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NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
WZZTH ZZZ US7RA 7TWOWS APP A' AAA’AWA RD."
NEW YORK :
THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY.,
39 AND 4I CHAMBERS STREET.
ę
.
º
;
*
;
PRESS OF
Exchange PRINTing Co.,
33 water STREET,
NEW YORK,
PREFACE.
\ HIS story was begun within a few months after the publication of the completed
º “Pickwick Papers.” There were, then, a good many cheap Yorkshire schools in
|}\ existence. There are very few now.
º Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard of it by the
State as a means of forming good or bad citizens, and miserable or happy men, private
schools long afforded a notable example. Although any man who had proved his unfitness
for any other occupation in life was free, without examination or qualification, to open a
school anywhere ; although preparation for the functions he undertook was required in the
surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world, or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him
out of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker; the whole
round of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although schoolmasters, as a race,
were the blockheads and impostors who might naturally be expected to spring from such a state
i of things, and to flourish in it; these Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten
; round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, indifference, or imbecility of parents, and the
helplessness of children; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have
intrusted-the board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they formed the worthy corner-stone of a
structure which, for absurdity and a magnificent high-minded laissez-aller neglect, has rarely been
exceeded in the world.
We hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified medical practitioner,
who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to heal it. But what of the hundreds of thousands
of minds that have been deformed for ever by the incapable pettifoggers who have pretended to
form them P
I make mention of the race, as of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, in the past tense. Though it
has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling daily. A long day's work remains to be done
about us in the way of education, Heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities towards
the attainment of a good one have been furnished of late years.
I cannot call to mind, now, how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools when I was a not
very robust child sitting in by-places near Rochester Castle, with a head full of PARTRIDGE, STRAP,
ToM PIPEs, and SANCHO PANZA; but I know that my first impressions of them were picked up at
that time, and that they were somehow or other connected with a suppurated abscess that some
boy had come home with, in consequence of his Yorkshire guide, philosopher, and friend having
ripped it open with an inky penknife. The impression made upon me, however made, never left
me. I was always curious about Yorkshire schools—fell, long afterwards and at sundry times,
into the way of hearing more about them—at last, having an audience, resolved to write about them.
With that intent I went down into Yorkshire beiore I began this book, in very severe winter-
time which is pretty faithfully described herein. As I wanted to see a schoolrºacter or two, and was
tº º, . §§§ aſ "N
* 7{}{ ** 34 y
5 & {}{} gº º ż


Vl PREAEA CE.
forewarned that those gentlemen might, in their modesty, be shy of receiving a visit from the author
of the “Pickwick Papers,” I consulted with a professional friend who had a Yorkshire connection,
and with whom I concerted a pious fraud. He gave me some letters of introduction, in the name, I
think, of my travelling companion; they bore reference to a supposititious little boy who had been
left with a widowed mother who didn't know what to do with him; the poor lady had thought,
as a means of thawing the tardy compassion of her relations in his behalf, of sending him to a
Yorkshire school; I was the poor lady's friend, travelling that way; and, if the recipient of the
letter could inform me of a school in his neighbourhood, the writer would be very much obliged.
I went to several places in that part of the country where I understood the schools to be most
plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to deliver a letter until I came to a certain town which
shall be nameless. The person to whom it was addressed was not at home; but he came down at
night, through the Snow, to the inn where I was staying. It was after dinner; and he needed little
persuasion to sit down by the fire in a warm corner, and take his share of the wine that was on
the table.
I am afraid he is dead now. I recollect he was a jovial, ruddy, broad-faced man; that we got
acquainted directly; and that we talked on all kinds of subjects, except the school, which he
showed a great anxiety to avoid. Was there any large school near P I asked him, in reference to
the letter. “Oh yes!” he said; “there was a pratty big 'un.” “Was it a good one?” I asked.
“Eyſ' he said, “it was as good as anoother; that was a' a matther of opinion;” and fell to
looking at the fire, staring round the room, and whistling a little. On my reverting to some other
topic that we had been discussing, he recovered immediately; but, though I tried him again and
again, I never approached the question of the school, even if he were in the middle of a laugh,
without observing that his countenance fell, and that he became uncomfortable. At last, when we
had passed a couple of hours or so very agreeably, he suddenly took up his hat, and, leaning over
the table and looking me ſull in the face, said, in a low voice: “Weel, misther, we've been vara
pleasant toogather, and ar’ll spak' my moind tiv'ee. Dinnot let the weedur send her lattle boy
to yan o' our schoolmeasthers, while there's a harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to lie
asleep in. Ar wouldn't mak' ill words amang my neeburs, and ar speak tiv'ee quiet loike. But
I'm dom'd if ar can gang to bed and not tell 'ee, for weedur's sak', to keep the lattle boy from
a' sike scoondrels while there's a harse to hoold in a Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in 1”
Repeating these words with great heartiness, and with a solemnity on his jolly face that made it
look twice as large as before, he shook hands and went away. I never saw him afterwards, but I
sometimes imagine that I descry a faint reflection of him in John Browdie.
. In reference to these gentry, I may here quote a few words from the original Preface to this
book.
“It has afforded the Author great amusement and satisfaction, during the progress of this
work, to learn, from country friends and from a variety of ludicrous statements concerning himself
in provincial newspapers, that more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster lays claim to being the
original of Mr. Squeers. One worthy, he has reason to believe, has actually consulted authorities
learned in the law, as to his having good grounds on which to rest an action for libel ; another has
meditated a journey to London, for the express purpose of committing an assault and battery on
his traducer; a third perfectly remembers being waited on, last January twelvemonth, by two
gentlemen, one of whom held him in conversation while the other took his likeness; and, although
Mr. Squeers has but one eye, and he has two, and the published sketch does not resemble him
(whoever he may be) in any other respect, still he and all his friends and neighbours know at once
for whom it is meant, because—the character is so like him.
“While the Author cannot but feel the full force of the compliment thus conveyed to him, he
ventures to suggest that these contentions may arise from the fact that Mr. Squeers is the
representative of a class, and not of an individual. Where imposture, ignorance, and brutal
AAEAAA C/E. vii
cupidity are the stock-in-trade of a small body of men, and one is described by these characteristics,
all his fellows will recognise something belonging to themselves, and each will have a misgiving
that the portrait is his own. g
“The Author's object in calling public attention to the system would be very imperfectly fulfilled
if he did not state now, in his own person, emphatically and earnestly, that Mr. Squeers and his
school are faint and feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept down lest they
\should be deemed impossible. That there are upon record trials at law in which damages have been
sought as a poor recompense for lasting agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the
treatment of the master in these places, involving such offensive and foul details of neglect, cruelty,
and disease as no writer of fiction would have the boldness to imagine. And that, since he has
been engaged upon these Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond the reach
of suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the perpetration of which upon neglected or
repudiated children these schools have been the main instruments, very far exceeding any that
appear in these pages.” -
This comprises all I need say on the subject; except that if I had seen occasion, I had
resolved to reprint a few of these details of legal proceedings from certain old newspapers.
One other quotation from the same Preface may serve to introduce a fact that my readers
may think curious. -
“To turn to a more pleasant subject, it may be right to say that there are two characters in
this book which are drawn from life. It is remarkable that what we call the world, which is so
very credulous in what professes to be true, is most incredulous in what professes to be imaginary;
and that while, every day in real life, it will allow in one man no blemishes, and in another no
virtues, it will seldom admit a very strongly-marked character, either good or bad, in a fictitious
narrative, to be within the limits of probability. But those who take an interest in this tale will be
glad to learn that the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE live ; that their liberal charity, their singleness of
heart, their noble nature, and their unbounded benevolence are no creations of the Author's brain;
but are prompting every day (and oſtenest by stealth) some munificent and generous deed in that
town of which they are the pride and honour.” J. -
If I were to attempt to sum up the thousands of letters, from all sorts of people in all sorts of
latitudes and climates, which this unlucky paragraph brought' down upon me, I should get into an
arithmetical difficulty from which I could not easily extricate myself. Suffice it to Sãy, that I
believe the applications for loans, gifts, and offices of profit, that I have been requested to forward
to the originals of the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE (with whom I never interchanged any communication
in my life), would have exhausted the combined patronage of all the Lord Chancellors since the
accession of the House of Brunswick, and would have broken the Rest of the Bank of England.
The Brothers are now dead. -
There is only one other point on which I would desire to offer a remark. If Nicholas be not
always found to be blameless or agreeable, he is not always intended to appear so. He is a young
man of an impetuous temper, and of little or no experience ; and I saw no reason why such a
hero should be lifted out of nature.
CONTENTS.
=º-
CHAP,
I.—Introduces all the Rest . º g &
II.-Of Mr. Ralph Nickleby, and his Establish-
ment, and his Undertakings. And of a
great Joint-Stock Company of vast Na-
tional Importance . sº * e º
III.—Mr. Ralph Nickleby receives sad Tidings
of his Brother, but bears up nobly against
the Intelligence communicated to him.
The Reader is informed how he liked
Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and
how kindly he proposed to make his
Fortune at once . º © & &
IV.-Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the
Fortune without loss of Time) wait upon
Mr. Wackford Squeers, the Yorkshire
Schoolmaster g gº g is *
V.—Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-
taking and his Fellow-travellers, and
what befell them on the Road • *
VI.-In which the Occurrence of the Accident
mentioned in the last Chapter, affords an
Opportunity to a Couple of Gentlemen to
tell Stories against each other * * *
VII.—Mr. and Mrs. Squeers at Home e †
VIII.-Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hal
IX. —Of Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master
Squeers, and Mr. Squeers; and of va-
rious Matters and Persons connected no
less with the Squeerses than with Nicho-
las Nickleby . e º g * &
Y.—How Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his
Niece and Sister-in-law . º $ wº
XI.-Newman Noggs inducts Mrs. and Miss
Nickleby into their new Dwelling in the
City • • º ge * & *
XII.--Whereby the Reader will be enabled to
trace the further Course of Miss Fanny
Squeers's love, and to ascertain whether
it ran smooth or otherwise . g o
XIII.-Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dotheboys
all by a most vigorous and remarkable
Proceeding, which leads to Consequences
of some Importance g tº tº g
XIV.-Having the Misfortune to treat of none, but
Common People, is necessarily of a Mean
and Vulgar Character . tº º *
XV.--Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and
Origin of the Interruption described in
the last Chapter, and with some other
Matters necessary to be known . *
XVI.—Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New
Capacity, and, being unsuccessful, ac-
cepts an Engagement as Tutor in a
Trivate Family , s p $
PAGE
22
28
39
43
So
59
65
68
74
8 I
87
93
CHAP.
XVII.—Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby .
on Kate
XVIII.-Miss Knag, after dotin
Nickleby for three whole Days,
makes up her Mind to hate her for
evermore. The Causes which led
Miss Knag to form this Resolution .
XIX. —Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr. Ralph
Nickleby's, and of the Manner in
which the Company entertained
themselves, before Dinner, at Dinner,
and after Dinner . & e * >
XX. —Wherein Nicholas at length encoun-
ters his Uncle, to whom he expresses
his Sentiments with much Candour.
His Resolution tº e * : &
XXI.—Madame Mantalini finds herself in, a
Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss
Nickleby finds herself in no Situa-
tion at all wº wº º • *
XXII.—Nicholas, accompanied by Smike,
sallies forth £o seek his Fortune. He
encounters Mr. Vincent Crummles;
and who he was is herein made
manifest . & * > tº e sº
XXIII.-Treats of the Company of Mr. Vincent
Crummles, and of his Affairs, Do-
mestic and Theatrical . º g
XXIV.—Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Sne-
vellicci, and the first Appearance of
Nicholas upon any Stage gº º
XXV.-Concerning a young Lady from London,
who joins the Company, and an
elderly Admirer who follows in her
Train; with an affecting Ceremony
consequent on their Arrival &
XXVI.-Is fraught with some Danger to Miss
Nickleby's Peace of Mind
XXVII.-Mrs.Nickleby becomes acquainted with
Messrs. Pyke and Pluck, whose
Affection and Interest are beyond all.
Bounds . sº * sº º *
XXVIII.—Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by
the Persecution of Sir Mulberry
Hawk, and the complicated Difficul-
ties and Distresses which surround
her, appeals, as a last. Resource, to
her Uncle for Protection . * &
XXIX.—Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and
certain Internal Divisions in the Com-
pany of Mr. Vincent Crummles tº
XXX.--Festivities are held in Honour of Nicho-
las, who suddenly withdraws himself
from the Society of Mr.Vincent Crum-
miles and his Theatrical Companions.
*AGE
IO4
109
116
125
I3O
I73
189
194
cow/Evz's
CHAP.
XXXI.—Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman
Noggs, and some wise Precautions,
the Success or Failure of which will
appear in the Sequel . * tº
XXXII. —Relating chiefly to some remarkable
Conversation, and some remarkable
Proceedings to which it gives rise .
XXXIII.-In which Mr. Ralph Nickleby is
relieved, by a very expeditious
Process, from all Commerce with
his Relations tº ſº º iº
XXXIV.--Wherein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is
visited by Persons with whom the
Reader has been already made ac-
uainted e
q º g * •
XXXV.—Smike becomes known to Mrs.
Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also
meets with new Acquaintances, and
brighter Days seem to dawn upon
the Family . & © • , a
XXXVI.—Private and confidential; relating to
Family Matters. Showing how Mr.
ICenwigs underwent violent Agita-
tion, and how Mrs. Kenwigs was as
well as could be expected º
XXXVII.—Nicholas finds further Favour in the
Eyes of the Brothers Cheeryble and
Mr. Timothy Linkinwater. The
Brothers give a Banquet on a great
Annual Occasion. Nicholas, on re-
turning Home from it, receives a
mysterious and important Disclo-
sure from the Lips of Mrs. Nickleby
KXXVIII.—Comprises certain Particulars arising
out of a Visit of Condolence, which
may prove important hereaſter.
Sxmike unexpectedly encounters a
very old Friend, who invites him to
his House, and will take no Denial
XXXIX.-In which another old Friend encoun-
ters Smike, very opportunely and
to some Purpose . © e g
XL.—In which Nicholas falls in Love. He
employs a Mediator, whose Pro-
ceedings are crowned with unex-
pected Success, excepting in one
solitary Particular . . e g
XLI.—Containing some Romantic Passages
between Mrs. Nickleby and the
Gentleman in the Small-clothes
next Door . ſº º tº we
XLII.—Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment,
that the best of Friends must some-
times part . e & * &
XLIII.-Officiates as a Kind of Gentlemar
TJsher, in bringing various People
together . . iº • • e
XLIV.-Mr. Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Ac-
quaintance. It would also appear,
from the Contents hereof, that a
oke, even between Husband and
ife, may be sometimes carried
|PAGE
2O2
2C0
2 II
2 I 5
223
232
237
245
253
258
206
273
286
CHAP. - - tº g
XLV-Containing Matter of a surprising
Kind . . e * iº gºe *
XLVI.-Throws some Light upon Nicholas's
Love; but whether for Good or Evil
the Reader must determine
XLVII.-Mr. Ralph Nickleby has some confi-
dential Intercourse with another old
Friend. They concert between them
a Project which promises well for
Oth . e • * a * * {º º
XLVIII.-Being for the Benefit of Mr. Vincent
PAGH
294,
301
308
Crummles, and positively his last .
Appearance on this Stage - " -
XLIX.-Chronicles, the further Proceedings of
the Nickleby Family, and the Sequel
$ of the Adventure of the Gentleman
in the Small-clothes. g tº .
L.—Involves a serious Catastrophe . e
LI–The Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and
his Friend, approaching a successful
Issue, becomes unexpectedly known
316
322
33O
to another Party not admitted into
their Confidence e gº s' e
LII.-Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline
Bray, but plucks up his Spirits again,
and determines to attempt it. "Do-
nestic Intelligence of the Kenwigses
- and Lillyvicks . • • e” *
LIXI.-Containing the further Progress of the
Plot contrived by Mr. Ralph Nickleby
and Mr. Arthur Gride T. * *
LIV.-The Crisis of the Project, and its
esult . º º º º g
LV-Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Dis-
appointments, and Sorrows " . &
LVI.-Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew
in his late Design, hatches a Scheme
of Retaliation which Accident sug-
gests to him, and takes into his Coun-
sels a tried Auxiliary • * & * :
LVII.-How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went
about his Work, and how he pros-
pered with it . º e tº , g
LVIII.-In which one Scene of this History is
closed *
LIX—The Piots begin to ſail, and Doubts and
__Dangers to disturb the Plotter . *
LX.—The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is
told . -
LXI.--Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit
- the good Opinion of all worldly and
prudent People * * ſº &
LXII.-Ralph makes one last Appointment—
and keeps it . * * , e tº
LXIII.-The Brothers Cheeryble make various
Declarations for themselves and
others. Tim Linkinwater makes a
Declaration for himself . • e
LXIV.-An old Acquaintance is recognised
under melancholy Circumstances,
and Dotheboys Hall, breaks up for
337
343
349
359
365
37 I
377
383
386
394
400
405
407
too far , º º º º
eVer , º G e º & º
LXV.-- Conclusion sº º ſº
º g
4 I4
419
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
“THE SCHööL MASTER AND HES companion LookED STEADILY AT EACH other poſſ A Few SEconds,
AND THEN EXCHANGED A VERY MEANING SMILE * . tº º t • ' Frontispiece
“You can JIST GIVE HIM THAT 'ERE cARD, AND TELL HIM IF HE wants to SPEAK to ME, AND
SAVE TROUBLE, HERE I AM; THAT’s ALL '' º © º º tº • & . Zo face page 132
“SIk MULBERRY, SHORTENING HIs whip, APPLIED. IT FURIOUSLY TO THE HEAD AND SHOULDERS OF
NICHOLAS. IT WAS BROKEN IN THE STRUGGLE ; NICHOLAS GAINED THE HEAVY HANDLE, AND
witH IT LAID OPEN ONE SIDE OF HIS ANTAGONIST's FACE FROM THE EYE To THE LIP " 2 II
“ALL THE LIGHT AND LIFE OF DAY CAME ON ; AND AMIDST IT ALL, AND PRESSING Down THE cFAss
WHOSE EVERY BLADE BORE TWENTY TINY LIVES, LAY THE DEAD MAN, witH HIS STARK AND
RIGID FACE TURNED UP WARDS TO TTE SKY’’ . e º * º - * w e - • 337
“RALPH MAKES ONE LAST APPoINTMENT—AND REEPs IT * e º * * º & * º - 406
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
t’AGE • PACE
Vignette. | “A miserable wretch,” exclaimed Mr. Knag, strik-
Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs . * • . I ing his forehead. “A miserable wretch - I 13
“The uncle and nephew looked at each other for “I am afraid you have been giving her some of your
some seconds without speaking” . º • I 3 wicked looks, my lord,” said the intended . I 17
“Snubs and Romans are plentiful enough, and “But the young lady making a violent effort to dis-
there are flats of all sorts and sizes when there's engage jºhe lost his balance, and mea-
8. meeting at Exeter Hall 3 y * , e te º 2 I sured his length ºupon the ground py - ... ſ 24
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,” said & e - -
S * - - e - F ‘The dressing-room door being hastily flung open
(t queers, º hat an inch or two . ... 25 Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his
“On the opposite side of the 'fire, there sat with shirt collar symmetrically thrown back: putting
folded arms a wrinkled hideous figure’ • 37 a fine edge to a breakfast knife by means of his
The First Class in English Spelling and Philosophy 45 razor strop " . e * * - - • I 33
“Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or “Mr. Crummles looked, from time to time, with
dead. No hope, no hope l’’. º - - 49 great interest at Smike, with whom he had ap-
“Oh! as soft as possible, if lease ’’ º eared considerably struck from the first. He
$º p ºn you please" . . . $3 i. now fallen asleep, and was Hodding ºn his
Kate walked sadly back to their lodgings in the chair" º - - I 44
Strand * . º © - * * “I , 68 • º e te e -
“Wretch,” rejoined Nicholas fiercely, “touch him The Indian-Savage and the Maiden e - 148
at your perill I will not stand by and see it “As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions,
done. My blood is up, and I have the strength and a realisation of human intellectuality, gild-
of ten such men as you’” - * * º . 8o ing with refulgent light our dreamy moments,
“I can—not help it, and it don't signify,” sobbed and laying open a new and magic world before
Mrs. Kenwigs. “Oh they’re too beautiful the mental eye, the drama is gone, perfectly
to live, much too beautiful I ?” e • . 85 gone,” said Mr. Curdle . - • º • IS7
“There came into the office an applicant, in whose “Nickleby,” said his client, throwing himself along
favour he immediately retired, and whose *P- the sofa en which he had been previously
pearance both surprised and interested him *. 96 seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old
“I don't forget you, my soul, and never shall, and ºs ear, “what a pretty creature your niece
Rever can,’ said Mantalini, kissing his wife's 1S 1 e e ſº t * º w . 169
. and grimacing aside to Miss Nickleby, “Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend exchanged
who turned' away . . . . . , IoS glances over the top of the bonnet” . . , 172
X11
AZZ US7RATWOAVS.
“I see how it is,” said poor Noggs, drawing from
his pocket what seemed to be a very old duster,
and wiping Kate's eyes with it as gently as if
she were an infant . tº e $º w e
“But they shall not protect ye l’” said the tragedian,
taking an upward look at Nicholas, beginning
at his boots and ending at the crown of his
head, &c. tº * e * tº *
“Mr. Snevellicci repeated the wink, and, drinking
to Mrs. Lillyvick in dumb-show, actually blew
her a kiss” . * . . . ſº © º
“Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of
fury, Newman Noggs jerked himself about the
room with the most eccentric motion ever
beheld in a human being ” . º e º
“Look at them tears, sir,” said Squeers with a
triumphant air, as Master Wackford wiped his
eyes with the cuff of his jacket; “there's
oiliness l’” . * • * * *
“Night found him, at last, still harping on the
same theme, and still pursuing the same un-
profitable reflections” . e s' e ' s
e ºp
PAGE
“I’m not coming an hour later in the morning, you º
know,” said Tim, breaking out all at once,
and looking very resolute. “I’m not going to
sleep in the fresh air—no, nor I’m not going
into the country either,” &c. . o,
“With this the doctor laughed; but he didn’t
laugh half as much as a married friend of Mrs.
Kenwigs's, who had just come in from the
sick chamber,” &c. . . cº * sº º
“Ye-es,” said the other, turning full upon him.
“If you had told him who you were ; if you
had given him your card, and found out, after-
wards, that his station or character prevented
your fighting him, it would have been bad ,
enough then " * * * * tº to *
9.
“Darting in, covered Smilºe's mouth with his
huge hand before he could utter a sound ’’ .
The Meditative Ogre . . . . . . . .
“Concluded by standing on one leg, and repeating
his favourite bellow with increased vehe-
mence ’’. § - e © tº e
“I say,” said John, rather astounded for the mo-
ment, “mak’ theeself quite at whoam, will
’ee P” g d & & a * c *
“Fell upon his face in a passion of bitter grief.”
“I am a most miserable and wretched outcast,
nearly sixty years old, and as destitute and
helpless as a child of six * ~ . . . .
188
I92
2OO
2O5
22O
224
232
236
272
277
288
293
Mr. Squeers executes an impromptu Pas Seul . .
“No matter | Do you think you bring your paltry
money here as a favour or a gift ; or as a
matter of business, and in return for value
received 2 " . . . g * e
“Was presently conducted by a robber, with a
very large belt and buckle round his waist, and
very large leather gauntlets on his hands, into
the presence of his former manager.” gº
“Aha!” cried the old gentleman, folding his
hands, and squeezing them with great force
against each other. “I see her now ; I see her
now ! My love, my life, my bride, my peer-
less beauty . She is come at last—at last—
and all is gas and gaiters” . e º
“Two men, seizing each other by the throat,
struggled into the middle of the room '' . *
“I’ll be married in the bottle-green,” cried Arthur
Gride e º g * & • wº e
“I must beseech you to contemplate again the
fearful course to which you have been im-
pelled”. © a º te * e • .
“Thieves thieves " shrieked the usurer, starting
up and folding his book to his breast, “rob-
bers! murder I’” . wº º dº e
“He drew Ralph Nickleby to the further end of
the room, and pointed towards Gride, who
sat huddled together in a corner, fumbling ner-
vously with the buttons of his coat, and ex-
hibiting a face, of which every skulking and
base expression was sharpened and aggravated
to the utmost by his anxiety and trepidation ”.
“There is something missing, you say,” said
Ralph, shaking him furiously by the collar.
“What is it 2 ” . . g g tº e
“Do you see this 2 This is a bottle” . º
“Who tampered with a selfish father, urging himſ
to sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and
tampered with Gride too, and did so in the little
office, with a closet in the room 7” * º
“Total, all up with Squeers!” . . . . . .
“Clasping the iron railings with his hands, looked
eagerly in, wondering which might be his
grave " . * dº § 2 tº
“Oh, Mr. Linkinwater, you're joking !”
“No, no, I'm not. I’m not, indeed,” said Tim.
“I will if you will. Do, my dear!” . .
Tail-pi
PAGE
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LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF
\ NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES ALL THE REST.
#. HERE once lived, in a sequestered
part of the county of Devonshire,
one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby a worthy
gentleman, who, taking it into his
head rather late in life that he must
get married, and not being young enough
or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a
lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame
out of mere attachment, who in her turn had
taken him for the same reason. Thus two
NICHOLAs NICKLEBY, 1,
people, who cannot afford to play cards for
money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for
love.
Some ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the
life-matrimonial may perhaps suggest, in this
place, that the good couple would be better
likened to two principals in a sparring match,
who, when fortune is low and backers scarce,
will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure of
the buffeting; and in one respect, indeed, this
comparison would hold good: for, as the adven-
turous pair of the Fives' Court will afterwards
Send round a hat, and trust to the bounty of the
lookerSºon for the means of regaling themselves,
2O7
N
t




2 AV/C//O J.A.S AV/C.K/ FA Y.
so Mr. Godſrey Nicklcby and his partncr, the
honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into
the world, relying in no inconsiderable degree
upon chance for the improvement of their
means. Mr. Nickleby's income, at the period
of his marriage, fluctuated between sixty and
eighty pounds per annum.
"There are people enough in the world, Heaven
knows! and even in London (where Mr. Nickleby
dwelt in those days) but few complaints pre-
vail of the population being scanty. It is extra-
ordinary how long a man may look annong the
crowd without discovering the face of a friend,
but it is no less true. Mr. Nickleby looked,
and looked, till his eyes became sore as his
heart, but no friend appeared ; and when,
growing tired of the search, he turned his eyes
homeward, he saw very little there to relieve his
weary vision.
long upon some glaring colour, refreshes his
dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and
more sombre tint; but everything that met Mr.
Nickleby's gaze wore so black and gloomy a
hue, that he would have been beyond descrip-
tion refreshed by the very reverse of the con-
trast.
At length, after five years, when Mrs. Nickleby
had presented her husband with a couple of sons,
and that embarrassed gentleman, impressed with
the necessity of making some provision for his
family, was seriously revolving in his mind a
little commercial speculation of insuring his life
next quarter-day, and then ſalling from the top
of thc Monument by accident, there came, one
morning, by the general post, a black-bordered
letter to inform him how his uncle, Mr. Ralph
Nickleby, was dead, and had left him the bulk
of his little property, amounting in all to five
thousand pounds sterling.
As the deceased had taken no further notice
of his nephew, in his lifetime, than sending to
his eldest boy (who had been christened aſter
him, on desperate speculation) a silver spoon in
a morocco case, which, as he has not too much
to eat with it, seemed a kind of satire upon his
having been born without that useful article of
plate in his mouth, Mr. Godſrey Nickleby could,
at first, Scarcely believe the tidings thus con-
veyed to him. On examination, however, they
turned out to be strictly correct. The amiable
old gentleman, it seemed, had intended to leave
the whole to the Royal Humane Society, and
had, indeed, executed a will to that effect ; but
the Institution having been unfortunate enough,
a few months before, to save the life of a poor
relation to whom he paid a weekly allowance of
three shillings and sixpence, he had, in a fit of
A painter who has gazed too .
ycry natural crasperation, revoked the bequest
in a codicil, and left it all, to Mr. Godfrey
Nickleby; with a special mention of his indig-
nation, not only against the society for saving
the poor relation's life, but against the poor re-
lation also, for allowing himself to be saved.
With a portion of this property Mr. Godfrey
Nickleby putchased a small farm near Dawlish,
in Devonshire, whither he retired with his wife
and two children, to live upon the best interest
he could get for the rest of his money, and thc
little produce he could raise from his land. The
two prospered so well together that, when he
died, some fiſteen years after this period, and
Some five after his wife, he was enabled to leave
to his eldest son, Ralph, three thousand pounds
in cash, and to his youngest son, Nicholas, one
thousand and the farm, which was as small a
landed estate as one would desire to see.
These two brothers had been brought up to-
gether in a school at Exeter; and, being accus-
tomed to go home once a week, had often heard,
from their mother's lips, long accounts of their
father's sufferings in his days of poverty, and of
their deceased uncle's importance in his days of
affluence: which recitals produced a very dif.
ferent impression on the two : for, while the
younger, who was of a timid and retiring dispo-
sition, gleaned from thence nothing but fore-
warnings to shun the great world and attach
himself to the quiet routine of a country life,
Ralph, the elder, deduced from the oſten-
repeated tale the two great morals that riches
are the only true source of happiness and power,
and that it is lawſul and just to compass their
acquisition by all means short of felony. “And,”
reasoned Ralph with himself, “if no good came
of my uncle's money when he was alive, a great
deal of good came of it after he was dead, inas-
much as my father has got it now, and is saving
it up for me, which is a highly virtuous purpose;
and, going back to the old gentleman, good did
come of it to him too, for he had the pleasure of
thinking of it all his life long, and of being
envied and courted by all his family besides."
And Ralph always wound up these mental soli-
loquies by arriving at the conclusion, that there
was nothing like money. e -
Not confining himself to theory, or permitting
his faculties to rust, even at that early age, in
mere abstract speculations, this promising lad
Wºmenced usurer on a limited scale at School;
putting out at good interest a small capital of
slate-pencil and marbles, and gradually extend-
sing his operations until they aspired to the
copper coinage of this realm, in which he
speculated to considerable advantage. Nor did
| AN INVESTMENT AND ITS RESUZZ. - 3
he trouble his borrowers with abstract calcula- panion thought, that if they were intimate he ºr
tions of figures, or references to ready-reckoners;
his simple rule of interest being all comprised
in the one golden sentence, “Twopence for
every halfpenny,” which greatly simplified the
accounts, and which, as a familiar precept, more
easily acquired and retained in the memory than
any known rule of arithmetic, cannot be too
strongly recommended to the notice of capi-
talists, both large and small, and more especially
of money brokers and bill discounters. Indeed,
to do these gentlemen justice, many of them are
to this day in the frequent habit of adopting it
with eminent success.
In like manner did young Ralph Nickleby
avoid all those minute and intricate calculations
of odd days, which nobody who has worked
sums in simple interest can fail to have found
most embarrassing, by establishing the one
general rule that all sums of principal and
interest should be paid on pocket-money day,
that is to say, on Saturday: and that whether a
loan were contracted on the Monday, or on the
Friday, the amount of interest should be, in both
cases, the same. Indeed, he argued, and with
great show of reason, that it ought to be rather
more for one day than for five, inasmuch as the
borrower might in the former case be very fairly
presumed to be in great extremity, otherwise he
would not borrow at all with such odds against
him. This fact is interesting, as illustrating the
secret connection and sympathy which always
exist, between great minds. Though Master
Ralph Nickleby was not at that time aware of
it, the class of gentlemen before alluded to pro-
ceed on just the same principle in all their
transactions.
From what we have said of this young gentle-
man, and the natural admiration the reader will
immediately conceive of his character, it may
Perhaps be inferred that he is to be the hero of
the work which we shall presently begin. To
Set this point at rest, for once and for ever, we
hasten to undeceive them, and stride to its
COmmencement.
On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby,
who had been some time before placed in a mer.
‘antile house in London, applied himself pas-
sionately to his old pursuit of money-getting, in
which he Speedily became so buried and ab-
sorbed, that he quite forgot his brother for
**ny years; and if, at times, a recollection of
his old playfellow broke upon him through the
haze in which he lived—for gold conjures up a
mist about a man, more destructive of all his old
sºnses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes
of charcoal—it brought along with it a com.
would want to borrow money of him. So, Mr.
Ralph Nickleby shrugged his shoulders, and
said things were better as they were.
As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the
patrimonial estate until he grew tired of living
alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of
a neighbouring gentleman with a dower of one
thousand pounds. This good lady bore him
two children, a son and a daughter, and when
the son was about nineteen, and the daughter
fourteen, as near as we can guess—impartial
records of young ladies’ ages being, before the
passing of the new act, nowhere preserved in
the registries of this country—Mr. Nickleby
looked about him for the means of repairing his
capital, now sadly reduced by this increase in
his family, and the expenses of their education.
“Speculate with it,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“Spec-u-late, my dear?” said Mr. Nickleby,
as though in doubt.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Nickleby.
“Because, my dear, if we should lose it,”
rejoined Mr. Nickleby, who was a slow and
time-taking speaker, “if we should lose it, we
shall no longer bé able to live, my dear.”
“Fiddle,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,”
said Mr. Nickleby.
“There's Nicholas,” pursued the lady, “quite
a young man—it's time he was in the way. Of
doing something for himself; and Kate too,
poor girl, without a penny in the world. Think
of your brother Would he be what he is, if he
hadn’t speculated P’’
“That's true,” replied Mr. Nickleby. “Very
good, my dear. Yes. I will speculate, my dear.”
Speculation is a round game; the players see
little or nothing of their cards at first starting;
gains may be great—and so may losses. The
run of luck went against Mr. Nickleby. A
mania prevailed, a bubble burst, four stock-
brokers took villa residences at Florence, four
hundred nobodies were ruined, and among them
Mr. Nickleby.
“The very house I live in,” sighed the poor
gentleman, “may be taken from me to-morrow.
Not an article of my old furniture but will be
sold to strangers l’”
The last reflection hurt him so much, that he
took at once to his bed; apparently resolved to
keep that, at all events.
“Cheer up, sir!” said the apothecary.
“You mustn't let yourself be cast down, sir,”
said the nurse.
“Such things happen every day,” remarked
the lawyer.
4. - M/CHOLAS AICKZEB Y.
“And it is very sinful to rebel against them,”
whispered the clergyman.
“And what no man with a family ought to
do,” added the neighbours.
Mr. Nickleby shook his head, and, motioning
them all out of the room, embraced his wife and
children, and having pressed them by turns to
his languidly-beating heart, sunk exhausted on
his pillow. They were concerned to find that
his reason went astray after this ; for he babbled,
for a long time, about the generosity and good-
ness of his brother, and the merry old times
when they were at school together. This fit of
wandering past, he solemnly commended them.
to One who never deserted the widow or her
fatherless children, and, smiling gently on them,
turned upon his face, and observed that he
thought he could fall asleep.
CHAPTER II.
op,M.R. RALPH NICKLEBY, AND HIS ESTABLISHMENT,
HIS UNDERTAKINGs. AND OF A GREAT Joint-
stock comp}\NY OF VAST NATIONAL IMPORTANCE.
iſ R. RALPH NICKLEBY was not,
strictly speaking, what you would
call a merchant, neither was he a.
banker, nor an attorney, nor a spe-
#3% cial pleader, nor a notary. He was
certainly not a tradesman, and still less
could he lay any claim to the title of a
*o professional gentleman; for it would have
been impossible to mention any recognised pro-
fession to which he belonged. Nevertheless, as
he lived in a spacious house in Golden Square,
which, in addition to a brass plate upon the
street-door, had another brass plate two sizes
and a half smaller upon the left-hand door-post,
surmounting a brass model of an infant's fist
grasping a fragment of a skewer, and displaying
the word “Office,” it was clear that Mr. Ralph
Nickleby did, or pretended to do, business of
some kind; and the fact, if it required any
further circumstantial evidence, was abundantly
demonstrated by the diurnal attendance, be-
tween the hours of half-past nine and five, of a
sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat upon
an unconamonly hard stool in a species of butler's
pantry at the end of the passage, and always had
a pen behind his ear when he answered the
bell.
Although a few members of the graver pro-
ſessions lived about Golden Square, it is not
exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere.
It is one of the squares that have been ; a quarter
of the town that has gone down in the world,
and taken to letting lodgings. Many of its first
and second floors are let, furnished, to single
gentlemen; and it takes boarders besides. It
is a great resort of foreigners. The dark-com-
plexioned men who wear large rings and heavy
watch-guards, and bushy whiskers, and who con-
gregate under the Opera Colonnade, and about
the box office in the season, between four and
five in the afternoon, when they give away the
orders, all live in Golden Square, or within a
street of it. Two or three violins and a wind
instrument from the Opera band reside within
its precincts. Its boarding-houses are musical,
and the notes of pianos and harps float in the
evening-time round the head of the mournful
statue, the guardian genius of a little wilderness
of shrubs, in the centre of the square. Of a
summer's night windows are thrown open, and
groups of swarthy moustached men are seen, by
the passers-by, lounging at the casements, and
smoking fearfully. Sounds of gruff voices prac-
tising vocal music invade the evening's silence:
and the fumes of choice tobacco scent the air.
There, snuff and cigars, and German pipes and
flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide the
supremacy between them. It is the region of
song and smoke. Street bands are on their
mettle in Golden Square ; and itinerant glee-
singers quaver involuntarily as they raise their
voices within its boundaries.
This would not seem a spot very well adapted
to the transaction of business; but Mr. Ralph
Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding, for
many years, and uttered no complaint on that
score. He knew nobody round about, and
nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the
reputation of being immensely rich. The trades-
4°men held that he was a sort of lawyer, and the
other neighbours opined that he was a kind of
general agent; both of which guesses were as
correct and definite as guesses about other
people's affairs usually are, or need to be.
Mr. Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office
one morning, ready dressed to walk abroad.
He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue
coat: a white waistcoat, grey mixture panta-
loons, and Wellington boots drawn over them.
The corner of a small-plaited shirt-frill struggled
out, as if insisting to show itself from between
his chin and the top button of his Spencer; and
the latter garment was not made low enough to
conceal a long gold watch-chain, composed of a
series of plain rings, which had its beginning at
the handle of a gold repeater in Mr. Nickleby's
pocket, and its termination in two little keys:


MAE. RA/AAEM AV/CKZZAP W A 7" HOME. 5
one belonging to the watch itself, and the other
to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling
of powder upon his head, as if to make himself
look benevolent; but, if that were his purpose,
he would perhaps have done better to powder
his countenance also, for there was something
in its very wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye,
which seemed to tell of cunning that would
announce itself in spite of him. However this
might be, there he was: and as he was all alone,
neither the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the
eyes, had the smallest effect, good or bad, upon
anybody just then, and are consequently no
business of ours just now.
Mr. Nickleby closed an account book which
lay on his desk, and, throwing himself back in
his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction
through the dirty window. Some London
houses have a melancholy little plot of ground
behind them, usually fenced in by four high
whitewashed walls, and frowned upon by stacks
of chimneys: in which there withers on, from
year to year, a crippled tree, that makes a show
of putting forth a few leaves late in autumn
when other trees shed theirs, and, drooping in
the effort, lingers on, all crackled and smoke-
dried, till the following season, when it repeats
the same process, and perhaps, if the weather,
be particularly genial, even tempts some rheu-
mátic sparrow to chirrup in its branches. People
sometimes call these dark yards “gardens; ” it
is not supposed that they were ever planted,
but rather that they are pieces of unreclaimed
land, with the withered vegetation of the original
brick-field. No man thinks of walking in this
desolate place, or of turning it to any account.
A few hampers, half-a-dozen broken bottles, and
such-like rubbish, may be thrown there when
the tenant first moves in, but nothing more :
and there they remain until he goes away again :
the damp straw taking just as long to moulder
as it thinks proper: and mingling with the
scanty box, and stunted everbrowns, and broken
flower-pots, that are scattered mournfully about
—a prey to “blacks” and dirt.
It was into a place of this kind that Mr. Ralph
Nickleby gazed, as he sat with his hands in his
pockets looking out at window. He had fixed
his eyes upon a distorted fir-tree, planted by
Some former tenant in a tub that had once been
green, and left there, years before, to rot away
piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in
the object, but Mr. Nickleby was wrapped in a
brown study, and sat contemplating it with far
greater attention than, in a more conscious
mood, he would have deigned to bestow upon
the rarest exotic. At length his eyes wandered
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, 7. --- ~ *
to a little dirty window on the left, through
which the face of the clerk was dimly visible;
that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned
him to attend. -
In obedience to this summons, the clerk got
off the high stool (to which he had communi-
cated a high polish by countless gettings off and
on), and presented himself in Mr. Nickleby's
room. He was a tall man of middle age, with
two goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a
rubicund nose, a cadaverous face, and a suit of
clothes (if the term be allowable when they
suited him not at all) much the worse for wear,
very much too small, and placed upon such a
short allowance of buttons that it was marvellous
Thow he contrived to keep them on.
“Was that half-past twelve, Noggs P” said
Mr. Nickleby in a sharp and grating voice.
“Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by
the--” Noggs was going to add “public-
house clock,” but recollecting himself, substi-
tuted “regular time.”
“My watch has stopped,” said Mr. Nickleby;
“I don't know from what cause.”
“Not wound up,” said Noggs.
“Yes, it is,” said Mr. Nickleby.
“Qver-wound then,” rejoined Noggs.
“That can't very well be,” observed Mr.
Nickleby.
“Must be,” said Noggs.
“Well " said Mr. Nickleby, putting the re-
peater back in his pocket; “perhaps it is.”
Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his
custom at the end of all disputes with his
master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed ;
and (as he rarely spoke to anybody unless
somebody spoke to him) fell into a grim silence,
and rubbed his hands slowly over each other:
cracking the joints of his fingers, and squeezing
them into all possible distortions. The incessant
performance of this routine on every occasion,
and the communication of a fixed and rigid look
to his unaffected eye, so as to make it uniform
with the other, and to render it impossible for
anybody to determine where or at what he was
looking, were two among the numerous peculi-
arities of Mr. Noggs which struck an inexperi-
enced observer at first sight.
“I am going to the London Tavern this
morning,” said Mr. Nickleby.
“Public meeting P” inquired Noggs.
Mr. Nickleby nodded. “I expect a letter
from the solicitor respecting that mortgage of
Ruddle's. If it comes at all, it will be here by
the two-o'clock delivery. I shall leave the City
about that time, and walk to Charing Cross on
the left-hand side of the way; if there are any
- 208 -
6 MICHOLAS AWICKLFA Y -
letters, come and meet me, and bring them with
you.” *
Noggs nodded ; and, as he nodded, there
came a ring at the office bell. The master
looked up from his papers, and the clerk calmly
remained in a stationary position.
“The bell,” said Noggs, as though in explana-
tion. “At home P’’
{ { Yes.”
“To anybody ?”
“Yes.” -
“To the tax-gatherer?”
“No Let him call again.”
Noggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much
as to say, “I thought so ” and, the ring being
repeated, went to the door, whence he presently
returned, ushering in, by the name of. Mr.
Bonney, a pale gentleman in a violent hurry,
who, with his hair standing up in great disorder
all over his head, and a very narrow white
cravat tied loosely round his throat, looked as
if he had been knocked up in the night, and
had not dressed himself since.
“My dear Nickleby,” said the gentleman,
taking off a white hat which was so full of papers
that it would scarcely stick upon his head,
“there's not a moment to lose ; I have a cab at
the door. Sir Matthew Pupker takes the chair,
and three members of Parliament are positively
coming. I have seen two of them safely out of
bed. The third, who was at Crockford's all
night, has just gone home to put a clean shirt
on, and take a bottle or two of soda water, and
will certainly be with us in time to address the
meeting. He is a little excited by last night,
but never mind, that; he always speaks the
stronger for it.”
“It seems to promise pretty well,” said Mr.
Ralph Nickleby, whose deliberate manner was
strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other
man of business, * 4
“Pretty well echoed Mr. Bonney. “It’s
the finest idea that was ever started. ‘United
Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crum-
pet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
Capital, five millions, in five hundred thousand
shares of ten pounds each.’ Why, the very
name will get the shares up to a premium in ten
days 1”
“And when they are at a premium
Mr. Ralph Nickleby, smiling.
... “When they are, you know what to do with
them as well as any man alive, and how to back
quietly out at the right time,” said Mr. Bonney,
slapping the capitalist familiarly on the shoulder.
“By-the-bye, what a very remarkable man. that
clerk of yours is 1"
” said
made out of doors.
*-
“Yes, poor devil " replied Ralph, drawing
on his gloves. “Though Newman Noggs kept
his horses, and hounds once.” .
“Ay, ay P” said the other carelessly. ,
“Yes,” continued Ralph, “and not many
years ago either ; but he squandered his money,
invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and,
in short, made first a thorough fool of himself,
and then a beggar. He took to drinking, and
had a touch of paralysis, and then came here
to borrow a pound, as in his better days I
had—”
“Dome business with him,”
with a meaning look. -
“Just so,” replied Ralph ; “I couldn't lend
said Mr. Bonney
it, you know.”
“Oh, of course not l”
“But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open
the door and so forth, I took him out of charity,
and he has remained with me ever since. He
is a little mad, I think,” said Mr. Nickleby,
calling up a charitable look, “but he is useful
enough, poor creature—useful enough.”
The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add
that Newman Noggs, being utterly destitute,
served him for rather less than the usual wages
of a boy of thirteen ; and likewise failed to men-
tion, in his hasty chronicle, that his eccentric
taciturnity rendered him an especially valuable
person in a place where much business was done,
of which it was desirable no mention should be
The other gentleman was
plainly impatient to be gone, however, and, as
they hurried into the hackney cabriolet imme-
diately afterwards, perhaps Mr. Nickleby forgot
to mention circumstances so unimportant.
There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street
Within as they drew up, and (it being a windy
day) half-a-dozen men were tacking across the
road under a press of paper, bearing gigantic
announcements that a Public Meeting would be
holden at one o'clock precisely, to take into
consideration the propriety of petitioning Parlia-
ment in favour of the United Metropolitan Im-
proved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
Punctual Delivery Company, capital five millions,
in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds
weach ; which sums were duly set forth in fat
black figures of considerable size. Mr. Bonney
elbowed his way briskly up-stairs, receiving in
his progress many low bows from the ‘waiters
who stood on the landings to show the way;
and, followed by Mr. Nickleby, dived into a
suite of apartments behind the great public
room : in the second of which was a business-
looking table, and several business looking
people. - -
tº PROMOTIWG " A COMPANY. 7
“Hear!” cried a gentleman with a double
chin as Mr. Bonney presented himself. “Chair,
gentlemen, chair : " .
The new-comers were received with universal
approbation, and Mr. Bonney bustled up to the
top of the table, took off his hat, ran his fingers
through his hair, and knocked a hackney coach-
man's knock on the table with a little hammer :
whereat several gentlemen cried “Hear!” and
modded slightly to each other, as much as to say
what spirited conduct that was. Just at this
moment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore
into the room, and, throwing the door open
with a crash, shouted, “Sir Matthew Pupker "
The committee stood up and clapped their
hands for joy; and while they were clapping
them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by
two live members of Parliament, one Irish and
one Scotch, all smiling and bowing, and looking
so pleasant that it seemed a perfect marvel how
any man could have the heart to vote against
them. Sir Matthew Pupker especially, who had
a little round head with a flaxen wig on the top
of it, fell into such a paroxysm of bows, that the
wig threatened to be jerked off, every instant.
When these symptoms had in some degree sub-
sided, the gentlemen who were on speaking
terms with Sir Matthew Pupker, or the two
other members, crowded round them in three
little groups, near one or other of which the
gentlemen who were not on speaking terms with
Sir Matthew Pupker prihe two other members
stood lingering, and smiling, and rubbing their
hands, in the desperate hope of something
turning up which might bring them into notice.
All this-time, Sir Matthew Pupker and the two
other members were relating to their separate
circles what the intentions of government were
about taking up the bill; with a full account of
what the government had said in a whisper the
last time they dined with it, and how the go-
vernment had been observed to wink when it
said so; from which premises they were at no
loss to draw the conclusion, that if the govern-
ment had one object more at heart than another,
that one object was the welfare and advantage
of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot
Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual De-
livery Company,
Meanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the
proceedings, and a fair division of the speechi-
fying, the public in the large room were eyeing,
by turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in
the Music Gallery. In these amusements the
greater portion of them had been occupied for a
couple of hours before, and, as the most agree-
able diversions pall upon the taste on a too pro-
tracted enjoyment of them, the sterner spirits
now began to hammer the floor with their boot-
| heels, and to express their dissatisfaction by
various hoots and cries. These vocal exertions,
emanating from the people who had been there
longest, naturally proceeded from those who
were nearest to the platform and furthest from
the policemen in attendance, who, having no
great mind to fight their way through the crowd,
but entertaining, nevertheless, a praiseworthy/
desire to do something to quell the disturbance,
immediately began to drag forth, by the coat
tails and collars, all the quiet people near the
door; at the same time dealing out various
smart and tingling blows with their truncheons,
after the manner of that ingenious actor, Mr.
Punch : whose brilliant example, both in the
fashion of his weapons and their use, this branch
of the executive occasionally follows.
Several very exciting skirmišnes were in pro-
gress, when a loud shout attracted the atten-
tion even of the belligerents, and then there
poured on to the platform, from a door at the
side, a long line of gentlemen with their hats
off, all looking behind them, and uttering
vociferous cheers ; the cause whereof was suffi-
ciently explained when Sir Matthew Pupker and
the two other real members of Parliament came
to the front, amidst deafening shouts, and testi-
fied to each other, in dumb motions, that they
had nevel seen such a glorious sight as that in
the whole course of their public career.
At length, and at last, the assembly left off
shouting, but Sir Matthew Pupkºrbeing voted into
the chair, they underwent a relapse which lasted
five minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupker
went on to say what must be his feelings on that
great occasion, and what must be that occasion
in the eyes of the world, and what must be the
intelligence of his fellow-countrymen before
him, and what must be the wealth and respect.
ability of his honourable friends behind him,
and lastly, what must be the importance to the
wealth, the happiness, the comfort, the liberty,
the very existence of a free and great people, of
such an Institution as the United Metropolitan
Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
Punctual Delivery Company
Mr. Bonney then presented himself to move
the first resolution; and having run his right
hand through his hair, and planted his left, in
an easy manner, in his ribs, he consigned his
hat to the care of the gentleman with the double
chin (who acted as a species of bottle-holder to
the orators generally), and said he would read
to them the first resolution—“That this meet-
ing views with alarm and apprehension the
8 MICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
existing state of the Muffin trade in this Metro-
polis and its neighbourhood; that it considers
the Muffin Boys, as at present constituted,
wholly undeserving the confidence of the public;
and that it deems the whole Muffin system alike
prejudicial to the health and, morals of the
people, and subversive of the best interests of
a great commercial and mercántile community.”
The honourable gentleman made a speech which
drew tears from the eyes of the ladies, and
awakened the liveliest emotions in every indivi-
dual present. He had visited the houses of the
poor in the various districts of London, and had
found them destitute of the slightest vestige of
a muffin, which there appeared too much reason
to believe some of these indigent persons did.
not taste from year's end to year's end. He
had found that among muffin-sellers there
existed drunkenness, debauchery, and profli-
gacy, which he attributed to the debasing nature
of their employment as at present exercised ;
he had found the same vices among the poorer
class of people who ought to be muffin con-
sumers; and this he attributed to the despair
engendered by their being placed beyond the
reach of that nutritious article, which drove
them to seek a false stimulant in intoxicating
liquors. He would undertake to prove before
a committee of the House of Commons that
there existed a combination to keep up the
price of muffins, and to give the bellmen a
monopoly; he would prove it by bellmen at
the bar of that House ; and he would also
prove that these men corresponded with each
other by secret words and signs, as “Snooks,”
“Walker,” “Ferguson,” “Is Murphy right P”
and many others. It was this melancholy state
of things that the Company proposed to cor-
rect; firstly, by prohibiting, under heavy penal-
ties, all private muffin trading of every descrip-
tion ; secondly, by themselves supplying the
public generally, and the poor at their own
homes, with muffins of first quality at reduced
prices. It was with this object that a bill had
been introduced into Parliament by their pa-
triotic chairman, Sir Matthew Pupker ; it was
this bill that they had met to support; it was
the supporters of this bill who would confer un-
dying brightness and splendour upon England,
under the name of the United Metropolitan
Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
Punctual Delivery Company; he would add,
with a capital of Five Millions, in five hundred
thousand shares of ten pounds each.
Mr. Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution,
and another gentlemán having moved that it
be amended by the insertion of the words “and
crumpet” after the word “muffin,” whenever it
occurred, it was carried triumphantly. Only
one man in the crowd cried “No ſ” and he was
promptly taken into custody, and straightwav
borne off.
... The second resolution, which recognised the
expediency of innmediately abolishing “all
muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders in
muffins (or crumpets) of whatsoever descrip-
tion, whether male or female, boys or men,
ringing hand-bells or otherwise,” was moved
by a grievous gentleman of semi-clerical ap-
pearance, who went at once into such deep
pathetics, that he knocked; the first speaker
clean out of the course in no time. You
might have heard a pin fall—a pin a feather
—as he described the cruelties inflicted on
muffin boys by their masters, which he very
wisely urged were in themselves a sufficient
reason for the establishment of that inestimable
company. It seemed that the unhappy youths
were nightly turned out into the wet streets at
the most inclement periods of the year, to
wander about in darkness and rain — or it
might be hail or snow—for hours together,
without shelter, food, or warmth; and let the
public never forget, upon the latter point, that
while the muffins were provided with warm
clothing and blankets, the boys were , wholly
unprovided for, and left to their own miserable
resources. (Shame 1) The honourable gentle-
man related one case of a muffin boy, who,
having been exposed to this inhuman and bar-
barous system for no less than five years, at
length fell a victim to a cold in the head, be-
ineath which he gradually sunk until he fell into
aſ perspiration and recovered; this he could
vouch for on his own authority, but he had
heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact)
of a still more heart-rending and appalling cir-
cumstance. . He had heard of the case of an
orphan muffin boy, who, having been run over
by a hackney carriage, had been removed to the
liospital, had undergone the amputation of his
leg below the knee, and was now actually pur.
suing his occupation on crutches. Fountain of
justice, were these things to last 2
This was the department of the subject that
took the meeting, and this was the style of
speaking to enlist their sympathies. The men
shouted; the ladies wept into their ppcket-hand-
kerchiefs till they were moist, and waved them
till they were dry; the excitement was tremen,
dous; and Mr. Nickleby whispered his friend
that the shares were thenceforth at a premium of
five-and-twenty per cent.
The resolution was, of course, carried with loud
AVE WS OF DAEA 7TH. 9
acclamations, every man holding up both hands
in favour of it, as he would in his enthusiasm
have held up both legs also, if he could have
conveniently accomplished it. This done, the
draft of the proposed petition was read at
length: and the petition said, as all petitions.
do say, that the petitioners were very humble,
and the petitioned very honourable, and the
object very virtuous; therefore (said the peti-
tion) the bill ought to be passed into a law at
once, to the everlasting honour and glory of that
most honourable and glorious Commons of Eng-
land in Parliament assembled. -
Then, the gentleman who had been at Crock-
ford's all night, and who looked something the
worse about the eyes in consequence, came for-
ward to tell his fellow-countrymen what a speech
he meant to make in favour of that petition
whenever it should be presented, and how des-
perately he meant to taunt the Parliament if
they rejected the bill; and to inform them, also,
that he regretted his honourable friends had
not inserted a clause rendering the purchase
of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon all
classes of the community, which he—opposing
all half-measures, and preferring to go the ex-
treme animal—pledged himself to propose and
divide upon in committee. After announcing
this determination, the honourable gentleman
a grew jocular; and, as patent boots, lemon-
coloured kid gloves, and a fur coat collar assist
jokes materially, there was immense laughter
and much cheering, and, moreover, such a bril-
liant display of ladies' pocket-handkerchiefs as
threw the grievous gentleman quite into the
shade. S -
And when the petition had been read,
and was about to be adopted, there came
forward the Irish member (who was a young
gentleman of ardent temperament), with such
a speech as only an Irish member can make,
breathing the “true soul and spirit of poetry,
and poured forth with such fervour, that it.
made one warm to look at him; in the course
whereof he told them how he would demand
the extension of that great boon to his native
country; how he would claim for her equal rights.
in the muffin laws as in all other laws; and how
he yet hoped to see the day when crumpets
should be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin
bells should ring in her rich green valleys. And,
after him, came the Scotch member, with various
pleasant allusions to the probable amount of
profits, which increased the good-humour that
the poetry had awakened; and all the speeches
put together did exactly what they were intended
to do, and established in the hearers' minds
...that there was no speculation so promising, or
at the same time so praiseworthy, as the United
Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet
Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
So, the petition in favour of the bill was
agreed upon, and the meeting adjourned with
acclamations, and Mr. Nickleby and the other
directors went to the office to lunch, as they did
every day at half-past one o'clock; and to re-
minerate themselves for which trouble (as the
company was yet in its infancy), they only
charged three guineas each man for every such
attendance.
CHAPTEB III
MR, RALPPL NICKLEBY RECEIVES SAD TIDINGS OF HIS
BROTHER, BUT BEARS UP NOBLY AGAINST THE IN.
TELLIGENCE COMMUNICATED TO HIM. THE READER
Is INForMED HOW HE LIKED NICHOLAs, who Is
HEREIN INTRODUCED, AND HOW KINDLY HE PRO-
* POSED ~TO MAKE HIS FORTUNE AT ONCE.
AVING rendered his zealous assist-
ance towards dispatching the lunch
? with all that promptitude and energy
7A which are among the most impor-
tant qualities that men of business
can possess, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took
a gårdial farewell of his fellow-specula-
tors, and bent his steps westward in
unwonted good-humour. As he passed St. Paul's
he stepped aside into a doorway to set his
watch, and, with his hand on the key and his
eye on the cathedral dial, was intent upon so
doing, when a man suddenly stopped before him.
It was Newman Noggs. -
“Ah Newman,” said Mr. Nickleby, looking
up as he pursued his occupation. “The letter
about the mortgage has come, has it? I thought
it would.”
“Wrong,” replied Newman.
“What I and nobody called respecting it?”
inquired Mr. Nickleby, pausing. Noggs shook
his head.
“What has come, then P” inquired Mr.
Nickleby. .*
“I have,” said Newman.
“What else?” demanded the master sternly.
“This,” said Newman, drawing a sealed letter
slowly from his pocket. “Post-mark, Strand,
black wax, black border, woman's hand, C. N.
in the corner.” *
... “Black wax P’’ said Mr. Nickleby, glancing
at the letter. “I know something of that hand,
too. Newman, I shouldn't be surprised if my
brother were dead.”




to AVICHOLAS NICKZEB Y.
“I don't think vou would,” said Newman
quietly.
“Why not, sir?” demanded Mr. Nickleby.
“You never are surprised,” replied Newman.
“ that's all.”
Mr. Nickleby snatched the letter from his
assistant, and, fixing a cold look upon him,
opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having
now-hit the time to a second, began winding up
his watch.
“It is as I expected, Newman,” said Mr.
Nickleby while he was thus engaged. “He is
dead. Dear me ! Well, that's a sudden thing.
I shouldn't have thought it, really.” With these
touching expressions of sorrow, Mr. Nickleby
replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on his
gloves to a nicety, turned upon his way, and
walked slowly westward with his hands behind
him.
“Children alive?” inquired Noggs, stepping
up to him.
“Why, that's the very thing,” replied Mr.
Nickleby, as though his thoughts were about
them at that moment. “They are both
alive.”
* Both " repeated Newman Noggs in a low
W’OlC6.
“And the widow, too,” added Mr. Nickleby,
“and all three in London, confound them ; all
three here, Newman".
Newman fell a little behind his master, and
his face was curiously twisted as by a spasm;
but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward
laughter, nobody but himself could possibly
explain. The expression of a man's face is
commonly a help to his thoughts, or gloss.'ry on
his speech ; but the countenance of Newman
Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was a problem
which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.
“Go home !” said Mr. Nickleby after they
had walked a few paces: looking round at the
clerk as if he were his dog. The words were
Scarcely uttered when Newman darted across
the road, slunk among the crowd, and disap-
peared in an instant.
“Reasonable, certainiy " muttered Mr.
Nickleby to himself as he walked on, “very
reasonable My brother never did anything
for me, and I never expected it; the breath is
no sooner out of his body than I am to be
looked to as the support of a great hearty wo-
Inan and a grown boy and girl. What are they
to me? / never saw them.”
Full of these, and many other reflections of a
similar kind, Mr. Nickleby made the best of his
Way to the Strand, and, referring to his letter as
if to ascertain the number of the house he
wanted, stopped at a private door about half-
way down that crowded thoroughfare. -
A miniature painter lived there, for there was
a large gilt frame screwed upon the street-door,
in which were displayed, upon a black velvet
ground, two portraits of naval dress-coats with
faces looking out of them, and telescopes
attached ; one of a young gentleman in a very
vermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre ; and one
of a literary character with a high forehead, a
pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There
was, aoreover, a touching representation of a
you...? lady reading a manuscript in an un-
fathomable forest, and a charming whole length
of a large-headed little boy, sitting on a stool
with his legs foreshortened to the size of salt-
'spoons. Besides these works of art, there were
a great many heads of old ladies and gentlemen
smirking at each other out of blue and brown
skies, and an elegantly-written card of terms
with an embossed border. -
Mr. Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with
great contempt, and gave a double knock, which,
having been thrice repeated, was answered by a
servant-girl with an uncommonly dirty face
“Is Mrs. Nickleby at home, girl?” demanded
Ralph sharply.
“Her name ain't Nickleby,” said the girl ;
“La Creevy you mean.”
Mr. Nickleby looked very indignant at the
handmaid on being thus corrected, and dc-
manded with much asperity what she meant ;
which she was about to state, when a female
voice, proceeding from a perpendicular stair-
case at the end of the passage, inquired who
was wanted.
“Mrs. Nickleby,” said Ralph.
“It's the second floor, Hannah,” said, the
same voice. “What a stupid, thing you are
Is the second floor at home P”’ -
“Somebody went out just now, but I think it
was the attic which had been a cleaning of him-
self,” replied the girl.
“You had better see,” said the invisible
female. “Show the gentleman where the bell
is, and tell him he mustn't knock double
knocks for the second floor; I can't allow a
knock except when the bell's broke, and then it
must be two single ones.”
“Here,” said Ralph, walking in without more
parley, “I beg your pardon ; is that Mrs. La
What's-her-name P”
“Creevy—La Creevy,” replied the voice, as
a yellow head-dress bobbed over the banisters.
“I’ll speak to you a moment, ma'am, with
your leave,” said Ralph. w
The voice replied that the gentleman was to
RAZPH wreKLEB Y MAKES MISS LA CREEPY'S ACQUAVNZANCE. 11
walk up ; but he had walked up before it spoke,
and, stepping into the first floor, was received
by the wearer of the yellow head-dress, who had
a gown to cerrespond, and was of much the
same colour herself. Miss La Creevy was a
mincing young lady of fifty, and Miss La Creevy's
apartment was the gilt frame down-stairs on a
larger scale and something dirtier.
“Hem ’” said Miss La Creevy, coughing
delicately behind her black silk mitten. “A
miniature, I presume. A very strongly-marked
countenance for the purpose, sir. Have you
ever sat before ?”
“You mistake my purpose, I see, ma'am,”
replied Mr. Nickleby in his usual blunt fashion.
“I have no money to throw away on miniatures,
ma'am, and nobody to give one to (thank God)
if I had. Seeing you on the stairs, I wanted to
ask a question of you about some lodgers
here.” • -
Miss La Creevy coughed once more—this
Cough was to conceal her disappointment—and
said, “Oh, indeed "
“I infer, from what you said to your servant,
that the floor above belongs to you, ma'am,”
said Mr. Nickleby. -
Yes, it did, Miss La Creevy, replied. The
upper part of the house belonged to her, and,
as she had no necessity for the second-floor
rooms just then, she was in the habit of letting
them. Indeed, there was a lady from the
country and her two children in them, at that
present speaking.
“A widow, ma'am P” said Ralph.
“Yes, she is a widow,” replied the lady.
“A poor widow, ma'am,” said Ralph, with a
powerful emphasis on that little adjective which
Conveys so much.
“Well, I'm afraid she is poor,” rejoined Miss
La Creevy. *
“I happen to know that she is, ma'am,” said
Ralph. “Now, what business has a poor
widow in such a house as this, ma'am P”
“Very true,” replied Miss La Creevy, not at
all displeased with this implied compliment to
the apartments. “Exceedingly true.”
“I know her circumstances intimately, ma'am,”
said Ralph ; “in ſact, I am a relation of the
family; and I should recommend you not to
keep them here, ma'am.”
“I should hope, if there was any incompati-
bility to meet the pecuniary obligations,” said
Miss La Creevy with another cough, “that the
lady's family would——”
_ “No, they wouldn't, ma'am,” interrupted
Ralph hastily. “Don’t think it.”
“Jſ I am to understand that,” said Miss La
port them in their extravagances.
Creevy, “the case wears a very different ap-
pearance.”
“You may understand it, then, ma'am,” said
Ralph, “ and make your arrangements accord-
ingly. I am the family, ma'am—at least, I
believe I am the only relation they have, and I
think it right that you should know I can't sup-
How long
have they taken these lodgings for P”
“Only from week to week,” replied Miss La
Creevy. “Mrs. Nickleby paid the first week in
advance.” -
“Then you had better get them out at the
end of it,” said Ralph. “They can’t do better
than go back to the country, ma'am ; they are
in everybody's way here.”
“Certainly,” said Miss La Creevy, rubbing
her hands, “if Mrs. Nickleby took the apart-
ments without the means of paying for them, it
was very unbecoming a lady.” - -
* “Of course it was, ma'am,” said Ralph.
“And naturally,” continued Miss La Creevy,
“I who am, at £resent—hem—an unprotected
female, cannot afford to lose by the apartments.”
“Of course you can't, ma'am,” replied Ralph.
“Though at the same time,” added Miss La
Creevy, who was plainly wavering between her
good nature and her interest, “I have nothing
whatever to say against the lady, who is ex-
tremely pleasant and affable, though, poor thing,
she seems terribly low in her spirits; nor against
the young people either, for nicer or better.
behaved young people cannot be.”
“Very well, ma'am,” said Ralph, turning to
the door, for these encomiums on poverty irri-
tated him ; “I have done my duty, and perhaps
more than I ought : of course nobody will thank
me for saying what I have.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you
at least, sir,” said Miss La Creevy in a gracious
manner. “Would you do me the favour to
look at a few specimens of my portrait painting?”
“You're very good, ma'am,” said Mr.
Nickleby, making off with great speed; “but as
I have a visit to pay up-stairs, and my time is
precious, I really can't.”
“At any other time when you are passing I
shall be most happy,” said Miss La Creevy.
“Perhaps you will have the kindness to take a
card of terms with you? Thank you—good
morning !”
“Good morning, maam,” said Ralph, shutting
the door abruptly after him to prevent any
further conversation.
law. Bah l’ - -
Climbing up another perpendicular flight,
“Now for my sister-in-
composed with great mechanical ingenuity of
I 2
McHozas wrckzee).
nothing but corner stairs, Mr. Ralph Nickleby
stopped to take breath on the landing, when he
was overtaken by the handmaid, whom the
politeness of Miss La Creevy had dispatched to
announce him, and who had apparently been
making a variety of unsuccessful attempts, since
their last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean
upon an apron much dirtier.
“What name?” said the girl.
“Nickleby,” replied Ralph. -
“Oh Mrs. Nickleby,” said the girl, throwing
open the door, “here's Mr. Nickleby.”
A lady in deep mourning rose as Mr. Ralph
Nickleby entered, but appeared incapable of
advan.cing to meet him, and leant upon the arm
of a slight but very beautiful girl of about seven-
teen, who had been sitting by her. A youth,
who appeared a year or two older, stepped for-
ward and saluted Ralph as his uncle.
“Oh ſ” growled Ralph with an ill-favoure
frown, “you are Nicholas, I suppose P” •
“That is my name, sir,” replied the youth.
“Put my hat down,” said Ralph imperiously.
“Well, ma'am, how do you do? You must
bear up against sorrow, ma'am ; I always do.”
“Mine was no common loss 1" said Mrs.
Nickleby, applying her handkerchief to her
eyes.
“It was no uncommon less, ma'am,” re-
turned Ralph as he coolly-unbuttoned his
Spencer. “Husbands die every day, ma'am,
and wives too.”
“And brothers also, sir,” said Nicholas with a
glance of indignation. -
“Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs like-
wise,” replied his uncle, taking a chair. “You
didn't mention in your letter what my brother's
complaint was, ma'am.”
“The doctors could attribute it to no par-
ticular disease,” said Mrs. Nickleby, shedding
tears. “We have too much reason to fear that
he died of a broken heart.” .
“Pooh " said Ralph, “there's no such thing.
I can understand a man's dying of a broken
neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a
broken head, or a broken leg, or a broken nose ;
but a broken heart —nonseiſse, it's the cant of
the day. If a man can't pay his debts, he dies
of a broken heart, and his widow's a martyr.”
“Some people, I believe, have no hearts to
break,” observed Nicholas quietly.
“How old is this boy, for God's sake?”
inquired Ralph, wheelixg back his chair, and
surveying his nephew from head to foot with
intense scorn.
“Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,” replied
the widow.
x
“Nineteen, eh?” said Ralph. “And what
do you mean to do for your bread, sir?”
“Not to live upon my mother,” replied
Nicholas, his heart swelling as he spoke.
“You’d have little enough to live upon if you
did,” retorted the uncle, eyeing him contemptu-
ously.
“Whatever it be,” said Nicholas, flushed with
anger, “I shall not look to you to make it
more.”
“Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,” re-
monstrated Mrs. Nickleby.
“Dear Nicholas, pray!” urged the young lady.
“Hold your tongue, sir!" said Ralph. “Upon
my word ' . Fine beginnings, Mrs. Nickleby—
fine beginnings I’
Mrs. Nickleby made no other reply than
entreating Nicholas by a gesture to keep silent;
and the uncle and nephew looked at each other
for some seconds without speaking. The face
of the old man was stern, hard-featured, and
forbidding; that of the young one open, hand-
some, and ingenuous. The old man's eye was
keen with the twinklings of avarice and cunning;
the young man's bright with the light of intelli-
gence and spirit. His figure was somewhat
slight, but manly, and well forméd; and, apart
from all the grace of youth and comeliness,
there was an emanation from the warm young
heart in his look, and bearing which kept the
old man down.
However striking such a contrast as this may
be to lookers-on, none ever feel it with half the
yº or acuteness of perfection with which
it strikes to the very soul of him whose inferiority
it marks. It galled Ralph to the.heart's core,
and he hated Nicholas from that hour.
The mutual inspection was at length brought
to a close by Ralph withdrawing his eyes with a
great show of disdain, and calling Nicholas “a
boy.” This word is much used as a term o
reproach by elderly gentlemen towards thei
Juniors: probably with the view of deluding
Society into the belief that, if they could be
young again, they wouldn't on any account.
“Well, ma'am,” said Ralph impatiently, “the
Creditors have administered, you tell me, and
there's nothing left for you ?”
, “Nothing,” replied Mrs. Nickleby.
... “And you spent what little money you had
in coming all the way to London, to see what I
could do for you?” pursued Ralph.
“I hoped,” ſaltered Mrs. Nickleby, “that you
might have an opportunity of doing something
for your brother's children." It was his dying
wish that Is should, appeal to "you" in thei
behalf.” . .
* {}
THRozo Szoxy. 13
“I don’t know how it is,” muttered Ralph,
walking up and down the room, “but, whenever
a man dies without any property of his own, he
always seems to think he has a right to dispose
of other people's. What is your daughter fit for,
ma'am P”
“Kate has been well educated,” sobbed Mrs.
Nickleby. “Tell your uncle, my dear, how far
you went in French and extras.”
The poor girl was about to murmur some-
thing, when her uncle stopped her very uncere-
moniously. *
“We must try and get you apprenticed at
some boarding-school,” said Ralph. “You have
not been brought up too delicately for that, I
hope?” e º
“No, indeed, uncle,” replied the weeping
girl. “I will try to do anything that will gain
me a home and bread.” • . .
“Well, well,” said Ralph, a little softened,
either by his niece's beauty or her distress (stretch
a point, and say the latter). “You must try it,
and, if the life is too hard, perhaps dressmaking
or tambour-work will come lighter.
ever done anything,
nephew.)
“No,” replied Nicholas bluntly.
“No, I thought not ſ” said Ralph. “This is
the way my brother brought up his children,
lila'am.”
“Nicholas has not long completed such edu-
cation as his poor father could give him,”
Have you
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rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, “and he was thinking
of—”
“Of making something of him some day,”
said Ralph. “The old story; always thinking,
and never doing. If my brother had been a
man of activity and prudence, he might have
left you a rich woman, ma'am : and if he had
turned his son into the world, as my father
turned me, when I wasn't as old as that boy by
a year and a half, he would have been in a situn
ation to help you, instead of being a burden upon
you, and increasing your distress. My brother

I4 AV/CHO/AS AW/CAE Z/2A3 P.
"was a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs.
Nickleby, and nobody, I am sure, can have
better reason to feel that than you.”
This appeal set the widow upon thinking that
perhaps she might have made a more successful
venture with her one thousand pounds, and then
she began to reflect what a comfortable sum it
would have been just then ; which dismal
thoughts made her tears flow faster, and, in the
excess of these griefs, she (being a well-meaning
woman enough, but weak withal) fell first to
deploring her hard fate, and then to femarking,
with many sobs, that to be sure she had been a
slave to poor Nicholas, and had often told him
she might have married better (as indeed she
had very often), and that she never knew in his
lifetime how the money went, but that, if he had
confided in her, they might all have been better
off that day; with other bitter recollections
common to most married ladies, either during
their coverture, or afterwards, or at both periods.
Mrs. Nickleby concluded by lamenting that the
dear departed had never deigned to profit by
her advice, save on one occasion: which was a
strictly veracious statement, inasmuch as he had
only acted upon it once, and had ruined himself .
in consequence.
Mr. Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half.
smile; and, when the widow had finished,
quietly took up the subject where it had been
left before the above outbreak.
“Are you willing to work, sir?” he inquired,
frowning on his nephew.
“Of course I am,” replied Nicholas haugh-
tily.
“Then see here, sir,” said his uncle. “This
caught my eye this morning, and you may thank
your stars for it.”
With this exordium, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took
a newspaper from his pocket, and after unfolding
it, and looking for a short time annong the
advertisements, read as follows:
“‘EDUCATION.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers's
Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful
village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in
Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked,
furnished with pocket money, provided with all
necessaries, instructed in all languages living
and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes,
algebra, single-stick (if required), writing, arith-
metic, fortification, and every other branch of
classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas per
annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet un-
Paralleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends
daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head,
Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.
Annual salary 24, 5, A Master of Arts would be
preferred.’
“There !” said Ralph, folding the paper
again. “Let him get that situation, and his
fortune is made.” - -
“But he is not a Master of Arts,” said Mrs.
Nickleby.
“That,” replied Ralph, “that, I think, can
be got over.”
“But the salary is so small, and it is such a
long way off, uncle !” faltered Kate.
“ Hush, Kate my dear,” interposed Mrs.
Nickleby; “your uncle must know best.”
“I say,” repeated Ralph tartly, “let him get
that situation, and his fortune is made. If he
don't like that, let him get one for himself.
Without friends, money, recommendation, or
knowledge of business of any kind, let him find
honest employment in London, which will keep
him in shoe-leather, and I'll give him a thousand
pounds. At least,” said Mr. Ralph Nickleby,
checking himself, “I would if I had it.”
“Poor fellow !” said the young lady.
uncle, must we be separated so soon P”
“Don’t tease your uncle with questions when
he is thinking only for our good, my love," said
Mrs. Nickleby, “Nicholas, my dear, I wish
you would say something.” a
“Yes, mother, yes,” said Nicholas, who had
hitherto remained silent and absorbed in thought.
“If I am fortunate enough to be appointed to
this post, sir, for which I am so imperfectly
qualified, what will become of those I leave
behind P” - *
“Your mother and sister, sir,” replied Ralph,
“will be provided for, in that case (not other-
wise), by me, and placed in some sphere of life
in which they will be able to be independent.
That will be my innmediate care; they will not
remain as they are one week after vour departure,
I will undertake.”
“Then,” said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and
wringing his uncle's hand, “I’am ready to do
anything you wish me. Let us try our fortune
with Mr. Squeers at once ; he can but refuse.”
“He won't do that,” said Ralph. “He will
be glad to have you on my recommendation.
Make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to
be a partner in the establishment in no time.
Bless me, only think 1 if he were to die, why
your fortune's made at once.”
“To be sure, I see it all,” said poor Nicholas,
delighted with a thousand visionary ideas that
his good spirits and his inexperience were con-
juring up before him. “Or suppose some
young nobleman who is being educated at the
Hall were to take a fancy to me, and get his
“Oh
7//E SARA CAEAV'S HEAD, SAVO W H//Z. 15
father to appoint me his travelling tutor when
he left, and when we come back from the com-
tinent, procured me some handsome appoint-
ment. Eh! uncle?”
“Ah, to be sure : " sneered Ralph.
“And who knows but, when he came to see
me when I was settled (as he would of course),
he might fall in love with Kate, who would be
keeping my house, and—and marry her, eh,
uncle? Who knows P”
“Who indeed " snarled Ralph.
“How happy we should be 1" cried Nicholas
with enthusiasm. “The pain of parting is
nothing to the joy of meeting again. Kate will
be a beautiful woman, and I so proud to hear
them say so, and mother so happy to be with us
once again, and all these sad times forgotten,
and——” The picture was too bright a one to
bear, and Nicholas, fairly overpowered by it,
smiled faintly, and burst into tears.
This simple family, born and bred in retire-
ment, and wholly unacquainted with what is
called the world—a conventional phrase which,
being interpreted, often signifieth all the rascals
in it—mingled their tears together at the thought
of their first separation; and, this first gush of
feeling over, were proceeding to dilate with all
the buoyancy of untried hope on the bright
prospects before them, when Mr. Ralph Nickleby
suggested that, if they lost time, some more
fortunate candidate might deprive Nicholas of
the stepping-stone to fortune which the advertise-
ment pointed out, and so u1.lermine all their
air-built castles. This timely reminder effectually
stopped the conversation. Nicholas, having
carefully copied the address of Mr. Squeers, the
uncle and nephew issued forth together in quest
of that accomplished gentleman; Nicholas firmly
persuading himself that he had done his relative
great injustice in disliking him at first sight; and
Mrs. Nickleby being at some pains to inform
her daughter that she was sure he was a much
more kindly-disposed person tha., he seemed ;
which, Miss Nickleby dutifully remarked, he
might very easily be. *
To tell the truth, the good lady's opinion had
been not a little influenced by her brother-in-
law's appeal to her better understanding, and his
implied compliment to her high deserts; and
although she had dearly loved her husband, and
still doted on her children, he had struck so
Successfully on one of those little jarring chords
in the human heart (Ralph was well acquainted
with its worst weaknesses, though he knew
nothing of its best), that she had already begun
Seriously to consider herself-the amiable and suf-
fering victim of her late husband's imprudence.
CHAPTER IV.
NICHOLAS AND HIS UNCLE (TO SECURE THE FORTUNE
witHouT. Loss of TIME) WAIT UPON MR. WACK -
Forp SQUEERs, THE YORKSHIRE SOHOOLMASTER,
§ NOW HILL : What kind of place
can the quiet townspeople who see
the words emblazoned, in all the legi
bility of gilt letters and dark shading
*- on the north-country coaches, take
''Snow Hill to be? All people have some
undefined and shadowy notion of a place
whose name is frequently before their
eyes, or often in their ears. What a vast num-
ber of random ideas there must be perpetually
floating about regarding this same Snow Hill!
The name is such a good one. Snow Hill—
Snow Hill, too, coupled with a Saracen's Head:
picturing to us, by a double association of ideas,
something stern and rugged A bleak desolate
tract of country, open to piercing blasts and
fierce wintry storms—a dark, cold, gloomy
heath, lonely by day, and scarcely to be thought
of by honest folks at night—a place which
solitary wayfarers shun, and where desperate
robbers congregate;—this, or something like
this, should be the prevalent notion of Snow
Hill in those remote and rustic parts through
which the Saracen's Head, like some - grim
apparition, rushes each day and night with mys-
terious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its
swift and headlong course in all weathers, and
seeming to bid defiance to the very elements
themselves.
The reality is rather different, but by no
means to be despised notwithstanding. There,
at the very core of London; in the heart of its
business and animation, in the midst of a whirl
of noise and motion: stemming as it were the
giant currents of life that flow ceaselessly on
from different quarters, and meet beneath its
walls : stands Newgate; and in that crowded
street on which it frowns so darkly—within a
few feet of the squalid tottering houses—upon
the very spot on which the vendors of soup and
fish and damaged fruit are now plying their
trades—scores of human beings, amidst a roar of
sounds to which even the tumult of a great city
is as nothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a
time have been hurried violently and swiftly
from the world, when the scene has been
rendered frightful with excess of human life ;
when curious eyes have glared from casement
and housetop, and wall and pillar; and when,
in the mass of white and upturned faces, the
dying wretch, in his all-comprehensive look of



16 A/CHOLAS AICKZEB Y.
agony, has met not one—not one—that bore
the impress of pity or compassion.
Near to the gaol, and by consequence near
to Smithfield (also, and the Compter, and the
bustle and noise of the City; and just on that
particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus
horses going eastward seriously think of falling
down on purpose, and where horses in hackney
cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall
by accident, is the coach-yard of the Saracen's
Head Inn ; its portal guarded by two Saracens'
heads and shoulders, which it was once the
pride and glory of the choice spirits of this
metropolis to pull down at night, but which
have for some time remained in undisturbed
tranquillity ; possibly because this species of
humour is now confined to St. James's parish,
where door-knockers are preferred as being more
portable, and bell-wires esteemed as convenient
toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not,
there they are, frowning upon you from each
side of the gateway. The inn itself, garnished
with another Saracen's Head, frowns upon you
from the top of the yard ; while from the door
of the hind boot of all the red coaches that are
standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's
Head, with a twin expression to the large
Saracens' Heads below, so that the general
appearance of the pile is decidedly of the
Saracenic order.
When you walk up this yard you will see the
booking-office on your left, and the tower of St.
Sepulchre's Church, darting abruptly up into the
sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on
both sides. Just before you, you will Óbserve
a long window with the words “Coffee-room "
legibly painted above it; and, looking out of
that window, you would have seen in addition,
if you had gone at the right time, Mr. Wackford
Squeers, with his hands in his pockets.
Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossess-
ing. He had but one eye, and the popular pre-
judice runs in favour of two.' The eye he had
was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not
ornamental ; being of a greenish grey, and in
shape resembling the fanlight of a street-door.
The blank side of his face was much wrinkled
and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister
appearance, especially when he smiled, at which
times his expression bordered closely on the
villainous. His hair was very flat and shiny,
save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up
from a low protruding forehead, which assorted
well with his harsh voice and coarse manner.
He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle
below the middle size ; he wore a white necker-
chief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic
black; but his coat-sleeves being a great deal
too long, and his trousers a great deal too short,
he appeared ill at ease in his clothes, and as if
he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at
finding himself so respectable.
Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of
the coffee-room fire-places, fitted with one such
table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two
of extraordinary shapes and dimensions made
to suit the angles of the partition. In a corner
of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied
round with a scanty piece of cord ; and on the
trunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and
Corduroy trousers dangling in the air—a diminu-
tive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his
ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who
glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time
to time, with evident dread and apprehension.
“Half-past three,” muttered Mr. Squeers,
turning from the window, and looking sulkily at
the coffee-room clock. “There will be nobody
here to-day.”
Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers
looked at the little boy to see whether he was
doing anything he could beat him for. As he
happened not to be doing anything at all, he
merely boxed his ears., and told him not to do
it again.
“At midsummer,” muttered Mr. Squeers, re.
suming his complaint, “I took down ten boys;
ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back
at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and have
got only three—three oughts is an ought—three
twos is six—sixty pound. What's come of all
the boys P what's parents got in their heads P
what does it all mean?”
Here the little boy on the top of the trunk
gave a violent sneeze.
“Hallo, sir 4 * growled the schoolmaster,
turning round. “What's that, sir?”
“Nothing, please, sir,” replied the little boy.
“Nothing, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Squeers.
“Please, sir, I sneezed,” rejoined the boy,
trembling till the little trunk shook under him.
“Oh I sneezed, did you?” retorted Mr.
Squeers. “Then what did you say “Nothing’
for, sir?”
In default of a better answer to this question,
the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into
each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore
Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a
blow on one side of the face, and knocked him
on again with a blow on the other.
“Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my
young gentleman,” said Mr. Squeers, “and then
I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise,
| Sir P’’
MR. SQUEEAES A&AE CAE/PES HY'S YOUAVG. A.A. ZZAVADS. 17
“Ye—ye—yes,” sobbed the little boy, rub-
bing his face very hard with the Beggar's
Petition in printed calico.
“Then do so at once, sir," said Squeers.
“Do you hear 2" - -
. As this admonition was accompanied with a
threatening gesture, and uttered with a savage
aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as
if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alter-
nately sniffing and choking, gave no further vent
to his emotions.
“Mr. Squeers,” said the waiter, looking in at
this juncture, “here's a gentleman asking for
you at the bar.”
“Show the gentleman in, Richard,” replied
Mr. Squeers in a soft voice. “Put your hand-
kerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or
I'll murder you when the gentleman goes.”
The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these
words in a fierce whisper when the stranger
entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers
feigned to be intent upon mending a pen,
and offering benevolent advice to his youthful
pupil.
“My dear child,” said Mr. Squeers, “all
people have their trials. This early trial of
yours that is fit to make your little heart burst,
and your very eyes come out of your head with
crying, what is it 2 Nothing ; less than nothing.
You are leaving your friends, but you will have
a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs.
Squeers. At the delightful village of Dotheboys,
near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth
are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished
with pocket money, provided with all neces-
Saries yº
“It is the gentleman," observed the stranger,
stopping the schoolmaster in the rehearsal of
his advertisement. “Mr. Squeers, I believe,
sir P "
“The same, sir,” said Mr. Squeers with an
assumption of extreme surprise,
“The gentleman,” said the stranger, “that
advertised in the Times newspaper ?”
“—Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and
Advertiser, regarding the Academy called Do-
theboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dothe:
boys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,” added
Mr. Squeers. “You come on business, sir. I
see by my young friends. How do you do, my
little gentleman 2 and how do you do, sir?”
With this salutation Mr. Squeers patted the
heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little
boys, whom the applicant had brought with him,
and waited for further communications.
“I am in the oil and colour way. & My name
is Smawley, sir," said the stranger.
Squeers inclined his head as much as to say,
“And a remarkably pretty name, too.”
* The 4 stranger continued. “I have been
thinking, Mr. Squeers, of placing my two boys
at your school." -
* “It is not for me to say so, sir,” replied Mr.
Squeers, “but I don't think you could possibly
do a better thing.”
“Hem " said the other. “Twenty pounds
per annewum, I believe, Mr. Squeers ?”
“Guineas,” rejoined the schoolmaster with a
persuasive smile.
“Pounds for two, I think, Mr. Squeers,” said
Mr. Snawley solemnly.
“I don't think it could be done, sir,” replied
Squeers, as if he had never considered the pro-
position before. “I.et me see ; four fives is
twenty, double that, and deduct the Well,
a pound either way shall not stand betwixt us.
You must recommend me to your connection,
sir, and make it up that way.”
“They are not great eaters,” said Mr.
Snawley.
“Oh that doesn't matter at all,” replied
Squeers. “We don't consider the boys' appe.
tites at our establishment.” This was strictly
true ; they did not.
“Fvery wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire
can afford,” continued Squeers; “every beau-
tiful moral that Mrs. Squeers can instil ; every
—in short, every comfort of a home that a boy
could wish for, will be theirs, Mr. Snawley.”
“I should wish their morals to be particularly
attended to,” said Mr. Snawley.
“I am glad of that, sir,” replied the school-
master, drawing himself up. “They have come
to the right shop for morals, sir.”
“You are a moral man yourself,” said Mr.
Snawley. - ~
“I rather believe I am, sir,” replied Squeers.
“I have the satisfaction to know you are,
sir,” said Mr. Snawley. “I asked one of your
references, and he said you were pious.”
“Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,"
replied Squeers.
“I hope. I am also,” rejoined the other.
“Could I say a few words with you in the next
box 2 " .
“By all means,” rejoined Squeers with a grin.
“My dears, will you speak to your new play-
fellow a minute or two P. That is one of my
boys, sir. Belling his name is, a Taunton boy
that, sir.”
“Is he, indeed 2 ” rejoined Mr. Snawley,
looking at the poor little urchin as if he were
Some extraordinary natural curiosity. -
, “He goes down with me to-morrow, sir,” said,
18 AV/CHOZAS MICKZEB P. .
Squeers. “That's his luggage that he is a sitting
upon now. Each boy is required to bring, sir,
two suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stock.
ings, two nightcaps, two pocket-handkerchiefs,
two pair of shoes, two hats, and a razor."
“A razorl" exclaimed Mr. Snawley as they
walked into the next box. “What for?”
“To shave with,” replied Squeers in a slow
and measured tone.
There was not much in these three words,
but there must have been something in the
manner in which they were said to attract
attention; for the schoolmaster and his com-
panion looked steadily at each other for a few
seconds, and then exchanged a very meaning
smile. Snawley was a sleek, flat-nosed man,
clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters,
and bearing in his countenance an expression of
much mortification and sanctity; so, his Smiling
without any obvious reason was the more re-
markable.
“Up to what age do you keep boys at your
school, then P” he asked at length.
“Just as long as their friends make the
quarterly payments to my agent in town, or
until such time as they run away,” replied
Squeers. “Let us understand each other ; I
see we may safely do so. What are these boys;
—natural children P”
“No,” rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of
the schoolmaster's one eye. “They ain't.”
“I thought they might be,” said Squeers
coolly. “We have a good many of them ; that
boy's one.”
“Him in the next box P” said Snawley.
Squeers modded in the affirmative ; his com,
panion took another peep at the little boy on
the trunk, and, turning round again, looked as
if he were quite disappointed to see him so
much like other boys, and said he should hardly
have thought it. .
“He is,” cried Squeers. “But about these
boys of yours; you wanted to speak to
me P”
“’Yes,” replied Snawley. “The fact is, I am
not their father, Mr. Squeers. I'm only their
father-in-law.”
.* Oh Is that it P” said the schoolmaster,
“That explains it at once. I was wondering
what the devil you were going to send them to
Yorkshire for. Ha 1 ha Oh I I understand
now.”
“You see I have married the mother,” pur-
sued Snawley; “it’s expensive keeping boys at
home, and, as she has a little money in her own
right, I am afraid (women are so very foolish,
Mr. Squeers) that she might be led to squander
**.** – .º.
it on them, which would be their ruin, you
know.”
“I see,” returned Squeers, throwing himsélf
back in his chair, and waving his hand.
“And this,” resumed Snawley, “has made
me anxious to put them to some school a good
distance off, where there are no holidays—none
of those ill-judged comings home twice a year
that unsettle children's minds so. —and where
they may rough it a little — you compre-
hend ?” -
“The payments regular, and no questions
asked,” said Squeers, nodding his head.
“That's it exactly,” rejoined the other.
“Morals strictly attended to, though.”
“Strictly,” said Squeers. -
“Not too muchwriting home allowed, I Sup-
pose P” said the father-in-law, hesitating.
“None, except a circular at Christmas, to say
they never were so happy, and hope they may
never be sent for,” rejoined Squeers.
“Nothing could be better,” said the father-
in-law, rubbing his hands. º,
“Then, as we understand each other,” said
Squeers, “will you allow me to ask you whether
you consider me a highly virtuous, exemplary,
and well-conducted man in private life ; and
whether, as a person whose business it is to take
charge of youth, you place the strongest confi-
dence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality,
religious principles, and ability ?”
“Certainly I do,” replied the father-in-law,
reciprocating the schoolmaster's grin.
“Perhaps you won't object to say that, if I
make you a reference?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“That's your sort l” said Squeers, taking up
a pen ; “this is doing business, and that's what
I like.” -
Having entered Mr. Smawley's address, the
Schoolmaster had next to perform the still more
agreeable office of entering the receipt of the
first quarter's payment in advance, which he had
scarcely completed, when another voice was
heard inquiring for Mr. Squeers.
“Here he is,” replied the schoolmaster :
“what is it P”
“Only a matter of business, sir,” said Ralph
Nickleby, presenting himself, closely followed
by Nicholas. “There was an advertisement of
yours in the papers this morning P”
“There was, sir. This way if you please,”
said Squeers, who had by this time got back to
the ‘box by the fire-place. “Won't you be
Seated P”
“Why, I think I will,” replied Ralph, suiting
the action to the word, and placing his hat on
A CAA RM/AWG O PEAV/AWG FOR AW/CHO/A.S. 19
the table before him. “This is my nephew,
sir, Mr. Nicholas Nickleby.”
“Fow do you do, sir?” said Squeers.
Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and
seemed very much astonished at the outward
appearance of the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall:
as indeed he was.
“Perhaps you recollect me P” said Ralph,
looking narrowly at the schoolmaster.
“You paid me a small account at each of my
half-yearly visits to town, for some years, I
think, sir,”replied Squeers.
“I did,” rejoined Ralph.
“F, r the parents of a boy named Dorker,
who unfortunately
“—Unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,”
said Ralph, finishing the sentence.
“I remember very well, sir,” rejoined Squeers.
“Ah ! Mrs. Squeers, sir, was as partial to that
lad as if he had been her own ; the attention,
sir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his
illness Dry toast and warm tea offered him
every night and morning when he couldn't
swallow anything—a candle in his bedroom on
the very night he died—the best dictionary
sent up for him to lay his head upon—I don't
regret. it, though. It is a pleasant thing to re-
flect that one did one's duty by him.”
Ralph smiled, as if he meant anything but
smiling, and looked round at the strangers pre-
SČnt.
“These are only some pupils of mine,” said
Wackford Squeers, pointing to the little boy on
the trunk and the two little boys on the floor,
who had been staring at each other without
uttering a word, and writhing their bodies into
most remarkable contortions, according to the
custom of little boys when they first become
acquainted. “This gentleman, sir, is a parent
who is kind enough to compliment me upon
the course of education adopted at Dotheboys
Hall, which is situated, sir, at the delightful
village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in York-
shire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked,
washed, furnished with pocket money—-”
“Yes, we know all about that, sir,” inter.
rupted Ralph testily. “It’s in the advertise-
ment.” .
“You are yery right, sir; it is in the adver-
tisement,” replied Squeers.
“And in the matter of fact besides,” inter-
rupted Mr. Snawley. “I feel bound to assure
you, sir, and I am proud to have this opportu-
nity of assuring you, that I consider Mr. Squeers
a gentleman highly virtuous, exemplary, well
conducted, and ".
“I make no doubt of it, sir,” interrupted
Ralph, checking the torrent of recommendation;
“ no doubt of it at all. Suppose we come to
business P”
“With all my heart, sir,” rejoined Squeers.
“‘Never postpone business' is the very first
lessón we instil into our commercial pupils.
Master Belling, my dear, always remember that;
do you hear?” *...
“Yes, sir,” repeated Master Belling.
“He recollects what it is, does he P’’ said
Ralph.
“Tell the gentleman,” said Squeers.
“Never,” repeated Master Belling.
“Very good,” said Squeers; “go on.”
“Never,” repeated Master Belling again.
“Very good indeed,” said Squeers. “Yes.”
“P,” suggested Nicholas good-naturedly.
“Perform—business " said Master Belling.
“Never—perform—business."
“Very well, sir,” said Squeers, darting a
withering look at the culprit. “You and I will
perform a little business on our private account
by-and-by.”
“And just now,” said Ralph, “we had better
transact our own, perhaps.”
“If you please,” said Squeers.
“Well,” resumed Ralph, “it’s brief enough ;
soon broached ; and I hope easily concluded.
You have advertised for an able assistant,
Sir P” -
“Precisely so,” said Squeers.
“And you really want one P”
, “Certainly,” answered Squeers.
“Here he is 1" said Ralph. “My nephew
Nicholas, hot from school, with everything he
learnt there fermenting in his head, and nothing
fermenting in his pocket, is just the man you
want.”
“I am afraid,” said Squeers, perplexed with
such an application from a youth of Nicholas's
figure, “I am afraid the young man won't suit
ne.” -
“Yes, he will,” said Ralph ; “I know better.
Don't be cast down, sir; you will be teaching
all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hall in
less than a week's time, unless this gentleman is
more obstinate than I take him to be.”
“I fear, sir,” said Nicholas, addressing Mr.
Squeers, “that you object to my youth, 2nd to
my not being a Master of Arts P”
“The absence of a college degree is an ob-
jection,” replied Squeers, looking as grave as he
could, and considerably puzzled, no less by the
contrast between the simplicity of the nephew
and the worldly manner of the uncle, than by
the incomprehensible allusion to the young
noblemen under his tuition.
2O
NYCHOLAS NICKLEB Y.
“Look here, sir,” said Ralph ; “I’ll put this
matter in its true light in two seconds.”
“If you'll have the goodness,” rejoined
Squeers. -
“This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a
young man, or a hobbledehoy, or whatever you
like to call him, of eighteen or nineteen, or
thereabouts,” said Ralph.
“That I see,” observed the schoolmaster.
“So do I,” said Mr. Snawley, thinking it as
well to back his new friend occasionally. -
“His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of
the world, has no resources whatever, and wants
something to do,” said Ralph. “I recommend
him to this splendid establishment of yours, as
an opening which will lead him to fortune if
he turns it to proper account. Do you see
that P” -
“Everybody must see that,” replied Squeers,
half imitating the sneer with which the old
gentleman was regarding his unconscious rela-
tlve. - -
“J do, of course,” said Nicholas eagerly.
“’He does, of course, you observe,” said
Ralph in the same dry, hard manner. “If any
caprice of temper should induce him to cast
aside this golden opportunity before he has
brought it to perfection, I consider myself ab-
Solved from extending any assistance to his
mother and sister. Look at him, and think of
the use he may be to you in half-a-dozen ways
Now, the question is, whether, for some time to
come at all events, he won’t serve your purpose
better than twenty of the kind of people you
would get under ordinary circumstances. Isn't
that a question for consideration ?” -
“Yes, it is,” said Squeers, answering a nod of
Ralph's head with a nod of his own.
“Good,” rejoined Ralph. “Let me have
two words with you.”
The two words were had apart: in a couple
of minutes Mr. Wackford Squeers announced
that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby was, from that
moment, thoroughly nominated to, and installed
in, the office of first assistant master at Dothe-
boys Hall.
“Your uncle's recommendation has done it,
Mr. Nickleby,” said Wackford Squeers.
Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his
uncle's hand warmly, and could almost have
worshipped Squeers upon the spot.
“He is an odd-looking man,” thought Nicho-
las. “What of that P Porson was an odd-
looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; all
these bookworms are.”
“At eight o'clock to-morrow, morning, Mr.
Nickleby,” said Squeers, “the coach starts.
| - -
You must be here at a quarter before, as we
take these boys with us.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Nicholas.
“And your fare down I have paid,” growled
Ralph. “So you’ll have nothing to do but
keep yourself warm.” - .
Here was another instance of his uncle's gene-
rosity Nicholas felt his unexpected kindness
so much, that he could scarcely find words to
thank him; indeed, he had not found half
enough, when they took leave of the school-
master, and emerged from the Saracen's Head
gateway. - -
“I shall be here in the morning to see you
fairly off,” said Ralph. “No skulking !”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Nicholas; “I never
shall forget this kindness.”
“Take care you don't,” replied his uncle.
“You had better go home now, and pack up
what you have got to pack. Do you think you
could find your way to Golden Square first P”
“Certainly,” said Nicholas. “I can easily
inquire.” - - -
“Leave these papers with my clerk, then,”
said Ralph, producing a small parcel, “añd tell
him to wait till I come home.” *.
Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and
bidding his worthy uncle an affectionate farewell,
which that warm-hearted old gentleman acknow-
ledged by a growl, hastened away to execute his
commission.
He found Golden Square in due course; Mr.
Noggs, who had stepped out for a minute or so
to the public-house, was opening the door with
a latch-key as he reached the steps.
“What's that?” inquired Noggs, pointing to
the parcel.
“Papers from my uncle,” replied Nicholas;
“ and you're to have the goodness to wait till he
comes home, if you please.”
“ Uncle !” cried Noggs.
“Mr. Nickleby,” said Nicholas in explana-
tion. .
“Come in,” said Newman.
Without another word he led Nicholas into
the passage, and thence into the official pantry
at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair,
and, mounting upon his high stool, sat, with his
arms hanging straight down by his sides, gazing
fixedly upon him, as from a tower of observa-
tlon.
“There is no answer,” said Nicholas, laying
the parcel on a table beside him.
Newman said nothing, but folding his arms,
and thrusting his head forward so as to obtain a
nearer view of Nicholas's face, scanned his fea-
tures closely. -
S/AVG ULAR BEFIA VIOUR OF ME WMAAV ZVOGGS. 2 I
“No answer,” said Nicholas, speaking very the same close scrutiny of his companion's
loud, under the impression that Newman Noggs face.
was deaſ. This was such a very singular proceeding on
Newman placed his hands upon his knees, the part of an utter stranger, and his appearance
and, without uttering a syllable, continued was so extremely peculiar, that Nicholas, who
lº
§§
§
R
zºº
“SNUBS AND Romans ARE PLENTIFUL ENough, AND THERE ARE FLATs of ALL sorts AND SIZES WHEN
s THERE's A MEETING AT ExETER HALL.”
had a sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, he required no rest, bade him good morn-
could not refrain from breaking into a smile as ing.
he inquired whether Mr. Noggs had any com- It was a great exertion for Newman Noggs,
mands for him. and nobody knows to this day how he ever came
Noggs shook his head and sighed; upon to make it, the other party being wholly unknown
which Nicholas rose, and, remarking that | to him, but he drew a long breath, and actually
NICHOLAS NICKLERY, 3. - 2OO

22 AV/CHO/AS AV / C / LEB) .
said, out loud, without once stopping, that if the
young gentleman did not object to tell, he should
like to know what his uncle was going to do for
him. .
Nicholas had not the least objection in the
world, but, on the contrary, was rather pleased
to have an opportunity of talking on the subject
which occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down
again, and (his sanguine imagination warming as
he spoke) entered into a fervent and glowing
description of all the honours and advantages to
be derived from his appointment at that seat of
learning, Dotheboys Hall. -
“But, what's, the matter—are you ill?” said
Nicholas, suddenly breaking off, as his com-
panion, after throwing himself into a variety of
uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the
stool, and cracked his finger joints as if he were
Snapping all the bones in his hands.
Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on
shrugging his shoulders and cracking his finger
joints; smiling horribly all the time, and looking
steadfastly at nothing, out of the tops of his
eyes, in a most ghastly manner.
At first Nicholas thought the mysterious man
was in a fit, but, on further consideration, de-
cided that he was in liquor, under which cir-
cumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at
once. . He looked back when he had got the
street-door open.
dulging in the same extraordinary gestures, and
the cracking of his fingers sounded louder than
ever,
——
CHAPTER V.
NICHOLAS STARTS FOR YORKSHIRE. or HIs LEAVE-
TAKING AND HIS FELLow-TRAVELLERs, AND what
BEFELL THEM ON THE ROAD.
jº F tears dropped into a trunk were
Nú charms to preserve its owner from
§§ § Sorrow and misfortune, Nicholas
$º); Nickleby would have commenced
S º his expedition under most happy
} auspices. There was so much to
be done, and so little time to do it in ;
..So many kind words to be spoken, and
such bitter pain in the hearts in which they
rose to impede their utterance; that the little
Preparations for his journey were made mourn-
fully indeed. A hundred things which the
anxious care of his mother and sister deemed
indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted
Sº leaving behind, as they might prove of some
after use, or might be convertible into money if
Newman Noggs was still in- .
occasion required. A hundred affectionate cº
tests on such points as these took place on t
sad night which preceded his departure; aſ
as the termination of every angerless displ
brought them nearer and nearer to the close
their slight preparations, Kate grew busier a
busier, and wept more silently.
The box was packed at last, and then the
came supper, with some little delicacy provid
for the occasion, and as a set-off against the
pense of which Kate and her mother had feign
to dine when Nicholas was out. The poor
nearly choked himself by attempting to parta
of it, and almost suffocated himself in affecti
a jest or two, and forcing a melancholy laug
Thus, they lingered on till the hour of sep
rating for the night was long past; and th
they found that they might as well have giv
vent to their real feelings before, for they cou
'not suppress them, do what they would. S
they let them have their way, and even that w
a relief. - -
Nicholas slept well till six next mornin
dreamed of home, or of what was home once
no matter which, for things that are changed
gone will come back as they used to be, thal
God in sleep—and rose quite brisk and gº
He wrote a few lines in pencil, to say the goo
bye which he was afraid to pronounce himse
and laying them, with half his scanty stock
money, at his sister's door, shouldered his b
and crept softly down-stairs.
“Is that you, Hannah P” cried a voice frc
Miss La Creevy's sitting room, whence sho
the light of a feeble candle.
“It is I, Miss La Creevy,” said Nichola
putting down the box and looking in.
“Bless us !” exclaimed Miss La Creev
starting and putting her hand to her curl pape
“You’re up very early, Mr. Nicklebv.”
“So are you,” replied Nicholas.
“It’s the fine arts that bring me out of be
Mr. Nickleby,” returned the lady. “I’m wa
ing for the light to carry out an idea.”
Miss La Creevy had got up early to put
fancy nose into a miniature of an ugly little bo
destined for his grandmother in the count
who was expected to bequeath him property
he was like the family. g
“To carry out an idea,” repeated Miss
Creevy; “and that's the great convenience
living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. Wh
I want a nose or an eye for any particular sitt
I have only to look out of window and wait t
I get one.” - -
“Does it take long to get a nose, now
inquired Nicholas, smiling.






ArcăozAS OF PARZS FROM MISS ZA CREEvy's. 23
4 ºr &
“Why, that depends in a great measure on
the pattern,” replied Miss La Creevy. “Snubs
and Romans are plentiful enough, and there
are flats of all sorts and sizes when there's a
meeting at Exeter Hall; but perfect aquilines, I
am sorry to say, are scarce, and we generally
use them for uniforms or public characters.”
“Indeed ' " said Nicholas, “If I should
meet with any in my travels, I'll endeavour to
sketch them for you.”
“You don't mean to say that you are really
going all the way down into Yorkshire this cold
vinter's weather, Mr. Nickleby P” said Miss La
Creevy. “I heard something of it last night.”
“I do, indeed,” replied Nicholas. “Needs
must, you know, when somebody drives. Neces-
sity is my driver, and that is only another name
for the same gentleman.” -
“Well, I am very sorry Ior it; that's all I
can say,” said Miss La Creevy; “as much on
your mother's and sister's account as on yours.
Your sister is a very pretty young lady, Mr.
Nickleby, and that is an additional reason why
she should have somebody to protect her. I
persuaded her to give me a sitting or two for
the street-door case. Ah she'll make a
sweet miniature.” As Miss La Creevy spoke,
she held up an ivory countenance intersected
with very perceptible sky-blue veins, and re-
garded it with so much complacency, that
Nicholas quite envied her.
“If you ever have an opportunity of showing
Rate some little kindness,” said Nicholas, pre-
senting his hand, “I think you will.”
“Depend upon that,” said the good-natured
miniature painter; “and God bless you, Mr.
Nickleby; and I wish you well.”
It was very little that Nicholas knew of the
world, but he guessed enough about its ways to
think that, if he gave Miss La Creevy one little
kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindly
disposed towards those he was leaving behind.
So, he gave her three or four with a kind of
jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced
no greater symptoms of displeasure than de-
claring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that
she had never heard of such a thing, and couldn't
have believed it possible,
Having terminated the unexpected interview
in this satisfactory manner, Nicholas hastily
withdrew himself from the house. By the time
he had found a man to carry his box it was only
seven o'clock, so he walked slowly on, a little in
advance of the porter, and very probably with
not half as light a heart in his breast as the man
had, although he had no waistcoat to cover it
with, and had evidently, from the appearance of
his other garments, been spending the night in a
stable, and taking his breakfast at a pump.
Regarding, with no small curiosity and interest,
all the busy preparations for the coming day
which every street and almost every house dis-
played; and thinking, now and then, that it
seemed rather hard that so many people of all
ranks and stations could earn a livelihood in
London, and that he should be compelled to
journey so far in search of one; Nicholas speedily
arrived at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. Hav-
ing dismissed his attendant, and seen the box
safely deposited in the coach-office, he looked
into the coffee-room in search of Mr. Squeers.
He found that learned gentleman sitting at
breakfast, with the three little boys Qefore no-
ticed, and two others who had turned up by
some lucky chance since the interview of the
previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite
seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small
measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a
cold round of beef; but he was at that moment
intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
“This is two-penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter P”
said Mr. Squeers, looking down into a large blue
mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accu-
rate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.
“That's two-penn'orth, sir,” replied the waiter.
“What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in
London 1" said Mr. Squeers with a sigh. “Just
fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William,
will you?”
“To the wery top, sir?” Inquired the waiter.
“Why, the milk will be drownded.”
“Never you mind that,” replied Mr. Squeers.
“Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered
that thick bread-and-butter for three, did vou?”
“Coming directly, sir.” :
“You needn't hurry yourself,” said Squeers;
“there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions,
boys, and don't be eager after vittles.” As he
uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took
a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognised
Nicholas.
“Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,” said Squeers.
“Here we are, a breakfasting, you see "
Nicholas did not see that anybody was break-
fasting, except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed with
all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful
as he could.
“Oh that's the milk-and-water, is it, Wil.
liam P” said Squeers. “Very good ; don't for
get the bread-and-butter presently.”
At this fresh mention of the bread-and-butter,
the five little boys looked very eager, and fol-
lowed the waiter out with their eyes: meanwhile,
Mr. Squeers tasted the milk-and-water.
24 AV/CHO LAS AV/CREE B Y.
“Ah!” said that gentleman, Smacking his lips,
“here's richness . Think of the many beggars
and orphans in the streets that would be glad of
this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn't
it, Mr. Nickleby P”
“Very shocking, sir,” said Nicholas.
“When I say number one,” pursued Mr.
Squeers, putting the mug before the children,
“the boy on the left hand nearest the window
may take a drink; and when I say number two,
the boy next him will go in, and so till we come
to number five, which is the last boy. Are you
dy?”
“Yes, sir,” cried all the little boys with great
eagerness. l
“That's right,” said Squeers, calmly getting
on with his breakfast; “keep ready till I tell
you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears,
and you've conquered human natur’. This is
the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr.
Nickleby,” said the schoolmaster, turning to
Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full
of beef and toast. -
Nicholas murmured something—he knew not
what—in reply; and the little boys, dividing
their gaze between the mug, the bread-and-butter
(which had by this time arrived), and every
morsel which Mr. Squeers took into his mouth,
remained with strained eyes in torments of ex-
pectation.
“Thank God for a good breakfast,” said
Squeers when he had finished. “Number one
may take a drink.”
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and
had just drunk enough to make him wish for
more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for
number two, who gave up at the same interest-
ing moment to number three ; and the process
was repeated until the milk-and-water terminated
with number five.
“And now,” said the schoolmaster, dividing
the bread-and-butter for three into as many por-
tions, as there were children, “you had better
look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn
will blów in a minute or two, and then every
Thoy leaves off.”
Permission being thus given to fall-to, the
boys began to eat voraciously, and in desperate
haste ; while the schoolmaster (who was in high
good-humour after his meal) picked his teeth
with a fork, and looked smilingly on. In a very
short time the horn was heard.
. “I thought it wouldn't be long,” said Squeers,
jumping up. and producing a little, basket from
under the seat; “put what you haven't had time
to º: in here, boys | You'll want it on the
road Î"
round.
the best judge, of course.
you'd better get up behind.
Nicholas was considerably startled by these
very economical arrangenients; but he had no
time to reflect upon them, for the little boys had
to be got up to the top of the coach, and their
boxes had to be brought out and put in, and
Mr. Squeers's luggage was to be seen Carefully
deposited in the boot, and all these offices were
in his department. He was in the full heat and
bustly of concluding these operations, when his
uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, accosted him.
“Oh here you are, sir!” said Ralph. “Here
are your mother and sister, sir.”
“Where P” cried Nicholas, looking hastily
“Here !” replied his uncle. “Having too
much money, and nothing at all to do with it,
they were paying a hackney coach as I came up,
sir.”
“We were afraid of , being too, late to see
him before he went away ſron us,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless of the
unconcerned lookers-on in the coach-yard.
“Very good, ma'am,” returned Ralph; “you're
I merely said that
you were paying a hackney coach. I never pay
a hackney coach, ma'am ; I never hire one. I
haven't been in a hackney coach of my own
hiring for thirty years, and I hope I shan’t be
for thirty more, if I live as long.” -
“I should never have forgiven myself if I had
not seen him,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “Poor
dear boy—going away without his breakfast, too,
because he feared to distress us !” -
“Mighty fine certainly,” said Ralph with
great testiness., “When I first went to business,
ma'am, I took a penny loaf and a ha'porth of
milk for my breakfast as I walked to the City
every morning; what do you say to that, ma'am P
Breakfast ! Bah ]".
“Now, Nickleby,” said Squeers, coming up at
the moment buttoning his great-coat; “I think
I'm afraid of one
of them boys falling off, and then there's twenty
pound a year gone.”
“Dear Nicholas,” whispered Kate, touching
her brother's arm, “who is that vulgar man P”
“Eh P” growled Ralph, whose quick ears had
caught the inquiry. “Do you wish to be intro-
duced to Mr. Squeers, my dear?”
“That the schoolmaster | No, uncle. Oh
no "replied Kate, shrinking back.
“I’m sure I heard you say as much, my dear,"
retorted Ralph in his cold sarcastic manner.
“Mr. Squeers, here's my niece : Nicholas's
sister "
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,”
said Squeers, raising his hat an inch or two.
M.R. SQUEERS IS INTROZ) UCED TO KATE NICKZEB Y. 25
“I wish Mrs. Squeers took gals, and we had you
for a teacher. I don't know, though, whether she
mightn't grow jealous if we had. Ha! haſ ha ("
If the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could
have known what was passing in his assistant's
|
§
&
º
º
s
i
“VERY GLAD to MAKE You R AcQUAINTANCE, MIss,”
aside, and thus prevented Mr. Squeers from
being impressed with the fact in a peculiarly dis-
agreeable manner. -
“My dear Nicholas,” said the young lady,
“who is this man P What kind of place can it
be that you are going to P”
“I hardly know, Kate,” replied Nicholas,
breast at that moment, he would have discovered,
with some surprise, that he was as near being
soundly pummelled as he had ever been in his
life. Kate Nickleby, having a quicker percep-
tion of her brother's emotions, led him gently
SAID SQUEERS, RAISING HIS HAT AN INCH OR TWO
pressing his sister's hand. “I suppose the York-
shire folks are rather rough and uncultivated;
that's all.”
“But this person,” urged Kate.
“Is my employer, or master, or whatever the
proper name may be,” replied Nicholas quickly;
“ and I was an ass to take his coarseness ill. They.

26
AVICHOLAS WACKZEAE Y.
are looking this way, and it is time I was in my
place. Bless you, love, and good-bye | Mother,
look forward to our meeting again some day !
Uncle, farewell !
have done and all you mean to do.
Sir l’”
With these hasty adieux, Nicholas mounted
nimbly to his seat, and waved his hand as gal-
lantly as if his heart went with it.
At this moment, when the coachman and
guard were comparing notes, for the last time
before starting, on the subject of the way-bill;
when porters were screwing out the last reluctant
sixpences, itinerant newsmen making the last
offer of a morning paper, and the horses giving
the last impatient rattle to their harness; Nicho-
las felt somebody pulling softly at his leg. He
looked down, and there stood Newman Noggs,
who pushed up into his hand a dirty letter.
“What's this?” inquired Nicholas.
“Hush ’ rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr.
Ralph Nickleby, who was saying a few earnest
words to Squeers, a short distance off. “Take
it. Read it. Nobody knows. That's all.”
“Stop !” cried Nicholas.
“No,” replied Noggs.
Nicholas cried “Stop!" again, but Newman
Noggs was gone. -
A minute's bustle, a banging of the coach
doors, a swaying of the vehicle to one side, as
Quite ready,
Thank you heartily for all you
$º
the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard,
climbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few
notes from the horn, a hasty glance of two sor-
rowful faces below, and the hard features of Mr.
Ralph Nickleby—and the coach was gone too,
and rattling over the stones of Smithfield.
The little boys' legs being too short to admit
of their feet resting upon anything as they sat,
and the little boys' bodies being consequently in
imminent hazard of being jerked off the coach,
Nicholas had enough to do over the stones to
hold them on. Between the manual exertion
and the mental anxiety attendant upon this task,
he was not a little relieved when the coach
stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He was
still more relieved when a hearty-looking gentle-
man, with a very good-humoured face, and a
Very fresh colour, got up behind, and proposed
to take the other corner of the seat.
“If we put some of these youngsters in the
(middle,” said the new-comer, “they'll be safer
in case of their going to sleep; eh?”
“If you'll have the goodness, sir,” replied
Squeers, “that'll be the verything. Mr. Nickleby,
take three of them boys between you and the
gentleman. Belling and the youngest Snawley
can sit between me and the guard. Three chil-
sir,” rejoined Squeers.
dren,” said Squeers, explaining to the stranger,
“books as two.” -
“I have not the least objection I am sure,”
said the fresh-coloured gentleman; “I have a
brother who wouldn't object to book his six
children as two at any butcher's or baker's in
the kingdom, I dare say. Far from it.”
“Six children, sir?” exclaimed Squeers.
“Yes, and all boys,” replied the stranger.
“Mr. Nickleby,” said Squeers in great haste,
“catch hold of that basket. Let me give you a
card, sir, of an establishment where those six
boys can be brought up in an enlightened,
liberal, and moral manner, with no mistake at all
about it, for twenty guineas a year each—twenty
guineas, sir—or I'd take all the boys together
upon a average right through, and say a hundred
pound a year for the lot.”
“Oh " said the gentleman, glancing at the
card, “you are the Mr. Squeers mentioned here,
I presume P’’ . -
“Yes, I am, sir,” replied the worthy peda-
gogue ; “Mr. Wackford Squeers is my name,
and I’m very far from being ashamed of it.
These are some of my boys, sir; that's one of
my assistants, sir—Mr. Nickleby, a gentleman's
son, and a good scholar, mathematical, classical,
and commercial. We don't do things by halves
at our shop. All manner-of learning my boys
take down, sir; the expense is never thought of;
and they get paternal treatment and washing in.”
“Upon my word,” said the gentleman, glanc-
ing at Nicholas with a half-smile, and a more
than half-expression of surprise, “these are ad-
vantages indeed.” - -
“You may say that, sir," rejoined Squeers,
thrusting his hands into his great-coat pockets.
“The most unexceptionable references are given
and required. I wouldn't take a reference with
any boy that wasn't responsible for the payment
of five pound five a quarter, no, not if you went
down on your knees, and asked me, with the
tears running down your face, to do it.”
“Highly considerate,” said the passenger.
“It's my great aim and end to be considerate,
“Snawley, junior, if you
don't leave off chattering your teeth, and shaking
with the cold, I'll warm you with a severe thrash-
ing in about half a minute's time."
“Sit fast here, genelmen," said the guard as
he clambered up. .
“All right behind there, Dick P” cried the
Coachman.
“All right,” was the reply. “Off she goes I"
And off she did go—if coaches be feminine—
amidst a loud flourish from the guard's horn,
and the calm approval of all the judges of
1 THE STAGE-COM CHI IAV A DIFF/CUA. Z. Y. 37
coaches and coach horses congregated at the
Peacock, but more especially of the helpers, who
stood, with the cloths over their arms, watching
the coach till it disappeared, and then lounged
admiringly stablewards, bestowing various gruff
£ncomiums on the beauty of the turn-out.
When the guard (who was a stout old York-
shireman) had blown himself quite out of breath,
he put the horn into a little tunnel of a basket
fastened to the coach-side for the purpose, and
giving himself a plentiful shower of blows on the
chest and shoulders, observed it was uncommon
cold ; after which he demanded of every person
separately whether he was going right through,
and if not, where he was going. Satisfactory
replies being made to these queries, he surmised
that the roads were pretty heavy arter that fall
last night, and took the liberty of asking whether
any of them gentlemen carried a snuff-box. It
happening that nobody did, he remarked with a
mysterious air that he had heard a medical gen-
tleman, as went down to Grantham last week,
say how that snuff-taking was bad for the eyes;
but for his part he had never found it so, and
what he said was, that everybody should speak
as they found. Nobody attempting to contro-
vert this position, he took a small brown-paper
parcel out of his hat, and putting on a pair of
horn spectacles (the writing being crabbed) read
the direction half-a-dozen times over; having
done which, he consigned the parcel to its old
place, put up his spectacles again, and stared at
everybody in turn. After this he took another
blow at the horn by way of refreshment; and,
having now exhausted his usual topics of con-
versation, folded his arms as well as he could in
so many coats, and falling into a solemn silence,
looked carelessly at the familiar objects which
met his eye on every side as the coach rolled
on ; the only things he seemed to care for being
horses and droves of cattle, which he scrutinised
. a critical air as they were passed upon the
IO3Cl.
The weather was intensely and bitterly cold;
a great deal of snow fell from time to time; and
the wind was intolerably keen. Mr. Squeers got
down at almost every stage—to stretch his legs
as he said—and, as he always came back from
such excursions with a very red nose, and com-
posed himself to sleep directly, there is reason
to suppose that he derived great benefit from
the process. The little pupils having been
stimulated with the remains of their breakfast,
and further invigorated by sundry small cups of
a curious cordial carried by Mr. Squeers, which
tasted very like toast-and-water put into a brandy-
bottle by mistake, went to sleep, woke, shivered,
and cried, as their ſeelings prompted. Nicholas
and the good-tempered man found so many
things to talk about, that between conversing
together, and cheering up the boys, the time
passed with them as rapidly as it could under
such adverse circumstances.
So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there
was a good coach dinner, of which the box, the
four front outsides, the one inside, Nicholas, the
good-tempered man, and Mr. Squeers partook ;
while the five little boys were put to thaw by
the fire, and regaled with sandwiches. A stage
or two further on, the lamps were lighted, and a
great to-do occasioned by the taking up, at a
roadside inn, of a very fastidious lady with an
infinite variety of cloaks and small parcels, who
loudly lamented, for the behoof of the outsides,
the non-arrival of her own carriage which was to
have taken her on, and made the guard solemnly
promise to stop every green chariot he saw
coming; which, as it was a dark night and he
was sitting with his face the other way, that
officer undertook, with many fervent assevera-
tions, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, finding
there was a solitary gentleman inside, had a
small lamp lighted which she carried in her
reticule, and being after much trouble shut in,
the horses were put into a brisk canter, and the
coach was once more in rapid motion.
The night and the snow came on together,
and dismal enough they were. There was no
sound to be heard but the howling of the wind;
for the noise of the wheels, and the tread of the
horses' feet, were rendered inaudible by the thick
coating of snow which covered the ground, and
was fast increasing every moment. The streets
of Stamford were deserted as they passed through
the town; and its old churches rose, frowning
and dark, from the whitened ground. Twenty
miles further on, two of the front outside pas-
sengers, wisely availing themselves of their arrival
at one of the best inns in England, turned in,
for the night, at the George at Grantham. The
remainder wrapped themselves more closely in
their coats and cloaks, and, leaving the light
and warmth of the town behind them, pillowed
themselves against the luggage, and prepared,
with many half-suppressed moans, again to en-
counter the piercing blast which swept across
the open country.
They were little more than a stage out of
Grantham, or about half-way between it and
Newark, when Nicholas, who had been asleep
for a short time, was suddenly roused by a vio-
lent jerk, which nearly threw him from his seat.
Grasping the rail, he found that the coach had
sunk greatly on one side, though it was still
28 AV/CATO EAS AV/CA /A2 B Y.
dragged forward by the horses; and while—
confused by their plunging and the loud screams
of the lady inside—he hesitated, for an instant,
whether to jump off or not, the vehicle turned
easily cver, and relieved him from all further
uncertainty by flinging him into the road.
CHAPTER VI,
IN WHICH THE OCCURRENCE OF THE ACCIDENT MEN-
TION ED IN THE LAST CHAPTER AFFORDS AN OPPOR-
TUN ITY TO A COUPLE OF GENT LEMEN TO TELL
STORIES AGAINST EACH O'THER
&
... O hol” cried the guard, on his
legs in a minute, and running to
the leaders' heads. “Is there
ony genelmen there as can len'
a hond here P Keep quiet, dang
§§ ye Wo ho "
º “What's the matter?” demanded Ni-
§ cholas, looking sleepily up. -
“Matther, mun matther eneaf for one
neight,” replied the guard ; “dang the wall-
º
*
eyed bay, he's game mad wi' glory I think, carse
t"coorch is over. Here, can't ye len' a hond P
Dom it, I'd ha’ dean it if all my boans, were
brokken.”
“Here !” cried Nicholas, staggering to his
feet, “I’m ready. I'm only a little abroad,
that's all.”
“Hoold'em toight,” cried the guard, “while
ar coot treaces. Hang on tiv 'em sumhoo.
Weel deane, my lod. That's it. Let 'cm goa
noo. Dang'en, they'll gang whoam fast eneaf"
In truth, the animals were no sooner released
than they trotted back, with much deliberation,
to the stable they had just left, which was dis-
tant not a mile behind.
“Can you blo' a harn ?” asked the guard,
disengaging one of the coach lamps.
“I dare say I can,” replied Nicholas.
“Then just blo away into that 'un as lies on
the grund, fit to wakken the deead, will'ee,” said
the man, “while I stop sum o' this here squealing
inside 2 Cuthin', cumin'. Dean't make that noise,
wooman.”
As the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench
open the uppermost door of the coach, while
Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke the echoes
far and wide with one of the most extraordinary
performances on that instrument ever heard by
mortal ears. It had its effect, however, not only
in rousing such of the passengers as were re-
covering from the stunning effects of their ſall,
but in summoning assistance to their relief; for
-*
lights gleamed in the distance, and people were
already astir.
In fact, a man on horseback galloped down
before the passengers were well collected to-
gether; and a careful investigation being insti-
tuted, it appeared that the lady inside had broken
her lamp, and the gentleman his head; that the
two front outsides had escaped with black eyes;
the box with a bloody nose; the coachman with
a contusion on the temple ; Mr. Squeers with a
portmanteau bruise on his back ; and the re
maining passengers without any injury at all—
thanks to the softness of the snow-drift in which
they had been overturned. These facts were no
sooner thoroughly ascertained than the lady gave
several indications of fainting, but being fore-
warned that, if she did, she must be carried
on some gentleman's shoulders to the nearest
public-house, she prudently thought better of it,
and walked back with the rest.
They found, on reaching it, that it was a lonely
place, with no very great accommodation in the
way of apartments—that portion of its resources
being all comprised in one public room with a
sanded floor, and a chair or two. However, a
large faggot and a plentiful supply of coals being
heaped upon the fire, the appearance of things
was not long in mending; and, by the time they
had washed off all effaceable marks of the late
accident, the room was warm and light, which
was a most agreeable exchange for the cold and
darkness out of doors.
“Well, Mr. Nickleby,” said Squeers, insinu-
ating himself into the warmest corner, “you did
very right to catch hold of them horses. I should
have done it myself if I had come to in time,
but I am very glad you did it. You did it very
well; very well.”
“So well,” said the merry-faced gentleman,
who did not seen to approve very much of the
patronising tone adopted by Squeers, “that if
they had not been firmly checked when they
were, you would most probably have had no
brains left to teach with ”
This remark called up a discourse relative to
the promptitude Nicholas had displayed, and
he was overwhelmed with compliments and
commendations.
“I am very glad to haye escaped, of course,”
observed Squeers; “every man is glad when he
escapes from danger; but if any one of my
charges had been hurt—if I had been prevented
from restoring any one of these little boys to his
parents whole and sound as I received him—
what would have been my feelings P Why, the
wheel atop of my head would have been far
preferable to it.” - -




By THE FIRESIDE O/W. ZłłE ROADSIDE. 29
“Are they all brothers, sir?” inquired the
lady who had carried the “Davy”, or safety
lamp.
“In one sense they are, ma'am,” replied
Squeers, diving into his great-coat pocket for
cards. “They are all under the same parental
and affectionate treatment. Mrs. Squeers and
myself are a mother and father to every one of
'em. Mr. Nickleby, hand the lady them cards,
and offer these to the gentlemen. Perhaps they
might know of some parents that would be glad
to avail themselves of the establishment.”
Expressing himself to this effect, Mr. Squeers,
who lost no opportunity of advertising gra-
tuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and
looked at the pupils with as much benignity as
he could possibly affect, while Nicholas, blush-,
ing with shame, handed round the cards as
directed.
“I hope you suffer no inconvenience from
the overturn, ma'am P” said the merry-faced
gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as
though he were charitably desirous to change
the subject. - *
“No bodily inconvenience,” replied the lady.
“No mental inconvenience, I hope P”
“The subject is a very painful one to my
feelings, sir,” replied the lady with strong emo-
tion: “and I beg you, as a gentleman, not to
refer to it.” -
“Dear me,” said the merry-faced gentleman,
looking merrier still, “I merely intended to in-
quire
“I hope no inquiries will be made,” said the
lady, “ or I shall be compelled to throw myself
on the protection of the other gentlemen. Land-
lord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside
the door—and if a green chariot passes in the
direction of Grantham, to stop it instantly.”
The people of the house were evidently over-
come by this request, and when the lady charged
the boy to remember, as a means of identifying
the expected green chariot, that it would have a
coachman with a gold-laced hat on the box, and
a footman, most probably in silk stockings, be-
hind, the attentions of the good woman of the
inn were redoubled. Even the box passenger
caught the infection, and growing wonderfully
deferential, immediately inquired whether there
was not very good society in that neighbour-
hood, to which the lady replied yes, there was :
in a manner which sufficiently implied that she
moved at the very tiptop and summit of it all.
“As the guard has gone on horseback to
Grantham to get another coach,” said the good-
tempered gentleman- when they had been all
sitting round the fire for some time in silence,
Or SOrrow.
“ and as he must be gone a couple of hours at
the very least, I propose a bowl of hot, punch.
What say you, sir?”.
..This question was addressed to the broken-
headed inside, who was a man of very genteel
appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not
past the middle age, but his hair was grey; it
seemed to have been prematurely turned by care
He readily acceded to the pro-
posal, and appeared to be prepossessed by the
frank good-nature of the individual from whom
it emanated. -
This latter personage took upon himself the
office of tapster when the punch was ready, and,
after dispensing it all round, led the conversa-
tion to the antiquities of York, with which both
he and the grey-haired gentleman appeared to
be well acquainted. When this topic flagged,
he turned with a smile to the grey-headed
gentleman, and asked if he could sing.
“I cannot indeed,” replied the gentleman,
Smiling in his turn.
“That's a pity,” said the owner of the good-
humoured countenance. “Is there nobody here
who can sing a song to lighten the time P”
The passengers, one and all, protested that
they could not; that they wished they could ;
that they couldn't remember the words of any-
thing without the book; and so forth.
“Perhaps the lady would not object,” said
the president with great respect, and a merry
twinkle in his eye. “Some little Italian thing
out of the last opera brought out in town would
be most acceptable I am sure.”
As the lady condescended to make no reply,
but tossed her head contemptiously, and mur-
mured some further expression of surprise re-
garding the absence of the green chariot, one or
two voices urged upon the president himself the
propriety of making an attempt for the general
benefit.
“I would if I could,” said he of the good-
tempered face; “for I hold that in this, as in
all other cases where people who are strangers
to each other are thrown unexpectedly together,
they should endeavour to render themselves as
pleasant, for the joint sake of the little com-
munity, as possible.”
“I wish the maxim were more generally acted
on in all cases,” said the grey-headed gentle-
Iſlal).
“I’m glad to hear it,” returned the other.
“Perhaps, as you can't sing, you'll tell us a
story P”
“Nay, I should ask you.”
“After you I will, with pleasure.”
“Indeed I" said the grey-haired gentleman,
3o
AWICHOLAS NICKLEB Y.
smiling. “Well, let it be so. I fear the turn
of my thoughts is not calculated tº lighten the
time you must pass here; but you have brought
this upon yourselves, and shall judge. We were
speaking of York Minster just now. My story
shall have some reference to it. Let us call it
THE FIVE SISTERS OF YORK.
After a murmur of approbation from the
other passengers, during which the fastidious
lady drank a glass of punch unobserved, the
grey-headed gentleman thus went on :
“A great many years ago—for the fifteenth
century was scarce two years old at the time,
and King Henry the Fourth sat upon the throne
of England—there dwelt, in the ancient city of
York, five maiden sisters, the subjects of my
tale.
“These five sisters were all of surpassing
beauty. The cláest was in her twenty-third
year, the second a year younger, the third a year
younger than the -second, and the ſourth a year
younger than the third. They were tall stately
figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair of jet ;
dignity and grace were in their every movement;
and the ſame of their great beauty had spread
through all the country round.
“But, if the four elder sisters were lovely,
how beautiful was the youngest, a fair creature
of sixteen The blushing tints in the soft
bloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on
the flower, are not more exquisite than was the
blending of the rose and lily in her gentle face,
or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all
its elegant luxuriance, is not more graceful than
were the clusters of rich brown hair that sported
round her brow.
“If we all had hearts like those which, beat
so lightly in the bosoms of the young and beau-
tiful, what a heaven this earth would be If,
while our bodies grow old and withered, our
hearts could but retain their early youth and
freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows
and sufferings P But, the faint image of Eden
which is stamped upon them in childhood chaſes
and rubs in our rough struggles with the world,
and soon, wears away : too often to leave no-
thing but a mournful blank remaining. -
“The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy
and gladness. Devoted attachment to her
sisters, and a ſervent love of all beautiful things
in nature, were its pure affections. Her glee-
some voice and merry laugh were the sweetest
music of their home. She was its very light
and life. The brightest flowers in the garden
}
were reared by her; the caged birds sang when
they heard her voice, and pined when they
missed its sweetness. Alice, dear Alice what
living thing within the sphere of her gentle
witchery could fail to love her?
“You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on
which these sisters lived, for their very names
have passed away, and dusty antiquaries tell of
them as of a fable. But they dwelt in an old
wooden house—old even in those days—with
overhanging gables and balconies of rudely-
carved oak, which stood within a pleasant
orchard, and was surrounded by a rough stone
wall, whence a stout archer might have winged
an arrow to St. Mary's Abbey. The old abbey
flourished then ; and the five sisters, living on
its fair domains, paid yearly dues to the black
monks of St. Benedict, to which fraternity it
belonged.
“It was a bright and sunny morning in the
pleasant time of summer, when one of those
black monks emerged from the abbey portal.
and bent his steps towards the house of the fair
sisters. Heaven above was blue, and earth
beneath was green ; the river glistened like a
path of diamonds in the sun; the birds poured
forth their songs from the shady trees; the lark
soared high above the "waving corn; and the
deep buzz of insects filled the air. Everything
looked gay and smiling; but the holy man
walked gloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the
ground. The beauty of the earth is but a breath,
and man is but a shadow. What sympathy
should a holy preacher have with either?
“With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or
only raised enough to prevent his stumbling over
such obstacles as lay in his way, the religious
man moved slowly forward until he reached a
small postern in the wall of the sisters' orchard,
1 (gh which he passed, closing it behind him.
T Inc noise of soft voices in conversation, and of
merry laughter, felſ upon his ears ere he had
advanced many paces; and, raising his eyes
higher than was his humble wont, he descried,
at no great distance, the five sisters seated on
the grass, with Alice in the centre : all busily
plying their customary task of embroidering.
“‘Save you, fair daughters tº said the friar,
and fair in truth they were. Even a monk
might have loved them as choice masterpieces
of his Maker's hand.
“The sisters saluted the holy man with be.
coming reverence, and the eldest motioned him
to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar
shook his head, and bumped himself down on a
very hard stone,—at which, no doubt, approving
angels were gratified.
A SHADOW FA LZS ON AWA 7'U.R.E. 3I
“‘Ye were merry, daughters,' said the monk.
“‘You know how light of heart sweet Alice
is,” replied the eldest sister, passing her fingers
through the tresses of the smiling girl.
“‘And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up
within us, to see all nature beaming in brightness
and sunshine, father,’ added Alice, blushing be-
neath the stern look of the recluse.
“The monk answered not, save by a grave
inclination of the head, and the sisters pursued
their task in silence.
“‘Still wasting the precious hours,’ said the
monk at length, turning to the eldest sister as he
spoke, ‘still wasting the precious hours on this
vain trifling. Alas, alas ! that the few bubbles
on the surface of eternity—all that Heaven wills
we should see of that dark deep stream—should
be so lightly scattered l'
““Father,’ urged the maiden, pausing, as did
each of the others, in her busy task, ‘we have
prayed at matins, our daily alms have been dis-
tributed at the gate, the sick peasants have been
tended,—all our morning tasks have been per-
formed. I hope our occupation is a blameless
one P'
“‘See here,' said the friar, taking the frame
from her hand, “an intricate winding of gaudy
colours, without purpose or object, unless it be
that one day it is destined for sonſe vain orna-
ment, to minister to the pride of your frail and
giddy sex. Day after day has been employed
upon this senseless task, and yet it is not half
accomplished. The shade of each departed day
falls upon our graves, and the worm exults, as
he beholds it, to know that we are hastening
thither. Daughters, is there no better way to
pass the fleeting hours ?'
“The four elder sisters cast down their eyes
as if abashed by the holy man's reproof, but
Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly on the
friar. .
“‘Our dear mother,'
* Heaven rest her soul '
“‘Amen l’ cried the friar in a deep voice.
said the maiden ;
“‘Our dear mother,”, faltered the fair Alice,
‘ was living when these long” tasks began, and
bade us, when she should be no more, ply them
in all discretion and cheerfulness in our leisure
hours; she said that if in harmless mirth and
maidenly pursuits we passed those hours to-
gether, they would prove the happiest and most
peaceful of our lives, and that if, in later times,
we went forth into the world, and mingled with
its cares and trials—if, allured by its tempta-
tions and dazzled by its glitter, we ever forgot
that love and duty which should bind, in holy
ties, the children of one loved parent—a glance
tern and colours of all five were the same.
at the old work of our common girlhood would
awaken good thoughts of bygone days, and
soften our hearts to affection and love.’
“‘Alice speaks truly, father,’ said the elder
sister somewhat proudly. And, so saying, she
resumed her work, as did the others.
“It was a kind of sampler of large size that
each sister had before her ; the device was of a
complex and intricate description, and the pat-
The
sisters bent gracefully over their work ; the
monk, resting his chin upon his hands, looked
from one to the other in silence. -
“‘How much better,’ he said at length, ‘to
shun all such thoughts and chances, and, in the
peaceful shelter of the church, devote your lives
to Heaven Infancy, childhood, the prime of
life, and old age, wither as rapidly as they
crowd upon each other. Think how human
dust rolls onward to the tomb, and, turning
your faces steadily towards that goal, avoid the
cloud which takes its rise among the pleasures
of the world, and cheats the senses of their
votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil 1 '
“‘Never, sisters,’ cried Alice. ‘Barter not
the light and air of Heaven, and the freshness
of earth and all the beautiful things which
breathe upon it, ſor the cold cloister and the
cell. Nature's own blessings are the proper
goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly
together. To die is our heavy portion, but, oh,
let us die with life about us; when our cold
hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating
near ; let our last look be upon the bounds
which God has set to his own bright skies, and
not on stone walls and bars of iron Dear
sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in this
green garden's compass ; only shun the gloom
and sadness of a cloister, and we shall be
happy.'
“The tears fell fast from the maiden's eyes as
she closed her impassioned appeal, and hid her
face in the bosom of her sister.
“‘Take comfort, Alice," said the eldest, kiss-
ing her fair forehead. “The veil shall never
cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say
you, sisters ? For yourselves you speak, and
not for Alice, or for me.’. -
“The sisters, as with one accord, cried that
their lot was cast together, and that there were
dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the con-
vent's walls,
“Father,' said the eldest lady, rising with
dignity, “you hear our final resolve. The same
pious care which enriched the abbey of St.
Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardian-
ship, directed that no constraint should be im-
32 ArchſozAS MrCKLEBY
posed upon our inclinations, but that we should
be free to live according to our choice. Let us
hear no more of this, we pray you. tº. it is
nearly noon. Let us take shelter until evening !'
With a reverence to the friar, the lady rose and
walked towards the house, hand-in-hand with
Alice; the other sisters followed.
“The holy man, who had often urged the same
point before, but had never met with so direct a
repulse, walked some little distance behind, with
his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving
as if in prayer. As the sisters reached the porch,
he quickened his pace, and called upon them to
stop.
“‘Stay !' said the monk, raising his right hand
in the air, arſt directing an angry glance by turns
at Alice and the eldest sister. “Stay, and hear
from me what these recollections are which you
would cherish above eternity, and awaken—if
in mercy they slumbered—by means of idle
toys, The memory of earthly things is charged,
in after life, with bitter disappointment, affliction,
death ; with dreary change and wasting sorrow.
The time will one day come when a glance at
those unmeaning baubles will tear open deep
wounds in the hearts of some among you, and
strike to your inmost souls. When that hour
arrives—and, mark me, come it will—turn from
the world to which you clung, to the refuge
which you spurned. Find me the cell which
shall be colder than the fire of mortals grows,
when dimmed by calamity and trial, and there
weep for the dreams of youth. These things
are Heaven's will, not mine,” said the friar, sub-
duing his voice, as he looked round upon the
shrinking girls. “The Virgin's blessing be upon
yóu, daughters | *
“With these words he disappeared through
the postern ; and the sisters, hastening into the
house, were seen no more that day.
“But nature will smile, though priests may
frown, and next day the sun shone brightly, and
on the next, and the next again. And in the
morning's glare, and the evening's soft repose,
the five sisters still walked, or worked, or be-
guiled the time by oheerful conversation, in their
quiet orchard.
“Time passed away as a tale that is told ;
faster, indeed, than many tales that are told, of
which number I fear this may be one. The house
of the five sisters stood where it did, and the same
trees cast their pleasant shade upon the orchard
grass. The sisters, too, were there, and lovely
as at first, but a change had come over their
dwelling. Sometimes there was the clash of
armour, and the gleaming of the moon on caps
of steel ; and, at others, jaded coursers were
*
spurred up to the gate, and a female form glided
hurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of
the weary messenger. A goodly train of knights
and ladies lodged one night within the abbey
walls, and next day rode away, with two of the
fair sisters among them. Then, horsemen began
to come less frequently, and seemed to bring
bad tidings when they did, and at length they
ceased to come at all, and footsore peasants
slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their
errand there by stealth. Once a vassal was
dispatched in haste to the abbey at dead of
night, and, when morning came, there were
sounds of woe and wailing in the sisters' house;
and, after this, a mournful silence fell upon it,
and knight or lady horse or armour, was seer,
about it no more.
“There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and
the sun had gone angrily down, tinting the dull
clouds with the last traces of his wrath, when
the same black monk walked slowly on, with
folded arms, within a stone's throw of the abbey.
A blight had fallen on the trees and shrubs;
and the wind, at length beginning to break the
unnatural stillness that had prevailed all day,
sighed heavily from time to time, as though
foretelling in grief the ravages of the coming
storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights
through the heavy air, and the ground was alive
with crawling things, whose instinct brought
them forth to swell and fatten in the rain.
“No longer were the friar's eyes directed to
the earth; they were cast abroad, and roamed
from point to point, as if the gloom and deso-
lation of the scene found a quick response in
his own bosom. Again he paused near the
sisters' house, and again he entered by the
postern. g
“But not again did his ear encounter the
sound of laughter, or his eyes rest upon the
beautiful figures of the five sisters. All was
silent and deserted. The boughs of the trees
were bent and’ broken, and the grass had
grown long and rank. No light feet had pressed
it for many, many a day.
“With the indifference or abstraction of one
well accustomed to the change, the monk
glided into the house, and entered a low, dark
room. Four sisters sat there. Their black
garments made their pale faces whiter still, and
time and sorrow had worked deep ravages.
They were stately yet; but the flush and pride
of beauty were gone.
“And Alice—where was she In Fieaven.
“The monk—even the monk—could bear
with some grief here; for it was long since
these sisters had met, and there were furrows in
THE SHADOW DASPELLED. 33
their blanched faces, which years could never
plough. He took his seat in silence, and mo-
tioned them to continue their speech.
“‘They are here, sisters,’ said the elder lady
in a trembling voice. “I have never borne to
look upon them since, and now I blame myself
for my weakness. What is there in her memory
that we should dread 2 To call up our old
days shall be a solemn pleasure yet.'
“She glanced at the monk as she, spoke, and,
opening a cabinet, brought forth the five frames
of work, completed long before. Her step was
firm, but her hand trembled as she produced
the last one ; and, when the feelings of the
other sisters gushed forth at sight of it, her pent-
up tears made way, and she sobbed, “God bless
her l’
“The monk rose and advanced towards them.
* It was almost the last thing she touched in
health,’ he said in a low voice.
“‘It was, cried the elder lady, weeping
bitterly.
“The monk turned to the second sister.
“‘The gallant youth who looked into thine
eyes, and hung upon thy very breath when
first he saw thee intent upon this pastime, lies
buried on a plain whereof the turf is red with
blood. Rusty fragments of armour, once
brightly burnished, lie rotting on the ground,
and are as little distinguishable for his as are
the bones that crurmble in the mould !'
“The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.
“‘The policy of courts,’ he continued, turn-
ing to the two other sisters, “drew ye from your
peaceful home to scenes of revelry and splen-
dour. The same policy, and the restless am-
bition of proud and fiery men, have sent ye
back, widowed maidens, and humbled outcasts.
Do I speak truly P’ .
“The sobs of the two sisters were their only
reply.
“‘There is little need,” said the monk with a
meaning look, ‘to fritter away the time in gew-
gaws which shall raise up the pale ghosts of
hopes of early years. Bury them, heap penance
and mortification on their heads, keep them
down, and let the convent be their grave l’
The sisters asked for three days to deliberate;
and felt, that night, as though the veil were
indeed the fitting shroud for their dead joys.
But, morning came again, and though the
boughs of the orchard trees drooped and ran
wild upon the ground, it was the same orchard
still. The grass was coarse and high, but there
was yet the spot on which they had so often sat
together, when change and sorrow were but
Aſlaſhes,
There was every walk and nook which
Alice had made glad ; and in the minster nave
was one flat stone beneath which she slept in
peace. -
“And could they, remembering how her
young heart had sickened at the thought of
cloistered walls, look upon her grave in garbs
which would chill the very ashes within it 2
Could they bow down in prayer, and, when all
Heaven turned to hear them, bring the dark
shade of sadness on one angel's face P No.
“They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity
in those times, and having obtained the church's
sanction to their work of piety, caused to be
executed, in five large compartments of richly-
stained glass, a faithful copy of their old em-
broidery-work. These were fitted into a large
window, until that time bare of ornament; and
when the sun shone brightly, as she had so well
loved to see it, the familiar patterns were re-
flected in their original colours, and throwing a
stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell
warmly on the name of 3 litt.
“For many hours in every day the sisters
paced slowly up and down the nave, or knelt by
the side of the flat broad stone. Only three
were seen in the customary place after many
years : then but two, and for a long time after-
wards, but one solitary female bent with age.
At length she came no more, and the stone
bore five plain Christian names.
“That stone has worn away and been re-
placed by others, and many generations have
come and gone since then. Time has softened
down the colours, but the same stream of light
still falls upon the forgotten tomb, of which no
trace remains ; and, to this day, the stranger is
shown in York Cathedral an old window called
the Five Sisters.”
“That's a melancholy tale,” said the merry-
faced gentleman, emptying his glass.
“It is a tale of life, and life is made up of
such sorrows,” returned the other courteously,
but in a grave and sad tone of yoice.
“There are shades in all good pictures, but
there are lights too, if we choose to contem-
plate them,” said the gentleman with the merry
face. “The youngest sister in your tale was
always light-hearted.”
“And died early,” said the other gently. -
“She would have died earlier, perhaps, had
she been less happy,” said the first speaker with
much feeling. “Do you think the sisters who
loved her so well would have grieved the less if
her life had been one of gloom and sadness 2
, If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a
34 AV/CHOLAS WICKZEBY.
heavy loss, it would be—with me—the reflection
that those I mourned, by being innocently
happy here, and loving all about them, had pre-
pared themselves for a purer and happier world.
The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to
meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.”
“I believe you are right,” said the gentleman
who had told the story.
“Believe . " retorted the other ; “can any-
body doubt it? Take any subject of sorrowſul
regret, and see with how much pleasure it is
associated. The recollection of past pleasure
may become pain jy.
“It does,” interposed the other.
“Well; it does. To remember happiness
which cannot be restored is pain, but of a
softened kind. Our recollections are unfortu-
mately mingled with much that we deplore, and
with many actions which we bitterly repent ; still,
in the most chequered life I firmly think there
are so many little rays of sunshine to look back
upon, that I do not believe any mortal (unless
he had put himself without the pale of hope)
would deliberately drain a goblet of the waters
of Lethe if he had it in his power.”
“Possibly you are correct in that belief,”
said the grey-haired gentleman after a short
reflection. “I am inclined to think you
are.”
“Why, then,” replied the other, “the good
in this state of existence preponderates over the
bad, let miscalled philosophers tell us what they
will. If our affections be tried, our affections
are our consolation and comfort; and memory,
however sad, is the best and purest link between
this world and a better. But come; I'll tell you
a story of another kind.”
After a very brief silence, the merry-faced
gentleman sent round the punch, and glancing
slily at the fastidious lady, who seemed despe-
rately apprehensive that he was going to relate
Something improper, began +.
THE BARON OF GROGZWIG.
... “The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig
in Germany, was as likely a young baron as you
would wish to see. I needn't say that he lived
in a castle, because that's of course; neither
need I say that he lived in an old castle; for
what German baron ever lived in a new one P
There were many strange circumstances con-
nected with this venerable building, among
which, not the least startling and mysterious
were, that when the wind blew, it rumbled in
the chimneys, or even howled among the trees
occurrences took place in consequence.
shoulder like the guard of a long stage.
in the neighbouring forest; and that, when the
moon shone, she found her way through certain
small loopholes in the wall, and actually made
some parts of the wide halls and galleries quite
light, while she left others in gloomy shadow,
I believe that one of the baron's ancestors,
being short of money, had inserted a dagger in
a gentleman who called one night to ask his
way, and it was supposed that these miraculous
And
yet I hardly know how that could have been,
either, because the baron's ancestor, who was
an amiable man, felt very sorry afterwards for
having been so rash, and, laying violent hands
upon a quantity of stone and timber which
belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapel as
an apology, and so took a receipt from Heaven
in full of all demands.
“Talking of the baron's ancestor puts me in
mind of the baron's great claims to respect on
the score of his pedigree. I am afraid to say, I
am sure, how many ancestors the baron had ;
but I know that he had a great many more than
any other man of his time; and I only wish
that he had lived in these latter days, that he
might have had more. It is a very hard thing
upon the great men of past centuries, that they
should have come into the world so soon,
because a man who was born three or four
hundred years ago cannot reasonably be ex.
pected to have had as many relations before
him as a man who is born now. The last man,
whoever he is—and he may be a cobbler or
some low vulgar dog for aught we know—will
have a longer pedigree than the greatest noble-
man now alive; and I contend that this is not
fair.
“Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of
Grogzwig He was a fine swarthy fellow, with
dark hair and large moustaches, who rode a
hunting in clothes of Lincoln green, with russet
boots on his feet, and a bugle slung over his
When
he blew this bugle, four-and-twenty other gentle-
men of 'inferior rank, in Lincoln green a little
coarser, and russet boots with a littlé thicker
soies, turned out directly : and away galloped
the whole train, with spears in their hands like
lacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars,
or perhaps encounter a bear : in which latter
case the baron killed him first. and greased his
whiskers with him afterwards.
“This was a merry life for the Baron of
Grogzwig, and a merrier still for the baron's
retainers, who drank Rhine wine every night
till they fell under the table, and then had the
bottles, on the floor, and called for pipes. Never
Tº E AWA 14/ BA/2O/VESS
WOAV KOEZZO WE 7/7O O/7. 35
were such jolly, roystering, rollicking, merry-
making blades as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.
“But the pleasures of the table, or the
pleasures of under the table, require a little
variety'; especially when the same five-and-
twenty people sit daily down to the same board,
to discuss the same subjects, and tell the same
stories. The baron grew weary, and wanted
excitement. He took to quarrelling with his
gentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of
them every day after dinner. This was a
pleasant change at first ; but it became mono-
tonous after a week or so, and the baron felt
quité out of sorts, and cast about, in despair,
for some new amusement.
“One night, after a day's sport in which he
had outdone Nimrod or Gillingwater, and
slaughtered ‘another fine bear,’ and brought
him home in triumph, the Baron Von Koeld-
wethout sat moodily at the head of his table,
eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a dis-
contented aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers
of wine, but, the more he swallowed, the more
he frowned. The gentlemen who had been
honoured with the dangerous distinction of
sitting on his right and left, imitated him to a
miracle in the drinking, and frowned at each
other.
“‘I will cried the baron suddenly, Smiting
the table with his right hand, and twirling his
moustache with his left. ‘Fill to the Lady of
Grogzwig l'
“The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned
pale, with the exception of their four-and-twenty
noses, which were unchangeable.
“I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,' repeated
the baron, looking round the board.
“‘To the Lady of Grogzwig º' shouted the
Lincoln greens; and down their four-and-
twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperial
pints of such rare old hock, that they smacked
their eight-and-forty lips, and winked again.
“The fair daughter of the Baron Von
Swillenhausen,” said Koeldwethout, condescend-
ing to explain. “We will demand her in mar-
riage of her father ere the sun goes down to:
morrow. If he refuse our suit, we will cut off
his nose ’ -
“A hoarse murmur arose from the company;
every man touched, first the hilt of his sword,
and then the tip of his nose, with appalling
significance. gº * * * * *
“What a pleasant thing filial piety is to con-
template if the daughter of the Baron Von
Swiſenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied
heart, or fallen at her father's feet and corned
them in salt tears, or only ſainted away, and
complimented the old gentleman in frantic
ejaculations, the odds are a hundred to one but
Swillenhausen's Castle would have been turned
out at window, or rather the baron turned out
at window, and the castle demolished. The
damsel held her peace, however, when an early
messenger bore the request of Von Koëldweth-
out next morning, and modestly retired to her
chamber, from the casement of which she
watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue.
She was no sooner assured that the horseman
with the large moustaches was her proffered
husband than she hastened to her father's pre-
sence, and expressed her réadiness to sacrifice
herself to secure his peace. The venerable
baron caught his child to his arms, and shed
a wink of joy.
“There was great feasting at the castle that
day. The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens of
Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows of etermal
friendship with twelve Lincoln greens of Von
Swillenhausen, and promised the old baron that
they would drink his wine ‘Till all was blues'—
meaning, probably, until their whole counte-
nances had acquired the same tint as their
noses. Everybody slapped everybody else's
back when the time for parting came ; and the
Baron Von Koëldwethout and his followers
rode gaily home.
“For six mortal weeks the bears and boars
had a holiday. The houses of Koëldwethout
and Swillenhausen were united; the spears
rusted ; and the baron's bugle grew hoarse for
lack of blowing.
“Those were great times for the four-and-
twenty; but, alas ! their high and palmy days
had taken boots to themselves, and were already
walking off.
“‘My dear,’ said the baroness.
““My love,’ said the baron.
““Those coarse, noisy men
“‘Which, ma'am P' said the baron, starting.
“The baroness pointed, from the window at
which they stood, to the courtyard beneath,
where the unconscious Lincoln greens were
taking a copious stirrup-cup preparatory to
issuing forth after a boar or two.
“‘My hunting train, ma'am,' said the baron.
“‘ Disband them, love,’ murmured the
baroness.
“Disband them tº cried the baron in amaze
ment.
“‘To please me, love,' replied the baroneSS.
“‘To please the devil, ma'am,' answered th
baron.
“Whereupon the baroness uttered a grea
cry, and swooned away at the baron's feet.
36 AWICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
“What could the baron do 2 He called for
the lady's maid, and roared for the doctor; and
then, rushing into the yard, kicked the two
Lincoln greens who were the most used to it,
and cursing the others all round, bade them
go— But never mind where. I don’t know
the German for it, or I would put it delicately
that way. .
“It is not for me to say by what means, or
by what degrees, some wives manage to keep
down some husbands as they do, although I may
have my private opinion on the subject, and
may think that no Member of Parliament ought
to be married, inasmuch as three married mem-
bers out of everv four must vote according to
their wives’ consciences (if there be such things),
and not according to their own. All I need
say, just now, is, that the Baroness Von Koëld-
wethout somehow or other acquired great con-
trol over the Baron Von Koeldwethout, and
that, little by little, and bit by bit, and day by
day, and year by year, the baron got the worst
of some disputed question, or was slily un-
horsed from some old hobby ; and that, by the
time he was a ſat hearty fellow of forty-eight
or thereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry,
no hunting train, and no hunting—nothing, in
short, that he liked, or used to have ; and that,
although he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold
as brass, he was decidedly smubbed and put
down, by his own, lady, in his own castle of
Grogzwig. -
“Nor was this the whole extent of the baron's
misfortunes. About a year after his nuptials,
there came into the world a lusty young baron,
in whose honour a great many fireworks were
let off, and a great many dozens of wine drunk ;
but next year there came a young baroness, and
next year another young baron, and so on,
every year, either a baron or baloness (and one
year both together), until the baron found him-
self the father of a small family of twelve. Upon
every one of these anniversaries the venerable
Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously
sensitive for the well-being of her child the
Baroness Von Koëldwethout; and although it
was not found that the good lady ever did any-
thing material towards contributing to her
child's recovery, still she made it a point of
duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle
of Grogzwig, and to divide her time between
moral observations on the baron's housekeeping,
and bewailing the hard lot of her unhappy
daughter. And if the Baron of Grogzwig, a
little hurt and irritated at this, took heart, and
ventured to suggest that his wife was at least no
worse off. than the wives of other barons, the
Baroness Von Swillenhausen begged all persons
to take notice that nobody but she sympathised
with her dear daughter's sufferings ; upon which
her relations and friends remarked that to be
sure she did cry a great deal more than her son-
in-law, and that, if there were a hard-hearted-
brute alive, it was that Baron of Grogzwig.
“The poor baron bore it all as long as he
could, and, when he could bear it no longer.
lost his appetite and his spirits, and sat himself
gloomily and dejectedly down. But there were
worse troubles yet in store for him, and, as the
came on, his melancholy and sadness iº
Times changed. He got into debt. The
Grogzwig coffers ran low, though the Swillen-
hausen family had blooked upon them as inex-
haustible; and, just when the baroness was on
the point of making a thirteenth addition to the
family pedigree, Von Koëldwethout discovered
that he had no means of replenishing them.
“‘I don’t see what is to be done,’ said the
baron. “I think I'll kill myself.”
“This was a bright idea. The baron took an
old hunting knife from a cupboard hard by, and,
having sharpened it on his boot, made what
boys call “an offer' at his throat. -
“‘Hem ’ said the baron, stopping short.
‘Perhaps it's not sharp enough.'
“The baron sharpened it again, and made
another offer, when “his hand was arrested by a
loud screaming among the young barons and
baronesses, who had a nursery in an up-stairs
tower, with iron bars outside the window, to
prevent their tumbling out into the moat.
“‘If I had been a bachelor,’ said the baron,
sighing, ‘I might have done it fifty times over
without being interrupted. Hallo | Put a flask
of wine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted
room behind the hall.” - *-
“One of the domestics, in a very kind man-
ner, executed the baron's order in the course of
half an hour or so, and Von Koëldwethout,
being apprised thereof, strode to the vaulted
room, the walls of which, being of dark shining
wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing logs
which were piled upon the hearth. The bottle
and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole, the
place looked very comfortable.
“‘Leave the lamp,' said the baron.
“‘Anything else, my lord?' inquired the
domestic.
“‘The room,” replied the baron. The do-
mestic obeyed, and the baron locked the door.
“‘I’ll smoke a last pipe,” said the baron, “and
then I'll be off.' So, putting the knife upon the
table till he wanted it, and tossing off a goodly
measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw .
A SAEAE.C.T.R.E CAZZ.S UPOZV ZALE AEAA’OAV OAP GA’OGZIV/G.
37
himself back in his chair, stretched his legs out
before the fire, and puffedeaway.
“He thought about a great many things—
about his present troubles and past days of
bachelorship, and about the Lincoln greens, long
since dispersed up and down the country, no
one knew whither: with the exception of two
who had been unfortunately beheaded, and four
who had killed themselves with drinking. His
mind was running upon bears and boars, when,
in the process of draining his glass to the
bottom, he raised his eyes, and saw, for the first
time and with unbounded astonishment, that he
was not alone.
“No, he was not; for, on the opposite, side
of the fire, there sat with folded arms a wrinkled
hideous figure, with deeply-sunk and bloodshot
eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face,
shadowed by jagged and matted locks of coarse
black hair. He wore a kind of tunic of a dull
f
*N.
*
|
§
h
NN
º
i
-i-
§
º
S
§
i
:
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t
Nº
º
y
º
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§
§
“ on THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE FIRE, THERE SAT WITH FOLDED ARMS A WRINKLED HIDEOUS FIGURE.”
bluish colour, which, the baron observed, on
regarding it attentively, was clasped or orna-
mented down the front with coffin handles. His
legs, too, were encased in coffin plates as though
in armour; and over his left shoulder he wore a
short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a
remnant of some pall. He took no notice of
the baron, but was intently eyeing the fil
“‘Halloa l' said the baron, stamping his foot
to attract attention.
“' Halloa ' ' replied the stranger, moving his
Nicholas Nicki.EBY, 4.
eyes towards the baron, but not his face or him-
self. “What now P’
“‘What now !' replied the baron, nothing
daunted by his hollow voice and lustreless eyes.
‘A should ask that question. How did you get
here P’
“‘Through the door, replied the figure.
“‘What are you ?’ says the baron.
“‘A man,’ replied the figure.
“‘I don't believe it,” says the baron.
“‘Disbelieve it, then,’ says the figure.
2) O.
— T *

38 AVYCHOLAS AWCKZEB Y.
“‘I will,’ rejoined the baron.
“The figure looked at the bold Baron of
Grogzwig for some time, and then said familiarly,
“‘There's no coming over you, I see. I am
nºt a man l'
“‘What are you, then P' asked the baron.
“‘A genius,” replied the figure.
“‘You don't look much like one,' returned
the baron scornfully.
“‘I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,’
said the apparition. “Now you know me.”
“With these words the apparition turned to-
wards the baron, as if composing himself for a
talk—and what was very remarkable was, that
he threw his cloak aside, and displaying a stake,
which was run through the centre of his body,
pulled it out with a jerk, and laid it on the
table, as composedly as if it had been a walking-
stick.
“‘Now,” said the figure, glancing at the hunt-
ing knife, “are you ready for me P’
“‘Not quite,’ rejoined the baron; ‘I must
finish this pipe first.’
“‘Look sharp, then,' said the figure.
“‘You seem in a hurry,” said the baron.
“‘Why, yes, I am,' answered the figure;
‘they're doing a pretty brisk business in my
way over in England and France just now, and
my time is a good deal taken up.’
““Do you drink P” said the baron, touching
the bottle with the bowl of his pipe.
“‘Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,'
rejoined the figure drily.
“‘Never in moderation ?’ asked the baron.
“‘Never,’ replied the figure with a shudder;
‘that breeds cheerfulness.’
“The baron took another look at his new
friend, whom he thought an uncommonly queer
customer, and at length inquired whether he
took any active part in such little proceedings
as that which he had in contemplation.
“‘No,' replied the figure evasively; “but I
am always present.’
“‘Just to see fair, I suppose P’ said the
baron.
“‘Just that,’ replied the figure, playing with
his stake, and examining the ferrule. ‘Be as
quick as you can, will you? for there's a young
gentleman who is afflicted with too much money
and leisure wanting me now, I find.”
“‘Going to kill himself because he has too
much money !’ exclaimed the baron, quite
tickled. ‘Ha! haſ that's a good one.' (This
was the first time the baron had laughed for
many a long day.)
“‘I say,' expostulated the figure, looking very
much scared; “don’t do that again.'
“‘Why not ?’ demanded the baron.
“‘Because it gives me pain all over, replied
the figure. “Sigh as much as you please: that
does me good.’
“The baron sighed mechanically at the men
tion of the word; the figure, brightening up
again, handed him the hunting knife with most
winning politeness.
“‘It’s not a bad idea, though,' said the baron,
feeling the edge of the weapon; ‘a man killing
himself because he has too much money.'
“‘Pooh l’ said the apparition petulantly, “no
better than a man's killing himself because he
has none or little.’
“Whether the genius unintentionally com-
mitted himself in saying this, or whether he
thought the baron's mind was so thoroughly
made up that it didn't matter what he said. I
have no means of knowing. I only know that
the baron stopped his hand all of a sudden,
opened his eyes wide, and looked as if quite a
new light had come upon him for the first time.
“‘Why, certainly,” said Von Koëldwethout,
“nothing is too bad to be retrieved.”
“‘Except empty coffers, cried the genius.
“‘Well; but they may be one day filled .
again,’ said the baron. -
“‘Scolding wives,' snarled the genius.
“‘Oh! They may be made quiet,' said the
baron. -
“‘Thirteen children,' shouted the genius.
“‘Can't all go wrong, surely,' said the baron.
“The genius was evidently growing very savage
with the baron for holding these opinions all at
once; but he tried to laugh it off, and said if he
would let him know when he had left off joking
he should feel obliged to him.
“‘But I am not joking; I was never farther
from it,' remonstrated the baron. -
“‘Well, I am glad to hear that,’ said the
genius, looking very grim, ‘because a joke, with-
out any figure of speech, tº the death of me.
Come ! Quit this dreary world at once.’
“‘I don’t know,” said the baron, playing with
the knife; ‘it’s a dreary one certainly, but I
don’t think yours is much better, for you have
not the appearance of being particularly com-
fortable. That puts me in mind—what security
have I that I shall be any the better for going
out of the world after all P’ he cried, starting
up; ‘I never thought of that.' *
“‘Dispatch l’ cried the figure, gnashing his
teeth.
“‘Keep off!” said the baron. “I’ll brood
over miseries no longer, but put a good face on
the matter, and try the fresh air and the bears
again; and, if that don't do, I'll talk to the
baroness soundly, and cut the Von Swillen-
hausens dead.” With this the baron fell into
his chair, and laughed so loud and boisterously
that the room rang with it.
“The figure fell back a pace or two, regard-
ing the baron meanwhile with a look of intense
terror, and, when he had ceased, caught up the
stake, plunged it violently into its body, uttered
a frightful howl, and disappeared.
“Von Koëldwethout never saw it again.
Having once made up his mind to action, he
soon brought the baroness and the Von Swillen-
hausens to reason, and died many years after-
wards: not a rich man that I am aware of, but
certainly a happy one : leaving behind him a
numerous family, who had been carefully edu-
cated in bear and boar hunting under his own
personal eye. And my advice to all men is,
that if ever they become hipped and melancholy
from similar causes (as very many men do), they
look at both sides of the question, applying a
magnifying glass to the best one ; and if they
still feel tempted to retire without leave, that
they smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottie.
first, and profit by the laudable example of the
Baron of Grogzwig.”
“The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentle-
men, if you please,” said a new driver, look-
ing in.
This intelligence caused the punch to be
finished in a great hurry, and prevented any
discussion relative to the last story. Mr. Squeers
was observed to draw the grey-headed gentleman
on one side, and to ask a question with great
apparent interest; it bore reference to the Five
Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquiry
whether he could inform him how much per
annum the Yorkshire convents got in those days
with their boarders.
The journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell
asleep towards morning, and, when he awoke,
found, with great regret, that, during his nap,
both the Baron of Grogzwig and the grey-haired ,
gentleman had got down and were gone. The
day dragged on uncomfortably enough. At about
six o'clock that hight he and Mr. Squeers, and
the little boys, and their united luggage, were
all put down together at the George and New
Inn, Greta Bridge.
THE SPECTRE 7A KES ZEA WE OF THE #3 AA’OAZ
H
CHAPTER VII.
MR. AND MRS. SQUEERS AT HOME.
/f R. SQUEERS, being safely landed,
left Nicholas and the boys standing
with the luggage in the road, to
amuse themselves by looking at the
R coach as it changed horses, while
º he ran into the tavern and went
§ through the leg-stretching process at the
§ bar. After some minutes he returned,
with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of
his nose and a short hiccup afforded any criterion;
and at the same time there came out of the yard
a rusty pony-chaise and a cart, driven by two
labouring men.
“Put the boys and the boxes into the cartſ”
said Squeers, rubbing his hands: “ and this
young man and me will go on in the chaise.
Get in, Nickleby.”
Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some
difficulty inducing the pony to obey also, they
started off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery
to follow at leisure.
“Are you cold, Nickleby 2” inquired Squeers
after they had travelled some distance in
silence.
“Rather, sir, I must say.”
“Well, I don't find fault with that,” said
Squeers; “it’s a long journey this weather.”
“Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?”
asked Nicholas.
. . “About three mile from here,” replied Squeers.
“But you needn't call it a Hall down here.”
Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know
why.
“The fact is, it ain't a Hall,” observed Squeers
drily. . . -
“Oh, indeed 1" said Nicholas, whom this
piece of intelligence much astonished.
“No,” replied Squeers. “We call it a Hall
up in London, because it sounds better, but
they don't know it by that name in these parts.
A man may call his house an island if he likes;
there's no Act of Parliament against that, I be-
lieve?” -
“I believe not, sir,” rejoined Nicholas.
Squeers eyed his companion slily at the con-
clusion of this little dialogue, and finding that
he had grown thoughtful, and appeared in no-
wise disposed to volunteer any observations,
contented himself with lashing the pony until
they reached their journey's end.
“Jump out,” said Squeers. “Hallo there?
come and put this horse up. Be quick, will
you ?”

AV/CHOLAS WICKZZA Y.
40.
While the schoolmaster was uttering these
and other impatient cries, Nicholas had time to
observe that the school was a long, cold-looking
house, one story high, with a few straggling out-
buildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoin-
ing. After the lapse of a minute or two, the
noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was
heard, and presently a tall, lean boy with a lan-
term in his hand, issued forth.
“Is that you, Smike P” cried Squeers.
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy. -
“Then why the devil didn't you come before?”
“Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,” an-
swered Smike with humility.
“ Fire what fire P Where's there a fire 2"
demanded the Schoolmaster sharply.
“Only in the kitchen, sir,” replied the boy.
“Missus said, as I was sitting up, I might go in
there for a warm."
“Your missus is a fool," retorted Squeers.
“You’d have been a deuced deal more wakeful
in the cold, I’tl engage.”
By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted;
and after ordering the boy to see to the pony,
and to take care that he hadn't any more corn
that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-
door a minute while he went round and let him
l]].
A host of unpleasant, misgivings, which had
been crowding upon Nicholas during the whole
journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled
force when he was left alone. His great distance
from home, and the impossibility of reaching it,
except on foot, should he feel ever so anxious to
return, presented itself to him in most alarming .
Colours; and as he looked up at the dreary
house and dark windows, and upon the wild
country round covered with snow, he felt a de-
pression of heart and spirit which he had never
experienced before.
“Now then l’ cried Squeers, poking his, head
out at the front-door. “Where are you, Nickle-
by P 3 y
“Here, sir,” replied Nicholas. .
“Come in, then,” said Squeers; “the wind
blows in at this door fit to knock a man off his
iegs.” -
Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr. Squeers,
having bolted the door to keep it shut, ushered
him into a small parlour scantily furnished with
a few chairs, a yellow map hung against the
wall, and a couple of tables; one of which bore
some preparations for supper; while, on the
other, a tutor's assistant, a Murray's grammar,
halſ-a-dozen cards of terms, and a worn letter
directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were
arranged in picturesque confusion,
lady.
They had not been in this apartment a couple
of minutes, when a female bounced into the
room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat,
gave him two loud kisses : one close after the .
other, like a postman's knock. The lady, who
was of a large raw-boned figure, was about half
a head taller than Mr. Squeers, and was dressed
in a dimity night-jacket; with her hair in papers;
she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a
yellow cotton handkerchief which tied it under
the chin.
“How is my Squeery P" said this lady in a
playful manner, and a very hoarse voice.
“Quite well, my love,” replied Squeers.
“How's the cows P” *
“All right, every one of 'em,” answered the
lady.
“And the pigs 2" said Squeers. -
“As well as they were when you went away.”
“Come; that's a blessing,” said Squeers,
pulling off his great-coat. “The boys are all as
they were, I suppose P”
“Oh yes, they're well enough ” replied Mrs.
Squeers snappishly. “That young Pitcher's had
a fever.”
“No 1" exclaimed Squeers. “Damn that
boy, he's always at something of that sort 1"
“Never was such a boy, I do believe,” said
Mrs. Squeers; “whatever he has is always
catching, too. I say it's obstinacy, and nothing
shall ever convince me that it isn't. I'd beat it
out of him ; and I told you that six months ago.”
“So you did, my love,” rejoined Squeers.
“We'll try what can be done.”
Pending these little endearments, Nicholas
had stood, awkwardly enough, in the middle of
the room. not very well knowing whether he
was expected to retire into the passage, or to
remain where he was. He was now relieved
from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.
“This is the new young man, my dear,” said
that gentleman.
“Oh " replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her
head at Nicholas, and eyeing him coldly from
top to toe.
“He'll take a meal with us to-night,” said
Squeers, “ and go among the boys to-morrow
morning. You can give him a shake-down here
to-night, can't you ?”
“We must manage it somehow,” replied the
“You don't much mind how you sleep, I
suppose, sir?”
“No, indeed,” replied Nicholas, “I am not
particular.”
“That's lucky,” said Mrs. Squeers. And, as
the lady's humour was considered to lie chiefly
in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and
NICHOLAS PARTAKES OF 7 HE PLA2A SURAES OF 7:HE / ARIZ.
seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the
same. , -
After some further conversation between the
master and mistress relative to the success of
Mr. Squeers's trip and the people who had paid,
and the people who had made default in pay-
ment, a young servant-girl brought in a York-
shire pie and some cold beef, which being set
upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a
jug of ale. }
Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat
pockets of letters to different boys, and other
small documents, which he had brought down
in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious
and timid expression, at the papers, as if with a
sickly hope that one among them might relate to
him. The look was a very painful one, and
went to Nicholas's heart at once ; for it told a
long and very sad history. -
It induced him to consider the boy more
attentively, and he was surprised to observe the
extraordinary mixture of garments which formed
his dress.
less than eighteen or nineteen years old, and
was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton Suit,
such as is usually put upon very little boys, and
which, though most absurdly short in the arms
and legs, was quite wide enough for his attenu-
ated frame. In order that the lower part of his
legs might be in perfect keeping with this sin-
gular dress, he had a very large pair of boots,
originally made for tops, which º have been
once worn by some stout farmer, but were now
too patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven
knows how long he had been there, but he still
wore the same linen which he had first taken
down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child's
frill, only half concealed by a coarse, man's
neckerchief. He was lame; and, as he feigned
to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the
letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited
and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear
to watch him.
“What are you bothering about there, Smike?”
cried Mrs. Squeers. “Let the things alone,
can’t you?”. -
“Eh P’’ said Squeers, looking up. “Oh it's
you, is it?” - -
“Yes, sir,” replied the youth, pressing his
hands together, as though to control, by force,
the nervous wandering of his fingers. “Is
there——” -
“Well " said Squeers.
“Have you—did anybody—has nothing been
heard—about me P” -
“Devil a bit,” replied Squeers testily,
The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting
Although he could not have been
quired Mrs. Squeers.
the same manner.
41
– a
his hand to his face, moved towards the
door.
“Not a word,” resumed Squeers, “and never
will be. Now, this is a pretty sort of thing,
isn't it, that you should have been left here all
these years, and no money paid after the first
six—nor no notice taken, nor no clue to be got
who you belong to ? It's a pretty sort of thing
that I should have to feed a great fellow like
you, and never hope to get one penny for it,
isn't it?” dº
The boy put his hand to his head as if he
were making an effort to recollect something,
and then, fº vacantly at his questioner,
gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
“I’ll tell you what, Squeers,” remarked his
wife as the door closed, “I think that young
chap's turning silly.”
“I hope not,” said the schoolmaster ; “ for
he's a handy fellow out of doors, and worth his
meat and drink, anyway. I should think he'd
have wit enough for us, though, if he was. But
come ; let's have supper, for I am hungry and
tired, and want to get to bed.”
This reminder brought in an exclusive steak
for Mr. Squeers, who speedily proceeded to do it
ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but
his appetite was effectually taken away.
“How's the steak, Squeers?” said Mrs. S.
“Tender as a lamb,” replied Squeers. “Have
a bit P”
“I couldn't eat a morsel,” replied his wife.
“What'll the young man take, my dear?”
“Whatever he likes that's present,” rejoined
Squeers in a most unusual burst of generosity.
“What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy P” in-
“I’ll take a little of the pie, if you please,”
replied Nicholas. “A very little, for I’m not
hungry."
“Well, it's a pity to cut the pie if you're not
hungry, isn't it?” said Mrs. Squeers. “Will
you try a bit of the beef?”
“Whatever you please,” replied Nicholas ab-
stractedly; “it’s all the same to me.”
Mrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on re-
ceiving this reply ; and nodding to Squeers, as
much as to say that she was glad to find the
young man knew his station, assisted Nicholas
to a slice of meat with her own fair hands.
“Ale, Squeery P” inquired the lady, winking
and frowning to give him to understand that
the question propounded was, whether Nicholas
should have ale, and not whether he (Squeers)
would take any.
“Certainly,” said Squeers, re-telegraphing in
“A glassful.” S. a
42 ZVICHOLAS AWICKLEB Y.
So Nicholas had a glassful, and, being occu-
pied with his own reflections, drank it, in happy
innocence of all the foregone proceedings.
“ Uncommon juicy steak that,” said Squeers
as he laid down his knife and fork, after ply-
ing it, in silence, for sometime. --
“It's prime meat,” rejoined his lady. “I
bought a good large piece of it myself on pur-
pose for y?
“For what P” exclaimed Squeers hastily.
“ Not for the 39
“No, no ; not for them,” rejoined Mrs.
Squeers; “on purpose for you against you
came home. Lor you didn’t think I could
have made such a mistake as that P”
“Upon my word, my dear, I didn't know
what you were going to say,” said Squeers, who
had turned pale.
“You needn't make yourself uncomfortable,”
..emarked his wife, laughing heartily. “To think
that I should be such a noddy I Well !”
This part of the conversation was rather un-
intelligible; but popular rumour in the neigh-
bourhood asserted that Mr. Squeers, being
amiably opposed to cruelty to animals, not un-
frequently purchased for boy consumption the
bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural
death; possibly he was apprehensive of having
unintentionally devoured some choice morsel
intended for the young gentlemen.
Supper being over, and removed by a small
servant-girl with a hungry eye, Mrs. Squeers
retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe
custody the clothes of the five boys who had
just arrived, and who were half-way up the
troublesome flight of steps which leads to death's
door, in consequence of exposure to the cold.
They were then regaled with a light supper of
porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a
small bedstead, to warm each other, and dream
of a substantial meal with something hot after
it, if their fancies set that way: which it is not
at all improbable they did.
Mr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler
of brandy-and-water, made on the liberal half-
and-half principle, allowing for the dissolution
of the sugar ; and his amiable helpmate mixed
Nicholas the ghost of a small glassful of the
Same compound. This done, Mr. and Mrs.
Squeers drew close up to the fire, and, sitting
with their feet on the fender, talked confiden-
tially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the
tutor's assistant, read the interesting legends in
the miscellaneous questions, and all the figures
into the bargain, with as much thought or con-
Sciousness of what he was doing as if he had
been in a magnetic slumber.
—-4
At length Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and
opined that it was high time to go to bed;
upon which signal Mrs. Squeers and the girl
dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple
of blankets, and arranged them into a couch for
Nicholas.
“We'll put you into your regular bedroom
to-morrow, Nickleby,” said Squeers. “Let me
see : Who sleeps in Brooks's bed, my dear?”
“In Brooks's P” said Mrs. Squeers, ponder-
ing. “There's Jennings, little Bolder, Gray-
marsh, and what's-his-name.”
“So there is,” rejoined Squeers.
Brooks is full.”
“Full !” thought Nicholas. “I should think
he was.” •
“There's a place somewhere, I know,” said
Stueers; “but I can't at this moment call to
mind where it is. However, we'll have that all
settled to-morrow. Good night, Nickleby. Seven
o'clock in the morning, mind.” .
“I shall, be ready, sir,” replied Nicholas.
“Good night.”
“I’ll come in myself and show you where the
well is,” said Squeers. “You’ll always find a .
little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that be-
longs to you.”
Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth;
and Squeers was again going away, when he
once more turned back. -
“I don't know, I'm sure,” he said, “whose
towel to put you on ; but, if you'll make shift
with something to-morrow morning, Mrs. Squeers
will arrange that in the coirse of the day. My
dear, don't forget.”
“I’ll take care,” replied Mrs. Squeers; “and
mind you take care, young man, and get first
“Yes |
wash. The teacher ought always to have it;
but they get the better of him if they can.”
Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring
away the brandy-bottle, lest Nicholas, should
help himself in the night; and the lady having
seized it with great precipitation, they retired
together. -
Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen
turns up and down the room in a condition of
much agitation and excitement; but, growing
gradually calmer, sat himself down in a chair, and
mentally resolved that, come what come might,
he would endeavour, for a time, to bear what-
ever wretchedness might be in store for him,
and that, remembering the helplessness of his
mother and sister, he would give his uncle no
plea for deserting them in their need. Good
resolutions seldom fail of producing some good
effect in the mind from which they spring. He
grew less desponding, and—so sanguine and
$,
copy or A ZEZTER ProM Mr. We WMAM Moggs. 43
buoyant is youth—even hoped that affairs at
Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than
they promised. .
He was preparing for bed, with something like
renewed cheerfulness, when a sealed letter fell
from his coat pocket. In the hurry 6f leaving
London, it had escaped his attention, and had
not occurred to him since, but it at once brought
back to him the recollection of the mysterious
behaviour of Newman Noggs.
“Dear me!” said Nicholas; “what an ex-
traordinary hand 1"
It was directed to himself, was written upon
very dirty paper, and in such cramped and
crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After
great difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived
to read as follows:–
“My DEAR young MAN,
“I know the world. , Your father did
not, or he would not have done me a kindness
when there was no hope of return. You do
not, or you would not be bound on such a
journey.
“If ever you want a shelter in London (don't
be angry at this, F once thought I never should),
they know where I live at the sign of the
Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is
at the corner of Silver Street and James Street,
with a bar door both ways. You can come at
night. . . Once, nobody was ashamed—never
mind that. It's all over.
“Excuse errors. I should forget how to
wear a whole coat now. I have forgotten all
my old ways. My spelling, may have gone with
them. -
“NEWMAN NOGGS
“P.S.—If you should go near Barnard Castle,
there is good ale at the King's Head. Say you
know me, and I am sure they will not charge
you for it. You may say Mr. Noggs there, for
I was a gentleman then. I was indeed.”
It may be a very undignified circumstance to
record, but, after he had folded this letter and
placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby's
eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might
have been taken for tears.
!
CHAPTER VIII.
OF THE INTERNAL Economy of DoTHEBoys HALL.
RIDE of two hundred and odd miles in
severe weather is one of the best softeners
of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise.
happy kind.
Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams,
for those which hovered over the rough
couch of Nicholas, and whispered their airy
nothings in his ear, were of an agreeable and
He was making his fortune
very fast indeed, when the faint glimmer of
an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a
voice he had no difficulty in recognising as part
and parcel of Mr. Squeers admonished him that
It WaS time to IISe.
“Past seven, Nickleby,” said Mr. Squeers.
“Has morning come already ?” asked Nicho-
las, sitting up in bed. -
“Ah ! that has it,” replied Squeers, “and
ready iced too. Now, Nickleby, come; tumble
up, will you ?” -
Nicholas needed no further admonition, but
“tumbled up" at once, and proceeded to dress
himself by the light of the taper which Mr.
Squeers carried in his hand.
“Here's a pretty go,” said that gentleman;
“the pump's froze.”
“Indeed 1" said Nicholas, not much in-
terested in the intelligence.
“Yes,” replied Squeers.
yourself this morning.”
“Not wash myself " exclaimed Nicholas.
“No, not a bit of it,” rejoined Squeers tartly.
“So you must be content with giving yourself a
dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and
can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don't
stand staring at me, but do look sharp, will you?”
Offering no further observation, Nicholas
huddled on his clothes. Squeers, meanwhile,
opened the shutters and blew the candle out;
when the voice of his amiable consort was heard
in the passage, demanding admittance.
“Come in, my love,” said Squeers.
Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the
primitive night-jacket which had displayed the
symmetry of her figure on the previous night,
and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet of
some , antiquity, which she wore, with much
ease and lightness, on the top of the nightcap
before mentioned.
“Drat the things : " said the lady, opening
the cupboard; “I can't find the school spoon
anywhere.”
“Never mind it, my dear,” observed Squeers
“You can't wash
in a soothing manner ; “it’s of no conse-
quence.”
“No consequence Why, how you talk 1"
retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply; “isn't it brim-
stone morning P” -
: “I forgot, my dear,” rejoined Squeers; “yes,
it certainly is. We purify the boys' bloods now
and then, Nickleby.”
44 AICHOLAS WICKZEBY.
& 4 Purify fiddlesticks ends,” said his lady. .
“Don’t think, young man, that we go to the
expense of flower of brimstone and molasses,
just to purify them ; because, if you think we
carry on the business in that way, you'll find
yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly."
“My dear!” said Squeers, frowning. “Hem!”
“Oh nonsense,” rejoined Mrs. Squeers. “If
the young man comes to be a teacher here, let
him understand, at once, that we don't want any
foolery about the boys. They have the brim-
stone-and-treacle, partly because, if they hadn't
something or other in the way of medicine,
they'd be always ailing and giving a world
of trouble, and partly because it spoils their
appetites, and comes cheaper than breakfast and
dinner. So, it does them good and us good at
the same time, and that's fair enough I’m sure.”
Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers
put her head into the closet, and instituted a
stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr.
Squeers assisted. A few words passed between
them while they were thus engaged, but, as their
voices were partially stifled by the cupboard, all
that Nicholas could distinguish was, that Mr.
Squeers said what Mrs, Squeers had said was
injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what
Mr. Squeers said was “stuff.”
A vast deal of searching and rummaging en-
sued, and it proving fruitless, Smike was called
in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers, and boxed by
Mr. Squeers; which course of treatment bright-
ening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that
possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in
her pocket, as, indeed, turned out to be the case.
As Mrs. Squeers had previously protested, how-
ever, that she was quite certain she had not got
it, Smike received another box on the ear for
presuming to contradict his mistress, together
with a promise of a sound thrashing if he were
not more respectful in future; so that he took
nothing very advantageous by his motion.
“A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,”
said Squeers when his consort had hurried away,
pushing the drudge before her.
“Indeed, sir!” observed Nicholas.
“I don't know her equal,” said Squeers; “I
do not know her equal. That woman, Nickleby,
is always the same—always the same bustling,
lively, active, saving creetur that you see her
now.”
Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought
of the agreeable domestic prospect thus opened
to him; but Squeers was, fortunately, too much
occupied with his own reflections to perceive it.
“It's my way to say, when I am up in Lon.
don,” continued Squeers, “that to them boys
him.
and another for his assistant.
she is a mother. But she is more than a mothe
to them ; ten times more. She does things fo
them' boys, Nickleby, that I don't believe hal
the mothers going would do for their own
sons.” -
“I should think they would not, sir,” an
swered Nicholas.
Now, the fact was, that both Mr."and Mrs
Squeers viewed the boys in the light of thei
proper and natural enemies; or, in other words
they held and considered that their busines
and profession was to get as much from ever,
boy as could by possibility be screwed out o
On this point they were both agreed, ane
behaved in unison accordingly. The only differ
ence between them was, that Mrs. Squeers wageſ
war against the enemy openly and fearlessly
and that Squeers covered his rascality, even a
home, with a spice of his habitual deceit ; as i
he really had a notion of some day or othe
being able to take himself in, and persuade hi
own mind that he was a very good fellow.
“But come,” said Squeers, interrupting th
progress of some thoughts to this effect in th
mind of his usher, “let’s go to the schoolroom
and lend me a hand with my school coat, wil
you?” . -
Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old
fustian shooting jacket, which he took dowr
from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming
himself with his cane, led the way across a yard
to a door in the rear of the house. -
“There,” said the schoolmaster as they stepped
in together; “this is our shop, Nickleby 1"
It was such a crowded scene, and there were
so many objects to attract attention, that, at first
Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing
anything at all. By degrees, however, the place
resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with
a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part migh
be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with
old copy-books and paper. There were a couple
of long old rickety desks, cut and notehed, and
inked, and damaged in every possible way; two
or three forms; a detached desk for Squeers
The ceiling was
supported, like that of a barn, by crossbeams
and rafters ; and the walls were so stained and
discoloured, that it was impossible to tell whe.
ther they had ever been touched with paint ol
whitewash.
But the pupils—the young noblemen How
the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glim
mering of any good. to be derived from hi.
efforts in this den, faded from the mind o
Nicholas as he looked in dismay around ! Pal
and haggard faces, lank and bony figures
THE YOUNG AWOBLEMEN OF DOTHERO Y.S HAZZ. 45
children with the countenances of old men,
deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys
of stunted growth, and others whose long
meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping
bodies, all crowded on the view together; there
were the bleared eye, the hare-lip, the crooked
foot, and every ugliness or distortion that told
of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for
their offspring, or of young lives which, from
the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one hor-
rible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There
were little faces which should have been hand-
some, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged
suffering; there was childhood with the light of
its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its help-
lessness alone remaining ; there were vicious-
faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like
malefactors in a gaol; and there were young
creatures on whom the sins of their frail parents
had descended, weeping even for the mercenary
nurses they had known, and lonesome even in
their loneliness. With every kindly sympathy
and affection blasted in its birth, with every
young and healthy feeling flogged and starved
- ---
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§
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NRS:
NNRS:
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SS
THE FIRST CLASS IN ENGLISH SPELLING AND PHILOSOPHY,
down, with every revengeful passion that can
fester in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to
their core in silence, what an incipient Hell was
breeding here ! -
And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its
grotesque features, which, in a less interested
observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a
Smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, .
presiding over an immense basin of brimstone-
and-treacle, of which delicious compound she
administered a large instalment to each boy in
succession: using for the purpose a common
Wooden spoon, which might have been origin-
ally manufactured for some gigantic top, and
which widened every young gentleman's mouth
considerably : they being all obliged, under
heavy corporal penalties, to take in the whole
of the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, hud-
dled together for companionship, were the little
boys who had arrived on the preceding night,
three of them in very large leather breeches, and
two in old trousers, a something tighter fit than
drawers are usually worn ; at no great distance
from these was seated the juvenile son and heir
of Mr. Squeers—a striking likeness of his father
—kicking, with great vigour, under the hands of

46 AV/CAEWOZAS AV/CATALAZAR }^.
Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new
boots that bore a most suspicious resemblance
to those which the least of the little boys had
worn on the journey down—as the little boy
himself seemed to think, for he was regarding
the appropriation with a look of most rueful
amazement. Besides these, there was a long
row of boys waiting, with countenances of
no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled; and
another file, who had just escaped from the
infliction, making a variety of wry mouths indi-
cative of anything but satisfaction. The whole
were attired in such motley, ill-assorted, extra-
ordinary garments as would have been irresistibly
ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt,
disorder, and disease with which they were asso-
ciated.
“Now,” said Squeers, giving the desk a great
rap with his cane, which made half the little boys
nearly jump out of their boots, “is that physick-
ing over ?” *
“Just over,” said Mrs. Squeers, choking the
last boy in her hurry, and tapping the crown of
his head with the wooden spoon to restore him.
“Here, you Smike ; take away now. Look
sharp !”
Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs.
Squeers having called up a little boy with a curly
head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out .
after him into a species of wash-house, where
there was a small fire and a large kettle, to-
gether with a number of little wooden bowls
which were arranged upon a board.
Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by
the hungry servant, poured a brown composi-
tion, which looked like diluted pin-cushions
without the covers, and was called porridge. A
minute wedge of brown bread was inserted in
each bowl, and, when they had eaten their por-
ridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the
bread itself, and had finished their breakfast ;
whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice,
“For what we have received may the Lord
make us truly thankful "—and went away to
his own.
Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl
of porridge, for much the same reason which
induces some Savages to swallow earth—lest
they should be inconveniently hungry when
there is nothing to eat. Having further dis-
posed of a slice of bread and-butter, allotted to
him in virtue of his office, he sat himself down
to wait for school-time.
He could not but observe how silent and sad
the boys all seemed to be. There was none of the
noise and clamour of a schoolroom; none of its
boisterous play, or hearty mirth. The children
Inent.
sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed
to lack the spirit to move about. The only
pupil who evinced the slightest tendency towards
locomotion or playfulness was Master Squeers,
and, as his chief amysement was to tread upon
the other boys' toes in his new boots, his flow
of spirits was rather disagreeable than other-
wise. w
After some half-hour's delay Mr. Squeers re-
appeared, and the boys took their places and
their books, of which latter commodity the
average might be about one to eight learners.
A few minutes having elapsed, during which
Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he
had a perfect apprehension of what was inside
all the books, and could say every word of
their contents by heart if he only chose to take
the trouble, that gentleman called up the first
class. t
Obedient to this summons, there ranged
themselves in front of the schoolmaster's desk
half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows,
one of whom placed a torn and filthy book be-
neath his learned eye. -
“This is the first class in English spelling and
philosophy, Nickleby,” said Squeers, beckoning
Nicholas to stand beside him. “We'll get up
a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now,
then, where's the first boy P” -
“Please, sir, he's cleaning the back-parlour
window,” said the temporary head of the philo-
sophical class. -
“So he is, to be sure, rejoined Squeers.
“We go upon the practical mode of teach-
ing, Nickleby; the regular education, system.
C-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright, to
sccur. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, wir de’, a case-
When the boy knows this oet of book,
It's just the same prin-
Where's the
he goes and does it.
ciple as the use of the globes.
second boy P.”
“Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,” replicd
a small voice.
“To be sure,” said Squeers, by no means
disconcerted. “So he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin,
bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive,
a lºnowledge of plants. When he has learned
that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he
goes and knows 'em. That's our system,
Nickleby; what do you think of it?”
“It's a very useful one, at any rate,” answered
Nicholas. -
“I believe you,” rejoined Squeers, not re-
marking the emphasis of his usher. “Third
boy, what's a horse ?”-
“A beast, sir,” replied the boy.
“So it is,” said Squeers, “Ain't it, Nickleby P”
MR. SQUEERS IN covczA VE WITH THE YOUNG AWOBZEMEA. 47
“I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,”
answered Nicholas.
“Of course there isn't,” said Squeers. “A
horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for
beast, as everybody that's gone through the
grammar knows, or else where's the use of
having grammars at all P "
“Where, indeed?” said Nicholas abstractedly.
“As you're perfect in that,” resumed Squeers,
turning to the boy, “go and look after my horse,
and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down.
The rest of the class.go and draw water up till
somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing-
day to-morrow, and they want the coppers
filled.” ..
So saying, he dismissed the first class to their
experiments in practical philosophy, and eyed
Nicholas with a look, half cunning and half
doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain
what he might think of him by this time.
“That's the way we do it. Nickleby,” he said
after a pause.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner
that was scarcely perceptible, and said he saw it
WaS,
“And a very good way it is, too,” said
Squeers. “Now, just take them fourteen little
boys, and hear them some reading, because, you
know, you must begin to be useful. Idling
about here won't do.”
Mr. Squeers said this as if it had suddenly
occurred to him, either that he must not say too
much to his assistant, or that his assistant did
not say enough to him in praise of the establish-
ment. The children were arranged in a semi-
circle round the new master, and he was soon
listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating recital
of those stories of engrossing interest which are
to be found in the more antiquated spelling-
books.
In this exciting, occupation the morning
lagged heavily on. At one o'clock, the boys,
having previously had their appetites thoroughly
taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down
in the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which
Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his
portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there
in peace. After this there was another hour of
crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with
cold, and then school began again.
It was Mr. Squeers's custom to call the boys
together, and make a sort of report, after every
half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the
relations and friends he had seen, the news he
had heard, the letters he had brought down, the
bills which had been paid, the accounts which
had been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn
proceeding always took place in the afternoon
of the day succeeding his return ; perhaps be-
cause the boys acquired strength of mind from
the suspense of the morning, or, possibly,
because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater
sternness and inflexibility from certain warm
potations in which he was wont to indulge after
his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys
were recalled from house window, garden,
stable, and cow-yard, and the school were
assembled in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers,
with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and
Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered
the room and proclaimed silence.
“Let any boy speak a word without leave,”
said Mr. Squeers mildly, “and I'll take the skin
off his back.”
This special proclamation had the desired
effect, and a death-like silence immediately pre-
vailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went
on to say: -
“Boys, I've been to London, and have re-
turned to my family and you, as strong and
well as ever.”
According to half-yearly custom, the boys
gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing in-
telligence. Such cheers Sighs of extra strength
with the chill on.
“I have seen the parents of some boys,”
continued Squeers, turning over his papers,
“ and they're so glad to hear how their sons are
getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their
going away, which of course is a very pleasant
thing to reflect upon for all parties.”
Two or three hands went to two or three
eyes when Squeers said this, but the greater
part of the young gentlemen, having no par-
ticular parents to speak of, were wholly unin-
terested in the thing one way or other.
“I have had disappointments to contend
against,” said: Squeers, looking very grim ;
“Bolder's father was two pound ten short,
Where is Bolder P”
“Here he is, please, sir,” rejoined twenty
officious voices. Boys are very like men to be
Slire.
“Come here, Bolder,” said Squeers.
An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all
over his hands, stepped from his place to the
master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly ,
to Squeers's face; his own, quite white from the
rapid beating of his heart.
“Bolder I " said Squeers, speaking very
slowly, for he was considering, as the saying
goes, where to have him. “Bolder, if your
father thinks that because Why, what's
this, sir?”
#8
AV/CHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
As , Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's
hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed it
with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
“What do you call this, sir?” demanded the
schoolmaster, administering a cut with the cane
to expedite the reply.
“I can't help it, indeed, sir,” rejoined the
boy, crying. “They will come ; it’s the dirty
work I think, sir—at least, I don't know what
it is, sir, but it's not my fault.”
“Bolder,” said Squeers, tucking up his wrist-
bands, and moistening the palm of his right
hand to get a good grip of the cane, “you're an
incorrigible young scoundrel, and, as the last
thrashing did you no good, we must see what
another will do towards beating it out of you.”
With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous
cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy,
and camed him soundly; not leaving off, indeed,
until his arm was tired out. -
“There,” said Squeefs when he had quite
done; “rub away as hard as you like, you
won't rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won't
hold that noise, won't you? Put him out,
Smike.” 4.
The drudge knew better, from long expe-,
rience, than to hesitate about obeying, so he
bundled the victim out by a side-door, and Mr.
Squeers perched himself again on his own stool,
supported by Mrs. Squeers, who occupied
another at his side.
“Now let us see,” said Squeers.
for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.”
Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter
very hard while Squeers made a mental abstract
of the same. -
“Oh ” said Squeers: “Cobbey's grand-
mother is dead, and his uncle John has took to
drinking, which is all the news his sister sends,
except eighteen-pence, which will just pay for
that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my
dear, will you take the money P”
The worthy lady pocketed the eighteen-pence
with a most business-like air, and Squeers passed
on to the next boy as coolly as possible.
“Graymarsh,” said Squeers, “he's the next.
Stand up, Graymarsh.”
Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster
looked over the letter as before.
“Graymarsh's maternal aunt,” said Squeers
when he had possessed himself of the contents,
“A letter
“is very glad to hear he's so well and happy,
and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs.
Squeers, and thinks she must be an angel. She
likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too good for this
world; but hopes he may long be spared to
carry on the business. Would have sent the
f
two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of
money, so forwards a tract instead, and hopes
Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence.
Hopes, above all, that he will study in every-
thing to please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look
upon them as his only friends ; and that he
will love Master Squeers; and not object to
sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian should.
Ah!” said Squeers, folding it up, “a delightful
letter. Very affecting indeed.”
It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's
maternal aunt was strongly supposed, by her
more intimate friends, to be no other than his
maternal parent. Squeers, however, without
alluding to this part of the story (which would
have sounded immoral before boys); proceeded
with the business by calling out “Mobbs,”
whereupon another boy rose, and Graymarsh
resumed his seat.
“Mobbs's mother-in-law,” said Squeers, “took
to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat,
and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to
know, by an early post, where he expects to go
to if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what
feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's-
liver broth, after his good master had asked a
blessing on it. This was told her in the Lon-
don newspapers—not by Mr. Squeers, for he is
too kind and too good to set anybody against
anybody—and it has vexed her so much, Mobbs
can't think. She is sorry to find he is discon-
tented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes
Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of
mind; with which view she has also stopped
his halfpenny a week pocket money, and given
a double-bladed knife with a cork-screw in it to
the Missionaries, which she had bought on pur-
pose for him.”
.* A sulky state of feeling,” said Squeers after
a terrible pause, during which he had moistened
the palm of his right hand again, “won't do.
Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up.
Mobbs, come to me !”
Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rub-
bing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for
doing so; and he soon afterwards retired by the
side-door, with as good cause as a boy need
have.
Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a mis-
cellaneous collection of létters; some enclosing
money, which Mrs. Squeers “took care of ; ”
and others referring to small articles of apparel,
as caps and so forth, all of which the same lady
stated to be too large, or too small, and calcu-
lated for nobody but young Squeers, who would
appear, indeed, to have had most accommodat-
ing limbs, since everything that came into the
DEPRESSION. 49
schooſ fitted him to a nicety. His head, in par-
ticular, must have been singularly elastic, for
hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to
him. -
This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons
were performed, and Squeers retired to his fire-
side, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys
in the schoolroom, which was very cold, and
where a meal of bread and cheese was served
out shortly after dark.
There was a small stove at that corner of the
room which was nearest to the master's desk,
and by it Nicholas sat down, so depressed and
self-degraded by the consciousness of his posi-
tion, that, if death could have come upon him at
that time, he would have been almost happy to
meet it. The cruelty of which he had been an
unwilling witness, the coarse and ruffianly beha-
viour of Squeers even in his best moods, the
filthy place, the sights and sounds about him,
N
§§
N
- 2%a:44.4%)
“PAIN AND FEAR, PAIN AND FEAR FoR ME, ALIVE OR DEAD. No HoPE, NO HOPE' "
all contributed to this state of feeling; but when
he recollected that, being there as an assistant, he
actually seemed—no matter what unhappy train
of circumstances had brought him to that pass—
Jóbe the aider and abettor of a system which
filled him with honest disgust and indignation,
he loathed himself, and felt, for the moment, as
though the mere consciousness of his present
situation must, through all time to come, prevent
his raising his head again.
But, for the present, his resolve was taken,
and the resolution he had formed on the preced-
ing night remained undisturbed. He had written
to his mother and sister, announcing the safe
conclusion of his journey, and saying as little
about Dotheboys Hall, and saying that little as
cheerfully, as he possibly could. He hoped
that, by remaining where he was, he might do
some good, even there; at all events, others
depended too much on his uncle's favour to
admit of his awakening his wrath just then.
One reflection disturbed him far more than

5o AVCHOZAS AW/CKZZAPY.
-º-º-º:
any selfish considerations arising out of his own
position. This was the probable destination of
his sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him,
and might he not consign her to some miserable
place where her youth and beauty would prove
a far greater curse than ugliness and decrepitude P
To a caged man, bound hand and foot, this was
a terrible idea;-but no, he thought, his mother
was by ; there was the portrait painter, too—
simple enough, but still living in the world, and
of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph
Nickleby had conceived a personal dislike to
himself. Having pretty good reason, by this
time, to reciprocate it, he had no great difficulty
in arriving at this conclusion, and tried to per-
suade himself that the feeling extended no farther
than between them. -
As he was absorbed in these meditations, he
all at once encountered the upturned face of
Smike, who was on his knees before the stove,
picking a few stray cinders from the hearth, and
planting them on the fire. He had paused to
steal a look at Nicholas, and, when he saw that
he was observed, shrunk back, as if expecting a
blow. -
“You need not fear me,” said Nicholas kindly.
“Are you cold P”
“N-...-O.”
“You are shivering.” *
“I am not cold,” replied Smike quickly. “I
am used to it.” -
There was such an obvious fear of giving
offence in his manner, and he was such a timid,
broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not
help exclaiming, “Poor fellow !”
If he had struck the drudge, he would have
slunk away without a word. But, now, he burst ||
into tears.
“Oh dear, oh dear !” he cried, covering his
face with his cracked and horny hands. “My
heart will break. It will, it will "
“Hush ' " said Nicholas, laying his hand upon
his shoulder. “Be a man ; you are nearly one
by years, God help you.”
“By years ” cried Smike. “Oh dear, dear,
how many of them . How many of them since I
was a little child, younger than any that are
here now ! Where are they all?”
“Whom do you speak of P” inquired Nicholas,
wishing to rouse the poor half-witted creature to
reason. “Tell me.”
“My friends,” he replied, “myself—my—oh
what sufferings mine have been 1"
“There is always hope,” said Nicholas; he
knew not what to say. *
“No,” rejoined the other, “no ; none for me.
Do you remember the boy that died here P"
“I was not here, you know,” said Nicholas
gently; “but what of him P”
“Why," replied the youth, drawing closer to
his questioner's side, “I was with him at night,
and when it was all silent he cried no more for
friends he wished to come and sit with him, but
began to see faces round his bed that came from
home; he said they smiled, and talked to him;
and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them.
Do you hear?” -
“Yes, yes,” rejoined Nicholas. -
“What faces will smile on me when I die?”
cried his companion, shivering: “Who will
talk to me in those long nights P They cannot
come from home; they would frighten me if
they did, for I don't know what it is, and
shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and
fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope 1"
The bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding
at the sound into his usual listless state, crept
away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with
a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards—
no, not retired; there was no retirement there—
followed—to his dirty and crowded dormitory.
CHAPTER IX.
of Miss squEERs, MRs. squEERs, MASTER squEEks,
AND MR. SQUEERs ; AND OF VARIous MATTERS
AND PERSONS connected No Less witH THE
SQUEERSES THAN WITH NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
HEN ' Mr. Squeers left the school-
6 room for the night, he betook him-
selſ, as has been before remarked,
2, to his own fireside, which was
situated—not in the room in which
* Nicholas had supped on the night
of his arrival, but in a smaller apartment
in the rear of the premises, where his lady
wife, his anniable son, and accomplished
daughter were in the full enjoyment of each
other's society ; Mrs. Squeers being engaged in
the matronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and
the young lady and gentleman being occupied
in the adjustment of some youthful differences
by means of a pugilistic contest across the table,
which, on the approach of their honoured parent,
subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks be-
neath it.
And, in this place, it may be as well to ap-
prise the reader that Miss Fanny Squeers was in
her three-and-twentieth- year. If there be any
one grace or loveliness inseparable from that
particular period of life, Miss Squeers may be
presumed to have been possessed of it, as there

A 24 Mrzy Dyscuss/OA. ON THE SUB// CZ" OF KAVUCKZEBO Y.
5 L
is no reason to suppose that she was a solitary
exception to an universal rule. She was not
tall like her mother, but short like her father;
from the former she inherited a voice of harsh
quality; from the latter a remarkable expression
of the right eye, something akin to having none
at all.
Miss. Squeers had been spending a few days
with a neighbouring friend, and had, only just
returned to the parental roof. To this circum-
stance may be referred her having heard nothing
of Nicholas until Mr. Squeers himself now made
him the subject of conversation.
“Well, my dear,” said Squeers, drawing up
his chair, “what do you think of him by this
time?” .
“Think of who P” inquired Mrs. Squeers; who.
(as she often remarked) was no grammarian,
thank Heaven.
“Of the young man—the new teacher—who
else could I mean P”
“Oh that Knuckleboy,” said Mrs. Squeers
impatiently. “I hate him.’
“What do you hate him for, my dear P” asked
Squeers. . -
“What's that to you?” retorted Mrs. Squeers.
“If I hate him, that's enough, ain't it?”
“Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great
deal too much, I dare say, if he knew it,” replied
Squeers in a pacific tone. “I only ask from
curiosity, my dear.” - -
“Well, then, if you want to know,” rejoined
Mrs. Squeers, “I’ll tell you. Because he is a
proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed
peacock.” .
Mrs. Squeers, when excited, was accustomed
to use strong language, and, moreover, to make
use of a plurality of epithets, some of which
were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock,
and furthermore the allusion to Nicholas's nose,
which was not intended to be taken in its literal
Sense, but rather to bear a latitude of construc-
tion according to the fancy of the hearers.
Neither were they meant to bear reference to
each other, so much as to the object on whom
they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present
case ; a peacock with a turned-up nose being a
... novelty in ornithology, and a thing not com-
monly seen.
“Hem ",said Squeers, as if in mild depre-
cation of this outbreak. “He is cheap, my
dear; the young man is very cheap.”
“Not a bit of it,” retorted Mrs. Squeers.
º Five pound a year,” said Squeers.
." What of that ? It's dear if vou don't want
him, isn't it?” replied his wife.
“But we do want him,” urged Squeers.
\
“I don't see that you want him any more
than the dead,” said Mrs. Squeers. “Don’t
tell me. You can put on the cards and in the
advertisements, ‘Education by Mr. Wackford
Squeers and able assistants,’ without having any
assistants, can't you? Isn't it done every day
by all the masters about 2 I've no patience with
you.
“Haven't you?” said Squeers sternly. “Now,
I'll tell you what, Mrs. 'Squeers. In this matter
of having a teacher I'll take my own way, if
you please. A slave-driver in the West Indies
is allowed a man under him, to see that his
blacks don't run away, or get up a rebellion ;
and I’ll have a man under me to do the same
with our blacks, till such time as little Wack-
ford is able to take charge of the school.”
“Am I to take care of the school when I grow
up a man, father ?” said Wackford junior, sus-
pending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious
kick which he was administering to his sister.
“You are, my son,” replied Mr. Squeers in a
sentimental voice.
“Oh, my eye, won't I give it to the boys I"
exclaimed the interesting child, grasping his
father's cane. “Oh, father, won't I make 'em
squeak again l’’ -
It was a 'proud moment in Mr. Squeers's lif
when he witnessed that burst of enthusiasm in
his young child’s mind, and saw in it a fore-
shadowing of his future eminence. He pressed
a penny into his hand, and gave vent to his
ſeelings (as did his exemplary wife also) in a
shout of approving laughter. The infantine
appeal to their common sympathies at once re-
stored cheerfulness to the conversation, and har-
mony to the company.
“He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that's what
I consider him,” said Mrs. Squeers, reverting to
Nicholas.
“Supposing he is,” said Squeers, “he is as
well stuck up in our,schoolroom as anywhere
else, isn't he?—especially as he don't like it.”
“Well,” observed Mrs. Squeers, “there's
something in that. I hope it'll bring his pride
down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it
don't.”
Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was
Such a very extraordinary and unaccountable
thing to hear of any usher at all being a
novelty; but a proud one, a being of whose
existence the wildest imagination could never
have dreamed—that Miss Squeers, who seldom
troubled herself with scholastic matters, in-
quired with much curiosity who this Knuckle-
boy was, that gave himself such airs.
“Nickleby,” said. Squeers, spelling the name
52
NICHOzAS WICKZEB Y.
according to some eccentric system which pre-
ailed in his own mind ; “your mother always
călls things and people by their wrong names.”
“No matter for that,” said Mrs. Squeers; “I
see them with right eyes, and that's quite enough
for me. I watched him when you were laying
on to little Bolder this afternoon. He looked
as black as thunder all the while, and, one time,
started up as if he had more than got it in his
mind to make a rush at you. I saw him, though
he thought I didn't.”
“Never mind that, father,” said Miss Squeers,
as the head of the family was about to reply.
“Who is the man?”
“Why, your father has got some nonsense in
his head that he's the son of a poor gentleman
that died the other day,” said Mrs. Squeers.
“The son of a gentleman 1"
“Yes; but I don't believe a word of it. If
be's a gentleman's son at all, he's a fondling,
that's my opinion.”
Mrs. Squeers intended to say “ſoundling,”
but, as she frequently remarked when she made
any such mistake, it would be all the same a
hundred years hence; with which axiom of phi-
losophy, indeed, she was in the constant habit
of consoling the boys when they laboured under
more than ordinary ill-usage.
“He’s nothing of the kind,” said Squeers in
answer to the above remark, “for his father was
married to his mother years before he was born,
and she is alive now. If he was, it would be
p.9 business of ours, for we make a very good
friend by having him here ; and, if he likes to
learn the boys anything besides minding them,
I have no objection I am sure.”
“I say again, I hate him worse than poison,”
said Mrs. Squeers vehemently.
“If you dislike him, my dear,” returned
Squeers, “I don't know anybody who can show
dislike better than you, and of course there's
no occasion, with him, to take the trouble to
hide it.”
“I don't intend to, I assure you,” interposed
Mrs. S.
“That's right,” said Squeers; “and if he has
3 touch of pride abofit him, as I think he has
I don't believe there's a woman in all England
that can bring anybody's spirit down as quick
as you can, my love.”
Mrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt
of these flattering compliments, and said she
ºped she had tamed a high spirit or two in her
ay.
!” ºnjunction with her estimable husband, she
had broken many and many a one. y
Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up
It is but due to her character to say that,
this, and much more conversation on the same
subject, until she retired for the night, when
she questioned the hungry servant minutely re-
garding the outward appearance and demeanour
of Nicholas; to which queries the girl returned
such enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many
laudatory remarks touching his beautiful dark
eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight legs
—upon which last-named articles she laid parti-
cular stress ; the general run of legs at Dothe-
boys Hall being crooked—that Miss Squeers
was not long in arriving at the conclusion that
the new usher must be a very remarkable per-
son, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,
“something quite out of the common.” And
so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she
would take a personal observation of Nicholas
the very next day. -
In pursuance of this design, the young lady
watched the opportunity of her mother being
engaged, and her father absent, and went acci-
dentally into the schoolroom to get a pen mended:
where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding
over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and ex-
hibited great confusion.
“I beg your pardon,” ſaltered Miss Squeers;
“I thought my father was—or might be—dear
me, how very awkward ' " … .
“Mr. Squeers is out,” said Nicholas, by no
means overcome by the apparition, unexpected
though it was. . .
,-
“Do you know will he be long, sir?” asked
Miss Squeers with bashful hesitation.
“He said about an hour,” replied Nicholas—
• politely of course, but without any indication of
being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's
charms.
“I never knew anything happen so cross,”
exclaimed the young lady. “Thank you ! I
am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't
thought my father was here, I wouldn't upon
any account have—it is very provoking—must
look so very strange,” murmured Miss Squeers,
blushing once more, and glancing, from the
pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his desk, and
back again. -
“If that is all you want,” said Nicholas,
pointing to the pen, and smiling, in spite of
himself, at the affected embarrassment of the
schoolmaster's daughter, “perhaps I can supply
his place.”
Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubi-
ous of the propriety of advancing any nearer to
an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom,
as though in some measure reassured by the
presence of forty boys ; and finally sidled up to
Nicholas, and delivered the pen into his hand,
AAA’ D OR SOFT% 53
with a most winning mixture of reserve and con-
descension.
“Shall it be a hard or a soft nib P” inquired
Nicholas, smiling, to prevent himself from laugh-
ing outright.
i
§
§
§
*
^
§§
;
i
i
s
ſ
§§
SS
S
J.
º
N&
-§
§l
“He has a beautiful smile,” thought Miss
Squeers.
“Which did you say?” asked Nicholas.
“Dear me, I was thinking of something else
for the moment, I declare,” replied Miss Squeers.
e=
S.
“OH ! AS SOFT As POSSIBLE, IF YOU PLEASE,”
“Oh as soft as possible, if you please.”
which words Miss Squeers sighed.
pen.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBr, S.
With
It might be
to give Nicholas to understand that her heart
was soft, and that the pen was wanted to match.
Upon these instructions Nicholas made the
W. he gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss
Squeers dropped it; and, when he stooped to
pick it up, Miss Squeers stooped also, and they
knocked their heads together; whereat five-and-
twenty little boys laughed aloud: being posi-
tively for the first and only time that half-year.
“Very awkward of me,” said Nicholas, open-
ing the door for the young lady's retreat.
“Not at all, sir,” replied Miss Squeers; “it was
2 K. S.

