"THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,\n\ncontaining a Faithful Account of the Fortunes, Misfortunes,\n\nUprisings, Downfallings and Complete Career of the Nickelby Family\n\n\nby Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\nAUTHOR'S PREFACE\n\n\nThis story was begun, within a few months after the publication of\nthe completed \"Pickwick Papers.\" There were, then, a good many cheap\nYorkshire schools in existence. There are very few now.\n\nOf the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard\nof it by the State as a means of forming good or bad citizens, and\nmiserable or happy men, private schools long afforded a notable example.\nAlthough any man who had proved his unfitness for any other occupation\nin life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a\nschool anywhere; although preparation for the functions he undertook,\nwas required in the surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world,\nor might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out of it; in the chemist,\nthe attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; the whole\nround of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although\nschoolmasters, as a race, were the blockheads and impostors who might\nnaturally be expected to spring from such a state of things, and to\nflourish in it; these Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most\nrotten round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, indifference,\nor imbecility of parents, and the helplessness of children; ignorant,\nsordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have entrusted\nthe board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they formed the worthy\ncornerstone of a structure, which, for absurdity and a magnificent\nhigh-minded LAISSEZ-ALLER neglect, has rarely been exceeded in the\nworld.\n\nWe hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified\nmedical practitioner, who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to\nheal it. But, what of the hundreds of thousands of minds that have been\ndeformed for ever by the incapable pettifoggers who have pretended to\nform them!\n\nI make mention of the race, as of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, in the\npast tense. Though it has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling\ndaily. A long day's work remains to be done about us in the way of\neducation, Heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities towards\nthe attainment of a good one, have been furnished, of late years.\n\nI cannot call to mind, now, how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools\nwhen I was a not very robust child, sitting in bye-places near Rochester\nCastle, with a head full of PARTRIDGE, STRAP, TOM PIPES, and SANCHO\nPANZA; but I know that my first impressions of them were picked up\nat that time, and that they were somehow or other connected with a\nsuppurated abscess that some boy had come home with, in consequence of\nhis Yorkshire guide, philosopher, and friend, having ripped it open with\nan inky pen-knife. The impression made upon me, however made, never left\nme. I was always curious about Yorkshire schools--fell, long afterwards\nand at sundry times, into the way of hearing more about them--at last,\nhaving an audience, resolved to write about them.\n\nWith that intent I went down into Yorkshire before I began this book, in\nvery severe winter time which is pretty faithfully described herein.\nAs I wanted to see a schoolmaster or two, and was forewarned that those\ngentlemen might, in their modesty, be shy of receiving a visit from the\nauthor of the \"Pickwick Papers,\" I consulted with a professional friend\nwho had a Yorkshire connexion, and with whom I concerted a pious fraud.\nHe gave me some letters of introduction, in the name, I think, of my\ntravelling companion; they bore reference to a supposititious little boy\nwho had been left with a widowed mother who didn't know what to do\nwith him; the poor lady had thought, as a means of thawing the tardy\ncompassion of her relations in his behalf, of sending him to a Yorkshire\nschool; I was the poor lady's friend, travelling that way; and if\nthe recipient of the letter could inform me of a school in his\nneighbourhood, the writer would be very much obliged.\n\nI went to several places in that part of the country where I understood\nthe schools to be most plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to\ndeliver a letter until I came to a certain town which shall be nameless.\nThe person to whom it was addressed, was not at home; but he came down\nat night, through the snow, to the inn where I was staying. It was after\ndinner; and he needed little persuasion to sit down by the fire in a\nwarm corner, and take his share of the wine that was on the table.\n\nI am afraid he is dead now. I recollect he was a jovial, ruddy,\nbroad-faced man; that we got acquainted directly; and that we talked\non all kinds of subjects, except the school, which he showed a great\nanxiety to avoid. \"Was there any large school near?\" I asked him, in\nreference to the letter. \"Oh yes,\" he said; \"there was a pratty big\n'un.\" \"Was it a good one?\" I asked. \"Ey!\" he said, \"it was as good as\nanoother; that was a' a matther of opinion\"; and fell to looking at the\nfire, staring round the room, and whistling a little. On my reverting to\nsome other topic that we had been discussing, he recovered immediately;\nbut, though I tried him again and again, I never approached the question\nof the school, even if he were in the middle of a laugh, without\nobserving that his countenance fell, and that he became uncomfortable.\nAt last, when we had passed a couple of hours or so, very agreeably, he\nsuddenly took up his hat, and leaning over the table and looking me\nfull in the face, said, in a low voice: \"Weel, Misther, we've been vara\npleasant toogather, and ar'll spak' my moind tiv'ee. Dinnot let the\nweedur send her lattle boy to yan o' our school-measthers, while there's\na harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in. Ar\nwouldn't mak' ill words amang my neeburs, and ar speak tiv'ee quiet\nloike. But I'm dom'd if ar can gang to bed and not tellee, for weedur's\nsak', to keep the lattle boy from a' sike scoondrels while there's a\nharse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in!\" Repeating\nthese words with great heartiness, and with a solemnity on his jolly\nface that made it look twice as large as before, he shook hands and went\naway. I never saw him afterwards, but I sometimes imagine that I descry\na faint reflection of him in John Browdie.\n\nIn reference to these gentry, I may here quote a few words from the\noriginal preface to this book.\n\n\"It has afforded the Author great amusement and satisfaction, during the\nprogress of this work, to learn, from country friends and from a variety\nof ludicrous statements concerning himself in provincial newspapers,\nthat more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster lays claim to being the\noriginal of Mr. Squeers. One worthy, he has reason to believe, has\nactually consulted authorities learned in the law, as to his having good\ngrounds on which to rest an action for libel; another, has meditated a\njourney to London, for the express purpose of committing an assault and\nbattery on his traducer; a third, perfectly remembers being waited on,\nlast January twelve-month, by two gentlemen, one of whom held him\nin conversation while the other took his likeness; and, although Mr.\nSqueers has but one eye, and he has two, and the published sketch does\nnot resemble him (whoever he may be) in any other respect, still he\nand all his friends and neighbours know at once for whom it is meant,\nbecause--the character is SO like him.\n\n\"While the Author cannot but feel the full force of the compliment thus\nconveyed to him, he ventures to suggest that these contentions may arise\nfrom the fact, that Mr. Squeers is the representative of a class, and\nnot of an individual. Where imposture, ignorance, and brutal cupidity,\nare the stock in trade of a small body of men, and one is described\nby these characteristics, all his fellows will recognise something\nbelonging to themselves, and each will have a misgiving that the\nportrait is his own.\n\n\"The Author's object in calling public attention to the system would be\nvery imperfectly fulfilled, if he did not state now, in his own person,\nemphatically and earnestly, that Mr. Squeers and his school are faint\nand feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept\ndown lest they should be deemed impossible. That there are, upon record,\ntrials at law in which damages have been sought as a poor recompense\nfor lasting agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the\ntreatment of the master in these places, involving such offensive and\nfoul details of neglect, cruelty, and disease, as no writer of fiction\nwould have the boldness to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged\nupon these Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond\nthe reach of suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the\nperpetration of which upon neglected or repudiated children, these\nschools have been the main instruments, very far exceeding any that\nappear in these pages.\"\n\nThis comprises all I need say on the subject; except that if I had seen\noccasion, I had resolved to reprint a few of these details of legal\nproceedings, from certain old newspapers.\n\nOne other quotation from the same Preface may serve to introduce a fact\nthat my readers may think curious.\n\n\"To turn to a more pleasant subject, it may be right to say, that\nthere ARE two characters in this book which are drawn from life. It is\nremarkable that what we call the world, which is so very credulous in\nwhat professes to be true, is most incredulous in what professes to be\nimaginary; and that, while, every day in real life, it will allow in one\nman no blemishes, and in another no virtues, it will seldom admit a\nvery strongly-marked character, either good or bad, in a fictitious\nnarrative, to be within the limits of probability. But those who take an\ninterest in this tale, will be glad to learn that the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE\nlive; that their liberal charity, their singleness of heart, their\nnoble nature, and their unbounded benevolence, are no creations of the\nAuthor's brain; but are prompting every day (and oftenest by stealth)\nsome munificent and generous deed in that town of which they are the\npride and honour.\"\n\nIf I were to attempt to sum up the thousands of letters, from all sorts\nof people in all sorts of latitudes and climates, which this unlucky\nparagraph brought down upon me, I should get into an arithmetical\ndifficulty from which I could not easily extricate myself. Suffice it\nto say, that I believe the applications for loans, gifts, and offices\nof profit that I have been requested to forward to the originals of the\nBROTHERS CHEERYBLE (with whom I never interchanged any communication\nin my life) would have exhausted the combined patronage of all the Lord\nChancellors since the accession of the House of Brunswick, and would\nhave broken the Rest of the Bank of England.\n\nThe Brothers are now dead.\n\nThere is only one other point, on which I would desire to offer a\nremark. If Nicholas be not always found to be blameless or agreeable, he\nis not always intended to appear so. He is a young man of an impetuous\ntemper and of little or no experience; and I saw no reason why such a\nhero should be lifted out of nature.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nIntroduces all the Rest\n\n\nThere once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one\nMr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head\nrather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough\nor rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an\nold flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the\nsame reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money,\nsometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.\n\nSome ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the life-matrimonial, may\nperhaps suggest, in this place, that the good couple would be better\nlikened to two principals in a sparring match, who, when fortune is low\nand backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure\nof the buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold\ngood; for, as the adventurous pair of the Fives' Court will afterwards\nsend round a hat, and trust to the bounty of the lookers-on for the\nmeans of regaling themselves, so Mr. Godfrey Nickleby and HIS partner,\nthe honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying\nin no inconsiderable degree upon chance for the improvement of their\nmeans. Mr. Nickleby's income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated\nbetween sixty and eighty pounds PER ANNUM.\n\nThere are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and even in London\n(where Mr. Nickleby dwelt in those days) but few complaints prevail, of\nthe population being scanty. It is extraordinary how long a man may look\namong the crowd without discovering the face of a friend, but it is no\nless true. Mr. Nickleby looked, and looked, till his eyes became sore\nas his heart, but no friend appeared; and when, growing tired of the\nsearch, he turned his eyes homeward, he saw very little there to relieve\nhis weary vision. A painter who has gazed too long upon some glaring\ncolour, refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and more\nsombre tint; but everything that met Mr. Nickleby's gaze wore so black\nand gloomy a hue, that he would have been beyond description refreshed\nby the very reverse of the contrast.\n\nAt length, after five years, when Mrs. Nickleby had presented her husband\nwith a couple of sons, and that embarrassed gentleman, impressed with\nthe necessity of making some provision for his family, was seriously\nrevolving in his mind a little commercial speculation of insuring his\nlife next quarter-day, and then falling from the top of the Monument by\naccident, there came, one morning, by the general post, a black-bordered\nletter to inform him how his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and\nhad left him the bulk of his little property, amounting in all to five\nthousand pounds sterling.\n\nAs the deceased had taken no further notice of his nephew in his\nlifetime, than sending to his eldest boy (who had been christened after\nhim, on desperate speculation) a silver spoon in a morocco case, which,\nas he had not too much to eat with it, seemed a kind of satire upon his\nhaving been born without that useful article of plate in his mouth,\nMr. Godfrey Nickleby could, at first, scarcely believe the tidings thus\nconveyed to him. On examination, however, they turned out to be strictly\ncorrect. The amiable old gentleman, it seemed, had intended to leave\nthe whole to the Royal Humane Society, and had indeed executed a will to\nthat effect; but the Institution, having been unfortunate enough, a few\nmonths before, to save the life of a poor relation to whom he paid a\nweekly allowance of three shillings and sixpence, he had, in a fit of\nvery natural exasperation, revoked the bequest in a codicil, and left it\nall to Mr. Godfrey Nickleby; with a special mention of his indignation,\nnot only against the society for saving the poor relation's life, but\nagainst the poor relation also, for allowing himself to be saved.\n\nWith a portion of this property Mr. Godfrey Nickleby purchased a small\nfarm, near Dawlish in Devonshire, whither he retired with his wife and\ntwo children, to live upon the best interest he could get for the rest\nof his money, and the little produce he could raise from his land. The\ntwo prospered so well together that, when he died, some fifteen years\nafter this period, and some five after his wife, he was enabled to\nleave, to his eldest son, Ralph, three thousand pounds in cash, and\nto his youngest son, Nicholas, one thousand and the farm, which was as\nsmall a landed estate as one would desire to see.\n\nThese two brothers had been brought up together in a school at Exeter;\nand, being accustomed to go home once a week, had often heard, from\ntheir mother's lips, long accounts of their father's sufferings in his\ndays of poverty, and of their deceased uncle's importance in his days\nof affluence: which recitals produced a very different impression on\nthe two: for, while the younger, who was of a timid and retiring\ndisposition, gleaned from thence nothing but forewarnings to shun the\ngreat world and attach himself to the quiet routine of a country life,\nRalph, the elder, deduced from the often-repeated tale the two great\nmorals that riches are the only true source of happiness and power, and\nthat it is lawful and just to compass their acquisition by all means\nshort of felony. 'And,' reasoned Ralph with himself, 'if no good came\nof my uncle's money when he was alive, a great deal of good came of it\nafter he was dead, inasmuch as my father has got it now, and is saving\nit up for me, which is a highly virtuous purpose; and, going back to the\nold gentleman, good DID come of it to him too, for he had the pleasure\nof thinking of it all his life long, and of being envied and courted\nby all his family besides.' And Ralph always wound up these mental\nsoliloquies by arriving at the conclusion, that there was nothing like\nmoney.\n\nNot confining himself to theory, or permitting his faculties to rust,\neven at that early age, in mere abstract speculations, this promising\nlad commenced usurer on a limited scale at school; putting out at good\ninterest a small capital of slate-pencil and marbles, and gradually\nextending his operations until they aspired to the copper coinage of\nthis realm, in which he speculated to considerable advantage. Nor did\nhe trouble his borrowers with abstract calculations of figures, or\nreferences to ready-reckoners; his simple rule of interest being all\ncomprised in the one golden sentence, 'two-pence for every half-penny,'\nwhich greatly simplified the accounts, and which, as a familiar precept,\nmore easily acquired and retained in the memory than any known rule\nof arithmetic, cannot be too strongly recommended to the notice of\ncapitalists, both large and small, and more especially of money-brokers\nand bill-discounters. Indeed, to do these gentlemen justice, many of\nthem are to this day in the frequent habit of adopting it, with eminent\nsuccess.\n\nIn like manner, did young Ralph Nickleby avoid all those minute and\nintricate calculations of odd days, which nobody who has worked sums\nin simple-interest can fail to have found most embarrassing, by\nestablishing the one general rule that all sums of principal and\ninterest should be paid on pocket-money day, that is to say, on\nSaturday: and that whether a loan were contracted on the Monday, or on\nthe Friday, the amount of interest should be, in both cases, the same.\nIndeed he argued, and with great show of reason, that it ought to be\nrather more for one day than for five, inasmuch as the borrower might\nin the former case be very fairly presumed to be in great extremity,\notherwise he would not borrow at all with such odds against him. This\nfact is interesting, as illustrating the secret connection and sympathy\nwhich always exist between great minds. Though Master Ralph Nickleby was\nnot at that time aware of it, the class of gentlemen before alluded to,\nproceed on just the same principle in all their transactions.\n\nFrom what we have said of this young gentleman, and the natural\nadmiration the reader will immediately conceive of his character, it may\nperhaps be inferred that he is to be the hero of the work which we shall\npresently begin. To set this point at rest, for once and for ever, we\nhasten to undeceive them, and stride to its commencement.\n\nOn the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, who had been some time\nbefore placed in a mercantile house in London, applied himself\npassionately to his old pursuit of money-getting, in which he speedily\nbecame so buried and absorbed, that he quite forgot his brother for many\nyears; and if, at times, a recollection of his old playfellow broke\nupon him through the haze in which he lived--for gold conjures up a mist\nabout a man, more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to\nhis feelings than the fumes of charcoal--it brought along with it a\ncompanion thought, that if they were intimate he would want to borrow\nmoney of him. So, Mr. Ralph Nickleby shrugged his shoulders, and said\nthings were better as they were.\n\nAs for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estate until\nhe grew tired of living alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of\na neighbouring gentleman with a dower of one thousand pounds. This good\nlady bore him two children, a son and a daughter, and when the son\nwas about nineteen, and the daughter fourteen, as near as we can\nguess--impartial records of young ladies' ages being, before the passing\nof the new act, nowhere preserved in the registries of this country--Mr\nNickleby looked about him for the means of repairing his capital, now\nsadly reduced by this increase in his family, and the expenses of their\neducation.\n\n'Speculate with it,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'Spec--u--late, my dear?' said Mr. Nickleby, as though in doubt.\n\n'Why not?' asked Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'Because, my dear, if we SHOULD lose it,' rejoined Mr. Nickleby, who\nwas a slow and time-taking speaker, 'if we SHOULD lose it, we shall no\nlonger be able to live, my dear.'\n\n'Fiddle,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,' said Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'There's Nicholas,' pursued the lady, 'quite a young man--it's time he\nwas in the way of doing something for himself; and Kate too, poor girl,\nwithout a penny in the world. Think of your brother! Would he be what he\nis, if he hadn't speculated?'\n\n'That's true,' replied Mr. Nickleby. 'Very good, my dear. Yes. I WILL\nspeculate, my dear.'\n\nSpeculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing of their\ncards at first starting; gains MAY be great--and so may losses. The run\nof luck went against Mr. Nickleby. A mania prevailed, a bubble burst,\nfour stock-brokers took villa residences at Florence, four hundred\nnobodies were ruined, and among them Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'The very house I live in,' sighed the poor gentleman, 'may be taken\nfrom me tomorrow. Not an article of my old furniture, but will be sold\nto strangers!'\n\nThe last reflection hurt him so much, that he took at once to his bed;\napparently resolved to keep that, at all events.\n\n'Cheer up, sir!' said the apothecary.\n\n'You mustn't let yourself be cast down, sir,' said the nurse.\n\n'Such things happen every day,' remarked the lawyer.\n\n'And it is very sinful to rebel against them,' whispered the clergyman.\n\n'And what no man with a family ought to do,' added the neighbours.\n\nMr. Nickleby shook his head, and motioning them all out of the room,\nembraced his wife and children, and having pressed them by turns to\nhis languidly beating heart, sunk exhausted on his pillow. They were\nconcerned to find that his reason went astray after this; for he\nbabbled, for a long time, about the generosity and goodness of his\nbrother, and the merry old times when they were at school together.\nThis fit of wandering past, he solemnly commended them to One who never\ndeserted the widow or her fatherless children, and, smiling gently on\nthem, turned upon his face, and observed, that he thought he could fall\nasleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nOf Mr. Ralph Nickleby, and his Establishments, and his Undertakings, and\nof a great Joint Stock Company of vast national Importance\n\n\nMr. Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what you would call\na merchant, neither was he a banker, nor an attorney, nor a special\npleader, nor a notary. He was certainly not a tradesman, and still less\ncould he lay any claim to the title of a professional gentleman; for it\nwould have been impossible to mention any recognised profession to which\nhe belonged. Nevertheless, as he lived in a spacious house in Golden\nSquare, which, in addition to a brass plate upon the street-door, had\nanother brass plate two sizes and a half smaller upon the left hand\ndoor-post, surrounding a brass model of an infant's fist grasping a\nfragment of a skewer, and displaying the word 'Office,' it was clear\nthat Mr. Ralph Nickleby did, or pretended to do, business of some kind;\nand the fact, if it required any further circumstantial evidence, was\nabundantly demonstrated by the diurnal attendance, between the hours of\nhalf-past nine and five, of a sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat\nupon an uncommonly hard stool in a species of butler's pantry at the end\nof the passage, and always had a pen behind his ear when he answered the\nbell.\n\nAlthough a few members of the graver professions live about Golden\nSquare, it is not exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere. It is\none of the squares that have been; a quarter of the town that has gone\ndown in the world, and taken to letting lodgings. Many of its first\nand second floors are let, furnished, to single gentlemen; and it\ntakes boarders besides. It is a great resort of foreigners. The\ndark-complexioned men who wear large rings, and heavy watch-guards, and\nbushy whiskers, and who congregate under the Opera Colonnade, and about\nthe box-office in the season, between four and five in the afternoon,\nwhen they give away the orders,--all live in Golden Square, or within a\nstreet of it. Two or three violins and a wind instrument from the Opera\nband reside within its precincts. Its boarding-houses are musical, and\nthe notes of pianos and harps float in the evening time round the head\nof the mournful statue, the guardian genius of a little wilderness of\nshrubs, in the centre of the square. On a summer's night, windows\nare thrown open, and groups of swarthy moustached men are seen by the\npasser-by, lounging at the casements, and smoking fearfully. Sounds of\ngruff voices practising vocal music invade the evening's silence; and\nthe fumes of choice tobacco scent the air. There, snuff and cigars,\nand German pipes and flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide the\nsupremacy between them. It is the region of song and smoke. Street bands\nare on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerant glee-singers quaver\ninvoluntarily as they raise their voices within its boundaries.\n\nThis would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transaction of\nbusiness; but Mr. Ralph Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding, for\nmany years, and uttered no complaint on that score. He knew nobody round\nabout, and nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the reputation of being\nimmensely rich. The tradesmen held that he was a sort of lawyer, and\nthe other neighbours opined that he was a kind of general agent; both\nof which guesses were as correct and definite as guesses about other\npeople's affairs usually are, or need to be.\n\nMr. Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, ready dressed\nto walk abroad. He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue coat; a white\nwaistcoat, grey mixture pantaloons, and Wellington boots drawn over\nthem. The corner of a small-plaited shirt-frill struggled out, as if\ninsisting to show itself, from between his chin and the top button of\nhis spencer; and the latter garment was not made low enough to conceal\na long gold watch-chain, composed of a series of plain rings, which had\nits beginning at the handle of a gold repeater in Mr. Nickleby's pocket,\nand its termination in two little keys: one belonging to the watch\nitself, and the other to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling of\npowder upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but if\nthat were his purpose, he would perhaps have done better to powder his\ncountenance also, for there was something in its very wrinkles, and\nin his cold restless eye, which seemed to tell of cunning that would\nannounce itself in spite of him. However this might be, there he was;\nand as he was all alone, neither the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the\neyes, had the smallest effect, good or bad, upon anybody just then, and\nare consequently no business of ours just now.\n\nMr. Nickleby closed an account-book which lay on his desk, and, throwing\nhimself back in his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction through the\ndirty window. Some London houses have a melancholy little plot of ground\nbehind them, usually fenced in by four high whitewashed walls, and\nfrowned upon by stacks of chimneys: in which there withers on, from\nyear to year, a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few\nleaves late in autumn when other trees shed theirs, and, drooping in\nthe effort, lingers on, all crackled and smoke-dried, till the following\nseason, when it repeats the same process, and perhaps, if the weather\nbe particularly genial, even tempts some rheumatic sparrow to chirrup\nin its branches. People sometimes call these dark yards 'gardens'; it\nis not supposed that they were ever planted, but rather that they are\npieces of unreclaimed land, with the withered vegetation of the original\nbrick-field. No man thinks of walking in this desolate place, or of\nturning it to any account. A few hampers, half-a-dozen broken bottles,\nand such-like rubbish, may be thrown there, when the tenant first moves\nin, but nothing more; and there they remain until he goes away again:\nthe damp straw taking just as long to moulder as it thinks proper:\nand mingling with the scanty box, and stunted everbrowns, and broken\nflower-pots, that are scattered mournfully about--a prey to 'blacks' and\ndirt.\n\nIt was into a place of this kind that Mr. Ralph Nickleby gazed, as he sat\nwith his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. He had fixed\nhis eyes upon a distorted fir tree, planted by some former tenant in a\ntub that had once been green, and left there, years before, to rot\naway piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in the object, but Mr\nNickleby was wrapt in a brown study, and sat contemplating it with far\ngreater attention than, in a more conscious mood, he would have deigned\nto bestow upon the rarest exotic. At length, his eyes wandered to a\nlittle dirty window on the left, through which the face of the clerk\nwas dimly visible; that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned him to\nattend.\n\nIn obedience to this summons the clerk got off the high stool (to which\nhe had communicated a high polish by countless gettings off and on),\nand presented himself in Mr. Nickleby's room. He was a tall man of middle\nage, with two goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a rubicund nose,\na cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (if the term be allowable\nwhen they suited him not at all) much the worse for wear, very much too\nsmall, and placed upon such a short allowance of buttons that it was\nmarvellous how he contrived to keep them on.\n\n'Was that half-past twelve, Noggs?' said Mr. Nickleby, in a sharp and\ngrating voice.\n\n'Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by the--' Noggs was going to\nadd public-house clock, but recollecting himself, substituted 'regular\ntime.'\n\n'My watch has stopped,' said Mr. Nickleby; 'I don't know from what\ncause.'\n\n'Not wound up,' said Noggs.\n\n'Yes it is,' said Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'Over-wound then,' rejoined Noggs.\n\n'That can't very well be,' observed Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'Must be,' said Noggs.\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Nickleby, putting the repeater back in his pocket;\n'perhaps it is.'\n\nNoggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of all\ndisputes with his master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and (as he\nrarely spoke to anybody unless somebody spoke to him) fell into a grim\nsilence, and rubbed his hands slowly over each other: cracking the\njoints of his fingers, and squeezing them into all possible distortions.\nThe incessant performance of this routine on every occasion, and the\ncommunication of a fixed and rigid look to his unaffected eye, so as to\nmake it uniform with the other, and to render it impossible for anybody\nto determine where or at what he was looking, were two among the\nnumerous peculiarities of Mr. Noggs, which struck an inexperienced\nobserver at first sight.\n\n'I am going to the London Tavern this morning,' said Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'Public meeting?' inquired Noggs.\n\nMr. Nickleby nodded. 'I expect a letter from the solicitor respecting\nthat mortgage of Ruddle's. If it comes at all, it will be here by the\ntwo o'clock delivery. I shall leave the city about that time and walk\nto Charing Cross on the left-hand side of the way; if there are any\nletters, come and meet me, and bring them with you.'\n\nNoggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at the office bell.\nThe master looked up from his papers, and the clerk calmly remained in a\nstationary position.\n\n'The bell,' said Noggs, as though in explanation. 'At home?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'To anybody?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'To the tax-gatherer?'\n\n'No! Let him call again.'\n\nNoggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much as to say 'I thought so!'\nand, the ring being repeated, went to the door, whence he presently\nreturned, ushering in, by the name of Mr. Bonney, a pale gentleman in a\nviolent hurry, who, with his hair standing up in great disorder all over\nhis head, and a very narrow white cravat tied loosely round his throat,\nlooked as if he had been knocked up in the night and had not dressed\nhimself since.\n\n'My dear Nickleby,' said the gentleman, taking off a white hat which was\nso full of papers that it would scarcely stick upon his head, 'there's\nnot a moment to lose; I have a cab at the door. Sir Matthew Pupker takes\nthe chair, and three members of Parliament are positively coming. I have\nseen two of them safely out of bed. The third, who was at Crockford's\nall night, has just gone home to put a clean shirt on, and take a bottle\nor two of soda water, and will certainly be with us, in time to address\nthe meeting. He is a little excited by last night, but never mind that;\nhe always speaks the stronger for it.'\n\n'It seems to promise pretty well,' said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, whose\ndeliberate manner was strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other man\nof business.\n\n'Pretty well!' echoed Mr. Bonney. 'It's the finest idea that was ever\nstarted. \"United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking\nand Punctual Delivery Company. Capital, five millions, in five hundred\nthousand shares of ten pounds each.\" Why the very name will get the\nshares up to a premium in ten days.'\n\n'And when they ARE at a premium,' said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, smiling.\n\n'When they are, you know what to do with them as well as any man alive,\nand how to back quietly out at the right time,' said Mr. Bonney, slapping\nthe capitalist familiarly on the shoulder. 'By-the-bye, what a VERY\nremarkable man that clerk of yours is.'\n\n'Yes, poor devil!' replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. 'Though Newman\nNoggs kept his horses and hounds once.'\n\n'Ay, ay?' said the other carelessly.\n\n'Yes,' continued Ralph, 'and not many years ago either; but he\nsquandered his money, invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and in\nshort made first a thorough fool of himself, and then a beggar. He took\nto drinking, and had a touch of paralysis, and then came here to borrow\na pound, as in his better days I had--'\n\n'Done business with him,' said Mr. Bonney with a meaning look.\n\n'Just so,' replied Ralph; 'I couldn't lend it, you know.'\n\n'Oh, of course not.'\n\n'But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open the door and so forth, I\ntook him out of charity, and he has remained with me ever since. He is\na little mad, I think,' said Mr. Nickleby, calling up a charitable look,\n'but he is useful enough, poor creature--useful enough.'\n\nThe kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add that Newman Noggs, being\nutterly destitute, served him for rather less than the usual wages of a\nboy of thirteen; and likewise failed to mention in his hasty chronicle,\nthat his eccentric taciturnity rendered him an especially valuable\nperson in a place where much business was done, of which it was\ndesirable no mention should be made out of doors. The other gentleman\nwas plainly impatient to be gone, however, and as they hurried into the\nhackney cabriolet immediately afterwards, perhaps Mr. Nickleby forgot to\nmention circumstances so unimportant.\n\nThere was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as they drew up,\nand (it being a windy day) half-a-dozen men were tacking across the road\nunder a press of paper, bearing gigantic announcements that a Public\nMeeting would be holden at one o'clock precisely, to take into\nconsideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the\nUnited Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual\nDelivery Company, capital five millions, in five hundred thousand shares\nof ten pounds each; which sums were duly set forth in fat black figures\nof considerable size. Mr. Bonney elbowed his way briskly upstairs,\nreceiving in his progress many low bows from the waiters who stood on\nthe landings to show the way; and, followed by Mr. Nickleby, dived into a\nsuite of apartments behind the great public room: in the second of which\nwas a business-looking table, and several business-looking people.\n\n'Hear!' cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr. Bonney presented\nhimself. 'Chair, gentlemen, chair!'\n\nThe new-comers were received with universal approbation, and Mr. Bonney\nbustled up to the top of the table, took off his hat, ran his fingers\nthrough his hair, and knocked a hackney-coachman's knock on the table\nwith a little hammer: whereat several gentlemen cried 'Hear!' and nodded\nslightly to each other, as much as to say what spirited conduct that\nwas. Just at this moment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore into\nthe room, and throwing the door open with a crash, shouted 'Sir Matthew\nPupker!'\n\nThe committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, and while they\nwere clapping them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by two live\nmembers of Parliament, one Irish and one Scotch, all smiling and bowing,\nand looking so pleasant that it seemed a perfect marvel how any\nman could have the heart to vote against them. Sir Matthew Pupker\nespecially, who had a little round head with a flaxen wig on the top\nof it, fell into such a paroxysm of bows, that the wig threatened to\nbe jerked off, every instant. When these symptoms had in some degree\nsubsided, the gentlemen who were on speaking terms with Sir Matthew\nPupker, or the two other members, crowded round them in three little\ngroups, near one or other of which the gentlemen who were NOT on\nspeaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker or the two other members, stood\nlingering, and smiling, and rubbing their hands, in the desperate hope\nof something turning up which might bring them into notice. All this\ntime, Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other members were relating to\ntheir separate circles what the intentions of government were, about\ntaking up the bill; with a full account of what the government had said\nin a whisper the last time they dined with it, and how the government\nhad been observed to wink when it said so; from which premises they were\nat no loss to draw the conclusion, that if the government had one\nobject more at heart than another, that one object was the welfare and\nadvantage of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet\nBaking and Punctual Delivery Company.\n\nMeanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the proceedings, and a fair\ndivision of the speechifying, the public in the large room were eyeing,\nby turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in the Music Gallery. In\nthese amusements the greater portion of them had been occupied for a\ncouple of hours before, and as the most agreeable diversions pall upon\nthe taste on a too protracted enjoyment of them, the sterner spirits now\nbegan to hammer the floor with their boot-heels, and to express their\ndissatisfaction by various hoots and cries. These vocal exertions,\nemanating from the people who had been there longest, naturally\nproceeded from those who were nearest to the platform and furthest from\nthe policemen in attendance, who having no great mind to fight their way\nthrough the crowd, but entertaining nevertheless a praiseworthy desire\nto do something to quell the disturbance, immediately began to drag\nforth, by the coat tails and collars, all the quiet people near the\ndoor; at the same time dealing out various smart and tingling blows with\ntheir truncheons, after the manner of that ingenious actor, Mr. Punch:\nwhose brilliant example, both in the fashion of his weapons and their\nuse, this branch of the executive occasionally follows.\n\nSeveral very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loud shout\nattracted the attention even of the belligerents, and then there poured\non to the platform, from a door at the side, a long line of gentlemen\nwith their hats off, all looking behind them, and uttering vociferous\ncheers; the cause whereof was sufficiently explained when Sir Matthew\nPupker and the two other real members of Parliament came to the front,\namidst deafening shouts, and testified to each other in dumb motions\nthat they had never seen such a glorious sight as that, in the whole\ncourse of their public career.\n\nAt length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but Sir Matthew\nPupker being voted into the chair, they underwent a relapse which lasted\nfive minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupker went on to say what must be\nhis feelings on that great occasion, and what must be that occasion\nin the eyes of the world, and what must be the intelligence of\nhis fellow-countrymen before him, and what must be the wealth and\nrespectability of his honourable friends behind him, and lastly, what\nmust be the importance to the wealth, the happiness, the comfort, the\nliberty, the very existence of a free and great people, of such an\nInstitution as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet\nBaking and Punctual Delivery Company!\n\nMr. Bonney then presented himself to move the first resolution; and\nhaving run his right hand through his hair, and planted his left, in\nan easy manner, in his ribs, he consigned his hat to the care of the\ngentleman with the double chin (who acted as a species of bottle-holder\nto the orators generally), and said he would read to them the first\nresolution--'That this meeting views with alarm and apprehension,\nthe existing state of the Muffin Trade in this Metropolis and its\nneighbourhood; that it considers the Muffin Boys, as at present\nconstituted, wholly underserving the confidence of the public; and that\nit deems the whole Muffin system alike prejudicial to the health and\nmorals of the people, and subversive of the best interests of a great\ncommercial and mercantile community.' The honourable gentleman made a\nspeech which drew tears from the eyes of the ladies, and awakened the\nliveliest emotions in every individual present. He had visited the\nhouses of the poor in the various districts of London, and had found\nthem destitute of the slightest vestige of a muffin, which there\nappeared too much reason to believe some of these indigent persons\ndid not taste from year's end to year's end. He had found that among\nmuffin-sellers there existed drunkenness, debauchery, and profligacy,\nwhich he attributed to the debasing nature of their employment as at\npresent exercised; he had found the same vices among the poorer class of\npeople who ought to be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to\nthe despair engendered by their being placed beyond the reach of that\nnutritious article, which drove them to seek a false stimulant in\nintoxicating liquors. He would undertake to prove before a committee of\nthe House of Commons, that there existed a combination to keep up the\nprice of muffins, and to give the bellmen a monopoly; he would prove it\nby bellmen at the bar of that House; and he would also prove, that these\nmen corresponded with each other by secret words and signs as 'Snooks,'\n'Walker,' 'Ferguson,' 'Is Murphy right?' and many others. It was\nthis melancholy state of things that the Company proposed to correct;\nfirstly, by prohibiting, under heavy penalties, all private muffin\ntrading of every description; secondly, by themselves supplying the\npublic generally, and the poor at their own homes, with muffins of first\nquality at reduced prices. It was with this object that a bill had\nbeen introduced into Parliament by their patriotic chairman Sir Matthew\nPupker; it was this bill that they had met to support; it was the\nsupporters of this bill who would confer undying brightness and\nsplendour upon England, under the name of the United Metropolitan\nImproved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company;\nhe would add, with a capital of Five Millions, in five hundred thousand\nshares of ten pounds each.\n\nMr. Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and another gentleman having\nmoved that it be amended by the insertion of the words 'and crumpet'\nafter the word 'muffin,' whenever it occurred, it was carried\ntriumphantly. Only one man in the crowd cried 'No!' and he was promptly\ntaken into custody, and straightway borne off.\n\nThe second resolution, which recognised the expediency of immediately\nabolishing 'all muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders in muffins (or\ncrumpets) of whatsoever description, whether male or female, boys or\nmen, ringing hand-bells or otherwise,' was moved by a grievous gentleman\nof semi-clerical appearance, who went at once into such deep pathetics,\nthat he knocked the first speaker clean out of the course in no time.\nYou might have heard a pin fall--a pin! a feather--as he described\nthe cruelties inflicted on muffin boys by their masters, which he\nvery wisely urged were in themselves a sufficient reason for the\nestablishment of that inestimable company. It seemed that the unhappy\nyouths were nightly turned out into the wet streets at the most\ninclement periods of the year, to wander about, in darkness and rain--or\nit might be hail or snow--for hours together, without shelter, food,\nor warmth; and let the public never forget upon the latter point, that\nwhile the muffins were provided with warm clothing and blankets,\nthe boys were wholly unprovided for, and left to their own miserable\nresources. (Shame!) The honourable gentleman related one case of a\nmuffin boy, who having been exposed to this inhuman and barbarous system\nfor no less than five years, at length fell a victim to a cold in the\nhead, beneath which he gradually sunk until he fell into a perspiration\nand recovered; this he could vouch for, on his own authority, but he\nhad heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact) of a still more\nheart-rending and appalling circumstance. He had heard of the case of an\norphan muffin boy, who, having been run over by a hackney carriage, had\nbeen removed to the hospital, had undergone the amputation of his\nleg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing his occupation on\ncrutches. Fountain of justice, were these things to last!\n\nThis was the department of the subject that took the meeting, and this\nwas the style of speaking to enlist their sympathies. The men shouted;\nthe ladies wept into their pocket-handkerchiefs till they were moist,\nand waved them till they were dry; the excitement was tremendous; and\nMr. Nickleby whispered his friend that the shares were thenceforth at a\npremium of five-and-twenty per cent.\n\nThe resolution was, of course, carried with loud acclamations, every\nman holding up both hands in favour of it, as he would in his enthusiasm\nhave held up both legs also, if he could have conveniently accomplished\nit. This done, the draft of the proposed petition was read at length:\nand the petition said, as all petitions DO say, that the petitioners\nwere very humble, and the petitioned very honourable, and the object\nvery virtuous; therefore (said the petition) the bill ought to be passed\ninto a law at once, to the everlasting honour and glory of that most\nhonourable and glorious Commons of England in Parliament assembled.\n\nThen, the gentleman who had been at Crockford's all night, and who\nlooked something the worse about the eyes in consequence, came forward\nto tell his fellow-countrymen what a speech he meant to make in favour\nof that petition whenever it should be presented, and how desperately he\nmeant to taunt the parliament if they rejected the bill; and to inform\nthem also, that he regretted his honourable friends had not inserted a\nclause rendering the purchase of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon\nall classes of the community, which he--opposing all half-measures,\nand preferring to go the extreme animal--pledged himself to propose\nand divide upon, in committee. After announcing this determination, the\nhonourable gentleman grew jocular; and as patent boots, lemon-coloured\nkid gloves, and a fur coat collar, assist jokes materially, there\nwas immense laughter and much cheering, and moreover such a brilliant\ndisplay of ladies' pocket-handkerchiefs, as threw the grievous gentleman\nquite into the shade.\n\nAnd when the petition had been read and was about to be adopted, there\ncame forward the Irish member (who was a young gentleman of ardent\ntemperament,) with such a speech as only an Irish member can make,\nbreathing the true soul and spirit of poetry, and poured forth with such\nfervour, that it made one warm to look at him; in the course whereof,\nhe told them how he would demand the extension of that great boon to his\nnative country; how he would claim for her equal rights in the muffin\nlaws as in all other laws; and how he yet hoped to see the day when\ncrumpets should be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin bells should\nring in her rich green valleys. And, after him, came the Scotch member,\nwith various pleasant allusions to the probable amount of profits, which\nincreased the good humour that the poetry had awakened; and all the\nspeeches put together did exactly what they were intended to do, and\nestablished in the hearers' minds that there was no speculation\nso promising, or at the same time so praiseworthy, as the United\nMetropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual\nDelivery Company.\n\nSo, the petition in favour of the bill was agreed upon, and the meeting\nadjourned with acclamations, and Mr. Nickleby and the other directors\nwent to the office to lunch, as they did every day at half-past one\no'clock; and to remunerate themselves for which trouble, (as the company\nwas yet in its infancy,) they only charged three guineas each man for\nevery such attendance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nMr. Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, but bears up\nnobly against the Intelligence communicated to him. The Reader is\ninformed how he liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and how kindly\nhe proposed to make his Fortune at once\n\n\nHaving rendered his zealous assistance towards dispatching the lunch,\nwith all that promptitude and energy which are among the most important\nqualities that men of business can possess, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a\ncordial farewell of his fellow-speculators, and bent his steps westward\nin unwonted good humour. As he passed St Paul's he stepped aside into\na doorway to set his watch, and with his hand on the key and his eye\non the cathedral dial, was intent upon so doing, when a man suddenly\nstopped before him. It was Newman Noggs.\n\n'Ah! Newman,' said Mr. Nickleby, looking up as he pursued his occupation.\n'The letter about the mortgage has come, has it? I thought it would.'\n\n'Wrong,' replied Newman.\n\n'What! and nobody called respecting it?' inquired Mr. Nickleby, pausing.\nNoggs shook his head.\n\n'What HAS come, then?' inquired Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'I have,' said Newman.\n\n'What else?' demanded the master, sternly.\n\n'This,' said Newman, drawing a sealed letter slowly from his pocket.\n'Post-mark, Strand, black wax, black border, woman's hand, C. N. in the\ncorner.'\n\n'Black wax?' said Mr. Nickleby, glancing at the letter. 'I know something\nof that hand, too. Newman, I shouldn't be surprised if my brother were\ndead.'\n\n'I don't think you would,' said Newman, quietly.\n\n'Why not, sir?' demanded Mr. Nickleby.\n\n'You never are surprised,' replied Newman, 'that's all.'\n\nMr. Nickleby snatched the letter from his assistant, and fixing a cold\nlook upon him, opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having now hit\nthe time to a second, began winding up his watch.\n\n'It is as I expected, Newman,' said Mr. Nickleby, while he was thus\nengaged. 'He IS dead. Dear me! Well, that's sudden thing. I shouldn't\nhave thought it, really.' With these touching expressions of sorrow, Mr\nNickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on his gloves to a\nnicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowly westward with his hands\nbehind him.\n\n'Children alive?' inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.\n\n'Why, that's the very thing,' replied Mr. Nickleby, as though his\nthoughts were about them at that moment. 'They are both alive.'\n\n'Both!' repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.\n\n'And the widow, too,' added Mr. Nickleby, 'and all three in London,\nconfound them; all three here, Newman.'\n\nNewman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously\ntwisted as by a spasm; but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward\nlaughter, nobody but himself could possibly explain. The expression of\na man's face is commonly a help to his thoughts, or glossary on his\nspeech; but the countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was\na problem which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.\n\n'Go home!' said Mr. Nickleby, after they had walked a few paces: looking\nround at the clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely\nuttered when Newman darted across the road, slunk among the crowd, and\ndisappeared in an instant.\n\n'Reasonable, certainly!' muttered Mr. Nickleby to himself, as he walked\non, 'very reasonable! My brother never did anything for me, and I never\nexpected it; the breath is no sooner out of his body than I am to be\nlooked to, as the support of a great hearty woman, and a grown boy and\ngirl. What are they to me! I never saw them.'\n\nFull of these, and many other reflections of a similar kind, Mr. Nickleby\nmade the best of his way to the Strand, and, referring to his letter as\nif to ascertain the number of the house he wanted, stopped at a private\ndoor about half-way down that crowded thoroughfare.\n\nA miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame\nscrewed upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon a black\nvelvet ground, two portraits of naval dress coats with faces looking\nout of them, and telescopes attached; one of a young gentleman in a very\nvermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre; and one of a literary character\nwith a high forehead, a pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There\nwas, moreover, a touching representation of a young lady reading a\nmanuscript in an unfathomable forest, and a charming whole length of a\nlarge-headed little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs fore-shortened\nto the size of salt-spoons. Besides these works of art, there were a\ngreat many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out\nof blue and brown skies, and an elegantly written card of terms with an\nembossed border.\n\nMr. Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt, and gave\na double knock, which, having been thrice repeated, was answered by a\nservant girl with an uncommonly dirty face.\n\n'Is Mrs. Nickleby at home, girl?' demanded Ralph sharply.\n\n'Her name ain't Nickleby,' said the girl, 'La Creevy, you mean.'\n\nMr. Nickleby looked very indignant at the handmaid on being thus\ncorrected, and demanded with much asperity what she meant; which she\nwas about to state, when a female voice proceeding from a perpendicular\nstaircase at the end of the passage, inquired who was wanted.\n\n'Mrs. Nickleby,' said Ralph.\n\n'It's the second floor, Hannah,' said the same voice; 'what a stupid\nthing you are! Is the second floor at home?'\n\n'Somebody went out just now, but I think it was the attic which had been\na cleaning of himself,' replied the girl.\n\n'You had better see,' said the invisible female. 'Show the gentleman\nwhere the bell is, and tell him he mustn't knock double knocks for the\nsecond floor; I can't allow a knock except when the bell's broke, and\nthen it must be two single ones.'\n\n'Here,' said Ralph, walking in without more parley, 'I beg your pardon;\nis that Mrs. La what's-her-name?'\n\n'Creevy--La Creevy,' replied the voice, as a yellow headdress bobbed\nover the banisters.\n\n'I'll speak to you a moment, ma'am, with your leave,' said Ralph.\n\nThe voice replied that the gentleman was to walk up; but he had walked\nup before it spoke, and stepping into the first floor, was received by\nthe wearer of the yellow head-dress, who had a gown to correspond, and\nwas of much the same colour herself. Miss La Creevy was a mincing\nyoung lady of fifty, and Miss La Creevy's apartment was the gilt frame\ndownstairs on a larger scale and something dirtier.\n\n'Hem!' said Miss La Creevy, coughing delicately behind her black silk\nmitten. 'A miniature, I presume. A very strongly-marked countenance for\nthe purpose, sir. Have you ever sat before?'\n\n'You mistake my purpose, I see, ma'am,' replied Mr. Nickleby, in his\nusual blunt fashion. 'I have no money to throw away on miniatures,\nma'am, and nobody to give one to (thank God) if I had. Seeing you on the\nstairs, I wanted to ask a question of you, about some lodgers here.'\n\nMiss La Creevy coughed once more--this cough was to conceal her\ndisappointment--and said, 'Oh, indeed!'\n\n'I infer from what you said to your servant, that the floor above\nbelongs to you, ma'am,' said Mr. Nickleby.\n\nYes it did, Miss La Creevy replied. The upper part of the house belonged\nto her, and as she had no necessity for the second-floor rooms just\nthen, she was in the habit of letting them. Indeed, there was a lady\nfrom the country and her two children in them, at that present speaking.\n\n'A widow, ma'am?' said Ralph.\n\n'Yes, she is a widow,' replied the lady.\n\n'A POOR widow, ma'am,' said Ralph, with a powerful emphasis on that\nlittle adjective which conveys so much.\n\n'Well, I'm afraid she IS poor,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.\n\n'I happen to know that she is, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Now, what business\nhas a poor widow in such a house as this, ma'am?'\n\n'Very true,' replied Miss La Creevy, not at all displeased with this\nimplied compliment to the apartments. 'Exceedingly true.'\n\n'I know her circumstances intimately, ma'am,' said Ralph; 'in fact, I\nam a relation of the family; and I should recommend you not to keep them\nhere, ma'am.'\n\n'I should hope, if there was any incompatibility to meet the pecuniary\nobligations,' said Miss La Creevy with another cough, 'that the lady's\nfamily would--'\n\n'No they wouldn't, ma'am,' interrupted Ralph, hastily. 'Don't think it.'\n\n'If I am to understand that,' said Miss La Creevy, 'the case wears a\nvery different appearance.'\n\n'You may understand it then, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'and make your\narrangements accordingly. I am the family, ma'am--at least, I believe\nI am the only relation they have, and I think it right that you should\nknow I can't support them in their extravagances. How long have they\ntaken these lodgings for?'\n\n'Only from week to week,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Mrs. Nickleby paid the\nfirst week in advance.'\n\n'Then you had better get them out at the end of it,' said Ralph.\n'They can't do better than go back to the country, ma'am; they are in\neverybody's way here.'\n\n'Certainly,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands, 'if Mrs. Nickleby\ntook the apartments without the means of paying for them, it was very\nunbecoming a lady.'\n\n'Of course it was, ma'am,' said Ralph.\n\n'And naturally,' continued Miss La Creevy, 'I who am, AT\nPRESENT--hem--an unprotected female, cannot afford to lose by the\napartments.'\n\n'Of course you can't, ma'am,' replied Ralph.\n\n'Though at the same time,' added Miss La Creevy, who was plainly\nwavering between her good-nature and her interest, 'I have nothing\nwhatever to say against the lady, who is extremely pleasant and affable,\nthough, poor thing, she seems terribly low in her spirits; nor against\nthe young people either, for nicer, or better-behaved young people\ncannot be.'\n\n'Very well, ma'am,' said Ralph, turning to the door, for these encomiums\non poverty irritated him; 'I have done my duty, and perhaps more than I\nought: of course nobody will thank me for saying what I have.'\n\n'I am sure I am very much obliged to you at least, sir,' said Miss La\nCreevy in a gracious manner. 'Would you do me the favour to look at a\nfew specimens of my portrait painting?'\n\n'You're very good, ma'am,' said Mr. Nickleby, making off with great\nspeed; 'but as I have a visit to pay upstairs, and my time is precious,\nI really can't.'\n\n'At any other time when you are passing, I shall be most happy,' said\nMiss La Creevy. 'Perhaps you will have the kindness to take a card of\nterms with you? Thank you--good-morning!'\n\n'Good-morning, ma'am,' said Ralph, shutting the door abruptly after him\nto prevent any further conversation. 'Now for my sister-in-law. Bah!'\n\nClimbing up another perpendicular flight, composed with great mechanical\ningenuity of nothing but corner stairs, Mr. Ralph Nickleby stopped to\ntake breath on the landing, when he was overtaken by the handmaid, whom\nthe politeness of Miss La Creevy had dispatched to announce him, and\nwho had apparently been making a variety of unsuccessful attempts, since\ntheir last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean, upon an apron much\ndirtier.\n\n'What name?' said the girl.\n\n'Nickleby,' replied Ralph.\n\n'Oh! Mrs. Nickleby,' said the girl, throwing open the door, 'here's Mr\nNickleby.'\n\nA lady in deep mourning rose as Mr. Ralph Nickleby entered, but appeared\nincapable of advancing to meet him, and leant upon the arm of a slight\nbut very beautiful girl of about seventeen, who had been sitting by her.\nA youth, who appeared a year or two older, stepped forward and saluted\nRalph as his uncle.\n\n'Oh,' growled Ralph, with an ill-favoured frown, 'you are Nicholas, I\nsuppose?'\n\n'That is my name, sir,' replied the youth.\n\n'Put my hat down,' said Ralph, imperiously. 'Well, ma'am, how do you do?\nYou must bear up against sorrow, ma'am; I always do.'\n\n'Mine was no common loss!' said Mrs. Nickleby, applying her handkerchief\nto her eyes.\n\n'It was no UNcommon loss, ma'am,' returned Ralph, as he coolly\nunbuttoned his spencer. 'Husbands die every day, ma'am, and wives too.'\n\n'And brothers also, sir,' said Nicholas, with a glance of indignation.\n\n'Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs likewise,' replied his uncle,\ntaking a chair. 'You didn't mention in your letter what my brother's\ncomplaint was, ma'am.'\n\n'The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,' said Mrs\nNickleby; shedding tears. 'We have too much reason to fear that he died\nof a broken heart.'\n\n'Pooh!' said Ralph, 'there's no such thing. I can understand a man's\ndying of a broken neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a broken\nhead, or a broken leg, or a broken nose; but a broken heart!--nonsense,\nit's the cant of the day. If a man can't pay his debts, he dies of a\nbroken heart, and his widow's a martyr.'\n\n'Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,' observed Nicholas,\nquietly.\n\n'How old is this boy, for God's sake?' inquired Ralph, wheeling back his\nchair, and surveying his nephew from head to foot with intense scorn.\n\n'Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,' replied the widow.\n\n'Nineteen, eh!' said Ralph; 'and what do you mean to do for your bread,\nsir?'\n\n'Not to live upon my mother,' replied Nicholas, his heart swelling as he\nspoke.\n\n'You'd have little enough to live upon, if you did,' retorted the uncle,\neyeing him contemptuously.\n\n'Whatever it be,' said Nicholas, flushed with anger, 'I shall not look\nto you to make it more.'\n\n'Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,' remonstrated Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'Dear Nicholas, pray,' urged the young lady.\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Ralph. 'Upon my word! Fine beginnings, Mrs\nNickleby--fine beginnings!'\n\nMrs. Nickleby made no other reply than entreating Nicholas by a gesture\nto keep silent; and the uncle and nephew looked at each other for\nsome seconds without speaking. The face of the old man was stern,\nhard-featured, and forbidding; that of the young one, open, handsome,\nand ingenuous. The old man's eye was keen with the twinklings of avarice\nand cunning; the young man's bright with the light of intelligence and\nspirit. His figure was somewhat slight, but manly and well formed; and,\napart from all the grace of youth and comeliness, there was an emanation\nfrom the warm young heart in his look and bearing which kept the old man\ndown.\n\nHowever striking such a contrast as this may be to lookers-on, none ever\nfeel it with half the keenness or acuteness of perfection with which it\nstrikes to the very soul of him whose inferiority it marks. It galled\nRalph to the heart's core, and he hated Nicholas from that hour.\n\nThe mutual inspection was at length brought to a close by Ralph\nwithdrawing his eyes, with a great show of disdain, and calling Nicholas\n'a boy.' This word is much used as a term of reproach by elderly\ngentlemen towards their juniors: probably with the view of deluding\nsociety into the belief that if they could be young again, they wouldn't\non any account.\n\n'Well, ma'am,' said Ralph, impatiently, 'the creditors have\nadministered, you tell me, and there's nothing left for you?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'And you spent what little money you had, in coming all the way to\nLondon, to see what I could do for you?' pursued Ralph.\n\n'I hoped,' faltered Mrs. Nickleby, 'that you might have an opportunity of\ndoing something for your brother's children. It was his dying wish that\nI should appeal to you in their behalf.'\n\n'I don't know how it is,' muttered Ralph, walking up and down the room,\n'but whenever a man dies without any property of his own, he always\nseems to think he has a right to dispose of other people's. What is your\ndaughter fit for, ma'am?'\n\n'Kate has been well educated,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. 'Tell your uncle, my\ndear, how far you went in French and extras.'\n\nThe poor girl was about to murmur something, when her uncle stopped her,\nvery unceremoniously.\n\n'We must try and get you apprenticed at some boarding-school,' said\nRalph. 'You have not been brought up too delicately for that, I hope?'\n\n'No, indeed, uncle,' replied the weeping girl. 'I will try to do\nanything that will gain me a home and bread.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Ralph, a little softened, either by his niece's\nbeauty or her distress (stretch a point, and say the latter). 'You must\ntry it, and if the life is too hard, perhaps dressmaking or tambour-work\nwill come lighter. Have YOU ever done anything, sir?' (turning to his\nnephew.)\n\n'No,' replied Nicholas, bluntly.\n\n'No, I thought not!' said Ralph. 'This is the way my brother brought up\nhis children, ma'am.'\n\n'Nicholas has not long completed such education as his poor father could\ngive him,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, 'and he was thinking of--'\n\n'Of making something of him someday,' said Ralph. 'The old story; always\nthinking, and never doing. If my brother had been a man of activity\nand prudence, he might have left you a rich woman, ma'am: and if he had\nturned his son into the world, as my father turned me, when I wasn't as\nold as that boy by a year and a half, he would have been in a situation\nto help you, instead of being a burden upon you, and increasing your\ndistress. My brother was a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs. Nickleby,\nand nobody, I am sure, can have better reason to feel that, than you.'\n\nThis appeal set the widow upon thinking that perhaps she might have made\na more successful venture with her one thousand pounds, and then she\nbegan to reflect what a comfortable sum it would have been just then;\nwhich dismal thoughts made her tears flow faster, and in the excess of\nthese griefs she (being a well-meaning woman enough, but weak withal)\nfell first to deploring her hard fate, and then to remarking, with many\nsobs, that to be sure she had been a slave to poor Nicholas, and had\noften told him she might have married better (as indeed she had, very\noften), and that she never knew in his lifetime how the money went, but\nthat if he had confided in her they might all have been better off that\nday; with other bitter recollections common to most married ladies,\neither during their coverture, or afterwards, or at both periods. Mrs\nNickleby concluded by lamenting that the dear departed had never deigned\nto profit by her advice, save on one occasion; which was a strictly\nveracious statement, inasmuch as he had only acted upon it once, and had\nruined himself in consequence.\n\nMr. Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half-smile; and when the widow\nhad finished, quietly took up the subject where it had been left before\nthe above outbreak.\n\n'Are you willing to work, sir?' he inquired, frowning on his nephew.\n\n'Of course I am,' replied Nicholas haughtily.\n\n'Then see here, sir,' said his uncle. 'This caught my eye this morning,\nand you may thank your stars for it.'\n\nWith this exordium, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper from his\npocket, and after unfolding it, and looking for a short time among the\nadvertisements, read as follows:\n\n'\"EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the\ndelightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth\nare boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided\nwith all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead,\nmathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of\nthe globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic,\nfortification, and every other branch of classical literature.\nTerms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet\nunparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till\nfour, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.\nAnnual salary 5 pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.\"\n\n'There!' said Ralph, folding the paper again. 'Let him get that\nsituation, and his fortune is made.'\n\n'But he is not a Master of Arts,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'That,' replied Ralph, 'that, I think, can be got over.'\n\n'But the salary is so small, and it is such a long way off, uncle!'\nfaltered Kate.\n\n'Hush, Kate my dear,' interposed Mrs. Nickleby; 'your uncle must know\nbest.'\n\n'I say,' repeated Ralph, tartly, 'let him get that situation, and his\nfortune is made. If he don't like that, let him get one for himself.\nWithout friends, money, recommendation, or knowledge of business of any\nkind, let him find honest employment in London, which will keep him in\nshoe leather, and I'll give him a thousand pounds. At least,' said Mr\nRalph Nickleby, checking himself, 'I would if I had it.'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said the young lady. 'Oh! uncle, must we be separated so\nsoon!'\n\n'Don't tease your uncle with questions when he is thinking only for our\ngood, my love,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Nicholas, my dear, I wish you would\nsay something.'\n\n'Yes, mother, yes,' said Nicholas, who had hitherto remained silent and\nabsorbed in thought. 'If I am fortunate enough to be appointed to this\npost, sir, for which I am so imperfectly qualified, what will become of\nthose I leave behind?'\n\n'Your mother and sister, sir,' replied Ralph, 'will be provided for, in\nthat case (not otherwise), by me, and placed in some sphere of life in\nwhich they will be able to be independent. That will be my immediate\ncare; they will not remain as they are, one week after your departure, I\nwill undertake.'\n\n'Then,' said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and wringing his uncle's hand,\n'I am ready to do anything you wish me. Let us try our fortune with Mr\nSqueers at once; he can but refuse.'\n\n'He won't do that,' said Ralph. 'He will be glad to have you on my\nrecommendation. Make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to be a\npartner in the establishment in no time. Bless me, only think! if he\nwere to die, why your fortune's made at once.'\n\n'To be sure, I see it all,' said poor Nicholas, delighted with a\nthousand visionary ideas, that his good spirits and his inexperience\nwere conjuring up before him. 'Or suppose some young nobleman who is\nbeing educated at the Hall, were to take a fancy to me, and get his\nfather to appoint me his travelling tutor when he left, and when we\ncome back from the continent, procured me some handsome appointment. Eh!\nuncle?'\n\n'Ah, to be sure!' sneered Ralph.\n\n'And who knows, but when he came to see me when I was settled (as he\nwould of course), he might fall in love with Kate, who would be keeping\nmy house, and--and marry her, eh! uncle? Who knows?'\n\n'Who, indeed!' snarled Ralph.\n\n'How happy we should be!' cried Nicholas with enthusiasm. 'The pain of\nparting is nothing to the joy of meeting again. Kate will be a beautiful\nwoman, and I so proud to hear them say so, and mother so happy to\nbe with us once again, and all these sad times forgotten, and--' The\npicture was too bright a one to bear, and Nicholas, fairly overpowered\nby it, smiled faintly, and burst into tears.\n\nThis simple family, born and bred in retirement, and wholly unacquainted\nwith what is called the world--a conventional phrase which, being\ninterpreted, often signifieth all the rascals in it--mingled their tears\ntogether at the thought of their first separation; and, this first gush\nof feeling over, were proceeding to dilate with all the buoyancy of\nuntried hope on the bright prospects before them, when Mr. Ralph Nickleby\nsuggested, that if they lost time, some more fortunate candidate\nmight deprive Nicholas of the stepping-stone to fortune which the\nadvertisement pointed out, and so undermine all their air-built castles.\nThis timely reminder effectually stopped the conversation. Nicholas,\nhaving carefully copied the address of Mr. Squeers, the uncle and nephew\nissued forth together in quest of that accomplished gentleman; Nicholas\nfirmly persuading himself that he had done his relative great injustice\nin disliking him at first sight; and Mrs. Nickleby being at some pains to\ninform her daughter that she was sure he was a much more kindly disposed\nperson than he seemed; which, Miss Nickleby dutifully remarked, he might\nvery easily be.\n\nTo tell the truth, the good lady's opinion had been not a little\ninfluenced by her brother-in-law's appeal to her better understanding,\nand his implied compliment to her high deserts; and although she had\ndearly loved her husband, and still doted on her children, he had struck\nso successfully on one of those little jarring chords in the human heart\n(Ralph was well acquainted with its worst weaknesses, though he knew\nnothing of its best), that she had already begun seriously to consider\nherself the amiable and suffering victim of her late husband's\nimprudence.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nNicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait\nupon Mr. Wackford Squeers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster\n\n\nSnow Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeople who see the\nwords emblazoned, in all the legibility of gilt letters and dark\nshading, on the north-country coaches, take Snow Hill to be? All\npeople have some undefined and shadowy notion of a place whose name is\nfrequently before their eyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number\nof random ideas there must be perpetually floating about, regarding this\nsame Snow Hill. The name is such a good one. Snow Hill--Snow Hill too,\ncoupled with a Saracen's Head: picturing to us by a double association\nof ideas, something stern and rugged! A bleak desolate tract of country,\nopen to piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms--a dark, cold, gloomy\nheath, lonely by day, and scarcely to be thought of by honest folks\nat night--a place which solitary wayfarers shun, and where desperate\nrobbers congregate;--this, or something like this, should be the\nprevalent notion of Snow Hill, in those remote and rustic parts, through\nwhich the Saracen's Head, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and\nnight with mysterious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its swift and\nheadlong course in all weathers, and seeming to bid defiance to the very\nelements themselves.\n\nThe reality is rather different, but by no means to be despised\nnotwithstanding. There, at the very core of London, in the heart of its\nbusiness and animation, in the midst of a whirl of noise and motion:\nstemming as it were the giant currents of life that flow ceaselessly on\nfrom different quarters, and meet beneath its walls: stands Newgate; and\nin that crowded street on which it frowns so darkly--within a few feet\nof the squalid tottering houses--upon the very spot on which the vendors\nof soup and fish and damaged fruit are now plying their trades--scores\nof human beings, amidst a roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a\ngreat city is as nothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have\nbeen hurried violently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has\nbeen rendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyes\nhave glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; and\nwhen, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch, in his\nall-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one--not one--that bore the\nimpress of pity or compassion.\n\nNear to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and\nthe Compter, and the bustle and noise of the city; and just on that\nparticular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastward\nseriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney\ncabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is\nthe coach-yard of the Saracen's Head Inn; its portal guarded by two\nSaracens' heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of\nthe choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which\nhave for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity; possibly\nbecause this species of humour is now confined to St James's parish,\nwhere door knockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires\nesteemed as convenient toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not,\nthere they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn\nitself garnished with another Saracen's Head, frowns upon you from the\ntop of the yard; while from the door of the hind boot of all the red\ncoaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's Head,\nwith a twin expression to the large Saracens' Heads below, so that the\ngeneral appearance of the pile is decidedly of the Saracenic order.\n\nWhen you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office on your\nleft, and the tower of St Sepulchre's church, darting abruptly up into\nthe sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on both sides. Just\nbefore you, you will observe a long window with the words 'coffee-room'\nlegibly painted above it; and looking out of that window, you would have\nseen in addition, if you had gone at the right time, Mr. Wackford Squeers\nwith his hands in his pockets.\n\nMr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye,\nand the popular prejudice runs in favour of two. The eye he had, was\nunquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental: being of a greenish\ngrey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street door. The blank\nside of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a\nvery sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his\nexpression bordered closely on the villainous. His hair was very flat\nand shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low\nprotruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse\nmanner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the\nmiddle size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of\nscholastic black; but his coat sleeves being a great deal too long,\nand his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in\nhis clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at\nfinding himself so respectable.\n\nMr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fire-places,\nfitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two\nof extraordinary shapes and dimensions made to suit the angles of the\npartition. In a corner of the seat, was a very small deal trunk, tied\nround with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched--his\nlace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air--a\ndiminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands\nplanted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time\nto time, with evident dread and apprehension.\n\n'Half-past three,' muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the window, and\nlooking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. 'There will be nobody here\ntoday.'\n\nMuch vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to\nsee whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened\nnot to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him\nnot to do it again.\n\n'At Midsummer,' muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his complaint, 'I took\ndown ten boys; ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back at eight\no'clock tomorrow morning, and have got only three--three oughts is an\nought--three twos is six--sixty pound. What's come of all the boys?\nwhat's parents got in their heads? what does it all mean?'\n\nHere the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.\n\n'Halloa, sir!' growled the schoolmaster, turning round. 'What's that,\nsir?'\n\n'Nothing, please sir,' replied the little boy.\n\n'Nothing, sir!' exclaimed Mr. Squeers.\n\n'Please sir, I sneezed,' rejoined the boy, trembling till the little\ntrunk shook under him.\n\n'Oh! sneezed, did you?' retorted Mr. Squeers. 'Then what did you say\n\"nothing\" for, sir?'\n\nIn default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a\ncouple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr\nSqueers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the face,\nand knocked him on again with a blow on the other.\n\n'Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,' said Mr\nSqueers, 'and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise,\nsir?'\n\n'Ye--ye--yes,' sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard with\nthe Beggar's Petition in printed calico.\n\n'Then do so at once, sir,' said Squeers. 'Do you hear?'\n\nAs this admonition was accompanied with a threatening gesture, and\nuttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as\nif to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking,\ngave no further vent to his emotions.\n\n'Mr. Squeers,' said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; 'here's a\ngentleman asking for you at the bar.'\n\n'Show the gentleman in, Richard,' replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice.\n'Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I'll\nmurder you when the gentleman goes.'\n\nThe schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper,\nwhen the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned\nto be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to his\nyouthful pupil.\n\n'My dear child,' said Mr. Squeers, 'all people have their trials. This\nearly trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst, and\nyour very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing;\nless than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a\nfather in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful\nvillage of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are\nboarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided\nwith all necessaries--'\n\n'It IS the gentleman,' observed the stranger, stopping the schoolmaster\nin the rehearsal of his advertisement. 'Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir?'\n\n'The same, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, with an assumption of extreme\nsurprise.\n\n'The gentleman,' said the stranger, 'that advertised in the Times\nnewspaper?'\n\n'--Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regarding the\nAcademy called Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys,\nnear Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,' added Mr. Squeers. 'You come on\nbusiness, sir. I see by my young friends. How do you do, my little\ngentleman? and how do you do, sir?' With this salutation Mr. Squeers\npatted the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the\napplicant had brought with him, and waited for further communications.\n\n'I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,' said the\nstranger.\n\nSqueers inclined his head as much as to say, 'And a remarkably pretty\nname, too.'\n\nThe stranger continued. 'I have been thinking, Mr. Squeers, of placing my\ntwo boys at your school.'\n\n'It is not for me to say so, sir,' replied Mr. Squeers, 'but I don't\nthink you could possibly do a better thing.'\n\n'Hem!' said the other. 'Twenty pounds per annewum, I believe, Mr\nSqueers?'\n\n'Guineas,' rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.\n\n'Pounds for two, I think, Mr. Squeers,' said Mr. Snawley, solemnly.\n\n'I don't think it could be done, sir,' replied Squeers, as if he had\nnever considered the proposition before. 'Let me see; four fives is\ntwenty, double that, and deduct the--well, a pound either way shall not\nstand betwixt us. You must recommend me to your connection, sir, and\nmake it up that way.'\n\n'They are not great eaters,' said Mr. Snawley.\n\n'Oh! that doesn't matter at all,' replied Squeers. 'We don't consider\nthe boys' appetites at our establishment.' This was strictly true; they\ndid not.\n\n'Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,' continued\nSqueers; 'every beautiful moral that Mrs. Squeers can instil; every--in\nshort, every comfort of a home that a boy could wish for, will be\ntheirs, Mr. Snawley.'\n\n'I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,' said Mr\nSnawley.\n\n'I am glad of that, sir,' replied the schoolmaster, drawing himself up.\n'They have come to the right shop for morals, sir.'\n\n'You are a moral man yourself,' said Mr. Snawley.\n\n'I rather believe I am, sir,' replied Squeers.\n\n'I have the satisfaction to know you are, sir,' said Mr. Snawley. 'I\nasked one of your references, and he said you were pious.'\n\n'Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,' replied Squeers.\n\n'I hope I am also,' rejoined the other. 'Could I say a few words with\nyou in the next box?'\n\n'By all means,' rejoined Squeers with a grin. 'My dears, will you speak\nto your new playfellow a minute or two? That is one of my boys, sir.\nBelling his name is,--a Taunton boy that, sir.'\n\n'Is he, indeed?' rejoined Mr. Snawley, looking at the poor little urchin\nas if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity.\n\n'He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,' said Squeers. 'That's his luggage\nthat he is a sitting upon now. Each boy is required to bring, sir, two\nsuits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stockings, two nightcaps, two\npocket-handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats, and a razor.'\n\n'A razor!' exclaimed Mr. Snawley, as they walked into the next box. 'What\nfor?'\n\n'To shave with,' replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.\n\nThere was not much in these three words, but there must have been\nsomething in the manner in which they were said, to attract attention;\nfor the schoolmaster and his companion looked steadily at each other for\na few seconds, and then exchanged a very meaning smile. Snawley was a\nsleek, flat-nosed man, clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters,\nand bearing in his countenance an expression of much mortification\nand sanctity; so, his smiling without any obvious reason was the more\nremarkable.\n\n'Up to what age do you keep boys at your school then?' he asked at\nlength.\n\n'Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments to my agent\nin town, or until such time as they run away,' replied Squeers. 'Let\nus understand each other; I see we may safely do so. What are these\nboys;--natural children?'\n\n'No,' rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the schoolmaster's one eye.\n'They ain't.'\n\n'I thought they might be,' said Squeers, coolly. 'We have a good many of\nthem; that boy's one.'\n\n'Him in the next box?' said Snawley.\n\nSqueers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took another peep at\nthe little boy on the trunk, and, turning round again, looked as if he\nwere quite disappointed to see him so much like other boys, and said he\nshould hardly have thought it.\n\n'He is,' cried Squeers. 'But about these boys of yours; you wanted to\nspeak to me?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Snawley. 'The fact is, I am not their father, Mr. Squeers.\nI'm only their father-in-law.'\n\n'Oh! Is that it?' said the schoolmaster. 'That explains it at once. I\nwas wondering what the devil you were going to send them to Yorkshire\nfor. Ha! ha! Oh, I understand now.'\n\n'You see I have married the mother,' pursued Snawley; 'it's expensive\nkeeping boys at home, and as she has a little money in her own right, I\nam afraid (women are so very foolish, Mr. Squeers) that she might be led\nto squander it on them, which would be their ruin, you know.'\n\n'I see,' returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his chair, and\nwaving his hand.\n\n'And this,' resumed Snawley, 'has made me anxious to put them to some\nschool a good distance off, where there are no holidays--none of those\nill-judged coming home twice a year that unsettle children's minds\nso--and where they may rough it a little--you comprehend?'\n\n'The payments regular, and no questions asked,' said Squeers, nodding\nhis head.\n\n'That's it, exactly,' rejoined the other. 'Morals strictly attended to,\nthough.'\n\n'Strictly,' said Squeers.\n\n'Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?' said the father-in-law,\nhesitating.\n\n'None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were so happy,\nand hope they may never be sent for,' rejoined Squeers.\n\n'Nothing could be better,' said the father-in-law, rubbing his hands.\n\n'Then, as we understand each other,' said Squeers, 'will you allow me\nto ask you whether you consider me a highly virtuous, exemplary, and\nwell-conducted man in private life; and whether, as a person whose\nbusiness it is to take charge of youth, you place the strongest\nconfidence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality, religious\nprinciples, and ability?'\n\n'Certainly I do,' replied the father-in-law, reciprocating the\nschoolmaster's grin.\n\n'Perhaps you won't object to say that, if I make you a reference?'\n\n'Not the least in the world.'\n\n'That's your sort!' said Squeers, taking up a pen; 'this is doing\nbusiness, and that's what I like.'\n\nHaving entered Mr. Snawley's address, the schoolmaster had next to\nperform the still more agreeable office of entering the receipt of the\nfirst quarter's payment in advance, which he had scarcely completed,\nwhen another voice was heard inquiring for Mr. Squeers.\n\n'Here he is,' replied the schoolmaster; 'what is it?'\n\n'Only a matter of business, sir,' said Ralph Nickleby, presenting\nhimself, closely followed by Nicholas. 'There was an advertisement of\nyours in the papers this morning?'\n\n'There was, sir. This way, if you please,' said Squeers, who had by this\ntime got back to the box by the fire-place. 'Won't you be seated?'\n\n'Why, I think I will,' replied Ralph, suiting the action to the word,\nand placing his hat on the table before him. 'This is my nephew, sir, Mr\nNicholas Nickleby.'\n\n'How do you do, sir?' said Squeers.\n\nNicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very much astonished\nat the outward appearance of the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall: as indeed\nhe was.\n\n'Perhaps you recollect me?' said Ralph, looking narrowly at the\nschoolmaster.\n\n'You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits to town,\nfor some years, I think, sir,' replied Squeers.\n\n'I did,' rejoined Ralph.\n\n'For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortunately--'\n\n'--unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,' said Ralph, finishing the\nsentence.\n\n'I remember very well, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Ah! Mrs. Squeers, sir,\nwas as partial to that lad as if he had been her own; the attention,\nsir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his illness! Dry toast and\nwarm tea offered him every night and morning when he couldn't swallow\nanything--a candle in his bedroom on the very night he died--the best\ndictionary sent up for him to lay his head upon--I don't regret it\nthough. It is a pleasant thing to reflect that one did one's duty by\nhim.'\n\nRalph smiled, as if he meant anything but smiling, and looked round at\nthe strangers present.\n\n'These are only some pupils of mine,' said Wackford Squeers, pointing\nto the little boy on the trunk and the two little boys on the floor,\nwho had been staring at each other without uttering a word, and writhing\ntheir bodies into most remarkable contortions, according to the custom\nof little boys when they first become acquainted. 'This gentleman,\nsir, is a parent who is kind enough to compliment me upon the course\nof education adopted at Dotheboys Hall, which is situated, sir, at the\ndelightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,\nwhere youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with\npocket-money--'\n\n'Yes, we know all about that, sir,' interrupted Ralph, testily. 'It's in\nthe advertisement.'\n\n'You are very right, sir; it IS in the advertisement,' replied Squeers.\n\n'And in the matter of fact besides,' interrupted Mr. Snawley. 'I feel\nbound to assure you, sir, and I am proud to have this opportunity OF\nassuring you, that I consider Mr. Squeers a gentleman highly virtuous,\nexemplary, well conducted, and--'\n\n'I make no doubt of it, sir,' interrupted Ralph, checking the torrent of\nrecommendation; 'no doubt of it at all. Suppose we come to business?'\n\n'With all my heart, sir,' rejoined Squeers. '\"Never postpone business,\"\nis the very first lesson we instil into our commercial pupils. Master\nBelling, my dear, always remember that; do you hear?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' repeated Master Belling.\n\n'He recollects what it is, does he?' said Ralph.\n\n'Tell the gentleman,' said Squeers.\n\n'\"Never,\"' repeated Master Belling.\n\n'Very good,' said Squeers; 'go on.'\n\n'Never,' repeated Master Belling again.\n\n'Very good indeed,' said Squeers. 'Yes.'\n\n'P,' suggested Nicholas, good-naturedly.\n\n'Perform--business!' said Master Belling. 'Never--perform--business!'\n\n'Very well, sir,' said Squeers, darting a withering look at the culprit.\n'You and I will perform a little business on our private account\nby-and-by.'\n\n'And just now,' said Ralph, 'we had better transact our own, perhaps.'\n\n'If you please,' said Squeers.\n\n'Well,' resumed Ralph, 'it's brief enough; soon broached; and I hope\neasily concluded. You have advertised for an able assistant, sir?'\n\n'Precisely so,' said Squeers.\n\n'And you really want one?'\n\n'Certainly,' answered Squeers.\n\n'Here he is!' said Ralph. 'My nephew Nicholas, hot from school,\nwith everything he learnt there, fermenting in his head, and nothing\nfermenting in his pocket, is just the man you want.'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Squeers, perplexed with such an application from a\nyouth of Nicholas's figure, 'I am afraid the young man won't suit me.'\n\n'Yes, he will,' said Ralph; 'I know better. Don't be cast down, sir; you\nwill be teaching all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hall in less than a\nweek's time, unless this gentleman is more obstinate than I take him to\nbe.'\n\n'I fear, sir,' said Nicholas, addressing Mr. Squeers, 'that you object to\nmy youth, and to my not being a Master of Arts?'\n\n'The absence of a college degree IS an objection,' replied Squeers,\nlooking as grave as he could, and considerably puzzled, no less by the\ncontrast between the simplicity of the nephew and the worldly manner of\nthe uncle, than by the incomprehensible allusion to the young noblemen\nunder his tuition.\n\n'Look here, sir,' said Ralph; 'I'll put this matter in its true light in\ntwo seconds.'\n\n'If you'll have the goodness,' rejoined Squeers.\n\n'This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or a hobbledehoy,\nor whatever you like to call him, of eighteen or nineteen, or\nthereabouts,' said Ralph.\n\n'That I see,' observed the schoolmaster.\n\n'So do I,' said Mr. Snawley, thinking it as well to back his new friend\noccasionally.\n\n'His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has no\nresources whatever, and wants something to do,' said Ralph. 'I recommend\nhim to this splendid establishment of yours, as an opening which will\nlead him to fortune if he turns it to proper account. Do you see that?'\n\n'Everybody must see that,' replied Squeers, half imitating the sneer\nwith which the old gentleman was regarding his unconscious relative.\n\n'I do, of course,' said Nicholas, eagerly.\n\n'He does, of course, you observe,' said Ralph, in the same dry, hard\nmanner. 'If any caprice of temper should induce him to cast aside this\ngolden opportunity before he has brought it to perfection, I consider\nmyself absolved from extending any assistance to his mother and sister.\nLook at him, and think of the use he may be to you in half-a-dozen ways!\nNow, the question is, whether, for some time to come at all events, he\nwon't serve your purpose better than twenty of the kind of people\nyou would get under ordinary circumstances. Isn't that a question for\nconsideration?'\n\n'Yes, it is,' said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph's head with a nod\nof his own.\n\n'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Let me have two words with you.'\n\nThe two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes Mr. Wackford Squeers\nannounced that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby was, from that moment, thoroughly\nnominated to, and installed in, the office of first assistant master at\nDotheboys Hall.\n\n'Your uncle's recommendation has done it, Mr. Nickleby,' said Wackford\nSqueers.\n\nNicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle's hand warmly, and\ncould almost have worshipped Squeers upon the spot.\n\n'He is an odd-looking man,' thought Nicholas. 'What of that? Porson was\nan odd-looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; all these bookworms are.'\n\n'At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, 'the\ncoach starts. You must be here at a quarter before, as we take these\nboys with us.'\n\n'Certainly, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'And your fare down, I have paid,' growled Ralph. 'So, you'll have\nnothing to do but keep yourself warm.'\n\nHere was another instance of his uncle's generosity! Nicholas felt his\nunexpected kindness so much, that he could scarcely find words to thank\nhim; indeed, he had not found half enough, when they took leave of the\nschoolmaster, and emerged from the Saracen's Head gateway.\n\n'I shall be here in the morning to see you fairly off,' said Ralph. 'No\nskulking!'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' replied Nicholas; 'I never shall forget this\nkindness.'\n\n'Take care you don't,' replied his uncle. 'You had better go home now,\nand pack up what you have got to pack. Do you think you could find your\nway to Golden Square first?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Nicholas. 'I can easily inquire.'\n\n'Leave these papers with my clerk, then,' said Ralph, producing a small\nparcel, 'and tell him to wait till I come home.'\n\nNicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding his worthy\nuncle an affectionate farewell, which that warm-hearted old gentleman\nacknowledged by a growl, hastened away to execute his commission.\n\nHe found Golden Square in due course; Mr. Noggs, who had stepped out\nfor a minute or so to the public-house, was opening the door with a\nlatch-key, as he reached the steps.\n\n'What's that?' inquired Noggs, pointing to the parcel.\n\n'Papers from my uncle,' replied Nicholas; 'and you're to have the\ngoodness to wait till he comes home, if you please.'\n\n'Uncle!' cried Noggs.\n\n'Mr. Nickleby,' said Nicholas in explanation.\n\n'Come in,' said Newman.\n\nWithout another word he led Nicholas into the passage, and thence into\nthe official pantry at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair,\nand mounting upon his high stool, sat, with his arms hanging, straight\ndown by his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, as from a tower of\nobservation.\n\n'There is no answer,' said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a table beside\nhim.\n\nNewman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting his head\nforward so as to obtain a nearer view of Nicholas's face, scanned his\nfeatures closely.\n\n'No answer,' said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under the impression\nthat Newman Noggs was deaf.\n\nNewman placed his hands upon his knees, and, without uttering a\nsyllable, continued the same close scrutiny of his companion's face.\n\nThis was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utter\nstranger, and his appearance was so extremely peculiar, that Nicholas,\nwho had a sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, could not refrain\nfrom breaking into a smile as he inquired whether Mr. Noggs had any\ncommands for him.\n\nNoggs shook his head and sighed; upon which Nicholas rose, and remarking\nthat he required no rest, bade him good-morning.\n\nIt was a great exertion for Newman Noggs, and nobody knows to this day\nhow he ever came to make it, the other party being wholly unknown to\nhim, but he drew a long breath and actually said, out loud, without once\nstopping, that if the young gentleman did not object to tell, he should\nlike to know what his uncle was going to do for him.\n\nNicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on the contrary\nwas rather pleased to have an opportunity of talking on the subject\nwhich occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down again, and (his sanguine\nimagination warming as he spoke) entered into a fervent and glowing\ndescription of all the honours and advantages to be derived from his\nappointment at that seat of learning, Dotheboys Hall.\n\n'But, what's the matter--are you ill?' said Nicholas, suddenly breaking\noff, as his companion, after throwing himself into a variety of\nuncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the stool, and cracked his\nfinger-joints as if he were snapping all the bones in his hands.\n\nNewman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging his shoulders and\ncracking his finger-joints; smiling horribly all the time, and looking\nsteadfastly at nothing, out of the tops of his eyes, in a most ghastly\nmanner.\n\nAt first, Nicholas thought the mysterious man was in a fit, but, on\nfurther consideration, decided that he was in liquor, under which\ncircumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at once. He looked back\nwhen he had got the street-door open. Newman Noggs was still indulging\nin the same extraordinary gestures, and the cracking of his fingers\nsounded louder that ever.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nNicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-taking and his\nFellow-Travellers, and what befell them on the Road\n\n\nIf tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve its owner from\nsorrow and misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby would have commenced his\nexpedition under most happy auspices. There was so much to be done, and\nso little time to do it in; so many kind words to be spoken, and such\nbitter pain in the hearts in which they rose to impede their utterance;\nthat the little preparations for his journey were made mournfully\nindeed. A hundred things which the anxious care of his mother and sister\ndeemed indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted on leaving\nbehind, as they might prove of some after use, or might be convertible\ninto money if occasion required. A hundred affectionate contests on\nsuch points as these, took place on the sad night which preceded his\ndeparture; and, as the termination of every angerless dispute brought\nthem nearer and nearer to the close of their slight preparations, Kate\ngrew busier and busier, and wept more silently.\n\nThe box was packed at last, and then there came supper, with some little\ndelicacy provided for the occasion, and as a set-off against the expense\nof which, Kate and her mother had feigned to dine when Nicholas was out.\nThe poor lad nearly choked himself by attempting to partake of it,\nand almost suffocated himself in affecting a jest or two, and forcing a\nmelancholy laugh. Thus, they lingered on till the hour of separating\nfor the night was long past; and then they found that they might as\nwell have given vent to their real feelings before, for they could not\nsuppress them, do what they would. So, they let them have their way, and\neven that was a relief.\n\nNicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or of what\nwas home once--no matter which, for things that are changed or gone will\ncome back as they used to be, thank God! in sleep--and rose quite brisk\nand gay. He wrote a few lines in pencil, to say the goodbye which he was\nafraid to pronounce himself, and laying them, with half his scanty stock\nof money, at his sister's door, shouldered his box and crept softly\ndownstairs.\n\n'Is that you, Hannah?' cried a voice from Miss La Creevy's sitting-room,\nwhence shone the light of a feeble candle.\n\n'It is I, Miss La Creevy,' said Nicholas, putting down the box and\nlooking in.\n\n'Bless us!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting her hand to\nher curl-papers. 'You're up very early, Mr. Nickleby.'\n\n'So are you,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'It's the fine arts that bring me out of bed, Mr. Nickleby,' returned the\nlady. 'I'm waiting for the light to carry out an idea.'\n\nMiss La Creevy had got up early to put a fancy nose into a miniature of\nan ugly little boy, destined for his grandmother in the country, who was\nexpected to bequeath him property if he was like the family.\n\n'To carry out an idea,' repeated Miss La Creevy; 'and that's the great\nconvenience of living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. When I want\na nose or an eye for any particular sitter, I have only to look out of\nwindow and wait till I get one.'\n\n'Does it take long to get a nose, now?' inquired Nicholas, smiling.\n\n'Why, that depends in a great measure on the pattern,' replied Miss La\nCreevy. 'Snubs and Romans are plentiful enough, and there are flats of\nall sorts and sizes when there's a meeting at Exeter Hall; but perfect\naquilines, I am sorry to say, are scarce, and we generally use them for\nuniforms or public characters.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Nicholas. 'If I should meet with any in my travels, I'll\nendeavour to sketch them for you.'\n\n'You don't mean to say that you are really going all the way down into\nYorkshire this cold winter's weather, Mr. Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy.\n'I heard something of it last night.'\n\n'I do, indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'Needs must, you know, when somebody\ndrives. Necessity is my driver, and that is only another name for the\nsame gentleman.'\n\n'Well, I am very sorry for it; that's all I can say,' said Miss La\nCreevy; 'as much on your mother's and sister's account as on yours.\nYour sister is a very pretty young lady, Mr. Nickleby, and that is\nan additional reason why she should have somebody to protect her. I\npersuaded her to give me a sitting or two, for the street-door case.\n'Ah! she'll make a sweet miniature.' As Miss La Creevy spoke, she held\nup an ivory countenance intersected with very perceptible sky-blue\nveins, and regarded it with so much complacency, that Nicholas quite\nenvied her.\n\n'If you ever have an opportunity of showing Kate some little kindness,'\nsaid Nicholas, presenting his hand, 'I think you will.'\n\n'Depend upon that,' said the good-natured miniature painter; 'and God\nbless you, Mr. Nickleby; and I wish you well.'\n\nIt was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed\nenough about its ways to think, that if he gave Miss La Creevy one\nlittle kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindly disposed towards\nthose he was leaving behind. So, he gave her three or four with a kind\nof jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of\ndispleasure than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she\nhad never heard of such a thing, and couldn't have believed it possible.\n\nHaving terminated the unexpected interview in this satisfactory manner,\nNicholas hastily withdrew himself from the house. By the time he had\nfound a man to carry his box it was only seven o'clock, so he walked\nslowly on, a little in advance of the porter, and very probably with not\nhalf as light a heart in his breast as the man had, although he had no\nwaistcoat to cover it with, and had evidently, from the appearance of\nhis other garments, been spending the night in a stable, and taking his\nbreakfast at a pump.\n\nRegarding, with no small curiosity and interest, all the busy\npreparations for the coming day which every street and almost every\nhouse displayed; and thinking, now and then, that it seemed rather hard\nthat so many people of all ranks and stations could earn a livelihood in\nLondon, and that he should be compelled to journey so far in search of\none; Nicholas speedily arrived at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. Having\ndismissed his attendant, and seen the box safely deposited in the\ncoach-office, he looked into the coffee-room in search of Mr. Squeers.\n\nHe found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with the three\nlittle boys before noticed, and two others who had turned up by some\nlucky chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on\nthe opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee,\na plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that\nmoment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.\n\n'This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?' said Mr. Squeers, looking\ndown into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an\naccurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.\n\n'That's twopenn'orth, sir,' replied the waiter.\n\n'What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!' said Mr. Squeers,\nwith a sigh. 'Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will\nyou?'\n\n'To the wery top, sir?' inquired the waiter. 'Why, the milk will be\ndrownded.'\n\n'Never you mind that,' replied Mr. Squeers. 'Serve it right for being so\ndear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?'\n\n'Coming directly, sir.'\n\n'You needn't hurry yourself,' said Squeers; 'there's plenty of time.\nConquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles.' As he\nuttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold\nbeef, and recognised Nicholas.\n\n'Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers. 'Here we are, a breakfasting you\nsee!'\n\nNicholas did NOT see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr. Squeers;\nbut he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he\ncould.\n\n'Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?' said Squeers. 'Very\ngood; don't forget the bread and butter presently.'\n\nAt this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys\nlooked very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes;\nmeanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.\n\n'Ah!' said that gentleman, smacking his lips, 'here's richness! Think of\nthe many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this,\nlittle boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?'\n\n'Very shocking, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'When I say number one,' pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the\nchildren, 'the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink;\nand when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we\ncome to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' cried all the little boys with great eagerness.\n\n'That's right,' said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast;\n'keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears,\nand you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength\nof mind, Mr. Nickleby,' said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and\nspeaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.\n\nNicholas murmured something--he knew not what--in reply; and the little\nboys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which\nhad by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into\nhis mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.\n\n'Thank God for a good breakfast,' said Squeers, when he had finished.\n'Number one may take a drink.'\n\nNumber one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make\nhim wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who\ngave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process\nwas repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.\n\n'And now,' said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for\nthree into as many portions as there were children, 'you had better look\nsharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two,\nand then every boy leaves off.'\n\nPermission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat\nvoraciously, and in desperate haste: while the schoolmaster (who was\nin high good humour after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and\nlooked smilingly on. In a very short time, the horn was heard.\n\n'I thought it wouldn't be long,' said Squeers, jumping up and producing\na little basket from under the seat; 'put what you haven't had time to\neat, in here, boys! You'll want it on the road!'\n\nNicholas was considerably startled by these very economical\narrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little\nboys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and their boxes had to\nbe brought out and put in, and Mr. Squeers's luggage was to be seen\ncarefully deposited in the boot, and all these offices were in his\ndepartment. He was in the full heat and bustle of concluding these\noperations, when his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, accosted him.\n\n'Oh! here you are, sir!' said Ralph. 'Here are your mother and sister,\nsir.'\n\n'Where?' cried Nicholas, looking hastily round.\n\n'Here!' replied his uncle. 'Having too much money and nothing at all to\ndo with it, they were paying a hackney coach as I came up, sir.'\n\n'We were afraid of being too late to see him before he went away from\nus,' said Mrs. Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless of the unconcerned\nlookers-on in the coach-yard.\n\n'Very good, ma'am,' returned Ralph, 'you're the best judge of course. I\nmerely said that you were paying a hackney coach. I never pay a hackney\ncoach, ma'am; I never hire one. I haven't been in a hackney coach of my\nown hiring, for thirty years, and I hope I shan't be for thirty more, if\nI live as long.'\n\n'I should never have forgiven myself if I had not seen him,' said Mrs\nNickleby. 'Poor dear boy--going away without his breakfast too, because\nhe feared to distress us!'\n\n'Mighty fine certainly,' said Ralph, with great testiness. 'When I first\nwent to business, ma'am, I took a penny loaf and a ha'porth of milk for\nmy breakfast as I walked to the city every morning; what do you say to\nthat, ma'am? Breakfast! Bah!'\n\n'Now, Nickleby,' said Squeers, coming up at the moment buttoning his\ngreatcoat; 'I think you'd better get up behind. I'm afraid of one of\nthem boys falling off and then there's twenty pound a year gone.'\n\n'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, touching her brother's arm, 'who is\nthat vulgar man?'\n\n'Eh!' growled Ralph, whose quick ears had caught the inquiry. 'Do you\nwish to be introduced to Mr. Squeers, my dear?'\n\n'That the schoolmaster! No, uncle. Oh no!' replied Kate, shrinking back.\n\n'I'm sure I heard you say as much, my dear,' retorted Ralph in his cold\nsarcastic manner. 'Mr. Squeers, here's my niece: Nicholas's sister!'\n\n'Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,' said Squeers, raising his\nhat an inch or two. 'I wish Mrs. Squeers took gals, and we had you for a\nteacher. I don't know, though, whether she mightn't grow jealous if we\nhad. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nIf the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could have known what was passing\nin his assistant's breast at that moment, he would have discovered, with\nsome surprise, that he was as near being soundly pummelled as he had\never been in his life. Kate Nickleby, having a quicker perception of her\nbrother's emotions, led him gently aside, and thus prevented Mr. Squeers\nfrom being impressed with the fact in a peculiarly disagreeable manner.\n\n'My dear Nicholas,' said the young lady, 'who is this man? What kind of\nplace can it be that you are going to?'\n\n'I hardly know, Kate,' replied Nicholas, pressing his sister's hand. 'I\nsuppose the Yorkshire folks are rather rough and uncultivated; that's\nall.'\n\n'But this person,' urged Kate.\n\n'Is my employer, or master, or whatever the proper name may be,' replied\nNicholas quickly; 'and I was an ass to take his coarseness ill. They are\nlooking this way, and it is time I was in my place. Bless you, love,\nand goodbye! Mother, look forward to our meeting again someday! Uncle,\nfarewell! Thank you heartily for all you have done and all you mean to\ndo. Quite ready, sir!'\n\nWith these hasty adieux, Nicholas mounted nimbly to his seat, and waved\nhis hand as gallantly as if his heart went with it.\n\nAt this moment, when the coachman and guard were comparing notes for the\nlast time before starting, on the subject of the way-bill; when porters\nwere screwing out the last reluctant sixpences, itinerant newsmen\nmaking the last offer of a morning paper, and the horses giving the last\nimpatient rattle to their harness; Nicholas felt somebody pulling softly\nat his leg. He looked down, and there stood Newman Noggs, who pushed up\ninto his hand a dirty letter.\n\n'What's this?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'Hush!' rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr. Ralph Nickleby, who was saying a\nfew earnest words to Squeers, a short distance off: 'Take it. Read it.\nNobody knows. That's all.'\n\n'Stop!' cried Nicholas.\n\n'No,' replied Noggs.\n\nNicholas cried stop, again, but Newman Noggs was gone.\n\nA minute's bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a swaying of the\nvehicle to one side, as the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard,\nclimbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few notes from the horn,\na hasty glance of two sorrowful faces below, and the hard features of Mr\nRalph Nickleby--and the coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones\nof Smithfield.\n\nThe little boys' legs being too short to admit of their feet\nresting upon anything as they sat, and the little boys' bodies being\nconsequently in imminent hazard of being jerked off the coach, Nicholas\nhad enough to do over the stones to hold them on. Between the manual\nexertion and the mental anxiety attendant upon this task, he was not a\nlittle relieved when the coach stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He\nwas still more relieved when a hearty-looking gentleman, with a very\ngood-humoured face, and a very fresh colour, got up behind, and proposed\nto take the other corner of the seat.\n\n'If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,' said the new-comer,\n'they'll be safer in case of their going to sleep; eh?'\n\n'If you'll have the goodness, sir,' replied Squeers, 'that'll be the\nvery thing. Mr. Nickleby, take three of them boys between you and the\ngentleman. Belling and the youngest Snawley can sit between me and the\nguard. Three children,' said Squeers, explaining to the stranger, 'books\nas two.'\n\n'I have not the least objection I am sure,' said the fresh-coloured\ngentleman; 'I have a brother who wouldn't object to book his six\nchildren as two at any butcher's or baker's in the kingdom, I dare say.\nFar from it.'\n\n'Six children, sir?' exclaimed Squeers.\n\n'Yes, and all boys,' replied the stranger.\n\n'Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, in great haste, 'catch hold of that basket.\nLet me give you a card, sir, of an establishment where those six boys\ncan be brought up in an enlightened, liberal, and moral manner, with no\nmistake at all about it, for twenty guineas a year each--twenty guineas,\nsir--or I'd take all the boys together upon a average right through, and\nsay a hundred pound a year for the lot.'\n\n'Oh!' said the gentleman, glancing at the card, 'you are the Mr. Squeers\nmentioned here, I presume?'\n\n'Yes, I am, sir,' replied the worthy pedagogue; 'Mr. Wackford Squeers is\nmy name, and I'm very far from being ashamed of it. These are some of my\nboys, sir; that's one of my assistants, sir--Mr. Nickleby, a gentleman's\nson, and a good scholar, mathematical, classical, and commercial. We\ndon't do things by halves at our shop. All manner of learning my boys\ntake down, sir; the expense is never thought of; and they get paternal\ntreatment and washing in.'\n\n'Upon my word,' said the gentleman, glancing at Nicholas with a\nhalf-smile, and a more than half expression of surprise, 'these are\nadvantages indeed.'\n\n'You may say that, sir,' rejoined Squeers, thrusting his hands into his\ngreat-coat pockets. 'The most unexceptionable references are given\nand required. I wouldn't take a reference with any boy, that wasn't\nresponsible for the payment of five pound five a quarter, no, not if you\nwent down on your knees, and asked me, with the tears running down your\nface, to do it.'\n\n'Highly considerate,' said the passenger.\n\n'It's my great aim and end to be considerate, sir,' rejoined Squeers.\n'Snawley, junior, if you don't leave off chattering your teeth, and\nshaking with the cold, I'll warm you with a severe thrashing in about\nhalf a minute's time.'\n\n'Sit fast here, genelmen,' said the guard as he clambered up.\n\n'All right behind there, Dick?' cried the coachman.\n\n'All right,' was the reply. 'Off she goes!' And off she did go--if\ncoaches be feminine--amidst a loud flourish from the guard's horn,\nand the calm approval of all the judges of coaches and coach-horses\ncongregated at the Peacock, but more especially of the helpers, who\nstood, with the cloths over their arms, watching the coach till it\ndisappeared, and then lounged admiringly stablewards, bestowing various\ngruff encomiums on the beauty of the turn-out.\n\nWhen the guard (who was a stout old Yorkshireman) had blown himself\nquite out of breath, he put the horn into a little tunnel of a basket\nfastened to the coach-side for the purpose, and giving himself a\nplentiful shower of blows on the chest and shoulders, observed it was\nuncommon cold; after which, he demanded of every person separately\nwhether he was going right through, and if not, where he WAS going.\nSatisfactory replies being made to these queries, he surmised that the\nroads were pretty heavy arter that fall last night, and took the\nliberty of asking whether any of them gentlemen carried a snuff-box. It\nhappening that nobody did, he remarked with a mysterious air that he had\nheard a medical gentleman as went down to Grantham last week, say how\nthat snuff-taking was bad for the eyes; but for his part he had never\nfound it so, and what he said was, that everybody should speak as they\nfound. Nobody attempting to controvert this position, he took a small\nbrown-paper parcel out of his hat, and putting on a pair of horn\nspectacles (the writing being crabbed) read the direction half-a-dozen\ntimes over; having done which, he consigned the parcel to its old place,\nput up his spectacles again, and stared at everybody in turn. After\nthis, he took another blow at the horn by way of refreshment; and,\nhaving now exhausted his usual topics of conversation, folded his arms\nas well as he could in so many coats, and falling into a solemn silence,\nlooked carelessly at the familiar objects which met his eye on every\nside as the coach rolled on; the only things he seemed to care for,\nbeing horses and droves of cattle, which he scrutinised with a critical\nair as they were passed upon the road.\n\nThe weather was intensely and bitterly cold; a great deal of snow fell\nfrom time to time; and the wind was intolerably keen. Mr. Squeers got\ndown at almost every stage--to stretch his legs as he said--and as he\nalways came back from such excursions with a very red nose, and composed\nhimself to sleep directly, there is reason to suppose that he derived\ngreat benefit from the process. The little pupils having been stimulated\nwith the remains of their breakfast, and further invigorated by sundry\nsmall cups of a curious cordial carried by Mr. Squeers, which tasted very\nlike toast-and-water put into a brandy bottle by mistake, went to sleep,\nwoke, shivered, and cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholas and\nthe good-tempered man found so many things to talk about, that between\nconversing together, and cheering up the boys, the time passed with them\nas rapidly as it could, under such adverse circumstances.\n\nSo the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good coach dinner, of\nwhich the box, the four front outsides, the one inside, Nicholas, the\ngood-tempered man, and Mr. Squeers, partook; while the five little boys\nwere put to thaw by the fire, and regaled with sandwiches. A stage or\ntwo further on, the lamps were lighted, and a great to-do occasioned\nby the taking up, at a roadside inn, of a very fastidious lady with an\ninfinite variety of cloaks and small parcels, who loudly lamented, for\nthe behoof of the outsides, the non-arrival of her own carriage which\nwas to have taken her on, and made the guard solemnly promise to stop\nevery green chariot he saw coming; which, as it was a dark night and he\nwas sitting with his face the other way, that officer undertook, with\nmany fervent asseverations, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, finding\nthere was a solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lighted which\nshe carried in reticule, and being after much trouble shut in, the\nhorses were put into a brisk canter and the coach was once more in rapid\nmotion.\n\nThe night and the snow came on together, and dismal enough they were.\nThere was no sound to be heard but the howling of the wind; for the\nnoise of the wheels, and the tread of the horses' feet, were rendered\ninaudible by the thick coating of snow which covered the ground, and was\nfast increasing every moment. The streets of Stamford were deserted as\nthey passed through the town; and its old churches rose, frowning and\ndark, from the whitened ground. Twenty miles further on, two of the\nfront outside passengers, wisely availing themselves of their arrival at\none of the best inns in England, turned in, for the night, at the George\nat Grantham. The remainder wrapped themselves more closely in their\ncoats and cloaks, and leaving the light and warmth of the town behind\nthem, pillowed themselves against the luggage, and prepared, with many\nhalf-suppressed moans, again to encounter the piercing blast which swept\nacross the open country.\n\nThey were little more than a stage out of Grantham, or about halfway\nbetween it and Newark, when Nicholas, who had been asleep for a short\ntime, was suddenly roused by a violent jerk which nearly threw him from\nhis seat. Grasping the rail, he found that the coach had sunk greatly\non one side, though it was still dragged forward by the horses; and\nwhile--confused by their plunging and the loud screams of the lady\ninside--he hesitated, for an instant, whether to jump off or not,\nthe vehicle turned easily over, and relieved him from all further\nuncertainty by flinging him into the road.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nIn which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter,\naffords an Opportunity to a couple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against\neach other\n\n\n'Wo ho!' cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, and running to the\nleaders' heads. 'Is there ony genelmen there as can len' a hond here?\nKeep quiet, dang ye! Wo ho!'\n\n'What's the matter?' demanded Nicholas, looking sleepily up.\n\n'Matther mun, matter eneaf for one neight,' replied the guard; 'dang the\nwall-eyed bay, he's gane mad wi' glory I think, carse t'coorch is over.\nHere, can't ye len' a hond? Dom it, I'd ha' dean it if all my boans were\nbrokken.'\n\n'Here!' cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, 'I'm ready. I'm only a\nlittle abroad, that's all.'\n\n'Hoold 'em toight,' cried the guard, 'while ar coot treaces. Hang on\ntiv'em sumhoo. Well deane, my lod. That's it. Let'em goa noo. Dang 'em,\nthey'll gang whoam fast eneaf!'\n\nIn truth, the animals were no sooner released than they trotted back,\nwith much deliberation, to the stable they had just left, which was\ndistant not a mile behind.\n\n'Can you blo' a harn?' asked the guard, disengaging one of the\ncoach-lamps.\n\n'I dare say I can,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Then just blo' away into that 'un as lies on the grund, fit to wakken\nthe deead, will'ee,' said the man, 'while I stop sum o' this here\nsquealing inside. Cumin', cumin'. Dean't make that noise, wooman.'\n\nAs the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench open the uppermost door of the\ncoach, while Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke the echoes far and wide\nwith one of the most extraordinary performances on that instrument ever\nheard by mortal ears. It had its effect, however, not only in rousing\nsuch of their fall, but in summoning assistance to their relief; for\nlights gleamed in the distance, and people were already astir.\n\nIn fact, a man on horseback galloped down, before the passengers were\nwell collected together; and a careful investigation being instituted,\nit appeared that the lady inside had broken her lamp, and the gentleman\nhis head; that the two front outsides had escaped with black eyes; the\nbox with a bloody nose; the coachman with a contusion on the temple;\nMr. Squeers with a portmanteau bruise on his back; and the remaining\npassengers without any injury at all--thanks to the softness of the\nsnow-drift in which they had been overturned. These facts were no\nsooner thoroughly ascertained, than the lady gave several indications of\nfainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carried on\nsome gentleman's shoulders to the nearest public-house, she prudently\nthought better of it, and walked back with the rest.