash;the
      softest, sweetest, prettiest&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Alfred!' interposed Madame Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;oh demmit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you at home?' asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Ralph, with equal abruptness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're quite sure you're not at home, are you?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does the idiot mean?' cried Ralph, testily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may have
      heard your voice&mdash;that's all,' said Newman, rubbing his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who has?' demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence he had just heard,
      and his clerk's provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked-for entrance of a
      third party&mdash;the individual in question&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, this <i>is</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mrs. Squeers, sir,' replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, 'is as she always
      is&mdash;a mother to them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort, and a joy
      to all them as knows her. One of our boys&mdash;gorging his-self with
      vittles, and then turning in; that's their way&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you quite recovered that scoundrel's attack?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>here </i>to <i>there</i>. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Loud,' replied Wackford.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition, Wackford, or
      was they glad?' asked Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gl&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sorry,' rejoined his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Were you obliged to have medical attendance?' inquired Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, was I,' rejoined Squeers, 'and a precious bill the medical attendant
      brought in too; but I paid it though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might be expressive of
      either sympathy or astonishment&mdash;just as the beholder was pleased to
      take it.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a halfpenny,' replied Squeers. 'The fact is, we have only one extra
      with our boys, and that is for doctors when required&mdash;and not then,
      unless we're sure of our customers. Do you see?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I understand,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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
      <i>they </i>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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a good plan too,' said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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 <i>me</i>! 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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A hard case, indeed,' observed Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you stopping at your old quarters?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;himself a
      pupil. Why he's a miracle of high feeding, that boy is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&mdash;think I have,' said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after much
      rummaging in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thankee,' said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. 'Here! You go and buy
      a tart&mdash;Mr. Nickleby's man will show you where&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Attend to me,' said Ralph, bending forward a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers, tartly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you could get
      one?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Show me one, and try,' rejoined Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?' said Ralph,
      raising his eyes to the schoolmaster's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried Ralph, interrupting him. 'You needn't go on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in contemplation,
      he again broke silence by asking:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is this boy that he took with him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers stated his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable or rebellious? Speak
      out, man,' retorted Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, he wasn't young,' answered Squeers; 'that is, not young for a boy,
      you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?' interrupted Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you <i>did </i>knock pretty often, I dare say?' muttered Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pretty well,' returned Squeers with a grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;not more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What more do you know about him?' demanded Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;out of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Charity?' suggested Ralph drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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&mdash;who knows? such things
      have happened in our business before&mdash;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&mdash;damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don't collar him in
      open day, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will both cry quits with him before long,' said Ralph, laying his hand
      on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;she
      would, as soon as eat her dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;. If I could
      strike him through this boy&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Strike him how you like, sir,' interrupted Squeers, 'only hit him hard
      enough, that's all&mdash;and with that, I'll say good-morning. Here!&mdash;just
      chuck that little boy's hat off that corner peg, and lift him off the
      stool will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pretty well swelled out, an't he?' pursued Squeers. 'He has the fatness
      of twenty boys, he has.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of Squeers,
      'he has;&mdash;the fatness of twenty!&mdash;more! He's got it all. God
      help that others. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon his
      desk and began to write with most marvellous rapidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what does the man mean?' cried Squeers, colouring. 'Is he drunk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he mad?' said Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his own;
      so, Mr. Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk <i>and </i>mad;
      and, with this parting observation, he led his hopeful son away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When my brother was such as he,' said Ralph, 'the first comparisons were
      drawn between us&mdash;always in my disfavour. <i>he</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas's letter into atoms; and as he
      spoke, he scattered it in a tiny shower about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Recollections like these,' pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, 'flock
      upon me&mdash;when I resign myself to them&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind for slumber, Ralph
      Nickleby went to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 35
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span><i>mike becomes known to Mrs. Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new
            Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. 'What now, old
      friend?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;not
      dead like me&mdash;I could go to that home almost without a tear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with me?'
      said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!&mdash;my pretty sister too, whom you have so often asked me
      about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for shame!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike brightened up and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine&mdash;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&mdash;in default of a better&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, looking very hard at
      her new friend, and bending to him with something more of majesty than the
      occasion seemed to require: 'I am sure any friend of yours has, as indeed
      he naturally ought to have, and must have, of course, you know, a great
      claim upon me, and of course, it is a very great pleasure to me to be
      introduced to anybody you take an interest in. There can be no doubt about
      that; none at all; not the least in the world,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'At the
      same time I must say, Nicholas, my dear, as I used to say to your poor
      dear papa, when he <i>would </i>bring gentlemen home to dinner, and there was
      nothing in the house, that if he had come the day before yesterday&mdash;no,
      I don't mean the day before yesterday now; I should have said, perhaps,
      the year before last&mdash;we should have been better able to entertain
      him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which remarks, Mrs. Nickleby turned to her daughter, and inquired, in
      an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was going to stop all night.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of annoyance or
      irritation, breathed a few words into her mother's ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'La, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, shrinking back, 'how you do tickle
      one! Of course, I understand <i>that</i>, my love, without your telling me; and I
      said the same to Nicholas, and I <i>am</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs. Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke. Oh! don't
      speak to me&mdash;I shall be better presently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>was </i>better, and remarked, with a
      feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;precisely.
      The least excitement, the slightest surprise&mdash;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;&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs. Nickleby, after
      dinner, and when she had been silent for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not forgotten his
      melancholy history.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as he
      motioned towards the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Merely that I almost hoped&mdash;I mean to say, thought&mdash;you had
      some object in consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay? what object now&mdash;what object?' returned the old man, looking
      slyly at Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now&mdash;eh? Did
      you think I did?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been far from
      the truth,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they
      could converse with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Merely that your kind face and manner&mdash;both so unlike any I have
      ever seen&mdash;tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger in
      this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,' returned
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It <i>is</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;Eh?' laying his finger on the sleeve of his black
      coat. 'Who's it for, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My father,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young man to lose
      his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;no, no, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come along with me.
      We mustn't lose a minute.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;a fat, elderly, large-faced clerk,
      with silver spectacles and a powdered head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr. Cheeryble, with no less kindness
      of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr. Cheeryble.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>very </i>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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your brother has
      given us twenty pounds.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;or&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;cheque
      from Mr. Linkinwater, Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor
      children&mdash;oh dear, dear, dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the same face, the
      same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the same breeches
      and gaiters&mdash;nay, there was the very same white hat hanging against
      the wall!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;as I feel assured they will be&mdash;we must
      assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,' returned the
      other. 'When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He <i>shall </i>be
      assisted. What are his necessities, and what does he require? Where is Tim
      Linkinwater? Let us have him here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half enough, not
      half.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a tear of
      regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But hear this first&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely. 'Very right,
      my dear brother, very right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an intention of
      taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;I've said it again and again,
      and I'll maintain it&mdash;there an't such a square as this in the world.
      I <i>know </i>there an't,' said Tim, with sudden energy, and looking sternly
      about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in summer-time or winter&mdash;I
      don't care which&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?' roared the
      twins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen times without
      speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;there, there&mdash;take
      care of that box, my dear sir&mdash;and&mdash;no, no, not a word now; but
      be careful of the crossings and&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;they were
      poor hands at deception!&mdash;to be wholly unconscious of the feelings
      that completely mastered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?&mdash;for nothing at all, my dear brother, for nothing at
      all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;as we shall;
      there's no fear, no fear&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and Mrs
      Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and did something now and then, but not
      often&mdash;and Kate, who busied herself noiselessly everywhere, and was
      pleased with everything&mdash;and Smike, who made the garden a perfect
      wonder to look upon&mdash;and Nicholas, who helped and encouraged them
      every one&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich
      Nickleby was alone and miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 36
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span><i>rivate and confidential; relating to Family Matters. Showing how Mr
            Kenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as
            could be expected</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;those at fourteen-pence&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;indeed, no genteel confinement can possibly
      take place&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that is, the old baby&mdash;not the new one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a fine boy, Mr. Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?' returned Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,' said the doctor. 'I never
      saw such a baby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I ne&mdash;ver saw such a baby,' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Morleena was a fine baby,' remarked Mr. Kenwigs; as if this were rather an
      attack, by implication, upon the family.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shouldn't wonder at all,' replied the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never see her dance, sir, did you?' asked Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay!' said Mr. Kenwigs, as though he pitied him from his heart, 'then you
      don't know what she's capable of.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Mr. Kenwigs,' said Dr Lumbey, 'this makes six. You'll have a fine
      family in time, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think six is almost enough, sir,' returned Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pooh! pooh!' said the doctor. 'Nonsense! not half enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They're not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,' said Mr
      Kenwigs, taking his second daughter on his knee; 'they have expectations.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed!' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And very good ones too, I believe, haven't they?' asked the married lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a very pretty little fortune,' said the married lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! I know who you mean,' observed the married lady, nodding her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've met him,' said the married lady, with a glance towards Dr Lumbey.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That girl grows more like her mother every day,' said Mr. Lumbey, suddenly
      stricken with an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;and a
      pretty long sip too.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lumbey shook his head with great solemnity, as though to imply that he
      supposed she must have been rather a dazzler.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But only see what it is now,' urged the married lady. 'Does <i>she </i>look like
      the mother of six?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite ridiculous,' cried the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She looks a deal more like her own daughter,' said the married lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So she does,' assented Mr. Lumbey. 'A great deal more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are very good,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay?' said Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I have been,' added Nicholas, 'already in town for some days, without
      having had an opportunity of doing so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Petowker,' suggested Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The message relates to family matters,' said Nicholas, hesitating.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed to have some difficulty in
      proceeding.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At Portsmouth, Henrietta Petowker is,' observed Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'Mr. Lillyvick is there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Kenwigs turned pale, but he recovered, and said, <i>that </i>was an odd
      coincidence also.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The message is from him,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      'He desired me to give his kindest love,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very much obliged to him, I'm sure. Your great-uncle, Lillyvick, my
      dears!' interposed Mr. Kenwigs, condescendingly explaining it to the
      children.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His kindest love,' resumed Nicholas; 'and to say that he had no time to
      write, but that he was married to Miss Petowker.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0491m.jpg" alt="0491m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0491.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Drat the man!' cried the nurse, looking angrily around. 'What does he
      mean by making that noise here?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Silence, woman!' said Mr. Kenwigs, fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't be silent,' returned the nurse. 'Be silent yourself, you wretch.
      Have you no regard for your baby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' returned Mr. Kenwigs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'More shame for you,' retorted the nurse. 'Ugh! you unnatural monster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;who had been passive at first, doubting very much
      whether Mr. Kenwigs could be in earnest&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very trying, and very hard to bear, we know,' said one of the
      married ladies; 'but think of your dear darling wife.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, and what she's been a undergoing of, only this day,' cried a
      great many voices. 'There's a good man, do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The presents that have been made to him,' said Mr. Kenwigs, reverting to
      his calamity, 'the pipes, the snuff-boxes&mdash;a pair of india-rubber
      goloshes, that cost six-and-six&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! it won't bear thinking of, indeed,' cried the matrons generally; 'but
      it'll all come home to him, never fear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies, as if he would prefer its all
      coming home to <i>him</i>, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 37
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas 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</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;of
      coaches, not of insects&mdash;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&mdash;there is a butterfly in the square&mdash;a real,
      live butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the
      iron heads of the dusty area railings.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;looking
      precisely like a back view of himself as it hung against the wall&mdash;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&mdash;'what
      you see him now, sir,'&mdash;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&mdash;and
      at that moment it would be very difficult to determine which of the two
      was the happier, the bird or Tim Linkinwater.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflection of the
      kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen and porters were such
      sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a treat to see them. Among the shipping
      announcements and steam-packet lists which decorated the counting-house
      wall, were designs for almshouses, statements of charities, and plans for
      new hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords hung above the chimney-piece,
      for the terror of evil-doers, but the blunderbuss was rusty and shattered,
      and the swords were broken and edgeless. Elsewhere, their open display in
      such a condition would have realised a smile; but, there, it seemed as
      though even violent and offensive weapons partook of the reigning
      influence, and became emblems of mercy and forbearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Four-and-forty year, next May!' said Tim. 'Many new ledgers since then.
      Four-and-forty year!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim closed the book again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, come,' said Nicholas, 'I am all impatience to begin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;any scratching out!
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;actually a smile&mdash;there was no mistake about it; Mr
      Linkinwater often mentioned it afterwards&mdash;Nicholas dipped his pen
      into the inkstand before him, and plunged into the books of Cheeryble
      Brothers!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well said, Tim&mdash;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?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0497m.jpg" alt="0497m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0497.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;you're a fine fellow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;just
      the same&mdash;and I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that there
      never were such books&mdash;never were such books! No, nor never will be
      such books&mdash;as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear brother,' said the other, seizing Tim's disengaged fist, 'Tim
      Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on his last birthday.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So he is, brother Charles, so he is,' replied brother Ned. 'There's not a
      doubt about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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'&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;that was one comfort&mdash;and it was no
      use scolding him&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For these and all other blessings, brother Charles,' said Ned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,' said Charles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the soup tureen,
      and shot, all at once, into a state of violent activity.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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 <i>that</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;The Memory of our Mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'David,' said brother Ned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' replied the butler.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the health of Mr
      Linkinwater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay, David, nay,' interposed brother Charles.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'David is quite right, quite right, brother Charles,' said Ned: 'are the
      people here, David?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Outside the door, sir,' replied the butler.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Show 'em in, David, show 'em in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;rubbing the
      palms of his hands very hard on a blue cotton handkerchief as he did so:
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;leastways in a
      contrairy sense, which the meaning is the same. (A pause&mdash;the butler
      unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that there never was (looking at the
      butler)&mdash;such&mdash;(looking at the cook) noble&mdash;excellent&mdash;(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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When the foregoing speech was over&mdash;and it might have been much more
      elegant and much less to the purpose&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At half-past ten&mdash;late hours for the square&mdash;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&mdash;more so, indeed&mdash;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&mdash;her
      very portrait, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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,&mdash;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 <i>they </i>know what's good, and don't coddle themselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;oh! a couple of hours&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to
      speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There was a lady in our neighbourhood,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'speaking of
      sons puts me in mind of it&mdash;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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?' said Nicholas
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About <i>her</i>!' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how
      <i>can </i>you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor dear
      papa,&mdash;just his way&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your poor pa!' said Mrs. Nickleby, pondering. 'He never knew, till it was
      too late, what I would have had him do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'However,' said Mrs. Nickleby, drying her tears, 'this has nothing to do&mdash;certainly
      nothing whatever to do&mdash;with the gentleman in the next house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to do
      with us,' returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There can be no doubt,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'that he <i>is </i>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; <i>he</i> was proud of his legs. So was Miss Biffin: she
      was&mdash;no,' added Mrs. Nickleby, correcting, herself, 'I think she had
      only toes, but the principle is the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme.
      Which seemed just what Mrs. Nickleby had expected him to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To throw his cucumbers over our wall!' repeated Nicholas, in great
      astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, Nicholas, my dear,' replied Mrs. Nickleby in a very serious tone;
      'his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Confound his impudence!' said Nicholas, firing immediately. 'What does he
      mean by that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think he means it impertinently at all,' replied Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,' said Mrs
      Nickleby; 'blamable indeed&mdash;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&mdash;that is, as far as it goes, and
      to a certain extent of course&mdash;a flattering sort of thing; and
      although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl like Kate
      still unsettled in life&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?'
      said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;no, killed all the friends first, and then herself, and then
      <i>him</i>self&mdash;which it is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,'
      added Mrs. Nickleby, after a momentary pause, 'they always <i>are </i>journeyman
      shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers. I don't
      know how it is&mdash;something in the leather, I suppose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But this man, who is not a shoemaker&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there no mistake on your part?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mistake!' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I
      don't know when a man's in earnest?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well!' muttered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every time I go to the window,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'he kisses one hand,
      and lays the other upon his heart&mdash;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&mdash;very respectfully indeed&mdash;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&mdash;very like a musical glass indeed&mdash;but
      of course I didn't listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear,
      what am I to do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Does Kate know of this?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not said a word about it yet,' answered his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and they
      retired to their respective chambers.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a bad light to distinguish objects in,' murmured Mrs. Nickleby,
      peering into the garden, 'and my eyes are not very good&mdash;I was
      short-sighted from a child&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 38
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span><i>omprises 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</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,' returned Kate,
      smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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
      <i>have </i>thought of somebody too. Do you know, that I observe a great change
      in one of this family&mdash;a very extraordinary change?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In whom?' asked Kate, anxiously. 'Not in&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;I won't say who&mdash;in
      him when there's any occasion, that he was when I first knew you. No.
      Smike, as he <i>will </i>be called, poor fellow! for he won't hear of a <i>Mr</i> before
      his name, is greatly altered, even in this short time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How?' asked Kate. 'Not in health?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;n&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;the same willing, harmless, faithful,
      loving creature&mdash;but the same in nothing else.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely this will all pass off,' said Kate. 'Poor fellow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;though it wasn't&mdash;and away went the huge vehicle, with
      the noise of half-a-dozen brewers' drays at least.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the only member of the party who was not
      thoroughly irredeemable, and who really had a kind heart&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Curse those hounds!' said the invalid, turning his head impatiently
      towards the adjoining room; 'will nothing stop their infernal throats?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>they </i>must torture me? What's the time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Half-past eight,' replied his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,' said Sir
      Mulberry. 'More piquet. Come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr. Ralph
      Nickleby was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Better,' said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby wishes to know, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you, better,' replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It <i>is</i> inconvenient. I can't see him. I can't see anybody,' said his
      master, more violently than before. 'You know that, you blockhead.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry, sir,' returned the man. 'But Mr. Nickleby pressed so
      much, sir&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?' inquired Sir
      Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr. Nickleby
      said, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;further
      off. Leave it so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. 'Bad, indeed! I should
      not have known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This <i>is</i> bad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sit down,' said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a violent
      effort. 'Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,' said Ralph, 'twice
      a day, indeed, at first&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what is it in these "past transactions," that brought you here
      tonight?' asked Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' replied Ralph. 'There are some bills of my lord's which need
      renewal; but let them be till you are well. I&mdash;I&mdash;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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Punishment!' interposed Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;that I acknowledge him as no
      kin of mine&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?' asked
      Sir Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;for private circulation&mdash;but that's all over town,
      of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a lie!' said Sir Mulberry; 'I tell you it's all a lie. The mare took
      fright.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They <i>say </i>he frightened her,' observed Ralph, in the same unmoved and
      quiet manner. 'Some say he frightened you, but <i>that's</i> a lie, I know. I
      have said that boldly&mdash;oh, a score of times! I am a peaceable man,
      but I can't hear folks tell that of you. No, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>roue</i>, the rook of twenty seasons should be brought to this
      pass by a mere boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A raw, slight stripling,' continued Ralph, 'against a man whose very
      weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in&mdash;I am right, I
      think,' said Ralph, raising his eyes, 'you <i>were </i>a patron of the ring once,
      were you not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as
      one of acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll need the most he has, when I am well again,' said Sir Mulberry
      Hawk, 'let him fly where he will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,' said Ralph, looking towards the
      couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has it,
      Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, my Lord, no,' returned Ralph. 'On that point we always agree. Sir
      Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cowardly!' interrupted his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Lord Frederick Verisopht walked out of the room, leaving Ralph
      Nickleby and Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is this your pupil?' asked Ralph, softly, 'or has he come fresh from some
      country parson?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Green fools take these fits sometimes,' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk, biting
      his lip, and pointing to the door. 'Leave him to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0519m.jpg" alt="0519m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0519.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified creature
      became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the
      countenance of Smike. 'Damn the expense. Let's have him in a coach.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Everything!' replied Mr. Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in a
      sort of rapturous trance. 'Everything&mdash;running away, sir&mdash;joining
      in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master&mdash;there's nothing that's bad
      that he hasn't done. Oh, what a delicious go is this here, good Lord!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;taking the
      right and left sides alternately.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your mother will be fit to jump out of her skin, my boy, when she hears
      of this,' said Squeers to his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, won't she though, father?' replied Master Wackford.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?' said little Wackford.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Improving the occasion in these words, Mr. Squeers patted his son's head
      again, and then patted Smike's&mdash;but harder; and inquired in a
      bantering tone how he found himself by this time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must go home,' replied Smike, looking wildly round.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas had provided
      for him; and wrung his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;and I an't quite certain whether it an't
      an anatomy one besides&mdash;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 <i>is</i> me as has got to
      serve you with the article.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you pulling a man's arm off for?' said the coachman looking
      angrily down.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Couldn't you say that without wrenching a man's limbs off his body?'
      inquired the coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' bawled Mr. Squeers. 'Say another word, and I'll summons you for
      having a broken winder. Stop!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;the
      felon&mdash;the rebel&mdash;the monster of unthankfulness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;:
      never mind, I'll owe it him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      And here Mr. Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and where,
      he had picked up the runaway.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Providence is against him, no doubt,' replied Mr. Squeers, scratching his
      nose. 'Of course; that was to be expected. Anybody might have known that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,' said Mr
      Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;my only son, Wackford&mdash;has
      been his brother; Mrs. Squeers has been his mother, grandmother, aunt,&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well it may, sir,' said Mrs. Snawley. 'Oh! Well it may, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where has he been all this time?' inquired Snawley. 'Has he been living
      with&mdash;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, sir!' interposed Squeers, confronting him again. 'Have you been a
      living with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the thoughts&mdash;if to visions so imperfect and undefined as
      those which wandered through his enfeebled brain, the term can be applied&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      What those meditations were, and how the poor creature's heart sunk within
      him when he thought&mdash;when did he, for a moment, cease to think?&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 39
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span><i>n which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some
            Purpose</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Goodness, John! I shouldn't have thought it could have been half the
      size. What a monster!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Monsther!&mdash;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&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, John Browdie&mdash;for he it was&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel!' said John. 'Dang my bootuns if she bean't asleep agean!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>so</i> cross!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hollo!' cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil. 'Coom, wakken
      oop, will 'ee?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, 'Tilda!' cried Miss Squeers, 'how you have been kicking of me through
      this blessed night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I do like that,' replied her friend, laughing, 'when you have had
      nearly the whole coach to yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>think </i>I am to be believed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To the <i>vere</i>?' cried the coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lawk, Mr. Browdie!' interrupted Miss Squeers. 'The idea! Saracen's Head.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sure-ly,' said John, 'I know'd it was something aboot Sarah's Son's Head.
      Dost thou know thot?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, ah! I know that,' replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tilda, dear, really,' remonstrated Miss Squeers, 'we shall be taken for
      I don't know what.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope not, Mr. Browdie,' replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly dismal.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;broide and broide's-maid, and the groom&mdash;if
      a mun dean't 'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it all, thot's what
      I want to know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is my pa in, do you know?' asked Miss Squeers with dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beg your pardon, miss?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My pa,' repeated Miss Squeers; 'is he in?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In where, miss?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In here&mdash;in the house!' replied Miss Squeers. 'My pa&mdash;Mr
      Wackford Squeers&mdash;he's stopping here. Is he at home?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>May Be</i>. 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 <i>might </i>be there! 'As if he was a
      feller!' observed Miss Squeers, with emphatic indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who, indeed, pa!' replied that young lady, spitefully. 'But you see
      'Tilda <i>is</i> married at last.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I stond threat for a soight o' Lunnun, schoolmeasther,' said John,
      vigorously attacking the pie.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will 'ee pick a bit?' said John.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'm awake, father,' replied the dutiful Wackford.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Squeers, turning to his daughter, 'it's your turn to be
      married next. You must make haste.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, I'm in no hurry,' said Miss Squeers, very sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Fanny?' cried her old friend with some archness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently. 'I can
      wait.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,' observed Mrs. Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They an't draw'd into it by <i>me</i>, 'Tilda,' retorted Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned her friend; 'that's exceedingly true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather acrimonious
      retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally vicious
      temper&mdash;aggravated, just now, by travel and recent jolting&mdash;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
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you think?' said that gentleman; 'who do you suppose we have laid
      hands on, Wackford and me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pa! not Mr&mdash;?' Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but
      Mrs. Browdie did it for her, and added, 'Nickleby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Squeers. 'But next door to him though.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You can't mean Smike?' cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I can though,' rejoined her father. 'I've got him, hard and fast.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wa'at!' exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. 'Got that poor&mdash;dom'd
      scoondrel? Where?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,' replied Squeers, 'with him on
      one side, and the key on the other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.&mdash;Gotten him at thy loodgin'?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ba'ad!' repeated John Browdie. 'It's eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell
      on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought it would surprise you a bit,' said Squeers, rubbing his hands.
      'It was pretty neatly done, and pretty quick too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hoo wor it?' inquired John, sitting down close to him. 'Tell us all aboot
      it, mun; coom, quick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;for Wackford and him and me&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dean't say anoother wurd,' returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him by the
      hand. 'We'd coom, if it was twonty mile.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?' whispered the Yorkshireman to the
      bewildered lad. 'Browdie. Chap as met thee efther schoolmeasther was
      banged?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' cried Smike. 'Oh! help me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He brought me; oh! he brought me,' cried Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stan' still,' said the Yorkshireman, 'and doant'ee speak a morsel o' talk
      till I tell'ee.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See thot?' said John 'Thot be thy doin'. Noo, coot awa'!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, coot awa',' repeated John, hastily. 'Dost thee know where thee
      livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or schoolmeasther's?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But&mdash;but&mdash;he'll hear me shut the door,' replied Smike,
      trembling from head to foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then dean't shut it at all,' retorted John Browdie. 'Dang it, thee bean't
      afeard o' schoolmeasther's takkin cold, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N-no,' said Smike, his teeth chattering in his head. 'But he brought me
      back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that somebody would have
      been scarcely less amused than John Browdie himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 40
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span><i>n which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs a Mediator, whose Proceedings
            are crowned with unexpected Success, excepting in one solitary Particular</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;so
      great was his apprehension of traversing the streets alone, lest he should
      again encounter his dreaded enemy&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;quicker and quicker as the story reached its climax&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No! I think not,' replied Smike. 'I don't think he could have missed me
      till I had got quite away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall stay here,' said Newman; 'you're tired&mdash;fagged. I'll tell
      them you're come back. They have been half mad about you. Mr. Nicholas&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'God bless him!' cried Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Amen!' returned Newman. 'He hasn't had a minute's rest or peace; no more
      has the old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no. Has <i>she </i>thought about me?' said Smike. 'Has she though? oh, has
      she, has she? Don't tell me so if she has not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has,' cried Newman. 'She is as noble-hearted as she is beautiful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes!' cried Smike. 'Well said!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So mild and gentle,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes!' cried Smike, with increasing eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,' pursued Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. 'It has
      touched <i>me</i>, more than once, to think such a nature should have been
      exposed to such trials; this poor fellow&mdash;yes, yes,&mdash;he feels
      that too&mdash;it softens him&mdash;makes him think of his former misery.
      Hah! That's it? Yes, that's&mdash;hum!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;pleading his anxiety to see his friends again&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A fine morning, Mr. Linkinwater!' said Nicholas, entering the office.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' replied Tim, 'talk of the country, indeed! What do you think of
      this, now, for a day&mdash;a London day&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a little clearer out of town,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Clearer!' echoed Tim Linkinwater. 'You should see it from my bedroom
      window.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You should see it from <i>mine</i>,' replied Nicholas, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the court, is there?' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, is there!' replied Tim, 'and planted in a cracked jug, without a
      spout. There were hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming, in&mdash;but
      you'll laugh at that, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At their blossoming in old blacking-bottles,' said Tim.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not I, indeed,' returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a good heart,' said Nicholas, 'that disentangles itself from the
      close avocations of every day, to heed such things. You were saying&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>see </i>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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another knock, and still no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He can't be here,' thought Nicholas. 'I'll lay it on his table.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0540m.jpg" alt="0540m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0540.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear ma'am&mdash;my dear young lady,' cried brother Charles in violent
      agitation, 'pray don't&mdash;not another word, I beseech and entreat you!
      I implore you&mdash;I beg of you&mdash;to rise. We&mdash;we&mdash;are not
      alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chair and
      swooned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She has fainted, sir,' said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor dear, poor dear!' cried brother Charles 'Where is my brother Ned?
      Ned, my dear brother, come here pray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied his brother, hurrying into the
      room, 'what is the&mdash;ah! what&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush! hush!&mdash;not a word for your life, brother Ned,' returned the
      other. 'Ring for the housekeeper, my dear brother&mdash;call Tim
      Linkinwater! Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir&mdash;Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir,
      leave the room, I beg and beseech of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think she is better now,' said Nicholas, who had been watching the
      patient so eagerly, that he had not heard the request.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;' 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length Tim Linkinwater came back&mdash;provokingly cool, and with
      papers in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is she quite recovered?' said Nicholas, impetuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?' returned Tim Linkinwater.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who!' repeated Nicholas. 'The young lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay,' returned Nicholas, 'what do you make of my question first? I asked
      you&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'About the young lady,' said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles.
      'To be sure. Yes. Oh! she's very well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, is she?' returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well,' replied Mr. Linkinwater, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will she be able to go home today?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's gone,' said Tim.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gone!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope she has not far to go?' said Nicholas, looking earnestly at the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' replied the immovable Tim, 'I hope she hasn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;not
      even romance, which has seldom business habits&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's all right,' whispered Newman. 'Sit down. Sit down, there's a dear
      young man, and let me tell you all about it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquired what was the
      news.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well?' said Nicholas eagerly. 'Yes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Newman. 'That's it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's it?' said Nicholas. 'The name&mdash;the name, my dear fellow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The name's Bobster,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the name,' said Newman. 'I remember it by lobster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, more emphatically than before. 'That must be
      the servant's name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, it an't,' said Newman, shaking his head with great positiveness.
      'Miss Cecilia Bobster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very. And a pretty creature too,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Bobster.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, where have you seen her?' demanded Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never mind, my dear boy,' retorted Noggs, clapping him on the shoulder.
      'I <i>have </i>seen her. You shall see her. I've managed it all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear Newman,' cried Nicholas, grasping his hand, 'are you serious?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know she is; I know she must be, Newman!' said Nicholas, wringing his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are right,' returned Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where does she live?' cried Nicholas. 'What have you learnt of her
      history? Has she a father&mdash;mother&mdash;any brothers&mdash;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&mdash;did you, Newman&mdash;did you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Newman, 'I didn't tell her that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Didn't tell her which?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's true, Newman,' replied Nicholas, with his characteristic
      vehemence. 'Heaven knows I do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said too, that you had admired her for a long time in secret,' said
      Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes. What did she say to that?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Blushed,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared, on further questioning&mdash;for it was only by a very long
      and arduous process that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;but I should be a fool, indeed,
      to repine at my own good fortune!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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,'&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Number twelve,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' replied Nicholas, looking about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good street?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' returned Nicholas. 'Rather dull.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a short delay, he reappeared, and limping back again, halted midway,
      and beckoned Nicholas to follow him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well?' said Nicholas, advancing towards him on tiptoe.
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right,' replied Newman, in high glee. 'All ready; nobody at home.
      Couldn't be better. Ha! ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What the devil!' cried Nicholas, drawing back. 'Are we to sneak into the
      kitchen, as if we came after the forks?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' replied Newman. 'Old Bobster&mdash;ferocious Turk. He'd kill 'em
      all&mdash;box the young lady's ears&mdash;he does&mdash;often.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What!' cried Nicholas, in high wrath, 'do you mean to tell me that any
      man would dare to box the ears of such a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;he would have followed head first, but for the timely
      assistance of Nicholas&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well!' said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, 'this is not all, I
      suppose, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no,' rejoined Noggs; 'they'll be here directly. It's all right.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad to hear it,' said Nicholas. 'I shouldn't have thought it, I
      confess.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from which the voice
      proceeded. 'Who is that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only me, sir,' replied the voice. 'Now if you please, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Reputation&mdash;character&mdash;violence&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      They hurried away, through several streets, without stopping or speaking.
      At last, they halted and confronted each other with blank and rueful
      faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>my</i>
      part.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Excellently,' replied Nicholas, taking his hand. 'Excellently, and like
      the true and zealous friend you are. Only&mdash;mind, I am not
      disappointed, Newman, and feel just as much indebted to you&mdash;only <i>it
      was the wrong lady.'</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh?' cried Newman Noggs. 'Taken in by the servant?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Newman, Newman,' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder: 'it
      was the wrong servant too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman's under-jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, with his sound eye
      fixed fast and motionless in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      That <i>was </i>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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 41
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span><i>ontaining some Romantic Passages between Mrs. Nickleby and the Gentleman
            in the Small-clothes next Door</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's a curious association of ideas, is it not, mama?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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&mdash;they must have been
      partridges. Roast pig! I hardly think we ever could have had one, now I
      come to remember, for your papa could never bear the sight of them in the
      shops, and used to say that they always put him in mind of very little
      babies, only the pigs had much fairer complexions; and he had a horror of
      little babies, too, because he couldn't very well afford any increase to
      his family, and had a natural dislike to the subject. It's very odd now,
      what can have put that in my head! I recollect dining once at Mrs. Bevan's,
      in that broad street round the corner by the coachmaker's, where the tipsy
      man fell through the cellar-flap of an empty house nearly a week before
      the quarter-day, and wasn't found till the new tenant went in&mdash;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&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should say there was not a doubt about it, mama,' returned Kate, with a
      cheerful smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No; but <i>do</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;I wish
      he wouldn't put <i>all </i>the gravel on your side, Kate, my dear, though, and
      leave nothing but mould for me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear mama,' returned Kate, hastily, 'take this seat&mdash;do&mdash;to
      oblige me, mama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own side,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Well!
      I declare!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate looked up inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;no, that <i>you </i>said <i>you </i>were so
      fond of, the other night, and asked me if I wasn't&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama,' said Kate, bending over her work so that her face was almost
      hidden, 'before you were married&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! mama,' said Kate, raising her face again, 'you know I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do praise it, mama,' answered Kate, gently. 'Poor fellow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'About what, mama?' said Kate, who had apparently quite forgotten her
      diversion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lor, Kate, my dear,' returned her mother, 'why, you're asleep or stupid!
      About the time before I was married.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes!' said Kate, 'I remember. I was going to ask, mama, before you
      were married, had you many suitors?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Suitors, my dear!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, with a smile of wonderful
      complacency. 'First and last, Kate, I must have had a dozen at least.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama!' returned Kate, in a tone of remonstrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>would </i>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&mdash;a convict ship
      I mean&mdash;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&mdash;'Mogley&mdash;Tipslark&mdash;Cabbery&mdash;Smifser&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama! what was that?' said Kate, in a low tone of voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean, mama?' demanded Kate, in evident surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;under all the circumstances&mdash;be
      excusable in me, but I am not, Kate&mdash;not at all.'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0555m.jpg" alt="0555m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0555.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'It seems designed to attract our attention, mama,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama!' cried Kate, really terrified for the moment, 'why do you stop, why
      do you lose an instant? Mama, pray come in!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Queen of my soul,' replied the stranger, folding his hands together,
      'this goblet sip!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense, sir,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Kate, my love, pray be quiet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall not consent to do anything of the kind, sir,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
      'Pray, begone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mama,' murmured Kate, 'do you hear him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;you'll pinch my arm black and blue. Go away, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite away?' said the gentleman, with a languishing look. 'Oh! quite
      away?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, 'certainly. You have no business here. This
      is private property, sir; you ought to know that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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'&mdash;here he kissed his
      hand and bowed again&mdash;'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&mdash;jealous of your
      superior charms&mdash;interpose between us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gentleman I should imagine
      you to be, from your language and&mdash;and&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      'The question is&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you a princess?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are mocking me, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, making a feint of
      retreating towards the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but are you?' said the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know I am not, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray, mama, come away!' whispered Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      '"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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;catch 'em&mdash;bottle 'em up&mdash;cork 'em
      tight&mdash;put sealing wax on the top&mdash;seal 'em with a cupid&mdash;label
      'em "Best quality"&mdash;and stow 'em away in the fourteen binn, with a
      bar of iron on the top to keep the thunder off!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Really, Kate, my love!' said Mrs. Nickleby faintly, and looking another
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;sending my
      toothpick to the commander-in-chief will be sufficient&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be mine, be mine!' repeated the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely there is no necessity for you to say one word, mama?' reasoned
      Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to judge for myself,' said Mrs
      Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be mine, be mine!' cried the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be mine, be mine,' cried the old gentleman. 'Gog and Magog, Gog and
      Magog. Be mine, be mine!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will be sufficient for me to say, sir,' resumed Mrs. Nickleby, with
      perfect seriousness&mdash;'and I'm sure you'll see the propriety of taking
      an answer and going away&mdash;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&mdash;indeed many people have doubted it, and said
      that nothing on earth could ever make 'em believe it possible&mdash;but it
      is the case, and they are both grown up. We shall be very glad to have you
      for a neighbour&mdash;very glad; delighted, I'm sure&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's you, is it?' said the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, it's me,' replied a gruff voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's the Emperor of Tartary?' said the old gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! he's much the same as usual,' was the reply. 'No better and no
      worse.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The young Prince of China,' said the old gentleman, with much interest.
      'Is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' answered the gruff voice; 'and he says he never will be, that's
      more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If that's the case,' observed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I'd better come
      down.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said the man on the other side, 'I think you had, perhaps.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beg your pardon, ladies,' said this new comer, grinning and touching his
      hat. 'Has he been making love to either of you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he been long so?' asked Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A long while.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And is there no hope for him?' said Kate, compassionately
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>him</i>, 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;not that he was in an ill
      humour, but that his subject ruffled him&mdash;descended the ladder, and
      took it away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor creature!' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! poor indeed!' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. 'It's shameful that such things
      should be allowed. Shameful!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can they be helped, mama?' said Kate, mournfully. 'The infirmities of
      nature&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nature!' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'What! Do <i>you </i>suppose this poor gentleman is
      out of his mind?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;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&mdash;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 <i>his </i>madness; depend
      upon that, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 42
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span><i>llustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends must
            sometimes part</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;or
      seemed, in the eyes of jaded and footsore passers-by, to look&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tilly!' said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and half
      asleep upon a sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, John!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, John!' retorted her husband, impatiently. 'Dost thou feel hoongry,
      lass?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not very,' said Mrs. Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's a gen'l'man for you, sir,' said the waiter, looking in.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A wa'at for me?' cried John, as though he thought it must be a letter, or
      a parcel.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A gen'l'man, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stars and garthers, chap!' said John, 'wa'at dost thou coom and say thot
      for? In wi' 'un.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you at home, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! there she be,' said John, observing the look which Nicholas directed
      towards his wife. 'There she be&mdash;we shan't quarrel about her noo&mdash;eh?
      Ecod, when I think o' thot&mdash;but thou want'st soom'at to eat. Fall to,
      mun, fall to, and for wa'at we're aboot to receive&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall take the usual licence, Mr. Browdie,' said Nicholas, as he placed
      a chair for the bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tak' whatever thou like'st,' said John, 'and when a's gane, ca' for
      more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs. Browdie, and
      handed her to her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' said John, rather astounded for the moment, 'mak' theeself quite
      at whoam, will 'ee?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may depend upon that,' replied Nicholas; 'on one condition.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And wa'at may thot be?' asked John.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for
      one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eh! d'ye hear thot?' cried John, laying down his knife and fork. 'A
      godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly&mdash;hear till 'un&mdash;a godfeyther!
      Divn't say a word more, ye'll never beat thot. Occasion for 'un&mdash;a
      godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a godfeyther, Tilly!'
      in a tone bespeaking an exquisite relish of the sally, which no suffering
      could diminish.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall I e'er forget it, mun?' replied John Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs. Browdie?'
      said Nicholas. 'Quite a monster!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Coom, coom,' said John, with a broad grin; 'thou know'st betther than
      thot, Tilly.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I was,' replied Mrs. Browdie. 'I almost made up my mind never to speak
      to you again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;and she coom a deal closer
      and squeedged a deal harder than she'd deane afore&mdash;"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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel!' observed the Yorkshireman, 'so I say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I am sure I do,' added his young wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Talk aboot soom'at else,' replied John, gruffly, 'and dinnot bother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It must be a new song to the same tune then,' said Nicholas, smiling. 'I
      told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired your sympathy with
      that poor lad, whom you released at the risk of involving yourself in
      trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how grateful he and I,
      and others whom you don't know, are to you for taking pity on him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ecod!' rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; 'and I can never tell
      <i>you </i>hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would be loikewise, if <i>they</i>
      know'd I had takken pity on him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' exclaimed Mrs. Browdie, 'what a state I was in that night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in the
      escape?' inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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"&mdash;that is, you know,
      schoolmeasther might coom.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I understand,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Presently,' resumed John, 'he <i>did </i>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&mdash;no hurry." He cooms to the door, turns the key&mdash;turns
      the key when there warn't nothing to hoold the lock&mdash;and ca's oot
      "Hallo, there!"&mdash;"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&mdash;ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! "Wa'at's the matter?" says I.
      "He's gane," says he,&mdash;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'&mdash;eh?) "Help!" he
      cries. "I'll help you," says I; and off we set&mdash;the wrong wa'! Ho!
      ho! ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you go far?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's a bad 'un,' said John, wiping his eyes; 'a very bad 'un, is
      schoolmeasther.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't bear the sight of him, John,' said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,' returned his wife; 'she was
      an old playmate of mine, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly,' returned Nicholas; 'and you acted upon that principle when I
      meet you on horseback on the road, after our memorable evening.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sure-ly,' said John. 'Wa'at I say, I stick by.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied John, 'Tilly's bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaid she be,
      too. She wean't be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For shame, John,' said Mrs. Browdie; with an acute perception of the joke
      though, being a bride herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The groom will be a blessed mun,' said John, his eyes twinkling at the
      idea. 'He'll be in luck, he will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,' said Nicholas,
      interrupting.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Especially,' observed Mrs. Browdie, looking very sly, 'after what we know
      about past and gone love matters.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We know, indeed!' said Nicholas, shaking his head. 'You behaved rather
      wickedly there, I suspect.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, as a what?' said his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As a woman,' returned John. 'Ding! But I dinnot know ought else that
      cooms near it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was a very good arrangement,' said Nicholas, 'though I am sorry to
      be the occasion of so much trouble.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not the least in the world,' returned Mrs. Browdie; 'for we have looked
      forward to see you&mdash;John and I have&mdash;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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very much obliged to her,' said Nicholas; 'but upon my word, I never
      aspired to making any impression upon her virgin heart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How you talk!' tittered Mrs. Browdie. 'No, but do you know that really&mdash;seriously
      now and without any joking&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was you, ma'am&mdash;was you?' cried a shrill female voice, 'was you
      given to understand that I&mdash;I&mdash;was going to be engaged to an
      assassinating thief that shed the gore of my pa? Do you&mdash;do you
      think, ma'am&mdash;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&mdash;do you? Oh! base and
      degrading 'Tilda!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;that viper,
      that&mdash;that&mdash;mermaid?' (Miss Squeers hesitated a long time for
      this last epithet, and brought it out triumphantly at last, as if it quite
      clinched the business.) 'This is the hend, is it, of all my bearing with
      her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, her laying herself out to
      catch the admiration of vulgar minds, in a way which made me blush for my&mdash;for
      my&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gender,' suggested Mr. Squeers, regarding the spectators with a malevolent
      eye&mdash;literally A malevolent eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Miss Squeers; 'but I thank my stars that my ma is of the same&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear, hear!' remarked Mr. Squeers; 'and I wish she was here to have a
      scratch at this company.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have I not patronised you, ma'am?' demanded Miss Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned Mrs. Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' interposed John Browdie, nettled by these accumulated attacks on
      his wife, 'dra' it mild, dra' it mild.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said John.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent, 'although I <i>am</i> a
      queer bridesmaid, and SHAN'T be a bride in a hurry, and although my
      husband <i>will </i>be in luck, I entertain no sentiments towards you, sir, but
      sentiments of pity.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, who looked sideways
      at her, as much as to say, 'There you had him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Couldn't you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was the case?'
      inquired Mrs. Browdie, with great suavity of manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't vex me, child, with such airs as these,' said the late Miss
      Price, assuming the matron.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't <i>Missis </i>me, ma'am, if you please,' returned Miss Squeers, sharply.
      'I'll not bear it. Is <i>this </i>the hend&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As for the matther o' that,' observed John, 'it'll be time eneaf to think
      aboot neaming of it when it cooms.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'John!' interposed his wife, 'don't tease her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Tease, indeed!' cried Miss Squeers, bridling up. 'Tease, indeed! He,
      he! Tease, too! No, don't tease her. Consider her feelings, pray!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eating!' cried Mr. Squeers, 'of what his father's enemies has left! It's
      fit to go and poison you, you unnat'ral boy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most malicious expression of
      which his face was capable&mdash;it was a face of remarkable capability,
      too, in that way&mdash;and shook his fist stealthily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,' said John, 'dinnot make a fool o' thyself;
      for if I was to sheake mine&mdash;only once&mdash;thou'd fa' doon wi' the
      wind o' it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was you, was it,' returned Squeers, 'that helped off my runaway boy?
      It was you, was it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me!' returned John, in a loud tone. 'Yes, it wa' me, coom; wa'at o' that?
      It wa' me. Noo then!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hear him say he did it, my child!' said Squeers, appealing to his
      daughter. 'You hear him say he did it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An honest man!' cried Squeers, with a sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! an honest man,' replied John; 'honest in ought but ever putting legs
      under seame table wi' such as thou.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;mark that&mdash;take care their fathers
      don't turn up, and send 'em back to me to do as I like with, in spite of
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not afraid of that,' replied Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders
      contemptuously, and turning away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ain't you!' retorted Squeers, with a diabolical look. 'Now then, come
      along.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!&mdash;Artful and designing 'Tilda!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here, waither,' said John, briskly. 'Look alive here. Tak' these things
      awa', and let's have soomat broiled for sooper&mdash;vary comfortable and
      plenty o' it&mdash;at ten o'clock. Bring soom brandy and soom wather, and
      a pair o' slippers&mdash;the largest pair in the house&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 43
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span><i>fficiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People
            together</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The storm had long given place to a calm the most profound, and the
      evening was pretty far advanced&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what's the matter?' said Nicholas, moving hastily towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coffee-room customers, and the waiters, and the coachmen, and the
      helpers&mdash;not to mention a barmaid who was looking on from behind an
      open sash window&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo!' said one of the men from the yard, 'this is somebody in disguise,
      this is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of Roosher, gen'l'men!' cried
      another fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A mere nothing!' he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this a murmur was raised by the lookers-on, and some of the boldest
      cried, 'Oh, indeed!&mdash;Wasn't it though?&mdash;Nothing, eh?&mdash;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&mdash;to
      the great terror of his wife&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What did you strike him for?' asked one of the bystanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! what did you strike him for?' demanded the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unpopular gentleman looked coolly round, and addressing himself to
      Nicholas, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear girl,' said the young gentleman in a low voice, advancing towards
      the sash window.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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).
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, that's very pretty,' replied the young lady, tossing her head, 'but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;respectfully, and in
      proper terms, and with a becoming sense of its worth and excellence,
      whereas this fellow has no more notion&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure I have seen that fellow before,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' replied his new acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am certain of it,' said Nicholas, pausing to reflect. 'Where can I have&mdash;stop!&mdash;yes,
      to be sure&mdash;he belongs to a register-office up at the west end of the
      town. I knew I recollected the face.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, indeed, Tom, the ugly clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas took the card, and glancing at it involuntarily as he returned
      the compliment, evinced very great surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Frank Cheeryble!' said Nicholas. 'Surely not the nephew of Cheeryble
      Brothers, who is expected tomorrow!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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 <i>am</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;four years and a half. She
      can't be more than seventeen&mdash;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 <i>he</i> 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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;save a
      very large family of children&mdash;might renounce a bishopric?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know about that,' said Mr. Frank; 'but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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? <i>you</i>
      know better than that, at all events. Well, then,' said Tim, folding his
      arms resolutely, 'where is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Certainly, Charles, certainly,' returned the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of Tim,' added brother Ned, 'I say nothing whatever, because Tim is a
      mere child&mdash;an infant&mdash;a nobody that we never think of or take
      into account at all. Tim, you villain, what do you say to that, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am jealous of both of 'em,' said Tim, 'and mean to look out for another
      situation; so provide yourselves, gentlemen, if you please.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said brother Charles, calling him aside, and taking him
      kindly by the hand, 'I&mdash;I&mdash;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.&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intelligence that they were to have a visitor&mdash;and such a visitor&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly well, mama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;oftener than you would
      think perhaps&mdash;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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate my dear, Kate,' cried Mrs. Nickleby, folding her in her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have so often thought,' sobbed Kate, 'of all his kind words&mdash;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&mdash;the
      broken heart&mdash;I know it was&mdash;I little thought so&mdash;then&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      A gush of tears came to her relief, and Kate laid her head upon her
      mother's breast, and wept like a little child.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;as Mrs. Nickleby
      said many thousand times afterwards in recalling the scene&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil happiness; and as we all
      have some bright day&mdash;many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of
      others&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to have been most
      happy?
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 44
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>r. 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</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;even to themselves&mdash;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&mdash;for walking implies, at least, an erect position and the
      bearing of a man&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gone out of town!' said Ralph, slowly. 'A mistake of yours. Go back
      again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No mistake,' returned Newman. 'Not even going; gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Has he turned girl or baby?' muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' said Newman, 'but he's gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And <i>where </i>has he gone?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'France,' replied Newman. 'Danger of another attack of erysipelas&mdash;a
      worse attack&mdash;in the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And he's
      gone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And Lord Frederick&mdash;?' began Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's gone too,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's too ill,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;I mean if I were he. But he's too ill! Poor Sir Mulberry! Too
      ill!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;the
      monotony of a sick-room to a man of his habits&mdash;no life&mdash;no
      drink&mdash;no play&mdash;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!'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That Mr. Squeers; has he been here?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,' returned
      Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know that, fool, do I not?' said Ralph, irascibly. 'Has he been here
      since? Was he here this morning?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' bawled Newman, in a very loud key.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If he comes while I am out&mdash;he is pretty sure to be here by nine
      tonight&mdash;let him wait. And if there's another man with him, as there
      will be&mdash;perhaps,' said Ralph, checking himself, 'let him wait too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let 'em both wait?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I was a parrot,' Newman, sulkily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you were,' rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; 'I'd have wrung
      your neck long ago.'
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would hardly have known me from my voice, I suppose, Mr. Nickleby?' he
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' returned Ralph, bending a severe look upon him. 'Though there is
      something in that, that I remember now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is little in me that you can call to mind as having been there
      eight years ago, I dare say?' observed the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite enough,' said Ralph, carelessly, and averting his face. 'More than
      enough.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had remained in doubt about <i>you</i>, Mr. Nickleby,' said the other, 'this
      reception, and <i>your </i>manner, would have decided me very soon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you expect any other?' asked Ralph, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' said the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were right,' retorted Ralph; 'and as you feel no surprise, need
      express none.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '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.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was once in your confidence&mdash;' thus his companion began. Ralph
      looked round, and smiled involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said the other, 'as much in your confidence as you ever chose to
      let anybody be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' rejoined Ralph, folding his arms; 'that's another thing, quite
      another thing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't let us play upon words, Mr. Nickleby, in the name of humanity.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      '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&mdash;must
      see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow and hard degrees, see it and
      know it well&mdash;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&mdash;not that, but bread, a crust of dry hard bread, is beyond
      my reach today&mdash;let that have some weight with you, if nothing else
      has.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,' said Ralph, 'you have
      studied your part well; but if you will take advice from one who knows
      something of the world and its ways, I should recommend a lower tone; a
      little lower tone, or you stand a fair chance of being starved in good
      earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with his right
      hand, and inclining his head a little on one side and dropping his chin
      upon his breast, looked at him whom he addressed with a frowning, sullen
      face. The very picture of a man whom nothing could move or soften.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yesterday was my first day in London,' said the old man, glancing at his
      travel-stained dress and worn shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would have been better for you, I think, if it had been your last
      also,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought you were most
      likely to be found,' resumed the other more humbly, 'and I met you here at
      last, when I had almost given up the hope of encountering you, Mr
      Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph giving him none, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am a most miserable and wretched outcast, nearly sixty years old, and
      as destitute and helpless as a child of six.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sixty years old, too,' replied Ralph, 'and am neither destitute nor
      helpless. Work. Don't make fine play-acting speeches about bread, but earn
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How?' cried the other. 'Where? Show me the means. Will you give them to
      me&mdash;will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did once,' replied Ralph, composedly; 'you scarcely need ask me whether
      I will again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's twenty years ago, or more,' said the man, in a suppressed voice,
      'since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed a share in the
      profits of some business I brought to you, and, as I persisted, you
      arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, odd shillings, including
      interest at fifty per cent, or so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I remember something of it,' replied Ralph, carelessly. 'What then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That didn't part us,' said the man. 'I made submission, being on the
      wrong side of the bolts and bars; and as you were not the made man then
      that you are now, you were glad enough to take back a clerk who wasn't
      over nice, and who knew something of the trade you drove.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You begged and prayed, and I consented,' returned Ralph. 'That was kind
      of me. Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I should think I did, or you
      would have begged in vain. You were useful; not too honest, not too
      delicate, not too nice of hand or heart; but useful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Useful, indeed!' said the man. 'Come. You had pinched and ground me down
      for some years before that, but I had served you faithfully up to that
      time, in spite of all your dog's usage. Had I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Had I?' said the man again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had had your wages,' rejoined Ralph, 'and had done your work. We
      stood on equal ground so far, and could both cry quits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, but not afterwards,' said the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not afterwards, certainly, nor even then, for (as you have just said) you
      owed me money, and do still,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's not all,' said the man, eagerly. 'That's not all. Mark that. I
      didn't forget that old sore, trust me. Partly in remembrance of that, and
      partly in the hope of making money someday by the scheme, I took advantage
      of my position about you, and possessed myself of a hold upon you, which
      you would give half of all you have to know, and never can know but
      through me. I left you&mdash;long after that time, remember&mdash;and, for
      some poor trickery that came within the law, but was nothing to what you
      money-makers daily practise just outside its bounds, was sent away a
      convict for seven years. I have returned what you see me. Now, Mr
      Nickleby,' said the man, with a strange mixture of humility and sense of
      power, 'what help and assistance will you give me; what bribe, to speak
      out plainly? My expectations are not monstrous, but I must live, and to
      live I must eat and drink. Money is on your side, and hunger and thirst on
      mine. You may drive an easy bargain.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that all?' said Ralph, still eyeing his companion with the same steady
      look, and moving nothing but his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It depends on you, Mr. Nickleby, whether that's all or not,' was the
      rejoinder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, harkye, Mr&mdash;, I don't know by what name I am to call you,'
      said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By my old one, if you like.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why then, harkye, Mr. Brooker,' said Ralph, in his harshest accents, 'and
      don't expect to draw another speech from me. Harkye, sir. I know you of
      old for a ready scoundrel, but you never had a stout heart; and hard work,
      with (maybe) chains upon those legs of yours, and shorter food than when I
      "pinched" and "ground" you, has blunted your wits, or you would not come
      with such a tale as this to me. You a hold upon me! Keep it, or publish it
      to the world, if you like.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't do that,' interposed Brooker. 'That wouldn't serve me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wouldn't it?' said Ralph. 'It will serve you as much as bringing it to
      me, I promise you. To be plain with you, I am a careful man, and know my
      affairs thoroughly. I know the world, and the world knows me. Whatever you
      gleaned, or heard, or saw, when you served me, the world knows and
      magnifies already. You could tell it nothing that would surprise it,
      unless, indeed, it redounded to my credit or honour, and then it would
      scout you for a liar. And yet I don't find business slack, or clients
      scrupulous. Quite the contrary. I am reviled or threatened every day by
      one man or another,' said Ralph; 'but things roll on just the same, and I
      don't grow poorer either.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I neither revile nor threaten,' rejoined the man. 'I can tell you of what
      you have lost by my act, what I only can restore, and what, if I die
      without restoring, dies with me, and never can be regained.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell my money pretty accurately, and generally keep it in my own
      custody,' said Ralph. 'I look sharply after most men that I deal with, and
      most of all I looked sharply after you. You are welcome to all you have
      kept from me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are those of your own name dear to you?' said the man emphatically. 'If
      they are&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They are not,' returned Ralph, exasperated at this perseverance, and the
      thought of Nicholas, which the last question awakened. 'They are not. If
      you had come as a common beggar, I might have thrown a sixpence to you in
      remembrance of the clever knave you used to be; but since you try to palm
      these stale tricks upon one you might have known better, I'll not part
      with a halfpenny&mdash;nor would I to save you from rotting. And remember
      this, 'scape-gallows,' said Ralph, menacing him with his hand, 'that if we
      meet again, and you so much as notice me by one begging gesture, you shall
      see the inside of a jail once more, and tighten this hold upon me in
      intervals of the hard labour that vagabonds are put to. There's my answer
      to your trash. Take it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With a disdainful scowl at the object of his anger, who met his eye but
      uttered not a word, Ralph walked away at his usual pace, without
      manifesting the slightest curiosity to see what became of his late
      companion, or indeed once looking behind him. The man remained on the same
      spot with his eyes fixed upon his retreating figure until it was lost to
      view, and then drawing his arm about his chest, as if the damp and lack of
      food struck coldly to him, lingered with slouching steps by the wayside,
      and begged of those who passed along.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph, in no-wise moved by what had lately passed, further than as he had
      already expressed himself, walked deliberately on, and turning out of the
      Park and leaving Golden Square on his right, took his way through some
      streets at the west end of the town until he arrived in that particular
      one in which stood the residence of Madame Mantalini. The name of that
      lady no longer appeared on the flaming door-plate, that of Miss Knag being
      substituted in its stead; but the bonnets and dresses were still dimly
      visible in the first-floor windows by the decaying light of a summer's
      evening, and excepting this ostensible alteration in the proprietorship,
      the establishment wore its old appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' muttered Ralph, drawing his hand across his mouth with a
      connoisseur-like air, and surveying the house from top to bottom; 'these
      people look pretty well. They can't last long; but if I know of their
      going in good time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. I must keep them
      closely in view; that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So, nodding his head very complacently, Ralph was leaving the spot, when
      his quick ear caught the sound of a confused noise and hubbub of voices,
      mingled with a great running up and down stairs, in the very house which
      had been the subject of his scrutiny; and while he was hesitating whether
      to knock at the door or listen at the keyhole a little longer, a female
      servant of Madame Mantalini's (whom he had often seen) opened it abruptly
      and bounced out, with her blue cap-ribbons streaming in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hallo here. Stop!' cried Ralph. 'What's the matter? Here am I. Didn't you
      hear me knock?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! Mr. Nickleby, sir,' said the girl. 'Go up, for the love of Gracious.
      Master's been and done it again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done what?' said Ralph, tartly; 'what d'ye mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew he would if he was drove to it,' cried the girl. 'I said so all
      along.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here, you silly wench,' said Ralph, catching her by the wrist; 'and
      don't carry family matters to the neighbours, destroying the credit of the
      establishment. Come here; do you hear me, girl?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without any further expostulation, he led or rather pulled the frightened
      handmaid into the house, and shut the door; then bidding her walk upstairs
      before him, followed without more ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guided by the noise of a great many voices all talking together, and
      passing the girl in his impatience, before they had ascended many steps,
      Ralph quickly reached the private sitting-room, when he was rather amazed
      by the confused and inexplicable scene in which he suddenly found himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were all the young-lady workers, some with bonnets and some without,
      in various attitudes expressive of alarm and consternation; some gathered
      round Madame Mantalini, who was in tears upon one chair; and others round
      Miss Knag, who was in opposition tears upon another; and others round Mr
      Mantalini, who was perhaps the most striking figure in the whole group,
      for Mr. Mantalini's legs were extended at full length upon the floor, and
      his head and shoulders were supported by a very tall footman, who didn't
      seem to know what to do with them, and Mr. Mantalini's eyes were closed,
      and his face was pale and his hair was comparatively straight, and his
      whiskers and moustache were limp, and his teeth were clenched, and he had
      a little bottle in his right hand, and a little tea-spoon in his left; and
      his hands, arms, legs, and shoulders, were all stiff and powerless. And
      yet Madame Mantalini was not weeping upon the body, but was scolding
      violently upon her chair; and all this amidst a clamour of tongues
      perfectly deafening, and which really appeared to have driven the
      unfortunate footman to the utmost verge of distraction.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0596m.jpg" alt="0596m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0596.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'What is the matter here?' said Ralph, pressing forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this inquiry, the clamour was increased twenty-fold, and an astounding
      string of such shrill contradictions as 'He's poisoned himself'&mdash;'He
      hasn't'&mdash;'Send for a doctor'&mdash;'Don't'&mdash;'He's dying'&mdash;'He
      isn't, he's only pretending'&mdash;with various other cries, poured forth
      with bewildering volubility, until Madame Mantalini was seen to address
      herself to Ralph, when female curiosity to know what she would say,
      prevailed, and, as if by general consent, a dead silence, unbroken by a
      single whisper, instantaneously succeeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini; 'by what chance you came here, I
      don't know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate, as part of the wanderings of
      a sick man, the words 'Demnition sweetness!' but nobody heeded them except
      the footman, who, being startled to hear such awful tones proceeding, as
      it were, from between his very fingers, dropped his master's head upon the
      floor with a pretty loud crash, and then, without an effort to lift it up,
      gazed upon the bystanders, as if he had done something rather clever than
      otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will, however,' continued Madame Mantalini, drying her eyes, and
      speaking with great indignation, 'say before you, and before everybody
      here, for the first time, and once for all, that I never will supply that
      man's extravagances and viciousness again. I have been a dupe and a fool
      to him long enough. In future, he shall support himself if he can, and
      then he may spend what money he pleases, upon whom and how he pleases; but
      it shall not be mine, and therefore you had better pause before you trust
      him further.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon Madame Mantalini, quite unmoved by some most pathetic
      lamentations on the part of her husband, that the apothecary had not mixed
      the prussic acid strong enough, and that he must take another bottle or
      two to finish the work he had in hand, entered into a catalogue of that
      amiable gentleman's gallantries, deceptions, extravagances, and
      infidelities (especially the last), winding up with a protest against
      being supposed to entertain the smallest remnant of regard for him; and
      adducing, in proof of the altered state of her affections, the
      circumstance of his having poisoned himself in private no less than six
      times within the last fortnight, and her not having once interfered by
      word or deed to save his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I insist on being separated and left to myself,' said Madame
      Mantalini, sobbing. 'If he dares to refuse me a separation, I'll have one
      in law&mdash;I can&mdash;and I hope this will be a warning to all girls
      who have seen this disgraceful exhibition.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Knag, who was unquestionably the oldest girl in company, said with
      great solemnity, that it would be a warning to <i>her</i>, and so did the young
      ladies generally, with the exception of one or two who appeared to
      entertain some doubts whether such whispers could do wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you say all this before so many listeners?' said Ralph, in a low
      voice. 'You know you are not in earnest.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>am</i> in earnest,' replied Madame Mantalini, aloud, and retreating towards
      Miss Knag.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, but consider,' reasoned Ralph, who had a great interest in the
      matter. 'It would be well to reflect. A married woman has no property.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a solitary single individual dem, my soul,' and Mr. Mantalini, raising
      himself upon his elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am quite aware of that,' retorted Madame Mantalini, tossing her head;
      'and I have none. The business, the stock, this house, and everything in
      it, all belong to Miss Knag.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's quite true, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, with whom her late
      employer had secretly come to an amicable understanding on this point.
      'Very true, indeed, Madame Mantalini&mdash;hem&mdash;very true. And I
      never was more glad in all my life, that I had strength of mind to resist
      matrimonial offers, no matter how advantageous, than I am when I think of
      my present position as compared with your most unfortunate and most
      undeserved one, Madame Mantalini.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit!' cried Mr. Mantalini, turning his head towards his wife. 'Will it
      not slap and pinch the envious dowager, that dares to reflect upon its own
      delicious?'
    </p>
    <p>
      But the day of Mr. Mantalini's blandishments had departed. 'Miss Knag,
      sir,' said his wife, 'is my particular friend;' and although Mr. Mantalini
      leered till his eyes seemed in danger of never coming back to their right
      places again, Madame Mantalini showed no signs of softening.
    </p>
    <p>
      To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she had been mainly instrumental in
      bringing about this altered state of things, for, finding by daily
      experience, that there was no chance of the business thriving, or even
      continuing to exist, while Mr. Mantalini had any hand in the expenditure,
      and having now a considerable interest in its well-doing, she had
      sedulously applied herself to the investigation of some little matters
      connected with that gentleman's private character, which she had so well
      elucidated, and artfully imparted to Madame Mantalini, as to open her eyes
      more effectually than the closest and most philosophical reasoning could
      have done in a series of years. To which end, the accidental discovery by
      Miss Knag of some tender correspondence, in which Madame Mantalini was
      described as 'old' and 'ordinary,' had most providentially contributed.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, notwithstanding her firmness, Madame Mantalini wept very
      piteously; and as she leant upon Miss Knag, and signed towards the door,
      that young lady and all the other young ladies with sympathising faces,
      proceeded to bear her out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nickleby,' said Mr. Mantalini in tears, 'you have been made a witness to
      this demnition cruelty, on the part of the demdest enslaver and captivator
      that never was, oh dem! I forgive that woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Forgive!' repeated Madame Mantalini, angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do forgive her, Nickleby,' said Mr. Mantalini. 'You will blame me, the
      world will blame me, the women will blame me; everybody will laugh, and
      scoff, and smile, and grin most demnebly. They will say, "She had a
      blessing. She did not know it. He was too weak; he was too good; he was a
      dem'd fine fellow, but he loved too strong; he could not bear her to be
      cross, and call him wicked names. It was a dem'd case, there never was a
      demder." But I forgive her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this affecting speech Mr. Mantalini fell down again very flat, and lay
      to all appearance without sense or motion, until all the females had left
      the room, when he came cautiously into a sitting posture, and confronted
      Ralph with a very blank face, and the little bottle still in one hand and
      the tea-spoon in the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may put away those fooleries now, and live by your wits again,' said
      Ralph, coolly putting on his hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit, Nickleby, you're not serious?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I seldom joke,' said Ralph. 'Good-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, but Nickleby&mdash;' said Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am wrong, perhaps,' rejoined Ralph. 'I hope so. You should know best.