54 MICHOLAS AWICKZEAE Y.
my ſault. It was all my foolish—a-a-good
morning !”
“Good-bye,” said Nicholas. “The next I
make for you, I hope will be made less clum-
sily. Take care You are biting the nib off
now.”
“Really,” said Miss Squeers; “so embarrass-
ing that I scarcely know what I–very sorry to
give you so much trouble.”
“Not the least trouble in the world,” replied
Nicholas, closing the schoolroom door.
“I never saw such legs in the whole course
of my life " said Miss Squeers as she walked
away.
In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicho-
las Nickleby.
To account for the rapidity with which this
young lady had conceived a passion for Nicholas,
it may be necessary to state that the friend
from whom she had so recently returned was a
miller's daughter of only eighteen, who had con-
tracted herself unto the son of a small corn-
factor; resident in the nearest market-town.
Miss Squeers and the miller's daughter, being
fast ſriends, had covenanted together some two
years before, according to "a custom prevalent
among young ladies, that whoever was first
engaged to be married should straightway con-
fide the mighty secret to the bosom of the other,
before communicating it to any living soul,
and bespeak her as bridesmaid without , loss
of time; in fulfilment of which pledge the mil-
ler's daughter, when her engagement was formed,
came out express, at eleven o'clock at night as .
the corn-factor's son made an offer of his hand
and heart at twenty-five minutes past ten by the
Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushed into
Miss Squeers's bedroom with the gratifying intel-
ligence. Now, Miss Squeers, being five years
older, and out of her teens (which is also a great
matter), had since been more than commonly
anxious to return the compliment, and possess
her friend with a similar secret; but, either in
consequence of finding it hard to please herself,
or harder still to please anybody else, had never
had an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she
had no such secret to disclose. The little
interview with Nicholas had no sooner passed,
as above described, however, than Miss Squeers,
putting on her bonnet, made her way, with great
precipitation, to her friend's house, and, upon a
solemn renewal of divers old vows of secrecy,
revealed how that she was—not exactly en-
gaged, but going to be—to a gentleman's son—
(none of your corn-factors, but a gentleman's
son of high descent)—who had come down as
teacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most mysteri-
ous and remarkable circumstances—indeed, as
Miss Squeers more than once hinted she had
good reason to believe, induced, by the ſame of
her many charms, to seek her out, and woo and
win her.
“Isn't it an extraordinary thing?” said Miss
Squeers, emphasizing the adjective strongly.
“Most extraordinary,” replied the friend.
“But what has he said to you?”
“Don’t ask me what he said, my dear,” re-
joined Miss Squeers. “If you had only seen
his looks and smiles I never was so overcome
in all my life.” - r-
“Did he look in this way?” inquired the
miller's daughter, counterfeiting, as nearly as she
could, a favourite leer of the corn-factor.
“Very like that—only more genteel,” replied
Miss Squeers. -
“Ah 1” said the friend,
something, depend on it.” -
Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the
subject, was by no means ill pleased to be con-
firmed by a competent authority; and discover-
ing, on further conversation and comparison of
notes, a great many points of resemblance be-
tween the behaviour of Nicholas and that of the
corn-factor, grew so exceedingly confidential, that
she intrusted her friend with a vast number of
things Nicholas had not said, which were all so
very complimentary as to be quite conclusive.
Then, she dilated on the fearful hardship of
having a father and mother strenuously op-
posed to her intended husband ; on which un-
happy circumstance she dwelt at great length;
“then he means
for the friend's father and mother were quite
agreeable to her being married and the whole
courtship was in consequence as flat and com-
monplace an affair as it was possible to imagine.
“PIow I should like to see him 1" exclaimed
the friend.
“So you shall, 'Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers.
“I should consider myself one of the most un-
grateful creatures alive, if I denied you. I think
mother's going away for two days, to fetch some
boys; and, when she does, I'll ask you and
John up to tea, and have him to meet you.”
This was a charming idea, and, having fully
discussed it, the friends parted.
It so fell out that Mrs. Squeers's journey to
some distance to fetch three new boys, and dun
the relations of two old ones for the balance of
a small account, was fixed, that very aſternoon,
for the next day but one; and, on the next day
but one, Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach,
as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking
with her a small bundle containing something
in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and carrying,
AVYCHO CAS YAV VAZTED 7"O Zl 7'EA-PARTY. 55
besides, a large white top-coat to wear in the
night-time ; with which baggage she went her
Way.
Whenever such opportunities as these oc-
curred, it was Squeers's custom to drive over to
the market-town every evening, on pretence of
urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven
o'clock at a tavern he much affected. As the
party was not in his way, therefore, but rather
afforded a means of compromise with Miss
Squeers, he readily yielded his full assent there-
unto, and willingly communicated to Nicholas
that he was expected to take his tea in the par-
lour that evening at five o'clock. -
To be sure §. Squeers was in a desperate
flutter as the time approached, and to be sure
she was dressed out to the best advantage : with
her hair—it had more than a inge of red, and
she wore it in a crop—curled in five distinct
rows, up to the very top of her head, and
arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to
say nothing of the blue sash which floated down
her back, or the worked apron, or the long
gloves, or the green gauze scarf, worn over one
shoulder and under the other; or any of the
numerous devices which were to be as so many
arrows to the heart of Nicholas. She h’ .
scarcely completed these arrangements to her
entire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with
a whity-brown parcel—Hat and three-cornered
—containing sundry small adornments which
were to be put on up-stairs, and which the
friend put on, talking incessantly. When Miss
Squeers had “done" the friend's hair, .the
friend “did" Miss Squeers's hair, throwing in
Some striking improvements in the way of ring-
lets down the neck; and then, when they were
both touched up to their entire satisfaction, they
went down-stairs in full state, with the long
gloves on, all ready for company.
“Where's John, 'Tilda P” said Miss Squeers.
“Only gone home to clean himself,” replied
the friend. “He will be here by the time the
tea's drawn.”
“I do so palpitate,” observed Miss Squeers.
“Ah! I know-what it is,” replied the friend.
} “I have not been used to it, you know,
Tilda,” said Miss Squeers, applying her hand to
the left side of her sash.
, “You’ll soon get the better of it, dear,” re-
jºined the friend. While they were talking thus,
the hungry servant brought in the tea-things,
and, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the
room-door.
“There he is 1" cri º
'Tilda " he is l’ cried Miss Squeers.
{{ º e -
Hush!” said 'Tilda. “Hem I Say, come in.”
“Oh,
“Come in,” cried Miss Squeers faintly. And
in walked Nicholas.
“Good evening,” said that young gentleman,
all unconscious of his conquest. “I understood
from Mr. Squeers that jy
“Oh yes; it's all right !” interposed Miss
Squeers. “Father don't tea with us, but you
won’t mind that, I dare say.” (This was said
archly.)
Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he
turned the matter off very coolly—not caring,
particularly, about anything just then-and went
through the ceremony of introduction to the
miller's daughter with so much grace, that that
young lady was lost in admiration. te
“We are only waiting for one more gentle-
man,” said Miss Squeers, taking off the teapot
lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was
getting on.
It was matter of equal moment to Nichol S
whether they were waiting for one gentleman or
twenty, so he received the intelligence with per-
fect unconcern; and, being out of spirits, and
not seeing any especial reason why he should
make himself agreeable, looked out of the window
and sighed involuntarily
As luck would have it, Miss Squeers's friend
was of a playful turn, and hearing Nicholas sigh,
she took it into her head to rally the lovers on
their lowness of spirits.
“But if it's caused by my being here,” said
the young lady, “don’t mind me a bit, for I'm
quite as bad. You may go on just as you would
if you were alone.”
“'Tilda,” said Miss Squeers, colouring up to
the top row of curls, “I am ashamed of you ; ”
and here the two friends burst into a variety of
giggles, and glanced from time to time, over the
tops of their pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas,
who, from a state of unmixed astomishment,
gradually fell into one of irrepressible laughter
—occasioned partly by the bare notion of his
being in love with Miss Squeers, and partly by
the preposterous appearance and behaviour of
the two girls. These two causes of merriment,
taken together, struck him as being so keenly
ridicukous, that, despite his miserable condition,
he laughed till he was thoroughly exhausted.
“Well,” thought Nicholas, “as I am here,
and seem expected, for some reason or other,
to be amiable, it's of no use looking like a
goose. I may as well accommodate myself to
the company.”
We blush to tell it: but his youthful spirits
and vivacity getting, for the time, the better of
his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed this reso-
lution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the
56
AV/CHO/AS AW/CKZEAE Y.
friend with great gallantry, and, drawing a chair
to the tea-table, began to make himself more at
home than in all probability an usher has ever
done in his employer's house since ushers were
first invented.
The ladies were in the full delight of this altered
behaviour on the part of Mr. Nickleby, when
the expected swain arrived, with his hair very
damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt,
whereof the collar might have belonged to some
giant ancestor, forming, together with a white
waistcoat of similar dimensions, the chief orna-
ment of his person. -
“Well, John,” said Miss Matilda Price
(which, by-the-bye, was the name of the miller's
daughter).
“Weel,” said John with a grin that even the
collar could not conceal.
“I beg your pardon,” interposed Miss Squeers,
hastening to do the honours. “Mr. Nickleby
—Mr. John Browdie.”
“Servant, sir,” said John, who was something.
over six feet high, with a face and body rather
above the due proportion than below it.
“Yours to command, sir,” replied Nicholas,
making fearful ravages on the bread-and-butter.
Mr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great
conversational powers, so he grinned twice more,
and, having now bestowed his customary mark
of recognition on every person in company,
grinned at nothing particular, and helped him-
self to food.
“Old wooman awa', bean't she P” said Mr.
Browdie with his mouth full.
Miss Squeers nodded assent.
Mr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as
if he thought that really was something to laugh
at, and went to work at the bread-and-butter
with increased vigour. . It was quite a sight to
behold how he and Nicholas emptied the plate
between them.
“Ye wean't get bread-and-butther ev'ry neight,
I expect, mun,” said Mr. Browdie after he had
Sat.staring at Nicholas a long time over the
empty plate.
Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected .
not to hear the remark.
“ Ecod,” said Mr. Browdie, laughing boister-
ously, “they dean't put too much intiv'em.
Ye'll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop
here long eneaf. Ho! ho hol”
“You are facetious, sir,” said Nicholas scorn-
fully. ,
“Na; I'dean't know,” replied Mr. Browdie,
“but t'oother teacher, 'cod he wur a learn 'un,
he wur.” The recollection of the last teacher's
leanness seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the most
l
exquisite delight, for he laughed until he found
it necessary to apply his coat-cuffs to his eyes.
“I don't know whether your perceptions are
quite keen enough, Mr. Browdie, to enable you'
to understand that your remarks are offensive,”
said Nicholas in a towering passion, “but if they
are, have the goodness to jy -
“If you say another word, John,” shrieked
Miss Price, stopping her admirer's mouth as he
was about to interrupt, “only half a word, I'll
never forgive you, or speak to you again.” . .
“Weel, my lass, I dean't care aboot 'un,” said
- the corn-factor, bestowing a hearty kiss on Miss
Matilda ; “let 'un gang on, let 'un gang on.”
It now became Miss Squeers's turn to inter.
cede with Nicholas, which she did with many
symptoms of alarm and horror. The effect of
the double intercession was, that he and John
Browdie shook hands across the table with much
; gravity; and such was the imposing nature of
the ceremonial, that Miss Squeers was over-
come, and shed tears. * .
“What's the natter, Fanny?” said Miss Price.
“Nothing, 'Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers, sob-
bing. - .
“There never was any danger,” said Miss
Price, “was there, Mr. Nickleby P” . .
“None at all,” replied Nicholas. “Absurd."
“That's right,” whispered Miss Price; “say
something kind to her, and she'll soon come
round. Here ! Shall John and I go into the
little kitchen, and come back presently P”
“Not on any account,” rejoined Nicholas,
quite alarmed at the proposition. “What on
earth should you do that for P” .
“Well,” said Miss Price, beckoning him aside,
and speaking with some degree of contempt—
“you are a one to keep company.” -
“What do you mean P” said Nicholas. “I
am not a one to keep company at all—here at
all events. I can't make this out.” • *
“No, nor I neither,” rejoined Miss Price ;
“but men are always fickle, and always were,
and always will be; that I can make out very
easily.” -
“Fickle !” cried Nicholas; “what do you sup-
pose P. You don't mean to say that you
think——” -
“Oh no, I think nothing at all !” retorted
Miss Price pettishly. “Look at her, dressed
so beautiful, and looking so well—really almost
handsome. I am ashamed at you.” .
“My dear girl, what have I got to do with
her dressing beautifully or looking well?" in:
quired Nicholas. --
“Come, don't call me a dear girl,” said Miss
Price,—smiling a little, though, for she was
THE GREEMEYeo vowszer APPEARS.
pretty, and a coquette too in her small way, and
Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed
him.the property of somebody else, which were
all reasons why she should be gratified to think
she had made an impression on him, “or
Fanny will be saying it's my fault. Come;
we're going to have a game at cards.” Pro-
nouncing these last words aloud, she tripped
away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.
This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas,
who had no other distinct impression on his
mind at the moment than that Miss Squeers was
an ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss
Price a pretty one ; but he had not time to en-
lighten himself by reflection, for the hearth
being by this time swept up, and the candle
snuffed, they sat down to play speculation.
“There are only four of us, 'Tilda,” said Miss
Squeers, looking slily at Nicholas; “so we had
better go partners, two against two.” -
“What do you say, Mr. Nickleby P” inquired
Miss Price. - ... - •
“With all the pleasure in life,” replied
Nicholas. And so saying, quite unconscious of
his heinous offence, he amalgamated into one
common heap those portions of a Dotheboys
Hall card of terms which represented his own
counters, and those allotted to Miss Price, re-
spectively. - -
“Mr. Browdie,” said Miss Squeers hysteri-
cally, “shall we make a bank against them P "
The Yorkshireman assented — apparently
quite overwhelmed by the new usher's impu-
dence—and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful
look at her friend, and giggled convulsively.
The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand pros-
pered. *
“We intend to win everything,” said he.
“'Tilda has won something she didn't ex-
pect, I think, haven't you, dear?” said Miss
Squeers maliciously.
“Only a dozen and eight, love,” replied Miss
Price, affecting to take the question in a literal
SenSe. . . - -
“How dull you are to-night !” sneered Miss
Squeers. * *
“No, indeed,” replied Miss Price, “I am in
excellent spirits. I was thinking you seemed
out of sorts.”
“Me'” cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips,
and trembling with very jealousy. “Oh no ſ”
“That's well,” remarked Miss Price. “Your
air's coming out of curl, dear.”
“Never mind me,” tittered Miss Squeers;
“you had better attend to your partner.”
“Thank you for reminding her,” said Nicho-
las. “So she had.”
57
The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or
twice, with his clenched fist, as if to keep his
hand in till he had an opportunity of exercising
it upon the features of some other gentleman;
and Miss Squeers tossed her head with such
indignation, that the gust of wind raised by the
multitudinous curls in motion nearly blew the
candle out.
“I never had such luck, really,” exclaimed
coquettish Miss Price after another hand or
two. “It’s all along of you, Mr. Nickleby, I
think. I should like to have you for a partner
always.” ‘.
“I wish you had.”
“You’ll have a bad wife, though, if you
always win at cards,” said Miss Price.
“Not if your wish is gratified,” replied
Nicholas. “I am sure I shall have a good one
in that case.”
To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head,
and the corn-factor flattened his nose, while this
conversation was carrying on It would have
been worth a small annuity to have beheld that ;
let alone Miss Price's evident joy at making
them jealous, and Nicholas Nickleby's happy
unconsciousness of making anybody uncom-
fortable.
“We have all the talking to ourselves, it
seems,” said Nicholas, looking good-humouredly
round the table as he took up the cards for a
fresh deal. -
“You do it so well,” tittered Miss Squeers,
“that it would be a pity to interrupt, wouldn't
it, Mr. Browdie? He he he "
“Nay,” said Nicholas, “we do it in default
of having anybody else to talk to.” -
“We'll talk to you, you know, if you'll say
anything,” said Miss Price. -
“Thank you, 'Tilda dear,” retorted Miss
Squeers majestically.
“Or you can talk to each other, if you don't
choose to talk to us,” said Miss Price, rallying
her dear friend. “John, why don't you say
something?”
“Say summat?” repeated the Yorkshire-
-Illèln.
“Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.”
“Weel, then l’” said the Yorkshireman, strik-
ing the table heavily with his fist, “what I say's
this—Dang my boans and boddy if I stan' this
ony longer! Do ye gang whoam wi' me, and
do yon loight an' toight young whipster look
sharp out for a brokken head next time he cums
under my hond.” - •
“Mercy on us, what's all this P” cried Miss
Price in affected astonishment. e
“Cum whoam, tell 'ee, cum whoam,” replied
…
58 AVYCHIO EAS AV/CKZEB Y.
the Yorkshireman sternly. And, as he delivered
the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of
tears; arising in part from desperate vexation,
and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate
somebody's countenance with her fair finger-
nails. -
This state of things had been brought about
by divers means and workings, Miss Squeers
had brought it about by aspiring to the high
state and condition of being matrimonially en-
gaged, without good grounds for so doing;
Miss Price had brought it about by indulging in
three motives of action : first, a desire to punish
her friend for laying claim to a rivalship in
dignity, having no good title: secondly, the
gratification of her own vanity, in receiving the
compliments of a smart young man: and
thirdly, a wish to convince the corn-factor of the
great danger he ran in deferring the celebration
of their expected nuptials ; while Nicholas had
brought it about by half an hour's gaiety and
thoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to
avoid the imputation of inclining at all to Miss
Squeers. So the means employed, and the end
produced, were alike the most natural in the
world; for young ladies will look forward to
being married, and will jostle each other in
the race to the altar, and will avail themselves
of all opportunities of displaying their own
attractions to the best advantage, down to the
very end of time, as they have done from its
beginning. - - -
“Why, and here's Fanny in tears now !” ex-
claimed Miss Price, as if in fresh amazement.
“What can be the matter P”
“Oh you don't know, miss, of course you
don't know. Pray don't trouble yourself to
inquire,” said Miss Squeers, producing that
change of countenance which children call mak-
ing a face. •
“Well, I'm sure "exclaimed Miss Price.
“And who cares whether you are sure or not,
ma'am P” retorted Miss Squeers, making another
face.
“You are monstrous polite, ma'am,” said Miss
Price. - -
“I shall not come to you to take lessons in
the art, ma'am!" retorted Miss Squeers.
“You needn't take the trouble to make your-
self plainer than you are, ma'am, however,” re-
joined, Miss Price, “because that's quite un-
necessary.”
Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and
thanked God that she hadn't got the bold faces
of some people... Miss Price, in rejoinder, con-
gratulated herself upon not being possessed of
the chvious feeling of other people; whereupon
—m
Miss Squeers made some general remark touch,
ing the danger of associating with low persons;
in which Miss Price entirely coincided : observi
ing that it was very true indeed, and she had
thought so a long time.
“'Tilda,” exclaimed Miss Squeers with dig.
nity, “I hate you !” ... " .
“Ah ! There's no love lost between us, I
assure you,” said Miss Price, tying her bonnet
strings with a jerk. “You’ll cry your eyes out
when I'm gone; you know you will.” .
“I scorn your words, Minx,” said Miss
Squeers. . . .
“You pay me a great compliment when you
say so,” answered the miller's daughter, curtsy-
ing very low. “Wish you a very good night,
ma'am, and pleasant dreams attend your sleep !”
With this parting benediction, Miss Price
swept from the room, followed by the huge
Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas, at
parting, that peculiarly expressive scowl with
which the cut-and-thrust counts, in melodramatic
performances, inform each other they will meet
again. -
They were no sooner gone than Miss Squeers
fulfilled the prediction of her quondam friend
by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears,
and uttering various dismal lamentations and in-
coherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for
a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but
feeling uncertain whether the fit would end in
his being embraced, or scratched, and consider-
ing that either infliction would be equally agree-
able, he walked off very quietly while Miss
Squeers was moaning in her pocket-handker-
chief. - i -
“This is one consequence,” thought Nicholas
when he had groped his way to the dark sleep.
ing-room, “of my cursed readiness to adapt my
self to any society in which chance carries me.
If I had sat mute and motionless, as I might
have done, this would not have happened.”
He listened for a few minutes, but all was
quiet. - -
“I was glad," he murmured, “to grasp at
any relief from the sight of this dreadful place,
or the presence of its vile master. I have set
these people by the ears, and made two new
enemies, where, Heaven knows, I needed none.
Well, it is a just punishment for having forgotten,
even for an hour, what is around me now "
So saying, he felt his way among the throng
of weary-hearted sleepers, and crept into his
poor bed.
CHAPTER X.
HOW MR. RALPH NICKLEBY PROVIDED FOR HIS NIECE
AND SISTER-IN-LAW. .
§ N the second morning after the de-
\ parture of Nicholas for Yorkshire,
Yate Nickleby sat in a very faded
$2% chair raised upon a very dusty
throne in Miss La Creevy's room,
" giving that lady a sitting for the por:
trait upon which she was engaged; and
La Creevy had had the street-door case brought
up-stairs, in order that she might be the better
able to infuse into the counterfeit countenance
of Miss Nickleby a bright salmon flesh-tint
which she had originally hit upon while execut-
ing the miniature of a young officer therein
contained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint
was considered, by Miss La Creevy's chief
friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty in
art : as indeed it was. . . -
“I think I have caught it now,” said Miss
La Creevy. “The very shade This will be
the sweetest portrait I have ever done cer-
tainly.” - º
“It will be your genius that makes it so, then,
I am sure,” replied Kate, smiling.
“No, no, I won't allow that, my dear,” re-
joined Miss La Creevy.
subject—a very nice subject indeed—though, of
course, something depends upon the mode of
treatment,” -
“And not a little,” observed Kate. . . . .
“Why, my dear, you are right there,” said
Miss La Creevy, “in the main you are right
there; though I don't allow that it is of such
very great importance in the present case. Ah !
The difficulties of Art, my dear, are great.”
“They must be, I have no doubt,” said Kate,
humouring her good-natured little friend.
“They are beyond anything you can form
the faintest conception of,” replied Miss La
Creevy. “What with bringing out eyes with
all one's power, and keeping down noses with
all one's force, and adding to heads, and taking
away teeth altogether, you have no idea of the
trouble one little miniature is.”
“The remuneration can scarcely repay you,”
said Kate. -
“Why, it does not, and that's the truth,” an-
Swered Miss La Creevy; “and then people are
$9 dissatisfied and unreasonable, that, , nine
tithes out of ten, there's no pleasure in painting
them. Sometimes they say, ‘Oh, how very
Serious you have made me look, Miss La
RATE McKLEB Y SIZS FOR HER AORTRA/Z. - 59
towards the full perfection of which Miss
“It's a very nice.
Creevy ' and at others, ‘La, Miss La Creevy,
how very smirking !' when the very essence of
a good portrait is, that it must be either serious
or smirking, or it's no portrait at all.”
“Indeed!” said Kate, laughing.
“Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are
always either the one or the other,” replied Miss
La Creevy. “Look at the Royal Academy
All those beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen
in black velvet waistcoats, with their fists
doubled up on round tables, or marble slabs,
are serious, you know ; and all the ladies who
are playing with little parasols, or little dogs, or
little children—it's the same rule in art, only
varying the objects—are smirking. In fact,”
said Miss La Creevy, sinking her voice to a
confidential whisper, “there are only two styles
of portrait painting—the serious and the Smirk;
and we always use the serious for professional
people (except actors sometimes), and the Smirk
for private ladies and gentlemen who don't care
so much about looking clever.”
Kate seemed highly amused by this informa-
tion, and Miss La Creevy went on painting and
talking with immovable complacency.
“What a number of officers you seem to
paint t” said Kate, availing herself of a pause in
the discourse, and glancing round the room.
“Number of what, child P” inquired Miss La
Creevy, looking up from her work. “Character
portraits, oh yes! They're not real military
men, you know.” -
“ No | ".
“Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks
and that, who hire a uniform coat to be painted
in, and send it here in a carpet bag. Some
artists,” said Miss La Creevy, “keep a red coat,
and charge seven-and-sixpence extra for hire
and carmine ; but I don't do that myself, for I
don't consider it legitimate.”
Drawing herself up as though she plumed ner-
self greatly upon not resorting to these lures to
catch sitters, Miss La Creevy applied herself
more intently to her task : only raising her head
occasionally, to look with unspeakable satisfac.
tion at some touch she had just put in ; and
now and then giving Miss Nickleby to under-
stand what particular feature she was at work
upon at the moment; “not,” she expressly ob-
served, “that you should make it up for paint-
ing, my dear, but because it's our custom some-
times to tell sitters what part we are upon, in
order that, if there's any particular expression
they want introduced, they may throw it in at
the time, you know.”
“And when,” said Miss La Creevy after a
long silence, to wit, an interval of full a minute
*…



§o
ATCHOLAS WICKZEBY.
and a half, “when do vou expect to see your
uncle again P” -
“I scarcely know ; I had expected to have
seen him before now,” replied Kate. “Soon I
hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than
anything.”
“I suppose he has money, hasn't he P” in-
quired Miss La Creevy. -
“He is very rich, I have heard,” rejoined
Kate. “I don't know that he is, but I believe
so.” -
“Ah you may depend upon it he is, or he
wouldn't be so surly,” remarked Miss La Creevy,
who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness
and simplicity. “When a man's a bear, he is
generally pretty independent.”
“His manner is rough,” said Kate.
“Rough 1" cried Miss La Creevy, “a porcu-
pine's a feather bed to him I never met with
such a cross-grained old savage.”
“It is only his manner, I believe,” observed
Kate timidly; “he was disappointed in early
life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper
soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to
think ill of him until I knew he deserved it.”
“Well; that's very right and proper,” ob-
served the miniature painter, “and Heaven for-
bid that I should be the cause of your doing so I
But, now, mightn't he, without feeling it himself,
make you and your mamma some nice little
allowance that would keep you both comfort-
able until you were well married, and be a little
fortune to her afterwards 2 What would a hun-
dred a year, for instance, be to him P” -
“I don't know what it would be to him,” said
Kate with energy, “but it would be that to me
I would rather die than take,”
“Heyday !” cried Miss La Creevy.
“A dependence upon him,” said Kate,
“would embitter my whole life, I should feel
begging a far less degradation.”
“Well !” exclaimed Miss La Creevy. “This
of a relation whom you will not hear an indif.
ferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly
enough, I confess.”
“I dare say it does,” replied Kate, speaking
more gently ; “indeed, I am sure it must. I—
I—only mean that with the feelings and recol-
lection of better times upon me, I could not
bear to live on anybody's bounty—not his par-
ticularly, but anybody's.” -
Miss La Creevy looked slily at her com-
panion, as if she doubted whether Ralph him-
self were not the subject of dislike, but, seeing
that her young friend was distressed, made no
remark. -
“I only ask of him,” continued Kate, whose
.
tears fell while she spoke, “that he will move so
little out of his way, in my behalf, as to enable
me by his recommendation—only by his recom-
mendation—to earn, literally, my bread, and
remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever
taste happiness again depends upon the fortunes
of my dear brother; but if he will do this, and
Nicholas only tells us that he is well and cheer-
ful, I shall be contented.”
As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling
behind the screen which stood between her and
the door, and some person knocked at the
wainscot. - - - -
“Come in, whoever it is 1" cried Miss La
Creevy. - - -
The person complied, and, coming forward
at once, gave to view the form and features of
no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickleby
himself.
“Your servant, ladies,” said Ralph, looking
sharply at them by turns. “You were talking
so loud, that I was unable to make you hear.”
When the man of business had a more than
commonly vicious snarl lurking at his heart, he
had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under
their thick and protruding brows for an instant,
and then displaying them in their full keenness.
As he did so now, and tried to keep down the
smile which parted his thin compressed lips, and
puckered up the bad lines about his mouth, they
both felt certain that some part, if not the whole,
of their recent conversation had been overheard.
“I called in, on my way up-stairs, more than
half expecting to find you here,” said Ralph,
addressing his niece, and looking contemptu-
ously at the portrait. “Is that my niece's por-
trait, ma'am P”
“Yes, it is, Mr. Nickleby,” said Miss La
Creevy with a very sprightly air, “and, between
you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very
nice portrait too, though I say it who arm the
painter.” . . - -
“Don’t trouble yourself to show it to me,
ma'am,” cried Ralph, moving away, “I have no
eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished P” .
“Why, yes,” replied Miss La Creevy, con-
sidering, with the pencil end of her brush in her
mouth. 79
“Two sittings more will -
“Have them at once, ma'am,” said Ralph.
“She’ll have no time to idle over fooleries after
to-morrow. Work, ma'am, work; we must all
work. Have you let your lodgings, ma'am P”
“I have not put a bill up yet, sir." -
“Put it up at once, ma'am ; they won't want
the rooms after this week, or, if they do, can't
pay for them. Now, my dear, . if you're ready,
we'll lose no more time.” -
*—- ºx-
With an assumption of kindness which sat
worse upon him even than his usual manner,
Mr. Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young
lady to precede him, and, bowing gravely to
Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed,
up-stairs, where Mrs. Nickleby received him
with many expressions of regard. Stopping
them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand
with an impatient gesture, and proceeded to the
object of his visit. - ,--
“I have found a situation for your daughter,
ma'am,” said Ralph. -
“Well 1" replied Mrs. Nickleby. “Now, I
will say, that that is only just what I have ex-
pected of you. “Depend upon it,' I said to
Kate only yesterday morning at breakfast, ‘that
after your uncle has provided, in that most
ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us
until he has done at least the same for you.'
These were my very words, as near as I remember.
Kate, my dear, why don't you thank your
“Let me proceed, ma'am, pray,” said Ralph,
interrupting his sister-in-law in the full torrent
of her discourse. - --
“Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,” said
Mrs. Nickleby.
“I am most anxious that he should, mamma,”
rejoined Kate. -
“Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he
should, you had better allow your uncle to say
what he has to say without interruption,” ob-
served Mrs. Nickleby with many small nods and
frowns. “Your uncle's time is very valuable,
my dear: and, however desirous you may be—
and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affec-
tionate relations who have seen so little of your
uncle as we have must naturally be—to pro-
tract the pleasure of having him among us,
still, we are bound not to be selfish, but to take
into consideration the important nature of his
occupations in the City." - . -
“I am very much obliged to you, ma'am,”
said Ralph with a scarcely perceptible sneer.
“An absence of business habits in this family
leads, apparently, to a great waste of words
before business—when it does come under con-
sideration—is arrived at at all.”
“I fear it is so indeed,” replied Mrs. Nickleby
with a sigh. “Your poor brother—”
“My poor brother, ma'am,” interposed Ralph
tartly, “had no idea what business was—was
unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very
meaning of the word.”
“I fear he was,” said Mrs. Nickleby with her
handkerchief to her eyes. “If it hadn't been
for me, I don't know what would have become
of him.” "
mortals.
ATA TE PRO VI.D.E/D FOR. 6 I
What strange creatures we are The slight
bait so skilfully thrown out by Ralph, on their
first interview, was dangling on the hook yet.
At every small deprivation or discomfort which
presented itself in the course of the four-and-
twenty hours to remind her of her straitened
and altered circumstances, peevish visions of her
| dower of one thousand pounds had arisen before
Mrs. Nickleby's mind, until, at last, she had
come to persuade herself that of all her late
husband's creditors she was the worst used, and
the most to be pitied. And yet she had loved
him dearly for many years, and had no greater
share of selfishness than is the usual lot of
Such is the irritability of sudden
poverty. A decent annuity would have restored
her thoughts to their old train at once.
“Repining is of no use, ma'am,” said Ralph.
“Of all fruitless errands, sending a tear to look
after a day that is gºne is the most fruit-
less.” . . * - - *
“So it is,” sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. “So it is."
“As you feel so keenly, in your own purse
and person, the consequences of inattention to
business, ma'am,” said Ralph, “I am sure you
will impress upon your children the necessity of
attaching themselves to it early in life.”
“Of course I must see that,” rejoined Mrs.
- Nickleby. , “Sad experience, you know, brother-
in-law.—Kate, my dear, put that down in the
next letter to Nicholas, or rennind me to do it if
I write.”
Ralph paused for a few moments, and, seeing
that he had now made pretty sure of the mother,
in case the daughter objected to his proposition,
went on to say:
“The situation that I have made interest to
procure, ma'am, is with—with a milliner and
dressmaker, in short.” - .
“A milliner "cried Mrs. Nickleby.
“A milliner and dressmaker, ma'am,” replied
Ralph, “Dressmakers in London, as I need not
remind you, ma'am, who are so well acquainted
with all matters in the ordinary routine of life,
make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become
persons of great wealth and fortune.”
Now, the first ideas called up in Mrs. Nickle-
by's mind by the words milliner and dressmaker
were connected with certain wicker baskets lined
with black oil-skin, which she remembered to
have seen carried to and fro in the streets ; but,
as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and were
replaced by visions of large houses at the West-
end, neat private carriages, and a banker's book;
all of which images succeeded "each other with
such rapidity, that he had no sooner finished
speaking than she nodded her head and said.
*
62 NICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
“Very true,”
faction.
“What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my
dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “I recollect, when
your poor papa and I came to town after we
were married, that a young lady brought me
home a chip cottage bonnet, with white and
green trimming, and green persian lining, in her
own carriage, which drove up to the door full
gallop;-at least, I am not quite certain whether
with great appearance of satis-
it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot,
but I remember very well that the horse dropped
down dead as he was turning round, and that
your poor papa said he hadn't had any corn for
a fortnight.” - . .
This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the
opulence of milliners, was not received with any
great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as Kate
hung down her head while it was relating, and
Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms of
extreme impatience. . . -
“The lady's name,” said Ralph, nastily striking
in, “is Mantalini—Madame Mantalini. I know
her. She lives near Cavendish Square. If your
daughter is disposed to try after the situation,
I'll take her there directly.”
“Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my
love P” inquired Mrs. Nickleby.
“A great deal,” replied Kate ; “but not now.
I would rather speak to him when we are alone;
—it will save his time if I thank him, and
say what I wish to say to him, as we walk
along.” -
With these words Kate hurried away to hide
the traces of emotion that were stealing down
her face, and to prepare herself for the walk,
while Mrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law
by giving him, with many tears, a detailed
account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet
piano they had possessed in their days of
affluence, together with a minute description of
eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and
green chintz squabs to match the curtains, which
had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece, and
had gone at the sale for a mere nothing.
These reminiscences were at length cut short
by Kate's return in her walking dress, when
Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during
the whole time of her absence, lost no time, and
used very little ceremony, in descending into the
Street. - . -
“Now,” he said, taking her arm, “walk as
fast as you can, and you'll get into the step that
you'll have to walk to business with every morn-
ing.". So saying, he led Kate off, at a good
round pace, towards Cavendish Square.
“I am very much obliged to you, uncle,” said
f
the young lady after they had hurried on in
silence for some time; “very.” -
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Ralph.
you'll do your duty."
“I hope
“I will try to please, uncle,” replied. Kate:
“indeed I ??
“Don’t begin to cry,” growled Ralph ; “I
hate crying.” ~ - . . .
“It's very foolish I know, uncle,” began poor
Kate. - º -
“It is,” replied Ralph, stopping her short,
“and very affected besides. Let me see no
more of it.” -
Perhaps this was not the best way to dry th
tears of a young and sensitive female, about to
make her first entry on an entirely new scene
of life, among cold and uninteresting strangers ;
but it had its effect notwithstanding. Kate
coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few
moments, and then walked on with a firmer and
more determined step.
It was a curious contrast to see how the timid
country girl shrunk through the crowd that hur-
ricq up and down the streets, giving way to the
press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph,
as though she feared to lose him in the throng;
and how the stern and hard-featured man of
business went doggedly on, elbowing the pas-
sengers aside, and now and then exchanging a
gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance,
who turned to look back upon his pretty charge
with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed to
wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But,
it would have been a stranger contrast still to
have read the hearts that were beating side by
side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence of
the one, and the rugged villainy of the other;
to have hung upon the guileless thoughts of the
affectionate girl, and been amazed that, anong
all the wily plots and calculations of the old
man, there should not be one word or figure
denoting thought of death or of the grave. But
so it was ; and, stranger still—though this is a
thing of every day—the warm young heart pal-
pitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehen-
sions, while that of the old worldly man lay
rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of
cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb
of hope, or fear, or love, or care for any living
thing. * - -
“Uncle,” said Kate when she judged they
must be near their destination, “I must ask one
question of you. I am to live at home 2"
“At home 1” replied Ralph ; “where's that 2"
“I mean with my mother—the widow,” said
Kate emphatically. -
“You will live, to all intents and purposes,
Mr. MANZAZINrs WINNING WAYS 63
here,” rejoined Ralph ; “for here you will take
your meals, and here you will be from morning
till night—occasionally, perhaps, till morning
again.” . - Af
“But at night, I mean,” said Kate; “I cannot
leave her, uncle. . I must have some place that
I can call a home; it will be wherever she is,
you know, and may be a very humble one.”
“May be 1" said Ralph, walking faster, in
the impatience provoked by the remark; “must
be, you mean. May be a humble one ! Is the
girl mad?" . -
“The word slipped from my lips; I did not
mean it indeed,” urged Kate.
“I hope not,” said Ralph.
“But my question, uncle ;
answered it.” *
“Why, I anticipated something of the kind,”
said Ralph; “and—though I object very strongly,
mind—have provided against it. I spoke of
you as an out-of-door worker; so you will
go to this home that may be humble every
night.” -
There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth
many thanks for her uncle's consideration, which
Ralph, received as if he had deserved them all,
and they arrived without any further conversa-
tion at the dressmaker's door, which displayed a
you have not
very large plate, with Madame Mantalini's name
and occupation, and was approached by a hand-
some flight of steps. There was a shop to the
house, but it was let off to an importer of otto
of roses. Madame Mantalini's show-rooms were
on the first floor: a fact which was notified to
the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition,
near the handsomely-curtained windows, of two
or three elegant bonnets of the newest fashion,
and some costly garments in the most approved
taste. , f
A liveried footman opened the door, and, in
reply to Ralph's inquiry whether Madame Man-
talini was at home, ushered them, through a
handsome hall and up a spacious staircase, into
the show saloon, which comprised two spacious
drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety
of superb dresses and materials for dresses: some
arranged on stands, others laid carelessly on
Sofas, and others, again, scattered over the
carpet, hanging on the cheval-glasses, or
mingling, in some other way, with the rich fur-
niture of various descriptions which was pro-
fusely displayed.
They waited here a much longer time than
Was agreeable to Mr. Ralph Nickleby, who eyed
the gaudy frippery about him with very little
$oncern, and was at length about to pull the
bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped his
head into the room, and, seeing somebody there.
as suddenly popped it out again. - - -
“Here! Hollo 1" cried Ralph. “Who's
that P” -
At the sound of Ralph's voice, the head re-
appeared, and the mouth, displaying a very long
row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing tone
the words, “Demmit! - What, Nickleby Oh,
demmit !” Having uttered which ejaculations,
the gentleman advanced, and shook-hands with
Ralph with great warmth. He was dressed in a
gorgeous morning gown, with a waistcoat and
Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk
neckerchief, and bright green slippers, and had
a very copious watch-chain wound round his
body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a mous-
tache, both dyed black and gracefully curled.
“Demmit, you don't mean to say you want
me, do you, demmit P” said this gentleman,
smiting Ralph on the shoulder. -
“Not yet,” said Ralph sarcastically.
“Ha! haſ demmit,” cried the gentleman;
when, wheeling round to laugh with greater
elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby, who
was standing near. - -
“My niece,” said Ralph. -
“I remember,” said the gentleman, striking
his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger as a
chastening for his forgetfulness. “Demmit, I
remember what you come for. Step this way,
Nickleby. My dear, will you follow me? Ha!
ha! They all follow me, Nickleby; always did,
demmit, always.” -
Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagi-
nation after this fashion, the gentleman led the
way to a private sitting-room on the second
floor, scarcely less elegantly furnished than the
apartment below, where the presence of a silver
coffee-pot, an egg-shell, and sloppy china for
one, seemed to show that he had just break-
fasted. - - -
“Sit down, my dear,” said the gentleman:
first staring Miss Nickleby out of countenance,
and then grinning in delight at the achievement.
“This cursed high room takes one's breath away.
These infernal sky parlours—I'm afraid I must
move, Nickleby.”
“I would by all means,” replied Ralph, look-
ing bitterly round.
“What a demd run fellow you are, Nickleby "
said the gentleman ; “the demdest, longest-
headed, queerest-tempered old coiner of gold
and silver ever was—demnit !” -
Having complimented Ralph to this effect,
the gentleman rang the bell, and stared at Miss
Nickleby until it was answered, when he left
off to bid the man desire his mistress to come
64
AWICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
directly; after which he began again, and leſt
off no more until Madame Mantalini ap-
peared. - -
The dressmaker was a buxom person, hand-
somely dressed and rather good-looking, but
much older than the gentleman in the Turkish
trousers, whom she had wedded some six months
before. His name was originally Muntle; but
it had been converted, by an easy transition, into
Mantalini: the lady rightly considering that an
English appellation would be of serious injury to
the business. He had married on his whiskers;
upon which property he had previously sub-
sisted, in a genteel manner, for some years;
and which he had recently improved, after
patient cultivation, by the addition of a mous-
tache, which promised to secure him an easy
independence: his share in the labours of the
business being at present confined to spending
the money, and occasionally, when that ran
short, driving to Mr. Ralph Nickleby to procure
discount—at a per-centage—for the customers'
bills. -
“My life,” said Mr. Mantalini, “what a demd
devil of a time you have been 1" -
“I didn't even know Mr. Nickleby was here,
my love,” said Madame Mantalini.
“Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal
that footman must be, my soul | " remonstrated
Mr. Mantalini. -
“My dear,” said madame, “that is entirely
your fault.”
“My fault, my heart's joy P” -
“Certainly,” returned the lady; “what can
you expect, dearest, if you will not correct the
man P”
“Correct the man, my soul's delight !”
“Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to badly -
enough,” said madame, pouting.
“Then do not vex itself,” said Mr. Mantalini;
“he shall be horsewhipped till he cries out
demnebly.” With this promise Mr. Mantalini
kissed Madame Mantalini, and, after that per-
formance, Madame Mantalini pulled Mr. Man-
talini playfully by the ear: which done, they
descended to business.
“Now, ma'am,” said Ralph, who had looked
on at all this with such scorn as few men can
express in looks, “this is my niece.”
“Just so, Mr. Nickleby,” replied Madame
Mantalini, surveying Kate from head, to foot,
and back again.
child P” -
“Yes, ma'am,” replied Kate, not daring to
look up ; for she felt that the eyes of the odious
man in the dressing-gown were directed towards
her.
of speaking,” said his wife.
“Can you speak French,
“Like a demd native P” asked the husband.
Miss Nićkleby offered no reply to this in-
quiry, but turned her back upon the questioner,
as if addressing herself to make answer to what
his wife might demand. • º
“We keep twenty young women constantly
employed in the establishment,” said madame.
“Indeed, ma'am " replied Kate timidly.
“Yes; and some of 'em demd handsome.
too,” said the master. -
“Mantalini !” exclaimed his wiſe in an awful
voice. - -
“My senses' idol 1" said Mantalini.
“Do you wish to break my heart?”
“Not for twenty thousand hemispheres popu-
lated with—with—with little ballet-dancers,” re-
plied Mantalini in a poetical strain.
“Then you will if you persevere in that mode
“What can Mr.
Nickleby think when he hears you ?” . . .
“Oh Nothing, ma'am, nothing,” replied
Ralph. “I know his amiable nature, and yours
—mere little remarks that give a zest to your
daily intercourse—lovers' quarrels that add sweet-
ness to those domestic joys which promise to last
so long—that's all; that's all.”
If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel
with its hinges, and to make a firm resolution
to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to
powder in the process, it would emit a plea-
Santer sound in so doing than did these words
in the rough and bitter voice in which they were
uttered by Ralph. Even Mr. Mantalini felt their
influence, and, turning affrighted round, ex-
claimed: “What a demd horrid croaking !”
“You will pay no attention, if you please, to
what Mr. Mantalini says,” observed his wife,
addressing Miss Nickleby.
“I do not, ma'am,” said Kate with quiet
contempt. v
“Mr. Mantalini knows nothing whatever about
any of the young women,” continued madame,
looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate.
“If he has seen any of them, he must have seen
them in the street, going to, or returning from,
their work, and not here. He was never even
in the room. I do not allow it. What hours of
work have you been accustomed to ?”
“I have never yet been accustomed to work
at all, ma'am,” replied Kate in a low voice.
“For which reason she'll work all the better
now,” said Ralph, putting in a word, lest this
confession should injure the negotiation. . .
“I hope so,” returned Madame Mantalini;
“our hours are from nine to nine, with extra
work when we're very full of business, for which
I allow payment as overtime.”
KAZE IS Ewo.4GED B Y MADAME MAAVZAZ//VI. 6:
Kate bowed her head to intimate that she
heard, and was satisfied.
“Your meals," continued Madame Mantalini,
“that is, dinner and tea, you will take here. I
should think your wages would average from ||
five to seven shillings a week; but I can't give
you any certain information on that point until
I see what you can do.”
*
Kate bowed her head again.
“If you're ready to come," said Madame
Mantalini, “you had better begin on Monday
morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knag, the
forewoman, shall then have directions to try you
with some easy work at first. Is there anything
more, Mr. Nickleby ?” - t -
“Nothing more, ma'am," replied Ralph, rising.
“Then I believe that's all,” said the lady.
Having arrived at this natural conclusion, she
looked at the door, as if she wished to be gone,
but hesitated notwithstanding, as though un-
willing to leave Mr. Mantalini the sole honour
of showing them down-stairs.
her from her perplexity by taking his departure
without delay: Madame Mantalini making many
gracious inquiries why he never came to see
them ; and Mr. Mantalini anathematizing the
stairs with great volubility as he ſollowed them
down, in the hope of inducing Kate to look
round,-a hope, however, which was destined
to remain ungratified. . .
“There !” said Ralph when they got into the
street; “now you're provided for.”
Kate was about to thank him again, but he
stopped her.
“I had some idea,” he said, “of providing for
your mother in a pleasant part of the country—
(he had a presentation to some almshouses on
the borders of Cornwall, which had occurred to
him more than once)—but, as you want to be
together, I must do something else for her. She
has a little money P.”
“A very little," replied Kate.
“A little will go a long way if it's used
sparingly,” said Ralph. “She must see how
long she can make it last, living rent free. You
leave your lodgings on Saturday?"
“You told us to do so, uncle.”
“Yes; there is a house empty that belongs .
to me, which I can put you into till it is let,
and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I
shall have another. You must live there.”
“Is it far from here, sir?” inquired Kate.
“Pretty well,” said Ralph; “in another quarter
of the town—at the East-end ; but I'll send my
clerk down to you, at five o'clock on Saturday,
to take you there. Good-bye. You know your
Way? Straight on."
Ralph relieved
Sº
Coldly shaking his niece's hand, Ralph leſt
her at the top of Regent Street, and turned
down a by-thoroughfare, intent on schemes of
money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to their
lodgings in the Strand. .” -
CHAPTER XI.
Newman noGos INDUCTs MIRs. And Miss-NICKLEBY
INTO THEIR NEW DWELLING IN THE CITY.
ISS NICKLEBY'S reflections, as
she wended her way homewards,
were of that desponding nature
which the occurrences of the morn-
ſº § ing had been sufficiently calculated
sº } % awaken. Her uncle's was not a manner
Č. likely to dispel any doubts or apprehen-
** sidns she might have formed in the outset,
neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame
Mantalini's establishment by any means encou-
raging. It was with many gloomy forebodings
and misgivings, therefore, that she looked for-
ward, with a heavy heart, to the Ópening of her
In evy Career ... z.
If her mother's consolations could have re-
stored her to a pleasanter and more enviable
state of mind, there were abundance of them to
produce the effect. By the time Kate reached:
home, the good lady had called to mind two
authentic cases of milliners who had been pos-
sessed of considerable property, though whether
they had acquired it all in business, or had had
a capitºl to start with, or had been lucky and
married to advantage, she could not exactly
remember. However, as she very logically.re-
marked, there must have been some young
person in that way of business who had made a
fortune without having anything to begin with,
and that being taken for granted, why should
not Kate do the same? Miss La Creevy, who
was a member of the little council, ventured to
insinuate some doubts relative to the probability
of Miss Nickleby's arriving at this happy con-
summation in the compass of an ordinary life-
time; but the good lady set that question entirely
at rest by informing them that she had a pre-
sentiment on the subject—a species of second-
2
sight with which she had been in the habit of
clenching every argument with the deceased Mr.
Nickleby, and, in nine cases and three-quarters
out of every ten, determining it the wrong way.
“I am afraid it is an unhealthy occupation,"
said Miss La Creevy. “I recollect getting three
young milliners to sit to me when I first began


66 MICHOLAS WrcKLEBY,
to paint, and I remember that they were all very
pale and sickly,".
“Oh that s not a general rule by any means,”
observed Mrs. Nickleby; “for I, remember, as
well as if it was only yesterday, employing one
that I was particularly recommended to, to make
me a scarlet cloak at the time when scarlet cloaks
were fashionable, and she had a very red face—
a very red face indeed.”
“Perhaps she drank,” suggested Miss La
Creevy.
“I don't know how that may have been,”
returned Mrs. Nickleby; “but I know she had
a very red face, so your argument goes for
nothing.”
In this manner, and with like powerful rea-
soning, did the worthy matron meet every little
objection that presented itself to the new scheme
of the morning. Happy Mrs. Nickleby A pro-
ject had but to be new, and it came home to
her mind brightly varnished and gilded as a
glittering toy. &
This question disposed of, Kate communi-
cated her uncle's desire about the empty house,
to which Mrs. Nickleby assented with equal
readiness, characteristically remarking that, on
the fine evenings, it would be a pleasant amuse-
ment for her to walk to the West-end to fetch
her daughter home; and no less characteristi-
cally forgetting that there were such things as
wet nights and bad weather to be encountered
in almost every week of the year.
“H shall be sorry—truly sorry to leave you,
my kind friend,” said Kate, on whom the good
feeling of the poor miniature painter had made
a deep impression.
“You shall not shake me off, for all that,” º
replied Miss La Creevy with as much sprightli-
ness as she could assume. “I shall see you
very often, and come and hear how you get on ;
and if, in all London, or all the wide world
besides, there is no other heart that takes an
interest in your welfare, there will be one little
lonely woman that prays for it night and day.” .
With this, the poor soul, who had a heart big
enough for Gog, the guardian genius of London,
and enough to spare for Magog to boot, after
making a great many extraordinary faces which
would have secured her an ample fortune, could
she have transferred them to ivory or canvas,
sat down in a corner, and had what she termed
“a real good cry.”
But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing
could keep off the dreaded Saturday afternoon,
or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his
time, limped up to the door, and breathed a
whiff of cordial gin through the keyhole, exactly
as such of the church clocks in the neighbour-
hood as agreed among themselves about the
time struck five. Newman waited for the last
stroke, and then knocked.
“From Mr. Ralph Nickleby,” said Newman,
announcing his errand, when he got up-stairs.
with all possible brevity.
“We shall be ready directly,” said, Kate,
“We have not much to carry, but I fear we
must have a coach.” . , \
“I’ll get one,” replied Newman.
“Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,” saidº
Mrs. Nickleby.
“I will,” said Newman.
“I can't suffer you to think of such a thing,”
said Mrs. Nickleby.
“You can't help it,” said Newman.
“Not help it !”
“No ; I thought of it as I came along; but
didn't get one, thinking you mightn't be ready.
I think of a great many things. Nobody can
prevent that.”
“Oh yes, I understand you, Mr. Noggs . "
said Mrs. Nickleby. “Our thoughts are free, of
course. Everybody's thoughts are their own,
clearly.”
“They wouldn't be if some people had their
way,” muttered Newman. "
“Well, no more they would, Mr. Noggs, and
that's very true,” rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. “Some
people, to be sure, are such How's vour
master P”
Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate,
and replied, with a strong emphasis on the last
word of his answer, that Mr. Ralph Nickleby
was well, and sent his ſave. ,
“I am sure we are very much obliged to
him,” observed Mrs. Nickleby.
“Very,” said Newman. “I’ll tell him so.”
It was no very easy matter to mistake New-
man Noggs, after having once seen him, and as '
Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner
(in which, on this occasion, however, there was
something respectful and even delicate, notwith-
standing the abruptness of his speech), looked at
him more closely, she recollected having caught
a passing glimpse of that strange figure before.
“Excuse my curiosity,” she said, “but did I
not see you in the coach-yard on the morning
my brother went away to Yorkshire?”
Newman cast a wistſul glance on Mrs. Nickle-
by, and said “No” most unblushingly.
“No 1" exclaimed Kate “I should have said
so anywhere.”
“You’d have said wrong,” rejoined Newman.
“It's the first time I've been out for three weeks,
I've had the gout.”
MEWMAN AWOGGS E VINCES SOME-SENSIBILITY,
Newman was very, very ſar from having the
appearance of a gouty subject, and so Kate
could not help thinking; but the conference
was cut short by Mrs. Nickleby's insisting on
having the door shut, lest Mr. Noggs should
take cold, and further persisted in sending the -
servant-girl for a coach, for fear he should bring
on another attack of his disorder. To both con-
ditions Newman was compelled to yield. Pre-
sently, the coach came ; and, after many sor-
rowful farewells, and a great deal of running
backwards and forwards across the pāvement
on the part of Miss La Creevy, in the course of
which the yellow turban came into violent con-
tact with sundry foot-passengers, it (that is to
say, the coach, not the turban) went away again,
with the two ladies and their luggage inside;
and Newman, despite all Mrs. Nickleby's assur-
ances that it would be his death, on the box
beside the driver. ,
They went into the City, turning down by the
river-side; and, after a long and very slow drive,
the streets being crowded at that hour with
yehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a
large old dingy house in Thames Street: the
door and windows of which were so bespattered
with mud, that it would have appeared to have
been uninhabited for years.
The door of this deserted mansion Newman
opened with a key, which he took out of his hat
-in which, by-the-bye, in consequence of the
|
dilapidated state of his pockets, he deposited .
everything, and would most likely have carried
his money if he had had any—and the coach
being discharged, he led the way into the in-
terior of the mansion. ,
Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth, it was,
and sullen and dark were the rooms, once so
bustling with life and enterprise. There was a
wharf behind, opening on the Thames. An
empty dog kennel, some bones of animals, frag-
ments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks
lay strewn about, but no life was stirring there.
It was a picture of cold, silent decay.
“This house depresses and chills one,” said
Kate, “and seems as if some blight had fallen
9m it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost
inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had
been perpetrated within these old walls, and that
the place had never prospered since. How frown-
ing and how dark it looks l’”
" Lord, my dear,” replied Mrs. Nickleby,
don't talk in that way, or you'll frighten me to
death.”
“It is only my ſoolish fancy, mamma,” said
ate, forcing a smile.
“Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep
67
your foolish fancy to yourself, and not wake up
my foolish fancy to keep it company,” retorted
Mrs. Nickleby. “Why didn't you think of all
this before ?—you are, so careless—we might
have asked Miss La Creevy to keep us com-
pany, or borrowed a dog, or a thousand things
—but it always was the way, and was just the
same with your poor dear, father. Unless I
thought of everything ” This was Mrs.
Nickleby's usual commencement of a general
lamentation, running through, a dozen or so of
complicated sentences addressed to nobody in
particular, and into which she now launched
until her breath was exhausted.
Newman appeared not to hear these remarks,
but preceded them to a couple of rooms on the
first floor, which some kind of attempt had been.
made to render habitable. In one were a few
chairs, a table, an old hearth-rug, and some faded
baize; and a fire was ready laid in the grate.
In the other stood an old tent bedstead, and a
few scanty articles of chamber furniture.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby, trying
to be pleased, “now isn't this thoughtful and
considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not
have had anything but the bed we bought yes-
terday to lie down upon, if it hadn't been for his
thoughtfulness . "
> “Very kind indeed,” replied Kate, looking
round.
Newman Noggs did not say that he had
hunted up the old furniture they saw, from attic
and cellar; or that he had taken in the half-
penny-worth of milk for tea that stood upon a
shelf, or filled the rusty kettle on the hob, or
collected the wood-chips from the wharf, or
begged the coals. But the notion of Ralph
Nickleby having directed it to be done tickled
his fancy 'so much, that he could not refrain
from cracking all his ten fingers in succession:
at which performance Mrs. Nickleby was rather
startled at first, but, supposing it to be in some
remote manner connected with the gout, did
not remark upon.
“We need detain you no longer, I think,”
said Kate.
“Is there nothing I can do?” asked Newman.
“Nothing, thank you,” rejoined Miss Nickleby.
“Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Noggs would like to
drink our healths,” said Mrs. Nickleby, fumbling
in her reticule for some small coin.
“I think, mamma,” said Kate, hesitating and
remarking Newman's averted face, “you would
hurt his feelings if you offered it.”
Newman Noggs, bowing to the young lady
more like a gentleman than the miserable wretch
he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast,
68 * * wrchozas wickzeer
and, pausing for a moment with the air of a man
who struggles to speak, but is uncertain what to
say, quitted the room.
As the jarring echoes of the heavy house-door,
closing on its latch, reverberated dismally through
the building, Kate felt half tempted to call him
back, and beg him to remain a little while; but
she was ashamed to own her fears, and Newman
Noggs was on his road homewards.
CHAPTER XII.
WHEREBY THE READER WILL BE ENABLED TO TRACE
THE FURTHER COURSE OF MISS FANNY SQUEERS’s
LOVE, AND TO ASCERTAIN WHETHER IT RAN SMOOTH
OR OTHERWISE. : - t
T was a fortunate circumstance for Miss
Fanny Squeers that, when her worthy papa
returned home on the night of the small
|
tea-party, he was what the initiated term
“too far gone" to observe the numerous
tokens of extreme vexation of spirit which
were plainly visible in her countenance.
Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrel-
some mood in his cups, it is not impossible
...hat he might have fallen out with her, either
on this 1 or some imaginary topic, if the
young ilā; had not, with a foresight and
prudence highly commendable, kept a boy inp,
on purpose, to bear the first brunt of the good
gentleman's anger; which, having vented itself
\
“KATE WALKED SADLY BACK TO THEIR LoDoings IN THE STRANd.”
\
in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided suffi-
ciently to admit of his being persuaded to go to
bed. Which he did with his boots on, and an
umbrella under his arm. g
The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in
her own room, according to custom, to curl her
hair, perform the other little offices of her toilet,
and administer as much flattery as she could
get up for the purpose; for Miss Squeers was
quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain and
frivolous withal) to have been a fine lady 5 and
it was only the arbitrary distinctions of rank

MISS SQUEERS BECOMES RECONCILED TO CIAECUMSTANCES.
69
and station which prevented her from being
OIlê.
“How lovely your hair do curl to-night,
miss 1" said the handmaiden.” “I declare if it
isn't a pity and a shame to brush it out !”
“Hold your tongue !” replied Miss Squeers
wrathfully.
Some considerable experience prevented the
girl from being at all surprised at any outbreak
of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers.
Having a half-perception of what had occurred
in the course of the 'evening, she changed her
mode of making herself agreeable, and pro-
ceeded on the indirect tack.
“Well, I couldn't help saying, miss, if you
was to kill me for it,” said the attendant, “that
I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price
this night.” - -
Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself
to listen. . - -
“I know it's very wrong in me to say so,
miss,” continued the girl, delighted to see the
impression she was making, “Miss Price being
a friend of yourn, and all; but she do dress
herself out so, and go on in such a manner to
get noticed, that—oh –well, if people only saw
themselves 1" º -
“What do you mean, Phib P” asked Miss
Squeers, looking in her own little glass, where,
like most of us, she saw—not herself, but the
reflection of some pleasant, image in her own
brain. “How you talk 1"
“Talk, miss It's enough to make a tom-gat
talk French grammar, only to see how she tosses
her head,” replied the handmaid. ) . .
“She does toss her head,” observed Miss
Squeers with an air of abstraction. *
“So vain, and so very—very plain,” said the
girl. - - -
“Poor 'Tilda ( " ' sighed Miss Squeers com-
passionately. - *
“And always laying herself out so to get to
be admired,” pursued the servant. “Oh dear!
It's positive indelicate.”
“I can't allow you to talk in that way, Phib,”
said Miss Squeers. “”Tilda's friends are low
people, and, if she don't know any better, it's
their fault; and not hers.” .
“Well, but you know, miss,” said Phoebe, for
which flame “Phib" was used as a patronising
abbreviation, “if she was only to take copy
by a friend—oh if she only knew how wrong
she was, and would but set herself right by
you, what a nice young woman she might be in -
time !!!” . . -
“Phib," rejoined Miss Squeers with a stately
air, “it’s not proper for me to hear these com-
Nicholas NickLERY, 6. -
clasping her hands with great dignity.
parisons drawn; they make 'Tilda look a coarse
improper sort of person, and it seems unfriendly
in me to listen to them. I would rather you
dropped the subject, Phib; at the same time, I
must say that if 'Tilda Price would take pattern
by somebody—not me particularly—"
“Oh yes; you, miss : ” interposed Phib.
“Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,” said
Miss Squeers. “I must say that if she would,
she would be all the better for it.”
“So somebody else thinks, or I am much
mistaken,” said the girl mysteriously.
“What do you mean?" demanded i Miss -
Squeers. -
“Never mind, miss," replied the girl; “I
know what I know; that's ail."
“Phib,” said Miss Squeers dramatically, “I
insist upon your explaining yourself. ... What is
this dark mystery P Speak.” - -
“Why, if you will have it, miss, it's this,”
said the servant-girl. “Mr. John Browdie thinks
as you think; and, if he wasn't too far gone to
do it creditable, he'd be very glad to be off with
Miss Price, and on with Miss Squeers.”
“Gracious heavens !” exclaimed Miss Squeers,
“What
is this P” - . . .
“Truth, ma'am, and nothing but truth,” re-
plied the artful Phib.
“What a situation 1" cried Miss Squeers; “on
the brink of unconsciously destroying the peace
and happiness of my own 'Tilda. What is the
reason that men fall in love with me, whether I
like it or not, and desert their chosen intendeds
for my sake P” - -
“Because they can't help it, miss,” replied
the girl; “the reason's plain.” (If Miss Squeers
were the reason, it was very plain.)
“Never let me hear of it again,” retorted Miss
Squeers. “Never ! Do you hear? "Tilda Price
has faults—many faults—but I wish, her well,
and, above all, I wish her married ; for I think
it highly . desirable—most desirable from the
very nature of her failings—that she should be
married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let
her have Mr. Browdie. I may pity him, poor
fellow ; but I have a great regard for 'Tilda, and
only hope she may make a better wife than I
think she will.” -
With this effusion of feeling Miss Squeers
went to bed. - &
Spite is a little word; but it represents as
strange a jumble of feelings, and compound of
discords, as any polysyllable in the language.
Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts
that what the miserable serving-girl had said was
sheer, coarse, lying flattery as did the girl her-
\2 I 2.
to w/CHOIAS AICKZEB Y.
, Miss Squeers; “but I bear no malice.
self; yet the mere opportunity of venting a little
ill-fiature against the offending Miss Price, and
affecting to compassionate her weaknesses and
foibles, though only in the presence of a solitary
dependant, was almost as great a relief to her
spleen as if the whole had been gospel truth.
TNay, more. We have such extraordinary powers
of persuasion, when they are exerted over our-
selves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high-minded
and great after her noble renunciation of John
Browdie's hand, and looked down upon her rival
with a kind of holy calmness and tranquillity,
that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled
feelings. . * -
This happy state of mind had some influence
in bringing about a reconciliation; for, when a
knock came at the front-door next day, and the
miller's daughter was announced, Miss Squeers
betook herself to the parlour in a Christian frame
of spirit, perfectly beautiful to behold.
“Well, Fanny,” said the miller's daughter,
“you see I have come to see you, although we
had some words last night.”
“I pity your bad passions, 'Tilda,” replied
above it.” .
“Don’t be cross, Fanny,” said Miss Price.
“I have come to tell you something that I know
will please you.” : • *
“What may that be, 'Tilda P" demanded Miss
Squeers; screwing up her lips, and looking as if
nothing in earth, air, fire, or water could afford
her the slightest gleam of satisfaction.
“This,” rejoined Miss Price. “After we left
here last night John and I had a dreadful
quarrel.” - - •.
“That doesn't please me,” said Miss Squeers
-relaxing into a smile, though. •.
“Lor I wouldn't think so bad of you as
to suppose it did,” rejoined her companion.
“That's not it.” . is .
“Oh!” said Miss Squeers, relapsing into
melancholy. “Go on.”
“After a great deal of wrangling, and saying
we would never see each other any more,” con-
tinued Miss Price, “we made it up, and this
rnorning John went and wrote our names down
to be put up, for the first time, next Sunday, so
we shall be married in three weeks, and I give
you notice to get your frock made.”
There was mingled gall and honey in this
intelligence. The prospect of the friend's being
married so soon was the gall, and the cer-
tainty of her not entertaining serious designs
upon Nicholas was the honey. Upon the whole,
the sweet greatly preponderated over the bitter,
so Miss Squeers said she would get the frock
I am
- made, and that she hoped Tilda might be happy,
though at the same time she didn't know, and
would not have her build too much upon it fol
men were strange creatures, and a great many
married women were very miserable, and wished
themselves single again with all their hearts; to
which condolences Miss Squeers added others
equally calculated to raise her friend's spirits
and promote her cheerfulness of mind.
“But come now, Fanny,” said Miss Price, “I
want to have a word or two with you about
young Mr. Nickleby.” -
“He is nothing to me,” interrupted Miss
Squeers with hysterical symptoms. “I despise
him too much " . - -
“Oh, you don't mean that, I am sure l" re-
plied her friend. “Confess, Fanny; don't you
like him now P” . -
Without returning any direct reply, Miss
Squeers, all at once, fell into a paroxysm of
spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a
wretched, neglected, miserable castaway.
“I hate everybody,” said Miss Squeers,
“ and I wish that everybody was dead—that
I do.” . -
“Dear, dear !” said Miss Price, quite moved
by this avowal of misanthropical sentiments.
“You are not serious, I am sure.” s & -
“Yes, I am,” rejoined Miss Squeers, tying
tight knots in her pocket-handkerchief, and
clenching her teeth. “And I wish I was dead
too. There !” *
“Oh you'll think very differently in another
five minutes,” said Matilda. “How much better
to take him into favour again than to hurt your-
self by going on in that way ! Wouldn't it be
much nicer, now, to have him all to yourself on
good terms, in a company-keeping love-making,
pleasant sort of manner P” .
“I don't know but what it would,” sobbed
Miss Squeers. “Oh, 'Tilda how could you
have acted so mean and dishonourable? I
wouldn't have believed it of you, if anybody
had told me.” - - . . .
“Heyday !” exclaimed Miss Price, giggling.
“One would suppose I had been murdering
somebody at least.”
“Very nigh as bad,” said Miss Squeers pas.
Sionately. - ..
“And all this because I happen to have
enough of good looks to make people civil to
me,” cried Miss Price. “Persons don't make their
own faces, and it's no more my fault if mine is
a good one than it is other people's fault if theirs
is a bad one.” .
“Hold your tongue,” shrieked. Miss Squeers
in her shrillest tone; “or you'll make me slap
}. Tida, and afterwards I should be sorry
or it !” ... - - . .
s It is needless to say that, by this time, the
temper of each young lady was in some slight
degree affected by the tone of her conversation,
and that a dash-of personality was infused into
the altercation in consequence. Indeed, the
quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a con- |
siderable height, and was assuming a very vio-
lent complexion, when both parties, falling into
a great passion of tears, exclaimed simultane-
ously that they had never thought of being
Spoken to in that way: which exclamation, lead-
ing to a remonstrance, gradually brought on an
into each other's arms and vowed eternal friend.
ship; the occasion in question making the fifty-
Second time of repeating the same impressive
ceremony within a twelvemonth.
Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dia-
logue naturally ensued upon the number and
nature of the garments which would be indis-
pensable for Miss Price's entrance into the holy
state of matrimony, when Miss Squeers, clearly
showed that a great many more than the miller
could, or would, afford were absolutely neces-
sary, and could not decently be dispensed with.
The young lady then, by an easy digression, led
the discourse to her own ...: and, after
recounting its principal beauties at some length,
took her friend up-stairs to make inspection'
thereof. The treasures of two drawers and
a closet having been displayed, and all the .
smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss
Price to return home; and as she had been in
raptures with all the frocks, and had been stricken
quite dumb with admiration of a new pink scarf,
Miss Squeers said, in high good humour, that
she would walk part of the way with her, for
the pleasure of her company; and off they went ||
together: Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked
along, upon her father's accomplishments: and
multiplying his income by ten, to give her friend
some faint notion of the vast importance and
superiority of her family:
It happened that that particular time, .com-
prising the short daily interval which was suffered’
to elapse between what was pleasantly called the
dinner of Mr. Squeers's pupils, and their return
to the pursuit of useful knowledge, was precisely
the hour when Nicholas was accustomed to issue
forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as
he sauntered listlessly through the village, upon
his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this per-
fectly well, but had perhaps forgotten it, for,
when she caught sight of that young gentlè-
than advancing towards them, she evinced many
&planation: and the upshot was that they fell
MTSS SQUEERS IN A TENDER FRAME of ArtMD. 7 r
symptoms of surprise and consternation, and
assured her friend that she “felt fit to drop into
the earth.”
“Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage P”
asked Miss Price. “He don't see us yet.”
“No, "Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers, “it is my
duty to go through with it, and I will !”
As Miss Squeers said this in the-tone of one
who has made a high moral resolution, and was,
besides, taken with one or two chokes and catch-
ings of breath, indicative of feelings at a high
pressure, her friend made no further remark, and
they bore straight down upon Nicholas, who,
walking with his eyes bent upon the ground,
was not aware of their approach until they were
close upon him; otherwise he might, perhaps,
have taken shelter himself.
“Good morning,” said Nicholas, bowing and
passing by. -
“He is going,” murmured Miss Squeers. “I
shall choke, 'Tilda.” *
“Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do 1" cried Miss
Price, affecting alarm at her friend's threat, but
really actuated by a malicious wish to hear what
Nicholas would say; “come back, Mr. Nickleby "
Mr. Nickleby came back, and looked as con-
fused as might be, as he inquired whether the
ladies had afy commands for him. . -
“Don’t stop to talk,” urged Miss Price hastily;
“but support her on the other side. How do
you feel now, dear?” -
“Better,” sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver
bonnet, of a reddish brown, with a green veil
attached, on Mr. Nickleby's shoulder. “This
foolish faintness ''' - -
“Don’t call it foolish, dear,” said Miss Price:
her bright eye dancing with merriment as she
saw the perplexity of Nicholas; “you have no
reason to be ashamed of it. ‘It’s those who are
too proud to come round again without all this
‘to-do, that ought to be ashamed.” -
“You are resolved to fix it upon une, I See,”
said Nicholas, smiling, “although I. told you,
last night, it was not my fault.”
“There ! he says it was not his fault, my
dear,” remarked the wicked Miss Price. “Per-
haps you were too jealous, or too hasty with
him P. He says it was not his fault. You hear;
I think that's apology enough.”
“You will not understand me,” said Nicholas.
“Pray dispense with this jesting, for I have no
time, and really no inclination, to be the sub-
ject or promoter of mirth just now.”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss Price,
affecting amazement.) -
“Don’t ask him, 'Tilda,” cried Miss Squeers;
“I forgive him.”’ -
/
is w/CHOLAS WICKLERY.
a
* -
zy-
“Dear me !” said Nicholas as the brown
bonnet went down on his shoulder again, “this
is more serious than I supposed. Allow me !
Will you have the goodness to hear me speak P”
Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and,
regarding with most unfeigned astonishment a
look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers,
shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach
of the fair burden, and went on to say:
“I am very sorry—truly and sincerely sorry
—for having been the cause of any difference
among you last night. I reproach myself most
bitterly for having been so unfortunate as to
cause the dissension that occurred, although I
did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and heed-
lessly.” •
“Well; that's not all you have got to say,
surely P” exclaimed Miss Price as Nicholas
paused. - -
“I fear there is something more,” stammered
Nicholas with a half-smile, and looking towards
Miss Squeers; “it is a most awkward thing to
say—but—the very mention of such a supposi-
tion makes one look like a puppy—still—may I
ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any—
in short, does she think that I am in love with
her P” *
“Delightful embarrassment " thought Miss
Squeers, “I have brought him to it at last. An-
swer for me, dear,” she whispered to her friend.
“Does she think so P” rejoined Miss Price.
“Of course she does.” - -
“She does " exclaimed Nicholas with such
energy of utterance as might have been, for the
moment, mistaken for rapture.
“Certainly,” replied Miss Price.
“If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, 'Tilda,”
said the blushing Miss Squeers in soft accents,
“he may set his mind at rest.
are recipro » -
“Stop." cried Nicholas hurriedly; “pray
hear me. This is the grossest and wildest delu-
Sion, the completest and most signal mistake,
that ever human being laboured under, or com-
mitted. I have scarcely seen the young lady
half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty
times, or am destined to see her sixty thousand,
it would be, and will be, precisely the same. I
have not one thought, wish, or hope connected
with her, unless it be—and I say this, not to
hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the
real state of my own—unless it be the one
object, dear to my heart as life itself, of being
one day able to turn my back upon this accursed
place, never, to set foot in it again, or think of
it—even think of it—but with loathing and
disgust.” -
His sentiments
for this very obvious and intelligible reason.
With this particularly plain and straightſor
ward declaration, which he made with all the
vehemence that his indignant and excited feel.
ings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas,
waiting to hear no more, retreated. * -
But poor Miss Squeers | Her anger, rage,
and vexation ; the rapid succession of bitter
and passionate feelings that whirled through her
mind; are not to be described. Refused 1 re-
| fused by a teacher, picked up by advertisement,
at an annual salary of five pounds payable at
indefinite periods, and “found" in food and
ledging like the very boys themselves: and this,
too, in the presence of a little chit of a miller's
daughter of eighteen, who was going to be
married, in three weeks' time, to a man who
had gone down on his very knees to ask her
She could have choked in right good earnest at
the thought of being so humbled. -
But, there was one thing clear in the midst of
her mortification; and that was, that she hated
and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness
of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a de-
scendant of the house of Squeers. And there was
one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in
every day she could wound his pride, and goad
him with the infliction of some slight, or insult,
or deprivation, which could not but have some
effect on the most insensible person, and must
be acutely felt by one so sensitive as Nicholas.
With these two reflections uppermost in her
mind, Miss Squeers made the best of the matter
to her friend by observing that Mr. Nickleby .
was such an odd creature, and of such a violent
temper, that she feared she should be obliged
to give him up ; and parted from her.
And here it may be remarked that Miss
Squeers, having bestowed her affections (or
whatever it might be that, in the absence of
anything better, represented them) on Nicholas
Nickleby, had never once' seriously contem-
plated the possibility of his being of a different
ôpinion from herself in the business. Miss
Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and
beautiful, and that her father was master, and
Nicholas man, and that her father had saved
money, and Nicholas had none, all of which
seemed to her conclusive arguments why the
young man should feel only too much honoured
by her preference. She had not failed to recol-
lect, either, how much more agreeable she could
render his situation if she were his friend, and
low much more disagreeable if she were his
enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous
young gentlemen than Nicholas would have
encouraged her extravagance, had it been only
- -- --- ---
MISS SQUEERS IS AS GOOD AS HER WOAD.
73.
However, he had thought proper to do other-
wise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.
“Let him see,” said the irritated young lady
when she had regained her own room, and eased
her mind by committing an assault on Phib, “if
I don't set mother against him a little more
when she comes back " . -
* It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss
'Squeers was as good as her word; and poor
Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging,
and the being compelled to witness one dull
unvarying round of squalid misery, was treated
with every special indignity that malice could
suggest, or the most grasping Cupidity put upon
him. .
Nor was this all. There was another and
deeper system of annoyance which made his
heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its
injustice and cruelty.
The wretched creature, Smike, since the night
Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in the school-
room, had followed him to and fro, with an
ever-restless desire to serve or help him ; anti-
cipating such little wants as his humble ability
could supply, and content only to be near him.
He would sit beside him for hours, looking
patiently into his face; and a word would
brighten up his careworn visage, and call into it
a passing gleam even of happiness. He was an
altered being; he had an object now ; and that
object was to show his attachment to the only
person—that person a stranger—who had treated
him, not to say with kindness, but like a human
Creature. . -
Upon this poor being all the spleen and ill-
humour that could not be vented on Nicholas
were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would
have been nothing—Smike was well used to
that. Buffetings inflicted without cause would
have been equally a matter of course ; for to
them also he had served a long and weary
apprenticeship ; but it was no sooner observed
that he had become attached to Nicholas than
stripes and blows, stripes and blows, morning,
noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers
was jealous of the influence which his man had
so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and
Smike paid ſor both. Nicholas saw it, and
ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage
and cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for
the boys; and one night, as he paced up and
down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart
almost bursting to think that his protection and
countenance should have increased the misery
of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution
had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically
z
in a dark corner where sat the object of his
thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered
book, with the traces of recent tears still upon
his face; vainly endeavouring to master some
task which a child of nine years old, possessed
of ordinary powers, could have conquered with
ease, but which, to the addled brain of the
crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hope-
less mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently con-
ning the page again and again, stimulated by no
boyish ambition, for he was the common jest
and scoff even of the uncouth objects that con-
gregated about him, but inspired by the one
eager desire to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“I can't do it,” said the dejected creature,
looking up with bitter disappointment in every
feature. “No, no.”
“Do not try,” replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and, closing the
book with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and
laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
“Do not, for God's sake l’” said Nicholas in
an agitated voice : “I cannot bear to see you.”
“They are more hard with me than ever,”
sobbed the boy.
“I know it,” rejoined Nicholas. “They
are.”
“But for you,” said the outcast, “I should
die. They would kill me; they would : I know
they would." - . .
“You will do better, poor fellow,” replied
Nicholas, shaking his head mournfully, “when
I am gone.” -
“Gone !” cried the other, looking intently in
his face.
“Soſtly " rejoined Nicholas. “Yes.”
“Are you going P” demanded the boy in an
earnest whisper. -
“I cannot say,'
y
replied Nicholas. “I was
speaking more to my own thoughts than to
ou.”
“Tell me,” said the boy imploringly, “oh !
do tell me, will you go—will you ?”
“I shall be driven to that at last !” said
Nicholas. “The world is before me, after all.”
“Tell me,” urged Smike, “is the world as
bad and dismal as this place. ?”
“Heaven forbid " replied Nicholas, pursuing
the train of his own thoughts; “its hardest,
coarsest toil were happiness to this.”
“Should I ever meet you there 2" demanded
the boy, speaking with unusual wildness and
volubility.
“Yes,” replied
Nicholas, willing to soothe
him. - ...' -
74 - Archo/AS NICKLEB Y.
“No, no " said the other, clasping him by
the hand. “Should I—should I–tell me that
again. Say I should be sure to find you.”
“You would,” replied Nicholas with the same
humane intention, “and I would help and aid.
you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I
have done here.” - ." -
The boy caught both the young man's hands
passionately in his, and, hugging them to his
breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were
unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment,
and he shrunk back into his old corner.
CHAPTER XIII.
NICHOLAS VARIES THE MONoTony OF DOTHEboys
HALL BY A Most VIGORQUs AND REMARK a BLE
PROCEEDING, WHICH LEADS TO CONSEQUENCES or
SOME IMPORTANCE. -
§ morning was stealing in at the win-
dows of the common sleeping-room,
| when Nicholas, raising himself on his
20 arm, looked among the prostrate forms
§3) which on every side surrounded him, as
º though in search of some particular ob.
ŽP ject. / -
It needed a quick eye to detect, from among
the huddled mass of sleepers, the form of any
given individual. As they lay closely packed
together, covered, for warmth's sake, with their
patched and ragged clothes, little could be dis-
tinguished but the sharp outlines of pale faces,
over which the sombre light shed the same dull
heavy colour; with, here and there, a gaunt
arm thrust forth : its thinness hidden by no
covering, but fully exposed to view in all its
shrunken ugliness. There were some who,
lying on their backs with upturned faces and
clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light,
bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of
living creatures; and there were others coiled
up into strange and fantastic postures, such as
might have been taken for the uneasy efforts of
pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than
the freaks of slumber. A few—and these were
among the youngest of the children — slept
peacefully on, with Smiles upon their faces,
dreaming, perhaps, of home ; but ever and
again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the still-
ness of the room, announced that some new
sleeper had awakened to the misery of another
day; and, as morning took the place of night,
the smiles gradually faded away with the friendly
darkness which had given them birth.
Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and
legend, who sport on earth in the night season,
and melt away in the first beam of the sun,
which lights grim care and stern reality on their
daily pilgrimage through the world. . . .
Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first,
with the air of one who gazes upon a scene -
which, though familiar to him, has lost none of
its sorrowful effect in consequence; and, after-
wards, with a more intense and searching.
scrutiny, as a man would who missed some-
thing his eye was accustomed to meet, and had
expected to rest upon. He was still occupied
in this search, and had half risen from his bed
in the eagerness of his quest, when the voice of
Squeers was heard calling from the bottom of
the stairs. - -
“Now then,” cried that gentleman, “are you
going to sleep all day up there 19 -
“You lazy hounds P” added Mrs. Squeers,
finishing the sentence, and producing, at the
same time, a sharp sound, like that which is
occasioned by the lacing of stays.
“We shall be down directly, sir,” replied
Nicholas. . -
“Down directly " said Squeers. “Ah! you
had better be down directly, or I'll be down
upon some of you in less. Where's that
Smike P” - -
Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but
made no answer. -
“Smike : " shouted Squeers.
“Do you want your head broke in a fresh
place, Smike P” demanded his amiable lady in
the same key.
Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas
stared about him, as did the greater part of the
boys, who were by this time roused.
“Confound his impudence " muttered
Squeers, rapping the stair-rail impatiently with
his cane. “Nickleby ”
“Well, sir!” -
“Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't
you hear me calling P” -
“He is not here, sir,” replied Nicholas.
“Don't tell me a lie,” retorted the school-
master. “He is.” - . . . .
“He is not,” retorted Nicholas angrily; “don’t
tell me one.”
“We shall soon see that,” said Mr. Squeers,
rushing up-stairs. “I’ll find him, I warrant
you.” - . *
With which assurance Mr. Squeers bounced.
into the dormitory, and, swinging his cane in
the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner
where the lean body of the drudge was usually
stretched at night. The cane descended harm".



TIME FOR SMIKE TO BE VERY WIDE A WAKE.
75
lessly tupon the ground. There was nobody
there. • , “. .
“What does this mean P” said Squeers, turn-
ing round with a very pale face. “Where have
you hid him P”
“I have seen nothing of him since last night,”
replied Nicholas. , -
“Come,” said Squeers, evidently frightened,
though he endeavoured to look otherwise, “you
won't save him this way. Where is he P”
“At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught
I know,” rejoined Nicholas in a low voice, and
fixing his eyes full on the master's face.
* “D—n you, what do you mean by that P”
retorted Squeers in great perturbation. Without
waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys
whether any one among them knew anything of
their missing schoolmate.
There was a general hum of anxious denial,
in the midst of which one shrill voice was heard
to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):.
“Please, sir, I think Smike's run away,
sir." - -
“Ha!" cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
“Who said that P”
“Tomkins, please, sir," rejoined a chorus of
voices. Mr. Squeers made a plunge into the
crowd, and at one dive caught a very little boy,
habited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed
expression of whose countenance, as he was
brought forward, seemed to intimate that he was
as yet uncertain whether he was about to be
punished or rewarded for the suggestion. He
was not long in doubt. -
“You think he has run away, do you, sir?”
demanded Squeers.
“Yes, please, sir,” replied the little boy.
“And what, sir," said Squeers, catching the
little boy suddenly by the arms, and whisking
up his drapery in a-most dexterous manner,
“what reason have you to suppose that any boy
would want to run away from this establishment?
Eh, sir?” -
The child raised a dismal cry by way of
answer, and Mr. Squeers, throwing himself into
the most favoural.e attitude for exercising his
strength, beat him until the little urchin in his
writhings actually rolled out of his hands, when
he mercifully allowed him to roll away as he
best could. - -
“There !” said Squeers. “Now, if any other
boy thinks Smike has run away, I shall be glad
to have a talk with him.”
There was, of course, a profound silence, during
which Nicholas showed his disgust as plainly as
looks could show it. -
“Well, Nickleby " said Squeers, eyeing him
maliciously. “You think he has run away, I
suppose.P.” * . -
“I think it extremely likely,” replied Nicholas
in a quiet manner. -
“Oh you do, do you?” sneered Squeers.
“Maybe you know he has P." -
“I know nothing of the kind.” -
“He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose,
did he P” sneered Squeers. '
“He did not,” replied Nicholas; “I am very
glad he did not, for it would then have been my
duty to have warned you in time.”
“Which no doubt you would have been
devilish sorry to do,” said Squeers in a taunting
fashion. -
“I should indeed,” replied Nicholas. “You
interpret my feelings with great accuracy.”
Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation
from the bottom of the stairs; but, now losing
all patience, she hastily assumed her night-
jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.
“What's all this here to-do P” said the lady
as the boys fell off right and left, to save her the
trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny
arms. “What on earth are you a talking to him
for, Squeery P” -
“Why, my dear,” said Squeers, “the fact is
that Smike is not to be found.” -
, “Well,' I know that,” said the lady; “and
where's the wonder P : If you get a parcel of
proud-stomached teachers, that set the young
dogs a rebelling, what else can you look for 2
Now, young man, you just have the kindness
to take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take
the beys off with you, and don't you stir out of
there till you have leave given you, or you and
I may fall out in a way that'll spoil your beauty,
handsome as you think yourself, and so I tell
you.”
“Indeed : " said Nicholas. * *
“Yes; and indeed and indeed again, IMister
Jackanapes,” said the excited lady: “ and I
wouldn't keep such as you in the house another
hour, if I had my way.”
“Nor would you if I had mine,” replied
Nicholas, “Now, boys "
“Ah ! Now, boys ' " said Mrs. Squeers,
mimicking, as nearly as she could, the voice
and manner of the usher. “Follow your leader,
boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare.
See what he'll get for himself when he is brought
back; and, mind I tell you that you shall have
as bad, and twice as bad, if you so much as
open your mouths about him.”
“If I catch him,” said Squeers, “I’ll only
stop short of flaying him alive. I give you
notice, boys.”
i
76 •. NYCHOLAS MICKZEB Y.
“If you catch him 1" retorted Mrs. Squeers
“You are sure to ; you can't
contemptuously.
help it, if you go the right way to work. Come !
Away with you !” -
With these words Mrs. Squeers dismissed the
boys, and after a little light skirmishing with
those in the rear who were pressing forward to
get out of the way, but were detained for a few
moments by the throng in front, succeeded in
clearing the room, when she confronted her
spouse alone. -
“He is off,” said Mrs. Squeers. “The cow-
house and stable are locked up, so he can't be
there ; and he's not down-stairs anywhere, for
the girl has looked. He must have gone York
way, and by a public road too.” -
“Why must he?” inquired Squeers.
“Stupid ' " said Mrs. Squeers angrily.
hadn't any money, had he P”
“Never had a penny of his own in his whole
life, that I know of,” replied Squeers.
“To be sure,” rejoined Mrs. Squeers, “and
he didn't take anything to eat with him ; that
I'll answer for. Ha! haſ ha . "
“Ha! haſ hal" laughed Squeers. -
“Then, of course,” said Mrs. S., “he must
beg his way, and he could do that nowhere but
on the public road.” - - -
“That's true !” exclaimed Squeers, clapping
his hands. -
“True ! Yes; but you would never have
thought of it, for all that, if I hadn't said so,”
replied his wife. “Now, if you take the chaise
and go one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise,
and go the other, what with keeping our eyes
open, and asking questions, one or other of us
is pretty certain to lay hold of him.” -
The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put
in execution without a moment's delay. After
a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of
some inquiries in the village, the result of which
seemed to show that he was on the right track,
'Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent
upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly after-
wards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the white
top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and
handkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise
and another direction, taking with her a good-
sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong
cord, and a stout labouring man : .all provided
and carried upon the expedition with the sole
object of assisting in the capture, and (once
caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfor-
tunate Smike. © -
Nicholas remained behind in a tumult of
feeling, sensible that, whatever might be the
upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful.
“He [
Come !
*-
and deplorable consequences were likely to
ensue from it. Death, from want and exposure
to the weather, was the best that could be ex-
pected from the protracted wandering of so
poor and helpless a creature, alone and un-
friended, through a country of which he was
wholly ignorant. . There was little, perhaps, to
choose between this fate, and a return to the
tender mercies of the Yorkshire school; but the
unhappy being had established a hold upon
his sympathy and compassion, which made his
heart 'ache at the prospect of the suffering he
was destined to undergo. He lingered dm in
restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibili-
ties, until the evening of next day, when
Squeers returned, alone and unsuccessful.
“No news of the scamp !” said the school-
master, who had evidently been stretching his
legs, on the old principle, not a few times
during the journey. “I’ll have consolation for
this out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs. Squeers
don't hunt him down; so I give you warning.”
“It is not in my power to console you, sir,”
said Nicholas. “It is nothing to me.”
“Isn't it?” said Squeers in a threatening
manner. “We shall see " ' . . .
“We shall,” rejoined Nicholas. -
“Here's the pony run right off his legs, an
me obliged to come home with a hack cob,
that'll cost fifteen shillings, besides other ex-
penses,” said Squeers. “Who's to pay for that,
do you hear?” -
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained
silent. - -
“I’ll have it out of somebody, k tell you,”
said Squeers, his usual harsh crafty manner
changed to open bullying. “None of your
whining vapourings here, Mr. Puppy, but be
off to your kennel, for it's past your bedtime !
Get out !” w
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands invo.
luntarily, for his finger-ends tingled to avenge
the insult; but remenbering that the man was
drunk, and that it could come to little but a
noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a
contemptuous look at the tyrant, and walked, as
majestically as he could, up-stairs ; not a little
nettled, however, to observe that Miss Squeers
and Master Squeers, and the servant-girl, were
enjoying the scene from a snug corner; the two
former indulging in many edifying remarks
about the presumption of poor upstarts, which
occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even
the most miserable of all miserable servant-girls
joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick,
drew over his head such bedclothes as he had,
and sternly resolved that the outstanding tº
*.
-º
SMIKE IN Extrendry.
77
count between himself and Mr. Squeers should
be settled rather more speedily than the latter
anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely
awake when he heard the wheels of a chaise
approaching the house. It stopped. The voice
of Mrs. Squeers was heard, and in exultation,
ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which
was in itself a sufficient sign that something
extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly
dared to look out of the window; but he did so,
and the very first object that met his eyes was
the wretched Smike: so bedabbled with mud
and rain, so haggard, and worn, and wild, that
but for his garments being such as no scafe-
crow was ever seen to wear, he might have
been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
“Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had
literally feasted his eyes, in 'silence, upon the
| ?? i
culprit. “Bring him in ; bring him in
“Take care,” cried Mrs. Squeers, as her hus-
band proffered his assistance. “We tied his
legs under the apron, and made 'em fast to the
chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.”
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers
unloosened the cord: and Smike, to all appear-
ance more dead than alive, was brought into
the house, and securely locked up in a cellar
until such time as Mr. Squeers should deem it
expedient to operate upon him, in presence of
the assembled school. - -
Upon a hasty consideration of the circum-
stances, it may be matter of surprise to some
persons that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have
taken so much trouble to repossess .nemselves
of an encumbrance of which it was their wont
to complain, so loudly; but their surprise will
cease when they are informed that the manifold
services of the drudge, if performed by anybody
else, would have cost the establishment some
ten or twelve shillings per week in the shape of
wages; and furthermore, that all runaways were,
as a matter of policy, made severe examples of
at Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in conse-
quence of the limited extent its attractions,
there was but little inducement, beyond the
powerful impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided
with the usual number of legs and the power
of using them, to remain.
\,
S.
The (news that Smike had been caught, and
brought back in triumph, ran like wild-fire.
through the hungry community, and expecta-
tion was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe
it was destined to remain, however, until after.
noon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself
with his dinner, and further strengthened himself
by an extra libation or so, made his appearance
(accompanied by his -amiable partner) with a
countenance of portentous import, and a fearful
instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-
ended, and new—in short, purchased that
morning, expressly for the occasion.
“Is every boy here P” asked Squeers in a tre-
mendous voice. .
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid
to speak ; so Squeers glared along the lines to
assure himself; and every eye drooped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.
“Each boy keep his place,” said Squeers,
administering his favourite blow to the desk,
and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the uni-
versal start which it never failed to occasion.
“Nickleby to your desk, sir.”
It was remarked, by more than one small
observer, that there was a very curious and
unusual expression in the usher's face; but he
took his seat without opening his lips in reply.
Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his
assistant, and a look of most comprehensive
despotism, on the boys, left the room, and
shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by
the collar—or rather, by that fragment of his
jacket which was nearest the place where his
collar would have been, had he boasted such a
decoration.. --
In any other place the appearance of the
wretched, jaded, spiritless object would have
occasioned a murmur of compassion and re-
monstrance. It had some effect even there ;
for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats;
and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks
at each other, expressive of indignation and
pity. -
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose
gaze was ſastened on the luckless Smike, as he
inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.
“Nothing, I suppose P” said Squeers with a
diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for
an instant, on Nicholas, as if he had expected
him to intercede; but his look was riveted on
his desk.
“Have you anything to say P” demanded
Squeers again : giving his right arm two or three
flourishes to try its power and suppleness,
“Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers,
my dear; I've hardly got room enough.”
“Spare me, sir!” cried Smike.
“Oh that's all, is it?” said Squeers. “Yes,
* I'll flog you within, an inch of your life, and
spare you that.” ~
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Squeers, “that's
a good'un " -
\
78
“I was driven to do it,” said Smike faintly;
and casting another imploring look about him.
“Driven to do it, were you ?” said Squeers.
“Oh 1. it wasn't your fault; it was mine, I sub-
pose—eh P” - - p
“A masty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish,
obstinate, sneaking dog ' " exclaimed Mrs.
Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm,
and administering a cuff at every epithet;
“what does he mean by that?” -
“Stand aside, my dear,” replied Squeers.
“We'll try and find out.”
Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her
exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy
firmly in his grip ; one desperate cut had fallen
on his body—he was wincing from the lash,
and uttering a scream of pain—it was raised
again, and again about to fall—when Nicholas
Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried “Stop 1"
in a voice that made the raſters ring. -
“Who cried stop 2" said Squeers, turning
Savagely round. - * - -
“I,” said Nicholas, stepping forward. “This
must not go on.” - -
“Must not go on " cried Squeers almost in
a shriek. - - . . . . .
“No ” thundered Nicholas. : -
Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the
interference, Squeers released his hold of
Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed
upon Nicholas with looks that were positively
frightful. - -
“I say must not,” repeated Nicholas, nothing
daunted; “shall not I will prevent it.” .
Squeers continued to gaze upon him with his
eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment
had actually, for the moment, bereft him of
speech. -
“You have disregarded all my quiet inter
ſerence in the miserable lad's behalf,” said
Nicholas; “you have returned no answer to
the letter in which I begged forgiveness for
him, and offered to be responsible that he
would remain quietly here. Don't blame me
for this public interference. You have brought
it upon yourself; not I.” •
“Sit down, beggar " " screamed Squeers,
almost beside himself with rage, and seizing
Smike as he spoke. - - -
“Wretch,” rejoined Nicholas fiercely, “touch
him at your peril I will not stand by and see it
done. My blood is up, and I have the strength
of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for,
by Heaven, I will not spare you if you drive me
On 1 ''
“Stand back 1" cried Squeers, brandishing
". . .”
NICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
r–
“I have a long series of insults to ayenge,”
said Nicholas, flushed with passion; “and my
indignation is aggravated by the dastardly
cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this
foul den. Have a care, for, if you do raise the
devil within me, the consequences shall fall
heavily upon your own head : " .
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a
violent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry like
the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and
struck him a blow across the face with his
"instrument of torture, which raised up a bar
of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with
the agony of the blow, and concentratings into
that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn,
and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him,
wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning
him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared
for mercy. . . . . ... '
The boys — with the exception of Master
Squeers, who, coming to his father's assistance,
harassed the enemy in the rear—moved not,
hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many
shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her part-
ner's coat, and endeavoured to drag him from
his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers,
who had been peeping through, the keyhole in
expectation of a very different scene, darted in
at the very beginning of the attack, and, after
launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's
head, beat. Nicholas to her heart's content;
animating herself, at every blow, with the recol-
lection of his having refused her proffered love,
and thus imparting an additional strength to an
arm which (as she took after her mother in this
respect) was; at no time, one of the weakest.
... Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence,
felt the blows no more than if they had been
dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the
noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew
weak besides, he threw all his remaining
strength into half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and
flung Squeers from him with all the force he
could fnuster. The violence of his fall precipi-
tated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent
form; and Squeers, striking his head against it
in his descent, lay at his full length on the
ground, stunned and motionless. -
Having brought affairs to this happy termina-
tion, and ascertained, to his thorough satisfac.
tion, that Squeers was only stunned, and not
dead (upon which point he had had some un-
pleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family
to restore him, and retired' to consider what
course, he had better adopt. . He looked
anxiously round for Smike as he left the room,
his weapon.
& -
but he was nowhere to be seen.
MR. JOHN BRO WDIE AND NICHOLAS MEET AGAIN. 79
After a brief consideration, he, packcd up a
few clothes in a small leathern valise, and, find-
ing that nobody offered to oppose his progress,
marched boldly out by the front-door, and
shortly afterwards struck into the road which led
to Greta Bridge. -
When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled
to give his present circumstances some little
reflection, they did not appear in a very en-
couraging light; he had only four shillings and
a few pence in his pocket, and was something
more than two hundred and fifty miles from
London, whither he resolved to direct his steps,
that he might ascertain, among other things,
what account of the morning's proceedings Mr.
Squeers transmitted to his most affectionate
uncle.
• Lifting up his eyes as he arrived at the con-
clusion that there was no remedy for this unfor-
tunate state of things, he beheld a horseman
coming towards him, whom, on nearer approach,
he discovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no
other than, Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in
cords and leather leggings, was urging his
animal forward by means of a thick ash stick,
which "seemed to have been recently cut from
Some stout sapling. . . . . . . . .
“I am in no mood for more noise and riot,”
thought Nicholas, “and yet, do what I will, I shall.
have an altercation with this honest blockhead,
and perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.”
In truth, there appeared some reason to ex-
pect that such a result would follow from the
encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw
Nicholas advancing than he reined in his horse
by the footpath, and waited until such time as
he should come up; looking, meanwhile, very
sternly between the horse's ears, at Nicholas as
he came on at his leisure. -
“Servant, young genelman,” said John.
“Yours,” said Nicholas., -
“Weel; we ha' met at last,” observed John,
making the stirrup ring under a smart touch of
the ash stick. - **
“Yes,” replied Nicholas, hesitating. “Come!”
he said frankly after a moment's pause, “we
parted on no very good terms the last time we
met; it was my fault, I believe; but I had no
intention of offending you, and no idea that I
was doing so. I was very sorry ſor it afterwards.
Will you shake hands P” . -
“Shake, honds !” cried the good-humoured
Yorkshireman ; “ah ! ... that I weel;” at the
same time he bent down from the saddle, and
gave Nicholas's fist a huge wrench. “But wa'at
be the matther wi' thy feace, mun P it be all
brokken loike.”
2
heartily.
“It is a cut,” said Nicholas, turning scarlet
as he spoke, -“a blow ; but I returned it to the
giver, and with good interest too.”
“Noa, did 'ee, though P” exclaimed John
Browdie. “Well deane : I loike 'un for
thot.” -
“The fact is,” said Nicholas, not very well
knowing how to make the avowal, “the fact is
that I have been ill treated.”
“Noa 1" interposed John Browdie in a tone
of compassion; for he was a giant in strength
and stature, and Nicholas very likely, in his
eyes, seemed a mere dwarf; “dean't say thot.”
“Yes, I have,” replied Nicholas, “by that
man Squeers, and I have beaten him soundly,
and am leaving this place in consequence.”
“What " cried John Browdie with such an
ecstatic shout, that the horse quite shied at it.
“Beatten the schoolmeasther Ho ; ho ho
Beatten the schoolmeasther | Who ever heard
o' the loike o' that, noo? Giv' us thee hond
agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther
Dang it, I loov’ thee for 't.”
With these expressions of delight, John
Browdie laughed and laughed again—so loud
that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing
but jovial peals of merriment — and shook
Nicholas by the hand, meanwhile, no less
When his mirth had subsided, he
inquired what Nicholas meant to do; on his
informihg him, to go straight to London, he
shook his head doubtfully, and inquired if he
knew how much the coaches charged to carry
passengers so far. -
“No, I do not,” said Nicholas ; “but it is
of no great consequence to me, for I intend
walking.” -
“Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!” cried John
in amazement.
“Every step of the way,” replied Nicholas.
“I should be many steps further on by this time,
and so good-bye!” -
“Nay, noo,” replied the honest countryman,
reining in his impatient horse, “stan' still, tell
'ee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten ?”
“Not much,” said Nicholas, colouring, “but
I can make it enough. Where there's a will
there's a way, you know.” -
John Browdie made no verbal answer to this
remark, but, putting his hand in his pocket,
pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and
insisted that Nicholas should borrow from him
whatever he required for his present necessities.
“Dean’t be afeard, mun," he said ; “tak’
eneaf to carry thee whoam. Thee'lt pay me yan
day, a' warrant.”
Nicholas could by no means be prevailed
86
MICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
upon to borrow more than a sovereign, with
which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties
that he would accept of more (observing, with
a touch of Yorkshire caution, that, if he didn't
spend it all, he could put the surplus by till he
had an opportunity of remitting it carriage free),
was fain to content himself.
“Tak' that bit o' timber to nelp thee on wi',
mun,” he added, pressing his stick on Nicholas,
and giving his hand another squeeze; “keep a
good heart, and bless thee. Beatten the school-
\,
§§ š* ---
º º jºš lº->–.
§§º , * {:... . .
§: ſ!"
Kºś # Lº
measther 'Cod, it's the best thing a've heerd
this twonty year !”
So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy
than might have been expected from him, in
another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of
avoidieg the thanks which Nicholas poured
forth, John Browdie set spurs to his horse, and
went off at a smart canter : looking back, from
time to time, as Nicholas stood gazing after
him, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to
encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched
tº sº sº. W.
\ º º
N ºft
#!/
#
|ſº
|}}}
//ſº
%
ºft % º
º
*ZzZº
“wrETCH,” REJOINED NIcholas FIERCELv, “Touch HIM AT your PERIL! I, WILL NOT STAND BY AND
SEE IT DoNE. My Blood Is Up, AND I Have THE STRENGTH of TEN such MEN As you.”
the horse and rider until they disappeared over
the brow of a distant hill, and then set forward
on his journey. . . .
. He did not travel far that afternoon, for by
this time it was nearly dark, and there had been
* heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered
the way toilsome, but the track uncertain and
difficult to find after daylight, save by experienced
wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a cottage,
Where beds were let at a cheap rate to the moré
humble class of travellers; and, rising betimes
next morning, made his way before night to
Boroughbridge. Passing through that tºwn in
search of some cheap resting-place, he stumbled
upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred-
yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of
which he stretched his weary limbs, and soon
fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to
recollect his dreams, which had been all con-
nected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys
Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stared—
not with the most composed countenance pos:
sible—at some motionless object which seemed
to be stationed within a few yards in front of
him. - -
“Strange 1" cried Nicholas. “Can this be
some lingering creation of the visions that have


w/cºozas A/VD SM/KE BECOME FAS7 FR/EAWDS. 81
scarcely left me 2 It cannot be real—and yet
I-—I am awake'ſ Smike 1 " .
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped
upon its knees at his feet. It was Smike
indeed. - -
“Why do you kneel to me?” said Nicholas,
hastily raising him. -
“To go with you—anywhere—everywhere—
to the world's end—to the churchyard grave,"
replied Smike, clinging to his hand. “Let me,
oh, do let me ! You are my home—my kind
friend—take me with you, pray.”
“I am a friend who can do little for you,”
said Nicholas kindly. “How came you here?”
He had followed him, it seemed ; had never
lost sight of him all the way; had watched
while he slept, and when he halted for refresh-
ment; and had feared to appear before, lest he
should be sent back. He had not intended to
appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more
suddenly than he looked for, and he had had no
time to conceal himself. , . . . * ,
“Poor fellow !" said Nicholas, “your hard
fate denies you any friend but one, and he is
nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.”
“May I–may I go with you?" asked Smike
timidly. “I will be your faithful, hard-working
servant, I will indeed. I want no clothes,”
added the poor creature, drawing his rags to-
gether; “these will do very well. I only want
to be near you.” . . .
“And you shall,” cried Nicholas. “And the
world shall deal by you as it does by me, till
one or both of us shall quit it for a better.
Come !” . . . ‘.
With these words he strapped his burden on
his shoulders, and, taking his stick in one hand,
extended the other to his delighted charge ;
and so they passed out of the old bàrn together.
CHAPTER XIV.
HAVING THE MISFORTUNE TO TREAT OR NONE BUT
comMon PEOPLE, Is NECESSARILY of A MEAN AND
WULGAR CHARACTER,
º; N that quarter of London in which
ºf Golden Square is situated there is a
§ bygone, faded, tumble-down street,
}. with two irregular rows of tall
*Čš meagre houses, which seem to have
| years ago, The very chimneys appear
to have grown dismal and melancholy,
from having had nothing better to look at
than the chimneys over the way. Their tops
within.
} stared each other out of countenance ||
their rooms were shut.
are battered, and broken, and blackened with
smoke; and, here and there, some taller stack
than the rest, inclining heavily to one side, and
toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking
revenge for half a century's neglect by crushing
, the inhabitants of the garrets beneath.
. The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerk-
ing their bodies hither and thither with a gait
which none but tºwn fowls are ever seen to
adopt, and which any country cock or hen
would be puzzled to understand, are perfectly
in keeping with the crazy habitations of their
owners. Dingy, ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers,
sent, like many of the neighbouring children, to
get a livelihood in the streets, they hop from
stone to stone in forlorn search of some hidden
eatable in the mud, and can scarcely raise a
crow among them. The only one with anything
approaching to a voice is an aged bantam at the
baker's; and even he is hoarse, in consequence
of bad living in his last place.
To judge from the size of the houses, they
have been, at one time, tenanted by persons of
better condition than their present occupants;
but they are now let off, by the week, in floors
or rooms, and every door has almost as many
plates or bell-handles as there are apartments
The windows are, for the same reason,
sufficiently diversified in appearance, being orna-
mented with every variety of common blind and
curtain that can easily be imagined; while
every doorway is blocked up, and rendered
nearly impassable, by a motley collection of
children and porter pots of all sizes, from the
baby in arms and the half-pint pot to the full-
grown girl and half-gallon can.
In the parlour of one of these hotises, which
was perhaps a thought dirtier than any of its
neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles,
children, and porter pots, and caught in all its
freshness the first gust of the thick black smoke
that poured forth, might and day, from a large
brewery hard by ; hung a bill, announcing that
there was yet one room to let within its walls,
though on what story the vacant room could be
—regard being had to the outward tokens of
many lodgers which the whole front displayed,
from the mangle in the kitchen window to the
flower-pots on the parapet—it would have been
beyond the power of a calculating boy to dis-
COWCI.
The common stairs of this mansion were bar;
and carpetless; but a curious visitor, who had
to climb his way to the top, might have observed
that there were not wanting indications of the
progressive poverty of the inmates, although
Thus, the first-floor


82
Aw/CHOMAS AICKZEA Y.
lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old ||
mahogany table—real mahogany—on the land-
ing-place outside, which was only taken in when
occasion required. On the second story the
spare furniture dwindled down to a couple of old
deal chairs, of which one, belonging to the back-
The
room, was shorn of a leg, and bottomless.
story above boasted no greater excess than a
worm-eaten wash-tub.; and the garret landing-
place displayed no costlier articles than two
Crippled pitchers and some broken blacking-
bottles. º: -
It was on this garret landing-place that a hard-
featured, square-faced man, elderly and shabby,
stopped to unlock the door of the front attic,
into which, having surmounted the task of turn-
ing the rusty key in its still more rusty wards,
he walked with the air of legal owner.
This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red
hair, which he took off with his hat, and hung
upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a
dirty cotton mightcap, and groped about in the
dark till he found a remnant of candle, he
knocked at the partition which divided the two
garrets, and inquired, in a loud voice, whether
Mr. Noggs had a light. -
The sounds that came back were stifled by
the lath and plaster, and it seemed, moreover,
as though the speaker had uttered them from the
interior of a mug or other drinking vessel; but
they were in the voice of Newman, and con-
veyed a reply in the affirmative.
“A nasty night, Mr. Noggs I’’ said the man
in the nightcap, stepping in to light his candle.
“Does it rain P” asked Newman.
“Does it?” replied the other pettishly.
am wet through.”
“It doesn’t take much to wet you and me
through, Mr. Crowl,” said Newman, laying his
hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.
“Well ; and that makes it the more vexa-
tious,” observed Mr. Crowl in the same pettish
tone.
“ I
Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker,
whose harsh countenance was the very epitomé
of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out
of the grate, and, emptying the glass which
Noggs had pushed towards him, inquired where
he kept his coals.
Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a
cupboard, and Mr. Crowl, seizing the shovel,
threw on half the stock: which Noggs very
deliberately took off again, without saying a
word. . . .
“You have not turned saving at this time of
day, I hope P” said Crowl. -
Newman pointed to the empty glass, as
stairs to supper.
2
though it were a sufficient refutation of the
charge, and briefly said that he was going down-
“To the Kenwigses?” asked Crowl.
Newman modded assent. . . . .
“Think of that, now !” said Crowl. “If I
didn't—thinking that you were certain not to
go, because you said you wouldn't—tell Ken-
wigs I couldn't come, and make up my mind to
spend the evening with you !”
“I was obliged to go,” said Newman. “They
would have me.”
“Well; but what's to become of me?” urged
the selfish man, who never thought of anybody
else. “It's all your fault. I'll tell you what—
I'll sit by your fire till you come back again.”
Newman cast a despairing glance at his small
store of fuel, but, not having the courage to say
no—a word which in all his life he never had
said at the right time, either to himself or
any one else—gave way to the proposed arrange-
ment. Mr. Crowl immediately went about
making himself as comfortable, with Newman
Noggs's means, as circumstances would admit
of his being made. "
The lodgers to whom Crowl had made allu,
sion, under the designation of “the Kenwigses,”
were the wife and olive-branches of one Mr.
Kenwigs, a turner in ivory, who was looked
upon as a person of some consideration on the
premises, inasmuch as he occupied the whole
of the first floor, comprising a suite of two
rooms. Mrs. Kenwigs, too, was quite a lady in
her manners, and of a very genteel family, having
an uncle who collected a water-rate ;- besides
which distinction, the two eldest of her little
girls went twice a week to a dancing school in
the neighbourhood, and had flaxen hair, tied
with blue ribbons, hanging in luxuriant pigtails
down their backs; and wore little white trousers
with frills round the ankles—for all of which
reasons, and many more equally valid, but too
numerous to mention, Mrs. Kenwigs was con:
sidered a very desirable person to know, and
was the constant theme of all the gossips in the
street, and even three or four doors round the
Corner at both ends.
It was the anniversary of that happy day on
which the Church of England, as by law esta-
blished, had bestowed Mrs. Kenwigs upon Mr.
Kenwigs; and, in grateful commemoration of
the same, Mrs. Kenwigs had invited a few select
friends to cards and a supper in the first floor,
and had put on a new gown to receive them in:
which gown, being of a flaming colour and made
upon a juvenile principle, was so successful that
Mr. Kenwigs said the eight years of matrimony
MRS. REAVWWGS ZS SEEA ZO BE Kâzazzo 7"O A PUBLIC MAAV. 83
and the five children seemed all a dream, and
Mrs. Kenwigs younger and more blooming than
on the very first Sunday he had kept company
with her. - •
Beautiful as Mrs. Kenwigs looked when she
was dressed, though, and so stately that you.
would have supposed she had a cook and house-
maid at least, and nothing to do, but order them
about, she had a world of trouble with the pre-
parations; more, indeed, than she, being of a
delicate and genteel constitution, could have
sustained, had not the pride of housewifery.
upheld her. At last, however, all the things
that had to be got together were got together,
and all the things that had to be got out of the
way were got out of the way, and everything
was ready, and the collector himself having
promised to come, fortune smiled upon the
occasion. -
The party was admirably selected. There
were, first of all, Mr. Kenwigs and Mrs. Ken-
wigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat up to
supper; firstly, because it was but right that they
should have a treat on such a day; and secondly,
because their going to bed, in presence of the
company, would have been inconvenient, not to
say improper. Then, there was a young lady
who had made Mrs. Kenwigs's dress, and who
—it was the most convenient thing in the world
—living in the two-pair back, gave up her bed
to the baby, and got a little girl to watch it.
Then, to match this young lady, was a young
man, who had known Mr. Kenwigs when he
was a bachelor, and was much esteemed by the
ladies, as bearing the reputation of a rake. To
these were added a newly-married couple, who
had visited Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs in their
courtship; and a sister of Mrs. A Kenwigs's, who
was quite a beauty; besides whom, there was
another young man, supposed to entertain ho-
nourable designs upon the lady last mentioned ;
and Mr. Noggs, who was a genteel person to
ask, because he had been a gentleman once.
There were also an elderly lady from the back-
parlour, and one more young lady, who, next to
the collector, perhaps was the great lion of the
party, being the daughter of a theatrical fireman,
who “went on ” in the pantomime, and had the
greatest turn for the stage that was ever known.
being able to sing and recite in a manner that
brought the tears into Mrs. Kenwigs's eyes.
There was only one drawback upon the pleasure
of seeing such friends, and that was, that the
lady in the back-pârlour, who was very fat, and
turned of ... in a low book-muslin dress
and short kid gloves, which so exasperated Mrs.
Kenwigs, that that lady assured her visitors, in
, a.m. Surprised at you.
private, that if it hadn't happened that the
supper was cooking at the back-parlour grate at
that moment, she certainly would have requested
its representative to withdraw.
“My dear,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “wouldn't it
be bet.er to begin a round game?”
“ Kenwigs, my dear,” returned his wife, “I
Would you begin without
my uncle P” -
“I forgot the collector,” said Kenwigs. “Oh
no, that would never do 1"
“He's so particular,” said Mrs. Kenwigs,
turning to the other married lady, “that if we
began without him, I should be out of his will
for ever.”
“Dear !” cried the married lady. -
“You have no idea what he is,” replied Mrs.
Kenwigs; “and yet as good a creature as ever
breathed.”
“The kindest-hearted man as ever was,” said
Kenwigs. -
“It goes to his heart, I believe, to be forced
to cut the water off when the people don't pay,”
observed the bachelor friend, intending a joke.
“George,” said Mr. Kenwigs solemnly, “none
of that, if you please.” . -
“It was only my joke;” said the friend,
abashed.
“George,” rejoined Mr. Kenwigs, “a joke is
a wery good thing—a wery good thing—but,
when that joke is made at the expense of Mrs.
Kenwigs's feelings, I set my face against it. A
man in public life expects to be sneered at-it
is the fault of his elewated sitivation, and not of
himself. Mrs. Kenwigs's relation is a public
man, and that he knows, George, and that he
can bear; but, putting Mrs. Kenwigs out of the
question (if I could put Mrs. Kenwigs out of the
question on such an occasion as this), I have the
honour to be connected with the collector by
marriage; and I cannot allow these remarks in
my ” Mr. Kenwigs was going to say
“house,” but he rounded the sentence with
“apartments.” v -
At the conclusion of these observations, which
drew forth evidences of acute feeling from Mrs.
Kenwigs, and had the intended effect of im-
pressing the company with a deep sense of the
collector's dignity, a ring was heard at the bell.
“That's him,” whispered Mr. Kenwigs, greatly
excited. “Morleena, my dear, run down and
let your uncle in, and kiss him directly you get
the door open. Hem | Let's be talking.”
Adopting Mr. Kenwigs's suggestion, the Qom-
pany spoke very loudly, to look easy and
unembarrassed; and, almost as soon as they
had begun to do so, a short old gentleman in,
84 - MICHOLAS NYCKLEB Y.
drabs and gaiters, with a face that might have
been carved out of lignum vitae, for anything
that appeared to the contrary, was led playfully
in by Miss Morleena Kenwigs, regarding whose
uncommon Christian name it may be here
remarked that it had been invented and com-
posed by Mrs. Kenwigs previous to her first
lying-in, for the special distinction of her eldest
child, in case it should prove a daughter.
“Oh, uncle, I am so glad to see you !” said
Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the collector affection-
sately on both cheeks. “So glad ' " -
“Many happy returns of the day, my dear,”
replied the collector, returning the compliment.
Now, this was an interesting, thing. Here
was a gollector of water-rates, without his book,
without his pen and ink, without his double
knock, without his intimidation, kissing—actu-
ally kissing—an agreeable female, and leaving
taxes, summonses, notices that he had called, or
announcements that he would never call again,
for two quarters' due, wholly out of the ques-
tion. . It was pleasant to see how the company
looked on, quite absorbed in the sight, and to
behold the nods and winks with which they
expressed their gratification at finding so much
humanity in a tax-gatherer. -
“Where will you sit, uncle?” said Mrs.
Kenwigs in the full glow of family pride, which
the appearance of #. distinguished relation
occasioned.
“Anywheres, my dear,” said the collector;
“I am not particular.”
Not particular ! What a meek collector . If
he had been an author, who knew his place, he
couldn't have been more humble.
“Mr. Lillyvick,” said Kenwigs, addressing
the collector, “some friends here, sir, are very
anxious for the honour of thank you—Mr. and
Mrs. Cutler, Mr. Lillyvick.”
“Proud to know you, sir,” said Mr. Cutler;
“I’ve heerd of you very often.” These were
not mere words of ceremony; for, Mr. Cutler,
having kept house in Mr. Lillyvick's parish, had
heard of him very often indeed. His attention
in calling had been quite extraordinary, -
“George you know, I think, Mr. Lillyvick,"
said Kenwigs; “lady from down-stairs—Mr.
Lillyvick. Mr. Snewkes—Mr. Lillyvick. Miss
Green—Mr. Lillyvick. Mr. Lillyvick—Miss
Petowker, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
Very glad to make two public characters ac-
quainted Mrs. Kenwigs, my dear, will you
sort*the counters ?”
Mrs. Kenwigs, with the assistance of Newman
Noggs, (who, as he performed sundry little acts
of kindness for the children, at all-times and
seasons, was humoured in his request to be
taken no notice, of, and was merely spoken
about, in a whisper, as the decayed gentleman),
did as she was desired; and the greater part of
the guests sat down to speculation, while New.
man himself, Mrs. Kenwigs, and Miss Petowker,
of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, looked after
the supper-table.
While the ladies were thus busying them.
selves, Mr. Lillyvick was intent upon the game
in progress, and, as all should be fish that comes
to a water-collector's net, the dear old gentle.
man, was by no means scrupulous in appro.
priating to himself the property of his neigh.
bours, which, on the contrary, he abstracted
whenever an opportunity presented itself, smiling
good-humouredly all the while, and making so
many condescending speeches to the owners,
that they were delighted with his amiability, and
thought in their hearts that he deserved to be
Chancellor of the Exchequer at least. . . . .
After a great deal of trouble, and the adminis-
tration of many slaps on the head to the infant
Kenwigses, whereof two of the most rebellious
were summarily banished, the cloth was laid
with much elegance, and a pair of boiled ſowls,
a large piece of pork, apple-pie, potatoes, and
greens were served ; at sight of which the
worthy Mr. Lillyvick vented a great many wit-
ticisms, and plucked up amazingly: to the
immense delight and satisfaction of the whole
body of admirers. - * -
Very well and very fast the supper went off;
no more serious difficulties occurring than those
which arose from the incessant demand for clean
knives and forks: which made poor Mrs. Ken-
wigs wish, more than once, that private Society
adopted the principle of schools, and required
that every guest should bring his own knife,
fork, and spoon; which doubtless would be a
great accommodation in many cases, and to no
one more so than to the lady and gentleman of
the house, especially if the school principle were
carried out to the full extent, and the articles
were expected, as a matter of delicacy, not to
be taken away again. * -
• Everybody having eaten everything, the table
was cleared in a most alarming hurry, and with
great noise; and the spirits, whereat the eyes of
Newman Noggs glistened, being arranged in
order, with water both hot and cold, the party
composed themselves for conviviality; Mr.
Lillyvick being stationed in a large arm-chair
by the fireside, and the four, little Kenwigses
disposed on a small, form in front of the com-
pany, with their flaxen tails towards them, and -
their faces to the fire; an arrangement which
ZOO BEAUTIFUL TO LIVE. - 85
was no sooner perfected than Mrs. Kenwigs
was overpowered by the feelings of a mother,
and fell upon the left shoulder of Mr. Kenwigs
dissolved in tears. - -
“They are so beautiful " said Mrs. Ken-
wigs, sobbing. - -
“Oh dear,” said all the ladies, “so they are :
It's very natural you should feel proud of that ;
but don't give way, don't.” -
“I can—not help it, and it don't signify,”
sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs. “Oh “they're too
beautiful to live, much too beautiful 1". -
On hearing this alarming presentiment of
their being doomed to an early death in the
flower of their infancy, all four little girls raised
a hideous cry, and, burying their heads in their
mother's lap simultaneously, screamed until the
eight flaxen tails vibrated again; Mrs. Kenwigs
meanwhile clasping them alternately to her
bosom, with attitudes expressive of distrac-
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“I can–Not HELP IT, AND IT Don't signify,” sobbed MRs. KENwiGs. “oH ! THEY’RE Too BEAUTIFUL
To LIVE, MUCH Too BEAUTIFUL
tion, which Miss Petowker herself might have
copied.
At length the anxious mother permitted her-
self, to be soothed into a more tranquil state,
and the little Kenwigses, being also composed,
were distributed among the company, to prevent
the possibility of Mrs. Kenwigs being again
overcome by the blaze of their combined
beauty. This done, the ladies and gentlemen
united in prophesying that they would live for
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, 7. -
- * >
! %
many, many years, and that there was no occa-
sion at all for Mrs. Kenwigs to distress herself:
which, in good truth, there did not appear to
be ; the loveliness of the children by no means
justifying her apprehensions.
“This day eight year ” said Mr. Kenwigs
after a pause. “Dear me—ah !”
This reflection was echoed by all present, who
said “Ah!” first, and “Dear me.” afterwards.
“I was younger then,” tittered Mrs. Kenwigs.
2 I 3


86 - AVICHOLAS AV/CAE LA R Y.
“No,” said the collector.
“Certainly not,” added everybody.
“I remember my niece,” said Mr. Lillyvick,
surveying his audience with a grave air; “I
remember her, on that very afternoon, when she
first acknowledged to her mother a partiality
for Kenwigs. ‘Mother, she says, “I love him.’”
“‘Adore him,' I said, uncle,” interposed
Mrs. Kenwigs. .
“‘Love him,' I think, my dear,” said the
collector firmly. -
“Perhaps you are right, uncle,” replied
Mrs. Kenwigs submissively. “I thought it was
“adore.’”
“‘Love,’ my dear,” retorted Mr. Lillyvick.
“‘Mother, she says, “I love him l’ ‘What do
I hear P' cries her mother; and instantly falls
into strong conwulsions."
A general exclamation of astonishment burst
from the company.
“Into strong conwulsions,” repeated Mr.
Lillyvick, regarding them with a rigid look.
“Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in the pre-
sence of friends, that there was a very great
objection to him, on the ground that he was
beneath the family, and would disgrace it. You
remember, Kenwigs P” . ". . .
“Certainly,” replied that gentleman, in no
way displeased at the reminiscence, inasmuch
as it proved, beyond all doubt, what a high
family Mrs. Kenwigs came of.
“I shared in that feeling,” said Mr. Lillyvick:
“perhaps it was natural ; perhaps it wasn't.”
A gentle murmur seemed to say that, in one
of Mr. Lillyvick's station, the objection was not
only natural, but highly praiseworthy.
“I came round to him in time,” said Mr.
Lillyvick. “After they were married, and there
was no help for it, I was one of the first to say
that, Kenwigs must be taken notice of The
family did take notice of him in consequence,
and on my representation; and I am bound to
say—and proud to say—that I have always
found him a very honest, well-behaved, upright,
respectable sort of man. Kenwigs, shake hands.”
“I am proud to do it, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs.
“So am I, Kenwigs,” rejoined Mr. Lillyvick.
“A very happy life I have led with your
niece, sir,” said Kenwigs. -
“It would have been your own fault if you
had not, sir,” remarked Mr. Lillyvick. º
“Morleena Kenwigs,” cried her mother at
this crisis, much affected, “kiss your dear
uncle . " - - -
The young lady did as she was requested,
and the three other little girls were successively
hoisted up to the collector's countenance, and
subjected to the same process, which was after.
wards repeated on them by the majority of
those present. -
“Oh dear, Mrs. Kenwigs " said Miss Pe.
towker, “while Mr. Noggs is making that punch
to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go
through that figure dance before Mr. Lilly-
vick.” -
“No, no, my dear,” replied Mrs. Kenwigs,
“it will only worry my uncle.” -
“It can't worry him, I am sure,” said Miss
Petowker. “You will be very much pleased,
won't you, sir?” . Ya
“That I am sure I shall,” replied the col-
lector, glancing at the punch-mixer. -
“Well, then, I'll tell you what,” said Mrs.
Kenwigs; “Morleena shall do the steps, if
uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us
the Blood-Drinker's Burial afterwards.” -
There was a great clapping of hands and
stamping of feet at this proposition; the subject
whereof gently inclined her head several times,
in acknowledgment of the reception. -
“You know,” said Miss Petowker reproach-
fully, “that I dislike doing anything profes-
sional in private parties.”
“Oh, but not here !” said Mrs. Kenwigs.
“We are ah so very friendly and pleasant, that
you might as well be going through it in your
own room ; besides, the occasion 2p
“I can't resist that,” interrupted Miss Pe-
towker ; “anything in my humble power I shall
be delighted to do.” -
Mrs. Kenwigs and, Miss NPetowker had
arranged a small programme of the entertain-
ments between them, of which this was the
prescribed order, but they had settled to have
a little pressing on both sides, because it looked
more natural. The company being all ready,
Miss Petowker hummed a tune, and Morleena
danced a dance; having previously had the
soles of her shoes chalked with as much care as
if she were going on the tight-rope. It was a
very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal of
work for the arms, and was received with un-
bounded applause. - .
“If I was blessed with a-a child”—said
Miss Petowker, blushing—“ of such genius as
that, I would have her out at the Opera in-
stantly.”- - * -
Mrs. Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr.
Kenwigs, who shook his head, and observed
that he was doubtful about it.
“Kenwigs is afraid,” said Mrs. K.
“What of P” inquired Miss Petowker; “not
of her failing P” - .
“Oh no ſ” replied Mrs. Kenwigs, “but if
Two FUGITIVES ARRIVE.
she grew up what she is now, only think of
the young dukes and marquises.”
“Very right,” said the collector.
“Still,” submitted Miss Petowker, “if she
took a proper pride in herself, you know——”
“There's a good deal in that,” observed Mrs.
Kenwigs, looking at her husband.
... “I only know"—faltered Miss Petowker—
“it may be no rule, to be sure—but I have
never found any inconvenience or unpleasant-
ness of that sort.” - -
Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said
that settled the question at once, and that he
would take the subject into his serious con-
sideration. This being resolved upon, Miss
Petowker was entreated to begin the Blood-
Drinker's Burial; to which end that young lady
let down her back-hair, and taking up her posi-
tion at the other end of the room, with the
bachelor friend posted in a corner, to rush out
at the cue, “in death expire,” and catch her in
his arms when she died raving mad, went
through the performance with extraordinary
spirit, and to the great terror of the little
Kenwigses, who were all but frightened into
The ecstasies consequent upon the effort had
not yet subsided, and Newman (who had not
been thoroughly sober at so late an hour for a
long long time) had not yet been able to put in
a word of announcement that the punch was
ready, when a hasty knock was heard at the
room-door, which elicited a shriek from Mrs.
Kenwigs, who immediately divined that the
baby had fallen out of bed.
“Who is that ?” demanded Mr. Kenwigs
sharply. - - . . -
“Don’t be alarmed, it's only me,” said Crowl,
looking in in his nightcap. “The baby is very
conſortable, for I peeped into the room as I
canne down, and it's fast asleep, and so is the
girl; and I don't think the candle will set fire
to the bed-curtain, unless a draught was to get
into the room—it's Mr. Noggs that's wanted.”
“Me 4” cried Newman, much astonished.
“Why, it is a queer hour, isn't it?” replied
Crowl, who was not best pleased at the prospect
of losing his fire; “and they are queer-looking
people, too, all covered with rain and mud. .
Shall I tell them to go away ?”
“No,” said Newman, rising.
How many 2"
“Two,” rejoined Crowl. .
“Want me? By name P” asked Newman.
“By name,” replied. Crowl. “Mr. Newman
Noggs as pat as need be.” *
Newman reflected for a few seconds, and
“People?
then hurried away, muttering that he would be
back directly. He was as good as his word:
for, in an exceedingly short time, he burst into
the room, and seizing, without a word of apology
or explanation, a lighted candle and tumbler of
hot punch from the table, darted away like a
madman.
“What the deuce is the matter with him 2"
exclaimed Crowl, throwing, the door open.
“Hark! Is there any noise above 2 "
The guests rose in great confusion, and, look-
ing in each other's faces with much perplexity
and some fear, stretched their necks forward,
and listened attentively.
CHAPTER XV.
Acquaints THE READER WITH THE CAUSE AND
ORIGIN OF THE INTERRUPTION DESCRIBED IN THE
LAST CHAPTER, AND WITH SOME OTHER MATTFRS
NECEssary To BE Krown. e
º
|EWMAN NOGGS scrambled in vio-
) lent haste up-stairs with the steam-
ing beverage, which he had so un-
ceremoniously snatched from the
š table of Mr. Kenwigs, and, indeed,
from the very grasp of the water-
rate collector, who was eyeing the con-
- tents of the tumbler, at the moment of
its unexpected abstraction, with lively marks of
pleasure visible in his countenance. He bore
his prize straight to his own back-garret, where,
footsore and nearly shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded,
and disfigured with every mark of fatiguing
travel, sat Nicholas and Smike, at once the
cause and partner of his toil: both perfectly
worn out by their unwonted and protracted
exertion.
Newman's first act was to compel Nicholas,
with gentle force, to swallow half of the punch
at a breath, nearly boiling as it was ; and his
next, to pour the remainder down the throat
of Smike, who, never having tasted anything
stronger than aperient medicine in his whole
life, exhibited various odd manifestations of
surprise and delight during the passage of the
liquor down his throat, and turned up his eyes
most emphatically when it was all gone.
“You are wet through,” said Newman, pass-
ing his hand hastily over the coat which Nicholas
had thrown off; “and I–I—haven’t even a
change,” he added, with a wistful glance at the
..] shabby clothes he wore himself.
“I have dry clothes, or at least such as will
serve my turn well, in my bundle,” replied


88
AV/CHOLAS AWICKZEBY.
Nicholas. “If you look so distressed to see
me, you will add to the pain I feel already at
being compelled, for one night, to cast myself
upon your slender means for aid and shelter.”
Newman did not look the less distressed to
hear Nicholas talking in this strain ; but, upon
his young friend grasping him heartily by the
hand, and assuring him that nothing but im-
plicit confidence in the sincerity of his profes-
sions, and kindness of feeling towards himself,
would have induced him, on any consideration,
even to have made him acquainted with his
arrival in London, Mr. Noggs brightened up
again, and went about making such arrange-
ments as were in his power for the comfort of
his visitors with extreme alacrity.
These were simple enough ; poor Newman's
means halting at a very considerable distance
short of his inclinations; but, slight as they
were, they were not made without much bus-
tling and running about. As Nicholas had hus-
banded his scanty stock of money so well that
it was not yet quite expended, a supper of bread
and cheese, with some cold beef from the cook's
shop, was soon placed upon the table; and
these viands being flanked by a bottle of spirits
and a pot of porter, there was no ground for
apprehension on the score of hunger or thirst,
at all events.
had it in his power to make, for the accommo-
dation of his guests during the night, occupied
no very great time in completing ; and as he
had insisted, as an express preliminary, that
Nicholas should change his clothes, and that
Smike should invest himself in his solitary coat
(which no entreaties would dissuade him from
stripping off for the purpose), the travellers par-
took of their frugal fare with more satisfaction
than one of them, at least, had derived from
many a better meal. -
They then drew near the fire, which Newman
Noggs had made up as well as he could after
the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel; and
Nicholas, who had hitherto been restrained by
the extreme anxiety of his friend that he should
refresh himself after his journey, now pressed
him with earnest questions concerning his
mother and sister.
“Well,” replied Newman with his accustomed
taciturnity; “both well.” -
“They are living in the City still?” inquired
Nicholas. - * -
“They are,” said Newman.
“And my sister,” added Nicholas. “Is she
still engaged in the business which she wrote to
tell me she thought she should like so much P”
Newman opened his eyes rather wider than
Such preparations as Newhan
louring.
- ſº
usual, but merely replied by a gasp, which,
according to the action of the head that ac-
companied it, was interpreted by his frieñds as
meaning yes or no. In the present instance the
pantomime consisted of a nod, and not a shake;
so Nicholas took the answer as a favourable
OI)6. -- - •
“Now listen to me,” said Nicholas, laying
his hand on Newman's shoulder. “Before I
would make an effort to see them, I deemed it
expedient to come to you, lest, by gratifying my
own selfish desire, I should inflict an injury
upon them which I can never repair. What has
my uncle heard from Yorkshire P” ‘.
Newman opened and shut his mouth several
times, as though he were trying his utmost to
speak, but could make nothing of it, and finally
fixed his eyes on Nicholas with a grim and
ghastly stare. . . . -
“What has he heard?” urged Nicholas, co-
“You see that I am prepared to hear
the very worst that malice can have suggested.
Why should you conceal it from me? I must
know it sooner or later; and what purpose can
be gained by trifling with the matter for a few
minutes, when half the time would put me in
possession of all that has occurred 2 Tell
at once, pray.”
“To-morrow morning,” said Newman; “hear
it to-morrow.”
“What purpose would that answer 2" urged
Nicholas. • ‘
“You would sleep the better,” replied New-
Illall. ' -
“I should sleep the worse,” answered Nicholas
impatiently. “Sleep ! Exhausted as I am, and
standing in no common need of rest, I cannot
hope to close my eyes all night, unless you tell
me everything.” -
“And if I should tell you everything P” said
Newman, hesitating.
“Why, then you may rouse my indignation or
wound my pride,” rejoined Nicholas ; “but you
will not break my rest; for, if the scene were
acted over again, I could take no other part
than I have taken ; and, whatever consequences
may accrue to myself from it, I shall never regret
doing as I have done—never, if I starve or beg
in consequence. What is a little poverty or
Iſle
suffering to the disgrace of the basest and most
inhuman cowardice P I tell you, if I had stood
by tamely and passively, I should have hated
myself, and merited the contémpt of every man
in existence. The black-hearted scoundrel !”
With this gentle allusion to the absent Mr.
Squeers, Nicholas repressed his rising wrath, and
relating to Newman exactly what had passed at
A LETTER FROM Mſ/SS SQUEEAES. 89
Dotheboys Hall, entreated him to speak out
without more pressing. Thus adjured, Mr.
Noggs took, from an old, trunk, a sheet of
paper, which appeared to have been scrawled
over in great haste; and, after sundry extra-
ordinary demonstrations of reluctance, delivered
himself in the following terms.
“My dear young man, you mustn't give way
to—this sort of thing will never do, you know
—as to getting on in the world, if you take
everybody's part that's ill treated—Damn it; I
am proud to hear of it; and would have done
it myself!” .
Newman accompanied this very unusual out-
break with a violent blow upon the table, as if,
in the heat of the moment, he had mistaken it
for the chest or ribs of Mr. Wackford Squeers.
Having, by this open declaration of his feelings,
quite precluded himself from offering Nicholas
any cautious worldly advice (which had been
his first intention), Mr. Noggs went straight to
the point. -
“The day before yesterday,” said Newman,
“your uncle received this letter. I took a hasty
copy of it while he was out. Shall I read it P”
“If you please,” replied Nicholas. Newman
Noggs accordingly read as follows:
“Dotheboys Hall,
“Thursday Morning.
“SIR, -
“My pa requests me to write to you, the
doctors considering it doubtful whether he will
ever recuvver the use of his legs which prevents
his holding a pen.
“We are in a state of mind beyond every-
thing, and my pa is one mask of brooses both
blue and green likewise two forms are steepled
in his Goar. We were kimpelled to have him
carried down into the kitchen where he now
lays. You will judge from this that he has been
brought very low,
“When your nevew that you recommended
for a teacher had done this to my pa and
jumped upon his body with his feet and also
langwedge which I will not pollewt my pen with
describing, he assaulted my ma with dreadful
Violence, dashed her to the earth, and drove her
back-comb several inches into her head. A very
little more and it must have entered her skuli.
e have a medical certifiket that if it had, the
tortershell would have affected the brain.
“Me and my brother were then the victims
ºf his feury since which we have suffered very
"much which leads us to the arrowing belief that
We have received some injury in our insides,
*Specially as no marks of violence are visible
externally. I am screaming out loud all the
time I write and so is my brother which takes
off my attention rather and I hope will, excuse
mistakes.
“The monster having sasiated his thirst for
blood ran away, taking with him a boy of des.
perate caracter that he had excited to rebellyon,
and a garnet ring belonging to my ma, and not
having been apprehended by the constables is
supposed to have been took up by some stage-
coach. My pa begs that if he comes to you the
ring may be returned, and that you will let the
thief and assassin go, as if we prosecuted him
he would only be transported, and if he is let
go he is sure to be hung before long which will
save us trouble and be much more satisſactory.
Hoping to hear from you when convenient
“I remain
“Yours and cetrer
“FANNY SQUEERs.
“P.S.—I pity his ignorance and despise
him.”
A profound silence succeeded to the reading
of this choice epistle, during which Newman
Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of
grotesque pity at the boy of desperate character
therein referred to ; who, having no more dis-
tinct perception of the matter in hand than that
he had been the unfortunate cause of heaping
trouble and falsehood upon Nicholas, sat mute
and dispirited, with a most woe-begone and
heart-stricken look.
“Mr. Noggs,” said Nicholas after a few
moments’ reflection, “I must go out at once.”
“Go out !” cried Newman.
“Yes,” said Nicholas, “to Golden Square.
Nobody who knows me would believe this
story of the ring; but it may suit the purpose,
or gratify the hatred, of Mr. Ralph Nickleby to
feign to attach credence to it. It is due—not
to him, but to myself—that I should state the
truth; and, moreover, I have a word or two to
exchange with him which will not keep cool.”
“They must,” said Newman.
“They must not, indeed,” rejoined Nicholas
firmly, as he prepared to leave the house.
“Hear me speak,” said Newman, planting
himself before his impetuous young friend. “He
is not there. He is away from town. He will
not be back for three days; and I know that
letter will not be answered before he returns.”
“Are you” sure of this P” asked Nicholas,
chafing violently, and pacing the narrow room
with rapid strides. -
“Quite,” rejoined Newman. “He had hardly
99 MICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
read it when he was called away. Its contents
are known to nobody but himself and us.”
“Are you certain P” demanded Nicholas pre-
cipitately ; “not even to my mother or sister P
If I thought that they—I will go there—I must
see them. Which is the way P Where is
it P "
“Now, be advised by me," said Newman,
speaking for the moment, in his earnestness,
like any other man—“make no effort to see
even them till he comes home. I know the
man. Do not seem to have been tampering
with anybody When he returns, go straight to
him, and speak as boldly as you like. Guess-
ing at the real truth, he knows it as well as you
or I. Trust him for that.”
“You mean well to me, and should know
him better than I can,” replied Nicholas after
some consideration. “Well; let it be so."
Newman, who had stood during the foregoing
conversation with his back planted against the
door, ready to oppose any egress from the
apartment by force, if necessary, resumed his
seat with much satisfaction; and, as the water
in the kettle was by this time boiling, made a
glassful of spirits-and-water for Nicholas, and a
cracked mug-full for the joint accommodation
of himself and Smike, of which the two partook
in great harmony, while Nicholas, leaning his
head upon his hand, remained buried in melan-
choly meditation. -
Meanwhile, the company below-stairs, after
listening attentively, and not hearing any noise
which would.justify them in interfering for the
gratification of their curiosity, returned to the
chamber of the Kenwigses, and employed them-
selves in hazarding a great variety of conjectures
relative to the cause of Mr. Noggs's sudden dis-
appearance and detention.
“Lor, I'll tell you what,” said Mrs. Kenwigs.
“Suppose it should be an express sent up to
say that his property has all come back again "
“Dear me !” said Mr. Kenwigs; “it’s not
impossible. Perhaps, in that case, we'd better
send up and ask if he won't take a little more
punch.” *...
“Kenwigs " said Mr. Lillyvick in a loud
voice, “I’m surprised at you.” -
“What's the matter, sir?” asked Mr. Ken-
wigs with becoming submission to the collector
of water-rates.
“Making such a remark as that, sir,” replied
Mr. Lilly vick angrily. “He has had punch
already, has he not, sir? I consider the way
in which that punch was cut off, if I may use
the expression, highly disrespectful to this com-
pany : Scandalous, perfectly scandalous. It may
be the custom to allow such things in this house,
but it's not the kind of behaviour that I've been
used to see displayed, and so I don't mind tell-
ing you, Kenwigs. A gentleman has a glass of
punch before him, to which he is just about to
set his lips, when another gentleman comes and
collars that glass of punch, without a ‘with your
leave,' or ‘by your leave,’ and carries that glass
of punch away. This may be good manners—
I dare say it is—but I don't understand it, that's
all ; and what's more, I don't care if I never do.
It's my way to speak my mind, Kenwigs, and
that is my mind; and if you don't like it, it's
past my regular time for going to bed, and I
can find my way home without making it
later.”
Here was an untoward event 1 The collector
had sat swelling and fuming in offended dignity
for some minutes, and had now fairly burst out.
The great man—the rich relation—the unmar-
ried uncle—who had it in his power to make
Morleena an heiress, and the very baby a
legatee — was offended. Gracious Powers,
where was this to end? -
“I am very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs
humbly.
“Don’t tell me you're sorry,” retorted Mr.
Lillyvick with much sharpness. “You should
have prevented it, then.”
The company were quite paralysed by this
domestic crash. The back-parlour sat with her
mouth wide open, staring vacantly at the col-
lector in a stupor of dismay ; the other guests
were scarcely less overpowered by the great
man's irritation. Mr. Kenwigs, not being skil-
ful in such matters, only fanned the flame in
attempting to extinguish it.
“I didn't think of it, I am sure, sir,” said
that gentleman. “I didn't suppose that such a
little thing as a glass of punch would have put
you out of temper.” - - -
“Out of temper | What the devil do you
mean by that piece of impertinence, Mr. Ken-
wigs P” said the collector. “Morleena, child—
give me my hat.” º
“Oh you're not going, Mr. Lillyvick, sir?"
interposed Miss Petowker with her most be.
witching smile. ºp
But still Mr. Lillyvick, regardless of the siren,
cried obdurately, “Morleena, my hat l” upon
the fourth repetition of which demand Mrs.
Kenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry that
might have softened a water-butt, not to say
a water-collector; while the four little girls
(privately instructed to that effect) clasped their
uncle's drab shorts in their arms, and prayed
him, in imperfect English, to remain.
MATERMAZ FEEZINGS OF MRS. A. EAW WZGS.
9I
“Why should I stop here, my dears?” said
Mr. Lillyvick; “I’m not wanted here.”
“Oh I do not speak so cruelly, uncle,” sobbed
Mrs. Kenwigs, “unless you wish to kill me.”
“I shouldn't wonder if some people were to
say. I did,” replied Mr. Lillyvick, glancing
angrily at Kenwigs. “Out of temper 1"
“Oh I cannot bear to see him look so at:
my husband,” cried Mrs. Kenwigs. “It’s so
dreadful in families. Oh "'
“Mr. Lillyvick,” said Kenwigs, “I hope, for
the sake of your niece, that you won't object to
be reconciled.” *
The collector's features relaxed, as the com-
pany added their entreaties to those of his
nephew-in-law. . . He gave up his hat. and held
out his hand. . -
“There, Kenwigs,” said Mr. Lillyvick; “and
let me tell, you, at the same time, to show you
how much out of temper I was, that if I had
gone away without another word, it would hayé
made no difference respecting that pound or
two which I shall leave among your children
when I die.” -
“Morleena Kenwigs 1" cried her mother in a
torrent of affection. “Go down upon your
knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love
you all his life through, for he's more a angel
than a man, and I've always said so.”
Miss Morleena approaching to do homage, in
compliance with this injunction, was summarily
caught up and kissed by Mr. Lillyvick; and
thereupon Mrs. Kenwigs darted forward and
kissed the collector, and an irrepressible mur-
mur of applause broke from the company who
had witnessed his magnanimity.
The worthy gentleman then became once
more the life and soul of the society; being
again reinstated in his old post of lion, from .
which high station the temporary distraction of
their thoughts had for a moment dispossessed.
him. Quadruped lions are said to be savage
only when they are hungry; biped lions are
rarely sulky longer than when their appetite for
distinction remains unappeased. Mr. Lillyvick
stood higher than ever; for he had shown his
power; hinted at his property and testamentary
intentions; gained great credit for disinterested-
ness and virtue; and, in addition to all, was
finally accommodated with a much larger
tumbler of punch than that which Newman
CŞgs had so feloniously made off with.
. “I say I beg everybody's pardon for intrud-
!ng again,” said Crowl, looking in at this happy
Juncture; “but what a queer business this is,
ºn't it?º Noggs has lived in this' house, now,
§oing on for five years, and nobody has ever
been to see him before, within the memory of
the oldest inhabitant.”
“It's a strange time of night to be called
away, sir, certainly,” said the collector; “and
the behaviour of Mr. Noggs himself is, to say
the least of it, mysterious.”
“Well, so it is,” rejoined Crowl; “and I'll
a tell you what's more—I think these two geniuses,
whoever they are, have run away from some-
where.”
“What makes you think that, sir?” demanded
the collector, who seemed, by a tacit under-
standing, to have been chosen and elected
mouthpiece to the company. “You have no
reason to suppose that they have run away from
anywhere without paying the rates and taxes
due, I hope?” .
Mr. Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was
about to enter a general protest against the pay-
ment of rates or taxes under any circumstances,
when he was checked by a timely whisper from
Kenwigs, and several frowns and winks from
Mrs. K., which providentially stopped him.
“Why, the fact is,” said Crowl, who had
been listening at Newman's door with all his
might and main; “the factºis, that they have
been talking so loud, that they quite disturbed
me in my room, and so I couldn't help catching
a word here, and a word there: and all I heard
certainly seemed to refer to their having bolted
from some place or other. I don't wish to
alarm Mrs. Kenwigs; but I hope they haven't
come from any gaol or hospital, and brought
away a fever, or some unpleasantness of that
sort, which might be catching for the children.”
* Mrs. Kenwigs was, so overpowered by this
supposition, that it needed all the tender atten-
tions of Miss Petowker, of the Theatre-Royal,
Drury Lane, to restore her to anything like a
state of calmness; not to mention the assiduity
of Mr. Kenwigs, who held a fat smelling-bottle
to his lady's nose, until it became matter of
some doubt whether the tears which coursed
down her face were the result of feelings or sal
wolatile.
. The ladies, having expressed their sympathy
singly and separately, fell, according to custom,
into a little chorus of soothing expressions,
among which such condolences as “Poor dear !”
—“I should feel just the same if I was her "-
“To be sure, it’s “a very trying thing"—and
“Nobody but a mother knows what a mother's
feelings is," were among the most prominent,
and most frequently repeated. In short,3the
9pinion of the company was so clearly mani.
fested, that Mr. Kenwigs was en the point of
repairing to Mr. Noggs's room, to demand an
92 AV/CAHO/AS WA C/º LAZA Y.
explanation, and had, indeed, swallowed a pre-
paratory glass of punch with great inflexibility
and steadiness of purpose, when the attention of
all present was diverted by a new and terrible
surprise.
This was nothing less than the sudden pour-
ing forth of a rapid succession, of the shrillest
and most piercing screams from an upper story;
and, to all appearance, from the very two-pair
back in which the infant Kenwigs was at that
moment enshrined. They were no sooner
audible than Mrs. Kenwigs, opining that a
strange cat had come in, and sucked the baby's
breath while the girl was asleep, made for the
door, wringing her hands, and shrieking dis-
mally; to the great consternation and confusion
of the company.
“Mr. Kenwigs, see what it is ; make haste l"
cried the sister, laying violent hands upon Mrs.
Kenwigs, and holding her back by force.
“Oh I don't twist about so, dear, or I can never
blessed baby 1” screamed Mrs. Kenwigs, mak-
ing every blessed louder than the last. “My
own darling, sweet, innocent Lillyvick | Oh,
let me go to him Let me go-o-o-ol"
Pending the utterance of these frantic cries,
and the wails and lamentations of the four little
girls, Mr. Kenwigs rushed up-stairs to the room
whence the sounds proceeded ; at the door of
which he encountered Nicholas, with the child
in his arms, who darted out with such violence,
that the anxious father was thrown down six
stairs, and alighted on the nearest landing-place,
before he had found time to open his mouth to
ask what was the matter.
“Don’t be alarmed,” cried Nicholas, running
down ; “here it is ; it's all out, it's all over;
pray compose yourselves; there's no harm
done;” and, with these and a thousand other
assurances, he delivered the baby (whom, in his
hurry, he had carried upside down) to Mrs.
Kenwigs, and ran back to assist Mr. Kenwigs,
who was rubbing his head very hard, and look-
ing much bewildered by his tumble.
Reassured by this cheering intelligence, the
company in some degree recovered from their
fears, which had been productive of some most
singular instances of a total want of presence of
mind; thus, the bachelor friend had, for a long
time, supported in his arms Mrs. Kenwigs's
sister, instead of Mrs. Kenwigs; and the worthy
Mr. Lilly vick had been actually seen, in the
perturbation of his spirits, to kiss Miss Petowker
several times, behind the room-door, as calmly
as if nothing distressing were going forward.
hold#."
“My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed,
“It is a mere nothing,” said Nicholas, return-
ing to Mrs. Kenwigs; “the little girl, who was
watching the child, being tired I suppose, fell
asleep, and set her hair on fire.”
“Oh, you malicious little wretch 1” cried Mrs.
Kenwigs, impressively shaking her forefinger at
the small unfortunate, who might be thirteen
years old, and was looking on with a singed
head and a frightened face. : -
“I heard her cries,” continued Nicholas,
“ and ran down in time to prevent her setting
fire to anything else. You may depend upon it
that the child is not hurt; for I took it off the
bed myself, and brought it here to convince
you.”
This brief explanation over, the infant, who,
as he was christened after the collector, rejoiced
in the names of Lillyvick Kenwigs, was partially
suffocated under the caresses of the audience,
and squeezed to his mother's bosom until he
roared again. The attention of the company
was then directed, by a natural transition, to the
little girl who had had the audacity to burn her
hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small
slaps and pushes from the more energetic of the
ladies, was mercifully sent home : the ninepence,
with which she was to have been rewarded,
being escheated to the Kenwigs family.
“And whatever we are to say to you, sir,”
exclaimed Mrs. Kenwigs, addressing young
Lilly vick's deliverer, “I am sure I don't know.”
“You need say nothing at all,” replied
Nicholas. “I have done nothing to found any
very strong claim upon your eloquence, I am
sure.” .
“He might have been burnt to death; if it
hadn't been for you, sir,” simpered Miss Pe-
towker. -
“Not very likely, I think,” replied Nicholas;
“for there was abundance of assistance here,
which must have reached him before he had
been in any danger.” -
“You will let us drink your health, anyways,
sir P” said Mr. Kenwigs, motioning towards the
table.
“In my absence, by all means,” rejoined
Nicholas with a smile. “I have had a very
fatiguing journey, and should be most indif.
ferent company—a far greater check upon your
merriment than a promoter of it, even if I kept
awake, which I think very doubtful. If you will
allow me, I'll return to my friend, Mr. Noggs,
who went up-stairs again when he found nothing
serious had occurred. Good night.”
Excusing himself, in these terms, from joining
in the festivities, Nicholas took a most winning
farewell of Mrs. Kenwigs and the other ladies,
Kenwigs
tº
Good MIGHz:
and retired, after making a very extraordinary
impression upon the company.
“What a delightful young man 1" cried Mrs.
Kenwigs. - -
“Uncommon gentlemanly, really,” said Mr.
vick 2 ”
“Yes,” said the collector with a dubious
shrug of his shoulders. “He is gentlemanly,
very gentlemanly—in appearauce.”
“I hope you don't see anything against him,
uncle P” inquired Mrs. Kenwigs.
“No, my dear,” replied the collector, “no.
I trust he may not turn out—well—no matter
—my love to you, my dear, and long life to the
baby 1" -
“Your namesake,” said Mrs. Kenwigs with a
sweet smile. - - -
“And I hope a worthy namesaka,” observed
Mr. Kenwigs, willing to propitiate the collector. .
“I hope a baby as will never disgrace his god-
father, and as may be considered, in arter years, .
of a piece with the Lillyvicks whose name he
bears. I do say—and Mrs. Kenwigs is of the
same sentiment, and feels it as strong as I do—
that I consider his being called Lillyvick one
of the greatest blessings and honours of my
existence.” º
“The greatest blessing, Kenwigs,” murmured
Ais lady.
“The greatest blessing,” said Mr. Kenwigs,
correcting himself. “A blessing that I hope,
one of these days, I may be able to deserve.”
This was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses,
because it made Mr. Lillyvick the great head
and fountain of the baby's importance. . The
good gentleman felt the delicacy and dexterity
of the touch, and at once proposed the health
of the gentlemen, name unknown, who had
signalised himself, that night, by his coolness
and alacrity.
“Who, I don't mind saying,” observed Mr.
Lillyvick as a great concession, “is a good-
looking young man enough, with manners that
I hope his character may be equal to.”
“He has a very nice face and style, really,”
said Mrs. Kenwigs. - .
“He certainly has,” added Miss Petowker.
“There's something in his appearance quite——
Dear, dear, what's that word again?”
“What word P” inquired Mr. Lillyvick.
“Why—dear me, how stupid I am " replied
Miss Petowker, hesitating. “What do you call
it when Lords break off door-knockers, and
beat policemen, and play at coaches with other
People's money, and all that sort of thing P”
“Aristocratic P” suggested the collector,
“Don't you think so, Mr. Lilly-
93
“Ah aristocratic,” replied Miss Petowker;
“something very aristocratic about him, isn't
there P”
The gentlemen held their peace, and smiled
at each other, as who should say, “Well there's
no accounting for tastes;” but the ladies re-
solved unanimously that Nicholas had an aris-
tocratic air; and nobody caring to dispute the
position, it was established triumphantly.
The punch being, by this time, drunk out,
and the little Kenwigses (who had for some
time previously held their little eyes open with
their little forefingers) becoming fractious, and
requesting rather urgently to be put to bed, the
collector made a move by pulling out his watch,
and acquainting the company that it was nigh
two o'clock; whereat some of the guests were
surprised and others shocked, and hats and
bonnets being groped for under the tables, and
in course of time found, their owners went away,
after a vast deal of shaking of hands, and many
remarks how they had never spent such a
delightful eyening, and how they marvelled to
find it so late, expecting to have heard that it
was half-past ten at the very latest, and how
they wished that Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs had a
wedding-day once a week, and how they won-
dered by what hidden agency Mrs. Kenwigs
could possibly have managed so well ; and a
great deal more of the same kind. To all of
which flattering expressions Mr. and Mrs. Ken-
wigs replied by thanking every lady and gentle.
man, seriatime, for the favour of their company,
and hoping they might have enjoyed themselves
only half as well as they said they had.
As to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the
impression he had produced, he had long since
fallen asleep, leaving Mr. Newman Noggs and
Smike to empty the spirit-bottle between them ;
and this office they performed with such extreme
good-will, that Newman was equally at a loss to
determine whether he himself was quite sober,
and whether he had ever seen any gentleman
so heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated
as his new acquaintance.
—º- •
CHAPTER XVI.
NICHOLAS SEEKS TO EMPLOY HIAISELF IN A NEW
CAPACITY, AND, BEING UNSUCCESSFUL, ACCEPTS AN
ENGAGEMENT AS TUTOR IN A PRIVATE FAMILY.
THE first care of Nicholas, next morning, was
to look after some room in which, until
better times dawned upon him, he could con:
94 AVICHOLAS WACKLERY.
trive to exist, without trenching upon the hos-
pitality of Newman Noggs, who would have
slept upon the stairs with pleasure, so that his
young friend was accommodated. , * * * *
The vacant apartment, to which the bill in
the parlour window bore reference, appeared,
on inquiry, to be a small back-room. on the
second floor, reclaimed from the leads, and
overlooking a soot-bespeckled prospect of tiles
and chimney-pots. For the letting of this por-
tion of the house from , week to week, on
reasonable terms, the parlour lodger was em-
powered to treat; he being deputed by the
iandlord to dispose of the rooms as they be-
came vacant, and to keep a sharp look-out that
the lodgers didn't run away. As a means of
securing the punctual discharge of which last
service he was permitted to live rent free, lest
he should at any time be tempted to run away
himself.
Of this chamber Nicholas became the tenant;
and having hired a few common articles of
furniture from a neighbouring broker, and paid
the first week's hire in advance, out of a small fund
raised by the conversion of some spare clothes
into ready money, he sat himself down to runnl-
nate upon his prospects, which, like the pros-
pect outside his window, were sufficiently con-
fined and dingy. As they by no means im-
proved on better acquaintance, and as familiarity
breeds, contempt, he resolved to banish them
from his thoughts by dint of hard walking. So,
taking up his hat, and leaving poor Smike to
arrange and rearrange the room with as much
delight as if it had been the costliest palace, he
betook himself to the streets, and mingled with
the crowd which thronged them.
Although a man may lose a sense of his own
importance when he is a mere unit among a
busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by
no means follows that he can dispossess him-
self, with equal facility, of a very strong sense
of the importance and magnitude of his cares.
The unhappy state of his own affairs was the
one idea which occupied the brain of Nicholas,
walk as fast as he would; and, when he tried to
dislodge it by speculating on the situation and
prospects of the people who surrounded him,
he caught himself, in a few seconds, contrasting
their condition with his own, and gliding almost
imperceptibly back into his old train of thought
again.
Occupied in these reflections, as he was
making his way along one of the great public
thoroughfares of London, he chanced to raise
his eyes to a blue board, whereon was inscribed,
in characters of gold, “General Agency Office;
for places and situations of all kinds inquire
within.". It was a shop-front, fitted up with a
gauze blind and an inner door; and in the
window hung a long and tempting array of
written placards, announcing vacant places of
every grade, from a secretary's to a footboy's.
Nicholas halted, instinctively, before this
temple of promise, and ran his eye over the
capital-text openings in life which were so pro-
fusely displayed. When he had completed his
survey he walked on a little way, and then back,
and then on again; at length, after pausing
irresolutely several times before the door of the
General Agency Office, he made up his mind.
and stepped in.
He found himself in a little floor-clothed
room, with a high desk railed off in one corner,
behind which sat a lean youth with cunning
eyes and a protruding chin, whose performances
in capital-text darkened the window. He had a
thick ledger lying open before him, and with
the fingers of his right hand inserted between
the leaves, and his eyes fixed on a very fat old
lady in a mob-cap—evidently the proprietress
of the establishment—who was airing herself at
the fire, seemed to be only waiting her directions
to refer to some entries contained within its
rusty clasps.
As there was a board outside, which ac-
quainted the public that servants-of-all-work
were perpetually in waiting to be hired from ten
till four, Nicholas knew at once that some half-
dozen strong young women, seach with pattens
and an umbrella, who were sitting upon a forml
in one corner, were in attendance for that pur.
pose; especially as the poor things looked
anxious and weary. He was not quite so
certain of the callings and stations of two smart
young ladies who were in conversation with the
fat lady before, the fire, until—having sat him-
self down in a corner, and remarked that he
would wait until the other customers had been
served—the fat lady resumed the dialogue which
his entrance had interrupted.
“Cook, Tom,” said the fat lady, still airing
herself as aforesaid. - -
“Cook,” said Tom, turning over some leaves
of the ledger. “Well !” ... • -
“Read out an easy place or two,” said the fa
lady. -
“Pick out very light ones, if you please,
young man,” interposed a genteel female, in
shepherd's-plaid boots, who appeared to be the
client. - -
“Mrs. Marker,’” said Tom, reading, “‘Rus
sell Place, Russell Square; offers eighteen
guineas; tea and sugar found. Two in family,
*—
and see very little company. Five servants
kept. No man. No followers.’” -
“Oh Lor " tittered the client. “That won't
do. Read another, young man, will you ?”
“‘Mrs. Wrymug,” said Tom, “‘Pleasant
Place, Finsbury. Wages, twelve guineas. No
tea, no sugar. Serious family——’”
“Ah! you needn't mind reading that,” in-
terrupted the client.
“‘Three serious footmen,’” said Tom im-
pressively.
“Three, did you say?” asked the client in
an altered tone.
“Three serious footmen,” replied Tom.
“‘Cook, housemaid, and nursemaid ; each
female servant required to join the Little Bethel
Congregation three times every Sunday—with a
serious footman. If the cook is more serious
than the footman, she will be expected to im-
prove the footman; if the footman is more
serious than the cook, he will be expected to
improve the cook.’” -
“I’ll-take the address of that place,” said the
client; “I don't know but what it mightn't suit
me pretty well." - . . . .
“Here's another,” remarked Tom, turning
over the leaves. , “‘Family of Mr. Gallanbile,
M.P. Fifteen guineas, tea and sugar, and ser-
vants allowed to see male cousins, if godly.
Note. Cold dinner in the kitchen on the
Sabbath, Mr. Gallanbile being devoted to the
Observance question. No victuals whatever
cooked on the Lord's Day, with the exception
of dinner for Mr. and Mrs. Gallanbile, which,
being a work of piety and necessity, is exempted.
Mr. Gallanbile dines late on the day of rest, in
order to prevent the sinfulness of the cook's:
dressing herself.’”.
“I don't think that'll answer as well as the
other,” said the client after a little whispering
with her friend. “I’ll take the other direction
if you please, young man. I can but come back
again, if it don't do.”
Tom made out the address as requested, and
the genteel client, having satisfied the fat lady
with a small fee, meanwhile, went away, ac-
companied by her friend.
As Nicholas opened his mouth, to request
the young man to turn to letter S, and let him
know what secretaryships remained undisposed
of there came into the office an applicant, in
Whose favour he immediately retired, and whose
appearance both surprised and interested him.
. This was a young lady who could be scarcely
eighteen, of very slight and delicate figure, but
exquisitely shaped, who, walking timidly up to
the desk, made an inquiry, in a very low tone
THE GENERAL AGENCY OFFICE, -95
of voice, relative to some situation as governess,
or companion to a lady. She raised her veil,
for an instant, while she preferred the inquiry,
and disclosed a countenance of most uncommon
beauty, though shaded by a cloud of sadness,
which, in one so young, was doubly remarkable.
Having received a card of reference to some
person on the books, she made the usual
acknowledgment, and glided away.
She was neatly, but very quietly attired; so
much so, indeed, that it seemed as though her
dress, if it had been worn by one who imparted
fewer graces of her own to it, might have
looked poor and shabby. Her attendant—for
she had one—was a red-faced, round-eyed,
slovenly girl, who, from a certain roughness
about the bare arms that peeped from under
her draggled shawl, and the half-washed-out
traces of Smut and black-lead which tattooed
her countenance, was clearly of a kin with the
servants-of-all-work on the form : between
whom and herself there had passed various
| grins and glances, indicative of the freemasonry
of the craf.
This girl followed her mistress; and, before
. Nicholas had recovered from the first effects of
his surprise and admiration, the young lady was
gone. It is not a matter of such complete and
utter improbability as some sober people may
think, that he would have followed them out,
had he not been restrained by what passed
between the fat lady and her book-keeper.
“When is she coming again, Tom P” asked
the fat lady. - -
“To-morrow morning," replied Tom, mend-
ing his pen.
“Where have you sent her to ?” asked the
fat lady.
“Mrs. Clark's,” replied Tom. .
“She'll have a nice life of it if she goes
there," observed the fat lady, taking a pinch of
Snuff from a tin box.
Tom made no other reply than thrusting his
tongue into his cheek, and pointing the feather
of his pen towards Nicholas—reminders which
elicited from the fat lady an inquiry of “Now,
sir, what can we do for you ?” -
Nicholas briefly replied that he wanted to
know whether there was any such post to
be had as secretary or amanuensis to a gentle-
man.
“Any such 1” rejoined the mistress; “a dozen
such. An’t there, Tom P”
“A should think so,” answered that young
gentleman; and, as he said it, he winked
towards Nicholas, with a degree of familiarity
which he, no doubt, intended for a rather
96 AVICHOLAS AV/CKZEB Y.
flattering compliment, but with which Nicholas
was most ungratefully disgusted.
Upon reference to the book, it appeared that
the dozen secretaryships had dwindled down to
one. Mr. Gregsbury, the great member of
Parliament, of Manchester Buildings, West-
minster, wanted a young man to keep his
papers and correspondence in order ; and
Nicholas was exactly the sort of young man
that Mr. Gregsbury wanted.
“I don't know what the terms are, as he said
he'd settle them himself with the party,” ob-
-
§
Nix . . i
t -
=-
|
|
t
* -
*
:
!
I. : –
[ .
|
|
\
§
|
served the fat lady; “but they must be pretty
good ones, because he's a member of Par-
liament.” - -
Inexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not
feel quite assured of the force of this reasoning,
or the justice of this conclusion ; but, without
troubling himself to question it, he took down
the address, and resolved to wait upon Mr.
| Gregsbury without delay.
“I don't know what the number is,” said
Tom ; “but Manchester Buildings isn't a large
place; and if the worst comes to the worst, it
§§§ § §§
º
§§§
f
i §§
t
*
N
ºl w §
w -
“THERE CAMIE INTO THE OFFICE AN APPLICANT, IN whose FAvour HE IMMEDIATELY RETIRED, AND WHOST.
APPEARANCE Both surprised AND INTERESTED HIM.”
won't take you very long to knock at all the
doors on both sides of the way till you find him
out. I say, what a good-looking gal that was,
wasn’t she P”
“What girl?” demanded Nicholas sternly.
“Oh yes! I know—what gal, eh?” whis-
pered Tom, shutting one eye, and cocking his
chin in the air. “You didn't see her, you
didn't I say, don't you wish you was me when
she comes to-morrow morning?”
Nicholas looked at the ugly clerk as if he had
a mind to reward his admiration of the young
lady by beating the ledger about his ears, but
he refrained, and strode haughtily out of the
office ; setting at defiance, in his indignation,
those ancient laws of chivalry, which not only
made it proper and lawful for all good knights
to hear the praise of the ladies to whom they
were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon
them to roam about the world, and knock at
head all such matter-of-fact and unpoetical
characters as declined to exalt, above all the
earth, damsels whom they had never chanced to
look upon or hear of as if that were any excuse !

THE GREAT MR.
Thinking no longer of his own misfortunes,
but wondering what could be those of the
beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, with many
wrong turns, and many inquiries, and almost as
many misdirections, bent his steps towards the
place whither he had been directed.
Within the precincts of the ancient city of
Westminster, and within half a quarter of a mile
of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrow and dirty
region, the sanctuary of the smaller members of
Parliament in modern days. It is all com-
prised in one street of gloomy lodging-houses,
from whose windows, in vacation-time, there
frown long melancholy rows of bills, which say,
as plainly as did the countenances of their
occupiers, ranged on ministerial and opposition
benches in the session which slumbers with its
fathers, “To Let,” “To Let.” In busier periods
of the year these bills.ciisappear, and the houses
swarm with legislators. There are legislators in
the parlours, in the first floor, in the second, in. |
the third, in the garrets; the small apartments
reek with the breath of deputations and dele-
gates. In damp weather the place is rendered
close by the steams of moist Acts of Parliament
and frouzy petitions; general postmen grow
faint as they enter its infected limits ; and
shabby figures, in quest of franks, flit restlessly
to and fro like the troubled ghosts of Complete
Letter-writers departed. This is Manchester
Buildings; and here, at all hours of the night,
may be heard the rattling of latch-keys in their
respective keyholes: with now and then—when
a gust of wind, sweeping across the water which
washes, the Buildings' feet, impels the sound
towards its entrance—the weak, shrill voice of
some young member practising to-morrow's
speech. All the livelong day, there is a grind-
ing of organs and clashing and clanging of little
boxes of music; for Manchester Buildings is an
eel-pot, which has no outlet but its awkward
mouth—a case-bottle which has no thorough-
fare, and a short and narrow neck—and in this
respect it may be typical of the fate of some few
among its more adventurous residents, who,
after wriggling themselves into Parliament by
violent efforts and contortions, find that it, too,
is no thoroughfare for them ; that, like Man-
chester Buildings, it leads to nothing beyond
itself; and that they are fain at last to back
out, no wiser, no richer, not one whit more
famous than they went in.
Into Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned,
with the address of the great Mr. Gregsbury in
his hand. As there was a stream of people
pouring' into a shabby house not far from the
entrance, he waited until they had made their
GREGSBURY, M.A.
97
way in, and then, making up to the servant,
ventured to inquire if he knew where Mr.
Gregsbury lived.
The servant was a very pale, shabby boy,
who looked as if he had slept underground from
his infancy, as very likely he had.
Gregsbury P" said he. “Mr. Gregsbury lodges
here. It's all right. Come in 1"
Nicholas thought he might as well get in
while he could, so in he walked ; and he had
&&. Mr
no sooner done so than the boy shut the door,
and made off.
This was odd enough ; but what was more
embarrassing was, that all along the passage,
and all along the narrow stairs, blocking up the
window, and making the dark entry darker still,
was a confused crowd of persons with great
importance depicted in their looks; who were,
to all appearance, waiting in silent expectation
of some coming event. From time to time,
one man would whisper his neighbour, or a
little group would whisper together, and then
the whisperers would nod fiercely to each other,
or give their heads a relentless shake, as if they
were bent upon doing something very desperate,
and were determined not to be put off. what-
ever happened. -
As a few minutes elapsed without anything
occurring to explain this phenomenon, and as he
felt his own position a peculiarly uncomfortable
one, Nicholas was on the point of seeking some
information from the man next him, when a
sudden move was visible on the stairs, and a
voice was heard to cry, “Now, gentlemen, have
the goodness to walk up !”
So far from walking up, the gentlemen on
the stairs began to walk down with great
alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinary
politeness, that the gentlemen nearest the street
would go first ; the gentlemen nearest the street
retorted, with equal courtesy, that they couldn't
think of such a thing on any account; but they
did it, without thinking of it, inasmuch as the
other gentlemen pressing some half-dozen
(among whom was Nicholas) forward, and
closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up
the stairs, but into the very sitting-room of Mr.
Gregsbury, which they were thus compelled to
enter with most unseemly precipitation, and
without the means of retreat; the press behind
them more than filling the apartment.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Gregsbury, “you are
welcome. I am rejoiced to see you.”
For a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a
body of visitors, Mr. Gregsbury looked as un-
comfortable as might be ; but perhaps this was
occasioned by senatorial gravity, and a states-
98
MICHOLAS MYCKLEB P.
manlike habit of keeping his feelings under
control. . He was a tough, burly, thick-headed
gentleman, with a loud voice, a pompous man-
ner, a tolerable command of sentences with no
meaning in them, and, in short, every requisite
for a very good member indeed.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Gregsbury,
tossing a great bundle of papers into a wicker
basket at his feet, and throwing himself back in
his chair with his arms over the elbows, “you
are dissatisfied with my conduct, I see by the
newspapers.”
“Yes, Mr. Gregsbury, we are,” said a plump
old gentleman in a violent heat, bursting out
of the throng, and planting himself in the
front. .
“Do my eyes deceive me,” said Mr. Gregs-
bury, looking towards the speaker, “ or is that
my old friend Pugstyles?”
“I am that man, and no other, sir,” replied
the plump'old gentleman. •
“Give me your hand, my worthy friend,” said
Mr. Gregsbury. “Pugstyles, my dear friend, I
am very sorry to see you here.” -
“I am very sorry to be here, sir,” said Mr.
Pugstyles; “but your conduct, Mr. Gregsbury,
has rendered this deputation from your consti-
tuents inperatively necessary.” -
“My conduct, Pugstyles,” said Mr. Gregs-
bury, looking round upon the deputation with
gracious magnanimity—“my conduct has been,
and ever will be, regulated by a sincere re-
gard for the true and real interests of this
great and happy country. Whether I look at
home or abroad; whether I behold the peaceful
industrious communities of our island home :
her rivers covered with steamboats, her roads
with locomotives, her streets with cabs, her
skies with balloons of a power and magnitude
hitherto unknown in the history of aeronautics
in this or any other nation—I say, whether I
look merely at home, or, stretching my eyes
farther, contemplate the boundless prospect
of conquest and possession—achieved by British
perseverance and British valour — which is
outspread before me, I clasp my hands, and,
turning my eyes to the broad expanse above
my head, exclaim, ‘Thank Heaven, I am a
Briton.’”
The time had been when this burst of enthu-
siasm would have been cheered to the very
echo; but now the deputation received it with.
chilling coldness. The general impression
seemed to be that, as an explanation of Mr.
Gregsbury's political conduct, it did not enter
quite enough into detail ; and one gentleman in
the rear did not scruple to remark aloud that,
for his purpose, it savoured rather too much of
a “gammon" tendency. •
“The meaning of that term—gammon,” said
Mr. Gregsbury, “is unknown to me. If it
means that I grow a little too fervid, or per-
haps even hyperbolical, in extolling my native
land, I admit the full justice of the remark. I
am proud of this free and happy country. My
form dilates, my eye glistens, my breast heaves,
my heart swells, my bosom burns, when I call
to mind her greatness and her glory.”
“We wish, sir,” remarked Mr. Pugstyles calmly,
“to ask you a few questions.” e
“If you please, gentlemen ; my time is yours
—and my country's—and my country's,” said
Mr. Gregsbury. - • -
This permission being conceded, Mr. Pug-
styles put on his spectacles, and referred to a
written paper which he drew from his pocket;
whereupon nearly every other member of the
deputation pulled a written paper from his
pocket, to check Mr. Pugstyles off as he read
the questions. * -
This done, Mr. Pugstyles proceeded to busi-
TheSS. .
“Question number one.—Whether, sir, you
did not give a voluntary pledge, previous to
your election, that, in event of your being re-
turned, you would immediately put down the
practice of coughing and groaning in the
House of Commons. And whether you did
not submit to be coughed and groaned down
in the very first debate of the session, and have
since made no effort to effect a reform in this
respect P Whether you did not also pledge
yourself to astonish the government, and make
them shrink in their shoes P And whether you
have astonished them, and made them shrink
in their shoes, or not P” -
“Go on to the next one, my dear Pug-
styles,” said Mr. Gregsbury.
“Have you any explanation to offer with re-
ference to that question, sir?” asked Mr. Pug-
styles.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Gregsbury.
The members of the deputation looked fiercely
at each other, and afterwards at the mem-
ber. “Dear Pugstyles,” having taken a
very long stare at Mr. Gregsbury over the
tops of his spectacles, resumed his list of
inquiries.
“Question number two.—Whether, sir, you
did not likewise give a voluntary pledge that
you would support your colleague on every
occasion; and whether you did not, the night
before last, desert him and vote upon the other
side, because the wife of a leader on that other
A DEPUTATION FROM MR. GREGSB URY'S CONSTITUEWTS.
99
side had invited Mrs. Gregsbury to an evening
“Go on,” said Mr. Gregsbury.
“Nothing to say on that either, sir?” asked
the spokesman.
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr. Gregsbury.
The deputation, who had only seen him at
canvassing or election time, were struck dumb
by his coolness. . He didn't appear, like the
same man; then he was all milk and honey;
now he was all starch and vinegar. But men
are so different at different times
“Question number three—and last,” said
Mr. Pugstyles emphatically. “Whether, sir,
you did not state, upon the hustings, that it was
your firm and determined intention to oppose
everything proposed; to divide the House upon
every question, to move for returns on every
subject, to place a motion on the books every
day, and, in short, in your own memorable
words, to play the very devil with everything'
and everybody ?” With this comprehensive
inquiry Mr. Pugstyles folded up his list of
questions, as did all his backers.
Mr. Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw
nimself further back in his chair, came forward
again, leaning his elbows on the table, made a
triangle with his two thumbs and his two fore-
fingers, and, tapping his nose with the apex
thereof, replied (smiling as he said it), “I deny
everything.”
At this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur
arose from the deputation; and the same gentle-
man who had expressed an opinion relative to
the gammoning nature of the introductory
speech, again made a monosyllabic demonstra.
tion, by growling out “Resign : " Which growl,
being taken up by his fellows, swelled into a
very earnest and general remonstrance.
“I am requested, sir, to express a hope,” said
Mr. Pugstyles with a distant bow, “that, on.
receiving a requisitiºn to that effect from a great
majority of your constituents, you will not object
at once to resign your seat in favour of some
candidate whom they think they can better
trust.”
To this Mr. Gregsbury read the following
reply, which, anticipating the request, he had
$omposed in the form of a letter, whereof copies
had been made to send round to the InCWS-
papers.
* My DEAR M.R. PUGSTYLEs, -
“Next to the welfare of our beloved island
—this great and free and happy country, whose
powers and resources are, I sincerely believe,
illimitable—I value that noble independence
Gregsbury. “A spy upon my privacy
which is an Englishman's proudest boast, and
which I fondly hope to bequeath to my children,
untarnished and unsullied. Actuated by no
personal motives, but moved only by high and
great constitutional considerations; which I will
not attempt to explain, for they are really
beneath the comprehension of those who have
not made themselves masters, as I have, of the
intricate and arduous study of politics; I would
rather keep my seat, and intend doing so.
“Will you do me the favour to present my
compliments to the constituent body, and ac-
quaint them with this circumstance 2
“With great esteem,
“My dear Mr. Pugstyles,
“&c. &c.”
“Then you will not resign under any circum-
stances P” asked the spokesman.
Mr. Gregsbury smiled, and shook his head.
“Then, good morning, sir,” said Pugstyles
angrily. - } &
“Heaven bless you !” said Mr. Gregsbury.
And the deputation, with many growls and
scowls, filed off as quickly as the narrowness
of the staircase would allow of their getting
down. . .
The last man being gone, Mr. Gregsbury
rubbed his hands and chuckled, as merry fellows
will when they think they have said or done a
more than commonly good thing. He was so
engrossed in this self-congratulation, that he did
not observe that Nicholas had been left behind
in the shadow of the window curtains, until that
young gentleman, fearing he might otherwise
overhear some soliloquy intended to have no
listeners, coughed twice or thrice, to attract the
member's notice.
“What's that P " said Mr. Gregsbury in sharp
aCCentS.
Nicholas stepped forward, and bowed.
“What do you do here, sir?” asked Mr.
A con-
cealed voter You have heard my answer, sir.
Pray follow the deputation.”
“I should have done so, if I had belonged
to it, but I do not,” said Nicholas,
“Then how came you here, sir?" was the
natural inquiry of Mr. Gregsbury, M.P. “And
where the devil have you come from, sir?" was
| the question which followed it.
“I brought this card from the General Agency
Office, sir,” said Nicholas, “wishing to offer
myself as your secretary, and understanding that
you stood in need of one.” gº & e *
“That's all you have come for, is it?” said
| Mr. Gregsbury, eyeing him in some doubt.
Ioo.
AV/CAE/O LAS AV/CKZAZA Y.
Nicholas replied in the affirmative.
“You have no connection with any of those
rascally papers, have you ?” said Mr. Gregsbury.
“You didn't get into the room to hear what
was going forward, and put it in print, eh?”
“I have no connection, I am sorry to say,
with anything at present,” rejoined Nieholas, - .
politely enough, but quite at his ease.
“Oh " said Mr. Gregsbury. “How did you
find your way up here, then P” ... •
Nicholas related how he had been forced up
by the deputation.
“That was the way; was it?” said Mr. Gregs- |
bury. “Sit down.” -
Nicholas took a chair, and Mr. Gregsbury
stared at him for a long time, as if to make
certain, before he asked any further questions,
that there were no objections to his outward
appearance. - -
“You want to De my secretary, do you?” he
said at length.
“I wish to be employed in that capacity, sír,”
replied Nicholas. -
“Well,” said 'Mr. Gregsbury; “now, what
can you do?”
“I suppose,” replied Nicholas, smiling, “that
I can do what falls usually to the lot of other
secretaries.” - -
“What's that P” inquired Mr Gregsbury.
“What is it?” replied Nicholas. .
“Ah! What is it P” retorted the member,
looking shrewdly at him, with his head on one
side. .
“A secretary's duties are rather difficult to
define, perhaps,” said Nicholas, considering.
“They include, I presume, correspondence P”
“Good,” interposed Mr. Gregsbury.
“The arrangement of papers and docu-
ments.”
“Very good.”"
“Occasionally, perhaps, the writing from your
dictation; and possibly, sir,” said Nicholas with
a half-smile, “the copying of your speech for
Some public journal, when you have made one .
of more than usual importance.”
“Certainly,” rejoined Mr. Gregsbury. “What ||
clse P” -
... “Really,” said Nicholas after a moment's
reflection, “I am not able, at this instant, to
recapitulate any other duty of a secretary, beyond
the general one of making himself as agreeable
ahd useful to his employer as he can, consistently
with his own respectability, and without over-
stepping that line of duties which he undertakes |
to perform, and which the designation of his .
office is usually understood to imply.” -
‘Mr. Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas Ior
ſº
a short time, and then, glancing warily round
the room, said in a suppressed voice :
“This is all very well, Mr. what is your
name P”
“Nickleby.” -
“This is all very well, Mr. Ničkleby, and very
proper, so far as it goes—so far as it goes, but
it doesn't go far enough. There are other duties,
Mr. Nickleby, which a secretary to a parlia-
mentary gentleman must never lose sight of. I
should require to be crammed, sir.”
“I beg your pardon,” interposed Nicholas,
doubtful whether he had heard aright. |
“—To be crammed, sir,” repeated Mr. Gregs.
bury. . -
“May I beg your pardon again, if I inquire
what you mean, sir?” said Nicholas.
“My meaning, sir, is perfectly plain,” replied
Mr. Gregsbury with a solemn aspect. “My
secretary would have to make himself master of
the foreign policy of the world as it is mirrored
in the newspapers; to run his eye over , all
accounts of public meetings, all leading articles,
and accounts of the proceedings of public
bodies; and to make notes of anything which
it appeared to him might be made a point of, in
any little speech upon the question of some
petition lying on the table, or anything of that
kind. Do you understand P”
“I think I do, sir,” replied Nicholas. -
“Then,” said Mr. Gregsbury, “it would be
necessary for him to make himself acquainted,
from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs .
on passing events; such as, ‘Mysterious dis-
appearance-and supposed suicide of a potboy,’
or anything of that sort, upon which I might
found a question to the Secretary of State for
the Home Department. Then, he would have
to copy the question, and as much as I remem.
bered of the answer (including a little compli-
ment about independence and-good sense); and
to send the manuscript in a frank to the local
paper, with perhaps, half-a-dozen lines of leader,
to the effect that I was always to be found in
my place in Parliament, and never shrunk from
the responsible and arduous duties, and so forth.
You see P” -
Nicholas bowed. . . ."
“Besides which,” continued Mr. Gregsbury,
“I should expect him, now, and then, to go
through a few figures in the printed tables, and to
pick out a few results, so that I might come out
pretty well on timber-duty questions, and finance
questions, and so on; and I should like him to get
up a few little arguments about the disastrous
effects of a return to cash payments and a metallic
| currency, with a touch now and then about the
CONCERNING THE DUTIES OF A SECRETAR Y.
exportation of bullion, and the Emperor of
Russia, and bank notes, and all that kind of
thing, which it's only necessary to talk fluently
about, because nobody understands it. Do you
take me?”
“I think I understand,” said Nicholas,
“With regard to such questions as are not
political,” continued Mr. Gregsbury, warming;
“and which one can't be expected to care a
curse about, beyond the natural care of not
allowing inferior people to be as well off as our-
selves—elsewhere are our privileges 2–I should
wish my secretary to get together a few little
flourishing speeches of a patriotic cast. For
instance, if any preposterous bill were brought
forward for giving poor grubbing devils of
authors a right to their own property, I should
like to say that I, for one, would never consent
to opposing an insurmountable bar to the
diffusion of literature among the people, you
understand P−that the creations of the pocket,
being man's, might belong to one man, or one
family; but that the creations of the brain,
being God's, ought, as a matter of course, to
belong to the people at large—and if I was
pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a
joke about posterity, and say that those who
wrote for posterity should be content to be
rewarded by the approbation of posterity; it
might take with the House, and could never do
me any harm, because posterity can't be ex-
pected to know anything about me, or my jokes
either—do you see ?”
“I see that, sir,” replied Nicholas.
“You must always bear in mind, in such
CaSeS aS : this, where our interests are not
affected,” said Mr. Gregsbury, “to put it very
strong about the people, because it comes out
very well at election-time; and you could be as
funny as you liked about the authors; because
I believe the greater part of them live in lodg-
ings, and are not voters. This is a hasty
outline of the chief things you'd have to do,
except waiting in the lobby every night, in case
I forgot anything, and should want fresh cram-
ming; and, now and then, during great debates,
sitting in the front row of the gallery, and say-
ing to the people about—‘You see that gentle-
man, with his hand to his face, and his arm
twisted round the pillar—that's Mr. Gregsbury—
the celebrated Mr. Gregsbury,'—with any other
little eulogium that might strike you at the
moment. And for salary,” said Mr. Gregsbury,
winding up with great rapidity; for he was out
of breath—“ and for salary, I don't mind saying
at once in round numbers, to prevent any dis-
satisfaction—though it's more than I’ve been
. NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 8.
IOI
accustomed to give—fifteen shillings a week,
and find yourself. There !”
With , this handsome offer, Mr. Gregsbury
once more threw himself back in his chair, and
looked like a man who had been most pro-
| fligately liberal, but is determined not to repent
of it notwithstanding. - -
“Fifteen'shillings a week is not much," said
Nicholas mildly.
“Not much Fifteen shillings a week not
much, young man I " cried Mr. Gregsbury.
“Fifteen shillings a. e
“Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the
sum, sir,” replied Nicholas; “for I am not
ashamed to confess that, whatever it may be in
itself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties
and responsibilities make the recompense small,
and they are so very heavy that I fear to under-
take them.” -
“Do you decline to undertake them, sir?”
inquired Mr. Gregsbury, with his hand on the
bell-rope.
“I fear they are too great for my powers,
however good my will may be, sir,” replied
Nicholas.
“That is as much as to say that you had
rather not accept the place, and that you con:
sider fifteen shillings a week too little,” said
Mr. Gregsbury, ringing. “Do you decline it,
Sir P " -
“I have no alternative but to do so.” replied
Nicholas.
“Door, Matthews | " said Mr. Gregsbury as
the boy appeared.
“I am sorry I have troubled you unne-
cessarily, sir,” said Nicholas. -
“I am sorry you have,” rejoined Mr. Gregs-
bury, turning his back upon him. “ Door,
Matthews | * -
“Good morning, sir,” said Nicholas.
“Door, Matthews 1" cried Mr. Gregsbury.
-The boy beckoned Nicholas, and, tumbling
lazily down-stairs before him, opened the door,
and ushered him into the street. . With a sad
and pensive air, he retraced his steps' home-
wards. .
Smike had scraped a meal together from
the remnant of last night's supper, and was
anxiously awaiting his return. The occurrences
of the morning had not improved Nicholas's
appetite, and, by him, the dinner remained
untasted. He was sitting in a thoughtful atti-
tude, with the plate which the poor fellow had
assiduously filled with the choicest morsels,
untouched, by his side, when Newman Noggs
looked into the room.
“Come back?” asked Newman.
2I4
| Q2
AVICHOLAS MVCKZEAE Y.
“Yes,” replied Nicholas, “tired to death:
and, what is worse, might have remained at
home for all the good I have done.”
“Couldn't expect to do much in one morn-
ing,” said Newman.
“Maybe so, but I am sanguine, and did
expect,” said Nicholas, “and am proportionately
disappointed.” Saying which, he gave New-
man an account of his proceedings.
“If I could do anything,” said Nicholas,
“anything, however slight, until Ralph Nickleby
returns, and I have eased my mind by con-
fronting him, I should feel happier. I should
think it no disgrace to work, Heaven knows.
Lying indolently here, like a half-tamed sullen
beast, distracts me.”
“I don't know,” said Newman ; “ small
things offer—they would pay the rent, and
more—but you wouldn't like them; no, you
could hardly be expected to undergo it—no,
no.”
“What could I hardly be expected to under-
go?” asked Nicholas, raising his eyes. “Show
ine, in this wide waste of London, any honest
means by which I could even defray the weekly
hire of this poor room, and see if I shrink from
resorting to them Undergo I have under-
gone too much, my friend, to feel pride or
squeamishness now. Except,” added Nicholas
hastily, after a short silence, “except such
squeamishness as is common honesty, and so
much pride as constitutes self-respect. I see
little to choose between assistant to a brutal
pedagogue, and toad-eater to a mean and
ignorant upstart, be he member or no mem-
ber.”
“I hardly know whether I should tell you
what I heard this morning, or not,” said New-
IIlah. -
“Has it reference to what you said just
now P” asked Nicholas.
“It has.”
“Then, in Heaven's name, my good friend,
tell it me,” said Nicholas. “For God's sake
cºnsider my deplorable condition ; and, while
I promise to take no step without taking
counsel with you, give me, at least, a vote in
my own behalf.” -
Moved by this entreaty, Newman stammered
forth a variety of most unaccountable and
entangled sentences, the upshot of which was, ‘
that Mrs. Kenwigs had examined him, at great
length that morning, touching the origin of his
acquaintance with, and the whole life, adven-
tures, and pedigree of, Nicholas ; that Newman
had parried these questions as long as he could,
but being, at length, hard pressed and driven
into a corner, had gone so far as to admit that
Nicholas was a tutor of great accomplishments,
involved in some misfortunes which he was not
at liberty to explain, and bearing the name of
Johnson. That Mrs. Kenwigs, impelled by
gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or
maternal love, or all four powerful motives con- .
jointly, had taken secret conference with Mr.
Kenwigs, and had finally returned to propose
that Mr. Johnson should instruct the four Miss
Kenwigses in the French language, as spoken
by natives, at the weekly stipend of five shil-
lings, current coin of the realm; being at the
rate of one shilling per week, per each Miss
Kenwigs, and one shilling over, until such time
as the baby might be able to take it out in
grammar. -
“Which, unless I am very much mistaken,
observed Mrs. Kenwigs in making the proposi-
tion, “will not be very long; for such clever
children, Mr. Noggs, never were born into this
world, I do believe.” -
“There,” said Newman, “that's all. It's
beneath you, I know; but I thought that per-
haps you might 35 -
“Might !” cried Nicholas with great alacrity;
“ of course I shall. I accept the offer at once.
Tell the worthy mother so without delay, my
dear fellow ; and that I am ready to begin when-
ever she pleases.” -
Newman hastened, with joyful steps, to in-
form Mrs. Kenwigs of his friend's acquiescence,
and soon returning, brought back word that
they would be happy to see him in the first floor
as soon as convenient; that Mrs. Kenwigs had,
upon the instant, sent out to secure a second-
hand French grammar and dialogues, which
had long been fluttering in the sixpenny box at
the book-stall round the corner ; and that the
ſamily, highly excited at the prospect of this
addition to their gentility, wished the initiatory
lesson to come off immediately.
And here it may be observed that Nicholas
was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a
young man of high spirit. He would resent an
affront to himself, or interpose to redress a
wrong offered to another, as boldly and freely as
any knight that ever, set lance in rest; but he
lacked that peculiar excess of coolness and
great-minded selfishness, which invariably dis-
tinguish gentlemen of high spirit. In truth, for
our own part, we are disposed to look upon
such gentlemen as being rather encumbrances
than otherwise in rising families: happening to
be acquainted with several whose spirit prevents
their settling down to any grovelling occupatiºn,
and only displays itself in a tendency to culti-
MR. LIZZYVICK'S OAIAWION OF THE FREAVCH ZANGUAGE.
vate moustaches, and look fierce; and although
moustaches and ferocity are both very pretty
things in their way, and very much to be com-
mended, we confess to a desire to see them:
bred at the owner's proper cost, rather than at
the expense of low-spirited people.
Nicholas, therefore, not being a high-spirited
young man according to common parlance, and
deeming it a greater degradation to borrow, for
the supply of his necessities, from Newman
Noggs than to teach French to the little Ken-
wigses for five shillings a week, accepted the
offer, with the alacrity already described, and
betook himself. to the first floor with all con-
venient speed. . - -
Here he was received by Mrs. Kenwigs with a
genteel air, kindly intended to assure him of
her protection and support; and here, too, he
found Mr. Lillywick and Miss Petowker; the
four Miss Kenwigses on their form of audience;
and the baby in a dwarf porter's chair with a
deal tray before it, amusing himself with a toy
horse without a head; the said horse being
composed of a small wooden cylinder, not un-
like un Italian iron, supported on four crooked
pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of
red wafers set in blacking.
“How do you do, Mr. Johnson P” said Mrs.
Kenwigs. “Uncle—Mr. Johnson.”
“How do you do, sir?” said Mr. Lillyvick
—rather sharply; for he had not known what
Nicholas was on the previous night, and it was
rather an aggravating circumstance if a tax-
Collector had been too polite to a teacher.
“Mr. Johnson is engaged as a private master
to the children, uncle,” said Mrs. Kenwigs.
“So, you said
Mr. Lillyvick. .
“But I hope,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, drawing
herself up, “that that will not make them proud;
but that they will bless their own good fortune,
which has born them superior to common people's
children. Do you hear, Morleena?”
“Yes, ma,” replied Miss Kenwigs.
“And when you go out in the streets, or
elsewhere, I desire that you don't boast of it to
the other children,” said Mrs. Kenwigs; “and
that, if you must say anything about it, you
don't say no more than “We’ve got a private
master comes to teach us at home, but we ain't
proud, because ma says it's sinful.” Do you
hear, Morleena P” -
“Yes, ma,” replied Miss Kenwigs again.
“Then mind you recollect, and do as I tell
you,” said Mrs. Kenwigs. “Shall Mr. Johnson
begin, uncle?”
“I am ready to hear, if Mr. Johnson is ready |
just now, my dear,” replied
p
...suming the air of a profound critic.
ful language.
I e3
to commence, my dear,” said the collector, as-
- “What
sort of language do you consider French, sir?”
“How do you mean?” asked Nicholas.
“Do you consider it a good language, sir?”
said the collector; “a pretty language, a sen-
sible language?”
“A pretty language, certainly,” replied
Nicholas; “and as it has a name for everything,
and admits of elegant conversation about every.
thing, I presume it is a sensible one.”
, “I don't know,” said Mr. Lillywick doubt.
fully. “Do you call it a cheerful language,
now P " -
“Yes,” replied Nicholas, “I should say it
was, certainly.”
“It's very much changed since my time, then,”
said the collector, “very much.”
“Was it a dismal one in your time?” asked
Nicholas, scarcely able to repress a smile.
“Very,” replied Mr. Lillyvick with some
vehemence of manner. “It’s the war-time that
I speak of ; the last war. It may be a cheer-
I should be sorry to contradict
anybody; but I can only say that I've heard the
French prisoners, who were natives, and ought
to know how to speak it, talking in such a
dismal manner, that it made one miserable to
hear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir—fifty
times | * - -
Mr. Lillyvick was waxing, so cross, that Mrs.
Kenwigs thought it expedient to motion to
Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not
until Miss Petowker had practised severa!
blandishments, to 'soften the excellent old
gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by
asking,
“What's the water in French, sir?”
“I’Eau,” replied Nicholas. .
“Ah!” said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head
mournfully, “I thought as much. Lo, eh?
I don't think anything of that language—nothing
at all.” * -
“I suppose the children may begin, uncle?”
said Mrs. Kenwigs.
“Oh yes; they may begin, my dear !” replied
the collector discontentedly. “I have no wish
to prevent them.”
This permission Deing conceded, the four
} Miss Kenwigses sat in a row, with their tails all
one way, and Morleena at the top: while
| Nicholas, taking the book, began his preli-
minary explanations. Miss Petowker and Mrs.
Kenwigs looked on in silent admiration, broken
only by the whispered assurances of the latter
that Morleena would have it all by heart in
no time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group
IOA
AVICHOLAS N/CKZEB.Y.
with frowning and, attentive eyes, lying in wait
for something upon which he could open a fresh
discussion on the language.
| CHAPTER XVII.
FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MISS NICKLEBY.
#T was with a heavy heart, and many
( , sad forebodings which no effort
could banish, that Kate Nickleby,
on the morning appointed for the
§ commencement of her engagement
quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded
her way alone, amid the noise and bustle of the
streets, towards the West-end of London.
At this early hour many sickly girls, whose
, business, like that of the poor worm, is to pro-
duce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks
the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our
streets, making towards the scene of their daily
labour, and catching as if by stealth, in their
hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air
and glimpse of sun-light which cheer their mono-
tonous existence during the long train of hours
that make a working day. As she drew nigh to
the more fashionable quarter of the town, Kate
marked many of this class as they passed by,
burrying like herself to their painful occupation,
and saw, in their unbealthy looks and feeble
gait, but too clear an evidence that her mis-
givings were not wholly groundless.
She arrived at Madame Mantalini's some
minutes before the appointed hour, and after
walking a few times up and down, in the hope
that some other female might arrive and spare
her the embarrassment of stating her business to
the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which,
after some delay, was opened by the footman,
who had been putting on his striped jácket as
he came up-stairs, and was now intent on fasten-
ing his apron.
“Is Madame Mantalini in P’ faltered Kate.
“Not often out at this time, miss,” replied the
man in a tone which rendered “Miss' something
more offensive than ‘My dear.’
“Can I see her P” asked Kate.
“Eh P’ replied the man, holding the door in
his hand, and honouring the inquirer with a stare
and a broad grin. “Lord, no l'
“I came by her own appointment,” said Kate ;
“I am—I am—to be employed here.”
“Oh you should have rung the workers'
ſ with Madame Mantalini, left, the
City when its clocks yet wanted a
bell,” said the footman, touching the handle of
one in the door-post. “Let me see, though, I
forgot—Miss Nickleby, is it?” . -
“Yes,” replied Kate.
“You're to walk up-stairs, then, please,” said
the man. “Madame Mantalini wants to see
you—this way—take care of these things on the
floor.”
Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip-over
a heterogeneous litter of pastrycook's trays,
lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of rout
seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly
bespeaking a late party on the previous night,
the man led the way to the second story, and
ushered Kate into a back-room,” communicating
by folding doors with the apartment in which
she had first seen the mistress of the establish-
Innent. -
“If you'll wait here a minute,” said the man,
“I’ll tell her presently.” Having made this
promise with much affability, he retired and left
Kate alone.
There was not much to amuse in the room;
of which the most attractive feature was, a half-
length portrait in oil of Mr. Mantalini, whom the
artist had depicted scratching his head in an
easy manner, and thus displaying to advantage
a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini
before her marriage. There was, however, the
sound of voices in conversation in the next
room ; and, as the conversation was loud and
the partition thin, Kate could not help dis-
covering that they belonged to Mr. and Mrs.
Mantalini.
. . “If you will be odiously, demnebly, out.
rigeously jealous, my soul,” said Mr. Mantalini,
“you will be very miserable—horrid miserable
—demnition miserable.” . And then there was a
sound as though Mr. Mantalini were sipping his
coffee. -
“I am miserable,” returned Madame Man-
talini, evidently pouting.
“Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd
unthankful little fairy,” said Mr. Mantalini.
“I am not,” returned madame with a sob.
“Do not put itself out of humour,” said Mr.
Mantalini, breaking an egg. “It is a pretty,
bewitching little demd countenance, and it
should not be out of humour, for it spoils its
loveliness, and makes it cross and gloomy like a
frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.”
“I am not to be brought round, in that way
ſ always,” rejoined madame sulkily.
: “It shall be brought round in any way it
likes best, and not brought rounds at allºif;it
likes that better,” retorted Mr. Mantalini, with
his egg-spoon in his mouth.

MA. DAME MAAV7'A LINT WA TURA LE Y FEEZS JEAzov.S.
10 5
“It's very easy to talk,” said Mrs. Mantalini.”
“Not so easy when one is, eating a demnition
& ſº.
egg,” replied Mr. Mantalini;
for the yolk runs, :
down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not
match, any waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat,
demmit.” - . .
“You were flirting with her during the whole
night,” said Madame Mantalini, apparently
f
desirous to lead the conversation back to the .
point from which it had strayed,
“No, no, my life.” - .
“You were,” said madame; “I
upon you all the time.”
had my eye
“Bless the little winking twinkling eye was
g ng ey
it on me all the time P” cried Mantalini in a
sort of lazy rapture. “Oh, demmit ". .
“And I say once more,” resumed madame
3. me?
“that you ought not to waltz with anybody but
your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini,
if I take poison first.” -
“She will not take poison and have horrid .
pains, will she P” said Mantalini; who, by the
altered sound of his voice, seemed to have
moved his chair, and taken up his position
nearer to his wife.
have married two countesses and a dowager
“Two countesses 1” interposed madame.
“You told me one before 1" -
“Two "cried Mantalini. “Two demd fine
women, real countesses, and splendid fortunes,
demmit.” . . . . . . . -
“And why didn't
fully. - - * *
“Why didn’t 12” replied her husband. “Had
I not seen, at a morning concert, the demdest
little fascinator in all the world, and while that
little fascinator is my wife, may not all the coun-
tesses and dowagers in England be—”
Mr. Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but
you?” asked madame play-
he gave Madame Mantalini a very loud kiss,
which Madame Mantalini returned; after which
there seemed to be some more kissing mixed up
with the progress of the breakfast.
“And what about the cash, my existence's
jewel?” said Mantalini when these endearments
ceased. “How much have we in hand P”
“Very little indeed,” replied madame.
“We must have some more,” said Mantalini;
“we must have some discount out of old
Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.”
“You can't want any more just now,” said
madame coaxingly . ; “s
“My life and soul,” returned her husband,
“there is a horse for sale at Scrubbs's, which it
would be a sin and a crime to lose——going, my
senses' joy, for nothing.” ... . .
“She will not take poison,
because she had a demd fine husband who might .
2 y -
“For nothing!” cried madame. “I am glad
of that.” t
“For actually nothing,” replied Mantalini.
“A hundred guineas down will buy him; manex
and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest
beauty. I will ride him in the park before the
very chariots of the rejected countesses. The
demd old dowager will faint with grief and rage;
the other two will say, ‘He is married, he has
made away with hºmself, it is a demd thing, it is
all up !” They will hate each other demnebly,
and wish you dead and buried. Ha! hal
Demmit.' .
Madame Mantalini's prudence, if she had any,
wns not proof against these triumphal pictures:
after a little jingling of keys, she observed that
she would see what her desk contained, and,
rising for that purpose, opened the folding door,
and walked into the room where Kate was
-eated. - - -
“Dear me, child f” exclaimed Madame Man-
talini, recoiling in surprise. “How came you
here?” . . -
“Child !” cried Mantalini, hurrying in.
“How came—eh?—oh —demmit, how d'ye
do?”
“I have been waiting here some time, ma'am,”
said Kate, addressing Madame Mantalini. “The
servant must have forgotten to let you know that
I was here, I think.”
“You really must see to that man,” said
madame, turning to her husband. “He forgets
everything.” -
“I will twist his demd nose off his counte-
nance for leaving such a very pretty creature all
alone by herself,” said her husband.
“Mantalini 1" cried madame, “you forget
yourself.” -
“I don't forget you, rny soul, and never shall,
and never can,” said Mantalini, kissing his wife's
hand, and grimacing aside to Miss Nickleby,
who turned away.
Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the
business took some papers from her desk, which
she handed over to Mr. Mantalini, who received
them with great delight. She then requested
Kate to follow her, and, after several feints on
the part of Mr. Mantalini to attract the young
lady's attention, they went away : leaving that
gentleman extended at full length on the sofa,
with his heels in the air, and a newspaper in his
hand. -
Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight
of stairs, and through a passage, to a large room
at the back of the premises, where were a num-
ber of young women employed in sewing,
cutting out, making up, altering, and various
I off
MICHOLAS NICKLERY.
other processes known only to those who are
cunning in the arts of millinery and dressmaking,
It was a close room with a sky-light, and as dull
and quiet as a room need be. . . . .
On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss
Knag, a short, bustling, over-dressed female,
full of importance, presented herself, and all the
young ladies, suspending their operations for the
moment, whispered to each other sundry criti-
cisms upon the make and texture of Miss
Nickleby's dress, her complexion, cast of features,
and personal appearance, with as much good-
breeding as could have been displayed by the
very best society in a crowded ball-room.
* Oh, Miss Knag [" said Madame Mantalini,
“this is the young person I spoke to you about.”
Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon
Madame Mantalini, which she dexterously
transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and
said that certainly, although it was a great deal
of trouble to have young people who were
wholly unused to the business, still she was sure
the young person would try to do her best—
impressed with which conviction she (Miss
Knag) felt an interest in her already.
“I think that, for the present at all events, it
will be better for Miss Nickleby to come into
the show-room with you, and try things on for
people,” said Madame Mantalini. “She will
not be able, for the present, to be of much
use in any other way; and her appearance
will—" . . "
“Suit very well with mine, Madame Man-
talini,” interrupted Miss Knag. “So it will;
and to be sure I might have known that you
would not be long in finding that out ; for you
have so much taste in all those matters, that
really, as I often say to the young ladies, I do not
know how, when, or where you possibly could
have acquired all you know—hem Miss
Nickleby and I are quite a pair, Madame Man- .
§ only I am a little darker than Miss
Nickleby, and—hem —I think my foot may be
a little smaller. Miss Nickleby, I am sure, will
not be offended at my saying that, when, she
hears that our family always have been cele-
brated for small feet ever since—hem l—ever .
since our family had any feet at all, indeed, I
think, I had an uncle once, Madame Manta-
lini, who lived in Cheltenham, and had a most
excellent business as a tobacconist—hem—who .
had such small feet, that they were no bigger.
than those which are usually joined to wooden
legs—the most symmetrical feet, Madame Man-
talini, that even you can imagine."
“They must have had something the appear-
ance, of club feet, Miss Knag,” said madame.
“Well, now, that is so like you,” returned Miss
Knag. “Ha! hat haſ of club feeti Oh,
very goodſ. As I often remark to the young
ladies, ‘Well, I must say, and I do not care who
knows it, of all the ready humour—hem 1–1
ever heard anywhere’—and I have heard a good
deal; for, when my dear brother was alive (I
kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we had to
Supper once a week two or three young men,
highly celebrated in those days for their humour,
Madame Mantalini—“Of all the ready humour,
I say to the young ladies, ‘ I ever heard,
Madame Mantalini's is the most remarkable—
hem It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so
good-natured (as I was observing to Miss Sim-
monds only this morning), that how, or when,
or by what means she acquired it, is to me a
, mystery indeed.’” g …
Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and
while she pauses it may be observed—not that
she was marvellously loquacious and marvel-
lously deferential to Madame Mantalini, since
these are facts which require no comment; but
that every now and then she was accustomed, in
the torrent of her discourse, to introduce a loud,
shrill, clear “hem "...the import and meaning of
which was variously interpreted by her acquaint-
ance; some holding that Miss Knag dealt in
exaggeration, and introduced the monosyllable
when any fresh invention was in course of
coinage in her brain; others, that when she
wanted a word, she threw it in to gain time, and
prevent anybody else from striking into the con-
versation. It may be further remarked that
Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although she
| had shot beyond it years ago; and that she was
weak and vain, and one of those people who are
best described by the axiom, that you may
trust them as far as you can see them, and no
farther. -
“You'll take care that Miss Nickleby under-
stands her hours, and so forth,” said Madame
Mantalini; “and so I'll leave her with you.
You'll not forget my directions, Miss Knag P”
Miss Knag of course replied that to forget
anything Madame Mantalini had directed was a
moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a
general good morning among her assistants,
sailed away. . . .
“Charming creature, isn't she, Miss Nickleby?”
said Miss Knag, rubbing her hands together.
“I have seen very little of her,” said Kate.
“I hardly know yet.” -
“Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?” inquired
Mºs Knag,
“Yes; I have seen him twice.”
“Isn't he a charming creature?"
* .
CAAA*/C/O US CUSTOME/CS.
| 1 of
“Indeed, he does not strike me as being so,
by any means,” replied Kate. .
“No, my dear!” cried Miss Knag, elevating
her hands. “Why, goodness gracious mercy,
where's your taste? Such a fine tall, full-
whiskered, dashing, gentlemanly man, with such
teeth and hair, and—hem l—well, now, you do
astonish me.” -
“I dare say I am very foolish,” replied Kate,
laying aside her bonnet; “but, as my opinion is
of vig little importance to him or any Gºne else,
I do not regret having formed it, and shall be
slow to change it, I think.” . . " -
“He is a very fine man, don't you think so *"
asked one of the young ladies. -
“Indeed, he may be, for anything I could say.
to the contrary,” replied Kate. -
“And drives very beautiful horses, doesn't
he P” inquired another. . . . . . -
“I dare say he may, but I never saw them,”
answered Kate. - -
“Never saw them " interposed Miss Knag.
“Oh, well ! There it is at once, you know.
How can you possibly pronounce an opinion
about a gentleman—hem —if you don't see him
as he turns out altogether?"
There was so much of the world—even of the
little world of the country girl—in this idea of
the old milliner, that Kate, who was anxious, for
every reason, to change the subject, made no
further remark, and left Miss Knagin possession
of the field. . . . . . . . .
After a short silence, during which most of
the young people made a closer inspection of
Kate's appearance, and compared notes re-
specting it, one of them offered, to help her off
with her shawl, and, the offer being accepted,
inquired whether she did not find black very
uncomfortable wear. . . .
“I do indeed,” replied Kate with a bitter
sigh. - -
“So dusty and hot,” observed the same
speaker, adjusting her dress for her.
Kate might have said that mourning is some-
times the coldest wear which mortals can assume;
that it not only chills the breasts of those it
clothes, but, extending its influence to summer
friends, freezes up their sources of good-will and
kindness, and, withering all the buds of promise
they once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing
but bared and rotten hearts exposed. There are
few who have lost a friend or relative constituting
in life their sole dependence, who have not
keenly felt this chilling influence of their sable
garb. She had felt it acutely, and, feeling it at
the moment, could not, quite restrain her tears.
“I am very sorry to have wounded you by
my thoughtless specch,” said her companion.
“I did not think of it. You are in mourning
for some near relation ?”
“For my father,” answered Kate.
“For what relation, Miss Simmonds 2" asked
Miss Knag in an audible voice.
“Her father,” replied the other softly.
“Her father, eh?” said Miss Knag without
the slightest depression of her voice. “Ah! A
long illness, Miss Simmonds?"
* Hush t” replied the girl; “I don't know.”
“Our misfortune was very sudden,” said Kate,
turning away, “ or I might perhaps, at a time like
this, be enabled to support it better.”
There had existed not a little desire in the
room, according to invariable custom, when any
new “young person” came, to know who Kate
was, and what she was, and all about her ; but,
although it might have been very naturally
increased by her appearance and emotion, the
knowledge that it pained her to be questioned
was sufficient to repress even this curiosity; and
Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt
extracting any further particulars just , then,
reluctantly commanded silence, and bade the
work proceed. -
In silence, then, the tasks were plied until
half-past one, when a baked leg of mutton, with
potatoes to correspond, were served in the
kitchen. The meal over, and the young ladies
having enjoyed the additional relaxation of
washing their hands, the work began again, and
was again performed in silence, until the noise
of carriages rattling through the streets, and of
loud double knocks at doors, gave token that
the day's work of the more fortunate members of
society was proceeding in its turn.
One of these double knocks at Madame
Mantalini's door announced' the equipage of
some great lady—or rather rich one, for there is
occasionally a distinction between riches and
greatness—who had come with her daughter to
approve of some court dresses which had been a
long time preparing, and upon whom Kate
was deputed to wait, accompanied by Miss
Knag, and officered, of course, by Madame
Mantalini.
Kate's part in the pageant was humble enough,
her duties being limited to holding articles of
costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them
on, and now and then tying a string, or fastening
a hook-and-eye. She might, not unreasonably,
have supposed herself beneath the reach of any
arrogance, or bad humour; but it happened that
the lady and daughter were both out of temper
that day, and the poor girl came in for her share
of their revilings. She was awkward—her hands
1 o'S
AVYCHO/AS AWCKZEB V.
were cold—dirty—coarse—Éhe could do nothing
right; they wondered how Madame Mantalini
could have such people about her; requested
they might see some other young woman the
next time they came ; and so forth, -
So common an occurrence would be hardly
deserving of mention, but for its effect. Kate
shed many bitter tears when these people were
gone, and felt, for the first time, humbled by her
occupation.
She had, it is true, quailed at the
prospect of drudgery and hard service; but she
had felt no degradation in working for her bread
until she found herself exposed to insolence and
pride. Philosophy would have taught her that
the degradation was on the side of those who
had sunk so low as to display such passions
habitually, and without cause: but she was too
young for such consolation, and her honest
feeling was hurt. May not the complaint, that
common people are above their station, often
i. i* | * º . . . 2. lºſſ; §§ y :
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• ***, 3
“I DON'T ForceT You, My soul, AND NEVER SHALL, AND NEVER CAN,” said MANTALINI, KISSING HIS
wife's HAND, AND CRIMACING ASIpH TO MISS NICKLEBY, who TURNED Away,
take its rise in the fact of uncommon people.
being below theirs?
In such scenes and occupations the time wore
on until nine o'clock, when Kate, jaded and
dispirited with the occurrences of the day,
hastened from the confinement of the workroom,
to join her mother at the street corner, and walk
home : the more sadly from having to disguise
her real feelings, and feign to participate in all
the sanguine visions of her companion.
“Bless my soul, Kate 1” said Mrs. Nickleby;
“I’ve been thinking all day what a delightful
thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take
you into partnership—such a likely thing too,
you know ! Why, your poor dear papa's cousin's
sister-in-law—a Miss Browndock—was taken
into partnership by a lady that kept a school at
Hammersmith, and made her fortune in no time
at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss
Browndock was the same lady that got the ten
thousand pounds prize in the lottery, but I think
she was ; indeed, now I come to think of it, I

THE ROMANCE OF CHARITY
I og
am sure she was. ‘Mantalini and Nickleby,'
how well it would sound !—and, if Nicholas has
any good fortune, you might haye Doctor
Nickleby, the head master ºf Westminster
School, living in the same street.”
“Dear Nicholas !” cried Kate, taking from
her reticule her brother's letter from Dotheboys
Hall. “In all our misfortunes, how happy it
makes me, mamma, to hear he is doing well, and
to find him writing in such good spirits . . It
consoles me for all we may undergo, to think
that he is comfortable and happy.” -
Poor Kate 1 she little thought how weak her
consolation was, and how soon she would be
undeceived.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MISS KNAG, AFTER DoTING ON KATE NICKLEBY FOR
THREE whole. DAYs, MakIts UP HER MIND TO
HATE FIER FOR EVIERMORE, THE CAUSES WHICH
LED MISS KNAG TO FORM THIS RESOLU"ON.
* * * * *- : *-* wº
HERE are many lives of much pain,
hardship, and suffering, which, hav-
ing no stirring interest for any but
those who lead them, are disre-
| garded by persons who do not want
thought or feeling, but who pamper
compassion, and need high stimu-
lants to rouse it.
There are not a few among the disciples of
charity who require, in their vocation, scarcely
less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in
theirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy
and compassion are every day expended on out-
of-the-way objects, when only too many demands
upon the legitimate exercise of the same virtues
in a healthy state are constantly within the sight
and hearing of the most unobservant person
alive. In short, charity must have its romance,
as the novelist or playwright must have his. A
thief in fustian is a vulgar character, scarcely to
be thought of by persons of refinement; but
dress him in green velvet, with a high-crowned
hat, and change the scene of his operations from
a thickly-peopled city to a mountain road, and
you shall find in him the very soul of poetry,
and adventure. So it is with the one great car-
dinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exer.
cised, leads to, if it does not necessarily include,
all the others. It must have its romance; and
the less of real, hard, struggling work-a-day life
there is in that romance, the better.
The life to which poor Kate Nickleby was
devoted, in consequence of the unforeseen train
of circumstances already developed in this nar-
rative, was a hard one ; but lest the very dul-
ness, unhealthy confinement, and bodily fatigue,
which made up its sum and substance, should
deprive it of any interest with the mass of the
charitable and sympathetic, I would rather keep
Miss Nickleby herself in view, just now, than
chill them in the outset by a minute and
lengthened description of the establishment pre-
sided over by Madame Mantalini.
“Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,”
said Miss Knag, as Kate was taking her weary
way homewards on the first night of her novi.
tiate; “that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable
young person—a very creditable young person
indeed—hem —upon my word, Madame Man-
talini, it does very extraordinary credit, even to
your discrimination, that you should have found
such a very excellent, very well-behaved, very
—hem l—very unassuming young woman to
assist in the fitting-on. I have seen some young
women, when they had the opportunity of dis-
playing before their betters, behave in such a
—oh dear!—well—but you're always right,
Madame Mantalini, always; and, as I very
often tell the young ladies, how you do contrive
to be always right, when so many people are so
often wrong, is to me a mystery indeed.’
“Beyond putting a very eucellent client out
of humour, Miss Nickleby has not done any-
thing very remarkable to-day—that I am aware
of, at least,” said Madame Mantalini in reply.
“Oh dear!” said Miss Knag; “but you
must allow a great deal for inexperience, you
know.”
“And youth P” inquired madame. -
“Oh I say nothing about that, Madame
Mantalini,” replied Miss Knag, reddening;
“because, if youth were any excuse, you
wouldn't have—”
“Quite so good a ſorewonian as I have, I
suppose,” suggested madame, -
“Well, I never did know anybody like you,
Madame Mantalini,” rejoined Miss Knag most
complacently, “and that's the fact, for you
know what one's going to say before it has
time to rise to one's lips. Oh, very good Ha,
ha, ha!”
“For myself,” observed Madame Mantalini,
glancing with affected carelessness at her assist-
ant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, “I con-
sider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I
ever saw in my life.”
“Poor dear thing !” said Miss Knag, “it’s
not her fault. If it was, we might hope to cure
it; but as it's her misfortune, Madame Man-
talini, why really, you know, as the man said
about the blind horse, we ought to respect it.”

I [O
AVYCHOLAS MICKZEB Y.
“Her uncle told me she had been considered
pretty,” remarked Madame Mantalini. “I
think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever
met with.” -
“Ordinary 1” cried Miss Knag with a coun-
tenance beaming delight; “and awkward
Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that
I quite love the poor girl; and that if she was
twice as indifferent-looking, and twice as awk-
ward as she is, I should be only so much the
more her friend, and that's the truth of it.”
In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an in-
cipient affection for Kate Nickleby, after wit.
nessing her failure that morning, and this short
conversation with her superior increased the
favourable prepossession to a most surprising
extent; which was the more remarkable as,
when she first scanned that young lady's face
and figure, she had entertained certain inward
misgivings that they would never agree. ,
“But now,” said Miss Knag, glancing at the
reflection of herself in a mirror at no great dis-
tance, “I love her—I quite love her—I declare'
I do "
Of such a highly disinterested quality was
this devoted friendship, and so superior was it
to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill-nature,
that the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidly in-
formed Kate Nickleby, next day, that she saw
she would never do for the business, but that
she need not give herself the slightest uneasi-
mess on this account, for that she (Miss Knag),
by increased exertions on her own part, would
keep her as much as possible in the background,
and that all she would have to do, would be to
remain perfectly quiet before company, and toº
shrink from attracting notice by every means in
her power. This last suggestion was so much
in accordance with the timid girl's own feelings
and wishes, that she readily promised implicit
reliance, on the excellent spinster's advice:
without questioning, or, indeed, bestowing a
moment's reflection upon, the motives that
dictated it.
“I take quite a lively interest in you, my
dear soul, upon my word,” said Miss Knag;
“a sister's interest, actually. It's the most
singular circumstance I ever knew.” -
Undoubtedly it was singular that, if Miss
Knag did feel a strong interést in. Kate
Nickleby, it should not rather have been the
interest of a maiden aunt or grandmother; that
being the conclusion to which the difference in
their respective ages would have naturally
tended. But Miss Knag wore clothes of a
Yºry Youthful pattern, and perhaps her feelings
took the same shape.
“Bless you !” said Miss Knag, bestowing a
kiss upon Kate at the conclusion of the second
day's work, “how very awkward you have been
all day !” \ tº . *
“I fear your kind and open communication,
which has rendered me more painfully conscious
of my own defects, has not improved me,"
'sighed Kate.
“No, no, I dare say not,” rejoined Miss
Knag in a most uncommon flow of good-
humour. “But how much better that you
should know it at first, and so be able to go on
straight and comfortable Which way are you
walking, my love P”
“Towards the City,” replied Kate. •
“The City ” cried Miss Knag, regarding
herself with great favour in the glass as she
tied her bonnet. “Goodness gracious me !
now, do you really live in the City?”
“Is it so very unusual for anybody to live
there?” asked Kate, half smiling.
“I couldn't have believed it possible that
any young woman could have lived there, under
any circumstances whatever, for three days to:
gether,” replied Miss Knag. - **
“Reduced—I should say poor people,” an-
swered Kate, correcting herself hastily, for she
was afraid of appearing proud, “must live where
they can.” -
“Ah very true, so they must ; very proper
indeed l’’ rejoined Miss Knag with that sort of
half-sigh which, accompanied by two or three
slight nods of the head, is pity's small change
in general society; “and that's what I very
often tell my brother when our servants go away
ill, one after another, and he thinks the back.
kitchen's rather too damp for 'em to sleep in.
These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to
sleep anywhere ! Heaven suits the back to the
burden. What a nice thing it is to think that
it should be so, isn't it?” - -
“Very,” replied Kate.
“I’ll walk with you part of the way, my dear,”
said Miss Knag, “for you must go very near
our house ; and, as it's quite dark, and our last
servant went to the hospital a week ago with
St. Anthony's fire in her face, I shall be glad of
your company.”
Kate would willingly have excused herself
from this flattering companionship ; but Miss
Knag, having adjusted her bonnet to her entire
satisfaction, took her arm with an air which
plainly showed how much she felt the compli-
ment she was conferring, and they were in the
street before she could say another word.
“I fear,” said Kate, hesitating, “that manma
—my mother, I mean—is waiting for me.”
AMISS KZVAG AAVO MRS, AVICKZZA y AFAE RAE Z ROSAE C77 PE.
I I I
“You needn’t make the least apology, my
dear,” said Miss Knag, smiling sweetly as she
spoke; “I dare say she is a very respectable old
person, and I shall be quite—hem —quite
pleased to know her.”
. As poor Mrs. Nickleby was cooling—not her
heels alone, but her limbs generally, at the
streetcorner, Kate had no alternative but to make
her known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last
new carriage customer at second-hand, acknow-
ledged the introduction with condescending
politeness. The three then walked away arm-
in-arm; with Miss Knag in the middle, in a
special state of amiability.
“I have taken such a fancy to your daughter,
Mrs. Nickleby, you can't think,” said Miss
Knag after she had proceeded a little distance
in dignified silence.
: “I am delighted to hear it,” said Mrs.
Nickleby; “though it is nothing new to me
that even strangers should like Kate.”
“Hem ’’ cried Miss Knag.
“You will like her better when you know
how good she is,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “It is
a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to
have a child who knows neither pride nor vanity,
and whose bringing-up might very well have
excused a little of both at first. You don't
know what it is to lose a husband, Miss Knag.”
As Miss Knag had never yet known what it
was to gain one, it followed, very nearly as a
matter of course, that she didn't know what it
was to lose one ; so she said, in some haste,
“No, indeed I don't,” and said it with an air
intending to signify that she should like to catch
herself marrying anvbody—no, no, she knew
better than that.
“Kate has improved Seven in this little time,
I have no doubt," said Mrs. Nickleby, glancing
proudly at her daughter.
“Oh I of course,” said Miss Knag.
“And will improve still more,” added Mrs.
Nickleby.
“That she will, I'll be bound,” replied Miss
Knag, squeezing Kate's arm in her own, to
point the joke.
“She always was clever,” said poor Mrs.
Nickleby, brightening up, “always, from a baby.
I recollect, when she was only two years and a
half old, that a gentleman who used to visit
Very much at our house—Mr. Watkins, you
know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went
bail for, who afterwards ran away to the United
States, and sent us a pair of snow shoes, with
such an affectionate letter that it made your
Poor dear father cry for a week. You remem-
ber the letter P In which he said that he was
very sorry he couldn't repay the fifty pounds
just then, because his capital was all out at
interest, and he was very busy making his
fortune, but that he didn't forget you were his
god-daughter, and he should take it very unkind
if we didn't buy you a silver coral, and put it
down to his old account? Dear me, yes, my
dear, how stupid you are and spoke so affec-
tionately of the old port wine that he used to
drink a bottle and a half of every time he came.
You must remember, Kate P”
“Yes, yes, mamma; what of him P”
“Why, that Mr. Watkins, my dear,” said Mrs.
Nickleby slowly, as if she were making a tre-
mendous effort to recollect something of para-
mount importance; “that Mr. Watkins—he
wasn't any relation, Miss Knag will understand,
to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the
village; by-the-bye, I don't remember whether
it was the Old Boar or the George the Third,
but it was one of the two, I know, and it's much
the same—that Mr. Watkins said, when you
were only two years and a half old, that you
were one of the inost astonishing children he
ever saw. He did indeed, Miss Knag, and he
wasn't at all fond of ghildren, and couldn't have
had the slightest motive for doing it. I know
it was he who said so, because I recéllect, as
well as if it was only yesterday, his borrowing
twenty pounds of her poor dear papa the very
moment afterwards.”
Having quoted this extraordinary and most
disinterested testimony to her daughter's excel-
lence, Mrs. Nickleby stopped to breathe; and
Miss Knag, finding that the discourse was turn-
ing upon family greatness, lost no time in strik-
lag in with a small reminiscence on her own
a CCOunt.
“Don’t talk of lending money, Mrs. Nickle-
by,” said Miss Knag, “ or you'll drive me crazy,
perſectly crazy. My mamma—hem.4—was the
most lovely and beautiful creature, with the
most striking and exquisite—hem —the most
exquisite nose that ever was put upon a human
face, I do believe, Mrs. Nickleby (here Miss
Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically);
the most delightful and accomplished woman,
perhaps, that ever was seen; but she had that
one failing of lending money, and carried it to
such an extent that she lent—-hem ſ—oh
thousands of pounds, all our little fortunes,
and what's more, Mrs. Nickleby, I don't think,
if we were to live till—till—hem —till the very
end of time, that we should ever get them back
again. I don't indeed.”
After concluding this effort of invention
without being interrupted, Miss Knag fell into
I 2
MICHOLAS MICKZEB Y.
many more recollections, 'no less interesting
than true, the full tide of which, Mrs. Nickleby
in vain attempting to stem, at length sailed
smoothly down, by adding an under-current of
her own recollections; and so both ladies went
on talking together in perfect contentment; the
only difference between them being, that whereas
Miss Knag addressed herself to Kate, and
talked very loud, Mrs. Nickleby kept on in one
unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly satisfied
to be talking, and caring very little whether
anybody listened or not.
In this manner they walked on, very ami-
cably, until they arrived at Miss Knag's brother's,
who was an ornamental stationer and small cir-
culating-library"keeper in a by-street off Totten-
ham Court Road: and who let out by the day,
week, month, or year, the newest old novels,
whereof the titles were displayed in pen-and-
ink characters on a sheet of pasteboard, swing-
ing at his door-post. As Miss Knag happened,
at the moment, to be in the middle of an
account of her twenty-second offer from a gen-
tleman of large property, shë insisted upon
their all going in to supper together; and in
they went. . . . . .
“Don’t go away, Mortimer,” said. Miss Knag
as they entered the shop. “It's only one of
our young ladies and her mother. Mrs. and
Miss Nickleby.” - -
- ź indeed " said Mr. Mortimer Knag.
& & Y ! y r - . -
Having given utterance to these ejaculations
with a very profound and thoughtful air, Mr.
Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the
counter, and two more in the window, and then
Snuffed himself from a box in his waistcoat
pocket. - r
There was something very impressive in the
ghostly air with which all this was done; and,
as Mr. Knag was a tall lank gentleman of
solemn features, wearing spectacles, and gar-
nished with much less hair than a gentleman
bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually
boasts, Mrs. Nickleby whispered her daughter
that she thought he must be literary.
“Past ten,” said Mr. Knag, consulting his
watch. “Thomas, close the warehouse.”
Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a
shutter, and the warehouse was a shop about
the size of three hackney coaches.
“Ah!" said Mr. Knag once more, heaving a
deep sigh as he restored to its parent shelf the
book he had been reading. “ Well—yes—I
believe supper is ready, sister.”
...With another sigh Mr. Knag took up the
kitchen candles from the counter, and preceded
the ladies with mournful steps to a back-parlour,
where a charwoman, employed in the absence
of the sick servant, and remunerated with certain
eighteen-pences to be deducted from her wages
due, was putting the supper out.
“Mrs. Blockson,” said Miss Knag reproach
ſully, “how very often I have begged you not
to come into the room with your bonnet on 1"
“I can't help it, Miss Knag,” said the char-
woman, bridling up on the shortest notice.
“There's been a deal o' cleaning to do in this
house, and if you don't like it, I must trouble
you to look out for somebody else, for it don't
hardly pay me, and that's the truth, if I was to
be hung this minute.” -
“I don’t want any remarks if you please,” said
Miss Knag with a strong emphasis on the per-
sonal pronoun. “Is there any fire down-stairs.
for some hot water presently P”
“No, there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,” re
plied the substitute; “and so I won tº tell you
no stories about it.”
“Then why isn't there?” said Miss Knag,
“Because there aren't no coals left out, and
if I could make coals I would, but as I can't I
won't, and so I make bold to tell you, mem,”
replied Mrs. Blockson.
“Will you hold your tongue—female P” said
Mr. Mortimer Knag, plunging violently into this
dialogue. - -
“By your leave, Mr. Knag,” retorted the
charwoman, turning sharp round, “Prm only
too glad not to speak in this house, excepting
when and where I'm spoke to, sir; and with
regard to being a female, sir, I should wish to
know what you considered yourself?” .
“A miserable wretch,” exclaimed Mr. Knag.
striking his forehead. “A miserable wretch.”
“I’m very glad to find that you don't call
yourself out of your name, sir,” said Mrs. Block-
son; “and, as I had two twin children the day
before yesterday was only seven weeks, and my
little Charley fell down a airy, and put his elber
out, last Monday, I shall take it as a favour if
you'll send nine shillings, for one week's work,
to my house, afore the clock strikes ten to-
morrow.”
With these parting words, the good woman
quitted the room with great ease of manner,
leaving the door wide open; Mr. Knag, at the
same moment, flung himself into the “ware.
house,” and groaned aloud.
“What is the matter with that gentleman.
pray P”, inquired Mrs. Nickleby, greatly dis-
turbed by the sound. - -
“Is he ill P” inquired Kate, really alarmed.
“Hush " replied Miss Knag; “a most
A/V ZAZAZ AIE/GAZZ" OAP APASA/NOAV.
II 3
melancholy history. He was once most de-
votedly attached to—hem —to Madame Man-
talini.” -
“Bless me !” exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.
“Yes,” continued Miss Knag, “ and received
great encouragement too, and confidently hoped
to marry her. He has a most romantic heart,
Mrs. Nickleby, as indeed—hem —as indeed all
our family have, and the disappointment was a
dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully accomplished
man—most extraordinarily accomplished—reads
—hem —reads every novel that comes out; I
mean every novel that—hem —that has any
| 7
fashion in it, of course. The fact is, that he did
find so much in the books he read applicable to
his own misfortunes, and did find himself in
every respect so much like the heroes—because,
of course, he is conscious of his own superiority,
as we all are, and very naturally—that he took
to scorning everything, and became a genius ;
and I am quite sure that he is, at this very pre-
sent moment, writing another book.”
“Another book 1" repeated Kate, finding
that a pause was left for somebody to say some-
thing. . -
“Yes,” said Miss Knag, nodding in great
triumph; “another book, in three volumes post
99tavo. Of course, it's a great advantage to
him, in all his little fashionable descriptions, to
have the benefit of my—hem —of my experi-
°nce, because, of course, few authors who write
about such things can have such opportunities
of knowing them as I have. He's so wrapped
"P in highlife, that the least allusion to business
9 Worldly matters—like that woman just now,
for instance—quite distracts him ; but, as I often
$ºy, I think his disappointment a great thing for
him, because, if he hadn't been disappointed, he
couldn't have written about blighted hopes and
“A MISERABLE wretch,” ExcLAIMED MR. KNAG, STRIKING HIs FoREHEAD. “A MISERABLE wretch.”
all that ; and the fact is, if it hadn't happened
as it has, I don't believe his genius would ever
have come out at all.”
How much more communicative Miss Knag
might have become under more favourable cir-
cumstances, it is impossible to divine, but, as
the gloomy one was within ear-shot, and the fire
wanted making up, her disclosures stopped here.
To judge from all appearances, and the difficulty
of making the water warm, the last servant could
not have been much accustomed to any other
fire than St. º: ; but a little brandy-and-
water was made at last, and the guests, having

I I 4
MYCHO/AS MACAA/.3 Y.
béen previously regaled with cold leg of mutton
and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took
leave ; Kate amusing herself, all the way home,
with the recollection of her last glimpse of Mr.
Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop ;
and Mrs. Nickleby by debating within herself
whether the dressmaking firm would ultimately
become “Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby,” or
“Mantalini, Nickleby, and Knag.” .
At this high point Miss Knag's friendship re-
mained for three whole days, much to the won-
derment of Madame Mantalini's young ladies,
who had never beheld such constancy in that
quarter before; but, on the fourth, it received a
check no less violent than sudden, which thus
occurred.
p. It happened that an old lord of great family,
o “was going to marry a young lady of no
family in particular, came with the young lady,
and the young lady's-sister, to witness the cere-
mony of trying on two nuptial bonnets, which
had been ordered the day before, and Madame
Mantalini announcing the fact, in a shrill treble, |
through the speaking-pipe, which communicated
with the workroom, Miss. Knag darted hastily
up-stairs with a bonnet in cach hand, and pre-.
sented herself in the show-room, in a charming
state of palpitation, intended to demonstrate
her enthusiasm in the cause. The bonnets were
no sooner fairly on than Miss Knag and Madame
Mantalini fell into convulsions of admiration.
“Almost elegant appearance," said Madame
Mantălini, . . . .
.# Inever saw anything so exquisite in all my
life,” said Miss Knag
Now, the old ori, who was a very old lord,
said nothing, but mumbled and chuckled in a
state of great delight, no less with the nuptial
bonnets and their wearers than with his own
address in getting such a fine womań for his
wife; and the young lady, who was a very lively |
young lady, seeing the old lord in this rapturous.
condition, chased the old lord behind a cheval-
glass, and then and there kissed him, while
Madame Mantalini and the other young lady
lookèd, discreetly, another way.
But, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who
was tinged with curiosity, stepped accidentally
behind the glass, and encountered the lively
young lady's eye just at the very moment when
she kissed the old lord; upon which the young
lady, in a pouting manner, murmured something
about “an old thing,” and “great impertinence,”
and finished by darting a look of displeasure at
Miss Knag, and smiling contemptuously.
“Madame Mantalini,” said the young lady.
“Ma'am," said Madame Mantalini.
tended.
“Pray have up that pretty young creature we
saw yesterday.”
“Oh yes, do 1" said the sister,
“Of all things in the world, Madame Manta-
lini,” said the lord's intended, throwing herself
languidly on a sofa, “I hate being waited upon
by frights or elderly persons. Let me always
see that young creature, I beg, whenever I
come.”
“By all means,” said the old lord ; “the
lovely young creature, by all means.” -
“Everybody is talking about her,” said the
young lady in the same careless manner; “and
my lord, being a great admirer of beauty, must
positively see her.” e -
“She is universally admired,” replied Madame
Mantalini. “Miss Knag, send up Miss Nickleby.
You needn't return.” •.
“I beg your pardon, Madame :Mantalini,
what did you say last?” asked Miss” Knag,
trembling. -
“You needn't return,” repeated the superior
sharply. Miss Knag vanished without another
word, and in all reasonable time was replaced
by Kate, who took off the new bonnets and put
on the old ones: blushing very much to find
that the old lord and the two young ladies were
staring her out of countenance all the time. -
“Why, how you colour, child 1" said the
lord's chosen bride. . . . . . .
“She is not quite so accustomed to her busi-
ness as she will be in a week or two," interposed
: Madame Mantalini with a gracious smile.
“I am afraid you have been giving her some
of your wicked looks, my lord," said the in-
“No, no, no,” replied the old lord, “no, no,
I'm going to be married, and lead a new life.
Ha, ha, had a new life, a new life! ha, ha, ha!”
It was a satisfactory thing to hear that the old
gentleman was going to lead a new life, for it
was pretty evident that his old one would not
last him much longer. The mere exertion of
protracted chuckling reduced him to a fearful
ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some
minutes before he could find breath to remark
that the girl was too pretty for a milliner.
“I hope you don't think good looks a dis-
qualification for the business, my lord,” said
Madame Mantalini, simpering.
“Not by any means,” replied the old lord;
“or you would have left it long ago.”
“You naughty creature " said the lively lady,
poking the peer with her parasol ; “I won't
have you talk so. How dare you?”
This playful inquiry was accompanied with
another poke, and another, and then the old
AA TE GIVES GREAT OFFENCE.
1 15
lord caught the parasol, and wouldn't give it up
again, which induced the other lady to come to
the rescue, and some very pretty sportiveness
ensued.
“You will see that those little alterations are
made, Madame Mantalini,” said the lady. “Nay,
you bad man, you positively shall go first ; I
wouldn't leave you behind with that pretty girl,
not for half a second. I know you too well.
Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall be
quite sure of him.”
The old lord, evidently much flattered by this
suspicion, bestowed a grotesque leer upon Kate
as he passed; and, receiving another tap with
the parasol for his wickedness, tottered down-
stairs to the door, where his sprightly body was
hoisted into the carriage by two stout footmen.
“Foh " said Madame Mantalini, “how he
ever gets into a carriage without thinking of a
hearse, I can't think. There, take the things
away, my dear, take them away.”
Kate, who had remained during the whole
scene with her eyes modestly fixed upon the
ground, was only too happy to avail herself of
the permission to retire, and hasten joyfully
down-stairs to Miss Knag's dominion.
The circumstances of the little kingdom had
greatly changed, however, during the short period
of her absence. In place of Miss Knag being
stationed in her accustomed seat, preserving all
the dignity and greatness of Madame Mantalini's
representative, that..worthy soul was reposing on
a large box, bathed in tears, while three or four
of the young ladies in close attendance upon
her, together with the presence of hartshorn,
vinegar, and other restoratives, would have
borne ample testimony, even without the de-
rangement of the head-dress and front row of
curls, to her having fainted desperately.
“Bless me !" said Kate, stepping hastily
forward, “what is the matter?”
This inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent
Symptoms of a relapse; and several young ladies,
darting angry looks at Kate, applied more
Vinegar and hartshorn, and said it was “a
shame.”
. “What is a shame?" demanded Kate. “What
is the matter? What has happened? Tell me.”
“Matter 1" cried Miss Knag, coming, all at
Once, bolt upright, to the great consternation of
the assembled maidens; “matter | Fie upon
you, you nasty creature t”
“Gracious !” cried Kate, almost paralysed by
the violence with which the adjective had been
jerked out from between Miss Knag's closed
teeth; “have Y offended you?”
“You offended me !” retorted Miss Knag,
º
“you ! a chit, a child, an upstart nobody Oh,
indeed Ha, ha I’”
Now, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed,
that something struck her as being exceedingly
funny; and as the young ladies took their tone
from Miss Knag—she being the chief—they all
got up a laugh without a moment's delay, and
nodded their heads a little, and smiled sarcas-
tically to each other, as much as to say, how
very good that was 1
“Here she is," continued Miss Knag, getting
off the box, and introducing Kate with much
ceremony and many low curtsies to the delighted
throng; “here she is—everybody is talking
about her—the belle, ladies—the beauty, the—
oh, you bold-faced thing t”
At this crisis Miss Knag was unable to repress
a virtuous shudder, which immediately com-
municated itself to all the young ladies; after
which Miss Knag laughed, and, after that, cried.
“For fifteen years,” exclaimed Miss Knag,
sobbing in a most affecting manner, “for fifteen
years have I been the credit and ornament of
this room and the one up-stairs. Thank God,”
said Miss Knag, stamping first her right ſoot and
then her left with remarkable energy, “I have
never in all that time, till now, been exposed to
the arts, the vile arts, of a creature who dis-
graces us with all her proceedings, and makes
proper people blush for themselves. But I feel
it, I do feel it, although I am disgusted.”
Miss Knag here relapsed into softness, and
the young ladies, renewing their attentions,
murmured that she ought to be superior to such
things, and that, for their part, they despised
them, and considered them beneath their notice;
in witness whereof they called out, more em-
phatically than before, that it was a shame, and
that they felt so angry, they did, they hardly
knew what to do with themselves.
“Have I lived to this day to be called a
fright?” cried Miss Knag, suddenly becoming
convulsive, and making an effort to tear her
front off.
“Oh no, no ſ” replied the chorus, “pray don't
say so; don't, now !”
“Have I deserved to be called an elderly
person P” screamed Miss Knag, wrestling with
the supernumeraries.
“Don’t think of such things, dear,” answered
the chorus.
“I hate her,” cried Miss Knag; “I detest
and hate her. Never let her speak to me again;
never let anybody who is a friend of mine speak
to her; a slut, a hussy, an impudent artful
hussy " Having denounced the object of her
wrath in these terms, Miss Knag screamed once,
I I 6
AV/CHO/CAS NYCKLEB Y.
hiccuped thrice, gurgled in her throat several
times, slumbered, shivered, woke, came to, com-
posed her head-dress, and declared herself quite
well again.
Poor Kate had regarded these proceedings,
at first, in perfect bewilderment. She had then
turned red and pale by turns, and once or twice
essayed to speak; but, as the true motives of
this altered behaviour developed themselves, she
retired a few paces, and looked calmly on with-
out deigning a reply. Nevertheless, although
she walked proudly to her seat, and turned her
back upon the group of little satellites who
clustered round their ruling planet in the re-
motest corner of the room, she gave way, in
secret, to some such bitter tears as would have
gladdened Miss Knag's inmost soul, if she could
have seen them fall.
•-Q-
CHAPTER XIX.
DEscRIPTIVE of A DINNER AT MR. RALPH NicKLEBY's,
AND OF THE A1ANNER IN WHICH THE COMPANY
ENTERTAINED THEMSELVES BEFORE DINNER, AT
DINNER, AND AFTER DINNER.
HE bile and rancour of the worthy
Miss Knag undergoing no diminu-
tion during the remainder of the
week, but rather aggmenting with
- every successive hour ; and the
§) honest ire of all thé young ladies rising,
or seeming to rise, in exact proportion to
the good spinster's indignation, and both
waxing very hot every time Miss Nickleby was
called up-stairs; it will be readily imagined that
that young lady's daily life was none of the most
cheerful or enviable kind. She hailed the arrival
of Saturday night as a prisoner would a few
delicious hours' respite from slow and wearing
torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her
first week's labour would have been dearly and
hardly earned, had its amount been trebled.
When she joined her mother, as usual, at the
street corner, she was not a little surprised to.
find her in conversation with Mr. Ralph Nickleby;
but her surprise was soon redoubled, no less by
the matter of their conversation than by the
smoothed and altered manner of Mr. Nickleby
himself.
“Ah, my dear!” said Ralph ; “we were at
that moment talking about you.”
“Indeed (" replied Kate, shrinking, though
she scarce knew why, from her uncle's cold
glistening eye.
“That instant,” said Ralph. “I was coming
to call for you, making, sure to catch you before
you left ; but your mother and I have been
talking over family affairs, and the time has
slipped away so rapidly " .
“Well, now, hasn't it?” interposed Mrs.
Nickleby, quite insensible to the sarcastic tone
of Ralph's last remark. “Upon my word, I
couldn't have believed it possible that such a-
Kate, my dear, you're to dine with your uncle
at half-past six o'clock to-morrow.”
Triumphing in having been the first to com-
municate this extraordinary intelligence, Mrs.
Nickleby nodded and smiled a great many
times, to impress its full magnificence on Kate's
wondering mind, and then flew off, at an acute
angle, to a committee of ways and means.
“Let me see,” said the good lady. “Your
black silk frock will be quite dress enough, my
dear, with that pretty little scarf, and a plain band
in your hair, and a pair of black silk stock—
Dear, dear,” cried Mrs. Nickleby, flying off at
another angle, “if I had but those unfortunate
amethysts of mine—you recollect them, Kate,
my love—how they used to sparkle, you know
—but your papa, your poor dear papa–ah!
there never was anything so cruelly sacrificed
as those jewels were, never !” Overpowered
by this agonising thought, Mrs. Nickleby shook
her head in a melancholy manner, and applied
her handkerchief to her eyes.
“I don't want them, mamma, indeed,” said
Kate. “Forget that you ever had them.”
“Lord, Kate, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Nickleby
pettishly, “how like a child you talk | Four.
and-twenty silver tea-spoons, brother-in-law, two
gravies, four salts, all the amethysts—necklace,
brooch, and ear-rings—all made away with at
the same time, and I saying, almost on my
bended knees to that poor good soul, ‘Why
don't you do something, Nicholas P Why don't
you make some arrangement P’ I am sule
that anybody who was about us at that time will
do me the justice to own, that if I said that
once, I said it fifty times a day. Didn't I, Kate,
my dear? Did I ever lose an opportunity of
impressing it on your poor papa P”
“No, no, mamma, never,” replied rate.
And, to do Mrs. Nickleby justice, she never had
lost—and, to do married ladies as a body justice,
they seldom do lose—any occasion of incul-
cating similar golden precepts, whose only
blennish is, the slight degree of vagueness and
uncertainty in which they are usually enveloped.
“Ah!" said Mrs. Nickleby with great fervour,
“if my advice had been taken at the begin-
ning Well, I have always done my duty,
and that's some comfort.”