\n\nThey found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with no very great\naccommodation in the way of apartments--that portion of its resources\nbeing all comprised in one public room with a sanded floor, and a chair\nor two. However, a large faggot and a plentiful supply of coals being\nheaped upon the fire, the appearance of things was not long in mending;\nand, by the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late\naccident, the room was warm and light, which was a most agreeable\nexchange for the cold and darkness out of doors.\n\n'Well, Mr. Nickleby,' said Squeers, insinuating himself into the warmest\ncorner, 'you did very right to catch hold of them horses. I should have\ndone it myself if I had come to in time, but I am very glad you did it.\nYou did it very well; very well.'\n\n'So well,' said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem to approve\nvery much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers, 'that if they had\nnot been firmly checked when they were, you would most probably have had\nno brains left to teach with.'\n\nThis remark called up a discourse relative to the promptitude\nNicholas had displayed, and he was overwhelmed with compliments and\ncommendations.\n\n'I am very glad to have escaped, of course,' observed Squeers: 'every\nman is glad when he escapes from danger; but if any one of my charges\nhad been hurt--if I had been prevented from restoring any one of these\nlittle boys to his parents whole and sound as I received him--what would\nhave been my feelings? Why the wheel a-top of my head would have been\nfar preferable to it.'\n\n'Are they all brothers, sir?' inquired the lady who had carried the\n'Davy' or safety-lamp.\n\n'In one sense they are, ma'am,' replied Squeers, diving into his\ngreatcoat pocket for cards. 'They are all under the same parental and\naffectionate treatment. Mrs. Squeers and myself are a mother and father\nto every one of 'em. Mr. Nickleby, hand the lady them cards, and offer\nthese to the gentleman. Perhaps they might know of some parents that\nwould be glad to avail themselves of the establishment.'\n\nExpressing himself to this effect, Mr. Squeers, who lost no opportunity\nof advertising gratuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and looked\nat the pupils with as much benignity as he could possibly affect, while\nNicholas, blushing with shame, handed round the cards as directed.\n\n'I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma'am?' said the\nmerry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as though he were\ncharitably desirous to change the subject.\n\n'No bodily inconvenience,' replied the lady.\n\n'No mental inconvenience, I hope?'\n\n'The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,' replied the\nlady with strong emotion; 'and I beg you as a gentleman, not to refer to\nit.'\n\n'Dear me,' said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrier still, 'I\nmerely intended to inquire--'\n\n'I hope no inquiries will be made,' said the lady, 'or I shall be\ncompelled to throw myself on the protection of the other gentlemen.\nLandlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside the door--and if\na green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham, to stop it\ninstantly.'\n\nThe people of the house were evidently overcome by this request, and\nwhen the lady charged the boy to remember, as a means of identifying the\nexpected green chariot, that it would have a coachman with a gold-laced\nhat on the box, and a footman, most probably in silk stockings, behind,\nthe attentions of the good woman of the inn were redoubled. Even the\nbox-passenger caught the infection, and growing wonderfully deferential,\nimmediately inquired whether there was not very good society in that\nneighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner\nwhich sufficiently implied that she moved at the very tiptop and summit\nof it all.\n\n'As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to get another coach,'\nsaid the good-tempered gentleman when they had been all sitting round\nthe fire, for some time, in silence, 'and as he must be gone a couple\nof hours at the very least, I propose a bowl of hot punch. What say you,\nsir?'\n\nThis question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, who was a man\nof very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not past the\nmiddle age, but his hair was grey; it seemed to have been prematurely\nturned by care or sorrow. He readily acceded to the proposal, and\nappeared to be prepossessed by the frank good-nature of the individual\nfrom whom it emanated.\n\nThis latter personage took upon himself the office of tapster when the\npunch was ready, and after dispensing it all round, led the conversation\nto the antiquities of York, with which both he and the grey-haired\ngentleman appeared to be well acquainted. When this topic flagged, he\nturned with a smile to the grey-headed gentleman, and asked if he could\nsing.\n\n'I cannot indeed,' replied gentleman, smiling in his turn.\n\n'That's a pity,' said the owner of the good-humoured countenance. 'Is\nthere nobody here who can sing a song to lighten the time?'\n\nThe passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; that they\nwished they could; that they couldn't remember the words of anything\nwithout the book; and so forth.\n\n'Perhaps the lady would not object,' said the president with great\nrespect, and a merry twinkle in his eye. 'Some little Italian thing out\nof the last opera brought out in town, would be most acceptable I am\nsure.'\n\nAs the lady condescended to make no reply, but tossed her head\ncontemptuously, and murmured some further expression of surprise\nregarding the absence of the green chariot, one or two voices urged\nupon the president himself, the propriety of making an attempt for the\ngeneral benefit.\n\n'I would if I could,' said he of the good-tempered face; 'for I hold\nthat in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers to\neach other are thrown unexpectedly together, they should endeavour\nto render themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake of the little\ncommunity, as possible.'\n\n'I wish the maxim were more generally acted on, in all cases,' said the\ngrey-headed gentleman.\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the other. 'Perhaps, as you can't sing,\nyou'll tell us a story?'\n\n'Nay. I should ask you.'\n\n'After you, I will, with pleasure.'\n\n'Indeed!' said the grey-haired gentleman, smiling, 'Well, let it be so.\nI fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten the time\nyou must pass here; but you have brought this upon yourselves, and shall\njudge. We were speaking of York Minster just now. My story shall have\nsome reference to it. Let us call it\n\n\nTHE FIVE SISTERS OF YORK\n\n\nAfter a murmur of approbation from the other passengers, during which\nthe fastidious lady drank a glass of punch unobserved, the grey-headed\ngentleman thus went on:\n\n'A great many years ago--for the fifteenth century was scarce two\nyears old at the time, and King Henry the Fourth sat upon the throne of\nEngland--there dwelt, in the ancient city of York, five maiden sisters,\nthe subjects of my tale.\n\n'These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest was in her\ntwenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third a year younger\nthan the second, and the fourth a year younger than the third. They were\ntall stately figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair of jet; dignity\nand grace were in their every movement; and the fame of their great\nbeauty had spread through all the country round.\n\n'But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was the\nyoungest, a fair creature of sixteen! The blushing tints in the soft\nbloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the flower, are not more\nexquisite than was the blending of the rose and lily in her gentle face,\nor the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegant luxuriance, is\nnot more graceful than were the clusters of rich brown hair that sported\nround her brow.\n\n'If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in the bosoms of\nthe young and beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be! If, while\nour bodies grow old and withered, our hearts could but retain their\nearly youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows and\nsufferings! But, the faint image of Eden which is stamped upon them in\nchildhood, chafes and rubs in our rough struggles with the world,\nand soon wears away: too often to leave nothing but a mournful blank\nremaining.\n\n'The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness. Devoted\nattachment to her sisters, and a fervent love of all beautiful things\nin nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesome voice and merry laugh\nwere the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life.\nThe brightest flowers in the garden were reared by her; the caged\nbirds sang when they heard her voice, and pined when they missed its\nsweetness. Alice, dear Alice; what living thing within the sphere of her\ngentle witchery, could fail to love her!\n\n'You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisters lived,\nfor their very names have passed away, and dusty antiquaries tell of\nthem as of a fable. But they dwelt in an old wooden house--old even in\nthose days--with overhanging gables and balconies of rudely-carved oak,\nwhich stood within a pleasant orchard, and was surrounded by a rough\nstone wall, whence a stout archer might have winged an arrow to St\nMary's Abbey. The old abbey flourished then; and the five sisters,\nliving on its fair domains, paid yearly dues to the black monks of St\nBenedict, to which fraternity it belonged.\n\n'It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time of summer, when\none of those black monks emerged from the abbey portal, and bent his\nsteps towards the house of the fair sisters. Heaven above was blue, and\nearth beneath was green; the river glistened like a path of diamonds in\nthe sun; the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the\nlark soared high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects\nfilled the air. Everything looked gay and smiling; but the holy man\nwalked gloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. The beauty of\nthe earth is but a breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathy should\na holy preacher have with either?\n\n'With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough to prevent\nhis stumbling over such obstacles as lay in his way, the religious man\nmoved slowly forward until he reached a small postern in the wall of the\nsisters' orchard, through which he passed, closing it behind him. The\nnoise of soft voices in conversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon\nhis ears ere he had advanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher\nthan was his humble wont, he descried, at no great distance, the five\nsisters seated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying\ntheir customary task of embroidering.\n\n'\"Save you, fair daughters!\" said the friar; and fair in truth they\nwere. Even a monk might have loved them as choice masterpieces of his\nMaker's hand.\n\n'The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, and the\neldest motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar\nshook his head, and bumped himself down on a very hard stone,--at which,\nno doubt, approving angels were gratified.\n\n'\"Ye were merry, daughters,\" said the monk.\n\n'\"You know how light of heart sweet Alice is,\" replied the eldest\nsister, passing her fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.\n\n'\"And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to see all nature\nbeaming in brightness and sunshine, father,\" added Alice, blushing\nbeneath the stern look of the recluse.\n\n'The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination of the head, and the\nsisters pursued their task in silence.\n\n'\"Still wasting the precious hours,\" said the monk at length, turning to\nthe eldest sister as he spoke, \"still wasting the precious hours on\nthis vain trifling. Alas, alas! that the few bubbles on the surface\nof eternity--all that Heaven wills we should see of that dark deep\nstream--should be so lightly scattered!\"\n\n'\"Father,\" urged the maiden, pausing, as did each of the others, in\nher busy task, \"we have prayed at matins, our daily alms have been\ndistributed at the gate, the sick peasants have been tended,--all our\nmorning tasks have been performed. I hope our occupation is a blameless\none?'\n\n'\"See here,\" said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, \"an\nintricate winding of gaudy colours, without purpose or object, unless\nit be that one day it is destined for some vain ornament, to minister to\nthe pride of your frail and giddy sex. Day after day has been employed\nupon this senseless task, and yet it is not half accomplished. The shade\nof each departed day falls upon our graves, and the worm exults as he\nbeholds it, to know that we are hastening thither. Daughters, is there\nno better way to pass the fleeting hours?\"\n\n'The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed by the holy\nman's reproof, but Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly on the friar.\n\n'\"Our dear mother,\" said the maiden; \"Heaven rest her soul!\"\n\n'\"Amen!\" cried the friar in a deep voice.\n\n'\"Our dear mother,\" faltered the fair Alice, \"was living when these long\ntasks began, and bade us, when she should be no more, ply them in all\ndiscretion and cheerfulness, in our leisure hours; she said that if in\nharmless mirth and maidenly pursuits we passed those hours together,\nthey would prove the happiest and most peaceful of our lives, and that\nif, in later times, we went forth into the world, and mingled with its\ncares and trials--if, allured by its temptations and dazzled by its\nglitter, we ever forgot that love and duty which should bind, in holy\nties, the children of one loved parent--a glance at the old work of our\ncommon girlhood would awaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften\nour hearts to affection and love.\"\n\n'\"Alice speaks truly, father,\" said the elder sister, somewhat proudly.\nAnd so saying she resumed her work, as did the others.\n\n'It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister had before\nher; the device was of a complex and intricate description, and\nthe pattern and colours of all five were the same. The sisters bent\ngracefully over their work; the monk, resting his chin upon his hands,\nlooked from one to the other in silence.\n\n'\"How much better,\" he said at length, \"to shun all such thoughts and\nchances, and, in the peaceful shelter of the church, devote your lives\nto Heaven! Infancy, childhood, the prime of life, and old age, wither as\nrapidly as they crowd upon each other. Think how human dust rolls onward\nto the tomb, and turning your faces steadily towards that goal, avoid\nthe cloud which takes its rise among the pleasures of the world, and\ncheats the senses of their votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil!\"\n\n'\"Never, sisters,\" cried Alice. \"Barter not the light and air of heaven,\nand the freshness of earth and all the beautiful things which breathe\nupon it, for the cold cloister and the cell. Nature's own blessings are\nthe proper goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly together. To\ndie is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us die with life about us; when\nour cold hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating near; let our\nlast look be upon the bounds which God has set to his own bright skies,\nand not on stone walls and bars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and\ndie, if you list, in this green garden's compass; only shun the gloom\nand sadness of a cloister, and we shall be happy.\"\n\n'The tears fell fast from the maiden's eyes as she closed her\nimpassioned appeal, and hid her face in the bosom of her sister.\n\n'\"Take comfort, Alice,\" said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead.\n\"The veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say you,\nsisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or for me.\"\n\n'The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was cast\ntogether, and that there were dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the\nconvent's walls.\n\n'\"Father,\" said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, \"you hear our\nfinal resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey of St\nMary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directed that no\nconstraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, but that we should\nbe free to live according to our choice. Let us hear no more of this,\nwe pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us take shelter until\nevening!\" With a reverence to the friar, the lady rose and walked\ntowards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the other sisters followed.\n\n'The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, but had never\nmet with so direct a repulse, walked some little distance behind, with\nhis eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving AS IF in prayer. As\nthe sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace, and called upon\nthem to stop.\n\n'\"Stay!\" said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, and directing\nan angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister. \"Stay, and\nhear from me what these recollections are, which you would cherish above\neternity, and awaken--if in mercy they slumbered--by means of idle toys.\nThe memory of earthly things is charged, in after life, with bitter\ndisappointment, affliction, death; with dreary change and wasting\nsorrow. The time will one day come, when a glance at those unmeaning\nbaubles will tear open deep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and\nstrike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives--and, mark me, come\nit will--turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge which you\nspurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fire of mortals\ngrows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and there weep for the dreams\nof youth. These things are Heaven's will, not mine,\" said the friar,\nsubduing his voice as he looked round upon the shrinking girls. \"The\nVirgin's blessing be upon you, daughters!\"\n\n'With these words he disappeared through the postern; and the sisters\nhastening into the house were seen no more that day.\n\n'But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next day the\nsun shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And in the\nmorning's glare, and the evening's soft repose, the five sisters still\nwalked, or worked, or beguiled the time by cheerful conversation, in\ntheir quiet orchard.\n\n'Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed than many tales\nthat are told, of which number I fear this may be one. The house of the\nfive sisters stood where it did, and the same trees cast their pleasant\nshade upon the orchard grass. The sisters too were there, and lovely as\nat first, but a change had come over their dwelling. Sometimes, there\nwas the clash of armour, and the gleaming of the moon on caps of steel;\nand, at others, jaded coursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female\nform glided hurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the weary\nmessenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one night within\nthe abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of the fair sisters\namong them. Then, horsemen began to come less frequently, and seemed to\nbring bad tidings when they did, and at length they ceased to come at\nall, and footsore peasants slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their\nerrand there, by stealth. Once, a vassal was dispatched in haste to the\nabbey at dead of night, and when morning came, there were sounds of woe\nand wailing in the sisters' house; and after this, a mournful silence\nfell upon it, and knight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no\nmore.\n\n'There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had gone angrily\ndown, tinting the dull clouds with the last traces of his wrath,\nwhen the same black monk walked slowly on, with folded arms, within a\nstone's-throw of the abbey. A blight had fallen on the trees and shrubs;\nand the wind, at length beginning to break the unnatural stillness\nthat had prevailed all day, sighed heavily from time to time, as though\nforetelling in grief the ravages of the coming storm. The bat skimmed in\nfantastic flights through the heavy air, and the ground was alive with\ncrawling things, whose instinct brought them forth to swell and fatten\nin the rain.\n\n'No longer were the friar's eyes directed to the earth; they were cast\nabroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom and desolation\nof the scene found a quick response in his own bosom. Again he paused\nnear the sisters' house, and again he entered by the postern.\n\n'But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, or his eyes\nrest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All was silent and\ndeserted. The boughs of the trees were bent and broken, and the grass\nhad grown long and rank. No light feet had pressed it for many, many a\nday.\n\n'With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed to the\nchange, the monk glided into the house, and entered a low, dark room.\nFour sisters sat there. Their black garments made their pale faces\nwhiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were\nstately yet; but the flush and pride of beauty were gone.\n\n'And Alice--where was she? In Heaven.\n\n'The monk--even the monk--could bear with some grief here; for it\nwas long since these sisters had met, and there were furrows in their\nblanched faces which years could never plough. He took his seat in\nsilence, and motioned them to continue their speech.\n\n'\"They are here, sisters,\" said the elder lady in a trembling voice. \"I\nhave never borne to look upon them since, and now I blame myself for my\nweakness. What is there in her memory that we should dread? To call up\nour old days shall be a solemn pleasure yet.\"\n\n'She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet, brought\nforth the five frames of work, completed long before. Her step was\nfirm, but her hand trembled as she produced the last one; and, when the\nfeelings of the other sisters gushed forth at sight of it, her pent-up\ntears made way, and she sobbed \"God bless her!\"\n\n'The monk rose and advanced towards them. \"It was almost the last thing\nshe touched in health,\" he said in a low voice.\n\n'\"It was,\" cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.\n\n'The monk turned to the second sister.\n\n'\"The gallant youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung upon thy very\nbreath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime, lies buried on\na plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rusty fragments of armour,\nonce brightly burnished, lie rotting on the ground, and are as little\ndistinguishable for his, as are the bones that crumble in the mould!\"\n\n'The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.\n\n'\"The policy of courts,\" he continued, turning to the two other sisters,\n\"drew ye from your peaceful home to scenes of revelry and splendour.\nThe same policy, and the restless ambition of--proud and fiery men, have\nsent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbled outcasts. Do I speak truly?\"\n\n'The sobs of the two sisters were their only reply.\n\n'\"There is little need,\" said the monk, with a meaning look, \"to fritter\naway the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the pale ghosts of hopes\nof early years. Bury them, heap penance and mortification on their\nheads, keep them down, and let the convent be their grave!\"\n\n'The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, that night,\nas though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud for their dead joys.\nBut, morning came again, and though the boughs of the orchard trees\ndrooped and ran wild upon the ground, it was the same orchard still. The\ngrass was coarse and high, but there was yet the spot on which they had\nso often sat together, when change and sorrow were but names. There was\nevery walk and nook which Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave\nwas one flat stone beneath which she slept in peace.\n\n'And could they, remembering how her young heart had sickened at the\nthought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave, in garbs which would\nchill the very ashes within it? Could they bow down in prayer, and when\nall Heaven turned to hear them, bring the dark shade of sadness on one\nangel's face? No.\n\n'They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times, and\nhaving obtained the church's sanction to their work of piety, caused\nto be executed, in five large compartments of richly stained glass, a\nfaithful copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a\nlarge window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone\nbrightly, as she had so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were\nreflected in their original colours, and throwing a stream of brilliant\nlight upon the pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice.\n\n'For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up and down the\nnave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Only three were seen\nin the customary place, after many years; then but two, and, for a long\ntime afterwards, but one solitary female bent with age. At length she\ncame no more, and the stone bore five plain Christian names.\n\n'That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, and many\ngenerations have come and gone since then. Time has softened down the\ncolours, but the same stream of light still falls upon the forgotten\ntomb, of which no trace remains; and, to this day, the stranger is shown\nin York Cathedral, an old window called the Five Sisters.'\n\n\n'That's a melancholy tale,' said the merry-faced gentleman, emptying his\nglass.\n\n'It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows,' returned\nthe other, courteously, but in a grave and sad tone of voice.\n\n'There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if\nwe choose to contemplate them,' said the gentleman with the merry face.\n'The youngest sister in your tale was always light-hearted.'\n\n'And died early,' said the other, gently.\n\n'She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy,' said\nthe first speaker, with much feeling. 'Do you think the sisters who\nloved her so well, would have grieved the less if her life had been one\nof gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a\nheavy loss, it would be--with me--the reflection, that those I mourned,\nby being innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared\nthemselves for a purer and happier world. The sun does not shine upon\nthis fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.'\n\n'I believe you are right,' said the gentleman who had told the story.\n\n'Believe!' retorted the other, 'can anybody doubt it? Take any subject\nof sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it is associated.\nThe recollection of past pleasure may become pain--'\n\n'It does,' interposed the other.\n\n'Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot be restored, is pain,\nbut of a softened kind. Our recollections are unfortunately mingled with\nmuch that we deplore, and with many actions which we bitterly repent;\nstill in the most chequered life I firmly think there are so many little\nrays of sunshine to look back upon, that I do not believe any mortal\n(unless he had put himself without the pale of hope) would deliberately\ndrain a goblet of the waters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.'\n\n'Possibly you are correct in that belief,' said the grey-haired\ngentleman after a short reflection. 'I am inclined to think you are.'\n\n'Why, then,' replied the other, 'the good in this state of existence\npreponderates over the bad, let miscalled philosophers tell us what they\nwill. If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and\ncomfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between\nthis world and a better. But come! I'll tell you a story of another\nkind.'\n\nAfter a very brief silence, the merry-faced gentleman sent round the\npunch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately\napprehensive that he was going to relate something improper, began\n\n\nTHE BARON OF GROGZWIG\n\n\n'The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was as likely a\nyoung baron as you would wish to see. I needn't say that he lived in a\ncastle, because that's of course; neither need I say that he lived in\nan old castle; for what German baron ever lived in a new one? There were\nmany strange circumstances connected with this venerable building, among\nwhich, not the least startling and mysterious were, that when the wind\nblew, it rumbled in the chimneys, or even howled among the trees in the\nneighbouring forest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way\nthrough certain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some\nparts of the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others\nin gloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron's ancestors, being\nshort of money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who called\none night to ask his way, and it WAS supposed that these miraculous\noccurrences took place in consequence. And yet I hardly know how that\ncould have been, either, because the baron's ancestor, who was an\namiable man, felt very sorry afterwards for having been so rash, and\nlaying violent hands upon a quantity of stone and timber which belonged\nto a weaker baron, built a chapel as an apology, and so took a receipt\nfrom Heaven, in full of all demands.\n\n'Talking of the baron's ancestor puts me in mind of the baron's great\nclaims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid to say,\nI am sure, how many ancestors the baron had; but I know that he had a\ngreat many more than any other man of his time; and I only wish that\nhe had lived in these latter days, that he might have had more. It is a\nvery hard thing upon the great men of past centuries, that they should\nhave come into the world so soon, because a man who was born three or\nfour hundred years ago, cannot reasonably be expected to have had as\nmany relations before him, as a man who is born now. The last man,\nwhoever he is--and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught\nwe know--will have a longer pedigree than the greatest nobleman now\nalive; and I contend that this is not fair.\n\n'Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was a fine swarthy\nfellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, who rode a-hunting in\nclothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots on his feet, and a bugle\nslung over his shoulder like the guard of a long stage. When he blew\nthis bugle, four-and-twenty other gentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln\ngreen a little coarser, and russet boots with a little thicker soles,\nturned out directly: and away galloped the whole train, with spears in\ntheir hands like lacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or\nperhaps encounter a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him\nfirst, and greased his whiskers with him afterwards.\n\n'This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrier still\nfor the baron's retainers, who drank Rhine wine every night till they\nfell under the table, and then had the bottles on the floor, and called\nfor pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking, merry-making\nblades, as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.\n\n'But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under the table,\nrequire a little variety; especially when the same five-and-twenty\npeople sit daily down to the same board, to discuss the same subjects,\nand tell the same stories. The baron grew weary, and wanted excitement.\nHe took to quarrelling with his gentlemen, and tried kicking two or\nthree of them every day after dinner. This was a pleasant change at\nfirst; but it became monotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt\nquite out of sorts, and cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.\n\n'One night, after a day's sport in which he had outdone Nimrod or\nGillingwater, and slaughtered \"another fine bear,\" and brought him home\nin triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily at the head of his\ntable, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a discontented aspect. He\nswallowed huge bumpers of wine, but the more he swallowed, the more\nhe frowned. The gentlemen who had been honoured with the dangerous\ndistinction of sitting on his right and left, imitated him to a miracle\nin the drinking, and frowned at each other.\n\n'\"I will!\" cried the baron suddenly, smiting the table with his right\nhand, and twirling his moustache with his left. \"Fill to the Lady of\nGrogzwig!\"\n\n'The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with the exception of\ntheir four-and-twenty noses, which were unchangeable.\n\n'\"I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,\" repeated the baron, looking round the\nboard.\n\n'\"To the Lady of Grogzwig!\" shouted the Lincoln greens; and down their\nfour-and-twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperial pints of such\nrare old hock, that they smacked their eight-and-forty lips, and winked\nagain.\n\n'\"The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen,\" said Koeldwethout,\ncondescending to explain. \"We will demand her in marriage of her father,\nere the sun goes down tomorrow. If he refuse our suit, we will cut off\nhis nose.\"\n\n'A hoarse murmur arose from the company; every man touched, first\nthe hilt of his sword, and then the tip of his nose, with appalling\nsignificance.\n\n'What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate! If the daughter\nof the Baron Von Swillenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied heart, or\nfallen at her father's feet and corned them in salt tears, or\nonly fainted away, and complimented the old gentleman in frantic\nejaculations, the odds are a hundred to one but Swillenhausen Castle\nwould have been turned out at window, or rather the baron turned out at\nwindow, and the castle demolished. The damsel held her peace, however,\nwhen an early messenger bore the request of Von Koeldwethout next\nmorning, and modestly retired to her chamber, from the casement of which\nshe watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue. She was no sooner\nassured that the horseman with the large moustachios was her proffered\nhusband, than she hastened to her father's presence, and expressed her\nreadiness to sacrifice herself to secure his peace. The venerable baron\ncaught his child to his arms, and shed a wink of joy.\n\n'There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four-and-twenty\nLincoln greens of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows of eternal friendship\nwith twelve Lincoln greens of Von Swillenhausen, and promised the\nold baron that they would drink his wine \"Till all was blue\"--meaning\nprobably until their whole countenances had acquired the same tint as\ntheir noses. Everybody slapped everybody else's back, when the time\nfor parting came; and the Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers rode\ngaily home.\n\n'For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. The houses of\nKoeldwethout and Swillenhausen were united; the spears rusted; and the\nbaron's bugle grew hoarse for lack of blowing.\n\n'Those were great times for the four-and-twenty; but, alas! their high\nand palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and were already walking\noff.\n\n'\"My dear,\" said the baroness.\n\n'\"My love,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Those coarse, noisy men--\"\n\n'\"Which, ma'am?\" said the baron, starting.\n\n'The baroness pointed, from the window at which they stood, to the\ncourtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln greens were taking a\ncopious stirrup-cup, preparatory to issuing forth after a boar or two.\n\n'\"My hunting train, ma'am,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Disband them, love,\" murmured the baroness.\n\n'\"Disband them!\" cried the baron, in amazement.\n\n'\"To please me, love,\" replied the baroness.\n\n'\"To please the devil, ma'am,\" answered the baron.\n\n'Whereupon the baroness uttered a great cry, and swooned away at the\nbaron's feet.\n\n'What could the baron do? He called for the lady's maid, and roared\nfor the doctor; and then, rushing into the yard, kicked the two Lincoln\ngreens who were the most used to it, and cursing the others all round,\nbade them go--but never mind where. I don't know the German for it, or I\nwould put it delicately that way.\n\n'It is not for me to say by what means, or by what degrees, some wives\nmanage to keep down some husbands as they do, although I may have\nmy private opinion on the subject, and may think that no Member of\nParliament ought to be married, inasmuch as three married members out of\nevery four, must vote according to their wives' consciences (if there be\nsuch things), and not according to their own. All I need say, just now,\nis, that the Baroness Von Koeldwethout somehow or other acquired great\ncontrol over the Baron Von Koeldwethout, and that, little by little, and\nbit by bit, and day by day, and year by year, the baron got the worst of\nsome disputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby;\nand that by the time he was a fat hearty fellow of forty-eight or\nthereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, and no\nhunting--nothing in short that he liked, or used to have; and that,\nalthough he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold as brass, he was\ndecidedly snubbed and put down, by his own lady, in his own castle of\nGrogzwig.\n\n'Nor was this the whole extent of the baron's misfortunes. About a year\nafter his nuptials, there came into the world a lusty young baron,\nin whose honour a great many fireworks were let off, and a great many\ndozens of wine drunk; but next year there came a young baroness, and\nnext year another young baron, and so on, every year, either a baron or\nbaroness (and one year both together), until the baron found himself\nthe father of a small family of twelve. Upon every one of these\nanniversaries, the venerable Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously\nsensitive for the well-being of her child the Baroness Von Koeldwethout;\nand although it was not found that the good lady ever did anything\nmaterial towards contributing to her child's recovery, still she made it\na point of duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogzwig,\nand to divide her time between moral observations on the baron's\nhousekeeping, and bewailing the hard lot of her unhappy daughter. And if\nthe Baron of Grogzwig, a little hurt and irritated at this, took heart,\nand ventured to suggest that his wife was at least no worse off than the\nwives of other barons, the Baroness Von Swillenhausen begged all\npersons to take notice, that nobody but she, sympathised with her dear\ndaughter's sufferings; upon which, her relations and friends remarked,\nthat to be sure she did cry a great deal more than her son-in-law, and\nthat if there were a hard-hearted brute alive, it was that Baron of\nGrogzwig.\n\n'The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when he could bear\nit no longer lost his appetite and his spirits, and sat himself gloomily\nand dejectedly down. But there were worse troubles yet in store for\nhim, and as they came on, his melancholy and sadness increased. Times\nchanged. He got into debt. The Grogzwig coffers ran low, though the\nSwillenhausen family had looked upon them as inexhaustible; and just\nwhen the baroness was on the point of making a thirteenth addition to\nthe family pedigree, Von Koeldwethout discovered that he had no means of\nreplenishing them.\n\n'\"I don't see what is to be done,\" said the baron. \"I think I'll kill\nmyself.\"\n\n'This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting-knife from a\ncupboard hard by, and having sharpened it on his boot, made what boys\ncall \"an offer\" at his throat.\n\n'\"Hem!\" said the baron, stopping short. \"Perhaps it's not sharp enough.\"\n\n'The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was\narrested by a loud screaming among the young barons and baronesses, who\nhad a nursery in an upstairs tower with iron bars outside the window, to\nprevent their tumbling out into the moat.\n\n'\"If I had been a bachelor,\" said the baron sighing, \"I might have done\nit fifty times over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Put a flask of\nwine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted room behind the hall.\"\n\n'One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed the baron's order\nin the course of half an hour or so, and Von Koeldwethout being apprised\nthereof, strode to the vaulted room, the walls of which, being of dark\nshining wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing logs which were piled\nupon the hearth. The bottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole,\nthe place looked very comfortable.\n\n'\"Leave the lamp,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Anything else, my lord?\" inquired the domestic.\n\n'\"The room,\" replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and the baron\nlocked the door.\n\n'\"I'll smoke a last pipe,\" said the baron, \"and then I'll be off.\" So,\nputting the knife upon the table till he wanted it, and tossing off a\ngoodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw himself back in his\nchair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffed away.\n\n'He thought about a great many things--about his present troubles and\npast days of bachelorship, and about the Lincoln greens, long since\ndispersed up and down the country, no one knew whither: with the\nexception of two who had been unfortunately beheaded, and four who had\nkilled themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and\nboars, when, in the process of draining his glass to the bottom,\nhe raised his eyes, and saw, for the first time and with unbounded\nastonishment, that he was not alone.\n\n'No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there sat with\nfolded arms a wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk and bloodshot\neyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face, shadowed by jagged and\nmatted locks of coarse black hair. He wore a kind of tunic of a dull\nbluish colour, which, the baron observed, on regarding it attentively,\nwas clasped or ornamented down the front with coffin handles. His legs,\ntoo, were encased in coffin plates as though in armour; and over his\nleft shoulder he wore a short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a\nremnant of some pall. He took no notice of the baron, but was intently\neyeing the fire.\n\n'\"Halloa!\" said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.\n\n'\"Halloa!\" replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards the baron, but\nnot his face or himself \"What now?\"\n\n'\"What now!\" replied the baron, nothing daunted by his hollow voice and\nlustreless eyes. \"I should ask that question. How did you get here?\"\n\n'\"Through the door,\" replied the figure.\n\n'\"What are you?\" says the baron.\n\n'\"A man,\" replied the figure.\n\n'\"I don't believe it,\" says the baron.\n\n'\"Disbelieve it then,\" says the figure.\n\n'\"I will,\" rejoined the baron.\n\n'The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogzwig for some time, and then\nsaid familiarly,\n\n'\"There's no coming over you, I see. I'm not a man!\"\n\n'\"What are you then?\" asked the baron.\n\n'\"A genius,\" replied the figure.\n\n'\"You don't look much like one,\" returned the baron scornfully.\n\n'\"I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,\" said the apparition. \"Now you\nknow me.\"\n\n'With these words the apparition turned towards the baron, as if\ncomposing himself for a talk--and, what was very remarkable, was, that\nhe threw his cloak aside, and displaying a stake, which was run through\nthe centre of his body, pulled it out with a jerk, and laid it on the\ntable, as composedly as if it had been a walking-stick.\n\n'\"Now,\" said the figure, glancing at the hunting-knife, \"are you ready\nfor me?\"\n\n'\"Not quite,\" rejoined the baron; \"I must finish this pipe first.\"\n\n'\"Look sharp then,\" said the figure.\n\n'\"You seem in a hurry,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Why, yes, I am,\" answered the figure; \"they're doing a pretty brisk\nbusiness in my way, over in England and France just now, and my time is\na good deal taken up.\"\n\n'\"Do you drink?\" said the baron, touching the bottle with the bowl of\nhis pipe.\n\n'\"Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,\" rejoined the figure,\ndrily.\n\n'\"Never in moderation?\" asked the baron.\n\n'\"Never,\" replied the figure, with a shudder, \"that breeds\ncheerfulness.\"\n\n'The baron took another look at his new friend, whom he thought an\nuncommonly queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took\nany active part in such little proceedings as that which he had in\ncontemplation.\n\n'\"No,\" replied the figure evasively; \"but I am always present.\"\n\n'\"Just to see fair, I suppose?\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Just that,\" replied the figure, playing with his stake, and examining\nthe ferule. \"Be as quick as you can, will you, for there's a young\ngentleman who is afflicted with too much money and leisure wanting me\nnow, I find.\"\n\n'\"Going to kill himself because he has too much money!\" exclaimed the\nbaron, quite tickled. \"Ha! ha! that's a good one.\" (This was the first\ntime the baron had laughed for many a long day.)\n\n'\"I say,\" expostulated the figure, looking very much scared; \"don't do\nthat again.\"\n\n'\"Why not?\" demanded the baron.\n\n'\"Because it gives me pain all over,\" replied the figure. \"Sigh as much\nas you please: that does me good.\"\n\n'The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; the figure,\nbrightening up again, handed him the hunting-knife with most winning\npoliteness.\n\n'\"It's not a bad idea though,\" said the baron, feeling the edge of the\nweapon; \"a man killing himself because he has too much money.\"\n\n'\"Pooh!\" said the apparition, petulantly, \"no better than a man's\nkilling himself because he has none or little.\"\n\n'Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself in saying this,\nor whether he thought the baron's mind was so thoroughly made up that it\ndidn't matter what he said, I have no means of knowing. I only know that\nthe baron stopped his hand, all of a sudden, opened his eyes wide, and\nlooked as if quite a new light had come upon him for the first time.\n\n'\"Why, certainly,\" said Von Koeldwethout, \"nothing is too bad to be\nretrieved.\"\n\n'\"Except empty coffers,\" cried the genius.\n\n'\"Well; but they may be one day filled again,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Scolding wives,\" snarled the genius.\n\n'\"Oh! They may be made quiet,\" said the baron.\n\n'\"Thirteen children,\" shouted the genius.\n\n'\"Can't all go wrong, surely,\" said the baron.\n\n'The genius was evidently growing very savage with the baron, for\nholding these opinions all at once; but he tried to laugh it off, and\nsaid if he would let him know when he had left off joking he should feel\nobliged to him.\n\n'\"But I am not joking; I was never farther from it,\" remonstrated the\nbaron.\n\n'\"Well, I am glad to hear that,\" said the genius, looking very grim,\n\"because a joke, without any figure of speech, IS the death of me. Come!\nQuit this dreary world at once.\"\n\n'\"I don't know,\" said the baron, playing with the knife; \"it's a dreary\none certainly, but I don't think yours is much better, for you have\nnot the appearance of being particularly comfortable. That puts me in\nmind--what security have I, that I shall be any the better for going\nout of the world after all!\" he cried, starting up; \"I never thought of\nthat.\"\n\n'\"Dispatch,\" cried the figure, gnashing his teeth.\n\n'\"Keep off!\" said the baron. 'I'll brood over miseries no longer, but\nput a good face on the matter, and try the fresh air and the bears\nagain; and if that don't do, I'll talk to the baroness soundly, and cut\nthe Von Swillenhausens dead.' With this the baron fell into his chair,\nand laughed so loud and boisterously, that the room rang with it.\n\n'The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baron meanwhile with\na look of intense terror, and when he had ceased, caught up the stake,\nplunged it violently into its body, uttered a frightful howl, and\ndisappeared.\n\n'Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made up his mind\nto action, he soon brought the baroness and the Von Swillenhausens to\nreason, and died many years afterwards: not a rich man that I am aware\nof, but certainly a happy one: leaving behind him a numerous family,\nwho had been carefully educated in bear and boar-hunting under his own\npersonal eye. And my advice to all men is, that if ever they become\nhipped and melancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they\nlook at both sides of the question, applying a magnifying-glass to the\nbest one; and if they still feel tempted to retire without leave, that\nthey smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit by the\nlaudable example of the Baron of Grogzwig.'\n\n\n'The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,' said a\nnew driver, looking in.\n\nThis intelligence caused the punch to be finished in a great hurry,\nand prevented any discussion relative to the last story. Mr. Squeers was\nobserved to draw the grey-headed gentleman on one side, and to ask a\nquestion with great apparent interest; it bore reference to the Five\nSisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquiry whether he could inform\nhim how much per annum the Yorkshire convents got in those days with\ntheir boarders.\n\nThe journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and,\nwhen he awoke, found, with great regret, that, during his nap, both the\nBaron of Grogzwig and the grey-haired gentleman had got down and were\ngone. The day dragged on uncomfortably enough. At about six o'clock that\nnight, he and Mr. Squeers, and the little boys, and their united luggage,\nwere all put down together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\nMr. and Mrs. Squeers at Home\n\n\nMr. Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and the boys standing\nwith the luggage in the road, to amuse themselves by looking at the\ncoach as it changed horses, while he ran into the tavern and went\nthrough the leg-stretching process at the bar. After some minutes, he\nreturned, with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and\na short hiccup afforded any criterion; and at the same time there came\nout of the yard a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by two labouring\nmen.\n\n'Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,' said Squeers, rubbing his\nhands; 'and this young man and me will go on in the chaise. Get in,\nNickleby.'\n\nNicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing the pony to\nobey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to\nfollow at leisure.\n\n'Are you cold, Nickleby?' inquired Squeers, after they had travelled\nsome distance in silence.\n\n'Rather, sir, I must say.'\n\n'Well, I don't find fault with that,' said Squeers; 'it's a long journey\nthis weather.'\n\n'Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'About three mile from here,' replied Squeers. 'But you needn't call it\na Hall down here.'\n\nNicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.\n\n'The fact is, it ain't a Hall,' observed Squeers drily.\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence much\nastonished.\n\n'No,' replied Squeers. 'We call it a Hall up in London, because it\nsounds better, but they don't know it by that name in these parts. A man\nmay call his house an island if he likes; there's no act of Parliament\nagainst that, I believe?'\n\n'I believe not, sir,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\nSqueers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this little\ndialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appeared in\nnowise disposed to volunteer any observations, contented himself with\nlashing the pony until they reached their journey's end.\n\n'Jump out,' said Squeers. 'Hallo there! Come and put this horse up. Be\nquick, will you!'\n\nWhile the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries,\nNicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking\nhouse, one storey high, with a few straggling out-buildings behind, and\na barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the\nnoise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a\ntall lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.\n\n'Is that you, Smike?' cried Squeers.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied the boy.\n\n'Then why the devil didn't you come before?'\n\n'Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,' answered Smike, with\nhumility.\n\n'Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?' demanded the schoolmaster,\nsharply.\n\n'Only in the kitchen, sir,' replied the boy. 'Missus said as I was\nsitting up, I might go in there for a warm.'\n\n'Your missus is a fool,' retorted Squeers. 'You'd have been a deuced\ndeal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage.'\n\nBy this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to\nsee to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that\nnight, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-door a minute while he went\nround and let him in.\n\nA host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas\nduring the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled\nforce when he was left alone. His great distance from home and the\nimpossibility of reaching it, except on foot, should he feel ever so\nanxious to return, presented itself to him in most alarming colours; and\nas he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild\ncountry round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and\nspirit which he had never experienced before.\n\n'Now then!' cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front-door. 'Where\nare you, Nickleby?'\n\n'Here, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Come in, then,' said Squeers 'the wind blows in, at this door, fit to\nknock a man off his legs.'\n\nNicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr. Squeers, having bolted the door to\nkeep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantily furnished with a\nfew chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall, and a couple of tables;\none of which bore some preparations for supper; while, on the other, a\ntutor's assistant, a Murray's grammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and\na worn letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in\npicturesque confusion.\n\nThey had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, when a female\nbounced into the room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat, gave him\ntwo loud kisses: one close after the other, like a postman's knock. The\nlady, who was of a large raw-boned figure, was about half a head taller\nthan Mr. Squeers, and was dressed in a dimity night-jacket; with her hair\nin papers; she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton\nhandkerchief which tied it under the chin.\n\n'How is my Squeery?' said this lady in a playful manner, and a very\nhoarse voice.\n\n'Quite well, my love,' replied Squeers. 'How's the cows?'\n\n'All right, every one of'em,' answered the lady.\n\n'And the pigs?' said Squeers.\n\n'As well as they were when you went away.'\n\n'Come; that's a blessing,' said Squeers, pulling off his great-coat.\n'The boys are all as they were, I suppose?'\n\n'Oh, yes, they're well enough,' replied Mrs. Squeers, snappishly. 'That\nyoung Pitcher's had a fever.'\n\n'No!' exclaimed Squeers. 'Damn that boy, he's always at something of\nthat sort.'\n\n'Never was such a boy, I do believe,' said Mrs. Squeers; 'whatever he\nhas is always catching too. I say it's obstinacy, and nothing shall ever\nconvince me that it isn't. I'd beat it out of him; and I told you that,\nsix months ago.'\n\n'So you did, my love,' rejoined Squeers. 'We'll try what can be done.'\n\nPending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood, awkwardly enough,\nin the middle of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected\nto retire into the passage, or to remain where he was. He was now\nrelieved from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.\n\n'This is the new young man, my dear,' said that gentleman.\n\n'Oh,' replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him\ncoldly from top to toe.\n\n'He'll take a meal with us tonight,' said Squeers, 'and go among the\nboys tomorrow morning. You can give him a shake-down here, tonight,\ncan't you?'\n\n'We must manage it somehow,' replied the lady. 'You don't much mind how\nyou sleep, I suppose, sir?'\n\nNo, indeed,' replied Nicholas, 'I am not particular.'\n\n'That's lucky,' said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady's humour was\nconsidered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and\nseemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.\n\nAfter some further conversation between the master and mistress relative\nto the success of Mr. Squeers's trip and the people who had paid, and the\npeople who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in\na Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the\nboy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.\n\nMr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different\nboys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The\nboy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if\nwith a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was\na very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once; for it told a\nlong and very sad history.\n\nIt induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was\nsurprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which\nformed his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or\nnineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit,\nsuch as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most\nabsurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his\nattenuated frame. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in\nperfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of\nboots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some\nstout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven\nknows how long he had been there, but he still wore the same linen which\nhe had first taken down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child's\nfrill, only half concealed by a coarse, man's neckerchief. He was lame;\nand as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the\nletters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that\nNicholas could hardly bear to watch him.\n\n'What are you bothering about there, Smike?' cried Mrs. Squeers; 'let the\nthings alone, can't you?'\n\n'Eh!' said Squeers, looking up. 'Oh! it's you, is it?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to\ncontrol, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. 'Is there--'\n\n'Well!' said Squeers.\n\n'Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?'\n\n'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers testily.\n\nThe lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved\ntowards the door.\n\n'Not a word,' resumed Squeers, 'and never will be. Now, this is a pretty\nsort of thing, isn't it, that you should have been left here, all these\nyears, and no money paid after the first six--nor no notice taken, nor\nno clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing that I\nshould have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one\npenny for it, isn't it?'\n\nThe boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to\nrecollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,\ngradually broke into a smile, and limped away.\n\n'I'll tell you what, Squeers,' remarked his wife as the door closed, 'I\nthink that young chap's turning silly.'\n\n'I hope not,' said the schoolmaster; 'for he's a handy fellow out of\ndoors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should think he'd have\nwit enough for us though, if he was. But come; let's have supper, for I\nam hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.'\n\nThis reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr. Squeers, who speedily\nproceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but his\nappetite was effectually taken away.\n\n'How's the steak, Squeers?' said Mrs. S.\n\n'Tender as a lamb,' replied Squeers. 'Have a bit.'\n\n'I couldn't eat a morsel,' replied his wife. 'What'll the young man\ntake, my dear?'\n\n'Whatever he likes that's present,' rejoined Squeers, in a most unusual\nburst of generosity.\n\n'What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy?' inquired Mrs. Squeers.\n\n'I'll take a little of the pie, if you please,' replied Nicholas. 'A\nvery little, for I'm not hungry.'\n\nWell, it's a pity to cut the pie if you're not hungry, isn't it?' said\nMrs. Squeers. 'Will you try a bit of the beef?'\n\n'Whatever you please,' replied Nicholas abstractedly; 'it's all the same\nto me.'\n\nMrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; and nodding\nto Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find the young man\nknew his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meat with her own fair\nhands.\n\n'Ale, Squeery?' inquired the lady, winking and frowning to give him to\nunderstand that the question propounded, was, whether Nicholas should\nhave ale, and not whether he (Squeers) would take any.\n\n'Certainly,' said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner. 'A\nglassful.'\n\nSo Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his own reflections,\ndrank it, in happy innocence of all the foregone proceedings.\n\n'Uncommon juicy steak that,' said Squeers, as he laid down his knife and\nfork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.\n\n'It's prime meat,' rejoined his lady. 'I bought a good large piece of it\nmyself on purpose for--'\n\n'For what!' exclaimed Squeers hastily. 'Not for the--'\n\n'No, no; not for them,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers; 'on purpose for you\nagainst you came home. Lor! you didn't think I could have made such a\nmistake as that.'\n\n'Upon my word, my dear, I didn't know what you were going to say,' said\nSqueers, who had turned pale.\n\n'You needn't make yourself uncomfortable,' remarked his wife, laughing\nheartily. 'To think that I should be such a noddy! Well!'\n\nThis part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; but popular\nrumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr. Squeers, being amiably\nopposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequently purchased for boy\nconsumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death;\npossibly he was apprehensive of having unintentionally devoured some\nchoice morsel intended for the young gentlemen.\n\nSupper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with a hungry\neye, Mrs. Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe\ncustody the clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, and who were\nhalf-way up the troublesome flight of steps which leads to death's door,\nin consequence of exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with\na light supper of porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a small\nbedstead, to warm each other, and dream of a substantial meal with\nsomething hot after it, if their fancies set that way: which it is not\nat all improbable they did.\n\nMr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, made\non the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for the dissolution of\nthe sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholas the ghost of a small\nglassful of the same compound. This done, Mr. and Mrs. Squeers drew\nclose up to the fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender, talked\nconfidentially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor's\nassistant, read the interesting legends in the miscellaneous questions,\nand all the figures into the bargain, with as much thought or\nconsciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a magnetic\nslumber.\n\nAt length, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it was high time\nto go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs. Squeers and the girl dragged in a\nsmall straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a\ncouch for Nicholas.\n\n'We'll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickelby,' said\nSqueers. 'Let me see! Who sleeps in Brooks's bed, my dear?'\n\n'In Brooks's,' said Mrs. Squeers, pondering. 'There's Jennings, little\nBolder, Graymarsh, and what's his name.'\n\n'So there is,' rejoined Squeers. 'Yes! Brooks is full.'\n\n'Full!' thought Nicholas. 'I should think he was.'\n\n'There's a place somewhere, I know,' said Squeers; 'but I can't at this\nmoment call to mind where it is. However, we'll have that all settled\ntomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o'clock in the morning, mind.'\n\n'I shall be ready, sir,' replied Nicholas. 'Good-night.'\n\n'I'll come in myself and show you where the well is,' said Squeers.\n'You'll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that\nbelongs to you.'\n\nNicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers was again going\naway, when he once more turned back.\n\n'I don't know, I am sure,' he said, 'whose towel to put you on; but\nif you'll make shift with something tomorrow morning, Mrs. Squeers will\narrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don't forget.'\n\n'I'll take care,' replied Mrs. Squeers; 'and mind YOU take care, young\nman, and get first wash. The teacher ought always to have it; but they\nget the better of him if they can.'\n\nMr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring away the brandy bottle, lest\nNicholas should help himself in the night; and the lady having seized it\nwith great precipitation, they retired together.\n\nNicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and down the room\nin a condition of much agitation and excitement; but, growing gradually\ncalmer, sat himself down in a chair, and mentally resolved that, come\nwhat come might, he would endeavour, for a time, to bear whatever\nwretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering the\nhelplessness of his mother and sister, he would give his uncle no\nplea for deserting them in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of\nproducing some good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew\nless desponding, and--so sanguine and buoyant is youth--even hoped that\naffairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than they promised.\n\nHe was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness,\nwhen a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving\nLondon, it had escaped his attention, and had not occurred to him since,\nbut it at once brought back to him the recollection of the mysterious\nbehaviour of Newman Noggs.\n\n'Dear me!' said Nicholas; 'what an extraordinary hand!'\n\nIt was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in\nsuch cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great\ndifficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read as follows:--\n\nMy dear young Man.\n\nI know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a\nkindness when there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not\nbe bound on such a journey.\n\nIf ever you want a shelter in London (don't be angry at this, I once\nthought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign of the\nCrown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner of Silver\nStreet and James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come at\nnight. Once, nobody was ashamed--never mind that. It's all over.\n\nExcuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have\nforgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.\n\nNEWMAN NOGGS.\n\nP.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the\nKing's Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will not charge you\nfor it. You may say Mr. Noggs there, for I was a gentleman then. I was\nindeed.\n\n\nIt may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had\nfolded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby's\neyes were dimmed with a moisture that might have been taken for tears.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nOf the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall\n\n\nA ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, is one of the\nbest softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is\neven a sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over the rough couch\nof Nicholas, and whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were of an\nagreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed,\nwhen the faint glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and\na voice he had no difficulty in recognising as part and parcel of Mr\nSqueers, admonished him that it was time to rise.\n\n'Past seven, Nickleby,' said Mr. Squeers.\n\n'Has morning come already?' asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed.\n\n'Ah! that has it,' replied Squeers, 'and ready iced too. Now, Nickleby,\ncome; tumble up, will you?'\n\nNicholas needed no further admonition, but 'tumbled up' at once, and\nproceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper, which Mr. Squeers\ncarried in his hand.\n\n'Here's a pretty go,' said that gentleman; 'the pump's froze.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelligence.\n\n'Yes,' replied Squeers. 'You can't wash yourself this morning.'\n\n'Not wash myself!' exclaimed Nicholas.\n\n'No, not a bit of it,' rejoined Squeers tartly. 'So you must be content\nwith giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and\ncan get a bucketful out for the boys. Don't stand staring at me, but do\nlook sharp, will you?'\n\nOffering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his clothes.\nSqueers, meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew the candle out; when\nthe voice of his amiable consort was heard in the passage, demanding\nadmittance.\n\n'Come in, my love,' said Squeers.\n\nMrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night-jacket which\nhad displayed the symmetry of her figure on the previous night, and\nfurther ornamented with a beaver bonnet of some antiquity, which she\nwore, with much ease and lightness, on the top of the nightcap before\nmentioned.\n\n'Drat the things,' said the lady, opening the cupboard; 'I can't find\nthe school spoon anywhere.'\n\n'Never mind it, my dear,' observed Squeers in a soothing manner; 'it's\nof no consequence.'\n\n'No consequence, why how you talk!' retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply; 'isn't\nit brimstone morning?'\n\n'I forgot, my dear,' rejoined Squeers; 'yes, it certainly is. We purify\nthe boys' bloods now and then, Nickleby.'\n\n'Purify fiddlesticks' ends,' said his lady. 'Don't think, young man,\nthat we go to the expense of flower of brimstone and molasses, just to\npurify them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way,\nyou'll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.'\n\n'My dear,' said Squeers frowning. 'Hem!'\n\n'Oh! nonsense,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers. 'If the young man comes to be\na teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don't want any\nfoolery about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly\nbecause if they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine they'd\nbe always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it\nspoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So,\nit does them good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough\nI'm sure.'\n\nHaving given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her head into the closet\nand instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr. Squeers\nassisted. A few words passed between them while they were thus engaged,\nbut as their voices were partially stifled by the cupboard, all that\nNicholas could distinguish was, that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers\nhad said, was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. Squeers\nsaid, was 'stuff.'\n\nA vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless,\nSmike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers, and boxed by Mr. Squeers;\nwhich course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled him to\nsuggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket,\nas indeed turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously\nprotested, however, that she was quite certain she had not got it,\nSmike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his\nmistress, together with a promise of a sound thrashing if he were not\nmore respectful in future; so that he took nothing very advantageous by\nhis motion.\n\n'A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,' said Squeers when his consort\nhad hurried away, pushing the drudge before her.\n\n'Indeed, sir!' observed Nicholas.\n\n'I don't know her equal,' said Squeers; 'I do not know her equal. That\nwoman, Nickleby, is always the same--always the same bustling, lively,\nactive, saving creetur that you see her now.'\n\nNicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable domestic\nprospect thus opened to him; but Squeers was, fortunately, too much\noccupied with his own reflections to perceive it.\n\n'It's my way to say, when I am up in London,' continued Squeers, 'that\nto them boys she is a mother. But she is more than a mother to them;\nten times more. She does things for them boys, Nickleby, that I don't\nbelieve half the mothers going, would do for their own sons.'\n\n'I should think they would not, sir,' answered Nicholas.\n\nNow, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed the boys in the\nlight of their proper and natural enemies; or, in other words, they held\nand considered that their business and profession was to get as much\nfrom every boy as could by possibility be screwed out of him. On this\npoint they were both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The\nonly difference between them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged war against\nthe enemy openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality,\neven at home, with a spice of his habitual deceit; as if he really had\na notion of someday or other being able to take himself in, and persuade\nhis own mind that he was a very good fellow.\n\n'But come,' said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some thoughts to\nthis effect in the mind of his usher, 'let's go to the schoolroom; and\nlend me a hand with my school-coat, will you?'\n\nNicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting-jacket,\nwhich he took down from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming\nhimself with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the rear\nof the house.\n\n'There,' said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together; 'this is our\nshop, Nickleby!'\n\nIt was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract\nattention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without\nseeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself\ninto a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a\ntenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old\ncopy-books and paper. There were a couple of long old rickety desks, cut\nand notched, and inked, and damaged, in every possible way; two or three\nforms; a detached desk for Squeers; and another for his assistant. The\nceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters;\nand the walls were so stained and discoloured, that it was impossible to\ntell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.\n\nBut the pupils--the young noblemen! How the last faint traces of hope,\nthe remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in\nthis den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay\naround! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the\ncountenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys\nof stunted growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear\ntheir stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together; there were\nthe bleared eye, the hare-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness\nor distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for\ntheir offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of\ninfancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There\nwere little faces which should have been handsome, darkened with the\nscowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there was childhood with the light of\nits eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining;\nthere were vicious-faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like\nmalefactors in a jail; and there were young creatures on whom the sins\nof their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary\nnurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every\nkindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and\nhealthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion\nthat can fester in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in\nsilence, what an incipient Hell was breeding here!\n\nAnd yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features,\nwhich, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked\na smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an\nimmense basin of brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she\nadministered a large instalment to each boy in succession: using for\nthe purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally\nmanufactured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young\ngentleman's mouth considerably: they being all obliged, under heavy\ncorporal penalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In\nanother corner, huddled together for companionship, were the little\nboys who had arrived on the preceding night, three of them in very large\nleather breeches, and two in old trousers, a something tighter fit than\ndrawers are usually worn; at no great distance from these was seated\nthe juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers--a striking likeness of his\nfather--kicking, with great vigour, under the hands of Smike, who\nwas fitting upon him a pair of new boots that bore a most suspicious\nresemblance to those which the least of the little boys had worn on\nthe journey down--as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he\nwas regarding the appropriation with a look of most rueful amazement.\nBesides these, there was a long row of boys waiting, with countenances\nof no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled; and another file, who\nhad just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of wry mouths\nindicative of anything but satisfaction. The whole were attired in\nsuch motley, ill-assorted, extraordinary garments, as would have been\nirresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder,\nand disease, with which they were associated.\n\n'Now,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which\nmade half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, 'is that\nphysicking over?'\n\n'Just over,' said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and\ntapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him.\n'Here, you Smike; take away now. Look sharp!'\n\nSmike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers having called up a\nlittle boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out\nafter him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire and\na large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were\narranged upon a board.\n\nInto these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant, poured\na brown composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without\nthe covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was\ninserted in each bowl, and when they had eaten their porridge by means\nof the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished their\nbreakfast; whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice, 'For what we\nhave received, may the Lord make us truly thankful!'--and went away to\nhis own.\n\nNicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the\nsame reason which induces some savages to swallow earth--lest they\nshould be inconveniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having\nfurther disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted to him in\nvirtue of his office, he sat himself down, to wait for school-time.\n\nHe could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be.\nThere was none of the noise and clamour of a schoolroom; none of\nits boisterous play, or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and\nshivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The\nonly pupil who evinced the slightest tendency towards locomotion or\nplayfulness was Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread\nupon the other boys' toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was\nrather disagreeable than otherwise.\n\nAfter some half-hour's delay, Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took\ntheir places and their books, of which latter commodity the average\nmight be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed,\nduring which Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect\napprehension of what was inside all the books, and could say every word\nof their contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that\ngentleman called up the first class.\n\nObedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the\nschoolmaster's desk, half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows,\none of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye.\n\n'This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,'\nsaid Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. 'We'll get up a\nLatin one, and hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first boy?'\n\n'Please, sir, he's cleaning the back-parlour window,' said the temporary\nhead of the philosophical class.\n\n'So he is, to be sure,' rejoined Squeers. 'We go upon the practical mode\nof teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean,\nverb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a\ncasement. When the boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It's\njust the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second\nboy?'\n\n'Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,' replied a small voice.\n\n'To be sure,' said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. 'So he is. B-o-t,\nbot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive,\na knowledge of plants. When he has learned that bottinney means a\nknowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby:\nwhat do you think of it?'\n\n'It's very useful one, at any rate,' answered Nicholas.\n\n'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his\nusher. 'Third boy, what's horse?'\n\n'A beast, sir,' replied the boy.\n\n'So it is,' said Squeers. 'Ain't it, Nickleby?'\n\n'I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered Nicholas.\n\n'Of course there isn't,' said Squeers. 'A horse is a quadruped, and\nquadruped's Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the\ngrammar knows, or else where's the use of having grammars at all?'\n\n'Where, indeed!' said Nicholas abstractedly.\n\n'As you're perfect in that,' resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, 'go\nand look after MY horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down.\nThe rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you\nto leave off, for it's washing-day tomorrow, and they want the coppers\nfilled.'\n\nSo saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in\npractical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and\nhalf doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think\nof him by this time.\n\n'That's the way we do it, Nickleby,' he said, after a pause.\n\nNicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely\nperceptible, and said he saw it was.\n\n'And a very good way it is, too,' said Squeers. 'Now, just take them\nfourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because, you know, you\nmust begin to be useful. Idling about here won't do.'\n\nMr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that\nhe must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did\nnot say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were\narranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was soon listening\nto their dull, drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of\nengrossing interest which are to be found in the more antiquated\nspelling-books.\n\nIn this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. At one\no'clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly\ntaken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some\nhard salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his\nportion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this,\nthere was another hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with\ncold, and then school began again.\n\nIt was Mr. Squeer's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of\nreport, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the\nrelations and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the letters he\nhad brought down, the bills which had been paid, the accounts which had\nbeen left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took place\nin the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the\nboys acquired strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or,\npossibly, because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and\ninflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was wont to\nindulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were\nrecalled from house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school\nwere assembled in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers, with a small bundle of\npapers in his hand, and Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered\nthe room and proclaimed silence.\n\n'Let any boy speak a word without leave,' said Mr. Squeers mildly, 'and\nI'll take the skin off his back.'\n\nThis special proclamation had the desired effect, and a deathlike\nsilence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on\nto say:\n\n'Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you, as\nstrong and well as ever.'\n\nAccording to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at\nthis refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sights of extra strength with\nthe chill on.\n\n'I have seen the parents of some boys,' continued Squeers, turning over\nhis papers, 'and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on,\nthat there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is\na very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for all parties.'\n\nTwo or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but\nthe greater part of the young gentlemen having no particular parents to\nspeak of, were wholly uninterested in the thing one way or other.\n\n'I have had disappointments to contend against,' said Squeers, looking\nvery grim; 'Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?'\n\n'Here he is, please sir,' rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys are\nvery like men to be sure.\n\n'Come here, Bolder,' said Squeers.\n\nAn unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over his hands, stepped from\nhis place to the master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to\nSqueers's face; his own, quite white from the rapid beating of his\nheart.\n\n'Bolder,' said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering, as\nthe saying goes, where to have him. 'Bolder, if you father thinks that\nbecause--why, what's this, sir?'\n\nAs Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket,\nand surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.\n\n'What do you call this, sir?' demanded the schoolmaster, administering a\ncut with the cane to expedite the reply.\n\n'I can't help it, indeed, sir,' rejoined the boy, crying. 'They will\ncome; it's the dirty work I think, sir--at least I don't know what it\nis, sir, but it's not my fault.'\n\n'Bolder,' said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and moistening\nthe palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the cane, 'you're an\nincorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good,\nwe must see what another will do towards beating it out of you.'\n\nWith this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers\nfell upon the boy and caned him soundly: not leaving off, indeed, until\nhis arm was tired out.\n\n'There,' said Squeers, when he had quite done; 'rub away as hard as you\nlike, you won't rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won't hold that noise,\nwon't you? Put him out, Smike.'\n\nThe drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitate about\nobeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side-door, and Mr. Squeers\nperched himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. Squeers, who\noccupied another at his side.\n\n'Now let us see,' said Squeers. 'A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.'\n\nAnother boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while Squeers made a\nmental abstract of the same.\n\n'Oh!' said Squeers: 'Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John\nhas took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except\neighteenpence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs\nSqueers, my dear, will you take the money?'\n\nThe worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most business-like\nair, and Squeers passed on to the next boy, as coolly as possible.\n\n'Graymarsh,' said Squeers, 'he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh.'\n\nAnother boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the letter as\nbefore.\n\n'Graymarsh's maternal aunt,' said Squeers, when he had possessed himself\nof the contents, 'is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends\nher respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks she must be an\nangel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too good for this world; but\nhopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent\nthe two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards\na tract instead, and hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence.\nHopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. and Mrs\nSqueers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love\nMaster Squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no\nChristian should. Ah!' said Squeers, folding it up, 'a delightful\nletter. Very affecting indeed.'\n\nIt was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's maternal aunt was\nstrongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be no other than his\nmaternal parent; Squeers, however, without alluding to this part of the\nstory (which would have sounded immoral before boys), proceeded with\nthe business by calling out 'Mobbs,' whereupon another boy rose, and\nGraymarsh resumed his seat.\n\n'Mobbs's step-mother,' said Squeers, 'took to her bed on hearing that he\nwouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know,\nby an early post, where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with\nhis vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the\ncow's-liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it.\nThis was told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he is\ntoo kind and too good to set anybody against anybody--and it has vexed\nher so much, Mobbs can't think. She is sorry to find he is discontented,\nwhich is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into\na happier state of mind; with which view, she has also stopped his\nhalfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a\ncorkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for\nhim.'\n\n'A sulky state of feeling,' said Squeers, after a terrible pause, during\nwhich he had moistened the palm of his right hand again, 'won't do.\nCheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!'\n\nMobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation\nof good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired by the\nside-door, with as good cause as a boy need have.\n\nMr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection of letters;\nsome enclosing money, which Mrs. Squeers 'took care of;' and others\nreferring to small articles of apparel, as caps and so forth, all of\nwhich the same lady stated to be too large, or too small, and calculated\nfor nobody but young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most\naccommodating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted\nhim to a nicety. His head, in particular, must have been singularly\nelastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to him.\n\nThis business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and\nSqueers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the\nboys in the school-room, which was very cold, and where a meal of bread\nand cheese was served out shortly after dark.\n\nThere was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest\nto the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, so depressed and\nself-degraded by the consciousness of his position, that if death could\nhave come upon him at that time, he would have been almost happy to meet\nit. The cruelty of which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse\nand ruffianly behaviour of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy\nplace, the sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state of\nfeeling; but when he recollected that, being there as an assistant,\nhe actually seemed--no matter what unhappy train of circumstances had\nbrought him to that pass--to be the aider and abettor of a system which\nfilled him with honest disgust and indignation, he loathed himself, and\nfelt, for the moment, as though the mere consciousness of his present\nsituation must, through all time to come, prevent his raising his head\nagain.\n\nBut, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution he had\nformed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. He had written to\nhis mother and sister, announcing the safe conclusion of his journey,\nand saying as little about Dotheboys Hall, and saying that little as\ncheerfully, as he possibly could. He hoped that by remaining where he\nwas, he might do some good, even there; at all events, others depended\ntoo much on his uncle's favour, to admit of his awakening his wrath just\nthen.\n\nOne reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish considerations\narising out of his own position. This was the probable destination of\nhis sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him, and might he not consign\nher to some miserable place where her youth and beauty would prove a far\ngreater curse than ugliness and decrepitude? To a caged man, bound hand\nand foot, this was a terrible idea--but no, he thought, his mother was\nby; there was the portrait-painter, too--simple enough, but still living\nin the world, and of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph Nickleby\nhad conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty good reason,\nby this time, to reciprocate it, he had no great difficulty in arriving\nat this conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that the feeling\nextended no farther than between them.\n\nAs he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the\nupturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a\nfew stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He\nhad paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was\nobserved, shrunk back, as if expecting a blow.\n\n'You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Are you cold?'\n\n'N-n-o.'\n\n'You are shivering.'\n\n'I am not cold,' replied Smike quickly. 'I am used to it.'\n\nThere was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he\nwas such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help\nexclaiming, 'Poor fellow!'\n\nIf he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word.\nBut, now, he burst into tears.\n\n'Oh dear, oh dear!' he cried, covering his face with his cracked and\nhorny hands. 'My heart will break. It will, it will.'\n\n'Hush!' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. 'Be a man; you\nare nearly one by years, God help you.'\n\n'By years!' cried Smike. 'Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of\nthem since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now!\nWhere are they all!'\n\n'Whom do you speak of?' inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor\nhalf-witted creature to reason. 'Tell me.'\n\n'My friends,' he replied, 'myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have\nbeen!'\n\n'There is always hope,' said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.\n\n'No,' rejoined the other, 'no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that\ndied here?'\n\n'I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently; 'but what of him?'\n\n'Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's side, 'I\nwas with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for\nfriends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round\nhis bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and\nhe died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?'\n\n'Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'What faces will smile on me when I die!' cried his companion,\nshivering. 'Who will talk to me in those long nights! They cannot come\nfrom home; they would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it\nis, and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive\nor dead. No hope, no hope!'\n\nThe bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual\nlistless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a\nheavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired; there was no\nretirement there--followed--to his dirty and crowded dormitory.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nOf Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr. Squeers; and of\nvarious Matters and Persons connected no less with the Squeerses than\nNicholas Nickleby\n\n\nWhen Mr. Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, he betook himself, as\nhas been before remarked, to his own fireside, which was situated--not\nin the room in which Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival,\nbut in a smaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady\nwife, his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full\nenjoyment of each other's society; Mrs. Squeers being engaged in the\nmatronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and the young lady and gentleman\nbeing occupied in the adjustment of some youthful differences, by means\nof a pugilistic contest across the table, which, on the approach of\ntheir honoured parent, subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks\nbeneath it.\n\nAnd, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, that Miss\nFanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If there be any one\ngrace or loveliness inseparable from that particular period of life,\nMiss Squeers may be presumed to have been possessed of it, as there is\nno reason to suppose that she was a solitary exception to an universal\nrule. She was not tall like her mother, but short like her father; from\nthe former she inherited a voice of harsh quality; from the latter a\nremarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to having none at\nall.\n\nMiss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neighbouring friend,\nand had only just returned to the parental roof. To this circumstance\nmay be referred, her having heard nothing of Nicholas, until Mr. Squeers\nhimself now made him the subject of conversation.\n\n'Well, my dear,' said Squeers, drawing up his chair, 'what do you think\nof him by this time?'\n\n'Think of who?' inquired Mrs. Squeers; who (as she often remarked) was no\ngrammarian, thank Heaven.\n\n'Of the young man--the new teacher--who else could I mean?'\n\n'Oh! that Knuckleboy,' said Mrs. Squeers impatiently. 'I hate him.'\n\n'What do you hate him for, my dear?' asked Squeers.\n\n'What's that to you?' retorted Mrs. Squeers. 'If I hate him, that's\nenough, ain't it?'\n\n'Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much I dare say,\nif he knew it,' replied Squeers in a pacific tone. 'I only ask from\ncuriosity, my dear.'\n\n'Well, then, if you want to know,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, 'I'll tell you.\nBecause he's a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock.'\n\nMrs. Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use strong language, and,\nmoreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of\na figurative kind, as the word peacock, and furthermore the allusion\nto Nicholas's nose, which was not intended to be taken in its literal\nsense, but rather to bear a latitude of construction according to the\nfancy of the hearers.\n\nNeither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so much as to\nthe object on whom they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present\ncase: a peacock with a turned-up nose being a novelty in ornithology,\nand a thing not commonly seen.\n\n'Hem!' said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak. 'He is\ncheap, my dear; the young man is very cheap.'\n\n'Not a bit of it,' retorted Mrs. Squeers.\n\n'Five pound a year,' said Squeers.\n\n'What of that; it's dear if you don't want him, isn't it?' replied his\nwife.\n\n'But we DO want him,' urged Squeers.\n\n'I don't see that you want him any more than the dead,' said\nMrs. Squeers. 'Don't tell me. You can put on the cards and in the\nadvertisements, \"Education by Mr. Wackford Squeers and able assistants,\"\nwithout having any assistants, can't you? Isn't it done every day by all\nthe masters about? I've no patience with you.'\n\n'Haven't you!' said Squeers, sternly. 'Now I'll tell you what, Mrs\nSqueers. In this matter of having a teacher, I'll take my own way, if\nyou please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a man under\nhim, to see that his blacks don't run away, or get up a rebellion; and\nI'll have a man under me to do the same with OUR blacks, till such time\nas little Wackford is able to take charge of the school.'\n\n'Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?' said\nWackford junior, suspending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious\nkick which he was administering to his sister.\n\n'You are, my son,' replied Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental voice.\n\n'Oh my eye, won't I give it to the boys!' exclaimed the interesting\nchild, grasping his father's cane. 'Oh, father, won't I make 'em squeak\nagain!'\n\nIt was a proud moment in Mr. Squeers's life, when he witnessed that burst\nof enthusiasm in his young child's mind, and saw in it a foreshadowing\nof his future eminence. He pressed a penny into his hand, and gave\nvent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wife also), in a shout of\napproving laughter. The infantine appeal to their common sympathies,\nat once restored cheerfulness to the conversation, and harmony to the\ncompany.\n\n'He's a nasty stuck-up monkey, that's what I consider him,' said Mrs\nSqueers, reverting to Nicholas.\n\n'Supposing he is,' said Squeers, 'he is as well stuck up in our\nschoolroom as anywhere else, isn't he?--especially as he don't like it.'\n\n'Well,' observed Mrs. Squeers, 'there's something in that. I hope it'll\nbring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it don't.'\n\nNow, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very extraordinary\nand unaccountable thing to hear of,--any usher at all being a novelty;\nbut a proud one, a being of whose existence the wildest imagination\ncould never have dreamed--that Miss Squeers, who seldom troubled\nherself with scholastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this\nKnuckleboy was, that gave himself such airs.\n\n'Nickleby,' said Squeers, spelling the name according to some eccentric\nsystem which prevailed in his own mind; 'your mother always calls things\nand people by their wrong names.'\n\n'No matter for that,' said Mrs. Squeers; 'I see them with right eyes,\nand that's quite enough for me. I watched him when you were laying on\nto little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as black as thunder, all the\nwhile, and, one time, started up as if he had more than got it in his\nmind to make a rush at you. I saw him, though he thought I didn't.'\n\n'Never mind that, father,' said Miss Squeers, as the head of the family\nwas about to reply. 'Who is the man?'\n\n'Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he's the son of\na poor gentleman that died the other day,' said Mrs. Squeers.\n\n'The son of a gentleman!'\n\n'Yes; but I don't believe a word of it. If he's a gentleman's son at\nall, he's a fondling, that's my opinion.'\n\n'Mrs. Squeers intended to say 'foundling,' but, as she frequently\nremarked when she made any such mistake, it would be all the same a\nhundred years hence; with which axiom of philosophy, indeed, she was in\nthe constant habit of consoling the boys when they laboured under more\nthan ordinary ill-usage.\n\n'He's nothing of the kind,' said Squeers, in answer to the above remark,\n'for his father was married to his mother years before he was born, and\nshe is alive now. If he was, it would be no business of ours, for we\nmake a very good friend by having him here; and if he likes to learn the\nboys anything besides minding them, I have no objection I am sure.'\n\n'I say again, I hate him worse than poison,' said Mrs. Squeers\nvehemently.\n\n'If you dislike him, my dear,' returned Squeers, 'I don't know anybody\nwho can show dislike better than you, and of course there's no occasion,\nwith him, to take the trouble to hide it.'\n\n'I don't intend to, I assure you,' interposed Mrs. S.\n\n'That's right,' said Squeers; 'and if he has a touch of pride about him,\nas I think he has, I don't believe there's woman in all England that can\nbring anybody's spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.'\n\nMrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flattering\ncompliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit or two in\nher day. It is but due to her character to say, that in conjunction with\nher estimable husband, she had broken many and many a one.\n\nMiss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much more\nconversation on the same subject, until she retired for the night,\nwhen she questioned the hungry servant, minutely, regarding the outward\nappearance and demeanour of Nicholas; to which queries the girl returned\nsuch enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many laudatory remarks\ntouching his beautiful dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight\nlegs--upon which last-named articles she laid particular stress; the\ngeneral run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked--that Miss Squeers\nwas not long in arriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be\na very remarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,\n'something quite out of the common.' And so Miss Squeers made up her\nmind that she would take a personal observation of Nicholas the very\nnext day.\n\nIn pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of\nher mother being engaged, and her father absent, and went accidentally\ninto the schoolroom to get a pen mended: where, seeing nobody but\nNicholas presiding over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited\ngreat confusion.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers; 'I thought my father was--or\nmight be--dear me, how very awkward!'\n\n'Mr. Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the\napparition, unexpected though it was.\n\n'Do you know will he be long, sir?' asked Miss Squeers, with bashful\nhesitation.\n\n'He said about an hour,' replied Nicholas--politely of course, but\nwithout any indication of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's\ncharms.\n\n'I never knew anything happen so cross,' exclaimed the young lady.\n'Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought\nmy father was here, I wouldn't upon any account have--it is very\nprovoking--must look so very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers, blushing\nonce more, and glancing, from the pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his\ndesk, and back again.\n\n'If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, and\nsmiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of the\nschoolmaster's daughter, 'perhaps I can supply his place.'\n\nMiss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of\nadvancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom,\nas though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys; and\nfinally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with\na most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.\n\n'Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?' inquired Nicholas, smiling to\nprevent himself from laughing outright.\n\n'He HAS a beautiful smile,' thought Miss Squeers.\n\n'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,'\nreplied Miss Squeers. 'Oh! as soft as possible, if you please.' With\nwhich words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, to give Nicholas to\nunderstand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to\nmatch.\n\nUpon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gave it to Miss\nSqueers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up,\nMiss Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together;\nwhereat five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud: being positively for\nthe first and only time that half-year.\n\n'Very awkward of me,' said Nicholas, opening the door for the young\nlady's retreat.\n\n'Not at all, sir,' replied Miss Squeers; 'it was my fault. It was all my\nfoolish--a--a--good-morning!'\n\n'Goodbye,' said Nicholas. 'The next I make for you, I hope will be made\nless clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.'\n\n'Really,' said Miss Squeers; 'so embarrassing that I scarcely know what\nI--very sorry to give you so much trouble.'\n\n'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the\nschoolroom door.\n\n'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!' said Miss\nSqueers, as she walked away.\n\nIn fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.\n\nTo account for the rapidity with which this young lady had conceived a\npassion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, that the friend\nfrom whom she had so recently returned, was a miller's daughter of\nonly eighteen, who had contracted herself unto the son of a small\ncorn-factor, resident in the nearest market town. Miss Squeers and the\nmiller's daughter, being fast friends, had covenanted together some two\nyears before, according to a custom prevalent among young ladies, that\nwhoever was first engaged to be married, should straightway confide the\nmighty secret to the bosom of the other, before communicating it to\nany living soul, and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time; in\nfulfilment of which pledge the miller's daughter, when her engagement\nwas formed, came out express, at eleven o'clock at night as the\ncorn-factor's son made an offer of his hand and heart at twenty-five\nminutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushed into Miss\nSqueers's bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now, Miss Squeers\nbeing five years older, and out of her teens (which is also a great\nmatter), had, since, been more than commonly anxious to return the\ncompliment, and possess her friend with a similar secret; but, either\nin consequence of finding it hard to please herself, or harder still to\nplease anybody else, had never had an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as\nshe had no such secret to disclose. The little interview with Nicholas\nhad no sooner passed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers,\nputting on her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to\nher friend's house, and, upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows of\nsecrecy, revealed how that she was--not exactly engaged, but going to\nbe--to a gentleman's son--(none of your corn-factors, but a gentleman's\nson of high descent)--who had come down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall,\nunder most mysterious and remarkable circumstances--indeed, as Miss\nSqueers more than once hinted she had good reason to believe, induced,\nby the fame of her many charms, to seek her out, and woo and win her.\n\n'Isn't it an extraordinary thing?' said Miss Squeers, emphasising the\nadjective strongly.\n\n'Most extraordinary,' replied the friend. 'But what has he said to you?'\n\n'Don't ask me what he said, my dear,' rejoined Miss Squeers. 'If you had\nonly seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome in all my life.'\n\n'Did he look in this way?' inquired the miller's daughter,\ncounterfeiting, as nearly as she could, a favourite leer of the\ncorn-factor.\n\n'Very like that--only more genteel,' replied Miss Squeers.\n\n'Ah!' said the friend, 'then he means something, depend on it.'\n\nMiss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was by no means\nill pleased to be confirmed by a competent authority; and discovering,\non further conversation and comparison of notes, a great many points\nof resemblance between the behaviour of Nicholas, and that of the\ncorn-factor, grew so exceedingly confidential, that she intrusted her\nfriend with a vast number of things Nicholas had NOT said, which were\nall so very complimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated\non the fearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuously\nopposed to her intended husband; on which unhappy circumstance she dwelt\nat great length; for the friend's father and mother were quite agreeable\nto her being married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat\nand common-place an affair as it was possible to imagine.\n\n'How I should like to see him!' exclaimed the friend.\n\n'So you shall, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers. 'I should consider myself\none of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. I think\nmother's going away for two days to fetch some boys; and when she does,\nI'll ask you and John up to tea, and have him to meet you.'\n\nThis was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the friends\nparted.\n\nIt so fell out, that Mrs. Squeers's journey, to some distance, to fetch\nthree new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance\nof a small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for the next day but\none; and on the next day but one, Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach,\nas it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle\ncontaining something in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and carrying\nbesides a large white top-coat to wear in the night-time; with which\nbaggage she went her way.\n\nWhenever such opportunities as these occurred, it was Squeers's custom\nto drive over to the market town, every evening, on pretence of urgent\nbusiness, and stop till ten or eleven o'clock at a tavern he much\naffected. As the party was not in his way, therefore, but rather\nafforded a means of compromise with Miss Squeers, he readily yielded his\nfull assent thereunto, and willingly communicated to Nicholas that\nhe was expected to take his tea in the parlour that evening, at five\no'clock.\n\nTo be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the time\napproached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the best advantage:\nwith her hair--it had more than a tinge of red, and she wore it in a\ncrop--curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top of her head, and\narranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to say nothing of the\nblue sash which floated down her back, or the worked apron or the long\ngloves, or the green gauze scarf worn over one shoulder and under the\nother; or any of the numerous devices which were to be as so many arrows\nto the heart of Nicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements\nto her entire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity-brown\nparcel--flat and three-cornered--containing sundry small adornments\nwhich were to be put on upstairs, and which the friend put on, talking\nincessantly. When Miss Squeers had 'done' the friend's hair, the friend\n'did' Miss Squeers's hair, throwing in some striking improvements in the\nway of ringlets down the neck; and then, when they were both touched up\nto their entire satisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with\nthe long gloves on, all ready for company.\n\n'Where's John, 'Tilda?' said Miss Squeers.\n\n'Only gone home to clean himself,' replied the friend. 'He will be here\nby the time the tea's drawn.'\n\n'I do so palpitate,' observed Miss Squeers.\n\n'Ah! I know what it is,' replied the friend.\n\n'I have not been used to it, you know, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers,\napplying her hand to the left side of her sash.\n\n'You'll soon get the better of it, dear,' rejoined the friend. While\nthey were talking thus, the hungry servant brought in the tea-things,\nand, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the room door.\n\n'There he is!' cried Miss Squeers. 'Oh 'Tilda!'\n\n'Hush!' said 'Tilda. 'Hem! Say, come in.'\n\n'Come in,' cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked Nicholas.\n\n'Good-evening,' said that young gentleman, all unconscious of his\nconquest. 'I understood from Mr. Squeers that--'\n\n'Oh yes; it's all right,' interposed Miss Squeers. 'Father don't tea\nwith us, but you won't mind that, I dare say.' (This was said archly.)\n\nNicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter off very\ncoolly--not caring, particularly, about anything just then--and went\nthrough the ceremony of introduction to the miller's daughter with so\nmuch grace, that that young lady was lost in admiration.\n\n'We are only waiting for one more gentleman,' said Miss Squeers, taking\noff the teapot lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was getting on.\n\nIt was matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they were waiting for\none gentleman or twenty, so he received the intelligence with perfect\nunconcern; and, being out of spirits, and not seeing any especial reason\nwhy he should make himself agreeable, looked out of the window and\nsighed involuntarily.\n\nAs luck would have it, Miss Squeers's friend was of a playful turn, and\nhearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rally the lovers on\ntheir lowness of spirits.\n\n'But if it's caused by my being here,' said the young lady, 'don't mind\nme a bit, for I'm quite as bad. You may go on just as you would if you\nwere alone.'\n\n''Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls,\n'I am ashamed of you;' and here the two friends burst into a variety\nof giggles, and glanced from time to time, over the tops of\ntheir pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state of\nunmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressible\nlaughter--occasioned, partly by the bare notion of his being in love\nwith Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterous appearance and\nbehaviour of the two girls. These two causes of merriment, taken\ntogether, struck him as being so keenly ridiculous, that, despite his\nmiserable condition, he laughed till he was thoroughly exhausted.\n\n'Well,' thought Nicholas, 'as I am here, and seem expected, for some\nreason or other, to be amiable, it's of no use looking like a goose. I\nmay as well accommodate myself to the company.'\n\nWe blush to tell it; but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting,\nfor the time, the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed\nthis resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great\ngallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began to make himself\nmore at home than in all probability an usher has ever done in his\nemployer's house since ushers were first invented.\n\nThe ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour on the\npart of Mr. Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, with his hair very\ndamp from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereof the collar might\nhave belonged to some giant ancestor, forming, together with a white\nwaistcoat of similar dimensions, the chief ornament of his person.\n\n'Well, John,' said Miss Matilda Price (which, by-the-bye, was the name\nof the miller's daughter).\n\n'Weel,' said John with a grin that even the collar could not conceal.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to do the\nhonours. 'Mr. Nickleby--Mr. John Browdie.'\n\n'Servant, sir,' said John, who was something over six feet high, with a\nface and body rather above the due proportion than below it.\n\n'Yours to command, sir,' replied Nicholas, making fearful ravages on the\nbread and butter.\n\nMr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversational powers, so\nhe grinned twice more, and having now bestowed his customary mark\nof recognition on every person in company, grinned at nothing in\nparticular, and helped himself to food.\n\n'Old wooman awa', bean't she?' said Mr. Browdie, with his mouth full.\n\nMiss Squeers nodded assent.\n\nMr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really\nwas something to laugh at, and went to work at the bread and butter with\nincreased vigour. It was quite a sight to behold how he and Nicholas\nemptied the plate between them.\n\n'Ye wean't get bread and butther ev'ry neight, I expect, mun,' said Mr\nBrowdie, after he had sat staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty\nplate.\n\nNicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear the remark.\n\n'Ecod,' said Mr. Browdie, laughing boisterously, 'they dean't put too\nmuch intiv'em. Ye'll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop here long\neneaf. Ho! ho! ho!'\n\n'You are facetious, sir,' said Nicholas, scornfully.\n\n'Na; I dean't know,' replied Mr. Browdie, 'but t'oother teacher, 'cod\nhe wur a learn 'un, he wur.' The recollection of the last teacher's\nleanness seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the most exquisite delight, for he\nlaughed until he found it necessary to apply his coat-cuffs to his eyes.\n\n'I don't know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough, Mr\nBrowdie, to enable you to understand that your remarks are offensive,'\nsaid Nicholas in a towering passion, 'but if they are, have the goodness\nto--'\n\n'If you say another word, John,' shrieked Miss Price, stopping her\nadmirer's mouth as he was about to interrupt, 'only half a word, I'll\nnever forgive you, or speak to you again.'\n\n'Weel, my lass, I dean't care aboot 'un,' said the corn-factor,\nbestowing a hearty kiss on Miss Matilda; 'let 'un gang on, let 'un gang\non.'\n\nIt now became Miss Squeers's turn to intercede with Nicholas, which she\ndid with many symptoms of alarm and horror; the effect of the double\nintercession was, that he and John Browdie shook hands across the table\nwith much gravity; and such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial,\nthat Miss Squeers was overcome and shed tears.\n\n'What's the matter, Fanny?' said Miss Price.\n\n'Nothing, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, sobbing.\n\n'There never was any danger,' said Miss Price, 'was there, Mr. Nickleby?'\n\n'None at all,' replied Nicholas. 'Absurd.'\n\n'That's right,' whispered Miss Price, 'say something kind to her,\nand she'll soon come round. Here! Shall John and I go into the little\nkitchen, and come back presently?'\n\n'Not on any account,' rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at the\nproposition. 'What on earth should you do that for?'\n\n'Well,' said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking with some\ndegree of contempt--'you ARE a one to keep company.'\n\n'What do you mean?' said Nicholas; 'I am not a one to keep company at\nall--here at all events. I can't make this out.'\n\n'No, nor I neither,' rejoined Miss Price; 'but men are always fickle,\nand always were, and always will be; that I can make out, very easily.'\n\n'Fickle!' cried Nicholas; 'what do you suppose? You don't mean to say\nthat you think--'\n\n'Oh no, I think nothing at all,' retorted Miss Price, pettishly.\n'Look at her, dressed so beautiful and looking so well--really ALMOST\nhandsome. I am ashamed at you.'\n\n'My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing beautifully or\nlooking well?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'Come, don't call me a dear girl,' said Miss Price--smiling a little\nthough, for she was pretty, and a coquette too in her small way, and\nNicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him the property of somebody\nelse, which were all reasons why she should be gratified to think she\nhad made an impression on him,--'or Fanny will be saying it's my fault.\nCome; we're going to have a game at cards.' Pronouncing these last words\naloud, she tripped away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.\n\nThis was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no other distinct\nimpression on his mind at the moment, than that Miss Squeers was an\nordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price a pretty one; but he\nhad not time to enlighten himself by reflection, for the hearth being\nby this time swept up, and the candle snuffed, they sat down to play\nspeculation.\n\n'There are only four of us, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, looking slyly at\nNicholas; 'so we had better go partners, two against two.'\n\n'What do you say, Mr. Nickleby?' inquired Miss Price.\n\n'With all the pleasure in life,' replied Nicholas. And so saying, quite\nunconscious of his heinous offence, he amalgamated into one common heap\nthose portions of a Dotheboys Hall card of terms, which represented his\nown counters, and those allotted to Miss Price, respectively.\n\n'Mr. Browdie,' said Miss Squeers hysterically, 'shall we make a bank\nagainst them?'\n\nThe Yorkshireman assented--apparently quite overwhelmed by the new\nusher's impudence--and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her\nfriend, and giggled convulsively.\n\nThe deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered.\n\n'We intend to win everything,' said he.\n\n''Tilda HAS won something she didn't expect, I think, haven't you,\ndear?' said Miss Squeers, maliciously.\n\n'Only a dozen and eight, love,' replied Miss Price, affecting to take\nthe question in a literal sense.\n\n'How dull you are tonight!' sneered Miss Squeers.\n\n'No, indeed,' replied Miss Price, 'I am in excellent spirits. I was\nthinking YOU seemed out of sorts.'\n\n'Me!' cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling with very\njealousy. 'Oh no!'\n\n'That's well,' remarked Miss Price. 'Your hair's coming out of curl,\ndear.'\n\n'Never mind me,' tittered Miss Squeers; 'you had better attend to your\npartner.'\n\n'Thank you for reminding her,' said Nicholas. 'So she had.'\n\nThe Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with his clenched\nfist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity of\nexercising it upon the features of some other gentleman; and Miss\nSqueers tossed her head with such indignation, that the gust of wind\nraised by the multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew the candle out.\n\n'I never had such luck, really,' exclaimed coquettish Miss Price, after\nanother hand or two. 'It's all along of you, Mr. Nickleby, I think. I\nshould like to have you for a partner always.'\n\n'I wish you had.'\n\n'You'll have a bad wife, though, if you always win at cards,' said Miss\nPrice.\n\n'Not if your wish is gratified,' replied Nicholas. 'I am sure I shall\nhave a good one in that case.'\n\nTo see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn-factor flattened\nhis nose, while this conversation was carrying on! It would have been\nworth a small annuity to have beheld that; let alone Miss Price's\nevident joy at making them jealous, and Nicholas Nickleby's happy\nunconsciousness of making anybody uncomfortable.\n\n'We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,' said Nicholas, looking\ngood-humouredly round the table as he took up the cards for a fresh\ndeal.\n\n'You do it so well,' tittered Miss Squeers, 'that it would be a pity to\ninterrupt, wouldn't it, Mr. Browdie? He! he! he!'\n\n'Nay,' said Nicholas, 'we do it in default of having anybody else to\ntalk to.'\n\n'We'll talk to you, you know, if you'll say anything,' said Miss Price.\n\n'Thank you, 'Tilda, dear,' retorted Miss Squeers, majestically.\n\n'Or you can talk to each other, if you don't choose to talk to us,'\nsaid Miss Price, rallying her dear friend. 'John, why don't you say\nsomething?'\n\n'Say summat?' repeated the Yorkshireman.\n\n'Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.'\n\n'Weel, then!' said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavily with his\nfist, 'what I say's this--Dang my boans and boddy, if I stan' this ony\nlonger. Do ye gang whoam wi' me, and do yon loight an' toight young\nwhipster look sharp out for a brokken head, next time he cums under my\nhond.'\n\n'Mercy on us, what's all this?' cried Miss Price, in affected\nastonishment.\n\n'Cum whoam, tell 'e, cum whoam,' replied the Yorkshireman, sternly. And\nas he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of tears;\narising in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent\ndesire to lacerate somebody's countenance with her fair finger-nails.\n\nThis state of things had been brought about by divers means and\nworkings. Miss Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring to the high\nstate and condition of being matrimonially engaged, without good grounds\nfor so doing; Miss Price had brought it about, by indulging in three\nmotives of action: first, a desire to punish her friend for laying\nclaim to a rivalship in dignity, having no good title: secondly, the\ngratification of her own vanity, in receiving the compliments of a smart\nyoung man: and thirdly, a wish to convince the corn-factor of the great\ndanger he ran, in deferring the celebration of their expected nuptials;\nwhile Nicholas had brought it about, by half an hour's gaiety and\nthoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid the imputation of\ninclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means employed, and the end\nproduced, were alike the most natural in the world; for young ladies\nwill look forward to being married, and will jostle each other in the\nrace to the altar, and will avail themselves of all opportunities of\ndisplaying their own attractions to the best advantage, down to the very\nend of time, as they have done from its beginning.\n\n'Why, and here's Fanny in tears now!' exclaimed Miss Price, as if in\nfresh amazement. 'What can be the matter?'\n\n'Oh! you don't know, miss, of course you don't know. Pray don't trouble\nyourself to inquire,' said Miss Squeers, producing that change of\ncountenance which children call making a face.\n\n'Well, I'm sure!' exclaimed Miss Price.\n\n'And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma'am?' retorted Miss\nSqueers, making another face.\n\n'You are monstrous polite, ma'am,' said Miss Price.