      Good-night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he would stay and advise with
      him, Ralph left the crest-fallen Mr. Mantalini to his meditations, and left
      the house quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oho!' he said, 'sets the wind that way so soon? Half knave and half fool,
      and detected in both characters? I think your day is over, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this, he made some memorandum in his pocket-book in which Mr
      Mantalini's name figured conspicuously, and finding by his watch that it
      was between nine and ten o'clock, made all speed home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are they here?' was the first question he asked of Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman nodded. 'Been here half an hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Two of them? One a fat sleek man?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay,' said Newman. 'In your room now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Get me a coach.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A coach! What, you&mdash;going to&mdash;eh?' stammered Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph angrily repeated his orders, and Noggs, who might well have been
      excused for wondering at such an unusual and extraordinary circumstance
      (for he had never seen Ralph in a coach in his life) departed on his
      errand, and presently returned with the conveyance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Into it went Mr. Squeers, and Ralph, and the third man, whom Newman Noggs
      had never seen. Newman stood upon the door-step to see them off, not
      troubling himself to wonder where or upon what business they were going,
      until he chanced by mere accident to hear Ralph name the address whither
      the coachman was to drive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quick as lightning and in a state of the most extreme wonder, Newman
      darted into his little office for his hat, and limped after the coach as
      if with the intention of getting up behind; but in this design he was
      balked, for it had too much the start of him and was soon hopelessly
      ahead, leaving him gaping in the empty street.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know though,' said Noggs, stopping for breath, 'any good that I
      could have done by going too. He would have seen me if I had. Drive <i>there</i>!
      What can come of this? If I had only known it yesterday I could have told&mdash;drive
      there! There's mischief in it. There must be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His reflections were interrupted by a grey-haired man of a very
      remarkable, though far from prepossessing appearance, who, coming
      stealthily towards him, solicited relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away; but the man followed him,
      and pressed him with such a tale of misery that Newman (who might have
      been considered a hopeless person to beg from, and who had little enough
      to give) looked into his hat for some halfpence which he usually kept
      screwed up, when he had any, in a corner of his pocket-handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was busily untwisting the knot with his teeth, the man said
      something which attracted his attention; whatever that something was, it
      led to something else, and in the end he and Newman walked away side by
      side&mdash;the strange man talking earnestly, and Newman listening.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 45
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>
      <i>ontaining Matter of a surprising Kind</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'As we gang awa' fra' Lunnun tomorrow neeght, and as I dinnot know that I
      was e'er so happy in a' my days, Misther Nickleby, Ding! but I <i>will </i>tak'
      anoother glass to our next merry meeting!'
    </p>
    <p>
      So said John Browdie, rubbing his hands with great joyousness, and looking
      round him with a ruddy shining face, quite in keeping with the
      declaration.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time at which John found himself in this enviable condition was the
      same evening to which the last chapter bore reference; the place was the
      cottage; and the assembled company were Nicholas, Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs
      Browdie, Kate Nickleby, and Smike.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very merry party they had been. Mrs. Nickleby, knowing of her son's
      obligations to the honest Yorkshireman, had, after some demur, yielded her
      consent to Mr. and Mrs. Browdie being invited out to tea; in the way of
      which arrangement, there were at first sundry difficulties and obstacles,
      arising out of her not having had an opportunity of 'calling' upon Mrs
      Browdie first; for although Mrs. Nickleby very often observed with much
      complacency (as most punctilious people do), that she had not an atom of
      pride or formality about her, still she was a great stickler for dignity
      and ceremonies; and as it was manifest that, until a call had been made,
      she could not be (politely speaking, and according to the laws of society)
      even cognisant of the fact of Mrs. Browdie's existence, she felt her
      situation to be one of peculiar delicacy and difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The call <i>must </i>originate with me, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'that's
      indispensable. The fact is, my dear, that it's necessary there should be a
      sort of condescension on my part, and that I should show this young person
      that I am willing to take notice of her. There's a very
      respectable-looking young man,' added Mrs. Nickleby, after a short
      consideration, 'who is conductor to one of the omnibuses that go by here,
      and who wears a glazed hat&mdash;your sister and I have noticed him very
      often&mdash;he has a wart upon his nose, Kate, you know, exactly like a
      gentleman's servant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have all gentlemen's servants warts upon their noses, mother?' asked
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nicholas, my dear, how very absurd you are,' returned his mother; 'of
      course I mean that his glazed hat looks like a gentleman's servant, and
      not the wart upon his nose; though even that is not so ridiculous as it
      may seem to you, for we had a footboy once, who had not only a wart, but a
      wen also, and a very large wen too, and he demanded to have his wages
      raised in consequence, because he found it came very expensive. Let me
      see, what was I&mdash;oh yes, I know. The best way that I can think of
      would be to send a card, and my compliments, (I've no doubt he'd take 'em
      for a pot of porter,) by this young man, to the Saracen with Two Necks. If
      the waiter took him for a gentleman's servant, so much the better. Then
      all Mrs. Browdie would have to do would be to send her card back by the
      carrier (he could easily come with a double knock), and there's an end of
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'I don't suppose such unsophisticated
      people as these ever had a card of their own, or ever will have.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, 'that's
      another thing. If you put it upon that ground, why, of course, I have no
      more to say, than that I have no doubt they are very good sort of persons,
      and that I have no kind of objection to their coming here to tea if they
      like, and shall make a point of being very civil to them if they do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The point being thus effectually set at rest, and Mrs. Nickleby duly placed
      in the patronising and mildly-condescending position which became her rank
      and matrimonial years, Mr. and Mrs. Browdie were invited and came; and as
      they were very deferential to Mrs. Nickleby, and seemed to have a becoming
      appreciation of her greatness, and were very much pleased with everything,
      the good lady had more than once given Kate to understand, in a whisper,
      that she thought they were the very best-meaning people she had ever seen,
      and perfectly well behaved.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus it came to pass, that John Browdie declared, in the parlour after
      supper, to wit, and twenty minutes before eleven o'clock p.m., that he had
      never been so happy in all his days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was Mrs. Browdie much behind her husband in this respect, for that
      young matron, whose rustic beauty contrasted very prettily with the more
      delicate loveliness of Kate, and without suffering by the contrast either,
      for each served as it were to set off and decorate the other, could not
      sufficiently admire the gentle and winning manners of the young lady, or
      the engaging affability of the elder one. Then Kate had the art of turning
      the conversation to subjects upon which the country girl, bashful at first
      in strange company, could feel herself at home; and if Mrs. Nickleby was
      not quite so felicitous at times in the selection of topics of discourse,
      or if she did seem, as Mrs. Browdie expressed it, 'rather high in her
      notions,' still nothing could be kinder, and that she took considerable
      interest in the young couple was manifest from the very long lectures on
      housewifery with which she was so obliging as to entertain Mrs. Browdie's
      private ear, which were illustrated by various references to the domestic
      economy of the cottage, in which (those duties falling exclusively upon
      Kate) the good lady had about as much share, either in theory or practice,
      as any one of the statues of the Twelve Apostles which embellish the
      exterior of St Paul's Cathedral.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Browdie,' said Kate, addressing his young wife, 'is the best-humoured,
      the kindest and heartiest creature I ever saw. If I were oppressed with I
      don't know how many cares, it would make me happy only to look at him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most excellent creature, Kate,' said
      Mrs. Nickleby; 'most excellent. And I am sure that at all times it will
      give me pleasure&mdash;really pleasure now&mdash;to have you, Mrs. Browdie,
      to see me in this plain and homely manner. We make no display,' said Mrs
      Nickleby, with an air which seemed to insinuate that they could make a
      vast deal if they were so disposed; 'no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn't
      allow it. I said, "Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs. Browdie feel
      uncomfortable, and how very foolish and inconsiderate that would be!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma'am,' returned Mrs. Browdie,
      gratefully. 'It's nearly eleven o'clock, John. I am afraid we are keeping
      you up very late, ma'am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Late!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and one little cough
      at the end, like a note of admiration expressed. 'This is quite early for
      us. We used to keep such hours! Twelve, one, two, three o'clock was
      nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card-parties! Never were such rakes as the
      people about where we used to live. I often think now, I am sure, that how
      we ever could go through with it is quite astonishing, and that is just
      the evil of having a large connection and being a great deal sought after,
      which I would recommend all young married people steadily to resist;
      though of course, and it's perfectly clear, and a very happy thing too, I
      think, that very few young married people can be exposed to such
      temptations. There was one family in particular, that used to live about a
      mile from us&mdash;not straight down the road, but turning sharp off to
      the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over the donkey&mdash;that
      were quite extraordinary people for giving the most extravagant parties,
      with artificial flowers and champagne, and variegated lamps, and, in
      short, every delicacy of eating and drinking that the most singular
      epicure could possibly require. I don't think that there ever were such
      people as those Peltiroguses. You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time to
      stay this flood of recollection, so answered that she entertained of the
      Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct remembrance; and then said that Mr
      Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that he would sing a
      Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should redeem his
      promise, because she was sure it would afford her mama more amusement and
      pleasure than it was possible to express.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace&mdash;for
      there was patronage in that too, and a kind of implication that she had a
      discerning taste in such matters, and was something of a critic&mdash;John
      Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and
      to take his wife's recollection respecting the same. This done, he made
      divers ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular
      fly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyes upon
      him, and began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a
      gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of
      thunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had waited
      until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent knocking
      at the street-door; so loud and so violent, indeed, that the ladies
      started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It must be some mistake,' said Nicholas, carelessly. 'We know nobody who
      would come here at this hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the counting-house was burnt
      down, or perhaps 'the Mr. Cheerybles' had sent to take Nicholas into
      partnership (which certainly appeared highly probable at that time of
      night), or perhaps Mr. Linkinwater had run away with the property, or
      perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in her conjectures,
      and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stay,' said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards
      him, threw herself upon his arm. 'Before that boy says a word, hear me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner, but
      appeared for the moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kate clung closer
      to his arm, Smike retreated behind them, and John Browdie, who had heard
      of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty in recognising him,
      stepped between the old man and his young friend, as if with the intention
      of preventing either of them from advancing a step further.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear me, I say,' said Ralph, 'and not him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say what thou'st gotten to say then, sir,' retorted John; 'and tak' care
      thou dinnot put up angry bluid which thou'dst betther try to quiet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should know <i>you</i>,' said Ralph, 'by your tongue; and <i>him</i>' (pointing to
      Smike) 'by his looks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't speak to him,' said Nicholas, recovering his voice. 'I will not
      have it. I will not hear him. I do not know that man. I cannot breathe the
      air that he corrupts. His presence is an insult to my sister. It is shame
      to see him. I will not bear it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stand!' cried John, laying his heavy hand upon his chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then let him instantly retire,' said Nicholas, struggling. 'I am not
      going to lay hands upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have him
      here. John, John Browdie, is this my house, am I a child? If he stands
      there,' cried Nicholas, burning with fury, 'looking so calmly upon those
      who know his black and dastardly heart, he'll drive me mad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To all these exclamations John Browdie answered not a word, but he
      retained his hold upon Nicholas; and when he was silent again, spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's more to say and hear than thou think'st for,' said John. 'I
      tell'ee I ha' gotten scent o' thot already. Wa'at be that shadow ootside
      door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself, mun; dinnot be
      sheame-feaced. Noo, auld gen'l'man, let's have schoolmeasther, coom.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this adjuration, Mr. Squeers, who had been lingering in the passage
      until such time as it should be expedient for him to enter and he could
      appear with effect, was fain to present himself in a somewhat undignified
      and sneaking way; at which John Browdie laughed with such keen and
      heartfelt delight, that even Kate, in all the pain, anxiety, and surprise
      of the scene, and though the tears were in her eyes, felt a disposition to
      join him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you done enjoying yourself, sir?' said Ralph, at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pratty nigh for the prasant time, sir,' replied John.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can wait,' said Ralph. 'Take your own time, pray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph waited until there was a perfect silence, and then turning to Mrs
      Nickleby, but directing an eager glance at Kate, as if more anxious to
      watch his effect upon her, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, ma'am, listen to me. I don't imagine that you were a party to a very
      fine tirade of words sent me by that boy of yours, because I don't believe
      that under his control, you have the slightest will of your own, or that
      your advice, your opinion, your wants, your wishes, anything which in
      nature and reason (or of what use is your great experience?) ought to
      weigh with him, has the slightest influence or weight whatever, or is
      taken for a moment into account.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as if there were a good deal in
      that, certainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'For this reason,' resumed Ralph, 'I address myself to you, ma'am. For
      this reason, partly, and partly because I do not wish to be disgraced by
      the acts of a vicious stripling whom I was obliged to disown, and who,
      afterwards, in his boyish majesty, feigns to&mdash;ha! ha!&mdash;to disown
      <i>me</i>, I present myself here tonight. I have another motive in coming: a
      motive of humanity. I come here,' said Ralph, looking round with a biting
      and triumphant smile, and gloating and dwelling upon the words as if he
      were loath to lose the pleasure of saying them, 'to restore a parent his
      child. Ay, sir,' he continued, bending eagerly forward, and addressing
      Nicholas, as he marked the change of his countenance, 'to restore a parent
      his child; his son, sir; trepanned, waylaid, and guarded at every turn by
      you, with the base design of robbing him some day of any little wretched
      pittance of which he might become possessed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In that, you know you lie,' said Nicholas, proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In this, I know I speak the truth. I have his father here,' retorted
      Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here!' sneered Squeers, stepping forward. 'Do you hear that? Here! Didn't
      I tell you to be careful that his father didn't turn up and send him back
      to me? Why, his father's my friend; he's to come back to me directly, he
      is. Now, what do you say&mdash;eh!&mdash;now&mdash;come&mdash;what do you
      say to that&mdash;an't you sorry you took so much trouble for nothing?
      an't you? an't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You bear upon your body certain marks I gave you,' said Nicholas, looking
      quietly away, 'and may talk in acknowledgment of them as much as you
      please. You'll talk a long time before you rub them out, Mr. Squeers.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The estimable gentleman last named cast a hasty look at the table, as if
      he were prompted by this retort to throw a jug or bottle at the head of
      Nicholas, but he was interrupted in this design (if such design he had) by
      Ralph, who, touching him on the elbow, bade him tell the father that he
      might now appear and claim his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      This being purely a labour of love, Mr. Squeers readily complied, and
      leaving the room for the purpose, almost immediately returned, supporting
      a sleek personage with an oily face, who, bursting from him, and giving to
      view the form and face of Mr. Snawley, made straight up to Smike, and
      tucking that poor fellow's head under his arm in a most uncouth and
      awkward embrace, elevated his broad-brimmed hat at arm's length in the air
      as a token of devout thanksgiving, exclaiming, meanwhile, 'How little did
      I think of this here joyful meeting, when I saw him last! Oh, how little
      did I think it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be composed, sir,' said Ralph, with a gruff expression of sympathy, 'you
      have got him now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Got him! Oh, haven't I got him! Have I got him, though?' cried Mr
      Snawley, scarcely able to believe it. 'Yes, here he is, flesh and blood,
      flesh and blood.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Vary little flesh,' said John Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Snawley was too much occupied by his parental feelings to notice this
      remark; and, to assure himself more completely of the restoration of his
      child, tucked his head under his arm again, and kept it there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What was it,' said Snawley, 'that made me take such a strong interest in
      him, when that worthy instructor of youth brought him to my house? What
      was it that made me burn all over with a wish to chastise him severely for
      cutting away from his best friends, his pastors and masters?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was parental instinct, sir,' observed Squeers.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0607m.jpg" alt="0607m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0607.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'That's what it was, sir,' rejoined Snawley; 'the elevated feeling, the
      feeling of the ancient Romans and Grecians, and of the beasts of the field
      and birds of the air, with the exception of rabbits and tom-cats, which
      sometimes devour their offspring. My heart yearned towards him. I could
      have&mdash;I don't know what I couldn't have done to him in the anger of a
      father.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It only shows what Natur is, sir,' said Mr. Squeers. 'She's rum 'un, is
      Natur.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is a holy thing, sir,' remarked Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I believe you,' added Mr. Squeers, with a moral sigh. 'I should like to
      know how we should ever get on without her. Natur,' said Mr. Squeers,
      solemnly, 'is more easier conceived than described. Oh what a blessed
      thing, sir, to be in a state of natur!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pending this philosophical discourse, the bystanders had been quite
      stupefied with amazement, while Nicholas had looked keenly from Snawley to
      Squeers, and from Squeers to Ralph, divided between his feelings of
      disgust, doubt, and surprise. At this juncture, Smike escaping from his
      father fled to Nicholas, and implored him, in most moving terms, never to
      give him up, but to let him live and die beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you are this boy's father,' said Nicholas, 'look at the wreck he is,
      and tell me that you purpose to send him back to that loathsome den from
      which I brought him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Scandal again!' cried Squeers. 'Recollect, you an't worth powder and
      shot, but I'll be even with you one way or another.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop,' interposed Ralph, as Snawley was about to speak. 'Let us cut this
      matter short, and not bandy words here with hare-brained profligates. This
      is your son, as you can prove. And you, Mr. Squeers, you know this boy to
      be the same that was with you for so many years under the name of Smike.
      Do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I!' returned Squeers. 'Don't I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good,' said Ralph; 'a very few words will be sufficient here. You had a
      son by your first wife, Mr. Snawley?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I had,' replied that person, 'and there he stands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll show that presently,' said Ralph. 'You and your wife were
      separated, and she had the boy to live with her, when he was a year old.
      You received a communication from her, when you had lived apart a year or
      two, that the boy was dead; and you believed it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course I did!' returned Snawley. 'Oh the joy of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be rational, sir, pray,' said Ralph. 'This is business, and transports
      interfere with it. This wife died a year and a half ago, or thereabouts&mdash;not
      more&mdash;in some obscure place, where she was housekeeper in a family.
      Is that the case?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the case,' replied Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Having written on her death-bed a letter or confession to you, about this
      very boy, which, as it was not directed otherwise than in your name, only
      reached you, and that by a circuitous course, a few days since?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Just so,' said Snawley. 'Correct in every particular, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this confession,' resumed Ralph, 'is to the effect that his death was
      an invention of hers to wound you&mdash;was a part of a system of
      annoyance, in short, which you seem to have adopted towards each other&mdash;that
      the boy lived, but was of weak and imperfect intellect&mdash;that she sent
      him by a trusty hand to a cheap school in Yorkshire&mdash;that she had
      paid for his education for some years, and then, being poor, and going a
      long way off, gradually deserted him, for which she prayed forgiveness?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Snawley nodded his head, and wiped his eyes; the first slightly, the last
      violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The school was Mr. Squeers's,' continued Ralph; 'the boy was left there in
      the name of Smike; every description was fully given, dates tally exactly
      with Mr. Squeers's books, Mr. Squeers is lodging with you at this time; you
      have two other boys at his school: you communicated the whole discovery to
      him, he brought you to me as the person who had recommended to him the
      kidnapper of his child; and I brought you here. Is that so?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You talk like a good book, sir, that's got nothing in its inside but
      what's the truth,' replied Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is your pocket-book,' said Ralph, producing one from his coat; 'the
      certificates of your first marriage and of the boy's birth, and your
      wife's two letters, and every other paper that can support these
      statements directly or by implication, are here, are they?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Every one of 'em, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you don't object to their being looked at here, so that these people
      may be convinced of your power to substantiate your claim at once in law
      and reason, and you may resume your control over your own son without more
      delay. Do I understand you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I couldn't have understood myself better, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There, then,' said Ralph, tossing the pocket-book upon the table. 'Let
      them see them if they like; and as those are the original papers, I should
      recommend you to stand near while they are being examined, or you may
      chance to lose some.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words Ralph sat down unbidden, and compressing his lips, which
      were for the moment slightly parted by a smile, folded his arms, and
      looked for the first time at his nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas, stung by the concluding taunt, darted an indignant glance at
      him; but commanding himself as well as he could, entered upon a close
      examination of the documents, at which John Browdie assisted. There was
      nothing about them which could be called in question. The certificates
      were regularly signed as extracts from the parish books, the first letter
      had a genuine appearance of having been written and preserved for some
      years, the handwriting of the second tallied with it exactly, (making
      proper allowance for its having been written by a person in extremity,)
      and there were several other corroboratory scraps of entries and memoranda
      which it was equally difficult to question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, who had been looking anxiously over his
      shoulder, 'can this be really the case? Is this statement true?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear it is,' answered Nicholas. 'What say you, John?'
    </p>
    <p>
      John scratched his head and shook it, but said nothing at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will observe, ma'am,' said Ralph, addressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby,
      'that this boy being a minor and not of strong mind, we might have come
      here tonight, armed with the powers of the law, and backed by a troop of
      its myrmidons. I should have done so, ma'am, unquestionably, but for my
      regard for the feelings of yourself, and your daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have shown your regard for <i>her </i>feelings well,' said Nicholas, drawing
      his sister towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thank you,' replied Ralph. 'Your praise, sir, is commendation, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Squeers, 'what's to be done? Them hackney-coach horses will
      catch cold if we don't think of moving; there's one of 'em a sneezing now,
      so that he blows the street door right open. What's the order of the day?
      Is Master Snawley to come along with us?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no,' replied Smike, drawing back, and clinging to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No. Pray, no. I will not go from you with him. No, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a cruel thing,' said Snawley, looking to his friends for support.
      'Do parents bring children into the world for this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do parents bring children into the world for <i>thot</i>?' said John Browdie
      bluntly, pointing, as he spoke, to Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never you mind,' retorted that gentleman, tapping his nose derisively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Never I mind!' said John, 'no, nor never nobody mind, say'st thou,
      schoolmeasther. It's nobody's minding that keeps sike men as thou afloat.
      Noo then, where be'est thou coomin' to? Dang it, dinnot coom treadin' ower
      me, mun.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Suiting the action to the word, John Browdie just jerked his elbow into
      the chest of Mr. Squeers who was advancing upon Smike; with so much
      dexterity that the schoolmaster reeled and staggered back upon Ralph
      Nickleby, and being unable to recover his balance, knocked that gentleman
      off his chair, and stumbled heavily upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      This accidental circumstance was the signal for some very decisive
      proceedings. In the midst of a great noise, occasioned by the prayers and
      entreaties of Smike, the cries and exclamations of the women, and the
      vehemence of the men, demonstrations were made of carrying off the lost
      son by violence. Squeers had actually begun to haul him out, when Nicholas
      (who, until then, had been evidently undecided how to act) took him by the
      collar, and shaking him so that such teeth as he had, chattered in his
      head, politely escorted him to the room-door, and thrusting him into the
      passage, shut it upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Nicholas to the other two, 'have the goodness to follow your
      friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want my son,' said Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your son,' replied Nicholas, 'chooses for himself. He chooses to remain
      here, and he shall.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't give him up?' said Snawley.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I would not give him up against his will, to be the victim of such
      brutality as that to which you would consign him,' replied Nicholas, 'if
      he were a dog or a rat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,' cried Mr. Squeers, through
      the keyhole, 'and bring out my hat, somebody, will you, unless he wants to
      steal it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very sorry, indeed,' said Mrs. Nickleby, who, with Mrs. Browdie, had
      stood crying and biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate (very pale,
      but perfectly quiet) had kept as near her brother as she could. 'I am very
      sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don't know what would be best to do,
      and that's the truth. Nicholas ought to be the best judge, and I hope he
      is. Of course, it's a hard thing to have to keep other people's children,
      though young Mr. Snawley is certainly as useful and willing as it's
      possible for anybody to be; but, if it could be settled in any friendly
      manner&mdash;if old Mr. Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay
      something certain for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement was
      come to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and a pudding
      twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort&mdash;I do think that it
      might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs, not
      exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it; and poor
      Mrs. Nickleby accordingly proceeded to enlighten Mrs. Browdie upon the
      advantages of such a scheme, and the unhappy results flowing, on all
      occasions, from her not being attended to when she proffered her advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, sir,' said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, 'are an
      unnatural, ungrateful, unlovable boy. You won't let me love you when I
      want to. Won't you come home, won't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no,' cried Smike, shrinking back.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He never loved nobody,' bawled Squeers, through the keyhole. 'He never
      loved me; he never loved Wackford, who is next door but one to a cherubim.
      How can you expect that he'll love his father? He'll never love his
      father, he won't. He don't know what it is to have a father. He don't
      understand it. It an't in him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Snawley looked steadfastly at his son for a full minute, and then
      covering his eyes with his hand, and once more raising his hat in the air,
      appeared deeply occupied in deploring his black ingratitude. Then drawing
      his arm across his eyes, he picked up Mr. Squeers's hat, and taking it
      under one arm, and his own under the other, walked slowly and sadly out.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your romance, sir,' said Ralph, lingering for a moment, 'is destroyed, I
      take it. No unknown; no persecuted descendant of a man of high degree; but
      the weak, imbecile son of a poor, petty tradesman. We shall see how your
      sympathy melts before plain matter of fact.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall,' said Nicholas, motioning towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And trust me, sir,' added Ralph, 'that I never supposed you would give
      him up tonight. Pride, obstinacy, reputation for fine feeling, were all
      against it. These must be brought down, sir, lowered, crushed, as they
      shall be soon. The protracted and wearing anxiety and expense of the law
      in its most oppressive form, its torture from hour to hour, its weary days
      and sleepless nights, with these I'll prove you, and break your haughty
      spirit, strong as you deem it now. And when you make this house a hell,
      and visit these trials upon yonder wretched object (as you will; I know
      you), and those who think you now a young-fledged hero, we'll go into old
      accounts between us two, and see who stands the debtor, and comes out best
      at last, even before the world.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr. Squeers, who had heard a portion of this
      closing address, and was by this time wound up to a pitch of impotent
      malignity almost unprecedented, could not refrain from returning to the
      parlour door, and actually cutting some dozen capers with various wry
      faces and hideous grimaces, expressive of his triumphant confidence in the
      downfall and defeat of Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having concluded this war-dance, in which his short trousers and large
      boots had borne a very conspicuous figure, Mr. Squeers followed his
      friends, and the family were left to meditate upon recent occurrences.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 46
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span><i>hrows some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the
            Reader must determine</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      After an anxious consideration of the painful and embarrassing position in
      which he was placed, Nicholas decided that he ought to lose no time in
      frankly stating it to the kind brothers. Availing himself of the first
      opportunity of being alone with Mr. Charles Cheeryble at the close of next
      day, he accordingly related Smike's little history, and modestly but
      firmly expressed his hope that the good old gentleman would, under such
      circumstances as he described, hold him justified in adopting the extreme
      course of interfering between parent and child, and upholding the latter
      in his disobedience; even though his horror and dread of his father might
      seem, and would doubtless be represented as, a thing so repulsive and
      unnatural, as to render those who countenanced him in it, fit objects of
      general detestation and abhorrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be,' said
      Nicholas, 'that I can hardly believe he really is his son. Nature does not
      seem to have implanted in his breast one lingering feeling of affection
      for him, and surely she can never err.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear sir,' replied brother Charles, 'you fall into the very common
      mistake of charging upon Nature, matters with which she has not the
      smallest connection, and for which she is in no way responsible. Men talk
      of Nature as an abstract thing, and lose sight of what is natural while
      they do so. Here is a poor lad who has never felt a parent's care, who has
      scarcely known anything all his life but suffering and sorrow, presented
      to a man who he is told is his father, and whose first act is to signify
      his intention of putting an end to his short term of happiness, of
      consigning him to his old fate, and taking him from the only friend he has
      ever had&mdash;which is yourself. If Nature, in such a case, put into that
      lad's breast but one secret prompting which urged him towards his father
      and away from you, she would be a liar and an idiot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke so warmly, and
      in the hope that he might say something more to the same purpose, made no
      reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The same mistake presents itself to me, in one shape or other, at every
      turn,' said brother Charles. 'Parents who never showed their love,
      complain of want of natural affection in their children; children who
      never showed their duty, complain of want of natural feeling in their
      parents; law-makers who find both so miserable that their affections have
      never had enough of life's sun to develop them, are loud in their
      moralisings over parents and children too, and cry that the very ties of
      nature are disregarded. Natural affections and instincts, my dear sir, are
      the most beautiful of the Almighty's works, but like other beautiful works
      of His, they must be reared and fostered, or it is as natural that they
      should be wholly obscured, and that new feelings should usurp their place,
      as it is that the sweetest productions of the earth, left untended, should
      be choked with weeds and briers. I wish we could be brought to consider
      this, and remembering natural obligations a little more at the right time,
      talk about them a little less at the wrong one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After this, brother Charles, who had talked himself into a great heat,
      stopped to cool a little, and then continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I dare say you are surprised, my dear sir, that I have listened to your
      recital with so little astonishment. That is easily explained. Your uncle
      has been here this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas coloured, and drew back a step or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said the old gentleman, tapping his desk emphatically, 'here, in
      this room. He would listen neither to reason, feeling, nor justice. But
      brother Ned was hard upon him; brother Ned, sir, might have melted a
      paving-stone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He came to&mdash;' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To complain of you,' returned brother Charles, 'to poison our ears with
      calumnies and falsehoods; but he came on a fruitless errand, and went away
      with some wholesome truths in his ear besides. Brother Ned, my dear Mr.
      Nickleby&mdash;brother Ned, sir, is a perfect lion. So is Tim Linkinwater;
      Tim is quite a lion. We had Tim in to face him at first, and Tim was at
      him, sir, before you could say "Jack Robinson."'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can I ever thank you for all the deep obligations you impose upon me
      every day?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'By keeping silence upon the subject, my dear sir,' returned brother
      Charles. 'You shall be righted. At least you shall not be wronged. Nobody
      belonging to you shall be wronged. They shall not hurt a hair of your
      head, or the boy's head, or your mother's head, or your sister's head. I
      have said it, brother Ned has said it, Tim Linkinwater has said it. We
      have all said it, and we'll all do it. I have seen the father&mdash;if he
      is the father&mdash;and I suppose he must be. He is a barbarian and a
      hypocrite, Mr. Nickleby. I told him, "You are a barbarian, sir." I did. I
      said, "You're a barbarian, sir." And I'm glad of it, I am <i>very </i>glad I told
      him he was a barbarian, very glad indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time brother Charles was in such a very warm state of indignation,
      that Nicholas thought he might venture to put in a word, but the moment he
      essayed to do so, Mr. Cheeryble laid his hand softly upon his arm, and
      pointed to a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The subject is at an end for the present,' said the old gentleman, wiping
      his face. 'Don't revive it by a single word. I am going to speak upon
      another subject, a confidential subject, Mr. Nickleby. We must be cool
      again, we must be cool.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After two or three turns across the room he resumed his seat, and drawing
      his chair nearer to that on which Nicholas was seated, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am about to employ you, my dear sir, on a confidential and delicate
      mission.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You might employ many a more able messenger, sir,' said Nicholas, 'but a
      more trustworthy or zealous one, I may be bold to say, you could not
      find.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of that I am well assured,' returned brother Charles, 'well assured. You
      will give me credit for thinking so, when I tell you that the object of
      this mission is a young lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A young lady, sir!' cried Nicholas, quite trembling for the moment with
      his eagerness to hear more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very beautiful young lady,' said Mr. Cheeryble, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray go on, sir,' returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am thinking how to do so,' said brother Charles; sadly, as it seemed to
      his young friend, and with an expression allied to pain. 'You accidentally
      saw a young lady in this room one morning, my dear sir, in a fainting fit.
      Do you remember? Perhaps you have forgotten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no,' replied Nicholas, hurriedly. 'I&mdash;I&mdash;remember it very
      well indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>She </i>is the lady I speak of,' said brother Charles. Like the famous
      parrot, Nicholas thought a great deal, but was unable to utter a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is the daughter,' said Mr. Cheeryble, 'of a lady who, when she was a
      beautiful girl herself, and I was very many years younger, I&mdash;it
      seems a strange word for me to utter now&mdash;I loved very dearly. You
      will smile, perhaps, to hear a grey-headed man talk about such things. You
      will not offend me, for when I was as young as you, I dare say I should
      have done the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no such inclination, indeed,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear brother Ned,' continued Mr. Cheeryble, 'was to have married her
      sister, but she died. She is dead too now, and has been for many years.
      She married her choice; and I wish I could add that her after-life was as
      happy as God knows I ever prayed it might be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      A short silence intervened, which Nicholas made no effort to break.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If trial and calamity had fallen as lightly on his head, as in the
      deepest truth of my own heart I ever hoped (for her sake) it would, his
      life would have been one of peace and happiness,' said the old gentleman
      calmly. 'It will be enough to say that this was not the case; that she was
      not happy; that they fell into complicated distresses and difficulties;
      that she came, twelve months before her death, to appeal to my old
      friendship; sadly changed, sadly altered, broken-spirited from suffering
      and ill-usage, and almost broken-hearted. He readily availed himself of
      the money which, to give her but one hour's peace of mind, I would have
      poured out as freely as water&mdash;nay, he often sent her back for more&mdash;and
      yet even while he squandered it, he made the very success of these, her
      applications to me, the groundwork of cruel taunts and jeers, protesting
      that he knew she thought with bitter remorse of the choice she had made,
      that she had married him from motives of interest and vanity (he was a gay
      young man with great friends about him when she chose him for her
      husband), and venting in short upon her, by every unjust and unkind means,
      the bitterness of that ruin and disappointment which had been brought
      about by his profligacy alone. In those times this young lady was a mere
      child. I never saw her again until that morning when you saw her also, but
      my nephew, Frank&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas started, and indistinctly apologising for the interruption,
      begged his patron to proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;My nephew, Frank, I say,' resumed Mr. Cheeryble, 'encountered her
      by accident, and lost sight of her almost in a minute afterwards, within
      two days after he returned to England. Her father lay in some secret place
      to avoid his creditors, reduced, between sickness and poverty, to the
      verge of death, and she, a child,&mdash;we might almost think, if we did
      not know the wisdom of all Heaven's decrees&mdash;who should have blessed
      a better man, was steadily braving privation, degradation, and everything
      most terrible to such a young and delicate creature's heart, for the
      purpose of supporting him. She was attended, sir,' said brother Charles,
      'in these reverses, by one faithful creature, who had been, in old times,
      a poor kitchen wench in the family, who was then their solitary servant,
      but who might have been, for the truth and fidelity of her heart&mdash;who
      might have been&mdash;ah! the wife of Tim Linkinwater himself, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pursuing this encomium upon the poor follower with such energy and relish
      as no words can describe, brother Charles leant back in his chair, and
      delivered the remainder of his relation with greater composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in substance this: That proudly resisting all offers of permanent
      aid and support from her late mother's friends, because they were made
      conditional upon her quitting the wretched man, her father, who had no
      friends left, and shrinking with instinctive delicacy from appealing in
      their behalf to that true and noble heart which he hated, and had, through
      its greatest and purest goodness, deeply wronged by misconstruction and
      ill report, this young girl had struggled alone and unassisted to maintain
      him by the labour of her hands. That through the utmost depths of poverty
      and affliction she had toiled, never turning aside for an instant from her
      task, never wearied by the petulant gloom of a sick man sustained by no
      consoling recollections of the past or hopes of the future; never repining
      for the comforts she had rejected, or bewailing the hard lot she had
      voluntarily incurred. That every little accomplishment she had acquired in
      happier days had been put into requisition for this purpose, and directed
      to this one end. That for two long years, toiling by day and often too by
      night, working at the needle, the pencil, and the pen, and submitting, as
      a daily governess, to such caprices and indignities as women (with
      daughters too) too often love to inflict upon their own sex when they
      serve in such capacities, as though in jealousy of the superior
      intelligence which they are necessitated to employ,&mdash;indignities, in
      ninety-nine cases out of every hundred, heaped upon persons immeasurably
      and incalculably their betters, but outweighing in comparison any that the
      most heartless blackleg would put upon his groom&mdash;that for two long
      years, by dint of labouring in all these capacities and wearying in none,
      she had not succeeded in the sole aim and object of her life, but that,
      overwhelmed by accumulated difficulties and disappointments, she had been
      compelled to seek out her mother's old friend, and, with a bursting heart,
      to confide in him at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had been poor,' said brother Charles, with sparkling eyes; 'if I had
      been poor, Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir, which thank God I am not, I would
      have denied myself (of course anybody would under such circumstances) the
      commonest necessaries of life, to help her. As it is, the task is a
      difficult one. If her father were dead, nothing could be easier, for then
      she should share and cheer the happiest home that brother Ned and I could
      have, as if she were our child or sister. But he is still alive. Nobody
      can help him; that has been tried a thousand times; he was not abandoned
      by all without good cause, I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cannot she be persuaded to&mdash;' Nicholas hesitated when he had got
      thus far.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To leave him?' said brother Charles. 'Who could entreat a child to desert
      her parent? Such entreaties, limited to her seeing him occasionally, have
      been urged upon her&mdash;not by me&mdash;but always with the same
      result.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is he kind to her?' said Nicholas. 'Does he requite her affection?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True kindness, considerate self-denying kindness, is not in his nature,'
      returned Mr. Cheeryble. 'Such kindness as he knows, he regards her with, I
      believe. The mother was a gentle, loving, confiding creature, and although
      he wounded her from their marriage till her death as cruelly and wantonly
      as ever man did, she never ceased to love him. She commended him on her
      death-bed to her child's care. Her child has never forgotten it, and never
      will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you no influence over him?' asked Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I, my dear sir! The last man in the world. Such are his jealousy and
      hatred of me, that if he knew his daughter had opened her heart to me, he
      would render her life miserable with his reproaches; although&mdash;this
      is the inconsistency and selfishness of his character&mdash;although if he
      knew that every penny she had came from me, he would not relinquish one
      personal desire that the most reckless expenditure of her scanty stock
      could gratify.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An unnatural scoundrel!' said Nicholas, indignantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will use no harsh terms,' said brother Charles, in a gentle voice;
      'but accommodate ourselves to the circumstances in which this young lady
      is placed. Such assistance as I have prevailed upon her to accept, I have
      been obliged, at her own earnest request, to dole out in the smallest
      portions, lest he, finding how easily money was procured, should squander
      it even more lightly than he is accustomed to do. She has come to and fro,
      to and fro, secretly and by night, to take even this; and I cannot bear
      that things should go on in this way, Mr. Nickleby, I really cannot bear
      it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Then it came out by little and little, how that the twins had been
      revolving in their good old heads manifold plans and schemes for helping
      this young lady in the most delicate and considerate way, and so that her
      father should not suspect the source whence the aid was derived; and how
      they had at last come to the conclusion, that the best course would be to
      make a feint of purchasing her little drawings and ornamental work at a
      high price, and keeping up a constant demand for the same. For the
      furtherance of which end and object it was necessary that somebody should
      represent the dealer in such commodities, and after great deliberation
      they had pitched upon Nicholas to support this character.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He knows me,' said brother Charles, 'and he knows my brother Ned. Neither
      of us would do. Frank is a very good fellow&mdash;a very fine fellow&mdash;but
      we are afraid that he might be a little flighty and thoughtless in such a
      delicate matter, and that he might, perhaps&mdash;that he might, in short,
      be too susceptible (for she is a beautiful creature, sir; just what her
      poor mother was), and falling in love with her before he knew well his own
      mind, carry pain and sorrow into that innocent breast, which we would be
      the humble instruments of gradually making happy. He took an extraordinary
      interest in her fortunes when he first happened to encounter her; and we
      gather from the inquiries we have made of him, that it was she in whose
      behalf he made that turmoil which led to your first acquaintance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas stammered out that he had before suspected the possibility of
      such a thing; and in explanation of its having occurred to him, described
      when and where he had seen the young lady himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well; then you see,' continued brother Charles, 'that <i>he</i> wouldn't do. Tim
      Linkinwater is out of the question; for Tim, sir, is such a tremendous
      fellow, that he could never contain himself, but would go to loggerheads
      with the father before he had been in the place five minutes. You don't
      know what Tim is, sir, when he is aroused by anything that appeals to his
      feelings very strongly; then he is terrific, sir, is Tim Linkinwater,
      absolutely terrific. Now, in you we can repose the strictest confidence;
      in you we have seen&mdash;or at least I have seen, and that's the same
      thing, for there's no difference between me and my brother Ned, except
      that he is the finest creature that ever lived, and that there is not, and
      never will be, anybody like him in all the world&mdash;in you we have seen
      domestic virtues and affections, and delicacy of feeling, which exactly
      qualify you for such an office. And you are the man, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The young lady, sir,' said Nicholas, who felt so embarrassed that he had
      no small difficulty in saying anything at all&mdash;'Does&mdash;is&mdash;is
      she a party to this innocent deceit?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' returned Mr. Cheeryble; 'at least she knows you come from us;
      she does <i>not </i>know, however, but that we shall dispose of these little
      productions that you'll purchase from time to time; and, perhaps, if you
      did it very well (that is, <i>very </i>well indeed), perhaps she might be brought
      to believe that we&mdash;that we made a profit of them. Eh? Eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      In this guileless and most kind simplicity, brother Charles was so happy,
      and in this possibility of the young lady being led to think that she was
      under no obligation to him, he evidently felt so sanguine and had so much
      delight, that Nicholas would not breathe a doubt upon the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time, however, there hovered upon the tip of his tongue a
      confession that the very same objections which Mr. Cheeryble had stated to
      the employment of his nephew in this commission applied with at least
      equal force and validity to himself, and a hundred times had he been upon
      the point of avowing the real state of his feelings, and entreating to be
      released from it. But as often, treading upon the heels of this impulse,
      came another which urged him to refrain, and to keep his secret to his own
      breast. 'Why should I,' thought Nicholas, 'why should I throw difficulties
      in the way of this benevolent and high-minded design? What if I do love
      and reverence this good and lovely creature. Should I not appear a most
      arrogant and shallow coxcomb if I gravely represented that there was any
      danger of her falling in love with me? Besides, have I no confidence in
      myself? Am I not now bound in honour to repress these thoughts? Has not
      this excellent man a right to my best and heartiest services, and should
      any considerations of self deter me from rendering them?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Asking himself such questions as these, Nicholas mentally answered with
      great emphasis 'No!' and persuading himself that he was a most
      conscientious and glorious martyr, nobly resolved to do what, if he had
      examined his own heart a little more carefully, he would have found he
      could not resist. Such is the sleight of hand by which we juggle with
      ourselves, and change our very weaknesses into stanch and most magnanimous
      virtues!
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cheeryble, being of course wholly unsuspicious that such reflections
      were presenting themselves to his young friend, proceeded to give him the
      needful credentials and directions for his first visit, which was to be
      made next morning; and all preliminaries being arranged, and the strictest
      secrecy enjoined, Nicholas walked home for the night very thoughtfully
      indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place to which Mr. Cheeryble had directed him was a row of mean and not
      over-cleanly houses, situated within 'the Rules' of the King's Bench
      Prison, and not many hundred paces distant from the obelisk in St George's
      Fields. The Rules are a certain liberty adjoining the prison, and
      comprising some dozen streets in which debtors who can raise money to pay
      large fees, from which their creditors do <i>not </i>derive any benefit, are
      permitted to reside by the wise provisions of the same enlightened laws
      which leave the debtor who can raise no money to starve in jail, without
      the food, clothing, lodging, or warmth, which are provided for felons
      convicted of the most atrocious crimes that can disgrace humanity. There
      are many pleasant fictions of the law in constant operation, but there is
      not one so pleasant or practically humorous as that which supposes every
      man to be of equal value in its impartial eye, and the benefits of all
      laws to be equally attainable by all men, without the smallest reference
      to the furniture of their pockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the row of houses indicated to him by Mr. Charles Cheeryble, Nicholas
      directed his steps, without much troubling his head with such matters as
      these; and at this row of houses&mdash;after traversing a very dirty and
      dusty suburb, of which minor theatricals, shell-fish, ginger-beer, spring
      vans, greengrocery, and brokers' shops, appeared to compose the main and
      most prominent features&mdash;he at length arrived with a palpitating
      heart. There were small gardens in front which, being wholly neglected in
      all other respects, served as little pens for the dust to collect in,
      until the wind came round the corner and blew it down the road. Opening
      the rickety gate which, dangling on its broken hinges before one of these,
      half admitted and half repulsed the visitor, Nicholas knocked at the
      street door with a faltering hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in truth a shabby house outside, with very dim parlour windows and
      very small show of blinds, and very dirty muslin curtains dangling across
      the lower panes on very loose and limp strings. Neither, when the door was
      opened, did the inside appear to belie the outward promise, as there was
      faded carpeting on the stairs and faded oil-cloth in the passage; in
      addition to which discomforts a gentleman Ruler was smoking hard in the
      front parlour (though it was not yet noon), while the lady of the house
      was busily engaged in turpentining the disjointed fragments of a
      tent-bedstead at the door of the back parlour, as if in preparation for
      the reception of some new lodger who had been fortunate enough to engage
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had ample time to make these observations while the little boy,
      who went on errands for the lodgers, clattered down the kitchen stairs and
      was heard to scream, as in some remote cellar, for Miss Bray's servant,
      who, presently appearing and requesting him to follow her, caused him to
      evince greater symptoms of nervousness and disorder than so natural a
      consequence of his having inquired for that young lady would seem
      calculated to occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs he went, however, and into a front room he was shown, and there,
      seated at a little table by the window, on which were drawing materials
      with which she was occupied, sat the beautiful girl who had so engrossed
      his thoughts, and who, surrounded by all the new and strong interest which
      Nicholas attached to her story, seemed now, in his eyes, a thousand times
      more beautiful than he had ever yet supposed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how the graces and elegancies which she had dispersed about the
      poorly-furnished room went to the heart of Nicholas! Flowers, plants,
      birds, the harp, the old piano whose notes had sounded so much sweeter in
      bygone times; how many struggles had it cost her to keep these two last
      links of that broken chain which bound her yet to home! With every slender
      ornament, the occupation of her leisure hours, replete with that graceful
      charm which lingers in every little tasteful work of woman's hands, how
      much patient endurance and how many gentle affections were entwined! He
      felt as though the smile of Heaven were on the little chamber; as though
      the beautiful devotion of so young and weak a creature had shed a ray of
      its own on the inanimate things around, and made them beautiful as itself;
      as though the halo with which old painters surround the bright angels of a
      sinless world played about a being akin in spirit to them, and its light
      were visibly before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet Nicholas was in the Rules of the King's Bench Prison! If he had
      been in Italy indeed, and the time had been sunset, and the scene a
      stately terrace! But, there is one broad sky over all the world, and
      whether it be blue or cloudy, the same heaven beyond it; so, perhaps, he
      had no need of compunction for thinking as he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not to be supposed that he took in everything at one glance, for he
      had as yet been unconscious of the presence of a sick man propped up with
      pillows in an easy-chair, who, moving restlessly and impatiently in his
      seat, attracted his attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was scarce fifty, perhaps, but so emaciated as to appear much older.
      His features presented the remains of a handsome countenance, but one in
      which the embers of strong and impetuous passions were easier to be traced
      than any expression which would have rendered a far plainer face much more
      prepossessing. His looks were very haggard, and his limbs and body
      literally worn to the bone, but there was something of the old fire in the
      large sunken eye notwithstanding, and it seemed to kindle afresh as he
      struck a thick stick, with which he seemed to have supported himself in
      his seat, impatiently on the floor twice or thrice, and called his
      daughter by her name.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline, who is this? What does anybody want here? Who told a stranger
      we could be seen? What is it?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0624m.jpg" alt="0624m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0624.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'I believe&mdash;' the young lady began, as she inclined her head with an
      air of some confusion, in reply to the salutation of Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You always believe,' returned her father, petulantly. 'What is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Nicholas had recovered sufficient presence of mind to speak
      for himself, so he said (as it had been agreed he should say) that he had
      called about a pair of hand-screens, and some painted velvet for an
      ottoman, both of which were required to be of the most elegant design
      possible, neither time nor expense being of the smallest consideration. He
      had also to pay for the two drawings, with many thanks, and, advancing to
      the little table, he laid upon it a bank note, folded in an envelope and
      sealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See that the money is right, Madeline,' said the father. 'Open the paper,
      my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's quite right, papa, I'm sure.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here!' said Mr. Bray, putting out his hand, and opening and shutting his
      bony fingers with irritable impatience. 'Let me see. What are you talking
      about, Madeline? You're sure? How can you be sure of any such thing? Five
      pounds&mdash;well, is <i>that </i>right?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite,' said Madeline, bending over him. She was so busily employed in
      arranging the pillows that Nicholas could not see her face, but as she
      stooped he thought he saw a tear fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ring the bell, ring the bell,' said the sick man, with the same nervous
      eagerness, and motioning towards it with such a quivering hand that the
      bank note rustled in the air. 'Tell her to get it changed, to get me a
      newspaper, to buy me some grapes, another bottle of the wine that I had
      last week&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;I forget half I want just now, but she
      can go out again. Let her get those first, those first. Now, Madeline, my
      love, quick, quick! Good God, how slow you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He remembers nothing that she wants!' thought Nicholas. Perhaps something
      of what he thought was expressed in his countenance, for the sick man,
      turning towards him with great asperity, demanded to know if he waited for
      a receipt.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is no matter at all,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter! what do you mean, sir?' was the tart rejoinder. 'No matter! Do
      you think you bring your paltry money here as a favour or a gift; or as a
      matter of business, and in return for value received? D&mdash;n you, sir,
      because you can't appreciate the time and taste which are bestowed upon
      the goods you deal in, do you think you give your money away? Do you know
      that you are talking to a gentleman, sir, who at one time could have
      bought up fifty such men as you and all you have? What do you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I merely mean that as I shall have many dealings with this lady, if she
      will kindly allow me, I will not trouble her with such forms,' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I mean, if you please, that we'll have as many forms as we can,
      returned the father. 'My daughter, sir, requires no kindness from you or
      anybody else. Have the goodness to confine your dealings strictly to trade
      and business, and not to travel beyond it. Every petty tradesman is to
      begin to pity her now, is he? Upon my soul! Very pretty. Madeline, my
      dear, give him a receipt; and mind you always do so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was feigning to write it, and Nicholas was ruminating upon the
      extraordinary but by no means uncommon character thus presented to his
      observation, the invalid, who appeared at times to suffer great bodily
      pain, sank back in his chair and moaned out a feeble complaint that the
      girl had been gone an hour, and that everybody conspired to goad him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When,' said Nicholas, as he took the piece of paper, 'when shall I call
      again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was addressed to the daughter, but the father answered immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When you're requested to call, sir, and not before. Don't worry and
      persecute. Madeline, my dear, when is this person to call again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, not for a long time, not for three or four weeks; it is not
      necessary, indeed; I can do without,' said the young lady, with great
      eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how are we to do without?' urged her father, not speaking above his
      breath. 'Three or four weeks, Madeline! Three or four weeks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then sooner, sooner, if you please,' said the young lady, turning to
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Three or four weeks!' muttered the father. 'Madeline, what on earth&mdash;do
      nothing for three or four weeks!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It is a long time, ma'am,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>think so, do you?' retorted the father, angrily. 'If I chose to beg,
      sir, and stoop to ask assistance from people I despise, three or four
      months would not be a long time; three or four years would not be a long
      time. Understand, sir, that is if I chose to be dependent; but as I don't,
      you may call in a week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas bowed low to the young lady and retired, pondering upon Mr. Bray's
      ideas of independence, and devoutly hoping that there might be few such
      independent spirits as he mingling with the baser clay of humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard a light footstep above him as he descended the stairs, and
      looking round saw that the young lady was standing there, and glancing
      timidly towards him, seemed to hesitate whether she should call him back
      or no. The best way of settling the question was to turn back at once,
      which Nicholas did.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know whether I do right in asking you, sir,' said Madeline,
      hurriedly, 'but pray, pray, do not mention to my poor mother's dear
      friends what has passed here today. He has suffered much, and is worse
      this morning. I beg you, sir, as a boon, a favour to myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have but to hint a wish,' returned Nicholas fervently, 'and I would
      hazard my life to gratify it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You speak hastily, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Truly and sincerely,' rejoined Nicholas, his lips trembling as he formed
      the words, 'if ever man spoke truly yet. I am not skilled in disguising my
      feelings, and if I were, I could not hide my heart from you. Dear madam,
      as I know your history, and feel as men and angels must who hear and see
      such things, I do entreat you to believe that I would die to serve you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young lady turned away her head, and was plainly weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Forgive me,' said Nicholas, with respectful earnestness, 'if I seem to
      say too much, or to presume upon the confidence which has been intrusted
      to me. But I could not leave you as if my interest and sympathy expired
      with the commission of the day. I am your faithful servant, humbly devoted
      to you from this hour, devoted in strict truth and honour to him who sent
      me here, and in pure integrity of heart, and distant respect for you. If I
      meant more or less than this, I should be unworthy his regard, and false
      to the very nature that prompts the honest words I utter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She waved her hand, entreating him to be gone, but answered not a word.
      Nicholas could say no more, and silently withdrew. And thus ended his
      first interview with Madeline Bray.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 47
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span><i>r. Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old
            Friend. They concert between them a Project, which promises well for both</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'There go the three-quarters past!' muttered Newman Noggs, listening to
      the chimes of some neighbouring church 'and my dinner time's two. He does
      it on purpose. He makes a point of it. It's just like him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in his own little den of an office and on the top of his official
      stool that Newman thus soliloquised; and the soliloquy referred, as
      Newman's grumbling soliloquies usually did, to Ralph Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't believe he ever had an appetite,' said Newman, 'except for
      pounds, shillings, and pence, and with them he's as greedy as a wolf. I
      should like to have him compelled to swallow one of every English coin.
      The penny would be an awkward morsel&mdash;but the crown&mdash;ha! ha!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His good-humour being in some degree restored by the vision of Ralph
      Nickleby swallowing, perforce, a five-shilling piece, Newman slowly
      brought forth from his desk one of those portable bottles, currently known
      as pocket-pistols, and shaking the same close to his ear so as to produce
      a rippling sound very cool and pleasant to listen to, suffered his
      features to relax, and took a gurgling drink, which relaxed them still
      more. Replacing the cork, he smacked his lips twice or thrice with an air
      of great relish, and, the taste of the liquor having by this time
      evaporated, recurred to his grievance again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Five minutes to three,' growled Newman; 'it can't want more by this time;
      and I had my breakfast at eight o'clock, and <i>such </i>a breakfast! and my
      right dinner-time two! And I might have a nice little bit of hot roast
      meat spoiling at home all this time&mdash;how does <i>he</i> know I haven't?
      "Don't go till I come back," "Don't go till I come back," day after day.
      What do you always go out at my dinner-time for then&mdash;eh? Don't you
      know it's nothing but aggravation&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      These words, though uttered in a very loud key, were addressed to nothing
      but empty air. The recital of his wrongs, however, seemed to have the
      effect of making Newman Noggs desperate; for he flattened his old hat upon
      his head, and drawing on the everlasting gloves, declared with great
      vehemence, that come what might, he would go to dinner that very minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carrying this resolution into instant effect, he had advanced as far as
      the passage, when the sound of the latch-key in the street door caused him
      to make a precipitate retreat into his own office again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here he is,' growled Newman, 'and somebody with him. Now it'll be "Stop
      till this gentleman's gone." But I won't. That's flat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Newman slipped into a tall empty closet which opened with two
      half doors, and shut himself up; intending to slip out directly Ralph was
      safe inside his own room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Noggs!' cried Ralph, 'where is that fellow, Noggs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      But not a word said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The dog has gone to his dinner, though I told him not,' muttered Ralph,
      looking into the office, and pulling out his watch. 'Humph!' You had
      better come in here, Gride. My man's out, and the sun is hot upon my room.
      This is cool and in the shade, if you don't mind roughing it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not at all, Mr. Nickleby, oh not at all! All places are alike to me, sir.
      Ah! very nice indeed. Oh! very nice!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The parson who made this reply was a little old man, of about seventy or
      seventy-five years of age, of a very lean figure, much bent and slightly
      twisted. He wore a grey coat with a very narrow collar, an old-fashioned
      waistcoat of ribbed black silk, and such scanty trousers as displayed his
      shrunken spindle-shanks in their full ugliness. The only articles of
      display or ornament in his dress were a steel watch-chain to which were
      attached some large gold seals; and a black ribbon into which, in
      compliance with an old fashion scarcely ever observed in these days, his
      grey hair was gathered behind. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent,
      his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth, his face was shrivelled
      and yellow, save where the cheeks were streaked with the colour of a dry
      winter apple; and where his beard had been, there lingered yet a few grey
      tufts which seemed, like the ragged eyebrows, to denote the badness of the
      soil from which they sprung. The whole air and attitude of the form was
      one of stealthy cat-like obsequiousness; the whole expression of the face
      was concentrated in a wrinkled leer, compounded of cunning, lecherousness,
      slyness, and avarice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face there was not a wrinkle, in whose
      dress there was not one spare fold or plait, but expressed the most
      covetous and griping penury, and sufficiently indicated his belonging to
      that class of which Ralph Nickleby was a member. Such was old Arthur
      Gride, as he sat in a low chair looking up into the face of Ralph
      Nickleby, who, lounging upon the tall office stool, with his arms upon his
      knees, looked down into his; a match for him on whatever errand he had
      come.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how have you been?' said Gride, feigning great interest in Ralph's
      state of health. 'I haven't seen you for&mdash;oh! not for&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for a long time,' said Ralph, with a peculiar smile, importing that
      he very well knew it was not on a mere visit of compliment that his friend
      had come. 'It was a narrow chance that you saw me now, for I had only just
      come up to the door as you turned the corner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very lucky,' observed Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So men say,' replied Ralph, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The older money-lender wagged his chin and smiled, but he originated no
      new remark, and they sat for some little time without speaking. Each was
      looking out to take the other at a disadvantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, Gride,' said Ralph, at length; 'what's in the wind today?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha! you're a bold man, Mr. Nickleby,' cried the other, apparently very
      much relieved by Ralph's leading the way to business. 'Oh dear, dear, what
      a bold man you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, you have a sleek and slinking way with you that makes me seem so by
      contrast,' returned Ralph. 'I don't know but that yours may answer better,
      but I want the patience for it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were born a genius, Mr. Nickleby,' said old Arthur. 'Deep, deep, deep.
      Ah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Deep enough,' retorted Ralph, 'to know that I shall need all the depth I
      have, when men like you begin to compliment. You know I have stood by when
      you fawned and flattered other people, and I remember pretty well what
      <i>that </i>always led to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. 'So you do, so you do,
      no doubt. Not a man knows it better. Well, it's a pleasant thing now to
      think that you remember old times. Oh dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now then,' said Ralph, composedly; 'what's in the wind, I ask again? What
      is it?'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0631m.jpg" alt="0631m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0631.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'See that now!' cried the other. 'He can't even keep from business while
      we're chatting over bygones. Oh dear, dear, what a man it is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Which </i>of the bygones do you want to revive?' said Ralph. 'One of them, I
      know, or you wouldn't talk about them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He suspects even me!' cried old Arthur, holding up his hands. 'Even me!
      Oh dear, even me. What a man it is! Ha, ha, ha! What a man it is! Mr
      Nickleby against all the world. There's nobody like him. A giant among
      pigmies, a giant, a giant!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked at the old dog with a quiet smile as he chuckled on in this
      strain, and Newman Noggs in the closet felt his heart sink within him as
      the prospect of dinner grew fainter and fainter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must humour him though,' cried old Arthur; 'he must have his way&mdash;a
      wilful man, as the Scotch say&mdash;well, well, they're a wise people, the
      Scotch. He will talk about business, and won't give away his time for
      nothing. He's very right. Time is money, time is money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was one of us who made that saying, I should think,' said Ralph. 'Time
      is money, and very good money too, to those who reckon interest by it.
      Time <i>is</i> money! Yes, and time costs money; it's rather an expensive article
      to some people we could name, or I forget my trade.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In rejoinder to this sally, old Arthur again raised his hands, again
      chuckled, and again ejaculated 'What a man it is!' which done, he dragged
      the low chair a little nearer to Ralph's high stool, and looking upwards
      into his immovable face, said,
    </p>
    <p>
      'What would you say to me, if I was to tell you that I was&mdash;that I
      was&mdash;going to be married?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should tell you,' replied Ralph, looking coldly down upon him, 'that
      for some purpose of your own you told a lie, and that it wasn't the first
      time and wouldn't be the last; that I wasn't surprised and wasn't to be
      taken in.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I tell you seriously that I am,' said old Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I tell you seriously,' rejoined Ralph, 'what I told you this minute.
      Stay. Let me look at you. There's a liquorish devilry in your face. What
      is this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wouldn't deceive <i>you</i>, you know,' whined Arthur Gride; 'I couldn't do
      it, I should be mad to try. I, I, to deceive Mr. Nickleby! The pigmy to
      impose upon the giant. I ask again&mdash;he, he, he!&mdash;what should you
      say to me if I was to tell you that I was going to be married?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To some old hag?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, No,' cried Arthur, interrupting him, and rubbing his hands in an
      ecstasy. 'Wrong, wrong again. Mr. Nickleby for once at fault; out, quite
      out! To a young and beautiful girl; fresh, lovely, bewitching, and not
      nineteen. Dark eyes, long eyelashes, ripe and ruddy lips that to look at
      is to long to kiss, beautiful clustering hair that one's fingers itch to
      play with, such a waist as might make a man clasp the air involuntarily,
      thinking of twining his arm about it, little feet that tread so lightly
      they hardly seem to walk upon the ground&mdash;to marry all this, sir,
      this&mdash;hey, hey!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is something more than common drivelling,' said Ralph, after
      listening with a curled lip to the old sinner's raptures. 'The girl's
      name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh deep, deep! See now how deep that is!' exclaimed old Arthur. 'He knows
      I want his help, he knows he can give it me, he knows it must all turn to
      his advantage, he sees the thing already. Her name&mdash;is there nobody
      within hearing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, who the devil should there be?' retorted Ralph, testily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't know but that perhaps somebody might be passing up or down the
      stairs,' said Arthur Gride, after looking out at the door and carefully
      reclosing it; 'or but that your man might have come back and might have
      been listening outside. Clerks and servants have a trick of listening, and
      I should have been very uncomfortable if Mr. Noggs&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Curse Mr. Noggs,' said Ralph, sharply, 'and go on with what you have to
      say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Curse Mr. Noggs, by all means,' rejoined old Arthur; 'I am sure I have not
      the least objection to that. Her name is&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Ralph, rendered very irritable by old Arthur's pausing again
      'what is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline Bray.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever reasons there might have been&mdash;and Arthur Gride appeared to
      have anticipated some&mdash;for the mention of this name producing an
      effect upon Ralph, or whatever effect it really did produce upon him, he
      permitted none to manifest itself, but calmly repeated the name several
      times, as if reflecting when and where he had heard it before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bray,' said Ralph. 'Bray&mdash;there was young Bray of&mdash;no, he never
      had a daughter.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You remember Bray?' rejoined Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not Walter Bray! The dashing man, who used his handsome wife so ill?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you seek to recall any particular dashing man to my recollection by
      such a trait as that,' said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders, 'I shall
      confound him with nine-tenths of the dashing men I have ever known.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tut, tut. That Bray who is now in the Rules of the Bench,' said old
      Arthur. 'You can't have forgotten Bray. Both of us did business with him.
      Why, he owes you money!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh <i>him</i>!' rejoined Ralph. 'Ay, ay. Now you speak. Oh! It's <i>his </i>daughter,
      is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Naturally as this was said, it was not said so naturally but that a
      kindred spirit like old Arthur Gride might have discerned a design upon
      the part of Ralph to lead him on to much more explicit statements and
      explanations than he would have volunteered, or that Ralph could in all
      likelihood have obtained by any other means. Old Arthur, however, was so
      intent upon his own designs, that he suffered himself to be overreached,
      and had no suspicion but that his good friend was in earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew you couldn't forget him, when you came to think for a moment,' he
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were right,' answered Ralph. 'But old Arthur Gride and matrimony is a
      most anomalous conjunction of words; old Arthur Gride and dark eyes and
      eyelashes, and lips that to look at is to long to kiss, and clustering
      hair that he wants to play with, and waists that he wants to span, and
      little feet that don't tread upon anything&mdash;old Arthur Gride and such
      things as these is more monstrous still; but old Arthur Gride marrying the
      daughter of a ruined "dashing man" in the Rules of the Bench, is the most
      monstrous and incredible of all. Plainly, friend Arthur Gride, if you want
      any help from me in this business (which of course you do, or you would
      not be here), speak out, and to the purpose. And, above all, don't talk to
      me of its turning to my advantage, for I know it must turn to yours also,
      and to a good round tune too, or you would have no finger in such a pie as
      this.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was enough acerbity and sarcasm not only in the matter of Ralph's
      speech, but in the tone of voice in which he uttered it, and the looks
      with which he eked it out, to have fired even the ancient usurer's cold
      blood and flushed even his withered cheek. But he gave vent to no
      demonstration of anger, contenting himself with exclaiming as before,
      'What a man it is!' and rolling his head from side to side, as if in
      unrestrained enjoyment of his freedom and drollery. Clearly observing,
      however, from the expression in Ralph's features, that he had best come to
      the point as speedily as might be, he composed himself for more serious
      business, and entered upon the pith and marrow of his negotiation.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, he dwelt upon the fact that Madeline Bray was devoted to the
      support and maintenance, and was a slave to every wish, of her only
      parent, who had no other friend on earth; to which Ralph rejoined that he
      had heard something of the kind before, and that if she had known a little
      more of the world, she wouldn't have been such a fool.
    </p>
    <p>
      Secondly, he enlarged upon the character of her father, arguing, that even
      taking it for granted that he loved her in return with the utmost
      affection of which he was capable, yet he loved himself a great deal
      better; which Ralph said it was quite unnecessary to say anything more
      about, as that was very natural, and probable enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, thirdly, old Arthur premised that the girl was a delicate and
      beautiful creature, and that he had really a hankering to have her for his
      wife. To this Ralph deigned no other rejoinder than a harsh smile, and a
      glance at the shrivelled old creature before him, which were, however,
      sufficiently expressive.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Gride, 'for the little plan I have in my mind to bring this
      about; because, I haven't offered myself even to the father yet, I should
      have told you. But that you have gathered already? Ah! oh dear, oh dear,
      what an edged tool you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't play with me then,' said Ralph impatiently. 'You know the proverb.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A reply always on the tip of his tongue!' cried old Arthur, raising his
      hands and eyes in admiration. 'He is always prepared! Oh dear, what a
      blessing to have such a ready wit, and so much ready money to back it!'