THE PLEASURE OF MISS WICKZEBY's colſpawy IS REQUESTED. 117
When she had arrived at this reflection, Mrs.
Nickleby sighed, rubbed her hands, cast up her
eyes, and finally assumed a look of meek com-
posure; thus importing that she was a persecuted
saint, but that she wouldn't trouble her hearers
by mentioning a circumstance which must be so
obvious to everybody. -
“Now,” said Ralph with a smile, which, in
common with all other tokens of emotion,
seemed to skulk under his face, rather than
play boldly over it—“to return to the point
from which we have strayed. I have a little
party of—of-gentlemen with whom I am
connected in business just now, at my house
to-morrow ; and your mother has promised
that you shall keep house for me. I am not
much used to parties; but this is one of busi-
ness, and such fooleries, are an important part
of it sometimes. You don't mind obliging
• me?” -
“Mind " cried Mrs. Nickleby. “My dear
Kate, why—”
Š§.Ş/3
§
ºº
ń
* 4.
§
Wº
|-
\
*
§
-$.
§-
-:§;
.
“I AM AFRAID you HAVE BEEN GIVING HER SOME OF YOUR WICKED LOOKS, MY LORD,” SAID
- THE INTENDED.
“Pray,” interrupted Ralph, motioning her to
y p ph, o
be silent. “I spoke to my niece.”
“I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,”
replied Kate; “but I am afraid you will find
me awkward and embarrassed.”
, “Oh no 1" said Ralph ; “come when you
like, in a hackney coach—I’ll pay for it. Good
night—a-a-God bless you !”
The blessing seemed to stick in Mr. Ralph
Nickleby's throat, as if it were not used to the
thoroughfare, and didn't know the way out. But
.NICHOLAs NICKLEBY, 9.
it got out somehow, though awkwardly enougii,
and, having disposed of it, he shook hands with
his two relatives, and abruptly left them.
“What a very strongly-marked countenance
your uncle has 1” said Mrs. Nickleby, quite
struck with his parting look. “I don't see the
slightest resemblance to his poor brother.”
“Mamma 1" said Kate reprovingly.
think of such a thing !” -
“No,” said Mrs. Nickleby, musing. “There
, ( & TO
certainly is none. But it's a very honest face.”
2 I &

118
NICHOLAS MICKLEB Y.
The worthy matron made this remark with
great emphasis and elocution, as if it comprised
no small quantity of ingenuity and research ;
and, in truth, it was not unworthy of being classed
Kate looked up hastily, and as hastily looked
down again. -
“What has come over you, my dear, in the
name of goodness?" asked Mrs. Nickleby when
they had walked on, for some time, in silence.
“I was only thinking, mamma,” answered
Kate. -
“Thinking !” repeated Mrs. Nickleby. “Ay,
and indeed plenty to think about, too. Your
uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that's
quite clear; and, if some extraordinary good
fortune doesn't come to you after this, I shall
be a little surprised, that's all.”
With this she launched out into sundry anec-
dotes of young ladies who had had thousand-
pound notes given them in reticules by eccen-
tric uncles; and of young ladies who had acci-
dentally met amiable gentlemen of enormous
wealth at their uncles' houses, and married them,
after short but ardent courtships; and Kate,
listening first in apathy, and , afterwards in
amusement, felt, as they walked home, some-
thing of her mother's sanguine complexion
gradually awakening in her own bosom, and
began to think that her prospects might be
brightening, and that better days might be
dawning upon them. Such is hope, Heaven's
own gift to struggling mortals; pervading, like
some subtle essence from the skies, all things,
both good and bad; as universal as death, and
more infectious than disease ! - .
The feeble winter's sun–and winter's suns in
the City are very feeble indeed—might have
brightened up, as he shone through the dim
windows of the large old house, on witnessing
the unusual sight which one half-furnished room
displayed. In a gloomy corner, where, for
years, had stood a silent dusty pile of merchan-
dise, sheltering its colony of mice, and frowning,
a dull and lifeless mass, upon the panelled
room, save when, responding to , the roll of
heavy waggons in the street without, it quaked
with sturdy tremblings, and caused the bright
eyes of its tiny citizens to grow brighter still
with fear, and struck them motionless, with
attentive ear and palpitating heart, until the
alarm had passed away—in this dark corner was
arranged, with scrupulous care, all Kate's little
finery for the day; each article of dress par-
taking of that indescribable air of jauntiness and
individuality which empty garments—whether
by association, or that they become moulded,
as it were, to the owner's form—will take, in
eyes accustomed to, or picturing, the wearer's
smartness. In place of a bale of musty goods,
g tº tº | there lay the black silk dress: the neatest pos.
among the extraordinary discoveries of the age.
sible figure in itself. The small shoes, with
toes delicately turned out, stood upon the very
pressure of some old iron weight; and a pile of
harsh discoloured leather had unconsciously
given place to the very same little pair of black
"...silk stockings, which had been the objects of
Mrs. Nickleby's peculiar care. Rats and mice,
and such small gear, had long ago been starved,
or had emigrated to better quarters: and, in their
stead, appeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hair-pins,
and many other little devices, almost as inge-
nious in their way as rats and mice themselves,
for the tantalisation of mankind. About and
among them all moved Kate herself, not the
least beautiful or unwonted relief to the stern,
old, gloomy building. • *
In good time, or in bad time, as the reader
likes to take it—for Mrs. Nickléby's impatience
went a great deal faster than the clocks at that
end of the town, and Kate was dressed to the
very last hair-pin a full hour and a half before it
was at all necessary to begin to think about it
—in good time, or in bad time, the toilet was
completed ; and it being at length the hour
agreed upon for starting, the milkman fetched 2.
coach from the nearest stand, and Kate, with
many adieux to her mother, and many kind
messages to Miss La Creevy, who was to come to
tea, seated herself in it, and went away in state,
if ever anybody went away in state in a hackney
coach yet. And the coach, and the coach-
man, and the horses rattled, and jangled, and
whipped, and cursed, and swore, and tumbled
on together, until they came to Golden Square.
The coachman gave a tremendous double
knock at the door, which was opened long be.
fore he had done, as quickly as if there had
been a man behind it, with his hand tied to the
latch.” Kate, who had expected no more un-
common appearance than Newman Noggs in a
clean shirt, was not a little astonished to see
that the opener was a man in handsome livery,
and that there were two or three others in the
hall. There was no doubt about its being the
right house, however, for there was the name
upon the door; so she accepted the laced coat-
sleeve which was tendered her, and, entering
the house, was ushered up-stairs into a back
drawing-room, where she was left alone.
If she had been surprised at the apparition of
the footman; she was’ perfectly absorbed in
amazement at the richness and splendour of
the furniture. The softest and most elegant
MR. RA LPH NYCKZEBY'S GUESTS, f : 9
carpets, the most exquisite pictures, the cost-
liest mirrors; articles of richest ornament, quite
dazzling from their beauty, and perplexing from
the prodigality with which they were scattered
around ; encounteréd her on every side. The
very staircase, nearly down to the hall-door, was
crammed with beautiful and luxurious things, as
though the house were brimful of riches, which,
with a very trifling addition, would fairly run
over into the street.
Presently she heard a series of loud double
knocks at the street-door, and after every knock
some mew voice in, the next room. The tones
of Mr. Ralph Nickleby were easily distinguish-
able at first, but by degrees they merged into
the general buzz of conversation, and all she
could ascertain was, that there were several
gentlemen with no very musical voices, who
talked very loud, laighed very heartily, and
swore more than she would have thought quite.
necessary. But this was a question of taste.
At length the door opened, and Ralph him-
self, divested of his boots, and ceremoniously
embellished with black silks and shoes, pre-
sented his crafty face. - -
“I couldn't see you before, my dear,” he said
in a low tone, and pointing, as he spoke, to the
next room. “I was engaged in receiving them.
Now—shall I take you in P”
“Pray, uncle,” said “Kate. a little flurried, as
people much more conversant with society often
are when they are about to enter, a room full of
Strangers, and have had time to think of it pre-
viously, “are there any ladies here P”
“No," said Ralph, shortly ; “I don't know
any.” - -
“Must I go in immediately?” asked Kate,
drawing back a little. -
“As you please,” said Ralph, shrugging his
shoulders. “They are all come, and dinner
. be announced directly afterwards—that's
all.
Kate would have entreated a few minutes'
respite, but reflecting that her uncle might con-
sider the payment of the hackney-coach fare a
Şorſ of bargain for her punctuality, she suffered
him to draw her arm through his, and to lead
her away.
Seyen or eight gentlemen were standing round
the fire when they went in, and, as they were
talking very loud, were not aware of their en-
trance until Mr. Ralph Nickleby, touching one
9n, the coat-sleeve, said in a harsh emphatic
"99e, as if to attract general attention —
"Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss
Nickleby.”
The group dispersed, as if in great surprise,
=--&-
and the gentleman addressed, turning round,
exhibited a suit of clothes of the most super-
lative cut, a pair of whiskers of similar quality,
a moustache, a head of hair, and a young
face. -
“Eh P” said the gentleman.
—deyvle !” *
With which broken ejaculations, he fixed his
“What—the
glass in his eye, and stared at Miss Nickleby
in great surprise. -
“My niece, my lord,” said Ralph.
“Then my ears did not deceive me, and it's
not wa-a-x-work,” said his lordship. “How de
do? I'm very happy.” And then his lordship
turned to another superlative gentleman, some-
thing older, something stouter, something redder
in the face, and something longer upon town,
and said in a loud whisper that the girl was
“deyvlish pitty.”
. “Introduce me, Nickleby,” said this second
gentleman, who was lounging with his back to
the fire, and both elbows on the chimney-
piece. -
“Sir Mulberry Hawk,” said Ralph.
“Otherwise the most knowing card in the
pa-ack, Miss Nickleby,” said Lord Frederick
Verisopht.
“Don’t leave me out, Nickleby,” cried a sharp-
faced gentleman, who was sitting on a low chair
with a high back, reading the paper.
“Mr. Pyke,” said Ralph.
“Nor me, Nickleby,” cried a gentleman with
a flushed face and a flash air, from the elbow of
Sir Mulberry Hawk.
“Mr. Pluck,” said Ralph. Then; wheeling
about again towards a gentleman with the neck
of a stork and the legs of no animal in par-
ticular, Ralph introduced him as the Honour-
able Mr. Snobb; and a white-headed person at
the table as Colonel Chowser. The colonel
was in conversation with somebody, who ap.
peared to be a make-weight, and was not intro-
duced at all.
." There were two circumstances which, in this
early stage of the party, struck home to Kate's
bosom, and brought the blood tingling to her
face. One was the flippant contempt with
which the guests evidently regarded her uncle,
and the other, the easy insolence of their manner
towards herself. That the first symptom was
very likely to lead to the aggravation of the
second, it needed no great penetration to fore-
see. And here Mr. Ralph Nickleby had reck-
oned without his host; for, however fresh from
the country a young lady (by nature) may be,
and however unacquainted with conventional
behaviour, the chances are that she willihave
I 2 O
WICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
quite as strong an innate sense of the decencies
and proprieties of life as if she had run the
gauntlet of a dozen London seasons—possibly
a stronger one, for such senses have been
known to blunt in this improving process.
When Ralph had completed the ceremonial
of introduction, he led his blushing niece to a
seat. As he did so, he glanced warily round,
as though to assure himself of the impression
which her unlooked-for appearance had created.
“An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,” said
Lord Frederick VeriSopht, taking his glass out
of his right eye, where it had, until now, done
duty on Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring
it to bear on Ralph. ...
“Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,”
said Mr. Pluck.
“Not a bad idea,” said his lordship, “and
one that would almost warrant the addition of
an extra two and a half per cent.”
“Nickleby,” said Sir Mulberry Hawk in a
thick coarse voice, “take the hint, and tack it
on to the other five-and-twenty, or whatever it
is, and give me half for the advice.”
Sir Mulberry garnished this speech with a
hoarse laugh, and terminated it with a pleasant
oath regarding Mr. Nickleby's limbs, whereat
Messrs. Pyke and Pluck laughed consumedly.
These gentlemen had not yet quite recovered
the jest when dinner was announced, and then
they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar
cause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an excess of
bumour, shot dexterously past Lord Frederick
VeriSopht, who was about to lead Kate down-
stairs, and drew her arm through his up to the
elbow.
“No, damn it, Verisopht,” said Sir Mulberry,
“fair play's a jewel, and Miss Nickleby and I
settled the matter with our eyes ten minutes ago.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Honourable Mr.
Snobb, “very good, very good.”
Rendered additionally witty by this applause,
Sir Mulberry Hawk leered upon his friends
most facetiously, and led Kate down-stairs with
an air of familiarity, which roused in her gentle
breast such burning indignation as she felt it
almost impossible to repress. Nor was the in-
tensity of these feelings at all diminished when
she found herself placed at the top of the table,
with Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Frederick.
Verisopht on either side.
“Oh you've found your way into our neigh-
bourhood, have you?” said Sir Mulberry as his
lordship sat down.
“Of course,” replied Lord Frederick, fixing
his eyes on Miss Nickleby; “how can you a-ask
me?” .
“Well, you attend to your dinner,” said Sir
Mulberry, “and don't mind Miss Nickleby and
me, for we shall prove very indifferent company,
I dare say.”
“I wish you'd interfere here, Nickleby,” said
Lord Frederick. . -
“What is the matter, my lord?” demanded
Ralph from the , bottom of the table, where he
was supported by Messrs. Pyke and Pluck,
“This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your
niece,” said Lord Frederick.
“He has a tolerable share of everything that
you lay claim to, my lord,” said Ralph with a
SIneer.
“’Gad, so he has,” replied the young man;
“deyvle take me if I know which is master in
my house, he or I.”
“I know,” muttered Ralph.
“I think I shall cut him off with a shilling,”
said the young nobleman jocosely. -
“No, no, curse it !” said Sir Mulberry.
“When you come to the shilling—the last
shilling—I’ll cut you fast enough ; but, till then,
I'll never leave you—vou may take your oath
of it.” , , -
This sally (which was strictly founded on fact)
was received with a general roar, above which
was plainly distinguishable the laughter of Mr.
Pyke and Mr. Pluck, who were evidently Sir
Mulberry's toads in ordinary. Indeed, it was
not difficult to see that the majority of the com-
pany preyed upon the unfortunate young lord,
who, weak and silly as he was, appeared by far
the least vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry
Hawk was remarkable for his tact in ruining, by
himself and his creatures, young gentlemen of
fortune—a genteel and elegant profession, of
which he had undoubtedly gained the head.
With all the boldness of an original genius, he
had struck out an entirely new course of treat-
ment, quite opposed to the usual method; his
custom being, when he had gained the ascend-
ancy over those he took in hand, rather to keep
them down than to give them their own way;
and to exercise his vivacity upon them openly,
and without reserve. Thus, he made them
butts in a double sense, and, while he emptied
them with great address, caused them to ring
with sundry well-administered taps, for the diver-
sion of society.
The dinner was as remarkable for the splen-
dour and completeness of its appointments as the
mansion itself, and the company were remark-
able for doing it ample justice, in which respect
Messrs, Pyke and Pluck particularly signalised
themselves; these two gentlemen eating of every
dish, and drinking of every bottle, with a capa-
A WA GAA'. 12 I
city and perseverance truly astonishing. They
were remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding
their great exertions: for, on the appearance of
the dessert, they broke out again, as if nothing
serious had taken place since breakfast.
“Well,” said Lord Frederick, sipping his first
glass of port, “if this is a discounting dinner, all
I have to say is, deyvle take me if it wouldn't
be a#. pla-an to get discount every day.”
“You’ll have plenty of it in your time,” re-
turned Sir Mulberry Hawk; “Nickleby will tell
rou that.”
“What do you say, Nickleby P” inquired the
young man; “am I to be a good customer ?”
“It depends entirely on circumstances, my
lord,” replied Ralph.
“On your lordship's circumstances,” inter-
posed Colonel Chowser of the Militia—“ and the
race-courses.”
The gallant colonel glanced at Messrs. Pyke
and Pluck, as if he thought they ought to laugh
at his joke; but those gentlemen, being only
engaged to laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk, were,
to his signal discomfiture, as grave as a pair of
undertakers. To add to his defeat, Sir Mul-
berry, considering any such efforts an invasion
of his peculiar privilege, eyed the offender
steadily through his glass, as if astonished at his
presumption, and audibly stated his impression
that it was an “infermal liberty,” which being a
hint to Lord Frederick, he put up his glass, and
surveyed the object of censure as if he were some
extraordinary wild animal then exhibiting for
the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs.
Pyke and Pluck stared at the individual whom
Sir Mulberry Hawk stared at ; so, the poor
colonel, to hide his confusion, was reduced to
the necessity of holding his port before his right
eye, and affecting to scrutinise its, colour with
the most lively interest. -
All this while Kate had sat as silently as she
could, scarcely daring to raise her eyes, iest they
should encounter the admiring gaze of Lord
Frederick Verisopht, or, what was still more
embarrassing, the bold looks of his friend
Sir. Mulberry. The latter gentleman was
obliging enough to direct general attention
towards her. -
“Here is Miss Nickleby,” observed Sir Mul-
berry, “ wondering why the deuce somebody
doesn't make love to her.”
© . “No, indeed,” said Kate, looking hastily up,
.*-” and then she stopped, feeling it would
have been better to have said nothing at all.
: "I'll hold any man fifty pounds,” said Sir
Mulberry, “that Miss Nickleby can't look in
ºny face, and tell me she wasn't thinking so.”
old ſellow.
“Done " cried the noble gull. “Within
ten minutes.”
“Done I" responded. Sir Mulberry. The
money was produced on both sides, and the
Honourable Mr. Snobb was elected to the double
office of stake-holder and time-keeper.
“Pray,” said Kate, in great confusion, while
these preliminaries were in course of completion,
“pray do not make me the subject of any bets.
Uncle, I cannot really y?
“Why not, my dear?” replied Ralph, in
whose grating voice, however, there was an
unusual huskiness, as though he spoke unwill-
ingly, and would rather that the proposition had
not been broached. “It is done in a moment,
there is nothing in it. If the gentlemen insist
On 15 y? -
“A don't insist on it,” said Sir Mulberry with
a loud laugh. “That is, I by no means insist
upon Miss Nickleby's making the denial, for, if
she does, I lose ; but I shall be glad to see her
bright eyes, especially as she favours the maho-
gany so much.” -
“So she does, and it's too ba-a-d of you,
Miss Nickleby,” said the noble youth.
“Quite cruel,” said Mr. Pyke.
“Horrid cruel,” said Mr. Pluck.
“I don't care if I do lose,” said Sir Mulberry;
“ſor one tolerable look at Miss Nickleby's eyes
is worth double the money.”
“More,” said Mr. Pyke.
“Far more,” said Mr. Pluck.
“How goes the enemy, Snobb P” asked Sir
Mulberry Hawk.
“Four minutes gone.”
“ Bravo I’”
“Won't you maake one effort for me, Miss
Nickleby 2” asked Lord Frederick after a short
interval. -
“You needn't trouble yourself to inquire, my
buck," said Sir Mulberry; “Miss Nickleby and
I understand each other; she declares on my
side, and shows her taste. You haven't a chance,
Time, Snobb P”
“Eight minutes gone.”
“Get the money ready,” said Sir Mulberry;
“you'll soon hand over.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Pyke.
Mr. Pluck, who always came second, and
toPBed his companion if he could, screamed
outright. * * Tº v.
The poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with
confusion that she scarcely knew what she did,
had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but
fearing that by so doing she might seem to
countenance Sir Mulberry's boast, which had
been uttered with great coarseness and vulgarity
122
AVCHOLAS W/CKZEB Y.
of manner, raised her eyes, and looked him in
the face. There was something so odious, so
insolent, so repulsive in the look which met her,
that, without the power to stammer forth a
syllable, she rose and hurried from the room.
She restrained her tears by a great effort until
she was alone up-stairs, and then gave them went.
“Capital 1" said Sir Mulberry Hawk, putting
the stakes in his pocket.
spirit, and we'll drink her health.”
It is needless to say that Pyke and Co.
responded, with great warmth of manner, to
this proposal, or that the toast was drunk with
many little insinuations from the firm, relative
to the completeness of Sir Mulberry's conquest.
Ralph, who, while the attention of the other
guests was attracted to the principals in the
preceding scene, had eyed them like a wolf,
appeared to breathe more freely now his niece
was gone; the decanters passing quickly round,
he leaned back in his chair, and turned his eyes
from speaker, to speaker, as they warmed with
wine, with looks that seemed to search their
hearts, and lay bare, for his distempered sport,
every idle thought within them. º
Meanwhile, Kate, leſt wholly to herself, had,
in some degree, recovered her composure. She
had learnt, from a female attendant, that her
uncle wished to see her before she left, and had
also gleaned the satisfactory intelligence that
the gentlemen would take coffee at table. The
prospect of seeing them no more contributed
greatly to calm her agitation, and, taking up a
book, she composed herself to read.
She started sometimes, when the sudden
opening of the dining-room door let loose a
wild shout of noisy revelry, and more than once
rose in great alarm, as a fancied footstep on the
staircase impressed her with the fear that some
stray member of the party was returning alone.
Nothing occurring, however, to realise her ap-
prehensions, she endeavoured to fix her atten-
tion more closely on her book, in which by
degrees she became so much interested, that she
had read on through several chapters wit
heed of time or place, when she was terrified
suddenly hearing her name pronounced by a
man's voice close at her ear.
The book fell from her hand. Lounging on
an ottoman close beside her was Sir Mulberry
Hawk, evidently the worse—if a man be a
ruffian at heart, he is never the better—for wine.
“What a delightful studiousness : ” said this
accomplished gentleman. “Was it real, now,
or only to display the eyelashes P”
Kate, looking anxiously towards the door,
made no reply.
“That's a girl of .
upon me.
“I have looked at 'em for five minutes,” said
Sir Mulberry. “Upon my soul, they're perfect.
Why did I speak, and destroy such a pretty
little picture ?” . . . . . .
“Do me the favour to be silent now, sir,”
replied Kate. - - - !
“No, don't,” said Sir Mulberry, folding his
crush hat to lay his elbow on, and bringing
himself still closer to the young lady; “upon
my life, you oughtn't to. Such a devoted slave
of yours, Miss Nickleby—it's an infernal thing
to treat him so harshly, upon my soul it is.”
“I wish you to understand, sir,” said Kate,
trembling in spite of herself, but speaking with
great indignation, “that your behaviour offends
and disgusts me. If you have a spark of gen-
tlemanly feeling remaining, you will leave me.”
“Now, why,” said Sir Mulberry, “why will
you keep up this appearance of excessive
rigour, my sweet creature ? Now, be more
natural—my dear Miss Nickleby, be more
natural—do.” - -
Kate hastily rose; but, as she rose, Sir Mul-
berry caught her dress, and forcibly detained her.
“Let me go, sir!” she cried, her heart swell-
ing with anger. “Do you hear? Instantly—
this moment " - -
“Sit down, sit down,” said Sir Mulberry; “I
want to talk to you.” -
“Unhand me, sir, this instant ” cried Kate.
“Not for the world,” rejoined Sir Mulberry.
Thus speaking, he leaned over, as if to replace
her in her chair; but the young lady making a
violent effort to disengage herself, he lost his
balance, and measured his length upon the
ground. As Kate sprung forward to leave the
room, Mr. Ralph Nickleby appeared in the
doorway, and confronted her.
“What is this?” said Ralph.
“It is this, sir,” replied Kate, violently agi-
tated: “that beneath the roof where I, a help-
less girl, your dead brother's child, should most
have found protection, I have been exposed to
insult which should make you shrink to look
Let me pass you.” -
Ralph did shrink as the indignant girl fixed
her kindling eye upon him; but he did not
comply with her injunction, nevertheless: for
he led her to a distant seat, and returning, and
approaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who had by
this time risen, motioned towards the door.
“Your way lies there, sir,” said Ralph in a
suppressed voice, that some devil might have
owned with pride. . -
“What do you mean by that P” demanded
his friend fiercely. .
The swollen veins stood out like sinews on
Aw AGREEABLE UNDERSZAWPING.
Ralph's wrinkled forehead, and the nerves about
his mouth worked as though some unendurable
emotion wrung them; but he smiled disdain-
fully, and again pointed to the doºr. .
“Do you know me, you old madman?” asked
Sir Mulberry. - e
“well," said Ralph. The fashionable vaga-
bond for the moment quite quailed under the
steady look of the older sinner, and walked
towards the door, muttering as he went.
“You wanted the lord, did you?” he said,
stopping short when he reached the door, as if
a new light had broken in upon him, and con-
fronting Ralph again. “Damme, I was in the
way, was I?” .
Ralph smiled again, but made no answer.
“Who brought him to you first?” pursued
Sir Mulberry; “and how, without me, could
you ever have wound him in your net as you
have?” - . .
“The net is a large one, and rather full,” said
Ralph. “Take care that it chokes nobody in
the meshes.”
“You would sell your flesh and blood for
money; yourself, if you have not already made
a bargain with the devil,” retorted the other.
“Do you mean to tell me that your pretty niece
was not brought here as a decoy for the drunken
boy down-stairs?” - -
Although this hurried dialogue was carried on
in a suppressed tone on both sides, Ralph
looked involuntarily round to ascertain that
Kate had not moved her position. so as to be
within hearing. His adversary saw the advan-
tage he had gained, and followed it up.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he asked again,
“ that it is not so? Do you mean to say that
if he had found his way up here instead of me,
you wouldn't have been a little more blind, and
a little more deaf, and a little less flourishing,
than you have been P Come, Nickleby, answer
me that.” - -
“I tell you this,” replied Ralph, “that if I
brought her here as a matter of business——”
“Ay, that's the word,” interposed Sir Mul-
berry with a laugh. “You’re coming to yourself
again now.” -
“ As a matter of business,” pursued Ralph,
Speaking slowly and firmly, as a man who has
made up his mind to say no more, “because I
thought she might make some impression on
the silly youth you have taken in hand, and are
lending good help to ruin, I knew—knowing
him—that it would be long before he outraged
her girl's feelings, and that, unless he offended
Y,there puppyism and emptiness, he would,
With a little management, respect the sex and
I23
conduct even of his usurer's niece. But, if I
thought to draw him on more gently by this
device, I did not think of subjecting the girl to
the licentiousness and brutality of so old a hand
as you. And now we understand each other.”
& Especially as there was nothing to be got by
it—eh?” sneered Sir Mulberry.
“Exactly so,” said Ralph. . He had turned
away, and looked over his shoulder to make this
last reply. The eyes of the two worthies met,
with an expression as if each rascal felt that
there was no disguising himself from the other:
and Sir Mulberry Hawk shrugged his shoulders,
and walked slowly out.
His friend closed the door, and looked rest-
lessly towards the spot where his niece still re-
mained in the attitude in which he had left her.
She had flung herself heavily upon the couch,
and, with her head drooping over the cushion,
and her face hidden in her hands, seemed to be
still weeping in an agony of shame and grief.
Ralph would have walked into any poverty-
stricken debtor's house, and pointed him out to
a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young
child's death-bed, without the smallest concern,
because it would have been a matter quite in
the ordinary course of business, and the man
would have been an offender against his only
code of morality. But, here was a young girl,
who had done no wrong save that of coming
into the world alive; who had patiently yielded
to all his wishes; who had tried hard to please
him—above all, who didn't owe him money-
and he felt awkward and nervous.
Ralph took a chair at some distance; then,
another chair a little nearer; then, moved a little
nearer still; then, nearer again; and finally sat
himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on
Kate's arm.
“Hush, my dear!” he said as she drew it
back, and her sobs burst out afresh. “ Hush,
hush | Don't mind it now ; don’t think of it.”
“Oh, for pity's sake, let me go home !”
cried Kate. “Let me leave this house, and go
home.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ralph. “You shall. But
you must dry your eyes first, and compose your-
self. Let me raise your head. There—there !”
“Oh, uncle !” exclaimed Kate, clasping her
hands. “What have I done—what have I done
—that you should subject me to this? If I had
wronged you in thought, or word, or deed, it
would have been most cruel to me, and the
memory of one you must have loved in some
old time; but 32
“Only listen to me for a moment,” inter-
rupted Ralph, seriously alarmed by the yiolence
I 24 MICHOLAS AICKZEBY,
of her emotions. “I didn't know it would be
so ; it was impossible for me to foresee it. I
did all I could.—Come, let us walk about. You
are ſaint with the closeness of the room, and the
heat of these lamps.
you make the slightest effort.”
“I will do anything,” replied Kate, “if you
will only send me home.”
“Well, well, I will,” said Ralph ; “but you -
must get back your own looks; for those you
You will be better now, if
have will frighten them, and nobody must know
of this but you and I. Now let us walk the
other way. There ! You look better even
now.” -- . . . . . . . .
With such encouragements as these, Ralph
Nickleby walked to and fro, with his niece lean-
ing on his arm; actually trembling beneath her
touch.
In the same manner, when he judged it pru-
dent to allow her to depart, he supported her
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“BUT THE YOUNG LADY MAKING A violeNT EFFORT To DISENGAGE HERSELF, HE LOST HIS BALANCE,
AND MEASURED HIS LENGTH UPON THE GROUND.”
down-stairs, after adjusting her shawl and per-
forming such little offices, most probably for the
first time in his life. Across the hall, and down
the steps, Ralph led her, too; nor did he with-
draw his hand until she was seated in the coach.
As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed,
a comb fell from Kate's hair, close at her uncle's
feet; and, as he picked it up, and returned it
into her hand, the light from a neighbouring
lamp shone upon her face. The lock of hair
that had escaped and curled loosely over her
brow, the traces of tears yet scarcely dry, the
flushed cheek, the look of sorrow, all fired
some dormant train of recollection in the old
man's breast; and the face of his dead brother
seemed present before him, with the very look
it bore on some occasion of boyish grief, of
which every minutest circumstance flashed upon
his mind, with the distinctness of a scene of
yesterday. - - -
Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all
appeals of blood and kindred—who was steeled




Miss LA creevy as AMBAssapress.
125
against every tale of sorrow and distress—stag-
gered while he looked, and went back into his
house, as a man who had seen a spirit from
some world beyond the grave.
=º-
CHAPTER xx.
WHEREIN NICHOLAS AT LENGTH ENCOUNTERS HIS
UNCLE, TO WHOM HE EXPREsses His sentiments
WITH MUCH CAND OUR. HIS RESOLUTION.
ºf -
Yº ITTLE Miss La Creevy trotted
} briskly through divers streets at
§ the West-end of the town, early
on Monday morning—the day after
§ the dinner—charged with the im-
Madame Mantalini that Miss Nickleby
& was too unwell to attend that day, but
hoped to be enabled to resume her duties on
the morrow. And as Miss La Creevy walked
along, revolving in her mind various genteel
forms and elegant turns of expression, with a
view to the selection of the very best in which
to couch her communication, she cogitated a
good deal upon the probable causes of her
young friend's indisposition.
“I don't know what to make of it,” said Miss
La Creevy. “Her eyes were decidedly red last
night. She said she had a headache; headaches
don't occasion red eyes. She must have been
crying.” **
Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she
had established to her perfect satisfaction on the
Previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on to
cºnsider—as she had done nearly all night—
What new cause of unhappiness her young friend
could possibly have had. -
"I can't think of anything,” said the little
Pºrtrait painter. “Nothing at all, unless it was
the behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I
suppose? . Unpleasant brute 1”
... Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit
*Was vented upon empty air, Miss La Creevy
§ºtted on to Madame Mantalini's; and, being.
informed that the governing power was not yet
9"t of bed, requested an interview with the
*ond in command; whereupon Miss Knag
appeared.
“So far as I am concerned," said Miss Knag.
When the message had been delivered, with
ºy, Qrnaments of speech; “I could spare
Miss Nickleby for evermore.” -
9h, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Miss La
*vy, highly offend.. “Bºulee, you -
portant commission of acquainting
are not mistress of the business, and therefore
it's of no great consequence.” -
“Very good, ma'am,” said Miss Knag. “Have
you any further commands for me P” -
“No, I have not, ma'am,” rejoined Miss La
Creevy.
“Then good morning, ma'am,” said Miss
Knag. - -
“Good morning to wou, ma'am; and many
obligations for your extreme politeness and
good-breeding,” rejoined Miss La Creevy.
Thus terminating the interview, during which
both ladies had trembled very much, and been
marvellously polite—certain indications that they
were within an inch of a very desperate quarreſ
—Miss La Creevy bounced out of the room, and
into the street. x
“I wonder who that is,” said the queer little
soul. “A nice person to know, I should think!
I wish I had the painting of her: I’d do her
justice " So, feeling quite satisfied that she
had said a very cutting thing at Miss Knag's
expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty laugh,
and went home to breakfast in great good-
humour.
Here was one of the advantages of having
lived alone so long The little bustling, active,
cheerful creature existed entirely within herself,
talked to herself, made a confidante of herself,
was as sarcastic as she could be, on people who
offended her, by herself; pleased herself, and did
no harm. If she indulged in scandal, nobody's
reputation suffered; and, if she enjoyed a little
bit of revenge, no living soul was one atom the
worse. One of the many to whom, from strait-
ened circumstances, a consequent inability to
form the associations they would wish, and a
disinclination to mix with the society they could
obtain, London is as complete a solitude as the
plains of Syria, the humble artist had pursued
her lonely, but contented, way for many years;
and, until the peculiar misfortunes of the Nickleby
family attracted her attention, had made no
friends, though brimfur of the friendliest feelings
to all mankind. There are many warm hearts
in the same solitary guisé as poor little Miss La.
Creevy's. - - -
However, that's neither here nor there, just
now. She went home to breakfast, and had
scarcely caught the full flavour of her first sip of
tea, when the servant announced a gentleman,
whereat Miss La Creevy, at once imagining a
new sitter transfixed by admiration at the street-
door case, was in unspeakable consternation at
the presence of the tea-things. * > &
“Here, take 'em away; run with 'em into
the bedroom; anywhere,” said Miss La Creevy,







126 ... .
-------.
NICHOLAS WICKLEBY.
K
“Dear, dear! to think that I should be late on
this particular morning, of all others, after being
ready for three weeks by half-past eight o'clock,
and not a soul coming near the place " '
“Don’t let me put you out of the way,” said
a voice Miss La Creevy knew. “I told the
servant not to mention my name, because I
wished to surprise you.”
“Mr. Nicholas !” cried Miss La Creevy,
starting in great astonishment.
“You have not forgotten me, I see,” replied
Nicholas, extending his hand. -
“Why, I think I should even have known
you if I had met you in the street,” said Miss
La Creevy with a smile. “Hannah, another
cup and saucer. Now, I'll tell you what, young
man; I'll trouble you not to repeat the imperti-
nence you were guilty of on the morning you
went away.”
“You would not be very angry, would you?”
asked Nicholas. - • * -
“Wouldn't I?” said Miss La Creevy. “You
had better try; that's all !”
Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, imme-
diately took Miss La Creevy at her word, who
uttered a faint scream, and slapped his face;
but it was not a very hard slap. and that's the
truth. - -
“I never saw such a rude creature P’ ex-
claimed Miss La Creevy.
“You told me to try,” said Nicholas.
“Well; but I was speaking ironically,” re-
joined Miss La Creevy.
“Oh that's another thing,” said Nicholas;
“you should have told me that, too.”
“I dare say you didn't know, indeed 1" re-
torted Miss La Creevy. “But, now I look
at you again, you seem thinner than when I
saw you last, and your face is haggard and
pale. And how come you to have left York-
shire?” *
She stopped here; for there was so much
heart in her altered tone and manner, that
Nicholas was quite moved. * . .
“I need look somewhat changed,” he said
after a short silence; “for I have undergone
some suffering, both of mind and body, since I
left London. I have been very poor, too, and
have even suffered from want.” /
“Good Heaven, Mr. Nicholas !” exclaimed
Miss La Creevy, “what are you telling me?”
.
ing," said Nicholas.
Creevy.
“Then all I have to say about that is,” inter.
posed Miss La Creevy, “that I don't envy you
your taste; and that sitting in the same room
with his very boots would put me out of humour
for a fortnight.” . . . . . . .
“In the main,” said Nicholas, “there may be
.- y be
no great difference of opinion between you and
me, so far; but you will understand that ‘I
desire to confront him, to justify myself, and to
cast his duplicity and malice in his throat.” -
“That's quite another matter,” rejoined Miss
La Creevy.
shouldn't cry my eyes quite out
they choked him. Well?" -
“Heaven forgive me tº but I
of my head, if
“To this end, I called upon him this morn-
town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of his
arrival until late last night.”
“And did you see him?” asked Miss La
Creevy. . . . . . . . .
“No,” replied Nicholas. “He had gone out.”
“Hah!” said Miss La Creevy; “on someº
kind, charitable business, I dare say.” " f : …
“I have reason to believe,” pursued Nicholas, :
“from what has been told me by a friend of
mine who is acquainted with his movements,
that he intends seeing my mother and sister
to-day, and giving them his version of the
occurrences that have befallen me. I will meet
him there.” . . . . - ..
“That's right,” said Miss La Creevy, rubbing:
her hands. “And yet I don't know,” she added, <
“there is much to be thought of others to be
considered.” - . . . . . .
“I have considered others,” rejoined Nicholas;
“but, as honesty and honour are both at issue,
nothing shall deter me.” - . . . . .
“You should know best." said Miss La
“In this case I hope so,” answered Nicholas.
“And all I want you to do for me is, to pre-
pare them for my coming. They think me a
long way off, and, if I went wholly unexpected,
I should frighten them. If you can spare time .
to tell them that you haye seen me, and that I-
shall be with them in a quarter of an hour after
wards, you will do me a great service." . . . .
“I wish I could do you, or any of you, a
greater,” said Miss La Creevy; “but the power
to serve is as seldom joined with the will as the "
will is with the power, I think.”
Talking on very fast and very much, Miss La
Creevy finished her breakfast with great expedi-).
tion, put away the tea-caddy and hid the key.
under the fender, resumed her bonnet, and,
taking Nicholas's arm, sallied forth at once to .
the City. Nicholas left her near the door of
“Nothing which need distress you quite so
much,” answered Nicholas with a more sprightly
air; “neither did I come here to bewail my
lot, but on matter more to the purpose. I wish
to meet my uncle face to face. I should teii
you that first.”
QUTE A BIzz of INDICTMENT:
127
his mother's house, and promised to return
within a quarter of an hour.
... It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length
seeing fit, for his own purposes, to communicate
the atrocities of which Nicholas had been guilty,
had (instead of first proceeding to another
quarter of the town on business, as Newman
Noggs supposed he would) gone straight to his
sister-in-law. Hence, when Miss La Creevy,
admitted by a girl who was cleaning the house,
made her way to the sitting-room, she found
Mrs. Nickleby and Kate in tears, and Ralph
just concluding his statement of his nephew's
misdemeanours. Kate beckoned her not to
retire, and Miss La Creevy took a seat in silence.
*You are here already, are you, my gentle-
man?" thought the little woman. - “Then he
shall announce himself, and see what effect that
has on you.” : • * : * , -
“This is pretty,” said Ralph, folding up Miss
Squeers's note: “very pretty. I recommend
him—against all my previous conviction, for I
knew he would never do any good—to a man
with whom, behaving himself properly, he might
have remained, in comfort, for years. What is
the result? Conduct for which he might hold
up his hand at the Old Bailey.” " -
“I never will believe it,” said Kate indig-
nantly; “never ! It is some base conspiracy,
which carries its own falsehood with it.”
“My dear,” said Ralph, “you wrong the
worthy man. These are not inventions. The
man is assaulted, your brother is not to be
found; this boy, of whom they speak, goes with
him—remember, remember.” . . .
“It is impossible,” said Kate. “Nicholas !—
and a thief, too ! Mamma, how can you sit
and hear such statements P” ;
Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had, at no time, been
remarkable for the possession of a very clear
understanding, and who had been reduced by
the late changes in her affairs to a most compli-
cated state of perplexity, made no other reply
to this earnest remonstrance than exclaiming,
from behind a mass of pocket-handkerchief, that
she never could have believed it—thereby most
ºgeniously leaving her hearers to suppose that
She did believe it. - -
“It would be my duty, if he came in my
Yay, to deliver him up to justice,” said Ralph;
'my bounden duty; I should have no other
$ourse, as a man of the world and a man of
business, to pursue. And yet,” said Ralph,
Peaking in a very marked manner, and looking
furtively, but fixedly, at Kate, “and yet I would
*9t. I would spare the feelings of his—of his
*ter. And his mother, of course,” added Ralph,
l
/
as though by an after-thought, and with far less
emphasis.
Kate very well understood that this was held
out as an additional inducement to her to pre-
serve the strictest silence regarding the events
of the preceding night. She looked involun-
tarily towards Ralph as he ceased to speak, but
he had turned his eyes another way, and seemed
for the moment quite unconscious of her pre-
Sence. ; :
“Everything,” said Ralph after a long silence,
broken only by Mrs. Nickleby's sobs, “every-
thing combines to prove the truth of this letter,
if, indeed, there were any possibility of disput-
ing it. Do innocent men steal away from the
sight of honest folks, and skulk in hiding-places,
like outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle name-
less vagabonds, and prowl with them about the
country as idle robbers do? Assault, riot, theft,
what do you call these ?” -
“A lie I" cried a voice as the door was dashed
open, and Nicholas came into the room.
In the first moment of surprise, and possibly
of alarm, Ralph rose from his seat, and fell
back a few paces, quite taken off his guard by
this unexpected apparition. In another moment,
he stood, fixed and immovable with folded
arms, regarding his nephew with a scowl; while

Kate and Miss La Creevy threw themselves
between the two, to prevent the personal vio-
lence which the fierce excitement of Nicholas
appeared to threaten.
“Dear Nicholas !” cried his sister, clinging
to him. “Be calm, consider ?? . . . .
“Consider, Kate 1" cried Nicholas, clasping
her hand so tight in the tumult of his anger, that
she could scarcely bear the pain. “When I
consider all, and think of what has passed, I
need be made of iron to stand before him.”
“Or bronze,” said Ralph quietly ; “there is
not hardihood enough in flesh and blood to
face it out.” -
“Oh dear, dear!” cried Mrs. Nickleby,
“that things should have come to such a pass
as this 1" - -
“Who speaks in a tone as if I had done
wrong, and brought disgrace on them P” said
Nicholas, looking round. .
“Your mother, sir," replied Ralph, motion-
ing towards her. -
“Whose ears have been poisoned by you,”
said Nicholas; “by you—who, under pretence
of deserving the thanks she poured upon you,
heaped every insult, wrong, and indignity upon
my head. You, who sent me to a den where
sordid cruelty, worthy of yourself, runs wanton,
and youthful misery stalks precocious; where
128
MICHOLAS WICKZEBY.
the lightness of childhood shrinks into the
heaviness of age, and its every promise blights,
and withers as . it grows. I call Heaven to
witness,” said Nicholas, looking eagerly round,
“that I have seen all- this, and that he knows
it.” -
“Refute these calumnies,” said Kate, “and
be more patient, so that you may give them no
advantage. Tell us what you really did, and
show that they are untrue.” \
“Of what do, they—or of what does
accuse me?” said Nicholas.
“First, of attacking your master, and being
within an ace of qualifying yourself to be tried
for murder,” interposed Ralph. “I speak
plainly, young man, bluster as you will.”
“I interfered,” said Nicholas, “to save a
miserable creature from the vilest cruelty. In so
doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a
wretch as he will not readily forget, though far
less than he deserved from me. . . If the same:
scene were renewed before me now, I would
take the same part ; but I would strike harder
and heavier, and brand him with such marks
as he should carry to his grave, go to it when
he would.” - -
“You hear P” said Ralph, turning to Mrs.
Nickleby. “Penitence, this 1” . . -
“Oh dear me!” cried Mrs. Nickleby, “I
don't know what to think, I really don't #"
“Do not speak just now, mamma, I entreat
you,” said Kate. “Dear Nicholas, I only tell
you, that you may know what wickedness can
he—
prompt, but they accuse you of a ring is miss-
: y
ing, and they dare to say that -
“The woman,” said Nicholas haughtily, “the
wife of the fellow from whom these charges
come, dropped—as I suppose—a worthless
ring among some clothes of mine, early in the
morning on which I left the house. At least,
I know that she was in , the bedroom where
they lay, struggling with an unhappy child, and
that I found it when I opened my bundle on
the road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and
they have it now.”
“I knew, I knew ” said Kate, looking to-
wards her uncle.
whose company they say you left r"
“The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from
brutality and hard usage, is with me now,” re-
joined Nicholas. .
“You hear?” said Ralph, appealing to the
mother again, “everything proved, even upon
his own confession. Do you choose to restore
that boy, sir?” - tº
“No, I do not,” replied Nicholas.
“You do not P” sneered Ralph.
“About this boy, love, in
“No,” repeated Nicholas, “not to the man
with whom I found him. I would that I knew
on whom he has the claim of birth: I might
wring something from his sense of shame, if he
were dead to every tie of nature.” . . . . .
“Indeed : " said Ralph. “Now, sir, will
you hear a word or two from me?” . . : ;
“You can speak when and what you please,”
replied Nicholas, embracing his sister. “I take
little heed of what you say or threaten.”. . . . . .
“Mighty well, sir,” retorted Ralphs; “but.
perhaps it may concern others, who may think
it worth their while to listen, and consider what.
I tell them. I will address your mother, sir,
who knows the world.” . . . . . .
“Ah ! and I only too dearly wish I didn't,”
sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. . . .
There really was no necessity for the good
lady to be much distressed upon this particular
head; the extent of her worldly knowledge
being, to say the least, very questionable ; and
so Ralph seemed to think, for he smiled, as she
spoke. He then glanced steadily at her and
Nicholas by turns, as he delivered himself in
these words : . . . . . . . .
“Of what I have done, or what I meant to
do, for you, ma'am, and, my niece, I say not one.
syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you
to judge for yourself. I hold out no threat now,
but I say that this boy, headstrong, wilful, and
- disorderly as he is, should not have one penny
of my money, or one crust of my bread, or one,
grasp of my hand, to save him from the loftiest
gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him,
come where he comes, or hear his name. . . I will
not help him, or those who help him. With a
full knowledge of what he brought upon you by
, so doing, he has come back in his selfish sloth,
to be an aggravation of . your wants, , and a
burden upon his sister's scanty wages. I regret
to leave you, and more to leave her, now, but
I, will not encourage this compound of mean:
ness and cruelty, and, as I will not ask you to
renounce him, I see you no more.”
If Ralph had not known and felt his power
in wounding those he hated, his glances at
Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its
force, as he proceeded in the above address.
Innocent as the young man was of all wrong,
every artful insinuation stung, every well-cort
sidered sarcasm cut him to the quick; and,
when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering
lip, he hugged himself to mark how well he had
chosen the taunts best calculated to strike deep
into a young and ardent spirit. ... - . .
“I can't help it,” cried Mrs. Nickleby. “I
know you have been very good to us, and meant
to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am
quite sure of that; I know you did, and it was
very kind of you, having her at your house and
all—and of course it would have been a great
thing for her, and for me too. But I can't, you
know, brother-in-law, I can't renounce my own
son, even if he has done all you say he has—
it's not possible; I couldn't do it; so we must
go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can
bear it, I dare say.” .
a perfectly wonderful train of other disjointed
expressions of regret, which no mortal power
but Mrs. Nickleby's could ever have strung
together, that lady wrung her hands, and her
tears fell faster. -
“Why do you say ‘if Nicholas has done
what they say he has,' mamma P” asked Kate
with honest anger. “You know he has not.”
“I don't know what to think, one way or other,
my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby; “Nicholas is so
violent, and your uncle has so much composure,
that I can only hear what he says, and not wha.
Nicholas does. Never mind, don't let us talk
any more about it. We can go to the Work-
house, or the Refuge for the Destitute, or the
Magdalen Hospital, I dare say; and the sooner
we go the better.” With this extraordinary
jumble of charitable institutions, Mrs. Nickleby
again gave way to her tears.
“Stay,” said Nicholas as Ralph turned to go.
“You need not leave this place, sir, ſor it will
be relieved of my presence in one minute, and
it will be long, very long, before I darken these
doors again.” .
“Nicholas,” cried Kate, throwing herself on
her brother's shoulder, “do not say so My
dear brother, you will break my heart. Mamma,
Speak to him. Do not mind her, Nicholas ;
she does not mean it, you should know her
better. Uncle, somebody, for Heaven's sake,
Speak toſhim 1" -
“I never meant, Kate,” said. Nicholas ten-
derly, “I never meant to stay among you;
think better of me than to suppose it possible.
I may turn my back on this town a few hours
Sooner than I intended, but what of that? We
shall not forget each other apart, and better
days will come, when we shall part no more.
Be a woman, Kate,” he whispered proudly,
“and do not make me one while he looks on.”
No, no, I will not,” said Kate eagerly, “but
fou will not leave us? Oh I think of all the
appy days we have had together, before these
Aterrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the
comfort and happiness of home, and the trials
We have to bear now ; of our having no protector
under all the slights and wrongs that poverty so
*
&
Pouring forth these and
me here, but let me go at once.
MICHOLAS DELIVERS A FARE WELL ADDRESS zo HIS UNCLE. 129
much favours, and you cannot leave us to bear
them alone, without one hand to help us.”
“You will be helped when I am away,” re-
plied Nicholas hurriedly. “I am no help to
you, no protector; I should bring you nothing
but sorrow, and want, and suffering. My own
mother sees it, and her fondness and fears for
you point to the course that I should take. And
so all good angels bless you, Kate, till I can
carry you to some home of mine, where we may
revive the happiness denied to us now, and talk
of these trials as of things gone by. Do not keep
There ! Dear
girl—dear girl " -
The grasp which had detained him relaxed,
and Kate swooned in his arms. Nicholas stooped
over her for a few seconds, and, placing her
gently in a chair, confided her to their honest
friend. -
“I need not entreat your sympathy,” he said,
wringing her hand, “for I know your nature.
You will never forget them.” .
He stepped up to Ralph, who remained in
the same attitude which he had preserved
throughout the interview, and moved not a
finger.
“Whatever step you take, sir,” he said in a
voice inaudible beyond themselves, “I shall
keep a strict account of. I leave them to you,
t your desire. There will be a day of reckon-
ing sooner or later, and it will be a heavy one
for you if they are wronged.” -
Ralph did not allow a muscle of his face to
indicate that he heard one word of this parting
address. He hardly knew that it was concluded,
and Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely made up her
mind to detain her son by force if necessary,
when Nicholas was gone. -
As he hurried through the streets to his ob-
scure lodging, seeking to keep pace, as it were,
with the rapidity of the thoughts which crowded
upon him, many doubts and hesitations arose
in his mind, and almost tempted him to return.
But what would they gain by this? Supposing
he were to put Ralph Nickleby at defiance, and
were even fortunate enough to obtain some
small employment, his being with them could
only render their present condition worse, and
might greatly impair their future prospects; for
his mother had spoken of some new kindnesses
towards Kate, which she had not denied.
“No,” thought Nicholas, “I have acted for the
best.” -
But, before he had gone five hundred yards,
some other and different feeling would come
upon him, and then he would lag again, and,
pulling his hat over his eyes, give way to the
'130'.
MICHOLAS WrcKZEB Y.
melancholy reflections which pressed thickly
upon him. To have committed no fault, and
yet to be so entirely alone in the world; to be
separated from the only persons he loved, and
to be proscribed like a criminal, when six months
ago he had been surrounded by every comfort,
and looked up to, as the chief hope of his
He had not
family—this was hard to bear.
deserved it, either. Well, there was comfort in
that ; and poor Nicholas would brighten up
again, to be again depressed, as his quickly-
shifting thoughts presented every variety of light |.
and shade before him.
Undergoing these alternations of hope ana
misgiving, which no one, placed in a situation
of ordinary trial, can fail to have experienced,
Nicholas at length reached his poor room, where,
no longer borne up by the excitement which
had hitherto sustained him, but depressed by
the revulsion of feeling it left behind, he
threw himself on the bed, and, turning his face
to the wall, gave free vent to the emotions he
had so long stifled. -
He had not heard anybody enter, and was
unconscious of the presence of Smike, until,
happening. to raise his head, he saw him stand-
ing at the upper end of the room, looking wist-
fully towards him. He withdrew his eyes when
he saw that he was observed, and affected to be
busied with some scanty preparations for dinner.
“Well, Smike,” said Nicholas as cheerfully as
he could speak, “let me hear what new acquaint-
ances you have made this morning, or what
nçw wonder you have found out, in the compass
of this street and the next one.”
“No,” said Sinike, shaking his head mourn-
fully ; “I must talk of something else to-day.”
“Of what you like,” replied Nicholas good-
humouredly.
“Of this,” said Smike. “I know you are
unhappy, and have got into great trouble by
bringing me away. I ought to have known that,
and stopped behind—I would, indeed, if I had
You—you—are not rich : |
thought it then,
you have not enough for yourself, and I should
not be here. , You grow,” said the lad, laying
his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, “ you
grow thinner every day; your cheek is paler
and your eye more sunk. Indeed, I cannot
bear to see you so, and think how I am burden-
ing you. I tried to go away to-day, but the
thought of your kind face drew me back. I
could not leave you without a word.” The
poor fellow could say no more, for his eyes
filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
“The word which separates us,” said Nicho-
las, grasping him heartily by the shoulder, “shall
never be said by me, for you are my only com-
fort and stay. I would not lose you now, Smike,
for all the world could give. The thought of
you has upheld me through all I have endured
to-day, and shall through fifty times such trouble.
, Give me your hand. My heart is linked to
yours. We Will journey from this place to.
gether before the week is out. What if I am
steeped in poverty P You lighten it, and we
will be poor together.” . . . . . .
CHAPTER XXI.
"MADAME MANTALINI FINDS HERSELF IN A situation
OF SOME DIFFICULTY, AND MISS NICKLEBY FINDS
HERSELF IN NO SITUATION AT ALL. - - .
º HE agitation she had undergone
£llº rendered Kate Nickleby unable to
resume her duties at the dressmaker's
for three days, at the expiration of
- which interval she betook herself at
the accustomed hour, and with languid
gº steps, to the temple of fashion where
P Madame Mantalini reigned paramount
and supreme. - - - - . . . . .
The ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of
its virulence in the interval. The young ladies
still scrupulously shrunk from all companion-
ship with their denounced associate; and, when
that exemplary female arrived a few minutes
afterwards, she was at no pains to conceal the
displeasure with which she regarded Kate's
return. ,” - * *
“Upon my word "said Miss Knag as the
satellites flocked round, to relieve her of her
bonnet and shawl ; “I should have thought
some people would have had spirit enough to
stop away altogether, when they know what an
encumbrance their presence is to right-minded
persons. But it's a queer world. Oh! it's a
queer world !” .
Miss Knag, having passed this comment on
the world, in the tone in which most people
do pass comments on the world when they
are out of temper, that is to say, as if they by
no means belonged to it, concluded by heaving
a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to compas.
sionate the wickedness of mankind. -
. The attendants were not slow to echo the
sigh, and Miss Knag was apparently on the
eve of favouring them with some further moral
reflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini,
conveyed through the speaking-tube, ordered
Miss Nickleby up-stairs to assist in the arrange-
ment of the show-room; a distinction which



AV AOSSESS/OAV. 13,
caused Miss Knag to toss her head so much,
and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of
conversation were, for the time, annihilated.
“Well, Miss Nickleby, child,” said Madame
"Mantalini when Kate presented herself, “are
you quite well again P” .
“A great deal better, thank you,” replied
Kate. . . . . .
* : “I wish I could say the same,” remarked
Madame Mantalini, seating herself with an air
of weariness. .
“Are you ill?” asked Kate. “I am very
sorry for that.”
“Not exactly ill, but worried, child—worried,”
rejoined madame.
... “I am still more sorry to hear that,” said
“Bodily illness is more easy to
Kate gently.
bear than mental.” +
“Ah! and it's much easier to talk than to
bear either,” said madame, rubbing her nose
with much irritability of manner. “There, get
- . your work, child, and put the things in order,
º O. : ». . . . . -
While Kate was wondering within herself
"what these symptoms of unusual vexation por-
tended, Mr. Mantalini put the tips of his whis-
kers, and, by degrees, his head, through the
half-opened door, and cried in a soft voice—
“Is my life and soul there P” -
“No,” replied his wife. - º
“How can it say so, when it is blooming in
the front room like a little rose in a demnition
flower-pot?" urged Mantalini, “May its poppet
Come in and talk P”
“Certainly not,” replied madame : “you
know I never allow you here. Go along !”
The poppet, however, encouraged, perhaps,
by the relenting tone of this reply, ventured to
Rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards
Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a
kiss as he came along.
. “Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face
into bewitching nut-crackers ?” said Mantalini,
Putting his left arm round the waist of his life
*nd soul, and drawing her towards him with his
right. - &
Oh! I can't bear you,” replied his wife.
“Not—eh P not bear me /* exclaimed Man-
talini. “Fibs, fibs. It couldn't be. There's
*9t a woman alive that could tell me such a
thing to my face—to my own face.” Mr. Man-
“alini stroked his chim as he said this, and
glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.
, “Such destructive
his wife in a low tone.
“All in its joy at having gained such a lovely
Creature-such a little Venus, such a demd, en-
\
extravagance,” reasoned
chanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating
little Venus,” said Mantalini. -
“See what a situation you have placed me
in 1" urged madame.
“No harm will come, no harm shall come, to
its own darling,” rejoined Mr. Mantalini. “It
is all over; there will be nothing the matter;
money shall be got in ; and, if it don't come in
fast enough, old Nickleby shall stump up again,
or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex
and hurt the little y? .
“Hush " interposed madame.
See P”
Mr. Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make
up matters with his wife, had overlooked, or
feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto,
took the hint, and, laying his finger on his lip,
sunk his voice still lower. There was, then, a
great deal of whispering, during which Madame
Mantalini appeared to make reference, more
than once, to certain debts incurred by Mr.
Mantalini previous to her coverture ; and also
to an unexpected outlay of money in payment
of the aforesaid debts ; and furthermore, to
certain agreeable weaknesses on that gentle-
man's part, such as gaming, wasting, idling, and
a tendency to horse-flesh; each of which mat-
ters of accusation Mr. Mantalini disposed of by
one kiss or more, as its relative importance
demanded. The upshot of it all was, that
Madame Mantalini was in raptures with him,
and that they went up-stairs to breakfast.
Kate busied herself in what she had to do,
and was silently arranging the various articles of
decoration in the best taste she could display,
when she started to hear a strange man's voice
in the room, and started again to observe, on
looking, round, that a white hat, and a red
neckerchief, and a broad round face, and 3
large head, and part of a green coat were in the
room too. .
“Don’t alarm yourself, miss,” said the pro-
prietor of these appearances. “I say ; this
here's the mantie-making consºrn, an’t it?”
“Yes," rejoined Kate, greatly astonished.
“What did you want P”
The stranger answered not; but, first looking
back, as though to beckon to some unseen
person outside, came, very deliberately, into the
room, and was closely followed by a little man
in brown, very much the worse for wear, who
brought with him a mingled fumigation of stale
tobacco and fresh onions. The clothes of this
gentleman were much bespeckled with flue; and
his shoes, stockings, and nether garments, from
his heels to the waist buttons of his eoat inclu-
Sive, were profusely embroidered with splashes
“Don’t you
'132
AV/CHOLAS NICKZEB Y. ,
of mud, caught a ſortnight previously—before
the setting-in of the fine weather.
Kate's very natural impression was, that these
engaging individuals had called with the view
of possessing themselves, unlawfully, of any
portable articles that chanced to strike their
fancy. She did not attempt to disguise her
apprehensions, and made a move towards the
door.
“Wait a minmit,” said the man in the green
coat, closing it softly, and standing with his
back against it. “This is a unpleasant bisness.
Vere's your govvernor P”
“My what—did you say P” asked Kate,
trembling; for she thought “governor" might
be slang for watch or money. -
“Mister Muntlehiney,” said the man. “Wot's
come on him 2 Is he at home P”
“He is above-stairs, I believe,” replied Kate,
a little reassured by this inquiry. “Do you
want him P” -
“No,” replied the visitor. “I don't ezactly
want him, if it's made a favour on. You can
jist give him that 'ere card, and tell him if he
wants to speak to me, and save trouble, here I
am ; that's all.” -
With these words the stranger put a thick
square card into Kate's hand, and, turning to
his friend, remarked, with an easy air, “that
the rooms was a good high pitch ;” to which
the friend assented, adding, by way of illustra-
tion, “that there was lots of room for a little
boy to grow up a man in either on 'em, without
much fear of his ever bringing his head into
contract with the ceiling.”
After ringing the bell which would summon
Madame Mantalini, Kate glanced at the card,
and saw that it displayed the name of “Scaley,”
together with some other information to which
she had not had time to refer, when her attention
was attracted by Mr. Scaley himself, who,
walking up to one of the cheval-glasses, gave it
a hard poke in the centre with his stick, as
coolly as if it had been made of cast-iron.
“Good plate this here, Tix,” said Mr. Scaley
to his friend.
“Ah !” rejoined Mr. Tix, placing the marks
of his four fingers, and a duplicate impression
of his thumb, on a piece of sky-blue silk; “and
this here article warn’t made for nothing, mind
you.” .
From the silk, Mr. Tix transferred his admira-
tion to some elegant articles of wearing apparel,
while Mr. Scaley adjusted his neckcloth, at
leisure, before the glass, and afterwards, aided
by its reflection, proceeded to the minute con-
sideration of a pimple on his chin; in which
absorbing occupation he was yet engaged when
Madame Mantalini, entering the room, uttered
an exclamation of surprise which roused him.
“Oh ! Is this the missis?” inquired Scaley.
“It is Madame Mantalini,” said Kate.
“Then,” said Mr. Scaley, producing a small
document from his pocket, and unſolding it
very slowly, “this is a writ of execution, and, if
it's not conwenient to settle, we'll go over the
house at wunst, please, and take the inwen-
tory.”
Poor Madame Mantalini wrung her hands for
grief, and rung the bell for her husband ; which
done, she fell into a chair and a fainting fit
simultaneously. The professional gentlemen,
however, were not at all discomposed by this
event, for Mr. Scaley, leaning upon a stand on
which a handsome dress was displayed (so that
his shoulders appeared above it, in nearly the
same manner as the shoulders of the lady for
whom it was designed would have done if she
had had it on), pushed his hat on one side, and
scratched his head with perfect unconcern,
while his friend Mr. Tix, taking that opportunity
for a general survey of the apartment prepara-
tory to entering on business, stood with his
inventory book under his arm, and his hat in
his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price
upon every object within his range of vision.
Such was the posture of affairs when Mr.
Mantalini hurried in ; and as that distinguished
specimen had had a pretty extensive intercourse
with Mr. Scaley's fraternity in his bachelor days,
and was, besides, very far from being taken by
surprise on the present agitating occasion, he
merely shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands
down to the bottom of his pockets, elevated his
eyebrows, whistled a bar or two, swore an oath
or two, and, sitting astride upon a chair, put the
best face upon the matter with great composure
and decency.
“What's the demd total P” was the first ques-
tion he asked. -
“Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound,
four-andſ-ninepence-ha'penny,"
Scaley, without moving a limb.
“The halfpenny be demd,” said Mr. Man-
talini impatiently. r - -
“By all means, if you wish it,” retorted Mr.
. Scaley; “and the ninepence.”
“It don't matter to us if the fifteen hundred
and twenty-seven pound went along with it,
that I know on,” observed Mr. Tix.
“Not a button,” said Scaley.
“Well,” said the same gentleman after a
pause, “wot's to be done—anything? Is it
only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash P A
replied Mr.
AºEMORSE OF MR. MAAV7A LINI. I33
break-up of the constitootion is it?—Wery good.
Then, Mr. Tom Tix, esk-vire, you must inform
your angel wife and lovely family as you won't
sleep at home for three mights to come, along
of being in possession here. Wot's the good
of the lady a fretting herself?” continued Mr.
Scaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. “A good
half of wot's here isn't paid for, I dessay, and
wot a consolation oughtn't that to be to her
feelings 1”
—r-
With these remarks, combining great plea-
santry with sound moral encouragement under
difficulties, Mr. Scaley proceeded to take the
inventory, in which delicate task he was mate-
rially assisted by the uncommon tact and expe-
rience of Mr. Tix, the broker.
“My cup of happiness's sweetener,” said Man-
talini, approaching his wife with a penitent air,
“will you listen to me for two minutes ?”
“Oh I don't speak to me,” replied his wife,
!
º
BºS ss. S
§§§s :
“TFIE DRESSING-Roox: Door BEING HASTILY FLUNG OPEN, MR. MANTALINI WAS DiscLosed to view, witH
HIS SHIRT COLLAR SYMMETRICALLY THROWN BACK : PUTTING A FINE EDGE TO A BREAKFAST KNIFE
BY AIEANS OF HIS RAzor STROP.”
Sobbing.
enough.”
, Mr. Mantalini, who had doubtless well con-
sidered his part, no sooner heard these words
Pronounced in a tone of grief and severity than
he recoiled several paces, assumed an expression
9ſ consuming mental agony, rushed headlong
from the room, and was soon afterwards heard
to slam the door of an up-stairs dressing-room
With great violence.
Nicholas' Nickleby, Io.
“You have ruined me, and that's
Sions, was a little flurried, nevertheless.
“Miss Nickleby,” cried Madame Mantalini
when this sound met her ear, “make haste, for
Heaven's sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke
unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from
me. , Alfred, my darling Alfred I"
With such exclamations, she hurried up-stairs,
followed by Kate, who, although she did not
Quite participate in the fond wife's apprehen-
The
dressing-room door being hastily flung, open,
\216.

I34
AV/CHOLAS WCKZZP Y.
Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his
shirt collar symmetrically thrown back : putting
a fine edge to a breakfast knife by means of his
razor strop.
“Ah !” cried Mr. Mantalini, “interrupted 1"
and whisk went the breakfast knife into Mr.
Mantalini's dressing-gown pocket, while Mr.'
Mantalini's eyes rolled wildly, and his hair,
floating in wild disorder, mingled with his
whiskers.
“Alfred,” cried his wife, flinging her arms
about him, “I didn't mean to say it, I didn't
mean to say it !”
“Ruined 1" cried Mr. Mantalini: “Have I
brought ruin upon the best and purest creature
that ever blessed a demnition vagabond P Dem-
| "
mit, let me go At this crisis of his ravings
Mr. Mantalini made a pluck at the breakfast
knife, and, being restrained by his wife's grasp,
attempted to dash his head against the wall—
taking very good care to be at least six feet
from it.
“Compose yourself, my own angel,” said
madame. “It was nobody's fault; it was mine
as much as yours; we shall do very well yet.
Come, Alfred, come.”
Mr. Mantalini did not think proper to come
to all at once; but, after calling severa) times
for poison, and requesting some lady or gentle-
man to blow his brains out, gentler feelings
came upon him, and he wept pathetically. In
this softened frame of mind he did not oppose
the capture of the knife—which, to tell the
truth, he was rather glad to be rid of, as an
inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt
pocket—and finally, he suffered himself to be
led away by his affectionate partner.
After a delay of two or three hours, the young
ladies were informed that their services would
be dispensed with until further notice, and, at
the expiration of two days, the name of Man-
talini appeared in the list of bankrupts: Miss
Nickleby received an intimation per post, on
the same morning, that the business would be,
in future, carried on under the name of Miss
Knag, and that her assistance would no longer
be required—a piece of intelligence with which
Mrs. Nickleby was no sooner made acquainted
than that good lady declared she had expected
it all along, and cited divers unknown occasions
on which she had prophesied to that precise
effect. ** -
“And I say again,” remarked Mrs. Nickleby
(who, it is scarcely necessary to observe, had
never said so before), “I say again, that a
milliner's and dressmaker's is the very last
description of business, Kate, that you should
have thought of attaching yourself to. I don't
make it a reproach to you, my love; but still I
will say, that if you had consulted your own
mother—” - -
“Well, well, manma,”
said Kate mildly,
“what would you recommend now P” -
“Recommend 1" cried Mrs. Nickleby. “Isn't
it obvious, my dear, that of all occupations in
this world for a young lady situated as you are,
that of companion to some amiable lady is the
very thing for which your education, and man-
ners, and personal appearance, and everything.
else exactly qualify you? Did you never hear
your poor dear papa speak of the young lady
who was the daughter . of the old lady who
boarded in the same house that he boarded in
once, when he was a bachelor—what was her
name again P I know it began with a B, and
ended with a g, but whether it was Waters or—
mo, it couldn't have been that, either ; but, ”
whatever her name was, don't you know that
that young lady went as companion to a married
lady who died soon afterwards, and that she
married the husband, and had one of the finest
little boys that the medical man had ever seen
—all within eighteen months? . . . . . . .
Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent, of
favourable recollection was occasioned by some
opening, real or imaginary, which her mother
had discovered in the companionship walk of
life. She therefore waited, very patiently, until
all reminiscences and anecdotes, bearing or not
bearing upon the subject, had been exhausted,
and at last ventured to inquire what discovery
had been made. The truth then came out.
Mrs. Nickleby had, that morning, had a yester-
day's newspaper of the very first respectability
from the public-house where the porter came
from ; and in this yesterday's newspaper was
an advertisement, couched in the purest and
most grammatical English, announcing that a
married lady was in want of a genteel young
person as companion, and that the married
lady's name and address were to be known on
application at a certain library at the West-end
of the town, therein mentioned. - -
“And I say,” exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, lay-
ing the paper down in triumph, “that if your
uncle don't object, it's well worth the trial.”
Kate was too sick at heart, after the rough
jostling she had already had with the world,
and really cared too little at the moment what
fate was reserved for her, to make any ob.
jection. Mr. Ralph Nickleby offered none, but,
on the contrary, highly approved of the sug-
gestion; neither did he express any great sur-
prise at Madame Mamtalini's sudden failure;
AZ MRS. WZZZZZZRZY'S,
indeed, it would have been strange if he had,
inasmuch as it had been procured and brought
about . chiefly by himself. So, the name and
tddress were obtained without loss of time, and
wiss Nickleby and her mamma went off in
Juest of Mrs. Wititterly, of Cadogan Place,
Sloane Street, that same forenoon. x -
Cadogan Place is the one slight bond that
joins two great extremes; it is the connecting
link between the aristocratic pavement of Bel-
grave Square and the barbarism of Chelsea. It
is in Sloane Street, but not of it. The people
in Cadogan Place look down upon Sloane
Street, and think Brompton low. They affect
fashion, too, and wonder where the New Road
is. Not that they claim to be on precisely the
same footing as the high folks of Belgrave
Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they
stand, with reference to them, rather in the
light of those illegitimate children of the great
who are content to boast of their connections,
although their connections disavow them.
Wearing as much as they can of the airs and
semblances of loftiest rank, the people of
Cadogan Place have the realities of middle
station. It is the conductor which communi-
cates, to the inhabitants of regions beyond its
limit, the shock of pride of birth and rank,
which it has not within itself, but derives from
a fountain-head beyond; or, like the ligament
which unites the Siamese twins, it contains
something of the life and essence of two distinct
bodies, and yet belongs to neither.
Upon this doubtful ground lived Mrs. Witit-
terly, and at Mrs. Wititterly's door Kate
Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. The
door was opened by a big footman with his
head floured, or chalked, or painted in some
way (it didn't look genuine powder), and the
big footman, receiving the card of introduction,
gave it to a little page; so little, indeed, that
his body would not hold, in ordinary array, the
number of small buttons which are indispensable
to a page's costume, and they were conse-
Quently obliged to be stuck on four abreast.
This young gentleman took the card up-stairs on
a salver, and, pending his return, Kate and her
mother were shown into a dining-room of rather
dirty and shabby aspect, and so comfortably
arranged as to be adapted to almost any pur-
pose rather than eating and drinking.
Now, in the ordinary course of things, and
according to all authentic descriptions of high
life, as set förth in books, Mrs. Wititterly ought
to have been in her boudoir; but whether it was
that Mr. Wititterly was at that moment shaving
himself in the boudoir, or what not, certain it
I35
is that Mrs. Wititterly gave audience in the
drawing-room, where was everything proper and
necessary, including curtains and furniture
coverings of a roseate hue, to shed a delicate
bloom on Mrs. Wititterly's complexion, and a
little dog to snap at strangers' legs for Mrs.
Wititterly's amusement, and the afore-mentioned
page, to hand chocolate for Mrs. Wititterly's
refreshment.
The lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and
a face of engaging paleness; there was a faded
look about her, and about the furniture, and
about the house. She was reclining on a sofa
in such a very unstudied attitude, that she
might have been taken for an actress, all ready
for the first scene in a ballet, and only waitihg
for the drop-curtain to go up.
“Place chairs.”
The page placed them.
“Leave the room, Alphonse.”
The page left it; but if ever an Alphonse
carried plain Bill in his face and figure, that
page was the boy.
“I have ventured to call, ma'am,” said Kate
after a few seconds of awkward silence, “from
having seen your advertisement.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Wititterly, “one of my
people put it in the paper.—Yes.”
“I thought, perhaps,” said Kate modestly,
“that if you had not already made a final
choice, you would forgive my troubling you
with an application.”
“Yes,” drawled Mrs. Wititterly again.
“If you have already made a selection—-"
. “Oh dear no l’’ interrupted the lady, “I am .
not so easily suited. I really don't know what
to say. You have never been a companion
before, have you?”
Mrs. Nickleby, who had been eagerly watch-
ing her opportunity, came dexterously in before
Kate could reply. “Not to any stranger,
ma'am,” said the good lady; “but she has been
a companion to me for some vears. I am her
mother, mia’am.” -
“Oh!” said Mrs. Wititterly, “I apprehend
you.”
“I assure you, ma'am,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
“that I very little thought, at one time, that it
would be necessary for my daughter to go out
into the world at all, for her poor dear papa was
an independent gentleman, and would have
been at this moment if he had but listened in
time to my constant entreaties and p?
“Dear mamma . " said Kate in a low voice.
“My dear Kate, if you will allow me to
speak,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I shall take the
liberty of explaining to this lady——”
36
AVICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
“I think it is almost unnecessary, mamma.”
And, notwithstanding all, the frowns and
winks with which Mrs. Nickleby intimated that
she was going to say something which would
clench the business at once, Kate maintained
ber point by an expressive look, and for once
Mrs. Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink
of an oration. *
“What are your accomplishments P” asked
Mrs. Wititterly with her eyes shut.
Kate blushed as she mentioned her principal
acquirements, and Mrs. Nickleby checked them
all off, ene by one, on her fingers; having cal-
culated the number before she came out.
Luckily the two calculations agreed, so Mrs.
Nickleby had no excuse for talking. -
“You are a good temper ?” asked Mrs. Witit-
terly, opening her eyes for an instant, and
shutting them again. *
“I hope so," rejoined Kate.
“And have a highly respectable reſerence for
everything, have you?" -
Kate replied that she had, and laid her
uncle's card, upon the table.
“Have the goodness to draw your chair a
little nearer, and let me look at you,” said Mrs.
Wititterly; “I am so very near-sighted that I
can't quite discern your features.”
Kate complied, though not without some
embarrassment, with this request, and Mrs.
Wititterly took a languid survey of her coun-
tenance, which lasted some two or three
minutes. -
“I like your appearance,” said that lady,
ringing a little bell. “Alphonse, request your
master to come here.”
The page disappeared on this errand, and
aſter a short interval, during which not a word
was spoken on either side, opened the door for
an important gentleman of about eight-and-
thirty, of rather plebeian countenance, and with
a very light head of hair, who leant over Mrs.
Wititterly for a little time, and conversed with .
her in whispers.
“Oh " he said, turning round, “yes. This
is a most important matter. Mrs. Wititterly is
of a very excitable nature; very delicate, very
fragile ; a hothouse plant, an exotic.”
“Oh Henry, my dear,” interposed Mrs.
Wititterly. -
“You are, my love, you know you are ; one
breath —” said Mr. W., blowing an imaginary
feather away. “Pho you're gone ”
The lady sighed.
“Your soul is too large for your body,” said
Mr. Wititterly. “Your intellect wears you out;
all the medical men say so; you know that
there is not, a physician who is not proud of
being called in to ysu. What is their unani-
mous declaration ? ‘My dear doctor,' said I to
Sir Tumley Snuffin in this very room, the very
last time he came. “My dear doctor, what is
my wife's complaint P , Tºll me all, I can bear
.it. Is it nerves P’ ‘My dear fellow,' he said,
‘be proud of that woman; make much of her;
she is an ornament to the fashionable world,
and to you. Her complaint is soul. It swells,
expands, dilates—the blood fires, the pulse
quickens, the excitement increases—Whew '"
Here Mr. Wititterly, who, in the ardour of his
description, had flourished his right hand to
within something less than an inch of Mrs.
Nickleby's bonnet, drew it hastily back again,
and blew his nose as fiercely as if it had been
-done by some violent machinery. -
“You make nie out worse than I am,
Henry,” said Mrs. Wititterly with a faint smile. ,
“I do not, Julia, I do not,” said Mr. W.
“The society in which you move—necessarily
move, from your station, connection, and en-
dowments—is one vortex and whirlpool of the
most frightful excitement, Bless my heart and
body, can I ever forget the night you danced
with the baronet's nephew at the election ball
at Exeter P It was tremendous !” -
“I always suffer for these triumphs after.
wards,” said Mrs. Wititterly. -
“And for that very reason," rejoined her hus-
land, “you must have a companion, in whom
there is great gentleness, great sweetness, ex- ,
cessive sympathy, and perfect repose.” .
Here, both Mr. and Mrs. Wititterly, who had
talked rather at the Nicklebys than to each
other, left off speaking, and looked at their two
hearers, with an expression of countenance
which seemed to say, “What do you think of
all this P” . -
“Mrs. Wititterly,” said her husband, address.
ing himself to Mrs. Nickleby, “is sought after
and courted by glittering crowds and brilliant
circles. She is excited by the opera, the drama,
the fine arts, the—the—the-”
“The nobility, my love,” interposed Mrs.
Wititterly.
“The nobility, of course,” said Mr. Wititterly.
“And the military. She forms and expresses
an immense variety of opinions on an immense
variety of subjects. If some, people in public
life were acquainted with Mrs. Wititterly's real
opinion of them, they would not hold their
heads, perhaps, quite as high as they do.”
“Hush, Henry tº said the lady; “this is
scarcely fair.” - -
“I mention no names, Julia,” replied Mr.
KAZE wickzeBy IS INSTALLED IN A NEW PoSITIow.
137
Wititterly; “and nobody is injured. I merely
mention the circumstance to show that you are
no ordinary person; that there is a constant
friction perpetually going on between your mind
and your body; and that you must be soothed
and tended. Now let me hear, dispassionately
and calmly, what are this young lady's quali-
fications for the office.”
In obedience to this request, the qualifica-
tions were all gone through again, with the
addition of many interruptions and cross-ques-
tionings from Mr. Wititterly. It was finally
arranged that inquiries should be made, and a
decisive answer addressed to Miss Nickleby,
under cover of her uncle, within two days.
These conditions agreed upon, the page showed
them down as far as the staircase window; and
the big footman, relieving guard at that point,
piloted them in perfect safety to the street-
door. -
“They are very distinguished people, evi-
dently,” said Mrs. Nickleby as she took her
daughter's arm. “What a superior person Mrs.
Wititterly is 1" -
“Do you think so, mamma P” was all Kate's
reply. /
“Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my
love?" rejoincd her mother. “She is pale,
though, and looks much exhausted. I hope
she may not be wearing herself out, but I am
very much afraid.”
These considerations led the deep-sighted
lady into a calculation of the probable duration
of Mrs. Wititterly's life, and the chances of the
disconsolate widower bestowing his hand on her
daughter. Before reaching home, she had freed
Mrs. Wititterly's soul from all bodily restraint;
married Kate with great splendour at St.
George's, Hanover Square; and only left un-
decided the minor question, whether a splendid
French-polished mahogany bedstead should be
erected for herself in the two-pair back of the
house in Cadogan Place, or in the three-pair
front: between which apartments she could not
Quite balance the advantages, and therefore ad-
Justed the question, at last, by determining to
leave it to the decision of her son-in-law.
The inquiries were made. The answer—not
to Kate's very great joy—was favourable; and
at the expiration of a week she betook herself,
With all her movables and valuables, to Mrs.
Wititterly's mansion, where, for the present, we
*
Will leave her.
ject to the sight.
CHAPTER XXII.
NICHOLAs, Accom PANIED BY SMIKE, SALLIES FORTH
..TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE, HE ENCOUNTERS MR.
VINCENT CRUMMLES; AND WHO HE WAS I HEREIN
MADE MANIFEST.
; AHE whole capital which Nicholas
found himself entitled to, either in
possession, reversion, remainder, or
9| expectancy, after paying his rent and
settling with the broker from whom
he had hired his poor furniture, did
not exceed, by more than a few half-
pence, the sum of twenty shillings. And
yet he hailed the morning on which he had re-
solved to quit London with a light heart, and
sprang from his bed with an elasticity of spirit
which is happily the lot of young persons, or the
world would never be stocked with old ones.
It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early
spring. A few meagre shadows flitted to and
fro in the misty streets, and occasionally there
loomed through the dull vapour the heavy out-
line of some hackney coach wending home-
wards, which, drawing slowly nearer, rolled
jangling by, scattering the thin crust of frost
from its whitened roof, and soon was lost again
in the cloud. At intervals were heard the tread
of slipshod feet, and the chilly cry of the poor
sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil;
the heavy footfall of the official watcher of the
night, pacing slowly up and down, and cursing
the tardy hours that still intervened between
him and sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts
and waggons; the roll of the lighter vehicles
which carried buyers and sellers to the different
markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at
the doors of heavy sleepers—all these noises.
fell upon the ear from time to time, but all.
seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered
almost as indistinct to the ear as was every ob-
The sluggish darkness thick-
ened as the day came on ; and those who had
the courage to rise and peep at the gloomy
street from their curtained windows, crept back
to bed again, and coiled themselves up to
sleep. -
Before even these indications of approaching
morning were rife in busy London, Nicholas
had made his way alone to the City, and stood
beneath the windows of his mother's house. It
was dull and bare to see, but it had light and
life for him; for there was at least one heart
within its old walls to which insult or dishonour
would bring the same blood rushing that flowed,
in his own veins.


138
MICHOLAS AV/CKTZ EAE Y
He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to
the window of the room where he knew his
sister slept. It was closed and dark. “Poor
girl," thought Nicholas, “she little thinks who
lingers here !”
He looked again, and felt, for the moment, -
almost vexed that Kate was not there to ex-
change one word at parting. “.
he thought, suddenly correcting himself, “what
a boy I am l’”
“It is better as it is,” said Nicholas after he
had lounged on a few paces, and returned to
the same spot.
could have said good-bye a thousand times if I
had chosen, I spared them the pain of leave-
taking, and why not now P” As he spoke, some
fancied motion of the curtain almost persuaded
him, for the instant, that Kate was at the win-
dow, and, by one of those strange contradictions
of feeling which are common to us all, he shrunk
involuntarily into a doorway, that she might not
see him. He smiled at his own weakness; said
“God bless them " and walked away with a
lighter step. " -
Smike was anxiously expecting him when he
reached his old lodgings, and so was Newman,
who had expended a day's income in a can of
rum-and-milk to prepare them for the journey.
They had tied up the luggage, Smike shouldered
it, and away they went, with Newman Noggs in
company; for he had insisted on walking as far:
as he could with them overnight.
“Which way P” asked Newman wistfully.
“To Kingston first,” replied Nicholas.
“And where afterwards P” asked . Newman.
“Why won't you tell me?”
“Because I scarcely know myself, good
friend,” rejoined Nicholas, laying his hand
upon his shoulder; “and if I did; I have
neither plan nor prospect yet, and might shift
my quarters a hundred times."before you could
possibly communicate with me.”
“I am afraid you have some deep scheme in
your head,” said Newmān doubtfully.
“So deep,” replied his young friend, “that
even I can't fathom it. Whatever I resolve
upon, depend upon it I will write you soon.”
“You won't forget P’’ said Newman.
“I am not very likely to,” rejoined Nicholas.
“I have not so many friends that I shall grow
confused among the number, and forget my
best one.”
Occupied in such disaourse, they walked on
for a couple of hours, as they might have done
for a couple of days if Nicholas had not sat
himself down on a stone by the wayside, and
resolutely declared his intention of not moving
“Good God . " .
specks in the distance. .
“When I left them before, and
—,
another step until Newman Noggs turned back.
Having pleaded ineffectually first for another
half-mile, and afterwards for another quarter,
Newman was ſain to comply, and to shape his
course towards Golden Square, after interchang-
ing many hearty and affectionate farewells, and
many times turning, back to wave his hat to the
two wayfarers when they had become mere
“Now listen to me, Smike,” said Nicholas as
they trudged with stout hearts onwards. “We
are bound for Portsmouth.” - - . . .
Smike nodded his head and smiled, but ex-
pressed no other emotion; for whether they
had been bound for Portsmouth or Port Royal
would have been alike to him, so they had been
bound together. . . .
“I don’t know much of these matters,” re-
sumed Nicholas; “but Portsmouth is a seaport:
town, and, if no other employment is to be ob-
tained, I should think we might get on board
some ship. I am young and active, and could
be useful in many ways. So could you.” *
“I hope so,” replied Smike. “When I was
at that—you know where I mean?” -
“Yes, I know,” said Nicholas. “You needn't
name the place.” - * . . . . . .
“Well, when I was there,” resumed Smike ;-
his eyes sparkling at the prospect of displaying
his abilities; “I could milk a cow, and groom
a horse, with anybody.” - . . . .
“Ha!” said Nicholas gravely. “I am afraid
they don't keep many animals of either kind on
board ship, Smike, and even when they have
horses, that they are not very particular about
rubbing them down ; still, you can learn, to do
something else, you know. Where there's a
will there's a way.” . . . . . .
“And I am very willing,” said Smike, bright.
enlng up again. f
“God knows you are,” rejoined Nicholas;
“and, if you fail, it shall go hard but I'll do
enough for us both.” -
“Lo we go all the way to-day ?” asked
Smike after a short silence.
“That would be too severe a trial, even for
your willing legs,” said Nicholas with a good-
humoured smile. “No Godalming is some
thirty and odd miles from. London—as I ſound
from a map I borrowed—and I purpose to rest
there. We must push on again to-morrow, ſor
we are not rich enough to loiter. Let me re-
lieve you of that bundle Come !”
“No, no,” rejoined Smike, ſalling back a
few steps. “Don't ask me to give it up to
you.” - -
“Why not?” asked Nicholas.
Tropg/NG Azovo.
I39
“Let me do something for you, at least,”
said Sinike. “You will never let me serve you
as I ought. You will never know how I think.
day and night, of ways to please you.”
- “You aré a foolish fellow to say it, for I
know it well, and see it, or I should be a blind
and senseless beast,” rejoined Nicholas. “Let
me ask you a question while I think of it, and
there is no one by,” he added, looking him
steadily in the face. “Have you a good
memory?” - -
: “I don't know,” said Smike, shaking his
head sorrowfully. “I think I had once ; but
it's all gone now—all gone.” -
“Why do you think you had once P” asked
Nicholas, turning quickly upon him, as though
the answer in some way helped out the purport
of his question.
“Because I could remember when I was a
child,” said Smike, “but that is very, very long
ago, or at least it seems so. I was always con-
fused and giddy at that place you took me from;
and could never remember, and , sometimes
couldn't even understand, what they said to
me. I—let me see—let me see . "
“You are wandering now,” said Nicholas,
touching him on the arm. -
“No,” replied his companion with a vacant
look. “I was only thinking how—” He
shivered involuntarily as he spoke.
“Think no more of that place, for it is all
over,” retorted Nicholas, fixing his eyes full
upon that of his companion, which was fast
settling into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once
habitual to him, and common even then. “What
of the first day you went to Yorkshire?”
“Eh P’’ cried the lad. - --
“That was before you began to lose your
recollection, you know,” said Nicholas quietly.
“Was the weather hot or cold P”
“Wet,” replied the boy. “Very wet. I have
always said, when it has rained hard, that it was,
like the night I came : and they used to crowd
ſound and laugh to see me cry when the rain
ſell heavily. It was like a child, they said, and
that made me think of it more. I turned cold
all over sometimes, for I could see myself as I
was then, coming in at the very same door.”
“As you were then,” repeated Nicholas with
assumed carelessness; “how was that?”
“Such a little creature,” said Smike, “that
*y might have had pity and mercy upon me,
only to remember it.”
“You didn't find
remarked Nicholas.
"No," rejoined Smike; “oh no "
46 was with you?”
your way there alone P”
§
“A man—a dark, withered man. I have
heard them say so at the school, and I remem-
bered that before. I was glad to leave him, I
was afraid of him; but they made me more
afraid, of them, and used me harder too.”
“Look at me,” said Nicholas, wishing to
attract his full attention. “There; don't turn
away. Do you remember no woman, no kind
woman, who hung over you once, and kissed
your lips, and called you her child?”
“No,” said the poor creature, shaking his
head, “no, never.”
“Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?”
“No,” rejoined the youth with a melancholy
look; “a room—I remember I slept in a room,
a large lonesome room at the top of a house,
where there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I
have covered my head with the clothes often,
not to see it, for it frightened me: a young child
with no one near at night: and I used to wonder
what was on the other side. There was a clock,
too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember
that. I have never forgotten that room; for,
when I have terrible dreams, it comes back, just
as it was. I see things and people in it that I
had never seen then, but there is the room just
as it used to be ; that never changes.”
“Will you let me take the bundle now P”
asked Nicholas, abruptly changing the theme.
“No,” said Smike, “no. Come, let us
walk on.”
He quickened his pace as he said this, appa.
rently under the impression that they had been
standing still during the whole of the previous
dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and
every word of this comversation remained upon
his memory. 4.
It was, by this time, within an hour of noon,
and, although a dense vapour still enveloped the
city they had left, as if the very breath of its
busy people hung over their schemes of gain
and profit, and found greater attraction there
than in the quiet region above, in the open
country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, in
some low spots, they came upon patches of mist
which the sun had not yet driven from their
strongholds ; but these were soon passed, and,
as they laboured up the hills beyond, it was
pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish
mass rolled heavily off before the cheering in-
fluence of day. A broad, fine, honest sun
lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water
With the semblance of summer, while it left the
travellers all the invigorating freshness of that
early time of year. The ground seemed elastic
under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to
their ears; and, exhilarated by exercise, and
146
NICHOLAS NYCKLEBY.
stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with
the strength of lions.
The day wore on, and all these bright colours
subsided, and assumed a quieter tint, like young
hopes softened down by time, or youthful fea-
tufes by degrees resolving into the calm and
serenity of age. But they were scarcely less
beautiful in their slow decline than they had
been in their prime; for nature gives to every
time and season some beauties of its own; and
from morning to night, as from the cradle to
the grave, is but a succession of changes so
gentle and easy, that we can scarcely mark their
progress. w
To Godalming they came at last, and here
they bargained for two humble beds, and slept
soundly. In the morning they were astir; though
not quite so early as the sun; and again afoot;
if not with all the freshness of yesterday, still
with enough of hope and spirit to bear them
cheerily on. -
It was a harder day's journey than yesterday's,
for there were long and weary hills to climb; and
in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal easier to
go down hill than up. However, they kept on
with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not
yet lifted its face to heaven that perseverance
will not gain the summit of at last.
They walked upon the rim of the Devil's
Punch Bowl; and Smike listened with greedy
interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon
the stone which, reared upon that wild spot,
tells of a murder committed there by night.
The grass on which they stood had once been
dyed with gore; and the blood of the murdered
man had run down, drop by drop, into the
hollow which gives the place its name. “The
Devil's Bowl,” thought Nicholas as he looked
into the void, “never held fitter liquor than
that l” -
Onward they kept with steady purpose, and
entered at length upon a wide and spacious
tract of downs, with every variety of little hill
and plain to change their verdant surface. Here
there shot up, almost perpendicularly, into the
sky, a height so steep as to be hardly accessible
to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its
sides, and there stood a mound of green, sloping
and tapering off so delicately, and merging so
gently into the level ground, that you could
scarce define its limits. Hills swelling above
each other; and undulations shapely and un-
couth, smooth and rugged, graceful and gro:
tesque, thrown negligently side by side, bounded
the view in each direction; while frequently,
with unexpected noise, there uprose from the
ground a flight of crows, who, cawing and wheel-
ing round the nearest hills, as if uncertain of
their course, suddenly poised themselves upon
the wing, and skimmed down the long vista of
some opening valley with the speed of light itself.
By degrees the prospect receded more and
more on either hand, and, as they had been
shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so
they emerged once again upon the open country.
The knowledge that they were drawing near their
place of destination gave them fresh courage to
proceed; but the way had been difficult, and
they had loitered on the road, and Smike was
tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when
they turned off the path to the door of a road- .
side inn, yet twelve miles short of Portsmouth.
“Twelve miles,” said Nicholas, leaning with
both hands on his stick, and looking doubtfully
at Smike. *s- -
“Twelve long miles,” repeated the landlord.
“Is it a good road P” inquired Nicholas.
“Very bad,” said the landlord. As of course,
being a landlord, he would say.
“I want to get on,” observed Nicholas, hesi-
tating. “I scarcely know what to do.”
“Don’t let me influence you,” rejoined the
landlord. “I wouldn't go on if it was me.”
“Wouldn't you?” asked Nicholas with the
same uncertainty.
“Not if I knew when I was well off,” said
the landlord. And, having said it, he pulled u
his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and,
taking a step or two outside the door, looked
down the dark road with an assumption of great
indifference.
A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike deter-
mined Nicholas; so, without any further con-
sideration, he made up his mind to stay where
he was. -
The landlord led them into the kitchen, and,
as there was a good fire, he remarked that it was
very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one,
he would have observed that it was very Warm-
“What can you give us for supper ?" was
Nicholas's natural question.
“why—what would you like?" was the land.
lord's no less natural answer. -
Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was
no cold meat—-poached eggs, but there were no
eggs—mutton chops, but there wasn't a mutton
chop within three miles, though there had been
more last week than they knew what to do with,
and would be an extraordinary supply the day
after to-morrow. -
*Then,” said Nicholas, “I must leave
entirely to you, as I would have done at first, if
you had allowed me.”... . . . . . . . .
“Why, then, I'll tell you what,” rejoined the
MA. VINCEAVT CAE UMMZ.ES AAWD SOAVS. 14,
landlord. “There’s a gentleman in the parlour
that's ordered a hot beef-steak pudding and pota-
toes at nine. There's more of it than he can
manage, and I have very little doubt that, if I
ask leave, you can sup with him. I'll do that in
a minute.” **. . .
“No, no,” said Nicholas, detaining him. “I
would rather not. I—at least—pshaw why
cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am
travelling in a very humble manner, and have
made my way hither on foot. It is more than
probable, I think, that the gentleman may not
relish my company; and, although I am the
dusty figure you see, I am too proud to thrust
... myselſ into his.” .
“Lord love you !” said the landlord, “it’s
only Mr. Crummles; he isn't particular.”
“Is he not P” asked Nicholas, on whose mind,
to tell the truth, the prospect of the savoury
pudding was making some impression.
“Not he,” replied the landlord. “He’ll like
your way of talking, I know. But we'll soon
See all about that. Just wait a minute.”
The landlord hurried into the parlour, without
staying for further permission, nor did Nicholas
strive to prevent him : wisely considering that
supper, under the circumstances, was too serious
a matter to be trifled with. It was not long
before the host returned in a condition of much
excitement.
“All right,” he said in a low voice. “I knew
he would. You'll see something rather worth
Seeing in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of it!”
There was no time to inquire to what this
exclamation, which was delivered in a very rap-
turous tone, referred; for he had already thrown
open the door of the room; into which Nicholas,
followed by Smike with the bundle on his
shoulder (he carried it about with him as yigi-
lantly as if it had been a sack of gold), straight-
way repaired. . -
Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but
not for something quite so odd as the sight he
encountered. At the upper end of the room
were a couple of boys, one of them very tall
and the other very short, both dressed as sailors
-Cr at least as theatrical sailors, with belts,
buckles, pigtails, and pistols complete—fighting
What is called in play-bills a terrific combat, with
two of those short broadswords with basket hilts
Which are commonly used at our minor theatres.
The short boy had gained a great advantage
9Ver the tall boy, who was reduced to mortal
Strait, and both were overlooked by a large
heavy man, perched against the corner of a
table, who emphatically adjured them to strike
* little more fire out of the swords, and they
*
couldn’t fail to bring the house down on the
very first night. .
“Mr. Vincent Crummles 1’” said the landlord
with an air of great deference. “This is the
young gentleman.”
Mr. Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with
an inclination of the head, something between
the courtesy of a Roman emperor and the nod
of a pot companion ; and bade the landlord
shut the door and begone. -
“There's a picture : " said Mr. Crummles,
motioning Nicholas not to advance and spoil
it. “The little 'un has him ; if the big 'un
doesn't knock under in three seconds, he's a
dead man. Do that again, boys.”
The two combatants went to work afresh,
and chopped away until the swords emitted a
shower of sparks: to the great satisfaction of
Mr. Crummles, who appeared to consider this a
very great point indeed. The engagement com-
menced with about two hundred chops admi-
nistered by the short sailor and the tall Sailor
alternately, without producing any particular re-
sult, until the short sailor was chopped down on
one knee; but this was nothing to him, for he
worked himself about on the one knee with the
assistance of his left hand, and fought most des-
perately until the tall sailor chopped his sword
out of his grasp. Now, the inference was, that
the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would
give in at once, and cry quarter, but, instead of
that, he all of a sudden drew a large pistol from
his belt, and presented it at the face of the tall
sailor, who was so overcome at this (not expect-
ing it), that he let the short sailor pick up his
sword and begin again. Then the chopping
recommenced, and a variety of fancy chops were
administered on both sides; such as chops dealt
with the left hand, and under the leg, and over
the right shoulder, and over the left; and when
the short sailor made a vigorous cut at the tall
sailor's legs, which would have shaved them clean
off if it had taken effect, the tall sailor jumped
over the short sailor's sword, wherefore, to
balance the matter, and make it all fair, the tall
sailor administered the same cut, and the short
sailor jumped over his sword. After this, there
was a good deal of dodging about, and hitching
up of the inexpressibles in the absence of braces,
and then the short sailor (who was the moral
character evidently, for he always had the best
of it) made a violent demonstration, and closed
with the tall sailor, who, after a few unavailing
struggles, went down, and expired in great torture
as the short sailor put his foot upon his breast,
and bored a hole in him through and through.
“That'll be a double encore if you take care,
I42
AVICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
boys,” said Mr. Crummles. “You had better
get your wind now, and change your clothes."
Having addressed these words to the com-
batants, he saluted Nicholas, who then observed
that the face of Mr. Crummles was quite pro-
portionate in size to his body; that he had a
very full under lip, a hoarse voice, as though he
were in the habit of shouting very much, and
very short black hair, shaved off nearly to the
crown of his head—to admit (as he afterwards
learnt) of his more easily wearing character wigs
of any shape or pattern.
“What did you think of
Mr. Crummles.
“Very good indeed—capital Ł" answered
Nicholas. . -
“You won't see such boys as those very often,
I think,” said Mr. Crummles. . -
Nicholas assented—observing that if they were
a little better match
“Match "cried Mr. Crummles.
“I mean if they were a little more of a size,”
said Nicholas, explaining himself. -
“Size l’” repeated Mr. Crummles; “why, it's
the essence of the combat that there should be
a foot or two between them . How are you to
get up the sympathies of the audience in a legi-
timate manner, if there isn't a little man con-
tending against a big one P-unless there's at
least five to one, and we haven't hands enough
for that business in our company.”
“I see,” replied Nicholas.
don. That didn't occur to me, I confess.”
“It's the main point," said Mr. Crummles.
“I open at Portsmouth, the day after to-morrow.
If you're going there, look into the theatre, and
see how that'll tell.” *
Nicholas promised to do so if he could, and,
drawing a chair near the fire, fell into conver-
sation with the manager at once. He was very
talkative and communicative, stimulated, perhaps,
that, sir?” inquired
*
not only by his natural disposition, but by the
spirits-and-water he sipped very plentifully, or
the snuff he took in large quantities from a piece
of whity-brown paper in, his waistcoat pocket.
He laid open his affairs without the smallest
reserve, and descanted at some length upon the
merits of his company, and the acquirements of
his family; of both of which the two broad-
sword boys formed an honourable portion.
There was to be a gathering, it seemed, of the
different ladies and gentlemen at Portsmouth
on the morrow, whither the father and sons
were proceeding (not for the regular season, but
in the course of a wandering speculation), after
fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the
greatest applause.
“I beg your par-.
“You are going that way?" asked the manager.
“Ye-yes,” said Nicholas. “Yes, I am."
. “Do you know the town at all?” inquired
tne, manager, who seemed to consider himsel
entitled to the same degree of confidence as he
had himself exhibited.
“No,” replied Nicholas. .
“Never there?” . . . . . . . . . .
“Never.” . . . .
Mr. Vincent Crummles, gave a short dry
cough, as much as to say, “If you won't be
communicative, you won't ;” and took so many
pinches of snuff from the piece of paper, one
after another, that Nicholas quite wondered
where it all went to. . . .
While he was thus engaged, Mr. Crummies
looked, from time to time, with great interest at
Smike, with whom he had appeared considerably
struck from the first. He had now fallen asleep,
and was nodding in his chair. . . . . . .
“Excuse my saying so,” said the manager,
leaning over to Nicholas, and sinking his voice,
“but what a capital countenance your friend
“Poor fellow'ſ" said Nicholas with a half-
smile, “I wish it were a little more plump, and
less haggard.” . . . . . .
“Plump !”-exclaimed the manager, quite hor-
rified; “you'd spoil it for ever.” .
“Do you think so?” . . .
“Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,” said
the manager, striking his knee emphatically;
“without a pad upon his body, and hardly a
touch of paint upon his face, he'd make such an
actor for the starved business as was never seen
in this country. Only let him be tolerably well
up in the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with
the slightest possible dab of red on the tip of
his nose, and he'd be certain of three rounds
the moment he put his head out of the prac-
ticable door in the front grooves O. P.” .
“You view him with a professional eye,” said
Nicholas, laughing. . . . . . . . . . . . -
“And well I may,” rejoined the manager. “I
never saw a young fellow so regularly cut out
for that line since I've been in the profession.
And I played the heavy children when I was
eighteen months old.” . . . . . . .
The appearance of the beef-steak pudding,
which came in simultaneously with the junior
Vincent Crummleses, turned the conversation
to other matters, and, indeed, for a time,
stopped it altogether. These two young gen-
tlemen wielded their knives and forks with
scarcely less address than their broadswords,
and, as the whole party were quite as sharp
set as either class of weapons, there was no
*
; : * * * * . . . ."
- - w
. . . . . .
time for talking until the supper had becm dis-
posed of. . * . . . . . • ,
*The Master Crummleses had no sooner swal-
lowed the last procurable morsel of food than they
evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and
stretchings of their limbs, an obvious inclination
to retire for the night, which Smike had betrayed
still more strongly: he having, in the course of
the meal, fallen asleep several times while in the
very act of eating. Nicholas therefore proposed
that they should break up at once, but the
manager would by no means hear of it; vowing
that he had promised himself the pleasure of
inviting his new acquaintance to share a bowl -
* * * ~ * : * ~
of punch, and that, if he declined, he should
deem it very unhandsome behaviour. . . .
“Let them go,” said Mr. Vincent Crummles,
“and we'll have it snugly and cosily together by
the fire.” . ... - -, . . . . . . . .
Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep:
being, in truth, too anxious; so, after a little
demur, he accepted the offer, and having ex-
changed a shake of the hand with the young
Crummleses, and the manager having on his
part bestowed a most affectionate benediction
on Smike, he sat himself down opposite to that
gentleman by the fireside to assist in emptying
the bowl, which soon afterwards appeared,
steaming in a manner which was quite exhila-
rating to behold, and sending forth a most
grateful and inviting fragrance. . . .
But, despite the punch and the manager, who
told a variety of stories, and smoked tobacco
from a pipe, and inhaled it in the shape of
snuff, with a most astonishing power, Nicholas
was absent and dispiritcd. His thoughts were
tn his old home, and, when they'reverted to his
present condition, the uncertainty of the morrow
cast a gloom upon him, which his utmost efforts
were unable to dispel. Hisſattention wandered;
although he'heard the manager's voice, he was
deaf to what he said; and when Mr. Vincent
Crummles concluded the history of some long
adventure with a loud laugh, and an inquiry
what Nicholas would have done under the same
circumstances, he was obliged to make the best
apology in his power, and to confess his entire
ignorance of all he had been talking about.
“Why, so I saw,” observed Mr. Crummles.
“You're uneasy in your mind. What's the
matter?”
Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at
the abruptness of the question; but, thinking it
scarcely worth while to parry it, owned that he
was under some apprehensions lest he might not
succeed in the object which had brought him to
that part of the country. w
McHoſ. AS IS DISPIRITED.
suppose,” replied Nicholas.
Crummles.
I43
“And what's that?” asked the manager.
“Getting something to do which will keep me
and my poor fellow-traveller in the common
necessaries of life,” said Nicholas. “That's the
truth. You guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I
may as well have the credit of telling it you with
a good grace.”
“What's to be got to do at Portsmouth more
than anywhere else?” asked Mr. Vincent Crum-
mles, melting the sealing-wax on the stem of his
pipe in the candle, and rolling it out afresh with
his little finger. .
“There are many vessels leaving the port, I
“I shall try for a
berth in some ship or other. There is meat
and drink there, at all events.” -
“Salt meat and new rum; pease-pudding and
chaff-biscuits,” said the manager, taking a whiff
at his pipe to keep it alight, and returning to
his work of embellishment.
“One may do worse than that,” said Nicholas.
“I can rough it, I believe, as well as most young
men of my age and previous habits.”
“You need be able to,” said the manager, “if
you go on board ship; but you won't.”
“Why not?" º
“Because there's not a skipper or mate that
would think you worth your salt, when he could
get a practised hand,” replied the manager;
“and they as plentiful there as the oysters in
the streets.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nicholas,
alarmed by this prediction, and the confident
tone in which it had been uttered. “Men are
not born able seamen.
They must be reared, I
suppose P”
Mr. Vincent Crummles nodded his head.
“They must; but not at "your age, or from
young gentlemen like you.”
There was a pause. The countenance of
Nicholas fell, and he gazed ruefully at the fire.
“Does no other profession occur to you,
which a young man of your figure and address
could take up easily, and see the world to ad-
vantage in P” asked the manager. :
“No,” said Nicholas, shaking his head.
“Why, then, I'll tell you one,” said Mr.
Crummles, throwing his pipe into the fire, and
raising his voice. “The stage.”
“The stage 1" cried Nicholas in a voice almost
as loud.
“The theatrical profession,” said Mr. Vincent
“I am in the theatrical profession
myself, my wife is in the theatrical profession,
my children are in the theatrical profession. 1
had a dog that lived and died in it from a
puppy; and my chaise-pony goes on in Timour
I44.
AV/CHO/CAS AVICKEEB Y.
the Tartar. I'll bring you out, and your friend
too. Say the word. I want a novelty.”
“I don't know anything about it,” rejoined.
Nicholas, whose breath had been almost taken
away by this sudden proposal. “I never acted
a part in my life, except at school.”
“There's genteel comedy in your walk and
manner, juvenile tragedy in your eye, and
touch-and-go farce in your laugh,” said Mr.
Vincent Crummles. “You’ll do as well as if
you had thought of nothing else but the lamps
from your birth downwards.”
Li-
\ \\
Nicholas thought of the small amount of small
change that would remain, in his pocket after
paying the tavern bill: and he hesitated.
“You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,”
said Mr. Crummles. “Think what capital bills
a man of your education could write for the
shop-windows.”
“Well, I think I could manage that depart-
ment,” said Nicholas.
“To be sure you could " replied Mr. Crum-
mles. “‘For further particulars see small hand.
bills’—we might have half a volume in every.
*
“MR. CRUMMLEs LookED, FROM TIME to TIME, witH GREAT INTEREST At SMIKE, witH whoM HE HAD
APPEARED CONSIDERABLY STRUCK FROM THE FIRST. HE HAD NOW FALLEN ASLEEP, AND WAs nopDING
IN HIS CHAIR.”
one of 'em. . Pieces, too; why, you could write
us a piece to bring out the whole strength of
the company whenever we wanted one.”
“I am not quite so confident about that,” re-
plied Nicholas. “But I dare say I could scribble
something now and then that would suit you.”
“We'll have a new show-piece out directly,”
said the manager. “Let me see—peculiar re-
sources of this establishment—new and splendid
scenery—you must manage to introduce a real
pump and two washing-tubs.”
“Into the piece P” said Nicholas.
“Yes,” replied the manager. “I bought 'em
cheap, at a sale the other day, and they'll come
in admirably. That's the London plan. They
look up some dresses and properties, and have
a piece written to fit 'em. Most of the theatres
keep an author on purpose.”
“Indeed 1" cried Nicholas.
“Oh yes!” said the manager; “a common
thing. It'll look very well in the bills in separate
lines—Real pump!—Splendid tubs – Great
attraction You don’t happen to be anything
of an artist, do you ?”

Reckviz's For ZHE BRZZZSA DRAMA.
“That is not one of my accomplishments,”
rejoined Nicholas.
“Ah : Then it can't be helped,” said the
manager. “If you had been, we might have
had a large woodcut of the last scene for the
posters, showing the whole depth of the stage,
with the pump and tubs in the middle : but,
however, if you're not, it can't be helped.”
“What should I get for all this P” inquired
Nicholas after a few moments' reflection... “Could
I live by it?” -
“Live by it !” said the manager. “Like a
prince With your own salary, and your friend's,"
and your writings, you'd make—ah you'd make
a pound a week " . -
“You don't say so.1” -
“I do indeed, and, if we had a run of good
houses, nearly double the money.” .
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer.
destitution was before him; and if he could sum-"
mon fortitude to undergo the extremes of want
and hardship, for what had he rescued his help-
less charge if it were only to bear as hard a fate
as that from which he had wrested him P. It
was easy to think of seventy miles as nothing,
when he was in the same town with the man
who had treated him so ill, and roused his bit-
terest thoughts ; but now it seemed far enough.
What if he went abroad, and his mother or
Kate were to die the while P -
Without more deliberation, he hastily declared
that it was a bargain, and gave Mr. Vincent,
Crummles his hand upon it.
CHAPTER xXIII.
TREATS OF THE COMPANY OF MR. vinceNT CRUMMLEs,
AND OF HIS AFFAIRS, DOMESTIC AND THEATRICAL.
$ºf S Mr. Crummles had a strange four-
legged animal in the inn stables,
which he called a pony, and a vehicle
of unknown design, on which he
...) bestowed the appellation of a four-
wheeled phaeton,
* with greater ease than he had expected :
the manager and himself occupying the front
Seat; and the Master Crummleses and Smike
being packed together behind, in company with
a wicker basket defended from wet by a stout
oil-skin, in which were the broadswords, pistols,
pigtails, nautical costumes, and other profes-
%ional necessaries of the aforesaid young gentle-
Inên.
Nicholas pro-
ceeded on his journey next morning .
I 45
The pony took his time upon the road, and
—possibly in consequence of his theatrical edu-
cation–evinced, every now and then, a strong
inclination to lie down. However, Mr. Vincent
Crummles kept him up pretty well by jerking
the rein and plying the whip; and when these
means, failed, and the animal came to a stand,
the elder Master Crummles got out and kicked
him. By dint of these encouragements, he was
persuaded to move from time to time, and they
jogged on (as Mr. Crummles truly observed)
very comfortably for all parties.
, “He’s a good pony at bottom,” said Mr.
Crummles, turning to Nicholas.
He might have been at bottom, but he cer-
tainly was not at top, seeing that his coat was
of the roughest and most ill-favoured kind. So,
Nicholas merely observed that he shouldn't
wonder if he was.
“Many and many is the circuit this pony has
gone,” said Mr. Crummles, flicking him skilfully
on the eyelid for old acquaintance' sake. “He
is quite one of us. His mother was on the
stage.”
“Was she P” rejoined Nicholas.
“She ate apple-pie at a circus for upwards
of fourteen years,” said the manager; “fired
pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap ; and, in
short, took the low comedy entirely. His father
was a dancer.”
“Was he at all distinguished P”
“Not very,” said the manager. “He was
rather a low sort of pony. The fact is, he had
been originally jobbed out by the day, and he
never quite got over his old habits. He was
clever in melodrama, too, but too broad—too
broad. When the mother died, he took the
port-wine business.” -
“The port-wine business " cried Nicholas.
“Drinking port wine with the clown,” said
the manager; “but he was greedy, and ose
night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked
himself, so his vulgarity was the death of him at
last.”
The descendant of this ill-starred animal re-
quiring increased attention from Mr. Crummles
as he progressed in his day's work, that gentle-
man had very little time for conversation.
Nicholas was thus left at leisure to entertain
himself with his own thoughts, until they arrived
at the drawbridge at Portsmouth. when Mr.
Crummles pulled up.
“We'll get down here,” said the manager,
“and the boys will take him round to the stable,
and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You
had better let yours be taken there for the
present.” -

146
NICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
Thanking Mr. Vincent Crummles for his
obliging offer, Nicholas jumped out, and giving
Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up
High Street on their way to the theatre; feeling
nervous and uncomfortable enough at the pros-
pect of an immediate introduction to a scene so
new to him.
They passed a great many bills, pasted against
the walls and displayed in windows, wherein
the names of Mr. Vincent Crummles, Mrs.
Vincent Crummles, Master Crummles, Master .
P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles were printed
in very large letters, and everything else in very
small ones; and, turning at length into an entry,
in which was a strong smell of orange-peel and
lamp-oil, with an under-current of sawdust,
groped their way through a dark passage, and,
descending a step or two, threaded a little
maze of canvas screens and paint pots, and
emerged upon the stage of the Portsmouth
Theatre. - -
“Here we are,” said Mr. Crummles.
It was not very light, but Nicholas found him-
self close to the first entrance on the prompt
side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed
clouds, heavily-daubed draperies, and dirty floors. .
He looked about him; ceiling, pit, boxes, gal-
lery, orchestra, fittings, and decorations of every
kind,-all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and
wretched. -
“Is this a theatre P” whispered Smike in
amazement. “I thought it was a blaze of light
and finery.” • ,
“Why, so it is,” replied Nicholas, hardly less
surprised ; “but not by day, Smike—not by
day.” a -
The manager's voice recalled him from a
more careful inspection of the building to the
opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a
small mahogany table with rickety legs and of
an oblong shape, sat a stout, portly female,
apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished
silk cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the
strings in her hand, and her hair (of which she
had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon
over each temple. -
“Mr. Johnson,” said the manager (for Nicho-
las had given the name which Newman Noggs
had bestowed upon him in his conversation
with Mrs. Kenwigs), “let me introduce Mrs.
Vincent Crummles.” -
“I am glad to see you, sir,” said Mrs. Vin-
cent Crummles in a sepulchral voice. “I am
very glad to see you, and still more happy
to hail you as a promising member of our
corps.” -
The lady shook Nicholas by the hand, as she
addressed him in these terms; he saw it was a
large one, but had not expected quite such an
iron grip as that with which she honoured him: .
“And this," said the lady, crossing to Smike,
as tragic actresses cross when they obey a stage
direction, “and this is the other?. You, too;
are welcome, sir.” - - - - f . . . . . . . ;
“He'll do, I think, iny dear?" said: the
manager, taking a pinch of snuff. . . . . . . . ...}.
“He is admirable,” replied the lady. “An
acquisition, indeed.” t
As Mrs. Vincent Crummles recrossed back
to the table, there bounded on to the stage,
from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a
dirty white frock with tucks up to the knees,
short trousers, sandalled shoes, white spencer,
Pink gauze bonnet, green veil, and curl-papers;
who turned a pirouette, cut twice in the air,
turned another pirouette, then, looking off at
Ł the opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward
to within six inches of the foot-lights, and fell.
into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a shabby
gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came
in at one powerful slide, and, chattering his
teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.
“They are going through the Indian Savage
and the Maiden,” said Mrs. Crummles. . . . .
“Oh " said the manager, “the little ballet
interlude. Very good, go on. A little this way,
if you please, Mr. Johnson. That'll do. Now !”
The manager clapped his hands as a signal to
proceed, and the savage, becoming ferocious,
made a slide towards the maiden; but the
maiden avoided him in six twirls, and came
down, at the end of the last one, upon the very
points of her toes. . This seemed to make some
impression upon the savage; for, after a little
more ferocity and chasing of the maiden into
corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face
several times with his right thumb and four
fingers, thereby intimating that he was struck
with admiration of the maiden's beauty. Acting
upon the impulse of this passion, he (the savage).
began to hit himself severe thumps in the chest,
and to exhibit other indications of being des:
perately in love, which, being. rather a prosy
proceeding, was very likely the cause of the
maiden's falling asleep; whether it was or no,
asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a
sloping, bank, and the savage, perceiving it,
leant his left ear on his left hand, and nodded
sideways, to intimate to all whom it might con-
cern that she was asleep, and no shamming.
Being left to himself, the savage had a dance
all alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke
up, rubbed her eyes, got off the bank, and had
a dance all alone too—such a dance that the
MERITS OF THE INFAM7 PHEAVoMENow.
147
savage looked on in ecstasy all the while, and,
when it was done, plucked from a neighbouring
tree some , botanical curiosity, resembling a
small pickled cabbage, and offered it to the
maiden, who at first wouldn't have it, but, on
the savage shedding tears, relented. Then the
savage jumped for joy; then the maiden jumped
for rapture at the sweet smell of the pickled
cabbage. Then the savage; and the maiden
danced violently together, and, finally, the
sävage dropped down on one knee, and the
niaiden stood on one leg upon his other knee;
thus concluding... the ballet, and leaving the
spectators : in a state of pleasing uncertainty
whether she would ultimately marry the savage,
or return to her friends. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
… “Very well indeed,” said Mr. Crummles;
“bravo ". . . . . . " ". . . . . . . . . . .
* “Bravo ( " cried Nicholas, resolved to make
the best of everything. “Beautiful "
º “This; sir," said. Mr. Vincent Crummles,
bringing the maiden forward, “this is the infant
phenomenon—Miss Ninetta Crummles.”
“Your daughter?” inquired Nicholas.
* “My daughter—my daughter,” replied Mr.
Vincent Crummles; “the idol of every place we
go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters
about this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry
of almost every town in England."
“I am not surprised at that,” said Nicholas;
“she must be quite a natural genius.” -
* “Quite a- " " ' Mr. Crummles, stopped:
language was not powerful enough to describe
the infant phenomenon. “I'll tell you what, ,
sir," he said; “the talent of this child is not to
be imagined. She must be seen, sir—seen—to
be ever so faintly appreciated. There ! go to
your mother, my dear.” . . . . . . . . . . .
“May I ask how old she is P” inquired
: “You may, sir," replied Mr. Crummles, look-
ing steadily in his questioner's face, as some
men do when they have doubts about being
implicitly believed in what they are going to
say. “She is ten years of age, sir.”
“Not more ?” ... I
“Not a day.” " -
“Dear me," said Nicholas, “it’s extraordi-
It was ; for the infant phenomenon, though of
short stature, had a comparatively aged counte-
nance, and had, moreover, Sbeen precisely the
same age—not, perhaps, to the full extent of the
memory of the oldest inhabitant, but certainly
for five good years. But she had been kept up
late every night, and put upon an unlimited
allowance of gin-and-water from infancy, to pre-
vent her growing tall, and perhaps this system of
training had produced in the infant phenomenon
these additional phenomena.
While this short dialogue was going on, the
gentleman who had enacted the savage came
up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his
slippers in his hand, to within a few paces, as if
desirous to join in the conversation. Deeming
this a good opportunity, he put in his word.
“Talent there, sir!" said the savage, nodding
towards Miss Crunnmles.
Nicholas assented.
“Ah!” said the actor, setting his teeth
together, and drawing in his breath with a
hissing sound, “she oughtn't to be in the pro-
vinces, she oughtn't.”
“What do you mean?" asked the manager.
, “I mean to say,” replied the other warmly,
“ that she is too good for country boards, and
that she ought to be in one of the large houses
in London, or nowhere; and I tell you more,
without mincing the matter, that if it wasn't for
envy and jealousy in some quarter that you
know of, she would be. Perhaps you’ll intro-
duce me here, Mr. Crummles.”
“Mr. Folair,” said the manager, presenting
him/to Nicholas.
“Happy to know you, sir.” Mr. Folair
touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger,
and then shook hands. “A recruit, sir, I under.
stand P”
“An unworthy one,” replied Nicholas.
“Did you ever see such a set-out as that?”
whispered the actor, drawing hitn away, as
Crummles left them to speak to his wife.
“As what P”
Mr. Folair made a funny face from his panto-
mime collection, and pointed over his shoulder
“You don't mean the infant phenomenon 2"
“Infant humbug, sir!” replied Mr. Folair.
“There isn't a female child of common sharp-
ness in a charity school that couldn't do better
than that. She may thank her stars she was
born a manager's daughter.”
“You seem to take it to heart,” observed
Nicholas with a smile.
“Yes, by Jove, and well I may,” said Mr.
Folair, drawing his arm through his, and walking
him up and down the stage. “Isn't it enough
to make a man crusty to see that little sprawler
put up in the best business every night, and
actually keeping money out of the house, by
being forced down the people's throats, while
other people are passed over ? Isn't it extraor-
dinary to see a man's confounded family conceit
blinding him, even to his own interest? Why,
I know of fifteen-and-sixpence that came to
148
NICHOLAS MICKZEB Y.
Southampton one night last month, to see me
dance the Highland Fling; and what's the con-
sequence? I’ve never been put up in it since—
never once—while the ‘infant phenomenon' has
been grinning through artificial flowers at five
people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in
the gallery, every night.”
“If I may judge from what I have seen of
you,” said Nicholas, “you must be a valuable
member of the company.” .
“Oh 1” replied Mr. Folair, beating his slip-
pers together to knock the dust out; “I can
come it pretty well—nobody better, perhaps, in
my own line—but having such business as one
gets here is like putting lead on one's feet instead
of chalk, and dancing in fetters without the credit
of it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?” .
The gentleman addressed in these latter words
was a dark-complexioned man, inclining, indeed,
to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very
evident indications (although he was close
shaved) of a stiff beard, and whiskers of the
§§
\
Vº
N.
º
|
;
3.
i
!
|
§§º
R
Sº
º§
i
THE INDIAN SAVAGE AND THE MAIDEN.
same deep shade. His age did not appear to
exceed thirty, though many at first sight would
have considered him much older, as his face was
long, and very pale, from the constant applica-
tion of stage paint. He wore a checked shirt,
an old green coat with new gilt buttons, a neck-
erchief of broad red and green stripes, and full
blue trousers; he carried, too, a common ash
walking-stick, apparently more for show than
use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked
end downwärds, except when he raised it for a
few seconds, and, throwing himself into a fencing
attitude, made a pass or two at the side-scenes,
or at any other object, animate or inanimate,
that chanced to afford him a pretty good mark
at the moment. . .
“Well, Tommy,” said this gentleman, making
a thrust at his friend, who parried it dexterously
with his slipper, “what's the news P”
“A new appearance, that's all,” replied Mr.
Folair, looking at Nicholas. -
“Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,”

THE ZEADING LADY OF THA coupAA/Y.
said the other gentleman, tapping him reproach-
fully on the crown of the hat with his stick.
“This is Mr. Lenville, who does our first
tragedy, Mr. Johnson,” said the pantomimist.
* Except when old bricks and mortar takes it
into his head to do it himself, you should add,
Tommy,” remarked Mr. Lenville. “You know
who bricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?”
“I do not, indeed,” replied Nicholas.
“We call Crummles that, because his style of
acting is rather in the heavy and ponderous
way,” said Mr. Lenville. “I mustn't be cracking
jokes, though, for I've got a part of twelve lengths
here, which I must be up in to-morrow night, and
I haven't had time to look at it yet. I'm a con-
founded quick study, that's one comfort.”
Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr.
Lenville drew from his coat pocket a greasy and
crumpled manuscript, and, having made another
pass at his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro,
conning it to himself, and indulging occasionally
in such appropriate action as his imagination
and the text suggested.
A pretty general muster of the company had
by this time taken place ; for, besides Mr. Len-
ville and his friend Tommy, there were present
a slim young gentleman with weak eyes, who
played the low-spirited lovers and sang tenor
Songs, and who had come arm-in-arm with the
comic countryman—a man with a turned-up
nose, large mouth, broad face, and staring eyes.
Making himself very amiable to the infant phe-
nomenon was an inebriated elderly gentleman in
the last depths of shabbiness, who played the
calm and virtuous old men; and paying especial
court to Mrs. Crummles was another elderly gen-
tleman, a shade more respectable, who played
the irascible old men—those funny fellows who
have nephews in the array, and perpetually run
about with thick sticks to compel them to marry
heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-
looking person in a rough great-coat, who strode
up and down in front of the lamps flourishing a
dress-cane, and rattling away, in an under-tone,
with great vivacity for the amusement of an ideal
audience. He was not quite so young as he had
been, and his figure was rather running to seed;
but there was an air of exaggerated gentility
about him, which bespoke the hero of swaggering
comedy. There was, also, a little group of three
or four young men with lantern jaws and thick
eyebrows, who were conversing in one corner;
but they seemed to be of secondary importance,
and laughed and talked together without attract.
tng any attention. - -
The ladies were gathered in a little knot by
themselves round the rickety table before men-
NICHOLAS NICKLERY, II. -
I 49
tioned. There was Miss Snevellicci—who could
do anything, from a medley dance to Lady Mac-
beth, and also always played some part in blue
silk knee-smalls at her benefit—glancing, from
the depths of her coal-scuttle straw bonnet, at
Nicholas, and affecting to be absorbed in the
recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss
Ledrook, who had brought her work, and was
making up a ruff in the most natural manner
possible. There was Miss Belvawney—who
seldom aspired to speaking parts, and usually
went on as a page in white silk hose, to stand
with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience,
or to go in and out after Mr. Crummles in
stately tragedy—twisting up the ringlets of the
beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had her
likeness taken “in character" by an engraver's
apprentice, whereof impressions were hung up
for sale in the pastry cook's window, and the
greengrocer's, and at the circulating library, and
the box office, whenever the announce bills came
out for her annual night. There was Mrs. Len-
ville, in a very limp bonnet and veil, decidedly
in that way in which she would wish to be it
she truly loved Mr. Lenville; there was Miss
Gazingi, within an imitation ermine boa tied
in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr.
Crummles, junior, with both ends, in fun. Lastly,
there was Mrs. Grudden in a brown cloth pelisse
and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs. Crummles
in her domestic affairs, and took money at the
doors, and dressed the ladies, and swept the
house, and held the prompt-book when cvery-
body else was on for the last scene, and acted
any kind of part on any emergency without ever
learning it, and was put down in the bills under
any name or names whatever that occurred to
Mr. Crummles as looking well in print.
Mr. Folair, having obligingly confided these
particulars to Nicholas, left him to mingle with
bis fellows; the work of personal introduction
was completed by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who
publicly heralded the new actor as a prodigy of
genius and learning.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Snevellicci,
sidling towards Nicholas, “but did you ever
play at Canterbury P”
“I never did,” replied Nicholas.
“I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canter-
bury,” said Miss Snevellicci, “only for a few
moments, for I was leaving the company as he
joined it, so like you that I felt almost certain it
was the same.”
“I see you now for the first time,” rejoined
Nicholas with all due gallantry. “I am sure I
nºyer saw you before; I could'nt have forgotten
it,
217
ise
NICHOLAS AICKZEBY
“Oh I I'm sure—it's very flattering of you to
say so,” retorted Miss Snevellicci with a grace-
ful bend. “Now I look at you again, I see
that the gentleman at Canterbury hadn't the
same eyes as you. You'll think me very foolish
for taking notice of such things, won't you?”
“Not at all,” said Nicholas. “How can I
feel otherwise than flattered by your notice in
any way P” |
“Oh you men are such vain creatures 1"
cried Miss Snevellicci. Whereupon she be-
came charmingly confused, and, pulling out her
pocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk
reticule with a gilt clasp, called to Miss Le-
drook—
“Led, my dear,” said Miss Snevellicci.
“Well, what is the matter?” said Miss Le-
drook.
“It's not the same.”
“Not the same what?” -
“Canterbury—you know what I mean. Come
here ! I want to speak to you.”
But Miss Ledrook wouldn't come to Miss
Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci was obliged to
go to Miss Ledrook, which she did in a skip-
ping manner that was quite fascinating; and
Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss Snevellicci
about being struck with Nicholas; for, after
some playful whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit .
Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of her
hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing
confusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Vincent
Crummles, who had been writing on a piece of
paper, “we’ll call the Mortal Struggle to-morrow
at ten ; everybody for the procession. Intrigue,
and Ways and Means, you're all up in, so we
shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at
ten, if you please.”
“Everybody at ten,” repeated Mrs. Grudden,
looking about her. *
“On Monday morning we shall read a new
piece,” said Mr. Crummles; “the name's not
known yet, but everybody will have a good
part. Mr. Johnson will take care of that.”
“Hallo 1" said Nicholas, starting, “I yy
“On Monday morning,” repeated Mr. Crum-
mles, raising his voice to drown the unfortunate
Mr. Johnson's remonstrance; “that'll do, ladies
and gentlemen.”
The ladies and gentlemen required no second
notice to quit; and, in a few minutes, the theatre
was deserted, save by the Crummles family,
Nicholas, and Smike, - -
“Upon my word,” said Nicholas, taking the
manager aside, “I don't think I can be ready
by Monday.”
to Nicholas.
“Pooh, pooh!” replied Mr. Crummles.
“But really I can't,” returned Nicholas; “my
invention is not accustomed to these demands,
or possibly I might produce—” -
“Invention | What the devil's that got to do
with it?” cried the manager hastily.
“Everything, my dear sir.” t
“Nothing, my dear sir,” retorted the manager
with evident impatience. “Do you understand
French P’’
“Perfectly well.” - - -
“Very good,” said the manager, opening the
table drawer, and giving a roll of paper from it
“There ! Just turn that into
English, and put your name on the title-page.
Damn me,” said Mr. Crummles angrily, “if I
haven't often said that I wouldn't have a man or
woman in my company that wasn't master of the
language, so that they might learn it from the
| original, and play it in English, and save all
this trouble and expense 1"
Nicholas smiled, and pocketed the play.
“What are you going to do about your lodg-
ings?” said Mr. Crummles. -
Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the
first week, it would be an uncommon conve-
nience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but
he merely remarked that he had not turned his
thoughts that way. . -
“Come home with me, then,” said Mr. Crum-
mles, “ and my boys shall go with you after
dinner, and show you the most likely place.”
The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas
sand Mr. Crummles gave Mrs. Crummles an arm
each, and walked up the street in stately array.
Smike, the boys, and the phenomenon went
home by ä shorter cut, and Mrs. Grudden re-
mained behind to take some cold Irish stew and
a pint of porter in the box office. .
Mrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she
were going to immediate execution with an
animating consciousness of innocence, and that
heroic fortitude which virtue alone inspires. Mr.
Crummles, on the other hand, assumed the look
and gait of a hardened despot; but they both
attracted some notice from many of the passers-
by, and when they heard a whisper of “Mr. and
Mrs. Crummles!” or saw a little boy run back
to stare them in the face, the severe expression
of their countenances relaxed, for they felt it
was popularity. •, - -
Mr. Crummles lived in St. Thomas's Street,
at the house of one Bulph, a pilot, who sported
a boat-green door, with window frames of the
same colour, and had the little finger of a
drowned man on his parlour mantel-shelf, with
other maritime and natural curiosities. He dis-
couparazzº IwsEws/a/Lºry of THE PUBLIC. 1 5 I
played also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and
a brass bell-handle, all very bright and shining;
and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in
his back-yard.
“You are welcome,” said Mrs. Crummles,
turning round to Nicholas when they reached
the bow-windowed front room on the first
floor. .
... Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and
was unſeignedly glad to see the cloth laid.
“We have but a shoulder of mutton with
onion sauce,” said Mrs. Crummles in the same
charnel-house voice ; “but, such as our dinner
is, we beg you to partake of it.” - -
“You are very good,” replied Nicholas : “I
shall do it ample justice.” -
“Vincent,” said Mrs. Crummles, “what is the
hour?”
“Five minutes past dinner-time,” said Mr.
Crummles. - .
Mrs. Crummles rang the bell.
mutton and onion sauce appear.”
The slave who attended upon Mr. Bulph's
lodgers disappeared, and, after a short interval,
reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas
and the infant phenomenon opposed each other
at the pembroke table, and Smike and the
Master Crummleses dined on the sofa-bedstead.
“Are they very theatrical people here?”
asked Nicholas. -
“No,” replied Mr. Crummles, shaking his
head, “far from it—far from it.”
“I pity them,” observed Mrs. Crummles.
“So do I,” said Nicholas ; “if they have no
relish for theatrical entertainments, properly
Conducted.” -
“Then they have none, sir,” rejoined Mr.
Crummles. “To the infant's benefit, last year,
on which occasion she repeated three of her
most popular characters, and also appeared in
the Fairy Porcupine, as originally performed by
her, there was a house of no more than four
pound twelve.” | -
“Is it possible P” cried Nicholas.
“And two pound of that was trust, pa,” said
the phenomenon.
“And two pound of that was trust,” repeated
Mrs Crummles, “Mrs. Crummles herself has
played to mere handfuls.”
“But they are always a taking audience, Vin-
cent,” said the manager's wife.
“Most audiences are when they have good
acting—real good acting—the regular thing,” re-
Plied Mr. Crummles forcibly.
“Do you give lessons, ma'am P” inquired
Nicholas. -
“I do,” said Mrs. Crummles.
“Let the
“There is no teaching here, I suppose 2 °
“There has been,” said Mrs. Crummles. “I
have received pupils here. I imparted tuition
to the daughter of a dealer in ships' provision;
but it afterwards appeared that she was insane
when she first came to me. It was very extra-
ordinary that she should come under such cir-
cumstances.”
Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas
thought it best to hold his peace. -
“Let me see,” said the manager, cogitating
after dinner. “Would you like some nice little
part with the infant?” - -
“You are very good,” replied Nicholas
hastily; “but I think perhaps it would be
better if I had somebody of my own size at
first, in case I should turn out awkward. I
should feel more at home, perhaps.”
“True,” said the manager. “Perhaps you
would. And you could play up to the infant in
time, you know.”
“Certainly,” replied Nicholas; devoutly hop-
ing that it would be a very long time before he
was honoured with this distinction. -
: “Then I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Mr.
Crummles. “You shall study Romeo when
you've done that piece—don't forget to throw
the pump and tubs in, by-the-bye—Juliet Miss
Snevellicci, old Grudden the nurse.—Yes, that'll
do very well. Rover, too;-you might get up
Rover while you were about it, and Cassio, and
Jeremy Diddler. You can easily knock them
off; one part helps the other so much. Here
they are, cues and all.”
With these hasty general directions Mr.
Crummles thrust a number of little books into
the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his
eldest son go with him, and show where lodg-
ings were to be had, shook him by the hand
and wished him good night.-
There is no lack of comfortable furnished
apartments in Portsmouth, and no difficulty in
finding some that are proportionate to very
slender finances; but the former were too good,
and the latter too bad, and they went into so
many houses, and came out unsuited, that
Nicholas seriously began to think he should be
obliged to ask permission to spend the night in
the theatre, after all.
Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two
small rooms up three pair of stairs, or rather two
pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist's shop, on
the Common Hard: a dirty street leading down
to the dockyard. These Nicholas engaged, only
too happy to have escaped any request for pay-
ment of a week's rent beforehand.
“There I Lay down our personal property,
I 52
MICHOLAS NICKZEB Y.
^
Smike,” he said after showing young Crummles
down-stairs. “We have fallen upon strange
times, and Heaven only knows the end of
them; but I am tired with the events of these
three days, and will postpone reflection till to-
morrow—if I can.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
OF THE GREAT BESPEAK FOR MISS SNEVELLICCI, AND
THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF NICHOLAs Upon ANY
STAGE. -
º 3 morning; but he had scarcely begun
&|º]
to dress, notwithstanding, when he
heard footsteps ascending the stairs,
à and was presently saluted by the
voices of Mr. Folair the pantomimist,
} and Mr. Lenville the tragedian.
Cº. “House, house, house !” cried Mr.
Folair. -
“What, ho within there " said Mr. Lenville
in a deep voice, & --
“Confound these fellows " thought Nicholas;
“they have come to breakfast, I suppose. I'll
open the door directly, if you'll wait an instant.”
The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry
himself; and, to beguile the interval, had a
fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the
very small landing-place : to the unspeakable
discomposure of all the other lodgers down-stairs.
“Here, come in,” said Nicholas when he had
completed his toilet.
horrible, don't make that noise outside.”
“An uncommon snug little box this,” said
Mr. Lenville, stepping into the front room, and
taking his hat off, before he could get in at all.
“Pernicious smug.”
“For a man at all particular in such matters,
it might be a trifle too smug,” said Nicholas ;
“for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great con-
venience to be able to reach anything you want
from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of
the room, without having to move from your
chair, still these advantages can only be had in
an apartment of the most limited size.”
“It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,”
returned Mr. Lenville. “That reminds me,
my wife, Mr. Johnson, I hope she'll have some
good part in this piece of yours?”
“I glanced at the French copy last night,”
said Nicholas. “It looks very good, I think.”
“What do you mean to do for me, old fellow P”
asked Mr. Lenville, poking the struggling fire
§% ºl. -
§ N & , ICHOLAS was up betimes in the
“In the name of all that's
with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it
on the skirt of his coat. “Anything in the gruff
and grumble way ?” • * .
“You turn your wife and child out of doors,"
said Nicholas; “and, in a fit of rage and
jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.”
“Do I, though " exclaimed Mr. Lenville.
“That's very good business.”
“After which,” said Nicholas, “you are
troubled with remorse till the last act, and then
you make up your mind to destroy yourself.
But, just as you are raising the pistol to your
head, a clock strikes—ten.”
“I see,” cried Mr. Lenville. “Very good.”
“You pause,” said Nicholas ; “you recollect
to have heard a clock strike ten in your infancy.
The pistol falls from your hand—you are over-
come—you burst into tears, and become a
virtuous and exemplary character for ever after-
wards.”
“Capital 1" said Mr. Lenville: “that's a sure
card, a sure card. Get the curtain down with a
touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumph-
ant success.” - •
“Is there anything good for me P” inquired
Mr. Folair anxiously. . .
“Let me see,” said Nicholas. “You play
the faithful and attached servant; you are turned
out of doors with the wife and child.”
“Always coupled with that infernal pheno-
menon,” sighed Mr. Folair; “ and we go into
poor lodgings, where I won't take any wages,
and talk sentiment, I suppose P” - -
“Why—yes,” replied Nicholas : “that is the
course of the piece.” .. . .
“I must have a dance of some kind, you
know,” said Mr. Folair. “You’ll have to intro-
duce one for the phenomenon, so you'd better
make a £as de deux, and save time.”
“There's nothing easier than that,” said Mr.
Lenville, observing the disturbed looks of the
young dramatist. .
“Upon my word I don't see how it's to be
done,” rejoined Nicholas. $
“Why, isn't it obvious?” reasoned Mr. Len-
ville. “Gadzooks, who can help seeing the
way to do it? You astonish me! You get the
distressed lady, and the little child, and the
attached servant into the poor lodgings, don't
you?—Well, look here. The distressed lady
sinks into a chair, and buries her face in her
pocket-handkerchief. “What makes you weep,
mamma” says the child. ‘Don’t weep, mamma;
or you'll make me weep too !”—“And me !
says the favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with
his arm. “What can we do to raise your Spirits,
dear mamma P" says the little child, “Ay, what




TRAAWSA'O/8/l/A 77OAVS.
I Š3
can we do?” says the faithful servant. ‘Oh,
Pierre I’ says the distressed lady ; ‘would that I
could shake off these painfui thoughts '—‘Try,
ma'am, try,’ says the faithſul servant ; ‘rouse
yourself, ma'am ; be amused.”—“I will,’ says the
lady; ‘I will learn to suffer with fortitude. Do
you remember that dance, my honest friend,
which, in happier days, you practised with this
sweet angel? It never ſailed to calm my spirits
then. Oh let me see it once again before I
, die!"—There it is—cue for the band, before /
die, -and off they go. That's the regular thing;
isn't it, Tommy P”
“That's it,” replied Mr. Folair. “The dis-
tressed lady, overpowered by old recollections,
faints at the end of the dance, and you close
with a picture.” -
Profiting by these and other lessons, which
were the result of the personal experience of the
two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the
best breakfast he could, and, when he at length
got rid of them, applied himself to his task: by
no means displeased to find that it was so much
easier than he had at first supposed. He
worked very hard all day, and did not leave his
room until the evening, when he went down to
the theatre, whither Smike had repaired before
him to go on with another gentleman as a general
rebellion. *
Here all ſhe people were so much changed,
that he scarcely knew them. False hair, false
colour, false calves, false muscles—they had
become different beings. Mr. Lenville was a
blooming warrior of most exquisite proportions;
Mr. Crummles, his large face shaded by a pro-
fusion of black hair, a Highland outlaw of most
majestic bearing; one of the old gentlemen a
gaoler, and the other a venerable patriarch ;
"nº comic countryman, a fighting-man of great
Valour, relieved by a touch of humour ; each of
the Master Crummleses a prince in his own
*ght; and the low-spirited iover a desponding
*Ptive. There was a gorgeous banquet ready
*Pread for the third act, consisting of two paste.
board vases, one plate of biscuits, a black bottle,
*nd a vinegar cruet; and, in short, everything
Was on a scale of the utmost splendour and
Preparation.
Nicholas was standing with his back to the
Surtain, now contemplating the first scene, which
Was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter
than Mr. Crummles, through which that gen-
tleman was to make his first entrance, and now
*tening to a couple of people who were crack-
*š muts in the gallery, wondering whether they
ºade the whole audience, when the manager
himself walked familiarly up and accosted him.
.* Been in front to-night?” said Mr. Crummles.
“No,” replied Nicholas, “ not yet. I am
going to see the play.” -
“We’ve had a pretty good Let,” said Mr.
Crummles. “Four front places in the centre,
and the whole of the stage box.”
“Oh, indeed . " said Nicholas; “a family, I
suppose P” - -
“Yes,” replied Mr. Crummles, “yes. It's an
affecting thing. There are six children, and
they never come unless the phenomenon plays.”
It would have been difficult for any party,
family or otherwise, to have visited the theatre
on a night when the phenomenon did not play,
inasmuch as she always sustained one, and not
uncommonly two or three, characters, every
night; but Nicholas, sympathising with the feel-
ings of a father, refrained from hinting at this
trifling circumstance, and Mr. Crummles con-
tinued to talk, uninterrupted by him.
“Six,” said that gentleman ; “pa and ma
eight, aunt nine, governess ten, grandfather and
grandmother twelve. Then there's the footman,
who stands outside, with a bag of oranges and
a jug of toast-and-water, and sees the play for
nothing through the little pane of glass in the
box door. It's cheap at a guinea; they gain by
taking a box.”
“I wonder you allow so many,” observed
Nicholas. -
“There's no help for it,” replied Mr. Crummles;
“it’s always expected in the country. If there
are six children, six people come to hold them
in their laps. A family box carries double
always. & Ring in the orchestra, Grudden "
That useful lady did as she was requested,
and shortly afterwards the tuning of three fiddles
was heard. Which process, having been pro-
tracted as long as it was supposed that the
patience of the audience could possibly bear it,
was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell,
which, being the signal to begin in earnest, set
the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs.
with involuntary variations.
If Nicholas had been astonish d at the alter-
ation for the better which the gentlemen dis-
played, the transformation of the ladies was
still more extraordinary. When, from a smug
corner of the manager's box, he beheld Miss
Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin
with a golden hem, and Mrs. Crummles in all
the dignity of the outlaw's wife, and Miss Bra-
vassa in all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci's
confidential friend, and Miss Belvawney in the
white silks of a page doing duty everywhere, aud
swearing to live and die in the service of every-
body, he could scarcely contain his admiration,
f 54
NYCHOLAS AICKZEB Y.
which testified itself in great applause, and the
closest possible attention to the business of the
scene. The plot was most interesting. It be-
longed to no particular age, people, or country,
and was, perhaps, the more delightful on that
account, as nobody's previous information could
afford the remotest glimmering of what would
ever come of it. An outlaw had been.very suc-
cessful in doing something somewhere, and came
home in triumph, to the sound of shouts and
fiddles, to greet his wife—a lady of masculine
mind, who talked a good deal about her father's
bones, which it seemed were unburied, though
whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the
old gentleman himself, or the reprehensible
neglect of his relations, did not appear. This
outlaw's wife was, somehow or other, mixed
up with a patriarch, living in a castle a long
way off, and this patriarch was the father of
several of the characters, but he didn't exactly
know which, and was uncertain whether he had
brought up the right ones in his castle, or the
wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter
opinion, and, being uneasy, relieved his mind
with a banquet, during which solemnity some-
body in a cloak said “Beware!” which some-
body was known by nobody (except the audience)
to be the outlaw himself, who had come there for
reasons unexplained, but possibly with an eye to
the spoons. There was an agreeable little sur-
prise in the way of certain love passages between
the desponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and
the comic fighting-man and Miss Bravassa; be-
sides which, Mr. Lenville had several very tragic
scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expe-
ditions, which were all baffled by the skill and
bravery of the comic fighting-man (who over-
heard whatever was said all through the piece)
and the intrepidity of Miss Snevellicci, who
adopted tights, and therein repaired to the
prison of her captive lover, with a small basket
of refreshments and a dark lantern. At last, it
came out that the patriarch was the man who
had treated the bones of the outlaw's father-in-
law with so much disrespect, for which cause
and reason the outlaw's wife repaired to his
castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room,
where, after a good deal of groping in the dark,
everybody got hold of everybody else, and took
them for somebody besides, which occasioned a
vast quantity of confusion, with some pistoling,
loss of life, and torch-light ; after which the
patriarch came forward, and observing, with a
knowing look, that he knew all about his chil-
dren now, and would tell them when they got
inside, said that there could not be a more ap- .
propriate occasion for marrying the young people
than that; and therefore he joined their hands,
with the full consent of the indefatigable page,
who (being the only other person surviving)
pointed with his cap into the clouds, and his
right hand to the ground; thereby invoking a
blessing, and giving the cue for the curtain to
come down, which it did amidst general applause.
“What did you think of that P” asked Mr.
Crummles when Nicholas went round to the
stage again. Mr. Crummles was very red and
hot, for your outlaws are desperate fellows to
shout. - -
“I think it was very capital indeed,” replied
Nicholas; “Miss Snevellicei; in particular, was
uncommonly good.”
“She's a genius,” said Mr. Crummles; “quite
a genius, that girl. By-the-bye, I’ve been think-
ing of bringing out that piece of yours on her
bespeak night.”
“When P” asked Nicholas. • -
“The night of her bespeak. Her benefit
night, when her friends and patrons bespeak
the play,” said Mr. Crumfmles.
“Oh I understand,” replied Nicholas:
“You see,” said Mr. Crummles, “it’s sure to
go on such an occasion, and even if it should
not work up quite as well as we expect, why it
will be her risk, you know, and not ours.” -
“Yours, you mean,” said Nicholas.
“I said mine, didn't I?” returned Mr. Crum-
mles. “Next Monday week. What do you
say? You'll have done it, and are sure to be
up in the lover's part, long before that time.”
“I don't know about “long before,’” replied
Nicholas; “but by that time I think I can
undertake to be ready.” -
“Very good,” pursued Mr. Crummles; “then
we'll call that settled. Now, I want to ask you
something else. There's a little—what shall I
call it 2—a little canvassing takes place on these
occasions.” -
“Among the patrons,
Nicholas. -
“Among the patrons; and the fact is, that
Snevellicci has had so many bespeaks in this
place, that she wants an attraction. She had 4
I suppose P” said
bespeak, when her mother-in-law died, and *
bespeak when her uncle died ; and Mrs. Crum"
mles and myself have had bespeaks on the annº
versary of the phenomenon's birthday, and out
wedding-day, and occasions of that description,
so that, in fact, there's some difficulty in getting
a good one. Now, won't you help this poº
girl, Mr. Johnson P” said Crummles, sitting him.
self down on a drum, and taking a great pinº
of snuff, as he looked him steadily in the face.
“How do you mean?" rejoined. Nicholas.
AZ/SS SAVE VE/C//CC/’S ZODG/AWGS.
I 55
“Don’t you think you could spare half an
hour to-morrow morning, to call with her at the
houses of one or two of the principal people P”
murmured the manager in a persuasive tone.
“Oh dear me !” said Nicholas with an air of
very strong objection, “I shouldn't like to do
that.” - - -
“The infant will accompany her,” said Mr.
Crummles. “The moment it was suggested to
me, I gave permission for the infant to go.
There will not be the smallest impropriety—
Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul of honour.
It would be of material service—the gentleman
from London—author of the new piece—actor
in the new piece—first appearance on any
boards—it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr.
Johnson.” -
“I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the
prospects of anybody, and more especially a
lady,” replied Nicholas ; “but really I must
decidedly object to making one of the canvassing
party.” . * % -
“What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent P”
inquired a voice close to his ear; and, looking
round, he found Mrs. Crümmles and Miss. Sne-
vellicci herself standing behind him.
“He has some objection, my dear,” replied
Mr. Crummles, looking at Nicholas.
“Objection : " .. exclaimed Mrs.
“Can it be possible P” .
“Oh, I hope not 1” cried Miss Snevellicci.
“You surely are not so cruel—oh dear me —
Well, I—to think of that, now, after all one's
looking forward to it !”
“Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,”
Said Mrs. Crummles. “Think better of him
than to suppose it.
the best feelings of his nature, must be enlisted
in this interesting cause.”
“Which moves even a manager,” said Mr.
Crummles, smiling.
. ." And a manager's wife,” added Mrs. Crum-
mles in her accustomed tragedy tones. “Come,
°ome, you will relent, I know you will.”
“It is not in my nature,” said Nicholas,
ºved by these appeals, “to resist any entreaty,
ºnless it is to do something positively wrong;
and, beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing
which should prevent my doing this. I know
nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it,
then, I yield.” - g
Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed
Crummles.
"ith blushes and expressions of gratitude, of
which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs.
Tummles was by any means sparing. It was
*nged that Nicholas should call upon her, at
*lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon
Gallantry, humanity, all
after they parted : he to return home to his
authorship ; Miss Snevellicci to dress for the
after-piece; and the disinterested manager and
his wife to discuss the probable gains of the
forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have
two-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of
agreement. - -
At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas
repaired to the lodgings of Miss Snevellicci,
which were in a place called Lombard Street,
at the house of a tailor. A strong smell of iron-
ing pervaded the little passage; and the tailor's
daughter, who opened the door, appeared in
that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant
upon the periodical getting-up of a family's
linen.
“Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?” said
Nicholas when the door was opened.
The tailor's daughter replied in the affirma-
tlve. -
“Will you have the goodness to let her know
that Mr. Johnson is here P” said Nicholas.
“Oh if you please, you're to come up-stairs,”
replied the tailor's daughter with a smile.
Nicholas followed the young lady, and was
shown into a small apartment on the first floor,
communicating with a back-room; in which, as
he judged from a certain half-subdued clinking
sound, as of cups and saucers, Miss Snevellicci
was then taking her breakfast in bed.
“You're to wait, if you please,” said the
tailor's daughter after a short period of absence,
during which the clinking in the back-room had
ceased, and been succeeded by whispering—
“she won't be long.”
As she spoke, she pulled up the window blind,
and having by this means (as she thought)
diverted Mr. Johnson's attention from the room
to the street, caught up some articles which
were airing on the fender, and had very much
the appearance of stockings, and darted off.
As there were not many objects of interest
outside the window, Nicholas looked about the
room with more curiosity than he might other-
wise have bestowed upon it. On the sofa lay
an old guitar, several thumbed pieces of music,
and a scattered litter of curl-papers: together
with a confused heap of play-bills, and a pair of
soiled white satin shoes with large blue rosettes.
'Hanging over the back of a chair was a half-
finished muslin apron, with little pockets orna-
mented with red ribbons, such as waiting-women
wear on the stage, and (by consequence) are
never seen with anywhere else. In one corner
stood the diminutive pair of top-boots in which
Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the
little jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by,
&
156
AV/CHOLAS AV/CKZEBY.
was a small parcel, which bore a very suspicious
resemblance to the companion smalls.
But the most interesting object of all was,
perhaps, the open scrap-book, displayed in the
midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were
strewn upon the table; and pasted into which
scrap-book were various critical notices of Miss
Snevellicci's acting, extracted from different pro-
vincial journals, together with one poetic address
in her honour, commencing—
“Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth:
Thrice-gifted SNEVELLICCI came on earth,
To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,
Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.”
Besides this effusion, there were innumerable
complimentary allusions, also extracted from
newspapers, such as—“We observe, from an
advertisement in another part of our paper of to-
day, that the charming and highly-talented Miss
Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday, for
which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare
that might kindle exhilaration in the breast of a
misanthrope. In the confidence that our fellow-
townsmen have not lost that high appreciation
of public utility and private worth for which they
have long been so pre-eminently distinguished,
we predict that this charming actress will be
greeted with a bumper.” “To Correspondents.
—J. S. is misinformed when he supposes that
the ‘highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci,
nightly captivating all hearts at our pretty and
commodious little theatre, is not the same lady
to whom the young gentleman of immense for-
tune, residing within a hundred miles of the
good city of York, lately made honourable pro-
posals. We have reason to know that Miss Suevel-
licci is the lady who was implicated in that
mysterious and romantic affair, and whose con-
duct on that occasion did no less honour to her |
head and heart than do her histrionic triumphs
to her brilliant genius.” A copious assortment
of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of
benefits all ending with “Come Early,” in large
capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss
Snevellicci's scrap-book.
Nicholas had read a great many of these
Scraps, and was absorbed in a circumstantial
and melancholy account of the train of events
which had led to Miss Snevellicci's spraining.
her ankle by slipping on a piece of orange-peel
fiung by a monster in human form (so the paper
said) upon the stage at Winchester, when that
young lady herself, attired in the coal-scuttle
bonnet and walking dress complete, tripped into
the room, with a thousand apologies for having
detained bim so long after the appointed time.
“But really,” said Miss Snevellicci, “my
&
really it did seem possible.
darling Led, who lives with me here, was taken
so very ill in the night that I thought she would
have expired in my arms.”
“Such a fate is almost to be envied,” returned
Nicholas; “but I am very sorry to hear it,
nevertheless.”
“What a creature you are to flatter '" said
Miss Snevellicci, buttoning her glové in much
confusion. -
“If it be flattery to admire your charms and
accomplishments,” rejoined Nicholas, laying his
hand upon the scrap-book, “ you have better
specimens of it here.”
“Oh, you cruel creature, to read such things
as those ! I'm almost ashamed to look you in
the face afterwards, positively I am,” said Miss
Snevellicci, seizing the book, and putting it
away in a closet. “How careless of Led
How could she be so naughty P”
“I thought you had kindly left it here, on
purpose for me to read,” said Nicholas. And
“I wouldn't have had you see it for the
world !” rejoined Miss Snevellicci. “I never
was so vexed—never ! But, she is such a care-
less thing, there's no trusting her.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the
entrance of the phenomenon, who had discreetly
remained in the bedroom up to this moment,
and now presented herself, with much grace and
lightness, bearing in her hand a very little green
parasol with a broad fringe border, and no
handle. After a few words of course, they
sallied into the street. . . . .
The phenomenon was rather a troublesome
companion, for first the right sandal came down,
and then the left, and these mischances being
repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was
discovered to be longer than the other; besides
these accidents, the green parasol was dropped
down an iron grating, and only fished up again
with great difficulty, and by dint of much exer-
tion. However, it was impossible to scold her,
as she was the manager's daughter, so Nicholas
took it all in perfect good-humour, and walked
on, with Miss. Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on one
side, and the offending infant on the other.
The first house to which they bent their steps
was situated in a terrace of respectable appear.
ance. Miss Snevellicci's modest double knock
was answered by a footboy, who, in reply to
her inquiry whether Mrs. Curdle was at home,
opened his eyes very wide, grinned very much,
and said he didn't know, but he'd inquire. With
this he showed them into a parlour, where he
kept them waiting until the two women-servants
had repaired thither, under false pretences, to
I) ECLINE OF THE DRAMA.
157
see the play-actors; and having compared notes
with them in the passage, and joined in a vast
quantity of whispering and giggling, he at length
went up-stairs with Miss Snevellicci's name.
Now, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those
who were best informed on such, points, to pos-
sess quite the London taste in matters relating
to literature and the drama ; and as to Mr.
Curdle, he had written a pamphlet of sixty-four
pages, post octavo, on the character of the
Nurse's deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet,
with an inquirv whether he really had been a
s
“merry man” in his lifetime, or whether it was
merely his widow's affectionate partiality that in-
duced her so to report him. He had likewise
proved that, by altering the received mode of
punctuation, any one of Shakspeare's plays could
be made quite different, and the sense com-
pletely changed; it is needless to say, therefore,
that he was a great critic, and a very profound
and most original thinker.
“Well, Miss Snevellicci,” said Mrs. Curdle,
entering the parlour, “and how do you do?”
Miss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance,
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"AS AN EXQUISITE EMBopment of THE POET's VISIONS, AND A REALISATION OF HUMAN INTELLECTUALITY,
GILDING WITH REFULGENT LIGHT OUR DREAMY MOMENTS, AND LAYING OPEN A NEW AND MAGIC
WORLD BEFORE THE MENTAL EYE, THE DRAMA IS GONE, PERFECTLY Gone,” said MR. CURDLE.
and hoped Mrs. Curdle was well, as also Mr.
Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs.
Curdle was dressed in a morning wrapper,
With a little cap stuck upon the top of her head.
Mr. Curdle wore a loose robe on his back,
and his right forefinger on his forehead, after
the portraits of Sterne, to whom, somebody or
9ther had once said, he bore a striking resem-
blance,
“I venture to call for the purpose of asking
Whether you would put your name to my be-
speak, ma'am,” said Miss Snevellicci, producing
documents.
“Oh I really don't know what to say,” re-
plied Mrs. Curdle. “It’s not as if the theatre
was in its high and palmy days—you needn't
stand, Miss Snevellicci-the drama is gone, per-
fectly gone.”
“As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's
visions, and a realisation of human intellectuality,
gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments,
and laying open a new and magic world before

158
AV/CHO/CAS AV/CATICAE B Y.
the mental eye, the drama is gone, perfectly
gone;” said Mr. Curdle.
“What man is there, now living, who can
present before us all those changing and pris-
matic colours with which the character of Hamlet
is invested P” exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.
“What man indeed—upon the stage P” said
Mr. Curdle, with a small reservation in favour of
himself. “Hamlet ! Pooh ridiculous ! Hamlet
is gone, perfectly gone.”
Quite overcome by these dismal reflections,
Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed, and sat for some
short time without speaking. At length the
lady, turning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired what
play she proposed to have.
“Quite a new one,” said Miss Snevellicci,
“of which this gentleman is the author, and in
which he plays; being his first appearance on
any stage. Mr. Johnson is the gentleman's name.”
“I hope you have preserved the unities, sir?”
said Mr. Curdle. -
“The original piece is a French one,” said
Nicholas. “There is abundance of incident,
sprightly dialogue, strongly-marked charac-
terS 3% º -
“—All unavailing without a strict observance.
of the unities, sir,” returned Mr. Curdle. “The
unities of the drama before everything.”
“Might I ask you,” said Nicholas, hesitating
between the respect he ought to assume, and his
love of the whimsical, “might I ask you what,
the unities are P”
Mr. Curdle coughed and considered. “The
unities, sir,” he said, “are a completeness—a
kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to
place and time—a sort of a general oneness, if .
I may be allowed to use so strong an expression.
I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as
I have been enabled to bestow attention upon
them, and I have read much upon the subject,
and thought much. I find, running through the
performances of this child,” said Mr. Curdle,
turning to the phenomenon, “a unity of feeling,
a breadth, a light and shade, a warmth of colour-
ing, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical de-
velopment of original conceptions, which I look
for, in vain, among older performers. I don't
know whether I make myself understood?”
“Perfectly,” replied Nicholas. -
“Just so,” said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his
neckcloth. “That is mv definition of the unities
of the drama.” -
Mrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid
explanation with great complacency. It being
finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought
about putting down their names.
“I don't know, my dear; upon my word I
don't know,” said Mr. Curdle. “If we do, it
must be distinctly understood that we do not
pledge ourselves to the quality of the perform-
ances. Let it go forth to the world that we do
not give them the sanction of our names, but
that we confer the distinction merely upon Miss
Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I take it
to be, as it were, a duty that we should extend
our patronage to a degraded stage, even for the
sake of the associations with which it is en-
twined. Have you got two-and-sixpence for
half-a-crown, Miss Snevellicci ?” said Mr. Curdle,
turning over four of those pieces of money.
Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the
pink reticule, but there was nothing in any of
them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his
being an author, and thought it best not to go
through the form of feeling in his own pockets
at all. .
“Let me see,” said Mr. Curdle; “twice four's
eight—four shillings apiece to the boxes, Miss
Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the present
state of the drama—three half-crowns is seven-
and-six; we shall not differ about sixpence, I
suppose P Sixpence will not part us, Miss.
Snevellicci P” - -
Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-
crowns with many smiles and bends, and Mrs.
Curdle, adding several supplementary directions
relative to keeping the places for them, and
dusting the seat, and sending two clean bills as
soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a signal
for breaking up the conference. . . . . . . . . . .
“Odd people, those,” said Nicholas when
they got clear of the house. . . . . . . .
“I assure you,” said Miss Snevellicci, taking
his arm, “that I think myself very lucky they
did not owe all the money instead of being six-
pence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they
would give people to understand that they had
always patronised you; and, if you were to fail,
they would have been quite certain of that from
the very beginning.” - - - * -
At the next house they visited they were in
great glory; for there resided the six children
who were so enraptured with the public actions
of the phenomenon, and who, being called down
from the nursery to be treated with a private
'view of that young lady, proceeded to poke
, their fingers into her eyes, and tread upon her
toes, and show her many other little attentions
peculiar to their time of life. -
“I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to
take a private box,” said the lady of the house
after a most gracious reception. “I shall only
take two of the children, and will make up the
rest of the party of gentlemen—your admirers,
7'HAEATRACA / AA TROAVS.
Miss Smevellicci. Augustus, you naughty boy,
leave the little girl alone.”
This was addressed to a young gentleman
who was pinching the phenomenon behind, ap-
parently with a view of ascertaining whether
she was real.
“I am sure you must be very tired,” said the
mamma, turning to Miss Snevellicci. “I cannot
think of allowing you to go without first taking
a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed
of you ! Miss Lane, my dear, pray see to the
children.”
Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty
was rendered necessary by the abrupt behaviour
of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched
the phenomenon's little green parasol, was now
carrying it bodily off, while the distracted infant
looked helplessly on.
“I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as
you do,” said good-natured Mrs. Borum, turning
again to Miss Snevellicci, “I cannot understand
(Emma. don’t stare so); laughing in one piece,
and crying in the next, and so natural in all—
oh dear !” .'
‘I am very happy to hear you express so
favourable an opinion,” said Miss Snevellicci.
“It’s quite delightful to think you like it.”
“Like it !” cried Mrs. Borum. “Who can
help liking it? I would go to the play twice a
week if I could : I dote upon it—only you're
too affecting sometimes. You do put me in
such a state—into such fits of crying Good-
ness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let
them torment that poor child so P”
The phenomenon was really in a fair way of
being torn limb from limb; for two strong little
boys, one holding on by each of her hands,
Were dragging her in different directions as a
trial of strength. However, Miss Lane (who
had herself been too much occupied in contem-
Plating the grown-up actors to pay the necessary
attention to these proceedings) rescued the un-
happy infant at this j uncture, who, being recruited
with a glass of wine, was shortly afterwards taken
**y by her friends, after sustaining no more
*ious damage than a flattening of the pink
&auze bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of
the white frock and trousers.
It was a trying morning ; for there were a
§º many calls to make, and everybody wanted
* different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and
others comedies;
**, Wanted scarcely anything else. Some
thought the comic singer decidedly low, and
9°hers hoped he would have more to do than
he usually had. Some people wouldn't promise
° 89, because other people wouldn't promise to
some objected to dancing;
1.59
go; and other people wouldn't go at all, because
other people went. At length, and by little
and little, omitting something in this place,
and adding something in that, Miss Snevellicci
pledged herself to a bill of fare which was com-
prehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it
included, among other trifles, four pieces, divers
songs, a few combats, and several dances); and
they returned home pretty well exhausted with
the business of the day. -
Nicholas worked away at the piece, which
was speedily put into rehearsal, and then worked
away at his own part, which he studied with
great perseverance, and acted—as the whole
company said—to perfection. And at length
the great day arrived. The crier was sent
round, in the morning, to proclaim the enter-
tainments with the sound of bell in all the
thoroughfares ; and extra bills of three feet
long, by nine inches wide, were dispersed in
all directions, flung down all the areas, thrust
under all the knockers, and developed in all
the shops. They were placarded on all the
walls, too, though not with complete success;
for, an illiterate person having undertaken this
office, during the indisposition of the regular
bill-sticker, a part were posted sidedays, and
the remainder upside down.
At half-past five there was a rush of four
People to the gallery door; at a quarter before
six there were at least a dozen ; at six o'clock
the kicks were terrific; and, when the elder
Master Crummles opened the door, he was
obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen
shillings were taken by Mrs. Grudden in the
first ten minutes.
Behind the scenes. the same unwonted ex-
citement prevailed. Miss Snevellicci was in
such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely
stay on her face. Mrs. Crummles was so ner.
Yous that she could hardly remember her part.
Miss Bravassa's ringlets came out of curl with
the heat and anxiety; even Mr. Crummles him-
self kept peeping through the hole in the cur.
tain, and running back, every now and then, to
announce that another man had come into the
pit.
At last the orchestra left off, and the curtain
rose upon the new piece. The first scene, in
which there was nobody particular, passed off
calmly enough, but when Miss Sneveilicci went
on in the second, accompanied by the pheno.
menon as child, what a roar of applause broke
out ! The people in the Borum box rose as one
man, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and
uttering shouts of “Bravo 1" Mrs. Borum and
the governess cast wreaths upon the stage, of
169
MICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
which, some fluttered into the lamps, and one
crowned the temples of a fat gentleman in the
pit, who, looking eagerly towards the scene, re-
mained unconscious of the honour; the tailor
and his family kicked at the panels of the upper
boxes till they threatened to come out alto-
gether; the very ginger-beer boy remained
transfixed in the centre of the house ; a young
officer, supposed to entertain a passion for Miss
Snevellicci, stuck his glass in his eye as though
to hide a tear. Again and again Miss Snevel-
licci curtsied lower and lower, and again and
again the applause came down louder and
louder. At length, when the phenomenon
picked up one of the 'smoking wreaths, and put
it on, sideways, over Miss Snevellicci's eye, it
reached its climax, and the play proceeded.
But, when Nicholas came on for his crack
scene with Mrs. Crummles, what a clapping of
hands there was When Mrs. Crummles (who
was his unworthy mother) sneered, and called
him “presumptuous boy,” and he defied her,
what a tumult of applause came on When he
quarrelled with the other gentleman about the
young lady, and, producing a case of pistols,
said that, if he was a gentleman, he would fight
him in that drawing-room, until the furniture
was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of
two—how boxes, pit, and gallery joined in one
most vigorous cheer 1. When he called his
mother names, because she wouldn't give up
the young lady's property, and she, relenting,
caused him to relent likewise, and fall down
on one knee and ask her blessing, how the .
ladies in the audience sobbed When he was
hid behind the curtain in the 'dark, and the
wicked relation poked a sharp sword in eyery
direction, save where his legs were plainly
visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through
the house ! His air, his figure, his walk, his
look, everything he said or did, was the sub-
ject of commendation. • There. was a round of
applause every time he spoke. And when, at
last, in the pump-and-tub scene, Mrs. Grudden
lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed
members of the company came in, and tumbled
down in various directions—not because that
had anything to do with the plot, but in order
to finish off with a tableau—the audience (who
had by this time increased considerably) gave
vent to such a shout of enthusiasm as had not
been heard in those walls for many and many
a day. g- -
• In short, the success both of new piece and
new actor was complete, and, when Miss Sne-
vellicci was called for at the end of the play,
Nicholas led her on, and divided the applause.
*
CHAPTER's XXV,
con&ERNING A YouNG LADY FROM London, who
Joins THE COMPANY, AND AN ELDERLY ADMIRER
WHO FOLLOWS IN HER TRAIN ; WITH AN AFFECT.
ING CEREMONY CONSEQUENT ON THEIR ARRiv AL.
was announced for every evening of
performance until further notice, and
the evenings when the theatre was
- closed were reduced from three in
the week’ to two. Nor were these the
only tokens of extraordinary success; for,
on the succeeding Saturday, Nicholas re-
ceived, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs.
Grudden, no less a sum than thirty shillings;
besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed
considerable ſame and honour: having a pre-
sentation copy of Mr. Curdle's pamphlet for-
warded to the theatre, with that gentleman's
own autograph (in itself an inestimable treasure).
on the fly-leaf, accompanied with a note, con-
taining many expressions of approval, and an
unsolicited assurance that Mr. Curdle would be
very happy to read Shakspeare to him for three
hours every morning before breakfast during his
stay in the town.
“I’ve got another novelty, Johnson,” said
Mr. Crummles one morning in gréat glee.
“What's that?” rejoined Nicholas. “The
pony P” - -
“No, no, we never come to the pony till
everything else has failed,” said Mr. Crummles.
“I don't think we shall come to the pony at
all this season. No, no, not the pony.”
“A boy phenomenon, perhaps?” suggested
Nicholas. - - \
. “There is only one phenomenon, sir,” re-
plied Mr. Crummles impressively, “and that's
a girl.” .
“Very true,” said Nicholas.
“I beg your
pardon. Then I don't know what it is, I am
sure.” r
“What should you say to a young lady from
London P” inquired Mr. Crummles. “Miss So-
and-so, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane P”
“I should say she would look very well in
the bills,” said Nicholas.
“You're about right there,” said Mr. Crum-
mles; “and, if you had said she would look
very well upon the stage too, you wouldn't
have been far out. Look here ; what do you
think of this P” - ...' '
With this inquiry. Mr. Crummles unfolded a
red poster, and a blue poster, and a yellow
poster, at the top of each of which public notifi-
cation was inscribed, in enormous characters-


AºEIGHT E V LA WD.
lessly and heavily than ever, without the faintest
promise of abatement.
They had, for some time, been gradually ap-
proaching the place for which they were bound.
The water had become thicker and dirtier;
other barges, coming from it, passed them fre-
quently; the paths of coal-ash and huts of star-
ing brick marked the vicinity of some great
manufacturing town ; while scattered streets
and houses, and smoke from distant furnaces,
indicated that they were already in the outskirts.
Now, the clustered roofs and piles of buildings,
trembling with the working of engines, and
dimly resounding with their shrieks and throb-
bings; the tall chimneys vomiting forth a black
vapour, which hung in a dense ill-favoured
cloud above the housetops, and filled the air
with gloom ; the clank of hammers beating
upon iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy
crowds, gradually augmenting until all the
various sounds blended into one, and none
was distinguishable for itself, announced the
termination of their journey. *
The boat floated into the wharf to which it
belonged. The men were occupied directly.
The child and her grandfather, after waiting in
vain to thank them, or ask them whither they
should go, passed through a dirty lane into a
crowded street, and stood, amid its din and
"tumult, and in the pouring rain, as strange, be-
wildered, and confused, as if they had lived a
thousand years before, and were raised from the
dead and placed there by a miracle
CHAPTER XLIV.
§ HE throng or people hurried by in
º two opposite streams, with no
symptom of cessation or exhaus-
tion; intent upon their own affairs;
and undisturbed in their business
Speculations by the roar of carts
the slipping of horses' feet upon the wet
and greasy pàvement, the rattling of the rain on
windows and umbrella-tops, the jostling of the
º *Patient passengers, and all the noise
of its umult of 3. crowded street in the high tide
Stu * : while the two poor strangers,
i. and bewildered by the hurry they be-
º "t had no part in, looked mournfully on ;
In O *g, amidst the crowd, a solitude which has
...le but in the thirst of the shipwrecked
of . who, tossed to and fro upon the billows
- mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by look-
&
ºnd Waggons laden with clashing wares,
I6 I
ing on the water which hems him in on every
side, has not one drop to cool his burning
tongue. .. -
They withdrew into a low archway for shelter
from the rain, and watched the faces of those
who passed, to find in one among them a ray of
encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some
smiled, some muttered to themselves, some
made slight gestures, as if anticipating the con-
versation in which they would shortly be en-
gaged, some wore the cunning look of bargain.
ing and plotting, some were anxious and eager,
some slow and dull; in some countenances
were written gain ; in others, loss. It was like
being in the confidence of all these people to
stand quietly there, looking into their faces as
they fitted past. In busy places, where each
man has an object of his own, and feels assured
that every other man has his, his character and
purpose are written broadly in his face. In the
public walks and lounges of a town, people go
to see and to be seen, and there the same ex-
pression, with little variety, is repeated a hun-
dred times. The working-day faces come nearer
to the truth, and let it out more plainly.
Falling into that kind of abstraction which
such a solitude awakens, the child continued to
gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering
interest, amounting almost to a temporary for-
getfulness of her own condition. But cold, wet,
hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in
which to lay her aching head, soon brought her
thoughts back to the point whence they had
strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice
them, or to whom she durst appeal. After some
time, they left their place of refuge from the
weather, and mingled with the concourse.
Evening came on. They were still wandering
up and down, with fewer people about them,
but with the same sense of solitude in their own
breasts, and the same indifference from all
around. The lights in the streets and shops
made them feel yet more desolate, for, with
their help, night and darkness seemed to come on
faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in
body, and sick to death at heart, the child
needed her utmost firmness and resolution even
to creep along.
Why had they ever come to this noisy town,
when there were peaceful country places, in
which, at least, they might have hungered and
thirsted with less suffering than in its squalid
strife P They were but an atom here, in a moun-
tain heap of misery, the very sight of which in-
creased their hoplessness and suffering.
The child had not only to endure the accu-
mulated hardships of their destitute condition, but


I62 AV/CHO/CAS AWICKZEB Y.
but, being occupied with his share of the stage
business, he bestowed no great attention upon
this circumstance, and it had quite vanished
from his memory by the time he reached home.
He had just sat down to supper with Smike,
when one of the people of the house came out-
side the door, and announced that a gentleman
below-stairs wished to speak to Mr. Johnson.
“Well, if he does, you must tell him to come
up; that's all I know,” replied Nicholas. “One
of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smike.”
His fellow-lodger looked at the cold meat in
silent calculation of the quantity that would be
left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he
had cut for himself, in order that the visitor's
encroachments might be less formidable in their
effects.
“It is not anybody who has been here before,”
said Nicholas, “for he is tumbling up every
stair. Come in, come in. In the name of
wonder Mr. Lillyvick P”
It was, indeed, the collector of water-rates,
who, regarding Nicholas with a fixed look and
immovable countenance, shook hands with most
portentous solemnity, and sat himself down in
a seat by the chimney-corner. -
“Why, when did you come here?” asked
Nicholas.
“This morning, sir,” replied Mr. Lillyvick.
“Oh I see ; then you were at the theatre
to-night, and it was your umb—”
“This umbrella!" said Mr. Lillyvick, producing
a fat green cotton one with a battered ferrule.
“What did you think of that performance?” .
“So far as I could judge, being on the
stage,” replied Nicholas, “I thought it very
agreeable.”
“Agreeable !” cried the collector.
to say, sir, that it was delicious.”
Mr. Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the
“I mean
last word with greater emphasis; and, having
done so, drew himself up, and frowned and
nodded a great many times.
“I say, delicious,” repeated Mr. Lillyvick.
“Absorbing, fairy-like, toomultuous !” and again
Mr. Lillyvick drew himself up, and again he
frowned and nodded.
“Ah !” said Nicholas, a little surprised at
these symptoms of ecstatic approbation. “Yes
—she is a clever girl.”. -
“She is a divinity,” returned Mr. Lillyvick,
giving a collector's double knock on the ground
with the umbrella before mentioned. “I have
known divine actresses before now, sir; I used
to collect—at least, I used to call for—and very
often call for—the water-rate at the house of a
divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards
of four year, but never—no, never, sir—of all
divine creatures, actresses or no actresses, did I
See a diviner one than is Henrietta Petowker.”
Nicholas had much ado to prevent himself
from laughing ; not trusting himself to speak; he
merely nodded in accordance with Mr. Lillyvick's
nods, and remained silent. *
“Let me speak a word with you in private,”
said Mr. Lillyvick. -
Nicholas looked good-humouredly at Smike
who, taking the hint, disappeared. -
“A bachelor is a miserable wretch, sir," said
Mr. Lillyvick. -
“Is he P” asked Nicholas. s
“He is,” rejoined the collector. “I have
lived in the world for nigh sixty year, and I
ought to know what it is.” -
“You ought to know, certainly,” thought
. Nicholas; “but whether you do, or not, is
another question.”
“If a bachelor happens to have saved a little
matter of money,” said Mr. Lillyvick, “his
sisters and brothers, and nephews and nieces,
look to that money, and not to him ; even if,
by being a public character, he is the head of
the family, or, as it may be, the main from which
all the other little branches are turned on, they
still wish him dead all the while, and get low-
spirited every time they see him looking in good
health, because they want to come into his
little property. You see that P”
“Oh yes!” replied Nicholas : “it’s very true.
no doubt.”
“The great reason for not being married,”
resumed Mr. Lillyvick, “is the expense ; that's
what's kept me off, or else—Lord " said Mr.
Lillyvick, snapping his fingers, “I might have
had fifty women.”
“Fine women P” asked Nicholas.
“Fine women, sir!” replied the collector.
“Ay not so fine as Henrietta Petowker, for
she is an uncommon specimen, but such women
as don't fall into every man's way, I can tell
you. Now, suppose a man can get a fortune in
a wife instead of with her—eh P” - *
“Why, then, he's a lucky fellow,” replied
Nicholas.
“That's what I say,” retorted the collector,
patting him benignantly on the side of the head
with his umbrella; “just what I say. Henrietta
Petowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker, has
a fortune in herself, and I’m going to—”
“To make her Mrs. Lillyvick P” suggested
Nicholas. - -
“No, sir, not to make her Mrs. Lillyvick,"
replied the collector. “Actresses, sir, 'always
keep their maiden names—that's the regular
f
Wr
*
A/MCA/O/AS /S ZEZ”. YWTO A SAE C/º E7.
163
thing—but I'm going to marry her; and the
day after to-morrow, too.”
“I congratulate you, sir,” said Nicholas.
“Thank you, sir,” replied the collector, but-
toning his waistcoat. “I shall draw her salary,
of course, and I hope, after all, that it's nearly as
cheap to keep two as it is to keep one ; that's a
consolation.” -
“Surely you don't want any consolation at
such a moment P” observed Nicholas. *
“No,” replied Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head
nérvously: “no–of course not.”
“But how come you both here, if you’re going
to be married, Mr. Lillyvick P” asked Nicholas.
“Why, that's what I came to explain to you,”
replied the collector of water-rate. “The fact
is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from
the family.” -
“Family " said Nicholas. “What family P”
“The Kenwigses, of course,” rejoined Mr.
Lillyvick. “If my niece and the children had
known a word about it before I came away,
they'd have gone into fits at my feet, and never
have come out of 'em till I took an oath not to
marry anybody—or they'd have got out a com-
mission of lunacy, or some dreadful thing,” said
the collector, quite trembling as he spoke.
“To be sure,” said Nicholas. “Yes; they
would have been jealous, no doubt.”
“To prevent which,” said Mr. Lillyvick, “Hen-
rietta Petowker (it was settled between us)
should come down here to her friends, the
Crummleses, under pretence of this engagement,
and I should go down to Guildford the day be-
fore, and join her on the coach there, which I
did, and we came down from Guildford yesterday
together. Now, for fear you should be writing
to Mr. Noggs, and might say anything about us,
we have thought it best to let you into the
Secret. We shall be married from the Crum-
mleses' lodgings, and shall, be delighted to see
you—either before church or at breakfast-time,
which you like. It won't be expensive, you
know,” said the collector, highly anxious to
Prevent any misunderstanding on this point;
“just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a shrimp,
or something of that sort, for a relish, you know.”
... .Yes, yes, I understand," replied Nicholas.
Oh! I shall be most happy to come ; it will
give me the greatest pleasure. Where's the
lady stopping—with Mrs. Crummles?”
“Why, no,” said the collector; “they couldn't
Very well dispose of her at night, and so she is
staying with an acquaintance of hers, and another
young lady; they both belong to the theatre.”
... Miss Snevellicci, I suppose P” said Nicholas,
“Yes, that's the name.” t
cough.
“And they'll be bridesmaids, I presume?”
said Nicholas.
“Why,” said the collector with a rueful face,
“they will have four bridesmaids; I'm afraid
they'll make it rather theatrical.”
“Oh no, not at all !” replied Nicholas, with
an awkward attempt to convert a laugh into a
- “Who may the four be 2 Miss Sne-
vellicci, of course—Miss Ledrook 33 -
“The-the phenomenon,” groaned the col-
lector.
“Ha, ha!” cried Nicholas. “I beg your
pardon, I don't know what I’m laughing at-
yes, that'll be very pretty—the phenomenon—
who else P”
“Some young woman or other,” replied the
collector, rising; “ some other friend of Hen-
rietta Petowker's. Well, you'll be careful not to
say anything about it, will you?”
“You may safely depend upon me,” replied
Nicholas. “Won't you take anything to eat or
drink P.”
“No,” said the collector; “I haven't any
appetite. I should think it was a very pleasant
life, the married one—eh P”
“I have not the least doubt of it,” rejoined
Nicholas.
“Yes,” said the collector; “certainly. Oh
yes | No doubt. Good night.”
With these words, Mr. Lillyvick, whose man-
ner had exhibited, through the whole of this
interview, a most extraordinary compound of
precipitation, hesitation, confidence and doubt,
fondness, misgiving, meanness, and self-impor-
tance, turned his back upon the room, and left
Nicholas to enjoy a laugh by himself if he felt
so disposed.
Without stopping to inquire whether the in-
tervening day appeared to Nicholas to consist
of the usual number of hours of the ordinary
length, it may be remarked that, to the parties
more directly interested in the forthcoming
ceremony, it passed with great rapidity, inso-
much that, when Miss Petowker awoke on the
succeeding morning in the chamber of Miss
Snevellicci, she declared that nothing should
ever persuade her that that really was the day
which was to behold a change in-her condition.
“I never will believe it,” said Miss Petowker;
“I cannot really. It's of no use talking, I never
can make up my mind to go through with such
a trial l’”
On hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss
Ledrook, who knew perfectly well that their
ſair friend's mind had been made up for three
or four years, at any period of which time she
would have cheerfully undergone the desperate
! 104
M/CHOZAS Aw/CKZEB Y.
trial now approaching, if she could have ſound
any eligible gentleman disposed for the venture,
began to preach comfort and firmness, and to
say how very proud she ought to feel that it was
in her power to confer lasting bliss on a deserv-
ing object, and how necessary it was for the
happiness of mankind in general that women
should possess fortitude and resignation on such
occasions; and that although, for their parts,
they held true happiness to consist in a single
life, which they would not willingly exchange—
no, not for any worldly consideration —still
(thank God), if ever the time should come, they
hoped they knew their duty too well to repine,
but would the rather submit with meekness and
humility of spirit to a fate for which Providence
had clearly designed them, with a view to the
contentment and reward of their fellow-creatures.
“I might-feel it was a great blow,” said Miss
Snevellicci, “to break up old associations and
what-do-you-call-'ems of that kind, but I would
submit, my dear, I would indeed.”
“So would I,” said Miss Ledrook; “I would
rather court the yoke than shun it. I have
broken hearts before now, and I'm very sorry
for it: for it's a terrible thing to reflect upon.”
“It is indeed,” said Miss Snevellicci. “Now,
Led, my dear, we must positively get her ready,
or we shall be too late, we shall indeed.”
This pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of
being too late, supported the bride through the
ceremony of robing, after which strong tea and
brandy were administered in alternate doses, as
a means of strengthening her feeble limbs and
causing her to walk steadier.
“How do you feel now, my love?” inquired
Miss Snevellicci.
“Oh, Lilly vick " cried the bride.
“If you
knew what I am undergoing for you !”
“Of course he knows it, love, and will never
forget it,” said Miss Ledrook.
“Do you think he won't P” cried Miss Pe-
towker, really showing great capability for the
stage. “Oh I do you think he won't P Do
you think Lillyvick will always remember it— .
always, always, always 2" / .
There is no knowing in what this burst of
feeling might have ended, if Miss Snevellicci
had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival
of the fly, which so astounded the bride that she
shook off divers alarming symptoms which were
coming on very strong, and, running to the
glass, adjusted her dress, and calmly declared
that she was ready for the sacrifice.
She was accordingly supported into the coach,
and there “kept up" (as Miss Snevellicci said)
with perpetual sniffs of sa/ colatiſe and sips of
brandy and other gentle stimúlants, until they
reached the manager's door, which was already
opened by the two Master Crummleses, who
wore white cockades, and were decorated with
the choicest and most resplendent waistcoats in
the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined
exertions of these young gentlemen and the
bridesmaids, assisted by the coachman, Miss
‘Petowker was at length supported in a condition
of much exhaustion to the first floor, where she
no sooner encountered the youthful bridegroom
than she ſainted with great decorum. -
“Henrietta Petowker :" said the collector;
“cheer up, my lovely one.” -
Miss Petowker grasped the collector's hand,
but emotion choked her utterance.
“Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta
Petowker P” said the collector.
“Oh no, no, no " rejoined.the bride; “but
all the friends— the darling friends — of my
youthful days—to leave them all—it is such a
shock 1"
With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petow.
ker went on to enumerate the dear friends of
her youthful days one by one, and to call upon
such of them as were present to come and
embrace her. This done, she remembered that
Mrs. Crummies had been more than a mother
to her, and after that, that Mr. Crummles had
been more than a father to her, and after that,
that the Master Crummleses and Miss Ninetta
Crunnmles had been more than brothers and
sisters to her. These various remembrances,
being each accompanied with a series of hugs,
occupied a long time, and they were obliged to
drive to church very fast, for fear they should be
too late -
The procession consisted of two flies; in the
first of which were Miss Bravassa (the fourth
bridesmaid), Mrs. Crummles, the collector, and
Mr. Folair, who had been chosen as his second
on the occasion. In the other were the bride,
Mr. Crummles, Miss Snevellicci, Miss Ledrook,
and the phenomenon. The costumes were
beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite covered
with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon, in
particular, was rendered almost invisible by the
portable arbour in which she was enshrined.
Miss Ledrook, who was of a romantic turn, wore
in her breast the miniature of some field officer
unknown, which she had purchased, a great
bargain, not very long before ; the other ladies
displayed several dazzling articles of imitative
jewellery, almost equal to real; and Mrs. Crum.
mles came out in a stern and gloomy majesty,
which attracted the admiration of all beholders.
But, perhaps the appearance of Mr. Crummles
* * *- : * : . . . * * * * *
was more striking and appropriate than that of
any member of the party. This gentleman, who
personated the bride's father, had, in pursuance
of a happy and original conception, “made up *
for the part by arraying himself in a theatrical
wig, of a style and pattern commonly known as
a brown George, and, moreover, assuming a
sluff-coloured suit of the previous century, with
grey silk stockings, and buckles to his shoes.
The better to support his assumed character, he
had determined to be greatly overcome, and,
consequently, when they entered the church,
the sobs of the affectionate parent were so heart-
rending that the pew-opener suggested the pro-
priety of his retiring to the vestry, and comfort-
ing himself with a glass of water before the
ceremony began.
The procession up the aisle was beautiful.
The bride, with the four bridesmaids, forming a
group previously arranged and rehearsed; the
collector, followed by his second, imitating his
walk and gestures, to the indescribable amuse-
ment of some theatrical friends in the gallery;
Mr. Crummles, with an infirm and feeble gait;
Mrs. Crummles advancing with that stage walk
which consists of a stride and a stop alternately
-it was the completest thing ever witnessed.
The ceremony was very quickly disposed of, and
all parties present having signed the register
(for which purpose, when it came to his turn,
Mr. Crummies carefully wiped and put on an
immense pair of spectacles), they went back to
breakfast in high spirits. And here they found
Nicholas awaiting their arrival
“Now then "said Crummles, who had been
*šisting Mrs. Grudden in the preparations,
which were on a more extensive scale than was
Suite agreeable to the collector. “Breakfast,
breakfast.”
No second invitation was required. The
$9mpany crowded and squeezed themselves at
the table as well as they could, and fell to im-
mediately: Miss Petowker blushing very much
When anybody was looking, and eating very
ºn When anybody was not looking; and Mr.
Lillyvick going to work as though with the cool
º that, since the good things must be paid
9 by him, he would jeave as ſittle as possible
ſo the Crummleses to eat up afterwards.
M *'s very soon done, sir, isn't it?” inquired
r; Folair of the collector leaning over the
table to address him. -
... What is soon done, sir?” returned Mr.
Lillyvick. -
{{ . e
wif The tying, up-the fixing one's self.witn a
ºplied Mr. Folair. “It don't take long,
Oes it P”
Nicholas tº ICKLEB., -2.
MR. CRUMMEAES AS FATHER.
and Henrietta Pe
165
“No, sir,” replied Mr. Lillyvick, colouring.
“It does not take long. And what then,
Sir P’’
“Oh I nothing,” said the actor. “It don't
take a man long to hang himself, either, eh?
Ha, ha!”
Mr. Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork,
and looked round the table with ind: "nant
astonishment.
“To hang himself " repeated Mr. Lillyvick.
A profound silence came upon all, for Mr.
Lilly vick was dignified, beyond expression.
“To hang himself " cried Mr. Lilly vick
again. “Is any parallel atterupted to be drawn
in this company between matrimony and hang-
ing P”
“The noose, you know,” said Mr. Folair. a
little crest-fallen. -
“The noose, sir!” retorted Mr. Lillyvick.
“Does any man dare to speak to me of a noose,
jy
“Lillyvick,” suggested Mr. Crummles.
“—And Henrietta Lilly vick in the same
breath P” said the collector. “In this house,
in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles,
who have brought up a talented and virtuous
family to be blessings and phenomenons, and
what not, are we to hear talk of nooses P”
“Folair,” said Mr. Crummles, deeming it a
matter of decency to be affected by this allusion
to himself and partner, “I’m astonished at
you.”
“What are you going on in this way at me
for P” urged the unfortunate actor. “What
have I done P”
“Done, sir!” cried Mr. Lillyvick. “Aimed
33
a blow at the whole framework of society
“And the best and tenderest feelings,” added
Crummles, relapsing into the old man.
“–And the highest and most estimable of
social ties,” said the collector. “Noose As
if one was caught, trapped into the married
State, pinned by the leg, instead of going into
it of one's own accord, and glorying in the
act P”
“I didn't mean to make it out that you were
caught and trapped, and pinned by the leg.”
replied the actor. “I’m sorry for it; I can't
say any more.”
“So you ought to be, sir,” returned Mr.
Lillyvick; “and I am glad to hear that you
have enough. of feeling left to be so.”
The quarrel appearing to terminate with this
reply, Mrs. Lillywick considered that the fittest
occasion (the attention of the company being
no longer distracted) to burst into tears, and
require the assistance of all four bridesmaids,
2 I 8
166
AV/CHO/AS MXCKZZA V.
which was immediately rendered, though not
without some confusion, for the room being
small, and the table-clöth long, a whole detach-
ment of plates were swept off the board at the
very first move. Regardless of this circum-
stance, however, Mrs. Lillyvick refused to be
tomforted until the belligerents had passed
their words that the dispute should be carried
no further, which, after a sufficient show of
reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr.
Folair sat in moody silence, contenting himself
with pinching Nicholas's leg when anything was
said, and so expressing his contempt both for
the speaker and the sentiments to which he
gave utterance. -
There were a great number of speeches made;
some by Nicholas, and some by Crummles, and
some by the collector; two by the Master
Crummleses in returning thanks for themselves,
and one by the phenomenon on behalf of the
bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Crummles shed
tears. There was some singing, too, from Miss
Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely
there might have been more, if the fly-driver,
who stopped to drive the happy pair to the
spot where they proposed to take steamboat to
Ryde, had not sent in a peremptory message
intimating that, if they didn't come directly, he
should infallibly demand eighteen-pence over
and above his agreement.
This desperate threat effectually broke up
the party. After a most pathetic leave-taking,
Mr. Lillyvick and his bride departed for *::::
where they were to spend the next two days
in profound retirement, and whither they were
accompanied by the infant, who had been ap-
pointed travelling bridesmaid on Mr. Lillyvick's
express stipulation: as the steamboat people,
deceived by her size, would (he had previously
ascertained) transport her at half-price. i
As there was no performance that night, Mr.
Crummles declared his intention of keeping it
up till everything to drink was disposed of:
but Nicholas, having to play Romeo for the
first time on the ensuing evening, contrived to
slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion,
occasioned by the unexpected development of
strong symptoms of inebriety in the conduct of
Mrs. Grudden. -
To this act of desertion he was led, not only
by his own inclinations, but by his anxiety on
account of Smike, who, having to sustain the
character of the Apothecary, had been as yet
wholly unable to get any more of the part into
his head than the general, idea that he was very
hungry, which—perhaps from old recollections
—he had acquired with great aptitude.
head.
—A.
“I don’t know what's to be done, Smike,”
said Nicholas, laying down the book. “I am
afraid you can’t learn it, my poor fellow.”
“I am afraid not,” said Smike, shaking his
“I think if you But that would
give you so much trouble.”
“What?” inquired Nicholas.
me.” ... "
“I think,” said Smike, “if you were to keep
saying it to me in little bits, over and over
again, I should be able to recollect it from
hearing you.” .
“Do you think so P” exclaimed Nicholas.
“Well said Let us see who tires first. Not
I, Smike, trust me. Now then : ‘Who calls
so loud P’” -
“‘Who calls so loud P’” said Smike.
“‘Who calls so loud P’” repeated Nicholas.
“‘Who calls so loud P’” cried Smike.
Thus they continued to ask each other who
called so loud over and over again; and, when
Smike had that by heart, Nicholas went to
another sentence, and then to two at a time,
and then to three, and so on, until at midnight
poor Smike found, to his unspeakable joy; that
he really began to remember something about
the text. º
Early in the morning they went to it again,
and Smike, rendered more confident by the
progress he had already made, got on faster and
with better heart. As soon as he began to
acquire the words pretty freely, Nicholas showed
him how he must come in with both hands
spread out upon his stomach, and how he must
occasionally rub it, in compliance with the
established form by which people on the stage
always denote that they want something to eat.
“Never mind
. After the morning's rehearsal they went to work
again, nor did they stop, except for a hasty
dinner, until it was time to repair to the theatre
at night.
Never had master a more anxious, humble,
docile pupil. Never had pupil a more patient,
unwearying, considerate, kind-hearted master.
As soon as they were dressed, and at every
interval when he was not upon the stage,
Nicholas renewed his instructions. . They pros.
pered well. The Romeo was received with
hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and
Smike was pronounced unanimously, alike by
audience and actors, the very prince and pro-
digy of Apothecaries.
SOMAE TO KAEAWS OF GAZAV7 IAEA/AAWI Y FROL/CS.
167
CHAPTER XXVI.
IS FRARJGHT with SOME DANGER TO MISS NICKLEBY'S
PEACE OF MIND.
A HE place was a handsome suite of
private apartments in Regent Street;
the time was three o'clock in the
afternoon to the dull and plodding,
and, the first hour of morning to
the gay and spirited ; the persons
were Lord Frederick Verisopht, and his
friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.
These distinguished gentlemen were reclining
listlessly on a couple of sofas, with a table be-
tween them, on which were scattered in rich
confusion the materials of an untasted break-
fast. Newspapers lay strewn about the room,
but these, like the meal, were neglected and
unnoticed; not, however, because any flow of
conversation prevented the attractions of the
journals from being called into request, for not
a word was exchanged between the two, nor
was any sound uttered, sáve when one, in toss-
ing about to find an easier resting-place for his
aching head, uttered an exclamation of impa-
tience, and seemed for a moment to communi-
Cate a new restlessness to his companion.
These appearances would in themselves have
turnished a pretty strong clue to the extent of
the debauch of the previous night, even if there
had not been other indications of the amuse-
ments in which it had been passed. A couple
9f billiard balls, all mud.and dirt, two battered
hats, a champagne bottle with a soiled glove
twisted round the neck to allow of its being
grasped more surely in its capacity of an offen-
Slye Weapon; a broken cane; a card-case with-
out the top; an empty purse; a watch-guard
Snapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled
With fragments of half-smoked cigars, and their
stºle and crumbled ashes;–these, and many
9ther tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very
intelligibly at the nature of last night's gentlé.
manly frolics. ' -
Lºrd Frederick Verisopht was the first to
*Peak. Dropping his slippered foot on the
Sºund, and yawning heavily, he struggled into
* Sitting posture, and turned his dull languid
*Yes towards his friend, to whom he called in a
drowsy voice.
Hallo 1 '' replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.
Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?” said
the lord.
“I don't know that we're fit for anything else,”
ºplied Sir Mulbérry; “yet awhile, at least, I
Wºn't a grain of life in me this morning.”
“Life " cried Lord Verisopht: “I feel as if
there would be nothing so snug and comfortable
as to die at once.”
“Then why don't you die?” said Sir Mul.
berry. •
With which inquiry he turned his face away,
and seemed to occupy himself in an attempt to
fall asleep. -
His hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to
the breakfast-table, and essayed to eat ; but,
finding that impossible, ld anged to the window,
then loitered up and down the room with his
hand to his fevered head, and finally threw him-
self again on his sofa, and roused his friend once
Ill OIC.
“What the devil's the matter P” groaned Sir
Mulberry, sitting upright on the couch.
Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient
ill-humour, he did not seem to feel himself quite
at liberty to remain silent; for, after stretching
himself very often, and declaring with a shiver
that it was “infernal cold,” he made an experi-
ment at the breakfast table, and, proving more
successful in it than his less-seasoned friend,
‘remained there.
“Suppose,” said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a
morsel on the point of his fork, “suppose we go
back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?”
“Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or
the ga-a-l P” asked Lord Verisopht.
“You take me, I see,” replied Sir Mulberry.
“The girl, of course.”
“You promised me you'd find her out,” said
Lord Verisopht.
“So I did,” rejoined his friend ; “but I have
thought further of the matter since then. You
distrust me in the business—you shall find her
out yourself.”
“Na-ay,” remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
“But I say yes,” returned his friend. “You
shall find her out yourself. Don't think that I
mean when you can—I know as well as you that
if I did, you could never get sight of her without
me. , No. I say you shall find her out—shal/–
and I’ll put you in the way.”
“Now, curse me if you ain't a real, deyvlish,
downright, thorough-paced friend,” said the
young lord, on whom this speech had produced
a most reviving effect.
“I’ll tell you how,” said Sir Mulberry. “She
was at that dinner as a bait for you.” -
“No 1" cried the young lord. “What the
dey y?
“As a bait for you,” repeated his friend; “old
Nickleby told me so himself.”,
“What a fine old cock it is 4° exclaimed Lord
VeriSopht; “a noble rascal,"

I 68
AV/C/HO/CAS NYCKZAZ B V.
“Yes,” said Sir Mulberry, “he knew she was
a smart little creature- ??
“Smart 1" interposed the young lord.
my 'soul, Hawk, she's a perfect beauty—a—a
picture, a statue, a-a-upon my soul she is l’”
“Well,” replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his
shoulders and manifesting an indifference,
whether he felt it or not ; “that's a matter of
taste ; if mine doesn't agree with yours, so much
the better.” -
“Confound it !” reasoned the lord, “you were
thick enough with her that day, anyhow. I
could hardly get in a word.”
“Well enough for once, well enough for once,”
replied Sir Mulberry ; “but not worth the
trouble of being agreeable to again. If you
seriously want to follow up the niece, tell the
uncle that you must know where she lives and
how she lives, and with whom, or you are no
longer a customer of his. He'll tell you fast
enough.”
“Why didn't you say this before ?” asked
Lord Verisopht, “instead of letting me go on
burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable
existence for an a-age 1”
“I didn't know it, in the first place,” answered
Sir Mulberry carelessly; “and, in the second,
I didn't believe you were so very much in
earnest.”
Now, the truth was that, in the interval which
had elapsed since the dinner at Ralph Nickle-
by's, Sir Mulberry Hawk had been furtively
trying by every means in his power to discover
whence Kate had so suddenly appeared, and
whither she had disappeared. Unassisted by
Ralph, however, with whom he had held no
Communication since their angry parting on that
occasion, all his efforts were wholly unavailing,
and he had therefore arrived at the determina-
tion of communicating to the young lord the
substance of the admission he had gleaned from
that worthy. To this he was impelled by various
considerations; among which the certainty of
knowing whatever the weak young man knew
was decidedly not the least, as the desire of |
encountering the usurer's niece again, and using
his utmost arts to reduce her pride, and revenge
himself for her contempt, was uppermost in his
thoughts. It was a politic course of proceeding,
and one which could not fail to redound to his
advantage in every point of view, since the very
cirèumstance of his having extorted from Ralph
Nickleby his real design in introducing his niece
to such society, coupled with his extreme dis-
interestedness in communicating it so freely to
his friend, could not but advance his interests in
that quarter, and greatly facilitate the passage of
“Upon
coin (pretty frequent and speedy already) from
the pockets of Lord Frederick. Verisopht to
those of Sir Mulberry Hawk. ! -
Thus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and, in pursu-
ance of this reasoning, he and his friend soon
afterwards repaired to Ralph Nickleby's, there
to execute a plan of operations concerted by
Sir Mulberry himself, avowedly to promote his
friend's object, and really to attain his own.
They found Ralph at home, and alone. As
he led them into the drawing-room, the recollec-
tion of the scene which had taken place there
seemed to occur to him, for he cast a curious
look at Sir Mulberry, who bestowed upon it no
other acknowledgment than a careless smile.
They had a short conference upon some
money matters then in progress, which were
scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe (in
pursuance of his friend's instructions) requested
with some embarrassment to speak to Ralph
alone.'
“Alone, eh?” cried Sir Mulberry, affecting
surprise. “Oh very good.' I'll walk into
the next room here. Don't keep me long, that's
all.”
So saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and,
humming a fragment of a song, disappeared
through the door of communication between the
two drawing-rooms, and closed it after him.
“Now, my lord,” said Ralph, “what is it?”
“Nickleby,” said his client, throwing himself
along the sofa on which he had been previously
seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old
man's ear, “what a pretty creature your niece is ſ”
“Is she, my...lord?” replied Ralph... “Maybe
—maybe—I don't trouble my head with such
matters.” - r
“You know she's a deyvlish fine girl,” said
the client. “You must know that, Nickleby.
Come, don't deny that.” ' ' -
“Yes, I believe she is considered so,” replied
Ralph. “Indeed, I know she is. If I did not,
you are an authority on such points, and your
taste, my lord—on all points, indeed—is undeni-
able.” .
Nobody but the young man to whom these
words were addressed could have been deaf to
the sneering tone in which they were spoken,
or blind to the look of contempt by which
they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick
Verisopht was both, and took them to be
complimentary. .
“Well,” he said, “p'raps you're a little right,
and p'raps you're a little wrong—a little of both,
Nickleby. . I want to know where this beauty
lives, that I may have another peep at her,
Nickleby,” º
TH/AE CA ZSA’A W. 169
*--
“Really
” Ralph began in his usual tones.
“Don’t talk so loud,” cried the other, achiev-.
ing the great point of his lesson to a miracle.
“I don’t want Hawk to hear.”
“You know he is your rival, do you?” said
Ralph, looking sharply at him.
“He always is, d-a-amn him 1" replied the
client; “and I want to steal a march upon him.
Ha, ha, ha! He'll cut up so rough, Nickleby,
at our talking together without him. Where
º
\
liº
sº #ºn
does she live, Nickleby, that's all P Only tell
me where she lives, Nickleby.”
“He bites,” thought Ralph. “He bites."
“Eh, Nickleby, eh?” pursued the client.
“Where does she live?”
“Really, my lord,” said Ralph, rubbing his
hands slowly over each other, “I must think
before I tell you.” -
“No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn't
think at all,” replied Verisopht. “Where is it?”
“ NICKLEBY,” SAID His CLIENT, THRow ING HIMSELF ALONG THE sofa on which HE HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY
SEATED, so AS TO BRING HIS LIPS NEARER TO THE OLD MAN's EAR, “WHAT A PRETTY CREATURE YOUR
NIECE IS 1 ''
“No good can come of your knowing,” re-
plied Ralph. “She has been virtuously and
well brought up; to be sure she is handsome,
poor, unprotected—poor girl, poor girl | "
Ralph ran over this brief summary of Kate's
condition as if it were merely passing through
his own mind, and he had no intention to speak
aloud; but the shrewd sly look which he directed
at his companion, as he delivered it, gave this
poor assumption the lie.
“I tell you I only want to see her,” cried his
client. “A ma-an may look at a pretty woman
without harm, mayn't he P Now, where does
she live P You know you're making a fortune
out of me, Nickleby, and upon my soul nobody
shall ever take me to anybody else, if you only
tell me this.”
“As you promise that, my lord,” said Ralph
with feigned reluctance, “ and as I am most
anxious to oblige you, and as there's no harm in

17o
AV/CHO/AS WICKZEAE V.
it—no harm—I’ll tell you. But you had better
keep it to yourself, my lord ; strictly to your-
self.” Ralph pointed to the adjoining room as
he spoke, and nodded expressively.
The young lord feigning to be equally im-
pressed with the necessity of this precaution,
Ralph disclosed the present address and occupa-,
tion of his niece, observing that, from what he
heard of the family, they appeared very am-
bitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and
that a lord could, doubtless, introduce himself
with great ease, if he felt disposed.
“Your object being only to see her again,”
said Ralph, “you could effect it at any time you
chose by that means.”
Lord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a
great many squeezes of Ralph's hard, horny
hand, and, whispering that they would now do
well to close the conversation, called to Sir
Mulberry Hawk that he might come back.
“I thought you had gone to sleep,” said Sir
Mulberry, reappearing with an ill-tempered air.
“Sorry to detain you,” replied the gull; “but
Nickleby has been so ama-azingly funny that I.
couldn't tear myself away.”
“No, no,” said Ralph; “it was all his lordship.
You know what a witty, humorous, elegant, ac-
complished man Lord Frederick is. Mind the
step, my lord—Sir Mulberry, pray give-way.”
With such courtesies, as these, and many low
bows, and the same cold sneer upon his face all
the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his
visitors down-stairs, and otherwise than by the
slightest possible motion about the corners of his
mouth, returned no show of answer to the look
of admiration with which Sir Mulberry Hawk
seemed to compliment him on being such an
accomplished and most consummate scoundrel.
There had been a ring at the bell a few
minutes before, which was answered by Newman
Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the
ordinary course of business Newman would have
either admitted the new-comer in silence, or
have requested him or her to stand aside while
the gentlemen passed out. But he no sooner
saw who it was than, as if for some private
reason of his own, he boldly departed from the
established custom of Ralph's mansion in busi-
ness hours, and, looking towards the respectable
trio who were approaching, cried, in a loud and
sonorous voice, “Mrs. Nickleby l’”
“Mrs. Nickleby "cried Sir Mulberry Hawk
as his friend looked baek, and stared him in the
face.
It was, indeed, that well-intentioned lady,
who, having received an offer for the empty
house in the City directed to the landlord, had
-***
brought it post haste to Mr. Nickleby without
delay. * - - -
“Nobody you know,” said Ralph. “Step
into the office, my—my—dear. I'll be with you
directly.”
A.
Nobody I know !” cried Sir Mulberry
Hawk, advancing to the astonished lady. “Is
this Mrs. Nickleby—the mgther of Miss Nickleby
—the delightful creature that I had the happi-
ness of meeting in this house the very last time
I dined here? But no;” said Sir Mulberry,
stopping short. “No, it can't be. There is the
same cast of features, the same indescribable
air of But no ; no. This lady is too young
for that.”
“I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-
in-law, if it concerns him to know,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, acknowledging the compliment with
a graceful bend, “that Kate Nickleby is my
daughter.”
“Her daughter, my lord ' " cried Sir Mul-
berry, turning to his friend. “This lady's
daughter, my lord.” . *
“My lord ' " thought Mrs. Nickleby. “Well,
I never did—” . . . . . . . . . .
“This, then, my lord,” said Sir Mulberry, “is
the lady to whose obliging 'marriage we owe so
much happiness. This lady is the mother of
sweet Miss Nickleby. Do you observe the ex-
traordinary likeness, my lord? Nickleby—intro-
duce us.” ... • . . . . .
Ralph did so in a kind of desperation. . .
“Upon my soul, it's a most delightful thing,”
said Lord Frederick, pressing forward. “How
de do?” - -
Mrs. Nickleby was too much flurried by these
uncommonly kind salutations, and her regrets
at not having on her other bonnet, to make any
immediate reply, so she merely continued to
bend and smile, and betray great agitation.
“A-and how is Miss Nickleby P” said Lord
Frederick. “Well, I hope P”
“She is quite well, I'm obliged to you, my
lord,” returned Mrs. Nickleby, recovering.
“Quite well. She wasn’t well for some days
after that day she dined here, and I can't help
thinking that she caught cold in that hackney
eoach coming home. , Hackney coaches, my
lord, are such nasty things, that it's almost bet-
ter to walk at any time ; for, although I believe
a hackney coachman can be transported for life
if he has a broken window, still they are So
reckless, that they nearly all have broken win-
dows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks,
my lord, from riding in a hackney coach-I
think it was a hackney coach,” said Mrs. Nickle-
by, reflecting, “ though I'm not quite certain
&
A GAZZA/V7' ESCOR7.
17 f
whether it wasn't a chariot; at all events, I know
it was a dark green, with a very long number,
beginning with a nought, and ending with a
nine—no, beginning with a nine, and ending
with a nought, that was it, and of course the
Stamp-Office people would know at once whether
it was a coach or a chariot, if any inquiries were
made there—however that was, there it was with
a broken window, and there was I for six weeks
with a swelled face—I think that was the very
same hackney coach that we found out afterwards
had the top open all the time, and we should
never even have known it, if they hadn't charged
us a shilling an hour extra for having it open,
which it seems is the law, or was then, and a
most shameful law it appears to be—I don't un-
derstand the subject, but I should say the Corn |.
Laws could be nothing to that Act of Parliament.”
Having pretty well run herself, out by this.
time, Mrs. Nickleby stopped as suddenly as she
had started off, and repeated that Kate was
quite well.
all at the same time, and that's the fact.”:
“Is that letter for me?” growled Ralph, point- .
ing to the little packet Mrs. Nickleby held in
her hand. . . . . . . . . . .
“For you, brother-in-law,” replied Mrs.
Nickleby, “and I walked all the way up here
on purpose to give it you.” . ..
“All the way up here !” cried Sir Mulberry,
seizing upon the chance of discovering where Mrs.
Nickleby had come from. “What a confounded
distance . How far do you call it, now P”. . . .
“How far do I call it?” said Mrs. Nickleby.”
It's just a mile from our door
“Let me see.
to the Old Bailey.” - - -
“No, no. Not so much as that,” urged Sir
Mulberry. -- . .
“Oh It is indeed,” said Mrs. Nickleby. ||
“I appeal to his lordship.”
“I should decidedly say it was a mile,” re-
marked Lord Frederick with a solemn aspect: . . .
“It must be ; it can't be a yard less,” said
Mrs. Nickleby. “All down Newgate Street,
all down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, down
Gracechurch Street, and along Thames Street,
as far as Spigwiffin's Wharf. Oh I, It's a mile.”
“Yes, on second thoughts, I should say it
was,” replied Sir Mulberry. “But you don't
Surely mean to walk all the way back P”
“Oh no "rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. “I shall
go back in an omnibus. I didn't travel about
in omnibuses when my poor dear Nicholas
was alive, brother-in-law. But as it is, you
know——” - - -
. . ~~~~
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I
don't think she ever was better, since she had
the hooping-cough, scarlet fever, and measles,
“Yes, yes,” replied Ralph impatiently, “and
you had better get back before dark.”
“Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had,” re-
turned Mrs. Nickleby. “I think I had better
say good-bye at once.”
“Not stop, and—rest?” said Ralph, who
seldom offered refreshments unless something
was to be got by it. -
“Oh dear me, no "returned Mrs. Nickleby,
glancing at the dia). -
“Lord Frederick,” said Sir Mulberry, “we
are going Mrs. Nickleby's way. We'll see her
safe to the omnibus P” -
“By all means. Ye-es.”
“Oh I really couldn't think of it !” said
Mrs. Nickleby.
But Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Verisopht
were peremptory in their politeness, and leav-
ing Ralph, who seemed to think, not unwisely,
that he looked, less ridiculous as a mere specta-
tor than he would have done if he had taken
any part in these proceedings, they quitted the
house with Mrs. Nickleby between them ; that
good lady in a perfect ecstasy of satisfaction,
no less with the attentions shown her by two
titled gentlemen than with the conviction that
Kate I.ight now pick and choose, at least, be-,
tween two large fortunes and most unexception-
able husbands.
As she was carried away for the moment by an
irresistible train of thought, all connected with
her , daughter's future greatness, Sir Mulberry
Hawk and his friend exchanged glances over the
top of the bonnet which the poor lady so much
regretted not having left at home, and proceeded
to dilate with great rapture, but much respect, on
the manifold perfections of Miss Nickleby.
“What a delight, what a comfor
happiness, this amiable creature must be to
, what a
you !” said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice
an indication of the warmest feeling. -
“She is, indeed, sir,” replied Mrs. Nickleby;
“she is the sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted
creature—and so clever !”
“She looks clayver,” said. Lord Verisopht
with the air of a judge of cleverness.
“I assure you, she is, my lord,” returned Mrs.
Nickleby. “When she was at school in Devon-
shire, she was universally allowed to be beyond
all exception the very cleverest girl there, and
there were a great many very clever ones too,
and that's the truth—twenty-five young ladies,
fifty guineas a year without the et-ceteras, both
the Miss Dowdles the most accomplished, ele.
gant, fascinating creatures.—Oh dear me !” said
Mrs. Nickleby, “I shall never forget what
pleasure she used to give me and her poor
172 AVY CHO/AS WICKZEAE V.
dear papa, when she was at that school, never
—such a delightful letter every half-year, telling
us that she was the first pupil in the whole
establishment, and had made more progress
than anybody else ! . I can scarcely bear to
think of it even now. The girls wrote all the
letters themselves,” added Mrs. Nickleby, “and
the writing-master touched them up afterwards
%2.4%
with a magnifying glass and a silver pen ; at
least, I think they wrote them, though Kate was
never quite certain about that, because she didn't
know the handwriting of hers again; but, any-
way, I know it was a circular which they all
copied, and of course it was a very gratifying
thing—very gratifying.”
With similar recollections Mrs. Nickleby be.
ºs-
ºr
§ s.
sº
sº
º
34 SIR MULBERRY HAwk AND HIS FRIEND Exchanged GLANCEs over THE TOP OF THE BONNET.”
guiled the tediousness of the way until they
reached the omnibus, which the extreme polité-
ness of her"new friends would not allow them
to leave until it actually started, when they took
their hats," as Mrs. Nickleby solemnly assured
her hearers on many subsequent occasions,
“completely off,” and kissed their straw-coloured
kid gloves till they were no longer visible.
y - Mrs. Nickleby leant back in the furthest
corner of the conveyance, and, closing her eyes,
resigned herself to a host of most pleasing medi-
tations. Kate had never said a word about
having met either of these gentlemen: “that,”
she thought, “argues that she is strongly pre-
possessed in favour of one of them.” Then the
question arose, which one could it be P --The

lord was the youngest, and his title was cer.
tainly the grandest; still, Kate was not the girl
to be swayed by such considerations as these,
* I will never put any constraint upon her
inclinations,” said Mrs. Nickleby to herself;
“but, upon my word, I think there's no.com-
parison between his lordship and Sir Mulberry
| Sir Mulberry is such an attentive, gentlemanly
creature, so much manner, such a fine man, and
I hope it's Sip.
has so much to say for himself.
Mulberry—I think it must be, Sir Mulberry "
And then her thoughts flew back to her old
predictions, and the number of times, she had
said that Kate with no ſortune would marry
better than other people's daughters with thou-
sands; and as she pictured with the brightness
of a mother's fancy all the beauty and grace of
the poor girl who had struggled so cheerfully
with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart
grew too full, and the tears trickled down her
face. -
Meanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his
little back-office, troubled in mind by what had
just occurred. To say that Ralph loved or
cared for—in the most ordinary acceptation of
those terms—any one of God's creatures, would
be the wildest fiction. Still, there had some-
how stolen upon him, from time to time, a
thought of his niece which was tinged with .
compassion and pity; breaking through the dull
cloud of dislike or indifference which darkened
men and women in his eyes, there was, in her’
case, the faintest gleam of lig t—a most feeble
and sickly ray at the best of times—but there it
was, and it showed the poor girl in a better and
purer aspect than any in which he had looked
on human nature yet. -- -
i. I wish,” thought Ralph, “I had never done
this.
there is money to be made. Selling 'a girl—
throwing her in the way of temptation, and
insult, and coarse speech. Nearly two thou-
Sand pounds profit from him already, though.
Pshaw match-making mothers do the same
thing every day.”
He sat down, and told the chances, for and -
against, on his fingers.
“If I had not put them in the right track to-
{lay," thought Ralph, “this foolish woman would
ave done. so. Well ! If her daughter is as
true to herself as she should be from what I
have seen, what harm ensues? A little teasing,
*little humbling, a few tears. Yes,” said Ralph
aloud, as he locked his iron safes, “she must
take her chance. She must take her chance"
-e-
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
And yet it will keep this boy to me while .
173
CHAPTER XXVII.
MRs. NICRLEBY BEcoMES ACQUAINTED WITH MESSRS.
Pyke AND Pluck, whose AFFECTION AND INTEREST
ARE BEYOND ALL BOUNDS. -
RS. NICKLEBY had not felt so
proud and important for many a
day as when, on reaching home,
she gave herself wholly up to the
2}\}; pleasant visions which had accom-
º, panied her on her way thither. Lady
Mulberry Hawk—that was the prevalent
, idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk —On Tues-
day last, at St. George's, Hanover Square, by
the Right Reverend the Bishop of Llandaff, Sir
Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, North
Wales, to Catherine, only daughter of the late
Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of Devonshire.
“ Upon my word "cried Mrs. Nicholas Nickle-
by, “it sounds very well.”
Having dispatched the ceremony, with its
attendant festivities, to the perfect satisfaction
of her own mind, the sanguine mother pictured
to her imagination a long train of honours and
distinctions which could not fail to accompany
Kate in her new and brilliant sphere. She
would be presented at court, of course. On
the anniversary of her birthday, which was upon
the nineteenth of July (“at ten minutes past
three o'clock in the morning,” thought Mrs.
Nickleby in a parenthesis, “for I recollect asking
what o'clock it was "), Sir Mulberry would give
a great feast to all his tenants, and would return
them three and a half per cent. on the ame -nt
of their last half-year's rent, as would be fully
described and recorded in the fashionable intel-
ligence, to the immeasurable delight and admira-
tion of all the readers thereof. Kate's picture,
too, would be in at least half-a-dozen of the
annuals, and on the opposite page would ap-
pear, in delicate type, “Lines on contemplating
the Portrait of Lady Mulberry Hawk. By Sir
Dingleby Dabber.” Perhaps some one annual,
of more comprehensive design than its fellows,
might even contain a portrait of the mother of
Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father
of Sir Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things
had come to pass. Less interesting portraits
had appeared. As this thought occurred to
the good lady, her countenance unconsciously
assumed that compound expression of simpering
and sleepiness which, being common to all such
portraits, is perhaps one reason why they are
always so charming and agreeable.
With such triumphs of aerial architecture did
| Mrs. Nickleby occupy the whole evening after
her accidental introduction to Ralph's titled

174: - -
FWFCAHOE.A.S AWACKZEB P.
friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and
equally promising, haunted her sleep that night.
She was preparing for her frugal dinner next
day, still occupied with the same ideas—a little
softened down, perhaps, by sleep and daylight.
—when the girl who attended her, partly for
company, and partly to assist in the household
affairs, rushed into the room in unwonted agita-
tion, and announced that two gentlemen were
waiting in the passage for permission to walk
up-stairs.
“Bless my heart 1" cried Mrs. Nickleby,
hastily arranging her cap and front, “if it should
be—dear me, standing in the passage all this
time—why don't you go and ask them to walk
up, you stupid thing?”
While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs.
Nickleby hastily swept into a cupboard all ves-
tiges of eating and-drinking ; which she had
scarcely done, and seated herself with looks as
collected as she could assume, when two gen-
tlemen, both perfect strangers, presented them-
selves.
“How do you do f" said one gentleman,
laying great stress on the last word of the
inquiry. -
“How do you do?” said the other gentle-
man, altering the emphasis, as if to give variety
to the salutation -
Mrs. Nickleby curtsied and smiled, and curt-
sied again, and remarked, rubbing her hands as
she did so, that she hadn't the—really—the
honour to— -
“To know us,” said the first gentleman. “The
loss has been ours, Mrs. Nickleby. Häs the loss
been ours, Pyke?” -
“It has, Pluck,” answered the other gentle-
Iſlan. - -
, “We have regretted it very often, I believe,
Pyke P” said the first gentleman.
“Very often, Pluck,” answered the second.
“But now,” said the first gentleman, “now
we have the happiness we have pined and lan-
guished for. Have we pined and languished for
this happiness, Pyke, or have we not P”
“You know we have, Pluck,” said Pyke re-
proachfully. . . . -
“You hear him, ma'am P” said Mr. Pluck,
looking round; “you hear the unimpeachable
testimony of my friend Pyke—that reminds me
—formalities, formalities, must not be neglected
in civilised society. Pyke—Mrs. Nickleby."
Mr. Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and
bowed low. . . . .
“Whether I shall introduce myself with the
same formality,” said Mr. Pluck—“whether I
shall say myself that my name is Pluck, or
whether I shall ask my friend Pyke (who, being
now regularly introduced, is competent to the
office) to state for me, Mrs. Nickleby, that my
name is Pluck; whether I shall claim your ac-
quaintance on the plain ground of the strong
interest I take in your welfare, or whether I
shall make myself, known to you as the friend
of Sir Mulberry Hawk—these, Mrs. Nickléby,
are considerations which I leave to you to
determine.”
“Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk's requires'
no better introduction to me,” observed Mrs.
Nickleby graciously.
“It is delightful to hear you say so," said Mr.
Pluck, drawing a chair close to Mrs. Nickleby,
and sitting himself down. “It is refreshing to
know that you hold my excellent friend, Sir
Mulberry, in such high esteem. A word in
your ear, Mrs. Nickleby. When Sir Mulberry
knows it, he will be a happy man—I say, Mrs.
Nickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.”
“My good opinion,” said Mrs. Nickleby, -
and the poor lady exulted in the idea that she
was marvellously sly,–"my good opinion can
be of very little consequence to a gentleman
like Sir Mulberry.” -
.“Of little consequence "exclaimed Mr. Pluck.
“Pyke, of what consequence to our friend, Sir
Mulberry, is the good opinion of Mrs. Nickleby?”
“Of what consequence P” echoed Pyke.
“Ay,” repeated Pluck; “is it of the greatest
consequence P”
“Of the very greatest consequence,” replied
Pyke. -
“Mrs. Nickleby cannot be ignorant,” said
Mr. Pluck, “ of the immense impression which
that sweet girl has Yy - -
“Pluck I" said his friend, “beware l’
...“Pyke is right,” muttered Mr. Pluck after a
short pause; “I was not to mention it. ... Pyke
is very right. Thank you, Pyke." . . .
“Well now, really " thought Mrs. Nickleby
within herself. “Such delicacy as that I never
saw . "
Mr. Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition
of great embarrassment for some minutes, ſº
sumed the conversation by entreating Mrs.
Nickleby to take no heed of what he had inaº
vertently said—to consider him imprudent, rash,
injudicious. The only stipulation he would make
in his own favour was, that she should give him
credit for the best intentions.
“But when,” said Mr. Pluck, “when I see $9
much sweetness and beauty on the one han",
and so much ardour and devotion on the other,
I— Pardon me, Pyke, I didn't intend º.
resume that theme. Change the subject, Pyke.
* { -
M/SS/OAW OF MESSR.S. AYRE AAWD AZ UCA.
I 75
“We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Fre-
derick,” said Pyke, “that we'd call this morning,
and inquire whether you took any cold last
night.”
*Not the least in the world last night, sir,”
replied Mrs. Nickleby, “with many thanks to
his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the
honour to inquire; not the least—which is the
more singular, as I really am very subject to
colds, indeed—very subject.
once,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I think it was in
the year eighteen hundred and seventeen; let
me see, four and five are nine, and—yes, eighteen
hundred and seventeen, that I thought I never
should get rid of; actually and seriously, that I
thought I never should get rid of. I was only
cured at last by a remedy that I don't know
whether you ever happened to hear of, Mr. Pluck.
You have a gallon of water as hot as you can pos-
sibly bear it, with a pound of salt and sixpenn'orth
of the finest bran, and sit with your head in it for
twenty minutes every night just before going to
bed ; at least, I don't mean your head—your
feet. It's a most extraordinary cure—a most
extraordinary cure. I used it for the first time,
I recollect, the day after Christmas-day, and by
the middle of April following the cold was gone.
It seems quite a miracle when you come to think
of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of
September.” - -
“What an afflicting calamity 1" said Mr. Pyke.
“Perfectly horrid '' exclaimed Mr. Pluck.
“But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to
know that Mrs. Nickleby recovered it, isn't it,
Pluck?” cried Mr. Pyke.
“That is the circumstance which gives it such
a thrilling interest,” replied Mr. Pluck.'
“But come,” said Pyke, as if suddenly recol-
lecting himself; “we must not forget our mission
in the pleasure of this interview. We come on
a mission, Mrs. Nickleby.”
“On a mission 1" exclaimed that good lady,
to whose mind a definite proposal of marriage
for Kate at once presented itselfin lively colours.
“From Sir Mulberry,” replied Pyke. “You
must be very dull here.”
“Rather dull, I confess,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry
Hawk, and a thousand entreaties that you'll take
a seat in a private box at the play to-night,” said
Mr. Pluck. .
“Oh dear !” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I never go
Out at all, never.”
“And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs.
Nickleby, why you should go out to-night,”
retorted Mr. Pluck, “Pyke, entreat. Mrs.
Nickleby.”
I had a cold
Mr. Pluck in a fit of enthusiasm.
“Oh, pray do 1" said Pyke.
“You positively must,” urged Pluck.
“You are #. kind,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
hesitating ; “5ut—” -
“There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs.
Nickleby,” remonstrated Mr. Pluck; “not such
a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law
joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry
joins us, Pyke joins us—a refusal is out of the
question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you
—twenty minutes before seven to the moment—
you'll not be so cruel as to disappoint the whole
party, Mrs. Nickleby 2”
“You are so very pressing, that I scarcely
know what to say,” replied the worthy lady.
“Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my
dearest madam,” urged Mr. Pluck. “Mrs.
Nickleby,” said that excellent 'gentleman, lower-
ing his voice, “there is the most trifling, the
most excusable breach of confidence in what I
am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke
there overheard it—such is that man's delicate
sense of honour, Mrs. Nickleby—he'd have me
out before dinner-time.”
Mrs. Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at
the warlike Pyke, who had walked to the window;
and Mr. Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on—
“Your daughter has made a conquest—a con-
quest on which I may congratulate you. Sir
Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her
devoted slave. Hem ’ ”
“Hah!” cried Mr. Pyke at this juncture,
snatching something from the chimney-piece
with a theatrical air. “What is this 2 what do
I behold Pº
“What do you behold, my dear fellow P”
asked Mr. Pluck.
“It is the face, the countenance, the expres-
sion,” cried Mr. Pyke, falling into his chair with
a miniature in his hand; “feebly portrayed,
imperfectly caught, but still the face, the coun-
tenance, the expression.”
“I recognise it at this distance " exclaimed
- “Is it not,
my dear madam, the faint similitude of "
“It is my daughter's portrait,” said Mrs.
Nickleby with great pride. And so it was. And
little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for
inspection only two nights before.
Mr. Pyke ne sooner ascertained that he was
quite right in his conjecture than he launched
into the most extravagant encomiums of the
divine original ; and, in the warmth of his en-
thusiasm, kissed the picture a thousand times,
while Mr. Pluck pressed Mrs. Nickleby's hand
to his heart, and congratulated her on the
possession of such a daughter, with so much
176
AV/CA/O J.A.S AVICKZEB Y.
--
--->
—r-
or seemed to stand, in his eyes.
Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable
complacency at first, became at length quite
overpowered by these tokens of regard for, and
attachment to, the family; and even the ser-
vant-girl, who had peeped in at the door,
remained rooted to the spot in astonishment at
the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.
By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs.
Nickleby went on to entertain her guests with
a lament over her fallen fortunes, and a pic-
turesque account of her old house in the country:
comprising a full description of the different
apartments, not forgetting the little store-room,
and a lively recollection of how many steps you
went down to get into the garden, and which
way you turned when you came out at the par-
lour door, and what capital fixtures there were
in the kitchen. This last reflection naturally
conducted her into the wash-house, where she
stumbled upon the brewing utensils, among
which she might have wandered for an hour, if
the mere mention of those implements had not,
by an association of ideas, instantly reminded
Mr. Pyke that he was “amazing thirsty.”
“And I'll tell you what,” said Mr. Pyke ; “if
you'll send round to the public-house for a pot
of mild half-and-half, positively and actually I’ll
drink it.”
And positively and actually Mr. Pyke did.
drink it, and Mr. Pluck helped him, while Mrs.
Nickleby looked on in divided admiration of
the condescension of the two, and the aptitude
with which they accommodated themselves to
the pewter pot; in explanation of which seem-
ing marvel it may be here observed, that gentle-
men who, like Messrs. Pyke and Pluck, live
upon their wits (or not so much, perhaps, upon
the presence of their own wits as upon the
absence of wits in other people) are occasionally
reduced to very narrow shifts and straits, and
are at such periods accustomed to regale them-
Selves in a very simple and primitive manner.
“At twenty minutes before seven, then,” said
Mr. Pyke, rising, “the coach will be here. One :
more look—one little look—at that sweet face.
Ah! here it is. Unmoved, unchanged 1" This,
by the way, was a very remarkable circum-
stance, miniatures being liable to so many
changes of expression. “Oh, Pluck Pluck 1"
Mr. Pluck made no other reply than kissing
Mrs. Nickleby's hand with a great show of feel.
ing and attachment; Mr. Pyke having done the
Same, both gentlemen hastily withdrew.
Mrs. Nickleby was commonly in the habit of
earnestness and affection, that the tears stood, of penetration and acuteness, but she had never
Poor Mrs. felt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness
as she did that day. She had found it all out
the night before. She had never seen Sir Mul-
berry and Kate together—never even heard Sir
Mulberry's name—and yet hadn't she said to
herself, from the very first, that she saw how the
case stood P and what a triumph it was, for there
was now no doubt about it. If these flattering
attentions to herself were not sufficient proofs,
Sir Mulberry's confidential friend had suffered
the secret to escape him in so many words. “I
am quite in love with that dear Mr. Pluck, I
declare I am,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
There was one great source of uneasiness in
the midst of this good fortune, and that was the
having nobody by to whom she could confide
it. Once or twice she almost resolved to walk
straight to Miss La Creevy's, and tell it all to
her. “But I don't know,” thought Mrs. Nickleby;
“she is a very worthy person, but I am afraid
too much beneath Sir Mulberry's station for us
to make a companion of Poor thing !” Acting
upon this grave consideration, she rejected the
idea of taking the little portrait painter into her
confidence, and contented herself with holding
out sundry vague and mysterious hopes of pre-
ferment to the servant-girl, who received these
obscure hints of dawning greatness with mºich
veneration and respect.
Punctual to its time came the promised
vehicle, which was no hackney coach, but a
private chariot, having behind it a footman,
whose legs, although somewhat large for his
body, might, as mere abstract legs, have set
themselves up for models at the Royal Academy.
It was quite exhilarating to hear, the clash and
bustle with which he banged the door and
jumped up behind after Mrs. Nickleby was in ;
and, as that good lady was perfectly unconscious
that he applied the gold-headed end of his long
stick, to his nose, and so telegraphed most dis-
respectfully to the coachmall over her very head,
she sat in a state of much stiffness and dignity,
not a little proud of her position.
At the theatre entrance there was more bang-
ing and more bustle, and there were also Messrs.
Pyke and Pluck waiting to escort her to her
box; and so polite were they, that Mr. Pyke
threatened with many oaths to “smifligate" a
very old man with a lantern who accidentally
stumbled in her way—to the great terror of
Mrs. Nickleby, who, conjecturing more from
Mr. Pyke's excitement than any previous ac-
quaintance with the etymology of the word that
smifligation and bloodshed must be in the main
giving herself credit for a pretty tolerable share one and the same thing, was alarmed beyond
MRS. A/CAZEBY IN SOCZAZ RAE20 &S7. 177
- --- Pºgº º-º-º-º-º-º-º:
expression lest something should occur. Fortu-
nately, however, Mr. Pyke confined himself to
mere verbal smifligation, and they reached their
box with no more serious interruption by the
way than a desire on the part of the same pug-
nacious gentleman to “smash” the assistant
box-keeper for happening to mistake the number.
Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely been put away
behind the curtain of the box in an arm-chair,
when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisopht arrived, .
arrayed from the crowns of their heads to the
tips of their gloves, and from the tips of their
gloves to the toes of their boots, in the most
elegant and costly manner. Sir Mulberry was a
little hoarser than on the previous day, and
Lord Verisopht looked rather sleepy and queer;
from which tokens, as well as from the circum-
stance of their both being to a trifling extent
unsteady upon their legs, Mrs. Nickleby justly
concluded that they had taken dinner.
“We have been—we have been—toasting
Your lovely daughter, Mrs. Nickleby," whispered
Sir Mulberry, sitting down behind her.
“Oh ho!” thought that knowing lady; “wine
in, truth out.—You are very kind, Sir Mul-
berry.” r
“No, no, upon my soul | " replied Sir Mul-
berry Hawk, “It's you that's kind, upon my
sºul it is... It was so kind of you to come to.
night.”
“$9 very kind of you to invite me, you mean,
Sir Mulberry,” replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing
he, head, and looking prodigiously sly.
‘I am so anxious to know you, so anxious to
Sultivate your good opinion, so desirous that
here should be a delicious kind of harmonious
family understanding between us,” said Sir Mui.
berry, “that you mustn't think I'm disinterested
in what I do.
my soul I am.” ©
“I am sure you can't be selfish, Sir Mul-
berry,” replied Mrs. N ickleby. “You have
º too open and generous a countenance for
"What an extraordinary observer “you are "
said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
thi Oh no, indeed, I don't see yery far, into
things, Sir Mulberry!” replied Mrs. Nickleby
: **ºne of voice which left the baronet to infer
*: she saw very far indeed.
... I am quite afraid of you,” said the baronet.
r Upon my soul,” repeated Sir Mulberry, looking
* to his companions, “I am afraid of Mr.
Nickleby. She is so immensely sharp.”
***śrs. Pyke and Pluck shook their heads
*ysteriously, and observed together that they
had found that out long ago; upon which Mrs.
I'm infernal selfish; I am—upon
Nickleby tittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed,
and Pyke and Pluck roared.
“But where's my brother-in-law, Sir Mui.
berry P” inquired Mrs. Nickleby. “I shouldn't
be here without him. I hope he's coming.”
“Pyke,” said Sir Mulberry, taking out his
toothpick and lolling back in his chair, as if he
were too lazy to invent a reply to this question,
“where's Ralph Nickleby 2”
“Pluck,” said Pyke, imitating the baronet's
action, and turning the lie over to his friend.
“where's Ralph Nickleby 2” gº
Mr. Pluck was about to return some evasive
reply, when the bustle caused by a party entering
the next box seemed to attract the attention of
all four gentlemen, who exchanged glances of
much meaning. The new party beginning to
converse together, Sir Mulberry suddenly assumed
the character of a most attentive listener, and
implored his friends not to breathe—not to
breathe.
“Why not 2" said Mrs. Nickleby. “What is
the matter P” .
“ Hush '" replied Sir Mulberry, laying his
hand on her arm. “Lord Frederick, do you
recognise the tones of that voice?”
“Deyvle take me if I didn't think it was the
voice of Miss Nickleby.”
“Lor, my lord " cried Miss Nickleby's
mamma, thrusting her head round the curtain.
“Why, actually—Kate, my dear Kate 1"
“You here, mamma Is it possible?”
“Possible, my dear ! Yes.”
“Why, who—who on earth is that you have
with you, mamma P” said Kate, shrinking back
as she caught sight of a man smiling and kissing
his hand. - -
“Who do you suppose, my dear?” replied
Mrs. Nickleby, bending towards Mrs. W ititterly,
and speaking a little louder for that lady's edifi.
cation. “There's Mr. Pyke, Mr. Pluck, Sir
Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Frederick Verisopht.”
Gracious Heaven "thought Kate hurriedly.
“How comes she in such society P"
Now, Kate thought thus so hurriedly, and the
surprise was so great, and, moreover, brought
back so forcibly the recollection of what had
passed at Ralph's delectable dinner, that she
turned extremely pale, and appeared greatly
agitated, which symptoms, being observed by
Mrs. Nickleby, were at once set down by that
acute lady as being caused and occasioned by
violent love. But, although she was in no smail
degree delighted by this discovery, which re-
flected so much credit on her own quickness of
perception, it did not lessen her motherly.
anxiety in Kate's behalf; and accordingly, with
178
NYCHOZAS NICKZEB Y.
a vast quantity of trepidation, she quitted her
own box to hasten into that of Mrs. Wititterly.
Mrs. Wititterly, keenly alive to the glory of
having a lord and a baronet among her visiting
acquaintance, lost no time in signing to Mr.
Wititterly to open the door, and thus it was that
in less than thirty seconds Mrs. Nickleby's party
had made an irruption into Mrs. Wititterly's box,
which it filled to the very door, there being, in
fact, only room for Messrs. Pyke and Pluck to
get in their heads and waistcoats.
“My dear Kate,” said Mrs. Nickleby, kissing
her daughter affectionately. “How ill you
looked a moment ago You quite frightened-
me, I declare l’’
“It was mere fancy, mamma—the-the–
reflection of the lights, perhaps,” replied Kate,
glancing nervously round, and finding it impos-
sible to whisper any caution or explanation.
“Don’t you see Sir Mulberry Hawk, my
dear?”
Kate bowed slightly, and, biting her lip,
turned her head towards the stage.
But Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so
easily repulsed, for he advanced with extended
hand; and Mrs. Nickleby officiously informing
Kate of this circumstance, she was obliged to
extend her own. Sir Mulberry retained it while
he murmured a profusion of compliments, which
Kate, remembering what had passed between
them, rightly considered as so many aggravations
of the insult he had already put upon her. Then
followed the recognition of Lord Verisopht, and
then the greeting of Mr. Pyke, and then that of Mr.
Pluck, and finally, to complete the young lady's
mortification, she was compelled, at Mrs. Witit-
terly's request, to perform the ceremony of intro-
ducing the odious persons, whom she regarded
with the utmost indignation and abhorrence.
“Mrs. Wititterly is delighted,” said Mr. Witit-
terly, rubbing his hands; “delighted, my lord,
I am sure, with this opportunity of contracting
an acquaintance which I trust, my lord, we shall
improve. Julia, my dear, you must not allow
yourself to be too much excited, you must not.
Indeed you must not. Mrs. Wititterly is of a
most excitable nature, Sir Mulberry. The snuff
of a candle, the wick of a lamp, the bloom on a
peach, the down on a butterfly. You might blow
her away, my lord; you might blow her away.”
Sir Mulberry seemed to think that it would
'be a great convenience if the lady could be
blown away. He said, however, that the delight.
was mutual, and Lord Verisopht added that it
was mutual, whereupon Messrs. Pyke and Pluck
were heard to murmur from the distance that it
was very mutual indeed.
Nickleby, considering.
*--tº-
“I take an interest, my lord,” said Mrs.
Wititterly with a faint smile, “such an interest
in the drama.” - -
- “Ye-es. It's very interasting,” replied Lord
Verisopht. & - - -
“I’m always ill after Shakspeare,” said Mrs.
Wititterly. “I scarcely exist the next day; I
find the reaction so very great after a tragedy,
my lord, and Shakspeare is such a delicious
creature.” *
“Ye-es!” replied Lord Verisopht. “He was
a clayver man.” -
“Do you know, my lord,” said Mrs. Wititterly
after a long silence, “I find I take so much more
interest in his plays, after having been to that
dear little dull house he was born in Were
you ever there, my lord P”
“No, nayver,” replied Verisopht.
“Then really you ought to go, my lord,”
returned Mrs. Wititterly in very languid and
drawling accents. “I don't know how it is,
but after you've seen the place and written your
name in the little book, somehow or other, you
seem to be inspired; it kindles up quite a fire
within one.”
“Ye-es 1" replied Lord Verisopht, “I shall
certainly go there.” -
“Julia, my life,” interposed Mr. Wititterly,
“you are deceiving his lordship—unintention-
ally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is your
poetical temperament, my dear—your ethereal
soul—your fervid imagination, which throws
you into a glow of genius and excitement. There
is nothing in the place, my dear—nothing, no.
thing.” - -
“I think there must be something in the
place,” said Mrs. Nickleby, who had been listen-
ing in silence; “for, soon after I was married,
I went to Stratford with my poor dear Mr.
Nièkleby, in a post-chaise, from Birmingham
—was it a post-chaise, though P” said Mrs.
Nickleby, considering; “yes, it must have been
a post-chaise, because I recollect remarking at
the time that the driver had a green shade over
his left eye;—in a post-chaise from Birmingham,
and, after we had seen Shakspeare's tomb and
birthplace, we went back to the inn there, where
we slept that night, and I recollect that all night
long I dreamt of nothing but a black gentleman,
at full length, in plaster-of-Paris, with a lay-
down collar tied with two tassels, leaning against
a post and thinking; and when I woke in the
morning, and described him to Mr. Nickleby,
he said it was Shakspeare just as he had been
when he was alive, which was very curious in-
deed. Stratford—Stratford,” continued Mrs.
“Yes, I am positive
SKIZFUZ MANOEUVREs of MESSR.S. PKKE AAD ALUCK.
179
about that, because I recollect I was in the
family way with my son Nicholas at the time,
and I had been very much ſrightened by an
Italian image boy that very morning. In fact,
it was quite a mercy, ma'am,” added Mrs.
Nickleby in a whisper to Mrs. Wititterly, “that
my son didn't turn out to be a Shakspeare, and
what a dreadful thing that would have been 1”
When Mrs. Nickleby had brought this in-
teresting anecdote to a close, Pyke and Pluck,
cver zealous in their patron's cause, proposed
the adjournment of a detachment of the party
into the next box; and with so much skill were
the preliminaries adjusted, that Kate, despite
all she could say or do to the contrary, had no
alternative but to suffer herself to be led away
by Sir Mulberry Hawk. Her mother and Mr.
Pluck accompanied them, but the worthy lady,
pluming herself upon her discretion, took par-
ticular care not so much as to look at her
daughter during the whole evening, and to seem
wholly absorbed in the jokes and conversation
of Mr. Pluck, who, having been appointed
sentry over Mrs. Nickleby for that especief pur-
pose, neglected, on his side, no possible oppor-
tunity of engrossing her attention.
Lord Frederick Verisopht remained in the
next box to be talked to by Mrs. Wititterly, and
Mr. Pyke was in attendance to throw in a word
or two when necessary. As to Mr. Wititterly,
he was sufficiently busy in the body of the
house, informing such of his friends and acquaint-
ance as happened to be there that those two
gentlemen up-stairs, whom they had seen in
conversation with Mrs. W., were the distin-
guished Lord Frederick Verisopht and his most
intimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk—a
communication which inflamed several respect-
able housekeepers with the utmost jealousy and
rage, and reduced sixteen unmarried daughters
to the very brink of despair. -
The evening came to an end at last, but Kate
had yet to be handed down-stairs by the de-
tested Sir Mulberry; and so skilfully were the
manoeuvres of Messrs. 'Pyke and Pluck con-
ducted, that she and the baronet were the last
of the party, and were even—without an appear-
ance of effort or design—left at some little dis-
tance behind. “. -
“Don't hurry, don't hurry," said Sir Mulberry
as Kate hastened on, and attempted to release
her arm, - - -
She made no reply, but still pressed forward.
“Nay, then——” coolly observed Sir Mul-
berry, stopping her outright.
“You had best not seek to detain me, sir,”
said Kate angrily, -
“And why not?” retorted Sir Mulberry.
“My dear creature, now why do you keep up
this show of displeasure ?” . ... •
“Show /" repeated Kate indignantly. “How
dare you presume to speak to me, sir—to
address me—to come into my presence?”
“You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickle-
by,” said Sir Mulberry Hawk, stooping down,
the better to see her face.
“I hold you in the bitterest detestation and
contempt, sir,” said Kate. “If you find any
attraction in looks of disgust and aversion,
you Let me rejoin my friends, sir, in-
stantly. Whatever considerations may have
withheld me thus far, I will disregard them all,
and take a course that even you might feel, if
you do not immediately suffer me to proceed.”
Sir Mulberry smiled, and, still looking in her
face and retaining her arm, walked towards the
door.
“If no regard for my sex or helpless situation
will induce you to desist from this coarse and
unmanly persecution,” said Kate, scarcely know-
ing, in the tumult of her passions, what she
said, “I have a brother who will resent it
dearly one day.” -
“Upon my soul 1" exclaimed Sir Mulberry,
as though quietly communing with himself;
passing his arm round her waist as he spoke,
“she looks more beautiful, and I like her better
in this mood, than when her eyes are cast down,
and she is in perfect repose !”
How Kate reached the lobby where her
friends were waiting she never knew, but she
hurried across it without at all regarding them,
and disengaged herself suddenly from her com-
panion, sprang into the coach, and, throwing
herself into its darkest corner, burst into tears.
Messrs. Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue,
at once threw the party into great commotion
by shouting for the carriages, and getting up a
violent quarrel with sundry inoffensive by-
standers ; in the midst of which tumult they
put the affrighted Mrs. Nickleby in her chariot,
and, having got her safely off, turned their
thoughts to Mrs. Wititterly, whose attention
also they had now effectually distracted from
the young lady, by throwing her into a state
of the utmost bewilderment and consternation.
At length, the conveyance in which she had
come rolled off too with its load, and the four
worthies, being left alone under the portico,
enjoyed a hearty laugh together. -
“There !” said Sir Mulberry, turning to his
noble friend. “Didn't I tell you last night that
if we could find where they were going by
bribing a servant through my fellow, and then
a'
f8o
NICHOLAS AICKLEB Y.
established ourselves close by with the mother,
these people's honour would be our own P Why,
here it is, done in four-and-twenty hours.”
“Ye-es,” replied the dupe. “But I have
been tied to the old woman all ni-ight.”
“Hear him " said Sir Mulberry, turning to
his two friends. “Hear this discontented |
grumbler | Isn't it enough to make a 'man
swear never to help him in his plots and schemes
again P Isn't it an infernal shame P”
Pyke asked Pluck whether it was not an
infernal shame, and Pluck asked Pyke; but
neither answered.
“Isn't it the truth?” demanded Verisopht.
* Wasn’t it so P” - -
“Wasn't it so I " repeated Sir Mulberry.
“How would you have had it 2 How could
we have got a general invitation at first sight—
come when you like, go when you like, stop as
long as you like, do what you like—if you, the
lord, had not made yourself agreeable to the
foolish mistress of the house P Do I care for
this girl, except as your friend ? Haven't I
been sounding your praises in her ears, and
bearing her pretty sulks and peevishness all
Fº for you ? What sort of stuff do you think
'm made of? Would I do this for every man?
Don't I deserve even gratitude in return ?”
“You're a deyvlish good fellow,” said the poor.
young lord, taking his friend's arm. “Upon my
life, you're a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk.”
“And I have done right, have I?” demanded
Sir Mulberry. . . -
“Quite ri-ight.”
“And like a poor, silly, good-natured, friendly
dog as I am, eh?” - -
“Ye-es, ye-es—like a friend,” replied the
other. - -
“Well, then,” replied Sir Mulberry, “I’m
satisfied. And now let's go and have our re-
venge on the German baron and the French-
man, who cleaned. you out so handsomely last
night.” -
With these words the friendly creature took
his companion's arm, and led him away, turning
half round as he did so, and bestowing a wink
and a contemptuous smile on Messrs. Pyke and
Pluck, who, cramming their handkerchiefs into
their mouths to denote their silent enjoyment of
the whole proceedings, followed their, patron
and his victim at a little distance.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Miss NICKLEBY, RENDERED DESPERATE BY THE PER.
SECUTION OF SIR MULBERRY HAWK, AND THE
complicated DIFFICULTIES AND DISTRESSEs which
surroun D HER, APPEALS, AS: A LAST RESOURCE, To
HER UNCLE FOR PROTECTION. . . -
*AHE ensuing morning brought reflec-
tion with it, as morning usually does ;
but widely different was the train of
} thought it awakened in the different
' persons who had been so unexpect-
§ edly brought together on the preceding
§§2 evening by the active agency of Messrs.
Pyke and Pluck. - . . .
• The reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk—if
such a term can be applied to the thoughts of
the systematic and calculating man of dissipa-
tion, whose joys, regrets, pains, and pleasures
are all of self, and who would seem to retain
nothing of the intellectual faculty but the power
to debase himself, and to degrade the very
nature whose outward semblance he wears—the
reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk turned upon
Kate Nickleby, and were, in brief, that she was
undoubtedly handsome ; that her coyness must
be easily conquerable by a man of his address
and experience, and that the pursuit was one
which could not fail to redound to his credit, and
greatly to enhance his reputation with the world.
And lest this last consideration—no mean or
secondary one with Sir Mulberry—should sound
strangely in the ears of some, let it be remem-
bered that most men live in a world of their
own, and that in that limited circle alone are
they ambitious for distinction and applause.
Sir Mulberry's world was peopled with profli-
gates, and he acted accordingly.
Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and
tyranny, and the most extravagant bigotry, are
in constant occurrence among us every day. It
is the custom to trumpet forth much wonder and
astonishment at the chief actors therein setting
at defiance so dompletely the opinion of the
world; but there is no greater fallacy; it is
precisely because they do consult the opinion
of their own little world that such things take
place at all, and strike the great world dumb with
amazement.
, The reflections of Mrs. Nickleby were of the
proudest and most complacent kind; and, under
‘the influence of her very agreeable delusion; she
straightway sat down and indited a long letter
to Kate, in which she expressed her entire àp
proval of the admirable choice she had made
and extolled Sir Mulberry to the skies; assert
ing, for the more complete satisfaction of her



THE AURE S/Z. VER-APO RA SC/HOOL.
18 m
daughter's feelings, that he was preciscly the
tndividual whom she (Mrs. Nickleby) would
have chosen for her son-in-law, if she had had
the picking and choosing from all mankind.
The good lady then, with the preliminary ob-
servation that she might be fairly supposed not
to have lived in the world so long without know-
ing its ways, communicated a great many subtle-
precepts applicable to the state of courtship,
and confirmed in their wisdom by her own per-
sonal experience. Above all things, she com-
mended a strict maidenly reserve, as being not
only a very laudable thing in itself, but as tend-
ing materially to strengthen and increase a
lover's ardour. “And I never,” added Mrs.
Nickleby, “was more delighted in my life than
to observe last night, my dear, that your good
sense had already told you this.” With which
sentiment, and various hints of the pleasure she
derived from the knowledge that her daughter
inherited so large an instalment of her own
excellent sense and discretion (to nearly the full
measure of which she might hope, with care, to
succeed in time), Mrs. Nickleby concluded a
very long and rather illegible letter.
Poor . Kate was well-nigh distracted on the
receipt of four closely-written and closely-crossed
sides of congratulation on the very subject
which had prevented her closing her eyes all
night, and kept her weeping and watching in her
chamber ; still worse and more trying was the
necessity of rendering herself agreeable to Mrs.
Wititterly, who, being in low spirits after the
fatigue of the preceding night, of course expected
her companion (else wherefore had she º:
and salary?) to be in the best spirits possible.
As to Mr. Wititterly, he went about all day in
a tremor of delight at having shaken hands
with a lord, and having actually asked him to
come and see him in his own house. The lord
himself, not being troubled to any inconvenient
extent with the power of thinking, regaled him-
self with the conversation of Messrs. Pyke and
Pluck, who sharpened their wit, by a , plentiful
indulgence in various costly º at his
expense. -
It was four in the afternoon—that is, the
vulgar afternoon of the sun and the clock—and
Mrs. Wititterly reclined, according to custom,
on the drawing-room sofa, while Kate read
aloud a new novel in three volumes, entitled
“The Lady Flabella,” which Alphonse the
doubtful had procured from the library that
very morning. And it was a production admi-
rably suited to a lady labouring under Mrs.
Wititterly's complaint, seeing that there was not,
a line in it, from beginning to end, which could,
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, 13.
heraldic bearings of that noble family.
sigh.
by the most remote contingency, awaken the
smallest excitement in any person breathing.
Kate read on.
“‘Cherizette,’ said the Lady Flabella, insert-
ing her mouse-like feetin the blue satin slippers,
which had unwittingly occasioned the half.
playful half-angry altercation between herself
and the youthful Colonel Befillaire, in the Duke
of Mincefenille's salon de danse on the previous
night. ‘Cherizette, ma chºre, donnez-moi de l'eau-
de-Cologne, s'il vous plait, mon enfant.’
“‘Mercie—thank you,' said the Lady Flabella,
as the lively but devoted Cherizette plentifully
besprinkled with the fragrant compound the
Lady Flabella's mouchoir of finest cambric, edged
with richest lace, and emblazoned at the four
corners with the Flabella crest, and gorgeous
* Mercie
-that will do.’ -
“At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet
inhaled that delicious fragrance by holding the
mouchoir to her exquisite, but thoughtfully-
chiselled nose, the door of the boudoir (artfully
concealed by rich hangings of silken damask,
the hue of Italy's firmament) was thrown open,
and with noiseless tread two valets-de-chambre,
clad in sumptuous liveries of peach-blossom and
gold, advanced into the room, followed by a
page in bas de soie—silk stockings—who, while
they remained at some distance making the
most graceful obeisances, advanced to the feet
of his lovely mistress, and, dropping on one
knee, presented, on a golden salver gorgeoushy
chased, a scented buſiet.
“The Lady Flabella, with an agitation she
could not repress, hastily tore off the enzelope
and broke the scented seal. It was from Befil-
laire—the young, the slim, the low-voiced—her
own Befillaire.” -
“Oh, charming !” interrupted Kate's pa-
troness, who was sometimes taken literary.
“Poetic, really. Read that description again,
Miss Nickleby.” - -
Kate complied. . . .
“Sweet indeed 1" said Mrs. Wititterly with a
“So voluptuous, is it not—so soft P*
“Yes, I think it is,” replied Kate gently;
“very soft.”
“Close the book, Miss Nickleby,” said Mrs.
Wititterly. “I can hear nothing nore to-day :
I should be sorry to disturb the impression of
that sweet description. Close the book."
Kate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she
did so, Mrs. Wititterly raising her glass with a
languid hand, remarked, that she looked pale.
“It was the fright of that—that noise and
confusion last night,” said Kate.
a'
2 I 9
182
M/CHOLAS WWCKZEB Y.
“How very odd " exclaimed Mrs. Wititterly a
with a look of surprise. And certainly, when
one comes to think of it, it was very odd that
anything should have disturbed a companion.
A steam-engine, or other ingenious piece of
mechanism out of order, would have been
nothing to it. -
“How did you come to know Lord Frederick,
and those other delightful creatures, child P”
asked Mrs. Wititterly, still eyeing Kate through
her glass. -
“I met them at my uncle's,” said Kate, vexed
to feel that she was colouring deeply, but unable
to keep down the blood which rushed to her
face whenever she thought of that man.
“Have you known them long?”
“No,” rejoined Kate. “Not long.”
“I was very glad of the opportunity which
that respectable person, your mother, gave us of
being known to them,” said Mrs. Wititterly in a
lofty manner. “Some friends of ours were on
the very point of introducing us, which makes
it quite remarkable.” - -
This was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow
conceited on the honour and dignity of having
known four great people (for Pyke and Pluck
were included among the delightful creatures),
whom Mrs. Wititterly did not know. But, as
the circumstance had made no impression one
way or other upon Kate's mind, the force of
the observation was quite lost upon her.
“They asked permission to call,” said Mrs.
Wititterly. “I gave it them, of course.”
“Do you expect them to-day?” Kate ven-
tured to inquire. -
Mrs. Wititterly's answer was lost in the noise
of a tremendous rapping at the street-door, and,
before it had ceased to vibrate, there drove
up a handsome cabriolet, out of which leaped
Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend Lord Veri-
Sopht. . . .
“They are here now,” said Kate, rising and
hurrying away.
“Miss Nickleby 1” cried Mrs. Wititterly, per-
fectly aghast at a companion's attempting to
quit the room without her permission first had
and obtained. “Pray don't think of going.”
“You are very good " replied Kate.
{{ But—” - -
“For goodness' sake, don't agitate me by
making me speak so much,” said Mrs. Wititterly
with great sharpness. “Dear me, Miss Nicklé-
by, I beg—” -
It was in vain for Kate to protest that she
was unwell, for the footsteps of the knockers,
whoever they were, were already on the stairs.
She resumed her seat, and had scarcely done
so, when the doubtful page darted into the
room, and announced Mr. Pyke, and Mr.
Pluck, and Lord Verisopht, and Sir Mulberry
Hawk, all at one burst. - - - -,
“The most extraordinary thing in the world,”
said Mr. Pluck, saluting both ladies with the
utmost cordiality; “the most extraordinary
thing. As Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry
drove up to the door, Pyke and I had that
instant knocked.”
“That instant knocked,” said Pyke.
“No matter how you came, so that you are
here,” said Mrs. Wititterly, who, by dint of lying
on the same sofa for three years and a half, had
got up quite a little pantomime of graceful atti-
tudes, and now threw herself into the most
striking of the whole series, to astonish the
visitors. “I am delighted, I am sure.”
“And how is Miss Nickleby P” said Sir Mul-
berry Hawk, accosting Kate, in a low voice—
not so low, however, but that it reached the ears
of Mrs. Wititterly: .
“Why, she complains of suffering from the
fright of last night,” said the lady. “I am sure
I don't wonder at it, for my nerves are quite
torn to pieces.” - . . .
“And yet you look,” observed Sir Mulberry,
turning round; “and yet you look—”
“Beyond everything,” said Mr. Pyke, coming
to his patron's assistance. Of course Mr. Pluck
said the same.
“I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my
lord,” said Mrs. Wititterly, turning to that young
gentleman, who had been sucking the head of
his cane in silence, and staring at Kate.
“Oh, deyvlish "replied Verisopht. Having
given utterance to which remarkable sentiment,
he occupied himself as before. -
“Neither does Miss Nickleby look the worse,”
said Sir Mulberry, bending his bold gaze upon
her. “She was always handsome, but upon
my soul, ma'am, you seem to have imparted
some of your own good looks to her besides.”
To judge from the glow which suffused the
poor girl's countenance after this speech, Mrs.