\n\n'I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma'am!' retorted\nMiss Squeers.\n\n'You needn't take the trouble to make yourself plainer than you\nare, ma'am, however,' rejoined Miss Price, 'because that's quite\nunnecessary.'\n\nMiss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God that she\nhadn't got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder,\ncongratulated herself upon not being possessed of the envious feeling of\nother people; whereupon Miss Squeers made some general remark touching\nthe danger of associating with low persons; in which Miss Price entirely\ncoincided: observing that it was very true indeed, and she had thought\nso a long time.\n\n''Tilda,' exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, 'I hate you.'\n\n'Ah! There's no love lost between us, I assure you,' said Miss Price,\ntying her bonnet strings with a jerk. 'You'll cry your eyes out, when\nI'm gone; you know you will.'\n\n'I scorn your words, Minx,' said Miss Squeers.\n\n'You pay me a great compliment when you say so,' answered the miller's\ndaughter, curtseying very low. 'Wish you a very good-night, ma'am, and\npleasant dreams attend your sleep!'\n\nWith this parting benediction, Miss Price swept from the room, followed\nby the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas, at parting, that\npeculiarly expressive scowl with which the cut-and-thrust counts, in\nmelodramatic performances, inform each other they will meet again.\n\nThey were no sooner gone, than Miss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of\nher quondam friend by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears,\nand uttering various dismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas\nstood looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but\nfeeling uncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced,\nor scratched, and considering that either infliction would be equally\nagreeable, he walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in\nher pocket-handkerchief.\n\n'This is one consequence,' thought Nicholas, when he had groped his way\nto the dark sleeping-room, 'of my cursed readiness to adapt myself\nto any society in which chance carries me. If I had sat mute and\nmotionless, as I might have done, this would not have happened.'\n\nHe listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.\n\n'I was glad,' he murmured, 'to grasp at any relief from the sight of\nthis dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have set\nthese people by the ears, and made two new enemies, where, Heaven knows,\nI needed none. Well, it is a just punishment for having forgotten, even\nfor an hour, what is around me now!'\n\nSo saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-hearted sleepers,\nand crept into his poor bed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nHow Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister-in-Law\n\n\nOn the second morning after the departure of Nicholas for Yorkshire,\nKate Nickleby sat in a very faded chair raised upon a very dusty throne\nin Miss La Creevy's room, giving that lady a sitting for the portrait\nupon which she was engaged; and towards the full perfection of which,\nMiss La Creevy had had the street-door case brought upstairs, in\norder that she might be the better able to infuse into the counterfeit\ncountenance of Miss Nickleby, a bright salmon flesh-tint which she had\noriginally hit upon while executing the miniature of a young officer\ntherein contained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered,\nby Miss La Creevy's chief friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty in\nart: as indeed it was.\n\n'I think I have caught it now,' said Miss La Creevy. 'The very shade!\nThis will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done, certainly.'\n\n'It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,' replied\nKate, smiling.\n\n'No, no, I won't allow that, my dear,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'It's\na very nice subject--a very nice subject, indeed--though, of course,\nsomething depends upon the mode of treatment.'\n\n'And not a little,' observed Kate.\n\n'Why, my dear, you are right there,' said Miss La Creevy, 'in the main\nyou are right there; though I don't allow that it is of such very great\nimportance in the present case. Ah! The difficulties of Art, my dear,\nare great.'\n\n'They must be, I have no doubt,' said Kate, humouring her good-natured\nlittle friend.\n\n'They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conception of,'\nreplied Miss La Creevy. 'What with bringing out eyes with all one's\npower, and keeping down noses with all one's force, and adding to heads,\nand taking away teeth altogether, you have no idea of the trouble one\nlittle miniature is.'\n\n'The remuneration can scarcely repay you,' said Kate.\n\n'Why, it does not, and that's the truth,' answered Miss La Creevy; 'and\nthen people are so dissatisfied and unreasonable, that, nine times out\nof ten, there's no pleasure in painting them. Sometimes they say, \"Oh,\nhow very serious you have made me look, Miss La Creevy!\" and at others,\n\"La, Miss La Creevy, how very smirking!\" when the very essence of a\ngood portrait is, that it must be either serious or smirking, or it's no\nportrait at all.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Kate, laughing.\n\n'Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are always either the one or\nthe other,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Look at the Royal Academy! All\nthose beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen in black velvet waistcoats,\nwith their fists doubled up on round tables, or marble slabs, are\nserious, you know; and all the ladies who are playing with little\nparasols, or little dogs, or little children--it's the same rule in art,\nonly varying the objects--are smirking. In fact,' said Miss La Creevy,\nsinking her voice to a confidential whisper, 'there are only two styles\nof portrait painting; the serious and the smirk; and we always use the\nserious for professional people (except actors sometimes), and the smirk\nfor private ladies and gentlemen who don't care so much about looking\nclever.'\n\nKate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss La Creevy went\non painting and talking, with immovable complacency.\n\n'What a number of officers you seem to paint!' said Kate, availing\nherself of a pause in the discourse, and glancing round the room.\n\n'Number of what, child?' inquired Miss La Creevy, looking up from her\nwork. 'Character portraits, oh yes--they're not real military men, you\nknow.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire a\nuniform coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag.\nSome artists,' said Miss La Creevy, 'keep a red coat, and charge\nseven-and-sixpence extra for hire and carmine; but I don't do that\nmyself, for I don't consider it legitimate.'\n\nDrawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly upon not\nresorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy applied\nherself, more intently, to her task: only raising her head occasionally,\nto look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touch she had just put\nin: and now and then giving Miss Nickleby to understand what particular\nfeature she was at work upon, at the moment; 'not,' she expressly\nobserved, 'that you should make it up for painting, my dear, but because\nit's our custom sometimes to tell sitters what part we are upon, in\norder that if there's any particular expression they want introduced,\nthey may throw it in, at the time, you know.'\n\n'And when,' said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, an\ninterval of full a minute and a half, 'when do you expect to see your\nuncle again?'\n\n'I scarcely know; I had expected to have seen him before now,' replied\nKate. 'Soon I hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than\nanything.'\n\n'I suppose he has money, hasn't he?' inquired Miss La Creevy.\n\n'He is very rich, I have heard,' rejoined Kate. 'I don't know that he\nis, but I believe so.'\n\n'Ah, you may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn't be so surly,'\nremarked Miss La Creevy, who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness and\nsimplicity. 'When a man's a bear, he is generally pretty independent.'\n\n'His manner is rough,' said Kate.\n\n'Rough!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'a porcupine's a featherbed to him! I\nnever met with such a cross-grained old savage.'\n\n'It is only his manner, I believe,' observed Kate, timidly; 'he was\ndisappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper\nsoured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I\nknew he deserved it.'\n\n'Well; that's very right and proper,' observed the miniature painter,\n'and Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of your doing so! But,\nnow, mightn't he, without feeling it himself, make you and your mama\nsome nice little allowance that would keep you both comfortable until\nyou were well married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What\nwould a hundred a year for instance, be to him?'\n\n'I don't know what it would be to him,' said Kate, with energy, 'but it\nwould be that to me I would rather die than take.'\n\n'Heyday!' cried Miss La Creevy.\n\n'A dependence upon him,' said Kate, 'would embitter my whole life. I\nshould feel begging a far less degradation.'\n\n'Well!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy. 'This of a relation whom you will not\nhear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough, I\nconfess.'\n\n'I dare say it does,' replied Kate, speaking more gently, 'indeed I am\nsure it must. I--I--only mean that with the feelings and recollection of\nbetter times upon me, I could not bear to live on anybody's bounty--not\nhis particularly, but anybody's.'\n\nMiss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether\nRalph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeing that her young\nfriend was distressed, made no remark.\n\n'I only ask of him,' continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke,\n'that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as to\nenable me by his recommendation--only by his recommendation--to earn,\nliterally, my bread and remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever\ntaste happiness again, depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother;\nbut if he will do this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and\ncheerful, I shall be contented.'\n\nAs she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screen\nwhich stood between her and the door, and some person knocked at the\nwainscot.'\n\n'Come in, whoever it is!' cried Miss La Creevy.\n\nThe person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave to view the form\nand features of no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickleby himself.\n\n'Your servant, ladies,' said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns.\n'You were talking so loud, that I was unable to make you hear.'\n\nWhen the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking\nat his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their\nthick and protruding brows, for an instant, and then displaying them in\ntheir full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep down the smile\nwhich parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines\nabout his mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the\nwhole, of their recent conversation, had been overheard.\n\n'I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you\nhere,' said Ralph, addressing his niece, and looking contemptuously at\nthe portrait. 'Is that my niece's portrait, ma'am?'\n\n'Yes it is, Mr. Nickleby,' said Miss La Creevy, with a very sprightly\nair, 'and between you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very nice\nportrait too, though I say it who am the painter.'\n\n'Don't trouble yourself to show it to me, ma'am,' cried Ralph, moving\naway, 'I have no eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished?'\n\n'Why, yes,' replied Miss La Creevy, considering with the pencil end of\nher brush in her mouth. 'Two sittings more will--'\n\n'Have them at once, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'She'll have no time to idle\nover fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma'am, work; we must all work. Have\nyou let your lodgings, ma'am?'\n\n'I have not put a bill up yet, sir.'\n\n'Put it up at once, ma'am; they won't want the rooms after this week,\nor if they do, can't pay for them. Now, my dear, if you're ready, we'll\nlose no more time.'\n\nWith an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his\nusual manner, Mr. Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young lady to precede\nhim, and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed\nupstairs, where Mrs. Nickleby received him with many expressions of\nregard. Stopping them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an\nimpatient gesture, and proceeded to the object of his visit.\n\n'I have found a situation for your daughter, ma'am,' said Ralph.\n\n'Well,' replied Mrs. Nickleby. 'Now, I will say that that is only just\nwhat I have expected of you. \"Depend upon it,\" I said to Kate, only\nyesterday morning at breakfast, \"that after your uncle has provided, in\nthat most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us until he has\ndone at least the same for you.\" These were my very words, as near as I\nremember. Kate, my dear, why don't you thank your--'\n\n'Let me proceed, ma'am, pray,' said Ralph, interrupting his\nsister-in-law in the full torrent of her discourse.\n\n'Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'I am most anxious that he should, mama,' rejoined Kate.\n\n'Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow\nyour uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,' observed\nMrs. Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. 'Your uncle's time is\nvery valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be--and naturally\ndesirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so\nlittle of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the\npleasure of having him among us, still, we are bound not to be selfish,\nbut to take into consideration the important nature of his occupations\nin the city.'\n\n'I am very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Ralph with a scarcely\nperceptible sneer. 'An absence of business habits in this family leads,\napparently, to a great waste of words before business--when it does come\nunder consideration--is arrived at, at all.'\n\n'I fear it is so indeed,' replied Mrs. Nickleby with a sigh. 'Your poor\nbrother--'\n\n'My poor brother, ma'am,' interposed Ralph tartly, 'had no idea what\nbusiness was--was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning\nof the word.'\n\n'I fear he was,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes.\n'If it hadn't been for me, I don't know what would have become of him.'\n\nWhat strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out\nby Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At\nevery small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the\ncourse of the four-and-twenty hours to remind her of her straitened\nand altered circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand\npounds had arisen before Mrs. Nickleby's mind, until, at last, she had\ncome to persuade herself that of all her late husband's creditors she\nwas the worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him\ndearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is\nthe usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A\ndecent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train, at\nonce.\n\n'Repining is of no use, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Of all fruitless errands,\nsending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.'\n\n'So it is,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. 'So it is.'\n\n'As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences\nof inattention to business, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'I am sure you will\nimpress upon your children the necessity of attaching themselves to it\nearly in life.'\n\n'Of course I must see that,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. 'Sad experience, you\nknow, brother-in-law.--Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter\nto Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write.'\n\nRalph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty\nsure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition,\nwent on to say:\n\n'The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma'am, is\nwith--with a milliner and dressmaker, in short.'\n\n'A milliner!' cried Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'A milliner and dressmaker, ma'am,' replied Ralph. 'Dressmakers in\nLondon, as I need not remind you, ma'am, who are so well acquainted with\nall matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep\nequipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune.'\n\nNow, the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickleby's mind by the words\nmilliner and dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined\nwith black oilskin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and\nfro in the streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and\nwere replaced by visions of large houses at the West end, neat private\ncarriages, and a banker's book; all of which images succeeded each other\nwith such rapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than\nshe nodded her head and said 'Very true,' with great appearance of\nsatisfaction.\n\n'What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n'I recollect when your poor papa and I came to town after we were\nmarried, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with\nwhite and green trimming, and green persian lining, in her own carriage,\nwhich drove up to the door full gallop;--at least, I am not quite\ncertain whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I\nremember very well that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning\nround, and that your poor papa said he hadn't had any corn for a\nfortnight.'\n\nThis anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners,\nwas not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as\nKate hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very\nintelligible symptoms of extreme impatience.\n\n'The lady's name,' said Ralph, hastily striking in, 'is\nMantalini--Madame Mantalini. I know her. She lives near Cavendish\nSquare. If your daughter is disposed to try after the situation, I'll\ntake her there directly.'\n\n'Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'A great deal,' replied Kate; 'but not now. I would rather speak to him\nwhen we are alone;--it will save his time if I thank him and say what I\nwish to say to him, as we walk along.'\n\nWith these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that\nwere stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while\nMrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law by giving him, with many tears, a\ndetailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had\npossessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute description\nof eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs\nto match the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings\napiece, and had gone at the sale for a mere nothing.\n\nThese reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate's return in her\nwalking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the\nwhole time of her absence, lost no time, and used very little ceremony,\nin descending into the street.\n\n'Now,' he said, taking her arm, 'walk as fast as you can, and you'll get\ninto the step that you'll have to walk to business with, every morning.'\nSo saying, he led Kate off, at a good round pace, towards Cavendish\nSquare.\n\n'I am very much obliged to you, uncle,' said the young lady, after they\nhad hurried on in silence for some time; 'very.'\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' said Ralph. 'I hope you'll do your duty.'\n\n'I will try to please, uncle,' replied Kate: 'indeed I--'\n\n'Don't begin to cry,' growled Ralph; 'I hate crying.'\n\n'It's very foolish, I know, uncle,' began poor Kate.\n\n'It is,' replied Ralph, stopping her short, 'and very affected besides.\nLet me see no more of it.'\n\nPerhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and\nsensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene\nof life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but it had its effect\nnotwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few\nmoments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.\n\nIt was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk\nthrough the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to\nthe press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared\nto lose him in the throng; and how the stern and hard-featured man of\nbusiness went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and\nthen exchanging a gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who\nturned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of\nsurprise, and seemed to wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But,\nit would have been a stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts\nthat were beating side by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence\nof the one, and the rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the\nguileless thoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among\nall the wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not be\none word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. But so it\nwas; and stranger still--though this is a thing of every day--the warm\nyoung heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions,\nwhile that of the old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only\nas a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or\nfear, or love, or care, for any living thing.\n\n'Uncle,' said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination,\n'I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home?'\n\n'At home!' replied Ralph; 'where's that?'\n\n'I mean with my mother--THE WIDOW,' said Kate emphatically.\n\n'You will live, to all intents and purposes, here,' rejoined Ralph; 'for\nhere you will take your meals, and here you will be from morning till\nnight--occasionally perhaps till morning again.'\n\n'But at night, I mean,' said Kate; 'I cannot leave her, uncle. I must\nhave some place that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you\nknow, and may be a very humble one.'\n\n'May be!' said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the\nremark; 'must be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?'\n\n'The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,' urged Kate.\n\n'I hope not,' said Ralph.\n\n'But my question, uncle; you have not answered it.'\n\n'Why, I anticipated something of the kind,' said Ralph; 'and--though I\nobject very strongly, mind--have provided against it. I spoke of you as\nan out-of-door worker; so you will go to this home that may be humble,\nevery night.'\n\nThere was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks for her uncle's\nconsideration, which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all, and\nthey arrived without any further conversation at the dressmaker's door,\nwhich displayed a very large plate, with Madame Mantalini's name and\noccupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was\na shop to the house, but it was let off to an importer of otto of roses.\nMadame Mantalini's shows-rooms were on the first-floor: a fact which was\nnotified to the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the\nhandsomely curtained windows, of two or three elegant bonnets of the\nnewest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.\n\nA liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph's inquiry\nwhether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them, through a handsome\nhall and up a spacious staircase, into the show saloon, which comprised\ntwo spacious drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety of superb\ndresses and materials for dresses: some arranged on stands, others\nlaid carelessly on sofas, and others again, scattered over the carpet,\nhanging on the cheval-glasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the\nrich furniture of various descriptions, which was profusely displayed.\n\nThey waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr. Ralph\nNickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little\nconcern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman\nsuddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeing somebody there, as\nsuddenly popped it out again.\n\n'Here. Hollo!' cried Ralph. 'Who's that?'\n\nAt the sound of Ralph's voice, the head reappeared, and the mouth,\ndisplaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing\ntone the words, 'Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!' Having uttered\nwhich ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, and shook hands with Ralph,\nwith great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with\na waistcoat and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk\nneckerchief, and bright green slippers, and had a very copious\nwatch-chain wound round his body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a\nmoustache, both dyed black and gracefully curled.\n\n'Demmit, you don't mean to say you want me, do you, demmit?' said this\ngentleman, smiting Ralph on the shoulder.\n\n'Not yet,' said Ralph, sarcastically.\n\n'Ha! ha! demmit,' cried the gentleman; when, wheeling round to laugh\nwith greater elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby, who was standing\nnear.\n\n'My niece,' said Ralph.\n\n'I remember,' said the gentleman, striking his nose with the knuckle\nof his forefinger as a chastening for his forgetfulness. 'Demmit, I\nremember what you come for. Step this way, Nickleby; my dear, will you\nfollow me? Ha! ha! They all follow me, Nickleby; always did, demmit,\nalways.'\n\nGiving loose to the playfulness of his imagination, after this fashion,\nthe gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on the second floor,\nscarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartment below, where the\npresence of a silver coffee-pot, an egg-shell, and sloppy china for one,\nseemed to show that he had just breakfasted.\n\n'Sit down, my dear,' said the gentleman: first staring Miss Nickleby out\nof countenance, and then grinning in delight at the achievement.\n'This cursed high room takes one's breath away. These infernal sky\nparlours--I'm afraid I must move, Nickleby.'\n\n'I would, by all means,' replied Ralph, looking bitterly round.\n\n'What a demd rum fellow you are, Nickleby,' said the gentleman, 'the\ndemdest, longest-headed, queerest-tempered old coiner of gold and silver\never was--demmit.'\n\nHaving complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rang the bell,\nand stared at Miss Nickleby until it was answered, when he left off to\nbid the man desire his mistress to come directly; after which, he began\nagain, and left off no more until Madame Mantalini appeared.\n\nThe dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed and rather\ngood-looking, but much older than the gentleman in the Turkish trousers,\nwhom she had wedded some six months before. His name was originally\nMuntle; but it had been converted, by an easy transition, into\nMantalini: the lady rightly considering that an English appellation\nwould be of serious injury to the business. He had married on his\nwhiskers; upon which property he had previously subsisted, in a genteel\nmanner, for some years; and which he had recently improved, after\npatient cultivation by the addition of a moustache, which promised\nto secure him an easy independence: his share in the labours of\nthe business being at present confined to spending the money, and\noccasionally, when that ran short, driving to Mr. Ralph Nickleby to\nprocure discount--at a percentage--for the customers' bills.\n\n'My life,' said Mr. Mantalini, 'what a demd devil of a time you have\nbeen!'\n\n'I didn't even know Mr. Nickleby was here, my love,' said Madame\nMantalini.\n\n'Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman must be, my soul,'\nremonstrated Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'My dear,' said Madame, 'that is entirely your fault.'\n\n'My fault, my heart's joy?'\n\n'Certainly,' returned the lady; 'what can you expect, dearest, if you\nwill not correct the man?'\n\n'Correct the man, my soul's delight!'\n\n'Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,' said Madame,\npouting.\n\n'Then do not vex itself,' said Mr. Mantalini; 'he shall be horse-whipped\ntill he cries out demnebly.' With this promise Mr. Mantalini kissed\nMadame Mantalini, and, after that performance, Madame Mantalini pulled\nMr. Mantalini playfully by the ear: which done, they descended to\nbusiness.\n\n'Now, ma'am,' said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, with such\nscorn as few men can express in looks, 'this is my niece.'\n\n'Just so, Mr. Nickleby,' replied Madame Mantalini, surveying Kate from\nhead to foot, and back again. 'Can you speak French, child?'\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she felt that the\neyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown were directed towards her.\n\n'Like a demd native?' asked the husband.\n\nMiss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned her back upon\nthe questioner, as if addressing herself to make answer to what his wife\nmight demand.\n\n'We keep twenty young women constantly employed in the establishment,'\nsaid Madame.\n\n'Indeed, ma'am!' replied Kate, timidly.\n\n'Yes; and some of 'em demd handsome, too,' said the master.\n\n'Mantalini!' exclaimed his wife, in an awful voice.\n\n'My senses' idol!' said Mantalini.\n\n'Do you wish to break my heart?'\n\n'Not for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with--with--with little\nballet-dancers,' replied Mantalini in a poetical strain.\n\n'Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking,' said his\nwife. 'What can Mr. Nickleby think when he hears you?'\n\n'Oh! Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied Ralph. 'I know his amiable\nnature, and yours,--mere little remarks that give a zest to your daily\nintercourse--lovers' quarrels that add sweetness to those domestic joys\nwhich promise to last so long--that's all; that's all.'\n\nIf an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges, and to\nmake a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to\npowder in the process, it would emit a pleasanter sound in so doing,\nthan did these words in the rough and bitter voice in which they were\nuttered by Ralph. Even Mr. Mantalini felt their influence, and turning\naffrighted round, exclaimed: 'What a demd horrid croaking!'\n\n'You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr. Mantalini says,'\nobserved his wife, addressing Miss Nickleby.\n\n'I do not, ma'am,' said Kate, with quiet contempt.\n\n'Mr. Mantalini knows nothing whatever about any of the young women,'\ncontinued Madame, looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate. 'If he\nhas seen any of them, he must have seen them in the street, going to, or\nreturning from, their work, and not here. He was never even in the room.\nI do not allow it. What hours of work have you been accustomed to?'\n\n'I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma'am,' replied Kate,\nin a low voice.\n\n'For which reason she'll work all the better now,' said Ralph, putting\nin a word, lest this confession should injure the negotiation.\n\n'I hope so,' returned Madame Mantalini; 'our hours are from nine to\nnine, with extra work when we're very full of business, for which I\nallow payment as overtime.'\n\nKate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and was satisfied.\n\n'Your meals,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'that is, dinner and tea, you\nwill take here. I should think your wages would average from five to\nseven shillings a week; but I can't give you any certain information on\nthat point, until I see what you can do.'\n\nKate bowed her head again.\n\n'If you're ready to come,' said Madame Mantalini, 'you had better begin\non Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knag the forewoman shall\nthen have directions to try you with some easy work at first. Is there\nanything more, Mr. Nickleby?'\n\n'Nothing more, ma'am,' replied Ralph, rising.\n\n'Then I believe that's all,' said the lady. Having arrived at this\nnatural conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to be\ngone, but hesitated notwithstanding, as though unwilling to leave to Mr\nMantalini the sole honour of showing them downstairs. Ralph relieved\nher from her perplexity by taking his departure without delay: Madame\nMantalini making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them;\nand Mr. Mantalini anathematising the stairs with great volubility as he\nfollowed them down, in the hope of inducing Kate to look round,--a hope,\nhowever, which was destined to remain ungratified.\n\n'There!' said Ralph when they got into the street; 'now you're provided\nfor.'\n\nKate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.\n\n'I had some idea,' he said, 'of providing for your mother in a pleasant\npart of the country--(he had a presentation to some almshouses on the\nborders of Cornwall, which had occurred to him more than once)--but as\nyou want to be together, I must do something else for her. She has a\nlittle money?'\n\n'A very little,' replied Kate.\n\n'A little will go a long way if it's used sparingly,' said Ralph. 'She\nmust see how long she can make it last, living rent free. You leave your\nlodgings on Saturday?'\n\n'You told us to do so, uncle.'\n\n'Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can put you\ninto till it is let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I shall\nhave another. You must live there.'\n\n'Is it far from here, sir?' inquired Kate.\n\n'Pretty well,' said Ralph; 'in another quarter of the town--at the East\nend; but I'll send my clerk down to you, at five o'clock on Saturday, to\ntake you there. Goodbye. You know your way? Straight on.'\n\nColdly shaking his niece's hand, Ralph left her at the top of Regent\nStreet, and turned down a by-thoroughfare, intent on schemes of\nmoney-getting. Kate walked sadly back to their lodgings in the Strand.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\nNewman Noggs inducts Mrs. and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in\nthe City\n\n\nMiss Nickleby's reflections, as she wended her way homewards, were of\nthat desponding nature which the occurrences of the morning had been\nsufficiently calculated to awaken. Her uncle's was not a manner likely\nto dispel any doubts or apprehensions she might have formed, in the\noutset, neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame Mantalini's\nestablishment by any means encouraging. It was with many gloomy\nforebodings and misgivings, therefore, that she looked forward, with a\nheavy heart, to the opening of her new career.\n\nIf her mother's consolations could have restored her to a pleasanter and\nmore enviable state of mind, there were abundance of them to produce the\neffect. By the time Kate reached home, the good lady had called to mind\ntwo authentic cases of milliners who had been possessed of considerable\nproperty, though whether they had acquired it all in business, or had\nhad a capital to start with, or had been lucky and married to advantage,\nshe could not exactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked,\nthere must have been SOME young person in that way of business who had\nmade a fortune without having anything to begin with, and that being\ntaken for granted, why should not Kate do the same? Miss La Creevy, who\nwas a member of the little council, ventured to insinuate some doubts\nrelative to the probability of Miss Nickleby's arriving at this happy\nconsummation in the compass of an ordinary lifetime; but the good lady\nset that question entirely at rest, by informing them that she had a\npresentiment on the subject--a species of second-sight with which she\nhad been in the habit of clenching every argument with the deceased\nMr. Nickleby, and, in nine cases and three-quarters out of every ten,\ndetermining it the wrong way.\n\n'I am afraid it is an unhealthy occupation,' said Miss La Creevy. 'I\nrecollect getting three young milliners to sit to me, when I first began\nto paint, and I remember that they were all very pale and sickly.'\n\n'Oh! that's not a general rule by any means,' observed Mrs. Nickleby;\n'for I remember, as well as if it was only yesterday, employing one that\nI was particularly recommended to, to make me a scarlet cloak at the\ntime when scarlet cloaks were fashionable, and she had a very red\nface--a very red face, indeed.'\n\n'Perhaps she drank,' suggested Miss La Creevy.\n\n'I don't know how that may have been,' returned Mrs. Nickleby: 'but I\nknow she had a very red face, so your argument goes for nothing.'\n\nIn this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did the worthy matron\nmeet every little objection that presented itself to the new scheme of\nthe morning. Happy Mrs. Nickleby! A project had but to be new, and it\ncame home to her mind, brightly varnished and gilded as a glittering\ntoy.\n\nThis question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle's desire about\nthe empty house, to which Mrs. Nickleby assented with equal readiness,\ncharacteristically remarking, that, on the fine evenings, it would be a\npleasant amusement for her to walk to the West end to fetch her daughter\nhome; and no less characteristically forgetting, that there were such\nthings as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every\nweek of the year.\n\n'I shall be sorry--truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend,' said Kate,\non whom the good feeling of the poor miniature painter had made a deep\nimpression.\n\n'You shall not shake me off, for all that,' replied Miss La Creevy, with\nas much sprightliness as she could assume. 'I shall see you very often,\nand come and hear how you get on; and if, in all London, or all the wide\nworld besides, there is no other heart that takes an interest in your\nwelfare, there will be one little lonely woman that prays for it night\nand day.'\n\nWith this, the poor soul, who had a heart big enough for Gog, the\nguardian genius of London, and enough to spare for Magog to boot, after\nmaking a great many extraordinary faces which would have secured her an\nample fortune, could she have transferred them to ivory or canvas, sat\ndown in a corner, and had what she termed 'a real good cry.'\n\nBut no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep off the\ndreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his\ntime, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiff of cordial gin through\nthe keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in the neighbourhood\nas agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited\nfor the last stroke, and then knocked.\n\n'From Mr. Ralph Nickleby,' said Newman, announcing his errand, when he\ngot upstairs, with all possible brevity.\n\n'We shall be ready directly,' said Kate. 'We have not much to carry, but\nI fear we must have a coach.'\n\n'I'll get one,' replied Newman.\n\n'Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'I will,' said Newman.\n\n'I can't suffer you to think of such a thing,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'You can't help it,' said Newman.\n\n'Not help it!'\n\n'No; I thought of it as I came along; but didn't get one, thinking you\nmightn't be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent\nthat.'\n\n'Oh yes, I understand you, Mr. Noggs,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Our thoughts\nare free, of course. Everybody's thoughts are their own, clearly.'\n\n'They wouldn't be, if some people had their way,' muttered Newman.\n\n'Well, no more they would, Mr. Noggs, and that's very true,' rejoined Mrs\nNickleby. 'Some people to be sure are such--how's your master?'\n\nNewman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with a strong\nemphasis on the last word of his answer, that Mr. Ralph Nickleby was\nwell, and sent his LOVE.\n\n'I am sure we are very much obliged to him,' observed Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'Very,' said Newman. 'I'll tell him so.'\n\nIt was no very easy matter to mistake Newman Noggs, after having once\nseen him, and as Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner (in\nwhich on this occasion, however, there was something respectful and even\ndelicate, notwithstanding the abruptness of his speech), looked at him\nmore closely, she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that\nstrange figure before.\n\n'Excuse my curiosity,' she said, 'but did I not see you in the\ncoachyard, on the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire?'\n\nNewman cast a wistful glance on Mrs. Nickleby and said 'No,' most\nunblushingly.\n\n'No!' exclaimed Kate, 'I should have said so anywhere.'\n\n'You'd have said wrong,' rejoined Newman. 'It's the first time I've been\nout for three weeks. I've had the gout.'\n\nNewman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject,\nand so Kate could not help thinking; but the conference was cut short by\nMrs. Nickleby's insisting on having the door shut, lest Mr. Noggs should\ntake cold, and further persisting in sending the servant girl for a\ncoach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To\nboth conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach\ncame; and, after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running\nbackwards and forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La\nCreevy, in the course of which the yellow turban came into violent\ncontact with sundry foot-passengers, it (that is to say the coach,\nnot the turban) went away again, with the two ladies and their luggage\ninside; and Newman, despite all Mrs. Nickleby's assurances that it would\nbe his death--on the box beside the driver.\n\nThey went into the city, turning down by the river side; and, after a\nlong and very slow drive, the streets being crowded at that hour with\nvehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a large old dingy house in\nThames Street: the door and windows of which were so bespattered with\nmud, that it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years.\n\nThe door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a key which he took\nout of his hat--in which, by-the-bye, in consequence of the dilapidated\nstate of his pockets, he deposited everything, and would most\nlikely have carried his money if he had had any--and the coach being\ndischarged, he led the way into the interior of the mansion.\n\nOld, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and dark were\nthe rooms, once so bustling with life and enterprise. There was a\nwharf behind, opening on the Thames. An empty dog-kennel, some bones of\nanimals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks, lay strewn\nabout, but no life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent\ndecay.\n\n'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, 'and seems as if some\nblight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost\ninclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrated within\nthese old walls, and that the place had never prospered since. How\nfrowning and how dark it looks!'\n\n'Lord, my dear,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, 'don't talk in that way, or\nyou'll frighten me to death.'\n\n'It is only my foolish fancy, mama,' said Kate, forcing a smile.\n\n'Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to\nyourself, and not wake up MY foolish fancy to keep it company,' retorted\nMrs. Nickleby. 'Why didn't you think of all this before--you are so\ncareless--we might have asked Miss La Creevy to keep us company or\nborrowed a dog, or a thousand things--but it always was the way, and\nwas just the same with your poor dear father. Unless I thought of\neverything--' This was Mrs. Nickleby's usual commencement of a general\nlamentation, running through a dozen or so of complicated sentences\naddressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched until\nher breath was exhausted.\n\nNewman appeared not to hear these remarks, but preceded them to a couple\nof rooms on the first floor, which some kind of attempt had been made to\nrender habitable. In one, were a few chairs, a table, an old hearth-rug,\nand some faded baize; and a fire was ready laid in the grate. In the\nother stood an old tent bedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber\nfurniture.\n\n'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, trying to be pleased, 'now isn't\nthis thoughtful and considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not have\nhad anything but the bed we bought yesterday, to lie down upon, if it\nhadn't been for his thoughtfulness!'\n\n'Very kind, indeed,' replied Kate, looking round.\n\nNewman Noggs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture they\nsaw, from attic and cellar; or that he had taken in the halfpennyworth\nof milk for tea that stood upon a shelf, or filled the rusty kettle on\nthe hob, or collected the woodchips from the wharf, or begged the coals.\nBut the notion of Ralph Nickleby having directed it to be done, tickled\nhis fancy so much, that he could not refrain from cracking all his ten\nfingers in succession: at which performance Mrs. Nickleby was rather\nstartled at first, but supposing it to be in some remote manner\nconnected with the gout, did not remark upon.\n\n'We need detain you no longer, I think,' said Kate.\n\n'Is there nothing I can do?' asked Newman.\n\n'Nothing, thank you,' rejoined Miss Nickleby.\n\n'Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Noggs would like to drink our healths,' said Mrs\nNickleby, fumbling in her reticule for some small coin.\n\n'I think, mama,' said Kate hesitating, and remarking Newman's averted\nface, 'you would hurt his feelings if you offered it.'\n\nNewman Noggs, bowing to the young lady more like a gentleman than\nthe miserable wretch he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast, and,\npausing for a moment, with the air of a man who struggles to speak but\nis uncertain what to say, quitted the room.\n\nAs the jarring echoes of the heavy house-door, closing on its latch,\nreverberated dismally through the building, Kate felt half tempted to\ncall him back, and beg him to remain a little while; but she was ashamed\nto own her fears, and Newman Noggs was on his road homewards.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\nWhereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of\nMiss Fanny Squeer's Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or\notherwise.\n\n\nIt was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when her\nworthy papa returned home on the night of the small tea-party, he was\nwhat the initiated term 'too far gone' to observe the numerous tokens\nof extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly visible in her\ncountenance. Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrelsome mood in\nhis cups, it is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her,\neither on this or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with\na foresight and prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose,\nto bear the first brunt of the good gentleman's anger; which, having\nvented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to\nadmit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots\non, and an umbrella under his arm.\n\nThe hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according\nto custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little offices of her\ntoilet, and administer as much flattery as she could get up, for the\npurpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain\nand frivolous withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only the\narbitrary distinctions of rank and station which prevented her from\nbeing one.\n\n'How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!' said the handmaiden. 'I\ndeclare if it isn't a pity and a shame to brush it out!'\n\n'Hold your tongue!' replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.\n\nSome considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all\nsurprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers.\nHaving a half-perception of what had occurred in the course of the\nevening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable, and proceeded\non the indirect tack.\n\n'Well, I couldn't help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,' said\nthe attendant, 'that I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price\nthis night.'\n\nMiss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.\n\n'I know it's very wrong in me to say so, miss,' continued the girl,\ndelighted to see the impression she was making, 'Miss Price being a\nfriend of your'n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and go on\nin such a manner to get noticed, that--oh--well, if people only saw\nthemselves!'\n\n'What do you mean, Phib?' asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own little\nglass, where, like most of us, she saw--not herself, but the reflection\nof some pleasant image in her own brain. 'How you talk!'\n\n'Talk, miss! It's enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar, only to\nsee how she tosses her head,' replied the handmaid.\n\n'She DOES toss her head,' observed Miss Squeers, with an air of\nabstraction.\n\n'So vain, and so very--very plain,' said the girl.\n\n'Poor 'Tilda!' sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately.\n\n'And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,' pursued the\nservant. 'Oh, dear! It's positive indelicate.'\n\n'I can't allow you to talk in that way, Phib,' said Miss Squeers.\n''Tilda's friends are low people, and if she don't know any better, it's\ntheir fault, and not hers.'\n\n'Well, but you know, miss,' said Phoebe, for which name 'Phib' was\nused as a patronising abbreviation, 'if she was only to take copy by\na friend--oh! if she only knew how wrong she was, and would but set\nherself right by you, what a nice young woman she might be in time!'\n\n'Phib,' rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, 'it's not proper\nfor me to hear these comparisons drawn; they make 'Tilda look a coarse\nimproper sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me to listen to\nthem. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at the same time,\nI must say, that if 'Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody--not me\nparticularly--'\n\n'Oh yes; you, miss,' interposed Phib.\n\n'Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,' said Miss Squeers. 'I must\nsay, that if she would, she would be all the better for it.'\n\n'So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,' said the girl\nmysteriously.\n\n'What do you mean?' demanded Miss Squeers.\n\n'Never mind, miss,' replied the girl; 'I know what I know; that's all.'\n\n'Phib,' said Miss Squeers dramatically, 'I insist upon your explaining\nyourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.'\n\n'Why, if you will have it, miss, it's this,' said the servant girl. 'Mr\nJohn Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn't too far gone to do\nit creditable, he'd be very glad to be off with Miss Price, and on with\nMiss Squeers.'\n\n'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with\ngreat dignity. 'What is this?'\n\n'Truth, ma'am, and nothing but truth,' replied the artful Phib.\n\n'What a situation!' cried Miss Squeers; 'on the brink of unconsciously\ndestroying the peace and happiness of my own 'Tilda. What is the reason\nthat men fall in love with me, whether I like it or not, and desert\ntheir chosen intendeds for my sake?'\n\n'Because they can't help it, miss,' replied the girl; 'the reason's\nplain.' (If Miss Squeers were the reason, it was very plain.)\n\n'Never let me hear of it again,' retorted Miss Squeers. 'Never! Do you\nhear? 'Tilda Price has faults--many faults--but I wish her well, and\nabove all I wish her married; for I think it highly desirable--most\ndesirable from the very nature of her failings--that she should be\nmarried as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have Mr. Browdie. I may\npity HIM, poor fellow; but I have a great regard for 'Tilda, and only\nhope she may make a better wife than I think she will.'\n\nWith this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.\n\nSpite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble of\nfeelings, and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in the language.\nMiss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts that what the miserable\nserving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying flattery, as did the girl\nherself; yet the mere opportunity of venting a little ill-nature against\nthe offending Miss Price, and affecting to compassionate her weaknesses\nand foibles, though only in the presence of a solitary dependant, was\nalmost as great a relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel\ntruth. Nay, more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion\nwhen they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite\nhigh-minded and great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie's\nhand, and looked down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness and\ntranquillity, that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled feelings.\n\nThis happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a\nreconciliation; for, when a knock came at the front-door next day, and\nthe miller's daughter was announced, Miss Squeers betook herself to the\nparlour in a Christian frame of spirit, perfectly beautiful to behold.\n\n'Well, Fanny,' said the miller's daughter, 'you see I have come to see\nyou, although we HAD some words last night.'\n\n'I pity your bad passions, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'but I bear no\nmalice. I am above it.'\n\n'Don't be cross, Fanny,' said Miss Price. 'I have come to tell you\nsomething that I know will please you.'\n\n'What may that be, 'Tilda?' demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her lips,\nand looking as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could afford\nher the slightest gleam of satisfaction.\n\n'This,' rejoined Miss Price. 'After we left here last night John and I\nhad a dreadful quarrel.'\n\n'That doesn't please me,' said Miss Squeers--relaxing into a smile\nthough.\n\n'Lor! I wouldn't think so bad of you as to suppose it did,' rejoined her\ncompanion. 'That's not it.'\n\n'Oh!' said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy. 'Go on.'\n\n'After a great deal of wrangling, and saying we would never see each\nother any more,' continued Miss Price, 'we made it up, and this morning\nJohn went and wrote our names down to be put up, for the first time,\nnext Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and I give you\nnotice to get your frock made.'\n\nThere was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. The prospect of\nthe friend's being married so soon was the gall, and the certainty of\nher not entertaining serious designs upon Nicholas was the honey. Upon\nthe whole, the sweet greatly preponderated over the bitter, so Miss\nSqueers said she would get the frock made, and that she hoped 'Tilda\nmight be happy, though at the same time she didn't know, and would not\nhave her build too much upon it, for men were strange creatures, and\na great many married women were very miserable, and wished themselves\nsingle again with all their hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers\nadded others equally calculated to raise her friend's spirits and\npromote her cheerfulness of mind.\n\n'But come now, Fanny,' said Miss Price, 'I want to have a word or two\nwith you about young Mr. Nickleby.'\n\n'He is nothing to me,' interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical\nsymptoms. 'I despise him too much!'\n\n'Oh, you don't mean that, I am sure?' replied her friend. 'Confess,\nFanny; don't you like him now?'\n\nWithout returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell into\na paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a wretched,\nneglected, miserable castaway.\n\n'I hate everybody,' said Miss Squeers, 'and I wish that everybody was\ndead--that I do.'\n\n'Dear, dear,' said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal of\nmisanthropical sentiments. 'You are not serious, I am sure.'\n\n'Yes, I am,' rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her\npocket-handkerchief and clenching her teeth. 'And I wish I was dead too.\nThere!'\n\n'Oh! you'll think very differently in another five minutes,' said\nMatilda. 'How much better to take him into favour again, than to hurt\nyourself by going on in that way. Wouldn't it be much nicer, now,\nto have him all to yourself on good terms, in a company-keeping,\nlove-making, pleasant sort of manner?'\n\n'I don't know but what it would,' sobbed Miss Squeers. 'Oh! 'Tilda, how\ncould you have acted so mean and dishonourable! I wouldn't have believed\nit of you, if anybody had told me.'\n\n'Heyday!' exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. 'One would suppose I had been\nmurdering somebody at least.'\n\n'Very nigh as bad,' said Miss Squeers passionately.\n\n'And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make\npeople civil to me,' cried Miss Price. 'Persons don't make their own\nfaces, and it's no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other\npeople's fault if theirs is a bad one.'\n\n'Hold your tongue,' shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone; 'or\nyou'll make me slap you, 'Tilda, and afterwards I should be sorry for\nit!'\n\nIt is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young lady\nwas in some slight degree affected by the tone of her conversation,\nand that a dash of personality was infused into the altercation, in\nconsequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a\nconsiderable height, and was assuming a very violent complexion,\nwhen both parties, falling into a great passion of tears, exclaimed\nsimultaneously, that they had never thought of being spoken to in that\nway: which exclamation, leading to a remonstrance, gradually brought\non an explanation: and the upshot was, that they fell into each other's\narms and vowed eternal friendship; the occasion in question making the\nfifty-second time of repeating the same impressive ceremony within a\ntwelvemonth.\n\nPerfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued\nupon the number and nature of the garments which would be indispensable\nfor Miss Price's entrance into the holy state of matrimony, when Miss\nSqueers clearly showed that a great many more than the miller could,\nor would, afford, were absolutely necessary, and could not decently\nbe dispensed with. The young lady then, by an easy digression, led\nthe discourse to her own wardrobe, and after recounting its principal\nbeauties at some length, took her friend upstairs to make inspection\nthereof. The treasures of two drawers and a closet having been\ndisplayed, and all the smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss\nPrice to return home; and as she had been in raptures with all the\nfrocks, and had been stricken quite dumb with admiration of a new pink\nscarf, Miss Squeers said in high good humour, that she would walk part\nof the way with her, for the pleasure of her company; and off they went\ntogether: Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked along, upon her father's\naccomplishments: and multiplying his income by ten, to give her friend\nsome faint notion of the vast importance and superiority of her family.\n\nIt happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily\ninterval which was suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly called\nthe dinner of Mr. Squeers's pupils, and their return to the pursuit of\nuseful knowledge, was precisely the hour when Nicholas was accustomed\nto issue forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered\nlistlessly through the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers\nknew this perfectly well, but had perhaps forgotten it, for when she\ncaught sight of that young gentleman advancing towards them, she evinced\nmany symptoms of surprise and consternation, and assured her friend that\nshe 'felt fit to drop into the earth.'\n\n'Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?' asked Miss Price. 'He don't\nsee us yet.'\n\n'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'it is my duty to go through with\nit, and I will!'\n\nAs Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high moral\nresolution, and was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and catchings\nof breath, indicative of feelings at a high pressure, her friend made no\nfurther remark, and they bore straight down upon Nicholas, who, walking\nwith his eyes bent upon the ground, was not aware of their approach\nuntil they were close upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken\nshelter himself.\n\n'Good-morning,' said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.\n\n'He is going,' murmured Miss Squeers. 'I shall choke, 'Tilda.'\n\n'Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do!' cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at her\nfriend's threat, but really actuated by a malicious wish to hear what\nNicholas would say; 'come back, Mr. Nickleby!'\n\nMr. Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he\ninquired whether the ladies had any commands for him.\n\n'Don't stop to talk,' urged Miss Price, hastily; 'but support her on the\nother side. How do you feel now, dear?'\n\n'Better,' sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of a reddish brown\nwith a green veil attached, on Mr. Nickleby's shoulder. 'This foolish\nfaintness!'\n\n'Don't call it foolish, dear,' said Miss Price: her bright eye dancing\nwith merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; 'you have no\nreason to be ashamed of it. It's those who are too proud to come round\nagain, without all this to-do, that ought to be ashamed.'\n\n'You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,' said Nicholas, smiling,\n'although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.'\n\n'There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,' remarked the wicked Miss\nPrice. 'Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it\nwas not his fault. You hear; I think that's apology enough.'\n\n'You will not understand me,' said Nicholas. 'Pray dispense with this\njesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to be the\nsubject or promoter of mirth just now.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.\n\n'Don't ask him, 'Tilda,' cried Miss Squeers; 'I forgive him.'\n\n'Dear me,' said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder\nagain, 'this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have\nthe goodness to hear me speak?'\n\nHere he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned\nastonishment a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a\nfew paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden, and went on to say:\n\n'I am very sorry--truly and sincerely sorry--for having been the\ncause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself, most\nbitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the dissension\nthat occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and\nheedlessly.'\n\n'Well; that's not all you have got to say surely,' exclaimed Miss Price\nas Nicholas paused.\n\n'I fear there is something more,' stammered Nicholas with a half-smile,\nand looking towards Miss Squeers, 'it is a most awkward thing to\nsay--but--the very mention of such a supposition makes one look like a\npuppy--still--may I ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any--in\nshort, does she think that I am in love with her?'\n\n'Delightful embarrassment,' thought Miss Squeers, 'I have brought him to\nit, at last. Answer for me, dear,' she whispered to her friend.\n\n'Does she think so?' rejoined Miss Price; 'of course she does.'\n\n'She does!' exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as might\nhave been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.\n\n'Certainly,' replied Miss Price\n\n'If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, 'Tilda,' said the blushing Miss\nSqueers in soft accents, 'he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments\nare recipro--'\n\n'Stop,' cried Nicholas hurriedly; 'pray hear me. This is the grossest\nand wildest delusion, the completest and most signal mistake, that ever\nhuman being laboured under, or committed. I have scarcely seen the\nyoung lady half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am\ndestined to see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely\nthe same. I have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her,\nunless it be--and I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to impress\nher with the real state of my own--unless it be the one object, dear to\nmy heart as life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon\nthis accursed place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it--even\nthink of it--but with loathing and disgust.'\n\nWith this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which\nhe made with all the vehemence that his indignant and excited feelings\ncould bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more,\nretreated.\n\nBut poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid\nsuccession of bitter and passionate feelings that whirled through her\nmind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked\nup by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at\nindefinite periods, and 'found' in food and lodging like the very boys\nthemselves; and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller's\ndaughter of eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks' time,\nto a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have\nchoked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.\n\nBut, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and\nthat was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness\nof mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of\nSqueers. And there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in\nevery day she could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction\nof some slight, or insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some\neffect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so\nsensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind,\nMiss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing\nthat Mr. Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper,\nthat she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from\nher.\n\nAnd here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her\naffections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything\nbetter, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously\ncontemplated the possibility of his being of a different opinion\nfrom herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was\nprepossessing and beautiful, and that her father was master, and\nNicholas man, and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had\nnone, all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the young man\nshould feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed\nto recollect, either, how much more agreeable she could render his\nsituation if she were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she\nwere his enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlemen\nthan Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only\nfor this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he had thought\nproper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.\n\n'Let him see,' said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her\nown room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, 'if I\ndon't set mother against him a little more when she comes back!'\n\nIt was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as\nher word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging,\nand the being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid\nmisery, was treated with every special indignity that malice could\nsuggest, or the most grasping cupidity put upon him.\n\nNor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which\nmade his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and\ncruelty.\n\nThe wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken\nkindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an\never-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little\nwants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near\nhim. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face;\nand a word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a\npassing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an\nobject now; and that object was, to show his attachment to the only\nperson--that person a stranger--who had treated him, not to say with\nkindness, but like a human creature.\n\nUpon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be\nvented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been\nnothing--Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without\ncause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also\nhe had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner\nobserved that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and\nblows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only\nportion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon\nacquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas\nsaw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and\ncowardly attack.\n\nHe had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as\nhe paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost\nbursting to think that his protection and countenance should have\nincreased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution\nhad awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat\nthe object of his thoughts.\n\nThe poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of\nrecent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some\ntask which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers,\ncould have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the\ncrushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he\nsat, patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish\nambition, for he was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth\nobjects that congregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire\nto please his solitary friend.\n\nNicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.\n\n'I can't do it,' said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter\ndisappointment in every feature. 'No, no.'\n\n'Do not try,' replied Nicholas.\n\nThe boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked\nvacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.\n\n'Do not for God's sake,' said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; 'I cannot\nbear to see you.'\n\n'They are more hard with me than ever,' sobbed the boy.\n\n'I know it,' rejoined Nicholas. 'They are.'\n\n'But for you,' said the outcast, 'I should die. They would kill me; they\nwould; I know they would.'\n\n'You will do better, poor fellow,' replied Nicholas, shaking his head\nmournfully, 'when I am gone.'\n\n'Gone!' cried the other, looking intently in his face.\n\n'Softly!' rejoined Nicholas. 'Yes.'\n\n'Are you going?' demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.\n\n'I cannot say,' replied Nicholas. 'I was speaking more to my own\nthoughts, than to you.'\n\n'Tell me,' said the boy imploringly, 'oh do tell me, WILL you go--WILL\nyou?'\n\n'I shall be driven to that at last!' said Nicholas. 'The world is before\nme, after all.'\n\n'Tell me,' urged Smike, 'is the world as bad and dismal as this place?'\n\n'Heaven forbid,' replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own\nthoughts; 'its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.'\n\n'Should I ever meet you there?' demanded the boy, speaking with unusual\nwildness and volubility.\n\n'Yes,' replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.\n\n'No, no!' said the other, clasping him by the hand. 'Should I--should\nI--tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.'\n\n'You would,' replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, 'and I\nwould help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done\nhere.'\n\nThe boy caught both the young man's hands passionately in his, and,\nhugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were\nunintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into\nhis old corner.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\nNicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and\nremarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance\n\n\nThe cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the\nwindows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself on\nhis arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded\nhim, as though in search of some particular object.\n\nIt needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of\nsleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed\ntogether, covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched and ragged\nclothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale\nfaces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour;\nwith, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by\nno covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness.\nThere were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and\nclenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect\nof dead bodies than of living creatures; and there were others coiled up\ninto strange and fantastic postures, such as might have been taken for\nthe uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than\nthe freaks of slumber. A few--and these were among the youngest of the\nchildren--slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming\nperhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the\nstillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to\nthe misery of another day; and, as morning took the place of night, the\nsmiles gradually faded away, with the friendly darkness which had given\nthem birth.\n\nDreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth\nin the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which\nlights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the\nworld.\n\nNicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who\ngazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its\nsorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, with a more intense\nand searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed something his eye was\naccustomed to meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied\nin this search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his\nquest, when the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of\nthe stairs.\n\n'Now then,' cried that gentleman, 'are you going to sleep all day, up\nthere--'\n\n'You lazy hounds?' added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sentence, and\nproducing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which is\noccasioned by the lacing of stays.\n\n'We shall be down directly, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Down directly!' said Squeers. 'Ah! you had better be down directly, or\nI'll be down upon some of you in less. Where's that Smike?'\n\nNicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.\n\n'Smike!' shouted Squeers.\n\n'Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?' demanded his\namiable lady in the same key.\n\nStill there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did\nthe greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.\n\n'Confound his impudence!' muttered Squeers, rapping the stair-rail\nimpatiently with his cane. 'Nickleby!'\n\n'Well, sir.'\n\n'Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't you hear me calling?'\n\n'He is not here, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Don't tell me a lie,' retorted the schoolmaster. 'He is.'\n\n'He is not,' retorted Nicholas angrily, 'don't tell me one.'\n\n'We shall soon see that,' said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. 'I'll find\nhim, I warrant you.'\n\nWith which assurance, Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and,\nswinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner\nwhere the lean body of the drudge was usually stretched at night. The\ncane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There was nobody there.\n\n'What does this mean?' said Squeers, turning round with a very pale\nface. 'Where have you hid him?'\n\n'I have seen nothing of him since last night,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Come,' said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeavoured to\nlook otherwise, 'you won't save him this way. Where is he?'\n\n'At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,' rejoined Nicholas\nin a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master's face.\n\n'Damn you, what do you mean by that?' retorted Squeers in great\nperturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys\nwhether any one among them knew anything of their missing schoolmate.\n\nThere was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which, one\nshrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):\n\n'Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir.'\n\n'Ha!' cried Squeers, turning sharp round. 'Who said that?'\n\n'Tomkins, please sir,' rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. Squeers made\na plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very little boy,\nhabited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression of whose\ncountenance, as he was brought forward, seemed to intimate that he was\nas yet uncertain whether he was about to be punished or rewarded for the\nsuggestion. He was not long in doubt.\n\n'You think he has run away, do you, sir?' demanded Squeers.\n\n'Yes, please sir,' replied the little boy.\n\n'And what, sir,' said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly by\nthe arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterous manner, 'what\nreason have you to suppose that any boy would want to run away from this\nestablishment? Eh, sir?'\n\nThe child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr. Squeers,\nthrowing himself into the most favourable attitude for exercising his\nstrength, beat him until the little urchin in his writhings actually\nrolled out of his hands, when he mercifully allowed him to roll away, as\nhe best could.\n\n'There,' said Squeers. 'Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away,\nI shall be glad to have a talk with him.'\n\nThere was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed\nhis disgust as plainly as looks could show it.\n\n'Well, Nickleby,' said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. 'YOU think he\nhas run away, I suppose?'\n\n'I think it extremely likely,' replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.\n\n'Oh, you do, do you?' sneered Squeers. 'Maybe you know he has?'\n\n'I know nothing of the kind.'\n\n'He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?' sneered Squeers.\n\n'He did not,' replied Nicholas; 'I am very glad he did not, for it would\nthen have been my duty to have warned you in time.'\n\n'Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,' said Squeers\nin a taunting fashion.\n\n'I should indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'You interpret my feelings with\ngreat accuracy.'\n\nMrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottom of\nthe stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed her\nnight-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.\n\n'What's all this here to-do?' said the lady, as the boys fell off right\nand left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny\narms. 'What on earth are you a talking to him for, Squeery!'\n\n'Why, my dear,' said Squeers, 'the fact is, that Smike is not to be\nfound.'\n\n'Well, I know that,' said the lady, 'and where's the wonder? If you\nget a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the young dogs a\nrebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young man, you just have the\nkindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take the boys off\nwith you, and don't you stir out of there till you have leave given you,\nor you and I may fall out in a way that'll spoil your beauty, handsome\nas you think yourself, and so I tell you.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Nicholas.\n\n'Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,' said the excited\nlady; 'and I wouldn't keep such as you in the house another hour, if I\nhad my way.'\n\n'Nor would you if I had mine,' replied Nicholas. 'Now, boys!'\n\n'Ah! Now, boys,' said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as she could,\nthe voice and manner of the usher. 'Follow your leader, boys, and take\npattern by Smike if you dare. See what he'll get for himself, when he\nis brought back; and, mind! I tell you that you shall have as bad, and\ntwice as bad, if you so much as open your mouths about him.'\n\n'If I catch him,' said Squeers, 'I'll only stop short of flaying him\nalive. I give you notice, boys.'\n\n'IF you catch him,' retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuously; 'you are sure\nto; you can't help it, if you go the right way to work. Come! Away with\nyou!'\n\nWith these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and after a little\nlight skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressing forward to\nget out of the way, but were detained for a few moments by the throng\nin front, succeeded in clearing the room, when she confronted her spouse\nalone.\n\n'He is off,' said Mrs. Squeers. 'The cow-house and stable are locked up,\nso he can't be there; and he's not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has\nlooked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road too.'\n\n'Why must he?' inquired Squeers.\n\n'Stupid!' said Mrs. Squeers angrily. 'He hadn't any money, had he?'\n\n'Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,'\nreplied Squeers.\n\n'To be sure,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, 'and he didn't take anything to eat\nwith him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Squeers.\n\n'Then, of course,' said Mrs. S., 'he must beg his way, and he could do\nthat, nowhere, but on the public road.'\n\n'That's true,' exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.\n\n'True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I\nhadn't said so,' replied his wife. 'Now, if you take the chaise and go\none road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise, and go the other, what with\nkeeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is\npretty certain to lay hold of him.'\n\nThe worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a\nmoment's delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of\nsome inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that\nhe was on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise,\nintent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers,\narrayed in the white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and\nhandkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise and another direction,\ntaking with her a good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong\ncord, and a stout labouring man: all provided and carried upon the\nexpedition, with the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once\ncaught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.\n\nNicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever\nmight be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and\ndeplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want\nand exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from\nthe protracted wandering of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and\nunfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was\nlittle, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender\nmercies of the Yorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a\nhold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the\nprospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on, in\nrestless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening\nof next day, when Squeers returned, alone, and unsuccessful.\n\n'No news of the scamp!' said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been\nstretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the\njourney. 'I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if\nMrs. Squeers don't hunt him down; so I give you warning.'\n\n'It is not in my power to console you, sir,' said Nicholas. 'It is\nnothing to me.'\n\n'Isn't it?' said Squeers in a threatening manner. 'We shall see!'\n\n'We shall,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home\nwith a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,'\nsaid Squeers; 'who's to pay for that, do you hear?'\n\nNicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.\n\n'I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you,' said Squeers, his usual\nharsh crafty manner changed to open bullying 'None of your whining\nvapourings here, Mr. Puppy, but be off to your kennel, for it's past your\nbedtime! Come! Get out!'\n\nNicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his\nfingerends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the\nman was drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he\ncontented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and\nwalked, as majestically as he could, upstairs: not a little nettled,\nhowever, to observe that Miss Squeers and Master Squeers, and the\nservant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snug corner; the two\nformer indulging in many edifying remarks about the presumption of poor\nupstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the\nmost miserable of all miserable servant girls joined: while Nicholas,\nstung to the quick, drew over his head such bedclothes as he had, and\nsternly resolved that the outstanding account between himself and\nMr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than the latter\nanticipated.\n\nAnother day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the\nwheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs\nSqueers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits\nfor somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something\nextraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the\nwindow; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was\nthe wretched Smike: so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn,\nand wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever\nseen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.\n\n'Lift him out,' said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes,\nin silence, upon the culprit. 'Bring him in; bring him in!'\n\n'Take care,' cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance.\n'We tied his legs under the apron and made'em fast to the chaise, to\nprevent his giving us the slip again.'\n\nWith hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and\nSmike, to all appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the\nhouse and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers\nshould deem it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the\nassembled school.\n\nUpon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may be matter of\nsurprise to some persons, that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so\nmuch trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of which it was\ntheir wont to complain so loudly; but their surprise will cease when\nthey are informed that the manifold services of the drudge, if performed\nby anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve\nshillings per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, that all\nrunaways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of, at\nDotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of\nits attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful\nimpulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs\nand the power of using them, to remain.\n\nThe news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran\nlike wild-fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on\ntiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however,\nuntil afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner,\nand further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his\nappearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of\nportentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,\nsupple, wax-ended, and new,--in short, purchased that morning, expressly\nfor the occasion.\n\n'Is every boy here?' asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.\n\nEvery boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers\nglared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and\nevery head cowered down, as he did so.\n\n'Each boy keep his place,' said Squeers, administering his favourite\nblow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal\nstart which it never failed to occasion. 'Nickleby! to your desk, sir.'\n\nIt was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very\ncurious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his\nseat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant\nglance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on\nthe boys, left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging\nSmike by the collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was\nnearest the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such\na decoration.\n\nIn any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless\nobject would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It\nhad some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their\nseats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,\nexpressive of indignation and pity.\n\nThey were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the\nluckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,\nwhether he had anything to say for himself.\n\n'Nothing, I suppose?' said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.\n\nSmike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas,\nas if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his\ndesk.\n\n'Have you anything to say?' demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm\ntwo or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. 'Stand a little\nout of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough.'\n\n'Spare me, sir!' cried Smike.\n\n'Oh! that's all, is it?' said Squeers. 'Yes, I'll flog you within an\ninch of your life, and spare you that.'\n\n'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed Mrs. Squeers, 'that's a good 'un!'\n\n'I was driven to do it,' said Smike faintly; and casting another\nimploring look about him.\n\n'Driven to do it, were you?' said Squeers. 'Oh! it wasn't your fault; it\nwas mine, I suppose--eh?'\n\n'A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking\ndog,' exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm, and\nadministering a cuff at every epithet; 'what does he mean by that?'\n\n'Stand aside, my dear,' replied Squeers. 'We'll try and find out.'\n\nMrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers\ncaught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his\nbody--he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain--it was\nraised again, and again about to fall--when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly\nstarting up, cried 'Stop!' in a voice that made the rafters ring.\n\n'Who cried stop?' said Squeers, turning savagely round.\n\n'I,' said Nicholas, stepping forward. 'This must not go on.'\n\n'Must not go on!' cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.\n\n'No!' thundered Nicholas.\n\nAghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers\nreleased his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon\nNicholas with looks that were positively frightful.\n\n'I say must not,' repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; 'shall not. I will\nprevent it.'\n\nSqueers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his\nhead; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of\nspeech.\n\n'You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's\nbehalf,' said Nicholas; 'you have returned no answer to the letter in\nwhich I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible\nthat he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public\ninterference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.'\n\n'Sit down, beggar!' screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage,\nand seizing Smike as he spoke.\n\n'Wretch,' rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, 'touch him at your peril! I will\nnot stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength\nof ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare\nyou, if you drive me on!'\n\n'Stand back,' cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.\n\n'I have a long series of insults to avenge,' said Nicholas, flushed with\npassion; 'and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties\npractised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you\ndo raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon\nyour own head!'\n\nHe had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath,\nand with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck\nhim a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised\nup a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony\nof the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings\nof rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the\nweapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian\ntill he roared for mercy.\n\nThe boys--with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his\nfather's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear--moved not, hand or\nfoot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail\nof her partner's coat, and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated\nadversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the\nkeyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very\nbeginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands\nat the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's content; animating\nherself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her\nproffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which\n(as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of\nthe weakest.\n\nNicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more\nthan if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the\nnoise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw\nall his remaining strength into half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and flung\nSqueers from him with all the force he could muster. The violence of\nhis fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form; and\nSqueers striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full\nlength on the ground, stunned and motionless.\n\nHaving brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to\nhis thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead\n(upon which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas\nleft his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he\nhad better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the\nroom, but he was nowhere to be seen.\n\nAfter a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small\nleathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his\nprogress, marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortly afterwards,\nstruck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.\n\nWhen he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his present\ncircumstances some little reflection, they did not appear in a very\nencouraging light; he had only four shillings and a few pence in his\npocket, and was something more than two hundred and fifty miles\nfrom London, whither he resolved to direct his steps, that he might\nascertain, among other things, what account of the morning's proceedings\nMr. Squeers transmitted to his most affectionate uncle.\n\nLifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that there was no\nremedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld a horseman coming\ntowards him, whom, on nearer approach, he discovered, to his infinite\nchagrin, to be no other than Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in cords and\nleather leggings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash\nstick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout sapling.\n\n'I am in no mood for more noise and riot,' thought Nicholas, 'and yet,\ndo what I will, I shall have an altercation with this honest blockhead,\nand perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.'\n\nIn truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such a result would\nfollow from the encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas\nadvancing, than he reined in his horse by the footpath, and waited until\nsuch time as he should come up; looking meanwhile, very sternly between\nthe horse's ears, at Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure.\n\n'Servant, young genelman,' said John.\n\n'Yours,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Weel; we ha' met at last,' observed John, making the stirrup ring under\na smart touch of the ash stick.\n\n'Yes,' replied Nicholas, hesitating. 'Come!' he said, frankly, after a\nmoment's pause, 'we parted on no very good terms the last time we met;\nit was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention of offending you, and\nno idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it, afterwards. Will\nyou shake hands?'\n\n'Shake honds!' cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; 'ah! that I weel;'\nat the same time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas's fist\na huge wrench: 'but wa'at be the matther wi' thy feace, mun? it be all\nbrokken loike.'\n\n'It is a cut,' said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke,--'a blow; but\nI returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.'\n\n'Noa, did 'ee though?' exclaimed John Browdie. 'Well deane! I loike 'un\nfor thot.'\n\n'The fact is,' said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the\navowal, 'the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.'\n\n'Noa!' interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a\ngiant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, in his eyes,\nseemed a mere dwarf; 'dean't say thot.'\n\n'Yes, I have,' replied Nicholas, 'by that man Squeers, and I have beaten\nhim soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.'\n\n'What!' cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse\nquite shied at it. 'Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten the\nschoolmeasther! who ever heard o' the loike o' that noo! Giv' us thee\nhond agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov' thee\nfor't.'\n\nWith these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed and laughed\nagain--so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing but\njovial peals of merriment--and shook Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no\nless heartily. When his mirth had subsided, he inquired what Nicholas\nmeant to do; on his informing him, to go straight to London, he shook\nhis head doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches\ncharged to carry passengers so far.\n\n'No, I do not,' said Nicholas; 'but it is of no great consequence to me,\nfor I intend walking.'\n\n'Gang awa' to Lunnun afoot!' cried John, in amazement.\n\n'Every step of the way,' replied Nicholas. 'I should be many steps\nfurther on by this time, and so goodbye!'\n\n'Nay noo,' replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient\nhorse, 'stan' still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?'\n\n'Not much,' said Nicholas, colouring, 'but I can make it enough. Where\nthere's a will, there's a way, you know.'\n\nJohn Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand\nin his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted\nthat Nicholas should borrow from him whatever he required for his\npresent necessities.\n\n'Dean't be afeard, mun,' he said; 'tak' eneaf to carry thee whoam.\nThee'lt pay me yan day, a' warrant.'\n\nNicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a\nsovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties that he\nwould accept of more (observing, with a touch of Yorkshire caution, that\nif he didn't spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he had an\nopportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.\n\n'Tak' that bit o' timber to help thee on wi', mun,' he added, pressing\nhis stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; 'keep a good\nheart, and bless thee. Beatten the schoolmeasther! 'Cod it's the best\nthing a've heerd this twonty year!'\n\nSo saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been\nexpected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of\navoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, John Browdie set spurs\nto his horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking back, from time to\ntime, as Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily,\nas if to encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider\nuntil they disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set\nforward on his journey.\n\nHe did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly\ndark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered\nthe way toilsome, but the track uncertain and difficult to find, after\ndaylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a\ncottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of\ntravellers; and, rising betimes next morning, made his way before night\nto Boroughbridge. Passing through that town in search of some cheap\nresting-place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred\nyards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary\nlimbs, and soon fell asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had\nbeen all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat\nup, rubbed his eyes and stared--not with the most composed countenance\npossible--at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed within\na few yards in front of him.\n\n'Strange!' cried Nicholas; 'can this be some lingering creation of the\nvisions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real--and yet I--I am\nawake! Smike!'\n\nThe form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet.\nIt was Smike indeed.\n\n'Why do you kneel to me?' said Nicholas, hastily raising him.\n\n'To go with you--anywhere--everywhere--to the world's end--to the\nchurchyard grave,' replied Smike, clinging to his hand. 'Let me, oh do\nlet me. You are my home--my kind friend--take me with you, pray.'\n\n'I am a friend who can do little for you,' said Nicholas, kindly. 'How\ncame you here?'\n\nHe had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way;\nhad watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and\nhad feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not\nintended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he\nlooked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, 'your hard fate denies you any friend but\none, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.'\n\n'May I--may I go with you?' asked Smike, timidly. 'I will be your\nfaithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,' added\nthe poor creature, drawing his rags together; 'these will do very well.\nI only want to be near you.'\n\n'And you shall,' cried Nicholas. 'And the world shall deal by you as it\ndoes by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!'\n\nWith these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking\nhis stick in one hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and\nso they passed out of the old barn, together.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\nHaving the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily\nof a Mean and Vulgar Character\n\n\nIn that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is\na bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two irregular rows of tall\nmeagre houses, which seem to have stared each other out of countenance\nyears ago. The very chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy,\nfrom having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the\nway. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and,\nhere and there, some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to\none side, and toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking revenge\nfor half a century's neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of the garrets\nbeneath.\n\nThe fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and\nthither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt,\nand which any country cock or hen would be puzzled to understand, are\nperfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners. Dingy,\nill-plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring\nchildren, to get a livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to\nstone, in forlorn search of some hidden eatable in the mud, and can\nscarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything approaching\nto a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker's; and even he is hoarse, in\nconsequence of bad living in his last place.\n\nTo judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time,\ntenanted by persons of better condition than their present occupants;\nbut they are now let off, by the week, in floors or rooms, and every\ndoor has almost as many plates or bell-handles as there are apartments\nwithin. The windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified\nin appearance, being ornamented with every variety of common blind and\ncurtain that can easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up,\nand rendered nearly impassable, by a motley collection of children and\nporter pots of all sizes, from the baby in arms and the half-pint pot,\nto the full-grown girl and half-gallon can.\n\nIn the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought\ndirtier than any of its neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles,\nchildren, and porter pots, and caught in all its freshness the first\ngust of the thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a\nlarge brewery hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one\nroom to let within its walls, though on what story the vacant room could\nbe--regard being had to the outward tokens of many lodgers which the\nwhole front displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the\nflower-pots on the parapet--it would have been beyond the power of a\ncalculating boy to discover.\n\nThe common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a\ncurious visitor who had to climb his way to the top, might have observed\nthat there were not wanting indications of the progressive poverty\nof the inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the first-floor\nlodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table--real\nmahogany--on the landing-place outside, which was only taken in, when\noccasion required. On the second story, the spare furniture dwindled\ndown to a couple of old deal chairs, of which one, belonging to the\nback-room, was shorn of a leg, and bottomless. The story above,\nboasted no greater excess than a worm-eaten wash-tub; and the garret\nlanding-place displayed no costlier articles than two crippled pitchers,\nand some broken blacking-bottles.\n\nIt was on this garret landing-place that a hard-featured square-faced\nman, elderly and shabby, stopped to unlock the door of the front attic,\ninto which, having surmounted the task of turning the rusty key in its\nstill more rusty wards, he walked with the air of legal owner.\n\nThis person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he took off\nwith his hat, and hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a dirty\ncotton nightcap, and groped about in the dark till he found a remnant of\ncandle, he knocked at the partition which divided the two garrets, and\ninquired, in a loud voice, whether Mr. Noggs had a light.\n\nThe sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster, and it\nseemed moreover as though the speaker had uttered them from the interior\nof a mug or other drinking vessel; but they were in the voice of Newman,\nand conveyed a reply in the affirmative.\n\n'A nasty night, Mr. Noggs!' said the man in the nightcap, stepping in to\nlight his candle.\n\n'Does it rain?' asked Newman.\n\n'Does it?' replied the other pettishly. 'I am wet through.'\n\n'It doesn't take much to wet you and me through, Mr. Crowl,' said Newman,\nlaying his hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.\n\n'Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,' observed Mr. Crowl, in the\nsame pettish tone.\n\nUttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harsh countenance was\nthe very epitome of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out of\nthe grate, and, emptying the glass which Noggs had pushed towards him,\ninquired where he kept his coals.\n\nNewman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and Mr. Crowl, seizing\nthe shovel, threw on half the stock: which Noggs very deliberately took\noff again, without saying a word.\n\n'You have not turned saving, at this time of day, I hope?' said Crowl.\n\nNewman pointed to the empty glass, as though it were a sufficient\nrefutation of the charge, and briefly said that he was going downstairs\nto supper.\n\n'To the Kenwigses?' asked Crowl.\n\nNewman nodded assent.\n\n'Think of that now!' said Crowl. 'If I didn't--thinking that you\nwere certain not to go, because you said you wouldn't--tell Kenwigs I\ncouldn't come, and make up my mind to spend the evening with you!'\n\n'I was obliged to go,' said Newman. 'They would have me.'\n\n'Well; but what's to become of me?' urged the selfish man, who never\nthought of anybody else. 'It's all your fault. I'll tell you what--I'll\nsit by your fire till you come back again.'\n\nNewman cast a despairing glance at his small store of fuel, but, not\nhaving the courage to say no--a word which in all his life he never had\nsaid at the right time, either to himself or anyone else--gave way to\nthe proposed arrangement. Mr. Crowl immediately went about making himself\nas comfortable, with Newman Nogg's means, as circumstances would admit\nof his being made.\n\nThe lodgers to whom Crowl had made allusion under the designation of\n'the Kenwigses,' were the wife and olive branches of one Mr. Kenwigs, a\nturner in ivory, who was looked upon as a person of some consideration\non the premises, inasmuch as he occupied the whole of the first floor,\ncomprising a suite of two rooms. Mrs. Kenwigs, too, was quite a lady in\nher manners, and of a very genteel family, having an uncle who collected\na water-rate; besides which distinction, the two eldest of her little\ngirls went twice a week to a dancing school in the neighbourhood, and\nhad flaxen hair, tied with blue ribbons, hanging in luxuriant pigtails\ndown their backs; and wore little white trousers with frills round the\nankles--for all of which reasons, and many more equally valid but too\nnumerous to mention, Mrs. Kenwigs was considered a very desirable person\nto know, and was the constant theme of all the gossips in the street,\nand even three or four doors round the corner at both ends.\n\nIt was the anniversary of that happy day on which the Church of England\nas by law established, had bestowed Mrs. Kenwigs upon Mr. Kenwigs; and in\ngrateful commemoration of the same, Mrs. Kenwigs had invited a few select\nfriends to cards and a supper in the first floor, and had put on a new\ngown to receive them in: which gown, being of a flaming colour and made\nupon a juvenile principle, was so successful that Mr. Kenwigs said the\neight years of matrimony and the five children seemed all a dream, and\nMrs. Kenwigs younger and more blooming than on the very first Sunday he\nhad kept company with her.\n\nBeautiful as Mrs. Kenwigs looked when she was dressed though, and so\nstately that you would have supposed she had a cook and housemaid\nat least, and nothing to do but order them about, she had a world\nof trouble with the preparations; more, indeed, than she, being of a\ndelicate and genteel constitution, could have sustained, had not the\npride of housewifery upheld her. At last, however, all the things that\nhad to be got together were got together, and all the things that had to\nbe got out of the way were got out of the way, and everything was ready,\nand the collector himself having promised to come, fortune smiled upon\nthe occasion.\n\nThe party was admirably selected. There were, first of all, Mr. Kenwigs\nand Mrs. Kenwigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat up to supper; firstly,\nbecause it was but right that they should have a treat on such a day;\nand secondly, because their going to bed, in presence of the company,\nwould have been inconvenient, not to say improper. Then, there was a\nyoung lady who had made Mrs. Kenwigs's dress, and who--it was the most\nconvenient thing in the world--living in the two-pair back, gave up her\nbed to the baby, and got a little girl to watch it. Then, to match this\nyoung lady, was a young man, who had known Mr. Kenwigs when he was a\nbachelor, and was much esteemed by the ladies, as bearing the reputation\nof a rake. To these were added a newly-married couple, who had visited\nMr. and Mrs. Kenwigs in their courtship; and a sister of Mrs. Kenwigs's,\nwho was quite a beauty; besides whom, there was another young man,\nsupposed to entertain honourable designs upon the lady last mentioned;\nand Mr. Noggs, who was a genteel person to ask, because he had been a\ngentleman once. There were also an elderly lady from the back-parlour,\nand one more young lady, who, next to the collector, perhaps was the\ngreat lion of the party, being the daughter of a theatrical fireman, who\n'went on' in the pantomime, and had the greatest turn for the stage that\nwas ever known, being able to sing and recite in a manner that brought\nthe tears into Mrs. Kenwigs's eyes. There was only one drawback upon\nthe pleasure of seeing such friends, and that was, that the lady in\nthe back-parlour, who was very fat, and turned of sixty, came in a\nlow book-muslin dress and short kid gloves, which so exasperated Mrs\nKenwigs, that that lady assured her visitors, in private, that if it\nhadn't happened that the supper was cooking at the back-parlour grate\nat that moment, she certainly would have requested its representative to\nwithdraw.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'wouldn't it be better to begin a round\ngame?'\n\n'Kenwigs, my dear,' returned his wife, 'I am surprised at you. Would you\nbegin without my uncle?'\n\n'I forgot the collector,' said Kenwigs; 'oh no, that would never do.'\n\n'He's so particular,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, turning to the other married\nlady, 'that if we began without him, I should be out of his will for\never.'\n\n'Dear!' cried the married lady.\n\n'You've no idea what he is,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs; 'and yet as good a\ncreature as ever breathed.'\n\n'The kindest-hearted man as ever was,' said Kenwigs.\n\n'It goes to his heart, I believe, to be forced to cut the water off,\nwhen the people don't pay,' observed the bachelor friend, intending a\njoke.\n\n'George,' said Mr. Kenwigs, solemnly, 'none of that, if you please.'\n\n'It was only my joke,' said the friend, abashed.\n\n'George,' rejoined Mr. Kenwigs, 'a joke is a wery good thing--a wery\ngood thing--but when that joke is made at the expense of Mrs. Kenwigs's\nfeelings, I set my face against it. A man in public life expects to\nbe sneered at--it is the fault of his elewated sitiwation, and not of\nhimself. Mrs. Kenwigs's relation is a public man, and that he knows,\nGeorge, and that he can bear; but putting Mrs. Kenwigs out of the\nquestion (if I COULD put Mrs. Kenwigs out of the question on such an\noccasion as this), I have the honour to be connected with the collector\nby marriage; and I cannot allow these remarks in my--' Mr. Kenwigs was\ngoing to say 'house,' but he rounded the sentence with 'apartments'.\n\nAt the conclusion of these observations, which drew forth evidences\nof acute feeling from Mrs. Kenwigs, and had the intended effect of\nimpressing the company with a deep sense of the collector's dignity, a\nring was heard at the bell.\n\n'That's him,' whispered Mr. Kenwigs, greatly excited. 'Morleena, my dear,\nrun down and let your uncle in, and kiss him directly you get the door\nopen. Hem! Let's be talking.'\n\nAdopting Mr. Kenwigs's suggestion, the company spoke very loudly, to look\neasy and unembarrassed; and almost as soon as they had begun to do so,\na short old gentleman in drabs and gaiters, with a face that might\nhave been carved out of LIGNUM VITAE, for anything that appeared to the\ncontrary, was led playfully in by Miss Morleena Kenwigs, regarding\nwhose uncommon Christian name it may be here remarked that it had been\ninvented and composed by Mrs. Kenwigs previous to her first lying-in, for\nthe special distinction of her eldest child, in case it should prove a\ndaughter.\n\n'Oh, uncle, I am SO glad to see you,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the\ncollector affectionately on both cheeks. 'So glad!'\n\n'Many happy returns of the day, my dear,' replied the collector,\nreturning the compliment.\n\nNow, this was an interesting thing. Here was a collector of water-rates,\nwithout his book, without his pen and ink, without his double knock,\nwithout his intimidation, kissing--actually kissing--an agreeable\nfemale, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices that he had called, or\nannouncements that he would never call again, for two quarters' due,\nwholly out of the question. It was pleasant to see how the company\nlooked on, quite absorbed in the sight, and to behold the nods and\nwinks with which they expressed their gratification at finding so much\nhumanity in a tax-gatherer.\n\n'Where will you sit, uncle?' said Mrs. Kenwigs, in the full glow of\nfamily pride, which the appearance of her distinguished relation\noccasioned.\n\n'Anywheres, my dear,' said the collector, 'I am not particular.'\n\nNot particular! What a meek collector! If he had been an author, who\nknew his place, he couldn't have been more humble.\n\n'Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, addressing the collector, 'some friends\nhere, sir, are very anxious for the honour of--thank you--Mr. and Mrs\nCutler, Mr. Lillyvick.'\n\n'Proud to know you, sir,' said Mr. Cutler; 'I've heerd of you very\noften.' These were not mere words of ceremony; for, Mr. Cutler, having\nkept house in Mr. Lillyvick's parish, had heard of him very often indeed.\nHis attention in calling had been quite extraordinary.\n\n'George, you know, I think, Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs; 'lady from\ndownstairs--Mr. Lillyvick. Mr. Snewkes--Mr. Lillyvick. Miss Green--Mr\nLillyvick. Mr. Lillyvick--Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.\nVery glad to make two public characters acquainted! Mrs. Kenwigs, my\ndear, will you sort the counters?'\n\nMrs. Kenwigs, with the assistance of Newman Noggs, (who, as he performed\nsundry little acts of kindness for the children, at all times and\nseasons, was humoured in his request to be taken no notice of, and was\nmerely spoken about, in a whisper, as the decayed gentleman), did as he\nwas desired; and the greater part of the guests sat down to speculation,\nwhile Newman himself, Mrs. Kenwigs, and Miss Petowker of the Theatre\nRoyal Drury Lane, looked after the supper-table.\n\nWhile the ladies were thus busying themselves, Mr. Lillyvick was intent\nupon the game in progress, and as all should be fish that comes to a\nwater-collector's net, the dear old gentleman was by no means scrupulous\nin appropriating to himself the property of his neighbours, which, on\nthe contrary, he abstracted whenever an opportunity presented itself,\nsmiling good-humouredly all the while, and making so many condescending\nspeeches to the owners, that they were delighted with his amiability,\nand thought in their hearts that he deserved to be Chancellor of the\nExchequer at least.\n\nAfter a great deal of trouble, and the administration of many slaps on\nthe head to the infant Kenwigses, whereof two of the most rebellious\nwere summarily banished, the cloth was laid with much elegance, and a\npair of boiled fowls, a large piece of pork, apple-pie, potatoes and\ngreens, were served; at sight of which, the worthy Mr. Lillyvick vented a\ngreat many witticisms, and plucked up amazingly: to the immense delight\nand satisfaction of the whole body of admirers.\n\nVery well and very fast the supper went off; no more serious\ndifficulties occurring, than those which arose from the incessant demand\nfor clean knives and forks; which made poor Mrs. Kenwigs wish, more\nthan once, that private society adopted the principle of schools, and\nrequired that every guest should bring his own knife, fork, and spoon;\nwhich doubtless would be a great accommodation in many cases, and to no\none more so than to the lady and gentleman of the house, especially\nif the school principle were carried out to the full extent, and the\narticles were expected, as a matter of delicacy, not to be taken away\nagain.\n\nEverybody having eaten everything, the table was cleared in a most\nalarming hurry, and with great noise; and the spirits, whereat the eyes\nof Newman Noggs glistened, being arranged in order, with water both hot\nand cold, the party composed themselves for conviviality; Mr. Lillyvick\nbeing stationed in a large armchair by the fireside, and the four little\nKenwigses disposed on a small form in front of the company with their\nflaxen tails towards them, and their faces to the fire; an arrangement\nwhich was no sooner perfected, than Mrs. Kenwigs was overpowered by the\nfeelings of a mother, and fell upon the left shoulder of Mr. Kenwigs\ndissolved in tears.\n\n'They are so beautiful!' said Mrs. Kenwigs, sobbing.\n\n'Oh, dear,' said all the ladies, 'so they are! it's very natural you\nshould feel proud of that; but don't give way, don't.'\n\n'I can--not help it, and it don't signify,' sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs; 'oh!\nthey're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful!'\n\nOn hearing this alarming presentiment of their being doomed to an early\ndeath in the flower of their infancy, all four little girls raised\na hideous cry, and burying their heads in their mother's lap\nsimultaneously, screamed until the eight flaxen tails vibrated again;\nMrs. Kenwigs meanwhile clasping them alternately to her bosom, with\nattitudes expressive of distraction, which Miss Petowker herself might\nhave copied.\n\nAt length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothed into a\nmore tranquil state, and the little Kenwigses, being also composed, were\ndistributed among the company, to prevent the possibility of Mrs. Kenwigs\nbeing again overcome by the blaze of their combined beauty. This done,\nthe ladies and gentlemen united in prophesying that they would live for\nmany, many years, and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs. Kenwigs\nto distress herself; which, in good truth, there did not appear to be;\nthe loveliness of the children by no means justifying her apprehensions.\n\n'This day eight year,' said Mr. Kenwigs after a pause. 'Dear me--ah!'\n\nThis reflection was echoed by all present, who said 'Ah!' first, and\n'dear me,' afterwards.\n\n'I was younger then,' tittered Mrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'No,' said the collector.\n\n'Certainly not,' added everybody.\n\n'I remember my niece,' said Mr. Lillyvick, surveying his audience with\na grave air; 'I remember her, on that very afternoon, when she first\nacknowledged to her mother a partiality for Kenwigs. \"Mother,\" she says,\n\"I love him.\"'\n\n'\"Adore him,\" I said, uncle,' interposed Mrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'\"Love him,\" I think, my dear,' said the collector, firmly.\n\n'Perhaps you are right, uncle,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, submissively. 'I\nthought it was \"adore.\"'\n\n'\"Love,\" my dear,' retorted Mr. Lillyvick. '\"Mother,\" she says, \"I love\nhim!\" \"What do I hear?\" cries her mother; and instantly falls into\nstrong conwulsions.'\n\nA general exclamation of astonishment burst from the company.\n\n'Into strong conwulsions,' repeated Mr. Lillyvick, regarding them with a\nrigid look. 'Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in the presence of friends,\nthat there was a very great objection to him, on the ground that he was\nbeneath the family, and would disgrace it. You remember, Kenwigs?'\n\n'Certainly,' replied that gentleman, in no way displeased at the\nreminiscence, inasmuch as it proved, beyond all doubt, what a high\nfamily Mrs. Kenwigs came of.\n\n'I shared in that feeling,' said Mr. Lillyvick: 'perhaps it was natural;\nperhaps it wasn't.'\n\nA gentle murmur seemed to say, that, in one of Mr. Lillyvick's station,\nthe objection was not only natural, but highly praiseworthy.\n\n'I came round to him in time,' said Mr. Lillyvick. 'After they were\nmarried, and there was no help for it, I was one of the first to say\nthat Kenwigs must be taken notice of. The family DID take notice of him,\nin consequence, and on my representation; and I am bound to say--and\nproud to say--that I have always found him a very honest, well-behaved,\nupright, respectable sort of man. Kenwigs, shake hands.'\n\n'I am proud to do it, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs.\n\n'So am I, Kenwigs,' rejoined Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'A very happy life I have led with your niece, sir,' said Kenwigs.\n\n'It would have been your own fault if you had not, sir,' remarked Mr\nLillyvick.\n\n'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, at this crisis, much affected,\n'kiss your dear uncle!'\n\nThe young lady did as she was requested, and the three other little\ngirls were successively hoisted up to the collector's countenance, and\nsubjected to the same process, which was afterwards repeated on them by\nthe majority of those present.\n\n'Oh dear, Mrs. Kenwigs,' said Miss Petowker, 'while Mr. Noggs is making\nthat punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that\nfigure dance before Mr. Lillyvick.'\n\n'No, no, my dear,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, 'it will only worry my uncle.'\n\n'It can't worry him, I am sure,' said Miss Petowker. 'You will be very\nmuch pleased, won't you, sir?'\n\n'That I am sure I shall' replied the collector, glancing at the\npunch-mixer.\n\n'Well then, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, 'Morleena shall\ndo the steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the\nBlood-Drinker's Burial, afterwards.'\n\nThere was a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet, at this\nproposition; the subject whereof, gently inclined her head several\ntimes, in acknowledgment of the reception.\n\n'You know,' said Miss Petowker, reproachfully, 'that I dislike doing\nanything professional in private parties.'\n\n'Oh, but not here!' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'We are all so very friendly and\npleasant, that you might as well be going through it in your own room;\nbesides, the occasion--'\n\n'I can't resist that,' interrupted Miss Petowker; 'anything in my humble\npower I shall be delighted to do.'\n\nMrs. Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged a small PROGRAMME of the\nentertainments between them, of which this was the prescribed order,\nbut they had settled to have a little pressing on both sides, because it\nlooked more natural. The company being all ready, Miss Petowker hummed\na tune, and Morleena danced a dance; having previously had the soles\nof her shoes chalked, with as much care as if she were going on the\ntight-rope. It was a very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal of\nwork for the arms, and was received with unbounded applause.\n\n'If I was blessed with a--a child--' said Miss Petowker, blushing, 'of\nsuch genius as that, I would have her out at the Opera instantly.'\n\nMrs. Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr. Kenwigs, who shook his head, and\nobserved that he was doubtful about it.\n\n'Kenwigs is afraid,' said Mrs. K.\n\n'What of?' inquired Miss Petowker, 'not of her failing?'\n\n'Oh no,' replied Mrs. Kenwigs, 'but if she grew up what she is now,--only\nthink of the young dukes and marquises.'\n\n'Very right,' said the collector.\n\n'Still,' submitted Miss Petowker, 'if she took a proper pride in\nherself, you know--'\n\n'There's a good deal in that,' observed Mrs. Kenwigs, looking at her\nhusband.\n\n'I only know--' faltered Miss Petowker,--'it may be no rule to be\nsure--but I have never found any inconvenience or unpleasantness of that\nsort.'\n\nMr. Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said that settled the question at\nonce, and that he would take the subject into his serious consideration.\nThis being resolved upon, Miss Petowker was entreated to begin the\nBlood-Drinker's Burial; to which end, that young lady let down her back\nhair, and taking up her position at the other end of the room, with the\nbachelor friend posted in a corner, to rush out at the cue 'in death\nexpire,' and catch her in his arms when she died raving mad, went\nthrough the performance with extraordinary spirit, and to the great\nterror of the little Kenwigses, who were all but frightened into fits.\n\nThe ecstasies consequent upon the effort had not yet subsided, and\nNewman (who had not been thoroughly sober at so late an hour for a long\nlong time,) had not yet been able to put in a word of announcement,\nthat the punch was ready, when a hasty knock was heard at the room-door,\nwhich elicited a shriek from Mrs. Kenwigs, who immediately divined that\nthe baby had fallen out of bed.\n\n'Who is that?' demanded Mr. Kenwigs, sharply.\n\n'Don't be alarmed, it's only me,' said Crowl, looking in, in his\nnightcap. 'The baby is very comfortable, for I peeped into the room as\nI came down, and it's fast asleep, and so is the girl; and I don't think\nthe candle will set fire to the bed-curtain, unless a draught was to get\ninto the room--it's Mr. Noggs that's wanted.'\n\n'Me!' cried Newman, much astonished.\n\n'Why, it IS a queer hour, isn't it?' replied Crowl, who was not best\npleased at the prospect of losing his fire; 'and they are queer-looking\npeople, too, all covered with rain and mud. Shall I tell them to go\naway?'\n\n'No,' said Newman, rising. 'People? How many?'\n\n'Two,' rejoined Crowl.\n\n'Want me? By name?' asked Newman.\n\n'By name,' replied Crowl. 'Mr. Newman Noggs, as pat as need be.'\n\nNewman reflected for a few seconds, and then hurried away, muttering\nthat he would be back directly. He was as good as his word; for, in an\nexceedingly short time, he burst into the room, and seizing, without\na word of apology or explanation, a lighted candle and tumbler of hot\npunch from the table, darted away like a madman.\n\n'What the deuce is the matter with him?' exclaimed Crowl, throwing the\ndoor open. 'Hark! Is there any noise above?'\n\nThe guests rose in great confusion, and, looking in each other's faces\nwith much perplexity and some fear, stretched their necks forward, and\nlistened attentively.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\nAcquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption\ndescribed in the last Chapter, and with some other Matters necessary to\nbe known\n\n\nNewman Noggs scrambled in violent haste upstairs with the steaming\nbeverage, which he had so unceremoniously snatched from the table of Mr\nKenwigs, and indeed from the very grasp of the water-rate collector, who\nwas eyeing the contents of the tumbler, at the moment of its unexpected\nabstraction, with lively marks of pleasure visible in his countenance.