      Then, suddenly changing his tone, he went on: 'I have been backwards and
      forwards to Bray's lodgings several times within the last six months. It
      is just half a year since I first saw this delicate morsel, and, oh dear,
      what a delicate morsel it is! But that is neither here nor there. I am his
      detaining creditor for seventeen hundred pounds!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You talk as if you were the only detaining creditor,' said Ralph, pulling
      out his pocket-book. 'I am another for nine hundred and seventy-five
      pounds four and threepence.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The only other, Mr. Nickleby,' said old Arthur, eagerly. 'The only other.
      Nobody else went to the expense of lodging a detainer, trusting to our
      holding him fast enough, I warrant you. We both fell into the same snare;
      oh dear, what a pitfall it was; it almost ruined me! And lent him our
      money upon bills, with only one name besides his own, which to be sure
      everybody supposed to be a good one, and was as negotiable as money, but
      which turned out you know how. Just as we should have come upon him, he
      died insolvent. Ah! it went very nigh to ruin me, that loss did!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on with your scheme,' said Ralph. 'It's of no use raising the cry of
      our trade just now; there's nobody to hear us!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's always as well to talk that way,' returned old Arthur, with a
      chuckle, 'whether there's anybody to hear us or not. Practice makes
      perfect, you know. Now, if I offer myself to Bray as his son-in-law, upon
      one simple condition that the moment I am fast married he shall be quietly
      released, and have an allowance to live just t'other side the water like a
      gentleman (he can't live long, for I have asked his doctor, and he
      declares that his complaint is one of the Heart and it is impossible), and
      if all the advantages of this condition are properly stated and dwelt upon
      to him, do you think he could resist me? And if he could not resist <i>me</i>, do
      you think his daughter could resist <i>him</i>? Shouldn't I have her Mrs. Arthur
      Gride&mdash;pretty Mrs. Arthur Gride&mdash;a tit-bit&mdash;a dainty chick&mdash;shouldn't
      I have her Mrs. Arthur Gride in a week, a month, a day&mdash;any time I
      chose to name?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on,' said Ralph, nodding his head deliberately, and speaking in a tone
      whose studied coldness presented a strange contrast to the rapturous
      squeak to which his friend had gradually mounted. 'Go on. You didn't come
      here to ask me that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, how you talk!' cried old Arthur, edging himself closer still to
      Ralph. 'Of course I didn't, I don't pretend I did! I came to ask what you
      would take from me, if I prospered with the father, for this debt of
      yours. Five shillings in the pound, six and-eightpence, ten shillings? I
      <i>would </i>go as far as ten for such a friend as you, we have always been on
      such good terms, but you won't be so hard upon me as that, I know. Now,
      will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's something more to be told,' said Ralph, as stony and immovable as
      ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, there is, but you won't give me time,' returned Arthur Gride.
      'I want a backer in this matter; one who can talk, and urge, and press a
      point, which you can do as no man can. I can't do that, for I am a poor,
      timid, nervous creature. Now, if you get a good composition for this debt,
      which you long ago gave up for lost, you'll stand my friend, and help me.
      Won't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's something more,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, indeed,' cried Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, indeed. I tell you yes,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' returned old Arthur feigning to be suddenly enlightened. 'You mean
      something more, as concerns myself and my intention. Ay, surely, surely.
      Shall I mention that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think you had better,' rejoined Ralph, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't like to trouble you with that, because I supposed your interest
      would cease with your own concern in the affair,' said Arthur Gride.
      'That's kind of you to ask. Oh dear, how very kind of you! Why, supposing
      I had a knowledge of some property&mdash;some little property&mdash;very
      little&mdash;to which this pretty chick was entitled; which nobody does or
      can know of at this time, but which her husband could sweep into his
      pouch, if he knew as much as I do, would that account for&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For the whole proceeding,' rejoined Ralph, abruptly. 'Now, let me turn
      this matter over, and consider what I ought to have if I should help you
      to success.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But don't be hard,' cried old Arthur, raising his hands with an imploring
      gesture, and speaking, in a tremulous voice. 'Don't be too hard upon me.
      It's a very small property, it is indeed. Say the ten shillings, and we'll
      close the bargain. It's more than I ought to give, but you're so kind&mdash;shall
      we say the ten? Do now, do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph took no notice of these supplications, but sat for three or four
      minutes in a brown study, looking thoughtfully at the person from whom
      they proceeded. After sufficient cogitation he broke silence, and it
      certainly could not be objected that he used any needless circumlocution,
      or failed to speak directly to the purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you married this girl without me,' said Ralph, 'you must pay my debt
      in full, because you couldn't set her father free otherwise. It's plain,
      then, that I must have the whole amount, clear of all deduction or
      incumbrance, or I should lose from being honoured with your confidence,
      instead of gaining by it. That's the first article of the treaty. For the
      second, I shall stipulate that for my trouble in negotiation and
      persuasion, and helping you to this fortune, I have five hundred pounds.
      That's very little, because you have the ripe lips, and the clustering
      hair, and what not, all to yourself. For the third and last article, I
      require that you execute a bond to me, this day, binding yourself in the
      payment of these two sums, before noon of the day of your marriage with
      Madeline Bray. You have told me I can urge and press a point. I press this
      one, and will take nothing less than these terms. Accept them if you like.
      If not, marry her without me if you can. I shall still get my debt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      To all entreaties, protestations, and offers of compromise between his own
      proposals and those which Arthur Gride had first suggested, Ralph was deaf
      as an adder. He would enter into no further discussion of the subject, and
      while old Arthur dilated upon the enormity of his demands and proposed
      modifications of them, approaching by degrees nearer and nearer to the
      terms he resisted, sat perfectly mute, looking with an air of quiet
      abstraction over the entries and papers in his pocket-book. Finding that
      it was impossible to make any impression upon his staunch friend, Arthur
      Gride, who had prepared himself for some such result before he came,
      consented with a heavy heart to the proposed treaty, and upon the spot
      filled up the bond required (Ralph kept such instruments handy), after
      exacting the condition that Mr. Nickleby should accompany him to Bray's
      lodgings that very hour, and open the negotiation at once, should
      circumstances appear auspicious and favourable to their designs.
    </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of this last understanding the worthy gentlemen went out
      together shortly afterwards, and Newman Noggs emerged, bottle in hand,
      from the cupboard, out of the upper door of which, at the imminent risk of
      detection, he had more than once thrust his red nose when such parts of
      the subject were under discussion as interested him most.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no appetite now,' said Newman, putting the flask in his pocket.
      'I've had <i>my</i> dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having delivered this observation in a very grievous and doleful tone,
      Newman reached the door in one long limp, and came back again in another.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know who she may be, or what she may be,' he said: 'but I pity
      her with all my heart and soul; and I can't help her, nor can I any of the
      people against whom a hundred tricks, but none so vile as this, are
      plotted every day! Well, that adds to my pain, but not to theirs. The
      thing is no worse because I know it, and it tortures me as well as them.
      Gride and Nickleby! Good pair for a curricle. Oh roguery! roguery!
      roguery!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these reflections, and a very hard knock on the crown of his
      unfortunate hat at each repetition of the last word, Newman Noggs, whose
      brain was a little muddled by so much of the contents of the pocket-pistol
      as had found their way there during his recent concealment, went forth to
      seek such consolation as might be derivable from the beef and greens of
      some cheap eating-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the two plotters had betaken themselves to the same house
      whither Nicholas had repaired for the first time but a few mornings
      before, and having obtained access to Mr. Bray, and found his daughter from
      home, had by a train of the most masterly approaches that Ralph's utmost
      skill could frame, at length laid open the real object of their visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There he sits, Mr. Bray,' said Ralph, as the invalid, not yet recovered
      from his surprise, reclined in his chair, looking alternately at him and
      Arthur Gride. 'What if he has had the ill-fortune to be one cause of your
      detention in this place? I have been another; men must live; you are too
      much a man of the world not to see that in its true light. We offer the
      best reparation in our power. Reparation! Here is an offer of marriage,
      that many a titled father would leap at, for his child. Mr. Arthur Gride,
      with the fortune of a prince. Think what a haul it is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My daughter, sir,' returned Bray, haughtily, 'as I have brought her up,
      would be a rich recompense for the largest fortune that a man could bestow
      in exchange for her hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Precisely what I told you,' said the artful Ralph, turning to his friend,
      old Arthur. 'Precisely what made me consider the thing so fair and easy.
      There is no obligation on either side. You have money, and Miss Madeline
      has beauty and worth. She has youth, you have money. She has not money,
      you have not youth. Tit for tat, quits, a match of Heaven's own making!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Matches are made in Heaven, they say,' added Arthur Gride, leering
      hideously at the father-in-law he wanted. 'If we are married, it will be
      destiny, according to that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then think, Mr. Bray,' said Ralph, hastily substituting for this argument
      considerations more nearly allied to earth, 'think what a stake is
      involved in the acceptance or rejection of these proposals of my friend.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can I accept or reject,' interrupted Mr. Bray, with an irritable
      consciousness that it really rested with him to decide. 'It is for my
      daughter to accept or reject; it is for my daughter. You know that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' said Ralph, emphatically; 'but you have still the power to advise;
      to state the reasons for and against; to hint a wish.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To hint a wish, sir!' returned the debtor, proud and mean by turns, and
      selfish at all times. 'I am her father, am I not? Why should I hint, and
      beat about the bush? Do you suppose, like her mother's friends and my
      enemies&mdash;a curse upon them all!&mdash;that there is anything in what
      she has done for me but duty, sir, but duty? Or do you think that my
      having been unfortunate is a sufficient reason why our relative positions
      should be changed, and that she should command and I should obey? Hint a
      wish, too! Perhaps you think, because you see me in this place and
      scarcely able to leave this chair without assistance, that I am some
      broken-spirited dependent creature, without the courage or power to do
      what I may think best for my own child. Still the power to hint a wish! I
      hope so!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pardon me,' returned Ralph, who thoroughly knew his man, and had taken
      his ground accordingly; 'you do not hear me out. I was about to say that
      your hinting a wish, even hinting a wish, would surely be equivalent to
      commanding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, of course it would,' retorted Mr. Bray, in an exasperated tone. 'If
      you don't happen to have heard of the time, sir, I tell you that there was
      a time, when I carried every point in triumph against her mother's whole
      family, although they had power and wealth on their side, by my will
      alone.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Still,' rejoined Ralph, as mildly as his nature would allow him, 'you
      have not heard me out. You are a man yet qualified to shine in society,
      with many years of life before you; that is, if you lived in freer air,
      and under brighter skies, and chose your own companions. Gaiety is your
      element, you have shone in it before. Fashion and freedom for you. France,
      and an annuity that would support you there in luxury, would give you a
      new lease of life, would transfer you to a new existence. The town rang
      with your expensive pleasures once, and you could blaze up on a new scene
      again, profiting by experience, and living a little at others' cost,
      instead of letting others live at yours. What is there on the reverse side
      of the picture? What is there? I don't know which is the nearest
      churchyard, but a gravestone there, wherever it is, and a date, perhaps
      two years hence, perhaps twenty. That's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bray rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, and shaded his face with
      his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I speak plainly,' said Ralph, sitting down beside him, 'because I feel
      strongly. It's my interest that you should marry your daughter to my
      friend Gride, because then he sees me paid&mdash;in part, that is. I don't
      disguise it. I acknowledge it openly. But what interest have you in
      recommending her to such a step? Keep that in view. She might object,
      remonstrate, shed tears, talk of his being too old, and plead that her
      life would be rendered miserable. But what is it now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Several slight gestures on the part of the invalid showed that these
      arguments were no more lost upon him, than the smallest iota of his
      demeanour was upon Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it now, I say,' pursued the wily usurer, 'or what has it a chance
      of being? If you died, indeed, the people you hate would make her happy.
      But can you bear the thought of that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' returned Bray, urged by a vindictive impulse he could not repress.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should imagine not, indeed!' said Ralph, quietly. 'If she profits by
      anybody's death,' this was said in a lower tone, 'let it be by her
      husband's. Don't let her have to look back to yours, as the event from
      which to date a happier life. Where is the objection? Let me hear it
      stated. What is it? That her suitor is an old man? Why, how often do men
      of family and fortune, who haven't your excuse, but have all the means and
      superfluities of life within their reach, how often do they marry their
      daughters to old men, or (worse still) to young men without heads or
      hearts, to tickle some idle vanity, strengthen some family interest, or
      secure some seat in Parliament! Judge for her, sir, judge for her. You
      must know best, and she will live to thank you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush! hush!' cried Mr. Bray, suddenly starting up, and covering Ralph's
      mouth with his trembling hand. 'I hear her at the door!'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a gleam of conscience in the shame and terror of this hasty
      action, which, in one short moment, tore the thin covering of sophistry
      from the cruel design, and laid it bare in all its meanness and heartless
      deformity. The father fell into his chair pale and trembling; Arthur Gride
      plucked and fumbled at his hat, and durst not raise his eyes from the
      floor; even Ralph crouched for the moment like a beaten hound, cowed by
      the presence of one young innocent girl!
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect was almost as brief as sudden. Ralph was the first to recover
      himself, and observing Madeline's looks of alarm, entreated the poor girl
      to be composed, assuring her that there was no cause for fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A sudden spasm,' said Ralph, glancing at Mr. Bray. 'He is quite well now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It might have moved a very hard and worldly heart to see the young and
      beautiful creature, whose certain misery they had been contriving but a
      minute before, throw her arms about her father's neck, and pour forth
      words of tender sympathy and love, the sweetest a father's ear can know,
      or child's lips form. But Ralph looked coldly on; and Arthur Gride, whose
      bleared eyes gloated only over the outward beauties, and were blind to the
      spirit which reigned within, evinced&mdash;a fantastic kind of warmth
      certainly, but not exactly that kind of warmth of feeling which the
      contemplation of virtue usually inspires.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline,' said her father, gently disengaging himself, 'it was nothing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you had that spasm yesterday, and it is terrible to see you in such
      pain. Can I do nothing for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing just now. Here are two gentlemen, Madeline, one of whom you have
      seen before. She used to say,' added Mr. Bray, addressing Arthur Gride,
      'that the sight of you always made me worse. That was natural, knowing
      what she did, and only what she did, of our connection and its results.
      Well, well. Perhaps she may change her mind on that point; girls have
      leave to change their minds, you know. You are very tired, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed you are. You do too much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish I could do more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you do, but you overtask your strength. This wretched life, my
      love, of daily labour and fatigue, is more than you can bear, I am sure it
      is. Poor Madeline!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these and many more kind words, Mr. Bray drew his daughter to him and
      kissed her cheek affectionately. Ralph, watching him sharply and closely
      in the meantime, made his way towards the door, and signed to Gride to
      follow him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will communicate with us again?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' returned Mr. Bray, hastily thrusting his daughter aside. 'In a
      week. Give me a week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'One week,' said Ralph, turning to his companion, 'from today.
      Good-morning. Miss Madeline, I kiss your hand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We will shake hands, Gride,' said Mr. Bray, extending his, as old Arthur
      bowed. 'You mean well, no doubt. I am bound to say so now. If I owed you
      money, that was not your fault. Madeline, my love, your hand here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear! If the young lady would condescent! Only the tips of her
      fingers,' said Arthur, hesitating and half retreating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madeline shrunk involuntarily from the goblin figure, but she placed the
      tips of her fingers in his hand and instantly withdrew them. After an
      ineffectual clutch, intended to detain and carry them to his lips, old
      Arthur gave his own fingers a mumbling kiss, and with many amorous
      distortions of visage went in pursuit of his friend, who was by this time
      in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does he say, what does he say? What does the giant say to the
      pigmy?' inquired Arthur Gride, hobbling up to Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does the pigmy say to the giant?' rejoined Ralph, elevating his
      eyebrows and looking down upon his questioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He doesn't know what to say,' replied Arthur Gride. 'He hopes and fears.
      But is she not a dainty morsel?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no great taste for beauty,' growled Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I have,' rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. 'Oh dear! How handsome
      her eyes looked when she was stooping over him! Such long lashes, such
      delicate fringe! She&mdash;she&mdash;looked at me so soft.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not over-lovingly, I think,' said Ralph. 'Did she?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, you think not?' replied old Arthur. 'But don't you think it can be
      brought about? Don't you think it can?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked at him with a contemptuous frown, and replied with a sneer,
      and between his teeth:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did you mark his telling her she was tired and did too much, and
      overtasked her strength?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay. What of it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When do you think he ever told her that before? The life is more than she
      can bear. Yes, yes. He'll change it for her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'D'ye think it's done?' inquired old Arthur, peering into his companion's
      face with half-closed eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure it's done,' said Ralph. 'He is trying to deceive himself, even
      before our eyes, already. He is making believe that he thinks of her good
      and not his own. He is acting a virtuous part, and so considerate and
      affectionate, sir, that the daughter scarcely knew him. I saw a tear of
      surprise in her eye. There'll be a few more tears of surprise there before
      long, though of a different kind. Oh! we may wait with confidence for this
      day week.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 48
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span><i>eing for the Benefit of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and positively his last
            Appearance on this Stage</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with a very sad and heavy heart, oppressed by many painful ideas,
      that Nicholas retraced his steps eastward and betook himself to the
      counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers. Whatever the idle hopes he had
      suffered himself to entertain, whatever the pleasant visions which had
      sprung up in his mind and grouped themselves round the fair image of
      Madeline Bray, they were now dispelled, and not a vestige of their gaiety
      and brightness remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be a poor compliment to Nicholas's better nature, and one which
      he was very far from deserving, to insinuate that the solution, and such a
      solution, of the mystery which had seemed to surround Madeline Bray, when
      he was ignorant even of her name, had damped his ardour or cooled the
      fervour of his admiration. If he had regarded her before, with such a
      passion as young men attracted by mere beauty and elegance may entertain,
      he was now conscious of much deeper and stronger feelings. But, reverence
      for the truth and purity of her heart, respect for the helplessness and
      loneliness of her situation, sympathy with the trials of one so young and
      fair and admiration of her great and noble spirit, all seemed to raise her
      far above his reach, and, while they imparted new depth and dignity to his
      love, to whisper that it was hopeless.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will keep my word, as I have pledged it to her,' said Nicholas,
      manfully. 'This is no common trust that I have to discharge, and I will
      perform the double duty that is imposed upon me most scrupulously and
      strictly. My secret feelings deserve no consideration in such a case as
      this, and they shall have none.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, there were the secret feelings in existence just the same, and in
      secret Nicholas rather encouraged them than otherwise; reasoning (if he
      reasoned at all) that there they could do no harm to anybody but himself,
      and that if he kept them to himself from a sense of duty, he had an
      additional right to entertain himself with them as a reward for his
      heroism.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these thoughts, coupled with what he had seen that morning and the
      anticipation of his next visit, rendered him a very dull and abstracted
      companion; so much so, indeed, that Tim Linkinwater suspected he must have
      made the mistake of a figure somewhere, which was preying upon his mind,
      and seriously conjured him, if such were the case, to make a clean breast
      and scratch it out, rather than have his whole life embittered by the
      tortures of remorse.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in reply to these considerate representations, and many others both
      from Tim and Mr. Frank, Nicholas could only be brought to state that he was
      never merrier in his life; and so went on all day, and so went towards
      home at night, still turning over and over again the same subjects,
      thinking over and over again the same things, and arriving over and over
      again at the same conclusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this pensive, wayward, and uncertain state, people are apt to lounge
      and loiter without knowing why, to read placards on the walls with great
      attention and without the smallest idea of one word of their contents, and
      to stare most earnestly through shop-windows at things which they don't
      see. It was thus that Nicholas found himself poring with the utmost
      interest over a large play-bill hanging outside a Minor Theatre which he
      had to pass on his way home, and reading a list of the actors and
      actresses who had promised to do honour to some approaching benefit, with
      as much gravity as if it had been a catalogue of the names of those ladies
      and gentlemen who stood highest upon the Book of Fate, and he had been
      looking anxiously for his own. He glanced at the top of the bill, with a
      smile at his own dulness, as he prepared to resume his walk, and there saw
      announced, in large letters with a large space between each of them,
      'Positively the last appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles of Provincial
      Celebrity!!!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nonsense!' said Nicholas, turning back again. 'It can't be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But there it was. In one line by itself was an announcement of the first
      night of a new melodrama; in another line by itself was an announcement of
      the last six nights of an old one; a third line was devoted to the
      re-engagement of the unrivalled African Knife-swallower, who had kindly
      suffered himself to be prevailed upon to forego his country engagements
      for one week longer; a fourth line announced that Mr. Snittle Timberry,
      having recovered from his late severe indisposition, would have the honour
      of appearing that evening; a fifth line said that there were 'Cheers,
      Tears, and Laughter!' every night; a sixth, that that was positively the
      last appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles of Provincial Celebrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely it must be the same man,' thought Nicholas. 'There can't be two
      Vincent Crummleses.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The better to settle this question he referred to the bill again, and
      finding that there was a Baron in the first piece, and that Roberto (his
      son) was enacted by one Master Crummles, and Spaletro (his nephew) by one
      Master Percy Crummles&mdash;<i>their </i>last appearances&mdash;and that,
      incidental to the piece, was a characteristic dance by the characters, and
      a <i>castanet pas seul</i> by the Infant Phenomenon&mdash;<i>her </i>last appearance&mdash;he
      no longer entertained any doubt; and presenting himself at the stage-door,
      and sending in a scrap of paper with 'Mr. Johnson' written thereon in
      pencil, was presently conducted by a Robber, with a very large belt and
      buckle round his waist, and very large leather gauntlets on his hands,
      into the presence of his former manager.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Crummles was unfeignedly glad to see him, and starting up from before a
      small dressing-glass, with one very bushy eyebrow stuck on crooked over
      his left eye, and the fellow eyebrow and the calf of one of his legs in
      his hand, embraced him cordially; at the same time observing, that it
      would do Mrs. Crummles's heart good to bid him goodbye before they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You were always a favourite of hers, Johnson,' said Crummles, 'always
      were from the first. I was quite easy in my mind about you from that first
      day you dined with us. One that Mrs. Crummles took a fancy to, was sure to
      turn out right. Ah! Johnson, what a woman that is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sincerely obliged to her for her kindness in this and all other
      respects,' said Nicholas. 'But where are you going, that you talk about
      bidding goodbye?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Haven't you seen it in the papers?' said Crummles, with some dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wonder at that,' said the manager. 'It was among the varieties. I had
      the paragraph here somewhere&mdash;but I don't know&mdash;oh, yes, here it
      is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Mr. Crummles, after pretending that he thought he must have lost
      it, produced a square inch of newspaper from the pocket of the pantaloons
      he wore in private life (which, together with the plain clothes of several
      other gentlemen, lay scattered about on a kind of dresser in the room),
      and gave it to Nicholas to read:
    </p>
    <p>
      'The talented Vincent Crummles, long favourably known to fame as a country
      manager and actor of no ordinary pretensions, is about to cross the
      Atlantic on a histrionic expedition. Crummles is to be accompanied, we
      hear, by his lady and gifted family. We know no man superior to Crummles
      in his particular line of character, or one who, whether as a public or
      private individual, could carry with him the best wishes of a larger
      circle of friends. Crummles is certain to succeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here's another bit,' said Mr. Crummles, handing over a still smaller
      scrap. 'This is from the notices to correspondents, this one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas read it aloud. '"Philo-Dramaticus. Crummles, the country manager
      and actor, cannot be more than forty-three, or forty-four years of age.
      Crummles is <i>not </i>a Prussian, having been born at Chelsea." Humph!' said
      Nicholas, 'that's an odd paragraph.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' returned Crummles, scratching the side of his nose, and looking at
      Nicholas with an assumption of great unconcern. 'I can't think who puts
      these things in. I didn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Still keeping his eye on Nicholas, Mr. Crummles shook his head twice or
      thrice with profound gravity, and remarking, that he could not for the
      life of him imagine how the newspapers found out the things they did,
      folded up the extracts and put them in his pocket again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am astonished to hear this news,' said Nicholas. 'Going to America! You
      had no such thing in contemplation when I was with you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Crummles, 'I hadn't then. The fact is that Mrs. Crummles&mdash;most
      extraordinary woman, Johnson.' Here he broke off and whispered something
      in his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Nicholas, smiling. 'The prospect of an addition to your
      family?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The seventh addition, Johnson,' returned Mr. Crummles, solemnly. 'I
      thought such a child as the Phenomenon must have been a closer; but it
      seems we are to have another. She is a very remarkable woman.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I congratulate you,' said Nicholas, 'and I hope this may prove a
      phenomenon too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, it's pretty sure to be something uncommon, I suppose,' rejoined Mr
      Crummles. 'The talent of the other three is principally in combat and
      serious pantomime. I should like this one to have a turn for juvenile
      tragedy; I understand they want something of that sort in America very
      much. However, we must take it as it comes. Perhaps it may have a genius
      for the tight-rope. It may have any sort of genius, in short, if it takes
      after its mother, Johnson, for she is an universal genius; but, whatever
      its genius is, that genius shall be developed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Expressing himself after these terms, Mr. Crummles put on his other
      eyebrow, and the calves of his legs, and then put on his legs, which were
      of a yellowish flesh-colour, and rather soiled about the knees, from
      frequent going down upon those joints, in curses, prayers, last struggles,
      and other strong passages.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the ex-manager completed his toilet, he informed Nicholas that as he
      should have a fair start in America from the proceeds of a tolerably good
      engagement which he had been fortunate enough to obtain, and as he and Mrs
      Crummles could scarcely hope to act for ever (not being immortal, except
      in the breath of Fame and in a figurative sense) he had made up his mind
      to settle there permanently, in the hope of acquiring some land of his own
      which would support them in their old age, and which they could afterwards
      bequeath to their children. Nicholas, having highly commended the
      resolution, Mr. Crummles went on to impart such further intelligence
      relative to their mutual friends as he thought might prove interesting;
      informing Nicholas, among other things, that Miss Snevellicci was happily
      married to an affluent young wax-chandler who had supplied the theatre
      with candles, and that Mr. Lillyvick didn't dare to say his soul was his
      own, such was the tyrannical sway of Mrs. Lillyvick, who reigned paramount
      and supreme.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas responded to this confidence on the part of Mr. Crummles, by
      confiding to him his own name, situation, and prospects, and informing
      him, in as few general words as he could, of the circumstances which had
      led to their first acquaintance. After congratulating him with great
      heartiness on the improved state of his fortunes, Mr. Crummles gave him to
      understand that next morning he and his were to start for Liverpool, where
      the vessel lay which was to carry them from the shores of England, and
      that if Nicholas wished to take a last adieu of Mrs. Crummles, he must
      repair with him that night to a farewell supper, given in honour of the
      family at a neighbouring tavern; at which Mr. Snittle Timberry would
      preside, while the honours of the vice-chair would be sustained by the
      African Swallower.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room being by this time very warm and somewhat crowded, in consequence
      of the influx of four gentlemen, who had just killed each other in the
      piece under representation, Nicholas accepted the invitation, and promised
      to return at the conclusion of the performances; preferring the cool air
      and twilight out of doors to the mingled perfume of gas, orange-peel, and
      gunpowder, which pervaded the hot and glaring theatre.
    </p>
    <p>
      He availed himself of this interval to buy a silver snuff-box&mdash;the
      best his funds would afford&mdash;as a token of remembrance for Mr
      Crummles, and having purchased besides a pair of ear-rings for Mrs
      Crummles, a necklace for the Phenomenon, and a flaming shirt-pin for each
      of the young gentlemen, he refreshed himself with a walk, and returning a
      little after the appointed time, found the lights out, the theatre empty,
      the curtain raised for the night, and Mr. Crummles walking up and down the
      stage expecting his arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Timberry won't be long,' said Mr. Crummles. 'He played the audience out
      tonight. He does a faithful black in the last piece, and it takes him a
      little longer to wash himself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very unpleasant line of character, I should think?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, I don't know,' replied Mr. Crummles; 'it comes off easily enough, and
      there's only the face and neck. We had a first-tragedy man in our company
      once, who, when he played Othello, used to black himself all over. But
      that's feeling a part and going into it as if you meant it; it isn't
      usual; more's the pity.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Snittle Timberry now appeared, arm-in-arm with the African Swallower,
      and, being introduced to Nicholas, raised his hat half a foot, and said he
      was proud to know him. The Swallower said the same, and looked and spoke
      remarkably like an Irishman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see by the bills that you have been ill, sir,' said Nicholas to Mr
      Timberry. 'I hope you are none the worse for your exertions tonight?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Timberry, in reply, shook his head with a gloomy air, tapped his chest
      several times with great significancy, and drawing his cloak more closely
      about him, said, 'But no matter, no matter. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is observable that when people upon the stage are in any strait
      involving the very last extremity of weakness and exhaustion, they
      invariably perform feats of strength requiring great ingenuity and
      muscular power. Thus, a wounded prince or bandit chief, who is bleeding to
      death and too faint to move, except to the softest music (and then only
      upon his hands and knees), shall be seen to approach a cottage door for
      aid in such a series of writhings and twistings, and with such curlings up
      of the legs, and such rollings over and over, and such gettings up and
      tumblings down again, as could never be achieved save by a very strong man
      skilled in posture-making. And so natural did this sort of performance
      come to Mr. Snittle Timberry, that on their way out of the theatre and
      towards the tavern where the supper was to be holden, he testified the
      severity of his recent indisposition and its wasting effects upon the
      nervous system, by a series of gymnastic performances which were the
      admiration of all witnesses.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why this is indeed a joy I had not looked for!' said Mrs. Crummles, when
      Nicholas was presented.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor I,' replied Nicholas. 'It is by a mere chance that I have this
      opportunity of seeing you, although I would have made a great exertion to
      have availed myself of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here is one whom you know,' said Mrs. Crummles, thrusting forward the
      Phenomenon in a blue gauze frock, extensively flounced, and trousers of
      the same; 'and here another&mdash;and another,' presenting the Master
      Crummleses. 'And how is your friend, the faithful Digby?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Digby!' said Nicholas, forgetting at the instant that this had been
      Smike's theatrical name. 'Oh yes. He's quite&mdash;what am I saying?&mdash;he
      is very far from well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How!' exclaimed Mrs. Crummles, with a tragic recoil.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I fear,' said Nicholas, shaking his head, and making an attempt to smile,
      'that your better-half would be more struck with him now than ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What mean you?' rejoined Mrs. Crummles, in her most popular manner.
      'Whence comes this altered tone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I mean that a dastardly enemy of mine has struck at me through him, and
      that while he thinks to torture me, he inflicts on him such agonies of
      terror and suspense as&mdash;You will excuse me, I am sure,' said
      Nicholas, checking himself. 'I should never speak of this, and never do,
      except to those who know the facts, but for a moment I forgot myself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this hasty apology Nicholas stooped down to salute the Phenomenon,
      and changed the subject; inwardly cursing his precipitation, and very much
      wondering what Mrs. Crummles must think of so sudden an explosion.
    </p>
    <p>
      That lady seemed to think very little about it, for the supper being by
      this time on table, she gave her hand to Nicholas and repaired with a
      stately step to the left hand of Mr. Snittle Timberry. Nicholas had the
      honour to support her, and Mr. Crummles was placed upon the chairman's
      right; the Phenomenon and the Master Crummleses sustained the vice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The company amounted in number to some twenty-five or thirty, being
      composed of such members of the theatrical profession, then engaged or
      disengaged in London, as were numbered among the most intimate friends of
      Mr. and Mrs. Crummles. The ladies and gentlemen were pretty equally
      balanced; the expenses of the entertainment being defrayed by the latter,
      each of whom had the privilege of inviting one of the former as his guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was upon the whole a very distinguished party, for independently of the
      lesser theatrical lights who clustered on this occasion round Mr. Snittle
      Timberry, there was a literary gentleman present who had dramatised in his
      time two hundred and forty-seven novels as fast as they had come out&mdash;some
      of them faster than they had come out&mdash;and who <i>was </i>a literary
      gentleman in consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      This gentleman sat on the left hand of Nicholas, to whom he was introduced
      by his friend the African Swallower, from the bottom of the table, with a
      high eulogium upon his fame and reputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am happy to know a gentleman of such great distinction,' said Nicholas,
      politely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' replied the wit, 'you're very welcome, I'm sure. The honour is
      reciprocal, sir, as I usually say when I dramatise a book. Did you ever
      hear a definition of fame, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have heard several,' replied Nicholas, with a smile. 'What is yours?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I dramatise a book, sir,' said the literary gentleman, '<i>that's</i> fame.
      For its author.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, indeed!' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's fame, sir,' said the literary gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw have handed down to fame
      the names of those on whom they committed their most impudent robberies?'
      said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know anything about that, sir,' answered the literary gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shakespeare dramatised stories which had previously appeared in print, it
      is true,' observed Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Meaning Bill, sir?' said the literary gentleman. 'So he did. Bill was an
      adapter, certainly, so he was&mdash;and very well he adapted too&mdash;considering.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was about to say,' rejoined Nicholas, 'that Shakespeare derived some of
      his plots from old tales and legends in general circulation; but it seems
      to me, that some of the gentlemen of your craft, at the present day, have
      shot very far beyond him&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're quite right, sir,' interrupted the literary gentleman, leaning
      back in his chair and exercising his toothpick. 'Human intellect, sir, has
      progressed since his time, is progressing, will progress.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shot beyond him, I mean,' resumed Nicholas, 'in quite another respect,
      for, whereas he brought within the magic circle of his genius, traditions
      peculiarly adapted for his purpose, and turned familiar things into
      constellations which should enlighten the world for ages, you drag within
      the magic circle of your dulness, subjects not at all adapted to the
      purposes of the stage, and debase as he exalted. For instance, you take
      the uncompleted books of living authors, fresh from their hands, wet from
      the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the powers and capacities of your
      actors, and the capability of your theatres, finish unfinished works,
      hastily and crudely vamp up ideas not yet worked out by their original
      projector, but which have doubtless cost him many thoughtful days and
      sleepless nights; by a comparison of incidents and dialogue, down to the
      very last word he may have written a fortnight before, do your utmost to
      anticipate his plot&mdash;all this without his permission, and against his
      will; and then, to crown the whole proceeding, publish in some mean
      pamphlet, an unmeaning farrago of garbled extracts from his work, to which
      your name as author, with the honourable distinction annexed, of having
      perpetrated a hundred other outrages of the same description. Now, show me
      the distinction between such pilfering as this, and picking a man's pocket
      in the street: unless, indeed, it be, that the legislature has a regard
      for pocket-handkerchiefs, and leaves men's brains, except when they are
      knocked out by violence, to take care of themselves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Men must live, sir,' said the literary gentleman, shrugging his
      shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,' replied Nicholas; 'but
      if you put it upon that ground, I have nothing more to say, than, that if
      I were a writer of books, and you a thirsty dramatist, I would rather pay
      your tavern score for six months, large as it might be, than have a niche
      in the Temple of Fame with you for the humblest corner of my pedestal,
      through six hundred generations.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation threatened to take a somewhat angry tone when it had
      arrived thus far, but Mrs. Crummles opportunely interposed to prevent its
      leading to any violent outbreak, by making some inquiries of the literary
      gentleman relative to the plots of the six new pieces which he had written
      by contract to introduce the African Knife-swallower in his various
      unrivalled performances. This speedily engaged him in an animated
      conversation with that lady, in the interest of which, all recollection of
      his recent discussion with Nicholas very quickly evaporated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The board being now clear of the more substantial articles of food, and
      punch, wine, and spirits being placed upon it and handed about, the
      guests, who had been previously conversing in little groups of three or
      four, gradually fell off into a dead silence, while the majority of those
      present glanced from time to time at Mr. Snittle Timberry, and the bolder
      spirits did not even hesitate to strike the table with their knuckles, and
      plainly intimate their expectations, by uttering such encouragements as
      'Now, Tim,' 'Wake up, Mr. Chairman,' 'All charged, sir, and waiting for a
      toast,' and so forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these remonstrances Mr. Timberry deigned no other rejoinder than
      striking his chest and gasping for breath, and giving many other
      indications of being still the victim of indisposition&mdash;for a man
      must not make himself too cheap either on the stage or off&mdash;while Mr
      Crummles, who knew full well that he would be the subject of the
      forthcoming toast, sat gracefully in his chair with his arm thrown
      carelessly over the back, and now and then lifted his glass to his mouth
      and drank a little punch, with the same air with which he was accustomed
      to take long draughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard goblets in banquet
      scenes.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length Mr. Snittle Timberry rose in the most approved attitude, with one
      hand in the breast of his waistcoat and the other on the nearest
      snuff-box, and having been received with great enthusiasm, proposed, with
      abundance of quotations, his friend Mr. Vincent Crummles: ending a pretty
      long speech by extending his right hand on one side and his left on the
      other, and severally calling upon Mr. and Mrs. Crummles to grasp the same.
      This done, Mr. Vincent Crummles returned thanks, and that done, the African
      Swallower proposed Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in affecting terms. Then were
      heard loud moans and sobs from Mrs. Crummles and the ladies, despite of
      which that heroic woman insisted upon returning thanks herself, which she
      did, in a manner and in a speech which has never been surpassed and seldom
      equalled. It then became the duty of Mr. Snittle Timberry to give the young
      Crummleses, which he did; after which Mr. Vincent Crummles, as their
      father, addressed the company in a supplementary speech, enlarging on
      their virtues, amiabilities, and excellences, and wishing that they were
      the sons and daughter of every lady and gentleman present. These
      solemnities having been succeeded by a decent interval, enlivened by
      musical and other entertainments, Mr. Crummles proposed that ornament of
      the profession, the African Swallower, his very dear friend, if he would
      allow him to call him so; which liberty (there being no particular reason
      why he should not allow it) the African Swallower graciously permitted.
      The literary gentleman was then about to be drunk, but it being discovered
      that he had been drunk for some time in another acceptation of the term,
      and was then asleep on the stairs, the intention was abandoned, and the
      honour transferred to the ladies. Finally, after a very long sitting, Mr
      Snittle Timberry vacated the chair, and the company with many adieux and
      embraces dispersed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas waited to the last to give his little presents. When he had said
      goodbye all round and came to Mr. Crummles, he could not but mark the
      difference between their present separation and their parting at
      Portsmouth. Not a jot of his theatrical manner remained; he put out his
      hand with an air which, if he could have summoned it at will, would have
      made him the best actor of his day in homely parts, and when Nicholas
      shook it with the warmth he honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We were a very happy little company, Johnson,' said poor Crummles. 'You
      and I never had a word. I shall be very glad tomorrow morning to think
      that I saw you again, but now I almost wish you hadn't come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply, when he was greatly
      disconcerted by the sudden apparition of Mrs. Grudden, who it seemed had
      declined to attend the supper in order that she might rise earlier in the
      morning, and who now burst out of an adjoining bedroom, habited in very
      extraordinary white robes; and throwing her arms about his neck, hugged
      him with great affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! Are you going too?' said Nicholas, submitting with as good a grace
      as if she had been the finest young creature in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Going?' returned Mrs. Grudden. 'Lord ha' mercy, what do you think they'd
      do without me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas submitted to another hug with even a better grace than before, if
      that were possible, and waving his hat as cheerfully as he could, took
      farewell of the Vincent Crummleses.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 49
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span><i>hronicles the further Proceedings of the Nickleby Family, and the Sequel
            of the Adventure of the Gentleman in the Small-clothes</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      While Nicholas, absorbed in the one engrossing subject of interest which
      had recently opened upon him, occupied his leisure hours with thoughts of
      Madeline Bray, and in execution of the commissions which the anxiety of
      brother Charles in her behalf imposed upon him, saw her again and again,
      and each time with greater danger to his peace of mind and a more
      weakening effect upon the lofty resolutions he had formed, Mrs. Nickleby
      and Kate continued to live in peace and quiet, agitated by no other cares
      than those which were connected with certain harassing proceedings taken
      by Mr. Snawley for the recovery of his son, and their anxiety for Smike
      himself, whose health, long upon the wane, began to be so much affected by
      apprehension and uncertainty as sometimes to occasion both them and
      Nicholas considerable uneasiness, and even alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was no complaint or murmur on the part of the poor fellow himself that
      thus disturbed them. Ever eager to be employed in such slight services as
      he could render, and always anxious to repay his benefactors with cheerful
      and happy looks, less friendly eyes might have seen in him no cause for
      any misgiving. But there were times, and often too, when the sunken eye
      was too bright, the hollow cheek too flushed, the breath too thick and
      heavy in its course, the frame too feeble and exhausted, to escape their
      regard and notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a dread disease which so prepares its victim, as it were, for
      death; which so refines it of its grosser aspect, and throws around
      familiar looks unearthly indications of the coming change; a dread
      disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is so gradual, quiet,
      and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day, and grain by grain,
      the mortal part wastes and withers away, so that the spirit grows light
      and sanguine with its lightening load, and, feeling immortality at hand,
      deems it but a new term of mortal life; a disease in which death and life
      are so strangely blended, that death takes the glow and hue of life, and
      life the gaunt and grisly form of death; a disease which medicine never
      cured, wealth never warded off, or poverty could boast exemption from;
      which sometimes moves in giant strides, and sometimes at a tardy sluggish
      pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure and certain.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with some faint reference in his own mind to this disorder, though
      he would by no means admit it, even to himself, that Nicholas had already
      carried his faithful companion to a physician of great repute. There was
      no cause for immediate alarm, he said. There were no present symptoms
      which could be deemed conclusive. The constitution had been greatly tried
      and injured in childhood, but still it <i>might </i>not be&mdash;and that was
      all.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he seemed to grow no worse, and, as it was not difficult to find a
      reason for these symptoms of illness in the shock and agitation he had
      recently undergone, Nicholas comforted himself with the hope that his poor
      friend would soon recover. This hope his mother and sister shared with
      him; and as the object of their joint solicitude seemed to have no
      uneasiness or despondency for himself, but each day answered with a quiet
      smile that he felt better than he had upon the day before, their fears
      abated, and the general happiness was by degrees restored.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many and many a time in after years did Nicholas look back to this period
      of his life, and tread again the humble quiet homely scenes that rose up
      as of old before him. Many and many a time, in the twilight of a summer
      evening, or beside the flickering winter's fire&mdash;but not so often or
      so sadly then&mdash;would his thoughts wander back to these old days, and
      dwell with a pleasant sorrow upon every slight remembrance which they
      brought crowding home. The little room in which they had so often sat long
      after it was dark, figuring such happy futures; Kate's cheerful voice and
      merry laugh; how, if she were from home, they used to sit and watch for
      her return scarcely breaking silence but to say how dull it seemed without
      her; the glee with which poor Smike would start from the darkened corner
      where he used to sit, and hurry to admit her, and the tears they often saw
      upon his face, half wondering to see them too, and he so pleased and
      happy; every little incident, and even slight words and looks of those old
      days little heeded then, but well remembered when busy cares and trials
      were quite forgotten, came fresh and thick before him many and many a
      time, and, rustling above the dusty growth of years, came back green
      boughs of yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there were other persons associated with these recollections, and many
      changes came about before they had being. A necessary reflection for the
      purposes of these adventures, which at once subside into their accustomed
      train, and shunning all flighty anticipations or wayward wanderings,
      pursue their steady and decorous course.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the brothers Cheeryble, as they found Nicholas worthy of trust and
      confidence, bestowed upon him every day some new and substantial mark of
      kindness, they were not less mindful of those who depended on him. Various
      little presents to Mrs. Nickleby, always of the very things they most
      required, tended in no slight degree to the improvement and embellishment
      of the cottage. Kate's little store of trinkets became quite dazzling; and
      for company! If brother Charles and brother Ned failed to look in for at
      least a few minutes every Sunday, or one evening in the week, there was Mr
      Tim Linkinwater (who had never made half-a-dozen other acquaintances in
      all his life, and who took such delight in his new friends as no words can
      express) constantly coming and going in his evening walks, and stopping to
      rest; while Mr. Frank Cheeryble happened, by some strange conjunction of
      circumstances, to be passing the door on some business or other at least
      three nights in the week.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is the most attentive young man I ever saw, Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby
      to her daughter one evening, when this last-named gentleman had been the
      subject of the worthy lady's eulogium for some time, and Kate had sat
      perfectly silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Attentive, mama!' rejoined Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless my heart, Kate!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, with her wonted suddenness,
      'what a colour you have got; why, you're quite flushed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, mama! what strange things you fancy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It wasn't fancy, Kate, my dear, I'm certain of that,' returned her
      mother. 'However, it's gone now at any rate, so it don't much matter
      whether it was or not. What was it we were talking about? Oh! Mr. Frank. I
      never saw such attention in <i>my</i> life, never.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely you are not serious,' returned Kate, colouring again; and this
      time beyond all dispute.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not serious!' returned Mrs. Nickleby; 'why shouldn't I be serious? I'm
      sure I never was more serious. I will say that his politeness and
      attention to me is one of the most becoming, gratifying, pleasant things I
      have seen for a very long time. You don't often meet with such behaviour
      in young men, and it strikes one more when one does meet with it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! attention to <i>you</i>, mama,' rejoined Kate quickly&mdash;'oh yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear me, Kate,' retorted Mrs. Nickleby, 'what an extraordinary girl you
      are! Was it likely I should be talking of his attention to anybody else? I
      declare I'm quite sorry to think he should be in love with a German lady,
      that I am.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said very positively that it was no such thing, mama,' returned Kate.
      'Don't you remember his saying so that very first night he came here?
      Besides,' she added, in a more gentle tone, 'why should <i>we</i> be sorry if it
      is the case? What is it to us, mama?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing to <i>us</i>, Kate, perhaps,' said Mrs. Nickleby, emphatically; 'but
      something to <i>me</i>, I confess. I like English people to be thorough English
      people, and not half English and half I don't know what. I shall tell him
      point-blank next time he comes, that I wish he would marry one of his own
      country-women; and see what he says to that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pray don't think of such a thing, mama,' returned Kate, hastily; 'not for
      the world. Consider. How very&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my dear, how very what?' said Mrs. Nickleby, opening her eyes in
      great astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Kate had returned any reply, a queer little double knock announced
      that Miss La Creevy had called to see them; and when Miss La Creevy
      presented herself, Mrs. Nickleby, though strongly disposed to be
      argumentative on the previous question, forgot all about it in a gush of
      supposes about the coach she had come by; supposing that the man who drove
      must have been either the man in the shirt-sleeves or the man with the
      black eye; that whoever he was, he hadn't found that parasol she left
      inside last week; that no doubt they had stopped a long while at the
      Halfway House, coming down; or that perhaps being full, they had come
      straight on; and, lastly, that they, surely, must have passed Nicholas on
      the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I saw nothing of him,' answered Miss La Creevy; 'but I saw that dear old
      soul Mr. Linkinwater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Taking his evening walk, and coming on to rest here, before he turns back
      to the city, I'll be bound!' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should think he was,' returned Miss La Creevy; 'especially as young Mr
      Cheeryble was with him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely that is no reason why Mr. Linkinwater should be coming here,' said
      Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why I think it is, my dear,' said Miss La Creevy. 'For a young man, Mr
      Frank is not a very great walker; and I observe that he generally falls
      tired, and requires a good long rest, when he has come as far as this. But
      where is my friend?' said the little woman, looking about, after having
      glanced slyly at Kate. 'He has not been run away with again, has he?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! where is Mr. Smike?' said Mrs. Nickleby; 'he was here this instant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon further inquiry, it turned out, to the good lady's unbounded
      astonishment, that Smike had, that moment, gone upstairs to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well now,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'he is the strangest creature! Last Tuesday&mdash;was
      it Tuesday? Yes, to be sure it was; you recollect, Kate, my dear, the very
      last time young Mr. Cheeryble was here&mdash;last Tuesday night he went off
      in just the same strange way, at the very moment the knock came to the
      door. It cannot be that he don't like company, because he is always fond
      of people who are fond of Nicholas, and I am sure young Mr. Cheeryble is.
      And the strangest thing is, that he does not go to bed; therefore it
      cannot be because he is tired. I know he doesn't go to bed, because my
      room is the next one, and when I went upstairs last Tuesday, hours after
      him, I found that he had not even taken his shoes off; and he had no
      candle, so he must have sat moping in the dark all the time. Now, upon my
      word,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'when I come to think of it, that's very
      extraordinary!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As the hearers did not echo this sentiment, but remained profoundly
      silent, either as not knowing what to say, or as being unwilling to
      interrupt, Mrs. Nickleby pursued the thread of her discourse after her own
      fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hope,' said that lady, 'that this unaccountable conduct may not be the
      beginning of his taking to his bed and living there all his life, like the
      Thirsty Woman of Tutbury, or the Cock-lane Ghost, or some of those
      extraordinary creatures. One of them had some connection with our family.
      I forget, without looking back to some old letters I have upstairs,
      whether it was my great-grandfather who went to school with the Cock-lane
      Ghost, or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury who went to school with my
      grandmother. Miss La Creevy, you know, of course. Which was it that didn't
      mind what the clergyman said? The Cock-lane Ghost or the Thirsty Woman of
      Tutbury?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The Cock-lane Ghost, I believe.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I have no doubt,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'that it was with him my
      great-grandfather went to school; for I know the master of his school was
      a dissenter, and that would, in a great measure, account for the Cock-lane
      Ghost's behaving in such an improper manner to the clergyman when he grew
      up. Ah! Train up a Ghost&mdash;child, I mean&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Any further reflections on this fruitful theme were abruptly cut short by
      the arrival of Tim Linkinwater and Mr. Frank Cheeryble; in the hurry of
      receiving whom, Mrs. Nickleby speedily lost sight of everything else.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am so sorry Nicholas is not at home,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Kate, my
      dear, you must be both Nicholas and yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Nickleby need be but herself,' said Frank. 'I&mdash;if I may venture
      to say so&mdash;oppose all change in her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then at all events she shall press you to stay,' returned Mrs. Nickleby.
      'Mr. Linkinwater says ten minutes, but I cannot let you go so soon;
      Nicholas would be very much vexed, I am sure. Kate, my dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In obedience to a great number of nods, and winks, and frowns of extra
      significance, Kate added her entreaties that the visitors would remain;
      but it was observable that she addressed them exclusively to Tim
      Linkinwater; and there was, besides, a certain embarrassment in her
      manner, which, although it was as far from impairing its graceful
      character as the tinge it communicated to her cheek was from diminishing
      her beauty, was obvious at a glance even to Mrs. Nickleby. Not being of a
      very speculative character, however, save under circumstances when her
      speculations could be put into words and uttered aloud, that discreet
      matron attributed the emotion to the circumstance of her daughter's not
      happening to have her best frock on: 'though I never saw her look better,
      certainly,' she reflected at the same time. Having settled the question in
      this way, and being most complacently satisfied that in this, and in all
      other instances, her conjecture could not fail to be the right one, Mrs
      Nickleby dismissed it from her thoughts, and inwardly congratulated
      herself on being so shrewd and knowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas did not come home nor did Smike reappear; but neither
      circumstance, to say the truth, had any great effect upon the little
      party, who were all in the best humour possible. Indeed, there sprung up
      quite a flirtation between Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater, who said a
      thousand jocose and facetious things, and became, by degrees, quite
      gallant, not to say tender. Little Miss La Creevy, on her part, was in
      high spirits, and rallied Tim on having remained a bachelor all his life
      with so much success, that Tim was actually induced to declare, that if he
      could get anybody to have him, he didn't know but what he might change his
      condition even yet. Miss La Creevy earnestly recommended a lady she knew,
      who would exactly suit Mr. Linkinwater, and had a very comfortable property
      of her own; but this latter qualification had very little effect upon Tim,
      who manfully protested that fortune would be no object with him, but that
      true worth and cheerfulness of disposition were what a man should look for
      in a wife, and that if he had these, he could find money enough for the
      moderate wants of both. This avowal was considered so honourable to Tim,
      that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor Miss La Creevy could sufficiently extol it;
      and stimulated by their praises, Tim launched out into several other
      declarations also manifesting the disinterestedness of his heart, and a
      great devotion to the fair sex: which were received with no less
      approbation. This was done and said with a comical mixture of jest and
      earnest, and, leading to a great amount of laughter, made them very merry
      indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate was commonly the life and soul of the conversation at home; but she
      was more silent than usual upon this occasion (perhaps because Tim and
      Miss La Creevy engrossed so much of it), and, keeping aloof from the
      talkers, sat at the window watching the shadows as the evening closed in,
      and enjoying the quiet beauty of the night, which seemed to have scarcely
      less attractions to Frank, who first lingered near, and then sat down
      beside, her. No doubt, there are a great many things to be said
      appropriate to a summer evening, and no doubt they are best said in a low
      voice, as being most suitable to the peace and serenity of the hour; long
      pauses, too, at times, and then an earnest word or so, and then another
      interval of silence which, somehow, does not seem like silence either, and
      perhaps now and then a hasty turning away of the head, or drooping of the
      eyes towards the ground, all these minor circumstances, with a
      disinclination to have candles introduced and a tendency to confuse hours
      with minutes, are doubtless mere influences of the time, as many lovely
      lips can clearly testify. Neither is there the slightest reason why Mrs
      Nickleby should have expressed surprise when, candles being at length
      brought in, Kate's bright eyes were unable to bear the light which obliged
      her to avert her face, and even to leave the room for some short time;
      because, when one has sat in the dark so long, candles <i>are </i>dazzling, and
      nothing can be more strictly natural than that such results should be
      produced, as all well-informed young people know. For that matter, old
      people know it too, or did know it once, but they forget these things
      sometimes, and more's the pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good lady's surprise, however, did not end here. It was greatly
      increased when it was discovered that Kate had not the least appetite for
      supper: a discovery so alarming that there is no knowing in what
      unaccountable efforts of oratory Mrs. Nickleby's apprehensions might have
      been vented, if the general attention had not been attracted, at the
      moment, by a very strange and uncommon noise, proceeding, as the pale and
      trembling servant girl affirmed, and as everybody's sense of hearing
      seemed to affirm also, 'right down' the chimney of the adjoining room.
    </p>
    <p>
      It being quite plain to the comprehension of all present that, however
      extraordinary and improbable it might appear, the noise did nevertheless
      proceed from the chimney in question; and the noise (which was a strange
      compound of various shuffling, sliding, rumbling, and struggling sounds,
      all muffled by the chimney) still continuing, Frank Cheeryble caught up a
      candle, and Tim Linkinwater the tongs, and they would have very quickly
      ascertained the cause of this disturbance if Mrs. Nickleby had not been
      taken very faint, and declined being left behind, on any account. This
      produced a short remonstrance, which terminated in their all proceeding to
      the troubled chamber in a body, excepting only Miss La Creevy, who, as the
      servant girl volunteered a confession of having been subject to fits in
      her infancy, remained with her to give the alarm and apply restoratives,
      in case of extremity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Advancing to the door of the mysterious apartment, they were not a little
      surprised to hear a human voice, chanting with a highly elaborated
      expression of melancholy, and in tones of suffocation which a human voice
      might have produced from under five or six feather-beds of the best
      quality, the once popular air of 'Has she then failed in her truth, the
      beautiful maid I adore?' Nor, on bursting into the room without demanding
      a parley, was their astonishment lessened by the discovery that these
      romantic sounds certainly proceeded from the throat of some man up the
      chimney, of whom nothing was visible but a pair of legs, which were
      dangling above the grate; apparently feeling, with extreme anxiety, for
      the top bar whereon to effect a landing.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0661m.jpg" alt="0661m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0661.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      A sight so unusual and unbusiness-like as this, completely paralysed Tim
      Linkinwater, who, after one or two gentle pinches at the stranger's
      ankles, which were productive of no effect, stood clapping the tongs
      together, as if he were sharpening them for another assault, and did
      nothing else.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This must be some drunken fellow,' said Frank. 'No thief would announce
      his presence thus.'
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this, with great indignation, he raised the candle to obtain a
      better view of the legs, and was darting forward to pull them down with
      very little ceremony, when Mrs. Nickleby, clasping her hands, uttered a
      sharp sound, something between a scream and an exclamation, and demanded
      to know whether the mysterious limbs were not clad in small-clothes and
      grey worsted stockings, or whether her eyes had deceived her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' cried Frank, looking a little closer. 'Small-clothes certainly, and&mdash;and&mdash;rough
      grey stockings, too. Do you know him, ma'am?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, deliberately sitting herself down in a
      chair with that sort of desperate resignation which seemed to imply that
      now matters had come to a crisis, and all disguise was useless, 'you will
      have the goodness, my love, to explain precisely how this matter stands. I
      have given him no encouragement&mdash;none whatever&mdash;not the least in
      the world. You know that, my dear, perfectly well. He was very respectful,
      exceedingly respectful, when he declared, as you were a witness to; still
      at the same time, if I am to be persecuted in this way, if vegetable
      what's-his-names and all kinds of garden-stuff are to strew my path out of
      doors, and gentlemen are to come choking up our chimneys at home, I really
      don't know&mdash;upon my word I do <i>not </i>know&mdash;what is to become of me.
      It's a very hard case&mdash;harder than anything I was ever exposed to,
      before I married your poor dear papa, though I suffered a good deal of
      annoyance then&mdash;but that, of course, I expected, and made up my mind
      for. When I was not nearly so old as you, my dear, there was a young
      gentleman who sat next us at church, who used, almost every Sunday, to cut
      my name in large letters in the front of his pew while the sermon was
      going on. It was gratifying, of course, naturally so, but still it was an
      annoyance, because the pew was in a very conspicuous place, and he was
      several times publicly taken out by the beadle for doing it. But that was
      nothing to this. This is a great deal worse, and a great deal more
      embarrassing. I would rather, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with
      great solemnity, and an effusion of tears: 'I would rather, I declare,
      have been a pig-faced lady, than be exposed to such a life as this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Frank Cheeryble and Tim Linkinwater looked, in irrepressible astonishment,
      first at each other and then at Kate, who felt that some explanation was
      necessary, but who, between her terror at the apparition of the legs, her
      fear lest their owner should be smothered, and her anxiety to give the
      least ridiculous solution of the mystery that it was capable of bearing,
      was quite unable to utter a single word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He gives me great pain,' continued Mrs. Nickleby, drying her eyes, 'great
      pain; but don't hurt a hair of his head, I beg. On no account hurt a hair
      of his head.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It would not, under existing circumstances, have been quite so easy to
      hurt a hair of the gentleman's head as Mrs. Nickleby seemed to imagine,
      inasmuch as that part of his person was some feet up the chimney, which
      was by no means a wide one. But, as all this time he had never left off
      singing about the bankruptcy of the beautiful maid in respect of truth,
      and now began not only to croak very feebly, but to kick with great
      violence as if respiration became a task of difficulty, Frank Cheeryble,
      without further hesitation, pulled at the shorts and worsteds with such
      heartiness as to bring him floundering into the room with greater
      precipitation than he had quite calculated upon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! yes, yes,' said Kate, directly the whole figure of this singular
      visitor appeared in this abrupt manner. 'I know who it is. Pray don't be
      rough with him. Is he hurt? I hope not. Oh, pray see if he is hurt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is not, I assure you,' replied Frank, handling the object of his
      surprise, after this appeal, with sudden tenderness and respect. 'He is
      not hurt in the least.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't let him come any nearer,' said Kate, retiring as far as she could.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no, he shall not,' rejoined Frank. 'You see I have him secure here.
      But may I ask you what this means, and whether you expected this old
      gentleman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, no,' said Kate, 'of course not; but he&mdash;mama does not think so,
      I believe&mdash;but he is a mad gentleman who has escaped from the next
      house, and must have found an opportunity of secreting himself here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate,' interposed Mrs. Nickleby with severe dignity, 'I am surprised at
      you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear mama,' Kate gently remonstrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am surprised at you,' repeated Mrs. Nickleby; 'upon my word, Kate, I am
      quite astonished that you should join the persecutors of this unfortunate
      gentleman, when you know very well that they have the basest designs upon
      his property, and that that is the whole secret of it. It would be much
      kinder of you, Kate, to ask Mr. Linkinwater or Mr. Cheeryble to interfere in
      his behalf, and see him righted. You ought not to allow your feelings to
      influence you; it's not right, very far from it. What should my feelings
      be, do you suppose? If anybody ought to be indignant, who is it? I, of
      course, and very properly so. Still, at the same time, I wouldn't commit
      such an injustice for the world. No,' continued Mrs. Nickleby, drawing
      herself up, and looking another way with a kind of bashful stateliness;
      'this gentleman will understand me when I tell him that I repeat the
      answer I gave him the other day; that I always will repeat it, though I do
      believe him to be sincere when I find him placing himself in such dreadful
      situations on my account; and that I request him to have the goodness to
      go away directly, or it will be impossible to keep his behaviour a secret
      from my son Nicholas. I am obliged to him, very much obliged to him, but I
      cannot listen to his addresses for a moment. It's quite impossible.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While this address was in course of delivery, the old gentleman, with his
      nose and cheeks embellished with large patches of soot, sat upon the
      ground with his arms folded, eyeing the spectators in profound silence,
      and with a very majestic demeanour. He did not appear to take the smallest
      notice of what Mrs. Nickleby said, but when she ceased to speak he honoured
      her with a long stare, and inquired if she had quite finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have nothing more to say,' replied that lady modestly. 'I really cannot
      say anything more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good,' said the old gentleman, raising his voice, 'then bring in the
      bottled lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody executing this order, the old gentleman, after a short pause,
      raised his voice again and demanded a thunder sandwich. This article not
      being forthcoming either, he requested to be served with a fricassee of
      boot-tops and goldfish sauce, and then laughing heartily, gratified his
      hearers with a very long, very loud, and most melodious bellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      But still Mrs. Nickleby, in reply to the significant looks of all about
      her, shook her head as though to assure them that she saw nothing whatever
      in all this, unless, indeed, it were a slight degree of eccentricity. She
      might have remained impressed with these opinions down to the latest
      moment of her life, but for a slight train of circumstances, which,
      trivial as they were, altered the whole complexion of the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that Miss La Creevy, finding her patient in no very
      threatening condition, and being strongly impelled by curiosity to see
      what was going forward, bustled into the room while the old gentleman was
      in the very act of bellowing. It happened, too, that the instant the old
      gentleman saw her, he stopped short, skipped suddenly on his feet, and
      fell to kissing his hand violently: a change of demeanour which almost
      terrified the little portrait painter out of her senses, and caused her to
      retreat behind Tim Linkinwater with the utmost expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha!' cried the old gentleman, folding his hands, and squeezing them with
      great force against each other. 'I see her now; I see her now! My love, my
      life, my bride, my peerless beauty. She is come at last&mdash;at last&mdash;and
      all is gas and gaiters!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby looked rather disconcerted for a moment, but immediately
      recovering, nodded to Miss La Creevy and the other spectators several
      times, and frowned, and smiled gravely, giving them to understand that she
      saw where the mistake was, and would set it all to rights in a minute or
      two.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is come!' said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his heart.
      'Cormoran and Blunderbore! She is come! All the wealth I have is hers if
      she will take me for her slave. Where are grace, beauty, and
      blandishments, like those? In the Empress of Madagascar? No. In the Queen
      of Diamonds? No. In Mrs. Rowland, who every morning bathes in Kalydor for
      nothing? No. Melt all these down into one, with the three Graces, the nine
      Muses, and fourteen biscuit-bakers' daughters from Oxford Street, and make
      a woman half as lovely. Pho! I defy you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After uttering this rhapsody, the old gentleman snapped his fingers twenty
      or thirty times, and then subsided into an ecstatic contemplation of Miss
      La Creevy's charms. This affording Mrs. Nickleby a favourable opportunity
      of explanation, she went about it straight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure,' said the worthy lady, with a prefatory cough, 'that it's a
      great relief, under such trying circumstances as these, to have anybody
      else mistaken for me&mdash;a very great relief; and it's a circumstance
      that never occurred before, although I have several times been mistaken
      for my daughter Kate. I have no doubt the people were very foolish, and
      perhaps ought to have known better, but still they did take me for her,
      and of course that was no fault of mine, and it would be very hard indeed
      if I was to be made responsible for it. However, in this instance, of
      course, I must feel that I should do exceedingly wrong if I suffered
      anybody&mdash;especially anybody that I am under great obligations to&mdash;to
      be made uncomfortable on my account. And therefore I think it my duty to
      tell that gentleman that he is mistaken, that I am the lady who he was
      told by some impertinent person was niece to the Council of Paving-stones,
      and that I do beg and entreat of him to go quietly away, if it's only
      for,' here Mrs. Nickleby simpered and hesitated, 'for <i>my</i> sake.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It might have been expected that the old gentleman would have been
      penetrated to the heart by the delicacy and condescension of this appeal,
      and that he would at least have returned a courteous and suitable reply.
      What, then, was the shock which Mrs. Nickleby received, when, accosting <i>her</i>
      in the most unmistakable manner, he replied in a loud and sonourous voice:
      'Avaunt! Cat!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, in a faint tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Cat!' repeated the old gentleman. 'Puss, Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby,
      Brindle! Whoosh!' with which last sound, uttered in a hissing manner
      between his teeth, the old gentleman swung his arms violently round and
      round, and at the same time alternately advanced on Mrs. Nickleby, and
      retreated from her, in that species of savage dance with which boys on
      market-days may be seen to frighten pigs, sheep, and other animals, when
      they give out obstinate indications of turning down a wrong street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby wasted no words, but uttered an exclamation of horror and
      surprise, and immediately fainted away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll attend to mama,' said Kate, hastily; 'I am not at all frightened.
      But pray take him away: pray take him away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Frank was not at all confident of his power of complying with this
      request, until he bethought himself of the stratagem of sending Miss La
      Creevy on a few paces in advance, and urging the old gentleman to follow
      her. It succeeded to a miracle; and he went away in a rapture of
      admiration, strongly guarded by Tim Linkinwater on one side, and Frank
      himself on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate,' murmured Mrs. Nickleby, reviving when the coast was clear, 'is he
      gone?'