Wititterly might, with some show of reason, have
been supposed to have imparted to it; some of
that artificial bloom which decorated her own.
Mrs. Wititterly admitted, though not with the
best grace in the world, that Kate did look
pretty. She began to think, too; that Sir Mul-
berry was not quite so agreeable a creature as
, she had at first supposed him; for, although a
skilful flatterer is a most delightful companion,
if you can keep him all to yourself; his taste
becomes very doubtful when he takes to com-
plimenting other people,
V/A Y L/KE A COUNTESS.
*—
“Pyke,” said the watchful Mr. Pluck, observ-
ing the effect which the draise of Miss Nickleby
had produced.
“Well, Pluck,” said Pyke.
“Is there anybody,” demanded Mr. Pluck
mysteriously, “anybody you know, that Mrs.
Wititterly's profile reminds you of P”
“Reminds me of 1" answered Pyke.
course there is.”
“Who do you mean P” said Pluck in the
same mysterious manner. “The D. of B. P.”
“The C. of B.,” . Pyke, with the faintest
trace of a grin lingering in his countenance.
“The beautiful sister is the countess ; not the
duchess.”
“True,” said Pluck, “the C. of B. The re-
semblance is wonderful "
“Perfectly startling,” said Mr. Pyke.
Here was a state of things Mrs. Wititterly
was declared, upon the testimony of two vera-
cious and competent witnesses, to be the very
picture of a countess This was one of the
consequences of getting into good society. Why,
she might have moved among grovelling people
for twenty years, and never heard of it. How
could she, indeed 2 What did they know about
countesses 2 - º
The two gentlemen having, by the greediness
with which this little bait was swallowed, tested
the extent of Mrs. Wititterly's appetite for
adulation, proceeded to administer that com-
modity in very large doses, thus affording to
Sir Mulberry Hawk an opportunity of pestering
Miss Nickleby with questions and remarks, to
which she was absolutely obliged to make some
reply. Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed un-
molested the full flavour of the gold knob at
the top of his cane, as he would have done to
the end of the interview if Mr. Wititterly had
not come home, and caused the conversation to
turn to his favourite topic.
“My lord,” said Mr. Wititterly, “I am de-
lighted—honoured—proud. Be seated again,
my lord, prav. I am proud. indeed—most
proud.”
It was to the secret annoyance oi nis wife
that Mr. Wititterly said all this, for, although
she was bursting"with pride and arrogance, she
would have had the illustrious guests believe
that their visit was quite a common occurrence,
and that they had lords and baronets to see
them every day in the week. But Mr. Witit-
terly's feelings were beyond the power of sup-
pression.
“It is an aonour, indeed " said Mr. Witit-
terly. “Julia, my soul, you will suffer for this
to-nnorrow.”
“Of
f
“Suffer "cried Lord Verisopht.
“The reaction, my lord, the reaction,” said
Mr. Wititterly. “This violent strain upon the
nervous system over, my lord, what ensues 2 A
sinking, a depression, a lowness, a lassitude, a
debility. My lord, if Sir Tumley Snuffin was to
see that delicate creature at this moment, he
would not give a—a—this for her life.” In
illustration of which remark Mr. Wititterly took
a pinch of snuff from his box, and jerked it
lightly into the air as an emblem of instability.
“Not that,” said Mr. Wititterly, looking about
him with a serious countenance. “Sir Tumley
Snuffin would not give that for Mrs. Wititterly's
existence.” -- -
Mr. Wititterly told this with a kind of sober
exultation, as if it were no trifling distinction
for a man to have a wife in such a desperate state,
and Mrs. Wititterly sighed and looked on, as if
she felt the honour, but had determined to
bear it as meekly as might be.
“Mrs. Wititterly,” said her husband, “is Sir
Tumley Snuffin's favourite patient. I believe I
may venture to say that Mrs. Wititterly is the
first person who took the new medicine which is
supposed to have destroyed a family at Kensing-
ton Gravel Pits. I believe she was. If I am
wrong, Julia, my dear, you will correct me.”
“I believe I was,” said Mrs. Wititterly in a
faint voice. -
As there appeared to be some doubt in the
mind of his patron how he could best join in
this conversation, the indefatigable Mr. Pyke
threw himself into the breach, and, by way of
saying something to the point, inquired—with
reference to the aforesaid medicine—whether it
was nice.
“No, sir, it was not. It had not even that
recommendation,” said Mr. W.
“Mrs. Wititterly is quite a martyr,” observed
Pyke with a complimentary bow.
“I think I am,” said Mrs. Wititterly, smiling.
“I think you are, my dear Julia,” replied her
husband in a tone which seemed to say that he
was not vain, but still must insist upon their
privileges. “If anybody, my lord,” added Mr.
Wititterly, wheeling round to the nobleman,
“will produce to me a greater martyr than Mrs.
Wititterly, all I can say is, that I shall be glad
to see that martyr, whether male or female—
that's all, my lord.”
Pyke and Pluck promptly remarked that cer-
tainly nothing could be ſairer than that ; and
the call having been by this time protracted to
a very great length, they obeyed Sir Mulberry's
look, and rose to go. This brought Sir Mul-
berry himself and Lord Verisopht on their
*
184
AV/CHO/AS AV/CKZZA V.
legs also. Many protestations of friendship,
and expressions anticipative of the pleasure
which must inevitably flow from so happy an
acquaintance, were exchanged, and the visitors
departed, with renewed assurances that at all
times and seasons the mansion of the Wititterlys
would be honoured by receiving them beneath
its roof. - -
That they came at all times and seasons—
that they dined there one day, supped the next,
dimed again on the next, and were constantly
to and fro on all—that they made parties to
visit public places, and met by accident at
lounges—that upon all these occasions Miss
Nickleby was exposed to the constant and un-
remitting persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
who now began to feel his character, even in
the estimation of his two dependants, involved
in the successful reduction of her pride—that
she had no intervals of peace or rest, except at
those hours when she could sit in her solitary
room, and weep over the trials of the day—all
these were consequences naturally flowing from
the well-laid plans of Sir Mulberry, and their
able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke and
Pluck.
And thus for a fortnight matters went on.
That any but the weakest and silliest of people
could have seen in one interview that Lord
Verisopht, though he was a lord, and Sir Mul-
berry Hawk, though he was a baronet, were not
persons accustomed to be the best possible
companions, and were certainly not calculated,
by habits, manners, tastes, or conversation, to
shine with any very great lustre in the society
of ladies, need scarcely be remarked. But with
Mrs. Wittiterly the two titles were all-sufficient;
coarseness became humour, vulgarity softened
itself down into the most charming eccentricity;
insolence took the guise of an easy absence of
reserve, attainable only by those who had had
the good fortune to mix with high folks. *
If the mistress “put such a construction upon
the behaviour of her new friends, what could the
companion urge against them P . If they accus-
tomed themselves to very little restraint before
the lady of the house, with how much more
freedom could they address her paid dependant!
Nor was even this the worst. As the odious
Sir Mulberry Hawk attached himself to Kate
with less and less of disguise, Mrs. Wititterly
began to grow jealous of the superior attractions
of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling had led to
her banishment from the drawing-room when
such company was there, Kate would have been
only too happy and willing that it should have
existed; but, unfortunately for her, she pos-
sessed that native grace and true gentility of
manner, and those thousand nameless accom-
plishments, which give to female society its
greatest charm. If these be valuable anywhere,
they were especially so where the lady of the
house was a mere animated doll. The conse-
quence was, that Kate had the double mortifica-
tion of being an indispensable part of the circle
when Sir Mulberry and his friends were there,
and of being exposed; on that very account, to
all Mrs. Wititterly's ill-humours and caprices
when they were gone. She became utterly and
completely miserable. *
Mrs. Wititterly had never thrown off the mask
with regard to Sir Mulberry, but, when she was
more than usually out of temper, attributed the
circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervous
indisposition. However, as the dreadful idea
that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat taken
with Kate, and that she, Mrs. Wititterly, was
quite a secondary person, dawned upon that
lady's mind, and gradually developed itself, she
became possessed with a large quantity of highly
proper and most virtuous indignation, and felt
it her duty, as a married lady and a moral mem-
ber of society, to mention the circumstance to
“the young person” without delay.
Accordingly, Mrs. Wititterly broke ground
next morning during a pause in the novel
reading. - -
“Miss Nickleby,” said Mrs. Wititterly, “I
wish to speak to you very gravely. I am sorry to
have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry,
but you leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.”
Here Mrs. Wititterly tossed her head—not pas-
sionately, only virtuously—and remarked, with
some appearance of excitement, that she feared
that palpitation of the heart was coming on
agaln.
“Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,” resumed
the lady, “is very far from pleasing me—very
far. I am very anxious indeed that you should
do well, but you may dependſ upon it. Miss
Nickleby, you will not, if you go on as yout do.”
“Ma'am "exclaimed Kate proudly.
“Don’t agitate me by speaking in that way,
Miss Nickleby, don't,” said Mrs. Wititterly with
some violence, “ or you'll campel me to ring
the bell.” - -
Kate looked at her, but said nothing. tº
* You needn't suppose,” resumed Mrs. Witit
terly, “that your looking at me in that way, Miss
Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I an
going to say, which I feel to be a religious duty.
You needn’t direct your glances towards me,
said Mrs. Wititterly with a sudden burst of
spite ; “I am not Sir Muſberry, no, nor Lord
THE YOUNG PERSON IS PUT Do WW.
185
Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby, nor am I
Mr. Pyke, nor Mr. Pluck either.”
Rate looked at her again, but less steadily
than before; and, resting her elbow on the
table, covered her eyes with her hand.
“If such things had been done when I was a
young girl,” said Mrs. Wititterly (this, by the
way, must have been some little time before), I
don't suppose anybody would have believed it.”
“I don't think they would,” murmured Kate.
“I do not think anybody would believe, without
actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to
undergo!”
“Don’t talk to me of being doomed to un-
dergo, Miss Nickleby, if you please,” said Mrs.
Wititterly with a shrillness of tone quite surpris-
ing in so great an invalid. “I will not be
answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not accus-
tomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for
an instant. Do you hear P” she added, wait-
ing with some apparent inconsistency for an
3DSWGºr. -
“I do hear you, ma'am,” replied Kate, “with
surprise—with greater surprise than I can ex-
press.”
“I have always considered you a particularly
well-behaved young person for your station in
life,” said Mrs. Wititterly; “and as you are a
person of healthy appearance, and neat in your
dress and so forth, I have taken an interest in,
you, as I do still, considering that I owe a sort
of duty to that respectable old female, your
mother. For these reasons, Miss Nickleby, I
must tell you, once for all, and begging you to
mind what I say, that I must insist upon your
immediately altering your very forward beha-
viour to the gentlemen who visit at this house.
It really is not becoming,” said Mrs. Wititterly,
closing her chaste eyes as she spoke “it is
improper—quite improper.”
“Oh! ” cried Kate, looking upwards and
clasping her hands: “is not this, is not this too
cruel, too hard to bear? Is it not enough that
I should have suffered as I have, night and day;
that I should almost have sunk in my own esti-
mation from very shame of having been brought
into contact with such people; but must I also
be exposed to this unjust and most unfounded
charge?”
“You will have the goodness to recollect,
Miss Nickleby,” said Mrs. Wititterly, “that
When you use such terms as “unjust’ and “un-
founded, you charge me, in effect, with stating
that which is untrue.” Y. -
& “I do,” said Kate with honest indignation.
*Whether you make this accusation of yourself,
or at the prompting of others, is alike to me.
been too much for her.
I say it is vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it
possible,” cried Kate, “that any one of my own
sex can have sat by, and not have seen the
misery these men have caused me 2 Is it pos-
sible that you, ma'am, can have been present,
and failed to mark the insulting freedom
that their every look bespoke 2 Is it possible
that you can have avoided seeing that these
libertines, in their utter disrespect for you,
and utter disregard of all gentlemanly beha-
viour, and almost of decency, have had but one
object in introducing themselves here, and that
the furtherance of their designs upon a friend-
less, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating
confession, might have hoped to receive from
one so much her senior something like womanly
aid and 'sympathy P I do not—I cannot be-
lieve it !” .
If poor Kate had possessed the slightest
knowledge of the world, she certainly would not
have ventured; even in the excitement into
which she had been lashed, upon such an inju-
dicious speech as this. . Its effect was precisely
what a more experienced observer would have
foreseen. Mrs. Wititterly received the attack
upon her veracity with exemplary calmness, and
listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate's
account of her own sufferings. But allusion
being made to her being held in disregard by the
gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and
this blow was no sooner followed up by the re-
mark concerning her seniority than she fell back
upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.
“What is the matter?” cried Mr. Wititterly,
bouncing into the room. * Heavens, what do
I see P Julia Julia look up, my life, look
up !” - -
But Julia looked down most perseveringly,
and screamed still louder; so Mr. Wititterly
rang the bell, and danced in a frenzied manner
round the sofa on which Mrs. Wititterly lay;
uttering perpetual cries for Sir Tumley Snuffin,
and never once leaving off to ask for any ex-
planation of the scene before him.
“Run for Sir Tumley,” cried Mr. Wititterly,
menacing the page with both fists. “I knew it,
Miss Nickleby,” he said, looking round with an
air of melancholy triumph; “that society has
This is all soul, you
know, every bit of it.” With this assurance Mr.
Wititterly took up the prostrate form of Mrs.
Wititterly, and carried her bodily off to bed.
Kate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffin had
paid his visit and looked in with a report that,
through the special interposition of a merciful
Providence (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs. Witit-
terly had gone to sleep. She then hastily attired
186
AVICHOLAS WICKLAEAE Y'.
herself for walking, and, leaving word that she
should return within a couple of hours, hurried
away towards her uncle's house. -
It had been a good day with Ralph Nickleby
—quite a lucky day; and, as he walked to and
fro in his little back-room with his hands clasped
behind him, adding up in his own mind all the
sums that had been, or would be, netted from
the business done since morning, his mouth was
drawn into a hard stern smile; while the firm-
ness of the lines and curves that made it up, as
well as the cunning glance of his cold, bright
eye, seemed to tell that, if any resolution or
cunning would increase the profits, they would
not fail to be exerted for the purpose.
“Very good " said Ralph, in allusion, no
doubt, to some proceeding of the day. “He
defies the usurer, does he P Well, we shall see.
“Honesty is the best policy,” is it? We'll try
that too.”
He stopped, and then walked on again.
“He is content,” said Ralph, relaxing into a
smile, “to set his known character and conduct
against the power of money—dross, as he calls
it. Why, what a dull blockhead this fellow must
be Dross, too—dross —Who's that ?”
“Me,” said Newman Noggs, looking in.
“Your niece.”
“What of her P” asked Ralph sharply.
“She's here.”
** Here I ?”
Newman jerked his head towards his little
room, to signify that she was waiting there.
“What does she want?” asked Ralph.
“I don't know,” rejoined Newman.
ask?” he added quickly.
“ N o," replied Ralph. “Show her in—stay.”
He hastily put away a padlocked cash-box that
was on the table, and substituted in its stead an
empty purse. “There !” said Ralph. “Now
she may come in.” -
Newman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre,
beckoned the young lady to advance, and, hav.
ing placed a chair for her, retired; looking
stealthily over his shoulder at Ralph as he
limped slowly out. .
... Well,” said Ralpn roughly enough, but still .
with something more of kindness in his manner
than he would have exhibited towards anybody
else. “Well, my—dear. What now P "
Kate raised her eyes, which were filled with
tears ; and, with an effort to master her emotion,
Štrove to speak, but in vain. So, drooping her
head again, she remained silent. Her face was
hidden from his view, but Ralph could see that
she was weeping. -
“I can guess the cause of this !”, thought
“Shall I
*-ī-3. *_º_ºr- - - - - - - >
Ralph after looking at her for some time in
silence. “I can—I can guess the cause. Well!
Well !”—thought Ralph—for the moment quite
disconcerted, as he watched the anguish of his
beautiful niece. “Where is the harm P Only a
few tears; and it's an excellent lesson for her—
an excellent lesson.” -
“What is the matter?” asked Ralph, drawing
a chair opposite, and sitting down.
He was rather taken aback by the sudden
firmness with which Kate looked up and 'an.
swered him. -
“The matter which brings me to you, sir,"
she said, “is one which should call the blood
up into your cheeks, and make you burn to
hear, as it does me to tell. I have been
wronged; my feelings have been outraged,
insulted, wounded past all healing, and by your
friends.” *
“Friends !” cried Ralph sternly.
no friends, girl.”
“By the men I saw here, then,” returned
Kate quickly. “If they were no friends of yours,
and you knew what they were, oh the more
shame on you, uncle, for bringing me among
them. To have subjected me to what I was
exposed to here, through any misplaced confi-
dence or imperfect knowledge of your guests,
would have required some strong excuse ; but
if you did it—as I now believe you did—know-
ing them well, it was most dastardly and cruel."
Ralph drew back in utter annazement at this
plain speaking, and regarded Kate with the
sternest look. But she met his gaze proudly
and firmly, and, although her face was very
pale, it looked more noble and handsome,
lighted up as it was, than it had ever appeare
before. ... "
“There is some of that Doy’s blood in you, I
see,” said Ralph, speaking in his harshest tones,
as something in the flashing eye reminded him
of Nicholas at their last meeting. -
“I hope there is . " replied Kate. “I should
be proud to know it. I am young, uncle, and
all the difficulties and miseries of my situation
have kept it down, but I have been roušed
to-day beyond all endurance, and, come what
“I have
may, I will not, as I am your brother's child,
bear these insults longer.”
“What insults, girl P” demanded Ralph
sharply. “’
“Remember what took place here, and ask
yourself,” replied Kate, colouring deeply.
“Uncle, you must—I am sure you will—release
me from such vile and degrading companionship
as I am exposed to now. I do not mean,” said
Kate, hurrying to the old man, and laying her
. MR. MOGGS'S DUSTER.
187
arm upon his shoulder, “I do not mean to be
angry and violent—I beg your pardon if I have
seemed so, dear uncle—but you do not know
what I have suffered, you do not indeed. You
cannot tell what the heart of a young girl is—I
have no right to expect you should ; but when I
tell you that I am wretched, and that my heart
is breaking, I am sure you will help me. I am
sure, I am sure you will !” *
Ralph looked at her for an instant ; then
turned away his head, and beat his foot ner-
Yously upon the ground.
“I have gone on day after day,” said Kate,
bending over him, and timidly placing her little
hand in his, “in the hope that this persecution
would cease; I have gone on day after day,
compelled to assume the appearance of cheer-
fulness when I was most unhappy: I have had
no counsellor, no adviser, no one to protect me.
Mamma supposes that these are honourable
men, rich and distinguished, and how can I–
how can I undeceive her—when she is so happy
in these little delusions, which are the only
happiness she has P. The lady with whom you
placed me is not the person to whom I could
confide matters of so much delicacy, and I have
come at last to you, the only friend I have at
hand—almost the only friend I have at all—to
entreat and implore you to assist me.”
“How can I assist you, child P” said Ralph,”
rising from his chair, and pacing up and down
the room in his old attitude. . -
“You have influence with one of these men,
I know,” rejoined Kate emphatically. “Would
pot a word from you induce them to desist from
this unmanly course P -
“No,” said Ralph, suddenly turning; “at
least—that—I can't say it, if it would.”
“Can't say it !”
& t
No,” said Ralph, coming to a dead stop,
and clasping his hands more tightly behind him.
“I can't say it.” &
Kate fell back a step or two, and looked at
him, as if in doubt whether she had heard
aright. * -
“We are connected in business,” said Kalpn,
poising himself alternately on his toes and heels,
and looking coolly in his niece's face, “in
business, and I can't afford to offend them.
What is it, after all? We have all our trials,
and this is one of yours. Some girls would be
Proud to have such gallants at their feet.”
“Proud "cried Kate. -
“I don't say,” rejoined Ralph, raising ms
forefinger, “but that you do right to despise
them; no, you show your good sense in that,
as, indeed, I knew from the first you would.
Well In all other respects you are comfortably
bestowed. It's not much to bear. If this young
lord does dog your footsteps, and whisper his
drivelling inanities in your ears, what of it? It's
a dishonourable passion. So be it ; it won't
last long. Some other novelty will spring up
one day, and you will be released. In the
meantime—”
“In the meantime,” interrupted Kate with
becoming pride and indignation, “I am to be
the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the
other; justly condemned by all women of right
feeling, and despised by all honest and honour-
able men; sunken in my own esteem, and de-
graded in every eye that looks upon me. No,
not if I work my fingers to the bone, not if I
am driven to the roughest and hardest labour.
Do not mistake me. I will not disgrace your
recommendation. I will remain in the house in
which it placed me, until I am entitled to leave
it by the terms of my engagement;-though,
mind, I see these men no more. When I quit
it, I will hide myself from them and you, and,
striving tô support my mother by hard service,
I will live, at least, in peace, and trust in God to
help me.”
With these words, she waved her hand, and
quitted the room, leaving Ralph Nickleby mo-
tionless as a statue. -
The surprise with which Kate, as sne closed
the room-door, beheld, close beside it, Newman
Noggs standing bolt upright in a little niche in
the wall like some scarecrow or Guy Fawkes
laid up in winter quarters, almost occasioned
her to call aloud. But, Newman laying his
finger upon his lips, she had the presence of
mind to refrain.
“Don’t,” said Newman, gliding out of his
recess, and accompanying her across the hall.
“Don’t cry, don't cry.” Two very large tears,
by-the-bye, were running down Newman's face
as he spoke.
“I see how it is,” said poor Noggs, drawing
from his pocket what seemed to be a very old
duster, and wiping Kate's eyes with it as gently
as if she were an infant. “You're giving way
now Yes, yes, very good; that's right, I like
tha It was right not to give way before
him. Yes, yes | Ha, ha, ha! Oh yes | . Poor
thing " . -
With these disjointed exclamations, Newman
wiped his own eyes with the afore-mentioned
duster, and, limping to the street-door, opened
it to let her out. - -
“Don’t cry any more,” whispered Newman.
“I shall see you soon. Ha! haſ ha And so
shall somebodv else, too, Yes, yes, Ho! hoſ”
138
MICHOLAS MICKZEB P.
“God bless you,” answered Kate, hurrying
out, “God bless you !”
“Same to you,” rejoined Newman, opening
the door again a little way to say so.
ha, ha! Ho ; ho hol”
And Newman Noggs opened the door once
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to shake his head mournfully, and cry.
Ralph remained in the same attitude till he
heard the noise of the closing door, when he
shrugged his shoulders, and after a few turns
about the room—hasty at first, but gradually
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“I SEE. How IT is,” SAID Poor Noggs, DRAwING FROM HIs Pocket what seem ED to BE A very old
DUSTER, AND WIPING KATE'S EYES WITH IT AS GENTLY AS IF SHE were AN INFANT.
becoming slower, as he relapsed into himself—
sat down before his desk. J. -
It is one of those problems of human nature
which may be noted down, but not solved ;-
although Ralph felt no rendorse at that mo-
ment for his conduct towards the innocent, true-
hearted, girl; although his libertine clients had
done precisely what he had expected, precisely
what he most wished, and precisely what would
tend most to his advantage, still, he hated them
for doing it, from the very bottom of his soul.
“Ugh !” said Ralph, scowling round, and























Mr. Mogg's GoFS ZHROUGH A ZITTLE PERFORMANCE.
189
shaking his clenched hand as the faces of the
two profligates rose up before his mind; “you
shall pay for this Oh! you shall pay for this "
As the usurer turned for consolation to his
books and papers, a performance was going on
outside his office door, which would have occa-
sioned him no small surprise, if he could by any
means have become acquainted with it.
Newman Noggs was the sole actor. He
stood at a little distance from the door, with
his face towards it; and, with the sleeves of his
coat turned back at the wrists, was occupied in
bestowing the most vigorous, scientific, and
straightforward blows upon the empty air
At first sight, this would have appeared merely
a wise precaution in a man of sedentary habits,
with the view of opening the chest and strength-
ening the muscles of the arms. But the intense
eagerness and joy depicted in the face of New-
man Noggs, which was suffused with perspira-
tion; the surprising energy with which he di-
rected a constant succession of blows towards a
particular panel about five feet eight from the
ground, and still worked away in the most
untiring and persevering manner, would have
sufficiently explained, to the attentive observer,
that his imagination was thrashing, to within an
inch of his life, his body's most active employer, .
Mr. Ralph Nickleby.
CHAPTER XXIX.
OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF NICHOLAS, AND CERTAIN
INTERNAL DIVISIONS IN THE COMPANY OF MR.
VINCENT CRUMMLES.
JA, SAHE unexpected success and favour
% º with which his experiment at Ports-
Mr. Crummles, to prolong his stay
in that town for a fortnight beyond
§) the
º’ the duration of his visit, during which
time Nicholas personated a vast variety
of charagters with undiminished success, and
attracted so many people to the theatre who had
never been seen there before, that a benefit was
considered by the manager a very promising
*Peculation. Nicholas assenting to the terms
Proposed, the benefit was had, and by it he
**lised no less a sum than twenty pounds.
Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first
*ºt was to enclose to honest John Browdie the
*Qunt of his friendly loan, which he accom-
Panied with many expressions of gratitude and
°steem, and many cordial wishes for his matri-
mouth had been received, induced
period he had originally assigned for .
monial happiness. To Newman Noggs he for-
warded one half of the sum he had realised,
entreating him to take an opportunity of hand-
ing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her
the warmest assurances of his love and affection.
He made no mention of the way in which he
had employed himself; merely informing New-
man that a letter addressed to him under his
assumed name at the Post Office, Portsmouth,
would readily find him, and entreating that
worthy friend to write full, particulars of the
situation of his mother and sister, and an account
of all the grand things that Ralph Nickleby had
done for them since his departure from London.
“You are out of spirits,” said Smike on the
night after the letter had been dispatched.
“Not I \" rejoined Nicholas with assumed
gaiety, for the confession would have made the
boy miserable all night : “I was thinking about
my sister, Smike.”
“Sister . "
& & Ay.” -
“Is she like you?” inquired Smike.
“Why, so they say,” replied Nicholas, laugh-
ing, “only a great deal handsomer.”
“She must be very beautiful,” said Smike,
after thinking a little while with his hands folded
together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.
“Anybody who didn't know you as well as I
do, my dear fellow, would say you were an
accomplished courtier,” said Nicholas.
“I don't even know what that is,” replied
Smike, shaking his head. “Shall I ever see
your sister P” -
“To be sure,” cried Nicholas ; “we shall all
be together one of these days—when we are
rich, Smike.” -
“How is it that you, who are so kind and
good to me, have nobody to be kind to you ?”
asked Smike. “I cannot make that out.”
“Why, it is a long story,” replied Nicholas,
“and one you would have some difficulty in
comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy—you
understand what that is P”
“Oh yes, I understand that l” said Smike.
“Well, it is owing to him,” returned Nicholas.
“He is rich, and not so easily punished as your
old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but
he is a villain, and has done me wrong.”
“Has he, though P” asked Smike, bending
eagerly forward. “What is his name P Tell
me his name.”
“Ralph—Ralph Nickleby.”
“Ralph Nickleby,” repeated Smike. “Ralph.
I'll get that name by heart.”
He had muttered it over to himself some
twenty times, when a loud knock at the door





190
AVICHOLAS NICKLEB Y. - -
disturbed him from his occupation. Before he
could open it, Mr. Folair, the pantomimist.
thrust in his head.
Mr. Folair's head was usually decorated with
a very round hat, unusually high in the crown,
and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the
present occasion he wore it very much on one
side, with the back part forward in consequence
of its being the least rusty ; round his neck he
wore a flaming red worsted comforter, whereof
the straggling ends peeped out beneath his
threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very
tight, and buttoned all the way up. He carried
in his hand one very dirty glove, and a cheap.
dress-cane with a glass handle ; in short, his
whole appearance was unusually dashing, and
demonstrated a far more scrupulous attention
to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestow-
ing upon it.
“Good evening, sir,” said Mr. Folair, taking
off the tall hat, and running his fingers through
his hair. “I, bring a communication.
“From whom, and what about?” inquired
Nicholas. “You are finusually mysterious to-
night.” r
“Cold, perhaps,” returned Mr. Folair; “cold,
perhaps. That is the fault of my position—nqt
of myself, Mr. Johnson. My position as a
mutual friend requires it, sir.” Mr. Folair
paused with a most impressive look, and, diving
into the hat, before noticed, drew from thence
a small piece of whity-brown paper curiously
folded, whence he brought forth a note which
it had served to keep clean, and handing it over
to Nicholas, said—
“Have the goodness to read that, sir.”
Nicholas, in a state of much amazement, took
the note and broke the seal, glancing at Mr.
Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and
pursing up his mouth with great dignity, was
sitting with his eyes steadily fixed upon the
ceiling. -
It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by .
favour of Augustus Folair, Esq.; and the
astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree
lessened when he found it to be couched in the
following laconic terms —
“Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to
TMr. Johnson, and will feel obliged if he will
inform him at what hour to-morrow morning it
will be most convenient to him to meet Mr. L.
at the Theatre, for the purpose of having his
nose pulled in the presence of the company.
“Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to
neglect making an appointment, as he has in-
vited two or three professional friends to witness
JHem ’” .
the ceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon
any account whatever. .
“Portsmouth, Tuesday night.”
ſndignant as he was at this impertinence,
there was something so exquisitely absurd in
such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was
obliged to bite his lip and read the note over
two or three times before he could muster
sufficient gravity and sternness; to address the
hostile messenger, who had not taken his eyes
from the ceiling, nor altered the expression of
his face in the slightest degree.
“Do you know the contents of this note,
sir?” he asked at length.
“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round
for. an instant, and immediately carrying his
| eyes back again to the ceiling. -
“And how dare you bring it here, sir?” asked
Nicholas, tearing it into very little pieces, and
jerking it in a shower towards the messenger.
“Had you no fear of being kicked down-stairs,
Sir P” .
Mr. Folair turned his head—now ornamented
with several fragments of the note—towards
Nicholas, and, with the same imperturbable
dignity, briefly replied, “No.”
“Then,” said Nicholas, taking up the tall
hat, and tossing it towards the door, “you had
better follow that article of your dress, sir, or
you may find yourself very disagreeably deceived,
and that within a dozen seconds.” -
“I say, Johnson,” remonstrated Mr. Folair,
suddenly losing all his dignity, “none of that,
you know. No tricks with a gentleman's ward-
robe.” 2
“Leave the room,” returned Nicholas. “How
could you presume to come here on such an
errand, you scoundrel?” . -
“Pooh pooh 1” said Mr. Folair, unwinding
his comforter, and gradually getting himself out
of it. “There—that's enough 1” , #
“Enough 1” cried Nicholas, advancing sto-
wards him. “Take yourself off, sir!”
“Pooh pooh I tell you,” returned Mr.
Folair, waving his hand in deprecation of any
further wrath, “I wasn't in earnest. I only
| brought it in joke.”" .
“You had better be careful how you indulge
in such jokes again,” said Nicholas, “ or you
may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a
dangerous reminder for the subject of your
facetiousness. Was it written in joke, too,
pray P” .
“No, no, that's the best of it,” returned the
actor; “right-down earnest—honour bright.”
Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd
MR. Foza/R EXPLAINS. 1 91
figure before him, which, at all times more
calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was
especially so at that moment, when, with one
knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled his
old hat round upon his hand, and affected the
extremest agony lest any of the nap should
have been knocked off-an ornament which, it
is almost superfluous to say, it had not boasted
for many months. - -
“Come, sir,” said Nicholas, laughing in spite
of himself. “Have the goodness to explain.”
“Why, I'll tell you how it is,” said Mr. Folair,
sitting himself down in a chair with great cool-
ness. “Since you came here Lenville has done
nothing but second business, and, instead of.
having; a reception every night as he used to
have, they have let him come on as if he was
nobody. -
“What do you mean by a reception ?” asked
Nicholas.
“Jupiter | "exclaimed Mr. Folair, “what an
unsophisticated shepherd you are, Johnson
Why, applause from the house when you first
come on. So he has gone on night after night,
never getting a hand, and you getting a couple
of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at
length he got quite desperate, and had half a
mind last night to play Tybalt with a real
Sword, and pink you—not dangerously, but just
enough to lay you up for a month or two.”
“Very considerate,” remarked Nicholas.
“Yes, I think it was under the circumstances;
his professional reputation being at stake,” said
Mr. Folair quite seriously. “But his heart failed
him, and he cast about for some other way of .
annoying you, and making himself popular at
the same time—for that's the point. Notoriety,
notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had
Pinked you,” said Mr. Folair, stopping to make
a calculation in his mind, “it would have been
Worth-ah it would have been worth eight or
ten shillings a week to him. All the town would
have come to see the actor who nearly killed a
man, by mistake; I shouldn't wonder if it had
§ot him an engagement in London. However,
* was obliged to try some other mode of get:
*ng popular, and this one occurred to him. It's
* Sever idea, really. If you had shown the
White feather, and ſet him pull your nose, he'd
have got it into the paper; if you had sworn the
Pºace against him, it would have been in the
P*Per too, and he'd have been just as much
talked about as you—don't you see P"
Oh, certainly "... rejoined Nicholas; “but
*PPose. I were to turn the tables, and pull his
*se, what then P Would that make his for-
tune P. " - -
“Why, I don't think it would,” replied Mr.
Folair, scratching his head, “because there
wouldn't be any romance about it, and he
wouldn't be favourably known. To tell you
the truth, though, he didn't calculate much
upon that, for you're always so mild-spoken,
and are so popular among the women, that
we didn't suspect you of showing fight. If you
did, however, he has a way of getting out of it
easily, depend upon that.”
“Has he?” rejoined Nicholas. “We will try
to-morrow morning. In the meantime, you can
give whatever account of our interview you like
best. Good night.”
As Mr. Folair was pretty well known among
his fellow-actors for a man who delighted in
mischief, and was by no means scrupulous,
Nicholas had not, much doubt but that he had
secretly prompted the tragedian in the course
he had taken, and, moreover, that he would
have carried his mission with a very high hand
if he had not been disconcerted by the very
unexpected demonstrations with which it had
been received. It was not worth his while to
be serious with him, however, so he dismissed
the pantomimist, with a gentle hint that, if he
offended again, it would be under the penalty
of a broken head ; and Mr. Folair, taking the
caution in exceedingly good part, walked away
to confer with his principal, and give such an
account of his proceedings as he might think
best calculated to carry on the joke.
He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was
in a state of extreme bodily fear; for, when that
young gentleman walked with much deliberation
down to the theatre next morning at the usual
hour, he found all the company assembled in
evident expectation, and Mr. Lenville, with his
severest stage face, sitting majestically on a
table, whistling defiance. . -
Now, the ladies were on the side of Nicholas,
and the gentlemen (being jealous) were on the
side of the disappointed tragedian ; so that the
latter formed a little group about the redoubtable
Mr. Lenville, and the former looked on at a
little distance in some trepidation and anxiety.
On Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr. Lemville
laughed a scornful laugh, and made some general
remark touching the natural history of puppies.
“Oh 1” said Nicholas, looking quietly round,
“are you there?” -
“Slave " returned Mr. Lenville, flourishing
his right arm, and approaching Nicholas with a
theatrical stride. But, somehow, he appeared
just at that moment a little startled, as if
Nicholas did not look quite so frightened as he
had expected, and came all at once to an awk-
e
19, AICHOLAS WICKLERy.
ward halt, at which the assembled ladies burst
into a shrill laugh. -
“Object of my scorn and hatred 1" said Mr.
Lenville, “I hold ye in contempt.”
Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoy-
ment of this performance; and the ladies, by
way of encouragement, laughed louder than
before; whereat Mr. Lenville assumed his bit-
terest smile, and expressed his opinion that they
were “minions.”
“But they shall not protect ye 1" said the
tragedian, taking an upward look at Nicholas,
beginning at his boots and ending at the crown
of his head, and then a downward one, beginning
at the crown of his head and ending at his
boots—which two looks, as everybody knows,
express defiance on the stage. “They shali
not protect ye—boy!” -
Thus speaking, Mr. Lenville folded his arms,
and treated Nicholas to that expression of face
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“BUT THEY SHALL NOT PROTECT YE | ?? SAID THE TRAGEDIAN, TAKING AN upw ARD LOOK AT NICHOLAS,
BEGINNING AT HIS BOOTS AND ENDING AT THE CROWN OF HIS HEAD, ETC.
with which, in melodramatic performances, he
was in the habit of regarding the tyrannical
kings when they said, “Away with him to the
deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat;” and
which, accompanied with a little jingling of fet-
ters, had been known to produce great effects
in its time. -
Whether it was the absence of the fetters or
not, it made no very deep impression on Mr.
Lenville's adversary, however, but rather seemed
to increase the good-humour expressed in his
countenance; in which stage of the contest, one
or two gentlemen, who had come out expressly
to witness the pulling of Nicholas's nose, grew
impatient, murmuring that, if it were to be done
at all, it had better be done at once, and that,
if Mr. Lenville didn't mean to do it, he had
better say so, and not keep them waiting there.
Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of
his right coat-sleeve for the performance of the












SELF.S.A. CAE/F/CE OF AMA. LAA/V/L/A.
operation, and walked in a very stately manner
up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach
to within the requisite distance, and then, without
the smallest discomposure, knocked him down. .
Before the discomfited tragedian could raise .
his head from the boards, Mrs. Lenville (who,
as has been before hinted, was in an interesting
state) rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and,
uttering a piercing scream. threw herself upon
the body. -
“Do you see this, monster P v Do you see
(his f" cried Mr. Lenville, sitting up, and point-
ing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him
very tight round the waist.
“Come,” said Nicholas, nodding his head,
“apologise for the insolent note you wrote to
me last night, and waste no more time in talking.”
“Never !” cried Mr. Lenville.
“Yes—yes—yes 1" screamed his wiſe.
my, sake—for mine, Lenville—forego all idle
forms, unless you would see me a blighted corse
at your feet.” -
“This is affecting !” said Mr. Lenville, look-
ing round him, and drawing the back of his
hand across his eyes. “The ties of nature are
strong. The weak husband and the fath ºr—the
father that is yet to be—relents.
“Humbly and submissively 2” said Nicholas.
“Humbly and submissively,” returned the
tragedian, scowling upwards. “But only to
save her, for a time will come—”
“Very good,” said Nicholas; “I hope Mrs.
J.enville may have a good one; and when it
does come, and you are a father, you shall
retract it if you have the courage. There ! Be
careful, sir, to what lengths your jealousy carries
you another time; and be careful, also, before
you venture too far, to ascertain your rival's
temper.” With this parting advice Nicholas
picked up Mr. Lenville's ash stick, which had
flown out of his hand, and, breaking it in half,
threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing
slightly to the spectators as he walked out.
The profoundest deference was paid to Nicho-
las that night, and the people who had been
most anxious to have his nose pulled in the
*9tning, embraced occasions of taking him
aside, and telling him, with great feeling, how
very friendly they took it that he should have
*ated that Lenville so properly, who was a
ºf unbearable fellow, and on whom they had
all, by a remarkable coincidence, at one time or
*her contemplated the infliction of condign
Punishment, which they had only been restrained
ºn administering by considerations of mercy;
º to judge from the invariable termina-
“. For
I apologise.”
on of all these stories... there never was such a |
I 93
charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the
male members of Mr. Crummles's company.
Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his suc-
cess in the little world of the theatre, with the
utmost moderation and good-humour. The
crest-fallen Mr. Lenville made an expiring effort
to obtain revenge by sending a boy into the
gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to popular
indignation, and was promptly turned out with-
out having his money back.
“Well, Smike,” said Nicholas when the first
piece was over, and he had almost finished
dressing to go home, “is there any letter yet?”
“Yes,” replied Smike. “I got this one from
the post-office.”
“From Newman Noggs,” said Nicholas, cast-
ing his eye upon the cramped direction; “it’s
no easy matter to make his writing out. Let
me see—let me see.”
By dint of poring oyer the letter for half an
hour, he contrived to make himself master of the
contents, which were certainly not of a nature
to set his mind at ease. Newman took upon
himself to send back the ten pounds, observing
that he had ascertained that neither Mrs.
Nickleby nor Kate was in actual want of money
at the moment, and that a time might shortly
come when Nicholas might want it more. He
entreated him not to be alarmed at what he was
about to say ;—there was no bad news—they
were in good health—but he thought circum-
stances might occur, or were occurring, which
would render it absolutely necessary that Kate
should have her brother's protection, and if so,
Newman said, he would write to him to that
effect, either by the next post or the next but
One. -
Nicholas read this passage very often, and,
the more he thought of it, the more he began to
fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph.
Once or twice he felt tempted to repair to
London at all hazards without an hour's delay,
but a little reflection assured him that, if such
a step were necessary, Newman would have
spoken out, and told him so at once.
“At-all events, I should prepare them here
for the possibility of ºny going away sud-
denly,” said Nicholas; “I should lose no time
in doing that.” As the thought occurred to
him, he took up his hat and hurried to the
green-room.
“Well, Mr. Johnson,” said Mrs. Crummles,
who was seated there in full regal costume,
with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her
maternal arms, “next week for Rvde, then for
Winchester, then for——”
“I have some reason to fear, interrupted
194
-**
Archozas wroxzzBY:
Nicholas, “that, before you leave here, my
career with you will have closed.”
“Closedl” cried Mrs. Crummles, raising her
hands in astonishment.
“Closed I" cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling
so much in her tights that she actually laid her
hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for
Support. • .
“Why, he don't mean to say he's going?” ex-
claimed Mrs. Grudden, making her way towards
Mrs. Crummles. “Hoity-toity 1 nonsense !”
The -phenomenon, being of an affectionate
nature, and moreover excitable, raised a loud
cry, and Miss Belvawney' and Miss Bravassa
actually shed tears. Even the male performers
stopped in their conversation, and echoed the
word “Going !” although some among them
(and they had been the loudest in their con-
gratulations that day) winked at each other, as
though they would not be sorry to lose such a
favourite rival; an opinion, indeed, which the
honest Mr. Folair, who was ready dressed for
the Savage, openly stated in so many words to a
demon with whom he was sharing a pot of
porter. -
Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would
be so, although he could not yet speak with any
degree of certainty; and, getting away as soon
as he could, went home to con Newman's letter
once more, and speculate upon it afresh.
How trifling all that had been occupying his
time and thoughts for many weeks seemed to
him during that sleepless night, and how con-
stantly and incessantly present to his imagina-
tion was the one idea that Kate, in the midst of
Some great trouble and distress, might even then
be looking—and vainly, too—for him
§
CHAPTER XXX.
FESTIVITIES ARE HELD IN HONOUR OF NICHOLAS,
WHO SUDDENLY witHDRAws HiMSELF FROM THE
society of MR. vincent cruMMLES AND HIS
.THEATRICAL COMPANIONS.
* \\?/ ? R. VINCENT CRUMMLES was no
s *A sooner acquainted with the public
}^#) announcement which Nicholas had
t (ſ made relative to the probability of
Yºğ his shortly ceasing to be a member
of the company, than he evinced many
tokens of grief and consternation ; and,
& in the extremity of his despair, even held
out certain vague promises of a speedy improve-
ment not only in the amount of his regular
salary, but also in the contingent emoluments
appertaining to his authorship. Finding Nicholas
bent upon quitting the society—for he had now
determined that, even if no further tidings came
from Newman, he would, at all hazards, ease his
mind by repairing to London and ascertaining
the exact position of his sister—Mr. Crummles
was fain to content himself by calculating the
chances of his coming back again, and taking
prompt and energetic measures to make the
most of him before he went away. .
“Let me see,” said Mr. Crummles, taking off
his outlaw's wig, the better to arrive at a cool-
headed view of the whole case. “Let me see.
This is Wednesday night. We'll have posters
out the first thing in the morning, announcing
positively your last appearance for to-morrow.”
“But perhaps it may not be my last appear-
ance, you know,” said Nicholas. “Unless I
am summoned away, I should be sorry to incon-
vehience you by leaving before the end of the
week.” .
“So much the better,” returned Mr. Crummles.
“We can have positively your last appearance
on Thursday—re-engagement for one night more
on Friday—and, yielding to the wishes of nu-
merous influential patrons, who were disap-
pointed in obtaining seats, on Saturday. That
ought to bring three very decent houses.”
“Then I am to make three last appearances,
am I ?” inquired Nicholas, smiling.
“Yes,” rejoined the manager, scratching his
head with an air of some vexation ; “three is
not enough, and it's very bungling and irregular
not to have more, but if we can't help it we
can't, so"there's no use in talking. A novelty
would be very desirable. You couldn't sing a
comic song on the pony's back, could you ?”
“No,” replied Nicholas, “I couldn't indeed.”
“It has drawn money before now,” said Mr.
Crummiles with a look of disappointment.
“What do you think of a brilliant display of
fireworks P” - - - .
“That it would be rather expensive,” replied
Nicholas drily. * º
“Eighteen-pence would do it,” said Mr.
Crummles. “You on the top of a pair of steps
with the phenomenon in an attitude ; “Fare-
well’ on a transparency behind; and nine people
at the wings with a squib in each hand—all the
dozen and a half going off at once—it would be
very grand–awful from the front, quite awful'
As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed
with the solemnity of the proposed effect, but,
on the contrary, received the proposition in a
most irreverent manner, and laughed at it very
heartily, Mr. Crummles abandoned the project






THE WHOZE Q UESTION.
in its birth, and gloomily observed that they
must make up the best bill they could with
combats and hornpipes, and so stick to the
legitimate drama. e -
For the purpose of carrying this object into
instant execution, the manager at once re-
paired to a small dressing-room adjacent, where
Mrs. Crummles was then occupied in exchanging
the habiliments of a melodramatic empress for
the ordinary attire of matrons in the nineteenth
century. And with the assistance of this lady,
and the accomplished Mrs. Grudden (who had
quite a genius for making out bills, being a
great hand at throwing in the notes of admi-
ration, and knowing from long experience exactly
where the largest capitals ought to go), he seri-
ously applied himself to the composition of the
poster.
“Heigho " sighed Nicholas, as he threw
himself back in the prompter's chair, after tele-
graphing the needful directions to Smike, who
had been playing a meagre tailor in the inter-
lude, with one skirt to his coat, and a little
pocket-handkerchief with a large hole in it, and
a woollen nightcap, and a red nose, and other.
distinctive marks peculiar to tailors on the stage.
“Heigho I wish all this were over.”
“Over, Mr. Johnson " repeated a female
voice behind him in a kind of plaintive surprise.
“It was an ungallant speech, certainly,” said
Nicholas, looking up to see who the speaker
was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. “I
would not have made it if I had known you had
been within hearing.” ^
“What a dear that Mr. Digby is 1” said Miss
Snevellicci as the tailor went off on the opposite
side, at the end of the piece, with great applause.
(Smike's theatrical name was Digby.)
“I’ll tell him presently, for his gratification,
that you said so,” returned Nicholas.
“Oh, you naughty thing !” rejoined Miss
Snevellicci. “I don't know, though, that I
should much mind his knowing my opinion of
him ; with some other people, indeed, it might
be—" Here Miss Snevellicci stopped, as
though waiting to be questioned, but no ques-
thoning came, for Nicholas was thinking about
more serious matters. ‘. .
“How kind it is of you,” resumed Miss
Snevellicci after a short silence, “to sit waiting
her; for him night-after night, night after night,
*9 matter how tired you are ; and taking so
*uch pains with him, and doing it all with as
*gh delight and readiness as if you were coining
gold by it 1"
He well deserves all the kindness I can
show him, and a great deal more,” said Nicholas.
him so ; he is
195
“He is the most grateſul, single-hearted, affec-
tionate creature that ever breathed.”
“So odd, too,” remarked Miss Snevellicci,
** 1sln't he P”
* God help nim, and those who have made
indeed,” rejoined Nicholas,
shaking his head. - \.
“He is such a devilish close chap,” said Mr.
Folair, who had come up a little before, and now
joined in the conversation. “Nobody can ever
get anything out of him.”
“What should they get out of him P” asked
Nicholas, turning round with some abruptness.
“Zooks what a fire-eater you are, Johnson 1"
returned Mr. Folair, pulling up the heel of his
dancing shoe. “I'm only talking of the natural
curiosity of the people here to know what he has
been about all his life.” -
“Poor fellow it is pretty' plain, I should
think, that he has not the intellect to have been
about anything of much importance to them or
anybody else,” said Nicholas. -
“Ay,” rejoined the actor, contemplating the
effect of his face in a lamp reflector, “but that
involves the whole question, you know.”
“What question ?” asked Nicholas.
“Why, the who he is and what he is, and
how you two, who are so different, came to be
such close companions,” replied. Mr. Folair,
delighted with the opportunity of saying some-
thing disagreeable. “That's in everybody's
mouth.” -
“The severybody' of the theatre, I suppose?”
said Nicholas contemptuously.
“In it and out of it too,” replied the actor.
“Why, you know, Lenville says—”
“I thought I had silenced him effectually,”
interrupted Nicholas, reddening. . . . .
“, Perhaps you have,” rejoined the immovable
Mr. Folair; “if you have, he said this before he
was silenced ; lenville says that you're a regular
stick of an actor, and that it's only the mystery
about you that has caused you to go down with
the people here, and that Crummles keeps it up
for his own sake; though Lenville says he don't
believe there's "anything at all in it, except your
having got into a scrape, and, run away from
somewhere, for doing something or other.”
“Oh ſ* said Nicholas, forcing a smile.
“That's a part of what he says,” added Mr.
Folair. “I mention it as the friend of both
parties, and in strict confidence. I don't agree
with him, you know. He says he takes Digby
to be more knave than fool; and old Fluggers,
who does the heavy business, you know, he says
that when he delivered messages at Covent
Garden the season before last, there used to be
w
196
AWICHOLAS AVICKLEB Y.
a pickpocket hovering about the coach-stand
who had exactly the face of Digby; though, as
he very properly says, Digby may not be the
same, but only his brother, or some near rela-
tion.” -
“Oh ſ* cried Nicholas again.
“Yes,” said Mr. Folair with undisturbed calm-
ness, “that's what they say. I thought I'd tell
you, because really you ought to know. Oh
here's this blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh,
you little imposition, I should like to—quite
ready, my darling—humbug—ring up, Mrs. G.,
and let the favourite wake 'em.”
Uttering in a loud voice such of the latter
allusions as were complimentary to the uncon-
scious phenomenon, and giving the rest in a
confidential “ aside" to Nicholas, Mr. Folair
followed the ascent of the curtain with his eyes,
regarded with a sneer the reception of Miss
Crummles as the Maiden, and, falling back a
step or two to advance with the better effect,
uttered a preliminary howl, and “went on ”
chattering his teeth and brandishing his tin
tomahawk as the Indian Savage.
“So these are some of the stories they invent
about us, and bandy from mouth to mouth !”
thought Nicholas. “If a man would commit an
inexpiable offence against any society, large or
small, let him be successful. They will forgive
him any crime but that.”
*You surely don't mind what that malicious .
creature says, Mr. Johnson P” observed Miss
Snevellicci in her most winning tones.
“Not I,” replied Nicholas.
to remain here, I might think it worth my while
to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk till
they are hoarse. But here,” added Nicholas as
Smike approached, “here comes the subject of
a portion of their good-nature, so let he and I
say good night together.”
“No, I will not let either of you say any-
thing of the kind,” returned Miss Snevellicci.
“You must come home and see mamma, who
only came to Portsmouth to-day, and is dying to
behold you. Led, my dear, persuade Mr. John-
Son.” §
“Oh, I'm sure,” returned Miss Ledrook with
considerable vivacity, “if you can't persuade
him y?
Miss Snevellicci couldn't Dersuade him, nobody
could. - -
“Mr. and Mrs. Lillyvick have taken lodgings
in our house, and share our sitting-room for the
present,” said Miss Snevellicci. “Won't that
induce you?”
“Surely,” returned Nicholas, “I can require
“If I were going
Miss Ledrook said no more, but
intimated, by a dexterous playfulness, that if .
no possible inducement beyond your invita-
tion.”
“Oh no! Idare say,” rejoined Miss Snevellicci.
And Miss Ledrook said, “Upon my word "
Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that Miss
Ledrook was a giddy thing; and Miss Ledrook
said that Miss Snevellicci needn't colour up
quite so much, and Miss Snevellicci beat Miss
Ledrook, and Miss Ledrook beat Miss Snevel-
licci.
“Come,” said Miss Ledrook, “it’s high time
we were there, or we shall have poor Mrs.
Snevellicci thinking that you have run away with
her daughter, Mr. Johnson; and then we should
have a pretty to-do.” sº
“My dear Led,” remonstrated Miss Snevel-
licci, “how you do talk 1"
Miss Ledrook made no answer, but, taking
Smike's arm in hers, left her friend and Nicholas
to follow at their pleasure; which it pleased
them, or rather pleased Nicholas, who had no
great fancy for a tête-à-tête under the circum-
stances, to do at once.
There were not wanting matters of conversa-
tion when they reached the street, for it turned
out that Miss Snevellicci had a small basket to
carry home, and Miss Ledrook a small bandbox,
both containing such minor articles of theatrical
costume as the lady performers usually carried
to and fro every evening. Nicholas would insist
upon carrying the basket, and Miss Snevellicci
would insist upon carrying it herself, which gave
rise to a struggle, in which Nicholas captured
the basket, and the bandbox likewise. Then
Nicholas said that he wondered what could pos.
sibly be inside the basket, and attempted to
peep in, whereat Miss Snevellicci screamed, and
declared that, if she thought he had seen, she
was sure she should faint away. This declara-
tion was followed by a similar attempt on the
bandbox, and similar demonstrations on the part
of Miss Ledrook, and then both ladies vowed
that they wouldn't move a step further until
Nicholas had promised that he wouldn't offer to
peep again. At last Nicholas pledged himself
to betray no further curiosity, and they walked
on : both ladies giggling very much, and de;
claring that they never had seen such a wicked
creature in all their born days—never.
Lightening the way with such pleasantry as
this, they arrived at the tailor's house in no
time; and here they made quite a little party;
there being present, besides Mr. Lilly vick, and
Mrs. Lillyvick, not only Miss Snevellicci's
mamma, but her papa also. And an uncom:
monly fine man Miss Snevellicci's papa was, with
a hook nose, and a white forehead, and curly
N
M/SS SAVAE VE/C/.../CC/'.S PA/2A, ,
I 97
black hair, and high cheekbones, and altogether
quite a handsome face, only a little pimply, as
though with drinking. He had a very broad
chest, had Miss Snevellicci's papa, and he wore
a threadbare blue dress-coat buttoned with gilt
buttons tight across it; and he no sooner saw
Nicholas come into the room than he whipped
the two forefingers of his right hand in between
the two centre buttons, and, sticking his other
arm gracefully a-kimbo, seemed to say, “Now,
here I am, my buck, and what have you got to
say to me?”
| Such was, and in such an attitude sat, Miss
Snevellicci's papa, who had been in the profes-
sion ever since he had first played the ten-year-
old imps in the Christmas pantomimes ; who
could sing a little, dance a little, fence a little,
act a little, and do everything a little, but not
much ; who had been sometimes in the ballet,
and sometimes in the chorus, at every theatre
in London ; who was always selected in virtue
of his figure to play the military visitors and
the speechless noblemen; who always wore a
smart dress, and came on arm-in-arm with a
smart lady in short petticoats, and always did
it, too, with such an air that people in the
pit had been several times known to cry out
“Bravo 1" under the impression that he was
somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci's papa,
upon whom some envious persons cast the im-
putation that he occasionally beat Miss Snevel-
licci's mamma, who was still a dancer, with a
neat little figure and some remains of good
looks; and who now sat, as she danced,—being
Lather too old for the full glare of the foot-lights,
—in the background.
To these good people Nicholas was presented
with much formality. The introduction being
completed, Miss Snevellicci's papa (who was
scented with rum-and-water), said that he was
delighted to make the acquaintance of a gen-
tleman so highly talented; and furthermore re-
marked that there hadn't been such a hit made
—no, not since the first appearance of his friend
Mr. Glavormelly at the Coburg. -
... “You have seen him, sir?” said Miss Snevel-
licci's papa. - - -- -
“No, really I never did,” replied Nicholas.
“You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir?”
said Miss Snevellicci's papa. “Then you have
never seen acting yet. If he had lived y;
“Oh, he is dead, is he?” interrupted Nicholas.
. “He is,” said Mr. Snevellicci, “but he isn't
in Westminster Abbey, more's the shame. He
was a- Well, no matter. He is gone to
that bourne from whence no traveller returns.
I hope he is appreciated there.”
S NICHOLAs NickLEBY, 14.
So saying, Miss Snevellicci's papa rubbed the
tip of his nose with a very yellow silk handker-
chief, and gave the company to understand that
these recollections overcame him.
“Well, Mr. Lillyvick,” said Nicholas, “and
how are you ?”
“Quite well, sir,” replied the collector. “There
is nothing like the married state, sir, depend
upon it.”
“Indeed . " said Nicholas, laughing.
“Ah nothing like it, sir,” replied Mr. Lilly-
vick solemnly. “How do you think,” whispered
the collector, drawing him aside, “how do you
think she looks to-night P”
“As handsome as ever,” replied Nicholas,
glancing at the late Miss Petowker.
“Why, there's a air about her, sir,” whispered
the collector, “that I never saw in anybody.
Look at her now she moves to put the kettle
on. There ! Isn't it fascination, sir?”
“You're a lucky man,” said Nicholas.
“Ha, ha, ha!” rejoined the collector. “No.
Do you think I am, though, eh? Perhaps I
may be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn't
have done much better if I had been a young
man, could I? You couldn't have done much
better yourself, could you—eh—could you ?”
With such inquiries, and many more such, Mr.
Lillyvick jerked his elbow into Nicholas's side,
and chuckled till his face became quite purple
in the attempt to keep down his satisfaction.
By this time the cloth had been laid, under
the joint superintendence of all the ladies, upon
two tables put together, one being high and
narrow, and the other low and broad. There
were oysters at the top, sausages at the bottom,
a pair of snuffers in the centre, and baked pota-
toes wherever it was most convenient to put
them. Two additional chairs were brought in
from the bedroom ; Miss Snevellicci sat at the
head of the table, and Mr. Lillyvick at the foot;
and Nicholas had not only the honour of sitting
next Miss Snevellicci, but of having Miss Snevel-
licci's mamma on his right hand, and Miss
Snevellicci's papa over the way. In short, he
was the hero of the feast ; and when the table
was cleared, and something warm introduced,
Miss Snevellicci's papa got up and proposed his
health in a speech containing such affecting allu-
sions to his coming departure, that Miss Snevel-
licci wept, and was compelled to retire into the
bedroom. - -
“Hush | Don't take any notice of it,” said
Miss Ledrook, peeping in from the bedroom.
“Say, when she comes back, that she exerts
herself too much.”
Miss Ledrook eked out this speech with so
& 22 O
198
MICHOzAS w/CKZEB Y.
many mysterious nods and frowns before she
shut the door again, that a profound silence
came upon all the company, during which Miss
Snevellicci's papa looked very big indeed—
several sizes larger than life—at everybody in
turn, but particularly at Nicholas, and kept on
perpetually emptying his tumbler and filling it
again, until the ladies returned in a cluster, with
Miss Snevellicci among them.
“You needn't alarm yourself a bit, Mr. Snevel-
licci,” said Mrs. Lillyvick. “She is only a little
weak and nervous ; she has been so ever since
the morning.”
“Oh t” said Mr. Snevellicci, “that's all, is it?”
“Oh yes, that's all ! Don't make a fuss about
it,” cried all the ladies together.
Now, this was not exactly the kind of reply
suited to Mr. Snevellicci's importance as a man
and a father, so he picked out the unfortunate
Mrs. Snevellicci, and asked her what the devil
she meant by talking to him in that way. . .
“Dear me, my dear——” said Mrs. Snevellicci.
“Don’t call me your dear, ma'am,” said Mr.
Snevellicci, “if you please.”
“Pray, pa, don't,” interposed Miss Snevellicci.
“Don’t what, my child P”
“Talk in that way.” ... "
“Why not P” said Mr. Snevellicci. “I hope
you don't suppose there's anybody here who is
to prevent my talking as I like P”
“Nobody wants to, pa,” rejoined his daughter.
“Nobody would if they did want to,” said
Mr. Snevellicci. “I am not ashamed of myself.
Snevellicci is my name; I’m to be found in
Broad Court, Bow Street, when I'm in town. If
I'm not at home, let any man ask for me at the
stage door. Damme, they know me at the stage
door, I suppose. . Most men have seen my por-
trait at the cigar shop round the corner. I've
been mentioned in the newspapers before now,
haven't I? Talk! I'll tell you what ; if I found
out that any man had been tampering with the
affections of my daughter, I wouldn't talk. I'd
astonish him without talking;-that's my way.”
So saying, Mr. Snevellicci struck the palm of
his left hand three smart blows with his clenched
fist; pulled a phantom nose with his right thumb
and forefinger, and swallowed another glassful
at a draught. “That's my way,” repeated Mr.
Snevellicci.”
Most public characters have their failings;
and the truth is that Mr. Snevellicci was a little
addicted to drinking; or, if the whole truth must
be told, that he was scarcely ever sober. He
knew in his cups three distinct stages of intoxi-
cation, — the dignified—the quarrelsome—the
amorous. When professionally engaged he never
|
Lillyvick'ſ
got beyond the dignified; in private circles he
went through all three, passing from one to
another with a rapidity of transition often rather
perplexing to those who had not the honour of
his acquaintance. . .
Thus Mr. Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed
another glassful than he smiled upon all present
in happy forgetfulness of having exhibited symp-
toms of pugnacity, and proposed “The ladies—
bless their hearts : " in a most vivacious manner.
“I love 'em,” said Mr. Snevellicci, looking
round the table, “I love 'em, every one.” -
“Not every one,” reasoned Mr. Lillyvick
mildly. ‘. . .
“Yes, every one,” repeated Mr. Snevellicci.
“That would include the married ladies, you
know,” said Mr. Lillyvick. ,
“I love them too, sir,” said Mr. Snevellicci.
The collector looked into the surrounding
faces, with an aspect of grave astonishment,
seeming to say, “This is a nice man 1" and
appeared a little surprised that Mrs. Lillyvick's,
manner yielded no evidences of horror and
indignation. - -
“One good turn deserves another,” said Mr.
Snevellicci. “I love them, and they love
me.” And, as if this avowal were not made
in sufficient disregard and defiance of all moral
obligations, what did Mr. Snevellicci do? He
winked—winked openly and undisguisedly;
winked with his right eye — upon Henrietta
The collector fell back in his chair in the
intensity of his astonishment. If anybody had
winked at her as Henrietta Petowker, it would
have been indecorous in the last degree; but as
Mrs. Lillyvick I While he thought of it in a
cold perspiration, and wondered whether it was
possible that he could be dreaming, Mr. Snevel-
licci repeated the wink, and, drinking to Mrs.
Lillyvick in dumb-show, actually blew her a
kiss I Mr. Lillyvick left his chair, walked straight
up to the other end of the table, and fell upon
him—literally fell upon him—instantaneously.
Mr. Lillyvick was no light weight, and conse-
quently, when he fell upon Mr. Snevellicci, Mr.
Snevellicci fell under the table. Mr. Lillyvick
followed him, and the ladies screamed.
“What is the matter with the men,_are they
mad?" cried Nicholas, diving under the table,
dragging up the collector by main force, and
thrusting him, all doubled up, into a chair, as if
he had been a stuffed figure. “What do you
mean to do? what do you want to do? what is
the matter with you?” - º
While Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike
had performed the same office for Mr. Snevel-
Mr. LIZZYVICK IS PUT IN HIS PLACE.
’199
licci, who now regarded his late adversary in
tipsy amazement. - *** - -
“Look here, sir,” replied Mr. Lillyvick, point-
ing to his astonished wife, “here is purity and
elegance combined, whose feelings have been
outraged—violated, sir!" -
“Lor, what nonsense he talks " exclaimed
Mrs. Lillyvick in answer to the inquiring look
of Nicholas. “Nobody has said anything to
me.” -
“Said, Henrietta | " cried the collector.
“Didn't I see him—” Mr. Lilly vick couldn't
bring himself to utter the word, but he counter-
feited the motion of the eye. - -
“Well 1" cried Mrs. Lillyvick. “Do you
suppose nobody is ever to look at me 2 A
pretty thing to be married, indeed, if that was
law l’’ -
“You didn't mind it?” cried the collector.
“Mind: it’l” repeated Mrs. Lillyvick con-
temptuously. “You ought to go down on
your knees and beg everybody’s pardon, that
you ought.” . .
“Pardon, my dear?” said the dismayed col-
lector. - -
“Yes, and mine first,” replied Mrs. Lillyvick.
“Do you suppose I ain't the best judge of
what's proper and what's improper ?”
“To be sure," cried all the ladies. “Do you
suppose we shouldn't be the first to speak, if
there was anything that ought to be taken
notice of P” --
“Do you suppose they don't know, sir?”
Said Miss Snevellicci's papa, , pulling up his
collar, and muttering something about a punch-
ing of heads, and being only withheld by con-
siderations of age. With which Miss Snevel-
licci's papa looked steadily and sternly at Mr.
Lillyvick for some seconds, and then, rising
deliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies all
round, beginning with Mrs. Lillyvick.
The unhappy collector looked piteously at
his wife, as if to see whether there was any one
trait of Miss Petowker left in Mrs. Lillyvick,
and, finding too surely that there was not,
begged pardon of all the company with great
humility, and sat down such a crest-fallen,
dispirited, disenchanted man, that, despite all
his selfishness and dotage, he was quite an
object of compassion. -
Miss Snevellicci's papa being greatly exalted
by this triumph, and incontestable proof of his
Popularity with the fair sex, quickly grew con-
Vivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering more
than one song of no inconsiderable length, and
regaling the social circle between-whiles with
recollections of divers splendid women who had
,”
been supposed to entertain a passion for himself,
several of whom he toasted by name, taking
occasion to remark, at the same time, that if he
had been a little more alive to his own interest, .
he might have been rolling at that moment in
his chariot and four. These reminiscences ap-
peared to awaken no very torturing pangs in
the breast of Mrs. Snevellicci, who was suffi-
ciently occupied in descanting to Nicholas upon
the manifold accomplishments and merits of her
daughter. Nor was the young lady herself at
all behindhand in displaying her choicest allure-
ments; but these, heightened as they were by
the artifices of Miss Ledrook, had no effect
whatever in increasing the attentions of Nicho-
las, who, with the precedent of Miss Squeers
still fresh in his memory, steadily resisted every
fascination, and placed so strict a guard upon
his behaviour that when he had taken his leave
the ladies were unanimous in pronouncing him
quite a monster of insensibility.
Next day the posters appeared in due course,
and the public were informed, in all the colours
of the rainbow, and in letters afflicted with
every possible variation of spinal deformity,
how that Mr. Johnson would have the honour
of making his last appearance that evening, and
how that an early application for places was
requested, in consequence of the extraordinary
overflow attendant on his performances, -it
being a remarkable fact in theatrical history, but
one long since established beyond dispute, that
it is a hopeless endeavour to attract people to a
theatre unless they can be first brought to be-
lieve that they will never get into it.
Nicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering
the theatre at night, to account for the unusual
perturbation and excitement visible in the coun-
tenances of all the company, but he was not
long in doubt as to the cause, for, before he
could make any inquiry respecting it, Mr.
Crummles approached, and, in an agitated tone
of voice, informed him that there was a London
'manager in the boxes.
“It's the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,”
said Crummles, dragging, Nicholas to the little
hole in the curtain, that he might look through
at the London manager. “I have not the
smallest doubt it's the fame of the phenomenon
—that's the man : him in the great-coat and
no shirt collar. She shall have ten pound a
week, Johnson; she shall not appear on the
London boards for a farthing less. They shan’t
engage her, either, unless they engage Mrs.
Crummles too—twenty pound a week for the
pair; or, I'll tell you what, I'll throw in myself
and the two boys, and they shall have the family
2 OO
AV/CAE/O Z.A.S AVA CAE ZAZAR Y.
for thirty. I can't say fairer than that. They
must take us all, if none of us will go without
the others. . That's the way some of the London.
people do, and it always answers. Thirty pound
a week—it's too scheap, Johnson. It's dirt
cheap.” -
Nicholas replied that it certainly was ; and
Mr. Vincent Crummles, taking several huge
pinches of snuff to compose his feelings, hurried
away to tell Mrs. Crummles that he had quite
settled the only terms that could be accepted,
and had resolved not to abate one single farthing.
When everybody was dressed, and the curtain
went up, the excitement occasioned by the pre-
sence of the London manager increased a thou-
sand-fold. Everybody happened to know that
the London manager had come down specially
to witness his or her own performance, and all
were in a flutter of anxiety and expectation.
Some of those who were not on in the first
*g § iſill; | ; # § s
ſº sº
i zº is
sº | | { - t ,
- §§ Sijillºlº.’,
§ i; | §
i
i
º
“MR. SNEVELLIccI REPEATED THE WINK, AND, DRINKING TO MRS. LILLYvICK In DUMB-SHOW, ACTUALLY
BLEW HER A KISS.”
scene hurried to the wings, and there stretched
their necks to have a peep at him ; others stole
up into the two little private boxes over the
stage doors, and from that position reconnoitred
the London manager. Once the London ma-
nager was seen to Smile—he smiled at the comic
countryman's pretending to catch a blue-bottle
while Mrs. Crummles was making her greatest
effect, “Very good, my fine fellow,” said Mr.
Crummles, shaking his fist at the comic coun-
tryman when he came off, “you leave this
company next Saturday night.” .
In the same way, everybody who was on the
stage beheld no audience but one individual ;
everybody played to the London manager.
When Mr. Lenville in a sudden burst of passion
called the emperor a miscreant, and then, biting
his glove, said, “But I must dissemble,” instead
of looking gloomily at the boards, and So want-
ing for his cue, as is proper in such cases, he

GOOD-BYE ZO MA. CRUMMLES.
2O1
kept his eye fixed upon the London manager.
When Miss Bravassa sang her song at her lover,
who, according to custom, stood ready to shake
hands' with her between the verses, they looked,
not at each other, but at the London manager.
Mr. Crummies died point-blank at him : and,
when the two guards came in to take the body
off after a very hard death, it was seen to open
its eyes and glance at the London manager. At
length the London manager was discovered to
be asleep, and shortly after that he woke up
and went away, whereupon all the company fell
foul of the unhappy comic countryman, declar-
ing that his buffoonery was the sole cause ; and
Mr. Crummles said that he had put up with it a
long time, but that he really couldn't stand it
any longer, and therefore would feel obliged by
his looking out for another engagement.
All this was the occasion of much amusement
to Nicholas, whose only feeling upon the sub-
ject was one of sincere satisfaction that the
great man went away before he appeared. He
went through his part in the two last pieces as
briskly as he could, and, having been received .
with unbounded favour and unprecedented ap-
plause—so said the bills for next day, which
had been printed an hour or two before—he
took Smike's arm, and walked home to bed.
With the post next morning came a letter
from Newman Noggs, very inky, very short, very
dirty, very small, and very mysterious, urging
Nicholas to return to London instantly; not
to lose an instant; to be there that night if
possible. -
“I will,” said Nicholas.
have remained here for the best, and sorely
against my own will; but even now I may have
dallied too long. What can have happened P
Smike, my good fellow, here—take my purse.
Put our things together, and pay what little.
debts we owe-quick, and we shall be in time
for the morning coach. I will only tell them
that we are going, and will return to you imme-
diately.” -
So saying, he took his hat, and, hurrying away
to the lodgings of Mr. Crummles, applied his
hand to the knocker with such hearty good-will,
that he awakened that gentleman, who was still
in bed, and caused Mr. Bulph the pilot to take
his morning's pipe very nearly out of his mouth
in the extremity of his surprise.
The door being opened, Nicholas ran up-
stairs without any ceremony, and, bursting into
the darkened sitting-room on the one-pair front, :
found that the two Master Crummleses had
sprung out of the sofa-bedstead, and were put-
ting on their clothes with great rapidity, under
what will.
“Heaven knows 1 |
the impression that it was the middle of the
night, and the next house was on fire.
Before he could undeceive them, Mr. Crum-
mles came down in a flannel gown and night-
cap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that
circumstances had occurred which rendered it
necessary for him to repair to London imme-
diately.
“So good-bye,” said Nicholas : “good-bye,
good-bye l’”
He was hair-way down-stairs before Mr. Crum-
mles had sufficiently recovered his surprise to
gasp out something about the posters.
“I can't help it,” replied Nicholas. “Set
whatever I may have earned this week against
them, or, if that will not repay you, say at once
Quick, quick 1" •
“We'll cry quits about that,” returned Crum-
mles. ... “But can't we have one last night
more ?”
“Not an hour—not a minute,” replied Nicho-
las impatiently.
“Won't you stop to say something to Mrs.
Crummles?” asked the manager, following him
down to the door.
“I couldn't stop if it were to prolong my life
a score of years,” rejoined Nicholas. “Here,
take my hand, and with it my hearty thanks,—
Oh I that I should have been fooling here !”
"Accompanying these words with an impatient
stamp upon the ground, he tore himself from
the manager's detaining grasp, and, darting
rapidly down the street, was out of sight in an
instant. .
“Dear me, dear me,” said Mr. Crummles,
looking wistfully towards the point at which he
had just disappeared; “if he only acted like
that, what a deal of money he'd draw He
should have kept upon this circuit; he'd have
been very useful to me. But he don't know
what's good for him. He is an impetuous
youth. Young men are rash, very rash.”
Mr. Crummles, being in a moralising mood,
might possibly have moralised for some minutes
longer if he had not mechanically put his hand
towards his waistcoat pocket, where he was
accustomed to keep his snuff. The absence of
any pocket at all in the usual direction, Sud-
denly recalled to his recollection the fact that
he had no waistcoat on ; and this leading him
to a contemplation of the extreme scantiness of
his attire, he shut the door abruptly, and retired
up-stairs with great precipitation.
Smike had made good speed while Nicholas
was absent, and with his help everything was
soon ready for their departure. They scarcely
stopped to take a morsel of breakfast, and in
2O2
NICHOLAS WICKZEEy.
less than half an hour arrived at the coach-
office: quite out of breath with the haste they
had made to reach it in time. There were yet
a few minutes to spare, so, having secured the
places, Nicholas hurried into a slopºeller's hard
by, and bought Smike a great-coat. It would
have been rather large for a substantial yeoman,
but the shopman averring (and with considerable
truth) that it was a most uncommon fit, Nicholas
would have purchased it, in his impatience, if it
had been twice the size. -
As they hurried up to the coach, which was
now in the open street and all ready for starting,
Nicholas was not a little astonished to find him.
self suddenly clutched in a close and violent
embrace, which nearly took him off his legs;
nor was his amazement at all lessened by hear-
ing the voice of Mr. Crummles exclaim, “It is
he—my friend, my friend " .
“Bless my heart 1" cried Nicholas, struggling
in the manager's arms, “what are you about P”
The manager made no reply, but strained
him to his breast again, exclaiming, as he did
so, “Farewell, my noble, my lion-hearted boy!”
In fact, Mr. Crummles, who could never lose
any opportunity for professional display, had
turned out for the express purpose of taking a
public farewell cf Nicholas; and, to render it
the more imposing, he was now, to that young
gentleman's most profound annoyance, inflicting
upon him a rapid succession of stage embraces,
which, as everybody knows, are performed by
the embracer's laying his or her chin on the
shoulder of the object of affection, and looking
over it. This Mr. Crummles did in the highest
style of melodrama, pouring forth, at the same
time, all the most dismal forms of farewell he
could think of out of the stock pieces. Nor
was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was
going through a similar ceremony with Smike ;
while Master Percy Crummles, with a very little
second-hand camlet cloak, worn theatrically
over his left shoulder, stood by, in the attitude
of an attendant officer, waiting to convey the
two victims to the scaffold. .
: The lookers-on laughed very heartily, and, as
it was as well to put a good,ace upon the matter,
Nicholas laughed too when he had succeeded in
disengaging himself; and, rescuing the astonished
Smike, climbed up to the coach roof after him,
and kissed his hand in honour of the absent
Mrs. Crummles as they rolled away.
face,” muttered Ralph sternly.
CHAPTER xxxi.
of RALPH NYCKLEBY AND NEwMAN Noggs, AND
SoME wiSE PRECAUTIONS, THE success or FAILURE
of which will-APPEAR IN THE SEQUEL.
§§);
jºs iſ:
N blissful unconsciousness that his
, nephew was hastening at the utmost
speed of four good horses towards
his sphere of action, and that every
passing minute dinninished the dis-
tance between them, Ralph Nickle-
by sat that morning occupied in his
customary avocations, and yet unable
to prevent his thoughts wandering from time to
time back to the interview which had taken
place between himself and his niece on the
previous day. At such intervals, after a few
moments of abstraction, Ralph would mutter
some peevish interjection, and apply himself
with renewed steadiness of purpose to the ledger
before him, but again and again the same train.
of thought came back despite a] his efforts to
prevent it, confusing him in his calculations,
and utterly distracting his attention from the
figures over which he bent. At length Ralph
laid down his pen, and threw himself back in
his chair, as though he had made up his mind
to allow the obtrusive current of reflection to
take its own course, and, by giving it full scope,
to rid himself of it effectually. -
“I am not a man to be moved by a pretty
“There is a
grinning skull beneath it, and men like me, who
look and work below the surface, see that, and
not its delicate covering. And yet I almost
like the girl, or should if she had been less
proudly and squeamishly brought up. If the
boy were drowned or hanged, and the mother
dead, this house should be. her home. I wish
they were, with all my soul.” +
Notwithstanding the deadly hatred which
Ralph felt towards Nicholas, and the bitter
contempt with which he sneered at poor Mrs.
Nickleby—notwithstanding the baseness with
which he had behaved, and was then behaving,
| and would behave again if his interest prompted
him, towards - Kate herself—still there was,
strange though it may seem, something human-
ising and even gentle in his thoughts at that
moment. He thought of what his home might
be if Kate were there; he placed her in the
empty chair, looked upon her, heard her speak;
he felt again upon his arm the gentle pressure
of the trembling hand; he strewed his costly
rooms with the hundred silent tokens of feminine
presence and occupation; he came back again


MASTER AND MA M. 203
to the cold fireside and the silent dreary splen-
dour; and in that one glimpse of a better nature,
born as it was in selfish thoughts, the rich man
felt himself friendless, childless, and alone.
Gold, for the instant, lost its lustre in his eyes,
for there were countless treasures of the heart
which it could never purchase.' -
A very slight circumstance was sufficient to
banish such reflections from the mind of such a
man. As Ralph.looked vacantly out across the
yard towards the window of the other office, he
became suddenly aware of the earnest observa-
tion of Newman Noggs, who, with his red nose
almost touching the glass, feigned to be mending
a pen with a rusty fragment of a knife, but was .
in reality staring at his employer with a coun-
tenance of the closest and most eager Scrutiny.
‘Ralph exchanged his dreamy posture for his
accustomed business attitude : the face of New-
man disappeared, and the train of thought took
to flight, all simultaneously, and in an instant.
After a few minutes Ralph rang his bell.
Newman answered the summons, and Ralph
raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if he
almost feared to read there a knowledge of his
recent thoughts.
There was not the smallest speculation, how-
ever, in the countenance of Newman Noggs.
If it be possible to imagine a man, with two
eyes in his head, and both wide open, looking
in no direction whatever, and seeing nothing,
Newman appeared to be that man while Ralph
Nickleby regarded him. •
, “How now 2" growled Ralph. .
“Oh "said Newman, throwing some intelli-
gence into his eyes all at once, and dropping
them on his master, “I thought you rang."
With which laconic remark Newman turned
round and hobbled away.
“Stop !” said Ralph. -
Newman stopped; not at all disconcerted.
“I did ring.” - *
“I knew you did.”
*
“Then why do you offer to go if you know
that?” -
“I thought you rang to say you didn't ring,”
replied Newman. “You often do.”
“How dare you pry, and peer, and stare at
me, sirrah P” demanded Ralph.
“Stare "cried Newman, “at you ! Ha, ha!”
which was all the explanation Newman deigned
to offer.
“Be careful, sir,” said Ralph, looking steadily
at him. “Let me have no drunken fooling here.
Do you see this parcel P”
“It's big enough,” rejoined Newman.
“Carry it into the City; to Cross, in Broad
&
Street, and leave it there—quick.
wards.
Do you
bear P” - **
Newman gave a dogged kind of nod to ex-
press an affirmative reply, and, leaving the room
for a few seconds, returned with his hat. Hav-
ing made various ineffective attempts to fit the
parcel (which was some two feet square) into
the crown thereof, Newman took it under his
arm, and after putting on his fingerless gloves
with great precision and nicety, keeping his eyes
fixed upon Mr. Ralph Nickleby all the time, he
adjusted his hat upon his head with as much
care, real or pretended, as if it were a bran-new
one of the most expensive quality, and at last
departed on his errand.
He executed his commission with great
promptitude and dispatch, only calling at one
public-house for half a minute, and even that
might be said to be in his way, for he went in
at one door and came out at the other ; but as
he returned, and had got so far homewards as
the Strand, Newman began to loiter with the
uncertain air of a man who has not quite made
up his mind whether to halt or go straight for-
After a very short consideration, the
former inclination prevailed, and, making to-
wards the point he had had in his mind,
Newman knocked a modest double knock, or
rather a nervous single one, at Miss La Creevy's
door.
It was opened by a strange servant, on whom
the odd figure of the visitor did not appear to
make the most favourable impression possible,
inasmuch as she no sooner saw him than she
very nearly closed it, and, placing herself in the
narrow gap, inquired what he wanted. But
Newman, merely uttering the monosyllable
“Noggs,” as if it were some cabalistic word, at
sound of which bolts would fly back and doors
open, pushed briskly past, and gained the door
of Miss La Creevy's sitting-room, before the
astonished servant could offer any opposition.
“Walk in if you please,” said Miss La Creevy
in reply to the sound of Newman's knuckles;
and in he walked accordingly. -
“Bless us !” cried Miss La Creevy, starting
as Newman bolted in; “what did you want,
sir?”
“You have forgotten me,” said Newman with
an inclination of the head. “I wonder at that.
That nobody should remember me who knew
me in other days is natural enough ; but there
are few people who, seeing me once; forget me
now.” He glanced, as he spoke, at his shabby
clothes and paralytic limb, and slightly shook
his head. *- -
“I did forget you, I declare,” said Miss La
264
AVICHOLAS AVICKZEB Y.
Creevy, rising to receive Newman, who met her
half-way, “and I am ashamed of myself for
doing so; for you are a kind, good creature,
Mr. Noggs. Sit down, and tell me all about
Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing'ſ I haven't
seen her for this many a week.”
“How's that P’’ asked Newman.
“Why, the truth is, Mr. Noggs,” said Miss
La Creevy, “that I have been out on a visit—
the first visit I have made for fifteen years.”
“That is a long time,” said Newman sadly.
“So it is a very long time to look back upon
in years, though, somehow or other, thank
Heaven, the solitary days roll away peacefully
and happily enough,” replied the miniature
painter. “I have a brother, Mr. Noggs—the
only relation I have—and all that time I never
saw him once. Not that we ever quarrelled,
but he was apprenticed down in the country,
and he got married there, and new ties and
affections springing up about him, he forgot a
poor little woman like me, as it was very reason-
able he should, you know. Don't suppose that
I complain about that, because I always said
to myself, ‘It is very natural; poor dear John
is making his way in the world, and has a wife
to tell his cares and troubles to, and children
now to play about him, so God bless him and
them, and send we may all meet together one
day where we shall part no more.' But what do
you think, Mr. Noggs,” said the miniature
painter, brightening up and clapping her hands,
“of that very same brother coming up to Lon-
don at last, and never resting till he found me
out; what do you think of his coming here,
and sitting down in that very chair, and crying
like a child because he was so glad to see
me; what do you think of his insisting on taking
me down all the way into the country to his
own house (quite a sumptuous place, Mr. Noggs,
with a large garden, and I don't know how
many fields, and a man in livery waiting at
table, and cows and horses and pigs, and I
don't know what besides), and making me stay
a whole month, and pressing me to stop there
all my life—yes, all my life—and so did his
wife, and so did the children—and there were
four of them, and one, the eldest girl of all,
they—they had named her after me eight good
years before, they had indeed P I never was
so happy; in all my life I never was 1” The
worthy soul hid her face in her handkerchief,
and sobbed aloud; for it was the first oppor-
tunity she had had of unburdening her heart,
and it would have its way. .
.*But bless my life,” said Miss La Creevy,
wiping her eyes after a short pause, and cram-
ming her handkerchief into her pocket with
great bustle and dispatch; “what a foolish
creature I must seem to you, Mr. Noggs I
shouldn't have said anything about it, only I
wanted to explain to you how it was I hadn't
seen Miss Nickleby.” .
“Have you seen the old lady?” asked New-
man.
“You mean Mrs. Nickleby P” said Miss La
Creevy. “Then I tell you what, Mr. Noggs, if
you want to keep in the good books in that
quarter, you had better not call her the old lady
any more, for I suspect she wouldn't be best
pleased to hear you. Yes, I went there the
night before last, but she was quite on the high
ropes about something, and was so grand and
mysterious, that I couldn't make anything of
her: so, to tell you the truth, I took it into my
head to be grand too, and came away in state.
I thought she would have come round again
before this, but she hasn't been here.”
“About Miss Nickleby—” said Newman. .
“Why, she was here twice while I was away,”
returned Miss La Creevy. “I was afraid she
mightn't like to have me calling on her among
those great folks in What's-its-name Place, so I
thought I'd wait a day or two, and, if I didn't
see her, write.” -
“Ah!" exclaimed Newman, cracking his
fingers. * *
“However, I want to hear all the news about
them from you,” said Miss La Creevy. “How
is the old rough and tough monster of Golden
Square P Well, of course; such people always
are. I don't mean how is he in health, but how
is he going on : how is he behaving himself?”
“Damn him!” cried Newman, dashing his
cherished hat on the floor; “like a false hound !”
- “Gracious, Mr. Noggs, you quite terrify me !”
exclaimed Miss La Creevy, turning pale.
“I should have spoilt his features yesterday
afternoon if I could have afforded it,” said New-
man, moving restlessly about, and shaking his
fist at a portrait of Mr. Canning over the mantel-
piece. “I was very near it. I was obliged to
put my hands in my pockets, and keep ’em there
very tight. I shall do it some day in that little
back-parlour, I know I shall. I should have
done it before now, if I hadn't been afraid of
|making bad worse. I shall double lock myself
in with him and have it out before I die, I'm
quite certain of it.”
“I shall scream if you don't compose your-
self, Mr. Noggs,” said Miss La Creevy; “I’m
sure I shan't be able to help it.”
“Never mind,” rejoined Newman, darting
violently to and fro. “He’s coming up to
MR. AVOGGS AF COMES AEX C/TAE D.
night: I wrote to tell him. He little thinks I
know ; he little thinks I care. Cunning scoun-
drel ! he don't think that. Not he, not he.
Never mind, I’ll thwart him—Z, Newman Noggs |
Ho, ho, the rascal l’
Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch
of fury, Newman Noggs jerked himself about
the room with the most eccentric motion
ever beheld in a human being : now sparring
at the little miniatures on the wall, and now
giving himself violent thumps on the head, as
if to heighten the delusion, until he sank down
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205
in his former seat quite breathless and ex-
hausted. -
“There !” said Newman, picking up his hat;
“that's done me good. Now I'm better, and
I'll tell you all about it.” •
It took some little time to reassure Miss La
Creevy, who had been almost frightened out of
her senses by this remarkable demonstration;
but, that done, Newman faithfully related all
that had passed in the interview between Kate
and her uncle, prefacing his narrative with a
statement of his previous suspicions on the sub-
tº
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“LASHING HIMSELF U.P TO AN EXTRAVAGANT PITCH OF FURY, NEWMAN NOGGS JERKED HIMSELF ABOUT
THE ROOM WITH THE MOST ECCENTRIC MOTION EveR BEHELD IN A HUMAN BEING.”
ject, and his reasons for forming them ; and
concluding with a communication of the step he
had taken in secretly writing to Nicholas.
Though little Miss La Creevy's indignation
was not so singularly displayed as Newman's,
it was scarcely inferior in violence and inten-
sity, Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had hap-
pened to make his appearance in the room at
that moment, there is some doubt whether
he would not have found Miss La Creevy a more
dangerous opponent than even Newman Noggs
himself.
“God forgive me for saying so,” said Miss
La Creevy as a wind-up to all her expressions
of anger, “but I really feel as if I could stick
this into him with pleasure.”
It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La
Creevy held, it being, in fact, nothing more nor
less than a black-lead pencil; but, discovering
her mistake, the little portrait painter exchanged
it for a mother-of-pearl fruit knife, wherewith, in
proof of her desperate thoughts, she made a
lunge as” she spoke, which would have scarcely
disturbed the crumb of a half-quartern loaf.
“She won't stop where she is after to-night,”
said Newman. “That's a comfort.”




















2O6
McHozas wrcKZERY.
-
“Stop !” cried Miss La Creevy, “she should -
have left there weeks ago.”
“—If we had known of this,” rejoined New-
man. “But we didn't. Nobody could pro-
perly interfere but her mother or brother. The
mother's weak—poor thing—weak. The dear
young man will be here to-night.”
tº Heart alive "cried Miss La Creevy. “He
will do something desperate, Mr. Noggs, if you
tell him all at once.”
Newman left off rubbing his hands, and
assumed a thoughtful look.
“Depend upon it,” said Miss La Creevy
earnestly, “if you are not very careful in break-
ing out the truth to him, he will do some violence
upon his 'uncle or one of these men that will
bring some terrible calamity upon his own head,
and grief and sorrow to us all.”
“I never thought of that,” rejoined Newman,
his countenance falling more and more. “I
came to ask you to receive his sister in case he
brought her here, but px - -
“But this is a matter of much greater impor-
tance,” interrupted Miss La Creevy; “that you
might have been sure of before you came, but
the end of this nobody can foresee, unless you
are very guarded and careful.” -
“What can I do?” cried Newman, scratching
his head with an air of great vexation and per-
plexity. “If he was to talk of pistoling 'em all,
I should be obliged to say, “Certainly—serve
'em right.’”
Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small
shriek on hearing this, and instantly set about
extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he
would use his utmost endeavours to pacify the
wrath of Nicholas; which, after some demur,
was conceded. They then consulted together
on the safest and surest mode of communicating
to him the circumstances which had rendered
his presence necessary.
“He must have time to cool before he can
possibly do anything,” said Miss La Creevy.
“That is of the greatest consequence. He
must not be told until late at night.”
“But he'll be in town between six and seven
this evening,” replied Newman. “I can't keep
it from him when he asks me.”
“Then you must go out, Mr. Noggs,” said
Miss La Creevy. “You can easily have been
kept away by business, and must not return
till nearly midnight.” t *..
“Then he will come straight here,” retorted
Newman. - e . .
“So I suppose,” observed Miss La Creevy;
“but he won't find me at home, for I'll go
straight to the City the instant you leave me,
make up matters with Mrs. Nickleby, and take
her away to the theatre, so that he may not even
know where his sister lives.” - -
Upon further discussion, this appeared the
safest and most feasible mode of proceeding
that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it
was finally determined that matters should be
so arranged, and Newman, after 'listening to
many supplementary cautions and entreaties,
took his leave of Miss La Creevy, and trudged
back to Golden Square; ruminating as he went
upon a vast number of possibilities and impos-
sibilities which crowded upon his brain, and
arose out of the conversation that had just ter—
minated.
–0–
CHAPTER XXXII.
RELATING CHIEFLY to some REMARKABLE CONVER-
SATION, AND SOME REMARKABLE PROCEEDINGS TO
WHICH IT GIVES RISE, -
§ ONDON at last !” cried Nicholas,
throwing back his great-coat and
rousing Smike from a long nap.
“It seemed to me as though we
should never reach it.”
- “And yet you came along at a
tidy pace too,” observed the coachman,
& looking over his shoulder at Nicholas with
no very pleasant expression of countenance.
“Ay, I know that,” was the reply; “but I
have been very anxious to be at my journey's
end, and that makes the way seem long.” -
“Well,” remarked the coachman, “if the way
seemed long with such cattle as you've sat be-
hind, you must have been most uncommon
anxious;” and, so saying, he let out his whip-
lash and touched up a little boy on the calves
of his legs by way of emphasis S-
... They rattled on through the noisy, bustling,
- crowded streets of London, now displaying long
double rows of brightly-burning lamps, dotted
here and there with the chemists' glaring lights,
and illuminated besides with the brilliant flood
that streamed from the windows of the shops,
where sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of
the richest colours, the most inviting delicacies,
and most sumptuous articles of luxurious Qrna-
ment, succeeded each other in rich and glitter-
ing profusion. Streams of people apparently
without end poured on and on, jostling each
other in the crowd, and hurrying forward,
scarcely seeming to notice the riches that sur-
rounded them on every side; while vehicles of
all shapes and makes, mingled up together }}l



AOAVDOAV A 7" LAST.
207
one moving mass, like running water, lent their
ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.
As they dashed by the quickly-changing and
ever-varying objects, it was curious to observe.
in what a strange procession they passed before
the eye. Emporiums, of splendid, dresses, the
materials brought from every quarter of the
world; tempting stores of everything to stimu-
late and pamper the sated appetite, and give
new relish to the oft-repeated feast; vessels of
burnished gold and silver, wrought into every
exquisite form of vase, and dish, and goblet;
guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines of de-
struction ; screws and, irons for the crooked,
clothes for the newly-born, drugs for the sick,
coffins for the dead, and churchyards for the
buried—all these, jumbled each with the other
and flocking side by side, seemed to flit by in
motley dance like the fantastic groups of the
old Dutch painter, and with the same -stern
moral for the unheeding restless crowd.
Nor were there wanting objects in the crowd
itself to give new point and purpose to the shift-
ing scene. The rags of the squalid ballad-singer
fluttered in the rich light that showed the gold-
Smith's treasures, pale and pinched-up faces
hovered about the windows where was tempting
food, hungry eyes wandered over the profusion
guarded by one thin sheet of brittle glass—an
iron wall to them ; half-naked shivering figures
stopped to gaze at Chinese shawls and golden
stuffs of India. There was a christening party
at the largest coffin-maker's, and a funeral hatch-
ment had stopped some great improvements in
the bravest mansion. Life and death went
hand-in-hand; wealth and poverty stood side
by side; repletion and starvation laid them
down together. -
But it was London ; and the old country lady
inside, who had put her head out of the coach
window'a mile or two th’s side Kingston, and
cried out to the driver, that she was sure he
must have passed it, and forgotten to set her
down, was satisfied at last. &
Nicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike
at the inn where the coach stopped, and re-
paired, without the delay of another moment,
to the lodgings of Newman, Noggs; for his
anxiety and impatience had increased with
every succeeding minute, and were almost be-
yond control,
. There was a fire in Newman's garret, and a
candle had been left burning; the floor was
cleanly swept, the room was as comfortably
arranged as such a room could be, and meat
and drink were placed in order upon the table:
Everything bespoke the affectionate care and
attention of Newman Noggs, but Newman him.
self was not there.
“Do you know what time he will be home?"
inquired Nicholas, tapping at the door of New-
man's front neighbour.
“Ah, Mr. Johnson " said Crowl, presenting
himself. “Welcome, sir. How well you're
looking I never could have believed—”
“Pardon me,” interposed Nicholas. “My
question—I am extremely anxious to know.”
“Why, he has a troublesome affair of busi-
ness,” replied Crowl, “ and will not be home
before twelve o'clock. He was very unwilling
to go, I can tell you, but there was no help for
it. However, he left word that you were to
make yourself comfortable till he came back,
and that I was to entertain you, which I shall
be very glad to do.”
In proof of his extreme readiness to exert
himself for the general entertainment, Mr.
Crowl drew a chair to the table as he spoke,
and, helping himself plentifully to the cold
meat, invited Nicholas and Smike to follow his
example.
Disappointed and uneasy, Nicholas could
touch no food, so, after he had seen Smike
comfortably established at the table, he walked
out (despite a great many dissuasions. uttered
by Mr. Crowl with his mouth full), and left
Smike to detain Newman in case he returned
first.
As Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas
betook himself straight to her house. Finding
her from home, he debated within himself for
some time whether he should go to his mother's
residence, and so compromise her with Ralph
Nickleby. Fully persuaded, however, that New-
man would not have solicited him to return un-
| less there was some strong reason which required
his presence at home, he resolved to go there,
and hastened eastwards with all speed.
Mrs. Nickleby would not be at home, the
girl said, until past twelve, or later. She be-
lieved Miss Nickleby was well, but she didn't
live at home now, nor did she come home ex-
cept very seſdom. She couldn't say where she
was stopping, but it was not at Madame. Man-
talini's—she was sure of that.
With his heart beating violently, and appre-
hending he knew not what disaster, Nicholas
returned to where he had left Smike. Newman
had not been home. He wouldn't be till twelve
o'clock; there was no chance of it. Was there
no possibility of sending to fetch him, if it were
only for an instant, or forwarding to him one
line of writing to which he might return a verbal
reply P" That was quite impracticable. He was
208
AVYCHOLAS WICKZEB Y,
not at Golden Square, and probably had been
sent to execute some commissión at a distance.
Nicholas tried to remain. quietly where he
was, but he felt so nervous and excited that he
could not sit still. He seemed to be losing
time unless he was moving. It was an absurd
fancy, he knew, but he was wholly unable to re-
sist it. . So, he took up his hat, and rambled
out again.
He strolled westward this time, pacing the .
long streets with hurried footsteps, and agitated
by a thousand misgivings and apprehensions
which he could not overcome.
creased his rate of walking, as if in the hope of
leaving his thoughts behind. . They crowded
upon him more thickly, however, now there
were no passing objects to attract his attention;
and the one idea was always uppermost, that
Some stroke of ill-fortune must have occurred so
calamitous in its nature that all were fearful of
disclosing it to him. The old, question arose
again and again—What could it be? Nicholas
walked till he was weary, but was not one bit
the wiser; and, indeed, he came out of the
Park at last, a great deal more confused and
perplexed than when he went in.
He had taken scarcely anything to eat or
drink since early in the morning, and felt quite
worn out and exhausted. As he returned lan-
guidly towards the point from which he had
started, along one of the thoroughfares which
lie between. Park Lane and Bond Street, he
passed a handsome hotel, before which he
stopped mechanically.
, “An expensive place, I dare say,” thought
Nicholas; “but a pint of wine and a biscuit are
no great debauch, wherever they are had. And
yet I don't know.”
He walked on a few steps, but, looking wist-
fully down the long vista of gas-lamps before
him, and thinking how long it would take to
reach the end of it—and being, besides, in that
kind of mood in which a man is most disposed
to yield to his first impulse—and being, besides,
strongly attracted to the hotel, in part by curi-
osity, and in part by some odd mixture of feel-
ings which he would have been troubled to de-
fine—Nicholas turned back again, and walked
into the coffee-room.
It was very handsomely furnished. The walls
were ornamented with the choicest specimens of
French paper, enriched with a gilded cornice of
elegant design. The floor was covered with a
rich carpet; and two superb mirrors, one above
the chimney-piece, and one at the opposite end
of the room reaching from floor to ceiling, mul-
He passed into j
Hyde Park, now silent and deserted, and in-
tiplied £he other beauties, and added new ones
| of their own to enhance the general effect. There
was a rather noisy party of four gentlemen in a
box by the fire-place, and only two other per-
sons present—both elderly gentlemen, and both
alone. - -
Observing all this in the first comprehensive
glance with which a stranger surveys a place
that is new to him, Nicholas sat himself down
in the box next to the noisy party, with his back
towards them, and, postponing his order for a
pint, of claret until such time as the waiter and
one of the elderly gentlemen should have settled
a disputed question relative to the price of an
item in the bill of fare, took up a newspaper,
and began to read. - -
He had not read twenty lines, and was, in
truth, half dozing, when he was startled by the
mention of his sister's name. “Little Kate
Nickleby’’ were the words that caught his ear.
He raised his head in amazement, and, as he did
so, saw, by the reflection in the opposite glass,"
that two of the party behind him had risen, and
were standing before the fire. “It must have
come from one of them,” thought Nicholas.
He waited to hear more with a countenance of
some indignation, for the tone of speech had
been anything but respectful, and the appearance
of the individual whom he presumed to have
been the speaker was coarse and Swaggering.
. This person—so Nicholas observed in the
same glance at the mirror which had enabled
him to see his face—was standing with his back
to the fire; conversing with a younger man, who
stood with his back to the company, wore his
hat; and was adjusting his shirt collar by the aid
of the glass. They spoke in whispers, now and
then bursting into a loud laugh, but Nicholas
could catch no repetition of the words, nor any-
thing sounding at all like the words, which had
attracted his attention. -
At length the two resumed their seats, and
more wine being ordered, the party grew louder
in their mirth. Still there was no reference
made to anybody with whom he was acquainted,
and Nicholas became persuaded that his excited
fancy had either imagined the sounds altogether,
or converted some other words into the name
which had been so much in his thoughts.
“It is remarkable, too,” thought Nicholas :
“if it had been ‘Kate,' or “Kate Nickleby,' I
should not have been so much surprised : but
‘little Kate Nickleby l’”
The wine coming at the moment prevented
his finishing the sentence. He swallowed a
glassful, and took up the paper again. At that
instant— *
FACE ZO FACE WITH STR MUZA ERA. Y.
209
“Little Kate Nickleby 1" cried the voice
behind him. - .- *
“I was right,” muttered Nicholas as the paper
fell from his hand. “And it was the man I
supposed.” -
“As there was a proper objection to drinking
her in heel-taps,” said the voice, “we’ll give her
the first glass in the new magnum. Little Kate
Nickleby "
“Littlé Kate Nickleby (* cried the other
three. And the glasses were set down empty.
Keenly alive to the tone and manner of this
slight and careless mention of his sister's name
in a public place, Nicholas fired at once ; but
he kept himself quiet by a great effort, and did
not even turn his head.
“The jade-l” said the same voice which had
spoken before. “She's a true Nickleby-a
worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph—she
hangs back to be more 'sought after—so does
he nothing to be.got out of Ralph unless you
follow him up, and then the money comes doubly
welcome, and the bargain doubly hard, for
you're impatient, and he isn't. Oh! infernal
cunning.” - -
“Infernal cunning,” echoed two voices.
Nicholas was in a perfect agony as the two
elderly gentlemen opposite rose one after the
other, and went away, lest they should be the
means of his losing one word of what was said.
But the conversation was suspended as they
withdrew, and resumed with even greater free-
dom when they had left the room.
“I am afraid,” said the younger gentleman,
“that the old woman has grown jea-a-lous, and
locked her up. Upon my soul it looks like
it.” -
{{
if they quarrel, and little Nickleby goes
home to her mother, so much the better,” said .
the first. “I can do anything with the old
lady. She'll believe anything I tell her.”
“Egad, that's true,” returned, the other voice.
“Ha, ha, ha! Poor deyvle 1" . .
The laugh was taken up by the two voices
which always came in together, and became
general at Mrs. Nickleby's expense. Nicholas
turned burning hot with rage, but he com-
manded himself for the moment, and waited to
hear more. -
What he heard need not be repeated here.
Suffice it that, as the wine went round, he heard
enough to acquaint him with the characters and
designs of those whose conversation he over-
heard; to possess him with the full extent of
Ralph's villainy, and the real reason of his own
presence being required in London.
all this, and more. He heard his sister's suf.
He heard
ferings derided, and her virtuous conduct jeered
at and brutally misconstrued ; he heard her
name bandied from mouth to mouth, and herselſ
made the subject of coarse and insolent wagers.
free speech, and licentious jesting.
The man who had spoken first, led the con-
versation, and, indeed, almost engrossed it,
being only stimulated from time to time by some
slight observation from one or other of his com-
panions. To him, then, Nicholas addressed
himself when he was sufficiently composed to
stand before the party, and force the words from
his parched and scorching throat.
“Let me have a word with you, sir,” said
Nicholas. -
“With me, sir?” retorted Sir Mulberry.'
Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful surprise.
“I said with you,” replied Nicholas, speaking
with great difficulty, for his passion choked him.
“A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!”
exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising his wine-glass to
his lips, and looking round upon his friends.
“Will you step apart with me for a few
minutes, or do you refuse?” said Nicholas
sternly.
Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of
drinking, and bade him either name his business
or leave the table.
Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and
threw it before him.
“There, sir,” said Nicholas ; “my business
you will guess.” 3:2
A momentary expression of astonishment, not
unmixed with some confusion, appeared in the
face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name ; but
he subdued it in an instant, and tossing the card
to Lord Verisopht, who sat opposite, drew a
toothpick from a glass before him. and very
leisurely applied it to his mouth.
“Your name and address?” said Nicholas,
turning paler as his passion kindled.
“I shall give you neither,” replied Sir Mul-
berry.
“If there is a gentleman in this party,” said
Nicholas, looking round, and scarcely able to
make his white lips form the words, “he will
acquaint me with the name and residence of this
man.”
There was a dead silence.
“I am the brother of the young lady who has
been the subject of conversation here,” said
Nicholas. “I denounce this person as a liar,
and impeach him as a coward. ... If he has a
friend here, he will save him the disgrace of the
paltry attempt to conceal his name—an utterly
useless one—for I will find it out, nor leave him
until I have.”
2 I O
NICHOLAS WACKZEBY.

~,
Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously,
and, addressing his companions, said:
“Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious
to say to boys of his station ; and his pretty
sister,shall save, him a broken head, if he talks
till midnight.”
“You are a base and spiritless scoundrel !”
said Nicholas, “and shall be proclaimed so to
the world. I will know you ; I will follow you
home if you walk the streets till morning.” .
Sir Mulberry's hand involuntarily closed upon
the decanter, and he seemed for an instant about
to launch it at the head of his challenger. But
he only filled his glass, and laughed in derision.
Nicholas sat himself down directly opposite
to the party, and, summoning the waiter, paid
his bill. - -
“Do you know that person's name P” he
inquired of the man in an audible voice; point-
ing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.
Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices
which had always spoken together echoed the
laugh; but rather feebly.
“That gentleman, sir?” replied the waiter,
who, no doubt, knew his cue, and answered with
just as little respect, and just as much imperti-
nence, as he could safely show.
not, sir.”
“Here, you sir,” cried Sir Mulberry as the
man was retiring ; “do you know that person's
name P” º
“Name, sir? No, sir.”
“Then you'll find it there,” said Sir Mulberry,
throwing Nicholas's card towards him; “and,
when you have made yourself master of it, put
that piece of pasteboard in the fire—do you
hear me?”
The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at
Nicholas, compromised the matter by , sticking
the card in the chimney-glass. Having done
this, he retired.
Nicholas folded his arms, and, biting his lip,
sat perfectly quiet; sufficiently expressing by his
manner, however, a firm determination to carry
his threat of following Sir Mulberry home into .
steady execution.
It was evident, from the tone in which the
younger member of the party appeared to remon-
strate with his friend, that he objected to this
course of proceeding, and urged him to comply
with the request which Nicholas had made. Sir
Mulberry, however, who was not quite sober,
and who was in a sullen and dogged state .
of obstinacy, soon silenced the representations.
of his weak young friend, and further seemed—
as if to save himself ſrom a repetition of them-
to insist on being left alone.
might have been, the young gentleman, and the
“No, sir, I do
Stare.
will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his shoulders,
However this. [.
*
two who had always spoken together, actually
rose to go after a short interval, and presently
retired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.
It will be very readily supposed that, to one
in the condition of Nicholas, the minutes ap-
peared to move with leaden wings indeed, and
that their progress did not seem the more rapid
from the monotonous ticking of a French clock,
or the shrill sound of its little bell which told
the quarters. But there he sat ; and in his old
seat on the opposite side of the room reclined
Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his legs upon the
cushion, and his handkerchief thrown negligently
over his knees: finishing his magnum of claret
with the utmost coolness and indifference.
. Thus they remained in perfect silence for
upwards of an hour—Nicholas would have
thought for three hours at least, but that the
little bell had only gone four times. Twice or
thrice he looked angrily and impatiently round;
but there was Sir Mulberry in the same attitude,
putting his glass to his lips from time to time,
and looking vacantly at the wall, as if he were
wholly ignorant of the presence of any living
person.
At length he yawned, stretched himself, and
rose; walked coolly to the glass, and, having
surveyed himself therein, turned round, and
honoured Nicholas with a long and contemptuous
Nicholas stared again with right good
smiled slightly, rang the bell; and ordered the
waiter to help him on with his great-coat.
The man did so, and held the door open. .
“Don’t wait,” said Sir Mulberry; and they
were alone again. - ,
Sir Mulberry took several turns up and down
the room, whistling carelessly all the time;
stopped to finish the last glass of claret which he
had poured out a few minutes before, walked
again, put on his hat, adjusted it by the glass,
! drew on his gloves, and, at last, walked slowly
out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chaf.
ing until he was nearly wild, darted from his
seat, and followed him—so closely that, before
the door had swung upon its hinges after Sir
Mulberry's passing out, they stood side by side
in the street together. .
There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the
groom opened the apron, and jumped out to the
horse's head.
“Will you make yourself known to me?"
asked Nicholas in a suppressed voice.
“No,” replied the other fiercely, and confirm.
ing the refusal with an oath. “No."
“If you trust to your horse's speed, you will
RUN AWAY WITH.
2 (YE
find yourself mistaken,” said Nicholas. “I will
accompany you. By Heaven I will, if I hang
on to the foot-board I" -
“You shall be horsewhipped if you do,”
returned Sir Mulberry. -
“You are a villain,” said Nicholas.
“You.. are an errand-boy for aught I know,”
said Sir Mulberry Hawks 3,
“I am the son of a country gentleman,”
returned Nicholas, “your -equal in birth and
education, and your superior, I trust, in every-
thing besides, I tell you again, Miss Nickleby
is my sister. Will you or will you not answer
for your unmanly and brutal conduct P”
“To a proper champion—yes. To you—no,”
returned Sir Mulberry, taking the reins in his
hand. “Stand out of the way, dog | William.
let go her head.”
“You had better not,” cried Nicholas, spring-
ing on the step as Sir Mulberry jumped in, and
catching at the reins. “He has no command
over the horse, mind. You shall not go—you
shall not, I swear—till you have told me who
you are.” • .
The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a
high-spirited animal and thorough-bred, plunged
so violently that he could scarcely hold her. .
“Leave go, I tell you !” thundered his master.
The man obeyed. The animal reared and
plunged as though it would dash the carriage
into a thousand pieces, but Nicholas, blind to
all sense of danger, and conscious of nothing
but his fury, still maintained his place and his
hold upon the reins. -
“Will you unclasp your hand P”
“Will you tell me who you are P"
“ No 1" -
“ No 1"
In less time than the quickest tongue could
tell it; these words were exchanged, and Sir
Mulberry, shortening his whip, applied it furi-.
ously to the head and shoulders of Nicholas,
It was broken ifi the struggle; Nicholas gained
the heavy handle, and with it laid open one side
of his antagonist's face from the eye to the lip.
He saw the gash; knew that the mare had
darted off at a wild mad gallop; a hundred
lights danced in his eyes, and he felt himself
flung violently upon the ground.
He was giddy and sick, but staggered to his
feet directly, roused by the loud shouts of the
men who were tearing up the street, and scream-
ing to those ahead to clear the way. He was
conscious of a torrent of people rushing quickly
by-looking up, could discern the cabriolet .
whirled along, the foot-pavement with frightful |
Tapidity—then heard a loud cry, the smashing.
*
of some heavy body, and the breaking of glass
—and then the crowd closed in in the distance,
and he could see or hear no more. . .
The general attention had been entirely
directed from himself to the person in the car-
riage, and he was quite alone. Rightly judging
that under such circumstances it would be mad-
ness to follow, he turned down a by-Street in
search of the nearest coach-stand, finding after
a minute or two that he was reeling like a
drunken man, and aware for the first time of a
stream of blood that was trickling down his
face and breast.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN WHICH MR. RALPH NICKLEBY IS RELIEVED, BY A
VERY ExPEDITIOUS PROCESS, FROM ALL COMMERCE
WITH HIS RELATIONS.
MIKE and Newman Noggs, who in
his impatience had returned home
long before the time agreed upon, sat
before the fire, listening anxiously
to every footstep on the stairs, and
the slightest sound that stirred with-
in the house, for the approach of Nicho-
las. Time had worn on, and it was
growing late. He had promised to be back in
an hour; and his prolonged absence began to
excite considerable alarm in the minds of both,
as was abundantly testified by the blank looks
they cast upon each other at every new disap-
pointment.
. At length a coach was heard to stop, and
Newman ran out to light Nicholas up the
stairs. Beholding him in the trim described at
the conclusion of the last chapter, he stood
aghast in wonder and consternation.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Nicholas, hurrying
him back into the room. “There is no harm
done, beyond what a basin of water can repair.”
“No harm 1" cried Newman, passing his hands
hastily over the back and arms of Nicholas, as
if to assure himself that he had broken no bones.
“What have you been doing?” . -.
“I know all,” interrupted Nicholas; “I have
heard a part, and guessed the rest. But, before
I remove one jot of these stains, I must hear the
whole from you. You see I am collected. My
resolution is taken. Now, my good friend, speak
out ; for the time for any palliation or conceal-
ment is past, and nothings will avail Ralph
Nickleby now.” *
“Your dress is torn in several places; you
walk lame; and I am sure you are suffering

2 i 2
.*
NICHOLAS MICKZEA Y.
pain,” said Newman. “Let me see to your
hurts first.”
“I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little
soreness. and stiffness that will soon pass off.”
said Nicholas, seating himself with some dif-
ficulty. “But if I had fractured every limb, and
still preserved my senses, you should not bandage
one till you had told me what I have the right
to know. Come !” said Nicholas, giving his
hand to Noggs. “You had a sister of your
own, you told me once, who died before you fell.
Now, think of her, and tell.
into misfortune.
me, Newman.”
“Yes, I will, I will,” said Noggs. “I’ll tell
you the whole truth.” +
Newman did so. Nicholas nodded his head
from time to time, as it corroborated the par-
ticulars he had already gleaned ; but he fixed his
eyes upon the fire, and did not look round once.
His recital ended, Newman insisted upon his
young friend's stripping off his coat, and allowing
whatever injuries he had received to be properly
tended. Nicholas, after some opposition, at
length consented, and while some pretty severe
bruises on his arms and shoulders were being
rubbed with oil and vinegar, and various other
efficacious remedies which Newman borrowed
from the different lodgers, related in what man-
ner they had been received. The recital made
a strong impression on the warm imagination
of Newman; for, when Nicholas came to the
violent part of the quarrel, he rubbed so hard
as to occasion him the most exquisite pain,
which he would not have exhibited, however,
for the world, it being perfectly clear that, for
the moment, Newman was operating on Sir
Mulberry Hawk, and had quite lost sight of his
real patient.
This martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with
Newman that while he was otherwise occupied
next morning, arrangements should be made for
his mother's immediately quitting her present
residence, and also for dispatching Miss La
Creevy to break the intelligence to her. He
then wrapped himself in Smike's great-coat, and
repaired to the inn where they were to pass the
night, and where (after writing a few lines to
Ralph, the delivery of which was to be intrusted
to Newman next day), he endeavoured to obtain
the repose of which he stood so much in need.
Drunken men, they say, may roll down pre-
cipices, and be quite unconscious of any serious
personal inconvenience when their reason re-
turns. The remark may possibly apply to injuries
received in other kinds of violent excitement:
certain it is that, although Nicholas experienced
some pain on first awakening next morning, he
sprung out of bed as the clock struck seven,
with very little difficulty, and was soon as much
on the alert as if nothing had occurred.
Merely looking into Smike's room, and telling
him that Newman Noggs would call for him very
shortly, Nicholas descended into the street, and,
calling a hackney coach, bade the man drive to
Mrs. Wititterly's, according to the direction
which Newman had given him on the previous
night. ~, - .
It wanted a quarter to eight when they reached
Cadogan Place. Nicholas began to fear that no
one might be stirring at that early hour, when he
was relieved by the sight of a female servant,
employed in cleaning the door-steps. By this
functionary he was referred to the doubtful page,
who appeared with dishevelled hair and a very
warm and glossy face, as of a page who had iust
got out of bed. -
By this young gentleman he was informed
that Miss Nickleby was then taking her morn-
ing's walk in the gardens before the house. On
the question being propounded whether he could
go and find her, the page desponded, and thought
not; but, being stimulated with a shilling, the
page grew sanguine, and thought he could. -
“Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is
here, and in great haste to see her,” said
Nicholas. ...”
^The plated buttons disappeared with an ala-
crity most unusual to them, and Nicholas paced
the room in a state of feverish agitation which
made the delay even of a minute insupportable.
He soon heard a light footstep which he well
knew, and, before he could advance to meet her,
Kate had fallen on his neck and burst into tears.
“My darling girl "said Nicholas as he em-
braced her. “How pale you are "
“I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,"
sobbed poor Kate; “so very, very miserable:
po not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or I shall
die of a broken heart.” - -
“I will leave you nowhere,” answered Nicho-
las—“never again, Kate,” he cried, moved in
spite of himself, as he ſolded her to his heart.
“Tell me that I acted for the best. Tell me
that we parted because I feared to bring mis’
fortune on your head ; that it was a trial to me,
no less than to yourself, and that if I did wrong”
it was in ignorance of the world, and unknow-
ingly.” --
tº why should I tell you what we know so
well?” returned Kate soothingly. “Nicholas-
dear Nicholas—how can you give way thus?"
“It is such bitter reproach to me to know
what you have undergone,” returned her bro-
ther “to see you so much altered, and yet so
/
s A ROTHER AWD SISTER AEA, UNITED,
kind and patient. God!” cried Nicholas, clench-
ing his fist, and suddenly changing his tone and
manner, “it sets my whole blood on fire again.
You must leave here with me directly; you
should not have slept here last night, but that 3
knew all this too late. To whom can I speak
before we drive away ?”
This question was most opportunely put, for
at that instant Mr. Wititterly walked in, and to
him Kate introduced her brother, who at once
announced his purpose, and the impossibility of
deferring it.
“The quarter's notice,” said Mr. Wititterly
with the gravity of a man on the right side, “is
not yet half expired. Therefore 3 y
“Therefore,” interposed Nicholas, “the quar-
ter's salary must be lost, sir. You will excuse
this extreme haste, but circumstances require
that I should immediately remove my sister, and
I have not a moment's time to lose. Whatever
she brought here I will send for, if you will
allow me, in the course of the day.”
Mr. Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposi-
tion to Kate's immediate departure; with which,
indeed, he was rather gratified than otherwise,
Sir Tumley Snuffin having given it as his
opinion that she rather disagreed with Mrs.
Wititterly's constitution.
“With regard to the trifle of salary that is
due,” said Mr. Wititterly, “I will "–here he
was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing—“I
will—owe it to Miss Nickleby." -
Mr. Wititterly, it should be observed, was
accustomed to owe small accounts, and to leave
them owing. All men have some little pleasant
way of their own ; and this was Mr. Wititterly's.
“If you please,” said Nicholas. And, once
more offering a hurried apology for so sudden a
departure, he hurried Kate into the vehicle,
* bade the man drive with all speed into the
ity. . -
To the City they went accordingly, with all the
Speed the hackney coach could make; and as
the horses happened to live at Whitechapel, and
to be in the habit of taking their breakfast there,
When they breakfasted at all, they performed
the journey with greater expedition than could
reasonably have been expected.
Nicholas sent Kate up-stairs a few minutes
before him, that his unlooked-for appearance
thight not alarm his mother, and, when the way
had been paved, presented himself with much
§uty and affection. Newman had not been
idle, for there was a little cart at the door, and
the effects were hurrying out already.
Now, Mrs. Nickleby was not the sort of
Persºn to be told anything in a hurry, or rather,
Nichor.As Nickleby. I*. s
213
to comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy
or importance on a short notice. Whereforé,
although the good lady had been subjected to a
full hour's preparation by little Miss La Creevy,
and was now addressed in most lucid terms
both by Nicholas and his sister, she was in a
state of singular bewilderment and confusion,
and could by no means be made to comprehend
the necessity of such hurried proceedings.
“Why don't you ask your uncle, my dear
Nicholas, what he can possibly mean by it 2"
said Mrs. Nickleby.
“My dear mother,” returned Nicholas, “the
time for talking has gone by. There is but one
step to take, and that is to cast him off with the
scorn and indignation he deserves. Your own
honour and good name demand that, after the
discovery of his vile proceedings, you should
not be beholden to him one hour, even for the
shelter of these bare walls.”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Nickleby, crying
bitterly, “he is a brute, a monster; and the
walls are very bare, and want painting too, and
I have had this ceiling whitewashed at the
expense of eighteen-pence, which is a very dis-
tressing thing, considering that it is so much
gone into your uncle's pocket. I never could
have believed it—never.”
“Nor I, nor anybody else,” said Nicholas.
“Lord bless my life l’ exclaimed Mrs.
Nickleby. “To think that that Sir Mulberry
Hawk should be such an abandoned wretch as
Miss La Creevy says he is, Nicholas, my dear;
when I was congratulating myself every day on
his being an admirer of our dear Kate's, and
thinking what a thing it would be for the family
if he was to become connected with us, and use
his interest to get you some profitable govern-
ment place. There are very good places to be
got about the court, I know ; for a friend of
ours (Miss Cropley, at Exeter, my dear Kate,
you recollect), he had one, and I know that it
was the chief part of his duty to wear silk stock-
ings, and a bag-wig like a black watch pocket;
and to think that it should come to this after
all—oh dear, dear, it's enough to kill one, that
it is 1" With which expressions of sorrow, Mrs.
Nickleby gave fresh vent to her grief, and wept
piteously.
As Nicholas and his sister were by this time
compelled to superintend the removal of the few
articles of furniture, Miss La Creevy devoted
herself to the consolation of the matron, and ob-
served, with great kindness of manner, that she
must really make an effort, and cheer up.
“Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,” returned
Mrs. Nickleby with a petulance not unnatural
22 I
214
AVYCA/OA.A.S AV/CATZAZ B Y.
in her unhappy circumstances, “it’s very easy to
say cheer up, but if you had as many occasions
to cheer up as I have had And there !”
said Mrs. Nickleby, stopping short. “Think of
Mr. Pyke and Mr. Pluck, two of the most per-
ſect gentlemen that ever lived, what am I to say
to them—what can I say to them P Why, if I
was to say to them, ‘I’m told your friend Sir
Mulberry is a base wretch,' they'd laugh at me.”
“They will laugh no more at us, I take it,”
said Nicholas, advancing. “Come, mother,
there is a coach at the door, and until Monday,
at all events, we will return to our old quarters.”
“—Where everything is ready, and a hearty
welcome into the bargain,” added Miss La
Creevy. “Now, let me go with you down-
stairs.” -
But Mrs. Nickleby was not to be so easily
moved, for first she insisted on going up-stairs
to see that nothing had been left, and then on
going down-stairs to see that everything had been
taken away; and when she was getting into the
coach she had a vision of a forgotten coffee-pot
on the back-kitchen hob, and, after she was shut
in, a dismal recollection of a green umbrella be-
hind some unknown door. At last, Nicholas, in
a condition of absolute despair, ordered the
coachman to drive away, and, in the unexpected
jerk of a sudden starting, Mrs. Niekleby lost a
shilling among the straw, which fortunately con-
fined her attention to the coach until it was too
late to remember anything else.
Having seen everything safely out, discharged
the servant, and locked the door, Nicholas
jumped into a cabriolet, and drove to a by-place
near Golden Square, where he had appointed to
meet Noggs; and so quickly had everything
been done, that it was barely half-past nine when
he reached the place of meeting. -
“Here is the letter for Ralph,” said Nicholas,
“and here the key. When you come to me this
evening, not a word of last night. Ill news
travels fast, and they will know it soon enough.
Have you heard if he was much hurt?”
Newman shook his head. .
“I will ascertain that myself without loss of
time,” said Nieholas.
“You had better take some rest,” returned
Newman. “You are fevered and ill.”
Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and con-
cealing the indisposition he really felt, now that
the excitement which had sustained him was
over, took a hurried farewell of Newman Noggs,
and left him. sº
Newman was not three minutes' walk from
Golden Square, but, in the course of that three
minutes, he took the letter out of his hat and
put it in again twenty times at least. First the
front, then the back, then the sides, then the
superscription, then the seal, were objects of
Newman's admiration. Then he held it at arm's
length, as if to take in the whole at one delicious
survey, and then he rubbed his hands in a per-
fect ecstasy with his commission. . .
He reached the office, hung his hat on its
accustomed peg, laid the letter and key upon
the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph
Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes,
the well-known creaking of his boots was heard
on the stairs, and then the bell rung. * -
“Has the post come in P’’ sº
“ No.”
“Any other letters?” # .
“One." Newman eyed him closely, and laid
it on the desk.
“What's this?” asked Ralph. taking up the
key. -
“Left with the letter;-a boy brought them
—quarter of an hour ago, or less.”
Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the
letter, and read as follows:— -
“You are known to me now. There are no
reproaches I could heap upon your head which
would carry with them one thousandth part of
the grovelling shame that this assurance will
awaken even in your breast. -
“Your brother's widow and her orphan child
spurn the shelter of your roof, and shun you
with disgust and loathing. Your kindred re-
nounce you, for they know no shame but the
ties of blood which bind them in name with
you. . • \
“You are an old man, and I leave you to the
grave. May every recollection of your life cling
to your false heart, and cast their darkness on
your death-bed "
Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and,
frowning heavily, fell into a fit of musing; the
paper fluttered from his hand, and dropped upon
the floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held
it still. - - .
Suddenly, he started from his seat, and, thrust-
ing it all crumpled into his pocket, turned furi-
ously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask him
why he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved,
with his back towards him, following up, with
the worn and blackened stump of an old pen,
some figures in an Interest-table which was
pasted against the wall, and apparently quite
abstracted from every other object. - -
IN THE DISCOUNT MARKET:
CHAPTER XXXIV.
f
whEREIN MR. RALPH NICKLEBY is visitED BY PER-
sons WITH whoM THE READER HAS BEEN ALREADy
MADE ACQUAINTED.
fºLAT a demnition long time you
N founded old cracked tea-kettle of
... a bell, every tinkle of which is
enough to throw a strong man into
º blue convulsions, upon my life and
& soul, oh demmit !” said Mr. Mantalini to
Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he
spoke, on Ralph Nickleby's scraper.
“I didn't hear the bell more than once,” re-
plied Newman.
“Then you are most immensely and outrige-
ously deaf,” said Mr. Mantalini, “as deaf as a
demnition post.” ---
Mr. Mantalini had got by this time into the
passage, and was making his way to the door of
Ralph's office with very little ceremony, when
Newman interposed his body; and, hinting that
Mr. Nickleby was unwilling to be disturbed, in-
quired whether the client's business was of a
pressing nature.
“It is most demnebly particular,” said Mr.
Mantalini. “It is to melt some scraps of dirty
Paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling,
demd mint sauce.”
, Newman uttered a significant grunt, and, tak-
ing Mr. Mantalini's proffered card, limped with
it into his master's office. As he thrust his head
in at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed
the thoughtful posture into which he had fallen
after perusing his nephew's letter, and that he
seemed to have been reading it again, as he once
more held it open in his hand. The glance was
but momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed,
turned to demand the cause of the interruption.
As Newman stated it, the cause himself swag-
gered into the room, and, grasping Ralph's horny
hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he
had never seen him looking so well in all his life.
“There is quite a bloom upon your demd
contenance,” said Mr. Mantalini, seating him-
self unbidden, and arranging his hair and whis-
kers. . “You look quite juvenile and jolly,
demmit !” -
{ "We are alone,” returned Ralph tartly.
‘What do you want with me?”
"Good!" cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his
teeth. “What did I want? Yes. Ha, ha!
*. § good. What did I want? Ha, ha! Oh,
“What do you want, man?" demanded Ralph
sternly.
have kept me ringing at this con-
no existence, and never had.
2 I 5
“Demnition discount,” returned Mr. Man-
talini with a grin, and shaking his head waggishly.
“Money is scarce,” said Ralph.
“Demd scarce, or I shouldn't want it,” inter-
rupted Mr. Mantalini.
“The times are bad, and one scarcely knows
whom to trust,” continued Ralph. “I don't want
to do business just now ; in fact, I would rather
not; but, as you are a friend How many
bills have you there P”
“Two,” returned Mr. Mantalini.
“What is the gross amount P”
“Demd trifling—five-and-seventy.”
“And the dates ?”
“Two months, and four.”
“I’ll do them for you—mind, for you ; I
wouldn't for many people—for five-and-twenty
pounds,” said Ralph deliberately.
“Oh, demmit !” cried Mr. Mantalini, whose
face lengthened considerably at this handsome
proposal.
“Why, that leaves you fifty,” retorted Ralph.
“What would you have P Let me see the
names.” *
“You are so demd hard, Nickleby,” remon-
strated Mr. Mantalini.
“Let me see the names,” replied Ralph,
impatiently extending his hand for the bills.
“Well ! They are not sure, but they are safe
enough. Do you consent to the terms, and will
you take the money P I don't want you to do
so. I would rather you didn't."
“Demmit, Nickleby, can't you——” began
Mr. Mantalini. -
“No,” replied Ralph, interrupting him. “I
can't. Will you take the money?—down, mind;
no delay, no going into the City, and pretend-
ing to negotiate with some other party who has
Is it a bargain,
or is it not P” -
Ralph pushed some papers from him as he
spoke, and carelessly rattled his cash-box, as
though by mere accident. The sound was too
much for Mr. Mantalini. He closed the bargain
directly it reached his ears, and Ralph told the
money out upon the table.
He had scarcely done so, and Mr. Mantalini
had not yet gathered it all up, when a ring was
heard at the bell, and immediately afterwards
Newman ushered in no less a person than
Madame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr. Man-
talini evinced considerable discomposure, and
swept the cash into his pocket with remarkable
alacrity. * *
“Oh, you are here !" said Madame Mantalini,
tossing her head. . - *
“Yes, my life and soul, I am,” replied her

2I 6
McRozas wick/EBY.
ammº
husband, dropping on his knees, and pouncing
with kitten-like playfulness upon a stray sove-
reign. “I am here, my soul's delight, upon Tom
Tiddler's ground, picking up the demnition gold
and silver.”
“I am ashamed of you,” said Madame Man-
talini with much indignation.
“Ashamed—of me, my joy P. It knows it is'
talking demd charming sweetness, but naughty
fibs,” returned Mr. Mantalini. “It knows it is
not ashamed of its own popolorum tibby.”
Whatever were the circumstances which had
led to such a result, it certainly appeared as
though the popolorum tibby had rather miscal-
culated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady's
affection. Madame Mantalini only looked scorn-
ful in reply; and, turning to Ralph, begged him
to excuse her intrusion.
“Which is entirely attributable,” said madame,
* to the gross misconduct and most improper
behaviour of Mr. Mantalini.”
“Of me, my essential juice of pine-apple !”
“Of you,” returned his wife. “But I will not
allow it. I will not submit to be ruined by the
extravagance and profligacy of any man. I call
Mr. Nickleby to witness the course I intend to
pursue with you.” !
“Pray don't call me to witness anything;
ma'am,” said Ralph. “Settle it between your-
selves, settle it between yourselves.” -
“No, but I must beg you as a favour,” said
Madame Mantalini, “to hear me give him notice
of what it is my fixed intention to do—my fixed
intention, sir,”
darting an angry look at her husband.
“Will she call me “Sir P’” cried Mantalini.
“Me who dote upon her with the demdest
ardour ! She, who coils her fascinations round
me like a pure angelic rattlesnake It will be
all up with my feelings; she will throw me into
a demd state.”
“Don’t talk of feelings, sir,” rejoined Madame
Mantalini, seating herself, and turning her back
upon him. “You don't consider mine.”
“I do not consider yours, my soul | " ex-
claimed Mr. Mantalini.
“No,” replied his wife. -
And, notwithstanding various blandishments
on the part of Mr. Mantalini, Madame Man-
talini still said no, and said it, too, with such
determined and resolute ill-temper, that Mr.
Mantalini was clearly taken aback.
“His extravagance, . Mr. Nickleby,” said
Madame Mantalini, addressing herself to Ralph,
who leant against his easy-chair with his hands
behind him, and regarded the amiable couple
with a smile of the Supremest and most unmiti-
repeated Madame Mantalini.
gated contempt, “his extravagance is beyond
all bounds.” e -
“I should scarcely have supposed it,” answered
Ralph sarcastically. -
“I assure you, Mr. Nickleby, however, that it
is,” returned Madame Mantalini. “It makes me
miserable ! I am under constant apprehehsions,
and in constant difficulty. And even this,” said
Madame Mantalini, wiping her eyes, “is not the
worst. He took some papers of value out of my
desk this morning without asking my permission.”
Mr. Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned
his trousers pocket. -
“I am obliged,” continued Madame Manta-
lini, “since our late misfortunes, to pay Miss
Knag a great deal of money for having her
name in the business, and I really cannot afford
to encourage him in all his wastefulness. As I
, have no doubt that he came straight here, Mr.
Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken
of into money, and as you have assisted us very
often before, and are very much connected with
us in this kind of matters, I wish you to know
the determination at which his conduct has com-
pelled me to arrive.” |
Mr. Mantalini groaned once more from behind
his wife's bonnet, and, fitting a sovereign into
one of his eyes, winked with the other at Ralph.
Having achieved this performance with great
dexterity, he whipped the coin into his pocket,
and groaned again with increased penitence.
“I have made up my mind,” said Madame
Mantalini as tokens of impatience manifested
themselves in Ralph's countenance, “to allow-
ance him.” . ."
“To do what, my joy P” inquired Mr. Man-
talini, who did not seem to have caught the
words. -
“To put him,” said Madame Mantalini, look-
ing at Ralph, and prudently abstaining from the
slightest glance at her husband, lest his many
graces should induce her to falter in her resolu-
tion, “to put him upon a fixed allowance; and
I say that if he has a hundred and twenty
pounds a year for his clothes and pocket money,
he may consider himself a very fortunate man.”
Mr. Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to
hear the amount of the proposed stipend, but,
when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and
cane upon the floor, and drawing out his pocket-
handkerchief, gave vent to his feelings in a dismal
II.103 Il. ..
“Demnition 1" cried Mr. Mantalini, suddenly
skipping out of his chair, and as suddenly skip-
ping into it again, to the great discomposure of
his lady's nerves. “But no. It is a demd
horrid dream. It is not reality. No 1"
Mr. MAA'zazz.w, 7RRKATEMS zo BEcoME A Booy.
217
Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr.
Mantalini closed his eyes, and waited patiently
till such time as he should wake up.
“A very judicious arrangement,” observed
Ralph with a sneer, “if your husband will keep
within it, ma'am—as no doubt he will.”
“Demmit !” exclaimed Mr. Mantalini, open-
ing his eyes at the sound of Ralph's voice, “it
is a horrid reality. She is sitting there before
me. There is the graceful outline of her form ;
it cannot be mistaken—there is nothing like it.
The two countesses had no outlines at all, and
the dowager's was a demd outline. Why is she
so excruciatingly beautiful that I cannot be angry
with her, even now P”
“You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,”
returned Madame Mantalini—still reproachfully,
but in a softened tone.
“I am a demd villain ” cried Mr. Mantalini,
Smiting himself on the head. “I will fill my
pockets with change for a sovereign in half.
pence, and drown myself in the Thames; but I
will not be angry with her, even then, for I will
put a note in the twopenny post as I go along,
to tell her where the body is. She will be a
lovely widow. I shall be a body. Some hand-
Some women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.”
“Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature l’” said
Madame Mantalini, sobbing at the dreadful
plcture.
“She calls me cruel—me—me—who for her.
sake will become a demd, damp, moist, unplea-
Sant body 1" exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.
“You know it almost breaks my heart even
to hear you talk of such a thing,” replied
Madame Mantalini. -
“Can I live to be mistrusted P” cried her
husband. “Have I cut my heart into a demd
extraordinary number of little pieces, and given
them all away, one after another, to the same
little engrossing demnition captivater, and can
I live to be suspected by her? Demmit, no, I
can’t l”
“Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have
ºnentioned is not a proper one,” reasoned
Madame Mantalini. -
“I don't want any sum,” replied her discon-
solate husband; “I shall require no demd allow-
ance. I will be a body.” *
On this repetition of Mr. Mantalini's fatal
threat, Madame Mantalini wrung her hands, and
implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby;
*nd after a great quantity of tears and talking,
*nd several attempts on the part of Mr. Manta.
lini to reach the door, preparatory to straightway
°ommitting violence upon himself, that gentle-
man was prevailed upon, with difficulty, to pro-
mise that he wouldn't be a body. This great
point attained, Madame Mantalini argued the
question of the allowance, and Mr. Mantalini
did the same, taking occasion to show that he
could live with uncommon satisfaction upon
bread and water, and go clad in rags, but that
he could not support existence with the addi-
tional burden of being mistrusted by the object
of his most devoted and disinterested affection.
This brought fresh tears into Madame Manta-
limi's eyes, which, having just begun to open to
some few of the demerits of Mr. Mantalini, were
only open a very little way, and could be easily
closed again. The result was, that, without quite
giving up the allowance question, Madame Man-
talini postponed its further consideration ; and
Ralph saw, clearly enough, that Mr. Mantalini
had gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and
that, for some time longer at all events, his
degradation and downfall were postponed. .
“But it will come soon enough,” thought
Ralph ; “all love—bah that I should use the
cant of boys and girls—is fléeting enough ;
though that which has its sole root in the admi-
ration of a whiskered face like that of yonder
baboon, perhaps lasts the longest, as it origin-
ates in the greater blindness, and is fed by
vanity. Meantime, the fools bring grist to my
mill, so let them live out their day, and the
longer it is, the better.”
These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph
Nickleby, as sundry small caresses and endear-
ments, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged
between the objects of his thoughts.
“If you have nothing more to say, my dear,
to Mr. Nidkleby,” said Madame Mantalini, “we
will take our leaves. I am sure we have de-
tained him much too long already.” *
Mr. Mantalini answered, in the first instance,
by tapping Madame Mantalini several times on
the nose, and then by remarking in words that
he had nothing more to say.
“Demmit ! I have, though,” he added almost
immediately, drawing Ralph into a corner.
“Here's an affair about your friend Sir Mul-
berry | Such a demd ºxtraordinary out-of-the-
way kind of thing as never was—eh P”
“What do you mean P” asked Ralph.
“Don’t you know, demmit P” asked Mr.
Mantalini. & -
“I see by the pap. ; that he was thrown from
his cabriolet last ni ht, and severely injured,
and that his life is in some danger,” answered
Ralph with great composure; “but I see nothing
extraordinary in that—accidents are not miracu-
lous events, when men live hard, and drive after
dinner.” -
2 R8
AV/CHOZAS NICKZEB'Y.
“Whew " cried Mr. Mantalini in a long
shrill whistle.
was P” r .
“Not unless it was as I have just supposed.”
replied Ralph, shrugging his shoulders care-
lessly, as if to give his questioner to understand
that he had no curiosity upon the subject.
“ Demmit, you amaze me !” cried Mantalini.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders again, as if it
were no great feat to amaze Mr. Mantalini, and
cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman
Noggs, which had several times appeared be-
hind a couple of panes of glass in the room-
door; it being a part of Newman's duty, when
unimportant people called, to make various feints
of supposing that the bell had rung for him to
show them out: by way.of a gentle hint to such
visitors that it was time to go.
“Don’t you know,” said Mr. Mantalini, taking
Ralph by the button, “that it wasn't an accident
at all, but a demd furious, manslaughtering attack
made upon him by your nephew P” t
“What!” snarled Ralph, clenching his fists
and turning a livid white.
“Demmit, Nickleby, you're as great a tiger as
he is,” said Mantalini, alarmed at these demon-
strations. -
“Go on,” cried Ralph. “Tell me what you
mean. What is this story? Who told you?
Speak 1" growled Ralph, “Do you hear me?”
“’Gad, Nickleby,” said Mr. Mantalini, re-
treating towards his wife, “what a demneble
fierce old evil genius you are You're enough
to frighten my life and soul out of her little
delicious wits—flying all at once into such a
blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never Was,
demmit l’”
“Pshaw (" rejoined Ralph, forcing a Smile.
“It is but manner.”
“It is a demd uncomfortable, private-mad-
house sort of a manner,” said Mr. Mantalini,
picking up his cane. -
Ralph affected to smile, and once more in-
quired from whom Mr. Mantalini had derived
his information.
“From Pyke; and a demd fine, pleasant,
gentlemanly dog it is,” replied Mantalini.
“Demnition pleasant, and a tiptop Sawyer.”
“And what said he P” asked Ralph, knitting
his brows. a.
“That it happened this way—that your
nephew met him at a coffee-house, fell upon
him with the most demneble ferocity, followed
him to his cab, swore he would ride home with
him, if he rode upon the horse's back, or hooked
t §e horse's tail; Smashed his coun-
Hºsi
himself on to
tenance, which is a demd fine countenance in
its natural state; frightened the horse, pitched
“Then don't you know how it
out Sir Mulberry and himself, and.
“And was killed?” interposed Ralph with
gleaming eyes. “Was he? 'Is he dead?”
Mantalini shook his head. . .
“Ugh !” said Ralph, turning away. “Then
he has done nothing. Stay,” he added, looking
round again. “He broke a leg or an arm, or
put his shoulder out, or fractured his collar
bone, or ground a rib or two P His neck was
saved for the halter, but he got some painful
and slow-healing injury for his trouble—did he P
You must have heard that, at least.”
“No,” rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head
again. “ Unless he was dashed into such little
pieces that they blew away, he wasn't hurt, for
he went off as quiet and comfortable as—as—
as demnition,” said Mr. Mantalini, rather at a
loss for a simile. -
“And what,” said Ralph, hesitating a little,
“what was the cause of quarrel?”
“You are the demdest, knowing hand,” re-
plied Mr. Mantalini in an admiring tone, “the
cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox–oh,
dem — to pretend now not to know that it was
the little bright-eyed niece—the softest, sweetest,
prettiest ;3 , x >
“Alfred I.” interposed Madame Mantalini... .
“She is always right,” rejoined Mr. Mantalini
soothingly, “and, when she says it is time to go,
it is time, and go she shall; and, when she
walks along the streets with her own tulip, the
women shall say with envy, she has got a demd
fine husband; and the men shall say with rap-
ture, he has got a demd fine wife; and they
shall both be right, and neither wrong, upon my
life and soul—oh, demmit !”
With which remarks, and many more, no less
intellectual and to the purpose, Mr. Mantalini
kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph Nickle.
by, and, drawing his lady's arm through his, led
her mincingly away. r * * º
“So, so muttered Ralph, dropping into his
chair : “this devil is loose again, and thwarting
me, as he was born to do, at every turn. , he
told me once there should be a day of reckº”
ing between us, sooner or later. I'll make him
a true prophet, for it shall surely come.”
“Are you at home?” asked Newman, sud-
denly popping in his head. . .
“No,” replied Ralph with equal abruptness,
Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it *
again.
°ºyou're quite sure you're not at home, *
you?” said Newman. .. .
“what does the idiot mean?" cried Ralph
testily.
MR. SQUEERS AAWTERS ZAVZO A FEW Z2A, 7A/ZS.
2 Ig
“He has been waiting nearly ever since they
first came in, and may have heard your voice—
that's all,” said Newman, rubbing his hands.
“Who has P’ demanded Ralph, wrought by
the intelligence he had just heard, and his
clerk's provoking coolness, to an intense pitch
of irritation.
The necessity of a reply was superseded by
the unlooked-for entrance of a third party—the
individual in question—who, bringing his one
eye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph
Nickleby, made a great many shambling bows,
and sat himself down in an arm-chair, with his
hands on his knees, and his short black trousers
drawn up so high in the legs by the exertion of
seating himself, that they scarcely reached below
the tops of his Wellington boots.
“Why, this is a surprise !” said Ralph, bend-
ing his gaze upon the visitor, and half smiling
as he scrutinised him attentively; “I should
know your face, Mr. Squeers.” -
“Ah!” replied that worthy, “and you'd have
knowed it better, sir, if it hadn't been for all
that I've been a-going through. Just lift that
little boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and
tell him to come in here, will you, my man?”
Said Squeers, addressing himself to Newman.
“Oh! he's lifted hisselſ off. My son, sir, little
Wackford. What do you think of him, sir, for
a specimen of the Dotheboys' Hall feeding 2
Ain't he fit to bust out of his clothes, and start
the seams, and make the very buttons fly off
with his fatness 2 Here's flesh ſ” cried Squeers,
turning the boy about, and indenting the
Plumpest parts of his figure with divers pokes
and punches, to the great discomposure of his
Son and heir. “Here's firmness, here's solid-
ºss Why, you can hardly get up enough of
him between your finger and thumb to pinch
him anywheres.”
Jn however good condition Master Squeers
ºght have been, he certainly did not present
this remarkable Compactness of person, for, on
his father's closing his finger and thumb in illus-
tration of his remark, he uttered a sharp cry,
and rubbed the place in the most naturai man.
her possible. -
“Well,” remarked Squeers, a little discon-
$ºted, “I had him there; but that's because
We breakfasted ealy this morning, and he
hasn’t had his lunch yet. Why, you couldn't
shut a bit of him in a door, when he's had his
dinner. Look at them tears, sir,” said Squeers
with a triumphant air, as ‘Master Wackford
}*Pºd his eyes with the cuff of his jacket;
there's oiliness ". . .
“He looks well, indeed,” returned Ralph,
*
|
who, for some purposes of his own, seemed
desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. “But
how is Mrs. Squeers, and how are you ?”
“Mrs. Squeers, sir,” replied the proprietor
of Dotheboys, “is as she always is—a mother
to them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort,
and a joy to all them as knows her. One of
our boys—gorging hisself with vittles, and then
turning ill; that's their way—got a abscess on
him last week. To see how she operated upon
him with a penknife Oh Lor " said Squeers,
heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great
many times, “what a member of society that
woman is . "
Mr. Squeers indulged in a retrospective look
for some quarter of a minute, as if this allusion
to his lady's excellences had naturally led his
mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys, near
Greta Bridge in Yorkshire ; and then looked
at Ralph, as if waiting for him to say some-
thing.
“Have you quite recovered that scoundrel's
attack P” asked Ralph. g
“I’ve only just done it, if I've done it now,”
replied Squeers. “I was one blessed bruise,
sir,” said Squeers, touching first the roots of his
hair, and then the toes of his boots, “from here t
to there. Vinegar and brown paper, vinegar and
brown paper, from morning to night. I suppose
there was a matter of half a ream of brown
paper stuck upon me, from first to last. As I
laid all of a heap in our kitchen, plastered all
over, you might have thought I was a large
brown-paper parcel, chock-full of nothing but
groans. Did I groan loud, Wackford, or did I
groan soft P” asked Mr. Squeers, appealing to
his son.
“Loud,” replied Wackford.
“Was the boys sorry to see me in such a
dreadful condition, Wackford, or was they
glad P” asked Mr. Squeers in a sentimental
In 13 I\lner.
& 4 Gl
“Eh P’’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
“Sorry,” rejoined his son.
“Oh ” said Squeers, catching him a smart
box on the ear. “Then take your hands out
of your pockets, and don't stammer when you're
asked a question, Hold your noise, sir, in a
gentleman's office, or I'll run away from my
family, and never come back any more ; and
them what would become of all them precious
and forlorn lads as would be let loose on the
world, without their best friend at their elbers ?”
“Were you obliged to have medical attend-
ance?” inquired Ralph.
“Ay, was I,” lejoined Squeers, “and a pre-
*
220
AV/CHO C.A.S AVICKZA, B Y.
cious bill the medical attendant brought in, too;
but I paid it, though.”
Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner
which might be expressive of either sympathy
or astonishment—just as the beholder was
pleased to take it.
“Yes, I paid it, every farthing,” replied
Squeers, who seemed to know the man he had
to deal with too well to suppose that any blink-
ing of the question would induce him to sub-
scribe towards the expenses; “I wasn't out of
pocket by it after all, either.”
“No P " said Ralph.
“Not a halfpenny,” replied Squeers. “The
fact is, we have only one extra with our boys,
and that is for doctors when required—and not
then, unless we're sure of our customers. , Do
you see P”.
“I understand,” said Ralph.
“Very good,” rejoined Squeers. “Then,
“LOOK AT THEM TEARS, SIR,” SAID squEERs witH A TRIUMPHANT AIR, As MASTER WACKFORD WIPED HIS
EYES WITH THE CUFF of . HIs JACKET; “THERE's OLLINESS' " **
after my bill was run up, we picked out five
little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure
pay) that had never had the scarlet fever, and
we sent one to a cottage where they'd got it,
and he took it, and then we put the four others
to sleep with him, and they took it, and then the
doctor came and attended 'em once all round,
and we divided my total among 'em, and added
it on to their little bills, and the parents paid it. .
Hall ha I ha l''
“And a good plan too,” said Ralph, eyeing
the schoolmaster stealthily. - - - - --"
“I believe you,” rejoined Squeers. “We
always do it. Why, when Mrs. Squeers was
brought to bed with little Wackford here, we
ran the hooping-cough through half-a-dozen
boys, and charged her expenses among 'em,
monthly nurse included. . Ha!.ha 1 ha / " '
Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he
produced the nearest approach to it that he

A Few More pezAIzs.
22 I
could, and, waiting until Mr. Squeers had en-
joyed the professional joke to his heart's con-
tent, inquired what had brought him to town.
“Some bothering law business,”
Squeers, scratching his head. “connected with
an action for what they call neglect of a boy.
I don't know what they would have. He had as
good grazing, that boy had, as there is about us.”
Ralph looked as if he did not quite under-
stand the observation.
“Grazing,” said Squeers, raising his voice,
under the impression that, as Ralph failed to
comprehend him, he must be deaf. “When a
boy gets weak and ill, and don't relish his meals,
we give him a change of diet—turn him out, for
an hour. or so every day, into a neighbour's
turnip-field, or sometimes, if it's a delicate case,
a turnip-field and a piece of carrots alternately,
and let him eat as many as he likes. There
an’t better land in the county than this per-
werse lad grazed on, and yet he goes and
Catches cold and indigestion and what not, and
then his friends brings a lawsuit against me /
Now, you'd hardly suppose,” added Squeers,
moving in his, chair with the impatience of an
ill-used man, “that people's ingratitude would
carry them quite as far as that ; would you?”
“A hard case, indeed,” observed Ralph.
“You don't say more than the truth when
you say that,” replied Squeers. “I don't sup-
Pose there's a man going as possesses the fond-
ness for youth that I do. There's youth to the
amount of eight hundred pound a year at Do-
theboys Hall at this present time. I'd take six-
teen, hundred pound worth if I could get 'em,
and be as fond of every individual twenty pound
among 'em as nothing should equal it!”
“Are you stopping at your old quarters?”
asked Ralph.
“Yes, we are at the Saracen,” replied Squeers,
“and, as it don't want very long to the end of
the half-year, we shall continney to stop there
fill I've collected the money, and some new
boys too, I hope. I've brought little Wackford
"P.On purpose to show to parents and guardians.
I shall put him in the advertisement this time.
Look at that boy—himself a pupil—why, he's a
miracle of high feeding, that boy is t”
“I should like to have a word with you,” said
Ralph, who had both spoken and listened
ºnechanically for some time, and seemed to have ||
been thinking.
“As many words as you like, sir,” rejoined
Squeers.
back-office, and don't move about too much, or
You'll get thin, and that won't do. You haven't
89% such a thing as twopene Mr. Nickleby,
replied .
tractable or rebellious?
“Wackford, you go and play in the
have you?” said Squeers, rattling a bunch of
keys in his coat pocket, and muttering something
about its being all silver.
“I—think I have,” said Ralph very slowly,
and producing, after much rummaging in an old
drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.
“Thankee,” said Squeers, bestowing it upon
his son. “Here! You go and buy a tart—Mr.
Nickleby's man will show you where—and mind
you buy a rich one. Pastry,” added Squeers,
closing the door on Master Wackford, “makes
his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks
that a healthy sign.”
With this explanation, and a peculiarly know-
ing look to eke it out, Mr. Squeers moved his
chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph
Nickleby at no great distance off; and, having
planted it to his entire satisfaction, sat down.
“Attend to me,” said Ralph, bending forward
a little.
Squeers nodded.
“I am not to suppose,” said Ralph, “ that
you are dolt enough to forgive or forget, very
readily, the violence that was committed upon
you, or the exposure which accompanied it P”
“Devil a bit,” replied Squeers tartly.
“Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it
with interest, if you could get one P” said Ralph.
“Show me one, and try,” rejoined Squeers.
“Some such object it was that induced you
to call on me?” said Ralph, raising his eyes to
the schoolmaster's face.
“N—n—no, I don't know that,” replied
Squeers. “I thought that if it was in your
power to make me, besides the trifle of money
you sent, any compensation—”
“Ah!” cried Ralph, interrupting him. “You
needn't go on.” " -
After a long pause, during which Ralph ap-
peared absorbed in contemplation, he again
broke silence by asking: -
“Who is this boy that he took with him?”
Squeers stated his name.
“Was he young or old, healthy or sickly,
Speak out, man l’’
retorted Ralph.
“Why, he wasn't young,” answered Squeers;
“that is, not young for a boy, you know.”
“That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?”
interrupted Ralph.
“Well,” returned Squeers briskly, as if he felt
relieved by the suggestion, “he might have been
nigh twenty. He wouldn't seem so old, though,
to them as didn't know him, for he was a little
wanting here,” touching his forehead; “nobody .
at home, you know, if you knocked ever so
often.”
222
NZCHOzAS WICKZEBY.
“And you did knockpretty often, Idare say?"'
muttered Ralph. * - •
“Pretty well,” returned Squeers with a grin.
“When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt
of this trifle of money as you call it,” said Ralph,
“you told me his friends had deserted him long
ago, and that you had not the faintest clue or
trace to tell you who he was. Is that the
truth P” -
“It is, worse luck!” replied Squeers, becom-
ing more and more easy, and familiar in his
manner as Ralph pursued his inquiries with the
less reserve. “It's fourteen years ago, by the
entry in my book, since a strange man brought
him to my place, one autumn night, and left him
there; paying five pound five, for his first
quarter, in advance. He might have been five
or six year old at that time—not more.”
“What more do you know about him?” de-
manded Ralph.
“Devilish little, Tm sorry to say,” replied
Squeers. “The money was paid for some six
or eight year, and then it stopped. He had
given an address in London, had this chap; but,
when it came to the point, of course nobody |
knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad
Out of out of " -
“Charity?” suggested Ralph drily.
“Charity, to be sure,” returned Squeers, rub-
bing his knees: “and, when he begins to be
useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoun-
drel of a Nickleby comes and carries him off.
But the most vexatious and aggeravating part of
the whole affair is,” said Squeers, dropping his
voice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph,
“that some questions have been asked about
him at last—not of me, but in a roundabout
kind of way, of people in our village. So that
just when I might have had all arrears paid up,
perhaps, and perhaps—who knows? such things
have happened in our business before—a present
besides for putting him out to a farmer, or send-
ing him to sea, so that he might never turn up
to disgrace his parents, supposing him to be a
natural boy, as many of our boys are—damme,
if that villain of a Nickleby don't collar him in
open day, and commit as good as highway
robbery upon my pocket.” -
“We will both cry quits with him before long,”
said Ralph, laying his hand on the arm of the
Yorkshire schoolmaster. -
“Quits 1” echoed Squeers. “Ah and I
should like to leave a small balance in his favour,
to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs.
Squeers could catch hold of him. Bless her
heart! She'd murder him, Mr. Nickleby—she
would, as soon as eat her dinner.”
*
| through his own affections and fanciess—
“We will talk of this again,” said Ralph. “I
must have time to think of it. To wound him
If
I could strike him through this boy—"
“Strike him how you like, sir,” interrupted
Squeers, “only hit him hard enough, that's all—
and, with that, I'll say good morning. Here!—
just chuck that little boy's hat off that corner
peg, and lift him off the stool, will you?”
Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs,
Mr. Squeers betook himself to the little back-
office, and fitted on his child's hat with parental
anxiety, while Newman, with his pen behind
his ear, sat, stiff and immovable, on his stool,
regarding the father and son by turns with a
broad stare. 2 .
“He’s a fine boy, an’t he?” said Squeers,
throwing his head a little on one side, and falling
back to the desk, the better to estimate the pro-
portions of little Wackford.
“Very,” said Newman.
“Pretty well swelled out, an’t he?” pursued
Squeers. “He has the fatness of twenty boys,
he has.” - - -
“Ah !” replied Newman, suddenly thrusting
his face into that of Squeers, “he has ;-the fat.
ness of twenty —more | He's got it all. God
help the others Ha! haſ Oh Lord I"
Having uttered these fragmentary observa-
tions, Newman dropped upon his desk, and
began to write with most marvellous rapidity.
“Why, what does the man mean?" cried
Squeers, colouring. “Is he drunk?”
Newman made no reply.
“Is he mad?" said Squeers. -
But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness
of any presence save his own; so, Mr. Squeers
comforted himself by saying that he was both
drunk and mad; and, with this parting observa-
•tion, he led his hopeful son away. z ,-
In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby be.
came conscious of a struggling and lingering
regard for Kate had his detestation of Nicholas
augmented. It might be that, to atone for the
weakness of inclining to any one person, he held
it necessary to hate some other more intensely
than before ; but such had been the course of
his feelings. And now, to be defied and spurned,
to be held up to her in the worst and most
repulsive colours, to know that she was taught
to hate and despise him : to feel that there was
infection in his touch, and taint in his com-
panionship—to know all this, and to know that
the mover of it all was that same boyish poor
relation who had twitted him in their very first
interview, and openly bearded and braved him
since, wrought his quiet and stealthy malignity
AOOA' SMIKE A GAAAW
to such a pitch, that there was scarcely anything
he would not have hazarded to gratify it, if he
could have seen his
retaliation. º' -
But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby
way to some immediate
did not; and although he cast about all that
day, and kept a corner of his brain working on
the one anxious subject through all the round of
schemes and business that came with it, night
found him, at last, still harping on the same
theme, and still pursuing the same unprofitable
reflections. -
“When my brother was such as he,” said
Ralph, “the first comparisons were drawn be-
tween us—always in my disfavour. He was
open, liberal, gallant, gay; / a crafty hunks of
cold and stagnant blood, with no passion but
love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst for
gain. I recollected it well when I first saw this
whipster. But I remember it better now.”
He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas's
letter into atoms; and, as he spoke, he scattered
it in a tiny shower about him. T. -
“Recollections, like these,” pursued Ralph
with a bitter smile, “flock upon me—when I
resign myself to them—in crowds, and from
countless quarters. As a portion of the world
affect to despise the power of money, I must
try and show them what it is.” ". . . .
And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame
: ind for slumber, Ralph Nickleby went to
ČCl. - .#: . . . . . .
CHAPTER xxxv.
SMIKE BECOMEs KNowN To MRS. NICKLEBy AND
KATE, NICHOLAS ALSO MEETs witH NEw Ac-
QUAINTANCES. BRIGHTER DAYs SEEM. To DAWN
UPON THE FAMILY. - - .
gº ºsº a .
\lſ AVING established his mother and
, sister in the apartments of the kind-
hearted miniature painter, and ascer-
- tained that Sir Mulberry Hawk was
^* in no danger , of losing his life,
Nicholas turned his thoughts to poor
& * Smike, who, after breakfasting with New-
, man Noggs, had remained, in a discon-
solate state, at that worthy creature's lodgings,
Waiting, with much anxiety, for further intelli-
gence of his protector.
"As he will be one of our own little house.
hold, wherever we live, or whatever fortune is in
*Ye for us,” thought Nicholas, “I must pre-
$ºnt the poor fellow in due form. They will be
*nd to him for his own sake, and if not (on
** account solely) to the full extenti could
know it,” replied Smike.
mean, I grant you. that.
223
wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for
mine.” -
Nicholas said “they,” but his misgivings were
confined to one person. He was sure of Kate,
but he knew his mother's peculiarities, and was
not quite so certain that Smike would find
favour in the eyes of Mrs. Nickleby.
“However,” thought Nicholas as he departed
on his benevolent errand, “she cannot fail to
become attached to him when she knows what a
devoted creature he is, and, as she must quickly
make the discovery, his probation will be a
short one.” - -
, “I was afraid,” said Smike, overjoyed to see
his friend again, “that you had fallen into some
fresh trouble ; the time seemed so long at last,
that I almost feared you were lost.”
“Lost 1” replied Nicholas gaily. “You will
not be rid of me so easily, I promise you. I
shall rise to the surface many thousand times
yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me
down, the more quickly I shall rebound, Smike.
But come ; my errand here is to take you
home.”
“Home !” faltered Smike, drawing timidly
back
... “Ay,” rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm.
“Why not?” , &
“I had such hopes once,” said Smike; “day
and night, day and night, for many years. I
longed for home till I was weary, and pined
away with grief, but now——”
“And what now?" asked Nicholas, looking
kindly in his face. “What now, old friend?”
“I could not part from you to go to any home
on earth,” replied Smike, pressing his hand;
“except one, except one. I shall never be an old
man; and if your hand placed me in the grave,
and I could think, before I died, that you would
come and look upon it sometimes with one of
your kind Smiles, and in the summer weather,
when everything was alive—not dead like me—
I could go to that home almost without a tear.”
. “Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life
is a happy one with me?” said Nicholas.
“Because I should change; not those about
me. And, if they forgot me, I should never
“In the churchyard
We are all alike, but here there are none like me.
J am a poor creature, but I know that.”
...“You are a foolish, silly creature,” sa.-
Nicholas -cheerfully. “If that is what you
Why, here's a dismal
face for ladies' company —My pretty sister, too,
whom you have so often asked me about. Is
this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for
shame !” ... -



224
NICHOLAS WICKLERY.
Smike brightened up and smiled.
“When I talk of home,” pursued Nicholas,
“I talk of mine—which is yours, of course. If
it were defined by any particular four walls and
a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently puz-
zled to say whereabouts it lay; but that is not.
§
§
N
sº
§ §§ §
§§N §§
§ as
Nºw
N
Nº
what I mean. When I speak of home, I speak
of the place where—in default of a better—those
I love are gathered together; and if that place
were a gipsy's tent, or a barn, I should call
it by the same good name notwithstanding.
And now for what is my present home, which,
“NIGHT FOUND HIM, AT LAST, STILL HARPING ON THE SAME THEME, AND STILL PURSUING THE SAME
UNPROFITABLE REFLECTIONS.”
however alarming your expectations may be,
will neither terrify you by its extent nor its
magnificence.”
So saying, Nicholas took his companion by
the arm, and saying a great deal more to the
same purpose, and pointing out various things
*
to amuse and interest him as they went along,
led the way to Miss La Creevy's house. .
“And this, Kate,” said Nicholas, entering the
room where his sister sat alone, “is the faithful
friend and affectionate fellow-traveller whom I
prepared you to receive.” *

A WEAKNESS IM MRS. McKZEB Y'S FAMILY.
225
Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and
frightened enough at first, but Kate advanced
towards him so kindly, and said, in such a sweet
voice, how anxious she had been to see him after .
all her brother had told her, and how much she
had to thank him for having comforted Nicholas
so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he
began to be very doubtful whether he should
shed tears or not, and became still more flurried.
However, he managed to say, in a broken voice,
that Nicholas was his only friend, and that he
would lay down his life to help him; and Kate,
although she was so kind and considerate,
seemed to be so wholly unconscious of his dis-
tress and embarrassment, that he recovered
almost immediately, and felt quite at home.
Then, Miss La Creevy came in ; and to her
Smike had to be presented also. . And Miss La
Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully talk-
ative :—not to Smike, for that would have made
him uneasy at first, but to Nicholas and his
sister. Then, after a time, she would speak to
Smike himself now and then, asking him whether
he was a judge of likenesses, and whether he
thought that picture in the corner was like her-
self, and whether he didn't think it would have
looked better if she had made herself ten years
younger, and whether he didn't think, as a
matter of general observation, that young ladies
looked better, not only in pictures, but out of
them too, than old ones; with many more small
jokes and facetious remarks, which were de-
livered with such good-humour and merriment,
that Smike thought, within himself, she was the
nicest lady he had ever seen; even nicer than
Mrs. Grudden, of Mr. Vincent Crummles's
theatre; and she was a nice lady too, and talked,
perhaps more. but certainly louder, than Miss
La Creevy. -
. At length the door opened again, and a lady
in mourning came in; and Nicholas, kissing the
lady in mourning affectionately, and calling her
his mother, led her towards the chair from which
Smike had risen when she entered the room.
“You are always kind-hearted, and anxious
tº help the oppressed, my dear mother,” said
Nicholas, “so you will be favourably disposed
towards him, I know.” n
“I am sure, my dear Nicholas,” replied Mrs.
Nickleby, looking very hard at her new friend, and
bending to him with something more of majesty
than the occasion seemed to require, “I am
sure any friend of yours has, as indeed he
naturally ought to have, and must have, of course,
you know—a great claim upon me, and of
Sourse it is a very great pleasure to me to be in-
troduced to anybody you take an interest in—
there can be no doubt about that; none at all;
not the least in the world,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“At the same time, I must say, Nicholas, my
dear, as I used to say to your poor dear papa,
when he would bring gentlemen home to dinner,
and there was nothing in the house, that if he
had come the day before yesterday—no, I don't
mean the day before yesterday now ; I should
have said, perhaps, the year before last—we
should have been better able to entertain him.”
With which remarks, Mrs. Nickleby turned to
her daughter, and inquired, in an audible whisper,
whether the gentleman was going to stop all night.
“Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, “I don't see that it's possible for him
to sleep anywhere, and that's the truth.”
Kate stepped gracefully forward, and, without
any show of annoyance or irritation, breathed a
few words into her mother's ear.
“La, Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
shrinking back, “how you do tickle one Of
course, I understand that, my love, without your
telling me; and I said the same to Nicholas,
and I am very much pleased. You didn't tell
me, Nicholas, my dear,” added Mrs. Nickleby,
turning round with an air of less reserve than
she had before assumed, “what your friend's
name is.”
“His name, mother,” replied Nicholas, “is
Smike.” - -
The effect of this communication was by no
means anticipated; but the name was no sooner
pronounced than Mrs. Nickleby dropped upon
a chair, and burst into a fit of crying.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Nicholas,
running to support her.
“It's so like Pyke,” cried Mrs. Nickleby; “so
exactly like Pyke Oh! don't speak to me—I
shall be better presently.”
And after exhibiting every symptom of slow
suffocation in all its stages, and drinking about
a tea-spoonful of water from a full tumbler, and
spilling the remainder, Mrs. Nickleby was better,
and remarked, with a feeble smile, that she was
very foolish, she knew.
“It's a weakness in our family,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, “so, of course, I can't be blamed for
it. Your grandmamma, Kate, was exactly the
same—precisely. The least excitement, the
slightest surprise, she fainted away directly. I
have heard her say, often and often, that when she
was a young lady, and before she was married,
she was turning a corner into Oxford Street one
day, when she ran against her own hairdresser,
who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;-the
mere suddenness of the encounter made her
faint away directly. Wait, though,” added Mrs.
226,
AwrcFrozAS AwſcALEB Y.
Nickleby, pausing to consider. “Let me be sure
I'm right. Was it her hairdresser who had
escaped from the bear, or was it a bear who had
escaped from her hairdresser's P I declare I
can't remember just now, but the hairdresser
was a very handsome man, I know, and quite a
gentleman in his manners; so that it has nothing
to do with the point of the story.”
Mrs. Nickleby, having fallen imperceptibly
into one of her retrospective moods, improved
in temper from that moment, and glided, by an
easy change of the conversation occasionally,
into various other anecdotes, no less remarkable
for their strict application to the subject in hand.
“Mr. Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my
dear?” said Mrs. Nickleby after dinner, and
when she had been silent for some time.
“Certainly, mother,” replied Nicholas. “I see
you have not forgotten his melancholy history.”
“Oh dear no "cried Mrs. Nickleby. “Ah
melancholy indeed. You don't happen, Mr.
Smilce, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of
Grimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding,
do you?” said the good lady, addressing herself
to him. “A very proud man, Sir Thomas Grim-
ble, with six grown-up and most lovely daughters,
and the finest park in the county.” -
“My dear mother,” reasoned Nicholas, “ do
you suppose that the unfortunate outcast of a
Yorkshire school was likely to receive many
cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry
in the neighbourhood P”
“Really, my dear, I don't know why it should
be so very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“I know that, when I was at school, I always
went at least twice every half-year to the Haw-
kinses at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer
than the Grimbles, and connected with them in
marriage; so you see it's not so very unlikely,
after all.”
Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant
manner, Mrs. Nickleby was suddenly seized with
a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an
irresistible tendency to call him Mr. Slammons;
which circumstance she attributed to the re-
markable similarity of the two names in point
of Sound, both beginning with an S, and, more-
over, being spelt with an M. But, whatever
doubt there might be on this point, there was
none as to his being a most excellent listener;
which circumstance had considerable influence
in placing them on the very best terms, and in-
ducing Mrs. Nickleby to express the highest
opinion of his general deportment and dispo-
sition. -
Thus, the little circle remained, on the most
amicable and agreeable footing, until the Monday
to that mode of life.
morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself from
it for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the
state of his affairs, and to determine, if he could
upon some course of life, which would enable
him to support those who were so entirely de-
pendent upon his exertions.
Mr. Crummles occurred to him more than
once ; but, although Kate was acquainted with
the whole history of his connection with that
gentleman, his mother was not ; and he foresaw
a thousand fretful objections, on her part, to his
seeking a livelihood upon the stage. There
were graver reasons, too, against his returning
. Independently of those
arising out of its spare and precarious earnings,
and his own internal conviction that he could
never hope to aspire to any great distinction,
even as a provincial actor, how could he carry
his sister from town to town, and place to place,
and debar her from any other associates than
those with whom he would be compelled, almost
without distinction, to mingle P “It won't do,”
said Nicholas, shaking his head; “I must try’
something else.”
It was much easier to make this resolution
than to carry it into effect. With no greater ex-
perience of the world than he had acquired for
himself in his short trials; with a sufficient share
of headlong rashness and precipitation (qualities
not altogether unnatural at his time of life); with
a very slender stock of money, and a still more
scanty stock of friends; what could he do?
“Egad "said Nicholas, “I’ll try that Register
Office again.” -
He smiled at himself as he walked away with
a quick step; for, an instant before, he had been
internally blaming his own precipitation. He
did not laugh himself out of the intention, how-
ever, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he
approached the place, all kinds of splendid pos-
sibilities, and impossibilities too, for that matter,
and thinking himself, perhaps with good reason,
very fortunate to be endowed with so buoyant
and sanguine a temperament.
The office looked just the same as when he
had left it last, and, indeed, with one or two
exceptions, there seemed to be the very same
placards in the window that he had seen before.
There were the same unimpeachable masters
and mistresses in want of virtuous servants, and
the same virtuous servants in want of unim-
peachable masters and mistresses, and the same
magnificent estates for the investment of capital,
and the same enormous quantities of capital to be
| invested in estates, and, in short, the same oppor-
tunities of all sorts for people who wanted to make
their fortunes. And a most extraordinary proof it
A GZOAE/O US OZZ) GEMTLEMAN.
227
was of the national prosperity, that people had
not been found to avail themselves of such
advantages long ago. -
As Nicholas stopped to look in at the win-
dow, an old gentleman happened to stop too;
and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the window
panes from left to right in search of some capi-
tal-text placard which should be applicable to
his own case, caught sight of this old gentle-
man's figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyes
from the window to observe the same more
closely. :
He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted
blue coat, made pretty large, to fit easily, and
with no particular waist : his bulky legs clothed
in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head
protected by a low-crowned broad-brimmed
white hat, such as a wealthy grazier might wear,
He wore his coat buttoned, and his dimpled
double chin rested in the folds of a white necker-
chief—not one of your stiff-starched apoplectic
Cravats, but a good, easy, old-fashioned white
neckcloth that a man might go to bed in, and
be none the worse for. But what principally
attracted the attention of Nicholas was the old
gentleman's eye, -never was such a clear, twin-
kling, honest, merry, happy eye as that. And
there he stood, looking a little upward, with one
hand thrust into the breast of his coat, and the
other playing with his old-fashioned gold watch-
chain : his head thrown a little on one side, and
his hat a little more on one side than ...is head,
(but that was evidently accident; not his ordi-
nary way of wearing it,) with such a pleasant
Smile playing about his mouth, and such a
comical expression of mingled slyness, simpli-
city, kind-heartedness, and good-humour light-
ing up his jolly old face, that Nicholas would
have been content to have stood there and
looked at him until evening, and to have for-
gotten, meanwhile, that there was such a thing
as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance, to
be met with in the whole wide world.
But, even a very remote approach to this
gratification was not to be made, for, although
he seemed quité unconscious of having been
the subject of observation, he looked casually
at Nicholas; and the latter, fearful of giving
9ffence, resumed his scrutiny of the window
instantly.
Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing
from placard to placard, and Nicholas could
29t forbear raising his eyes to his face again.
Grafted upon the quaintness- and oddity of his
appearance was something so indescribably en-
§aging, and bespeaking so much worth, and
there were so many little lights hovering about
the corners of his mouth and eyes, that it was
not a mere amusement, but a positive pleasure
and delight to look at him.
This being the case, it is no wonder that the
old man caught Nicholas in the fact more than
once. At such times Nicholas coloured and
looked embarrassed : for the truth is, that he
had begun to wonder whether the stranger
could, by any possibility, be looking for a clerk
'or secretary ; and, thinking this, he felt as if the
old gentleman must know it.
Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more
than a couple of minutes in passing. As the
stranger was moving away, Nicholas caught his
eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the
moment, stammered out an apology.
“No offence—oh, no offence " said the old
IIla Il.
This was said in such a hearty tone, and the
voice was so exactly what it should have been
from such a speaker, and there was such a
cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas was
emboldened to speak again.
“A great many opportunities here, sir,” he
said, half smiling as he motioned towards the
window.
“A great many people willing and anxious to
be employed have seriously thought so very
often, I dare say,” replied the old man. “Poor
fellows, poor fellows 1" -
He moved away as he said this ; but, seeing
that Nicholas was about to speak, good-naturedly
slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to cut
him short. After a little of that hesitation which
may be sometimes observed between two people
in the street who have exchanged a nod, and
are both uncertain whether they shall turn back
and speak, or mot, Nicholas found himself at the
old man's side.
“You were about to speak, young gentleman;
what were you going to say ?”
“Merely that I almost hoped—I mean to
say, thought—you had some object in con-
sulting those advertisements,” said Nicholas.
“Ay, ay? What object, now—what object?”
returned the old man, looking slily at Nicholas.
“Did your think I wanted a situation, now—eh P
Did you think I did P”
Nicholas shook his head.
“Ha! ha " laughed the old gentleman, rub-
bing his hands and wrists as if he were washing
them. “A very natural thought, at all events,
after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought
the same of you, at first ; upon my word I did.”
“If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you
would not have been far from the truth,” re-
joined Nicholas.
228
AVICHOLAS NYCKZEB Y.
“Eh P’’ cried the old man, surveying him from
head to foot. ... “What Dear me ! No, no.
Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to such
a necessity | No no, no no.”
Nicholas bowed, and, bidding him good
morning, turned upon his heel.
“Stay,” said the old man, beckoning him into
a by-street, where they could converse with less
interruption. “What d'ye mean, eh?”
“Merely that your kind face and manner
—both so unlike any I have ever seen—
termpted me into an avowal which, to any
other stranger in this wilderness of London, I
should not have dreamt of making,” returned
Nicholas.
“Wilderness || Yes, it is, it is, Good It
is a wilderness,” said the old man with much
animation. “It was a wilderness to me once.
I came here barefoot—I have never forgotten
it. Thank God | " and he raised his hat from
his head, and looked very grave.
“What's the matter—what is it—now did it
all come about P” said the old man, laying his
hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking
him up the street. “You're—eh?” laying his
finger on the sleeve of his black coat. “Who's
it for—eh?” -
“My father,” replied Nicholas.
“Ah!” said the old gentleman quickly.
“Bad thing for a young man to lose his father.
Widowed.mother, perhaps ?”
Nicholas sighed.
“Brothers and sisters too—eh P”
“One sister,” rejoined Nicholas.
“Poor thing, poor thing ! You are a scholar
too, I dare say?” said the old man, looking
wistfully into the face of the young one. -
“I have been tålerably well educated,” said
Nicholas. *-
“Fine thing,” said the old gentleman; “edu-
cation a great thing-a very great thing—I
never had any. I admire it the more in others.
A very fine thing—yes, yes. Tell me more of
your history. Let me hear it all. No imper-
tinent curiosity—no, no, no.”
There was something so earnest and guileless
in the way in which all this was said, and such
a complete disregard of all conventional re-
straints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not
resist it,
sterling qualities, there is nothing so contagious
as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the
infection instantly, and ran over the main points
of his little history without reserve : merely
suppressing names, and touching as lightly as
possible upon his uncle's treatment of Kate.
The old man listened with great attention, and,
Among men who have any sound and
—A. *-i-
when he had concluded, drew his arm eagerly
through his own.
“Don’t say another word – not another
word,” said he, “Come along with me. We
mustn't lose a minute.”
So saying, the old gentleman dragged him
back into Oxford Street, and, hailing an omnibus
on its way to the City, pushed Nicholas in before
him, and followed himself. - ,-‘
As he appeared in a most extraordinary con-
dition of restless excitement, and, whenever
Nicholas offered to speak, immediately inter-
posed with—“Don’t say another word, my dear
sir, on any account—not another word,” the
young man thought it better to attempt no
further interruption. Into the City they jour-
neyed accordingly, without interchanging any
conversation; and the farther they went, the
more Nicholas wondered what the end of the
adventure could possibly be.
The old gentleman got out with great alacrity
when they reached the Bank, and, once more
taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him along
Threadneedle Street, and through some lanes
and passages on the right, until they, at length,
emerged in a quiet, shady little square. Into
the oldest and cleanest-looking house of business
in the square he led the way. The only inscrip-
tion on the door-post was “Cheeryble Brothers;”
but, from a hasty glance at the directions of
some packages which were lying about, Nicholas
supposed that the brothers Cheeryble were Ger-
man merchants.
Passing through a warehouse which presented
every indication of a thriving business, Mr.
Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to
be, from the respect which had been shown him
by the warehousemen and porters whom they
passed) led him into a little partitioned-off
counting-house like a large glass case, in which
counting-house there sat—as free from dust and
blemish as if he had been fixed into the glass
case before the top was put on, and had never
come out since—a fat, elderly, large-faced
clerk, with silver spectacles and a powdered
head.
“Is my brother in his room, Tim P” said Mr.
Cheeryble with no less kindness of manner than
he had shown to Nicholas. º
“Yes, he is, sir,” replied the fat clerk, turning
his spectacle-glasses towards his principal, and
his eyes towards Nicholas, “but Mr. Trimmers
is with him.” -
“Ay! And what has he come about, Tim P."
said Mr. Cheeryble. ...” -
“He is getting up a subscription for the
widow and family of a man who was killed in
A WO THER GIORYO US O/P cEwzzeMAN.
229
the East India Docks this morning, sir," rejoined
Tim. “Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.”
“He is a good creature,” said Mr. Cheeryble
with great earnestness. “He is a kind soul. I
am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers
is one of the best friends we have. He makes
a thousand cases known to us that we should
never discover of ourselves. I am very much
obliged to Trimmers.” Saying which, Mr.
Cheeryble rubbed his hands with infinite delight,
and Mr. Trimmers happening to pass the door
that instant, on his way out, shot out after him,
and caught him by the hand.
“I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers—
ten thousand thanks—I take it very friendly of
you—very friendly indeed,” said Mr. Cheeryble,
dragging him into a corner to get out of hearing.
“How many children are there, and what has
my brother Ned given, Trimmers ?”
“There are six children,” replied the gentie-
man, “and your brother has given us twenty
pounds.”
“My brother Ned is a good fellow, and
you're a good fellow too, Trimmers,” said the
old man, shaking him by both hands with trem-
bling eagerness. “Put me down for another
twenty—or—stop a minute, stop a minute. We
mustn't look ostentatious ; put me down ten
pound, and Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A
cheque for twenty pound for Mr. Trimmers,
Tim. God bless you, Trimmers—and come and
dine with us some day this week; you'll always
find a knife and fork, and we shall be delighted.
Now, my dear sir—cheque from Mr. Linkinwater,
Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor
children—oh dear, dear, dear !” ... 2
Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could,
to prevent any friendly remonstrances from the
collector of the subscription on the large amount
of his donation, Mr. Cheeryble led Nicholas,
equally astonished and affected by what he had
seen and heard in this short space, to the half-
opened door of another room.
“Brother Ned,” said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping
with his knuckles, and stooping to listen, “are .
you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare
time for a word or two with me P”
“Brother Charles, my dear fellow,” replied
a voice from the inside, so like in its tones
to that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same,
“don’t ask me such a question, but come in
directly.”
They went in without further parley. What
Was, the amazement of Nicholas when his con-
ductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greet.
ing with another old gentleman, the very type
NICHOLAS, NICKLERY, 116. -- -
*
*
and model of himself—the same face, the same
figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neck-
cloth, the same breeches and gaiters—nay, there
was the verv same white hat hanging against the
wall
As they shook each other by the hand: the
face of each lighted up by beaming looks of
affection, which would have been most delight-
ſul to behold in infants, and which, in men so
old, was inexpressibly touching: Nicholas could
observe that the last old gentleman was some-
thing stouter than his brother; this, and a slight
additional shade of clumsiness in his gait and
stature, formed the only perceptible difference
between them. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers.
“Brother Ned,” said Nicholas's friend, closing ,
the room-door, “here is a young friend of mine
whom we must assist. We must make proper
inquiries into his statements, in justice to him
as well as to ourselves, and if they are con-
firmed—as I ſeel assured they will be—we must
assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.”
“It is enough, my dear brother, that you say
we should,” returned the other. “When you
say that, no further inquiries are needed. He
shall be assisted. What are his necessities, and
what does he require P Where is Tim Linkin-
water P Let us have him here.”
Both the brothers, it may be here remarked,
had a very emphatic and earnest delivery ; both
had lost nearly the same teeth, which imparted
the same peculiarity to their speech ; and both
spoke as , if, besides possessing the utmost
serenity of mind that the kindliest and most
unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in
collecting the plums from Fortune's choicest
pudding, retained a few for present use, and
kept them in their mouths
“Where is Tim Linkinwater P’’ said brother
Ned.
“Stop, stop, stop !” said brother Charles,
taking the other aside. “I’ve a plan, my dear
brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting old, and
Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned ;
and I don’t think pensioning Tim's mother and
sister, and buying a little tomb for the family
when his poor brother died, was a sufficient
recompense for his faithful services.”
“No, no, no,” replied the other.
not. Not half enough, not half.”
“If we could lighten Tim's duties,” said the
old gentleman, “and prevail upon him to go
into the country now and then, and sleep in the
fresh air, besides, two or three times a week
(which he could, if he began business an hour
later in the morning), old Tim Linkinwater,
22 2./
“Certainly
*
23o
NICHOLAS WACKLEBY.
would grow young again in time; and he's
three good years our senior now. Old Tim
Linkinwater young again
eh P Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater
quite a little boy, don't you ? Ha, ha, ha
Poor Tim, poor Tim H'
And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly
together : each with a tear of regard for old
Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.
“But hear this first—hear this first, brother
Ned,” said the old man hastily, placing two
chairs, one on each side of Nicholas. “I’ll tell
it you myself, brother Ned, because the young
gentleman is modest, and is a scholar, Ned, and
I shouldn't feel it right that he should tell us
his story over and over again as if he was a
beggar, or as if we doubted him. No, no,
no.”
“No, no, no,” returned the other, nodding
his head gravely. “Very right, my dear brother,
very right.” -
* He wilſ tell me I’m wrong, if I make a
mistake,” said Nicholas's friend. “But, whether
I do or not, you'll be very much affected, brother
Ned, remembering the time when we were two
friendless lads, and earned our first shilling in
this great city.” .
The twins pressed each other's hands in
silence; and, in his own homely manner, brother
Charles related the particulars he had heard
from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued
was a long one, and, when it was over, a secret
conference of almost equal duration took place
between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in
another room. It is no disparagement to
Nicholas to say that, before he had been
closeted with the two brothers ten minutes, he
could only wave his hand at every fresh expres-
Sion of kindness and sympathy, and sob like a
little child.
At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater
came back together, when Tim instantly walked
up to Nicholas, and whispered in his ear, in a
very brief sentence (for Tim was ordinarily a
man of few words), that he had taken down the
address in the Strand, and would call upon him
that evening at eight. Having done which,
Tim wiped his spectacles and put them on,
preparatory to hearing what more the brothers
Cheeryble had got to say.
“Tim,” said brother Charles, “you under-
stand that we have an intention of taking this
young gentleman into the counting-house P.”
Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware
of that intention, and quite approved of it;
and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew
himself up, and looked particularly fat, and
Eh, brother Ned,
very important. After which there was a pro-
found silence. .
“I’m not coming an hour later in the morn-
ing, you know,” said Tim, breaking out all at
once, and looking very resolute. “I'm not
going to sleep in the fresh air—no, nor I'm not
going into the country either. A pretty thing a
this time of day, certainly. Pho ”
“Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater . "
said brother Charles, looking at him without the
faintest spark of anger, and with a countenance
radiant with attachment to the old clerk.
“Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what
do you mean, sir?” -
“It's forty-four year,” said Tim, making a
calculation in the air with his pen, and drawing
an imaginary line before he cast it up, “forty-
four year, next May, since I first kept the books
of Cheeryble Brothers. I’ve opened the safe
every morning all that time (Sundays excepted)
as the clock struck nine, and gone over the
house every night at half-past ten (except on
Foreign Post nights, and then twenty minutes
before twelve) to see the doors fastened, and
the fires out. I’ve never slept out of the back-
attic one single night. There's the same mignon-
ette box in the middle of the window, and
the same four flower-pots, two on each side,
that I brought with me when I first came.
There an’t-I’ve said it again and again, and
I'll maintain it—there an’t such a square as this
in the world. I know there an’t,” said Tim with
sudden energy, and looking sternly about him.
“Not one. For business or pleasure, in sum-
mer-time or winter—I don't care which—there's
nothing like it. There's not such a spring in
England as the pump under the archway.
There's not such a view in England as the view
out of my window; I've seen it every morning
before I shaved, and I ought to know something
about it. I have slept in that room,” added
Tim, sinking his voice a little, “for four-and-
forty year; and if it wasn't inconvenient, and
didn't interfere with business, I should request
leave to die there.” . -
“Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you
talk about dying P” roared the twins by one
impulse, and blowing their old noses vio-
lently. -
“That's what I've got to say, Mr. Edwin and
Mr. Charles,” said Tim, squaring his shoulders
again. “This isn't the first time you've talked
about superannuating me ; but, if you please,
we'll make it the last, and drop the subject for
evermore.”
With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked
out, and shut himself up in his glass case, with
FSTAB LMSHED WITH CHEAEAE VBZE BAEOTHERS.
231
*
the air of a man who had had his say, and was
thoroughly resolved not to be put down.
The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed
some half-dozen times without speaking.
“He must be done something with, brother
Ned,” said the other warmly ; “we must disre-
gard his old scruples; they can't be tolerated,
or borne. He must be made a partner, brother
Ned ; and, if he won't submit to it peaceably,
we must have recourse to violence.”
“Quite right,” replied brother Ned, nodding
his head as a man thoroughly determined;
“quite right, my dear brother. If he won't
listen to reason, we must do it against his will,
and show him that we are determined to exert
our authority. We must quarrel with him, brother
Charles.”
“We must—we certainly must have a quarrel
with Tim Linkinwater,” said the other.
keeping our young friend; and the poor lady
and her daughter will be anxious for his return.
So let us say good-bye for the present, and—
there, there—take care of that box, my dear sir,
—and—no, no, not a word now; but be careful
of the crossings and n
And, with any disjointed and unconnected
words which would prevent Nicholas from pour-
ing forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him
out: shaking hands with him all the “way, and
affecting very unsuccessfully—they were poor
hands at deception 1 — to be wholly uncon-
º of the feelings that completely mastered
III). -
Nicholas's heart was too full to allow of his
turning into the street until he had recovered
Some composure. When he at last glided out
of the dark doorway corner in which he had
been compelled to %i. he caught a glimpse of
the twins stealthily peeping in at one corner
of the glass case, evidently undecided whether
they should follow up their late attack without
delay, or for the present postpone laying further
Siege to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.
To recount all the delight and wonder which
the circumstances just detailed awakened at
Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that were
done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and pro-
Phesied in consequence, is beside the present
°ourse, and purpose of these adventures.
sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr. Timothy
Linkinwater arrived, punctual to his appoint-
*nt > that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as
he was bound to be, of the proper exercise of
his employers' most comprehensive liberality,
he reported strongly and warmly in favour of
Nicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed
“But
in the meantime, my dear brother, we are .
It is
to the vacant stool in the counting-house of
Cheeryble Brothers, with a present salary of one
hundred and twenty pounds a year.
“And I think, my dear brother,” said
Nicholas's first friend, “ that if we were to let
them that little cottage at Bow which is empty,
at something under the usual rent, now—eh,
brother Ned P” --
“For nothing at all,” said brother Ned. “We
are rich, and should be ashamed to touch the
rent under such circumstances as these. Where
is Tim Linkinwater?—For nothing at all, my
dear brother, for nothing at all.”
“Perhaps it would be better to say something,
brother Ned,” suggested the other mildly; “it
‘would help to preserve habits of frugality, you
know, and remove any painful sense of over-
Swhelming obligations. We might say fifteen
pound, or twenty pound, and, if it was punctually
paid, make it up to them in some other way.
And I might Secretly advance a small loan
towards a little furniture, and you might secretly
advance another small loan, brother Ned ; and
if we find them doing well—as we shall; there's
no fear, no fear—we can change the loans into
gifts—carefully, brother Ned, and by degrees,
and without pressing upon them too much ;
what do you say now, brother?”
Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not
only said it should be done, but had it done too;
and, in one short week, Nicholas took possession
of the stool, and Mrs. Nickleby and Kate took
possession of the house, and all was hope,
bustle, and light-heartedness. -
There surely never was such a week of dis-
coveries and surprises as the first week of that
cottage. Every night, when Nicholas came
home, something new had been found out. One
day it was a grape-vine, and another day it was
a boiler, and another day it was the key of the
front-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-
butt, and so on through a hundred items. Then,
this room was embellished with a muslin curtain,
and that room was rendered quite elegant by a
window blind, and such improvements were
made as no one would have supposed possible.
Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come
out in the ºr anibus to stop a day or two and
help, and who was perpetually losing a very
small brown-paper parcel of tin-tacks and a very
large hammer, and running about with her
sleeves tucked up at the wrists, and falling off
pairs of steps and hurting herself very much-
and Mrs. Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and
did something now and then, but not often—
and Kate, who busied herself noiselessly every;
where, and was pleased with everything—and
232
AVICHOLAS AWCKZEB Y.
Smike, who made the garden a perfect wonder
to look upon—and Nicholas, who helped and
encouraged them every one—all the peace and
cheerfulness of home restored, with such new zest
imparted to every frugal pleasure, and such
delight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune
and separation alone could give
In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and
happy; while the rich Nickleby was alone and
miserable.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL ; RELATING To FAMILY
MATTERS. SHOWING. HOW MR. KENWIGS UNDER-
WENT VIOLENT AGITATION, AND How MRs. KEN-
WIGS WAS AS WELL AS COULD BE EXPECTED. .
IT might have been seven o'clock in the even-
ing, and it was growing dark in the narrow
streets near Golden Square, when Mr. Ken-
wigs sent out for a pair of the cheapest white
TAL.
iſſºlº
f § MSNNY
a º-ºº:
“I’M NOT COMING AN Hour LATER IN THE MORNING, You KNow,” said TIM, BREAKING OUT ALL AT ONCE,
AND LOOKING VERY RESOLUTE.
GOING INTO THE country EITHER,” ETC.
kid gloves—those at fourteen-pence—and'select-
ing the strongest, which happened to be the
right-hand one, walked down-stairs with an air of
pomp and much excitement, and proceeded to
muffle the knob of the street-doorknocker therein.
Having executed this task with great nicety, Mr.
Kenwigs pulled the door to after him, and just
stepped across the road to try the effect from
the opposite side of the street. Satisfied that
nothing could possibly look better in its way,
“I’M NOT GOING TO SLEEP IN THE FRESH AIR-NO, NOR
l'M NOY
‘Mr. Kenwigs then stepped back again, and,
calling through the keyhole to Morleena to open
the door, vanished into the house, and was seen
no longer. .."
Now, considered as an abstract circumstance,
there was no more obvious cause or reason why
Mr. Kenwigs should take the trouble of muffling
this particular knocker than there would have
been for his muffling the knocker of any noble-
man or gentleman resident ten miles off; because,





MR. KENW/GS MUFFLES THE STREEZ. Dook Kwockzz.
233
for the greater convenience of the numerous
lodgers, the street-door always stood wide open,
and the knocker was never used at all. The
first floor, the second floor, and the third floor
had each a bell of its own. As to the attics, no
one ever called on them ; if anybody wanted the
parlours, they were close at hand, and all he
had to do was to walk straight into them ; while
the kitchen had a separate entrance down the
area steps. As a question of mere necessity
and usefulness, therefore, this muffling of the
knocker was thoroughly incomprehensible.
But knockers may be muffled for other pur-
poses than those of mere utilitarianism, as, in
the present instance, was clearly shown. There
are certain polite forms and ceremonies which
must be observed in civilised life, or mankind
relapse into their original barbarism. No genteel
lady was ever yet confined—indeed, rio genteel'
confinement can possibly take place—without
the accompanying symbol of a muffled knocker.
Mrs. Kenwigs was a lady of some pretensions
to gentility; Mrs. Kenwigs was confined. And,
therefore, Mr. Kenwigs tied up the silent knocker
on the premises in a white kid glove.
“I’m not quite certain, neither,” said Mr.
Kenwigs, arranging his shirt collar, and walking
slowly up-stairs, “whether, as it's a boy, I won't
have it in the papers.”
Pondering upon the advisability of this step,
and the sensation it was likely to create in the
neighbourhood, Mr. Kenwigs betook himself to
the sitting-room, where, various extremely dimi-
nutive articles of clothing were airing on a horse
before the fire, and Mr. Lumbey, the doctor, was
dandling the baby—that is, the old baby—not
the new one. -
“It's a fine boy, Mr. Kenwigs,” said Mr.
Lumbey, the doctor.
“You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?”
returned Mr. Kenwigs.
“It's the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,”
said the doctor. “I never saw such a baby.”
It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and
furnishes a complete answer to those who con-
tend for the gradual degeneration of the human
species, that every baby born into the world is a
finer one than the last.
“I ne—ver saw such a baby,” said Mr.
Lumbey, the doctor. -
“Morleena was a fine baby,” remarked Mr.
Kenwigs; as if this were rather an attack, by
implication, upon the family. -
“They were all fine babies,” said Mr. Lum-
bey. And Mr. Lumbey went on nursing the
baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he was
considering under what head he could best
think
charge the nursing in the bill was best known
to himself.
During this short conversation, Miss Morleena,
as the eldest of the family, and natural repre-
sentative of her mother during her indisposition,
had been hustling and slapping the three younger
Miss Kenwigses without intermission ; which
considerate and affectionate conduct brought
tears into the eyes of Mr. Kenwigs, and caused
him to declare that, in understanding and be-
haviour, that child was a woman.
“She will be a treasure to the man she
marries, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs, half aside; “I
she'll marry above her station, Mr.
Lumbey.” - -
“I shouldn't wonder at all,” replied the
doctor.
“You never see her dance, sir, did you ?"
asked Mr. Kenwigs.
The doctor shook his head.
“Ay!” said Mr. Kenwigs, as though he pitied
him from his heart, “then you don't know what
she's capable of.” .
All this time there had been a great whisking
in and out of the other room ; the door had
been opened and shut very softly about twenty
times a minute (for it was necessary to keep
Mrs. Kenwigs quiet); and the baby had been
exhibited to a score or two of deputations from
a select body of female friends, who had assem-
bled in the passage, and about the street-door,
to discuss the event in all its bearings. Indeed,
the excitement extended itselſ over the whole
street, and groups of ladies might be seen
standing at the doors, some in the interesting
condition in which Mrs. Kenwigs had last
appeared in public,+relating their experiences
of similar occurrences. Some few acquired
great credit from having prophesied, the day
before yesterday, exactly when it would come to
pass; others, again, related how that they
guessed what it was, directly they saw Mr.
Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street as hard
as ever he could go. Some said one thing, and
some another; but all talked together, and all
agreed upon two points: first, that it was very
meritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs.
Kenwigs to do as she had done ; and secondly,
that there never was such a skilful and scientific
doctor as that Doctor Lumbey.
In the midst of this general hubbub, Doctor
Lumbey sat in the first-floor front, as before
related, nursing the deposed baby, and talking
to Mr. Kenwigs. He was a stout, bluff-looking
gentleman, with no shirt collar to speak of, and
a beard that had been growing since yesterday
morning; for Doctor Lumbey was popular, and
*
234.
MICHOLAS NICKZEB Y.
—a º
the neighbourhood was prolific ; and there had.
been no less than three other knockers muffled,
one after the other, within the last forty-eight
hours. •
“Well, Mr. Kenwigs,” said Doctor Lumbey,
“this makes six. You'll have a fine family in
time, sir.”
“I think six is almost enough, sir,” returned
Mr. Kenwigs.
“Pooh pooh 1” said the doctor.
sense ! not half enough.”
With this the doctor laughed; but he didn't
laugh half as much as a married friend of Mrs.
Kenwigs's, who had just come in from the sick
chamber to report progress, and take a small
sip of brandy-and-water: and who seemed to
consider it one of the best iokes ever launched
upon society. - -
“They're not altogether dependent upon good
fortune, neither,” said Mr. Kenwigs, taking his
second daughter on his knee ; “they have ex-
pectations.” . -
“Oh, indeed ſ” said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.
“And very good ones too, I believe, haven't
they?” asked the married lady.
“Why, ma'am,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “it’s not
exactly for me to say what they may be, or what
they may not be. It's not for me to boast of
any family with which I have the honour to be
connected; at the same time, Mrs. Kenwigs's
is I should say,” said Mr. Kenwigs abruptly,
and raising his voice as he spoke, “that my
“Non-
children might come into a matter of a hundred
pound apiece, perhaps.
certainly that.”
“And a very pretty little fortune,” said the
married lady.
&&. There are, some relations of Mrs. Ken-
's,” said Mr. Kenwigs, taking a pinch of
Perhaps , more, but
wigs's,
Snuff from the doctor's box, and then sneezing
yery hard, for he wasn't used to it, “that might
leave their hundred pound apiece to ten people,
and yet not go begging when they had done it.”
“Ah ! : I know who you mean,” observed the
married lady, nodding her head.
“I made mention of no names, and I wish to
make mention of no names,” said Mr. Kenwigs
with a portentous look, “Many of my friends
have met a relation of Mrs. Kenwigs's in this
very room, as would do honour to any com-
pany; that's all.”
“I’ve met him,” said the married lady, with a
glance towards Doctor Lumbey.
“It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings
as a father to see such a man as that a kissing
and taking notice of my children,” pursued Mr.
Kenwigs. “It’s naterally very gratifying to my
after some reflection.
• ‘ } -
feelings as a man to know that man. It will be
materally very gratifying to my feelings as a hus-
band to make that man acquainted with this
ewent.” -
Having delivered his sentiments in this form
of words, Mr. Kenwigs arranged his second
daughter's flaxen tail, and bade her be a good
* @
girl, and mind what her sister, Morleena, said.
“That girl grows more like her mother every
day,” said Mr. Lumbey, suddenly stricken with
an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.
“There !” rejoined the married lady. “What
I always say—what I always did say ! . She's
the very picter of her.” Having thus directed
the general attention to the young lady in ques-
tion, the married lady embraced the opportunity
of taking another sip of the brandy-and-water—
and a pretty, long sip too.
“Yes | there is a likeness,” said Mr. Kenwigs
“But such a woman as
Mrs. Kenwigs was afore she was married
Good gracious, such a woman l’”
Mr. Lumbey shook his head with great
solemnity, as though to imply that he supposed
she must have been rather a dazzler.
“Talk of fairies " cried Mr. Kenwigs. “A
never see anybody so light to be alive—never.
Such manners, too ; so playful, and yet so
sewerely proper As for her figure . It isn't
generally known,” said Mr. Kenwigs, dropping
his voice; “but her figure was such, at that
time, that the sign of the Britannia, over in the
Holloway Road, was painted from it !”
“But only see what it is now,” urged the
married lady. “Does she look like the mother
of six P”
“Quite ridiculous,” cried the doctor.
“She looks a deal more like her own daugh-
ter,” said the married lady.
“So she does,” assented Mr. Lumbey.” “A
great deal more.”
Mr. Kenwigs was about to make some further
observations, most probably in confirmation of
this opinion, when another married lady, who
had looked in to keep up Mrs. Kenwigs's spirits,
and help to clear off anything in the eating and
drinking way that might be going about, put
in her head to announce that she bad just been
down to answer the bell, and that there was a
gentleman at the door who wanted to see Mr.
Kenwigs “most particular.” *
Shadowy visions of his distinguished relation
flitted through the brain of Mr. Kenwigs as this
message was delivered; and, under their influ;
ence, he dispatched Morleena to show the gen-
tleman up straightway. •
“Why, I do declare,”?said. Mr. Kenwigs,
A EZT/C/APY/AWG ZAV7 EZZ/GAEAVCAE.
235
standing opposite the door so as to get the
earliest glimpse of the visitor as he came up-
stairs, “it’s Mr. Johnson
yourself, sir?”
Nicholas shook hands, kissed his old pupils
all round, intrusted a large parcel of toys to the
guardianship of Morleena, bowed to the doctor
and the married ladies, and inquired after Mrs.
Kenwigs in a tone of interest, which went to the
very heart and soul of the nurse, who had come
in to warm some mysterious compound in a
little saucepan over the fire. -
“I ought to make a hundred apologies to
you for calling at such a season,” said Nicholas,
“but I was not aware of it until I had rung the
bell, and my time is so fully occupied now,
that I feared it might be some days before I
could possibly come again.”
“No time like the present, sir,” said Mr.
Kenwigs. “The sitivation of Mrs. Kenwigs, sir,
is no obstacle to a little conversation between
you and me, I hope P” -
“You are very good,” said Nicholas.
At this juncture, proclamation was made by
another married lady that the baby had begun
to eat like anything; whereupon the two married
ladies, already mentioned, rushed tumultuously
into the bedroom to behold him in the act.
“The fact is,” resumed Nicholas, “that, be-
fore I left the country, where I have been for
some time past, I undertook to deliver a message
to you.” - . .
“Ay, ay ?” said Mr. Kenwigs.
“And I have been,” added Nicholas, “already
in town fol son,e days, without having had an
opportunity of doing so.” O
“It's no matter, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs. “I
dare say it's none the worse for keeping cold.
Message from the country " said Mr. Kenwigs,
ruminating; “that's curious. I don't know any-
body in the country.”
“Miss Petowker,” suggested Nicholas.
“Oh from her, is it?” said Mr. Kenwigs.
“Oh dear, yes! Ah Mrs. Kenwigs will be
glad to hear from her. Henrietta Petowker,
eh? How odd things come about, now ! That
you should have met her in the country Well!”
Hearing this mention of their old friend's
name, the four Miss Kenwigses gathered round
Nicholas, open eyed and mouthed, to hear more,
Mr. Kenwigs looked a little curious too, but
quite comfortable and unsuspecting.
“The message relates to family matters,” said
Nicholas, hesitating.
“Oh never mind,” said Kenwigs, glancing
at Mr. Lumbey, who, having rashly taken charge
of little Lillyvick, found nobody disposed to
*
How do you find
relieve him of his precious burden. “All friends
here.”
Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed
to have some difficulty in proceeding.
“At Portsmouth Henrietta Petowker is,” ob-
served Mr. Kenwigs.
“Yes,” said Nicholas; “Mr. Lillyvick is
there.” -
Mr. Kenwigs turned pale, but he recovered,
and said that was an odd coincidence also.
“The message is from him,” said Nicholas.
Mr. Kenwigs appeared to levive. He knew
that his niece was in a delicate state, and had,
no doubt, sent word that they were to forward
full particulars. Yes. That was very kind of
him—so like him, too !
“He desired me to give his kindest love,”
said Nicholas.
“Very much obliged to him, I'm sure. Your
great-uncle, Lillyvick, my dears " interposed
Mr. Kenwigs, condescendingly explaining it to
the children.
“His kindest love,” resumed Nicholas; “and
to say that he had no time to write, but that he
was married to Miss Petowker.”
Mr. Kenwigs started from his seat with a
petrified stare, caught his second daughter by
her flaxen tail, and covered his face with his
pocket-handkerchief. Morleena fell, all stiff and
rigid, into the baby's chair, as she had seen her
mother fall when she fainted away, and the two
remaining little Kenwigses shrieked in affright.
“My children, my defrauded, swindled in-
fants "cried Mr. Kenwigs, pulling so hard, in
his vehemence, at the flaxen tail of his second
daughter, that he lifted her up on tiptoe, and
kept her, for some seconds, in that attitude.
“Villain, ass, traitor " • ,
“Drat the man 1" cried the nurse, looking
angrily around. “What does he mean by
making that noise here P”
“Silence, woman "said Mr. Kenwigs fiercely.
“I won't be silent,” returned the nurse. “Be
silent yourself, you wretch I Have you no re-
gard for your baby P”
“No 1" returned Mr. Kenwigs.
“More shame for you,” retorted the nurse.
“ Ugh you unnatural monster "
“Let him die " cried Mr. Kenwigs in the
torrent of his wrath. “Let him die He has
no expectations, no property to come into. We
want no babies here,” said Mr. Kenwigs reck-
lessly. “Take 'em away, take 'em away to the
Foundling !”
With these awful remarks, Mr. Kenwigs sat
himself down in a chair, and defied the nurse,
who made the best of her way into the adjoining
a'
236
MICHOLAS AICKZEBY.
room, and returned with a stream of matrons: de-
claring that Mr. Kenwigs had spoken blasphemy
against his family, and must be raving mad.
Appearances were certainly not in Mr. Ken-
wigs's favour, for the exertion of speaking with
so much vehemence, and yet in such a tone as
should prevent his lamentations reaching the
ears of Mrs. Kenwigs, had made him very black
in the face ; besides which, the excitement of
the occasion, and an unwonted indulgence in
various strong cordials to celebrate it, had
swollen and dilated his features to a most un-
usual extent. But, Nicholas and the doctor—
who had been passive at first, doubting very
much whether Mr. Kenwigs could be in earnest
—interfering to explain the immediate cause of
his condition, the indignation of the matrons
was changed to pity, and they implored him,
with much feeling, to go quietly to bed. .
“The attention,” said Mr. Kenwigs, looking
around with a plaintive air, “the attention that
I've shown to that man
The hyseters he has
eat, and the pints of ale he has drank, in this
house— 1”
S
~
*
^
º º-SS
º Şs ºº: SºSººs &SS-S-S
- Sºs SSSSSSSSSES -
S. N N sº §§
S$º
SSSSSSS ºw
SS-Sº
- º
º ******mºnºcº
º SºSº
“WITH THIS THE Doctor LAUGHED ; BUT HE DIDN'T LAUGH HALF AS MUCH AS A MARRIED FRIEND OF
- MRs. KENwiGs's, who HAD JUST come IN FROM THE SICK CHAMBER,” ETC.
“It's very trying, and very hard to bear, we
1:pow,” said one of the married ladies; “but
think of your dear darling wife.”
“Oh yes, and wha', she's been a undergoing
of, only this day !” cried a great many voices.
“There's a good man, do.” -
“The presents that have been made to him,”
said Mr. Kenwigs, reverting to his calamity,
“the pipes, the snuff-boxes—a pair of india-
rubber goloshes, that cost six-and-six——”
“Ahſ it won't bear thinking of, indeed,”
cried the matrons generally ; “but it'll all come
home to him, never fear.” . -
Mr. Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies,
as if he would prefer it all coming home to him,
as there was nothing to be got by it; but he
said nothing, and, resting his head upon his
hand, subsided into a kind of doze.
Then, the matrons again expatiated on the
expediency of taking the good gentleman to
bed ; observing that he would be better to-
morrow, and that they knew what was the wear
and tear of some men's minds when their wives
were taken as Mrs. Kenwigs had been that day,
and that it did him great credit, and there was
nothing to be ashamed of in it; far from it ;