\nHe bore his prize straight to his own back-garret, where, footsore and\nnearly shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded, and disfigured with every mark of\nfatiguing travel, sat Nicholas and Smike, at once the cause and partner\nof his toil; both perfectly worn out by their unwonted and protracted\nexertion.\n\nNewman's first act was to compel Nicholas, with gentle force, to swallow\nhalf of the punch at a breath, nearly boiling as it was; and his next,\nto pour the remainder down the throat of Smike, who, never having tasted\nanything stronger than aperient medicine in his whole life, exhibited\nvarious odd manifestations of surprise and delight, during the passage\nof the liquor down his throat, and turned up his eyes most emphatically\nwhen it was all gone.\n\n'You are wet through,' said Newman, passing his hand hastily over the\ncoat which Nicholas had thrown off; 'and I--I--haven't even a change,'\nhe added, with a wistful glance at the shabby clothes he wore himself.\n\n'I have dry clothes, or at least such as will serve my turn well, in\nmy bundle,' replied Nicholas. 'If you look so distressed to see me, you\nwill add to the pain I feel already, at being compelled, for one night,\nto cast myself upon your slender means for aid and shelter.'\n\nNewman did not look the less distressed to hear Nicholas talking in this\nstrain; but, upon his young friend grasping him heartily by the hand,\nand assuring him that nothing but implicit confidence in the sincerity\nof his professions, and kindness of feeling towards himself, would have\ninduced him, on any consideration, even to have made him acquainted\nwith his arrival in London, Mr. Noggs brightened up again, and went about\nmaking such arrangements as were in his power for the comfort of his\nvisitors, with extreme alacrity.\n\nThese were simple enough; poor Newman's means halting at a very\nconsiderable distance short of his inclinations; but, slight as they\nwere, they were not made without much bustling and running about. As\nNicholas had husbanded his scanty stock of money, so well that it was\nnot yet quite expended, a supper of bread and cheese, with some cold\nbeef from the cook's shop, was soon placed upon the table; and these\nviands being flanked by a bottle of spirits and a pot of porter, there\nwas no ground for apprehension on the score of hunger or thirst, at all\nevents. Such preparations as Newman had it in his power to make, for\nthe accommodation of his guests during the night, occupied no very great\ntime in completing; and as he had insisted, as an express preliminary,\nthat Nicholas should change his clothes, and that Smike should invest\nhimself in his solitary coat (which no entreaties would dissuade him\nfrom stripping off for the purpose), the travellers partook of their\nfrugal fare, with more satisfaction than one of them at least had\nderived from many a better meal.\n\nThey then drew near the fire, which Newman Noggs had made up as well as\nhe could, after the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel; and Nicholas, who\nhad hitherto been restrained by the extreme anxiety of his friend\nthat he should refresh himself after his journey, now pressed him with\nearnest questions concerning his mother and sister.\n\n'Well,' replied Newman, with his accustomed taciturnity; 'both well.'\n\n'They are living in the city still?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'They are,' said Newman.\n\n'And my sister,'--added Nicholas. 'Is she still engaged in the business\nwhich she wrote to tell me she thought she should like so much?'\n\nNewman opened his eyes rather wider than usual, but merely replied by\na gasp, which, according to the action of the head that accompanied\nit, was interpreted by his friends as meaning yes or no. In the present\ninstance, the pantomime consisted of a nod, and not a shake; so Nicholas\ntook the answer as a favourable one.\n\n'Now listen to me,' said Nicholas, laying his hand on Newman's shoulder.\n'Before I would make an effort to see them, I deemed it expedient to\ncome to you, lest, by gratifying my own selfish desire, I should inflict\nan injury upon them which I can never repair. What has my uncle heard\nfrom Yorkshire?'\n\nNewman opened and shut his mouth, several times, as though he were\ntrying his utmost to speak, but could make nothing of it, and finally\nfixed his eyes on Nicholas with a grim and ghastly stare.\n\n'What has he heard?' urged Nicholas, colouring. 'You see that I am\nprepared to hear the very worst that malice can have suggested. Why\nshould you conceal it from me? I must know it sooner or later; and what\npurpose can be gained by trifling with the matter for a few minutes,\nwhen half the time would put me in possession of all that has occurred?\nTell me at once, pray.'\n\n'Tomorrow morning,' said Newman; 'hear it tomorrow.'\n\n'What purpose would that answer?' urged Nicholas.\n\n'You would sleep the better,' replied Newman.\n\n'I should sleep the worse,' answered Nicholas, impatiently. 'Sleep!\nExhausted as I am, and standing in no common need of rest, I cannot hope\nto close my eyes all night, unless you tell me everything.'\n\n'And if I should tell you everything,' said Newman, hesitating.\n\n'Why, then you may rouse my indignation or wound my pride,' rejoined\nNicholas; 'but you will not break my rest; for if the scene were acted\nover again, I could take no other part than I have taken; and whatever\nconsequences may accrue to myself from it, I shall never regret doing as\nI have done--never, if I starve or beg in consequence. What is a little\npoverty or suffering, to the disgrace of the basest and most inhuman\ncowardice! I tell you, if I had stood by, tamely and passively, I should\nhave hated myself, and merited the contempt of every man in existence.\nThe black-hearted scoundrel!'\n\nWith this gentle allusion to the absent Mr. Squeers, Nicholas repressed\nhis rising wrath, and relating to Newman exactly what had passed at\nDotheboys Hall, entreated him to speak out without more pressing. Thus\nadjured, Mr. Noggs took, from an old trunk, a sheet of paper, which\nappeared to have been scrawled over in great haste; and after sundry\nextraordinary demonstrations of reluctance, delivered himself in the\nfollowing terms.\n\n'My dear young man, you mustn't give way to--this sort of thing\nwill never do, you know--as to getting on in the world, if you take\neverybody's part that's ill-treated--Damn it, I am proud to hear of it;\nand would have done it myself!'\n\nNewman accompanied this very unusual outbreak with a violent blow upon\nthe table, as if, in the heat of the moment, he had mistaken it for the\nchest or ribs of Mr. Wackford Squeers. Having, by this open declaration\nof his feelings, quite precluded himself from offering Nicholas any\ncautious worldly advice (which had been his first intention), Mr. Noggs\nwent straight to the point.\n\n'The day before yesterday,' said Newman, 'your uncle received this\nletter. I took a hasty copy of it, while he was out. Shall I read it?'\n\n'If you please,' replied Nicholas. Newman Noggs accordingly read as\nfollows:\n\n'DOTHEBOYS HALL, 'THURSDAY MORNING.\n\n'SIR,\n\n'My pa requests me to write to you, the doctors considering it doubtful\nwhether he will ever recuvver the use of his legs which prevents his\nholding a pen.\n\n'We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and my pa is one mask of\nbrooses both blue and green likewise two forms are steepled in his Goar.\nWe were kimpelled to have him carried down into the kitchen where he now\nlays. You will judge from this that he has been brought very low.\n\n'When your nevew that you recommended for a teacher had done this to\nmy pa and jumped upon his body with his feet and also langwedge which\nI will not pollewt my pen with describing, he assaulted my ma with\ndreadful violence, dashed her to the earth, and drove her back comb\nseveral inches into her head. A very little more and it must have\nentered her skull. We have a medical certifiket that if it had, the\ntortershell would have affected the brain.\n\n'Me and my brother were then the victims of his feury since which we\nhave suffered very much which leads us to the arrowing belief that we\nhave received some injury in our insides, especially as no marks of\nviolence are visible externally. I am screaming out loud all the time\nI write and so is my brother which takes off my attention rather and I\nhope will excuse mistakes.\n\n'The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran away, taking with\nhim a boy of desperate character that he had excited to rebellyon, and a\ngarnet ring belonging to my ma, and not having been apprehended by the\nconstables is supposed to have been took up by some stage-coach. My pa\nbegs that if he comes to you the ring may be returned, and that you will\nlet the thief and assassin go, as if we prosecuted him he would only be\ntransported, and if he is let go he is sure to be hung before long which\nwill save us trouble and be much more satisfactory. Hoping to hear from\nyou when convenient\n\n'I remain 'Yours and cetrer 'FANNY SQUEERS.\n\n'P.S. I pity his ignorance and despise him.'\n\nA profound silence succeeded to the reading of this choice epistle,\nduring which Newman Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of\ngrotesque pity at the boy of desperate character therein referred to;\nwho, having no more distinct perception of the matter in hand, than that\nhe had been the unfortunate cause of heaping trouble and falsehood\nupon Nicholas, sat mute and dispirited, with a most woe-begone and\nheart-stricken look.\n\n'Mr. Noggs,' said Nicholas, after a few moments' reflection, 'I must go\nout at once.'\n\n'Go out!' cried Newman.\n\n'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'to Golden Square. Nobody who knows me would\nbelieve this story of the ring; but it may suit the purpose, or gratify\nthe hatred of Mr. Ralph Nickleby to feign to attach credence to it. It\nis due--not to him, but to myself--that I should state the truth; and\nmoreover, I have a word or two to exchange with him, which will not keep\ncool.'\n\n'They must,' said Newman.\n\n'They must not, indeed,' rejoined Nicholas firmly, as he prepared to\nleave the house.\n\n'Hear me speak,' said Newman, planting himself before his impetuous\nyoung friend. 'He is not there. He is away from town. He will not be\nback for three days; and I know that letter will not be answered before\nhe returns.'\n\n'Are you sure of this?' asked Nicholas, chafing violently, and pacing\nthe narrow room with rapid strides.\n\n'Quite,' rejoined Newman. 'He had hardly read it when he was called\naway. Its contents are known to nobody but himself and us.'\n\n'Are you certain?' demanded Nicholas, precipitately; 'not even to my\nmother or sister? If I thought that they--I will go there--I must see\nthem. Which is the way? Where is it?'\n\n'Now, be advised by me,' said Newman, speaking for the moment, in his\nearnestness, like any other man--'make no effort to see even them, till\nhe comes home. I know the man. Do not seem to have been tampering with\nanybody. When he returns, go straight to him, and speak as boldly as you\nlike. Guessing at the real truth, he knows it as well as you or I. Trust\nhim for that.'\n\n'You mean well to me, and should know him better than I can,' replied\nNicholas, after some consideration. 'Well; let it be so.'\n\nNewman, who had stood during the foregoing conversation with his back\nplanted against the door, ready to oppose any egress from the apartment\nby force, if necessary, resumed his seat with much satisfaction; and\nas the water in the kettle was by this time boiling, made a glassful\nof spirits and water for Nicholas, and a cracked mug-full for the joint\naccommodation of himself and Smike, of which the two partook in great\nharmony, while Nicholas, leaning his head upon his hand, remained buried\nin melancholy meditation.\n\nMeanwhile, the company below stairs, after listening attentively and\nnot hearing any noise which would justify them in interfering for\nthe gratification of their curiosity, returned to the chamber of the\nKenwigses, and employed themselves in hazarding a great variety of\nconjectures relative to the cause of Mr. Noggs' sudden disappearance and\ndetention.\n\n'Lor, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'Suppose it should be an\nexpress sent up to say that his property has all come back again!'\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Kenwigs; 'it's not impossible. Perhaps, in that case,\nwe'd better send up and ask if he won't take a little more punch.'\n\n'Kenwigs!' said Mr. Lillyvick, in a loud voice, 'I'm surprised at you.'\n\n'What's the matter, sir?' asked Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming submission to\nthe collector of water-rates.\n\n'Making such a remark as that, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, angrily. 'He\nhas had punch already, has he not, sir? I consider the way in which that\npunch was cut off, if I may use the expression, highly disrespectful to\nthis company; scandalous, perfectly scandalous. It may be the custom to\nallow such things in this house, but it's not the kind of behaviour\nthat I've been used to see displayed, and so I don't mind telling you,\nKenwigs. A gentleman has a glass of punch before him to which he is just\nabout to set his lips, when another gentleman comes and collars that\nglass of punch, without a \"with your leave\", or \"by your leave\", and\ncarries that glass of punch away. This may be good manners--I dare say\nit is--but I don't understand it, that's all; and what's more, I don't\ncare if I never do. It's my way to speak my mind, Kenwigs, and that is\nmy mind; and if you don't like it, it's past my regular time for going\nto bed, and I can find my way home without making it later.'\n\nHere was an untoward event! The collector had sat swelling and fuming\nin offended dignity for some minutes, and had now fairly burst out. The\ngreat man--the rich relation--the unmarried uncle--who had it in his\npower to make Morleena an heiress, and the very baby a legatee--was\noffended. Gracious Powers, where was this to end!\n\n'I am very sorry, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs, humbly.\n\n'Don't tell me you're sorry,' retorted Mr. Lillyvick, with much\nsharpness. 'You should have prevented it, then.'\n\nThe company were quite paralysed by this domestic crash. The\nback-parlour sat with her mouth wide open, staring vacantly at the\ncollector, in a stupor of dismay; the other guests were scarcely less\noverpowered by the great man's irritation. Mr. Kenwigs, not being skilful\nin such matters, only fanned the flame in attempting to extinguish it.\n\n'I didn't think of it, I am sure, sir,' said that gentleman. 'I didn't\nsuppose that such a little thing as a glass of punch would have put you\nout of temper.'\n\n'Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece of\nimpertinence, Mr. Kenwigs?' said the collector. 'Morleena, child--give me\nmy hat.'\n\n'Oh, you're not going, Mr. Lillyvick, sir,' interposed Miss Petowker,\nwith her most bewitching smile.\n\nBut still Mr. Lillyvick, regardless of the siren, cried obdurately,\n'Morleena, my hat!' upon the fourth repetition of which demand, Mrs\nKenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry that might have softened a\nwater-butt, not to say a water-collector; while the four little girls\n(privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle's drab shorts\nin their arms, and prayed him, in imperfect English, to remain.\n\n'Why should I stop here, my dears?' said Mr. Lillyvick; 'I'm not wanted\nhere.'\n\n'Oh, do not speak so cruelly, uncle,' sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs, 'unless you\nwish to kill me.'\n\n'I shouldn't wonder if some people were to say I did,' replied Mr\nLillyvick, glancing angrily at Kenwigs. 'Out of temper!'\n\n'Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,' cried Mrs\nKenwigs. 'It's so dreadful in families. Oh!'\n\n'Mr. Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, 'I hope, for the sake of your niece, that\nyou won't object to be reconciled.'\n\nThe collector's features relaxed, as the company added their entreaties\nto those of his nephew-in-law. He gave up his hat, and held out his\nhand.\n\n'There, Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lillyvick; 'and let me tell you, at the same\ntime, to show you how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away\nwithout another word, it would have made no difference respecting that\npound or two which I shall leave among your children when I die.'\n\n'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, in a torrent of affection. 'Go\ndown upon your knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all\nhis life through, for he's more a angel than a man, and I've always said\nso.'\n\nMiss Morleena approaching to do homage, in compliance with this\ninjunction, was summarily caught up and kissed by Mr. Lillyvick; and\nthereupon Mrs. Kenwigs darted forward and kissed the collector, and\nan irrepressible murmur of applause broke from the company who had\nwitnessed his magnanimity.\n\nThe worthy gentleman then became once more the life and soul of the\nsociety; being again reinstated in his old post of lion, from which high\nstation the temporary distraction of their thoughts had for a moment\ndispossessed him. Quadruped lions are said to be savage, only when they\nare hungry; biped lions are rarely sulky longer than when their appetite\nfor distinction remains unappeased. Mr. Lillyvick stood higher than ever;\nfor he had shown his power; hinted at his property and testamentary\nintentions; gained great credit for disinterestedness and virtue; and,\nin addition to all, was finally accommodated with a much larger tumbler\nof punch than that which Newman Noggs had so feloniously made off with.\n\n'I say! I beg everybody's pardon for intruding again,' said Crowl,\nlooking in at this happy juncture; 'but what a queer business this is,\nisn't it? Noggs has lived in this house, now going on for five years,\nand nobody has ever been to see him before, within the memory of the\noldest inhabitant.'\n\n'It's a strange time of night to be called away, sir, certainly,' said\nthe collector; 'and the behaviour of Mr. Noggs himself, is, to say the\nleast of it, mysterious.'\n\n'Well, so it is,' rejoined Crowl; 'and I'll tell you what's more--I\nthink these two geniuses, whoever they are, have run away from\nsomewhere.'\n\n'What makes you think that, sir?' demanded the collector, who seemed, by\na tacit understanding, to have been chosen and elected mouthpiece to\nthe company. 'You have no reason to suppose that they have run away from\nanywhere without paying the rates and taxes due, I hope?'\n\nMr. Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was about to enter a general\nprotest against the payment of rates or taxes, under any circumstances,\nwhen he was checked by a timely whisper from Kenwigs, and several frowns\nand winks from Mrs. K., which providentially stopped him.\n\n'Why the fact is,' said Crowl, who had been listening at Newman's door\nwith all his might and main; 'the fact is, that they have been talking\nso loud, that they quite disturbed me in my room, and so I couldn't\nhelp catching a word here, and a word there; and all I heard, certainly\nseemed to refer to their having bolted from some place or other. I don't\nwish to alarm Mrs. Kenwigs; but I hope they haven't come from any jail or\nhospital, and brought away a fever or some unpleasantness of that sort,\nwhich might be catching for the children.'\n\nMrs. Kenwigs was so overpowered by this supposition, that it needed all\nthe tender attentions of Miss Petowker, of the Theatre Royal, Drury\nLane, to restore her to anything like a state of calmness; not to\nmention the assiduity of Mr. Kenwigs, who held a fat smelling-bottle to\nhis lady's nose, until it became matter of some doubt whether the tears\nwhich coursed down her face were the result of feelings or SAL VOLATILE.\n\nThe ladies, having expressed their sympathy, singly and separately,\nfell, according to custom, into a little chorus of soothing expressions,\namong which, such condolences as 'Poor dear!'--'I should feel just the\nsame, if I was her'--'To be sure, it's a very trying thing'--and 'Nobody\nbut a mother knows what a mother's feelings is,' were among the most\nprominent, and most frequently repeated. In short, the opinion of the\ncompany was so clearly manifested, that Mr. Kenwigs was on the point of\nrepairing to Mr. Noggs's room, to demand an explanation, and had indeed\nswallowed a preparatory glass of punch, with great inflexibility and\nsteadiness of purpose, when the attention of all present was diverted by\na new and terrible surprise.\n\nThis was nothing less than the sudden pouring forth of a rapid\nsuccession of the shrillest and most piercing screams, from an upper\nstory; and to all appearance from the very two-pair back, in which\nthe infant Kenwigs was at that moment enshrined. They were no sooner\naudible, than Mrs. Kenwigs, opining that a strange cat had come in, and\nsucked the baby's breath while the girl was asleep, made for the door,\nwringing her hands, and shrieking dismally; to the great consternation\nand confusion of the company.\n\n'Mr. Kenwigs, see what it is; make haste!' cried the sister, laying\nviolent hands upon Mrs. Kenwigs, and holding her back by force. 'Oh don't\ntwist about so, dear, or I can never hold you.'\n\n'My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby!' screamed Mrs\nKenwigs, making every blessed louder than the last. 'My own darling,\nsweet, innocent Lillyvick--Oh let me go to him. Let me go-o-o-o!'\n\nPending the utterance of these frantic cries, and the wails and\nlamentations of the four little girls, Mr. Kenwigs rushed upstairs to the\nroom whence the sounds proceeded; at the door of which, he encountered\nNicholas, with the child in his arms, who darted out with such violence,\nthat the anxious father was thrown down six stairs, and alighted on the\nnearest landing-place, before he had found time to open his mouth to ask\nwhat was the matter.\n\n'Don't be alarmed,' cried Nicholas, running down; 'here it is; it's all\nout, it's all over; pray compose yourselves; there's no harm done;'\nand with these, and a thousand other assurances, he delivered the baby\n(whom, in his hurry, he had carried upside down), to Mrs. Kenwigs, and\nran back to assist Mr. Kenwigs, who was rubbing his head very hard, and\nlooking much bewildered by his tumble.\n\nReassured by this cheering intelligence, the company in some degree\nrecovered from their fears, which had been productive of some most\nsingular instances of a total want of presence of mind; thus, the\nbachelor friend had, for a long time, supported in his arms Mrs\nKenwigs's sister, instead of Mrs. Kenwigs; and the worthy Mr. Lillyvick\nhad been actually seen, in the perturbation of his spirits, to kiss Miss\nPetowker several times, behind the room-door, as calmly as if nothing\ndistressing were going forward.\n\n'It is a mere nothing,' said Nicholas, returning to Mrs. Kenwigs; 'the\nlittle girl, who was watching the child, being tired I suppose, fell\nasleep, and set her hair on fire.'\n\n'Oh you malicious little wretch!' cried Mrs. Kenwigs, impressively\nshaking her forefinger at the small unfortunate, who might be thirteen\nyears old, and was looking on with a singed head and a frightened face.\n\n'I heard her cries,' continued Nicholas, 'and ran down, in time to\nprevent her setting fire to anything else. You may depend upon it that\nthe child is not hurt; for I took it off the bed myself, and brought it\nhere to convince you.'\n\nThis brief explanation over, the infant, who, as he was christened after\nthe collector! rejoiced in the names of Lillyvick Kenwigs, was partially\nsuffocated under the caresses of the audience, and squeezed to his\nmother's bosom, until he roared again. The attention of the company was\nthen directed, by a natural transition, to the little girl who had had\nthe audacity to burn her hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small\nslaps and pushes from the more energetic of the ladies, was mercifully\nsent home: the ninepence, with which she was to have been rewarded,\nbeing escheated to the Kenwigs family.\n\n'And whatever we are to say to you, sir,' exclaimed Mrs. Kenwigs,\naddressing young Lillyvick's deliverer, 'I am sure I don't know.'\n\n'You need say nothing at all,' replied Nicholas. 'I have done nothing to\nfound any very strong claim upon your eloquence, I am sure.'\n\n'He might have been burnt to death, if it hadn't been for you, sir,'\nsimpered Miss Petowker.\n\n'Not very likely, I think,' replied Nicholas; 'for there was abundance\nof assistance here, which must have reached him before he had been in\nany danger.'\n\n'You will let us drink your health, anyvays, sir!' said Mr. Kenwigs\nmotioning towards the table.\n\n'--In my absence, by all means,' rejoined Nicholas, with a smile.\n'I have had a very fatiguing journey, and should be most indifferent\ncompany--a far greater check upon your merriment, than a promoter of it,\neven if I kept awake, which I think very doubtful. If you will allow\nme, I'll return to my friend, Mr. Noggs, who went upstairs again, when he\nfound nothing serious had occurred. Good-night.'\n\nExcusing himself, in these terms, from joining in the festivities,\nNicholas took a most winning farewell of Mrs. Kenwigs and the other\nladies, and retired, after making a very extraordinary impression upon\nthe company.\n\n'What a delightful young man!' cried Mrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'Uncommon gentlemanly, really,' said Mr. Kenwigs. 'Don't you think so, Mr\nLillyvick?'\n\n'Yes,' said the collector, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, 'He is\ngentlemanly, very gentlemanly--in appearance.'\n\n'I hope you don't see anything against him, uncle?' inquired Mrs\nKenwigs.\n\n'No, my dear,' replied the collector, 'no. I trust he may not turn\nout--well--no matter--my love to you, my dear, and long life to the\nbaby!'\n\n'Your namesake,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, with a sweet smile.\n\n'And I hope a worthy namesake,' observed Mr. Kenwigs, willing to\npropitiate the collector. 'I hope a baby as will never disgrace his\ngodfather, and as may be considered, in arter years, of a piece with the\nLillyvicks whose name he bears. I do say--and Mrs. Kenwigs is of the same\nsentiment, and feels it as strong as I do--that I consider his being\ncalled Lillyvick one of the greatest blessings and Honours of my\nexistence.'\n\n'THE greatest blessing, Kenwigs,' murmured his lady.\n\n'THE greatest blessing,' said Mr. Kenwigs, correcting himself. 'A\nblessing that I hope, one of these days, I may be able to deserve.'\n\nThis was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses, because it made Mr. Lillyvick\nthe great head and fountain of the baby's importance. The good gentleman\nfelt the delicacy and dexterity of the touch, and at once proposed the\nhealth of the gentleman, name unknown, who had signalised himself, that\nnight, by his coolness and alacrity.\n\n'Who, I don't mind saying,' observed Mr. Lillyvick, as a great\nconcession, 'is a good-looking young man enough, with manners that I\nhope his character may be equal to.'\n\n'He has a very nice face and style, really,' said Mrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'He certainly has,' added Miss Petowker. 'There's something in his\nappearance quite--dear, dear, what's that word again?'\n\n'What word?' inquired Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'Why--dear me, how stupid I am,' replied Miss Petowker, hesitating.\n'What do you call it, when Lords break off door-knockers and beat\npolicemen, and play at coaches with other people's money, and all that\nsort of thing?'\n\n'Aristocratic?' suggested the collector.\n\n'Ah! aristocratic,' replied Miss Petowker; 'something very aristocratic\nabout him, isn't there?'\n\nThe gentleman held their peace, and smiled at each other, as who should\nsay, 'Well! there's no accounting for tastes;' but the ladies resolved\nunanimously that Nicholas had an aristocratic air; and nobody caring to\ndispute the position, it was established triumphantly.\n\nThe punch being, by this time, drunk out, and the little Kenwigses (who\nhad for some time previously held their little eyes open with their\nlittle forefingers) becoming fractious, and requesting rather urgently\nto be put to bed, the collector made a move by pulling out his watch,\nand acquainting the company that it was nigh two o'clock; whereat some\nof the guests were surprised and others shocked, and hats and bonnets\nbeing groped for under the tables, and in course of time found, their\nowners went away, after a vast deal of shaking of hands, and many\nremarks how they had never spent such a delightful evening, and how\nthey marvelled to find it so late, expecting to have heard that it was\nhalf-past ten at the very latest, and how they wished that Mr. and Mrs\nKenwigs had a wedding-day once a week, and how they wondered by what\nhidden agency Mrs. Kenwigs could possibly have managed so well; and\na great deal more of the same kind. To all of which flattering\nexpressions, Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs replied, by thanking every lady and\ngentleman, SERIATIM, for the favour of their company, and hoping they\nmight have enjoyed themselves only half as well as they said they had.\n\nAs to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the impression he had produced, he\nhad long since fallen asleep, leaving Mr. Newman Noggs and Smike to empty\nthe spirit bottle between them; and this office they performed with\nsuch extreme good-will, that Newman was equally at a loss to determine\nwhether he himself was quite sober, and whether he had ever seen any\ngentleman so heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated as his new\nacquaintance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\nNicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being\nunsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family\n\n\nThe first care of Nicholas, next morning, was, to look after some room\nin which, until better times dawned upon him, he could contrive to\nexist, without trenching upon the hospitality of Newman Noggs, who would\nhave slept upon the stairs with pleasure, so that his young friend was\naccommodated.\n\nThe vacant apartment to which the bill in the parlour window bore\nreference, appeared, on inquiry, to be a small back-room on the second\nfloor, reclaimed from the leads, and overlooking a soot-bespeckled\nprospect of tiles and chimney-pots. For the letting of this portion of\nthe house from week to week, on reasonable terms, the parlour lodger was\nempowered to treat; he being deputed by the landlord to dispose of\nthe rooms as they became vacant, and to keep a sharp look-out that the\nlodgers didn't run away. As a means of securing the punctual discharge\nof which last service he was permitted to live rent-free, lest he should\nat any time be tempted to run away himself.\n\nOf this chamber, Nicholas became the tenant; and having hired a few\ncommon articles of furniture from a neighbouring broker, and paid\nthe first week's hire in advance, out of a small fund raised by the\nconversion of some spare clothes into ready money, he sat himself down\nto ruminate upon his prospects, which, like the prospect outside his\nwindow, were sufficiently confined and dingy. As they by no means\nimproved on better acquaintance, and as familiarity breeds contempt, he\nresolved to banish them from his thoughts by dint of hard walking. So,\ntaking up his hat, and leaving poor Smike to arrange and rearrange the\nroom with as much delight as if it had been the costliest palace, he\nbetook himself to the streets, and mingled with the crowd which thronged\nthem.\n\nAlthough a man may lose a sense of his own importance when he is a mere\nunit among a busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by no means\nfollows that he can dispossess himself, with equal facility, of a very\nstrong sense of the importance and magnitude of his cares. The unhappy\nstate of his own affairs was the one idea which occupied the brain of\nNicholas, walk as fast as he would; and when he tried to dislodge it by\nspeculating on the situation and prospects of the people who surrounded\nhim, he caught himself, in a few seconds, contrasting their condition\nwith his own, and gliding almost imperceptibly back into his old train\nof thought again.\n\nOccupied in these reflections, as he was making his way along one of the\ngreat public thoroughfares of London, he chanced to raise his eyes to\na blue board, whereon was inscribed, in characters of gold, 'General\nAgency Office; for places and situations of all kinds inquire within.'\nIt was a shop-front, fitted up with a gauze blind and an inner door;\nand in the window hung a long and tempting array of written placards,\nannouncing vacant places of every grade, from a secretary's to a\nfoot-boy's.\n\nNicholas halted, instinctively, before this temple of promise, and ran\nhis eye over the capital-text openings in life which were so profusely\ndisplayed. When he had completed his survey he walked on a little way,\nand then back, and then on again; at length, after pausing irresolutely\nseveral times before the door of the General Agency Office, he made up\nhis mind, and stepped in.\n\nHe found himself in a little floor-clothed room, with a high desk railed\noff in one corner, behind which sat a lean youth with cunning eyes and a\nprotruding chin, whose performances in capital-text darkened the window.\nHe had a thick ledger lying open before him, and with the fingers of his\nright hand inserted between the leaves, and his eyes fixed on a very\nfat old lady in a mob-cap--evidently the proprietress of the\nestablishment--who was airing herself at the fire, seemed to be only\nwaiting her directions to refer to some entries contained within its\nrusty clasps.\n\nAs there was a board outside, which acquainted the public that\nservants-of-all-work were perpetually in waiting to be hired from ten\ntill four, Nicholas knew at once that some half-dozen strong young\nwomen, each with pattens and an umbrella, who were sitting upon a form\nin one corner, were in attendance for that purpose: especially as the\npoor things looked anxious and weary. He was not quite so certain of the\ncallings and stations of two smart young ladies who were in conversation\nwith the fat lady before the fire, until--having sat himself down in a\ncorner, and remarked that he would wait until the other customers had\nbeen served--the fat lady resumed the dialogue which his entrance had\ninterrupted.\n\n'Cook, Tom,' said the fat lady, still airing herself as aforesaid.\n\n'Cook,' said Tom, turning over some leaves of the ledger. 'Well!'\n\n'Read out an easy place or two,' said the fat lady.\n\n'Pick out very light ones, if you please, young man,' interposed a\ngenteel female, in shepherd's-plaid boots, who appeared to be the\nclient.\n\n'\"Mrs. Marker,\"' said Tom, reading, '\"Russell Place, Russell Square;\noffers eighteen guineas; tea and sugar found. Two in family, and see\nvery little company. Five servants kept. No man. No followers.\"'\n\n'Oh Lor!' tittered the client. 'THAT won't do. Read another, young man,\nwill you?'\n\n'\"Mrs. Wrymug,\"' said Tom, '\"Pleasant Place, Finsbury. Wages, twelve\nguineas. No tea, no sugar. Serious family--\"'\n\n'Ah! you needn't mind reading that,' interrupted the client.\n\n'\"Three serious footmen,\"' said Tom, impressively.\n\n'Three? did you say?' asked the client in an altered tone.\n\n'Three serious footmen,' replied Tom. '\"Cook, housemaid, and nursemaid;\neach female servant required to join the Little Bethel Congregation\nthree times every Sunday--with a serious footman. If the cook is more\nserious than the footman, she will be expected to improve the footman;\nif the footman is more serious than the cook, he will be expected to\nimprove the cook.\"'\n\n'I'll take the address of that place,' said the client; 'I don't know\nbut what it mightn't suit me pretty well.'\n\n'Here's another,' remarked Tom, turning over the leaves. '\"Family of Mr\nGallanbile, MP. Fifteen guineas, tea and sugar, and servants allowed\nto see male cousins, if godly. Note. Cold dinner in the kitchen on the\nSabbath, Mr. Gallanbile being devoted to the Observance question. No\nvictuals whatever cooked on the Lord's Day, with the exception of dinner\nfor Mr. and Mrs. Gallanbile, which, being a work of piety and necessity,\nis exempted. Mr. Gallanbile dines late on the day of rest, in order to\nprevent the sinfulness of the cook's dressing herself.\"'\n\n'I don't think that'll answer as well as the other,' said the client,\nafter a little whispering with her friend. 'I'll take the other\ndirection, if you please, young man. I can but come back again, if it\ndon't do.'\n\nTom made out the address, as requested, and the genteel client,\nhaving satisfied the fat lady with a small fee, meanwhile, went away\naccompanied by her friend.\n\nAs Nicholas opened his mouth, to request the young man to turn to letter\nS, and let him know what secretaryships remained undisposed of, there\ncame into the office an applicant, in whose favour he immediately\nretired, and whose appearance both surprised and interested him.\n\nThis was a young lady who could be scarcely eighteen, of very slight and\ndelicate figure, but exquisitely shaped, who, walking timidly up to the\ndesk, made an inquiry, in a very low tone of voice, relative to some\nsituation as governess, or companion to a lady. She raised her veil, for\nan instant, while she preferred the inquiry, and disclosed a countenance\nof most uncommon beauty, though shaded by a cloud of sadness, which, in\none so young, was doubly remarkable. Having received a card of reference\nto some person on the books, she made the usual acknowledgment, and\nglided away.\n\nShe was neatly, but very quietly attired; so much so, indeed, that it\nseemed as though her dress, if it had been worn by one who imparted\nfewer graces of her own to it, might have looked poor and shabby. Her\nattendant--for she had one--was a red-faced, round-eyed, slovenly girl,\nwho, from a certain roughness about the bare arms that peeped from under\nher draggled shawl, and the half-washed-out traces of smut and\nblacklead which tattooed her countenance, was clearly of a kin with the\nservants-of-all-work on the form: between whom and herself there had\npassed various grins and glances, indicative of the freemasonry of the\ncraft.\n\nThis girl followed her mistress; and, before Nicholas had recovered from\nthe first effects of his surprise and admiration, the young lady was\ngone. It is not a matter of such complete and utter improbability as\nsome sober people may think, that he would have followed them out,\nhad he not been restrained by what passed between the fat lady and her\nbook-keeper.\n\n'When is she coming again, Tom?' asked the fat lady.\n\n'Tomorrow morning,' replied Tom, mending his pen.\n\n'Where have you sent her to?' asked the fat lady.\n\n'Mrs. Clark's,' replied Tom.\n\n'She'll have a nice life of it, if she goes there,' observed the fat\nlady, taking a pinch of snuff from a tin box.\n\nTom made no other reply than thrusting his tongue into his cheek,\nand pointing the feather of his pen towards Nicholas--reminders which\nelicited from the fat lady an inquiry, of 'Now, sir, what can we do for\nYOU?'\n\nNicholas briefly replied, that he wanted to know whether there was any\nsuch post to be had, as secretary or amanuensis to a gentleman.\n\n'Any such!' rejoined the mistress; 'a-dozen-such. An't there, Tom?'\n\n'I should think so,' answered that young gentleman; and as he said it,\nhe winked towards Nicholas, with a degree of familiarity which he,\nno doubt, intended for a rather flattering compliment, but with which\nNicholas was most ungratefully disgusted.\n\nUpon reference to the book, it appeared that the dozen secretaryships\nhad dwindled down to one. Mr. Gregsbury, the great member of parliament,\nof Manchester Buildings, Westminster, wanted a young man, to keep his\npapers and correspondence in order; and Nicholas was exactly the sort of\nyoung man that Mr. Gregsbury wanted.\n\n'I don't know what the terms are, as he said he'd settle them himself\nwith the party,' observed the fat lady; 'but they must be pretty good\nones, because he's a member of parliament.'\n\nInexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not feel quite assured of the\nforce of this reasoning, or the justice of this conclusion; but without\ntroubling himself to question it, he took down the address, and resolved\nto wait upon Mr. Gregsbury without delay.\n\n'I don't know what the number is,' said Tom; 'but Manchester Buildings\nisn't a large place; and if the worst comes to the worst it won't take\nyou very long to knock at all the doors on both sides of the way till\nyou find him out. I say, what a good-looking gal that was, wasn't she?'\n\n'What girl?' demanded Nicholas, sternly.\n\n'Oh yes. I know--what gal, eh?' whispered Tom, shutting one eye, and\ncocking his chin in the air. 'You didn't see her, you didn't--I say,\ndon't you wish you was me, when she comes tomorrow morning?'\n\nNicholas looked at the ugly clerk, as if he had a mind to reward his\nadmiration of the young lady by beating the ledger about his ears,\nbut he refrained, and strode haughtily out of the office; setting at\ndefiance, in his indignation, those ancient laws of chivalry, which not\nonly made it proper and lawful for all good knights to hear the praise\nof the ladies to whom they were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon\nthem to roam about the world, and knock at head all such matter-of-fact\nand un-poetical characters, as declined to exalt, above all the earth,\ndamsels whom they had never chanced to look upon or hear of--as if that\nwere any excuse!\n\nThinking no longer of his own misfortunes, but wondering what could\nbe those of the beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, with many wrong\nturns, and many inquiries, and almost as many misdirections, bent his\nsteps towards the place whither he had been directed.\n\nWithin the precincts of the ancient city of Westminster, and within\nhalf a quarter of a mile of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrow and dirty\nregion, the sanctuary of the smaller members of Parliament in modern\ndays. It is all comprised in one street of gloomy lodging-houses, from\nwhose windows, in vacation-time, there frown long melancholy rows of\nbills, which say, as plainly as did the countenances of their occupiers,\nranged on ministerial and opposition benches in the session which\nslumbers with its fathers, 'To Let', 'To Let'. In busier periods of the\nyear these bills disappear, and the houses swarm with legislators. There\nare legislators in the parlours, in the first floor, in the second, in\nthe third, in the garrets; the small apartments reek with the breath of\ndeputations and delegates. In damp weather, the place is rendered close,\nby the steams of moist acts of parliament and frouzy petitions; general\npostmen grow faint as they enter its infected limits, and shabby figures\nin quest of franks, flit restlessly to and fro like the troubled ghosts\nof Complete Letter-writers departed. This is Manchester Buildings; and\nhere, at all hours of the night, may be heard the rattling of latch-keys\nin their respective keyholes: with now and then--when a gust of wind\nsweeping across the water which washes the Buildings' feet, impels the\nsound towards its entrance--the weak, shrill voice of some young member\npractising tomorrow's speech. All the livelong day, there is a grinding\nof organs and clashing and clanging of little boxes of music; for\nManchester Buildings is an eel-pot, which has no outlet but its awkward\nmouth--a case-bottle which has no thoroughfare, and a short and narrow\nneck--and in this respect it may be typical of the fate of some few\namong its more adventurous residents, who, after wriggling themselves\ninto Parliament by violent efforts and contortions, find that it, too,\nis no thoroughfare for them; that, like Manchester Buildings, it leads\nto nothing beyond itself; and that they are fain at last to back out, no\nwiser, no richer, not one whit more famous, than they went in.\n\nInto Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned, with the address of the great\nMr. Gregsbury in his hand. As there was a stream of people pouring into\na shabby house not far from the entrance, he waited until they had made\ntheir way in, and then making up to the servant, ventured to inquire if\nhe knew where Mr. Gregsbury lived.\n\nThe servant was a very pale, shabby boy, who looked as if he had slept\nunderground from his infancy, as very likely he had. 'Mr. Gregsbury?'\nsaid he; 'Mr. Gregsbury lodges here. It's all right. Come in!'\n\nNicholas thought he might as well get in while he could, so in he\nwalked; and he had no sooner done so, than the boy shut the door, and\nmade off.\n\nThis was odd enough: but what was more embarrassing was, that all along\nthe passage, and all along the narrow stairs, blocking up the window,\nand making the dark entry darker still, was a confused crowd of\npersons with great importance depicted in their looks; who were, to all\nappearance, waiting in silent expectation of some coming event. From\ntime to time, one man would whisper to his neighbour, or a little group\nwould whisper together, and then the whisperers would nod fiercely to\neach other, or give their heads a relentless shake, as if they were bent\nupon doing something very desperate, and were determined not to be put\noff, whatever happened.\n\nAs a few minutes elapsed without anything occurring to explain this\nphenomenon, and as he felt his own position a peculiarly uncomfortable\none, Nicholas was on the point of seeking some information from the man\nnext him, when a sudden move was visible on the stairs, and a voice was\nheard to cry, 'Now, gentleman, have the goodness to walk up!'\n\nSo far from walking up, the gentlemen on the stairs began to walk down\nwith great alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinary politeness, that\nthe gentlemen nearest the street would go first; the gentlemen nearest\nthe street retorted, with equal courtesy, that they couldn't think of\nsuch a thing on any account; but they did it, without thinking of it,\ninasmuch as the other gentlemen pressing some half-dozen (among whom was\nNicholas) forward, and closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up the\nstairs, but into the very sitting-room of Mr. Gregsbury, which they were\nthus compelled to enter with most unseemly precipitation, and without\nthe means of retreat; the press behind them, more than filling the\napartment.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'you are welcome. I am rejoiced to see\nyou.'\n\nFor a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a body of visitors, Mr. Gregsbury\nlooked as uncomfortable as might be; but perhaps this was occasioned by\nsenatorial gravity, and a statesmanlike habit of keeping his feelings\nunder control. He was a tough, burly, thick-headed gentleman, with a\nloud voice, a pompous manner, a tolerable command of sentences with no\nmeaning in them, and, in short, every requisite for a very good member\nindeed.\n\n'Now, gentlemen,' said Mr. Gregsbury, tossing a great bundle of papers\ninto a wicker basket at his feet, and throwing himself back in his chair\nwith his arms over the elbows, 'you are dissatisfied with my conduct, I\nsee by the newspapers.'\n\n'Yes, Mr. Gregsbury, we are,' said a plump old gentleman in a violent\nheat, bursting out of the throng, and planting himself in the front.\n\n'Do my eyes deceive me,' said Mr. Gregsbury, looking towards the speaker,\n'or is that my old friend Pugstyles?'\n\n'I am that man, and no other, sir,' replied the plump old gentleman.\n\n'Give me your hand, my worthy friend,' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'Pugstyles, my\ndear friend, I am very sorry to see you here.'\n\n'I am very sorry to be here, sir,' said Mr. Pugstyles; 'but your conduct,\nMr. Gregsbury, has rendered this deputation from your constituents\nimperatively necessary.'\n\n'My conduct, Pugstyles,' said Mr. Gregsbury, looking round upon the\ndeputation with gracious magnanimity--'my conduct has been, and ever\nwill be, regulated by a sincere regard for the true and real interests\nof this great and happy country. Whether I look at home, or abroad;\nwhether I behold the peaceful industrious communities of our island\nhome: her rivers covered with steamboats, her roads with locomotives,\nher streets with cabs, her skies with balloons of a power and magnitude\nhitherto unknown in the history of aeronautics in this or any other\nnation--I say, whether I look merely at home, or, stretching my\neyes farther, contemplate the boundless prospect of conquest and\npossession--achieved by British perseverance and British valour--which\nis outspread before me, I clasp my hands, and turning my eyes to the\nbroad expanse above my head, exclaim, \"Thank Heaven, I am a Briton!\"'\n\nThe time had been, when this burst of enthusiasm would have been cheered\nto the very echo; but now, the deputation received it with chilling\ncoldness. The general impression seemed to be, that as an explanation\nof Mr. Gregsbury's political conduct, it did not enter quite enough into\ndetail; and one gentleman in the rear did not scruple to remark aloud,\nthat, for his purpose, it savoured rather too much of a 'gammon'\ntendency.\n\n'The meaning of that term--gammon,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'is unknown\nto me. If it means that I grow a little too fervid, or perhaps even\nhyperbolical, in extolling my native land, I admit the full justice of\nthe remark. I AM proud of this free and happy country. My form dilates,\nmy eye glistens, my breast heaves, my heart swells, my bosom burns, when\nI call to mind her greatness and her glory.'\n\n'We wish, sir,' remarked Mr. Pugstyles, calmly, 'to ask you a few\nquestions.'\n\n'If you please, gentlemen; my time is yours--and my country's--and my\ncountry's--' said Mr. Gregsbury.\n\nThis permission being conceded, Mr. Pugstyles put on his spectacles, and\nreferred to a written paper which he drew from his pocket; whereupon\nnearly every other member of the deputation pulled a written paper from\nHIS pocket, to check Mr. Pugstyles off, as he read the questions.\n\nThis done, Mr. Pugstyles proceeded to business.\n\n'Question number one.--Whether, sir, you did not give a voluntary pledge\nprevious to your election, that in event of your being returned, you\nwould immediately put down the practice of coughing and groaning in\nthe House of Commons. And whether you did not submit to be coughed and\ngroaned down in the very first debate of the session, and have since\nmade no effort to effect a reform in this respect? Whether you did not\nalso pledge yourself to astonish the government, and make them shrink in\ntheir shoes? And whether you have astonished them, and made them shrink\nin their shoes, or not?'\n\n'Go on to the next one, my dear Pugstyles,' said Mr. Gregsbury.\n\n'Have you any explanation to offer with reference to that question,\nsir?' asked Mr. Pugstyles.\n\n'Certainly not,' said Mr. Gregsbury.\n\nThe members of the deputation looked fiercely at each other, and\nafterwards at the member. 'Dear Pugstyles' having taken a very long\nstare at Mr. Gregsbury over the tops of his spectacles, resumed his list\nof inquiries.\n\n'Question number two.--Whether, sir, you did not likewise give a\nvoluntary pledge that you would support your colleague on every\noccasion; and whether you did not, the night before last, desert him\nand vote upon the other side, because the wife of a leader on that other\nside had invited Mrs. Gregsbury to an evening party?'\n\n'Go on,' said Mr. Gregsbury.\n\n'Nothing to say on that, either, sir?' asked the spokesman.\n\n'Nothing whatever,' replied Mr. Gregsbury. The deputation, who had\nonly seen him at canvassing or election time, were struck dumb by his\ncoolness. He didn't appear like the same man; then he was all milk and\nhoney; now he was all starch and vinegar. But men ARE so different at\ndifferent times!\n\n'Question number three--and last,' said Mr. Pugstyles, emphatically.\n'Whether, sir, you did not state upon the hustings, that it was your\nfirm and determined intention to oppose everything proposed; to divide\nthe house upon every question, to move for returns on every subject,\nto place a motion on the books every day, and, in short, in your own\nmemorable words, to play the very devil with everything and everybody?'\nWith this comprehensive inquiry, Mr. Pugstyles folded up his list of\nquestions, as did all his backers.\n\nMr. Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw himself further back in\nhis chair, came forward again, leaning his elbows on the table, made a\ntriangle with his two thumbs and his two forefingers, and tapping his\nnose with the apex thereof, replied (smiling as he said it), 'I deny\neverything.'\n\nAt this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur arose from the deputation;\nand the same gentleman who had expressed an opinion relative to the\ngammoning nature of the introductory speech, again made a monosyllabic\ndemonstration, by growling out 'Resign!' Which growl being taken up by\nhis fellows, swelled into a very earnest and general remonstrance.\n\n'I am requested, sir, to express a hope,' said Mr. Pugstyles, with a\ndistant bow, 'that on receiving a requisition to that effect from a\ngreat majority of your constituents, you will not object at once to\nresign your seat in favour of some candidate whom they think they can\nbetter trust.'\n\nTo this, Mr. Gregsbury read the following reply, which, anticipating the\nrequest, he had composed in the form of a letter, whereof copies had\nbeen made to send round to the newspapers.\n\n'MY DEAR MR PUGSTYLES,\n\n'Next to the welfare of our beloved island--this great and free and\nhappy country, whose powers and resources are, I sincerely believe,\nillimitable--I value that noble independence which is an Englishman's\nproudest boast, and which I fondly hope to bequeath to my children,\nuntarnished and unsullied. Actuated by no personal motives, but moved\nonly by high and great constitutional considerations; which I will not\nattempt to explain, for they are really beneath the comprehension of\nthose who have not made themselves masters, as I have, of the intricate\nand arduous study of politics; I would rather keep my seat, and intend\ndoing so.\n\n'Will you do me the favour to present my compliments to the constituent\nbody, and acquaint them with this circumstance?\n\n'With great esteem, 'My dear Mr. Pugstyles, '&c.&c.'\n\n'Then you will not resign, under any circumstances?' asked the\nspokesman.\n\nMr. Gregsbury smiled, and shook his head.\n\n'Then, good-morning, sir,' said Pugstyles, angrily.\n\n'Heaven bless you!' said Mr. Gregsbury. And the deputation, with many\ngrowls and scowls, filed off as quickly as the narrowness of the\nstaircase would allow of their getting down.\n\nThe last man being gone, Mr. Gregsbury rubbed his hands and chuckled, as\nmerry fellows will, when they think they have said or done a more than\ncommonly good thing; he was so engrossed in this self-congratulation,\nthat he did not observe that Nicholas had been left behind in the shadow\nof the window-curtains, until that young gentleman, fearing he might\notherwise overhear some soliloquy intended to have no listeners, coughed\ntwice or thrice, to attract the member's notice.\n\n'What's that?' said Mr. Gregsbury, in sharp accents.\n\nNicholas stepped forward, and bowed.\n\n'What do you do here, sir?' asked Mr. Gregsbury; 'a spy upon my privacy!\nA concealed voter! You have heard my answer, sir. Pray follow the\ndeputation.'\n\n'I should have done so, if I had belonged to it, but I do not,' said\nNicholas.\n\n'Then how came you here, sir?' was the natural inquiry of Mr. Gregsbury,\nMP. 'And where the devil have you come from, sir?' was the question\nwhich followed it.\n\n'I brought this card from the General Agency Office, sir,' said\nNicholas, 'wishing to offer myself as your secretary, and understanding\nthat you stood in need of one.'\n\n'That's all you have come for, is it?' said Mr. Gregsbury, eyeing him in\nsome doubt.\n\nNicholas replied in the affirmative.\n\n'You have no connection with any of those rascally papers have you?'\nsaid Mr. Gregsbury. 'You didn't get into the room, to hear what was going\nforward, and put it in print, eh?'\n\n'I have no connection, I am sorry to say, with anything at present,'\nrejoined Nicholas,--politely enough, but quite at his ease.\n\n'Oh!' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'How did you find your way up here, then?'\n\nNicholas related how he had been forced up by the deputation.\n\n'That was the way, was it?' said Mr. Gregsbury. 'Sit down.'\n\nNicholas took a chair, and Mr. Gregsbury stared at him for a long time,\nas if to make certain, before he asked any further questions, that there\nwere no objections to his outward appearance.\n\n'You want to be my secretary, do you?' he said at length.\n\n'I wish to be employed in that capacity, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Gregsbury; 'now what can you do?'\n\n'I suppose,' replied Nicholas, smiling, 'that I can do what usually\nfalls to the lot of other secretaries.'\n\n'What's that?' inquired Mr. Gregsbury.\n\n'What is it?' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Ah! What is it?' retorted the member, looking shrewdly at him, with his\nhead on one side.\n\n'A secretary's duties are rather difficult to define, perhaps,' said\nNicholas, considering. 'They include, I presume, correspondence?'\n\n'Good,' interposed Mr. Gregsbury.\n\n'The arrangement of papers and documents?'\n\n'Very good.'\n\n'Occasionally, perhaps, the writing from your dictation; and possibly,\nsir,' said Nicholas, with a half-smile, 'the copying of your speech\nfor some public journal, when you have made one of more than usual\nimportance.'\n\n'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Gregsbury. 'What else?'\n\n'Really,' said Nicholas, after a moment's reflection, 'I am not able, at\nthis instant, to recapitulate any other duty of a secretary, beyond the\ngeneral one of making himself as agreeable and useful to his employer\nas he can, consistently with his own respectability, and without\noverstepping that line of duties which he undertakes to perform, and\nwhich the designation of his office is usually understood to imply.'\n\nMr. Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas for a short time, and then\nglancing warily round the room, said in a suppressed voice:\n\n'This is all very well, Mr--what is your name?'\n\n'Nickleby.'\n\n'This is all very well, Mr. Nickleby, and very proper, so far as it\ngoes--so far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough. There are other\nduties, Mr. Nickleby, which a secretary to a parliamentary gentleman must\nnever lose sight of. I should require to be crammed, sir.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' interposed Nicholas, doubtful whether he had heard\naright.\n\n'--To be crammed, sir,' repeated Mr. Gregsbury.\n\n'May I beg your pardon again, if I inquire what you mean, sir?' said\nNicholas.\n\n'My meaning, sir, is perfectly plain,' replied Mr. Gregsbury with a\nsolemn aspect. 'My secretary would have to make himself master of the\nforeign policy of the world, as it is mirrored in the newspapers; to run\nhis eye over all accounts of public meetings, all leading articles,\nand accounts of the proceedings of public bodies; and to make notes\nof anything which it appeared to him might be made a point of, in any\nlittle speech upon the question of some petition lying on the table, or\nanything of that kind. Do you understand?'\n\n'I think I do, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Then,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'it would be necessary for him to make\nhimself acquainted, from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs on\npassing events; such as \"Mysterious disappearance, and supposed suicide\nof a potboy,\" or anything of that sort, upon which I might found a\nquestion to the Secretary of State for the Home Department. Then, he\nwould have to copy the question, and as much as I remembered of the\nanswer (including a little compliment about independence and good\nsense); and to send the manuscript in a frank to the local paper, with\nperhaps half-a-dozen lines of leader, to the effect, that I was always\nto be found in my place in parliament, and never shrunk from the\nresponsible and arduous duties, and so forth. You see?'\n\nNicholas bowed.\n\n'Besides which,' continued Mr. Gregsbury, 'I should expect him, now and\nthen, to go through a few figures in the printed tables, and to pick\nout a few results, so that I might come out pretty well on timber duty\nquestions, and finance questions, and so on; and I should like him to\nget up a few little arguments about the disastrous effects of a return\nto cash payments and a metallic currency, with a touch now and then\nabout the exportation of bullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank\nnotes, and all that kind of thing, which it's only necessary to talk\nfluently about, because nobody understands it. Do you take me?'\n\n'I think I understand,' said Nicholas.\n\n'With regard to such questions as are not political,' continued Mr\nGregsbury, warming; 'and which one can't be expected to care a curse\nabout, beyond the natural care of not allowing inferior people to be as\nwell off as ourselves--else where are our privileges?--I should wish\nmy secretary to get together a few little flourishing speeches, of a\npatriotic cast. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought\nforward, for giving poor grubbing devils of authors a right to their own\nproperty, I should like to say, that I for one would never consent to\nopposing an insurmountable bar to the diffusion of literature among THE\nPEOPLE,--you understand?--that the creations of the pocket, being man's,\nmight belong to one man, or one family; but that the creations of the\nbrain, being God's, ought as a matter of course to belong to the people\nat large--and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a joke\nabout posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity should be\ncontent to be rewarded by the approbation OF posterity; it might take\nwith the house, and could never do me any harm, because posterity can't\nbe expected to know anything about me or my jokes either--do you see?'\n\n'I see that, sir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'You must always bear in mind, in such cases as this, where our\ninterests are not affected,' said Mr. Gregsbury, 'to put it very strong\nabout the people, because it comes out very well at election-time; and\nyou could be as funny as you liked about the authors; because I believe\nthe greater part of them live in lodgings, and are not voters. This is\na hasty outline of the chief things you'd have to do, except waiting in\nthe lobby every night, in case I forgot anything, and should want fresh\ncramming; and, now and then, during great debates, sitting in the\nfront row of the gallery, and saying to the people about--'You see that\ngentleman, with his hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the\npillar--that's Mr. Gregsbury--the celebrated Mr. Gregsbury,'--with any\nother little eulogium that might strike you at the moment. And for\nsalary,' said Mr. Gregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for he was\nout of breath--'and for salary, I don't mind saying at once in round\nnumbers, to prevent any dissatisfaction--though it's more than I've been\naccustomed to give--fifteen shillings a week, and find yourself. There!'\n\nWith this handsome offer, Mr. Gregsbury once more threw himself back in\nhis chair, and looked like a man who had been most profligately liberal,\nbut is determined not to repent of it notwithstanding.\n\n'Fifteen shillings a week is not much,' said Nicholas, mildly.\n\n'Not much! Fifteen shillings a week not much, young man?' cried Mr\nGregsbury. 'Fifteen shillings a--'\n\n'Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the sum, sir,' replied\nNicholas; 'for I am not ashamed to confess, that whatever it may be in\nitself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties and responsibilities\nmake the recompense small, and they are so very heavy that I fear to\nundertake them.'\n\n'Do you decline to undertake them, sir?' inquired Mr. Gregsbury, with his\nhand on the bell-rope.\n\n'I fear they are too great for my powers, however good my will may be,\nsir,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept the place,\nand that you consider fifteen shillings a week too little,' said Mr\nGregsbury, ringing. 'Do you decline it, sir?'\n\n'I have no alternative but to do so,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Door, Matthews!' said Mr. Gregsbury, as the boy appeared.\n\n'I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'I am sorry you have,' rejoined Mr. Gregsbury, turning his back upon him.\n'Door, Matthews!'\n\n'Good-morning, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Door, Matthews!' cried Mr. Gregsbury.\n\nThe boy beckoned Nicholas, and tumbling lazily downstairs before him,\nopened the door, and ushered him into the street. With a sad and pensive\nair, he retraced his steps homewards.\n\nSmike had scraped a meal together from the remnant of last night's\nsupper, and was anxiously awaiting his return. The occurrences of the\nmorning had not improved Nicholas's appetite, and, by him, the dinner\nremained untasted. He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, with the\nplate which the poor fellow had assiduously filled with the choicest\nmorsels, untouched, by his side, when Newman Noggs looked into the room.\n\n'Come back?' asked Newman.\n\n'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'tired to death: and, what is worse, might have\nremained at home for all the good I have done.'\n\n'Couldn't expect to do much in one morning,' said Newman.\n\n'Maybe so, but I am sanguine, and did expect,' said Nicholas, 'and am\nproportionately disappointed.' Saying which, he gave Newman an account\nof his proceedings.\n\n'If I could do anything,' said Nicholas, 'anything, however slight,\nuntil Ralph Nickleby returns, and I have eased my mind by confronting\nhim, I should feel happier. I should think it no disgrace to work,\nHeaven knows. Lying indolently here, like a half-tamed sullen beast,\ndistracts me.'\n\n'I don't know,' said Newman; 'small things offer--they would pay the\nrent, and more--but you wouldn't like them; no, you could hardly be\nexpected to undergo it--no, no.'\n\n'What could I hardly be expected to undergo?' asked Nicholas, raising\nhis eyes. 'Show me, in this wide waste of London, any honest means by\nwhich I could even defray the weekly hire of this poor room, and see if\nI shrink from resorting to them! Undergo! I have undergone too much,\nmy friend, to feel pride or squeamishness now. Except--' added Nicholas\nhastily, after a short silence, 'except such squeamishness as is common\nhonesty, and so much pride as constitutes self-respect. I see little\nto choose, between assistant to a brutal pedagogue, and toad-eater to a\nmean and ignorant upstart, be he member or no member.'\n\n'I hardly know whether I should tell you what I heard this morning, or\nnot,' said Newman.\n\n'Has it reference to what you said just now?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'It has.'\n\n'Then in Heaven's name, my good friend, tell it me,' said Nicholas. 'For\nGod's sake consider my deplorable condition; and, while I promise to\ntake no step without taking counsel with you, give me, at least, a vote\nin my own behalf.'\n\nMoved by this entreaty, Newman stammered forth a variety of most\nunaccountable and entangled sentences, the upshot of which was, that\nMrs. Kenwigs had examined him, at great length that morning, touching\nthe origin of his acquaintance with, and the whole life, adventures, and\npedigree of, Nicholas; that Newman had parried these questions as\nlong as he could, but being, at length, hard pressed and driven into a\ncorner, had gone so far as to admit, that Nicholas was a tutor of\ngreat accomplishments, involved in some misfortunes which he was not at\nliberty to explain, and bearing the name of Johnson. That Mrs. Kenwigs,\nimpelled by gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or maternal love,\nor all four powerful motives conjointly, had taken secret conference\nwith Mr. Kenwigs, and had finally returned to propose that Mr. Johnson\nshould instruct the four Miss Kenwigses in the French language as spoken\nby natives, at the weekly stipend of five shillings, current coin of\nthe realm; being at the rate of one shilling per week, per each Miss\nKenwigs, and one shilling over, until such time as the baby might be\nable to take it out in grammar.\n\n'Which, unless I am very much mistaken,' observed Mrs. Kenwigs in making\nthe proposition, 'will not be very long; for such clever children, Mr\nNoggs, never were born into this world, I do believe.'\n\n'There,' said Newman, 'that's all. It's beneath you, I know; but I\nthought that perhaps you might--'\n\n'Might!' cried Nicholas, with great alacrity; 'of course I shall. I\naccept the offer at once. Tell the worthy mother so, without delay, my\ndear fellow; and that I am ready to begin whenever she pleases.'\n\nNewman hastened, with joyful steps, to inform Mrs. Kenwigs of his\nfriend's acquiescence, and soon returning, brought back word that they\nwould be happy to see him in the first floor as soon as convenient;\nthat Mrs. Kenwigs had, upon the instant, sent out to secure a second-hand\nFrench grammar and dialogues, which had long been fluttering in the\nsixpenny box at the bookstall round the corner; and that the family,\nhighly excited at the prospect of this addition to their gentility,\nwished the initiatory lesson to come off immediately.\n\nAnd here it may be observed, that Nicholas was not, in the ordinary\nsense of the word, a young man of high spirit. He would resent an\naffront to himself, or interpose to redress a wrong offered to another,\nas boldly and freely as any knight that ever set lance in rest; but he\nlacked that peculiar excess of coolness and great-minded selfishness,\nwhich invariably distinguish gentlemen of high spirit. In truth, for our\nown part, we are disposed to look upon such gentleman as being rather\nincumbrances than otherwise in rising families: happening to be\nacquainted with several whose spirit prevents their settling down to\nany grovelling occupation, and only displays itself in a tendency to\ncultivate moustachios, and look fierce; and although moustachios and\nferocity are both very pretty things in their way, and very much to be\ncommended, we confess to a desire to see them bred at the owner's proper\ncost, rather than at the expense of low-spirited people.\n\nNicholas, therefore, not being a high-spirited young man according to\ncommon parlance, and deeming it a greater degradation to borrow, for the\nsupply of his necessities, from Newman Noggs, than to teach French to\nthe little Kenwigses for five shillings a week, accepted the offer with\nthe alacrity already described, and betook himself to the first floor\nwith all convenient speed.\n\nHere, he was received by Mrs. Kenwigs with a genteel air, kindly intended\nto assure him of her protection and support; and here, too, he found Mr\nLillyvick and Miss Petowker; the four Miss Kenwigses on their form of\naudience; and the baby in a dwarf porter's chair with a deal tray before\nit, amusing himself with a toy horse without a head; the said horse\nbeing composed of a small wooden cylinder, not unlike an Italian iron,\nsupported on four crooked pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of\nred wafers set in blacking.\n\n'How do you do, Mr. Johnson?' said Mrs. Kenwigs. 'Uncle--Mr. Johnson.'\n\n'How do you do, sir?' said Mr. Lillyvick--rather sharply; for he had not\nknown what Nicholas was, on the previous night, and it was rather an\naggravating circumstance if a tax collector had been too polite to a\nteacher.\n\n'Mr. Johnson is engaged as private master to the children, uncle,' said\nMrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'So you said just now, my dear,' replied Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'But I hope,' said Mrs. Kenwigs, drawing herself up, 'that that will not\nmake them proud; but that they will bless their own good fortune,\nwhich has born them superior to common people's children. Do you hear,\nMorleena?'\n\n'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs.\n\n'And when you go out in the streets, or elsewhere, I desire that you\ndon't boast of it to the other children,' said Mrs. Kenwigs; 'and that if\nyou must say anything about it, you don't say no more than \"We've got a\nprivate master comes to teach us at home, but we ain't proud, because ma\nsays it's sinful.\" Do you hear, Morleena?'\n\n'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs again.\n\n'Then mind you recollect, and do as I tell you,' said Mrs. Kenwigs.\n'Shall Mr. Johnson begin, uncle?'\n\n'I am ready to hear, if Mr. Johnson is ready to commence, my dear,' said\nthe collector, assuming the air of a profound critic. 'What sort of\nlanguage do you consider French, sir?'\n\n'How do you mean?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Do you consider it a good language, sir?' said the collector; 'a pretty\nlanguage, a sensible language?'\n\n'A pretty language, certainly,' replied Nicholas; 'and as it has a name\nfor everything, and admits of elegant conversation about everything, I\npresume it is a sensible one.'\n\n'I don't know,' said Mr. Lillyvick, doubtfully. 'Do you call it a\ncheerful language, now?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'I should say it was, certainly.'\n\n'It's very much changed since my time, then,' said the collector, 'very\nmuch.'\n\n'Was it a dismal one in your time?' asked Nicholas, scarcely able to\nrepress a smile.\n\n'Very,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. 'It's the\nwar time that I speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language.\nI should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can only say that I've\nheard the French prisoners, who were natives, and ought to know how to\nspeak it, talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable to\nhear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir--fifty times!'\n\nMr. Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs. Kenwigs thought it expedient\nto motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss\nPetowker had practised several blandishments, to soften the excellent\nold gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by asking,\n\n'What's the water in French, sir?'\n\n'L'EAU,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, 'I thought as\nmuch. Lo, eh? I don't think anything of that language--nothing at all.'\n\n'I suppose the children may begin, uncle?' said Mrs. Kenwigs.\n\n'Oh yes; they may begin, my dear,' replied the collector,\ndiscontentedly. 'I have no wish to prevent them.'\n\nThis permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row,\nwith their tails all one way, and Morleena at the top: while Nicholas,\ntaking the book, began his preliminary explanations. Miss Petowker\nand Mrs. Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only by the\nwhispered assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by\nheart in no time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and\nattentive eyes, lying in wait for something upon which he could open a\nfresh discussion on the language.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\nFollows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby\n\n\nIt was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort\ncould banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the\ncommencement of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when\nits clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her\nway alone, amid the noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west\nend of London.\n\nAt this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the\npoor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks\nthe thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets, making towards the\nscene of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their\nhurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight\nwhich cheer their monotonous existence during the long train of hours\nthat make a working day. As she drew nigh to the more fashionable\nquarter of the town, Kate marked many of this class as they passed by,\nhurrying like herself to their painful occupation, and saw, in their\nunhealthy looks and feeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her\nmisgivings were not wholly groundless.\n\nShe arrived at Madame Mantalini's some minutes before the appointed\nhour, and after walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some\nother female might arrive and spare her the embarrassment of stating her\nbusiness to the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which, after some\ndelay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped\njacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.\n\n'Is Madame Mantalini in?' faltered Kate.\n\n'Not often out at this time, miss,' replied the man in a tone which\nrendered \"Miss,\" something more offensive than \"My dear.\"\n\n'Can I see her?' asked Kate.\n\n'Eh?' replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the\ninquirer with a stare and a broad grin, 'Lord, no.'\n\n'I came by her own appointment,' said Kate; 'I am--I am--to be employed\nhere.'\n\n'Oh! you should have rung the worker's bell,' said the footman, touching\nthe handle of one in the door-post. 'Let me see, though, I forgot--Miss\nNickleby, is it?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Kate.\n\n'You're to walk upstairs then, please,' said the man. 'Madame Mantalini\nwants to see you--this way--take care of these things on the floor.'\n\nCautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter\nof pastry-cook's trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of\nrout seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeaking a late\nparty on the previous night, the man led the way to the second story,\nand ushered Kate into a back-room, communicating by folding-doors\nwith the apartment in which she had first seen the mistress of the\nestablishment.\n\n'If you'll wait here a minute,' said the man, 'I'll tell her presently.'\nHaving made this promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate\nalone.\n\nThere was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive\nfeature was, a half-length portrait in oil, of Mr. Mantalini, whom the\nartist had depicted scratching his head in an easy manner, and thus\ndisplaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini\nbefore her marriage. There was, however, the sound of voices in\nconversation in the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the\npartition thin, Kate could not help discovering that they belonged to Mr\nand Mrs. Mantalini.\n\n'If you will be odiously, demnebly, outr_i_geously jealous, my soul,' said\nMr. Mantalini, 'you will be very miserable--horrid miserable--demnition\nmiserable.' And then, there was a sound as though Mr. Mantalini were\nsipping his coffee.\n\n'I AM miserable,' returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.\n\n'Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,'\nsaid Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'I am not,' returned Madame, with a sob.\n\n'Do not put itself out of humour,' said Mr. Mantalini, breaking an egg.\n'It is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not\nbe out of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makes it cross and\ngloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.'\n\n'I am not to be brought round in that way, always,' rejoined Madame,\nsulkily.\n\n'It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought\nround at all if it likes that better,' retorted Mr. Mantalini, with his\negg-spoon in his mouth.\n\n'It's very easy to talk,' said Mrs. Mantalini.\n\n'Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,' replied Mr. Mantalini;\n'for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match\nany waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.'\n\n'You were flirting with her during the whole night,' said Madame\nMantalini, apparently desirous to lead the conversation back to the\npoint from which it had strayed.\n\n'No, no, my life.'\n\n'You were,' said Madame; 'I had my eye upon you all the time.'\n\n'Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!'\ncried Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture. 'Oh, demmit!'\n\n'And I say once more,' resumed Madame, 'that you ought not to waltz with\nanybody but your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini, if I take\npoison first.'\n\n'She will not take poison and have horrid pains, will she?' said\nMantalini; who, by the altered sound of his voice, seemed to have moved\nhis chair, and taken up his position nearer to his wife. 'She will not\ntake poison, because she had a demd fine husband who might have married\ntwo countesses and a dowager--'\n\n'Two countesses,' interposed Madame. 'You told me one before!'\n\n'Two!' cried Mantalini. 'Two demd fine women, real countesses and\nsplendid fortunes, demmit.'\n\n'And why didn't you?' asked Madame, playfully.\n\n'Why didn't I!' replied her husband. 'Had I not seen, at a morning\nconcert, the demdest little fascinator in all the world, and while that\nlittle fascinator is my wife, may not all the countesses and dowagers in\nEngland be--'\n\nMr. Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave Madame Mantalini\na very loud kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned; after which, there\nseemed to be some more kissing mixed up with the progress of the\nbreakfast.\n\n'And what about the cash, my existence's jewel?' said Mantalini, when\nthese endearments ceased. 'How much have we in hand?'\n\n'Very little indeed,' replied Madame.\n\n'We must have some more,' said Mantalini; 'we must have some discount\nout of old Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.'\n\n'You can't want any more just now,' said Madame coaxingly.\n\n'My life and soul,' returned her husband, 'there is a horse for sale\nat Scrubbs's, which it would be a sin and a crime to lose--going, my\nsenses' joy, for nothing.'\n\n'For nothing,' cried Madame, 'I am glad of that.'\n\n'For actually nothing,' replied Mantalini. 'A hundred guineas down will\nbuy him; mane, and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest beauty.\nI will ride him in the park before the very chariots of the rejected\ncountesses. The demd old dowager will faint with grief and rage; the\nother two will say \"He is married, he has made away with himself, it\nis a demd thing, it is all up!\" They will hate each other demnebly, and\nwish you dead and buried. Ha! ha! Demmit.'\n\nMadame Mantalini's prudence, if she had any, was not proof against these\ntriumphal pictures; after a little jingling of keys, she observed that\nshe would see what her desk contained, and rising for that purpose,\nopened the folding-door, and walked into the room where Kate was seated.\n\n'Dear me, child!' exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling in surprise.\n'How came you here?'\n\n'Child!' cried Mantalini, hurrying in. 'How came--eh!--oh--demmit, how\nd'ye do?'\n\n'I have been waiting, here some time, ma'am,' said Kate, addressing\nMadame Mantalini. 'The servant must have forgotten to let you know that\nI was here, I think.'\n\n'You really must see to that man,' said Madame, turning to her husband.\n'He forgets everything.'\n\n'I will twist his demd nose off his countenance for leaving such a very\npretty creature all alone by herself,' said her husband.\n\n'Mantalini,' cried Madame, 'you forget yourself.'\n\n'I don't forget you, my soul, and never shall, and never can,' said\nMantalini, kissing his wife's hand, and grimacing aside, to Miss\nNickleby, who turned away.\n\nAppeased by this compliment, the lady of the business took some papers\nfrom her desk which she handed over to Mr. Mantalini, who received them\nwith great delight. She then requested Kate to follow her, and after\nseveral feints on the part of Mr. Mantalini to attract the young lady's\nattention, they went away: leaving that gentleman extended at full\nlength on the sofa, with his heels in the air and a newspaper in his\nhand.\n\nMadame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, and through a\npassage, to a large room at the back of the premises where were a number\nof young women employed in sewing, cutting out, making up, altering, and\nvarious other processes known only to those who are cunning in the arts\nof millinery and dressmaking. It was a close room with a skylight, and\nas dull and quiet as a room need be.\n\nOn Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short, bustling,\nover-dressed female, full of importance, presented herself, and all the\nyoung ladies suspending their operations for the moment, whispered\nto each other sundry criticisms upon the make and texture of Miss\nNickleby's dress, her complexion, cast of features, and personal\nappearance, with as much good breeding as could have been displayed by\nthe very best society in a crowded ball-room.\n\n'Oh, Miss Knag,' said Madame Mantalini, 'this is the young person I\nspoke to you about.'\n\nMiss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon Madame Mantalini, which\nshe dexterously transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and said that\ncertainly, although it was a great deal of trouble to have young people\nwho were wholly unused to the business, still, she was sure the young\nperson would try to do her best--impressed with which conviction she\n(Miss Knag) felt an interest in her, already.\n\n'I think that, for the present at all events, it will be better for\nMiss Nickleby to come into the show-room with you, and try things on for\npeople,' said Madame Mantalini. 'She will not be able for the present to\nbe of much use in any other way; and her appearance will--'\n\n'Suit very well with mine, Madame Mantalini,' interrupted Miss Knag. 'So\nit will; and to be sure I might have known that you would not be long in\nfinding that out; for you have so much taste in all those matters, that\nreally, as I often say to the young ladies, I do not know how, when, or\nwhere, you possibly could have acquired all you know--hem--Miss Nickleby\nand I are quite a pair, Madame Mantalini, only I am a little darker than\nMiss Nickleby, and--hem--I think my foot may be a little smaller. Miss\nNickleby, I am sure, will not be offended at my saying that, when she\nhears that our family always have been celebrated for small feet ever\nsince--hem--ever since our family had any feet at all, indeed, I think.\nI had an uncle once, Madame Mantalini, who lived in Cheltenham, and\nhad a most excellent business as a tobacconist--hem--who had such small\nfeet, that they were no bigger than those which are usually joined to\nwooden legs--the most symmetrical feet, Madame Mantalini, that even you\ncan imagine.'\n\n'They must have had something of the appearance of club feet, Miss\nKnag,' said Madame.\n\n'Well now, that is so like you,' returned Miss Knag, 'Ha! ha! ha! Of\nclub feet! Oh very good! As I often remark to the young ladies, \"Well\nI must say, and I do not care who knows it, of all the ready\nhumour--hem--I ever heard anywhere\"--and I have heard a good deal; for\nwhen my dear brother was alive (I kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we\nhad to supper once a week two or three young men, highly celebrated\nin those days for their humour, Madame Mantalini--\"Of all the ready\nhumour,\" I say to the young ladies, \"I ever heard, Madame Mantalini's\nis the most remarkable--hem. It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so\ngood-natured (as I was observing to Miss Simmonds only this morning),\nthat how, or when, or by what means she acquired it, is to me a mystery\nindeed.\"'\n\nHere Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may be\nobserved--not that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously\ndeferential to Madame Mantalini, since these are facts which require no\ncomment; but that every now and then, she was accustomed, in the torrent\nof her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear 'hem!' the import\nand meaning of which, was variously interpreted by her acquaintance;\nsome holding that Miss Knag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the\nmonosyllable when any fresh invention was in course of coinage in her\nbrain; others, that when she wanted a word, she threw it in to gain\ntime, and prevent anybody else from striking into the conversation. It\nmay be further remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although\nshe had shot beyond it, years ago; and that she was weak and vain, and\none of those people who are best described by the axiom, that you may\ntrust them as far as you can see them, and no farther.\n\n'You'll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, and so\nforth,' said Madame Mantalini; 'and so I'll leave her with you. You'll\nnot forget my directions, Miss Knag?'\n\nMiss Knag of course replied, that to forget anything Madame Mantalini\nhad directed, was a moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a\ngeneral good-morning among her assistants, sailed away.\n\n'Charming creature, isn't she, Miss Nickleby?' said Miss Knag, rubbing\nher hands together.\n\n'I have seen very little of her,' said Kate. 'I hardly know yet.'\n\n'Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?' inquired Miss Knag.\n\n'Yes; I have seen him twice.'\n\n'Isn't HE a charming creature?'\n\n'Indeed he does not strike me as being so, by any means,' replied Kate.\n\n'No, my dear!' cried Miss Knag, elevating her hands. 'Why, goodness\ngracious mercy, where's your taste? Such a fine tall, full-whiskered\ndashing gentlemanly man, with such teeth and hair, and--hem--well now,\nyou DO astonish me.'\n\n'I dare say I am very foolish,' replied Kate, laying aside her bonnet;\n'but as my opinion is of very little importance to him or anyone else,\nI do not regret having formed it, and shall be slow to change it, I\nthink.'\n\n'He is a very fine man, don't you think so?' asked one of the young\nladies.\n\n'Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,' replied\nKate.\n\n'And drives very beautiful horses, doesn't he?' inquired another.\n\n'I dare say he may, but I never saw them,' answered Kate.\n\n'Never saw them!' interposed Miss Knag. 'Oh, well! There it is at\nonce you know; how can you possibly pronounce an opinion about a\ngentleman--hem--if you don't see him as he turns out altogether?'\n\nThere was so much of the world--even of the little world of the country\ngirl--in this idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who was anxious, for\nevery reason, to change the subject, made no further remark, and left\nMiss Knag in possession of the field.\n\nAfter a short silence, during which most of the young people made a\ncloser inspection of Kate's appearance, and compared notes respecting\nit, one of them offered to help her off with her shawl, and the\noffer being accepted, inquired whether she did not find black very\nuncomfortable wear.\n\n'I do indeed,' replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.\n\n'So dusty and hot,' observed the same speaker, adjusting her dress for\nher.\n\nKate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldest wear which\nmortals can assume; that it not only chills the breasts of those it\nclothes, but extending its influence to summer friends, freezes up their\nsources of good-will and kindness, and withering all the buds of promise\nthey once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing but bared and rotten\nhearts exposed. There are few who have lost a friend or relative\nconstituting in life their sole dependence, who have not keenly felt\nthis chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt it acutely,\nand feeling it at the moment, could not quite restrain her tears.\n\n'I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtless speech,' said\nher companion. 'I did not think of it. You are in mourning for some near\nrelation?'\n\n'For my father,' answered Kate.\n\n'For what relation, Miss Simmonds?' asked Miss Knag, in an audible\nvoice.\n\n'Her father,' replied the other softly.\n\n'Her father, eh?' said Miss Knag, without the slightest depression of\nher voice. 'Ah! A long illness, Miss Simmonds?'\n\n'Hush,' replied the girl; 'I don't know.'\n\n'Our misfortune was very sudden,' said Kate, turning away, 'or I might\nperhaps, at a time like this, be enabled to support it better.'\n\nThere had existed not a little desire in the room, according to\ninvariable custom, when any new 'young person' came, to know who Kate\nwas, and what she was, and all about her; but, although it might\nhave been very naturally increased by her appearance and emotion, the\nknowledge that it pained her to be questioned, was sufficient to repress\neven this curiosity; and Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt\nextracting any further particulars just then, reluctantly commanded\nsilence, and bade the work proceed.\n\nIn silence, then, the tasks were plied until half-past one, when a baked\nleg of mutton, with potatoes to correspond, were served in the kitchen.\nThe meal over, and the young ladies having enjoyed the additional\nrelaxation of washing their hands, the work began again, and was again\nperformed in silence, until the noise of carriages rattling through the\nstreets, and of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day's\nwork of the more fortunate members of society was proceeding in its\nturn.\n\nOne of these double knocks at Madame Mantalini's door, announced\nthe equipage of some great lady--or rather rich one, for there is\noccasionally a distinction between riches and greatness--who had come\nwith her daughter to approve of some court-dresses which had been a long\ntime preparing, and upon whom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by\nMiss Knag, and officered of course by Madame Mantalini.\n\nKate's part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties being limited\nto holding articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them on,\nand now and then tying a string, or fastening a hook-and-eye. She\nmight, not unreasonably, have supposed herself beneath the reach of any\narrogance, or bad humour; but it happened that the lady and daughter\nwere both out of temper that day, and the poor girl came in for\nher share of their revilings. She was awkward--her hands were\ncold--dirty--coarse--she could do nothing right; they wondered how\nMadame Mantalini could have such people about her; requested they might\nsee some other young woman the next time they came; and so forth.\n\nSo common an occurrence would be hardly deserving of mention, but for\nits effect. Kate shed many bitter tears when these people were gone,\nand felt, for the first time, humbled by her occupation. She had, it is\ntrue, quailed at the prospect of drudgery and hard service; but she had\nfelt no degradation in working for her bread, until she found herself\nexposed to insolence and pride. Philosophy would have taught her that\nthe degradation was on the side of those who had sunk so low as to\ndisplay such passions habitually, and without cause: but she was too\nyoung for such consolation, and her honest feeling was hurt. May not the\ncomplaint, that common people are above their station, often take its\nrise in the fact of UNcommon people being below theirs?\n\nIn such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nine o'clock, when\nKate, jaded and dispirited with the occurrences of the day, hastened\nfrom the confinement of the workroom, to join her mother at the street\ncorner, and walk home:--the more sadly, from having to disguise her real\nfeelings, and feign to participate in all the sanguine visions of her\ncompanion.\n\n'Bless my soul, Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby; 'I've been thinking all day\nwhat a delightful thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take you\ninto partnership--such a likely thing too, you know! Why, your poor\ndear papa's cousin's sister-in-law--a Miss Browndock--was taken into\npartnership by a lady that kept a school at Hammersmith, and made her\nfortune in no time at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss\nBrowndock was the same lady that got the ten thousand pounds prize in\nthe lottery, but I think she was; indeed, now I come to think of it, I\nam sure she was. \"Mantalini and Nickleby\", how well it would sound!--and\nif Nicholas has any good fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the\nhead-master of Westminster School, living in the same street.'\n\n'Dear Nicholas!' cried Kate, taking from her reticule her brother's\nletter from Dotheboys Hall. 'In all our misfortunes, how happy it makes\nme, mama, to hear he is doing well, and to find him writing in such\ngood spirits! It consoles me for all we may undergo, to think that he is\ncomfortable and happy.'\n\nPoor Kate! she little thought how weak her consolation was, and how soon\nshe would be undeceived.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nMiss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes\nup her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to\nform this Resolution\n\n\nThere are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering, which,\nhaving no stirring interest for any but those who lead them, are\ndisregarded by persons who do not want thought or feeling, but who\npamper their compassion and need high stimulants to rouse it.\n\nThere are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their\nvocation, scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in\ntheirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy and compassion are every\nday expended on out-of-the-way objects, when only too many demands upon\nthe legitimate exercise of the same virtues in a healthy state, are\nconstantly within the sight and hearing of the most unobservant person\nalive. In short, charity must have its romance, as the novelist or\nplaywright must have his. A thief in fustian is a vulgar character,\nscarcely to be thought of by persons of refinement; but dress him in\ngreen velvet, with a high-crowned hat, and change the scene of his\noperations, from a thickly-peopled city, to a mountain road, and you\nshall find in him the very soul of poetry and adventure. So it is with\nthe one great cardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exercised,\nleads to, if it does not necessarily include, all the others. It must\nhave its romance; and the less of real, hard, struggling work-a-day life\nthere is in that romance, the better.\n\nThe life to which poor Kate Nickleby was devoted, in consequence of the\nunforeseen train of circumstances already developed in this narrative,\nwas a hard one; but lest the very dulness, unhealthy confinement, and\nbodily fatigue, which made up its sum and substance, should deprive it\nof any interest with the mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would\nrather keep Miss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in\nthe outset, by a minute and lengthened description of the establishment\npresided over by Madame Mantalini.\n\n'Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, as Kate was\ntaking her weary way homewards on the first night of her novitiate;\n'that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable young person--a very creditable\nyoung person indeed--hem--upon my word, Madame Mantalini, it does very\nextraordinary credit even to your discrimination that you should\nhave found such a very excellent, very well-behaved, very--hem--very\nunassuming young woman to assist in the fitting on. I have seen some\nyoung women when they had the opportunity of displaying before their\nbetters, behave in such a--oh, dear--well--but you're always right,\nMadame Mantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies,\nhow you do contrive to be always right, when so many people are so often\nwrong, is to me a mystery indeed.'\n\n'Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has\nnot done anything very remarkable today--that I am aware of, at least,'\nsaid Madame Mantalini in reply.\n\n'Oh, dear!' said Miss Knag; 'but you must allow a great deal for\ninexperience, you know.'\n\n'And youth?' inquired Madame.\n\n'Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,' replied Miss Knag,\nreddening; 'because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn't have--'\n\n'Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,' suggested Madame.\n\n'Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,' rejoined\nMiss Knag most complacently, 'and that's the fact, for you know what\none's going to say, before it has time to rise to one's lips. Oh, very\ngood! Ha, ha, ha!'\n\n'For myself,' observed Madame Mantalini, glancing with affected\ncarelessness at her assistant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, 'I\nconsider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I ever saw in my life.'\n\n'Poor dear thing,' said Miss Knag, 'it's not her fault. If it was, we\nmight hope to cure it; but as it's her misfortune, Madame Mantalini,\nwhy really you know, as the man said about the blind horse, we ought to\nrespect it.'\n\n'Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,' remarked Madame\nMantalini. 'I think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever met with.'\n\n'Ordinary!' cried Miss Knag with a countenance beaming delight; 'and\nawkward! Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that I quite love the\npoor girl; and that if she was twice as indifferent-looking, and twice\nas awkward as she is, I should be only so much the more her friend, and\nthat's the truth of it.'\n\nIn fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for Kate\nNickleby, after witnessing her failure that morning, and this short\nconversation with her superior increased the favourable prepossession\nto a most surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as when she\nfirst scanned that young lady's face and figure, she had entertained\ncertain inward misgivings that they would never agree.\n\n'But now,' said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herself in a\nmirror at no great distance, 'I love her--I quite love her--I declare I\ndo!'\n\nOf such a highly disinterested quality was this devoted friendship, and\nso superior was it to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill-nature,\nthat the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidly informed Kate Nickleby, next\nday, that she saw she would never do for the business, but that she need\nnot give herself the slightest uneasiness on this account, for that she\n(Miss Knag), by increased exertions on her own part, would keep her as\nmuch as possible in the background, and that all she would have to do,\nwould be to remain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink from\nattracting notice by every means in her power. This last suggestion was\nso much in accordance with the timid girl's own feelings and wishes,\nthat she readily promised implicit reliance on the excellent spinster's\nadvice: without questioning, or indeed bestowing a moment's reflection\nupon, the motives that dictated it.\n\n'I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon my word,'\nsaid Miss Knag; 'a sister's interest, actually. It's the most singular\ncircumstance I ever knew.'\n\nUndoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a strong\ninterest in Kate Nickleby, it should not rather have been the interest\nof a maiden aunt or grandmother; that being the conclusion to which the\ndifference in their respective ages would have naturally tended. But\nMiss Knag wore clothes of a very youthful pattern, and perhaps her\nfeelings took the same shape.\n\n'Bless you!' said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at the\nconclusion of the second day's work, 'how very awkward you have been all\nday.'\n\n'I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more\npainfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me,' sighed\nKate.\n\n'No, no, I dare say not,' rejoined Miss Knag, in a most uncommon flow of\ngood humour. 'But how much better that you should know it at first,\nand so be able to go on, straight and comfortable! Which way are you\nwalking, my love?'\n\n'Towards the city,' replied Kate.\n\n'The city!' cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favour in the\nglass as she tied her bonnet. 'Goodness gracious me! now do you really\nlive in the city?'\n\n'Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?' asked Kate, half\nsmiling.\n\n'I couldn't have believed it possible that any young woman could have\nlived there, under any circumstances whatever, for three days together,'\nreplied Miss Knag.\n\n'Reduced--I should say poor people,' answered Kate, correcting herself\nhastily, for she was afraid of appearing proud, 'must live where they\ncan.'\n\n'Ah! very true, so they must; very proper indeed!' rejoined Miss Knag\nwith that sort of half-sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight\nnods of the head, is pity's small change in general society; 'and that's\nwhat I very often tell my brother, when our servants go away ill, one\nafter another, and he thinks the back-kitchen's rather too damp for\n'em to sleep in. These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to sleep\nanywhere! Heaven suits the back to the burden. What a nice thing it is\nto think that it should be so, isn't it?'\n\n'Very,' replied Kate.\n\n'I'll walk with you part of the way, my dear,' said Miss Knag, 'for\nyou must go very near our house; and as it's quite dark, and our last\nservant went to the hospital a week ago, with St Anthony's fire in her\nface, I shall be glad of your company.'\n\nKate would willingly have excused herself from this flattering\ncompanionship; but Miss Knag having adjusted her bonnet to her entire\nsatisfaction, took her arm with an air which plainly showed how much\nshe felt the compliment she was conferring, and they were in the street\nbefore she could say another word.\n\n'I fear,' said Kate, hesitating, 'that mama--my mother, I mean--is\nwaiting for me.'\n\n'You needn't make the least apology, my dear,' said Miss Knag, smiling\nsweetly as she spoke; 'I dare say she is a very respectable old person,\nand I shall be quite--hem--quite pleased to know her.'\n\nAs poor Mrs. Nickleby was cooling--not her heels alone, but her limbs\ngenerally at the street corner, Kate had no alternative but to make\nher known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last new carriage customer\nat second-hand, acknowledged the introduction with condescending\npoliteness. The three then walked away, arm in arm: with Miss Knag in\nthe middle, in a special state of amiability.\n\n'I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs. Nickleby, you can't\nthink,' said Miss Knag, after she had proceeded a little distance in\ndignified silence.\n\n'I am delighted to hear it,' said Mrs. Nickleby; 'though it is nothing\nnew to me, that even strangers should like Kate.'\n\n'Hem!' cried Miss Knag.\n\n'You will like her better when you know how good she is,' said Mrs\nNickleby. 'It is a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to have a\nchild, who knows neither pride nor vanity, and whose bringing-up might\nvery well have excused a little of both at first. You don't know what it\nis to lose a husband, Miss Knag.'\n\nAs Miss Knag had never yet known what it was to gain one, it followed,\nvery nearly as a matter of course, that she didn't know what it was to\nlose one; so she said, in some haste, 'No, indeed I don't,' and said it\nwith an air intending to signify that she should like to catch herself\nmarrying anybody--no, no, she knew better than that.\n\n'Kate has improved even in this little time, I have no doubt,' said Mrs\nNickleby, glancing proudly at her daughter.\n\n'Oh! of course,' said Miss Knag.\n\n'And will improve still more,' added Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'That she will, I'll be bound,' replied Miss Knag, squeezing Kate's arm\nin her own, to point the joke.\n\n'She always was clever,' said poor Mrs. Nickleby, brightening up,\n'always, from a baby. I recollect when she was only two years and a\nhalf old, that a gentleman who used to visit very much at our house--Mr\nWatkins, you know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went bail for,\nwho afterwards ran away to the United States, and sent us a pair of\nsnow shoes, with such an affectionate letter that it made your poor dear\nfather cry for a week. You remember the letter? In which he said that he\nwas very sorry he couldn't repay the fifty pounds just then, because\nhis capital was all out at interest, and he was very busy making his\nfortune, but that he didn't forget you were his god-daughter, and he\nshould take it very unkind if we didn't buy you a silver coral and put\nit down to his old account? Dear me, yes, my dear, how stupid you are!\nand spoke so affectionately of the old port wine that he used to drink a\nbottle and a half of every time he came. You must remember, Kate?'\n\n'Yes, yes, mama; what of him?'\n\n'Why, that Mr. Watkins, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby slowly, as if she\nwere making a tremendous effort to recollect something of paramount\nimportance; 'that Mr. Watkins--he wasn't any relation, Miss Knag will\nunderstand, to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the village;\nby-the-bye, I don't remember whether it was the Old Boar or the\nGeorge the Third, but it was one of the two, I know, and it's much the\nsame--that Mr. Watkins said, when you were only two years and a half old,\nthat you were one of the most astonishing children he ever saw. He did\nindeed, Miss Knag, and he wasn't at all fond of children, and couldn't\nhave had the slightest motive for doing it. I know it was he who said\nso, because I recollect, as well as if it was only yesterday,\nhis borrowing twenty pounds of her poor dear papa the very moment\nafterwards.'\n\nHaving quoted this extraordinary and most disinterested testimony to her\ndaughter's excellence, Mrs. Nickleby stopped to breathe; and Miss Knag,\nfinding that the discourse was turning upon family greatness, lost no\ntime in striking in, with a small reminiscence on her own account.\n\n'Don't talk of lending money, Mrs. Nickleby,' said Miss Knag, 'or you'll\ndrive me crazy, perfectly crazy. My mama--hem--was the most lovely and\nbeautiful creature, with the most striking and exquisite--hem--the most\nexquisite nose that ever was put upon a human face, I do believe, Mrs\nNickleby (here Miss Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically); the most\ndelightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she\nhad that one failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extent\nthat she lent--hem--oh! thousands of pounds, all our little fortunes,\nand what's more, Mrs. Nickleby, I don't think, if we were to live\ntill--till--hem--till the very end of time, that we should ever get them\nback again. I don't indeed.'\n\nAfter concluding this effort of invention without being interrupted,\nMiss Knag fell into many more recollections, no less interesting than\ntrue, the full tide of which, Mrs. Nickleby in vain attempting to stem,\nat length sailed smoothly down by adding an under-current of her own\nrecollections; and so both ladies went on talking together in perfect\ncontentment; the only difference between them being, that whereas Miss\nKnag addressed herself to Kate, and talked very loud, Mrs. Nickleby kept\non in one unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly satisfied to be talking\nand caring very little whether anybody listened or not.\n\nIn this manner they walked on, very amicably, until they arrived at Miss\nKnag's brother's, who was an ornamental stationer and small circulating\nlibrary keeper, in a by-street off Tottenham Court Road; and who let\nout by the day, week, month, or year, the newest old novels, whereof\nthe titles were displayed in pen-and-ink characters on a sheet of\npasteboard, swinging at his door-post. As Miss Knag happened, at the\nmoment, to be in the middle of an account of her twenty-second offer\nfrom a gentleman of large property, she insisted upon their all going in\nto supper together; and in they went.\n\n'Don't go away, Mortimer,' said Miss Knag as they entered the shop.\n'It's only one of our young ladies and her mother. Mrs. and Miss\nNickleby.'\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Mr. Mortimer Knag. 'Ah!'\n\nHaving given utterance to these ejaculations with a very profound\nand thoughtful air, Mr. Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the\ncounter, and two more in the window, and then snuffed himself from a box\nin his waistcoat pocket.\n\nThere was something very impressive in the ghostly air with which\nall this was done; and as Mr. Knag was a tall lank gentleman of solemn\nfeatures, wearing spectacles, and garnished with much less hair than\na gentleman bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually boasts, Mrs\nNickleby whispered her daughter that she thought he must be literary.\n\n'Past ten,' said Mr. Knag, consulting his watch. 'Thomas, close the\nwarehouse.'\n\nThomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and the warehouse was\na shop about the size of three hackney coaches.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as he restored to its\nparent shelf the book he had been reading. 'Well--yes--I believe supper\nis ready, sister.'\n\nWith another sigh Mr. Knag took up the kitchen candles from the counter,\nand preceded the ladies with mournful steps to a back-parlour, where a\ncharwoman, employed in the absence of the sick servant, and remunerated\nwith certain eighteenpences to be deducted from her wages due, was\nputting the supper out.\n\n'Mrs. Blockson,' said Miss Knag, reproachfully, 'how very often I have\nbegged you not to come into the room with your bonnet on!'\n\n'I can't help it, Miss Knag,' said the charwoman, bridling up on the\nshortest notice. 'There's been a deal o'cleaning to do in this house,\nand if you don't like it, I must trouble you to look out for somebody\nelse, for it don't hardly pay me, and that's the truth, if I was to be\nhung this minute.'\n\n'I don't want any remarks if YOU please,' said Miss Knag, with a strong\nemphasis on the personal pronoun. 'Is there any fire downstairs for some\nhot water presently?'\n\n'No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,' replied the substitute; 'and so I\nwon't tell you no stories about it.'\n\n'Then why isn't there?' said Miss Knag.\n\n'Because there arn't no coals left out, and if I could make coals I\nwould, but as I can't I won't, and so I make bold to tell you, Mem,'\nreplied Mrs. Blockson.\n\n'Will you hold your tongue--female?' said Mr. Mortimer Knag, plunging\nviolently into this dialogue.\n\n'By your leave, Mr. Knag,' retorted the charwoman, turning sharp round.\n'I'm only too glad not to speak in this house, excepting when and where\nI'm spoke to, sir; and with regard to being a female, sir, I should wish\nto know what you considered yourself?'\n\n'A miserable wretch,' exclaimed Mr. Knag, striking his forehead. 'A\nmiserable wretch.'\n\n'I'm very glad to find that you don't call yourself out of your name,\nsir,' said Mrs. Blockson; 'and as I had two twin children the day before\nyesterday was only seven weeks, and my little Charley fell down a airy\nand put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it as a favour if\nyou'll send nine shillings, for one week's work, to my house, afore the\nclock strikes ten tomorrow.'\n\nWith these parting words, the good woman quitted the room with great\nease of manner, leaving the door wide open; Mr. Knag, at the same moment,\nflung himself into the 'warehouse,' and groaned aloud.\n\n'What is the matter with that gentleman, pray?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby,\ngreatly disturbed by the sound.\n\n'Is he ill?' inquired Kate, really alarmed.\n\n'Hush!' replied Miss Knag; 'a most melancholy history. He was once most\ndevotedly attached to--hem--to Madame Mantalini.'\n\n'Bless me!' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'Yes,' continued Miss Knag, 'and received great encouragement too,\nand confidently hoped to marry her. He has a most romantic heart,\nMrs. Nickleby, as indeed--hem--as indeed all our family have, and the\ndisappointment was a dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully accomplished\nman--most extraordinarily accomplished--reads--hem--reads every novel\nthat comes out; I mean every novel that--hem--that has any fashion in\nit, of course. The fact is, that he did find so much in the books he\nread, applicable to his own misfortunes, and did find himself in every\nrespect so much like the heroes--because of course he is conscious of\nhis own superiority, as we all are, and very naturally--that he took to\nscorning everything, and became a genius; and I am quite sure that he\nis, at this very present moment, writing another book.'\n\n'Another book!' repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left for\nsomebody to say something.\n\n'Yes,' said Miss Knag, nodding in great triumph; 'another book, in three\nvolumes post octavo. Of course it's a great advantage to him, in all his\nlittle fashionable descriptions, to have the benefit of my--hem--of my\nexperience, because, of course, few authors who write about such things\ncan have such opportunities of knowing them as I have. He's so wrapped\nup in high life, that the least allusion to business or worldly\nmatters--like that woman just now, for instance--quite distracts him;\nbut, as I often say, I think his disappointment a great thing for him,\nbecause if he hadn't been disappointed he couldn't have written about\nblighted hopes and all that; and the fact is, if it hadn't happened as\nit has, I don't believe his genius would ever have come out at all.'\n\nHow much more communicative Miss Knag might have become under more\nfavourable circumstances, it is impossible to divine, but as the gloomy\none was within ear-shot, and the fire wanted making up, her disclosures\nstopped here. To judge from all appearances, and the difficulty of\nmaking the water warm, the last servant could not have been much\naccustomed to any other fire than St Anthony's; but a little brandy and\nwater was made at last, and the guests, having been previously regaled\nwith cold leg of mutton and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took\nleave; Kate amusing herself, all the way home, with the recollection of\nher last glimpse of Mr. Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; and\nMrs. Nickleby by debating within herself whether the dressmaking firm\nwould ultimately become 'Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby', or 'Mantalini,\nNickleby, and Knag'.\n\nAt this high point, Miss Knag's friendship remained for three whole\ndays, much to the wonderment of Madame Mantalini's young ladies who had\nnever beheld such constancy in that quarter, before; but on the fourth,\nit received a check no less violent than sudden, which thus occurred.\n\nIt happened that an old lord of great family, who was going to marry a\nyoung lady of no family in particular, came with the young lady, and the\nyoung lady's sister, to witness the ceremony of trying on two nuptial\nbonnets which had been ordered the day before, and Madame Mantalini\nannouncing the fact, in a shrill treble, through the speaking-pipe,\nwhich communicated with the workroom, Miss Knag darted hastily upstairs\nwith a bonnet in each hand, and presented herself in the show-room, in a\ncharming state of palpitation, intended to demonstrate her enthusiasm\nin the cause. The bonnets were no sooner fairly on, than Miss Knag and\nMadame Mantalini fell into convulsions of admiration.\n\n'A most elegant appearance,' said Madame Mantalini.\n\n'I never saw anything so exquisite in all my life,' said Miss Knag.\n\nNow, the old lord, who was a VERY old lord, said nothing, but mumbled\nand chuckled in a state of great delight, no less with the nuptial\nbonnets and their wearers, than with his own address in getting such a\nfine woman for his wife; and the young lady, who was a very lively young\nlady, seeing the old lord in this rapturous condition, chased the old\nlord behind a cheval-glass, and then and there kissed him, while Madame\nMantalini and the other young lady looked, discreetly, another way.\n\nBut, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who was tinged with curiosity,\nstepped accidentally behind the glass, and encountered the lively young\nlady's eye just at the very moment when she kissed the old lord; upon\nwhich the young lady, in a pouting manner, murmured something about 'an\nold thing,' and 'great impertinence,' and finished by darting a look of\ndispleasure at Miss Knag, and smiling contemptuously.\n\n'Madame Mantalini,' said the young lady.\n\n'Ma'am,' said Madame Mantalini.\n\n'Pray have up that pretty young creature we saw yesterday.'\n\n'Oh yes, do,' said the sister.\n\n'Of all things in the world, Madame Mantalini,' said the lord's\nintended, throwing herself languidly on a sofa, 'I hate being waited\nupon by frights or elderly persons. Let me always see that young\ncreature, I beg, whenever I come.'\n\n'By all means,' said the old lord; 'the lovely young creature, by all\nmeans.'\n\n'Everybody is talking about her,' said the young lady, in the same\ncareless manner; 'and my lord, being a great admirer of beauty, must\npositively see her.'\n\n'She IS universally admired,' replied Madame Mantalini. 'Miss Knag, send\nup Miss Nickleby. You needn't return.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Madame Mantalini, what did you say last?' asked Miss\nKnag, trembling.\n\n'You needn't return,' repeated the superior, sharply. Miss Knag vanished\nwithout another word, and in all reasonable time was replaced by Kate,\nwho took off the new bonnets and put on the old ones: blushing very much\nto find that the old lord and the two young ladies were staring her out\nof countenance all the time.\n\n'Why, how you colour, child!' said the lord's chosen bride.\n\n'She is not quite so accustomed to her business, as she will be in a\nweek or two,' interposed Madame Mantalini with a gracious smile.\n\n'I am afraid you have been giving her some of your wicked looks, my\nlord,' said the intended.\n\n'No, no, no,' replied the old lord, 'no, no, I'm going to be married,\nand lead a new life. Ha, ha, ha! a new life, a new life! ha, ha, ha!'\n\nIt was a satisfactory thing to hear that the old gentleman was going to\nlead a new life, for it was pretty evident that his old one would not\nlast him much longer. The mere exertion of protracted chuckling reduced\nhim to a fearful ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some minutes\nbefore he could find breath to remark that the girl was too pretty for a\nmilliner.\n\n'I hope you don't think good looks a disqualification for the business,\nmy lord,' said Madame Mantalini, simpering.\n\n'Not by any means,' replied the old lord, 'or you would have left it\nlong ago.'\n\n'You naughty creature,' said the lively lady, poking the peer with her\nparasol; 'I won't have you talk so. How dare you?'\n\nThis playful inquiry was accompanied with another poke, and another,\nand then the old lord caught the parasol, and wouldn't give it up again,\nwhich induced the other lady to come to the rescue, and some very pretty\nsportiveness ensued.\n\n'You will see that those little alterations are made, Madame Mantalini,'\nsaid the lady. 'Nay, you bad man, you positively shall go first; I\nwouldn't leave you behind with that pretty girl, not for half a second.\nI know you too well. Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall be\nquite sure of him.'\n\nThe old lord, evidently much flattered by this suspicion, bestowed a\ngrotesque leer upon Kate as he passed; and, receiving another tap with\nthe parasol for his wickedness, tottered downstairs to the door, where\nhis sprightly body was hoisted into the carriage by two stout footmen.\n\n'Foh!' said Madame Mantalini, 'how he ever gets into a carriage without\nthinking of a hearse, I can't think. There, take the things away, my\ndear, take them away.'\n\nKate, who had remained during the whole scene with her eyes modestly\nfixed upon the ground, was only too happy to avail herself of the\npermission to retire, and hasten joyfully downstairs to Miss Knag's\ndominion.\n\nThe circumstances of the little kingdom had greatly changed, however,\nduring the short period of her absence. In place of Miss Knag being\nstationed in her accustomed seat, preserving all the dignity and\ngreatness of Madame Mantalini's representative, that worthy soul was\nreposing on a large box, bathed in tears, while three or four of the\nyoung ladies in close attendance upon her, together with the presence\nof hartshorn, vinegar, and other restoratives, would have borne ample\ntestimony, even without the derangement of the head-dress and front row\nof curls, to her having fainted desperately.\n\n'Bless me!' said Kate, stepping hastily forward, 'what is the matter?'\n\nThis inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent symptoms of a relapse; and\nseveral young ladies, darting angry looks at Kate, applied more vinegar\nand hartshorn, and said it was 'a shame.'\n\n'What is a shame?' demanded Kate. 'What is the matter? What has\nhappened? tell me.'\n\n'Matter!' cried Miss Knag, coming, all at once, bolt upright, to the\ngreat consternation of the assembled maidens; 'matter! Fie upon you, you\nnasty creature!'\n\n'Gracious!' cried Kate, almost paralysed by the violence with which the\nadjective had been jerked out from between Miss Knag's closed teeth;\n'have I offended you?'\n\n'YOU offended me!' retorted Miss Knag, 'YOU! a chit, a child, an upstart\nnobody! Oh, indeed! Ha, ha!'\n\nNow, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed, that something struck her as\nbeing exceedingly funny; and as the young ladies took their tone from\nMiss Knag--she being the chief--they all got up a laugh without\na moment's delay, and nodded their heads a little, and smiled\nsarcastically to each other, as much as to say how very good that was!\n\n'Here she is,' continued Miss Knag, getting off the box, and introducing\nKate with much ceremony and many low curtseys to the delighted throng;\n'here she is--everybody is talking about her--the belle, ladies--the\nbeauty, the--oh, you bold-faced thing!'\n\nAt this crisis, Miss Knag was unable to repress a virtuous shudder,\nwhich immediately communicated itself to all the young ladies; after\nwhich, Miss Knag laughed, and after that, cried.\n\n'For fifteen years,' exclaimed Miss Knag, sobbing in a most affecting\nmanner, 'for fifteen years have I been the credit and ornament of this\nroom and the one upstairs. Thank God,' said Miss Knag, stamping first\nher right foot and then her left with remarkable energy, 'I have never\nin all that time, till now, been exposed to the arts, the vile arts, of\na creature, who disgraces us with all her proceedings, and makes proper\npeople blush for themselves. But I feel it, I do feel it, although I am\ndisgusted.'\n\nMiss Knag here relapsed into softness, and the young ladies renewing\ntheir attentions, murmured that she ought to be superior to such things,\nand that for their part they despised them, and considered them beneath\ntheir notice; in witness whereof, they called out, more emphatically\nthan before, that it was a shame, and that they felt so angry, they did,\nthey hardly knew what to do with themselves.\n\n'Have I lived to this day to be called a fright!' cried Miss Knag,\nsuddenly becoming convulsive, and making an effort to tear her front\noff.\n\n'Oh no, no,' replied the chorus, 'pray don't say so; don't now!'\n\n'Have I deserved to be called an elderly person?' screamed Miss Knag,\nwrestling with the supernumeraries.\n\n'Don't think of such things, dear,' answered the chorus.\n\n'I hate her,' cried Miss Knag; 'I detest and hate her. Never let her\nspeak to me again; never let anybody who is a friend of mine speak to\nher; a slut, a hussy, an impudent artful hussy!' Having denounced the\nobject of her wrath, in these terms, Miss Knag screamed once, hiccuped\nthrice, gurgled in her throat several times, slumbered, shivered, woke,\ncame to, composed her head-dress, and declared herself quite well again.\n\nPoor Kate had regarded these proceedings, at first, in perfect\nbewilderment. She had then turned red and pale by turns, and once\nor twice essayed to speak; but, as the true motives of this altered\nbehaviour developed themselves, she retired a few paces, and looked\ncalmly on without deigning a reply. Nevertheless, although she walked\nproudly to her seat, and turned her back upon the group of little\nsatellites who clustered round their ruling planet in the remotest\ncorner of the room, she gave way, in secret, to some such bitter tears\nas would have gladdened Miss Knag's inmost soul, if she could have seen\nthem fall.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\nDescriptive of a Dinner at Mr. Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in\nwhich the Company entertained themselves, before Dinner, at Dinner, and\nafter Dinner.\n\n\nThe bile and rancour of the worthy Miss Knag undergoing no diminution\nduring the remainder of the week, but rather augmenting with every\nsuccessive hour; and the honest ire of all the young ladies rising, or\nseeming to rise, in exact proportion to the good spinster's indignation,\nand both waxing very hot every time Miss Nickleby was called upstairs;\nit will be readily imagined that that young lady's daily life was\nnone of the most cheerful or enviable kind. She hailed the arrival of\nSaturday night, as a prisoner would a few delicious hours' respite from\nslow and wearing torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her first\nweek's labour would have been dearly and hardly earned, had its amount\nbeen trebled.\n\nWhen she joined her mother, as usual, at the street corner, she was not\na little surprised to find her in conversation with Mr. Ralph Nickleby;\nbut her surprise was soon redoubled, no less by the matter of their\nconversation, than by the smoothed and altered manner of Mr. Nickleby\nhimself.\n\n'Ah! my dear!' said Ralph; 'we were at that moment talking about you.'\n\n'Indeed!' replied Kate, shrinking, though she scarce knew why, from her\nuncle's cold glistening eye.\n\n'That instant,' said Ralph. 'I was coming to call for you, making sure\nto catch you before you left; but your mother and I have been talking\nover family affairs, and the time has slipped away so rapidly--'\n\n'Well, now, hasn't it?' interposed Mrs. Nickleby, quite insensible to the\nsarcastic tone of Ralph's last remark. 'Upon my word, I couldn't have\nbelieved it possible, that such a--Kate, my dear, you're to dine with\nyour uncle at half-past six o'clock tomorrow.'\n\nTriumphing in having been the first to communicate this extraordinary\nintelligence, Mrs. Nickleby nodded and smiled a great many times, to\nimpress its full magnificence on Kate's wondering mind, and then flew\noff, at an acute angle, to a committee of ways and means.\n\n'Let me see,' said the good lady. 'Your black silk frock will be quite\ndress enough, my dear, with that pretty little scarf, and a plain band\nin your hair, and a pair of black silk stock--Dear, dear,' cried Mrs\nNickleby, flying off at another angle, 'if I had but those unfortunate\namethysts of mine--you recollect them, Kate, my love--how they used to\nsparkle, you know--but your papa, your poor dear papa--ah! there\nnever was anything so cruelly sacrificed as those jewels were, never!'\nOverpowered by this agonising thought, Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, in a\nmelancholy manner, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.\n\nI don't want them, mama, indeed,' said Kate. 'Forget that you ever had\nthem.'\n\n'Lord, Kate, my dear,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, pettishly, 'how like a\nchild you talk! Four-and-twenty silver tea-spoons, brother-in-law,\ntwo gravies, four salts, all the amethysts--necklace, brooch, and\near-rings--all made away with, at the same time, and I saying, almost\non my bended knees, to that poor good soul, \"Why don't you do something,\nNicholas? Why don't you make some arrangement?\" I am sure that anybody\nwho was about us at that time, will do me the justice to own, that if\nI said that once, I said it fifty times a day. Didn't I, Kate, my dear?\nDid I ever lose an opportunity of impressing it on your poor papa?'