    </p>
    <p>
      She was assured that he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I shall never forgive myself, Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Never! That
      gentleman has lost his senses, and I am the unhappy cause.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You </i>the cause!' said Kate, greatly astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I, my love,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, with a desperate calmness. 'You saw
      what he was the other day; you see what he is now. I told your brother,
      weeks and weeks ago, Kate, that I hoped a disappointment might not be too
      much for him. You see what a wreck he is. Making allowance for his being a
      little flighty, you know how rationally, and sensibly, and honourably he
      talked, when we saw him in the garden. You have heard the dreadful
      nonsense he has been guilty of this night, and the manner in which he has
      gone on with that poor unfortunate little old maid. Can anybody doubt how
      all this has been brought about?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should scarcely think they could,' said Kate mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should scarcely think so, either,' rejoined her mother. 'Well! if I am
      the unfortunate cause of this, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I
      am not to blame. I told Nicholas, I said to him, "Nicholas, my dear, we
      should be very careful how we proceed." He would scarcely hear me. If the
      matter had only been properly taken up at first, as I wished it to be! But
      you are both of you so like your poor papa. However, I have <i>my</i>
      consolation, and that should be enough for me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Washing her hands, thus, of all responsibility under this head, past,
      present, or to come, Mrs. Nickleby kindly added that she hoped her children
      might never have greater cause to reproach themselves than she had, and
      prepared herself to receive the escort, who soon returned with the
      intelligence that the old gentleman was safely housed, and that they found
      his custodians, who had been making merry with some friends, wholly
      ignorant of his absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quiet being again restored, a delicious half-hour&mdash;so Frank called
      it, in the course of subsequent conversation with Tim Linkinwater as they
      were walking home&mdash;was spent in conversation, and Tim's watch at
      length apprising him that it was high time to depart, the ladies were left
      alone, though not without many offers on the part of Frank to remain until
      Nicholas arrived, no matter what hour of the night it might be, if, after
      the late neighbourly irruption, they entertained the least fear of being
      left to themselves. As their freedom from all further apprehension,
      however, left no pretext for his insisting on mounting guard, he was
      obliged to abandon the citadel, and to retire with the trusty Tim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nearly three hours of silence passed away. Kate blushed to find, when
      Nicholas returned, how long she had been sitting alone, occupied with her
      own thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I really thought it had not been half an hour,' she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They must have been pleasant thoughts, Kate,' rejoined Nicholas gaily,
      'to make time pass away like that. What were they now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate was confused; she toyed with some trifle on the table, looked up and
      smiled, looked down and dropped a tear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, Kate,' said Nicholas, drawing his sister towards him and kissing
      her, 'let me see your face. No? Ah! that was but a glimpse; that's
      scarcely fair. A longer look than that, Kate. Come&mdash;and I'll read
      your thoughts for you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in this proposition, albeit it was said without the
      slightest consciousness or application, which so alarmed his sister, that
      Nicholas laughingly changed the subject to domestic matters, and thus
      gathered, by degrees, as they left the room and went upstairs together,
      how lonely Smike had been all night&mdash;and by very slow degrees, too;
      for on this subject also, Kate seemed to speak with some reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Poor fellow,' said Nicholas, tapping gently at his door, 'what can be the
      cause of all this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate was hanging on her brother's arm. The door being quickly opened, she
      had not time to disengage herself, before Smike, very pale and haggard,
      and completely dressed, confronted them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And have you not been to bed?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;n&mdash;no,' was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas gently detained his sister, who made an effort to retire; and
      asked, 'Why not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I could not sleep,' said Smike, grasping the hand which his friend
      extended to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are not well?' rejoined Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am better, indeed. A great deal better,' said Smike quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why do you give way to these fits of melancholy?' inquired Nicholas,
      in his kindest manner; 'or why not tell us the cause? You grow a different
      creature, Smike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do; I know I do,' he replied. 'I will tell you the reason one day, but
      not now. I hate myself for this; you are all so good and kind. But I
      cannot help it. My heart is very full; you do not know how full it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrung Nicholas's hand before he released it; and glancing, for a
      moment, at the brother and sister as they stood together, as if there were
      something in their strong affection which touched him very deeply,
      withdrew into his chamber, and was soon the only watcher under that quiet
      roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 50
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>
      <i>nvolves a serious Catastrophe</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>The little race-course at Hampton was in the full tide and height of its
      gaiety; the day as dazzling as day could be; the sun high in the cloudless
      sky, and shining in its fullest splendour. Every gaudy colour that
      fluttered in the air from carriage seat and garish tent top, shone out in
      its gaudiest hues. Old dingy flags grew new again, faded gilding was
      re-burnished, stained rotten canvas looked a snowy white, the very
      beggars' rags were freshened up, and sentiment quite forgot its charity in
      its fervent admiration of poverty so picturesque.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one of those scenes of life and animation, caught in its very
      brightest and freshest moments, which can scarcely fail to please; for if
      the eye be tired of show and glare, or the ear be weary with a ceaseless
      round of noise, the one may repose, turn almost where it will, on eager,
      happy, and expectant faces, and the other deaden all consciousness of more
      annoying sounds in those of mirth and exhilaration. Even the sunburnt
      faces of gypsy children, half naked though they be, suggest a drop of
      comfort. It is a pleasant thing to see that the sun has been there; to
      know that the air and light are on them every day; to feel that they <i>are</i>
      children, and lead children's lives; that if their pillows be damp, it is
      with the dews of Heaven, and not with tears; that the limbs of their girls
      are free, and that they are not crippled by distortions, imposing an
      unnatural and horrible penance upon their sex; that their lives are spent,
      from day to day, at least among the waving trees, and not in the midst of
      dreadful engines which make young children old before they know what
      childhood is, and give them the exhaustion and infirmity of age, without,
      like age, the privilege to die. God send that old nursery tales were true,
      and that gypsies stole such children by the score!
    </p>
    <p>
      The great race of the day had just been run; and the close lines of
      people, on either side of the course, suddenly breaking up and pouring
      into it, imparted a new liveliness to the scene, which was again all busy
      movement. Some hurried eagerly to catch a glimpse of the winning horse;
      others darted to and fro, searching, no less eagerly, for the carriages
      they had left in quest of better stations. Here, a little knot gathered
      round a pea and thimble table to watch the plucking of some unhappy
      greenhorn; and there, another proprietor with his confederates in various
      disguises&mdash;one man in spectacles; another, with an eyeglass and a
      stylish hat; a third, dressed as a farmer well to do in the world, with
      his top-coat over his arm and his flash notes in a large leathern
      pocket-book; and all with heavy-handled whips to represent most innocent
      country fellows who had trotted there on horseback&mdash;sought, by loud
      and noisy talk and pretended play, to entrap some unwary customer, while
      the gentlemen confederates (of more villainous aspect still, in clean
      linen and good clothes), betrayed their close interest in the concern by
      the anxious furtive glance they cast on all new comers. These would be
      hanging on the outskirts of a wide circle of people assembled round some
      itinerant juggler, opposed, in his turn, by a noisy band of music, or the
      classic game of 'Ring the Bull,' while ventriloquists holding dialogues
      with wooden dolls, and fortune-telling women smothering the cries of real
      babies, divided with them, and many more, the general attention of the
      company. Drinking-tents were full, glasses began to clink in carriages,
      hampers to be unpacked, tempting provisions to be set forth, knives and
      forks to rattle, champagne corks to fly, eyes to brighten that were not
      dull before, and pickpockets to count their gains during the last heat.
      The attention so recently strained on one object of interest, was now
      divided among a hundred; and look where you would, there was a motley
      assemblage of feasting, laughing, talking, begging, gambling, and mummery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the gambling-booths there was a plentiful show, flourishing in all the
      splendour of carpeted ground, striped hangings, crimson cloth, pinnacled
      roofs, geranium pots, and livery servants. There were the Stranger's
      club-house, the Athenaeum club-house, the Hampton club-house, the St
      James's club-house, and half a mile of club-houses to play <i>in</i>; and there
      were <i>Rouge-Et-Noir,</i> French hazard, and other games to play <i>at</i>. It is into
      one of these booths that our story takes its way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fitted up with three tables for the purposes of play, and crowded with
      players and lookers on, it was, although the largest place of the kind
      upon the course, intensely hot, notwithstanding that a portion of the
      canvas roof was rolled back to admit more air, and there were two doors
      for a free passage in and out. Excepting one or two men who, each with a
      long roll of half-crowns, chequered with a few stray sovereigns, in his
      left hand, staked their money at every roll of the ball with a
      business-like sedateness which showed that they were used to it, and had
      been playing all day, and most probably all the day before, there was no
      very distinctive character about the players, who were chiefly young men,
      apparently attracted by curiosity, or staking small sums as part of the
      amusement of the day, with no very great interest in winning or losing.
      There were two persons present, however, who, as peculiarly good specimens
      of a class, deserve a passing notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of these, one was a man of six or eight and fifty, who sat on a chair near
      one of the entrances of the booth, with his hands folded on the top of his
      stick, and his chin appearing above them. He was a tall, fat, long-bodied
      man, buttoned up to the throat in a light green coat, which made his body
      look still longer than it was. He wore, besides, drab breeches and
      gaiters, a white neckerchief, and a broad-brimmed white hat. Amid all the
      buzzing noise of the games, and the perpetual passing in and out of the
      people, he seemed perfectly calm and abstracted, without the smallest
      particle of excitement in his composition. He exhibited no indication of
      weariness, nor, to a casual observer, of interest either. There he sat,
      quite still and collected. Sometimes, but very rarely, he nodded to some
      passing face, or beckoned to a waiter to obey a call from one of the
      tables. The next instant he subsided into his old state. He might have
      been some profoundly deaf old gentleman, who had come in to take a rest,
      or he might have been patiently waiting for a friend, without the least
      consciousness of anybody's presence, or fixed in a trance, or under the
      influence of opium. People turned round and looked at him; he made no
      gesture, caught nobody's eye, let them pass away, and others come on and
      be succeeded by others, and took no notice. When he did move, it seemed
      wonderful how he could have seen anything to occasion it. And so, in
      truth, it was. But there was not a face that passed in or out, which this
      man failed to see; not a gesture at any one of the three tables that was
      lost upon him; not a word, spoken by the bankers, but reached his ear; not
      a winner or loser he could not have marked. And he was the proprietor of
      the place.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other presided over the <i>Rouge-Et-Noir</i> table. He was probably some ten
      years younger, and was a plump, paunchy, sturdy-looking fellow, with his
      under-lip a little pursed, from a habit of counting money inwardly as he
      paid it, but with no decidedly bad expression in his face, which was
      rather an honest and jolly one than otherwise. He wore no coat, the
      weather being hot, and stood behind the table with a huge mound of crowns
      and half-crowns before him, and a cash-box for notes. This game was
      constantly playing. Perhaps twenty people would be staking at the same
      time. This man had to roll the ball, to watch the stakes as they were laid
      down, to gather them off the colour which lost, to pay those who won, to
      do it all with the utmost dispatch, to roll the ball again, and to keep
      this game perpetually alive. He did it all with a rapidity absolutely
      marvellous; never hesitating, never making a mistake, never stopping, and
      never ceasing to repeat such unconnected phrases as the following, which,
      partly from habit, and partly to have something appropriate and
      business-like to say, he constantly poured out with the same monotonous
      emphasis, and in nearly the same order, all day long:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rooge-a-nore from Paris! Gentlemen, make your game and back your own
      opinions&mdash;any time while the ball rolls&mdash;rooge-a-nore from
      Paris, gentlemen, it's a French game, gentlemen, I brought it over myself,
      I did indeed!&mdash;Rooge-a-nore from Paris&mdash;black wins&mdash;black&mdash;stop
      a minute, sir, and I'll pay you, directly&mdash;two there, half a pound
      there, three there&mdash;and one there&mdash;gentlemen, the ball's a
      rolling&mdash;any time, sir, while the ball rolls!&mdash;The beauty of
      this game is, that you can double your stakes or put down your money,
      gentlemen, any time while the ball rolls&mdash;black again&mdash;black
      wins&mdash;I never saw such a thing&mdash;I never did, in all my life,
      upon my word I never did; if any gentleman had been backing the black in
      the last five minutes he must have won five-and-forty pound in four rolls
      of the ball, he must indeed. Gentlemen, we've port, sherry, cigars, and
      most excellent champagne. Here, wai-ter, bring a bottle of champagne, and
      let's have a dozen or fifteen cigars here&mdash;and let's be comfortable,
      gentlemen&mdash;and bring some clean glasses&mdash;any time while the ball
      rolls!&mdash;I lost one hundred and thirty-seven pound yesterday,
      gentlemen, at one roll of the ball, I did indeed!&mdash;how do you do,
      sir?' (recognising some knowing gentleman without any halt or change of
      voice, and giving a wink so slight that it seems an accident), 'will you
      take a glass of sherry, sir?&mdash;here, wai-ter! bring a clean glass, and
      hand the sherry to this gentleman&mdash;and hand it round, will you,
      waiter?&mdash;this is the rooge-a-nore from Paris, gentlemen&mdash;any
      time while the ball rolls!&mdash;gentlemen, make your game, and back your
      own opinions&mdash;it's the rooge-a-nore from Paris&mdash;quite a new
      game, I brought it over myself, I did indeed&mdash;gentlemen, the ball's
      a-rolling!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This officer was busily plying his vocation when half-a-dozen persons
      sauntered through the booth, to whom, but without stopping either in his
      speech or work, he bowed respectfully; at the same time directing, by a
      look, the attention of a man beside him to the tallest figure in the
      group, in recognition of whom the proprietor pulled off his hat. This was
      Sir Mulberry Hawk, with whom were his friend and pupil, and a small train
      of gentlemanly-dressed men, of characters more doubtful than obscure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The proprietor, in a low voice, bade Sir Mulberry good-day. Sir Mulberry,
      in the same tone, bade the proprietor go to the devil, and turned to speak
      with his friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was evidently an irritable consciousness about him that he was an
      object of curiosity, on this first occasion of showing himself in public
      after the accident that had befallen him; and it was easy to perceive that
      he appeared on the race-course, that day, more in the hope of meeting with
      a great many people who knew him, and so getting over as much as possible
      of the annoyance at once, than with any purpose of enjoying the sport.
      There yet remained a slight scar upon his face, and whenever he was
      recognised, as he was almost every minute by people sauntering in and out,
      he made a restless effort to conceal it with his glove; showing how keenly
      he felt the disgrace he had undergone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Hawk,' said one very sprucely-dressed personage in a Newmarket coat,
      a choice neckerchief, and all other accessories of the most
      unexceptionable kind. 'How d'ye do, old fellow?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a rival trainer of young noblemen and gentlemen, and the person
      of all others whom Sir Mulberry most hated and dreaded to meet. They shook
      hands with excessive cordiality.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And how are you now, old fellow, hey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite well, quite well,' said Sir Mulberry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' said the other. 'How d'ye do, Verisopht? He's a little
      pulled down, our friend here. Rather out of condition still, hey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      It should be observed that the gentleman had very white teeth, and that
      when there was no excuse for laughing, he generally finished with the same
      monosyllable, which he uttered so as to display them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's in very good condition; there's nothing the matter with him,' said
      the young man carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my soul I'm glad to hear it,' rejoined the other. 'Have you just
      returned from Brussels?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We only reached town late last night,' said Lord Frederick. Sir Mulberry
      turned away to speak to one of his own party, and feigned not to hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, upon my life,' said the friend, affecting to speak in a whisper,
      'it's an uncommonly bold and game thing in Hawk to show himself so soon. I
      say it advisedly; there's a vast deal of courage in it. You see he has
      just rusticated long enough to excite curiosity, and not long enough for
      men to have forgotten that deuced unpleasant&mdash;by-the-bye&mdash;you
      know the rights of the affair, of course? Why did you never give those
      confounded papers the lie? I seldom read the papers, but I looked in the
      papers for that, and may I be&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look in the papers,' interrupted Sir Mulberry, turning suddenly round,
      'tomorrow&mdash;no, next day, will you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my life, my dear fellow, I seldom or never read the papers,' said
      the other, shrugging his shoulders, 'but I will, at your recommendation.
      What shall I look for?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good day,' said Sir Mulberry, turning abruptly on his heel, and drawing
      his pupil with him. Falling, again, into the loitering, careless pace at
      which they had entered, they lounged out, arm in arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't give him a case of murder to read,' muttered Sir Mulberry with an
      oath; 'but it shall be something very near it if whipcord cuts and
      bludgeons bruise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His companion said nothing, but there was something in his manner which
      galled Sir Mulberry to add, with nearly as much ferocity as if his friend
      had been Nicholas himself:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I sent Jenkins to old Nickleby before eight o'clock this morning. He's a
      staunch one; he was back with me before the messenger. I had it all from
      him in the first five minutes. I know where this hound is to be met with;
      time and place both. But there's no need to talk; tomorrow will soon be
      here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And wha-at's to be done tomorrow?' inquired Lord Frederick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Mulberry Hawk honoured him with an angry glance, but condescended to
      return no verbal answer to this inquiry. Both walked sullenly on, as
      though their thoughts were busily occupied, until they were quite clear of
      the crowd, and almost alone, when Sir Mulberry wheeled round to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop,' said his companion, 'I want to speak to you in earnest. Don't turn
      back. Let us walk here, a few minutes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What have you to say to me, that you could not say yonder as well as
      here?' returned his Mentor, disengaging his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hawk,' rejoined the other, 'tell me; I must know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Must </i>know,' interrupted the other disdainfully. 'Whew! Go on. If you must
      know, of course there's no escape for me. Must know!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Must ask then,' returned Lord Frederick, 'and must press you for a plain
      and straightforward answer. Is what you have just said only a mere whim of
      the moment, occasioned by your being out of humour and irritated, or is it
      your serious intention, and one that you have actually contemplated?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, don't you remember what passed on the subject one night, when I was
      laid up with a broken limb?' said Sir Mulberry, with a sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perfectly well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then take that for an answer, in the devil's name,' replied Sir Mulberry,
      'and ask me for no other.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the ascendancy he had acquired over his dupe, and such the
      latter's general habit of submission, that, for the moment, the young man
      seemed half afraid to pursue the subject. He soon overcame this feeling,
      however, if it had restrained him at all, and retorted angrily:
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I remember what passed at the time you speak of, I expressed a strong
      opinion on this subject, and said that, with my knowledge or consent, you
      never should do what you threaten now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you prevent me?' asked Sir Mulberry, with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ye-es, if I can,' returned the other, promptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A very proper saving clause, that last,' said Sir Mulberry; 'and one you
      stand in need of. Oh! look to your own business, and leave me to look to
      mine.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This <i>is</i> mine,' retorted Lord Frederick. 'I make it mine; I will make it
      mine. It's mine already. I am more compromised than I should be, as it
      is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do as you please, and what you please, for yourself,' said Sir Mulberry,
      affecting an easy good-humour. 'Surely that must content you! Do nothing
      for me; that's all. I advise no man to interfere in proceedings that I
      choose to take. I am sure you know me better than to do so. The fact is, I
      see, you mean to offer me advice. It is well meant, I have no doubt, but I
      reject it. Now, if you please, we will return to the carriage. I find no
      entertainment here, but quite the reverse. If we prolong this
      conversation, we might quarrel, which would be no proof of wisdom in
      either you or me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this rejoinder, and waiting for no further discussion, Sir Mulberry
      Hawk yawned, and very leisurely turned back.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was not a little tact and knowledge of the young lord's disposition
      in this mode of treating him. Sir Mulberry clearly saw that if his
      dominion were to last, it must be established now. He knew that the moment
      he became violent, the young man would become violent too. He had, many
      times, been enabled to strengthen his influence, when any circumstance had
      occurred to weaken it, by adopting this cool and laconic style; and he
      trusted to it now, with very little doubt of its entire success.
    </p>
    <p>
      But while he did this, and wore the most careless and indifferent
      deportment that his practised arts enabled him to assume, he inwardly
      resolved, not only to visit all the mortification of being compelled to
      suppress his feelings, with additional severity upon Nicholas, but also to
      make the young lord pay dearly for it, one day, in some shape or other. So
      long as he had been a passive instrument in his hands, Sir Mulberry had
      regarded him with no other feeling than contempt; but, now that he
      presumed to avow opinions in opposition to his, and even to turn upon him
      with a lofty tone and an air of superiority, he began to hate him.
      Conscious that, in the vilest and most worthless sense of the term, he was
      dependent upon the weak young lord, Sir Mulberry could the less brook
      humiliation at his hands; and when he began to dislike him he measured his
      dislike&mdash;as men often do&mdash;by the extent of the injuries he had
      inflicted upon its object. When it is remembered that Sir Mulberry Hawk
      had plundered, duped, deceived, and fooled his pupil in every possible
      way, it will not be wondered at, that, beginning to hate him, he began to
      hate him cordially.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other hand, the young lord having thought&mdash;which he very
      seldom did about anything&mdash;and seriously too, upon the affair with
      Nicholas, and the circumstances which led to it, had arrived at a manly
      and honest conclusion. Sir Mulberry's coarse and insulting behaviour on
      the occasion in question had produced a deep impression on his mind; a
      strong suspicion of his having led him on to pursue Miss Nickleby for
      purposes of his own, had been lurking there for some time; he was really
      ashamed of his share in the transaction, and deeply mortified by the
      misgiving that he had been gulled. He had had sufficient leisure to
      reflect upon these things, during their late retirement; and, at times,
      when his careless and indolent nature would permit, had availed himself of
      the opportunity. Slight circumstances, too, had occurred to increase his
      suspicion. It wanted but a very slight circumstance to kindle his wrath
      against Sir Mulberry. This his disdainful and insolent tone in their
      recent conversation (the only one they had held upon the subject since the
      period to which Sir Mulberry referred), effected.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they rejoined their friends: each with causes of dislike against the
      other rankling in his breast: and the young man haunted, besides, with
      thoughts of the vindictive retaliation which was threatened against
      Nicholas, and the determination to prevent it by some strong step, if
      possible. But this was not all. Sir Mulberry, conceiving that he had
      silenced him effectually, could not suppress his triumph, or forbear from
      following up what he conceived to be his advantage. Mr. Pyke was there, and
      Mr. Pluck was there, and Colonel Chowser, and other gentlemen of the same
      caste, and it was a great point for Sir Mulberry to show them that he had
      not lost his influence. At first, the young lord contented himself with a
      silent determination to take measures for withdrawing himself from the
      connection immediately. By degrees, he grew more angry, and was
      exasperated by jests and familiarities which, a few hours before, would
      have been a source of amusement to him. This did not serve him; for, at
      such bantering or retort as suited the company, he was no match for Sir
      Mulberry. Still, no violent rupture took place. They returned to town;
      Messrs Pyke and Pluck and other gentlemen frequently protesting, on the
      way thither, that Sir Mulberry had never been in such tiptop spirits in
      all his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      They dined together, sumptuously. The wine flowed freely, as indeed it had
      done all day. Sir Mulberry drank to recompense himself for his recent
      abstinence; the young lord, to drown his indignation; and the remainder of
      the party, because the wine was of the best and they had nothing to pay.
      It was nearly midnight when they rushed out, wild, burning with wine,
      their blood boiling, and their brains on fire, to the gaming-table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, they encountered another party, mad like themselves. The excitement
      of play, hot rooms, and glaring lights was not calculated to allay the
      fever of the time. In that giddy whirl of noise and confusion, the men
      were delirious. Who thought of money, ruin, or the morrow, in the savage
      intoxication of the moment? More wine was called for, glass after glass
      was drained, their parched and scalding mouths were cracked with thirst.
      Down poured the wine like oil on blazing fire. And still the riot went on.
      The debauchery gained its height; glasses were dashed upon the floor by
      hands that could not carry them to lips; oaths were shouted out by lips
      which could scarcely form the words to vent them in; drunken losers cursed
      and roared; some mounted on the tables, waving bottles above their heads
      and bidding defiance to the rest; some danced, some sang, some tore the
      cards and raved. Tumult and frenzy reigned supreme; when a noise arose
      that drowned all others, and two men, seizing each other by the throat,
      struggled into the middle of the room.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0678m.jpg" alt="0678m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0678.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      A dozen voices, until now unheard, called aloud to part them. Those who
      had kept themselves cool, to win, and who earned their living in such
      scenes, threw themselves upon the combatants, and, forcing them asunder,
      dragged them some space apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me go!' cried Sir Mulberry, in a thick hoarse voice; 'he struck me!
      Do you hear? I say, he struck me. Have I a friend here? Who is this?
      Westwood. Do you hear me say he struck me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear, I hear,' replied one of those who held him. 'Come away for
      tonight!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will not, by G&mdash;,' he replied. 'A dozen men about us saw the
      blow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tomorrow will be ample time,' said the friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will not be ample time!' cried Sir Mulberry. 'Tonight, at once, here!'
      His passion was so great, that he could not articulate, but stood
      clenching his fist, tearing his hair, and stamping upon the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is this, my lord?' said one of those who surrounded him. 'Have blows
      passed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>One </i>blow has,' was the panting reply. 'I struck him. I proclaim it to all
      here! I struck him, and he knows why. I say, with him, let this quarrel be
      adjusted now. Captain Adams,' said the young lord, looking hurriedly about
      him, and addressing one of those who had interposed, 'let me speak with
      you, I beg.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The person addressed stepped forward, and taking the young man's arm, they
      retired together, followed shortly afterwards by Sir Mulberry and his
      friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a profligate haunt of the worst repute, and not a place in which
      such an affair was likely to awaken any sympathy for either party, or to
      call forth any further remonstrance or interposition. Elsewhere, its
      further progress would have been instantly prevented, and time allowed for
      sober and cool reflection; but not there. Disturbed in their orgies, the
      party broke up; some reeled away with looks of tipsy gravity; others
      withdrew noisily discussing what had just occurred; the gentlemen of
      honour who lived upon their winnings remarked to each other, as they went
      out, that Hawk was a good shot; and those who had been most noisy, fell
      fast asleep upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the two seconds, as they may be called now, after a long
      conference, each with his principal, met together in another room. Both
      utterly heartless, both men upon town, both thoroughly initiated in its
      worst vices, both deeply in debt, both fallen from some higher estate,
      both addicted to every depravity for which society can find some genteel
      name and plead its most depraving conventionalities as an excuse, they
      were naturally gentlemen of most unblemished honour themselves, and of
      great nicety concerning the honour of other people.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful just now; for the affair was
      pretty certain to make some noise, and could scarcely fail to enhance
      their reputations.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is an awkward affair, Adams,' said Mr. Westwood, drawing himself up.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very,' returned the captain; 'a blow has been struck, and there is but
      one course, <i>of</i> course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No apology, I suppose?' said Mr. Westwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a syllable, sir, from my man, if we talk till doomsday,' returned the
      captain. 'The original cause of dispute, I understand, was some girl or
      other, to whom your principal applied certain terms, which Lord Frederick,
      defending the girl, repelled. But this led to a long recrimination upon a
      great many sore subjects, charges, and counter-charges. Sir Mulberry was
      sarcastic; Lord Frederick was excited, and struck him in the heat of
      provocation, and under circumstances of great aggravation. That blow,
      unless there is a full retraction on the part of Sir Mulberry, Lord
      Frederick is ready to justify.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no more to be said,' returned the other, 'but to settle the hour
      and the place of meeting. It's a responsibility; but there is a strong
      feeling to have it over. Do you object to say at sunrise?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sharp work,' replied the captain, referring to his watch; 'however, as
      this seems to have been a long time breeding, and negotiation is only a
      waste of words, no.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Something may possibly be said, out of doors, after what passed in the
      other room, which renders it desirable that we should be off without
      delay, and quite clear of town,' said Mr. Westwood. 'What do you say to one
      of the meadows opposite Twickenham, by the river-side?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain saw no objection.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads from Petersham
      to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when we arrive there?' said Mr
      Westwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the captain also assented. After a few other preliminaries,
      equally brief, and having settled the road each party should take to avoid
      suspicion, they separated.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We shall just have comfortable time, my lord,' said the captain, when he
      had communicated the arrangements, 'to call at my rooms for a case of
      pistols, and then jog coolly down. If you will allow me to dismiss your
      servant, we'll take my cab; for yours, perhaps, might be recognised.'
    </p>
    <p>
      What a contrast, when they reached the street, to the scene they had just
      left! It was already daybreak. For the flaring yellow light within, was
      substituted the clear, bright, glorious morning; for a hot, close
      atmosphere, tainted with the smell of expiring lamps, and reeking with the
      steams of riot and dissipation, the free, fresh, wholesome air. But to the
      fevered head on which that cool air blew, it seemed to come laden with
      remorse for time misspent and countless opportunities neglected. With
      throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts hurried
      and disordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach, and shrunk
      involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul and hideous thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shivering?' said the captain. 'You are cold.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Rather.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It does strike cool, coming out of those hot rooms. Wrap that cloak about
      you. So, so; now we're off.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at the captain's
      lodgings, cleared the town, and emerged upon the open road, without
      hindrance or molestation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything looked very beautiful; the
      young man scarcely seemed to have noticed them before, though he had
      passed the same objects a thousand times. There was a peace and serenity
      upon them all, strangely at variance with the bewilderment and confusion
      of his own half-sobered thoughts, and yet impressive and welcome. He had
      no fear upon his mind; but, as he looked about him, he had less anger; and
      though all old delusions, relative to his worthless late companion, were
      now cleared away, he rather wished he had never known him than thought of
      its having come to this.
    </p>
    <p>
      The past night, the day before, and many other days and nights beside, all
      mingled themselves up in one unintelligible and senseless whirl; he could
      not separate the transactions of one time from those of another. Now, the
      noise of the wheels resolved itself into some wild tune in which he could
      recognise scraps of airs he knew; now, there was nothing in his ears but a
      stunning and bewildering sound, like rushing water. But his companion
      rallied him on being so silent, and they talked and laughed boisterously.
      When they stopped, he was a little surprised to find himself in the act of
      smoking; but, on reflection, he remembered when and where he had taken the
      cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stopped at the avenue gate and alighted, leaving the carriage to the
      care of the servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as well accustomed
      to such proceedings as his master. Sir Mulberry and his friend were
      already there. All four walked in profound silence up the aisle of stately
      elm trees, which, meeting far above their heads, formed a long green
      perspective of Gothic arches, terminating, like some old ruin, in the open
      sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a pause, and a brief conference between the seconds, they, at
      length, turned to the right, and taking a track across a little meadow,
      passed Ham House and came into some fields beyond. In one of these, they
      stopped. The ground was measured, some usual forms gone through, the two
      principals were placed front to front at the distance agreed upon, and Sir
      Mulberry turned his face towards his young adversary for the first time.
      He was very pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his dress disordered, and his
      hair dishevelled. For the face, it expressed nothing but violent and evil
      passions. He shaded his eyes with his hand; grazed at his opponent,
      steadfastly, for a few moments; and, then taking the weapon which was
      tendered to him, bent his eyes upon that, and looked up no more until the
      word was given, when he instantly fired.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two shots were fired, as nearly as possible, at the same instant. In
      that instant, the young lord turned his head sharply round, fixed upon his
      adversary a ghastly stare, and without a groan or stagger, fell down dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's gone!' cried Westwood, who, with the other second, had run up to the
      body, and fallen on one knee beside it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'His blood on his own head,' said Sir Mulberry. 'He brought this upon
      himself, and forced it upon me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Captain Adams,' cried Westwood, hastily, 'I call you to witness that this
      was fairly done. Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. We must leave this
      place immediately, push for Brighton, and cross to France with all speed.
      This has been a bad business, and may be worse, if we delay a moment.
      Adams, consult your own safety, and don't remain here; the living before
      the dead; goodbye!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm, and hurried him away.
      Captain Adams&mdash;only pausing to convince himself, beyond all question,
      of the fatal result&mdash;sped off in the same direction, to concert
      measures with his servant for removing the body, and securing his own
      safety likewise.
    </p>
    <p>
      So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the hand which he had loaded with
      gifts, and clasped a thousand times; by the act of him, but for whom, and
      others like him, he might have lived a happy man, and died with children's
      faces round his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun came proudly up in all his majesty, the noble river ran its
      winding course, the leaves quivered and rustled in the air, the birds
      poured their cheerful songs from every tree, the short-lived butterfly
      fluttered its little wings; all the light and life of day came on; and,
      amidst it all, and pressing down the grass whose every blade bore twenty
      tiny lives, lay the dead man, with his stark and rigid face turned upwards
      to the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 51
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span><i>he Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful
            Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into
            their Confidence</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In an old house, dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to have withered,
      like himself, and to have grown yellow and shrivelled in hoarding him from
      the light of day, as he had in hoarding his money, lived Arthur Gride.
      Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare and bony make, and hard and cold as
      misers' hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against the gloomy walls;
      attenuated presses, grown lank and lantern-jawed in guarding the treasures
      they enclosed, and tottering, as though from constant fear and dread of
      thieves, shrunk up in dark corners, whence they cast no shadows on the
      ground, and seemed to hide and cower from observation. A tall grim clock
      upon the stairs, with long lean hands and famished face, ticked in
      cautious whispers; and when it struck the time, in thin and piping sounds,
      like an old man's voice, rattled, as if it were pinched with hunger.
    </p>
    <p>
      No fireside couch was there, to invite repose and comfort. Elbow-chairs
      there were, but they looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms
      suspiciously and timidly, and kept upon their guard. Others, were
      fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawn themselves up to their
      utmost height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare all comers out of
      countenance. Others, again, knocked up against their neighbours, or leant
      for support against the wall&mdash;somewhat ostentatiously, as if to call
      all men to witness that they were not worth the taking. The dark square
      lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty hangings
      seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among themselves,
      when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledge of the tempting wares
      that lurked within the dark and tight-locked closets.
    </p>
    <p>
      From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry house
      there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride's voice, as it
      feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some forgotten song, of which the
      burden ran:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Ta&mdash;ran&mdash;tan&mdash;too,
     Throw the old shoe,
     And may the wedding be lucky!
</pre>
    <p>
      which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and again,
      until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue in
      silence, the occupation upon which he was engaged.
    </p>
    <p>
      This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm-eaten
      wardrobe a quantity of frouzy garments, one by one; to subject each to a
      careful and minute inspection by holding it up against the light, and
      after folding it with great exactness, to lay it on one or other of two
      little heaps beside him. He never took two articles of clothing out
      together, but always brought them forth, singly, and never failed to shut
      the wardrobe door, and turn the key, between each visit to its shelves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The snuff-coloured suit,' said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare coat.
      'Did I look well in snuff-colour? Let me think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, for he folded
      the garment once more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to get down
      another, chirping while he did so:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Young, loving, and fair,
     Oh what happiness there!
     The wedding is sure to be lucky!
</pre>
    <p>
      'They always put in "young,"' said old Arthur, 'but songs are only written
      for the sake of rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor
      country-people sang, when I was a little boy. Though stop&mdash;young is
      quite right too&mdash;it means the bride&mdash;yes. He, he, he! It means
      the bride. Oh dear, that's good. That's very good. And true besides, quite
      true!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verse again, with
      increased expression, and a shake or two here and there. He then resumed
      his employment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The bottle-green,' said old Arthur; 'the bottle-green was a famous suit
      to wear, and I bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker's, and there was&mdash;he,
      he, he!&mdash;a tarnished shilling in the waistcoat pocket. To think that
      the pawnbroker shouldn't have known there was a shilling in it! I knew it!
      I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog of a
      pawnbroker! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle-green. The very day I put
      it on first, old Lord Mallowford was burnt to death in his bed, and all
      the post-obits fell in. I'll be married in the bottle-green. Peg. Peg
      Sliderskew&mdash;I'll wear the bottle-green!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room-door, brought into
      the apartment a short, thin, weasen, blear-eyed old woman, palsy-stricken
      and hideously ugly, who, wiping her shrivelled face upon her dirty apron,
      inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people commonly speak:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets so
      bad, I never know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it must
      be one of you, because nothing else never stirs in the house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Me, Peg, me,' said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to render
      the reply more intelligible.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You, eh?' returned Peg. 'And what do <i>you </i>want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll be married in the bottle-green,' cried Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a deal too good to be married in, master,' rejoined Peg, after a
      short inspection of the suit. 'Haven't you got anything worse than this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing that'll do,' replied old Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not do?' retorted Peg. 'Why don't you wear your every-day clothes,
      like a man&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'They an't becoming enough, Peg,' returned her master.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not what enough?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Becoming.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Becoming what?' said Peg, sharply. 'Not becoming too old to wear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper's deafness, as he
      roared in her ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not smart enough! I want to look as well as I can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look?' cried Peg. 'If she's as handsome as you say she is, she won't look
      much at you, master, take your oath of that; and as to how you look
      yourself&mdash;pepper-and-salt, bottle-green, sky-blue, or tartan-plaid
      will make no difference in you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With which consolatory assurance, Peg Sliderskew gathered up the chosen
      suit, and folding her skinny arms upon the bundle, stood, mouthing, and
      grinning, and blinking her watery eyes, like an uncouth figure in some
      monstrous piece of carving.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're in a funny humour, an't you, Peg?' said Arthur, with not the best
      possible grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, isn't it enough to make me?' rejoined the old woman. 'I shall, soon
      enough, be put out, though, if anybody tries to domineer it over me: and
      so I give you notice, master. Nobody shall be put over Peg Sliderskew's
      head, after so many years; you know that, and so I needn't tell you! That
      won't do for me&mdash;no, no, nor for you. Try that once, and come to ruin&mdash;ruin&mdash;ruin!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear, dear, I shall never try it,' said Arthur Gride, appalled by the
      mention of the word, 'not for the world. It would be very easy to ruin me;
      we must be very careful; more saving than ever, with another mouth to
      feed. Only we&mdash;we mustn't let her lose her good looks, Peg, because I
      like to see 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take care you don't find good looks come expensive,' returned Peg,
      shaking her forefinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But she can earn money herself, Peg,' said Arthur Gride, eagerly watching
      what effect his communication produced upon the old woman's countenance:
      'she can draw, paint, work all manner of pretty things for ornamenting
      stools and chairs: slippers, Peg, watch-guards, hair-chains, and a
      thousand little dainty trifles that I couldn't give you half the names of.
      Then she can play the piano, (and, what's more, she's got one), and sing
      like a little bird. She'll be very cheap to dress and keep, Peg; don't you
      think she will?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you don't let her make a fool of you, she may,' returned Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A fool of <i>me</i>!' exclaimed Arthur. 'Trust your old master not to be fooled
      by pretty faces, Peg; no, no, no&mdash;nor by ugly ones neither, Mrs
      Sliderskew,' he softly added by way of soliloquy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're a saying something you don't want me to hear,' said Peg; 'I know
      you are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear! the devil's in this woman,' muttered Arthur; adding with an ugly
      leer, 'I said I trusted everything to you, Peg. That was all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You do that, master, and all your cares are over,' said Peg approvingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>When </i>I do that, Peg Sliderskew,' thought Arthur Gride, 'they will be.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Although he thought this very distinctly, he durst not move his lips lest
      the old woman should detect him. He even seemed half afraid that she might
      have read his thoughts; for he leered coaxingly upon her, as he said
      aloud:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Take up all loose stitches in the bottle-green with the best black silk.
      Have a skein of the best, and some new buttons for the coat, and&mdash;this
      is a good idea, Peg, and one you'll like, I know&mdash;as I have never
      given her anything yet, and girls like such attentions, you shall polish
      up a sparking necklace that I have got upstairs, and I'll give it her upon
      the wedding morning&mdash;clasp it round her charming little neck myself&mdash;and
      take it away again next day. He, he, he! I'll lock it up for her, Peg, and
      lose it. Who'll be made the fool of there, I wonder, to begin with&mdash;eh,
      Peg?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Sliderskew appeared to approve highly of this ingenious scheme, and
      expressed her satisfaction by various rackings and twitchings of her head
      and body, which by no means enhanced her charms. These she prolonged until
      she had hobbled to the door, when she exchanged them for a sour malignant
      look, and twisting her under-jaw from side to side, muttered hearty curses
      upon the future Mrs. Gride, as she crept slowly down the stairs, and paused
      for breath at nearly every one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She's half a witch, I think,' said Arthur Gride, when he found himself
      again alone. 'But she's very frugal, and she's very deaf. Her living costs
      me next to nothing; and it's no use her listening at keyholes; for she
      can't hear. She's a charming woman&mdash;for the purpose; a most discreet
      old housekeeper, and worth her weight in&mdash;copper.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Having extolled the merits of his domestic in these high terms, old Arthur
      went back to the burden of his song. The suit destined to grace his
      approaching nuptials being now selected, he replaced the others with no
      less care than he had displayed in drawing them from the musty nooks where
      they had silently reposed for many years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily concluded this operation, and
      locked the press; but there was no need for any particular hurry, as the
      discreet Peg seldom knew the bell was rung unless she happened to cast her
      dim eyes upwards, and to see it shaking against the kitchen ceiling. After
      a short delay, however, Peg tottered in, followed by Newman Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Mr. Noggs!' cried Arthur Gride, rubbing his hands. 'My good friend, Mr
      Noggs, what news do you bring for me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixed eye very
      fixed indeed, replied, suiting the action to the word, 'A letter. From Mr
      Nickleby. Bearer waits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Won't you take a&mdash;a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman looked up, and smacked his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;A chair?' said Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Newman. 'Thankee.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur opened the letter with trembling hands, and devoured its contents
      with the utmost greediness; chuckling rapturously over it, and reading it
      several times, before he could take it from before his eyes. So many times
      did he peruse and re-peruse it, that Newman considered it expedient to
      remind him of his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Answer,' said Newman. 'Bearer waits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' replied old Arthur. 'Yes&mdash;yes; I almost forgot, I do
      declare.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought you were forgetting,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite right to remind me, Mr. Noggs. Oh, very right indeed,' said Arthur.
      'Yes. I'll write a line. I'm&mdash;I'm&mdash;rather flurried, Mr. Noggs.
      The news is&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bad?' interrupted Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Mr. Noggs, thank you; good, good. The very best of news. Sit down.
      I'll get the pen and ink, and write a line in answer. I'll not detain you
      long. I know you're a treasure to your master, Mr. Noggs. He speaks of you
      in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you'd be astonished. I may say
      that I do too, and always did. I always say the same of you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's "Curse Mr. Noggs with all my heart!" then, if you do,' thought
      Newman, as Gride hurried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter had fallen on the ground. Looking carefully about him for an
      instant, Newman, impelled by curiosity to know the result of the design he
      had overheard from his office closet, caught it up and rapidly read as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Gride</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day after tomorrow (as
      you suggested) for the marriage. There is no objection on his part, and
      all days are alike to his daughter. We will go together, and you must be
      with me by seven in the morning. I need not tell you to be punctual.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You have been there,
      of late, much oftener than you should. She does not languish for you, and
      it might have been dangerous. Restrain your youthful ardour for
      eight-and-forty hours, and leave her to the father. You only undo what he
      does, and does well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Ralph Nickleby.</i>'
    </p>
    <p>
      A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter on the same spot
      again, pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering away, regained
      his seat in a single stride, and looked as vacant and unconscious as ever
      mortal looked. Arthur Gride, after peering nervously about him, spied it
      on the ground, picked it up, and sitting down to write, glanced at Newman
      Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an intensity so remarkable, that
      Arthur was quite alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you see anything particular, Mr. Noggs?' said Arthur, trying to follow
      the direction of Newman's eyes&mdash;which was an impossibility, and a
      thing no man had ever done.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only a cobweb,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! is that all?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Newman. 'There's a fly in it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There are a good many cobwebs here,' observed Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So there are in our place,' returned Newman; 'and flies too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and to
      the great discomposure of Arthur Gride's nerves, produced a series of
      sharp cracks from his finger-joints, resembling the noise of a distant
      discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing his reply to
      Ralph's note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the eccentric
      messenger for delivery.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's it, Mr. Noggs,' said Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when Gride,
      whose doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and said, in
      a shrill whisper, and with a grin which puckered up his whole face, and
      almost obscured his eyes:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you&mdash;will you take a little drop of something&mdash;just a
      taste?'
    </p>
    <p>
      In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would
      not have drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever made;
      but to see what he would be at, and to punish him as much as he could, he
      accepted the offer immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a
      shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaint bottles: some
      with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built bodies
      and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle of promising
      appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never tasted this,' said Arthur. 'It's <i>eau-d'or</i>&mdash;golden water. I
      like it on account of its name. It's a delicious name. Water of gold,
      golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the
      stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its
      old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses, and clinked it, twice
      or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he had not been
      helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled it&mdash;though
      not to the brim&mdash;and then filled his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop, stop; don't drink it yet,' he said, laying his hand on Newman's;
      'it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste,
      which is ve&mdash;ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand, and tease
      myself. We'll drink a toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr. Noggs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. 'Look sharp.
      Bearer waits.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, then, I'll tell you what,' tittered Arthur, 'we'll drink&mdash;he,
      he, he!&mdash;we'll drink a lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>The </i>ladies?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, Mr. Noggs,' replied Gride, arresting his hand, 'A lady. You wonder
      to hear me say A lady. I know you do, I know you do. Here's little
      Madeline. That's the toast. Mr. Noggs. Little Madeline!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline!' said Newman; inwardly adding, 'and God help her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed his portion of the
      golden water, had a great effect upon the old man, who sat upright in his
      chair, and gazed at him, open-mouthed, as if the sight had taken away his
      breath. Quite unmoved, however, Newman left him to sip his own at leisure,
      or to pour it back again into the bottle, if he chose, and departed; after
      greatly outraging the dignity of Peg Sliderskew by brushing past her, in
      the passage, without a word of apology or recognition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gride and his housekeeper, immediately on being left alone, resolved
      themselves into a committee of ways and means, and discussed the
      arrangements which should be made for the reception of the young bride. As
      they were, like some other committees, extremely dull and prolix in
      debate, this history may pursue the footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby
      combining advantage with necessity; for it would have been necessary to do
      so under any circumstances, and necessity has no law, as all the world
      knows.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You've been a long time,' said Ralph, when Newman returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>He</i> was a long time,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bah!' cried Ralph impatiently. 'Give me his note, if he gave you one: his
      message, if he didn't. And don't go away. I want a word with you, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman handed in the note, and looked very virtuous and innocent while his
      employer broke the seal, and glanced his eye over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He'll be sure to come,' muttered Ralph, as he tore it to pieces; 'why of
      course, I know he'll be sure to come. What need to say that? Noggs! Pray,
      sir, what man was that, with whom I saw you in the street last night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know,' replied Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better refresh your memory, sir,' said Ralph, with a threatening
      look.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you,' returned Newman boldly, 'that I don't know. He came here
      twice, and asked for you. You were out. He came again. You packed him off,
      yourself. He gave the name of Brooker.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know he did,' said Ralph; 'what then?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What then? Why, then he lurked about and dogged me in the street. He
      follows me, night after night, and urges me to bring him face to face with
      you; as he says he has been once, and not long ago either. He wants to see
      you face to face, he says, and you'll soon hear him out, he warrants.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what say you to that?' inquired Ralph, looking keenly at his drudge.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That it's no business of mine, and I won't. I told him he might catch you
      in the street, if that was all he wanted, but no! that wouldn't do. You
      wouldn't hear a word there, he said. He must have you alone in a room with
      the door locked, where he could speak without fear, and you'd soon change
      your tone, and hear him patiently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'An audacious dog!' Ralph muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's all I know,' said Newman. 'I say again, I don't know what man he
      is. I don't believe he knows himself. You have seen him; perhaps <i>you </i>do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think I do,' replied Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' retored Newman, sulkily, 'don't expect me to know him too; that's
      all. You'll ask me, next, why I never told you this before. What would you
      say, if I was to tell you all that people say of you? What do you call me
      when I sometimes do? "Brute, ass!" and snap at me like a dragon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was true enough; though the question which Newman anticipated, was,
      in fact, upon Ralph's lips at the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is an idle ruffian,' said Ralph; 'a vagabond from beyond the sea where
      he travelled for his crimes; a felon let loose to run his neck into the
      halter; a swindler, who has the audacity to try his schemes on me who know
      him well. The next time he tampers with you, hand him over to the police,
      for attempting to extort money by lies and threats,&mdash;d'ye hear?&mdash;and
      leave the rest to me. He shall cool his heels in jail a little time, and
      I'll be bound he looks for other folks to fleece, when he comes out. You
      mind what I say, do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do it then,' returned Ralph, 'and I'll reward you. Now, you may go.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman readily availed himself of the permission, and, shutting himself up
      in his little office, remained there, in very serious cogitation, all day.
      When he was released at night, he proceeded, with all the expedition he
      could use, to the city, and took up his old position behind the pump, to
      watch for Nicholas. For Newman Noggs was proud in his way, and could not
      bear to appear as his friend, before the brothers Cheeryble, in the shabby
      and degraded state to which he was reduced.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not occupied this position many minutes, when he was rejoiced to
      see Nicholas approaching, and darted out from his ambuscade to meet him.
      Nicholas, on his part, was no less pleased to encounter his friend, whom
      he had not seen for some time; so, their greeting was a warm one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I was thinking of you, at that moment,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's right,' rejoined Newman, 'and I of you. I couldn't help coming up,
      tonight. I say, I think I am going to find out something.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what may that be?' returned Nicholas, smiling at this odd
      communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't know what it may be, I don't know what it may not be,' said
      Newman; 'it's some secret in which your uncle is concerned, but what, I've
      not yet been able to discover, although I have my strong suspicions. I'll
      not hint 'em now, in case you should be disappointed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I disappointed!' cried Nicholas; 'am I interested?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think you are,' replied Newman. 'I have a crotchet in my head that it
      must be so. I have found out a man, who plainly knows more than he cares
      to tell at once. And he has already dropped such hints to me as puzzle me&mdash;I
      say, as puzzle me,' said Newman, scratching his red nose into a state of
      violent inflammation, and staring at Nicholas with all his might and main
      meanwhile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Admiring what could have wound his friend up to such a pitch of mystery,
      Nicholas endeavoured, by a series of questions, to elucidate the cause;
      but in vain. Newman could not be drawn into any more explicit statement
      than a repetition of the perplexities he had already thrown out, and a
      confused oration, showing, How it was necessary to use the utmost caution;
      how the lynx-eyed Ralph had already seen him in company with his unknown
      correspondent; and how he had baffled the said Ralph by extreme
      guardedness of manner and ingenuity of speech; having prepared himself for
      such a contingency from the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      Remembering his companion's propensity,&mdash;of which his nose, indeed,
      perpetually warned all beholders like a beacon,&mdash;Nicholas had drawn
      him into a sequestered tavern. Here, they fell to reviewing the origin and
      progress of their acquaintance, as men sometimes do, and tracing out the
      little events by which it was most strongly marked, came at last to Miss
      Cecilia Bobster.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that reminds me,' said Newman, 'that you never told me the young
      lady's real name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline!' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline!' cried Newman. 'What Madeline? Her other name. Say her other
      name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bray,' said Nicholas, in great astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the same!' cried Newman. 'Sad story! Can you stand idly by, and let
      that unnatural marriage take place without one attempt to save her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do you mean?' exclaimed Nicholas, starting up; 'marriage! are you
      mad?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Are you? Is she? Are you blind, deaf, senseless, dead?' said Newman. 'Do
      you know that within one day, by means of your uncle Ralph, she will be
      married to a man as bad as he, and worse, if worse there is? Do you know
      that, within one day, she will be sacrificed, as sure as you stand there
      alive, to a hoary wretch&mdash;a devil born and bred, and grey in devils'
      ways?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Be careful what you say,' replied Nicholas. 'For Heaven's sake be
      careful! I am left here alone, and those who could stretch out a hand to
      rescue her are far away. What is it that you mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never heard her name,' said Newman, choking with his energy. 'Why
      didn't you tell me? How was I to know? We might, at least, have had some
      time to think!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is it that you mean?' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not an easy task to arrive at this information; but, after a great
      quantity of extraordinary pantomime, which in no way assisted it,
      Nicholas, who was almost as wild as Newman Noggs himself, forced the
      latter down upon his seat and held him down until he began his tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm of passions, rushed through
      the listener's heart, as the plot was laid bare. He no sooner understood
      it all, than with a face of ashy paleness, and trembling in every limb, he
      darted from the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop him!' cried Newman, bolting out in pursuit. 'He'll be doing
      something desperate; he'll murder somebody. Hallo! there, stop him. Stop
      thief! stop thief!'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 52
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span><i>icholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, but plucks up his Spirits
            again, and determines to attempt it. Domestic Intelligence of the
            Kenwigses and Lillyvicks</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding that Newman was determined to arrest his progress at any hazard,
      and apprehensive that some well-intentioned passenger, attracted by the
      cry of 'Stop thief,' might lay violent hands upon his person, and place
      him in a disagreeable predicament from which he might have some difficulty
      in extricating himself, Nicholas soon slackened his pace, and suffered
      Newman Noggs to come up with him: which he did, in so breathless a
      condition, that it seemed impossible he could have held out for a minute
      longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will go straight to Bray's,' said Nicholas. 'I will see this man. If
      there is a feeling of humanity lingering in his breast, a spark of
      consideration for his own child, motherless and friendless as she is, I
      will awaken it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will not,' replied Newman. 'You will not, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then,' said Nicholas, pressing onward, 'I will act upon my first impulse,
      and go straight to Ralph Nickleby.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By the time you reach his house he will be in bed,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll drag him from it,' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tut, tut,' said Noggs. 'Be yourself.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are the best of friends to me, Newman,' rejoined Nicholas after a
      pause, and taking his hand as he spoke. 'I have made head against many
      trials; but the misery of another, and such misery, is involved in this
      one, that I declare to you I am rendered desperate, and know not how to
      act.'
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth, it did seem a hopeless case. It was impossible to make any use
      of such intelligence as Newman Noggs had gleaned, when he lay concealed in
      the closet. The mere circumstance of the compact between Ralph Nickleby
      and Gride would not invalidate the marriage, or render Bray averse to it,
      who, if he did not actually know of the existence of some such
      understanding, doubtless suspected it. What had been hinted with reference
      to some fraud on Madeline, had been put, with sufficient obscurity by
      Arthur Gride, but coming from Newman Noggs, and obscured still further by
      the smoke of his pocket-pistol, it became wholly unintelligible, and
      involved in utter darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There seems no ray of hope,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The greater necessity for coolness, for reason, for consideration, for
      thought,' said Newman, pausing at every alternate word, to look anxiously
      in his friend's face. 'Where are the brothers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Both absent on urgent business, as they will be for a week to come.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is there no way of communicating with them? No way of getting one of them
      here by tomorrow night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Impossible!' said Nicholas, 'the sea is between us and them. With the
      fairest winds that ever blew, to go and return would take three days and
      nights.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Their nephew,' said Newman, 'their old clerk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What could either do, that I cannot?' rejoined Nicholas. 'With reference
      to them, especially, I am enjoined to the strictest silence on this
      subject. What right have I to betray the confidence reposed in me, when
      nothing but a miracle can prevent this sacrifice?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Think,' urged Newman. 'Is there no way?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is none,' said Nicholas, in utter dejection. 'Not one. The father
      urges, the daughter consents. These demons have her in their toils; legal
      right, might, power, money, and every influence are on their side. How can
      I hope to save her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hope to the last!' said Newman, clapping him on the back. 'Always hope;
      that's a dear boy. Never leave off hoping; it don't answer. Do you mind
      me, Nick? It don't answer. Don't leave a stone unturned. It's always
      something, to know you've done the most you could. But, don't leave off
      hoping, or it's of no use doing anything. Hope, hope, to the last!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas needed encouragement. The suddenness with which intelligence of
      the two usurers' plans had come upon him, the little time which remained
      for exertion, the probability, almost amounting to certainty itself, that
      a few hours would place Madeline Bray for ever beyond his reach, consign
      her to unspeakable misery, and perhaps to an untimely death; all this
      quite stunned and overwhelmed him. Every hope connected with her that he
      had suffered himself to form, or had entertained unconsciously, seemed to
      fall at his feet, withered and dead. Every charm with which his memory or
      imagination had surrounded her, presented itself before him, only to
      heighten his anguish and add new bitterness to his despair. Every feeling
      of sympathy for her forlorn condition, and of admiration for her heroism
      and fortitude, aggravated the indignation which shook him in every limb,
      and swelled his heart almost to bursting.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, if Nicholas's own heart embarrassed him, Newman's came to his relief.
      There was so much earnestness in his remonstrance, and such sincerity and
      fervour in his manner, odd and ludicrous as it always was, that it
      imparted to Nicholas new firmness, and enabled him to say, after he had
      walked on for some little way in silence:
    </p>
    <p>
      'You read me a good lesson, Newman, and I will profit by it. One step, at
      least, I may take&mdash;am bound to take indeed&mdash;and to that I will
      apply myself tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is that?' asked Noggs wistfully. 'Not to threaten Ralph? Not to see
      the father?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To see the daughter, Newman,' replied Nicholas. 'To do what, after all,
      is the utmost that the brothers could do, if they were here, as Heaven
      send they were! To reason with her upon this hideous union, to point out
      to her all the horrors to which she is hastening; rashly, it may be, and
      without due reflection. To entreat her, at least, to pause. She can have
      had no counsellor for her good. Perhaps even I may move her so far yet,
      though it is the eleventh hour, and she upon the very brink of ruin.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bravely spoken!' said Newman. 'Well done, well done! Yes. Very good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I do declare,' cried Nicholas, with honest enthusiasm, 'that in this
      effort I am influenced by no selfish or personal considerations, but by
      pity for her, and detestation and abhorrence of this scheme; and that I
      would do the same, were there twenty rivals in the field, and I the last
      and least favoured of them all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would, I believe,' said Newman. 'But where are you hurrying now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Homewards,' answered Nicholas. 'Do you come with me, or I shall say
      good-night?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll come a little way, if you will but walk: not run,' said Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot walk tonight, Newman,' returned Nicholas, hurriedly. 'I must
      move rapidly, or I could not draw my breath. I'll tell you what I've said
      and done tomorrow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without waiting for a reply, he darted off at a rapid pace, and, plunging
      into the crowds which thronged the street, was quickly lost to view.
    </p>
    <p>
       'He's a violent youth at times,' said Newman, looking after him; 'and yet I
      like him for it. There's cause enough now, or the deuce is in it. Hope! I
      <i>said </i>hope, I think! Ralph Nickleby and Gride with their heads together!
      And hope for the opposite party! Ho! ho!'
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with a very melancholy laugh that Newman Noggs concluded this
      soliloquy; and it was with a very melancholy shake of the head, and a very
      rueful countenance, that he turned about, and went plodding on his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      This, under ordinary circumstances, would have been to some small tavern
      or dram-shop; that being his way, in more senses than one. But, Newman was
      too much interested, and too anxious, to betake himself even to this
      resource, and so, with many desponding and dismal reflections, went
      straight home.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had come to pass, that afternoon, that Miss Morleena Kenwigs had
      received an invitation to repair next day, per steamer from Westminster
      Bridge, unto the Eel-pie Island at Twickenham: there to make merry upon a
      cold collation, bottled beer, shrub, and shrimps, and to dance in the open
      air to the music of a locomotive band, conveyed thither for the purpose:
      the steamer being specially engaged by a dancing-master of extensive
      connection for the accommodation of his numerous pupils, and the pupils
      displaying their appreciation of the dancing-master's services, by
      purchasing themselves, and inducing their friends to do the like, divers
      light-blue tickets, entitling them to join the expedition. Of these
      light-blue tickets, one had been presented by an ambitious neighbour to
      Miss Morleena Kenwigs, with an invitation to join her daughters; and Mrs
      Kenwigs, rightly deeming that the honour of the family was involved in
      Miss Morleena's making the most splendid appearance possible on so short a
      notice, and testifying to the dancing-master that there were other
      dancing-masters besides him, and to all fathers and mothers present that
      other people's children could learn to be genteel besides theirs, had
      fainted away twice under the magnitude of her preparations, but, upheld by
      a determination to sustain the family name or perish in the attempt, was
      still hard at work when Newman Noggs came home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, between the italian-ironing of frills, the flouncing of trousers, the
      trimming of frocks, the faintings and the comings-to again, incidental to
      the occasion, Mrs. Kenwigs had been so entirely occupied, that she had not
      observed, until within half an hour before, that the flaxen tails of Miss
      Morleena's hair were, in a manner, run to seed; and that, unless she were
      put under the hands of a skilful hairdresser, she never could achieve that
      signal triumph over the daughters of all other people, anything less than
      which would be tantamount to defeat. This discovery drove Mrs. Kenwigs to
      despair; for the hairdresser lived three streets and eight dangerous
      crossings off; Morleena could not be trusted to go there alone, even if
      such a proceeding were strictly proper: of which Mrs. Kenwigs had her
      doubts; Mr. Kenwigs had not returned from business; and there was nobody to
      take her. So, Mrs. Kenwigs first slapped Miss Kenwigs for being the cause
      of her vexation, and then shed tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You ungrateful child!' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'after I have gone through what
      I have, this night, for your good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't help it, ma,' replied Morleena, also in tears; 'my hair <i>will</i>
      grow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't talk to me, you naughty thing!' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'don't! Even if I
      was to trust you by yourself and you were to escape being run over, I know
      you'd run in to Laura Chopkins,' who was the daughter of the ambitious
      neighbour, 'and tell her what you're going to wear tomorrow, I know you
      would. You've no proper pride in yourself, and are not to be trusted out
      of sight for an instant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Deploring the evil-mindedness of her eldest daughter in these terms, Mrs
      Kenwigs distilled fresh drops of vexation from her eyes, and declared that
      she did believe there never was anybody so tried as she was. Thereupon,
      Morleena Kenwigs wept afresh, and they bemoaned themselves together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Matters were at this point, as Newman Noggs was heard to limp past the
      door on his way upstairs; when Mrs. Kenwigs, gaining new hope from the
      sound of his footsteps, hastily removed from her countenance as many
      traces of her late emotion as were effaceable on so short a notice: and
      presenting herself before him, and representing their dilemma, entreated
      that he would escort Morleena to the hairdresser's shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wouldn't ask you, Mr. Noggs,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'if I didn't know what a
      good, kind-hearted creature you are; no, not for worlds. I am a weak
      constitution, Mr. Noggs, but my spirit would no more let me ask a favour
      where I thought there was a chance of its being refused, than it would let
      me submit to see my children trampled down and trod upon, by envy and
      lowness!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman was too good-natured not to have consented, even without this
      avowal of confidence on the part of Mrs. Kenwigs. Accordingly, a very few
      minutes had elapsed, when he and Miss Morleena were on their way to the
      hairdresser's.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not exactly a hairdresser's; that is to say, people of a coarse and
      vulgar turn of mind might have called it a barber's; for they not only cut
      and curled ladies elegantly, and children carefully, but shaved gentlemen
      easily. Still, it was a highly genteel establishment&mdash;quite
      first-rate in fact&mdash;and there were displayed in the window, besides
      other elegancies, waxen busts of a light lady and a dark gentleman which
      were the admiration of the whole neighbourhood. Indeed, some ladies had
      gone so far as to assert, that the dark gentleman was actually a portrait
      of the spirted young proprietor; and the great similarity between their
      head-dresses&mdash;both wore very glossy hair, with a narrow walk straight
      down the middle, and a profusion of flat circular curls on both sides&mdash;encouraged
      the idea. The better informed among the sex, however, made light of this
      assertion, for however willing they were (and they were very willing) to
      do full justice to the handsome face and figure of the proprietor, they
      held the countenance of the dark gentleman in the window to be an
      exquisite and abstract idea of masculine beauty, realised sometimes,
      perhaps, among angels and military men, but very rarely embodied to
      gladden the eyes of mortals.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was to this establishment that Newman Noggs led Miss Kenwigs in safety.
      The proprietor, knowing that Miss Kenwigs had three sisters, each with two
      flaxen tails, and all good for sixpence apiece, once a month at least,
      promptly deserted an old gentleman whom he had just lathered for shaving,
      and handing him over to the journeyman, (who was not very popular among
      the ladies, by reason of his obesity and middle age,) waited on the young
      lady himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as this change had been effected, there presented himself for
      shaving, a big, burly, good-humoured coal-heaver with a pipe in his mouth,
      who, drawing his hand across his chin, requested to know when a shaver
      would be disengaged.
    </p>
    <p>
      The journeyman, to whom this question was put, looked doubtfully at the
      young proprietor, and the young proprietor looked scornfully at the
      coal-heaver: observing at the same time:
    </p>
    <p>
      'You won't get shaved here, my man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' said the coal-heaver.