A C/7"Y SQUARE.
> - -
A-
they liked to see it, they did, for it showed a
good heart. And one lady observed, as a case
bearing upon the present, that her husband was
often quite light-headed from anxiety on similar
occasions, and that once, when her little Johnny
was born, it was nearly a week before he came
to himself again, during the whole of which time
he did nothing but cry, “Is it a boy, is it a
boy P” in a manner which went to the hearts of
all his hearers. -
At length, Morleena (who quite forgot she had
fainted, when she found she was not noticed)
announced that a chamber was ready for her
afflicted parent ; and Mr. Kenwigs, having par-
tially smothered his four daughters in the close-
ness of his embrace, accepted the doctor's atm
on one side, and the support of Nicholas on the
other, and was conducted up-stairs to a bed-
room which had been secured for the occasion.
Having seen him sound asleep, and heard
him snore most satisfactorily, and having further
presided over the distribution of the toys, to the
perfect contentment of all the little Kenwigses,
Nicholas took his leave. The matrons dropped
off one by one, with the exception of six or
eight particular friends, who had determined to
stop all night; the lights in the houses gradually
disappeared; the last bulletin was issued that
Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as could be expected;
and the whole family were left to their repose.
CHAPTER xxxvii.
NICHOLAS FINDS FURTHER FAvou R IN THE EYES of
THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE AND MR. TIMOTHY
LINKINWATER. THE BROTHERS GIVE A BANQUET
ON A GREAT ANNUAL OCCASION. Nicholas, on
RETURNING HOME FROM IT, RECEIVES A M YSTERI-
OUS AND IMPORTANT DISCLOSURE FROM THE LIPS
OF MRS. NICKEEBY.
A HE Square in which the counting-
situated, although it might not wholly
realise the very sanguine expecta-
posed to form on hearing the ſervent
ë” encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim
* Linkinwater, was, nevertheless, a suffi-
ciently, desirable nook in the heart of a busy
town like London, and one which occupied a
high place in the affectionate remembrances of
Several grave persons domiciled in the neigh-
bourhood, whose recollections, however, dated
from a much more recent period, and whose
attachment to the spot was far less absorbing,
house of the brothers Cheeryble was
tions which a stranger would be dis-
237
than were the recollections and attachment of
the enthusiastic Tim. -
And .let not those whose eyes have been
accustomed to the aristocratic gravity of Gros-
venor Square and Hanover Square, the dowager
barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or
the gravel-walks and garden seats of the Squares
of Russell and Euston, suppose that the affec.
tions of Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers
of this particular locality, had been awakened
and kept alive by any refreshing associations
with leaves, however dingy, or grass, however
bare and thin.' The City square has no enclo-
sure, save the lamp-post in the middle; and no
grass but the weeds which spring up round its
base. It is a quiet, little-frequented, retired
spot, favourable to melancholy and contempla.
tion, and appointments of long-waiting ; and up
and down its every side the Appointed saunters
idly by the hour together, wakening the echoes
with the monotonous sound of his footsteps on
the smooth worn stones, and counting, first the
windows, and then the very bricks of the tall
silent houses that hem him round about. In
winter-time the snow will linger there long after
it has melted from the busy streets and high-
ways. The summer's sun holds it in some
respect, and, while he darts his cheerful rays
sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery heat
and glare for noisier and less-imposing pre-
cincts. It is so quiet, that you can almost heal
the ticking of your own watch when you stop to
cool in its refreshing atmosphere. There is a
distant hum—of coaches, not of insects—but
no other sound disturbs the stillness of the
square. The ticket porter leans idly against the
post at the corner : comfortably warm, but not
hot, although the day is broiling His white
apron flaps languidly in the air, his head gra-
dually droops upon his breast, he takes very
long winks with both eyes at once; even he is
unable to withstand the soporific influence of
the place, and is gradually falling asleep. But
now he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a
step or two, and gazes out before him with
eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or a boy
at marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear an
organ 2 No ; sight more unwonted still—there
is a butterfly in the square—a real, live butterfly
astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering
among the iron heads of the dusty area railings.
But if there were not many matters imme-
diately without the doors of Cheeryble Brothers
to engage the attention or distract the thoughts
of the young clerk, there were not a few within
to interest and amuse him. There was scarcely
an object in the place, animate or inanimate,
z-

238
NICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
which did not partake in some degree of the
scrupulous *
Timothy Linkinwater. Punctual as the count-
ing-house dial, which he maintained to be the
best time-keeper in London next after the clock
of some old, hidden, unknown church hard by,
(for Tim held the fabled goodness of that at the
Horse Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented
by jealous West-enders,) the old clerk performed
the minutest actions of the day, and arranged
the minutest articles in the little room, in a pre-
cise and regular order, which could not have
been exceeded if it had actually been a real
glass case, fitted with the choicest curiosities.
Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers,
pounce-box, string-box, fire-box, Tim's hat, Tim's
scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim's other coat—
looking precisely like a back view of himself as
it hung against the wall—all had their accus-
tomed inches of space. Except the clock, there
was not such an accurate and unimpeachable
instrument in existence as the little thermo-
meter which hung behind the door. There was
not a bird of such methodical and business-like
habits in all the world as the blind blackbird,
who dreamed and dozed away his days in a
large snug cage, and had lost his voice, from
old age, years before Tim first bought him.
There was not such an eventful story in the
whole range of anecdote as Tim could tell con-
cerning the acquisition of that very bird; how,
compassionating his starved and suffering con-
dition, he had purchased him with the view of
humanely terminating his wretched life; how he
determined to wait three days, and see whether
the bird revived; how, before half the time was
out, the bird did revive; and how he went on
reviving and picking up his appetite and good
looks until he gradually became what—“what
you see him now, sir,” Tim would say, glancing
proudly at the cage.
would utter a melodious chirrup, and cry
“Dick;” and Dick, who, for any sign of life
he had previously given, might have been a
wooden or stuffed representation of a blackbird
indifferently executed, would come to the side
of the cage in three small jumps, and, thrusting
his bill between the bars, turn his sightless head
towards his old master—and at that moment it
would be very difficult to determine which of
the two was the happier, the bird or Tim Link-
inwater. .' ' -
Nor was this all. Everything gave back,
besides, some reflection of the kindly spirit of
the brothers. The warehousemen and porters
were such sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a
treat to see them. Among the shipping an-
nouncements and steam-packet lists which deco
od and punctuality of Mr.
And, with that, Tim
rated the counting-house wall were designswfor
almshouses, statements of charities, and, plans
for new hospitals. A blunderbuss and two
swords hung above the chimney-piece, for the
terror of evil-doers, but the blunderbuss was
rusty and shattered, and the swords were broken
and edgeless. Elsewhere, their open display in
such a condition would have raised a smile;
but, there, it seemed as though even violent and
offensive weapons partook of the reigning in-
fluence, and became emblems of mercv and for-
bearance. -
Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas
very strongly on the morning when he first took
possession of the vacant stool, and looked about
him, more freely and at ease than he had before
enjoyed an opportunity of doing. Perhaps they
encouraged and stimulated him to exertion, for,
during the next two weeks, all his spare hours,
late at night and early in the morning, were
incessantly devoted to acquiring the mysteries
of book-keeping and some other forms of mer-
cantile account. To these he applied himself
with such steadiness and perseverance, that,
although he brought no greater amount of pre-
vious knowledge to the subject than certain dim
recollections of two or three very long sums
entered into a ciphering book at school, and
relieved for parental inspection by the effigy of
a fat swan tastefully flourished by the writing-
master's own hand, he found himself, at the end
of a fortnight, in a condition to report his pro-
ficiency to Mr. Linkinwater, and to claim his
promise that he, Nicholas Nickleby, should now
be allowed to assist him in his graver labours.
It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater
slowly bring out a massive ledger and day-book,
and, after turning them over and over, and
affectionately dusting their backs and sides,
open the leaves here and there, and cast his
eyes, half mournfully, half 'proudly, upon the
fair and unblotted entries.
“Four-and-forty year, next May 1” said Tim.
“Many new ledgers since then. Four-and-
forty year !” -
Tim closed the book again. -
“Come, come,” said Nicholas, “I am all
impatience to begin." - - .
Tim Linkinwater shook his head with all air
of mild reproof. Mr. Nickleby was not suffi:
ciently impressed with the deep and awful
nature of his undertaking. Suppose there
should be any mistake—any scratching out!
Young men are adventurous. It is extraor-
dinary what they will rush upon, sometimes.
Without even taking the precaution of sitting
IN THE GooD Books OF CHEERYBZE BA:ozha:ks.
himself down upon his stool. but standing
leisurely at the desk, and with a smile upon his
face—actually a smile ; (there was no mistake
about it; Mr. Linkinwater often mentioned it
afterwards ;)—Nicholas dipped his pen into the
inkstand before him, and plunged into the
books of Cheeryble Brothers | , “.
Tim Liñkinwater turned pale, and, tilting up
his stool on the two legs nearest Nicholas,
looked over his shoulder in breathless anxiety.
Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the
counting-house together; but Tim Linkinwater,
without looking round, impatiently waved his
hand as a caution that profound silence must be
observed, and followed the nib of the inexpe-
rienced pen with strained and eager eyes.
The brothers looked on with smiling faces,
but Tim Linkinwater smiled not, nor moved for
some minutes. At length he drew a long slow
breath, and, still maintaining his position on the
tilted stool, glanced at brother Charles, secretly
pointed with the feather of his pen towards
Nicholas, and nodded his head in a grave and
resolute manner, plainly signifying, “ He'll
do.” - -
Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged
a laughing look with brother Ned ; but, just
then, Nicholas stopped to refer to some other
page, and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain
his satisfaction any longer, descended ſron his
stool, and caught him rapturously by the hand.
“He has done it !” said Tim, looking round
at his enployers, and shaking his head triumph-
antly. “His capital B's and D's are exactly
like mine; he dots all his small i's, and crosses
every tas he writes it. There an’t such a young
man as this in all London,” said Tim, clapping
Nicholas on the back; “ not one. Don't tell
me! The City can't produce his equal. I
challenge the City to do it !” -
With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim
Linkinwater struck the desk such a blow with
his clenched fist, that the old blackbird tumbled
off his perch with the start it gave him, and
actually uttered a feeble croak in the extremity
of his astonishment.
“Well said, Tim—well said, Tim Linkin-
water 1" cried brother Charles, scarcely less
pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his
hands gently as he spoke. “I knew our young
friend would take great pains, and I was quite
certain he would succeed in no time. Didn't I
Say so, brother Ned P’’
“You did, my dear brother—certainly, my
dear brother, you said so, and you were quite
right,” replied Ned, “Quite right, Tim Link-
inwater is excited, but he is justly excited,
239
properly excited. Tim is a fine ſellow. Tim
Linkinwater, sir—you're a fine fellow.” -
“Here's a pleasant thing to think of 1" said
Tim, wholly regardless of this address to him-
self, and raising his spectacles from the ledger to
the brothers. “Here's a pleasant thing I Do
you suppose I haven't often thought of what
would become of these books when I was gone P
Do you suppose I haven't often thought that
things might go on irregular and untidy here
after I was taken away P But now,” said Tim,
extending his forefinger towards Nicholas, “now,
when I've shown him a little more, I’m satisfied.
The business will go on, when I'm dead, as well
as it did when I was alive—just the same ; and
I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that
there never were such books—never were such
books No, nor never will be such books—as
the books of Cheeryble Brothers.” -
Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr.
Linkinwater gave vent to a short laugh, indica-
tive of defiance to the cities of London and
Westminster, and, turning again to his desk,
quietly carried seventy-six from the last column
he had added up, and went on with his work.
“Tim Linkinwater, sir,” said brother Charles,
“give me your hand, sir. This is your birthday.
How dare you talk about anything else till you
have been wished many happy returns of the
day, Tim Linkinwater P God bless you, Tim
God bless you !” ...
“My dear brother,” said the other, seizing
Tim's disengaged fist, “Tin Linkinwater looks
ten years younger than he did on his last birth-
day.” -
“Brother Ned, my dear boy,” returned the
other old fellow, “I believe that Tim Linkin-
water was born a hundred and fifty years old,
and is gradually coming down to five-and-
twenty; for he's younger every birthday than he
was the year before.”
“So he is, brother Charles, so he is,” replied
brother Ned. “There's not a doubt about it.”
“Remember, Tim,” said brother Charles,
“that we dine at halfpast five to-day instead of
two o'clock; we always depart from our usual
custom on this anniversary, as you very well
know, Tim Linkinwater. Mr. Nickleby, my
dear sir, you will make one. Tim Linkinwater,
give me your snuff-box as a remembrance to
brother Charles and myselſ of an attached and
faithful rascal, and take that in exchange, as a
feeble mark of our respect and esteem, and don't
open it until you go to bed, and never say another
word upon the subject, or I'll kill the blackbird.
A dog! He should have had a golden cage
half-a-dozen years ago, if it would have made

y
24O’
MICHOLAS AICKZEB Y.
him or his master a bit the happier. Now,
brother Ned, my dear fellow, I'm ready. At
half-past five, remember, Mr. Nickleby Tim
Linkinwater, sir, take care of Mr. Nickleby at
half-past five. Now, brother Ned.”
Chattering away thus, according to custom, to
prevent the possibility of any thanks or acknow-
ledgment being expressed on the other side, the
twins trotted off arm-in-arm ; having endowed
Tim Linkinwater with a costly gold snuff-box,
enclosing a bank note worth more than its value
ten times told. -
At a quarter past five o'clock, punctual to the
minute, arrived, according to annual usage, Tim
Linkinwater's sister; and a great to-do there
was, between Tim Linkinwater's sister and the
old housekeeper, respecting Tim Linkinwater's
sister's cap, which had been dispatched, per boy,
from the house of the family where Tim Link-
inwater's sister boarded, and had not yet come
to hand: notwithstanding that it had been
packed up in a bandbox, and the bandbox in a
handkerchief, and the handkerchief tied on to
the boy's arm ; and notwithstanding, too, that
the place of its consignment had been duly set
forth, at full length, on the back of an old letter,
and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers
horrible penalties, the full extent of which the
eye of man could not foresee, to deliver the
same with all possible speed, and not to loiter
by the way. Tim Linkinwater's sister lamented;
the housekeeper condoled; and both kept
thrusting their heads out of the second-floor
window to see if the boy was “coming”—which
would have been highly satisfactory, and, upon
the whole, tantamount to his being come, as the
distance to the corner was not quite five yards
—when, all of a sudden, and when he was least
expected, the messenger, carrying the bandbox
with elaborate caution, appeared in an exactly
opposite direction, puffing and panting for
breath, and flushed with recent exercise; as
well he might be ; for he had taken the air, in
the first instance, behind a hackney coach that
went to Camberwell, and had followed two
Punches afterwards, and had seen the Stilts
home to their own door. The cap was all safe,
however—that was one comfort—and it was no
use scolding him—that was another; so the boy
went upon his way rejoicing, and Tim Linkin-
water's sister presented herself to the company
telow-stairs, just five minutes after the half-hour
had struck by Tim Linkinwater's own infallible
clock. .
The company consisted of the brothers
Cheeryble, Tim Linkinwater, a ruddy-faced
white-headed friend of Tim's (who was a super-
annuated bank clerk), and Nicholas, who was
presented to Tim Linkinwater's sister with much
gravity and solemnity. The party being now
completed, brother Ned rang for dinner, and,
dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led
Tim Linkinwater's sister into the next room,
where it was set forth with great preparation.
Then, brother Ned took the head of the table,
and brother Charles the foot; and Tim Linkin-
water's sister sat on the left hand of brother
Ned, and Tim Linkinwater himself on his right:
and an ancient butler of apoplectic appearance,
and with very short legs, took up his position at
the back of brother Ned's arm-chair, and, waving
his right arm preparatory to taking off the covers
with a flourish, stood bolt upright and motion-
less. -
“For these and all other blessings, brother
Charles,” said Ned." - -
“Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,”
said Charles. - º
Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off
the top of the soup-tureen, and shot, all at once,
into a state of violent activity. º
There was abundance of conversation, and
little fear of its ever flagging, for the good-
humour of the glorious old twins drew every-
ody out, and Tim Linkinwater's sister went off
into a long and circumstantial account of Tim
Linkinwater's infancy, immediately after the very
first glass of champagne—taking care to premise
that she was very much Tim's junior, and had
only become acquainted with the facts from their
being preserved and handed down in the family.
This history concluded, brother Ned related
how that, exactly thirty-five years ago, Tim
Linkinwater was suspected to have received a
love letter, and how that vague information had
been brought to the counting-house of his having
been seen walking down Cheapside with an un-
commonly handsome spinster; at which there
was a roar of laughter, and Tim Linkinwater
being charged with blushing, and called upon to
explain, denied that the accusation was true;
and further, that there would have been any
harm in it if it had been ; which last position
occasioned the superannuated bank clerk to
laugh tremendously, and to declare that it was
the very best thing he had ever heard in his Jife,
and that Tim Linkinwater might say a great.
many things before he said anything which
would beat that.
There was one little ceremony peculiar to
the day, both the matter and manner of which
made a very strong impression upon Nicholas.
The cloth having been removed, and the de-
canters sent round for the first time, a profound
Aww.vaz DZMMER.
2.41
silence succeeded, and in the cheerful faces of
the brothers there appeared ail expression, not
of absolute melancholy, but of quiet thoughtful-
ness very unusual at a festive table. As Nicholas,
struck by this sudden alteration, was wondering
what it could portend, the brothers rose together,
and the one at the top of the table leaning for-
ward towards the other, and speaking in a low
voice as if he were addressing him individually,
said: - -
“Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is
another association connected with this day
which must never be forgotten, and never can
be forgotten by you and me. This day, which
brought into the world a most faithful and ex-
cellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the
kindest and very best of parents—the very best
of parents to us both. I wish that she could
have seen us in our prosperity, and shared it,
and had the happiness of knowing how dearly
we loved her in it, as we did when we were two
poor boys—but that was not to be. My dear
brother—The Memory of our Mother.”
“Good God l’ thought Nicholas, “and there
are scores of people of their own station, know-
ing all this, and twenty thousand times more,
who wouldn't ask these men to dinner because
they eat with their knives, and never went to
school l’”
But there was no time to moralise, for the
joviality again became very brisk, and the de-
Canter of port being nearly out, brother Ned
pulled the bell, which was instantly answered by
the apoplectic butler. -
“David,” said brother Ned.
“Sir,” replied the butler.
“A magnum of the double-diamond, David,
to drink the health of Mr. Linkinwater.”
Instantly, by a feat of dexterity which was
the admiration of all the company, and had been,
annually, for some years past, the apoplectic
butler, bringing his left hand from behind the
Small of his back, produced the bottle, with the
cork-screw already inserted; uncorked it at a
jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork
before his master with the dignity of conscious
clevernèss. - -
“Hal” said brother Ned, first examining the
Cork and afterwards filling his glass, while the
old butler looked complacently and amiably on,
as if it were all his own property, but the com-
Pany were quite welcome to make free with it,
“this looks well, David.”
“It ought to, sir,” replied David. “You’d be
foubled to find such a glass of wine as is our
$ouble-diamond, and that Mr. Linkinwater
knows Very well. That was laid down when
Mr. Linkinwater first come :
gentlemen.”
“Nay, David, nay,"interposed brother Charles.
“I wrote the entry in the cellar book myself,
sir, if you please,” said David in the tone of a
man quite confident in the strength of his facts.
“Mr. Linkinwater had only been here twenty
year, sir, when that pipe of double-diamond was
laid down.” -
“David is quite right—quite right, brother
Charles,” said Ned. “Are the people here,
that wine was,
. David P”
“Outside the door, sir,” replied the butler.
“Show 'em in, David, show 'em in.”
At this bidding, the old butler placed before
his master a small tray of clean glasses, and,
opening the door, admitted the jolly porters and
warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below.
They were four in all, and as they came in, bow-
ing, and grinning, and blushing, the housekeeper,
and cook, and housemaid brought up the rear.
“Seven,” said brother Ned, filling a corre-
sponding number of glasses with the double-
diamond, “and David, eight. There ! Now,
you're all of you to drink the health of your best
friend, Mr. Timothy Linkinwater, and wish him
health and long life and many happy returns of
this day, both for his own sake and that of your
old masters, who consider him an inestimable
treasure. Tim Linkinwater, sir, your health.
Devil take you, Tim Linkinwater, sir, God bless
you !” -
With this singular contradiction of terms,
brother Ned gave Tim Linkinwater a slap on
the back, which made him look, for the moment,
almost as apoplectic as the butler; and tossed
off the contents of his glass in a twinkling,
The toast was scarcely drunk with all honour
to Tim Linkinwater, when the sturdiest and
jolliest subordinate elbowed himself a little in
advance of his fellows, and, exhibiting a very
hot and flushed countenance, pulled a single
lock of grey hair in the middle of his forehead
as a respectful salute to the company, and
delivered himself as follows—rubbing the palms
of his hands very hard on a blue cotton hand-
kerchief as he did so : t
“We're allowed to take a liberty once a year,
gen'lemen, and if you please we'll take it now ;
there being no time like the present, and no two
birds in the hand worth one in the bush, as is well
known—leastways in a contrairy sense, which
the meaning is the same. (A pause—the butler
unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that
there never was (looking at the butler)—such
—(looking at the cook) noble—excellent—(look-
ing everywhere, and seeing nobody) free, gene-
242
AVYCHOLAS AVICKLEA Y.
rous-spirited masters as them as has treated us
so handsome this day. And here's thanking of
'em for all their goodness as is so constancy a
diffusing of itself over everywhere, and wishing
they may live long and die happy." -
When the foregoing speech was over—and it
might have been much more elegant and much
less to the purpose—the whole body of subor-
dinates, under command of the apoplectic butler,
gave three soft cheers; which, to that gentleman's
great indignation, were not very regular, inas-
much as the women persisted in giving an
immense number of little shrill hurrahs among
themselves, in utter disregard of the time. This
done, they withdrew; shortly afterwards, Tim
Linkinwater's sister withdrew ; in reasonable
time after that, the sitting was broken up for tea
and coffee, and a round game of cards.
At half-past ten—late hours for the square—
there appeared a little tray of sandwiches and a
bowl of bishop, which bishop, coming on the
top of the double-diamond and other excite-
ments, had such an effect upon Tim Linkin-
water, that he drew Nicholas aside, and gave
him to understand, confidentially, that it was
quite true about the uncommonly handsome
spinster, and that she was to the full as good-
looking as she had been described—more so,
indeed—but that she was in too much of a
hurry to change her condition, and consequently,
while Tim was courting her and thinking of
changing his, got married to somebody else.
“After all, I dare say it was my fault,” said Tim.
“I’ll show you a print I have got up-stairs, one
of these days. It cost me five-and-twenty
shillings. I bought it soon after we were cool
to each other. Don't mention it, but it's the
most extraordinary accidental likeness you ever
saw—her very portrait, sir!” -
By this time it was past eleven o'clock; and
Tim Linkinwater's sister declaring that she ought
to have been at home a full hour ago, a coach
was procured, into which she was handed with
great ceremony by brother Ned, while brother
Charles imparted the fullest directions to the
coachman, and, besides paying the man a shilling
over and above his fare, in order that he might
take the utmost care of the lady, all but choked
him with a glass of spirits of uncommon strength,
and then nearly knocked all the breath out of
his body in his energetic endeavours to knock ||
it in again.
At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim
Linkinwater's sister being now fairly on her way
home, Nicholas and Tim Linkinwater's friend
took their leaves together, and left old Tim and
the worthy brothers to their repose.
As Nicholas had some distance to walk; it
was considerably past midnight by the time he
reached home, where he ſound his mother and
Smike sitting up to receive him. ... It was long
after their usual hour of retiring, and they had
expected him, at the very latest, two hours ago;
but the time had not hung heavily on their
hands, for Mrs. Nickleby had entertained Smike
with a genealogical account of her family by the
mother's side, comprising biographical sketches
of the principal members, and Smike had sat
wondering what it was all about, and whether it
was learnt from a book, or said out of Mrs.
Nickleby's own head; so that they got on
together very pleasantly. - . . . .
Nicholas could not go to bed without expa-
tiating on the excellences and munificence of
the brothers Cheeryble, and relating the great
success which had attended his efforts that day.
But, before he had said a dozen words, Mrs.
Nickleby, with many sly winks and nods, ob-
served that she was sure Mr. Smike must be
quite tired out, and that she positively, must
insist on his not sitting up a minute longer.
“A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,”
said Mrs. Nickleby when Smike had wished
them good night and left the room. “I know
you will excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I
don't like to do this before a third person ;
indeed, before a young man it would not be quite
proper, though really, after, all, I don't know
what harm there is in it, except that to be sure
it's not a very becoming thing, though some
people say it is very much so, and really I don't
know why it should not be, if it's well got up,
and the borders are small-plaited ; of course, a
good deal depends upon that.” -
With which preface, Mrs. Nickleby took her
nightcap from between the leaves of a very large
Prayer-book, where it had been folded up small,
and proceeded to tie it on : talking away, in her
usual discursive manner, all the time.
“People may say what they like," observed
Mrs. Nickleby, “but there's a great deal of com-
fort in a nightcap, as I'm sure you would con-
ſess, Nicholas, my dear, if you would only have
strings to yours, and wear it like a Christian,
instead of sticking it upon the very top of your
head like a blue-coat boy. You needn't think it
an unmanly or quizzical thing to be particular
about your nightcap, for I have often heard
your poor dear papa, and the Reverend Mr.
What's-his-name, who used to read prayers in
‘that old church with the curious little steeple
that the weather-cock was blown off the night
week before you were born;–I, have often
heard them say that the young men at college
THE GAZAVZZZMAAV ZAV ZA E AWAEXT HO USA. 243
are uncommonly particular about their night-
caps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite
celebrated for their strength and goodness; so
much so, indeed, that the young men never
dream of going to bed without 'em, and I believe
it's admitted on all hands that they know what's
good, and don't coddle themselves.”
Nicholas laughed, and entering no further
into the subject of this lengthened harangue,
reverted to the pleasant tone of the little birth-
day party. And as Mrs. Nickleby instantly be-
came very curious respecting it, and made a
great number of inquiries touching what they
had had for dinner, and how it was put on table,
and whether it was overdone or underdone, and
who was there, and what “the Mr. Cheerybles”
said, and what Nicholas said, and what the Mr.
Cheerybles said when he said that, Nicholas
described the festivities at full length, and also
the occurrences of the morning.
“Late as it is,” said Nicholas, “I am almost
selfish enough to wish that Kate had been up to
hear all this. I was all impatience, as I came
along, to tell her.” - -
“Why, Kate,” said Mrs. Nickleby, putting
her feet upon the fender, and drawing her chair
close to it, as if settling herself for a long talk,
“Kate has been in bed—oh a couple of hours
—and I’m very glad, Nicholas, my dear, that I
prevailed upon her not to sit up, for I wished
very much to have an opportunity of saying a
few words to you. I am naturally anxious about
it, and of course it's a very delightful and con-
soling thing to have a grown-up son that one
can put confidence in, and advise with—indeed,
I don't know any use there would be in having
sons at all, unless people could put confidence
in them.”
Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy
yawn, as his mother began to speak; and looked
at her with fixed attention -
“There was a lady in our neighbourhood,”
said Mrs. Nickleby—“speaking of sons puts me
in mind of it—a lady in our neighbourhood
when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name
was Rogers; indeed, I am sure it was if it wasn't
Murphy, which is the only doubt I have yy
“Is it about her, mother, that you wished to
Speak to me?” said Nicholas quietly.
“About her /" cried Mrs. Nickleby. “Good
gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how can you be so
ridiculous P But that was always the way with
Your poor dear papa, just his way, always wan-
“ſing, never able to fix his thoughts on any one
subject for two minutes together. I think J see
lm now !” said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes,
"looking at me while I was talking to him about
his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state of
perfect conglomeration Anybody who had
come in upon us suddenly would have supposed
I was confusing and distracting him, instead of
making things plainer; upon my word they
would.” -
“I am very sorry, mother, that I should
inherit this unfortunate slowness of apprehen-
sion,” said Nicholas kindly ; “but I’ll do my
best to understand you, if you'll only go straight
on : indeed I will.”
“Your poor paſ” said Mrs. Nickleby, pon-
dering. “He never knew, till it was too late,
what I would have had him do ſº"
This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as
the deceased Mr. Nickleby had not arrived at
the knowledge when he died. Neither had Mrs.
Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort, an
explanation of the circumstance.
“However,” said Mrs. Nickleby, drying her
tears, “this has nothing to do—certainly nothing
whatever to do—with the gentleman in the next
house.”
“I should suppose that the gentleman in the
next house has as little to do with us.” returned
Nicholas.
“There can be no doubt,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
“ that he is a gentleman, and has the manners
of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentle-
man although he does wear smalls and grey
worsted stockings. That may be eccentricity,
or he may be proud of his legs. I don't see
why he shouldn't be. The Prince Regent was
proud of his legs, anā so was Daniel Lambert,
who was also a fat man; he was proud of his
legs. So was Miss Riffin: she was—no," added
Mrs. Nickleby, correcting herself, “ I think she
had only toes, but the principle is the same."
Nicholas looked on, quite an need at the
introduction of this new theme. Which seemed
just what Mrs. Nickleby had expected him to be.
“You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my
dear,” she said, “I am sure I was. It came
upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze
my blood. The bottom of his garden joins the
bottom of ours, and of course I had several
times seen him sitting among the scarletbºans
in his httle arbour, or working at his little hot-
beds. I used to think he stared rather, but
didn't take any particular notice of that, as Yº
were new-comers, and he might be curio” to
see what we were like. But when he began *
throw his cucumbers over our wak 1 * *
“To throw his cucumbers over our wall
repeated Nicholas in great astonishment.
“Yes, Nicholas, my dear,” replied Mrs.
Nickleby in a very serious tone; “his cue"
244
AV/CHO/CAS AV/C.KL/2 B Y.
bers over our wall. - And vegetable marrows
likewise.”
“Confound his impudence 1” said Nicholas, fir-
ing immediately. “What does he mean by that?”
“I don't think he means it impertinently at
all,” replied Mrs. Nickleby.
“What " " said Nicholas, “cucumbers and
vegetable marrows flying at the heads of the
family as they walk in their own garden, and not
meant impertinently | Why, mother—”
Nicholas stopped short; for there was an in-
describable expression of placid triumph, mingled
with a modest confusion, lingering between the
borders of Mrs. Nickleby's nightcap, which ar-
rested his attention suddenly
“He must be a very weak, and foolish, and
inconsiderate man,” said Mrs. Nickleby; “bham-
able, indeed—at least, I suppose other people
would consider him so ; of course I can't be
expected to express any opinion on that point,
especially after always defending your poor dear
papa when other people blamed him for making
proposals to me; and to be sure there can be no
doubt that he has taken a very singular way of
showing it. Still, at the same time, his atten-
tions are—that is, as far as it goes, and to a cer-
tain extent, of course—a flattering sort of thing;
and, although I should never dream of marry-
ing again with a dear girl like Kate still unset-
*
tled in life—— -
“Surely, mother, such an idea never entered
your brain for an instant P” said Nicholas.
“Bless my heart, Nicholas, my dear,” returned
his mother in a peevish tone, “isn't that precisely
what I am saying, if you would only let me
speak 2 Of course, I never gave it a second
thought, and I am surprised and astonished that
you should suppose me capable of such a thing.
All I say is, what step is the best to take, so as
to reject these advances civilly and delicately,
and without hurting his feelings too much, and
driving him to despair, or anything of that kind P
My goodness me!” exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby
with a half-simper, “suppose he was to go doing
anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy
again, Nicholas P”
Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas
could scarcely help smiling as he rejoined, “Now,
do you think, mother, that such a result would
be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse P”
“Upon my word, my dear, I don't know,” re-
turned Mrs. Nickleby; “really I don't know.
I am sure there was a case in the day before.
yesterday's paper, extracted from one of the
French newspapers, about a journeyman shoe-
maker who was jealous of a young girl in an
adjoining village, because she wouldn't shut her-
self up in an air-tight three-pair of stairs, and
charcoal herself to death with him ; and who
went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-
pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was pass-
ing by with a few friends, and killed himself first;
and then all the friends, and then her—no, killed
all the friends first, and then herself, and then
/himself—which it is quite frightful to think of
Somehow or other,” added Mrs. Nickleby after
a momentary pause, “they always are journey-
men shoemakers who do these things in France,
according to the paper3. I don't know how it
is—something in the leather, I suppose.” -
“But this man, who is not a shoemaker—what
has he done, mother, what has he said P” inqtired
Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but
looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs.
Nickleby herself. “You know there is “no
language of vegetables, which converts a cucum-
ber into a formal declaration of attachment.”
“My dear,” replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing
her head and looking at the ashes in the grate,
“he has done and said all sorts of things.”
“Is there no mistake on your part P” asked
Nicholas. -
“Mistake " cried Mrs. Nickleby. “Lord,
Nicholas, my dear, do you suppose I don't know
when a man's in earnest?"
“Well, well !” muttered Nicholas.
“Every time I go to the window,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, “he kisses one hand, and lays the
other upon his heart—of course it's very foolish
of him to do. so, and I dare say you'll say it's
very wrong, but he does it very respectfully—
very respectfully indeed—and very tenderly, ex-
tremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest
credit; there can be no doubt about that. Then,
there are the presents which come pouring over
the wall every day, and very fine they certainly
are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at
dinner yesterday, afid think of pickling the rest
for next winter. And last evening,” added Mrs.
Nickleby with increased confusion, “he called
gently over the wall, as I was walking in the
garden, and proposed marriage, and an elope
ment. His voice is as clear as a bell or a
musical glass—very like a musical glass indeed
—but of course I didn't listen to it. Then, the
question is, Nicholas, my dear, what am I to do?".
“Does Kate know of this?” asked Nicholas.
“I have not said a word about it yet." an-
Swered his mother. -
“Then, for Heaven's sake,” rejoined Nicholas,
rising, “do not, for it would make her very un-
happy. And with regard to what you should do,
my dear mother, do what your good sense and
feeling, and respect tormy father's memory, would
A WO 7"HER VEGF, TABLE A/A RAE Q W.
245
prompt. There are a thousand ways in which
you can show your dislike of these prepos-
terous and doting attentions. If you act as
decidedly as you ought, and they are still con-
tinued, and to your annoyance, I can speedily
put a stop to them. But I should not interfere
in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance
to it, until you have vindicated yourself.
women can do that, but especially one of your
age and condition, in circumstances like these,
which are unworthy of a serious thought. I
would not shame you by seeming to take them
to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant.
Absurd old idiot.'" - -
So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and
bade her good night, and they retired to their
respective chambers.
To do Mrs. Nickleby justice, her attachment
to her children would have prevented her seri-
ously contemplating a second marriage, even if
she could have so far conquered her recollections
of her late husband as to have any strong incli-
nations that way. But, although there was no
evil and little real selfishness in Mrs. Nickleby's
heart, she had a weak head and a vain one; and
there was something so flattering in being sought
(and vainly sought) in marriage at this time of
day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the
unknown gentleman quite so summarily or lightly
as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.
“As to its being preposterous, and doting, and
ridiculous,” thought Mrs. Nickleby, communing
with herself in her own room, “I don't see that
at all: It's hopeless on his part, certainly ; but
why he should be an absurd old idiot I confess
I don’t see. -
it's hopeless.
I think l’’ -
Having made these reflections, Mrs. Nickleby
looked in her little dressing-glass, and, walking
backward a few steps from it, tried to remember
Poor fellow ! He is to be pitied,
who it was who used to say that when Nicholas
was one-and-twenty he would have more the ap-
pearance of her brother than her son. Not being
able to call the authority to mind, she extin-
guished her candle, and drew up the window
blind to admit the light of morning, which had,
by this time, begun to dawn.
“It’s a bad hight to distinguish objects in,"
murmured Mrs. Nickleby, peering into the gar-
den, “and my eyes are not very good—I was
short-sighted from a child—but, upon my word,
I think there's another large vegetable marrow
Sticking, at this moment, on the broken glass
bottles at the top of the wall !” -
-*@* :
NICHOLAs NICKLEBY, 17,
Most
He is not to be supposed to know |
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
comprises CERTAIN PARTICULARS ARISINO OUT OF
A VISIT to F connol.ENCF. W H ſcº H MAY PROVE IM.
PoR TANT HEREATER. S.M. l k E UN EXPECTEDLY EN-
count ERs a very old FRIEND. who Invites HIM
To H IS HOUSE, AND WILL TARE NO DENIAl.
§ Gºº - -
ſ WBNº UITE unconscious of the demonstra-
tions of their amorous neighbour,
or their effects upon the suscep-
tible bosom of her mamma, Kate
Nickleby had, by this time, begun to
enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity and
happiness, to which, even in occasional
and transitory glimpses, she had long been
a stranger. Living under the same roof with the
beloved brother from whom she had been so sud-
denly and hardly separated : with a mind at ease,
and free from any persecutions which could call a
blush into her cheek, or a pang into her heart :
she seemed to have passed into a new state of
being. Her former cheerfulness was restored,
her step regained its elasticity and lightness, the
colour which had forsaken her cheek visited it
once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more
beautiful than ever. -
Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy's
ruminations and observations led her, when the
cottage had been, as she emphatically said,
“thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-pots
to the street-door scraper,” and the busy little
woman had at length a moment's time to think
about its innates. -
“Which I declare I haven't had since I first
came down here,” said Miss La Creevy; “for I
have thought of nothing but hammers, nails,
screw-drivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and
night.”
“You hever bestowed one thought upon your-
self, I believe,” returned Kate, smiling.
“Upon my word, my dear, when there are so
many pleasanter things to think of, I should be
a goose if I did,” said Miss La Creevy. “By-
the-bye, I have thought of somebody too. Do
you know that I observe a great change in one
of this family—a very extraordinary change P.”
“In whom P” asked Kate anxiously. “Not
in . 33 - -
“Not in your brother, my dear,” returned Miss
La Creevy, anticipating the close of the sentence.
“for he is always the same affectionate, good.
natured, clever creature, witHP a spice of the—I
won't say who—in him, when there's any occa.
sion, that he was when I first knew you. No.
Smike, as he will be called, poor fellow.! for he
won't hear of a Mr. before his name, is greatly
altered, even in this short time.”
i 223

246
AV/CAHO/CAS AVZCA / EAE V.
“How P” asked Kate. “Not in health P”
“N-n-o; perhaps not in health, exactly,” said
Miss La Crecyy, pausing to consider, “although
he is a worn and feeble creature, and has that in
his face which it would wring my heart to see in
yours. No ; not in health.”
** HOW then P'',
“I scarcely know,” said the miniature painter.
“But I have watched him, and he has brought
the tears into my eyes many times. It is not a
very difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I
am easily melted ; still, I think these came with
good cause and reason. I am sure that, since
he has been here, he has grown, from some strong
cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He
feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know
that he wanders sometimes, and cannot under-
stand very simple things. I have watched him
when you have not been by, my dear, sit brood-
ing by himself, with such a look of pain as I
could scarcely bear to see, and then get up and
leave the room : so sorrowfully, and in such de-
jection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt
me. Not three weeks ago, he was a light-hearted,
busy creature, overjoyed to be in a bustle, and as
happy as the day is long. Now he is another
being—the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving
creature—but the same in nothing else.”
“Surely this will all pass of,” said Kate.
“Poor fellow : ”
“I hope,” returned her little friend with a
gravity very unusual in her, “it may. I hope,
for the sake of that poor lad, it may. How-
ever,” said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the
cheerful, chattering tone which was habitual to
her, “I have said my say, and a very long say
it is, and a very wrong say too, I shouldn't
wonder at all. I shall cheer him up to-night,
at all events ; for, if he is to be my squire all
the way to the Strand, I shall talk on, and, on,
and on, and never leave off, till I have roused
him into a laugh at something. So, the sooner
he goes, the better for him, and the sooner I
go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I shall
have my maid gallivanting with somebody who
may rob, the house—though what there is to
take away, besides tables and chairs, I don't
know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever,
thief who can dispose of them to any great
advantage, for Y can't, I know, and that's the
honest truth.” * -
So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face
in a very flat bonnet, and herself in a very big
shawl; and fixing herself tightly into the latter,
by means of a large pin, declared that the
omnibus might come as soon as it pleased, for
she was quite ready.
But there was still Mrs. Nickleby to take
leave of ; and long before that good lady had
concluded some reminiscences bearing upon,
and appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus
arrived. This put Miss La Creevy in a great
bustle, in consequence whereof, as she secretly
rewarded the servant-girl with eighteen-pence
behind the street-door, she pulled out of her
reticule ten-pennyworth of halfpence, which
rolled into all possible corners of the passage,
and occupied some considerable time in the
picking up. This ceremony had, of course, to
be succeeded by a second kissing of Kate and
Mrs. Nickleby, and a gathering together of the
little basket and the brown-paper parcel, during
which proceedings, “the omnibus,” as Miss La
Creevy protested, “swore so dreadfully, that it
was quite awful to hear it.” At length and at
last, it made a feint of going away, and then
Miss Isa Creevy darted out, and darted .in,
apologising with great volubility to all the
passengers, and declaring that she wouldn't
purposely have kept them waiting on any ac-
count whatever. While she was looking about
for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed
Smike in, and cried that it was all right—though
it wasn't—and away went the huge vehicle, with
the noise of half-a-dozen brewers' drays at least.
Leaving it to pursue its journey at the plea-
sure of the conductor afore-mentioned, who
lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind,
Smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to
stop, or go on, or gallop, or crawl, as that gentle-
man deemed expedient and advisable; this
narrative may embrace the opportunity of ascer-
taining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
and to what extent he had, by this time, re-
covered from the injuries consequent on being
flung violently from his cabriolet, under the cir.
cumstances already detailed.
With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised,
a face disfigured by half-healed scars, and pallid
from the exhaustion of recent pain and fever,
Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back,
on the couch to which he was doomed to be a
prisoner for some weeks yet to come. Mr.
Pyke and Mr. Pluck sat drinking, hard in the
next room, now and then varying the monoto-
nous murmurs of their conversation with a half-
smothered laugh, while the young lord—the
only member of the party who was not tho;
roughly irredeemable, and who really had a kind
heart—sat beside his Mentor, with a cigar in
his mouth, and read to him, by the light of a
lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper
of the day as were most likely to yield him
interest or amusement,
^
As VISIT of cowpox.Evce.
247
-“Curse those hounds !” said the invalid,
türning his head impatiently towards the adjoin-
ing; room; “will nothing stop their infernal
throats?”
Messrs. Pyke and Pluck heard the exclama-
tion, and stopped immediately : winking to each
other as they did so, and filling their glasses to
the brim, as some recompense for the depriva-
tion of speech.
“Damn !” muttered the sick man between
his teeth, and writhing impatiently in his bed.
“Isn't this mattress hard enough, and the room
dull enough, and pain bad enough, but they
must torture me? What's the time P’’
“Half-past eight,” replied his friend.
“Here, draw the table nearer, and let us
have the cards again,” said Sir Mulberry. “More
piquet. Come.” -
It was curious to see how eagerly the sick
man, debarred from any change of position save
the mere turning of his head from side to side,
watched every motion of his friend in the pro-
gress of the game; and with what eagerness and
waving his hand in assumed carelessness, “I
have had a bad accident, you see.”
interest he played, and yet how warily and
coolly. His address and skill were more than
twenty times a match for his adversary, who
could make little head against them, even when
fortune favoured him with good cards, which
was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won every
game; and when his companion threw down
the cards, and refused to play any longer, thrust
forth his wasted arm and caught up the stakes
with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh,
though considerably lowered in tone, that had
resounded in Ralph Nickleby's dining-room,
months before. -
- While he was thus occupied his man appeared,
to announce that Mr. Ralph Nickleby was below,
and wished to know how he was to-night.
“Better," said Sir Mulberry impatiently.
“Mr. Nickleby wishes to know, sir—— ”
... I tell you, better,” replied Sir Mulberry,
striking his hand upon the table.
The man hesitated for a moment or two, and
then said that Mr. Nickleby had requested per-
mission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it was not
ln COn Venlent.
{{ * : * * * .
It is inconvenient. I can't see him. . I can't
See anybody,” said his master, more violently
than before. “You know that, you blockhead.”
& & “I am very sorry, sir,” returned the man.
But Mr. Nickleby pressed so much, sir—”
... The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed
* man, who, being anxious to earn his money
with a view to future favours, held the door in
his hand, and ventured to linger still.
* ‘Did he say whether he had any business to
speak about P” inquired Sir Mulberry after a
little impatient consideration.
“No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir.
º Particularly, Mr. Nickleby said, sir.”
“Tell him to come up. Here,” cried Sir
Mulberry, calling the man back, as he passed
his hand over his disfigured face, “move that
lamp, and put it on the stand behind me. Wheel
that table away, and place a chair there—further
off. Leave it sq.”
The man obeyed these directions as if he
quite comprehended the motive with which they
were dictated, and left the room. Lord Frede-
rick Verisopht, remarking that he would look in
presently, strolled ifito the adjoining apartment,
and closed the folding door behind him.
Then was heard a subdued footstep on the
stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat in hand, crept
softly into the room, with his body bent forward
as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed
upon the face of his worthy client.
“Well, Nickleby," said Sir Mulberry, motion-
ing him to the chair by the couch side, and
“I see,” rejoined Ralph with the same steady
gaze. “Bad indeed I should not have known
you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear ! This is bad.”
Ralph's manner was one of profound humility
and respect; and the low tone of voice was that
which the gentlest consideration for a sick man
would have taught a visitor to assume. But the
expression of his face, Sir Mulberry's being
averted, was in extraordinary contrast ; and as
he stood, in his usual attitude, calmly looking
on the prostrate form before him, all that part
of his features which was not cast into shadow
by his protruding and contracted brows, bore
the impress of a sarcastic smile.
“Sit, down,” said Sir Mulberry, turning to-
wards him as though by a violent effort. “Am
I a sight, that you stand gazing there P”
As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step
of two, and making as though he were irre-
sistibly impelled to express astonishment, but
was determined not to do so, sat down with
well-acted confusion.
“I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry
every day,” said Ralph, “twice a day, indeed,
at first—and, to-night, presuming upon old ac-
quaintance, and past transactions by which we
have mutually benefited in some degree, I could
not resist soliciting admission to your chamber.
Have you—have you suffered much P” said
Ralph, bending forward, and allowing the same
harsh smile to gather upon his face as the others
closed his eyes.
*~.
248
McHoſ. As wick/EBy
“More than enough to please me, and less
than enough to please some broken-down hacks
that you and I know of, and who lay their ruin
between us, I dare say,” returned Sir Mulberry,
tossing his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation
of the intense irritation with which this had
been said ; for there was an aggravating, cold
distinctness in his speech and manner which so
grated on the sick man that he could scarcely
endure it.
“And what is it in these ‘past transactions
that brought you here to-night P” asked Sir
Mulberry. - -
“Nothing,” replied Ralph. “There are some
bills of my lord's which need renewal; but let
them be till you are well.
Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher
emphasis, “I came to say how grieved I am
that any relative of mine, although disowned by
me, should have inflicted such punishment on
you as p; ' - -
“Punishment “ interposed Sir Mulberry.
“I know it has been a severe one,” said
Ralph, wilfully mistaking the meaning of the
interruption, “and that has made me the more
anxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond
—that I acknowledge him as no kin of mine—
and that I leave him to take his deserts from
you, and every man besides. You may wring
his neck if you please. I shall not interfere.”
“This story that they tell me here has got
abroad, then, has it 2" asked Sir Mulberry,
clenching his hands and teeth.
“Noised in all directions,” replied Ralph.
“Every club and gaming-room has rung with it.
There has been a good song made about it, as
I am told,” said Ralph, looking eagerly at his
questioner.
being in the way of such things, but I have
been told it's even printed—for private circula-
tion—but that's all over town, of course.”
“It's a lie t” said Sir Mulberry; “I tell you
it's all a lie 1 The mare took fright.”
“They say he frightened her,” observed
Ralph in the same unmoved and quiet manner.
“Some say he frightened you, but that's a lie, I
know. I have said that boldly—oh, a score of
times I am a peaceable man, but I can't hear
ſolks tell that of you—no, no.” -
When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to
utter, Ralph bent forward with his hand to his
ear, and a face as calm as if its every line of
sternness had been cast in iron.
“When I am off this cursed bed,” said the
invalid, actually striking at his broken leg in
the ecstasy of his passion, “I’ll have such
I—I—canne,” said
“I have not heard it myself, not
r
thoughtſulness.
^ escence.
outcasts have it.”
...ture of Nicholas presented itself.
revenge as never man had yet. By G– I will ! .
Accident favouring him, he has marked me for
a week or two, but I'll put a mark on him that
he shall carry to his grave. I'll slit his nose
and ears—flog him—maim hiſm for life. I’ll do
more than that ; I'll drag that pattern of
chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate
sister, through——
It might have been that cven Ralph's cold
blood tingled in his cheeks at that moment. It
might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered
that, knave and usurer as he was, he must, in
some early time of infancy, have twined his
arm about her father's neck. He stopped, and,
menacing with his hand, confirmed the unuttered
threat with a tremendous oath. * -
“It is a galling thing,” said Ralph after a short
term of silence, during which he had eyed the
sufferer keenly, “to think that the man about
town, the rake, the roué, the rook of twenty sea-
sons, should be brought to this pass by 3 mere
boy " - -
Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him,
but Ralph's eyes were bent upon the ground, and
his face woré no other cxpression than one of
“A raw, slight stripling," continued Ralph,
“against a man whose very weight might crush
him; to say nothing of his skill in-- I am
right, I think,” said Ralph, raising his eyes, “you
were a patron of the ring once, were you not?"
The sick man made an impatient gesture,
which Ralph chose to consider as one of acqui
“Ha! ” he said, “I thought so. That was
before I knew , you, but I was pretty Sure I
couldn't be mistaken. He is light and active, I
suppose. But those were slight advantages cºm-
parcd with yours. Luck, luck—these hang-dog
“He’ll need the most he has when I am well
again,” said Sir Mulberry Hawk, “let him fly
where he will.” : .
“Oh "returned Ralph quickly, “he doesn't
dream of that. He is here, good sir, waiting
your pleasure—here in London, Walking the
streets at noonday; carrying it of jauntily;
looking for you, I swear,” said Ralph, his face
darkening, and his own hatred getting the upper
hand of him, for the first time, as this gay P*.
“If we were
only citizens of a country where it could be safely
doſe, I'd give good money to have him stabbed
to the heart, and rolled into the kennel for the
dogs to tear.” - -
As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his ºld
client, vented this little piece of sound family
A.O.R.D Aº RAE ZXER/CA RE WOAZZ.S.
249
feeling, and took up his hat preparatory to de-, }
parting, Lord. Frederick Verisopht looked in.
“Why, what in the deyvle's name, Hawk,
have you and Nickleby been talking, about P”
said the young man. “I neyver heard such an
insufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow,
wow, wow. What has it all been about?”
“Sir Mukherry has been angry, my lord,” said
Ralph, looking towards the couch.
“Not about money, I hope P. Nothing has
gone wrong in business, has it, Nickleby P”
º " - *-
“YE-ES,” SAID THE OTHER, TURNING FULL UPON HIM,
“No, my lord, no,” returned Ralph. “On
f £hat point we always agree. Sir Mulberry has
‘been calling to mind the cause of L-"
There was neither necessity nor opportunity
for Ralph to proceed; for Sir Mulberry took up
the -theme, and vented his threats and oaths
against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.
Ralph, who was no common observer, was
surprised to see that, as this tirade proceeded,
the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht, who
at the commencement had been twirling his
“IF You HAD Told HIM who you were; IF YOU
HAD GIVEN HIM YOUR CARD, AND FOUND OUT, AFTERWARDS, THAT HIS STATION OR CHARACTER
PREVENTED You R FIGHTING HIM, IT would HAVE BEEN BAD ENough THEN.”
whiskers with a most dandified and listless air,
underwent a complete alteration. He was still
more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing, to
Speak, the young lord angrily, and almost unaf-
fectedly, requested never to have the subject re-
newed in his presence.
“Mind that, Hawk 1" he added with unusual
$nergy. “I never will be a party to, or permit,
if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon this
young fellow.”
g
“Cowardly "interrupted his friend.
“Ye-es,” said the other, turning full upon him.
“If you had told him who you were ; if you
had given him your card, and found out, after-
wards, that his station or character prevented
your fighting him, it would have been bad enough
then ; upon my soul it would have been bad
enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did
wrong too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it.
What happened to you afterwards was as much


25o
McHozas wrcKZEA Y.
the consequence of accident as design, and more
your fault than his ; and it shall not, with my
knowledge, be cruelly visited upon him—it shall
not indeed.”
With this emphatic repetition of his conclud-
ing words, the young lord turned upon his heel;
but, before he had reached the adjoining room,
he turned back again, and said, with even greater
vehemence than he had displayed before:
“I do believe, now, upon my honour I do
believe, that the sister is as virtuous and modest
a young lady as she is a handsome one ; and of
the brother I say this, that he acted as her bro-
ther should, and in a manly and spirited manner.
And I only wish, with all my heart and soul, that
any one of us came out of this matter half as
well as he does.”
So saying, Lord Fredefitk Verisopht walked
out of the room, leaving Ralph Nickleby and
Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant astonishment.
“Is this your pupil P” asked Ralph softly, “or
has he come fresh from some country parson 2"
“Green fools take these fits sometimes,” re-
plied. Sir Mulberry Hawk, biting his lip, and
pointing to the door. “Leave him to me.”
Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old
acquaintance ; for they had suddenly grown con-
fidential again in this alarming surprise ; and
took his way home, thoughtfully and slowly.
While these things were being said and done,
and kong before they were concluded, the omni-
bus had disgorged Miss La Creevy and her
escort, and they had arrived at he own door.
Now, the good-nature of the little miniature
painter would by no means allow of Smike's
walking back again until he had been previously
refreshed with just a sip of something comfort-
able, and a mixed biscuit or so; and Smike,
entertaining no objection either to the sip of
something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit,
but considering, on the contrary, that they would
be a very pleasant preparation for a walk to Bow,
it fell out that he delayed much longer than he
originally intended, and that it was some half-
hour after dusk when he set forth on his journey
home.
There was no likelihood of his losing his
way, for it lay quite straight before him, and he
had walked into town with Nicholas, and back
alone, almost every day. So, Miss La Creevy
and he shook hands with mutual confidence,
and, being charged with more kind remembrances
to Mrs. and Miss Nickleby, Smike started off.
At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little
out of the road to satisfy his curiosity by having
a look at Newgate. After staring up at the
Sombre walls, ſrom the opposite side of the way,
with great care and dread for some minutes, he
turned back again into the old track, and walked
briskly through the City; stopping now, and then
to gaze in at the window of some particularly
attractive shop, then running for a little way,
then stopping again, and so on, as any other
country lad might do.
He had been gazing for a long time through a
jeweller's window, wishing he could take some of
the beautiful trinkets home as a present, and
innagining what delight they would afford if he
could, when the clocks struck three-quarters past
eight. Roused by the sound, he hurried on at
a very quick pace, and was crossing the corner
of a by-street when he felt himself violently
brought to, with a jerk so sudden that he was
obliged to cling to a lamp-post to save himself
from falling. At the same moment, a small boy
clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of
“Here he is, father Hooray !” vibrated in his
Čáilſ.S. – “
Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his
despairing eyes downward towards the form from
which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from
head to foot, looked round. Mr. Squeers had
hooked him in the coat collar with the handle of
his umbrella, and was hanging on at the other
end with all his might and main. The cry of
triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who,
regardless of all his kicks and struggles, clung to
him with the tenacity of a bull-dog ,,
One glance showed him this, and in that one
glance the terrified creature became utterly
powerless and unable to utter a sound.
“Here's a go!” cried Mr. Squeers, gradually
coming hand over hand down the umbrella, and
bnly unhooking it when he had got tight hold of
the victim's collar. “Here's a delicious go
Wackford, my boy, call up one of them coaches."
“A coach, father | * cried little Wackford.
“Yes, a coach, sir,” replied Squeers, feasting
his eyes upon the countenance of Smike.
“Damn the expense Let's have him in a
coach.”. r
“What's he been a doing of?” asked a
labourer with a hod of bricks, against whom and
a fellow-labourer Mr. Squeers had backed, on the
first jerk of the umbrella. . *
“Everything t” replied Mr. Squeers, looking
fixedly at his old pupil in a sort of rapturous
trance. “Everything—running away, sir-join-
ing in bloodthirsty attacks upon his mastº.
—there's nothing that's bad ‘that he hasn't
done. Oh, what a delicious go is this here,
good Lord ' " - -
the man looked from Squeers to Smike :
but such mental faculties as the poor fellow Poº
.S/M/A. A. Z.A.A. EAV. P/CASOAVER. 251
sessed had utterly deserted him. The coach
came up, Master Wackford entered ; Squeers
pushed in his prize, and, following close at his
heels, pulled up the glasses. The coachman
mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving
the two bricklayers, and an old apple-woman,
and a town-made little boy returning fróm an
evening school, who had been the only witnesses
of the scene, to meditate upon it at their leisure.
Mr. Squeers sat himself down on the opposite
seat to the unfortunate Smike, and, planting his
hands firmly on his knees, looked at him for
some five minutes, when, seeming to recover
from his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and
slapped his old pupil's face several times—taking
the right and left sides alternately.
“It isn't a dream : " said Squeers. “That's
real flesh and blood I know the feel of it !”
and, being quite assured of his good fortune by
these experiments, Mr. Squeers administered a .
few boxes on the ear, lest the entertainments
should seem to partake of sameness, and laughed .
louder and longer at every one. -
“Your mother will be fit to jump out of her
skin, my boy, when she hears of this,” said
Squeers to his son,
“Oh, won't she, though, father P’ replied
Master Wackford.
“To think,” said Sueers, “that you and me
should be turning out of a street, and come upon
him at the very nick; and that I should have him .
tight, at only one cast of the umbrella, as if I had
hooked him with a grappling-iron —Ha, ha!”
“Didn't I catch hold of his leg, neither,
father P’’ said little Wackford.
“You did ; like a good 'un, my boy,” said Mr.
Squeers, patting his son's head, “and you shall
have the best button-over jacket and waistcoat
that the next new boy brings down, as a reward
of merit—mind that. You always keep on in
the same path, and do them things that you see
your father do, and when you die you'll go right
slap to Heaven, and no questions asked.”
Improving the occasion in these words, Mr.
Squeers patted his son's head again, and then
patted Smike's—but harder; and inquired in a
bantering tone how he found himself by this
time. -
“I must go home,” replied Smike, looking
wildly round -
-- “To be sure you must. You're about right
there,” replied Mr. Squeers. “You’ll go hone
very soon, you will. You'll find yourself at the
peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in
something under a week's time, my young friend;
and, the next time you get away from there, I
give you leave to keep away, Whare's the clothes
you run off in, you ungrateful robber P” said Mr.
Squeers in a severe voice.
Smike glanced at the neat attire which the
Care of Nicholas had provided for him, and
wrung his hands.
“Do you know that I could hang you up,
outside of the Old Bailey, for making away with
them articles of property P” said Squeers. “Do
you know that it's a hanging matter—and I an’t
quite certain whether it an’t an anatomy one
besides—to walk off with up'ards of the valley
of five pound from a dwelling-house? Eh—do
you know that? What do you suppose was the
worth of them clothes you had P Do you know
that that Wellington boot you wore cost eight-
and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the
shoe seven-and-six P But you came to the right
shop for mercy when you came to me, and thank
your stars that it is me as has got to serve you
with the article.” -
Anybody not in Mr. Squeers's confidence would
have supposed that he was quite out of the article
in question, instead of having a large stock on
hand ready for all comers; nor would the opinion
of sceptical persons have undergone much altera-
tion when he followed up the remark by poking
Smike in the chest with the ferrule of his um-
brella, and dealing a smart shower of blows, with
the ribs of the same instrument, upon his head
and shoulders.
“I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach
before,” said Mr. Squeers when he stopped to
rest. “There's inconveniency in it, but the
novelty gives it a sort of relish, too !”
Poor Smike . He warded off the blows as
well as he could, and now shrunk into a cornel
of the coach, with his head resting on his hands,
and his elbows on his knees; he was stunned
..nd stupefied, and had no more idea that any act
of his would enable him to escape from the all-
powerful Squeers, now that he had no friend to
speak to or advise with, than he had had in all
the weary years of his Yorkshire life which pre-
ceded the arrival of Nicholas.
The journey seemed endless; street after
street was entered and left behind ; and still they
went jolting on. At last Mr. Squeers began to
thrust his head out of the window every half-
minute, and to bawl a variety of directions to
the coachman, and after passing, with some
difficulty, through several mean streets which the
appearance of the houses and the bad state of
the road denoted to have been recently built,
Mr. Squeers suddenly tugged at the check-string
with all his might, and cried, “Stop!” -
“What are you pulling a man's arm off for P”
said the coachman, looking angrily down.
2
252
AV/CA/OAAS AW/CA / EAE Y.
“That's the house,” replied Squeers. “The
second of them four little houses, one story.
high, with the green shutters—there's a brass
plate, on the door, with the name of Snawley.”
“Couldn't you say that without wrenching a
man's limbs off his body ?” inquired the coach-
Illal). -
“No 1" bawled Mr. Squeers. “Say another
word, and I’ll summons you for having a broken
winder. Stop "
Obedient to this direction. the coach stopped
at Mr. Snawley's door Mr. Snawley may be re-
membered as the sleek and sanctified gentleman
who confided two sons (in law) to the parental
care of Mr. Squeers, as narrated in the fourth
chapter of this history. Mr. Smawley's house
was on the extreme borders of some new settle-
ments adjoining Somers Town, and Mr. Squeers
had taken lodgings therein for a short time, as
his stay was longer than usual, and the Saracen,
having experience of Master Wackford's appetite,
had declined to receive him on any other terms
than as a full-grown customer.
“Here we are ” said Squeers, hurrying Smake
into the little parlour, where Mr. Snawley and
his wife were taking a lobster supper. “Here's
the vagrant—the felon—the rebel—the monster
of unthankfulness.”
“What The boy that tun away cried
Snawley, resting his knife and fork upright on
the table, and opening his eyes to their full
width. •
“The very boy,” said Squeers, putting his fist
close to Smike's nose, and drawing it away again,
and repeating the process several times, with a
vicious aspect. “If there wasn't a lady present,
I’d fetch him such a- Never mind, I'll owe
it him.” t
And here Mr. Squeers related how, and in
3 #
!
what manner, and when and where, he had
picked up the runaway.
“It’s clear that there has been a Providence
in it, sir,” said Mr. Snawley, casting down his
eyes with an air of humility, and elevating his
fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards
the ceiling.
“Providence is against him, no doubt,” replied
Mr. Squeers, scratching his nose. “Of course ;
that was to be expected. Anybody might have
known that.”
“Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never
prosper, sir,” said Mr. Snawley. g ,
“Never was such a thing known, rejoined
Squeers, taking a little roll of notes from his
pocket-book, to see that they were all safe. .
“I have been, Mrs. Snawley,” said Mr.
Squeers when he had satisfied himself upon this
point, “I have been that chap's benefactor,
feeder, teacher, and clothier. I have been that
chap's classical, commercial, mathematical, philo.
sophical, and trigonomical friend. My son—my
only son, Wackford—has been his brother; Mrs.
Squeers has been his mother, grandmother, aunt,
—ah ! and I may say uncle too, all in one She
never cottoned to anybody, except them two en-
gaging and delightful boys of yours, as she cot-
toned to this chap. What's my return ? What's
come of my milk of human kindness P It turns
into curds and whey when I look at him.” .
“Well it may, sir,” said Mrs. Snawley.
Well it may, sir.”
“Where has he been all this time?” inquired
Snawley. “Has he been living with—— ?”
“Ah, sir!” interposed Squeers, confronting
him again, “Have you been a living with that
there devilish Nickleby, sir?”
But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike
one word of reply to this question; for he had
internally resolved that he would rather perish in
“Oh
the wretched prison to which he was again about
to be consigned, than utter one syllable which
could involve his first and true friend. He had
already called to mind the strict injunctions of
secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had
laid upon him when they travelled from York-
shire; and a confused and perplexed idea that
his benefactor might have committed some ter.
rible crime in bringing him away, which would
render him liable to heavy punishment if detected,
had contributed, in some degree, to reduce him
to his present state of apathy and terror.
Such were the thoughts—if to visions so im-
perfect and undefined as those which wandered
through his enfeebled brain the term can be ap-
plied—which were present to the mind of Smike,
and rendered him deaf alike to intimidation
and persuasion. Finding every effort useless,
Mr. Squeers conducted him to a little back-room
up-stairs, where he was to pass the night ; and,
taking the precaution of removing his shoes, and
coat and waistcoat, and also of locking the door
on the outside, lest he should muster up sufficient
energy to make an attempt at escape, that worthy
gentleman left him to his meditations.
What those meditations were, and how the
poor creature's heart sunk within him when he
thought—when did he, for a unoment, cease to
think 2–of his late home, and the dear friends
and familiar faces with which it was associated,
cannot be told. To prepare the mind for such
a heavy sleep, its growth must be stopped by
rigour and cruelty in childhood; there must be
years of misery and suffering, lightened by no
| ray of hope ; the chords of the heart, which
A FRIEND IN NEED ARA'ſ VES.
beat a quick response to the voice of gentleness
and affection, must have rusted and broken in
their secret places; and bear the lingering echo
of no old word of love or kindness.
indeed must have been the short day, and dull
the long, long twilight, preceding such a night
of intellect as his.
There were voices which would have roused
him, even then ; but their welcome tones' could
not penetrate there ; and he crept to bed the
same listless, hopeless, blighted creature that
Nicholas had first found him at the Yorkshire
school.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
IN which ANOTHER of D FRIEND ENCOUNTERS, SMIKE,
VERY O PPORTUNELY AND TO SOME PURPOSE,
AHE night, fraught with so much bitter-
ness to one poor soul, had given place
to a bright and cloudless summer
morning, when a north-country mail-
4 coach traversed, with cheerful noise,
º the yet silent streets of Islington, and,
3 giving brisk note of its approach with the
% lively winding of the guard's horn, clat-
tered onward to its Malting-place hard by the
Post Office.
The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-
looking countryman on the box, who, with his
eyes fixed upon the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral,
appeared so wrapped in admiring wonder as to be
quite insensible to all the bustle of getting out the
bags and parcels, until one of the coach windows
being let sharply down, he looked round, and
encountered a pretty female face which was just
then thrust out.
“See there, lass 1" bawled the countryman,
pointing towards the object of his admiration.
“There be Paul's Church. Ecod, he be a soiz-
able 'un, he be.” -
“Goodness, John
it could have been half the size.
monster . "
“Monsther!—Ye're aboot right there, Ireckon,
Mrs. Browdie,” said the countryman, good-
humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge
top-coat. “And wa'at dost thee tak', yon place
to be, noo—thot'un ower the wa'? Ye'd never
coom near it 'gin ye thried for twolve moonths.
It's na' but a Poast Office Ho ; ho They
need to charge for dooble latthers. A Poast
What a
Office Wa’at dost thee think o' thot P Ecod, if
thot's only a Poast Office, I'd loike to see where
the Lord Mayor o' Lunnum lives,
- - - *
Gloomy
I shouldn't have thought
l,
|
suse to go attempting to say you haven't.
253
So saying,” John Browdie—for he it was—
opened the coach door, and tapping Mrs.
Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he
looked in, burst into a boisterous fit of laughter.
“Weel !” said John. “Dang my bootuns if
she bean't asleep agean "
“She's been asleep all night, and was all
yesterday, except for a minute or two now, and
then,” réplied John Browdie's choice, “and I
was very sorry when she woke, for she has been
so cross l’’
The subject of these remarks was a slumber-
ing figure, so muffled in shawl and cloak, that it
would have been matter of impossibility to guess
at its sex but for a brown beaver bonnet and
green veil which ornamented the head, and
which, having been crushed and flattened, for
two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular
angle of the vehicle from which the lady's snores
now proceeded, presented an appearance suffi-
.ciently ludicrous to have moved less risible
muscles than those of John Browdie's ruddy
face.
“Hello 1" cried John, twitching one end of the
dragged veil. “Coom, wakken oop, will 'ee P”
After several burrowings into the old cor-
ner, and many exclamations of impatience and
fatigue, the figuré struggled into a sitting pos-
ture ; and there, under a mass of crumpled
beaver, and surrounded by a semicircle of blue
curl-papers, were the delicate features of Miss
Fanny Squeers.
“Oh, 'Tilda (" cried Miss Squeers, “how you
have been kicking of me through this blessed
night !”
“Well, I do like that,” replied her friend,
laughing, “when you have had nearly the whole
coach to yourself.”
“Don’t deny it, 'Tilda,” said Miss Squeers
impressively, “because you have, and it's no
You
mightn't have known it in your sleep, 'Tilda, but
I haven't closed my eyes for a single wink, and
so I think I am to be believed.” 4
With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the
bonnet and veil, which nothing but supernatural
interference and an utter suspensión of nature's
laws could have reduced to any shape or form ;
and evidently flattering herself. that it looked
uncommonly neat, brushed off the sandwich
crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumu-
lated in her lap, and, availing herself of John
Browdie's proffered arm, descended from the
coach.
“Noo,” said John when a hackney coach had
been called, and the ladies and the luggage
burried in, “gang to the Sarah's Head, mun,”




254
AVICHOLAS AVICKZAZ B Y.
“To the were 2" cried the coachman.
“Lawk, Mr. Browdieſ” interrupted Miss
Squeers. “The idea Saracen's Head.”
“Sure-ly,” said John, “I knowed it was some-
thing aboot Sarah's Son's Head. Dost thou
know thot P”
“Oh, ah : I know that,” replied the coacn-
man gruffly as he banged the door.
“'Tilda dear—really,” remonstrated Miss
Squeers, “we shall be taken for I don't know
what.” -
“Let them tak’ us as they foind us, said John
Browdie; “we dean't come to Lunnun to do
nought but 'joy oursel, do we ?”
“I hope not, Mr. Browdie,” replied Miss
Squeers, looking singularly dismal.
“Well, then,” said John, “it’s no matther.
I’ve only been a married man fower days,
'account of poor old ſeyther deem, and puttin'
it off. Here be a weddin'-party—broide and
bloidesmaid, and the groom—if a mun dean't
'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey?. Drat it
all, thot's what I want to know.” ºf
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy him-
self at once, and lose no time, Mr. Browdie gave
his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in wresting
another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly re-
sistance of scratching and struggling on the part
of that young lady, which was not quite over
when they reached the Saracen's Head.
, Here the party straightway retired to rest; the
refreshment of sleep being necessary after so
long a journey; and here they met again about
noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread, by direc-
tion of Mr. John Browdie, in -a small private
room up-stairs commanding an uninterrupted
view of the stables. -
To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested of
the brown beaver, the green veil, and the blue
curl-papers, and arrayed in all the virgin splen-
dour of a white ſrock and spencer, with a white
muslin bonnet, and an imitative damask rose in
full bloom on the inside thereof: her luxuriant
crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it
was impossible they could come out by any
accident, and her bonnet-cap trimmed with little
damask roses, which might be supposed to be so
many promising scions of the big one—to have
seen äll this, and to have seen the broad damask
belt, matching both the family rose and the little
ones, which encircled her slender waist, and by
a happy ingenuity took off from the shortness
of the spencer behind,-to have beheld all this,
and to have taken further into account the coral
bracelets (rather short of beads, and with a very
visible black string) which clasped her wrists,
and the coral necklace which rested on her neck,
*
supporting, outside her frock, a lonely cornelian
heart, typical of her own disengaged affections—
to have contemplated all these mute but expres-
sive appeals to the purest feelings of our nature,
might have thawed the frost of age, and added
new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of
youth.
The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was,
he had human passions and feelings, and he
looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed
the muffins. .
“Is my pa in, do you know 2" asked Miss
Squeers with dignity.
“Beg your pardon, miss P
“My pa,” repeated Miss Squeers, “ is he
ill. P.”
“ In where, miss P”
“In here—in the house !" replied Miss
Squeers. “My pa–Mr. Wackford Squeers—
he's stopping here. Is he at home 2"
“I didn't know there was any gen'l man of
that name in the house, miss,” replied the waiter
“There may be in the coffee-room.”
May be. Very pretty this, indeed Here
was Miss Squeers, who had been depending, all
the way to London, upon showing her friends
how much at home she would be, and how much
respectful notice her name and connections
would excite, told that her father might be there !
“As if he was a feller ” observed Miss Squeers
with emphatic indignation. -
“Ye'd betther inquire, mun,” said John Brow-
die. “An' hond up another pigeon-pie, will 'ee?
Dang the chap,” muttered John, looking into the
empty dish as the waiter retired; “does he ca'
this a pie—three yoong pigeons and a troifling
matther o' steak, and a crust soloight that you
doan't know when it's in your mooth, and when
it's gane P I wonder hoo many pies goes to a
breakſast !”
Aſter a short interval, which John Browdie
employed upon the ham and a cold round of beef,
the waiter returned with another pie, and the in-
formation that Mr. Squeers was not stopping in
- the house, but that he came there every day,
and that, directly he arrived, he should be shown
up-stairs. With this he retired; and he had not
retired two minutes, when he returned with Mr.
Squeers and his hopeful son.
“Why, who'd have thought of this P” said Mr.
Squeers, when he had saluted the party, and re-
ceived some private family intelligence from his
daughter. *
“Who, indeed, pa ” replied that young lady
spitefully. “But, vou see, Tilda is married at
last.”
“And I stond threat for a soight o' Lunnun,
*
zge schooz.MASTER AGAINST ALZ EAVGLAM/D/
255
schoolmeasther,” said John, vigorously attacking
the pie.
“One of them things that young men do when
they get married,” returned Squeers; “and as runs
through with their money like nothing at all!
How much better wouldn't it be, now, to save it
up for the eddication of any little boys, for in-
stance They come on you,” said Mr. Squeers
in a moralising way, “before you're aware of it;
mine did upon me.” -
“Will 'ee pick a bit?” said John. -
“I won't myself,” returned Squeers; “but, if
you'll just let little Wackford tuck into something
fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give it him in his
fingers, else the waiter charges ºt on, and there's
lot of profit on this sort of vittles without that.
If you hear the waiter coming, sir, shove it in
your pocket, and look out of the window, d'ye
hear?” .
“I’m awake,” replied the dutiful Wackford.
“Well,” said Squeers, turning to his daughter,
“it’s your turn to be married next. You must
make haste.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry : " said Miss Squeers
very sharply.
“No, Fanny ?” cried her old friend with some
archness. -
“No, 'Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers, shaking
her head vehemently. “I can wait.”
“So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,” ob-
served Mrs. Browdie.
“They an’t draw'd into it by me, "Tilda.” re-
torted Miss Squeers. w
“No,” returned her friend; “that's exceed-
ingly true.”
The sarcastic tone of this reply might have
provoked a rather acrimonious retort from Miss
Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally
vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by travel
and recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old
recollections, and the failure of her own designs
upon Mr. Browdie ; and the acrimonious retort
might have led to a great many other retorts,
which might have led to Heaven knows what, if
the subject of conversation had not been, at that
precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr.
Squeers himself.
“What do you think?” said that gentleman.
“Who do you suppose we have laid hands on,
Wackford and me?”
“Pat Not Mr.
able to finish the sentence, but Mrs. Browdie did
it for her, and added, “Nickleby P”
“No,” said Squeers. “But next door to him,
though.”
*.
clapping her hands.
?” Miss Squeers was un-
“ “You can't mean Smike?” cried Miss Squeers,
“Yes, I can, though,” rejoined her father.
“I’ve got him, hard and fast.” •
“Wa'at l” exclaimed John Browdie, pushing
away his plate. “Got that poor—dom'd scoon-
drel—where P”
“Why, in the top back-room, at my lodging,”
replied Squeers, “with him on one side, and the
key on the other.”
“At thy loodgin'ſ Thee'st gotten him at thy
loodgin'? Ho'ſ ho The schoolmeasther
agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun;
I'm darned but I must 'shak' thee by the hond
for thot.—Gotten him at thy loodgin’?”
“Yes,” replied Squeers, staggering in his chair
under the congratulatory blow on the chest which
the stout Yorkshireman déalt him—“ thankee:
Don't do it again. You mean it kindly, I know,
but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That's
‘not so bad, is it?” -
“Ba'ad P " repeated John Browdie.
eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell on.”
“I thought it would surprise you a bit,” said
Squeers, rubbing his hands. “It was pretty
neatly done, and pretty quick too.”
“Hoo wor it?” inquired John, sitting down
close to him. “Tell us all aboot it, mun; coom,
quick 1" -
Although he could not keep pace with John
Browdie's impatience, Mr. Squeers related the
lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his
hands as quickly as he could, and, except when
he was interrupted by the admiring remarks of
his auditors, paused not in the recital until he
had brought it to an end.
“For fear he should give me the slip by any
chance,” observed Squeers when he had finished,
looking very cunning, “I’ve taken three outsides
for to-morrow morning—for Wackford and him
and me—and have arranged to leave the accounts
and the new boys to the agent, don't you see?
So it's very lucky you come to-day, or you'd
have missed us; and as it is, unless you could
come and tea with me to-night, we shan’t see
anything more of you before we go away.”
“Dean't say anoother wurd,” returned, the
Yorkshireman, shaking him by the hand. “We'd
coom, if it was twonty mile.” -
“No, would you, though P” returned Mr.
Squeers, who had not expected quite such a
ready acceptance of his invitation, or he would
have considered twice before he gave it.
John Browdie's only reply was another squeeze
of the hand, and an assurance that they would
not begin to see London till to-morrow, so that
they might be at Mr. Snawley's at six o'clock
without fail; and, after some further conversation,
“It’s
Mr. Squeers and his son departed.
256
AV/CHO/AS AV/CA //; B k.
During the remainder of the day Mr. Browdie
was in a very odd and excitable state; bursting
occasionally into an explosion of laughter, and
then taking up his hat and running into the
coach-yard to have it out by himself. He was
very restless too, constantly walking in and out,
and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps of
tincouth country dances, and, in short, conduct-
ing himself in such a very extraordinary manner,
that Miss Squeers opined he was going mad, and,
begging her dear 'Tilda not to distress herself,
communicated her suspicions in so many words.
Mrs. Browdie, however, without discovering any
great alarm, observed that she had seen him so
once before, and that, although he was almost
sure to be ill after it, it would not be anything
very serious, and therefore he was better left
alone. -
The result proved her to be perfectly correct;
for, while they were all sitting in Mr. Snawley's
parlour that night, and just as it was beginning
to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, and
seized with such an alarming dizziness in the
head, that the whole company were thrown into
the utmost consternation. His good lady, in-
deed, was the only person present who retained
presence of mind enough to observe that if he
were allowed to lie down on Mr. Squeers's bed
for an hour or so, and left entirely to himself, he
would be sure to recover again almost as quickly
as he had been taken ill. . Nobody could refuse
to try the effect of so reasonable a proposal be-
fore sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John
was supported up-stairs with great difficulty;
being a monstrous weight, and regularly tum-
bling down two steps every time they hoisted
him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left
in charge of his wife, who, after a short interval,
reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying in-
telligence that he had fallen fast asleep.
Now, the fact was that, at that particular mo-
ment, John Browdie was sitting on the bed with
the reddest face ever seen, cramming the corner
of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent his
roaring out loud with laughter. He had no
Sooner succeeded in suppressing his emotion than
he slipped off his shoes, and, creeping into the
adjoining room where the prisoner was confined,
turned the key, which was on the outside, and
darting in, covered Smike's mouth with his huge
hand before he could utter a sound.
“Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun ?”
whispered the Yorkshireman to the bewildered
lad. “Browdie, chap as met thee efther school-
measther was banged P”
“Yes, yes!” cried Smike. “Oh, help me !”
“Help thee!” replied John, stopping his
mouth again the Instant he had said this much.
“Thee didn't need help, if thee warn’t as silly
yoongster as ever draw’d breath. Wa’at did 'ee
come here for, then P. "
“He brought me; oh! he brought me,” cried
Smike. • -
“Brout thee " replied John. “Why didn't
'ee punch his head, or lay theeself doon and kick,
and Squeal out for the pollis P I'd ha’ licked a
doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee.
But thee be’est a poor broken-doon chap,” said
John sadly, “and God forgi' me for bragging ower
yan o' his weakest creeturs . "
Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John
Browdie stoppedº him.
“Stan' still,” said the Yorkshireman, “and
doan't 'ee speak a morsel o' talk till I tell 'ee.”
With this caution, John Browdie shook his
head significantly, and, drawing a screw-driver
from his pocket, took off the box of the lock in
a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and
laid it, together with the implement, on the
floor. -
“See thot?” said John.
Noo, coot awa’l” -
Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to
comprehend his meaning.
“I say, coot awa’,” repeated John hastily.
“ Dost thee know where thee livest ? Thee
“Thot be thy doin'.
dost? Well. Are yon thy clothes, or school-
measther's P” - - * * - 7-"
“Mine,” replied Smike as the Yorkshireman
hurried him to the adjoining room, and pointed
out a pair of shoes and a coat which were lying
on a chair. -
“On wi' 'em,” said John, forcing the wrong
arm into the wrong sleeve, and winding the tails
of the coat round the fugitive's neck. “Noo,
foller me, and, when thee get'st ootside door,
turn to the right, and they wean't see thee
ass.” .
p “But—but—he'll hear me shut the door "re-
plied Smike, trembling from head to foot.
“Then dean't shut it at all,” retorted John
Browdie. “Dang it, thee bean't afeard o'
schoolmeasther's takkin cold, I hope?”
“N-no,” said Smike, his teeth chattering in
his head. “But he brought me back before, and
will again. He will, he will indeed.” -
“He wull, he wull !” replied John impatiently.
“He wean't, he wean't. Lookee I wont, to
do this neighbourly loike, and let them think
thee's gotten awa’so' theeself, but if he cooms
oot o' thot parlour awhiles theer’t clearing off,
he mun' have mercy on his oun boans, for I
wean't. If he foinds it oot soon efther, I'll put
'un on a wrong scent, I warrant ’ee. But, if thee
257
SM/KE MAKES OFF:
keep'st a good hart, thee'lt be at whoam afore
they know thee'st gotten off. Coom l’”
Smike, who comprehended just enough of this
to know it was intended as encouragement, pre-
pared to follow with tottering steps, when John
whispered in his ear:
“Thee'lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m
sploiced to 'Tilly Price, and to be heerd on at
the Saracen by latther, and that I bean't jealous
of 'un. Dang it, I'm loike to boost when I
think o' that neight ! 'Cod, I think I see 'un
| "I.
º |;
|||}|#
N'N
º: º
º º t
§§ §
;
now, a powderin' awa’ at the thin bread-an'-
butther ”
It was rather a ticklish recollection for John
just then, for he was within an ace of break-
ing out into a loud guffaw. Restraining
himself, however, just in time, by a great
effort, he glided down-stairs, hauling Smike
behind him ; and, placing himself close to
the parlour door, to confront the first person
that might come out, signed to him to make
SN
§
§
s
§§
§§§
§§ §§ º §
N
Vº
R
§
§§§
§§§
º
º
§
§N
s
§
º
º
:
§
“DARTING IN, cover ED SMIKE's MoUTH witH HIS HUGE HAND BEFoRE HE COULD UTTER A SOUND.”
Having got so far, Smike needed no second
bidding. Opening the house-door gently, and
casting a look of mingled gratitude and terror at
his deliverer, he took the direction which had
been indicated to him, and sped away like the
wind. , -
The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a
few minutes, but, finding that there was no pause
in the conversation inside, crept back again un-
heard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for
a full hour. Everything remaining perſectly
quiet, he got into Mr. Squeers's bed once more,
and, drawing the clothes over his head, laughed
till he was nearly smothered, -
If there could only have been somebody by
to see how the bedclothes shook, and to see the
Yorkshirennan's great red face and round head
appear above the sheets, every now and then,
like some jovial monster coming to the surface'
to breathe, and once more dive down convulsed
with the laughter which came bursting forth
afresh—that somebody would have been scarcely
less amused than John Browdie himself

258
AW/C/HOLAS NICKZEB Y.
CHAPTER XL
IN which NICHOLAs FALLs in Love. HE EMPLovs
A MEDIATOR, WHOSE PROCERDINGS ARE CROWNED
witH UN EXPECTED succEss, Excepting in one
SOLITARY PARTICULAR.
§§ NCE more outof the clutches of his old
persecutor, it needed no fresh stimu-
lation to call ſorth the utmost energy
and exertion that Smike was capable
of summoning to his aid. Without
pausing for a moment to reflect upon
the course he was taking, or the proba-
bility of its leading him homewards or
the reverse, he fled away with surprising swiftness
and constancy of purpose, borne upon such
wings as only Fear can wear, and impelled by
imaginary shouts in the well-remembered voice
of Squeers, who, with a host of pursuers, seemed
to the poor fellow's disordered senses to press
hard upon his track; now left at a greater dis-,
tance in the rear, and now gaining faster and
faster upon him, as the alternations of hope and
terror agitated him by turns. Long after he had
become assured that these sounds were but the
creation of his excited brain, he still held on at
a pace which even weakness and exhaustion
could scarcely retard. It was not until the dark-
ness and quiet of a country roãd recalled him to
a sense of external objects, and the starry sky
above warned him of the rapid flight of time,
that, covered with dust and panting for breath,
he stopped to listen and iodk about him.
All was still and silent. A glare of light in
the distance, casting a warm glow upon the sky,
marked where the huge city lay. Solitary fields,
divided by hedges and ditches, through many of
which he had crashed and scrambled in his flight,
skirted the road, both by the way he had come
and upon the opposite side. It was late now.
They could scarcely trace him by such paths as
he had taken, and, if he could hope to regain his
own dwelling, it must surely be at such a time as
that, and under cover of the darkness. This, by
degrees, became pretty plain, even to the mind
of Smike. He had, at first, entertained some
vague and childish, idea of travelling into the
country for ten or a dozen miles, and then re-
turning homewards by a wide circuit, which should
keep him clear of London—so great was his ap-.
prehension of traversing the streets alone, lest
he should again encounter his dreaded enemy—
but, yielding to the conviction which these
thoughts inspired, he turned back, and taking
the open road, though not without many fears
and misgivings, made for London again, with
scarcely less speed of foot than that with which
he had left the temporary abode of Mr. Squeers.
By the time he re-entered it, at the western
extremity, the greater part of the shops were
closed. . Of the throngs of people who had been
tempted abroad after the heat of the day, but
few remained in the streets, and they were loung-
ing home. But of these he asked his way from
time to time, and, by dint of repeated inquiries,
he at length reached the dwelling of Newman
Noggs.
All that evening Newman had been hunting
and searching in by-ways and corners for the very
person who now knocked at his door, while
Nicholas had been pursuing the same inquiry in
other directions. He was sitting, with a melan-
choly air, at his poor supper, when Smike's
timorous and uncertain knock reached his ears.
Alive to every sound in his anxious and expectant
State, Newman hurried down-stairs, and, utter-
ing a cry of joyful surprise, dragged the wekome
visitor into the passage and up the stairs, and
jaid not a word until he had him safe in his own
garret, and the door was shut behind them,
when he mixed a great mug-full of gin-and-water,
and holding it to Smike's mouth, as one might
hold a bowl of medicine to the lips of a refrac-
tory child, commanded him to drain it to the
last drop. -
Newman looked uncommonly blank when he
found that Smike did little more than put his
lips to the precious mixture; he was in the act
of raising the mug to his own mouth with a deep
sigh of compassion for his poor friend's weak-
ness, when Smike, beginning to relate the adven-
tures which had befallen him, arrested him half-
way, and he stood listening, with the mug in his
hand. -
It was odd enough to see the change that
came over Newman as Smike proceeded. At
first he stood rubbing his lips with the back of
his hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards com-
posing himself ſor a draught; then, at the men-
tion of Squeers, he took the mug under his arm,
and opening his eyes very wide, looked on in the
utmost astonishment. When Smike came to the
assault upon himself in the .hackney coach, he
hastily deposited, the mug upon the table, and
limped up and down the room in a state of the
greatest excitement, stopping himself with a jerk,
every now and then, as if to listen more atten-
tively. When John Browdie came to be spoken
of, he dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into
a chair, and rubbing his hands upon his knees
-quicker and quicker as the story reached its
climax—burst, at last, into a laugh composed of
one loud sonorous “Ha! ha " having given


SMIKE RESZORED Zo. HIS FRIEWOS.
vent to which, his countenance immediately fell
again as he inquired, with the utmost anxiety,
whether it was probable that John Browdie and
Squeers had come to blows.
“No l I think not,” replied Smike. “I don't
think he could have missed me till I had got
quite away.”
Newman scratched his head with a show of
great disappointment, and, once more lifting
up the mug, applied himself to the contents;
smiling meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim
and ghastly smile at Smike.
“You shall stay here,” said Newman ; “you're
tired—fagged. I'll tell them you're come back.
They have been half mad about you. . . Mr.
Nicholas——”
“God bless him 1" cried Smike.
“Amen l’’ returned Newman. “He hasn't
had a minute's rest or peace; no more has the
old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.”
“No, no Has she thought about me?”
said Smike. “Has she, though P Oh! has she
—has she P Don't tell me so if she has not.”
“She has,” cried Newman. “She is as noble-
hearted as she is beautiful.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Smike. “Well said "
“So mild and gentle,” said Newman.
“Yes, yes!” cried Smike with increasing
eagerness.
“And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,”
pursued Newman.
He was going on in his enthusiasm, when,
chancing to look at his companion, he saw that
he had covered his face with his hands, and that
tears were stealing out between his fingers.
A moment before, the boy's eyes were spark-
ling with unwonted fire, and every feature had
been lighted up with an excitement which made
him appear, for the moment, quite a different
being. -
“Well, well !” muttered Newman as if he were
a little puzzled. “It has touched me, more than
once, to think such a nature should have been
exposed to such trials; this poor fellow—yes,
yes—he feels that too—it softens him—makes
him think of his former misery. Hah!
it? Yes, that's—hum !”
It was by no means &lear, from the tone of
these broken reflections, that Newman Noggs
considered them as explaining, at all satisfac-
torily, the emotion which had suggested them.
He sat, in a musing attitude, for some time, re-
garding Smike occasionally with an anxious and
doubtful glance, which sufficiently showed that
he was not very remotely connected with his
thoughts. - -
At length he repeated his proposition that
That’s
|
- indeed !
259
Smike should remain where he was for that night,
and that he (Noggs) should straightway repair
to the cottage to relieve the suspense of the
| family. But, as Smike would not hear of this—
pleading his anxiety to see his friends again—
they eventually sallied forth together; and the
night being, by this time, far advanced, and
Smike being, besides, so footsore that he could
hardly crawl along, it was within an hour of sun-
rise when they reached their destination.
At the first sound of their voices outside the
house, Nicholas, who had passed a sleepless
night, devising schemes for the recovery of his
lost charge, started from his bed, and joyfully
admitted them. There was so much moisy con-
versation, and congratulation, and indignation,
that the remainder of the family were soon
awakened, and Smike received a warm and cor-
dial welcome, not only from Kate, but from Mrs.
Nickleby also, who assured him of her future
favour and regard, and was so obliging as to re-
late, for his entertainment and that of the assem-
bled circle, a most remarkable account, extracted
from some work the name of which she had never
known, of a miraculous escape from some prison,
but what one she couldn't remember, effected by
an officer whose name she had forgotten, con-
fined for some crime which she didn't clearly
recollect.
At first Nicholas was disposed to give his
uncle credit for some portion of this bold attempt
(which had so nearly proved successful) to carry
off Smike; but, on more mature consideration,
he was inclined to think that the full merit of it
rested with Mr. Squeers. . Determined to ascer-
tain, if he could, through John Browdie, how the
case really stood, he betook himself to his daily
occupation: meditating, as he went, on a great
variety of schemes for the punishment of the
Yorkshire schoolmaster, all of which had their
foundation in the strictest principles of retribu-
tive justice, and had but the one drawback of
being wholly impracticable. -- *
“A fine morning, Mr. Linkinwater | " said
Nicholas, entering the office.
“Ah!” replied Tim, “talk of the country,
What do you think of this, now, for a
day—a London day—eh?” -
“It's a little clearer out of town,” said Nicholas,
“Clearer " echoed Tim Linkinwater. “You -
should see it from my bedroom window." ..
“You should see it from mine,” replied
Nicholas with a smile. .*
“Pooh pooh [" said Tim Linkinwater, “don’t
tell me. Country 1” (Bow was quite a rustic
place to Tim.) “Nonsense What can you get
in the country but new-laid eggs and flowers?
z-
26o
A/CHOLAS N/CKZEB Y.
I can buy new-laid eggs in Leadenhail Market,
any morning before breakfast ; and as to flowers,
it's worth a run up-stairs to smell my mignonette,
or to see the double wallflower in the back-attic
window, at No. 6, in the court.”
“There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the
court, is there?” said Nicholas. -
“Yes, is there !” replied Tim, “and planted
in a cracked jug, without a spout. There were
hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming
in But you will laugh at that, of course.”
“At What P” -
“At their blossoming in old blacking bottles,”
said Tim.
“Not I, indeed,” returned Nicholas.
Tim looked wistfully at him for a moment, as
if he were encouraged by the tone of this reply
to be more communicative on the subject ; and
sticking behind his ear a pen that he had been
making, and shutting up his knife with a smart
click, said .
“They belong to a sickly, bedridden, hump-
backed boy, and seem to be the only pleasure,
Mr. Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many
years is it,” said Tim, pondering, “since I first
noticed him, quite a little child, dragging him-
self about on a pair of tiny crutches P , Well
Well ; Not many; but though they would
appear nothing, if I thought of other things,
they seem a long, long time, when I think of
him. It is a sad thing,” said Tim, breaking off,
“to see a little deformed child sitting apart from
other children, who are active and merry, watch-
ing the games he is denied the power to share
in. He made my heart ache very often.”
“It is a good heart,” said Nicholas, “that dis-
entangles itself from the close avocations of
every day, to heed such things. You were say-
Ing——”
“That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,”
said Tim ; “that's all. When it is fine weather,
and he can crawl out of bed, he draws a chair
close to the window, and sits there, looking at
them and arranging them, all day long. We
used to nod, at first, and then we came to speak.
Formerly, when I called to him of a morning,
and asked him how he was, he would smile, and
Say, ‘Better;' but now he shakes his head, and
only bends more closely over his old plants. It
must be dull to watch the dark housetops and
the flying clouds for so many months; but he is
very patient.” .
“Is there nobody in the house to cheer or
help him?” asked Nicholas.
“His father lives there, I believe,” replied
Tim, “and other people too; but no one seems
to care much for the poor sickly cripple. I
have asked him, very often, if I can do nothing
for him ; his answer is always the same,
“Nothing.” His voice is growing weak of late,
but I can see that he makes the old reply. He
can’t leave his bed now, so they have moved it
close beside the window, and there he lies all
day: now looking at the sky, and now at his
flowers, which he still makes shift to trim and
water with his own thin hands. At night, when
he sees my candle, he draws back his curtain,
and leaves it so till I am in bed. It seems such
company to him to know that I am there, that I
often sit at my window for an hour or more,
that he may see I am still awake; and some-
times I get up in the night to look at the dull
melancholy light in his little room, and wonder
whether he is awake or sleeping. - -
“The night will not be long coming,” said
Tim, “when he will sleep, and never wake again
on earth. We have never so much as shaken
hands in all our lives; and yet I shall miss him
like an old friend. Are there any country flowers
that could interest me like these, do you think 2
Or do you suppose that the withering of a hun-
dred kinds of the choicest flowers that blow,
called by the hardest Latin names that were ever .
invented, would give me one fraction of the pain
that I shall feel when these old jugs.and bottles
are swept away as lumber? Country !” cried
Tim with a contemptuous emphasis; “don’t you
know that I couldn’t have such a court under
my bedroom window anywhere but in London P”
With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and,
pretending to be absorbed in his accounts, took
an opportunity of hastily wiping his eyes when
he supposed Nicholas was looking another way.
Whether it was that Tim's accounts were more
than usually intricate that morning, or whether
it was t...at his habitual serchity had been a little
disturbed by these recollections, it so happened
that when Nicholas returned from executing
some commission, and inquired whether Mr.
Charles Cheeryble was alone in his room, Tim
promptly, and without the smallest hesitation,
replied in the affirmative, although somebody
had passed into the room not ten minutes be-
fore, and Tim took especial and particular pride
in preventing any intrusion on either of the
brothers when they were engaged with any
visitor whatever. -
“I’ll take this letter to him at once,” said
Nicholas, “ if that's the case.” And, with that, he
walked to the room and knocked at the door.
No answer.
Another knock, and still no answer.
“ He can't be here,” thought Nicholas.
lay it on his table.” -
“I’ll
*MySTER V 261
So, Nicholas opened the door and walked in ;
and very quickly he turned to walk out again,
when he saw, to his great astonishment and dis-
comfiture, a young lady upon her knees at Mr.
Cheeryble's feet, and Mr. Cheeryble beseeching
her to rise, and entreating a third person, who
had the appearance of the young lady's female
attendant, to add her persuasions to his to in-
duce her to do so. .
Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology,
and was precipitately retiring, when the young
lady, turning her head a little, presented to his
view the features of the lovely girl whom he had
seen at the register office on his first visit long
before. Glancing from her to the attendant, he
recognised the same clumsy servant who had
accompanied her then ; and between his admi-
ration of the young lady's beauty, and the
confusion and surprise of this unexpected recog-
nition, he stood stock-still, in such a bewildered
state of surprise and embarrassment that, for the
moment, he was quite bereft of the power either
to speak or move. . -
“My dear ma'am—my dear young lady,” cried
brother Charles in violent agitation, “pray don't
—not another word, I beseech and entreat you !
I implore you—I beg of you—to rise. We—we
—are not alone.” -
As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who
staggered to a chair and swooned away.
“She has ſainted, sir," said Nicholas, darting
eagerly forward.
“Poor dear, poor dear!” cried brother Charles.
“Where is my brother Ned P. Ned, my dear
brother, come here, pray.” -
“Brother Charles, my dear fellow,” replied his
brother, hurrying into the reom, “what is the-
ah! what—” -
“Hush hush —not a word for your life,
brother Ned,” returned the other. “Ring for
the housekeeper, my dear brother—call Tim
Linkinwater | Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir—Mr.
Nickleby, my dear sir, leave the room, I beg and
beseech of you.'
“I think she is better now,” said Nicholas,
who had been watching the patient so eagerly,
that he had not heard the request.’
“Poor bird." cried, brother Charles, gently
taking her hand in his, and laying her head upon
his arm. “Brother Ned, my dear fellow, you
will be surprised, I know, to witness this, in
business hours; but——” Here he was again
reminded of the presence of Nicholas, and, shak-
ing him by the hand, earnestly requested him to
leave the room, and to send Tim Linkinwater
without an instant's delay.
Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on nis
iNicholas NICKLEBY. 18.
way to the counting-house, met both the old
housekeeper and Tim Linkinwater, jostling each
other in the passage, and hurrying to the scene
of action with extraordinary speed. Without
waiting to hear his message, Tim Linkinwater
darted into the room, and presently afterwards
Nicholas heard the door shut and locked on the
inside.
He had abundance of time to ruminate on
this discovery, for Tim Linkinwater was absent
during the greater part of an hour, during the
whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing
but the young lady, and her exceeding beauty,
and what could possibly have brought her there,
and why they made such a mystery of it. The
more he thought of all this, the more it perplexed
him, and the more anxious he became to know
who and what she was. “I should have known
her among ten thousand,” thought Nicholas.
And, with that, he walked up and down the
room, and recalling her face and figure (of which
he had a peculiarly vivid remembrance), dis-
carded all other subjects of reflection, and dwelt
upon that alone.
At length Tim Linkinwater came back—pro-
vokingly cool, and with papers in his hand, and
a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.
“Is she quite recovered P” said Nicholas
impetuously.
“Who P” returned Tim Linkinwater. ,
“Who 1" repeated Nicholas. “The young
lady.”
“What do you make, Mr. Nickleby,” said
Tim, taking his pen out of his mouth, “what
do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven
times three thousand two hundred and thirty-
eight?” - -
“Nay,” returned Nicholas, “what do you
make of my question first P I asked you——”
“About the young lady,” said Tim Linkin-
water, putting on his spectacles. “To be sure.
Yes. Oh I she's very well.”
“Very well, is she P” returned Nicholas.
“Very well,” replied Mr. Linkinwater gravely,
“Will she be able to go home to-day P” asked
Nicholas.
“She’s gone,” said Tim. .
“Gone º'
& g Yes.” - -
“I hope she has not far to go?” said
Nicholas, looking earnestly at the other.
“Ay,” replied the immovable Tim, “I hope
she hasn't.”
Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks,
but it was evident that Tim Linkinwater had his
own reasons for evading the subject, and that
he was determined to afford no further informa-
224
262
AV/CHOLAS AV/CX CAE B Y.
tion respecting the fair unknown, who had
awakened so much curiosity in the breast of his
young friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse,
Nicholas returned to the charge next day,
emboldened by the circumstance of Mr. Linkin-
water being in a very talkative and communica-
tive mood ; but, directly he resumed the theme,
Tim relapsed into a state of most provoking
taciturnity, and, from answering in monosyllables,
came to returning no answers at all, save such
as were to be inferred from several grave nods
and shrugs, which only served to whet that appetite
for intelligence in Nicholas which had alreday
attained a most unreasonable height.
Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to con-
tent himself with watching for the young lady's
next visit, but here again he was disappointed.
Day after day passed, and she did not return.
He looked eagerly at the superscription of all
the notes and letters, but there was not one
among them which he could fancy to be in her
handwriting. On two or three occasions he
was employed on business which took him to a
distance, and had formerly been transacted by
Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help
suspecting that, for some reason or other, he was
sent out of the way on purpose, and that the
young lady was there in his absence. Nothing
transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion,
and Tim could not be entrapped into any con-
fession or admission tending to support it in the
Smallest degree, - -
Mystery and disappointment are not abso-
lutely indispensable to the growth of love, but
they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” is well enough as
a proverb applicable to cases of friendship,
though absence is not always necessary to hol-
lowness of heart, even between friends, and
truth and honesty, like precious stones, are
perhaps most easily imitated at a distance, when
the counterfeits often pass for real. Love, how-
ever, is very materially assisted by a warm and
active imagination : which has a long memory,
and will thrive, for a considerable time, on very
slight and sparing food. Thus it is that it often
attains its most luxuriant growth in separation,
and under circumstances of the utmost difficulty;
and thus it was that Nicholas, thinking of nothing
but the unknown young lady, from day to day
and from hour to hour, began, at last, to think
that he was very desperately in love with her,
and that never was such an ill-used and per-
secuted lover as he.
Still, though he loved and languisned after
the most orihodox models, and was only deterred.
from making a confidante of Kate by the slight
. Nicholas to the very highest pitch.
considerations of having never, in all his life,
spoken to the object of his passion, and having
never set eyes upon her, except on two occa-
sions, on both of which she had come and
gone like a flash of lightning—or, as Nicholas
himself said, in the numerous conversations he
held with himself, like a vision of youth and
beauty much too bright to last—his ardour and
devotion remained without its reward. The
young lady appeared no more; so there was a
great deal of love wasted (enough, indeed, to
have set up half-a-dozen young gentlemen, as
times go, with the utmost decency), and nobody
was a bit the wiser for it; not even Nicholas
himself, who, on the contrary, became more
dull, sentimental, and lackadaisical every day.
While matters were in this state, the failure of
a correspondent of the brothers Cheeryble, in
Germany, imposed upon Tim Linkinwater and
Nicholas the necessity of going through some
very long and complicated accounts, extending
over a considerable space of time. To get
through them with the greater dispatch, Tim
Linkinwater proposed that they should remain
at the counting-house, for a week or so, until ten
o'clock at night. To this, as nothing damped
the zeal of Nicholas in the service of his kind
patrons—not even romance, which has seldom
business habits—he cheerfully assented. On
the very first night of these later hours, at nine
exactly, there came, not the young lady herself,
but her servant, who, being closeted with
brother Charles for some time, went away, and
returned next night at the same hour, and on
the next, and on the next again. -
These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of
Tantalised
and excited beyond all bearing, and unable to
fathom the mystery without neglecting his duty,
he confided the whole secret to Newman Noggs,
imploring him to be on the watch next night;
to follow the girl home; to set on foot such
inquiries relative to the name, condition, and
history of her mistress, as : he could, without
exciting suspicion; and to report the result to .
him with the least possible delay.
Beyond all measure proud of this commission,
Newman Noggs took up his post in the square,
on the following evening, a full hour before the
needful time, and planting himself behind the
pump, and pulling his hat ovel his eyes, began
his watch with an elaborate appearance of mys-
tery, admirably calculated to excite the suspicion
of all beholders. Indeed, divers servant-girls who
came to draw water, and sundry little boys who
stopped to drink at the ladle, were almost scared
out of their senses by the apparition of Newman
GREAZ. SvcCESS OF NEWMAN AWOGGS.
263
Noggs, looking stealthily round the pump, with
nothing of him visible but his face, and that
wearing the expression of a meditative Ogre.
Punctual to her time, the messenger came
again, and, after an interview of rather longer
duration than usual, departed. Newman had
made two appointments with Nicholas : one for
the next evening, conditional on his success:
and one the next night following, which was to be
kept under all circumstances. The first night he
was not at the place of meeting (a certain tavern
about half-way between the City and Golden
Square), but on the second night he was there be-
fore Nicholas, and received him with open arms.
“It's all right,” whispered Newman. “Sit
down—sit down, there's a dear young man, and
let me tell you all about it.” -
Nicholas needed no second invitation, and
eagerly inquired what was the news.
“There's a great deal of news,” said Newman
in a flutter of exultation. ." It's all right. Don't
be anxious. I don't know where to begin.
Never mind that. Keep up your spirits. It's
all right.” w -
“Well?” said Nicholas eagerly. “Yes?”
“Yes,” replied Newman. “That's it.”
“What's it P” said Nicholas. “The name—
the name, my dear fellow !”
“The name's Bobster,” replied Newman.
“Bobster 1" repeated Nicholas indignantly.
“That's the name,” said Newman. “I re-
member it by lobster.”
“Bobster 1" repeated Nicholas more empha-
tically than before. “That must be the servant's
name.” - -
“No, it an’t,” said Newman, shaking his head
with great positiveness. “Miss Cecilia Bobster.”
“Cecilia, eh?” returned Nicholas, muttering
the two names together over and over again in
every variety of tone, to try the effect. “Well,
Cecilia is a pretty name."
“Very. And a pretty creature too,” said
Newman.
“Who P” said Nicholas.
“Miss Bobster.”
“Why, where have you seen her?” demanded
Nicholas.
“Never mind, my dear boy,” retorted Noggs,
clapping him on the shoulder. “I have seen
her. You shall see her. I've managed it all."
, “My dear Newman,” cried Nicholas, grasping
his hand, “are you serious P” -
“I am,” replied Newman. “I mean it all.
Every word. You shall see her to-morrow
night.” She consents to hear you speak for
yourself. I persuaded her. She is all affability,
goodness, sweetness, and beauty.”
|
“I know she is ; I know she must be, New-
man ſ” said Nicholas, wringing his hand.
“You are right,” returned Newman.
“Where does she live?” cried Nicholas.
“What have you learnt of her history? Has
she a father—mother—any brothers—sisters ?
What did she say ? How came you to see her P
Was she not very much surprised P Did you
say how passionately I have longed to speak to
her ? Did you tell her where I had seen her P
HDid you tell her how, and when, and where, and
how long, and how often, I have thought of that
Sweet face which came upon me in my bitterest
distress like a glimpse of some better world—
did you, Newman—did you?”
Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this
flood of questions rushed upon him, and moved
spasmodically in his chair at every fresh inquiry,
staring at Nicholas meanwhile with a most
ludicrous expression of perplexity.
“No,” said Newman, “I didn't tell her that.”
“Didn't tell her which P” asked Nicholas.
“About the glimpse of the better world,” said
Newman. “I didn't tell her who you were,
either, or where ou'd seen her. I said you
loved her to distraction.” * -
“That's true, Newman,” replied Nicholas
with his characteristic vehemence. “Heaven
knows I do 1"
“I said, too, that you had admired her for a .
long time in secret,” said Newman.
“Yes, yes. What did she say to that?" asked
Nicholas.
‘: Blushed,” said Newman.
“To be sure Of course she would,” said
Nicholas approvingly.
Newman then went on to say that the young
lady was an only child, that her mother was
dead, that she resided with her father, and that
she had been induced to allow her lover a secret
interview at the intercession of her servant, who
had great influence with her. He further related
how it required much moving and great elo-
quence to bring the young lady to this pass;
how it was expressly understood that she merely
afforded Nicholas an opportunity of declaring
his passion; and how she by no means pledged
herself to be favourably impressed with his
attentions. The mystery of her visits to the
brothers Cheeryble remained , wholly unex-
plained, for Newman had not alluded to them,
either in his preliminary conversations with the
servant or his subsequent interview with the
mistress, merely remarking that he had been
instructed to watch the girl home and plead his
young friend's cause, and not saying how far he
had followed her, or from what point, But,
264
A/CHOzAS AWCKZEBY.
Newman hinted that, from what had fallen from
the confidante, he had been led to suspect that
the young lady led a very miserable and un-
happy life, under the strict control of her only
parent, who was of a violent and brutal temper
—a circumstance which he thought might in
some degree account both for her having sought
the protection and friendship of the brothers,
and her suffering herself to be prevailed upon
to grant the promised interview. The last he
held to be a very logical deduction from the
premises, inasmuch as it was but natural to
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THE MEDITATIVE OGRE.
suppose that a young lady, whose present con-
dition was so unenviable, would be more than
commonly desirous to change it. .
It appeared, on further questioning—for it
was only by a very long and arduous process
that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs
—that Newman, in explanation of his shabby
appearance, had represented himself as being,
for certain wise and indispensable purposes con-
nected with that intrigue, in disguise ; and,
being questioned how he had come to exceed
his commission so far as to procure an interview,

A LL RIGHT!—A LL READ Y. 265
he responded that, the lady appearing willing to
grant it, he considered himself bound, both in
duty and gallantry, to avail himself of such a .
golden means of enabling Nicholas to prosecute
his addresses. After these and all possible
questions had been asked and answered twenty
times over, they parted, undertaking to meet on
the following night at half-past ten, for the pur-
pose of ſulfilling the appointment; which was
for eleven o'clock. - -
“Things come about very strangely " thought
Nicholas as he walked home. “I never con-
templated anything of this kind; never dreamt
of the possibility of it. To know, something of
the life of one in whom I felt such interest; to
see her in the street, to pass the house in which
she lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks,
to hope that a day night come when I might be
in a condition to tell her of my love, this was
the utmost extent of my thoughts. Now, how-
ever But I should be a foolindeed to repine
at my own good fortune 1" t
Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was
more in the dissatisfaction than mere revulsion
of feeling. He was angry with the young lady
for being so easily won, “because,” reasoned
Nicholas, “it is not as if she knew it was I, but
it might have been anybody,”—which was cer-
tainly not pleasant. The next moment he was
angry with himself for entertaining such thoughts,
arguing that nothing but goodness could dwell
in such a temple, and that the behaviour of the
brothers sufficiently showed the estimation in
which they held her. “The fact is, she's a
mystery altogether,” said Nicholas. This was
not more satisfactory than his previous course
of reflection, and only drove him out upon a
new sea of speculation and conjecture, where he
tossed and tumbled, in great discomfort of mind,
until the clock struck ten, and the hour of meet-
ing drew nigh.
Nicholas had dressed himself with great care,
and even Newman Noggs had trimmed himself.
up a little ; his coat presenting the phenomenon
of two consecutive buttons, and the supple-
mentary pins being inserted at tolerably regular
"intervals. He wore his hat, too, in the newest
taste, with a pocket-handkerchief in the crown,
and a twisted end of it straggling out behind
after the fashion of a pigtail, though he could
scarcely lay claim to the ingenuity of inventing
this latter decoration, inasmuch as he was utterly
unconscious of it: being in a nervous and excited
condition which rendered him quite insensible to
everything but the great object of the expedition.
They traversed the streets in profound silence;
and, after walking at a round pace for some dis-
tance, arrived in one, of a gloomy appearance and
very littke frequented, near the Edgeware Road.
“Number Twelve,” said Newman.
“Oh ” replied Nicholas, looking about him.
“Good street P” said Newman.
“Yes,” returned Nicholas. “Rather dull.”
Newman made no answer to this remark, but,
halting abruptly, planted Nicholas with his back
to some area railings, and gave him to under-
stand that he was to wait there, without moving
hand or foot, until it was satisfactorily ascer-
tained that the coast was clear. This done,
Noggs limped away with great alacrity ; looking
over his shoulder every instant, to make quite
certain that Nicholas was obeying his directions;
and, ascending the steps of a house some half-
dozen doors off, was lost to view.
After a short delay he reappeared, and, limp-
ing back again, halted midway, and beckoned
Nicholas to follow him.
“Well ?” said Nicholas, advancing towards
him on tiptoe.
“All right,” replied Newman in high glee.
“All ready.; nobody at home. Couldn’t be
better. Ha ha ” -
With this ſortifying assurance, he stole past a
street-door, on which Nicholas caught a glimpse
of a brass plate, with “BoBSTER" in very large
letters ; and, stopping at the area gate, which
was open, signed to his young friend to descend.
“What the devil " cried Nicholas, drawing
back. “Are we to sneak into the kitchen, as
..if we came after the forks P”
“Hush | " replied Newman. “Old Bobster
—ferocious Turk. He'd kill 'em all—box the
young lady's ears—he does—often.”
“What " cried Nicholas in high wratn, “do
you mean to tell me that any man would dare
to box the ears of such a-—”
He had no time to sing the praises of his
mistress just then, for Newman gave him a
gentle push, which had nearly precipitated him
to the bottom of the area steps. Thinking it
best to take the hint in good part, Nicholas
descended without further remonstrance, but
with a countenance bespeaking anything rather
than the hope and rapture of a passionate lover.
Newman followed—he would have followed
head first, but for the timely assistance of
Nicholas—and, taking his hand, led him through
a stone passage, profoundly dark, into a back-
kitchen or cellar, of the blackest and most
pitchy obscurity, where they stopped.
“Well !” said Nicholas - in a discontented
Whisper, “this is not all, I suppose, is it 2 ”
“No, no,” rejoined Noggs; “they'll be here
directly. It's all right.” -
º
ſº
266
AVICHOLAS MICALEAE Y.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Nicholas. “I
shouldn't have thought it, I confess.” "
They exchanged no further words, and there
Nicholas stood, listening to the loud breathing
of Newman Noggs, and imagining that his nose
seemed to glow like a red-hot coal, even in the
midst of the darkness which enshrouded them.
Suddenly the sound of cautious footsteps at-
tracted his ear, and directly aſterwards a female-
voice inquired if the gentleman was there.
“Yes,” replied Nicholas, turning towards the
corner from which the voice proceeded. “Who
is that P” -
“Only me, sir,” replied the voice.
if you please, ma'am.” - -
A gleam of light shone into the place, and
presently the servant-girl appeared, bearing a
light, and followed by her young mistress, who
seemed to be, overwhelmed by modesty and
confusion. -
At sight of the young lady, Nicholas started .
and changed colour; his heart beat violently,
and he stood rooted to the spot. At that in-
stant, and almost simultaneously with her arrival
and that of the candle, there was heard a loud
and furious knocking at the street-door, which
caused Newman Noggs to jump up, with great
agility, from a beer barrel on which he had been
seated astride, and to exclaim abruptly, and with
a face of ashy paleness, “Bobster, by the Lord . "
The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung
her hands, Nicholas gazed from one to the other
in apparent stupefaction, and Newman hurried
to and fro, thrusting his hands into all his pockets
successively, and drawing out the linings of every
one in the excess of his irresolution. It was but
a moment, but the confusion crowded into that
one moment no imagination can exaggerate.
“Leave the house, for Heaven's sake We
Thave done wrong—we deserve it all !” cried
the young lady. “Leave the house, or I am
ruined and undone for ever !”
“Will you hear me say but one word P” cried
Nicholas. “Only one. I will not detain you.
Will you hear me say one word in explanation
of this mischance?”
But Nicholas might as well have spoken to
the wind, for the young lady, with distracted
looks, hurried up the stairs. He would have
followed her, but Newman, twisting his hand in
his coat collar, dragged him towards the passage.
by which they had entered.
“Let me go, Newman, in the Devil's name
cried Nicholas. “I must speak to her—I will !
I will not leave this house without.”
“Reputation — character—violence—consi-
der,” said Newman, clinging round him with
“Now,
1 *
&
both arms, and hurrying him away. “ Let them
open the door. We'll go, as we came, directly
it's shut. . . Come. This way. Here.”
Overpowered by the remonstrances of New-
man, and the tears and prayers of the girl, and
the tremendous knocking above, which had
never ceased, Nicholas allowed himself to be
hurried off; and, precisely as Mr. Bobster made
his entrance by the street-door, he and Noggs
made their exit by the area gate.
They hurried away, through several streets,
without stopping or speaking. At last they
halted, and confronted each other with blank
and rueful faces. - -
“Never mind,” said Newman, gasping for
breath. “Don’t be cast down. It's all right.
, More fortunate next time. It couldn't be helped.
I did my part.” •/ - - *
“Excellently,” replied Nicholas, taking his
hand. “Excellently, and like the true and
zealous friend you are. Only—mind, I am not
disappointed, Newman, and feel just as much
indebted to you—only it was the wrong lady.”
“Eh P” cried Newman Noggs. “Taken in
by the servant?”
“Newman, Newman,” said Nicholas, laying
his hand upon his shoulder: “it was the wrong
servant too.”
Newman's under jaw dropped, and he gazed
at Nicholas, with his sound eye fixed fast and
motionless in his head. *
., “Don’t take it to heart,” said Nicholas ; “it’s
of no consequence; you see I don't care about
it; you followed the wrong person, that's all.".
That was all. Whether Newman Noggs had
looked round the pump, in a slanting direction,
so long, that his sight became impaired ; or
whether, finding that there was time to spare,
he had recruited himself with a few drops of
something stronger than the pump could yield
—by whatsoever means it had come to pass,
this was his mistake. And Nicholas went home
to brood upon it, and to meditate upon the
charms of the unknown young lady, now as far
beyond his reach as ever.
CHAPTER XLI.
containING SoME ROMANTIC PASSAGES BETWEEN
MRS. NICKLEBY AND THE GENTLEMAN IN THE
SMALL-CLOTHES NEXT DOOR. -
VER since her last momentous conversa-
tion with her son, Mrs. Nickleby had
begun to display unusual care in the adorn-
ment of her person, gradually superadding to
- - f.
ASSOC/ATIONS OF / OFAS.
267
those staid and matronly habiliments which
had, up to that time, formed her ordinary
attire, a variety of embellishments and decora-
tions, slight, perhaps, in themselves, but, taken
together, and considered with reference to the
subject of her disclosure, of no mean importance.
Evel, her black dress assumed something of a
deadly-lively air from the jaunty style in which
it was worn ; and eked out, as its lingering
attractions were, by a prudent disposal, here
and there, of certain juvenile ornaments of little
or no value, which had, for that reason alone,
escaped the general wreck, and been permitted
to slumber peacefully in odd corners of old
drawers and boxes where daylight seldom shone,
her mourning garments assumed quite a new
character. From being the outward tokens of
respect and sorrow for the dead, they became
converted into signals of very slaughterous and
killing designs upon the living. * -
Mrs. Nickleby might have been stimulated to
this proceeding by a lofty sense of duty, and
impulses of unquestionable excellence. She
might, by this time, have become impressed
with the sinfulness of long indulgence in unavail-
ing woe, or the secessity of setting a proper
example of neatness and decorum to her bloom-
ing daughter. Considerations of duty and re-
sponsibility apart, the change might have taken
its rise in feelings of the purest and most disin-
terested charity. The gentleman next door had
been vilified by Nicholas; rudely stigmatised as
a dotard and an idiot; and, for these attacks
upon his understanding, Mrs. Nickleby was, in
some sort, accountable. She might have felt
that it was the act of a good Christian to show,
by all means in her power, that the abused
gentleman was neither the one nor the other.
And what better means could she adopt, towards
so virtuous and laudable an end, than proving
to all men, in her own person, that his passion
was the most rational and reasonable in the
world, and just the very result, of all others,
which discreet and thinking persons might have
foreseen, from her incautiously displaying her ma-
tured charms, without reserve, under the very eye,
as it were, of an ardent and too-susceptible man P
“Ah !” said Mrs. Nickleby, gravely shaking
her head ; “if Nicholas knew what his poor
dear papa suffered before we were engaged,
when I used to hate him, he would have a little
more feeling. Shall I ever forget the morning
I looked scornfully at him when he offered to
carry my parasol 2 Or that night when I
frowned at him P. It was a mercy he didn't
emigrate. It very nearly drove him to it.” * ,
Whether the deceased might not have been
better off if he had emigrated in his bachelor
days, was a question which his relict did not
stop to consider; for Kate entered the room,
with her workbox, in this stage of her reflections;
and a much slighter interruption, or no interrup.
tion at all, would have diverted Mrs. Nickleby's
thoughts into a new channel at any time.
“Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I
don’t know how it is, but a fine warm summer
day like this, with the birds singing in every
direction, always puts me in mind of roast pig,
with Sage-and-onion sauce, and made gravy.”
“That’s a curious association of ideas, is it
not, mannma P”
“Upon my word, my dear, I don't know,”
replied Mrs. Nickleby. “Roast pig-let me
see. On the day five weeks after you were
christened we had a roast—no, that couldn't
have been a pig, either, because I recollect there
were a pair of them to carve, and your poor
papa and I could never have thought of sitting
down to two pigs—they must have been par.
tridges. Roast pig I hardly think we ever
could have had one, now I come to remember,
for your papa could never bear the sight of them
in the shops, and used to say that they always
put him in mind of very little babies, only the
pigs had much fairer complexions; 2nd he had
a horror of little babies, too, because he couldn't
very well afford any increase to his family, and
had a natural dislike to the subject. It's very
odd, now, what can have put that in my head
I recollect dining once at Mrs. Bevan's, in that
broad street round; the corner by the coach-
maker's, where the tipsy man fell through the
cellar-flap of an empty house nearly a week
before the quarter-day, and wass’t found till the
new tenant went in—and we had roast pig there.
It must be that, I think, that reminds me of it,
especialºy as there was a little bird in the room
that would keep on singing all the time of dinner
—at least, not a little bird for it was a parrot,
and he didn’t sing exactly, for he talked and
Swore dreadfully: but I think it must be that.
Indeed, I am sure it must. Shouldn't you say
So, my dear P”
“I should say there was not a doubt about it,
mamma,” returned Kate with a cheerful smile.
“No ; but do you think so, Kate P” said Mrs.
Nickleby with as much gravity as if it were a
question of the most imminent and thrilling
interest. “If you don't, say so at once, you
know ; because it's just as well to be correct,
particularly on a point of this kind, which is
very curious, and worth settling while one
thinks about it.” £
Kate laughingly replied that she was quite
a'
268.
M/CHOLAS M/CAZAA y.
convinced; and, as her mamma still appeared
undetermined whether it was not absolutely
essential that the subject should be renewed,
proposed that they should take their work into
the summer-house, and enjoy the beauty of the
afternoon. Mrs. Nickleby readily assented, and
to the summer-house they repaired without fur-
ther discussion.
“Well, I will say,” observed Mrs. Nickleby
as she took her seat, “that there never was
such a good creature as Smike. Upon my word,
the pains he has taken in putting this little
arbour to rights, and training the sweetest flowers
about it, are beyond anything I could have
I wish he wouldn't put all the gravel on your
side, Kate, my dear, though, and leave nothing
but mould for me.”
“Dear mamma,” returned Kate hastily, “take.
this seat—do—to oblige me, manma.”
“No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own
side,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “Well I declare "
Kate looked up inquiringly.
“If he hasn't been,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
“ and got, from somewhere or other, a couple
of roots of those. flowers that I said I was so
ſond of the other night, and asked you if you
were not—no, that you said you were so fond of
the other night, and asked me if I wasn't—it's
the same thing. Now, upon my word, I take
that as very kind and attentive indeed I don't
see,” added Mrs. Nickleby, looking narrowly
about her, “any of them on my side, but I sup-
pose they grow best near the gravel. You may
depend upon it they do, Kate, and that's the
reason they are all near you, and he has put the
gravel there because it's the sunny side. Upon
my word, that's very clever, now ! I shouldn't
have had half as much thought myself!”
“Mamma,” said Kate, bending over her work
so that her face was almost hidden, “before you
; :
were married
* Dear me, Kate,” interrupted Mrs. Nickleby,
“what in the name of goodness graciousness
makes you fly off to the time before I was
married, when I'm talking to you about his
thoughtfulness and attention to me? You don't
seem to take the smallest interest in the garden.”
“Oh, mamma Y” said Kate, raising her face
again, “you know I do.”
“Well, then, my dear, why don't you praise
the neatness and prettiness with which it's
kept P” said Mrs. Nickleby.
you are, Kate '"
“I do praise it, mamma,” answered Kate
gently. “Poor fellow !”
“I scarcely ever hear you, my dear,” retorted
Mrs. Nickleby; “that's all I've got to say.” By
“How very odd
* ... g's sº a zº
this time the good lady had been a long while
upon one topic, so she fell at once into her
daughter's little trap—if trap it were –and in-
quired what she had been going to say,
“About what, mamma P” said Kate, who had
apparently quite forgotten her diversion.
“Lor, Kate, my dear,” returned her mother,
“why, you're asleep or stupid About the time
before I was married.” :
“Oh yes " said Kate, “I remember. I was
going to ask, mamma, before you were married.
had you many suitors P” . . .
“Suitors, my dear!” cried Mrs. Nickleby with
a smile of wonderful complacency. “First and
last, Kate, I must have had a dozen' at least.”
“Mamma " returned Kate in a tone of re-
monStrance.
“I had indeed, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby;
“not including your poor papa, , or a young
gentleman who used to go, at that time, to the
same dancing school, and who would send gold
watches and bracelets to our house in gilt-edged
paper, (which were always returned,) and who
afterwards ushfortunately went out to Botany Bay
in a cadet ship—a convict ship I mean—and
escaped into a bush and killed sheep, (I don't
know how they got there,) and was going to be
hung, only he accidentally choked himself, and
the government pardoned him. Then there was
young Lukin,” said Mrs. Nickleby, beginning
with her left thumb, and checking off the names
on her fingers—“Mogley–Tipslark—Cabber
—Smifser—— . f
Having now reached her little finger, Mrs.
Nickleby was carrying the account over to the
other hand, when a loud “Henn " which ap-
peared to come from the very foundation of the
garden wall, gave both herself and her daughter
a violent start. -
“Mamma what was that P” said Kate in a
low tone of voice.
“Upon my word, my dear,” returned Mrs.
Nickleby, considerably startled, “unless it was
the gentleman belonging to the mext house, I
don't know what it could possibly s
“A—hem " cried the same voice; and that
not in the tone of an ordinary clearing of the
throat, but in a kind of bellow, which woke up
all the echoes in the neighbourhood, and was
prolonged to an extent which must have made
the unseen bellower quite black in the face.
“I understand it now, my dear,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, laying her hand on Kate's ; “don’t.
be alarmed, my love, it's not, directed to you,
and is not intended to frighten anybody. Let
us give everybody their due, Kate; I am bound
to say that.”
7//E GAEAV7 IAEAMAN AWEX7 DOOR APPEARS.
So saying, Mrs. Nickleby nodded her head,
and patted the back of her daughter's hand, a
great many times, and looked as if she could tell
something vastly important if she chose, but had
self-denial, thank Heaven ; and wouldn't do it.
“What do you mean, mamma P” demanded
Kate in evident surprise.
“Don’t be flurried, my dear,” replied Mrs.
Nickleby, looking towards the garden wall, “for
you see I’m not, and if it would be excusable in
anybody to be flurried, it certainly would—
under all the circumstances—be excusable in
me, but I am not, Kate—not at all.”
“It seems designed to attract our attention,
mamma,” said Kate.
“It is designed to attract our attention, my
dear—at least,” rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, drawing
herself up, and patting her daughter's hand more
blandly than before, “to attract the attention of
one of us. Hem you needn't be at all uneasy,
my dear.”
Kate looked very much perplexed, and was
apparently about to ask for further explanation,
when a shouting and scuffling noise, as of an
elderly gentleman whooping, and kicking up his
legs on loose gravel, with great violence, was
heard to proceed from the same direction as the
former sounds; and, before they had subsided, a
large cucumber was seen to shoot up in the air
With the velocity of a sky-rocket, whence it de-
scended, tumbling over and over, until it fell at
Mrs. Nickleby's feet.
This remarkable appearance was succeeded
by another of a precisely similar description;
then a fine vegetable marrow, of unusually large
dimensions, was seen to whirl aloft, and come
toppling down; then, several cucumbers shot up
together; and, finally, the air was darkened by
* shower of onions, turnip radishes, and other
Small vegetables, which fell rolling and scatter-
ing and bumping about in all directions.
As Kate rose from her seat in some alarm,
and caught her mother's hand to run with her
ºto the house, she felt herself rather retarded
than assisted in her intention; and, following
the direction of Mrs. Nickleby's eyes, was quite
*tified by the apparition of an old black velvet
Cap, which, by slow degrees, as if its wearer were
*ending a ladder or pair of steps, rose above
the wall dividing their garden from that of the
*xt cottage, (which, like their own, was a de-
tached building,) and was gradually followed by
* Very large head, and an old face, in which were
*P* 9ſ most extraordinary grey eyes: very wild,
Yº Wide open, and rolling in their sockets, with
§ languishing, leering look, most ugly to
honourable and respectful as mine P”
269
“Mamma 1" cried Kate, really terrified for
the moment, “why do you stop, why do you
lose an instant P−Mamma, pray come in 1"
“Kate, my dear,” returned her mother, still
holding back, “how can you be so foolish P I'm
ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are
ever to get through life, if you're such a coward
as this 2 What do you want, sir?” said Mrs.
Nickleby, addressing the intruder with a sort of
simpering displeasure. “How dare you look
into this garden P”
“Queen of my soul,” replied the stranger,
folding his hards together, “this goblet sip !”
“Nonsense, sir,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “Kate,
my love, pray be quiet.”
“Won't you sip the goblet P” urged the
stranger, with his head imploringly on one side,
and his right hand on his breast. “Oh, do sip
the goblet !”
“I shall not consent to do anything of the
kind, sir,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “Pray begome.”
“Why is it,” said the old gentleman, coming
up a step higher, and leaning his élbows on the
wall, with as much complacency as if he were
looking out of window, “why is it that beauty
is always obdurate, even when admiration is as
Here he
smiled, kissed his hand, and made several low
bows. “Is it owing to the bees, who, when the
honey season is over, and they are supposed to
have been killed with brinstone, in reality fly to
Barbary and lull the captive Moors to sleep with
their drowsy songs? Or is it,” he added, drop-
ping his voice almost to a whisper, “in conse.
quence of the statue at Charing Cross having
been lately seen, on the Stock Exchange at mid-
night, walking arm-in-arm with the Pump from
Aldgate, in a riding habit?” -
“Mamma,” murmured Kate, “do you hear
him P” º
“Hush, my dear !” replied Mrs. Nickleby in
the same tone of voice, “he is very polite, and
I think that was a quotation from the poets.
Pray don't worry me so—you'll pinch my arm
black and blue. Go away, sir!”
“Quite away ?” said the gentleman with a
languishing look, “Oh I quite away P”
“Yes,” returned Mrs. Nickleby, “certainly.
You have no business here. This is private
property, sir; you ought to know that.”
“I do know,” said the old gentleman, laying
his finger on his nose, with an air of familiarity
most reprehensible, “that this is a sacred and
enchanted spot, where the most divine charms”
—here he kissed his hand and bowed again—
“ waft mellifluousness over the neighbours' gar-
dens, and force the fruit and vegetables into
*
27o
N/CWOZAS WICKZEA y.
premature existence. That fact I am acquainted
with. But will you permit me, fairest creature,
to ask you one question, in the absence of the
planet Venus, who has gone on business to the
Horse Guards, and would otherwise—jealous of
your superior charms-—interpose between us?”
“Kate,” observed Mrs. Nickleby, turning to
her daughter, “it’s very awkward, positively. I
really don't know what to say to this gentleman.
One ought to be civil, you know.”
“Dear mamma,” rejoined Kate, “don’t say a
word to him, but let us run away as fast as we
can, and shut ourselves up till Nicholas comes
horne.”
Mrs. Nickleby looked very grand, not to say
contemptuous, at this humiliating proposal; and,
turning to the old gentleman, who had watched
them during these whispers with absorbing eager.
ness, said—
“If you will conduct yourselſ, sir, like the
gentleman I should imagine you to be, from
your language and—and—appearance, (quite the
counterpart of your grandpapa, Kate, my dear,
in his best days,) and will put your question to
me in plain words, I will answer it." -
Iſ Mrs. Nickleby's excellent papa had borne,
in his best days, a resemblance to the neighbour
now looking over the wall, he must have been,
to say the least, a vcry queer-looking old gentle-
man in his prime. Perhaps Kate thought so, for
she ventured to glance at his living portrait with
some attention, as he took off his black velvet
cap, and, exhibiting a perfectly bald head, made
a long series of bows, each accompanied with a
fresh kiss of the hand. After exhausting himself,
to all appearance, with this ſatiguing performance,
he covered his head once more, pulled the cap
very carefully over the tips of his ears, and,
resuming his former attitude, said
“The question is—”
Here he broke off to look round in every
direction, and satisfy himself beyond all doubt
that there were no listeners near. Assured that
there were not, he tapped his nose several times,
accompanying the action with a cunning look,
as though congratulating himself on his caution;
and, stretching out his neck, said in a loud
whisper:
“Are you a princess P- -
“You are mocking me, sir,” replied Mrs.
Nickleby, making a feint of retreating towards
the house.
“No, but are you ?” said the old gentleman.
“You know I am not, sir,”
Nickleby.
y?
“Then are you any relation to the Archbishop
of Canterbury?” inquired the old gentleman with
replied Mrs.
–3 - E-4 º
-s ag
great anxiety, “ or to the Pope of Rome? or the
Speaker of the House of Commons? Forgive
me if I am wrong, but I was told you were niece
to the Commissioners of Paving, and daughter.
in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Common
Council, which would account for your relation-
ship to all three.”
“Whoever has spread such reports, sir,” re.
turned Mrs. Nickleby with some warmth, “has
taken great liberties with my name, and one
which I am sure my son Nicholas, if he was
aware of it, would not allow for an instant. The
idea 1" said Mrs. Nickleby, drawing herself up,
“ niece to the Commissioners of Paving 1" *
“Pray, mamma, come away!” whispered Kate.
“‘Pray, mamma!' Nonsense, Kate,” said Mrs.
Nickleby angrily; “but that's just the way. If
they had said I was niece to a piping bullfinch,
what would you care? But I have no sympathy,”
whimpered Mrs. Nickleby. “I don't expect it,
that's one thing.”
“Tears "cried the old gentleman, with such
an energetic jump, that he fell down, two or
three steps, and grated his chin against the wall.
“Catch the crystal globules—catch 'em—bottle
'em up—Cork 'em tight—put sealing-wax on the
top–seal 'em with a Cupid—label'em “Best
quality'—and stow 'em away in the fourteen
bin, with a bar of iron on the top to keep the
thunder off ” -
Issuing these commands, as if there were a
dozen attendants all actively engaged in their
execution, he turned his velvet cap inside out,
put it on with great dignity so as to obscure his
right eye and three-fourths of his nose, and,
sticking his arms, a-kimbo, looked very fiercely
at a sparrow hard by, till the bird flew away,
when he put his cap in his pocket with an air of
great satisfaction, and addressed himself with
respectful demeanour to Mrs. Nickleby.
“Beautiful madam,” such were his words, “if
I have made any mistake with regard to your
family or connections, I humbly beseech you to
pardon me. If I supposed you to be related to
Foreign Powers or Native Boards, it is because
you have a manner, a carriage, a dignity, which
you will excuse my saying that none but your-
self (with the single exception, perhaps, of the
tragic muse, when playing extemporaneously on
the barrel-organ before the East India Com-
pany) can parallel. 'I am not a youth, ma'am,
as you see; and, although beings like you can
never grow old, I venture to presume that we
are fitted for each other.” . .
“Really, Kate, my love " said Mrs. Nickleby
faintly, and looking another way. -
“I have estates, ma'am,” said the old gentle-
AAVAD ZXE C/CAA’ ES #ZS PASS/OAV.
27 I
man, flourishing his right hand negligently, as if
he made very light of such matters, and speak-
ing very fast; “jewels, lighthouses, fish-ponds, a
whalery of my own in the North Sea, and several
oyster beds of great profit in the Pacific Ocean.
If you will have the kindness to step down to the
Royal Exchange, and to take the cocked-hat off
the stoutest beadle's head, you will find my card
in the lining of the crown, wrapped up in a piece
of blue paper. My walking-stick is also to bes
seen on application to the chaplain of the House
of Commons, who is strictly forbidden to take
any money for showing it. I have enemies about
me, ma'am,” he looked towards his house and
spoke very low, “who attack me on all occa-
sions, and’ wish to secure my property. If you
bless me with your hand and heart, you can
apply to the Lord Chancellor or call out the
military if necessary—sending my toothpick to
the commander-in-chief will be sufficient—and
so clear the house of them before the ceremony
is performed. After that, love bliss and rapture;
rapture lové and bliss. Be mine, be mine !”
Repeating these last words with great rapture
and enthusiasm, the old gentleman put on his
black velvet cap again, and, looking up into the
sky in a hasty manner, said something that was
not quite intelligible concerning a balloon he
expected, and which was rather after its time.
“Be mine, be mine !” repeated the old gentle-
Iłł21). -
“Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I have
hardly the power to speak; but it is necessary
for the happiness of all parties that this matter
should be set at rest for ever.”
“Surely there is no necessity for you to say
one word, mamma P” reasoned Kate.
“You will allow me, my dear, if you please,
to judge for myself,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“Be mine, be mine !” cried the old gentleman.
“It can scarcely be expected, sir,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, fixing her eyes modestly on the ground,
“that I should tell a stranger whether I feel
flattered and obliged by such proposals, or
not. They certainly are made under very sin-
gular circumstances; still, at the same time, as
far as it goes, and to a certain extent, of
Course,” (Mrs. Nickleby's customary qualifica-
tion,) “they must be gratifying and agreeable to
one's feelings.”
“Be mine, be mine !” cried the old gentle-
man. “Gog and Magog, Gog and Magog Be
mine, be mine !” -
“It will be sufficient for me to say, sir,” re-
Sumed Mrs. Nickleby with perfect seriousness
I.'; and I'm sure you'll see the propriety of
taking an answer and going away—that I have
made up my mind to remain a widow, and to
devote myself to my children. You may not
suppose I am the mother of two children—in-
deed, many people have doubted it, and said
that nothing on earth could ever make 'em be-
lieve it possible—but it is the case, and they are
both grown up.. We shall be very glad to have
you for a neighbour—very glad; delighted, I'm
sure—but in any other character it's quite im-
possible, quite. As to my being young enough
to marry again, that, perhaps, may be so, or it
may not be ; but I couldn’t think of it for an
instant, not on any account whatever. I said I
never would, and I never will. It's a very pain-
ful thing to have to reject proposals, and I would
much rather that none were made ; at the same
time, this is the answer that I determined long
ago to make, and this is the answer I shall
always give.”
These observations were partly addressed to
the old gentleman, partly to Kate, and partly
delivered in soliloquy. Towards their conclu-
sion, the suitor evinced a very irreverent degree
of inattention, and Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely
finished speaking, when, to the great terror both
of that lady and her daughter, he suddenly flung
off his coat, and, springing on the top of the
wall, threw himself into an attitude which dis-
played his small-clothes and grey worsteds to the
fullest advantage, and concluded by standing on
one leg, and repeating his favourite bellow with
increased vehemence.
While he was still dwelling on the last note,
and embellishing it with a prolonged flourish, a
dirty hand was observed to glide stealthily and
swiftly along the top of the wall, as if in pursuit
of a fly, and then to clasp with the utmost dex-
terity one of the old gentleman's ankles. This
done, the companion hand appeared, and clasped
the other ankle.
Thus encumbered, the old gentleman lifted
his legs awkwardly once or twice, as if they were
very clumsy and imperfect pieces of machinery,
and then, looking down on his own side of the
wall, burst into a loud laugh.
“It’s you, is it P” said the old gentleman.
“Yes, it's me,” replied a gruff voice.
“How's the Emperor of Tartary P" said the
old gentleman.
“Oh he's much the same as usual,” was the
reply. “No better and no worse.”
“The young Prince of China,” said the old
gentleman with much interest. “Is he recon-
ciled to his father-in-law, the great potato sales-
man?”
“No,” answered the gruff voice; “and he
says he never will be, that's more.”
272 AV/CHOLAS AWCKZEB Y.
“If that's the case,” observed the old gentle- | posture, and was looking round to smile and
man, “perhaps I’d better come down.” - bow to Mrs. Nickleby, when he disappeared
“Well,” said the man on the other side, “I with some precipitation, as if his legs had been
think you had, perhaps.” pulled from below. -
One of the hands being then cautiously un- Very much relieved by his disappearance,
clasped, the old gentleman dropped into a sitting Kate was turning to speak to her mamma, when
**
. .
º,
&
& Sº
s
*CONCLUDED BY STANDING on on E LEG, AND REPEATING. His FAvour.ITE, BELLOW WITH INCREASED
WEHEMENCE.”
“Beg your pardon, ladies,” said this new-
comer, grinning and touching his hat. “Has
he been making love to either of you?”
“Yes,” said Kate. - *
“Ah !” rejoined the man, taking his handker-
the dirty hands again became visible, and were
immediately followed by the figure of a coarse
squat, man, who ascended by the steps which
had been recently occupied by their singular
neighbour.

A U7 JS SHAMEFUZZY SLANDERED. 273
, chief out of his hat and wiping his face, “he
always will, you know. Nothing will prevent
his making love.”
“I need not ask you if he is out of his mind,
poor creature,” said Kate. - -
“Why, no,” replied the man, looking into his
hat, throwing his handkerchief in at one dab,
and putting it on again. “That's pretty plain,
that is.” -
“Has he been long so?” asked Kate.
“A long while.”
“And is there no hope for him P” said Kate
compassionately.
“Not a bit, and don't deserve to be,” replied
the keeper. “He’s a deal pleasanter without
his senses than with 'em. He was the cruellest,
wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever
drawed breath.”
“Indeed l’” said Kate.
“By George I" replied the keeper, shaking
his head so emphatically that he was obliged to
frown to keep his hat on. “I never come across
such a vagabond, and my mate says the same.
Broke his poor wife's heart, turned his daughters
out of doors, drove his sons into the streets—it
was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil
tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and
guzzling, and drinking, or he'd have drove many
others so. -
isn't too much hope going, buft I'll bet a crown
that what there is, is saved for more deserving
chaps than him, anyhow.” - -
With which confession of his faith, the keeper
shook his head again, as much as to say that
nothing short of this would do, if things were
to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily—
not that he was in an ill-humour, but that his
subject ruffled him—descended the ladder, and
took it away. - -
During this conversation Mrs. Nickleby had
regarded the man with a severe and steadfast
look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and,
pursing up her lips, shook her head in a slow
and doubtful manner.
“Poor creature " said Kate.
“Ah! poor indeed "rejoined Mrs. Nickleby,
“It's shameful that such things should be allowed
—shameful 1”
“How can they be helped, mamma?” said Kate
mournfully. “The infirmities of nature—”
“Nature " said Mrs. Nickleby. “What
Do you suppose this poor gentleman is out of
his mind P’ -
“Can anybody who sees him entertain any
other opinion, mamma P” - -
“Why, then, I just tell you this, Kate,” re-
turned Mrs. Nickleby, “that he is nothing of
Hope for him, an old rip ! There
the kind, and I am surprised you can be so im-
posed upon. It's some plot of these people to
possess themselves of his property—didn't he
say so himself? He may be a little odd and
flighty, perhaps ; many of us are that ; but
downright mad and express himself as he does,
respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and
making offers with so much thought, and care,
and prudence—not as if he ran into the streets,
and went down upon his knees to the first chit
of a girl he met, as a madman would ! No, no,
Kate, there's a great deal too much method in
Åis madness; depend upon that, my dear.”
CHAPTER XLII.
ILLUSTRATIVE of THE conviviAL seNTIMENT, THAT
THE BEST OF FRIENDS MUST SOMETIMES PART.
guarding the entrance to the hos-
telry of whose name and sign they
§) are the duplicate presentments, looked—
t or seemed, in the eyes of jaded and foot-
Sore passers-by, to look—more vicious than
usual, after blistering and scorching in the Sun,
when, in one of the inn's smallest sitting-rooms,
through whose open window there rose, in a
palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from
reeking coach horses, the usual furniture of a
tea-table was displayed in meat and inviting
order, flanked by large joints of roast and
boiled, a tongue, a pigeon-pie, a cold fowl, a
tankard of ale, and other little matters of the
like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities,
are generally understood to belong more parti-
cularly to solid lunches, stage-coach dinners, or
unusually substantial breakfasts.
Mr. John Browdie, with his hands in his
pockets, hovered restlessly about these deli-
cacies, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies
out of the sugar-basin with his wife's pocket-
handkerchief, or to dip a tea-spoon in the milk-
pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut off a
little knob of crust, and a little corner of meat,
and Swallow them at two gulps like a couple of
pills. After every one of these flirtations with
the eatables, he pulled out his watch, and de-
clared, with an earnestness quite pathetic, that
he couldn't undertake to hold out two minutes
longer.
“Tilly " said John to his lady, who was
reclining, half awake and half asleep, upon a
Soſa.

274
M/CHOZAS M/CKZEB Y.
“Well, John tº -
“Weel, John ” retorted her husband impa-
tiently. “Dost thou feel hoongry, lass P”
“Not very,” said Mrs. Browdie.
“Not vary 1” repeated John, raising his eyes
to the ceiling. “Hear her say not vary, and
us dining at three, and loonching off pasthry
thot aggravates a mon 'stead of pacifying him
Not vary 1”
“Here's a gen’l’man for you, sir,” said the
waiter, looking in.
“A wa'at for me?” cried John, as though he
thought it must be a letter, or a parcel.
“A gen'!'man, sir.”
“Stars and garthers, chap !” said John, “wa’at
dost thou coom and say thot for P In wi' 'un ſ”
“Are you at home, sir?” -
“At whoam "cried John. “I wish I wur;
I’d ha tea'd two hour ago. Why, I told
toother chap to look sharp ootside door, and
tell 'un, d’rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi'
hoonger. In wi' 'un Aha 1 Thee hond,
Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the
proodest day o' my life, sir. Hoo be all wi' ye?
Ding! But I'm glod o' this 1"
Quite forgetting even his hunger in the hearti-
ness of his salutation, John Browdie shook
Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping
bis palm with great violence between each
shake, to add warmth to the reception.
“Ah ! there she be,” said John, observing the
look which Nicholas directed towards his wife.
“There she be—we shan't quarrel about her
noo—eh P Ecod, when I think o' thot But
thou want'st soom'at to eat. Fall to, mun, fall
to, and for wa'at we're aboot to receive 35
No doubt the grace was properly finished,
but nothing more was heard, for John had
already begun to play such a knife and fork,
that his speech was, for the time, gone.
“I shall take the usual licence, Mr. Browdie,”
said Nicholas as he placed a chair for the bride.
“Tak' whatever thou like'st,” said John,
“and, when a's gane, ca' for more.” -
Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed
the blushing Mrs. Browdie, and handed her to
her seat. -
“I say,” said John, rather astounded for the
moment, “mak’ theeself quite at whoam, will
'ee P” -
“You may depend upon that,” replied Nicho-
las; “on one condition.”
“And wa'at may thot be?” asked John.
“That you make me a godfather the very
first time you have occasion for one.”
“Eh! d'ye hear thot?” cried John, laying
down his knife and ſork. “A godſeyther Ha!
ha ha Tilly—hear till 'un-a godfey ther ||
Divn't say a word more, ye'll never beat thot.
Occasion for 'un-a godfeyther Ha! haſ ha "
Never was man so tickled with a respectable
old joke as John Browdie was with this. He
chuckled, roared, half suffocated himself by
laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe,
roared again, persisted in eating at the same
time, got red in the face and black in the fore.
head, coughed, cried, got better, went off again
laughing inwardly, got worse, choked, had his
back thumped, stamped about, frightened his
wife, and at last recovered in a state of the last
exhaustion, and with the water streaming from
his eyes, but still faintly ejaculating, “A god-
feyther—a godfeyther, Tilly l’ in a tone bespeak-
ing an exquisite relish of the sally, which no
suffering could diminish. A.
“You remember the night of our first tea-
drinking P” said Nicholas.
“Shall I e'er forget it, mun ?” replied John
Browdie.
“He was a desperate fellow that night, though,
was he not, Mrs. Browdie P” said Nicholas.
“Quite a monster | "
“If you had only heard him as we were going
home, Mr. Nickleby, you'd have said so indeed,”
returned the bride. “I never was so frightened
in all my life.” -
“Coom, coom,” said John with a broad grin ;
“thou know'st betther than thot, Tilly.”
“So I was,” replied Mrs. Browdie. “I
almost made up my mind never to speak to you
again.”
“A'most l” said John with a broader grin
than the last. “A'most made up her mind
And she wur coaxin' and coaxin', and wheedlin'
and wheedlin', a' the blessed wa’. ‘’Wa’at didst
thou let yon chap mak' oop tiv 'ee for P’ says I.
‘I deedn't, John,’ says she, a squeedgin' my arm.
‘You deedn't P’ says I. ‘Noa,' says she, a
squeedgin' of me agean.” t
“Lof, John " interposed his pretty wife,
colouring very much. “How can you talk such
nonsense P. As if I should have dreamt of such
a thing !”
“I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt
of it, though I think that's loike eneaf, mind,”
retorted John ; “but thou didst it. ‘Ye're a
feeckle, changeable weather-cock, lass,” says I.
* Not feeckle, John,’ says she. “Yes,’ says I,
“feeckle, dom'd feeckle. Dinnot tell me thou
bean't, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther's,'
says I. “Him!” says she, quite screeching.
“Ah him 1" says I. “Why, John,' says she—
and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a
deal harder than she'd deane afore—‘dost thou
A&AEAVE WAZ OF OZZD ACQUAIAWTA/VCA.
275
think it's natral, noo, that having such a proper
mun as thou to keep company wi', I'd ever tak',
oop wi' such a leetle, scanty, whipper-snapper
as yon P’ she says. Ha! haſ haſ She said
whipper-snapper ‘Ecod!' I says, “efther thot,
neame the day, and let's have it ower l’ Ha
ha I ha l''
Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story,
both on account of its telling against himself,
and his being desirous to spare the blüshes of
Mrs. Browdie, whose protestations were drowned
in peals of laughter from her husband. His
good-nature soon put her at her ease ; and,
although she still denied the charge, she laughed
so heartily at it that Nicholas had the satisfac-
tion of feeling assured that in all essential
respects it was strictly true.
“This is the second time,” said Nicholas, “that
we have ever taken a meal together, and only
the third I have ever seen you ; and yet it really
seems to me as if I were among old friends.”
“Weel !” observed the Yorkshireman, “so I
say.”
“I have the best reason to be impressed with
the feeling, mind,” said Nicholas; “for if it had
not been for youn kindness of heart, my good
friend, when I had no right or reason to expect
it, I know not what might have become of me,
or what plight I should have been in by this .
time.”
“Talk aboot soom'at else,” replied John
gruffly, “and dinnot bother.”
“It must be a new song to the same tune,
then,” said Nicholas, smiling. “I told you in
my letter that I deeply felt and admired your
sympathy with that poor lad, whom you released
at the risk of involving yourself in trouble and
difficulty; but I can never tell you how grateful
he and I, and others whom you don't know, are
to you for taking pity on him.” * >
, “Ecod "rejoined John Browdie, drawing up
his chair; “and I can never tell you hoo gratful
Soom folks that we do know would be loikewise,
if they knowed I had takken pity on him.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Browdie, “what a
State I was in that night !”
“Were they at all disposed to give you credit
for assisting in the escape?” inquired Nicholas
of John Browdie.
“Not a bit,” replied the Yorkshireman, ex-
tending his mouth from ear to ear. “There I
lay, snoog in schoolméasther's bed long eſther
t Was dark, and nobody, coom nigh the pleace.
'Weel !' thinks I, “he's got a pretty good start,
and if he bean't whoam by noo, he never will
be; so you may coom as quick as you loike,
| ing t other wa'—eh P)
“And...I am sure I do," added his young wife.
and foind us reddy’—that is, you know, School-
measther might Coom.”
“I understand,” said Nicholas.
“Presently,” resumed John, “he did coom.
. I heerd door shut doon-stairs, and him a wark-
ing oop in the daark. Slow and steddy,' I says
to myself; ‘tak’ your time, sir—no hurry.' He
cooms to the door, turns the key—turns the key
when there warn’t nothing to hoold the lock—
and ca's oot ‘Hallo, there i'--‘Yes,’ thinks I,
“you may do thot agean, and not wakken any
body, sir.’ ‘Hallo, there !” he says, and then he
stops. ‘Thou'd betther not aggravate me,’ says
schoolmeasther eſther a little time. “I’ll brak’
every boan in your boddy, Smike,' he says eſther
another little time. Then, all of a soodden, he
sings oot for a loight, and when it cooms—ecod,
such a hoorly-boorly ‘Wa'at’s the matter P’
says I. ‘He's gane,' says he, stark mad wi'
vengeance. ‘Have you beerd nought P’ ‘Ees,'
says I, ‘I heerd street-door shut, no time at a'
ago. I heerd a person run doon there' (point-
‘Help !” he cries. “I’ll
help you,' says I; and off we set—the wrong
wa’ſ Ho I ho ho l’’
“Did you go ſar P” asked Nicholas.
“Far !” replied John ; “I run him clean off
his legs in quarther of an hoor. To see old
schoolmeasther, wi'out his hat, skimming along
oop to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling
over fences, and rowling into ditches, and bawl-
ing oot like mad, wi' his one eye looking sharp
out for the lad, and his coat-tails flying out
behind, and him spattered wi' mud all ower,
face and all 1. I tho't I should ha’ dropped
doom, and killed myself wi' laughing.”
John laughed so heartily at the mere recollec
tion, that he communicated the contagion to
both his hearers, and all three burst into peals of
laughter, which were renewed again and again,
until they could laugh no longer.
“He’s a bad 'un,” said John, wiping his eyes;
“a very bad 'un, is schoolmeasther.”
“I can't bear the sight of him, John,” said his "
wife.
“Coom,” retorted John, “that's tidy in you,
thot is. If it wa'nt along o' you, we shouldn't
know nought aboot 'un. Thou knowed 'un
first, Tilly, didn't thou ?”
“I couldn't help knowing Fanny Squeers,
John,” returned his wiſe ; “she was an old
playmate of mine, you know.” - .
“Weel,” replied John, “dean't I say so, lass P
It's best to be neighbourly, and keep up old
acquaintance lojke ; and what I say is, dean't
Quarrel if 'ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr.
Nickleby P"
276
AV/CHO/CAS MVCKLAZA V.
“Certainly," returned Nicholas ; “and you
acted upon that principle when I met you on
horseback on the road, after our memorable
evening.” .
“Sure-ly,” said John. “Wa'at I say I stick
, , f
º,
Y. And that's a fine thing to do, and manly
too,” said Nicholas, “though it's not exactly
what we understand by ‘coming Yorkshire over
us’ in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with
you, you said in your note.”
“Yes,” replied John, “Tilly's bridesmaid ;
and a queer bridesmaid she be, too. She
wean't be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.”
“For shame, John 1" said Mrs. Browdie;
with an acute perception of the joke, though,
being a bride herself. t
“The groom will be a blessed mun,” said
John, his eyes twinkling at the idea. “He'll be
in luck, he will.”
“You see, Mr. Nickleby,” said his wife, “that
it was in consequence of her being here that
John wrote to you and fixed to-night, because
we thought that it wotildn't be pleasant for you
to meet after what has passed—”
“ Unquestionably. You were
that,” said Nicholas, interrupting.
“Especially,” observed Mrs. Browdie, looking
very sly, “after what we know about past and
gone love matters.”
“We know, indeed ' " said Nicholas, shaking
his head, “You behaved rather wickedly there,
I suspect.”
quite right in
“O’ course she did,” said John Browdie,
passing his huge forefinger through one of his
wife's pretty ringlets, and looking very proud of
her. “She wur always as skittish and full o'
tricks as a 3 y -
“Well, as a what?” said his wife.
“As a woman,” returned John. “Ding !
But I dinnot know ought else that cooms near
it.”
• “You were speaking about Miss Squeers,
said Nicholas, with the view of stopping some
slight connubialities which had begun to pass
between Mr. and Mrs. Browdie, and which
rendered the position of a third party in some
degree embarrassing, as occasioning him to feel
rather in the way than otherwise.
“Oh yes!” rejoined Mrs. Browdie. “John,
ha’ done. ... —John fixed to-night, because she
had settled that she would go and drink tea
with her father. And to make quite sure of
there being nothing amiss, and of your being
quite alone with us, he settled to go out there
and fetch her home.” - -
“That was a very good arrangement,” said
Nicholas, “though I am sorry to be the occasion
of so much trouble.” -
“Not the least in the world,” returned Mrs.
Browdie ; “for we have looked forward to see
you—John and I have—with the greatest pos-
sible pleasure. Do you know, Mr. Nickleby,”
said Mrs. Browdie with her archest smile, “that
I really think Fanny Squeers was very fond of
you?” -
“I am very much obliged to her,” said
Nicholas; “but, upon my word, I never aspired
to making any impression upon her virgin
heart.” t
“How you talk | " tittered Mrs. Browdie.
“No, but do you know that really—seriously,
now, and without any joking—I was given to
understand, by Fanny herself, that you had
made an offer to her, and that you two were
going to be engaged quite solemn and regular.”
“Was you, ma'am—was you !” cried a shrill
female voice; “was you given to understand
that I–I—was going to be engaged to an
assassinating thief that shed the gore of my pa P
Do you—do you think, ma'am—that I was very
fond of such dirt beneath my...feet, as I couldn't
condescend to touch with kitchen tongs, without
blacking and crocking myself by the contract 2
Do you, ma'am—do you ? Oh
degrading 'Tilda 1" -- -
base and
With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the
'door wide open, and disclosed to the eyes of the
astonished Browdies and Nicholas, not only her
own symmetrical form, arrayed in the chaste
white garments before described (a little dirtier),
but the form of her brother and father, the pair
of Wackfords.
“This is the hend, is it P” continued Miss
Squeers, who, being excited, aspirated her h’s
strongly: “this is the hend, is it, of all my for-
bearance and 'friendship for that double-faced
thing—that viper, that—that—mermaid?" (Miss
Squeers hesitated a long-time for this last epithet,
and brought it out triumphantly at last, as if it
quite clinched the business.), “This is the hend,
is it, of all my bearing with her deceitfulness,
her lowness, her falseness, her laying herself out
to catch the admiration of vulgar minds, in a
way which made me blush for my—for my—"
“Gender,” suggested Mr. Squeers, regarding
the spectators with a malevolent eye—literally a
malevolent eye. -
“Yes,” said Miss Squeers; “but I thank my
stars that my ma is of the same— W.
“Hear, hear !” remarked Mr. Squeers; “and
I wish she was here to have a scratch at this
company.”
“This is the hend, is it,” said Miss Squeers,
AXAZOS/OM OF MISS SQUEEA?S. g 277
tossing her head, and looking contemptuously
at the floor, “ of my taking notice of that rub-
bishing creature, and demeaning myself to
patronise her P” * * º
“Oh, come,”, rejoined Mrs. Browdie, disre-
garding all the endeavours of her spouse to
restrain her, and forcing herself into a front row,
“don’t talk such nonsense as that l”
“Have I, not patronised you, ma'am P” de-
manded Miss Squeers.
“No,” returned Mrs. Browdie.
“I will not look for blushes in such a quar-
ter,” said Miss Squeers haughtily, “for that
countenance is a stranger to everything but
hignominiousness and red-faced boldness.” *
“I say,” interposed John Browdie, nettled by
these ‘accumulated attacks on his wife, “dra’ it
mild, dra’ it mild.”
“You, Mr. Browdie,” said Miss Squeers,
, taking him up very quickly, “I pity. I have no
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“I SAY,” SAID JOHN, RATHER ASTOUNDED FOR. TH
E MOMENT, “MAK’ THEESELF QUITE AT WHOAM,
WILL 'EE P’’
z
pity.” ;
“Oh " said John -
“No,” said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at
her parent, “although I am a queer bridesmaid,
and shan't be a bride in a hurry, and although
my husband will be in luck, I entertain no senti-
ments towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.”
. Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her
father again, who looked sideways' at her, as
much as to say, “There you had him,”
- 'N 1ſºor,As N reki,FRY, jo.
feeling for you, sir, but one of unliquidated
“I know what you've got to go through,”
said Miss Squeers, shaking her curls violently.
“A know what life is before you, and, if you was
my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish
you nothing worse.”
“Couldn't you wish to be married to him
yourself, if that was the case ?” inquired Mrs.
Browdie with great suavity of manner.
“Oh, ma'am, how witty you are " retorted
Miss Squeers with a ‘low curtsy ; “almost as
witty, ma'am, as you are clever. How very
• 2 Q.

278
MICHOLAS AwcKZEBY
clever it was in you, ma'am, to choose a time
when I had gone to tea with my pa, and was
sure not to come back without being fetched
What a pity you never thought that other people
might be as clever as yourself, and spoil your
plans !” 's -
“You won't vex me, child, with such airs as
these,” said the late Miss Price, assuming the
matrOn.
“Don't Missis me, ma'am, if you please,” .
returned Miss Squeers sharply. “I’ll not bear
it. Is this the hend yy
“Dang it a',” cried John Browdie impatiently.
“Say thee say out, Fanny, and mak’ sure it's
the end, and dinnot ask nobody whether it is
or not.”
“Thanking you for your advice, which was
not required, Mr. Browdie,” returned Miss
Squeers with laborious politeness, “have the
goodness not to presume to meddle with my
Christian name. Even my pity shall mever make
me forget what's due to myself, Mr. Browdie.
"Tilda,” said Miss Squeers with such a sudden
accession of violence that John started in his
boots, “I throw you off for ever, miss. I
abandon you. I renounce you. I wouldn't,” cried
Miss Squeers in a solemn voice, “have a child
named 'Tilda—not to save it from its grave.”
“As for the matther o' that,” observed John,
“it’ll be time eneaf to think aboot nearming of
it when it cooms.” w
“John " interposed his wife, “don’t tease
her.”
“Oh Tease, indeed 1” cried Miss Squeers,
bridling up. “Tease, indeed . He, he Tease,
too ! No, don't tease her. Consider her feel-
ings, pray !” - f
“If it's fated that listeners are never to hear
any good of themselves," said Mrs. Browdie, “I
can't help it, and I am very sorry for it. But I
will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have
spoken so kindly of you behind your back, that
even you could have found no fault with what I
said.”
“Oh, I dare say not, ma'am 1" cried Miss
Squeers with another curtsy. “Best thanks, to
you for your goodness, and begging and praying
you not to be hard upon me another time !”
“I don't know,” resumed Mrs. Browdie,
“that I have said anything very bad of you,
even now—at all events, what I did say was
quite true; but, if I have, I am very sorry for it,
You have said much
and I beg your pardon.
worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have
never borne any malice to you, and I hope
you'll not bear any to me.”
Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than
y
surveying her former friend from top to toe, and
elevating her nose in the air with ineffable dis.
dain. But some indistinct allusions to a “puss,”
and a “minx,” and a “contemptible creature,”
escaped her; and this, together with a severe
biting of the lips, great difficulty in swallowing,
and very frequent comings and goings of breath,
seemed to imply that feelings were swelling in
Miss Squeers's bosom too great for utterance.
While the foregoing conversation was pro-
ceeding, Master Wackford, finding himself un-
noticed, and feeling his preponderating inclina-
'tions strong upon him, had by little and little
sidled up to the table, and attacked the food
with such slight skirmishing as drawing his
fingers round and round the inside of the plates,
and afterwards sucking them with infinite relish
—picking the bread, and dragging the pieces
over the surface of the ..º.º. lumps
of sugar, pretending all the time to be absorbed
in thought—and so forth. Finding that no
interference was attempted with these small
liberties, he gradually mounted to greater, and,
after helping himself to a moderately good cold
collation, was, by this time, deep in the pie.
Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr.
Squeers, who, so long as the attention of the
company was fixed upon other objects, hugged
himself to think that his son and heir should be
fattening at the enemy's expense. But there
being now an appearance of a temporary calm,
in which the proceedings of little Wackford
could scarcely fail to be observed, he feigned to
be aware of the circumstance for the first time,
and inflicted upon the face of that young gentle-
man a slap that made the very teacups ring.
“Eating !” cried Mr. Squeers, “ of what his
father's enemies has left | It's fit to go and
poison you, you unnat'ral boy.” -
“It wean't hurt him,” said John, apparently
very much relieved by the prospect of having a
man in the quarrel; “let 'un eat. I wish the
whole school was here. I'd give 'em soom'at to
stay their unfort'nate stomachs wi'. if I spent the
last penny I had ſ” •
Squeers scowled at him with the worst and
most malicious expression of which his face was
capable—it was a face of remarkable capability,
too, in that way—and shook his fist stealthily.
“Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,” said John,
“ dinnot make a fool o' thyself; for if I was to
sheake mine—only once—thou'd ſa’ doon wi'
the wind o' it.” -
“It was you, was it,” returned Squeers, “that
helped off my runaway boy? It was you, was
it P” \
“Me " returned John in a loud tone. “Yes,
w
AAEG/AVAW/AWG TO SAEEAVO THE E VEAV/AWG.
it wa’ me, coom; wa'at o' that P It wa' me.
Noo then "
“You hear him say he did it, my child !” said
Squeers, appealing to his daughter. “You hear
him say he did it !”
“Did it !” cried John. “I’ll tell 'ee more;
hear this, too. If thou'd got another roonaway
boy, I'd do it agean.
roonaway boys, I'd do it twonty times ower, and
twonty more to thot; and I tell thee more,”
said John, “noo my blood is oop, that thou’rt
an old ra'ascal; and that it's weel for thou thou
be’est an old 'un, or I'd' ha poonded thee to
flour, when thou told an honest mun hoo thou’d
licked that poor chap in tº coorch.”
“An honest man " cried Squeers with a
Sneer. -
“Ah an honest man,” replied John; “honest
in ought but ever putting legs under seame table
wi' such as thou.”
“Scandal ſº said Squeers exultingly. “Two
witnesses to it; Wackford knows the nature of
an oath, he does—we shall have you there, sir.
Rascal, eh?” Mr. Squeers took out his pocket-
book, and made a note of it. “Very good. I
should say that was worth full twenty pound at
the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.”
“’Soizes 1" cried John ; “thou’d betther not
talk to me o' 'Soizes. Yorkshire schools have
been shown up at 'Soizes afore noo, mun, and
it's, a ticklish soobjact to revive, I can tell
ye.”
Mr. Squeers shook his head in a threatening
manner, looking very white with passion; and
taking his daughter's arm, and dragging little
Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the
door. -
“As for you,” said Squeers, turning round and
addressing Nicholas, who, as he had caused him
to smart pretty soundly on a former occasion,
purposely abstained from taking any part in the
discussion, “see if I ain't down upon you before
long. You'll go a kidnapping of boys, will you ?
Take care their fathers don't turn up—mark
that—take care their fathers don't turn up, and
send 'em back to me to do as I like with, in
spite of you.”
“I am not afraid of that,” replied Nicholas,
shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and
turning away.
“Ain’t you ?” retorted Squeers with a dia-
bolical look. “Now, then, come along.”
“I leave such society, with my pa, for hever,”
said Miss Squeers, looking contemptuously and
loftily round. “I am defiled by breathing the
air with such creatures. Poor Mr. Browdie
He he he I do pity him, that I do; he's
If thou'd got twonty
279
so deluded. He he he Artful and de-
signing 'Tilda "
With this sudden relapse into the sternest and
most majestic wrath, Miss Squeers swept from
the room ; and, having sustained her dignity
until the last possible monent, was heard to sob
and scream and struggle in the passage.
John Browdie remained standing behind the
table, looking from his wife to Nicholas, and
back again, with his mouth wide open, until his
hand accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale,
when he took it up, and, having obscured his
features therewith for some time, drew a long
breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang
the bell.
“Here, waither,” said John briskly. “Look
alive here. Tak’ these things awa', and let's
have soom'at broiled for sooper—vary comfort-
able, and plenty o' it—at ten o'clock. Bring
Soom brandy and soom wather, and a pair o'
slippers—the largest pair in the house—and be
quick aboot it. Dash ma' wig I’” said John,
rubbing his hands, “there's no ganging oot to-
neeght, noo, to fetch anybody whoam, and ecod,
we'll begin to spend the evening in airnest.”
CHAPTER XLIII.
OFFICIATES As A KIND of GENTLEMAN USHER, IN
BR1NGING WARIOUS PEOPLE TOGETHER.
ɺliº HE storm had long given place to a
º calm the most profound, and the
º 3. §\ evening was pretty far advanced—
(2\ º indeed, supper was over, and the
*S** process of digestion proceeding as
º favourably as, under the influence of com-
plete tranquillity, cheerful conversation,
and a moderate allowance of brandy-and-
water, most wise men conversant with the ama-
tomy and functions of the human frame will
consider that it ought to have proceeded, when
the three friends, or as one might say, both in a
civil and religious sense, and with proper defer-
ence and regard to the holy state of matrimony,
the two friends, (Mr. and Mrs. Browdie count-
ing as no more than one,) were startled by the
noise of loud and angry threatenings below-
stairs, which presently attained so high a pitch,
and were conveyed, besides, in language so
towering, sanguinary, and ferocious, that it could
hardly have been surpassed, if there had actu-
ally been a Saracen's head then present in the
establishment, supported on the shoulders and
surmounting the trunk of a 'real, live, furious,
and most unappeasable Saracen.
zº








28o
AV/CHOLAS AV/CXLEB Y.
This turmoil, instead of quickly subsiding,
aſter the first outburst, (as turmoils not unfre-
quently do, whether in taverns, legislative as-
semblies, or elsewhere,) into a mere grumbling
and growling squabble, increased every moment;
and, although the whole din appeared to be
raised by but one pair of lungs, yet that one
pair was of so powerful a quality, and repeated
such words as “scoundrel,” “rascal,” “insolent
puppy,” and a variety of expletives no less
flattering to the party addressed, with such great
relish and strength of tone, that a dozen voices
raised in concert, under any ordinary circum-
stances, would have made far less uproar. and
created much smaller consternation.
“Why, what's the matter?” said Nicholas,
smoving hastily towards the door.
John Browdie was striding in the same direc-
tion when Mrs. Browdie turned pale, and, lean-
ing back in her chair, requested him with a faint
voice to take notice that if he ran into any
danger it was her intention to fall into hysterics
immediately, and that the consequences might
be more serious than he thought for. John
looked rather disconcerted by this intelligence,
though there was a lurking grin on his face at
the same time; but, being quite unable to keep
out of the fray, he compromised the matter by
tucking his wife's arm under his own, and, thus
accompanied, following Nicholas down-stairs
with all speed.
The passage outside the coffee-room door was
the scene of disturbance, and here were congre-
gated the coffee-room customers and waiters,
together with two or three coachmen and helpers
from the yard. These had hastily assembled
round a young man who, from his appearance,
might have been a year or two older than
Nicholas, and who, besides having given utter-
ance to the defiances just now described, seemed
to have proceeded to even greater lengths in his
indignation, inasmuch as his feet had no other
covering than a pair of stockings, while a couple
of slippers lay at no great distance from the
head of a prostrate figure in an opposite corner,
who bore the appearance of having been shot
into his present retreat by means of a kick, and
complimented by having the slippers flung about
his ears afterwards. &
The coffee-room. customers, and the waiters,
and the coachmen, and the helpers—not to
mention a barmaid who was looking on from
behind an open sash-window—seemed at that
moment, if a spectator might judge from their
winks, nods, and muttered exclamations, strongly
disposed to take part against the young gentle-
man in the stockings. Observing this, and that
the young gentleman was nearly of his own age,
and had in nothing the appearance of an habi.
tual brawler, Nicholas, impelled by such feel.
ings as will influence young men sometimes, felt
a very strong disposition to side with the weaker
party, and so thrust himself at once into the
centre of the group, and in a more emphatic
tone, perhaps, than circuinstances might seem to
warrant, demanded what all that noise was about.
“Hallo 1" said one of the men from the yard,
“this is somebody in disguise, this is.”
“Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of
Roosher, gen'1'men : " cried another fellow.
Disregarding these sallies, which were uncom-
monly well received, as sallies at the expense of
the best-dressed persons in a crowd usually are,
Nicholas glanced carelessly round, and address-
ing the young gentleman, who had by this time
picked up his slippers and thrust his feet into
them, repeated his inquiries with a courteous air.
“A mere nothing : " he replied.
At this a murmur was raised by the lookers-
on, and some of the boldest cried, “Oh, in-
deed —Wasn't it, though?—Nothing, eh?—
He called that nothing, did he 2 Lucky for him
if he found it nothing." These and many other
expressions of ironical disapprobation having
been exhausted, two or three of the out-of-door
fellows began to hustle Nicholas and the young
gentleman who had made the noise : stumbling
against them by accident, and treading on their
toes, and so forth. But this being a round game,
and one not necessarily limited to three or four
players, was open to John Browdie too, who, .
bursting into the little crowd—to the great terror
of his wife—and falling about in all directions,
now to the right, now to the left, now forwards,
now backwards, and accidentally driving his
elbow through the hat of the tallest helper, who
had been particularly active, speedily caused the
odds to wear a very different appearance; while
more than one stout fellow limped away to a
respectful distance, anathematizing with tears in
his eyes the heavy tread and ponderous feet of
the burly Yorkshireman. .
“Let me see him do it again,” said he who
had been kicked into the corner, rising as he
spoke, apparently more from the fear of John
Browdie's inadvertently º upon him than
from any desire to place himself on equal terms
with his late adversary. “Let’ me see him do it.
again. That's all.” - *
“I.et me hear you make those remarks again,"
said the young man, “and I'll knock that head
of yours in among the wine-glasses behind you
there.”
Here a waiter who had been rubbing his
7://E YOUNG GEMTLEMAN EXPLA/AWS. 23r
hands in excessive enjoyment of the scene, so
long as only the breaking of heads was in ques-
tion, adjured the spectators with great earnest-
ness to fetch the police, declaring that otherwise
murder would be surely done, and that he was
responsible for all the glass and china on the
premises. .
“No one need trouble himself to stir,” said
the young gentleman; “I am going to remain
in the house all night, and shall be found here
in the morning if there is any assault to answer
for.”
“What did you strike him for P” asked one
of the bystanders.
“Ah! what did vou strike him for P” de-
manded the others. -
The unpopular gentleman looked coolly round,
and, addressing himself to Nicholas, said:—
“You inquired just now what was the matter
here. The matter is simply this. Yonder per-
son, who was drinking, with a friend in the
coffee-room when I took my seat there for half
an hour before going to bed, (for 'I have just
come off a journey, and preferred stopping here
to-night, to going home at this hour, where I
was not expected until to-morrow,) chose to
express himself in very disrespectful and inso-
lently familiar terms of a young lady, whom I
recognised from his description and other cir-
cumstances, and whom I have the honour to
know. As he spoke loud enough to be over-
heard by the other guests who were present, I
informed him most civilly that he was mistaken
in his conjectures, which were of an offensive
nature, and requested him to forbear. He did
So for a little time, but, as he chose to renew
his conversation, when leaving the room, in a
more offensive strain than before, I could not
refrain from making after him, and facilitating
his departure by a kick, which reduced him to
the posture in which you saw him just now. I
am the best judge of my own affairs, I take it,”
said the young man, who had certainly not quite
recovered from his recent heat; “if anybody
here thinks proper to make this quarrel his own,
I have not the smallest earthly objection, I do
assure him.” -
Of all possible courses of proceeding under
the circumstances detailed, there was certainly
not one which, in his then state of mind, could
have appeared more laudable to Nicholas than
this. There were not many subjects of dispute
Which at that moment could have come home to
his own breast more powerfully, for, having the
unknown uppermost in his thoughts, it naturally
°ccurred to him that he would have done just
the same if any audacious gossiper durst have
presumed in his hearing to speak lightly of her.
Influenced by these considerations, he espoused
the young gentleman's quarrel with great warmth,
protesting that he had done quite right, and
that he respected him for it ; which John Brow-
die (albeit not quite clear as to the merits) im-
mediately protested toe, with not inferior vehe-
Iſleſ) Cé. ---
“Let him take care, that's all,” said the de-
feated party, who was being rubbed down by a
waitér after his recent fall on the dusty boards.
“He don't knock me about for nothing, I can
tell him that. A pretty state of things, if a
man isn't to admire a handsome girl without
being beat to pieces for it !”
This reflection appeared to have great weight
with the young lady in the bar, who (adjusting
her cap as she spoke, and glancing at a mirror)
declared that it would be a very pretty state of
things indeed; and that, if people were to be
punished for actions so innocent and natural as
that, there would be more people to be knocked
down than there would be people to knock them
down, and that she wondered what the gentle.
man meant by it, that she did.
“My dear girl,” said the young gentleman in
a low voice, advancing towards the sash-window.
“Nonsense, sir!” replied the young lady
sharply, smiling, though, as she turned aside,
and biting her lip (whereat Mrs. Browdie, who
was still standing on the stairs, glanced at her
with disdain, and called to her husband to come
away).
“No, but listen to me,” said the young man.
“If admiration of a pretty face were criminal,
I should be the most hopeless person alive, for
I cannot resist one. It has the most extraordi-
nary, effect upon me, checks and controls me in
the most furious and obstinate mood. You See
what an effect yours has had upon me already.”
“Oh that's very pretty,” replied the young
lady, tossing her head, “but——”
“Yes, I know it's very pretty,” said the young
man, looking with an air of admiration in the
barmaid's face; “I said so, you know, just this
moment. But beauty should be spoken of re-
spectfully—respectfully, and in proper terms,
and with a becoming sense of its worth and
excellence, whereas this fellow has no more
notion ? »
The young lady interrupted the conversation
at this point, by thrusting her head out of the
bar window, and inquiring of the waitep in a
shrill voice whether that young man who had
been knocked down was going to stand in the
passage all night, or whether the entrance was
to be left clear for other people. The waiters
233
AV/CHOLAS WCKZEB Y.
taking the hint, and communicating it to the
hostlers, were not slow to change their tone too,
and the result was, that the unfortunate victim
was bundled out in a twinkling. '
“I am sure I have seen that fellow before.”
said Nicholas.
- “Indeed " replied his new acquaintance.
! “I am certain of it," said Nicholas, pausing
to reflect. “Where can I have—stop —yes, to
be sure—he belongs to a register office up at
the West-end of the town. . I knew I recollected
the face.” w
It was, indeed, Tom—the ugly clerk.
“That's odd enough ſ” said Nicholas, rumi-
nating upon the strange manner in which the
register office seemed to start up and stare him
in the face every now and then, and when he
least expected it.
“I am much obliged to you for your kind
advocacy of my cause when it most needed an
advocate,” said the young man, laughing, and
drawing a card from his pocket. “Perhaps
you'll do me the favour to let me know where I
can thank you.”
Nicholas took the card, and, glancing at it
involuntarily as he returned the compliment,
evinced very great surprise.
“Mr. Frank Cheeryble 1" said Nicholas.
“Surely not the nephew of Cheeryble Brothers,
who is expected to-morrow !”
“I don’t usually call myself the nephew of
the firm,” returned Mr. Frank good-humouredly;
“but, of the two excellent individuals who com-
pose it, I am proud to say I am the nephew.
And you, I see, are Mr. Nickleby, of whom I
have heard so much This is a most unex-
pected meeting, but not the less welcome. I
assure you.” ... •
Nicholas responded to these compliments .
with others of the same kind, and they shook
hands warmly. ' Then he introduced John
Browdic, who had remained in a state of great
admiration ever silice the young lady in the bar
had been so skilfully won over to the right side.
Then Mrs. John Browdie was introduced, and
finally they all went up-stairs together, and
spent the next half-hour with great satisfaction
and mutual entertainment ; Mrs. John Browdie
beginning the conversation by declaring that of
all the made-up things she ever saw, that young
woman below-stairs was the vainest and the
plainest.
This Mr. Frank Cheeryble, although, to judge.
from what had recently taken place, a hot-
headed young man (which is not an absolute
miracle, and phenomenon in nature) was a
sprightly, good-humoured, pleasant fellow, with
‘of England.
much both in his countenance and disposition
that reminded Nicholas very strongly of the
kind-hearted brothers. His manner was as un-
affected as theirs, and his demeanour full of that
heartiness which, to most people who have any.
thing generous in their composition, is pecu-
liarly 'prepossessing. Add to this, that he was
good-looking and intelligent, had a plentiful
share of vivacity, was extremely cheerful, and
accommodated himself in five minutes' time to
all John Browdie's oddities with as much ease
as if he had known him from a boy; and it will
be a source of no great wonder that, when they
parted for the night, he had produced a most
favourable impression, not only upon the worthy.
Yorkshireman and his wife, but upon Nicholas
also, who, revolving all these things in his mind
as he made the best of his way home, arrived at
the conclusión that he had laid the foundation
of a most agreeable and dicsirable acquaintance.
“But it's a most extraordinary thing about
that register-office ſellow !” thought Nicholas.
“Is it likely that this nephew can know any-
thing about that beautiful girl? When Tim
Linkinwater gave me to understand the other
day that he was coming to take a share in the
business here, he said he had been super-
intending it in Germany for four years, and
that during the last six months he had been
engaged in establishing an agency in the north
That's four years and a half-
four years and a half. She can't be more than
seventeen—say eighteen at the outside. She
was quite a child when he went away, then. I
should say he knew nothing about her, and had
never seen her, so he can give me no informa-
tion. At all events,” thought Nicholas, coming
to the real point in his mind, “there can be no
danger of any prior occupation of her affections
in that quarter; that's quite clear.” . . .
Is selfishness a necessary ingredient in the
composition of that passion called love, or does
it deserve all the fine things which poets, in the
exercise of , their undoubted vocation, have said
of it? There are, no doubt, authenticated
instances of gentlemen having given up ladies,
and ladies having given up gentlemen, to
meritorious rivals, under circumstances of grea:
high-mindedness; but is it quite established
that the majority of such ladies and gentlemen
have not made a virtue of necessity, and nobly
resigned what was beyond their reach; as *
private soldier might register a vow never to
accept the order of the Garter, or a poor curate
of great piety and learning, but of no family-
save a very large family of children—might
renounce a bishopric 2
AwozHER CHEER PELE.
283
Here was Nicholas Nickleby, who would
have scorned the thought of counting how the
chances stood of his rising in favour or fortune
with the brothers Cheeryble, now that their
nephew, had returned, already deep in calcula-
tions whether that same nephew was likely to
rival him in the affections of the fair unknown
—discussing the matter, with himself, too, as
gravely as if, with that one exception, it were
all settled ; and recurring to the subject again
and again, and feeling quite indignant, and ill
used at the notion of anybody else making love
to one with whom he had never exchanged a
word in all his life. To be sure, he exaggerated
rather than depreciated the merits of his new
acquaintance; but still he took it as a kind of
personal offence that he should have any merits
at all—in the eyes of this particular young lady,
that is ; for elsewhere he was quite welcome to
have as many as he pleased. There was un-
doubted selfishness in all this, and yet Nicholas
was of a most free and generous nature, with as
few mean or sordid thoughts, perhaps, as ever
ſell to the lot of any man ; and there is no
reason to suppose that, being in love, he felt
and thought differently from other people in the
like sublime condition. -
. He did not stop to set on foot an inquiry into
his train of thought or state of feeling, however;
but went thinking on all the way home, and con-
tinued to dream on in the same strain all night,
For, having satisfied himself that Frank Cheeryble
could have no knowledge of, or acquaintance
with, the mysterious young lady, it began to
occur to him that even he himself might never
See her again; upon which hypothesis he built
up a very ingenious succession of tormenting
ideas, which answered his purpose even better
than the vision of Mr. Frank Cheeryble, and
tantalised and worried him, waking and sleeping.
Notwithstanding all that has been said and
sung to the contrary, there is no well-established
Şase of morning having either deferred or
hastened its approach by the term of an hour
* So for the mere gratification of a splenetic
feeling against some unoffending lover: the sun
having, in the discharge of his public duty, as
the books of precedent report; invariably risen
*ścording to the almanacs, and without suffering
himself to be swayed by any private considera-.
a . . * * - - *
§. So, morning came as usual, and with it
. hours, and with them Mr. Frank
Cheeryble, and with him a long train of smiles
and welcomes from the worthy brothers, and a
In Ore
hearty, reception from Mr. Timothy Linkin-
Water, . - - ; :
grave and clerk-like, but scarcely less.
do you say to that, sir?”
“That Mr. Frank and Mr. Nickleby should
have met last night,” said Tim Linkinwater,
getting slowly 6ff his stool, and looking round
the counting-house with his back planted against
the desk, as was his custom when he had any-
thing very particular to say—“that those two
young men should have met last night in that
manner is, I say, a coincidence—a remarkable
coincidence. Why, I don't believe, now,” added
Tim, taking off his spectacles, and smiling as
with gentle pride, “that there's such a place in
all the world for coincidences as London is "
“I don't know about that,” said Mr. Frank ;
{{ but—”. *
“Don’t know about it, Mr. Francis "inter-
rupted Tim with an obstinate air. “Well, but let
us know. If there is any better place for such
things, where is it 2 Is it in Europe 2 No,
that it isn't. Is it in Asia P Why, of course it's
not. Is it in Africa P Not a bit of it. Is it in
America P You know better than that, at all
events. Well then,” said Tim, folding his arms
resolutely, “where is it?”
“I was not about to dispute the point, Tim,”
said young Cheeryble, laughing. “I am not
such a heretic as that. . All I was going to say
was, that I hold myself under an obligation to
the coincidence, that's all.”
“Oh if you don't dispute it,” said Tim,
quite satisfied, “that's another thing. I'll tell
you what, though—I wish you had. I wish you
or anybody would. I would so put that man
down,” said Tim, tapping the forefinger of his
left hand emphatically with his spectacles, “so
put that man down by argument 99
It was quite impossible to find language to
express the degree of mental prostration to
which such an adventurous wight would be
reduced in the keen encounter with Tim Link-
inwater, so Tim gave up the rest of his decla-
ration in pure lack of words, and mounted his
stool agains
“We may consider ourselves, brother Ned,”
said Charles after he had patted Tim Linkin-
water approvingly on the back, “very fortunate
in having two such young men about us as our
nephew Frank and Mr. Nickleby. It should
be a source of great satisfaction and pleasure
to us.” -
“Certainly, Charles, certainly,” returned the
other.
“Of Tim,” added brother Ned, “I say nothing
whatever, because Tim is a mere child—an
infant—a nobody—that we never think of or
take into account at all. Tim, you villain, what
“I am jealous of both of 'em,” said Timt
284
NICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
“and mean to look out for another situation;
so provide ... yourselves, gentlemen, if you
please.” .
Tim, thought this such an exquisite, unpa-
ralleled, and most extraordinary joke, that he
laid his pen upon the inkstañd, and rather
tumbling off his stool than getting down with
his usual deliberation, laughed till he was quite
faint, shaking his head all the time so that little.
particles of powder flew palpably about the
office. Nor were the brothers at all behind-
hand, for they laughed almost as heartily at the
ludicrous idea of any voluntary separation, be-
tween themselves and old Tim.
Mr. Frank laughed quite boisterously, perhaps
to conceal some other emotion awakened by
this little incident, (and so, indeed, did the
three old fellows after the first burst,) so per-
haps there was .as much keen enjoyment and
relish in that laugh, altogether; as the politest
assembly, ever derived from the most poignant
witticism uttered at any one person's expense.
“Mr. Nickleby,” said brother Charles, calling
him aside, and taking him kindly by the hand,
“I—I—am anxious, my dear, sir, to see that
you are properly and comfortably settled in the
cottage. We cannot allow those who serve us
well to labour under any privation or discomfort
that it is in our power to remove. I wish, too,
to see your mother and sister, to know them,
Mr. Nickleby, and have an opportunity of re-
lieving their minds by assuring them that any
trifling service we have been able to do them is
a great deal more than repaid by the zeal and
ardour you display.—Not a word, my dear sir,
I beg. To-morrow is Sunday. I shall make
bold to come out at tea-time, and take the
chance of finding you at home; if you are not,
you know, or the ladies should feel a delicacy in
being intruded on, and would rather not be
known to me just now, why I can come again
another time, any other time would do for me.
Let it remain upon that understanding. Brother
Ned, my dear fellow, let mre have a word with
you this way.”
The twins went out of the office arm-in-arm,
and Nicholas, who saw in this act of kindness,
and many others of which he had been the
subject that morning, only so. many delicate
renewals, on the arrival of their nephew, of the
kind assurance which the brothers had given
him in his absence, could scarcely feel sufficient
admiration and gratitude for such extraordinar
consideration. -
The intelligence that they were to have a
visitor—and such a visitor—next day, awakened
in the breast of Mrs. Nickleby mingled feelings
Nicholas and
regret them, the less.
of exultation and regret; for whereas, on the
one hand, she hailed it as an omen of her speedy
| restoration to good society and the almost-for-
gotten, pleasures of morning calls and evening
tea-drinkings, she could not, on ‘the other, but
reflect with bitterness of spirit on the absence of
a silver teapot with an ivory knob on the lid,
and a milk-jug to match, which had been the
pride of her heart in days of yore, and had been
kept from year's end to year's end wrapped up
in wash-leather on a certain top shelf, which now
presented itself in lively colours to her sorrowing
imagination. *
“I wonder who's got that spice box,” said
Mrs. Nickleby, shaking her head. “It used to
stand sin the left-hand corner, next but two to
the pickled onions. You remember that spice
box, Kate P”
“Perfectly well, mamma.”
“I shouldn't think you did, Kate,” returned
Mrs. Nickleby in a severe manner, “talking
about it in that cold and unfeeling way ! If
there is any one thing that vexes me in these
losses more than the losses themselves, I do
protest and declare,” said Mrs. Nickleby, rub-
bing her nose with an impassioned air, “that it
is to have people about me who take things with
such provoking calmness.” - W
“My dear mamma,” said Kate, stealing her
arm round her mother's neck, “why do you say
what I know you cannot seriously mean or think,
or why be angry with me for being happy and
content? You and Nicholas are left to me, we
are together once again, and what regard can I
have for a few trifling things of which we never
feel the want? When I have seen all the misery
and desolation that death can bring, and known
the lonesome ſeeling of being solitary and alone
in crowds, and all the agony of separation in
grief and poverty when we most needed comfort
and support from each other, can you wonder
that I look upon this as a place of such delicious
quiet and rest, that, with you beside me, I have
nothing to wish for or regret P : There was a
time, and ‘not long since, when all the com-"
forts of our old home did come back upon me,
I own, very oſten+oftener than you would think,
perhaps—but I affected to care nothing for them,
in the hope that you would so be brought to
I was not insensible, in-
eed. : I might have felt happier if I had been:
Dear mamma,” said Kate in great agitation, “I
know no difference between this home and that
in which we were all so happy for so many years,
except that the kindest and gentlest heart that
eyer ached on earth has passed in peace to
heaven.”. * *
THE FAMILY TEA-PARTY.
285
“ Kate, my dear Kate : ” cried Mrs. Nickleby,
folding her in her arms. . .
“I have so often thought,” sobbed Kate; “of
all his kind words—of the last time he looked
into my little room as he passed up-stairs to-bed,
and said “God bless you, darling !' There was
a paleness in his face, mamma–the broken
heart—I know it was—I little thought so—
then—”
A gush ot tears, came to lier relief, and Kate
laid her head upon her mother's breast, and wept
like a little child.
It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our
nature, that when the heart is touched and soft-
ened by some tranquil happiness or affectionate
feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it
most powerfully and irresistibly. It would almost
seem as though our better thoughts and sympa-
thies were charms, in virtue of which the soul is
enabled to hold some vague and mysterious in-
tercourse with the spirits of those whom we dearly
loved in -life. Alas ! how often and how long
may those patient angels hover above us, watch-
ing for the spell which is so seldom uttered, and
so soon forgotten
Poor Mrs. Nickleby, accustomed to give ready
utterance to whatever came uppermost in her
mind, had never conceived the possibility of her
daughter's dwelling upon these thoughts in secret,
the more especially as no hard trial or querulous
reproach had ever drawn them from her. But
now, when the happiness of all that Nicholas
had just told them, and of their new and peace-
ful life, brought these recollections so strongly
upon Kate that she could not suppress them,
Mrs. Nickleby began to have a glimmering that
she had been rather thoughtless now and then,
and was conscious of something like self-reproach
as she embraced her daughter, and yielded to
the emotions which such a conversation naturally
awakened.
There was a mighty bustle that night, and a
vast quantity of preparation for the expected
visitor, and a very large nosegay was brought
from a gardener's hard by, and cut up into a
pumber of very small ones, with which Mrs.
Nickleby would have garnished the little sitting-
room, in a style that certainly could not have
failed to attract anybody's attention, if Kate had
not offered to spare her the trouble, and arranged
them in the prettiest and neatest manner pos-
Šible. If the cottage ever looked pretty, it must
have been on such a bright and sunshiny day as
the next day was. But Smike's pridé in the
garden, or Mrs. Nickleby's in the condition of
the furniture, or Kate's in everything, was nothing
to the pride with which Nicholas looked at Kate
herself; and surely the costliest mansion in all
England might have found in her beautiful face
and graceſul form its most exquisite and peerless
Ornan lent.
About six o'clock in the aſternoon . Mrs.
Nickleby was thrown into a great flutter of
spirits by the long-expected knock at the door,
nor was, this flutter at all composed by the
audible fread of two pair of boots in the pas-
sage, which Mrs. Nickleby augured, in a breath-
less state, must be “the two Mr. Cheerybles;”
as it certainly was, though not the two Mrs.
Nickleby expected, because it was Mr. Charles
Cheeryble, and his nephew, Mr. Frank, who
made a thousand apologies for his intrusion,
which Mrs. Nickleby (having tea-spoons enough
and to spare for all) most graciously received.
Nor did the appearance of this unexpected
visitor occasion the least embarrassment, (save
in Kate, and that only to the extent of a blush
or two at first,) for the old gentleman was so
kind and cordial, and the young gentleman
imitated him in this respect so well, that the
usual stiffness and formality of a first meeting
showed no signs of appearing, and Kate really
more than once detected herself in the very act
of wondering when it was going to begin.
At the tea-table there was plenty of conversa-
tion on a great variety of subjects, nor were
there wanting jocose matters of discussion, such
as they were ; for young Mr. Cheeryble's recent
stay in Germany happening to be alluded to, old
Mr. Cheeryble informed the company that the
aforesaid young Mr. Cheeryble was suspected to
have fallen deeply in love with the daughter of a
certain German burgomaster. This accusation
young Mr. Cheeryble most indignantly repelled,
upon which Mrs. Nickleby slily remarked that
she suspected, from the very warmth of the
denial, there must be something in it. Young
Mr. Cheeryble then earnestly entreated old Mr.
Cheeryble to confess that it was all a jest,
which old Mr. Cheeryble at last did, young
Mr. Cheeryble being so much in earnest about
it, that—as Mrs. Nickleby said many thousand
times afterwards in recalling the scene—he
“quite coloured,” which she rightly considered
a memorable circumstance, and one worthy of
remark, young men not being, as a class, remark-
able for modesty or self-denial, especially when
there is a lady in the case, when, if they colour
at all, it is rather their practice to colour the
story, and not themselves.
After tea there was a walk in the garden, and,
the evening being very fine, they strolled out at
the garden-gate into some lanes and by-roads,
and sauntered up and down until it grew quite
286
MICHOLAS AICKLEBY. §
dark. The time seemed to pass very quickly
with all the party. Kate went first, leaning upon
her brother's arm, and talking with him and Mr.
Frank Cheeryble; and Mrs. Nickleby and the
elder gentleman followed at a short distance,
the kindness of the good merchant, his interest
in the welfare of Nicholas, and his admiration
of Kate, so operating upon the good lady's feel-
ings, that the usual current of her speech was
confined within very narrow and circumscribed
limits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an
object of interest in his life, had been one that
day) accompanied them, joining sometimes one
group and sometimes the other, as brother
Charles, laying his hand upon his shoulder,
bade him walk with him, or Nicholas, looking
smilingly round, beckoned him to come and
talk with the old friend who understood him
best, and who could win a smile into his care-
worn face when none else could.
Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it
cannot be the pride of a mother in her children,
for that is a compound of two-cardinal virtues—
faith and hope. This was the pride which swelled
Mrs. Nickleby's heart that night, and this it was
which left upon her face, glistening in the light
when they returned home, traces of the most
grateful tears she had ever shed.
There was a quiet mirth about the little
Supper, which harmonised exactly with this tone
of feeling, and at length the two gentlemen took
their leave. There was one circumstance in the
leave-taking which occasioned a vast deal of
smiling and pleasantry, and that was, that Mr.
Frank Cheeryble offered his hand to Kate twice
over, quite forgetting that he had bade her adieu
already. This was held by the elder Mr. Cheeryble,
to be a convincing proof that he was thinking of
his German flame, and the jest occasioned im-
mense laughter: So easy is it to move light
hearts. -
In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil
happiness; and as we all have some bright day
—many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of
others—to which we revert with particular de-
light, so this one was often looked back to after-
wards, as holding a conspicuous place in the
calendar of those who shared it.
Was there one exception, and that one he
who needed to have been most happy?
(Who was that who, in the silence of his own
chamber, sunk upon his knees to pray as his
first friend had taught him, and, folding his
hands and stretching them wildly in the air, fell
upon his face in a passion of bitter grief?
—sº- - -
Y.
| CHAPTER XLIV.
MR. RALPH NICKLEBy, CUTS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
IT would Also APPEAR, FROM THE CONTENTS
HEREOF, THAT A JokE, EVEN BETWEEN HUSBAND
AND WIFE, MAY BE SOMETIMES CARRIED TOO FA.R.
ſº HERE are some men who, living
º with the one object of enriching
º themselves, no matter by what means,
| and being perfectly conscious of the
- baseness and rascality of the means
which they will use every day towards this
end, affect nevertheless—even to them-
selves—a high tone of moral rectituéſe,
and shake their heads and sigh over the de-
pravity of the world. Some of the craftiest
scoundrels that ever walked this earth, or rather
—for walking implies, at least, an erect position
and the bearing of a man—that ever crawled
and crept through life by its dirtiest and nar-
rowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries the
events of every day, and keep a regular debtor
and creditor account with Heaven, which shall
always show a floating balance in their own
ſavour. Whether this is a gratuitous (the only
gratuitous) part of the falsehood and trickery of
such men's lives, or whether they really hope to
cheat Heaven itself, and lay up treasure in the
next world by the same process which has
enabled them to lay up treasure in this—not to
question how it is, so it is. And, doubtless, such
book-keeping (like certain autobiographies which
have enlightened the world) cannot ſail to prove
serviceable, in the one respect of sparing the
recording Angel some time and labour.
Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp.
Stern, unyielding, dogged, and impenetrable,
Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it,
save the gratification of two passions: avarice,
the first and predominant appetite of his nature,
and hatred, the second. Affecting to consider
himself but a type of all humanity, he was at
little pains to conceal his true character from
the world in general, and in his own heart he
exulted over and cherished every bad design
as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition
that Ralph Nickleby heeded, in the letter, was,
“Know thyself.” He knew himself well, and,
choosing to imagine that all mankind were cast
in the same mould, hated them; for, though no
man hates himself, the coldest among us having
too much self-love for that, yet most men un-
consciously judge the world from themselves,
and it will be very generally found that those
who sneer habitually at human nature, and affect
to despise it, are among its worst and lea.
pleasant samples, -




GONEY OFF
! — *—- — - -
But the present business of these adventures
is with Ralph himselſ, who stood regarding
Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that
worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and spread-
ing them carefully on the palm of his left hand,
and flattening them with his right to take the
creases out, proceeded to roll them up with an
absent air, as if he were utterly regardless of all
things else, in the deep interest of the cere-
monial.
“Gone out of town " said Ralph slowly.
“A mistake of yours. Go back again.”
“No mistake,” returned Newman.
even going ;-gone.” - g
“Has he turned girl, or baby 2” muttered
Ralph with a fretful gesture. .
“I don't know,” said Newman, “but he's
gone.” - -
“ Not
The repetition of the word “gone” seemed to
afford Newman Noggs inexpressible delight, in
proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He
uttered the word with a full round emphasis,
dwelling upon it as long as he decently cquld,
and, when he could hold out no longer without
attracting observation, stood gasping, it to him-
self, as if even that were a satisfaction. -
“And where has he gone?” said, Ralph.
“France,” replied Newman. “Danger of
another attack of erysipelas—a, worse attack—
in the head. So the doctors ordered him off.
And he's gone.” -
“And Lord Frederick—?” began Ralph.
“He’s gone too,” replied Newman.
. “And he carries his drubbing with him, does
he 2" said Ralph, turning away—“pockets his
bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation of
a word, or seeking the smallest reparation *
“He’s too ill,” said Newman. .
.." Too ill !” repeated Ralph, “Why, I would
have it if I were, dying; in that case I should
only be the more determined to have it, and that
without delay—I mean if I were he. But he's
too ill Poor Sir Mulberry Too ill "
Uttering these words with supreme contempt
and great irritation of manner, Ralph signed
hastily to Newman to leave the room ; and,
throwing himself into his chair, beat his foot
impatiently upon the ground.
Y £ & There. is some spell about that boy,” said
Ralph, grinding his teeth. “Circumstances
$ºspire to help him, Talk of fortune's favours!
What is even money to such Devil's luck as this?”
He thrust his hands impatiently into his
pockets, but, notwithstanding his previous reflec-
* there was some consolation there, for his
*; relaxed a little; and, although there was
still a deep frown upon the contracted brow,
287.
it was one of calculation, and not of disappoint-
ment. *.
“This Hawk will come back, however,
muttered Ralph ; “and if I know the man—
and I should by this time—his wrath will hate
lost nothing of its violence in the meanwhile.
Obliged to live in retirement—the monotony of
a sick-room to a man of his habits—no life—no
drink—no play—nothing that he likes and lives
by. He is not likely to forget his obligations to
the cause of all this. Few men would ; but ke
of all others—no, no "
He smiled and shook his head, and, resting
his chim upon his hand, fell a musing, and
smiled again. After a time he rose and rang .
the bell. *
“That Mr. Squeers; has he been here P"
said Ralph.
“He was here last night. I left him here
when I went home,” returned Newman.
“I know that, fool, do I not 2" said Ralph
irascibly. “Has he been here since P. Was he
here this morning P”
“No,” bawled Newman in a very loud key.
“If he comes while I am out—he is pretty
sure to be here by nine to-night—let him wait.
And if there's another man with him, as there
will be—perhaps,” said Ralph, checking himself,
“let him wait too.”
. “Let 'em both wait?” said Newman.
“Ay,” replied Ralph, turning upon him with
an angry look. “Help me on with this spen-
cer, and don't repeat after me, like a croaking
parrot.”
“I wish I was a parrot,” said Newman
sulkily.
“I wish you were,” rejoined Ralph, drawing
his Spencer on ; “I'd have wrung your neck
long ago. * º
Newman returned no answer to this compli-
ment, but looked over Ralph's shoulder for an
instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the
Spencer behind, just then,) as if he were strongly
disposed to tweak him by the nose. Meeting
Ralph's eye, however, he suddenly recalled his
wandering fingers, and rubbed his own red nose
With a vehemence quite astonishing. x.
Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric
follower than a threatening look, and an admoni-
tion to be careful and make no mistake, Ralph
took his hat and gloves, and walked out.
He appeared to have a very exträordinary
and miscellaneous connection, and very odd
calls he made—some at great rich houses, and
Somé at small poor ones—but all upon one
subject: money. His face was a talisman to
the porters and servants of his more dashing
288
AW/CAHO/A.S AV/CKZAZA V.
clients, and procured him ready admission,
though he trudged on foot; and others, who
were denied, rattled to the door in carriages.
Here he was all softness and cringing civility;
his step so light, that it scarcely produced a
sound upon the thick carpets; his voice so soft,
that ‘it was not audible beyond the person to
whom it was addressed. But in the poorer
habitations Ralph was another man ; his boots
creaked upon the passage floor as he walked
boldly in ; his voice was harsh and loud as he
demanded the money that was overdue ; his
threats were coarse and angry. . With another
class of customers, Ralph was again another
man. These were attorneys of more than
doubtful reputation, who helped him to new
business, or raised fresh profits upon old. With
them Ralph was familiar and jocose—humorous
upon the topics of the day, and especially plea-
sant upon bankruptcies and pecuniary difficulties
that made good for trade. In short, it would
have been difficult to have recognised the same
man undér these various aspects, but for the
bulky leather case full of bills and notes which
** FELL UPON HIS FACE IN A
he drew from his pocket at every house, and
the constant repetition of the same complaint,
(varied only in tone and style of delivery), that
the world thought him rich, and that perhaps he
might be if he had his own ; but there was no
getting money in when it was once out, either.
principal or interest, and it was a hard matter
to live—even to live from day to day.
It was evening before a long round of such
visits (interrupted only by a scanty dinner at ans
eating-house) terminated at Pimlico, and Ralph
walked along St. James's Park, on his way
home.
PASSION of BITTER GRIEF.”
There were some deep schemes in his head, as
the puckered brow and firmly-set mouth would
have abundantly testified, even if they had been
unaccompanied by a complete indifference to,
or unconsciousness of, the objects about him.
So complete was his abstraction, however, that
Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as any man, did
not observe that he was followed by a shambling
figure, which at one time stole behind him with
noiseless footsteps, at another crept a few paces
before him, and at another glided along by his
side; at all times regarding him with an eye so
keen, and a look so eager and attentive, that it

SHOULD AULD Acova/W7AwcE BE Forgoz,
289
was more like the expression of an intrusive face
in some powerful picture or strongly-marked
dream than the scrutiny even of a most interested.
and anxious observer.
The sky had been lowering and dark for some
time, and the commencement of a violent storm
of rain drove Ralph for shelter to a tree. He
was leaning against it with folded 'arms, still
buried in thought, when, happening to raise his
eyes, he suddenly met those of a man who,
creeping round the trunk, peered into his face
with a searching look. There was something in
the usurer's expression at the moment which the
man appeared to remember well, for it decided
him; and, stepping close up to Ralph, he pro-
nounced his name. . - -
Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a
couple of paces, and surveyed him from head to
foot. A spare, dark, withered man, of about
his own, age, with a stooping body, and a very
sinister face rendered more ill favoured by hollow
and hungry cheeks, deeply sunburnt, and thick
black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with the
perfect whiteness of his hair; roughly clothed
in shabby garments, of a strange and uncouth
make ; and having about him an indefinable
manner of depression and degradation—this, for
a moment, was all he saw. But he looked
again, and the face and person seemed gradually
to grow less strange; to change as he looked,
to subside and soften into lineaments that were
familiar, until at last they resolved. themselves,
as if by some strange optical illusion, into those
9f one whom he had known for many years, and
ſorgotten and lost sight of for nearly as many
more. - - ."
The man saw that the recognition was mutual,
and beckoning to Ralph to take his former place
under the tree, and not to stand in the falling
rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been
Quite regardless, addressed him in a hoarse, faint
tone. - :
“You would hardly have known me from my
voº, I suppose, Mr. Nickleby P" he said.
“No, returned Ralph, bending a severe look
upon him. “Though there is Something in that
that I remember now.” * .
4. ! - Y " . . . . .
“There is little in me that you can call to
ºd as having been there eight years ago, I
dare say ?" observed the other. -
&g * - 2 ~l- -
Quite enough,” said Ralph carelessly, and
*śrting his.face. “More than enough.”
“If I had remained in doubt about you, Mr.
Nickleby,” said the other, “this reception, and
**nner, would have decided me very sºon.”
“Did you expect * ,
sharply. you expect any one." asked Ralph
“No 1" said the man. -
“You were right,” retorted Ralph ; “and, as
you feel no surprise, need express none.”
“Mr. Nickleby,” said the man bluntly aſter
a brief pause, during which he had seemed to
struggle with an inclination to answer him by
some reproach, “will you hear a few words that
I have to say ?”
“I am obliged to wait here till the rain holds
a little,” said Ralph, looking abroad. “If you
talk, sir, I shall not put my ſingers in my ears,
though your talking may have as much effect as
if I did.” -
“I was once in your confidence thus
his companion began. Ralph looked round.
and smiled involuntarily.
“Well,” said the other, “as much in your
confidence as you ever chose to let anybody
be.” . .
“Ah!” rejoined Ralph, folding his arms;
“that's another thing—quite another thing."
“Don't let us play upon words, Mr. Nickleby,
in the name of humanity.”
“Of what?” said Ralph.
“Of humanity,” replied the other stertily:
“I am hungry and in want. If the change that
35
you must see in me after so long an absence—
must see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow
and hard degrees, see it and know it well—will
bot move you to pity, let the knowledge that
bread; not the daily bread of the Lord's Prayer,
which, as it is offered up in cities like this, is
understood to include half the luxuries of the
world for the rich, and just as much coarse food
as will support life for the poor—not that, but
bread, a crust of dry hard bread, is beyond my
reach to-day—let that have some weight with
you, if nothing eſse has.”
“If this is the usual form in which you beg,
sir,” said Ralph, “you have studied your part
well; but, if you will take advice from one who
knows something of the world and its ways, I
should recommend a lower tone—a little lower
tone, or you stand a fair chance of being starved
in good earnest.”
As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist
tightly with his right hand, and inclining his
head a little on one side, and dropping his chin
upon his breast, looked at him whom he ad-
dressed with a frowning, sullen face : the very
picture of a man whom nothing could move or
soften.
“Yesterday was my first day in London,”
said the old man, glancing at his travel-stained
dress and worn shoes. -
... “It would have been better for you, I think,
if it had been your last also,” replied Ralph.
290
AV/CHOLAS, AVICKZEAE P.
N
“I have been seeking you these two days,
where I thought you were most likely to be
found,” resumed the other more humbly, “and
I met you here at last, when I had almost
given up the hope of encountering you, Mr.
Nickleby.”
He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph
giving him none, he continued:
“I am a most miserable and wretched out-
cast, nearly sixty years old, and as destitute and
helpless as a child of six.”
“I am sixty years old, too,” replied Ralph,
“and am neither destitute nor helpless. Work.
Don't make fine play-acting speeches about
bread, but earn it.” - /
“How P” Cried the other: “Where P Show
me the means. Will vou give them to me—will
you?” "
“I did once,” replied Ralph composedly; “you
scarcely need ask me whether I will again.”
“It's twenty years ago, or more,” said the
man in a suppressed voice, “since you and I
fell out. You remember that? I claimed a
share in the profits of some business I brought
to you, and, as I persisted, you arrested me for
an old advance of ten pounds, odd shillings—
including interest at fifty per cent., or so.”
“I remember something of it.” replied Ralph
carelessly. “What then?”
“That didn't part us,” said the man. “I
made submission, being on the wrong side of
the bolts and bars; and, as you were not the
made man then that you are now, you were glad
enough to take back a clerk who wasn't over-
nice, and who knew something of the trade you
drove.”
“You begged and prayed, and I consented,”
returned Ralph. “That was kind of me. Per-
haps I did want you—I forget. I should think
I did, or you would have begged in vain. You
were useful—not too honest, not too delicate,
not too nice of hand or heart—but useful.”
“ Useful indeed ' " said the man. “Come !
You had pinched and ground me down for some .
years before that, but I had served you faithfully
up to that time, in spite of all your dog's usage
—had I ?”
Ralph made no reply.
“Had I ?” said the man again.
“You had had your wages,” rejoined Ralph,
“and had done your work. We stood on equal
ground so far, and could both cry quits.”
“Then, but not afterwards,” said the other.
“Not afterwards, certainly, nor even then, for
(as you have just said) you owed me money, and
do still,” replied Ralph.
“That's not all,” said the man eagerly. .
“That's not all. Mark that. I didn't forget
that old sore, trust me. A Partly in remembrance
of that, and partly in the hope of making money
some day by the scheme; I took advantage of
my position about you, and possessed myself of
a hold upon you, which you would give half of
all you have to know, and never can know but
through me. I left you—long after that time,
remember—and, for some poor trickery that
came within the law, but was nothing to what
you money-makers daily practise just outside
its bounds, was sent away a convict for seven
years. I have returned what you see me. S.Now,
Mr. Nickleby,” said the man with a strange
mixture of humility and sense of power, “what
help and assistance will you give me—what
bribe, to speak out plainly 2 My expectations
are not monstrous, but I must live, and to live
I must eat and drink. Money is on your side,
and hunger and thirst on mine. You may drive
an easy bargain.” -
“Is that all?” said Ralph, still eyeing his
companion with the same steady look, and
moving nothing but his lips.
“It depends on you, Mr. Nickleby, whether
that's all or not,” was the rejoinder.
“Why, then, harkye, Mr. , I \\on't know
by what name I am to call you,” said Ralph.
“By my old one, if you like.”
“Why, then, harkye, Mr. Brooker,” said
Ralph in his harshest accents, “and don't ex-
pect to draw another speech from me—harkye,
sir. I know you of old for a ready scoundrel,
but you never had a stout heart; and hard
work, with (maybe) chains upon those legs of
yours, and shorter food than when I pinched”
and ‘ground' you, has blunted your wits, or
you would not come with such a tale as this to
me. You a hold upon me ! Keep it, or publish
it to the world, if you.like.” - -
“I can't do that,” interposed Brooker. “That
wouldn’t serve me.”
“Wouldn't it?” said Ralph. “It will serve
you as much as bringing it to me, I promise
you. To be plain with you, I am a careful man,
and know my affairs thoroughly. I know the
world, and the world knows me. Whatever you
gleaned, or heard, or saw, when you served me,
the world knows and magnifies already. *You
could tell it nothing that would surprise it-
unless, indeed, it redounded to my credit, or
honour, and then it would scout, you for a liar.
And yet I don't find business slack, or clients
scrupulous. Quite the contrary. . I am reviled
or threatened every day by one man or another,”
said Ralph ; “but things roll on just the same,
and I don't grow poorer either.”
“I neither revile nor threaten,” rejoined the
Thall.
by my act, what I only can restore, and what, if
I die without restoring, dies with me, and never
can be regained.” . . .
“I tell my money pretty accurately, and
generally keep it in my own custody,” said
Ralph. “I look sharply after most men that I
deal with, and most of all I looked sharply
after you. You are welcome to all you have
kept from me.” -
“Are those of your own name dear to you?”
said the man emphatically. “If they are 3;
“They are not,” returned Ralph, exasperated
at this perseverance, and the thought of Nicholas,
which the last question awakened. “They are
not. If you had come as a common beggar, I.
might have thrown a sixpence to you in remem-
brance of the clever knave you used to be ;
but, since you try to palm these stale tricks
upon one you might.have known better, I’ll not
part with a halfpenny—nor would I to save you
from rotting. And remember this, 'scape-gal-
lows,” said Ralph, menacing him with his hand,
“that if we meet again, and you so much as
notice me by one begging gesture, you shall see
the inside of a gaol once more, and tighten this
hold upon me in intervals of the hard labour
that vagabonds are put to. There's my answer
to your trash. Take it.”
With a disdainful scowl at the object of his
anger, who met his eye, but uttered not a word,
Ralph walked away at his usual pace, without
manifesting the slightest curiosity to see what
became of his late companion, or, indeed, once
looking behind him. The man remained on the
same spot, with his eyes fixed upon his retreat-
ing figure, until it was lost to view, and then
drawing his arm about his chest, as if the damp
and lack of food struck coldly to him, lingered
with slouching steps by the wayside, and pegged
of those who passed along. ...
Ralph, in nowise moved by what had lately
passed, further than as he had already expressed
himself, walked deliberately on, and turning out
of the Park, and leaving Golden Square on his
right, took his way through some streets at the
West-end of the town until he arrived in that
particular one in which stood the residence of
Madame Mantalini. The name of that lady no
longer appeared on the flaming door-plate, that
of Miss Knag being substituted in its stead; but
the bonnets and dresses were still dimly visible
in the first-floor windows by the decaying light
of a summer's evening, and, excepting this
ostensible alteration in the proprietorship, the
establishment wore its old appearance.
*
“I can tell yeu of what you have lost
A BARGAIAW DECZINEZ). 291
“Humph : " muttered Ralph, drawing his
hand across his mouth with a connoisseur-like
air, and surveying the house from top to bottom;
“these people look pretty well. They can't
last long; but, if I know of their going in good
time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. I must
keep them closely in view—that's all.”
So, nodding his head very complacently,
Ralph was leaving the spot, when his quick ear
caught the sound of a confused noise and hub-
bub of voices, mingled with a great running up
and down stairs, in the very house which had
been the subject of his scrutiny ; and, while he
was hesitating whether to knock at the door or
listen at the keyhole a little longer, a female
servant of Madame Mantalini's (whom he had
often seen) opened it abruptly and bounced out,
with her blue cap-ribbons streaming in the air.
“Hallo here ! Stop 1" cried Ralph. “What's
the matter? Here am I. Didn't you hear me
knock P”
“Oh, Mr. Nickleby, sir!” said the girl. “ Go
up, for the love of Gracious : Master's been
and done it again.”
“Done what?” said Ralph tartly.
d'ye mean P”
“I knew he would if he was drove to it,”
cried the girl. “I said so all along.”
“Come here, you silly wench,” said Ralph,
catching her by the wrist; “and don't carry
family matters to the neighbours, destroying
the credit of the establishment. Come here;
do you hear me, girl P.”
Without any further expostulation, he led, or
rather pulled; the frightened handmaid into the
house, and shut the door; then, bidding her
walk up-stairs before him, followed without more
ceremony.
Guided by the noise of a great many voices
all talking together, and passing the girl, in his
impatience, before they had ascended many steps,
Ralph quickly reached the private sitting-room,
when he was rather amazed by the confused and
inexplicable scene in which he suddenly found
himself.
There were all the young-lady workers, some
with bonnets and some without, in various atti-
“What
tudes expressive of alarm and consternation ;
some gathered round Madame Mantalini, who
was in tears upon one chair; and others round
Miss Knag, who was in opposition tears upon
another; and others round Mr. Mantalini, who
was, perhaps, the most striking figure in the
whole group, for Mr. Mantalini's legs were ex-
tended at full length upon the floor, and his
head and shoulders were supported by a very
tall footman, who didn't seem to know what to
29,
ArchſozAS WICKZEBy
do with them, and Mr. Mantalini's eyes were
closed, and his face was pale and his hair was
comparatively straight, and his whiskers and
moustache were limp, and his teeth were clenched,
and he had a little bottle in his right hand, and
a little tea-spoon in his left; and his hands,
arms, legs, and shoulders were all stiff and
powerless. And yet Madame Mantalini was
not weeping upon the body, but was scolding
violently upon her chair; and all this amidst a
clamour of tongues perfectly deafening, and
which really appeared to have driven the unfor-
tunate footman to the utmost verge of distrac-
tIOn.
“What is the matter here?” said Ralph, press-
ing forward. . . - -
At this inquiry the clamour was increased
twenty-fold, and an astounding string of such
shrill contradictions as “He’s poisoned himself”
—“He hasn't"—“Send for a doctor”—“Don’t”
—“He’s dying ”—“He isn't, he's only pretend-
ing”—with various other cries, poured forth
with bewildering volubility, until Madame Man-
talini was seen to address herself to Ralph, when
female curiosity to know what she would say
prevailed, and, as if by general consent, a dead
silence, unbroken by a single whisper, instan-
taneously succeeded. -
“Mr. Nickleby,” said Madame Mantalini,
“by what chance you came here, I don't know.”
Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate
—as part of the wanderings of a sick man—the
words “Demnition sweetness 1” but nobody
heeded them except the footman, who, being
startled to hear such awful tones proceeding, as
it were, from between his very fingers, dropped
his master's head upon the floor with a pretty
loud crash, and then, without an effort to lift it
up, gazed upon the bystanders, as if he had done
something rather clever than otherwise.
“I will, however,” continued Madame Man-
talini, drying her eyes, and speaking with great
indignation, “say before you, and before every-
body here, for the first time, and once for all,
that I never will supply that man's extravagances
and viciousness again. I have been a dupe
and a fool to him long enough. In future, he
shall support himself if he can, and then he may
spend what money he pleases, upon whom and
how he pleases; but it shall not be mine, and
therefore you had better pause before you trust
him further.” -
Thereupon Madame Mantalini, quite unmoved
by some most pathetic lamentations on the part
of her husband, that the apothecary had not
mixed the prussic acid strong enough, and that
|he must take another bottle or two to finish the
gº
myself," said Madame Mantalini, sobbing.
––a–I. ań.
—w-
work he had in hand, entered into a catalogue
of that amiable gentleman's 'gallantries, decep-
tions, extravagances, and infidelities (especially
the last), winding up with a protest against being
supposed to entertain the smallest remnant of
regard for him ; and adducing, in proof of the
altered state of her affections, the circumstance
of his having poisoned himself in private no less
than six times within the last fortnight, and her
not having once interfered by word or deed to
save his life.
“And I insist on being separated and left to
“If
he dares to refuse me a separation, I'll have one
in, law—I can—and I hope this will be a warn-
ing to all girls who have seen this disgraceful
exhibition.” -
Miss Knag, who was unquestionably the oldest
girl in company, said, with great solemnity, that
it would be a warning to her, and so did the
young ladies generally, with the exception of
one or two who appeared to entertain some
doubts whether such whiskers could do wrong.
“Why do you say all this before so many
listeners ?" said Ralph in a low voice. “You
know you are not in earnest.”
“I am in earnest,” replied Madame Mantalini.
aloud, and retreating towards Miss Knag. *
“Well, but consider,” reasoned Ralph, who
had a great interest in the matter. “It would be
well to reflect. A married woman has no pro-
perty.” - - •
“Not a solitary single individual dem, my
soul,” said Mr. Mantalini, raising himself upon
his elbow. -
“I am quite aware of that, retorted Madame
Mantalini, tossing her head; “and I have none.
The business, the stock, this house, and every-
thing in it, all belong to Miss Knag.” º
“That's quite true, Madame Mantalini,” said
Miss Knag, with whom her late employer had
secretly come to an amicable understanding on
this point. “Very true indeed, Madame Man-
talini—hem—very true. And I never was more
glad in all my life that I had strength of mind
to resist matrimonial offers, no matter how
ãdvantageous, than I am when I think of my
present position as compared with your most
unfortunate and most undeserved one, Madame
Mantalini.” . . .
“Demmit 1" cried Mr. Mantalini, turning his
head towards his wife. “Will it not slap' and
pinch the envious dowager that dares to reflect
upon its own delicious P”
But the day of Mr. Mantanni's blandishments
had departed. “Miss Knag, sir,” said his wife,
“is my particular friend;" and, although Mr.
ºr
r—- - - - - -
Mantalini leered till his eyes seemed in danger
of never coming back to their right places again,
Madame Mantalini showed no signs of softening.
To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she
had been mainly instrumental in bringing about
this altered state of things, for finding, by daily
~. . . N ſ t
& M, /
º º % !... / / /.
sº -, f r
/
Nº * ..." {
Nº. Wº: º
N A ºl
§ º,
§: j} \,
º t º
|}º
cº, sº >.C.--> . .
MR. MAAV7.4///WI’S DA Y IS OVER. 293
experience, that there was no chance of the
business thriving, or even continuing to exist,
while Mr. Mantalini had any hand in the ex-
penditure, and having now a considerable in-
terest in its well-doing, she had sedulously
applied herself to the investigation of some little
f
§
&
Hº
>'':
3/ſ:
§§
§ §§ s
- §§ -
w § Nº
“I AM A MOST MISERABLE AND wretchED OUTCAST, NEARLY sixty YEARs oLD, AND AS DESTITUTE
- AND HELPLESS As A CHILD OF SIX,”
\matters connected with that gentleman's private
Sharacter, which she had so well elucidated and
Artfully imparted to Madame Mantalini, as to
fopen her eyes more effectually than the closest
and most philosophical, reasoning could have
flope in a series of years. To which end, the
ICHQLAS-NICKLERY, 20.
accidental discovery by Miss Knag of some
tender correspondence, in which Madame Man-
talini was described as “old” and “ordinary,”
had most providentially contributed.
However, notwithstanding her firmness, Ma-
dame Mantalini wept very piteously ; and, as
* 220