\n\n'No, no, mama, never,' replied Kate. And to do Mrs. Nickleby justice, she\nnever had lost--and to do married ladies as a body justice, they seldom\ndo lose--any occasion of inculcating similar golden percepts, whose only\nblemish is, the slight degree of vagueness and uncertainty in which they\nare usually enveloped.\n\n'Ah!' said Mrs. Nickleby, with great fervour, 'if my advice had been\ntaken at the beginning--Well, I have always done MY duty, and that's\nsome comfort.'\n\nWhen she had arrived at this reflection, Mrs. Nickleby sighed, rubbed her\nhands, cast up her eyes, and finally assumed a look of meek composure;\nthus importing that she was a persecuted saint, but that she wouldn't\ntrouble her hearers by mentioning a circumstance which must be so\nobvious to everybody.\n\n'Now,' said Ralph, with a smile, which, in common with all other tokens\nof emotion, seemed to skulk under his face, rather than play boldly over\nit--'to return to the point from which we have strayed. I have a little\nparty of--of--gentlemen with whom I am connected in business just now,\nat my house tomorrow; and your mother has promised that you shall\nkeep house for me. I am not much used to parties; but this is one of\nbusiness, and such fooleries are an important part of it sometimes. You\ndon't mind obliging me?'\n\n'Mind!' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'My dear Kate, why--'\n\n'Pray,' interrupted Ralph, motioning her to be silent. 'I spoke to my\nniece.'\n\n'I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,' replied Kate; 'but I am afraid\nyou will find me awkward and embarrassed.'\n\n'Oh no,' said Ralph; 'come when you like, in a hackney coach--I'll pay\nfor it. Good-night--a--a--God bless you.'\n\nThe blessing seemed to stick in Mr. Ralph Nickleby's throat, as if it\nwere not used to the thoroughfare, and didn't know the way out. But it\ngot out somehow, though awkwardly enough; and having disposed of it, he\nshook hands with his two relatives, and abruptly left them.\n\n'What a very strongly marked countenance your uncle has!' said Mrs\nNickleby, quite struck with his parting look. 'I don't see the slightest\nresemblance to his poor brother.'\n\n'Mama!' said Kate reprovingly. 'To think of such a thing!'\n\n'No,' said Mrs. Nickleby, musing. 'There certainly is none. But it's a\nvery honest face.'\n\nThe worthy matron made this remark with great emphasis and elocution,\nas if it comprised no small quantity of ingenuity and research; and,\nin truth, it was not unworthy of being classed among the extraordinary\ndiscoveries of the age. Kate looked up hastily, and as hastily looked\ndown again.\n\n'What has come over you, my dear, in the name of goodness?' asked Mrs\nNickleby, when they had walked on, for some time, in silence.\n\n'I was only thinking, mama,' answered Kate.\n\n'Thinking!' repeated Mrs. Nickleby. 'Ay, and indeed plenty to think\nabout, too. Your uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that's quite\nclear; and if some extraordinary good fortune doesn't come to you, after\nthis, I shall be a little surprised, that's all.'\n\nWith this she launched out into sundry anecdotes of young ladies, who\nhad had thousand-pound notes given them in reticules, by eccentric\nuncles; and of young ladies who had accidentally met amiable gentlemen\nof enormous wealth at their uncles' houses, and married them, after\nshort but ardent courtships; and Kate, listening first in apathy, and\nafterwards in amusement, felt, as they walked home, something of her\nmother's sanguine complexion gradually awakening in her own bosom, and\nbegan to think that her prospects might be brightening, and that better\ndays might be dawning upon them. Such is hope, Heaven's own gift to\nstruggling mortals; pervading, like some subtle essence from the\nskies, all things, both good and bad; as universal as death, and more\ninfectious than disease!\n\nThe feeble winter's sun--and winter's suns in the city are very feeble\nindeed--might have brightened up, as he shone through the dim windows\nof the large old house, on witnessing the unusual sight which one\nhalf-furnished room displayed. In a gloomy corner, where, for years, had\nstood a silent dusty pile of merchandise, sheltering its colony of mice,\nand frowning, a dull and lifeless mass, upon the panelled room, save\nwhen, responding to the roll of heavy waggons in the street without,\nit quaked with sturdy tremblings and caused the bright eyes of its tiny\ncitizens to grow brighter still with fear, and struck them motionless,\nwith attentive ear and palpitating heart, until the alarm had passed\naway--in this dark corner, was arranged, with scrupulous care, all\nKate's little finery for the day; each article of dress partaking of\nthat indescribable air of jauntiness and individuality which empty\ngarments--whether by association, or that they become moulded, as\nit were, to the owner's form--will take, in eyes accustomed to, or\npicturing, the wearer's smartness. In place of a bale of musty goods,\nthere lay the black silk dress: the neatest possible figure in itself.\nThe small shoes, with toes delicately turned out, stood upon the very\npressure of some old iron weight; and a pile of harsh discoloured\nleather had unconsciously given place to the very same little pair\nof black silk stockings, which had been the objects of Mrs. Nickleby's\npeculiar care. Rats and mice, and such small gear, had long ago been\nstarved, or had emigrated to better quarters: and, in their stead,\nappeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hair-pins, and many other little\ndevices, almost as ingenious in their way as rats and mice themselves,\nfor the tantalisation of mankind. About and among them all, moved Kate\nherself, not the least beautiful or unwonted relief to the stern, old,\ngloomy building.\n\nIn good time, or in bad time, as the reader likes to take it--for Mrs\nNickleby's impatience went a great deal faster than the clocks at that\nend of the town, and Kate was dressed to the very last hair-pin a full\nhour and a half before it was at all necessary to begin to think about\nit--in good time, or in bad time, the toilet was completed; and it being\nat length the hour agreed upon for starting, the milkman fetched a coach\nfrom the nearest stand, and Kate, with many adieux to her mother, and\nmany kind messages to Miss La Creevy, who was to come to tea, seated\nherself in it, and went away in state, if ever anybody went away in\nstate in a hackney coach yet. And the coach, and the coachman, and the\nhorses, rattled, and jangled, and whipped, and cursed, and swore, and\ntumbled on together, until they came to Golden Square.\n\nThe coachman gave a tremendous double knock at the door, which was\nopened long before he had done, as quickly as if there had been a man\nbehind it, with his hand tied to the latch. Kate, who had expected no\nmore uncommon appearance than Newman Noggs in a clean shirt, was not a\nlittle astonished to see that the opener was a man in handsome livery,\nand that there were two or three others in the hall. There was no doubt\nabout its being the right house, however, for there was the name upon\nthe door; so she accepted the laced coat-sleeve which was tendered her,\nand entering the house, was ushered upstairs, into a back drawing-room,\nwhere she was left alone.\n\nIf she had been surprised at the apparition of the footman, she was\nperfectly absorbed in amazement at the richness and splendour of the\nfurniture. The softest and most elegant carpets, the most exquisite\npictures, the costliest mirrors; articles of richest ornament, quite\ndazzling from their beauty and perplexing from the prodigality with\nwhich they were scattered around; encountered her on every side. The\nvery staircase nearly down to the hall-door, was crammed with beautiful\nand luxurious things, as though the house were brimful of riches, which,\nwith a very trifling addition, would fairly run over into the street.\n\nPresently, she heard a series of loud double knocks at the street-door,\nand after every knock some new voice in the next room; the tones of Mr\nRalph Nickleby were easily distinguishable at first, but by degrees\nthey merged into the general buzz of conversation, and all she could\nascertain was, that there were several gentlemen with no very musical\nvoices, who talked very loud, laughed very heartily, and swore more\nthan she would have thought quite necessary. But this was a question of\ntaste.\n\nAt length, the door opened, and Ralph himself, divested of his boots,\nand ceremoniously embellished with black silks and shoes, presented his\ncrafty face.\n\n'I couldn't see you before, my dear,' he said, in a low tone, and\npointing, as he spoke, to the next room. 'I was engaged in receiving\nthem. Now--shall I take you in?'\n\n'Pray, uncle,' said Kate, a little flurried, as people much more\nconversant with society often are, when they are about to enter a room\nfull of strangers, and have had time to think of it previously, 'are\nthere any ladies here?'\n\n'No,' said Ralph, shortly, 'I don't know any.'\n\n'Must I go in immediately?' asked Kate, drawing back a little.\n\n'As you please,' said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders. 'They are all\ncome, and dinner will be announced directly afterwards--that's all.'\n\nKate would have entreated a few minutes' respite, but reflecting that\nher uncle might consider the payment of the hackney-coach fare a sort\nof bargain for her punctuality, she suffered him to draw her arm through\nhis, and to lead her away.\n\nSeven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire when they went in,\nand, as they were talking very loud, were not aware of their entrance\nuntil Mr. Ralph Nickleby, touching one on the coat-sleeve, said in a\nharsh emphatic voice, as if to attract general attention--\n\n'Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.'\n\nThe group dispersed, as if in great surprise, and the gentleman\naddressed, turning round, exhibited a suit of clothes of the most\nsuperlative cut, a pair of whiskers of similar quality, a moustache, a\nhead of hair, and a young face.\n\n'Eh!' said the gentleman. 'What--the--deyvle!'\n\nWith which broken ejaculations, he fixed his glass in his eye, and\nstared at Miss Nickleby in great surprise.\n\n'My niece, my lord,' said Ralph.\n\n'Then my ears did not deceive me, and it's not wa-a-x work,' said his\nlordship. 'How de do? I'm very happy.' And then his lordship turned\nto another superlative gentleman, something older, something stouter,\nsomething redder in the face, and something longer upon town, and said\nin a loud whisper that the girl was 'deyvlish pitty.'\n\n'Introduce me, Nickleby,' said this second gentleman, who was lounging\nwith his back to the fire, and both elbows on the chimneypiece.\n\n'Sir Mulberry Hawk,' said Ralph.\n\n'Otherwise the most knowing card in the pa-ack, Miss Nickleby,' said\nLord Frederick Verisopht.\n\n'Don't leave me out, Nickleby,' cried a sharp-faced gentleman, who was\nsitting on a low chair with a high back, reading the paper.\n\n'Mr. Pyke,' said Ralph.\n\n'Nor me, Nickleby,' cried a gentleman with a flushed face and a flash\nair, from the elbow of Sir Mulberry Hawk.\n\n'Mr. Pluck,' said Ralph. Then wheeling about again, towards a gentleman\nwith the neck of a stork and the legs of no animal in particular, Ralph\nintroduced him as the Honourable Mr. Snobb; and a white-headed person\nat the table as Colonel Chowser. The colonel was in conversation with\nsomebody, who appeared to be a make-weight, and was not introduced at\nall.\n\nThere were two circumstances which, in this early stage of the party,\nstruck home to Kate's bosom, and brought the blood tingling to her face.\nOne was the flippant contempt with which the guests evidently regarded\nher uncle, and the other, the easy insolence of their manner towards\nherself. That the first symptom was very likely to lead to the\naggravation of the second, it needed no great penetration to foresee.\nAnd here Mr. Ralph Nickleby had reckoned without his host; for however\nfresh from the country a young lady (by nature) may be, and however\nunacquainted with conventional behaviour, the chances are, that she will\nhave quite as strong an innate sense of the decencies and proprieties of\nlife as if she had run the gauntlet of a dozen London seasons--possibly\na stronger one, for such senses have been known to blunt in this\nimproving process.\n\nWhen Ralph had completed the ceremonial of introduction, he led his\nblushing niece to a seat. As he did so, he glanced warily round as\nthough to assure himself of the impression which her unlooked-for\nappearance had created.\n\n'An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick Verisopht,\ntaking his glass out of his right eye, where it had, until now, done\nduty on Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring it to bear on Ralph.\n\n'Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,' said Mr. Pluck.\n\n'Not a bad idea,' said his lordship, 'and one that would almost warrant\nthe addition of an extra two and a half per cent.'\n\n'Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, in a thick coarse voice, 'take the\nhint, and tack it on the other five-and-twenty, or whatever it is, and\ngive me half for the advice.'\n\nSir Mulberry garnished this speech with a hoarse laugh, and terminated\nit with a pleasant oath regarding Mr. Nickleby's limbs, whereat Messrs\nPyke and Pluck laughed consumedly.\n\nThese gentlemen had not yet quite recovered the jest, when dinner was\nannounced, and then they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar\ncause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an excess of humour, shot dexterously\npast Lord Frederick Verisopht who was about to lead Kate downstairs, and\ndrew her arm through his up to the elbow.\n\n'No, damn it, Verisopht,' said Sir Mulberry, 'fair play's a jewel, and\nMiss Nickleby and I settled the matter with our eyes ten minutes ago.'\n\n'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the honourable Mr. Snobb, 'very good, very good.'\n\nRendered additionally witty by this applause, Sir Mulberry Hawk leered\nupon his friends most facetiously, and led Kate downstairs with an\nair of familiarity, which roused in her gentle breast such burning\nindignation, as she felt it almost impossible to repress. Nor was the\nintensity of these feelings at all diminished, when she found herself\nplaced at the top of the table, with Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord\nFrederick Verisopht on either side.\n\n'Oh, you've found your way into our neighbourhood, have you?' said Sir\nMulberry as his lordship sat down.\n\n'Of course,' replied Lord Frederick, fixing his eyes on Miss Nickleby,\n'how can you a-ask me?'\n\n'Well, you attend to your dinner,' said Sir Mulberry, 'and don't mind\nMiss Nickleby and me, for we shall prove very indifferent company, I\ndare say.'\n\n'I wish you'd interfere here, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick.\n\n'What is the matter, my lord?' demanded Ralph from the bottom of the\ntable, where he was supported by Messrs Pyke and Pluck.\n\n'This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your niece,' said Lord Frederick.\n\n'He has a tolerable share of everything that you lay claim to, my lord,'\nsaid Ralph with a sneer.\n\n''Gad, so he has,' replied the young man; 'deyvle take me if I know\nwhich is master in my house, he or I.'\n\n'I know,' muttered Ralph.\n\n'I think I shall cut him off with a shilling,' said the young nobleman,\njocosely.\n\n'No, no, curse it,' said Sir Mulberry. 'When you come to the\nshilling--the last shilling--I'll cut you fast enough; but till then,\nI'll never leave you--you may take your oath of it.'\n\nThis sally (which was strictly founded on fact) was received with a\ngeneral roar, above which, was plainly distinguishable the laughter\nof Mr. Pyke and Mr. Pluck, who were, evidently, Sir Mulberry's toads in\nordinary. Indeed, it was not difficult to see, that the majority of the\ncompany preyed upon the unfortunate young lord, who, weak and silly as\nhe was, appeared by far the least vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry\nHawk was remarkable for his tact in ruining, by himself and his\ncreatures, young gentlemen of fortune--a genteel and elegant profession,\nof which he had undoubtedly gained the head. With all the boldness of an\noriginal genius, he had struck out an entirely new course of treatment\nquite opposed to the usual method; his custom being, when he had gained\nthe ascendancy over those he took in hand, rather to keep them down\nthan to give them their own way; and to exercise his vivacity upon\nthem openly, and without reserve. Thus, he made them butts, in a double\nsense, and while he emptied them with great address, caused them to ring\nwith sundry well-administered taps, for the diversion of society.\n\nThe dinner was as remarkable for the splendour and completeness of its\nappointments as the mansion itself, and the company were remarkable\nfor doing it ample justice, in which respect Messrs Pyke and Pluck\nparticularly signalised themselves; these two gentlemen eating of every\ndish, and drinking of every bottle, with a capacity and perseverance\ntruly astonishing. They were remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding\ntheir great exertions: for, on the appearance of the dessert, they broke\nout again, as if nothing serious had taken place since breakfast.\n\n'Well,' said Lord Frederick, sipping his first glass of port, 'if this\nis a discounting dinner, all I have to say is, deyvle take me, if it\nwouldn't be a good pla-an to get discount every day.'\n\n'You'll have plenty of it, in your time,' returned Sir Mulberry Hawk;\n'Nickleby will tell you that.'\n\n'What do you say, Nickleby?' inquired the young man; 'am I to be a good\ncustomer?'\n\n'It depends entirely on circumstances, my lord,' replied Ralph.\n\n'On your lordship's circumstances,' interposed Colonel Chowser of the\nMilitia--and the race-courses.\n\nThe gallant colonel glanced at Messrs Pyke and Pluck as if he thought\nthey ought to laugh at his joke; but those gentlemen, being only engaged\nto laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk, were, to his signal discomfiture, as\ngrave as a pair of undertakers. To add to his defeat, Sir Mulberry,\nconsidering any such efforts an invasion of his peculiar privilege,\neyed the offender steadily, through his glass, as if astonished at his\npresumption, and audibly stated his impression that it was an 'infernal\nliberty,' which being a hint to Lord Frederick, he put up HIS glass,\nand surveyed the object of censure as if he were some extraordinary wild\nanimal then exhibiting for the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs\nPyke and Pluck stared at the individual whom Sir Mulberry Hawk stared\nat; so, the poor colonel, to hide his confusion, was reduced to the\nnecessity of holding his port before his right eye and affecting to\nscrutinise its colour with the most lively interest.\n\nAll this while, Kate had sat as silently as she could, scarcely daring\nto raise her eyes, lest they should encounter the admiring gaze of Lord\nFrederick Verisopht, or, what was still more embarrassing, the bold\nlooks of his friend Sir Mulberry. The latter gentleman was obliging\nenough to direct general attention towards her.\n\n'Here is Miss Nickleby,' observed Sir Mulberry, 'wondering why the deuce\nsomebody doesn't make love to her.'\n\n'No, indeed,' said Kate, looking hastily up, 'I--' and then she stopped,\nfeeling it would have been better to have said nothing at all.\n\n'I'll hold any man fifty pounds,' said Sir Mulberry, 'that Miss Nickleby\ncan't look in my face, and tell me she wasn't thinking so.'\n\n'Done!' cried the noble gull. 'Within ten minutes.'\n\n'Done!' responded Sir Mulberry. The money was produced on both sides,\nand the Honourable Mr. Snobb was elected to the double office of\nstake-holder and time-keeper.\n\n'Pray,' said Kate, in great confusion, while these preliminaries were\nin course of completion. 'Pray do not make me the subject of any bets.\nUncle, I cannot really--'\n\n'Why not, my dear?' replied Ralph, in whose grating voice, however,\nthere was an unusual huskiness, as though he spoke unwillingly, and\nwould rather that the proposition had not been broached. 'It is done in\na moment; there is nothing in it. If the gentlemen insist on it--'\n\n'I don't insist on it,' said Sir Mulberry, with a loud laugh. 'That is,\nI by no means insist upon Miss Nickleby's making the denial, for if she\ndoes, I lose; but I shall be glad to see her bright eyes, especially as\nshe favours the mahogany so much.'\n\n'So she does, and it's too ba-a-d of you, Miss Nickleby,' said the noble\nyouth.\n\n'Quite cruel,' said Mr. Pyke.\n\n'Horrid cruel,' said Mr. Pluck.\n\n'I don't care if I do lose,' said Sir Mulberry; 'for one tolerable look\nat Miss Nickleby's eyes is worth double the money.'\n\n'More,' said Mr. Pyke.\n\n'Far more,' said Mr. Pluck.\n\n'How goes the enemy, Snobb?' asked Sir Mulberry Hawk.\n\n'Four minutes gone.'\n\n'Bravo!'\n\n'Won't you ma-ake one effort for me, Miss Nickleby?' asked Lord\nFrederick, after a short interval.\n\n'You needn't trouble yourself to inquire, my buck,' said Sir Mulberry;\n'Miss Nickleby and I understand each other; she declares on my side, and\nshows her taste. You haven't a chance, old fellow. Time, Snobb?'\n\n'Eight minutes gone.'\n\n'Get the money ready,' said Sir Mulberry; 'you'll soon hand over.'\n\n'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. Pyke.\n\nMr. Pluck, who always came second, and topped his companion if he could,\nscreamed outright.\n\nThe poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with confusion that she scarcely\nknew what she did, had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but fearing\nthat by so doing she might seem to countenance Sir Mulberry's boast,\nwhich had been uttered with great coarseness and vulgarity of manner,\nraised her eyes, and looked him in the face. There was something so\nodious, so insolent, so repulsive in the look which met her, that,\nwithout the power to stammer forth a syllable, she rose and hurried from\nthe room. She restrained her tears by a great effort until she was alone\nupstairs, and then gave them vent.\n\n'Capital!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, putting the stakes in his pocket.\n\n'That's a girl of spirit, and we'll drink her health.'\n\nIt is needless to say, that Pyke and Co. responded, with great warmth of\nmanner, to this proposal, or that the toast was drunk with many\nlittle insinuations from the firm, relative to the completeness of Sir\nMulberry's conquest. Ralph, who, while the attention of the other guests\nwas attracted to the principals in the preceding scene, had eyed them\nlike a wolf, appeared to breathe more freely now his niece was gone; the\ndecanters passing quickly round, he leaned back in his chair, and turned\nhis eyes from speaker to speaker, as they warmed with wine, with looks\nthat seemed to search their hearts, and lay bare, for his distempered\nsport, every idle thought within them.\n\nMeanwhile Kate, left wholly to herself, had, in some degree, recovered\nher composure. She had learnt from a female attendant, that her uncle\nwished to see her before she left, and had also gleaned the satisfactory\nintelligence, that the gentlemen would take coffee at table. The\nprospect of seeing them no more, contributed greatly to calm her\nagitation, and, taking up a book, she composed herself to read.\n\nShe started sometimes, when the sudden opening of the dining-room door\nlet loose a wild shout of noisy revelry, and more than once rose in\ngreat alarm, as a fancied footstep on the staircase impressed her\nwith the fear that some stray member of the party was returning\nalone. Nothing occurring, however, to realise her apprehensions, she\nendeavoured to fix her attention more closely on her book, in which\nby degrees she became so much interested, that she had read on through\nseveral chapters without heed of time or place, when she was terrified\nby suddenly hearing her name pronounced by a man's voice close at her\near.\n\nThe book fell from her hand. Lounging on an ottoman close beside her,\nwas Sir Mulberry Hawk, evidently the worse--if a man be a ruffian at\nheart, he is never the better--for wine.\n\n'What a delightful studiousness!' said this accomplished gentleman. 'Was\nit real, now, or only to display the eyelashes?'\n\nKate, looking anxiously towards the door, made no reply.\n\n'I have looked at 'em for five minutes,' said Sir Mulberry. 'Upon my\nsoul, they're perfect. Why did I speak, and destroy such a pretty little\npicture?'\n\n'Do me the favour to be silent now, sir,' replied Kate.\n\n'No, don't,' said Sir Mulberry, folding his crushed hat to lay his elbow\non, and bringing himself still closer to the young lady; 'upon my life,\nyou oughtn't to. Such a devoted slave of yours, Miss Nickleby--it's an\ninfernal thing to treat him so harshly, upon my soul it is.'\n\n'I wish you to understand, sir,' said Kate, trembling in spite of\nherself, but speaking with great indignation, 'that your behaviour\noffends and disgusts me. If you have a spark of gentlemanly feeling\nremaining, you will leave me.'\n\n'Now why,' said Sir Mulberry, 'why will you keep up this appearance of\nexcessive rigour, my sweet creature? Now, be more natural--my dear Miss\nNickleby, be more natural--do.'\n\nKate hastily rose; but as she rose, Sir Mulberry caught her dress, and\nforcibly detained her.\n\n'Let me go, sir,' she cried, her heart swelling with anger. 'Do you\nhear? Instantly--this moment.'\n\n'Sit down, sit down,' said Sir Mulberry; 'I want to talk to you.'\n\n'Unhand me, sir, this instant,' cried Kate.\n\n'Not for the world,' rejoined Sir Mulberry. Thus speaking, he leaned\nover, as if to replace her in her chair; but the young lady, making a\nviolent effort to disengage herself, he lost his balance, and measured\nhis length upon the ground. As Kate sprung forward to leave the room, Mr\nRalph Nickleby appeared in the doorway, and confronted her.\n\n'What is this?' said Ralph.\n\n'It is this, sir,' replied Kate, violently agitated: 'that beneath the\nroof where I, a helpless girl, your dead brother's child, should most\nhave found protection, I have been exposed to insult which should make\nyou shrink to look upon me. Let me pass you.'\n\nRalph DID shrink, as the indignant girl fixed her kindling eye upon him;\nbut he did not comply with her injunction, nevertheless: for he led her\nto a distant seat, and returning, and approaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who\nhad by this time risen, motioned towards the door.\n\n'Your way lies there, sir,' said Ralph, in a suppressed voice, that some\ndevil might have owned with pride.\n\n'What do you mean by that?' demanded his friend, fiercely.\n\nThe swoln veins stood out like sinews on Ralph's wrinkled forehead, and\nthe nerves about his mouth worked as though some unendurable emotion\nwrung them; but he smiled disdainfully, and again pointed to the door.\n\n'Do you know me, you old madman?' asked Sir Mulberry.\n\n'Well,' said Ralph. The fashionable vagabond for the moment quite\nquailed under the steady look of the older sinner, and walked towards\nthe door, muttering as he went.\n\n'You wanted the lord, did you?' he said, stopping short when he reached\nthe door, as if a new light had broken in upon him, and confronting\nRalph again. 'Damme, I was in the way, was I?'\n\nRalph smiled again, but made no answer.\n\n'Who brought him to you first?' pursued Sir Mulberry; 'and how, without\nme, could you ever have wound him in your net as you have?'\n\n'The net is a large one, and rather full,' said Ralph. 'Take care that\nit chokes nobody in the meshes.'\n\n'You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if you have\nnot already made a bargain with the devil,' retorted the other. 'Do you\nmean to tell me that your pretty niece was not brought here as a decoy\nfor the drunken boy downstairs?'\n\nAlthough this hurried dialogue was carried on in a suppressed tone on\nboth sides, Ralph looked involuntarily round to ascertain that Kate had\nnot moved her position so as to be within hearing. His adversary saw the\nadvantage he had gained, and followed it up.\n\n'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked again, 'that it is not so? Do you\nmean to say that if he had found his way up here instead of me, you\nwouldn't have been a little more blind, and a little more deaf, and a\nlittle less flourishing, than you have been? Come, Nickleby, answer me\nthat.'\n\n'I tell you this,' replied Ralph, 'that if I brought her here, as a\nmatter of business--'\n\n'Ay, that's the word,' interposed Sir Mulberry, with a laugh. 'You're\ncoming to yourself again now.'\n\n'--As a matter of business,' pursued Ralph, speaking slowly and firmly,\nas a man who has made up his mind to say no more, 'because I thought she\nmight make some impression on the silly youth you have taken in hand\nand are lending good help to ruin, I knew--knowing him--that it would be\nlong before he outraged her girl's feelings, and that unless he offended\nby mere puppyism and emptiness, he would, with a little management,\nrespect the sex and conduct even of his usurer's niece. But if I thought\nto draw him on more gently by this device, I did not think of subjecting\nthe girl to the licentiousness and brutality of so old a hand as you.\nAnd now we understand each other.'\n\n'Especially as there was nothing to be got by it--eh?' sneered Sir\nMulberry.\n\n'Exactly so,' said Ralph. He had turned away, and looked over his\nshoulder to make this last reply. The eyes of the two worthies met,\nwith an expression as if each rascal felt that there was no disguising\nhimself from the other; and Sir Mulberry Hawk shrugged his shoulders and\nwalked slowly out.\n\nHis friend closed the door, and looked restlessly towards the spot where\nhis niece still remained in the attitude in which he had left her. She\nhad flung herself heavily upon the couch, and with her head drooping\nover the cushion, and her face hidden in her hands, seemed to be still\nweeping in an agony of shame and grief.\n\nRalph would have walked into any poverty-stricken debtor's house, and\npointed him out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child's\ndeath-bed, without the smallest concern, because it would have been a\nmatter quite in the ordinary course of business, and the man would have\nbeen an offender against his only code of morality. But, here was a\nyoung girl, who had done no wrong save that of coming into the world\nalive; who had patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried hard\nto please him--above all, who didn't owe him money--and he felt awkward\nand nervous.\n\nRalph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a little\nnearer; then, moved a little nearer still; then, nearer again, and\nfinally sat himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on Kate's arm.\n\n'Hush, my dear!' he said, as she drew it back, and her sobs burst out\nafresh. 'Hush, hush! Don't mind it, now; don't think of it.'\n\n'Oh, for pity's sake, let me go home,' cried Kate. 'Let me leave this\nhouse, and go home.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Ralph. 'You shall. But you must dry your eyes first,\nand compose yourself. Let me raise your head. There--there.'\n\n'Oh, uncle!' exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. 'What have I done--what\nhave I done--that you should subject me to this? If I had wronged you in\nthought, or word, or deed, it would have been most cruel to me, and the\nmemory of one you must have loved in some old time; but--'\n\n'Only listen to me for a moment,' interrupted Ralph, seriously alarmed\nby the violence of her emotions. 'I didn't know it would be so; it was\nimpossible for me to foresee it. I did all I could.--Come, let us walk\nabout. You are faint with the closeness of the room, and the heat of\nthese lamps. You will be better now, if you make the slightest effort.'\n\n'I will do anything,' replied Kate, 'if you will only send me home.'\n\n'Well, well, I will,' said Ralph; 'but you must get back your own looks;\nfor those you have, will frighten them, and nobody must know of this but\nyou and I. Now let us walk the other way. There. You look better even\nnow.'\n\nWith such encouragements as these, Ralph Nickleby walked to and fro,\nwith his niece leaning on his arm; actually trembling beneath her touch.\n\nIn the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her to depart, he\nsupported her downstairs, after adjusting her shawl and performing such\nlittle offices, most probably for the first time in his life. Across\nthe hall, and down the steps, Ralph led her too; nor did he withdraw his\nhand until she was seated in the coach.\n\nAs the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate's\nhair, close at her uncle's feet; and as he picked it up, and returned it\ninto her hand, the light from a neighbouring lamp shone upon her face.\nThe lock of hair that had escaped and curled loosely over her brow, the\ntraces of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of sorrow,\nall fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man's breast;\nand the face of his dead brother seemed present before him, with the\nvery look it bore on some occasion of boyish grief, of which every\nminutest circumstance flashed upon his mind, with the distinctness of a\nscene of yesterday.\n\nRalph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood\nand kindred--who was steeled against every tale of sorrow and\ndistress--staggered while he looked, and went back into his house, as a\nman who had seen a spirit from some world beyond the grave.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\nWherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses\nhis Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.\n\n\nLittle Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streets at the\nwest end of the town, early on Monday morning--the day after the\ndinner--charged with the important commission of acquainting Madame\nMantalini that Miss Nickleby was too unwell to attend that day, but\nhoped to be enabled to resume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La\nCreevy walked along, revolving in her mind various genteel forms and\nelegant turns of expression, with a view to the selection of the very\nbest in which to couch her communication, she cogitated a good deal upon\nthe probable causes of her young friend's indisposition.\n\n'I don't know what to make of it,' said Miss La Creevy. 'Her eyes were\ndecidedly red last night. She said she had a headache; headaches don't\noccasion red eyes. She must have been crying.'\n\nArriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had established to her\nperfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on\nto consider--as she had done nearly all night--what new cause of\nunhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.\n\n'I can't think of anything,' said the little portrait painter. 'Nothing\nat all, unless it was the behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I\nsuppose? Unpleasant brute!'\n\nRelieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was vented upon empty\nair, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini's; and being informed\nthat the governing power was not yet out of bed, requested an interview\nwith the second in command; whereupon Miss Knag appeared.\n\n'So far as I am concerned,' said Miss Knag, when the message had been\ndelivered, with many ornaments of speech; 'I could spare Miss Nickleby\nfor evermore.'\n\n'Oh, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended. 'But,\nyou see, you are not mistress of the business, and therefore it's of no\ngreat consequence.'\n\n'Very good, ma'am,' said Miss Knag. 'Have you any further commands for\nme?'\n\n'No, I have not, ma'am,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.\n\n'Then good-morning, ma'am,' said Miss Knag.\n\n'Good-morning to you, ma'am; and many obligations for your extreme\npoliteness and good breeding,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.\n\nThus terminating the interview, during which both ladies had trembled\nvery much, and been marvellously polite--certain indications that they\nwere within an inch of a very desperate quarrel--Miss La Creevy bounced\nout of the room, and into the street.\n\n'I wonder who that is,' said the queer little soul. 'A nice person\nto know, I should think! I wish I had the painting of her: I'D do her\njustice.' So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said a very cutting\nthing at Miss Knag's expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty laugh, and\nwent home to breakfast in great good humour.\n\nHere was one of the advantages of having lived alone so long! The little\nbustling, active, cheerful creature existed entirely within herself,\ntalked to herself, made a confidante of herself, was as sarcastic as she\ncould be, on people who offended her, by herself; pleased herself, and\ndid no harm. If she indulged in scandal, nobody's reputation suffered;\nand if she enjoyed a little bit of revenge, no living soul was one atom\nthe worse. One of the many to whom, from straitened circumstances, a\nconsequent inability to form the associations they would wish, and a\ndisinclination to mix with the society they could obtain, London is\nas complete a solitude as the plains of Syria, the humble artist had\npursued her lonely, but contented way for many years; and, until the\npeculiar misfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted her attention,\nhad made no friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to all\nmankind. There are many warm hearts in the same solitary guise as poor\nlittle Miss La Creevy's.\n\nHowever, that's neither here nor there, just now. She went home to\nbreakfast, and had scarcely caught the full flavour of her first sip of\ntea, when the servant announced a gentleman, whereat Miss La Creevy, at\nonce imagining a new sitter transfixed by admiration at the street-door\ncase, was in unspeakable consternation at the presence of the\ntea-things.\n\n'Here, take 'em away; run with 'em into the bedroom; anywhere,' said\nMiss La Creevy. 'Dear, dear; to think that I should be late on this\nparticular morning, of all others, after being ready for three weeks by\nhalf-past eight o'clock, and not a soul coming near the place!'\n\n'Don't let me put you out of the way,' said a voice Miss La Creevy knew.\n'I told the servant not to mention my name, because I wished to surprise\nyou.'\n\n'Mr. Nicholas!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting in great astonishment.\n'You have not forgotten me, I see,' replied Nicholas, extending his\nhand.\n\n'Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you in the\nstreet,' said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. 'Hannah, another cup and\nsaucer. Now, I'll tell you what, young man; I'll trouble you not to\nrepeat the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morning you went\naway.'\n\n'You would not be very angry, would you?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Wouldn't I!' said Miss La Creevy. 'You had better try; that's all!'\n\nNicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss La Creevy at\nher word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped his face; but it was\nnot a very hard slap, and that's the truth.\n\n'I never saw such a rude creature!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy.\n\n'You told me to try,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Well; but I was speaking ironically,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.\n\n'Oh! that's another thing,' said Nicholas; 'you should have told me\nthat, too.'\n\n'I dare say you didn't know, indeed!' retorted Miss La Creevy. 'But, now\nI look at you again, you seem thinner than when I saw you last, and your\nface is haggard and pale. And how come you to have left Yorkshire?'\n\nShe stopped here; for there was so much heart in her altered tone and\nmanner, that Nicholas was quite moved.\n\n'I need look somewhat changed,' he said, after a short silence; 'for\nI have undergone some suffering, both of mind and body, since I left\nLondon. I have been very poor, too, and have even suffered from want.'\n\n'Good Heaven, Mr. Nicholas!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, 'what are you\ntelling me?'\n\n'Nothing which need distress you quite so much,' answered Nicholas, with\na more sprightly air; 'neither did I come here to bewail my lot, but\non matter more to the purpose. I wish to meet my uncle face to face. I\nshould tell you that first.'\n\n'Then all I have to say about that is,' interposed Miss La Creevy, 'that\nI don't envy you your taste; and that sitting in the same room with his\nvery boots, would put me out of humour for a fortnight.'\n\n'In the main,' said Nicholas, 'there may be no great difference of\nopinion between you and me, so far; but you will understand, that I\ndesire to confront him, to justify myself, and to cast his duplicity and\nmalice in his throat.'\n\n'That's quite another matter,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'Heaven forgive\nme; but I shouldn't cry my eyes quite out of my head, if they choked\nhim. Well?'\n\n'To this end, I called upon him this morning,' said Nicholas. 'He only\nreturned to town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of his arrival until\nlate last night.'\n\n'And did you see him?' asked Miss La Creevy.\n\n'No,' replied Nicholas. 'He had gone out.'\n\n'Hah!' said Miss La Creevy; 'on some kind, charitable business, I dare\nsay.'\n\n'I have reason to believe,' pursued Nicholas, 'from what has been told\nme, by a friend of mine who is acquainted with his movements, that he\nintends seeing my mother and sister today, and giving them his version\nof the occurrences that have befallen me. I will meet him there.'\n\n'That's right,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands. 'And yet, I\ndon't know,' she added, 'there is much to be thought of--others to be\nconsidered.'\n\n'I have considered others,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but as honesty and\nhonour are both at issue, nothing shall deter me.'\n\n'You should know best,' said Miss La Creevy.\n\n'In this case I hope so,' answered Nicholas. 'And all I want you to do\nfor me, is, to prepare them for my coming. They think me a long way\noff, and if I went wholly unexpected, I should frighten them. If you can\nspare time to tell them that you have seen me, and that I shall be\nwith them in a quarter of an hour afterwards, you will do me a great\nservice.'\n\n'I wish I could do you, or any of you, a greater,' said Miss La Creevy;\n'but the power to serve, is as seldom joined with the will, as the will\nis with the power, I think.'\n\nTalking on very fast and very much, Miss La Creevy finished her\nbreakfast with great expedition, put away the tea-caddy and hid the\nkey under the fender, resumed her bonnet, and, taking Nicholas's arm,\nsallied forth at once to the city. Nicholas left her near the door of\nhis mother's house, and promised to return within a quarter of an hour.\n\nIt so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for his own\npurposes, to communicate the atrocities of which Nicholas had been\nguilty, had (instead of first proceeding to another quarter of the town\non business, as Newman Noggs supposed he would) gone straight to his\nsister-in-law. Hence, when Miss La Creevy, admitted by a girl who was\ncleaning the house, made her way to the sitting-room, she found Mrs\nNickleby and Kate in tears, and Ralph just concluding his statement of\nhis nephew's misdemeanours. Kate beckoned her not to retire, and Miss La\nCreevy took a seat in silence.\n\n'You are here already, are you, my gentleman?' thought the little woman.\n'Then he shall announce himself, and see what effect that has on you.'\n\n'This is pretty,' said Ralph, folding up Miss Squeers's note; 'very\npretty. I recommend him--against all my previous conviction, for I\nknew he would never do any good--to a man with whom, behaving himself\nproperly, he might have remained, in comfort, for years. What is the\nresult? Conduct for which he might hold up his hand at the Old Bailey.'\n\n'I never will believe it,' said Kate, indignantly; 'never. It is some\nbase conspiracy, which carries its own falsehood with it.'\n\n'My dear,' said Ralph, 'you wrong the worthy man. These are not\ninventions. The man is assaulted, your brother is not to be found; this\nboy, of whom they speak, goes with him--remember, remember.'\n\n'It is impossible,' said Kate. 'Nicholas!--and a thief too! Mama, how\ncan you sit and hear such statements?'\n\nPoor Mrs. Nickleby, who had, at no time, been remarkable for the\npossession of a very clear understanding, and who had been reduced\nby the late changes in her affairs to a most complicated state of\nperplexity, made no other reply to this earnest remonstrance than\nexclaiming from behind a mass of pocket-handkerchief, that she never\ncould have believed it--thereby most ingeniously leaving her hearers to\nsuppose that she did believe it.\n\n'It would be my duty, if he came in my way, to deliver him up to\njustice,' said Ralph, 'my bounden duty; I should have no other course,\nas a man of the world and a man of business, to pursue. And yet,' said\nRalph, speaking in a very marked manner, and looking furtively, but\nfixedly, at Kate, 'and yet I would not. I would spare the feelings of\nhis--of his sister. And his mother of course,' added Ralph, as though by\nan afterthought, and with far less emphasis.\n\nKate very well understood that this was held out as an additional\ninducement to her to preserve the strictest silence regarding the events\nof the preceding night. She looked involuntarily towards Ralph as he\nceased to speak, but he had turned his eyes another way, and seemed for\nthe moment quite unconscious of her presence.\n\n'Everything,' said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only by Mrs\nNickleby's sobs, 'everything combines to prove the truth of this letter,\nif indeed there were any possibility of disputing it. Do innocent men\nsteal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulk in hiding-places,\nlike outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle nameless vagabonds, and prowl\nwith them about the country as idle robbers do? Assault, riot, theft,\nwhat do you call these?'\n\n'A lie!' cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholas came\ninto the room.\n\nIn the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralph rose from\nhis seat, and fell back a few paces, quite taken off his guard by this\nunexpected apparition. In another moment, he stood, fixed and immovable\nwith folded arms, regarding his nephew with a scowl; while Kate and\nMiss La Creevy threw themselves between the two, to prevent the personal\nviolence which the fierce excitement of Nicholas appeared to threaten.\n\n'Dear Nicholas,' cried his sister, clinging to him. 'Be calm,\nconsider--'\n\n'Consider, Kate!' cried Nicholas, clasping her hand so tight in the\ntumult of his anger, that she could scarcely bear the pain. 'When I\nconsider all, and think of what has passed, I need be made of iron to\nstand before him.'\n\n'Or bronze,' said Ralph, quietly; 'there is not hardihood enough in\nflesh and blood to face it out.'\n\n'Oh dear, dear!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'that things should have come to\nsuch a pass as this!'\n\n'Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and brought disgrace on\nthem?' said Nicholas, looking round.\n\n'Your mother, sir,' replied Ralph, motioning towards her.\n\n'Whose ears have been poisoned by you,' said Nicholas; 'by you--who,\nunder pretence of deserving the thanks she poured upon you, heaped every\ninsult, wrong, and indignity upon my head. You, who sent me to a den\nwhere sordid cruelty, worthy of yourself, runs wanton, and youthful\nmisery stalks precocious; where the lightness of childhood shrinks into\nthe heaviness of age, and its every promise blights, and withers as it\ngrows. I call Heaven to witness,' said Nicholas, looking eagerly round,\n'that I have seen all this, and that he knows it.'\n\n'Refute these calumnies,' said Kate, 'and be more patient, so that you\nmay give them no advantage. Tell us what you really did, and show that\nthey are untrue.'\n\n'Of what do they--or of what does he--accuse me?' said Nicholas.\n\n'First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace of qualifying\nyourself to be tried for murder,' interposed Ralph. 'I speak plainly,\nyoung man, bluster as you will.'\n\n'I interfered,' said Nicholas, 'to save a miserable creature from the\nvilest cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a wretch\nas he will not readily forget, though far less than he deserved from\nme. If the same scene were renewed before me now, I would take the same\npart; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such\nmarks as he should carry to his grave, go to it when he would.'\n\n'You hear?' said Ralph, turning to Mrs. Nickleby. 'Penitence, this!'\n\n'Oh dear me!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'I don't know what to think, I really\ndon't.'\n\n'Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,' said Kate. 'Dear Nicholas,\nI only tell you, that you may know what wickedness can prompt, but they\naccuse you of--a ring is missing, and they dare to say that--'\n\n'The woman,' said Nicholas, haughtily, 'the wife of the fellow from whom\nthese charges come, dropped--as I suppose--a worthless ring among some\nclothes of mine, early in the morning on which I left the house. At\nleast, I know that she was in the bedroom where they lay, struggling\nwith an unhappy child, and that I found it when I opened my bundle on\nthe road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and they have it now.'\n\n'I knew, I knew,' said Kate, looking towards her uncle. 'About this boy,\nlove, in whose company they say you left?'\n\n'The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hard usage, is\nwith me now,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'You hear?' said Ralph, appealing to the mother again, 'everything\nproved, even upon his own confession. Do you choose to restore that boy,\nsir?'\n\n'No, I do not,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'You do not?' sneered Ralph.\n\n'No,' repeated Nicholas, 'not to the man with whom I found him. I would\nthat I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: I might wring something\nfrom his sense of shame, if he were dead to every tie of nature.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Ralph. 'Now, sir, will you hear a word or two from me?'\n\n'You can speak when and what you please,' replied Nicholas, embracing\nhis sister. 'I take little heed of what you say or threaten.'\n\n'Mighty well, sir,' retorted Ralph; 'but perhaps it may concern others,\nwho may think it worth their while to listen, and consider what I tell\nthem. I will address your mother, sir, who knows the world.'\n\n'Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn't,' sobbed Mrs. Nickleby.\n\nThere really was no necessity for the good lady to be much distressed\nupon this particular head; the extent of her worldly knowledge being, to\nsay the least, very questionable; and so Ralph seemed to think, for he\nsmiled as she spoke. He then glanced steadily at her and Nicholas by\nturns, as he delivered himself in these words:\n\n'Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma'am, and my\nniece, I say not one syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you to\njudge for yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I say that this boy,\nheadstrong, wilful and disorderly as he is, should not have one penny of\nmy money, or one crust of my bread, or one grasp of my hand, to save him\nfrom the loftiest gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him, come where\nhe comes, or hear his name. I will not help him, or those who help him.\nWith a full knowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has\ncome back in his selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your wants, and\na burden upon his sister's scanty wages. I regret to leave you, and more\nto leave her, now, but I will not encourage this compound of meanness\nand cruelty, and, as I will not ask you to renounce him, I see you no\nmore.'\n\nIf Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding those he hated,\nhis glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its force, as\nhe proceeded in the above address. Innocent as the young man was of all\nwrong, every artful insinuation stung, every well-considered sarcasm cut\nhim to the quick; and when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering\nlip, he hugged himself to mark how well he had chosen the taunts best\ncalculated to strike deep into a young and ardent spirit.\n\n'I can't help it,' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'I know you have been very good\nto us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am quite sure\nof that; I know you did, and it was very kind of you, having her at your\nhouse and all--and of course it would have been a great thing for her\nand for me too. But I can't, you know, brother-in-law, I can't renounce\nmy own son, even if he has done all you say he has--it's not possible;\nI couldn't do it; so we must go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can\nbear it, I dare say.' Pouring forth these and a perfectly wonderful\ntrain of other disjointed expressions of regret, which no mortal power\nbut Mrs. Nickleby's could ever have strung together, that lady wrung her\nhands, and her tears fell faster.\n\n'Why do you say \"IF Nicholas has done what they say he has,\" mama?'\nasked Kate, with honest anger. 'You know he has not.'\n\n'I don't know what to think, one way or other, my dear,' said Mrs\nNickleby; 'Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so much composure,\nthat I can only hear what he says, and not what Nicholas does. Never\nmind, don't let us talk any more about it. We can go to the Workhouse,\nor the Refuge for the Destitute, or the Magdalen Hospital, I dare say;\nand the sooner we go the better.' With this extraordinary jumble of\ncharitable institutions, Mrs. Nickleby again gave way to her tears.\n\n'Stay,' said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. 'You need not leave this\nplace, sir, for it will be relieved of my presence in one minute, and it\nwill be long, very long, before I darken these doors again.'\n\n'Nicholas,' cried Kate, throwing herself on her brother's shoulder, 'do\nnot say so. My dear brother, you will break my heart. Mama, speak to\nhim. Do not mind her, Nicholas; she does not mean it, you should know\nher better. Uncle, somebody, for Heaven's sake speak to him.'\n\n'I never meant, Kate,' said Nicholas, tenderly, 'I never meant to stay\namong you; think better of me than to suppose it possible. I may turn my\nback on this town a few hours sooner than I intended, but what of that?\nWe shall not forget each other apart, and better days will come when we\nshall part no more. Be a woman, Kate,' he whispered, proudly, 'and do\nnot make me one, while HE looks on.'\n\n'No, no, I will not,' said Kate, eagerly, 'but you will not leave us.\nOh! think of all the happy days we have had together, before these\nterrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the comfort and happiness of\nhome, and the trials we have to bear now; of our having no protector\nunder all the slights and wrongs that poverty so much favours, and you\ncannot leave us to bear them alone, without one hand to help us.'\n\n'You will be helped when I am away,' replied Nicholas hurriedly. 'I am\nno help to you, no protector; I should bring you nothing but sorrow, and\nwant, and suffering. My own mother sees it, and her fondness and fears\nfor you, point to the course that I should take. And so all good angels\nbless you, Kate, till I can carry you to some home of mine, where we may\nrevive the happiness denied to us now, and talk of these trials as of\nthings gone by. Do not keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear\ngirl--dear girl.'\n\nThe grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swooned in his arms.\nNicholas stooped over her for a few seconds, and placing her gently in a\nchair, confided her to their honest friend.\n\n'I need not entreat your sympathy,' he said, wringing her hand, 'for I\nknow your nature. You will never forget them.'\n\nHe stepped up to Ralph, who remained in the same attitude which he had\npreserved throughout the interview, and moved not a finger.\n\n'Whatever step you take, sir,' he said, in a voice inaudible beyond\nthemselves, 'I shall keep a strict account of. I leave them to you, at\nyour desire. There will be a day of reckoning sooner or later, and it\nwill be a heavy one for you if they are wronged.'\n\nRalph did not allow a muscle of his face to indicate that he heard one\nword of this parting address. He hardly knew that it was concluded, and\nMrs. Nickleby had scarcely made up her mind to detain her son by force if\nnecessary, when Nicholas was gone.\n\nAs he hurried through the streets to his obscure lodging, seeking to\nkeep pace, as it were, with the rapidity of the thoughts which crowded\nupon him, many doubts and hesitations arose in his mind, and almost\ntempted him to return. But what would they gain by this? Supposing he\nwere to put Ralph Nickleby at defiance, and were even fortunate enough\nto obtain some small employment, his being with them could only render\ntheir present condition worse, and might greatly impair their future\nprospects; for his mother had spoken of some new kindnesses towards Kate\nwhich she had not denied. 'No,' thought Nicholas, 'I have acted for the\nbest.'\n\nBut, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other and different\nfeeling would come upon him, and then he would lag again, and pulling\nhis hat over his eyes, give way to the melancholy reflections which\npressed thickly upon him. To have committed no fault, and yet to be so\nentirely alone in the world; to be separated from the only persons he\nloved, and to be proscribed like a criminal, when six months ago he had\nbeen surrounded by every comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of\nhis family--this was hard to bear. He had not deserved it either. Well,\nthere was comfort in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up again,\nto be again depressed, as his quickly shifting thoughts presented every\nvariety of light and shade before him.\n\nUndergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving, which no one,\nplaced in a situation of ordinary trial, can fail to have experienced,\nNicholas at length reached his poor room, where, no longer borne up by\nthe excitement which had hitherto sustained him, but depressed by the\nrevulsion of feeling it left behind, he threw himself on the bed, and\nturning his face to the wall, gave free vent to the emotions he had so\nlong stifled.\n\nHe had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of the presence of\nSmike, until, happening to raise his head, he saw him, standing at the\nupper end of the room, looking wistfully towards him. He withdrew his\neyes when he saw that he was observed, and affected to be busied with\nsome scanty preparations for dinner.\n\n'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, 'let\nme hear what new acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new\nwonder you have found out, in the compass of this street and the next\none.'\n\n'No,' said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; 'I must talk of something\nelse today.'\n\n'Of what you like,' replied Nicholas, good-humouredly.\n\n'Of this,' said Smike. 'I know you are unhappy, and have got into great\ntrouble by bringing me away. I ought to have known that, and stopped\nbehind--I would, indeed, if I had thought it then. You--you--are not\nrich; you have not enough for yourself, and I should not be here. You\ngrow,' said the lad, laying his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, 'you\ngrow thinner every day; your cheek is paler, and your eye more sunk.\nIndeed I cannot bear to see you so, and think how I am burdening you. I\ntried to go away today, but the thought of your kind face drew me back.\nI could not leave you without a word.' The poor fellow could say no\nmore, for his eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.\n\n'The word which separates us,' said Nicholas, grasping him heartily by\nthe shoulder, 'shall never be said by me, for you are my only comfort\nand stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all the world could give.\nThe thought of you has upheld me through all I have endured today, and\nshall, through fifty times such trouble. Give me your hand. My heart is\nlinked to yours. We will journey from this place together, before the\nweek is out. What, if I am steeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we\nwill be poor together.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\nMadam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and\nMiss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all\n\n\nThe agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nickleby unable to resume\nher duties at the dressmaker's for three days, at the expiration of\nwhich interval she betook herself at the accustomed hour, and with\nlanguid steps, to the temple of fashion where Madame Mantalini reigned\nparamount and supreme.\n\nThe ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in\nthe interval. The young ladies still scrupulously shrunk from all\ncompanionship with their denounced associate; and when that exemplary\nfemale arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at no pains to conceal\nthe displeasure with which she regarded Kate's return.\n\n'Upon my word!' said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round, to\nrelieve her of her bonnet and shawl; 'I should have thought some people\nwould have had spirit enough to stop away altogether, when they know\nwhat an incumbrance their presence is to right-minded persons. But it's\na queer world; oh! it's a queer world!'\n\nMiss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in the tone in which\nmost people do pass comments on the world when they are out of temper,\nthat is to say, as if they by no means belonged to it, concluded\nby heaving a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to compassionate the\nwickedness of mankind.\n\nThe attendants were not slow to echo the sigh, and Miss Knag was\napparently on the eve of favouring them with some further moral\nreflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini, conveyed through\nthe speaking-tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs to assist in the\narrangement of the show-room; a distinction which caused Miss Knag to\ntoss her head so much, and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of\nconversation were, for the time, annihilated.\n\n'Well, Miss Nickleby, child,' said Madame Mantalini, when Kate presented\nherself; 'are you quite well again?'\n\n'A great deal better, thank you,' replied Kate.\n\n'I wish I could say the same,' remarked Madame Mantalini, seating\nherself with an air of weariness.\n\n'Are you ill?' asked Kate. 'I am very sorry for that.'\n\n'Not exactly ill, but worried, child--worried,' rejoined Madame.\n\n'I am still more sorry to hear that,' said Kate, gently. 'Bodily illness\nis more easy to bear than mental.'\n\n'Ah! and it's much easier to talk than to bear either,' said Madame,\nrubbing her nose with much irritability of manner. 'There, get to your\nwork, child, and put the things in order, do.'\n\nWhile Kate was wondering within herself what these symptoms of unusual\nvexation portended, Mr. Mantalini put the tips of his whiskers, and, by\ndegrees, his head, through the half-opened door, and cried in a soft\nvoice--\n\n'Is my life and soul there?'\n\n'No,' replied his wife.\n\n'How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little\nrose in a demnition flower-pot?' urged Mantalini. 'May its poppet come\nin and talk?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Madame: 'you know I never allow you here. Go\nalong!'\n\nThe poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this\nreply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards\nMadame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss as he came along.\n\n'Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching\nnutcrackers?' said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of\nhis life and soul, and drawing her towards him with his right.\n\n'Oh! I can't bear you,' replied his wife.\n\n'Not--eh, not bear ME!' exclaimed Mantalini. 'Fibs, fibs. It couldn't\nbe. There's not a woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my\nface--to my own face.' Mr. Mantalini stroked his chin, as he said this,\nand glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.\n\n'Such destructive extravagance,' reasoned his wife, in a low tone.\n\n'All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little\nVenus, such a demd, enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating\nlittle Venus,' said Mantalini.\n\n'See what a situation you have placed me in!' urged Madame.\n\n'No harm will come, no harm shall come, to its own darling,' rejoined\nMr. Mantalini. 'It is all over; there will be nothing the matter; money\nshall be got in; and if it don't come in fast enough, old Nickleby shall\nstump up again, or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex and\nhurt the little--'\n\n'Hush!' interposed Madame. 'Don't you see?'\n\nMr. Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters with his wife,\nhad overlooked, or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took\nthe hint, and laying his finger on his lip, sunk his voice still\nlower. There was, then, a great deal of whispering, during which Madame\nMantalini appeared to make reference, more than once, to certain debts\nincurred by Mr. Mantalini previous to her coverture; and also to an\nunexpected outlay of money in payment of the aforesaid debts; and\nfurthermore, to certain agreeable weaknesses on that gentleman's part,\nsuch as gaming, wasting, idling, and a tendency to horse-flesh; each\nof which matters of accusation Mr. Mantalini disposed of, by one kiss\nor more, as its relative importance demanded. The upshot of it all\nwas, that Madame Mantalini was in raptures with him, and that they went\nupstairs to breakfast.\n\nKate busied herself in what she had to do, and was silently arranging\nthe various articles of decoration in the best taste she could display,\nwhen she started to hear a strange man's voice in the room, and started\nagain, to observe, on looking round, that a white hat, and a red\nneckerchief, and a broad round face, and a large head, and part of a\ngreen coat were in the room too.\n\n'Don't alarm yourself, miss,' said the proprietor of these appearances.\n'I say; this here's the mantie-making consarn, an't it?'\n\n'Yes,' rejoined Kate, greatly astonished. 'What did you want?'\n\nThe stranger answered not; but, first looking back, as though to beckon\nto some unseen person outside, came, very deliberately, into the room,\nand was closely followed by a little man in brown, very much the worse\nfor wear, who brought with him a mingled fumigation of stale tobacco and\nfresh onions. The clothes of this gentleman were much bespeckled with\nflue; and his shoes, stockings, and nether garments, from his heels to\nthe waist buttons of his coat inclusive, were profusely embroidered with\nsplashes of mud, caught a fortnight previously--before the setting-in of\nthe fine weather.\n\nKate's very natural impression was, that these engaging individuals\nhad called with the view of possessing themselves, unlawfully, of\nany portable articles that chanced to strike their fancy. She did not\nattempt to disguise her apprehensions, and made a move towards the door.\n\n'Wait a minnit,' said the man in the green coat, closing it softly, and\nstanding with his back against it. 'This is a unpleasant bisness. Vere's\nyour govvernor?'\n\n'My what--did you say?' asked Kate, trembling; for she thought\n'governor' might be slang for watch or money.\n\n'Mister Muntlehiney,' said the man. 'Wot's come on him? Is he at home?'\n\n'He is above stairs, I believe,' replied Kate, a little reassured by\nthis inquiry. 'Do you want him?'\n\n'No,' replied the visitor. 'I don't ezactly want him, if it's made a\nfavour on. You can jist give him that 'ere card, and tell him if he\nwants to speak to ME, and save trouble, here I am; that's all.'\n\nWith these words, the stranger put a thick square card into Kate's hand,\nand, turning to his friend, remarked, with an easy air, 'that the rooms\nwas a good high pitch;' to which the friend assented, adding, by way of\nillustration, 'that there was lots of room for a little boy to grow up\na man in either on 'em, vithout much fear of his ever bringing his head\ninto contract vith the ceiling.'\n\nAfter ringing the bell which would summon Madame Mantalini, Kate glanced\nat the card, and saw that it displayed the name of 'Scaley,' together\nwith some other information to which she had not had time to refer, when\nher attention was attracted by Mr. Scaley himself, who, walking up to one\nof the cheval-glasses, gave it a hard poke in the centre with his stick,\nas coolly as if it had been made of cast iron.\n\n'Good plate this here, Tix,' said Mr. Scaley to his friend.\n\n'Ah!' rejoined Mr. Tix, placing the marks of his four fingers, and a\nduplicate impression of his thumb, on a piece of sky-blue silk; 'and\nthis here article warn't made for nothing, mind you.'\n\nFrom the silk, Mr. Tix transferred his admiration to some elegant\narticles of wearing apparel, while Mr. Scaley adjusted his neckcloth,\nat leisure, before the glass, and afterwards, aided by its reflection,\nproceeded to the minute consideration of a pimple on his chin; in which\nabsorbing occupation he was yet engaged, when Madame Mantalini, entering\nthe room, uttered an exclamation of surprise which roused him.\n\n'Oh! Is this the missis?' inquired Scaley.\n\n'It is Madame Mantalini,' said Kate.\n\n'Then,' said Mr. Scaley, producing a small document from his pocket and\nunfolding it very slowly, 'this is a writ of execution, and if it's not\nconwenient to settle we'll go over the house at wunst, please, and take\nthe inwentory.'\n\nPoor Madame Mantalini wrung her hands for grief, and rung the bell\nfor her husband; which done, she fell into a chair and a fainting fit,\nsimultaneously. The professional gentlemen, however, were not at all\ndiscomposed by this event, for Mr. Scaley, leaning upon a stand on which\na handsome dress was displayed (so that his shoulders appeared above it,\nin nearly the same manner as the shoulders of the lady for whom it was\ndesigned would have done if she had had it on), pushed his hat on one\nside and scratched his head with perfect unconcern, while his friend\nMr. Tix, taking that opportunity for a general survey of the apartment\npreparatory to entering on business, stood with his inventory-book under\nhis arm and his hat in his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price\nupon every object within his range of vision.\n\nSuch was the posture of affairs when Mr. Mantalini hurried in; and as\nthat distinguished specimen had had a pretty extensive intercourse with\nMr. Scaley's fraternity in his bachelor days, and was, besides, very\nfar from being taken by surprise on the present agitating occasion, he\nmerely shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands down to the bottom of\nhis pockets, elevated his eyebrows, whistled a bar or two, swore an oath\nor two, and, sitting astride upon a chair, put the best face upon the\nmatter with great composure and decency.\n\n'What's the demd total?' was the first question he asked.\n\n'Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound, four and ninepence ha'penny,'\nreplied Mr. Scaley, without moving a limb.\n\n'The halfpenny be demd,' said Mr. Mantalini, impatiently.\n\n'By all means if you vish it,' retorted Mr. Scaley; 'and the ninepence.'\n\n'It don't matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound\nwent along with it, that I know on,' observed Mr. Tix.\n\n'Not a button,' said Scaley.\n\n'Well,' said the same gentleman, after a pause, 'wot's to be\ndone--anything? Is it only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash? A\nbreak-up of the constitootion is it?--werry good. Then Mr. Tom Tix,\nesk-vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family as you won't\nsleep at home for three nights to come, along of being in possession\nhere. Wot's the good of the lady a fretting herself?' continued Mr\nScaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. 'A good half of wot's here isn't\npaid for, I des-say, and wot a consolation oughtn't that to be to her\nfeelings!'\n\nWith these remarks, combining great pleasantry with sound moral\nencouragement under difficulties, Mr. Scaley proceeded to take the\ninventory, in which delicate task he was materially assisted by the\nuncommon tact and experience of Mr. Tix, the broker.\n\n'My cup of happiness's sweetener,' said Mantalini, approaching his wife\nwith a penitent air; 'will you listen to me for two minutes?'\n\n'Oh! don't speak to me,' replied his wife, sobbing. 'You have ruined me,\nand that's enough.'\n\nMr. Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner\nheard these words pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he\nrecoiled several paces, assumed an expression of consuming mental agony,\nrushed headlong from the room, and was, soon afterwards, heard to slam\nthe door of an upstairs dressing-room with great violence.\n\n'Miss Nickleby,' cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her\near, 'make haste, for Heaven's sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke\nunkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, my darling\nAlfred.'\n\nWith such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who,\nalthough she did not quite participate in the fond wife's apprehensions,\nwas a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being\nhastily flung open, Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his\nshirt-collar symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a\nbreakfast knife by means of his razor strop.\n\n'Ah!' cried Mr. Mantalini, 'interrupted!' and whisk went the breakfast\nknife into Mr. Mantalini's dressing-gown pocket, while Mr. Mantalini's\neyes rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wild disorder, mingled with\nhis whiskers.\n\n'Alfred,' cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, 'I didn't mean to\nsay it, I didn't mean to say it!'\n\n'Ruined!' cried Mr. Mantalini. 'Have I brought ruin upon the best and\npurest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let\nme go.' At this crisis of his ravings Mr. Mantalini made a pluck at the\nbreakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife's grasp, attempted to\ndash his head against the wall--taking very good care to be at least six\nfeet from it.\n\n'Compose yourself, my own angel,' said Madame. 'It was nobody's fault;\nit was mine as much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred,\ncome.'\n\nMr. Mantalini did not think proper to come to, all at once; but, after\ncalling several times for poison, and requesting some lady or gentleman\nto blow his brains out, gentler feelings came upon him, and he wept\npathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did not oppose the\ncapture of the knife--which, to tell the truth, he was rather glad to be\nrid of, as an inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt pocket--and\nfinally he suffered himself to be led away by his affectionate partner.\n\nAfter a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies were informed that\ntheir services would be dispensed with until further notice, and at the\nexpiration of two days, the name of Mantalini appeared in the list of\nbankrupts: Miss Nickleby received an intimation per post, on the same\nmorning, that the business would be, in future, carried on under\nthe name of Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be\nrequired--a piece of intelligence with which Mrs. Nickleby was no sooner\nmade acquainted, than that good lady declared she had expected it all\nalong and cited divers unknown occasions on which she had prophesied to\nthat precise effect.\n\n'And I say again,' remarked Mrs. Nickleby (who, it is scarcely necessary\nto observe, had never said so before), 'I say again, that a milliner's\nand dressmaker's is the very last description of business, Kate, that\nyou should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don't make it\na reproach to you, my love; but still I will say, that if you had\nconsulted your own mother--'\n\n'Well, well, mama,' said Kate, mildly: 'what would you recommend now?'\n\n'Recommend!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, 'isn't it obvious, my dear, that of all\noccupations in this world for a young lady situated as you are, that\nof companion to some amiable lady is the very thing for which your\neducation, and manners, and personal appearance, and everything else,\nexactly qualify you? Did you never hear your poor dear papa speak of the\nyoung lady who was the daughter of the old lady who boarded in the same\nhouse that he boarded in once, when he was a bachelor--what was her name\nagain? I know it began with a B, and ended with g, but whether it was\nWaters or--no, it couldn't have been that, either; but whatever her name\nwas, don't you know that that young lady went as companion to a married\nlady who died soon afterwards, and that she married the husband, and had\none of the finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen--all\nwithin eighteen months?'\n\nKate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourable recollection\nwas occasioned by some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had\ndiscovered, in the companionship walk of life. She therefore waited,\nvery patiently, until all reminiscences and anecdotes, bearing or not\nbearing upon the subject, had been exhausted, and at last ventured\nto inquire what discovery had been made. The truth then came out. Mrs\nNickleby had, that morning, had a yesterday's newspaper of the very\nfirst respectability from the public-house where the porter came from;\nand in this yesterday's newspaper was an advertisement, couched in the\npurest and most grammatical English, announcing that a married lady was\nin want of a genteel young person as companion, and that the married\nlady's name and address were to be known, on application at a certain\nlibrary at the west end of the town, therein mentioned.\n\n'And I say,' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, laying the paper down in triumph,\n'that if your uncle don't object, it's well worth the trial.'\n\nKate was too sick at heart, after the rough jostling she had already had\nwith the world, and really cared too little at the moment what fate was\nreserved for her, to make any objection. Mr. Ralph Nickleby offered none,\nbut, on the contrary, highly approved of the suggestion; neither did he\nexpress any great surprise at Madame Mantalini's sudden failure, indeed\nit would have been strange if he had, inasmuch as it had been procured\nand brought about chiefly by himself. So, the name and address were\nobtained without loss of time, and Miss Nickleby and her mama went off\nin quest of Mrs. Wititterly, of Cadogan Place, Sloane Street, that same\nforenoon.\n\nCadogan Place is the one slight bond that joins two great extremes; it\nis the connecting link between the aristocratic pavements of Belgrave\nSquare, and the barbarism of Chelsea. It is in Sloane Street, but not of\nit. The people in Cadogan Place look down upon Sloane Street, and think\nBrompton low. They affect fashion too, and wonder where the New Road\nis. Not that they claim to be on precisely the same footing as the high\nfolks of Belgrave Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they stand, with\nreference to them, rather in the light of those illegitimate children of\nthe great who are content to boast of their connections, although their\nconnections disavow them. Wearing as much as they can of the airs\nand semblances of loftiest rank, the people of Cadogan Place have the\nrealities of middle station. It is the conductor which communicates to\nthe inhabitants of regions beyond its limit, the shock of pride of\nbirth and rank, which it has not within itself, but derives from a\nfountain-head beyond; or, like the ligament which unites the Siamese\ntwins, it contains something of the life and essence of two distinct\nbodies, and yet belongs to neither.\n\nUpon this doubtful ground, lived Mrs. Wititterly, and at Mrs. Wititterly's\ndoor Kate Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. The door was opened by\na big footman with his head floured, or chalked, or painted in some way\n(it didn't look genuine powder), and the big footman, receiving the card\nof introduction, gave it to a little page; so little, indeed, that his\nbody would not hold, in ordinary array, the number of small buttons\nwhich are indispensable to a page's costume, and they were consequently\nobliged to be stuck on four abreast. This young gentleman took the card\nupstairs on a salver, and pending his return, Kate and her mother were\nshown into a dining-room of rather dirty and shabby aspect, and so\ncomfortably arranged as to be adapted to almost any purpose rather than\neating and drinking.\n\nNow, in the ordinary course of things, and according to all authentic\ndescriptions of high life, as set forth in books, Mrs. Wititterly ought\nto have been in her BOUDOIR; but whether it was that Mr. Wititterly was\nat that moment shaving himself in the BOUDOIR or what not, certain it\nis that Mrs. Wititterly gave audience in the drawing-room, where was\neverything proper and necessary, including curtains and furniture\ncoverings of a roseate hue, to shed a delicate bloom on Mrs. Wititterly's\ncomplexion, and a little dog to snap at strangers' legs for Mrs\nWititterly's amusement, and the afore-mentioned page, to hand chocolate\nfor Mrs. Wititterly's refreshment.\n\nThe lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and a face of engaging\npaleness; there was a faded look about her, and about the furniture, and\nabout the house. She was reclining on a sofa in such a very unstudied\nattitude, that she might have been taken for an actress all ready for\nthe first scene in a ballet, and only waiting for the drop curtain to go\nup.\n\n'Place chairs.'\n\nThe page placed them.\n\n'Leave the room, Alphonse.'\n\nThe page left it; but if ever an Alphonse carried plain Bill in his face\nand figure, that page was the boy.\n\n'I have ventured to call, ma'am,' said Kate, after a few seconds of\nawkward silence, 'from having seen your advertisement.'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mrs. Wititterly, 'one of my people put it in the\npaper--Yes.'\n\n'I thought, perhaps,' said Kate, modestly, 'that if you had not\nalready made a final choice, you would forgive my troubling you with an\napplication.'\n\n'Yes,' drawled Mrs. Wititterly again.\n\n'If you have already made a selection--'\n\n'Oh dear no,' interrupted the lady, 'I am not so easily suited. I really\ndon't know what to say. You have never been a companion before, have\nyou?'\n\nMrs. Nickleby, who had been eagerly watching her opportunity, came\ndexterously in, before Kate could reply. 'Not to any stranger, ma'am,'\nsaid the good lady; 'but she has been a companion to me for some years.\nI am her mother, ma'am.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mrs. Wititterly, 'I apprehend you.'\n\n'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'that I very little thought,\nat one time, that it would be necessary for my daughter to go out into\nthe world at all, for her poor dear papa was an independent gentleman,\nand would have been at this moment if he had but listened in time to my\nconstant entreaties and--'\n\n'Dear mama,' said Kate, in a low voice.\n\n'My dear Kate, if you will allow me to speak,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I\nshall take the liberty of explaining to this lady--'\n\n'I think it is almost unnecessary, mama.'\n\nAnd notwithstanding all the frowns and winks with which Mrs. Nickleby\nintimated that she was going to say something which would clench the\nbusiness at once, Kate maintained her point by an expressive look, and\nfor once Mrs. Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink of an oration.\n\n'What are your accomplishments?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, with her eyes\nshut.\n\nKate blushed as she mentioned her principal acquirements, and Mrs\nNickleby checked them all off, one by one, on her fingers; having\ncalculated the number before she came out. Luckily the two calculations\nagreed, so Mrs. Nickleby had no excuse for talking.\n\n'You are a good temper?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, opening her eyes for an\ninstant, and shutting them again.\n\n'I hope so,' rejoined Kate.\n\n'And have a highly respectable reference for everything, have you?'\n\nKate replied that she had, and laid her uncle's card upon the table.\n\n'Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and let me look\nat you,' said Mrs. Wititterly; 'I am so very nearsighted that I can't\nquite discern your features.'\n\nKate complied, though not without some embarrassment, with this request,\nand Mrs. Wititterly took a languid survey of her countenance, which\nlasted some two or three minutes.\n\n'I like your appearance,' said that lady, ringing a little bell.\n'Alphonse, request your master to come here.'\n\nThe page disappeared on this errand, and after a short interval, during\nwhich not a word was spoken on either side, opened the door for an\nimportant gentleman of about eight-and-thirty, of rather plebeian\ncountenance, and with a very light head of hair, who leant over Mrs\nWititterly for a little time, and conversed with her in whispers.\n\n'Oh!' he said, turning round, 'yes. This is a most important matter. Mrs\nWititterly is of a very excitable nature; very delicate, very fragile; a\nhothouse plant, an exotic.'\n\n'Oh! Henry, my dear,' interposed Mrs. Wititterly.\n\n'You are, my love, you know you are; one breath--' said Mr. W., blowing\nan imaginary feather away. 'Pho! you're gone!'\n\nThe lady sighed.\n\n'Your soul is too large for your body,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'Your\nintellect wears you out; all the medical men say so; you know that there\nis not a physician who is not proud of being called in to you. What\nis their unanimous declaration? \"My dear doctor,\" said I to Sir Tumley\nSnuffim, in this very room, the very last time he came. \"My dear doctor,\nwhat is my wife's complaint? Tell me all. I can bear it. Is it nerves?\"\n\"My dear fellow,\" he said, \"be proud of that woman; make much of her;\nshe is an ornament to the fashionable world, and to you. Her complaint\nis soul. It swells, expands, dilates--the blood fires, the pulse\nquickens, the excitement increases--Whew!\"' Here Mr. Wititterly, who, in\nthe ardour of his description, had flourished his right hand to within\nsomething less than an inch of Mrs. Nickleby's bonnet, drew it hastily\nback again, and blew his nose as fiercely as if it had been done by some\nviolent machinery.\n\n'You make me out worse than I am, Henry,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a\nfaint smile.\n\n'I do not, Julia, I do not,' said Mr. W. 'The society in which\nyou move--necessarily move, from your station, connection, and\nendowments--is one vortex and whirlpool of the most frightful\nexcitement. Bless my heart and body, can I ever forget the night you\ndanced with the baronet's nephew at the election ball, at Exeter! It was\ntremendous.'\n\n'I always suffer for these triumphs afterwards,' said Mrs. Wititterly.\n\n'And for that very reason,' rejoined her husband, 'you must have a\ncompanion, in whom there is great gentleness, great sweetness, excessive\nsympathy, and perfect repose.'\n\nHere, both Mr. and Mrs. Wititterly, who had talked rather at the Nicklebys\nthan to each other, left off speaking, and looked at their two hearers,\nwith an expression of countenance which seemed to say, 'What do you\nthink of all this?'\n\n'Mrs. Wititterly,' said her husband, addressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby,\n'is sought after and courted by glittering crowds and brilliant circles.\nShe is excited by the opera, the drama, the fine arts, the--the--the--'\n\n'The nobility, my love,' interposed Mrs. Wititterly.\n\n'The nobility, of course,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'And the military. She\nforms and expresses an immense variety of opinions on an immense variety\nof subjects. If some people in public life were acquainted with Mrs\nWititterly's real opinion of them, they would not hold their heads,\nperhaps, quite as high as they do.'\n\n'Hush, Henry,' said the lady; 'this is scarcely fair.'\n\n'I mention no names, Julia,' replied Mr. Wititterly; 'and nobody is\ninjured. I merely mention the circumstance to show that you are no\nordinary person, that there is a constant friction perpetually going\non between your mind and your body; and that you must be soothed and\ntended. Now let me hear, dispassionately and calmly, what are this young\nlady's qualifications for the office.'\n\nIn obedience to this request, the qualifications were all gone through\nagain, with the addition of many interruptions and cross-questionings\nfrom Mr. Wititterly. It was finally arranged that inquiries should be\nmade, and a decisive answer addressed to Miss Nickleby under cover\nof her uncle, within two days. These conditions agreed upon, the page\nshowed them down as far as the staircase window; and the big footman,\nrelieving guard at that point, piloted them in perfect safety to the\nstreet-door.\n\n'They are very distinguished people, evidently,' said Mrs. Nickleby, as\nshe took her daughter's arm. 'What a superior person Mrs. Wititterly is!'\n\n'Do you think so, mama?' was all Kate's reply.\n\n'Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my love?' rejoined her mother.\n'She is pale though, and looks much exhausted. I hope she may not be\nwearing herself out, but I am very much afraid.'\n\nThese considerations led the deep-sighted lady into a calculation of\nthe probable duration of Mrs. Wititterly's life, and the chances of the\ndisconsolate widower bestowing his hand on her daughter. Before reaching\nhome, she had freed Mrs. Wititterly's soul from all bodily restraint;\nmarried Kate with great splendour at St George's, Hanover Square;\nand only left undecided the minor question, whether a splendid\nFrench-polished mahogany bedstead should be erected for herself in the\ntwo-pair back of the house in Cadogan Place, or in the three-pair front:\nbetween which apartments she could not quite balance the advantages, and\ntherefore adjusted the question at last, by determining to leave it to\nthe decision of her son-in-law.\n\nThe inquiries were made. The answer--not to Kate's very great joy--was\nfavourable; and at the expiration of a week she betook herself, with all\nher movables and valuables, to Mrs. Wititterly's mansion, where for the\npresent we will leave her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\nNicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. He\nencounters Mr. Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made manifest\n\n\nThe whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to, either in\npossession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, after paying his rent\nand settling with the broker from whom he had hired his poor furniture,\ndid not exceed, by more than a few halfpence, the sum of twenty\nshillings. And yet he hailed the morning on which he had resolved\nto quit London, with a light heart, and sprang from his bed with an\nelasticity of spirit which is happily the lot of young persons, or the\nworld would never be stocked with old ones.\n\nIt was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagre shadows\nflitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionally there loomed\nthrough the dull vapour, the heavy outline of some hackney coach wending\nhomewards, which, drawing slowly nearer, rolled jangling by, scattering\nthe thin crust of frost from its whitened roof, and soon was lost again\nin the cloud. At intervals were heard the tread of slipshod feet, and\nthe chilly cry of the poor sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early\ntoil; the heavy footfall of the official watcher of the night, pacing\nslowly up and down and cursing the tardy hours that still intervened\nbetween him and sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the\nroll of the lighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the\ndifferent markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of\nheavy sleepers--all these noises fell upon the ear from time to\ntime, but all seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost as\nindistinct to the ear as was every object to the sight. The sluggish\ndarkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had the courage to\nrise and peep at the gloomy street from their curtained windows, crept\nback to bed again, and coiled themselves up to sleep.\n\nBefore even these indications of approaching morning were rife in busy\nLondon, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, and stood beneath\nthe windows of his mother's house. It was dull and bare to see, but it\nhad light and life for him; for there was at least one heart within\nits old walls to which insult or dishonour would bring the same blood\nrushing, that flowed in his own veins.\n\nHe crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of the room where\nhe knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. 'Poor girl,' thought\nNicholas, 'she little thinks who lingers here!'\n\nHe looked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate was\nnot there to exchange one word at parting. 'Good God!' he thought,\nsuddenly correcting himself, 'what a boy I am!'\n\n'It is better as it is,' said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, a few\npaces, and returned to the same spot. 'When I left them before, and\ncould have said goodbye a thousand times if I had chosen, I spared them\nthe pain of leave-taking, and why not now?' As he spoke, some fancied\nmotion of the curtain almost persuaded him, for the instant, that Kate\nwas at the window, and by one of those strange contradictions of feeling\nwhich are common to us all, he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that\nshe might not see him. He smiled at his own weakness; said 'God bless\nthem!' and walked away with a lighter step.\n\nSmike was anxiously expecting him when he reached his old lodgings, and\nso was Newman, who had expended a day's income in a can of rum and milk\nto prepare them for the journey. They had tied up the luggage, Smike\nshouldered it, and away they went, with Newman Noggs in company; for he\nhad insisted on walking as far as he could with them, overnight.\n\n'Which way?' asked Newman, wistfully.\n\n'To Kingston first,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'And where afterwards?' asked Newman. 'Why won't you tell me?'\n\n'Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,' rejoined Nicholas, laying\nhis hand upon his shoulder; 'and if I did, I have neither plan nor\nprospect yet, and might shift my quarters a hundred times before you\ncould possibly communicate with me.'\n\n'I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,' said Newman,\ndoubtfully.\n\n'So deep,' replied his young friend, 'that even I can't fathom it.\nWhatever I resolve upon, depend upon it I will write you soon.'\n\n'You won't forget?' said Newman.\n\n'I am not very likely to,' rejoined Nicholas. 'I have not so many\nfriends that I shall grow confused among the number, and forget my best\none.'\n\nOccupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple of hours,\nas they might have done for a couple of days if Nicholas had not sat\nhimself down on a stone by the wayside, and resolutely declared his\nintention of not moving another step until Newman Noggs turned back.\nHaving pleaded ineffectually first for another half-mile, and afterwards\nfor another quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course\ntowards Golden Square, after interchanging many hearty and affectionate\nfarewells, and many times turning back to wave his hat to the two\nwayfarers when they had become mere specks in the distance.\n\n'Now listen to me, Smike,' said Nicholas, as they trudged with stout\nhearts onwards. 'We are bound for Portsmouth.'\n\nSmike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no other emotion; for\nwhether they had been bound for Portsmouth or Port Royal would have been\nalike to him, so they had been bound together.\n\n'I don't know much of these matters,' resumed Nicholas; 'but Portsmouth\nis a seaport town, and if no other employment is to be obtained, I\nshould think we might get on board some ship. I am young and active, and\ncould be useful in many ways. So could you.'\n\n'I hope so,' replied Smike. 'When I was at that--you know where I mean?'\n\n'Yes, I know,' said Nicholas. 'You needn't name the place.'\n\n'Well, when I was there,' resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling at the\nprospect of displaying his abilities; 'I could milk a cow, and groom a\nhorse, with anybody.'\n\n'Ha!' said Nicholas, gravely. 'I am afraid they don't keep many animals\nof either kind on board ship, Smike, and even when they have horses,\nthat they are not very particular about rubbing them down; still you can\nlearn to do something else, you know. Where there's a will, there's a\nway.'\n\n'And I am very willing,' said Smike, brightening up again.\n\n'God knows you are,' rejoined Nicholas; 'and if you fail, it shall go\nhard but I'll do enough for us both.'\n\n'Do we go all the way today?' asked Smike, after a short silence.\n\n'That would be too severe a trial, even for your willing legs,' said\nNicholas, with a good-humoured smile. 'No. Godalming is some thirty and\nodd miles from London--as I found from a map I borrowed--and I purpose\nto rest there. We must push on again tomorrow, for we are not rich\nenough to loiter. Let me relieve you of that bundle! Come!'\n\n'No, no,' rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. 'Don't ask me to\ngive it up to you.'\n\n'Why not?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Let me do something for you, at least,' said Smike. 'You will never let\nme serve you as I ought. You will never know how I think, day and night,\nof ways to please you.'\n\n'You are a foolish fellow to say it, for I know it well, and see it, or\nI should be a blind and senseless beast,' rejoined Nicholas. 'Let me ask\nyou a question while I think of it, and there is no one by,' he added,\nlooking him steadily in the face. 'Have you a good memory?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I think I had\nonce; but it's all gone now--all gone.'\n\n'Why do you think you had once?' asked Nicholas, turning quickly upon\nhim as though the answer in some way helped out the purport of his\nquestion.\n\n'Because I could remember, when I was a child,' said Smike, 'but that is\nvery, very long ago, or at least it seems so. I was always confused\nand giddy at that place you took me from; and could never remember,\nand sometimes couldn't even understand, what they said to me. I--let me\nsee--let me see!'\n\n'You are wandering now,' said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.\n\n'No,' replied his companion, with a vacant look 'I was only thinking\nhow--' He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.\n\n'Think no more of that place, for it is all over,' retorted Nicholas,\nfixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, which was fast settling\ninto an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitual to him, and common even\nthen. 'What of the first day you went to Yorkshire?'\n\n'Eh!' cried the lad.\n\n'That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,' said\nNicholas quietly. 'Was the weather hot or cold?'\n\n'Wet,' replied the boy. 'Very wet. I have always said, when it has\nrained hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used to crowd\nround and laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. It was like a\nchild, they said, and that made me think of it more. I turned cold all\nover sometimes, for I could see myself as I was then, coming in at the\nvery same door.'\n\n'As you were then,' repeated Nicholas, with assumed carelessness; 'how\nwas that?'\n\n'Such a little creature,' said Smike, 'that they might have had pity and\nmercy upon me, only to remember it.'\n\n'You didn't find your way there, alone!' remarked Nicholas.\n\n'No,' rejoined Smike, 'oh no.'\n\n'Who was with you?'\n\n'A man--a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at the school,\nand I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, I was afraid of\nhim; but they made me more afraid of them, and used me harder too.'\n\n'Look at me,' said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.\n'There; don't turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who\nhung over you once, and kissed your lips, and called you her child?'\n\n'No,' said the poor creature, shaking his head, 'no, never.'\n\n'Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?'\n\n'No,' rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; 'a room--I remember\nI slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of a house, where\nthere was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have covered my head with the\nclothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: a young child with\nno one near at night: and I used to wonder what was on the other side.\nThere was a clock too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember that.\nI have never forgotten that room; for when I have terrible dreams, it\ncomes back, just as it was. I see things and people in it that I had\nnever seen then, but there is the room just as it used to be; THAT never\nchanges.'\n\n'Will you let me take the bundle now?' asked Nicholas, abruptly changing\nthe theme.\n\n'No,' said Smike, 'no. Come, let us walk on.'\n\nHe quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under the impression\nthat they had been standing still during the whole of the previous\ndialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and every word of this\nconversation remained upon his memory.\n\nIt was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although a dense\nvapour still enveloped the city they had left, as if the very breath of\nits busy people hung over their schemes of gain and profit, and found\ngreater attraction there than in the quiet region above, in the open\ncountry it was clear and fair. Occasionally, in some low spots they\ncame upon patches of mist which the sun had not yet driven from their\nstrongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the\nhills beyond, it was pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish\nmass rolled heavily off, before the cheering influence of day. A broad,\nfine, honest sun lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water\nwith the semblance of summer, while it left the travellers all the\ninvigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed\nelastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to their ears; and\nexhilarated by exercise, and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with\nthe strength of lions.\n\nThe day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed\na quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time, or youthful\nfeatures by degrees resolving into the calm and serenity of age. But\nthey were scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had\nbeen in their prime; for nature gives to every time and season some\nbeauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to\nthe grave, is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy, that we\ncan scarcely mark their progress.\n\nTo Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble\nbeds, and slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though\nnot quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if not with all the\nfreshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear\nthem cheerily on.\n\nIt was a harder day's journey than yesterday's, for there were long and\nweary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal\neasier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated\nperseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that\nperseverance will not gain the summit of at last.\n\nThey walked upon the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl; and Smike listened\nwith greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone\nwhich, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by\nnight. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore;\nand the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into\nthe hollow which gives the place its name. 'The Devil's Bowl,' thought\nNicholas, as he looked into the void, 'never held fitter liquor than\nthat!'\n\nOnward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide\nand spacious tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and\nplain to change their verdant surface. Here, there shot up, almost\nperpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly\naccessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and\nthere, stood a mound of green, sloping and tapering off so delicately,\nand merging so gently into the level ground, that you could scarce\ndefine its limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations\nshapely and uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown\nnegligently side by side, bounded the view in each direction; while\nfrequently, with unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a\nflight of crows, who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if\nuncertain of their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and\nskimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with the speed of\nlight itself.\n\nBy degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as\nthey had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged\nonce again upon the open country. The knowledge that they were drawing\nnear their place of destination, gave them fresh courage to proceed; but\nthe way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike\nwas tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned\noff the path to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of\nPortsmouth.\n\n'Twelve miles,' said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and\nlooking doubtfully at Smike.\n\n'Twelve long miles,' repeated the landlord.\n\n'Is it a good road?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'Very bad,' said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, he would\nsay.\n\n'I want to get on,' observed Nicholas, hesitating. 'I scarcely know what\nto do.'\n\n'Don't let me influence you,' rejoined the landlord. 'I wouldn't go on\nif it was me.'\n\n'Wouldn't you?' asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.\n\n'Not if I knew when I was well off,' said the landlord. And having said\nit he pulled up his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and, taking\na step or two outside the door, looked down the dark road with an\nassumption of great indifference.\n\nA glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, so without\nany further consideration he made up his mind to stay where he was.\n\nThe landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a good fire he\nremarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one he\nwould have observed that it was very warm.\n\n'What can you give us for supper?' was Nicholas's natural question.\n\n'Why--what would you like?' was the landlord's no less natural answer.\n\nNicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat--poached eggs,\nbut there were no eggs--mutton chops, but there wasn't a mutton chop\nwithin three miles, though there had been more last week than they knew\nwhat to do with, and would be an extraordinary supply the day after\ntomorrow.\n\n'Then,' said Nicholas, 'I must leave it entirely to you, as I would have\ndone, at first, if you had allowed me.'\n\n'Why, then I'll tell you what,' rejoined the landlord. 'There's a\ngentleman in the parlour that's ordered a hot beef-steak pudding and\npotatoes, at nine. There's more of it than he can manage, and I have\nvery little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I'll do\nthat, in a minute.'\n\n'No, no,' said Nicholas, detaining him. 'I would rather not. I--at\nleast--pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am travelling\nin a very humble manner, and have made my way hither on foot. It is more\nthan probable, I think, that the gentleman may not relish my company;\nand although I am the dusty figure you see, I am too proud to thrust\nmyself into his.'\n\n'Lord love you,' said the landlord, 'it's only Mr. Crummles; HE isn't\nparticular.'\n\n'Is he not?' asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, the\nprospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.\n\n'Not he,' replied the landlord. 'He'll like your way of talking, I know.\nBut we'll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.'\n\nThe landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying for further\npermission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wisely considering\nthat supper, under the circumstances, was too serious a matter to be\ntrifled with. It was not long before the host returned, in a condition\nof much excitement.\n\n'All right,' he said in a low voice. 'I knew he would. You'll see\nsomething rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of\nit!'\n\nThere was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, which was\ndelivered in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he had already thrown\nopen the door of the room; into which Nicholas, followed by Smike with\nthe bundle on his shoulder (he carried it about with him as vigilantly\nas if it had been a sack of gold), straightway repaired.\n\nNicholas was prepared for something odd, but not for something quite so\nodd as the sight he encountered. At the upper end of the room, were a\ncouple of boys, one of them very tall and the other very short, both\ndressed as sailors--or at least as theatrical sailors, with belts,\nbuckles, pigtails, and pistols complete--fighting what is called in\nplay-bills a terrific combat, with two of those short broad-swords with\nbasket hilts which are commonly used at our minor theatres. The short\nboy had gained a great advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to\nmortal strait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perched\nagainst the corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them to strike a\nlittle more fire out of the swords, and they couldn't fail to bring the\nhouse down, on the very first night.\n\n'Mr. Vincent Crummles,' said the landlord with an air of great deference.\n'This is the young gentleman.'\n\nMr. Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination of the head,\nsomething between the courtesy of a Roman emperor and the nod of a pot\ncompanion; and bade the landlord shut the door and begone.\n\n'There's a picture,' said Mr. Crummles, motioning Nicholas not to advance\nand spoil it. 'The little 'un has him; if the big 'un doesn't knock\nunder, in three seconds, he's a dead man. Do that again, boys.'\n\nThe two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped away until the\nswords emitted a shower of sparks: to the great satisfaction of Mr\nCrummles, who appeared to consider this a very great point indeed. The\nengagement commenced with about two hundred chops administered by the\nshort sailor and the tall sailor alternately, without producing any\nparticular result, until the short sailor was chopped down on one knee;\nbut this was nothing to him, for he worked himself about on the one knee\nwith the assistance of his left hand, and fought most desperately until\nthe tall sailor chopped his sword out of his grasp. Now, the inference\nwas, that the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would give in at\nonce and cry quarter, but, instead of that, he all of a sudden drew\na large pistol from his belt and presented it at the face of the tall\nsailor, who was so overcome at this (not expecting it) that he let\nthe short sailor pick up his sword and begin again. Then, the chopping\nrecommenced, and a variety of fancy chops were administered on both\nsides; such as chops dealt with the left hand, and under the leg, and\nover the right shoulder, and over the left; and when the short sailor\nmade a vigorous cut at the tall sailor's legs, which would have shaved\nthem clean off if it had taken effect, the tall sailor jumped over the\nshort sailor's sword, wherefore to balance the matter, and make it all\nfair, the tall sailor administered the same cut, and the short sailor\njumped over HIS sword. After this, there was a good deal of dodging\nabout, and hitching up of the inexpressibles in the absence of braces,\nand then the short sailor (who was the moral character evidently, for he\nalways had the best of it) made a violent demonstration and closed with\nthe tall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down,\nand expired in great torture as the short sailor put his foot upon his\nbreast, and bored a hole in him through and through.\n\n'That'll be a double ENCORE if you take care, boys,' said Mr. Crummles.\n'You had better get your wind now and change your clothes.'\n\nHaving addressed these words to the combatants, he saluted Nicholas, who\nthen observed that the face of Mr. Crummles was quite proportionate in\nsize to his body; that he had a very full under-lip, a hoarse voice, as\nthough he were in the habit of shouting very much, and very short\nblack hair, shaved off nearly to the crown of his head--to admit (as\nhe afterwards learnt) of his more easily wearing character wigs of any\nshape or pattern.\n\n'What did you think of that, sir?' inquired Mr. Crummles.\n\n'Very good, indeed--capital,' answered Nicholas.\n\n'You won't see such boys as those very often, I think,' said Mr\nCrummles.\n\nNicholas assented--observing that if they were a little better match--\n\n'Match!' cried Mr. Crummles.\n\n'I mean if they were a little more of a size,' said Nicholas, explaining\nhimself.\n\n'Size!' repeated Mr. Crummles; 'why, it's the essence of the combat that\nthere should be a foot or two between them. How are you to get up the\nsympathies of the audience in a legitimate manner, if there isn't a\nlittle man contending against a big one?--unless there's at least five\nto one, and we haven't hands enough for that business in our company.'\n\n'I see,' replied Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. That didn't occur to me,\nI confess.'\n\n'It's the main point,' said Mr. Crummles. 'I open at Portsmouth the day\nafter tomorrow. If you're going there, look into the theatre, and see\nhow that'll tell.'\n\nNicholas promised to do so, if he could, and drawing a chair near the\nfire, fell into conversation with the manager at once. He was very\ntalkative and communicative, stimulated perhaps, not only by his natural\ndisposition, but by the spirits and water he sipped very plentifully, or\nthe snuff he took in large quantities from a piece of whitey-brown paper\nin his waistcoat pocket. He laid open his affairs without the smallest\nreserve, and descanted at some length upon the merits of his company,\nand the acquirements of his family; of both of which, the two\nbroad-sword boys formed an honourable portion. There was to be\na gathering, it seemed, of the different ladies and gentlemen at\nPortsmouth on the morrow, whither the father and sons were proceeding\n(not for the regular season, but in the course of a wandering\nspeculation), after fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the\ngreatest applause.\n\n'You are going that way?' asked the manager.\n\n'Ye-yes,' said Nicholas. 'Yes, I am.'\n\n'Do you know the town at all?' inquired the manager, who seemed to\nconsider himself entitled to the same degree of confidence as he had\nhimself exhibited.\n\n'No,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Never there?'\n\n'Never.'\n\nMr. Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as to say, 'If you\nwon't be communicative, you won't;' and took so many pinches of snuff\nfrom the piece of paper, one after another, that Nicholas quite wondered\nwhere it all went to.\n\nWhile he was thus engaged, Mr. Crummles looked, from time to time, with\ngreat interest at Smike, with whom he had appeared considerably struck\nfrom the first. He had now fallen asleep, and was nodding in his chair.\n\n'Excuse my saying so,' said the manager, leaning over to Nicholas, and\nsinking his voice, 'but what a capital countenance your friend has got!'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, with a half-smile, 'I wish it were a\nlittle more plump, and less haggard.'\n\n'Plump!' exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, 'you'd spoil it for\never.'\n\n'Do you think so?'\n\n'Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,' said the manager, striking his knee\nemphatically; 'without a pad upon his body, and hardly a touch of paint\nupon his face, he'd make such an actor for the starved business as was\nnever seen in this country. Only let him be tolerably well up in the\nApothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with the slightest possible dab of red\non the tip of his nose, and he'd be certain of three rounds the moment\nhe put his head out of the practicable door in the front grooves O.P.'\n\n'You view him with a professional eye,' said Nicholas, laughing.\n\n'And well I may,' rejoined the manager. 'I never saw a young fellow so\nregularly cut out for that line, since I've been in the profession. And\nI played the heavy children when I was eighteen months old.'\n\nThe appearance of the beef-steak pudding, which came in simultaneously\nwith the junior Vincent Crummleses, turned the conversation to other\nmatters, and indeed, for a time, stopped it altogether. These two young\ngentlemen wielded their knives and forks with scarcely less address than\ntheir broad-swords, and as the whole party were quite as sharp set as\neither class of weapons, there was no time for talking until the supper\nhad been disposed of.\n\nThe Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the last procurable\nmorsel of food, than they evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and\nstretchings of their limbs, an obvious inclination to retire for the\nnight, which Smike had betrayed still more strongly: he having, in the\ncourse of the meal, fallen asleep several times while in the very act of\neating. Nicholas therefore proposed that they should break up at\nonce, but the manager would by no means hear of it; vowing that he had\npromised himself the pleasure of inviting his new acquaintance to\nshare a bowl of punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it very\nunhandsome behaviour.\n\n'Let them go,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, 'and we'll have it snugly and\ncosily together by the fire.'\n\nNicholas was not much disposed to sleep--being in truth too anxious--so,\nafter a little demur, he accepted the offer, and having exchanged a\nshake of the hand with the young Crummleses, and the manager having\non his part bestowed a most affectionate benediction on Smike, he sat\nhimself down opposite to that gentleman by the fireside to assist in\nemptying the bowl, which soon afterwards appeared, steaming in a\nmanner which was quite exhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most\ngrateful and inviting fragrance.\n\nBut, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety of stories,\nand smoked tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in the shape of snuff,\nwith a most astonishing power, Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His\nthoughts were in his old home, and when they reverted to his present\ncondition, the uncertainty of the morrow cast a gloom upon him, which\nhis utmost efforts were unable to dispel. His attention wandered;\nalthough he heard the manager's voice, he was deaf to what he said; and\nwhen Mr. Vincent Crummles concluded the history of some long adventure\nwith a loud laugh, and an inquiry what Nicholas would have done under\nthe same circumstances, he was obliged to make the best apology in his\npower, and to confess his entire ignorance of all he had been talking\nabout.\n\n'Why, so I saw,' observed Mr. Crummles. 'You're uneasy in your mind.\nWhat's the matter?'\n\nNicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of the\nquestion; but, thinking it scarcely worth while to parry it, owned that\nhe was under some apprehensions lest he might not succeed in the object\nwhich had brought him to that part of the country.\n\n'And what's that?' asked the manager.\n\n'Getting something to do which will keep me and my poor fellow-traveller\nin the common necessaries of life,' said Nicholas. 'That's the truth.\nYou guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I may as well have the credit of\ntelling it you with a good grace.'\n\n'What's to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhere else?' asked Mr\nVincent Crummles, melting the sealing-wax on the stem of his pipe in the\ncandle, and rolling it out afresh with his little finger.\n\n'There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,' replied Nicholas.\n'I shall try for a berth in some ship or other. There is meat and drink\nthere at all events.'\n\n'Salt meat and new rum; pease-pudding and chaff-biscuits,' said the\nmanager, taking a whiff at his pipe to keep it alight, and returning to\nhis work of embellishment.\n\n'One may do worse than that,' said Nicholas. 'I can rough it, I believe,\nas well as most young men of my age and previous habits.'\n\n'You need be able to,' said the manager, 'if you go on board ship; but\nyou won't.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'Because there's not a skipper or mate that would think you worth your\nsalt, when he could get a practised hand,' replied the manager; 'and\nthey as plentiful there, as the oysters in the streets.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Nicholas, alarmed by this prediction, and\nthe confident tone in which it had been uttered. 'Men are not born able\nseamen. They must be reared, I suppose?'\n\nMr. Vincent Crummles nodded his head. 'They must; but not at your age, or\nfrom young gentlemen like you.'\n\nThere was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and he gazed\nruefully at the fire.\n\n'Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man of your figure\nand address could take up easily, and see the world to advantage in?'\nasked the manager.\n\n'No,' said Nicholas, shaking his head.\n\n'Why, then, I'll tell you one,' said Mr. Crummles, throwing his pipe into\nthe fire, and raising his voice. 'The stage.'\n\n'The stage!' cried Nicholas, in a voice almost as loud.\n\n'The theatrical profession,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles. 'I am in the\ntheatrical profession myself, my wife is in the theatrical profession,\nmy children are in the theatrical profession. I had a dog that lived\nand died in it from a puppy; and my chaise-pony goes on, in Timour the\nTartar. I'll bring you out, and your friend too. Say the word. I want a\nnovelty.'\n\n'I don't know anything about it,' rejoined Nicholas, whose breath had\nbeen almost taken away by this sudden proposal. 'I never acted a part in\nmy life, except at school.'\n\n'There's genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juvenile tragedy\nin your eye, and touch-and-go farce in your laugh,' said Mr. Vincent\nCrummles. 'You'll do as well as if you had thought of nothing else but\nthe lamps, from your birth downwards.'\n\nNicholas thought of the small amount of small change that would remain\nin his pocket after paying the tavern bill; and he hesitated.\n\n'You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,' said Mr. Crummles.\n'Think what capital bills a man of your education could write for the\nshop-windows.'\n\n'Well, I think I could manage that department,' said Nicholas.\n\n'To be sure you could,' replied Mr. Crummles. '\"For further particulars\nsee small hand-bills\"--we might have half a volume in every one of\n'em. Pieces too; why, you could write us a piece to bring out the whole\nstrength of the company, whenever we wanted one.'\n\n'I am not quite so confident about that,' replied Nicholas. 'But I dare\nsay I could scribble something now and then, that would suit you.'\n\n'We'll have a new show-piece out directly,' said the manager. 'Let\nme see--peculiar resources of this establishment--new and splendid\nscenery--you must manage to introduce a real pump and two washing-tubs.'\n\n'Into the piece?' said Nicholas.\n\n'Yes,' replied the manager. 'I bought 'em cheap, at a sale the other\nday, and they'll come in admirably. That's the London plan. They look up\nsome dresses, and properties, and have a piece written to fit 'em. Most\nof the theatres keep an author on purpose.'\n\n'Indeed!' cried Nicholas.\n\n'Oh, yes,' said the manager; 'a common thing. It'll look very well\nin the bills in separate lines--Real pump!--Splendid tubs!--Great\nattraction! You don't happen to be anything of an artist, do you?'\n\n'That is not one of my accomplishments,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Ah! Then it can't be helped,' said the manager. 'If you had been,\nwe might have had a large woodcut of the last scene for the posters,\nshowing the whole depth of the stage, with the pump and tubs in the\nmiddle; but, however, if you're not, it can't be helped.'\n\n'What should I get for all this?' inquired Nicholas, after a few\nmoments' reflection. 'Could I live by it?'\n\n'Live by it!' said the manager. 'Like a prince! With your own salary,\nand your friend's, and your writings, you'd make--ah! you'd make a pound\na week!'\n\n'You don't say so!'\n\n'I do indeed, and if we had a run of good houses, nearly double the\nmoney.'\n\nNicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution was before him;\nand if he could summon fortitude to undergo the extremes of want and\nhardship, for what had he rescued his helpless charge if it were only to\nbear as hard a fate as that from which he had wrested him? It was easy\nto think of seventy miles as nothing, when he was in the same town with\nthe man who had treated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts;\nbut now, it seemed far enough. What if he went abroad, and his mother or\nKate were to die the while?\n\nWithout more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was a bargain,\nand gave Mr. Vincent Crummles his hand upon it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\nTreats of the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs,\nDomestic and Theatrical\n\n\nAs Mr. Crummles had a strange four-legged animal in the inn stables,\nwhich he called a pony, and a vehicle of unknown design, on which he\nbestowed the appellation of a four-wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded\non his journey next morning with greater ease than he had expected: the\nmanager and himself occupying the front seat: and the Master Crummleses\nand Smike being packed together behind, in company with a wicker basket\ndefended from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were the broad-swords,\npistols, pigtails, nautical costumes, and other professional necessaries\nof the aforesaid young gentlemen.\n\nThe pony took his time upon the road, and--possibly in consequence\nof his theatrical education--evinced, every now and then, a strong\ninclination to lie down. However, Mr. Vincent Crummles kept him up pretty\nwell, by jerking the rein, and plying the whip; and when these means\nfailed, and the animal came to a stand, the elder Master Crummles got\nout and kicked him. By dint of these encouragements, he was persuaded\nto move from time to time, and they jogged on (as Mr. Crummles truly\nobserved) very comfortably for all parties.\n\n'He's a good pony at bottom,' said Mr. Crummles, turning to Nicholas.\n\nHe might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at top, seeing\nthat his coat was of the roughest and most ill-favoured kind. So,\nNicholas merely observed that he shouldn't wonder if he was.\n\n'Many and many is the circuit this pony has gone,' said Mr. Crummles,\nflicking him skilfully on the eyelid for old acquaintance' sake. 'He is\nquite one of us. His mother was on the stage.'\n\n'Was she?' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'She ate apple-pie at a circus for upwards of fourteen years,' said the\nmanager; 'fired pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap; and, in short,\ntook the low comedy entirely. His father was a dancer.'\n\n'Was he at all distinguished?'\n\n'Not very,' said the manager. 'He was rather a low sort of pony. The\nfact is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he never\nquite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama too, but too\nbroad--too broad. When the mother died, he took the port-wine business.'\n\n'The port-wine business!' cried Nicholas.\n\n'Drinking port-wine with the clown,' said the manager; 'but he was\ngreedy, and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself,\nso his vulgarity was the death of him at last.'\n\nThe descendant of this ill-starred animal requiring increased attention\nfrom Mr. Crummles as he progressed in his day's work, that gentleman had\nvery little time for conversation. Nicholas was thus left at leisure\nto entertain himself with his own thoughts, until they arrived at the\ndrawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr. Crummles pulled up.\n\n'We'll get down here,' said the manager, 'and the boys will take him\nround to the stable, and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You had\nbetter let yours be taken there, for the present.'\n\nThanking Mr. Vincent Crummles for his obliging offer, Nicholas jumped\nout, and, giving Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up High Street\non their way to the theatre; feeling nervous and uncomfortable enough at\nthe prospect of an immediate introduction to a scene so new to him.\n\nThey passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls and displayed\nin windows, wherein the names of Mr. Vincent Crummles, Mrs. Vincent\nCrummles, Master Crummles, Master P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles, were\nprinted in very large letters, and everything else in very small ones;\nand, turning at length into an entry, in which was a strong smell of\norange-peel and lamp-oil, with an under-current of sawdust, groped their\nway through a dark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a\nlittle maze of canvas screens and paint pots, and emerged upon the stage\nof the Portsmouth Theatre.\n\n'Here we are,' said Mr. Crummles.\n\nIt was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to the first\nentrance on the prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed\nclouds, heavily daubed draperies, and dirty floors. He looked about him;\nceiling, pit, boxes, gallery, orchestra, fittings, and decorations of\nevery kind,--all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched.\n\n'Is this a theatre?' whispered Smike, in amazement; 'I thought it was a\nblaze of light and finery.'\n\n'Why, so it is,' replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; 'but not by\nday, Smike--not by day.'\n\nThe manager's voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the\nbuilding, to the opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small\nmahogany table with rickety legs and of an oblong shape, sat a stout,\nportly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished silk\ncloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair\n(of which she had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each\ntemple.\n\n'Mr. Johnson,' said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name\nwhich Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs\nKenwigs), 'let me introduce Mrs. Vincent Crummles.'\n\n'I am glad to see you, sir,' said Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral\nvoice. 'I am very glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a\npromising member of our corps.'\n\nThe lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms;\nhe saw it was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip\nas that with which she honoured him.\n\n'And this,' said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross\nwhen they obey a stage direction, 'and this is the other. You too, are\nwelcome, sir.'\n\n'He'll do, I think, my dear?' said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.\n\n'He is admirable,' replied the lady. 'An acquisition indeed.'\n\nAs Mrs. Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, there bounded on\nto the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white\nfrock with tucks up to the knees, short trousers, sandaled shoes, white\nspencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil and curl papers; who turned a\npirouette, cut twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking\noff at the opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches\nof the footlights, and fell into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a\nshabby gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at one powerful\nslide, and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.\n\n'They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,' said Mrs\nCrummles.\n\n'Oh!' said the manager, 'the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on.\nA little this way, if you please, Mr. Johnson. That'll do. Now!'\n\nThe manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage,\nbecoming ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; but the maiden\navoided him in six twirls, and came down, at the end of the last one,\nupon the very points of her toes. This seemed to make some impression\nupon the savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the\nmaiden into corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several\ntimes with his right thumb and four fingers, thereby intimating that\nhe was struck with admiration of the maiden's beauty. Acting upon the\nimpulse of this passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe\nthumps in the chest, and to exhibit other indications of being\ndesperately in love, which being rather a prosy proceeding, was very\nlikely the cause of the maiden's falling asleep; whether it was or\nno, asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a sloping bank, and the\nsavage perceiving it, leant his left ear on his left hand, and nodded\nsideways, to intimate to all whom it might concern that she WAS asleep,\nand no shamming. Being left to himself, the savage had a dance, all\nalone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke up, rubbed her eyes, got off\nthe bank, and had a dance all alone too--such a dance that the savage\nlooked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it was done, plucked from\na neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity, resembling a small pickled\ncabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at first wouldn't have it,\nbut on the savage shedding tears relented. Then the savage jumped\nfor joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of\nthe pickled cabbage. Then the savage and the maiden danced violently\ntogether, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee, and the\nmaiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the ballet,\nand leaving the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether\nshe would ultimately marry the savage, or return to her friends.\n\n'Very well indeed,' said Mr. Crummles; 'bravo!'\n\n'Bravo!' cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything.\n'Beautiful!'\n\n'This, sir,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward,\n'this is the infant phenomenon--Miss Ninetta Crummles.'\n\n'Your daughter?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'My daughter--my daughter,' replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; 'the idol of\nevery place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about\nthis girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in\nEngland.'\n\n'I am not surprised at that,' said Nicholas; 'she must be quite a\nnatural genius.'\n\n'Quite a--!' Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to\ndescribe the infant phenomenon. 'I'll tell you what, sir,' he said;\n'the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen,\nsir--seen--to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother,\nmy dear.'\n\n'May I ask how old she is?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'You may, sir,' replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his\nquestioner's face, as some men do when they have doubts about being\nimplicitly believed in what they are going to say. 'She is ten years of\nage, sir.'\n\n'Not more!'\n\n'Not a day.'\n\n'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'it's extraordinary.'\n\nIt was; for the infant phenomenon, though of short stature, had a\ncomparatively aged countenance, and had moreover been precisely the\nsame age--not perhaps to the full extent of the memory of the oldest\ninhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been kept up\nlate every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin-and-water\nfrom infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system\nof training had produced in the infant phenomenon these additional\nphenomena.\n\nWhile this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who had enacted\nthe savage, came up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his\nslippers in his hand, to within a few paces, as if desirous to join in\nthe conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he put in his word.\n\n'Talent there, sir!' said the savage, nodding towards Miss Crummles.\n\nNicholas assented.\n\n'Ah!' said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing in his\nbreath with a hissing sound, 'she oughtn't to be in the provinces, she\noughtn't.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked the manager.\n\n'I mean to say,' replied the other, warmly, 'that she is too good for\ncountry boards, and that she ought to be in one of the large houses in\nLondon, or nowhere; and I tell you more, without mincing the matter,\nthat if it wasn't for envy and jealousy in some quarter that you know\nof, she would be. Perhaps you'll introduce me here, Mr. Crummles.'\n\n'Mr. Folair,' said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.\n\n'Happy to know you, sir.' Mr. Folair touched the brim of his hat with his\nforefinger, and then shook hands. 'A recruit, sir, I understand?'\n\n'An unworthy one,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Did you ever see such a set-out as that?' whispered the actor, drawing\nhim away, as Crummles left them to speak to his wife.\n\n'As what?'\n\nMr. Folair made a funny face from his pantomime collection, and pointed\nover his shoulder.\n\n'You don't mean the infant phenomenon?'\n\n'Infant humbug, sir,' replied Mr. Folair. 'There isn't a female child of\ncommon sharpness in a charity school, that couldn't do better than that.\nShe may thank her stars she was born a manager's daughter.'\n\n'You seem to take it to heart,' observed Nicholas, with a smile.\n\n'Yes, by Jove, and well I may,' said Mr. Folair, drawing his arm through\nhis, and walking him up and down the stage. 'Isn't it enough to make a\nman crusty to see that little sprawler put up in the best business every\nnight, and actually keeping money out of the house, by being forced\ndown the people's throats, while other people are passed over? Isn't\nit extraordinary to see a man's confounded family conceit blinding him,\neven to his own interest? Why I KNOW of fifteen and sixpence that came\nto Southampton one night last month, to see me dance the Highland Fling;\nand what's the consequence? I've never been put up in it since--never\nonce--while the \"infant phenomenon\" has been grinning through artificial\nflowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in the\ngallery, every night.'\n\n'If I may judge from what I have seen of you,' said Nicholas, 'you must\nbe a valuable member of the company.'\n\n'Oh!' replied Mr. Folair, beating his slippers together, to knock the\ndust out; 'I CAN come it pretty well--nobody better, perhaps, in my own\nline--but having such business as one gets here, is like putting lead on\none's feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetters without the credit\nof it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?'\n\nThe gentleman addressed in these latter words was a dark-complexioned\nman, inclining indeed to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very\nevident inclinations (although he was close shaved) of a stiff beard,\nand whiskers of the same deep shade. His age did not appear to exceed\nthirty, though many at first sight would have considered him much older,\nas his face was long, and very pale, from the constant application of\nstage paint. He wore a checked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt\nbuttons, a neckerchief of broad red and green stripes, and full blue\ntrousers; he carried, too, a common ash walking-stick, apparently\nmore for show than use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked end\ndownwards, except when he raised it for a few seconds, and throwing\nhimself into a fencing attitude, made a pass or two at the side-scenes,\nor at any other object, animate or inanimate, that chanced to afford him\na pretty good mark at the moment.\n\n'Well, Tommy,' said this gentleman, making a thrust at his friend, who\nparried it dexterously with his slipper, 'what's the news?'\n\n'A new appearance, that's all,' replied Mr. Folair, looking at Nicholas.\n\n'Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,' said the other gentleman,\ntapping him reproachfully on the crown of the hat with his stick.\n\n'This is Mr. Lenville, who does our first tragedy, Mr. Johnson,' said the\npantomimist.\n\n'Except when old bricks and mortar takes it into his head to do it\nhimself, you should add, Tommy,' remarked Mr. Lenville. 'You know who\nbricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?'\n\n'I do not, indeed,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'We call Crummles that, because his style of acting is rather in the\nheavy and ponderous way,' said Mr. Lenville. 'I mustn't be cracking jokes\nthough, for I've got a part of twelve lengths here, which I must be\nup in tomorrow night, and I haven't had time to look at it yet; I'm a\nconfounded quick study, that's one comfort.'\n\nConsoling himself with this reflection, Mr. Lenville drew from his coat\npocket a greasy and crumpled manuscript, and, having made another pass\nat his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro, conning it to himself and\nindulging occasionally in such appropriate action as his imagination and\nthe text suggested.\n\nA pretty general muster of the company had by this time taken place;\nfor besides Mr. Lenville and his friend Tommy, there were present, a slim\nyoung gentleman with weak eyes, who played the low-spirited lovers\nand sang tenor songs, and who had come arm-in-arm with the comic\ncountryman--a man with a turned-up nose, large mouth, broad face, and\nstaring eyes. Making himself very amiable to the infant phenomenon, was\nan inebriated elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who\nplayed the calm and virtuous old men; and paying especial court to Mrs\nCrummles was another elderly gentleman, a shade more respectable, who\nplayed the irascible old men--those funny fellows who have nephews in\nthe army and perpetually run about with thick sticks to compel them to\nmarry heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-looking person in\na rough great-coat, who strode up and down in front of the lamps,\nflourishing a dress cane, and rattling away, in an undertone, with great\nvivacity for the amusement of an ideal audience. He was not quite so\nyoung as he had been, and his figure was rather running to seed; but\nthere was an air of exaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the\nhero of swaggering comedy. There was, also, a little group of three or\nfour young men with lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who were conversing\nin one corner; but they seemed to be of secondary importance, and\nlaughed and talked together without attracting any attention.\n\nThe ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves round the\nrickety table before mentioned. There was Miss Snevellicci--who could\ndo anything, from a medley dance to Lady Macbeth, and also always played\nsome part in blue silk knee-smalls at her benefit--glancing, from the\ndepths of her coal-scuttle straw bonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting\nto be absorbed in the recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss\nLedrook, who had brought her work, and was making up a ruff in the most\nnatural manner possible. There was Miss Belvawney--who seldom aspired\nto speaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white silk hose, to\nstand with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go in and\nout after Mr. Crummles in stately tragedy--twisting up the ringlets of\nthe beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had her likeness taken 'in\ncharacter' by an engraver's apprentice, whereof impressions were hung up\nfor sale in the pastry-cook's window, and the greengrocer's, and at the\ncirculating library, and the box-office, whenever the announce bills\ncame out for her annual night. There was Mrs. Lenville, in a very limp\nbonnet and veil, decidedly in that way in which she would wish to be if\nshe truly loved Mr. Lenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with an imitation\nermine boa tied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr. Crummles,\njunior, with both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs. Grudden in a brown\ncloth pelisse and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs. Crummles in her\ndomestic affairs, and took money at the doors, and dressed the ladies,\nand swept the house, and held the prompt book when everybody else was on\nfor the last scene, and acted any kind of part on any emergency without\never learning it, and was put down in the bills under any name or names\nwhatever, that occurred to Mr. Crummles as looking well in print.\n\nMr. Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left\nhim to mingle with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was\ncompleted by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as\na prodigy of genius and learning.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas,\n'but did you ever play at Canterbury?'\n\n'I never did,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,' said Miss Snevellicci,\n'only for a few moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it,\nso like you that I felt almost certain it was the same.'\n\n'I see you now for the first time,' rejoined Nicholas with all due\ngallantry. 'I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn't have forgotten\nit.'\n\n'Oh, I'm sure--it's very flattering of you to say so,' retorted Miss\nSnevellicci with a graceful bend. 'Now I look at you again, I see that\nthe gentleman at Canterbury hadn't the same eyes as you--you'll think me\nvery foolish for taking notice of such things, won't you?'\n\n'Not at all,' said Nicholas. 'How can I feel otherwise than flattered by\nyour notice in any way?'\n\n'Oh! you men are such vain creatures!' cried Miss Snevellicci.\nWhereupon, she became charmingly confused, and, pulling out her\npocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk reticule with a gilt clasp,\ncalled to Miss Ledrook--\n\n'Led, my dear,' said Miss Snevellicci.\n\n'Well, what is the matter?' said Miss Ledrook.\n\n'It's not the same.'\n\n'Not the same what?'\n\n'Canterbury--you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to you.'\n\nBut Miss Ledrook wouldn't come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci\nwas obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner\nthat was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss\nSnevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after some playful\nwhispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of\nher hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.\n\n'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Mr. Vincent Crummles, who had been writing\non a piece of paper, 'we'll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten;\neverybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you're all\nup in, so we shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at ten, if you\nplease.'\n\n'Everybody at ten,' repeated Mrs. Grudden, looking about her.\n\n'On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,' said Mr. Crummles; 'the\nname's not known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr. Johnson\nwill take care of that.'\n\n'Hallo!' said Nicholas, starting. 'I--'\n\n'On Monday morning,' repeated Mr. Crummles, raising his voice, to drown\nthe unfortunate Mr. Johnson's remonstrance; 'that'll do, ladies and\ngentlemen.'\n\nThe ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in\na few minutes, the theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family,\nNicholas, and Smike.\n\n'Upon my word,' said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, 'I don't think\nI can be ready by Monday.'\n\n'Pooh, pooh,' replied Mr. Crummles.\n\n'But really I can't,' returned Nicholas; 'my invention is not accustomed\nto these demands, or possibly I might produce--'\n\n'Invention! what the devil's that got to do with it!' cried the manager\nhastily.\n\n'Everything, my dear sir.'\n\n'Nothing, my dear sir,' retorted the manager, with evident impatience.\n'Do you understand French?'\n\n'Perfectly well.'\n\n'Very good,' said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a\nroll of paper from it to Nicholas. 'There! Just turn that into English,\nand put your name on the title-page. Damn me,' said Mr. Crummles,\nangrily, 'if I haven't often said that I wouldn't have a man or woman in\nmy company that wasn't master of the language, so that they might learn\nit from the original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble\nand expense.'\n\nNicholas smiled and pocketed the play.\n\n'What are you going to do about your lodgings?' said Mr. Crummles.\n\nNicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be\nan uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but he\nmerely remarked that he had not turned his thoughts that way.\n\n'Come home with me then,' said Mr. Crummles, 'and my boys shall go with\nyou after dinner, and show you the most likely place.'\n\nThe offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr. Crummles gave Mrs\nCrummles an arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike,\nthe boys, and the phenomenon, went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs\nGrudden remained behind to take some cold Irish stew and a pint of\nporter in the box-office.\n\nMrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate\nexecution with an animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic\nfortitude which virtue alone inspires. Mr. Crummles, on the other hand,\nassumed the look and gait of a hardened despot; but they both attracted\nsome notice from many of the passers-by, and when they heard a whisper\nof 'Mr. and Mrs. Crummles!' or saw a little boy run back to stare them in\nthe face, the severe expression of their countenances relaxed, for they\nfelt it was popularity.\n\nMr. Crummles lived in St Thomas's Street, at the house of one Bulph, a\npilot, who sported a boat-green door, with window-frames of the same\ncolour, and had the little finger of a drowned man on his parlour\nmantelshelf, with other maritime and natural curiosities. He displayed\nalso a brass knocker, a brass plate, and a brass bell-handle, all very\nbright and shining; and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in his\nback yard.\n\n'You are welcome,' said Mrs. Crummles, turning round to Nicholas when\nthey reached the bow-windowed front room on the first floor.\n\nNicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedly glad to see the\ncloth laid.\n\n'We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,' said Mrs. Crummles,\nin the same charnel-house voice; 'but such as our dinner is, we beg you\nto partake of it.'\n\n'You are very good,' replied Nicholas, 'I shall do it ample justice.'\n\n'Vincent,' said Mrs. Crummles, 'what is the hour?'\n\n'Five minutes past dinner-time,' said Mr. Crummles.\n\nMrs. Crummles rang the bell. 'Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.'\n\nThe slave who attended upon Mr. Bulph's lodgers, disappeared, and after\na short interval reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas and the\ninfant phenomenon opposed each other at the pembroke-table, and Smike\nand the master Crummleses dined on the sofa bedstead.\n\n'Are they very theatrical people here?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Crummles, shaking his head, 'far from it--far from it.'\n\n'I pity them,' observed Mrs. Crummles.\n\n'So do I,' said Nicholas; 'if they have no relish for theatrical\nentertainments, properly conducted.'\n\n'Then they have none, sir,' rejoined Mr. Crummles. 'To the infant's\nbenefit, last year, on which occasion she repeated three of her most\npopular characters, and also appeared in the Fairy Porcupine, as\noriginally performed by her, there was a house of no more than four\npound twelve.'\n\n'Is it possible?' cried Nicholas.\n\n'And two pound of that was trust, pa,' said the phenomenon.\n\n'And two pound of that was trust,' repeated Mr. Crummles. 'Mrs. Crummles\nherself has played to mere handfuls.'\n\n'But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,' said the manager's\nwife.\n\n'Most audiences are, when they have good acting--real good acting--the\nregular thing,' replied Mr. Crummles, forcibly.\n\n'Do you give lessons, ma'am?' inquired Nicholas.\n\n'I do,' said Mrs. Crummles.\n\n'There is no teaching here, I suppose?'\n\n'There has been,' said Mrs. Crummles. 'I have received pupils here. I\nimparted tuition to the daughter of a dealer in ships' provision; but\nit afterwards appeared that she was insane when she first came to me. It\nwas very extraordinary that she should come, under such circumstances.'\n\nNot feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to hold his\npeace.\n\n'Let me see,' said the manager cogitating after dinner. 'Would you like\nsome nice little part with the infant?'\n\n'You are very good,' replied Nicholas hastily; 'but I think perhaps it\nwould be better if I had somebody of my own size at first, in case I\nshould turn out awkward. I should feel more at home, perhaps.'\n\n'True,' said the manager. 'Perhaps you would. And you could play up to\nthe infant, in time, you know.'\n\n'Certainly,' replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be a very\nlong time before he was honoured with this distinction.\n\n'Then I'll tell you what we'll do,' said Mr. Crummles. 'You shall study\nRomeo when you've done that piece--don't forget to throw the pump\nand tubs in by-the-bye--Juliet Miss Snevellicci, old Grudden the\nnurse.--Yes, that'll do very well. Rover too;--you might get up Rover\nwhile you were about it, and Cassio, and Jeremy Diddler. You can easily\nknock them off; one part helps the other so much. Here they are, cues\nand all.'\n\nWith these hasty general directions Mr. Crummles thrust a number of\nlittle books into the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his\neldest son go with him and show where lodgings were to be had, shook him\nby the hand, and wished him good night.\n\nThere is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments in Portsmouth, and\nno difficulty in finding some that are proportionate to very slender\nfinances; but the former were too good, and the latter too bad, and they\nwent into so many houses, and came out unsuited, that Nicholas seriously\nbegan to think he should be obliged to ask permission to spend the night\nin the theatre, after all.\n\nEventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms up three pair of\nstairs, or rather two pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist's shop, on the\nCommon Hard: a dirty street leading down to the dockyard. These Nicholas\nengaged, only too happy to have escaped any request for payment of a\nweek's rent beforehand.\n\n'There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,' he said, after showing\nyoung Crummles downstairs. 'We have fallen upon strange times, and\nHeaven only knows the end of them; but I am tired with the events of\nthese three days, and will postpone reflection till tomorrow--if I can.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\nOf the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of\nNicholas upon any Stage\n\n\nNicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to\ndress, notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs,\nand was presently saluted by the voices of Mr. Folair the pantomimist,\nand Mr. Lenville, the tragedian.\n\n'House, house, house!' cried Mr. Folair.\n\n'What, ho! within there,' said Mr. Lenville, in a deep voice.\n\n'Confound these fellows!' thought Nicholas; 'they have come to\nbreakfast, I suppose. I'll open the door directly, if you'll wait an\ninstant.'\n\nThe gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile the\ninterval, had a fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the very small\nlanding-place: to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers\ndownstairs.\n\n'Here, come in,' said Nicholas, when he had completed his toilet. 'In\nthe name of all that's horrible, don't make that noise outside.'\n\n'An uncommon snug little box this,' said Mr. Lenville, stepping into\nthe front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in at all.\n'Pernicious snug.'\n\n'For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifle\ntoo snug,' said Nicholas; 'for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great\nconvenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or\nthe floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your\nchair, still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the\nmost limited size.'\n\n'It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,' returned Mr. Lenville.\n'That reminds me,--my wife, Mr. Johnson,--I hope she'll have some good\npart in this piece of yours?'\n\n'I glanced at the French copy last night,' said Nicholas. 'It looks very\ngood, I think.'\n\n'What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?' asked Mr. Lenville, poking\nthe struggling fire with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it on\nthe skirt of his coat. 'Anything in the gruff and grumble way?'\n\n'You turn your wife and child out of doors,' said Nicholas; 'and, in a\nfit of rage and jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.'\n\n'Do I though!' exclaimed Mr. Lenville. 'That's very good business.'\n\n'After which,' said Nicholas, 'you are troubled with remorse till the\nlast act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself. But, just\nas you are raising the pistol to your head, a clock strikes--ten.'\n\n'I see,' cried Mr. Lenville. 'Very good.'\n\n'You pause,' said Nicholas; 'you recollect to have heard a clock\nstrike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand--you are\novercome--you burst into tears, and become a virtuous and exemplary\ncharacter for ever afterwards.'\n\n'Capital!' said Mr. Lenville: 'that's a sure card, a sure card. Get the\ncurtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumphant\nsuccess.'\n\n'Is there anything good for me?' inquired Mr. Folair, anxiously.\n\n'Let me see,' said Nicholas. 'You play the faithful and attached\nservant; you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.'\n\n'Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,' sighed Mr. Folair;\n'and we go into poor lodgings, where I won't take any wages, and talk\nsentiment, I suppose?'\n\n'Why--yes,' replied Nicholas: 'that is the course of the piece.'\n\n'I must have a dance of some kind, you know,' said Mr. Folair. 'You'll\nhave to introduce one for the phenomenon, so you'd better make a PAS DE\nDEUX, and save time.'\n\n'There's nothing easier than that,' said Mr. Lenville, observing the\ndisturbed looks of the young dramatist.\n\n'Upon my word I don't see how it's to be done,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Why, isn't it obvious?' reasoned Mr. Lenville. 'Gadzooks, who can help\nseeing the way to do it?--you astonish me! You get the distressed lady,\nand the little child, and the attached servant, into the poor lodgings,\ndon't you?--Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into a chair, and\nburies her face in her pocket-handkerchief. \"What makes you weep, mama?\"\nsays the child. \"Don't weep, mama, or you'll make me weep too!\"--\"And\nme!\" says the favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. \"What\ncan we do to raise your spirits, dear mama?\" says the little child.\n\"Ay, what CAN we do?\" says the faithful servant. \"Oh, Pierre!\" says\nthe distressed lady; \"would that I could shake off these painful\nthoughts.\"--\"Try, ma'am, try,\" says the faithful servant; \"rouse\nyourself, ma'am; be amused.\"--\"I will,\" says the lady, \"I will learn\nto suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honest friend,\nwhich, in happier days, you practised with this sweet angel? It never\nfailed to calm my spirits then. Oh! let me see it once again before I\ndie!\"--There it is--cue for the band, BEFORE I DIE,--and off they go.\nThat's the regular thing; isn't it, Tommy?'\n\n'That's it,' replied Mr. Folair. 'The distressed lady, overpowered by old\nrecollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a\npicture.'\n\nProfiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the\npersonal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the\nbest breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid of them, applied\nhimself to his task: by no means displeased to find that it was so much\neasier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day,\nand did not leave his room until the evening, when he went down to the\ntheatre, whither Smike had repaired before him to go on with another\ngentleman as a general rebellion.\n\nHere all the people were so much changed, that he scarcely knew them.\nFalse hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles--they had become\ndifferent beings. Mr. Lenville was a blooming warrior of most exquisite\nproportions; Mr. Crummles, his large face shaded by a profusion of\nblack hair, a Highland outlaw of most majestic bearing; one of the\nold gentlemen a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch; the comic\ncountryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of\nhumour; each of the Master Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the\nlow-spirited lover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet\nready spread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, one\nplate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short,\neverything was on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation.\n\nNicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating\nthe first scene, which was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter\nthan Mr. Crummles, through which that gentleman was to make his first\nentrance, and now listening to a couple of people who were cracking nuts\nin the gallery, wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the\nmanager himself walked familiarly up and accosted him.\n\n'Been in front tonight?' said Mr. Crummles.\n\n'No,' replied Nicholas, 'not yet. I am going to see the play.'\n\n'We've had a pretty good Let,' said Mr. Crummles. 'Four front places in\nthe centre, and the whole of the stage-box.'\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas; 'a family, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr. Crummles, 'yes. It's an affecting thing. There are six\nchildren, and they never come unless the phenomenon plays.'\n\nIt would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise, to\nhave visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon did NOT play,\ninasmuch as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly two or three,\ncharacters, every night; but Nicholas, sympathising with the feelings of\na father, refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr\nCrummles continued to talk, uninterrupted by him.\n\n'Six,' said that gentleman; 'pa and ma eight, aunt nine, governess\nten, grandfather and grandmother twelve. Then, there's the footman, who\nstands outside, with a bag of oranges and a jug of toast-and-water,\nand sees the play for nothing through the little pane of glass in the\nbox-door--it's cheap at a guinea; they gain by taking a box.'\n\n'I wonder you allow so many,' observed Nicholas.\n\n'There's no help for it,' replied Mr. Crummles; 'it's always expected in\nthe country. If there are six children, six people come to hold them in\ntheir laps. A family-box carries double always. Ring in the orchestra,\nGrudden!'\n\nThat useful lady did as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the\ntuning of three fiddles was heard. Which process having been protracted\nas long as it was supposed that the patience of the audience could\npossibly bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell, which,\nbeing the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a\nvariety of popular airs, with involuntary variations.\n\nIf Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the better which\nthe gentlemen displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more\nextraordinary. When, from a snug corner of the manager's box, he beheld\nMiss Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin with a golden hem,\nand Mrs. Crummles in all the dignity of the outlaw's wife, and Miss\nBravassa in all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci's confidential friend,\nand Miss Belvawney in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere\nand swearing to live and die in the service of everybody, he could\nscarcely contain his admiration, which testified itself in great\napplause, and the closest possible attention to the business of the\nscene. The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age,\npeople, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account,\nas nobody's previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of\nwhat would ever come of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing\nsomething somewhere, and came home, in triumph, to the sound of shouts\nand fiddles, to greet his wife--a lady of masculine mind, who talked\na good deal about her father's bones, which it seemed were unburied,\nthough whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman\nhimself, or the reprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear.\nThis outlaw's wife was, somehow or other, mixed up with a patriarch,\nliving in a castle a long way off, and this patriarch was the father\nof several of the characters, but he didn't exactly know which, and was\nuncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in his castle, or the\nwrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion, and, being uneasy,\nrelieved his mind with a banquet, during which solemnity somebody in\na cloak said 'Beware!' which somebody was known by nobody (except the\naudience) to be the outlaw himself, who had come there, for reasons\nunexplained, but possibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an\nagreeable little surprise in the way of certain love passages between\nthe desponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting-man\nand Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr. Lenville had several very tragic\nscenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions, which were\nall baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic fighting-man (who\noverheard whatever was said all through the piece) and the intrepidity\nof Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights, and therein repaired to the\nprison of her captive lover, with a small basket of refreshments and a\ndark lantern. At last, it came out that the patriarch was the man\nwho had treated the bones of the outlaw's father-in-law with so much\ndisrespect, for which cause and reason the outlaw's wife repaired to\nhis castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room, where, after a good\ndeal of groping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, and\ntook them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of\nconfusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; after\nwhich, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look,\nthat he knew all about his children now, and would tell them when they\ngot inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion\nfor marrying the young people than that; and therefore he joined their\nhands, with the full consent of the indefatigable page, who (being the\nonly other person surviving) pointed with his cap into the clouds, and\nhis right hand to the ground; thereby invoking a blessing and giving the\ncue for the curtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.\n\n'What did you think of that?' asked Mr. Crummles, when Nicholas went\nround to the stage again. Mr. Crummles was very red and hot, for your\noutlaws are desperate fellows to shout.\n\n'I think it was very capital indeed,' replied Nicholas; 'Miss\nSnevellicci in particular was uncommonly good.'\n\n'She's a genius,' said Mr. Crummles; 'quite a genius, that girl.\nBy-the-bye, I've been thinking of bringing out that piece of yours on\nher bespeak night.'\n\n'When?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friends and\npatrons bespeak the play,' said Mr. Crummles.\n\n'Oh! I understand,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'You see,' said Mr. Crummles, 'it's sure to go, on such an occasion, and\neven if it should not work up quite as well as we expect, why it will be\nher risk, you know, and not ours.'\n\n'Yours, you mean,' said Nicholas.\n\n'I said mine, didn't I?' returned Mr. Crummles. 'Next Monday week. What\ndo you say? You'll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lover's\npart, long before that time.'\n\n'I don't know about \"long before,\"' replied Nicholas; 'but BY that time\nI think I can undertake to be ready.'\n\n'Very good,' pursued Mr. Crummles, 'then we'll call that settled. Now,\nI want to ask you something else. There's a little--what shall I call\nit?--a little canvassing takes place on these occasions.'\n\n'Among the patrons, I suppose?' said Nicholas.\n\n'Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had so many\nbespeaks in this place, that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak\nwhen her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when her uncle died; and\nMrs. Crummles and myself have had bespeaks on the anniversary of the\nphenomenon's birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that\ndescription, so that, in fact, there's some difficulty in getting a good\none. Now, won't you help this poor girl, Mr. Johnson?' said Crummles,\nsitting himself down on a drum, and taking a great pinch of snuff, as he\nlooked him steadily in the face.\n\n'How do you mean?' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Don't you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning, to call\nwith her at the houses of one or two of the principal people?' murmured\nthe manager in a persuasive tone.\n\n'Oh dear me,' said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection, 'I\nshouldn't like to do that.'\n\n'The infant will accompany her,' said Mr. Crummles. 'The moment it was\nsuggested to me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not\nbe the smallest impropriety--Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul\nof honour. It would be of material service--the gentleman from\nLondon--author of the new piece--actor in the new piece--first\nappearance on any boards--it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson.'\n\n'I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and\nmore especially a lady,' replied Nicholas; 'but really I must decidedly\nobject to making one of the canvassing party.'\n\n'What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent?' inquired a voice close to his ear;\nand, looking round, he found Mrs. Crummles and Miss Snevellicci herself\nstanding behind him.\n\n'He has some objection, my dear,' replied Mr. Crummles, looking at\nNicholas.\n\n'Objection!' exclaimed Mrs. Crummles. 'Can it be possible?'\n\n'Oh, I hope not!' cried Miss Snevellicci. 'You surely are not so\ncruel--oh, dear me!--Well, I--to think of that now, after all one's\nlooking forward to it!'\n\n'Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,' said Mrs. Crummles. 'Think better\nof him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of\nhis nature, must be enlisted in this interesting cause.'\n\n'Which moves even a manager,' said Mr. Crummles, smiling.\n\n'And a manager's wife,' added Mrs. Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy\ntones. 'Come, come, you will relent, I know you will.'\n\n'It is not in my nature,' said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, 'to\nresist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positively wrong; and,\nbeyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing\nthis. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it then. I yield.'\n\nMiss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of\ngratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crummles was by\nany means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her,\nat her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted:\nhe to return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the\nafter-piece: and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the\nprobable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have\ntwo-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.\n\nAt the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings\nof Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at\nthe house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded the little\npassage; and the tailor's daughter, who opened the door, appeared in\nthat flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical\ngetting up of a family's linen.\n\n'Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?' said Nicholas, when the door\nwas opened.\n\nThe tailor's daughter replied in the affirmative.\n\n'Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here?'\nsaid Nicholas.\n\n'Oh, if you please, you're to come upstairs,' replied the tailor's\ndaughter, with a smile.\n\nNicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment\non the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he\njudged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and\nsaucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.\n\n'You're to wait, if you please,' said the tailor's daughter, after a\nshort period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had\nceased, and been succeeded by whispering--'She won't be long.'\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means\n(as she thought) diverted Mr. Johnson's attention from the room to the\nstreet, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had\nvery much the appearance of stockings, and darted off.\n\nAs there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas\nlooked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have\nbestowed upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed\npieces of music, and a scattered litter of curl-papers; together with a\nconfused heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes\nwith large blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a\nhalf-finished muslin apron with little pockets ornamented with red\nribbons, such as waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence)\nare never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive\npair of top-boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the\nlittle jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which\nbore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.\n\nBut the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook,\ndisplayed in the midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were strewn\nupon the table; and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical\nnotices of Miss Snevellicci's acting, extracted from different\nprovincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour,\ncommencing--\n\n     Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth\n     Thrice-gifted SNEVELLICCI came on earth,\n     To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,\n     Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.\n\nBesides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary allusions,\nalso extracted from newspapers, such as--'We observe from an\nadvertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming\nand highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday,\nfor which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle\nexhilaration in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our\nfellow-townsmen have not lost that high appreciation of public utility\nand private worth, for which they have long been so pre-eminently\ndistinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted\nwith a bumper.' 'To Correspondents.--J.S. is misinformed when he\nsupposes that the highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly\ncaptivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre,\nis NOT the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune,\nresiding within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made\nhonourable proposals. We have reason to know that Miss Snevellicci IS\nthe lady who was implicated in that mysterious and romantic affair, and\nwhose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to her head and heart,\nthan do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius.' A copious\nassortment of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits\nall ending with 'Come Early', in large capitals, formed the principal\ncontents of Miss Snevellicci's scrapbook.\n\nNicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a\ncircumstantial and melancholy account of the train of events which had\nled to Miss Snevellicci's spraining her ankle by slipping on a piece of\norange-peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the paper said,) upon\nthe stage at Winchester,--when that young lady herself, attired in the\ncoal-scuttle bonnet and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room,\nwith a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the\nappointed time.\n\n'But really,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'my darling Led, who lives with me\nhere, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have\nexpired in my arms.'\n\n'Such a fate is almost to be envied,' returned Nicholas, 'but I am very\nsorry to hear it nevertheless.'\n\n'What a creature you are to flatter!' said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning\nher glove in much confusion.\n\n'If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,' rejoined\nNicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, 'you have better specimens\nof it here.'\n\n'Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I'm almost\nashamed to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,' said Miss\nSnevellicci, seizing the book and putting it away in a closet. 'How\ncareless of Led! How could she be so naughty!'\n\n'I thought you had kindly left it here, on purpose for me to read,' said\nNicholas. And really it did seem possible.\n\n'I wouldn't have had you see it for the world!' rejoined Miss\nSnevellicci. 'I never was so vexed--never! But she is such a careless\nthing, there's no trusting her.'\n\nThe conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon,\nwho had discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now\npresented herself, with much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand\na very little green parasol with a broad fringe border, and no handle.\nAfter a few words of course, they sallied into the street.\n\nThe phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the\nright sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being\nrepaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be\nlonger than the other; besides these accidents, the green parasol\nwas dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great\ndifficulty and by dint of much exertion. However, it was impossible to\nscold her, as she was the manager's daughter, so Nicholas took it all in\nperfect good humour, and walked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on\none side, and the offending infant on the other.\n\nThe first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in\na terrace of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci's modest\ndouble-knock was answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to her inquiry\nwhether Mrs. Curdle was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very\nmuch, and said he didn't know, but he'd inquire. With this he\nshowed them into a parlour where he kept them waiting, until the two\nwomen-servants had repaired thither, under false pretences, to see the\nplay-actors; and having compared notes with them in the passage, and\njoined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling, he at length went\nupstairs with Miss Snevellicci's name.\n\nNow, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on\nsuch points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to\nliterature and the drama; and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet\nof sixty-four pages, post octavo, on the character of the Nurse's\ndeceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really\nhad been a 'merry man' in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his\nwidow's affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He\nhad likewise proved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation,\nany one of Shakespeare's plays could be made quite different, and the\nsense completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was\na great critic, and a very profound and most original thinker.\n\n'Well, Miss Snevellicci,' said Mrs. Curdle, entering the parlour, 'and\nhow do YOU do?'\n\nMiss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was\nwell, as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs. Curdle was\ndressed in a morning wrapper, with a little cap stuck upon the top\nof her head. Mr. Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his right\nforefinger on his forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom\nsomebody or other had once said he bore a striking resemblance.\n\n'I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your\nname to my bespeak, ma'am,' said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.\n\n'Oh! I really don't know what to say,' replied Mrs. Curdle. 'It's not as\nif the theatre was in its high and palmy days--you needn't stand, Miss\nSnevellicci--the drama is gone, perfectly gone.'\n\n'As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions, and a realisation of\nhuman intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments,\nand laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama\nis gone, perfectly gone,' said Mr. Curdle.\n\n'What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those\nchanging and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is\ninvested?' exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.\n\n'What man indeed--upon the stage,' said Mr. Curdle, with a small\nreservation in favour of himself. 'Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous! Hamlet is\ngone, perfectly gone.'\n\nQuite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed,\nand sat for some short time without speaking. At length, the lady,\nturning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired what play she proposed to have.\n\n'Quite a new one,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'of which this gentleman is\nthe author, and in which he plays; being his first appearance on any\nstage. Mr. Johnson is the gentleman's name.'\n\n'I hope you have preserved the unities, sir?' said Mr. Curdle.\n\n'The original piece is a French one,' said Nicholas. 'There is abundance\nof incident, sprightly dialogue, strongly-marked characters--'\n\n'--All unavailing without a strict observance of the unities, sir,'\nreturned Mr. Curdle. 'The unities of the drama, before everything.'\n\n'Might I ask you,' said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he\nought to assume, and his love of the whimsical, 'might I ask you what\nthe unities are?'\n\nMr. Curdle coughed and considered. 'The unities, sir,' he said, 'are a\ncompleteness--a kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place\nand time--a sort of a general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so\nstrong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as\nI have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have read\nmuch upon the subject, and thought much. I find, running through the\nperformances of this child,' said Mr. Curdle, turning to the phenomenon,\n'a unity of feeling, a breadth, a light and shade, a warmth of\ncolouring, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical development\nof original conceptions, which I look for, in vain, among older\nperformers--I don't know whether I make myself understood?'\n\n'Perfectly,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Just so,' said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. 'That is my\ndefinition of the unities of the drama.'\n\nMrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with great\ncomplacency. It being finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought,\nabout putting down their names.\n\n'I don't know, my dear; upon my word I don't know,' said Mr. Curdle. 'If\nwe do, it must be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves\nto the quality of the performances. Let it go forth to the world, that\nwe do not give THEM the sanction of our names, but that we confer the\ndistinction merely upon Miss Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I\ntake it to be, as it were, a duty, that we should extend our patronage\nto a degraded stage, even for the sake of the associations with which\nit is entwined. Have you got two-and-sixpence for half-a-crown, Miss\nSnevellicci?' said Mr. Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of\nmoney.\n\nMiss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, but there\nwas nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an\nauthor, and thought it best not to go through the form of feeling in his\nown pockets at all.\n\n'Let me see,' said Mr. Curdle; 'twice four's eight--four shillings\na-piece to the boxes, Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the\npresent state of the drama--three half-crowns is seven-and-six; we shall\nnot differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not part us, Miss\nSnevellicci?'\n\nPoor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-crowns, with many smiles and\nbends, and Mrs. Curdle, adding several supplementary directions relative\nto keeping the places for them, and dusting the seat, and sending two\nclean bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a signal for\nbreaking up the conference.\n\n'Odd people those,' said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house.\n\n'I assure you,' said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, 'that I think\nmyself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being\nsixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would give people to\nunderstand that they had always patronised you; and if you were to fail,\nthey would have been quite certain of that from the very beginning.'\n\nAt the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for, there,\nresided the six children who were so enraptured with the public actions\nof the phenomenon, and who, being called down from the nursery to be\ntreated with a private view of that young lady, proceeded to poke their\nfingers into her eyes, and tread upon her toes, and show her many other\nlittle attentions peculiar to their time of life.\n\n'I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box,' said the\nlady of the house, after a most gracious reception. 'I shall only\ntake two of the children, and will make up the rest of the party, of\ngentlemen--your admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, you naughty boy,\nleave the little girl alone.'\n\nThis was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon\nbehind, apparently with a view of ascertaining whether she was real.\n\n'I am sure you must be very tired,' said the mama, turning to Miss\nSnevellicci. 'I cannot think of allowing you to go, without first taking\na glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you! Miss Lane, my\ndear, pray see to the children.'\n\nMiss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by\nthe abrupt behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the\nphenomenon's little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while\nthe distracted infant looked helplessly on.\n\n'I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,' said good-natured\nMrs. Borum, turning again to Miss Snevellicci, 'I cannot understand\n(Emma, don't stare so); laughing in one piece, and crying in the next,\nand so natural in all--oh, dear!'\n\n'I am very happy to hear you express so favourable an opinion,' said\nMiss Snevellicci. 'It's quite delightful to think you like it.'\n\n'Like it!' cried Mrs. Borum. 'Who can help liking it? I would go to the\nplay, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it--only you're too affecting\nsometimes. You do put me in such a state--into such fits of crying!\nGoodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment that poor\nchild so!'\n\nThe phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb;\nfor two strong little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were\ndragging her in different directions as a trial of strength. However,\nMiss Lane (who had herself been too much occupied in contemplating the\ngrown-up actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings)\nrescued the unhappy infant at this juncture, who, being recruited with\na glass of wine, was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after\nsustaining no more serious damage than a flattening of the pink gauze\nbonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock and trousers.\n\nIt was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls to make, and\neverybody wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others\ncomedies; some objected to dancing; some wanted scarcely anything else.\nSome thought the comic singer decidedly low, and others hoped he would\nhave more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn't promise to go,\nbecause other people wouldn't promise to go; and other people wouldn't\ngo at all, because other people went. At length, and by little and\nlittle, omitting something in this place, and adding something in\nthat, Miss Snevellicci pledged herself to a bill of fare which was\ncomprehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it included among other\ntrifles, four pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and several dances);\nand they returned home, pretty well exhausted with the business of the\nday.\n\nNicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into\nrehearsal, and then worked away at his own part, which he studied with\ngreat perseverance and acted--as the whole company said--to perfection.\nAnd at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent round, in the\nmorning, to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in all\nthe thoroughfares; and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches\nwide, were dispersed in all directions, flung down all the areas,\nthrust under all the knockers, and developed in all the shops. They were\nplacarded on all the walls too, though not with complete success, for an\nilliterate person having undertaken this office during the indisposition\nof the regular bill-sticker, a part were posted sideways, and the\nremainder upside down.\n\nAt half-past five, there was a rush of four people to the gallery-door;\nat a quarter before six, there were at least a dozen; at six o'clock the\nkicks were terrific; and when the elder Master Crummles opened the door,\nhe was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen shillings were\ntaken by Mrs. Grudden in the first ten minutes.\n\nBehind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss\nSnevellicci was in such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely\nstay on her face. Mrs. Crummles was so nervous that she could hardly\nremember her part. Miss Bravassa's ringlets came out of curl with the\nheat and anxiety; even Mr. Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole\nin the curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that\nanother man had come into the pit.\n\nAt last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new\npiece. The first scene, in which there was nobody particular, passed\noff calmly enough, but when Miss Snevellicci went on in the second,\naccompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause broke\nout! The people in the Borum box rose as one man, waving their hats\nand handkerchiefs, and uttering shouts of 'Bravo!' Mrs. Borum and the\ngoverness cast wreaths upon the stage, of which, some fluttered into the\nlamps, and one crowned the temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who,\nlooking eagerly towards the scene, remained unconscious of the honour;\nthe tailor and his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes\ntill they threatened to come out altogether; the very ginger-beer\nboy remained transfixed in the centre of the house; a young officer,\nsupposed to entertain a passion for Miss Snevellicci, stuck his glass\nin his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again Miss Snevellicci\ncurtseyed lower and lower, and again and again the applause came down,\nlouder and louder. At length, when the phenomenon picked up one of the\nsmoking wreaths and put it on, sideways, over Miss Snevellicci's eye, it\nreached its climax, and the play proceeded.\n\nBut when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs. Crummles, what\na clapping of hands there was! When Mrs. Crummles (who was his unworthy\nmother), sneered, and called him 'presumptuous boy,' and he defied her,\nwhat a tumult of applause came on! When he quarrelled with the other\ngentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols, said,\nthat if he WAS a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room,\nuntil the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of\ntwo--how boxes, pit, and gallery, joined in one most vigorous cheer!\nWhen he called his mother names, because she wouldn't give up the young\nlady's property, and she relenting, caused him to relent likewise,\nand fall down on one knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the\naudience sobbed! When he was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the\nwicked relation poked a sharp sword in every direction, save where his\nlegs were plainly visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the\nhouse! His air, his figure, his walk, his look, everything he said or\ndid, was the subject of commendation. There was a round of applause\nevery time he spoke. And when, at last, in the pump-and-tub scene, Mrs\nGrudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed members of the\ncompany came in, and tumbled down in various directions--not because\nthat had anything to do with the plot, but in order to finish off with a\ntableau--the audience (who had by this time increased considerably) gave\nvent to such a shout of enthusiasm as had not been heard in those walls\nfor many and many a day.\n\nIn short, the success both of new piece and new actor was complete, and\nwhen Miss Snevellicci was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas\nled her on, and divided the applause.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\nConcerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, and an\nelderly Admirer who follows in her Train; with an affecting Ceremony\nconsequent on their Arrival\n\n\nThe new piece being a decided hit, was announced for every evening of\nperformance until further notice, and the evenings when the theatre was\nclosed, were reduced from three in the week to two. Nor were these the\nonly tokens of extraordinary success; for, on the succeeding Saturday,\nNicholas received, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs. Grudden, no less a\nsum than thirty shillings; besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed\nconsiderable fame and honour: having a presentation copy of Mr. Curdle's\npamphlet forwarded to the theatre, with that gentleman's own autograph\n(in itself an inestimable treasure) on the fly-leaf, accompanied with\na note, containing many expressions of approval, and an unsolicited\nassurance that Mr. Curdle would be very happy to read Shakespeare to him\nfor three hours every morning before breakfast during his stay in the\ntown.\n\n'I've got another novelty, Johnson,' said Mr. Crummles one morning in\ngreat glee.\n\n'What's that?' rejoined Nicholas. 'The pony?'\n\n'No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else has failed,'\nsaid Mr. Crummles. 'I don't think we shall come to the pony at all, this\nseason. No, no, not the pony.'\n\n'A boy phenomenon, perhaps?' suggested Nicholas.\n\n'There is only one phenomenon, sir,' replied Mr. Crummles impressively,\n'and that's a girl.'\n\n'Very true,' said Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. Then I don't know what\nit is, I am sure.'\n\n'What should you say to a young lady from London?' inquired Mr. Crummles.\n'Miss So-and-so, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane?'\n\n'I should say she would look very well in the bills,' said Nicholas.\n\n'You're about right there,' said Mr. Crummles; 'and if you had said she\nwould look very well upon the stage too, you wouldn't have been far out.\nLook here; what do you think of this?'\n\nWith this inquiry Mr. Crummles unfolded a red poster, and a blue poster,\nand a yellow poster, at the top of each of which public notification was\ninscribed in enormous characters--'First appearance of the unrivalled\nMiss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane!'\n\n'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'I know that lady.'\n\n'Then you are acquainted with as much talent as was ever compressed into\none young person's body,' retorted Mr. Crummles, rolling up the bills\nagain; 'that is, talent of a certain sort--of a certain sort. \"The Blood\nDrinker,\"' added Mr. Crummles with a prophetic sigh, '\"The Blood Drinker\"\nwill die with that girl; and she's the only sylph I ever saw, who could\nstand upon one leg, and play the tambourine on her other knee, LIKE a\nsylph.'\n\n'When does she come down?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'We expect her today,' replied Mr. Crummles. 'She is an old friend of Mrs\nCrummles's. Mrs. Crummles saw what she could do--always knew it from the\nfirst. She taught her, indeed, nearly all she knows. Mrs. Crummles was\nthe original Blood Drinker.'\n\n'Was she, indeed?'\n\n'Yes. She was obliged to give it up though.'\n\n'Did it disagree with her?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Not so much with her, as with her audiences,' replied Mr. Crummles.\n'Nobody could stand it. It was too tremendous. You don't quite know what\nMrs. Crummles is yet.'\n\nNicholas ventured to insinuate that he thought he did.\n\n'No, no, you don't,' said Mr. Crummles; 'you don't, indeed. I don't, and\nthat's a fact. I don't think her country will, till she is dead. Some\nnew proof of talent bursts from that astonishing woman every year of her\nlife. Look at her--mother of six children--three of 'em alive, and all\nupon the stage!'\n\n'Extraordinary!' cried Nicholas.\n\n'Ah! extraordinary indeed,' rejoined Mr. Crummles, taking a complacent\npinch of snuff, and shaking his head gravely. 'I pledge you my\nprofessional word I didn't even know she could dance, till her last\nbenefit, and then she played Juliet, and Helen Macgregor, and did the\nskipping-rope hornpipe between the pieces. The very first time I saw\nthat admirable woman, Johnson,' said Mr. Crummles, drawing a little\nnearer, and speaking in the tone of confidential friendship, 'she\nstood upon her head on the butt-end of a spear, surrounded with blazing\nfireworks.'\n\n'You astonish me!' said Nicholas.\n\n'SHE astonished ME!' returned Mr. Crummles, with a very serious\ncountenance. 'Such grace, coupled with such dignity! I adored her from\nthat moment!'\n\nThe arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupt\ntermination to Mr. Crummles's eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards,\nMaster Percy Crummles entered with a letter, which had arrived by the\nGeneral Post, and was directed to his gracious mother; at sight of\nthe superscription whereof, Mrs. Crummles exclaimed, 'From Henrietta\nPetowker, I do declare!' and instantly became absorbed in the contents.\n\n'Is it--?' inquired Mr. Crummles, hesitating.\n\n'Oh, yes, it's all right,' replied Mrs. Crummles, anticipating the\nquestion. 'What an excellent thing for her, to be sure!'\n\n'It's the best thing altogether, that I ever heard of, I think,' said Mr\nCrummles; and then Mr. Crummles, Mrs. Crummles, and Master Percy Crummles,\nall fell to laughing violently. Nicholas left them to enjoy their mirth\ntogether, and walked to his lodgings; wondering very much what mystery\nconnected with Miss Petowker could provoke such merriment, and pondering\nstill more on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regard his\nsudden enlistment in a profession of which she was such a distinguished\nand brilliant ornament.\n\nBut, in this latter respect he was mistaken; for--whether Mr. Vincent\nCrummles had paved the way, or Miss Petowker had some special reason for\ntreating him with even more than her usual amiability--their meeting at\nthe theatre next day was more like that of two dear friends who had been\ninseparable from infancy, than a recognition passing between a lady\nand gentleman who had only met some half-dozen times, and then by mere\nchance. Nay, Miss Petowker even whispered that she had wholly dropped\nthe Kenwigses in her conversations with the manager's family, and had\nrepresented herself as having encountered Mr. Johnson in the very\nfirst and most fashionable circles; and on Nicholas receiving this\nintelligence with unfeigned surprise, she added, with a sweet glance,\nthat she had a claim on his good nature now, and might tax it before\nlong.\n\nNicholas had the honour of playing in a slight piece with Miss Petowker\nthat night, and could not but observe that the warmth of her reception\nwas mainly attributable to a most persevering umbrella in the upper\nboxes; he saw, too, that the enchanting actress cast many sweet looks\ntowards the quarter whence these sounds proceeded; and that every time\nshe did so, the umbrella broke out afresh. Once, he thought that a\npeculiarly shaped hat in the same corner was not wholly unknown to him;\nbut, being occupied with his share of the stage business, he bestowed no\ngreat attention upon this circumstance, and it had quite vanished from\nhis memory by the time he reached home.\n\nHe had just sat down to supper with Smike, when one of the people of the\nhouse came outside the door, and announced that a gentleman below stairs\nwished to speak to Mr. Johnson.\n\n'Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up; that's all I know,'\nreplied Nicholas. 'One of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smike.'\n\nHis fellow-lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation of the\nquantity that would be left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he\nhad cut for himself, in order that the visitor's encroachments might be\nless formidable in their effects.\n\n'It is not anybody who has been here before,' said Nicholas, 'for he\nis tumbling up every stair. Come in, come in. In the name of wonder! Mr\nLillyvick?'\n\nIt was, indeed, the collector of water-rates who, regarding Nicholas\nwith a fixed look and immovable countenance, shook hands with\nmost portentous solemnity, and sat himself down in a seat by the\nchimney-corner.\n\n'Why, when did you come here?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'This morning, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'Oh! I see; then you were at the theatre tonight, and it was your umb--'\n\n'This umbrella,' said Mr. Lillyvick, producing a fat green cotton one\nwith a battered ferrule. 'What did you think of that performance?'\n\n'So far as I could judge, being on the stage,' replied Nicholas, 'I\nthought it very agreeable.'\n\n'Agreeable!' cried the collector. 'I mean to say, sir, that it was\ndelicious.'\n\nMr. Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the last word with greater\nemphasis; and having done so, drew himself up, and frowned and nodded a\ngreat many times.\n\n'I say, delicious,' repeated Mr. Lillyvick. 'Absorbing, fairy-like,\ntoomultuous,' and again Mr. Lillyvick drew himself up, and again he\nfrowned and nodded.\n\n'Ah!' said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms of ecstatic\napprobation. 'Yes--she is a clever girl.'\n\n'She is a divinity,' returned Mr. Lillyvick, giving a collector's double\nknock on the ground with the umbrella before-mentioned. 'I have known\ndivine actresses before now, sir, I used to collect--at least I used\nto CALL for--and very often call for--the water-rate at the house of\na divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards of four year\nbut never--no, never, sir of all divine creatures, actresses or no\nactresses, did I see a diviner one than is Henrietta Petowker.'\n\nNicholas had much ado to prevent himself from laughing; not trusting\nhimself to speak, he merely nodded in accordance with Mr. Lillyvick's\nnods, and remained silent.\n\n'Let me speak a word with you in private,' said Mr. Lillyvick.\n\nNicholas looked good-humouredly at Smike, who, taking the hint,\ndisappeared.\n\n'A bachelor is a miserable wretch, sir,' said Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'Is he?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'He is,' rejoined the collector. 'I have lived in the world for nigh\nsixty year, and I ought to know what it is.'\n\n'You OUGHT to know, certainly,' thought Nicholas; 'but whether you do or\nnot, is another question.'\n\n'If a bachelor happens to have saved a little matter of money,' said Mr\nLillyvick, 'his sisters and brothers, and nephews and nieces, look TO\nthat money, and not to him; even if, by being a public character, he is\nthe head of the family, or, as it may be, the main from which all the\nother little branches are turned on, they still wish him dead all the\nwhile, and get low-spirited every time they see him looking in good\nhealth, because they want to come into his little property. You see\nthat?'\n\n'Oh yes,' replied Nicholas: 'it's very true, no doubt.'\n\n'The great reason for not being married,' resumed Mr. Lillyvick, 'is the\nexpense; that's what's kept me off, or else--Lord!' said Mr. Lillyvick,\nsnapping his fingers, 'I might have had fifty women.'\n\n'Fine women?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Fine women, sir!' replied the collector; 'ay! not so fine as Henrietta\nPetowker, for she is an uncommon specimen, but such women as don't\nfall into every man's way, I can tell you. Now suppose a man can get a\nfortune IN a wife instead of with her--eh?'\n\n'Why, then, he's a lucky fellow,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'That's what I say,' retorted the collector, patting him benignantly\non the side of the head with his umbrella; 'just what I say. Henrietta\nPetowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker has a fortune in herself, and\nI am going to--'\n\n'To make her Mrs. Lillyvick?' suggested Nicholas.\n\n'No, sir, not to make her Mrs. Lillyvick,' replied the collector.\n'Actresses, sir, always keep their maiden names--that's the regular\nthing--but I'm going to marry her; and the day after tomorrow, too.'\n\n'I congratulate you, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Thank you, sir,' replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. 'I\nshall draw her salary, of course, and I hope after all that it's nearly\nas cheap to keep two as it is to keep one; that's a consolation.'\n\n'Surely you don't want any consolation at such a moment?' observed\nNicholas.\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head nervously: 'no--of course\nnot.'\n\n'But how come you both here, if you're going to be married, Mr\nLillyvick?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Why, that's what I came to explain to you,' replied the collector of\nwater-rate. 'The fact is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from\nthe family.'\n\n'Family!' said Nicholas. 'What family?'\n\n'The Kenwigses of course,' rejoined Mr. Lillyvick. 'If my niece and the\nchildren had known a word about it before I came away, they'd have gone\ninto fits at my feet, and never have come out of 'em till I took an oath\nnot to marry anybody--or they'd have got out a commission of lunacy, or\nsome dreadful thing,' said the collector, quite trembling as he spoke.\n\n'To be sure,' said Nicholas. 'Yes; they would have been jealous, no\ndoubt.'\n\n'To prevent which,' said Mr. Lillyvick, 'Henrietta Petowker (it\nwas settled between us) should come down here to her friends, the\nCrummleses, under pretence of this engagement, and I should go down to\nGuildford the day before, and join her on the coach there, which I did,\nand we came down from Guildford yesterday together. Now, for fear you\nshould be writing to Mr. Noggs, and might say anything about us, we have\nthought it best to let you into the secret. We shall be married from the\nCrummleses' lodgings, and shall be delighted to see you--either before\nchurch or at breakfast-time, which you like. It won't be expensive,\nyou know,' said the collector, highly anxious to prevent any\nmisunderstanding on this point; 'just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a\nshrimp or something of that sort for a relish, you know.'\n\n'Yes, yes, I understand,' replied Nicholas. 'Oh, I shall be most\nhappy to come; it will give me the greatest pleasure. Where's the lady\nstopping--with Mrs. Crummles?'\n\n'Why, no,' said the collector; 'they couldn't very well dispose of\nher at night, and so she is staying with an acquaintance of hers, and\nanother young lady; they both belong to the theatre.'\n\n'Miss Snevellicci, I suppose?' said Nicholas.\n\n'Yes, that's the name.'\n\n'And they'll be bridesmaids, I presume?' said Nicholas.\n\n'Why,' said the collector, with a rueful face, 'they WILL have four\nbridesmaids; I'm afraid they'll make it rather theatrical.'\n\n'Oh no, not at all,' replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt to\nconvert a laugh into a cough. 'Who may the four be? Miss Snevellicci of\ncourse--Miss Ledrook--'\n\n'The--the phenomenon,' groaned the collector.\n\n'Ha, ha!' cried Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon, I don't know what I'm\nlaughing at--yes, that'll be very pretty--the phenomenon--who else?'\n\n'Some young woman or other,' replied the collector, rising; 'some other\nfriend of Henrietta Petowker's. Well, you'll be careful not to say\nanything about it, will you?'\n\n'You may safely depend upon me,' replied Nicholas. 'Won't you take\nanything to eat or drink?'\n\n'No,' said the collector; 'I haven't any appetite. I should think it was\na very pleasant life, the married one, eh?'\n\n'I have not the least doubt of it,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Yes,' said the collector; 'certainly. Oh yes. No doubt. Good night.'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Lillyvick, whose manner had exhibited through the\nwhole of this interview a most extraordinary compound of precipitation,\nhesitation, confidence and doubt, fondness, misgiving, meanness, and\nself-importance, turned his back upon the room, and left Nicholas to\nenjoy a laugh by himself if he felt so disposed.\n\nWithout stopping to inquire whether the intervening day appeared to\nNicholas to consist of the usual number of hours of the ordinary length,\nit may be remarked that, to the parties more directly interested in the\nforthcoming ceremony, it passed with great rapidity, insomuch that when\nMiss Petowker awoke on the succeeding morning in the chamber of Miss\nSnevellicci, she declared that nothing should ever persuade her that\nthat really was the day which was to behold a change in her condition.\n\n'I never will believe it,' said Miss Petowker; 'I cannot really. It's\nof no use talking, I never can make up my mind to go through with such a\ntrial!'\n\nOn hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss Ledrook, who knew perfectly\nwell that their fair friend's mind had been made up for three or four\nyears, at any period of which time she would have cheerfully undergone\nthe desperate trial now approaching if she could have found any\neligible gentleman disposed for the venture, began to preach comfort and\nfirmness, and to say how very proud she ought to feel that it was in her\npower to confer lasting bliss on a deserving object, and how necessary\nit was for the happiness of mankind in general that women should possess\nfortitude and resignation on such occasions; and that although for their\nparts they held true happiness to consist in a single life, which\nthey would not willingly exchange--no, not for any worldly\nconsideration--still (thank God), if ever the time SHOULD come, they\nhoped they knew their duty too well to repine, but would the rather\nsubmit with meekness and humility of spirit to a fate for which\nProvidence had clearly designed them with a view to the contentment and\nreward of their fellow-creatures.\n\n'I might feel it was a great blow,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'to break\nup old associations and what-do-you-callems of that kind, but I would\nsubmit, my dear, I would indeed.'\n\n'So would I,' said Miss Ledrook; 'I would rather court the yoke than\nshun it. I have broken hearts before now, and I'm very sorry for it: for\nit's a terrible thing to reflect upon.'\n\n'It is indeed,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Now Led, my dear, we must\npositively get her ready, or we shall be too late, we shall indeed.'\n\nThis pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of being too late, supported\nthe bride through the ceremony of robing, after which, strong tea and\nbrandy were administered in alternate doses as a means of strengthening\nher feeble limbs and causing her to walk steadier.\n\n'How do you feel now, my love?' inquired Miss Snevellicci.\n\n'Oh Lillyvick!' cried the bride. 'If you knew what I am undergoing for\nyou!'\n\n'Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it,' said Miss\nLedrook.\n\n'Do you think he won't?' cried Miss Petowker, really showing great\ncapability for the stage. 'Oh, do you think he won't? Do you think\nLillyvick will always remember it--always, always, always?'\n\nThere is no knowing in what this burst of feeling might have ended, if\nMiss Snevellicci had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival of the\nfly, which so astounded the bride that she shook off divers alarming\nsymptoms which were coming on very strong, and running to the glass\nadjusted her dress, and calmly declared that she was ready for the\nsacrifice.\n\nShe was accordingly supported into the coach, and there 'kept up' (as\nMiss Snevellicci said) with perpetual sniffs of SAL VOLATILE and sips\nof brandy and other gentle stimulants, until they reached the manager's\ndoor, which was already opened by the two Master Crummleses, who\nwore white cockades, and were decorated with the choicest and most\nresplendent waistcoats in the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined\nexertions of these young gentlemen and the bridesmaids, assisted by the\ncoachman, Miss Petowker was at length supported in a condition of much\nexhaustion to the first floor, where she no sooner encountered the\nyouthful bridegroom than she fainted with great decorum.\n\n'Henrietta Petowker!' said the collector; 'cheer up, my lovely one.'\n\nMiss Petowker grasped the collector's hand, but emotion choked her\nutterance.\n\n'Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petowker?' said the\ncollector.\n\n'Oh no, no, no,' rejoined the bride; 'but all the friends--the darling\nfriends--of my youthful days--to leave them all--it is such a shock!'\n\nWith such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petowker went on to enumerate the\ndear friends of her youthful days one by one, and to call upon such of\nthem as were present to come and embrace her. This done, she remembered\nthat Mrs. Crummles had been more than a mother to her, and after that,\nthat Mr. Crummles had been more than a father to her, and after that,\nthat the Master Crummleses and Miss Ninetta Crummles had been more\nthan brothers and sisters to her. These various remembrances being each\naccompanied with a series of hugs, occupied a long time, and they were\nobliged to drive to church very fast, for fear they should be too late.\n\nThe procession consisted of two flys; in the first of which were Miss\nBravassa (the fourth bridesmaid), Mrs. Crummles, the collector, and Mr\nFolair, who had been chosen as his second on the occasion. In the other\nwere the bride, Mr. Crummles, Miss Snevellicci, Miss Ledrook, and the\nphenomenon. The costumes were beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite\ncovered with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon, in particular,\nwas rendered almost invisible by the portable arbour in which she was\nenshrined. Miss Ledrook, who was of a romantic turn, wore in her breast\nthe miniature of some field-officer unknown, which she had purchased, a\ngreat bargain, not very long before; the other ladies displayed several\ndazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almost equal to real, and Mrs\nCrummles came out in a stern and gloomy majesty, which attracted the\nadmiration of all beholders.\n\nBut, perhaps the appearance of Mr. Crummles was more striking and\nappropriate than that of any member of the party. This gentleman, who\npersonated the bride's father, had, in pursuance of a happy and original\nconception, 'made up' for the part by arraying himself in a theatrical\nwig, of a style and pattern commonly known as a brown George, and\nmoreover assuming a snuff-coloured suit, of the previous century, with\ngrey silk stockings, and buckles to his shoes. The better to support\nhis assumed character he had determined to be greatly overcome, and,\nconsequently, when they entered the church, the sobs of the affectionate\nparent were so heart-rending that the pew-opener suggested the propriety\nof his retiring to the vestry, and comforting himself with a glass of\nwater before the ceremony began.\n\nThe procession up the aisle was beautiful. The bride, with the four\nbridesmaids, forming a group previously arranged and rehearsed; the\ncollector, followed by his second, imitating his walk and gestures to\nthe indescribable amusement of some theatrical friends in the gallery;\nMr. Crummles, with an infirm and feeble gait; Mrs. Crummles advancing with\nthat stage walk, which consists of a stride and a stop alternately--it\nwas the completest thing ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly\ndisposed of, and all parties present having signed the register (for\nwhich purpose, when it came to his turn, Mr. Crummles carefully wiped and\nput on an immense pair of spectacles), they went back to breakfast in\nhigh spirits. And here they found Nicholas awaiting their arrival.\n\n'Now then,' said Crummles, who had been assisting Mrs. Grudden in the\npreparations, which were on a more extensive scale than was quite\nagreeable to the collector. 'Breakfast, breakfast.'\n\nNo second invitation was required. The company crowded and squeezed\nthemselves at the table as well as they could, and fell to, immediately:\nMiss Petowker blushing very much when anybody was looking, and eating\nvery much when anybody was NOT looking; and Mr. Lillyvick going to work\nas though with the cool resolve, that since the good things must be paid\nfor by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to\neat up afterwards.\n\n'It's very soon done, sir, isn't it?' inquired Mr. Folair of the\ncollector, leaning over the table to address him.\n\n'What is soon done, sir?' returned Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'The tying up--the fixing oneself with a wife,' replied Mr. Folair. 'It\ndon't take long, does it?'\n\n'No, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, colouring. 'It does not take long. And\nwhat then, sir?'\n\n'Oh! nothing,' said the actor. 'It don't take a man long to hang\nhimself, either, eh? ha, ha!'\n\nMr. Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table\nwith indignant astonishment.\n\n'To hang himself!' repeated Mr. Lillyvick.\n\nA profound silence came upon all, for Mr. Lillyvick was dignified beyond\nexpression.\n\n'To hang himself!' cried Mr. Lillyvick again. 'Is any parallel attempted\nto be drawn in this company between matrimony and hanging?'\n\n'The noose, you know,' said Mr. Folair, a little crest-fallen.\n\n'The noose, sir?' retorted Mr. Lillyvick. 'Does any man dare to speak to\nme of a noose, and Henrietta Pe--'\n\n'Lillyvick,' suggested Mr. Crummles.\n\n'--And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?' said the collector. 'In\nthis house, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles, who have brought\nup a talented and virtuous family, to be blessings and phenomenons, and\nwhat not, are we to hear talk of nooses?'\n\n'Folair,' said Mr. Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency to be\naffected by this allusion to himself and partner, 'I'm astonished at\nyou.'\n\n'What are you going on in this way at me for?' urged the unfortunate\nactor. 'What have I done?'\n\n'Done, sir!' cried Mr. Lillyvick, 'aimed a blow at the whole framework of\nsociety--'\n\n'And the best and tenderest feelings,' added Crummles, relapsing into\nthe old man.\n\n'And the highest and most estimable of social ties,' said the collector.\n'Noose! As if one was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by\nthe leg, instead of going into it of one's own accord and glorying in\nthe act!'\n\n'I didn't mean to make it out, that you were caught and trapped, and\npinned by the leg,' replied the actor. 'I'm sorry for it; I can't say\nany more.'\n\n'So you ought to be, sir,' returned Mr. Lillyvick; 'and I am glad to hear\nthat you have enough of feeling left to be so.'\n\nThe quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, Mrs. Lillyvick\nconsidered that the fittest occasion (the attention of the company being\nno longer distracted) to burst into tears, and require the assistance of\nall four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though not without\nsome confusion, for the room being small and the table-cloth long, a\nwhole detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first\nmove. Regardless of this circumstance, however, Mrs. Lillyvick refused\nto be comforted until the belligerents had passed their words that the\ndispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient show of\nreluctance, they did, and from that time Mr. Folair sat in moody silence,\ncontenting himself with pinching Nicholas's leg when anything was said,\nand so expressing his contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments\nto which he gave utterance.\n\nThere were a great number of speeches made; some by Nicholas, and some\nby Crummles, and some by the collector; two by the Master Crummleses in\nreturning thanks for themselves, and one by the phenomenon on behalf\nof the bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Crummles shed tears. There was some\nsinging, too, from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely there\nmight have been more, if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happy\npair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde, had\nnot sent in a peremptory message intimating, that if they didn't come\ndirectly he should infallibly demand eighteen-pence over and above his\nagreement.\n\nThis desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After a most\npathetic leave-taking, Mr. Lillyvick and his bride departed for Ryde,\nwhere they were to spend the next two days in profound retirement, and\nwhither they were accompanied by the infant, who had been appointed\ntravelling bridesmaid on Mr. Lillyvick's express stipulation: as the\nsteamboat people, deceived by her size, would (he had previously\nascertained) transport her at half-price.\n\nAs there was no performance that night, Mr. Crummles declared his\nintention of keeping it up till everything to drink was disposed of; but\nNicholas having to play Romeo for the first time on the ensuing evening,\ncontrived to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion, occasioned\nby the unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the\nconduct of Mrs. Grudden.\n\nTo this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations,\nbut by his anxiety on account of Smike, who, having to sustain the\ncharacter of the Apothecary, had been as yet wholly unable to get any\nmore of the part into his head than the general idea that he was very\nhungry, which--perhaps from old recollections--he had acquired with\ngreat aptitude.\n\n'I don't know what's to be done, Smike,' said Nicholas, laying down the\nbook. 'I am afraid you can't learn it, my poor fellow.'\n\n'I am afraid not,' said Smike, shaking his head. 'I think if you--but\nthat would give you so much trouble.'\n\n'What?' inquired Nicholas. 'Never mind me.'\n\n'I think,' said Smike, 'if you were to keep saying it to me in little\nbits, over and over again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing\nyou.'\n\n'Do you think so?' exclaimed Nicholas. 'Well said. Let us see who tires\nfirst. Not I, Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud?'\n\n'\"Who calls so loud?\"' said Smike.\n\n'\"Who calls so loud?\"' repeated Nicholas.\n\n'\"Who calls so loud?\"' cried Smike.\n\nThus they continued to ask each other who called so loud, over and\nover again; and when Smike had that by heart Nicholas went to another\nsentence, and then to two at a time, and then to three, and so on, until\nat midnight poor Smike found to his unspeakable joy that he really began\nto remember something about the text.\n\nEarly in the morning they went to it again, and Smike, rendered more\nconfident by the progress he had already made, got on faster and with\nbetter heart. As soon as he began to acquire the words pretty freely,\nNicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands spread out upon\nhis stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the\nestablished form by which people on the stage always denote that they\nwant something to eat. After the morning's rehearsal they went to work\nagain, nor did they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time\nto repair to the theatre at night.\n\nNever had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a\nmore patient, unwearying, considerate, kindhearted master.\n\nAs soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon\nthe stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The\nRomeo was received with hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smike\nwas pronounced unanimously, alike by audience and actors, the very\nprince and prodigy of Apothecaries.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\nIs fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind\n\n\nThe place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street;\nthe time was three o'clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding,\nand the first hour of morning to the gay and spirited; the persons were\nLord Frederick Verisopht, and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.\n\nThese distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple\nof sofas, with a table between them, on which were scattered in rich\nconfusion the materials of an untasted breakfast. Newspapers lay strewn\nabout the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected and unnoticed;\nnot, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions\nof the journals from being called into request, for not a word was\nexchanged between the two, nor was any sound uttered, save when one,\nin tossing about to find an easier resting-place for his aching head,\nuttered an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to\ncommunicate a new restlessness to his companion.\n\nThese appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong\nclue to the extent of the debauch of the previous night, even if there\nhad not been other indications of the amusements in which it had been\npassed. A couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt, two battered hats,\na champagne bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow\nof its being grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive\nweapon; a broken cane; a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a\nwatch-guard snapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments\nof half-smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;--these, and\nmany other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly at the\nnature of last night's gentlemanly frolics.\n\nLord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered\nfoot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting\nposture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards his friend, to whom he\ncalled in a drowsy voice.\n\n'Hallo!' replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.\n\n'Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?' said the lord.\n\n'I don't know that we're fit for anything else,' replied Sir Mulberry;\n'yet awhile, at least. I haven't a grain of life in me this morning.'\n\n'Life!' cried Lord Verisopht. 'I feel as if there would be nothing so\nsnug and comfortable as to die at once.'\n\n'Then why don't you die?' said Sir Mulberry.\n\nWith which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to occupy himself\nin an attempt to fall asleep.\n\nHis hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table, and\nessayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to the window,\nthen loitered up and down the room with his hand to his fevered head,\nand finally threw himself again on his sofa, and roused his friend once\nmore.\n\n'What the devil's the matter?' groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on\nthe couch.\n\nAlthough Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he did\nnot seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after\nstretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver that it\nwas 'infernal cold,' he made an experiment at the breakfast-table, and\nproving more successful in it than his less-seasoned friend, remained\nthere.\n\n'Suppose,' said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his\nfork, 'suppose we go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?'\n\n'Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?' asked Lord\nVerisopht.\n\n'You take me, I see,' replied Sir Mulberry. 'The girl, of course.'\n\n'You promised me you'd find her out,' said Lord Verisopht.\n\n'So I did,' rejoined his friend; 'but I have thought further of the\nmatter since then. You distrust me in the business--you shall find her\nout yourself.'\n\n'Na-ay,' remonstrated Lord Verisopht.\n\n'But I say yes,' returned his friend. 'You shall find her out yourself.\nDon't think that I mean, when you can--I know as well as you that if I\ndid, you could never get sight of her without me. No. I say you shall\nfind her out--SHALL--and I'll put you in the way.'\n\n'Now, curse me, if you ain't a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough-paced\nfriend,' said the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most\nreviving effect.\n\n'I'll tell you how,' said Sir Mulberry. 'She was at that dinner as a\nbait for you.'\n\n'No!' cried the young lord. 'What the dey--'\n\n'As a bait for you,' repeated his friend; 'old Nickleby told me so\nhimself.'\n\n'What a fine old cock it is!' exclaimed Lord Verisopht; 'a noble\nrascal!'\n\n'Yes,' said Sir Mulberry, 'he knew she was a smart little creature--'\n\n'Smart!' interposed the young lord. 'Upon my soul, Hawk, she's a perfect\nbeauty--a--a picture, a statue, a--a--upon my soul she is!'\n\n'Well,' replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his shoulders and manifesting an\nindifference, whether he felt it or not; 'that's a matter of taste; if\nmine doesn't agree with yours, so much the better.'\n\n'Confound it!' reasoned the lord, 'you were thick enough with her that\nday, anyhow. I could hardly get in a word.'\n\n'Well enough for once, well enough for once,' replied Sir Mulberry; 'but\nnot worth the trouble of being agreeable to again. If you seriously\nwant to follow up the niece, tell the uncle that you must know where she\nlives and how she lives, and with whom, or you are no longer a customer\nof his. He'll tell you fast enough.'\n\n'Why didn't you say this before?' asked Lord Verisopht, 'instead of\nletting me go on burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable existence\nfor an a-age!'\n\n'I didn't know it, in the first place,' answered Sir Mulberry\ncarelessly; 'and in the second, I didn't believe you were so very much\nin earnest.'\n\nNow, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed since the\ndinner at Ralph Nickleby's, Sir Mulberry Hawk had been furtively trying\nby every means in his power to discover whence Kate had so suddenly\nappeared, and whither she had disappeared. Unassisted by Ralph, however,\nwith whom he had held no communication since their angry parting on that\noccasion, all his efforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore\narrived at the determination of communicating to the young lord the\nsubstance of the admission he had gleaned from that worthy. To this he\nwas impelled by various considerations; among which the certainty of\nknowing whatever the weak young man knew was decidedly not the least,\nas the desire of encountering the usurer's niece again, and using his\nutmost arts to reduce her pride, and revenge himself for her contempt,\nwas uppermost in his thoughts. It was a politic course of proceeding,\nand one which could not fail to redound to his advantage in every point\nof view, since the very circumstance of his having extorted from Ralph\nNickleby his real design in introducing his niece to such society,\ncoupled with his extreme disinterestedness in communicating it so freely\nto his friend, could not but advance his interests in that quarter,\nand greatly facilitate the passage of coin (pretty frequent and speedy\nalready) from the pockets of Lord Frederick Verisopht to those of Sir\nMulberry Hawk.\n\nThus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and in pursuance of this reasoning he\nand his friend soon afterwards repaired to Ralph Nickleby's, there to\nexecute a plan of operations concerted by Sir Mulberry himself, avowedly\nto promote his friend's object, and really to attain his own.\n\nThey found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into the\ndrawing-room, the recollection of the scene which had taken place there\nseemed to occur to him, for he cast a curious look at Sir Mulberry, who\nbestowed upon it no other acknowledgment than a careless smile.\n\nThey had a short conference upon some money matters then in progress,\nwhich were scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe (in pursuance of\nhis friend's instructions) requested with some embarrassment to speak to\nRalph alone.\n\n'Alone, eh?' cried Sir Mulberry, affecting surprise. 'Oh, very good.\nI'll walk into the next room here. Don't keep me long, that's all.'\n\nSo saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and humming a fragment of\na song disappeared through the door of communication between the two\ndrawing-rooms, and closed it after him.\n\n'Now, my lord,' said Ralph, 'what is it?'\n\n'Nickleby,' said his client, throwing himself along the sofa on which\nhe had been previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old\nman's ear, 'what a pretty creature your niece is!'\n\n'Is she, my lord?' replied Ralph. 'Maybe--maybe--I don't trouble my head\nwith such matters.'\n\n'You know she's a deyvlish fine girl,' said the client. 'You must know\nthat, Nickleby. Come, don't deny that.'\n\n'Yes, I believe she is considered so,' replied Ralph. 'Indeed, I know\nshe is. If I did not, you are an authority on such points, and your\ntaste, my lord--on all points, indeed--is undeniable.'\n\nNobody but the young man to whom these words were addressed could have\nbeen deaf to the sneering tone in which they were spoken, or blind to\nthe look of contempt by which they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick\nVerisopht was both, and took them to be complimentary.\n\n'Well,' he said, 'p'raps you're a little right, and p'raps you're a\nlittle wrong--a little of both, Nickleby. I want to know where this\nbeauty lives, that I may have another peep at her, Nickleby.'\n\n'Really--' Ralph began in his usual tones.\n\n'Don't talk so loud,' cried the other, achieving the great point of his\nlesson to a miracle. 'I don't want Hawk to hear.'\n\n'You know he is your rival, do you?' said Ralph, looking sharply at him.\n\n'He always is, d-a-amn him,' replied the client; 'and I want to steal\na march upon him. Ha, ha, ha! He'll cut up so rough, Nickleby, at our\ntalking together without him. Where does she live, Nickleby, that's all?\nOnly tell me where she lives, Nickleby.'\n\n'He bites,' thought Ralph. 'He bites.'\n\n'Eh, Nickleby, eh?' pursued the client. 'Where does she live?'\n\n'Really, my lord,' said Ralph, rubbing his hands slowly over each other,\n'I must think before I tell you.'\n\n'No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn't think at all,' replied\nVerisopht. 'Where is it?'\n\n'No good can come of your knowing,' replied Ralph. 'She has been\nvirtuously and well brought up; to be sure she is handsome, poor,\nunprotected! Poor girl, poor girl.'\n\nRalph ran over this brief summary of Kate's condition as if it were\nmerely passing through his own mind, and he had no intention to speak\naloud; but the shrewd sly look which he directed at his companion as he\ndelivered it, gave this poor assumption the lie.\n\n'I tell you I only want to see her,' cried his client. 'A ma-an may look\nat a pretty woman without harm, mayn't he? Now, where DOES she live?\nYou know you're making a fortune out of me, Nickleby, and upon my soul\nnobody shall ever take me to anybody else, if you only tell me this.'\n\n'As you promise that, my lord,' said Ralph, with feigned reluctance,\n'and as I am most anxious to oblige you, and as there's no harm in\nit--no harm--I'll tell you. But you had better keep it to yourself, my\nlord; strictly to yourself.' Ralph pointed to the adjoining room as he\nspoke, and nodded expressively.\n\nThe young lord, feigning to be equally impressed with the necessity of\nthis precaution, Ralph disclosed the present address and occupation of\nhis niece, observing that from what he heard of the family they appeared\nvery ambitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and that a lord\ncould, doubtless, introduce himself with great ease, if he felt\ndisposed.\n\n'Your object being only to see her again,' said Ralph, 'you could effect\nit at any time you chose by that means.'\n\nLord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a great many squeezes of\nRalph's hard, horny hand, and whispering that they would now do well to\nclose the conversation, called to Sir Mulberry Hawk that he might come\nback.\n\n'I thought you had gone to sleep,' said Sir Mulberry, reappearing with\nan ill-tempered air.\n\n'Sorry to detain you,' replied the gull; 'but Nickleby has been so\nama-azingly funny that I couldn't tear myself away.'\n\n'No, no,' said Ralph; 'it was all his lordship. You know what a witty,\nhumorous, elegant, accomplished man Lord Frederick is. Mind the step, my\nlord--Sir Mulberry, pray give way.'\n\nWith such courtesies as these, and many low bows, and the same cold\nsneer upon his face all the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his\nvisitors downstairs, and otherwise than by the slightest possible motion\nabout the corners of his mouth, returned no show of answer to the look\nof admiration with which Sir Mulberry Hawk seemed to compliment him on\nbeing such an accomplished and most consummate scoundrel.\n\nThere had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, which was\nanswered by Newman Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary\ncourse of business Newman would have either admitted the new-comer in\nsilence, or have requested him or her to stand aside while the gentlemen\npassed out. But he no sooner saw who it was, than as if for some private\nreason of his own, he boldly departed from the established custom of\nRalph's mansion in business hours, and looking towards the respectable\ntrio who were approaching, cried in a loud and sonorous voice, 'Mrs\nNickleby!'\n\n'Mrs. Nickleby!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, as his friend looked back, and\nstared him in the face.\n\nIt was, indeed, that well-intentioned lady, who, having received an\noffer for the empty house in the city directed to the landlord, had\nbrought it post-haste to Mr. Nickleby without delay.\n\n'Nobody YOU know,' said Ralph. 'Step into the office, my--my--dear. I'll\nbe with you directly.'\n\n'Nobody I know!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, advancing to the astonished\nlady. 'Is this Mrs. Nickleby--the mother of Miss Nickleby--the delightful\ncreature that I had the happiness of meeting in this house the very last\ntime I dined here? But no;' said Sir Mulberry, stopping short. 'No, it\ncan't be. There is the same cast of features, the same indescribable air\nof--But no; no. This lady is too young for that.'\n\n'I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-in-law, if it concerns\nhim to know,' said Mrs. Nickleby, acknowledging the compliment with a\ngraceful bend, 'that Kate Nickleby is my daughter.'\n\n'Her daughter, my lord!' cried Sir Mulberry, turning to his friend.\n'This lady's daughter, my lord.'\n\n'My lord!' thought Mrs. Nickleby. 'Well, I never did--'\n\n'This, then, my lord,' said Sir Mulberry, 'is the lady to whose obliging\nmarriage we owe so much happiness. This lady is the mother of sweet\nMiss Nickleby. Do you observe the extraordinary likeness, my lord?\nNickleby--introduce us.'\n\nRalph did so, in a kind of desperation.\n\n'Upon my soul, it's a most delightful thing,' said Lord Frederick,\npressing forward. 'How de do?'\n\nMrs. Nickleby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kind salutations,\nand her regrets at not having on her other bonnet, to make any immediate\nreply, so she merely continued to bend and smile, and betray great\nagitation.\n\n'A--and how is Miss Nickleby?' said Lord Frederick. 'Well, I hope?'\n\n'She is quite well, I'm obliged to you, my lord,' returned Mrs. Nickleby,\nrecovering. 'Quite well. She wasn't well for some days after that day\nshe dined here, and I can't help thinking, that she caught cold in that\nhackney coach coming home. Hackney coaches, my lord, are such nasty\nthings, that it's almost better to walk at any time, for although I\nbelieve a hackney coachman can be transported for life, if he has a\nbroken window, still they are so reckless, that they nearly all have\nbroken windows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks, my lord, from\nriding in a hackney coach--I think it was a hackney coach,' said Mrs\nNickleby reflecting, 'though I'm not quite certain whether it wasn't\na chariot; at all events I know it was a dark green, with a very long\nnumber, beginning with a nought and ending with a nine--no, beginning\nwith a nine, and ending with a nought, that was it, and of course the\nstamp-office people would know at once whether it was a coach or a\nchariot if any inquiries were made there--however that was, there it\nwas with a broken window and there was I for six weeks with a swelled\nface--I think that was the very same hackney coach, that we found out\nafterwards, had the top open all the time, and we should never even have\nknown it, if they hadn't charged us a shilling an hour extra for having\nit open, which it seems is the law, or was then, and a most shameful law\nit appears to be--I don't understand the subject, but I should say the\nCorn Laws could be nothing to THAT act of Parliament.'\n\nHaving pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs. Nickleby stopped as\nsuddenly as she had started off; and repeated that Kate was quite well.\n'Indeed,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I don't think she ever was better, since\nshe had the hooping-cough, scarlet-fever, and measles, all at the same\ntime, and that's the fact.'\n\n'Is that letter for me?' growled Ralph, pointing to the little packet\nMrs. Nickleby held in her hand.\n\n'For you, brother-in-law,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, 'and I walked all the\nway up here on purpose to give it you.'\n\n'All the way up here!' cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon the chance\nof discovering where Mrs. Nickleby had come from. 'What a confounded\ndistance! How far do you call it now?'\n\n'How far do I call it?' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'Let me see. It's just a mile\nfrom our door to the Old Bailey.'\n\n'No, no. Not so much as that,' urged Sir Mulberry.\n\n'Oh! It is indeed,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'I appeal to his lordship.'\n\n'I should decidedly say it was a mile,' remarked Lord Frederick, with a\nsolemn aspect.\n\n'It must be; it can't be a yard less,' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'All down\nNewgate Street, all down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, down\nGracechurch Street, and along Thames Street, as far as Spigwiffin's\nWharf. Oh! It's a mile.'\n\n'Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was,' replied Sir Mulberry.\n'But you don't surely mean to walk all the way back?'\n\n'Oh, no,' rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. 'I shall go back in an omnibus. I\ndidn't travel about in omnibuses, when my poor dear Nicholas was alive,\nbrother-in-law. But as it is, you know--'\n\n'Yes, yes,' replied Ralph impatiently, 'and you had better get back\nbefore dark.'\n\n'Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had,' returned Mrs. Nickleby. 'I think I\nhad better say goodbye, at once.'\n\n'Not stop and--rest?' said Ralph, who seldom offered refreshments unless\nsomething was to be got by it.\n\n'Oh dear me no,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, glancing at the dial.\n\n'Lord Frederick,' said Sir Mulberry, 'we are going Mrs. Nickleby's way.\nWe'll see her safe to the omnibus?'\n\n'By all means. Ye-es.'\n\n'Oh! I really couldn't think of it!' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\nBut Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Verisopht were peremptory in their\npoliteness, and leaving Ralph, who seemed to think, not unwisely, that\nhe looked less ridiculous as a mere spectator, than he would have done\nif he had taken any part in these proceedings, they quitted the house\nwith Mrs. Nickleby between them; that good lady in a perfect ecstasy\nof satisfaction, no less with the attentions shown her by two titled\ngentlemen, than with the conviction that Kate might now pick and choose,\nat least between two large fortunes, and most unexceptionable husbands.\n\nAs she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible train of\nthought, all connected with her daughter's future greatness, Sir\nMulberry Hawk and his friend exchanged glances over the top of the\nbonnet which the poor lady so much regretted not having left at home,\nand proceeded to dilate with great rapture, but much respect on the\nmanifold perfections of Miss Nickleby.\n\n'What a delight, what a comfort, what a happiness, this amiable\ncreature must be to you,' said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice an\nindication of the warmest feeling.\n\n'She is indeed, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby; 'she is the\nsweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted creature--and so clever!'\n\n'She looks clayver,' said Lord Verisopht, with the air of a judge of\ncleverness.\n\n'I assure you she is, my lord,' returned Mrs. Nickleby. 'When she was\nat school in Devonshire, she was universally allowed to be beyond all\nexception the very cleverest girl there, and there were a great many\nvery clever ones too, and that's the truth--twenty-five young ladies,\nfifty guineas a year without the et-ceteras, both the Miss Dowdles the\nmost accomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures--Oh dear me!' said Mrs\nNickleby, 'I never shall forget what pleasure she used to give me\nand her poor dear papa, when she was at that school, never--such a\ndelightful letter every half-year, telling us that she was the first\npupil in the whole establishment, and had made more progress than\nanybody else! I can scarcely bear to think of it even now. The girls\nwrote all the letters themselves,' added Mrs. Nickleby, 'and the\nwriting-master touched them up afterwards with a magnifying glass and\na silver pen; at least I think they wrote them, though Kate was never\nquite certain about that, because she didn't know the handwriting of\nhers again; but anyway, I know it was a circular which they all copied,\nand of course it was a very gratifying thing--very gratifying.'\n\nWith similar recollections Mrs. Nickleby beguiled the tediousness of the\nway, until they reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of\nher new friends would not allow them to leave until it actually started,\nwhen they took their hats, as Mrs. Nickleby solemnly assured her hearers\non many subsequent occasions, 'completely off,' and kissed their\nstraw-coloured kid gloves till they were no longer visible.\n\nMrs. Nickleby leant back in the furthest corner of the conveyance,\nand, closing her eyes, resigned herself to a host of most pleasing\nmeditations. Kate had never said a word about having met either of\nthese gentlemen; 'that,' she thought, 'argues that she is strongly\nprepossessed in favour of one of them.' Then the question arose, which\none could it be. The lord was the youngest, and his title was certainly\nthe grandest; still Kate was not the girl to be swayed by such\nconsiderations as these. 'I will never put any constraint upon her\ninclinations,' said Mrs. Nickleby to herself; 'but upon my word I\nthink there's no comparison between his lordship and Sir Mulberry--Sir\nMulberry is such an attentive gentlemanly creature, so much manner,\nsuch a fine man, and has so much to say for himself. I hope it's Sir\nMulberry--I think it must be Sir Mulberry!' And then her thoughts flew\nback to her old predictions, and the number of times she had said, that\nKate with no fortune would marry better than other people's daughters\nwith thousands; and, as she pictured with the brightness of a mother's\nfancy all the beauty and grace of the poor girl who had struggled so\ncheerfully with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart grew too\nfull, and the tears trickled down her face.\n\nMeanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his little back-office, troubled\nin mind by what had just occurred. To say that Ralph loved or cared\nfor--in the most ordinary acceptation of those terms--any one of God's\ncreatures, would be the wildest fiction. Still, there had somehow stolen\nupon him from time to time a thought of his niece which was tinged\nwith compassion and pity; breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or\nindifference which darkened men and women in his eyes, there was, in her\ncase, the faintest gleam of light--a most feeble and sickly ray at the\nbest of times--but there it was, and it showed the poor girl in a better\nand purer aspect than any in which he had looked on human nature yet.\n\n'I wish,' thought Ralph, 'I had never done this. And yet it will\nkeep this boy to me, while there is money to be made. Selling a\ngirl--throwing her in the way of temptation, and insult, and coarse\nspeech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him already though.\nPshaw! match-making mothers do the same thing every day.'\n\nHe sat down, and told the chances, for and against, on his fingers.\n\n'If I had not put them in the right track today,' thought Ralph, 'this\nfoolish woman would have done so. Well. If her daughter is as true to\nherself as she should be from what I have seen, what harm ensues? A\nlittle teasing, a little humbling, a few tears. Yes,' said Ralph, aloud,\nas he locked his iron safe. 'She must take her chance. She must take her\nchance.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\nMrs. Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose\nAffection and Interest are beyond all Bounds\n\n\nMrs. Nickleby had not felt so proud and important for many a day, as\nwhen, on reaching home, she gave herself wholly up to the pleasant\nvisions which had accompanied her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry\nHawk--that was the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk!--On Tuesday last,\nat St George's, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend the Bishop\nof Llandaff, Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, North Wales, to\nCatherine, only daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of\nDevonshire. 'Upon my word!' cried Mrs. Nicholas Nickleby, 'it sounds very\nwell.'\n\nHaving dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities, to the\nperfect satisfaction of her own mind, the sanguine mother pictured to\nher imagination a long train of honours and distinctions which could\nnot fail to accompany Kate in her new and brilliant sphere. She would be\npresented at court, of course. On the anniversary of her birthday, which\nwas upon the nineteenth of July ('at ten minutes past three o'clock in\nthe morning,' thought Mrs. Nickleby in a parenthesis, 'for I recollect\nasking what o'clock it was'), Sir Mulberry would give a great feast to\nall his tenants, and would return them three and a half per cent on the\namount of their last half-year's rent, as would be fully described and\nrecorded in the fashionable intelligence, to the immeasurable delight\nand admiration of all the readers thereof. Kate's picture, too, would be\nin at least half-a-dozen of the annuals, and on the opposite page would\nappear, in delicate type, 'Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady\nMulberry Hawk. By Sir Dingleby Dabber.' Perhaps some one annual, of more\ncomprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain a portrait\nof the mother of Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father of Sir\nDingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had come to pass. Less interesting\nportraits had appeared. As this thought occurred to the good lady, her\ncountenance unconsciously assumed that compound expression of simpering\nand sleepiness which, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one\nreason why they are always so charming and agreeable.\n\nWith such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs. Nickleby occupy\nthe whole evening after her accidental introduction to Ralph's titled\nfriends; and dreams, no less prophetic and equally promising, haunted\nher sleep that night. She was preparing for her frugal dinner next day,\nstill occupied with the same ideas--a little softened down perhaps by\nsleep and daylight--when the girl who attended her, partly for company,\nand partly to assist in the household affairs, rushed into the room in\nunwonted agitation, and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the\npassage for permission to walk upstairs.\n\n'Bless my heart!' cried Mrs. Nickleby, hastily arranging her cap and\nfront, 'if it should be--dear me, standing in the passage all this\ntime--why don't you go and ask them to walk up, you stupid thing?'\n\nWhile the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs. Nickleby hastily swept into\na cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely\ndone, and seated herself with looks as collected as she could assume,\nwhen two gentlemen, both perfect strangers, presented themselves.\n\n'How do you DO?' said one gentleman, laying great stress on the last\nword of the inquiry.\n\n'HOW do you do?' said the other gentleman, altering the emphasis, as if\nto give variety to the salutation.\n\nMrs. Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, and remarked,\nrubbing her hands as she did so, that she hadn't the--really--the honour\nto--\n\n'To know us,' said the first gentleman. 'The loss has been ours, Mrs\nNickleby. Has the loss been ours, Pyke?'\n\n'It has, Pluck,' answered the other gentleman.\n\n'We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?' said the first\ngentleman.\n\n'Very often, Pluck,' answered the second.\n\n'But now,' said the first gentleman, 'now we have the happiness we\nhave pined and languished for. Have we pined and languished for this\nhappiness, Pyke, or have we not?'\n\n'You know we have, Pluck,' said Pyke, reproachfully.\n\n'You hear him, ma'am?' said Mr. Pluck, looking round; 'you hear\nthe unimpeachable testimony of my friend Pyke--that reminds\nme,--formalities, formalities, must not be neglected in civilised\nsociety. Pyke--Mrs. Nickleby.'\n\nMr. Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.\n\n'Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,' said Mr\nPluck--'whether I shall say myself that my name is Pluck, or whether\nI shall ask my friend Pyke (who being now regularly introduced, is\ncompetent to the office) to state for me, Mrs. Nickleby, that my name is\nPluck; whether I shall claim your acquaintance on the plain ground of\nthe strong interest I take in your welfare, or whether I shall make\nmyself known to you as the friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk--these, Mrs\nNickleby, are considerations which I leave to you to determine.'\n\n'Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk's requires no better introduction to\nme,' observed Mrs. Nickleby, graciously.\n\n'It is delightful to hear you say so,' said Mr. Pluck, drawing a chair\nclose to Mrs. Nickleby, and sitting himself down. 'It is refreshing\nto know that you hold my excellent friend, Sir Mulberry, in such high\nesteem. A word in your ear, Mrs. Nickleby. When Sir Mulberry knows it, he\nwill be a happy man--I say, Mrs. Nickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.'\n\n'MY good opinion,' said Mrs. Nickleby, and the poor lady exulted in the\nidea that she was marvellously sly,--'my good opinion can be of very\nlittle consequence to a gentleman like Sir Mulberry.'\n\n'Of little consequence!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck. 'Pyke, of what consequence\nto our friend, Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion of Mrs. Nickleby?'\n\n'Of what consequence?' echoed Pyke.\n\n'Ay,' repeated Pluck; 'is it of the greatest consequence?'\n\n'Of the very greatest consequence,' replied Pyke.\n\n'Mrs. Nickleby cannot be ignorant,' said Mr. Pluck, 'of the immense\nimpression which that sweet girl has--'\n\n'Pluck!' said his friend, 'beware!'\n\n'Pyke is right,' muttered Mr. Pluck, after a short pause; 'I was not to\nmention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.'\n\n'Well now, really,' thought Mrs. Nickleby within herself. 'Such delicacy\nas that, I never saw!'\n\nMr. Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of great embarrassment\nfor some minutes, resumed the conversation by entreating Mrs. Nickleby\nto take no heed of what he had inadvertently said--to consider him\nimprudent, rash, injudicious. The only stipulation he would make in his\nown favour was, that she should give him credit for the best intentions.\n\n'But when,' said Mr. Pluck, 'when I see so much sweetness and beauty on\nthe one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on the other, I--pardon\nme, Pyke, I didn't intend to resume that theme. Change the subject,\nPyke.'\n\n'We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,' said Pyke, 'that we'd\ncall this morning and inquire whether you took any cold last night.'\n\n'Not the least in the world last night, sir,' replied Mrs. Nickleby,\n'with many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the\nhonour to inquire; not the least--which is the more singular, as I\nreally am very subject to colds, indeed--very subject. I had a cold\nonce,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I think it was in the year eighteen hundred\nand seventeen; let me see, four and five are nine, and--yes, eighteen\nhundred and seventeen, that I thought I never should get rid of;\nactually and seriously, that I thought I never should get rid of. I\nwas only cured at last by a remedy that I don't know whether you ever\nhappened to hear of, Mr. Pluck. You have a gallon of water as hot as\nyou can possibly bear it, with a pound of salt, and sixpen'orth of the\nfinest bran, and sit with your head in it for twenty minutes every night\njust before going to bed; at least, I don't mean your head--your feet.\nIt's a most extraordinary cure--a most extraordinary cure. I used it\nfor the first time, I recollect, the day after Christmas Day, and by the\nmiddle of April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a miracle\nwhen you come to think of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of\nSeptember.'\n\n'What an afflicting calamity!' said Mr. Pyke.\n\n'Perfectly horrid!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck.\n\n'But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs. Nickleby\nrecovered it, isn't it, Pluck?' cried Mr. Pyke.\n\n'That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest,'\nreplied Mr. Pluck.\n\n'But come,' said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; 'we must\nnot forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a\nmission, Mrs. Nickleby.'\n\n'On a mission,' exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definite\nproposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself in lively\ncolours.\n\n'From Sir Mulberry,' replied Pyke. 'You must be very dull here.'\n\n'Rather dull, I confess,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand\nentreaties that you'll take a seat in a private box at the play\ntonight,' said Mr. Pluck.\n\n'Oh dear!' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I never go out at all, never.'\n\n'And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs. Nickleby, why you should go\nout tonight,' retorted Mr. Pluck. 'Pyke, entreat Mrs. Nickleby.'\n\n'Oh, pray do,' said Pyke.\n\n'You positively must,' urged Pluck.\n\n'You are very kind,' said Mrs. Nickleby, hesitating; 'but--'\n\n'There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs. Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr\nPluck; 'not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us,\nLord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us--a refusal\nis out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you--twenty\nminutes before seven to the moment--you'll not be so cruel as to\ndisappoint the whole party, Mrs. Nickleby?'\n\n'You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied\nthe worthy lady.\n\n'Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr. Pluck.\n'Mrs. Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice,\n'there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence\nin what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard\nit--such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs. Nickleby--he'd have\nme out before dinner-time.'\n\nMrs. Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had\nwalked to the window; and Mr. Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:\n\n'Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may\ncongratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her\ndevoted slave. Hem!'\n\n'Hah!' cried Mr. Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the\nchimney-piece with a theatrical air. 'What is this! what do I behold!'\n\n'What DO you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr. Pluck.\n\n'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr. Pyke,\nfalling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; 'feebly\nportrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE countenance, THE\nexpression.'\n\n'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr. Pluck in a fit of\nenthusiasm. 'Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--'\n\n'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs. Nickleby, with great pride. And\nso it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection\nonly two nights before.\n\nMr. Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in his conjecture,\nthan he launched into the most extravagant encomiums of the divine\noriginal; and in the warmth of his enthusiasm kissed the picture a\nthousand times, while Mr. Pluck pressed Mrs. Nickleby's hand to his heart,\nand congratulated her on the possession of such a daughter, with so much\nearnestness and affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand,\nin his eyes. Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable\ncomplacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by these tokens\nof regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even the servant\ngirl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted to the spot in\nastonishment at the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.\n\nBy degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs. Nickleby went on to\nentertain her guests with a lament over her fallen fortunes, and a\npicturesque account of her old house in the country: comprising a full\ndescription of the different apartments, not forgetting the little\nstore-room, and a lively recollection of how many steps you went down to\nget into the garden, and which way you turned when you came out at the\nparlour door, and what capital fixtures there were in the kitchen. This\nlast reflection naturally conducted her into the wash-house, where she\nstumbled upon the brewing utensils, among which she might have wandered\nfor an hour, if the mere mention of those implements had not, by an\nassociation of ideas, instantly reminded Mr. Pyke that he was 'amazing\nthirsty.'\n\n'And I'll tell you what,' said Mr. Pyke; 'if you'll send round to the\npublic-house for a pot of milk half-and-half, positively and actually\nI'll drink it.'\n\nAnd positively and actually Mr. Pyke DID drink it, and Mr. Pluck\nhelped him, while Mrs. Nickleby looked on in divided admiration of the\ncondescension of the two, and the aptitude with which they accommodated\nthemselves to the pewter-pot; in explanation of which seeming marvel it\nmay be here observed, that gentlemen who, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck,\nlive upon their wits (or not so much, perhaps, upon the presence\nof their own wits as upon the absence of wits in other people) are\noccasionally reduced to very narrow shifts and straits, and are at such\nperiods accustomed to regale themselves in a very simple and primitive\nmanner.\n\n'At twenty minutes before seven, then,' said Mr. Pyke, rising, 'the coach\nwill be here. One more look--one little look--at that sweet face. Ah!\nhere it is. Unmoved, unchanged!' This, by the way, was a very\nremarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to so many changes of\nexpression--'Oh, Pluck! Pluck!'\n\nMr. Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs. Nickleby's hand with a\ngreat show of feeling and attachment; Mr. Pyke having done the same, both\ngentlemen hastily withdrew.\n\nMrs. Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself credit for a\npretty tolerable share of penetration and acuteness, but she had never\nfelt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness as she did that day.\nShe had found it all out the night before. She had never seen Sir\nMulberry and Kate together--never even heard Sir Mulberry's name--and\nyet hadn't she said to herself from the very first, that she saw how the\ncase stood? and what a triumph it was, for there was now no doubt\nabout it. If these flattering attentions to herself were not sufficient\nproofs, Sir Mulberry's confidential friend had suffered the secret\nto escape him in so many words. 'I am quite in love with that dear Mr\nPluck, I declare I am,' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\nThere was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of this good\nfortune, and that was the having nobody by, to whom she could confide\nit. Once or twice she almost resolved to walk straight to Miss La\nCreevy's and tell it all to her. 'But I don't know,' thought Mrs\nNickleby; 'she is a very worthy person, but I am afraid too much beneath\nSir Mulberry's station for us to make a companion of. Poor thing!'\nActing upon this grave consideration she rejected the idea of taking the\nlittle portrait painter into her confidence, and contented herself\nwith holding out sundry vague and mysterious hopes of preferment to the\nservant girl, who received these obscure hints of dawning greatness with\nmuch veneration and respect.\n\nPunctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was no hackney\ncoach, but a private chariot, having behind it a footman, whose legs,\nalthough somewhat large for his body, might, as mere abstract legs,\nhave set themselves up for models at the Royal Academy. It was quite\nexhilarating to hear the clash and bustle with which he banged the door\nand jumped up behind after Mrs. Nickleby was in; and as that good lady\nwas perfectly unconscious that he applied the gold-headed end of his\nlong stick to his nose, and so telegraphed most disrespectfully to the\ncoachman over her very head, she sat in a state of much stiffness and\ndignity, not a little proud of her position.\n\nAt the theatre entrance there was more banging and more bustle, and\nthere were also Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting to escort her to her box;\nand so polite were they, that Mr. Pyke threatened with many oaths to\n'smifligate' a very old man with a lantern who accidentally stumbled\nin her way--to the great terror of Mrs. Nickleby, who, conjecturing\nmore from Mr. Pyke's excitement than any previous acquaintance with the\netymology of the word that smifligation and bloodshed must be in\nthe main one and the same thing, was alarmed beyond expression, lest\nsomething should occur. Fortunately, however, Mr. Pyke confined himself\nto mere verbal smifligation, and they reached their box with no more\nserious interruption by the way, than a desire on the part of the same\npugnacious gentleman to 'smash' the assistant box-keeper for happening\nto mistake the number.\n\nMrs. Nickleby had scarcely been put away behind the curtain of the box in\nan armchair, when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisopht arrived, arrayed from\nthe crowns of their heads to the tips of their gloves, and from the\ntips of their gloves to the toes of their boots, in the most elegant and\ncostly manner. Sir Mulberry was a little hoarser than on the previous\nday, and Lord Verisopht looked rather sleepy and queer; from which\ntokens, as well as from the circumstance of their both being to a\ntrifling extent unsteady upon their legs, Mrs. Nickleby justly concluded\nthat they had taken dinner.\n\n'We have been--we have been--toasting your lovely daughter, Mrs\nNickleby,' whispered Sir Mulberry, sitting down behind her.\n\n'Oh, ho!' thought that knowing lady; 'wine in, truth out.--You are very\nkind, Sir Mulberry.'\n\n'No, no upon my soul!' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk. 'It's you that's kind,\nupon my soul it is. It was so kind of you to come tonight.'\n\n'So very kind of you to invite me, you mean, Sir Mulberry,' replied Mrs\nNickleby, tossing her head, and looking prodigiously sly.\n\n'I am so anxious to know you, so anxious to cultivate your good opinion,\nso desirous that there should be a delicious kind of harmonious family\nunderstanding between us,' said Sir Mulberry, 'that you mustn't think\nI'm disinterested in what I do. I'm infernal selfish; I am--upon my soul\nI am.'\n\n'I am sure you can't be selfish, Sir Mulberry!' replied Mrs. Nickleby.\n'You have much too open and generous a countenance for that.'\n\n'What an extraordinary observer you are!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.\n\n'Oh no, indeed, I don't see very far into things, Sir Mulberry,' replied\nMrs. Nickleby, in a tone of voice which left the baronet to infer that\nshe saw very far indeed.\n\n'I am quite afraid of you,' said the baronet. 'Upon my soul,' repeated\nSir Mulberry, looking round to his companions; 'I am afraid of Mrs\nNickleby. She is so immensely sharp.'\n\nMessrs Pyke and Pluck shook their heads mysteriously, and observed\ntogether that they had found that out long ago; upon which Mrs. Nickleby\ntittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed, and Pyke and Pluck roared.\n\n'But where's my brother-in-law, Sir Mulberry?' inquired Mrs. Nickleby. 'I\nshouldn't be here without him. I hope he's coming.'\n\n'Pyke,' said Sir Mulberry, taking out his toothpick and lolling back in\nhis chair, as if he were too lazy to invent a reply to this question.\n'Where's Ralph Nickleby?'\n\n'Pluck,' said Pyke, imitating the baronet's action, and turning the lie\nover to his friend, 'where's Ralph Nickleby?'\n\nMr. Pluck was about to return some evasive reply, when the hustle caused\nby a party entering the next box seemed to attract the attention of all\nfour gentlemen, who exchanged glances of much meaning. The new party\nbeginning to converse together, Sir Mulberry suddenly assumed the\ncharacter of a most attentive listener, and implored his friends not to\nbreathe--not to breathe.\n\n'Why not?' said Mrs. Nickleby. 'What is the matter?'\n\n'Hush!' replied Sir Mulberry, laying his hand on her arm. 'Lord\nFrederick, do you recognise the tones of that voice?'\n\n'Deyvle take me if I didn't think it was the voice of Miss Nickleby.'\n\n'Lor, my lord!' cried Miss Nickleby's mama, thrusting her head round the\ncurtain. 'Why actually--Kate, my dear, Kate.'\n\n'YOU here, mama! Is it possible!'\n\n'Possible, my dear? Yes.'\n\n'Why who--who on earth is that you have with you, mama?' said Kate,\nshrinking back as she caught sight of a man smiling and kissing his\nhand.\n\n'Who do you suppose, my dear?' replied Mrs. Nickleby, bending towards Mrs\nWititterly, and speaking a little louder for that lady's edification.\n'There's Mr. Pyke, Mr. Pluck, Sir Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Frederick\nVerisopht.'\n\n'Gracious Heaven!' thought Kate hurriedly. 'How comes she in such\nsociety?'\n\nNow, Kate thought thus SO hurriedly, and the surprise was so great, and\nmoreover brought back so forcibly the recollection of what had passed at\nRalph's delectable dinner, that she turned extremely pale and appeared\ngreatly agitated, which symptoms being observed by Mrs. Nickleby, were\nat once set down by that acute lady as being caused and occasioned by\nviolent love. But, although she was in no small degree delighted by\nthis discovery, which reflected so much credit on her own quickness of\nperception, it did not lessen her motherly anxiety in Kate's behalf; and\naccordingly, with a vast quantity of trepidation, she quitted her own\nbox to hasten into that of Mrs. Wititterly. Mrs. Wititterly, keenly\nalive to the glory of having a lord and a baronet among her visiting\nacquaintance, lost no time in signing to Mr. Wititterly to open the door,\nand thus it was that in less than thirty seconds Mrs. Nickleby's party\nhad made an irruption into Mrs. Wititterly's box, which it filled to the\nvery door, there being in fact only room for Messrs Pyke and Pluck to\nget in their heads and waistcoats.\n\n'My dear Kate,' said Mrs. Nickleby, kissing her daughter affectionately.\n'How ill you looked a moment ago! You quite frightened me, I declare!'\n\n'It was mere fancy, mama,--the--the--reflection of the lights perhaps,'\nreplied Kate, glancing nervously round, and finding it impossible to\nwhisper any caution or explanation.\n\n'Don't you see Sir Mulberry Hawk, my dear?'\n\nKate bowed slightly, and biting her lip turned her head towards the\nstage.\n\nBut Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so easily repulsed, for he advanced\nwith extended hand; and Mrs. Nickleby officiously informing Kate of this\ncircumstance, she was obliged to extend her own. Sir Mulberry detained\nit while he murmured a profusion of compliments, which Kate, remembering\nwhat had passed between them, rightly considered as so many aggravations\nof the insult he had already put upon her. Then followed the recognition\nof Lord Verisopht, and then the greeting of Mr. Pyke, and then that of Mr\nPluck, and finally, to complete the young lady's mortification, she\nwas compelled at Mrs. Wititterly's request to perform the ceremony\nof introducing the odious persons, whom she regarded with the utmost\nindignation and abhorrence.\n\n'Mrs. Wititterly is delighted,' said Mr. Wititterly, rubbing his hands;\n'delighted, my lord, I am sure, with this opportunity of contracting an\nacquaintance which, I trust, my lord, we shall improve. Julia, my dear,\nyou must not allow yourself to be too much excited, you must not.\nIndeed you must not. Mrs. Wititterly is of a most excitable nature, Sir\nMulberry. The snuff of a candle, the wick of a lamp, the bloom on a\npeach, the down on a butterfly. You might blow her away, my lord; you\nmight blow her away.'\n\nSir Mulberry seemed to think that it would be a great convenience if the\nlady could be blown away. He said, however, that the delight was mutual,\nand Lord Verisopht added that it was mutual, whereupon Messrs Pyke and\nPluck were heard to murmur from the distance that it was very mutual\nindeed.\n\n'I take an interest, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a faint smile,\n'such an interest in the drama.'\n\n'Ye--es. It's very interesting,' replied Lord Verisopht.\n\n'I'm always ill after Shakespeare,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I scarcely\nexist the next day; I find the reaction so very great after a tragedy,\nmy lord, and Shakespeare is such a delicious creature.'\n\n'Ye--es!' replied Lord Verisopht. 'He was a clayver man.'\n\n'Do you know, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly, after a long silence, 'I\nfind I take so much more interest in his plays, after having been to\nthat dear little dull house he was born in! Were you ever there, my\nlord?'\n\n'No, nayver,' replied Verisopht.\n\n'Then really you ought to go, my lord,' returned Mrs. Wititterly, in very\nlanguid and drawling accents. 'I don't know how it is, but after you've\nseen the place and written your name in the little book, somehow or\nother you seem to be inspired; it kindles up quite a fire within one.'\n\n'Ye--es!' replied Lord Verisopht, 'I shall certainly go there.'\n\n'Julia, my life,' interposed Mr. Wititterly, 'you are deceiving his\nlordship--unintentionally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is\nyour poetical temperament, my dear--your ethereal soul--your fervid\nimagination, which throws you into a glow of genius and excitement.\nThere is nothing in the place, my dear--nothing, nothing.'\n\n'I think there must be something in the place,' said Mrs. Nickleby, who\nhad been listening in silence; 'for, soon after I was married, I went\nto Stratford with my poor dear Mr. Nickleby, in a post-chaise\nfrom Birmingham--was it a post-chaise though?' said Mrs. Nickleby,\nconsidering; 'yes, it must have been a post-chaise, because I recollect\nremarking at the time that the driver had a green shade over his\nleft eye;--in a post-chaise from Birmingham, and after we had seen\nShakespeare's tomb and birthplace, we went back to the inn there, where\nwe slept that night, and I recollect that all night long I dreamt of\nnothing but a black gentleman, at full length, in plaster-of-Paris,\nwith a lay-down collar tied with two tassels, leaning against a post\nand thinking; and when I woke in the morning and described him to Mr\nNickleby, he said it was Shakespeare just as he had been when he was\nalive, which was very curious indeed. Stratford--Stratford,' continued\nMrs. Nickleby, considering. 'Yes, I am positive about that, because I\nrecollect I was in the family way with my son Nicholas at the time,\nand I had been very much frightened by an Italian image boy that very\nmorning. In fact, it was quite a mercy, ma'am,' added Mrs. Nickleby, in\na whisper to Mrs. Wititterly, 'that my son didn't turn out to be a\nShakespeare, and what a dreadful thing that would have been!'\n\nWhen Mrs. Nickleby had brought this interesting anecdote to a close,\nPyke and Pluck, ever zealous in their patron's cause, proposed the\nadjournment of a detachment of the party into the next box; and with so\nmuch skill were the preliminaries adjusted, that Kate, despite all\nshe could say or do to the contrary, had no alternative but to suffer\nherself to be led away by Sir Mulberry Hawk. Her mother and Mr. Pluck\naccompanied them, but the worthy lady, pluming herself upon her\ndiscretion, took particular care not so much as to look at her daughter\nduring the whole evening, and to seem wholly absorbed in the jokes and\nconversation of Mr. Pluck, who, having been appointed sentry over Mrs\nNickleby for that especial purpose, neglected, on his side, no possible\nopportunity of engrossing her attention.\n\nLord Frederick Verisopht remained in the next box to be talked to by Mrs\nWititterly, and Mr. Pyke was in attendance to throw in a word or two when\nnecessary. As to Mr. Wititterly, he was sufficiently busy in the body of\nthe house, informing such of his friends and acquaintance as happened\nto be there, that those two gentlemen upstairs, whom they had seen\nin conversation with Mrs. W., were the distinguished Lord Frederick\nVerisopht and his most intimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk--a\ncommunication which inflamed several respectable house-keepers with the\nutmost jealousy and rage, and reduced sixteen unmarried daughters to the\nvery brink of despair.\n\nThe evening came to an end at last, but Kate had yet to be handed\ndownstairs by the detested Sir Mulberry; and so skilfully were the\nmanoeuvres of Messrs Pyke and Pluck conducted, that she and the baronet\nwere the last of the party, and were even--without an appearance of\neffort or design--left at some little distance behind.\n\n'Don't hurry, don't hurry,' said Sir Mulberry, as Kate hastened on, and\nattempted to release her arm.\n\nShe made no reply, but still pressed forward.\n\n'Nay, then--' coolly observed Sir Mulberry, stopping her outright.\n\n'You had best not seek to detain me, sir!' said Kate, angrily.\n\n'And why not?' retorted Sir Mulberry. 'My dear creature, now why do you\nkeep up this show of displeasure?'\n\n'SHOW!' repeated Kate, indignantly. 'How dare you presume to speak to\nme, sir--to address me--to come into my presence?'\n\n'You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk,\nstooping down, the better to see her face.\n\n'I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,' said Kate.\n'If you find any attraction in looks of disgust and aversion, you--let\nme rejoin my friends, sir, instantly. Whatever considerations may have\nwithheld me thus far, I will disregard them all, and take a course that\neven YOU might feel, if you do not immediately suffer me to proceed.'\n\nSir Mulberry smiled, and still looking in her face and retaining her\narm, walked towards the door.\n\n'If no regard for my sex or helpless situation will induce you to desist\nfrom this coarse and unmanly persecution,' said Kate, scarcely knowing,\nin the tumult of her passions, what she said,--'I have a brother who\nwill resent it dearly, one day.'\n\n'Upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, as though quietly communing with\nhimself; passing his arm round her waist as he spoke, 'she looks more\nbeautiful, and I like her better in this mood, than when her eyes are\ncast down, and she is in perfect repose!'\n\nHow Kate reached the lobby where her friends were waiting she never\nknew, but she hurried across it without at all regarding them, and\ndisengaged herself suddenly from her companion, sprang into the coach,\nand throwing herself into its darkest corner burst into tears.\n\nMessrs Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue, at once threw the party into\ngreat commotion by shouting for the carriages, and getting up a violent\nquarrel with sundry inoffensive bystanders; in the midst of which tumult\nthey put the affrighted Mrs. Nickleby in her chariot, and having got her\nsafely off, turned their thoughts to Mrs. Wititterly, whose attention\nalso they had now effectually distracted from the young lady, by\nthrowing her into a state of the utmost bewilderment and consternation.\nAt length, the conveyance in which she had come rolled off too with its\nload, and the four worthies, being left alone under the portico, enjoyed\na hearty laugh together.\n\n'There,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his noble friend. 'Didn't I tell\nyou last night that if we could find where they were going by bribing a\nservant through my fellow, and then established ourselves close by with\nthe mother, these people's honour would be our own? Why here it is, done\nin four-and-twenty hours.'\n\n'Ye--es,' replied the dupe. 'But I have been tied to the old woman all\nni-ight.'\n\n'Hear him,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his two friends. 'Hear this\ndiscontented grumbler. Isn't it enough to make a man swear never to help\nhim in his plots and schemes again? Isn't it an infernal shame?'\n\nPyke asked Pluck whether it was not an infernal shame, and Pluck asked\nPyke; but neither answered.\n\n'Isn't it the truth?' demanded Verisopht. 'Wasn't it so?'\n\n'Wasn't it so!' repeated Sir Mulberry. 'How would you have had it? How\ncould we have got a general invitation at first sight--come when you\nlike, go when you like, stop as long as you like, do what you like--if\nyou, the lord, had not made yourself agreeable to the foolish mistress\nof the house? Do I care for this girl, except as your friend? Haven't I\nbeen sounding your praises in her ears, and bearing her pretty sulks and\npeevishness all night for you? What sort of stuff do you think I'm made\nof? Would I do this for every man? Don't I deserve even gratitude in\nreturn?'\n\n'You're a deyvlish good fellow,' said the poor young lord, taking his\nfriend's arm. 'Upon my life you're a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk.'\n\n'And I have done right, have I?' demanded Sir Mulberry.\n\n'Quite ri-ght.'\n\n'And like a poor, silly, good-natured, friendly dog as I am, eh?'\n\n'Ye--es, ye--es; like a friend,' replied the other.\n\n'Well then,' replied Sir Mulberry, 'I'm satisfied. And now let's go and\nhave our revenge on the German baron and the Frenchman, who cleaned you\nout so handsomely last night.'\n\nWith these words the friendly creature took his companion's arm and led\nhim away, turning half round as he did so, and bestowing a wink and\na contemptuous smile on Messrs Pyke and Pluck, who, cramming their\nhandkerchiefs into their mouths to denote their silent enjoyment of\nthe whole proceedings, followed their patron and his victim at a little\ndistance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\nMiss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry\nHawk, and the Complicated Difficulties and Distresses which surround\nher, appeals, as a last resource, to her Uncle for Protection\n\n\nThe ensuing morning brought reflection with it, as morning usually\ndoes; but widely different was the train of thought it awakened in the\ndifferent persons who had been so unexpectedly brought together on the\npreceding evening, by the active agency of Messrs Pyke and Pluck.\n\nThe reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk--if such a term can be applied to\nthe thoughts of the systematic and calculating man of dissipation, whose\njoys, regrets, pains, and pleasures, are all of self, and who would seem\nto retain nothing of the intellectual faculty but the power to debase\nhimself, and to degrade the very nature whose outward semblance he\nwears--the reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk turned upon Kate Nickleby,\nand were, in brief, that she was undoubtedly handsome; that her coyness\nMUST be easily conquerable by a man of his address and experience, and\nthat the pursuit was one which could not fail to redound to his credit,\nand greatly to enhance his reputation with the world. And lest this last\nconsideration--no mean or secondary one with Sir Mulberry--should sound\nstrangely in the ears of some, let it be remembered that most men live\nin a world of their own, and that in that limited circle alone are they\nambitious for distinction and applause. Sir Mulberry's world was peopled\nwith profligates, and he acted accordingly.\n\nThus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most\nextravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day. It\nis the custom to trumpet forth much wonder and astonishment at the chief\nactors therein setting at defiance so completely the opinion of the\nworld; but there is no greater fallacy; it is precisely because they\ndo consult the opinion of their own little world that such things take\nplace at all, and strike the great world dumb with amazement.\n\nThe reflections of Mrs. Nickleby were of the proudest and most complacent\nkind; and under the influence of her very agreeable delusion she\nstraightway sat down and indited a long letter to Kate, in which she\nexpressed her entire approval of the admirable choice she had made, and\nextolled Sir Mulberry to the skies; asserting, for the more complete\nsatisfaction of her daughter's feelings, that he was precisely the\nindividual whom she (Mrs. Nickleby) would have chosen for her son-in-law,\nif she had had the picking and choosing from all mankind. The good lady\nthen, with the preliminary observation that she might be fairly supposed\nnot to have lived in the world so long without knowing its ways,\ncommunicated a great many subtle precepts applicable to the state of\ncourtship, and confirmed in their wisdom by her own personal experience.\nAbove all things she commended a strict maidenly reserve, as being\nnot only a very laudable thing in itself, but as tending materially\nto strengthen and increase a lover's ardour. 'And I never,' added Mrs\nNickleby, 'was more delighted in my life than to observe last night,\nmy dear, that your good sense had already told you this.' With which\nsentiment, and various hints of the pleasure she derived from the\nknowledge that her daughter inherited so large an instalment of her own\nexcellent sense and discretion (to nearly the full measure of which she\nmight hope, with care, to succeed in time), Mrs. Nickleby concluded a\nvery long and rather illegible letter.\n\nPoor Kate was well-nigh distracted on the receipt of four\nclosely-written and closely-crossed sides of congratulation on the very\nsubject which had prevented her closing her eyes all night, and kept her\nweeping and watching in her chamber; still worse and more trying was the\nnecessity of rendering herself agreeable to Mrs. Wititterly, who, being\nin low spirits after the fatigue of the preceding night, of course\nexpected her companion (else wherefore had she board and salary?) to be\nin the best spirits possible. As to Mr. Wititterly, he went about all day\nin a tremor of delight at having shaken hands with a lord, and having\nactually asked him to come and see him in his own house. The lord\nhimself, not being troubled to any inconvenient extent with the power\nof thinking, regaled himself with the conversation of Messrs Pyke and\nPluck, who sharpened their wit by a plentiful indulgence in various\ncostly stimulants at his expense.\n\nIt was four in the afternoon--that is, the vulgar afternoon of the sun\nand the clock--and Mrs. Wititterly reclined, according to custom, on the\ndrawing-room sofa, while Kate read aloud a new novel in three volumes,\nentitled 'The Lady Flabella,' which Alphonse the doubtful had procured\nfrom the library that very morning. And it was a production admirably\nsuited to a lady labouring under Mrs. Wititterly's complaint, seeing that\nthere was not a line in it, from beginning to end, which could, by the\nmost remote contingency, awaken the smallest excitement in any person\nbreathing.\n\nKate read on.\n\n'\"Cherizette,\" said the Lady Flabella, inserting her mouse-like feet\nin the blue satin slippers, which had unwittingly occasioned the\nhalf-playful half-angry altercation between herself and the youthful\nColonel Befillaire, in the Duke of Mincefenille's SALON DE DANSE on the\nprevious night. \"CHERIZETTE, MA CHERE, DONNEZ-MOI DE L'EAU-DE-COLOGNE,\nS'IL VOUS PLAIT, MON ENFANT.\"\n\n'\"MERCIE--thank you,\" said the Lady Flabella, as the lively but devoted\nCherizette plentifully besprinkled with the fragrant compound the Lady\nFlabella's MOUCHOIR of finest cambric, edged with richest lace, and\nemblazoned at the four corners with the Flabella crest, and gorgeous\nheraldic bearings of that noble family. \"MERCIE--that will do.\"\n\n'At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet inhaled that\ndelicious fragrance by holding the MOUCHOIR to her exquisite, but\nthoughtfully-chiselled nose, the door of the BOUDOIR (artfully concealed\nby rich hangings of silken damask, the hue of Italy's firmament) was\nthrown open, and with noiseless tread two VALETS-DE-CHAMBRE, clad in\nsumptuous liveries of peach-blossom and gold, advanced into the room\nfollowed by a page in BAS DE SOIE--silk stockings--who, while they\nremained at some distance making the most graceful obeisances, advanced\nto the feet of his lovely mistress, and dropping on one knee presented,\non a golden salver gorgeously chased, a scented BILLET.\n\n'The Lady Flabella, with an agitation she could not repress, hastily\ntore off the ENVELOPE and broke the scented seal. It WAS from\nBefillaire--the young, the slim, the low-voiced--HER OWN Befillaire.'\n\n'Oh, charming!' interrupted Kate's patroness, who was sometimes taken\nliterary. 'Poetic, really. Read that description again, Miss Nickleby.'\n\nKate complied.\n\n'Sweet, indeed!' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sigh. 'So voluptuous, is it\nnot--so soft?'\n\n'Yes, I think it is,' replied Kate, gently; 'very soft.'\n\n'Close the book, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I can hear\nnothing more today; I should be sorry to disturb the impression of that\nsweet description. Close the book.'\n\nKate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she did so, Mrs. Wititterly\nraising her glass with a languid hand, remarked, that she looked pale.\n\n'It was the fright of that--that noise and confusion last night,' said\nKate.\n\n'How very odd!' exclaimed Mrs. Wititterly, with a look of surprise. And\ncertainly, when one comes to think of it, it WAS very odd that anything\nshould have disturbed a companion. A steam-engine, or other ingenious\npiece of mechanism out of order, would have been nothing to it.\n\n'How did you come to know Lord Frederick, and those other delightful\ncreatures, child?' asked Mrs. Wititterly, still eyeing Kate through her\nglass.\n\n'I met them at my uncle's,' said Kate, vexed to feel that she was\ncolouring deeply, but unable to keep down the blood which rushed to her\nface whenever she thought of that man.\n\n'Have you known them long?'\n\n'No,' rejoined Kate. 'Not long.'\n\n'I was very glad of the opportunity which that respectable person, your\nmother, gave us of being known to them,' said Mrs. Wititterly, in a lofty\nmanner. 'Some friends of ours were on the very point of introducing us,\nwhich makes it quite remarkable.'\n\nThis was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow conceited on the honour\nand dignity of having known four great people (for Pyke and Pluck were\nincluded among the delightful creatures), whom Mrs. Wititterly did not\nknow. But as the circumstance had made no impression one way or other\nupon Kate's mind, the force of the observation was quite lost upon her.\n\n'They asked permission to call,' said Mrs. Wititterly. 'I gave it them of\ncourse.'\n\n'Do you expect them today?' Kate ventured to inquire.\n\nMrs. Wititterly's answer was lost in the noise of a tremendous rapping at\nthe street-door, and before it had ceased to vibrate, there drove up a\nhandsome cabriolet, out of which leaped Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend\nLord Verisopht.\n\n'They are here now,' said Kate, rising and hurrying away.\n\n'Miss Nickleby!' cried Mrs. Wititterly, perfectly aghast at a companion's\nattempting to quit the room, without her permission first had and\nobtained. 'Pray don't think of going.'\n\n'You are very good!' replied Kate. 'But--'\n\n'For goodness' sake, don't agitate me by making me speak so much,' said\nMrs. Wititterly, with great sharpness. 'Dear me, Miss Nickleby, I beg--'\n\nIt was in vain for Kate to protest that she was unwell, for the\nfootsteps of the knockers, whoever they were, were already on the\nstairs. She resumed her seat, and had scarcely done so, when the\ndoubtful page darted into the room and announced, Mr. Pyke, and Mr. Pluck,\nand Lord Verisopht, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, all at one burst.\n\n'The most extraordinary thing in the world,' said Mr. Pluck, saluting\nboth ladies with the utmost cordiality; 'the most extraordinary thing.\nAs Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry drove up to the door, Pyke and I had\nthat instant knocked.'\n\n'That instant knocked,' said Pyke.\n\n'No matter how you came, so that you are here,' said Mrs. Wititterly,\nwho, by dint of lying on the same sofa for three years and a half, had\ngot up quite a little pantomime of graceful attitudes, and now threw\nherself into the most striking of the whole series, to astonish the\nvisitors. 'I am delighted, I am sure.'\n\n'And how is Miss Nickleby?' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, accosting Kate, in\na low voice--not so low, however, but that it reached the ears of Mrs\nWititterly.\n\n'Why, she complains of suffering from the fright of last night,' said\nthe lady. 'I am sure I don't wonder at it, for my nerves are quite torn\nto pieces.'\n\n'And yet you look,' observed Sir Mulberry, turning round; 'and yet you\nlook--'\n\n'Beyond everything,' said Mr. Pyke, coming to his patron's assistance. Of\ncourse Mr. Pluck said the same.\n\n'I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my lord,' said Mrs. Wititterly,\nturning to that young gentleman, who had been sucking the head of his\ncane in silence, and staring at Kate.\n\n'Oh, deyvlish!' replied Verisopht. Having given utterance to which\nremarkable sentiment, he occupied himself as before.\n\n'Neither does Miss Nickleby look the worse,' said Sir Mulberry, bending\nhis bold gaze upon her. 'She was always handsome, but upon my soul,\nma'am, you seem to have imparted some of your own good looks to her\nbesides.'\n\nTo judge from the glow which suffused the poor girl's countenance after\nthis speech, Mrs. Wititterly might, with some show of reason, have been\nsupposed to have imparted to it some of that artificial bloom which\ndecorated her own. Mrs. Wititterly admitted, though not with the best\ngrace in the world, that Kate DID look pretty. She began to think, too,\nthat Sir Mulberry was not quite so agreeable a creature as she had\nat first supposed him; for, although a skilful flatterer is a most\ndelightful companion if you can keep him all to yourself, his taste\nbecomes very doubtful when he takes to complimenting other people.\n\n'Pyke,' said the watchful Mr. Pluck, observing the effect which the\npraise of Miss Nickleby had produced.\n\n'Well, Pluck,' said Pyke.\n\n'Is there anybody,' demanded Mr. Pluck, mysteriously, 'anybody you know,\nthat Mrs. Wititterly's profile reminds you of?'\n\n'Reminds me of!' answered Pyke. 'Of course there is.'\n\n'Who do you mean?' said Pluck, in the same mysterious manner. 'The D. of\nB.?'\n\n'The C. of B.,' replied Pyke, with the faintest trace of a grin\nlingering in his countenance. 'The beautiful sister is the countess; not\nthe duchess.'\n\n'True,' said Pluck, 'the C. of B. The resemblance is wonderful!'\n\n'Perfectly startling,' said Mr. Pyke.\n\nHere was a state of things! Mrs. Wititterly was declared, upon the\ntestimony of two veracious and competent witnesses, to be the very\npicture of a countess! This was one of the consequences of getting into\ngood society. Why, she might have moved among grovelling people for\ntwenty years, and never heard of it. How could she, indeed? what did\nTHEY know about countesses?\n\nThe two gentlemen having, by the greediness with which this little\nbait was swallowed, tested the extent of Mrs. Wititterly's appetite for\nadulation, proceeded to administer that commodity in very large doses,\nthus affording to Sir Mulberry Hawk an opportunity of pestering Miss\nNickleby with questions and remarks, to which she was absolutely obliged\nto make some reply. Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed unmolested the\nfull flavour of the gold knob at the top of his cane, as he would have\ndone to the end of the interview if Mr. Wititterly had not come home, and\ncaused the conversation to turn to his favourite topic.\n\n'My lord,' said Mr. Wititterly, 'I am delighted--honoured--proud. Be\nseated again, my lord, pray. I am proud, indeed--most proud.'\n\nIt was to the secret annoyance of his wife that Mr. Wititterly said all\nthis, for, although she was bursting with pride and arrogance, she would\nhave had the illustrious guests believe that their visit was quite a\ncommon occurrence, and that they had lords and baronets to see them\nevery day in the week. But Mr. Wititterly's feelings were beyond the\npower of suppression.\n\n'It is an honour, indeed!' said Mr. Wititterly. 'Julia, my soul, you will\nsuffer for this tomorrow.'\n\n'Suffer!' cried Lord Verisopht.\n\n'The reaction, my lord, the reaction,' said Mr. Wititterly. 'This violent\nstrain upon the nervous system over, my lord, what ensues? A sinking, a\ndepression, a lowness, a lassitude, a debility. My lord, if Sir Tumley\nSnuffim was to see that delicate creature at this moment, he would\nnot give a--a--THIS for her life.' In illustration of which remark, Mr\nWititterly took a pinch of snuff from his box, and jerked it lightly\ninto the air as an emblem of instability.\n\n'Not THAT,' said Mr. Wititterly, looking about him with a serious\ncountenance. 'Sir Tumley Snuffim would not give that for Mrs\nWititterly's existence.'\n\nMr. Wititterly told this with a kind of sober exultation, as if it were\nno trifling distinction for a man to have a wife in such a desperate\nstate, and Mrs. Wititterly sighed and looked on, as if she felt the\nhonour, but had determined to bear it as meekly as might be.\n\n'Mrs. Wititterly,' said her husband, 'is Sir Tumley Snuffim's favourite\npatient. I believe I may venture to say, that Mrs. Wititterly is the\nfirst person who took the new medicine which is supposed to have\ndestroyed a family at Kensington Gravel Pits. I believe she was. If I am\nwrong, Julia, my dear, you will correct me.'\n\n'I believe I was,' said Mrs. Wititterly, in a faint voice.\n\nAs there appeared to be some doubt in the mind of his patron how he\ncould best join in this conversation, the indefatigable Mr. Pyke threw\nhimself into the breach, and, by way of saying something to the point,\ninquired--with reference to the aforesaid medicine--whether it was nice.\n\n'No, sir, it was not. It had not even that recommendation,' said Mr. W.\n\n'Mrs. Wititterly is quite a martyr,' observed Pyke, with a complimentary\nbow.\n\n'I THINK I am,' said Mrs. Wititterly, smiling.\n\n'I think you are, my dear Julia,' replied her husband, in a tone which\nseemed to say that he was not vain, but still must insist upon their\nprivileges. 'If anybody, my lord,' added Mr. Wititterly, wheeling\nround to the nobleman, 'will produce to me a greater martyr than Mrs\nWititterly, all I can say is, that I shall be glad to see that martyr,\nwhether male or female--that's all, my lord.'\n\nPyke and Pluck promptly remarked that certainly nothing could be fairer\nthan that; and the call having been by this time protracted to a very\ngreat length, they obeyed Sir Mulberry's look, and rose to go. This\nbrought Sir Mulberry himself and Lord Verisopht on their legs also.\nMany protestations of friendship, and expressions anticipative of the\npleasure which must inevitably flow from so happy an acquaintance, were\nexchanged, and the visitors departed, with renewed assurances that at\nall times and seasons the mansion of the Wititterlys would be honoured\nby receiving them beneath its roof.\n\nThat they came at all times and seasons--that they dined there one day,\nsupped the next, dined again on the next, and were constantly to and\nfro on all--that they made parties to visit public places, and met by\naccident at lounges--that upon all these occasions Miss Nickleby was\nexposed to the constant and unremitting persecution of Sir Mulberry\nHawk, who now began to feel his character, even in the estimation of his\ntwo dependants, involved in the successful reduction of her pride--that\nshe had no intervals of peace or rest, except at those hours when she\ncould sit in her solitary room, and weep over the trials of the day--all\nthese were consequences naturally flowing from the well-laid plans of\nSir Mulberry, and their able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke and\nPluck.\n\nAnd thus for a fortnight matters went on. That any but the weakest and\nsilliest of people could have seen in one interview that Lord Verisopht,\nthough he was a lord, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, though he was a baronet,\nwere not persons accustomed to be the best possible companions, and were\ncertainly not calculated by habits, manners, tastes, or conversation, to\nshine with any very great lustre in the society of ladies, need scarcely\nbe remarked. But with Mrs. Wititterly the two titles were all sufficient;\ncoarseness became humour, vulgarity softened itself down into the most\ncharming eccentricity; insolence took the guise of an easy absence of\nreserve, attainable only by those who had had the good fortune to mix\nwith high folks.\n\nIf the mistress put such a construction upon the behaviour of her new\nfriends, what could the companion urge against them? If they accustomed\nthemselves to very little restraint before the lady of the house, with\nhow much more freedom could they address her paid dependent! Nor was\neven this the worst. As the odious Sir Mulberry Hawk attached himself\nto Kate with less and less of disguise, Mrs. Wititterly began to grow\njealous of the superior attractions of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling\nhad led to her banishment from the drawing-room when such company was\nthere, Kate would have been only too happy and willing that it should\nhave existed, but unfortunately for her she possessed that native\ngrace and true gentility of manner, and those thousand nameless\naccomplishments which give to female society its greatest charm; if\nthese be valuable anywhere, they were especially so where the lady of\nthe house was a mere animated doll. The consequence was, that Kate had\nthe double mortification of being an indispensable part of the circle\nwhen Sir Mulberry and his friends were there, and of being exposed, on\nthat very account, to all Mrs. Wititterly's ill-humours and caprices when\nthey were gone. She became utterly and completely miserable.\n\nMrs. Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to Sir\nMulberry, but when she was more than usually out of temper, attributed\nthe circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervous indisposition.\nHowever, as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat\ntaken with Kate, and that she, Mrs. Wititterly, was quite a secondary\nperson, dawned upon that lady's mind and gradually developed itself,\nshe became possessed with a large quantity of highly proper and most\nvirtuous indignation, and felt it her duty, as a married lady and a\nmoral member of society, to mention the circumstance to 'the young\nperson' without delay.\n\nAccordingly Mrs. Wititterly broke ground next morning, during a pause in\nthe novel-reading.\n\n'Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs. Wititterly, 'I wish to speak to you very\ngravely. I am sorry to have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry, but\nyou leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.' Here Mrs. Wititterly tossed\nher head--not passionately, only virtuously--and remarked, with some\nappearance of excitement, that she feared that palpitation of the heart\nwas coming on again.\n\n'Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,' resumed the lady, 'is very far from\npleasing me--very far. I am very anxious indeed that you should do well,\nbut you may depend upon it, Miss Nickleby, you will not, if you go on as\nyou do.'\n\n'Ma'am!' exclaimed Kate, proudly.\n\n'Don't agitate me by speaking in that way, Miss Nickleby, don't,' said\nMrs. Wititterly, with some violence, 'or you'll compel me to ring the\nbell.'\n\nKate looked at her, but said nothing.\n\n'You needn't suppose,' resumed Mrs. Wititterly, 'that your looking at me\nin that way, Miss Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I am going\nto say, which I feel to be a religious duty. You needn't direct your\nglances towards me,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sudden burst of spite;\n'I am not Sir Mulberry, no, nor Lord Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby,\nnor am I Mr. Pyke, nor Mr. Pluck either.'\n\nKate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; and resting her\nelbow on the table, covered her eyes with her hand.\n\n'If such things had been done when I was a young girl,' said Mrs\nWititterly (this, by the way, must have been some little time before),\n'I don't suppose anybody would have believed it.'\n\n'I don't think they would,' murmured Kate. 'I do not think anybody would\nbelieve, without actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to undergo!'\n\n'Don't talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, if you\nplease,' said Mrs. Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quite surprising\nin so great an invalid. 'I will not be answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not\naccustomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for an instant. Do\nyou hear?' she added, waiting with some apparent inconsistency FOR an\nanswer.\n\n'I do hear you, ma'am,' replied Kate, 'with surprise--with greater\nsurprise than I can express.'\n\n'I have always considered you a particularly well-behaved young person\nfor your station in life,' said Mrs. Wititterly; 'and as you are a person\nof healthy appearance, and neat in your dress and so forth, I have taken\nan interest in you, as I do still, considering that I owe a sort of duty\nto that respectable old female, your mother. For these reasons, Miss\nNickleby, I must tell you once for all, and begging you to mind what I\nsay, that I must insist upon your immediately altering your very forward\nbehaviour to the gentlemen who visit at this house. It really is not\nbecoming,' said Mrs. Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke;\n'it is improper--quite improper.'\n\n'Oh!' cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; 'is not this,\nis not this, too cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enough that I should\nhave suffered as I have, night and day; that I should almost have sunk\nin my own estimation from very shame of having been brought into contact\nwith such people; but must I also be exposed to this unjust and most\nunfounded charge!'\n\n'You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs\nWititterly, 'that when you use such terms as \"unjust\", and \"unfounded\",\nyou charge me, in effect, with stating that which is untrue.'\n\n'I do,' said Kate with honest indignation. 'Whether you make this\naccusation of yourself, or at the prompting of others, is alike to me. I\nsay it IS vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it possible!' cried Kate,\n'that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not have seen the misery\nthese men have caused me? Is it possible that you, ma'am, can have been\npresent, and failed to mark the insulting freedom that their every look\nbespoke? Is it possible that you can have avoided seeing, that these\nlibertines, in their utter disrespect for you, and utter disregard\nof all gentlemanly behaviour, and almost of decency, have had but one\nobject in introducing themselves here, and that the furtherance of their\ndesigns upon a friendless, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating\nconfession, might have hoped to receive from one so much her senior\nsomething like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not--I cannot believe it!'\n\nIf poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she\ncertainly would not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she\nhad been lashed, upon such an injudicious speech as this. Its effect\nwas precisely what a more experienced observer would have foreseen.\nMrs. Wititterly received the attack upon her veracity with exemplary\ncalmness, and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate's account\nof her own sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held in\ndisregard by the gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and this blow\nwas no sooner followed up by the remark concerning her seniority, than\nshe fell back upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.\n\n'What is the matter?' cried Mr. Wititterly, bouncing into the room.\n'Heavens, what do I see? Julia! Julia! look up, my life, look up!'\n\nBut Julia looked down most perseveringly, and screamed still louder; so\nMr. Wititterly rang the bell, and danced in a frenzied manner round\nthe sofa on which Mrs. Wititterly lay; uttering perpetual cries for Sir\nTumley Snuffim, and never once leaving off to ask for any explanation of\nthe scene before him.\n\n'Run for Sir Tumley,' cried Mr. Wititterly, menacing the page with both\nfists. 'I knew it, Miss Nickleby,' he said, looking round with an air of\nmelancholy triumph, 'that society has been too much for her. This is all\nsoul, you know, every bit of it.' With this assurance Mr. Wititterly took\nup the prostrate form of Mrs. Wititterly, and carried her bodily off to\nbed.\n\nKate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffim had paid his visit and looked in\nwith a report, that, through the special interposition of a merciful\nProvidence (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs. Wititterly had gone to sleep.\nShe then hastily attired herself for walking, and leaving word that she\nshould return within a couple of hours, hurried away towards her uncle's\nhouse.\n\nIt had been a good day with Ralph Nickleby--quite a lucky day; and as he\nwalked to and fro in his little back-room with his hands clasped behind\nhim, adding up in his own mind all the sums that had been, or would be,\nnetted from the business done since morning, his mouth was drawn into a\nhard stern smile; while the firmness of the lines and curves that made\nit up, as well as the cunning glance of his cold, bright eye, seemed to\ntell, that if any resolution or cunning would increase the profits, they\nwould not fail to be excited for the purpose.\n\n'Very good!' said Ralph, in allusion, no doubt, to some proceeding of\nthe day. 'He defies the usurer, does he? Well, we shall see. \"Honesty is\nthe best policy,\" is it? We'll try that too.'\n\nHe stopped, and then walked on again.\n\n'He is content,' said Ralph, relaxing into a smile, 'to set his known\ncharacter and conduct against the power of money--dross, as he calls it.\nWhy, what a dull blockhead this fellow must be! Dross to, dross! Who's\nthat?'\n\n'Me,' said Newman Noggs, looking in. 'Your niece.'\n\n'What of her?' asked Ralph sharply.\n\n'She's here.'\n\n'Here!'\n\nNewman jerked his head towards his little room, to signify that she was\nwaiting there.\n\n'What does she want?' asked Ralph.\n\n'I don't know,' rejoined Newman. 'Shall I ask?' he added quickly.\n\n'No,' replied Ralph. 'Show her in! Stay.' He hastily put away a\npadlocked cash-box that was on the table, and substituted in its stead\nan empty purse. 'There,' said Ralph. 'NOW she may come in.'\n\nNewman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre, beckoned the young lady to\nadvance, and having placed a chair for her, retired; looking stealthily\nover his shoulder at Ralph as he limped slowly out.\n\n'Well,' said Ralph, roughly enough; but still with something more of\nkindness in his manner than he would have exhibited towards anybody\nelse. 'Well, my--dear. What now?'\n\nKate raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and with an effort\nto master her emotion strove to speak, but in vain. So drooping her head\nagain, she remained silent. Her face was hidden from his view, but Ralph\ncould see that she was weeping.\n\n'I can guess the cause of this!' thought Ralph, after looking at her\nfor some time in silence. 'I can--I can--guess the cause. Well! Well!'\nthought Ralph--for the moment quite disconcerted, as he watched the\nanguish of his beautiful niece. 'Where is the harm? only a few tears;\nand it's an excellent lesson for her, an excellent lesson.'\n\n'What is the matter?' asked Ralph, drawing a chair opposite, and sitting\ndown.\n\nHe was rather taken aback by the sudden firmness with which Kate looked\nup and answered him.\n\n'The matter which brings me to you, sir,' she said, 'is one which should\ncall the blood up into your cheeks, and make you burn to hear, as it\ndoes me to tell. I have been wronged; my feelings have been outraged,\ninsulted, wounded past all healing, and by your friends.'\n\n'Friends!' cried Ralph, sternly. 'I have no friends, girl.'\n\n'By the men I saw here, then,' returned Kate, quickly. 'If they were no\nfriends of yours, and you knew what they were,--oh, the more shame on\nyou, uncle, for bringing me among them. To have subjected me to what\nI was exposed to here, through any misplaced confidence or imperfect\nknowledge of your guests, would have required some strong excuse; but\nif you did it--as I now believe you did--knowing them well, it was most\ndastardly and cruel.'\n\nRalph drew back in utter amazement at this plain speaking, and regarded\nKate with the sternest look. But she met his gaze proudly and firmly,\nand although her face was very pale, it looked more noble and handsome,\nlighted up as it was, than it had ever appeared before.\n\n'There is some of that boy's blood in you, I see,' said Ralph, speaking\nin his harshest tones, as something in the flashing eye reminded him of\nNicholas at their last meeting.\n\n'I hope there is!' replied Kate. 'I should be proud to know it. I am\nyoung, uncle, and all the difficulties and miseries of my situation have\nkept it down, but I have been roused today beyond all endurance, and\ncome what may, I WILL NOT, as I am your brother's child, bear these\ninsults longer.'\n\n'What insults, girl?' demanded Ralph, sharply.\n\n'Remember what took place here, and ask yourself,' replied Kate,\ncolouring deeply. 'Uncle, you must--I am sure you will--release me from\nsuch vile and degrading companionship as I am exposed to now. I do not\nmean,' said Kate, hurrying to the old man, and laying her arm upon his\nshoulder; 'I do not mean to be angry and violent--I beg your pardon if\nI have seemed so, dear uncle,--but you do not know what I have suffered,\nyou do not indeed. You cannot tell what the heart of a young girl\nis--I have no right to expect you should; but when I tell you that I am\nwretched, and that my heart is breaking, I am sure you will help me. I\nam sure, I am sure you will!'\n\nRalph looked at her for an instant; then turned away his head, and beat\nhis foot nervously upon the ground.\n\n'I have gone on day after day,' said Kate, bending over him, and timidly\nplacing her little hand in his, 'in the hope that this persecution would\ncease; I have gone on day after day, compelled to assume the appearance\nof cheerfulness, when I was most unhappy. I have had no counsellor, no\nadviser, no one to protect me. Mama supposes that these are honourable\nmen, rich and distinguished, and how CAN I--how can I undeceive\nher--when she is so happy in these little delusions, which are the only\nhappiness she has? The lady with whom you placed me, is not the person\nto whom I could confide matters of so much delicacy, and I have come at\nlast to you, the only friend I have at hand--almost the only friend I\nhave at all--to entreat and implore you to assist me.'\n\n'How can I assist you, child?' said Ralph, rising from his chair, and\npacing up and down the room in his old attitude.\n\n'You have influence with one of these men, I KNOW,' rejoined Kate,\nemphatically. 'Would not a word from you induce them to desist from this\nunmanly course?'\n\n'No,' said Ralph, suddenly turning; 'at least--that--I can't say it, if\nit would.'\n\n'Can't say it!'\n\n'No,' said Ralph, coming to a dead stop, and clasping his hands more\ntightly behind him. 'I can't say it.'\n\nKate fell back a step or two, and looked at him, as if in doubt whether\nshe had heard aright.\n\n'We are connected in business,' said Ralph, poising himself alternately\non his toes and heels, and looking coolly in his niece's face, 'in\nbusiness, and I can't afford to offend them. What is it after all? We\nhave all our trials, and this is one of yours. Some girls would be proud\nto have such gallants at their feet.'\n\n'Proud!' cried Kate.\n\n'I don't say,' rejoined Ralph, raising his forefinger, 'but that you do\nright to despise them; no, you show your good sense in that, as indeed\nI knew from the first you would. Well. In all other respects you are\ncomfortably bestowed. It's not much to bear. If this young lord does dog\nyour footsteps, and whisper his drivelling inanities in your ears, what\nof it? It's a dishonourable passion. So be it; it won't last long. Some\nother novelty will spring up one day, and you will be released. In the\nmean time--'\n\n'In the mean time,' interrupted Kate, with becoming pride and\nindignation, 'I am to be the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the\nother; justly condemned by all women of right feeling, and despised by\nall honest and honourable men; sunken in my own esteem, and degraded in\nevery eye that looks upon me. No, not if I work my fingers to the bone,\nnot if I am driven to the roughest and hardest labour. Do not mistake\nme. I will not disgrace your recommendation. I will remain in the house\nin which it placed me, until I am entitled to leave it by the terms of\nmy engagement; though, mind, I see these men no more. When I quit it, I\nwill hide myself from them and you, and, striving to support my mother\nby hard service, I will live, at least, in peace, and trust in God to\nhelp me.'\n\nWith these words, she waved her hand, and quitted the room, leaving\nRalph Nickleby motionless as a statue.\n\nThe surprise with which Kate, as she closed the room-door, beheld, close\nbeside it, Newman Noggs standing bolt upright in a little niche in the\nwall like some scarecrow or Guy Faux laid up in winter quarters, almost\noccasioned her to call aloud. But, Newman laying his finger upon his\nlips, she had the presence of mind to refrain.\n\n'Don't,' said Newman, gliding out of his recess, and accompanying\nher across the hall. 'Don't cry, don't cry.' Two very large tears,\nby-the-bye, were running down Newman's face as he spoke.\n\n'I see how it is,' said poor Noggs, drawing from his pocket what seemed\nto be a very old duster, and wiping Kate's eyes with it, as gently as if\nshe were an infant. 'You're giving way now. Yes, yes, very good; that's\nright, I like that. It was right not to give way before him. Yes, yes!\nHa, ha, ha! Oh, yes. Poor thing!'\n\nWith these disjointed exclamations, Newman wiped his own eyes with the\nafore-mentioned duster, and, limping to the street-door, opened it to\nlet her out.\n\n'Don't cry any more,' whispered Newman. 'I shall see you soon. Ha! ha!\nha! And so shall somebody else too. Yes, yes. Ho! ho!'\n\n'God bless you,' answered Kate, hurrying out, 'God bless you.'\n\n'Same to you,' rejoined Newman, opening the door again a little way to\nsay so. 'Ha, ha, ha! Ho! ho! ho!'\n\nAnd Newman Noggs opened the door once again to nod cheerfully, and\nlaugh--and shut it, to shake his head mournfully, and cry.\n\nRalph remained in the same attitude till he heard the noise of the\nclosing door, when he shrugged his shoulders, and after a few turns\nabout the room--hasty at first, but gradually becoming slower, as he\nrelapsed into himself--sat down before his desk.\n\nIt is one of those problems of human nature, which may be noted down,\nbut not solved;--although Ralph felt no remorse at that moment for his\nconduct towards the innocent, true-hearted girl; although his libertine\nclients had done precisely what he had expected, precisely what he most\nwished, and precisely what would tend most to his advantage, still he\nhated them for doing it, from the very bottom of his soul.\n\n'Ugh!' said Ralph, scowling round, and shaking his clenched hand as the\nfaces of the two profligates rose up before his mind; 'you shall pay for\nthis. Oh! you shall pay for this!'\n\nAs the usurer turned for consolation to his books and papers, a\nperformance was going on outside his office door, which would have\noccasioned him no small surprise, if he could by any means have become\nacquainted with it.\n\nNewman Noggs was the sole actor. He stood at a little distance from the\ndoor, with his face towards it; and with the sleeves of his coat\nturned back at the wrists, was occupied in bestowing the most vigorous,\nscientific, and straightforward blows upon the empty air.\n\nAt first sight, this would have appeared merely a wise precaution in\na man of sedentary habits, with the view of opening the chest and\nstrengthening the muscles of the arms. But the intense eagerness and\njoy depicted in the face of Newman Noggs, which was suffused with\nperspiration; the surprising energy with which he directed a constant\nsuccession of blows towards a particular panel about five feet eight\nfrom the ground, and still worked away in the most untiring and\npersevering manner, would have sufficiently explained to the attentive\nobserver, that his imagination was thrashing, to within an inch of his\nlife, his body's most active employer, Mr. Ralph Nickleby.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\nOf the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the\nCompany of Mr. Vincent Crummles\n\n\nThe unexpected success and favour with which his experiment at\nPortsmouth had been received, induced Mr. Crummles to prolong his stay in\nthat town for a fortnight beyond the period he had originally assigned\nfor the duration of his visit, during which time Nicholas personated a\nvast variety of characters with undiminished success, and attracted so\nmany people to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that\na benefit was considered by the manager a very promising speculation.\nNicholas assenting to the terms proposed, the benefit was had, and by it\nhe realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.\n\nPossessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to enclose\nto honest John Browdie the amount of his friendly loan, which he\naccompanied with many expressions of gratitude and esteem, and many\ncordial wishes for his matrimonial happiness. To Newman Noggs he\nforwarded one half of the sum he had realised, entreating him to take\nan opportunity of handing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the\nwarmest assurances of his love and affection. He made no mention of the\nway in which he had employed himself; merely informing Newman that\na letter addressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office,\nPortsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthy friend to\nwrite full particulars of the situation of his mother and sister, and\nan account of all the grand things that Ralph Nickleby had done for them\nsince his departure from London.\n\n'You are out of spirits,' said Smike, on the night after the letter had\nbeen dispatched.\n\n'Not I!' rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession\nwould have made the boy miserable all night; 'I was thinking about my\nsister, Smike.'\n\n'Sister!'\n\n'Ay.'\n\n'Is she like you?' inquired Smike.\n\n'Why, so they say,' replied Nicholas, laughing, 'only a great deal\nhandsomer.'\n\n'She must be VERY beautiful,' said Smike, after thinking a little while\nwith his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.\n\n'Anybody who didn't know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say\nyou were an accomplished courtier,' said Nicholas.\n\n'I don't even know what that is,' replied Smike, shaking his head.\n'Shall I ever see your sister?'\n\n'To be sure,' cried Nicholas; 'we shall all be together one of these\ndays--when we are rich, Smike.'\n\n'How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be\nkind to you?' asked Smike. 'I cannot make that out.'\n\n'Why, it is a long story,' replied Nicholas, 'and one you would\nhave some difficulty in comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy--you\nunderstand what that is?'\n\n'Oh, yes, I understand that,' said Smike.\n\n'Well, it is owing to him,' returned Nicholas. 'He is rich, and not so\neasily punished as YOUR old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is\na villain, and has done me wrong.'\n\n'Has he though?' asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. 'What is his\nname? Tell me his name.'\n\n'Ralph--Ralph Nickleby.'\n\n'Ralph Nickleby,' repeated Smike. 'Ralph. I'll get that name by heart.'\n\nHe had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock\nat the door disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it,\nMr. Folair, the pantomimist, thrust in his head.\n\nMr. Folair's head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually\nhigh in the crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the\npresent occasion he wore it very much on one side, with the back part\nforward in consequence of its being the least rusty; round his neck he\nwore a flaming red worsted comforter, whereof the straggling ends peeped\nout beneath his threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very tight and\nbuttoned all the way up. He carried in his hand one very dirty glove,\nand a cheap dress cane with a glass handle; in short, his whole\nappearance was unusually dashing, and demonstrated a far more scrupulous\nattention to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestowing upon it.\n\n'Good-evening, sir,' said Mr. Folair, taking off the tall hat, and\nrunning his fingers through his hair. 'I bring a communication. Hem!'\n\n'From whom and what about?' inquired Nicholas. 'You are unusually\nmysterious tonight.'\n\n'Cold, perhaps,' returned Mr. Folair; 'cold, perhaps. That is the fault\nof my position--not of myself, Mr. Johnson. My position as a mutual\nfriend requires it, sir.' Mr. Folair paused with a most impressive look,\nand diving into the hat before noticed, drew from thence a small piece\nof whity-brown paper curiously folded, whence he brought forth a note\nwhich it had served to keep clean, and handing it over to Nicholas,\nsaid--\n\n'Have the goodness to read that, sir.'\n\nNicholas, in a state of much amazement, took the note and broke the\nseal, glancing at Mr. Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and\npursing up his mouth with great dignity, was sitting with his eyes\nsteadily fixed upon the ceiling.\n\nIt was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair,\nEsq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when\nhe found it to be couched in the following laconic terms:--\n\n\"Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr. Johnson, and will feel\nobliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be\nmost convenient to him to meet Mr. L. at the Theatre, for the purpose of\nhaving his nose pulled in the presence of the company.\n\n\"Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to neglect making an appointment,\nas he has invited two or three professional friends to witness the\nceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon any account whatever.\n\n\"PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT.\"\n\nIndignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so\nexquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was\nobliged to bite his lip and read the note over two or three times before\nhe could muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile\nmessenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the\nexpression of his face in the slightest degree.\n\n'Do you know the contents of this note, sir?' he asked, at length.\n\n'Yes,' rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately\ncarrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.\n\n'And how dare you bring it here, sir?' asked Nicholas, tearing it into\nvery little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger.\n'Had you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?'\n\nMr. Folair turned his head--now ornamented with several fragments of the\nnote--towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity, briefly\nreplied 'No.'\n\n'Then,' said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the\ndoor, 'you had better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you\nmay find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and that within a dozen\nseconds.'\n\n'I say, Johnson,' remonstrated Mr. Folair, suddenly losing all his\ndignity, 'none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman's\nwardrobe.'\n\n'Leave the room,' returned Nicholas. 'How could you presume to come here\non such an errand, you scoundrel?'\n\n'Pooh! pooh!' said Mr. Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually\ngetting himself out of it. 'There--that's enough.'\n\n'Enough!' cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. 'Take yourself off,\nsir.'\n\n'Pooh! pooh! I tell you,' returned Mr. Folair, waving his hand in\ndeprecation of any further wrath; 'I wasn't in earnest. I only brought\nit in joke.'\n\n'You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,'\nsaid Nicholas, 'or you may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a\ndangerous reminder for the subject of your facetiousness. Was it written\nin joke, too, pray?'\n\n'No, no, that's the best of it,' returned the actor; 'right down\nearnest--honour bright.'\n\nNicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which,\nat all times more calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially\nso at that moment, when with one knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled\nhis old hat round upon his hand, and affected the extremest agony lest\nany of the nap should have been knocked off--an ornament which it is\nalmost superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.\n\n'Come, sir,' said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. 'Have the\ngoodness to explain.'\n\n'Why, I'll tell you how it is,' said Mr. Folair, sitting himself down\nin a chair with great coolness. 'Since you came here Lenville has done\nnothing but second business, and, instead of having a reception every\nnight as he used to have, they have let him come on as if he was\nnobody.'\n\n'What do you mean by a reception?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Jupiter!' exclaimed Mr. Folair, 'what an unsophisticated shepherd you\nare, Johnson! Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he\nhas gone on night after night, never getting a hand, and you getting a\ncouple of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at length he got\nquite desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a\nreal sword, and pink you--not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up\nfor a month or two.'\n\n'Very considerate,' remarked Nicholas.\n\n'Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional\nreputation being at stake,' said Mr. Folair, quite seriously. 'But his\nheart failed him, and he cast about for some other way of annoying\nyou, and making himself popular at the same time--for that's the point.\nNotoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,'\nsaid Mr. Folair, stopping to make a calculation in his mind, 'it would\nhave been worth--ah, it would have been worth eight or ten shillings a\nweek to him. All the town would have come to see the actor who nearly\nkilled a man by mistake; I shouldn't wonder if it had got him an\nengagement in London. However, he was obliged to try some other mode of\ngetting popular, and this one occurred to him. It's a clever idea, really.\nIf you had shown the white feather, and let him pull your nose, he'd\nhave got it into the paper; if you had sworn the peace against him, it\nwould have been in the paper too, and he'd have been just as much talked\nabout as you--don't you see?'\n\n'Oh, certainly,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but suppose I were to turn the\ntables, and pull HIS nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?'\n\n'Why, I don't think it would,' replied Mr. Folair, scratching his head,\n'because there wouldn't be any romance about it, and he wouldn't be\nfavourably known. To tell you the truth though, he didn't calculate much\nupon that, for you're always so mild-spoken, and are so popular among\nthe women, that we didn't suspect you of showing fight. If you did,\nhowever, he has a way of getting out of it easily, depend upon that.'\n\n'Has he?' rejoined Nicholas. 'We will try, tomorrow morning. In the\nmeantime, you can give whatever account of our interview you like best.\nGood-night.'\n\nAs Mr. Folair was pretty well known among his fellow-actors for a man who\ndelighted in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not\nmuch doubt but that he had secretly prompted the tragedian in the course\nhe had taken, and, moreover, that he would have carried his mission with\na very high hand if he had not been disconcerted by the very unexpected\ndemonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worth his\nwhile to be serious with him, however, so he dismissed the pantomimist,\nwith a gentle hint that if he offended again it would be under\nthe penalty of a broken head; and Mr. Folair, taking the caution in\nexceedingly good part, walked away to confer with his principal,\nand give such an account of his proceedings as he might think best\ncalculated to carry on the joke.\n\nHe had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state of extreme bodily\nfear; for when that young gentleman walked with much deliberation down\nto the theatre next morning at the usual hour, he found all the company\nassembled in evident expectation, and Mr. Lenville, with his severest\nstage face, sitting majestically on a table, whistling defiance.\n\nNow the ladies were on the side of Nicholas, and the gentlemen (being\njealous) were on the side of the disappointed tragedian; so that the\nlatter formed a little group about the redoubtable Mr. Lenville, and the\nformer looked on at a little distance in some trepidation and anxiety.\nOn Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr. Lenville laughed a scornful\nlaugh, and made some general remark touching the natural history of\npuppies.\n\n'Oh!' said Nicholas, looking quietly round, 'are you there?'\n\n'Slave!' returned Mr. Lenville, flourishing his right arm, and\napproaching Nicholas with a theatrical stride. But somehow he appeared\njust at that moment a little startled, as if Nicholas did not look quite\nso frightened as he had expected, and came all at once to an awkward\nhalt, at which the assembled ladies burst into a shrill laugh.\n\n'Object of my scorn and hatred!' said Mr. Lenville, 'I hold ye in\ncontempt.'\n\nNicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of this performance; and\nthe ladies, by way of encouragement, laughed louder than before; whereat\nMr. Lenville assumed his bitterest smile, and expressed his opinion that\nthey were 'minions'.\n\n'But they shall not protect ye!' said the tragedian, taking an upward\nlook at Nicholas, beginning at his boots and ending at the crown of his\nhead, and then a downward one, beginning at the crown of his head,\nand ending at his boots--which two looks, as everybody knows, express\ndefiance on the stage. 'They shall not protect ye--boy!'\n\nThus speaking, Mr. Lenville folded his arms, and treated Nicholas to that\nexpression of face with which, in melodramatic performances, he was in\nthe habit of regarding the tyrannical kings when they said, 'Away\nwith him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat;' and which,\naccompanied with a little jingling of fetters, had been known to produce\ngreat effects in its time.\n\nWhether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no very deep\nimpression on Mr. Lenville's adversary, however, but rather seemed to\nincrease the good-humour expressed in his countenance; in which stage of\nthe contest, one or two gentlemen, who had come out expressly to witness\nthe pulling of Nicholas's nose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it\nwere to be done at all it had better be done at once, and that if Mr\nLenville didn't mean to do it he had better say so, and not keep them\nwaiting there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of his right\ncoat sleeve for the performance of the operation, and walked in a very\nstately manner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to within\nthe requisite distance, and then, without the smallest discomposure,\nknocked him down.\n\nBefore the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from the boards,\nMrs. Lenville (who, as has been before hinted, was in an interesting\nstate) rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and uttering a piercing\nscream threw herself upon the body.\n\n'Do you see this, monster? Do you see THIS?' cried Mr. Lenville, sitting\nup, and pointing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him very tight\nround the waist.\n\n'Come,' said Nicholas, nodding his head, 'apologise for the insolent\nnote you wrote to me last night, and waste no more time in talking.'\n\n'Never!' cried Mr. Lenville.\n\n'Yes--yes--yes!' screamed his wife. 'For my sake--for mine,\nLenville--forego all idle forms, unless you would see me a blighted\ncorse at your feet.'\n\n'This is affecting!' said Mr. Lenville, looking round him, and drawing\nthe back of his hand across his eyes. 'The ties of nature are strong.\nThe weak husband and the father--the father that is yet to be--relents.\nI apologise.'\n\n'Humbly and submissively?' said Nicholas.\n\n'Humbly and submissively,' returned the tragedian, scowling upwards.\n'But only to save her,--for a time will come--'\n\n'Very good,' said Nicholas; 'I hope Mrs. Lenville may have a good one;\nand when it does come, and you are a father, you shall retract it if you\nhave the courage. There. Be careful, sir, to what lengths your jealousy\ncarries you another time; and be careful, also, before you venture\ntoo far, to ascertain your rival's temper.' With this parting advice\nNicholas picked up Mr. Lenville's ash stick which had flown out of his\nhand, and breaking it in half, threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing\nslightly to the spectators as he walked out.\n\nThe profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, and the\npeople who had been most anxious to have his nose pulled in the morning,\nembraced occasions of taking him aside, and telling him with great\nfeeling, how very friendly they took it that he should have treated that\nLenville so properly, who was a most unbearable fellow, and on whom they\nhad all, by a remarkable coincidence, at one time or other contemplated\nthe infliction of condign punishment, which they had only been\nrestrained from administering by considerations of mercy; indeed, to\njudge from the invariable termination of all these stories, there never\nwas such a charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the male members\nof Mr. Crummles's company.\n\nNicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the little world of\nthe theatre, with the utmost moderation and good humour. The crestfallen\nMr. Lenville made an expiring effort to obtain revenge by sending a\nboy into the gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to popular\nindignation, and was promptly turned out without having his money back.\n\n'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas when the first piece was over, and he had\nalmost finished dressing to go home, 'is there any letter yet?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Smike, 'I got this one from the post-office.'\n\n'From Newman Noggs,' said Nicholas, casting his eye upon the cramped\ndirection; 'it's no easy matter to make his writing out. Let me see--let\nme see.'\n\nBy dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrived to make\nhimself master of the contents, which were certainly not of a nature\nto set his mind at ease. Newman took upon himself to send back the ten\npounds, observing that he had ascertained that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor\nKate was in actual want of money at the moment, and that a time might\nshortly come when Nicholas might want it more. He entreated him not to\nbe alarmed at what he was about to say;--there was no bad news--they\nwere in good health--but he thought circumstances might occur, or were\noccurring, which would render it absolutely necessary that Kate should\nhave her brother's protection, and if so, Newman said, he would write to\nhim to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.\n\nNicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thought of it\nthe more he began to fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph. Once\nor twice he felt tempted to repair to London at all hazards without an\nhour's delay, but a little reflection assured him that if such a step\nwere necessary, Newman would have spoken out and told him so at once.\n\n'At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility of my\ngoing away suddenly,' said Nicholas; 'I should lose no time in doing\nthat.' As the thought occurred to him, he took up his hat and hurried to\nthe green-room.\n\n'Well, Mr. Johnson,' said Mrs. Crummles, who was seated there in full\nregal costume, with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her maternal arms,\n'next week for Ryde, then for Winchester, then for--'\n\n'I have some reason to fear,' interrupted Nicholas, 'that before you\nleave here my career with you will have closed.'\n\n'Closed!' cried Mrs. Crummles, raising her hands in astonishment.\n\n'Closed!' cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tights that\nshe actually laid her hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for\nsupport.\n\n'Why he don't mean to say he's going!' exclaimed Mrs. Grudden, making her\nway towards Mrs. Crummles. 'Hoity toity! Nonsense.'\n\nThe phenomenon, being of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable,\nraised a loud cry, and Miss Belvawney and Miss Bravassa actually shed\ntears. Even the male performers stopped in their conversation, and\nechoed the word 'Going!' although some among them (and they had been\nthe loudest in their congratulations that day) winked at each other\nas though they would not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an\nopinion, indeed, which the honest Mr. Folair, who was ready dressed for\nthe savage, openly stated in so many words to a demon with whom he was\nsharing a pot of porter.\n\nNicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although he could\nnot yet speak with any degree of certainty; and getting away as soon as\nhe could, went home to con Newman's letter once more, and speculate upon\nit afresh.\n\nHow trifling all that had been occupying his time and thoughts for many\nweeks seemed to him during that sleepless night, and how constantly and\nincessantly present to his imagination was the one idea that Kate in the\nmidst of some great trouble and distress might even then be looking--and\nvainly too--for him!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\nFestivities are held in honour of Nicholas, who suddenly withdraws\nhimself from the Society of Mr. Vincent Crummles and his Theatrical\nCompanions\n\n\nMr. Vincent Crummles was no sooner acquainted with the public\nannouncement which Nicholas had made relative to the probability of\nhis shortly ceasing to be a member of the company, than he evinced many\ntokens of grief and consternation; and, in the extremity of his despair,\neven held out certain vague promises of a speedy improvement not only in\nthe amount of his regular salary, but also in the contingent emoluments\nappertaining to his authorship. Finding Nicholas bent upon quitting the\nsociety--for he had now determined that, even if no further tidings came\nfrom Newman, he would, at all hazards, ease his mind by repairing to\nLondon and ascertaining the exact position of his sister--Mr. Crummles\nwas fain to content himself by calculating the chances of his coming\nback again, and taking prompt and energetic measures to make the most of\nhim before he went away.\n\n'Let me see,' said Mr. Crummles, taking off his outlaw's wig, the better\nto arrive at a cool-headed view of the whole case. 'Let me see. This is\nWednesday night. We'll have posters out the first thing in the morning,\nannouncing positively your last appearance for tomorrow.'\n\n'But perhaps it may not be my last appearance, you know,' said Nicholas.\n'Unless I am summoned away, I should be sorry to inconvenience you by\nleaving before the end of the week.'\n\n'So much the better,' returned Mr. Crummles. 'We can have positively\nyour last appearance, on Thursday--re-engagement for one night more, on\nFriday--and, yielding to the wishes of numerous influential patrons, who\nwere disappointed in obtaining seats, on Saturday. That ought to bring\nthree very decent houses.'\n\n'Then I am to make three last appearances, am I?' inquired Nicholas,\nsmiling.\n\n'Yes,' rejoined the manager, scratching his head with an air of some\nvexation; 'three is not enough, and it's very bungling and irregular\nnot to have more, but if we can't help it we can't, so there's no use\nin talking. A novelty would be very desirable. You couldn't sing a comic\nsong on the pony's back, could you?'\n\n'No,' replied Nicholas, 'I couldn't indeed.'\n\n'It has drawn money before now,' said Mr. Crummles, with a look of\ndisappointment. 'What do you think of a brilliant display of fireworks?'\n\n'That it would be rather expensive,' replied Nicholas, drily.\n\n'Eighteen-pence would do it,' said Mr. Crummles. 'You on the top of\na pair of steps with the phenomenon in an attitude; \"Farewell!\" on a\ntransparency behind; and nine people at the wings with a squib in each\nhand--all the dozen and a half going off at once--it would be very\ngrand--awful from the front, quite awful.'\n\nAs Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with the solemnity of the\nproposed effect, but, on the contrary, received the proposition in a\nmost irreverent manner, and laughed at it very heartily, Mr. Crummles\nabandoned the project in its birth, and gloomily observed that they\nmust make up the best bill they could with combats and hornpipes, and so\nstick to the legitimate drama.\n\nFor the purpose of carrying this object into instant execution, the\nmanager at once repaired to a small dressing-room, adjacent, where\nMrs. Crummles was then occupied in exchanging the habiliments of\na melodramatic empress for the ordinary attire of matrons in the\nnineteenth century. And with the assistance of this lady, and the\naccomplished Mrs. Grudden (who had quite a genius for making out bills,\nbeing a great hand at throwing in the notes of admiration, and knowing\nfrom long experience exactly where the largest capitals ought to go), he\nseriously applied himself to the composition of the poster.\n\n'Heigho!' sighed Nicholas, as he threw himself back in the prompter's\nchair, after telegraphing the needful directions to Smike, who had been\nplaying a meagre tailor in the interlude, with one skirt to his coat,\nand a little pocket-handkerchief with a large hole in it, and a woollen\nnightcap, and a red nose, and other distinctive marks peculiar to\ntailors on the stage. 'Heigho! I wish all this were over.'\n\n'Over, Mr. Johnson!' repeated a female voice behind him, in a kind of\nplaintive surprise.\n\n'It was an ungallant speech, certainly,' said Nicholas, looking up to\nsee who the speaker was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. 'I would not\nhave made it if I had known you had been within hearing.'\n\n'What a dear that Mr. Digby is!' said Miss Snevellicci, as the tailor\nwent off on the opposite side, at the end of the piece, with great\napplause. (Smike's theatrical name was Digby.)\n\n'I'll tell him presently, for his gratification, that you said so,'\nreturned Nicholas.\n\n'Oh you naughty thing!' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. 'I don't know though,\nthat I should much mind HIS knowing my opinion of him; with some other\npeople, indeed, it might be--' Here Miss Snevellicci stopped, as though\nwaiting to be questioned, but no questioning came, for Nicholas was\nthinking about more serious matters.\n\n'How kind it is of you,' resumed Miss Snevellicci, after a short\nsilence, 'to sit waiting here for him night after night, night after\nnight, no matter how tired you are; and taking so much pains with him,\nand doing it all with as much delight and readiness as if you were\ncoining gold by it!'\n\n'He well deserves all the kindness I can show him, and a great deal\nmore,' said Nicholas. 'He is the most grateful, single-hearted,\naffectionate creature that ever breathed.'\n\n'So odd, too,' remarked Miss Snevellicci, 'isn't he?'\n\n'God help him, and those who have made him so; he is indeed,' rejoined\nNicholas, shaking his head.\n\n'He is such a devilish close chap,' said Mr. Folair, who had come up a\nlittle before, and now joined in the conversation. 'Nobody can ever get\nanything out of him.'\n\n'What SHOULD they get out of him?' asked Nicholas, turning round with\nsome abruptness.\n\n'Zooks! what a fire-eater you are, Johnson!' returned Mr. Folair, pulling\nup the heel of his dancing shoe. 'I'm only talking of the natural\ncuriosity of the people here, to know what he has been about all his\nlife.'\n\n'Poor fellow! it is pretty plain, I should think, that he has not the\nintellect to have been about anything of much importance to them or\nanybody else,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Ay,' rejoined the actor, contemplating the effect of his face in a lamp\nreflector, 'but that involves the whole question, you know.'\n\n'What question?' asked Nicholas.\n\n'Why, the who he is and what he is, and how you two, who are so\ndifferent, came to be such close companions,' replied Mr. Folair,\ndelighted with the opportunity of saying something disagreeable. 'That's\nin everybody's mouth.'\n\n'The \"everybody\" of the theatre, I suppose?' said Nicholas,\ncontemptuously.\n\n'In it and out of it too,' replied the actor. 'Why, you know, Lenville\nsays--'\n\n'I thought I had silenced him effectually,' interrupted Nicholas,\nreddening.\n\n'Perhaps you have,' rejoined the immovable Mr. Folair; 'if you have, he\nsaid this before he was silenced: Lenville says that you're a regular\nstick of an actor, and that it's only the mystery about you that has\ncaused you to go down with the people here, and that Crummles keeps\nit up for his own sake; though Lenville says he don't believe there's\nanything at all in it, except your having got into a scrape and run away\nfrom somewhere, for doing something or other.'\n\n'Oh!' said Nicholas, forcing a smile.\n\n'That's a part of what he says,' added Mr. Folair. 'I mention it as the\nfriend of both parties, and in strict confidence. I don't agree with\nhim, you know. He says he takes Digby to be more knave than fool; and\nold Fluggers, who does the heavy business you know, HE says that when he\ndelivered messages at Covent Garden the season before last, there used\nto be a pickpocket hovering about the coach-stand who had exactly the\nface of Digby; though, as he very properly says, Digby may not be the\nsame, but only his brother, or some near relation.'\n\n'Oh!' cried Nicholas again.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. Folair, with undisturbed calmness, 'that's what they say.\nI thought I'd tell you, because really you ought to know. Oh! here's\nthis blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh, you little imposition, I should\nlike to--quite ready, my darling,--humbug--Ring up, Mrs. G., and let the\nfavourite wake 'em.'\n\nUttering in a loud voice such of the latter allusions as were\ncomplimentary to the unconscious phenomenon, and giving the rest in a\nconfidential 'aside' to Nicholas, Mr. Folair followed the ascent of\nthe curtain with his eyes, regarded with a sneer the reception of Miss\nCrummles as the Maiden, and, falling back a step or two to advance with\nthe better effect, uttered a preliminary howl, and 'went on' chattering\nhis teeth and brandishing his tin tomahawk as the Indian Savage.\n\n'So these are some of the stories they invent about us, and bandy from\nmouth to mouth!' thought Nicholas. 'If a man would commit an inexpiable\noffence against any society, large or small, let him be successful. They\nwill forgive him any crime but that.'\n\n'You surely don't mind what that malicious creature says, Mr. Johnson?'\nobserved Miss Snevellicci in her most winning tones.\n\n'Not I,' replied Nicholas. 'If I were going to remain here, I might\nthink it worth my while to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk till\nthey are hoarse. But here,' added Nicholas, as Smike approached, 'here\ncomes the subject of a portion of their good-nature, so let he and I say\ngood night together.'\n\n'No, I will not let either of you say anything of the kind,' returned\nMiss Snevellicci. 'You must come home and see mama, who only came to\nPortsmouth today, and is dying to behold you. Led, my dear, persuade Mr\nJohnson.'\n\n'Oh, I'm sure,' returned Miss Ledrook, with considerable vivacity, 'if\nYOU can't persuade him--' Miss Ledrook said no more, but intimated, by\na dexterous playfulness, that if Miss Snevellicci couldn't persuade him,\nnobody could.\n\n'Mr. and Mrs. Lillyvick have taken lodgings in our house, and share our\nsitting-room for the present,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Won't that induce\nyou?'\n\n'Surely,' returned Nicholas, 'I can require no possible inducement\nbeyond your invitation.'\n\n'Oh no! I dare say,' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. And Miss Ledrook said,\n'Upon my word!' Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that Miss Ledrook was a\ngiddy thing; and Miss Ledrook said that Miss Snevellicci needn't colour\nup quite so much; and Miss Snevellicci beat Miss Ledrook, and Miss\nLedrook beat Miss Snevellicci.\n\n'Come,' said Miss Ledrook, 'it's high time we were there, or we shall\nhave poor Mrs. Snevellicci thinking that you have run away with her\ndaughter, Mr. Johnson; and then we should have a pretty to-do.'\n\n'My dear Led,' remonstrated Miss Snevellicci, 'how you do talk!'\n\nMiss Ledrook made no answer, but taking Smike's arm in hers, left her\nfriend and Nicholas to follow at their pleasure; which it pleased them,\nor rather pleased Nicholas, who had no great fancy for a TETE-A-TETE\nunder the circumstances, to do at once.\n\nThere were not wanting matters of conversation when they reached the\nstreet, for it turned out that Miss Snevellicci had a small basket to\ncarry home, and Miss Ledrook a small bandbox, both containing such minor\narticles of theatrical costume as the lady performers usually carried to\nand fro every evening. Nicholas would insist upon carrying the basket,\nand Miss Snevellicci would insist upon carrying it herself, which\ngave rise to a struggle, in which Nicholas captured the basket and\nthe bandbox likewise. Then Nicholas said, that he wondered what could\npossibly be inside the basket, and attempted to peep in, whereat Miss\nSnevellicci screamed, and declared that if she thought he had seen,\nshe was sure she should faint away. This declaration was followed by a\nsimilar attempt on the bandbox, and similar demonstrations on the part\nof Miss Ledrook, and then both ladies vowed that they wouldn't move a\nstep further until Nicholas had promised that he wouldn't offer to peep\nagain. At last Nicholas pledged himself to betray no further curiosity,\nand they walked on: both ladies giggling very much, and declaring\nthat they never had seen such a wicked creature in all their born\ndays--never.\n\nLightening the way with such pleasantry as this, they arrived at the\ntailor's house in no time; and here they made quite a little party,\nthere being present besides Mr. Lillyvick and Mrs. Lillyvick, not only\nMiss Snevellicci's mama, but her papa also. And an uncommonly fine man\nMiss Snevellicci's papa was, with a hook nose, and a white forehead, and\ncurly black hair, and high cheek bones, and altogether quite a handsome\nface, only a little pimply as though with drinking. He had a very\nbroad chest had Miss Snevellicci's papa, and he wore a threadbare blue\ndress-coat buttoned with gilt buttons tight across it; and he no sooner\nsaw Nicholas come into the room, than he whipped the two forefingers of\nhis right hand in between the two centre buttons, and sticking his other\narm gracefully a-kimbo seemed to say, 'Now, here I am, my buck, and what\nhave you got to say to me?'\n\nSuch was, and in such an attitude sat Miss Snevellicci's papa, who had\nbeen in the profession ever since he had first played the ten-year-old\nimps in the Christmas pantomimes; who could sing a little, dance a\nlittle, fence a little, act a little, and do everything a little, but\nnot much; who had been sometimes in the ballet, and sometimes in the\nchorus, at every theatre in London; who was always selected in virtue\nof his figure to play the military visitors and the speechless noblemen;\nwho always wore a smart dress, and came on arm-in-arm with a smart lady\nin short petticoats,--and always did it too with such an air that people\nin the pit had been several times known to cry out 'Bravo!' under the\nimpression that he was somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci's papa, upon\nwhom some envious persons cast the imputation that he occasionally beat\nMiss Snevellicci's mama, who was still a dancer, with a neat little\nfigure and some remains of good looks; and who now sat, as she\ndanced,--being rather too old for the full glare of the foot-lights,--in\nthe background.\n\nTo these good people Nicholas was presented with much formality. The\nintroduction being completed, Miss Snevellicci's papa (who was scented\nwith rum-and-water) said that he was delighted to make the acquaintance\nof a gentleman so highly talented; and furthermore remarked, that there\nhadn't been such a hit made--no, not since the first appearance of his\nfriend Mr. Glavormelly, at the Coburg.\n\n'You have seen him, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa.\n\n'No, really I never did,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir!' said Miss Snevellicci's\npapa. 'Then you have never seen acting yet. If he had lived--'\n\n'Oh, he is dead, is he?' interrupted Nicholas.\n\n'He is,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'but he isn't in Westminster Abbey, more's\nthe shame. He was a--. Well, no matter. He is gone to that bourne from\nwhence no traveller returns. I hope he is appreciated THERE.'\n\nSo saying Miss Snevellicci's papa rubbed the tip of his nose with a very\nyellow silk handkerchief, and gave the company to understand that these\nrecollections overcame him.\n\n'Well, Mr. Lillyvick,' said Nicholas, 'and how are you?'\n\n'Quite well, sir,' replied the collector. 'There is nothing like the\nmarried state, sir, depend upon it.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Nicholas, laughing.\n\n'Ah! nothing like it, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick solemnly. 'How do you\nthink,' whispered the collector, drawing him aside, 'how do you think\nshe looks tonight?'\n\n'As handsome as ever,' replied Nicholas, glancing at the late Miss\nPetowker.\n\n'Why, there's air about her, sir,' whispered the collector, 'that I\nnever saw in anybody. Look at her now she moves to put the kettle on.\nThere! Isn't it fascination, sir?'\n\n'You're a lucky man,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Ha, ha, ha!' rejoined the collector. 'No. Do you think I am though,\neh? Perhaps I may be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn't have done much\nbetter if I had been a young man, could I? You couldn't have done much\nbetter yourself, could you--eh--could you?' With such inquires, and\nmany more such, Mr. Lillyvick jerked his elbow into Nicholas's side, and\nchuckled till his face became quite purple in the attempt to keep down\nhis satisfaction.\n\nBy this time the cloth had been laid under the joint superintendence of\nall the ladies, upon two tables put together, one being high and narrow,\nand the other low and broad. There were oysters at the top, sausages\nat the bottom, a pair of snuffers in the centre, and baked potatoes\nwherever it was most convenient to put them. Two additional chairs were\nbrought in from the bedroom: Miss Snevellicci sat at the head of the\ntable, and Mr. Lillyvick at the foot; and Nicholas had not only\nthe honour of sitting next Miss Snevellicci, but of having Miss\nSnevellicci's mama on his right hand, and Miss Snevellicci's papa over\nthe way. In short, he was the hero of the feast; and when the table was\ncleared and something warm introduced, Miss Snevellicci's papa got up\nand proposed his health in a speech containing such affecting allusions\nto his coming departure, that Miss Snevellicci wept, and was compelled\nto retire into the bedroom.\n\n'Hush! Don't take any notice of it,' said Miss Ledrook, peeping in from\nthe bedroom. 'Say, when she comes back, that she exerts herself too\nmuch.'\n\nMiss Ledrook eked out this speech with so many mysterious nods and\nfrowns before she shut the door again, that a profound silence came upon\nall the company, during which Miss Snevellicci's papa looked very\nbig indeed--several sizes larger than life--at everybody in turn, but\nparticularly at Nicholas, and kept on perpetually emptying his tumbler\nand filling it again, until the ladies returned in a cluster, with Miss\nSnevellicci among them.\n\n'You needn't alarm yourself a bit, Mr. Snevellicci,' said Mrs. Lillyvick.\n'She is only a little weak and nervous; she has been so ever since the\nmorning.'\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'that's all, is it?'\n\n'Oh yes, that's all. Don't make a fuss about it,' cried all the ladies\ntogether.\n\nNow this was not exactly the kind of reply suited to Mr. Snevellicci's\nimportance as a man and a father, so he picked out the unfortunate Mrs\nSnevellicci, and asked her what the devil she meant by talking to him in\nthat way.\n\n'Dear me, my dear!' said Mrs. Snevellicci.\n\n'Don't call me your dear, ma'am,' said Mr. Snevellicci, 'if you please.'\n\n'Pray, pa, don't,' interposed Miss Snevellicci.\n\n'Don't what, my child?'\n\n'Talk in that way.'\n\n'Why not?' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I hope you don't suppose there's\nanybody here who is to prevent my talking as I like?'\n\n'Nobody wants to, pa,' rejoined his daughter.\n\n'Nobody would if they did want to,' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I am not\nashamed of myself, Snevellicci is my name; I'm to be found in Broad\nCourt, Bow Street, when I'm in town. If I'm not at home, let any man\nask for me at the stage-door. Damme, they know me at the stage-door\nI suppose. Most men have seen my portrait at the cigar shop round the\ncorner. I've been mentioned in the newspapers before now, haven't I?\nTalk! I'll tell you what; if I found out that any man had been tampering\nwith the affections of my daughter, I wouldn't talk. I'd astonish him\nwithout talking; that's my way.'\n\nSo saying, Mr. Snevellicci struck the palm of his left hand three smart\nblows with his clenched fist; pulled a phantom nose with his right thumb\nand forefinger, and swallowed another glassful at a draught. 'That's my\nway,' repeated Mr. Snevellicci.\n\nMost public characters have their failings; and the truth is that Mr\nSnevellicci was a little addicted to drinking; or, if the whole truth\nmust be told, that he was scarcely ever sober. He knew in his cups three\ndistinct stages of intoxication,--the dignified--the quarrelsome--the\namorous. When professionally engaged he never got beyond the dignified;\nin private circles he went through all three, passing from one to\nanother with a rapidity of transition often rather perplexing to those\nwho had not the honour of his acquaintance.\n\nThus Mr. Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed another glassful than he\nsmiled upon all present in happy forgetfulness of having exhibited\nsymptoms of pugnacity, and proposed 'The ladies! Bless their hearts!' in\na most vivacious manner.\n\n'I love 'em,' said Mr. Snevellicci, looking round the table, 'I love 'em,\nevery one.'\n\n'Not every one,' reasoned Mr. Lillyvick, mildly.\n\n'Yes, every one,' repeated Mr. Snevellicci.\n\n'That would include the married ladies, you know,' said Mr. Lillyvick.\n\n'I love them too, sir,' said Mr. Snevellicci.\n\nThe collector looked into the surrounding faces with an aspect of grave\nastonishment, seeming to say, 'This is a nice man!' and appeared a\nlittle surprised that Mrs. Lillyvick's manner yielded no evidences of\nhorror and indignation.\n\n'One good turn deserves another,' said Mr. Snevellicci. 'I love them\nand they love me.' And as if this avowal were not made in sufficient\ndisregard and defiance of all moral obligations, what did Mr. Snevellicci\ndo? He winked--winked openly and undisguisedly; winked with his right\neye--upon Henrietta Lillyvick!\n\nThe collector fell back in his chair in the intensity of his\nastonishment. If anybody had winked at her as Henrietta Petowker, it\nwould have been indecorous in the last degree; but as Mrs. Lillyvick!\nWhile he thought of it in a cold perspiration, and wondered whether\nit was possible that he could be dreaming, Mr. Snevellicci repeated the\nwink, and drinking to Mrs. Lillyvick in dumb show, actually blew her a\nkiss! Mr. Lillyvick left his chair, walked straight up to the other\nend of the table, and fell upon him--literally fell upon\nhim--instantaneously. Mr. Lillyvick was no light weight, and consequently\nwhen he fell upon Mr. Snevellicci, Mr. Snevellicci fell under the table.\nMr. Lillyvick followed him, and the ladies screamed.\n\n'What is the matter with the men! Are they mad?' cried Nicholas, diving\nunder the table, dragging up the collector by main force, and thrusting\nhim, all doubled up, into a chair, as if he had been a stuffed figure.\n'What do you mean to do? What do you want to do? What is the matter with\nyou?'\n\nWhile Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike had performed the same\noffice for Mr. Snevellicci, who now regarded his late adversary in tipsy\namazement.\n\n'Look here, sir,' replied Mr. Lillyvick, pointing to his astonished\nwife, 'here is purity and elegance combined, whose feelings have been\noutraged--violated, sir!'\n\n'Lor, what nonsense he talks!' exclaimed Mrs. Lillyvick in answer to the\ninquiring look of Nicholas. 'Nobody has said anything to me.'\n\n'Said, Henrietta!' cried the collector. 'Didn't I see him--' Mr\nLillyvick couldn't bring himself to utter the word, but he counterfeited\nthe motion of the eye.\n\n'Well!' cried Mrs. Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose nobody is ever to look at\nme? A pretty thing to be married indeed, if that was law!'\n\n'You didn't mind it?' cried the collector.\n\n'Mind it!' repeated Mrs. Lillyvick contemptuously. 'You ought to go down\non your knees and beg everybody's pardon, that you ought.'\n\n'Pardon, my dear?' said the dismayed collector.\n\n'Yes, and mine first,' replied Mrs. Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose I ain't\nthe best judge of what's proper and what's improper?'\n\n'To be sure,' cried all the ladies. 'Do you suppose WE shouldn't be the\nfirst to speak, if there was anything that ought to be taken notice of?'\n\n'Do you suppose THEY don't know, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa,\npulling up his collar, and muttering something about a punching of\nheads, and being only withheld by considerations of age. With which Miss\nSnevellicci's papa looked steadily and sternly at Mr. Lillyvick for some\nseconds, and then rising deliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies\nall round, beginning with Mrs. Lillyvick.\n\nThe unhappy collector looked piteously at his wife, as if to see whether\nthere was any one trait of Miss Petowker left in Mrs. Lillyvick, and\nfinding too surely that there was not, begged pardon of all the company\nwith great humility, and sat down such a crest-fallen, dispirited,\ndisenchanted man, that despite all his selfishness and dotage, he was\nquite an object of compassion.\n\nMiss Snevellicci's papa being greatly exalted by this triumph, and\nincontestable proof of his popularity with the fair sex, quickly grew\nconvivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering more than one song of\nno inconsiderable length, and regaling the social circle between-whiles\nwith recollections of divers splendid women who had been supposed to\nentertain a passion for himself, several of whom he toasted by name,\ntaking occasion to remark at the same time that if he had been a little\nmore alive to his own interest, he might have been rolling at that\nmoment in his chariot-and-four. These reminiscences appeared to awaken\nno very torturing pangs in the breast of Mrs. Snevellicci, who was\nsufficiently occupied in descanting to Nicholas upon the manifold\naccomplishments and merits of her daughter. Nor was the young lady\nherself at all behind-hand in displaying her choicest allurements; but\nthese, heightened as they were by the artifices of Miss Ledrook, had no\neffect whatever in increasing the attentions of Nicholas, who, with the\nprecedent of Miss Squeers still fresh in his memory, steadily resisted\nevery fascination, and placed so strict a guard upon his behaviour that\nwhen he had taken his leave the ladies were unanimous in pronouncing him\nquite a monster of insensibility.\n\nNext day the posters appeared in due course, and the public were\ninformed, in all the colours of the rainbow, and in letters afflicted\nwith every possible variation of spinal deformity, how that Mr. Johnson\nwould have the honour of making his last appearance that evening, and\nhow that an early application for places was requested, in consequence\nof the extraordinary overflow attendant on his performances,--it being\na remarkable fact in theatrical history, but one long since established\nbeyond dispute, that it is a hopeless endeavour to attract people to a\ntheatre unless they can be first brought to believe that they will never\nget into it.\n\nNicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering the theatre at night,\nto account for the unusual perturbation and excitement visible in the\ncountenances of all the company, but he was not long in doubt as to the\ncause, for before he could make any inquiry respecting it Mr. Crummles\napproached, and in an agitated tone of voice, informed him that there\nwas a London manager in the boxes.\n\n'It's the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,' said Crummles, dragging\nNicholas to the little hole in the curtain that he might look through at\nthe London manager. 'I have not the smallest doubt it's the fame of the\nphenomenon--that's the man; him in the great-coat and no shirt-collar.\nShe shall have ten pound a week, Johnson; she shall not appear on the\nLondon boards for a farthing less. They shan't engage her either, unless\nthey engage Mrs. Crummles too--twenty pound a week for the pair; or I'll\ntell you what, I'll throw in myself and the two boys, and they shall\nhave the family for thirty. I can't say fairer than that. They must take\nus all, if none of us will go without the others. That's the way some of\nthe London people do, and it always answers. Thirty pound a week--it's\ntoo cheap, Johnson. It's dirt cheap.'\n\nNicholas replied, that it certainly was; and Mr. Vincent Crummles taking\nseveral huge pinches of snuff to compose his feelings, hurried away to\ntell Mrs. Crummles that he had quite settled the only terms that could be\naccepted, and had resolved not to abate one single farthing.\n\nWhen everybody was dressed and the curtain went up, the excitement\noccasioned by the presence of the London manager increased a\nthousand-fold. Everybody happened to know that the London manager had\ncome down specially to witness his or her own performance, and all were\nin a flutter of anxiety and expectation. Some of those who were not\non in the first scene, hurried to the wings, and there stretched their\nnecks to have a peep at him; others stole up into the two little private\nboxes over the stage-doors, and from that position reconnoitred the\nLondon manager. Once the London manager was seen to smile--he smiled\nat the comic countryman's pretending to catch a blue-bottle, while Mrs\nCrummles was making her greatest effect. 'Very good, my fine fellow,'\nsaid Mr. Crummles, shaking his fist at the comic countryman when he came\noff, 'you leave this company next Saturday night.'\n\nIn the same way, everybody who was on the stage beheld no audience but\none individual; everybody played to the London manager. When Mr. Lenville\nin a sudden burst of passion called the emperor a miscreant, and then\nbiting his glove, said, 'But I must dissemble,' instead of looking\ngloomily at the boards and so waiting for his cue, as is proper in such\ncases, he kept his eye fixed upon the London manager. When Miss Bravassa\nsang her song at her lover, who according to custom stood ready to shake\nhands with her between the verses, they looked, not at each other, but\nat the London manager. Mr. Crummles died point blank at him; and when the\ntwo guards came in to take the body off after a very hard death, it was\nseen to open its eyes and glance at the London manager. At length the\nLondon manager was discovered to be asleep, and shortly after that\nhe woke up and went away, whereupon all the company fell foul of the\nunhappy comic countryman, declaring that his buffoonery was the sole\ncause; and Mr. Crummles said, that he had put up with it a long time, but\nthat he really couldn't stand it any longer, and therefore would feel\nobliged by his looking out for another engagement.\n\nAll this was the occasion of much amusement to Nicholas, whose only\nfeeling upon the subject was one of sincere satisfaction that the great\nman went away before he appeared. He went through his part in the\ntwo last pieces as briskly as he could, and having been received with\nunbounded favour and unprecedented applause--so said the bills for next\nday, which had been printed an hour or two before--he took Smike's arm\nand walked home to bed.\n\nWith the post next morning came a letter from Newman Noggs, very inky,\nvery short, very dirty, very small, and very mysterious, urging Nicholas\nto return to London instantly; not to lose an instant; to be there that\nnight if possible.\n\n'I will,' said Nicholas. 'Heaven knows I have remained here for the\nbest, and sorely against my own will; but even now I may have dallied\ntoo long. What can have happened? Smike, my good fellow, here--take my\npurse. Put our things together, and pay what little debts we owe--quick,\nand we shall be in time for the morning coach. I will only tell them\nthat we are going, and will return to you immediately.'\n\nSo saying, he took his hat, and hurrying away to the lodgings of Mr\nCrummles, applied his hand to the knocker with such hearty good-will,\nthat he awakened that gentleman, who was still in bed, and caused Mr\nBulph the pilot to take his morning's pipe very nearly out of his mouth\nin the extremity of his surprise.\n\nThe door being opened, Nicholas ran upstairs without any ceremony, and\nbursting into the darkened sitting-room on the one-pair front, found\nthat the two Master Crummleses had sprung out of the sofa-bedstead and\nwere putting on their clothes with great rapidity, under the impression\nthat it was the middle of the night, and the next house was on fire.\n\nBefore he could undeceive them, Mr. Crummles came down in a flannel gown\nand nightcap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that circumstances\nhad occurred which rendered it necessary for him to repair to London\nimmediately.\n\n'So goodbye,' said Nicholas; 'goodbye, goodbye.'\n\nHe was half-way downstairs before Mr. Crummles had sufficiently recovered\nhis surprise to gasp out something about the posters.\n\n'I can't help it,' replied Nicholas. 'Set whatever I may have earned\nthis week against them, or if that will not repay you, say at once what\nwill. Quick, quick.'\n\n'We'll cry quits about that,' returned Crummles. 'But can't we have one\nlast night more?'\n\n'Not an hour--not a minute,' replied Nicholas, impatiently.\n\n'Won't you stop to say something to Mrs. Crummles?' asked the manager,\nfollowing him down to the door.\n\n'I couldn't stop if it were to prolong my life a score of years,'\nrejoined Nicholas. 'Here, take my hand, and with it my hearty\nthanks.--Oh! that I should have been fooling here!'\n\nAccompanying these words with an impatient stamp upon the ground, he\ntore himself from the manager's detaining grasp, and darting rapidly\ndown the street was out of sight in an instant.\n\n'Dear me, dear me,' said Mr. Crummles, looking wistfully towards the\npoint at which he had just disappeared; 'if he only acted like that,\nwhat a deal of money he'd draw! He should have kept upon this circuit;\nhe'd have been very useful to me. But he don't know what's good for him.\nHe is an impetuous youth. Young men are rash, very rash.'\n\nMr. Crummles being in a moralising mood, might possibly have moralised\nfor some minutes longer if he had not mechanically put his hand towards\nhis waistcoat pocket, where he was accustomed to keep his snuff. The\nabsence of any pocket at all in the usual direction, suddenly recalled\nto his recollection the fact that he had no waistcoat on; and this\nleading him to a contemplation of the extreme scantiness of his\nattire, he shut the door abruptly, and retired upstairs with great\nprecipitation.\n\nSmike had made good speed while Nicholas was absent, and with his help\neverything was soon ready for their departure. They scarcely stopped to\ntake a morsel of breakfast, and in less than half an hour arrived at the\ncoach-office: quite out of breath with the haste they had made to reach\nit in time. There were yet a few minutes to spare, so, having secured\nthe places, Nicholas hurried into a slopseller's hard by, and bought\nSmike a great-coat. It would have been rather large for a substantial\nyeoman, but the shopman averring (and with considerable truth) that\nit was a most uncommon fit, Nicholas would have purchased it in his\nimpatience if it had been twice the size.\n\nAs they hurried up to the coach, which was now in the open street and\nall ready for starting, Nicholas was not a little astonished to find\nhimself suddenly clutched in a close and violent embrace, which nearly\ntook him off his legs; nor was his amazement at all lessened by hearing\nthe voice of Mr. Crummles exclaim, 'It is he--my friend, my friend!'\n\n'Bless my heart,' cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager's arms,\n'what are you about?'\n\nThe manager made no reply, but strained him to his breast again,\nexclaiming as he did so, 'Farewell, my noble, my lion-hearted boy!'\n\nIn fact, Mr. Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity for\nprofessional display, had turned out for the express purpose of taking a\npublic farewell of Nicholas; and to render it the more imposing, he was\nnow, to that young gentleman's most profound annoyance, inflicting upon\nhim a rapid succession of stage embraces, which, as everybody knows, are\nperformed by the embracer's laying his or her chin on the shoulder of\nthe object of affection, and looking over it. This Mr. Crummles did in\nthe highest style of melodrama, pouring forth at the same time all\nthe most dismal forms of farewell he could think of, out of the stock\npieces. Nor was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was going\nthrough a similar ceremony with Smike; while Master Percy Crummles, with\na very little second-hand camlet cloak, worn theatrically over his left\nshoulder, stood by, in the attitude of an attendant officer, waiting to\nconvey the two victims to the scaffold.\n\nThe lookers-on laughed very heartily, and as it was as well to put a\ngood face upon the matter, Nicholas laughed too when he had succeeded\nin disengaging himself; and rescuing the astonished Smike, climbed up\nto the coach roof after him, and kissed his hand in honour of the absent\nMrs. Crummles as they rolled away.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\nOf Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the\nsuccess or failure of which will appear in the Sequel\n\n\nIn blissful unconsciousness that his nephew was hastening at the utmost\nspeed of four good horses towards his sphere of action, and that every\npassing minute diminished the distance between them, Ralph Nickleby sat\nthat morning occupied in his customary avocations, and yet unable to\nprevent his thoughts wandering from time to time back to the interview\nwhich had taken place between himself and his niece on the previous\nday. At such intervals, after a few moments of abstraction, Ralph\nwould mutter some peevish interjection, and apply himself with renewed\nsteadiness of purpose to the ledger before him, but again and again the\nsame train of thought came back despite all his efforts to prevent it,\nconfusing him in his calculations, and utterly distracting his attention\nfrom the figures over which he bent. At length Ralph laid down his pen,\nand threw himself back in his chair as though he had made up his mind to\nallow the obtrusive current of reflection to take its own course, and,\nby giving it full scope, to rid himself of it effectually.\n\n'I am not a man to be moved by a pretty face,' muttered Ralph sternly.\n'There is a grinning skull beneath it, and men like me who look and work\nbelow the surface see that, and not its delicate covering. And yet\nI almost like the girl, or should if she had been less proudly and\nsqueamishly brought up. If the boy were drowned or hanged, and the\nmother dead, this house should be her home. I wish they were, with all\nmy soul.'\n\nNotwithstanding the deadly hatred which Ralph felt towards Nicholas,\nand the bitter contempt with which he sneered at poor Mrs\nNickleby--notwithstanding the baseness with which he had behaved, and\nwas then behaving, and would behave again if his interest prompted\nhim, towards Kate herself--still there was, strange though it may seem,\nsomething humanising and even gentle in his thoughts at that moment. He\nthought of what his home might be if Kate were there; he placed her in\nthe empty chair, looked upon her, heard her speak; he felt again upon\nhis arm the gentle pressure of the trembling hand; he strewed his\ncostly rooms with the hundred silent tokens of feminine presence and\noccupation; he came back again to the cold fireside and the silent\ndreary splendour; and in that one glimpse of a better nature, born as\nit was in selfish thoughts, the rich man felt himself friendless,\nchildless, and alone. Gold, for the instant, lost its lustre in his\neyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which it could\nnever purchase.\n\nA very slight circumstance was sufficient to banish such reflections\nfrom the mind of such a man. As Ralph looked vacantly out across the\nyard towards the window of the other office, he became suddenly aware of\nthe earnest observation of Newman Noggs, who, with his red nose almost\ntouching the glass, feigned to be mending a pen with a rusty fragment of\na knife, but was in reality staring at his employer with a countenance\nof the closest and most eager scrutiny.\n\nRalph exchanged his dreamy posture for his accustomed business attitude:\nthe face of Newman disappeared, and the train of thought took to flight,\nall simultaneously, and in an instant.\n\nAfter a few minutes, Ralph rang his bell. Newman answered the summons,\nand Ralph raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if he almost feared\nto read there, a knowledge of his recent thoughts.\n\nThere was not the smallest speculation, however, in the countenance of\nNewman Noggs. If it be possible to imagine a man, with two eyes in his\nhead, and both wide open, looking in no direction whatever, and seeing\nnothing, Newman appeared to be that man while Ralph Nickleby regarded\nhim.\n\n'How now?' growled Ralph.\n\n'Oh!' said Newman, throwing some intelligence into his eyes all at\nonce, and dropping them on his master, 'I thought you rang.' With which\nlaconic remark Newman turned round and hobbled away.\n\n'Stop!' said Ralph.\n\nNewman stopped; not at all disconcerted.\n\n'I did ring.'\n\n'I knew you did.'\n\n'Then why do you offer to go if you know that?'\n\n'I thought you rang to say you didn't ring,' replied Newman. 'You often\ndo.'\n\n'How dare you pry, and peer, and stare at me, sirrah?' demanded Ralph.\n\n'Stare!' cried Newman, 'at YOU! Ha, ha!' which was all the explanation\nNewman deigned to offer.\n\n'Be careful, sir,' said Ralph, looking steadily at him. 'Let me have no\ndrunken fooling here. Do you see this parcel?'\n\n'It's big enough,' rejoined Newman.\n\n'Carry it into the city; to Cross, in Broad Street, and leave it\nthere--quick. Do you hear?'\n\nNewman gave a dogged kind of nod to express an affirmative reply, and,\nleaving the room for a few seconds, returned with his hat. Having made\nvarious ineffective attempts to fit the parcel (which was some two feet\nsquare) into the crown thereof, Newman took it under his arm, and\nafter putting on his fingerless gloves with great precision and nicety,\nkeeping his eyes fixed upon Mr. Ralph Nickleby all the time, he adjusted\nhis hat upon his head with as much care, real or pretended, as if it\nwere a bran-new one of the most expensive quality, and at last departed\non his errand.\n\nHe executed his commission with great promptitude and dispatch, only\ncalling at one public-house for half a minute, and even that might be\nsaid to be in his way, for he went in at one door and came out at the\nother; but as he returned and had got so far homewards as the Strand,\nNewman began to loiter with the uncertain air of a man who has not quite\nmade up his mind whether to halt or go straight forwards. After a\nvery short consideration, the former inclination prevailed, and making\ntowards the point he had had in his mind, Newman knocked a modest double\nknock, or rather a nervous single one, at Miss La Creevy's door.\n\nIt was opened by a strange servant, on whom the odd figure of the\nvisitor did not appear to make the most favourable impression possible,\ninasmuch as she no sooner saw him than she very nearly closed it, and\nplacing herself in the narrow gap, inquired what he wanted. But Newman\nmerely uttering the monosyllable 'Noggs,' as if it were some cabalistic\nword, at sound of which bolts would fly back and doors open, pushed\nbriskly past and gained the door of Miss La Creevy's sitting-room,\nbefore the astonished servant could offer any opposition.\n\n'Walk in if you please,' said Miss La Creevy in reply to the sound of\nNewman's knuckles; and in he walked accordingly.\n\n'Bless us!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting as Newman bolted in; 'what\ndid you want, sir?'\n\n'You have forgotten me,' said Newman, with an inclination of the head.\n'I wonder at that. That nobody should remember me who knew me in other\ndays, is natural enough; but there are few people who, seeing me once,\nforget me NOW.' He glanced, as he spoke, at his shabby clothes and\nparalytic limb, and slightly shook his head.\n\n'I did forget you, I declare,' said Miss La Creevy, rising to receive\nNewman, who met her half-way, 'and I am ashamed of myself for doing so;\nfor you are a kind, good creature, Mr. Noggs. Sit down and tell me all\nabout Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing! I haven't seen her for this many a\nweek.'\n\n'How's that?' asked Newman.\n\n'Why, the truth is, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy, 'that I have been\nout on a visit--the first visit I have made for fifteen years.'\n\n'That is a long time,' said Newman, sadly.\n\n'So it is a very long time to look back upon in years, though, somehow\nor other, thank Heaven, the solitary days roll away peacefully and\nhappily enough,' replied the miniature painter. 'I have a brother, Mr\nNoggs--the only relation I have--and all that time I never saw him once.\nNot that we ever quarrelled, but he was apprenticed down in the country,\nand he got married there; and new ties and affections springing up about\nhim, he forgot a poor little woman like me, as it was very reasonable\nhe should, you know. Don't suppose that I complain about that, because I\nalways said to myself, \"It is very natural; poor dear John is making his\nway in the world, and has a wife to tell his cares and troubles to, and\nchildren now to play about him, so God bless him and them, and send we\nmay all meet together one day where we shall part no more.\" But what\ndo you think, Mr. Noggs,' said the miniature painter, brightening up and\nclapping her hands, 'of that very same brother coming up to London at\nlast, and never resting till he found me out; what do you think of his\ncoming here and sitting down in that very chair, and crying like a child\nbecause he was so glad to see me--what do you think of his insisting on\ntaking me down all the way into the country to his own house (quite a\nsumptuous place, Mr. Noggs, with a large garden and I don't know how many\nfields, and a man in livery waiting at table, and cows and horses and\npigs and I don't know what besides), and making me stay a whole month,\nand pressing me to stop there all my life--yes, all my life--and so did\nhis wife, and so did the children--and there were four of them, and one,\nthe eldest girl of all, they--they had named her after me eight good\nyears before, they had indeed. I never was so happy; in all my life I\nnever was!' The worthy soul hid her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed\naloud; for it was the first opportunity she had had of unburdening her\nheart, and it would have its way.\n\n'But bless my life,' said Miss La Creevy, wiping her eyes after a short\npause, and cramming her handkerchief into her pocket with great bustle\nand dispatch; 'what a foolish creature I must seem to you, Mr. Noggs! I\nshouldn't have said anything about it, only I wanted to explain to you\nhow it was I hadn't seen Miss Nickleby.'\n\n'Have you seen the old lady?' asked Newman.\n\n'You mean Mrs. Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy. 'Then I tell you what, Mr\nNoggs, if you want to keep in the good books in that quarter, you had\nbetter not call her the old lady any more, for I suspect she wouldn't be\nbest pleased to hear you. Yes, I went there the night before last, but\nshe was quite on the high ropes about something, and was so grand and\nmysterious, that I couldn't make anything of her: so, to tell you the\ntruth, I took it into my head to be grand too, and came away in state. I\nthought she would have come round again before this, but she hasn't been\nhere.'\n\n'About Miss Nickleby--' said Newman.\n\n'Why, she was here twice while I was away,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'I\nwas afraid she mightn't like to have me calling on her among those great\nfolks in what's-its-name Place, so I thought I'd wait a day or two, and\nif I didn't see her, write.'\n\n'Ah!' exclaimed Newman, cracking his fingers.\n\n'However, I want to hear all the news about them from you,' said Miss La\nCreevy. 'How is the old rough and tough monster of Golden Square? Well,\nof course; such people always are. I don't mean how is he in health, but\nhow is he going on: how is he behaving himself?'\n\n'Damn him!' cried Newman, dashing his cherished hat on the floor; 'like\na false hound.'\n\n'Gracious, Mr. Noggs, you quite terrify me!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy,\nturning pale.\n\n'I should have spoilt his features yesterday afternoon if I could have\nafforded it,' said Newman, moving restlessly about, and shaking his fist\nat a portrait of Mr. Canning over the mantelpiece. 'I was very near it.\nI was obliged to put my hands in my pockets, and keep 'em there very\ntight. I shall do it some day in that little back-parlour, I know I\nshall. I should have done it before now, if I hadn't been afraid of\nmaking bad worse. I shall double-lock myself in with him and have it out\nbefore I die, I'm quite certain of it.'\n\n'I shall scream if you don't compose yourself, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La\nCreevy; 'I'm sure I shan't be able to help it.'\n\n'Never mind,' rejoined Newman, darting violently to and fro. 'He's\ncoming up tonight: I wrote to tell him. He little thinks I know; he\nlittle thinks I care. Cunning scoundrel! he don't think that. Not\nhe, not he. Never mind, I'll thwart him--I, Newman Noggs. Ho, ho, the\nrascal!'\n\nLashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of fury, Newman Noggs jerked\nhimself about the room with the most eccentric motion ever beheld in a\nhuman being: now sparring at the little miniatures on the wall, and\nnow giving himself violent thumps on the head, as if to heighten the\ndelusion, until he sank down in his former seat quite breathless and\nexhausted.