    </p>
    <p>
      'We don't shave gentlemen in your line,' remarked the young proprietor.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I see you a shaving of a baker, when I was a looking through the
      winder, last week,' said the coal-heaver.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's necessary to draw the line somewheres, my fine feller,' replied the
      principal. 'We draw the line there. We can't go beyond bakers. If we was
      to get any lower than bakers, our customers would desert us, and we might
      shut up shop. You must try some other establishment, sir. We couldn't do
      it here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The applicant stared; grinned at Newman Noggs, who appeared highly
      entertained; looked slightly round the shop, as if in depreciation of the
      pomatum pots and other articles of stock; took his pipe out of his mouth
      and gave a very loud whistle; and then put it in again, and walked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman who had just been lathered, and who was sitting in a
      melancholy manner with his face turned towards the wall, appeared quite
      unconscious of this incident, and to be insensible to everything around
      him in the depth of a reverie&mdash;a very mournful one, to judge from the
      sighs he occasionally vented&mdash;in which he was absorbed. Affected by
      this example, the proprietor began to clip Miss Kenwigs, the journeyman to
      scrape the old gentleman, and Newman Noggs to read last Sunday's paper,
      all three in silence: when Miss Kenwigs uttered a shrill little scream,
      and Newman, raising his eyes, saw that it had been elicited by the
      circumstance of the old gentleman turning his head, and disclosing the
      features of Mr. Lillyvick the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      The features of Mr. Lillyvick they were, but strangely altered. If ever an
      old gentleman had made a point of appearing in public, shaved close and
      clean, that old gentleman was Mr. Lillyvick. If ever a collector had borne
      himself like a collector, and assumed, before all men, a solemn and
      portentous dignity as if he had the world on his books and it was all two
      quarters in arrear, that collector was Mr. Lillyvick. And now, there he
      sat, with the remains of a beard at least a week old encumbering his chin;
      a soiled and crumpled shirt-frill crouching, as it were, upon his breast,
      instead of standing boldly out; a demeanour so abashed and drooping, so
      despondent, and expressive of such humiliation, grief, and shame; that if
      the souls of forty unsubstantial housekeepers, all of whom had had their
      water cut off for non-payment of the rate, could have been concentrated in
      one body, that one body could hardly have expressed such mortification and
      defeat as were now expressed in the person of Mr. Lillyvick the collector.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0700m.jpg" alt="0700m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0700.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Newman Noggs uttered his name, and Mr. Lillyvick groaned: then coughed to
      hide it. But the groan was a full-sized groan, and the cough was but a
      wheeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is anything the matter?' said Newman Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Matter, sir!' cried Mr. Lillyvick. 'The plug of life is dry, sir, and but
      the mud is left.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This speech&mdash;the style of which Newman attributed to Mr. Lillyvick's
      recent association with theatrical characters&mdash;not being quite
      explanatory, Newman looked as if he were about to ask another question,
      when Mr. Lillyvick prevented him by shaking his hand mournfully, and then
      waving his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let me be shaved!' said Mr. Lillyvick. 'It shall be done before Morleena;
      it <i>is</i> Morleena, isn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenwigses have got a boy, haven't they?' inquired the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Newman said 'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is it a nice boy?' demanded the collector.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It ain't a very nasty one,' returned Newman, rather embarrassed by the
      question.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susan Kenwigs used to say,' observed the collector, 'that if ever she had
      another boy, she hoped it might be like me. Is this one like me, Mr
      Noggs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a puzzling inquiry; but Newman evaded it, by replying to Mr
      Lillyvick, that he thought the baby might possibly come like him in time.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I should be glad to have somebody like me, somehow,' said Mr. Lillyvick,
      'before I die.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean to do that, yet awhile?' said Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unto which Mr. Lillyvick replied in a solemn voice, 'Let me be shaved!' and
      again consigning himself to the hands of the journeyman, said no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was remarkable behaviour. So remarkable did it seem to Miss Morleena,
      that that young lady, at the imminent hazard of having her ear sliced off,
      had not been able to forbear looking round, some score of times, during
      the foregoing colloquy. Of her, however, Mr. Lillyvick took no notice:
      rather striving (so, at least, it seemed to Newman Noggs) to evade her
      observation, and to shrink into himself whenever he attracted her regards.
      Newman wondered very much what could have occasioned this altered
      behaviour on the part of the collector; but, philosophically reflecting
      that he would most likely know, sooner or later, and that he could
      perfectly afford to wait, he was very little disturbed by the singularity
      of the old gentleman's deportment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cutting and curling being at last concluded, the old gentleman, who
      had been some time waiting, rose to go, and, walking out with Newman and
      his charge, took Newman's arm, and proceeded for some time without making
      any observation. Newman, who in power of taciturnity was excelled by few
      people, made no attempt to break silence; and so they went on, until they
      had very nearly reached Miss Morleena's home, when Mr. Lillyvick said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Were the Kenwigses very much overpowered, Mr. Noggs, by that news?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What news?' returned Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That about&mdash;my&mdash;being&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Married?' suggested Newman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' replied Mr. Lillyvick, with another groan; this time not even
      disguised by a wheeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It made ma cry when she knew it,' interposed Miss Morleena, 'but we kept
      it from her for a long time; and pa was very low in his spirits, but he is
      better now; and I was very ill, but I am better too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Would you give your great-uncle Lillyvick a kiss if he was to ask you,
      Morleena?' said the collector, with some hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; uncle Lillyvick, I would,' returned Miss Morleena, with the energy
      of both her parents combined; 'but not aunt Lillyvick. She's not an aunt
      of mine, and I'll never call her one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately upon the utterance of these words, Mr. Lillyvick caught Miss
      Morleena up in his arms, and kissed her; and, being by this time at the
      door of the house where Mr. Kenwigs lodged (which, as has been before
      mentioned, usually stood wide open), he walked straight up into Mr
      Kenwigs's sitting-room, and put Miss Morleena down in the midst. Mr. and
      Mrs. Kenwigs were at supper. At sight of their perjured relative, Mrs
      Kenwigs turned faint and pale, and Mr. Kenwigs rose majestically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kenwigs,' said the collector, 'shake hands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'the time has been, when I was proud to shake
      hands with such a man as that man as now surweys me. The time has been,
      sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'when a wisit from that man has excited in me and
      my family's boozums sensations both nateral and awakening. But, now, I
      look upon that man with emotions totally surpassing everythink, and I ask
      myself where is his Honour, where is his straight-for'ardness, and where
      is his human natur?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susan Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lillyvick, turning humbly to his niece, 'don't
      you say anything to me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is not equal to it, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs, striking the table
      emphatically. 'What with the nursing of a healthy babby, and the
      reflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints of malt liquor a day is
      hardly able to sustain her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am glad,' said the poor collector meekly, 'that the baby is a healthy
      one. I am very glad of that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This was touching the Kenwigses on their tenderest point. Mrs. Kenwigs
      instantly burst into tears, and Mr. Kenwigs evinced great emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My pleasantest feeling, all the time that child was expected,' said Mr
      Kenwigs, mournfully, 'was a thinking, "If it's a boy, as I hope it may be;
      for I have heard its uncle Lillyvick say again and again he would prefer
      our having a boy next, if it's a boy, what will his uncle Lillyvick say?
      What will he like him to be called? Will he be Peter, or Alexander, or
      Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will he be?" And now when I look at him; a
      precious, unconscious, helpless infant, with no use in his little arms but
      to tear his little cap, and no use in his little legs but to kick his
      little self&mdash;when I see him a lying on his mother's lap, cooing and
      cooing, and, in his innocent state, almost a choking hisself with his
      little fist&mdash;when I see him such a infant as he is, and think that
      that uncle Lillyvick, as was once a-going to be so fond of him, has
      withdrawed himself away, such a feeling of wengeance comes over me as no
      language can depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe was a telling
      me to hate him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This affecting picture moved Mrs. Kenwigs deeply. After several imperfect
      words, which vainly attempted to struggle to the surface, but were drowned
      and washed away by the strong tide of her tears, she spake.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Uncle,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'to think that you should have turned your back
      upon me and my dear children, and upon Kenwigs which is the author of
      their being&mdash;you who was once so kind and affectionate, and who, if
      anybody had told us such a thing of, we should have withered with scorn
      like lightning&mdash;you that little Lillyvick, our first and earliest
      boy, was named after at the very altar! Oh gracious!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Was it money that we cared for?' said Mr. Kenwigs. 'Was it property that
      we ever thought of?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' cried Mrs. Kenwigs, 'I scorn it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So do I,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'and always did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My feelings have been lancerated,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'my heart has been
      torn asunder with anguish, I have been thrown back in my confinement, my
      unoffending infant has been rendered uncomfortable and fractious, Morleena
      has pined herself away to nothing; all this I forget and forgive, and with
      you, uncle, I never can quarrel. But never ask me to receive <i>her</i>, never do
      it, uncle. For I will not, I will not, I won't, I won't, I won't!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Susan, my dear,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'consider your child.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' shrieked Mrs. Kenwigs, 'I will consider my child! I will consider my
      child! My own child, that no uncles can deprive me of; my own hated,
      despised, deserted, cut-off little child.' And, here, the emotions of Mrs
      Kenwigs became so violent, that Mr. Kenwigs was fain to administer
      hartshorn internally, and vinegar externally, and to destroy a staylace,
      four petticoat strings, and several small buttons.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman had been a silent spectator of this scene; for Mr. Lillyvick had
      signed to him not to withdraw, and Mr. Kenwigs had further solicited his
      presence by a nod of invitation. When Mrs. Kenwigs had been, in some
      degree, restored, and Newman, as a person possessed of some influence with
      her, had remonstrated and begged her to compose herself, Mr. Lillyvick said
      in a faltering voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never shall ask anybody here to receive my&mdash;I needn't mention the
      word; you know what I mean. Kenwigs and Susan, yesterday was a week she
      eloped with a half-pay captain!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs started together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Eloped with a half-pay captain,' repeated Mr. Lillyvick, 'basely and
      falsely eloped with a half-pay captain. With a bottle-nosed captain that
      any man might have considered himself safe from. It was in this room,'
      said Mr. Lillyvick, looking sternly round, 'that I first see Henrietta
      Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off, for ever.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This declaration completely changed the whole posture of affairs. Mrs
      Kenwigs threw herself upon the old gentleman's neck, bitterly reproaching
      herself for her late harshness, and exclaiming, if she had suffered, what
      must his sufferings have been! Mr. Kenwigs grasped his hand, and vowed
      eternal friendship and remorse. Mrs. Kenwigs was horror-stricken to think
      that she should ever have nourished in her bosom such a snake, adder,
      viper, serpent, and base crocodile as Henrietta Petowker. Mr. Kenwigs
      argued that she must have been bad indeed not to have improved by so long
      a contemplation of Mrs. Kenwigs's virtue. Mrs. Kenwigs remembered that Mr
      Kenwigs had often said that he was not quite satisfied of the propriety of
      Miss Petowker's conduct, and wondered how it was that she could have been
      blinded by such a wretch. Mr. Kenwigs remembered that he had had his
      suspicions, but did not wonder why Mrs. Kenwigs had not had hers, as she
      was all chastity, purity, and truth, and Henrietta all baseness,
      falsehood, and deceit. And Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs both said, with strong
      feelings and tears of sympathy, that everything happened for the best; and
      conjured the good collector not to give way to unavailing grief, but to
      seek consolation in the society of those affectionate relations whose arms
      and hearts were ever open to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Out of affection and regard for you, Susan and Kenwigs,' said Mr
      Lillyvick, 'and not out of revenge and spite against her, for she is below
      it, I shall, tomorrow morning, settle upon your children, and make payable
      to the survivors of them when they come of age of marry, that money that I
      once meant to leave 'em in my will. The deed shall be executed tomorrow,
      and Mr. Noggs shall be one of the witnesses. He hears me promise this, and
      he shall see it done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Overpowered by this noble and generous offer, Mr. Kenwigs, Mrs. Kenwigs, and
      Miss Morleena Kenwigs, all began to sob together; and the noise of their
      sobbing, communicating itself to the next room, where the children lay
      a-bed, and causing them to cry too, Mr. Kenwigs rushed wildly in, and
      bringing them out in his arms, by two and two, tumbled them down in their
      nightcaps and gowns at the feet of Mr. Lillyvick, and called upon them to
      thank and bless him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now,' said Mr. Lillyvick, when a heart-rending scene had ensued and
      the children were cleared away again, 'give me some supper. This took
      place twenty mile from town. I came up this morning, and have being
      lingering about all day, without being able to make up my mind to come and
      see you. I humoured her in everything, she had her own way, she did just
      as she pleased, and now she has done this. There was twelve teaspoons and
      twenty-four pound in sovereigns&mdash;I missed them first&mdash;it's a
      trial&mdash;I feel I shall never be able to knock a double knock again,
      when I go my rounds&mdash;don't say anything more about it, please&mdash;the
      spoons were worth&mdash;never mind&mdash;never mind!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With such muttered outpourings as these, the old gentleman shed a few
      tears; but, they got him into the elbow-chair, and prevailed upon him,
      without much pressing, to make a hearty supper, and by the time he had
      finished his first pipe, and disposed of half-a-dozen glasses out of a
      crown bowl of punch, ordered by Mr. Kenwigs, in celebration of his return
      to the bosom of his family, he seemed, though still very humble, quite
      resigned to his fate, and rather relieved than otherwise by the flight of
      his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I see that man,' said Mr. Kenwigs, with one hand round Mrs. Kenwigs's
      waist: his other hand supporting his pipe (which made him wink and cough
      very much, for he was no smoker): and his eyes on Morleena, who sat upon
      her uncle's knee, 'when I see that man as mingling, once again, in the
      spear which he adorns, and see his affections deweloping themselves in
      legitimate sitiwations, I feel that his nature is as elewated and
      expanded, as his standing afore society as a public character is
      unimpeached, and the woices of my infant children purvided for in life,
      seem to whisper to me softly, "This is an ewent at which Evins itself
      looks down!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 53
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span><i>ontaining the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr. Ralph Nickleby
            and Mr. Arthur Gride</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose to which extreme
      circumstances so often give birth, acting upon far less excitable and more
      sluggish temperaments than that which was the lot of Madeline Bray's
      admirer, Nicholas started, at dawn of day, from the restless couch which
      no sleep had visited on the previous night, and prepared to make that last
      appeal, by whose slight and fragile thread her only remaining hope of
      escape depended.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although, to restless and ardent minds, morning may be the fitting season
      for exertion and activity, it is not always at that time that hope is
      strongest or the spirit most sanguine and buoyant. In trying and doubtful
      positions, youth, custom, a steady contemplation of the difficulties which
      surround us, and a familiarity with them, imperceptibly diminish our
      apprehensions and beget comparative indifference, if not a vague and
      reckless confidence in some relief, the means or nature of which we care
      not to foresee. But when we come, fresh, upon such things in the morning,
      with that dark and silent gap between us and yesterday; with every link in
      the brittle chain of hope, to rivet afresh; our hot enthusiasm subdued,
      and cool calm reason substituted in its stead; doubt and misgiving revive.
      As the traveller sees farthest by day, and becomes aware of rugged
      mountains and trackless plains which the friendly darkness had shrouded
      from his sight and mind together, so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of
      human life sees, with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount,
      some new height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which,
      last night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light which gilds
      all nature with its cheerful beams, seems but to shine upon the weary
      obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to a situation like
      his, he softly left the house, and, feeling as though to remain in bed
      were to lose most precious time, and to be up and stirring were in some
      way to promote the end he had in view, wandered into London; perfectly
      well knowing that for hours to come he could not obtain speech with
      Madeline, and could do nothing but wish the intervening time away.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly looked round on the
      gradually increasing bustle and preparation for the day, everything
      appeared to yield him some new occasion for despondency. Last night, the
      sacrifice of a young, affectionate, and beautiful creature, to such a
      wretch, and in such a cause, had seemed a thing too monstrous to succeed;
      and the warmer he grew, the more confident he felt that some interposition
      must save her from his clutches. But now, when he thought how regularly
      things went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying round; how youth
      and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived tottering on; how crafty
      avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts were poor and sad; how few they
      were who tenanted the stately houses, and how many of those who lay in
      noisome pens, or rose each day and laid them down each night, and lived
      and died, father and son, mother and child, race upon race, and generation
      upon generation, without a home to shelter them or the energies of one
      single man directed to their aid; how, in seeking, not a luxurious and
      splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched and inadequate
      subsistence, there were women and children in that one town, divided into
      classes, numbered and estimated as regularly as the noble families and
      folks of great degree, and reared from infancy to drive most criminal and
      dreadful trades; how ignorance was punished and never taught; how
      jail-doors gaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands urged towards them by
      circumstances darkly curtaining their very cradles' heads, and but for
      which they might have earned their honest bread and lived in peace; how
      many died in soul, and had no chance of life; how many who could scarcely
      go astray, be they vicious as they would, turned haughtily from the
      crushed and stricken wretch who could scarce do otherwise, and who would
      have been a greater wonder had he or she done well, than even they had
      they done ill; how much injustice, misery, and wrong, there was, and yet
      how the world rolled on, from year to year, alike careless and
      indifferent, and no man seeking to remedy or redress it; when he thought
      of all this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on which his
      thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that there was little ground for
      hope, and little reason why it should not form an atom in the huge
      aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one small and unimportant unit
      to swell the great amount.
    </p>
    <p>
      But youth is not prone to contemplate the darkest side of a picture it can
      shift at will. By dint of reflecting on what he had to do, and reviving
      the train of thought which night had interrupted, Nicholas gradually
      summoned up his utmost energy, and when the morning was sufficiently
      advanced for his purpose, had no thought but that of using it to the best
      advantage. A hasty breakfast taken, and such affairs of business as
      required prompt attention disposed of, he directed his steps to the
      residence of Madeline Bray: whither he lost no time in arriving.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had occurred to him that, very possibly, the young lady might be
      denied, although to him she never had been; and he was still pondering
      upon the surest method of obtaining access to her in that case, when,
      coming to the door of the house, he found it had been left ajar&mdash;probably
      by the last person who had gone out. The occasion was not one upon which
      to observe the nicest ceremony; therefore, availing himself of this
      advantage, Nicholas walked gently upstairs and knocked at the door of the
      room into which he had been accustomed to be shown. Receiving permission
      to enter, from some person on the other side, he opened the door and
      walked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone. It was nearly three weeks
      since he had seen her last, but there was a change in the lovely girl
      before him which told Nicholas, in startling terms, how much mental
      suffering had been compressed into that short time. There are no words
      which can express, nothing with which can be compared, the perfect pallor,
      the clear transparent whiteness, of the beautiful face which turned
      towards him when he entered. Her hair was a rich deep brown, but shading
      that face, and straying upon a neck that rivalled it in whiteness, it
      seemed by the strong contrast raven black. Something of wildness and
      restlessness there was in the dark eye, but there was the same patient
      look, the same expression of gentle mournfulness which he well remembered,
      and no trace of a single tear. Most beautiful&mdash;more beautiful,
      perhaps, than ever&mdash;there was something in her face which quite
      unmanned him, and appeared far more touching than the wildest agony of
      grief. It was not merely calm and composed, but fixed and rigid, as though
      the violent effort which had summoned that composure beneath her father's
      eye, while it mastered all other thoughts, had prevented even the
      momentary expression they had communicated to the features from subsiding,
      and had fastened it there, as an evidence of its triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The father sat opposite to her; not looking directly in her face, but
      glancing at her, as he talked with a gay air which ill disguised the
      anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials were not on their
      accustomed table, nor were any of the other tokens of her usual
      occupations to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas had always seen
      filled with fresh flowers were empty, or supplied only with a few withered
      stalks and leaves. The bird was silent. The cloth that covered his cage at
      night was not removed. His mistress had forgotten him.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are times when, the mind being painfully alive to receive
      impressions, a great deal may be noted at a glance. This was one, for
      Nicholas had but glanced round him when he was recognised by Mr. Bray, who
      said impatiently:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, sir, what do you want? Name your errand here, quickly, if you
      please, for my daughter and I are busily engaged with other and more
      important matters than those you come about. Come, sir, address yourself
      to your business at once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas could very well discern that the irritability and impatience of
      this speech were assumed, and that Bray, in his heart, was rejoiced at any
      interruption which promised to engage the attention of his daughter. He
      bent his eyes involuntarily upon the father as he spoke, and marked his
      uneasiness; for he coloured and turned his head away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The device, however, so far as it was a device for causing Madeline to
      interfere, was successful. She rose, and advancing towards Nicholas paused
      half-way, and stretched out her hand as expecting a letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Madeline,' said her father impatiently, 'my love, what are you doing?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Miss Bray expects an inclosure perhaps,' said Nicholas, speaking very
      distinctly, and with an emphasis she could scarcely misunderstand. 'My
      employer is absent from England, or I should have brought a letter with
      me. I hope she will give me time&mdash;a little time. I ask a very little
      time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If that is all you come about, sir,' said Mr. Bray, 'you may make yourself
      easy on that head. Madeline, my dear, I didn't know this person was in
      your debt?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'A&mdash;a trifle, I believe,' returned Madeline, faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I suppose you think now,' said Bray, wheeling his chair round and
      confronting Nicholas, 'that, but for such pitiful sums as you bring here,
      because my daughter has chosen to employ her time as she has, we should
      starve?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not thought about it,' returned Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have not thought about it!' sneered the invalid. 'You know you <i>have</i>
      thought about it, and have thought that, and think so every time you come
      here. Do you suppose, young man, that I don't know what little purse-proud
      tradesmen are, when, through some fortunate circumstances, they get the
      upper hand for a brief day&mdash;or think they get the upper hand&mdash;of
      a gentleman?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My business,' said Nicholas respectfully, 'is with a lady.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With a gentleman's daughter, sir,' returned the sick man, 'and the
      pettifogging spirit is the same. But perhaps you bring <i>orders</i>, eh? Have
      you any fresh <i>orders </i>for my daughter, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas understood the tone of triumph in which this interrogatory was
      put; but remembering the necessity of supporting his assumed character,
      produced a scrap of paper purporting to contain a list of some subjects
      for drawings which his employer desired to have executed; and with which
      he had prepared himself in case of any such contingency.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Mr. Bray. 'These are the orders, are they?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Since you insist upon the term, sir, yes,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then you may tell your master,' said Bray, tossing the paper back again,
      with an exulting smile, 'that my daughter, Miss Madeline Bray, condescends
      to employ herself no longer in such labours as these; that she is not at
      his beck and call, as he supposes her to be; that we don't live upon his
      money, as he flatters himself we do; that he may give whatever he owes us,
      to the first beggar that passes his shop, or add it to his own profits
      next time he calculates them; and that he may go to the devil for me.
      That's my acknowledgment of his orders, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And this is the independence of a man who sells his daughter as he has
      sold that weeping girl!' thought Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      The father was too much absorbed with his own exultation to mark the look
      of scorn which, for an instant, Nicholas could not have suppressed had he
      been upon the rack. 'There,' he continued, after a short silence, 'you
      have your message and can retire&mdash;unless you have any further&mdash;ha!&mdash;any
      further orders.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have none,' said Nicholas; 'nor, in the consideration of the station
      you once held, have I used that or any other word which, however harmless
      in itself, could be supposed to imply authority on my part or dependence
      on yours. I have no orders, but I have fears&mdash;fears that I will
      express, chafe as you may&mdash;fears that you may be consigning that
      young lady to something worse than supporting you by the labour of her
      hands, had she worked herself dead. These are my fears, and these fears I
      found upon your own demeanour. Your conscience will tell you, sir, whether
      I construe it well or not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For Heaven's sake!' cried Madeline, interposing in alarm between them.
      'Remember, sir, he is ill.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ill!' cried the invalid, gasping and catching for breath. 'Ill! Ill! I am
      bearded and bullied by a shop-boy, and she beseeches him to pity me and
      remember I am ill!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so violent that for a few moments
      Nicholas was alarmed for his life; but finding that he began to recover,
      he withdrew, after signifying by a gesture to the young lady that he had
      something important to communicate, and would wait for her outside the
      room. He could hear that the sick man came gradually, but slowly, to
      himself, and that without any reference to what had just occurred, as
      though he had no distinct recollection of it as yet, he requested to be
      left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' thought Nicholas, 'that this slender chance might not be lost, and
      that I might prevail, if it were but for one week's time and
      reconsideration!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are charged with some commission to me, sir,' said Madeline,
      presenting herself in great agitation. 'Do not press it now, I beg and
      pray you. The day after tomorrow; come here then.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It will be too late&mdash;too late for what I have to say,' rejoined
      Nicholas, 'and you will not be here. Oh, madam, if you have but one
      thought of him who sent me here, but one last lingering care for your own
      peace of mind and heart, I do for God's sake urge you to give me a
      hearing.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She attempted to pass him, but Nicholas gently detained her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A hearing,' said Nicholas. 'I ask you but to hear me: not me alone, but
      him for whom I speak, who is far away and does not know your danger. In
      the name of Heaven hear me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and red with weeping, stood by;
      and to her Nicholas appealed in such passionate terms that she opened a
      side-door, and, supporting her mistress into an adjoining room, beckoned
      Nicholas to follow them.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Leave me, sir, pray,' said the young lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot, will not leave you thus,' returned Nicholas. 'I have a duty to
      discharge; and, either here, or in the room from which we have just now
      come, at whatever risk or hazard to Mr. Bray, I must beseech you to
      contemplate again the fearful course to which you have been impelled.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What course is this you speak of, and impelled by whom, sir?' demanded
      the young lady, with an effort to speak proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I speak of this marriage,' returned Nicholas, 'of this marriage, fixed
      for tomorrow, by one who never faltered in a bad purpose, or lent his aid
      to any good design; of this marriage, the history of which is known to me,
      better, far better, than it is to you. I know what web is wound about you.
      I know what men they are from whom these schemes have come. You are
      betrayed and sold for money; for gold, whose every coin is rusted with
      tears, if not red with the blood of ruined men, who have fallen
      desperately by their own mad hands.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You say you have a duty to discharge,' said Madeline, 'and so have I. And
      with the help of Heaven I will perform it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Say rather with the help of devils,' replied Nicholas, 'with the help of
      men, one of them your destined husband, who are&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must not hear this,' cried the young lady, striving to repress a
      shudder, occasioned, as it seemed, even by this slight allusion to Arthur
      Gride. 'This evil, if evil it be, has been of my own seeking. I am
      impelled to this course by no one, but follow it of my own free will. You
      see I am not constrained or forced. Report this,' said Madeline, 'to my
      dear friend and benefactor, and, taking with you my prayers and thanks for
      him and for yourself, leave me for ever!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not until I have besought you, with all the earnestness and fervour by
      which I am animated,' cried Nicholas, 'to postpone this marriage for one
      short week. Not until I have besought you to think more deeply than you
      can have done, influenced as you are, upon the step you are about to take.
      Although you cannot be fully conscious of the villainy of this man to whom
      you are about to give your hand, some of his deeds you know. You have
      heard him speak, and have looked upon his face. Reflect, reflect, before
      it is too late, on the mockery of plighting to him at the altar, faith in
      which your heart can have no share&mdash;of uttering solemn words, against
      which nature and reason must rebel&mdash;of the degradation of yourself in
      your own esteem, which must ensue, and must be aggravated every day, as
      his detested character opens upon you more and more. Shrink from the
      loathsome companionship of this wretch as you would from corruption and
      disease. Suffer toil and labour if you will, but shun him, shun him, and
      be happy. For, believe me, I speak the truth; the most abject poverty, the
      most wretched condition of human life, with a pure and upright mind, would
      be happiness to that which you must undergo as the wife of such a man as
      this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the young lady buried her face in
      her hands, and gave her tears free way. In a voice at first inarticulate
      with emotion, but gradually recovering strength as she proceeded, she
      answered him:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will not disguise from you, sir&mdash;though perhaps I ought&mdash;that
      I have undergone great pain of mind, and have been nearly broken-hearted
      since I saw you last. I do <i>not </i>love this gentleman. The difference between
      our ages, tastes, and habits, forbids it. This he knows, and knowing,
      still offers me his hand. By accepting it, and by that step alone, I can
      release my father who is dying in this place; prolong his life, perhaps,
      for many years; restore him to comfort&mdash;I may almost call it
      affluence; and relieve a generous man from the burden of assisting one, by
      whom, I grieve to say, his noble heart is little understood. Do not think
      so poorly of me as to believe that I feign a love I do not feel. Do not
      report so ill of me, for <i>that </i>I could not bear. If I cannot, in reason or
      in nature, love the man who pays this price for my poor hand, I can
      discharge the duties of a wife: I can be all he seeks in me, and will. He
      is content to take me as I am. I have passed my word, and should rejoice,
      not weep, that it is so. I do. The interest you take in one so friendless
      and forlorn as I, the delicacy with which you have discharged your trust,
      the faith you have kept with me, have my warmest thanks: and, while I make
      this last feeble acknowledgment, move me to tears, as you see. But I do
      not repent, nor am I unhappy. I am happy in the prospect of all I can
      achieve so easily. I shall be more so when I look back upon it, and all is
      done, I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your tears fall faster as you talk of happiness,' said Nicholas, 'and you
      shun the contemplation of that dark future which must be laden with so
      much misery to you. Defer this marriage for a week. For but one week!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He was talking, when you came upon us just now, with such smiles as I
      remember to have seen of old, and have not seen for many and many a day,
      of the freedom that was to come tomorrow,' said Madeline, with momentary
      firmness, 'of the welcome change, the fresh air: all the new scenes and
      objects that would bring fresh life to his exhausted frame. His eye grew
      bright, and his face lightened at the thought. I will not defer it for an
      hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'These are but tricks and wiles to urge you on,' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll hear no more,' said Madeline, hurriedly; 'I have heard too much&mdash;more
      than I should&mdash;already. What I have said to you, sir, I have said as
      to that dear friend to whom I trust in you honourably to repeat it. Some
      time hence, when I am more composed and reconciled to my new mode of life,
      if I should live so long, I will write to him. Meantime, all holy angels
      shower blessings on his head, and prosper and preserve him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She was hurrying past Nicholas, when he threw himself before her, and
      implored her to think, but once again, upon the fate to which she was
      precipitately hastening.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is no retreat,' said Nicholas, in an agony of supplication; 'no
      withdrawing! All regret will be unavailing, and deep and bitter it must
      be. What can I say, that will induce you to pause at this last moment?
      What can I do to save you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' she incoherently replied. 'This is the hardest trial I have
      had. Have mercy on me, sir, I beseech, and do not pierce my heart with
      such appeals as these. I&mdash;I hear him calling. I&mdash;I&mdash;must
      not, will not, remain here for another instant.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If this were a plot,' said Nicholas, with the same violent rapidity with
      which she spoke, 'a plot, not yet laid bare by me, but which, with time, I
      might unravel; if you were (not knowing it) entitled to fortune of your
      own, which, being recovered, would do all that this marriage can
      accomplish, would you not retract?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no! It is impossible; it is a child's tale. Time would bring his
      death. He is calling again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It may be the last time we shall ever meet on earth,' said Nicholas, 'it
      may be better for me that we should never meet more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For both, for both,' replied Madeline, not heeding what she said. 'The
      time will come when to recall the memory of this one interview might drive
      me mad. Be sure to tell them, that you left me calm and happy. And God be
      with you, sir, and my grateful heart and blessing!'
    </p>
    <p>
      She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the house, thought of the hurried
      scene which had just closed upon him, as if it were the phantom of some
      wild, unquiet dream. The day wore on; at night, having been enabled in
      some measure to collect his thoughts, he issued forth again.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night, being the last of Arthur Gride's bachelorship, found him in
      tiptop spirits and great glee. The bottle-green suit had been brushed,
      ready for the morrow. Peg Sliderskew had rendered the accounts of her past
      housekeeping; the eighteen-pence had been rigidly accounted for (she was
      never trusted with a larger sum at once, and the accounts were not usually
      balanced more than twice a day); every preparation had been made for the
      coming festival; and Arthur might have sat down and contemplated his
      approaching happiness, but that he preferred sitting down and
      contemplating the entries in a dirty old vellum-book with rusty clasps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well-a-day!' he chuckled, as sinking on his knees before a strong chest
      screwed down to the floor, he thrust in his arm nearly up to the shoulder,
      and slowly drew forth this greasy volume. 'Well-a-day now, this is all my
      library, but it's one of the most entertaining books that were ever
      written! It's a delightful book, and all true and real&mdash;that's the
      best of it&mdash;true as the Bank of England, and real as its gold and
      silver. Written by Arthur Gride. He, he, he! None of your storybook
      writers will ever make as good a book as this, I warrant me. It's composed
      for private circulation, for my own particular reading, and nobody else's.
      He, he, he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Muttering this soliloquy, Arthur carried his precious volume to the table,
      and, adjusting it upon a dusty desk, put on his spectacles, and began to
      pore among the leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a large sum to Mr. Nickleby,' he said, in a dolorous voice. 'Debt to
      be paid in full, nine hundred and seventy-five, four, three. Additional
      sum as per bond, five hundred pound. One thousand, four hundred and
      seventy-five pounds, four shillings, and threepence, tomorrow at twelve
      o'clock. On the other side, though, there's the <i>per contra</i>, by means of
      this pretty chick. But, again, there's the question whether I mightn't
      have brought all this about, myself. "Faint heart never won fair lady."
      Why was my heart so faint? Why didn't I boldly open it to Bray myself, and
      save one thousand four hundred and seventy-five, four, three?'
    </p>
    <p>
      These reflections depressed the old usurer so much, as to wring a feeble
      groan or two from his breast, and cause him to declare, with uplifted
      hands, that he would die in a workhouse. Remembering on further
      cogitation, however, that under any circumstances he must have paid, or
      handsomely compounded for, Ralph's debt, and being by no means confident
      that he would have succeeded had he undertaken his enterprise alone, he
      regained his equanimity, and chattered and mowed over more satisfactory
      items, until the entrance of Peg Sliderskew interrupted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha, Peg!' said Arthur, 'what is it? What is it now, Peg?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's the fowl,' replied Peg, holding up a plate containing a little, a
      very little one. Quite a phenomenon of a fowl. So very small and skinny.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A beautiful bird!' said Arthur, after inquiring the price, and finding it
      proportionate to the size. 'With a rasher of ham, and an egg made into
      sauce, and potatoes, and greens, and an apple pudding, Peg, and a little
      bit of cheese, we shall have a dinner for an emperor. There'll only be she
      and me&mdash;and you, Peg, when we've done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't you complain of the expense afterwards,' said Mrs. Sliderskew,
      sulkily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am afraid we must live expensively for the first week,' returned
      Arthur, with a groan, 'and then we must make up for it. I won't eat more
      than I can help, and I know you love your old master too much to eat more
      than <i>you </i>can help, don't you, Peg?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't I what?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Love your old master too much&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, not a bit too much,' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, dear, I wish the devil had this woman!' cried Arthur: 'love him too
      much to eat more than you can help at his expense.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At his what?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh dear! she can never hear the most important word, and hears all the
      others!' whined Gride. 'At his expense&mdash;you catamaran!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The last-mentioned tribute to the charms of Mrs. Sliderskew being uttered
      in a whisper, that lady assented to the general proposition by a harsh
      growl, which was accompanied by a ring at the street-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's the bell,' said Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, ay; I know that,' rejoined Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why don't you go?' bawled Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go where?' retorted Peg. 'I ain't doing any harm here, am I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride in reply repeated the word 'bell' as loud as he could roar;
      and, his meaning being rendered further intelligible to Mrs. Sliderskew's
      dull sense of hearing by pantomime expressive of ringing at a street-door,
      Peg hobbled out, after sharply demanding why he hadn't said there was a
      ring before, instead of talking about all manner of things that had
      nothing to do with it, and keeping her half-pint of beer waiting on the
      steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There's a change come over you, Mrs. Peg,' said Arthur, following her out
      with his eyes. 'What it means I don't quite know; but, if it lasts, we
      shan't agree together long I see. You are turning crazy, I think. If you
      are, you must take yourself off, Mrs. Peg&mdash;or be taken off. All's one
      to me.' Turning over the leaves of his book as he muttered this, he soon
      lighted upon something which attracted his attention, and forgot Peg
      Sliderskew and everything else in the engrossing interest of its pages.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room had no other light than that which it derived from a dim and
      dirt-clogged lamp, whose lazy wick, being still further obscured by a dark
      shade, cast its feeble rays over a very little space, and left all beyond
      in heavy shadow. This lamp the money-lender had drawn so close to him,
      that there was only room between it and himself for the book over which he
      bent; and as he sat, with his elbows on the desk, and his sharp
      cheek-bones resting on his hands, it only served to bring out his ugly
      features in strong relief, together with the little table at which he sat,
      and to shroud all the rest of the chamber in a deep sullen gloom. Raising
      his eyes, and looking vacantly into this gloom as he made some mental
      calculation, Arthur Gride suddenly met the fixed gaze of a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thieves! thieves!' shrieked the usurer, starting up and folding his book
      to his breast. 'Robbers! Murder!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is the matter?' said the form, advancing.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Keep off!' cried the trembling wretch. 'Is it a man or a&mdash;a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what do you take me, if not for a man?' was the inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' cried Arthur Gride, shading his eyes with his hand, 'it is a
      man, and not a spirit. It is a man. Robbers! robbers!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For what are these cries raised? Unless indeed you know me, and have some
      purpose in your brain?' said the stranger, coming close up to him. 'I am
      no thief.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What then, and how come you here?' cried Gride, somewhat reassured, but
      still retreating from his visitor: 'what is your name, and what do you
      want?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My name you need not know,' was the reply. 'I came here, because I was
      shown the way by your servant. I have addressed you twice or thrice, but
      you were too profoundly engaged with your book to hear me, and I have been
      silently waiting until you should be less abstracted. What I want I will
      tell you, when you can summon up courage enough to hear and understand
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride, venturing to regard his visitor more attentively, and
      perceiving that he was a young man of good mien and bearing, returned to
      his seat, and muttering that there were bad characters about, and that
      this, with former attempts upon his house, had made him nervous, requested
      his visitor to sit down. This, however, he declined.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good God! I don't stand up to have you at an advantage,' said Nicholas
      (for Nicholas it was), as he observed a gesture of alarm on the part of
      Gride. 'Listen to me. You are to be married tomorrow morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;n&mdash;no,' rejoined Gride. 'Who said I was? How do you know
      that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No matter how,' replied Nicholas, 'I know it. The young lady who is to
      give you her hand hates and despises you. Her blood runs cold at the
      mention of your name; the vulture and the lamb, the rat and the dove,
      could not be worse matched than you and she. You see I know her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride looked at him as if he were petrified with astonishment, but did not
      speak; perhaps lacking the power.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You and another man, Ralph Nickleby by name, have hatched this plot
      between you,' pursued Nicholas. 'You pay him for his share in bringing
      about this sale of Madeline Bray. You do. A lie is trembling on your lips,
      I see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused; but, Arthur making no reply, resumed again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You pay yourself by defrauding her. How or by what means&mdash;for I
      scorn to sully her cause by falsehood or deceit&mdash;I do not know; at
      present I do not know, but I am not alone or single-handed in this
      business. If the energy of man can compass the discovery of your fraud and
      treachery before your death; if wealth, revenge, and just hatred, can hunt
      and track you through your windings; you will yet be called to a dear
      account for this. We are on the scent already; judge you, who know what we
      do not, when we shall have you down!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused again, and still Arthur Gride glared upon him in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you were a man to whom I could appeal with any hope of touching his
      compassion or humanity,' said Nicholas, 'I would urge upon you to remember
      the helplessness, the innocence, the youth, of this lady; her worth and
      beauty, her filial excellence, and last, and more than all, as concerning
      you more nearly, the appeal she has made to your mercy and your manly
      feeling. But, I take the only ground that can be taken with men like you,
      and ask what money will buy you off. Remember the danger to which you are
      exposed. You see I know enough to know much more with very little help.
      Bate some expected gain for the risk you save, and say what is your
      price.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Arthur Gride moved his lips, but they only formed an ugly smile and
      were motionless again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You think,' said Nicholas, 'that the price would not be paid. Miss Bray
      has wealthy friends who would coin their very hearts to save her in such a
      strait as this. Name your price, defer these nuptials for but a few days,
      and see whether those I speak of, shrink from the payment. Do you hear
      me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      When Nicholas began, Arthur Gride's impression was, that Ralph Nickleby
      had betrayed him; but, as he proceeded, he felt convinced that however he
      had come by the knowledge he possessed, the part he acted was a genuine
      one, and that with Ralph he had no concern. All he seemed to know, for
      certain, was, that he, Gride, paid Ralph's debt; but that, to anybody who
      knew the circumstances of Bray's detention&mdash;even to Bray himself, on
      Ralph's own statement&mdash;must be perfectly notorious. As to the fraud
      on Madeline herself, his visitor knew so little about its nature or
      extent, that it might be a lucky guess, or a hap-hazard accusation.
      Whether or no, he had clearly no key to the mystery, and could not hurt
      him who kept it close within his own breast. The allusion to friends, and
      the offer of money, Gride held to be mere empty vapouring, for purposes of
      delay. 'And even if money were to be had,' thought Arthur Gride, as he
      glanced at Nicholas, and trembled with passion at his boldness and
      audacity, 'I'd have that dainty chick for my wife, and cheat <i>you </i>of her,
      young smooth-face!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Long habit of weighing and noting well what clients said, and nicely
      balancing chances in his mind and calculating odds to their faces, without
      the least appearance of being so engaged, had rendered Gride quick in
      forming conclusions, and arriving, from puzzling, intricate, and often
      contradictory premises, at very cunning deductions. Hence it was that, as
      Nicholas went on, he followed him closely with his own constructions, and,
      when he ceased to speak, was as well prepared as if he had deliberated for
      a fortnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear you,' he cried, starting from his seat, casting back the
      fastenings of the window-shutters, and throwing up the sash. 'Help here!
      Help! Help!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What are you doing?' said Nicholas, seizing him by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll cry robbers, thieves, murder, alarm the neighbourhood, struggle with
      you, let loose some blood, and swear you came to rob me, if you don't quit
      my house,' replied Gride, drawing in his head with a frightful grin, 'I
      will!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wretch!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>You'll</i> bring your threats here, will you?' said Gride, whom jealousy of
      Nicholas and a sense of his own triumph had converted into a perfect
      fiend. 'You, the disappointed lover? Oh dear! He! he! he! But you shan't
      have her, nor she you. She's my wife, my doting little wife. Do you think
      she'll miss you? Do you think she'll weep? I shall like to see her weep, I
      shan't mind it. She looks prettier in tears.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Villain!' said Nicholas, choking with his rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One minute more,' cried Arthur Gride, 'and I'll rouse the street with
      such screams, as, if they were raised by anybody else, should wake me even
      in the arms of pretty Madeline.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hound!' said Nicholas. 'If you were but a younger man&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes!' sneered Arthur Gride, 'If I was but a younger man it wouldn't be
      so bad; but for me, so old and ugly! To be jilted by little Madeline for
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear me,' said Nicholas, 'and be thankful I have enough command over
      myself not to fling you into the street, which no aid could prevent my
      doing if I once grappled with you. I have been no lover of this lady's. No
      contract or engagement, no word of love, has ever passed between us. She
      does not even know my name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll ask it for all that. I'll beg it of her with kisses,' said Arthur
      Gride. 'Yes, and she'll tell me, and pay them back, and we'll laugh
      together, and hug ourselves, and be very merry, when we think of the poor
      youth that wanted to have her, but couldn't because she was bespoke by
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      This taunt brought such an expression into the face of Nicholas, that
      Arthur Gride plainly apprehended it to be the forerunner of his putting
      his threat of throwing him into the street in immediate execution; for he
      thrust his head out of the window, and holding tight on with both hands,
      raised a pretty brisk alarm. Not thinking it necessary to abide the issue
      of the noise, Nicholas gave vent to an indignant defiance, and stalked
      from the room and from the house. Arthur Gride watched him across the
      street, and then, drawing in his head, fastened the window as before, and
      sat down to take breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      'If she ever turns pettish or ill-humoured, I'll taunt her with that
      spark,' he said, when he had recovered. 'She'll little think I know about
      him; and, if I manage it well, I can break her spirit by this means and
      have her under my thumb. I'm glad nobody came. I didn't call too loud. The
      audacity to enter my house, and open upon me! But I shall have a very good
      triumph tomorrow, and he'll be gnawing his fingers off: perhaps drown
      himself or cut his throat! I shouldn't wonder! That would make it quite
      complete, that would: quite.'
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had become restored to his usual condition by these and other
      comments on his approaching triumph, Arthur Gride put away his book, and,
      having locked the chest with great caution, descended into the kitchen to
      warn Peg Sliderskew to bed, and scold her for having afforded such ready
      admission to a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unconscious Peg, however, not being able to comprehend the offence of
      which she had been guilty, he summoned her to hold the light, while he
      made a tour of the fastenings, and secured the street-door with his own
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Top bolt,' muttered Arthur, fastening as he spoke, 'bottom bolt, chain,
      bar, double lock, and key out to put under my pillow! So, if any more
      rejected admirers come, they may come through the keyhole. And now I'll go
      to sleep till half-past five, when I must get up to be married, Peg!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, he jocularly tapped Mrs. Sliderskew under the chin, and
      appeared, for the moment, inclined to celebrate the close of his bachelor
      days by imprinting a kiss on her shrivelled lips. Thinking better of it,
      however, he gave her chin another tap, in lieu of that warmer familiarity,
      and stole away to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 54
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>
      <i>he Crisis of the Project and its Result</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
There are not many men who lie abed too late, or oversleep themselves, on
      their wedding morning. A legend there is of somebody remarkable for
      absence of mind, who opened his eyes upon the day which was to give him a
      young wife, and forgetting all about the matter, rated his servants for
      providing him with such fine clothes as had been prepared for the
      festival. There is also a legend of a young gentleman, who, not having
      before his eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such cases made
      and provided, conceived a passion for his grandmother. Both cases are of a
      singular and special kind and it is very doubtful whether either can be
      considered as a precedent likely to be extensively followed by succeeding
      generations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his marriage garments of bottle-green,
      a full hour before Mrs. Sliderskew, shaking off her more heavy slumbers,
      knocked at his chamber door; and he had hobbled downstairs in full array
      and smacked his lips over a scanty taste of his favourite cordial, ere
      that delicate piece of antiquity enlightened the kitchen with her
      presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Faugh!' said Peg, grubbing, in the discharge of her domestic functions,
      among a scanty heap of ashes in the rusty grate. 'Wedding indeed! A
      precious wedding! He wants somebody better than his old Peg to take care
      of him, does he? And what has he said to me, many and many a time, to keep
      me content with short food, small wages, and little fire? "My will, Peg!
      my will!" says he: "I'm a bachelor&mdash;no friends&mdash;no relations,
      Peg." Lies! And now he's to bring home a new mistress, a baby-faced chit
      of a girl! If he wanted a wife, the fool, why couldn't he have one
      suitable to his age, and that knew his ways? She won't come in <i>my</i> way, he
      says. No, that she won't, but you little think why, Arthur boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mrs. Sliderskew, influenced possibly by some lingering feelings of
      disappointment and personal slight, occasioned by her old master's
      preference for another, was giving loose to these grumblings below stairs,
      Arthur Gride was cogitating in the parlour upon what had taken place last
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't think how he can have picked up what he knows,' said Arthur,
      'unless I have committed myself&mdash;let something drop at Bray's, for
      instance&mdash;which has been overheard. Perhaps I may. I shouldn't be
      surprised if that was it. Mr. Nickleby was often angry at my talking to him
      before we got outside the door. I mustn't tell him that part of the
      business, or he'll put me out of sorts, and make me nervous for the day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph was universally looked up to, and recognised among his fellows as a
      superior genius, but upon Arthur Gride his stern unyielding character and
      consummate art had made so deep an impression, that he was actually afraid
      of him. Cringing and cowardly to the core by nature, Arthur Gride humbled
      himself in the dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when they had not
      this stake in common, would have licked his shoes and crawled upon the
      ground before him rather than venture to return him word for word, or
      retort upon him in any other spirit than one of the most slavish and
      abject sycophancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Ralph Nickleby's, Arthur Gride now betook himself according to
      appointment; and to Ralph Nickleby he related how, last night, some young
      blustering blade, whom he had never seen, forced his way into his house,
      and tried to frighten him from the proposed nuptials. Told, in short, what
      Nicholas had said and done, with the slight reservation upon which he had
      determined.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and what then?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! nothing more,' rejoined Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He tried to frighten you,' said Ralph, 'and you <i>were </i>frightened I
      suppose; is that it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I frightened <i>him </i>by crying thieves and murder,' replied Gride. 'Once I
      was in earnest, I tell you that, for I had more than half a mind to swear
      he uttered threats, and demanded my life or my money.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oho!' said Ralph, eyeing him askew. 'Jealous too!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear now, see that!' cried Arthur, rubbing his hands and affecting to
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why do you make those grimaces, man?' said Ralph; 'you <i>are </i>jealous&mdash;and
      with good cause I think.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no; not with good cause, hey? You don't think with good cause, do
      you?' cried Arthur, faltering. 'Do you though, hey?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, how stands the fact?' returned Ralph. 'Here is an old man about to
      be forced in marriage upon a girl; and to this old man there comes a
      handsome young fellow&mdash;you said he was handsome, didn't you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' snarled Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' rejoined Ralph, 'I thought you did. Well! Handsome or not handsome,
      to this old man there comes a young fellow who casts all manner of fierce
      defiances in his teeth&mdash;gums I should rather say&mdash;and tells him
      in plain terms that his mistress hates him. What does he do that for?
      Philanthropy's sake?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for love of the lady,' replied Gride, 'for he said that no word of
      love&mdash;his very words&mdash;had ever passed between 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He said!' repeated Ralph, contemptuously. 'But I like him for one thing,
      and that is, his giving you this fair warning to keep your&mdash;what is
      it?&mdash;Tit-tit or dainty chick&mdash;which?&mdash;under lock and key.
      Be careful, Gride, be careful. It's a triumph, too, to tear her away from
      a gallant young rival: a great triumph for an old man! It only remains to
      keep her safe when you have her&mdash;that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What a man it is!' cried Arthur Gride, affecting, in the extremity of his
      torture, to be highly amused. And then he added, anxiously, 'Yes; to keep
      her safe, that's all. And that isn't much, is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Much!' said Ralph, with a sneer. 'Why, everybody knows what easy things
      to understand and to control, women are. But come, it's very nearly time
      for you to be made happy. You'll pay the bond now, I suppose, to save us
      trouble afterwards.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh what a man you are!' croaked Arthur.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why not?' said Ralph. 'Nobody will pay you interest for the money, I
      suppose, between this and twelve o'clock; will they?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But nobody would pay you interest for it either, you know,' returned
      Arthur, leering at Ralph with all the cunning and slyness he could throw
      into his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Besides which,' said Ralph, suffering his lip to curl into a smile, 'you
      haven't the money about you, and you weren't prepared for this, or you'd
      have brought it with you; and there's nobody you'd so much like to
      accommodate as me. I see. We trust each other in about an equal degree.
      Are you ready?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and nod, and chatter, during this
      last speech of Ralph's, answered in the affirmative; and, producing from
      his hat a couple of large white favours, pinned one on his breast, and
      with considerable difficulty induced his friend to do the like. Thus
      accoutred, they got into a hired coach which Ralph had in waiting, and
      drove to the residence of the fair and most wretched bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradually failed him more and more as
      they approached nearer and nearer to the house, was utterly dismayed and
      cowed by the mournful silence which pervaded it. The face of the poor
      servant girl, the only person they saw, was disfigured with tears and want
      of sleep. There was nobody to receive or welcome them; and they stole
      upstairs into the usual sitting-room, more like two burglars than the
      bridegroom and his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One would think,' said Ralph, speaking, in spite of himself, in a low and
      subdued voice, 'that there was a funeral going on here, and not a
      wedding.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He, he!' tittered his friend, 'you are so&mdash;so very funny!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need be,' remarked Ralph, drily, 'for this is rather dull and chilling.
      Look a little brisker, man, and not so hangdog like!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes, I will,' said Gride. 'But&mdash;but&mdash;you don't think she's
      coming just yet, do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I suppose she'll not come till she is obliged,' returned Ralph,
      looking at his watch, 'and she has a good half-hour to spare yet. Curb
      your impatience.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I&mdash;I&mdash;am not impatient,' stammered Arthur. 'I wouldn't be hard
      with her for the world. Oh dear, dear, not on any account. Let her take
      her time&mdash;her own time. Her time shall be ours by all means.'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend a keen look, which showed that
      he perfectly understood the reason of this great consideration and regard,
      a footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Bray himself came into the room
      on tiptoe, and holding up his hand with a cautious gesture, as if there
      were some sick person near, who must not be disturbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' he said, in a low voice. 'She was very ill last night. I thought
      she would have broken her heart. She is dressed, and crying bitterly in
      her own room; but she's better, and quite quiet. That's everything!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She is ready, is she?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite ready,' returned the father.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And not likely to delay us by any young-lady weaknesses&mdash;fainting,
      or so forth?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She may be safely trusted now,' returned Bray. 'I have been talking to
      her this morning. Here! Come a little this way.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He drew Ralph Nickleby to the further end of the room, and pointed towards
      Gride, who sat huddled together in a corner, fumbling nervously with the
      buttons of his coat, and exhibiting a face, of which every skulking and
      base expression was sharpened and aggravated to the utmost by his anxiety
      and trepidation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look at that man,' whispered Bray, emphatically. 'This seems a cruel
      thing, after all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What seems a cruel thing?' inquired Ralph, with as much stolidity of
      face, as if he really were in utter ignorance of the other's meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This marriage,' answered Bray. 'Don't ask me what. You know as well as I
      do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph shrugged his shoulders, in silent deprecation of Bray's impatience,
      and elevated his eyebrows, and pursed his lips, as men do when they are
      prepared with a sufficient answer to some remark, but wait for a more
      favourable opportunity of advancing it, or think it scarcely worth while
      to answer their adversary at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Look at him. Does it not seem cruel?' said Bray.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' replied Ralph, boldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say it does,' retorted Bray, with a show of much irritation. 'It is a
      cruel thing, by all that's bad and treacherous!'
    </p>
    <p>
      When men are about to commit, or to sanction the commission of some
      injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity for the object
      either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feel themselves, at the
      time, quite virtuous and moral, and immensely superior to those who
      express no pity at all. This is a kind of upholding of faith above works,
      and is very comfortable. To do Ralph Nickleby justice, he seldom practised
      this sort of dissimulation; but he understood those who did, and therefore
      suffered Bray to say, again and again, with great vehemence, that they
      were jointly doing a very cruel thing, before he again offered to
      interpose a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old chip it is,' returned Ralph,
      when the other was at length silent. 'If he were younger, it might be
      cruel, but as it is&mdash;harkee, Mr. Bray, he'll die soon, and leave her a
      rich young widow! Miss Madeline consults your tastes this time; let her
      consult her own next.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True, true,' said Bray, biting his nails, and plainly very ill at ease.
      'I couldn't do anything better for her than advise her to accept these
      proposals, could I? Now, I ask you, Nickleby, as a man of the world; could
      I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely not,' answered Ralph. 'I tell you what, sir; there are a hundred
      fathers, within a circuit of five miles from this place; well off; good,
      rich, substantial men; who would gladly give their daughters, and their
      own ears with them, to that very man yonder, ape and mummy as he looks.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So there are!' exclaimed Bray, eagerly catching at anything which seemed
      a justification of himself. 'And so I told her, both last night and
      today.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You told her truth,' said Ralph, 'and did well to do so; though I must
      say, at the same time, that if I had a daughter, and my freedom, pleasure,
      nay, my very health and life, depended on her taking a husband whom I
      pointed out, I should hope it would not be necessary to advance any other
      arguments to induce her to consent to my wishes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Bray looked at Ralph as if to see whether he spoke in earnest, and having
      nodded twice or thrice in unqualified assent to what had fallen from him,
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must go upstairs for a few minutes, to finish dressing. When I come
      down, I'll bring Madeline with me. Do you know, I had a very strange dream
      last night, which I have not remembered till this instant. I dreamt that
      it was this morning, and you and I had been talking as we have been this
      minute; that I went upstairs, for the very purpose for which I am going
      now; and that as I stretched out my hand to take Madeline's, and lead her
      down, the floor sunk with me, and after falling from such an indescribable
      and tremendous height as the imagination scarcely conceives, except in
      dreams, I alighted in a grave.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And you awoke, and found you were lying on your back, or with your head
      hanging over the bedside, or suffering some pain from indigestion?' said
      Ralph. 'Pshaw, Mr. Bray! Do as I do (you will have the opportunity, now
      that a constant round of pleasure and enjoyment opens upon you), and,
      occupying yourself a little more by day, have no time to think of what you
      dream by night.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph followed him, with a steady look, to the door; and, turning to the
      bridegroom, when they were again alone, said,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mark my words, Gride, you won't have to pay <i>his </i>annuity very long. You
      have the devil's luck in bargains, always. If he is not booked to make the
      long voyage before many months are past and gone, I wear an orange for a
      head!'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this prophecy, so agreeable to his ears, Arthur returned no answer than
      a cackle of great delight. Ralph, throwing himself into a chair, they both
      sat waiting in profound silence. Ralph was thinking, with a sneer upon his
      lips, on the altered manner of Bray that day, and how soon their
      fellowship in a bad design had lowered his pride and established a
      familiarity between them, when his attentive ear caught the rustling of a
      female dress upon the stairs, and the footstep of a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wake up,' he said, stamping his foot impatiently upon the ground, 'and be
      something like life, man, will you? They are here. Urge those dry old
      bones of yours this way. Quick, man, quick!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride shambled forward, and stood, leering and bowing, close by Ralph's
      side, when the door opened and there entered in haste&mdash;not Bray and
      his daughter, but Nicholas and his sister Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      If some tremendous apparition from the world of shadows had suddenly
      presented itself before him, Ralph Nickleby could not have been more
      thunder-stricken than he was by this surprise. His hands fell powerless by
      his side, he reeled back; and with open mouth, and a face of ashy
      paleness, stood gazing at them in speechless rage: his eyes so prominent,
      and his face so convulsed and changed by the passions which raged within
      him, that it would have been difficult to recognise in him the same stern,
      composed, hard-featured man he had been not a minute ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The man that came to me last night,' whispered Gride, plucking at his
      elbow. 'The man that came to me last night!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see,' muttered Ralph, 'I know! I might have guessed as much before.
      Across my every path, at every turn, go where I will, do what I may, he
      comes!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The absence of all colour from the face; the dilated nostril; the
      quivering of the lips which, though set firmly against each other, would
      not be still; showed what emotions were struggling for the mastery with
      Nicholas. But he kept them down, and gently pressing Kate's arm to
      reassure her, stood erect and undaunted, front to front with his unworthy
      relative.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the brother and sister stood side by side, with a gallant bearing which
      became them well, a close likeness between them was apparent, which many,
      had they only seen them apart, might have failed to remark. The air,
      carriage, and very look and expression of the brother were all reflected
      in the sister, but softened and refined to the nicest limit of feminine
      delicacy and attraction. More striking still was some indefinable
      resemblance, in the face of Ralph, to both. While they had never looked
      more handsome, nor he more ugly; while they had never held themselves more
      proudly, nor he shrunk half so low; there never had been a time when this
      resemblance was so perceptible, or when all the worst characteristics of a
      face rendered coarse and harsh by evil thoughts were half so manifest as
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Away!' was the first word he could utter as he literally gnashed his
      teeth. 'Away! What brings you here? Liar, scoundrel, dastard, thief!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I come here,' said Nicholas in a low deep voice, 'to save your victim if
      I can. Liar and scoundrel you are, in every action of your life; theft is
      your trade; and double dastard you must be, or you were not here today.
      Hard words will not move me, nor would hard blows. Here I stand, and will,
      till I have done my errand.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Girl!' said Ralph, 'retire! We can use force to him, but I would not hurt
      you if I could help it. Retire, you weak and silly wench, and leave this
      dog to be dealt with as he deserves.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will not retire,' cried Kate, with flashing eyes and the red blood
      mantling in her cheeks. 'You will do him no hurt that he will not repay.
      You may use force with me; I think you will, for I <i>am</i> a girl, and that
      would well become you. But if I have a girl's weakness, I have a woman's
      heart, and it is not you who in a cause like this can turn that from its
      purpose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And what may your purpose be, most lofty lady?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To offer to the unhappy subject of your treachery, at this last moment,'
      replied Nicholas, 'a refuge and a home. If the near prospect of such a
      husband as you have provided will not prevail upon her, I hope she may be
      moved by the prayers and entreaties of one of her own sex. At all events
      they shall be tried. I myself, avowing to her father from whom I come and
      by whom I am commissioned, will render it an act of greater baseness,
      meanness, and cruelty in him if he still dares to force this marriage on.
      Here I wait to see him and his daughter. For this I came and brought my
      sister even into your presence. Our purpose is not to see or speak with
      you; therefore to you we stoop to say no more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed!' said Ralph. 'You persist in remaining here, ma'am, do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      His niece's bosom heaved with the indignant excitement into which he had
      lashed her, but she gave him no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Gride, see here,' said Ralph. 'This fellow&mdash;I grieve to say my
      brother's son: a reprobate and profligate, stained with every mean and
      selfish crime&mdash;this fellow, coming here today to disturb a solemn
      ceremony, and knowing that the consequence of his presenting himself in
      another man's house at such a time, and persisting in remaining there,
      must be his being kicked into the streets and dragged through them like
      the vagabond he is&mdash;this fellow, mark you, brings with him his sister
      as a protection, thinking we would not expose a silly girl to the
      degradation and indignity which is no novelty to him; and, even after I
      have warned her of what must ensue, he still keeps her by him, as you see,
      and clings to her apron-strings like a cowardly boy to his mother's. Is
      not this a pretty fellow to talk as big as you have heard him now?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And as I heard him last night,' said Arthur Gride; 'as I heard him last
      night when he sneaked into my house, and&mdash;he! he! he!&mdash;very soon
      sneaked out again, when I nearly frightened him to death. And <i>he</i> wanting
      to marry Miss Madeline too! Oh dear! Is there anything else he'd like?
      Anything else we can do for him, besides giving her up? Would he like his
      debts paid and his house furnished, and a few bank notes for shaving paper
      if he shaves at all? He! he! he!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will remain, girl, will you?' said Ralph, turning upon Kate again,
      'to be hauled downstairs like a drunken drab, as I swear you shall if you
      stop here? No answer! Thank your brother for what follows. Gride, call
      down Bray&mdash;and not his daughter. Let them keep her above.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you value your head,' said Nicholas, taking up a position before the
      door, and speaking in the same low voice in which he had spoken before,
      and with no more outward passion than he had before displayed; 'stay where
      you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind me, and not him, and call down Bray,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mind yourself rather than either of us, and stay where you are!' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you call down Bray?' cried Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Remember that you come near me at your peril,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride hesitated. Ralph being, by this time, as furious as a baffled tiger,
      made for the door, and, attempting to pass Kate, clasped her arm roughly
      with his hand. Nicholas, with his eyes darting fire, seized him by the
      collar. At that moment, a heavy body fell with great violence on the floor
      above, and, in an instant afterwards, was heard a most appalling and
      terrific scream.
    </p>
    <p>
      They all stood still, and gazed upon each other. Scream succeeded scream;
      a heavy pattering of feet succeeded; and many shrill voices clamouring
      together were heard to cry, 'He is dead!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stand off!' cried Nicholas, letting loose all the passion he had
      restrained till now; 'if this is what I scarcely dare to hope it is, you
      are caught, villains, in your own toils.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He burst from the room, and, darting upstairs to the quarter from whence
      the noise proceeded, forced his way through a crowd of persons who quite
      filled a small bed-chamber, and found Bray lying on the floor quite dead;
      his daughter clinging to the body.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How did this happen?' he cried, looking wildly about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several voices answered together, that he had been observed, through the
      half-opened door, reclining in a strange and uneasy position upon a chair;
      that he had been spoken to several times, and not answering, was supposed
      to be asleep, until some person going in and shaking him by the arm, he
      fell heavily to the ground and was discovered to be dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is the owner of this house?' said Nicholas, hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      An elderly woman was pointed out to him; and to her he said, as he knelt
      down and gently unwound Madeline's arms from the lifeless mass round which
      they were entwined: 'I represent this lady's nearest friends, as her
      servant here knows, and must remove her from this dreadful scene. This is
      my sister to whose charge you confide her. My name and address are upon
      that card, and you shall receive from me all necessary directions for the
      arrangements that must be made. Stand aside, every one of you, and give me
      room and air for God's sake!'
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0731m.jpg" alt="0731m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0731.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The people fell back, scarce wondering more at what had just occurred,
      than at the excitement and impetuosity of him who spoke. Nicholas, taking
      the insensible girl in his arms, bore her from the chamber and downstairs
      into the room he had just quitted, followed by his sister and the faithful
      servant, whom he charged to procure a coach directly, while he and Kate
      bent over their beautiful charge and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore
      her to animation. The girl performed her office with such expedition, that
      in a very few minutes the coach was ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph Nickleby and Gride, stunned and paralysed by the awful event which
      had so suddenly overthrown their schemes (it would not otherwise, perhaps,
      have made much impression on them), and carried away by the extraordinary
      energy and precipitation of Nicholas, which bore down all before him,
      looked on at these proceedings like men in a dream or trance. It was not
      until every preparation was made for Madeline's immediate removal that
      Ralph broke silence by declaring she should not be taken away.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who says so?' cried Nicholas, rising from his knee and confronting them,
      but still retaining Madeline's lifeless hand in his.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I!' answered Ralph, hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush, hush!' cried the terrified Gride, catching him by the arm again.
      'Hear what he says.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay!' said Nicholas, extending his disengaged hand in the air, 'hear what
      he says. That both your debts are paid in the one great debt of nature.
      That the bond, due today at twelve, is now waste paper. That your
      contemplated fraud shall be discovered yet. That your schemes are known to
      man, and overthrown by Heaven. Wretches, that he defies you both to do
      your worst.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'This man,' said Ralph, in a voice scarcely intelligible, 'this man claims
      his wife, and he shall have her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That man claims what is not his, and he should not have her if he were
      fifty men, with fifty more to back him,' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who shall prevent him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By what right I should like to know,' said Ralph. 'By what right I ask?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'By this right. That, knowing what I do, you dare not tempt me further,'
      said Nicholas, 'and by this better right; that those I serve, and with
      whom you would have done me base wrong and injury, are her nearest and her
      dearest friends. In their name I bear her hence. Give way!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'One word!' cried Ralph, foaming at the mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not one,' replied Nicholas, 'I will not hear of one&mdash;save this. Look
      to yourself, and heed this warning that I give you! Your day is past, and
      night is comin' on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My curse, my bitter, deadly curse, upon you, boy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whence will curses come at your command? Or what avails a curse or
      blessing from a man like you? I tell you, that misfortune and discovery
      are thickening about your head; that the structures you have raised,
      through all your ill-spent life, are crumbling into dust; that your path
      is beset with spies; that this very day, ten thousand pounds of your
      hoarded wealth have gone in one great crash!'
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tis false!' cried Ralph, shrinking back.