294
McHozas wroxzAA Y.
she leant upon Miss Knag, and signed towards
the door, that young lady, and all the other
young ladies with sympathising faces, proceeded
to bear her out -
“Nickleby,” said Mr. Mantalini in tears,
“you have been made a witness to this demni-
tion cruelty, on the part of the demdest enslaver
and captivater that never was, oh dem 1
give that woman.”
“Forgive . "
angrily. y
“I do forgive her, Nickleby," said Mr. Man-
talini. “You will blame me, the world will
blanne me, the women will blame me; every-
body will laugh, and scoff, and smile, and grin
most demnebly. They will say, “She had a
blessing. She did not know it. He was too
weak; he was too good ; he was a dem'd fine
fellow, but he loved too strong; he could not
bear her to be cross, and call him wicked names.
repeated Madame Mantalini
It was a dem'd case, there never was a demder.' .
—But I forgive her
With this affecting speech Mr. Mantalini fell
down again very flat, and lay to all appearance
without sense or motion until all the females
had left the room, when he came cautiously
into a sitting posture, and confronted Ralph
with a very blank face, and the little bottle still
in one hand, and the tea-spoon in the other. . .
“You may put away those fooleries now, and
live by your wits again,” said Ralph, coolly put-
ting on his hat.
* Demmit, Nickleby, you're not serious 2"
“I seldom joke,” said Ralph. “Good night.”
“No, but Nickleby ” said Mantalini.
“I am wrong, perhaps,” rejoined Ralph. “I
hope so. You should know best Good
night.”
Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he
would stay and advise with him, Ralph left the
crest-fallen Mr. Mantalini to his meditations,
and left the house quietly. • ,
“Oho!” he said, “sets the wind that way so
soon P Half knave and half fool, and detected
in both characters—hum—I think your day is
over, sir.”
As he said this, he made some memorandum .
in his pocket-book in which Mr. Mantalini's
name figured conspicuously, and, finding by his
watch that it was between nine and ten o'clock,
made all speed home.
“Are they here?" was the first question he
asked of Newman. - - -
Newman nodded. “Been here half an hour."
“Two of them P one a fat sleek man 2" w
“Ay,” said Newman. “In your room now.”
“Good,” rejoined Ralph. “Get me a coach.”
a *
I for-
* f * --- -
—º
“A coach What, you—going to—eh?”
stammered Newman. -
Ralph angrily repeated his orders, and Noggs,
who might well have been excused for wonder-
ing at such an unusual and extraordinary cir-
cumstance—ſor he had never seen Ralph in a
coach in his life—departed on his errand, and
presently returned with the conveyance
Into it went Mr. Squeers, and Ralph, and the
third man, whom Newman Noggs had never
seen. Newman stood upon the door-step to
see them off, not troubling himself to wonder
where or upon what business they were going,
until he chanced by mere accident to hear Ralph
name the address whither the coachman was to
drive. - - - • * -
Quick as lightning, and in a state of the most
extreme wonder, Newman darted into his little
office for his hat, and limped after the coach as
if with the intention of getting up behind ; but
in this design he was balked, for it had too
much the start of him, and was soon hopelessly
ahead, leaving him gaping in the empty street.
“I don't know, though,” said Noggs, stopping
for breath, “any good that I could have done
by going too. He would have seen me if I
had. Drive there ' What can come of this 2
If I had only known it yesterday I could have
told Drive there ! There's mischief in it.
There must be.” -
His reflections were interrupted by a grey-
haired man of a very remarkable, though far
from prepossessing appearance, who, coming
stealthily towards him, solicited relief.
Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away;
but the man followed him, and pressed him with
such a tale of misery, that Newman (who might
have been considered a hopeless person to beg
from, and who had little enough to give) looked
into his hat ſor some halfpence which he usually
kept screwed up, when he had any, in a corner
of his pocket-handkerchief.
While he was busily untwisting the knot with
his teeth, the man said something which at-
tracted his attention; whatever that something
was, it led to something else, and in the end he
and Newman walked away side by side—the
strange man, talking , earnestly, and Newman
listening. -
-º-
CHAPTER XLV.
containing MATTER of A su RPRISING Kinp:
A*
we gamg awa’ fra' Lunnum to-morrow
neeght, and as I dinnot know that I was
c'er so happy, in a my days, Misther Nickleby;
AZR.S. NICA LEB Y PA Z-ROM/SES.
295
Ding ! but I will tak’ amoother glass to our next
ºv meeting !”
º said jºhn Browdie, rubbing his hands
with great joyousness, and looking round him
with a ruddy shining face, quite in keeping with
the declaration. . - . . . . .
The time at which John found himself in this
enviable condition was the same ever:ng to
which the last chapter bore reference; the place
was the cottage; and the assembled company
were Nicholas, Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs. Browdie,
Kate Nickleby, and Smike.
A very merry party, they had been. Mrs.
Nickleby, knowing of her son's obligations to
the honest Yorkshireman, had, after some demur,
yielded her consent to Mr. and Mrs. Browdie
being invited out to tea; in the way of which
arrangement there were, at first, sundry difficul-
ties and obstacles, arising out of her not having
had an opportunity of “calling" upon Mrs.
Browdie first: for, although Mrs. Nickleby very
often observed, with much complacency (as most
punctilious people do), that she had not an atom
of pride or formality about her, still she was a
great stickler for dignity and ceremonies; and
as it was manifest that, until a call had been
made, she could not be (politely speaking, and
according to the laws of society) even cognizant
of the fact of Mrs. Browdie's existence, she felt
her situation to be one of peculiar delicacy and
difficulty.
“The call must originate with me, my dear,”
said Mrs. Nickleby, “that's indispensable. The
fact is, my dear, that it's necessary there should
be a sort of condescension on my part, and that
I should show this young person that I am will- .
ing to take notice of her. There's a very respect-
able-looking young man,” added Mrs. Nickleby
after a short consideration, “who is conductor
to one of the omnibuses that go by here, and
who wears a glazed hat—your sister and I have
noticed him very often—he has a wart upon his
nose, Kate, you know, exactly like a gentleman's
Servalht.” ..
" Have all gentlemen's servants warts upon
tº Sº
their noses, mother P” asked Nicholas.
‘N icholas, my dear, how very absurd you
* !” returned his mother. “Of course I mean
"at his glazed hat looks like a gentleman's
*vant, and not the wart upon his nose—though
°ven that is not so ridiculous as it may seem to
99", for we had a footboy once, who had not
only a wart, but a wen also, and a very large
"ºn too, and he demanded to have his wages
*sed in consequence, because he found it came
Yºy expensive. Let me see, what was I–oh yes,
I know. The best way that I can think of would
be to send a card, and my compliments, (I've no
doubt he'd take 'em for a pot of porter, by this
young man, to the Saracel) with Two Necks—
if the waiter took him for a gentleman's servant,
so much the better. Then all Mrs. Browdie
would have to do would be to send her card
back by the carrier (he could easily come with
a double knock), and there's an end of it.”
“My dear mother,” said Nicholas, “I don't
suppose such unsophisticated people as these
ever had a card of their own, or ever will have.”
“Oh, that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear," re-
turned Mrs. Nickleby, “that's another thing !
If you put it upon that ground, why, of course,
I have no more to say than that I have no doubt
they are very good sort of persons, and that I
have no kind of objection to their coming here
to tea if they like, and shall make a point of
being very civil to them if they do.”
The point being thus effectually set at rest,
and Mrs. Nickleby duly placed in the patronis-
ing and mildly-condescending position which
became her rank and matrimonial years, Mr.
and Mrs. Browdie, were invited and came ; and
as they were very deferential to Mrs. Nickleby,
and seemed to have a becoming appreciation of
her greatness, and were very much pleased with
everything, the good lady had more than once
given Kate to understand, in a whisper, Sthat
she thought they were the very best-meaning
people she had ever seen, and perfectly well
behaved.
And thus it came to pass that John Browdie
declared, in the parlour after supper, to wit, and
twenty minutes before eleven o'clock P.M., that
he had never been so happy in all his days.
Nor was Mrs. Browdie much behind her hus-
band in this respect, for that young matron—
whose rustic beauty contrasted very prettily with
the more delicate loveliness of Kate, and with-
out suffering by the contrast either, for each
served as it were to set off and decorate the
other-—could not sufficiently admire the gentle
and winning manners of the young lady, or the
engaging affability of the elder one. Then Kate
had the art of turning the conversation to sub-
jects upon which the country, girl, bashful at
first in strange company, could feel herself at
home ; and if Mrs. Nickleby was not quite so
felicitous at times in the selection of topics of
discourse, or if she did seem, as Mrs. Browdie
expressed it, “rather high in her notions,” still
nothing could be kinder, and that she took con-
siderable interest in the young couple was mani-
fest from the very long lectures on housewifery
with which she was so obliging as to entertain
Mrs. Browdie's private ear, which were illustrated
*
296
NICHOLAS WICKZEB Y. v
*
by various references to the domestic economy
of the cottage, in which (those duties ſailing
exclusively upon Kate) the good lady had about
as much share, either in theory or practice, as
any one of the statues of the Twelve Apostles
which embellish the exterior of St. Paul's Cathe-
dral. -
“Mr. Browdie,” said Kate, addressing his
young wife, “is the best-humoured, the kindest
and heartiest creature I ever saw. If I were
oppressed with I don't know how many cares,
it would make me happy only to look at him.”
“He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most
excellent creature, Kate,” said Mrs. Nickleby;
“most excellent. And I am sure that at
all times it will give me pleasure—really plea-
sure now.—to have you, Mrs. Browdie, to see
me in this plain and homely manner. We make
no display,” said Mrs. Nickleby with an air
which seemed to insinuate that they could make
a vast deal if they were so disposed—“no fuss,
no preparation; I wouldn't allow it. I said,
* Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs.
Browdie feel uncomfortable, and how very
foolish and inconsiderate that would be ’”
“I am very mich obliged to you, I am sure,
ma'am,” returned Mrs. Browdie gratefully. “It’s
nearly eleven o'clock, John. I am afraid we
are keeping you up very late, ma'am.”
“Late 1" cried Mrs. Nickleby with a sharp
thin laugh, and one little cough at the end, like
a note of admiration expressed. “This is quite
early for us. We used to keep such hours
Twelve, one, two, three o'clock was nothing to
us. Balls, dinners, card-parties—never were
such rakes as the people about where we used
to live. I often think now, I am sure, that how
we ever could go through with it is quite asto-
nishing—and that is just the evil of having a
large connection and being a great deal sought
after, which I would recommend all young mar-
ried people steadily to resist; though of course,
and it's perfectly clear, and a very happy thing
too, I think, that very few young married
people can be exposed to such temptations.
There was one family in particular, that used to
live about a mile from us—not straight down
the road, but turning sharp off to the left by the
turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over the
donkey—that were quite extraordinary people
for giving the most extravagant parties, with
artificial flowers and champagne, and variegated
lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of eating
and drinking that - the most singular epicure
could possibly require—I don't think that there
ever were such people as those Peltiroguses.
You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate P”
Kate saw that, for the ease and comfort of
the visitors, it was high time to stay this flood
of recollection, so answered that she entertained
of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct
remembrance; and then said that Mr. Browdie
had half promised, early in the evening,4hat he
would sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was
most impatient that he should redeem his pro-
mise, because she was sure it would afford her
mamma more amusement and pleasure than it .
was possible to express. . . .
Mrs. Nickleby confirming her daughter with
the best possible grace—for there was patronage
in that too, and a kind of implication that she
had a discerning taste in such matters, and was
something of a critic—John Browdie proceeded
to consider the words of some north-country
ditty, and to take his wife's recollection respect-
ing the same. This done, he made divers un-
gainly movements in his chair, and, singling out
one particular fly on the ceiling from the other
flies there asleep, fixed his eyes upon him, and
began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be
uttered by a gentle swain ſast pining away with
love and despair) in a voice of thunder.
At the end of the first verse, as though some
person without had waited until then, to make
himself audible, was heard a loud and violent
knocking at the street-door—so loud and so
violent, indeed, that the ladies started as by one
accord, and John Browdie stopped. .
“It must be some mistake,” said Nicholas
carelessly. “We know nobody who would
come here at this hour.” . .
Mrs. Nickleby surmised, however, that per-
haps the counting-house was burnt down, or
perhaps “the Mr. Cheerybles” had sent to take
Nicholas into partnership (which certainly ap-
peared highly probable at that time of night),
or perhaps Mr. Linkinwater had run away with
the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was
taken ill, or perhaps -
But a hasty, exclamation from Kate stopped
her abruptly in her conjectures, and Ralph
Nickleby walked into the room. -
“Stay,” said Ralph as Nicholas rose, and
Kate, making her way towards him, threw her-
self upon his arm. “Before that boy says a
word, hear me.” - -
Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in
a threatening manner, but appeared for the
moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kate
clung closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind
them, and John Browdie, who had heard of
Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty
in recognising him, stepped between the old
man and his young friend, as if with the inten-
RAZAH, COOZZY STATES AZZS CA.S.E.
tion of preventing either of them from advancing
a step further. e -
* Hear me, I say,” said Ralph, “and not him.”
4. Say what thóu'st gotten to say, then, sir,”.
retorted John; “and tak' care thou’ dinnot put
up angry bluid which thou'dst betther try to
uiet.”
quº I should know you,” said Ralph, “by your
tongue; and him” (pointing to Smike) “by his
looks.”
“Don’t speak to him,” said Nicholas, recover-
ing his voice. “I will not have it. I will not
hear him. I do not know that man.
breathe the air that he corrupts.
is an insult to my sister.
him. I will not bear it, by
“Stand 1" cried John, laying his heavy hand
upon his chest. -
“Then let him instantly retire,” said Nicholas,
struggling. “I am not going to lay hands upon
him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have
him here. John—John Browdie—is this my
house—am I a child? If he stands there,”
cried Nicholas, burning with fury, “looking
so calmly upon those who know his black and
dastardly heart, he'll drive me mad.”
His presence
It is shame to see
13
To all these exclamations John Browdie
answered not a word, but he retained his hold
upon Nicholas; and, when he was silent again,
spoke. -
“There's more to say and hear than thou
think'st for,” said John. “I tell'ee I ha’ gotten
scent o' thot already. Wa’at be that shadow
ootside door there 2 Noo, schoolmeasther,
show thyself, mun; dinnot be sheameſeaced.
Noo, auld gen’l’man, let's have schoolmeasther,
coon.” -
Hearing this adjuration, Mr. Squeers, who
had been lingering in the passage until such
time as it should be expedient for him to enter,
and he could appear with effect, was ſain to
present himself in a somewhat undignified and
sneaking way; at which John Browdie laughed
with such keen and heartfelt, delight, that even
Kate, in all the pain, anxiety, and surprise of
the scene, and though the tears were in her
eyes, felt a disposition to join him.
“Have you done enjoying yourself, sir?” |
said Ralph at length.
“Pratty nigh for the prasant time, sir,” replied
John. *.
.."I can.wait,” said Ralph.
time, pray.”
Ralph waited until there was a perfect silence,
and then turning to Mrs. Nickleby, but directing
an eager glance at Kate, as if more anxious to
watch his effect upon her; said:
“Take your own
tº
I cannot
297
“Now, ma'am, listen to me. I don't imaginé
that you were a party to a very fine tirade of
words sent me by that boy of yours, because I
“don’t believe that, under his control, you have
the slightest will of your own, or that your
advice, your opinion, your wants, yºur wishes——
anything which in nature and reason (or of what
use is your great expérience P) ought to weigh
with him—has the slightest influence or weight
whatever, or is taken for a moment into account.”
Mrs. Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as
* if there were a good deal in that, certainly.
: “For this reason,” resumed Ralph, “I address
myself to you, ma'am. For this reason partly,
and partly because I do not wish to be dis-
graced by the acts of a vicious stripling whom I
was obliged to disown, and who afterwards, in
his boyish majesty, feigns to—ha! ha —to dis-
own me, I present myself here to-night. I have
another motive in coming—a motive of human-
ity. I come here,” said Ralph, looking round
with a biting and triumphant smile, and gloating
and dwelling upon the words as if he were loath
to lose the pleasure of saying them, “to restore
a parent his child. Ay, sir,” he continued,
bending eagerly forward, and addressing Nicho-
las, as he marked the change of his countenance,
“to restore a parent his child—his son, sir—
trepanned, waylaid, and guarded at every turn
by you, with the base design of robbing him
some day of any little wretched pittance of
which he might become possessed.”
“In that you know you lie,” said. Nicholas
proudly. -
“In this I know I speak the truth—I have
his father here,” retorted Ralph.
“Here !” sneered Squeers, stepping forward.
“Do you hear that? Here ! Didn't I tell you
to be careful that his father didn't turn up and
send him back to me? Why, his father's my
friend; he's to come back to me directly, he is.
Now, what do you say—eh —now—come—
what do you say to that—an't you sorry you
took so much trouble for nothing P an’t you?
an’t you ?” -
“You bear upon your body certain marks I
gave you,” said Nicholas, looking quietly away,
“ and may talk in acknowledgment of them as
much as you please. You'll talk a long time
before you rub them out, Mr. Squeers.”
The estimable gentleman last named cast a
hasty look at the table, as if he were prompted
by'this retort to throw a jug or bottle at the head
of Nicholas, but he was interrupted in this design
‘(if such design he had) by Ralph, who, touch-
ing him on the elbow, bade him, tell the father
that he might now, appear and claim his son.
298
AV/CHOLAS AW/CKLEB V.
i
| This being purely a labour of love, Mr. Squeers
readily complied, and, leaving the room for the
purpose, almost immediately returned, support-
ing a sleek personage with an oily face, who,
bursting from him, and giving to view the form
and face of Mr. Snawley, made straight up to
Smike, and, tucking that poor fellow's head
under his arm in a most uncouth and awkward
embrace, elevated his broad-brimmed hat at
arm's length in the air as a token of devout
thanksgiving, exclaiming, meanwhile, “How
little did I think of this here joyful meeting,
when I saw him last ! Oh, how little did I
think it !”
“Be composed, sir,” said Ralph with a gruff
expression of svmpathy; “you have got him
now.” - &
“Got him : " Oh, haven't I got him Have
I got him, though R" cried Mr. Snawley, scarcely
able to believe it. “Yes, here he is, flesh and
blood, flesh and blood.”
“Vary little flesh,” said John Browdie.
* Mr. Shawley was too much occupied by his
parental feelings to notice this remark: and, to
assure himself more completely of the restoration
of his child, tucked his head under his arm again,
and kept it there.
“What was it,” said Snawley, “that made me
take such a strong interest in him when that
worthy instructor of youth brought him to my
house P : What was it that made me burn all
over with a wish to chastise him severely for
cutting away from his best friends—his pastors
and masters?"
“It was parental instinct, sir,
Squeers.
“That's what it was, sir,” rejoined Snawley:
“the elevated feeling—the feeling of the ancient
Romans and Grecians, and of the beasts of the
field and birds of the air, with the exception of
rabbits and tom-cats, which sometimes devour
their offspring. My heart yearmed towards him.
I could have—I don't know what I couldn't
have done to him in the anger of a father.” -
“It only shows what Natur’, is, sir,” said
Mr. Squeers. ? »;
Jy
observed
“She's a rum 'un, is Natur’.
“She is a holy thing, sir,” remarked Snawley.
“I believe you,” added Mr. Squeers with a
moral sigh. “I should like to know how we
should ever get on without her. Natur',” said
Mr. Squeers solemnly, “is more easier con-
ceived than described. Oh, what a blessed
thing, sir, to be in a state of natur’l”
| Pending this philosophical discourse, the by-,
s
divided between his feelings of disgust, doubt,
and surprise. At this juncture, Smike, escaping
from his father, fled to Nicholas, and implored
him, in most moving terms, never to give him up,
but to let him live and die beside him. -
“If you are this boy's father,” said. Nicholas,
“look at the wreck he is, and tell me that you
purpose to send him back to that loathsome den
from which I brought him.” .
“Scandal again ſ” cried Squeers. “Recollect
you an’t worth powder and shot, but I'll be even
with you one way or another.”
“Stop,” interposed Ralph as Snawley was
about to speak. “Let us cut this matter short,
and not bandy words here with hare-brained
profligates. This is your son, as you can prove
–and you, Mr. Squeers, you know this boy to
be the same that was with you for so many years
under the name of Smike—do you?”
“Do I " returned Squeers. “Don't I?"
“Good,” said Ralph ; “a very few words will
be sufficient here. You had a son by your first
wife, Mr. Snawley P" .
“I had,” replied that person, “and there he
stands.” .
“We'll show that presently,” said Ralph,
“You and your wife were separated, and she
had the boy to live with her, when he was a
year old. You received a communication from
her, when you had lived apart a year or two,
that the boy was dead; and you believed
it P” -
“Of course I did " returned Snawley, “Oh,
the joy of—- ... •
“Be rational, sir, pray,” said, Ralph. “This
is business, and transports interfere with it.
This wife died a year and a half ago, or there-
abouts—not more—in some obscure place, where
she was housekeeper in a family. Is that the
case P”-
“That's the case,” replied Snawley.
“Having written on her death-bed a letter or
confession to you about this very boy, which, as
it was not directed otherwise than in your name,
only reached you, and that by a circuitous course,
a few days since P” .
“Just so,” said Snawley.
particular, sir.” . - -
“And this confession,” resumed Ralph, “is
to the effect that his death, was an invention of
hers to wound you—was a part of a system of
annoyance, in short, which you seem to have
adopted towards each other—that the boy lived,
but was of weak and imperfect intellect—that
“Correct in every
standers had been quite stupefied with amaze-"|# she sent him by a trusty hand, to a cheap school
ment, while Nicholas had looked keenly from
in Yorkshire—that she had paid for his educa-
Smawley to Squeers, and from Squeers to Ralph, tion for some years, and then, being poor, and
THE Fowp FATHER Is Noz BELoved BY HIS sow.
299
going a long way off, gradually deserted him,
for which she prayed forgiveness?” . . *
Snawley nodded his head, and wiped his
eyes; the first slightly, the last violently.
“The school was Mr. Squeers's,” continued
Ralph; “the boy was left there in the name of
Smike; every description was fully given, dates
tally exactly with Mr. Squeers's books, Mr.
Squeers is lodging with you at this time; you
have two other boys at his school ; you commu-
nicated the whole discovery to him, he brought
you to me as the person who had recommended
to him the kidnapper of his child ; and I brought
you here. Is that so?”
“You talk like a good book, sir, that's got
nothing in its inside but what's the truth,” re-
plied Snawley. -
“This is your pocket-book,” said Ralph, pro-
ducing one from his coat; “the certificates of
your first marriage and of the boy's birth, and
your wife's two letters, and every other paper
that can support these statements, directly or by
implication, are here, are they P”
“Every one of 'em, sir.”
“And you don't object to their being looked
at here, so that these people may be convinced
of your-power to substantiate your claim at once
in law and reason, and you may resume your
control over your own son without more delay.
Do I understand you?”
“I couldn't have understood myself better, sir.”
“There, then,” said Ralph, tossing the pocket-
book upon the table. “Let them see them if
they like ; and, as those are thé original papers,
I should recommend you to stand near while
they are being examined, or you may chance to
lose some.”
With these words Ralph sat down unbidden,
and compressing his lips, which were for the
moment slightly parted by a smile, folded his
arms, and looked for the first time at his nephew.
Nicholas, stung by the concluding taunt,
darted an indignant glance at him; but, com-
manding himself as well as he could, entered
upon a close examination of the documents, at
which John Browdie assisted. There was no-
thing about them which could be called in.
question. The certificates were regularly signed
as extracts from the parish books, the first letter
had a genuine appearance of having been written
and preserved for some years, the handwriting of
the second tallied with it exactly, (making proper
allowance for its having been written by a per-
son in extremity,) and there were several other
corroboratory scraps of entries and memoranda
which it was equally difficult to question.
“Dear Nicholas,” whispered Kate, who had
been looking anxiously over his shoulder, “can
this be really the case ? Is this statement
true P” - -
“I fear it is,” answered Nicholas. “What
say you, John P” .
John scratched his head and shook it, but
said nothing at all.
“You will observe, ma'am,” said Ralph, ad-
dressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby, “that this
boy being a minor, and not of strong mind,
we might have come here to-night, armed
with the powers of the law, and backed by a
troop of its myrmidons. I should have done
so, ma'am, unquestionably, but for my regard
for the feelings of yourself—and your daughter.”
- “You have shown your regard for her feel-
ings well,” said Nicholas, drawing his sister to-
wards him. -
“Thank you,” replied Ralph. “Your praise,
sir, is commendation indeed.”
“Well,” said Squeers, “what's to be done?
Them hackney-coach horses will catch cold if
we don't think of moving; there's one of 'em a
sneezing now, so that he blows the street-door
right open. What's the order of the day—eh?
Is Master Snawley to come along with us?”
“No, no; no,” replied Smike, drawing back,
and clinging to Nicholas. “No. Pray, no. I
will not go from you with him. No, no.”
“This is a cruel thing,” said Snawley, looking
to his friends for support. “Do parents bring
children into the world for this P”
“Do parents bring children into the world for
thof 2" said John Browdie bluntly, pointing, as
he spoke, to Squeers.
“Never you mind,” retorted that gentleman,
tapping his nose derisively.
“Never I mind I’’ said John ; “no, nor
never nobody mind, say'st thou, schoolmeasther.
It's nobody's minding that keeps sike men as
thou afloat. Noo then, where beest thou comin'
to P Dang it, dinnot coom treadin’ ower me,
mun l’” - -
Suiting the action to the word, John Browdie
just jerked his elbow into the chest of Mr.
Squeers, who was advancing upon Smike ; with
so much dexterity, that the schoolmaster reeled
and staggered back upon Ralph Nickleby, and,
being unable to recover his balance, knocked
that gentleman off his chair, and ‘stumbled
heavily upon him. -
This accidental circumstance was the signal
for some very decisive proceedings. 'In the
midst of a great noise, occasioned by the prayers
and entreaties of Smike, the cries and exclama-
tions of the women, and the vehemence of the
men, demonstrations were made of carrying off
3öö
MYCHOLAS W/CKZEAEy.
the . lost son by violence: and Squeers had
actually begun to haul him out, when Nicholas
(who, until then, had been evidently undecided
how to act) took him by the collar, and, shaking
him so that such teeth as he had chattered in
his head, politely escorted him to the room-
door, and thrusting him into the passage, shut
it upon him.
“Now,” said Nicholas to the other two,
“have the goodness to follow your friend.”
“I want my son,” said Snawley.
“Your son,” replied Nicholas, “chooses for
himself. He chooses to remain here, and he
shall.” *
“You won't give him up?” said Snawley.
“I would not give him up against his will, to .
be the viotim of such brutality as that to which
you would consign him,” replied Nicholas, “if
he were a dog or a rat.” -
“Knock that Nickleby down with a candle-
stick,” cried Mr. Squeers through the keyhole,
“ and bring out my hat, somebody, will you,
unless he wants to steal it.”
“I am very sorry indeed,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
who, with Mrs. Browdie, had stood crying and
biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate—very
pale, but perfectly quiet—had kept as near her
brother as she could. “I am very sorry indeed
for all this. I really don't know what would be
best to do, and that's the truth. Nicholas'
ought to be the best judge, and I hope he is.
Of course, it's a hard thing to have to keep
other people's children, though young Mr. Snaw-
ley is certainly as useful and willing as it's pos-
sible for anybody to be; but, if it could be |.
settled in any friendly manner—if old Mr.
Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay some-.
thing certain for his board and lodging, and
Some fair arrangement was come to, so that we
undertook to have fish twice a week, and a
Pudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of
that sort, I do think that it might be very satis-
factory and pleasant for all parties.”
This compromise, which was proposed with
abundance of tears and sighs, not exactly meet-
ing the point at issue, nobody took any notice
of it; and poor Mrs. Nickleby accordingly pro-
ceeded to enlighten Mrs. Browdie upon the
advantages of such a scheme, and the unhappy
results flowing, on all occasions, from her not
being attended to when she proffered her advice.
“You, sir,” said Snawley, addressing the terri-
fied Smike, “are an unnatural, ungrateful, un-'
lovable boy, You won't let me love you when
I want to. Won't you come home—won't you?”.
“No, no, no!" cried Smike, shrinking back."
“He never loved nobody,” bawled Squeers
he'll love his father?
through the keyhole. “He never loved me;
he never loved Wackford, who is next door but
one to a cherubim. How can you expect that
He'll never love his
He don't know what it is to
father, he won’t.
He don't understand it. It an’t
have a father.
in him.”
Mr. Snawley looked steadfastly at his son for
a full minute, and then, covering his eyes with
his hand, and once more raising his hat in the
air, appeared deeply occupied in deploring his
black ingratitude. Then, drawing his arm
across his eyes, he picked up Mr. Squeers's hat,
and taking it under one arm, and his own under
the other, walked-slowly and sadly out.
“Your romance, sir,” said Ralph, lingering
for a monent. “is destroyed, I take it. No
unknown ; no persecuted descendant of a man
of high degree; but the weak, imbecile son of
a poor, petty tradesman. We shall see how
your sympathy melts before plain matter of fact."
“You shall,” said Nicholas, motioning to-
wards the door. .
“And trust me, sir,” added Ralph, “that I
never supposed you would give him up to-night.
Pride, obstinacy, reputation for fine feeling, were
all against it. These must be brought down,
sir, lowered, crushed, as they shall be soon.
The protracted and wearing anxiety and expense
of the law in its most oppressive form, its torture
from hour to hour, its weary days and sleepless
nights—with these I'll prove you, and break
your haughty spirit, strong as you deem it now.
And when you make this house a hell, and visit
these trials upon yonder wretched object (as
you will; I know you), and those who think
you now a young-fledged hero, we'll go into old
accounts between us two, and see who stands
the debtor, and comes out best at last—even
before the world.” r -
Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr. Squeers,
who had heard a portion of this closing address,
and was by this time wound up to a pitch of im”
potent malignity almost unprecedented, could
not refrain from returning to the parlour door;
and actually cutting some dozen capers with
various wry faces and hideous grimaces, expres'
sive of his triumphant confidence in the down-
fall and defeat of Nicholas. .
Having concluded this war-dance, in which
his short trousers and large.boots had borne a
very conspicuous figure, Mr. Squeers followed
his friends, and the family were left to meditate
upon recent occurrences.
****
MICHOLAS FAA/S //WTO A SAE/GHT MISTAKE.
CHAPTER XLVI,
THRows soxie LIGHT UPON NICHOLAS's LovE, BUT
WHETHER FOR GOOD OR EVIL THE READER. MUST
DETERMINIE,
> SN
#
FTER, an anxious consideration of
the painful and embarrassing posi-
tion in which he was placed, Nicho-
las decided that he ought to lose no
AC) time in frankly stating it to the kind
% brothers, Availing himself of the first
º, º opportunity of being alone with Mr.
* Charles Cheeryble at the close of next
day, he accordingly related Smike's little history,
36i
and modestly but firmly expressed his hope that
the good old gentleman would, under such cir-
cumstances as he described, hold him justified
in adopting the extreme course of interfering
between parent and child, and upholding the
latter in his disobedience ; even though his
horror and dread of his father might seem, and
would doubtless be represented as, a thing so
repulsive and unnatural as to render those who
countenanced him in it fit objects of general
detestation and abhorrence.
“So deeply rooted does this horror of the
man appear to be,” said Nicholas, “that I can
hardly believe he really is his son. Nature does
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MR, SQUEERS EXECUTES AN IMPROMPTU PAS SEUL.
hot seem to have implanted in his breast one
lingering feeling of affection for him, and surely
she can never err.”
“My dear sir,” replied brother Charles, “ you
fall into the very common mistake of charging
upon Nature matters with which she has not the
smallest connection, and for which she is in no
Way responsible. Men talk of Nature as an
abstract thing, and lose sight of what is natural
while they do so. Here is a poor lad who has
never felt a parent's care, who has scarcely
known anything all his life but suffering and
Sorrow, presented to a man who he is told is
his father, and whose first act is to signify his
intention of putting an end to his short term of
happiness: of consigning him to his old fate,
and taking him from the only friend he has ever
had—which is yourself. If Nature, in such a
case, put into that lad's breast but one secret
a prompting which urged him towards his father,
and away from you, she would be a liar and an
idiot.” * : *














302
A - -
#, Nicholas was delighted to find that the old
gentleman spoke so warmly, and, in the hope
that he might say 'something more to the same
purpose, made no reply.
“The same mistake presents itself to me, in
one shape or other, at every turn,” said brother
Charles. “Parents who never showed their
love, complain of want of natural affection in
their children—children who never showed their
duty, complain of want of natural feeling in
their parents—law-makers who find both so
miserable that their affections have never had
enough of life's sun to develop them, are loud
in their moralisings over parents and children
too, and cry that the very ties of Nature are
disregarded. Natural affections and instincts,
my dear sir, are the most beautiful of the
Almighty's works, but, like other beautiful works.
of His, they must be reared and fostered, or it
is as natural that they should be wholly ob-
scured, and that new feelings should usurp their
place, as it is that the sweetest productions of
the earth, left untended, should be choked with
weeds and briers. I wish we could be brought
to consider this, and, remembering natural obli-.
gations a little more at the right time, talk about
them a little less at the wrong one.”
... After this, brother Charles, who had talked.
himself into a great héat, stopped to cool, a
little, and then continued: - -
“I dare say you are surprised, my dear sir,
that I have listened to your recital with so little ||
astonishment. That is easily explained—your
uncle has been here this morning.”
, Nicholas coloured, and drewback a step or two.
“Yes,” said the old gentleman, tapping his
desk emphatically, “here—in this room. He
would listen neither to reason, feeling, nor
justice. But brother Ned was hard upon him
—brother Ned, sir, might have melted a paving-
stone.”
: “He came to——” said Nicholas.
“To complain of you,” returned brother
Charles, “to poison our ears with calumnies and
falsehoods; but he came on a fruitless errand,
and went away with some wholesome truths in
his ear besides. Brother Ned, my dear Mr.
Nickleby—brother Ned, sir, is a perfect lion.
So is Tim Linkinwater—Tim is quite a lion.
We had Tim in to face him at first, and Tim
was at him, sir, before you could say “Jack ||
Robinson.’”
“How can I ever thank you for all the deep
obligations you impose. upon mé every day ?”
said Nicholas. - -
r “By keeping silence upon the subject, my
dear, sir,”, returned brother Charles, “You
3 -
g
NICHOLAS NYCKLAERY.
shall be righted. At least, you shall not be
wronged. Nobody belonging. to you shall be
wronged. They shall not hurt a hair of your
head, or the boy's head, or your mother's head,
or your sister's head. I have said it, brother
Ned has said it, Tim Linkinwater has said it.
We have all said it, and we'll all do it. I have
seen the father—if he is the father—and I sup-
pose he must be. He is a barbarian and a
hypocrite, Mr. Nickleby. I told him, ‘You are
a barbarian, sir.’ I did. I said, ‘You’re a bar-
barian, sir.’ And I’m glad of it—I am very
glad I told him he was a barbarian—very glad
indeed l’” -
By this time brother Charles was in such a
very warm state of indignation, that Nicholas
thought he might venture to put in a word, but,
the moment he essayed to do so, Mr. Cheeryble
laid his hand softly upon his arm, and pointed to
a chair.
“The subject is at an end for the present,”
said the old gentleman, wiping his face. “Don’t
revive it by a single word. I am going to speak
upon another subject—a confidential subject,
Mrs Nickleby. We must be cool again, we
must be cool.' **
After two or three turns across the room he
resumed his seat, and, drawing his chair nearer
to that on which Nicholas was seated, said:
“I am about to employ you, my dear sir, on
a confidential and delicate mission.”
“You might employ many a more able mes-
senger, sir,” said Nicholas, “but a more trust-
worthy or zealous one, I may be bold. to say,
you could not find.” . .
“Of that I am well assured,” returned brother
Charles, “well assured. You will give me credit
for thinking so, when I tell you that the object,
of this mission is a young lady.”
“A young lady, sir!” cried Nicholas, quite
trembling for the moment with his eagerness to
hear more.
“A very beautiful young lady,” said Mr.
Cheeryble gravely.
“Pray go on, sir,” returned Nicholas.
“I am thinking how to do so,” said brother
Charles—sadly, as it seemed to his young friend,
and with an expression allied to pain. “You
accidentally saw a young lady in this room one
morning, my dear sir, in a fainting fit. " Do you
remember? Perhaps you have forgotten—-
“Oh no "replied. Nicholas hurriedly. “I–
I—remember it very well indeed.” * .
“She is the lady I speak of,” said brother
Charles. Like the famous parrot, Nicholas
thought a great deal, but was unable to utter a
word.
THE YOUNG ZAD V'S STORY.
3O3
“She is the daughter,” said Mr. Cheeryble,
“of a lady who, when she was a beautiful girl
herself, and I was very many years younger, 1–
it seems a strange word for me to utter now—I
loved very dearly. You will smile, perhaps, to
hear a grey-headed man talk about such things.
you will not offend me, for, when I was as young
as you, I dare say I should have done the same.”
“I have no such inclination, indeed,” said
Nicholas. -
“My dear brother Ned.” continued Mr.
Cheeryble, “was to have married her sister, but
she died. She is dead too now, and has been
for many years. She married—her choice; and
I wish I could add that her after life was as
happy as God knows I ever prayed it might
be l’’ #
A short silence intervened, which Nicholas
made no effort to break. -
“If trial and calamity had fallen as lightly on
his head as, in the deepest truth of my own heart,
I ever hoped (for her sake) it would, his life
would have been one of peace and happiness,”
said the old gentleman calmly. “It will be
enough to say that this was not the case—that
she was not happy—that they fell into compli-
cated distresses and difficulties—that she came,
twelve months before her death, to appeal to my
old friendship; sadly changed, sadly altered,
broken-spirited from suffering and ill-usage, and
almost broken-hearted. He readily availed him-
self of the money which, to give her but one
hour's peace of mind, I would have poured out
as freely as water—nay, he often sent her back
for more—and yet, even while he squandered it,
he madé the very success of these her applica-
tions to me the groundwork of cruel taunts and
jeers, protesting that he knew she thought with
bitter remorse of the choice she had made, that
she had married him from motives of interest
and Vanity (he was a gay young man, with great
friends about him, when she chose him for her
husband), and venting, in short, upon her, by
°Yery unjust and unkind means, the bitterness
9f that ruin and disappointment which had been
brought about by his profligacy alone. In those
times this young lady was a mere child. I never
saw her again until that morning when you saw
her also, but my nephew, Frank º' "
Nicholas started, and, indistinctly apologising
º * interruption, begged his patron to pro-
“My nephew, frank, I say,” resumed Mr.
Cheeryble, “encountered her by accident, and
lºš sight of her almost in a minute afterwards,
Within two days after he returned to England.
Her father lay in some secret place to avoid his
creditors, reduced, between sickness and poverty,
to the verge of death, and she, a child—-we
might, almost think, if we did not know the
wisdom of all Heaven's decrees—who should
have blessed a better man, was steadily braving
privation, S. degradation, and everything most
terrible to such a young and delicate creature's
heart, for the purpose of supporting him. She
was attended, sir,” said brother Charles, “ in
these reverses, by one faithful creature, who had
been, in old times, a poor kitchen wench in the
family, who was then their solitary servant, but
who might have been, for the truth and fidelity
of her heart—who might have been—ah ! the
wife of Tim Linkinwater himself, sir!”
Pursuing this encomium upon the poor fol-
lower with such energy and relish as no words
can describe, brother Charles leant back in his
chair, and delivered the remainder of his rela-
tion with greater composure.
It was in substance this:—That proudly re-
sisting all offers of permanent aid and support
from her late mother's friends, because, they were
made conditional upon her quitting the wretched
man, her father, who had no friends left, and
shrinking with instinctive delicacy from appeal-
ing in their behalf to that true and noble heart
which he hated, and had, through its greatest
and purest goodness, deeply wronged by mis-
construction and ill report, this young girl had
struggled alone and unassisted to maintain him
by the dabour of her hands. That through the
utmost depths of poverty and affliction she had
toiled, never turning aside for an instant from
her task, never wearied by the petulant gloom of
a sick man sustained by no consoling recollec-
tions of the past, or hopes of the future; never
repining for the comforts she had rejected, or
bewailing the hard lot she had voluntarily in-
curred. That every little accomplishment she
had acquired in happier days had been put into
requisition for this purpose, and directed to this
one end. That for two long years, toiling by
day, and often too by night, working at the
needle, the pencil, and the pen, and submitting,
as a daily governess, to such caprices and in-
dignities as women (with daughters too) too
often love to inflict upon their own, sex when
they serve in such capacities, as though in
jealousy of the superior intelligence which
they are necessitated to employ, indignities, in
ninety-nine cases out of every hundred, heaped
upon persons immeasurably and incalculably
their betters, but outweighing in comparison
any that the most heartless blackleg would put
upon his groom—that for two long years, by dint
of labouring in all these capacities, and weary-
3O4
w/CHOLAS WICKLEBY.
ing in none, she had not succeeded in the sole
aim and object of her life, but that, overwhelmed
by accumulated difficulties and disappointments,
she had been compelled to seek out her mother's
old friend, and, with a bursting heart, to con-
fide in him at last. -
“If I had been poor,” said brother Charles
with sparkling eyes; “if I had been poor, Mr.
Nickleby, my dear sir, which thank God I am
not, I would have denied myself—of course any-
body would under such circumstances—the com-
monest necessaries of life to help her. As it is,
the task is a difficult one.
dead, nothing could be easier, for then she
should share and cheer the happiest home that
brother Ned and I could have, as if she were
our child or sister. But he is still alive. No-
body can help him—that has been tried a thou-
sand times; he was not abandoned by all with-
out good cause, I know.” -
“Cannot she be persuaded to 32
hesitated when he had got thus far.
“To leave him?” said brother Charles. “Who
could entreat a child to desert her parent? Such
entreaties, limited to her seeing him occasionally,
have been urged upon her—not by me—but
always with the same result.”
“Is he kind to her P” said Nicholas.
he requite her affection ?”
“True kindness, considerate, self-denying
kindness, is not in his nature,” returned Mr.
Cheeryble. “Such kindness as he knows, he
regards her with, I believe. The mother was a
gentle, loving, confiding creature, and, although
he wounded her from their marriage till her
death as cruelly and wantonly as ever man did,
she never ceased to love him. She commended
him on her death-bed to her child's care. Her
child has never forgotten it, ànd never will.”
“Have you no influence over him?” asked
Nicholas. ---
“I, my dear sir! The last man in the world.
Such are his jealousy and hatred of me, that if
he knew his daughter had opened her heart to
Nicholas
“Does
me, he would render her life miserable with his
reproaches; although—this is the inconsistency
and selfishness of his character—although, if he .
knew that every penny she had came from me,
he would not relinquish one personal desire that
the most reckless expenditure of her scanty stock
could gratify.”
“An unnatural scoundrel !” said Nicholas in-
dignantly. .*
“We will use no harsh terms,” said brother
Charles in a gentle voice; “but accommodate
ourselves to the circumstances in which this
young lady is placed. Such assistance as I
If her father were
have prevailed upon her to accept, I have been
obliged, at her own earnest request, to dole out
in the smallest portions, lest he, finding how
easily money was procured, should squander it
even more lightly than he is accustomed to do.
She has come to and fro, to and fro, secretly
and by night, to take even this; and I cannot
bear that things should go on in this way, Mr.
Nickleby—I really cannot bear it.” -
Then it came out, by little and little, how
that the twins had been revolving in their good
old heads manifold plans and schemes ſor help-
ing this young lady in the most delicate and
considerate way, and so that her ſather should
not suspect the source whence the aid was de-
rived; and how they had at last come to the
conclusion that the best course would be to
make a feint of purchasing her little drawings
and ornamental work at a high price, and keep-
ing up a constant demand for the same. For
the furtherance of which end and object it was
necessary that somebody should represent the
dealer in such commodities, and, after great de-
liberation, they had pitched upon Nicholas to
support this character.
“He knows me,” said brother Charles, “and
he knows my brother Ned. Neither of us would
do. Frank is a very good fellow—a very fine
fellow—but we are afraid that he might be a
little flighty and thoughtless in such a delicate
matter, and that he might, perhaps—that he
might, in short, be too susceptible (for she is a
beautiful creature, sir; just what her poor mother
was), and, falling in love with her before he well
knew his own mind, carry pain and sorrow into
that innocent breast, which we would be the
humble instruments of gradually making happy.
He točk an extraordinary interest in her for-
tunes when he first happened to encounter her,
and we gather, from the inquiries we have made
of him, that it was she in whose behalf he made
that turmoil which led to your first acquaint-
ance.”
Nicholas stammered out that he had before
suspected the possibility of such a thing; and,
in explanation of its having occurred to him,
described when and where he had seen the
young lady himself.
“Well; then you see,” continued brother
Charles, “that he wouldn't do. Tim Linkin-
water is out of the question ; for Tim, sir, is
such a tremendous fellow, that he could never
contain himself, but would go to loggerheads
with the father before he had been in the place
five minutes. You don't know what Tim is,
sir, when he is aroused by anything that appeals
to his feelings very strongly—then he is terrific,
t
THE yovyc ZApy's RESIDENCE.
sir, is Tim Linkinwatef – absolutely terrific.
Now, in you we can repose the strictest confi-
dence; in you we have seen—or at least / have
seen, and that's the same thing, for there's. no
difference between me and my brother Ned,
except that he is the finest creature that ever
lived, and . that there is not, and never will be,
anybody like him in all the world—in you we
have seen domestic virtues and affections, and
delicacy of feeling, which exactly qualify you
for such an office. And you are the man, sir.”
“The young lady, sir,” said Nicholas, who
felt so embarrassed that he had no small diffi-
culty in saying anything at all—“does—is—is
she a party to this innocent deceit *"
“Yes, yes,” returned Mr. Cheeryble; “at
least, she knows you come from us; she does
not know, however, but that we shall dispose of
these little productions that you'll purchase from
time to time; and, perhaps, if you did it very
well (that is, very well indeed), perhaps she
might be brought to believe that we—that we
made a profit of them. Eh P Eh P”
In this guileless and most kind simplicity,
brother Charles was so happy, and in this
possibility of the young lady being led to think
that she was under no obligation to him, he
evidently felt so sanguine, and had so much
delight, that Nicholas would not breathe a doubt
upon the subject. *
All this time, however, there hovered upon
the tip of his tongue a confession that the very
same objections which Mr. Cheeryble had
stated to the employment of his nephew in this
commission applied with at least equal force
, and validity to himself, and a hundred times
had he been upon the point of avowing the real
state of his feelings, and entreating to be re-
leased, from it.
the heels of this impulse, came another which
urged him to refrain, and to keep his secret to
his own breast. “Why should I," thought
Nicholas, “why should I throw difficulties in
the way of this benevolent and high-minded
design? What if I do love and reverence this
good and lovely creature—should I not appear
a most arrogant and shallow coxcomb if I
gravely represented that there was any danger
of her falling in love with me? Besides, have
| no confidence in myself? Am I not now
bound in honour to repress these thoughts?
Has not this excellent man a right to my best
and heartiest services, and should any consi-
derations of self deter me from rendering them P’’
Asking himself such questions as these, Nicho-
as mentally answered with great emphasis
“No 1" and, persuading himself that he was a
But as , often, treading upon -
305
most conscientious and glorious martyr, nobly
resolved to do what, if he had examined his
own heart a little more carefully, he would have
found he could not resist. Such is the sleight
of hand by which we juggle with ourselves,
and change our very weaknesses into staunch
and most magnanimous virtues
Mr. Cheeryble, being, of course, wholly un-
suspicious that such reflections were presenting
themselves to his young friend, proceeded to
give him the needſul credentials and directions
for his first visit, which was to be made next
morning; and all preliminaries being arranged,
and the strictest secrecy enjoined, Nicholas
walked home for the night very thoughtfully
indeed.
The place to which Mr. Cheeryble had directed
him was a row of mean and not over-cleanly
houses, situated within “the Rules" of the
King's Bench Prison, and not many hundred
paces distant from the obelisk in St. George's
Fields. The Rules are a certain liberty adjoin-
ing the prison, and comprising some dozen
streets in which debtors who can raise money
to pay large ſees, from which their creditors do
not derive any benefit, are permitted to reside
by the wise provisions of the same enlightened
laws which leave the debtor who can raise no
money to starve in gaol, without the food, cloth-
ing, lodging, or warmth which are provided for
felons convicted of the most atrocious crimes
that can disgrace humanity. There are many
pleasant fictions of the law in constant opera-
tion, but there is not que so pleasant or practi-
cally humorous as that which supposes every
man to be of equal value in its impartial eye,
and the benefits of all laws to be equally attain-
able by all men, without the smallest reference
to the furniture of their pockets.
To the row of houses indicated to him by
Mr. Charles Cheeryble, Nicholas directed his
steps, without much troubling his head with
such matters as these ; and at this row of houses
—after traversing a very dirty and dusty suburb,
of which minor theatricals, shell-fish, ginger-
beer, spring vans, greengrocery, and brokers'
shops appeared to compose the main and most
prominent features—-he at length arrived with a
palpitating heart. There were small gardens in
front, which, being wholly neglected in all other
respects, served as little pens for the dust to
collect in, until the wind came round the corner
and blew it down the road. Opening the rickety
gate which, dangling on its broken hinges before.
one of these, half admitted and half repulsed
the visitor, Nicholas knocked at the street-door
with a faltering hand.
306
M/c/rozas wroxzx Fy.
Tt was, in truth, a shabby house outside, with
very dim parlour windows and very small show
of blinds, and very dirty muslin curtains dangling
across the lower panes on very loose and limp
strings. Neither, when the door was opened,
did theinside appear to belie the outward promise,
as there was faded carpeting on the stairs, and
faded oil-cloth in the passage; in addition to
which discomforts a gentleman Ruler was smok-
ing hard in the front parlour (though it was not
yet noon), while the lady of the house was
busily engaged in turpentining the disjointed
fragments of a tent bedstead at the door of the
back-parlour, as if in preparation for the receps
tion of some new lodger who had been fortunaté
enough to engage it.
Nicholas had ample time to make these ob-
servations while the little boy, who went on
errands for the lodgers, clattered down the
kitchen stairs, and was heard to scream, as in
some remote cellar, for Miss Bray's servant,
who, presently appearing and requesting him to
follow her, caused him to evince greater symp-
toms of nervousness and disorder than so natural
a consequence of his having inquired for that
young lady would seem calculated to occasion.
Up-stairs he went, however, and into a front
room he was shown, and there, seated at a little
table by the window, on which were drawing
materials with which she was occupied, sat the
beautiful girl who had so engrossed his thoughts,
and who, surrounded by all the new and strong
interest which Nicholas attached to her story,
seemed now, in his eyes, a thousand times more
beautiful than he had ever yet supposed her.
But how the graces and elegancies which she
had dispersed about the poorly-furnished room
went to the heart of Nicholas ! Flowers, plants,
birds, the harp, the old piano whose notes had
sounded so much sweeter in bygone times—
how many struggles had it cost her to keep
these two last links of that broken chain which
With every slender.
bound her yet to home !
ornament, the occupation of her leisure hours,
replete with that graceful charm which lingers
in every little tasteful work of woman's hands,
how much patient endurance and how man
gentle affections were entwined He felt as
though the Smile of Heaven were on the little
chamber; as though the beautiful devotion of so
young and weak a creature had shed a ray of its
own on the inanimate things around, and made
them beautiful as itself; as though the halo with
which old painters surround the bright angels of
a sinless world played about a being akin in
º to them, and its light were visibly before
Tl III.
|
Ar
—a st- ...+_4-sº
And yet Nicholas was in the Rules of the
King's Bench Prison. If he had been in Italy
indeed, and the time had been sunset, and the
scene a stately terrace | But, there is one broad
sky over, all the world, and whether it be blue
or cloudy, the same heaven beyond it; so, per-
haps, he had no need of compunction for think-
ing as he did.
It is not to be supposed that he toºk in
everything at one glance, for he had as yet been
unconscious of the presence of a sick man
propped up with pillows in an easy-chair, who,
moving restlessly and impatiently in his seat,
attracted his attention. -
- He was scarce fifty, perhaps, but so emaciate
as to appear much older. His features presented
the remains of a handsome countenance, but
one in which the embers of strong and impetuous
passions were easier to be traced than any
expression which would have rendered a 'far
plainer face much more prepossessing. His
looks were very haggard, and his lirabs and
body literally-worn to the bone, but there was
something of the old fire in the large sunken
eye notwithstanding, and it seemed to kindle
afresh as he struck a thick stick, with which he
seemed to have supported himself in his seat,
impatiently on the floor twice or thrice, and
called his daughter by her name. -
* Madeline, who is this—what does anybody
want here—who told a stranger we could be
seen P What is it P” -
“I believe—” the young lady begån, as
she inclined her head with an air of sonne con-
fusion, in reply to the salutation of Nicholas.
“You always believe,” returned her father
petulantly. “What is it P” :
By this time Nicholas had recovered sufficient
presence of mind to speak for himself, so he
said (as it had been agreed he should say) that
he had called about a pair of hand-screens, and
some painted velvet for an ottoman, both o
which were required to be of the most elegant
design possible, neither time nor expense being
of the smallest consideration. He had also to
pay for the two drawings, with many thanks,
and, advancing to the little table, he laid upon
it a bank note, folded in an envelope and sealed.
“See that the money is right, Madeline,” said
the father. “Open the paper, my dear." -
“It’s quite right, papa, I’m sure.” . .
“Here!” said Mr. Bray, putting out his
hand, and opening and shutting his bony fingers
with irritable impatience. “Let messee. What
are you talking about, Madeline—you're sure—
how can you be sure of any such thing—five
pounds—well, is that right P”.
A HIGH-MANDED PARENZ.
307
“Quite,” said Madeline, bending over him.
She was so busily employed in arranging the
pillows that Nicholas could not see her face,
but, as she stooped, he thought he saw a tear
fall. . -
“Ring the bell, ring the bell,” said the sick
man with the same nervous eagerness, and
motioning towards it with such a quivering hand
that the bank note rustled in the air. “Tell
her to get it changed—to get me a newspaper
—to buy me some grapes—another bottle of
the wine that I had last week—and—and—I
forget half I want just now, but she can go out
again. Let her get those first—those first. Now,
Madeline, my love, quick, quick | Good God,
how slow you are "
“He remembers nothing that she wants ".
thought Nicholas. Perhaps something of what
he thought was expressed in his countenance,
for the sick man, turning towards him with great
asperity, demanded to know if he waited for a
receipt. -
“It is no matter at all,” said Nicholas.
“No matter | What do you mean, sir?” was
the tart rejoinder. “No matter I Do you think
you bring your paltry money here as a favour
or a gift; or as a matter of business, and in
return for value received P D—n you, sir,
because you can't appreciate the time and taste
which are bestowed upon the goods you deal
in, do you think you give your money away?
Do you know that you are talking to a gentle-
man, sir, who at one time could have bought up
fifty such men as you and all you have 2 What
do you mean?”
“I merely mean that, as I shall have many
dealings with this lady, if she will kindly allow
me, I will not trouble her with such forms,” said
Nicholas. - . . -
“Then I mean, if you please, that we'll have
as many forms as we can,” returned, the father.
“My daughter, sir, requires no kindness from
you or anybody else. Have the goodness to
confine your dealings strictly to trade and busi-
ness, and not to travel beyond it. Every petty
tradesman is to begin to pity her now, is he P
Upon my soul! Very pretty Madeline, my
dear, give him a receipt; and mind you always
do so.”
... While she was feigning to write it, and Nicho-
las was ruminating upon the extraordinary, but
by no means uncommon, character thus pre-
Sented to his observation, the invalid, who ap-
peared at times to suffer great bodily pain, sank
back in his chair, and moaned out a feeble com-
plaint that the girl had been gone an hour, and
that everybody conspired to goad him,
four years would not be a long time.
“When,” said Nicholas as he took the piece
of paper, “when shall I—call again?”
This was addressed to the daughter, but the
father answered immediately :
“When you're requested to call, sir, and not
before. Don't worry and persecute. Madeline,
my dear, when is this person to call again P”
“Oh not for a long time—not for three or
four weeks—it is not necessary, indeed—I can do
without,” said the young lady with great eagerness.
“Why, how are we to do without P” urged
her father, not speaking above his breath.
“Three or four weeks, Madeline ! Three or
four weeks ”
“Then sooner—sooner, if you please,'
the young lady, turning to Nicholas.
“Three or four weeks ” muttered the father.
“Madeline, what on earth—do nothing for three
or four weeks l’”
“It is a long time, ma'am,” said Nicholas.
“You think so, do you?” retorted the father
angrily. “If I chose to beg, sir, and stoop to
ask assistance from people I despise, three or
four months would not be a long time—three or
Under-
stand, sir, that is if I chose to be dependent;
but, as I don't, you may call in a week.”
Nicholas bowed low to the young lady and
retired, pondering upon Mr. Bray’s ideas of in-
dependence, and devoutly hoping that there
might be few such independent spirits as he
mingling with the baser clay of humanity.
He heard a light footstep above him as he
descended the stairs, and, looking round, saw
that the young lady was standing there, and
glancing timidly towards him, seemed to hesitate
whether she should call him back or no. The
best way of settling the question was to turn
back at once, which Nicholas did.
“I don't know whether I do right in asking
2
said
you, sir,” said Madeline hurriedly, “but pray–
pray—do not mention to my poor mother's dear
friends what has passed here to-day. He has
suffered much, and is worse this morning. I
beg you, sir, as a boon, a favour to myself.”
“You have but to hint a wish,” returned
Nicholas fervently, “and I would hazard my
life to gratify it.”
“You speak hastily, sir.” & .
“Truly and sincerely,” rejoined Nicholas, his
lips trembling as he formed the words, “if ever
man spoke truly yet. I am not skilled in dis.
guising my feelings, and, if I were, I could not
hide my heart from you. . Dear madam, as I
know your history, and feel as men and angels
must who hear and see such things, I do entreat
you to believe that I would die to serve you.”
As
308
AV/CHOLAS WWC'ſ LEB Y.
The young lady turned away her head and
was plainly weeping. **
; “forgive me,” said Nicholas with respectful
earnestness, “if I seem to say too much, or to
presume upon the confidence which has been
intrusted to me... But I could not leave you as
if my interest and sympathy expired with the
commission of the day. I am your faithful
servant, humbly devoted to you from this hour
—devoted in strict truth and honour to him
who sent me here, and in pure integrity of heart
and distant respect for you. If I meant more
or less than this, I should be unworthy his re-
gard, and false to the very nature that prompts
the honest words I utter.”
She waved her hand, entreating him to be
gone, but answered not a word. Nicholas could
say no more, and silently withdrew. And thus
ended his first interview with Madeline Bray.
CHAPTER XLVII.
MR. RALPH NICFLEBY HAS “SOME CONFIDENTIAL
INTERcourse witH ANOTHER OLD FRIEND. THEY
CoNCERT BETwPEN THEM A PROJECT WHICH PRO-
MISEs well FOR BOTH. -
º HERE go the three-quarters past !”
%: muttered Newman Noggs, listening
to the chimes of some neighbouring
church, “and my dinner-time's two.
He does it on purpose. He makes
a point of it. It's just like him.”
It was in his own little den of an office,
and on the top of his official stool, that
Newman thus soliloquised ; and the soliloquy
referred, as Newman's grumbling soliloquies
usually did, to Ralph Nickleby. -
“I don't believe he ever had an appetite,”
said Newman, “except for pounds, shillings,
and pence, and with them he's as greedy as a
wolf. I should like to have him compelled to
swallow one of every English coin. The penny
would be an awkward morsel—but the crown—
ha I ha l' -
His good-humour, being in some degree re-
stored by the vision of Ralph Nickleby swallow-
ing, perforce, a five-shilling piece, Newman
slowly brought forth from his desk one of those
portable bottles, currently known as pocket
pistols, and, shaking the same close to his ear
so as to produce a rippling sound very cool and
pleasant to listen to, suffered his features to
relax, and took a gurgling drink, which relaxed:
them still more. Replacing the cork, he smacked
his lips twice or thrice with an air of great relish,
| know I haven't 2
and, the taste of the liquor having by this time
evaporated, recurred to his grievances again.
“Five minutes to three,” growled Newman ;
“it can't want more by this time ; and I had
my breakfast at eight o'clock, and such a break-
fast ! and my right dinner-time two And I
might have. a nice little bit of hot rðast meat
spoiling at home all this time—how does he
‘Don’t go till I come back,'
‘Don’t go. till I come back,' day after day. What
do you always go out at my dinner-time for,
then—eh? Don't you know it's nothing but
aggravation—eh P”
These words, though uttered in a very loud
key, were addressed to nothing but empty air.
The recital of his wrongs, however, seemed to
have the effect of making Newman Noggs des.
ºperate; for he flattened his old hat upon his
head, and, drawing on the everlasting gloves,
declared with great vehemence that, come what
might, he would go to dinner that very minute.
Carrying this resolution into instant effect, he
had advanced as far as the passage, when the
sound of the latch-key in the street-door caused
him to make a precipitate retreat into his own
office again.
“Here he is,” growled Newman, “and some-
body with him. Now it'll be ‘Stop till this
gentleman's gone.' But I won't—that's flat.”
So saying, Newman slipped into a tall empty
closet which opened with two half-doors, and
shut himself up ; intending to slip out directly
Ralph was safe inside his own room.
“Noggs : " cried Ralph. “Where is that
fellow 2–Noggs . "
But not a word said Newman.
“The dog has gone to his dinner, though I
told him not," muttered Ralph, looking into the
office, and pulling out his watch. “Humph
You had bettercomeinhere, Gride. My man's out,
and the sun is hot upon my room. This is cool
and in the shade, if you don't mind roughing it.”
“Not at all, Mr. Nickleby, oh, not at all !
All places are alike to me, sir. Ah! very nice
indeed. Oh very nice " . :
The person who made this reply was a little
old man, of about seventy or seventy-five years
gf age, of a very lean figure, much bent, and
slightly twisted. He wore a grey coat with a
very narrow collar, an old-fashioned waistcoat of
ribbed black silk, and such scanty trousers as
displayed his shrunken spindle-shanks in their
full ugliness. The only articles of display or
ornament in his dress were a steel watch-chain,
to which were attached some large gold seals;
and a black ribbon into which, in compliance
with an old ſashion scarcely ever observed in
*
{




-- - - - A R 7TP/UAE GA8//D/E.
309
these days, his grey hair was gathered behind.
His nose and chin were sharp and prominent,
his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth,
his face was shrivelled and yellow, save where
the cheeks were streaked with the colour of a
dry winter apple ; and, where his beard had
been, there lingered yet a few grey tufts which
seemed, like the ragged eyebrows, to denote the
badness of the soil from which they sprung.
The whole air and attitude of the form was one
of stealthy cat-like obsequiousness; the whole
expression of the face was concentrated in a
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“No MATTER Do You THINK You BRING You R PALTRY MONEY HERE As A FAvour or A GIFT.; or AS A
MATTER of BUSINESS, AND IN RETURN FoR v ALUE RECEIVED P”
wrinkled leer, compounded of cunning, lecher-
Ousness, Slyness, and avarice.
Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face
there was not a wrinkle, in whose dress jhere
was not one spare fold or plait, but expressed
the most covetous and griping penury, and suffi.
NICHo). As NickLERY, 2 f.
ciently indicated his belonging to that class of
which Ralph Nickleby was a member. Such
was old Arthur Gride, as he sat is a low chair
looking up into the face of Ralph Nickleby,
who, lounging upon the tall office stool, with
his arms upon his knees, looked down into his,;
• *
t =

31o
McHoſ.As McKZEAY.
—a match for him, on whatever errand he had
COllle. .
“And how have you been P” said Gride,
feigning great interest in Ralph's state of health.
“I haven’t seen you for—oh not for——” .
“Not for a long time,” said Ralph with a
peculiar Smile, importing that he very well
kncw it was not on a mere visit of compliment
that his friend had come. “It was a narrow
chance that you saw me now, for I had ouly just
, come up to the door as you turned the corner.”
“I am very lucky,” observed Gride.
“So men say,” replied Ralph drily.
The older money-lender wagged his chin and
Smiled, but he originated no new remark, and
they sat for some little time without speaking.
Each was looking out to take the other at a dis-
advantage.
“Come, Gride,” said Ralph at length; “what's
in the wind to-day P”
“Aha! you're a bold man, Mr. Nickleby,”
cried the other, apparently very much relieved
by Ralph's leading the way to business. “Oh
dear, dear, what a bold man you are 1*
“Why, you have a sleek and slinking way
with you that makes me seem so by contrast,”
returned Ralph. “I don’t know but that yours
may answer better, but I want the patience
for it.” -
“You were born a genius, Mr. Nickleby,”
said old Arthur. “Deep, deep, deep. Ah "
“Deep enough,” retorted Ralph, “to know
that I shall heed all the depth I have, when
men like you begin:to compliment. You know
I have stood by when you ſawned and flattered
other people, and I remember pretty well what
£hat always led to.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” rejoined Arthur, rubbing his
hands. “So you do, so you do, no doubt.
Not a man knows it better. Well, it's a plea-
Sant thing now to think that you remember old
times. Oh dear!”
in the wind, I ask again—what is it?”
“See that, now !” cried the other. “He can't
even keep from business while we're chatting
ever bygones.
, , “ Which of the bygones do you want to re-
vive?” said Ralph. “One of them, I know, or
you wouldn't taik about them.”
“He suspects even me !” cried old Arthur,
holding up his hands. “Even me—oh dear,
even me ! What a man it is
What a man it is . Mr. Nickleby against all the
world—there's nobody like him. A giant among
pigmies—a giant—a giant l’’
Ralph looked at the old dog with a quiet
“Now then,” said Ralph composedly ; “what's
, i
mad to try.
Oh dear, dear, what a man it is 1"
Ha, ha, ha!.
smile as he chuckled on in this strain, and New-
man Noggs in the closet felt his heart sink within
him as the prospect of dinner grew fainter and
fainter. …’ *
“I must humour him, though,” cried old
Arthur; “he must have his way—a wilful man,
as the Scotch say—well, well, they're a wise
people, the Scotch—he will talk about business,
and won't give away his time for nothing. He's
very right. Time is money—time is money.”
“He was one of us who made that saying, I
should think,” said Ralph. “Time is money,
and very good money too, to those who reckon
interest by it. Time is money ! Yes, and time
costs money—it's rather an expensive article to
some people we could name, or I forget my
trade.” - --
In rejoinder to this sally, old Arthur again
raised his hands, again chuckled, and again
ejaculated “What a man it is "which done, he
dragged the low chair a little nearer to Ralph's
high stool, and, looking upwards into his im-
movable face, said:
“What would you say to me if I was to tell you
that I was—that I was—going to be married ?”
“I should tell you,” replied Ralph, looking
coldly down upon him, “that for some purpose
of your own you told a lie, and that it wasn't
the first time, and wouldn’t be the last ; that I
wasn't surprised, and wasn't to be taken in.”
“Then I tell you seriously that I am,” said
old Arthur.
“And I tell you seriously,” rejoined Ralph,
“what I told you this minute. - Stay. Let me
look at you. . There's a lickerish devilry in your
face. What is this P” : -
“I wouldn't deceive you, you know,” whined
Arthur Gride; “I couldn't do it. I should be
I—I—to deceive Mr. Nickleby
The pigmy to impose upon the giant 1 I ask
again—he, he, he l-what should you say to me
if I was to tell you that I was going to be
married?” º
“To some old hag P” said Ralph.
“No, no,” cried Arthur, interrupting him, and
rubbing his hands in an ecstasy. “Wrong,
wrong again. Mr. Nickleby ſor once at ſault-
out, quite out! To a young and beautiful girl;
fresh, lovely, bewitching, and not nineteen.
Dark eyes—long eyelashes—ripe and ruddy lips
that to look at is to long to kiss—beautiful
clustering hair that one's ſingers itch to play
with—such a waist as might make a man clasp
the air involuntarily, thinking of twining his arm
about it—little feet that tread so lightly they
hardly seem to walk upon the ground—to marry
all this, sir—this—hey, hey?" -
uncomfortable if Mr. Noggs—
“This is something more than common drivel-
ling,” said Ralph after listening with a curled
lip to the old sinner's raptures. “The girl's
name P” * - -
“Oh, deep, deep ! See, now, how deep that
is.” exclaimed old Arthur. “He knows I want
his help, he knows he can giye it me, he knows,
it must all turn to his advantage, he sees the
thing already. Her name—
within hearing P” -
“Why, who the devil should there be?” re-
torted Ralph testily. -
“I didn't know but that perhaps somebody
might be passing up or down the stairs,” said
Arthur Gride, after looking out at the door and
carefully re-closing it; “ or but that your man
might have come back, and might have been
listening outside—clerks and servants have a
trick of listening, and I should have been very
13.
“Curse Mr. Noggs " said. Ralph sharply,
“and go on with what you have to say.”
“Curse Mr. Noggs, by all means,” rejoined
old Arthur: “I am sure I have not the least
objection to that. Her name is *
“Well,” said Ralph, rendered very irritable
by old Arthur's pausing again, “what is it?”
“Madeline Bray.” -
Whatever reasons there might have been—
and Arthur Gride appeared to have anticipated
Some—for the mention of this name producing
an effect upon Ralph, or whatever effect it really
did produce upon him, he permitted none to
manifest itself, but calmly repeated the name
Several times, as if reflecting when and where he
had heard it before. -
“Bray,” said Ralph. “Bray — there was
young Bray of— No, he never had a
daughter.” n -
“You remember Bray P" rejoined Arthur
Gride. -
“No,” said Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
“Not Walter Bray The dashing man, who
used his handsome wife so ill P”
“If you seek to recall any particular dashing
man to my recollection by such a trait as that,”
Said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders, “I shall
confound him with nine-tenths of the dashing
men I have ever known.” - -
“Tut, tut! ... That Bray who is now in the
Rules of the Bench,” said old Arthur. “You
can't have forgotten. Bray. Both of us did busis
ness with him. Why, he owes you money—”
, “Oh, him " rejoined Ralph.” “Ay, ay!
Now you speak. Oh ! . It's his daughter, is it?”
Naturally as this was said, it was not said so
naturally but that a kindred spirit like old
ČO/WG ZTO AEZ MAAERAAEA). --
'Is there nobody
purpose.
3 : 1
Arthur Gride might have discerned a design
upon the part of Ralph to lead him on to much
more explicit statements and explanations than
he would have volunteered, or that Ralph could
in all likelihood have obtained by any other
means, Old Arthur, however, was so intent
upon his own designs, that he suffered himself to
be overreached, and had no suspicion but that
his good friend was in earnest.
“I knew you couldn't forget him when you
came to think for a monent,” he said.
“You were right,” answered Ralph. “But
old Arthur Gride and matrimony is a most
anomalous conjunction of words; old Arthur
Gride and dark eyes and eyelashes, and lips
that to look at is to long to kiss, and clustering .
hair that he wants to play with, and waists that
he wants to span, and little feet that don’t tread
upon anything—old Arthur Gride and such
things as these is more monstrous still ; but old
Arthur Gride marrying the daughter of a ruined
‘dashing man’ in the Rules of the Bench is the
most monstrous and incredible of all. Plainly,
friend. Arthur Gride, if you want any help ſrom
me in this business (which of course you do, or
you would not be here), speak out, and to the
And, above all, don't talk to me of
its turning to my advantage, for I know it must
turn to yours also, and to a good round tune too,
or you would have no finger in such a pie as
this.” -
There was enough acerbity and sarcasm not
only in the matter of Ralph's speech, but in the
tone of voice in which he uttered it, and the
looks with which he eked it out, to have fired
even the ancient usurer’s cold blood, and flushed
even his withered cheek. But he gave vent to
no demonstration of anger, contenting himself
with exclaiming, as before, “ What a man it is l’”
and rolling his head from side to side, as if in
unrestrained enjoyment of his freedom and
drollery. Clearly observing, however, from the
expression in Ralph's features, that he had best
come to the point as speedily as might be, he
composed himself for more serious business, and
entered upon the pith and marrow of his nego-
tlatlon. - -
First, he dwelt upon the fact that Madeline
Bray was devoted to the Support and mainte-
nance, and was a slave to every wish, of her only
parent, who had no other friend on earth ; to
which Ralph rejoined that he had heard some-
thing of the kind before, and that, if she had
known a little more of the world, she wouldn't
have been such a fool. - -
Secondly, he enlarged upon the character of
her father, arguing that, even taking it for
3 ſ 2
A/CHOLAS NICKZEBy.
granted that he loved her in return with the
utmost affection of which he was capable, yet he
loved himself a great deal better; which Ralph
said it was quite unnecessary to say anything
more about, as that was very natural, and pro-
bable enough.
And, thirdly, old Arthur premised that the
girl was a delicate and beautiful creature, and
that he had really a hankering to have her for
his wife. To this Ralph deigned no other re-
joinder than a harsh Smile, and a glance at the
shrivelled old creature before him, which were,
however, sufficiently expressive.
“Now,” said Gride, “for the little plan I have
in my mind to bring this about ; because I
haven't offered myself even to the father yet, I
should have told you. But that you have
gathered already? Ah oh dear, oh dear, what
an edged tool you are "
“Don't play with me, then,” said Ralph im.
patiently. “You know the proverb.”
“A reply always on the tip of his tongue !”
cried old Arthur, raising his hands and eyes
in admiration. “He is always prepared Oh
dear, what a blessing to have such a ready wit,
and so much ready money to back it !”. Then,
suddenly changing his tone, he went on —“I
have been backwards and forwards to Bray's
lodgings several times within the last six months.
It is just half a year since I first saw this delicate
morsel, and, oh dear, what a delicate morsel it
is . But that is neither here nor there. I am
his detaining creditor for seventeen hundred
pounds !” -
“You talk as if you were the only detaining
creditor,” said Ralph, pulling out his pocket-
book. “I am another for nine hundred and
seventy-five pounds four and threepence.”
“The only other, Mr. Nickleby,” said old
Arthur eagerly. “The only other. Nobody
else went to the expense of lodging a detainer,
trusting to our holding him fast enough, I
warrant you. We both fell into the same smare
—oh dear, what a pitfall it was; it almost ruined
me! And lent him our money upon bills, with
only one name besides his own, which to be sure
everybody supposed to be a good one, and was
as negotiable as money, but which turned out
—you know how. Just as we should have come
upon him, he died insolvent. Ah! it went very
nigh to ruin me, that loss did " .
“Go on with your scheme,” said Ralph. “It's
of no use raising the cry of our trade just now ;
there's nobody to hear us !” -
“It's always as well to talk that way,” re-
turned old Arthur with a chuckle, “whether
there's anybody to hear us or not. Practice
makes perfect, you know. Now, if I offer my.
suddenly enlightened.
'dril
* a.º.º. -º-> *
self to Bray as his son-in-law, upon one simple
condition—that the moment I am fast married
he shall be quietly released, and have an allow.
ance to live just t'other side the water like a
gentleman (he can't live long, for I have asked
his doctor, and he declares that his complaint is
one of the Heart, and it is impossible), and if
all the advantages of this condition are properly
stated and dwelt upon to him, do you think he
could resist me 2, And if he could not resist me,
do you think his daughter could resist him #
Shouldn't I have her Mrs. Arthur Gride—pretty
Mrs. Arthur Gride—a tit-bit—a dainty chick-
shouldn't I have her Mrs. Arthur Gride in a
week, a month, a day—any time I chose to
name P” . • .
“Go on,” said Ralph, nodding his head de-
liberately, and speaking in a tone whose studied
coldness presented a strange contrast to the
rapturous Squeak to which his friend had gradu-
ally mounted. “Go on. A You - didn't come
here to ask me that.” -
“Oh dear, how you talk 1" cried old Arthur,
edging himself clošer still to Ralph. “Of course
I didn't—I don't pretend I did I came to
ask what you would take from me, if I prospered
with the father, for this debt of yours—five
shillings in the pound—six-and-eightpence—ten
shillings?' I would go as far as ten for such a
friend as you, we have always been on such good
terms, but you won't be so hard upon me as
that, I know. Now, will, you?”
“There's something more to be told,” said
Ralph, as stony and immovable as ever.
“Yes, yes, there is, but you won't give me
time,” returned Arthur Gride. “I want a backer
in this matter—one who can talk, and urge, and
press a point, which you can do as no man can,
I can't do that, for I am a poor, timid, nervous
creature. Now, if you get a good composition
for this debt, which you long ago gave up for
lost, you'll stand my friend, and help me. Won't
ou?” - -
ye. There's something more,” said Ralph.
“No, no, indeed,” cried Arthur Gride.
“Yes, yes, indeed. I tell you yes,” said
Ralph. -
“Oh ſ* returned old Arthur, feigning to be
“You mean something
more as concerns myself and my intention. Ay,
surely, surely. Shall I mention that?” . . .
“I think you had better,” rejoined Ralph
“I didn't like to trouble you with that,
because I supposed your interest would cease
with your own concern in the affair,” said Arthur
THE BRIDEGRooſ's SCHEME.
Gride. “That's kind of you to ask. Oh dear,
how very kind of you ! Why, supposing I had
a knowledge of some property—some little pro-
perty—very little—to which this pretty chick
was entitled ; which nobody does or can know
of at this time, but which her husband could
sweep into his pouch, if he knew as much as I
jy
do, would that account for
“For the whole proceeding,” rejoined Ralph
abruptly. “Now, let me turn this matter over,
and consider what I ought to have if I should
help you to success.” - -
“But don't be hard,” cried old Arthur, raising
his hands with an imploring gesture, and speak-
ing in a tremulous voice. “Don’t be too hard
upon me. It's a very small property, it is
indeed. Say the ten shillings, and we'll close
the bargain. It's more than I ought to give,
but you're so kind. Shall we say the ten ? Do,
now, do 1" - - -
Ralph took Mo notice of these supplications,
but sat for three or four minutes in a brown
study, looking thoughtfully at the person from
whom they proceeded. After sufficient cogita-
tion he broke silence, and it certainly could not
be objected that he used any needless circum-
locution, or failed to speak directly to the
purpose. "
“If you married this girl without me,” said
Ralph, “you must pay my debt in full, because
you couldn't set her father free otherwise. It's
plain, then, that I must have the whole amount,
clear of all deduction or encumbrance, or I
should lose from being honoured with your con-
That's the
ſidence, inctead of gaining by it.
first article of the treaty. For the second, I
shall stipulate that for my trouble in negotiation
and persuasion, and helping you to this fortune,
I have five hundred pounds. That's very little,
because you have the ripe lips, and the cluster-
ing hair, and what not, all to yourself. For the
third and last article, I require that you execute
a bond to me, this day, binding yourself in the
payment of these two sums before noon of the
day of your marriage with Madeline Bray. You
have told me I can urge and press a point. I
Press this one, and will take nothing less than
these terms. Accept them if you like. If not,
marry her without me if you can. I shall still
get my debt.” .
To all entreaties, protestations, and offers of
compromise between his own proposals and
those which Arthur Gride had first suggested,
Ralph was deaf as an adder. He would enter
into no further discussion of the subject, and
While old Arthur dilated upon the enormity of
his demands, and proposed modifications of
3.13
them, approaching by degrees nearer and nearer
to the terms he resisted, sat perfectly mute,
looking with an air of quiet abstraction over the
entries and papers in his pocket-book. Finding
that it was impossible to make any, impression
upon his staunch friend, Arthur Gride, who had
prepared himself for some such result before he
came, consented with a heavy heart to the pro-
posed treaty, and upon the spot filled up the
bond required (Ralph kept such instruments
handy), after exacting the condition that Mr.
Nickleby should accompany him to Bray's
lodgings that very hour, and open the negotia-
tion at once, should circumstances appear
auspicious and favourable to their designs.
In pursuance of this last understanding the
worthy gentlemen went out together shortly
afterwards, and Newman Noggs emerged, bottle
in hand, from the cupboard, out of the upper
door of which, at the imminent risk of detection,
he had more than once thrust his red nose when
such parts of the subject were under discussion
as interested him most. -
“I have no appetite now,” said Newman,
putting the flask in his pocket. “I’ve had my
dinner.”
Having delivered this observation in a very
grievous and doleful tone, Newman reached the
door in one long limp, and came back again in
another.
“I don’t know who she may be, or what she
may be,” he said : “but I pity her with all my
heart and soul; and I can't help her, nor can I
any of the people against whom a hundred
tricks—but none so vile as this—are plotted
every day ! Well, that adds to my pain, but
not to theirs. The thing is no worse because I
know it, and it tortures me as well as them.
Gride and Nickleby Good pair for a curricle.
Oh, roguery ! roguery roguery : "
With these reflections, and a very hard knock
on the , crown of his unfortunate hat at each
repetition of the last word, Newman Noggs,
whose brain was a little muddled by so much of
the contents of the pocket pistol as had found
their way there during his recent concealment,
went forth to seek such consolation as might be
derivable from the beef and greens of some
cheap eating-house.
Meanwhile the two plotters had betaken them-
selves to the same house whither Nicholas had
repaired for the first time but a few mornings
before, and having obtained access to Mr. Bray,
and found his daughter from home, had, by a
train of the most masterly approaches that
Ralph's utmost skill could frame, at length
laid open the real object of their visit.
...”
3I4 -
“There he sits, Mr. Bray,” said Ralph, as the
invalid, not yet recovered from his surprise,
reclined in his chair, looking alternately at him
and Arthur Gride. “What if he has had the ill-
fortune to be one cause of your detention in this
place—I have been another; men must live ;
you are too much a man of the world not to see
that in its true light. We offer the best repara:
tion in our power. Reparation | Here is an
offer of marriage, that many a titled father would
leap at for his child. Mr. Arthur Gride, with
the fortune of a prince. Think what a haul
it is t” - -
“My daughter, sir,” returned Bray haughtily,
“as I have brought her up, would be a rich
recompense for the largest fortune that a man
could bestow in exchange for her hand.”
. “Precisely what I told you,” said the artful
Ralph, turning to his friend, old Arthur. “Pre-
cisely what made me consider the thing so fair -
and easy. There is no obligation on either
side. You have money, and Miss Madeline has
beauty and worth. She has youth, you have
money. She has not money, you have not
youth. Tit for tat—quits—a match of Heaven's
own making !” - -
“Matches are made in Heaven, they say,”
added Arthur Gride, leering hideously at 'the
father-in-law he wanted. “If we are married, it
will be destiny, according to that.”.
“Then think, Mr. Bray,” said Ralph, hastily
substituting for this argument considerations
more nearly alliedte earth, “think what a stake .
is involved in the acceptance or rejection of
these proposals of my friend—”
“How can I accept or reject P” interrupted
Mr. Bray, with an irritable consciousness that it
really rested with him to decide. “It is for my
daughter to accept or reject; it is for my
daughter. You know that.” -
“True,” said Ralph emphatically; “but you
have still the power to advise; to state the
reasons for and against; to hint a wish.”
* “To hint a wish, sir!” returned the debtor,
proud and mean by turns, and selfish at all
times. “I am her father, am I not P Why
should I hint, and beat about the bush P Do
you suppose, like her mother's friends and my
enemies—a curse upon them all !—that there is
anything in what she has done for me but duty,
sir, but duty P Gr.do you think that my having
been unfortunate is a sufficient reason why our
relative positions should be changed, and that
she should command, and I should obey? Hint
a wish, too ! ...Perhaps you think, because you
see me in this place, and scarcely able to leave
this chair without assistance, that I am some
letting others live at yours.
the reverse side of the picture ? What is there?
...” McHozAS NICKLEB Y.
broken-spirited dependent creature, without the
courage or power to do what I may think best
for my own child. ... Still the power, to hint a
wish I hope so " . • -- . " .
“Pardon me,” returned Ralph, who tho-
roughly knew his man, and had taken his ground
accordingly; “you do not hear me out. I was
about to say that your hinting a wish—even
hinting a wish—would surely be equivalent to
commanding.” -
“Why, of course it would,” retorted Mr. Bray
in an exasperated tone. “If you don't happen
to have heard of the time, sir; I tell you that
there was a time when I carried every point in
triumph against her, mother's whole family,
, although they had power and wealth on their
side—by my will alone.” -
“Stili," rejoined Ralph as mildly as his nature
would allow him, “you have not heard me out.'
You are a man yet qualified to shine in society,
with many years of life before you—that is, if
you lived in freer air, and under brighter skies,
and chose your own companions. Gaiety is
your element ; you have shone in it before.
Fashion and freedom for you. France, and an
annuity that would support you there in luxury,
would give you a new lease of life—transfer you
to a new existence. ... The town rang with your
expensive pleasures once, and you could blaze
up on a new scene again, profiting by experience,
and living a little at others’ cost, instead of
What is there on
I don't know which is the nearest churchyard,
but a gravestone there, wherever it is, and a
date—perhaps two years hence, perhaps twenty.
That's all.” -
Mr. Bray rested his elbow on the arm of his
chair, and shaded his face with his hand.
“I speak plainly,” said Ralph, sitting down
beside him, “because I feel strongly. It's my
interest that you should marry your daughter to
my friend Gride, because then he sees me paid
—in part, that is. I don't disguise it. I ac-
knowledge it openly. But what interest have
you in recommending her to such a step? Keep
that in view. She might object, remonstrate,
shed tears, talk of his being too old, and plead
that her life would be rendered miserable. But
what is it now P” *
Several slight gestures on the part of the in-
valid showed that these arguments were no more
lost upon him than the smallest iota of his de-
meanour was upon Ralph. - .
“What is it now, I say," pursued the wily
usurer, “ or what has it a chance of being P If
you died, indeed, the people you hate would
& -
CRAFTY PEAESUASIOA/
make her happy. But can you bear the thought
of that P* . .
“No 1" returned Bray, urged by a vindictive
impulse he could not repress.
“I should imagine not, indeed 1" said Ralph
quietly. “If she profits by anybody's death,”
this was said in a lower tone, “let it be by her
husband's—don't let her have to look back to
yours as the event from which to date a happier
life. Where is the objection? Let me hear it
stated. What is it? That her suitor is an old
man? Why, how often do men of family and
fortune, who haven't your excuse, but have all
the means and superfluities of life within their
reach—how often do they marry their daughters
to old men, or (worse still) to young men with-
out heads or hearts, to tickle some idle vanity,
strengthen some family interest, or secure some
seat in Parliament Judge for her, sir, judge for
her. You must know best, and 'she will live to
thank you.” -
“Hush hush " cried Mr. Bray, suddenly
starting up, and covering Ralph's mouth with
his trembling hand. “I hear her at the
door ”
There was a gleam of conscience in me
shame and terror of this hasty action, which,
in one short moment, tore the thin covering of
sophistry from the cruel design, and laid it bare
in all its meanness and heartless deformity.
The father fell into his chair pale and trem-
bling; Arthur Gride plucked and fumbled at
his hat, and durst not raise his eyes from the
floor; even Ralph crouched for the moment
like a beaten hound, cowed by the presence of
one young innocent girl! -
The effect was almost as brief as sudden.
Ralph was the first to recover himself, and,
observing Madeline's looks of alarm, entreated
the poor girl to be composed, assuring her that
there was no cause for fear.
“A sudden spasm,” said Ralph, glancing at
Mr. Bray. “He is quite well now.”
It might have moved a very hard and worldly
heart to see the young and beautiful creature,
whose certain misery they had been contriving
but a minute before, throw her arms about her
father's neck, and pour forth words of tender
sympathy and love, the sweetest a father's ear
can know, or child's lips form. But Ralph
looked coldly on ; and Arthur Gride, whose
bleared eyes gloated only over the outward
beauties, and were blind to the spirit which
reigned within, evinced—a fantastic kind of
warmth certainly, but not exactly that kind -
of warmth of feeling which the contemplation
of virtue usually inspires.
| terrible to see you in such pain.
I am sure it is.
315
“Madeline,” said her father, gently disengag.
ing himself, “it was nothing.”
“But you had that spasm yesterday, and it is
Can I do
nothing for you?”
“Nothing, just now. Here are two gentle-
men, Madeline, one of whom you have seen
before. . She used to say,” added Mr. Bray,
addressing Arthur Gride, “that the sight of you
always made me worse. That was natural,
knowing what she did, and only what she did,
of our connection and its results. Well, well !
Perhaps she may change her mind on that
point; girls have leave to change their minds,
you know. You are very tired, my dear.”
“I am not, indeed.”
“Indeed you are. You do too much
“I wish I could do more.”
“I know you do, but you overtask your
strength. This wrétched life, my love, of daily
labour and fatigue, is more than you can bear,
** - Poor Madeline !”
With these and many more kind words, Mr.
Bray drew his daughter to him, and kissed her
cheek affectionately. Ralph, watching him
sharply and closely in the meantime, made his
way towards the door, and signed to Gride to
follow him.
“You will communicate with us again?” said
Ralph.
“Yes, yes,” returned Mr. Bray, hastily thrust-
ing his daughter aside. “In a week. Give me
a week.” $
“One week," said Ralph, turning to his com-
panion, “from to-day. Good morning. . Miss
Madeline, I kiss your hand.” .
“We will shake hands, Gride,” said Mr.
Bray, extending his, as old Arthur bowed.
“You mean well, no doubt. I am bound to
say so now. If I owed you money, that was
not your fault. Madeline, my love—your hand
here.” -
“Oh dear ! If the young lady would conde-
scend—only the tips of her fingers,” said Arthur,
hesitating and half retreating.
Madeline shrunk involuntarily from the goblin
figure, but she placed the tips of her fingers in
his hand, and instantly withdrew them. After
an ineffectual clutch, intended to detain and
carry them to his lips, old Arthur gave his own
fingers a mumbling kiss, and, with many amorous
distortions of visage, went in pursuit. of his
friend, who was by this time in the street.
“What does he say, what does he say? What
does the giant say to the pigmy P” inquired
Arthur Gride, hobbling up to Ralph. :
“What does the pigmy say to the giant?”
3 16
w
AV/CAE/O/AS AWICKLž ö Y.
rejoined Ralph, elevating his eyebrows, and
looking down upon his questioner.
“He doesn't know what to say,” replied
Arthur Gride. “He hopes and fears. But is
she not a dainty morsel ?” .
“I have no great taste for beauty,” growled
Ralph. -
“But I have,” rejoined Arthur, rubbing his
hands. “Oh dear! How handsome her eyes
looked when she was stooping over him—such
long lashes—such delicate fringe She-she—
looked at me so soft.” -
“Not over-lovingly, I think,”
“Did she P” - -
“No, you think not P” replied old Arthur.
“But don't you think it can be brought about—
don't you think it can P”
Ralph looked at him. with a contemptuous
frown, and replied with a sneer, and between his
teeth :
“Did you mark his telling her she was
tired and did too much, and overtasked her
strength P”
“Ay, ay. What of it?” - -
“When do you think he ever told her that
before? The life is more than she can bear. Yes,
yes. He'll change it for her.” -
“D'ye think it's done P” inquired old Arthur,
peering into his companion's face with half-closed
eyes.
“I am sure it's done,” said Ralph. “He is
trying to deceive himself, even before our eyes,
already—making believe that he thinks of her
good, and not his own—acting a virtuous part,
and so considerate and affectionate, sir, that the
daughter scarcely knew him. I saw a tear of
surprise in her eye. There'll be a few more
tears of surprise there before long, though of a
different kind. Oh we may wait with confi-
dence for this day week.”
said Ralph.
j
CHAPTER XLVIII.
BEING FOR THE BENEFIT OF MR. VINCENT CRUMMLEs,
AND POSITIVELY HIS LAST APPEAKANCE ON THIS
STAGE,
T was with a very sad and heavy
heart, oppressed by many painful
ideas, that Nicholas retraced his
steps eastward, and betook himself
to the counting-house of Cheeryble
Brothers. Whatever the idle hopes he
had suffered himself to entertain, what.
ever the pleasant visions which had
sprung up in his mind and grouped themselves
round the fair image of Madeline Bray, they
were now dispelled, and not a vestige of their
gaiety and brightness remained. .
It would be a poor compliment to Nicholas's
better nature, and one which he was very far
ſrom deserving, to insinuate that the solution,
and such a solution, of the mystery which had
seemed to surround Madeline Bray, when he
was ignorant even of her name, had damped
his ardour or cooled the ſervour of his admira-
tion. If he had regarded her before with such
a passion as young men attracted by mere
beauty and elegance may entertain, he was now
conscious of much deeper and stronger feelings.
But, reverence for the truth and purity of her
heart, respect for the helplessness and loneliness
of her situation, sympathy with the trials of one
so young and fair, and admiration of her great
and noble spirit, all seemed to raise her far
above his reach, and, while they imparted new
depth and dignity to his love, to whisper that it
was hopeless. - -
“I will keep my word, as I have pledged it
to her,” said Nicholas manfully. “This is no
common trust that I have to discharge, and I
will perform the double duty that is imposed
upon me most scrupulously and strictly. My
secret feelings deserve no consideration in such
a case as this, and they shall have none.” +
Still, there were the secret feelings in existence
just the same, and in secret Nicholas rather en-
couraged them than otherwise; reasoning (if he
reasoned at all) that there they could do no
Tharm to anybody but himself, and that, if he
kept them to himself from a sense of duty, he
had an additional right to entertain himself with
them as a reward for his heroism. -
All these thoughts, coupled with what he had
seen that morning and the anticipation of his
next visit, rendered him a very dull and ab-
stracted companion; so much so, indeed, that
Tim Linkinwater suspected he must have made
the mistake of a figure somewhere, which was
preying upon his mind, and seriously conjured
him, if such were the case, to make a clean
breast and scratch it out, rather than have his
whole life embittered by the tortures of remorse.
But in reply to these considerate representa-
tions, and many others both from Tim and Mr.
Frank, Nicholas could only be brought to state
that he was never merrier in his life; and so
went on all day, and so went towards home at
night, still turning over and over again the
same subjects, thinking over and over again the
same things, and arriving over and over again
at the same conclusions, , , - .
In this pensive, wäyward, and uncertain state,

AN UWEXPECTED REAVCONTRE. - %
people are apt to lounge and loiter without
knowing why, to read placards on the walls with
great attention and without the smallest idea of
one word of their contents, and to stare most
earnestly through shop-windows at things which
they don't see. It was thus that Nicholas found
himself poring with the utmost interest over a
large play-bill hanging outside a Minor Theatre
which he had to pass on his way home, and
reading a list of the actors and actresses who
had promised to do honour to some approaching
benefit, with as much gravity as if it had been
a catalogue of the names of those ladies and
gentlemen who stood highest upon the Book of
Fate, and he had been looking anxiously for his
own. He glanced at the top of the bill, with a
smile at his own dulness, as he prepared to
resume his walk, and there saw announced, in
large letters with a large space between each of
them, “Positively the last appearance of Mr.
Vincent Crummles of Provincial Celebrity | | |"
“Nonsense 1" said Nicholas, turning back
again. “It can't be.”
But there it was. In one line by itself was an
announcement of the first night of a new melo-
drama ; in another line by itself was an an-
nouncement of the last six nights of an old one;
a third line was devoted to the re-engagement of
the unrivalled African Knife-swallower, who had
kindly suffered himself to be prevailed upon to
forego his country engagements for one week
longer; a fourth line announced that Mr. Snittle
Timberry, having recovered from his late severe
indisposition, would have the honour of appear-
ing that evening ; a fifth line said that there
were “Cheers, Tears, and Laughter " every
night; a sixth, that that was positively the last
appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles of Pro-
vincial Celebrity.
“Surely it must be the same man,” thought
Nicholas.
mleses.” -
The better to settle this question, he referred
to the bill again, and finding that there was a
Baron in the first piece, and that Roberto (his
son) was enacted by one Master Crummles, and
Spaletro (his nephew) by one Master Percy
Crummles—their last appearances—and that,
incidental to the piece, was a characteristic
dance by the characters, and a castanet pas seul
by the Infant Phenomenon—her last appear-
ance—he no longer entertained any doubt; and
presenting himself at the stage-door, and send-
“There can’t be two Vincent Crum-
ing in a scrap of paper with “Mr. Johnson"
written thereon in pencil, was presently con-
ducted by a Robber, with a very large belt and
buckle round his waist, and very large leather
w
317
gauntlets on his hands, into the presence of his
former manager. -
Mr. Crummles wºs unſeignedly glad to see
him, and starting up from before a small dressing-
glass, with one very bushy eyebrow stuck on
crooked over his left eye, and the fellow eyebrow
and the calf of one of his legs in his hand, em-
braced him cordially; at the same time observing
that it would do Mrs. Crummles's heart good to
bid him good-bye before they went.
“You were always a ſavourite of hers, John-
Son,” said Crummles, “always were ſrom the
first. I was quite easy in my mind about you
from that first day you dined with us. One that
Mrs. Crummles took a fancy to was sure to turn out
right. Ah, Johnson, what a woman that is 1”
“I am sincerely obliged to her for her kind-
ness in this and all other respects,” said Nicholas.
“But where are you going, that you talk about
bidding good-bye P” r
“Haven't you seen it in the papers ?” said
Crummles with some dignity.
“No,” replied Nicholas.
“I wonder at that,” said the manager. “It
was among the varieties. I had the paragraph
here somewhere—but I don't know—oh yes,
here it is.”
So saying, Mr. Crummles, aſter pretending
that he thought he must have lost it, produced
a square inch of newspaper from the pocket of
the pantaloons he wore in private life (which,
together with the plain clothes of several other
gentlemen, lay scattered about on a kind of
dresser in the room), and gave it to Nicholas to
read : -
“The talented Vincent Crummles, long
favourably known to fame as a country ma-
nager and actor of no ordinary pretensions, is
about to cross the Atlantic on a histrionic expe-
dition. Crummles is to be accompanied, we
hear, by his lady and gifted family. We know
no man superior to Crummles in his particular
line of character, or one who, whether as a
public or private individual, could carry with
him the best wishes of a larger circle of friends.
Crummles is certain to succeed.”
“Here's another bit,” said Mr. Crummles,
handing over a still smaller scrap. “This is
from the notices to correspondents, this one.”
Nicholas read it aloud. “‘Philo-Dramaticus.
—Crummles, the country manager and actor,
cannot be more than forty-three or forty-four
years of age. Crummles is Not a Prussian,
having been born at Chelsea.’ Humph '" said
Nicholas, “that's an odd paragraph.” .
“Very,” returned Crummles, scratchung the
side of his nose, and looking at Nicholas with
a -
3.18 *
~,
AV/CHO/CAS AV/CKZEP Y.
an assumption of great unconcern. “I can't think
who puts these things in. I didn't.”
Still keeping his eye on Nicholas, Mr. Crum-
mles shook his head twice or thrice with pro-
found gravity, and remarking that he could not,
for the liſe of him, imagine how the newspapers
found out the things they did, ſolded up the
extracts, and put them in his pocket again.
“I am astonished to hear this news,” said
Nicholas. “Going to Americal You had no
such thing in contemplation when I was with
you.” -
“No,” replied Crummles, “I hadn't then.
The fact is that Mrs. Crummles—most extra-
ordinary womán, Johnson.” Here he broke off,
and whispered something in his ear.
“Oh i' said Nicholas, smiling. “The pros-
pect of an addition to your family P” -
“The seventh addition, Johnson,” returned
Mr. Crummles solemnly. “I thought such a
child as the Phenomenon must have been a
closer; but it seems we are to have another.
She is a very remarkable woman.”
“I congratulate you,” said Nicholas, “ and I
hope this may prove a phenomenon too.”
“Why, it's pretty sure to be something un-
common, I suppose,” rejoined Mr. Crummles.
“The talent of the other three is principally in
combat and serious pantomime. I should like
this one to have a turn for juvenile tragedy; I
understand they want something of that sort in
America very much. However, we must take it
as it comes. Perhaps it may have a genius for
the tight-rope. It may have any sort of genius,
in short, if it takes after its mother, Johnson,
for she is an universal genius; but, whatever its
genius is, that genius shall be developed.”
Expressing himself after these terms, Mr.
Crummles put on his other eyebrow, and the
calves of his legs, and then put on his legs,
which were of a yellowish flesh colour, and
rather soiled about the knees, from frequent
going down upon
prayers, last struggles, and other strong pas-
Sages.
While the ex-manager completed his toilet,
he informed Nicholas that as he should have a
fair start in America from the proceeds of a
tolerably good engagement, which he had been
fortunate enough to obtain, and as he and Mrs.
Crummles could scarcely hope to act for ever—
not being immortal, except in the breath of
Fame and in a figurative sense—he had made
up his mind to settle there permanently, in the
hope of acquiring some land of his own which
would support them in their old age, and which
they could afterwards bequeath to their children.
*
those joints, in curses,
Nicholas having highly commended this resolu-
tion, Mr. Crummles went on to impart such
further intelligence relative to their mutual
friends as he thought might prove interesting ;
informing Nicholas, among other things, that
Miss Snevellicci was happily married to an
affluent young wax-chandler who had supplied
the theatre with candles, and that Mr. Lilly vick
didn't dare to say his soul was his own, such
was the tyrannical sway of Mrs. Likly vick, who
reigned paramount and supreme. . . . -
Nicholas responded to this confidence on the
part of Mr. Crummles by confiding to him his
own name, situation, and prospects, and inform-
ing him, in as few general words as he could, of
the circumstances which had led to their first
acquaintance. After congratulating him with
great heartiness on the improved state of his
fortunes, Mr. Crummles gave him to understand
that next morning he and his were to start for
Liverpool, where the vessel lay which was to
carry them from the shores of England, and that,
if Nicholas wished to take a last adieu of Mrs.
Crummles, he must repair with him that night
to a farewell supper, given in honour of the
family at a neighbouring tavern ; at which Mr.
Snittle Timberry would preside, while the
honours of the vice-chair would be sustained by
the African Swallower. . ... "
The room being by this time very warm and
somewhat crowded, in consequence of the influx
of four gentlemen, who had just killed each
other in the piece under representation, Nicholas
accepted the invitation, and promised to return
at the conclusion of the performances; prefer-
ring the cool air and twilight out of doors to the
mingled perfume of gas, orange-peel, and gun-
powder, which pervaded the hot and glaring
theatre. .
He availed himself of this interval to buy a
silver snuff-box—the best his funds would afford
—as a token of remembrance for Mr. Crummles,
and having purchased, besides a pair of ear-
rings for Mrs. Crummles, a necklace for the
phenomenon, and a flaming shirt-pin for each
of the young gentlemen, he refreshed himself
with a walk, and, returning a little after the ap-
pointed time, ſound the lights out, the theatre
empty, the curtain raised for the night, and Mr.
Crummles walking up and down the stage
expecting his arrival. - -
“Timberry won't be long,” said Mr. Crummles.
“He played the audience out to-night. He
does a faithful black in the last piece, and it
takes him a little longer to wash himself."
“A very unpleasant line of character, I should
think P” said Nicholas.
A FARE WEZZ SUPPER Zo
—k-
“No, 1 don't know,” replied Mr. Crummles;
“it comes off easily enough, and there's only
the face and neck. We had a first-tragedy man
in our company once, who, when he played
Othello, used to black himself all over. But
that's feeling a part, and going into it as if you
meant it ; it isn't usual—more's the pity."
Mr. Snittle Timberry now appeared, arm-in-
arm with the African Swallower, and, being in-
troduced to Nicholas, raised his hat half a foot,
and said he was proud to know him. The
Swallower said the same, and looked and spoke
remarkably like an Irishman. ' -
“I see by the bills that you have been ill, sir,”
said Nicholas to Mr. Timberry. “I hope you
are none the worse for your exertions to-night P”
Mr. Timberry, in reply, shook his head with
a gloonly air, tapped his chest several times
with great significancy, and, drawing his cloak
more closely about him, said, “But no matter—
no matter. Come!” *
It is observable that, when people upon the
stage are in any strait involving the very last
extremity of weakness and exhaustion, they in-
variably perform feats of strength requiring
great ingenuity and muscular power. Thus, a
wounded prince or bandit chief, who is bleed-
ing to death and too faint to move, except to
the softest music (and then only upon his hands
and knees), shall be seen to approach a cottage
door for aid in such a series of writhings and
twistings, and with such curlings up of the legs,
and such rollings over and over, and such get-
tings up and tumblings down again, as could
never be achieved save by a very strong man
skilled in posture-making. - And so matural did
this sort of performance come to Mr. Snittle
Timberry; that, on their way out of the theatre
and towards the tavern where the supper was to
be holden, he testified the severity of his recent
indisposition, and its wasting effects upon the
nervous system, by a series of gymnastic per-
formances which were the admiration of all wit-
TheSSes. . .
“Why, this is indeed a joy I had not looked
for " said Mrs. Crummles when Nicholas was
presented. -
“Nor I," replied Nicholas. “It is by a mere
chance that I have this opportunity of seeing
you, although I would have made a great exer-
tion to have availed myself of it.”
“Here is one whom you know,” said Mrs.
Crummles, thrusting forward the phenomenon
in a blue gauze frock, extensively flounced, and
trousers of the same ; “and here another—and
another,” presenting the Master Crummleses.
“And how is your friend, the faithful Digby P”
7 HE CRUMMZES FAMILY. 3 IQ
“Digby " said Nicholas, forgetting at the
instant that this had been Smike's theatrical
name. “Oh yes | He's quite—what am I say-
ing?—he is very far from well.”
“How !” exclaimed Mrs. Crummles with a
tragic recoil.
“I fear,” said Nicholas, shaking his head, and
making an attempt to smile, “that your better half
would be more struck with him now than ever.”
“What mean you?" rejoined Mrs. Crummles
in her most popular manner. “Whence comes
this altered tone P”
“I mean that a dastardly enemy of mine has
struck at me through him, and that, while he
thinks to torture me, he inflicts on him such
agonies of terror and suspense as—º- You will
excuse me, I am sure,” said Nicholas, checking
himself. “I should never speak of this, and
never do, except to those who know the facts,
but for a moment I forgot myself.”
. With this hasty. apology Nicholas stooped
down to salute the phenomenon, and changed
the subject; inwardly cursing his precipitation,
and very much wondering what Mrs. Crummles
must think of so sudden an explosion.
That lady seemed to think very little about it,
for, the supper being by this time on table, she
gave her hand to Nicholas, and repaired with a
stately step to the left hand of Mr. Snittle Tim-
berry. Nicholas had the honour to support her,
and Mr. Crummles was placed upon the chair-
man's right; the phenomenon and the Master
Crummleses sustained the vice.
The company amounted in number to some
twenty-five or thirty, being composed of such
members of the theatrical profession, them
engaged or disengaged in London, as were
numbered among the most intimate friends of
Mr. and Mrs. Crummles. The ladies and gen-
tlemen were pretty equally balanced; the ex-
penses of the entertainment being defrayed by
the latter, each of whom had the privilege of
inviting one of the former as his guest.
It was, upon the whole, a very distinguished
party, for, independently of the lesser theatrical
lights who clustered on this occasion round Mr.
Snittle Timberry, there was a literary gentleman
present who had dramatised in his time two
hundred and forty-seven novels as fast as they
had come out—some of them faster than they
had come out—and was a literary gentleman in
consequence. ... *
This gentleman sat on the left hand of
Nicholas, to whom he was introduced by his
friend the African Swallower, from the bottom
of the table, with a high eulogium upon his ſame
and reputation. -
32 o
Aw/CHOLAS NICKZEB Y.
“I am happy to know a gentleman of such
queat distinction,” said Nicholas politely.
“Sir” replied the wit, “you're very welcome,
The honour is reciprocal, sir, as I.
I’m sure.
usually say when I dramatise a book. Did you
ever hear a definition of fame, sir?”
“I have heard several,” replied Nicholas with
a smile. “What is yours?” -
“When I dramatise a book, sir,” said the
literary gentleman, “that's fame — for its
author.”
“Oh, indeed "rejoined Nicholas.
“That's ſame, sir,” said the literary gentleman.
“So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry
Abershaw have handed down to fame the names
of those on whom they committed their mos'
impudent robberies?” said Nicholas.
“I don't know anything about that, sºr”,
answered the literary gentleman.
“Shakspeare, dramatised stories which had
previously appeared in print, it is true,” observed
Nicholas.
“Meaning Bill, sir?” said the literary gentle-
map. “So he did. Bill was an adapter, cer-
tainly, so he was—and very well he adapted
to O considering.” -
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“WAS PRESENTLY CONDUCTED BY A Robber, witH A VERY LARGE BELT AND BUCKLE ROUND HIS. waist,
AND VERY LARGE LEATHER GAUNTLETS ON HIS HANDs, INTO THE PRESENCE OF HIS FORMER MANAGER,
* /
“I was about to say,” rejoined Nicholas,
“that Shakspeare derived some of his plots from
old tales and legends in general circulation ; but
it seems to me that some of the gentlemen of
your craft, at the present day, have shot very
far beyond him 33 -
“You’re quite right, sir,” interrupted the
literary gentleman, leaning back in his Čhair
and exercising his toothpick. “Human intel-
lect, sir, has progressed since his time—is pro-
gressing—will progress 33
“Shot beyond him, I mean,” resumed Nicho-
º
las, “in quite another respect, for, whereas he
brought within the magic circle of his genius
traditions peculiarly adapted for his purpose,
and turned familiar things into constellations
which should enlighten the world for ages, you
drag within the magic circle of your dulness
subjects not at all adapted to the purposes of
the stage, and debase as he exalted. . For
instance, you take the uncompleted books of
living authors, fresh from their hands, wet from
the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the
powers and capacities of your actors, and the

AFTER-SUPPER SPEECHES.
32 I
capability of your theatres, finish unfinished
works, hastily and crudely vamp up ideas not
yet worked out by their original projector, but
which have doubtless cost him many thoughtful
days and sleepless nights; by a comparison of
incidents and dialogue, down to the very lašt,
word he may have written a fortnight before, do
your utmost to anticipate his plot--all this
without his permission, and against his will ;
and then, to crown the whole proceeding, pub-
lish in some mean pamphlet an unmeaning
ſarrago of garbled extracts from his work, to
which you put your name as author, with the
honourable distinction annexed, of having per-
petrated a hundred other outrages of the same
description. Now, show me the distinction
between such pilfering as this, and picking a
man's pocket in the street: unless, indeed, it
be that the legislature has a regard for pocket-
handkerchiefs, and leaves men's brains, except
when they are knocked out by violence, to take
care of themselves.” -
“Men must live, sir,” said the literary gentle-
than, shrugging his shoulders. -
“That would be an equally fair plea in both
cases,” replied Nicholas; “but, if you put it upon
that ground, I have nothing more to say than
that, if I were a writer of books, and you a
thirsty dramatist, I would rather pay your tavern
score for six months—large as it might be—
than have a niche in the Temple of Fame with
you for the humblest corner of my pedestal,
through six hundred generations.”
The conversation threatened to take a some-
what angry tone when it had arrived thus far,
but Mrs. Crummles opportunely interposed to
prevent its leading to any violent outbreak, by
making some inquiries of the literary gentleman
relative to the plots of the six new pieces which
he had written by contract to introduce the
African Knife-swallower in his, various un-
rivalled performances. This speedily engaged
him in an animated conversation with that lady,
in the interest of which all recollection of his
recent discussion with Nicholas very quickly
evaporated. -
The board being now clear of the more sub-
3tantial articles of food, and punch, wine, and
spirits being placed upon it and handed about,
the guests, who had been previously conversing
in little groups of three or four, gradually fell off
into a dead silence, while the majority of those
Present glanced from time to time at Mr. Snittle
Timberty, and the bolder spirits did not even
hesitate. to strike the table with their knuckles,
and plainly intimate their expectations, by utter-
ing such encouragements as “Now, Tim,”
“Wake up, Mr. Chairman,” “All charged, sir,
and waiting for a toast,” and so forth.
To these remonstrances Mr. Timberry deigned
no other rejoinder than striking his chest and
gasping for breath, and giving many other indi-
cations of being still the victim of indisposition
—for a man must not make himself too cheap,
either on the stage or off—while Mr. Crummles,
who knew full well that he would be the subject
of the ſorthcoming toast, sat gracefully in his
chair, with his arm thrown carelessly over the
back, and now and then liſted his glass to his
mouth and drank a little punch, with the same
air with which he was accustomed to take long
draughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard gob-
lets in banquet scenes. ſº
At length Mr. Snittle Timberry rose in the
most approved attitude, with one hand in the
breast of his waistcoat, and the other on the nearest
snuff-box, and, having been received with great
enthusiasm, proposed with abundance of quota-
tions, his friend Mr. Vincent Crummles: ending
a pretty long speech by extending his right hand
on one side, and his keft on the other, and seve-
rally calling upon Mr. and Mrs. Crummles to
grasp the same. This done, Mr. Vincent
Crummles returned thanks, and that done, the
African Swahrowér proposed Mrs. Vincent Crum-
mles in affecting terms. Then were heard loud
moans and sobs from Mrs. Crummles and the
ladies, despite of which that heroic woman in-
sisted upon returning thanks herself, which she
did in a manner and ifi a speech which has
never been surpassed, and seldom equalled. It
then became the duty of Mr. Snittle Timberry
to give the young Crummleses, which he did ,
after which Mr. Vincent Crummles, as their
father, addressed the company in a supplemen-
tary speech, enlarging on their virtues, anniabili-
ties, and excellences, and wishing that they were
the sons and daughter of every lady and gentle-
man present. These solemnities having been
succeeded by a decent interval, enlivencil by
musical and other entertainments, Mr. Crummles
proposed that ornament of the profession, Alr.
Snittle Timberry; and, at a little later period
of the evening, the health of that other ornament
of the profession, the African Swallower—his very
dear friend, if he would allow him to call him
so ; which liberty (there being no particular rea-
son why he should not allow it) the African
Swallower graciously permitted. The literary
gentleman was then about to be drunk, but it
being discovered that he had been drunk for
some time in another acceptation of the term,
and was then asleep on the stairs, the intention
was abandoned, and the honour transferred to
*
322
#
MICHOLAS WICKZEBY.
the ladies. Finally, after a very long sitting,
Mr. Snittle Timberry vacated the chair, and the
company, with many adieux and embraces, dis-
persed. -
Nicholas waited to the last to give his little
presents. When he had said good-bye all
round, and came to Mr. Crummles, he could
not but mark the difference between their pre-
sent separation and their parting at Portsmouth.
Not a jot of his theatrical manner remained ; he
put out his hand with an aip which, if he could
have summoned it at will, would have made him
the best actor of his day in homely parts, and,
when Nicholas shook it with the warmth he
honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.
“We were a very happy little company,
Johnson,” said poor Crummles. “You and I
never had a word. I shall be very glad to-
morrow morning to think that I saw you again,
but now I almost wish you hadn't come.”
Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply,
when he was greatly disconcerted by the sudden
apparition of Mrs. Grudden, who, it seemed,
had deciined to attend the supper in order that
she might rise earlier in the morning, and who
now burst out of an adjoining bedroom, habited
in very extraordinary white robes; and, throw-
ing her arms about his neck, hugged him with
great affection.
“What Are you going too?” said Nicholas,
submitting with as good a grace as if she had
been the finest young creature in the world.
“Going !” returned Mrs. Grudden. “Lord
ha’ mercy, what do you think they'd do without
me P” . -
Nicholas submitted to another hug with even
a better grace than before, if that were possible,
and, waving his hat as cheerfully as he could,
took farewell of the Vincent Crummleses.
CHAPTER XI, IX.
CHRON ICLES THE FURTHER PRoceedINGS OF THE
NICKLF BY FAMILY, AND THE SEQUEL OF THE
A DVENTURE OF THE CENTLEMAN IN THE SMALL-
CLOTHES.
3 onc engrossing subject of interest
which had recently opened upon
º) with thoughts of Madeline Bray,
and in execution of the commis-
sions which the anxiety of brother Charles
in her behalf imposed upon him, saw her
again and again, and each time with greater
k
danger to his peace of mind and a more weak.
ening effect upon the lofty resolutions he had
formed, Mrs. Nickleby and Kate continued to
live in peace and quiet, agitated by no other
cares than those which were connected wººh cer-
tain harassing proceedings taken by Mr. Snawley
for the recovery of his son, and their anxiety
for Smike himself, whose health, long upon the
wane, began to be so much affected by appre-
hension and uncertainty as sometimes to occa-
sion both them and Nicholas considerable un-
easiness, and even alarm. - - • *
It was no complaint or murmur on the part
of the poor fellow himself that thus disturbed
them. Ever eager to be employed in such slight
services as he could render, and always anxious.
to repay his benefactors with cheerful and happy.
looks, less friendly eyes might have seen in him.
no cause for any misgiving. But there were
times—and often too—when the sunken eye was
too bright, the hollow cheek too flushed, the
breath too thick and heavy in its course, the
frame too feeble and exhausted, to escape their
regard and notice. .
There is a dread disease which so prepares
its victim, as it were, for death; which so re-
fines it of its grosser aspect, and throws around
familiar looks unearthly indications of the com-
ing change—a dread disease, in which the strug-
gle between soul and body is so gradual, quiet,
and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by
day, and grain by grain, the mortal part wastes
and withers away, so that the spirit grows light
and sanguine with its lightening load; and, feel-
ing immortality at hand, deems it but a new
term of mortal life—a disease in which death
and life are so strangely blended, that death
takes the glow and hue of life, and life the gaunt
and grisly form of death—a disease which medi-
cine never cured, wealth warded off, or poverty
could boast exemption from—which sometimes
moves in giant strides, and sometimes at a tardy
sluggish pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure
and certain. º
It was with some faint reference in his own
mind to this disorder, though he would by no
means admit it, even to himself, that Nicholas
had already carried his faithful companion to a
physician of great repute. There was no cause
for immediate alarm, he said. There were no
present symptoms which could be deemed con;
clusive. The constitution had been greatly tried
and injured in childhood, but still it might not
be—and that was all. - . .
But he seemed to grow no worse, and, as it
was not difficult to find a reason for these
symptoms of illness in the shock and agitation

A MOST A TTEAWTI VE YOUNG MAN.
he had recently undergone, Nicholas comforted
himself with the hope that his poor friend would
soon recover. This hope his mother and sister
shared with him; and, as the object of their
joint solicitude seemed to have no uneasiness or
despondency for himself, but each day answered,
with a quiet smile, that he felt better than he
had upon the day before, their fears abated, and
the general happiness was by degrees restored.
Many and many a time in after years did
Nicholas look back to this period of his life, and
tread again the humble quiet homely scenes that
rose up as of old before him. Many and many
a time, in the twilight of a summer evening, or
beside the flickering winter's fire—but not so
often or so sadly then—would his thoughts
wander back to these old days, and dwell with
a pleasant sorrow upon every slight remem-
brance which they brought crowding home.
The little room in which they had so often sat
long aſter it was dark, figuring such happy
futures—Kate's cheerful voice and merry laugh;
and how, if she were from home, they used to
sit and watch for her return, scarcely breaking
silence but to say how dull, it seemed without
her—the glee with which poor Smike would
start from the darkened corner where he used
to sit, and hurry to admit her, and the tears
they often saw upon his face, half wondering to
see them too, and he so pleased and happy—
every little incident, and even slight words and
looks, of those old days, little heeded then, but
well remembered when busy cares and trials
were quite forgotten, came fresh and thick before
him many and many a time, and, rustling above
the dusty growth of years, cane back green
boughs of yesterday.
But there were other persons associated with
these recollections, and many changes came
about before they had being—a necessary reflec-
tion for the purposes of these adventures, which
at once subside into their accustomed train, and,
shunning all flighty anticipations or wayward
Wanderings, pursue their steady and decorous
course.
If the brothers Cheeryble, as they found
Nicholas worthy of trust and confidence, be-
Stowed upon him every day some new and sub-
stantial mark of kindness, they were not less
Imindful of those who depended on him. Various
little Presents to Mrs. Nickleby—always of the
Very things they most required—tended in no
slight degree to the improvement and embellish-
ment of the cottage. Kate's little store of
trimkets' became quite dazzling; and for com-
Pany-l. If brother Charles and brother Ned
ſailed to look in for at least a few minutes every
323
Sunday, or one evening in the week, there was
Mr. Tim Linkinwater (who had never made half-
a-dozen other acquaintances in all his life, and
who took such delight in his new friends as no
words can express) constântly cousing and-going
in his evening walks, and stopping to rest;
while Mr. Frank Cheeryble happened, by some
strange conjunction of circumstances, to be pass-
ing the door on some business or other at least
three nights in the week.
“He is the most attentive young man / ever
saw, Kate,” said Mrs. Nickleby to her daughter
one evening, when this last-named gentleman had
been the subject of the worthy lady's eulogium
for some time, and Kate had sat perfectly silent.
“Attentive, mamma : " rejoined Kate.
“Bless my heart, Kate 1" cried Mrs. Nickleby
with her wonted suddenness, “what a colour
you have got | Why, you're quite flushed 1"
“Oh, mamma! what strange things you
fancy " /
“It wasn't fancy, Kate, my dear, l’m certain
of that,” returned her mother. “However, it's
gone now, at any rate, so it don't much matter
whether it was or not. What was it we were
talking about 2 Oh! Mr. Frank. I never saw
such attention in my life, never.”
“Surely you are not serious,” returned Kate,
colouring again; and this time beyond all
dispute.
“Not serious !” returned Mrs. Nickleby.
“Why shouldn't I be serious P I'm sure I never
was more serious. I will say that his politeness
and attention to me is one of the most becom-
ing, gratifying, pleasant things I have seen for a
very long time. You don't often meet with such
behaviour in young men, and it strikes one more
when one does neet with it.”
“Oh attention to you, mamma,” rejoined
Kate quickly—“oh yes 1’
“Dear me, Kate,” retorted Mrs. Nickleby,
“what an extraordinary girl you are I Was it
likely I should be talking of his attention to
anybody else? I declare I'm quite sorry to
think he should be in love with a German lady,
that I am.” -
“He said very positively that it was no such
thing, mamma,” returned Kate. “Don’t you
remember his saying so that very first night he
came here? Besides,” she added in a more
gentle tone, “why should we be sorry if it is the
case ? What is it to us, mammaa P”
“Nothing to us, Kate, perhaps," said Mrs.
Nickleby emphatically ; “but something to me,
I confess. I like English people to be thorough
English people, and not half English and half I
don't know what, I shall tell him point-blank,
324
MICHOLAS NYCZZEB Y.
t,
next time he comes, that I wish, he would marry
one of his own countrywomen; and see what he
says to that." -
“Pray don't think of such a thing, mamma,”
returned Kate hastily; “not for the world.
Consider—how very yy
“Well, my dear, how very what?” said Mrs.
Nickleby, opening her eyes in great astonish-
ment. - -
Before Kate had returned any reply, a queer
little double knock announced that Miss La
Creevy had called to see them ; and when Miss
La Creevy presented herself, Mrs. Nickleby,
though strongly disposed to be argumentative on ,
the previous question, forgot all about it in a
gush of supposes about the coach she had come
by ; supposing that the man who drove must have
been either the man in the shirt-sleeves or the
man with the black eye; that, whoever he was,
he hadn't found that parasol she left inside last
week; that no doubt they had stopped a long
while at the Half-way House, coming down ;
or that, perhaps, being full, they had cóme
straight on ; and, lastly, that they, surely, must
have passed Nicholas on the road.
“I saw nothin of him,” answered Miss La
Creevy; “but I saw that dear old soul, Mr.
Lińkinwater.”
“Taking his evening walk, and coming on to
rest here, before he turns back to the City, I'll
be bound !” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“I should think he was,” returned Miss La
Creevy; “especially as young Mr. Cheeryble
was with him.” -
“Surely that is no reason why Mr. Linkin-
water should be coming here,” said Kate.
“Why, I think it is, my dear,” said Miss La
Creevy. “For a young man, Mr. Frank is not
a very great walker; and I observe that he gene-
rally falls tired, and requires a good long rest,
when he nas come as far as this. . But where is
my friend?” said the little woman, looking
about, after having glanced slily at Kate. “He
has not been run away with again, has he?”
“Ah! where is Mr. Smike P” said Mrs.
Nickleby. “He was here this instant.”
Upon further inquiry, it turned out, to the
good lady's unbounded astonishment, that Smike
had, that moment, gone up-stairs to bed.
“Well now,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “he is the
strangest creature | Last Tuesday—was it Tues-
day 2 Yes, to be sure it was ; you recollect,
Kate, my dear, the very last time young Mr.
Cheeryble was here—last Tuesday night he
went off in just the same strange way, at the
very moment the knock came to the door. It
cannot be that he don't like company, because
he is always fond of people who are fond of
Nicholas, and I am sure young Mr. Cheeryble
is. And the strangest thing is, that he does not
go to bed; therefore it cannot be because he is
tired. I know he doesn’t go to bed, because
my room is the next one, and when I went up-
stairs last Tuesday, hours aſler him, I found that
he had not even taken his shoes off; and he
had no candle, so he must have sat moping in
the dark all the time. Now, upon my word,”
said Mrs. Nickleby, “when I come to think of
it, that's very extraordinary " -
As the hearers did not echo this sentiment,
but remained profoundly silent, either as not
knowing what to say, "or as being unwilling to
interrupt, Mrs. Nickleby pursued the thread of
her discourse after her own fashion. -
“I hope,” said that lady, “that this unac-
countable conduct may not be the beginning of
his taking to his bed and living there all his life,
like the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury, or the
Cock-Lane Ghost, or some of those extra-
ordinary creatures. One of them had some
connection with our family. I forget, without
-looking back to some old letters I have up-
stairs, whether it was my great-grandfather who
went to school with the Cock-Lane Ghost, or
the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury who went to
school with my grandmother. Miss La Creevy,
you know, of course. Which was it that didn't
mind what the clergyman said P. The Cock-Lane
Ghost or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury P”
“The Cock-Lane Ghost, I believe.”
“Then I have no doubt,” said Mrs. Nickleby,
“that it was with him my great-grandfather went
to school ; for I know the master of his school
was a Dissenter, and that would, in a great
measure, account for the Cock-Lane Ghost's be-
having in such an improper manner to the
clergyman when he grew up. Ah Train up a
Ghost—child, I mean—” *...
Any further reflections on this fruitful theme
were abruptly cut short by the arrival of Tim
Linkinwater and Mr. Frank Cheeryble ; in the
hurry of receiving whom, Mrs. Nickleby sp edily
lost sight of everything else. f
“I and so sorry Nicholas is not at home,” said
Mrs. Nickloy. “Kate, my dear, you must be
both Nicholas and yourself.”
“Miss Nickleby need be but herself,” said
Frank. “I—if I may venture to say so—oppose
all change in her.” - /
“Then, at all events, she shall press you to,
stay,” returned Mrs. Nickleby. “Mr. Linkin-
water says ten minutes, but I cannot let you go
so soon; Nicholas would be very much vexed,
I am sure. Kate, my dear—”. -
f Szº.4MGA, NOISES IN THE CHAMME Y.
325
In obedience to a great number of nods,
and winks, and frowns of extra significance,
Kate added. her entreaties that the visitors
would remain ; but it was observable that she
addressed them exclusively to Tim Linkinwater;
and there was, besides, a certain embarrassment
in her manner, which, although it was as far
from impairing its graceful character as the
tinge it communicated to her cheek was from
diminishing her beauty, was obvious at a glance
even to Mrs. Nickleby. Not, being of a very
speculative character, however, save under cir-
cumstances when her spegulations could be put
into words and uttered aloud, that discreet
matron attributed the emotion to the circum-
stance of her daughter's not happening to have
her best frock on—“ though I never, saw her
look better, certainly,” she reflected at the same
time. Having settled the question in this way,
and being most complacently satisfied that in
this, as in all other instances, her conjecture
could not fail to be the right one, Mrs. Nickleby
dismissed it from her thoughts, and inwardly
congratulated herself on being so shrewd and
knowing." - . *
Nicholas did not come home, nor did Smike
reappear; but neither circumstance, to say the
truth, had any great effect upon the little party,
who were all in the best humour possible. In-
deed, there sprung up quite a flirtation between
Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater, who said
a thousand jocose and facetious things, and be-
came, by degrees, quite gallant, not to say
tender. Little Miss La Creevy, on her part,
was in high spirits, and rallied Tim on having
remained a bachelor all his life with so much
Success, that Tim was actually induced to declare
that, if he could get anybody to have him, he
didn't know but what he might change his con-
dition even yet. Miss La Creevy earnestly re-
commended a lady she knew, who would exactly
suit Mr. Linkinwater, and had a very comfort.
able property of her own; but this latter quali-
fication had very little effect upon Tim, who
manfully protested that fortune would be no
object With him, but that true worth and cheer.
fulness of disposition were what a man should
look for in a wife, and that, if he had these, he
ºld find money enough for the moderaté wants
of both. This avowal was considered so honour-
ºle to Tim, that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor
Miss La Creevy could sufficiently extol it; and,
Stimulated by their praises, Tim launched out
ºto several other declarations also manifesting
the disinterestedness of his heart, and a great
with nº less approbation. This was done and
; NICHOLAS Nickleby, 22.
*
*
jº to the fair sex: which were received
said with a comical mixture of jest and earnest,
and, leading to a great amount of laughter, made
them very merry indeed.
Kate was commonly the life and soul of the
conversation at home; but she was more silent
than usual upon this occasion—perhaps because
Tim and Miss La Creevy engrossed so much of
it—and, keeping aloof from the talkers, sat at
the window watching the shadows as the even-
ing closed in, and enjoying the quiet beauty of
the night, which seemed to have scarcely less
attractions to Frank, who first lingered near,
and then sat down beside her. No doubt there
are a great many things to be said appropriate
to a summer evening, and no doubt they are
best said in a low voice, as being most suitable
to the peace and serenity of the hour; long
pauses, too, at times, and then an earnest
word or , so, and then another interval of
silence which, somehow, does not seem like.
silence either, and perhaps now and then a
hasty turning away of the head, or drooping of
the eyes towards the ground—all these minor
circumstances, with a disinclination to have
candles introduced, and a tendency to confuse
hours with minutes, are doubtless mere influences
of the time, as many lovely lips can clearly
testify. Neither is there the slightest reason
why Mrs. Nickleby should have expressed sur-
prise when—candles being at length brought in
—Kate's bright eyes were unable to bear the
light, which obliged her to avert her face, and
even to leave the room for some short time;
because, when one has sat in the dark so long,
candles are dazzling, and nothing can be more
strictly natural than that such results should be
produced, as all well-informed young people
know. For that matter, old people know it too,
or did know it once, but they forget these things
sometimes, and more's the pity.
The good lady's surprise, however, did not
end here. It was greatly increased when it was
discovered that Kate had not the least appetite
for supper: a discovery so alarming that there
is no knowing in what unaccountable efforts of
oratory Mrs. Nickleby's apprehensions might
have been vented, if the general attention had
not been attracted, at the moment, by a very
Strange and uncommon noise, proceeding, as
the pale and trembling servant-girl affirmed, and
as everybody's sense of hearing seemed to affirm
also, “right down” the chimney of the adjoin.
1ng room
... It being quite plain to the comprehension of
all present that, however extraordinary and im.
Probable it might appear, the noise did never.
theless proceed from the chimnev in question;
228
*
326
NICHOLAS WICKLEBY
and the noise (which was a strange compound
of various shuffling, sliding, rumbling, and
struggling sounds, all muffled by the chimney)
still continuing, Frank Cheeryble caught up a
candle, and Tim Linkinwater the tongs, and .
they would have very quickly ascertained the
cause of this disturbance if Mrs. Nickleby had
not been taken very faint, and declined being left
behind, on any account. This produced a short
remonstrance, which terminated in their all pro-
ceeding to the troubled chamber in a body, ex-
cepting only Miss La Creevy, who—as the ser-
vant-girl volunteered a confession of having
been subject to fits in her infancy—remained
with her to give the alarm and apply restoratives,
in case of extremity. -
Advancing to the door of the mysterious
apartment, they were not a little surprised to
hear a human voice, chanting with a highly-
elaborated expression of melancholy, and in
tones of suffocation which a human voice might
have produced from under five or six feather
beds of the best quality, the once popular air of
“Has she then failed in her truth, the beautiful
maid I adore ?” Nor, on bursting into the
room without demanding a parley, was their
astonishment lessened by the discovery that
these romantic sounds certainly proceeded from
the throat of some man up the chimney, of whom
nothing was visible but a pair of legs, which
were dangling above the grate; apparently feel-
ing, with extreme anxiety, for the top bar
whereon to effect a landing. • . -
A sight so unusual and unbusiness-like as
this completely paralysed Tim Linkinwater,
who, after one or two gentle pinches at the
stranger's ankles, which were productive of no
effect, stood clapping the tongs together, as if
he were sharpening them for another assault,
and did nothing else.
“This must be some drunkenfellow,” said Frank.
“No thief would announce his presence thus.”
As he said this with great indignation, he
raised the candle to obtain a better view of the
legs, and was darting forward to pull them down
.with very little ceremony, when Mrs. Nickleby,
clasping her hands, uttered a sharp sound,
something between a scream and an exclama-
tion, and demanded to know whether the
mysterious limbs were not clad in small-clothes
and grey worsted stockings, or whether her eyes
had deceived her.
“Yes,” cried Frank, looking a little closer.
“Small-clothes certainly, and—and—rough grey
Stockings, too. Do you know him, ma'am P.”
“Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby, de-,
liberately sitting herself down in a chair with
that sort of desperate resignation which seemed
to imply that now matters had come to a crisis,
and all disguise was useless, “you will have the
goodness, my love, to explain precisely how
this matter stands. I have given him no en-
couragement—none whatever—not the least in
the world. ... You know that, my dear, perfectly
well. He was very respectful—exceedingly
respectful—when he declared, as you were a wit.
mess to ; still, at the same time, if I am to be
persecuted in this way, if vegetable what's-his-
names and all kinds of garden stuff are to strew
my path out of doors, and gentlemen are to
come choking up our chimneys at home, I
really don't know—upon my word I do not
know—what is to become of me. It's a very
hard case—harder than anything I was ever ex-
posed to, before I married your poor dear papa,
though I suffered a good deal of annoyance
then—but that, of course, I expected, and made
up my mind for. When I was not nearly so old
as you, my dear, there was a young gentleman .
who sat next us at church, who used, almost
every Sunday, to cut my name in large letters
in the front of his pew while the sermon was
going on. It was gratifying, of course, naturally
so, but still it was an annoyance, because the
pew was in a very conspicuous place, and he was
several times publicly taken out by the beadle.
for doing it. But that was nothing to this.
This is a great deal worse, and a great deal
more embarrassing. I would rather, Kate, my
dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby with great solemnity,
and an effusion of tears—“I would rather, I
declare, have been a pig-faced lady than be ex-
posed to such a life as this " r
Frank Cheeryble and Tim Linkinwaterlooked,
in irrepressible astonishment, first at each other,
and then at Kate, who felt that some explana-
tion was necessary, but who, between her terror
at the apparition of the legs, her fear lest their
owner should be smothered, and her anxiety to
| give the least ridiculous solution of the mystery
that it was capable of bearing, was quite unable
to utter a single word. - --
“He gives me great pain,” continued Mrs.
Nickleby, drying her eyes—“great pain; but
don't hurt a hair of his head, I beg. On no
account hurt a hair of his head.” - ... •
It would not, under existing circumstances,
have been quite so easy to hurt a hair of the
gentleman's head as Mrs. Nickleby seemed to
imagine, inasmuch as that part of his person was
some feet up the chimney, which was by, no
means a wide one. But, as all this time he had
never left off singing about the bankruptcy of
the beautiful maid in respect of trúth, and now
l SOME SZZG HZ" ZAVCO HEACEAVCE.
- began not only to croak very feebly, but to kick
with great violence, as if respiration became a
task of difficulty, Frank Cheeryble, without .
further hesitation, pulled at the shorts and
worsteds with such heartiness as to bring him
floundering into the room with greater precipi-
tation than he had quite calculated upon.
“Oh yes, yes,” said Kate, directly the whole
figure of this singular visitor appeared in this
abrupt manner. “I know who it is. Pray
don't be rough with him. Is he hurt P I hope
not. Oh, pray see if he is hurt 1" -
“He is not, I assure you,” replied Frank,
handling the object of his surprise, after this
appeal, with sudden tenderness and respect.
“He is not hurt in the least.” -
“Don’t let him come any nearer,” said Kate,
retiring as far as she could.
“No, no, he shall not,” rejoined Frank.
“You see I have him secure here. But may I
ask you what this means, and whether you ex-
pected this old gentleman?”
“Oh no " said Kate, “ of course not; but
he—mamma does not think so, I believe—but
he is a mad gentleman who has escaped from
the next house, and must have found an oppor-
tunity of secreting himself here.”
“Kate,” interposed Mrs. Nickleby with severe
dignity, “I am surprised at you.” º
“Dear mamm -” Kate gently remon-
strated. - r
“I am surprised at you,” repeated Mrs.
Nickleby'; “upon my word, Kate, I am quite
tonished that you should join the persecutors
of this unfortunate gentleman, when you know
very well that they have the basest designs upon
his property, and that that is the whole secret of
it. It would be much kinder of you, Kate, to
ask Mr. Linkinwater or Mr. Cheeryble to inter-
fere in his behalf, and see him righted. You
ought not to allow, your feelings to influence
you ; it's not right—very far from it. What
should my feelings be, do you suppose P If
anybody ought to be indignant, who is it? I,
of course, and very properly so. Still, at the
same time, I wouldn't commit such an injustice
for the world. No,” continued Mrs. Nickleby,
drawing herself up, and looking another way
with a kind of bashful stateliness; “this gentle-
man will understand me when I tell him that I
repeat the answer I gave him the other day—
that I always will repeat it, though I do believe
him to be sincere when I find him placing him-
selfin such dreadful situations on my account—
and that I request him to have the goodness to
go away directly, or it will be impossible to keep
his behaviour a secret from my son Nicholas.
lady modestly.
J327
I am obliged to him, very much obliged to him,
but I cannot listen to his addresses for a moment.
It's quite impossible.”
While this address was in course of delivery,
the old gentleman, with his nose and cheeks
embellished with large patches of soot, sat upon
the ground with his arms folded, eyeing the
spectators in profound silence, and with a very
majestic demeanour. He did not appear to
take the smallest notice of what Mrs. Nickleby
said, but when she ceased to speak he honoured
her with a long stare, and inquired if she had
quite finished.
“I have nothing more to say,” replied that
“I really cannot say anything
more.”
“Very good,” said the old gentleman, raising
his voice, “then bring in the bottled lightning,
a clean tumbler, and a cork-screw.”
Nobody executing this order, the old gentle-
man, after a short pause, raised his voice again,
and demanded a thunder sandwich. This
article not being forthcoming either, he requested
to be served with a fricassee of boot-tops and
gold-fish sauce, and then, laughing heartily,
gratified his hearers with a very long, very loud,
and most melodious bellow.
But still Mrs. Nickleby, in reply to the signi-
ficant looks of all about her, shook her head as
though to assure them that she saw nothing
whatever in all this, unless, indeed, it were a
slight degree of eccentricity. She might have
remained impressed with these opinions down
to the latest moment of her Hfe, but for a slight
train of circumstances, which, trivial as they
were, altered the whole complexion of the case.
It happened that Miss La Creevy, finding her
patient in no very threatening condition, and
being strongly impelled by curiosity to see what
was going forward, bustled into the room while
the old gentleman was in the very act of bellow-
ing. It happened, too, that the instant the old
gentleman saw her, he stopped short, skipped
suddenly on his feet, and fell to kissing his hand
violently: a change of demeanour which almost
terrified the little portrait painter out of her
senses, and caused her to retreat behind Tim
Linkinwater with the utmost expedition. *
“Aha l' cried the old gentleman, folding
his hands, and squeezing them with great force
against each other. “I see her now ; I see her
now! My love, my life, my bride, my peerless
beauty She is come at last—at last—and all
is gas and gaiters I’”
Mrs. Nickleby looked rather disconcerted for
a moment, but, immediately recovering, nodded
to Miss La Creevy and the other spectators
328
AV/CHOLAS AWCKZEB V. - -
several times, and frowned, and smiled gravely,
giving them to understand that she saw where
the mistake was, and would set it all to rights in
3 mlnute Ol' tWO. -
“She is come !” said the old gentleman, lay-
ing his hand upon his heart. “Cormoran and
Blunderbore | She is.come ! All the wealth I
have is hers, if she will take me for her slave.
Where are grace, beauty, and blandishments
like those 2 In the Empress of Madagascar P
|#####
ſ # º
lift ;
Fº
#;
º § i. §§§
§
º § |
º º º ſ
|ºl;
tº ºw
§
;
º§&§º
§
i
-w
§ Nº.
§4%
§ § .N. º
| No. In the Queen of Diamonds? No. In
Mrs. Rowland, who every morning bathes in
Kalydor for nothing? No. Melt all these
down into one, with the three Graces, the nint:
Muses, and fourteen biscuit bakers' daughters
from Oxford Street, and make a woman half as
lovely. Pho! I defy you.” -
After uttering this rhapsody, the old gentle-
man Snapped his fingers twenty or thirty times,
and then subsided into an ecstatic contempla–
- - K.,
“AHA l’’ CRIED THE OLD GENTLEMAN, FOLDING HIS HANDS, AND SQUEFZING THEM witH GREAT FORCF.
AGAINST EACH OTHER.
PEERLESS BEAUTY |
“I see HER Now;
tion of Miss La Creevy's charms. This afford-
ing Mrs. Nickleby a favourable opportunity of
explanation, she went about it straight.
“I am sure,” said the worthy lady with a pre-
fatory cough, “that it's a great relief, under such
trying circumstances as these, to have anybody
else mistaken for me—a very great relief; and
it's a circumstance that never occurred before,
although I have several times been mistaken for
iny daughter Kate. I have no doubt the people
I SEE HER NOW!
SHE IS COME AT LAST-AT LAST-AND ALL IS GAS AND GAITERS.” -
My LovE, My LIFE, Mry BRIDE, MY
were very foolish, and perhaps ought to have
known better, but still they did take me for her,
and of course that was no fault of mine, and it
would be very hard indeed if I was to be made
responsible for it. However, in this instance,
of course, I must feel that I should do exceed-
ingly wrong if I suffered anybody—especially any-
body that I am under great obligations to—to be
made uncomfortable on my account, and there-
fore I think it my duty to tell that gentleman.

much for him,
M/C. S. A.WCKTZEB Y'S COMSOLA 77OM.
that he is mistaken—that I am the lady who,
he was told by some impertinent person was
niece to the Council of Paving-stones, and that
I do beg and entreat of him to go quietly away,
if it's only for "–here Mrs. Nickleby simpered
and hesitated—“for my sake.” -
It might have been expected that the old
gentleman would have been penetrated to the
heart by the delicacy and condescension of this
appeal, and that he would at least have returned
a courteous and suitable reply. What, then,
was the shock which Mrs. Nickleby received,
when, accosting her in the most unmistakable
manner, he replied in a loud and sonorous voice:
“Avaunt Cat l” -
“Sir "cried Mrs. Nickleby in a ſaint tone.
“Catſ" repeated the old gentleman. “Puss,
Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby, Brindle—Whoosh "
with which last sound, uttered in a hissing
manner between his teeth, the old gentleman
swung his arms violently round and round, and
at the same time alternately advanced on Mrs.
Nickleby, and retreated from her, in that species
of Savage dance with which boys on market-
days may be seen to frighten pigs, sheep, an:l
other animals, when they give out obstinate in-
dications of turning down a wrong street.
Mrs. Nickleby wasted no words, but uttered
an exclamation of horror and surprise, and
immediately fainted away.
“I’ll attend to mamma,” said Kate hastily.
“I am not at all frightened. But pray take him
away :, pray take him away !” - -
Frank was not at all confident of his power
of complying with this request, until he be-
thought himself of the stratagem of sending
Miss La Creevy on a few paces in advance, and
urgiñg the old gentleman to follow her. It
succeeded to a miracle ; and he went away in a
rapture of admiration, strongly guarded by Tim
Tinkinwater on one side, and Frank himself on
the other,
“Kate,” murmured Mrs. Nickleby, reviving
when the coast was clear, “is he gone?”
She was assured that he was.
." I shall never forgive myself, Kate,” said
Mrs. Nickleby. “Never That gentleman
has lost his senses, and I am the unhappy
Cause.” .." *
. “You the cause !”
nished. -
“I, my love,” replied Mrs. Nickleby with a
§esperate calmness.
the other day; you see what he is now. i told
your brother, weeks and weeks ago, Kate, that
I hoped a disappointment might not be too
You see what a wreck he is.
said Kate, greatly asto-
“You saw what he was
329
Making allowance for his being a little flighty,
you know how rationally, and sensibly, and
honourably he talked when we saw him in the
garden. You have heard the dreadful nonsense
he has been guilty of this night, and the manner
in which he has gone on with that poor unfor-
tunate little old maid. Can anybody doubt how
all this has been brought about P’
“I should scarcely think they could,” said
Kate mildly.
“A should scarcely think so, either," rejoined
her mother. “Well if I am the unfortunate
cause of this, I have the satisfaction of knowing
that I am not to blame. I told Nicholas—I
said to him, “Nicholas, my dear, we should be
very careful how | proceed.' He would
scarcely hear me. If the matter had only been
properly taken up at first, as I wished it to
be But you are both of you so like your
poor papa. However, I have my consolation,
and that should be enough for me !” -
Washing her hands, thus, of all responsibility
under this head, past, present, or to come, Mrs.
Nickleby kindly added that she hoped her chil-
dren might never have greater cause to reproach
themselves than she had, and prepared herself
to receive the escort, who soon returned with
the intelligence that the old gentleman was
safely housed, and that they found his custodians,
who had been making merry with some friends,
wholly ignorant of his absence.
Quiet being again restored, a delicious half.
hour—So Frank called it in the course of subse-
quent conversation with Tim Linkinwater as
they were walking home—a delicious half-hour
was spent in conversation, and Tim's watch at
length apprising him that it was high time to
depart, the ladies were leſt alone, though not
without many offers on the part of Frank to
remain until Nicholas arrived, no matter what
hour of the night it might be, iſ, after the late
neighbourly irruption, they entertained the least
fear of being left to themselves. As their free-
dom from all further apprehension, however,
left no pretext for his insisting on mounting
guard, *: obliged to abandon the citadel,
and to fetire with the trusty Tim. -
... Nearly three hours of silence passed away.
Kate blushed to find, when Nicholas returned,
how long she had been sitting alone, occupied
with her own thoughts.
“I really thought it had not been half an
hour,” she said.
“They must have been pleasant thoughts,
Kate," rejoined Nicholas gaily, “to make time
pass away like that. What were they, now Pº
Kate was confused ; she toyed with some
33o
MICHOLAS McKZEar.
trifle on the table—looked up and smiled—
looked down and dropped a tear. . .
“Why, Kate,” said Nicholas, drawing his
sister towards him and kissing her, “let me see ||
your face. No P. Ah that was but a ghimpse;
that's scarcely fair. A longer look, than that,
Kate. Come—and I'll read your thoughts for
you.” * - - -
There was something in this proposition,
albeit it was said without the slightest conscious-
ness or application, which sc alarmed his sister,
that Nicholas, laughingly changed the subject to
domestic matters, and thus gathered, by degrees,
as they left the room and went up-stairs to-
gether, how lonely Smike had been all night—
and by very slow degrees, too; for on this sub-
ject, also, Kate seemed to speak with some
reluctance. !
“Poor fellow !” said Nicholas, tapping gently
at his door, “what can be the cause of all this?”
Kate was hanging on her brother's arm. The
door being quickly opened, she had not time to
disengage herself, before Smike, very pale and
haggard, and completely dressed, confronted
them.
“And have you not been to bed P” said
Nicholas.
“N—n—no,” was the reply. .
Nicholas gently detained his sister, who made
an effort to retire; and asked, “Why not P”
“I could not sleep,” said Smike, grasping the
hand which his friend extended to him.
“You are not well?” rejoined Nicholas.
“I am better, indeed—a great deal better,”
said Smike quickly. -
“Then why do you give way to these fits of
melancholy?” inquired Nicholas in his kindest
manner; “ or why not tell us the cause P You
grow a different creature, Smike.”
“I do; I know I do,” he replied. “I will
tell you the reason one day, but not now. I
hate myself for this ; you are all so good and
kind. But I cannot help it.
full ; you do not know how full it is.”
He wrung Nicholas's hand before he released
it ; and glancing, for a moment, at the brother
and sister as they stood together, as if there
were something in their strong affection which
touched him very deeply, withdrew, into his
chamber, and was soon the only watcher under
that quiet roof.
My heart is very
CHAPTER L. .
Involves a serious catastrophe,
A HE little race-course at Hampton
was in the full tide and height of
its gaiety : the day as dazzling as
day could be ; the sun high in the
cloudless sky, and shining in its
fullest splendour. Every gaudy
sº colour that fluttered in the air, from car.
*P riage seat and garish tent top, shone out in
its gaudiest hues, Old dingy flags grew new again,
faded gilding was re-burnished, stained rotten
canvas looked a snowy white, the very beggars'
rags were freshened up, and sentiment quite
forgot its charity in its fervent admiration of
poverty so picturesque. - -
It was one of those scenes of life and ani-
mation, caught in its very brightest and freshest
moments, which can scarcely fail to please; for
if the eye be tired of show and glare, or the ear
be weary with a ceaseless round of noise, the
one may repose, turn almost where it will, on
eager, happy, and expectant faces, and the othel
'deaden all consciousness of more annoying
sounds in those of mirth and exhilaration.
Even the sunburnt faces of gipsy children, half
naked though they be, suggest a drop of com-
fort. It is a pleasant thing to, see that the sun
has been there; to know that the air and light
are on them every day; to feel that they are
children, and lead children's lives; that if their
pillows be damp, it is with the dews of Heaven,
and not with tears; that the limbs of their girls
are free, and that they are not crippled by dis-
tortions, imposing an unnatural and horrible
penance upon their sex; that their lives are
spent, from day to day, at least among the
waving trees, and 'not in the midst of dreadful
engines which make young children old before
they know what childhood is, and give them the
exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like
age, the privilege to die. God' send that old
nursery tales were true, and that gipsies stole
such children by the score
The great race of the day had just been run ;
and the close lines of people, on either side of
the course, suddenly breaking up and pouring
into it, imparted a new liveliness to the scene,
which was again all busy movement. Some
hurried eagerly to catch a glimpse of the win-
ning horse; others darted to and fro, searching,
no less eagerly, for the carriages they had left
in quest of better stations. Here, a little knot
gathered round a pea-and-thimble table to watch
the plucking of some unhappy greenhorn; and



!
MAKE Your GAME, GEWTLEMEA.
331
there, another proprietor with his confederates
-in various disguises—ofie man in spectacles;
another, with an eye-glass and a stylish hat; a
third, dressed as a farmer well to do in the
world, with his top-coat over, his arm, and his
flash notes in a large leathern pocket-book; and
all with heavy-handled whips, to represent most
innocent country fellows who had trotted there
on horseback—sought, by loud and noisy talk
and pretended play, to entrap some unwary
customer, while the gentlemen confederates (of
more villainous aspect still, in clean linen and
good clothes) betrayed their close interest in
the concern by the anxious furtive glance they
cast on all new-comers. These would be hang-
ing on the outskirts of a wide circle of people
assembled round some itinerant juggler, opposed,
in his turn, by a noisy band of music, or the
classic game of “Ring the Bull,” while ven-
triloquists holding dialogues with wooden dolls,
and fortune-telling women smothering the cries
of real babies, divided with them, and many
more, the general attcntion of the company.
Drinking-tents were full, glasses began to clink
in carriages, hampers to be unpacked, tempting
provisions to be set forth, knives and forks to
rattle, champagne corks to fly, eyes to brighten
that were not dull before, and pickpockets to
count their gains during the last heat. The
attention so recently strained on one object of
interest was now divided among a hundred ;
and, look where you would, there was a motley
assemblage of feasting, laughing, talking, beg-
ging, gambling, and mummery.
Of the gambling booths there was a plentiful
show, flourishing in all the splendour of car-
peted ground, striped hangings, crimson cloth,
pinnacled roofs, geranium pots, and livery ser-
wants. There were the Stranger's Club-house,
the Athenaeum Club-house, the Hampton Club-
house, the St. James's Club-house, and half a
mile of club-houses to play in ; and there were
"ouse-et-noir, French hazard, and other games to
play at. It is into one of these booths that our
story takes its way.
Fitted up with three tables for the purposes
of Play, and crowded with players and lookers-
9m, it was—although the largest place of the
kind upon the course—intensely hot, notwith-
standing that a portion of the canvas roof was
rolled back to admit more air, and there were
Ex-
two doors for a free passage in and out.
cepting one or two men who—each with a -long
Toll of half-crowns, chequered with a few stray
sovereigns, in his left hand—staked their money
at every roll of the ball with a business-like
sedateness which showed that they were used
so, in truth, it was.
to it, and had been playing all day, and most
probably all the day before, there was no very
distinctive character about the players, who were
chiefly young men, apparently attracted by curi-
osity, or staking small sums as part of the amuse-
ment of the day, with no very great interest in
winning or losing. There were two persons pre-
sent, however, who, as peculiarly good specimens
of a class, deserve a passing notice.
Of these, one was a man of six or eight and
fifty, who sat on a chair near one of the en-
trances of the booth, with his hands folded on
the top of his stick, and his chin appearing
above them. He was a tall, fat, long-bodied
man, buttoned up to the throat in a light green
coat, which made his body look still longer than
it was ; and wore, besides, drab breeches and
gaiters, a white neckerchief, and a broad-
brimmed white hat. Amid all the buzzing noise
of the games, and the perpetual passing in and
out of the people, he seemed perfectly calm and
abstracted, without the smallest particle of ex-
citement in his composition. He exhibited no
indication of weariness, nor, to a casual observer,
of interest either. . There he sat, quite still and
collected. Sometimes, but very rarely, he nodded
to some passing face, or beckoned to a waiter to
obey a call from one of the tables. The next
instant he subsided into his old state. He might
have been some profoundly deaf old gentleman,
who had come in to take a rest, or he might
have been patiently waiting for a friend, without
the least consciousness of anybody's presence,
or fixed in a trance, or under the influence of
opium. People turned round and looked at
him; he made no gesture, caught nobody's eye,
—let them pass away, and others come on and
be succeeded by others, and took no notice.
When he did move, it seemed wonderful how
he could have seen anything to occasion it. And
But there was not a face
that passed in or out, which this man failed to
see ; not a gesture at any one of the three tables
that was lost upon him ; not a word spoken by
the bankers but reached his ear; not a winner
or loser he could not have marked ; and he was
the proprietor of the place. w
The other presided over the rouge-et-noir table.
He was probajaly some ten years younger, and
was a plump, paunchy, sturdy-looking fellow,
with his under lip a little pursed, from a habit
of counting money inwardly as he paid it, but
with no decidedly bad expression in his face,
which was rather an honest and jolly one than
otherwise. . He wore no coat, the weather being
hot, and stood behind the table with a huge
mound of crowns and half-crowns before him,
:
332
NICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
and a cash-box for notes. This game was con-
stantly playing. Perhaps twenty people would
be staking at the same time. This man had to
roll the ball, to watch the stakes as they were
laid down, to gather them off the colour which
lost, to pay those who won, to do it all with the
utmost dispatch, to roll the ball again, and to
keep this game perpetually alive. He did it all
with a rapidity absolutely marvellous; never
hesitating, never making a mistake, never stop-
ping, and never ceasing to repeat such uncon-
nected phrases as the following, which, partly
from habit, and partly to have something appro-
priate and business-like to say, he constantly
poured out with the same monotonous em-
phasis, and in nearly the same order, all day
long — -
“Rooge-a-nore from Paris Gentlemen, make
your game and back your own opinions—any
time while the ball rolls—rooge-a-nore from
Paris, gentlemen, it's a French game, gentle-
men, I brought it over myself, I did indeed —
rooge-a nore from Paris—black wins—black—
stop a minute, sir, and I’ll pay you directly—
two there, half a pound there, three there—and
one there—gentlemen, the ball's a rolling—any
time, sir, while the ball rolls —the beauty of
this game is, that you can double your stakes
or put down your money, gentlemen, any time
while the ball rolls—black again—black wins—
I never saw such a thing--I never did, in all my
life, upon my word I never did ; if any gentle-
man had been backing the black in the last five
minutes he must have won five-and-forty pound
in four rolls of the ball, he must indeed—Gentle-
men, we've port, sherry, cigars, and most excel-
lent champagne. Here, wai-ter, bring a bottle
of champagne, and let's have a dozen or fifteen
cigars here—and let's be comfortable, gentlemen
—and bring some clean glasses—any time while
the ball rolls —I lost one hundred and thirty-
seven pound yesterday, gentlemen, at one roll
of the ball, I did indeed —how do you do, sir?”
(recognising some knowing gentleman without
any halt or change of voice, and giving a wink
so slight that it seems an accident), “will you
take a glass of sherry, sir?—here, wai-ter! bring
a clean glass, and hand the sherry to this gentle-
man--and hand it round, will you, waiter?—
this is the rooge-a-more from Paris, gentlemen—
any time while the ball rolls —gentlemen, make
your game, and back your own opinions—it's
the rooge-a-nore from Paris—quite a new game, .
1 brought it over myself, I did indeed—gentle-
men, the ball's a rolling !”. X-
This officer was busily plying his vocation
when half-a-dozen persons sauntered through.
the booth, to whom—but without stopping
either in his speech or work—he bowed respect.
fully ; at the same time directing, by a look, the
attention of a man beside hin to the tallest
figure in the group, in recognition of whom the
proprietor pulled off his hat. This was Sir
Mulberry Hawk, with whom were his friend
and pupil, and a small train of gentlemanly-
dressed men, of characters more doubtful than
obscure.
The proprietor, in a low voice bade Sir Mul-
berry good day. Sir Mulberry, in the same
tone, bade the proprietor go to the devil, and
turned to speak with his friends.
There was evidently an irritable conscious-
ness about him that he was an object of curi-
osity, on this first occasion of showing himself
in public after the accident that had befallen
him ; and it was easy to perceive that he ap-
peared on the race-course, that day, more in the
hope of meeting with a great many people who
knew him, and so getting over as much as pos-
sible of the annoyance at once, than with any
purpose of enjoying the sport. There yet re-
mained a slight scar upon his face, and when-
ever he was recognised, as he was almost every
minute by people sauntering in and out, he
made a restless effort to conceal it with his
glove; showing how keenly he felt the disgrace
he had undergone.
“Ah ! Hawk,” said one very sprucely-dressed
personage in a Newmarket coat, a choice necker-
chief, and all other accessories of the most un-
exceptionable kind. “How d'ye do, old ſel-
low P ''
This was a rival trainer of young noblemen
and gentlemen, and the person of all others
whom Sir Mulberry most hated and dreaded to
They shook hands with excessive cor-
diality. $ * . - -
“And how are you now, old fellow, hey P”
“Quite well, quite well,” said Sir Mulberry. '
“That's right,” said the other. “How d'ye
do, Verisopht P. He's-a little pulled down, our
friend here—rather out of condition still, hey P.”
It should be observed that the gentleman had
very white teeth, and that, when there was no
excuse for laughing, he generally finished with
the same monosyllable, which he uttered so as
to display them. . . . -
“He’s in very good condition; there's nothing
the matter with him,” said the young man. Care-
lessly. - e - - ... w
“Upon my soul I'm glad to hear it," rejoined
the other. “Have you just returned from Brus-
sels P” * , . : . . . . . "
“We only reached town late last might,” said
it meet.
&
70. MoRRoiv's ſwz/EMDED BUS/WESS.
- \
Lord Frederick. Sir Mulberry turned away to
speak to one of his own party, and ſeigned not
to hear. -
“Now, upon my life,” said the friend, affect-
ing to speak in a whisper, “it’s an uncommonly
bold and game thing in Hawk to show himself
so soon. I say it advisedly; there's a vast deal
of courage in it. You see he has just rusticated
long enough to excite curiosity, and not long
enough for men to have forgotten that deuced
unpleasant By-the-bye—you know the
rights of the affair, of course 2 Why did you
never give those confounded papers the lie P I
Seldom read the papers, but I looked in the
papers for that, and may I be—”
“Look in the papers,” interrupted Sir Mul-
berry, turning suddenly round, “to-morrow—no,
next day, will you?” - -
“ Upon my life, my dear fellow, I seldom or
never read the papers,” said the other, shrugging
his shoulders, “but I will, at your recommenda.
tion. What shall I look for P”
“Good day,” said Sir Mulberry, turning
abruptly on his heel, and drawing his pupil
with him. Falling, again, into the loitering,
Careless pace at which they had entered, they
lounged out arm-in-arm.
“I won't give him a case of murder to read,”
muttered Sir Mulberry with an oath ; “but it
shall be something very near it, if whip-cord
cuts and bludgeons bruise.”
His companion, said nothing, but there was
Something in his manner which galled Sir Mul-
berty to add, with nearly as much ferocity as if
his friend had been Nicholas himself: .
* I sent Jenkins to old Nickleby before eight
o'clock this morning. He's a staunch one; he
was back with me before the messenger. I had
it all from him in the first five minutes. I know
where this hound is to be met with—time and
place both. But there's no need to talk ; to-
lmorrow will soon be here.” -
“And wha-at's to be done to-morrow?" in-
quired Lord Frederick. -
Sir Mulberry Hawk honoured him with an
*gy, glance, but condescended to return no
Yerbal answer to this inquiry. Both walked sul.
lenly on, as though their thoughts were busily
9°Cupied, until they were quite clear of the
crowd, and almost alone, when Sir Mulberry
wheeled round to return. -
“Stop,” said his companion; “I want to
#Peak to you—in earnest. Don't turn back.
1-et us walk here a few minutes.”
“What have you to say to me, that you could
§9t say yonder as well as here 2 " returned his
Mentor, disengaging his arm. v.
fully.
333
“Hawk,” rejoined the other, “tell me; I
must know—— - :
“Must know !” interrupted the other disdain-
“Whew I Go on. If you must know, of
course there's no escape for rhe. Must know !"
“Müst ask, then,” returned Lord Frederick,
“ and must press you for a plain and straightfor-
ward answer—is what you have just said only a
mere whim of the moment, occasioned by your
being out of humour and irritated, or is it your
serious intention, and one that you have actually
contemplated P”
“Why, don't you remember what passed on
the subject one night, when I was laid up with a
broken limb P” said Sir Mulberry with a sneer.
“Perfectly well.”
“Then take that for an answer, in the devil's
name,” replied Sir Mulberry, “and ask me for
no other.” -
Such was the ascendancy he had acquired
over his dupe, and such the latter's general habit
of submission, that, for the moment, the young
man seemed half afraid to pursue the subject.
He soon overcame this feeling, however, if it
had restrained him at all, and retorted angrily :
“If I remember what passed at the time you
speak of," I expressed a strong opinion on this
subject, and said that, with my knowledge or con-
sent, you nevershould do what you threaten now.”
* Will you prevent me P” asked Sir Mulberry
with a laugh.
, “Ye-es, if I can,” returned the other promptly.
“A very proper sawing clause, that last,” said
Sir Mulberry; “aud one you stand in need of.
Oh look to your own business, and leave me
to look to mine.”
“This is mine,” retorted Lord Frederick. “I
make it mine ; I will make it mine. It's mine
already. I am more compromised than I should
be, as it is.”
“Do as you please, and what you please, for
yourself,” said Sir Mulberry, affecting an easy
good-humour. “Surely that must content you !
Do nothing for me; that's all. I advise no man
to interfere in proceedings that I choose to take. I
ann sure you know me better than to do so. The
fact is, I see, you mean to offer me advice. It
is well meant, I have no doubt, but I reject it.
Now, if you please, we will return to the carriage.
I find no entertainment here, but quite the
reverse. If we prolong this conversation, we
might quarrel, which would be no proof of wis-
dom in either you or me.” -
With this rejoinder, and waiting for no further
discussion, Sir Mulberry Hawk yawned, and very
leisurely turned back.
There was not a little tact and knowledge of
º, s
y
y .
s ' ',
* , ”
y
y P
s
> X w.
s
i
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5 S >
x 5' S
s
;
;
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334
AVYCHOLAS AVCREEBY. v
the young lord's disposition in this mode of
treating him. Sir Mulberry clearly saw that, if
his dominion were to last, it must be established
now. He knew that, the moment he became
violent, the young man would become vio-
lent too. He had, many times, been enabled
to strengthen his influence, when any circum-
stance had occurred to weaken it, by adopting
this cool and laconic style ; and he trusted to it
now, with very little doubt of its entire success.
—JBut while he did this, and wore the most care-
less and indifferent deportment that his practised,
arts enabled him to assume, he inwardly resolved,
not only to visit all the mortification of being
compelled to suppress his feelings with additional
severity upon Nicholas, but also to make the
young lord pay dearly for it, one day, in some
shape or other. So long as, he had been a pas-
sive instrument in his hands, Sir Mulberry had
regarded him with no other feeling than con-
tempt; but, now that he presumed to avow
opinions in opposition to his, and even to turn
upon him with a lofty tone and an air of supe-
riority, he began to hate him. Conscious that,
in the vilest and most worthless sense of the
term, he was dependent upon the weak young
lord, Sir Mulberry could the less brook humilia-
tion at his 'hands; and, when he began to dis-
like him, he measured his dislike—as men often
do—by the extent of the injuries he had inflicted
upon its object. When it is remembered that
Sir Mulberry Hawk had plundered, duped, de-
ceived, and fooled his pupil in every possible
way; it will not be wondered at that, beginning
to hate him, he began to hate him cordially.
On the other hand, the young lord having
thought—which he very seldom did about any-
thing—and seriously too, upon the affair with
Nicholas, and the circumstances which led to it,
had arrived at a manly and honest conclusion.
Sir Mulberry's coarse and insulting behaviour on
the occasion in question had produced a deep im-
pression on his mind; a strong suspicion of his
having led him on to pursue Miss Nickleby for pur-
poses of his own, had been lurking there for some
time ; he was really ashamed of his share in the
transaction, and deeply mortified by the misgiving
that he had been gulled. He had had sufficient
leisure to reflect upon these things during their
late retirement; and at times, when his careless
and indolent nature would permit, had availed
himself of the opportunity. Slight circum-
stances, too, had occurred to increase his sus-
picion. It wanted but a very slight circumstance
to kindle his wrath against Sir Mulberry. This
his disdainful and insolent tone in their recent
conversation (the only one they had held upon
©
.
.
:
:
º
:
.
‘.
;
;
the subject since the period to which Sir Muk.
berry referred) effected. . . . .
Thus they rejoined their friends: each with
causes of dislike against the other rankling in his
breast: and the young man haunted, besides,
with thoughts of the vindictive retaliation which
was threatened against Nicholas, and the deter-
mination to prevent it by some strong step, if
possible. But this was not all. Sir Mulberry,
conceiving that he had silenced him effectually,
could not suppress his triumph, or forbear from
following up what he conceived to be his advan-
tage.
Mr. Pyke was there, and Mr. Pluck was
there, and Colonel Chowser, and other gentle-
men of the same caste, and it was a great point
for Sir Mulberry to show them that he had not
lost his influence. At first the young lord con-
tented himself with a silent determination to
take measures for withdrawing himself from the
connection immediately. By degrees he grew
more angry, and was exasperated by jests and
familiarities which, a few hours before, would
have been a source of amusement to him. This
did not serve him; for, at such bantering or re-
tort as suited the company, he was no match for
Sir Mulberry. Still no violent rupture took
place. They returned to town; Messrs Pyke
and Pluck and other gentlemen frequently pro-
testing, on the way thither, that Sir Mulberry had
never been in such tiptop spirits in all his life.
They dined together sumptuously. The wine
flowed freely, as, indeed, it had done all day.
Sir Mulberry drank to recompense himself for
his recent abstinence; the young lord, to drown
his indignation ; and the remainder of the party,
because the wine was of the best, and they had
nothing to pay. It was nearly midnight when
they rushed out, wild, burning with wine, their
blood boiling, and their brains on fire, to the
gaming-table.
Here they encountered another party, mad
like themselves. The excitement of play, hot
rooms, and glaring lights was not calculated to
allay the fever of the time. In that giddy whirl
of moise and confusion the men were delirious.
Who thought of money, ruin, or the morrow, in
the savage intoxication of the moment P More
wine was called for, glass after glass was drained,
their parched and scalding mouths were cracked
with thirst. Down poured the wine like oil on
blazing fire. And still the riot went on. The
debauchery gained its height; glasses were
dashed upon the floor by hands that could not
carry them to lips; oaths were shouted out by
lips which could scarcely form the words to vent
them in ; drunken losers cursed and roared; some
mounted on the tables, waying bottles above
TO-AVIGHT'S ADA.A.S (//ºA.S. 335
their heads, and bidding defiance to the rest;
some danced, some sang, some tore the cards
and raved. Tumult and frenzy reigned supreme ;
when a noise arose that drowned all others, and
two men, seizing each other by the throat, strug-
gled into the middle of the room.
A dozen voices, until now unheard, called
aloud to part them. Those who had kept them-
selves cool to win, and who earned their living
in such scenes, threw themselves upon the com-
batants, and, forcing them asunder, dragged
them some space apart. . . . . . .
“Let me go 1" criel Sir Mulberry in a thick
hoarse voice, “He struck me ! Do you hear?
I say he struck me. Have I a friend here 2
Who is this? Westwood. Do you hear mesay
he struck me 2"
“I hear, I hear,” replied one of those who
held him. “Come away for to-night !”
“I will not, by G—1" he replied. “A dozen
men about us saw the blow.”
“To-morrow will be ample time,” said the
friend. . . - - º -
“It will not be ample time !” cried Sir Mul-
berry. “To-night—at once—here !” His pas-
sion was so great, that he could not articulate,
but stood clenching his fist, tearing his hair, and
stamping upon the ground. -
“What is this, my lord P” said one of those
who surrounded him. “Have blows passed P”
“One blow has,” was the panting reply. “I
struck him—I proclaim it to all here ! I struck
him, and he knows why. I say, with him, let
this quarrel be adjusted now. Captain Adams,”
said the young lord, looking hurriedly about him,
and addressing one of those who had interposed,
“let me speak with you, I beg.”
The person addressed stepped forward, and,
taking the young man's arm, they retired to-
gether, followed shortly afterwards by Sir Mul-
berry and his friend. -
It was a profligate naunt, of the worst repute,
and not a place in which such an affair was likely
to awaken any sympathy for either party, or to,
call forth any further remonstrance or interposi-
tion. Elsewhere, its further progress would have
been instantly prevented, and time allowed for
sober and cool reflection ; , but not there.
Disturbed in their orgies, the party broke up ;
some reeled away with looks of tipsy gravity;
others withdrew noisily discussing what had just
occurred ; the gentlemen of honour who lived
upon their winnings remarked to each other, as:
they went out, that Hawk was a good shot; and
those who had been most noisy fell fast asleep
upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.
. Meanwhile, the two seconds, as they may be !
called now, after a long conference, each with
his principal, met together in another room.
Both utterly heartless, both men upon town,
both thoroughly initiated in its worst vices, both
deeply in debt, both fallen from some higher
estate, both addicted to every depravity for
which society can find some genteel name, and
plead its most depraving conventionalities as an
excuse, they were naturally gentlemen of most
unblemished honour themselves, and of great
nicety concerning the honour of other people.
These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful
just now ; for the affair was pretty certain to
make some noise, and could scarcely ſail to en-
hance their reputations.
“This is an awkward affair, Adams,” said Mr.
Westwood, drawing himself up.
“Very,” returned the captain; “a blow has
been struck, and there is but one course, of
course.” •.
“No apology, I suppose P” said Mr. West-
wood. -
“Not a syllable, sir, from my man, if we talk
till doomsday,” returned the captain. “The
original cause of dispute, I understand, was
some girl or other, to whom your, principal
applied certain terms, which Lord Frederick,
defending the girl, repelled. But this led to a
long recrimination upon a great many sore sub-
jects, charges, and counter-charges. Sir Mul-
berry was sarcastic; Lord Frederick was excited,
and struck him in the heat of provocation, and
under circumstances of great aggravation. That
blow, unless there is a full retraction on the part
of Sir Mulberry, Lord Frederick is ready to
justify.” . - * -
“There is no more to be said,” returned the
other, “but to settle the houn and the place of
meeting. It's a responsibility; but there is a
strong feeling to have it over. Do you object
to say at sunrise P”
“Sharp work,” replied the captain, referring
to his watch. “However, as this seems to have
been a long time breeding, and megotiation is
only a waste of words—no.”
“Something may possibly be said out of
doors, after what passed in the other room,
which renders it desirable that we should be
off without delay, and quite clear of town,” said
Mr. Westwood. “What do you say to one of
the meadows opposite Twickenham, by the river-
side P” - -
The captain saw no objection.
“Shall we join company in the avenue of
trees which leads from Petersham to Harry
House, and settle the exact spot when wº
arrive there 2 ” said Mr. Westwood -
as
336
AVICHOLAS AW/CKZEB Y.
To this the captain also assented. After a
few other preliminaries, equally brief—and having
settled the road each party should take to avoid
suspicion—they separated.
“We shall just have comfortable time, my
lord,” said the captain when he had communi-
cated the arrangements, “to call at my rooms
for a case of pistols, and then jog coolly down.
If you will allow me to dismiss your servant,
we'll take my cab; for yours, perhaps, might be
recognised.”
What a contrast, when they reached the street,
to the scene they had just left It was already
daybreak. For the flaring yellow light within
was substituted the clear, bright, glorious morn-
ing; for a hot, close atmosphere, tainted with
the smell of expiring lamps, and reeking with
the steams of riot and dissipation, the free, fresh,
wholesome air. But, to the fevered head on
which that cool air blew, it seemed to come
laden with remorse for time misspent and count-
less opportunities neglected. With throbbing
veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy,
thoughts hurried and disordered, he felt á;
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“Two MEN, SEIzING EACH OTHER BY THE THROAT
ſhough the light were a reproach, and shrunk
involuntarily from the day as if he were some
ſoul and hideous thing.
“Shivering?” said the captain. “You are cold"
“Rather.”
“It does strike cool coming out of those hot
rooms. Wrap that cloak about you. So, so ;
now we're off.”
They rattled through the quiet streets, made
their call at the captain's lodgings, cleared the
town, and emerged upon the open road without
hindrance or molestation.
Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything
Ş
come to this,
Nº
& ºt ŽS$ º
, STRUGGLED INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM.”
looked very beautiful; the young man scarcely
seemed to have noticed them before, though he
had passed the same objects a thousand times.
There was a peace and serenity upon them all,
strangely at variance with the bewilderment and
confusion of his own half-sobered thoughts, and
yet impressive and welcome. He had no fear
upon his mind; but, as he looked about him, he
had less anger; and, though all old delusions
relative to his worthless late companion Were
now cleared away, he rather wished he had
never known him than thought of its having

EAAEA, Y MORAVYMG.
337
The past night, the day before, and many
other days and nights beside, all mingled them-
selves up in one unintelligible and senseless
whirl; he could not separate the transactions of
one time from those of another. Now, the noise
of the wheels resolved itself into some wild tune
in which he could recognise scraps of airs he
knew ; now, there was nothing in his ears but a
stunning and bewildering sound, like rushing
water. But his companion rallied him on being
so silent, and they talked and laughed boister-
ously. When they stopped he was a littlé sur-
prised to find himself in the act of smoking;
but, on reflection, he remembered when and
where he had taken the cigar. . . . .
They stapped at the avenue gate and alighted,
leaving the carriage to the care of the servant,
who was a smart fellow, and nearly as well accus-
tomed to such proceedings as his master. Sir
Mulberry and his friend were already there. All
four walked in profound silence up the aisle of
stately elm-trees, which, meeting far above their
heads, formed a long green perspective of Gothic
arches, terminating, like some old ruin, in the
open sky. - -
After a pause, and a brief conference between
the seconds, they at length turned to the right,
and, taking a track across a little meadow, passed
Ham House, and came into some fields beyond.
In one of these they stopped. The ground was
measured, some usual forms gone through, the
two principals were placed front to front at the
distance agreed upon, and Sir Mulberry turned
his face towards his young adversary for the first.
time. He was very pale—his eyes were blood-
shot, his dress disordered, and his hair dishe-
velled,—all, most probably, the consequences
of the previous day and night. For the face, it
expressed nothing but violent and evil passions.
He shaded his eyes with his hand; gazed at his
opponent steadfastly for a few moments; , and
then, taking the weapon which was tendered to
him, bent his eyes upon that, and looked up no
more until the word was given, when he instantly
fired. t
The two shots were fired, as nearly as possible, -
at the same instant. In that instant the young
lord turned his head sharply round, fixed upon
his adversary a ghastly stare, and, without a
groan or stagger, fell down dead. -
“He’s gone !” cried Westwood, who, with the
other second, had run up to the body, and fallen
on one knee beside it,
“His blood on his own head,” said Sir Mul-
berry. “He brought this upon himself, and
forced it upon me.”
… “Captain Adams,” cried Westwood hastily,
“I call you to witness that this was fairly done.
Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. We must
leave this place immediately, push for Brighton,
and cross to France with all speed. This has
been a bad business, and may be worse, if we
delay a moment. Adams, consult your own
safety, and don't remain here; the living before
the dead. Good-bye l’’
With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by
the arm, and hurried him away. Captain Adams
—only pausing to convince himself, beyond all
question, of the fatal result—sped off in the
same direction, to concert measures with his
servant for removing the body, and securing his
own safety likewise. -
So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the
hand which he had loaded with gifts, and clasped
a thousand times; by the act of him, but for
whom, and others like him, he might have lived
a happy man, and died with children's faces
round his bed.
The sun came proudly up in all his majesty,
the noble river ran its winding course, the leaves.
quivered and rustled in the air, the birds poured
their cheerful songs from every tree, the short-
lived butterfly fluttered its little wings; all the
light and life of day came on ; and annidst it all,
and pressing down the grass whose every blade
bore twenty tiny lives, lay the dead man, with
his stark and rigid face turned upwards to the
sky.
-Q-
CHAPTER LI.
THE PROJECT OF MR. RALPH NICKLEBY AND HIS
FRIEND, APPROACHING A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE, BE-
COMES UN EXPECTEDLY KNOWN TO ANOTHER PARTY
NOT ADMITTED INTO THEIR CONFIDENCE,
3 N an old house, dismal, dark, and
dusty, which seemed to have withered,
like himself, and to have grown yellow
and shrivelled in hoarding him from
the light of day, as he had in hoard-
ing his money, lived Arthur Gride.
Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare
and bony make, and hard and cold as
misers' hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against
the gloomy walls; attenuated presses, grown lank
and lantern-jawed in guarding the treasures they
enclosed, and tottering as though from constant
fear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark
corners, whence they cast no shadows on the
ground, and seemed to hide and cower from
observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs,
with long lean hands and famished face, ticked
• ?
a" : * • *s e e º
". .* 3.: ;- Q §§
• * :

338
MICHOLAS WICKLEB Y.
in cautious whispers; and when it struck the
time, in thin, and piping sounds, like an old
man's voice, rattled as if it were pinched with
hunger.
No fireside couch was there to invite repose
and comfort. Elbow-chairs there were, but they
looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms
suspiciously, and timidly, and kept upon their
guard. Others were fantastically grim and gaunt,
as having drawn themselves up to their utmost
height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare
all comers out of countenance. Others, again,
knocked up against their neighbours, or leant
for support against the wall—somewhat ostenta-
tiously, as if to call all men to witness that they
were not worth the taking. The dark square
lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless
dreams; the musty hangings seemed to creep in
scanty folds together, whispering among them-
selves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling
knowledge of the tempting wares that lurked
within the dark and tight-locked closets.
From out the most spare and hungry room in
all this spare and hungry house there came, one
morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride's voice,
as it feebly chirruped forth the fag-end of some
forgotten song, of which the burden ran : ;
“Ta—ran—tan—too,
Throw the old shoe, -
And may the wedding be lucky I"
which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering
notes, again and again, until a violent fit of
coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue,
in silence, the occupation upon which he was
engaged. -
This occupation was, to take down from the
shelves of a worm-eaten wardrobe a quantity of
frouzy garments one by one; to subject each to
a careful and minute inspection by holding it up
against the light, and, after folding it with great
exactness, to lay it on one or other of two little
heaps beside him. He never took two articles
of clothing out together, but always brought
them forth singly: and never failed to shut the
wardrobe door, and turn the key, between each
visit to its shelves. . Y *
“The snufl-coloured suit,” said Arthur Gride,
surveying a threadbare coat. “Did I look well
in smuff colour P Let me think.”
The result of his cogitations appeared to be
unfavourable, for he folded the garment once
more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to:
get down another : chirping while he did so:
“Young, loving, and fair,
Oh, what happiness there !
The wedding is sure to be lueky 1”
“They always put in ‘young,'" said old
Arthur, “but songs are only written for the sake
of rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor
country-people sang when I was a little boy,
Though stop—young is quite right too—it means
the bride—yes. He, he, he It means the
bride. Oh dear, that's good | That's very good.
And true besides—quite true !”.
In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went
over the verse again with increased expression,
and a shake or two here and there. He then
resumed his employment. - -
“The bottle-green,” said old Arthur; “the
bottle-green was a famous suit to wear, and I
bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker's, and
there was—he, he, he ſ—a tarnished shilling in
the waistcoat pocket. To think that the pawn-
broker shouldn't have known there was a shilling
in it ! I knew it ! I felt it when I was examin-
ing the quality. Oh, what a dull dog It was
a lucky suit, too, this bottle-green. The very
day I put it on first, old Lord Mallowford was
burnt to deathin his bed, and all the post-obits fell
in. I'll be married in the bottle-green. Peg—
‘Peg Sliderskew—I'll wear the bottle-green 1"
This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at
the room-door, brought into the apartment a
short, thin, weazen, blear-eyed old woman,
palsy-stricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping
her shrivelled face upon her dirty apron, in-
quired, in that subdued tone in which deaf
people commonly speak:-
“Was that you a calling, or only the clock a
striking? My hearing gets so bad, I never
know which is which ; but, when I hear a noise,
I know it must be one of you, because nothing
else never stirs in the house." • * * -
“Me, Peg—me," said Arthur Gride, tapping
himself on the breast to render the reply more
intelligible. : ... - -
“You, eh?” returned Peg.
you want?” ... .”
“I’ll be married in the bottle-green,” cried
Arthur Gride. .
“It's a deal too good to be married in, master,”
rejoined Peg after a short inspection of the suit
“And what do
“Haven't you got anything worse than this P”
“Nothing that'll do,” replied old Arthur.
“Why not do?” retorted Peg. “Why don't
you wear your every-day clothes, like a man-
elh P” . - -
“They an’t becoming enough, Peg,” returned
her master. -
“Not what enough P” said Peg.
“ becoming.” - - - -
Bec ming what?” said Peg sharply. “Not
Leconiii.g. too old to wear?” - • "
MRS. SLIDERSKEW'S MERIZ.S.
339
Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his
housekeeper's deafness, as he roared in her
ear : ,
“Not smart enough I want to look as well
as I can." i
“Look 1" cried Peg. “If she's as handsome
as you say she is, she won't look much at you,
master, take your oath of that ; and as to how
you look yourself—pepper-and-salt, bottle-green,
sky-blue, or tartan-plaid will make no difference
in you.” . . . .
With which consolatory assurance, Peg Slider-
skew gathered up the chosen suit, and, folding
her skinny arms upon the bundle, stood mouth-
ing, and grinning, and blinking her watery eyes,
like an uncouth figure in some monstrous piece
of carving.
“You're in a funny humour, an’t you, Peg P”
said Arthur with not the best possible grace.
“Why, isn't it enough to make me?” rejoined
the old woman. “I shall soon enough be putout,
, though, if anybody tries to domineer it over me:
and so I give you notice, master. Nobody shall
be put over Peg Sliderskew's head, after so many
years; you know that, and so ſneedn't tell you !
That won't do for me—no, no, nor. for you. .
Try that once, and come to ruin—ruin—ruin t”
“Oh dear, dear, I shall never try it,” said
Arthur Gride, appalled by the mention of the
word, “not for the world ! It would be very
easy to ruin me; we must be very careful; more
saving than ever, with another mouth to feed.
Only we—we mustn't let her lose her good looks,
Peg, because I like to see 'em.”
“Take care you don't find good looks come
expensive,” returned Peg, shaking her forefinger.
“But she can earn money herself, Peg,” said
Arthur Gride, eagerly watching what effect his
communication produced upon the old woman's
countenance: “she can draw, paint, work all
manner of pretty things for ornamenting stools
and chairs: slippers, Peg, watch-guards, hair
chains, and a thousand little dainty trifles that
I couldn't give you half the names of. Then she
can play the piano (and what's more, she's got
one), and sing like a little bird. She'll be very
cheap to dress and keep, Peg; don't you think
she will P” . ./
“If you don't let her make a fool of you, she
may,” returned Peg. ..
“A fool of me /" exclaimed Arthur. “Trust
your old master not to be fooled by pretty faces,
Peg; no, no, no—nor % ugly ones neither,
Mrs. Sliderskew,” he softly added by way of
soliloquy. -
“You’re a saying something you don't want
me to hear,” said Peg; “I know you are.”
“Oh dear! the devil's in this woman,” mut-
"tered Arthur; adding, with an ugly leer, “I said
I trusted everything to you, Peg. That was all.”
“You do that, master, and all your cares are
over,” said Peg approvingly.
“. When I do that, Peg Sliderskew,” thought
Arthur Gride, “they will be.”
Although he thought this very distinctly, he
durst not move his lips lest the old woman
should detect him. He even seemed half afraid
that she might have read his thoughts; for he
leered coaxingly upon her as he said aloud :
“Take up all loose stitches in the bottle-green
with the best black silk. Have a skein of the
best, and some new buttons for the coat, and—
this is a good idea, Peg, and one you'll like, I
know—as I have never given her anything yet,
and girls like such attentions, you shall polish up
a sparkling necklace that I have got up-stairs,
and I’ll give it her upon the wedding morning—
clasp it round her charming little neck myself—-
and take it away again next day. He, he, he
Lock it up for her, Peg, and lose it. Who'll be
made the fool of there, I wonder, to begin with
—eh, Peg P”
Mrs. Sliderskew appeared to approve highly
of this ingenious scheme, and expressed her
satisfaction by various rackings and twitchings
of her head and body, which by no means en-
hanced her charms. These she prolonged until
she had hobbled to the door, when she ex-
changed them for a sour malignant look, and,
twisting her under jaw from side to side, mut-
tered hearty curses upon the future Mrs. Gride
as she crept slowly down the stairs, and paused
for breath at nearly every one.
“She's half a witch, I think,” said Arthur Gride
when he found himself again alone. “But she's
very frugal, and she's very deaf. Her living costs
me next to nothing ; and it's no use her listening
at keyholes; for she can't hear. She's a charm-
ing woman—for the purpose ; a most discreet
old housekeeper, and worth her weight in—
copper.”
Having extolled the merits of his domestic in
these high terms, old Arthur went back to the
burden of his song. The suit destined to grace
his approaching nuptials being now selected, he
replaced the others with no less care than he
had displayed in drawing them from the musty
nooks where they had silently reposed for many
years.
Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily con-
cluded this operation, and locked the press; but
there was no need for any particular hurry, as
the discreet Peg seldom knew the bell was rung
unless she happened to cast her dim eyes;up.
* >
3. Q © e
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*
34o
MICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
... Z
wards, and to see it shaking against the kitchen
ceiling. After a short delay, however, Peg
tottered in, followed by Newman N Oggs.
“Ah! Mr. Noggs 1" cried Arthur Gride, rub-
bing his hands. “My good friend, Mr. N OggS,
what news do you bring for me?” •
* Newman, with a steadfast and immovable
aspect, and his fixed eye very fixed indeed, re-
plied, suiting the action to the word, “A letter.
From Mr. Nickleby. Bearer waits.”
“Won't you take a—a
Newman looked up and smacked his lips.
“—A chair?” said Arthur Gride.
“No,” replied Newman. “Thankee.”
Arthur opened the letter with trembling
hands, and devoured its contents with the ut.
most greediness; chuckling rapturously over it,
and reading it several times, before he could
take it from before his eyes. So many times
did he peruse and re-peruse it, that Newman
considered it expedient to remind him of his
presence.
“Answer,” said Newman. “Bearer waits.”
“True,” replied old Arthur. “Yes—yes; I
almost forgot, I do declare.”
II] ...}. -
“Quite right to remind me, Mr. Noggs. Oh,
very right indeed 1" said Arthur. “Yes. I'll
wrºte a line. I'm—I'm—rather flurried, Mr.
Noggs. The news is—”
“Bad” interrupted Newman, •,
“No, Mr. Noggs, thank you ; good, good.
The very best of news. Sit down. I'll get the
pen and ink, and write a line in answer. I’ll
not detain you long. I know you're a treasure
to your master, Mr. Noggs. He speaks of you
in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you'd
be astonished. I may say, that I do too, and
always did. I always say the same of you.”
“That's ‘Curse Mr. Noggs with all my heart 1"
then, if you do,” thought Newman as Gride
hurried out. r - -
The letter had fallen on the ground. Look-
ing carefully about him for an instant, Newman,
*
in pelled by curiosity to know the result of the
design he had overheard from his office closet,
caught it up and rapidly read as follows:
“GRIDE,
“I saw Bray again this morning, and pro-
posed the day after to-morrow (as you suggested)
for the marriage. *
part, and all days are alike to his daughter.
We will go together, and you must be with me
by seven in the morning.
I need not tell you
to be punctual. -
;
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:
alarmed. - ..
There is no objection on his
accepted the offer immediately.
“Make no further visits to the girl in the
meantime. You have been there, of late, much
oftener than you should. She does not languish
for you, and it might have been dangerous.
Restrain your youthful ardour for eight-and-forty
hours, and leave her to the father. You only
undo what he does, and does well. •
“Yours,
“RALPH NICKLEBy.”
A footstep was heard without. Newman
dropped the letter on the same spot again,
pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering
away, regained his seat in a single stride, and
looked as vacant and unconscious as ever mortal
looked. Arthur Gride, after peering nervously
about him, spied it on the ground, picked it up,
and sitting down to write, glanced at Newman.
Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an in-
tensity so remarkable, that Arthur was quite.
“Do you see anything particular, Mr. Noggs?”
said Arthur, trying to follow the direction of
Newman's eyes—which was an impossibility,
and a thing no man had ever done. -
“I thought you were forgetting,” said New- || -
“Only a cobweb,” replied Newman,
“Oh is that all?” –
“No,” said Newman. “There's a fly in it.”
“There are a good many cobwebs here,” ob.
served Arthur Gride.
“So there are in our place,” returned New-
man ; “and flies too.” -
Newman appeared to derive great entertain-
ment from this repartee, and, to the great dis-
composure of Arthur Gride's nerves, produced a
series of sharp cracks from his finger joints, re-
sembling the noise of a distant discharge of
small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing
his reply to Ralph's note, nevertheless, and at
length handed it over to the eccentric messenger.
for delivery. . . . . ." .
“That's it, Mr. Noggs,” said Gride. . . .
Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and
was shuffling away, when Gride, whose doting
delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back
again, and said, in a shrill whisper, and with a
grin which puckered up his whole face, and
almost obscured his eyes: '.
“Will you—will you take a little drop of some-
thing—just a taste?” - -
In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been
capable of it) Newman would not have drunk
with him one bubble' of the richest wine that
was ever made ; but to see what he would be
at, and to punish him as much as he could, he
Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself.
r
A zo.4sz Iw Gozz)EA WATER.
34I.
to the press, and from a shelf laden with tall
Flemish drinking-glasses and quaint bottles:
some with necks like so many storks, and others
with square Dutch-built bodies and short fat
apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle
of promising appearance, and two glasses of
Curiously small size. -
“You never tasted this,” said Arthur, “It's
cate d'or—golden water. I like it on account of
its name. It's a delicious name. Water of gold,
golden water'ſ Oh dear me, it seems quite a sin
to drink it !”
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him.
and he trifled with the stopper in a manner which
threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its old
place, Newman took up one of the little glasses,
and clinked it twice or thrice against the bottle,
as a gentle reminder that he had not been
helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride
slowly filled it—though not to the brim—and
then filled his own. * -
“Stop, stop; don't drink it yet,” he said, laying
his hand on Newman's; “it was given to me
twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste,
JSN
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º
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--> Frºzz-Z
--~432:
º
“I’IL BE MARRIED IN THE Bottle-GREEN,” CRIED ARTHUR GRIDE.
which is ve—ry seldom, I like to think of it
beforehand, and tease myself. We'll drink a
toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr. Noggs P”
“Ah!” said Newman, eyeing his little glass
impatiently. “Look sharp. Bearer waits.”
“Why, then, I'll tell you what,” tittered Arthur,
“we’ll drink—he, he, he –we'll drink a lady.”
“ Zhe ladies?” said Newman.
“No, no, Mr. Noggs,” replied Gride, arresting
his hand, “a lady. You wonder to hear me say
NICHOLAs NICKLEBY, 23. -
º
a lady—I know you do, I know you do. Here's
little Madeline—that's the toast. Mr. Noggs—
little Madeline !” t
“Madeline !” said Newman; inwardly adding,
“and God help her t”
The rapidity and unconcern with which New-
man dismissed his portion of the golden water
had a great effect upon the old man, who sat
upright in his chair, and gazed at him, open-
mouthed, as if the sight had taken away his
229



342
McHozas wickzzar.
breath. Quite unmoved, however, Newman leſt
him to sip his own at leisure, or to pour it back
again into the bottle if he chose, and departed;
after greatly outraging the dignity of Peg Slider-
skew by brushing past her, in the passage, with-
out a word of apology or recognition.
Mr. Gride and his housekeeper, immediately
on being left alone, resolved themselves into a
committee of ways and means, and discussed the
arrangements which should be made for the
reception of the young, bride. As they were,
like some other committees, extremely dull and
prolix in debate, this history may pursue the
footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby combining
advantage with necessity; for it would have
been necessary to do sounder any circumstances,
and necessity has no law, as all the world
knows. l
“You’ve been a long time,” said Ralph when
Newman returned.
“Be was a long time,” replied Newman.
“Bah!” cried Ralph impatiently. “Give me
his note, if he gave you one: his message, if
he didn't. And don't go away. I want a word
with you, sir.”
Newman handed in the note, and looked very
virtuous and innocent while his employer broke
the seal, and glanced his eye over it.
“He'll be sure to come !” muttered Ralph as
he tore it to pieces. “Why, of course I know
he'll be sure to come. What need to say that?
Noggs | Pray, sir, what man was that with whom
I saw you in the street last night?”
“I don't know,” replied Newman. •
“You had better refresh your memory, sir,”
said Ralph with a threatening look.
“I tell you,” returned Newman boldly, “that
I don't know. He came here twice, and asked
for you. You were out. He came again. You
packed him off yourself. He gave the name of
Brooker.” -
“I know he did,” said Ralph. “What then?”
“What then P Why, then he lurked about
and dodged me in the street. He follows me
night after night, and urges me to bring him face
to face with you; as he says he has been once,
and not long ago either. He wants to see you
face to face, he says, and you'll soon hear him
out, he warrants.” -
“And what say you to that?” inquired Ralph,
looking keenly at his drudge. -
“That it's no business of mine, and I won't.
I told him he might catch you in the street, if
that was all he wanted; but no that wouldn't do.
You wouldn't hear a word there, he said. He
must have you alone in a room with the door
locked, where he could speak without fear, and
he comes out.
you'd soon change your tone, and hear him
patiently.”
“An audacious dog " Ralph muttered.
“That's all I know,” said Newman. “I say
again, I don't know what man he is. I don't
believe he knows himself. You have seen him ;
perhaps you do.” -
“I think I do,” replied Ralph.
“Well,” retorted Newman sulkily, “don’t
expect me to know him too ; that's all. You'll
ask me, next, why I never told you this before.
What would you say if I was to tell you all that
people say of you? What do you call-me when
Isometimes do P ‘Brute, ass 1' and snap at me
like a dragon.” - * . . . . . . . . . .
This was true enough ; though the question
which Newman anticipated was, in fact, upon
Ralph's lips at the moment. ". . . . . . . .
“He is an idle ruffián,” said Ralph ; “a vaga-
bond from beyond the sea, where he travelled for
his crimes; a felon let loose to run his neck into
the halter; a swindler who has the audacity to try
his schemes on me, who know him well. The next
time he tampers with you, hand him over to the
police for attempting to extort money by lies and
threats—d'ye hear?—and leave the rest to me.
He shall cool his heels in gaol a little time, and I'll
be bound he looks for other ſolks to fleece when
You mind what I say, do you ?”
“I hear,” said Newman. . . . . .
“Do it, then,” returned Ralph, “and I'll re-
ward you. Now, you may go.” .
Newman readily availed himself of the per-
mission, and shutting himself up in his little
office, remained there, in very serious cogitation,
all day. When he was released at night, he
proceeded, with all the expedition he could use,
to the City, and took up his old position behind
the pump, to watch for Nicholas ; for Newman
Noggs was proud in his way, and could not
bear to appear as his friend, before the brothers
Cheeryble, in the shabby and degraded state to
which he was reduced. -
He had not occupied this position many
minutes, when he was rejoiced to see Nicholas
approaching, and darted out from his ambuscade
to meet him. Nicholas, on his part, was no less
pleased to encounter his friend, whom he had
not seen for some time ; so their greeting was a
Warm Ol)e. * ,
“I was thinking of you at that moment,” said
Nicholas. - –
“That's right,” rejoined Newman, “and I of
you. I couldn't help coming up to-night. Is
say, I think I am going to find out something.”
“And what may that be P” returned Nicholas,
smiling at this odd communication.
MR. AVOGGS MYG HT BE MORAE EXPL/C/7.
“I don't know what it may be, I don't know
what it may not be,” said Newman ; “it’s some
secret in which your uncle is concerned, but
what I’ve not yet been able to discover, although
I have my strong suspicions. I’ll not hint 'em
now, in case you should be disappointed.”
- “Am I
“I disappointed 1" cried Nicholas.
interested P' - - -
“I think you are,” replied Newman. “I have
a crotchet in my head that it must be so. I
have found out a man who plainly knows more
than he cares to tell at once. And he has
already dropped such hints to me as puzzle me
—I say, as puzzle me,” said Newman, scratching
his red nose into a state of violent inflammation,
and staring at Nicholas with all his might and
main meanwhile. " - -
Admiring what could have wound his friend
up to such a pitch of mystery, Nicholas endea-
voured, by a series of questions, to elucidate the
cause ; but in vain. Newman could not be
drawn into any more explicit statement than a
repetition of the perplexities he had already
thrown out, and a confused oration, showing,
How it was necessary to use the utmost caution;
how the lynx-eyed Ralph had already seen hum
in company with his unknown correspondent;
and how he had baffled the said Ralph by
extreme guardedness of manner and Ingenuity of
speech: having prepared himself for such a con-
tingency from the first. - -
'Remembering his companion's propensity,+
of which his nose, indeed, perpetually warned
all beholders like a beacon, Nicholas had ||
Here.
they fell to reviewing the origin and progress of .
drawn him into a sequestered tavern.
their acquaintance, as men sometimes do, and,
tracing out the little events by which it was
most strongly marked, came at last to Miss
Cecilia Bobster. . . . . . ;
“And that reminds me,” said Newman, “ that
you never told me the young lady's real name.”
“Madeline !” said Nicholas. - --
“Madeline !” cried Newman. “What Made-
line? Her other name—say her other name.”
s” “Bray,” said Nicholas in great astonishment.
“It's the same !" cried Newman. “Sad
story ! Can you stand idly by, and let that un-
natural marriage take place without one attempt
to save her?” - -
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Nicholas,
starting up. “Marriage Are you mad?”
“Are you?, Is she P Are you blind, deaf,
senseless, dead?" said Newman. “Do you know
that within one day, by means of your uncle
Ralph, she will be married to a man as bad as
he, and worse, if worse there is P Do you know
343
that, within one day, she will be sacrificed, as
sure as you stand there alive, to a hoary wretch
—a devil born and bred, and grey in devils'
ways P”
“Be careful what you say,” replied Nicholas.
“For Heaven's sake be careful! I am left here
alone, and those who could stretch out a hand
to rescue her are far away. What is it that you
mean P” -
“I never heard her name,” said Newman,
choking with his energy. “Why didn't you tell
me? How was I to know? We might, at least,
have had some time to think 1"
“What is it that you mean?" cried Nicholas.
It was not an easy task to arrive at this infor-
mation; but, after a great quantity of extraordi-
nary pantomime, which in no way assisted it,
Nicholas, who was almost as wild as Newman
Noggs himself, forced the latter down upon
his seat, and held him down until he began his tale.
Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm
of passions rushed through the listener's heart as
the plot was laid bare. He no sooner under-
stood it all than, with a face of ashy paleness, and
trembling in every limb, he darted from the
house.
“Stop him 1" cried Newman, bolting out in
pursuit. “He'll be doing something desperate
—he'll murder somebody—hallo l there, stop
him Stop thief stop thief "
CHAPTER LII.
NICHOLAS DESPAIRs of REscuing MADELINE BRAY,
BUT PLUCKS UP HIS SPIRITS AGAIN, AN 1) DETER-
Mil NES TO ATTFM PT IT. DOMESTIC 1 NTELLl GENCE
mňned to arrest his progress at any
hazard, and apprehensive that some
well-intentioned passenger, attracted
by the cry of “Stop thief!” might
° lay violent hands upon his person,
and place him in a disagreeable predica-
ment from which he might have some
difficulty in extricating himself, Nicholas soon
slackened his pace, and suffered Newman Noggs
to come up with him: which he did in so
breathless a condition, that it seemed impossible
he could have held out for a minute longer. .
“I will go straight to Bray's,” said Nicholas.
“I will see this man. If there is a feeling of
humanity lingering in his breast, a spark of
consideration for his own child, motherless and
friendless as she is, I will awaken it.”

344
MICHOLAS WICKLEBY.
“You will not,” replied Newman. “You will
not, indeed.” -
“Then,” said Nicholas, pressing onward, “I
will act upon my first impulse, and go straight to
Ralph Nickleby.” * - “
* By the time you reach his house he will be
in bed,” said Newman.
“I’ll drag him from it,” cried Nicholas. i
“Tut, tut !” said Noggs. “Be yourself.”
“You are the best of friends to me, Newman,”
rejoined Nicholas after a pause, and taking his
hand as he spoke. “I have made head against
many trials; but the misery of another, and
such misery, is involved in this one, that I
declare to you I am rendered desperate, and
know not how to act.”
In truth, it did seem a hopeless case. It was
impossible to make any use of such intelligence
as Newman Noggs had gleaned when he lay
concealed in the closet. The mere circumstance
of the compact between Ralph Nickleby and
Gride would not invalidate the marriage, or
render Bray averse to it, who, if he did not
actually know of the existence of some such
understanding, doubtless suspected it. What
had been hinted, with reference to some fraud
on Madeline, had been put with sufficient
obscurity by Arthur Gride, but coming from
Newman Noggs, and obscured still further by
the smoke of his pocket pistol, it became wholly
unintelligible, and involved in utter darkness.
“There seems no ray of hope,” said Nicholas.
, “The greater necessity for coolness, for
reason, for consideration, for thought,” said
Newman, pausing at every alternate word to
look anxiously in his friend's face. “Where
are the brothers P” -
“Both absent on urgent business, as they will
be for a week to come.”
“Is there no way of communicating with
them P no way of getting one of them here by
to-morrow night?” . . . . . .
*
“Impossible !” said Nicholas, “the sea is
between us and them. Wi
th the fairest winds
that ever blew, to go and return would take
three days and nights.” . . .
- i. Their nephew,” said Newman, “their old
Clerk.". . . . . . -
“What could either do that I cannot?”
rejoined Nicholas. “With reference to them,
especially, I am enjoined to the strictest silence
on this subject. What right have I to betray
the confiderse reposed in me, when nothing but
a miracle can prevent this sacrifice Pº -
“Think,” urged Newman. “Is there no
way?”
“There is none,” said Nicholas in utter
dejection. “Not one. The father urges—the
daughter consents. These demons have her in
their toils; legal right, might, power, money,
and every.influence are on their side. How can
I hope to save her P” - -
“Hope to the last !” said Newman, clapping
him on the back. “Always hope; that's a dear
boy. Never leave off hoping; it don't answer.
Do you mind me, Nick P. It don't answer.
Don't leave a stone unturned. It's always
something to know you've done the most you
could. But, don't leave off hoping, or it's of no
use doing anything. Hope, hope to the last !”
Nicholas needed encouragement. The sud-
denness with which intelligence of the two
usurers' plans had come upon him, the little time
which remained for exertion, the probability,
almost amounting to certainty itself, that a few:
‘hours would place Madeline Bray for ever
beyond his reach, consign her to unspeakable
misery, and perhaps to an untimely death; all
this quite stunned and overwhelmed him. Every
hope connected with her that he had suffered
himself to form, or had entertained unconsciously,
seemed to fall at his feet, withered and dead. .
Every charm with which his memory or imagina.
tion had surrounded her presented itself before
him, only to heighten his anguish and add new
bitterness to his despair. Every feeling of
sympathy for her forlorn condition, and of
admiration for her heroism and fortitude, aggra. "
vated the indignation which shook him in every
limb, and swelled his heart almost to bursting.
But, if Nicholas's own heart embarrassed him,
Newman's came “to his relief. There was so
much earnestness in his remonstrance, and such
sincerity and fervour in his manner, odd and
ludicrous as it always was, that it imparted to
Nicholas new firmness, and enabled him to say,
after he had walked on for some little way in
silence : -
“You read me a good lesson, Newman, and I
will profit by it. One step, at least, I may take
—am bound to take, indeed—and to that I will
apply myself to-morrow.” -
“What is that?” asked Noggs wistfully.
“Not to threaten Ralph P. Not to see the
father P” " . - - -
“To see the daughter, Newman," replied
Nicholas. “To do what, after all, is the utmost
that the brothers could do, if they were here, as
Heaven send they were : To reason with her
upon this hideous union, to point out to her all
the horrors to which she is hastening ; rashly, it
may be, and without due reflection. . To entreat
her, at least, to pause. She can have had no
counsellor for her good. Perhaps even I may



MRS. KENWYGS IN DESPA/R.
345
move her so far yet, though it is the eleventh
hour, and she upon the very brink of ruin.”
“Bravely spoken " said Newman. “Well
done, well done | Yes. Very good.”
“And I do declare,” cried Nicholas with
honest enthusiasm, “that in this effort I am
influenced by no selfish or personal considera-
tions, but by pity for her, and detestation and
abhorreñce of this scheme; and that I would
do the same, were there twenty rivals in the
field, and I the last and least favoured of them
all.”
“You would, I believe,” said Newman. “But
where are you hurrying now P”
“Homewards,” answered NicholẠ“Do
you come with me, or shall I say good night P”
“I’ll come a little way, if you will but walk :
not run,” said Noggs. -
“I cannot walk to-night, Newman,” returned
Nicholas hurriedly. “I must move rapidly, or
I could not draw my breath. I'll tell you what
I've said and done to-morrow.”
Without waiting for a reply, he darted off at a
rapid pace, and, plunging into the crowds which
thronged the street, was quickly lost to view.
“He’s a violent youth at times,” said New-
man, looking after him; “and yet I like him for
it. There's cause enough now, or the deuce is
in it. Hope I said hope, I think 1 Ralph
Nickleby and Gride with their heads together—
and hope for the opposite party Ho hol"
It was with a very melancholy laugh that
Newman Noggs concluded this soliloquy ; and
it was with a very melancholy shake of the
head, and a very rueful countenance, that he
turned about, and went plodding on his way.
This, under ordinary circumstances, would
have been to some small tavern or dram-shop;
that being his way, in more senses than one.
But, Newman was too much interested, and too
anxious, to betake himself even to this resource,
and so, with many desponding and dismal
reflections, went straight home.
It had come to pass, that afternoon, that Miss
Morleena Kenwigs had received an invitation
to repair next day, per steamer from West-
minster Bridge, unto the Eel-pie Island at
Twickenham: there to make merry upon a cold
collation, bottled beer, shrub, and shrimps, and
to dance in the open air to the music of a
locomotive band, conveyed thither for the pur-
pose: the steamer being specially engaged by a
dancing-master of extensive connection for the
accommodation of his numerous pupils, and
the pupils displaying their appreciation of the
dancing-master's services by purchasing them-
selves, and inducing their friends to do the like.
g
divers light blue tickets, entitling them to join
the expedition. Of these light blue tickets, one
had been presented by an ambitious neighbour
to Miss Morleena Kenwigs, with an invitation to
join her daughters; and Mrs. Kenwigs, rightly
deeming that the honour of the family was
involved in Miss Morleena's making the most
splendid appearance possible on so short a
notice, and testifying to the dancing-master that
there were other dancing-miasters besides him,
and to all fathers and mothers present that
other people's children could learn to be genteel
besides theirs, had fainted away twice under the
magnitude of her preparations, but, upheld by a
determination to sustain the family name or
perish in the attempt, was still hard at work
when Newman Noggs came home.
Now, between the italian-ironing of frills, the
flouncing of trousers, the trimming of frocks, the
faintings and the comings-to again, incidental to
the occasion, Mrs. Kenwigs had been so entirely
occupied, that she had not observed, until within
half an hour before, that the flaxen tails of Miss
Morleena's hair were, in a manner, run to seed;
and that, unless she were put under the hands of
a skilful hairdresser, she never could achieve that
signal triumph over the daughters of all other
people, anything less than which would be
tantamount to defeat. This discovery drove
Mrs. Kenwigs to despair; for the hairdresser
lived three streets and eight dangerous crossings
off; Morleena could not be trusted to go there
alone, even if such a proceeding were strictly
proper: of which Mrs. Kenwigs had her doubts;
Mr. Kenwigs had not returned from business;
and there was nobody to take her. So, Mrs.
Kenwigs first slapped Miss Kenwigs for being
the cause of her vexation, and then shed tears.
“You ungrateful child !” said Mrs. Kenwigs,
“ after I have gone through what I have, this
night, for your good "
“I can't help it, ma,” replied Morleena, also
in tears; “my hair zoil/grow.”
“Don’t talk to me, you naughty thing !” said
Mrs. Kenwigs, “don’t Eyen if I was to trust
you by yourself, and you were to escape being
run over, I know you'd run into Laura Chop-
kins,” who was the daughter of the ambitious
neighbour, “and tell her what you're going to
wear to-morrow, I know you would. You've no
proper pride in yourself, and are not to be
trusted out of sight for an instant.”
Deploring the evil-mindedness of her eldest
daughter in these terms, Mrs. Kenwigs distilled
fresh drops of vexation from her eyes, and
declared that she did believe there never was
anybody so tried as she was. . Thereupon,
*
346
AV/CHO/AS AV/CAE ZEAE-Y.
Morleena Kenwigs wept afresh, and they be-
moaned themselves together.
Matters were at this point as Newman Noggs
was heard to limp past the door on his way
up-stairs; when Mrs. Kenwigs, gaining new
hope from the sound of his footsteps, hastily
removed from her countenance as many traces
of her late emotion as were effaceable on so
short a notice; and presenting herself before
him, and representing their dilemma, entreated
that he would escort Morleena to the hair-
dresser's shop.
“I wouldn't ask you, Mr. Noggs,” said Mrs.
Renwigs, “if I didn't know what a good, kind-
hearted creature you are—no, not for worlds.
I am a weak constitution, Mr. Noggs, but my
spirit would no more let me ask a favour where
I thought there was a chance of its being
refused, than it would let me submit to see my
children trampled down and trod upon by envy
and lowness : " t -
Newman was too good-natured not to have
consented, even without this avowal of con-
fidence on the part of Mrs. Kenwigs. Accord-
ingly, a very few minutes had elapsed when he
and Miss Morleena were on their way to the
hairdresser's. -
It was not exactly a hairdresser's; that is to .
say, people cf a coarse and vulgar turn of mind
might have called it a barber's ; for they not
only cut and curled ladies elegantly, and chil-
drcn carefully, but shaved gentlemen easily.
Still, it was a highly genteel establishment—
quite first-rate, in fact—and there were displayed
in the window, besides other elegancies, waxen
busts of a light lady and a dark gentleman
which were the admiration of the whole neigh-
bourhood. Indeed, some ladies had gone so
far as to assert that the dark gentleman was
actually a portrait of the spirited young pro-
prietor; and the great similarity between their
head-dresses—both wore very glossy hair, with a
narrow walk straight down the middle, and a
profusion of flat circular curls on both sides—
encouraged the idea. The better informed
among the sex, however, inade light of this
assertion ; for, however willing they were (and
they were very willing) to do full justice to the
handsome face and figure of the proprietor, they
held the countenance of the dark gentleman in
the window to be an exquisite and abstract idea
Gf masculine beauty, realised sometimes, perhaps,
among angels and military men, but very rarely
embodied to gladden the eyes of mortals.
It was to this establishment that Newman
Noggs , led Miss Kenwigs in safety. The
proprietor, knowing that Miss Kenwigs had
three sisters, each with two flaxen tails and all
good for sixpence apiece, once a month at least;
promptly deserted an old gentleman whom he
had just lathered for shaving, and handing him
over to the journeyman, (who' was not very
popular among the ladies, by reason of his
obesity and middle age,) waited on the young
lady himself. -
Just as this change had been effected, there
presented himself for shaving a big, burly, good-
humoured coalheaver with a pipe in his mouth,
who, drawing his hand across his chin, re-
quested to know when a shaver would be dis-
engaged. ---
The jºurneyman, to whom this question was
put, looked doubtfully at the young proprietor,
and the young proprietor looked scornfully at
the coalheaver: observing, at the same time:
“You won't get shaved here, my man.”
“Why not?” said the coalheaver. -
“We don't shave gentlemen in your line,”
remarked the young proprietor. -
“Why, I see you a shaving of a baker, when
I was a looking through the winder, last week,”
said the coalheaver. s
“It's necessary to draw the line somewheres,
my fine ſeller,” replied the principal. “We
draw the line there. We can't go beyond
bakers. • If we was to get any lower than
bakers, our customers would desert us, and we
might shut up shop. You must try some other
establishment, sir. We couldn't do it here.”
. The applicant stared ; grinn col, at Newman
Noggs, who appeared highly entertained ;
looked slightly round the shop, as if in depre-
ciation of the pomatum pots and other arueles
of stock; took his pipe out of his mouth, and
gave a very loud whistle ; and then put it in
again, and walked out.
The old gentleman who had just been
lathered, and who was sitting in a melancholy
manner with his face turned towards the wall,
appeared quite unconscious of this incident, and
to be insensible to everything tround him in
the depth of a reverie—a very mournful one, to
judge from the sighs he occasionally wented—in
which he was absorbed. Affected by this,
example, the proprietor began to clip Miss
Kenwigs, the journeyman to scrape the old
“gentleman, and Newman Noggs to read last
Sunday’s paper, all three in silence: when Miss
Kenwigs uttered a shrill little scream, and
Newman, raising his eyes, saw that it had been
elicited by the circumstance of the old gentle-
man turning his head, and disclosing the features
of Mr. Lillyvick the collector. -
The features of Mr. Lillyvick they were, būt;
Mr. ZZZZYV/CA: AzovcAZ Zon.
strangely altered. If ever an old gentleman
had made a point of appearing in public shaved
close and clean, that old gentleman was Mr.
Lillyvick. If ever a collector had borne him:
self like a collector, and assumed, before all
men, a solemn and portentous dignity, as if he
had the world on his books, and it was all two
, quarters in arrear, that collector was Mr. Lilly-
vick. And now, there he sat, with the remains
of a beard at least a week old encumbering his
chin; a soiled and crumpled shirt-frill crouching,
as it were, upon his breast, instead of standing
boldly out; a demeanour so abashed and
drooping, so despondent, and expressive of
such humiliation, grief, and shame; that if the
souls of forty unsubstantial housekeepers, all of
whom had had their water cut off for non-pay-
ment of the rate, could have been concentrated
in one body, that one body could hardly have
expressed such mortification and defeat as were
now expressed in the person of Mr. Lillyvick the
collector. ... •
Newman Noggs uttered his name; and Mr.
Lillyvick groaned : then coughed to hide it.
But the groan was a full-sized groan, and the
cough was but a wheeze.
“Is anything the matter P” said Newman
Noggs. -
“Matter, sir!” cried Mr. Lillyvick. “The
plug of life is dry, sir, and but the mud is left.”
This speech—the style of which Newman,
attributed to Mr. Lillyvick's recent association
with theatrical characters—not being quite ex-
planatory, Newman looked as if he were about
to ask another question, when Mr. Liliyvick
prevented him by shaking his hand mournfully,
and then waving his own.
“Let me be shaved " said Mr. Lillyvick.
It is
“It shall be done before Morleena.
Morleena, isn't it?”
“Yes,” said Newman. -
“Kenwigses have got a boy, haven't they P*
inquired the collector.
Again Newman said “Yes.”
“Is it a nice boy?” demanded the collector.
“It ain't a very nasty one,” returned Newman,
rather embarrassed by the question.
“Susan Kenwigs used to say,” observed the
collector, “that if ever she had another boy, she
hoped it might be like me. Is this one like me,
Mr. Noggs P” -
This was a puzzling inquiry; but Newman
evaded it by replying to Mr. Lillyvick that he
thought the baby might possibly come like him
in time. .' º *
“I should be glad to have somebody like me,
somehow,” said Mr. Lillyvick, “before I die.”
347
“You don't
said Newman.
Unto which Mr. Lillyvick replied, in a solemn
voice, “Let me be shaved 1" and, again con-
signing himself to the hands of the journeyman,
said no more. 3.
This was remarkable behaviour. So remark-
able did it seem to Miss Morleena, that that
young lady, at the imminent hazard of having.
her ear sliced off, had not been able to forbear
looking round some score of times during the
foregoing colloquy. Of her, however, Mr.
Lillyvick took no notice: rather striving (so,
at least, it seemed to Newman Noggs) to evade
her observation, and to shrink into himself
whenever he attracted her regards. Newman
wondered very much what could have occa-
sioned this altered behaviour on the part of the
collector; but, philosophically reflecting that he
would most likely know sooner or later, and
that he could perfectly afford to wait, he was
very little disturbed by the singularity of the old
gentleman's deportment. - •
The cutting and curling being at last con-
mean to do that vet awhile P”
cluded, the old gentleman, who had been some
time waiting, rose to go, and walking out with
Newman and his charge, took Newman's arm,
and proceeded for some time without making
any observation. Newman, who in power of
taciturnity was excelled by few people, made no
attempt to break silence; and so they went on
until they had very nearly reached Miss Mor-
leema's home, when Mr. Lillyvick said:
“Were the Kenwigses very much over-
powered, Mr. Noggs, by that news P”
“What news P” returned Newman.
“That about—my being * *
“Married ?” suggested Newman.
“Ah !” replied Mr. Lillyvick with another
groan—this time not even disguised by a
wheeze.
“It made ma cry when she knew it,” interposed
Miss Morleena, “but we kept it from her for a
long time; and pa was very low in his spirits,
but he is better now ; and I was very ill, but I
am better too.” -
“Would you give your great-uncle Lillyvick
a kiss if he was to ask you, Morleena?” said
the collector with some hesitation.
“Yes, Uncle Lillyvick, I would,” returned
Miss Morleena with the energy of both her
parents combined ; “but not Aunt Lillyvićk.
She's not an aunt of mine, and I'll never call
her one.” - -
Immediately upon the utterance of these
words, Mr. Lillyvick caught Miss Morleena up
in his arms, and kissed her; and, being by this
a'
348.
AVYCA/OA.A.S AVYCKZAZA V.
time at the door of the house where Mr. Ken-
wigs lodged (which, as has been before men-
tioned, usually stood wide open), he walked
straight up into Mr. Kenwigs's sitting-room,
and put Miss Morleena down in the midst. Mr.
and Mrs. Kenwigs were at supper. At sight of
their perjured relative Mrs. Kenwigs turned faint
and pale, and Mr. Kenwigs rose majestically.
“ Kenwigs,” said the collector, “shake hands.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “the time has been
when I was proud to shake hands with such a
man as that man as now surweys me. The
time has been, sir,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “when
a wisit from that man has excited in me and my
family's boozums sensations both nateral and
awakening. But now I look upon that man.
with emotions totally surpassing everythink,
and I ask myself where is his honour, where is
his straightfor’ardness, and where is his human
natur’. P” • {
“Susan Kenwigs,” said Mr. Lillyvick, turning
humbly to his niece “don’t you say anything
to me P”
“She is not equal to it, sir,” said Mr. Ken-
wigs, striking the table emphatically. “What
with the nursing of a healthy babby, and the
reflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints
of malt liquor a day is hardly able to sustain her.”
“I am glad,” said the poor collector meekly,
“ that the baby is a healthy one. I am very
glad of that.” -
This was touching the Kenwigses on their
tenderest point. Mrs. Kenwigs instantly burst
into tears, and Mr. Kenwigs evinced great
emotion. , ,
“My pleasantest feeling, all the time that
child was expected,” said Mr. Kenwigs mourn-
fully, “was a thinking, “If it's a boy, as I hope
it may be ; for I have heard its uncle Lillyvick
say again and again he would prefer our having
a boy next—if it's a boy, what will his uncle
Lillywick say—what will he like him to be
called—will he be Peter, or Alexander, or
Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will he be?”
and now, when I look at him—a precious, un-
conscious, helpless infant, with no use in his
little arms but to tear his little cap, and no use
in his little legs but to kick his little self—when
I see him a lying on his mother's lap, cooing
and cooing, and, in his innocent state, almost a
choking hisself with his little fist—when I see him
such a infant as he is, and think that that uncle
Lillyvick, as was once a-going to be so fond of
him, has withdrawed himself away, such a feel-
ing of wengeance comes over me as no language
can depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe
was a telling me to hate him.” •
This affecting picture moved Mrs. Kenwigs
deeply. After several imperſect words, which
vainly attempted to struggle to the surface, but
were drowned and washed away by the strong
tide of her tears, she spake. .
“Uncle,” said Mrs. Kenwigs, “to think that
you should have turned your back upon me and
my dear children, and upon Kenwigs which is
the author of their being—you who was once so
kind and affectionate, and who, if anybody had
told us such a thing of, we should have withered
with scorn like lightning—you that little Lilly.
vick, our first and earliest boy, was named after
at the very altar—oh gracious !” .
“Was it money that we cared for 2" said
Mr. Kenwigs. “Was it property that we ever
thought of P” -
“No," cried Mrs. Kenwigs, “I scorn it.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Kenwigs, “ and always
did.” .
“My feelings have been lancerated," said Mrs.
Kenwigs, “my heart has been torn asunder with
anguish, I have been thrown back in my con-
finement, my unoffending inſant has been ren-
dered uncomfortable and fractious, Morleena
has pined herself away to nothing; all this I
forget and forgive, and with you, uncle, I never
can quarrel. But never ask me to receive her
—never do it, uncle. For I will not, I will not,
I won't, I won't, I won't I"
“Susan, my dear ” said Mr. Kenwigs, “con-
sider your child.” -
“Yes,'? shrieked Mrs. Kenwigs, “I will con-
sider my child ! I will consider my child my
own child, that no uncles can deprive me of ;
my own hated, despised, deserted, cut-off little
child.” And here the emotions of Mrs. Ken-
wigs became so violent, that Mr. Kenwigs was
ſain to administer hartshorn internally, and
vinegar externally, and to destroy a stay-lace,
four petticoat strings, and several small buttons.
Newman had been a silent spectator of this
scene ; for Mr. Lillyvick had signed to him not
to withdraw, and Mr. Kenwigs had further soli-
cited his presence by a nod of inyitation. When
Mrs. Kenwigs had been in some degree restored,
and Newman, as a person possessed of some in-
fluence with her, had remonstrated and begged
her to compose herselſ, Mr. Lillyvick said, in a
faltering voice:
“I never shall ask anybody here to receive
my—I needn't mention the word ; you know
what I mean. Kenwigs and Susan, yesterday
was a week she eloped with a half-pay captain l’”
Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs started together.
“Eloped with a half-pay captain,” repeated
Mr. Lillyvick, “basely and ſalsely eloped with a
recovcızzATION:
half-pay captain—with a bottle-nosed captain
that any man might have considered himself safe
from. It was in this room,” said Mr. Lillyvick,
looking sternly round, “that I first see Henrietta
Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off
for ever.”
This declaration completely changed the whole
posture of affairs. Mrs. Kenwigs threw herself
upon the old gentleman's neck, bitterly reproach-
ing herself for her late harshness, and exclaim-
ing, if she had suffered, what must his sufferings
have been 1 - Mr. Kenwigs grasped his hand,
and vowed eternal friendship and remorse. Mrs.
Kenwigs was horror-stricken to think that she
should ever have nourished in her bosom such a
snake, adder, viper, serpent, and base crocodile
as Henrietta Petowker. Mr. Kenwigs argued
that she must have been bad indeed not to have
improved by so long a contemplation of Mrs.
Kenwigs's virtue. Mrs. Kenwigs remembered
that Mr. Kenwigs had often said that he was
not quite satisfied of the propriety of Miss
Petowker's conduct, and wondered how it was
that she could have been blinded by such a
wretch. Mr. Kenwigs remembered that he had
had his suspicions, but did not wonder why Mrs.
Kenwigs had not had hers, as she was all chastity,
purity, and truth, and Henrietta all baseness,
falsehood, and deceit. And Mr. and Mrs. Ken-
wigs both said, with strong feelings and tears of
sympathy, that everything happened for the best :
and conjured the good collector not to give way
to unavailing grief, but to seek consolation
in the society of those affectionate relations
whose arms and hearts were ever open to him.
“Out of affection and regard for you, Susan
and Kenwigs,” said Mr. Lillywick, “and not out
of revenge and spite against her, for she is below
it, I shall, to-morrow morning, settle upon your
children, and make payable to the survivors of
them when they come of age or marry, that
money that I once meant to leave 'em in my
will. The deed shall be executed to-morrow,
and Mr. Noggs shall be one of the witnesses.
He hears me promise this, and he shall see it
done.” -
Overpowered by this noble and generous offer,
Mr. Kenwigs, Mrs. Kenwigs, and Miss Morleena
Kenwigs all began to sob together, and the
noise of their sobbing communicating itself to the
next rodºm, where the children lay abed, and
causing them to cry too, Mr. Kenwigs rushed
wildly in, and bringing them out in his arms, by
two and two, tumbled them down in their night-
caps and gowns at the feet of Mr. Lillyvick, and
called upon them to thank and bless him.
“And now,” said Mr. Lillyvick when a heart
349
rending scene had ensued and the children were
cleared away again, “give me some supper.
This took place twenty mile from town. I came
up this morning, and have been lingering about
all day, without being able to make up my mind
to come and see you. I humoured her in every-
thing, she had her own way, she did just as she
pleased, and now she has done this. There
was twelve tea-spoons and twenty-four pound
in sovereigns—I missed them first—it's a trial—
I feel I shall never be able to knock a double
knock again when I go my rounds—don't say
anything more about it, please—the spoons were
worth—never mind—never mind "
With such muttered outpourings as these, the
old gentleman shed a few tears; but, they got him
into the elbow-chair, and prevailed upon him,
without much pressing, to make a hearty supper,
and by the time he had finished his first pipe,
and disposed of half-a-dozen glasses out of a
crown bowl of punch, ordered by Mr. Kenwigs,
in celebration of his return to the bosom of his
family, he seemed, though still very humble,
quite resigned to his fate, and rather relieved
than otherwise by the flight of his wife.
“When I see that man,” said Mr. Kenwigs,
with one hand round Mrs. Kenwigs's waist; his
other hand supporting his pipe (which made him
wink and cough very much, for he was no
smoker); and his eyes on Morleena, who sat
upon her uncle's knee, “when I see that man as
mingling once again in the spear which he
adorns, and see his affections deweloping them-
selves in legitimate sitivations, I feel that his
nature is as elewated and expanded as his stand-
ing afore society as a public character is unim-
peached, and the woices of my infant children,
purvided for in life, seem to whisper to me
softly, ‘This is an ewent at which Evins itsel;
looks down ''”
CHAPTER LIII.
CO.S.T.AINING THE FURTHER PROGRESS OF THE PLO't
CONTRIVED BY AIR. R.ALPH NICKLEBY AND MN,
ARTHUR GRIDE.
4) ſº ITH that settled resolution and
steadiness of purpose to which ex-
ºn treme circumstances so often give
2, birth, acting upon far less excitable
and more sluggish temperaments
than that which was the lot of
Madeline Bray's admirer, Nicholas started,
at dawn of day, from the restless couch
which no sleep had visited on the previous night,
and prepared to make that last appeal, by whose



35o
AV/CHOLAS NICKLEB Y.
slight and fragile thread her only remaining hope
of escape depended. ... " •ºy
Although, to restless and ardent minds, morn-
ing may be the fitting season for exertion and
activity, it is not always at that time that hope
is strongest, or the spirit most sanguine and
buoyant. In trying and doubtful positions,
youth; Custom, a steady contemplation of the
difficulties which surround us, and a familiarity
with them, imperceptibly diminish our apprehen-
sions, and beget comparative indifference, if not
a vague and reckless confidence in some relief,
the means or nature of which we care not to
foresee. But when we come fresh upon such
things in the morning, with that dark and silent
gap between us and yesterday ; with every link
in the brittle chain of hope to, rivet afresh ;
our hot enthusiasm subdued, and cool calm
reason substituted in its stead ; doubt and mis-
giving revive. As the traveller sees farthest by
day, and becomes aware of rugged mountains
and trackless plains which the friendly darkness
had shrouded from his sight and mind together,
so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of human
life sees, with each returning sun, some new ob-
stacle to surmount, some new height to be at-
tained. Distances stretch out before him which,
last night, were scarcely taken into account, and
the light which gilds all nature with its cheerful
beams seems but to shine upon the weary ob-
stacles that vet lie strewn between him and the
grave. -
So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience
natural to a situation like his, he softly left the
house, and feeling as though to remain in bed
were to lose most precious time, and to be up
and stirring were in some way to promote the
end he had in view, wandered into London; per-
fectly well knowing that for hours to come he
could not obtain speech with Madeline, and
could do nothing but wish the intervening time
away. -
And, even now, as he paced the streets, and
listlessly looked round on the gradually-increas-
ing bustle and preparation for the day, everything
appeared to yield him some new occasion for
despondency. Last night, the sacrifice of a
young, affectionate, and beautiful creature to
such a wretch, and in such a cause, had seemed
a thing too monstrous to succeed; and the
warmer he grew, the more confident he felt that
some interposition must save her from his
clutches. But now, when he thought how regu-
larly things went on, from day to day, in the
same ºnvarying round—how youth and beauty
died, and ugly griping age lived tottering on—
how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest
hearts were poor and sad—how few they were
who tenanted the stately houses, and how many
those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each day
and laid them down each night, and lived and
died, father and son, mother and child, race
upon race, and generation upon generation,
without a home to shelter them, or the energies
of one single man directed to their aid—how, in
seeking, not a luxurious and splendid life, but
the bare means of a most wretched and inade-
quate subsistence, there were women and chil-
dren in that one town, divided into classes,
numbered and estimated as regularly as the noble
families and folks of great degree, and reared
from infancy to drive most criminal and dreadful
trades—how ignorance was punished and never
taught—how gaol doors gaped, and gallows
loomed, for thousands urged towards them by
circumstances darkly curtaining their very
cradles' heads, and but for which they might
have earned their honest bread and lived in peace
—how many died in soul, and had no chance of
life—how many who could scarcely go astray,
be they vicious as they would, turned haughtily
from the crushed and stricken wretch who could
scarce do otherwise, and who would have been
a greater wonder, had he or she done well, than
even they had they done ill—how much injustice,
misery, and wrong there was, and yet how the
world rolled on, from year to year, alike careless
and indifferent, and no man seeking to remedy
or redress it—when he thought of all this, and
selected from the mass the one slight case on
which his thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed,
that there was little ground for hope, and little
reason "why it should not form an atom in the
huge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add
one small and unimportant unit to swell the great
amount. . -
But youth is not prone to contemplate the
darkest side of a picture it can shift at will. By .
dint of reflecting on what he had to do, and re-
viving the train of thought which night had in-
terrupted, Nicholas gradually summoned up his
utmost energy, and, when the morning was suffi-
ciently advanced for his purpose, had no thought
but that of using it to the best advantage. A .
hasty breakfast taken, and such affairs of busi-
ness as required prompt attention disposed of,
he directed his steps to the residence of Made-
line Bray: whither he lost no time in arriving.
It had occurred to him that, very possfibly, the
young lady might be denied, although to him
she never had been ; and he was still pondering
upon the surest method of obtaining access to
her in that case, when, coming to the door of the
house, he found it had been left ajar—probably
AſO3 CE INDEPENDENCE.
351
by the last person who had gone out. The
occasion was not one upon which to observe the
hicest ceremony; therefore, availing himself of
this advantage, Nicholas walked gently up-stairs,
and knocked at the door of the room into which
he had been accustomed to be shown. Re-
ceiving permission to enter from some person on
the other side, he opened the door and walked
l]] . . + -
Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone.
It was nearly three weeks since he had seen her
last, but there was a change in the lovely girl
before him which told Nicholas, in startling
terms, how much mental suffering had been
compressed into that short time. There are no
words which can express, nothing with which can
be compared, the perfect pallor, the clear trans-
parent whiteness, of the beautiful face which
turned towards him when he entered. Her hair
was a rich deep brown, but shading that face,
and straying upon a neck that rivalled it in
whiteness, it seemed by the strong contrast
raven black. Something of wildness and rest-
lessness there was in the dark eye, but there
was the same patient look, the same expression
of gentle mournfulness which he well remem-
bered, and no trace of a single tear. Most
beautiful—more beautiful, perhaps, than ever—
there was something in her face which quite un-
manned him, and appeared far more touching
than the wildest agony of grief. It was not
merely calm and composed, but fixed and rigid,
as though the violent effort which had summoned
that composure beneath her father's eye, while
it mastered all other thoughts, had prevented
even the momentary expression they had com-
municated to the features from subsiding, and
had fastened it there as an evidence of its
triumph. . -
The father sat opposite to her—not looking
directly in her face, but glancing at her as he
talked with a gay air which ill disguised the
anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials
were not on their accustomed table, nor were
any of the other tokens of her usual occupations
to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas
had always seen filled with fresh flowers were
empty, or supplied only with a few withered
stalks and leaves. The bird was silent. The
cloth that covered his cage at night was not re-
moved. His mistress had forgotten him.
There are times when, the mind being pain-
fully alive to receive impressions, a great deal
may be noted at a glance. This was one, for
Nicholas had but glanced round him when he
was recognised by Mr. Bray, who said impa-
tiently: -
“Now, sir, what do you want? Name your
errand here quickly, if you please, for my
daughter and I are busily engaged with other
and more important matters than those you
come about. Come, sir, address yourself to
your business at once.” . . .
Nicholas could very well discern that the
irritability and impatience of this speech were
assumed, and that Bray, in his heart, was re-
joiced at any interruption which promised to
engage the attention of his daughter. He bent
his eyes involuntarily upon the father as he
spoke, and marked his uneasiness; for he
coloured and turned his head away.
The device, however, so far as it was a device
for causing Madeline to interfere, was success-
ful. She rose, and, advancing towards Nicholas,
paused half-way, and stretched out her hand as
expecting a letter. -
“Madeline,” said her father impatiently, “my
love, what are you doing P’’
“Miss Bray expects an enclosure, perhaps,”
said Nicholas, speaking very distinctly, and with
an emphasis she could scarcely misunderstand.
“My employer is absent from England, or I
should have brought a letter with me. I hope
she will give me time-–a little time—I ask a
very little time.”
“If that is all you come about, sir,” said Mr.
Bray, “you may make yourself easy on that
head. Madeline, my dear, I didn't know this
person was in your debt?” -
“A—a trifle, I believe,” returned Madeline
faintly. -
“I suppose you think, now,” said Bray, wheel-
ing his chair round and confronting Nicholas,
“that, but for such pitiful sums as you bring here,
because my daughter has chosen to employ her
time as she has, we should starve?”.
“I have not thought about it,” returned
Nicholas. - .
“You have not thought about it !” sneered the
invalid. “You know you have thought about it,
and have thought that, and think so every time
you come here. Do you suppose, young man,
that I don't know what little purse-proud trades-
men are, when, through some fortunate Circum-
stances, they get the upper hand for a brief day
—or think they get the upper hand—of a gentle-
man?” . - -
“My business,”
“is with a lady.” - - -
“With a gentleman's daughter, sir,” returned
the sick man, “and the pettifogging spirit is the
same. But perhaps you bring orders, eh? Have
you any fresh orders for my daughter, sir?”
Nicholas understood the tone of triumph in
said Nicholas respectfully,
*
352
AICHOLAS MYCKZEB Y.
which this interrogatory was put ; but, remem-
bering the necessity of supporting his assumed
character, produced a scrap of paper purporting
to contain a list of some subjects for drawings
which his employer desired to have executed;
and with which he had prepared himself in case
of any such contingency. -
“Oh ſ* said Mr. Bray.
are they?"
“Since you insist upon the term, sir—yes,”
replied Nicholas.
“Then you may tell your master,” said Bray,
tossing the paper back again, with an exulting
smile, “that my daughter—Miss Madeline Bray
—condescends to employ herself no longer in
such labours as these ; that she is not at his
beck and call, as he supposes her to be; that we
“These are the orders,
don't live upon his money, as he flatters himself
we do; thät he may give whatever he owes us to
the first beggar that passes his shop, or add it to
his own profits next time he calculates them;
and that he may go to the devil for me. That's
my acknowledgment of his orders, sir!”
“And this is the independence of a man who
sells his daughter as he has sold that weeping
girl " thought Nicholas. - -
The father was too much absorbed with his -
own exultation to mark the look of segrin which,
for an instant, Nicholas could not have sup-
pressed had he been upon the rack. “There,"
he continued after a short silence, “you have
your message, and can retire—unless you have
any further—ha!—any further orders.”
“I have none," said Nicholas; “nor, in con-
sideration of the station you once held, have I
used that or any other word which, however
harmless in itself, could be supposed to imply
authority on my part, or dependence on yours.
I have no orders, but I have fears—fears that I
will express, chaſe as you may—ſears that you
may be consigning that young lady to something
worse than supporting you by the labour of her
hands, had she worked herself dead. These are
my fears, and these fears I found upon your own
demeanour.
whether I construe it well or not.”
“For Heaven's sake I’’ cried Madeline, inter-
posing in alarm between them. “Remember,
sir, he is ill.” * *
“Ill!” cried the invalid, gasping and catch-
ing for breath. “Ill ! Ill I am bearded and
bullied by a shopboy, and she beseeches him to
pity me, and remember I am ill " -
He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so
violent that for a few moments Nicholas was
alarmed for his life; but, finding that he began
to recover, he withdrew, after signifying by a
Your conscience will tell you, sir,
gesture to the young lady that he had something
important to communicate, and would wait for
her outside the room. He could hear that the
sick man came gradually, but slowly, to himself
and that without any reference to what had just
occurred, as though he had no distinct recollec-
tion of it as yet, he requested to be left alone.
“Oh!", thought Nicholas, “that this slender
chance might not be lost, and that I might pre-
vail, if it were but for one week's time and re.
consideration 1"
& & You are. charged with swine commission to
me, sir," said Madeline, presenting herself in
great agitation, “Do not press it now, I beg
and pray you. . The day after to-morrow—come
here then.”
* “It will be too late—too late for what I have
to say," rejoined Nicholas, “and you will not be
here. Oh, madam, if you have but one thought
of him who sent me here, but one last lingering
care for your own peace of mind and heart, I do
for God's sake urge you to give me a hearing.”
She attempted to pass him, but Nicholas gently
detained her. - s
“A hearing,” said Nicholas. “I ask you but
to hear me—not me alone, but him for whom I
speak, who is far away, and does not know your
danger. . In the name of Heaven hear me !”
The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and
red with weeping, stood by ; and to her Nicholas
appealed in such passionate terms that she opened
a side-door, and, supporting her mistress into an
adjoining room, beckoned Nicholas to follow
them. . . . . .
“Leave me; sir, pray,” said the young lady.
“I cannot, will not leave, you thus,” returned
Nicholas,
as, “I have a duty to discharge ; and
either here, or in the room from which we have
just now come, at whatever risk or hazard to
Mr. Bray, I must beseech you to contemplate
again the fearful.course to which you have been
impelled.” “ . . - . *
“What course is this you speak of, and im-
pelled by whom, sir?” demanded the young
lady, with an effort to speak proudly. ...
“I speak of this marriage,” returned Nicholas,
“of this marriage, fixed for to-morrow by one
who never faltered in a bad purpose, or lent his
aid to any good design; of this marriage, the
history of which is known to me better, far better;
than it is to you. I know what web is wound
about you. I know what men they arc from
whom these schemes have come. You are be-
trayed and sold for money—for gold, whose
every coin is rusted with tears, if not red with
the blood of ruined men, who have fallen des-
perately by their own mad hands.” -
AIE EXAOS 7"UZAZTES IN VA/AW.
“You say you have a duty to discharge,” said
Madeline, “and so have I. And, with the help
of Heaven, I will perform it.”
“Say rather, with the help of devils,” replied
Nicholas, “with the help of men, one of them
your destined husband, who are—"
353
“I must not hear this,” cried the young lady,
striving to repress a shudder, occasioned, as it
seemed, even by this slight allusion to Arthur
Gride.
own seeking.
no one, but follow it of my own free-will. You
“This evil, if evil it be, has been of my
I am impelled to this course by
Sºğsºlº
Š. Sº
- SN N
NT * *
\ S. N \,-- - * º
|
s
“I Must BESEEcH You To
contRMPLATE AGAIN THE FEARFUL course. To WHICH You HAVE BEEN
IMPELLED.”
see I am not constrained or forced. Report
this," said Madeline, “to my dear friend and
benefactor, and, taking with you my prayers and
thanks for him and for, yourself, leave me for
ever !”
“Not until I have besought you, with all the
earnestness and fervour by which I am ani-
mated,” cried Nicholas, “to postpone this mar-
riage for one short week. Not until I have
besought you to think more deeply than you
can have done, influenced as you are, upon the
step you are about to take. Although you can-



354
AVYCHO CAS MYCKZAZ B Y.
not be fully conscious of the villainy of this man
to whom you are about to give your hand, some
of his deeds you know. You have heard him
speak, and have looked upon his facé. Reflect,
reflect, before it is too late, on the mockery of
plighting to him, at the altar, faith in which your
heart can have no share—of uttering solemn
words, against which nature and reason must
rebel—of the degradation of yourself in your
own esteem which must ensue, and must be
aggravated every day, as his detested character
opens upon you more and more. Shrink from
the loathsome companionship of this wretch as
you would from corruption and disease. Suffer
toil and labour if you will, but shun him, shun
him, and be happy. For, believe me, I speak
the truth;-the most abject poverty, the most
wretched condition of human life, with a pure
and upright mind, would be happiness to that
which you must undergo as the wife of such a
man as this " *
Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the
young lady buried her face in her hands, and
gave her tears free way. . In a voice at first in-
articulate with emotion, but gradually recover-
ing strength as she proceeded, she answered
him : --
“I will not disguise from you, sir—though
perhaps I ought—that I have undergone great
pain of mind, and have been nearly broken-.
hearted since I saw you last. I do not love this
gentleman. The difference between our ages,
tastes, and habits forbids it. This he knows,
and, knowing, still offers me his hand. By ac-
cepting it, and by that step alone, I can release
my father, who is dying in this place; prolong
his life, perhaps, for many years; restore him to
comfort—I may almost call it affluence—and
relieve a generous man from the burden of
assisting one by whom, I grieve to say, his
noble heart is, little understood: Do not think
so poorly of me as to believe that I feign a love
I do not feel. Do not report so ill of me, for
that I could not bear. If I cannot, in reason or
in nature, love the man who pays this price for
my poor hand, I can discharge the duties of a
wife : I can be all he seeks in me, and will. He
is content to take me as I am. I have passed
my word, and should rejoice, not weep, that it
is so. I do. The interest you take in one so
friendless and forlorn as I, the delicacy with
which you have discharged your trust, the faith
you have kept with me, have my warmest
thanks : and, while I make this last feeble ac-
knowledgment, move me to tears, as you see:
But I do not repent, nor am I unhappy. I am
happy in the prospect of all I can achieve so
—u
wº
easily. I shall be more so when I look back
upon it, and all is done, I know.”
“Your tears fall faster as you talk of happi-
ness,” said Nicholas, “and you shun the con-
templation of that dark future which must be
laden with so much misery to you. Defer this
marriage for a week—for but one week l’”
“He was talking, when you came upon us
just now, with such smiles as I remember to
have seen of old, and have not seem for many
and many a day, of the freedom that was to
come to-morrow,” said Madeline with moment-
ary firmness, “ of the welcome change, the
fresh air: all the new scenes and objects that
would bring fresh' life to his exhausted frame.
His eye grew bright, and his face lightened at
the thought: I will not defer it for an hour.”
“These are but tricks and wiles to urge you
on,” cried Nicholas.
“I’ll hear flo more,” said Madeline hurriedly;
“I have heard too much—more than I should
—already. 'What I have said to you, sir, I have
said as to that "dear friend to whom I trust in
you honourably to repeat it. Some time hence,
when I am more composed and reconciled to
my new mode of life, if I should live so long, I
will write to him. Meantime, all holy angels
shower blessings on his head, and prosper and
preserve him 1"
She was hurrying past. Nicholas, when he
threw himself before her, and implored her to
think, but once, again, upon the fate to which
she was precipitately hastcning.
“Thére is no retreat,” said Nicholas in an
agony of supplication; “no withdrawing ! All
regret will be unayailing, and deep and bitter it
must be. . What can I say that will induce you
stopause at this last moment? What can I do
to save you?” 4%
“Nothing,” she incoherently replied. “This
is the hardest trial. I have had. Have mercy on
me, sir, I, beseech, and do not pierce my heart
with such, appeals as these ! I—I hear him
calling. ..I-I—must not, will not, remain here
for another instant.” ". .
“If this were a plot,” said Nicholas with the
same violent rapidity with which she spoke,
“a plot, not yet laid bare by me, but which,
with time, I might unravel; if you were (not
knowing it) entitled to fortune of your own,
which, being recovered, would do all that
this marriage can accomplish, would you not
retract?”
“No, no, no It is impossible! it is a child's
tale. Time would bring his deathſ - He is call-
ing again "
“It may be the last time we shall ever meet
A Z EZ/GAZTAEUZ A OOX.
on earth,” said Nicholas; “it may be better for
me that we should never meet more.”
“For both—for both,” replied Madeline, not
heeding what she said. “The time will come
when to recall the memory of this one interview
might drive me mad. Be sure to tell them that
you left me calm and happy. And God be with
you, sir, and my grateful heart and blessing !”
She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the
house, thought of the hurried scene which had
just closed upon him as if it were the phantom
of some wild, unquiet dream. The day wore
on ; at night, having been enabled in some
measure to collect his thoughts, he issued forth
again.
That night, being the last of Arthur Gride's
bachelorship, found him in tiptop spirits, and
great glee. The bottle-green suit had been
brushed, ready for the morrow, Peg Sliderskew
had rendered the accounts of her past house-
keeping; the eighteen-pence had been rigidly
accounted for (she was never trusted with a
larger sum at once, and the accounts were not
usually balanced more than twice a day); every
preparation had been , made for the coming
festival ; and Arthur might have sat down and
contemplated his approaching happiness, but.
that he preferred sitting down and contem-
plating the entries in a dirty old vellum book
with rusty clasps.
“Well-a-day !” he chuckled, as, sinking on
his knees before a strong chest screwed down
to the floor, he thrust in liis arm nearly up to
the shoulder, and slowly drew forth this greasy
volume. “Well-a-day, now, this is all my library,
but it's one of the most entertaining books that
were ever written l It's a delightful book, and
all true and real—that's the best of it—true as
the Bank of England, and real as its gold-and
silver. Written by Arthur Gride—he, he, he
None of your story-book writers will ever make
as good a book as this, I warrant me. It's cdm-
posed for private circulation—for my own par-
ticular reading, and nobody else's. He, he, he ”
Muttering this soliloquy Arthur carried his
precious volume to the table, and, adjusting it
upon a dusty desk, put on his spectacles, and
began to pore annong the leaves.
“It's a large sum to Mr. Nickleby,” he said
in a dolorous voice.
mine hundred and seventy-five, four, three. Addi-
tional sum, as per bond, five hundred pound.
One thousand, four hundred and seventy-five
pounds, four shillings, and threepence, to-
morrow at twelve o'clock. On the other side,
though, there's the per contra, by means of this
pretty chick. But, again, there's the question
“Debt to be paid in full,
-355
whether I mightn't have brought all this about
myself. ‘Faint heart never won ſair lady.’ Why
was my heart so faint P Why didn't I boldly
open it to Bray myself, and save one thousand
four hundred and seventy-five, four, three ?”
These reflections depressed the old usurer so
much as to wring a feeble groan or two from
his breast, and cause him to declare, with up-
lifted hands, that he would die in a workhouse.
. Remembering, on further cogitation, however,
that under any circumstances he must have
paid, or handsonnely compounded for, Ralph's
debt, and being by no means confident that he
would have succeeded had he undertaken his
enterprise alone, he legained his equanimity,
and chattered and mowed over more satisfac-
tory items, until the entrance of Peg Sliderskew
interrupted him.
“Aha, Peg " said Arthur, “what is it? What
is it now, Peg P”
“It's the fowl,” replied Peg, holding up a
plate containing a little—a very little one—
quite a phenomenon of a fowl—so very small
and skinny.
“A beautiful bird ' " said Arthur after inquir-
ing the price, and finding it proportionate to
the size. “With a rasher of ham, and an egg
made into sauce, and potatoes, and greens, and
an apple-pudding. Psg, and a little bit of cheese,
we shall have a dinner for an emperor. There'll
only be she and me—and you, Peg, when we've
done.”
“Don’t you complain of the expense after-
wards,” said Mrs. Sliderskew sulkily.
“I am afraid we must live expensively for the
first week,” returned Arthur with a groan, “and
then we must make up for it. I won't eat more
than I can help, and I know you love your old
master too much to eat more than yote can help,
don't you, Peg P”
“Don’t I what?” said Peg.
“Love your old master too much——'
“No, not a bit too much,” said Peg.
“Oh dear, I wish the devil had this woman 1"
cried Arthur. —“Love him too much to eat
more than you can help at his expense.”
“At his what P” said Peg.
“Oh dear ! she can never hear the most im-
portant word, and hears all the others " whined
Gride. “At his expense—you catamaran ’’
The last-mentioned tribute to the charms of
Mrs. Sliderskew being uttered in a whisper, that
lady assented to the general proposition by a
harsh growl, which was accompanied by a ring
at the street-door.
“There's the bell,” said Arthur.
“Ay, ay ; I know that,” rejoined Peg.
2.
*
356
AV/CATO/CAS AV/CKZAZA Y.
sº
*m-.
“Then why don't you go?” bawled Arthur.
“Go where P" retorted Peg: “I ain't doing
any harm here, am I ?”
Arthur Gride in reply repeated the word
“bell " as loud as he could roar; and, his
meaning being rendered further intelligible
to Mrs. Sliderskew's dull sense of hearing by
pantomime expressive of ringing at a street-
door, Peg hobbled out, after sharply demanding
why he hadn't said there was a ring before,
instead of talking about all manner of things
that had nothing to do with it, and keeping her
half-pint of beer waiting on the steps.
“There's a change come over you, Mrs. Peg,”
said Arthur, following her out with his eyes.
“What it means I don't quite know ; but, if it
lasts, we shan't agree together long, I see. You
are turning crazy, I think. If you are, you
must take yourself off, Mrs. Peg—or be taken
off. All's one to me. Turning over the leaves
of his, book as he muttered this, he soon lighted
upon something which attracted his attention,
and forgot Peg Sliderskew and everything else
in the engrossing interest of its pages.
The room had no other light than that which
it derived from a dim and dirt-clogged lamp,
whose lazy wick, being still further obscured by
a dark shade, cast its feeble rays over a very
little space, and left all beyond in heavy shadow.
This lamp the money-lender had drawn so close
to him, that there was only room between it and
himself for the book over which he bent; and,
as he sat with his elbows on the desk, and his
sharp cheek bones resting on his hands, it only
served to bring out his ugly features in strong
relief, together with the little table at which he
sat, and to shroud all the rest of the chamber in
a deep sullen gloom. Raising his eyes, and
looking vacantly into this gloom as he made
some mental calculation, Arthur Gride suddenly
met the fixed gaze of a man.
“Thieves thieves 1" shrieked the usurer,
starting up and folding his book to his breast,
“ robbers murder . "
“What is the matter P” said the form, ad-
vancing.
.* Keep off t” cried the trembling wretch.
“Is it a man or a-a 09
“For what do you take me, iſ not for a man?”
was the inquiry.
“Yes, yes,” cried Arthur Gride, shading his
eyes witn his hand, “it is a man, and not a
spirit. It is a man. Robbers Robbers | ".
“For what are these cries raised—unless,
indeed, you know me, and have some purpose
in your brain?” said the stranger, coming close
up to him. “I am no thief."
“What then, and how come you here 2" cried
Gride, somewhat reassured, but still retreating
from his visitor. “What is vour name, and what
do you want?”
“My name you need not know,” was the
reply. “I came here because I was shown the
way by your servant. I have addressed you
twice or thrice, but you were too profoundly
engaged with your book to hear me, and I have
been silently waiting until you should be less
abstracted. What I want I will tell you when
you can summon up courage enough to hear
and understand me.” g
Arthur Gride, venturing to regard his visitor
more attentively, and perceiving that he was
a young man of good mien and bearing, returned
to his seat, and muttering that there were bad
characters about, and that this, with former
attempts upon his house, had made him nervous,
requested his visitor to sit down. This, how-
ever, he declined. -
“Good God . I don't stand up to have you
at an advantage,” said Nicholas (for Nicholas it
was), as he observed a gesture of alarm on the
part of Gride. “Listen to me. You are to be.
married to-morrow morning."
“N—n—no,” rejoined Gride. ,” Who said I
was P. How do you know that?”
“No matter how," replied Nicholas, “I know
it. The young lady who is to give you her
hand hates and despises you. Her blood runs
cold at the mention of your name—the vulture
and the lamb, the rat and the dove, could not
be worse matched than you and she. You see
I know her.”
Gride looked at him as if he were petrified ,
with astonishment, but did not speak perhaps
lacking the power. {
“You and another man, Ralph Nickleby, by
name, have hatched this plot between you,”
pursued Nicholas. “You pay him for his share
in bringing about this sale of Madeline Bray.
You do. A lie is trembling on your lips, I see.”
. He paused; but, Arthur making no reply,
resumed again.
“You pay yourself by defrauding her. How
or by what means—for I scorn to sully her
cause by falsehood or deceit—I do not know;
at present I do not know, but I am not alone or
single-handed in this business. If the energy
of man can compass the discovery of your fraud
and treachery before your death—if wealth,
revenge, and just hatred, can hunt and track
you through your windings—you will yet be
called to a dear account for this. We are on
the scent already—judge you, who know what
we do not, when we shall have you down "
Aw/CHOLAS APPEAZS ZO ARTHUR GRIDE.
He paused again, and still Arthur Gride
glared upon him in silence.’ -
“If you were a man to whom I could appeal
with any hope of touching his compassion or
humanity,” said Nicholas, “I would urge upon
you to remember the helplessness, the innocence,
the youth, of this lady; her worth and beauty,
her filial excellence, and last, and more than all,
as concerning you more nearly, the appeal she
has made to your mercy and your manly feeling.
357
But, I take the only ground that can be taken
with men like you, and ask what money, will
buy you off. Remember the danger to which
you are exposed. You see I know enough to
know much more with very little help. Bate
some expected gain for the risk you save, and
say what is your price.”
Old Arthur Gride moved his lips, but they
only formed an ugly smile, and were motionless
again.
“THIEVES : THIEVES : * SHRIEKED THE USURER, STARTING UP AND FOLDING HIS Book To HIS
BREAST, “ROBBERS MURDER ”
“You think,” said Nicholas, “that the price.
would not be paid. Miss Bray has wealthy
friends who would coin their very hearts: to
save her in such a strait as this. Name your
price, defer these nuptials for but a few days,
and see whether those I speak of shrink from
the payment. Do you hear me P” *
When Nicholas began, Arthur Gride's im-
pression was that Ralph Nickleby had betrayed
him ; but, as , he proceeded, he felt 'convinced
Nicholas NickLERY, 24.
*
that, however he had come by the knowledge
he possessed, the part he acted was a genuine
one, and that with Ralph he had no concern,
All he seemed to know, for certain, was, that he,
Gride, paid Ralph's debt; but that, to anybody
who knew the circumstandes of Bray's detention
—even to Bray himself, on Ralph's own state-
ment—must be perfectly notorious, . As to the
fraud on Madeline herself, his visitor knew so,
little about its nature or extent, that it might
2 23o

358
MYCHIO LAS WZCKZEZ3 V.
be a lucky guess, or a hap-hazard accusation. .
Whether or no, he had clearly no key to the
mystery, and could not hurt him who kept it
close within his own breast. The allusion to
friends, ... and the offer of money, Gride held
to be. mere empty vapouring, for purposes of
delay. “And even if money were to be had,”
thought Arthur Gride as he glanced at Nicholas,
and trembled with passion at his boldness and
audacity, “I’d have that dainty chick for my
wife; and cheat you of her, young smooth-face l’’
Long habit of weighing and noting well what
clients said, and nicely balancing chances in his
mind and calculating odds to their faces, without
the least appearance, of being so engaged, had
rendered Gride quick in forming conclusions,
and arriving, from puzzling, intricate, and often
contradictory premises, at very cunning deduc-
tions. Hence it was that, as Nicholas went
on, he followed him. closely with his own
constructions, and, when he ceased to speak, ,
was as well prepared as if he had deliberated for
a fortnight.
“I hear you;” he cried, starting from his seat,
casting back the fastenings of the window shut-
ters, and throwing up the sash. “Help here !
Help! Help!”
“What are you doing?” said Nicholas, seizing .
him by the arm.
“I’ll cry robbers, thieves, murder, alarm the
neighbourhood, struggle with you, let loose
ome blood, and swear you came to rob me, if.
you don't quit my house,” replied Gride, draw-
ing in his head with a frightful grin, “I will l’
“Wretch | * cried. Nicholas.
“You'll bring your threats here, will you?”
said Gride, whom jealousy of Nicholas and a
sense of his own triumph had converted into a
perfect fiend. “You, the disappointed lover—
oh dear! He he he But you shan’t have
her, nor she you. She's my wife, my doting
little wife. Do you think she'll miss you? Do
you think she'll weep P I shall like to see
her weep—Ishan't mind it. She looks prettier
in tears.”
“Villain 1" said Nicholas, choking with his
rage.
“One minute more,” cried Arthur Gride,
“and I’ll rouse the street with such screams as,
if they were raised by anybody else, should wake
me even in the arms of pretty Madeline.”
“You hound !” said Nicholas. “If you were
but a younger man 3)
“Oh yes 1” sneered Artkur Gride, “if I was
but a younger man it wouldn't be so bad ; but
for me, so old and ugly—to be jilted by little
Madeline for me !”
|.
ſº take breath. *
“Hear me,” said Nicholas, “and be thankful
I have enough command over myself not to
fling you into the street, which no aid could
prevent my doing if I once grappled with you.
I have been no lover of this lady's. No con-
tract or engagement, no word of love, has ever
passed between us. She does not even know
my name.” f
“I’ll ask it for all that—I'll beg it of her with
kisses,” said Arthur Gride. “Yes, and she'll
tell me, and pay them back, and we'll laugh
together, and hug ourselyes—and be very merry
—when we think of the poor youth that wanted
to have her, but couldn't because she was
bespoke by me !’ '
This taunt brought such an expression into
the face of Nicholas, that Arthur Gride plainly
apprehended it to be the forerunner; of his
putting his threat of throwing him into the
street in immediate execution; for hētārust his
head out of the window, and, holding fight on
with both hands, raised a pretty brisk.alarm. .
Not thinking it necessary to abide the issue of
the noise, Nicholas gave vent to anºindignant

defiance, and stalked from the room and from
the house. Arthur Gride watched him across
the street, and then, drawing in his head,
fastened the window as before, and sat dºwn to
“If she ever turns pettish or ill-humoured,
I'll taunt her with that spark,” he said when he
had recovered. “She’ll little think I, know
about him; and, if I manage it well, . I can
break her spirit by this smeans, and have her
under my thumb. I'm glad nobody. Came. I
didn't call too loud. The audacity to enter my
house, and open upon me! But I shall...have
a very good triumph to-morrow, and he'll be
gnawing his fingers off: perhapsºdrownshipself
or cut his throat I shouldn't wonder: That
would make it quite completº...that would—
quite.” +. . . . . º. A "&" .
When he had become restored to :hisºsual
condition by these and other comments an his
approaching triumph, Arthur Gride put away his
book, ... locked the chest with great
caution, descended into the kitchen to warn
Peg Sliderskew to bed, and scold her for
having afforded such ready admission to a
Stranger.
The unconscious Peg, however, not being
able to comprehend the offence of which she
had been guilty, he summoned her to hold the
light, while he made a tour of the fastenings,


, and secured the street-door with his own hands.
“Top bolt,” muttered Arthur, fastening as he
spoke, “bottom bolt—chain—bar—double lock
7"HE WEZ) D.IMG MOA-AW/AWG.
—and key out to put under my pillow ! So, if any
more rejected admirers come, they may come
through the keyhole. And now I'll go to sleep
till half-past five, when I must get up to be
married, Peg | "
With that, he jocularly tapped. Mrs. Sliderskew
under the chin, and appeared, for the moment,
inclined to celebrate the close of his bachelor
days by imprinting a kiss on her shrivelled lips.
Thinking better of it, however, he gave her chin
another tap, in lieu of that warmer familiarity,
and stole away to bed.
-Q-
CHAPTER LIV.
THE CRISIs of THE PROJECT, AND ITS RESULT.
£2 sº-
abed too late, or oversleep them-
-- selves, on their wedding morning.
2} \ º A legend there is of somebody re-
Åsº markable for absence of mind, who
§) opened his eyes upon the day which was
§2 to give him a young wife, and, forgetting
all about the matter, rated his servants for
providing him with such fine clothes as had been
prepared for the festival. There is also a legend
of a young gentleman who, not having before his
eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such
cases made and provided, conceived a passion
for his grandmother. Both cases are of a singular
and special kind, and it is very doubtful whether
either can be considered as a precedent likely to
be extensively followed by succeeding genera-
tions:
Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his mar-
riage garments of bottle-green a full hour before .
Mrs. Sliderskew, shaking off her more heavy
slumbers, knocked at his chamber door; and
he had hobbled down-stairs in full array, and
Smacked his lips over a scanty taste of his
favourite cordial, ere that delicate piece of
antiquity enlightened the kitchen with her
presence.
“Faugh 1” said Peg, grubbing, in the dis-
charge of her domestic functions, among a
scanty heap of ashes in the rusty grate. “Wed-
ding indeed 1. A precious wedding He wants
Somebody better than his old Peg to take care
of him, does he? And what has he said to me,
many and many a time, to keep me content with
short food, small wages, and little fire? “My
will, Peg I my will I’ says he, “I’m a bachelor
—no friends—no relations, Peg. Lies Aad
now he's to bring home a new mistress, a baby-
359
faced chit of a girl! If he wanted a wife, the
fool, why couldn't he have one suitable to his
age, and that knew his ways P She won't come
in my way, he says. No, that she won't, but
you little think why, Arthur boy 1 °
While Mrs. Sliderskew, influenced possibly by
some lingering feelings of disappointment and
personal slight, occasioned by her old master's
preference for another, was giving loose to these
grumblings below-stairs, Arthur Gride was cogi-
tating in the parlour upon what had taken place
last night.
“I can’t think how he can have picked up
what he knows,” said Arthur, “unless I have
committed myself—let something drop at Bray’s,
for instance, which has been overheard. Per-
haps I may. I shouldn’t be surprised if that was
it. Mr. Nickleby was often angry at my talking
to him before we got outside the door. I mustn't
tell him that part of the business, or he'll put me
out of sorts, and make me nervous for the day,”
Ralph was universally looked up to, and fe-
cognised among his fellows as a superior genius,
but upon Arthur Gride his stern unyielding cha-
racter and consummate art had made so deep
an impression, that he was actually afraid of
him. Cringing and cowardly to the core by
nature, Arthur Gride humbled himself in the
dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when
they had not this stake in common, would have
licked his shoes and crawled upon the ground
before him rather than venture to return him
word for word, or retort upon him in any other
spirit than one of the most slavish and abject
sycophancy.
To Ralph Nickleby's Arthur Gride now be-
took himself according to appointment; and to
Ralph Nickleby he related how, last night, some
young blustering blade, whom he had never seen,
forced his way into his house, and tried to frighten
him from the proposed nuptials: told, in short,
what Nicholas had said and done, with the slight
reservation upon which he had determined.
“Well, and what then P” said Ralph.
Qh nothing more," rejoined Gride.
“He tried to frighten you,” said Ralph, “and
you were frightened I suppose; is that it?”
“I frightened him by crying thieves and
murder,” replied Gride. “Once I was in
earnest, I tell you that, for I had more than
half a mind to swear he uttered threats, and
demanded my life or my money.”
“Oho!” said Ralph, eyeing him askew.
“Jealous, too !”
“Dear now, see that t” cried Arthur, rubbing
his hands and affecting to laugh.
“Why do you make those grimaces, man?”