\n\n'There,' said Newman, picking up his hat; 'that's done me good. Now I'm\nbetter, and I'll tell you all about it.'\n\nIt took some little time to reassure Miss La Creevy, who had been almost\nfrightened out of her senses by this remarkable demonstration; but that\ndone, Newman faithfully related all that had passed in the interview\nbetween Kate and her uncle, prefacing his narrative with a statement\nof his previous suspicions on the subject, and his reasons for forming\nthem; and concluding with a communication of the step he had taken in\nsecretly writing to Nicholas.\n\nThough little Miss La Creevy's indignation was not so singularly\ndisplayed as Newman's, it was scarcely inferior in violence and\nintensity. Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had happened to make his appearance\nin the room at that moment, there is some doubt whether he would not\nhave found Miss La Creevy a more dangerous opponent than even Newman\nNoggs himself.\n\n'God forgive me for saying so,' said Miss La Creevy, as a wind-up to all\nher expressions of anger, 'but I really feel as if I could stick this\ninto him with pleasure.'\n\nIt was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, it being in\nfact nothing more nor less than a black-lead pencil; but discovering her\nmistake, the little portrait painter exchanged it for a mother-of-pearl\nfruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperate thoughts, she made a\nlunge as she spoke, which would have scarcely disturbed the crumb of a\nhalf-quartern loaf.\n\n'She won't stop where she is after tonight,' said Newman. 'That's a\ncomfort.'\n\n'Stop!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'she should have left there, weeks ago.'\n\n'--If we had known of this,' rejoined Newman. 'But we didn't. Nobody\ncould properly interfere but her mother or brother. The mother's\nweak--poor thing--weak. The dear young man will be here tonight.'\n\n'Heart alive!' cried Miss La Creevy. 'He will do something desperate, Mr\nNoggs, if you tell him all at once.'\n\nNewman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtful look.\n\n'Depend upon it,' said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, 'if you are not very\ncareful in breaking out the truth to him, he will do some violence upon\nhis uncle or one of these men that will bring some terrible calamity\nupon his own head, and grief and sorrow to us all.'\n\n'I never thought of that,' rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more\nand more. 'I came to ask you to receive his sister in case he brought\nher here, but--'\n\n'But this is a matter of much greater importance,' interrupted Miss La\nCreevy; 'that you might have been sure of before you came, but the end\nof this, nobody can foresee, unless you are very guarded and careful.'\n\n'What CAN I do?' cried Newman, scratching his head with an air of great\nvexation and perplexity. 'If he was to talk of pistoling 'em all, I\nshould be obliged to say, \"Certainly--serve 'em right.\"'\n\nMiss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearing this, and\ninstantly set about extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he would\nuse his utmost endeavours to pacify the wrath of Nicholas; which, after\nsome demur, was conceded. They then consulted together on the safest and\nsurest mode of communicating to him the circumstances which had rendered\nhis presence necessary.\n\n'He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,' said\nMiss La Creevy. 'That is of the greatest consequence. He must not be\ntold until late at night.'\n\n'But he'll be in town between six and seven this evening,' replied\nNewman. 'I can't keep it from him when he asks me.'\n\n'Then you must go out, Mr. Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy. 'You can easily\nhave been kept away by business, and must not return till nearly\nmidnight.'\n\n'Then he will come straight here,' retorted Newman.\n\n'So I suppose,' observed Miss La Creevy; 'but he won't find me at home,\nfor I'll go straight to the city the instant you leave me, make up\nmatters with Mrs. Nickleby, and take her away to the theatre, so that he\nmay not even know where his sister lives.'\n\nUpon further discussion, this appeared the safest and most feasible mode\nof proceeding that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it was finally\ndetermined that matters should be so arranged, and Newman, after\nlistening to many supplementary cautions and entreaties, took his leave\nof Miss La Creevy and trudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as\nhe went upon a vast number of possibilities and impossibilities which\ncrowded upon his brain, and arose out of the conversation that had just\nterminated.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\nRelating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable\nProceedings to which it gives rise\n\n\n'London at last!' cried Nicholas, throwing back his greatcoat and\nrousing Smike from a long nap. 'It seemed to me as though we should\nnever reach it.'\n\n'And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,' observed the coachman,\nlooking over his shoulder at Nicholas with no very pleasant expression\nof countenance.\n\n'Ay, I know that,' was the reply; 'but I have been very anxious to be at\nmy journey's end, and that makes the way seem long.'\n\n'Well,' remarked the coachman, 'if the way seemed long with such cattle\nas you've sat behind, you MUST have been most uncommon anxious;' and\nso saying, he let out his whip-lash and touched up a little boy on the\ncalves of his legs by way of emphasis.\n\nThey rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street of London,\nnow displaying long double rows of brightly-burning lamps, dotted here\nand there with the chemists' glaring lights, and illuminated besides\nwith the brilliant flood that streamed from the windows of the shops,\nwhere sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of the richest colours,\nthe most inviting delicacies, and most sumptuous articles of luxurious\nornament, succeeded each other in rich and glittering profusion. Streams\nof people apparently without end poured on and on, jostling each other\nin the crowd and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches\nthat surrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes and\nmakes, mingled up together in one moving mass, like running water, lent\ntheir ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.\n\nAs they dashed by the quickly-changing and ever-varying objects, it was\ncurious to observe in what a strange procession they passed before the\neye. Emporiums of splendid dresses, the materials brought from every\nquarter of the world; tempting stores of everything to stimulate and\npamper the sated appetite and give new relish to the oft-repeated feast;\nvessels of burnished gold and silver, wrought into every exquisite form\nof vase, and dish, and goblet; guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines\nof destruction; screws and irons for the crooked, clothes for the\nnewly-born, drugs for the sick, coffins for the dead, and churchyards\nfor the buried--all these jumbled each with the other and flocking side\nby side, seemed to flit by in motley dance like the fantastic groups of\nthe old Dutch painter, and with the same stern moral for the unheeding\nrestless crowd.\n\nNor were there wanting objects in the crowd itself to give new point\nand purpose to the shifting scene. The rags of the squalid ballad-singer\nfluttered in the rich light that showed the goldsmith's treasures, pale\nand pinched-up faces hovered about the windows where was tempting food,\nhungry eyes wandered over the profusion guarded by one thin sheet\nof brittle glass--an iron wall to them; half-naked shivering figures\nstopped to gaze at Chinese shawls and golden stuffs of India. There\nwas a christening party at the largest coffin-maker's and a funeral\nhatchment had stopped some great improvements in the bravest mansion.\nLife and death went hand in hand; wealth and poverty stood side by side;\nrepletion and starvation laid them down together.\n\nBut it was London; and the old country lady inside, who had put her head\nout of the coach-window a mile or two this side Kingston, and cried out\nto the driver that she was sure he must have passed it and forgotten to\nset her down, was satisfied at last.\n\nNicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike at the inn where the coach\nstopped, and repaired, without the delay of another moment, to the\nlodgings of Newman Noggs; for his anxiety and impatience had increased\nwith every succeeding minute, and were almost beyond control.\n\nThere was a fire in Newman's garret; and a candle had been left burning;\nthe floor was cleanly swept, the room was as comfortably arranged as\nsuch a room could be, and meat and drink were placed in order upon the\ntable. Everything bespoke the affectionate care and attention of Newman\nNoggs, but Newman himself was not there.\n\n'Do you know what time he will be home?' inquired Nicholas, tapping at\nthe door of Newman's front neighbour.\n\n'Ah, Mr. Johnson!' said Crowl, presenting himself. 'Welcome, sir. How\nwell you're looking! I never could have believed--'\n\n'Pardon me,' interposed Nicholas. 'My question--I am extremely anxious\nto know.'\n\n'Why, he has a troublesome affair of business,' replied Crowl, 'and will\nnot be home before twelve o'clock. He was very unwilling to go, I can\ntell you, but there was no help for it. However, he left word that you\nwere to make yourself comfortable till he came back, and that I was to\nentertain you, which I shall be very glad to do.'\n\nIn proof of his extreme readiness to exert himself for the general\nentertainment, Mr. Crowl drew a chair to the table as he spoke, and\nhelping himself plentifully to the cold meat, invited Nicholas and Smike\nto follow his example.\n\nDisappointed and uneasy, Nicholas could touch no food, so, after he had\nseen Smike comfortably established at the table, he walked out (despite\na great many dissuasions uttered by Mr. Crowl with his mouth full), and\nleft Smike to detain Newman in case he returned first.\n\nAs Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas betook himself straight to\nher house. Finding her from home, he debated within himself for some\ntime whether he should go to his mother's residence, and so compromise\nher with Ralph Nickleby. Fully persuaded, however, that Newman would not\nhave solicited him to return unless there was some strong reason which\nrequired his presence at home, he resolved to go there, and hastened\neastwards with all speed.\n\nMrs. Nickleby would not be at home, the girl said, until past twelve, or\nlater. She believed Miss Nickleby was well, but she didn't live at home\nnow, nor did she come home except very seldom. She couldn't say where\nshe was stopping, but it was not at Madame Mantalini's. She was sure of\nthat.\n\nWith his heart beating violently, and apprehending he knew not what\ndisaster, Nicholas returned to where he had left Smike. Newman had not\nbeen home. He wouldn't be, till twelve o'clock; there was no chance of\nit. Was there no possibility of sending to fetch him if it were only for\nan instant, or forwarding to him one line of writing to which he might\nreturn a verbal reply? That was quite impracticable. He was not at\nGolden Square, and probably had been sent to execute some commission at\na distance.\n\nNicholas tried to remain quietly where he was, but he felt so nervous\nand excited that he could not sit still. He seemed to be losing time\nunless he was moving. It was an absurd fancy, he knew, but he was wholly\nunable to resist it. So, he took up his hat and rambled out again.\n\nHe strolled westward this time, pacing the long streets with hurried\nfootsteps, and agitated by a thousand misgivings and apprehensions\nwhich he could not overcome. He passed into Hyde Park, now silent and\ndeserted, and increased his rate of walking as if in the hope of leaving\nhis thoughts behind. They crowded upon him more thickly, however, now\nthere were no passing objects to attract his attention; and the one idea\nwas always uppermost, that some stroke of ill-fortune must have occurred\nso calamitous in its nature that all were fearful of disclosing it to\nhim. The old question arose again and again--What could it be? Nicholas\nwalked till he was weary, but was not one bit the wiser; and indeed he\ncame out of the Park at last a great deal more confused and perplexed\nthan when he went in.\n\nHe had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink since early in the\nmorning, and felt quite worn out and exhausted. As he returned\nlanguidly towards the point from which he had started, along one of the\nthoroughfares which lie between Park Lane and Bond Street, he passed a\nhandsome hotel, before which he stopped mechanically.\n\n'An expensive place, I dare say,' thought Nicholas; 'but a pint of wine\nand a biscuit are no great debauch wherever they are had. And yet I\ndon't know.'\n\nHe walked on a few steps, but looking wistfully down the long vista of\ngas-lamps before him, and thinking how long it would take to reach the\nend of it and being besides in that kind of mood in which a man is most\ndisposed to yield to his first impulse--and being, besides, strongly\nattracted to the hotel, in part by curiosity, and in part by some\nodd mixture of feelings which he would have been troubled to\ndefine--Nicholas turned back again, and walked into the coffee-room.\n\nIt was very handsomely furnished. The walls were ornamented with the\nchoicest specimens of French paper, enriched with a gilded cornice of\nelegant design. The floor was covered with a rich carpet; and two superb\nmirrors, one above the chimneypiece and one at the opposite end of the\nroom reaching from floor to ceiling, multiplied the other beauties and\nadded new ones of their own to enhance the general effect. There was\na rather noisy party of four gentlemen in a box by the fire-place, and\nonly two other persons present--both elderly gentlemen, and both alone.\n\nObserving all this in the first comprehensive glance with which a\nstranger surveys a place that is new to him, Nicholas sat himself down\nin the box next to the noisy party, with his back towards them, and\npostponing his order for a pint of claret until such time as the waiter\nand one of the elderly gentlemen should have settled a disputed\nquestion relative to the price of an item in the bill of fare, took up a\nnewspaper and began to read.\n\nHe had not read twenty lines, and was in truth himself dozing, when he\nwas startled by the mention of his sister's name. 'Little Kate Nickleby'\nwere the words that caught his ear. He raised his head in amazement, and\nas he did so, saw by the reflection in the opposite glass, that two of\nthe party behind him had risen and were standing before the fire. 'It\nmust have come from one of them,' thought Nicholas. He waited to hear\nmore with a countenance of some indignation, for the tone of speech had\nbeen anything but respectful, and the appearance of the individual whom\nhe presumed to have been the speaker was coarse and swaggering.\n\nThis person--so Nicholas observed in the same glance at the mirror which\nhad enabled him to see his face--was standing with his back to the fire\nconversing with a younger man, who stood with his back to the company,\nwore his hat, and was adjusting his shirt-collar by the aid of the\nglass. They spoke in whispers, now and then bursting into a loud laugh,\nbut Nicholas could catch no repetition of the words, nor anything\nsounding at all like the words, which had attracted his attention.\n\nAt length the two resumed their seats, and more wine being ordered, the\nparty grew louder in their mirth. Still there was no reference made to\nanybody with whom he was acquainted, and Nicholas became persuaded\nthat his excited fancy had either imagined the sounds altogether, or\nconverted some other words into the name which had been so much in his\nthoughts.\n\n'It is remarkable too,' thought Nicholas: 'if it had been \"Kate\" or\n\"Kate Nickleby,\" I should not have been so much surprised: but \"little\nKate Nickleby!\"'\n\nThe wine coming at the moment prevented his finishing the sentence. He\nswallowed a glassful and took up the paper again. At that instant--\n\n'Little Kate Nickleby!' cried the voice behind him.\n\n'I was right,' muttered Nicholas as the paper fell from his hand. 'And\nit was the man I supposed.'\n\n'As there was a proper objection to drinking her in heel-taps,' said the\nvoice, 'we'll give her the first glass in the new magnum. Little Kate\nNickleby!'\n\n'Little Kate Nickleby,' cried the other three. And the glasses were set\ndown empty.\n\nKeenly alive to the tone and manner of this slight and careless mention\nof his sister's name in a public place, Nicholas fired at once; but he\nkept himself quiet by a great effort, and did not even turn his head.\n\n'The jade!' said the same voice which had spoken before. 'She's a true\nNickleby--a worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph--she hangs back to be\nmore sought after--so does he; nothing to be got out of Ralph unless you\nfollow him up, and then the money comes doubly welcome, and the bargain\ndoubly hard, for you're impatient and he isn't. Oh! infernal cunning.'\n\n'Infernal cunning,' echoed two voices.\n\nNicholas was in a perfect agony as the two elderly gentlemen opposite,\nrose one after the other and went away, lest they should be the means of\nhis losing one word of what was said. But the conversation was suspended\nas they withdrew, and resumed with even greater freedom when they had\nleft the room.\n\n'I am afraid,' said the younger gentleman, 'that the old woman has grown\njea-a-lous, and locked her up. Upon my soul it looks like it.'\n\n'If they quarrel and little Nickleby goes home to her mother, so much\nthe better,' said the first. 'I can do anything with the old lady.\nShe'll believe anything I tell her.'\n\n'Egad that's true,' returned the other voice. 'Ha, ha, ha! Poor deyvle!'\n\nThe laugh was taken up by the two voices which always came in together,\nand became general at Mrs. Nickleby's expense. Nicholas turned burning\nhot with rage, but he commanded himself for the moment, and waited to\nhear more.\n\nWhat he heard need not be repeated here. Suffice it that as the wine\nwent round he heard enough to acquaint him with the characters and\ndesigns of those whose conversation he overhead; to possess him with the\nfull extent of Ralph's villainy, and the real reason of his own presence\nbeing required in London. He heard all this and more. He heard his\nsister's sufferings derided, and her virtuous conduct jeered at and\nbrutally misconstrued; he heard her name bandied from mouth to mouth,\nand herself made the subject of coarse and insolent wagers, free speech,\nand licentious jesting.\n\nThe man who had spoken first, led the conversation, and indeed almost\nengrossed it, being only stimulated from time to time by some slight\nobservation from one or other of his companions. To him then Nicholas\naddressed himself when he was sufficiently composed to stand before the\nparty, and force the words from his parched and scorching throat.\n\n'Let me have a word with you, sir,' said Nicholas.\n\n'With me, sir?' retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful\nsurprise.\n\n'I said with you,' replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty, for\nhis passion choked him.\n\n'A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising\nhis wine-glass to his lips, and looking round upon his friends.\n\n'Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?' said\nNicholas sternly.\n\nSir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him either\nname his business or leave the table.\n\nNicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.\n\n'There, sir,' said Nicholas; 'my business you will guess.'\n\nA momentary expression of astonishment, not unmixed with some confusion,\nappeared in the face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name; but he subdued\nit in an instant, and tossing the card to Lord Verisopht, who sat\nopposite, drew a toothpick from a glass before him, and very leisurely\napplied it to his mouth.\n\n'Your name and address?' said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion\nkindled.\n\n'I shall give you neither,' replied Sir Mulberry.\n\n'If there is a gentleman in this party,' said Nicholas, looking round\nand scarcely able to make his white lips form the words, 'he will\nacquaint me with the name and residence of this man.'\n\nThere was a dead silence.\n\n'I am the brother of the young lady who has been the subject of\nconversation here,' said Nicholas. 'I denounce this person as a liar,\nand impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend here, he will save him\nthe disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name--and utterly\nuseless one--for I will find it out, nor leave him until I have.'\n\nSir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his\ncompanions, said--\n\n'Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of his\nstation; and his pretty sister shall save him a broken head, if he talks\ntill midnight.'\n\n'You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!' said Nicholas, 'and shall be\nproclaimed so to the world. I WILL know you; I will follow you home if\nyou walk the streets till morning.'\n\nSir Mulberry's hand involuntarily closed upon the decanter, and he\nseemed for an instant about to launch it at the head of his challenger.\nBut he only filled his glass, and laughed in derision.\n\nNicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and,\nsummoning the waiter, paid his bill.\n\n'Do you know that person's name?' he inquired of the man in an audible\nvoice; pointing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.\n\nSir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always spoken\ntogether, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.\n\n'That gentleman, sir?' replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knew his cue,\nand answered with just as little respect, and just as much impertinence\nas he could safely show: 'no, sir, I do not, sir.'\n\n'Here, you sir,' cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; 'do you\nknow THAT person's name?'\n\n'Name, sir? No, sir.'\n\n'Then you'll find it there,' said Sir Mulberry, throwing Nicholas's card\ntowards him; 'and when you have made yourself master of it, put that\npiece of pasteboard in the fire--do you hear me?'\n\nThe man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised the\nmatter by sticking the card in the chimney-glass. Having done this, he\nretired.\n\nNicholas folded his arms, and biting his lip, sat perfectly quiet;\nsufficiently expressing by his manner, however, a firm determination to\ncarry his threat of following Sir Mulberry home, into steady execution.\n\nIt was evident from the tone in which the younger member of the party\nappeared to remonstrate with his friend, that he objected to this course\nof proceeding, and urged him to comply with the request which Nicholas\nhad made. Sir Mulberry, however, who was not quite sober, and who was\nin a sullen and dogged state of obstinacy, soon silenced the\nrepresentations of his weak young friend, and further seemed--as if to\nsave himself from a repetition of them--to insist on being left alone.\nHowever this might have been, the young gentleman and the two who had\nalways spoken together, actually rose to go after a short interval, and\npresently retired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.\n\nIt will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition of\nNicholas, the minutes appeared to move with leaden wings indeed, and\nthat their progress did not seem the more rapid from the monotonous\nticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of its little bell which\ntold the quarters. But there he sat; and in his old seat on the opposite\nside of the room reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his legs upon the\ncushion, and his handkerchief thrown negligently over his knees:\nfinishing his magnum of claret with the utmost coolness and\nindifference.\n\nThus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour--Nicholas\nwould have thought for three hours at least, but that the little\nbell had only gone four times. Twice or thrice he looked angrily and\nimpatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in the same attitude,\nputting his glass to his lips from time to time, and looking vacantly\nat the wall, as if he were wholly ignorant of the presence of any living\nperson.\n\nAt length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coolly to the\nglass, and having surveyed himself therein, turned round and honoured\nNicholas with a long and contemptuous stare. Nicholas stared again with\nright good-will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his shoulders, smiled slightly,\nrang the bell, and ordered the waiter to help him on with his greatcoat.\n\nThe man did so, and held the door open.\n\n'Don't wait,' said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.\n\nSir Mulberry took several turns up and down the room, whistling\ncarelessly all the time; stopped to finish the last glass of claret\nwhich he had poured out a few minutes before, walked again, put on his\nhat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves, and, at last, walked\nslowly out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chafing until he was\nnearly wild, darted from his seat, and followed him: so closely, that\nbefore the door had swung upon its hinges after Sir Mulberry's passing\nout, they stood side by side in the street together.\n\nThere was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the apron,\nand jumped out to the horse's head.\n\n'Will you make yourself known to me?' asked Nicholas in a suppressed\nvoice.\n\n'No,' replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an\noath. 'No.'\n\n'If you trust to your horse's speed, you will find yourself mistaken,'\nsaid Nicholas. 'I will accompany you. By Heaven I will, if I hang on to\nthe foot-board.'\n\n'You shall be horsewhipped if you do,' returned Sir Mulberry.\n\n'You are a villain,' said Nicholas.\n\n'You are an errand-boy for aught I know,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.\n\n'I am the son of a country gentleman,' returned Nicholas, 'your equal in\nbirth and education, and your superior I trust in everything besides.\nI tell you again, Miss Nickleby is my sister. Will you or will you not\nanswer for your unmanly and brutal conduct?'\n\n'To a proper champion--yes. To you--no,' returned Sir Mulberry, taking\nthe reins in his hand. 'Stand out of the way, dog. William, let go her\nhead.'\n\n'You had better not,' cried Nicholas, springing on the step as Sir\nMulberry jumped in, and catching at the reins. 'He has no command over\nthe horse, mind. You shall not go--you shall not, I swear--till you have\ntold me who you are.'\n\nThe groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high-spirited animal and\nthorough-bred, plunged so violently that he could scarcely hold her.\n\n'Leave go, I tell you!' thundered his master.\n\nThe man obeyed. The animal reared and plunged as though it would dash\nthe carriage into a thousand pieces, but Nicholas, blind to all sense\nof danger, and conscious of nothing but his fury, still maintained his\nplace and his hold upon the reins.\n\n'Will you unclasp your hand?'\n\n'Will you tell me who you are?'\n\n'No!'\n\n'No!'\n\nIn less time than the quickest tongue could tell it, these words were\nexchanged, and Sir Mulberry shortening his whip, applied it furiously\nto the head and shoulders of Nicholas. It was broken in the struggle;\nNicholas gained the heavy handle, and with it laid open one side of his\nantagonist's face from the eye to the lip. He saw the gash; knew that\nthe mare had darted off at a wild mad gallop; a hundred lights danced in\nhis eyes, and he felt himself flung violently upon the ground.\n\nHe was giddy and sick, but staggered to his feet directly, roused by the\nloud shouts of the men who were tearing up the street, and screaming to\nthose ahead to clear the way. He was conscious of a torrent of people\nrushing quickly by--looking up, could discern the cabriolet whirled\nalong the foot-pavement with frightful rapidity--then heard a loud cry,\nthe smashing of some heavy body, and the breaking of glass--and then the\ncrowd closed in in the distance, and he could see or hear no more.\n\nThe general attention had been entirely directed from himself to the\nperson in the carriage, and he was quite alone. Rightly judging that\nunder such circumstances it would be madness to follow, he turned down a\nbye-street in search of the nearest coach-stand, finding after a minute\nor two that he was reeling like a drunken man, and aware for the first\ntime of a stream of blood that was trickling down his face and breast.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\nIn which Mr. Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process,\nfrom all Commerce with his Relations\n\n\nSmike and Newman Noggs, who in his impatience had returned home long\nbefore the time agreed upon, sat before the fire, listening anxiously\nto every footstep on the stairs, and the slightest sound that stirred\nwithin the house, for the approach of Nicholas. Time had worn on, and\nit was growing late. He had promised to be back in an hour; and his\nprolonged absence began to excite considerable alarm in the minds of\nboth, as was abundantly testified by the blank looks they cast upon each\nother at every new disappointment.\n\nAt length a coach was heard to stop, and Newman ran out to light\nNicholas up the stairs. Beholding him in the trim described at\nthe conclusion of the last chapter, he stood aghast in wonder and\nconsternation.\n\n'Don't be alarmed,' said Nicholas, hurrying him back into the room.\n'There is no harm done, beyond what a basin of water can repair.'\n\n'No harm!' cried Newman, passing his hands hastily over the back and\narms of Nicholas, as if to assure himself that he had broken no bones.\n'What have you been doing?'\n\n'I know all,' interrupted Nicholas; 'I have heard a part, and guessed\nthe rest. But before I remove one jot of these stains, I must hear the\nwhole from you. You see I am collected. My resolution is taken. Now, my\ngood friend, speak out; for the time for any palliation or concealment\nis past, and nothing will avail Ralph Nickleby now.'\n\n'Your dress is torn in several places; you walk lame, and I am sure you\nare suffering pain,' said Newman. 'Let me see to your hurts first.'\n\n'I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little soreness and stiffness\nthat will soon pass off,' said Nicholas, seating himself with some\ndifficulty. 'But if I had fractured every limb, and still preserved my\nsenses, you should not bandage one till you had told me what I have the\nright to know. Come,' said Nicholas, giving his hand to Noggs. 'You had\na sister of your own, you told me once, who died before you fell into\nmisfortune. Now think of her, and tell me, Newman.'\n\n'Yes, I will, I will,' said Noggs. 'I'll tell you the whole truth.'\n\nNewman did so. Nicholas nodded his head from time to time, as it\ncorroborated the particulars he had already gleaned; but he fixed his\neyes upon the fire, and did not look round once.\n\nHis recital ended, Newman insisted upon his young friend's stripping off\nhis coat and allowing whatever injuries he had received to be properly\ntended. Nicholas, after some opposition, at length consented, and, while\nsome pretty severe bruises on his arms and shoulders were being rubbed\nwith oil and vinegar, and various other efficacious remedies which\nNewman borrowed from the different lodgers, related in what manner they\nhad been received. The recital made a strong impression on the warm\nimagination of Newman; for when Nicholas came to the violent part of the\nquarrel, he rubbed so hard, as to occasion him the most exquisite pain,\nwhich he would not have exhibited, however, for the world, it being\nperfectly clear that, for the moment, Newman was operating on Sir\nMulberry Hawk, and had quite lost sight of his real patient.\n\nThis martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with Newman that while he was\notherwise occupied next morning, arrangements should be made for his\nmother's immediately quitting her present residence, and also for\ndispatching Miss La Creevy to break the intelligence to her. He then\nwrapped himself in Smike's greatcoat, and repaired to the inn where they\nwere to pass the night, and where (after writing a few lines to Ralph,\nthe delivery of which was to be intrusted to Newman next day), he\nendeavoured to obtain the repose of which he stood so much in need.\n\nDrunken men, they say, may roll down precipices, and be quite\nunconscious of any serious personal inconvenience when their reason\nreturns. The remark may possibly apply to injuries received in other\nkinds of violent excitement: certain it is, that although Nicholas\nexperienced some pain on first awakening next morning, he sprung out of\nbed as the clock struck seven, with very little difficulty, and was soon\nas much on the alert as if nothing had occurred.\n\nMerely looking into Smike's room, and telling him that Newman Noggs\nwould call for him very shortly, Nicholas descended into the street,\nand calling a hackney coach, bade the man drive to Mrs. Wititterly's,\naccording to the direction which Newman had given him on the previous\nnight.\n\nIt wanted a quarter to eight when they reached Cadogan Place. Nicholas\nbegan to fear that no one might be stirring at that early hour, when he\nwas relieved by the sight of a female servant, employed in cleaning the\ndoor-steps. By this functionary he was referred to the doubtful page,\nwho appeared with dishevelled hair and a very warm and glossy face, as\nof a page who had just got out of bed.\n\nBy this young gentleman he was informed that Miss Nickleby was then\ntaking her morning's walk in the gardens before the house. On the\nquestion being propounded whether he could go and find her, the page\ndesponded and thought not; but being stimulated with a shilling, the\npage grew sanguine and thought he could.\n\n'Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in great haste to\nsee her,' said Nicholas.\n\nThe plated buttons disappeared with an alacrity most unusual to them,\nand Nicholas paced the room in a state of feverish agitation which made\nthe delay even of a minute insupportable. He soon heard a light footstep\nwhich he well knew, and before he could advance to meet her, Kate had\nfallen on his neck and burst into tears.\n\n'My darling girl,' said Nicholas as he embraced her. 'How pale you are!'\n\n'I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,' sobbed poor Kate; 'so very,\nvery miserable. Do not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or I shall die of a\nbroken heart.'\n\n'I will leave you nowhere,' answered Nicholas--'never again, Kate,' he\ncried, moved in spite of himself as he folded her to his heart. 'Tell\nme that I acted for the best. Tell me that we parted because I feared to\nbring misfortune on your head; that it was a trial to me no less than to\nyourself, and that if I did wrong it was in ignorance of the world and\nunknowingly.'\n\n'Why should I tell you what we know so well?' returned Kate soothingly.\n'Nicholas--dear Nicholas--how can you give way thus?'\n\n'It is such bitter reproach to me to know what you have undergone,'\nreturned her brother; 'to see you so much altered, and yet so kind and\npatient--God!' cried Nicholas, clenching his fist and suddenly changing\nhis tone and manner, 'it sets my whole blood on fire again. You must\nleave here with me directly; you should not have slept here last night,\nbut that I knew all this too late. To whom can I speak, before we drive\naway?'\n\nThis question was most opportunely put, for at that instant Mr\nWititterly walked in, and to him Kate introduced her brother, who at\nonce announced his purpose, and the impossibility of deferring it.\n\n'The quarter's notice,' said Mr. Wititterly, with the gravity of a man on\nthe right side, 'is not yet half expired. Therefore--'\n\n'Therefore,' interposed Nicholas, 'the quarter's salary must be lost,\nsir. You will excuse this extreme haste, but circumstances require that\nI should immediately remove my sister, and I have not a moment's time to\nlose. Whatever she brought here I will send for, if you will allow me,\nin the course of the day.'\n\nMr. Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposition to Kate's immediate\ndeparture; with which, indeed, he was rather gratified than otherwise,\nSir Tumley Snuffim having given it as his opinion, that she rather\ndisagreed with Mrs. Wititterly's constitution.\n\n'With regard to the trifle of salary that is due,' said Mr. Wititterly,\n'I will'--here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing--'I\nwill--owe it to Miss Nickleby.'\n\nMr. Wititterly, it should be observed, was accustomed to owe small\naccounts, and to leave them owing. All men have some little pleasant way\nof their own; and this was Mr. Wititterly's.\n\n'If you please,' said Nicholas. And once more offering a hurried apology\nfor so sudden a departure, he hurried Kate into the vehicle, and bade\nthe man drive with all speed into the city.\n\nTo the city they went accordingly, with all the speed the hackney coach\ncould make; and as the horses happened to live at Whitechapel and to be\nin the habit of taking their breakfast there, when they breakfasted\nat all, they performed the journey with greater expedition than could\nreasonably have been expected.\n\nNicholas sent Kate upstairs a few minutes before him, that his\nunlooked-for appearance might not alarm his mother, and when the way had\nbeen paved, presented himself with much duty and affection. Newman had\nnot been idle, for there was a little cart at the door, and the effects\nwere hurrying out already.\n\nNow, Mrs. Nickleby was not the sort of person to be told anything in\na hurry, or rather to comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy or\nimportance on a short notice. Wherefore, although the good lady had been\nsubjected to a full hour's preparation by little Miss La Creevy, and was\nnow addressed in most lucid terms both by Nicholas and his sister, she\nwas in a state of singular bewilderment and confusion, and could by no\nmeans be made to comprehend the necessity of such hurried proceedings.\n\n'Why don't you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he can possibly\nmean by it?' said Mrs. Nickleby.\n\n'My dear mother,' returned Nicholas, 'the time for talking has gone\nby. There is but one step to take, and that is to cast him off with the\nscorn and indignation he deserves. Your own honour and good name demand\nthat, after the discovery of his vile proceedings, you should not be\nbeholden to him one hour, even for the shelter of these bare walls.'\n\n'To be sure,' said Mrs. Nickleby, crying bitterly, 'he is a brute, a\nmonster; and the walls are very bare, and want painting too, and I have\nhad this ceiling whitewashed at the expense of eighteen-pence, which is\na very distressing thing, considering that it is so much gone into your\nuncle's pocket. I never could have believed it--never.'\n\n'Nor I, nor anybody else,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Lord bless my life!' exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby. 'To think that that Sir\nMulberry Hawk should be such an abandoned wretch as Miss La Creevy says\nhe is, Nicholas, my dear; when I was congratulating myself every day on\nhis being an admirer of our dear Kate's, and thinking what a thing it\nwould be for the family if he was to become connected with us, and use\nhis interest to get you some profitable government place. There are\nvery good places to be got about the court, I know; for a friend of ours\n(Miss Cropley, at Exeter, my dear Kate, you recollect), he had one, and\nI know that it was the chief part of his duty to wear silk stockings,\nand a bag wig like a black watch-pocket; and to think that it should\ncome to this after all--oh, dear, dear, it's enough to kill one, that it\nis!' With which expressions of sorrow, Mrs. Nickleby gave fresh vent to\nher grief, and wept piteously.\n\nAs Nicholas and his sister were by this time compelled to superintend\nthe removal of the few articles of furniture, Miss La Creevy devoted\nherself to the consolation of the matron, and observed with great\nkindness of manner that she must really make an effort, and cheer up.\n\n'Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,' returned Mrs. Nickleby, with a petulance\nnot unnatural in her unhappy circumstances, 'it's very easy to say cheer\nup, but if you had as many occasions to cheer up as I have had--and\nthere,' said Mrs. Nickleby, stopping short. 'Think of Mr. Pyke and Mr\nPluck, two of the most perfect gentlemen that ever lived, what am I too\nsay to them--what can I say to them? Why, if I was to say to them, \"I'm\ntold your friend Sir Mulberry is a base wretch,\" they'd laugh at me.'\n\n'They will laugh no more at us, I take it,' said Nicholas, advancing.\n'Come, mother, there is a coach at the door, and until Monday, at all\nevents, we will return to our old quarters.'\n\n'--Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into the bargain,'\nadded Miss La Creevy. 'Now, let me go with you downstairs.'\n\nBut Mrs. Nickleby was not to be so easily moved, for first she insisted\non going upstairs to see that nothing had been left, and then on going\ndownstairs to see that everything had been taken away; and when she was\ngetting into the coach she had a vision of a forgotten coffee-pot on the\nback-kitchen hob, and after she was shut in, a dismal recollection of\na green umbrella behind some unknown door. At last Nicholas, in a\ncondition of absolute despair, ordered the coachman to drive away,\nand in the unexpected jerk of a sudden starting, Mrs. Nickleby lost a\nshilling among the straw, which fortunately confined her attention to\nthe coach until it was too late to remember anything else.\n\nHaving seen everything safely out, discharged the servant, and locked\nthe door, Nicholas jumped into a cabriolet and drove to a bye place near\nGolden Square where he had appointed to meet Noggs; and so quickly had\neverything been done, that it was barely half-past nine when he reached\nthe place of meeting.\n\n'Here is the letter for Ralph,' said Nicholas, 'and here the key. When\nyou come to me this evening, not a word of last night. Ill news travels\nfast, and they will know it soon enough. Have you heard if he was much\nhurt?'\n\nNewman shook his head.\n\n'I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,' said Nicholas.\n\n'You had better take some rest,' returned Newman. 'You are fevered and\nill.'\n\nNicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing the indisposition he\nreally felt, now that the excitement which had sustained him was over,\ntook a hurried farewell of Newman Noggs, and left him.\n\nNewman was not three minutes' walk from Golden Square, but in the course\nof that three minutes he took the letter out of his hat and put it in\nagain twenty times at least. First the front, then the back, then the\nsides, then the superscription, then the seal, were objects of Newman's\nadmiration. Then he held it at arm's length as if to take in the whole\nat one delicious survey, and then he rubbed his hands in a perfect\necstasy with his commission.\n\nHe reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laid the\nletter and key upon the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph\nNickleby should appear. After a few minutes, the well-known creaking of\nhis boots was heard on the stairs, and then the bell rung.\n\n'Has the post come in?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Any other letters?'\n\n'One.' Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.\n\n'What's this?' asked Ralph, taking up the key.\n\n'Left with the letter;--a boy brought them--quarter of an hour ago, or\nless.'\n\nRalph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as\nfollows:--\n\n'You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I could heap upon your\nhead which would carry with them one thousandth part of the grovelling\nshame that this assurance will awaken even in your breast.\n\n'Your brother's widow and her orphan child spurn the shelter of your\nroof, and shun you with disgust and loathing. Your kindred renounce you,\nfor they know no shame but the ties of blood which bind them in name\nwith you.\n\n'You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May every\nrecollection of your life cling to your false heart, and cast their\ndarkness on your death-bed.'\n\nRalph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fell into\na fit of musing; the paper fluttered from his hand and dropped upon the\nfloor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held it still.\n\nSuddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it all crumpled into\nhis pocket, turned furiously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask him\nwhy he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved, with his back towards him,\nfollowing up, with the worn and blackened stump of an old pen, some\nfigures in an Interest-table which was pasted against the wall, and\napparently quite abstracted from every other object.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\nWherein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has\nbeen already made acquainted\n\n\n'What a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this confounded\nold cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every tinkle of which is enough to\nthrow a strong man into blue convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh\ndemmit,'--said Mr. Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he\nspoke, on Ralph Nickleby's scraper.\n\n'I didn't hear the bell more than once,' replied Newman.\n\n'Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,' said Mr\nMantalini, 'as deaf as a demnition post.'\n\nMr. Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making his\nway to the door of Ralph's office with very little ceremony, when Newman\ninterposed his body; and hinting that Mr. Nickleby was unwilling to be\ndisturbed, inquired whether the client's business was of a pressing\nnature.\n\n'It is most demnebly particular,' said Mr. Mantalini. 'It is to melt some\nscraps of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling, demd\nmint sauce.'\n\nNewman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr. Mantalini's proffered\ncard, limped with it into his master's office. As he thrust his head in\nat the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed the thoughtful posture into\nwhich he had fallen after perusing his nephew's letter, and that he\nseemed to have been reading it again, as he once more held it open in\nhis hand. The glance was but momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed,\nturned to demand the cause of the interruption.\n\nAs Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and\ngrasping Ralph's horny hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he had\nnever seen him looking so well in all his life.\n\n'There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance,' said Mr. Mantalini,\nseating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and whiskers. 'You look\nquite juvenile and jolly, demmit!'\n\n'We are alone,' returned Ralph, tartly. 'What do you want with me?'\n\n'Good!' cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his teeth. 'What did I want! Yes.\nHa, ha! Very good. WHAT did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!'\n\n'What DO you want, man?' demanded Ralph, sternly.\n\n'Demnition discount,' returned Mr. Mantalini, with a grin, and shaking\nhis head waggishly.\n\n'Money is scarce,' said Ralph.\n\n'Demd scarce, or I shouldn't want it,' interrupted Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,' continued\nRalph. 'I don't want to do business just now, in fact I would rather\nnot; but as you are a friend--how many bills have you there?'\n\n'Two,' returned Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'What is the gross amount?'\n\n'Demd trifling--five-and-seventy.'\n\n'And the dates?'\n\n'Two months, and four.'\n\n'I'll do them for you--mind, for YOU; I wouldn't for many people--for\nfive-and-twenty pounds,' said Ralph, deliberately.\n\n'Oh demmit!' cried Mr. Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably at\nthis handsome proposal.\n\n'Why, that leaves you fifty,' retorted Ralph. 'What would you have? Let\nme see the names.'\n\n'You are so demd hard, Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'Let me see the names,' replied Ralph, impatiently extending his hand\nfor the bills. 'Well! They are not sure, but they are safe enough. Do\nyou consent to the terms, and will you take the money? I don't want you\nto do so. I would rather you didn't.'\n\n'Demmit, Nickleby, can't you--' began Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'No,' replied Ralph, interrupting him. 'I can't. Will you take the\nmoney--down, mind; no delay, no going into the city and pretending to\nnegotiate with some other party who has no existence, and never had. Is\nit a bargain, or is it not?'\n\nRalph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, and carelessly rattled\nhis cash-box, as though by mere accident. The sound was too much for Mr\nMantalini. He closed the bargain directly it reached his ears, and Ralph\ntold the money out upon the table.\n\nHe had scarcely done so, and Mr. Mantalini had not yet gathered it all\nup, when a ring was heard at the bell, and immediately afterwards Newman\nushered in no less a person than Madame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr\nMantalini evinced considerable discomposure, and swept the cash into his\npocket with remarkable alacrity.\n\n'Oh, you ARE here,' said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.\n\n'Yes, my life and soul, I am,' replied her husband, dropping on his\nknees, and pouncing with kitten-like playfulness upon a stray sovereign.\n'I am here, my soul's delight, upon Tom Tiddler's ground, picking up the\ndemnition gold and silver.'\n\n'I am ashamed of you,' said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.\n\n'Ashamed--of ME, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charming sweetness,\nbut naughty fibs,' returned Mr. Mantalini. 'It knows it is not ashamed of\nits own popolorum tibby.'\n\nWhatever were the circumstances which had led to such a result,\nit certainly appeared as though the popolorum tibby had rather\nmiscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady's affection. Madame\nMantalini only looked scornful in reply; and, turning to Ralph, begged\nhim to excuse her intrusion.\n\n'Which is entirely attributable,' said Madame, 'to the gross misconduct\nand most improper behaviour of Mr. Mantalini.'\n\n'Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!'\n\n'Of you,' returned his wife. 'But I will not allow it. I will not submit\nto be ruined by the extravagance and profligacy of any man. I call Mr\nNickleby to witness the course I intend to pursue with you.'\n\n'Pray don't call me to witness anything, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Settle it\nbetween yourselves, settle it between yourselves.'\n\n'No, but I must beg you as a favour,' said Madame Mantalini, 'to hear\nme give him notice of what it is my fixed intention to do--my fixed\nintention, sir,' repeated Madame Mantalini, darting an angry look at her\nhusband.\n\n'Will she call me \"Sir\"?' cried Mantalini. 'Me who dote upon her with\nthe demdest ardour! She, who coils her fascinations round me like a pure\nangelic rattlesnake! It will be all up with my feelings; she will throw\nme into a demd state.'\n\n'Don't talk of feelings, sir,' rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating\nherself, and turning her back upon him. 'You don't consider mine.'\n\n'I do not consider yours, my soul!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'No,' replied his wife.\n\nAnd notwithstanding various blandishments on the part of Mr. Mantalini,\nMadame Mantalini still said no, and said it too with such determined and\nresolute ill-temper, that Mr. Mantalini was clearly taken aback.\n\n'His extravagance, Mr. Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini, addressing\nherself to Ralph, who leant against his easy-chair with his hands behind\nhim, and regarded the amiable couple with a smile of the supremest and\nmost unmitigated contempt,--'his extravagance is beyond all bounds.'\n\n'I should scarcely have supposed it,' answered Ralph, sarcastically.\n\n'I assure you, Mr. Nickleby, however, that it is,' returned Madame\nMantalini. 'It makes me miserable! I am under constant apprehensions,\nand in constant difficulty. And even this,' said Madame Mantalini,\nwiping her eyes, 'is not the worst. He took some papers of value out of\nmy desk this morning without asking my permission.'\n\nMr. Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trousers pocket.\n\n'I am obliged,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'since our late misfortunes,\nto pay Miss Knag a great deal of money for having her name in the\nbusiness, and I really cannot afford to encourage him in all his\nwastefulness. As I have no doubt that he came straight here, Mr\nNickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of, into money, and as you\nhave assisted us very often before, and are very much connected with us\nin this kind of matters, I wish you to know the determination at which\nhis conduct has compelled me to arrive.'\n\nMr. Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife's bonnet, and\nfitting a sovereign into one of his eyes, winked with the other at\nRalph. Having achieved this performance with great dexterity, he whipped\nthe coin into his pocket, and groaned again with increased penitence.\n\n'I have made up my mind,' said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of impatience\nmanifested themselves in Ralph's countenance, 'to allowance him.'\n\n'To do that, my joy?' inquired Mr. Mantalini, who did not seem to have\ncaught the words.\n\n'To put him,' said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, and prudently\nabstaining from the slightest glance at her husband, lest his many\ngraces should induce her to falter in her resolution, 'to put him upon a\nfixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundred and twenty pounds\na year for his clothes and pocket-money, he may consider himself a very\nfortunate man.'\n\nMr. Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amount of the\nproposed stipend, but when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and cane\nupon the floor, and drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, gave vent to\nhis feelings in a dismal moan.\n\n'Demnition!' cried Mr. Mantalini, suddenly skipping out of his chair,\nand as suddenly skipping into it again, to the great discomposure of his\nlady's nerves. 'But no. It is a demd horrid dream. It is not reality.\nNo!'\n\nComforting himself with this assurance, Mr. Mantalini closed his eyes and\nwaited patiently till such time as he should wake up.\n\n'A very judicious arrangement,' observed Ralph with a sneer, 'if your\nhusband will keep within it, ma'am--as no doubt he will.'\n\n'Demmit!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini, opening his eyes at the sound of\nRalph's voice, 'it is a horrid reality. She is sitting there before me.\nThere is the graceful outline of her form; it cannot be mistaken--there\nis nothing like it. The two countesses had no outlines at all, and the\ndowager's was a demd outline. Why is she so excruciatingly beautiful\nthat I cannot be angry with her, even now?'\n\n'You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,' returned Madame\nMantalini--still reproachfully, but in a softened tone.\n\n'I am a demd villain!' cried Mr. Mantalini, smiting himself on the head.\n'I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign in halfpence and\ndrown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angry with her, even then,\nfor I will put a note in the twopenny-post as I go along, to tell her\nwhere the body is. She will be a lovely widow. I shall be a body. Some\nhandsome women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.'\n\n'Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature,' said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at\nthe dreadful picture.\n\n'She calls me cruel--me--me--who for her sake will become a demd, damp,\nmoist, unpleasant body!' exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a\nthing,' replied Madame Mantalini.\n\n'Can I live to be mistrusted?' cried her husband. 'Have I cut my heart\ninto a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them\nall away, one after another, to the same little engrossing demnition\ncaptivater, and can I live to be suspected by her? Demmit, no I can't.'\n\n'Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,'\nreasoned Madame Mantalini.\n\n'I don't want any sum,' replied her disconsolate husband; 'I shall\nrequire no demd allowance. I will be a body.'\n\nOn this repetition of Mr. Mantalini's fatal threat, Madame Mantalini\nwrung her hands, and implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby; and\nafter a great quantity of tears and talking, and several attempts on\nthe part of Mr. Mantalini to reach the door, preparatory to straightway\ncommitting violence upon himself, that gentleman was prevailed upon,\nwith difficulty, to promise that he wouldn't be a body. This great point\nattained, Madame Mantalini argued the question of the allowance, and Mr\nMantalini did the same, taking occasion to show that he could live with\nuncommon satisfaction upon bread and water, and go clad in rags, but\nthat he could not support existence with the additional burden of\nbeing mistrusted by the object of his most devoted and disinterested\naffection. This brought fresh tears into Madame Mantalini's eyes, which\nhaving just begun to open to some few of the demerits of Mr. Mantalini,\nwere only open a very little way, and could be easily closed again. The\nresult was, that without quite giving up the allowance question, Madame\nMantalini, postponed its further consideration; and Ralph saw, clearly\nenough, that Mr. Mantalini had gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and\nthat, for some time longer at all events, his degradation and downfall\nwere postponed.\n\n'But it will come soon enough,' thought Ralph; 'all love--bah! that I\nshould use the cant of boys and girls--is fleeting enough; though that\nwhich has its sole root in the admiration of a whiskered face like that\nof yonder baboon, perhaps lasts the longest, as it originates in the\ngreater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime the fools bring grist\nto my mill, so let them live out their day, and the longer it is, the\nbetter.'\n\nThese agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry small\ncaresses and endearments, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged between\nthe objects of his thoughts.\n\n'If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr. Nickleby,' said Madame\nMantalini, 'we will take our leaves. I am sure we have detained him much\ntoo long already.'\n\nMr. Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame\nMantalini several times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words\nthat he had nothing more to say.\n\n'Demmit! I have, though,' he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph\ninto a corner. 'Here's an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry. Such a\ndemd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind of thing as never was--eh?'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Ralph.\n\n'Don't you know, demmit?' asked Mr. Mantalini.\n\n'I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last night,\nand severely injured, and that his life is in some danger,' answered\nRalph with great composure; 'but I see nothing extraordinary in\nthat--accidents are not miraculous events, when men live hard, and drive\nafter dinner.'\n\n'Whew!' cried Mr. Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. 'Then don't you\nknow how it was?'\n\n'Not unless it was as I have just supposed,' replied Ralph, shrugging\nhis shoulders carelessly, as if to give his questioner to understand\nthat he had no curiosity upon the subject.\n\n'Demmit, you amaze me,' cried Mantalini.\n\nRalph shrugged his shoulders again, as if it were no great feat to amaze\nMr. Mantalini, and cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman Noggs,\nwhich had several times appeared behind a couple of panes of glass in\nthe room door; it being a part of Newman's duty, when unimportant people\ncalled, to make various feints of supposing that the bell had rung for\nhim to show them out: by way of a gentle hint to such visitors that it\nwas time to go.\n\n'Don't you know,' said Mr. Mantalini, taking Ralph by the button, 'that\nit wasn't an accident at all, but a demd, furious, manslaughtering\nattack made upon him by your nephew?'\n\n'What!' snarled Ralph, clenching his fists and turning a livid white.\n\n'Demmit, Nickleby, you're as great a tiger as he is,' said Mantalini,\nalarmed at these demonstrations.\n\n'Go on,' cried Ralph. 'Tell me what you mean. What is this story? Who\ntold you? Speak,' growled Ralph. 'Do you hear me?'\n\n''Gad, Nickleby,' said Mr. Mantalini, retreating towards his wife, 'what\na demneble fierce old evil genius you are! You're enough to frighten the\nlife and soul out of her little delicious wits--flying all at once into\nsuch a blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never was, demmit!'\n\n'Pshaw,' rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. 'It is but manner.'\n\n'It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,' said Mr\nMantalini, picking up his cane.\n\nRalph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr. Mantalini\nhad derived his information.\n\n'From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,' replied\nMantalini. 'Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.'\n\n'And what said he?' asked Ralph, knitting his brows.\n\n'That it happened this way--that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse,\nfell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab,\nswore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon the horse's back or\nhooked himself on to the horse's tail; smashed his countenance, which\nis a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse,\npitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and--'\n\n'And was killed?' interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. 'Was he? Is he\ndead?'\n\nMantalini shook his head.\n\n'Ugh,' said Ralph, turning away. 'Then he has done nothing. Stay,'\nhe added, looking round again. 'He broke a leg or an arm, or put his\nshoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib or two? His\nneck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and slow-healing\ninjury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.'\n\n'No,' rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. 'Unless he was dashed\ninto such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn't hurt, for he went\noff as quiet and comfortable as--as--as demnition,' said Mr. Mantalini,\nrather at a loss for a simile.\n\n'And what,' said Ralph, hesitating a little, 'what was the cause of\nquarrel?'\n\n'You are the demdest, knowing hand,' replied Mr. Mantalini, in an\nadmiring tone, 'the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox--oh\ndem!--to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed\nniece--the softest, sweetest, prettiest--'\n\n'Alfred!' interposed Madame Mantalini.\n\n'She is always right,' rejoined Mr. Mantalini soothingly, 'and when she\nsays it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and when she walks\nalong the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say, with envy,\nshe has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say with rapture,\nhe has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be right and neither\nwrong, upon my life and soul--oh demmit!'\n\nWith which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the\npurpose, Mr. Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph\nNickleby, and drawing his lady's arm through his, led her mincingly\naway.\n\n'So, so,' muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; 'this devil is loose\nagain, and thwarting me, as he was born to do, at every turn. He told\nme once there should be a day of reckoning between us, sooner or later.\nI'll make him a true prophet, for it shall surely come.'\n\n'Are you at home?' asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.\n\n'No,' replied Ralph, with equal abruptness.\n\nNewman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.\n\n'You're quite sure you're not at home, are you?' said Newman.\n\n'What does the idiot mean?' cried Ralph, testily.\n\n'He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may have\nheard your voice--that's all,' said Newman, rubbing his hands.\n\n'Who has?' demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence he had just\nheard, and his clerk's provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of\nirritation.\n\nThe necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked-for entrance\nof a third party--the individual in question--who, bringing his one\neye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph Nickleby, made a great many\nshambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with his hands on\nhis knees, and his short black trousers drawn up so high in the legs by\nthe exertion of seating himself, that they scarcely reached below the\ntops of his Wellington boots.\n\n'Why, this IS a surprise!' said Ralph, bending his gaze upon the\nvisitor, and half smiling as he scrutinised him attentively; 'I should\nknow your face, Mr. Squeers.'\n\n'Ah!' replied that worthy, 'and you'd have know'd it better, sir, if\nit hadn't been for all that I've been a-going through. Just lift that\nlittle boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and tell him to come\nin here, will you, my man?' said Squeers, addressing himself to Newman.\n'Oh, he's lifted his-self off. My son, sir, little Wackford. What do you\nthink of him, sir, for a specimen of the Dotheboys Hall feeding? Ain't\nhe fit to bust out of his clothes, and start the seams, and make the\nvery buttons fly off with his fatness? Here's flesh!' cried Squeers,\nturning the boy about, and indenting the plumpest parts of his figure\nwith divers pokes and punches, to the great discomposure of his son\nand heir. 'Here's firmness, here's solidness! Why you can hardly get up\nenough of him between your finger and thumb to pinch him anywheres.'\n\nIn however good condition Master Squeers might have been, he certainly\ndid not present this remarkable compactness of person, for on his\nfather's closing his finger and thumb in illustration of his remark,\nhe uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the most natural manner\npossible.\n\n'Well,' remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, 'I had him there; but\nthat's because we breakfasted early this morning, and he hasn't had his\nlunch yet. Why you couldn't shut a bit of him in a door, when he's had\nhis dinner. Look at them tears, sir,' said Squeers, with a triumphant\nair, as Master Wackford wiped his eyes with the cuff of his jacket,\n'there's oiliness!'\n\n'He looks well, indeed,' returned Ralph, who, for some purposes of his\nown, seemed desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. 'But how is Mrs\nSqueers, and how are you?'\n\n'Mrs. Squeers, sir,' replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, 'is as she\nalways is--a mother to them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort, and\na joy to all them as knows her. One of our boys--gorging his-self with\nvittles, and then turning in; that's their way--got a abscess on him\nlast week. To see how she operated upon him with a pen-knife! Oh Lor!'\nsaid Squeers, heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great many times,\n'what a member of society that woman is!'\n\nMr. Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarter of a\nminute, as if this allusion to his lady's excellences had naturally\nled his mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge\nin Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waiting for him to say\nsomething.\n\n'Have you quite recovered that scoundrel's attack?' asked Ralph.\n\n'I've only just done it, if I've done it now,' replied Squeers. 'I was\none blessed bruise, sir,' said Squeers, touching first the roots of his\nhair, and then the toes of his boots, 'from HERE to THERE. Vinegar and\nbrown paper, vinegar and brown paper, from morning to night. I suppose\nthere was a matter of half a ream of brown paper stuck upon me, from\nfirst to last. As I laid all of a heap in our kitchen, plastered all\nover, you might have thought I was a large brown-paper parcel, chock\nfull of nothing but groans. Did I groan loud, Wackford, or did I groan\nsoft?' asked Mr. Squeers, appealing to his son.\n\n'Loud,' replied Wackford.\n\n'Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition, Wackford, or\nwas they glad?' asked Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental manner.\n\n'Gl--'\n\n'Eh?' cried Squeers, turning sharp round.\n\n'Sorry,' rejoined his son.\n\n'Oh!' said Squeers, catching him a smart box on the ear. 'Then take\nyour hands out of your pockets, and don't stammer when you're asked a\nquestion. Hold your noise, sir, in a gentleman's office, or I'll run\naway from my family and never come back any more; and then what would\nbecome of all them precious and forlorn lads as would be let loose on\nthe world, without their best friend at their elbers?'\n\n'Were you obliged to have medical attendance?' inquired Ralph.\n\n'Ay, was I,' rejoined Squeers, 'and a precious bill the medical\nattendant brought in too; but I paid it though.'\n\nRalph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might be expressive of\neither sympathy or astonishment--just as the beholder was pleased to\ntake it.\n\n'Yes, I paid it, every farthing,' replied Squeers, who seemed to know\nthe man he had to deal with, too well to suppose that any blinking of\nthe question would induce him to subscribe towards the expenses; 'I\nwasn't out of pocket by it after all, either.'\n\n'No!' said Ralph.\n\n'Not a halfpenny,' replied Squeers. 'The fact is, we have only one extra\nwith our boys, and that is for doctors when required--and not then,\nunless we're sure of our customers. Do you see?'\n\n'I understand,' said Ralph.\n\n'Very good,' rejoined Squeers. 'Then, after my bill was run up, we\npicked out five little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure pay)\nthat had never had the scarlet fever, and we sent one to a cottage where\nthey'd got it, and he took it, and then we put the four others to sleep\nwith him, and THEY took it, and then the doctor came and attended 'em\nonce all round, and we divided my total among 'em, and added it on to\ntheir little bills, and the parents paid it. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'And a good plan too,' said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.\n\n'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers. 'We always do it. Why, when Mrs\nSqueers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the\nhooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged her expenses among\n'em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nRalph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest\napproach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr. Squeers had enjoyed\nthe professional joke to his heart's content, inquired what had brought\nhim to town.\n\n'Some bothering law business,' replied Squeers, scratching his head,\n'connected with an action, for what they call neglect of a boy. I don't\nknow what they would have. He had as good grazing, that boy had, as\nthere is about us.'\n\nRalph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.\n\n'Grazing,' said Squeers, raising his voice, under the impression that as\nRalph failed to comprehend him, he must be deaf. 'When a boy gets weak\nand ill and don't relish his meals, we give him a change of diet--turn\nhim out, for an hour or so every day, into a neighbour's turnip field,\nor sometimes, if it's a delicate case, a turnip field and a piece of\ncarrots alternately, and let him eat as many as he likes. There an't\nbetter land in the country than this perwerse lad grazed on, and yet he\ngoes and catches cold and indigestion and what not, and then his friends\nbrings a lawsuit against ME! Now, you'd hardly suppose,' added Squeers,\nmoving in his chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, 'that\npeople's ingratitude would carry them quite as far as that; would you?'\n\n'A hard case, indeed,' observed Ralph.\n\n'You don't say more than the truth when you say that,' replied Squeers.\n'I don't suppose there's a man going, as possesses the fondness for\nyouth that I do. There's youth to the amount of eight hundred pound a\nyear at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I'd take sixteen hundred\npound worth if I could get 'em, and be as fond of every individual\ntwenty pound among 'em as nothing should equal it!'\n\n'Are you stopping at your old quarters?' asked Ralph.\n\n'Yes, we are at the Saracen,' replied Squeers, 'and as it don't want\nvery long to the end of the half-year, we shall continney to stop there\ntill I've collected the money, and some new boys too, I hope. I've\nbrought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and\nguardians. I shall put him in the advertisement, this time. Look at that\nboy--himself a pupil. Why he's a miracle of high feeding, that boy is!'\n\n'I should like to have a word with you,' said Ralph, who had both\nspoken and listened mechanically for some time, and seemed to have been\nthinking.\n\n'As many words as you like, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Wackford, you go\nand play in the back office, and don't move about too much or you'll get\nthin, and that won't do. You haven't got such a thing as twopence, Mr\nNickleby, have you?' said Squeers, rattling a bunch of keys in his coat\npocket, and muttering something about its being all silver.\n\n'I--think I have,' said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after much\nrummaging in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.\n\n'Thankee,' said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. 'Here! You go and\nbuy a tart--Mr. Nickleby's man will show you where--and mind you buy a\nrich one. Pastry,' added Squeers, closing the door on Master Wackford,\n'makes his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks that a healthy\nsign.'\n\nWith this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke it out,\nMr. Squeers moved his chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph\nNickleby at no great distance off; and having planted it to his entire\nsatisfaction, sat down.\n\n'Attend to me,' said Ralph, bending forward a little.\n\nSqueers nodded.\n\n'I am not to suppose,' said Ralph, 'that you are dolt enough to forgive\nor forget, very readily, the violence that was committed upon you, or\nthe exposure which accompanied it?'\n\n'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers, tartly.\n\n'Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you could\nget one?' said Ralph.\n\n'Show me one, and try,' rejoined Squeers.\n\n'Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?' said Ralph,\nraising his eyes to the schoolmaster's face.\n\n'N-n-no, I don't know that,' replied Squeers. 'I thought that if it\nwas in your power to make me, besides the trifle of money you sent, any\ncompensation--'\n\n'Ah!' cried Ralph, interrupting him. 'You needn't go on.'\n\nAfter a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in\ncontemplation, he again broke silence by asking:\n\n'Who is this boy that he took with him?'\n\nSqueers stated his name.\n\n'Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable or rebellious? Speak\nout, man,' retorted Ralph.\n\n'Why, he wasn't young,' answered Squeers; 'that is, not young for a boy,\nyou know.'\n\n'That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?' interrupted Ralph.\n\n'Well,' returned Squeers, briskly, as if he felt relieved by the\nsuggestion, 'he might have been nigh twenty. He wouldn't seem so old,\nthough, to them as didn't know him, for he was a little wanting here,'\ntouching his forehead; 'nobody at home, you know, if you knocked ever so\noften.'\n\n'And you DID knock pretty often, I dare say?' muttered Ralph.\n\n'Pretty well,' returned Squeers with a grin.\n\n'When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt of this trifle of money as\nyou call it,' said Ralph, 'you told me his friends had deserted him long\nago, and that you had not the faintest clue or trace to tell you who he\nwas. Is that the truth?'\n\n'It is, worse luck!' replied Squeers, becoming more and more easy and\nfamiliar in his manner, as Ralph pursued his inquiries with the less\nreserve. 'It's fourteen years ago, by the entry in my book, since a\nstrange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and left him\nthere; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in advance. He\nmight have been five or six year old at that time--not more.'\n\n'What more do you know about him?' demanded Ralph.\n\n'Devilish little, I'm sorry to say,' replied Squeers. 'The money was\npaid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He had given an\naddress in London, had this chap; but when it came to the point, of\ncourse nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad out of--out\nof--'\n\n'Charity?' suggested Ralph drily.\n\n'Charity, to be sure,' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'and when he\nbegins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoundrel of\na Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the most vexatious and\naggeravating part of the whole affair is,' said Squeers, dropping his\nvoice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph, 'that some questions\nhave been asked about him at last--not of me, but, in a roundabout kind\nof way, of people in our village. So, that just when I might have had\nall arrears paid up, perhaps, and perhaps--who knows? such things have\nhappened in our business before--a present besides for putting him out\nto a farmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to\ndisgrace his parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our\nboys are--damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don't collar him in open\nday, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.'\n\n'We will both cry quits with him before long,' said Ralph, laying his\nhand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.\n\n'Quits!' echoed Squeers. 'Ah! and I should like to leave a small balance\nin his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs. Squeers could\ncatch hold of him. Bless her heart! She'd murder him, Mr. Nickleby--she\nwould, as soon as eat her dinner.'\n\n'We will talk of this again,' said Ralph. 'I must have time to think of\nit. To wound him through his own affections and fancies--. If I could\nstrike him through this boy--'\n\n'Strike him how you like, sir,' interrupted Squeers, 'only hit him hard\nenough, that's all--and with that, I'll say good-morning. Here!--just\nchuck that little boy's hat off that corner peg, and lift him off the\nstool will you?'\n\nBawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr. Squeers betook himself to the\nlittle back-office, and fitted on his child's hat with parental anxiety,\nwhile Newman, with his pen behind his ear, sat, stiff and immovable, on\nhis stool, regarding the father and son by turns with a broad stare.\n\n'He's a fine boy, an't he?' said Squeers, throwing his head a little\non one side, and falling back to the desk, the better to estimate the\nproportions of little Wackford.\n\n'Very,' said Newman.\n\n'Pretty well swelled out, an't he?' pursued Squeers. 'He has the fatness\nof twenty boys, he has.'\n\n'Ah!' replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of Squeers,\n'he has;--the fatness of twenty!--more! He's got it all. God help that\nothers. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!'\n\nHaving uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon his\ndesk and began to write with most marvellous rapidity.\n\n'Why, what does the man mean?' cried Squeers, colouring. 'Is he drunk?'\n\nNewman made no reply.\n\n'Is he mad?' said Squeers.\n\nBut, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his\nown; so, Mr. Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk\nAND mad; and, with this parting observation, he led his hopeful son\naway.\n\nIn exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of a struggling\nand lingering regard for Kate, had his detestation of Nicholas\naugmented. It might be, that to atone for the weakness of inclining to\nany one person, he held it necessary to hate some other more intensely\nthan before; but such had been the course of his feelings. And now,\nto be defied and spurned, to be held up to her in the worst and most\nrepulsive colours, to know that she was taught to hate and despise\nhim: to feel that there was infection in his touch, and taint in his\ncompanionship--to know all this, and to know that the mover of it all\nwas that same boyish poor relation who had twitted him in their very\nfirst interview, and openly bearded and braved him since, wrought his\nquiet and stealthy malignity to such a pitch, that there was scarcely\nanything he would not have hazarded to gratify it, if he could have seen\nhis way to some immediate retaliation.\n\nBut, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; and although he\ncast about all that day, and kept a corner of his brain working on the\none anxious subject through all the round of schemes and business that\ncame with it, night found him at last, still harping on the same theme,\nand still pursuing the same unprofitable reflections.\n\n'When my brother was such as he,' said Ralph, 'the first comparisons\nwere drawn between us--always in my disfavour. HE was open, liberal,\ngallant, gay; I a crafty hunks of cold and stagnant blood, with no\npassion but love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst for gain. I\nrecollected it well when I first saw this whipster; but I remember it\nbetter now.'\n\nHe had been occupied in tearing Nicholas's letter into atoms; and as he\nspoke, he scattered it in a tiny shower about him.\n\n'Recollections like these,' pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, 'flock\nupon me--when I resign myself to them--in crowds, and from countless\nquarters. As a portion of the world affect to despise the power of\nmoney, I must try and show them what it is.'\n\nAnd being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind for slumber, Ralph\nNickleby went to bed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\nSmike becomes known to Mrs. Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with\nnew Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family\n\n\nHaving established his mother and sister in the apartments of the\nkind-hearted miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry Hawk\nwas in no danger of losing his life, Nicholas turned his thoughts to\npoor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman Noggs, had remained, in\na disconsolate state, at that worthy creature's lodgings, waiting, with\nmuch anxiety, for further intelligence of his protector.\n\n'As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we live,\nor whatever fortune is in reserve for us,' thought Nicholas, 'I must\npresent the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him for his\nown sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent I could\nwish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.'\n\nNicholas said 'they', but his misgivings were confined to one person.\nHe was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother's peculiarities, and was\nnot quite so certain that Smike would find favour in the eyes of Mrs\nNickleby.\n\n'However,' thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent errand;\n'she cannot fail to become attached to him, when she knows what a\ndevoted creature he is, and as she must quickly make the discovery, his\nprobation will be a short one.'\n\n'I was afraid,' said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again, 'that you\nhad fallen into some fresh trouble; the time seemed so long, at last,\nthat I almost feared you were lost.'\n\n'Lost!' replied Nicholas gaily. 'You will not be rid of me so easily,\nI promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousand times yet,\nand the harder the thrust that pushes me down, the more quickly I shall\nrebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take you home.'\n\n'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.\n\n'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'\n\n'I had such hopes once,' said Smike; 'day and night, day and night,\nfor many years. I longed for home till I was weary, and pined away with\ngrief, but now--'\n\n'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. 'What now,\nold friend?'\n\n'I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,' replied Smike,\npressing his hand; 'except one, except one. I shall never be an old man;\nand if your hand placed me in the grave, and I could think, before I\ndied, that you would come and look upon it sometimes with one of your\nkind smiles, and in the summer weather, when everything was alive--not\ndead like me--I could go to that home almost without a tear.'\n\n'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with me?'\nsaid Nicholas.\n\n'Because I should change; not those about me. And if they forgot me,\nI should never know it,' replied Smike. 'In the churchyard we are all\nalike, but here there are none like me. I am a poor creature, but I know\nthat.'\n\n'You are a foolish, silly creature,' said Nicholas cheerfully. 'If\nthat is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here's a dismal face for\nladies' company!--my pretty sister too, whom you have so often asked me\nabout. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for shame!'\n\nSmike brightened up and smiled.\n\n'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine--which is yours\nof course. If it were defined by any particular four walls and a roof,\nGod knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to say whereabouts it lay;\nbut that is not what I mean. When I speak of home, I speak of the place\nwhere--in default of a better--those I love are gathered together; and\nif that place were a gypsy's tent, or a barn, I should call it by the\nsame good name notwithstanding. And now, for what is my present home,\nwhich, however alarming your expectations may be, will neither terrify\nyou by its extent nor its magnificence!'\n\nSo saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a great\ndeal more to the same purpose, and pointing out various things to amuse\nand interest him as they went along, led the way to Miss La Creevy's\nhouse.\n\n'And this, Kate,' said Nicholas, entering the room where his sister sat\nalone, 'is the faithful friend and affectionate fellow-traveller whom I\nprepared you to receive.'\n\nPoor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at first,\nbut Kate advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a sweet\nvoice, how anxious she had been to see him after all her brother\nhad told her, and how much she had to thank him for having comforted\nNicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he began to be\nvery doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and became still more\nflurried. However, he managed to say, in a broken voice, that Nicholas\nwas his only friend, and that he would lay down his life to help him;\nand Kate, although she was so kind and considerate, seemed to be so\nwholly unconscious of his distress and embarrassment, that he recovered\nalmost immediately and felt quite at home.\n\nThen, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be presented also.\nAnd Miss La Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully talkative: not to\nSmike, for that would have made him uneasy at first, but to Nicholas and\nhis sister. Then, after a time, she would speak to Smike himself now and\nthen, asking him whether he was a judge of likenesses, and whether he\nthought that picture in the corner was like herself, and whether he\ndidn't think it would have looked better if she had made herself ten\nyears younger, and whether he didn't think, as a matter of general\nobservation, that young ladies looked better not only in pictures, but\nout of them too, than old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious\nremarks, which were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that\nSmike thought, within himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen;\neven nicer than Mrs. Grudden, of Mr. Vincent Crummles's theatre; and she\nwas a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly louder,\nthan Miss La Creevy.\n\nAt length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in; and\nNicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling her\nhis mother, led her towards the chair from which Smike had risen when\nshe entered the room.\n\n'You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed, my dear\nmother,' said Nicholas, 'so you will be favourably disposed towards him,\nI know.'\n\n'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs. Nickleby, looking very hard\nat her new friend, and bending to him with something more of majesty\nthan the occasion seemed to require: 'I am sure any friend of yours\nhas, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must have, of course, you\nknow, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a very great pleasure\nto me to be introduced to anybody you take an interest in. There can be\nno doubt about that; none at all; not the least in the world,' said Mrs\nNickleby. 'At the same time I must say, Nicholas, my dear, as I used\nto say to your poor dear papa, when he WOULD bring gentlemen home to\ndinner, and there was nothing in the house, that if he had come the\nday before yesterday--no, I don't mean the day before yesterday now;\nI should have said, perhaps, the year before last--we should have been\nbetter able to entertain him.'\n\nWith which remarks, Mrs. Nickleby turned to her daughter, and inquired,\nin an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was going to stop all\nnight.\n\n'Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'I don't see that\nit's possible for him to sleep anywhere, and that's the truth.'\n\nKate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of annoyance or\nirritation, breathed a few words into her mother's ear.\n\n'La, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs. Nickleby, shrinking back, 'how you do\ntickle one! Of course, I understand THAT, my love, without your telling\nme; and I said the same to Nicholas, and I AM very much pleased. You\ndidn't tell me, Nicholas, my dear,' added Mrs. Nickleby, turning round\nwith an air of less reserve than she had before assumed, 'what your\nfriend's name is.'\n\n'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'\n\nThe effect of this communication was by no means anticipated; but the\nname was no sooner pronounced, than Mrs. Nickleby dropped upon a chair,\nand burst into a fit of crying.\n\n'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.\n\n'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs. Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke. Oh!\ndon't speak to me--I shall be better presently.'\n\nAnd after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all its\nstages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a full tumbler,\nand spilling the remainder, Mrs. Nickleby WAS better, and remarked, with\na feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.\n\n'It's a weakness in our family,' said Mrs. Nickleby, 'so, of course,\nI can't be blamed for it. Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly the\nsame--precisely. The least excitement, the slightest surprise--she\nfainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, that when\nshe was a young lady, and before she was married, she was turning\na corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran against her own\nhairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;--the mere\nsuddenness of the encounter made her faint away directly. Wait, though,'\nadded Mrs. Nickleby, pausing to consider. 'Let me be sure I'm right. Was\nit her hairdresser who had escaped from a bear, or was it a bear who had\nescaped from her hairdresser's? I declare I can't remember just now, but\nthe hairdresser was a very handsome man, I know, and quite a gentleman\nin his manners; so that it has nothing to do with the point of the\nstory.'\n\nMrs. Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her retrospective\nmoods, improved in temper from that moment, and glided, by an easy\nchange of the conversation occasionally, into various other anecdotes,\nno less remarkable for their strict application to the subject in hand.\n\n'Mr. Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs. Nickleby,\nafter dinner, and when she had been silent for some time.\n\n'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not forgotten his\nmelancholy history.'\n\n'O dear no,' cried Mrs. Nickleby. 'Ah! melancholy, indeed. You don't\nhappen, Mr. Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of Grimble Hall,\nsomewhere in the North Riding, do you?' said the good lady, addressing\nherself to him. 'A very proud man, Sir Thomas Grimble, with six grown-up\nand most lovely daughters, and the finest park in the county.'\n\n'My dear mother,' reasoned Nicholas, 'do you suppose that the\nunfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receive many\ncards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in the neighbourhood?'\n\n'Really, my dear, I don't know why it should be so very extraordinary,'\nsaid Mrs. Nickleby. 'I know that when I was at school, I always went at\nleast twice every half-year to the Hawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they\nare much richer than the Grimbles, and connected with them in marriage;\nso you see it's not so very unlikely, after all.'\n\nHaving put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs. Nickleby was\nsuddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an\nirresistible tendency to call him Mr. Slammons; which circumstance she\nattributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names in point of\nsound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt with an M. But\nwhatever doubt there might be on this point, there was none as to his\nbeing a most excellent listener; which circumstance had considerable\ninfluence in placing them on the very best terms, and inducing Mrs\nNickleby to express the highest opinion of his general deportment and\ndisposition.\n\nThus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and agreeable\nfooting, until the Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself from\nit for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the state of his affairs,\nand to determine, if he could, upon some course of life, which would\nenable him to support those who were so entirely dependent upon his\nexertions.\n\nMr. Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate was\nacquainted with the whole history of his connection with that gentleman,\nhis mother was not; and he foresaw a thousand fretful objections, on\nher part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage. There were graver\nreasons, too, against his returning to that mode of life. Independently\nof those arising out of its spare and precarious earnings, and his own\ninternal conviction that he could never hope to aspire to any great\ndistinction, even as a provincial actor, how could he carry his sister\nfrom town to town, and place to place, and debar her from any other\nassociates than those with whom he would be compelled, almost without\ndistinction, to mingle? 'It won't do,' said Nicholas, shaking his head;\n'I must try something else.'\n\nIt was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into effect.\nWith no greater experience of the world than he had acquired for himself\nin his short trials; with a sufficient share of headlong rashness and\nprecipitation (qualities not altogether unnatural at his time of life);\nwith a very slender stock of money, and a still more scanty stock\nof friends; what could he do? 'Egad!' said Nicholas, 'I'll try that\nRegister Office again.'\n\nHe smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for, an\ninstant before, he had been internally blaming his own precipitation.\nHe did not laugh himself out of the intention, however, for on he went:\npicturing to himself, as he approached the place, all kinds of splendid\npossibilities, and impossibilities too, for that matter, and thinking\nhimself, perhaps with good reason, very fortunate to be endowed with so\nbuoyant and sanguine a temperament.\n\nThe office looked just the same as when he had left it last, and,\nindeed, with one or two exceptions, there seemed to be the very same\nplacards in the window that he had seen before. There were the same\nunimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous servants,\nand the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable masters and\nmistresses, and the same magnificent estates for the investment of\ncapital, and the same enormous quantities of capital to be invested in\nestates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all sorts for people\nwho wanted to make their fortunes. And a most extraordinary proof it\nwas of the national prosperity, that people had not been found to avail\nthemselves of such advantages long ago.\n\nAs Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman happened\nto stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the window-panes from\nleft to right in search of some capital-text placard which should be\napplicable to his own case, caught sight of this old gentleman's figure,\nand instinctively withdrew his eyes from the window, to observe the same\nmore closely.\n\nHe was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, made pretty\nlarge, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky legs\nclothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head protected by\na low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy grazier might\nwear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled double chin rested\nin the folds of a white neckerchief--not one of your stiff-starched\napoplectic cravats, but a good, easy, old-fashioned white neckcloth that\na man might go to bed in and be none the worse for. But what principally\nattracted the attention of Nicholas was the old gentleman's eye,--never\nwas such a clear, twinkling, honest, merry, happy eye, as that. And\nthere he stood, looking a little upward, with one hand thrust into the\nbreast of his coat, and the other playing with his old-fashioned gold\nwatch-chain: his head thrown a little on one side, and his hat a little\nmore on one side than his head, (but that was evidently accident; not\nhis ordinary way of wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing\nabout his mouth, and such a comical expression of mingled slyness,\nsimplicity, kind-heartedness, and good-humour, lighting up his jolly\nold face, that Nicholas would have been content to have stood there\nand looked at him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile, that\nthere was such a thing as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance to be\nmet with in the whole wide world.\n\nBut, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not to\nbe made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of having been the\nsubject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas; and the latter,\nfearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the window instantly.\n\nStill, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to placard,\nand Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his face again.\nGrafted upon the quaintness and oddity of his appearance, was something\nso indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much worth, and there were\nso many little lights hovering about the corners of his mouth and eyes,\nthat it was not a mere amusement, but a positive pleasure and delight to\nlook at him.\n\nThis being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught Nicholas\nin the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholas coloured and looked\nembarrassed: for the truth is, that he had begun to wonder whether the\nstranger could, by any possibility, be looking for a clerk or secretary;\nand thinking this, he felt as if the old gentleman must know it.\n\nLong as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of minutes\nin passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholas caught his eye\nagain, and, in the awkwardness of the moment, stammered out an apology.\n\n'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.\n\nThis was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so exactly what\nit should have been from such a speaker, and there was such a cordiality\nin the manner, that Nicholas was emboldened to speak again.\n\n'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as he\nmotioned towards the window.\n\n'A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have seriously\nthought so very often, I dare say,' replied the old man. 'Poor fellows,\npoor fellows!'\n\nHe moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was about to\nspeak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to\ncut him short. After a little of that hesitation which may be sometimes\nobserved between two people in the street who have exchanged a nod,\nand are both uncertain whether they shall turn back and speak, or not,\nNicholas found himself at the old man's side.\n\n'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to say?'\n\n'Merely that I almost hoped--I mean to say, thought--you had some object\nin consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Ay, ay? what object now--what object?' returned the old man, looking\nslyly at Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now--eh? Did you\nthink I did?'\n\nNicholas shook his head.\n\n'Ha! ha!' laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and wrists as\nif he were washing them. 'A very natural thought, at all events, after\nseeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same of you, at first;\nupon my word I did.'\n\n'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been far\nfrom the truth,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Eh?' cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot. 'What! Dear\nme! No, no. Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to such a necessity! No\nno, no no.'\n\nNicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.\n\n'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they\ncould converse with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'\n\n'Merely that your kind face and manner--both so unlike any I have ever\nseen--tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger in this\nwilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,' returned\nNicholas.\n\n'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It IS a wilderness,' said the old\nman with much animation. 'It was a wilderness to me once. I came here\nbarefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!' and he raised his hat\nfrom his head, and looked very grave.\n\n'What's the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?' said the old\nman, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking him up the\nstreet. 'You're--Eh?' laying his finger on the sleeve of his black coat.\n'Who's it for, eh?'\n\n'My father,' replied Nicholas.\n\n'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young man to lose\nhis father. Widowed mother, perhaps?'\n\nNicholas sighed.\n\n'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'\n\n'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.\n\n'Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?' said the\nold man, looking wistfully into the face of the young one.\n\n'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.\n\n'Fine thing,' said the old gentleman, 'education a great thing: a very\ngreat thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others. A very\nfine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me hear it all.\nNo impertinent curiosity--no, no, no.'\n\nThere was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which\nall this was said, and such a complete disregard of all conventional\nrestraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not resist it. Among\nmen who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so\ncontagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection\ninstantly, and ran over the main points of his little history without\nreserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as lightly as possible\nupon his uncle's treatment of Kate. The old man listened with great\nattention, and when he had concluded, drew his arm eagerly through his\nown.\n\n'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come along with me.\nWe mustn't lose a minute.'\n\nSo saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford Street, and\nhailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushed Nicholas in before\nhim, and followed himself.\n\nAs he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless excitement,\nand whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediately interposed with:\n'Don't say another word, my dear sir, on any account--not another word,'\nthe young man thought it better to attempt no further interruption.\nInto the city they journeyed accordingly, without interchanging any\nconversation; and the farther they went, the more Nicholas wondered what\nthe end of the adventure could possibly be.\n\nThe old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they reached\nthe Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him along\nThreadneedle Street, and through some lanes and passages on the right,\nuntil they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little square. Into the\noldest and cleanest-looking house of business in the square, he led the\nway. The only inscription on the door-post was 'Cheeryble, Brothers;'\nbut from a hasty glance at the directions of some packages which were\nlying about, Nicholas supposed that the brothers Cheeryble were German\nmerchants.\n\nPassing through a warehouse which presented every indication of a\nthriving business, Mr. Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to\nbe, from the respect which had been shown him by the warehousemen\nand porters whom they passed) led him into a little partitioned-off\ncounting-house like a large glass case, in which counting-house there\nsat--as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed into the\nglass case before the top was put on, and had never come out since--a\nfat, elderly, large-faced clerk, with silver spectacles and a powdered\nhead.\n\n'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr. Cheeryble, with no less\nkindness of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.\n\n'Yes, he is, sir,' replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle-glasses\ntowards his principal, and his eyes towards Nicholas, 'but Mr. Trimmers\nis with him.'\n\n'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr. Cheeryble.\n\n'He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a man who\nwas killed in the East India Docks this morning, sir,' rejoined Tim.\n'Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.'\n\n'He is a good creature,' said Mr. Cheeryble, with great earnestness. 'He\nis a kind soul. I am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers is one of\nthe best friends we have. He makes a thousand cases known to us that we\nshould never discover of ourselves. I am VERY much obliged to Trimmers.'\nSaying which, Mr. Cheeryble rubbed his hands with infinite delight, and\nMr. Trimmers happening to pass the door that instant, on his way out,\nshot out after him and caught him by the hand.\n\n'I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I take it\nvery friendly of you, very friendly indeed,' said Mr. Cheeryble, dragging\nhim into a corner to get out of hearing. 'How many children are there,\nand what has my brother Ned given, Trimmers?'\n\n'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your brother has\ngiven us twenty pounds.'\n\n'My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you're a good fellow too,\nTrimmers,' said the old man, shaking him by both hands with trembling\neagerness. 'Put me down for another twenty--or--stop a minute, stop a\nminute. We mustn't look ostentatious; put me down ten pound, and Tim\nLinkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound for Mr. Trimmers, Tim.\nGod bless you, Trimmers--and come and dine with us some day this week;\nyou'll always find a knife and fork, and we shall be delighted. Now, my\ndear sir--cheque from Mr. Linkinwater, Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar,\nand six poor children--oh dear, dear, dear!'\n\nTalking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any friendly\nremonstrances from the collector of the subscription on the large amount\nof his donation, Mr. Cheeryble led Nicholas, equally astonished and\naffected by what he had seen and heard in this short space, to the\nhalf-opened door of another room.\n\n'Brother Ned,' said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and\nstooping to listen, 'are you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare\ntime for a word or two with me?'\n\n'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a voice from the inside, so\nlike in its tones to that which had just spoken, that Nicholas started,\nand almost thought it was the same, 'don't ask me such a question, but\ncome in directly.'\n\nThey went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of Nicholas\nwhen his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting with another\nold gentleman, the very type and model of himself--the same face, the\nsame figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the same breeches\nand gaiters--nay, there was the very same white hat hanging against the\nwall!\n\nAs they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted up by\nbeaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to\nbehold in infants, and which, in men so old, was inexpressibly touching:\nNicholas could observe that the last old gentleman was something stouter\nthan his brother; this, and a slight additional shade of clumsiness in\nhis gait and stature, formed the only perceptible difference between\nthem. Nobody could have doubted their being twin brothers.\n\n'Brother Ned,' said Nicholas's friend, closing the room-door, 'here is a\nyoung friend of mine whom we must assist. We must make proper inquiries\ninto his statements, in justice to him as well as to ourselves, and if\nthey are confirmed--as I feel assured they will be--we must assist him,\nwe must assist him, brother Ned.'\n\n'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,' returned the\nother. 'When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He SHALL be\nassisted. What are his necessities, and what does he require? Where is\nTim Linkinwater? Let us have him here.'\n\nBoth the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic and\nearnest delivery; both had lost nearly the same teeth, which imparted\nthe same peculiarity to their speech; and both spoke as if, besides\npossessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest and most\nunsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting the plums from\nFortune's choicest pudding, retained a few for present use, and kept\nthem in their mouths.\n\n'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.\n\n'Stop, stop, stop!' said brother Charles, taking the other aside. 'I've\na plan, my dear brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting old, and Tim has\nbeen a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don't think pensioning Tim's\nmother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor\nbrother died, was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.'\n\n'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half enough, not\nhalf.'\n\n'If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the old gentleman, 'and prevail\nupon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleep in the fresh\nair, besides, two or three times a week (which he could, if he began\nbusiness an hour later in the morning), old Tim Linkinwater would grow\nyoung again in time; and he's three good years our senior now. Old Tim\nLinkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim\nLinkinwater quite a little boy, don't you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor\nTim!'\n\nAnd the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a tear\nof regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.\n\n'But hear this first--hear this first, brother Ned,' said the old man,\nhastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas: 'I'll tell it\nyou myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman is modest, and is\na scholar, Ned, and I shouldn't feel it right that he should tell us\nhis story over and over again as if he was a beggar, or as if we doubted\nhim. No, no no.'\n\n'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely. 'Very right,\nmy dear brother, very right.'\n\n'He will tell me I'm wrong, if I make a mistake,' said Nicholas's\nfriend. 'But whether I do or not, you'll be very much affected, brother\nNed, remembering the time when we were two friendless lads, and earned\nour first shilling in this great city.'\n\nThe twins pressed each other's hands in silence; and in his own homely\nmanner, brother Charles related the particulars he had heard from\nNicholas. The conversation which ensued was a long one, and when it was\nover, a secret conference of almost equal duration took place between\nbrother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It is no disparagement\nto Nicholas to say, that before he had been closeted with the two\nbrothers ten minutes, he could only wave his hand at every fresh\nexpression of kindness and sympathy, and sob like a little child.\n\nAt length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together, when Tim\ninstantly walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in a very brief\nsentence (for Tim was ordinarily a man of few words), that he had taken\ndown the address in the Strand, and would call upon him that evening,\nat eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his spectacles and put them on,\npreparatory to hearing what more the brothers Cheeryble had got to say.\n\n'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an intention\nof taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?'\n\nBrother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and quite\napproved of it; and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew himself up\nand looked particularly fat, and very important. After which, there was\na profound silence.\n\n'I'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,' said Tim,\nbreaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. 'I'm not going to\nsleep in the fresh air; no, nor I'm not going into the country either. A\npretty thing at this time of day, certainly. Pho!'\n\n'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,' said brother Charles, looking at\nhim without the faintest spark of anger, and with a countenance radiant\nwith attachment to the old clerk. 'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,\nwhat do you mean, sir?'\n\n'It's forty-four year,' said Tim, making a calculation in the air with\nhis pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up, 'forty-four\nyear, next May, since I first kept the books of Cheeryble, Brothers.\nI've opened the safe every morning all that time (Sundays excepted) as\nthe clock struck nine, and gone over the house every night at half-past\nten (except on Foreign Post nights, and then twenty minutes before\ntwelve) to see the doors fastened, and the fires out. I've never slept\nout of the back-attic one single night. There's the same mignonette box\nin the middle of the window, and the same four flower-pots, two on each\nside, that I brought with me when I first came. There an't--I've said it\nagain and again, and I'll maintain it--there an't such a square as this\nin the world. I KNOW there an't,' said Tim, with sudden energy, and\nlooking sternly about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in\nsummer-time or winter--I don't care which--there's nothing like it.\nThere's not such a spring in England as the pump under the archway.\nThere's not such a view in England as the view out of my window; I've\nseen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought to know something\nabout it. I have slept in that room,' added Tim, sinking his voice a\nlittle, 'for four-and-forty year; and if it wasn't inconvenient, and\ndidn't interfere with business, I should request leave to die there.'\n\n'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?' roared the\ntwins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.\n\n'That's what I've got to say, Mr. Edwin and Mr. Charles,' said Tim,\nsquaring his shoulders again. 'This isn't the first time you've talked\nabout superannuating me; but, if you please, we'll make it the last, and\ndrop the subject for evermore.'\n\nWith these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself up\nin his glass case, with the air of a man who had had his say, and was\nthoroughly resolved not to be put down.\n\nThe brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen times\nwithout speaking.\n\n'He must be done something with, brother Ned,' said the other, warmly;\n'we must disregard his old scruples; they can't be tolerated, or borne.\nHe must be made a partner, brother Ned; and if he won't submit to it\npeaceably, we must have recourse to violence.'\n\n'Quite right,' replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man thoroughly\ndetermined; 'quite right, my dear brother. If he won't listen to reason,\nwe must do it against his will, and show him that we are determined to\nexert our authority. We must quarrel with him, brother Charles.'\n\n'We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim Linkinwater,' said\nthe other. 'But in the meantime, my dear brother, we are keeping our\nyoung friend; and the poor lady and her daughter will be anxious for his\nreturn. So let us say goodbye for the present, and--there, there--take\ncare of that box, my dear sir--and--no, no, not a word now; but be\ncareful of the crossings and--'\n\nAnd with any disjointed and unconnected words which would prevent\nNicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him\nout: shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting very\nunsuccessfully--they were poor hands at deception!--to be wholly\nunconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.\n\nNicholas's heart was too full to allow of his turning into the street\nuntil he had recovered some composure. When he at last glided out of the\ndark doorway corner in which he had been compelled to halt, he caught\na glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at one corner of the glass\ncase, evidently undecided whether they should follow up their late\nattack without delay, or for the present postpone laying further siege\nto the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.\n\nTo recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances just\ndetailed awakened at Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that were\ndone, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied in consequence,\nis beside the present course and purpose of these adventures. It is\nsufficient to state, in brief, that Mr. Timothy Linkinwater arrived,\npunctual to his appointment; that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as\nhe was bound to be, of the proper exercise of his employers' most\ncomprehensive liberality, he reported strongly and warmly in favour of\nNicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in\nthe counting-house of Cheeryble, Brothers, with a present salary of one\nhundred and twenty pounds a year.\n\n'And I think, my dear brother,' said Nicholas's first friend, 'that\nif we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is empty, at\nsomething under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?'\n\n'For nothing at all,' said brother Ned. 'We are rich, and should be\nashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. Where is\nTim Linkinwater?--for nothing at all, my dear brother, for nothing at\nall.'\n\n'Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,' suggested\nthe other, mildly; 'it would help to preserve habits of frugality, you\nknow, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming obligations. We might\nsay fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it was punctually paid, make\nit up to them in some other way. And I might secretly advance a small\nloan towards a little furniture, and you might secretly advance another\nsmall loan, brother Ned; and if we find them doing well--as we shall;\nthere's no fear, no fear--we can change the loans into gifts. Carefully,\nbrother Ned, and by degrees, and without pressing upon them too much;\nwhat do you say now, brother?'\n\nBrother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be done,\nbut had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took possession of\nthe stool, and Mrs. Nickleby and Kate took possession of the house, and\nall was hope, bustle, and light-heartedness.\n\nThere surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as\nthe first week of that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came home,\nsomething new had been found out. One day it was a grapevine, and\nanother day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of the\nfront-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on through\na hundred items. Then, this room was embellished with a muslin curtain,\nand that room was rendered quite elegant by a window-blind, and such\nimprovements were made, as no one would have supposed possible. Then\nthere was Miss La Creevy, who had come out in the omnibus to stop a day\nor two and help, and who was perpetually losing a very small brown-paper\nparcel of tin tacks and a very large hammer, and running about with\nher sleeves tucked up at the wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and\nhurting herself very much--and Mrs. Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and\ndid something now and then, but not often--and Kate, who busied herself\nnoiselessly everywhere, and was pleased with everything--and Smike, who\nmade the garden a perfect wonder to look upon--and Nicholas, who helped\nand encouraged them every one--all the peace and cheerfulness of home\nrestored, with such new zest imparted to every frugal pleasure, and such\ndelight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune and separation alone\ncould give!\n\nIn short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich\nNickleby was alone and miserable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\nPrivate and confidential; relating to Family Matters. Showing how Mr\nKenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as\ncould be expected\n\n\nIt might have been seven o'clock in the evening, and it was growing dark\nin the narrow streets near Golden Square, when Mr. Kenwigs sent out for\na pair of the cheapest white kid gloves--those at fourteen-pence--and\nselecting the strongest, which happened to be the right-hand one, walked\ndownstairs with an air of pomp and much excitement, and proceeded to\nmuffle the knob of the street-door knocker therein. Having executed this\ntask with great nicety, Mr. Kenwigs pulled the door to, after him, and\njust stepped across the road to try the effect from the opposite side\nof the street. Satisfied that nothing could possibly look better in its\nway, Mr. Kenwigs then stepped back again, and calling through the keyhole\nto Morleena to open the door, vanished into the house, and was seen no\nlonger.\n\nNow, considered as an abstract circumstance, there was no more obvious\ncause or reason why Mr. Kenwigs should take the trouble of muffling this\nparticular knocker, than there would have been for his muffling the\nknocker of any nobleman or gentleman resident ten miles off; because,\nfor the greater convenience of the numerous lodgers, the street-door\nalways stood wide open, and the knocker was never used at all. The first\nfloor, the second floor, and the third floor, had each a bell of its\nown. As to the attics, no one ever called on them; if anybody wanted\nthe parlours, they were close at hand, and all he had to do was to walk\nstraight into them; while the kitchen had a separate entrance down the\narea steps. As a question of mere necessity and usefulness, therefore,\nthis muffling of the knocker was thoroughly incomprehensible.\n\nBut knockers may be muffled for other purposes than those of mere\nutilitarianism, as, in the present instance, was clearly shown. There\nare certain polite forms and ceremonies which must be observed in\ncivilised life, or mankind relapse into their original barbarism. No\ngenteel lady was ever yet confined--indeed, no genteel confinement\ncan possibly take place--without the accompanying symbol of a muffled\nknocker. Mrs. Kenwigs was a lady of some pretensions to gentility; Mrs\nKenwigs was confined. And, therefore, Mr. Kenwigs tied up the silent\nknocker on the premises in a white kid glove.\n\n'I'm not quite certain neither,' said Mr. Kenwigs, arranging his\nshirt-collar, and walking slowly upstairs, 'whether, as it's a boy, I\nwon't have it in the papers.'\n\nPondering upon the advisability of this step, and the sensation it was\nlikely to create in the neighbourhood, Mr. Kenwigs betook himself to the\nsitting-room, where various extremely diminutive articles of clothing\nwere airing on a horse before the fire, and Mr. Lumbey, the doctor, was\ndandling the baby--that is, the old baby--not the new one.\n\n'It's a fine boy, Mr. Kenwigs,' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.\n\n'You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?' returned Mr. Kenwigs.\n\n'It's the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,' said the doctor. 'I\nnever saw such a baby.'\n\nIt is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer\nto those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species,\nthat every baby born into the world is a finer one than the last.\n\n'I ne--ver saw such a baby,' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.\n\n'Morleena was a fine baby,' remarked Mr. Kenwigs; as if this were rather\nan attack, by implication, upon the family.\n\n'They were all fine babies,' said Mr. Lumbey. And Mr. Lumbey went on\nnursing the baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he was considering\nunder what head he could best charge the nursing in the bill, was best\nknown to himself.\n\nDuring this short conversation, Miss Morleena, as the eldest of\nthe family, and natural representative of her mother during her\nindisposition, had been hustling and slapping the three younger Miss\nKenwigses, without intermission; which considerate and affectionate\nconduct brought tears into the eyes of Mr. Kenwigs, and caused him to\ndeclare that, in understanding and behaviour, that child was a woman.\n\n'She will be a treasure to the man she marries, sir,' said Mr. Kenwigs,\nhalf aside; 'I think she'll marry above her station, Mr. Lumbey.'\n\n'I shouldn't wonder at all,' replied the doctor.\n\n'You never see her dance, sir, did you?' asked Mr. Kenwigs.\n\nThe doctor shook his head.\n\n'Ay!' said Mr. Kenwigs, as though he pitied him from his heart, 'then you\ndon't know what she's capable of.'\n\nAll this time there had been a great whisking in and out of the other\nroom; the door had been opened and shut very softly about twenty times\na minute (for it was necessary to keep Mrs. Kenwigs quiet); and the baby\nhad been exhibited to a score or two of deputations from a select body\nof female friends, who had assembled in the passage, and about the\nstreet-door, to discuss the event in all its bearings. Indeed, the\nexcitement extended itself over the whole street, and groups of ladies\nmight be seen standing at the doors, (some in the interesting condition\nin which Mrs. Kenwigs had last appeared in public,) relating their\nexperiences of similar occurrences. Some few acquired great credit from\nhaving prophesied, the day before yesterday, exactly when it would come\nto pass; others, again, related, how that they guessed what it was,\ndirectly they saw Mr. Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street as hard as\never he could go. Some said one thing, and some another; but all talked\ntogether, and all agreed upon two points: first, that it was very\nmeritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs. Kenwigs to do as she had\ndone: and secondly, that there never was such a skilful and scientific\ndoctor as that Dr Lumbey.\n\nIn the midst of this general hubbub, Dr Lumbey sat in the first-floor\nfront, as before related, nursing the deposed baby, and talking to Mr\nKenwigs. He was a stout bluff-looking gentleman, with no shirt-collar to\nspeak of, and a beard that had been growing since yesterday morning; for\nDr Lumbey was popular, and the neighbourhood was prolific; and there\nhad been no less than three other knockers muffled, one after the other\nwithin the last forty-eight hours.\n\n'Well, Mr. Kenwigs,' said Dr Lumbey, 'this makes six. You'll have a fine\nfamily in time, sir.'\n\n'I think six is almost enough, sir,' returned Mr. Kenwigs.\n\n'Pooh! pooh!' said the doctor. 'Nonsense! not half enough.'\n\nWith this, the doctor laughed; but he didn't laugh half as much as a\nmarried friend of Mrs. Kenwigs's, who had just come in from the sick\nchamber to report progress, and take a small sip of brandy-and-water:\nand who seemed to consider it one of the best jokes ever launched upon\nsociety.\n\n'They're not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,' said\nMr. Kenwigs, taking his second daughter on his knee; 'they have\nexpectations.'\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.\n\n'And very good ones too, I believe, haven't they?' asked the married\nlady.\n\n'Why, ma'am,' said Mr. Kenwigs, 'it's not exactly for me to say what they\nmay be, or what they may not be. It's not for me to boast of any family\nwith which I have the honour to be connected; at the same time, Mrs\nKenwigs's is--I should say,' said Mr. Kenwigs, abruptly, and raising\nhis voice as he spoke, 'that my children might come into a matter of a\nhundred pound apiece, perhaps. Perhaps more, but certainly that.'\n\n'And a very pretty little fortune,' said the married lady.\n\n'There are some relations of Mrs. Kenwigs's,' said Mr. Kenwigs, taking a\npinch of snuff from the doctor's box, and then sneezing very hard, for\nhe wasn't used to it, 'that might leave their hundred pound apiece to\nten people, and yet not go begging when they had done it.'\n\n'Ah! I know who you mean,' observed the married lady, nodding her head.\n\n'I made mention of no names, and I wish to make mention of no names,'\nsaid Mr. Kenwigs, with a portentous look. 'Many of my friends have met a\nrelation of Mrs. Kenwigs's in this very room, as would do honour to any\ncompany; that's all.'\n\n'I've met him,' said the married lady, with a glance towards Dr Lumbey.\n\n'It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to see such\na man as that, a kissing and taking notice of my children,' pursued Mr\nKenwigs. 'It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a man, to\nknow that man. It will be naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a\nhusband, to make that man acquainted with this ewent.'\n\nHaving delivered his sentiments in this form of words, Mr. Kenwigs\narranged his second daughter's flaxen tail, and bade her be a good girl\nand mind what her sister, Morleena, said.\n\n'That girl grows more like her mother every day,' said Mr. Lumbey,\nsuddenly stricken with an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.\n\n'There!' rejoined the married lady. 'What I always say; what I always\ndid say! She's the very picter of her.' Having thus directed the general\nattention to the young lady in question, the married lady embraced the\nopportunity of taking another sip of the brandy-and-water--and a pretty\nlong sip too.\n\n'Yes! there is a likeness,' said Mr. Kenwigs, after some reflection. 'But\nsuch a woman as Mrs. Kenwigs was, afore