    </p>
    <p>
      ''Tis true, and you shall find it so. I have no more words to waste. Stand
      from the door. Kate, do you go first. Lay not a hand on her, or on that
      woman, or on me, or so much a brush their garments as they pass you by!&mdash;You
      let them pass, and he blocks the door again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride happened to be in the doorway, but whether intentionally or
      from confusion was not quite apparent. Nicholas swung him away, with such
      violence as to cause him to spin round the room until he was caught by a
      sharp angle of the wall, and there knocked down; and then taking his
      beautiful burden in his arms rushed out. No one cared to stop him, if any
      were so disposed. Making his way through a mob of people, whom a report of
      the circumstances had attracted round the house, and carrying Madeline, in
      his excitement, as easily as if she were an infant, he reached the coach
      in which Kate and the girl were already waiting, and, confiding his charge
      to them, jumped up beside the coachman and bade him drive away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 55
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>
      <i>f Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
Although Mrs. Nickleby had been made acquainted by her son and daughter
      with every circumstance of Madeline Bray's history which was known to
      them; although the responsible situation in which Nicholas stood had been
      carefully explained to her, and she had been prepared, even for the
      possible contingency of having to receive the young lady in her own house,
      improbable as such a result had appeared only a few minutes before it came
      about, still, Mrs. Nickleby, from the moment when this confidence was first
      reposed in her, late on the previous evening, had remained in an
      unsatisfactory and profoundly mystified state, from which no explanations
      or arguments could relieve her, and which every fresh soliloquy and
      reflection only aggravated more and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bless my heart, Kate!' so the good lady argued; 'if the Mr. Cheerybles
      don't want this young lady to be married, why don't they file a bill
      against the Lord Chancellor, make her a Chancery ward, and shut her up in
      the Fleet prison for safety?&mdash;I have read of such things in the
      newspapers a hundred times. Or, if they are so very fond of her as
      Nicholas says they are, why don't they marry her themselves&mdash;one of
      them I mean? And even supposing they don't want her to be married, and
      don't want to marry her themselves, why in the name of wonder should
      Nicholas go about the world, forbidding people's banns?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't think you quite understand,' said Kate, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you're very polite!' replied Mrs. Nickleby.
      'I have been married myself I hope, and I have seen other people married.
      Not understand, indeed!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know you have had great experience, dear mama,' said Kate; 'I mean that
      perhaps you don't quite understand all the circumstances in this instance.
      We have stated them awkwardly, I dare say.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That I dare say you have,' retorted her mother, briskly. 'That's very
      likely. I am not to be held accountable for that; though, at the same
      time, as the circumstances speak for themselves, I shall take the liberty,
      my love, of saying that I do understand them, and perfectly well too;
      whatever you and Nicholas may choose to think to the contrary. Why is such
      a great fuss made because this Miss Magdalen is going to marry somebody
      who is older than herself? Your poor papa was older than I was, four years
      and a half older. Jane Dibabs&mdash;the Dibabses lived in the beautiful
      little thatched white house one story high, covered all over with ivy and
      creeping plants, with an exquisite little porch with twining honysuckles
      and all sorts of things: where the earwigs used to fall into one's tea on
      a summer evening, and always fell upon their backs and kicked dreadfully,
      and where the frogs used to get into the rushlight shades when one stopped
      all night, and sit up and look through the little holes like Christians&mdash;Jane
      Dibabs, she married a man who was a great deal older than herself, and
      <i>would </i>marry him, notwithstanding all that could be said to the contrary,
      and she was so fond of him that nothing was ever equal to it. There was no
      fuss made about Jane Dibabs, and her husband was a most honourable and
      excellent man, and everybody spoke well of him. Then why should there by
      any fuss about this Magdalen?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Her husband is much older; he is not her own choice; his character is the
      very reverse of that which you have just described. Don't you see a broad
      destinction between the two cases?' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this, Mrs. Nickleby only replied that she durst say she was very stupid,
      indeed she had no doubt she was, for her own children almost as much as
      told her so, every day of her life; to be sure she was a little older than
      they, and perhaps some foolish people might think she ought reasonably to
      know best. However, no doubt she was wrong; of course she was; she always
      was, she couldn't be right, she couldn't be expected to be; so she had
      better not expose herself any more; and to all Kate's conciliations and
      concessions for an hour ensuing, the good lady gave no other replies than
      Oh, certainly, why did they ask <i>her?, her</i> opinion was of no consequence,
      it didn't matter what <i>she </i>said, with many other rejoinders of the same
      class.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this frame of mind (expressed, when she had become too resigned for
      speech, by nods of the head, upliftings of the eyes, and little beginnings
      of groans, converted, as they attracted attention, into short coughs), Mrs
      Nickleby remained until Nicholas and Kate returned with the object of
      their solicitude; when, having by this time asserted her own importance,
      and becoming besides interested in the trials of one so young and
      beautiful, she not only displayed the utmost zeal and solicitude, but took
      great credit to herself for recommending the course of procedure which her
      son had adopted: frequently declaring, with an expressive look, that it
      was very fortunate things were <i>as</i> they were: and hinting, that but for
      great encouragement and wisdom on her own part, they never could have been
      brought to that pass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not to strain the question whether Mrs. Nickleby had or had not any great
      hand in bringing matters about, it is unquestionable that she had strong
      ground for exultation. The brothers, on their return, bestowed such
      commendations on Nicholas for the part he had taken, and evinced so much
      joy at the altered state of events and the recovery of their young friend
      from trials so great and dangers so threatening, that, as she more than
      once informed her daughter, she now considered the fortunes of the family
      'as good as' made. Mr. Charles Cheeryble, indeed, Mrs. Nickleby positively
      asserted, had, in the first transports of his surprise and delight, 'as
      good as' said so. Without precisely explaining what this qualification
      meant, she subsided, whenever she mentioned the subject, into such a
      mysterious and important state, and had such visions of wealth and dignity
      in perspective, that (vague and clouded though they were) she was, at such
      times, almost as happy as if she had really been permanently provided for,
      on a scale of great splendour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sudden and terrible shock she had received, combined with the great
      affliction and anxiety of mind which she had, for a long time, endured,
      proved too much for Madeline's strength. Recovering from the state of
      stupefaction into which the sudden death of her father happily plunged
      her, she only exchanged that condition for one of dangerous and active
      illness. When the delicate physical powers which have been sustained by an
      unnatural strain upon the mental energies and a resolute determination not
      to yield, at last give way, their degree of prostration is usually
      proportionate to the strength of the effort which has previously upheld
      them. Thus it was that the illness which fell on Madeline was of no slight
      or temporary nature, but one which, for a time, threatened her reason, and&mdash;scarcely
      worse&mdash;her life itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe and dangerous, could be
      insensible to the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as gentle,
      tender, earnest Kate? On whom could the sweet soft voice, the light step,
      the delicate hand, the quiet, cheerful, noiseless discharge of those
      thousand little offices of kindness and relief which we feel so deeply
      when we are ill, and forget so lightly when we are well&mdash;on whom
      could they make so deep an impression as on a young heart stored with
      every pure and true affection that women cherish; almost a stranger to the
      endearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt them from
      itself; and rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly susceptible of the
      sympathy so long unknown and so long sought in vain? What wonder that days
      became as years in knitting them together! What wonder, if with every hour
      of returning health, there came some stronger and sweeter recognition of
      the praises which Kate, when they recalled old scenes&mdash;they seemed
      old now, and to have been acted years ago&mdash;would lavish on her
      brother! Where would have been the wonder, even, if those praises had
      found a quick response in the breast of Madeline, and if, with the image
      of Nicholas so constantly recurring in the features of his sister that she
      could scarcely separate the two, she had sometimes found it equally
      difficult to assign to each the feelings they had first inspired, and had
      imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to Nicholas, some of that warmer
      feeling which she had assigned to Kate?
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear,' Mrs. Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an elaborate
      caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid rather more
      than the entry of a horse-soldier at full gallop; 'how do you find
      yourself tonight? I hope you are better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Almost well, mama,' Kate would reply, laying down her work, and taking
      Madeline's hand in hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate!' Mrs. Nickleby would say, reprovingly, 'don't talk so loud' (the
      worthy lady herself talking in a whisper that would have made the blood of
      the stoutest man run cold in his veins).
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate would take this reproof very quietly, and Mrs. Nickleby, making every
      board creak and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily about, would
      add:
    </p>
    <p>
      'My son Nicholas has just come home, and I have come, according to custom,
      my dear, to know, from your own lips, exactly how you are; for he won't
      take my account, and never will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is later than usual to-night,' perhaps Madeline would reply. 'Nearly
      half an hour.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, I never saw such people in all my life as you are, for time, up
      here!' Mrs. Nickleby would exclaim in great astonishment; 'I declare I
      never did! I had not the least idea that Nicholas was after his time, not
      the smallest. Mr. Nickleby used to say&mdash;your poor papa, I am speaking
      of, Kate my dear&mdash;used to say, that appetite was the best clock in
      the world, but you have no appetite, my dear Miss Bray, I wish you had,
      and upon my word I really think you ought to take something that would
      give you one. I am sure I don't know, but I have heard that two or three
      dozen native lobsters give an appetite, though that comes to the same
      thing after all, for I suppose you must have an appetite before you can
      take 'em. If I said lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it's all the
      same, though really how you came to know about Nicholas&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We happened to be just talking about him, mama; that was it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You never seem to me to be talking about anything else, Kate, and upon my
      word I am quite surprised at your being so very thoughtless. You can find
      subjects enough to talk about sometimes, and when you know how important
      it is to keep up Miss Bray's spirits, and interest her, and all that, it
      really is quite extraordinary to me what can induce you to keep on prose,
      prose, prose, din, din, din, everlastingly, upon the same theme. You are a
      very kind nurse, Kate, and a very good one, and I know you mean very well;
      but I will say this&mdash;that if it wasn't for me, I really don't know
      what would become of Miss Bray's spirits, and so I tell the doctor every
      day. He says he wonders how I sustain my own, and I am sure I very often
      wonder myself how I can contrive to keep up as I do. Of course it's an
      exertion, but still, when I know how much depends upon me in this house, I
      am obliged to make it. There's nothing praiseworthy in that, but it's
      necessary, and I do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, Mrs. Nickleby would draw up a chair, and for some three-quarters
      of an hour run through a great variety of distracting topics in the most
      distracting manner possible; tearing herself away, at length, on the plea
      that she must now go and amuse Nicholas while he took his supper. After a
      preliminary raising of his spirits with the information that she
      considered the patient decidedly worse, she would further cheer him up by
      relating how dull, listless, and low-spirited Miss Bray was, because Kate
      foolishly talked about nothing else but him and family matters. When she
      had made Nicholas thoroughly comfortable with these and other inspiriting
      remarks, she would discourse at length on the arduous duties she had
      performed that day; and, sometimes, be moved to tears in wondering how, if
      anything were to happen to herself, the family would ever get on without
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      At other times, when Nicholas came home at night, he would be accompanied
      by Mr. Frank Cheeryble, who was commissioned by the brothers to inquire how
      Madeline was that evening. On such occasions (and they were of very
      frequent occurrence), Mrs. Nickleby deemed it of particular importance that
      she should have her wits about her; for, from certain signs and tokens
      which had attracted her attention, she shrewdly suspected that Mr. Frank,
      interested as his uncles were in Madeline, came quite as much to see Kate
      as to inquire after her; the more especially as the brothers were in
      constant communication with the medical man, came backwards and forwards
      very frequently themselves, and received a full report from Nicholas every
      morning. These were proud times for Mrs. Nickleby; never was anybody half
      so discreet and sage as she, or half so mysterious withal; and never were
      there such cunning generalship, and such unfathomable designs, as she
      brought to bear upon Mr. Frank, with the view of ascertaining whether her
      suspicions were well founded: and if so, of tantalising him into taking
      her into his confidence and throwing himself upon her merciful
      consideration. Extensive was the artillery, heavy and light, which Mrs
      Nickleby brought into play for the furtherance of these great schemes;
      various and opposite the means which she employed to bring about the end
      she had in view. At one time, she was all cordiality and ease; at another,
      all stiffness and frigidity. Now, she would seem to open her whole heart
      to her unhappy victim; the next time they met, she would receive him with
      the most distant and studious reserve, as if a new light had broken in
      upon her, and, guessing his intentions, she had resolved to check them in
      the bud; as if she felt it her bounden duty to act with Spartan firmness,
      and at once and for ever to discourage hopes which never could be
      realised. At other times, when Nicholas was not there to overhear, and
      Kate was upstairs busily tending her sick friend, the worthy lady would
      throw out dark hints of an intention to send her daughter to France for
      three or four years, or to Scotland for the improvement of her health
      impaired by her late fatigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere that
      threatened a long and tedious separation. Nay, she even went so far as to
      hint, obscurely, at an attachment entertained for her daughter by the son
      of an old neighbour of theirs, one Horatio Peltirogus (a young gentleman
      who might have been, at that time, four years old, or thereabouts), and to
      represent it, indeed, as almost a settled thing between the families&mdash;only
      waiting for her daughter's final decision, to come off with the sanction
      of the church, and to the unspeakable happiness and content of all
      parties.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in the full pride and glory of having sprung this last mine one
      night with extraordinary success, that Mrs. Nickleby took the opportunity
      of being left alone with her son before retiring to rest, to sound him on
      the subject which so occupied her thoughts: not doubting that they could
      have but one opinion respecting it. To this end, she approached the
      question with divers laudatory and appropriate remarks touching the
      general amiability of Mr. Frank Cheeryble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You are quite right, mother,' said Nicholas, 'quite right. He is a fine
      fellow.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good-looking, too,' said Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Decidedly good-looking,' answered Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What may you call his nose, now, my dear?' pursued Mrs. Nickleby, wishing
      to interest Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Call it?' repeated Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' returned his mother, 'what style of nose? What order of
      architecture, if one may say so. I am not very learned in noses. Do you
      call it a Roman or a Grecian?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Upon my word, mother,' said Nicholas, laughing, 'as well as I remember, I
      should call it a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. But I have no very
      strong recollection on the subject. If it will afford you any
      gratification, I'll observe it more closely, and let you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish you would, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with an earnest look.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well,' returned Nicholas. 'I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book he had been reading, when the
      dialogue had gone thus far. Mrs. Nickleby, after stopping a little for
      consideration, resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He is very much attached to you, Nicholas, my dear.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas laughingly said, as he closed his book, that he was glad to hear
      it, and observed that his mother seemed deep in their new friend's
      confidence already.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hem!' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'I don't know about that, my dear, but I think
      it is very necessary that somebody should be in his confidence; highly
      necessary.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Elated by a look of curiosity from her son, and the consciousness of
      possessing a great secret, all to herself, Mrs. Nickleby went on with great
      animation:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can have failed to notice it, is, to
      me, quite extraordinary; though I don't know why I should say that,
      either, because, of course, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent,
      there is a great deal in this sort of thing, especially in this early
      stage, which, however clear it may be to females, can scarcely be expected
      to be so evident to men. I don't say that I have any particular
      penetration in such matters. I may have; those about me should know best
      about that, and perhaps do know. Upon that point I shall express no
      opinion, it wouldn't become me to do so, it's quite out of the question,
      quite.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas snuffed the candles, put his hands in his pockets, and, leaning
      back in his chair, assumed a look of patient suffering and melancholy
      resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,' resumed his mother, 'to tell you
      what I know: not only because you have a right to know it too, and to know
      everything that happens in this family, but because you have it in your
      power to promote and assist the thing very much; and there is no doubt
      that the sooner one can come to a clear understanding on such subjects, it
      is always better, every way. There are a great many things you might do;
      such as taking a walk in the garden sometimes, or sitting upstairs in your
      own room for a little while, or making believe to fall asleep
      occasionally, or pretending that you recollected some business, and going
      out for an hour or so, and taking Mr. Smike with you. These seem very
      slight things, and I dare say you will be amused at my making them of so
      much importance; at the same time, my dear, I can assure you (and you'll
      find this out, Nicholas, for yourself one of these days, if you ever fall
      in love with anybody; as I trust and hope you will, provided she is
      respectable and well conducted, and of course you'd never dream of falling
      in love with anybody who was not), I say, I can assure you that a great
      deal more depends upon these little things than you would suppose
      possible. If your poor papa was alive, he would tell you how much depended
      on the parties being left alone. Of course, you are not to go out of the
      room as if you meant it and did it on purpose, but as if it was quite an
      accident, and to come back again in the same way. If you cough in the
      passage before you open the door, or whistle carelessly, or hum a tune, or
      something of that sort, to let them know you're coming, it's always
      better; because, of course, though it's not only natural but perfectly
      correct and proper under the circumstances, still it is very confusing if
      you interrupt young people when they are&mdash;when they are sitting on
      the sofa, and&mdash;and all that sort of thing: which is very nonsensical,
      perhaps, but still they will do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The profound astonishment with which her son regarded her during this long
      address, gradually increasing as it approached its climax in no way
      discomposed Mrs. Nickleby, but rather exalted her opinion of her own
      cleverness; therefore, merely stopping to remark, with much complacency,
      that she had fully expected him to be surprised, she entered on a vast
      quantity of circumstantial evidence of a particularly incoherent and
      perplexing kind; the upshot of which was, to establish, beyond the
      possibility of doubt, that Mr. Frank Cheeryble had fallen desperately in
      love with Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'With whom?' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby repeated, with Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What! <i>our </i>Kate! My sister!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lord, Nicholas!' returned Mrs. Nickleby, 'whose Kate should it be, if not
      ours; or what should I care about it, or take any interest in it for, if
      it was anybody but your sister?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'surely it can't be!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very good, my dear,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, with great confidence. 'Wait
      and see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas had never, until that moment, bestowed a thought upon the remote
      possibility of such an occurrence as that which was now communicated to
      him; for, besides that he had been much from home of late and closely
      occupied with other matters, his own jealous fears had prompted the
      suspicion that some secret interest in Madeline, akin to that which he
      felt himself, occasioned those visits of Frank Cheeryble which had
      recently become so frequent. Even now, although he knew that the
      observation of an anxious mother was much more likely to be correct in
      such a case than his own, and although she reminded him of many little
      circumstances which, taken together, were certainly susceptible of the
      construction she triumphantly put upon them, he was not quite convinced
      but that they arose from mere good-natured thoughtless gallantry, which
      would have dictated the same conduct towards any other girl who was young
      and pleasing. At all events, he hoped so, and therefore tried to believe
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am very much disturbed by what you tell me,' said Nicholas, after a
      little reflection, 'though I yet hope you may be mistaken.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't understand why you should hope so,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I
      confess; but you may depend upon it I am not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What of Kate?' inquired Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why that, my dear,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, 'is just the point upon which
      I am not yet satisfied. During this sickness, she has been constantly at
      Madeline's bedside&mdash;never were two people so fond of each other as
      they have grown&mdash;and to tell you the truth, Nicholas, I have rather
      kept her away now and then, because I think it's a good plan, and urges a
      young man on. He doesn't get too sure, you know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      She said this with such a mingling of high delight and
      self-congratulation, that it was inexpressibly painful to Nicholas to dash
      her hopes; but he felt that there was only one honourable course before
      him, and that he was bound to take it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear mother,' he said kindly, 'don't you see that if there were really
      any serious inclination on the part of Mr. Frank towards Kate, and we
      suffered ourselves for a moment to encourage it, we should be acting a
      most dishonourable and ungrateful part? I ask you if you don't see it, but
      I need not say that I know you don't, or you would have been more strictly
      on your guard. Let me explain my meaning to you. Remember how poor we
      are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, and said, through her tears, that poverty was
      not a crime.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Nicholas, 'and for that reason poverty should engender an
      honest pride, that it may not lead and tempt us to unworthy actions, and
      that we may preserve the self-respect which a hewer of wood and drawer of
      water may maintain, and does better in maintaining than a monarch in
      preserving his. Think what we owe to these two brothers: remember what
      they have done, and what they do every day for us with a generosity and
      delicacy for which the devotion of our whole lives would be a most
      imperfect and inadequate return. What kind of return would that be which
      would be comprised in our permitting their nephew, their only relative,
      whom they regard as a son, and for whom it would be mere childishness to
      suppose they have not formed plans suitably adapted to the education he
      has had, and the fortune he will inherit&mdash;in our permitting him to
      marry a portionless girl: so closely connected with us, that the
      irresistible inference must be, that he was entrapped by a plot; that it
      was a deliberate scheme, and a speculation amongst us three? Bring the
      matter clearly before yourself, mother. Now, how would you feel, if they
      were married, and the brothers, coming here on one of those kind errands
      which bring them here so often, you had to break out to them the truth?
      Would you be at ease, and feel that you had played an open part?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs. Nickleby, crying more and more, murmured that of course Mr. Frank
      would ask the consent of his uncles first.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, to be sure, that would place <i>him </i>in a better situation with them,'
      said Nicholas, 'but we should still be open to the same suspicions; the
      distance between us would still be as great; the advantages to be gained
      would still be as manifest as now. We may be reckoning without our host in
      all this,' he added more cheerfully, 'and I trust, and almost believe we
      are. If it be otherwise, I have that confidence in Kate that I know she
      will feel as I do&mdash;and in you, dear mother, to be assured that after
      a little consideration you will do the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After many more representations and entreaties, Nicholas obtained a
      promise from Mrs. Nickleby that she would try all she could to think as he
      did; and that if Mr. Frank persevered in his attentions she would endeavour
      to discourage them, or, at the least, would render him no countenance or
      assistance. He determined to forbear mentioning the subject to Kate until
      he was quite convinced that there existed a real necessity for his doing
      so; and resolved to assure himself, as well as he could by close personal
      observation, of the exact position of affairs. This was a very wise
      resolution, but he was prevented from putting it in practice by a new
      source of anxiety and uneasiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and exhausted that he could
      scarcely move from room to room without assistance; and so worn and
      emaciated, that it was painful to look upon him. Nicholas was warned, by
      the same medical authority to whom he had at first appealed, that the last
      chance and hope of his life depended on his being instantly removed from
      London. That part of Devonshire in which Nicholas had been himself bred
      was named as the most favourable spot; but this advice was cautiously
      coupled with the information, that whoever accompanied him thither must be
      prepared for the worst; for every token of rapid consumption had appeared,
      and he might never return alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      The kind brothers, who were acquainted with the poor creature's sad
      history, dispatched old Tim to be present at this consultation. That same
      morning, Nicholas was summoned by brother Charles into his private room,
      and thus addressed:
    </p>
    <p>
      'My dear sir, no time must be lost. This lad shall not die, if such human
      means as we can use can save his life; neither shall he die alone, and in
      a strange place. Remove him tomorrow morning, see that he has every
      comfort that his situation requires, and don't leave him; don't leave him,
      my dear sir, until you know that there is no longer any immediate danger.
      It would be hard, indeed, to part you now. No, no, no! Tim shall wait upon
      you tonight, sir; Tim shall wait upon you tonight with a parting word or
      two. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, Mr. Nickleby waits to shake hands and say
      goodbye; Mr. Nickleby won't be long gone; this poor chap will soon get
      better, very soon get better; and then he'll find out some nice homely
      country-people to leave him with, and will go backwards and forwards
      sometimes&mdash;backwards and forwards you know, Ned. And there's no cause
      to be downhearted, for he'll very soon get better, very soon. Won't he,
      won't he, Ned?'
    </p>
    <p>
      What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he brought with him that night, needs
      not to be told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeble companion began their
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      And who but one&mdash;and that one he who, but for those who crowded round
      him then, had never met a look of kindness, or known a word of pity&mdash;could
      tell what agony of mind, what blighted thoughts, what unavailing sorrow,
      were involved in that sad parting?
    </p>
    <p>
      'See,' cried Nicholas eagerly, as he looked from the coach window, 'they
      are at the corner of the lane still! And now there's Kate, poor Kate, whom
      you said you couldn't bear to say goodbye to, waving her handkerchief.
      Don't go without one gesture of farewell to Kate!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I cannot make it!' cried his trembling companion, falling back in his
      seat and covering his eyes. 'Do you see her now? Is she there still?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes!' said Nicholas earnestly. 'There! She waves her hand again! I
      have answered it for you&mdash;and now they are out of sight. Do not give
      way so bitterly, dear friend, don't. You will meet them all again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He whom he thus encouraged, raised his withered hands and clasped them
      fervently together.
    </p>
    <p>
      'In heaven. I humbly pray to God in heaven.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It sounded like the prayer of a broken heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 56
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span><i>alph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, hatches a Scheme
            of Retaliation which Accident suggests to him, and takes into his Counsels
            a tried Auxiliary</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The course which these adventures shape out for themselves, and
      imperatively call upon the historian to observe, now demands that they
      should revert to the point they attained previously to the commencement of
      the last chapter, when Ralph Nickleby and Arthur Gride were left together
      in the house where death had so suddenly reared his dark and heavy banner.
    </p>
    <p>
      With clenched hands, and teeth ground together so firm and tight that no
      locking of the jaws could have fixed and riveted them more securely, Ralph
      stood, for some minutes, in the attitude in which he had last addressed
      his nephew: breathing heavily, but as rigid and motionless in other
      respects as if he had been a brazen statue. After a time, he began, by
      slow degrees, as a man rousing himself from heavy slumber, to relax. For a
      moment he shook his clasped fist towards the door by which Nicholas had
      disappeared; and then thrusting it into his breast, as if to repress by
      force even this show of passion, turned round and confronted the less
      hardy usurer, who had not yet risen from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cowering wretch, who still shook in every limb, and whose few grey
      hairs trembled and quivered on his head with abject dismay, tottered to
      his feet as he met Ralph's eye, and, shielding his face with both hands,
      protested, while he crept towards the door, that it was no fault of his.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who said it was, man?' returned Ralph, in a suppressed voice. 'Who said
      it was?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You looked as if you thought I was to blame,' said Gride, timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Pshaw!' Ralph muttered, forcing a laugh. 'I blame him for not living an
      hour longer. One hour longer would have been long enough. I blame no one
      else.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;n&mdash;no one else?' said Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not for this mischance,' replied Ralph. 'I have an old score to clear
      with that young fellow who has carried off your mistress; but that has
      nothing to do with his blustering just now, for we should soon have been
      quit of him, but for this cursed accident.'
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something so unnatural in the calmness with which Ralph Nickleby
      spoke, when coupled with his face, the expression of the features, to
      which every nerve and muscle, as it twitched and throbbed with a spasm
      whose workings no effort could conceal, gave, every instant, some new and
      frightful aspect&mdash;there was something so unnatural and ghastly in the
      contrast between his harsh, slow, steady voice (only altered by a certain
      halting of the breath which made him pause between almost every word like
      a drunken man bent upon speaking plainly), and these evidences of the most
      intense and violent passion, and the struggle he made to keep them under;
      that if the dead body which lay above had stood, instead of him, before
      the cowering Gride, it could scarcely have presented a spectacle which
      would have terrified him more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The coach,' said Ralph after a time, during which he had struggled like
      some strong man against a fit. 'We came in a coach. Is it waiting?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride gladly availed himself of the pretext for going to the window to
      see. Ralph, keeping his face steadily the other way, tore at his shirt
      with the hand which he had thrust into his breast, and muttered in a
      hoarse whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ten thousand pounds! He said ten thousand! The precise sum paid in but
      yesterday for the two mortgages, and which would have gone out again, at
      heavy interest, tomorrow. If that house has failed, and he the first to
      bring the news!&mdash;Is the coach there?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' said Gride, startled by the fierce tone of the inquiry. 'It's
      here. Dear, dear, what a fiery man you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come here,' said Ralph, beckoning to him. 'We mustn't make a show of
      being disturbed. We'll go down arm in arm.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But you pinch me black and blue,' urged Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph let him go impatiently, and descending the stairs with his usual
      firm and heavy tread, got into the coach. Arthur Gride followed. After
      looking doubtfully at Ralph when the man asked where he was to drive, and
      finding that he remained silent, and expressed no wish upon the subject,
      Arthur mentioned his own house, and thither they proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      On their way, Ralph sat in the furthest corner with folded arms, and
      uttered not a word. With his chin sunk upon his breast, and his downcast
      eyes quite hidden by the contraction of his knotted brows, he might have
      been asleep for any sign of consciousness he gave until the coach stopped,
      when he raised his head, and glancing through the window, inquired what
      place that was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My house,' answered the disconsolate Gride, affected perhaps by its
      loneliness. 'Oh dear! my house.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'True,' said Ralph 'I have not observed the way we came. I should like a
      glass of water. You have that in the house, I suppose?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall have a glass of&mdash;of anything you like,' answered Gride,
      with a groan. 'It's no use knocking, coachman. Ring the bell!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The man rang, and rang, and rang again; then, knocked until the street
      re-echoed with the sounds; then, listened at the keyhole of the door.
      Nobody came. The house was silent as the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's this?' said Ralph impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Peg is so very deaf,' answered Gride with a look of anxiety and alarm.
      'Oh dear! Ring again, coachman. She <i>sees </i>the bell.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the man rang and knocked, and knocked and rang again. Some of the
      neighbours threw up their windows, and called across the street to each
      other that old Gride's housekeeper must have dropped down dead. Others
      collected round the coach, and gave vent to various surmises; some held
      that she had fallen asleep; some, that she had burnt herself to death;
      some, that she had got drunk; and one very fat man that she had seen
      something to eat which had frightened her so much (not being used to it)
      that she had fallen into a fit. This last suggestion particularly
      delighted the bystanders, who cheered it rather uproariously, and were,
      with some difficulty, deterred from dropping down the area and breaking
      open the kitchen door to ascertain the fact. Nor was this all. Rumours
      having gone abroad that Arthur was to be married that morning, very
      particular inquiries were made after the bride, who was held by the
      majority to be disguised in the person of Mr. Ralph Nickleby, which gave
      rise to much jocose indignation at the public appearance of a bride in
      boots and pantaloons, and called forth a great many hoots and groans. At
      length, the two money-lenders obtained shelter in a house next door, and,
      being accommodated with a ladder, clambered over the wall of the back-yard&mdash;which
      was not a high one&mdash;and descended in safety on the other side.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am almost afraid to go in, I declare,' said Arthur, turning to Ralph
      when they were alone. 'Suppose she should be murdered. Lying with her
      brains knocked out by a poker, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Suppose she were,' said Ralph. 'I tell you, I wish such things were more
      common than they are, and more easily done. You may stare and shiver. I
      do!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He applied himself to a pump in the yard; and, having taken a deep draught
      of water and flung a quantity on his head and face, regained his
      accustomed manner and led the way into the house: Gride following close at
      his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the same dark place as ever: every room dismal and silent as it was
      wont to be, and every ghostly article of furniture in its customary place.
      The iron heart of the grim old clock, undisturbed by all the noise
      without, still beat heavily within its dusty case; the tottering presses
      slunk from the sight, as usual, in their melancholy corners; the echoes of
      footsteps returned the same dreary sound; the long-legged spider paused in
      his nimble run, and, scared by the sight of men in that his dull domain,
      hung motionless on the wall, counterfeiting death until they should have
      passed him by.
    </p>
    <p>
      From cellar to garret went the two usurers, opening every creaking door
      and looking into every deserted room. But no Peg was there. At last, they
      sat them down in the apartment which Arthur Gride usually inhabited, to
      rest after their search.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The hag is out, on some preparation for your wedding festivities, I
      suppose,' said Ralph, preparing to depart. 'See here! I destroy the bond;
      we shall never need it now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Gride, who had been peering narrowly about the room, fell, at that moment,
      upon his knees before a large chest, and uttered a terrible yell.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How now?' said Ralph, looking sternly round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Robbed! robbed!' screamed Arthur Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Robbed! of money?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no. Worse! far worse!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what then?' demanded Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Worse than money, worse than money!' cried the old man, casting the
      papers out of the chest, like some beast tearing up the earth. 'She had
      better have stolen money&mdash;all my money&mdash;I haven't much! She had
      better have made me a beggar than have done this!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Done what?' said Ralph. 'Done what, you devil's dotard?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Still Gride made no answer, but tore and scratched among the papers, and
      yelled and screeched like a fiend in torment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There is something missing, you say,' said Ralph, shaking him furiously
      by the collar. 'What is it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Papers, deeds. I am a ruined man. Lost, lost! I am robbed, I am ruined!
      She saw me reading it&mdash;reading it of late&mdash;I did very often&mdash;She
      watched me, saw me put it in the box that fitted into this, the box is
      gone, she has stolen it. Damnation seize her, she has robbed me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of <i>what</i>?' cried Ralph, on whom a sudden light appeared to break, for his
      eyes flashed and his frame trembled with agitation as he clutched Gride by
      his bony arm. 'Of what?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'She don't know what it is; she can't read!' shrieked Gride, not heeding
      the inquiry. 'There's only one way in which money can be made of it, and
      that is by taking it to her. Somebody will read it for her, and tell her
      what to do. She and her accomplice will get money for it and be let off
      besides; they'll make a merit of it&mdash;say they found it&mdash;knew it&mdash;and
      be evidence against me. The only person it will fall upon is me, me, me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Patience!' said Ralph, clutching him still tighter and eyeing him with a
      sidelong look, so fixed and eager as sufficiently to denote that he had
      some hidden purpose in what he was about to say. 'Hear reason. She can't
      have been gone long. I'll call the police. Do you but give information of
      what she has stolen, and they'll lay hands upon her, trust me. Here!
      Help!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no!' screamed the old man, putting his hand on Ralph's mouth. 'I
      can't, I daren't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Help! help!' cried Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no!' shrieked the other, stamping on the ground with the energy
      of a madman. 'I tell you no. I daren't, I daren't!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Daren't make this robbery public?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' rejoined Gride, wringing his hands. 'Hush! Hush! Not a word of this;
      not a word must be said. I am undone. Whichever way I turn, I am undone. I
      am betrayed. I shall be given up. I shall die in Newgate!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With frantic exclamations such as these, and with many others in which
      fear, grief, and rage, were strangely blended, the panic-stricken wretch
      gradually subdued his first loud outcry, until it had softened down into a
      low despairing moan, chequered now and then by a howl, as, going over such
      papers as were left in the chest, he discovered some new loss. With very
      little excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left him, and, greatly
      disappointing the loiterers outside the house by telling them there was
      nothing the matter, got into the coach, and was driven to his own home.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter lay on his table. He let it lie there for some time, as if he had
      not the courage to open it, but at length did so and turned deadly pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The worst has happened,' he said; 'the house has failed. I see. The
      rumour was abroad in the city last night, and reached the ears of those
      merchants. Well, well!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He strode violently up and down the room and stopped again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ten thousand pounds! And only lying there for a day&mdash;for one day!
      How many anxious years, how many pinching days and sleepless nights,
      before I scraped together that ten thousand pounds!&mdash;Ten thousand
      pounds! How many proud painted dames would have fawned and smiled, and how
      many spendthrift blockheads done me lip-service to my face and cursed me
      in their hearts, while I turned that ten thousand pounds into twenty!
      While I ground, and pinched, and used these needy borrowers for my
      pleasure and profit, what smooth-tongued speeches, and courteous looks,
      and civil letters, they would have given me! The cant of the lying world
      is, that men like me compass our riches by dissimulation and treachery: by
      fawning, cringing, and stooping. Why, how many lies, what mean and abject
      evasions, what humbled behaviour from upstarts who, but for my money,
      would spurn me aside as they do their betters every day, would that ten
      thousand pounds have brought me in! Grant that I had doubled it&mdash;made
      cent. per cent.&mdash;for every sovereign told another&mdash;there would
      not be one piece of money in all the heap which wouldn't represent ten
      thousand mean and paltry lies, told, not by the money-lender, oh no! but
      by the money-borrowers, your liberal, thoughtless, generous, dashing
      folks, who wouldn't be so mean as save a sixpence for the world!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of the bitterness of his regrets
      in the bitterness of these other thoughts, Ralph continued to pace the
      room. There was less and less of resolution in his manner as his mind
      gradually reverted to his loss; at length, dropping into his elbow-chair
      and grasping its sides so firmly that they creaked again, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'The time has been when nothing could have moved me like the loss of this
      great sum. Nothing. For births, deaths, marriages, and all the events
      which are of interest to most men, have (unless they are connected with
      gain or loss of money) no interest for me. But now, I swear, I mix up with
      the loss, his triumph in telling it. If he had brought it about,&mdash;I
      almost feel as if he had,&mdash;I couldn't hate him more. Let me but
      retaliate upon him, by degrees, however slow&mdash;let me but begin to get
      the better of him, let me but turn the scale&mdash;and I can bear it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      His meditations were long and deep. They terminated in his dispatching a
      letter by Newman, addressed to Mr. Squeers at the Saracen's Head, with
      instructions to inquire whether he had arrived in town, and, if so, to
      wait an answer. Newman brought back the information that Mr. Squeers had
      come by mail that morning, and had received the letter in bed; but that he
      sent his duty, and word that he would get up and wait upon Mr. Nickleby
      directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The interval between the delivery of this message, and the arrival of Mr
      Squeers, was very short; but, before he came, Ralph had suppressed every
      sign of emotion, and once more regained the hard, immovable, inflexible
      manner which was habitual to him, and to which, perhaps, was ascribable no
      small part of the influence which, over many men of no very strong
      prejudices on the score of morality, he could exert, almost at will.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Mr. Squeers,' he said, welcoming that worthy with his accustomed
      smile, of which a sharp look and a thoughtful frown were part and parcel:
      'how do <i>you </i>do?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, 'I'm pretty well. So's the family, and so's
      the boys, except for a sort of rash as is a running through the school,
      and rather puts 'em off their feed. But it's a ill wind as blows no good
      to nobody; that's what I always say when them lads has a wisitation. A
      wisitation, sir, is the lot of mortality. Mortality itself, sir, is a
      wisitation. The world is chock full of wisitations; and if a boy repines
      at a wisitation and makes you uncomfortable with his noise, he must have
      his head punched. That's going according to the Scripter, that is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Squeers,' said Ralph, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We'll avoid these precious morsels of morality if you please, and talk of
      business.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'With all my heart, sir,' rejoined Squeers, 'and first let me say&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'First let <i>me</i> say, if you please.&mdash;Noggs!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman presented himself when the summons had been twice or thrice
      repeated, and asked if his master called.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did. Go to your dinner. And go at once. Do you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It an't time,' said Newman, doggedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My time is yours, and I say it is,' returned Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You alter it every day,' said Newman. 'It isn't fair.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't keep many cooks, and can easily apologise to them for the
      trouble,' retorted Ralph. 'Begone, sir!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph not only issued this order in his most peremptory manner, but, under
      pretence of fetching some papers from the little office, saw it obeyed,
      and, when Newman had left the house, chained the door, to prevent the
      possibility of his returning secretly, by means of his latch-key.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have reason to suspect that fellow,' said Ralph, when he returned to
      his own office. 'Therefore, until I have thought of the shortest and least
      troublesome way of ruining him, I hold it best to keep him at a distance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It wouldn't take much to ruin him, I should think,' said Squeers, with a
      grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Perhaps not,' answered Ralph. 'Nor to ruin a great many people whom I
      know. You were going to say&mdash;?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph's summary and matter-of-course way of holding up this example, and
      throwing out the hint that followed it, had evidently an effect (as
      doubtless it was designed to have) upon Mr. Squeers, who said, after a
      little hesitation and in a much more subdued tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what I was a-going to say, sir, is, that this here business
      regarding of that ungrateful and hard-hearted chap, Snawley senior, puts
      me out of my way, and occasions a inconveniency quite unparalleled,
      besides, as I may say, making, for whole weeks together, Mrs. Squeers a
      perfect widder. It's a pleasure to me to act with you, of course.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of course,' said Ralph, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, I say of course,' resumed Mr. Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'but at the
      same time, when one comes, as I do now, better than two hundred and fifty
      mile to take a afferdavid, it does put a man out a good deal, letting
      alone the risk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And where may the risk be, Mr. Squeers?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said, letting alone the risk,' replied Squeers, evasively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And I said, where was the risk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wasn't complaining, you know, Mr. Nickleby,' pleaded Squeers. 'Upon my
      word I never see such a&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I ask you where is the risk?' repeated Ralph, emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where the risk?' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees still harder. 'Why,
      it an't necessary to mention. Certain subjects is best awoided. Oh, you
      know what risk I mean.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How often have I told you,' said Ralph, 'and how often am I to tell you,
      that you run no risk? What have you sworn, or what are you asked to swear,
      but that at such and such a time a boy was left with you in the name of
      Smike; that he was at your school for a given number of years, was lost
      under such and such circumstances, is now found, and has been identified
      by you in such and such keeping? This is all true; is it not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' replied Squeers, 'that's all true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, then,' said Ralph, 'what risk do you run? Who swears to a lie but
      Snawley; a man whom I have paid much less than I have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He certainly did it cheap, did Snawley,' observed Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He did it cheap!' retorted Ralph, testily; 'yes, and he did it well, and
      carries it off with a hypocritical face and a sanctified air, but you!
      Risk! What do you mean by risk? The certificates are all genuine, Snawley
      <i>had </i>another son, he HAS been married twice, his first wife <i>is </i>dead, none
      but her ghost could tell that she didn't write that letter, none but
      Snawley himself can tell that this is not his son, and that his son is
      food for worms! The only perjury is Snawley's, and I fancy he is pretty
      well used to it. Where's your risk?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, you know,' said Squeers, fidgeting in his chair, 'if you come to
      that, I might say where's yours?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You might say where's mine!' returned Ralph; 'you may say where's mine. I
      don't appear in the business, neither do you. All Snawley's interest is to
      stick well to the story he has told; and all his risk is, to depart from
      it in the least. Talk of <i>your </i>risk in the conspiracy!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say,' remonstrated Squeers, looking uneasily round: 'don't call it
      that! Just as a favour, don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Call it what you like,' said Ralph, irritably, 'but attend to me. This
      tale was originally fabricated as a means of annoyance against one who
      hurt your trade and half cudgelled you to death, and to enable you to
      obtain repossession of a half-dead drudge, whom you wished to regain,
      because, while you wreaked your vengeance on him for his share in the
      business, you knew that the knowledge that he was again in your power
      would be the best punishment you could inflict upon your enemy. Is that
      so, Mr. Squeers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, sir,' returned Squeers, almost overpowered by the determination
      which Ralph displayed to make everything tell against him, and by his
      stern unyielding manner, 'in a measure it was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does that mean?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, in a measure means,' returned Squeers, 'as it may be, that it wasn't
      all on my account, because you had some old grudge to satisfy, too.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If I had not had,' said Ralph, in no way abashed by the reminder, 'do you
      think I should have helped you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why no, I don't suppose you would,' Squeers replied. 'I only wanted that
      point to be all square and straight between us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How can it ever be otherwise?' retorted Ralph. 'Except that the account
      is against me, for I spend money to gratify my hatred, and you pocket it,
      and gratify yours at the same time. You are, at least, as avaricious as
      you are revengeful. So am I. Which is best off? You, who win money and
      revenge, at the same time and by the same process, and who are, at all
      events, sure of money, if not of revenge; or I, who am only sure of
      spending money in any case, and can but win bare revenge at last?'
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr. Squeers could only answer this proposition by shrugs and smiles,
      Ralph bade him be silent, and thankful that he was so well off; and then,
      fixing his eyes steadily upon him, proceeded to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      First, that Nicholas had thwarted him in a plan he had formed for the
      disposal in marriage of a certain young lady, and had, in the confusion
      attendant on her father's sudden death, secured that lady himself, and
      borne her off in triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      Secondly, that by some will or settlement&mdash;certainly by some
      instrument in writing, which must contain the young lady's name, and could
      be, therefore, easily selected from others, if access to the place where
      it was deposited were once secured&mdash;she was entitled to property
      which, if the existence of this deed ever became known to her, would make
      her husband (and Ralph represented that Nicholas was certain to marry her)
      a rich and prosperous man, and most formidable enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thirdly, that this deed had been, with others, stolen from one who had
      himself obtained or concealed it fraudulently, and who feared to take any
      steps for its recovery; and that he (Ralph) knew the thief.
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this Mr. Squeers listened, with greedy ears that devoured every
      syllable, and with his one eye and his mouth wide open: marvelling for
      what special reason he was honoured with so much of Ralph's confidence,
      and to what it all tended.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' said Ralph, leaning forward, and placing his hand on Squeers's arm,
      'hear the design which I have conceived, and which I must&mdash;I say,
      must, if I can ripen it&mdash;have carried into execution. No advantage
      can be reaped from this deed, whatever it is, save by the girl herself, or
      her husband; and the possession of this deed by one or other of them is
      indispensable to any advantage being gained. <i>That </i>I have discovered beyond
      the possibility of doubt. I want that deed brought here, that I may give
      the man who brings it fifty pounds in gold, and burn it to ashes before
      his face.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers, after following with his eye the action of Ralph's hand
      towards the fire-place as if he were at that moment consuming the paper,
      drew a long breath, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; but who's to bring it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody, perhaps, for much is to be done before it can be got at,' said
      Ralph. 'But if anybody&mdash;you!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers's first tokens of consternation, and his flat relinquishment of
      the task, would have staggered most men, if they had not immediately
      occasioned an utter abandonment of the proposition. On Ralph they produced
      not the slightest effect. Resuming, when the schoolmaster had quite talked
      himself out of breath, as coolly as if he had never been interrupted,
      Ralph proceeded to expatiate on such features of the case as he deemed it
      most advisable to lay the greatest stress on.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were, the age, decrepitude, and weakness of Mrs. Sliderskew; the
      great improbability of her having any accomplice or even acquaintance:
      taking into account her secluded habits, and her long residence in such a
      house as Gride's; the strong reason there was to suppose that the robbery
      was not the result of a concerted plan: otherwise she would have watched
      an opportunity of carrying off a sum of money; the difficulty she would be
      placed in when she began to think on what she had done, and found herself
      encumbered with documents of whose nature she was utterly ignorant; and
      the comparative ease with which somebody, with a full knowledge of her
      position, obtaining access to her, and working on her fears, if necessary,
      might worm himself into her confidence and obtain, under one pretence or
      another, free possession of the deed. To these were added such
      considerations as the constant residence of Mr. Squeers at a long distance
      from London, which rendered his association with Mrs. Sliderskew a mere
      masquerading frolic, in which nobody was likely to recognise him, either
      at the time or afterwards; the impossibility of Ralph's undertaking the
      task himself, he being already known to her by sight; and various comments
      on the uncommon tact and experience of Mr. Squeers: which would make his
      overreaching one old woman a mere matter of child's play and amusement. In
      addition to these influences and persuasions, Ralph drew, with his utmost
      skill and power, a vivid picture of the defeat which Nicholas would
      sustain, should they succeed, in linking himself to a beggar, where he
      expected to wed an heiress&mdash;glanced at the immeasurable importance it
      must be to a man situated as Squeers, to preserve such a friend as himself&mdash;dwelt
      on a long train of benefits, conferred since their first acquaintance,
      when he had reported favourably of his treatment of a sickly boy who had
      died under his hands (and whose death was very convenient to Ralph and his
      clients, but this he did <i>not </i>say), and finally hinted that the fifty
      pounds might be increased to seventy-five, or, in the event of very great
      success, even to a hundred.
    </p>
    <p>
      These arguments at length concluded, Mr. Squeers crossed his legs,
      uncrossed them, scratched his head, rubbed his eye, examined the palms of
      his hands, and bit his nails, and after exhibiting many other signs of
      restlessness and indecision, asked 'whether one hundred pound was the
      highest that Mr. Nickleby could go.' Being answered in the affirmative, he
      became restless again, and, after some thought, and an unsuccessful
      inquiry 'whether he couldn't go another fifty,' said he supposed he must
      try and do the most he could for a friend: which was always his maxim, and
      therefore he undertook the job.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But how are you to get at the woman?' he said; 'that's what it is as
      puzzles me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I may not get at her at all,' replied Ralph, 'but I'll try. I have hunted
      people in this city, before now, who have been better hid than she; and I
      know quarters in which a guinea or two, carefully spent, will often solve
      darker riddles than this. Ay, and keep them close too, if need be! I hear
      my man ringing at the door. We may as well part. You had better not come
      to and fro, but wait till you hear from me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good!' returned Squeers. 'I say! If you shouldn't find her out, you'll
      pay expenses at the Saracen, and something for loss of time?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Ralph, testily; 'yes! You have nothing more to say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Squeers shaking his head, Ralph accompanied him to the streetdoor, and
      audibly wondering, for the edification of Newman, why it was fastened as
      if it were night, let him in and Squeers out, and returned to his own
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now!' he muttered, 'come what come may, for the present I am firm and
      unshaken. Let me but retrieve this one small portion of my loss and
      disgrace; let me but defeat him in this one hope, dear to his heart as I
      know it must be; let me but do this; and it shall be the first link in
      such a chain which I will wind about him, as never man forged yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 57
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span><i>ow Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he prospered
            with it</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a dark, wet, gloomy night in autumn, when in an upper room of a
      mean house situated in an obscure street, or rather court, near Lambeth,
      there sat, all alone, a one-eyed man grotesquely habited, either for lack
      of better garments or for purposes of disguise, in a loose greatcoat, with
      arms half as long again as his own, and a capacity of breadth and length
      which would have admitted of his winding himself in it, head and all, with
      the utmost ease, and without any risk of straining the old and greasy
      material of which it was composed.
    </p>
    <p>
      So attired, and in a place so far removed from his usual haunts and
      occupations, and so very poor and wretched in its character, perhaps Mrs
      Squeers herself would have had some difficulty in recognising her lord:
      quickened though her natural sagacity doubtless would have been by the
      affectionate yearnings and impulses of a tender wife. But Mrs. Squeers's
      lord it was; and in a tolerably disconsolate mood Mrs. Squeers's lord
      appeared to be, as, helping himself from a black bottle which stood on the
      table beside him, he cast round the chamber a look, in which very slight
      regard for the objects within view was plainly mingled with some regretful
      and impatient recollection of distant scenes and persons.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, certainly, no particular attractions, either in the room over
      which the glance of Mr. Squeers so discontentedly wandered, or in the
      narrow street into which it might have penetrated, if he had thought fit
      to approach the window. The attic chamber in which he sat was bare and
      mean; the bedstead, and such few other articles of necessary furniture as
      it contained, were of the commonest description, in a most crazy state,
      and of a most uninviting appearance. The street was muddy, dirty, and
      deserted. Having but one outlet, it was traversed by few but the
      inhabitants at any time; and the night being one of those on which most
      people are glad to be within doors, it now presented no other signs of
      life than the dull glimmering of poor candles from the dirty windows, and
      few sounds but the pattering of the rain, and occasionally the heavy
      closing of some creaking door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers continued to look disconsolately about him, and to listen to
      these noises in profound silence, broken only by the rustling of his large
      coat, as he now and then moved his arm to raise his glass to his lips. Mr
      Squeers continued to do this for some time, until the increasing gloom
      warned him to snuff the candle. Seeming to be slightly roused by this
      exertion, he raised his eye to the ceiling, and fixing it upon some
      uncouth and fantastic figures, traced upon it by the wet and damp which
      had penetrated through the roof, broke into the following soliloquy:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, this is a pretty go, is this here! An uncommon pretty go! Here have
      I been, a matter of how many weeks&mdash;hard upon six&mdash;a follering
      up this here blessed old dowager petty larcenerer,'&mdash;Mr. Squeers
      delivered himself of this epithet with great difficulty and effort,&mdash;'and
      Dotheboys Hall a-running itself regularly to seed the while! That's the
      worst of ever being in with a owdacious chap like that old Nickleby. You
      never know when he's done with you, and if you're in for a penny, you're
      in for a pound.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This remark, perhaps, reminded Mr. Squeers that he was in for a hundred
      pound at any rate. His countenance relaxed, and he raised his glass to his
      mouth with an air of greater enjoyment of its contents than he had before
      evinced.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never see,' soliloquised Mr. Squeers in continuation, 'I never see nor
      come across such a file as that old Nickleby. Never! He's out of
      everybody's depth, he is. He's what you may call a rasper, is Nickleby. To
      see how sly and cunning he grubbed on, day after day, a-worming and
      plodding and tracing and turning and twining of hisself about, till he
      found out where this precious Mrs. Peg was hid, and cleared the ground for
      me to work upon. Creeping and crawling and gliding, like a ugly, old,
      bright-eyed, stagnation-blooded adder! Ah! He'd have made a good 'un in
      our line, but it would have been too limited for him; his genius would
      have busted all bonds, and coming over every obstacle, broke down all
      before it, till it erected itself into a monneyment of&mdash;Well, I'll
      think of the rest, and say it when conwenient.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Making a halt in his reflections at this place, Mr. Squeers again put his
      glass to his lips, and drawing a dirty letter from his pocket, proceeded
      to con over its contents with the air of a man who had read it very often,
      and now refreshed his memory rather in the absence of better amusement
      than for any specific information.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The pigs is well,' said Mr. Squeers, 'the cows is well, and the boys is
      bobbish. Young Sprouter has been a-winking, has he? I'll wink him when I
      get back. "Cobbey would persist in sniffing while he was a-eating his
      dinner, and said that the beef was so strong it made him."&mdash;Very
      good, Cobbey, we'll see if we can't make you sniff a little without beef.
      "Pitcher was took with another fever,"&mdash;of course he was&mdash;"and
      being fetched by his friends, died the day after he got home,"&mdash;of
      course he did, and out of aggravation; it's part of a deep-laid system.
      There an't another chap in the school but that boy as would have died
      exactly at the end of the quarter: taking it out of me to the very last,
      and then carrying his spite to the utmost extremity. "The juniorest Palmer
      said he wished he was in Heaven." I really don't know, I do <i>not </i>know
      what's to be done with that young fellow; he's always a-wishing something
      horrid. He said once, he wished he was a donkey, because then he wouldn't
      have a father as didn't love him! Pretty wicious that for a child of six!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers was so much moved by the contemplation of this hardened nature
      in one so young, that he angrily put up the letter, and sought, in a new
      train of ideas, a subject of consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a long time to have been a-lingering in London,' he said; 'and this
      is a precious hole to come and live in, even if it has been only for a
      week or so. Still, one hundred pound is five boys, and five boys takes a
      whole year to pay one hundred pounds, and there's their keep to be
      substracted, besides. There's nothing lost, neither, by one's being here;
      because the boys' money comes in just the same as if I was at home, and
      Mrs. Squeers she keeps them in order. There'll be some lost time to make
      up, of course. There'll be an arrear of flogging as'll have to be gone
      through: still, a couple of days makes that all right, and one don't mind
      a little extra work for one hundred pound. It's pretty nigh the time to
      wait upon the old woman. From what she said last night, I suspect that if
      I'm to succeed at all, I shall succeed tonight; so I'll have half a glass
      more, to wish myself success, and put myself in spirits. Mrs. Squeers, my
      dear, your health!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Leering with his one eye as if the lady to whom he drank had been actually
      present, Mr. Squeers&mdash;in his enthusiasm, no doubt&mdash;poured out a
      full glass, and emptied it; and as the liquor was raw spirits, and he had
      applied himself to the same bottle more than once already, it is not
      surprising that he found himself, by this time, in an extremely cheerful
      state, and quite enough excited for his purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      What this purpose was soon appeared; for, after a few turns about the room
      to steady himself, he took the bottle under his arm and the glass in his
      hand, and blowing out the candle as if he purposed being gone some time,
      stole out upon the staircase, and creeping softly to a door opposite his
      own, tapped gently at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But what's the use of tapping?' he said, 'She'll never hear. I suppose
      she isn't doing anything very particular; and if she is, it don't much
      matter, that I see.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this brief preface, Mr. Squeers applied his hand to the latch of the
      door, and thrusting his head into a garret far more deplorable than that
      he had just left, and seeing that there was nobody there but an old woman,
      who was bending over a wretched fire (for although the weather was still
      warm, the evening was chilly), walked in, and tapped her on the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my Slider,' said Mr. Squeers, jocularly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Is that you?' inquired Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! it's me, and me's the first person singular, nominative case,
      agreeing with the verb "it's", and governed by Squeers understood, as a
      acorn, a hour; but when the h is sounded, the a only is to be used, as a
      and, a art, a ighway,' replied Mr. Squeers, quoting at random from the
      grammar. 'At least, if it isn't, you don't know any better, and if it is,
      I've done it accidentally.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Delivering this reply in his accustomed tone of voice, in which of course
      it was inaudible to Peg, Mr. Squeers drew a stool to the fire, and placing
      himself over against her, and the bottle and glass on the floor between
      them, roared out again, very loud,
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, my Slider!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear you,' said Peg, receiving him very graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've come according to promise,' roared Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'So they used to say in that part of the country I come from,' observed
      Peg, complacently, 'but I think oil's better.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Better than what?' roared Squeers, adding some rather strong language in
      an undertone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' said Peg, 'of course not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I never saw such a monster as you are!' muttered Squeers, looking as
      amiable as he possibly could the while; for Peg's eye was upon him, and
      she was chuckling fearfully, as though in delight at having made a choice
      repartee, 'Do you see this? This is a bottle.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I see it,' answered Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, and do you see <i>this</i>?' bawled Squeers. 'This is a glass.' Peg saw
      that too.
    </p>
    <p>
      'See here, then,' said Squeers, accompanying his remarks with appropriate
      action, 'I fill the glass from the bottle, and I say "Your health,
      Slider," and empty it; then I rinse it genteelly with a little drop, which
      I'm forced to throw into the fire&mdash;hallo! we shall have the chimbley
      alight next&mdash;fill it again, and hand it over to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>Your </i>health,' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'She understands that, anyways,' muttered Squeers, watching Mrs. Sliderskew
      as she dispatched her portion, and choked and gasped in a most awful
      manner after so doing. 'Now then, let's have a talk. How's the
      rheumatics?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Sliderskew, with much blinking and chuckling, and with looks
      expressive of her strong admiration of Mr. Squeers, his person, manners,
      and conversation, replied that the rheumatics were better.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the reason,' said Mr. Squeers, deriving fresh facetiousness from
      the bottle; 'what's the reason of rheumatics? What do they mean? What do
      people have'em for&mdash;eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Sliderskew didn't know, but suggested that it was possibly because
      they couldn't help it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Measles, rheumatics, hooping-cough, fevers, agers, and lumbagers,' said
      Mr. Squeers, 'is all philosophy together; that's what it is. The heavenly
      bodies is philosophy, and the earthly bodies is philosophy. If there's a
      screw loose in a heavenly body, that's philosophy; and if there's screw
      loose in a earthly body, that's philosophy too; or it may be that
      sometimes there's a little metaphysics in it, but that's not often.
      Philosophy's the chap for me. If a parent asks a question in the
      classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, gravely, "Why, sir,
      in the first place, are you a philosopher?"&mdash;"No, Mr. Squeers," he
      says, "I an't." "Then, sir," says I, "I am sorry for you, for I shan't be
      able to explain it." Naturally, the parent goes away and wishes he was a
      philosopher, and, equally naturally, thinks I'm one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, and a great deal more, with tipsy profundity and a
      serio-comic air, and keeping his eye all the time on Mrs. Sliderskew, who
      was unable to hear one word, Mr. Squeers concluded by helping himself and
      passing the bottle: to which Peg did becoming reverence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's the time of day!' said Mr. Squeers. 'You look twenty pound ten
      better than you did.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Mrs. Sliderskew chuckled, but modesty forbade her assenting verbally
      to the compliment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twenty pound ten better,' repeated Mr. Squeers, 'than you did that day
      when I first introduced myself. Don't you know?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Peg, shaking her head, 'but you frightened me that day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Did I?' said Squeers; 'well, it was rather a startling thing for a
      stranger to come and recommend himself by saying that he knew all about
      you, and what your name was, and why you were living so quiet here, and
      what you had boned, and who you boned it from, wasn't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Peg nodded her head in strong assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I know everything that happens in that way, you see,' continued
      Squeers. 'Nothing takes place, of that kind, that I an't up to entirely.
      I'm a sort of a lawyer, Slider, of first-rate standing, and understanding
      too; I'm the intimate friend and confidential adwiser of pretty nigh every
      man, woman, and child that gets themselves into difficulties by being too
      nimble with their fingers, I'm&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers's catalogue of his own merits and accomplishments, which was
      partly the result of a concerted plan between himself and Ralph Nickleby,
      and flowed, in part, from the black bottle, was here interrupted by Mrs
      Sliderskew.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried, folding her arms and wagging her head; 'and so he
      wasn't married after all, wasn't he. Not married after all?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied Squeers, 'that he wasn't!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And a young lover come and carried off the bride, eh?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'From under his very nose,' replied Squeers; 'and I'm told the young chap
      cut up rough besides, and broke the winders, and forced him to swaller his
      wedding favour which nearly choked him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell me all about it again,' cried Peg, with a malicious relish of her
      old master's defeat, which made her natural hideousness something quite
      fearful; 'let's hear it all again, beginning at the beginning now, as if
      you'd never told me. Let's have it every word&mdash;now&mdash;now&mdash;beginning
      at the very first, you know, when he went to the house that morning!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers, plying Mrs. Sliderskew freely with the liquor, and sustaining
      himself under the exertion of speaking so loud by frequent applications to
      it himself, complied with this request by describing the discomfiture of
      Arthur Gride, with such improvements on the truth as happened to occur to
      him, and the ingenious invention and application of which had been very
      instrumental in recommending him to her notice in the beginning of their
      acquaintance. Mrs. Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of delight, rolling her
      head about, drawing up her skinny shoulders, and wrinkling her cadaverous
      face into so many and such complicated forms of ugliness, as awakened the
      unbounded astonishment and disgust even of Mr. Squeers.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He's a treacherous old goat,' said Peg, 'and cozened me with cunning
      tricks and lying promises, but never mind. I'm even with him. I'm even
      with him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'More than even, Slider,' returned Squeers; 'you'd have been even with him
      if he'd got married; but with the disappointment besides, you're a long
      way ahead. Out of sight, Slider, quite out of sight. And that reminds me,'
      he added, handing her the glass, 'if you want me to give you my opinion of
      them deeds, and tell you what you'd better keep and what you'd better
      burn, why, now's your time, Slider.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'There an't no hurry for that,' said Peg, with several knowing looks and
      winks.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! very well!' observed Squeers, 'it don't matter to me; you asked me,
      you know. I shouldn't charge you nothing, being a friend. You're the best
      judge of course. But you're a bold woman, Slider.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'How do you mean, bold?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I only mean that if it was me, I wouldn't keep papers as might hang
      me, littering about when they might be turned into money&mdash;them as
      wasn't useful made away with, and them as was, laid by somewheres, safe;
      that's all,' returned Squeers; 'but everybody's the best judge of their
      own affairs. All I say is, Slider, I wouldn't do it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Peg, 'then you shall see 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I don't want to see 'em,' replied Squeers, affecting to be out of humour;
      'don't talk as if it was a treat. Show 'em to somebody else, and take
      their advice.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers would, very likely, have carried on the farce of being offended
      a little longer, if Mrs. Sliderskew, in her anxiety to restore herself to
      her former high position in his good graces, had not become so extremely
      affectionate that he stood at some risk of being smothered by her
      caresses. Repressing, with as good a grace as possible, these little
      familiarities&mdash;for which, there is reason to believe, the black
      bottle was at least as much to blame as any constitutional infirmity on
      the part of Mrs. Sliderskew&mdash;he protested that he had only been
      joking: and, in proof of his unimpaired good-humour, that he was ready to
      examine the deeds at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any
      satisfaction or relief of mind to his fair friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And now you're up, my Slider,' bawled Squeers, as she rose to fetch them,
      'bolt the door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Peg trotted to the door, and after fumbling at the bolt, crept to the
      other end of the room, and from beneath the coals which filled the bottom
      of the cupboard, drew forth a small deal box. Having placed this on the
      floor at Squeers's feet, she brought, from under the pillow of her bed, a
      small key, with which she signed to that gentleman to open it. Mr. Squeers,
      who had eagerly followed her every motion, lost no time in obeying this
      hint: and, throwing back the lid, gazed with rapture on the documents
      which lay within.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now you see,' said Peg, kneeling down on the floor beside him, and
      staying his impatient hand; 'what's of no use we'll burn; what we can get
      any money by, we'll keep; and if there's any we could get him into trouble
      by, and fret and waste away his heart to shreds, those we'll take
      particular care of; for that's what I want to do, and what I hoped to do
      when I left him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I thought,' said Squeers, 'that you didn't bear him any particular
      good-will. But, I say, why didn't you take some money besides?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some what?' asked Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Some money,' roared Squeers. 'I do believe the woman hears me, and wants
      to make me break a wessel, so that she may have the pleasure of nursing
      me. Some money, Slider, money!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, what a man you are to ask!' cried Peg, with some contempt. 'If I had
      taken money from Arthur Gride, he'd have scoured the whole earth to find
      me&mdash;aye, and he'd have smelt it out, and raked it up, somehow, if I
      had buried it at the bottom of the deepest well in England. No, no! I knew
      better than that. I took what I thought his secrets were hid in: and them
      he couldn't afford to make public, let'em be worth ever so much money.
      He's an old dog; a sly, old, cunning, thankless dog! He first starved, and
      then tricked me; and if I could I'd kill him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'All right, and very laudable,' said Squeers. 'But, first and foremost,
      Slider, burn the box. You should never keep things as may lead to
      discovery. Always mind that. So while you pull it to pieces (which you can
      easily do, for it's very old and rickety) and burn it in little bits, I'll
      look over the papers and tell you what they are.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Peg, expressing her acquiescence in this arrangement, Mr. Squeers turned
      the box bottom upwards, and tumbling the contents upon the floor, handed
      it to her; the destruction of the box being an extemporary device for
      engaging her attention, in case it should prove desirable to distract it
      from his own proceedings.