360
AV/CHOLAS AVICKZEB Y.
said Ralph. “You are jealous—and with good
cause I think.”
“No, no, no, -not with good cause, hey?.
You don't think with good cause, do you ?”
cried Arthur, faltering. “Do you, though—"
hey P”.
“Why, how stands the fact?” returned Ralph.
“Here is an old man about to be forced in
marriage upon a girl; and to this old man there
comes a handsome young fellow— You said
he was handsome, didn't you?”
“No 1" snarled Arthur Gride.
“Oh ſ” rejoined Ralph, “I thought you did.
Well ! Handsome or not handsonne, to this old
man there comes a young fellow who casts all
manner of fierce defiances in his teeth—gums I
should rather say—and tells him in plain terms
that his mistress hates him. What does he do
that for P Philanthropy's sake?”
“Not for love of the lady,” replied Gride, “for
he said that no word of love—his very words
—had ever passed between 'em.”
“He said: " repeated Ralph contemptuously.
“But I like him for one thing, and that is, his
giving you this fair warning to keep your—what
is it?—Tit-tit or dainty chick—which 2–under
lock and key. Be careful, Gride, be careful.
It's a triumph, too, to tear her away from a
gallant young rival: a great triumph for an old
man It only remains to keep her safe when
you have her—that's all.”
“What a man it is t” cried Arthur Gride,
affecting, in the extremity of his torture, to be
highly amused. And then he added anxiously,
“Yes; to keep her safe, that's all. And that
isn't much, is it?”
“Much I’” said Ralph with a sneer.
everybody knows what easy things to under-
stand and to control women are. But come,
it's very nearly time for you to be made happy.
You'll pay the bond now, I suppose, to save us
trouble afterwards P’’
“Oh, what a man you are " croaked Arthur.
“Why not?” said Ralph. “Nobody will pay
you interest for the money, I suppose, between
this and twelve o'clock, will they P”
“But nobody would pay you interest for it
either, you know,” returned Arthur, leering at.
Ralph with all the cunning and slyness he could
throw into his face.
“Besides which,” said Ralph, suffering his lip
to curl into a smile, “you haven’t the money
about you, and you weren't prepared for this,
or you'd have brought it with you; and there's.
nobody you'd so much like to accommodate as
me. I see. We trust each other in about an
equal degree. Are you ready ?”
“Why, .
Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and
nod, and chatter during this last speech of
Ralph's, answered in the affirmative; and, pro-
ducing from his hat a couple of large white
favours, pinned one on his breast, and with con-
siderable difficulty induced his friend' to do the
like. Thus accoutred, they got into a hired
coach which Ralph had in waiting, and drove
to the residence of the fair and most wretched
bride. -
Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradu-
ally failed him more and more as they "ap-
proached nearer and nearer to the house, was
utterly dismayed and cowed by the mournful
silence which pervaded it. The face of the poor
servant-girl, the only person they saw, was dis-
figured with tears and want of sleep. There was
nobody to receive or welcome them; and they
stole up-stairs into the usual sitting-room more
like two burglars than the bridegroom and his
friend. •
“One would think,” said Ralph, speaking, in
spite of himself, in a low and subdued voice,
“that there was a funeral going on here, and
not a wedding.”
“He, he " tittered his friend, “you are so—
so very funny ?”
“I need be,” remarked Ralph drily, “for this
is rather dull and chilling. Look a little brisker,
man, and not so hang-dog like | "
“Yes, yes, I will,” said Gride. “But—but—
you don't think she's coming just yet, do you?”
“Why, I suppose she'll not come till she is
obliged,” returned Ralph, looking at his watch,
“and she has a good half-hour to spare yet.
Curb your impatience.”
“I—I—am not impatient,” stammered Arthur.
“I wouldn't be hard with her for the world.
Oh dear, dear, not on any account | Let her
take her time—her own time. Her time shall
be ours by all means.”
While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend
a keen look, which showed that he perfectly un-
derstood the reason of this great consideration
and regard, a footstep was heard upon the stairs,
and Bray himself came into the room on tiptoe,
and holding up his hand with a cautious gesture,
as if there were some sick person near, who
must not be disturbed.
“Hush 1” he said in a low voice. “She was
very ill last night. I thought she would have
broken her heart. She is dressed, and crying
bitterly in her own room; but she's better, and
quite quiet—that's everything !”
“She is ready, is she?" said Ralph.
“Quite ready,” returned the father. -
“And not likely to delay us by any young.
REASS UR/AWG THE BRIDE'S FA THER.
lady weaknesses—fainting, or so forth P” said
Ralph.
“She may be safely trusted now,” returned
Bray. “I have been talking to her this morning.
Here—come a little this way.”
. He drew Ralph Nickleby to the further end of
the room, and pointed towards Gride, who sat
huddled together in a corner, fumbling nervously
with the buttons of his coat, and exhibiting a
face, of which every skulking and base expres-
sion was sharpened and aggravated to the utmost
by his anxiety and trepidation.
º
º
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| t
#.
º N N.
361
“Look at that man,” whispered Bray em.
phatically. “This seems a cruel thing, after
all.”
“What seems a cruel thing?” inquired Ralph
with as much stolidity of face as if he really
were in utter ignorance of the other's meaning.
“This marriage,” answered Bray. “Uon't ask
me what. You know as well as I do."
Ralph snrugged his shoulders, in silent depre-
cation of Bray's impatience, and elevated his
eyebrows, and pursed his lips, as men do when
they are prepared with a sufficient answer to
“HE DREW RALPH NICKLEBY TO THE FURTHER END OF THE ROOM, AND POINTED TOWARDS GRIDE, WHO
SAT HUDDLED TOGETHER IN A corn ER, FUMBLING NERVOUSLY WITH THE BUTTONS OF HIS COAT,
AND EXHIBITING A FACE, OF WHICH EVERY SKULKING AND BASE EXPRESSION WAS SHARPENED AND
AGGRAVATED TO THE UTMOST BY HIS ANXIETY AND TREPIDATION.”
Some remark, but wait for a more favourable
opportunity of advancing it, or think it scarcely
worth while to answer their adversary at all.
“Look at him. Does it not seem cruel ?”
said Bray.
“No 1" replied Ralph boldly.
“I say it does,” retorted Bray with a show of
much, irritation. “It is a cruel thing, by all
that's bad and treacherous !”
When men are about to commit, or to sanction
the commission, of some injustice. it is not un-
common for them to express pity or the object
either of that or some parallel proceeding, and
to feel themselves, at the time, quite virtuous
and moral, and immensely superior to , those
who express no pity at all. This is a kind of
upholding of faith above works, and is very
comfortable. To do Ralph Nickleby justice,
he seldom practised this sort of dissimulation;
but he understood those who did, and therefore
suffered Bray to say, again and again, with great
vehemence, that they were jointly doing a 'very

362
AVYCHOLAS AWWCKLE B Y.
cruel thing, before he again offered to interpose
a word.
“You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old
chip it is,” returned Ralph when the other was
at length silent. “If he were younger, it might
be cruel, but as it is—harkee, Mr. Bray, he'll die
soon, and leave her a rich young widow ! Miss
Madeline consults your tastes this time; let her
consult her own next.”
“True, true,” said Bray, biting his mails, and
plainly very ill at ease. “I couldn't do any-
thing better for her than advise her to accept
these proposals, could I? Now, I ask you,
Nickleby, as a man of the world—coxld I ?”
“Surely not,” answered Ralph. “I tell you
what, sir; there are a hundred fathers, within a
circuit of five miles from this place; well off;
good, rich, substantial men; who would gladly
give their daughters, and their own ears with
them, to that very man yonder, ape and mummy
as he looks.” §
“So there are ſ” exclaimed Bray, eagerly
catching at anything which seemed a justifica-
tion of himself. “And so I told her, both last
night and to-day.”
“You told her truth,” said Ralph, “and did
well to do so ; though I must say, at the same
time, that if I had a daughter, and my freedom,
pleasure, nay, my very health and life, depended
on her taking a husband whom I pointed out, I
should hope it would not be necessary to advance
any other arguments to induce her to consent to
my wishes.” f
Bray looked at Ralph as if to see whether he
spoke in earnest, and, having nodded twice or
thrice in unqualified assent to what had fallen
from him, said:
“I must go up-stairs for a few minutes, to
finish dressing. When I come down I'll bring
Madeline with me. Do you know, I had a very
strange dream last night, which I have not
remembered till this instant. I dreamt that it
was this morning, and you and I had been talk-
ing as we have been this minute ; that I went
up-stairs, for the very purpose for which I am
going now ; and that, as I stretched out my
hand to take Madeline's, and lead her down,
the floor sunk with me, and, after falling ſrom
such an indescribable and tremendous height as
the imagination scarcely conceives, except in
dreams, I alighted in a grave.”
“And you awoke, and found you were lying
on your back, or with your head hanging over
the bedside, or suffering some pain from indi-
gestion ?” said Ralph. “Pshaw, Mr. Bray, do
as I do (you will have the opportunity, now that
a constant round of plcasure and enjoyment
opens upon you), and, occupying yourself a
little more by day, have no time to think of
what you dream by night.”
Ralph followed him with a steady look to the
door; and, turning to the bridegroom when they
were again alone, said:
“Mark my words, Gride, you won't have to
pay his annuity very long. You have the devil's
luck in bargains always. If he is not booked
to make the long voyage before many months
are past and gone, I wear an orange for a
head l’”
To this prophecy, so agreeable to his ears,
Arthur returned no answer than a cackle of great
delight. Ralph, throwing himself into a chair,
they both sat waiting in profound silence.
Ralph was thinking, with a sneer upon his lips,
on the altered manner of Bray that day, and
how soon their fellowship in a bad design had
lowered his pride and established a familiarity
between them, when his attentive ear caught the
•rustling of a female dress upon the stairs, and
the footstep of a man.
“Wake up,” he said, stamping his foot impa-
tiently upon the ground, “and be something
like life, man, will you? They are here. Urge
those dry old bones of vours this way—quick,
man, quick 1"
Gride shambled forward, and stood, leering
and bowing, close by Ralph's side, when the
door opened, and there entered in haste—not
Bray and his daughter, but Nicholas and his
sister Kate.
If some tremendous apparition from the world
of shadows had suddenly presented itself before
him, Ralph Nickleby could not have been more
thunder-stricken than he was by this surprise.
His hands fell powerless by his side, he reeled
back; and with open mouth, and a face of ashy
paleness, stood gazing at them in specchless
rage; his eyes so prominent, and his face so
convulsed and changed by the passions which
raged within him, that it would have been diffi-
cult to recognise in him the same stern, com-
posed, hard-featured man he had been not a
minute ago.
“The man that came to me last night,” whis-
pered Gride, plucking at his elbow. “The man
that came to me last night !”
“I see,” muttered Ralph, “I know ! I might
have guessed as much before. Across my every
path, at every turn, go where I will, do what I
may, he comes "
The absence of all colour from the face ; the
dilated nostril; the quivering of the lips which,
though set firmly against each other, would not
be still ; showed what emotions were struggling
AºAMILY AORTRAZ 7.S.
363
for the mastery with Nicholas. But he kept
them down, and, gently pressing Kate's arm to
reassure her, stood erect and undaunted, front to
front with his unworthy relative.
As the brother and sister stood side by side,
with a gallant bearing which became them well,
a close likeness between them was apparent,
which many, had they only seen them apart,
might have failed to remark. The air, carriage,
and very look and expression of the brother
were all reflected in the sister, but softened and
refined to the nicest limit of feminine delicacy
and attraction. More striking still was some
indefinable resemblance, in the face of Ralph,
to both. While they had never looked more
handsome, nor he more ugly ; while they had
never held themselves more proudly, nor he
shrunk half so low ; there never had been a
time when this resemblance was so perceptible,
or when all the worst characteristics of a face
rendered coarse and harsh by evil thoughts were
half so manifest as now.
“Away !” was the first word he could utter
as he literally gnashed his teeth. “Away !
What brings you here 2 Liar—scoundrel—
dastard—thief "
“I come here,” said Nicholas in a low deep
voice, “to save your victim if I can. Liar and
scoundrel you are, in every action of your life;
theft is your trade; and double dastard you
must be, or you were not here to-day. Hard
words will not move me, nor would hard blows.
Here I stand, and will, till I have done my
errand.”
“Girl " said Ralph, “retire . We can use
force to him, but I would not hurt you if I
could help it. Retire, you weak and silly
wench, and leave this dog to be dealt with as he
deserves.”
“I will not retire,” cried Kate with flashing
eyes, and the red blood mantling in her cheeks.
“You will do him no hurt that he will not
repay. You may use force, with me; I think
you will, for I am a girl, and that would well
become you. But, if I have a girl's weakness, I
have a woman's heart, and it is not you who in
a cause like this can turn that from its pur-
pose.”
“And what may your purpose be, most lofty
lady ?” said Ralph. 4."
“To offer to the unhappy subject of your
treachery, at this last moment,” replied Nicho-
las, “a refuge and a home. If the near pros-
Pect of such a husband as you have provided
will not prevail upon her, I hope she may be
moved by the prayers and entreaties of one of
her own sex. At all events, they shall be tried.
| if you stop here P No answer
I myself, avowing to her father from whom I
come and by whom I am commissioned, will
render it an act of greater baseness, meanness,
and cruelty in him if he still dares to force this
marriage on. Here I wait to see him and his
daughter. For this I came and brought my
sister even into your presence. Our purpose is
not to see or speak with you ; therefore to you
we stoop to say no more.”
“Indeed " said Ralph. “You persist in
remaining here, ma'am, do you?”
His niece's bosom heaved with the indignant
excitement into which he had lashed her, but
she gave him no reply.
“Now, Gride, see here,” said Ralph. “This
fellow—I grieve to say, my brother's son : a
reprobate and profligate, stained with every
mean and selfish crime—this fellow, coming
here to-day to disturb a solemn ceremony, and
knowing that the consequence of his presenting
himself in another man's house at such a time,
and persisting in remaining there, must be his
being kicked into the streets and dragged
through them like the vagabond he is—this
fellow, mark you, brings with him his sister as a
protection, thinkins we would not expose a silly
girl to the degradation and indignity which is no
novelty to him ; and, even after I have warned
her of what must ensue, he still keeps her by
him, as you see, and clings to her apron-strings
like a cowardly boy to his mother's. Is not
this a pretty fellow to talk as big as you have
heard him now P”
“And as I heard him last night,” said Arthur
Gride ; “as I heard him last night, when he
sneaked into my house, and—he he he ſ—
very soon sneaked out again, when I nearly
frightened him to death. And he wanting to
marry Miss Madeline too ! Oh dear ! Is there
anything else he'd like—anything else we can do
for him, besides giving her up 2 Would he like
his debts paid and his house furnished, and a
few bank notes for shaving paper, if he shaves
at all P He he he ”
“You will remain, girl, will you?” said Ralph,
turning upon Kate again, “to be hauled down-
stairs like a drunken drab–as I swear you shall
- Thank your
Gride, call down
Let them keep
brother for what follows.
Bray—and not his daughter.
her above.”
“If you value your head,” said Nicholas,
taking up a position before the door, and speak-
ing in the same low voice in which he had
spoken before, and with no more outward, pas-
sion than he had before displayed; “stay where
you are : ”
364
NICHOLAS WICKZEBY
“Mind me, and not him, and call down
Bray,” said Ralph. &
“Mind yourself rather than either of us, and
stay where you are ſ” said Nicholas.
“Will you call down Bray P” cried Ralph.
“Remember that you come near me at your
peril,” said Nicholas. * .
Gride hesitated. Ralph being, by this time,
as furious as a baffled tiger, made for the door,
and, attempting to pass Kate, clasped her arm
roughly with his hand. Nicholas, with his eyes
darting fire, seized him by the collar. At that
moment a heavy body fell with great violence
on the floor above, and, in an instant afterwards,
was heard a most appalling and terrific scream.
They all stood still, and gazed upon each
other. Scream succeeded scream ; a heavy
pattering of feet succeeded ; and many shrill
voices clamouring together were heard to cry,
“He is dead . " *
“Stand off "cried Nicholas, letting loose all
the passion he had restrained till now. “If this
is what I scarcely dare to hope it is, you are
caught, villains, in your own toils.”
He burst from the room, and, darting up-stairs
to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded,
forced his way through a crowd of persons who
quite filled a small bedchamber, and found
Bray lying on the floor quite dead; his daughter
clinging to the body.
“How did this happen?” he cried, looking
wildly about him.
Several voices answered together that he had
been observed, through the half-opened door,
reclining in a strange and uneasy position upon
a chair; that he had been spoken to several
times, and, not answering, was supposed to be
asleep, until some person going in and shaking
him by the arm, he fell heavily to the ground,
and was discovered to be dead
“Who is the owner of this house P” said
Nicholas hastily.
An elderly woman was pointed out to him ;
and to her he said, as he knelt down and gently
unwound Madeline's arms from the lifeless mass
round which they were entwined: “I represent
this lady's nearest friends, as her servant here
knows, and must remove her from this dreadful
scene. This is my sister to whose charge you
confide her. My name and address are upon
that card, and you shall receive from me all
necessary directions for the arrangements that
must be made. Stand aside, every one of you,
and give me room and air for God's sake!”
The people fell back, scarce wondering more
at what had just occurred than at the excitement
and impetuosity of him who spoke. Nicholas,
In their name I bear her hence.
taking the insensible girl in his arms, bore her
from the Ghamber, and down-stairs into the room
he had just quitted, followed by his sister and
the faithful servant, whom he charged to procure
a coach directly, while he and Kate bent over
their beautiful charge, and endeavoured, but in
vain, to restore her to animation. The girl per-
formed her office with such expedition, that in a
very few minutes the coach was ready. .
Ralph Nickleby and Gride, stunned and para-
lysed by the awful event which had so suddenly
overthrown their schemes (it would not Öther-
wise, perhaps, have made much impression on
them), and carried away by the extraordinary
energy and precipitation of Nicholas, which bore
down all before him, looked on at these proceed.
ings like men in a dream or trance. It was not,
until every preparation was made for Madeline's
immediate removal that Ralph broke silence by
declaring she should not be taken away.
“Who says so P” cried Nicholas, rising from
his knee and confronting them, but still retain-
ing Madeline's lifeless hand in his.
“I 1" answered Ralph hoarsely.
“Hush, hush!” cried the terrified Gride, catch-
ing him by the arm again. “Hear what he says.”
“Ay!” said Nicholas, extending his disengaged
hand in the air, “hear what he says. . That both
your debts are paid in the one great debt of
nature—that the bond, due to-day at twelve, is
now waste paper—that your contemplated fraud
shall be discovered yet—that your schemes are
known to man, and overthrown by Heaven—
wretches, that he defies you both to do your
worst t” - -
“This man,” said Ralph in a voice scarcely
intelligible, “this man claims his wife, and he
shall have her.” •
“That man claims what is not his, and he
should not have her if he were fiſhy men, with
fifty more to back him,” said Nicholas.
“Who shall prevent him P”
“I will.”
“By what right I should like to know," said
Ralph. “By what right I ask?” .
“By this right—that, knowing what I do, you
dare not tempt me further,” said Nicholas; “and
by this better right—that those I serve, and with
whom you would have done me base wrong and
injury, are her nearest and her dearest friends.
Give way!”
“One word I", cried Ralph, foaming at the
mouth. • -
“Not one,” replied Nicholas, “I will not head
of one—save this. Look to yourself, and heed
this warning that I give you ! Your day is past,
and night is coming on y?
MADELINE IS RESCUED.
365
“My curse, my bitter, deadly curse, upon
you, boy " - .
“Whence will curses come at your command?
or what avails a curse, or blessing from a man
like you? I tell you that misfortune and dis-
covery are thickening about your head ; that
the structures you have raised, through all your
ill-spent life, are crumbling into dust; that your
path is beset with spies; that this very day ten
thousand pounds of your hoarded wealth have
gone in one great crash l’ -
“'Tis false 1" cried Ralph, shrinking back.
“”Tis true, and you shall find it so. I have
no more words to waste. Stand from the door!
Kate, do you go first. Lay not a hand on her,
or on that woman, or on me, or so much as
brush their garments as they pass you by 1–You
let them pass, and he blocks the door again "
Arthur Gride happened to be in the doorway,
but whether intentionally or from confusion was
not quite apparent. Nicholas swung him away
with such violence as to cause him to spin round
the room until he was caught by a sharp angle of
the wall, and there knocked down ; and then,
taking his beautiful burden in his arms, rushed
out. No one cared to stop him, if any were so
disposed. Making his way through a mob of
people, whom a report of the circumstances had
attracted round the house, and carrying Made-
line, in his excitement, as easily as if she were
an infant, he reached the coach in which Kate
and the girl were already waiting, and, confiding
his charge to them, jumped up beside the coach-
nan, and bade him drive away.
CHAPTER LV.
of FAMILY MATTERS, CAREs, HOPES, DISAPPoint-
MENTS, AND SORROWS.
ºf LTHOUGH Mrs. Nickleby had been
All made acquainted by her son and
daughter with every circumstance of
Madeline Bray's history which was
known to thern ; although the re-
sponsible situation in which Nicholas
º stood had been carefully explained
š to her, and she had been prepared, even
for the possible contingency of having to receive
the young lady in her own house—improbable
as such a result had appeared only a few minutes
before it came about—still, Mrs. Nickleby, from
the moment when this confidence was first re-
posed in her, late on the previous evening, had
remained in an unsatisfactory and profoundly
t
mystified state, from which no explanations or
arguments could relieve her, and which every
fresh soliloquy and reflection only aggravated
more and more.
“Bless my heart, Kate 1" so the good lady
argued; “if the Mr. Cheerybles don't want this
young lady to be married, why don't they file a
bill against the Lord Chancellor, make her a
Chancery ward, and shut her up in the Fleet
Prison for safety 2–I have read of such things
in the newspapers a hundred times—or, if they
are so very fond of her as Nicholas says they are,
why don't they marry her themselves—one of
them I mean 2 And even supposing they don't
want her to be married, and don't want to marry
her themselves, why in the name of wonder
should Nicholas go about the world forbidding
people's banns P” ..
“I don’t think you quite understand,” said
Kate gently.
“Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you're very
polite 1" replied Mrs. Nickleby. “I have been
married myself I hope, and I have seen other
people married. Not understand, indeed "
“I know you have had great experience, dear
mamma,” said Kate; “I mean that perhaps you
don't quite understand all the circumstances in
this instance. We have stated them awkwardly,
I dare say.” .
“That I dare say you have,” retorted her
mother briskly. “That's very likely. I am not
to be held accountable for that; though, at the
same time, as the circumstances speak for them-
selves, I shall take the liberty, my love, of say-
ing that I do understand them, and perfectly
well too; whatever you and Nicholas may
choose to think to the contrary. Why is such
a great fuss made because this Miss Magdalen
is going to marry somebody who is older than
herself? Your poor papa was older than I was
—four years and a half older. Jane Dibabs—
the Dibabses lived in the beautiful little thatched
white house one story high, covered all over
with ivy and creeping plants, with an exquisite
little porch with twining honeysuckles and all
sorts of things: where the earwigs used to fall
into one's tea on a summer evening, and always
fell upon their backs, and kicked dreadfully, and
where the frogs used to get into the rushlight
shades when one stopped all night, and sit up
and look through the little holes like Christians
—Jane Dibab she married a man who was a
#. deal older than herself, and would marry
im, notwithstanding all that could be said to
the contrary, and she was so fond of him that
nothing was ever equal to it. There was no fuss
made about Jane Dibabs, and her husband was

366 \
AV/CHOLAS AWCKZEBY.
a most honourable and excellent man, and every-
body spoke well of him. Then why should
there be any fuss about this Magdalen P”
“Her husband is much older; he is not her
own choice; his character is the very reverse of
that which you have just described. Don't you
See a broad distinction between the two cases?”
said Kate.
To this Mrs. Nickleby only replied that she
durst say she was very stupid, indeed, she had
no doubt she was, for her own children almost
as much as told her so, every day of her life.
To be sure she was a little older than they, and
perhaps some foolish people might think she
ought reasonably to know best. However, no
doubt she was wrong ; of course she was—she
always was—she couldn't be right, indeed—
couldn't be expected to be—“so she had better
not expose herself any more; and to all Kate's
conciliations and concessions, for an hour en-
suing, the good lady gave no other replies
than—Oh, certainly!—why did they ask her ?—
her opinion was of no consequence—it didn’t
matter what she said—with many other rejoinders
of the same class.
In this frame of mind (expressed, when she
had become too resigned for speech, by nods of
the head, upliftings of the eyes, and little begin-
nings of groans, converted, as they attracted
attention, into short coughs) Mrs. Nickleby re-
mained until Nicholas and Kate returned with
the object of their solicitude; when, having by
this time asserted her own importance, and be-
coming, besides, interested in the trials of one so
young and beautiful, she not only displayed the
utmost zeal and solicitude, but took great credit
to herself for recommending the course of pro-
cedure which her son had adopted: frequently
declaring, with an expressive look, that it was
very fortunate things were as they were: and
hinting that, but for great encouragement and
wisdom on her own part, they never could have
been brought to that pass.
Not to strain the question whether Mrs.
Nickleby had or had not any great hand in
bringing matters about, it is unquestionable that
she had strong ground for exultation. The
brothers, on their return, bestowed such com-
mendations on Nicholas for the part he had
taken, and evinced so much joy at the altered
state of events, and the recovery of their young.
friend from trials so great and dangers so threat-
ening, that, as she more than once informed her
daughter, she now considered the fortunes of the
family “as good as "made. Mr. Charles Cheery-
ble, indeed, Mrs. Nickleby positively asserted,
had, in the first transports of his surprise and
and so long sought in vain P
delight, “as good...as “ said so. Without pre-
cisely explaining what this qualification meant,
she subsided, whenever she mentioned the sub-
ject, into such a mysterious and important state,
and had such visions of wealth and dignity in
perspective, that (vague and clouded though
they were) she was, at such times, almost as
happy as if she had, really been permanently
provided for on a scale of great splendour.
The sudden and terrible shock she had
received, combined with the great affliction and
anxiety of mind which she had, for a long
time, endured; proved too much for Madeline's
strength. Recovering from the state of stupefac-
tion into which the sudden death of her father
happily plunged her, she only exchanged that
condition for one of dangerous and active ill-
ness. When the delicate physical powers which
have been sustained by an unnatural strain upon
the mental energies, and a resolute determination
not to yield, at last give way, their degree of
prostration is usually proportionate to the
strength of the effort which has previously up-
held them. Thus it was that the illness which
fell on Madeline was of no slight or temporary
nature, but one which, for a time, threatened
her reason, and—scarcely worse—her life itself.
Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so
severe and dangerous, could be insensible to
the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as
gentle, tender, earnest Kate P On whom could
the sweet soft voice, the light step, the delicate
hand, the quiet, cheerful, noiseless discharge of
those thousand little offices of kindness and
relief which we feel so deeply when we are ill,
and forget so lightly when we are well—on
whom could they make so deep an impression
as on a young heart stored with every pure and
true affection that women cherish ; almost a
stranger to the endearments and devotion of its
own sex, save as it learnt them from itself; and
rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly
susceptible of the sympathy so long unknown
What wonder
that days became as years in knitting them
together P "What wonder if, with every hour of
returning health, there came some stronger and
sweeter recognition of the praises which Kate,
when they recalled old scenes—they seemed old
now, and to have been acted years ago—would
lavish on her brother ? Where would have been
the wonder, even, if those praises had found a
quick response in the breast of Madeline, and
if, with the image of Nicholas so constantly
recurring in the features of his sister that she
could scarcely separate the two, she had some-
times found it equally difficult to assign to each
*~
f
MA.S.“AWACKLEBYSEDIAZOMATIC 'REZAZZONS.
367
the feelings they had first inspired, and had
imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to
Nicholas some of that warmer ſeeling which she
had assigned to Kate P
“My dear,” Mrs. Nickleby would say, coming
into the room with an elaborate caution, cal-,
culated to discompose the nerves of an invalid
rather more than the entry of a horse-soldier at
full gallop; “how do you find yourself to-night?'
I hope you are better.”
“Almost well, mamma,” Kate would reply, .
łaying down her work, and taking Madeline's
hand in hers. -
“Kate 1" Mrs. Nickleby would say reprov-
ingly, “don’t talk so loud’’ (the worthy lady
herself talking in a whisper that would have
made the blood of the stoutest man run cold in
his veins).
Kate would take this reproof very quietly,
and Mrs. Nickleby, making every board creak
and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily
about, would add : *
“My son Nicholas has just come home, and
I have come, according to custom, my dear,
to know, from your own lips, exactly how you
are ; for he won't take my account, and never
will.” -
“He is later than usual to-night,” perhaps
Madeline would reply. “Nearly half an hour.”
“Well, I never saw such people in all my
life as you are, for time, up here !” Mrs. Nickleby
would exclaim in great astonishment; “I declare
I never did I had not the least idea that
Nicholas was after his time—not the smallest.
Mr. Nickleby used to say—your poor papa I
am speakings of, Kate, my dear—used to say
that appetite was the best clock in the world,
but you have no appetite, my dear Miss Bray, I
wish you had, and upon my word I really think
you ought to take something that would give
you one. I am sure I don't know, but I have
heard that two or three dozen native lobsters
give an appetite, though that comes to the same
thing after all, for I suppose you must have an
appetite before you can take 'em.
lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it's all
the same, though really how you came to know
about Nicholas—— •
“We happened to be just talking about him,
mannia; that was it.”
“You never seem to me to be talking about
anything else, Kate, and upon my word I am
quite surprised at your being so very thoughtless.
You can find subjects enough to talk, about
sometimes, and when you know how important
it is to keep up Miss Bray's spirits, and interest
her, and all that, it really is quite extraordinary
If I said -
to me what can induce you to keep on prose,
prose, prose, din, din, din, everlastingly upon
the same theme. You are a very kind nurse,
Kate, and a very good one, and I know you
mean very well ; but I will say, this—that, if it
wasn't for me, I really don't know what would
become of Miss Bray's spirits, and so I tell the
doctor every day. He says he wonders how I
sustain my own, and I am sure I very often
wonder myself how I can contrive to keep up as
I do. Of course it's an exertion, but still, when
I know how much depends upon me in this
house, I am obliged to make it. There's nothing
praiseworthy in that, but it's necessary, and I
do it.”
With that, Mrs. Nickleby would draw up a
chair, and for some three-quarters of an hour
run through a great variety of distracting topics
in the most distracting manner possible: tearing
herself away, at length, on the plea that she
must now go and amuse Nicholas while he took
his supper. After a preliminary raising of his
spirits with, the information that she considered
the patient decidedly worse, she would further
cheer him up by relating how dull, listless, and
low-spirited Miss Bray was, because Kate foolishly
talked about nothing else but him and family mat-
ters. When she had made Nicholas thoroughly
comfortable with these and other inspiriting
remarks, she would discourse at length on the
arduous duties she had performed that day; and
sometimes be moved to tears in wondering how,
if anything were to happen to herself, the family
would ever get on without her. -
At other times, when Nicholas came home at
night, he would be accompanied by Mr. Frank
Cheeryble, who was commissioned by the
brothers to inquire how Madeline was that
evening. On such occasions (and they were of
very frequent occurrence) Mrs. Nickleby deemed
it of particular importance that she should have
her wits about her; for, from certain signs and
tokens which had attracted her attention, she
shrewdly suspected that Mr. Frank, interested
as his uncles were in Madeline, came quite as
much to see Kate as to inquire after her ; the
more especially as the brothers were in constant
communication with the medical man, came
backwards and forwards very frequently them-
selves, and received a full report from Nicholas
every morning. These were proud times for
Mrs. Nickleby; never was anybody half so
discreet and Sage as she, or half so mysterious
withal; and never were .there such cunning
generalship and such unfathomable designs, as
she brought to bear upon Mr. Frank, with the
view of ascertaining whether her suspicions were
368 AV/CHO/CAS
AV/CKZEB Y.
well founded : and if so, of tantalising him into
taking her into his confidence, and throwing
himself upon her merciful consideration. Exten-
sive was the artillery, 'heavy and light, which
Mrs. Nickleby brought into play for the further-
ance of these great schemes: various and
opposite the means which she employed to
bring about the end she had in view. At one
time she was all cordiality and ease; at another,
all stiffness and frigidity. Now she would seem
to open her whole heart to her unhappy victim ;
the next time they met, she would receive him
with the most distant and studious reserve, as
if a new light had broken in upon her, and,
guessing his intentions, she had resolved to
check them in the bud; as . if she felt it her
bounden duty to act with Spartan firmness, and
at once and for ever to discourage hopes which
never could be realised. At other times, when
Nicholas was not there to overhear, and Kate |
was up-stairs busily tending her sick friend,
the worthy lady would throw out dark hints of
an intention to send her daughter to France for
three or four years, or to Scotland for the
improvement of her health impaired by her late.
fätigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere
that threatened a long and tedious separation.
Nay, she even went so far as to hint obscurely
at an attachment entertained for her daughter
by the son of an old neighbour of theirs, one
Horatio Peltirogus (a young gentleman who
might have been, at that time, four years old, or
thereabouts), and to represent it, indeed, as
almost a settled thing between the families—
only waiting for her daughter's final decision,
to come off with the sanction of the church,
and to the unspeakable happiness and content
of all parties. .
It was in the full pride and glory of having
sprung this last mine one night with extraordinary
success, that Mrs. Nickleby took the opportunity
of being left alone with her son before retiring
to rest, to seund him on the subject which so
occupied her thoughts - not doubting that they
could haye but one opinion respecting it. To
this e. she approached the question with
divers laudatory and appropriate remarks. touch-
ing the general amiability of Mr. Frank Cheery-
ble,
“You are quite right, mother,” said Nicholas,
“quite right. He is a fine fellow.”
“Good-looking, too,” said Mrs. Nickleby.
“Decidedly good-looking,” answered Nicholas.
“What may you call his nose, now, my dear?”
pursued Mrs. Nickleby, wishing to interest
Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.
“Call it?” repeated Nicholas.
“Ah!"...returned his mother, “what style of
nose P, What order of architecture, if one may
say so? I am not very learned in noses. Do
you call it a Roman or a Grecian P" -
“Upon my word, mother,” said Nicholas,
laughing, “as well as I remember, I should caii
it a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. But I
have no very strong recollection on the subject.
If it will afford you any gratification, I'll observe
it more closely, and let you know." '
." I wish you would, my dear,” said. Mrs.
Nickleby with an earnest look.
“Very well,” returned Nicholas. “I will.”
Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book
he had been reading when the dialogue had
gone thus far. Mrs. Nickleby, after stopping a
little for consideration, resumed.
“He is very much attached to you, Nicholas,
my dear.” -
Nicholas laughingly, said, as he closed his
book, that he was glad to hear it, and observed
that his mother seemed deep in their new
friend's confidence already. -
“Hem ’’ said Mrs. Nickleby. “I don't
know about that, my dear, but I think it is very
necessary that somebody should be in his con-
fidence—highly necessary.”
Elated by a look of curiosity from her son,
and the consciousness of possessing a great
secret all to herself, Mrs. Nickleby went on with
great animation: -
“I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can
have failed to notice it is, to me, quite extra-
ordinary; though I don't know why I should
say that, either, because, of course, as far as it
goes, and to a certain extent, there is a great
deal in this sort of thing, especially in this early
stage, which, however clear it may be to females,
can. Scarcely be expected to be so evident to men.
I don't say that I have any particular penetra-
tion in such matters. I may have ; those about
me should, know best about that, and perhaps
do know. Upon that point I shall express no
\opinion—it wouldn't become me to do so—it's
quite out of the question—quite.”
Nicholas snuffed the candles, put his hands
in his pockets, and, leaning back in his chair,
assumed a look of patient suffering and melan-
choly resignation. -
“I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,” re-
sumed his mother, “to tell you what I know:
not only begause you have a right to know it
...too, and to know everything that happens in
“this family, but because you have it in your
power to promote and assist the thing very
much ; and there is no doubt that, the sooner
| one can come to a clear understanding on such
. \ - -
= < * ~ *** * * * * * * ...-- *...* * *
MRS, AVICKZEBY'S DISCZOSURE.
subjects, it is always better, every way. There
are a great many things you might do ; such as
taking a walk in the garden sometimes, or sitting
up-stairs in your own room for a little while, or
making believe to fall asleep occasionally, or
pretending that you recollected some business,
and going out for an hour or so, and taking Mr.
Smike with you. These seem very slight things,
and I dare say you will be amused at my making
them of so much importance; at the same time,
my dear, I can assure you (and you’ll find this
out, Nicholas, for yourself one of these days, if
you ever fall in love with anybody: as I trust
and hope you will, provided she is respectable
and well conducted, and of course you'd never
dream of falling in love with anybody who was
not), I say, I can assure you that a great deal
more depends upon these little things than you
would suppose possible. If your poor papa was
alive, he would tell you how much depended on
the parties being left alone. Of course you are
not to go out of the room as if you meant it,
and did it on purpose, but as if it was quite an
accident, and to come back again in the same
way. If you cough in the passage before you
open the door, or whistle carelessly, or hum a
tune, or something of that sort, to let them know
you're coming, it's always better; because, of
course, though it's not only natural, but per-
ſectly correct and proper under the circum-
stances, still it is very confusing if you interrupt
young people when they are—when they are
sitting on the sofa, and—and all that sort of
thing: which is very nonsensical, perhaps, but
still they will do it.”
The profound astonishment with which her
son regarded her during this long address, gra-
dually increasing as it approached its climax, in
no way discomposed Mrs. Nickleby, but rather
exalted her opinion of her own cleverness; there-
fore, merely stopping to remark, with much com-
placency, that she had fully expected him to be
surprised, she entered on a vast quantity of cir-
cumstantial evidence of a particularly incoherent
and perplexing kind; the upshot of which was
to establish, beyond the possibility of doubt, that
Mr. Frank Cheeryble had fallen desperately in
love with Kate.
“With whom P” cried Nicholas.
Mrs. Nickleby repeated, with Kate.
“What our Kate—my sister 1"
“I,ord, Nicholas !” returned Mrs. Nickleby,
“whose Kate should it be, if not ours; or what
should I care about it, or take any interest in it
for, if it was anybody but your sister P”
“Dear mother,” said Nicholas, “surely it
can't be ” - |
º
369
“Very good, my dear,” replied Mrs. Nickleby
with great confidence. “Wait and see.”
Nicholas had never, until that moment, be-
stowed a thought upon the remote possibility of .
such an occurrence as that which was now com-
municated to him; for, besides that he had been
much from home of late and closely occupied
with other matters, his own jealous fears had
prompted the suspicion that some secret interest
in Madeline, akin to that which he felt himself,
occasioned those visits of Frank Cheeryble which
had recently become so frequent. Even now,
although he knew that the observation of an
anxious mother was much more likely to be
correct in such a case than his own, and although
she reminded him of many little circumstances
which, taken together, were certainly susceptible
of the construction she triumphantly put upon
them, he was not quite convinced but that they
arose from mere good-natured thoughtless gal-
lantry, which would have dictated the same con-
duct towards any other girl who was young and
pleasing. At all events, he hoped so, and there-
fore tried to believe it. -
“I am very much disturbed by what you tell
me,” said Nicholas after a little reflection,
“ though I yet hope you may be mistaken.”
“I don't understand why you should hope
so,” said Mrs. Nickleby, “I confess; but you
may depend upon it I am not.” -
“What of Kate P” inquired Nicholas.
“Why, that, my dear,” returned Mrs. Nickleby,
“is just the point upon which I am not yet satis-
fied. During this sickness she has been constantly
at Madeline's bedside—never were two people so
fond of each other as they have grown—and, to
tell you the truth, Nicholas, I have rather kept
her away now and then, because I think it's a
good plan, and urges a young man on. He
doesn't get too sure, you know.”
She said this with such a mingling of high
delight and self-congratulation, that it was in-
expressibly painful to Nicholas to dash her
hopes; but he felt that there was only one
honourable course before him, and that he was
- bound to take it.
“Dear mother,” he said kindly, “don't you
see that if there were really any serious inclina-
tion on the part of Mr. Frank towards Kate, and
we suffered ourselves for a moment to encourage
it, we should be acting a most dishonourable and
ungrateful part P I ask you if you don't see it,
but I need not say that I know you don't, or you
would have been more strictly on your guard.
Let me explain my meaning to you. Remember
how poor we are.”
Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, and said,
gº
37 o
NYCHO ZAS AWFCKZEB V.
through her tears. that poverty was not a
crime.
“No,” said Nicholas, “and for that reason
poverty should engender an honest pride, that it
may not lead and tempt us to unworthy actions,
and that we may preserve the self-respect which
a hewer of wood and drawer of water may main-
tain—and does better in maintaining than a .
monarch in preserving his. Think what we owe
to these two brothers: remember what they have
done, and what they do every day for us, with a
generosity and delicacy for which the devotion
of our whole lives would be a most imperfect
and inadequate return. What kind of return
would that be which, would be comprised in
our permitting their nephew, their only relative,
whom they regard as a son, and for whom it
would be mere childishness to suppose they have
not formed plans suitably adapted to the educa-
tion he has had, and the fortune he will inherit
—in our permitting him to marry a portionless
girl: so closely connected with us, that the irre-
sistible inference must be, that he was entrapped
by a plot; that it was a deliberate scheme, and
a speculation amongst us three? Bring the matter
clearly before yourself, mother. Now, how would
you feel, if they were married, and the brothers,
coming here on one of those kind errands which
bring them here so often, you had to break out
to them the truth P Would you be at ease, and
feel that you had played an open part?”
Poor Mrs. Nickleby, crying more and more,
murmured that of course Mr. Frank would ask
the consent of his uncles first.
“Why, to be sure that would place him in a
better situation with them,” said Nicholas, “but
we should still be open to the same suspicions ;
the distance between us would still be as great ;
the advantages to be gained would still be as
manifest as now. We may be reckoning without
our host in all this,” he added more cheerfully,
“ and I trust, and almost believe, we are. If it
be otherwise, I have that confidence in Kate
that I know she will feel as I do—and in you,
dear mother, to be assured that, after a little
consideration, you will do the same.”
After many more representations and en-
treaties, Nicholas obtained a promise from Mrs.
Nickleby that she would try all she could to
think as he did ; and that, if Mr. Frank perse-
vered in his attentions, she would endeavour to
discourage them, or, at the least, would render him
no countenance or assistance. He determined
to forbear mentioning the subject to Kate until
he was quite convinced that there existed a real
necessity for his doing so; and resolved to assure
himself, as well as he could by close personal
*
observation, of the exact position of affairs. This
was a very wise resolution, but he was prevented
from putting it in practice by a new source of
anxiety and uneasiness.
Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and
exhausted, that he could scarcely move from
room to room without assistance; and so worn
and emaciated, that it was painful to look upon
him. Nicholas was warned, by the same medical
authority to whom he had at first appealed, that
the last chance and hope of his life depended
on his being instantly removed from London.
That part of Devonshire in which Nicholas had
been himself bred was named as the most favour-
able spot; but this advice was cautiously coupled
with the information, that whoever, accompanied
him thither must be prepared for the worst; for
every token of rapid consumption had appeared,
and he might never return alive.
The kind brothers, who were acquainted with
the poor creature's sad history, dispatched old
Tim to be present at this consultation. That
same morning Nicholas was summoned by
brother Charles into his private room, and thus
addressed : f
“My dear sir, no time must be lost. This
lad shall not die, if such human means as we
can use can save his life ; neither shall he die
alone, and in a strange place. Remove him
to-morrow morning, see that he has every com-
fort that his situation requires, and don't leave
him—don't leave him, my dear sir, until you
know that there is no longer any immediate
danger. It would be hard, indeed, to part you
now—no, no, no Tim shall wait upon you
to-night, sir; Tim shall wait upon you to-night
with a parting word or two. Brother Ned, my
dear fellow, Mr. Nickleby waits to shake hands
and say good-bye; Mr. Nickleby won't be long
gone ; this poor chap will soon get better—very
soon get better—and then he'll find out some
nice homely country-people to leave him with,
and will go backwards and forwards sometimes
—backwards and forwards you know, Ned—and
there's no cause to be down-hearted, for he'll
very soon get better, very soon, won't he—won't
he, Ned?”
What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he
brought with him that night, needs not to be
told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeble
companion began their journey.
And who, but one—and that one he who, but
for those who crowded round him then, had
never met a look of kindness, or known a word
of pity—could tell what agony of mind, what
blighted thoughts, what unavailing sofroy, were
..involved in that sad parting P
AOOAQ SMIKE'S ZXAZAARZ'UR/T.
37 I
“See,” cried Nicholas eagerly as he looked
from the coach window, “they are at the corner
of the lane still And now there's Kate—poor
Kate, whom you said you couldn't bear to say
good-bye to —waving her handkerchief. Don't
go without one gesture of farewell to Kate 1"
“I cannot make it !” cried his trembling com-
panion, falling back in his seat and covering his
eyes. “Do you see her now P Is she there
still P”
“Yes, yes!” said Nicholas earnestly. “There!
She waves her hand again I have answered it
for you—and now they are out of sight. Do not
give way so bitterly, dear friend, don't. You will
meet them all again.”
He whom he thus encouraged raised his
withered ‘hands, and clasped them fervently
together.
“In heaven — I humbly pray
heaven.”
It sounded like the prayer of a broken heart.
to God, in
CHAPTER LVI.
RALPH NICKLEBY, BAFFLED BY HIS NEPHEw IN HIS
LATE DESIGN, HATCHES A SCHEME OF RETALIA-
TION WHICH ACCIDENT SUGGESTs To HIM, AND
TAKES INTO HIS COUNSELS A TRIED AUXILIARY.
ºHE course which these adventures
Sº shape out for themselves, and im-
peratively call upon the historian to
observe, now demands that they
tained previously to the commencement
of the last chapter, when Ralph Nickleby
and Arthur Gride were left together in the
'house where death had so suddenly reared his
dark and heavy banner.
With clenched hands, and teeth ground to-
gether so firm and tight that 'no locking of the
jaws could have fixed and riveted them more
securely, Ralph stood, for some minutes, in the
attitude in which he had last addressed his
nephew : breathing heavily, but as rigid and
motionless in other respects as if he had been a
brazen statue. After a time he began, by slow
degrees, as a man rousing himself from heavy
shumber, to relax. For a moment he shook his
clasped fist towards the door by which Nicholas
had disappeared; and then thrusting it into his
breast, as if to repress by force even this show
of passion, turned round and confronted the less
bardy usurer, who had not yet risen from the
ground.
The cowering wretch, who still shook in
**
J should revert to the point they at-
every limb, and whose few grey hairs trembled
and quivered on his head with abject dismay,
tottered to his feet as he met Ralph's eye, and,
shielding his face with both hands, protested,
while he crept towards the door, that it was no
fault of his.
“Who said it was, man?” returned Ralph in
a suppressed voice. “Who said it was P”
“You looked as if you thought I was to
blame,” said Gride timidly.
“Pshaw " Ralph muttered, forcing a laugh.
“I blame him for not living an hour longer—
one hour longer would have been long enough
—I blame no one else.”
“N–n—no one else?” said Gride.
“Not for this mischance,” replied Ralph. “I
have an old score to clear with that—that young
fellow who has carried off your mistress; but
that has nothing to do with his blustering just
now, for we should soon have been quit of him,
but for this cursed accident.”
There was something so unnatural in the calm-
ness with which Ralph Nickleby spoke, when
coupled with the face, the expression of the fea-
tures, to which every nerve and muscle, as it
twitched and throbbed with a spasm whose
workings no effort could conceal, gave, every in-
stant, some new and frightful aspect—there was
something so unnatural and ghastly in the con:
trast between his harsh, slow, steady voice (only
altered by a certain halting of the breath which
, made him pause between almost every word like
a drunken man bent upon speaking plainly), and
these evidences of the most intense and violent
passions, and the struggle he made to keep them
under—that if the dead body which lay above
had stood, instead of him, before the cowering
Gride, it could scarcely have presented a spec-
tacle which would have terrified him more.
“The coach,” said Ralph after a time, during
which he had struggled like some strong man
against a fit. “We came in a coach. Is it—
waiting?”
Gride gladly availed himself of the pretext for
going to the window to see. Ralph, keeping
his face steadily the other way, tore at his shirt
with the hand which he had thrust into his
breast, and muttered, in a hoarse whisper:
“Ten thousand pounds ! He said ten thou-
sand The precise sum paid in but yesterday
for the two mortgages, and which would have
gone out again, at heavy interest, to-morrow.
If that house has failed, and he the first to bring
the news —Is the coach there?”
“Yes, yes,” said Gride, startled by the fierce
tone of the inquiry. “It's here. Dear, dear,
what a fiery man you are "



372
NICHOLAS WICKLEBY.
“Come here,” said Ralph beckoning to him.
“We mustn't make a show of being disturbed.
We'll go down arm-in-arm.”
“But you pinch me black and blue,” urged
Gride.
, Ralph let him go impatiently, and, descend-
ing the stairs with his usual firm and heavy tread,
got into the coach. Arthur Gride followed.
After looking doubtfully at Ralph when the man
asked where he was to drive, and finding that
he remained silent, and expressed no wish upon
the subject, Arthur mentioned his own house,
and thither they proceeded.
On their way Ralph sat in the furthest corner
with folded arms, and uttered not a word. With
his chin sunk upon his breast, and his downcast
eyes quite hidden by the contraction of his
knotted brows, he might have been asleep for
any sign of consciousness he gave until the
coach stopped, when he raised his head, and,
glancing through the window, inquired what
place that was.
“My house,” answered the disconsolate Gride,
affected, perhaps, by its loneliness. “Oh dear !
my house.”
“True," said. Ralph. “I have not observed
the way we came. I should like a glass of water.
You have that in the house, I suppose P”
“You shall have a glass of of anything you
like,” answered Gride with a groan. “It’s no
use knocking, coachman. Ring the bell !”
The man rang, and rang, and rang' again;
then, knocked until the street re-echoed with the
sounds; then, listened at the keyhole of the door.
Nobody came. The house was silentas the grave.
“How is this?” said Ralph impatiently.
“Peg is so very deaf,” answered Gride with a
look of anxiety and alarm. “Oh dear! Ring
again, coachman. She sees the bell.”
Again the man rang and knocked, and knocked
and rang again. Some of the neighbours threw
up their windows, and called across the street to
each other that old Gride's housekeeper must
have dropped down dead. Others collected
round the coach, and gave vent to various sur-
mises; some held that she had fallen asleep;
some, that she had burnt herself to death; some,
that she had got drunk; and one very fat man
that she had seen something to eat which had
frightened her so much (not being used to it)
that she had fallen into a fit. This last sugges-
tion particularly delighted the bystanders, who
cheered it rather uproariously, and were, with
some difficulty, deterred from dropping down
the area and breaking open the kitchen door to
ascertain the fact. Nor was this all. Rumours
having gone abroad that Arthur was to be mar-
ried that morning, very particular inquiries were
made after the bride, who was held by the
majority to be disguised in the person of Mr.
Ralph Nickleby, which gave rise to much jocose
indignation at the public appearance of a bride
in boots and pantaloons, and called forth a great
many hoots and groans. At length the two
money-lenders obtained shelter in a house next
door, and, being accommodated with a ladder,
clambered over the wall of the back-yard, which
was not a high one, and descended in safety on
the other side. n
“I am almost afraid to go in, I declare,” said
Arthur, turning to Ralph when they were alone.
“Suppose she should be murdered—lying with
her brains knocked out by a poker—eh?”
“Suppose she were,” said Ralph. “I tell you,
I wish such things were more common than they
are, and more easily done. You may stare and
shiver—I do ſ”
He applied himself to a pump in the yard;
and, having taken a deep draught of water and
flung a quantity on his head and face, regained
his accustomed manner, and led the way into
the house;. Gride following close at his heels.
It was the same dark place as ever: every
room dismal and silent as it was wont to be, and
every ghostly article of furniture in its customary
place. The iron heart of the grim old clock,
undisturbed by all the noise without, still beat
heavily within its dusty case; the tottering
presses slunk from the sight, as usual, in their
melancholy corners; the echoes of footsteps re-
turned the same dreary sound; the long-legged
spider paused in his nimble run, and, scared by
the sight of two men in that his dull domain,
hung motionless on the wall, counterfeiting
death until they should have passed him by.
From cellar to garret went the two usurers,
opening every creaking door, and looking into
every deserted room. But no Peg was there.
At last they sat them down in the apartment
which Arthur Gride usually inhabited, to rest
after their search. &
“The hag is out, on some preparation for
your wedding festivities, I suppose,” said Ralph,
preparing to depart. “See here ! I destroy
the bond; we shall never need it now.”
Gride, who had been peering narrowly about
the room, fell, at that moment, upon his knees
before a large chest, and uttered a terrible yell.
“How now?" said Ralph, looking sternly
round. &
“Robbed tº robbed 1" screamed Arthur Gride.
“Robbed of money?”
“No, no, no! Worse 1 far worse!”
“Of what, then P” demanded Ralph.
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3.
“Worse than money, worse than money !”
cried the old man, casting the pâpers out of the
chest, like some beast tearing up the earth.
“She had better have stolen money—all my
money—I haven't much She had better have
made me a beggar than have done this 1”
“Done what?” said Ralph. “Done what,
you devil's dotard?”
Still Gride made no answer, but tore and
scratched among the papers, and yelled and
screeched like a fiend in torment.
“There is something missing, you say.” said
Ralph, shaking him furiously by the collar.
“What is it P’”
“Papers, deeds. I am a ruined man—lost—
lost! I am robbed, I am ruined She saw me
reading it—reading it of late—I did very often
—she watched me—saw me put it in the box
that fitted into this—the box is gone—she has
stolen it.—Damnation seize her, she has robbed
me . *
“Of what 2" cried Ralph, on whom a sudden
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“THERE IS SOMETHING MISSING, YoU SAY,” SAID RALPH, SHAKING HIM FURiously BY THE
COLLAR.
light appeared to break, for his eyes flashed and
his frame trembled with agitation as he clutched
Gride by his bony arm. “Of what?”
“She don't know what it is ; she can't
read "shrieked Gride, not heeding the inquiry.
“There's only one way in which money can be,
made of it, and that is by taking it to her.
Somebody will read it for her, and tell her what
to do. She and her accomplice will get money
for it, and be let off besides; they'll make a
Nichol. As NicKLEby, 25.
* WHAT IS IT P”
merit of it—say they found it—knew it—and be
evidence against me. The only person it will
fall upon is me—me—me !”
“Patience 1" said Ralph, clutching him still
tighter, and eyeing him with a sidelong look, so
fixed and eager as sufficiently to denote that he
had some hidden purpose in what he was about
to say. “Hear reason. She can't have been
gone long. I'll call the police. Do you but
give information of what she has stolen, and
23r

374
AV/CHOLAS MYCKZEBY
they'll lay hands upon her, trust me.—Here—
help l’”
“No–no—no lº'screamed the old man, put-
ting his hand on Ralph's mouth. “I can't, I
daren't.”
“Help help !” cried Ralph. -
“No, no, no | " shrieked the other, stanțing
on the ground with the energy of a madman.
“I tell you no. I daren't—I daren't l”
“Daren't make this robbery public P” said
Ralph. --
“No 1" rejoined Gride, wringing his hands.
“Hush | Hush | Not a word of this: not a
word must be said. I am undone. Whichever
way I turn, I am undone. . I am betrayed. I
shall be given up. I shall die in Newgate'."
With frantic exclamations such as these, and
with many others in which fear, grief, and rage
were strangely blended, the panic-stricken wretch
gradually subdued his first-loud outcry, until it
had softened down into a low despairing moan,
chequered now and then by a howl, as, going
over such papers as were left in the chest, he
discovered some new loss. With very little
excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left
him, and, greatly disappointing, the loiterers
outside the house by telling them there was
nothing the matter, got into the coach, and was
driven to his own home. ... * ,
Aletter lay on his table. He let it lie there for
some time, as if he had not the courage to open
it, but at length did so, and turned deadly pale.
“The worst has happened,” he said; “the
house has failed. I see—the rumour was abroad
in the City last night, and reached the ears of
those merchants. Well—well !” - - -
He strode violently up and down the room,
and stopped again. .
“Ten thousand pounds ! And only lying
there for a day—for one day ! How many
anxious years, how many pinching days and
sleepless nights, before I scraped together that
ten thousand pounds !—Ten thousand pounds !
How many proud painted dames would have
fawned and smiled, and how many spendthrift
blockheads done me lip-service to my face and
cursed me in their hearts, while I turned that
ten thousand pounds into twenty | While I
ground, and pinched, and used these needy
borrowers for my pleasure and profit, what
Smooth-tongued speeches, and courteous looks,
and civil letters they would have given me !
The cant of the lying world is, that men like.
me compass our riches by dissimulation and
treachery: by fawning, cringing, and stooping.
Why, how many lies, what mean and abject :
evasions, what humbled behaviour from upstarts
reverted to his loss.
who, but for my money, would spurn me aside as
they do their betters every day, would that ten
thousand pounds have brought me in 1–Grant
, that I had doubled it—made cent. per cent.—
for every sovereign told another—there would
not be one piece of money in all the heap which
wouldn't represent ten thousand mean and
paltry lies, told—not by the money-lender, oh
no but by the money-borrowers—your liberal,
thoughtless, generous, dashing folks, who wouldn't
be so mean as save a sixpence for the world !”
Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of
the bitterness of his regrets in the bitterness
of these other thoughts, Ralph continued to
pace the room. There was less and less of
resolution in his manner as his mind gradually
At length, dropping into
his elbow-chair, and grasping its sides so firmly
that they creaked again, he said:
“The time, has been when nothing could
have moved me like the loss of this great sum–
nothing—for births, deaths, marriages, and all
the events which are of interest to most men,
'haye- (unless they are connected with gain or
loss of money) no interest for me.
But now, I
'swear, I mix up, with the loss his triumph in
telling it. If he had brought it about, I almost
feel as if he had, I couldn't hate him more.
Let me but retaliate upon him by degrees,
however, slow—let me but begin to get the
better of him, let me but turn the scale—and I
can bear it."
His meditations were long and deep. They
terminated in his dispatching a letter’by New-
man, addressed to Mr. Squeers at the Saracen's
Head, with instructions to inquire whether he
had arrived in town, and if so, to wait an
answer. Newman brought back the information
that Mr.Sºlueers had come by mail that morning,
and had received the letter in bed ; but that he
sent his duty, and word that he would get up
and wait upon Mr. Nickleby directly. .
The interval between the delivery of this
message and the arrival. of Mr. Squeers was very
short ; but, before he came, Ralph had sup-
pressed every sign of emotion, and once more
regained the hard, immovable, inflexible manner
which was habitual to him, and to which,
perhaps, was ascribable no small part of the
influence' which, over many men of no very
strong prejudices on the score of morality, he
could exert, almost at will.
“Well, Mr. Squeers,” he said, welcoming that
worthy with his accustomed smile, of which
a sharp look and a thoughtful frown were part
and parcel, “how do you do?” -
*Why, sir,” said Mr. Squeers, “I’m pretty
zººs vsø were Resoz Vºs ZO WIN YEZ.
375
well. So's the family, and so's the boys, except
for a sort of rash as is a running through the
school, and rather puts 'em off their feed. But
it's a ill wind as blows no good to nobody;
that's what I always say when them lads has
a wisitation. A wisitätion, sir, is the lot of
mortality. Mortality itself, sir, is a wisitation. |
The world is chock-full of wisitations; and if a
boy repines at a wisitation, and makes you
uncomfortable with his noise, he must have his
head punched. That's going according to the
Scripter, that is.”
“Mr. Squeers,” said Ralph drily.
“Sir.”
“We'll avoid these precious morsels of mo-
rality if you please, and talk of business.”
“With all my heart, sir,” rejoined Squeers,
“ and first let me say—”
“First let me say, if you please—— Noggs?"
Newman presented himself when the summons
had been twice or thrice repeated, and asked if
his master called.
“I did. Go to your dinner.
once. Dö you hear?”
“It an’t time,” said Newman doggedly.
“My time is yours, and I say it is,” returned
Ralph.
“You alter it every day,”
“It isn’t fair.” -
“You don't keep many cooks, and can easily
apologise to them for the trouble,” retorted
Ralph. “Begone, sir!”
Ralph not only issued this order in his most
peremptory manner, but, under pretence of
fetching some papers from the little office, saw it
obeyed, and, when Newman had left the house,
chained the door, to prevent the possibility of
his returning secretly by means of his latch-key.
“I have reason to suspect that fellow,” said
Ralph when he returned to his own office.
“Therefore, until I have thought of the shortest
and least troublesome way of ruining him. I
hold it best to keep him at a distance.”
“It wouldn't take much to ruin him, I should
think,” said: Squeers with a grin.
“Perhaps not,” answered Ralph. “Nor to
ruin a great many people whom I know. You
were going to say * *
Ralph's summary and matter-of-course way of
holding up this example, and throwing out the
hint that followed it, had evidently an effect (as
doubtless it was designed to have) upon. Mr.
Squeers, who said, after a little hesitation and in
a much more subdued tone: -
“Why, what I was a-going to say, sir, is, that
this here business regarding of that ungrateful
and hard-hearted chap, Snawley senior, puts me
And go at
said Newman.
. I never see such a
out of my way, and occasions a inconveniency
quite unparalleled, besides, as I may say, making,
for whole weeks together, Mrs. Squeers a perfect
widder. It's a pleasure to me to act with you,
of course.”
“Of course,” said Ralph drily.
“Yes, I say of course,” resumed Mr. Squeers,
rubbing his knees, “but at the same time, when
one comes, as I do now, better than two hun-
dred and fifty mile to take a afferdavid, it does
put a man out a good deal, letting alone the
risk.’
“And where may the risk be, Mr. Squeers?”
said Ralpm.
“I said, letting alone the risk,” replied
Squeers evasively.
“And I said, where was the risk?”
“I wasn't complaining, you know, Mr.
Nickleby,” pleaded Squeers. “Upon my word
39
“I ask you where is the risk?” repeated
Ralph emphatically.
“Where the risk?” returned Squeers, rubbing
his knees still harder. “Why, it an’t necessary
to mention—certain subjects is best awoided.
| Oh, you know what risk, I mean 1"
“How often have I told you,” said Ralph,
“ and how often am I to tell you, that you run
no risk P What have you sworn, or what are
you asked to swear, but that, at such and such a
time, a boy was left with you in the name of
Smike ; that he was at your school for a given
number of years, was lost under such and such
circumstances, is now found, and has been
identified by you in such and such keeping P
This is all true—is it not?”
“Yes,” replied Squeers, “ that's all true.”
“Well, then,” said Ralph, “what risk do you
run? Who swears to a lie but Snawley—a man
whom I have paid much less than I have you?”
“He certainly did it cheap, did Snawley,”
observed Squeers. -
“He did it cheap !” retorted Ralph testily.
“Yes, and he did it well, and carries it off with
a hypocritical face and a sanctified air, but
you—— Risk | What do you mean, by risk P
The certificates are a . genuine, Snawley had
another son, he has been married twice, his
first wife is dead, none but her ghost could tell
that she didn't write that letter, none but
Snawley himself can tell that this is not his son,
and that his son is food for worms | The only
perjury is Snawley's, and I fancy he is pretty
well used to it. Where's your risk?”
“Why, you know,” said Squeers, fidgeting in
his chair, “if you come to that, I might say
where's yours ?”
§ .
376.
AV/CAHO/AS MYCKLEB Y.
“You might say where's mine !” returned
Ralph. “You may say where's mine. I don’t
appear in the business—neither do you. All
Snawley's interest is to stick well to the story he
has told ; and all his risk is, to depart from it in
the least. Talk of your risk in the conspirācy!”
“I say," remonstrated Squeers, looking un-
easily round ; “don’t call it that—just as a
favour, don't.” .
“Call it what you like,” said Ralph irritably,
“but attend to me.
who hurt your trade and half cudgelled you to
death, and to enable you to obtain repossession
of a half-dead drudge, whom you wished to
regain, because, while you wreaked your venge-
ance on him for his share in the business, you
knew that the knowledge that he was again in
your power would be the best punishment you
could inflict upon your enemy. Is that so,
Mr. Squeers ?” g -
“Why, sir,” returned Squeers, almost over-
powered by the determination which Ralph
displayed to make everything tell against him,
and by his stern unyielding manner, “in a
measure it was.”
“What does that mean P” said Ralph.
“Why, in a measure means,” returned Squeens,
“as it may be, that it wasn’t all on my account,
because you had some old grudge to satisfy,
too."
“If I had not had,” said Ralph, in no way
abashed by the reminder, “do you think I
should have helped you?”
“Why, no, I don't suppose you would,”
Squeers replied. “I only wanted that point to
be all square and straight between us.”
“How can it ever be otherwise?” retorted
Ralph. “Except that the account is against
me, for I spend money to gratify my hatred,
and you pocket it, and gratify yours at the same
time. You are, at least, as avaricious as you
are revengeful. So am I. Which is best
off? You, who win money and revenge at the
same time, and by the same process, and who
are, at all events, sure of money, if not of
revenge ; or I, who am only sure of spending
money in any case, and can but win bare revenge
at last P”
As Mr. Squeers could only answer this pro-
position by shrugs and smiles, Ralph bade him
be silent, and thankful that he was so well off;
and then, fixing his eyes steadily upon him,
proceeded to say .
First, that Nicholas had thwarted him in a
plan he had formed for the disposal in marriage
of a certain young lady, and had, in the con-
This tale was originally
fabricated as a means of annoyance against one
. . tºº -
fusion attendant on her father's sudden death,
sécured that lady himself, and borne her off in
triumph. - #
Secondly, that by some will or settlement—
certainly by some instrument in writing, which
must contain the young lady's name, and could
be, therefore, easily selected from others, if "
access to the place where it was deposited were
once secured—she was entitled to property
which, if the existence of this deed ever became
known to her, would make her husband (and
Ralph represented that Nicholas was certain to
marry her) a rich and prosperous man, and most
formidable enemy. -
Thirdly, that this deed had been, with others,
stolen from one who had himself obtained or
concealed it fraudulently, and who feared to
take any steps for its recovery; and that he
(Ralph) knew the thief.
To all this Mr. Squeers listened with greedy
ears that devoured every syllable, and with his
one eye and his mouth wide open: marvelling
for what special reason he was honoured with so
much of Ralph's confidence, and to what it all
tended. -
“Now,” said Ralph, leaning forward, and
placing his hand on Squeers's arm, “hear the
design which I have conceived, and which I
must—I say, must, if I can ripen it—have
carried into execution. No advantage can be
reaped from this deed, whatever it is, save by
the girl herself, or her husband ; and the pos.
session of this deed by one or other of them is
indispensable to any advantage being gained.
That I have discovered beyond the possibility
of doubt. I want that deed brought here, that
I may give the man who brings it fifty pounds in
gold, and burn it to ashes before his face.”
Mr. Squeers, after following with his eye the
action of Ralph's hand towards the fire-place as
if he were at that moment consuming the paper,
drew a long breath, and said: -
“Yes; but who's to bring it?” -
“Nobody, perhaps, for much is to be done
before it can be got at,” said Ralph. “But, if
anybody—you !” ‘ a ^^ -
Mr. Squeers's first tokens of consternation,
and his flat relinquishment of the task, would
have staggered most men, if they had not imme- .
diately occasioned an utter abandonment of the
proposition. On Ralph they produced not the
slightest effect. Resuming, when the school-
master had quite talked himself out of breath,
as coolly as if he had never been interrupted,
Ralph proceeded to expatiate on such features
of the case as he deemed it most advisable to
lay the greatest stress on-
AAVZ) ZAKAES MEASURES A CCOAA)/AVGZY.
377
These were, the age, decrepitude, and weak-
ness of Mrs. Sliderskew; the great improba-
bility of her having any accomplice, or even
acquaintance : taking into account her secluded
habits, and her long residence in such a house
as Gride's ; the strong reason there was to sup-
pose that the robbery was not the result of a
concerted plan : otherwise she would have
watched an opportunity of carrying off a sum of
money; the difficulty she would be placed in
when she began to think on what she had done,
and found herself encumbered with documents
of whose nature she was utterly ignorant; and
the comparative ease with which somebody,
with a full knowledge of her position, obtaining
access to her, and working on her fears, if
necessary, might worm himself into her con-
fidence, and obtain, under one pretence or
another, free possession of the deed. To these
were added such considerations as the constant :
residence of Mr. Squeers at a long distance from
London, which rendered his association with
Mrs. Sliderskew a mere masquerading frolic, in
which nobody was likely to recognise him,
either at the time- or afterwards; the impos-
sibility of Ralph's undertaking the task himself,
he being already known to her by sight; and
various comments on the uncommon tact and
experience of Mr. Squeers : which would make
his overreaching one old woman a mere matter
of child's play and amusement. In addition to
these influences and persuasions, Ralph drew,
with his utmost skill and power, a vivid picture
of the defeat which Nicholas would sustain,
should they succeed, in linking himself to a
beggar, where he expected to wed an heiress—
glanced at the immeasurable importance it must
be, to a man situated as Squeers, to preserve
such a friend as himself—dwelt on a long train
of benefits, conferred since their first acquaint-
ance, when he had reported favourably of his
treatment of a sickly-boy who had died under
his hands (and whose death was very convenient
to Ralph and his clients, but this he did not say)
—and finally hinted that the fifty pounds might
be increased to seventy-five, or, in the event of
very great success, even to a hundred.
These arguments at length concluded, Mr.
Squeers crossed his . legs, uncrossed them,
Scratched his head, rubbed his eye, examined
the palms of his hands, and bit his nails, and,
after exhibiting many other signs of restlessness
and indecision, asked “whether one hundred
Pound was the highest that Mr. Nickleby could
go." Being answered in the affirmative, he
became restless again, and, after some thought,
and an unsuccessful inquiry “whether he
-*
couldn't go another fifty,” said he supposed
he must try and do the most he could for a
friend; which was always his maxim, and there.
fore he undertook the job.
“But how are you to get at the woman P” he
said. “That's what it is as puzzles me.”
“I may not get at her at all,” replied Ralph,
“but I'll try. I have hunted people in this
city, before now, who have been better hid than
she ; and I know quarters in which a guinea or
two, carefully spent, will often solve darker
riddles than this—ay, and keep them close too,
if need be I hear my man ringing at the
door. We may as well part. You had better
not come to and fro, but wait till you hear from
me.”
“Good " returned Squeers. “I say ! If
you shouldn't find her out, you'll pay expenses
at the Saracen, and something for loss of
time P” -
“Well,” said Ralph testily ;
have nothing more to say?”
Squeers shaking his head, Ralph accompanied
him to the street-door, and audibly wondering,
for the edification of Newman, why it was
fastened as if it were night, let him in and
Squeers out, and returned to his own room.
“Now !” he muttered, “come what come may,
for the present I am firm and unshaken. Let me
but retrieve this one small portion of my loss
and disgrace; let me but defeat him in this one
hope, dear to his heart as I know it must be ;
let me but do this ; and it shall be the first link
in such a chain, which I will wind about him, as
never man forged yet.”
“yes | You
CHAPTER LVII.
, HOW RALPXI NICKLEBY'S AUXILIARY WENT ABOUT HIS
work, AND How HE PROSPERED witH IT.
; T was a dark, wet, gloomy night in
autumn, when in an upper room of
a mean house situated in an obscure
! street, or rather court, near Lambeth,
*ē, there sat, all alone, a one-eyed man
grotesquely habited, either for lack
of better garments or for purposes of
disguise, in a loose great-coat, with arms
half as long again as his own, and a capacity of
breadth and length which would have admitted
of his winding himself in it, head and all, with
the utmost ease, and without any risk of strain-
ing the old and greasy material of which it was
composed. As


378
AV/CAE/O J.A.S MYCKLEAE Y.
So attired, and in a place so far removed from
his usual haunts and occupations, and so very |
poor and wretched in its character, perhaps
Mrs. Squeers herself would have had some diffi-
culty in recognising her lord : quickened though
her natural sagacity doubtless would have been
by the affectionate yearnings and impulses of a
tender wife. But Mrs. Squeers's lord it was ;
and in a tolerably disconsolate mood Mrs.
Squeers's lord appeared to be, as, helping him-
self from a black bottle which stood on the table
beside him, he cast round the chamber a look,
in which very slight regard for the objects
within view was plainly mingled with some
regretful and impatient recollection of distant
scenes and persons.
There were, certainly, no particular attractions,
either in the room over which the glance of Mr.
Squeers so discontentedly wandered, or in the
narrow street into which it might have pene-
trated, if he had thought fit to approach the
window. The attic chamber in which he sat
was bare and mean ; the bedstead, and such
few other articles of necessary furniture as it con-
tained, were of the commonest description, in a
most crazy state, and of a most uninviting
appearance. The street was muddy, dirty, and
deserted. Having but one outlet, it was tra-
versed by few but the inhabitants at any time;
and the night being one of those on which most
people are glad to be within doors, it now pre-
sentéd no other signs of life than the dull glim-
mering of poor candles from the dirty windows,
and few sounds but the pattering of the rain,
and occasionaliy the heavy closing of some
creaking door.
Mr. Squeers continued to look disconsolately
about him, and to listen to these noises in pro-
found silence, broken only by the rustling of his
large coat, as he now and then moved his arm
to raise his glass to his lips—Mr. Squeers con-
tinued to do this fol some time, until the
increasing gloom warned him to snuff the
candle. Seeming to be slightly roused by this
exertion, he raised his eye to the ceiling, and
fixing it upon some uncouth and fantastic
figures, traced upon it by the wet and damp
which had penetrated through the roof, broke
into the following soliloquy :
“Well, this is a pretty go, is this here !—an
uncommon pretty go Here have I been, a
matter of how many weeks—hard upon six—a
follering up this here blessed old dowager
petty larcenerer,”—Mr. Squeers delivered him-
self of this epithet with great difficulty and effort,
—“ and Dotheboys Hall a running itself regu-
larly to seed the while ! That’s the worst of
\
ever being in with a owdacious chap like that
old Nickleby. You never know when he's done
with you, and, if you're in for a penny, you're in
for a pound.”
This remark, perhaps, reminded Mr. Squeers
that he was in for a hundred pound at any rate.
“His countenance relaxed, and he raised his glass
to his mouth with an air of greater enjoyment of
its contents than he had before evinced.
“I never see,” soliloquised Mr. Squeers in
continuation, “I never see nor come across such
a file as that old Nickleby—never ! He's out of
everybody's depth, he is. He's what you may
call a rasper, is Nickleby. To see how sly and
cunning he grubbed on, day after day, a worm-
ing and plodding and tracing and turning and
twining of hisself about, till he found out where
this precious Mrs. Peg was hid, and cleared the
ground for me to work upon—creeping and
crawling and gliding, like a ugly, old, bright-
eyed, stagnation-blooded adder Ah e'd
have made a good 'un in our line, but it would
have been too limited for him ; his genius would
have busted all bonds, and, coming over every
obstacle, broke down all before it, till it erected
itself into a monneyment of Well, I'll
think of the rest, and say it when conwenient.”
Making a halt in his reflections at this place,
Mr. Squeers again put his glass to his lips, and,
drawing a dirty letter from his pocket, proceeded
to con over its contents with the air of a man
who had read it very often, and now refreshed
his memory rather in the absence of better
amusement than for any specific information.
“The pigs is well,” said Mr. Squeers, “the
cows is well, and the boys is bobbish. Young
Sprouter has been a winking, has he? I'll wink
him when I get back. “Cobbey would persist
in sniffing while he was a eating his dinner, and
said that the beef was so strong it made him.’
—Very good, Cobbey, we'll see if we can't make
you sniff a little without beef. “Pitcher was
took with another fever,'—of course he was, -
‘and, being fetched by his friends, died the day
after he got home,'—of course he did, and out
of aggravation ; it's part of a deep-laid system.
There an’t another chap in the school but that
boy as would have died exactly at the end of
the quarter: taking it out of me to the very last,
and then carrying his spite to the utmost ex-
tremity. “The juniorest Palmer said he wished
he was in Heaven,'—I really don't know, I do
not know what's to be done with that young
fellow ; he's always, a wishing something horrid.
He said once he wished he was a donkey, be-
cause then he wouldn't have a father as didn't
love him Pretty wicious, that, for a child of six J"
M.R. SQUEERS RAISES HIS SPIR/ZS.
379
—==-
Mr. Squeers was so much moved by the con-
templation of this hardened nature in one so
young, that he angrily put up the letter, and
sought, in a new train of ideas, a subject of con-
solation.
“It's a long time to have been a lingering in
London,” he said; “and this is a precious hole
to come and live in, even if it has been only for
a week or so. Still, one hundred pound is five
boys, and five boys takes a whole year to pay
one hundred pound, and there's their keep to
be substracted, besides. There's nothing lost,
neither, by one's being here; because the boys'
money comes in just the same as if I was at
home, and Mrs. Squeers she keeps them in
order. There'll be some lost time to make up,
of course—there'll be an arrear of flogging as'll
have to be gone through : still, a couple of days
makes that all right, and one don't mind a little
extra work for one hundred pound. It's pretty
nigh the time to wait upon the old woman.
From what she said last night, I suspect that,
if I'm to succeed at all, I shall succeed to-night;
so I'll have half a glass more, to wish myself
success, and put myself in spirits. Mrs. Squeers,
my dear, your health !”
Leering with his one eye as if the lady to
whom he drank had been actually present, Mr.
Squeers—in his enthusiasm, no doubt—poured
out a full glass, and emptied it; and as the
liquor was raw spirits, and he had applied him-
self to the same bottle more than once already,
it is not surprising that he found himself, by
this time, in an extremely cheerful state, and
quite enough excited for his purpose.
What this purpose was soon appeared; for,
after a few turns about the room to steady him-
self, he took the bottle under his arm, and the
glass in his hand, and, blowing out the candle.
as if he purposed being gone some time, stole
out upon the staircase, and creeping softly to a
door opposite his own, tapped gently at it.
“But what's the use of tapping P” he said.
“She'll never hear. I suppose she isn't doing
anything very particular; and, if she is, it don't
much matter, that I see.”
With this brief preface, Mr. Squeers applied
his hand to the latch of the door, and, thrusting
his head into a garret far more deplorable than
that he had just left, and seeing that there was
nobody there but an old woman, who was bend-
ing over a wretched fire (for, although the
weather was still warm, the evening was chilly),
walked in, and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Well, my Slider,” said Mr. Squeers jocu-
larly.
“Is that you?" inquired Peg.
“Ah! it's me, and me's the first person
singular, nominative case, agreeing with the verb
‘it’s,' and governed by Squeers understood, as a
acorn, a hour; but when the h is sounded, the
a only is to be used, as a and, a art, a ghway,”
replied Mr. Squeers, quoting at random from
the grammar. . “At least, if it, isn't, you don't
know any better, and, if it is, I've done it acci.
dentally.”
Delivering this reply in his accustomed tone
of voice, in which, of course, it was inaudible to
Peg, Mr. Squeers drew a stool to the fire, and
placing himself over against her, and the bottle
and glass on the floor between them, roared out
again, very loud :
“Well, my Slider?”
“I hear you,” said Peg, receiving him.very
graciously.
“I’ve come according to promise,” roared
'Squeers.
“So they used to say in that part of the
country I come from,” observed Peg com-
placently, “but I think oil's better.”
“Better than what?” roared Squeers, adding
Some rather strong language in an under-tone. .
“No,” said Peg, “ of course not.”
“I never saw such a monster as you are :"
muttered Squeers, looking as amiable as he
possibly could the while; for Peg's eye was
upon him, and she was chuckling fearfully, as
though in delight at having made a choice re-
partee. “Do you see this? This is a bottle.”
“I see it,” answered Peg.
“Well, and do you see this 2° bawled
Squeers. “This is a glass.” Peg saw that
too.
“See here, then,” said Squeers, accompanying
his remarks with appropriate action. “I fill the
glass from the bottle, and I say, ‘Your health,
lider,’ and empty it; then I rinse it genteelly
with a little drop, which I'm forced to throw
into the fire—hallo! we shall have the chimbley
alight next—fill it again, and hand it over to
you.”
“Your health,” said Peg.
“She understands that, anyways,” muttered
Squeers, watching Mrs. Sliderskew as she dis-
patched her portion, and choked and gasped
in a most awful manner after so doing. “Now
then, let's have a talk. How's the rheumatics?”
- Mrs. Sliderskew, with much blinking and
chuckling, and with looks expressive of her
strong admiration of Mr. Squeers, his person,
Inanners, and conversation, replied that the
rheumatics were better. *
“What's the reason,” said Mr. Squeers, deriv-
ing fresh facetiousness from the bottle; “what's
38o
AVICHOLAS MICA L.A.B. V.
the reason of rheumatics P What do they mean?
What do people have 'em for—eh P”
Mrs. Sliderskew didn't know, but suggested
that it was possibly because they couldn't help it.
“Measles, rheumatics, hooping-cough, fevers,
agers, and lumbagers,” said Mr. Squeers, “is all
philosophy together; that's what it is. The
heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the earthly
bodies is philosophy. If there's a screw loose
in a heavenly body, that's philosophy; and if
there's a screw loose in a earthly body, that's
philosophy too; or, it may be that sometimes
“Do You SEE THis 2
his eye all the time on Mrs. Sliderskew, who
was unable to hear one word, Mr. Squeers con-
cluded by helping himself and passing the
bottle: to which Peg did becoming reverence.
“That's the time of day !” said Mr. Squeers.
“You look twenty pound ten better than you
did.”
Again Mrs. Sliderskew chuckled, but modesty
forbade her assenting, verbally to the compli-
Iment. -
“Twenty pound ten better,” repeated Mr.
Squeers, “than you did that day when I first
introduced myself—don't you know?”
there's a little metaphysics in it, but that's not
often. Philosophy's the chap for me. If a
parent asks a question in the classical, com-
mercial, or mathematical line, says I gravely,
“Why, sir, in the first place, are you a philo-
sopher P’—“No, Mr. Squeers,” he says, “I an’t.”
* Then, sir,’ says I, ‘ I am sorry for you, for I
shan't be able to explain it.” Naturally- the
parent goes away and wishes he was a philo-
sopher, and, equally naturally, thinks I'm one.”
Saying this, and a great deal more, with tipsy
profundity and a serio-comic air, and keeping
º
º
ºll|| |
ſ: |
; |
§ º
º
} | |
| |
º
THIS IS A BOTTLE.”
“Ah !” said Peg, shaking her head, “but
you frightened me that day.”
“Did I?”, said Squeers. “Well, it was
rather a startling thing ſor a stranger to come
and recommend himself by saying that he knew
all about you, and what your name was, and
why you were living so quiet here, and what
you had boned, and who you boned it from,
wasn’t it?”
Peg nodded her head in strong assent.
“But I know everything that happens in that
way, you see,” continued Squeers. “Nothing
takes place, of that kind, that I an’t up to ens

MR. SQUEERS AND MES, SLIDERSKE W.
tirely. I'm a sort of a lawyer, Slider, of first-rate
standing, and understanding too; I'm the inti-
mate friend and confidential adwiser of pretty
nigh every man, woman, and child that gets
themselves into difficulties by being too nimble
with their fingers; I'm Jy
Mr. Squeers's catalogue of his own merits and
accomplishments, which was partly the result of
a concerted plan between himself and Ralph
Nickleby, and flowed, in part, from the black
bottle, was here interrupted by Mrs. Sliderskew.
“Ha, ha, ha!” she cried, folding her arms
and wagging her head ; “and so he wasn't
married after all, wasn't he—not married after
all P”
“No,” replied Squeers, “that he wasn't I"
“And a young lover come and carried off the
bride, eh?” said Peg.
“From under his very nose,” replied Squeers,
“and I’m told the young chap cut up rough be-
sides, and broke the winders, and forced him to
swaller his wedding favour, which nearly choked
him.”
“Tell me all about it again,” cried Peg with
a malicious relish of her old master's defeat,
which made her natural hideousness something
quite fearful; “let’s hear it all again, beginning
at the beginning now, as if you'd never told me.
Let's have it every word—now—now—begin-
ning at the very first, you know, when he went
to the house that morning !”
Mr. Squeers, plying Mrs. Sliderskew freely
with the liquor, and sustaining himself under
the exertion of speaking so loud by frequent
applications to it himself, complied with this re-
quest by describing the discomfiture of Arthur
Gride, with such improvements on the truth as
happened to occur to him, and the ingenious
invention and application of which had been
very instrumental in recommending him to her
notice in the beginning of their acquaintance.
Mrs. Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of delight,
rolling her head about, drawing up her skinny
shoulders, and wrinkling her cadaverous face
into so many and such complicated forms of
ugliness, as awakened the unbounded astonish-
ment and disgust even of Mr. Squeers.
“He’s a treacherous old goat,” said Peg,
“ and cozened me with cunning tricks and lying
promises, but never mind. I'm even with him.
I'm even with him.”
“..More than even, Slider,” returned Squeers;
“you’d have been even with him if he'd got
married; but, with the disappointment besides,
you're a long way ahead—out of sight, Slider,
'quite out of sight. And that reminds me,” he
added, handing her the glass, “if you want me
381
to give you my opinion of them deeds, and tell
you what you'd better keep and what you'd
better burn, why, now's your time, Slider.”
“There an’t no hurry for that,” said Peg with
several knowing looks and winks.
“Oh, very well I’’ observed Squeers, “it don't
matter to me; you asked me, you know. I
shouldn't charge you nothing, being a friend.
You're the best judge, of course but you're a
bold woman, Slider—that's all.”
“How do you mean bold P” said Peg.
“Why, I only mean that, if it was me, I
wouldn't keep papers as might hang me littering
about when they might be turned into money—
them as wasn't useful made away with, and them
as was, laid by somewheres safe ; that's all,”
returned Squeers; “but everybody's the best
judge of their own affairs. All I say is. Slider,
A wouldn't do it.”
“Come,” said Peg, “then you shall see 'em.”
“I don't want to see 'em,” replied Squeers,
affecting to be out of humour; “don’t talk as if
it was a treat. Show 'em to somebody else, and
take their advice.”
Mr. Squeers would, very likely, have carried
on the farce of being offended a little longer, if
Mrs. Sliderskew, in her anxiety to restore her-
self to her former high position in his good
graces, had not become so extremely affection-s
ate, that he stood at some risk of being Smothered
by her caresses. Repressing, with as good a
grace as possible, these little familiarities—for
which, there is reason to believe, the black
bottle was at least as much to blame as any
constitutional infirmity on the part of Mrs.
Sliderskew—he protested that he had only been
joking and, in proof of his unimpaired good-
humour, that he was ready to examine the deeds
at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any
satisfaction or relief of mind to his fair friend.
“And now you're up, my Slider,” bawled
Squeers as she rose to fetch them, “bolt the
door.” e &
Peg trotted to the door, and, after fumbling
at the bolt, crept to the other end of the room,
and from beneath the coals which filled the
bottom of the cupboard drew forth a small deal
box. Having placed this on the floor at Squeers's
feet, she brought, from under the pillow of her
bed, a small key, with which she signed to that
gentleman to open it. Mr. Squeers, who had
eagerly ſollowed her every motion, lost no time
in obeying this hint: and, throwing back the lid,
gazed with rapture on the documents which lay
within.
“Now, you see,” said Peg, kneeling down on
the floor beside him, and staying his impatient
332
AV/CA/OAAS /V/CA / E B V.
hand; “what's of no use we'll burn ; what we
can get any money by we'll keep ; and if there's
any we could get him into trouble by, and fret
and waste away his heart to shreds, those we'll
take particular care of ; for that's what I want
to do, and what I hoped to do when I left him.”
“I thought,” said Squeers, “that you didn't
bear him any particular good-will. But, I say,
why didn't you take some money besides P”
“Some what?” asked Peg.
“Some money,” roared Squeers. “I do be-
lieve the woman, hears me, and wants to make
me break a wessel, so that she may have the
pleasure of nursing me. Some money, Slider—
money !”.
“Why, what a man you are to ask?" cried
Peg with some contempt. “If I had taken
money from Arthur Gride, he'd have scoured
the whole earth to find me—ay, and he'd have
smelt it out, and raked it up, somehow, if I had
buried it at the bottom of the deepest well in
England. No, no I knew better than that. I
took what I thought his secrets were hid in :
and them he couldn't afford to make public, let
'em be worth ever so much money. He's an old
dog; a sly, old, cunning, thankless dog | He
first starved, and then tricked me; and if I could
I'd kill him.”
• “All right, and very laudable,” said Squeers.
“But, first and foremost, Slider, burn the box.
You should never keep things as may lead to
discovery — always mind that. So, while you
ull it to pieces (which you can easily do, for
it's very old and, rickety) and burn it in little
bits, I'll look over the papers, and tell you what
they are.”
Peg, expressing her acquiescence in this ar-
rangement, Mr. Squeers turned the box bottom
upwards, and, tumbling the contents upon the
floor, handed it to her; the destruction of the
box being an extemporary device for engaging
her attention, in case it should prove desirable
to distract it from his own proceedings.
“There !” said Squeers; “you poke the pieces
between the bars, and make up a good fire, and
I'll read the while. Let me see—let me see.”
And taking the candle down beside him, Mr.
Squeers, with great eagerness and a cunning
grin overspreading his face, entered upon his
task of examination.
If the old woman had not been very deaf, she
must have heard, when she last went to the
door, the breathing of two persons close Behind
it : and, if those two persons had been unac-
quainted with her infirmity, they must probably
have chosen that moment either for presenting
themselves or taking to flight. But, knowing
}:
with whom they had to deal, they remained
quite still, and now not only appeared unob.
served at the door—which was not bolted, for
the bolt had no hasp—but warily, and with
noiseless footsteps, advanced into the room.
As they stole farther and farther in by slight
and scarcely perceptible degrees, and with such
caution that they scarcely seemed to breathe,
the old hag and Squeers little dreaming of any
such invasion, and utterly unconscious of there
being any soul near but themselves, were busily
occupied with their tasks. The old woman, with
her wrinkled face close to the bars of the stove,
puffing at the dull embers which had not yet
caught the wood—Squeers stooping down to the
candle, which brought out the full ugliness of
his face, as the light of the fire did that of his
companion—both intently engaged, and wearing
faces of exultation which contrasted strongly with
the anxious looks of those behind, who took ad.
vantage of the slightest sound to cover their
advance, and, almost before they had moved an
inch, and all was silent, stopped again—this, with
the large bare room, damp walls, and flickering
doubtful light, combined to form a scene which
the most careless and indifferent spectator (could
any have been present) could scarcely have failed
to derive some interest from, and would not
readily have forgotten. -
Of the stealthy comers Frank Cheeryble was
one, and Newman Noggs the other. Newman
had caught up, by the rusty nozzle, an old pair
of bellows, which were just undergoing a flourish
in the air preparatory to a descent upon the head
of Mr. Squeers, when Frank, with an earnest
gesture, stayed his arm, and, taking another step
in advance, came so close behind the school-
master that, by leaning slightly forward, he could
plainly distinguish the writing which he held up
to his eye.
Mr. Squeers, not being remarkably erudite,
appeared to be considerably puzzled by this first
prize, which was in an engrossing hand, and not
very legible except to a practised eye. Having
tried it by reading from left to right, and from
right to left, and finding it equally clear both
ways, he turned it upside down with no better
Sll CCESS.
“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled Peg, who, on her
knees before the fire, was feeding it with frag-
ments of the box, and grinning in most devilish
exultation. “What's, that writing about, eh?”
“Nothing particular,” replied Squeers, tossing
it towards her. “It's only an old lease, as well
as I can make out. Throw it in the fire.”
Mrs. Sliderskew complied, and inquired what
the next one was.
AAEMOST StyCCESSFUAE, BU7' No.7 (20/72.
it. t , rºº
“This,” said Squeers, “is a bundle of overdue
acceptances and renewed bills of six or eight
young gentlemen, but they are all M.P.'s, so it's
of no use to anybody. Throw it in the fire "
Peg did as she was bidden, and waited for
the next.
“This,” said Squeers, “seems to be some
deed of sale of the right of presentation to the
rectory of Purechurch, in the valley of Cashup.
Take care of that, Slider—literally for God's
sake. It'll fetch its price at the Auction Mart.”
“What's the next?” inquired Peg.
“Why, this,” said Squeers, “seems, from the
two letters that's with it, to be a bond from a
curate down in the country to pay half a year's
wages of forty pound for borrowing twenty. Take
care of that, for, if he don't pay it, his bishop .
will very soon be down upon him. We know
what the camel and the needle's eye means—no
man as can't live upon his income, whatever it
is, must expect to go to heaven at any price.
It's very odd; I don't see anything like it yet.”
“What's the matter?” said Peg.
, “Nothing,” replied Squeers, “only I'm looking
or—” -
ewman raised the bellows again. Once more,
Frank, by a rapid motion of his arm, unaccom-
panied by any noise, checked him in his pur-
pose.
“Here you are,” said Squeers, “bonds—take
care of them. Warrant of attorney—take care
of that. Two cognovits—take care of them.
Lease and release—burn that. Ah “Madeline
Pray—come of age or marry—the said Madeline'
—here, burn that l”
Eagerly throwing towards the old woman a
parchment that he caught up for the purpose, ,
Squeers, as she turned her head, thrust into the
breast of his large coat the deed in which these
words had caught his eye, and burst into a shout
of triumph.
“I’ve got it!” said Squeers. “I’ve got it
Hurrah! The plan was a good one, though the
*: was desperate, and the day's our own at
ast !” f
Peg demanded what he laughed at, but no
answer was returned. Newman's arm could no
longer be restrained; the bellows, descending
heavily and with unerring aim on the very centre
of Mr. Squeers's head, felled him to the floor, and
stretched him on it flat and senseless.
383
CHAPTER LVIII.
IN WHICH ONE SCENE OF THIS HISTORY IS CLOSED.
sº ºw-
ãº) IVIDING the distance into two
} days’ journey, in order that his
\| 7 charge might sustain the less ex.
Śº haustion and fatigue from travelling
so far, Nicholas, at the end of the
second day from their leaving home,
# found himself within a very few miles of
the spot where the happiest years of his
been passed, and which, while it filled
his mind with pleasant and peaceful thoughts,
brought back many painful and vivid recollec-
tions of the circumstances in which he and his
had wandered forth from their old home, cast
upon the rough world and the mercy of strangers.
It needed no such reflections as those which
the memory of old days, and wanderings among
scenes where our childhood has been passed,
usually awaken in the most insensible minds,
to soften the heart of Nicholas, and render
him more than usually mindful of his droop-
ing friend. By night and day, at all times
and seasons: always watchful, attentive, and
solicitous, and never varying in the discharge of
his self-imposed, duty to one so friendless and
helpless as he whose sands of life were now ſast
running out and dwindling rapidly away : he
was ever at his side. He never left him. To
encourage and animate him, administer to his
wants, support and cheer him to the utmost of
his power, was now his constant and unceasing
..] occupation.
They procured a humble lodging in a small
farm - house, surrounded by meadows where
Nicholas had often revelled when a child with
a troop of merry schoolfellows; and here they
took up their rest. .
At first, Smike was strong enough to walk
about, for short distances at a time, with no
other support or aid than that which Nicholas
could afford him. At this time nothing appeared
to interest him so much as visiting those places
which had been most familiar to his friend in
bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and
pleased to find that its indulgence beguiled
the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never
failed to afford'him matter for thought and con-
versation afterwards, Nicholas made such spots
the scenes of their daily rambles: driving him
from place to place in a little pony-chair, and
supporting him on his arm while they walked
slowly, among these old haunts, or lingered in
the sun-light to take long parting looks of those
which were most quiet and beautiful,


384
McRozas woxzz3).
It was on such occasions as these that
Nicholas, yielding almost unconsciously to the
interest of old associations, would point out
some tree that he had climbed a hundred times,
to peep at the young birds in their nest; and
the branch from which he used to shout to little
Kate, who stood below terrified at the height he
had gained, and yet urging him higher still by.
the intensity of her admiration. There was the
old house, too, which they would pass every day,
looking up at the tiny window through which
the sun used to stream in and wake him on the
summer mornings—they were all summer morn-
ings then—and, climbing up the garden wall and
looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-
bush which had come, a present to Kate, from
some little lover, and she had planted with her
own hands. There were the hedgerows where
the brother and sister had so often gathered wild
flowers together, and the green fields and shady
paths where they had so often strayed. There
was not a lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage
near, with which some childish event was not
entwined, and back it came upon the mind—as
events of childhood do—nothing in itself: per-
haps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress,
a passing thought or fear : and yet more strongly
and distinctly marked, and better remembered,
than the hardest trials or severest sorrows of a
year ago.
One of these expeditions led them through
the churchyard where was his father's grave.
“Even here,” said Nicholas softly, “we used to
loiter before we knew what death was, and
when we little thought whose ashes would rest
beneath ; and, wondering at the silence, sit
down to rest and speak below our breath.
Once Kate was lost, and, after an hour of fruit-
less search, they found her, fast asleep, under
that tree which shades my father's grave. He
was very fond of her, and said, when he took
her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever
he died he would wish to be buried where his
dear little child had laid her head. "You see his
wish was not forgotten.
Nothing more passed at the time, but that
night, as Nicholas sat beside his bed, Smike
started from what had seemed to be a slumber, ,
and, laying his hand in his, prayed, as the tears
coursed down his face, that he would make him
one solemn promise. -
“What is that ?” said Nicholas kindly. “If I
can redeem it, or hope to do so, you know I will.”
“I am sure you will,” was the reply. “Pro-
mise me that, when I die, I shall be buried near
—as near as they can make my grave—to the
tree we saw to-day.” - -
Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words
to give it in, but they were solemn and earnest.
His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned
as if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and
the hand was pressed more than once, or twice,
or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly
loosed his hold. * -
In a fortnight's time he became too ill to move
about. Once or twice Nicholas drove him out,
propped up with pillows; but the motion of the
chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of
fainting, which, in his weakened state, were
dangerous. There was an old couch in the
house, which was his favourite resting-place by
day; and when the sun shone, and the weather
was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little
orchard which was close at hand, and, his charge
being well wrapped up and carried out to it,
they used to sit there sometimes for hours to-
gether. .
It was on one of these occasions that a cir-
cumstance took place which Nicholas, at the
time, thoroughly believed to be the mere de-
lusion of an imagination affected by disease;
but which he had, afterwards, too good reason
to know was of real and actual occurrence.
He had brought Smike out in his arms—poor
fellow ! a child might have carried him then—
to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch,
had taken his seat beside it. He had been
watching the whole of the night before, and,
being greatly fatigued both in mind and body,
gradually fell asleep.
He could not have closed his eyes five
minutes, when he was awakened by a scream,
and, starting up in that kind of terror which
affects a person suddenly roused, saw, to his
great astonishment, that his charge had struggled
into a 'sitting posture, and with eyes almost
starting from their sockets, cold dew standing
on his forehead, and in a fit of trembling which
quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for
help. x. -
“Good Heaven, what is this P” said Nicholas,
bending over him. “Be calm ; you have been
dreaming.” * ... *
“No, no, no. 1" cried Smike, clinging to him.
“Hold me tight ! Don't-let me go There—
there—behind the tree l’”
Nicholas followed his eyes, which were di-
rected to some distance behind the chair from
which he himself had just risen. But, there was
nothing there. * .
“This is nothing but your fancy,” he said as
he strove to compose him; “nothing else,
indeed.”
“I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,”
SMIKE'S QUIET DECLINE.
was the answer. “Oh I say you'll keep me with
you—swear you won't leave me for an instant "
'. “Do I ever leave you?” returned Nicholas.
“Lie down again—there You see I’m here.
Now, tell me—what was it?” -
“Do you remember,” said Smike in a low
voice, and glancing fearfully round, “do you re-
member my telling you of the man who first took
me to the school 2"
“Yes, surely.”
“I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree
—that one with the thick trunk—and there,
with his eyes fixed on me, he stood I"
“Only reflect for one moment,” said Nicholas;
“granting, for an instant, that it's likely he is
alive and wandering about a lonely place like
this, so far removed from the public road, do
you think that at this distance of time you could
possibly know that man again?”
“Anywhere—in any dress,” returned Smike;
“but, just now, he stood leaning upon his stick
and looking at me, exactly as I told you I re-
membered him. He was dusty with walking,
and poorly dressed—I think his clothes were
ragged—but, directly I saw him, the wet night,
his face when he left me, the parlour I was left
in, and the people that were there, all seemed to
come back together. When he knew I saw him,
he looked frightened; for he started, and shrunk
away. I have thought of him by day, and
dreamt of him by night. He looked in my
sleep, when I was quite a little child, and has
looked in my sleep ever since, as he did just
now.” -
Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion
and argument he could think of, to convince
the terrified creature that his imagination had
deceived him, and that this close resemblance
between the creation of his dreams and the man
he supposed he had seen was but a proof of it;
but all in vain. When he could persuade him
to remain, for a few moments, in the care of the
people to whom the house belonged, he insti-
tuted a strict inquiry whether any stranger had
been seen, and searched himself behind the tree,
and through the orchard, and upon the land
immediately adjoining, and in every place near,
where it was possible for a man to lie concealed;
but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in
his original conjecture, he applied himself to
calming the fears of Smike, which, after some
time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not
in removing the impression upon his mind; for
he still declared, again and again, in the most
Solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively
seen what he had described, and that nothing
could ever remove his conviction of its reality.’
t
blame me, at a time like this, I know.
385
And now "Nicholas began to see that hope
was gone, and that, upon the partner of his
poverty and the sharer of his better fortune, the
world was closing fast. There was little pain,
little uneasiness, but there was no rallying, no
effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and
wasted to the last degree; his voice had sunk
so low, that he could scarce be heard to speak:
Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had
lain him down to die.
On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was
tranquil and at peace: when the soft sweet air
crept in at the open window of the quiet room.
and not a sound was heard but the gentle rus-
tling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in his old place
by the bedside, and knew that the time was
nearly come. So very still it was, that, every
now and then, he bent down his ear to listen
for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to
assure himself that life was still there, and that
he had not fallen into that deep slumber from
which on earth there is no waking.
While he was thus employed the closed eyes
opened, and on the pale face there came a
placid smile.
“That's well !” said Nicholas.
has done you good.” -
“I have had such pleasant dreams,” was the
answer. “Such pleasant, happy dreams "
“Of what?” said Nicholas.
The dying boy turned towards him, and, put-
ting his arm about his neck, made answer, “I
shall soon be there !”
After a short silence he spoke again.
“I am not afraid to die,” he said. “I am
quite contented. I almost think that, if I could
rise from this bed quite well, I would not wish
to do so now. You have so often told me we
shall meet again—so very often lately, and now
I feel the truth of that so strongly—that I can
even bear to part from you.” -
The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the
closer grasp of the arm which accompanied these
latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's
heart; nor were there wanting indications of
how deeply they had touched the heart of him
to whom they were addressed.
“You say well,” returned Nicholas at length,
“ and comfort me very much, dear fellow. Let
me hear you say you are happy, if you can.”
“I must tell you something first. I should
not have a secret from you. You would not
??
“The sleep
“I blame you !” exclaimed Nicholas.
“I am sure you would not. You asked me
why I was so changed, and—and sat so much
alone. Shall I tell you why?”
386
AV/CHO ZAS AVICKZZA Y.
“Not if it pains you,” said Nicholas. “I only
asked that I might make you happier, if I could.”
“I know—I felt that at the time.” He drew
his friend closer to him.’
I could not help it, but, though I would have
died to make her happy, it broke my heart to
see—I know he loves her dearly—oh who
could find that out so soon as I ?”
The words which followed were feebly and
faintly uttered, and broken by long pauses; but
from them Nicholas learnt, for the first time,
that the dying boy, with all the ardour of a
nature concentrated on one absorbing, hopeless,
secret passion, loved his sister Kate.
He had procured a lock of her hair, which
hung at his breast, folded in one or two slight
ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when
he was dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that
no eyes but his might see it, and that, when he
was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in
the earth, he would hang it round his neck again,
that it might rest with him in the grave.
Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge,
and promised again that he should rest in the
spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and
kissed each other on the cheek. --
“Now,” he murmured, “I am happy.”
He ſell into a light slumber, and waking
smiled as before ; then, spoke of beautiful
gardens, which he said stretched out before
him, and were filled with figures of men, women,
and many children, all with light upon their
faces; then, whispered that it was Eden—and
so died. -
CHAPTER LIX.
THE PLOTS BEGIN to FAIE, AND Doubts AND DAN-
GERS TO DISTURB THE PLOTTER,
R ALPH sat alone, in the solitary room
lº)} where he was accustomed to take his
meals, and to sit of nights when
no profitable occupation called him
lºš abroad. Before him was an un-
§ 2x- tasted breakfast, and near to where
3) his fingers beat restlessly upon the table,
*) lay his watch. It was long past the time
at which, for many years, he had put it in his
pocket, and gone with measured steps down-
stairs to the business of the day, but he took as
little heed of its monotonous warning as of the
meat and drink before him, and remained with
his head resting on one hand, and his eyes fixed
moodily on the ground.
This departure from his regular and constant
habit, in 'one so regular and unvarying in all that
“You will forgive me;
have no rest.
appertained to the daily pursuit of riches, would
almost of itself have told that the usurer was not
well. That he laboured under some mental or
bodily indisposition, and that it was one of no
slight kind so to affect a man like him, was
sufficiently shown by his haggard face, jaded air,
and hollow languid eyes: which he raised at
last with a start and a hasty glance around him,
as one who suddenly awakes from sleep, and
cannot immediately recognise the place in which
he finds himself. .
“What is this,” he said, “that hangs over me,
and I cannot shake off P I have never pam-
pered myself, and should not be ill. I have
never moped, and pined, and yielded to fancies;
but what can a man do without rest P” *
He pressed his hand upon his forehead.
“Night after night comes and goes, and I
If I sleep, what rest is that which
is disturbed by constant dreams of the same
detested faces crowding round me—of the same
detested people, in every variety of action,
mingling with all I say and do, and always to
my defeat? Waking, what rest have I, con-
stantly haunted by this heavy shadow of I
know not what—which is its worst character?
I must have rest. One night's unbroken rest
and I should be a man again.”
Pushing the table from him while he spoke,
as though he loathed the sight of food, he
encountered the watch : the hands of which
were almost upon noon. f
“This is strange 1" he said ; “noon, and
Noggs not here ! What drunken brawl keeps
him away P I would give something now—
something in money even after that dreadful
loss—if he had stabbed a man in a tavern scuffle,
or broken into a house, or picked a pocket, or
done anything that would send him abroad with
an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of him.
Better still, if I could throw temptation in his
way, and lure him on to rob me. He should be
welcome to what he took, so I brought the law
upon him ; for he is a traitor, I swear ! How,
or when, or, where, I don't know, though I
suspect.”
After waiting for another half-hour, he dis-
patched the woman who kept his house to
Newman's lodging, to inquire if he were ill, and
why he had not come or sent. She brought
back answer that he had not been home all
night, and that no one could tell her anything
about him. *, & -
“But there is a gentleman, sir,” she said,
“below, who was standing at the door when I
came in, and he says ??
“What says he P” demanded Ralph, turning
#