    </p>
    <p>
      'There!' said Squeers; 'you poke the pieces between the bars, and make up
      a good fire, and I'll read the while. Let me see, let me see.' And taking
      the candle down beside him, Mr. Squeers, with great eagerness and a cunning
      grin overspreading his face, entered upon his task of examination.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the old woman had not been very deaf, she must have heard, when she
      last went to the door, the breathing of two persons close behind it: and
      if those two persons had been unacquainted with her infirmity, they must
      probably have chosen that moment either for presenting themselves or
      taking to flight. But, knowing with whom they had to deal, they remained
      quite still, and now, not only appeared unobserved at the door&mdash;which
      was not bolted, for the bolt had no hasp&mdash;but warily, and with
      noiseless footsteps, advanced into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they stole farther and farther in by slight and scarcely perceptible
      degrees, and with such caution that they scarcely seemed to breathe, the
      old hag and Squeers little dreaming of any such invasion, and utterly
      unconscious of there being any soul near but themselves, were busily
      occupied with their tasks. The old woman, with her wrinkled face close to
      the bars of the stove, puffing at the dull embers which had not yet caught
      the wood; Squeers stooping down to the candle, which brought out the full
      ugliness of his face, as the light of the fire did that of his companion;
      both intently engaged, and wearing faces of exultation which contrasted
      strongly with the anxious looks of those behind, who took advantage of the
      slightest sound to cover their advance, and, almost before they had moved
      an inch, and all was silent, stopped again. This, with the large bare
      room, damp walls, and flickering doubtful light, combined to form a scene
      which the most careless and indifferent spectator (could any have been
      present) could scarcely have failed to derive some interest from, and
      would not readily have forgotten.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0765m.jpg" alt="0765m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0765.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Of the stealthy comers, Frank Cheeryble was one, and Newman Noggs the
      other. Newman had caught up, by the rusty nozzle, an old pair of bellows,
      which were just undergoing a flourish in the air preparatory to a descent
      upon the head of Mr. Squeers, when Frank, with an earnest gesture, stayed
      his arm, and, taking another step in advance, came so close behind the
      schoolmaster that, by leaning slightly forward, he could plainly
      distinguish the writing which he held up to his eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Squeers, not being remarkably erudite, appeared to be considerably
      puzzled by this first prize, which was in an engrossing hand, and not very
      legible except to a practised eye. Having tried it by reading from left to
      right, and from right to left, and finding it equally clear both ways, he
      turned it upside down with no better success.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ha, ha, ha!' chuckled Peg, who, on her knees before the fire, was feeding
      it with fragments of the box, and grinning in most devilish exultation.
      'What's that writing about, eh?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing particular,' replied Squeers, tossing it towards her. 'It's only
      an old lease, as well as I can make out. Throw it in the fire.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Sliderskew complied, and inquired what the next one was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' said Squeers, 'is a bundle of overdue acceptances and renewed
      bills of six or eight young gentlemen, but they're all MPs, so it's of no
      use to anybody. Throw it in the fire!' Peg did as she was bidden, and
      waited for the next.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' said Squeers, 'seems to be some deed of sale of the right of
      presentation to the rectory of Purechurch, in the valley of Cashup. Take
      care of that, Slider, literally for God's sake. It'll fetch its price at
      the Auction Mart.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the next?' inquired Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, this,' said Squeers, 'seems, from the two letters that's with it, to
      be a bond from a curate down in the country, to pay half a year's wages of
      forty pound for borrowing twenty. Take care of that, for if he don't pay
      it, his bishop will very soon be down upon him. We know what the camel and
      the needle's eye means; no man as can't live upon his income, whatever it
      is, must expect to go to heaven at any price. It's very odd; I don't see
      anything like it yet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter?' said Peg.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nothing,' replied Squeers, 'only I'm looking for&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      Newman raised the bellows again. Once more, Frank, by a rapid motion of
      his arm, unaccompanied by any noise, checked him in his purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Here you are,' said Squeers, 'bonds&mdash;take care of them. Warrant of
      attorney&mdash;take care of that. Two cognovits&mdash;take care of them.
      Lease and release&mdash;burn that. Ah! "Madeline Bray&mdash;come of age or
      marry&mdash;the said Madeline"&mdash;here, burn <i>that</i>!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Eagerly throwing towards the old woman a parchment that he caught up for
      the purpose, Squeers, as she turned her head, thrust into the breast of
      his large coat, the deed in which these words had caught his eye, and
      burst into a shout of triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I've got it!' said Squeers. 'I've got it! Hurrah! The plan was a good
      one, though the chance was desperate, and the day's our own at last!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Peg demanded what he laughed at, but no answer was returned. Newman's arm
      could no longer be restrained; the bellows, descending heavily and with
      unerring aim on the very centre of Mr. Squeers's head, felled him to the
      floor, and stretched him on it flat and senseless.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 58
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>
      <i>n which one Scene of this History is closed</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
Dividing the distance into two days' journey, in order that his charge
      might sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far,
      Nicholas, at the end of the second day from their leaving home, found
      himself within a very few miles of the spot where the happiest years of
      his life had been passed, and which, while it filled his mind with
      pleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought back many painful and vivid
      recollections of the circumstances in which he and his had wandered forth
      from their old home, cast upon the rough world and the mercy of strangers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days, and
      wanderings among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usually
      awaken in the most insensible minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas, and
      render him more than usually mindful of his drooping friend. By night and
      day, at all times and seasons: always watchful, attentive, and solicitous,
      and never varying in the discharge of his self-imposed duty to one so
      friendless and helpless as he whose sands of life were now fast running
      out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever at his side. He never left
      him. To encourage and animate him, administer to his wants, support and
      cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant and unceasing
      occupation.
    </p>
    <p>
      They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by meadows
      where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of merry
      schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances at a
      time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could afford
      him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as visiting
      those places which had been most familiar to his friend in bygone days.
      Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its indulgence beguiled
      the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed to afford him matter
      for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholas made such spots the
      scenes of their daily rambles: driving him from place to place in a little
      pony-chair, and supporting him on his arm while they walked slowly among
      these old haunts, or lingered in the sunlight to take long parting looks
      of those which were most quiet and beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost
      unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some
      tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds in
      their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate, who
      stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging him
      higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was the old house
      too, which they would pass every day, looking up at the tiny window
      through which the sun used to stream in and wake him on the summer
      mornings&mdash;they were all summer mornings then&mdash;and climbing up
      the garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush
      which had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had
      planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother and
      sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the green fields
      and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not a lane, or
      brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish event was not
      entwined, and back it came upon the mind&mdash;as events of childhood do&mdash;nothing
      in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress, a
      passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and distinctly marked, and
      better remembered, than the hardest trials or severest sorrows of a year
      ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his
      father's grave. 'Even here,' said Nicholas softly, 'we used to loiter
      before we knew what death was, and when we little thought whose ashes
      would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest and
      speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of
      fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep, under that tree which
      shades my father's grave. He was very fond of her, and said when he took
      her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he died he would wish to
      be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his wish
      was not forgotten.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside
      his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying
      his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he would
      make him one solemn promise.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. 'If I can redeem it, or hope to do
      so, you know I will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure you will,' was the reply. 'Promise me that when I die, I shall
      be buried near&mdash;as near as they can make my grave&mdash;to the tree
      we saw today.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were
      solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as if
      to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressed more than
      once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly loosed his
      hold.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice,
      Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the
      chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in his
      weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house, which
      was his favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone, and the
      weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little orchard which
      was close at hand, and his charge being well wrapped up and carried out to
      it, they used to sit there sometimes for hours together.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which
      Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an
      imagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too good
      reason to know was of real and actual occurrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had brought Smike out in his arms&mdash;poor fellow! a child might have
      carried him then&mdash;to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch,
      had taken his seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the night
      before, and being greatly fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fell
      asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened by a
      scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person
      suddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge had
      struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almost starting from their
      sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and in a fit of trembling
      which quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Good Heaven, what is this?' said Nicholas, bending over him. 'Be calm;
      you have been dreaming.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no!' cried Smike, clinging to him. 'Hold me tight. Don't let me
      go. There, there. Behind the tree!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind
      the chair from which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothing
      there.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0770m.jpg" alt="0770m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0770.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to compose him;
      'nothing else, indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was the answer. 'Oh! say
      you'll keep me with you. Swear you won't leave me for an instant!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do I ever leave you?' returned Nicholas. 'Lie down again&mdash;there! You
      see I'm here. Now, tell me; what was it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you remember,' said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfully
      round, 'do you remember my telling you of the man who first took me to the
      school?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, surely.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree&mdash;that one with the
      thick trunk&mdash;and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas; 'granting, for an instant,
      that it's likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place like this,
      so far removed from the public road, do you think that at this distance of
      time you could possibly know that man again?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anywhere&mdash;in any dress,' returned Smike; 'but, just now, he stood
      leaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you I
      remembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed&mdash;I
      think his clothes were ragged&mdash;but directly I saw him, the wet night,
      his face when he left me, the parlour I was left in, and the people that
      were there, all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, he
      looked frightened; for he started, and shrunk away. I have thought of him
      by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep, when I was
      quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he did
      just now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could think of,
      to convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived him,
      and that this close resemblance between the creation of his dreams and the
      man he supposed he had seen was but a proof of it; but all in vain. When
      he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the care of the
      people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict inquiry whether
      any stranger had been seen, and searched himself behind the tree, and
      through the orchard, and upon the land immediately adjoining, and in every
      place near, where it was possible for a man to lie concealed; but all in
      vain. Satisfied that he was right in his original conjecture, he applied
      himself to calming the fears of Smike, which, after some time, he
      partially succeeded in doing, though not in removing the impression upon
      his mind; for he still declared, again and again, in the most solemn and
      fervid manner, that he had positively seen what he had described, and that
      nothing could ever remove his conviction of its reality.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the
      partner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world
      was closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but there was
      no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted to
      the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be heard
      to speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to
      die.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the
      soft sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a
      sound was heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in his
      old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come. So very
      still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to listen for
      the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was
      still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep slumber from which
      on earth there is no waking.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face
      there came a placid smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's well!' said Nicholas. 'The sleep has done you good.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have had such pleasant dreams,' was the answer. 'Such pleasant, happy
      dreams!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck,
      made answer, 'I shall soon be there!'
    </p>
    <p>
      After a short silence, he spoke again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am not afraid to die,' he said. 'I am quite contented. I almost think
      that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to do so,
      now. You have so often told me we shall meet again&mdash;so very often
      lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly&mdash;that I can even
      bear to part from you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the arm which
      accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's
      heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply they had touched
      the heart of him to whom they were addressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, 'and comfort me very much,
      dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you.
      You would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I blame you!' exclaimed Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and&mdash;and
      sat so much alone. Shall I tell you why?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. 'I only asked that I might make you
      happier, if I could.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know. I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer to him. 'You
      will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would have died to make
      her happy, it broke my heart to see&mdash;I know he loves her dearly&mdash;Oh!
      who could find that out so soon as I?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by
      long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that the
      dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on one absorbing,
      hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded in
      one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was dead,
      Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it, and that
      when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the earth, he
      would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with him in the
      grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that he
      should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed each
      other on the cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now,' he murmured, 'I am happy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke of
      beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled
      with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their
      faces; then, whispered that it was Eden&mdash;and so died.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 59
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>
      <i>he Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
Ralph sat alone, in the solitary room where he was accustomed to take his
      meals, and to sit of nights when no profitable occupation called him
      abroad. Before him was an untasted breakfast, and near to where his
      fingers beat restlessly upon the table, lay his watch. It was long past
      the time at which, for many years, he had put it in his pocket and gone
      with measured steps downstairs to the business of the day, but he took as
      little heed of its monotonous warning, as of the meat and drink before
      him, and remained with his head resting on one hand, and his eyes fixed
      moodily on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      This departure from his regular and constant habit, in one so regular and
      unvarying in all that appertained to the daily pursuit of riches, would
      almost of itself have told that the usurer was not well. That he laboured
      under some mental or bodily indisposition, and that it was one of no
      slight kind so to affect a man like him, was sufficiently shown by his
      haggard face, jaded air, and hollow languid eyes: which he raised at last
      with a start and a hasty glance around him, as one who suddenly awakes
      from sleep, and cannot immediately recognise the place in which he finds
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What is this,' he said, 'that hangs over me, and I cannot shake off? I
      have never pampered myself, and should not be ill. I have never moped, and
      pined, and yielded to fancies; but what <i>can </i>a man do without rest?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He pressed his hand upon his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Night after night comes and goes, and I have no rest. If I sleep, what
      rest is that which is disturbed by constant dreams of the same detested
      faces crowding round me&mdash;of the same detested people, in every
      variety of action, mingling with all I say and do, and always to my
      defeat? Waking, what rest have I, constantly haunted by this heavy shadow
      of&mdash;I know not what&mdash;which is its worst character? I must have
      rest. One night's unbroken rest, and I should be a man again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Pushing the table from him while he spoke, as though he loathed the sight
      of food, he encountered the watch: the hands of which were almost upon
      noon.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is strange!' he said; 'noon, and Noggs not here! What drunken brawl
      keeps him away? I would give something now&mdash;something in money even
      after that dreadful loss&mdash;if he had stabbed a man in a tavern
      scuffle, or broken into a house, or picked a pocket, or done anything that
      would send him abroad with an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of him.
      Better still, if I could throw temptation in his way, and lure him on to
      rob me. He should be welcome to what he took, so I brought the law upon
      him; for he is a traitor, I swear! How, or when, or where, I don't know,
      though I suspect.'
    </p>
    <p>
      After waiting for another half-hour, he dispatched the woman who kept his
      house to Newman's lodging, to inquire if he were ill, and why he had not
      come or sent. She brought back answer that he had not been home all night,
      and that no one could tell her anything about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'But there is a gentleman, sir,' she said, 'below, who was standing at the
      door when I came in, and he says&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What says he?' demanded Ralph, turning angrily upon her. 'I told you I
      would see nobody.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He says,' replied the woman, abashed by his harshness, 'that he comes on
      very particular business which admits of no excuse; and I thought perhaps
      it might be about&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'About what, in the devil's name?' said Ralph. 'You spy and speculate on
      people's business with me, do you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious, and thought it might be about Mr
      Noggs; that's all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Saw I was anxious!' muttered Ralph; 'they all watch me, now. Where is
      this person? You did not say I was not down yet, I hope?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman replied that he was in the little office, and that she had said
      her master was engaged, but she would take the message.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well,' said Ralph, 'I'll see him. Go you to your kitchen, and keep there.
      Do you mind me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Glad to be released, the woman quickly disappeared. Collecting himself,
      and assuming as much of his accustomed manner as his utmost resolution
      could summon, Ralph descended the stairs. After pausing for a few moments,
      with his hand upon the lock, he entered Newman's room, and confronted Mr
      Charles Cheeryble.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of all men alive, this was one of the last he would have wished to meet at
      any time; but, now that he recognised in him only the patron and protector
      of Nicholas, he would rather have seen a spectre. One beneficial effect,
      however, the encounter had upon him. It instantly roused all his dormant
      energies; rekindled in his breast the passions that, for many years, had
      found an improving home there; called up all his wrath, hatred, and
      malice; restored the sneer to his lip, and the scowl to his brow; and made
      him again, in all outward appearance, the same Ralph Nickleby whom so many
      had bitter cause to remember.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humph!' said Ralph, pausing at the door. 'This is an unexpected favour,
      sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And an unwelcome one,' said brother Charles; 'an unwelcome one, I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Men say you are truth itself, sir,' replied Ralph. 'You speak truth now,
      at all events, and I'll not contradict you. The favour is, at least, as
      unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can scarcely say more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Plainly, sir&mdash;' began brother Charles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Plainly, sir,' interrupted Ralph, 'I wish this conference to be a short
      one, and to end where it begins. I guess the subject upon which you are
      about to speak, and I'll not hear you. You like plainness, I believe;
      there it is. Here is the door as you see. Our way lies in very different
      directions. Take yours, I beg of you, and leave me to pursue mine in
      quiet.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'In quiet!' repeated brother Charles mildly, and looking at him with more
      of pity than reproach. 'To pursue <i>his </i>way in quiet!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You will scarcely remain in my house, I presume, sir, against my will,'
      said Ralph; 'or you can scarcely hope to make an impression upon a man who
      closes his ears to all that you can say, and is firmly and resolutely
      determined not to hear you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby, sir,' returned brother Charles: no less mildly than before,
      but firmly too: 'I come here against my will, sorely and grievously
      against my will. I have never been in this house before; and, to speak my
      mind, sir, I don't feel at home or easy in it, and have no wish ever to be
      here again. You do not guess the subject on which I come to speak to you;
      you do not indeed. I am sure of that, or your manner would be a very
      different one.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear eye and open countenance of the
      honest old merchant underwent no change of expression, and met his look
      without reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shall I go on?' said Mr. Cheeryble.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, by all means, if you please,' returned Ralph drily. 'Here are walls
      to speak to, sir, a desk, and two stools: most attentive auditors, and
      certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg; make my house yours, and
      perhaps by the time I return from my walk, you will have finished what you
      have to say, and will yield me up possession again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he buttoned his coat, and turning into the passage, took down
      his hat. The old gentleman followed, and was about to speak, when Ralph
      waved him off impatiently, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word. Virtuous as you are, you are not
      an angel yet, to appear in men's houses whether they will or no, and pour
      your speech into unwilling ears. Preach to the walls I tell you; not to
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am no angel, Heaven knows,' returned brother Charles, shaking his head,
      'but an erring and imperfect man; nevertheless, there is one quality which
      all men have, in common with the angels, blessed opportunities of
      exercising, if they will; mercy. It is an errand of mercy that brings me
      here. Pray let me discharge it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I show no mercy,' retorted Ralph with a triumphant smile, 'and I ask
      none. Seek no mercy from me, sir, in behalf of the fellow who has imposed
      upon your childish credulity, but let him expect the worst that I can do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      '<i>He</i> ask mercy at your hands!' exclaimed the old merchant warmly; 'ask it
      at his, sir; ask it at his. If you will not hear me now, when you may,
      hear me when you must, or anticipate what I would say, and take measures
      to prevent our ever meeting again. Your nephew is a noble lad, sir, an
      honest, noble lad. What you are, Mr. Nickleby, I will not say; but what you
      have done, I know. Now, sir, when you go about the business in which you
      have been recently engaged, and find it difficult of pursuing, come to me
      and my brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater, sir, and we'll explain it for you&mdash;and
      come soon, or it may be too late, and you may have it explained with a
      little more roughness, and a little less delicacy&mdash;and never forget,
      sir, that I came here this morning, in mercy to you, and am still ready to
      talk to you in the same spirit.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, uttered with great emphasis and emotion, brother Charles
      put on his broad-brimmed hat, and, passing Ralph Nickleby without any
      other remark, trotted nimbly into the street. Ralph looked after him, but
      neither moved nor spoke for some time: when he broke what almost seemed
      the silence of stupefaction, by a scornful laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' he said, 'from its wildness, should be another of those dreams
      that have so broken my rest of late. In mercy to me! Pho! The old
      simpleton has gone mad.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Although he expressed himself in this derisive and contemptuous manner, it
      was plain that, the more Ralph pondered, the more ill at ease he became,
      and the more he laboured under some vague anxiety and alarm, which
      increased as the time passed on and no tidings of Newman Noggs arrived.
      After waiting until late in the afternoon, tortured by various
      apprehensions and misgivings, and the recollection of the warning which
      his nephew had given him when they last met: the further confirmation of
      which now presented itself in one shape of probability, now in another,
      and haunted him perpetually: he left home, and, scarcely knowing why, save
      that he was in a suspicious and agitated mood, betook himself to Snawley's
      house. His wife presented herself; and, of her, Ralph inquired whether her
      husband was at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' she said sharply, 'he is not indeed, and I don't think he will be at
      home for a very long time; that's more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do you know who I am?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh yes, I know you very well; too well, perhaps, and perhaps he does too,
      and sorry am I that I should have to say it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell him that I saw him through the window-blind above, as I crossed the
      road just now, and that I would speak to him on business,' said Ralph. 'Do
      you hear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hear,' rejoined Mrs. Snawley, taking no further notice of the request.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew this woman was a hypocrite, in the way of psalms and Scripture
      phrases,' said Ralph, passing quietly by, 'but I never knew she drank
      before.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Stop! You don't come in here,' said Mr. Snawley's better-half, interposing
      her person, which was a robust one, in the doorway. 'You have said more
      than enough to him on business, before now. I always told him what dealing
      with you and working out your schemes would come to. It was either you or
      the schoolmaster&mdash;one of you, or the two between you&mdash;that got
      the forged letter done; remember that! That wasn't his doing, so don't lay
      it at his door.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hold your tongue, you Jezebel,' said Ralph, looking fearfully round.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah, I know when to hold my tongue, and when to speak, Mr. Nickleby,'
      retorted the dame. 'Take care that other people know when to hold theirs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You jade,' said Ralph, 'if your husband has been idiot enough to trust
      you with his secrets, keep them; keep them, she-devil that you are!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not so much his secrets as other people's secrets, perhaps,' retorted the
      woman; 'not so much his secrets as yours. None of your black looks at me!
      You'll want 'em all, perhaps, for another time. You had better keep 'em.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Will you,' said Ralph, suppressing his passion as well as he could, and
      clutching her tightly by the wrist; 'will you go to your husband and tell
      him that I know he is at home, and that I must see him? And will you tell
      me what it is that you and he mean by this new style of behaviour?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No,' replied the woman, violently disengaging herself, 'I'll do neither.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You set me at defiance, do you?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' was the answer. I do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      For an instant Ralph had his hand raised, as though he were about to
      strike her; but, checking himself, and nodding his head and muttering as
      though to assure her he would not forget this, walked away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thence, he went straight to the inn which Mr. Squeers frequented, and
      inquired when he had been there last; in the vague hope that, successful
      or unsuccessful, he might, by this time, have returned from his mission
      and be able to assure him that all was safe. But Mr. Squeers had not been
      there for ten days, and all that the people could tell about him was, that
      he had left his luggage and his bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Disturbed by a thousand fears and surmises, and bent upon ascertaining
      whether Squeers had any suspicion of Snawley, or was, in any way, a party
      to this altered behaviour, Ralph determined to hazard the extreme step of
      inquiring for him at the Lambeth lodging, and having an interview with him
      even there. Bent upon this purpose, and in that mood in which delay is
      insupportable, he repaired at once to the place; and being, by
      description, perfectly acquainted with the situation of his room, crept
      upstairs and knocked gently at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not one, nor two, nor three, nor yet a dozen knocks, served to convince
      Ralph, against his wish, that there was nobody inside. He reasoned that he
      might be asleep; and, listening, almost persuaded himself that he could
      hear him breathe. Even when he was satisfied that he could not be there,
      he sat patiently on a broken stair and waited; arguing, that he had gone
      out upon some slight errand, and must soon return.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many feet came up the creaking stairs; and the step of some seemed to his
      listening ear so like that of the man for whom he waited, that Ralph often
      stood up to be ready to address him when he reached the top; but, one by
      one, each person turned off into some room short of the place where he was
      stationed: and at every such disappointment he felt quite chilled and
      lonely.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length he felt it was hopeless to remain, and going downstairs again,
      inquired of one of the lodgers if he knew anything of Mr. Squeers's
      movements&mdash;mentioning that worthy by an assumed name which had been
      agreed upon between them. By this lodger he was referred to another, and
      by him to someone else, from whom he learnt, that, late on the previous
      night, he had gone out hastily with two men, who had shortly afterwards
      returned for the old woman who lived on the same floor; and that, although
      the circumstance had attracted the attention of the informant, he had not
      spoken to them at the time, nor made any inquiry afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      This possessed him with the idea that, perhaps, Peg Sliderskew had been
      apprehended for the robbery, and that Mr. Squeers, being with her at the
      time, had been apprehended also, on suspicion of being a confederate. If
      this were so, the fact must be known to Gride; and to Gride's house he
      directed his steps; now thoroughly alarmed, and fearful that there were
      indeed plots afoot, tending to his discomfiture and ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arrived at the usurer's house, he found the windows close shut, the dingy
      blinds drawn down; all was silent, melancholy, and deserted. But this was
      its usual aspect. He knocked&mdash;gently at first&mdash;then loud and
      vigorously. Nobody came. He wrote a few words in pencil on a card, and
      having thrust it under the door was going away, when a noise above, as
      though a window-sash were stealthily raised, caught his ear, and looking
      up he could just discern the face of Gride himself, cautiously peering
      over the house parapet from the window of the garret. Seeing who was
      below, he drew it in again; not so quickly, however, but that Ralph let
      him know he was observed, and called to him to come down.
    </p>
    <p>
      The call being repeated, Gride looked out again, so cautiously that no
      part of the old man's body was visible. The sharp features and white hair
      appearing alone, above the parapet, looked like a severed head garnishing
      the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hush!' he cried. 'Go away, go away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come down,' said Ralph, beckoning him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go a&mdash;way!' squeaked Gride, shaking his head in a sort of ecstasy of
      impatience. 'Don't speak to me, don't knock, don't call attention to the
      house, but go away.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I'll knock, I swear, till I have your neighbours up in arms,' said Ralph,
      'if you don't tell me what you mean by lurking there, you whining cur.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can't hear what you say&mdash;don't talk to me&mdash;it isn't safe&mdash;go
      away&mdash;go away!' returned Gride.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come down, I say. Will you come down?' said Ralph fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No&mdash;o&mdash;o&mdash;oo,' snarled Gride. He drew in his head; and
      Ralph, left standing in the street, could hear the sash closed, as gently
      and carefully as it had been opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How is this,' said he, 'that they all fall from me, and shun me like the
      plague, these men who have licked the dust from my feet? <i>is</i> my day past,
      and is this indeed the coming on of night? I'll know what it means! I
      will, at any cost. I am firmer and more myself, just now, than I have been
      these many days.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Turning from the door, which, in the first transport of his rage, he had
      meditated battering upon until Gride's very fears should impel him to open
      it, he turned his face towards the city, and working his way steadily
      through the crowd which was pouring from it (it was by this time between
      five and six o'clock in the afternoon) went straight to the house of
      business of the brothers Cheeryble, and putting his head into the glass
      case, found Tim Linkinwater alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My name's Nickleby,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know it,' replied Tim, surveying him through his spectacles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which of your firm was it who called on me this morning?' demanded Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Charles.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then, tell Mr. Charles I want to see him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You shall see,' said Tim, getting off his stool with great agility, 'you
      shall see, not only Mr. Charles, but Mr. Ned likewise.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim stopped, looked steadily and severely at Ralph, nodded his head once,
      in a curt manner which seemed to say there was a little more behind, and
      vanished. After a short interval, he returned, and, ushering Ralph into
      the presence of the two brothers, remained in the room himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want to speak to you, who spoke to me this morning,' said Ralph,
      pointing out with his finger the man whom he addressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have no secrets from my brother Ned, or from Tim Linkinwater,' observed
      brother Charles quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have,' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby, sir,' said brother Ned, 'the matter upon which my brother
      Charles called upon you this morning is one which is already perfectly
      well known to us three, and to others besides, and must unhappily soon
      become known to a great many more. He waited upon you, sir, this morning,
      alone, as a matter of delicacy and consideration. We feel, now, that
      further delicacy and consideration would be misplaced; and, if we confer
      together, it must be as we are or not at all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, gentlemen,' said Ralph with a curl of the lip, 'talking in riddles
      would seem to be the peculiar forte of you two, and I suppose your clerk,
      like a prudent man, has studied the art also with a view to your good
      graces. Talk in company, gentlemen, in God's name. I'll humour you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Humour!' cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly growing very red in the face.
      'He'll humour us! He'll humour Cheeryble Brothers! Do you hear that? Do
      you hear him? <i>Do</i> you hear him say he'll humour Cheeryble Brothers?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tim,' said Charles and Ned together, 'pray, Tim, pray now, don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim, taking the hint, stifled his indignation as well as he could, and
      suffered it to escape through his spectacles, with the additional
      safety-valve of a short hysterical laugh now and then, which seemed to
      relieve him mightily.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As nobody bids me to a seat,' said Ralph, looking round, 'I'll take one,
      for I am fatigued with walking. And now, if you please, gentlemen, I wish
      to know&mdash;I demand to know; I have the right&mdash;what you have to
      say to me, which justifies such a tone as you have assumed, and that
      underhand interference in my affairs which, I have reason to suppose, you
      have been practising. I tell you plainly, gentlemen, that little as I care
      for the opinion of the world (as the slang goes), I don't choose to submit
      quietly to slander and malice. Whether you suffer yourselves to be imposed
      upon too easily, or wilfully make yourselves parties to it, the result to
      me is the same. In either case, you can't expect from a plain man like
      myself much consideration or forbearance.'
    </p>
    <p>
      So coolly and deliberately was this said, that nine men out of ten,
      ignorant of the circumstances, would have supposed Ralph to be really an
      injured man. There he sat, with folded arms; paler than usual, certainly,
      and sufficiently ill-favoured, but quite collected&mdash;far more so than
      the brothers or the exasperated Tim&mdash;and ready to face out the worst.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, sir,' said brother Charles. 'Very well. Brother Ned, will you
      ring the bell?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Charles, my dear fellow! stop one instant,' returned the other. 'It will
      be better for Mr. Nickleby and for our object that he should remain silent,
      if he can, till we have said what we have to say. I wish him to understand
      that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite right, quite right,' said brother Charles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph smiled, but made no reply. The bell was rung; the room-door opened;
      a man came in, with a halting walk; and, looking round, Ralph's eyes met
      those of Newman Noggs. From that moment, his heart began to fail him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This is a good beginning,' he said bitterly. 'Oh! this is a good
      beginning. You are candid, honest, open-hearted, fair-dealing men! I
      always knew the real worth of such characters as yours! To tamper with a
      fellow like this, who would sell his soul (if he had one) for drink, and
      whose every word is a lie. What men are safe if this is done? Oh, it's a
      good beginning!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I <i>will </i>speak,' cried Newman, standing on tiptoe to look over Tim's head,
      who had interposed to prevent him. 'Hallo, you sir&mdash;old Nickleby!&mdash;what
      do you mean when you talk of "a fellow like this"? Who made me "a fellow
      like this"? If I would sell my soul for drink, why wasn't I a thief,
      swindler, housebreaker, area sneak, robber of pence out of the trays of
      blind men's dogs, rather than your drudge and packhorse? If my every word
      was a lie, why wasn't I a pet and favourite of yours? Lie! When did I ever
      cringe and fawn to you. Tell me that! I served you faithfully. I did more
      work, because I was poor, and took more hard words from you because I
      despised you and them, than any man you could have got from the parish
      workhouse. I did. I served you because I was proud; because I was a lonely
      man with you, and there were no other drudges to see my degradation; and
      because nobody knew, better than you, that I was a ruined man: that I
      hadn't always been what I am: and that I might have been better off, if I
      hadn't been a fool and fallen into the hands of you and others who were
      knaves. Do you deny that?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gently,' reasoned Tim; 'you said you wouldn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I said I wouldn't!' cried Newman, thrusting him aside, and moving his
      hand as Tim moved, so as to keep him at arm's length; 'don't tell me!
      Here, you Nickleby! Don't pretend not to mind me; it won't do; I know
      better. You were talking of tampering, just now. Who tampered with
      Yorkshire schoolmasters, and, while they sent the drudge out, that he
      shouldn't overhear, forgot that such great caution might render him
      suspicious, and that he might watch his master out at nights, and might
      set other eyes to watch the schoolmaster? Who tampered with a selfish
      father, urging him to sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and tampered
      with Gride too, and did so in the little office, <i>with a closet in the
            room?</i>'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph had put a great command upon himself; but he could not have
      suppressed a slight start, if he had been certain to be beheaded for it
      next moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Aha!' cried Newman, 'you mind me now, do you? What first set this fag to
      be jealous of his master's actions, and to feel that, if he hadn't crossed
      him when he might, he would have been as bad as he, or worse? That
      master's cruel treatment of his own flesh and blood, and vile designs upon
      a young girl who interested even his broken-down, drunken, miserable hack,
      and made him linger in his service, in the hope of doing her some good
      (as, thank God, he had done others once or twice before), when he would,
      otherwise, have relieved his feelings by pummelling his master soundly,
      and then going to the Devil. He would&mdash;mark that; and mark this&mdash;that
      I'm here now, because these gentlemen thought it best. When I sought them
      out (as I did; there was no tampering with me), I told them I wanted help
      to find you out, to trace you down, to go through with what I had begun,
      to help the right; and that when I had done it, I'd burst into your room
      and tell you all, face to face, man to man, and like a man. Now I've said
      my say, and let anybody else say theirs, and fire away!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this concluding sentiment, Newman Noggs, who had been perpetually
      sitting down and getting up again all through his speech, which he had
      delivered in a series of jerks; and who was, from the violent exercise and
      the excitement combined, in a state of most intense and fiery heat;
      became, without passing through any intermediate stage, stiff, upright,
      and motionless, and so remained, staring at Ralph Nickleby with all his
      might and main.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked at him for an instant, and for an instant only; then, waved
      his hand, and beating the ground with his foot, said in a choking voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Go on, gentlemen, go on! I'm patient, you see. There's law to be had,
      there's law. I shall call you to an account for this. Take care what you
      say; I shall make you prove it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'The proof is ready,' returned brother Charles, 'quite ready to our hands.
      The man Snawley, last night, made a confession.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who may "the man Snawley" be,' returned Ralph, 'and what may his
      "confession" have to do with my affairs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexibility of manner, the old
      gentleman returned no answer, but went on to say, that to show him how
      much they were in earnest, it would be necessary to tell him, not only
      what accusations were made against him, but what proof of them they had,
      and how that proof had been acquired. This laying open of the whole
      question brought up brother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and Newman Noggs, all
      three at once; who, after a vast deal of talking together, and a scene of
      great confusion, laid before Ralph, in distinct terms, the following
      statement.
    </p>
    <p>
      That, Newman, having been solemnly assured by one not then producible that
      Smike was not the son of Snawley, and this person having offered to make
      oath to that effect, if necessary, they had by this communication been
      first led to doubt the claim set up, which they would otherwise have seen
      no reason to dispute, supported as it was by evidence which they had no
      power of disproving. That, once suspecting the existence of a conspiracy,
      they had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to the malice of Ralph,
      and the vindictiveness and avarice of Squeers. That, suspicion and proof
      being two very different things, they had been advised by a lawyer,
      eminent for his sagacity and acuteness in such practice, to resist the
      proceedings taken on the other side for the recovery of the youth as
      slowly and artfully as possible, and meanwhile to beset Snawley (with whom
      it was clear the main falsehood must rest); to lead him, if possible, into
      contradictory and conflicting statements; to harass him by all available
      means; and so to practise on his fears, and regard for his own safety, as
      to induce him to divulge the whole scheme, and to give up his employer and
      whomsoever else he could implicate. That, all this had been skilfully
      done; but that Snawley, who was well practised in the arts of low cunning
      and intrigue, had successfully baffled all their attempts, until an
      unexpected circumstance had brought him, last night, upon his knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      It thus arose. When Newman Noggs reported that Squeers was again in town,
      and that an interview of such secrecy had taken place between him and
      Ralph that he had been sent out of the house, plainly lest he should
      overhear a word, a watch was set upon the schoolmaster, in the hope that
      something might be discovered which would throw some light upon the
      suspected plot. It being found, however, that he held no further
      communication with Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived quite alone,
      they were completely at fault; the watch was withdrawn, and they would
      have observed his motions no longer, if it had not happened that, one
      night, Newman stumbled unobserved on him and Ralph in the street together.
      Following them, he discovered, to his surprise, that they repaired to
      various low lodging-houses, and taverns kept by broken gamblers, to more
      than one of whom Ralph was known, and that they were in pursuit&mdash;so
      he found by inquiries when they had left&mdash;of an old woman, whose
      description exactly tallied with that of deaf Mrs. Sliderskew. Affairs now
      appearing to assume a more serious complexion, the watch was renewed with
      increased vigilance; an officer was procured, who took up his abode in the
      same tavern with Squeers: and by him and Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of
      the unconscious schoolmaster were dogged, until he was safely housed in
      the lodging at Lambeth. Mr. Squeers having shifted his lodging, the officer
      shifted his, and lying concealed in the same street, and, indeed, in the
      opposite house, soon found that Mr. Squeers and Mrs. Sliderskew were in
      constant communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of things, Arthur Gride was appealed to. The robbery, partly
      owing to the inquisitiveness of the neighbours, and partly to his own
      grief and rage, had, long ago, become known; but he positively refused to
      give his sanction or yield any assistance to the old woman's capture, and
      was seized with such a panic at the idea of being called upon to give
      evidence against her, that he shut himself up close in his house, and
      refused to hold communication with anybody. Upon this, the pursuers took
      counsel together, and, coming so near the truth as to arrive at the
      conclusion that Gride and Ralph, with Squeers for their instrument, were
      negotiating for the recovery of some of the stolen papers which would not
      bear the light, and might possibly explain the hints relative to Madeline
      which Newman had overheard, resolved that Mrs. Sliderskew should be taken
      into custody before she had parted with them: and Squeers too, if anything
      suspicious could be attached to him. Accordingly, a search-warrant being
      procured, and all prepared, Mr. Squeers's window was watched, until his
      light was put out, and the time arrived when, as had been previously
      ascertained, he usually visited Mrs. Sliderskew. This done, Frank Cheeryble
      and Newman stole upstairs to listen to their discourse, and to give the
      signal to the officer at the most favourable time. At what an opportune
      moment they arrived, how they listened, and what they heard, is already
      known to the reader. Mr. Squeers, still half stunned, was hurried off with
      a stolen deed in his possession, and Mrs. Sliderskew was apprehended
      likewise. The information being promptly carried to Snawley that Squeers
      was in custody&mdash;he was not told for what&mdash;that worthy, first
      extorting a promise that he should be kept harmless, declared the whole
      tale concerning Smike to be a fiction and forgery, and implicated Ralph
      Nickleby to the fullest extent. As to Mr. Squeers, he had, that morning,
      undergone a private examination before a magistrate; and, being unable to
      account satisfactorily for his possession of the deed or his companionship
      with Mrs. Sliderskew, had been, with her, remanded for a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these discoveries were now related to Ralph, circumstantially, and in
      detail. Whatever impression they secretly produced, he suffered no sign of
      emotion to escape him, but sat perfectly still, not raising his frowning
      eyes from the ground, and covering his mouth with his hand. When the
      narrative was concluded; he raised his head hastily, as if about to speak,
      but on brother Charles resuming, fell into his old attitude again.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I told you this morning,' said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon
      his brother's shoulder, 'that I came to you in mercy. How far you may be
      implicated in this last transaction, or how far the person who is now in
      custody may criminate you, you best know. But, justice must take its
      course against the parties implicated in the plot against this poor,
      unoffending, injured lad. It is not in my power, or in the power of my
      brother Ned, to save you from the consequences. The utmost we can do is,
      to warn you in time, and to give you an opportunity of escaping them. We
      would not have an old man like you disgraced and punished by your near
      relation; nor would we have him forget, like you, all ties of blood and
      nature. We entreat you&mdash;brother Ned, you join me, I know, in this
      entreaty, and so, Tim Linkinwater, do you, although you pretend to be an
      obstinate dog, sir, and sit there frowning as if you didn't&mdash;we
      entreat you to retire from London, to take shelter in some place where you
      will be safe from the consequences of these wicked designs, and where you
      may have time, sir, to atone for them, and to become a better man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And do you think,' returned Ralph, rising, 'and do you think, you will so
      easily crush <i>me</i>? Do you think that a hundred well-arranged plans, or a
      hundred suborned witnesses, or a hundred false curs at my heels, or a
      hundred canting speeches full of oily words, will move me? I thank you for
      disclosing your schemes, which I am now prepared for. You have not the man
      to deal with that you think; try me! and remember that I spit upon your
      fair words and false dealings, and dare you&mdash;provoke you&mdash;taunt
      you&mdash;to do to me the very worst you can!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they parted, for that time; but the worst had not come yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 60
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>
      <i>he Dangers thicken, and the Worst is Told</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
Instead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first street cabriolet
      he could find, and, directing the driver towards the police-office of the
      district in which Mr. Squeers's misfortunes had occurred, alighted at a
      short distance from it, and, discharging the man, went the rest of his way
      thither on foot. Inquiring for the object of his solicitude, he learnt
      that he had timed his visit well; for Mr. Squeers was, in fact, at that
      moment waiting for a hackney coach he had ordered, and in which he
      purposed proceeding to his week's retirement, like a gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into a kind of
      waiting-room in which, by reason of his scholastic profession and superior
      respectability, Mr. Squeers had been permitted to pass the day. Here, by
      the light of a guttering and blackened candle, he could barely discern the
      schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench in a remote corner. An empty glass
      stood on a table before him, which, with his somnolent condition and a
      very strong smell of brandy and water, forewarned the visitor that Mr
      Squeers had been seeking, in creature comforts, a temporary forgetfulness
      of his unpleasant situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic and heavy were
      his slumbers. Regaining his faculties by slow and faint glimmerings, he at
      length sat upright; and, displaying a very yellow face, a very red nose,
      and a very bristly beard: the joint effect of which was considerably
      heightened by a dirty white handkerchief, spotted with blood, drawn over
      the crown of his head and tied under his chin: stared ruefully at Ralph in
      silence, until his feelings found a vent in this pithy sentence:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, young fellow, you've been and done it now; you have!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What's the matter with your head?' asked Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, your man, your informing kidnapping man, has been and broke it,'
      rejoined Squeers sulkily; 'that's what's the matter with it. You've come
      at last, have you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why have you not sent to me?' said Ralph. 'How could I come till I knew
      what had befallen you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'My family!' hiccuped Mr. Squeers, raising his eye to the ceiling: 'my
      daughter, as is at that age when all the sensibilities is a-coming out
      strong in blow&mdash;my son as is the young Norval of private life, and
      the pride and ornament of a doting willage&mdash;here's a shock for my
      family! The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses is tore, and their sun is gone
      down into the ocean wave!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You have been drinking,' said Ralph, 'and have not yet slept yourself
      sober.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I haven't been drinking <i>your </i>health, my codger,' replied Mr. Squeers; 'so
      you have nothing to do with that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster's altered and
      insolent manner awakened, and asked again why he had not sent to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What should I get by sending to you?' returned Squeers. 'To be known to
      be in with you wouldn't do me a deal of good, and they won't take bail
      till they know something more of the case, so here am I hard and fast: and
      there are you, loose and comfortable.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And so must you be in a few days,' retorted Ralph, with affected
      good-humour. 'They can't hurt you, man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I suppose they can't do much to me, if I explain how it was that I
      got into the good company of that there ca-daverous old Slider,' replied
      Squeers viciously, 'who I wish was dead and buried, and resurrected and
      dissected, and hung upon wires in a anatomical museum, before ever I'd had
      anything to do with her. This is what him with the powdered head says this
      morning, in so many words: "Prisoner! As you have been found in company
      with this woman; as you were detected in possession of this document; as
      you were engaged with her in fraudulently destroying others, and can give
      no satisfactory account of yourself; I shall remand you for a week, in
      order that inquiries may be made, and evidence got. And meanwhile I can't
      take any bail for your appearance." Well then, what I say now is, that I
      <i>can </i>give a satisfactory account of myself; I can hand in the card of my
      establishment and say, "I am the Wackford Squeers as is therein named,
      sir. I am the man as is guaranteed, by unimpeachable references, to be a
      out-and-outer in morals and uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong in
      this business is no fault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I was
      not aware that anything was wrong. I was merely employed by a friend, my
      friend Mr. Ralph Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send for him, sir, and ask him
      what he has to say; he's the man; not me!"'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What document was it that you had?' asked Ralph, evading, for the moment,
      the point just raised.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What document? Why, <i>the </i>document,' replied Squeers. 'The Madeline
      What's-her-name one. It was a will; that's what it was.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, to what
      extent?' asked Ralph hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'A will in her favour; that's all I know,' rejoined Squeers, 'and that's
      more than you'd have known, if you'd had them bellows on your head. It's
      all owing to your precious caution that they got hold of it. If you had
      let me burn it, and taken my word that it was gone, it would have been a
      heap of ashes behind the fire, instead of being whole and sound, inside of
      my great-coat.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Beaten at every point!' muttered Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water and his broken
      head, wandered strangely, 'at the delightful village of Dotheboys near
      Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed,
      furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in
      all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
      astronomy, trigonometry&mdash;this is a altered state of trigonomics, this
      is! A double 1&mdash;all, everything&mdash;a cobbler's weapon. U-p-up,
      adjective, not down. S-q-u-double e-r-s-Squeers, noun substantive, a
      educator of youth. Total, all up with Squeers!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His running on, in this way, had afforded Ralph an opportunity of
      recovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested to him the
      necessity of removing, as far as possible, the schoolmaster's misgivings,
      and leading him to believe that his safety and best policy lay in the
      preservation of a rigid silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I tell you, once again,' he said, 'they can't hurt you. You shall have an
      action for false imprisonment, and make a profit of this, yet. We will
      devise a story for you that should carry you through twenty times such a
      trivial scrape as this; and if they want security in a thousand pounds for
      your reappearance in case you should be called upon, you shall have it.
      All you have to do is, to keep back the truth. You're a little fuddled
      tonight, and may not be able to see this as clearly as you would at
      another time; but this is what you must do, and you'll need all your
      senses about you; for a slip might be awkward.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh!' said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with his head stuck
      on one side, like an old raven. 'That's what I'm to do, is it? Now then,
      just you hear a word or two from me. I an't a-going to have any stories
      made for me, and I an't a-going to stick to any. If I find matters going
      again me, I shall expect you to take your share, and I'll take care you
      do. You never said anything about danger. I never bargained for being
      brought into such a plight as this, and I don't mean to take it as quiet
      as you think. I let you lead me on, from one thing to another, because we
      had been mixed up together in a certain sort of a way, and if you had
      liked to be ill-natured you might perhaps have hurt the business, and if
      you liked to be good-natured you might throw a good deal in my way. Well;
      if all goes right now, that's quite correct, and I don't mind it; but if
      anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I shall just say and do
      whatever I think may serve me most, and take advice from nobody. My moral
      influence with them lads,' added Mr. Squeers, with deeper gravity, 'is a
      tottering to its basis. The images of Mrs. Squeers, my daughter, and my son
      Wackford, all short of vittles, is perpetually before me; every other
      consideration melts away and vanishes, in front of these; the only number
      in all arithmetic that I know of, as a husband and a father, is number
      one, under this here most fatal go!'
    </p>
    <p>
      How long Mr. Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy a discussion his
      declamation might have led to, nobody knows. Being interrupted, at this
      point, by the arrival of the coach and an attendant who was to bear him
      company, he perched his hat with great dignity on the top of the
      handkerchief that bound his head; and, thrusting one hand in his pocket,
      and taking the attendant's arm with the other, suffered himself to be led
      forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      'As I supposed from his not sending!' thought Ralph. 'This fellow, I
      plainly see through all his tipsy fooling, has made up his mind to turn
      upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in, that they are not only all struck
      with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have their fling at me now,
      though time was, and no longer ago than yesterday too, when they were all
      civility and compliance. But they shall not move me. I'll not give way. I
      will not budge one inch!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He went home, and was glad to find his housekeeper complaining of illness,
      that he might have an excuse for being alone and sending her away to where
      she lived: which was hard by. Then, he sat down by the light of a single
      candle, and began to think, for the first time, on all that had taken
      place that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, in addition to the
      anxiety of mind he had undergone, had been travelling about, from place to
      place almost incessantly, for many hours. He felt sick and exhausted, but
      could taste nothing save a glass of water, and continued to sit with his
      head upon his hand; not resting nor thinking, but laboriously trying to do
      both, and feeling that every sense but one of weariness and desolation,
      was for the time benumbed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was nearly ten o'clock when he heard a knocking at the door, and still
      sat quiet as before, as if he could not even bring his thoughts to bear
      upon that. It had been often repeated, and he had, several times, heard a
      voice outside, saying there was a light in the window (meaning, as he
      knew, his own candle), before he could rouse himself and go downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent to beg you
      will come with me directly,' said a voice he seemed to recognise. He held
      his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, saw Tim Linkinwater on the
      steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come where?' demanded Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coach here.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why should I go there?' said Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't ask me why, but pray come with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Another edition of today!' returned Ralph, making as though he would shut
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no!' cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking most earnestly;
      'it is only that you may hear something that has occurred: something very
      dreadful, Mr. Nickleby, which concerns you nearly. Do you think I would
      tell you so or come to you like this, if it were not the case?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeed greatly
      excited, he faltered, and could not tell what to say or think.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You had better hear this now, than at any other time,' said Tim; 'it may
      have some influence with you. For Heaven's sake come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph's obstinacy and dislike would have been
      proof against any appeal from such a quarter, however emphatically urged;
      but now, after a moment's hesitation, he went into the hall for his hat,
      and returning, got into the coach without speaking a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as Ralph Nickleby
      went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by the light of the
      candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel and stagger like a drunken
      man. He well remembered, too, that when he had placed his foot upon the
      coach-steps, he turned round and looked upon him with a face so ashy pale
      and so very wild and vacant that it made him shudder, and for the moment
      almost afraid to follow. People were fond of saying that he had some dark
      presentiment upon him then, but his emotion might, perhaps, with greater
      show of reason, be referred to what he had undergone that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived at their place of
      destination, Ralph followed his conductor into the house, and into a room
      where the two brothers were. He was so astounded, not to say awed, by
      something of a mute compassion for himself which was visible in their
      manner and in that of the old clerk, that he could scarcely speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having taken a seat, however, he contrived to say, though in broken words,
      'What&mdash;what have you to say to me&mdash;more than has been said
      already?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, and terminated in a
      bay window, about which hung some heavy drapery. Casting his eyes in this
      direction as he spoke, he thought he made out the dusky figure of a man.
      He was confirmed in this impression by seeing that the object moved, as if
      uneasy under his scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who's that yonder?' he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      'One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, the intelligence
      which caused our sending to you,' replied brother Charles. 'Let him be,
      sir, let him be for the present.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'More riddles!' said Ralph, faintly. 'Well, sir?'
    </p>
    <p>
      In turning his face towards the brothers he was obliged to avert it from
      the window; but, before either of them could speak, he had looked round
      again. It was evident that he was rendered restless and uncomfortable by
      the presence of the unseen person; for he repeated this action several
      times, and at length, as if in a nervous state which rendered him
      positively unable to turn away from the place, sat so as to have it
      opposite him, muttering as an excuse that he could not bear the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their manner showing that
      they were agitated. Ralph glanced at them twice or thrice, and ultimately
      said, with a great effort to recover his self-possession, 'Now, what is
      this? If I am brought from home at this time of night, let it be for
      something. What have you got to tell me?' After a short pause, he added,
      'Is my niece dead?'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had struck upon a key which rendered the task of commencement an easier
      one. Brother Charles turned, and said that it was a death of which they
      had to tell him, but that his niece was well.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't mean to tell me,' said Ralph, as his eyes brightened, 'that her
      brother's dead? No, that's too good. I'd not believe it, if you told me
      so. It would be too welcome news to be true.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural man,' cried the other brother,
      warmly. 'Prepare yourself for intelligence which, if you have any human
      feeling in your breast, will make even you shrink and tremble. What if we
      tell you that a poor unfortunate boy: a child in everything but never
      having known one of those tender endearments, or one of those lightsome
      hours which make our childhood a time to be remembered like a happy dream
      through all our after life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionate
      creature, who never offended you, or did you wrong, but on whom you have
      vented the malice and hatred you have conceived for your nephew, and whom
      you have made an instrument for wreaking your bad passions upon him: what
      if we tell you that, sinking under your persecution, sir, and the misery
      and ill-usage of a life short in years but long in suffering, this poor
      creature has gone to tell his sad tale where, for your part in it, you
      must surely answer?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you tell me,' said Ralph; 'if you tell me that he is dead, I forgive
      you all else. If you tell me that he is dead, I am in your debt and bound
      to you for life. He is! I see it in your faces. Who triumphs now? Is this
      your dreadful news; this your terrible intelligence? You see how it moves
      me. You did well to send. I would have travelled a hundred miles afoot,
      through mud, mire, and darkness, to hear this news just at this time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Even then, moved as he was by this savage joy, Ralph could see in the
      faces of the two brothers, mingling with their look of disgust and horror,
      something of that indefinable compassion for himself which he had noticed
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And <i>he</i> brought you the intelligence, did he?' said Ralph, pointing with
      his finger towards the recess already mentioned; 'and sat there, no doubt,
      to see me prostrated and overwhelmed by it! Ha, ha, ha! But I tell him
      that I'll be a sharp thorn in his side for many a long day to come; and I
      tell you two, again, that you don't know him yet; and that you'll rue the
      day you took compassion on the vagabond.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You take me for your nephew,' said a hollow voice; 'it would be better
      for you, and for me too, if I were he indeed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowly down. He
      started back, for he found that he confronted&mdash;not Nicholas, as he
      had supposed, but Brooker.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had never feared
      him before; but the pallor which had been observed in his face when he
      issued forth that night, came upon him again. He was seen to tremble, and
      his voice changed as he said, keeping his eyes upon him,
    </p>
    <p>
      'What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, a felon, a
      common thief?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr. Nickleby, hear what he has to tell
      you, be he what he may!' cried the brothers, with such emphatic
      earnestness, that Ralph turned to them in wonder. They pointed to Brooker.
      Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemed mechanically.
    </p>
    <p>
      'That boy,' said the man, 'that these gentlemen have been talking of&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That boy,' repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who is now in his
      grave&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Who is now in his grave,' echoed Ralph, like one who talks in his sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnly together:
    </p>
    <p>
      '&mdash;Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his two hands
      upon his temples. He removed them, after a minute, and never was there
      seen, part of a living man undisfigured by any wound, such a ghastly face
      as he then disclosed. He looked at Brooker, who was by this time standing
      at a short distance from him; but did not say one word, or make the
      slightest sound or gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gentlemen,' said the man, 'I offer no excuses for myself. I am long past
      that. If, in telling you how this has happened, I tell you that I was
      harshly used, and perhaps driven out of my real nature, I do it only as a
      necessary part of my story, and not to shield myself. I am a guilty man.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking away from Ralph, and
      addressing himself to the brothers, proceeded in a subdued and humble
      tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Among those who once had dealings with this man, gentlemen&mdash;that's
      from twenty to five-and-twenty years ago&mdash;there was one: a rough
      fox-hunting, hard-drinking gentleman, who had run through his own fortune,
      and wanted to squander away that of his sister: they were both orphans,
      and she lived with him and managed his house. I don't know whether it was,
      originally, to back his influence and try to over-persuade the young woman
      or not, but he,' pointing, to Ralph, 'used to go down to the house in
      Leicestershire pretty often, and stop there many days at a time. They had
      had a great many dealings together, and he may have gone on some of those,
      or to patch up his client's affairs, which were in a ruinous state; of
      course he went for profit. The gentlewoman was not a girl, but she was, I
      have heard say, handsome, and entitled to a pretty large property. In
      course of time, he married her. The same love of gain which led him to
      contract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly private; for a
      clause in her father's will declared that if she married without her
      brother's consent, the property, in which she had only some life interest
      while she remained single, should pass away altogether to another branch
      of the family. The brother would give no consent that the sister didn't
      buy, and pay for handsomely; Mr. Nickleby would consent to no such
      sacrifice; and so they went on, keeping their marriage secret, and waiting
      for him to break his neck or die of a fever. He did neither, and meanwhile
      the result of this private marriage was a son. The child was put out to
      nurse, a long way off; his mother never saw him but once or twice, and
      then by stealth; and his father&mdash;so eagerly did he thirst after the
      money which seemed to come almost within his grasp now, for his
      brother-in-law was very ill, and breaking more and more every day&mdash;never
      went near him, to avoid raising any suspicion. The brother lingered on; Mr
      Nickleby's wife constantly urged him to avow their marriage; he
      peremptorily refused. She remained alone in a dull country house: seeing
      little or no company but riotous, drunken sportsmen. He lived in London
      and clung to his business. Angry quarrels and recriminations took place,
      and when they had been married nearly seven years, and were within a few
      weeks of the time when the brother's death would have adjusted all, she
      eloped with a younger man, and left him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signed to him to
      proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstances from his
      own lips. They were no secrets then; for the brother, and others, knew
      them; but they were communicated to me, not on this account, but because I
      was wanted. He followed the fugitives. Some said to make money of his
      wife's shame, but, I believe, to take some violent revenge, for that was
      as much his character as the other; perhaps more. He didn't find them, and
      she died not long after. I don't know whether he began to think he might
      like the child, or whether he wished to make sure that it should never
      fall into its mother's hands; but, before he went, he intrusted me with
      the charge of bringing it home. And I did so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on, from this point, in a still more humble tone, and spoke in a
      very low voice; pointing to Ralph as he resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'He had used me ill&mdash;cruelly&mdash;I reminded him in what, not long
      ago when I met him in the street&mdash;and I hated him. I brought the
      child home to his own house, and lodged him in the front garret. Neglect
      had made him very sickly, and I was obliged to call in a doctor, who said
      he must be removed for change of air, or he would die. I think that first
      put it in my head. I did it then. He was gone six weeks, and when he came
      back, I told him&mdash;with every circumstance well planned and proved;
      nobody could have suspected me&mdash;that the child was dead and buried.
      He might have been disappointed in some intention he had formed, or he
      might have had some natural affection, but he <i>was </i>grieved at <i>that</i>, and I
      was confirmed in my design of opening up the secret one day, and making it
      a means of getting money from him. I had heard, like most other men, of
      Yorkshire schools. I took the child to one kept by a man named Squeers,
      and left it there. I gave him the name of Smike. Year by year, I paid
      twenty pounds a-year for him for six years; never breathing the secret all
      the time; for I had left his father's service after more hard usage, and
      quarrelled with him again. I was sent away from this country. I have been
      away nearly eight years. Directly I came home again, I travelled down into
      Yorkshire, and, skulking in the village of an evening-time, made inquiries
      about the boys at the school, and found that this one, whom I had placed
      there, had run away with a young man bearing the name of his own father. I
      sought his father out in London, and hinting at what I could tell him,
      tried for a little money to support life; but he repulsed me with threats.
      I then found out his clerk, and, going on from little to little, and
      showing him that there were good reasons for communicating with me, learnt
      what was going on; and it was I who told him that the boy was no son of
      the man who claimed to be his father. All this time I had never seen the
      boy. At length, I heard from this same source that he was very ill, and
      where he was. I travelled down there, that I might recall myself, if
      possible, to his recollection and confirm my story. I came upon him
      unexpectedly; but before I could speak he knew me&mdash;he had good cause
      to remember me, poor lad!&mdash;and I would have sworn to him if I had met
      him in the Indies. I knew the piteous face I had seen in the little child.
      After a few days' indecision, I applied to the young gentleman in whose
      care he was, and I found that he was dead. He knows how quickly he
      recognised me again, how often he had described me and my leaving him at
      the school, and how he told him of a garret he recollected: which is the
      one I have spoken of, and in his father's house to this day. This is my
      story. I demand to be brought face to face with the schoolmaster, and put
      to any possible proof of any part of it, and I will show that it's too
      true, and that I have this guilt upon my soul.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Unhappy man!' said the brothers. 'What reparation can you make for this?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing to hope now. I am
      old in years, and older still in misery and care. This confession can
      bring nothing upon me but new suffering and punishment; but I make it, and
      will abide by it whatever comes. I have been made the instrument of
      working out this dreadful retribution upon the head of a man who, in the
      hot pursuit of his bad ends, has persecuted and hunted down his own child
      to death. It must descend upon me too. I know it must fall. My reparation
      comes too late; and, neither in this world nor in the next, can I have
      hope again!'
    </p>
    <p>
      He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon the table close to
      where Ralph was seated, and which was the only one in the room, was thrown
      to the ground, and left them in darkness. There was some trifling
      confusion in obtaining another light; the interval was a mere nothing; but
      when the light appeared, Ralph Nickleby was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time in discussing the
      probability of his return; and, when it became apparent that he would not
      come back, they hesitated whether or no to send after him. At length,
      remembering how strangely and silently he had sat in one immovable
      position during the interview, and thinking he might possibly be ill, they
      determined, although it was now very late, to send to his house on some
      pretence. Finding an excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom they knew not
      how to dispose of without consulting his wishes, they concluded to act
      upon this resolution before going to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 61
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span><i>herein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly
            and prudent People</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      On the next morning after Brooker's disclosure had been made, Nicholas
      returned home. The meeting between him and those whom he had left there
      was not without strong emotion on both sides; for they had been informed
      by his letters of what had occurred: and, besides that his griefs were
      theirs, they mourned with him the death of one whose forlorn and helpless
      state had first established a claim upon their compassion, and whose truth
      of heart and grateful earnest nature had, every day, endeared him to them
      more and more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am sure,' said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes, and sobbing bitterly, 'I
      have lost the best, the most zealous, and most attentive creature that has
      ever been a companion to me in my life&mdash;putting you, my dear
      Nicholas, and Kate, and your poor papa, and that well-behaved nurse who
      ran away with the linen and the twelve small forks, out of the question,
      of course. Of all the tractable, equal-tempered, attached, and faithful
      beings that ever lived, I believe he was the most so. To look round upon
      the garden, now, that he took so much pride in, or to go into his room and
      see it filled with so many of those little contrivances for our comfort
      that he was so fond of making, and made so well, and so little thought he
      would leave unfinished&mdash;I can't bear it, I cannot really. Ah! This is
      a great trial to me, a great trial. It will be comfort to you, my dear
      Nicholas, to the end of your life, to recollect how kind and good you
      always were to him&mdash;so it will be to me, to think what excellent
      terms we were always upon, and how fond he always was of me, poor fellow!
      It was very natural you should have been attached to him, my dear&mdash;very&mdash;and
      of course you were, and are very much cut up by this. I am sure it's only
      necessary to look at you and see how changed you are, to see that; but
      nobody knows what my feelings are&mdash;nobody can&mdash;it's quite
      impossible!'
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mrs. Nickleby, with the utmost sincerity, gave vent to her sorrows
      after her own peculiar fashion of considering herself foremost, she was
      not the only one who indulged such feelings. Kate, although well
      accustomed to forget herself when others were to be considered, could not
      repress her grief; Madeline was scarcely less moved than she; and poor,
      hearty, honest little Miss La Creevy, who had come upon one of her visits
      while Nicholas was away, and had done nothing, since the sad news arrived,
      but console and cheer them all, no sooner beheld him coming in at the
      door, than she sat herself down upon the stairs, and bursting into a flood
      of tears, refused for a long time to be comforted.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It hurts me so,' cried the poor body, 'to see him come back alone. I
      can't help thinking what he must have suffered himself. I wouldn't mind so
      much if he gave way a little more; but he bears it so manfully.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, so I should,' said Nicholas, 'should I not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, yes,' replied the little woman, 'and bless you for a good creature!
      but this does seem at first to a simple soul like me&mdash;I know it's
      wrong to say so, and I shall be sorry for it presently&mdash;this does
      seem such a poor reward for all you have done.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nay,' said Nicholas gently, 'what better reward could I have, than the
      knowledge that his last days were peaceful and happy, and the recollection
      that I was his constant companion, and was not prevented, as I might have
      been by a hundred circumstances, from being beside him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To be sure,' sobbed Miss La Creevy; 'it's very true, and I'm an
      ungrateful, impious, wicked little fool, I know.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With that, the good soul fell to crying afresh, and, endeavouring to
      recover herself, tried to laugh. The laugh and the cry, meeting each other
      thus abruptly, had a struggle for the mastery; the result was, that it was
      a drawn battle, and Miss La Creevy went into hysterics.
    </p>
    <p>
      Waiting until they were all tolerably quiet and composed again, Nicholas,
      who stood in need of some rest after his long journey, retired to his own
      room, and throwing himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed, fell into a
      sound sleep. When he awoke, he found Kate sitting by his bedside, who,
      seeing that he had opened his eyes, stooped down to kiss him.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I came to tell you how glad I am to see you home again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Kate.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'We have been wearying so for your return,' said Kate, 'mama and I, and&mdash;and
      Madeline.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You said in your last letter that she was quite well,' said Nicholas,
      rather hastily, and colouring as he spoke. 'Has nothing been said, since I
      have been away, about any future arrangements that the brothers have in
      contemplation for her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, not a word,' replied Kate. 'I can't think of parting from her without
      sorrow; and surely, Nicholas, <i>you </i>don't wish it!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas coloured again, and, sitting down beside his sister on a little
      couch near the window, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, Kate, no, I do not. I might strive to disguise my real feelings from
      anybody but you; but I will tell you that&mdash;briefly and plainly, Kate&mdash;that
      I love her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate's eyes brightened, and she was going to make some reply, when
      Nicholas laid his hand upon her arm, and went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nobody must know this but you. She, last of all.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Last of all; never, though never is a long day. Sometimes, I try to think
      that the time may come when I may honestly tell her this; but it is so far
      off; in such distant perspective, so many years must elapse before it
      comes, and when it does come (if ever) I shall be so unlike what I am now,
      and shall have so outlived my days of youth and romance&mdash;though not,
      I am sure, of love for her&mdash;that even I feel how visionary all such
      hopes must be, and try to crush them rudely myself, and have the pain
      over, rather than suffer time to wither them, and keep the disappointment
      in store. No, Kate! Since I have been absent, I have had, in that poor
      fellow who is gone, perpetually before my eyes, another instance of the
      munificent liberality of these noble brothers. As far as in me lies, I
      will deserve it, and if I have wavered in my bounden duty to them before,
      I am now determined to discharge it rigidly, and to put further delays and
      temptations beyond my reach.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Before you say another word, dear Nicholas,' said Kate, turning pale,
      'you must hear what I have to tell you. I came on purpose, but I had not
      the courage. What you say now, gives me new heart.' She faltered, and
      burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was that in her manner which prepared Nicholas for what was coming.
      Kate tried to speak, but her tears prevented her.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, you foolish girl,' said Nicholas; 'why, Kate, Kate, be a woman! I
      think I know what you would tell me. It concerns Mr. Frank, does it not?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate sunk her head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out 'Yes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And he has offered you his hand, perhaps, since I have been away,' said
      Nicholas; 'is that it? Yes. Well, well; it is not so difficult, you see,
      to tell me, after all. He offered you his hand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Which I refused,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes; and why?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I told him,' she said, in a trembling voice, 'all that I have since found
      you told mama; and while I could not conceal from him, and cannot from
      you, that&mdash;that it was a pang and a great trial, I did so firmly, and
      begged him not to see me any more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's my own brave Kate!' said Nicholas, pressing her to his breast. 'I
      knew you would.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'He tried to alter my resolution,' said Kate, 'and declared that, be my
      decision what it might, he would not only inform his uncles of the step he
      had taken, but would communicate it to you also, directly you returned. I
      am afraid,' she added, her momentary composure forsaking her, 'I am afraid
      I may not have said, strongly enough, how deeply I felt such disinterested
      love, and how earnestly I prayed for his future happiness. If you do talk
      together, I should&mdash;I should like him to know that.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And did you suppose, Kate, when you had made this sacrifice to what you
      knew was right and honourable, that I should shrink from mine?' said
      Nicholas tenderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh no! not if your position had been the same, but&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'But it is the same,' interrupted Nicholas. 'Madeline is not the near
      relation of our benefactors, but she is closely bound to them by ties as
      dear; and I was first intrusted with her history, specially because they
      reposed unbounded confidence in me, and believed that I was as true as
      steel. How base would it be of me to take advantage of the circumstances
      which placed her here, or of the slight service I was happily able to
      render her, and to seek to engage her affections when the result must be,
      if I succeeded, that the brothers would be disappointed in their darling
      wish of establishing her as their own child, and that I must seem to hope
      to build my fortunes on their compassion for the young creature whom I had
      so meanly and unworthily entrapped: turning her very gratitude and warmth
      of heart to my own purpose and account, and trading in her misfortunes! I,
      too, whose duty, and pride, and pleasure, Kate, it is to have other claims
      upon me which I will never forget; and who have the means of a comfortable
      and happy life already, and have no right to look beyond it! I have
      determined to remove this weight from my mind. I doubt whether I have not
      done wrong, even now; and today I will, without reserve or equivocation,
      disclose my real reasons to Mr. Cherryble, and implore him to take
      immediate measures for removing this young lady to the shelter of some
      other roof.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Today? so very soon?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have thought of this for weeks, and why should I postpone it? If the
      scene through which I have just passed has taught me to reflect, and has
      awakened me to a more anxious and careful sense of duty, why should I wait
      until the impression has cooled? You would not dissuade me, Kate; now
      would you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You may grow rich, you know,' said Kate.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I may grow rich!' repeated Nicholas, with a mournful smile, 'ay, and I
      may grow old! But rich or poor, or old or young, we shall ever be the same
      to each other, and in that our comfort lies. What if we have but one home?
      It can never be a solitary one to you and me. What if we were to remain so
      true to these first impressions as to form no others? It is but one more
      link to the strong chain that binds us together. It seems but yesterday
      that we were playfellows, Kate, and it will seem but tomorrow when we are
      staid old people, looking back to these cares as we look back, now, to
      those of our childish days: and recollecting with a melancholy pleasure
      that the time was, when they could move us. Perhaps then, when we are
      quaint old folks and talk of the times when our step was lighter and our
      hair not grey, we may be even thankful for the trials that so endeared us
      to each other, and turned our lives into that current, down which we shall
      have glided so peacefully and calmly. And having caught some inkling of
      our story, the young people about us&mdash;as young as you and I are now,
      Kate&mdash;may come to us for sympathy, and pour distresses which hope and
      inexperience could scarcely feel enough for, into the compassionate ears
      of the old bachelor brother and his maiden sister.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate smiled through her tears as Nicholas drew this picture; but they were
      not tears of sorrow, although they continued to fall when he had ceased to
      speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Am I not right, Kate?' he said, after a short silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite, quite, dear brother; and I cannot tell you how happy I am that I
      have acted as you would have had me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You don't regret?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'N&mdash;n&mdash;no,' said Kate timidly, tracing some pattern upon the
      ground with her little foot. 'I don't regret having done what was
      honourable and right, of course; but I do regret that this should have
      ever happened&mdash;at least sometimes I regret it, and sometimes I&mdash;I
      don't know what I say; I am but a weak girl, Nicholas, and it has agitated
      me very much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      It is no vaunt to affirm that if Nicholas had had ten thousand pounds at
      the minute, he would, in his generous affection for the owner of the
      blushing cheek and downcast eye, have bestowed its utmost farthing, in
      perfect forgetfulness of himself, to secure her happiness. But all he
      could do was to comfort and console her by kind words; and words they were
      of such love and kindness, and cheerful encouragement, that poor Kate
      threw her arms about his neck, and declared she would weep no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What man,' thought Nicholas proudly, while on his way, soon afterwards,
      to the brothers' house, 'would not be sufficiently rewarded for any
      sacrifice of fortune by the possession of such a heart as Kate's, which,
      but that hearts weigh light, and gold and silver heavy, is beyond all
      praise? Frank has money, and wants no more. Where would it buy him such a
      treasure as Kate? And yet, in unequal marriages, the rich party is always
      supposed to make a great sacrifice, and the other to get a good bargain!
      But I am thinking like a lover, or like an ass: which I suppose is pretty
      nearly the same.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Checking thoughts so little adapted to the business on which he was bound,
      by such self-reproofs as this and many others no less sturdy, he proceeded
      on his way and presented himself before Tim Linkinwater.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Mr. Nickleby!' cried Tim, 'God bless you! how d'ye do? Well? Say
      you're quite well and never better. Do now.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Quite,' said Nicholas, shaking him by both hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' said Tim, 'you look tired though, now I come to look at you. Hark!
      there he is, d'ye hear him? That was Dick, the blackbird. He hasn't been
      himself since you've been gone. He'd never get on without you, now; he
      takes as naturally to you as he does to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dick is a far less sagacious fellow than I supposed him, if he thinks I
      am half so well worthy of his notice as you,' replied Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I'll tell you what, sir,' said Tim, standing in his favourite
      attitude and pointing to the cage with the feather of his pen, 'it's a
      very extraordinary thing about that bird, that the only people he ever
      takes the smallest notice of, are Mr. Charles, and Mr. Ned, and you, and
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, Tim stopped and glanced anxiously at Nicholas; then unexpectedly
      catching his eye repeated, 'And you and me, sir, and you and me.' And then
      he glanced at Nicholas again, and, squeezing his hand, said, 'I am a bad
      one at putting off anything I am interested in. I didn't mean to ask you,
      but I should like to hear a few particulars about that poor boy. Did he
      mention Cheeryble Brothers at all?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'many and many a time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That was right of him,' returned Tim, wiping his eyes; 'that was very
      right of him.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And he mentioned your name a score of times,' said Nicholas, 'and often
      bade me carry back his love to Mr. Linkinwater.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, did he though?' rejoined Tim, sobbing outright. 'Poor fellow! I
      wish we could have had him buried in town. There isn't such a
      burying-ground in all London as that little one on the other side of the
      square&mdash;there are counting-houses all round it, and if you go in
      there, on a fine day, you can see the books and safes through the open
      windows. And he sent his love to me, did he? I didn't expect he would have
      thought of me. Poor fellow, poor fellow! His love too!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim was so completely overcome by this little mark of recollection, that
      he was quite unequal to any more conversation at the moment. Nicholas
      therefore slipped quietly out, and went to brother Charles's room.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he had previously sustained his firmness and fortitude, it had been by
      an effort which had cost him no little pain; but the warm welcome, the
      hearty manner, the homely unaffected commiseration, of the good old man,
      went to his heart, and no inward struggle could prevent his showing it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, come, my dear sir,' said the benevolent merchant; 'we must not be
      cast down; no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune, and we must remember
      that there are many sources of consolation even in death. Every day that
      this poor lad had lived, he must have been less and less qualified for the
      world, and more and more unhappy in is own deficiencies. It is better as
      it is, my dear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it's better as it is.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have thought of all that, sir,' replied Nicholas, clearing his throat.
      'I feel it, I assure you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes, that's well,' replied Mr. Cheeryble, who, in the midst of all his
      comforting, was quite as much taken aback as honest old Tim; 'that's well.
      Where is my brother Ned? Tim Linkinwater, sir, where is my brother Ned?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Gone out with Mr. Trimmers, about getting that unfortunate man into the
      hospital, and sending a nurse to his children,' said Tim.
    </p>
    <p>
      'My brother Ned is a fine fellow, a great fellow!' exclaimed brother
      Charles as he shut the door and returned to Nicholas. 'He will be
      overjoyed to see you, my dear sir. We have been speaking of you every
      day.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find you alone,' said Nicholas,
      with some natural hesitation; 'for I am anxious to say something to you.
      Can you spare me a very few minutes?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Surely, surely,' returned brother Charles, looking at him with an anxious
      countenance. 'Say on, my dear sir, say on.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,' said Nicholas. 'If ever one
      mortal had reason to be penetrated with love and reverence for another:
      with such attachment as would make the hardest service in his behalf a
      pleasure and delight: with such grateful recollections as must rouse the
      utmost zeal and fidelity of his nature: those are the feelings which I
      should entertain for you, and do, from my heart and soul, believe me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I do believe you,' replied the old gentleman, 'and I am happy in the
      belief. I have never doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I never shall.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Your telling me that so kindly,' said Nicholas, 'emboldens me to proceed.
      When you first took me into your confidence, and dispatched me on those
      missions to Miss Bray, I should have told you that I had seen her long
      before; that her beauty had made an impression upon me which I could not
      efface; and that I had fruitlessly endeavoured to trace her, and become
      acquainted with her history. I did not tell you so, because I vainly
      thought I could conquer my weaker feelings, and render every consideration
      subservient to my duty to you.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said brother Charles, 'you did not violate the confidence I
      placed in you, or take an unworthy advantage of it. I am sure you did
      not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did not,' said Nicholas, firmly. 'Although I found that the necessity
      for self-command and restraint became every day more imperious, and the
      difficulty greater, I never, for one instant, spoke or looked but as I
      would have done had you been by. I never, for one moment, deserted my
      trust, nor have I to this instant. But I find that constant association
      and companionship with this sweet girl is fatal to my peace of mind, and
      may prove destructive to the resolutions I made in the beginning, and up
      to this time have faithfully kept. In short, sir, I cannot trust myself,
      and I implore and beseech you to remove this young lady from under the
      charge of my mother and sister without delay. I know that to anyone but
      myself&mdash;to you, who consider the immeasurable distance between me and
      this young lady, who is now your ward, and the object of your peculiar
      care&mdash;my loving her, even in thought, must appear the height of
      rashness and presumption. I know it is so. But who can see her as I have
      seen, who can know what her life has been, and not love her? I have no
      excuse but that; and as I cannot fly from this temptation, and cannot
      repress this passion, with its object constantly before me, what can I do
      but pray and beseech you to remove it, and to leave me to forget her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Nickleby,' said the old man, after a short silence, 'you can do no
      more. I was wrong to expose a young man like you to this trial. I might
      have foreseen what would happen. Thank you, sir, thank you. Madeline shall
      be removed.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'If you would grant me one favour, dear sir, and suffer her to remember me
      with esteem, by never revealing to her this confession&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will take care,' said Mr. Cheeryble. 'And now, is this all you have to
      tell me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No!' returned Nicholas, meeting his eye, 'it is not.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know the rest,' said Mr. Cheeryble, apparently very much relieved by
      this prompt reply. 'When did it come to your knowledge?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'When I reached home this morning.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You felt it your duty immediately to come to me, and tell me what your
      sister no doubt acquainted you with?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I did,' said Nicholas, 'though I could have wished to have spoken to Mr
      Frank first.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Frank was with me last night,' replied the old gentleman. 'You have done
      well, Mr. Nickleby&mdash;very well, sir&mdash;and I thank you again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this head, Nicholas requested permission to add a few words. He
      ventured to hope that nothing he had said would lead to the estrangement
      of Kate and Madeline, who had formed an attachment for each other, any
      interruption of which would, he knew, be attended with great pain to them,
      and, most of all, with remorse and pain to him, as its unhappy cause. When
      these things were all forgotten, he hoped that Frank and he might still be
      warm friends, and that no word or thought of his humble home, or of her
      who was well contented to remain there and share his quiet fortunes, would
      ever again disturb the harmony between them. He recounted, as nearly as he
      could, what had passed between himself and Kate that morning: speaking of
      her with such warmth of pride and affection, and dwelling so cheerfully
      upon the confidence they had of overcoming any selfish regrets and living
      contented and happy in each other's love, that few could have heard him
      unmoved. More moved himself than he had been yet, he expressed in a few
      hurried words&mdash;as expressive, perhaps, as the most eloquent phrases&mdash;his
      devotion to the brothers, and his hope that he might live and die in their
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this, brother Charles listened in profound silence, and with his
      chair so turned from Nicholas that his face could not be seen. He had not
      spoken either, in his accustomed manner, but with a certain stiffness and
      embarrassment very foreign to it. Nicholas feared he had offended him. He
      said, 'No, no, he had done quite right,' but that was all.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Frank is a heedless, foolish fellow,' he said, after Nicholas had paused
      for some time; 'a very heedless, foolish fellow. I will take care that
      this is brought to a close without delay. Let us say no more upon the
      subject; it's a very painful one to me. Come to me in half an hour; I have
      strange things to tell you, my dear sir, and your uncle has appointed this
      afternoon for your waiting upon him with me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Waiting upon him! With you, sir!' cried Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ay, with me,' replied the old gentleman. 'Return to me in half an hour,
      and I'll tell you more.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas waited upon him at the time mentioned, and then learnt all that
      had taken place on the previous day, and all that was known of the
      appointment Ralph had made with the brothers; which was for that night;
      and for the better understanding of which it will be requisite to return
      and follow his own footsteps from the house of the twin brothers.
      Therefore, we leave Nicholas somewhat reassured by the restored kindness
      of their manner towards him, and yet sensible that it was different from
      what it had been (though he scarcely knew in what respect): so he was full
      of uneasiness, uncertainty, and disquiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 62
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>
      <i>alph makes one last Appointment&mdash;and keeps it</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>
Creeping from the house, and slinking off like a thief; groping with his
      hands, when first he got into the street, as if he were a blind man; and
      looking often over his shoulder while he hurried away, as though he were
      followed in imagination or reality by someone anxious to question or
      detain him; Ralph Nickleby left the city behind him, and took the road to
      his own home.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night was dark, and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds, furiously
      and fast, before it. There was one black, gloomy mass that seemed to
      follow him: not hurrying in the wild chase with the others, but lingering
      sullenly behind, and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He often looked
      back at this, and, more than once, stopped to let it pass over; but,
      somehow, when he went forward again, it was still behind him, coming
      mournfully and slowly up, like a shadowy funeral train.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had to pass a poor, mean burial-ground&mdash;a dismal place, raised a
      few feet above the level of the street, and parted from it by a low
      parapet-wall and an iron railing; a rank, unwholesome, rotten spot, where
      the very grass and weeds seemed, in their frouzy growth, to tell that they
      had sprung from paupers' bodies, and had struck their roots in the graves
      of men, sodden, while alive, in steaming courts and drunken hungry dens.
      And here, in truth, they lay, parted from the living by a little earth and
      a board or two&mdash;lay thick and close&mdash;corrupting in body as they
      had in mind&mdash;a dense and squalid crowd. Here they lay, cheek by jowl
      with life: no deeper down than the feet of the throng that passed there
      every day, and piled high as their throats. Here they lay, a grisly
      family, all these dear departed brothers and sisters of the ruddy
      clergyman who did his task so speedily when they were hidden in the
      ground!
    </p>
    <p>
      As he passed here, Ralph called to mind that he had been one of a jury,
      long before, on the body of a man who had cut his throat; and that he was
      buried in this place. He could not tell how he came to recollect it now,
      when he had so often passed and never thought about him, or how it was
      that he felt an interest in the circumstance; but he did both; and
      stopping, and clasping the iron railings with his hands, looked eagerly
      in, wondering which might be his grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was thus engaged, there came towards him, with noise of shouts
      and singing, some fellows full of drink, followed by others, who were
      remonstrating with them and urging them to go home in quiet. They were in
      high good-humour; and one of them, a little, weazen, hump-backed man,
      began to dance. He was a grotesque, fantastic figure, and the few
      bystanders laughed. Ralph himself was moved to mirth, and echoed the laugh
      of one who stood near and who looked round in his face. When they had
      passed on, and he was left alone again, he resumed his speculation with a
      new kind of interest; for he recollected that the last person who had seen
      the suicide alive, had left him very merry, and he remembered how strange
      he and the other jurors had thought that at the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not fix upon the spot among such a heap of graves, but he
      conjured up a strong and vivid idea of the man himself, and how he looked,
      and what had led him to do it; all of which he recalled with ease. By dint
      of dwelling upon this theme, he carried the impression with him when he
      went away; as he remembered, when a child, to have had frequently before
      him the figure of some goblin he had once seen chalked upon a door. But as
      he drew nearer and nearer home he forgot it again, and began to think how
      very dull and solitary the house would be inside.
    </p>
    <p>
      This feeling became so strong at last, that when he reached his own door,
      he could hardly make up his mind to turn the key and open it. When he had
      done that, and gone into the passage, he felt as though to shut it again
      would be to shut out the world. But he let it go, and it closed with a
      loud noise. There was no light. How very dreary, cold, and still it was!
    </p>
    <p>
      Shivering from head to foot, he made his way upstairs into the room where
      he had been last disturbed. He had made a kind of compact with himself
      that he would not think of what had happened until he got home. He was at
      home now, and suffered himself to consider it.
    </p>
    <p>
      His own child, his own child! He never doubted the tale; he felt it was
      true; knew it as well, now, as if he had been privy to it all along. His
      own child! And dead too. Dying beside Nicholas, loving him, and looking
      upon him as something like an angel. That was the worst!
    </p>
    <p>
      They had all turned from him and deserted him in his very first need. Even
      money could not buy them now; everything must come out, and everybody must
      know all. Here was the young lord dead, his companion abroad and beyond
      his reach, ten thousand pounds gone at one blow, his plot with Gride
      overset at the very moment of triumph, his after-schemes discovered,
      himself in danger, the object of his persecution and Nicholas's love, his
      own wretched boy; everything crumbled and fallen upon him, and he beaten
      down beneath the ruins and grovelling in the dust.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he had known his child to be alive; if no deceit had been ever
      practised, and he had grown up beneath his eye; he might have been a
      careless, indifferent, rough, harsh father&mdash;like enough&mdash;he felt
      that; but the thought would come that he might have been otherwise, and
      that his son might have been a comfort to him, and they two happy
      together. He began to think now, that his supposed death and his wife's
      flight had had some share in making him the morose, hard man he was. He
      seemed to remember a time when he was not quite so rough and obdurate; and
      almost thought that he had first hated Nicholas because he was young and
      gallant, and perhaps like the stripling who had brought dishonour and loss
      of fortune on his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      But one tender thought, or one of natural regret, in his whirlwind of
      passion and remorse, was as a drop of calm water in a stormy maddened sea.
      His hatred of Nicholas had been fed upon his own defeat, nourished on his
      interference with his schemes, fattened upon his old defiance and success.
      There were reasons for its increase; it had grown and strengthened
      gradually. Now it attained a height which was sheer wild lunacy. That his,
      of all others, should have been the hands to rescue his miserable child;
      that he should have been his protector and faithful friend; that he should
      have shown him that love and tenderness which, from the wretched moment of
      his birth, he had never known; that he should have taught him to hate his
      own parent and execrate his very name; that he should now know and feel
      all this, and triumph in the recollection; was gall and madness to the
      usurer's heart. The dead boy's love for Nicholas, and the attachment of
      Nicholas to him, was insupportable agony. The picture of his deathbed,
      with Nicholas at his side, tending and supporting him, and he breathing
      out his thanks, and expiring in his arms, when he would have had them
      mortal enemies and hating each other to the last, drove him frantic. He
      gnashed his teeth and smote the air, and looking wildly round, with eyes
      which gleamed through the darkness, cried aloud:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am trampled down and ruined. The wretch told me true. The night has
      come! Is there no way to rob them of further triumph, and spurn their
      mercy and compassion? Is there no devil to help me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Swiftly, there glided again into his brain the figure he had raised that
      night. It seemed to lie before him. The head was covered now. So it was
      when he first saw it. The rigid, upturned, marble feet too, he remembered
      well. Then came before him the pale and trembling relatives who had told
      their tale upon the inquest&mdash;the shrieks of women&mdash;the silent
      dread of men&mdash;the consternation and disquiet&mdash;the victory
      achieved by that heap of clay, which, with one motion of its hand, had let
      out the life and made this stir among them&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke no more; but, after a pause, softly groped his way out of the
      room, and up the echoing stairs&mdash;up to the top&mdash;to the front
      garret&mdash;where he closed the door behind him, and remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a mere lumber-room now, but it yet contained an old dismantled
      bedstead; the one on which his son had slept; for no other had ever been
      there. He avoided it hastily, and sat down as far from it as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weakened glare of the lights in the street below, shining through the
      window which had no blind or curtain to intercept it, was enough to show
      the character of the room, though not sufficient fully to reveal the
      various articles of lumber, old corded trunks and broken furniture, which
      were scattered about. It had a shelving roof; high in one part, and at
      another descending almost to the floor. It was towards the highest part
      that Ralph directed his eyes; and upon it he kept them fixed steadily for
      some minutes, when he rose, and dragging thither an old chest upon which
      he had been seated, mounted on it, and felt along the wall above his head
      with both hands. At length, they touched a large iron hook, firmly driven
      into one of the beams.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment, he was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door below.
      After a little hesitation he opened the window, and demanded who it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I want Mr. Nickleby,' replied a voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'What with him?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'That's not Mr. Nickleby's voice, surely?' was the rejoinder.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not like it; but it was Ralph who spoke, and so he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice made answer that the twin brothers wished to know whether the
      man whom he had seen that night was to be detained; and that although it
      was now midnight they had sent, in their anxiety to do right.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Yes,' cried Ralph, 'detain him till tomorrow; then let them bring him
      here&mdash;him and my nephew&mdash;and come themselves, and be sure that I
      will be ready to receive them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'At what hour?' asked the voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'At any hour,' replied Ralph fiercely. 'In the afternoon, tell them. At
      any hour, at any minute. All times will be alike to me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      He listened to the man's retreating footsteps until the sound had passed,
      and then, gazing up into the sky, saw, or thought he saw, the same black
      cloud that had seemed to follow him home, and which now appeared to hover
      directly above the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know its meaning now,' he muttered, 'and the restless nights, the
      dreams, and why I have quailed of late. All pointed to this. Oh! if men by
      selling their own souls could ride rampant for a term, for how short a
      term would I barter mine tonight!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of a deep bell came along the wind. One.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Lie on!' cried the usurer, 'with your iron tongue! Ring merrily for
      births that make expectants writhe, and marriages that are made in hell,
      and toll ruefully for the dead whose shoes are worn already! Call men to
      prayers who are godly because not found out, and ring chimes for the
      coming in of every year that brings this cursed world nearer to its end.
      No bell or book for me! Throw me on a dunghill, and let me rot there, to
      infect the air!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With a wild look around, in which frenzy, hatred, and despair were
      horribly mingled, he shook his clenched hand at the sky above him, which
      was still dark and threatening, and closed the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneys quaked and
      rocked; the crazy casement rattled with the wind, as though an impatient
      hand inside were striving to burst it open. But no hand was there, and it
      opened no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      'How's this?' cried one. 'The gentleman say they can't make anybody hear,
      and have been trying these two hours.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And yet he came home last night,' said another; 'for he spoke to somebody
      out of that window upstairs.'
    </p>
    <p>
      They were a little knot of men, and, the window being mentioned, went out
      into the road to look up at it. This occasioned their observing that the
      house was still close shut, as the housekeeper had said she had left it on
      the previous night, and led to a great many suggestions: which terminated
      in two or three of the boldest getting round to the back, and so entering
      by a window, while the others remained outside, in impatient expectation.
    </p>
    <p>
      They looked into all the rooms below: opening the shutters as they went,
      to admit the fading light: and still finding nobody, and everything quiet
      and in its place, doubted whether they should go farther. One man,
      however, remarking that they had not yet been into the garret, and that it
      was there he had been last seen, they agreed to look there too, and went
      up softly; for the mystery and silence made them timid.
    </p>
    <p>
      After they had stood for an instant, on the landing, eyeing each other, he
      who had proposed their carrying the search so far, turned the handle of
      the door, and, pushing it open, looked through the chink, and fell back
      directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's very odd,' he whispered, 'he's hiding behind the door! Look!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They pressed forward to see; but one among them thrusting the others aside
      with a loud exclamation, drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and dashing
      into the room, cut down the body.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had torn a rope from one of the old trunks, and hung himself on an iron
      hook immediately below the trap-door in the ceiling&mdash;in the very
      place to which the eyes of his son, a lonely, desolate, little creature,
      had so often been directed in childish terror, fourteen years before.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 63
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span><i>he Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and
            others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Some weeks had passed, and the first shock of these events had subsided.
      Madeline had been removed; Frank had been absent; and Nicholas and Kate
      had begun to try in good earnest to stifle their own regrets, and to live
      for each other and for their mother&mdash;who, poor lady, could in nowise
      be reconciled to this dull and altered state of affairs&mdash;when there
      came one evening, per favour of Mr. Linkinwater, an invitation from the
      brothers to dinner on the next day but one: comprehending, not only Mrs
      Nickleby, Kate, and Nicholas, but little Miss La Creevy, who was most
      particularly mentioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, my dears,' said Mrs. Nickleby, when they had rendered becoming honour
      to the bidding, and Tim had taken his departure, 'what does <i>this </i>mean?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'What do <i>you </i>mean, mother?' asked Nicholas, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I say, my dear,' rejoined that lady, with a face of unfathomable mystery,
      'what does this invitation to dinner mean? What is its intention and
      object?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I conclude it means, that on such a day we are to eat and drink in their
      house, and that its intent and object is to confer pleasure upon us,' said
      Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'And that's all you conclude it is, my dear?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have not yet arrived at anything deeper, mother.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then I'll just tell you one thing,' said Mrs. Nickleby, you'll find
      yourself a little surprised; that's all. You may depend upon it that this
      means something besides dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tea and supper, perhaps,' suggested Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wouldn't be absurd, my dear, if I were you,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, in a
      lofty manner, 'because it's not by any means becoming, and doesn't suit
      you at all. What I mean to say is, that the Mr. Cheerybles don't ask us to
      dinner with all this ceremony for nothing. Never mind; wait and see. You
      won't believe anything I say, of course. It's much better to wait; a great
      deal better; it's satisfactory to all parties, and there can be no
      disputing. All I say is, remember what I say now, and when I say I said
      so, don't say I didn't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      With this stipulation, Mrs. Nickleby, who was troubled, night and day, with
      a vision of a hot messenger tearing up to the door to announce that
      Nicholas had been taken into partnership, quitted that branch of the
      subject, and entered upon a new one.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a very extraordinary thing,' she said, 'a most extraordinary thing,
      that they should have invited Miss La Creevy. It quite astonishes me, upon
      my word it does. Of course it's very pleasant that she should be invited,
      very pleasant, and I have no doubt that she'll conduct herself extremely
      well; she always does. It's very gratifying to think that we should have
      been the means of introducing her into such society, and I'm quite glad of
      it&mdash;quite rejoiced&mdash;for she certainly is an exceedingly
      well-behaved and good-natured little person. I could wish that some friend
      would mention to her how very badly she has her cap trimmed, and what very
      preposterous bows those are, but of course that's impossible, and if she
      likes to make a fright of herself, no doubt she has a perfect right to do
      so. We never see ourselves&mdash;never do, and never did&mdash;and I
      suppose we never shall.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This moral reflection reminding her of the necessity of being peculiarly
      smart on the occasion, so as to counterbalance Miss La Creevy, and be
      herself an effectual set-off and atonement, led Mrs. Nickleby into a
      consultation with her daughter relative to certain ribbons, gloves, and
      trimmings: which, being a complicated question, and one of paramount
      importance, soon routed the previous one, and put it to flight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great day arriving, the good lady put herself under Kate's hands an
      hour or so after breakfast, and, dressing by easy stages, completed her
      toilette in sufficient time to allow of her daughter's making hers, which
      was very simple, and not very long, though so satisfactory that she had
      never appeared more charming or looked more lovely. Miss La Creevy, too,
      arrived with two bandboxes (whereof the bottoms fell out as they were
      handed from the coach) and something in a newspaper, which a gentleman had
      sat upon, coming down, and which was obliged to be ironed again, before it
      was fit for service. At last, everybody was dressed, including Nicholas,
      who had come home to fetch them, and they went away in a coach sent by the
      brothers for the purpose: Mrs. Nickleby wondering very much what they would
      have for dinner, and cross-examining Nicholas as to the extent of his
      discoveries in the morning; whether he had smelt anything cooking at all
      like turtle, and if not, what he had smelt; and diversifying the
      conversation with reminiscences of dinners to which she had gone some
      twenty years ago, concerning which she particularised not only the dishes
      but the guests, in whom her hearers did not feel a very absorbing
      interest, as not one of them had ever chanced to hear their names before.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old butler received them with profound respect and many smiles, and
      ushered them into the drawing-room, where they were received by the
      brothers with so much cordiality and kindness that Mrs. Nickleby was quite
      in a flutter, and had scarcely presence of mind enough, even to patronise
      Miss La Creevy. Kate was still more affected by the reception: for,
      knowing that the brothers were acquainted with all that had passed between
      her and Frank, she felt her position a most delicate and trying one, and
      was trembling on the arm of Nicholas, when Mr. Charles took her in his, and
      led her to another part of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Have you seen Madeline, my dear,' he said, 'since she left your house?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir!' replied Kate. 'Not once.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'And not heard from her, eh? Not heard from her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I have only had one letter,' rejoined Kate, gently. 'I thought she would
      not have forgotten me quite so soon.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah,' said the old man, patting her on the head, and speaking as
      affectionately as if she had been his favourite child. 'Poor dear! what do
      you think of this, brother Ned? Madeline has only written to her once,
      only once, Ned, and she didn't think she would have forgotten her quite so
      soon, Ned.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! sad, sad; very sad!' said Ned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The brothers interchanged a glance, and looking at Kate for a little time
      without speaking, shook hands, and nodded as if they were congratulating
      each other on something very delightful.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, well,' said brother Charles, 'go into that room, my dear&mdash;that
      door yonder&mdash;and see if there's not a letter for you from her. I
      think there's one upon the table. You needn't hurry back, my love, if
      there is, for we don't dine just yet, and there's plenty of time. Plenty
      of time.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Kate retired as she was directed. Brother Charles, having followed her
      graceful figure with his eyes, turned to Mrs. Nickleby, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      'We took the liberty of naming one hour before the real dinner-time,
      ma'am, because we had a little business to speak about, which would occupy
      the interval. Ned, my dear fellow, will you mention what we agreed upon?
      Mr. Nickleby, sir, have the goodness to follow me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Without any further explanation, Mrs. Nickleby, Miss La Creevy, and brother
      Ned, were left alone together, and Nicholas followed brother Charles into
      his private room; where, to his great astonishment, he encountered Frank,
      whom he supposed to be abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Young men,' said Mr. Cheeryble, 'shake hands!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I need no bidding to do that,' said Nicholas, extending his.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Nor I,' rejoined Frank, as he clasped it heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman thought that two handsomer or finer young fellows could
      scarcely stand side by side than those on whom he looked with so much
      pleasure. Suffering his eyes to rest upon them, for a short time in
      silence, he said, while he seated himself at his desk:
    </p>
    <p>
      'I wish to see you friends&mdash;close and firm friends&mdash;and if I
      thought you otherwise, I should hesitate in what I am about to say. Frank,
      look here! Mr. Nickleby, will you come on the other side?'
    </p>
    <p>
      The young men stepped up on either hand of brother Charles, who produced a
      paper from his desk, and unfolded it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'This,' he said, 'is a copy of the will of Madeline's maternal
      grandfather, bequeathing her the sum of twelve thousand pounds, payable
      either upon her coming of age or marrying. It would appear that this
      gentleman, angry with her (his only relation) because she would not put
      herself under his protection, and detach herself from the society of her
      father, in compliance with his repeated overtures, made a will leaving
      this property (which was all he possessed) to a charitable institution. He
      would seem to have repented this determination, however, for three weeks
      afterwards, and in the same month, he executed this. By some fraud, it was
      abstracted immediately after his decease, and the other&mdash;the only
      will found&mdash;was proved and administered. Friendly negotiations, which
      have only just now terminated, have been proceeding since this instrument
      came into our hands, and, as there is no doubt of its authenticity, and
      the witnesses have been discovered (after some trouble), the money has
      been refunded. Madeline has therefore obtained her right, and is, or will
      be, when either of the contingencies which I have mentioned has arisen,
      mistress of this fortune. You understand me?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Frank replied in the affirmative. Nicholas, who could not trust himself to
      speak lest his voice should be heard to falter, bowed his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, Frank,' said the old gentleman, 'you were the immediate means of
      recovering this deed. The fortune is but a small one; but we love
      Madeline; and such as it is, we would rather see you allied to her with
      that, than to any other girl we know who has three times the money. Will
      you become a suitor to her for her hand?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, sir. I interested myself in the recovery of that instrument,
      believing that her hand was already pledged to one who has a thousand
      times the claims upon her gratitude, and, if I mistake not, upon her
      heart, that I or any other man can ever urge. In this it seems I judged
      hastily.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'As you always do, sir,' cried brother Charles, utterly forgetting his
      assumed dignity, 'as you always do. How dare you think, Frank, that we
      would have you marry for money, when youth, beauty, and every amiable
      virtue and excellence were to be had for love? How dared you, Frank, go
      and make love to Mr. Nickleby's sister without telling us first what you
      meant to do, and letting us speak for you?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I hardly dared to hope&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You hardly dared to hope! Then, so much the greater reason for having our
      assistance! Mr. Nickleby, sir, Frank, although he judged hastily, judged,
      for once, correctly. Madeline's heart <i>is</i> occupied. Give me your hand, sir;
      it is occupied by you, and worthily and naturally. This fortune is
      destined to be yours, but you have a greater fortune in her, sir, than you
      would have in money were it forty times told. She chooses you, Mr
      Nickleby. She chooses as we, her dearest friends, would have her choose.
      Frank chooses as we would have <i>him </i>choose. He should have your sister's
      little hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times; ay, he should,
      and he shall! You acted nobly, not knowing our sentiments, but now you
      know them, sir, you must do as you are bid. What! You are the children of
      a worthy gentleman! The time was, sir, when my dear brother Ned and I were
      two poor simple-hearted boys, wandering, almost barefoot, to seek our
      fortunes: are we changed in anything but years and worldly circumstances
      since that time? No, God forbid! Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, what a happy day this
      is for you and me! If our poor mother had only lived to see us now, Ned,
      how proud it would have made her dear heart at last!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus apostrophised, brother Ned, who had entered with Mrs. Nickleby, and
      who had been before unobserved by the young men, darted forward, and
      fairly hugged brother Charles in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bring in my little Kate,' said the latter, after a short silence. 'Bring
      her in, Ned. Let me see Kate, let me kiss her. I have a right to do so
      now; I was very near it when she first came; I have often been very near
      it. Ah! Did you find the letter, my bird? Did you find Madeline herself,
      waiting for you and expecting you? Did you find that she had not quite
      forgotten her friend and nurse and sweet companion? Why, this is almost
      the best of all!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come, come,' said Ned, 'Frank will be jealous, and we shall have some
      cutting of throats before dinner.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then let him take her away, Ned, let him take her away. Madeline's in the
      next room. Let all the lovers get out of the way, and talk among
      themselves, if they've anything to say. Turn 'em out, Ned, every one!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Brother Charles began the clearance by leading the blushing girl to the
      door, and dismissing her with a kiss. Frank was not very slow to follow,
      and Nicholas had disappeared first of all. So there only remained Mrs
      Nickleby and Miss La Creevy, who were both sobbing heartily; the two
      brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who now came in to shake hands with
      everybody: his round face all radiant and beaming with smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,' said brother Charles, who was always
      spokesman, 'now the young folks are happy, sir.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You didn't keep 'em in suspense as long as you said you would, though,'
      returned Tim, archly. 'Why, Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Frank were to have been in
      your room for I don't know how long; and I don't know what you weren't to
      have told them before you came out with the truth.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Now, did you ever know such a villain as this, Ned?' said the old
      gentleman; 'did you ever know such a villain as Tim Linkinwater? He
      accusing me of being impatient, and he the very man who has been wearying
      us morning, noon, and night, and torturing us for leave to go and tell 'em
      what was in store, before our plans were half complete, or we had arranged
      a single thing. A treacherous dog!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So he is, brother Charles,' returned Ned; 'Tim is a treacherous dog. Tim
      is not to be trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow. He wants gravity and
      steadiness; he must sow his wild oats, and then perhaps he'll become in
      time a respectable member of society.'
    </p>
    <p>
      This being one of the standing jokes between the old fellows and Tim, they
      all three laughed very heartily, and might have laughed much longer, but
      that the brothers, seeing that Mrs. Nickleby was labouring to express her
      feelings, and was really overwhelmed by the happiness of the time, took
      her between them, and led her from the room under pretence of having to
      consult her on some most important arrangements.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very often, and had always been very
      chatty and pleasant together&mdash;had always been great friends&mdash;and
      consequently it was the most natural thing in the world that Tim, finding
      that she still sobbed, should endeavour to console her. As Miss La Creevy
      sat on a large old-fashioned window-seat, where there was ample room for
      two, it was also natural that Tim should sit down beside her; and as to
      Tim's being unusually spruce and particular in his attire that day, why it
      was a high festival and a great occasion, and that was the most natural
      thing of all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim sat down beside Miss La Creevy, and, crossing one leg over the other
      so that his foot&mdash;he had very comely feet and happened to be wearing
      the neatest shoes and black silk stockings possible&mdash;should come
      easily within the range of her eye, said in a soothing way:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Don't cry!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, don't,' said Tim. 'Please don't; pray don't.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I am so happy!' sobbed the little woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then laugh,' said Tim. 'Do laugh.'
    </p>
    <p>
      What in the world Tim was doing with his arm, it is impossible to
      conjecture, but he knocked his elbow against that part of the window which
      was quite on the other side of Miss La Creevy; and it is clear that it
      could have no business there.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do laugh,' said Tim, 'or I'll cry.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why should you cry?' asked Miss La Creevy, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Because I'm happy too,' said Tim. 'We are both happy, and I should like
      to do as you do.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Surely, there never was a man who fidgeted as Tim must have done then; for
      he knocked the window again&mdash;almost in the same place&mdash;and Miss
      La Creevy said she was sure he'd break it.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I knew,' said Tim, 'that you would be pleased with this scene.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It was very thoughtful and kind to remember me,' returned Miss La Creevy.
      'Nothing could have delighted me half so much.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater have said all this
      in a whisper? It was no secret. And why should Tim Linkinwater have looked
      so hard at Miss La Creevy, and why should Miss La Creevy have looked so
      hard at the ground?
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's a pleasant thing,' said Tim, 'to people like us, who have passed all
      our lives in the world alone, to see young folks that we are fond of,
      brought together with so many years of happiness before them.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah!' cried the little woman with all her heart, 'that it is!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Although,' pursued Tim 'although it makes one feel quite solitary and
      cast away. Now don't it?'
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss La Creevy said she didn't know. And why should she say she didn't
      know? Because she must have known whether it did or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It's almost enough to make us get married after all, isn't it?' said Tim.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, nonsense!' replied Miss La Creevy, laughing. 'We are too old.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Not a bit,' said Tim; 'we are too old to be single. Why shouldn't we both
      be married, instead of sitting through the long winter evenings by our
      solitary firesides? Why shouldn't we make one fireside of it, and marry
      each other?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, Mr. Linkinwater, you're joking!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, I'm not. I'm not indeed,' said Tim. 'I will, if you will. Do, my
      dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'It would make people laugh so.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Let 'em laugh,' cried Tim stoutly; 'we have good tempers I know, and
      we'll laugh too. Why, what hearty laughs we have had since we've known
      each other!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So we have,' cried Miss La Creevy&mdash;giving way a little, as Tim
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      'It has been the happiest time in all my life; at least, away from the
      counting-house and Cheeryble Brothers,' said Tim. 'Do, my dear! Now say
      you will.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, we mustn't think of it,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'What would the
      brothers say?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, God bless your soul!' cried Tim, innocently, 'you don't suppose I
      should think of such a thing without their knowing it! Why they left us
      here on purpose.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I can never look 'em in the face again!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy,
      faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Come,' said Tim, 'let's be a comfortable couple. We shall live in the old
      house here, where I have been for four-and-forty year; we shall go to the
      old church, where I've been, every Sunday morning, all through that time;
      we shall have all my old friends about us&mdash;Dick, the archway, the
      pump, the flower-pots, and Mr. Frank's children, and Mr. Nickleby's
      children, that we shall seem like grandfather and grandmother to. Let's be
      a comfortable couple, and take care of each other! And if we should get
      deaf, or lame, or blind, or bed-ridden, how glad we shall be that we have
      somebody we are fond of, always to talk to and sit with! Let's be a
      comfortable couple. Now, do, my dear!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Five minutes after this honest and straightforward speech, little Miss La
      Creevy and Tim were talking as pleasantly as if they had been married for
      a score of years, and had never once quarrelled all the time; and five
      minutes after that, when Miss La Creevy had bustled out to see if her eyes
      were red and put her hair to rights, Tim moved with a stately step towards
      the drawing-room, exclaiming as he went, 'There an't such another woman in
      all London! I <i>know </i>there an't!'
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time, the apoplectic butler was nearly in fits, in consequence of
      the unheard-of postponement of dinner. Nicholas, who had been engaged in a
      manner in which every reader may imagine for himself or herself, was
      hurrying downstairs in obedience to his angry summons, when he encountered
      a new surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his way down, he overtook, in one of the passages, a stranger genteelly
      dressed in black, who was also moving towards the dining-room. As he was
      rather lame, and walked slowly, Nicholas lingered behind, and was
      following him step by step, wondering who he was, when he suddenly turned
      round and caught him by both hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Newman Noggs!' cried Nicholas joyfully
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! Newman, your own Newman, your own old faithful Newman! My dear boy,
      my dear Nick, I give you joy&mdash;health, happiness, every blessing! I
      can't bear it&mdash;it's too much, my dear boy&mdash;it makes a child of
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Where have you been?' said Nicholas. 'What have you been doing? How often
      have I inquired for you, and been told that I should hear before long!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I know, I know!' returned Newman. 'They wanted all the happiness to come
      together. I've been helping 'em. I&mdash;I&mdash;look at me, Nick, look at
      me!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You would never let <i>me</i> do that,' said Nicholas in a tone of gentle
      reproach.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I didn't mind what I was, then. I shouldn't have had the heart to put on
      gentleman's clothes. They would have reminded me of old times and made me
      miserable. I am another man now, Nick. My dear boy, I can't speak. Don't
      say anything to me. Don't think the worse of me for these tears. You don't
      know what I feel today; you can't, and never will!'
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked in to dinner arm-in-arm, and sat down side by side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never was such a dinner as that, since the world began. There was the
      superannuated bank clerk, Tim Linkinwater's friend; and there was the
      chubby old lady, Tim Linkinwater's sister; and there was so much attention
      from Tim Linkinwater's sister to Miss La Creevy, and there were so many
      jokes from the superannuated bank clerk, and Tim Linkinwater himself was
      in such tiptop spirits, and little Miss La Creevy was in such a comical
      state, that of themselves they would have composed the pleasantest party
      conceivable. Then, there was Mrs. Nickleby, so grand and complacent;
      Madeline and Kate, so blushing and beautiful; Nicholas and Frank, so
      devoted and proud; and all four so silently and tremblingly happy; there
      was Newman so subdued yet so overjoyed, and there were the twin brothers
      so delighted and interchanging such looks, that the old servant stood
      transfixed behind his master's chair, and felt his eyes grow dim as they
      wandered round the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the first novelty of the meeting had worn off, and they began truly
      to feel how happy they were, the conversation became more general, and the
      harmony and pleasure if possible increased. The brothers were in a perfect
      ecstasy; and their insisting on saluting the ladies all round, before they
      would permit them to retire, gave occasion to the superannuated bank clerk
      to say so many good things, that he quite outshone himself, and was looked
      upon as a prodigy of humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, taking her daughter aside, as soon as
      they got upstairs, 'you don't really mean to tell me that this is actually
      true about Miss La Creevy and Mr. Linkinwater?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Indeed it is, mama.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Why, I never heard such a thing in my life!' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Mr. Linkinwater is a most excellent creature,' reasoned Kate, 'and, for
      his age, quite young still.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For <i>his </i>age, my dear!' returned Mrs. Nickleby, 'yes; nobody says anything
      against him, except that I think he is the weakest and most foolish man I
      ever knew. It's <i>her </i>age I speak of. That he should have gone and offered
      himself to a woman who must be&mdash;ah, half as old again as I am&mdash;and
      that she should have dared to accept him! It don't signify, Kate; I'm
      disgusted with her!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Shaking her head very emphatically indeed, Mrs. Nickleby swept away; and
      all the evening, in the midst of the merriment and enjoyment that ensued,
      and in which with that exception she freely participated, conducted
      herself towards Miss La Creevy in a stately and distant manner, designed
      to mark her sense of the impropriety of her conduct, and to signify her
      extreme and cutting disapprobation of the misdemeanour she had so
      flagrantly committed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 64
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span><i>n old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and
            Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is shared by
      the friends of adverse and less fortunate days. Surrounded by every
      fascination of love and hope, his warm heart yearned towards plain John
      Browdie. He remembered their first meeting with a smile, and their second
      with a tear; saw poor Smike once again with the bundle on his shoulder
      trudging patiently by his side; and heard the honest Yorkshireman's rough
      words of encouragement as he left them on their road to London.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to produce a letter
      which should acquaint John at full length with his altered fortunes, and
      assure him of his friendship and gratitude. It so happened, however, that
      the letter could never be written. Although they applied themselves to it
      with the best intentions in the world, it chanced that they always fell to
      talking about something else, and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he
      found it impossible to write one-half of what he wished to say, or to pen
      anything, indeed, which on reperusal did not appear cold and
      unsatisfactory compared with what he had in his mind. At last, after going
      on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself more and more, he
      resolved (the more readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to make a hasty
      trip into Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr. and Mrs. Browdie without
      a word of notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it was that between seven and eight o'clock one evening, he and Kate
      found themselves in the Saracen's Head booking-office, securing a place to
      Greta Bridge by the next morning's coach. They had to go westward, to
      procure some little necessaries for his journey, and, as it was a fine
      night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and Kate
      had so many anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes of
      Frank, and each was so interested in what the other said, and both were so
      happy and confiding, and had so much to talk about, that it was not until
      they had plunged for a full half-hour into that labyrinth of streets which
      lies between Seven Dials and Soho, without emerging into any large
      thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it just possible they might
      have lost their way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking
      about, and walking first to one end of the street and then to the other,
      he could find no landmark he could recognise, and was fain to turn back
      again in quest of some place at which he could seek a direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched
      shops they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed
      across the pavement from a cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or
      three steps so as to render himself visible to those below and make his
      inquiry, when he was arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a woman's
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh come away!' said Kate, 'they are quarrelling. You'll be hurt.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there's anything the matter,'
      returned her brother. 'Hush!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,' cried the woman,
      stamping on the ground, 'why don't you turn the mangle?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'So I am, my life and soul!' replied the man's voice. 'I am always
      turning. I am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition
      mill. My life is one demd horrid grind!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Then why don't you go and list for a soldier?' retorted the woman;
      'you're welcome to.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'For a soldier!' cried the man. 'For a soldier! Would his joy and gladness
      see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear of his
      being slapped and beat by drummers demnebly? Would she have him fire off
      real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers shaved, and his eyes
      turned right and left, and his trousers pipeclayed?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, 'you don't know who that is. It's Mr
      Mantalini I am confident.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Do make sure! Peep at him while I ask the way,' said Nicholas. 'Come down
      a step or two. Come!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down the steps and looked into a
      small boarded cellar. There, amidst clothes-baskets and clothes, stripped
      up to his shirt-sleeves, but wearing still an old patched pair of
      pantaloons of superlative make, a once brilliant waistcoat, and moustache
      and whiskers as of yore, but lacking their lustrous dye&mdash;there,
      endeavouring to mollify the wrath of a buxom female&mdash;not the lawful
      Madame Mantalini, but the proprietress of the concern&mdash;and grinding
      meanwhile as if for very life at the mangle, whose creaking noise, mingled
      with her shrill tones, appeared almost to deafen him&mdash;there was the
      graceful, elegant, fascinating, and once dashing Mantalini.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0825m.jpg" alt="0825m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0825.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Oh you false traitor!' cried the lady, threatening personal violence on
      Mr. Mantalini's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      'False! Oh dem! Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most
      demnebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,' said Mr. Mantalini, humbly.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I won't!' screamed the woman. 'I'll tear your eyes out!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh! What a demd savage lamb!' cried Mr. Mantalini.
    </p>
    <p>
      'You're never to be trusted,' screamed the woman; 'you were out all day
      yesterday, and gallivanting somewhere I know. You know you were! Isn't it
      enough that I paid two pound fourteen for you, and took you out of prison
      and let you live here like a gentleman, but must you go on like this:
      breaking my heart besides?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never do so any
      more; I will never be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,' said Mr
      Mantalini, dropping the handle of the mangle, and folding his palms
      together; 'it is all up with its handsome friend! He has gone to the
      demnition bow-wows. It will have pity? It will not scratch and claw, but
      pet and comfort? Oh, demmit!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Very little affected, to judge from her action, by this tender appeal, the
      lady was on the point of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas,
      raising his voice, asked his way to Piccadilly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Mantalini turned round, caught sight of Kate, and, without another
      word, leapt at one bound into a bed which stood behind the door, and drew
      the counterpane over his face: kicking meanwhile convulsively.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Demmit,' he cried, in a suffocating voice, 'it's little Nickleby! Shut
      the door, put out the candle, turn me up in the bedstead! Oh, dem, dem,
      dem!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr. Mantalini, as if
      uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr. Mantalini
      happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from under the bedclothes, in his
      anxiety to ascertain whether the visitors were gone, she suddenly, and
      with a dexterity which could only have been acquired by long practice,
      flung a pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so good an aim that he
      kicked more violently than before, though without venturing to make any
      effort to disengage his head, which was quite extinguished. Thinking this
      a favourable opportunity for departing before any of the torrent of her
      wrath discharged itself upon him, Nicholas hurried Kate off, and left the
      unfortunate subject of this unexpected recognition to explain his conduct
      as he best could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather:
      forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first
      travelled that road, and how many vicissitudes and changes he had since
      undergone. He was alone inside the greater part of the way, and sometimes,
      when he had fallen into a doze, and, rousing himself, looked out of the
      window, and recognised some place which he well remembered as having
      passed, either on his journey down, or in the long walk back with poor
      Smike, he could hardly believe but that all which had since happened had
      been a dream, and that they were still plodding wearily on towards London,
      with the world before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as night
      set in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the little
      alehouse where he had heard the story of the bold Baron of Grogzwig,
      everything looked as if he had seen it but yesterday, and not even a flake
      of the white crust on the roofs had melted away. Encouraging the train of
      ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost persuade himself that he sat
      again outside the coach, with Squeers and the boys; that he heard their
      voices in the air; and that he felt again, but with a mingled sensation of
      pain and pleasure now, that old sinking of the heart, and longing after
      home. While he was yet yielding himself up to these fancies he fell
      asleep, and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and,
      rising at a very early hour next morning, walked to the market town, and
      inquired for John Browdie's house. John lived in the outskirts, now he was
      a family man; and as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no difficulty in
      finding a boy who undertook to guide him to his residence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not even stopping
      to admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either, Nicholas made his
      way to the kitchen door, and knocked lustily with his stick.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Halloa!' cried a voice inside. 'Wa'et be the matther noo? Be the toon
      a-fire? Ding, but thou mak'st noise eneaf!'
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his
      eyes too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together,
      and burst into a hearty roar:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be Misther
      Nickleby. Gi' us thee hond, mun. Coom awa', coom awa'. In wi 'un, doon
      beside the fire; tak' a soop o' thot. Dinnot say a word till thou'st
      droonk it a'! Oop wi' it, mun. Ding! but I'm reeght glod to see thee.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen,
      forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out from
      an enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it into
      his hand, opened his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to him to
      drink it instantly, and stood with a broad grin of welcome overspreading
      his great red face like a jolly giant.
    </p>
    <p>
      'I might ha' knowa'd,' said John, 'that nobody but thou would ha' coom wi'
      sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa' thou knocked at schoolmeasther's
      door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say; wa'at be a' this aboot schoolmeasther?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'You know it then?' said Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      'They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,' replied John, 'but
      neane on 'em seemed quite to un'erstan' it, loike.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'After various shiftings and delays,' said Nicholas, 'he has been
      sentenced to be transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful
      possession of a stolen will; and, after that, he has to suffer the
      consequence of a conspiracy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Whew!' cried John, 'a conspiracy! Soom'at in the pooder-plot wa'? Eh?
      Soom'at in the Guy Faux line?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I'll explain it
      presently.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thot's reeght!' said John, 'explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for thou
      be'est hoongry, and so am I; and Tilly she mun' be at the bottom o' a'
      explanations, for she says thot's the mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod,
      it's a room start, is the mutual confidence!'
    </p>
    <p>
      The entrance of Mrs. Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many apologies
      for their having been detected in the act of breakfasting in the kitchen,
      stopped John in his discussion of this grave subject, and hastened the
      breakfast: which, being composed of vast mounds of toast, new-laid eggs,
      boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and other cold substantials (of which heavy
      relays were constantly appearing from another kitchen under the direction
      of a very plump servant), was admirably adapted to the cold bleak morning,
      and received the utmost justice from all parties. At last, it came to a
      close; and the fire which had been lighted in the best parlour having by
      this time burnt up, they adjourned thither, to hear what Nicholas had to
      tell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened so many
      emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest John
      groaned in sympathy, and at another roared with joy; at one time he vowed
      to go up to London on purpose to get a sight of the brothers Cheeryble;
      and, at another, swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive such a ham by
      coach, and carriage free, as mortal knife had never carved. When Nicholas
      began to describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth wide open, nudging Mrs
      Browdie from time to time, and exclaiming under his breath that she must
      be 'raa'ther a tidy sart,' and when he heard at last that his young friend
      had come down purposely to communicate his good fortune, and to convey to
      him all those assurances of friendship which he could not state with
      sufficient warmth in writing&mdash;that the only object of his journey was
      to share his happiness with them, and to tell them that when he was
      married they must come up to see him, and that Madeline insisted on it as
      well as he&mdash;John could hold out no longer, but after looking
      indignantly at his wife, and demanding to know what she was whimpering
      for, drew his coat sleeve over his eyes and blubbered outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Tell'ee wa'at though,' said John seriously, when a great deal had been
      said on both sides, 'to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot 'un
      has reached school today, the old 'ooman wean't have a whole boan in her
      boddy, nor Fanny neither.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Oh, John!' cried Mrs. Browdie.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Ah! and Oh, John agean,' replied the Yorkshireman. 'I dinnot know what
      they lads mightn't do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was in
      trouble, some feythers and moothers sent and took their young chaps awa'.
      If them as is left, should know waat's coom tiv'un, there'll be sike a
      revolution and rebel!&mdash;Ding! But I think they'll a' gang daft, and
      spill bluid like wather!'
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, John Browdie's apprehensions were so strong that he determined to
      ride over to the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to accompany
      him, which, however, he declined, pleading that his presence might perhaps
      aggravate the bitterness of their adversity.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Thot's true!' said John; 'I should ne'er ha' thought o' thot.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'I must return tomorrow,' said Nicholas, 'but I mean to dine with you
      today, and if Mrs. Browdie can give me a bed&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Bed!' cried John, 'I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once. Ecod,
      thou shouldst have 'em a'. Bide till I coom back; on'y bide till I coom
      back, and ecod we'll make a day of it.'
    </p>
    <p>
      Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of the
      hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs. Browdie to apply
      herself to hospitable preparations, and his young friend to stroll about
      the neighbourhood, and revisit spots which were rendered familiar to him
      by many a miserable association.
    </p>
    <p>
      John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a
      gate and made his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on the
      inside. A tremendous noise and riot arose from within, and, applying his
      eye to a convenient crevice in the wall, he did not remain long in
      ignorance of its meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The news of Mr. Squeers's downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite
      clear. To all appearance, it had very recently become known to the young
      gentlemen; for the rebellion had just broken out.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle mornings, and Mrs. Squeers had
      entered school according to custom with the large bowl and spoon, followed
      by Miss Squeers and the amiable Wackford: who, during his father's
      absence, had taken upon him such minor branches of the executive as
      kicking the pupils with his nailed boots, pulling the hair of some of the
      smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating places, and rendering
      himself, in various similar ways, a great comfort and happiness to his
      mother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or a simultaneous
      impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one detachment rushed to the door
      and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and forms, the stoutest
      (and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane, and confronting Mrs
      Squeers with a stern countenance, snatched off her cap and beaver bonnet,
      put them on his own head, armed himself with the wooden spoon, and bade
      her, on pain of death, go down upon her knees and take a dose directly.
      Before that estimable lady could recover herself, or offer the slightest
      retaliation, she was forced into a kneeling posture by a crowd of shouting
      tormentors, and compelled to swallow a spoonful of the odious mixture,
      rendered more than usually savoury by the immersion in the bowl of Master
      Wackford's head, whose ducking was intrusted to another rebel. The success
      of this first achievement prompted the malicious crowd, whose faces were
      clustered together in every variety of lank and half-starved ugliness, to
      further acts of outrage. The leader was insisting upon Mrs. Squeers
      repeating her dose, Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the
      treacle, and a violent assault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when
      John Browdie, bursting open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed to the
      rescue. The shouts, screams, groans, hoots, and clapping of hands,
      suddenly ceased, and a dead silence ensued.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0830m.jpg" alt="0830m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0830.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      'Ye be noice chaps,' said John, looking steadily round. 'What's to do
      here, thou yoong dogs?'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!' cried a score of
      shrill voices. 'We won't stop, we won't stop!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Weel then, dinnot stop,' replied John; 'who waants thee to stop? Roon
      awa' loike men, but dinnot hurt the women.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hurrah!' cried the shrill voices, more shrilly still.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hurrah?' repeated John. 'Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look out.
      Hip&mdash;hip,&mdash;hip&mdash;hurrah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hurrah!' cried the voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hurrah! Agean;' said John. 'Looder still.'
    </p>
    <p>
      The boys obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Anoother!' said John. 'Dinnot be afeared on it. Let's have a good 'un!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Hurrah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Noo then,' said John, 'let's have yan more to end wi', and then coot off
      as quick as you loike. Tak'a good breath noo&mdash;Squeers be in jail&mdash;the
      school's brokken oop&mdash;it's a' ower&mdash;past and gane&mdash;think o'
      thot, and let it be a hearty 'un! Hurrah!'
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed before,
      and were destined never to respond to again. When the sound had died away,
      the school was empty; and of the busy noisy crowd which had peopled it but
      five minutes before, not one remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Very well, Mr. Browdie!' said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the
      recent encounter, but vixenish to the last; 'you've been and excited our
      boys to run away. Now see if we don't pay you out for that, sir! If my pa
      <i>is</i> unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we're not going to be basely
      crowed and conquered over by you and 'Tilda.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Noa!' replied John bluntly, 'thou bean't. Tak' thy oath o' thot. Think
      betther o' us, Fanny. I tell 'ee both, that I'm glod the auld man has been
      caught out at last&mdash;dom'd glod&mdash;but ye'll sooffer eneaf wi'out
      any crowin' fra' me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass,
      so I tell 'ee flat. More than thot, I tell 'ee noo, that if thou need'st
      friends to help thee awa' from this place&mdash;dinnot turn up thy nose,
      Fanny, thou may'st&mdash;thou'lt foind Tilly and I wi' a thout o' old
      times aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I say thot, dinnot
      think I be asheamed of waa't I've deane, for I say again, Hurrah! and dom
      the schoolmeasther. There!'
    </p>
    <p>
      His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted
      his nag, put him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily
      forth some fragments of an old song, to which the horse's hoofs rang a
      merry accompaniment, sped back to his pretty wife and to Nicholas.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with boys,
      who, the report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr. and Mrs. Browdie,
      not only with a hearty meal of bread and meat, but with sundry shillings
      and sixpences to help them on their way. To this rumour John always
      returned a stout denial, which he accompanied, however, with a lurking
      grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed all
      previous believers.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been,
      and many as were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still
      knew no other home, and had formed for it a sort of attachment, which made
      them weep when the bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a refuge. Of
      these, some were found crying under hedges and in such places, frightened
      at the solitude. One had a dead bird in a little cage; he had wandered
      nearly twenty miles, and when his poor favourite died, lost courage, and
      lay down beside him. Another was discovered in a yard hard by the school,
      sleeping with a dog, who bit at those who came to remove him, and licked
      the sleeping child's pale face.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were taken back, and some other stragglers were recovered, but by
      degrees they were claimed, or lost again; and, in course of time,
      Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking-up began to be forgotten by the
      neighbours, or to be only spoken of as among the things that had been.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER 65
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>
      <i>onclusion</i>
    </p>
<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<p>When her term of mourning had expired, Madeline gave her hand and fortune
      to Nicholas; and, on the same day and at the same time, Kate became Mrs
      Frank Cheeryble. It was expected that Tim Linkinwater and Miss La Creevy
      would have made a third couple on the occasion, but they declined, and two
      or three weeks afterwards went out together one morning before breakfast,
      and, coming back with merry faces, were found to have been quietly married
      that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The money which Nicholas acquired in right of his wife he invested in the
      firm of Cheeryble Brothers, in which Frank had become a partner. Before
      many years elapsed, the business began to be carried on in the names of
      'Cheeryble and Nickleby,' so that Mrs. Nickleby's prophetic anticipations
      were realised at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be told that <i>they </i>were happy? They
      were surrounded by happiness of their own creation, and lived but to
      increase it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much entreaty and brow-beating, to
      accept a share in the house; but he could never be prevailed upon to
      suffer the publication of his name as a partner, and always persisted in
      the punctual and regular discharge of his clerkly duties.
    </p>
    <p>
      He and his wife lived in the old house, and occupied the very bedchamber
      in which he had slept for four-and-forty years. As his wife grew older,
      she became even a more cheerful and light-hearted little creature; and it
      was a common saying among their friends, that it was impossible to say
      which looked the happier, Tim as he sat calmly smiling in his elbow-chair
      on one side of the fire, or his brisk little wife chatting and laughing,
      and constantly bustling in and out of hers, on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick, the blackbird, was removed from the counting-house and promoted to a
      warm corner in the common sitting-room. Beneath his cage hung two
      miniatures, of Mrs. Linkinwater's execution; one representing herself, and
      the other Tim; and both smiling very hard at all beholders. Tim's head
      being powdered like a twelfth cake, and his spectacles copied with great
      nicety, strangers detected a close resemblance to him at the first glance,
      and this leading them to suspect that the other must be his wife, and
      emboldening them to say so without scruple, Mrs. Linkinwater grew very
      proud of these achievements in time, and considered them among the most
      successful likenesses she had ever painted. Tim had the profoundest faith
      in them, likewise; for on this, as on all other subjects, they held but
      one opinion; and if ever there were a 'comfortable couple' in the world,
      it was Mr. and Mrs. Linkinwater.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph, having died intestate, and having no relations but those with whom
      he had lived in such enmity, they would have become in legal course his
      heirs. But they could not bear the thought of growing rich on money so
      acquired, and felt as though they could never hope to prosper with it.
      They made no claim to his wealth; and the riches for which he had toiled
      all his days, and burdened his soul with so many evil deeds, were swept at
      last into the coffers of the state, and no man was the better or the
      happier for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arthur Gride was tried for the unlawful possession of the will, which he
      had either procured to be stolen, or had dishonestly acquired and retained
      by other means as bad. By dint of an ingenious counsel, and a legal flaw,
      he escaped; but only to undergo a worse punishment; for, some years
      afterwards, his house was broken open in the night by robbers, tempted by
      the rumours of his great wealth, and he was found murdered in his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Sliderskew went beyond the seas at nearly the same time as Mr. Squeers,
      and in the course of nature never returned. Brooker died penitent. Sir
      Mulberry Hawk lived abroad for some years, courted and caressed, and in
      high repute as a fine dashing fellow. Ultimately, returning to this
      country, he was thrown into jail for debt, and there perished miserably,
      as such high spirits generally do.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first act of Nicholas, when he became a rich and prosperous merchant,
      was to buy his father's old house. As time crept on, and there came
      gradually about him a group of lovely children, it was altered and
      enlarged; but none of the old rooms were ever pulled down, no old tree was
      ever rooted up, nothing with which there was any association of bygone
      times was ever removed or changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within a stone's throw was another retreat, enlivened by children's
      pleasant voices too; and here was Kate, with many new cares and
      occupations, and many new faces courting her sweet smile (and one so like
      her own, that to her mother she seemed a child again), the same true
      gentle creature, the same fond sister, the same in the love of all about
      her, as in her girlish days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nickleby lived, sometimes with her daughter, and sometimes with her
      son, accompanying one or other of them to London at those periods when the
      cares of business obliged both families to reside there, and always
      preserving a great appearance of dignity, and relating her experiences
      (especially on points connected with the management and bringing-up of
      children) with much solemnity and importance. It was a very long time
      before she could be induced to receive Mrs. Linkinwater into favour, and it
      is even doubtful whether she ever thoroughly forgave her.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was one grey-haired, quiet, harmless gentleman, who, winter and
      summer, lived in a little cottage hard by Nicholas's house, and, when he
      was not there, assumed the superintendence of affairs. His chief pleasure
      and delight was in the children, with whom he was a child himself, and
      master of the revels. The little people could do nothing without dear
      Newman Noggs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grass was green above the dead boy's grave, and trodden by feet so
      small and light, that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their pressure.
      Through all the spring and summertime, garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed
      by infant hands, rested on the stone; and, when the children came to
      change them lest they should wither and be pleasant to him no longer,
      their eyes filled with tears, and they spoke low and softly of their poor
      dead cousin.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0834m.jpg" alt="0834m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0834.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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