A MESSEWGER OF MERCY RE/ECZEZ).
angrily upon her. “I told you I would see
nobody.”
“He says,” replied the woman, abashed by
his harshness, “that he comes on very particular
business which admits of no excuse ; and I
thought perhaps it might be about 73
“About what, in the devil's name P” said
Ralph. “You spy and speculate on people's
business with me, do you?”
“Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious,
and thought it might be about Mr. Noggs;
that's all.”
“Saw I was anxious!” muttered Ralph ; “they
all watch me now. Where is this person P You
did not say I was not down yet, I hope P”
The woman replied that he was in the little
office, and that she had said her master was
engaged, but she would take the message.
“Well,” said Ralph, “I’ll see him. Go you
to your kitchen, and keep there. Do you mind
me P”
Glad to be released, the woman quickly dis-
appeared. Collecting himself, and assuming as
much of his accustomed manner as his utmost
resolution could summon, Ralph descended the
stairs. After pausing for a few moments, with
his hand upon the lock, he entered Newman's
room, and confronted Mr. Charles Cheeryble.
Of all men alive, this was one of the last he
would have wished to meet at any time; but,
now that he recognised in him only the patron
and protector of Nicholas, he would rather have
seen a spectre. One beneficial effect, however,
the encounter had upon him. It instantly
roused all his dormant energies; rekindled in
his breast the passions that, for many years, had
$ound an improving home there; called up all
his wrath, hatred, and malice; restored the sneer
to his lip, and the scowl to his brow; and made
him again, in all outward appearance, the same
Ralph Nickleby whom so many had bitter cause
to remember.
“Humph : " said Ralph, pausing at the door.
“This is an unexpected favour, sir.”
“And an unwelcome one,” said brother
Charles ; “an unwelcome one, I know.”
“Men say you are truth itself, sir,” replied
Ralph. “You speak truth now, at all events,
and I'll not contradict you. & The favour is, at
least, as unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can
scarcely say more.”
“Plainly, sir ” began brother Charles.
“Plainly, sir,” interrupted Ralph, “I wish
this conference to be a short one, and to end
where it begins. I guess the subject upon
which you are about to speak, and I’ll not hear
you. You like plainness, I believe, there it is.
s
387
Here is the door, as you see. Our way lies in
very different directions. Take yours, I beg of
you, and leave me to pursue mine in quiet.”
“In quiet !” repeated brother Charles mildly,
and looking at him with more of pity than
reproach. “To pursue his way in quiet!”
“You will scarcely remain in my house, I
presume, sir, against my will,” said Ralph ; “ or
you can scarcely hope to make an impression
upon a man who closes his ears to all that you
can say, and is firmly and resolutely determined
not to hear you.”
“Mr. Nickleby, sir,” returned brother Charles:
no less mildly than before, but firmly too : “I
come here against my will—sorely and grievously
against my will. I have never been in this
house before ; and, to speak my mind, sir, I
don't feel at home or easy in it, and have no
wish ever to be here again. You do not guess
the subject on which I come to speak to you;
you do not indeed. I am sure of that, or your
manner would be a very different one.”
Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear
eye and open countenance of the honest old
merchant underwent no change of expression,
and met his look without reserve.
“Shall I go on P” said Mr. Cheeryble.
“Oh by all means, if you please,” returned
Ralph drily. “Here are walls to speak to, sir,
a desk, and two stools—most attentive auditors,
and certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg;
make my house yours, and perhaps, by the time
I return from my walk, you will have finished
what you have to say, and will yield me up
possession again.”
So saying, he buttoned his coat, and, turning
into the passage, took down his hat. The old
gentleman followed, and was about to speak,
when Ralph waved him off impatiently, and said :
“Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word.
Virtuous as you are, you are not an angel yet,
to appear in men's houses whether they will or
no, and pour your speech into unwilling ears.
Preach to the walls, I tell you—not to me!”
“I am no angel, Heaven knows,” returned
brother Charles, shaking his head, “but an
erring and imperfect man; nevertheless, there
is one quality which all men have, in common
with the angels, blessed opportunities of exer-
cising, if they will—mercy. It is an errand of
mercy that brings me here. Pray let me dis-
charge it.”
“I show no mercy,” retorted Ralph with a
triumphant smile, “and I ask none. Seek no
mercy"from me, sir, in behalf of the ſellow who
has imposed upon your childish credulity, but
let him expect the worst that I can do.”
338
MYCHOLAS WICKZEB}.
“Affe ask mercy at your hands !” exclaimed
the old merchant warmly, “Ask it at his, sir;
ask it at his. If you will not hear me now,
when you may, hear me when you must, or
anticipate what I would say, and take measures
to prevent our ever meeting again. Your
nephew is a noble lad, sir, an honest, noble lad.
What you are, Mr. Nickleby, I will not say ; but
what you have done I know. Now, sir, when
you go about the business in which you have
been recently engaged, and find it difficult of
pursuing, come to me and my brother Ned, and
Tim Linkinwater, sir, and we'll explain it for
you—and come soon, or it may be too late, and
you may have it explained with a little more
roughness, and a little less delicacy—and never
forget, sir, that I came here this morning in
mercy to you, and am still ready to talk to you
in the same spirit.”
With these words, uttered with great emphasis
and emotion, brother Charles put on his broad-
brimmed hat, and, passing Ralph Nickleby
without any other remark, trotted ninbly into
the street. Ralph looked after him, but neither
moved nor spoke for some time : when he broke
what almost seemed the silence of stupefaction
by a scornful laugh.
“This;" he said, “from its wildness, should
be another of those dreams that have so broken
my rest of late. In mercy to me !—Pho | The
old simpleton has gone mad.”
Although he expressed himself in this derisive
- and contemptuous manner, it was plain that, the
more Ralph pondered, the more ill at ease he
became, and the more he laboured under some
vague anxiety and alarm, which increased as the
time passed on, and no tidings of Newman
Noggs arrived. After waiting until late in the
afternoon, tortured by various apprehensions
and misgivings. and the recollection of the
warning which his nephew had given him when
they last met : the further confirmation of which
now presented itself in one shape of probability,
now in another, and haunted him perpetually :
he left home, and, scarcely knowing why, save
that he was in a suspicious and agitated mood,
betook himself to Snawley's house. His wife
presented herself; and of her Ralph inquired
whether her husband was at home.
“No,” she said sharply, “he is not, indeed,
and I don't think he will be at home for a
very long time; that's more.”
“Do you know who I am P” asked Ralph.
“Oh yes! I know you very well—too well,
perhaps, and perhaps he does too, and sorry am
I that I should have to say it.”
“Tell him that I saw him through the window
~~~~
blind above, as I crossed the road just now, and
that I would speak to him on business,” said
Ralph. “Do you hear?”
“I hear,” rejoined Mrs. Snawley, taking no
further notice of the request. &
“I knew this woman was a nypocrite, in the
way of psalms and Scripture phrases,” said
Ralph, passing quietly by, “but I never knew
she drank before.”
“Stop! You don't come in here,” said Mr.
Snawley's better half, interposing her person,
which was a robust one, in the doorway. “You
have said more than enough to him on business,
before now. I always told him what dealing
with you and working out your schemes would
come to. It was either you or the schoolmaster
—one of you, or the two between you—that
got the forged letter done ; remember that
That wasn't his doing, so don't lay it at his
door.”
“Hold your tongue, you Jezebel !” said
Ralph, looking fearfully round.
“Ah ! I know when to hold my tongue, and
when to speak, Mr. Nickleby,” retorted the
dame. “Take care that other people know
when to hold theirs.”
“You jade,” said Ralph, “if your husband
has been idiot enough to trust you with his
secrets, keep them—keep them, she-devil that
you are ” * *
“Not so much his secrets as other people's
secrets, perhaps," retorted the woman ; “not so
much his secrets as yours. None of your black
looks at me ! You'll want 'em all perhaps, for
another time. You had better keep 'em.”
“Will you,” said Ralph, suppressing his
passion as well as he could, and clutching her
tightly by the wrist, “will you go to your
husband, and tell him that I know he is at
home, and that I must see him 2 And will you
tell me what it is that you and he mean by this
new style of behaviour P”
“No,” replied the woman, violently dis-
engaging herself, “I’ll do neither.”
“You set me at defiance, do you?” said
Ralph.
“Yes,” was the answer. “I do.”
For an instant Ralph had his hand raised,
as though he were about to strike her; but,
checking himself, and nodding his head and
muttering as though to assure her he would not
forget this, walked away. t
Thence he went straight to the inn which
Mr. Squeers frequented, and inquired when he
had been there last; in the vague hope that,
successful or unsuccessful, he might, by this
time, have returned from his mission, and be
*
S VMATOM'S OF FALLING OFF. 389
—º
able to assure him that all was safe. But
Mr. Squeers had not been there for ten days,
and all that the people could tell about him
was, that he had left his luggage and his bill.
Disturbed by a thousand fears and surmises,
and bent upon ascertaining whether Squeers
Shad any suspicion of Snawley, or was, in any
way, a party to this altered behaviour, Ralph
determined to hazard the extreme step of
inquiring for him at the Lambeth lodging, and
having an interview with him even there. . Bent
upon this purpose, and in that mood in which
delay is insupportable, he repaired at once to
the place; and being, by description, perfectly
acquainted with the situation of his room, crept
up-stairs and knocked gently at the door.
Not one, nor two, nor three, nor yet a dozen
knocks, served to convince Ralph, against his
wish, that there was nobody inside. He rea-
soned that he might be asleep ; and, listening,
almost persuaded himself that he could hear
him breathe. Even when he was satisfied that
he could not be there, he sat patiently on a
broken stair, and waited ; arguing that he had
gone out upon some slight errand, and must
SOOn return.
Many feet came up the creaking stairs; and
the step of some seemed to his listening ear so
like that of the man for whom he waited, that
Ralph often stood up to be ready to address
him when he reached the top; but, one by one,
each person turned off into some room short of
the place where he was stationed : and at every
such disappointment he felt quite chilled and
lonely. .” e
At length he felt it was hopeless to remain,
and, going down-stairs again, inquired of one of
the lodgers if he knew anything of Mr. Squeers's
movements — mentioning that worthy by an
assumed name which had been agreed upon
between them. By this lodger he was referred
to another, and by him to some one else, from
whom he learnt that, late on the previous night,
he had gone out hastily with two men, who had
shortly afterwards returned for the old woman
, who lived on the same floor; and that, although
the circumstance had attracted the attention of
the informant, he had not spoken to them at the
time, nor made any inquiry afterwards.
This possessed him with the idea that, per-
Shaps, Peg Sliderskew had been apprehended
{or the robbery, and that Mr. Squeers, being
with her at the time, had been apprehended
also, on suspicion of being a confederate. If
this were so, the fact must be known to Gride;
and to Gride's house he directed his steps; now
thoroughly alarmed, and fearful that there were
Nicholas NickLEBY, 20,
----- --- *. • *
indeed plots afoot, tending to his discomfiture
and ruin.
Arrived at the usurer's house, he found the
windows close shut, the dingy blinds drawn
down ; all was silent, melancholy, and deserted.
But this was its usual aspect. He knocked—
gently at first—then loud and vigorously—but
nobody came. He wrote a few words in pencil
on a card, and, having thrust it under the door,
was going away, when a noise above, as though
a window-sash were stealthily raised, caught his
ear, and, looking up, he could just discern the
face of Gride himself, cautiously peering over
the house parapet from the window of the
garret. Seeing who was below, he drew it in
again; not so quickly, however, but that Ralph
let him know he was observed, and called to
him to come down.
The call being repeated, Gride looked out
again, so cautiously that no part of the old
man's body was visible. The sharp features
and white hair appearing alone, above the
parapet, looked like a severed head garnishing
the wall.
“Hush ' " he cried. “Go away—go away !"
“Come down ” said Ralph, beckoning him.
“Go a-way !” squeaked Gride, shaking his
head in a sort of ecstasy of impatience. “Don't
speak to me, don't knock, don't call attention to
the house, but go away.”
“I’ll knock, I swear, till I have your neign-
bours up in arms,” said Ralph, “if you don’t tell
me what you mean by lurking there, you whining
cur ! ”
“I can't hear what you say—don't talk to ºne—
it isn't safe—go away—go away!" returned Gride.
“Come down, I say I Will you come down?”
said Ralph fiercely.
“No-o-o-o: ” snarled Gride. He drew
in his head ; and Ralph, left standing in the
street, could hear the sash closed. as gently and
carefully as it had been opened.
“How is this,” said he, “that they all fall
from me, and shun me like the plague—these
men who have licked the dust from my feet 2
Is my day past, and is this indeed the coming
on of night? I'll know what it means ! I
will, at any cost. I am firmer and more myself,
just now, than I have been these many days.”
Turning from the door, which, in the first
transport of his rage, he had meditated battering
upon until Gride's very fears should impel him
to open it, he turned his face towards the City,
and, working his way steadily through the crowd
which was pouring from it (it was by this time
between five and six o'clock in the after moon).
went straight to the house of business of the
232
39Q)
AZCHOLAS AVICKZEB P.
brothers Cheeryble, and, putting his head into
the glass case, found Tim Linkinwater alone.
“My name's Nickleby,” said Ralph.
“I know it,” replied Tim, surveying him
through his spectacles.
“Which of your firm was it who called on me
this morning?” demanded Ralph.
“Mr. Charles.”
“Then, tell Mr. Charles I want to see him.”
“You shall see,” said Tim, getting off his
stool with great agility, “you shall see, not only
Mr. 9.harles, but Mr. Ned likewise.”
Tim stopped, looked steadily and severely. at
Ralph, nodded his head once in a curt manner
which seemed to say there was a little more
behind, and vanished. After a short interval
he returned, and, ushering Ralph into the
presence of the two brothers, remained in the
room himself.
“I want to speak to you, who spoke to me
this morning,” said Ralph, pointing out with his
finger the man whom he addressed.
“I have no secrets from my brother Ned,
or from Tim Linkinwater,” observed brother
Charles quietly.
“I have,” said Ralph.
“Mr. Nickleby, sir,” said brother Ned, “the
matter upon which my brother Charles called
upon you this morning is one which is already
perfectly well known to us three, and to others
besides, and must unhappily soon become
known to a great many more. He waited upon
you, sir, this morning, alone, as a matter of
delicacy and consideration. We feel, now, that
further delicacy and consideration would be
misplaced ; and, if we confer together, it must be
as we are, or not at all.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Ralph with a curl of
the lip, “talking in riddles would seem to be
the peculiar forte of you two, and I suppose
your clerk, like a prüdent man, has studied the
art also with a view to your good graces. Talk
in company, gentlemen, in God's name. I'll
humour you.”
“Humour !” cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly
growing very red in the face. “He'll humour
us ! He'll humour Cheeryble Brothers : Do you
hear that P Do you hear him P Do you hear
him say he'll humour Cheeryble Brothers?”
“Tim,” said Charles and Ned together, “pray,
Tim—pray now, don't.”
Tim, taking the hint, stifled his indignation
as well as he could, and suffered it to escape
through his spectacles, with the additional
safety-valve of a short hysterical laugh now and
then, which seemed to relieve him mightily.
“As nobody bids me to a seat,” said Ralph,
looking round, “I’ll take one, for I, am ſatigued
with walking. And now, if you please, gentle-
men, I wish to know—I demand to know; I
have the right—what you have to say to me,
which justifies such a tone as you have assumed,
and that underhand interference in my affairs
which, I have reason to suppose, you have been
practising. I tell you plainly, gentlemen, that
little as I care for the opinion of the world (as
the slang goes), I don't chose to submit quietly
to slander and malice. Whether you suffer
yourselves to be 'imposed upon too easily, or
wilfully make yourselves parties to it, the result
to me is the same. In either case, you can't
expect from a plain man like myself much
consideration or forbearance.”
So coolly and deliberately was this said, that
nine men out of ten, ignorant of the circum-
stances, would have supposed Ralph to be
really an injured man. There he saf with
folded arms; paler than usual, certainly, and
sufficiently ill favoured, but quite collected—
far more so than the brothers or the exasperated
Tim—and ready to face out the worst.
“Very well, sir,” said brother Charles. “Very
well. Brother Ned, will you king the bell ?”
“Charles, my dear fellow ! stop one instant,”
returned. the other. “It will be better for Mr.
Nickleby and for our object that he should re-
main silent, if he can, till we have said what we
have to say... I wish him to understand that.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said brother
Charles.
Ralph smiled, but made no reply. “The bell
was rung; the room-door opened; a man came
in with a halting walk; and, looking round,
Ralph's eyes met those of Newman Noggs.
From that moment his heart began to ſail him.
“This is a good beginning,” he said bitterly.
“Oh this is a good beginning. You are
candid, honest, open-hearted, fair-dealing men
I always knew the real worth of such characters
as yours! To tamper with a fellow like this,
who would sell his soul (if he had orie) for
drink, and whose every wºrd is a lie, -what
men are safe if this is done? Oh, it's a good
beginning !” -
“I will speak 1" cried Newman, standing on
tiptoe to look over Tim's head, who had inter-
posed to prevent him. “Hallo, you sir—old
Nickleby what do you mean when you talk of
“a fellow like this P’ Who made me “a fellow
like this?’ If I would sell my soul for drink,
why wasn't I a thief, swindler, housebreaker,
area sneak, robber of pence out of the trays of
blind men's dogs, rather than your drudge and
packhorse? If my every word was a lie, why
WOA’.S.E AAWD WOR.S.E.
|
wasn't I a pet and favourite of yours? Lie ſ
When did I ever cringe and fawn to you—eh P
Tell me that 1 I served you faithfully. I did
more work because I was poor, and took more
hard words from you because I despised you
and them, than any man you could have got
from the parish workhouse. I did. I served
ou because I was proud; because I was a
ſº man with you, and there were no other
drudges to see my degradation; and because
nobody knew, better than you, that I was a
ruined man : that I hadn't always been what I
am: and that I might have been better off, iſ I
hadn't been a fool, and fallen into the hands of
you and others who were knaves. Do you deny
that—eh P” -
“Gently,” reasoned Tim ; “you said you
wouldn't.”
“I said I wouldn't ” cried Newman, thrust-
ing him aside, and moving his hand as Tim
moved, so as to keep him at arm's length.
“Don’t tell me ! Here, you Nickleby don't
pretend not to mind me ; it won't do ; I know
better. You were talking of tannpering just
now. Who tampered with Yorkshire school-
masters, and, while they sent the drudge out,
that he shouldn't overhear, forgot that such
great caution might render him suspicious, and
that he might watch his master out at nights,
and might set other eyes to watch the school-
master P Who tampered with a selfish father,
urging him to sell his daughter to old Arthur
Gride, and tampered with Gride too, and did so
in the little office, with a closet in the room 2 °
Ralph had put a great command upon him-
self; but he could not have suppressed a slight
start, if he had been certain to be beheaded for
it next moment.
“Aha 1" cried Newman, “you mind me now,
do you? What first set this fag to be jealous of
his master's actions, and to feel that, if he hadn't
crossed him when he might, he would have been
as bad as he, or worse P. That master's cruel
treatment of his own flesh and blood, and vile
designs upon a young girl who interested even
his broken-down, drunken, miserable hack, and
made him linger in his service, in the hope of
doing her some good (as, thank God, he had
dome others once or twice before), when he
would, otherwise, have relieved his feeling; by
pummelling his master soundly, and then going
to the Devil. He would—mark that ; and
mark this—that I’m here now, because these
gentlemen thought it best. When I sought
them out (as I did—there was no tampering
with me), I told them I wanted help to find
39
with what I had begun, to help the right; and
that, when I had done it, I'd burst into your
room and tell you all, face to face, man to man,
and like a man. Now I've said my say, and let
anybody else say theirs, and fire away t”
With this concluding sentiment, Newman
Noggs, who had becn perpetually sitting down
and getting up again all through his speech,
which he had delivered in a series of jerks; and
who was, from the violent exercise and the ex-
citement combined, in a state of most intense
and fiery heat; became, without passing through
any intermediate stage, stiff, upright, and mo-
tionless, and so remained, staring at Ralph
Nickleby with all his might and main.
Ralph looked at him for an instant, and for
an instant only; then, waved his hand, and,
beating the ground with his foot, said in a
choking voice :
“Go on, gentlemen, go on 1 I'm patient, you
see. There's law to be had, there's law. I
shall call you to an account for this. Take
care what you say; I shall make you prove it.”
“The proof is ready,” returned brother
Charles, “quite ready to our hands. The
man Snawley, last night, made a confession.”
“Who may “the mań Snawley’ be,” returned
Ralph, “and what may his “confession' have to
do with my affairs?”
To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexi-
bility of manner, the old gentleman returned no
answer, but went on to say that, to show him
how much they were in earnest, it would be
necessary to tell him, not only what accusations
were made against him, but what proof of them
they had, and how that proof had been acquired.
This laying open of the whole question brought
up brother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and New-
man Noggs, all three at once, who, after a vast
deal of talking together, and a scene of great
confusion, laid before Ralph, in disti,.ct terms,
the following statement.
That, Newman, having been solemnly as-
sured, by one not then producible, that Smike
was not the son of Snawley, and this person
having offered to make oath to that effect, if
necessary, they had by this communication
been first led to doubt the claim set up, which
they would otherwise have seen no reason to
dispute, supported as it was by evidence which
they had no power of disproving. That, once
suspecting the existence of a conspiracy, they
had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to
the malice of Ralph, and the vindictiveness
and avarice of Squeers. That, suspicion and
proof being two very different things, they had
you out, to trace you down, to go through been advised by a lawyer, eminent for his
392
AV/CHOLAS WCKZAZ.B.Y. " -
sagacity and acuteness in such praçtice, to re-
sist the proceedings taken on the other side for
the recovery of the youth as slowly and artfully
as possible, and meanwhile to beset Snawley
(with whom it was clear the main falsehood
must rest); to lead him, if possible, into con-
tradictory and conflicting statements ; to harass
him by all available means; and so to practise
on his fears, and regard for his own safety, as
to induce him to divulge the whole scheme, and
to give up his employer, and whomsoever else
he could implicate. That, all this had been
skilfully done; but that Snawley, whoswas well
practised in the arts of low cunning and in-
trigue, had successfully baffled all their at-
tempts, until an unexpected circumstance had
brought him, last night, upon his knees.
It thus arose. When Newman Noggs re-
ported that Squeers was again in town, and
that an interview of such secrecy had taken
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&"WHO TAMPERED WITH A SELFISH FATHER, URG INC, HIM TO SELL HIS DAUGHTER TO O LIX ARTH U R G R1 DF,
AND TAMPERED WITH GRIDE Too, AND DID so IN THE LITTLE OFFICE, WITH A CLOSET IN THE
ROOM. P.”
place between him and Ralph that he had
been sent out of the house, plainly lest he
should overhear a word, a watch was set upon
the schoolmaster, in the hope that something
might be discovered which would throw some
light upón the suspected plot. It being found,
however, that he held no further communication
with Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived
Quite alone, they were completely at fault; the
watch was withdrawn, and they would have ob-
Served his motions no longer, if it had not hap-
pened that, one night, Newman stumbled unob-
served on him and Ralph in the street together.
Following them, he discovered, to his surprise,
that they repaired to various low lodging-houses
and taverns kept by broken gamblers, to more
than one of whom Ralph was known, and that
they were in pursuit—So he found by inquiries
when they had left—of an old woman whose
description exactly tallied with that of deaf
Mrs. Sliderskew. . Affairs now appearing to
assume a more serious complexion, the watch

A UZ" AWOZ’ THE
WOAZST YET 393
was renewed with increased vigilance ; an
officer was procured, who took up his abode
in the same tavern with Squeers; and by him
and Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of the un-
conscious schoolmaster were dogged, until he
was safely housed in the lodging at Lambeth.
Mr. Squeers having shifted his lodging, the
officer shifted his, and lying , concealed in the
same street, and, indeed, in the opposite house,
soon found that Mr. Squeers and Mrs. Slider-
skew were in constant communication.
. In this state of things Arthur Gride was ap-
pealed to. The robbery, partly owing to the
inquisitiveness of the neighbours, and partly to
his own grief and rage, had, long ago, become
known; but he positively refused to give his
sanction or yield any assistance to the old
woman's capture; and was seized with such a
panic at the idea of being called upon to give
evidence against her, that he shut himself up
close in his house, and refused to. hold com-
munication with anybody. Upon this, the pur-
suers took counsel together, and, coming so
near the truth as to arrive at the conclusion
that Gride and Ralph, with Squeers for their
instrument, were negotiating for the recovery of
some of the stolen papers which would not bear
the light, and might possibly explain the hints
relative to . Madeline which Newman had over-
heard, resolved that Mrs. Sliderskew should be
taken into custody before she had parted with
them : and Squeers too, if anything suspicious
could be attached to him. Accordingly, a
search-warrant being procured, and all pre-
pared, Mr. Squeers's window was watched, until
his light was put out, and the time arrived when,
as had been previously ascertained, he usually
visited Mrs. Sliderskew. This done, Frank
Cheeryble and Newman stole up-stairs to listen
to their discourse, and to give the signal to the
officer at the most favourable time. At what an
opportune moment they arrived, how they lis-
tened, and what they heard, is already known
to the reader. Mr. Squeers, still half stunned,
was hurried off with a stolen deed in his posses-
sion, and Mrs. Sliderskew was apprehended like-
wise. . The information being promptly carried
to Snawley that Squeers was in custody—he was
not told for what—that worthy, first extorting a
promise that he shouki be kept harmless, de-
clared the whole tale concerning Smike to be a
fiction and forgery, and implicated " Ralph
Nickleby to the fullestº extent. ... As to Mr.
Squeers, he had, that morning, undergone a
private examination before a magistrate; and,
being unable to account satisſactorily for his
possession of the deed or his companionship
*.
-k
with Mrs. Sliderskew, had been, with her, re-
manded for a week. -
* All these discoveries were now related to
Ralph circumstantially, and in detail. . What-
ever impression they secretly produced, he suſ.
fered no sign of emotion to escape him, but sat
perfectly still, not raising his frowning eyes from
the ground, and covering his mouth with his
hand. When the narrative was concluded, he
raised his head hastily, as if about to speak, but,
on brother Charles resuming, ſell into his old
attitude again.
“I told you this morning,” said the old gen-
tleman, laying his hand upon his brother's
shoulder, “that I came to you in mercy. How
ſar you may be implicated in this last transac-
tion, or how far the person who is now in
custody may criminate you, you best know.
But, justice must take its course against the
parties implicated in the plot against this poor,
unoffending, injured lad. It is not in my power,
or in the power of my brother Ned, to save you
from the conscquences. The utmost we can do
is, to warn you in time, and to give you an op-
portunity of escaping them. We would not have
an old man like you disgraced and punished
by your near relation ; nor would we have him
forget, like, you, all ties of blood and nature.
We entreat you—brother Ned, you join me, I
know, in this entreaty, and so, Tim Linkinwater,
do you, although you pretend to be an obstinate
dog, sir, and sit there frowning as if you didn't
—we entreat you to retire from London, to take
shelter in some place where you will be safe
from the consequences of these wicked designs,
and where you may have time, sir, to atone for
them, and to become a better man.”
“And do you think,” returned Ralph, rising,
“ and dö you think you will so easily crush me !
Do you think that a hundred well-arranged
plans, or a hundred suborned witnesses, or a
hundred false curs at my heels, or a hundred
canting speeches full of oily words, will move
me? I thank you for disclosing your schemes,
which I am now prepared for. . You have not
the man to deal with that you think ; try me !
and remember that I spit upon your fair words
and false dealings, and dare you—provoke you
—taunt you—to do to me the very worst you
can ”
cº. Thus they parted, for that time; but the worst
had not come yet.
394
M/CHO/AS AV/CKZEB Y.
CHAPTER LX.
THE, DANGERS THICKEN, AND THE worst Is told,
threw himself into the first street
§ cabriolet he could find, and, direct-
ing the driver towards the police-
office of the district in which Mr.
Squeers's misförtunes had occurred,
alighted at a short distance from it, and,
discharging the man, went the rest of
his way thither on foot. Inquiring for the object
of his solicitude, he learnt that he had timed
his visit well; for Mr. Squeers was, in fact, at
that moment waiting, for a hackney coach he
had ordered, and in which he purposed proceed-
ing to his week's retirement like a gentleman. -
Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was
ushered into a kind of waiting-room in which,
by reason of his scholastic profession and Supe.
rior respectability, Mr. Squeers had been per-
mitted to pass the day. Here, by the light of a
guttering and blackened candle, he could barely
discern the schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench
in a remote corner.
table before him, which, with his somnolent con-
dition and a very strong smell of brandy-and-
water, forewarned the visitor that. Mr. Squeers
had been seeking, in creature comforts, a tempo-
rary forgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.
It was not a very easy matter to ròuse him :
so lethargic and heavy were his slumbers. Re-
gaining his faculties by slow and faint glimmer-
ings, he at length sat upright; and, displaying a
very yellow face, a very red nose, and a very
bristly beard: the joint effect of which was con-
siderably heightened by a dirty white handker-
chief, spotted with blood, drawn over the crown
of his head and tied under his chin: stared rue-
fully at Ralph in silence, until his 'feelings found
a vent in this pithy sentence:
s
“I say, young, fellow, you've been and done
it now ; you have 1°
“What's the matter with your head?” asked
Ralph.
“Why, your man, your informing, kidnapping
man, has been and broke it,” rejoined Squeers
sulkily; “that's what's the matter with it. You've
come at last, have you?”
“Why have you not sent to me?” said Ralph,
How could I come till I knew what had be
fallen you?”
“
“My family 1” hiccuped Mr. Squeers, raising |
his eye to the ceiling: “my' daughter, as is at,
that age when all the sensibilities is a-coming
out strong in blow—my son, as 'is) the young
f
*NSTEAD of going home, Ralph
An empty glass stood on a
–f
Norval of private life, and the pride and orna-
ment of a doting willage—here's a shock for
my family . The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses
is tore, and their sun is gone down into the
ocean wave 1° i 4.
“You have been drinking,” said Ralph, “and
have not yet slept yourself sober.”
“I haven't been drinking your health, my
codger,” replied Mr. Squeers ; “so vou have
nothing to do with that.”
Ralph suppressed the indignation which the
schoolmaster's, altered and insolent manner
awakened, and asked again why he had not
sent to him. - -
“What should I get by sending to you?" re-
turned Squeers. “To be known to be in with
you wouldn’t do me a deal of good, and they
won't take bail till they know something more
of the case, so here am I hard and fast : and
there are you loose and comfortable.”
“And so must you be in a few days,” re-
torted Ralph with affected good-humour. “They
can't hurt you, man.”
“Why, I suppose they can't do much to me,
if I explain how it was that I got into the good
company of that there ca-daverous old, Slider,”
replied Squeers viciously, “who I wish was dead
and buried, and resurrected and dissected, and
hung upon wires in a anatomical museum, before
ever I’d had anything to do with her. This is
what him with the powdered head says this
morning, in so many words*—‘Prisoner . As
you have been found in company with this
woman; as you were detected in possession of ,
this document; as you were engaged with her
in fraudulently destroying others, and can give
no satisfactory account of yourself; I shall re-
mand you for a week, in order that inquiries
may be made, and evidence got—and mean-
while I can't take any bail for your appearance.'
Well, then, what I say now is, that I can give a
satisfactory account of myself; I can hand in
the card of my establishment, and say, ‘A am
the Wackford Squeers as is therein named, sir.
I am the man as is guaranteed, by unimpeach-
able references, to be a out-and-outer in morals
and uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong
in this business is no fault of mine. S I had no
evil design in it, sir. I was not aware that any-
thing was wrong. I was, merely employed by
a friend—my friend Mr. Ralph Nickleby, of
Golden Square. Send for him, sir, and ask him
what he has to say—he's the man; not me !’”
“What document was it that you had P” asked
Ralph, evading, for the moment, the point just
raised.
“What document? Why, the document,” re-

plied Squeers. “The Madeline What's-her-name
one. It was a will ; that's what it was.”
“Of what nature, whose will, when dated,
how benefiting her, to what extent?” asked
Ralph hurriedly.
“A will in her favour; that's all I know,” re-
joined Squeers, “and that's more than you'd
have known, if you'd had them bellows on your
head. It's all owing to your precious caution
that they got hold of it. If you had let me burn
it, and taken my word that it was gone, it would
have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, in-
stead of being whole and 'sound, inside of my
great-coat.”
“Beaten at every point l” muttered Ralph.
“Ah l’ sighed Squeers, who, between the
brandy-and-water and his broken head, wan-
dered strangely, “at the delightful village of
Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,
youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed,
furnished with pocket money, provided with all
necessaries, instructed in all languages living
and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
astronomy, trigonometry—this is a altered state
of trigonomics, this is A double l—all, every-
thing—a cobbler's weapon.
not down. S-q-u- double e-r-s, noun substan-
tive, a educator of youth. Total, all up with
Squeers "
His running on in this way had afforded Ralph
an opportunity of recovering his presence of
mind, which at once suggested to him the neces-
sity of removing, as far as possible, the school-
master's misgivings, and leading him to believe
that his safety and best policy lay in the preser-
vation of a rigid silence. -.
“I tell you, once again,” he said, “they can't
hurt you. You shall have an action for false
imprisonment, and make a profit of this, yet.
We will devise a story for you that should carry
you through twenty times such a trivial scrape
as this; and, if they want security in a thousand
pounds for your reappearance in case you should
be called upon, you shall have it. All you have
to do is to keep back the truth. You're a little
fuddled to-night, and may not be able to see
this as clearly as you would at another time;
but this is what you must do, and you'll need
all your senses about you; for a slip might be .
awkward.”
“Oh!” said, Squeers, who had looked cum-
ningly at him, with his head stuck on one sideſ
like an old raven. “That's what I'm to do, is
it? Now then, just you hear a word or two
from me. I an’t a-going to have any stories
made for me, and I an’t ageing to stick to any.
if I find matters going again me, I shall expect
&
AMozAER RAT DESERZS THE SINK/MG SHIP
U-p—up, adjective,
395
/ ---
you to take your share, and I’ll take care you
do. .You never said anything about danger. I
never bargained for being brought into such a
plight as this, and I don't mean to take it cas
quiet as you think. I let you lead me on, from
one thing to another, because we had been
mixed up together in a certain sort of a way,
and if you had liked to be ill-natured you might
perhaps have hurt the business, and if you liked
to be good-natured you might throw a good deal
in my way. Well ; if all goes right now, that's
quite correct, and I don't mind it; but, if any-
thing goes wrong, then times are altered, and I
shall just say and do whatever I think may serve
me most, and take advice from nobody. My
moral influence with them lads,” added Mr.
Squeers with deeper gravity, “is a tottering to
its basis. The images of Mrs. Squeers, my
daughter, and my son Wackford, all short of
vittles, is perpetually before me; every other
consideration meits away and vanishes, in front
of these; the only number in all arithmetic that
I know of, as a husband and a father, is number
one, under this here most fatal go ”
How long Mr. Squeers might have declaimed,
or how stormy a discussion his declamation
might have led to, nobody knows. Being in-
terrupted, at this point, by the arrival of the
coach and an attendant who was to bear him
company, he perched his hat with great dignity
on the top of the handkerchief that bound his
head; and, thrusting one hand in his pocket,
and taking the attendant's arm with the other,
suffered himself to be led forth.
“As I supposed from his not sending !”
thought Ralph. “This fellow, I plainly see
through all his tipsy fooling, has made up his
mind to turn upon me. I am so beset and
hemmed in, that they are not only all struck
with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have
their fling at me now, though time was, and no
longer ago than yesterday too, when they were
all civility and compliance. But they shall not
move me. I’ll not give way,' I will not budge
one inch l'' *
He went home, and was glad to find his
housekeeper complaining of illness, that he
might have an excuse for being, alone, and
sending her away to where she lived : which
was hard by. Then, he sat down by the light
of a single candle, and began to think, for the
first time, on all that had taken place that day.
He had neither eaten nor drunk, since last
night, and, in addition to the anxiety of mind
he had undergone, had been travelling about
from place to place, almost incessantly, for
many hours. He felt sick and exhausted, but
396
McHozas wrcKZEBY.
could taste nothing save a glass of water, and
continued to sit with his head upon his hand—
not resting nor thinking, but laboriously trying
to do both, and feeling that every sense but
one of weariness aud desolation was for the
time benumbed.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he heard a
knocking at the door, and still sat quiet as
before, as if he could not even bring his thoughts
to bear upon that. It had been often repeated,
and he had, several times, heard a voice out-
side, saying there was a light in the window
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(meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before
he could rouse himself and go down-stairs.
“Mr. Nickleby, there is terrible news for you,
and I am sent to beg you will come with me
directly,” said a voice he seemed to recognise.
He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking
out, saw Tim Linkinwater on the steps.
“Come where P” demanded Ralph.
“To our house—where you came this morn-
ing. ‘"I have a coach here.” -
“Why should I go there P” said Ralph.
“Don’t ask me why, but pray come with me.”
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“TOTAL, ALL UP WITH SQUEERS : *
“Another edition of to-day !” returned Ralph,
making as though he would shut the door.
“No, no " cried Tim, catching him by the
arm and speaking most earnestly; “it is only
that you may hear something that has occurred
—something very dreadful, Mr. Nickleby, which
concerns you nearly. Do you think I would
tell you so or come to you like this, if it were
not the case ?”
Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing
that he was indeed greatly excited, he faltered,
and could not tell what to say or think.
“You had better hear this now than at any
M. A.
*†
other time,” said Tim; “it may have sonne
influence with you. For Heaven's sake come !”
Perhaps, at another time, Ralph's obstinacy
and dislike would have been proof against any
appeal from such a quarter, however emphati-
cally urged ; but now, after a moment's hesita-
tion, he went into the hall for his hat, and,
returning, got into the coach without speaking a
word.
Tim well remembered afterwards, and often
said, that, as Ralph Nickleby went into the
house for this purpose, he saw him, by the light
of the candle which he had set down upon a

soMETHING HIDDEN IN THE SHADow.
**-*.
chair, reel and stagger like a drunken man. He
well remembered, too, that when he had placed
his foot upon the coach steps, he turned round
and looked upon him with a face so ashy pale,
and so very wild and vacant, that it made him
shudder, and for the moment almost afraid to
follow. People were fond of saying that he had
some dark presentiment upon him then, but his
emotion might, perhaps, with greater show of
reason, be referred to what he had undergone
that day. :
A profound silence was observed during the
ride. Arrived at their place of destination,
Ralph followed his conductor into the house,
and into a room where the two brothers were.
He was so artounded, not to say awed, by
something of a mute compassion for him-
self which was visible in their manner, and
in that of the old clerk, that he could scarcely
speak. -- - -
Having taken a seat, however, he contrived.
to say, though in broken words, “What—what
have you. to say to me—more than has been .
said already?” -
The room was old and large, very imperfectly
lighted, and terminated in a bay window, about
which hung some heavy drapery. Casting his
eyes in this direction as he spoke, he thought
he made out the dusky figure of a man. . He
was confirmed in this impression by seeing that
the object moved, as if uneasy undef his scru-
tiny.
“Who's that yonder P” he said. --
“One who has conveyed to us, within these
two hours, the intelligence which caused our
sending to you,” replied brother Charles. “Let
him be, sir, let him be for the present.”
“More riddles 1" said Ralph faintly.
sir?” .
In turning his face towards the brothers he
was obliged to avert it from the window ; but,
before either of them could speak, he had
looked round again. It was evident that he
was rendered restless and uncomfortable by the
presence of the unseen person; for he repeated
this action several times, and at length, as if in
a nervous state which rendered him positively
unable to turn away from the place, sat so as to
have it opposite him, mittering as an excuse
that he could not bear the light.
The brothers conferred apart for a short time:
their manner showing that they were agitated.
Ralph glanced at them twice or thrice, and
ultimately said, with a great effort to recover his
self-possession, “Now, what is this 2 If I am
brought from home at this time of night, let it
be for something. What have you got to tell
“Well,
397
me?” . After a short pause he added, “Is my
niece dead?” . *
He had struck upon a key which rendered
the task of commencement an easier one.
Brother Charles turned, and said that it was a
death of which they had to tell him, but that his
niece was well.
“You don't mean to tell me,” said Ralph as
his eyes brightened, “that her brother's dead 2
No, that's too good. I’d not believe it, if you
told me so. It would be too welcome news to
be true.”
“Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural
man "cried the other brother warmly. “Pre-
pare yourself for intelligence which, if you have
any human feeling in your breast, will make
even you shrink and tremble. What if we tell
you that a poor unfortunate boy: a child in
Everything but never having known one of those
tender endearments, or one of those lightsome
hours, which make our childhood a time to be
remembered like a happy dream through all our
after life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionate
creature, who never offended you, or did you
wrong, but on whom you have vented the malice
and hatred you have conceived for your nephew,
and whom you have made an instrument for
wreaking your bad passions upon him : what if
we tell you that, sinking under your persecution,
sir, and the misery and ill-usage of a life short in
years, but long in suffering, this poor creature
has gone to tell his sad tale where, for your part
in it, you must surely answer P”
“If you tell me,” said Ralph; “if you tell
me that he is dead, I forgive you all else. If
you tell me that he is dead, I am in your debt
and bound to you for life. He is . I see it in
your faces. Who triumphs now P Is this your
dreadful news; this your terrible intelligence?
You see how it moves me. You did well to
send. I would have travelled a hundred miles
afoot, through mud, mire, and darkness, to hear
this news just at this time.”
Even then, moved as he was by this savage
joy, Ralph could see in the faces of the two
brothers, mingling with their look of disgust and
horror, something of that indefinable compassion
for himself which he had noticed before.
“And he brought you the intelligence, did
he P” said Ralph, pointing with his finger towards
the recess already mentioned; “and sat there,
no doubt, to see me prostrated and overwhelmed
by it ! Ha, ha, ha! But I tell him that I’ll be
a sharp thorn in his side for many a long day to
come; and I tell you two, again, that you don't
know him yet; and that you'll rue the day you
took compassion on the vagabond.”
398
AV/CHOLAS AW/CKZEB Y.
“You take me for your nephew,” said a hollow
voice; “it would be better for you, and for me
too, if I were he indeed.”
The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose,
and came slowly down. He started back, for
he found that he confronted—not Nicholas, as
he had supposed, but Brooker. -
Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear
this man; he had never feared him before; but
the pallor which had been observed in his face,
when he issued forth that night, came upon him
again. He was seen to tremble, and his voice
changed as he said, keeping his eyes upon him :
“What does this fellow here? Do you know
he is a convict—a felon—a common thief ?”
“Hear what he has to tell you--oh, Mr.
Nickleby, hear what he has to tell you, be he
what he may !” cried the brothers with such
emphatic earnestness, that Ralph turned to
them in wonder. . They pointed to Brooker.
Ralph again gazed at him ; as it seemed
mechanically. $8
“That boy,” said the man, “that these gen-
tlemen have been talking of-”
“That boy,” repeated Ralph, looking vacantly
at him. *
“—Whom I saw stretched dead and cold
y?
upon his bed, and who is now in his grave
“Who is now in his grave,” echoed Ralph,
like one who talks in his sleep,
The man raised his eyes, and clasped his
hands solemnly together: *
“—Was your only son, so help me God in
heaven l’” -
In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat
down, pressing his two hands upon his temples.
He removed them, after a minute, and never
was there seen, part of a living man undisfigured
by any wound, such a ghastly face as he then
disclosed. He looked at Brooker, who was by
this time standing at a short distance from him ;
but did not say one word, or make the slightest
sound, or gesture. "
“Gentlemen,” said the man, “I offer no
excuses for myself.
in telling you how this has happened, I tell you
that I was harshly used, and perhaps driven out
of my real nature, I do it only as a necessary
part of my story, and not to shield myself. I
am a guilty man.”
He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking
away from Ralph, and addressing himself to
the brothers, proceeded in a subdued and.
humble tone: ~.
“Among those who once had dealings with
this man, gentlemen—that's from twenty to
five-and-twenty years ago—there was one, a
I am long past that. If,
–––
rough fox-hunting, hard-drinking gentleman, who
had run through his own fortune, and wanted to
squander away that of his sister : they were both
orphans, and she lived with, him and managed
his house. I don't know whether it was,
originally, to back his influence and try to over-
persuade the young woman or not, but he,”
pointing to Ralph, “used to go down to the
house in Leicestershire pretty often,' and stop
there many days at a time. They had had a
great many dealings together, and he may have
gone on some of those, or to patch up his
client's affairs, which were in a ruinous state :
of course he went ſor profit. The gentlewoman
was not a girl, but she was, I have heard say,
handsome, and entitled to a pretty large pro-
perty. In course of time he married her. The
same love of gain which led him to contract
this marriage, led to its being kept strictly
private ; for a clause in her father's will
declared that, if she married without her
brother's consent, the property, in which she
had only some life interest while she remained
single, should pass away altogether to another
branch of the family. The brother, would give
no consent that the sister didn't buy, and pay
for handsomely; Mr. Nickleby would consent
to no such sacrifice; and so they went on,
keeping their marriage secret, and waiting for
him to break his neck or die of a fever. He
did neither, and, meanwhile, the result of this
private marriage was a son. The child was put
out to nurse a long way off; his mother never
saw him but once or twice, and then by stealth;
and his father—so eagerly did he thirst after the
money which seemed to come almost within his
grasp now, for his brother-in-law was very ill,
and breaking more and more every day—never
went near him, to avoid raising any suspicion.
The brother lingered on ; Mr. Nickleby's wife
constantly urged him to avow their marriage ;
he peremptorily refused. She remained alone
in a dull country house : seeing little, or no
company but riotous, drunken sportsmen. He
lived in London, and clung to his business.
Angry quarrels and recriminations took place,
and when they had been married nearly seven
years, and were within a few weeks of the time
when the brother's death would have adjusted
all, she eloped with a younger man, and left
him.” s -
. Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and
the brothers signed to him to proceed.
“It was then that I became acquainted with
these circumstances from his own lips. They
were no secrets then ; for the brother, and
others, knew them; but they were communi-
* Inn Ore.
x - Azz BzovcAZ To Z/GHz.
399
cated to me—not on this account, but because
I was wanted. He followed the fugitives—some
said to make money of his wife's shame, but, I
believe, to take some violent revenge, for that
was as much his character as the other—perhaps
He didn't find them, and she died not
long aſter. I don't know whether he began to
think he might like the child, or whether he
wished to make sure that it. should never fall
into its mother's hands; but, before he went, he
intrusted me with the charge of bringing it
home. And I did so.”
He went on, from this point, in a still more
humble tone, and spoke in a very low voice :
pointing to Ralph as he resumed.
“He had used me ill—cruelly—I reminded
him in what not long ago, when I met him in
the street—and I hated him. I brought the
child home to his own house, and lodged him
in the front garret. Neglect had made him
very sickly, and I was obliged to call in a doctor,
who said he must be removed for change of air,
or he would die. I think that first put it in my
head. I did it then. He was gone six weeks,
and, when he came back, I told him—with
every circumstance well planned and proved;
nobody could have suspected me—that the child
was dead, and buried. He might have been
disappointed in some intention he had formed,
or he might have had some natural affection,
but he was griéved at that, and I was confirmed
in my design of opening up the secret one day,
and making it a means of getting money from
him. I had heard, like most other men, of
Yorkshire schools. I took the child to one
kept by a man named Squeers, and left it there.
I gave him the name of Smike. Year by year,
I paid "twenty pounds a year for him for six
years: never breathing the secret all the time :
for I had left his father's service after more hard
usage, and quarrelled with him again. I was
sent away from this country. I have been away
nearly eight years.
again, I travelled down into Yorkshire, and,
skulking in the village of an evening-time, made
inquiries about the boys at the school, and
found that this one, whom I had placed there,
had run away with a young man bearing the
name of his own father. I sought his father out
in London, and, hinting at what I could tell
him, tried for a little money to support life; but
he repulsed me with threats. I then ſound out
his clerk, and, going on from little to little, and
showing him that there were good reasons for
conimunicating with me, learnt what was going
on ; and it was I who told him that the boy was
no son of the man who claimed to be his father,
Directly I came home
r—
All this time I had never seen the boy. At
length I heard from this same source that he
was very ill, and where he was. I travelled
down there, that I might recall myself, if
possible, to his recollection, and confirm my
story. I came upon him unexpectedly ; but,
before I could speak, he knew me—he had
good cause to remember me, poor lad —and I
would have sworn to him if I had met him in
the Indies. I knew the piteous face I had seen
in the little child. After a few days' indecision,
I applied to the young gentleman in whose care
he was, and I found that he was dead. He
knows how quickly he recognised me again,
how often he had described me and my leaving
him at the school, and how he told him of a
garret he recollected : which is the one I have
spoken of, and in his father's house to this day.
This is my story. I demand to be brought face
to face with the schoolmaster, and put to any
possible proof of any part of it, and I will show
that it's too true, and that I have this guilt upon
my soul.” " -
“ Unbappy man 1" said the brothers.
reparation can you make for this P”
“None, gentlemen, none ! I have none to
make, and nothing to hope now. I am old in
years, and older still in misery and care. This
confession can bring nothing upon me but new
suffering and punishment; but I make it, and
will abide by it, whatever comes. I have been
made the instrument of working out this dread-
ful retribution upon the head of a man, who, in
the hot pursuit of his bad ends, has persecuted
and hunted down his own child to death. It
must descend upon. Die too. I know it must
fall. My reparation comes too late ; and
neither in this world nor in the next can I have
hope again " -
He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which
stood upon the table close to where Ralph was
seated, and which was the only one in the room,
was thrown to the ground, and left them in
darkness. There was some trifling confusion in
obtaining another light; the interval was a mere
“What
nothing ; but, when the light appeared, Ralph
Nickleby was gone.
The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater
occupied some time in discussing the proba-
bility of his return; and, when it became appa-
rent that he would not come back, they hesitated
whether or no to send after him. At length,
remembering how strangely and silently he had
sat in one'immovable position during the inter-
view, and thinking he might possibly be ill, they
determined, although it was now very late, to
send to his house on some pretence. Finding
4Co
AV/CHOZAS AV/CKLA2A V.
an excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom
they knew not how to dispose of without con-
sulting his wishes, they concluded to act upon
this resolution before going to bed
CHAPTER LXI.
WHEREIN NICHOLAS AND HIS SISTER FORFEIT THE
GOOD OPINION OF ALL WorlDLY AND PRUDENT
N the next morning after Brooker's
disclosure had been made, Nicholas
a 5. returned home. The meeting be-
}< tween him and those whom he had
§ &) left there was not without strong
Sº emotion on both sides; for they had
% *— ------ * 2
§ been informed by his letters of what had
§ occurred : and, besides that his griefs
were theirs, they mourned with him the death of
one whose forlorn and helpless state had first
established a claim upon their compassion, and
whose truth of heart and grateful earnest nature
had, every day, endeared him to them more and
In Ore. *
“I am sure,” said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her
eyes and sobbing bitterly, “I have lost the best,
the most zealous, and most attentive creature
that has ever been a companion to me in my
life—putting you, my dear Nicholas, and Kate,
and your poor papa, and that well-behaved
nurse who ran away with the linen and the
twelve small forks, out of the question, of course.
Of all the tractable, equal-tempered, attached,
and faithful beings that ever lived, I believe he
was the most so. To look round upon the
garden, now, that he took so much pride in, or
to go into his room and see it filled with so
many of those little contrivances for our comfort
that he was so fond of making, and made so
well, and so little thought he would leave un-
finished—I can't bear it, I cannot really, Ah
This is a great trial to me, a great trial. It will
be a comfort to you, my dear Nicholas, to the
end of your life, to recollect how kind and good
you always were to him ; so it will be to me to
think what excellent terms we were always upon,
and how fond he always was of me, poor fellow !
It was very natural you should have been
attached to him, my dear—very—and of course
you were, and are very much cut up by this.
I am sure it's only necessary to look at you, and
See how changed you are, to see that ; but
nobody knows what my feelings are—nobody
can—it's quite impossible !”
While Mrs. Nickleby, witn the utmost sin-
cerity, gave vent to her sorrows after her own
peculiar fashion of considering herself foremost,
she was not the only one who indulged such
feelings. Kate, although well - accustomed to
forget herself when others were to be considered,
could not repress her grief; Madeline was
scarcely less moved than she ; and poor, hearty,
honest little Miss La Creevy, who had come
upon one of her visits while Nicholas was away,
and had done nothing, since the sad news
arrived, but console and cheer them all, no
sooner beheld him coming in at the door than
she sat herself down upon the stairs, and, burst-
ing into a flood of tears, refused for a long time
to be comforted.
“It hurts me so," cried the poor body, “to
see him come back alone. I can't help thinking
what he must have suffered himself. I wouldn’t
mind so much if he gave way a little more; but
he bears it so manfully.”
“Why, so I should,” said Nicholas, “should
I not P” Z.
“Yes, yes,” replied the little wonan, “and
bless you for a good creature Lut this does
seem at first, to a simple soul like me—I know
it's wrong to say so, and I shall be sorry for it
presently—this does seem such a poor reward
for all you have done.”
“Nay,” said Nicholas gently, “what better
reward could I have than the knowledge that
his last days were peaceful and happy, and the
recollection that I was his constant companion,
and was not prevented, as I might have been
by a hundred circumstances, from being beside
him P” ,
“To be sure,” sobbed Miss La Creevy; “it’s
very true, and I'm an ungrateful, impious,
wicked little fool, I know.” -
With that, the good soul ſell to crying afresh,
and, endeavouring to recover herself, tried to
laugh. The laugh and the cry, meeting, each
other thus abruptly, had a struggle for the
mastery; the result was, that it was a drawn
battle, and Miss La Creevy went into hysterics.
Waiting until they were all tolerably quiet and
composed again, Nicholas, who stood in need
of some rest after his long journey, retired to
his own room, and throwing himself, dressed as
he was, upon the bed, fell into a sound sleep.
When he awoke he found Kate sitting by his
bedside, who, seeing that he had opened his
eyes, stooped down to kiss him.
“I came to tell you how glad I am to see you
home again.”
“But I can't tell you how glad I am to see
you, Kate.”
“We have been wearying so for your return,”


SEZF. DENIAA.
4ot
line.” *
“You said in your last letter that she WalS
quite well,” said Nicholas rather hastily, and
colouring as he spoke. “Has nothing been
said, since I have been away, about any future
arrangements that the brothers have in contem-
plation for her?”
“Oh, not a word ' " replied Kate. “I can't
think of parting from her without sorrow ; and
surely, Nicholas, you don't wish it !” .
Nicholas coloured again, and, sitting down |
beside his sister on a little couch near the
window, said:
“No, Kate, no, I do not. . I might strive to
disguise my real feelings from anybody but you ;
but I will tell you that—briefly and plainly,
Kate—that I love her.” •.
Kate's eyes brightened, and she was going to
make some reply, when Nicholas laid his hand
upon her arm, and went on :
“Nobody must know this but you. She last
of all.”
“Dear Nicholas !”
“Last of all—never, though never is a long
day. Sometimes I try to think that the time
may come when I may honestly tell her this;
but it is so far off, in such distant perspective,
so many years must elapse before it comes, and
when it does come (if ever) I shall be so unlike
what I am now, and shall have so outlived my
days of youth and romance—though not, I am
sure, of love for her—that even I feel how
visionary all such hopes must be, and try to
crush them rudely myself, and have the pain
over, rather than suffer time to wither them, and
keep the disappointment in store. No, Kate |
Since I have been absent, I have had, in that
poor fellow who is gone, perpetually before my
eyes, another instance of the munificent libe-
rality of these noble brothers. As far as in me
lies, I will deserve it, and, if I have wavered
in my bounden duty to them before, I am
now determined to discharge it rigidly, and to
put further delays and temptations beyond my
reach.”
“Before you say another word, dear Nicho-
las,” said Kate, turning pale, “you must hear
what I have to tell you. I came on purpose,
but I had not the courage. What you say now,
gives me new heart.” She faltered, and burst
into tearS.
There was that in her manner which prepared
Nicholas for what was coming. Kate tried to
speak, but her tears prevented her.
“Come, you foolish girl | " said. Nicholas.
“Why, Kate, Kate, be a woman
said Kate, “mamma and I, and—and Madé.
it to you also, directly you returned.
I think I
know what you would tell me. It concerns Mr.
Frank; does it not P”
* Kate sunk her head upon his shoulder, and
sobbed out “Yes.” -
“And he has offered you his hand, perhaps,
since I have been away,” said Nicholas; “is
that it P Yes. 'Well, well ; it's not so difficult,
you see, to tell me, after all. He offered you
his hand P”
“Which I refused,” said Kate.
“Yes; and why?”
“I told him,” she said in a trembling voice,
“all that I have since found you told mamma;
and while I could not conceal from him, and
cannot from you, that—that it was a pang and
a great trial, I did so firmly, and begged him
not to see me any more.”
“That's my own brave Kate : " said Nicholas,
pressing her to his breast. “I knew you
would.”
“He tried to alter my resolution,” said Kate,
“ and declared that, be my decision what it
might, he would not only inform his uncles of
the step he had taken, but would communicate
I am
afraid,” she added, her momentary composure
forsaking her, “I am afraid I may not have
said strongly enough how deeply I felt such dis-
interested love, and how earnestly I prayed for
his future happiness. If you do talk together, I
should—I should like him to know that.”
“And did you suppose, Kate, when you had
made this sacrifice to what you knew was right
and honourable, that I should shrink from
mine P” said Nicholas tenderly.
“Oh no not if your position had been the
Same, but——”
* “But it is the same,” interrupted Nicholas.
“Madeline is not the near relation of our bene-
factors, but she is closely bound to them by ties
as dear; and I was first intrusted with her his-
tory, specially because they reposed unbounded
confidence in me, and believed that I was as
true as steel. How base would it be of me to
take advantage of the circumstances which
placed her here, or of the slight service I was
happily able to render her, and to seek to en-
gage her affections, when the result, must be, if
I succeeded, that the brothers would be dis-
appointed in their darling wish of establishing
her as their own child, and that I must seem
to hope to build my fortunes on their compas-
sion for the young creature whom I had so
meanly and unworthily entrapped: turning her
very gratitude and warmth of heart to my own
purpose and account, and trading in her mis-
fortunes T, too, whose duty, and pride, and
402
MICHOLAS AICKZEB Y.
pleasure, Kate, it is to have other claims upon
me which I will never forget: and who have the
means of a comfortable and happy life already,
and have no right to look beyond it ! I have
etermined to remove this weight from my
mind. I doubt whether I have not done wrong,
even now ; and to-day I will, without reserve or
equivocation, disclose my real reasons to Mr.
Cheeryble, and implore him to take immediate,
measures for removing this young lady to the
shelter of some other roof.”
“To-day P so very soon P’’
“I have thought of this for weeks, and why
should I postpone it? If the scene through
which I have just passed has taught me to re-
flect, and has awakened me to a more anxious
and careful sense of duty, why should I wait
, until the impression has cooled P. You would
not dissuade me, Kate ; now would you?”
“You may grow rich, you know,” said Kate.
“I may grow rich l’’ repeated Nicholas with
a mournful smile.
But rich or poor, or old or young, we shall ever
be the same to each other, and in that our com-
fort lies. What if we have but one home?' It
can never be a solitary one to you and me.
What if we were to remain so true to these first
impressions as to form no others? It is but one
more link to the strong chain that binds us to-
gether. It seems but yesterday that we were
playfellows, Kate, and it will seem but to-mor-
row when we are staid old people, looking back
to these cares as we look back now to those of
our childish days: and recollecting with a melan-
choly pleasure that the time was when they could
move us... Perhaps then, when we are quaint old
folks, and talk of the times when our step was
lighter and our hair not grey, we may be even
thankful for the trials that so endeared us to
each other, and turned our lives into that cur-
rent, down which we shall have glided so peace-
fully and calmly. And, having caught some
inkling of our story, the young people about us
—as young as you and I are now, Kate—may
come to us for sympathy, and pour distresses
which hope and inexperience could scarcely feel
enough for, into the compassionate ears of the
old bachelor brother and his maiden sister.”
Kate Smiled through her tears as Nicholas
drew this picture; but they were not tears of .
sorrow, although they continued to fall when he
had ceased to speak. *
“Am I not right, Kate P” he said after a
short silence.
“Quite, quite, dear brother; and I cannot
tell you how happy I am that I have acted as
you would have had me.” - - -
“Ay, and I may grow old !
“You don't regret?” : ... -
“N–n—no,” said Kate timidly, tracing some
pattern upon the ground with her little foot. “I
don’t regret having done what was honourable
and right, of course; but I do regret that this
should have ever happened—at least, sometimes
I regret it, and sometimes I–I don't know what
I say ; I am but a weak girl, Nicholas, and it
has agitated me very much.” -
It is no vaunt to affirm that, if Nicholas had
had ten thousand pounds at the minute, he
would, in his generous affection for the owner
of the blushing cheek and downcast eye, have
bestowed its utmost farthing, in perfect forget-
fulness of himself, to secure her happiness. But
all he could do was to comfort and console her
by kind words; and words they were of such
love and kindness, and cheerful encouragement,
that poor Kate threw her arms about his neck,
and declared she would weep no more. .
“What man,” thought Nicholas proudly, while
on his way, soon afterwards, to the brothers'
house, “would not be sufficiently rewarded for
any sacrifice of fortune by the possession.of such
a heart as Kate's, which, but that hearts weigh
light, and gold and silver heavy, is beyond all
praise P Frank has money, and wants no more.
Where would it buy him such a treasure as
Kate P And yet, in unequal marriages, the rich
party is always supposed to make a great sacri-
fice, and the other to get a good bargain But
I am thinking like a lover, or like an ass: which
. I suppose is pretty nearly the same.”
Checking thoughts so little adapted to the
business on which he was bound, by such self.
reproofs as this and many others no less sturdy,
he proceeded on his way, and presented himself
before Tim Linkinwater. - - .
“Ah, Mr. Nickleby " cried Tim, “God
bless you ! How d'ye do? Well? Say you're
quite well, and never better—do now.”
“Quite,” said Nicholas, shaking him by both
hands. *. -
“Ah !” said Tim, “you look tired, though,
now I come to look at you. Hark! there he
is D'ye hear him P. That was Dick, the
blackbird. He hasn't been himself since you've
been gone. He’d never get on without you,
now ; he takes as naturally to you as he does to
me.”
“Dick is a far less sagacious fellow than I
supposed him, if he thinks I am half so well
worthy of his notice as you,” replied Nicholas.
“Why, I'll tell you what, sir,” said Tim,
standing in his favourite attitude, and pointing
to the cage with the feather of his pen, “it’s a
very extraordinary thing about that bird, that
FUCI, KEZIANCE ow BrozHER CHARLEs.
4C3
the only people he ever takes the smallest
notice of are Mr. Charles and Mr. Něd, and
you and me.” -
Here Tim stopped, and glanced anxiously at
Nicholas; then, unexpectedly catching his eye,
repeated, “And you and me, sir, and you and
me.” And then he glanced at Nicholas again,
and, squeezing his hand, said, “I am a bad one
at putting off anything I am interested in. . I
didn't mean to ask you, but I should like to
hear a few particulars about that poor boy. Did
he mention Cheeryble Brothers at all P”
“Yes,” said Nicholas, “many, and many a
time.”
“That was right of him,” returned Tim, wip-
ing his eyes; “that was very right of him.”
“And 'he mentioned your name a score of
times,” said Nicholas, “and often bade me
carry back his love to Mr. Linkinwater.”
“No, no, did he, though P” rejoined Tim,
sobbing outright. “Poor fellow !
could have had him buried in town. There
isn't such a burying-ground in all London as
that little one on the other side of the square—
there are counting-houses all round it, and, if
you go in there on a fine day, you can see the
books and safes through the open windows.
And he sent his love to me, did he P I didn't
expect he would have thought of me. Poor
fellow, poor fellºw His love, too !”
Tim was 'so completely overcome by this
little mark of recollection, that he was quite un-
equal to any more conversation at the moment.
Nicholas therefore slipped quietly out, and went
to brother Charles's room.
If he had previously sustained his firmness
and fortitude, it had been by .an effort which
had cost him no little pain ; but the warm wel-
come, the hearty manner, the homely unaffected
commiseration, of the good old man went to his
heart, and no inward struggle could prevent his
showing it.
“Come, come, my dear sir,” said the benevo-
lent merchant; “we must not be cast down ;
no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune, and .
We must remenber that there are many sources
of consolation even in death. Every day that
this poor lad had lived, he must have been less
and less qualified for the world, and more and
more unhappy in his own deficiencies. It is
better as it is, my dear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it's
better as it is.” -
“I have thought of all that, sir,” replied
Nicholas, clearing his throat. “I feel it, I as-
sure you.”
“Yes, that's well,” replied Mr. Cheeryble,
who, in the midst of all his comforting, was
I wish we
quite as much taken aback as honest old Tim;
“that's well. Where is may brother Ned P Tim
Linkinwater, sir, whéré is my brother Ned P”
“Gone out with Mr. Trimmers, about getting
that unfortunate man into the hospital, and send-
ing a nurse to his children,” said Tim. -
“My, brother Ned is a fine fellow—a great
fellow !” exclaimed brother Charles as he shut
the door and returned to Nicholas. “He will
be overjoyed to see you, my dear’sir. We have
been speaking of you every day.”
“To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find
you alone,” said Nicholas with some natural
hesitation ; “for I am anxious to say something
to you. Can you spare me a very few minutes?”
“Surely, surely,” returned brother Charles,
looking at him with an anxious countenance.
“Say on, my dear sir, say on.”
“I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,”
said Nicholas. “If ever one mortal had reason
to be penetrated with love and reverence for
another : with such attachment as would make
the hardest service in his behalf a pleasure and
delight: with such grateful recollections as must
rouse the utmost zeal and fidelity of his nature:
those are the feelings which I should entertain
for you, and do, from my heart and soul,
believe me'!”
“I do believe you,” replied the old gentle-
man, “and I am happy in the belief. I have
never doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I
never shall.”
“Your telling me that so kindly,” said Nicholas,
“ emboldens me to proceed. When you first
took me into your confidence, and dispatched
me on those missions to Miss Bray, I should
have told you that I had seen her long before ;
that her beauty had made an impression upon
me which I could not efface ; and that I had
fruitlessly endeavoured to trace her, and become
acquainted with her history. I did not tell you
so, because I vainly thought I could conquer
my weaker feelings, and render every considera-
tion subservient to my duty to you.”
“Mr. Nickleby,” said brother. Charles, “yot:
did not violate the confidence I placed in you,
or take an unworthy advantage of it. I am
sure you did not.”
“I did not,” said Nicholas firmly. “Although
I found that the necessity for self-command
and restraint became every day more imperious,
and the difficulty greater, I never, for ; one
instant, spoke or looked but as I would have
done had you been by. I never, for one
moment, deserted my trust, nor have I to this
instant. But I find that constant association
and companionship with this sweet girl is fatal
4O4.
AV/CHOZAS AwcKZEB Y.
to my peace of mind, and may prove destructive
to the resolutions' I made in the beginning, and
up to this time have faithfully kept. In short,
sir, I cannot trust myself, and I implore and
beseech you to remove this young lady from
under the charge of my mother and sister with-
out delay. I know that, to any one but myself
—to you, who consider the immeasurable dis-
tance between me and this young lady, who is
now your ward, and the object of your peculiar
care—my loving her, even in thought, must
appear the height of rashness and presumption.
I know it is so. But who can see her as I have
seen, who can know what her life has been,
and not love her ? I have no excuse but that ;
and, as I cannot fly from this temptation, and
cannot repress this passion, with its object con-
stantly before me, what can I do but pray and
beseech you to remove it, and to leave me to
forget her ?" /
“Mr. Nickleby,” said the old man after a
short silence, “you can do no more. I was
wrong to expose a young man like you to this
trial. I might have foreseen what would happen.
Thank you, sir, thank you. Madeline shall be
removed.”
“If you would grant me one favour, dear sir,
and suffer her to remember me with esteem, by
never revealing to her this confession——”
“I will take care,” said Mr. Cheeryble. “And
now, is this all you have to tell me?”
“No : " returned Nicholas, meeting his eye,
“it is not.”
“I know the rest,” said Mr. Cheeryble,
apparently very much relieved by this prompt
reply. “When did it come to your knowledge?”
“When I reached home this morning.”
“You felt it your duty immediately to come
to me, and tell me what’vour sister no doubt
acquainted you with ?”
“I did,” said Nicholas, “though I could have
wished to have spoken to Mr. Frank first.”
“Frank was with me last night,” replied the
old gentleman. “You have done well, Mr.
Nickleby — very well, sir—and I thank you
again.” .
Upon this head Nicholas requested permis-
sion to add a few words. He ventured to hope
that nothing he had said would lead to the
estrangement of Kate and Madeline, who had
formed an attachment for each other, any inter-
ruption of which would, he knew, be attended
with great pain to them, and, most of all, with
remorse and pain to him, as its unhappy cause.
When these things were all forgotten, he hoped
that Frank and he might still be warm friends,
and that no word or thought of his humble
very painful one to me.
home, or of her who was well contented to re-
main there and share his quiet fortunes, would
ever again disturb the harmony between them.
He recounted, as nearly as he could, what had
passed between himself and Kate that morning:
speaking of her with such warmth of pride and
affection, and dwelling, so cheerfully upon the
confidence they had of overcoming any selfish
regrets, and living contented and happy in each
other's love, that few could have heard him un-
moved. More moved himself than he had been
yet, he expressed in a few hurried words—as
expressive, perhaps, as the most eloquent
phrases—his devotion to the brothers, and his
hope that he might live and die in their ser.
VICe. - -
To all this brother Charles listened in pro.
found silence, and with his chair so turned
from Nicholas that his face could not be seen.
He had not spoken, either, in his accustomed
manner, but with a certain stiffness and embar-
rassment very foreign to it. Nicholas feared he
had offended him. He said, “No—no—he had
done quite right,” but that was all.
“Frank is a heedless, foolish fellow,” he said
aſter Nicholas had paused for some time; “a
very heedless, foolish fellow. I will take care
that this is brought to a close without delay.
Let us say no more upon the subject; it's a
. Come to me in half an
hour ; I have strange things to tell you, my dear
sir, and your uncle has appointed this afternoon
for your waiting upon him with me.”
“Waiting upon him . With you, sir
cried
Nicholas.
“Ay, with me,” replied the old gentleman.
“Return to me in half an hour, and I'll tell you
more.” --
Nicholas waited upon him at the time men-
tioned, and then learnt all that had taken place
on the previous day, and all that was known of
the appointment Ralph had made with the
brothers; which was for that night; and for
the better understanding of which it will be
requisite to return, and follow his own footsteps
from the house of the twin brothers. Therefore,
we leave Nicholas somewhat reassured by the
restored kindness of their manner towards him,
and yet sensible that it was different from what
it had been (though he scarcely knew in what
respect): full of uneasiness, uncertainty, and
disquiet. - *
THE US UREAE GOES AIOME.
405
CHAPTER LXII.
RALPII MAKES ONE LAST APPOINTMENT—AND
KEEPS IT.
$@ſº
S.
REEPING from the house, and
slinking off like a thief; groping
with his hands, when first he got
into the street, as if he were a blind
man; and looking often over his
shoulder while he hurried away, as
though he were followed in imagination
or reality by some one anxious to ques-
tion or detain him ; Ralph Nickleby left the
City behind him, and took the road to his own
home.
The night was dark, and a cold wind blew,
driving the clouds furiously and fast before it.
There was one black, gloomy mass that seemed
to follow him : not hurrying in the wild chase
with the others, but lingering sullenly behind,
and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He often
looked back at this, and, more than once,
stopped to let it pass over ; but somehow, when
he went forward again, it was still behind him,
coming mournfully and slowly up, like a
shadowy funeral train.
He had to pass a poor, mean burial-ground
—a dismal place, raised a few feet above the
level of the street, and parted from it by a low
parapet-wall and an iron railing; a rank, un-
wholesome, rotten spot, where the very grass
and weeds seemed, in their frouzy growth, to
tell that they had sprung from paupcrs' bodies,
and had struck their roots in the graves of men,
sodden, while alive, in steaming courts and
drunken hungry dens. And here, in truth, they
lay, parted from the living by a little earth and
a board or two—lay thick and close—corrupt-
ing in body as they had in mind—a dense and
squalid crowd. Here they lay, cheek by jowl
with life: no deeper down than the feet of the
throng that passed there every day, and piled
high as their throats. Here they lay, a grisly
family, all these dear departed brothers and
Sisters of the ruddy clergyman who did his
task so speedily when they were hidden in the
ground !
As he passed here, Ralph called to mind that
he had been one of a jury, long before, on the
body of a man who had cut his throat; and that
he was buried in this place. He could not tell
how he came to recollect it now, when he had
so often passed and never thought about him,
or how it was that he felt an interest in the cir-
cumstance ; but he did both ; and stopping,
and clasping the iron railings with his hands,
Nicholas Nickleby, 27.
looked eagerly in, wondering which might be his
grave. -
While he was thus engaged, there came to-
wards him, with noise of shouts and singing,
some fellows full of drink, followed by others,
who were remonstrating with them, and urging
them to go home in quiet. They were in high
good-humour; and one of them, a little, weazen,
hump-backed man, began to dance. He was a
grotesque, fantastic figure, and the few bystanders
laughed. Ralph himself was moved to mirth,
and echoed the laugh of one who stood near,
and who looked round in his face. When they
had passed on, and he was left alone again, he
resumed his speculation with a new kind of in-
terest; for he recollected that the last person
who had seen the suicide alive had left him very
merry, and he remembered how strange he and
the other jurors had thought that at the time.
He could not fix upon the spot among such
a heap of graves, but he conjured up a strong
and vivid idea of the man himself, and how he
looked, and what had led him to do it; all of
which he recalled with ease. By dint of dwell-
ing upon this theme, he carried the impression
with him when he went away : as he remem-
bered, when a child, to have had frequently be-
fore him the figure of some goblin he had once
seen chalked upon a door. But, as he drew
nearer and nearer home, he forgot it again, and
began to think how very dull and solitary the
house would be inside.
This feeling became so strong at last, that,
when he reached his own door, he could hardly
make up his mind to turn the key and open it.
When he had done that, and gone into the pas-
sage, he felt as though to shut it again would be
to shut out the world. But he let it go, and it
closed with a loud noise. There was no light.
How very dreary, cold, and still it was
Shivering from head to foot, he made his way
up-stairs into the room where he had been last
disturbed. He had made a kind of compact
with himself that he would not think of what
had happened until he got home. He was at
home now, and suffered himself to consider it.
His own child—his own child ! He never
doubted the tale; he felt it was true; knew it
as well, now, as if he had been privy to it all
along. His own child! And dead, too ! Dying be-
side Nicholas—loving him, and looking upon him
as something like an angel. That was the worst!
They had all turned from him and deserted
him in his very first need. Even money could
not buy them now ; everything must come out,
and everybody must know all. Here was the
young lord dead, his companion abroad and be-
233


406
NZCHOLAS AICKZEBY.
yond his reach, ten thousand pounds gone at
one blow, his plot with Gride overset at the very
moment of triumph, his after-schemes discovered,
himself in danger, the object of his persecution
and Nicholas's love, his own wretched boy;
everything crumbled and fallen upon him, and
he beaten down beneath the ruins, and grovel-
ling in the dust.
If he had known his child to be alive; if no
deceit had been ever practised, and he had
grown up beneath his eye; he might have been
a careless, indifferent, rough, harsh father—like
enough—he felt that ; but the thought would
come that he might have been otherwise, and
that his son might have been a comfort to him,
and they two happy together.
think, now, that his supposed death and his
wife's flight had had some share in making him
the morose, hard man he was. He seemed to
remember a time when he was not quite so
rough and obdurate; and almost thought that
he had first hated Nicholas because he was
young and gallant, and, perhaps like the strip-
ling who had brought dishonour and loss of
fortune on his head.
But one tender thought, or one of natural
Fegret, in his whirlwind of passion and remorse,
was as a drop of calm water in a stormy, mad-
dened sea. His hatred of Nicholas had been
fed upon his own defeat, nourished on his inter-
ference with his schemes, fattened upon his old
defiance and success. There were reasons for
its increase; it had grown and strengthened
gradually. Now it attained a height which was
sheer wild lunacy. That his, of all others, should
have been the hands to rescue his miserable
child; that he should have been his protector
and faithful friend ; that he should have shown
him that love and tenderness which, from the
wretched moment of his birth, he had never
known; that he should have taught him to hate
his own parent, and execrate his very name;
that he should now know and feel all this, and
triumph in the recollection; was gall and mad-
ness to the usurer's heart. The dead boy's love
for Nicholas, and the attachment of Nicholas to
him, was insupportable agony. The picture of
his death-bed, with Nicholas at his side, tending
and supporting him, and he breathing out his
thanks, and expiring in his arms, when he would
have had them mortal enemies, and hating each
other to the last, drove him frantic. He gnashed
his teeth and smote the air, and looking wildly
round, with eyes which gleamed through the .
darkness, cried aloud: -
“I am trampled down and ruined. The
wretch told me true. The night has come ! Is
and made this stir among them
He began to,
his head with both hands.
there no way to rob them of further triumph,
and spurn their mercy and compassion ? Is there
no devil to help me?” - *
Swiftly there glided again into his brain the
figure he had raised that night. It seemed to
lie before him. The head was covered now.
So it was when he first saw it. The rigid, up-
turned, marble feet, too, he remembered well.
Then came before him the pale and trembling
relatives who had told their tale upon the in-
quest—the shrieks of women—the silent dread
of men—the consternation, and disquiet—the
victory achieved by that heap of clay, which,
with one motion of its hand, had let out the life
He spoke no more; but, after a pause, softly
groped his way out of the room, and up the
echoing stairs—up to the top—to the front
garret—where he closed the door behind him,
and remained.
It was a mere lumber-room now, but it yet
contained an old dismantled bedstead; the one
on which his son had slept ; for no other had
ever been there. He avoided it hastily, and sat
down as far from it as he could. -
The weakened glare of the lights in the street
below, shining through the window which had
no blind or curtain to intercept it, was enough
to show the character of the room, though not
sufficient fully to reveal the various articles of
lumber, old corded trunks and broken furniture,
which were scattered about. It had a shelving
roof; high in one part, and at another descend-
ing almost to the floor. It was towards the
highest part that Ralph directed his eyes ; and
upon it he kept them fixed steadily for some
minutes, when he rose, and, dragging thither an
old chest upon which he had been seated,
mounted on it, and felt along the wall above
At length they
touched a large iron hook, firmly driven into
one of the beams.
At that moment he was interrupted by a loud
knocking at the door below. After a little hesi.
tation he opened the window, and demanded
who it was.
“I want Mr. Nickleby,” replied a voice.
“What with him P” -
“That's not Mr. Nickleby's voice, surely?”
was the rejoinder.
It was not like it; but it was Ralph who
spoke, and so he said.’ -
The voice made answer that the twin brothers
wished to know whether the man whom he had
seen that night was to be detained; and that,
although it was now midnight, they had sent, in
their anxiety to do right,
THE FRONT GARRE7.
407
“Yes," cried Ralph, “detain him till to-
morrow ; then let them bring him here—him
and my nephew—and come themselves, and be
sure that I will be ready to receive them.”
“At what hour?” asked the voice.
“At any hour,” replied Ralph fiercely. “In
the afternoon, tell them. At any hour—at any
minute—all times will be alike to me.”
He listened to the man's retreating footsteps
until the sound had passed, and then, gazing up
into the sky, saw, or thought he saw, the same
black cloud that had seemed to follow him
home, and which now appeared, to hover
directly above the house.
“I know its meaning now,” he muttered,
“and the restless nights, the dreams, and why
I have quailed of late—all pointed to this. Oh!
if men, by selling their own souls, could ride
rampant for a term, for how short, a term would
I barter mine to-night !”
The sound of a deep bell came along the
wind. One. -
“Lie on 1" cried the usurer, “with your iron
tongue ! Ring. merrily for births that make ex-
pectants writhé, and marriages that are made in
hell, and toll ruefully for the dead whose shoes
are worn already | Call men to prayers who are
godly because not found out, and ring chimes
for the coming in of every year that brings this
Cursed world nearer to its end. No bell or
book for me ! Throw me on a dunghill, and
let me rot there, to infect the airl" -
With a wild look around, in which frenzy,
hatred, and despair were horribly mingled, he
shook his clenched hand at the sky above him,
which was still dark and threatening, and closed;
the window. - t
The rain and hail pattered against the glass;
the chimneys quaked and rocked; the crazy.
casement rattled with the wind, as though an
impatient hand inside were striving to burst it
open. But no hand was there, and it opened.|
IłO. In Ore.
xt :Nº $ x: *
“How's this?” cried one. “The gentlemen
say they can't make anybody hear, and have
been trying these two hours.”
“And yet he came home last night,” said
another; “for he spoke to somebody out of
that window up-stairs.”
They were a little knot of men, and, the win-
dow being mentioned, went out into the road to
look up at it. . This occasioned their observing
that the house was still close shut, as the house-i
keeper had said she had left it on the previous
night, and led to a great many suggestions:
which terminated in two or three of the boldest i
getting round to the back, and so entering by a
window, while the others remained outside in
impatient expectation.
. They looked into all the rooms below: open-
ing the shutters as they went, to admit the fad-
ing light: and still finding nobody, and every-
thing quiet and in its place, doubted whether
they should go farther. One man, however,
remarking that they had not yet been into the
garret, and that it was there he had been last
seen, they agreed to look there too, and went up
Softly ; for the mystery and silence made them
timid.
After they had stood for an instant on the
landing, eyeing each other, he who had pro-
posed their carrying the search so far, turned
the handle of the door, and, pushing it open,
looked through the chink, and fell back directly.
“It's very odd,” he whispered; “he's hiding
behind the door Look "
They pressed forward to see;...but one among
them, thrusting the others aside with a loud ex-
clamation, drew a clasp-knife from his pocket,
and dashing into the room, cut down the body.
He had torn a rope from one of the old
trunks, and hung himself on an iron hook im-
mediately below the trap-door in the ceiling—
in the very place to which the eyes of his son, a
lonely, desolate little creature, had so often
been directed in childish terror, fourteen years
before. -
-º-
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE MAKE vARIous DEcLARA.
TIONS FOR THEMSElves AND OTHERS. TIM LINK-
INWATER MAKES A DECLARATION FOR HIMSELF.
º
YG -
Ş OME weeks had passed, and the
SS first shock of these events had sub-
*A sided. Madeline had been re-
moved ; Frank had been absent;
and Nicholas and Kate had begun
to try in good earnest to stifle their
own regrets, and to live for each other
and for their mother—who, poor lady,
could in nowise be reconciled to this dull and
altered state of affairs—when there came one
evening, per favour of Mr. Linkinwater, an invi-
tation from the brothers to dinner on the next
day but one : comprehending, not only Mrs.
Nickleby, Kate, and Nicholas, but little Miss
La Creevy, who was most particularly mentioned.
“Now, my dears,” said Mrs. Nickleby when
they had rendered becoming honour to, the
bidding, and Tim had taken his departure,
“what does this mean P”
- O
re-


408
McHozas wox/EBy
“What do you mean, mother P” asked. Nicho-
las, smiling.
“I say, my dear,” rejoined that lady, with a
face of unfathomable mystery, “what does this
invitation to dinner mean P. What is its inten-
tion and object?”
º
/
º,
“I conclude it means that on such a day we
are to eat and drink in their house, and that its
intent and object is to confer pleasure upon us,”
said Nicholas.
“And that's all you conclude it is, my
dear?” -
“CLASPING THE IRon RAILINGs witH HIS HANDs, LookED EAGERLY IN, wonDERING WHICH MIGHT BE
- HIS GRAVE.”
“I have not yet arrived at anything deeper,
mother.”
“Then I'll just tell you one thing,” said Mrs.
Nickleby, “you'll find yourself a little sur-
prised ; that's all. You may depend upon it.
that this means something besides dinner.”
$.”
“Tea and supper, perhaps," suggested Nicho-
las.
“I wouldn't be absurd, my dear, if I were
you,” replied Mrs. Nickleby in a lofty manner,
“because it's not by any means becoming, and
doesn't suit you at all. What I mean to say is,

< AN INVITATION 7'o DINNER.
that the Mr. Cheerybles don't ask us to dinner
with all this ceremony for nothing. Never mind;
wait and see. You won't believe anything I
say, of course. It's much better to wait; a great
deal better; it's satisfactomy to all parties, and
there can be no disputing. All I say is, re-
member what I say now, and, when I Say I said
so, don't say I didn't.”
With this stipulation, Mrs. Nickleby, who was
troubled, night and day, with a vision of a hot
messenger tearing up to the door to announce
that Nicholas had been taken into partnership,
suitted that branch of the subject, and entered
upon a new one. s, , ,
“It's a very extraordinary thing,” she said,
“a most extraordinary thing, that they should
have invited Miss La Creevy. It quite
astonishes me, upon my word it does. Of
course it's very pleasant that she should be
invited, very pleasant, and I have no doubt
that she'll conduct herself extremely well; she
always does. It's very gratiſying to think that
... we should have been the means of introducing
her into such society, and I'm quite glad of it
—quite rejoiced—for she certainly is an exceed-
ingly well-behaved and good-natured little per-
son. I could wish that some friend would nen-
tion to her how very badly she has her cap
trimmed, and what very preposterous bows
those are, but of course that's impossible, and,
if she likes to make a fright of herself, no doubt
she has a perfect right to do so. . We never see
ourselves—never do, and never did—and I sup> .
pose we never shall."'
This moral reflection reminding her of the
necessity of being peculiarly smart on the occa-
ston, so as to counterbalance Miss La Creevy,
and be herself an effectual set-off and atonc-
ment, led Mrs. Nickleby into a consultation with
her daughter relative to certain ribbons, gloves,
and trimmings: which, being a complicated
question, and one of paramount importance, soolſ
routed the previous one, and put it to flight.
The great day arriving, the goodáladyżput
herself under Kate's hands an hour or so after
breakfast, and, dressing by easy stages, com-
pleted her toilet in sufficient time to allow of her
daughter's thaking hers, which was very simple,
and not very long, though so satisfactory that
she had neyer appeared more charming, or
looked more lovely. . Miss La Creevy, too,
arrived with two bandboxes (whereof the bot-
toms fell out as they were handed from the
coach) and something in a newspaper, which a
gentleman had sat upon, coming down, and
which was obliged to be ironed again before it
was fit for service. — At last everybody was
409
dressed, including Nicholas, who had come
home to ſetch them, and they went away in a
coach sent by the brothers for the purpose;
Mrs. Nickleby wondering very much what they
would have for dinner, and cross-examining
Nicholas as to the 'extent of his discoveries in
the morning; whether he had smelt anything
cooking at all like turtle, and, if not, what he
had smelt ; and diversifying the conversation
with reminiscences of dinners to which she had
gone some twenty-years ago, concerning.which
she particularised not only the dishes, but the
guests, in whom her hearers did not feel a very
absorbing interest, as not one of them had ever
chanced to hear their names before. *
The old butler received them with profound
respect and many smiles, and ushered them into
the drawing-room, where they were received by
the brothers with so much cordiality and kind-
ness that Mrs. Nickleby was quite in a flutter,
and had scarcely presence of mind enough even
to patronise Miss La Creevy. Kate was still
more affected by the reception: for, knowing
that the brothers were acquainted with all that
had passed between her and Frank, she felt her
position a most delicate and trying one, and was
trembling on the arm of Nicholas, when Mr.
Charles took her in his, and led her to another
part of the room.
“Have you seen Madeline, my dear,” he said,
“since she left your house?” .
“No, sir,” replied Kate.
“And not heard from her, eh?
from her P” -
“I have only had one letter,” rejoined Kate
gently. “I thought she would not have for-
gotten me quite so soon.” •
“Ah !” said the old man, patting her on the
head, and speaking as affectionately as if she
had been his favourite child. “Poor dear !
What do you think of this, brother Ned P
Madeline has only written to her once—only
once, Ned, and she didn't think she would have
forgotten her quite so soon, Ned.”
“Oh! sad, sad—very sad f" said Ned.
The brothers interchanged a 'glance, and,
looking at Kate for a little time without speak-
ing, shook hands, and modded as if they were
congratulating each other on something very
delightful. -
* “Well, well," said brother Charles, “go into
that room, my dear—that door yonder—and
see if there's not a letter for you from her. I
think there's one upon the table. You needn't
“ Not Once.” -
Not heard
hurry back, my love, if there is, for we don't
dine just yet, and there's plenty of time—plenty
of time.” - - -
4To
McHozAS WICKZEB P.
Kate retired as she was directed. Brother
Charles, having followed her graceful figure with
his eyes, turned to Mrs. Nickleby, and said—
“We took the liberty of naming one hour
before the real dinner-time, ma'am, because we
had a little business to speak about, which
would occupy the interval. Ned, my dear
fellow, will you mention what we agreed upon P
Mr. Nickleby, sir, have the goodness. to follow
me.” - -
Without any further explanation, Mrs. Nickle-
by, Miss La Creevy, and brother Ned were left
alone together, and Nicholas followed brother
Charles into his private room; where, to his
great astonishment, he encountered Frank, whom
he supposed to be abroad.
“Young men,” said Mr. Cheeryble, “ shake
hands !” -
“I need no bidding to do that.” said Nicho-
las, extending his.
“Nor I,” rejoined Frank as he clasped it
heartily. - . - - *
The old gentleman thought that two hand-
somer or finer young ſellows could scarcely
stand side by side than those on whom he
looked with so much pleasure. Suffering his
eyes to rest upon them for a short time in
silence, he said, while he seated himself at his
desk :
“I wish to see you friends—close and firm
ſriends—and, if I thought you otherwise, I
should hesitate in what I am about to say.
Frank, look here ! Mr. Nickleby, will you come
on the other side P” -
The young men stepped up on either hand of
brother Charles, who produced a paper from his
desk, and unfolded it. -
“This,” he said, “is a copy of the will of
Madeline's maternal grandfather, bequeathing
her the sum of twelve thousand pounds, pay-
able either upon her coming of age or marrying.
lt would appear that this gentleman, angry with
her. (his only relation) because she would not
put herself under his protection, and detach lier-
self from the society of her father, in compliance
with his repeated overtures, made a will leaving
this property (which was all he possessed) to a
charitable institution. He would seem to have
repented this determination, however, for three
weeks afterwards, and in the same month, he
executed this. By some fraud, it was abstracted
immediately after his decease, and the other-
the only will found—was proved and adminis-
tered. Friendly negotiations, which have only
just now terminated, have been proceeding since
this instrument came into our hands, and, as
there is no doubt of its authenticity, and the
|
fortune.
witnesses have been discovered (aſter some
trouble), the money has been refunded. Made-
line has therefore obtained her right, and is, or
will be, when either of the contingencies which
I have mentioned has arisen, mistress of this
You understand ne?” -
Frank replied in the affirmative. Nicholas,
who could not trust himself to speak lest his
voice should be heard to falter, bowed his
head. - -
“Now, Frank,” said the old gentleman, “you
were the immediate means of recovering this
deed. The fortune is but a small one; but we
love Madeline; and, such as it is, we would
rather see you allied to her with that than to
any other girl we know who has three times the
money. Will vou become a suitor to her for her
hand P” .
“No, sir. I interested myself in the recovery
of that instrument, believing that her hand was
already pledged to one who has a thousand
times the claims upon her gratitude, and, if I
mistake not, upon her heart, that I or any other
man can ever urge. In this it seems I judged
hastily.”
“As you always do, sir,” cried brother Charles,
utterly forgetting his assumed dignity, “as you
always do. How dare you think, Frank, that
we would have you marry for money, when
youth, beauty, and every amiable virtue and
excellence were to be had for love? How
dared you, Frank, go and make love to Mr.
Nickleby's sister without telling us first what
you meant to do, and letting us speak for
ou ??” .
“I hardly dared to hope—” 2.
“You hardly dared to hope 1 Then, so much
the greater reason for having our assistance 1
Mr. Nickleby, sir, Frank, although he judged
hastily, judged, for once, correctly. Madeline's
heart is occupied. Give me your hand, sir; it
is occupied by you, and worthily and naturally.
This fortune is destined to be yours, but you
have a greater fortune in her, sir, than you
would have in money, were it forty times told.
She chooses you, Mr. Nickleby. She chooses
as we, her dearest friends, would have her
choose. Frank chooses as we would have him
choose. He should have your sister's little
hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times
—ay, he should, and he shall ! . You acted
nobly, not knowing our sentiments, but now
you know them, sir, you must do as you are
bid. What You are the children of a worthy
gentleman The time was, sir, when my dear
brother Ned and I were two poor simple-hearted
boys, wandering, almost barefoot, to seek out
A co/FORTABLE COUPLE.
fortunes: are we changed in anything, but yºrs
and worldly circumstances since that time? No,
God forbid Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, what a happy
day this is for you and me ! If our poor mother
i., only lived to see us, now, Ned, how Proud
it would have made her dear Theart at last !’
Thus apostrophized, brother, Ned, who had
entered with Mrs. Nickleby, and who had been
before unobserved by the young men, darted
forward, and fairly hugged brother Charles in
his arms. t
“Bring in my little Kate,” said the latter after
a short silence. “Bring her in, Ned. . Let me
see Kate, let me kiss her. I have a right to do
so now; I was very near it when she first came;
I have 6ften been very near it. Ah!, Did you
find the letter, my bird? Did you find Made-
line herself, waiting for you and expecting you ?
Did you find that she had not quite forgotten
her friend and nurse and sweet companion 2
Why, this is almost the best of all !”
“Come, come,” said Ned, “Frank will be
jealous, and we shall have some cutting of
throats before dinner.”
“Then let him take her away, Ned, let him
take her away. Madeline's in the next room.
Let all the lovers get out of the way, and talk
among themselves, if they've anything to say.
Turn 'em out, Ned, every one !”
Brother Charles began the clearance by lead-
ing, the blushing girl to the door, and dismiss-
ing her with a kiss. Frank was not very slow to
follow, and Nicholas had disappeared first of
all, So there only remained Mrs. Nickleby and
Miss La Creevy, who were both sobbing heartily;
the two brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who
now came in to shake hands with everybody :
his round face all radiant and beaming with
Smiles. *. -
“Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,” said brother
Charles, who was always spokesman, “now the
young folks are happy, sir.” -
“You didn't keep ’em in suspense as long as
you said you would, though,” returned Tim
archly. “Why, Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Frank
were to have been in your room for I don't
know how long; and I don't know what you
..Werent to have told them before you came out
with the truth.”
4 & $24. e g
Now, did you ever know such a villain as
this, Ned P” said the old gentleman. “Did
you ever know such a villain as Tim Linkin-
Water P He accusing me of being impatient,
and he the very man who has been wearying
is ſhorning, noon, and might, and torturing us
for leave to go and tell 'em what was in
store, before our plans were half complete, or
sole her.
4) I
we had arranged a single thing ! A treacherous
dog ' "
& So he is, brother Charles,” returned Ned ;
“Tim is a treacherous dog. Tim is not to be
trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow—he wants
gravity and steadiness; he must sow his wild
oats, and then perhaps, he'll become in time a
respectable member of society."
This being one of the standing jokes between
the old fellows and Tim, they all three laughed
very heartily, and might have laughed much
longer, but that the brothers, seeing that Mrs.
Nickleby was labouring to express her feelings,
and was really overwhelmed by the happiness
of the time, took her between them, and led her
from the room under pretence of having to con-
sult her on some most important arrangements.
Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very
often, and had always been very chatty and
pleasant together—had always been great
friends—and consequently it was the most
natural thing in the world that Tim, finding
that she still sobbed, should endeavour to con-
As Miss La Creevy sat on a large
old-fashioned window-seat, where there was
annple room for two, it was also natural that
Tim should sit down beside her ; and as to
Tim's being unusually spruce and particular in
his attire that day, why, it was a high festival
and a great occasion, and that was the most
natural thing of all.
Tim sat down beside Miss La Ureevy, and,
crossing one leg over the other so that his foot
—he had very comely feet, and happened to be
wearing the neatest shoes and black silk stock-
ings possible—should come easily within the
range of her eye, said in a soothing way :
“Don’t cry ”
“I must,” rejoined Miss La Creevy.
“No, don't,” said Tim. “Pleast don't ; pray
don’t.
“I am so happy : " sobbed the little woman.
“Then laugh,” said Tim. “Do laugh.”
What in the world Tim was doing with his
arm, it is impossible to conjecture, but he
knocked his elbow against that part of the
window which was quite on the other side of
Miss La Creevy; and it is clear that it could
have no business there.
“Do laugh,” said Tim, “ or I'll cry.”
“Why should you cry?” asked Miss La
Creevy, smiling.
* “Because I'm happy too,” said Tim. “We
are both happy, and I should like to do as
you do.’
Surely there never was a man who fidgeted as
Tim must have done then ; for he knocked the
4 I 2.
w/CH ozAs wickLEBY.
window again—almost in the same place—and
Miss La Creevy said she was sure he'd break it.
“I knew,” said Tim, “that you would be
pleased with this scene."
“It was very thoughtful and kind to remem-
ber me,” returned Miss La Creevy. “Nothing
could have delighted me half.so much.”
Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and
Tim Linkinwater have said all this in a whisper ?
It was no secret. And why should Tim Linkin-
water have looked so hard at Miss La Creevy,
and why should Miss La Creevy have looked so
hard at the 'ground P
“It's a pleasant thing,” said Tim, “to people
like us, who have passed all our lives in the
world alone, to see young folks that we are fond
of brought together with so many years of hap-
piness before them.” -
“Ah ” cried the, little woman with all her
heart, “that it is 1"
“Although,” pursued Tim — “although it
makes one feel quite solitary and cast away
—now don't it 2" -
Miss La Creevy said she didn't know. And
why should she say she didn't know P. Because
she must, have known whether it did or not.
“It's almost enough to make us get marrica
after all, isn't it?” said Tim.
“Oh, nonsense !” replied Miss La Creevy,
laughing. “We are too old.” -
*Not a bit,” said Tim; “we are too old to
be single. Why shouldn't we both be married,
instead of sitting through the long winter even-
ings by our solitary firesides P Why shouldn't
we make one fireside of it, and marry each
Other P’’ .
: “Oh, Mr. Linkinwater, you're joking !”
“No, no, I'm not. I’m not indeed,” said
Tim. “I will, if you will. Do, my dear!”
“It would make people laugh so.”
“Let 'em laugh,” cried Tim stoutly; “we
have good tempers I know, and we'll laugh too.
Why, what hearty laughs we have had since
we've known each other "
“So we have,” cried Miss La Creevy—giving
way a little, as Tim thought.
“$t has been the happiest time in all my
life—at least, away from the counting-house
and Cheeryble Brothers,” said Tim. “ Do, my
dear! Now, say you will.”
“No, no, we mustrf't think of it,” returned
Miss La Creevy. “What would the brothers
say?” -
“Why, God bless your soul (" cried Tim
innocently, “you don't suppose I should think
of such a thing without their knowing it ! Why,
they left us here Ön purpose.”
couple.
and grandmother to.
"As
;
º
“I can never look 'em in the face again : ".
exclaimed Miss La Creevy faintly. *
“Come !” said Tim, “let’s be a comfortable
We shall live in the old- house here,
where I have been for four-and-forty year; we
shall go to the old church, where I’ve been,
every Sunday morning, all through that time;
we ashall have all my old friends about us—
Dick, the archway, the pump, the flower-pots,
and Mr. Frank's children, and Mr. Nickleby's
children, that we shall seem like grandfather
Illet's be a comfortable
couple, and take care of each other And if
we should get deaf, or lame, or blind, or bed-
ridden, how glad we shall be that we have
somebody we are fond of, always to talk to and
sit with ! Let's be a comfortable couple. Now,
do, my dear!” -
Five ºninutes after this honest and straight-
forward speech, little Miss La Creevy and Tim
were talking as pleasantly as if they had been
married for a score of years, and had never once
quarrelled all the time; and five minutes after
that, when Miss La Creevy had bustled out to
see if her eyes were red and put her hair to
rights, Tim moved with a stately step towards
the drawing-room, exclaiming as he went,
“There an't such another woman in all Lon-
don—I know there an’t l”
By this time the apoplectic butler was nearly
in fits, in consequence of the unheard-of post-
ponement of dinner. Nicholas, who had been
engaged in a manner in which every reader may
imagine for himself or herself, was hurrying
down-stairs in obedience to his angry summons.
when he encountered a new surprise.
On his way down he overtook, in one of the
passages, a stranger genteelly dressed in black,
who was also moving towards the dining-room.
#e was rather lame, and walked slowly,
Nicholas lingered behind, and was folk,wing
him step by step, wondering who he was, when
he suddenly turned round and caught him by
both hands. - - .”
“Newman Noggs | " cried Nicholas joy.
fully. -
“Ah ! Newman, your own Newman, yout
own old faithful Newman My dear boy, my
dear Nick, I give you joy—health, happiness,
every blessing. I can't bear it—it's too much,
my dear boy—it makes a child of me !”
“Where have you been 2 ” said Nicholas.
“What have you been doing P. How often
have I inquired for you, and been told that I
should hear before long !”
“I know, I know !" returned Newman.
“They wanted all the happiness to come to-
t ME WMAN AWOGGS WAV A NEW ASA’EC7.
gether. I've been helping 'em. I—I– Look
at me, Nick, look at me !”
“You would never let me do that,” said
Nicholas in a tone of gentle reproach.
“I didn't mind what I was then. I shouldn't
have had the heart to put on gentleman's clothes.
“OH, MR. LINKINw ATER, You'RE JOKING !”
4 I.3
They would have reminded me of old times,
and made me miserable.
I am another man
now, Nick. My dear boy, I can't speak—don't
say anything to me—don't think the worse of
me for these tears—you don't know what I feel
to-day; you can't, and never will!"
“No, No, I'M Not. I’m Not INDEED,” SAID TIM. “I will, IF You will. Do, MY DEAR}"
They walked in to dinner arm-in-arm, and
sat down side by side. -
Never was such a dinner as that, since the
World began. There was the superannuated
bank clerk, Tim Linkinwater's friend: and
there was the chubby old lady, Tim Linkin-
water's sister; and there was so much attention
from Tim Linkinwater's sister to Miss La
Creevy, and there were so many jokes from
the superannuated bank clerk, and Tim Linkin-,

4I4
AV/CHOLAS NICKLEB Y.
water himself was in such tiptop spirits, and
little Miss La Creevy was in such a comical
state, that of themselves they would have com-
posed the pleasantest party conceivable. Then
there was Mrs. Nickleby, so grand and com-
placent; Madeline and Kate, so blushing and
beautiful ; Nicholas and Frank, so devoted and
proud; and all four so silently and tremblingly
happy; there was Newman, so subdued, yet so
overjoyed ; and there were the twin brothers,
so delighted, and interchanging such looks, that
the old servant stood transfixed behind his
master's chair, and felt his eyes grow dim as
they wandered round the table.
When the first novelty of the meeting had
worn off, ard they began truly to feel how
happy they were, the conversation became
more general, and the harmony and pleasure,
if possible, increased. The brothers were in a
perfect ecstasy; and their insisting on saluting
the ladies all round, before they would permit
them to retire, gave occasion to the super-
annuated bank clerk to say so many good
things, that he quite outshone himself, and was
looked upon as a prodigy of humour.
“Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby, taking
her daughter aside as soon as they got up-stairs,
“you don't really mean to tell me that this is
actually true about Miss La Creevy and Mr.
Linkinwater P”
“Indeed it is, mamma.” -
“Why, I never heard such a thing in my
liſe 1" exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.
“Mr. Linkinwater is a most excellent crea-
ture,” reasoned Kate, “and, for his age, quite
young still.” - -
“For his age, my dear !” returned Mrs.
Nickleby, “yes; nobody says anything against
him, except, that I think he is the weakest and
most foolish man I ever kncw. It's her age I
speak of. That he should have gone and
offered himself to a woman who must be—ah,
half as old again as I am—and that she should
have dared to accept him . It don't signify,
Rate; I'm disgusted with her ”
Shaking her head very emphatically indeed,
Mrs. Nickleby swept away; and all the evening,
in the midst of the merriment and enjoyment.
that ensued, and in which, with that exception,
she freely participated, conducted herself to-
wards Miss Ja Creevy in a stately and distant
manner, designed to mark her sense of the im-
propriety of her conduct, and to signify her
extreme and cutting disapprobation of the mis-
demeanour she had so flagrantly committed.
—º-
CHAPTER LXIV.
An old ACQUAINTANCE IS RECOGNISFD UNDER MELAN.
CHOLY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND DOTHEBOYS HALL
BREAKS UP FOR EVER. .
ICHOLAS was one of those whose
joy is incomplete unless it is shared
by the friends of adverse and less
fortunate days. Surrounded by every
3 fascination of love and hope, his
warm heart yearned towards plain John
Browdie. He remembered their first
33 meeting with a smile, and their second
with a tear; saw poor Smike Önce again with
the bundle on his shoulder, trudging patiently
by his side; and heard the honest Yorkshire-
man's rough words of encouragement as he left
them on their road to London.
Madeline and he sat down, very many times,
jointly to produce a letter which should acquaint
John at full length with his altered fortunes, and
assure him of his friendship and gratitude. It
so happened, however, that the letter could
never be written. Although they applied them-
selves to it with the best intentions in the
world, it chanced that they always fell to talk
ing about something else, and, when Nicholas
tried it by himself, he found it impossible to
write one half of what he wished to say, or t.)
pen anything, indeed, which in re-perusal did
not appear cold and unsatisfactory compared
with what he had in his mind. At last, after
going on thus from day to day, and reproaching
himself more and more, he resolved (the more
readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to
make a hasty trip into Yorkshire, and present
himself before Mr. and Mrs. Browdie without a
word of notice.
Thus it was that, ‘between seven and eight
o'clock one evening, he and Kate found them-
selves in the Saracen's Head booking-office,
securing a place to Greta Bridge by the next
morning's coach. They had to go westward,
to procure some little necessaries for his
journey, and, as it was a fine night, they
agreed to walk there, and ride home.
The place they had just been in called up so
many recollections, and Kate had so many anec:
dotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anec:
dotes of Frank, and each was so interested in
what the other said, and both were so happy
and confiding, and had so much to talk about:
that it was not until they had plunged for a ſtill
half-hour into that labyrinth of streets which lies
between Séven Dials and Soho, without emerg’
ing into any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas




, DECAE/AVE AAVZ) FA ZZ O/7 MAAV/A/.../W/.
began to think it just possible they might have
lost their way.
The possibility was soon converted into a
certainty; for, on looking about, and walking
first to one end of the street and then to the
other, he could find no landmark he could re-
cognise, and was fain to turn back again in
quest of some place at which he could seek a
direction. f
It was a by-street, and there was nobody
about, or in the few wretched shops they
passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light
which streamed across the pavement ſron a
cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or
three steps so as to render himself visible to
those below, and make his inquiry, when he was
arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a
woman's voice.
“Oh, come away !” said Kate, “they are
quarrelling. You'll be hurt.” -
“Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if
there's anything the matter," returned her
brother. “ Hush ' " -
“You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing
brute 1" cried the woman, stamping on the
ground, “why don't you turn the mangle P”
“So I am, my life and soul | " replied the
man's voice. “I am always turning. I am
perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in
a demnition mill. My life is one demd horrid
grind 1" *
“Then why don't you go and list for a soſ-
dier P” retorted the woman. “You're welcome
to.” --- -
“For a soldier 1" cried the man. “For a
soldier Would his joy and gladness see him
in a coarse red coat with a littie tail? Wöuld
she hear of his being slapped and beat by drum-
mers demnebly P Would she have him fire off
real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers
shaved, and his eyes turned right and left, and
his trousers pipe-clayed P” -
“Dear Nicholas,” whispered Kate, “you
don't know who that is. It's Mr. Mantalini I
am confident.”
“Do make sure Peep at him while I ask
the way,” said Nicholas.
Or two—come 1” .
Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down
the steps and looked into a small boarded cel-
- lar. There, amidst clothes-baskets and clothes,
stripped up to his shirt sleeves, but wearing still
an old patched pair of pantaloons of superlative
make, a once brilliant waistcoat, and moustache
and whiskers as of yore, but lacking their lus-
trous dye—there, endeavouring to mollify the
wrath of a buxom female—not the lawſui Ma-
the candle, turn me up in the bedstead
“Come down a step,
4 [ 5
dame Mantalini, but the proprietress of the con-
cern—and grinding meanwhile as if for very life
at the mangle, whose creaking noise, mingled
with her shrill tones, appeared almost to deafen
him—there was the graceful, elegant, fascinat-
ing, and once dashing Mantalini.
“Oh, you false traitorſ ” cried the lady,
threatening personal violence on Mr. Manta-
lini's face. -
“False ! Oh, dem Now, my soul, my
gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most dem-
nebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,” said
Mr. Mantalini humbly.
“I won’t l” screamed the woman. "
tear your eyes out !”
“Oh What a demd savage lamb ..." cried
Mr. Mantalini. -
“You're never to be trusted,” screamed the
woman ; “you were out all day yesterday, and
gallivanting somewhere, I know—you know you
were ! Isn't it enough that I paid two pound
fourteen for you, and took you out of prison
and let you live here like a gentleman, but must
you go on like this : breaking my heart be-
sides P”
“I will never break its heart, I will. be a
good , boy, and never do so any more ; I will
never be naughty again ; I beg its little pardon,”
said Mr. Mantalini, dropping the handle of the
mangle, and ſolding his palms together. “It is
all up with its handsome friend He has gone
to the demnition bow-wows. It will have pity ?
It will not scratch and claw, but pet and com-
fort P. Oh, demmit !” &
Very little affected, to judge from her action,
by this tender appeal, the lady was on the point
of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas,
raising his voice, asked his way to Piccadilly.
Mr. Mantalini turned round, caught sight of
Kate, and, without another word, leapt at one
bound into a bed which stood behind the door,
and drew the counterpane over his face : kick-
ing meanwhile convulsively.
“Demmit,” he cried in a suffocating voice,
“it’s little Nickleby Shut the door, put out
Oh,
“In
dem, dem, dem "
The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and
then at Mr. Mantalini, as if uncertain on whom
to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr.
Mantalini happening by ill-luck to thrust his
nose from under the bedclothes, in his anxiety
to ascertain whether the visitors were gone, she
suddenly, and with a dexterity which could only
have been acquired by long practice, flung a
pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so
... good an aim that he kicked more violently than
$
416
MICHOLAS AWICKLEBº:
before, though without venturing to make any
effort to disengage his head, which was quite
extinguished. Thinking this a favourable oppor-
tunity for departing before any of the torrent of
her wrath discharged itself upon him, Nicholas
hurried Kate off, and left the unfortunate sub-
ject of this unexpected recognition to explain
his conduct as he best could. --
The next morning he began his journey. It
was now cold, winter weather: forcibly recalling
to his mind under what circumstances he had
first travelled, that road, and how many vicissi-
tudes and changes he had since undergone...He
was alone inside the greater part of the way, and
sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze; and,
rousing himself, looked out of the window, and
recognised some place which he well remem-
bered as having passed, either on his journey
down, or in the long walk back with poor Smike;
he could hardly believe but that all which had
since happened had been a dream, and th:..t they
were still plodding wearily on towards London.
with the world before them.
To rende: these recollections the more vivid,
it came on to snow as night set in ; and, pass-
ing through Stamford and Grantham; and by
the little alehouse where he had heard the story
of the bold Baron of Grogzwig, everything
looked as if he had seen it but yesterday, and
not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs
had melted away. Encouraging the train of
ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost
persuade himself that he sat again outside the
coach, with Squeers and the boys; that he
heard their voices in the air; and that he felt
again, but with a mingled sensation of pain and
pleasure now, that old sinking of the heart, and
longing after home. While he was yet yielding
himself up to these fancies he fell asleep, and,
dreaming of Madeline, forgot them.
He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the
night of his arrival, and, rising at a very early
hour next morning, walked to the market-town,
and inquired for John Browdie's house. John
lived in the outskirts, now he was a family man;
and, as everybody knew him, Nicholas had no
difficulty in finding a boy who undertook to
guide him to his residence.
Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his
impatience not even stopping to admire the
thriving look of cottage or garden either, Nicho-
las made his way to the kitchen door, and
knocked lustily with his stick. --
“Halloa l’ cried a voice inside, “wa'at be
the matther noo? Be the toon afire? Ding,
k
| ??
but thou makkest noise eneaf
With these words, John Browdie opened the
door himself, and, opening his eyes too to their
utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands to.
gether, and burst into a hearty roar:
“Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the god-
feyther Tilly, here be Misther Nickleby. Gi’
us thee hond, mun, Coom awa', coom awa’.
In wi'.’un, doon beside the fire; tak' a soop o'
, thot. Dinnot say a word till thou'st droonk it
a'! Oop, wi' it, mun 1 Ding, but I'm reeght
glod to see thee 4” 's
Adapting his action to his text, John dragged
Nicholas into the kitchen, forced him down upon
a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out
from an enormous bottle about a quarter of a
pint of spirits, thrust, it into his hand, opened
his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to
him to drink it instäntly, and stood with a broad
grin 6f welcome overspreading his great red face
| like a jolly giant. . t
“I might ha' knowad,” said John, “that no-
body but thou would ha’ coom wi' sike a knock
|. yon. Thot was the wa' thou knocked at
f schoolmeasther's door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But
I say—wa'at be a this’aboot schoolmeåsther P”
“You know. it, then P” said Nicholas.
- “They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last
neeght,” replied John, “but neane on 'em
seemed quite to un'erstan' it loike.”
“After various shiftings and delays,” said
Nicholas, “he has been sentenced to be trans-
ported for seven years, for being in the unlaw-
ful possession of a stolen will; and, after that,
he has to suffer the consequence of a con-
spiracy.” & .
“Whew 1" cried : John, “a conspiracy f
Soom'at in the pooder-plot wa'—eh P. Soom'at
in the Guy Faurx line P”
“No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his
school; I'll explain it presently.” §
“Thot's reeght !” said John, “explain it
arter breakfast, not noo, for thou be'est hoongry,
and so am I; and Tilly she mun' be at the
bottom o' a' explanations, for she says thot's...the
mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod, it's a
room start, is the mutual confidence 1"
The entrance of Mrs. Browdie, with a smart
cap on, and very many apologies for their hāv-
ing been detected in the act of breakfasting in
the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion of
this grave subject, and hastened the breakfast:
which, being composed of vast mounds of toast,
new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and
other cold substantials (of which heavy relays
were constantly appearing from another kitchen
under the direction of a very plump servant),
was admirably adapted to the cold bleak morn-
ing, and received the utmost justice from all
THE Brown/ES AT HOME.
parties. . At last it came to a close ; and the
fire which had been lighted in the best parlour
having by this time burnt up, they adjourned
thither to hear what Nicholas had to tell.
Nicholas told them all, and never was there
a story which awakened so many emotions in
the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time
honest John groaned in sympathy, and at
another roared with joy; at one time he vowed
to go up to London on purpose to get a sight
of the brothers Cheeryble ; and, at another,
swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive
such a ham by coach, and carriage ſree, as
mortal knife had never carved. When Nicholas
began to describe Madeline, he sat with his
mouth wide open, nudging Mrs. Browdie from
time to time, and exclaiming under his breath
that she must be “raather a tidy sart ;” and
when he heard, at last, that his young friend
had come down purposely to communicate his
good fortune, and to convey to him all those
assurances of friendship which he could not
state with sufficient warmth in writing—that
the only object of his journey was to share
his happiness with them, and to tell them that
when he was married they must come up to see
him, and that Madeline insisted on it as well as
he—John could hold out no longer, but, after
looking indignantly at his wiſe, and demanding
to know what she was whimpering for, drew
his coat-sleeve over his eyes, and blubbered
outright.
“Tell 'ee wa'at, though,” said John seriously,
when a great deal had been said on both sides,
“to return to schoolmeasther. If this news
aboot 'un has reached school to-day, the old
'ooman wean't have a whole boan in her boddy,
nor Fanny neither.”
“Oh, John ” cried Mrs. Browdie. *
“Ah! and Oh, John, agean,” replied the
Yorkshireman. “I dinnot know what they lads
mightn't do. When it first got aboot that school.
measther was in trouble, some feythers and
moothers sent and took their young chaps awa'.
If them as is left should know wa'at’s coom
tiv'un, there'll be sike a revolution and rebel
–Ding!'. But I think they'll a’ gang daſt, and
Spill bluid like wather | *
In fact, John Browdie's apprehensions were
So strong that he determined to ride over to the
school without delay, and invited Nicholas to
accompany him, which, however, he declined,
Pleading that his presence might perhaps aggra.
vate the bitterness of their adversity.
, “Thot's true !” said John; “I should ne'er
ha’ thought o' thot.” -
“I must return to morrow,” said Nicholas,
417
- \
“but I mean to dine with you to-day, and, if
33
Mrs. Browdie can give me a bed—
“Bed ” cried John, “I wish thou couldst
sleep in ſower beds at once. Ecod, thou
shouldst have 'em a'. Bide till I coom back,
on'y bide till I coom back, and ecod we'll make
a day of it.” -
Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a
no less hearty shake of the hand, John mounted
his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs. Browdie to
apply herself to hospitable preparations, and his
young friend to stroll about the neighbourhood,
and revisit spots which were rendered familiar
to him by many a miserable association.
John cantered away, and, arriving at Dothe.
boys Hail, tied his horse to a gate, and made
his way to the schoolroom door, which he found
locked on the inside. A tremendous noise and
riot arose from within, and, applying his eye to
a convenient crevice in the wall, he did not re-
main long in ignorance of its meaning.
The news of Mr. Squeers's downfall had
reached Dotheboys; that was quite clear. ' To
all appearance, it had very recently become
known to the young gentlemen ; for the rebel-
lion had just broken out. -
It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle morn-
ings, and Mrs. Squeers had entered school, ac-
cording to custom, with the large bowl and
spoon, followed by Miss Squeers and the ami-
able Wackford : who, during his father's ab-
Sence, had taken upon him stich minor branches
of the executive as kicking the pupils with his
nailed boots, pulling the hair of some of the
smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating
places, and rendering himself, in various similar
ways, a great comfort and happiness to his
mother. Their entrance, whether by premedita-
tion or a simultaneous impulse, was the signal
of revolt. While one detachment rushed to the
door and locked it, and another mounted on the
desks and forms, the stoutest (and consequently
the newest) boy seized the cane, and, confront.
ing Mrs. Squeers with a stern countenance,
snatched off her cap and beaver bonnet, put
them on his own head, armed himself with the
wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of death,
go down upon her knees and take a dose
directly. Before that estimable lady could re-
cover herself, or offer the slightest retaliation,
she was forced into a kneeling posture by a
crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled
to swallowa Spoonful of the odious mixture, ren-
dered more than usually savoury by the im-
mersion in the bowl of Master Wackford's head,
whose ducking was intrusted to another rebel.
| The success of this first achievement prompted
418
*
MICHOLAS WICKZEB Y.
the malicious crowd, whose faces were clustered
together in every variety of lank and half-starved
ugliness, to further acts of outrage. The leader
was insisting upon Mrs. Squeers repeating her
dose, Master Squeers was undergoing another
dip in the treacle, and a violent assault had been
commenced on Miss Squeers, when John Brow-
die, bursting open the door with a vigorous
Kick, rushed to the rescue. The shouts, screams,
groans, hoots, and clapping of hands suddenly
ceased, and a dead silence ensued.
“Ye be noice chaps,” said John, looking
steadily round. “Wa'at’s to do here, thou
yoong dogs P”
“Squeers is in prison, and we are going to
run away !” cried a score of shrill voices. “We
won't stop, we won't stop !”
“Weel, then, dinnot stop,” replied John.
“Who waants thee to stop? Roon awa’ loike
men, but dinnot hurt the women.”
“Hurrah ; ” cried the shrill voices, more
shrilly still.
“Hurrah : " repeated John. “Weel, hurrah
loike men too. Noo then, look out. Hip—hip
—hip—hurrah ” ;
“Hurrah " cried the voices. .
“Hurrah Agean,” said John.
still:”.
The boys obeyed.
“Anoother l’” said John. “Dinnot be afeard
on it. Let's have a good 'un "
“ Hurrah 1 °
“Noo then,” said John, “let’s have yan more
to end wi', and then coot off as quick as you
loike. Tak' a good breath noo—Squeers be in
gaol—the school's brokken oop—it's a' ower——
past and gane—think o' thot, and let it be a
hearty 'un Hurrah ”
Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys
Hall had never echoed before, and were destined
never to respond to again. When the sound
had died away the school was empty; and, of
the busy noisy crowd which had peopled it but
five minutes before, not one remained.
“Very well, Mr. Browdie ' " said Miss
Squeers, hot and flushed from the recent en-
counter, but vixenish to the last; “you've been
and ‘excited our boys to run away. Now, see
“Looder
if we don't pay you out for that, sir! If my pa
is unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we're
not going to be basely crowed and conquered
over by you and 'Tilda.”
* Noa , ” replied John bluntly, “thou bean't.
Tak' thy oath o' thot. Think betther o' us,
Fanny. I tell 'ee both that I'm glod the auld
man has been caught out at last—dom'd glod—
but ye'll sooffer eneaf wi'out any crowin' fra’
k.
me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly
the lass, so I tell 'ee flat. & More than thot, I
tell 'ee noo, that if thou need'st friends to help
thee awa’ſrom this place—dinnot turn up thy
'nose, Fanny, thou may'st—thou'lt foind Tilly
and I wi' a thout o' old times aboot us, ready
to lend thee a hond. And, when I say thot,
dinnot think I be asheamed of wa'at I’ve deane,
for I say agean, Hurrah and dom the school-
! »
*
measther—there - . . . .
His parting words concluded, John Browdie
strode heavily out, remounted his nag, put him
once more into a smart canter, and, Carolling
lustily forth some fragments of an old song, to
which the horse's hoofs rang a merry accom.
paniment sped back to his pretty wife and to
Nicholas. - .
For some days afterwards the neighbouring
country was overrun with boys, who, the report
went, had been secretly furnished by Mr. and
Mrs. Browdie, not only with a hearty meal of
bread and meat, but with sundry shillings and
sixpences to help them on their way. To this
rumour John always returned a stout denial,
which he acgompanied, however, with a lurking
grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and
fully confirmed all previous believers.
There were a few timid young children who,
miserable as they had been, and many as were
the tears they had shed in the wretched school,
still knew no other home, and had formed for it
a sort of attachment, which made them weep
when the bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a
refuge. Of these, some were found crying
under hedges and in such places, frightened at
the solitude. One had a dead bird in a little
cage; he had wandered nearly twenty miles,
and, when his poor favourite died, lost courage,
and lay down beside him. Another was dis?
covered in a yard hard by the school, sleeping
with a dog, who bit at those who came to re.
move him, and licked the sleeping child's pale
face. - . * .
They were taken back, and some other strag-
glers were recovered, but by degrees they were
claimed, or lost again ; and, in course of time.
Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking-up began
to be forgotten by the neighbours, or to be
only spoken of as among the things that had
been.
CHAPTER LXV.
CONCLUSION. -
HEN her term of mourning had
expired, Madeline gave her hand
and fortune to Nicholas ; and, on
! the same day and at the same
time, Kate became Mrs. Frank
Cheeryble. It was expected that
7 Tim Linkinwater and Miss La Creevy
Sºſ ould have made a third couple of the
soccasion, but they declined, and two or three
weeks afterwards went out together one morn-
ing before breakfast, and, coming. back with
merry faces, were found to have been quietly
married that day.
The money which Nicholas acquired in right
of his wife he invested in the firm of Cheeryble
Brothers, in which Frank had become a partner.
Beſore many years elapsed, the business began
to be carried on in the names of “Cheeryble
and Nickleby,” so that Mrs. Nickleby's pro-
phetic anticipations were realised at last.
The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be
told that they were happy? They were sur-
rounded by happiness of their own creation, and
lived but to increase it. -
Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much
entreaty and browbeating, to accept a share in
the house; but he could never be prevailed
upon to suffer the publication of his name as a
partner, and always persisted in the punctual
and regular discharge of his clerkly duties.
He and his wife lived in the old house, and
occupied the very bedchamber in which he had
slept for four-and-forty years. As his wife grew
Qlder, she became even a more cheerful and
light-hearted little creature; and it was a com-
mon saying among their friends, that it was im-
Possible to say which looked the happier—Tim
as he sat calmly smiling in his elbow-chair on
one side of the fire, or his brisk little wife chat-
ting and laughing, and constantly bustling in
and out of hers, on the other. \,
Dick, the blackbird, was removed from the
counting-house, and promoted to a warm corner
in the Common sitting-room. Beneath his cage
hung two miniatures of Mrs. Linkinwater's exe-
Šution; one representing herself, and the other
Tim ; and both smiling very hard at all be-
holders. Tim's head being powdered like a
twelfth-cake, and his spectacles copied with.
§eat nicety, strangers detected, a close resem-
blance to him at the first glance, and this lead-
ºng them to suspect that the other must be his
wife, and emboldening them to say so without
THE WHOLE SUMMED UAE.
419
scruple, Mrs. Linkinwater grew very proud of
these achievements in time, and considered
them among the most successful likenesses she
had ever painted. Tim had the profoundest
faith in them likewise ; for on this, as on all
other subjects, they held but one opinion; and,
if ever there were a “comfortable couple" in
the world, it was Mr. and Mrs. Linkinwater,
Ralph, having died intestate, and having no
relations but those with whom he had lived in
such enmity, they would have become in legal
course his heirs. But they could not bear the
thought of growing rich on money so acquired,
and felt as though they could never hope to
prosper with it. They made no claim to his
wealth ; and the riches for which he had toiled
all his days, and burdened his soul with so
many evil deeds, were swept at last into the
coffers of the state, and no man was the better
or the happier for them. 71-72 cº-ºººººº.
-*.rthur Gride was tried for'the unlawful pos.
session of the will, which he had either pro-
cured to be stolen, or had dishonestly acquired
and retained by other means as bad. By dint
of an ingenious counsel and a legal flaw, he
escaped ; but only to undergo a worse punish-
ment; for, some years afterwards, his house
was broken open in the night by robbers,
tempted by the rumours of his great wealth,
and he was found murdered in his bed.
Mrs. Sliderskew went beyond the seas at
nearly the same time as Mr. Squeers, and, in
the course of nature, never returned. Brooker
died penitent. Sir Mulberry Hawk lived abroad
for some years, courted and caressed, and in
high repute as a fine dashing fellow. Ultimately,
returning to this country, he was thrown into
gaol for debt, and there perished miserably, as
such high spirits generally do,
The first act of Nicholas, when he became a
rich and prosperous merchant, was to buy his
father's old house. As time crept on, and there
came gradually about him a group of lovely
children, it was altered and enlarged ; but none
of the old rooms were ever pulled down, no old
tree was ever rooted up, nothing with, which
there was any association of bygone times was
ever removed or changed.
Within a stone's throw was another retreat,
enlivened by children's.pleasant voices too; and
here was Kate, with many new cares and occu-
pations, and many new faces courting her sweet,
smile (and one so like her own, that to her
mother she seemed a child again), the same true
gentle creature, the same fond sister, the same
: the love of all about her, as in her girlish
ayS. - *


420
AVYCA/O/AS WCX/AEAE}.
Mrs.
daughter, and sometimes with her son, accom-
panying one or other of them to London at
those periods when the cares of business obliged
both families to reside there, and always pre-
serving a great appearance of dignity, and re-
lating her experiences (especially on points con-
nected with the management and bringing-up
of children) with much solemnity and impor-
tance. It was a very long time before she could
be induced to receive Mrs. Linkinwater into
favour, and it is even doubtful whether she ever
thoroughly forgave her.
There was one grey-haired, quiet, harmless
gentleman, who, winter and summer, lived in
a little, cottage hard by Nicholas's house, and,
‘S X..,
*g, *.
... .º.º.
Nickleby lived, sometimes with her
pressure.
time, garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by in-
. {}_º -
v. º $% f' **ś, *
- * * Syºſ ºs ººlºº
º', sº arºs §§
- -
when he was not there, assumed the superin-
tendence of affairs. His chief pleasure and de-
light was in the children, with whom he was
a child himself, and master of the revels. The
little people could do nothing without dear New-
man Noggs. A ‘
The grass was green above the dead boy's
grave, and trodden by feet so small and light,
that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their
Through all the spring and summer
fant hands, rested on the stone; and, when the
children came to change them lest they should -
wither and be pleasant to him no longer, their
eyes filled with tears, and they spoke low and
softly of their poor dead cousin.







THE
O LD CURIO SITY SHOP
EY
CHARLES DICKENS
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PREFACE.
N April, 1840, I issued the first number of a new weekly publication, price threepence,
called MASTER HUMPHREY's Clock. It was intended to consist, for the most part, of
detached papers, but was to include one continuous story, to be resumed from time to
time, with such indefinite intervals between each period of resumption as might best
accord with the exigencies and capabilities of the proposed Miscellany. º,
The first chapter of this tale appeared in the fourth number of MASTER HUMPHREY's
Clock, when I had already been made uneasy by the desultory character of that work, and
when, I believe, my readers had thoroughly participated in the feeling. The commencement of a
story was a great satisfaction to me, and I had reason to believe that my readers participated in
this feeling too. Hence, being pledged to some interruptions and some pursuit of the original
design, I set cheerfully about disentangling myself from those impediments as fast as I could ; and,
that done, from that time until its completion THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP was written and published
from week to week in weekly parts.
When the story was finished, that it might be freed from the encumbrance of associations and
interruptions with which it had no kind of concern, I caused the few sheets of MASTER HUMPHREY's
CLock which had been printed in connection with it to be cancelled; and, like the unfinished tale
of the windy night and the notary in The Sentimental Journey, they became the property of the
trunk-maker and the butterman. I was especially unwilling, I confess, to enrich those respectable
trades with the opening paper of the abandoned design, in which MASTER HUMPHREY described
himself and his manner of life. Though I now affect to make the confession philosophically, as
referring to a bygone emotion, I am conscious that my pen winces a little even while I write these
words. But it was dome, and wisely done, and MASTER HUMPHREY's CLock, as originally con-
structed, became one of the lost books of the earth—which, we all know, are far more precious
than any that can be read for love or money. -
In reference to the tale itself, I desire to say very little here. The many friends it won me,
and the many hearts it turned to me when they were full of private sorrow, invest it with an
interest, in my mind, which is not a public one, and the rightful place of which appears to be “a
more removed ground.” .
I will merely observe, therefore, that, in writing the book, I had it always in my fancy to
surround the lonely figure of the child with grotesque and wild, but not impossible, companions,
and to gather about her innocent face and pure intentions associates as strange and uncongenial as
the grim objects that are about her bed when her history is first foreshadowed.
MASTER HUMPHREY (before his devotion to the trunk and butter business) was originally
supposed to be the narrator of the story. As it was constructed from the beginning, however, with

iv. ARE E4 CE.
a view to separate publication when completed, his demise has not involved the necessity of any .
alteration. f W
I have a mournful' pride in one recollection associated with “little Nell.” While she was yet
upon her wanderings, not then concluded, there appeared in a literary journal, an essay of which
she was the principal theme, so earnestly, so eloquently, and tenderly appreciative of her, and of
all her shadowy kith and kin, that it would have been insensibility in me if I could have read it
without an unusual glow of pleasure and encouragement. : Long afterwards, and when I had come
to know him well, and to see him, stout of heart, going slowly down into his grave, I knew the
writer of that essay to be THOMAS HooD.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
“THE Door BEING OPENED, THE CHILD ADDRESSED HIM AS HER GRANDFATHER " . g * Afrontispiece
“THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” SAID MRs. JARLEy, “IS JASPER PACKLEMERTON OF ATRocroUS
MEMORY 2’ . & gº e º * * § ë tº & g & e . Zo face page
“HALLOA . .” . g e * * tº & wº º © e wº o º
§ & § º
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.
Q
PAGE
Vignette. “A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face
e appeared at the door while he was speaking,
“The old man sat himself down in a chair, and, and, stopping there to make a rustic bow, came
with... hands, looked *. at his in '' • / * g * * e
* at his strange com-
sº and someºne t * wº g & tº I “She handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread
* and butter, the knuckle of ham, and, in short,
“When he did sit down, he tucked up his sleeves everything of which she had partaken herself”
and squared his elbows and put his face close & *
to the copy-book”. º g e , 16 || “And in this state and ceremony rode slowly
through the town every morning” . * *
“Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the wherry to * sy
cross to the opposite shore ” . e -º 2 t “You’re the wax-work child, are you not ?”.
“I’ll beat you to a pulp, you dogs” . e . 24 || “In some of these flourishes it went close to Miss
…” Sally's head” * * * *
“He soon cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he
skipped with uncommon agility, and, perching “Oh, please,” said a little voice very low down in
himself on the back with his feet upon the the doorway, “will you come and show the
seat, was thus enabled to look on ” • 37 lodgings P” . e g º e wr
“Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant P” . 44 || “Do you see this 2"
“Not to be behindhand in the bustle, Mr. Quilp “At length everything was ready, and they went
went to work with surprising vigour” . . 52 off” tº e tº g tº * tº e
“Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon “The old man stood helplessly among them for a
busily engaged in her task” . & & . 64 little time” . * * º g e &
|
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jerry, looking at them “A man of very uncouth,and rough appearance was
attentively. “The dog whose name's called, standing over them ’” . & t º *
eats” . º e e g e * , 72
f “She is quite exhausted,” said the schoolmaster
“There was but one lady who seemed to understand
the child, and she was one who sat alone in a “Aquiline !” cried Quilp, thrusting in his head
handsome carriage” º * g * . 76
tº A a 4- “Both mother and daughter, trembling with terror
'And then they went on arm-in-arm very lovingly and cold, . . . . obeyed Mr. Quilp's directions
together” . & e in * º . 85 in submissive silence " , tº ſº & *
IcS
I86
PAGE
93
IOO
Io8
I [6
I 25
I 56
16o
I68
181.
184
VI &
AZZO/STRATYOAVS.
s'
“Elevating his glass, drank to their next metry-
meeting in that jovial spot” . & e *
“The child sat down in this old, silent place”
º
“Then, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “fire
away !” º -
º º º ae ' º º
“The air was, “Away with melancholy 3 y?
“Is it like Kit—is it
very self?” .
*
his picture, his image, his
º ... • g º • , { }
“The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped
her hands " .. ". . . w
º • © º
• PAGE
189
197
212
216
228
*
—r-
t
“She had nothing for it now, therefore, but to run; ,
ſº & • ? * . . .240
after the chaise”
º *
.”
~ +
PAGE
“Tom immediately walked upon his hands to the .
window, and—if the expression be allowable—
looked in with his shoes” • . •
“The strong tide filled his throat, and bore him on
upon its rapid current” . . . . ... • e
“Master!” he cried, stooping on one knee, and
catching at his hand.
to me !” º * tº º º
“Two wretched people were more than once ob-
served to crawl at dusk ſrom the inmost recesses
of St. Giles's xx º º & * h º
“Dear master! Speak
249
253
264
w
*
272
|
;
CHAPTER I.
IGHT is generally my time for walk-
ing, although I am an old man. In
the summer I often leave home early
in the morning, and roam about
è fields and lanes all day, or even
escape for days or weeks together; but,
º saving in the country, I seldom go out
• until after dark, though, Heaven be
thanked, I love its light, and feel the cheerful-
ness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any
creature living. de r
I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both
because it favours my infirmity, and because it
affords me greater opportunity of speculating on
the characters and occupations of those who fill
the streets. The glare and hurry of broad noon
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, i.
are not adapted to idle pursuits like mine; a
glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a
street lamp, or a shop-window, is often better
- for my purpose than their full revelation in the
daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is
kinder in this respect than day, which too often
destroys an air-built castle at the moment of its
completion, . without the least ceremony or
TennorSe.
That constant pacing to and fro, that never-
ending restlessness, that incessant tread of feet
wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy—is
it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrow ways
can bear to hear it? Think of a sick man, in
such a place as St. Martin's Court, listening to
the footsteps, and, in the midst of pain and
weariness, obliged, despite himself (as though it
were a task he must perform) to detect the
249



2 THE OLD CUR/OS/7'y SAOA
child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar
from the booted exquisite, the lounging from the
busy, the dull' heel"of the sauntering outcast
from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-
seeker—think of the hum and noise being
always present to his senses, and of the stream
of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on,
through all his restless dreams, as if he were
condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in a
noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for
centuries to come !
Then, the crowds for ever passing and repass-
ing on the bridges (on those which are free of
toil at least), where many stop on fine evenings
ſooking listlessly down upon the water, with some
vague idea that by-and-by it runs between green
banks which grow wider and wider until at last
it joins the broad vast sea—where some halt to
rest from heavy loads, and think, as they look
over the parapet, that to Smoke and lounge away
one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot
tarpaulin, in a dull, slow, sluggish barge, must
be happiness unalloyed—and where some, and
a very different class, pause with heavier loads
than they, remembering to have heard or read
in some old time that drowning was not a hard
death, but of all means of Suicide the easiest and
best:
Covent-Garden. Market at sunrise too, in the
spring or summer, when the fragrance of sweet
flowers is in the air, overpowering even the un-
wholesome steams of last night's debauchery,
and driving the dusky thrush, whose cage has
hung. Outside a garret window all night long,
half mad with joy 1 Poor bird the only neigh-
bouring thing at all akin to the other little cap-.
tives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot
hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on
the path already, while others, soddened by
close contact, await the time when they shall
be watered and freshened up to please more.
sober company, and make old clerks who pass
them on their road to business wonder what has
filled their breasts with visions of the country. .
But my present º:P. is not to expatiate
upon my walks. The story I am about to re-
late arose out of one of these rambles; and thus
Jºhave been led to speak of them by way of.
preface. -
...One night I had roamed into the City, and
was walking slowly on in my usual way, musing
upon a great many things, when I was arrested
by an inquiry the purport of which did not reach
me, but which seemed to be addressed to my-
self, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that:
§: me... very pleasantly. . I turned hastily
ind, and found at my elbow a pretty little
girl, who begged to be directed to a certain
street at a considerable distance, and indeed in
quite another quarter of the town. -
“It is a very long-wav from here,” said I,
“my child.”
“I know that, sir,” she replied timidly. “I
am afraid it is a very long way; for I came from
there to-night.” - .
“Alone P” said I, in some surprise.
“Oh yes, I don’t mind that, but I am a little
frightened now, for I have lost my road.”
“And what made you ask it of me? Suppose
I should tell you wrong.” -
“I am sure you will not do that,” said the
little creature, “you are such a very old gentle-
man, and walk so slow yourself.”
I cannot describe how much I was impressed
by this appeal, and the energy with which it was
made, which brought a tear into the child's clear
eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she
looked up into my face.
“Come,” said I, “I’ll take you there.”
She put her hand in mine, as confidingly as if
she had known me from her cradle, and we
trudged away together: , the little creature ac-
commodating her pace to mine, and rather
seeming to lead and take care of me than I to
be protecting her. I observed that every now
and then she stole a curious look at my face, as
if to make quite sure that I was not deceiving
her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen
they were too) seemed to increase her confidence
at every repetition.
For my part, my curiosity and interest were,
at least, equal to the child's ; for child she cer-
tainly was, although I thought it probable, from
what I could make out, that her very small and
delicate frame imparted a peculiar youthfulness
to her appearance. Though more scantily
attired than she might have beeri, she was
dressed with perfect neatness, and betraved no
marks of poverty or neglect.
“Who has sent you so far by yourself?” said I.
“Somebody who is very kind to me, sir.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“That I must not tell,” said the child.
There was something. in the manner of this
reply which caused me to look at the little crea-
ture with an involuntary expression of surprise;
for I wondered what kind of errand it might be
that occasioned her to be prepared for question-
ing. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts.
As it met mine, she added that there was no
harm in what she had been doing, but it was a
great secret—a secret which she did not even
, know herself. .
3. This was said with no appearance of cunning
Z/7ZZE MEZZ Awry HER GRAWDFATHER. 3
or deceit, but with an unsuspicious ſtankness
that bore the impress of truth. She walked on,
as before: growing more familiar with me as we
proceeded, and talking cheerfully by the way,
but she said no more about her home, beyond
remarking that we were going quite a new road,
and asking if it were a short one.
While we were thus engaged, I revolved in
my mind a hundred different explanations of the
riddle, and rejected them every one. I really felt
ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness
or grateful feeling of the child, for the purpose
of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little
people; and it is not a slight thing when they,
who are so fresh from God, love us. As I had
felt pleased, at first, by her confidence, I deter-
mined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature
which had prompted her to repose it in me.
There was no reason, however, why I should
refrain from seeing the person who had incon-
siderately-sent her to so great a distance by
night and alone; and, as it was not improbable
that if she found herself near home she might
take farewell of me and deprive me of the oppor-
tunity, I avoided the most frequented ways and
took the most intricate. Thus it was not until
we arrived in the street itself that she knew
where we were. Clapping her hands with plea-
Sure, and running on before me for a short dis-
tance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door,
and remaining on the step till I came up,
knocked at it when I joined her.
A part of this door was of glass, unprotected
by any shutter; which I did not observe at first,
for all was very dark and silent within, and I was—
anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an
anSWertO Our Summons.
twice or thrice, there was a noise as if some per-
Son were moving inside, and at length a faint
light appeared through the glass, which, as it
approached very slowly—the bearer having to
make his way through a great many scattered
articles—enabled me to see, both what kind of
person it was who advanced, and what kind of
Place it was through which he came.
He was a little old man with long grey hair,
whose face and figure, as he held the light abové
his head and looked before him as heapproached,
I could plainly see. Though much altered by
age, I fancied I could recognise in his spare and
slender form something of that delicate mould
which I had noticed in the child. Their bright
blue eyes were certainly alike, but his face was
so deeply furrowed, and so verv full of care, that
here all resemblance ceased.
The place through which he made his way at
leisure was one of those receptacles for old and
When she had knocked .
curious things which seem to crouch in odd
corners of this town, and to hide their musty
treasures from the public eye in jealousy and
distrust. There were suits of mail, standing
like ghosts in armour, here and there; fantastic
carvings brought from monkish cloisters; rusty
weapons of various kinds; distorted figures in
china, and wood, and iron, and ivory; tapestry
and strange furniture that might have beel.
designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of
the little old man was wonderfully suited to the
place; he might have groped among old churches,
and tombs, and deserted houses, and gathered
all the spoils with his own hands. There was
nothing in the whole collection but was in keep-
ing with himself; nothing that looked older or
more worn than he.
As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed
me with some astonishment, which was not
diminished when he looked from me to my
companion. The door being opened, the child
addressed him as her grandfather, and told him
the little story of our companionship.
“Why, bless thee, child,” said the old man,
patting her on the head, “how couldst thou
miss thy way P What if I had lost thee, Nell ?”
“I would have found my way back to you,
grandfather,” said the child boldly ; “never
fear.”
The old man kissed her; then turned to me
and begged me to walk in. I did so. The door
was closed and locked. Preceding me with the
light, he led me through the place I had already
seen from without, into a small sitting-room
behind, in which was another door opening into
a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed that a
fairy might have slept in : it looked so very
Small and was so prettily arranged. The child
took a candle and tripped into this little room,
leaving the old man and me together.
“You must be tired, sir,” said he as he placed
a chair near the fire. “How can I thank you?”
“By taking more care of your grandchild
another time, my good friend,” I replied.
“More care l’” said the old man in a shrill
voice, “more care of Nelly Why, who ever
loved a child as I love Nell ?”
He said this with such evident surprise, that I
was perplexed what answer to make; the more
so, because, coupled with something feeble and
wandering in his manner, there were, in his face,
marks of deep and anxious thought, which con-
.vinced me that he could not be, as I had been
at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage
or imbecility.
“I don't think you consider——” I began.
“I don't consider 1" tried the old man, inter*.
4 7A/E O/L/D CUA’ſ OS/2"Y SATO AE.
rupting me, “I don't consider her Ah, how
little you know of the truth ! Little Nelly, little
Nelly "
It would be impossible for any man—I care
not what his form of speech might be—to ex-
press more affection than the dealer in curiosities
did, in these four words. I waited for him to
speak, again, but he rested his chin upon his
hand, and shaking his head twice or thrice, fixed
his eyes upon the fire.
While we were sitting thus, in silence, the
door of the closet opened, and the child re-
turned ; her light brown hair hanging loose about
her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she
had made to rejoin us. She busied herself,
immediately, in preparing supper. While she
was thus engaged I remarked that the old man
took an opportunity of observing me more
closely than he had done yet, I was surprised
to see that, all this time, everything was done by
the child, and that there appeared to be no
other persons but ourselves in the house. I
took advantage of a moment when she was
absent to venture a hint on this point, to which
the old man replied that there were few grown
persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.
“It always grieves me,” I observed, roused
by what I took to be his selfishness : “it always
grieves me to contemplate the initiation of chil-
dren into the ways of life, when they are scarcely
more than infants. It checks their confidence
and simplicity—two of the best qualities that
Heaven gives them—and demands that they
share our sorrows before they are capable of
entering into our enjoyments.”
“It will never check hers,” said the old man,
looking steadily at me, “the springs are too deep.
Besides, the children of the poor know but few
pleasures. Even the cheap delights of child-
hood must be bought and paid for.”
“But—forgive me for saying this—you are
surely not so very poor,” said I.
“She is not my child, sir,” returned the old
man. “Her mother was, and she was poor. I
Save nothing—not a penny—though I live as
you see, but "–he laid his hand upon my arm
and leant forward to whisper—“she shall be
rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't
you think ill of me, because I use her help. She
gives it cheerfully as you see, and it would break
her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody
else to do for me what her little hands could
undertake. I don't consider’ſ ” he cried with
sudden querulousness. “Why, God knows that
this one child is the thought and object of my
life, and yet he never prospers me—no, never !”
At this juncture, the subject of our conversa-
3.
tion again returned, and the old man, motioning
to me to approach the table, broke off, and said
no more. - • . *
We had scarcely begun our repast when there
was a knock at the door by which I had entered;
and Nell: bursting into a hearty laugh, which I
was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full
of hilarity : Said it was no doubt dear old Kit
come back at last. -
“Foolish Nell !” said the old man, fondling
with her hair. “She always laughs at poor Kit.”
The child laughed again more heartily than
before, and I could not help smiling from pure
sympathy. The little old man took up a candle
and went to open the door. When he came
back, Kit was at his heels. 3.
Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward
lad, with an uncommonly wide mouth, very red
cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most
comical expression of face I ever saw. He
stopped short at the door on seeing a stranger,
twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat
without any vestige of a brim, and, resting him-
self now on one leg, and now on the other, and
changing them constantly, stood in the doorway,
looking into the parlour with the most extra-
ordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a
grateful feeling towards the boy from that
minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of
the child's life. -
“A long way, wasn't it, Kit P” said the little
old man. -
“Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,”
returned Kit. :
“Did you find the house easily P"
“Why, then, not over and above easy, master,”
said Kit. -
“Of course you have come back hungry P”
“Why, then, I do consider myself rather so,
master,” was the answer.
The lad had a remarkable manner of standing
sideways as he spoke, and thrusting his head
forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get
at his voice without that accompanying action.
I think he would have amused one anywhere,
but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity,
and the relief it was to find that there was some-
thing she associated with merriment, in a place
that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite
irresistible. It was a great point, too, that Kit
himself was flattered by the sensation he created,
and after several efforts to preserve his gravity,
burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his
mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut,
laughing violently. . . . .
The old man had again relapsed into his
former abstraction, and took no notice of what
AZZ. - 5
passed; but I remarked that when her laugh
was over, the child's bright eyes were dimmed
with tears, called forth by the fulness of heart
with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite
after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit
himself (whose laugh had been all the time one
of that sort which very little would change into
a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat,
and a mug of beer, into a corner, and applied
himself to disposing of them with great voracity.
“Ah !” said the old man, turning to me with
a sigh as if I had spoken to him but that
moment, “you don't know what you say, when
you tell me that I don't consider her.”
“You must not attach too great weight to a
- º founded on first appearances, my friend,”
said I.
“No,” returned the old man thoughtfully,
“no. Come hither, Nell.” }
The little girl hastened from her seat, and put
her arm about his neck.
“Do I love thee, Nell?” said he.
do I love thee, Nell, or no?”
The child only answered by her caresses, and
laid her head upon his breast.
“Why dost thou sob P” said the grandfather,
pressing her closer to him and glancing towards
me: “Is it because thou know'st I love thee,
and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it
by my question ? Well, well—then let us say I
love thee dearly.” - *
“Indeed, indeed you do,” replied the child
with great earnestness; “Kit knows you do.”
Kit, who in dispatching his bread and meat
had been Swallowing two-thirds of his knife at
*Very mouthful with the coolness of a juggler,
stopped short in his operations on being thus
appealed to, and bawled, “ Nobody isn't such a
fool as to Sãy he doosn’t,” after which he in-
Capacitated himself for further Conversation by
tºs * most prodigious sandwich at one
"Sº is poor now," said the old man, pattin
the child's cheek, “but I say again, th: É. §
$ºming when she shall be rich. It has been a
long time $oming, but it must come at last ; a
“Say—
Yºº long time, but it surely must come, it has
. 9thºr men who do nothing but waste
and #. Yº will it come to me?”
* Very happy as I am, grandfather,” said
the child. ppy ; 8 y
{ S.
d ‘Tush, tush '" returned the old man, “thou
º not know—how shouldst thou?” Then
$ muttered again between his teeth, “The
*.*, must, come, I am very sure it must. It
Will be all the better for coming late; ” and
then he sighed and fell into his fºrmer musing
state, and still holding the child between his
knees, appeared to be insensible to everything
around him. By this time it wanted but a few
minutes of midnight, and I rose to go : which
recalled him to himself.
“One moment, sir,” he said. “Now, Kit—
near midnight, boy, and you still here ! Get
home, get home, and be true to your time in
the morning, for there's work to do. Good
night ! There, bid him good night, Nell, and
let him be gone !” -
“Good night, Kit,” said the child, her eyes
lighting up with merriment and kindness.
“Good night, Miss Nell,” returned the boy.
“And thank this gentleman,” interposed the
old man, “but for whose care I might have lost
my little girl to-night.”
“No, no, master,” said Kit, “that won't do,
that won't.”
“What do you mean P” cried the old man.
“A'd have found her, master,” said Kit, “I’d
have found her I’d bet that I'd find her if she
was above-ground. I would, as quick as any-
body, master Ha, ha, ha " -
Once more opening his mouth and shutting
his eyes, and laughing like a Stentor, Kit gradu-
ally backed to the door, and roared himself
Out.
Free of the room, the boy was not slow in
taking his departure. When he had gone, and
the child was occupied in clearing the table, the
old man said:
“I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, enough
for what you have done to-night, but I do thank
you, humbly and heartily ; and so does she ;
and her thanks are better worth than mine. I
should be sorry that you went away and thought
I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of
her—I am not indeed.”
I was sure of that, I said, from what I had
seen. “But,” I added, “may I ask you a
question ?”
“Ay, sir,” replied the old man; “what is it?"
“This delicate child,” said I, “with so much
beauty and intelligence—has she nobody to care
for her but you ? Has she no other companion
or adviser P’’
“No,” he returned, looking anxiously in my
face, “no, and she wants no other.”
“But are you not fearful,” said I, “that you
may misunderstand a charge so tender P I am
sure you mean well, but are you quite certain
that you know how to execute such a trust as
this P I am an old man, like you, and I am
actuated by an old man's concern in all that is
young and promising. Do you not think that
what I have seen of you and this little creature
6 . - T//E O//D CUA’ſ OS/2"Y SA/OA.
to-night, must have an interest not wholly free
from pain P”
“Sir,” rejoined the old man after a moment's
silence, “I have no right to feel hurt at what
you say. It is true that in many respects. I am
the child, and she the grown person—that you
have seen already. But, waking or sleeping, by
night or day, in sickness or health, she is the
one object of my care; and if you knew of how
much care, you would look on me with different
eyes, you would indeed. Ah! it's a weary life
for an old man—a weary, weary life—but there
is a great end to gain, and that I keep before
me.”
Seeing that he was in a state of excitement
and impatience, I turned to put on an outer
coat which I had thrown off on entering the
room ; purposing to say no more. I was sur-
prised to see the child standing patiently by,
with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a
hat and stick.
“Those are not mine, my dear,” said I.
“No,” returned the child quietly, “they are
grandfather's.”
“But he is not going out to-night.”
“Oh yes, he is ” said the child with a
smile.
“And what becomes of you, my pretty one?”
“Me I stay here, of course. I always do.”
I looked in astonishment towards the old
man ; but he was, or feigned to be, busied in
the arrangement of his dress. From him, I
looked back to the slight gentle figure of the
child. Alone ! In that gloomy place all the
long dreary night !
She evinced no consciousness of my surprise,
but cheerfully helped the old man with his
cloak, and, when he was ready, took a candle
to light us out. Finding that we did not follow
as she expected, she looked back with a smile
and waited for us. The old man showed by
his face that he plainly understood the cause of
my hesitation, but he merely signed to me with
an inclination of the head to pass out of the
room before him, and remained silent. I had
no resource but to comply.
When we reached the door, the child, setting
down the candle, turned to say good night, and
raised her face to kiss me. Then, she ran to
the old man, who folded her in his arms and
bāde God bless her.
“Sleep soundly, Nell,” he said in a low voice,
“ and angels guard thv bed Do not forget thy
prayers, my sweet.”
“No, indeed,” answered the child fervently,
“they make me feel so happy "
“That's well; I know they do; they should,”
said the old man. “Bless thee a hundred times.
Early in the morning I shall be home.” -
“You’ll not ring twice,” returned the child.
“The bell wakes me even in the middle of a
dream.”
With this, they separated. The child opened
the door (now guarded by a shutter, which I
had heard the boy put up before he left the
house), and with another farewell, whose clear
and tender note I have recalled a thousand
times, held it until we had passed out. The
old man paused a moment while it was gently
closed and fastened on the inside, and, satisfied
that this was done, walked on at a slow pace.
At the street corner he stopped. Regarding me
with a troubled countenance, he said that our
ways were widely different, and that he must
take his leave. I would have spoken, but sum-
moning up more alacrity than might have been
expected in one of his appearance; he hurried
away. I could see that, twice or thrice, he
looked back as if to ascertain if I were still
watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that
I was not following at a distance. The obscurity
of the night favoured his disappearance, and his
figure was soon beyond my sight. -
I remained standing on the spot where he
had left me: unwilling to depart, and yet un-
knowing why I should loiter there. I looked
wistfully into the street we had lately quitted,
and, after a time, directed my steps that way. I
passed and repassed the house, and stopped,
and listened at the door; all was dark, and
silent as the grave. *
Yet I lingered about, and could not tear my-
self away : thinking of all possible harm that
might happen to the child—of fires, and rob-
beries, and even murder—and feeling as if
some evil must ensue if I turned my back upon
the place. The closing of a door or window in
the street brought me before the curiosity-
dealer's once more. I crossed the road, and
looked up at the house, to assure myself that
the noise had not come from there. No, it was
black, cold, and lifeless as before. f
There were few passengers astir; the street
was sad and dismal, and pretty well my own.
A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by,
and, now and then, I turned aside to avoid
Some noisy drunkard as he reeled homewards;
but these interruptions were not frequent, and
Soón, ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I
paced up and down, promising myself that every
time should be the last, and breaking faith with
myself on some new plea, as often as I did so.
The more I thought of what the old man had
said, and of his looks and béaring, the less I
f
- 7:HE Soz/TARY CHILD. 7
• *-
could account for what I had seen and heard. I
had a strong misgiving that his nightly absence
was for no good purpose. I had only come to
know the fact through the innocence of the
child; and, though the old man was by at the
time and saw my undisguised surprise, he had
preserved a strange mystery on the subject, and
offered no word of explanation. These reflec-
tions naturally recalled again, more strongly
than before, his haggard face, his wandering
manner, his restless anxious looks. His affec-
tion for the child might not be inconsistent with
villainy of the worst kind; even that very affec-
tion was, in itself, an extraordinary contradic-
tion, or how could he leave her thus P Disposed
as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted
that his love for her was real. I could not
admit the thought, remembering what had
passed between us, and the tone of voice in
which he had called her by her name.
“Stay here, of course,” the child had said in
answer to my question ; “I always do 1" What
could take him from home by night, and every
night? I called up all the strange tales I had
ever heard, of dark and secret deeds committed
in great towns and escaping detection for a long
series of years. Wild as many of these stories
were, I could not find one adapted to this
mystery, which only became the more impene-
trable, in proportion as I sought to solve it.
Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a
crowd of others all tending to the same point, I
continued to pace the street for two long hours.
At length, the rain began to descend heavily ;
and then, overpowered by fatigue, though no
less interested than I had been at first, I en-
gaged the nearest coach, and so got home. A
cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, the lamp
burnt brightly, my clock received me with its
old familiar welcome; everything was quiet,
warm, and cheering, and in happy contrast to
the gloom and darkness I had quitted.
I sat down in my easy-chair, and falling back
upor; its ample cushions, pictured to myself the
child in her bed : alone, unwatched, uncared
for (save by angels), yet sleeping peacefully. So
very young, so spiritual, so slight and fairy-like
a creature passing the long dull nights in such
an uncongenial place—I could not dismiss it
from my thoughts.
We are so much in the habit of allowing im-
pressions to be made upon us by external ob-
jects, which should be produced by reflection
alone, but which, without such visible aids,
often escape us, that I am not sure I should
have been so thoroughly possessed by this one
subject, but for the heaps of fantastic things I
had seen huddled together in the curiosity-
dealer's warehouse. These, crowding on my
mind, in connection with the child, and gather-
ing round her, as it were, brought her condition
palpably before me. I had her image, without
any effort of imagination, surrounded and beset
by everything that was foreign to its nature, and
farthest removed from the sympathies of her sex
and age. If these helps to my fancy had all
been wanting, and I had been forced to imagine
her in a common chamber, with nothing unusual
or uncouth in its appearance, it is very probable
that I should have been less impressed with her
strange and solitary state. As it was, she
seemed to exist in a kind of allegory; and,
having these shapes about her, claimed my
interest so strongly, that (as I have already re-
marked) I could not dismiss her from my recol-
lection, do what I would.
“It would be a curious speculation,” said I
after some restless turns across and across the
room, “to imagine her, in her future life, hold-
ing her solitary way among a crowd of wild
grotesque companions : the only pure, fresh,
youthful object in the throng. It would be
curious to find yy
I checked myself here, for the theme was
carrying me along with it at a great pace, and I
already saw before me a region on which I was
little disposed to enter. I agreed with myself
that this was idle musing, and resolved to go to
bed, and court forgetfulness.
But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the
same thoughts recurred, and the same images
retained possession of my brain. I had, ever
before me, the old dark murky rooms—the gaunt
suits of mail with their ghostly silent air—the
faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone—
the dust, and rust, and worm that lives in wood,
—and alone in the midst of all this lumber and
decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her
gentle slumber, smiling through her light and
Sunny dreams.
CHAPTER II.
Sºſ FTER combating, for nearly a week,
the feeling which impelled me to
revisit the place I had quitted under
the circumstänces already detailed,
I yielded to it at length; and deter-
mining that this time I would present
myself by the light of day, bent my
$º steps thither early in the afternoon.
I walked past the house, and took several
turns in the street, with that kind of hesitation

8 THE OZZ) COR/OS/7"Y SHOP -
which is natural to a man who is conscious that
the visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and
may not be very acceptable. However, as the
door of the shop was shut, and it did not appear
likely that I should be recognised by those
within, if I continued merely to pass up and
down before it, I soon conquered this irresolu-
tion, and found myself in the curiosity-dealer's
warehouse.
The old man and another person were to-
gether in the back part, and there seemed to
have been high words between them, for their
voices, which were raised to a very loud pitch,
suddenly stopped on my entering, and the old
man, advancing hastily towards me, said in a tre-
mulous tone that he was very glad I had come.
“You interrupted us at a critical moment,”
he said, pointing to the man whom I had found
in company with him; “this fellow will murder
me one of these days. He would have done so,
long ago, if he had dared.”
“Bah! You would swear away my life if you
could,” returned the other, after bestowing a
stare and a frown on me; “we all know that l”
“I almost think I could,” cried the old man,
turning feebly upon him. “If oaths, or prayers,
or words could rid me of you, they should. I
would be quit of you, and would be relieved if
you were dead.”
“I know it,” returned the other. “I said so,
didn't I? But neither oaths, nor prayers, nor
words will kill me, and therefore I live, and
mean to live.”
“And his mother died 1" cried the old man
passionately, clasping his hands and looking
upward; “and.this is Heaven's justice ("
The other stood lounging with his foot upon
a chair, and regarded him with a contemptuous
sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty,
or thereabouts; well made, and certainly hand-
some, though the expression of his face was far
from prepossessing, having, in common with his
manner and even his dress a dissipated, insolent
air which repelled one.
“Justice or no justice,” said the young fellow,
“here I am, and here I shall stop till such time
as I think fit to go, unless you send for assistance
to put me out—which you won't do, I know. I
tell you again that I want to see my sister.”
“Your sister | " said the old man bitterly.
“Ah! You can't change the relationship,”
returned the other. “If you could, you'd have
done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that
you keep cooped up here, poisoning her mind
with your sly secrets, and pretending an affection
for her that you may work her to death, and add
a few scraped shillings every week to the money
you can hardly count. I want to see her; and
I will.” -
“Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds !
Here's a generous spirit to scorn scraped-up
shillings "cried the old man, turning from him
to me. “A profligate, sir, who has forfeited
every claim not only upon those who have the
misfortune to be of his blood, but upon Society,
which knows nothing of him but his misdeeds.
A liar, too,” he added in a lower voice as he
drew closer to me, “who knows how dear she is
to me, and seeks to wound me even there, be-
cause there is a stranger by.”
“Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,”
said the young fellow, catching at the words,
“nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do
is to keep an eye to their business, and leave me
to mine. There's a friend of mine waiting out-
side, and as it seems that I may have to wait
some time, I’ll call him in, with your leave.”
Saying this, he stepped to the door, and look-
ing down the street, beckoned several times to
some unseen person, who, to judge from the air
of impatience with which these signals were
accompanied, required a great quantity of per-
Suasion to induce him to advance. At length
there sauntered up, on the opposite side of the
way—with a bad pretence of passing by accident
—a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness,
which after a great many frowns and jerks of the
head, in resistance of the invitation, ultimately
crossed the road and was brought into the shop.
“There ! It's Dick Swiveller,” said the young
fellow, pushing him in. “Sit down, Swiveller.”
“But is the old-min agreeable?” said Mr.
Swiveller in an under-tone.
“Sit down,” repeated his companion.
Mr. Swiveller complied, and looking about
him with a propitiatory smile, observed that last
week was a fine week for the ducks, and this
week was a fine week for the dust; he also
observed that while standing by the post at the
street corner, he had observed a pig with a straw
in his mouth issuing out of the tobacco shop,
from which appearance he argued that another
fine week for the ducks was approaching, and
that rain would certainly ensue. He further-
more took occasion to apologise for any negli-
gence that might be perceptible in his dress, on
the ground that last night he had had “the sun
very strong in his eyes;” by which expression
he was understood to convey to his hearers, in
the most delicate manner possible, the informa-
tion that he had been extremely drunk. ..
“But what,” said Mr. Swiveller with a sigh,
“what is the odds so long as the fire of soul is
kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the
MR. RICHARD SW/VELLEA’. 9
*
wing of friendship never moults a feather P. What
is the odds so long as the spirit is expanded by
means of rosy wine, and the present moment is
the least happiest of our existence?”
“You needn't act the chairman here,” said his
friend, half aside.
“Fred 1" cried Mr. Swiveller, tapping his
nose, “a word to the wise is sufficient for them
—we may be good and happy without riches,
Fred. Say not another syllable. I know my
cue; smart is the word. Only one little whisper,
Fred—is the old min friendly P”
“Never you mind,” replied his friend.
“Right again, quite right,” said Mr. Swiveller;
“caution is the word, and caution is the act.”
With that, he winked, as if in preservation of
some deep secret, and folding his arms and
leaning back in his chair, looked up at the
ceiling with profound gravity. -
It was perhaps not very unreasonable to
suspect, from what had already passed, that Mr.
Swiveller was not quite recovered from the effects
of the powerful sun-light to which he had made
allusion; but if no such suspicion had been
awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes,
and sallow face would still have been strong
witnesses against him. His attire was not, as he
had himself hinted, remarkable for the nicest
arrangement, but was in a state of disorder
which strongly induced the idea that he had
gone to bed in it. It consisted of a brown body-
coat, with a great many brass buttons up the
front and only one behind, a bright check
neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled white
trousers, and a very limp hat, worn with the
wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in the brim.
The breast of his coat was ornamented with an
outside pocket, from which there peeped forth
the cleanest end of a very large and very ill-
favoured handkerchief; his dirty wristbands
were pulled down as far as possible, and osten-
tatiously folded back over his cuffs; he displayed
no gloves, and carried a yellow cane having on
the top a bone band, with the semblance of a
ring on its little finger and a black ball in its
grasp. With all these personal advantages (to
which may be added a strong savour of tobacco
Smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of appear-
ance) Mr. Swiveller leant back in his chair with
his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and occasionally
pitching his voice to the needful key, obliged
the company with a few bars of an intensely
dismal air, and then, in the middle of a note,
relapsed into his former silence.
The old man sat himself down in a chair, and,
with folded hands, looked sometimes at his
grandson and sometimes at his strange com-
panion, as if he were utterly powerless, and had
no resource but to leave them to do as they
pleased. The young man reclined against a
table at no great distance from his friend, in
apparent indifference to everything that had
passed; and I–who felt the difficulty of any
interference, notwithstanding that the old man
had appealed to me, both by words and looks—
made the best feint I could of being occupied
in examining some of the goods that were dis-
posed for sale, and paying very little attention
to the persons before me.
The silence was not of long duration, for Mr.
Swiveller, after favouring us with several melo-
dious assurances that his heart was in the High-
lands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as .
a preliminary to the achievement of great feats
of valour and loyalty, removed his eyes from the
ceiling and subsided into prose again.
“Fred,” said Mr. Swiveller, stopping short as
if the idea had suddenly occurred to him, and
speaking in the same audible whisper as before,
“ is the old min friendly P”
“What does it matter?” returned his friend
peevishly.
“No, but is he?” said Dick.
“Yes, of course. What do I care whether he
is or not P” -
Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to
enter into a more general conversation, Mr.
Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate
Our attentIOn.
He began by remarking that soda water,
though a good thing in the abstract, was apt to
lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with
ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which
latter article he held to be preferable in all cases,
saving for the one consideration of expense.
Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he
proceeded to observe that the human hair was a
great retainer of tobacco smoke, and that the
young gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after
eating vast quantities of apples to conceal any
scent of cigars from their anxious friends, were
usually detected in consequence of their heads
possessing this remarkable property; whence he
concluded that if the Royal Society would turn
their attention to the circumstance, and endea-
vour to find in the resources of science a means
of preventing such untoward revelations, they
might indeed be looked upon as benefactors to
mankind. These opinions being equally incon-
trovertible with those he had already pronounced,
he went on to inform us that Jamaica rum,
though unquestionäbly an agreeable spirit of
great richness and flavour, had the drawback of
remaining constantly present to the taste next
I O . ZAE. Ozo COA:/OS/TY SHOP
day; and nobody being venturous enough to
argue this point either, he increased in con-
fidence and became yet more companionable
and communicative.
“It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,” said Mr.
Swiveller, “when relations fall out and disagree.
If the wing of friendship should never moult a
feather, the wing of relationship should never be
clipped, but be always expanded and serene.
Why shotild a grandson and grandfather peg
away at each other with mutual wiolence when
all might be bliss and concord P Why not jine
hands and forgit it?”
“Hold your tongue,” said his friend.
“Sir,” replied Mr. Swiveller, “don’t you inter-
rupt the chair. Gentlemen, how does the case
stand upon the present occasion ? Here is a jolly
old grandfather—I say it with the utmost respect
—and here is a wild young grandson. The jolly
old grandfather says to the wild young grandson,
‘I have brought you up and educated you,
Fred; I have put you in the way of getting on
in life; you have bolted a little out of the course,
as young fellows often do; and you shall never
have another chance, nor the ghost of half a
one.' The wild young grandson makes answer
to this and says, “You’re as rich as rich can be ;
you have been at no uncommon expense on my
account, you're saving up piles of money for my
little sister that lives with . you in a secret,
stealthy, hugger-muggering kind of way, and
with no manner of enjoyment—why can't you
stand a trifle for your grown-up relation P’ The
jolly old grandfather unto this retorts, not only
that he declines to fork out with that cheerful
readiness which is always so agreeable and
pleasant in a gentleman of his time of life, but
that he will blow up, and call names, and make
reflections whenever they meet. Then the plain
question is, ain't it a pity that this state of things
should continue, and how much better would it
be for the old gentleman to hand over a reason-
able amount of tin, and make it all right and
comfortable P” #
Having delivered this oration with a great
many waves and flourishes of the hand, Mr.
Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane
into his mouth, as if to prevent himself from
impairing the effect of his speech by adding one
other word.
“Why do you hunt and persecute me, God
help me P” said the old man, turning to his
grandson. “Why do you bring your profligate
companions here 2
that my life is one of care and self-denial, and
that I am poor P”
“How often am I to tell you,” returned the
How often am I to tell you
other, looking coldly at him, “that I know
better P” * ,
“You have chosen your own path,” said the
old man. “ Follow it. Leave Nell and I to
toil and work.” -
“Nell will be a woman soon,” returned the
other, “and, bred in your faith, she'll forget her
brother unless he shows himself sometimes.”
“Take care,” said the old man with sparkling
eyes, “that she does not forget you when you
would have her memory keenest. Take care
that the day don't come when, you walk barefoot
in the streets, and she rides by in a gay carriage
of her own.” * :
“You mean when she has your money?”
retorted the other. “How like a poor man he
talks l’” . -
“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his
voice and speaking like one who thinks aloud,
“how poor we are, and what a life it is The
cause is a young child's, guiltless of all harm or
wrong, but nothing goes well with it ! Hope
and patience, hope and patience 1” -
These words were uttered in too low a tone
to reach the ears of the young men. Mr. Swivel.
ler appeared to think that they implied some
mental struggle consequent upon the powerful
effect of his address, for he poked his friend
with his cane and whispered his conviction that
he had administered “a clincher,” and that he
expected a commission on the profits. Discover-
ing his mistake after awhile, he appeared to grów
rather sleepy and discontented, and had more
than once suggested the propriety of an imme-
diate departure, when the door opened, and the
child herself appeared.
CHAPTER III.
elderly man of remarkably hard fea-
\ tures and forbidding aspect, and so
| low in stature as to be quite a dwarf,
§§24 though his head and face were large
enough for the body of a giant. His black
eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his
9 mouth and chin bristly with the stubble of
a coarse hard beard; and his complexion was
one of that kind which never looks clean or
wholesome. But what added most to the gro-
tesque expression of his face was a ghastly smile,
which, appearing to be the mere result of habit
and to have no connection with any mirthful or
complacent feeling, constantly revealed the few
discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his


MR.'ſ QUILP.
1 I
mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting;
dog. His dress consisted of a large high-crowned |
hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes,
and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp
and crumpled to disclose the greater portion of
his wiry throat. Such hair as he had was of a
grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his
temples, and hanging in a frouzy.fringe about ;
his ears. His hands, which were of a rough
coarse grain, were very dirty; his finger-nails :
were crooked, long, and yellow.
There was ample time to note these particu-
lars, for besides that they were sufficiently obvious
without very close observation, some moments
elapsed before any one broke silence. The child
advanced timidly, towards her brother, and put
her hand in his; the dwarf (if we may call him
so) glanced keenly at all present; and the
curiosity-dealer, who plainly had not expected
his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and
embarrassed.
“Ah !” said the dwarf, who with his hand
stretched out above his eyes had been surveying
the young man attentively, “that should be your
grandson, neighbour !”
“Say rather that he should not be,” replied
the old man. “But he is.”
“And that?” said the dwarf, pointing to Dick
Swiveller.
“Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,”
said the old man.
“And that?” inquired the dwarf, wheeling
round and pointing straight at me.
“A gentleman who was so good as to bring
Neſl home the other night when she lost her
way, coming from your house.”
The little man turned to the child as if to
chide her or express his wonder, but, as she was
talking to the young man, held his peace, and
bent his head to listen.
“Well, Nelly,” said the young fellow aloud.
“Do they teach you to hate me, eh?”
“No, no. For shame ! Oh no l’’ cried the
child.
“To love me, perhaps ?” pursued her brother
with a sneer.
“To do neither,” she returned. “They never
Speak to me about you. Indeed, they never do.”
“I dare be bound for that,” he said, darting a
bitter lobk at the grandfather. “I dare be bound
for that, Nell. Oh I believe you there !”
“But I love you dearly, Fred,” said the child.
“No doubt ” r
“I do indeed, and always will,” the child
repeated with great emotion, “but oh if you
would leave off vexing him and making him
unhappy, then I could love you more,”
“I see : " said the young man as he stooped
carelessly over the child, and, having kissed her,
pushed her from him. “There—get you away
now you have said your lesson. You needn't
whimper. We part good friends enough, if that's
the matter.”
He remained silent, following her with his
eyes, until she had gained her little room and
closed the door; and then, turning to the dwarf,
said abruptly: º
“Harkee, Mr. 33
“Meaning me?” returned the dwarf. “Quilp
is my name. You might remember. It's not a
long one—Daniel Quilp.”
“Harkee, Mr. Quilp, then,” pursued the other.
“You have some influence with my grandfather
there.”
“Some,” said Mr. Quilp emphatically.
“And are in a few of his mysteries and
Secrets.”
“A few,” replied Quilp with equal dryness.
“Then let me tell him once for all, through
you, that I will come into and go out of this
place as often as I like, so long as he keeps
Nell here; and that, if he wants to be quit of
me, he must first be quit of her. What have I
done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned
and dreaded as if I brought the plague 2 He'll
tell you that I have no natural affection; and
that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake,
than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the
whim, then, of coming to and—fro and reminding
her of my existence. I will see her when I please.
That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain
it, and I’ll come here again fifty times with the
same object, and always with the same success.
I said I would stop till I had gained it. I have
done so, and now my visit's ended. Come,
Dick.”
“Stop 1" cried Mr. Swiveller, as his com-
panion turned towards the door. “Sir l’”
“Sir, I am your humble servant,” said Mr.
Quilp, to whom the monosyllable was addressed.
“Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and
halls of dazzling light, sir,” said Mr. Swiveller,
“I will, with your permission, attempt a slight
remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the
impression that the old min was friendly.”
J“Proceed, sir,” said Daniel Quilp ; for the
orator had made a sudden stop.
“Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it
awakened, sir, and feeling as a mutual friend
that badgering, baiting, and bullying was not
the sort of thing calculated to expand the souls
and promote the social harmony of the contend-
ing parties, I took upon myself to suggest a
course which is the course to be adopted on the
12 THE OLD -CURIO.SYTY SHOP.
present occasion. Will you allow me to whisper
half a syllable, sir?”
Without waiting for the permission he sought,
Mr. Swiveller stepped up to the dwarf, and, lean-
ing on his shoulder and stooping down to get at
his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible
to all present:
“The watchword to the old min is—fork.”
“Is what P” demanded Quilp.
“Is fork, sir, fork,” replied Mr. Swiveller, slap-
ping his pocket. “You are awake, sir?”
The dwarf nodded. Mr. Swiveller drew back
and nodded likewise, then drew a little further
back and nodded again, and so on. By these
means he in time reached the door, where he
gave a great cough to attract the dwarf's atten-
tion, and gain an opportunity of expressing, in
dumb-show, the closest confidence and most in-
violable secrecy. Having performed the serious
pantomime that was necessary for the due con-
veyance of these ideas, he cast himself upon his
friend's track, and vanished.
“Humph : " said the dwarf with a sour look
and a shrug of his shoulders, “so much for dear
relations. Thank God, I acknowledge none !
Nor need you either,” he added, turning to the
old man, “if you were not as weak as a reed,
and nearly as senseless.”
“What would you have me do?” he retorted
in a kind of helpless desperation. “It is easy
to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?”
“What would I do if I was in your case ?”
said the dwarf.
“Something violent, no doubt.”
“You’re right there,” returned the little man,
highly gratified by the compliment, for such he
evidently considered it; and grinning like a devil
as he rubbed his dirty hands together. “Ask
Mrs. Quilp, pretty Mrs. Quilp, obedient, timid,
loving Mrs. Quilp. But that reminds me—I
have left her all alone, and she will be anxious
and know not a moment's peace till I return. I
know she's always in that condition when I'm
away, though she doesn't dare to say so, unless I
lead her on and tell her she may speak freely,
and I won't be angry with her. Oh I well-trained
Mrs. Quilp "
The creature appeared quite horrible, with his
monstrous head and little body, as he rubbed
his hands slowly round, and round, and round
again—with something fantastic even in his
manner of performing this slight action—and,
dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin
in the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look
of exultation that an imp might have copied
and appropriated to himself. -
“Here,” he said, putting his hand into his
side.
breast and sidling up to the old man as he
spoke; “I brought it myself for fear of acci-
dents, as, being in gold, it was something large
and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She
need be accustomed to such loads betimes,
though, neighbour, for she will carry weight
when you are dead.”
“Heaven send she may ! I hope so,” said
the old man with something like a groan.
“Hope so I " echoed the dwarf, approaching
close to his ear. “Neighbour, I would I knew
in what good investment all these supplies are
sunk. But you are a deep man, and keep your
secret close.” -
“My secret!" said the other with a haggard
look, “Yes, you're right—I—I—keep it close
—very close.” -
He said no more, out, taking the money,
turned away with a slow uncertain step, and
pressed his hand upon his head like a weary
and dejected man. The dwarf watched him
sharply, while he passed into the little sitting-
room and locked it in an iron safe above the
chimney-piece ; and, after musing for a short
space, prepared to take his leave, observing that
unless he made good haste, Mrs. Quilp would
certainly be in fits on his return. -
“And so, neighbour,” he added, “I’ll turn
my face homewards, leaving my love for Nelly,
and hoping she may never lose her way again,
though her doing so has procured me an honour
I didn't expect.” With that, he bowed and leered
at me, and with a keen glance around which
seemed to comprehend every object within his
range of vision, however small or trivial, went
his way.
I had several times essayed to go myself, but
the old man had always opposed it and entreated
me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on
our being left alone, and adverted with many
thanks to the former occasion of our being
together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions,
and sat down, pretending to examine some
curious miniatures and a few old medals which
he placed before me. It needed no great press-
ing to induce me to stay, for if my curiosity had
been excited on the occasion of my first visit, it
certainly was not diminished now.
TNell joined us before long, and bringing some
needlework to the table, sat by the old man's
It was pleasant to observe the fresh
flowers in the room, the pet bird with a green
bough shading his little cage, the breath of fresh-
ness and youth which seemed to rustle through
the old dull house and hover round the child.
It was curious, but not so pleasant, to turn from
the beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping
THE OLD MAA A MYSTERY. #3
figure, careworn face, and jaded aspect of the
old man. As he grew weaker and more feeble,
what would become of this lonely little creature;
poor protector as he was, say that he died—what
would her fate be then P -
The old man almost answered my thoughts,
as he laid his hand on hers, and spoke aloud.
“I’ll be of better cheer, Nell,” he said;
“there must be good fortune in store for thee
—I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such
miseries must fall on thy innocent head without
it; that I cannot believe but that, being tempted,
it will come at last !”
She looked cheerfully into his face, but made
In O anSWCT.
“When I think,” said he, “ of the many years
—many in thy short life—that thou hast lived
alone with me; of thy monotonous existence,
knowing no companions of thy own age, nor any
childish pleasures ; of the solitude in which thou
hast grown to be what thou art, and in which
thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind
but one old man : I sometimes fear I have dealt
hardly by thee, Nell.”
“Grandfather ſ” cried the child in unfeigned
Surprise.
“Not in intention—no, no,” said he. “I have
ever looked forward to the time that should
enable thee to mix among the gayest and pret-
tiest, and take thy station with the best. But I
still look forward, Nell, I still look forward, and
if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile,
how have I fitted thee for struggless with the
world? The poor bird yonder is as well qualified
to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its
mercies. Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to
him, Nell, go to him.”
She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned
back, and put her arms about the old man's
neck, then left him and hurried away again—but
faster this time to hide her falling tears.
“A word in your ear, sir,” said the old man
in a hurried whisper. “I have been rendered
uneasy by what you said the other night, and
can only plead that I have done all for the best
—that it is too late to retract, if I could (though
I cannot)—and that I hope to triumph yet. All
is for her sake. I have borne great poverty
myself, and would spare her the sufferings that
poverty carries with it. I would spare her the
miseries that brought her mother, my own dear
child, to an early grave. I would leave her—
not with resources which could be easily spent
or squandered away, but with what would place
her beyond the reach of want for ever. You
mark me, sir? She shall have no pittance, but
a fortune. Hush I can say no more than
THE OLD CURIosity Shop, 2.
—#--—
that, now or at any other time, and she is here
again "-
The eagerness with which all this was poured
into my ear, the trembling of the hand with which
he clasped my arm, the strained and starting
eyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and
agitation of his manner, filled me with amaze-
ment. All that I had heard and seen, and a
great part of what he had said himself, led me
to suppose that he was a wealthy man. I could
form no comprehension of his character, unless
he were one of those miserable wretches who,
having made gain the sole end and object of
their lives, and having succeeded in amassing
great riches, are constantly tortured by the dread
of poverty, and beset by fears of loss and ruin.
Many things he had said, which I had been at a
loss to understand, were quite reconcilable with
the idea thus presented to me, and at length I
concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of
this unhappy race.
The opinion was not the result of hasty con-
sideration, for which, indeed, there was no op-
portunity at that time, as the child came back
directly, and soon occupied herself in prepara-
tions for giving Kit a writing lesson, of which it
seemed he had a couple every week, and one
regularly on that evening, to the great mirth and
enjoyment both of himself and his instructress.
To relate how it was a long time before his
modesty could be so far prevailed upon as to
admit of his sitting down in the parlour, in the
presence of an unknown gentleman—how, when
he did sit down, he tucked up his sleeves and
squared his elbows and put his face close to the
copy-book and squinted horribly at the lines—
how, from the very first moment of having the pen
in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to
daub himself with ink up to the very roots of his
hair—how, if he did by accident form a letter
properly, he immediately smeared it out again with
his arm in his preparations to make another—
how, at every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst
of merriment from the child, and a louder and
not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself—and
how there was all the way through, notwithstand-
ing, a gentle wish on her part to teach, and an
anxious desire on his to learn—to relate all these
particulars would no doubt occupy more space
and time than they deserve. It will be sufficient
to say that the lesson was given—that evening
passed and night came on—that the old man
again grewrestless and impatient—that he quitted
the house secretly at the same hour as before—
and that the child was once more left alone
within its gloomy walls. *
And now that I have carried Sthis history so
I 4 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
Af
far in my own character, and introduced these
personages to the reader, I shall, for the con-
venience of the narrative, detach myself from
its further course, and leave those who have
prominent and necessary parts in it to speak
and act for themselves.
-º-
CHAPTER IV.
#% ſk. AND MRS. QUILP resided on
Tower Hill ; and in her bower on
Tower Hill Mrs. Quilp was left to
A pine the absence of her lord, when
ñº; he quitted her on the business which
he has been already seen to transact.
Mr. Quilp could scarcely be said to be
of any particular trade or calling, though
his pursuits were diversified and his occupations
numerous. He collected the rents of whole
colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the water-
side, advansed money to the seamen and petty
officers of merchant vessels, had a share in the
ventures of divers mates of East Indiamen,
smoked his smuggled cigars under the very nose
of the Custom House, and made appointments
on 'Change with men in glazed hats and round
jackets pretty well every day. On the Surrey
side of the river was a small, rat-infested, dreary
yard called “Quilp's Wharf,” in which were a
little wooden counting-house burrowing all awry
in the dust, as if it had fallen from the clouds
and ploughed into the ground; a few fragments
of rusty anchors; several large iron rings; some
piles of rotten wood; and two or three heaps of
old sheet copper, crumpled, cracked, and bat-
tered. On Quilp's Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a
ship-breaker, yet to judge from these appear-
ances he must either have been a ship-breaker
on a very small scale, or broken his ships up
very small indeed. Neither did the place pre-
sent any extraordinary aspect of ſife or activity,
as its only human occupant was an amphibious
boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of occu-
pation was from sitting on the head of a pile and
throwing stones into the mud when the tide was
out, to standing with his hands in his pockets
gazing listlessly on the motion and on the bustle
of the river at high water.
The dwarf's lodging on Tower Hill com-
prised, besides the needful accommodation for
himself and Mrs. Quilp, a small sleeping-closet
for that lady's mother, who resided with the
couple, and waged perpetual war with Daniel;
of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in no slight
dread. Indeed, the ugly, creature contrived by
dignity.
some means or other—whether by his ugliness
or his ferocity or his natural cumming is no great
matter—to impress with a wholesome fear of
his anger most of those with whom he was brought
into daily contact and communication. Over
nobody had he such complete ascendancy as
Mrs. Quilp herself—a pretty little, mild-spoken,
blue-eyed woman, who, having allied herself in
wedlock to the dwarf in one of those strange
infatuations of which examples are by no means
scarce, performed a sound practical penance for
her folly every day of her life.
It has been said that Mrs. Quilp was pining
in her bower. In her bower she was, but not
alone, for besides the old lady, her mother, of
whom mention has recently been made, there
were present some half-dozen ladies of the
neighbourhood who had happened by a-strange
accident (and also by a little understanding
among themselves) to drop in one after another,
just about tea-time. This beiñg a season favour-
able to conversation, and the room being a cool,
shady, lazy kind of place, with some plants at
the open window shutting out the dust, and
interposing pleasantly enough between the tea-
table within and the old Tower without, it is no
wonder that the ladies felt an inclination to talk
and linger, especially when there are taken into
account the additional inducements of fresh
butter, new bread, shrimps, and water-cresses.
Now, the ladies being together under these
circumstances, it was extremely natural that the
discourse should turn upon the propensity of
mankind to tyrannise over the weaker sex, and
the duty that devolved upon the weaker sex to
resist that tyranny and assert their rights and
It was natural for four reasons: firstly,
because Mrs. Quilp, being a young woman and
notoriously under the dominion of her husband,
ought to be excited to rebel; secondly, because
Nſrs. Quilp's parent was known to be laudably
shrewish in her disposition, and inclined to resist
male authority; thirdly, because each visitor.
wished to show for herself how superior she was
in this respect to the generality of her sex; and
fourthly, because the company, being accustomed
to Scandalise each other in pairs, were deprived
of their usual subject of conversation now that
they were all assembled in close friendship, and
had consequently no better employment than to
attack the common enemy.
Moved by these considerations, a stout lady
opened the proceedings by inquiring, with an
air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr.
Quilp was ; whereunto Mr. Quilp's wife's mother
replied sharply, “Oh he was well enough—
nothing much was ever the matter with him—

THE PRAISES OF MA. QUILP.
and ill weeds were sure to thrive,” All the
ladies then sighed in concert, shook their heads
gravely, and looked at Mrs. Quilp as at a martyr.
“Ah "said the spokeswoman, “I wish you'd
give her a little of your advice, Mrs. Jiniwin "
—Mrs. Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should
be observed—“nobody knows better than you,
ma'am, what us women owe to ourselves.”
“Owe indeed, ma'am " replied Mrs. Jiniwin.
“When my poor husband, her dear father, was
alive, if he had ever ventur'd a cross word to
me, I'd have ”, The good old lady did not
finish the sentence, but she twisted off the head
of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed
to imply that the action was in some degree a
substitute for words. In this light it was clearly
understood by the other party, who immediately
replied with great approbation, “You quite enter
into my feelings, ma'am, and it's jist what I'd do
myself.” - . -
“But you have no call to do it,” said Mrs.
Jiniwin. “Luckily for you, you have no more
occasion to do it than I had.” -
“No woman need have, if she was true to
herself,” rejoined the stout lady. -
“Do you hear that, Betsy P” said Mrs. Jiniwin
in a warning voice. “How often have I said
the very same words to you, and almost gone
down on my knees when I spoke 'emºl”
Poor Mrs. Qūilp, who had looked in a state
of helplessness from one face of condolence to
another, coloured, smiled, and shook, her head
doubtfully. This was the signal for a general
clamour, which, beginning in a low murmur,
gradually swelled into a great noise, in which
everybody spoke at once, and all said that she,
being a young woman, had no right to set up
her opinions against the experiences of those
who knew so much better; that it was very
wrong of her not to take the advice of people
who had nothing at heart but her good; that it
was next door to being downright ungrateful to
conduct herself in that manner; that if she had
no respect for herself, she ought to have some
for other women, all of whom she compromised
by her meekness; and that if she had no respect
for other women, the time would come when
other women would have no respect for her ;
and she would be very sorry for that, they could
tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions,
the ladies fell to a more powerful assault than
they had yet made upon the mixed tea, new
bread, fresh butter, shrimps, and water-cresses,
and said that their vexation was so great to see
her going on like that, that they could hardly
bring themselves to eat a single morsel.
“It's all very fine to talk,” said Mrs. Quilp
|-
this idea.
I5
with much simplicity, “but I know that, if I was
to die to-morrow, Quilp could marry anybody
he pleased—now that he could, I know !”
There was quite a scream of indignation at
Marry whom he pleased They
would like to see him dare to think of marrying
any of them; they would like to see the faintest
approach to such a thing. One lady (a widow)
was quite certain she would stab him if he hinted
at 16,
“Very well,” said Mrs. Quilp, nodding her
head; “as I said just now, it's very easy to
talk, but I say again that I know—that I'm sure
—Quilp has such a way with him when he likes,
that the best-looking woman here couldn't refuse
him if I was dead, and she was free, and he
chose to make love to her. Come !” -
Everybody bridled up at this remark, as much
as to say, “I know you mean me. Let him try
—that's all.” And yet for some hidden reason
they were all angry with the widow, and each
lady whispered in her neighbour's ear that it was
very plain the said widow thought herself the
person referred to, and what a puss she was
“Mother knows,” said Mrs. Quilp, “that what
I say is quite correct, for she often said so before
we were married. Didn't you say so, mother P”
This inquiry involved the respected lady in
rather a delicate position, for she certainly had
been an active party in making her daughter
Mrs. Quilp, and, besides, it was not supporting
the family credit to encourage the idea that she
had married a man whom nobody else would
have. On the other hand, to exaggerate the
captivating qualities of her son-in-law would be
to weaken the cause of revolt, in which all her
energies were deeply engaged. Beset by these
opposing considerations, Mrs. Jiniwin admitted
the powers of insinuation, but denied the right
to govern, and with a timely compliment to the
stout lady brought back the discussion to the
point from which it had strayed. -
“Oh It's a sensible and proper thing indeed,
what Mrs. George has said "exclaimed the old
lady. “If women are only true to themselves |
—But Betsy isn't, and more's the shame and
pity.” -
“Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp
orders her,” said Mrs. George ; “before I’d con-
sent to stand in awe of a man as she does of him,
I’d—I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to
say he did it !” -
This remark being loudly commended and
approved of, another lady (from the Minories)
put in her word :
“Mr. Quilp may be a very nice man,” said
this lady, “and I suppose there's no doubt he
16 THE Ozzy cuRIOS/Ty SHOP.
is, because Mrs. Quilp says he is, and Mrs. Jini-
win says he is, and they ought to know, or no-
body does. But still he is not quite a-what
one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young
man neither, which might be a little excuse for
him if anything could be ; whereas his wife is
young, and is good-looking, and is a woman—
which is the great thing after all.”
This last clause, being delivered with extra-
ordinary pathos, elicited a corresponding mur-
mur from the hearers, stimulated by which the
lady went on to remark that if such a husband
º
§ º
§º
| º:
º sº
Q \
\
Zºº” % #4% % iº); | ly }.
º/* ºff
Sº
-K
—ºms —
was cross and unreasonable with such a wiſe,
then
“If he is 1" interposed the mother, putting
down her teacup and brushing the crumbs out
of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn
declaration. “If he is He is the greatest
tyrant that ever lived, she daren't call her soul
her own, he makes her tremble with a word and
even with a look, he frightens her to death, and
she hasn't the spiritsto give him a word back,
no, not a single word.”
Notwithstanding that the fact had been no-
& s’ * º
Diº
“when HE DID . SIT Down, HE TUCKED Up His sleeves AND squared His ELBows AND PUT His FACE
CLOSE TO THE COPY-BOOK.”
torious beforehand to all the tea-drinkers, and
had been discussed and expatiated on at every
tea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last
twelve months, this official communication was
no sooner made than they all began to talk at
once, and to vie with each other in vehemence
and volubility. Mrs. George remarked that
people would talk, that people had often said
this to her before, that Mrs. Simmons then and
there present had told her so twenty times, that
she had always said, “No, Henrietta Simmons,
unless I see it with my own eyes and hear it
with my own ears, I never will believe it.” Mrs.
Simmons corroborated this testimony, and added
strong evidence of her own. The lady from the
Minories recounted a successful course of treat-
ment under which she had placed her own hus:
band, who, from manifesting one month after
marriage unequivocal symptoms of the tiger, had
by this means become subdued into a perfect
lamb. Another lady recounted her own personal
struggle and final triumph, in the course whereof
she had found it necessary to call in her mother
and two aunts, and to weep incessantly night and

MR. QUILPASSISTS AT THE TEA-7ABZ.E. 17
day for six weeks. A third, who in the general
confusion could secure no other listener, fastened
herself upon a young woman still unmarried who
happened to be amongst them, and conjured her,
as she valued her own peace of mind and happi-
ness, to profit by this solemn occasion, to take
example from the weakness of Mrs. Quilp, and
from that time forth to direct her whole thoughts
to taming and subduing the rebelligus spirit of
man. The noise was at its height, and half the
company had elevated their voices into a perfect
shriek in order to drown the voices of the other
half, when Mrs. Jiniwin was seen to change
colour and \shake her forefinger stealthily, as if
exhorting them to silence. Then, and not until
then, Daniel Quilp himself, the cause and occa-
sion of all this clamour, was observed to be in
the room, looking on and listening with profound
attention.
“Go on, ladies, go on,” said Daniel. “Mrs.
Quilp, pray ask the ladies to stop to supper, and
have a couple of lobsters and something light
and palatable.” • .
“I—I–didn't ask them to tea, Quilp,” stam-
mered his wife. . “It’s quite an accident.”
“So much the better, Mrs. Quilp; these acci-
dental parties are always the pleasantest,” said
the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he
seemed to be engaged in manufacturing, of the
dirt with which they were incrusted, little charges
for pop-guns. “What Not going, ladies P
You are not going, surely P” ... tº - -
His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as
they sought their respective bomnets and shawls,
but left all verbal contention to Mrs. Jiniwin,
who, finding herself in the position of champion,
made a faint struggle to sustain the character.
“And why not stop to supper, Quilp,” said
the old lady, “if my daughter had a mind?”
“To be sure,” rejoined Daniel. “Why not?”
“There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a
Supper, I hope P” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Surely not,” returned the dwarf. “Why
should there be P Nor anything unwholesome
either, unless there's lobster-salad or prawns,
which I'm told are not good for digestion.”
“And you wouldn't like your wife to be
attacked with that, or anything else that would
make her uneasy, would you?” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Not for a score of worlds,” replied the dwarf
with a grin. “Not even to have a score of
mothers-in-law at the same time—and what a
blessing that would be " -
“My daughter's your wife, Mr. Quilp, cer-
tainly," said the old lady with a giggle, meant
for satirical, and to imply that he needed to be
reminded of the fact; “your wedded wife.”
“So she is certainly. . So she is,” observed
the dwarf.
“And she has a right to do as she likes, I
hope, Quilp,” said the old lady, trembling, partly
with anger and partly with a secret fear of her
impish son-in-law.
“Hope she has 1” he replied. “Oh I Don't
you know she has P Don't you know she has,
Mrs. Jiniwin P”
“I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would
have if she was of my way of thinking.”
“Why an’t you of your méther's way of think-
ing, my dear?” said the dwarf, turning round
and addressing his wife. “Why don't you always
imitate your mother, my dear? She's the orna-
ment of her sex—your father said so every day
of his life, I am sure he did.”
“Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and
worth twenty thousand of some people,” said Mrs.
Jiniwin ; “twenty hundred million thousand."
“I should like to have known him,” remarked
the dwarf. “I dare say he was a blessed crea-
ture then ; but I'm sure he is now. It was a
happy release. I believe he had suffered a long .
time P” •
The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came
of it; Quilp resumed, with the same malice in
his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on his
tongue. . .
“You look ill, Mrs. Jiniwin ; I know you
have been exciting yourself too much—talking
perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed.
Do go to bed.”
“I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not
before.”
“But please to go now. Do please to go now,”
said the dwarf. -
The old woman looked angrily at him, but
retreated as he advanced, and falling back before
him, suffered him to shut the door upon her and
bolt her out among the guests, who were by this
time crowding down-stairs. Being left alone
with his wife, who sat trembling in a corner with
her eyes fixed upon the ground, the little man
planted himself before her, at some distance, and
folding his arms, looked steadily at her for a
long time without speaking.
... Oh, you nice creature I" were the words
with which he broke silence; smacking his lips
as if this were no figure of speech, and she
were actually a sweetmeat. “Oh, you precious
darling ! Oh, you de-licious charmer "
Mrs. Quilp sobbed; and, knowing the nature
of her pleasant lord, appeared quite as much
alarmed by these compliments as she would
have been by the most extreme demonstrations
of violence, -
18 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“She's such,” said the dwarf with a ghastly
grin, -“such a jewel, such a diamond, such a
pearl, such a ruby, such a golden casket set
with gems of all sorts | She's such a treasure
I'm so fond of her l’” - -
The poor little woman shivered from head to
foot ; and raising her eyes to his face with an
imploring look, suffered them to droop again,
and sobbed once more.
“The best of her is,” said the dwarf, advanc-
ing with a sort of skip, which, what with the
crookedness of his legs, the ugliness of his face,
and the mockery of his manner, was perfectly
goblin-like —“the best of her is that she's so
meek, and she's so mild, and she never has a
will of her own, and she has such an insinuating
mother 1"
Uttering these latter words with a gloating
maliciousness, within a hundred degrees of which
no one but himself could possibly approach, Mr.
Quilp planted his two hands on his knees, and
straddling his legs out very wide apart, stooped
slowly down, and down, and down, until, by
screwing his head very much on one side, he
came between his wife's eyes and the floor.
“Mrs. Quilp !” :
“Yes, Quilp.”
“Am I nice to look at P Should I be the
handsomest creature in the world if I had but
whiskers ? Am I quite a lady's man as it is 2
Am I, Mrs. Quilp?”
Mrs. Quilp dutifully replied, “Yes, Quilp ; ”
and, fascinated by his gaze, remained looking
timidly at him, while he treated her with a suc-
cession of such horrible grimaces, as none but
himself and nightmares had the power of assum-
ing. During the whole of this performance,
which was somewhat of the longest, he pre-
served a dead silence, except when, by an un-
expected skip or leap, he made his wife start
backward with an irrepressible shriek. Then he
chuckled.
“Mrs. Quilp,” he said at last.
“Yes, Quilp,” she meekly replied.
Instead of pursuing the theme he had in his
mind, Quilp rose, folded his arms again, and
looked at her more sternly than before, while
she averted her eyes and kept them on the
ground.
“Mrs. Quilp.”
“Yes, Quilp.”
“If ever you listen to these beldames again,
I'll bite you,”
With this laconic threat, which he accompanied
with a Snarl that gave him the appearance of
being particularly in earnest, Mr. Quilp bade
her clear the tea-board away, and bring the rum.
FFEEET
:--
The spirit being set before him in a huge case-
bottle, which had originally come out of some
ship's locker, he ordered cold water and the box
of cigars; and these being supplied, he settled
himself in an arm-chair with his large head and
face Squeezed up against the back, and his little
legs planted on the table.
“Now, Mrs. Quilp,” he said; “I feel in a
smoking humour, and shall probably blaze away
all night. But sit where you are, if you please,
in case I want you.” -
His wife returned no other reply than the
customary “Yes, Quilp,” and the small lord of
the creation took his first cigar and mixed his
first glass of grog. The sun went down and the
stars peeped out, the Tower turned from its own
proper colours to grey, and from grey to black,
the room became perfectly dark and the end of
the cigar a deep fiery red, but still Mr. Quilp,
went on Smoking, and drinking in the same
position, and staring listlessly out of window
with the dog-like Smile always on his face, save
when Mrs. Quilp made some involuntary move-
ment of restlessness or fatigue; and then it ex-
panded into a grin of delight.,
-º-
CHAPTER V.
ºff: HETHER Mr. Quilp took any sleep
, , by Snatches of a few winks at a time,
N or whether he sat with his eyes wide
! open all night long, certain it is that
he kept his cigar alight, and kindled
Nº every fresh one from the ashes of
* that which was nearly consumed, without
requiring the assistance of a candle. Nor
did the striking of the clocks, hour after hour,
appear to inspire him with any sense of drowsi-
ness, or any natural desire to go to rest; but
rather to increase his wakefulness, which he
showed, at every such indication of the progress
of the night, by a suppressed cackling in his
throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like one
who laughs heartily, but at the same time slily
and by stealth. -
At length the day broke, and poor Mrs. Quilp,
shivering with the cold of early morning and
harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was dis-
covered sitting patiently on her chair, raising her
eyes at intervals in mute appeal to the compassion
and clemency of her lord, and gently reminding
him by an occasional cough that she was still
unpardoned, and that her penance had been of
long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still
smoked his cigar and drank his rum without

A/R. Q&ILA 72/UMPHAMZ. 19
*-
heeding her; and it was not until the sun had
some time risen, and the activity and noise of
city day were rife in the street, that he deigned
to recognise her presence by any word or
sign. He might not have done so even then,
but for certain impatient tappings at the
door, which seemed to denote that some pretty
hard knuckles were actively engaged upon the
other side.
“Why, dear me !” he said, looking round
with a malicious grin, “it’s day ! Open the
door, sweet Mrs. Quilp !” -
His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her
lady mother entered.
Now, Mrs. Jiniwin bounced into the room
with great impetuosity; for, supposing her son-
in-law to be still abed, she had come to relieve
her feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion .
upon his general conduct and character. Seeing
that he was up and dressed, and that the room
appeared to have been occupied ever since she
quitted it on the previous evening, she stopped
short in some embarrassment. .. -
Nothing escaped the hawk's eye or the ugly
little man, who, perfectly understanding what
passed in the old lady's mind, turned uglier still
in the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her
good morning with a leer of triumph.
“Why, Betsy,” said the old woman, “you
haven't been a-you don't mean to say you've
been a-”
“Sitting up all night?” said Quilp, supplying
the conclusion of the sentence. “Yes, she
has l’” - e
“All night !” cried Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf P”
said Quilp with a smile of which a frown was
part. “Who says man and wife are bad com-
pany P Ha, ha! The time has flown.”
“You're a brute 1” exclaimed Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Come, come,” said Quilp, wilfully misunder- .
standing her, of course, “you mustn't call her
names. She's married now, you know. And
though she did beguile the time and keep me
from my bed, you must not be so tenderly care-
ful of me as to be out of humour with her.
Bless you for a dear old lady | Here's your
health l’”
“I am much obliged to you,” returned the old
woman, testifying by a certain restlessness in
her hands a yehement desire to shake her
matronly fist at her son-in-law. “Oh I'm very
much obliged to you !”
“Grateful soul tº cried the dwarf.
Quilp.”
“Yes, Quilp,” said the timid sufferer.
*Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs.
“Mrs.
Quilp. I am going to the wharf this morning—
the earlier the better, so be quick.”
Mrs. Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of
rebellion by sitting down in a chair near the
door, and folding her arms as if in a resolute
determination to do nothing. But a few whis-
pered words from her daughter, and a kind
inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt
faint, with a hint that there was abundance of
cold water in the next apartment, routed these
symptoms effectually, and she applied herself to
the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence.
While they were in progress, Mr. Quilp with-
drew to the adjoining room, and turning back
his coat collar, proceeded to smear his coun-
tenance with a damp towel of very unwhole-
Some appearance, which made his complexion
rather more cloudy than it had been before.
But, while he was thus engaged, his caution and
inquisitiveness did not forsake him. With a
face as sharp and cunning as ever, he often
stopped, even in this short process, and stood
listening for any conversation in the next room,
of which he might be the theme.
“Ah !” he said after a short effort of attention,
“it was not the towel over my ears; I thought
it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a
monster, am I, Mrs. Jiniwin P Oh!”
The pleasure of this discovery called up the
old dog-like smile in full force. When he had
quite done with it, he shook himself in a very
dog-like manner, and rejoined the ladies.
Mr. Quilp now walked up to the front of a
looking-glass, and was standing there, putting
on his neckerchief, when Mrs. Jiniwin, happen-
ing to be behind him, could not resist the in-
clination she felt to shake her fist at her tyrant
son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but
as she did so, and accompanied the action with
a menacing look, she met his eye in the glass,
catching her in the very act. The same glance
at the mirror conveyed to her the reflection of a
horribly grotesque and distorted face with the
tongue lolling out; and the next instant the
dwarf, turning about, with a perfectly bland and
placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection,
“How are you now, my dear old darling P”
Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it
made him appear such a little fiend, and withal
such a keen and knowing one, that the old
woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a
single word, and suffered herself to be led with
extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table.
Here, he by no means diminished the impres-
sion he had just produced, for he ate hard eggs,
shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the
heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-
2O THE OLD CURIO.SYTY SHOP
cresses at the same time and with extraordinary
greediness, drank boiling tea without winking,
bit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and
in short performed so many horrifying and un-
common acts that the women were nearly
frightened out of their wits, and began to doubt
if he were really a human creature. At last,
having gone through these proceedings and many
others which were equally a part of his system,
Mr. Quilp left them, reduced to a very obedient
and humbled state, and betook himself to the
river-side, where he took boat for the wharf on
which he had bestowed his name. e
It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat him-
self down in the wherry to cross to the opposite
shore. . A fleet of barges were coming lazily on,
some sideways, some head first, some stern first ;
all in a wrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way,
bumping up against the larger craft, running
under the bows of steamboats, getting into every
kind of nook and corner where they had no
business, and being crunched on all sides like
so many walnut shells; while each, with its pair
of long sweeps struggling and splashing in the
water, looked like some lumbering fish in pain. .
In some of the vessels at anchor all hands were
busily engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out
Sails to dry, taking in or discharging their cargoes;
in others, no life was visible but two or three
tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running
to and fro upon the deck, or scrambling up to
look over the side and bark the louder for the
view. Coming slowly on through the forest of
masts was a great steam-ship, beating the water
in short impatient strokes with her heavy paddles,
as though she wanted room to breathe, and
advancing in her huge bulk like a sea monster
among the minnows of the Thames. On either
hand were long black tiers of colliers; between
them vessels slowly working out of harbour with
Sails glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on
board, re-echoed from a hundred quarters. The
Water and all upon it was in active motion,
dancing and buoyant and bubbling up; while
the old grey Tower and piles of building on the
Shore, with many a church spire shooting up
between, looked coldly on, and seemed to dis.
dain their chafing, restless neighbour.
Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by
a bright morning, save in so far as it spared him
the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused him-
self to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and
proceeded thither through a narrow lane which,
partaking of the amphibious character of its
frequenters, had as much water as mud in its
Composition, and a very liberal supply of both.
Arrived at his destination, the first object that
with the handle as he spoke.
the purpose.
presented itself to his view was a pair of very
imperfectly shod feet elevated in the air with the
soles upwards, which remarkable appearance
was referable to the boy, who, being of an
eccentric spirit and having a natural taste for
tumbling, was now standing on his head, and
contemplating the aspect of the river under these
uncommon circumstances. He was speedily
brought on his heels by the sound of his master's
voice, and as soon as his head was in its right
position, Mr. Quilp, to speak expressively in the
absence of a better verb, “punched it” for him.
“Come, you let me alone,” said the boy,
parrying Quilp's hand with both his elbows
alternately. “You’ll get something you won't
like if you don't, and so I tell you.” -
“You dog,” snarled Quilp, “I’ll beat you with
an iron rod, I'll scratch you with a rusty nail,
I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me—I will "
With these threats he clenched his hand again,
and dexterously diving in between the elbows .
and catching the boy's head as it dodged from
side to side, gave it three or four good hard
knocks. Having now carried his point and
insisted on it, he left off. .
“You won't do it again,” said the boy, nodding
his head and drawing back, with the elbows
ready in case of the worst; “now !”
“Stand still, you dog " said Quilp. “I
won't do it again, because I have done it as
oſten as I want. Here. Take the key.”
“Why don't you hit one of your size P” said
the boy, approaching very slowly.
“Where is there one of my size, you dog?”
returned Quilp. “Take the key, or I'll brain
you with it.” Indeed, he gave him a smart tap
“Now, open the
counting-house.” . g
The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first,
but desisting when he looked round and saw
that Quilp was following him with a steady look.
And here it may be remarked, that between this
boy and the dwarf there existed a strange kind
of mutual liking. How born or bred, or how
nourished upon blows and threats on one side,
and retorts and defiances on the other, is not to
Quilp would certainly suffer no-
body to contradict him but the boy, and the boy
would assuredly not have submitted to be so
knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he
had the power to run away at any time he
chose. -
“Now,” said Quilp, passing into the wooden
counting-house, “you mind the wharf. Stand up-
on your head again, and I'll cut one of your feet off."
The boy made no answer, but, directly Quilp
had shut himself in, stood on his head before
f
MR, QUILP'S BOY, 2 I
sº-
the door, then walked on his hands to the back
and stood on his head there, and then to the
opposite side and repeated the performance.
There were, indeed, four sides to the counting-
house, but he avoided that one where the window
was, deeming it probable that Quilp would be
looking out of it. This was prudent, for in
point of fact the dwarf, knowing his disposition,
was lying in wait at a little distance from the sash,
armed with a large piece of wood, which, being
rough and jagged, and studded in many parts
with broken nails, might possibly have hurt him.
It was a dirty little box, this counting-house,
ſ
º
|
, .
º
s
, * º -- a-
... º. " * - sº gº' -- *::. sº- a sº
sº sº-> & -ºº º -º- ºr====E= .
with nothing in it but an old rickety desk and
two stools. a hat-peg, an ancient almanac, an
inkstand with no ink and the stump of one pen,
and an eight-day clock which hadn't gone for
eighteen years at least, and of which the minute
hand had been twisted off for a toothpick.
I)aniel Quilp pulled his hat over his brows,
climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top),
and stretching his short length upon it, went to
sleep with the ease of an old practitioner; in.
tending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the
deprivation of last night's rest by a long and
Sound nap.
“ DANIEL QUILP sat HIMSELF DOWN IN THE WHERRY TO CRoss To THE OPPOSITE SHORE.”
Sound it might have been, but long it was
not, for he had not been asleep a quarter of an
hour when the boy opened the door and thrust
in his head, which was like a bundle of badly-
picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper, and
started up directly.
“Here's somebody for you,” said the boy.
“Who P”
“I don't know.” "
“Ask 1" said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood
before mentioned, and throwing it at him with
such dexterity that it was well the boy dis-
appeared before it reached the spot on which he
had stood. “Ask, you dog.”
Not caring to venture within range of such
missiles again, the boy discreetly sent, in his
Stead, the first cause of the interruption, who
now presented herself at the door.
“What, Nelly " cried Quilp. -
“Yes,” said the child, hesitating whether to
enter or retreat, for the dwarf just roused, with
his dishevelled hair hanging all about him, and
a yellow handkerchief over his head, was some-
thing fearful to behold ; “it’s only me, sir.”


22
THE Oz D curroSITY SHOP
“Come in," said Quilp, without getting Off
the desk. “Come in. Stay. Just look out
into the yard, and see whether there's a boy
standing on his head.” - .
“No, sir,” replied Nell. “He’s on his feet.”
“You’re sure he is?” said Quilp. “Well
Now come in and shut the door. What's your
message, Nelly P”
The child handed him a letter. Mr. Quilp,
without changing his position otherwise than to
turn over a little more on his side and rest his
chin on his hand, proceeded to make himself
acquainted with its contents. -
--O-
CHAPTER VI.
§§
lººk ITTLE NELL stood tiſfiidly by,
2.) with her eyes raised to the counte-
nance of Mr. Quilp as he read the
letter, plaimly showing by her looks
that while she entertained some fear
ſº * and distrust of the little man, she
§ was much inclined to laugh at his uncouth
@, appearance and grotesque attitude. And
yet there was visible on the part of the child a
painful anxiety for his reply, and a consciousness
of his power to render it disagreeable or dis-
tressing, which was strongly at variance with
this impulse, and restrained it more effectually
than she could possibly have done by any efforts .
of her own.
That Mr. Quilp was himself perplexed, and
that in no small degree, by the contents of the
letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had
got through the first two or three lines he began
to open his eyes very wide and to frown most
horribly, the next two or three caused him to
scratch his head in an uncommonly vicious
manner, and when he came to the conclusion
he gave a long dismal, whistle indicative of
surprise and dismay. After folding and laying
it down beside him, he bit the nails of all his
ten fingers with extreme voracity; and taking it
up sharply, read it again. The second perusal
was to all appearance as unsatisfactory as the
first, and plunged him into a profound reverie,
from which he awakened to another assault upon
his nails and a long stare at the child, who with
her eyes turned towards the ground awaited his
further pleasure.
“Hallo here !” he said at length, in a voice,
and with a suddenness, which made the child
start as though a gun had been fired off at her
ear. “Nelly . " t
“Yes, sir!”
|
my little cherry-cheeked, red-lipped wife.
--- T —x −w
“Do you know what's inside this letter,
Nell P '' - .
“No, sir!” . . -
“Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon
your soul ?” . •
“Quite sure, sir.” -
“Do you wish you may die if you do know,
hey?” said the dwarf. * . . *
“Indeed I don't know,” returned the child.
“Well !” muttered Quilp as he marked her
earnest look. “I believe you. Humph : Gone
already Gone in four-and-twenty hours : What
the devil has he done with it? That's the mys-
tery ! }} . - —
This reflection set him scratching his head,
and biting his nails, once more. While he was
thus employed his features gradually relaxed.
into what was with him a cheerful smile, but
which in any other man would have been a
ghastly grin of pain; and, when the child
looked up again, she found that he was re-
garding her with extraordinary favour and com-
placency.
“You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charm-
ingly pretty. Are you tired, Nelly?” - -
“No, sir, I'm in a hurry to get back,
will be anxious while I am away.” º
“There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at
all,” said Quilp, “How should you like to be
my number two, Nelly P” * . .
“To be what, sir?” • :
“My number two, Nelly; my second ; my
Mrs. Quilp,” said the dwarf.
The child looked frightened, but seemed not
to understand him, which Mr. Quilp observing,
for he
hastened to explain his meaning more dis-
tinctly. ~ * - -
“To be Mrs. Quilp the second, when Mrs.
Quilp the first is dead, sweet § said Quilp,
wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards
him with his bent forefinger, “to be my wife,
Say
that Mrs. Quilp lives five years, or only four,
you'll be just the proper age for me. Ha, ha!
Be a good girl, Nelly, a very good girl, and see
if one of these days you don't come to be Mrs.
Quilp of Tower Hill.” ~.
So far from being sustained and stimulated
by this delightful prospect, the child shrunk
from him, and trembled. Mr. Quilp, either be-
cause frightening anybody afforded him a con-
stitutional delight, or because it was pleasant to
convenplate the death of Mrs. Quilp number
one, and the elevation of Mrs. Quilp number
two to her post and title, or because he was
determined, for purposes of his own, to be
agreeable and good-humoured at that particular


MR. QUICP EXECUTES A BRZZZIANZ' MANOEUVRE. 23
time, only laughed and feigned to take no heed
of her alarm. -
“You shall come with me to Tower Hill, and
see Mrs. Quilp that is, directly,” said the dwarf.
“She's very fond of you, Nell, though not so
fond as I am. You shall come home with me.”
“I must go back indeed,” said the child.
“He told me to return directly I had the
answer.” -
“But you haven't it, Nelly,” retorted the
dwarf, “and won't have it, and can't have it, i.
until I have been home, so you see that, to do
your errand, you must go with me. Reach me
yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go directly.”
With that, Mr. Quilp suffered himself to roll
gradually off the desk until his short legs
touched the ground, when he got upon them
and led the way from the counting-house to
the wharf outside, where the first objects that
presented themselves were the boy who had
stood on his head, and another young gentle-
man of about his own stature, rolling in the mud
together, locked in a tight embrace, and cuffing
each other with mutual heartiness.
* It's Kit !” cried Nelly, clasping her hands,
“poor Kit who came with me !, Oh, pray stop
them, Mr. Quilp " -
“I’ll stop 'em,” cried Quilp, diving into the
little counting-house and returning with a thick
stick, “I’ll stop 'em 1 Now, my boys, fight
away. I’ll fight yūſu both. I'll take both of
you, both together, both together . " ---
With which defiances the dwarf flourished his
cudgel, and dancing round the combatants, and
treading upon them and skipping over them, in
a kind of frenzy, laid about him, now on one
and now on the other, in a most desperate
manner, always aiming at their heads, and deal-
ing such blows as none but the veriest little
Savage would have inflicted. This being warmer
work than they had calculated, upon, speedily
cooled the courage of the belligerents, who
scrambled to their feet and called for quarter.
“I’ll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,” said
Quilp, vainly endeavouring to get near either of
them for a parting blow. “I’ll bruise you till
you're coppet-coloured. I'll break your faces
till you haven't a profile between you, I will.”
“Come, you drop that stick, or it'll be worse
for you," said his boy, dodging round him and
Watching an opportunity. to rush in ; “you drop
that stick.”
“Come a little nearer, and I’ll drop it on
your skull, you dog,” said Quilp with gleaming
eyes; “a little nearer—nearer yet.” -
But the boy declined the invitation until his
master was apparently a little off his guard,
;3
when he darted in, and, seizing the weapon,
tried to wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who
was as strong as a lion, easily kept his hold until
the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power,
when he suddenly let it go and sent him reeling
backwards, so that he fell violently upon his
head. The success of this manoeuvre tickled
Mr. Quilp beyond description, and he laughed
and stamped upon the ground as at a most
irresistible jest. •
“Never Imind,” said the boy, nodding his
head and rubbing it at the same time ; “you
see if ever I offer to strike anybody again be-
cause they say you're a uglier dwarf than can be
seen anywheres for a penny, that's all.”
“Do you mean to say I'm not, you dog?” re-
turned Quilp.
“No 1" retorted the ooy.
“Then what do you fight on my wharf for,
you villain P” said Quilp.
“Because he said so,” replied the boy, point-
ing to Kit, “not because you ain't.”
“Then why did he say,” bawled Kit, “that
Miss Nelly was ugly, and that she and my
master was obliged to do whatever his master
liked P Why did he say that?” *
“He said what he did because he's a fool,
and you said what you did because you're very
wise and clever—almost too clever to live, un-
Jess you're very careful of yourself, Kit,” said
Quilp with great suavity in his manner, but still
more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth.
“Here's sixpence for you, Kit. . Always speak
the truth. At all times, Kit, speak the truth.
f Lock the counting house, you dog, and bring
me the key.”
The other boy, to whom this order was ad-
dressed, did as he was told, and was rewarded
for his partisanship in béhalf of his master by a
dexterous rap on the nose with the key, which
brought the water into his eyes. Then, Mr.
Quilp departed, with the child and Kit, in a
boat, and the boy revenged himself by dancing
on his head at intervals on the extreme verge of
the wharf, during the whole time they crossed
the river.
There was only Mrs. Quilp at home, and she,
little expecting the return of her lord, was just
composing herself for a refreshing slumber when
the sound of his footsteps roused her. She had
barely time to seem to be occupied in some
needlework, when he entered, accompanied by
the child; having left Kit down-stairs.
“Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs. Quilp,” said
her husband. “A glass of wine, my dear, and
a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll
sit with you, my soul, while I write a letter.”
as, THE ozo cuRIOSITY SHOP
Mrs. Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's | her grandfather, or what they do, or how they
face to know what this unusual courtesy might live, or what he tells her. I’ve my reasons for
portend, and, obedient to the summons she saw | knowing, if I can. You women talk more freely
in his gesture, followed him into the next room. to one another than you do to us, and you have
“Mind what ſ say to you,” whispered Quilp. a soft, mild way with you that'll win upon her.
“See if you can get out of her anything about Do you hear P”
“I’LL BEAT You To A PULP, You DoGs.”
|
|
“Yes, Quilp.” round as if for some weapon with which to in-
“Co, then. What's the matter now P” flict condign punishment upon his disobedient
“Dear Quilp,” faltered his wife, “I love the wife. The submissive little woman hurriedly
child—if you could do without making me de- entreated him not to be angry, and promised
ceive her——” - - to do as he bade her. *
The dwarf, muttering a terrible oath, looked “Do you hear me?” whispered Quilp, nip-
t

LTTLE AWELL CONFIDES IN MRS. QUILP. 25
ling and pinching her arm. “Worm yourself
into her secrets; I know you can. I’m listen-
ing, recollect. If you're not sharp enough I'll
creak the door, and woe betide you if I have to
creak it much. Go!”
Mrs. Quilp departed according to order. Her
amiable husband, ensconcing himself behind
the partly-opened door, and applying his ear
close to it, began to listen with a face of great
craftiness and attention.
Poor Mrs. Quilp was thinking, however, in
what manner to begin, or what kind of inquiries
she could make ; it was not until the door,
creaking in a very urgent manner, warned her
to proceed without further consideration that
the sound of her voice was heard.
“How very often you have come backwards
and forwards lately to Mr. Quilp, my dear !”
“I have said so to grandfather a hundred
times,” returned Nell innocently.
“And what has he said to that?”
“Only sighed, and dropped his head, and
seemed so sad and wretched that if you could
have seen him. I am sure you must have cried;
you could not have helped it more than I, I
know. How that door creaks "
“It often does,” returned Mrs. Quilp with an
uneasy glance towards it. “But your grand-
father—he used not to be so wretched P”
“Oh no!” said the child eagerly, “so differ-
ent . We were once so happy, and he so cheer-
ful and contented | You cannot think what a
sad change has fallen on us since.” -
“I am very, very sorry to hear you speak like
this, my dear!” said Mrs. Quilp. And she
spoke the truth. -
“Thank you,” returned the child, kissing her
cheek; “you are always kind to me, and it is a
pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one
else about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy
still. I ought to feel happier perhaps than I do,
but you cannot think how it grieves me some-
times to see him alter so.” s
“He'll alter again, Nelly,” said Mrs. Quilp,
“and be what he was before.”
“Oh, if God would only let that come
about !” said the child with streaming eyes;
“but it is a long time now, since he first began
to— I thought I saw that door moving !”
“It's the wind,” said Mrs. Quilp faintly.
{& Began to P” . § g
... “To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to
forget our old way of spending the time in the
long evenings,” said the child. “I used to read
to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and
when I stopped and we began to talk, he told
me about my mother, and how she once looked
than he was.
and spoke just like me when she was a little
child. Then he used to take me on his knee,
and try to make me understand that she was not
lying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful
country beyond the sky, where nothing died or
ever grew old. We were very happy once 1”
“Nelly, Nelly l’” said the poor woman, “I
can’t bear to see one as voung as you so sorrow-
ful. Pray don't cry.”
“I do so very seldom,” said Nell, “but I
have kept this to myself a long time, and I am
not quite well, I think, for the tears come into
my eyes, and I cannot keep them back. I don't
mind telling you my grief, for I know you will
not tell it to any one again.”
Mrs. Quilp turned away her head and made
In O 3DSWelſ.
“Then,” said the child, “we often walked in
the fields and among the green trees, and when
we came home at night, we liked it better for
being tired, and said what a happy place it'was.
And if it was dark and rather dull, we used to
say what did it matter to us? for it only made
us remember our last walk with greater pleasure,
and look forward to our next one. But, now,
we never have these walks, and though it is the
same house, it is darker and much more gloomy
than it used to be. Indeed . "
She paused here, but, though the door creaked
more than once, Mrs. Quilp said nothing.
“Mind you don't suppose,” said the child
earnestly, “that grandfather is less kind to me
I think he loves me better every
day, and is kinder and more affectionate than
he was the day before. You do not know how
fond he is of me !”
“I’m sure he loves you dearly,” said Mrs.
Quilp. -
“Indeed, indeed he does | " cried Nell, “as
dearly as I love him. But I have not told you
the greatest change of all, and this you must
never breathe again to any one. He has no
‘sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in
his easy-chair; for, every night and nearly all
night long, he is away from home.”
“Nelly "
“Hush ' " said the child, laying her finger on
her lip and looking round. “When he comes
home in the morning, which is genérally just
before day, I let him in. Last night he was
very late, and it was quite light. I saw that his
face was deadly pale, that his eyes were blood-
shot, and that his legs' trembled as he walked.
When I had gone to bed again, I heard him
groan. I got up and ran back to him, and
heard him say, before he knew that I was there,
that he could not bear his life much longer, and
26 - THE OLD CCW/º/OS/TY SAFOA'.
*~
if it was not for the child, would wish to die.
What shall I do? Oh what shall I do P”
The fountains of her heart were opened ; the
child, overpowered by the weight of her sorrows
and anxieties, by the first confidence she had
ever shown, and the sympathy with which her
little tale had been received, hid her face in the
arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a pas-
sion of tears.
In a few moments Mr. Quilp returned, and
expressed the utmost surprise to find her in this
condition, which he did very naturally, and with
admirable effect; for that kind of acting had
been rendered familiar to him by long practice,
and he was quite at home in it.
“She's tired, you see, Mrs. Quilp,” said the
dwarf, squinting in a hideous manner to imply
that his wife was to follow his lead. “It’s a
long way from her home to the wharf, and then
she was alarmed to see a couple of young
scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the
water besides. All this together has been too
much for her. Poor Nell ”
Mr. Quilp unintentionally adopted the very
best means he could have devised for the reco-
very of his young visitor, by patting her on the
head. Such an application from any other hand
might not have produced a remarkable effect,
but the child shrunk so quickly from his touch,
and felt such an instinctive desire to get out of
his reach, that she rose directly and declared
herself ready to return.
“But, you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs.
Quilp and me,” said the dwarf.
“I have been away too long, sir, already,”
returned Nell, drying her eyes.
“Well,” said Mr. Quilp, “if you will go, you
will, Nelly. Here's the note. It's only to say
that I shall see him to-morrow, or maybe next
day, and that I couldn't do that little business
for him this morning. Good-bye, Nelly. Here,
you sir, take care of her, d'ye hear?”
Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigne
to make no reply to so needless an injunction,
and after staring at Quilp in a threatening man-
ner, as if he doubted whether he might not have
been the cause of Nelly shedding tears, and felt
more than half disposed to revenge the fact upon
him on the mere suspicion, turned about and
ſollowed his young mistress, who had by this
time taken her leave of Mrs. Quilp and departed.
“You’re a keen questioner, an’t you, Mrs.
Quilp?” said the dwarf, turning upon her as
soon as they were left alon
“What more could I do?” returned his wife
mildly. - r
“What more could you do?”, sneered Quilp.
truly 1” said Quilp.
“Couldn't you have done, something less 2
Couldn't you have done what you had to do,
without appearing in your favourite part of the
crocodile, you minx P”
“I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,” said
his wife. “Surely I've done enough. I've led ,
her on to tell her secret when she supposed we
were alone; and you were by, God forgive me !”
“You led her on 1 You did a great deal
- “What did I tell you
about making me creak the door P It's lucky
for you that, from what she let fall, I've got the
clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have visited the
failure upon you.” \
Mrs. Quilp, being fully persuaded of this,
made no reply. Her husband added with some
exultation : -
“But you may thank your fortunate stars—
the same stars that made you Mrs. Quilp—you
may thank them that I’m upon the old gentle-
man's track, and have got a new light. So let
me hear no more about this matter, now, or at
any other time, and don't get anything too nice
for dinner, for I shan't be home to it.” &
So saying, Mr. Quilp put his hat on and took
himself off, and Mrs. Quilp, who was afflicted
beyond measure by the recollection of the part
she had just acted, shut herself up in her cham-
ber, and smothering her head in the bedclothes,
bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less
tender-hearted persons would have mourned a
much greater offence; for, in the majority of
cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible
article, which will bear a deal of stretching, and
adapt itself to a great variety of circumstances.
Some people, by prudent management and leav-
ing it off piece by piece, like a flannel waistcoat
in warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dis-
pense with it altogether ; but there be others
who can assume the garment and throw it off at
pleasure; and this, being the greatest and most
convenient improvement, is the one most in
vogue.
—e-
CHAPTER VII.
ſº . -
ſº ŞRED,” said Mr. Swiveller, “rement-
& ber the once popular melody of
‘Begone dull care;’ fan the sinking
flame of hilarity with the wing of
friendship; and pass the rosy wine!”
º Mr. Richard Swiveller's apart-
@)” ments were in the neighbourhood of
}: Drury Lane, and, in addition to this con-
veniency of situation, had the advantage of being
over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled



Mr. swive/ZER IN HIS owy APARTMENZS. 27
to procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by
merely stepping out on the staircase, and was
saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a
snuffbox. It was in these apartments that Mr.
Swiveller made use of the expressions above
recorded, for the consolation and encouragement
of his desponding friend; and it may not be un-
interesting or improper to remark, that even
these brief observations partook in a double .
sense of the figurative and poetical character of
Mr. Swiveller's mind, as the rosy wine was in
fact represented by one glass of cold gin-and-
water, which was replenished, as occasion re-
quired, from a bottle and jug upon the table, and
was passed from one to another; in a scarcity
of tumblers which, as Mr. Swiveller's was a
bachelor's establishment, may be acknowledged
without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his
single chamber was always mentioned in the
plural number. . In its disengaged times, the
tobacconist had announced it in his window as
“apartments” for a single gentleman, and Mr.
Swiveller, following up the hint, never failed to
speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his cham-
bers: conveying to his hearers a notion of indefi-
nite space, and leaving their imaginations to wan-
der through long suites of lofty halls at pleasure.
In this flight of fancy, Mr. Swiveller was
assisted by a deceptive piece of furniture. in
reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase,
which occupied a prominent situation in his
chamber, and seemed to defy suspicion and
challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that, by
day, Mr. Swiveller firmly believed this secret
convenience to be a bookcase and nothing
more ; that he closed his eyes to the bed, reso-
lutely denied the existence of the blankets, and
spurned the bolster from his thoughts. No word
of its real use, no hint of its nightly service, no
allusion to its peculiar properties, had ever
passed between him and his most intimate
friends. Implicit faith in the deception was the
first article of his creed. To be the friend of
Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evi-
dence, all reason, observation, and experience,
and repose a blind belief in the bookcase. It
was his pet weakness, and he cherished it.
“Fred 1" said Mr. Swiveller, finding that his
former adjuration had been productive of no
effect. “Pass the rosy l’” --
Young Trent, . with an impatient gesture,
pushed the glass towards him, and fell again
into the moody attitude from which he had been
unwillingly roused. -
“I’ll give you, Fred,” said his friend, stirring
the mixture, “a little sentiment appropriate to .
2
the occasion. Here's may the--"
“Pshaw ( " interposed the other. “You
worry me to death with your chattering. You
can be merry under any circumstances.”
“Why, Mr. Trent,” returned Dick, “there is a
proverb which talks about being merry and wise.
There are some people who can be merry and
can't be wise, and some who can be wise (or
think they can) and can't be merry. I'm one of
the first sort. If the proverb's a good 'un, I
suppose it's better to keep to half of it than
none ; at all events, I'd rather be merry and
not wise, than like you — neither one nor
t’other.” * -
“Bah!” muttered his friend peevishly.
“With all my heart,” said Mr. Swiveller. “In
the polite circles I believe this sort of thing isn't
usually said to a gentleman in his own apart-
ments, but never mind that. Make yourself at
home.” Adding to this retort an observation to
the effect that his friend appeared to be rather
“cranky” in point of temper, Richard Swiveller
finished the rosy and applied himself to the com-
position of another glassful, in which, after tasting
it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an
imaginary company.
“Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Suc.
cess to the ancient family of the Swivellers, and
good luck to Mr. Richard in particular—Mr.
Richard, gentlemen,” said Dick with great em-
phasis, “who spends all his money on his friends,
and is Bah /'d for his pains. Hear, hear !”
“Dick 1" said the other, returning to his seat
after having paced the room twice or thrice,
“will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I
show you a way to make your fortune with very
little trouble P”
“You've shown me so many,” returned Dick;
“and nothing has come of any of 'em but empty
pockets—” .
“You’ll tell a different story of this one, before
a very long time is over,” said his companion,
drawing his chair to the table. “You saw my
sister Nell?”
“What about her?” returned Dick.
“She has a pretty face, has she hot P”
“Why, certainly,” replied Dick, “I must say
for her that there's not any very strong family
likeness between her and you.” -
“Has she a pretty face?” repeated his friend
impatiently. -
“Yes,” said Dick, “she has a pretty face, a
very pretty face. What of that P”
“I’ll tell you,” returned his friend. “It's very
plain that the old man and I will remain at
daggers-drawn to the end of our lives, and that
I have nothing to expect from him. . You see
that, I suppose P’’
28
THE ozo CUR/OSZZ"Y SA/OA
* A bat might see that with the sun shining,”
said Dick.
“It's equally plain that the money which the
old flint—rot him—first taught me to expect
that I should share with her at his death, will
all be hers, is it not P” -
“I should say it was,” replied Dick; “unless
the way in which I put the case to him made an
impression. It may have done so. It was power-
ful, Fred. ‘Here is a jolly old grandfather’—
that was strong, I thought—very friendly and
natural. Did it strike you in that way P”
“It didn't strike him,” returned the other, “so
we needn't discuss it. Now look here. Nell is
nearly fourteen.”
“Fine girl of her age, but small,” observed
Richard Swiveller parenthetically.
“If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,”
returned Trent, fretting at the very slight interest
the other appeared to take in the conversation.
“Now I'm coming to the point.”
“That's right,” said Dick.
“The girl has strong affections, and brought
up as she has been, may, at her age, be easily
influenced and persuaded. If I take her in
hand, I will be bound by a very little coaxing
and threatening to bend her to my will. Not to
beat about the bush (for the advantages of the
scheme would take a week to tell), what's to
prevent you marrying her ?”
Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over
the rim of the tumbler while his companion ad-
dressed the foregoing remarks to him with great
energy and earnestness of manner, no sooner
heard these words than he evinced the utmost
consternation, and with difficulty ejaculated the
monosyllable: -
- &t What ! 1;
“I say, what's to prevent,” repeated the other,
with a steadiness of manner, of the effect of
which upon his companion he was well assured
by long experience, “what's to prevent your
marrying her?”
“And she “nearly fourteen l’” cried Dick.
“I don't mean marrying her now,” returned
the brother angrily; “say in two years' time, in
three, in four. Does the old man look like a
long-liver?”
“He don’t look like it,” said Dick, shaking
his head, “but these old, people—there's no
trusting 'em, Fred. There's an aunt of mine
down in Dorsetshire that was going to die when
I was eight years old, and hasn't kept her word
yet. They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so
spiteful—unless there's apoplexy in the family,
Fred, you. can't calculate upon 'em, and even
then they deceive you just as often as not.”
“Look at the worst side of the question, then,”
said Trent as steadily as before, and keeping his
eyes upon his friend. “Suppose he lives.”
“To be sure,” said Dick. “There's the rub.”
“I say,” resumed his friend, “suppose he lives,
and I persuaded, or, if the word sounds more
feasible, forced, Nell to a secret marriage with
you. What do you think would come of that?”
“A family, and an annual income of nothing
to keep ’em on,” said Richard Swiveller after
some reflection. -
“I tell you,” returned the other with an in-
creased earnestness, which, whether it were real
or assumed, had the same effect on his com-
panion, “that he lives for her, that his whole
energies and thoughts are bound up in her, that
he would no more disinherit her for an act of dis-
obedience than he would take me into his favour
again for any act of obedience or virtue that I
could possibly be guilty of. He could not do it.
You or any other man with eyes in his head
may see that, if he chooses.”
“It seems improbable certainly,” said Dick,
musing.
“It seems improbable because it is impro-
bable,” his friend returned. “If you would
furnish him with an additional inducement to
forgive you, let there be an irreconcilable breach,
a most deadly quarrel, between you and me—let
there be a pretence of such a thing, I mean, of
course—and he'll do so fast enough. As to
Nell, constant dropping will wear away a stone;
you know you may trust to me as far as she is
concerned. So, whether he lives or dies, what
does it come to ? That you become the sole
inheritor of the wealth of this rich old hunks;
that you and I spend it together; and that you
get, into the bargain, a beautiful young wife.”
“I suppose there's no doubt about his being
rich,” said Dick.
“Doubt I Did you hear what he let fall the
other day when we were there? Doubt What
will you doubt next, Dick P”
It would be tedious to pursue the conversa-
tion through all its artful windings, or to de-
velop the gradual approaches by which the heart
of Richard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient
to know that vanity, interest, poverty, and every
spendthrift consideration urged him to look upon
the proposal with favour, and that where all other
inducements were wanting, the habitual careless,
ness of his disposition stepped in and still weighed
down the scale on the same side. To these im-
pulses must be added the complete ascendancy
which his friend had long been accustomed to
exercise over him—an ascendancy exerted in
| the beginning sorely at the expense of the un-
A 7TWME Z Y A&EMIAWDZA'. r 29
fortunate Dick's purse and prospects, but still
maintained without the slightest relaxation, not-
withstanding that Dick suffered for all his friend's
vices, and was, in nine cases out of ten, looked
upon as his designing tempter, when he was
indeed nothing but his thoughtless, light-headed
tool.
The motives on the other side were something
deeper than any which Richard Swiveller enter-
tained or understood, but these being left to
their own development, require no present eluci-
dation. The negotiation was concluded very
pleasantly, and Mr. Swiveller was in the act of
stating in flowery terms that he had no insur-
mountable objection to marrying anybody plen-
tifully endowed with money or movables, who
could be induced to take him, when he was
interrupted in his observations by a knock at
the door, and the consequent necessity of crying
“Come in.” - .
The door was opened, but nothing came in
except a soapy arm and a strong gush of tobacco.
The gush of tobacco came from the shop down-
stairs, and the soapy arm proceeded from the
body of a servant-girl, who, being then and there
engaged in cleaning the stairs, had just drawn it
out of a warm pail to take in a letter, which
letter she now held in her hand; proclaiming
aloud, with that quick perception of surnames
peculiar to her class, that it was for Mister
Snivelling.
Dick looked rather pale and foolish when he
glanced at the direction, and still more so when
he came to look at the inside; observing that
this was one of the inconveniences of being a
lady's man, and that it was very easy to talk as
they had been talking, but he had quite for-
gotten her, -
“Aſer. Who P” demanded Trent,
“Sophy Wackles,” said Dick.
“Who’s she P” -
“She’s all my fancy painted her, sir, that's
what she is,” said Mr. Swiveller, taking a long
pull at “the rosy,” and looking gravely at his
friend. “She is lovely, she's divine. You know
her.” -
“I remember,” said his companion carelessly.
“What of her P”
“Why, sir,” returned Dick, “between Miss
Sophia Wackles, and the humble individual who
has now the honour to address you, warm and
tender sentiments have been engendered—sen-
timents of the most honourable and inspiring
kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls aloud
for the chase, is not more particular in her be-
haviour than Sophia Wackles; I can tell you that.”
“Am I to believe there's anything real in
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 3.
what you say?" demanded his friend. “ You
don't mean to say that any love-making has been
going on P”
“Love-making, yes. Promising, no,” said
Dick. “There can be no action for breach,
that's one comfort. I've never committed myself
in writing, Fred.”
“And what's in the letter pray P”
“A reminder, Fred, for to-night—a small
party of twenty—making two hundred light fan-
tastic toes in all, supposing every lady and gen-
tleman to have the proper complement. I must
go, if it's only to begin breaking off the affair—
I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should like to
know whether she left this herself. If she did,
unconscious of any bar to her happiness, it's
affecting, Fred.” -
To solve this question, Mr. Swiveller sum-
moned the handmaid, and ascertained that Miss
Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with
her own hands; that she had come accompa-
nied, for decorum's sake no doubt, by a younger
Miss Wackles; and that, on learning that Mr.
Swiveller was at home and being requested to
walk up-stairs, she was extremely shocked, and
professed that she would rather die. Mr: Swivel-
ler heard this àccount with a degree of admira-
tion not altogether consistent with the project
in which he had just concurred, but his friend
attached very little importance to his behaviour
in this respect, probably because he knew that
he had influence sufficient to control Richard
Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other
matter, whenever he deemed it necessary, for
the advancement of his own purposes, to exert it.
CHAPTER VIII.
ū) ºp , USINESS disposed of, Mr. Swiveller
}_ºx was inwardly reminded of its being
§ º \ nigh dinner-time, and to the intent
\º that his health might not be endan-
ºº gered by long abstinence, dispatched
º a message to the nearest eating-house,
§ requiring an immediate supply of boiled
beef and greens for two. With this de-
mand, however, the eating house (having expe-
rience of its customer) declined to comply,
churlishly sending back for answer that if Mr.
Swiveller stood in need of beef, perhaps he
would be so obliging as to come there and eat
it, bringing with him, as grace before meat, the
amount of a certain small account which had
been long outstanding. Not at all intimidated
by this rebuff, but rather sharpened in wits and
251









3o THE OLD CUR/OS/TY SHOP.
\
appetite, Mr. Swiveller forwarded the same mes.
sage to another and more distant eating-house,
adding to it, by way of rider, that the gentleman
was induced to send so far, not only by the great
fame and popularity its beef had acquired, but in
consequence of the extreme toughness of the beef
retailed at the obdurate cook's shop, which ren-
dered it quite unfit not merely for gentlemanly
food, but for any human consumption. The
good effect of this politic course was demon-
strated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter
pyramid, curiously constructed of platters and
covers, whereof the boiled-beef plates formed
the base, and a foaming quart pot the apex;
the structure being resolved into its component
parts, afforded all things requisite and necessary
for a hearty meal, to which Mr. Swiveller and
his friend applied themselves with great keen-
ness and enjoyment.
“May the present moment,” said Dick, stick-
ing his fork into a large carbuncular potato,
“be the worst of our lives | I like this plan of
sending 'em with the peel on ; there's a charm
in drawing a potato from its native element (if I
may so express it) to which the rich and power-
ful are strangers. Ah ‘Man wants but little
here below, nor wants that little long !” How
true that is l—after dinner.”
“I hope the eating-house keeper will want
but little, and that he may not want that little
long,” returned his companion; “but I suspect.
you've no means of paying for this 1”
“I shall be passing presently, and I’ll call,”
said Dick, winking his eye significantly. “The
waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone,
Fred, and there's an end of it.” -
In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter
felt this wholesome truth, for when he returned
for the empty plates and dishes, and was in-
formed by Mr. Swiveller, with dignified careless-
ness, that he would call and settle when he
should be passing presently, he displayed some
perturbation of spirit, and muttered a few re-
marks about “payment on delivery,” and “no
trust,” and other unpleasant subjects, but was
fain to content himself with inquiring at what
hour it was likely the gentleman would call, in
order that being personally responsible for the
beef, greens, and sundries, he might take care to
be in the way at the time. Mr. Swiveller, after
mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety,
replied that he should look in at from two
minutes before six to seven minutes past; and
the man disappearing with this feeble consola-
tion, Richard Swiveller took a greasy memo-
randum : book from his pocket and made an
entry therein.
“Is that a reminder, in case you should forget
to call?” said Trent with a sneer.
“Not exactly, Fred,” replied the imperturbable
Richard, continuing to write with a business-like
air. “I enter in this little book the names of
the streets that I can't go down while the shops
are open. This dinner to-day closes Long Acre.
I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen Street
last week, and made that no thoroughfare too,
There's only one avenue to the Strand left open
now, and I shall have to stop up that to-night
with a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so
fast in every direction, that in about a month's
time, unless my aunt sends me a remittance, I
shall have to go three or four miles out of town
to get over the way.”
“There's no fear of her failing in the end ?”
said Trent.
“Why, I hope not,” returned Mr. Swiveller,
“but the average number of letters it takes to
soften her is six, and this time we have got as
far as eight without any effect at all. I’ll write
another to-morrow morning. I mean to blot it
a good deal, and shake some water over it out
of the pepper-caster, to make it look penitent,
“I’m in such a state of mind that I hardly know
what I write’—blot—“if you could see me at
this minute shedding tears for my past miscom-
duct’—pepper-caster—“my hand trembles when
I think’—blot again—if that don't produce the
effect, it's all over.”
By this time Mr. Swiveller had finished his
entry, and he now replaced his pencil in its little
sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly grave
and serious frame of mind. His friend dis-
covered that it was time for him to fulfil some
other engagement, and Richard Swiveller was
accordingly left alone, in company with the rosy
wine and his own meditations touching Miss
Sophy Wackles. -
“It's rather sudden,” said Dick, shaking his
head with a look of infinite wisdom, and run-
ning on (as he was accustomed to do) with
scraps of verse as if they were only prose in a
hurry; “when the heart of a man is depressed
with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss
Wackles appears: she's a very nice girl. She's
like the red red rose that's newly sprung in June
—there's no denying that—she's also like a
melody that's sweetly played in tune. It's really
very sudden. Not that there's any need, on
'account of Fred's little sister, to turn cool
directly, but it's better not to go too far. If I
begin to cool at all, I must begin at once, I see
that. There's the chance of an action for
breach, that's one reason. There's the chance
of Sophy's getting another husband, that's
PZAZOMACY OF THE WACKZZS AAAZZZY. st
another. There's the chance of No,
there's no chance of that, but it's as well to be
on the safe side. -
This undeveloped consideration was the pos.
sibility, which Richard Swiveller sought to con-
ceal even from himself, of his not being proof
against the charms of Miss Wackles, and in
Some unguarded moment, by linking his fortunes
to hers for ever, of putting it out of his own
power to further the notable scheme to which
he had so readily become a party. For all
these reasons, he decided to pick a quarrel with
Miss Wackles without delay, and casting about
for a pretext, determined in favour of groundless
jealousy. Having made up his mind on this
important point, he circulated the glass (from
his right hand to his left, and back again) pretty
freely, to enable him to act his part with greater
discretion, and then, after making some slight
improvements in his toilet, bent his steps towards
the spot hallowed by the fair object of his medi-
tations. ,” -
This spot was at Chelsea, for there Miss
Sophia Wackles resided with her widowed
mother and two sisters, in conjunction with
whom she maintained a very small day-school
for young ladies of proportionate dimensions; a
circumstance which was made known to the
neighbourhood by an oval board over the front
first-floor window, whereon appeared, in circum-
ambient flourishes, the words “Ladies' Semi-
nary 3” and which was further published and
proclaimed at intervals between the hours of
half-past nine and ten in the morning, by a
straggling and solitary young lady of tender
years standing on the scraper on the tips of her
toes, and making futile attempts to reach the
knocker with her spelling-book. The several
duties of instruction in this establishment were
thus discharged. English grammar, composi-
tion, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells,
by Miss Melissa Wackles; writing, arithmetic,
dancing, music, and general fascination, by Miss
Sophy Wackles; the art of needlework, mark-
ing, and Samplery, by Miss Jane Wackles ; cor-
poral punishment, fasting, and other tortures
and terrors, by Mrs. Wackles. Miss Melissa
Wackles was the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy
the next, and Miss Jane the youngest.
Melissa might have seen five-and-thirty summers
or thereabouts, and verged on the autumnal;
Miss Sophy was a fresh, good-humoured, buxom
girl of twenty; and Miss Jane numbered scarcely
sixteen years. Mrs. Wackles was an excellent,
but rather venomous old lady of three score.
To this Ladies' Seminary, then, Richard
Swiveller hied, with designs obnoxious to the
Miss
peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin
white, embellished by no ornament but one
blushing rose, received him on his arrival, in
the midst of very elegant, not to say brilliant
preparations; such as the embellishment of the
room with the little flower-pots which always
stood on the window-sill outside, save in windy
weather, when they blew into the area; the
choice attire of the day-scholars, who were
allowed to grace the festival; the unwonted
curls of Miss Jane Wackles, who had kept her
head during the whole of the preceding day
screwed up tight in a yellow play-bill; and the
solemn gentility and stately bearing of the old
lady and her eldest daughter, which struck Mr.
Swiveller as being uncommon, but made no
further impression upon him.
The truth is—and, as there is no accounting
for tastes, even a taste so strange as this may be
recorded without being looked upon as a wilful
and malicious invention—the truth is, that
neither Mrs. Wackles nor her eldest daughter
had at any time greatly favoured the pretensions
of Mr. Swiveller: they being accustomed to
make slight mention of him as “a gay young
man,” and to sigh and shake their heads omi-
nously whenever his name was mentioned. Mr.
Swiveller's conduct in respect to Miss Sophy
having been of that vague and dilatory kind
which is usually looked upon as betokening no
fixed matrimonial intentions, the young lady her-
self began in course of time to deem it highly
desirable that it should be brought to an issue
one way or other. Hence, she had at last con-
sented to play off, against Richard Swiveller, a
stricken market gardener known to be ready
with his offer 'on the smallest encouragement,
and hence—as this occasion had been specially
assigned for the purpose—that great anxiety on
her part for Richard Swiveller's presence which
had occasioned her to leave the note he has
been seen to receive. “If he has any expecta-
tions at all, or any means of keeping a wife
well,” said Mrs. Wackles to her eldest daughter,
“he’ll state 'em to us now or never.”—“If he
really cares about me,” thought Miss Sophy,
“he must tell me so to-night.”
But all these sayings and doings and think-
ings being unknown to Mr. Swiveller, affected
him not in the least; he was debating in his
mind how he could best turn jealous, and wish-
ing that Sophy were, for that occasion only, far
less pretty than she was, or that she were her
own sister, which would have served his turn
as well, when the company came, and among
them the market gardener, whose name was
Cheggs, But Mr. Cheggs came not alone or un-
32
THE OLD CURIO.SYZ"Y SAOA.
--
supported, ſor he prudently brought along with
him his sister, Miss Cheggs, who, making straight
to Miss Sophy, and taking her by both hands,
and kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an
audible whisper that they had not come too early.
“Too early P No 1" replied Miss Sophy.
“Oh, my dear!” rejoined Miss Cheggs in the
same whisper as before, “I’ve been so tormented,
so worried, that it's a mercy we were not here
at four o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has
been in such a state of impatience to come !
You'd hardly believe that he was dressed before
dinner-time, and has been looking at the clock
and teasing me ever since. It's all your fault,
you naughty thing.”
Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr.
Cheggs (who was bashful before ladies) blushed
too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to
prevent Mr. Cheggs from blushing more,
lavished civilities and attentions upon him, and
left Richard Swiveller to take care of himself.
Here was the very thing he wanted ; here was
good cause, reason, and foundation for pretend-
ing to be angry; but having this cause, reason,
and ſoundation which he had come expressly to
seek, not expecting to find, Richard Swiveller
was angry in sound earnest, and wondered what
the devil Cheggs meant by his impudence.
However, Mr. Swiveller had Miss Sophy's
hand for the first quadrille (country dances,
being low, were utterly proscribed), and so
gained an advantage over his rival, who sat de-
spondingly in a corner, and contemplated the
glorious figure of the young lady as she moved
through the mazy dance. Nor was this the only
start Mr. Swiveller had of the market gardener;
for, determining to show the family what quality
of man they trifled with, and influenced perhaps
by his late libations, he performed such feats of
agility and such spins and twirls as filled the
company with astonishment, and in particular
caused a very long gentleman, who was dancing
with a very short scholar, to stand quite trans-
fixed by wonder and admiration. Even Mrs.
Wackles forgot for the moment to snub three
small young ladies who were inclined to be
happy, and could not repress a rising thought
that to have such a dancer as that in the family
would be a pride indeed.
At this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved
herself a vigorous and useful ally; for, not con-
fining herself to expressing by scornful smiles a
contempt for Mr. Swiveller's accomplishments,
she took every opportunity of whispering into
Miss Sophy's ear expressions of condolence and
sympathy on her being worried by such a ridi-
culous creature, declaring that she was frightened
to death lest Alick should fall upon him, and
beat him, in the fulness of his wrath, and en-
treating Miss Sophy to observe how the eyes of
the said Alick gleamed with love and fury;
passions, it may be observed, which, being too
much for his eyes, rushed into his nose also,
and suffused it with a crimson glow.
“You must dance with Miss Cheggs,” said
Miss Sophy to Dick Swiveller, after she had
herself danced twice with Mr. Cheggs, and made
great show of encouraging his advances. “She's
such a nice girl—and her brother's quite de-
lightful.”
“Quite delightful is he?” muttered Dick.
“Quite delighted too, I should say, from the
manner in which he's looking this way.”
Here Miss Jane (previously instructed for the
purpose) interposed her many curls, and whis-
pered her sister to observe how jealous Mr.
Cheggs was.
“Jealous! Like his impudence 1" said Richard
Swiveller.
“His impudence, Mr. Swiveller 1" said Miss
Jane, tossing her head. “Take care he don't
hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it." -
“Oh, pray, Jane ” said Miss Sophy.
“Nonsense " replied her sister. “Why
shouldn't Mr. Cheggs be jealous if he likes P F
like that, certainly. Mr. Cheggs has as good a
right to be jealous as anybody else has, and per-
haps he may have a better right soon, if he
hasn't already. You know best about that,
•Sophy . " *
Though this was a concerted plot between
Miss Sophy and her sister, originating in humane
intentions, and having for its object the inducing
Mr. Swiveller to declare himself in time, it failed
in its effect; for Miss Jane, being one of those
young ladies who are prematurely shrill, and
shrewish, gave such undue importance to her
part, that Mr. Swiveller retired in dudgeon, re-
signing his mistress to Mr. Cheggs, and convey-
ing a defiance into his looks which that gentle-
man indignantly returned.
“Did you speak to me, sir?” said Mr. Cheggs,
following him into a corner.—“Have the kind-
ness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be
suspected.—Did you speak to me, sir?”
Mr. Swiveller looked with a supercilious smile
at Mr. Cheggs's toes, then raised his eyes from
them to his ankle, from that to his shin, from
that to his knee, and so on very gradually, keep-
ing up his right leg, until he reached his waist-
coat, when he raised his eyes from button to
button until he reached his chin, and travelling
straight up the middle of his nose, came at last
to his eyes, when he said abruptly:
MR. SWIVEZZZR AEAEZZRAES FROM COMPEZWZYOM.
33
“No, sir, I didn't.” -
“Hem ’’ said Mr. Cheggs, glancing over his
shoulder; “have the goodness to smile again,
sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me, sir.”
“No, sir, I didn't do that, either.”
“Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me
now, sir,” said Mr. Cheggs fiercely.
At these. words, Richard Swiveller withdrew
his eyes from Mr. Cheggs's face, and travelling
down the middle of his nose, and down his
waistcoat, and down his right leg, reached his
toes again, and carefully surveyed them ; this
done, he crossed over, and coming up the other
leg, and thence approaching by the waistcoat as .
before, said, when he had got to his eyes, “No,
sir, I hayen't.”
“Oh indeed, sir!” said Mr. Cheggs. “I’m
glad to hear it. You know where I’m to be
found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have
anything to, say to me?”
“I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to
know.” - ~~
“There's nothing more we need say, I believe,
sir?” -
“Nothing more, sir.” With that they closed
the tremendous dialogue by frowning mutually.
Mr. Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss
Sophy, and Mr. Swiveller sat himself down in a
corner in a very moody state. -
Hard by this corner, Mrs. Wackles and Miss
Wackles were seated, looking on at the dance;
and unto Mrs. and Miss Wackles, Miss Cheggs
occasionally darted when her partner was occu-
pied with his share of the figure, and made some
remark or other which was gall and wormwood
to Richard Swiveller's soul. Looking into the
eyes of Mrs. and Miss Wackles for ºncourage-
ment, and sitting very upright and uncomfortable
on a couple of hard'stools, were two of the day-
scholars ; and when Miss Wackles smiled, and
Mrs. Wackles smiled, the two little girls on the
stools sought to curry favour by smiling likewise,
in gracious acknowledgment of which attention
the old lady frowned them down instantly, and
said that if they dared to be guilty of such an
impertinence again, they should be sent under
convoy to their respective homes. This threat
caused one of the young ladies, she being of a
weak and trembling temperament, to shed tears,
and for this offence they were both filed off
immediately, with a dreadful promptitude that
struck terror into the souls of all the pupils.
, “I’ve got such news for you,” said Miss
Cheggs, approaching once more. “Alick has
been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my
word, you know, it's quite serious and in earnest,
that's clear.”
...” What's he been saying, my dear?"démanded
Mrs. Wackles. -
. “Allmanner of things,” replied:Miss Cheggs;
“you can't think how out he has been speaking!"
Richard Swiveller considered it advisable to
hear no more, but taking-advantage of a pause
in the dancing, and the approach of Mr. Cheggs
to pay his court to the old lady, swaggered with
an extremely careful assumption of extreme care-
lessness towards the door, passing on the way
Miss Jane Wackles, who in all the glory of her
curls was holding a flirtation (as good practice
when no better was to be had) with a feeble old
gentleman who lodged in the parlour, Near
the door sat Miss Sophy, still fluttered and con-
fused by the attentions of Mr. Cheggs, and by
her side Richard Swiveller lingered for a moment
to exchange a few parting words.
“My boat is on the shore, and my bark is
on the sea, but before I pass this door I will
say farewell to thee,” murmured Dick, looking
gloomily upon her.
“Are you going?” said Miss Sophy, whose
heart sunk within her at the result of her strata.
gem, but who affected a light indifference not-
withstanding.
“Am I going !” echoed Dick bitterly.
I am. What then P”
“Nothing, except that it's very early,” said
Miss Sophy; “but you are your own master, of
course.” -
“I would that I had been my own mistress
too,” said Dick, “before I had aver entertained
a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed
you true, and I was blessed in so believing, but
now I mourn that e'er I knew a girl so fair, yet
so deceiving.”
Miss Sophy bit her lip, and affected to look
with great interest after Mr. "Cheggs, who was
quaffing lemonade in the distance.
“I came here,” said Dick, rather oblivious of
the purpose with which he had really come,
“with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated,
and my sentiments. of a corresponding descrip-
tion. I go away with feelings that may be con-
ceived, but cannot be described: feeling within
myself the desokating truth that my best affections
have experienced, this night, a stifier 1"
“I am sure I don't know what you, mean,
Mr. Swiveller,” said Miss Sophy with downcast
eyes. “I’m very sorry i jy -
“Sorry, ma'am!” said Dick; “sorry in the
possession of a Cheggs | But I wish you a very
good night: concluding with this slight remark,
that there is a young lady growing up at this
present moment for me, who has not only great
“Yes.
| personal attractions, but great wealth, and who
34 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
has requested her next of kin to propose for my
hand, which, having a regard for some members
of her family, I have consented to promise. It's
a gratifying circumstance which you'll be glad to
hear, that a young and lovely girl is growing into
a woman expressly on my account, and is now
saving up for me. I thought I'd mention it. I
have now merely to apologise for trespassing so
long upon your attention. Good night !”
“There's one good thing springs out of all
this,” said Richard Swiveller to himself when
he had reached home, and was hanging over the
candle with the extinguisher in his hand, “which
is, that I now go heart and soul, neck and heels,
with Fred in all his scheme about little Nelly,
and right glad he'll be to find me so strong upon
it. He shall know all about that to-morrow,
and in the meantime, as it's rather late, I'll try
and get a wink or two of the balmy.”
“The balmy” came almost as soon as it was
courted. In a very few minutes Mr. Swiveller
was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married
Nelly Trent and come into the property, and
that his first act of power was to lay waste the
market garden of Mr. Cheggs, and turn it into a
brick-field.
~.
CHAPTER IX.
ſºlº HE child, in her confidence with Mrs.
º, Quilp, had but feebly described the
sadness and sorrow of her thoughts,
or the heaviness of the cloud which
fºº overhung her home, and cast dark
º shadows on its hearth. Besides that it
gº was very difficult to impart to any person
* not intimately acquainted with the life she
led, an adequate sense of its gloom and loneli-
ness, a constant fear of in some way committing
or injuring the old man to whom she was so
tenderly attached, had restrained her, even in
the midst of her heart's overflowing, and made
her timid of allusion to the main cause of her
anxiety and distress.
For, it was not the monotonous days un-
chequered by variety and uncheered by pleasant
companionship, it was not the dark dreary even-
ings or the long solitary nights, it was not the
absence of every slight and easy pleasure for
which young hearts beat high, or the knowing
nothing of childhood but its weakness and its
easily-wounded spirit, that had wrung such tears
from. Nell. To see the old man struck down
beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to
mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be
agitated at times with a dreadful fear that his
mind was wandering, and to trace in his words
and looks the dawning of despondent madness;
to watch and wait and listen for confirmation of
these things day after day, and to feel and know
that, come what might, they were alone in the
world, with no one to...help or advise or care.
about them—these were causes of depression
and anxiety that might have sat heavily on an
older breast with many influences at work to
cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the
mind of a young child to whom they were ever
present, and who was constantly surrounded by
all that could keep such thoughts in restless
action 1 •. :
And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was
still the same. When he could, for a moment,
disengage his mind from the phantom that
haunted and brooded on it always, there was his
young companion with the same smile for him,
the same earnest words, the same merry laugh,
the same love and care that, sinking deep into
his soul, seemed to have been present to him
through his whole life. And so he went on,
content to read the book of her heart from the
page first presented to him, little dreaming of
the story that lay hidden in its other leaves, and
murmuring within himself that at least the child
was happy.
She had been once. She had gone singing
through the dim rooms, and moving with gay
and lightsome step annong their dusty treasures,
making them older by her young life, and sterner
and more grim by her gay and cheerful presence.
But, now, the chambers were cold and gloomy,
and when she left her own little room to while
away the tedious hours, and sat in one of them,
she was still and motionless as their inanimate
occupants, and had no heart to startle the echoes
—hoarse from their long silence—with her voice.
In one of these rooms was a window looking
into the street, where the child sat, many and
many a long evening, and often far into the
night, alone and thoughtful. None are so
anxious as those who watch and wait : at these
times, mournful fancies came flocking on her
mind in crowds. .
She would take her station here, at dusk, and
watch the people as they passed up and down
the street, or appeared at the windows of the
opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms
were as lonesome as that in which she sat, and
whether those people felt it company to see her
sitting there, as she did only to see them look
out and draw in their heads again. There was
a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs,
in which, by often looking at them, she had
fancied ugly faces that were frowning over at


A GAIAW 7:HE SO ZZZTAZ2 Y CHIZZX. - 35
her and trying to peer into the room; and she
felt glad when it grew too dark to make them
out, though she was sorry, too, when the man
came to light the lanps in the street—for it made
it late, and very dull inside. : . Then, she would
draw in her head to look round the room, and
see that everything was in its place and hadn't
moved; and looking out into the street again,
would perhaps see a man passing with a coffin
on his back, and two or three others silently
following him to a house where somebody lay
dead; which made her shudder and think of
such things until they suggested afresh the old
man's altered face and manner, and a new train
of fears and speculations. If he were to die—
if sudden illness had happened to him, and he
were never to come home again alive—if, one
night, he should come home, and kiss and bless
her as usual, and after she had gone to bed and
had fallen asleep, and was perhaps dreaming
pleasantly, and smiling in her sleep, he should
kill himself, and his blood come creeping, creep-
ing, on the ground to her own bedroom door
These thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon,
and again she would have recourse to the street,
now trodden by fewer feet, and darker and more
silent than before. The shops were closing fast,
and lights began to shine from the upper win-
dows, as the neighbours went fo bed. By de-
grees, these dwindled away and disappeared, or
were replaced, here and there, by a feeble rush-
candle which was to burn all night. Still, there
was one late shop at no great distance, which
sent forth a ruddy glare upon the pavement even
yet, and looked bright and companionable. But,
in a little time, this closed, the light was ex-
tinguished, and all was gloomy and quiet, except
when some stray footsteps sounded on the pave-
ment, or a neighbour, out later than his wont,
knocked lustily at his house-door to rouse the
sleeping inmates.
When the night had worn away thus far (and
seldom now until it had) the child would close
the window, and steal softly down-stairs, think-
ing as she went that if one of those hideous
faces below, which often mingled with her dreams,
were to meet her by the way, rendering itself
visible by some strange light of its own, how
terrified she would be. But these fears vanished
before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar
aspect of her own room. After praying fervently,
and with many bursting tears, for the old man,
and the restoration of his peace of mind and the
happiness they had once enjoyed, she would lay
her head upon the pillow and sob herself to
sleep; often starting up again, before, the day-
tight came, to listen for the bell, and respond
to the imaginary summons which had roused her
from her slumber.
One night, the third after Nelly's interview
with Mrs. Quilp, the old man, who had been
weak and ill all day, said he should not leave
home. The child's eyes sparkled at the intel-
ligence, but her joy subsided when they reverted
to his worn and sickly face.
“Two days,” he said, “two whole, clear days
have passed, and there is no reply. What did
he tell thee, Nell ?” -
“Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather.
indeed.”
... “True,” said the old man faintly. “Yes.
But tell me again, Nell. My head fails me.
What was it that he told thee P Nothing more
than that he would see me to-morrow or next
day P That was in the note.”
“Nothing more,” said the child. “Shall I go to
him again to-morrow, dear grandfather P. Very
early? I will be there and back before breakfast.”
The old man shook his head, and, sighing
mournfully, drew her towards him.
“'Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly
use. But if he deserts me, Nell, at this moment
—if he deserts me now, when I should, with his
assistance, be recompensed for all the time and
money I have lost, and all the agony of mind I
have undergone, which makes me what you see,
I am ruined, and—worse, far worse than that—
have ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If
we are beggars— I’
“What if we are?” said the child boldly. “Let
us be beggars and be happy.”
“Beggars—and happy :" said the old man.
“Poor child !”
“Dear grandfather,” cried the girl with an
energy which shone in her flushed face, trembling
voice, and impassioned gesture, “I am not a
child in that, I think; but even if I am, oh, hear
me pray that we may beg, or work in open roads
or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather than live
as we do now !”
“Nelly " said the old man.
“Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,”
the child repeated, more earnestly than before.
“If you are sorrowful, let me know why, and be
sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler
and weaker every day, let me be your nurse, and
try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be
poor together; but let me be with you, do let
me be with you; do not let me see such change,
and not know why, or I shall break my heart
and die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad
place to-morrow and beg our way from door to
door.”
The old man covered his face with his hands,
36 w
THE OZZ) CURIOS/ZTY SHOP
and hid it in the pillow of the couch on which
he lay. - º
“Let us be beggars,” said the child, passing
an arm round his neck. “I have no fear but
we shall have enough; I am sure we shall. Let
us walk through country places, and sleep in
fields and under trees, and never think of money
again, or anything that can make you sad, but
rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon
our faces in the day, and thank God together |
Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melan-
choly houses any more, but wander up and down
wherever we like to go; and when you are tired,
you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place that
we can find, and I will go and beg for both.”
The child's voice was lost in sobs as she
dropped upon the old man's neck; nor did she
weep alone.
These were not words for other ears, nor was
it a scene for other eyes. And yet other ears and
eyes were there, and greedily taking in all that
passed, and, moreover, they were the ears and
eyes of no less a person than Mr. Daniel Quilp,
who, having entered unseen when the child first
placed herself at the old man's side, refrained—,
actuated, no doubt, by motives of the purest
delicacy—from interrupting the conversation,
and stood looking on with his accustomed grin.
Standing, however, being a tiresome attitude to
a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and
the dwarf being one of that kind of persons who
usually make themselves at home, he soon cast
his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped
with uncommon agility, and, perching himself on
the back with his feet upon the seat, was thus
enabled to look on and listen with greater com-
fort to himself, besides gratifying at the same
time that taste for doing something fantastic and
monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong
possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg
cocked carelessly over the other, his chin resting
on the palm of his hand, his head turned a little
on'one side, and his ugly features twisted into a
complacent grimace. And in this position the
old man, happening in course of time to look that
way, at length chanced to see him : to his un-
bounded astonishment.
The child uttered a suppressed shriek on be-
holding this agreeable figure; in their first sur-
prise both she and the old man, not knowing
what to say, and half doubting its reality, looked
shrinkingly at it. Not at all disconcerted by
this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the same
attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with
great condescension. At length the old man
pronounced his name, and inquired how he
came there.
part |
est and most exquisite impatience.
lost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing him,
or indeed anybody else, when he could.
“Through the door,” said Quilp, pointing
over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m not
quite small enough to get through keyholes. I
wish I was. I want to have some talk with you
particularly, and in private—with nobody pre-
sent, neighbour. Good-bye, little Nelly.”
Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to
her to retire, and kissed her cheek.
“Ah !” said the dwarf, Smacking his lips,
“what a nice kiss that was—just upon the rosy
What a capital kiss 1'.' -
Nell was none the slower in going away for
this remark. Quilp looked after her with an
admiring leer, and, when she had closed the
door, ſell to complimenting the old m an upon
her charms. - •
“Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud,
neighbour,” said Quilp, nursing his short leg,
and making his eyes twinkle very much : “such
a chubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell "
The old man answered by a forced smile, and
was plainly struggling with a feeling of the keen-
It was not
“She's so,” said Quilp, speaking very slowly,
and feigning to be quite absorbed in the subject,
“So small, so compact, so beautifully modelled,
so fair, with such blue veins, and such a trans-
parent skin, and such little feet, and such win-
ning ways But bless me, you're nervous !
Why, neighbour, what's the matter? I swear to
you,” continued the dwarf, dismounting from
the chair and sitting down in it, with a careful
slowness of gesture very different from the rapid-
ity with which he had sprung up unheard, “I
Swear to you that I had no idea old blood ran
so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was slug-
gish in its course, and cool, quite codl. I am
pretty sure it ought to be. Yours must be out
of order, neighbour.” -
“I believe it is,” groaned the old man, clasp-
ing his head with both hands. “There's burning
fever here, and something now and then to which
I fear to give a name.” t
The dwarf said never a word, but watched his
companion as he paced restlessly up and down
the room, and presently returned to his seat.
Here he remained, with his head bowed upon
his breast for some time, and then suddenly
raising it, said:
“Once, and once for all, have you brought
me any money?”
“No 1" returned Quilp.
“Then,” said the old man, clenching his
hands desperately, and looking upward, “the
child and I are lost l” a'
7A/E MYSTEA" Y MADE PAEA JAV. 37
“Neighbour,” said Quilp, glancing sternly at
him, and beating his hand twice or thrice upon
the table to attract his wandering attention, “let
me be plain with you, and play a fairer game
than when you held all the cards, and I saw but
the backs and nothing more. You have no
secret from me now.” -
The old man looked up trembling.
“You are surprised,” said Quilp. “Weil,
perhaps that's natural. You have no secret
from me now, I say ; no, not one. For now I
know that all those sums of money, that all
“HE SOON CAST HIS EYES UPON A CHAIR,
ºr N
INTO WHICH HE SKIPPED WITH UN.com Mon AG (LITY, AND,
those loans, advances, and supplies that you:
have had from me, have found their way to
Shall I say the word P.”
“Ay!” replied the old, man, “say it if you
will.”
“To the gaming-table,” rejoined Quilp, “your
nightly haunt. This was the precious scheme
to make your fortune, was it ; this was the secret
certain source of wealth in which I was to have
sunk my money (if I had been the fool you took
me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of
gold, your El Dorado, eh?”
PERCHING HIMSELF ON THE BACK WITH HIS FEET UPON THE SEAT, WAS THUS ENABLED TO Look ON.”
j
“Yes,” cried the old man, turning upon him
with gleaming eyes, “it was. It is. It will be
t]] I die.”
“That I should have been blinded,” said
Quilp, looking contemptuously at him, “by a
mere shallow gambler . "
“I am no gambler,” cried the old man fiercely.
“I call' Heaven to witness that I never played
for gain of mine, or love of play; that, at every
piece I staked, I whispered to myself that
orphan's name, and called on Heaven to bless
the venture;—which it never did. Whom did
it prosper ? Who were those with whom I
played P Men who lived by plunder, profli-
gacy, and riot ; squandering their gold in doing
ill, and propagating vice and evil. My winnings
would have been from them, my winnings would
have been bestowed to the last farthing on a
young sinless child whose life they would have
sweetened and made happy. What would they
have contracted 2 The means of corruption,
wretchedness, and misery. Who would not
have hoped in such a cause—tell me that P
Who would not have hoped as I did P.”
…




38 7THE OLD CURYOSZZ"Y SA/OA.
“When did you first begin this mad career?”
asked Quilp, his taunting inclination subdued,
for a moment, by the old man's grief and wild-
DeSS.
“When did I first begin P” he rejoined, pass-
ing his hand across his brow. “When was it
that I first began P. When should it be, but
when I began to think how little I had saved,
how long a time it took to save at all, how short
a time I might have at my age to live, and how
she would be left to the rough mercies of the
world, with barely enough to keep her from the
sorrows that wait on poverty P Then it was
that I began to think about it.”
“After you first came to me to get your pre-
cious grandson packed off to sea P” said Quilp.
“Shortly after that,” replied the old man. “I
thought of it a long time, and had it in my sleep
for months. Then I began. I found no plea-
sure in it, I expected none. What has it ever
brought to me but anxious days and sleepless
nights; but loss of health and peace of mind,
and gain of feebleness and sorrow?”
“You lost what money you had laid by, first,
and then came to me. While I thought you
were making your fortune (as you said you were),
you were making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear
me! And so it comes to pass that I hold every
security you could scrape together, and a bill of
sale upon the—upon the stock and property,”
said Quilp, standing up and looking about him,
as if to assure himself that none of it had been
taken away. “But did you never win P”
“Never !” groaned the old man. “Never
! }}
won back my loss : -
“I thought,” sneered the dwarf, “that if a
man played long enough he was sure to win at
last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser.”
“And so he is,” cried the old man, suddenly
rousing himself from his state of despondency,
and lashed into the most violent excitement,
“so he is; I have felt that from the first, I have
always known it, I’ve seen it, I never felt it half
so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have
dreamed, three nights, of winning the same large
sum. I never could dream that dream before,
though I have often tried. Do not desert me,
now I have this chance. I have no resource
but you, give me some help, let me try this one
last hope.” -
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook
his head. º
“See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,” said
the old man, drawing some scraps of paper from
his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping
the dwarf's arm, “only see here. Look at these
figures, the result of long calculation, and painful
time had not come then.
the person."
and hard experience. I must win. I onywal
a little help once more, a few pounds, but two
score pounds, dear Quilp.”
“The last advance was seventy,” said the
dwarf, “and it went in one night.”
“I know it did,” answered the old man, “but
that was the very worst fortune of all, and th
Quilp, consider, con:
sider,” the old man cried, trembling so much th
while, that the papers in his hand fluttered as ;
they were shaken by the wind, “that orphan
child : If I were alone, I could die with glad-
ness—perhaps even anticipate that doom which
is dealt out so unequally : coming, as it does, on
the proud and happy in their strength, and shun-
ning the needy and afflicted, and all who court
it in their despair—but what I have done has
been for her. Help me for her sake, I implore
you—not for mine, for hers . " -
“I’m sorry I've got an appointment in the
City,” said Quilp, looking at his watch with per-
fect self-possession, “ or I should have been very
glad to have spent half an hour with vou while
you composed yourself—very glad.”
“Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,” gasped the old
man, catching at his skirts—“you and I have
talked together, more than once, of her poor
mother's story. The fear of her coming to
poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that.
Do not be hard upon me, but take that into ac-
count. You are a great gainer by me. Oh,
spare me the money for this one last hope 1"
“I couldn't do it really,” said Quilp with un-
usual politeness, “though I tell you what—and
this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind, as
showing how the sharpest among us may be
taken in sometimes—I was so deceived by the
penurious way in which you lived, alone with
Nelly 5 p. * .
“All done to save money for tempting for-
tune, and to make her triumph greater,” cried
the old man. .
“Yes, yes, l, understand that now,” said
Quilp : “but I was going to say, I was so de-
ceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation
you had among those who knew you of being
rich, and your repeated assurances that you
would make of my advances treble and quadru-
ple the interest you paid me, that I'd have ad-
vanced you, even now, what you want, on your
simple note of hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly
become acquainted with your secret way of
life.” &
“Who is it,” retorted the old man despe-
rately, “that, notwithstanding all my caution,
told you? Come. . Let me know the name—
-*
Azz AZ AOME. 39
- . . . .
The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his
giving up the child would lead to the disclosure
of the artifice he had employed, which, as no-
thing was to be gained by it, it was well to con-
ceal, stopped short in his answer and said, “Now,
who do you think?”
“It was Kit, it must have been the boy: he
played the spy, and you tampered with him P”
said the old man.
“How came you to think of him P” said the
dwarf in a tone of great commiseration. “Yes,
it was Kit. Poor Kit l” .
So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner,
and took his leave; stopping when he had passed
the outer door a little distance, and grinning
with extraordinary delight.
“Poor Kit " muttered Quilp. “I think it
was Kit who said I was an uglier dwarf than
could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it?
Ha, ha, ha / Poor Kit !”
And with that he went his way, still chuckling
as he went.
CHAPTER x.
left the old man's house unobserved.
In the shadow of an archway nearly
opposite, leading to one of the many
º; passages which diverged from the
main street, there lingered one who,
jº having taken up his position when the
sº twilight first came on, still maintained it
with undiminished patience, and leaning against
the wall with the manner of a person who had
a long time to wait, and, being well used to it,
was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude
for the hour together. <- *
This patient lounger attracted little attention
from any of those who passed, and bestowed as
little upon them. His eyes were constantly
directed towards one object; the window at
which the child was accustomed to sit. If he
withdrew them for a moment, it was only to
glance at a clock in some neighbouring shop,
and then to strain his sight once more in the old
quarter with increased earnestness and attention.
It has been remarked that this personage
evinced no weariness in his place of conceal-
ment; nor did he, long as his waiting was. But,
as the time went on, he manifested some anxiety
and surprise, glancing at the clock more fre-
quently and at the window less hopefully than
before. At length, the clock was hidden from
his sight by some envious shutters, then the
church steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then
the quarter past, and then the conviction seemed
to obtrude itself on his mind that it was of no
use tarrying there any longer.
That the conviction was an unwelcome one,
and that he was by no means willing to yield to
it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the
spot; from the tardy steps with which he often
left it, still looking over his shoulder at the same
window; and from the precipitation with which
he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the
changing and imperfect light induced him to
suppose it had been softly raised. At length,
he gave the matter up, as hopeless for that night,
and suddenly breaking into a run as though to
force himself away, scampered off at hisºutmost
speed, nor once ventured to look behind him.
lest he should be tempted back again.
Without relaxing his pace, or stopping to take
breath, this mysterious individual dashed on
through a great many alleys and narrow ways,
until he at length arrived in a square paved
court, when he subsided into a walk, and, mak-
ing for a small house from the window of which
a light was shining, lifted the latch of the door
... and passed in.
“Bless us !” cried a woman, turning sharply
round, “who's that P Oh I It's you, Kit !”
“Yes, mother, it's me.”
“Why, how tired you look, my dear ! .
“Old master ain't gone out to-night,” said
Kit; “and so she hasn't been at the window at
all.” With which words, he sat down by the
fire, and looked very mournful and discontented.
The room in which Kit sat himself down, in
this condition, was an extremely poor and homely
place, but with that air of comfort about it, never-
theless, which—or the spot must be a wretched
one indeed—cleanliness and order can always
impart in some degree. Late as the Dutch
clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still
hard at work at an ironing table ; a young child
lay sleeping in a cradle near the fire; and
another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old,
very wide awake, with a very tight nightcap on
his head, and a nightgown very much too small
for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in
a clothes-basket, staring over the rim with his
great round eyes, and looking as if he had tho-
roughly made up his mind never to go to sleep
any more; which, as he had already declined to
take his natural rest, and had been brought out
of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful pros-
pect for his relations and friends. It was rather
a queer-looking family: Kit, his mother, and the
children being all strongly alike?
Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the
best of us are too often—but he looked at the


40 THE O/CD CURYOS/TY SHOA.
youngest child who was sleeping soundly, and
from him to his other brother in the clothes-
basket, and from him to their mother, who had
been at work without complaint since morning,
and thought it would be a better and kinder
thing to be good-humoured. So he rocked the
cradle with his foot; made a face at the rebel in.
the clothes-basket, which put him in high good-
humour directly; and stoutly determined to be
talkative and make himself agreeable.
“Ah, mother 1" said Kit, taking out his clasp-
knife, and falling upon a great piece of bread
and meat which she had had ready for him,
hours before, “what a one you are There an’t
many spich as you, I know.”
“I hope there are many a great deal better,
Kit,” said Mrs. Nubbles; “and that there are,
or ought to be, accordin’ to what the parson at
chapel says.”
“Much he knows about it,” returned Kit
contemptuously. “Wait till he's a widder and
works like you do, and gets as little, and does
as much, and keeps his spirits up the same, and
then I'll ask him what's o'clock, and trust him
for being right to half a second.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Nubbles, evading the
*::: “your beer's down there by the fender,
it.”
“I see,” replied her son, taking up the porter
pot; “my love to you, mother.
son's healtli too if you like.
any malice, not I "
“Did you tell me, just now, that your master
hadn't gone out to-night P”
Nubbles.
“Yes,” said Kit, “worse luck.”
“You should say better luck, I think,” returned
his mother, “because Miss Nelly won't have
been left alone.”
“Ah!” said Kit, “I forgot that.
worse luck, because I've been watching ever
since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her.”
“I wonder what she'd say,” cried his mother,
stopping in her work, and looking round, “if
she knew that every night when she-poor
thing—is sitting alone at that window, you are
watching in. the open street for fear any harm
should come to her, and that you never leave
the place nor come home to your bed, though
you're ever so tired, till such time as you think
she's safe in hers.” -
“Never mind what she'd say,” replied Kit
with something like a blush on his uncouth face;
*: she'll never know nothing, and consequently,
she'll never say nothing.”
Mrs. Nubbles, ironed away in silence for a
Äminute or two, and coming to the fire-place for
And the par-
I don't bear him
inquired Mrs.
I said.
another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she
rubbed it on a board and dusted it with a duster,
but said nothing until she had returned to her
table again: when, holding the iron at an
alarmingly short distance from her cheek to test
its temperature, and looking round with a smile,
she observed :
“I know what some people would say, Kit—”
“Nonsense,” interposed Kit, with a perfect
apprehension of what was to follow.
“No, but they would indeed. Some people
would say that you'd fallen in love with her, I
know they would.” - -
To this Kit only replied by bashfully bidding
his mother “get out,” and forming sundry
strange figures with his legs and arms, accom-
panied by sympathetic contortions of his face.
Not deriving from these means the relief which
he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from
the bread and meat, and took a quick drink of
the porter; by which artificial aids he choked
himself, and effected a diversion of the subject.
“Speaking seriously, though, Kit,” said his
mother, taking up the theme afresh after a time,
“for of course I was only in joke just now, it's
very good and thoughtful, and like you, to do
this, and never let anybody know it, though
some day I hope she may come to know it, for
I’m sure she would be very grateful to you, and
feel it very much. It’s a cruel thing to keep the
dear child shut up there. I don’t wonder that
the old gentleman wants to keep it from you.”
“He don't think it's cruel, bless you,” said .
Kit, “and don’t mean it to be so, or he wouldn't
do it—I do consider, mother, that he wouldn't
do it for all the gold and silver in the world.
No, no, that he wouldn't. I know him better
than that.” *
“Then what does he do it for, and why does
he keep it so close from you ?” said Mrs.
Nubbles.
“That I don't know,” returned her son. “If
he hadn't tried to keep it so close, though, I
should never have found it out, for it was his
getting me away at night, and sending me off so
much earlier than he used to, that first made me
curious to know what was going on. Hark!
what's that?”
“It's only somebody outside.” -
“It's somebody crossing over here,” said Kit,
standing up to listen, “and coming very fast,
too. He can't have gone out after I left, and
the house caught fire, mother ſ”
The boy stood for a moment, really bereft, by
the apprehension he had conjured up, of the
power to move. The footsteps drew nearer, the
door was opened with a hasty hand, and the
K/7 DISCAARGED. . 41
child herself, pale and breathless, and hastily
wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried
into the room.
“Miss Nelly What is the matter?” cried
mother and son together.
“I must not stay a moment,” she returned;
“grandfather has been taken very ill. I found
him in a fit upon the floor 3y
“I’ll run for a doctor,” said Kit, seizing his
brimless hat. “I’ll be there directly, I'll—”
“No, no,” cried, Nell, “there is one there,
you're not wanted, you—you—must never come
near us any more "
“What l” roared Kit.
“Never again,” said the child.. “Don’t ask
me. why, for I don't know. Pray don't ask me
why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be. vexed
with me ! I have nothing to do with it in-
deed " .
Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched
wide; and opened and shut his mouth a great
many times; but couldn't get out one word.
“He complains and raves of you," said the
child. “I don't know what you have done, but
I hope it's nothing very bad. -
“J done P” roared Kit.
!' He cries that you're the cause of all his
misery,” returned the child with tearful eyes;
“he screamed and called for you; they say you
must not corne near him, or he will die. You
must not return to us any more. I came to
tell you. I thought it would be better that I
should come than somebody quite strange. Oh,
Kit, what have you done 2 you, in whom ' I
trusted so much, and who were almost the only
friend I had P”
The unfortunate Kit looked at his young
mistress harder and harder, and with eyes grow-
ing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless
and silent. -
“I have brought his money for the week,"
said the child, looking to the woman, and laying
it on the table—“ and—and—a little more, for
he was always good and kind to me. I hope he
will be sorry, and do well somewhere else, and
not take this to heart too much. It grieves
me very much to part with him like this, but
there is no help. It must be done. Good night!"
With the tears streaming down her face, and
her slight figure trembling with the agitation of
the scene she had left, the shock she had
received, the errand she had just discharged,
and a thousand painful and affectionate feelings,
the child hastened to the door, and disappeared
as rapidly as she had come.
The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt
her son, but every reason for relying on his
honesty and truth, was staggered, notwithstand-
ing, by his not having advanced one word-in his
defence. Visions of gallantry, knavery, robbery;
and of the nightly absences from home for which
he had accounted so strangely, having been
occasioned by some unlawful pursuit; flocked
into her brain and rendered her afraid to ques-
tion him. She rocked herself upon a chair,
wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, but
Kit made no attempt to comfort her, and re-
mained quite bewildered. The baby in the
cradle woke up and cried; the boy in the
clothes-basket fell over on his back with the
basket upon him, and was seen no more; the
mother wept louder yet, and rocked faster: but
Kit, insensible to all the din and tumult, re-
mained in a state of utter stupefaction.
..CHAPTER XI.
2\ hold uninterrupted rule no longer
N 7 beneath the roof that sheltered the
§4. child. Next morning, the old man
Šºšº was in a raging fever accompanied
& MVº with delirium ; and sinking under
tº the influence of this disorder, he lay for
&\º-many weeks in imminent peril of his life.
There was watching enough now, but it was the
watching of strangers who made a greedy trade
of it, and who, in the intervals of their attend-
ance upon the sick man, huddled together with
a ghastly good-fellowship, and ate and drank
and made merry ; for disease and death were
their ordinary household gods.
Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of such
a time, the child was more alone than she
had ever been before ; alone in spirit, alone
in her devotion to him who was wasting
away upon his burning bed; alone in her
unfeigned sorrow and her unpurchased sym-
pathy. Day after day, and night after night,
found her still by the pillow of the unconscious
sufferer, still anticipating his every want, still
listening to those repetitions of her name and
those anxieties and cares for her, which were
ever uppermost among his feverish wanderings.
The house was no longer theirs. Even the
sick chamber seemed to be retained on the un-
certain tenure of Mr. Quilp's favour. The old
man's illness had not lasted many days when he
{ ſº UIET and solitude were destined to
took formal possession of the premises, and all
upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to
that effect, which few understood and none pre-
sumed to call in question. This important step





42 - THE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP
secured, with the assistance of a man of law
whom he brought with him for the purpose, the
dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his
coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his
claim against all comers; and then set about
making his ouarters comfortable, after his own
fashion. -
To this end, Mr. Quilp encamped in the
back-parlour, having first put an effectual stop
to any further business by shutting up the shop.
Having looked out, from among the old furni-
ture, the handsomest and most commodious
chair he could possibly find (which he reserved
for his own use), and an especially hideous and
uncomfortable one (which he considerately ap-
propriated to the accommodation of his friend),
he caused them to be carried into this room, and
took up his position in great state. The apart-
ment was very far removed from the old man's
chamber, but Mr. Quilp deemed it prudent, as
a precaution against infection from fever, and a
means of wholesome fumigation, not only to
smoke himself, without cessation, but to insist
upon it that his legal friend did the like. More-
over, he sent an express to the wharf for the
tumbling boy, who, arriving with all dispatch,
was enjoined to sit himself down in another
chair just inside the door, continually to smoke
a great pipe which the dwarf had provided for
the purpose, and to take it from his lips under
any pretence whatever, were it only for one
minute at a time, if he dared. These arrange-
ments completed, Mr. Quilp looked round him
with chuckling satisfaction, and remarked that
he called that comfort.
The legal gentleman, whose melodious name
was Brass, might have called it comfort also,
but for two drawbacks: one was, that he could
by no exertion sit easy in his chair, the seat of
which was very hard, angular, shippery, and
sloping; the other, that tobacco smoke always
caused him great internal discomposure and
annoyance. But as he was quite, a creature of
Mr. Quilp's, and had a thousand reasons for
conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile,
and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace
he could assume.
This Brass was an attorney of no very good
repute, from Bevis Marks, in the city of London;
he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a
Wen, a protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and
hair of a deep red. He wore a long black
Šurtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short
black trousers, high shoes, and cotton stock-
ings of a bluish grey. He had a cringing man-
her, but a very harsh voice; and his blandest
Smiles were so extremely forbidding, that to
have had his company under the least repulsive
circumstances, one would have wished him to
be out of temper that he might only scowl.
Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing
that he was winking very much in the anguish
of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered when
he happened to inhale its full flavour, and that
he constantly fanned the smoke from him, was
quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee.
“Smoke away, you dog,” said Quilp, turning
to the boy; “fill your pipe again and smoke it
fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put the seal-
ing-waxed end of it in the fire, and rub it red-
hot upon your tongue.”
Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would
have smoked a small lime-kiln if anybody had
treated him with it. Wherefore, he only mut-
tered a brief defiance of his master, and did as
he was ordered.
“Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do
you feel like the Grand Turk?” said Quilp.
Mr. Brass thought that, if he did, the Grand
Turk's feelings were by no means to be envied,
but he said it was famous, and he had no doubt
he felt very like that Potentate:
“This is the way to keep off fever,” said
Quilp, “this is the way to keep off every ca-
lamity of life I We'll never leave off, all the
time we stop here. Smoke away, you dog, or
you shall swallow the pipe . "
“Shall we stop here long, Mr. Quilp ?” in-
quired his legal friend, when the dwarf had
given his boy this gentle admonition.
“We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentie-
man up-stairs is dead,” returned Quilp.
“He, he, he ” laughed Brass, “Oh, very
good 1"
“Smoke away cried Quilp. “Never
stop ! You can talk as you smoke. Don't
lose time.” -
“He, he, he " cried Brass faintly, as he
again applied himself to the odious pipe.
“But if he should get better, Mr. Quilp ?”
“Then we shall stop till he does, and no
longer,” returned the dwarf. -- -
“How kind it is of you, sir, to wait till then "
said Brass. “Some people, sir, would have sold
or removed the goods—oh dear! the very in-
stant the law allowed 'em." Some people, sir,
would have been all flintiness and granite. Some
people, sir, would have yy
“Some people would have spared themselves
the jabbering of such a parrot as you,” interposed
the dwarf.
“He, he, he "
such spirits 1'.'
The smoking sentinel at the door interposed
cried Brass. “You have
MR. QUIZA' ZAKES ZO HIS AAEA). - 43
in this place, and without taking his pipe from
his lips, growled : -
“Here's the gal a-coming down.”
“The what, you dog?” said Quilp.
“The gal.” returned the boy. “Are you
deaf P”
“Oh ſ* said Quilp, drawing in his breath
with great relish as if he were taking soup, “you
and I will have such a settling presently; there's
such a scratching and bruising in store for you,
my dear young friend Aha! Nelly How is
he now, my duck of diamonds P”
“He’s very bad,” replied the weeping child.
“What a pretty little Nell l’ cried Quilp.
“Oh, beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed ' " said
Brass. “Quite charming !”
“Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee,”
said the dwarf in what he meant to be a sooth-
ing tone, “ or is she going to bed in her own
little room inside here—which is poor Nelly
going to do P” - &
“What a remarkable pleasant way he has
with children : ” muttered Brass, as if in confi-
dence between himself and the ceiling ; “upon
my word it's quite a treat to hear him.” -
“I’m not going to stay at all,” faltered Nell.
“I want a few things out of that room, and
then I–I—won't come down here any more.”
“And a very nice little room it is ” said the
dwarf, looking into it as the child entered.
“Quite a bower
to use it ; you're sure you're not coming back,
Nelly P" - .
“No,” replied the child, hurrying away with
the few articles of dress she had come to re-
move ; “never again Never again.”
“She's very sensitive,” said Quilp, looking
after her. “Very sensitive; that's a pity. The
bedstead is much about my size. I think I
shall make it my little room.”
Mr. Brass encouraging this idea, as he would
have encouraged any other emanating from the
same source, the dwarf walked in to try the
effect. This he did, by throwing himself on his
back upon the bed with his pipe in his mouth,
and then kicking up his legs and smoking vio-
lently. Mr. Brass applauding this picture very
much, and the bed being soft and comfortable,
Mr. Quilp determined to use it, both as a sleep-
ing-place by night and as a kind of Divan by
day; and in order that it might be converted to
the latter purpose at once, remained where he
Was, and smoked his pipe out. The legal gentle-
man, being by this time rather, giddy and per-
plexed in his ideas (for this was one of the ope-
rations of the tobacco on his nervous system),
took the opportunity of slinking away into the
You're sure you're not going
open air, where, in course of time, he recovered
sufficiently to return with a countenance of
tolerable composure. He was soon led on by
the malicious dwarf to smoke himself into a re-
lapse, and in that state stumbled upon a settee,
where he slept till morning.
Such were Mr. Quilp's first proceedings on
entering upon his new property. He was, for
some days, restrained by business from perform-
ing any particular pranks, as his time was pretty
well occupied between taking, with the assist-
ance of Mr. Brass, a minute inventory of all the
goods in the place, and going abroad upon his
other concerns, which happily engaged him for
several hours at a time. His avarice and cau.
tion being now thoroughly awakened, however,
he was never absent from the house one night;
and his eagerness for some termination, good or
bad, to the old man's disorder, increasing rapidly
as the time passed by, soon began to vent itself
in open murmurs and exclamations of impa-
tience.
Nell shrunk timidly from all the dwarf's ad-
vances towards conversation, and fled from the
very sound of his voice ; nor were the lawyer's
Smiles less terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces.
She lived in such continual dread and apprehen-
sion of meeting one or other of them on the
stairs or in the passages, if she stirred from her
grandfather's chamber, that she seldom left it,
for a moment, until late at night, , hen the
silence encouraged her to venture forth and
breathe the purer air of some empty room.
One night she had stolen to her usual window,
and was sitting there very sorrowfully—for the
old man had been worse that day—when she
thought she heard her name pronounced by a
voice in the street. Looking down, she recog-
nised Kit, whose endeavours to attract her
attention had roused her from her sad reflec-
tions. .
“Miss Nell " said the boy in a low voice.
“Yes,” replied the child, doubtful whether
she ought to hold any communication with the
supposed culprit, but inclining to her old favour-
ite still ; “what do you want?’, *
“I have wanted to say a word to you for a
long time,” the boy replied, “but the people
below have driven me away, and wouldn't let
me see you. You don't believe—I hope you
don't really believe—that I deserve to be cast
off as I have been ; do you, miss P”
“I must believe it,” returned the child. “Or
why would grandfather have been so angry with
you?”
“I don't know,” replied Kit. “I’m sure I’ve
never deserved it from him, no, nor from you.
44; THE OLD CURIO.SYTY SAAop.
'I can say that with a true and honest heart,
anyway. And then to be driven from the door,
when I only came to ask how old master
was *
“They never told me that,” said the child.
“I didn't know it indeed. I wouldn't have had
them do it for the world.”
“Thankee, miss,” returned Kit; “it’s com-
fortable to hear you say that. I said I never
would believe that it was your doing.”
“That was right !” said the child eagerly.
- jy
you.
“Miss Nell,” cried the boy, coming under the
window, and speaking in a lower tone, “there
are new masters down-stairs. It's a change for
“It is indeed,” replied the child.
“And so it will be for him when he gets
better,” said the boy, pointing towards the sick-
IOOIn.
“If he ever does,” added the child, unable to
restrain her tears.
“Oh he'll do that, he'll do that,” said Kit.
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t ''. {\N ºn #2, 3 º' º
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“IS IT GOOD, BRASS, IS IT NICE, IS IT FRAGRANT P”
“I’m sure he will. , You mustn't be cast down,
Miss Nell. Now don't be, pray t”
These words of encouragement and consola-
tion were few and roughly said, but they affected
the child, and made her, for the moment, weep
the more. -
“He'll be sure to get better now,” said the
boy anxiously, “...if you don't give way to low
spirits, and turn ill yourself, which would make
him worse and throw him back, just as he was
recovering. When he does, say a good word—
say a kind word for me, Miss Nell !”
“They tell me I must not even mention your
name to him for a long, long time,” rejoined the
child. “I dare not; and even if I might, what
good would a kind word do you, Kit P. We
shall be very poor. We shall scarcely have
bread to eat.” -
“It's not that I may be taken back,” said the
boy, “that I ask the favour of you. It isn't for

K/7”.S FIDEZZZ"y. 45
the sake of food and wages that I’ve been wait-
ing about so long, in hopes to see you. Don't
think that I’d come in a time of trouble to talk
of such things as them.” . -
The child looked gratefully and kindly at him
but waited that he might speak again.
“No, it's not that,” said Kit, hesitating; “it’s
something very different from that. I haven't
got much sense, I know; but if he could be
brought to believe that I'd been a faithful ser-
vant to him, doing the best I could, and never
meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't jy
Here Kit faltered so long that the child en-
treated him to speak out, and quickly, for it was
very late, and time to shut the window.
“Perhaps he mightn't think it over-venture-
some of me to say—well, then, to say this,”
cried Kit with sudden boldness. “This home
is gone from you and him. Mother and I have
got a poor one, but that's better than this with
all these people here ; and why not come there
till he's had time to look about, and find a
better P’’ - i -
The child did not speak, Kit, in the relief
of having made his proposition, found his tongue
loosened, and spoke out in its favour with his
utmost eloquence.
“You think,” said the boy, “that it's very
Small and inconvenient. So it is, but it's very
clean. Perhaps you think it would be noisy, but
there's not a quieter court than ours in all the
town. Don't be afraid of the children; the baby
hardly ever cries, and the other one is very good
—besides, Y'd mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you
much, I'm sure. Do try, Miss Nell, do try.
The little front room up-stairs is very pleasant.
You can see a piece of the church clock through
the chimneys, and almost tell the time; mother
says it would be just the thing for you, and so it
would, and you'd have her to wait upon you
both, and me to run of errands.
mean money, bless you ; you're not to think of
that I Will you try him, Miss Nell? Only say
you'll try him. Do try to make old master
come, and ask him first what I have done—will
you only promise that, Miss Nell ?”
Before the child could reply to this earnest
Solicitation, the street-door opened, and Mr.
Brass, thrusting out his nightcapped head,
called, in a surly voice, “Who's there?" Kit
immediately glided away, and Nell, closing the
Window softly, drew back into the room.
Before Mr. Brass had repeated his inquiry
many times, Mr. Quilp, also embellished with a
nightcap, emerged from the same door, and
looked carefully up and down the street, and up
at all the windows of the house, from the oppo.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 4.
in which it dwelt.
We don't
site side. Finding that there was nobody in
sight, he presently returned into the house with
his legal friend, protesting (as the child heard
from the staircase) that there was a league and
plot against him ; that he was in danger of
being robbed and plundered by a band of con-
spirators who prowled about the house at all
seasons; and that he would delay no longer,
but take immediate steps for disposing of the
property and returning to his own peaceful roof.
Having growled forth, these, and a great many
other threats of the same nature, he coiled him-
self once more into the child's little bed, and
Nell crept softly up the stairs.
It was natural enough that her short and un-
finished dialogue with Kit should leave a strong
impression on her mind, and influence her
dreams that night and her recollections for a
long, long time. Surrounded by unfeeling
creditors, and mercenary attendants upon the
sick, and meeting in the height of her anxiety
and sorrow with little regard or sympathy even
from the women about her, it is not surprising
that the affectionate heart of the child should
have been touched to the quick by one kind
and generous spirit, however uncouth the temple
Thank Heaven that the
temples of such spirits are not made with hands,
and that they may be even more worthily hung
with poor patchwork than with purple and fine
linen
CHAPTER XII.
length, the crisis of the old man's
disorder was past, and he began to
mend. By very slow and feeble de-
grees his consciousness came back;
but the mind was weakened, and its
functions were impaired. He was pa-
tient and quiet ; often sat brooding,
but not despondently, for a long space;
was easily amused, even by a sunbeam on the
wall or ceiling ; made no complaint that the
days were long, or the nights tedious ; and
appeared indeed to have lost all count of time,
and every sense of care or weariness. He
would sit, for hours together, with Nell's small
hand in his, playing with the fingers, and stop-
ping sometimes to smooth her hair or kiss her
brow ; and, when he saw that tears were glisten-
ing in her eyes, would look, amazed, about him
for the cause, and forget his wonder even while
he looked.
The child and he rode out : the old man
propped up with pillows, and the child beside
252



46 THE ozo curroSITY SHOP
—A-
w- Wºr
-Yº,
him. They were hand-in-hand as usual. The
noise and motion in the streets fatigued his
brain at first, but he was not surprised, or
curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked
if he remembered this or that, “Oh yes,” he
said, “quite well—why not P." Sometimes he
turned his head, and looked, with earnest gaze
and outstretched neck, after some stranger in
the crowd, until he disappeared from sight; but,
to the question why he did this, he answered
not a word. -
He was sitting in his easy-chair one day, and
Nell upon a stool beside him, when a man out-
side the door inquired if he might enter.
“Yes,” he said without emotion, “it was Quilp,
he knew. Quilp was master there. . Of course
he might come in.”
And so he did.
“I’m
glad to see you well again at last,
neighbour,” said the dwarf, sitting down oppo-,
site to him. “You're quite strong now P”
“Yes,” said the old man feebly, “yes.”
“I don't want to hurry you, you know, neigh-
bour,” said the dwarf, raising his voice, for the
old man's senses were duller than they had
been ; “but as soon as you can arrange your
future proceedings, the better.”
“Surely,” said the old man. “The better
for all parties.”
“You see,” pursued Quilp after a short pause,
“the goods being once removed, this house
uninhabitable, in .
would be uncomfortable;
fact.”
“You say true,” returned the old man.
“Poor Nell, too, what would she do P”
“Exactly,” bawled the dwarf, nodding his
head; “that's very well observed. . Then will
you consider about it, neighbour?” 8
“I will, certainly,” replied the old man. “We
shall not stop here.” -
“So I supposed,” said the dwarf. “I have
sold the things. They have not yielded quite,
as much as they might have done, but pretty
well—pretty, well. To-day's Tuesday. When
shall they be moved? There's no hurry—shall
we say this afternoon P”
“Say Friday morning,” returned the old man.
“Very good,” said the dwarf. “So be it,
with the understanding that I can't go beyond
that day, neighbour, on any account.”
“Good,” returnéd the old man: , “I shall
remember it.” . *
Mr. Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the
strange, even, 'spiritless way. in which all this
was said; but, as the old-man:nodded his head
and repeated “on Friday morning: I shalls re-
member it,” he had no excuse for dwelling on
the subject any further, and so took a friendly
—sº zº-
leave, with many expressions of good-will and
many compliments to his friend, on his looking
so remarkably well ; and went below-stairs to
report progress to Mr. Brass.
All that day, and all the next, the old, man
remained in this state. He wandered up and
down the house, and into and out of the various
rooms, as if with some vague intent of bidding
them adieu, but he referred neither by direct
allusions nor in any other manner to the inter-
view of the morning, or the necessity of finding
some other shelter. ... An indistinct idea he had
that the child was desolate and in want of help;
for he often drew her to his bosom, and bade
her be of good cheer, saying that they would not
desert, each other ; but he seemed unable to
contemplate their real position more distinctly,
and was still the listless, passionless creature
that suffering of mind and body had left him. .
We call this a state of childishness, but it is
the same poor hollow mockery of it that death
is of sleep. Where, in the dull eyes of doting
men, are the laughing light and life of childhood,
the gaiety that has known no check, the frank.
ness that has felt no chill, the hope that has
never withered, the joys that fade in blossom-
‘ing? Where, in the sharp lineaments of rigid
and unsightly death, is the calm beauty of
slumber, telling of rest for the waking hours that
are past, and gentle hopes and loves for those
which are to come Lay death and sleep down
side by side, and say who shall find the two
akin P Send forth the child and childish man
together, and blush for the pride that libels our
own: old happy state, and gives its title to an
ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration
in the old man. But, a change came upon him
that evening, as he and the child sat silently to.
gether.
,In a small dull yard below his window there
was a tree—green and flourishing enough, for
such a place—and as the air stirred among its
leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white
wall. The old man sat watching the shadows
as they trembled in this patch of light, until the
sun went down; and when it was night, and the
moon was slowly rising, he still sat in the same
spot.
To one who had been tossing on a restless
| bed so long, even these few green leaves and
this tranquil light, although it languished among
chimneys and housetops, were pleasant things,
They suggested quiet places aſar off, and rest,
and peace. .
The child thought, more than once, that hº
was moved: and had forborne to speak. But
THE DAWN of A BETTER DAY
now, he shed tears—tears that it lightened her ||
and down together, and never part more until
Death took one or other of the twain.
aching heart to see—and making as though he
would fall upon his knees, besought her to for-
give him. . - -
“Forgive you—what?” said Nell, interpos-
ing to prevent his purpose. “Oh, grandfather.
what should I forgive P” -
“All that is past, all that has come upon
thee, Nell, all that was done in that uneasy
dream,” returned the old man.
“Do not talk so,” said the child.
not. Let us speak of something else.”
“Yes, yes, we will,” he rejoined. “And it
shall be of what we talked of long ago—many
months—months is it, or weeks, or days?
Which is it, Nell?" •
“I do not understand you,” said the child.
“It has come back upon me to-day, it has all
come back since we have been sitting here. I
bless thee for it, Nell !” * -
“For what, dear grandfather ?”
“For what you said when we were first made
beggars, Nell. Let us speak softly. Hush
for, if they knew out purpose down-stairs, they
would cry that I was mad, and take thee from
me. We will not stop here another day.
will go far away from here.” .
“Yes, let us go,” said the child earnestly.
“Let us begone from this place, and never turn
back or think of it again. Let us wander bare-
foot through the world, rather than linger here.”
“We will,” answered the old man, “we will
travel afoot through the fields and woods, and
by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God
in the places where He dwells. It is far better
to lie down at night beneath an open sky, like
that yonder—see how bright it is l—than to rest
in close rooms which are always full of care and
weary dreams.
be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to forget
'this time, as if it had never been.”
“We will be happy,” cried the child!: “We
never can be here.”
“No, we never can again—never again—
that's truly said,” rejoined the old man. “Let
us, steal away to-morrow morning—early and
Softly, that we may not be seen or heard—and
eave no trace or track for them to follow by.
Poor Nell
are heavy with watching and weeping—with
Watching and weeping for me—I know—for me;
but thou wilt be well again, and merry too, when
We are far away. To-morrow morning, dear,
We'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow,
and be as free and happy as the birds.”
And then the old man clasped his hands
above her head, and said, in a few broken words,
“Pray do
We
Thou and I together, Nell, may
Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes
º,
*
*
47
that from that time forth they would wander up
The child's heart beat high with hope and con-
fidence. She had no thought of hunger, ot"cold,
or thirst, or suffering. She saw in this but a return
of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed.
a relief from the gloomy solitude in which she
had ſived, an escape from the heartless people
by whom she had been surrounded in her late
time of trial, the restoration of the old man’s
health and peace, and a life of tranquil happi-
ness. Sun and stream, and meadow and summer
days, shone brightly in her view, and there was
no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.
The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly
in his bed, and she was yet busily engaged in
preparing for their flight. There were a few
articles of clothing for herself to carry, and a few
for him ; old garments, such as became their
fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a staff to
support his feeble steps, put ready for his use.
But this was not all her task, for now she must
visit the old rooms for the last time. -
And how different the parting with them was
from any she had expected, and most of all from
that which she had oftenest pictured to herself
How could she ever have thought of bidding
them farewell in triumph, when the recollection
of the many hours she had passed among them
rose to her swelling heart, and made her feel the
wish a cruelty : lonely and sad though many of
those hours had been P. She sat down at the
window where she had spent so many evenings—
darker far than this—and every thought of hope
or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that
place came vividly upon her mind, and blotted
out all its dull and mournful associations in an
instant.
Her own little room, too, where she had so
often knelt down and prayed at night—prayed
for the time which she hoped was dawning now
—the little room where she had slept so peace-
fully, and dreamed such pleasant dreams—it was
hard not to be able to glance round it once
more, and to be forced to leave it without one
kind look or grateful tear.
There were Some
trifles there—poor useless things—that she
would have liked to take away; but that was im-
possible.
This brought to her mind her bird, her poor
bird, who hung there yet. She wept bitterly for
the loss of this little creature—until the idea oc-
curred to her—she did not know how, or why, it "
came into her head—that it might, by some
means, fall into the hands of Kit, who would
keep it for her sake, and think, perhaps, that
48 ZHE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOA
she had left\it behind in the hope that he might
have it, and as an assurance that she was grate-
ful to him. She was calmed and comforted by
the thought, and went to rest with a lighter
heart. -
From many dreams of rambling through light
and sunny places, but with some vague object
unattained which ran indistinctly through them
all, she awoke to find that it was yet night, and
that the stars were shining brightly in the sky.
At length the day began to glimmer, and the
stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was
sure of this she arose, and dréssed herself for
the journey.
The old man was yet asleep, and as she was
unwilling to disturb him, she left him to slumber
on until the sun rose. He was anxious that they
should leave the house without a minute's loss
of time, and was soon ready. -
The child, then took him by the hand, and
they trod lightly and cautiously down the stairs,
trembling whenever a board creaked, and often
stopping to listen. The old man had forgotten
a kind of wallet which contained the light burden
he had to carry; and the going back a few steps
to fetch it seemed an interminable delay.
At last they reached the passage on the
ground-floor, where the snoring of Mr. Quilp and
his legal friend sounded more terrible in their
ears than the roars of lions. The bolts of the
door were rusty, and difficult to unfasten without
noise. When they were all drawn back, it was
found to be locked, and, worst of all, the key
was gone. Then the child remembered, for the
first time, one of the nurses having told her that
Quilp always locked both the house-doors at
night, and kept the keys, on the table in his
bedroom.
It was not without great fear and trepidation
that little Nell slipped off her shoes, and gliding
thröugh the store-room of old curiosities, where
Mr. Brass—the ugliest piece of goods in all the
stock—lay sleeping on a mattress, passed into
her own little chamber.
Here she stood, for a few moments, quite
transfixed with terror at the sight of Mr. Quilp,
who was hanging so far out of bed that he almost
seemed to be standing on his head, and who,
either from the uneasiness of his posture, or in
one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and
growling with his mouth wide open, and the
whites (or rather the dirty yellows) of his eyes
distinctly visible. It was no time, however, to
ask whether anything ailed him; so, possessing
herself of the key after one hasty glancé about
the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr. Brass,
she rejoined the old man in safety. They got
then at her again, and shook his head.
vigour and became more importunate, as if "
the door open without noise, and passing into
the street, stood still.
“Which way?” said the child.
The old man looked, irresolutely and help.
lessly, first at her, then to the right and left,
It was
plain that she was thenceforth his guide and
leader. The child felt it, but had to doubts or
misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led him
gently away.
, It was the beginning of a day in June; the
deep blue sky unsullied by a cloud, and teeming
with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet,
nearly free from passengers, the houses and
shops were closed, and the healthy air of morn-
ing fell like breath from angels on the sleeping
to Wn. -
The old man and the child passed on through
the glad silence, elate with hope and pleasure.
They were alone together, once again; every
object was bright and fresh ; nothing reminded
them, otherwise than by contrast, of the mono-
tony and constraint they had left behind; church
towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other
times, now shone and dazzled in the sun; each
humble nook and corner rejoiced in light; and
the sky, dimmed only by excessive distance, shed
its placid smile on everything beneath. -
Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered,
went the two poor adventurers, wandering they
knew not whither. -
A
-º-
CHAPTER XIII.
§y ANIEL QUILP of Tower Hill, and
Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks, in
Al/ the city of London, Gentleman, one
16% of her Majesty's attorneys of the
§ Courts of King's Bench and Com-
2% mon Pleas at Westminster and a
solicitor of the High Court of Chancery,
slumbered on, unconscious and unsus-
picious of any mischance, until a knoeking at
the street-door, often repeated and gradually
mounting up from a modest single rap to a per
fect battery of knocks, fired in long discharges
with a very short interval between, caused the
said Daniel Quilp to struggle into a horizontal
position, and to stare at the ceiling with a drowsy
indifference, betokening that he heard the nois;
and rather wondered at the same, but couldn'
be at the trouble of bestowing any further
thought upon the subject.
As the knocking, however, instead of acco.
modating itself to his lazy state, increased in


PUGIZIszyc SKILL OF Mr. SWIVEZZER. 49
earnest remonstrance against his falling asleep
again, now that he had once opened his eyes,
Daniel Quilp began by degrees to comprehend
the possibility of there being somebody at the
door; and thus he gradually came to recollect
that it was Friday morning, and he had ordered
Mrs. Quilp to be in waiting upon him at an early
hour.
Mr. Brass, after writhing about in a great
many strange attitudes, and often twisting his
face and eyes into an expression like that which
is usually produced by eating gooseberries very
early in the season, was by this time awake also.
Seeing that Mr. Quilp invested himself in his
every-day garments, he hastened to do the like,
putting on his shoes before his stockings, and
thrusting his legs into his coat-sleeves, and making
such other small mistakes in his toilet as are not
uncommon to those who dress in a hurry, and
labour under the agitation of having been sud-
denly roused.
While the attorney was thus engaged, the
dwarf was groping under the table, muttering
desperate imprecations on himself, and mankind
in general, and all inanimate objects to boot,
which suggested to Mr. Brass the question,
“What's the matter P”
“The key,” said the dwarf, looking viciously
at him, “the door-key, that's the matter. D'ye
know anything of it?”
“How should I know anything of it, sir?”
returned Mr. Brass.
“How should you ?” repeated Quilp with a
sneer. “You're a nice lawyer, an’t you? Ugh,
you idiot l” -
Not caring to represent to the dwarf, in his
present humour, that the loss of a key by
another person could scarcely be said to affect
his (Brass's) legal knowledge in any material
degree, Mr. Brass humbly suggested that it must
have been forgotten overnight, and was, doubt-
less, at that moment in its native keyhole.
Notwithstanding that Mr. Quilp had a strong
conviction to the contrary, founded on his recol-
lection of having carefully taken it out, he was
ſain to admit that this was possible, and there-
fore went grumbling to the door, where, sure
enough, he found it. -
Now, just as Mr. Quilp laid his hand upon
the lock, and saw with great astonishment that
the fastenings were undone, the knocking came
again with most irritating violence, and the day-
light which had been shining through the key-
hole was intercepted on the outside by a human
eye. The dwarf was very much exasperated,
and, wanting somebody to wreak his ill-humour
upon, determined to dart out suddenly, and
—r-
favour Mrs. Quilp with a gentle acknowledg-
ment of her attention in making that hideous
uproar.
With this view, he drew back the lock very
silently and softly, and, opening the door all at
once, pounced out upon the person on the other
side, who had at that moment raised the knocker
for another application, and at whom the dwarf
ran head first : throwing out his hands and feet
together, and biting the air in the fulness of his
malice.
So far, however, from rushing upon some-
body who offered no resistance and implored
his mercy, Mr. Quilp was no sooner in the arms
of the individual whom he had taken for his
wife than he found himself complimented with
two staggering blows on the head, and two
more, of the same quality, in the chest ; and
closing with his assailant, such a shower of
buffets rained down upon his person as sufficed
to convince him that he was in skilful and
experienced hands. Nothing daunted by this
reception, he clung tight to his opponent, and
bit and hammered away with such good-will and
heartiness, that it was at least a couple of
minutes before he was dislodged. Then, and
not until then, Daniel Quilp found himself, all
flushed and dishevelled, in the middle of the
street, with Mr. Richard Swiveller performing a
| kind of dance round him, and requiring to know
“whether he wanted any more.”
“There's plenty more of it at the same shop,”
said Mr. Swiveller, by turns advancing and re-
treating in a threatening attitude, “a large and
extensive assortment always on hand—country
orders executed with promptitude and dispatch
—will you have a little more, sir?—don't say
no, if you'd rather not.” -
“I thought it was somebody else,” said Quilp,
rubbing his shoulders. “Why didn't you say
who you were P”
“Why didn't you say who you were,” returned
Dick, “instead of flying out of the house like a
Bedlannite P”
“It was you that—that knocked,” said the
dwarf, getting up with a short groan, “was it?”
“Yes, I am the man,” replied Dick. “That
lady had begun when I came, but she knocked
too soft, so I relieved her.” As he said this, he
pointed towards Mrs. Quilp, who stood trembling
at a little distance. .
“Humph 1” muttered the dwarf, darting an
angry look at his wife, “I thought it was your
fault | And you, sir—don't you know there has
been somebody ill here, that vou knock as if
you’d beat the door down P” -
“Damme !” answered Dick, “that's why I
so
THE OLD curroSITY SHOP
did it. I thought there was somebody dead
here.”
“You came for some purpose, I suppose,”
said Quilp. “What is it you want?” e
- “I want to know how the old gentleman is,”
rejoined Mr. Swiveller, “and to hear from Nell
herself, with whom I should-like to have a little
talk. I'm a friend of the family, sir, at least,
I'm the friend of one of the family, and that's
the same thing.”
“You’d better walkin, then,” said.the dwarf.
“Go on, sir, go on. Now, Mrs. Quilp—after
you, ma'am.” ... . . .
Mrs. Quilp hesitated, but Mr. Quilp insisted.
And it was not a contest of politeness, or by
any means a matter of form, for she knew very
well that hes husband wished to enter the house
in this order, that he might have a favourable
opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her
arms, which were seldom free from in pressions
of his fingers in black and blue colòurs. Mr.
Swiveller, who was not in the secret, was a little
surprised to hear a suppressed scream, and, look-
ing round, to see Mrs. Quilp following him with
a sudden jerk; but he did not remark on these
appearances, and soon forgot them.
“Now, Mrs. Quilp,” said the dwarf when they
had entered the shop, “go you up-stairs, if you
please. to Nelly's room, and tell her that she's
wanted.”
“You seem to make yourself at home here,”
said Dick, who was unacquainted with Mr.
Quilp's authority.
“I am at home, young gentleman,” returned
the dwarf.
Dick was pondering what these words might
mean, and still more what the presence of Mr.
Brass might mean, when Mrs. Quilp came hurry-
ing down-stairs, déclaring that the rooms above
were empty.
“Empty, you fool!” said the dwarf.
“I give you my word, Quilp,” answered his
trembling wife, “that I have been into every
room, and there's not a soul in any of them.”
“And that,” said Mr. Brass, clapping his
hands once with an emphasis, “explains the
mystery of the key !”
Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frown-
ingly at his wife, and frowningly at Richard
Swiveller ; but, receiving no enlightenment from
any of them, hurried up-stairs, whence he soon
hurried down again, confirming the report which
had been already made. -
“It’s a strange way of going,” he said, glancing
at Swiveller: “very strange not to communicate
with me, who am such a close and intimate
friend of his 1 "Ah! he'll write to me, no doubt,
h
or he'll bid Nelly write—yes, yes, that's what
he'll do. Nelly's very fond of me. Pretty
Nell " - -
Mr. Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-
mouthed astonishment. Still glancing furtively
at him, Quilp turned to Mr. Brass and observed,
with assumed carelessness, that this need not
interfere with the removal of the goods. -
“For indeed,” he added, “we knew that
they'd go away to-day, but not that they'd go so
early or so quietly. But they have their reasons,
they have their reasons.” .
“Where in the devil's name are they gone?”
said the wondering Dick.
Quilp shook his head and pursed up his lips
in a manner which implied that he knew very
well, but was not at liberty to say.
“And what,” said Dick, looking at the con-
fusion about him, “what do you mean by mov-
ing the goods P”
“That I have bought 'em, sir,”
Quilp. “Eh P What then P” -
“Has the sly old fox made his fortune, then, and
gone to live in a tranquil cot in a pleasant spot
with a distant view of the changing sea P” said
Dick in great bewilderment. .
“Keeping his place of retirement very close,
that he may not be visited too often by affec-
tionate grandsons and their devoted friends,
eh P” added the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard.
“I say nothing, but is that your meaning P”
Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this
unexpected alteration of circumstances, which
threatened the complete overthrow of the project
in which he bore so conspicuous a part, and
seemed to nip his prospects in the bud. Having
only received from Frederick Trent, late on the
previous night, information of the old man's ill-
ness, he had come upon a visit of condolence
and inquiry to Nell, prepared with the first in-
stalment of that long train of fascinations which
was to fire her heart at last. And here, when he
had been thinking of all kinds of graceful and
insinuating approaches, and meditating on the
fearful retaliation which was slowly working
against Sophy Wackles—here were Nell, the old
man, and all the money gone, melted away, de-
camped he knew not whither, as if with a fore-
knowledge of the scheme and a resolution to de'
feat it in the very outset, before a step was taken.
In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both
surprised and troubled by the flight which had
been made. It had not escaped his keen eye
that some indispensable articles of clothing were
gone with the fugitives,...and, knowing the old
man's weak state of mind, he marvelled what
that course of proceeding might be in which he
rejoined
Mr. SWIVEzzer Discourſzep. - 51
had so readily procured the concurrence of the
child. It must not be supposed (or it would be
a gross injustice to Mr. Quilp) that he was tor-
tured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf of
either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving
that the old man had some secret store of money
which he had not suspected ; and the bare idea
of its escaping his clutches overwhelmed him
with mortification and self-reproach.
In this frame of mind it was some consolation
to him to find that Richard Swiveller was, for
different reasons, evidently irritated and disap-
pointed by the same cause. It was plain,
thought the dwarf; that he had come there, on
behalf of his friend, to cajole or frighten the old
man out of some small fraction of that wealth of
which they supposed him to have an abundance.
Therefore, it was a relief to vex his heart with a
picture of the riches the old man hoarded, and
to expatiate on his cunning in removing himself
even beyond the reach of importunity. r
“Well,” said Dick with a blank look, “I sub-
pose it's of no use my staying here.”
“Not the least in the world,” rejoined the
dwarf.
“You'll mention that I called, perhaps?” said
Dick.
Mr. Quilp nodded, and said he certainly
would, the very first time he saw them.
“And say,” added Mr. Swiveller, “ say, sir,
that I was wafted here upon the pinions of con-
cord ; that I came to remove, with the rake of
friendship, the seeds of mutual widlence and
heart-burning, and to sow in their place the
germs of social harmony. Will you have the
goodness to charge yourself with that commis-
sion, sir?” -
“Certainly 1° rejoined Quilp.
“Will you be kind enough to add to it, sir,”
said Dick, producing a very small limp card,
“that that is my address, and that I am to be
found at home every morning? Two distinct
knocks, sir, will produce the slavey at any time.
My particular friends, sir, are accustomed to
sneeze when the door is opened, to give her to
understand that they are my friends, and have
no interested motives in asking if I'm at home.
I beg your pardon; will you allow me to look at
that card again P” •,
“Oh by all means,” rejoined Quilp.
“By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir,”
Said Dick, substituting another in its stead, “I
had handed you the pass-ticket of a select
convivial circle called the Glorious Apollers,
of which I have the honour to be Perpetual
Srand. Zhat is the proper document, sir.
Good morning.” -
Quilp bade him good day; the Perpetual
Grand Master of the Glorious Apollers, elevat-
ing his hat in honors of Mrs. Quilp, dropped it
carelessly on the side of bis head again, and dis-
appeared with a flounsh.
By this time, certain vans had arrived for the
conveyance of the goods, and divers strong men
in caps were balancing chests of drawers and
other trifles of that nature upon their heads,
and performing muscular feats which heightened
their complexions considerably. Not to be be-
hindhand in the bustle, Mr. Quilp went to work
with surprising vigour; hustling and driving the
people about, like an evil spirit; setting Mrs.
Quilp upon all kinds of arduous and impracti.
cable tasks; carrying great weights up and down
with no apparent effort; kicking the boy from
the wharf whenever he could get near him ; and
inflicting, with his loads, a great many shy bumps
and blows on the shoulders of Mr. Brass, as he
stood upon the door-steps to answer all the in-
quiries of curious neighbours: which was his de-
partment. His presence and example diffused
such alacrity among the persons employed, that,
in a few hours, the house was emptied of every-
thing.but pieces of matting, empty porter pots.
and scattered fragments of straw.
Seated, like an African chief, on one of these
pieces of matting, the dwarf was regaling himself
in the parlour, with bread and cheese and beer,
when he observed, without appearing to do so,
that a boy was prying in at the outer door.
Assured that it was Kit, though he saw little
more than his nose, Mr. Quilp hailed him by his
name; whereupon Kit came in and demanded
what he wanted. *
“Come here, you sir,” said the dwarf. “Well,
so your old master and voung mistress have
gone?”
“Where P” rejoined Kit, looking round.
“Do you mean to say you don't know where?”
answered Quilp sharply. “Where have they
..gone, eh?”
“I don't know,” said Kit.
“Come,” retorted Quilp, “let’s have no more
of this. Do you mean to say that you don't
know they went away by stealth, as soon as it
was light this morning P”.
“No,” said the boy in evident surprise.
“You don't know that P” cried Quilp.
“Don’t I know that you were hanging about
the house the other night, like a thief, eh?
Weren't you told then P”
“No,” replied the boy. º,
“You were not P” said Quilp. “What were
you told then ; what were you talking about P”
Kit, who knew no particular reason why he
52 7 HE OLD CURIOS/7"Y SHOP.
should keep the matter secret now, related the
purpose for which he had come on that occasion;
and the proposal he had made.
“Oh ” said the dwarf after a little considera-
tion. “Then I think they'll come to you yet.”
“Do you think they will P” cried Kit
eagerly.
“Ay, I think they will,” returned the dwarf.
“Now, when they do, let me know; d'ye hear?
Let me know, and I'll give you something. I
want to do 'em a kindness, and I can't do ’em a
kindness unless I know.where they are. You
hear what I say?" - -
Kit might have returned some answer which
would not have been agreeable to his irascible
questioner, if the boy from the wharf, who had
been skulking about the room in search of any-
thing that might have been left about by acci-
dent, had not happened to cry, “Here's a bird
What's to be done with this P” , w
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“No." TO BE BE HINDHAND IN THE BUSTLE, MR, QUILP WENT TO WORK WITH SURPRISING v1Gou R.”
“Wring its neck,” rejoined Quilp.
“Oh no, don't do that l” said Kit, stepping
forward. “Give it to. me.” .."
“Oh yes, I dare say !” cried tne other boy.
“Come ! You let the cage alone, and let me
wring its neck, will you? He said I was to do
it. You let the cage alone, will you ?”
“Give it here, give it to me, you dogs' "
roared Quilp “Fight for it, you dogs, or I'll
wring its neck myself "
Without further persuasion, the two boys fell
ſº
§§
gºš
upon each other, tooth and nail, while Quilp,
holding up the cage in one hand, and chopping
the ground with his knife in an ecstasy, urged
them on by his taunts and cries to fight more
fiercely. They were a pretty equal match, and
rolled about together, exchanging blows which
were by no means child's play, until at length
Kit, planting a well-directed hit in his adversary's
chest, disengaged himself, sprung nimbly up,
and, snatching the cage from Quilp's hands,
‘made off with his prize.

MEZZY's BIRD. 53
He did not stop once until he reached home,
where his bleeding face occasioned great con-
sternation, and caused the elder child to howl
dreadfully. -
“Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter,
what have you been doing?” cried Mrs.
Nubbles.
“Never you mind, mother,” answered her son,
wiping his face on the jack-towel behind the
door. “I’m not hurt, don't you be afraid for
me. I’ve been a fightin' for a bird, and won him,
that's all. Hold your noise, little Jacob. I
never see such a naughty boy in all my days.”
“You have been a fighting for a bird 1' ex-
claimed his mother. -
“Ah! Fightin' for a bird 1' replied Kit,
“and here he is—Miss Nelly's bird, mother,
that they was a-goin' to wring the neck of ! I
stopped that, though. Ha, ha, ha! They
wouldn't wring his neck, and me by, no, no. It
wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha,
ha, ha!” - -
Kit laughing so heartily, with his swollen and
bruised face looking out of the towel, made little
Jacob laugh, and then his mother laughed, and
then the baby crowed and kicked with great
glee, and then they all laughed in concert:
partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly be-
cause they were very fond of each other. When
this fit was over, Kit exhibited the bird to both
children, as a great and precious rarity—it was
only a poor linnet—and, looking about the wall
for an old nail, made a scaffolding of a chair
and table, and twisted it out with great exulta-
tl On. -
“Let me see,” said the boy; “I think I'll
hang him in the winder, because it's more light
and cheerful, and he can see the sky there, if he
looks up very much. He's such a one to sing,
I can tell you !”
So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit,
climbing up with the poker for a hammer,
knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to
the immeasurable delight of the whole family.
When it had been adjusted and straightened a
great many times, and he had walked backwards
into the fire-place in his admiration of it, the
arrangement was pronounced to be perfect.
“And now, mother,” said the boy, “before I
rest any more, I'll go out and see if I can find a
horse to hold, and then I can buy some bird-
seed, and a bit of something nice for you into
the bargain.”
CHAPTER XIV.
S it was very easy for Kit to persuade
himself that the old house was in his
way, his way being anywhere, he tried
to look upon his passing it once more
as a matter of imperative and dis-
agreeable necessity, quite apart from
any desire of his own, to which he
§3 could not choose but yield. It is not
uncommon, for people who are much better fed
and taught than Christopher Nubbles had ever
been, to make duties of their inclinations in
matters of more doubtful propriety, and to take
great credit for the self-denial with which they
gratify themselves. -
There was no need of any caution this time,
and no fear of being detained by having to play
out a return match with Daniel Quilp's boy.
The place was entirely deserted, and looked as
dusty and dingy as if it had been so for months.
A rusty padlock was fastened on the door, ends
of discoloured blinds and curtains flapped
drearily against the half-opened upper windows,
and the crooked holes cut in the closed shutters
below were black with the darkness of the in-
side. Some of the glass in the window he had
so often watched had been broken in the rough
hurry of the morning, and that room looked
more deserted and dull than any. A group of
§§
idle urchins had taken possession of the door-
steps; some were plying the knocker, and listen-
ing with delighted dread to the hollow sounds it
spread through the dismantled house ; others
were clustered about the keyhole, watching,
half in jest and half in earnest, for “the ghost,”
which an hour's gloom, added to the mystery
that hung about the late inhabitants, had already
raised. Standing all alone in the midst of the
business and bustle of the street, the house
looked a picture of cold desolation ; and Kit,
who remembered the cheerful fire that used to
burn there on a winter's night, and the no less
cheerful laugh that made the small room ring,
turned quite mournfully away.
It must be especially observed, in justice to
poor Kit, that he was by no means of a senti-
mental turn, and perhaps had never heard that
adjective in all his life. He was only a soft-
hearted, grateful fellow, and had nothing genteel
or polite about him ; consequently, instead of
going home again, in his grief, to kick the chil-
dren and abuse his mother (for, when your
finely-strung people are out of sorts, they must
have everybody else unhappy likewise), he
turned his thoughts to the vulgar expedient of
making them more comfortable if he could.



54
7 HE OZA) CURIOSYTY SHOP.
Bless us, what a number of gentlemen on
horseback there were riding up and down, and
how few of them wanted their horses held ! A
good City speculator or a parliamentary commis-
sioner could have told to a fraction, from the
crowds that were cantering about, what sum of
money was realised in London, in the course
of a year, by holding horses alone. And un-
doubtedly it would have been a very large one,
if only a twentieth part of the gentlemen with-
out grooms had had occasion to alight; but
they had not ; and it is often an ill-natured cir-
cumstance like this which spoils the most inge-
nious estimate in the world.
Rit walked about, now with quick steps and
now with slow ; now lingering as some rider
slackened his horse's pace and looked about
f
him; and now darting at full speed up a by-
street as he caught a glimpse of some distant
horseman going lazily up the shady side of the
road, and promising to stop at every door.
But on they all went, one after another, and
there was not a penny stirring. “I wonder,”
thought the boy, “if one of these gentlemen
knew there was nothing in the cupboard at
home, whether he'd stop on purpose, and make
believe that he wanted to call somewhere, that
I might earn a trifle P” e
He was quite tired out with pacing the streets,
to say nothing of repeated disappointments, and
was sitting down upon a step to rest, when
there approached towards him a little clattering,
jingling four-wheeled chaise, drawn by a little
obstinate-looking rough-coated pony, and driven
by a little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Be-
side, theºlittle old gentleman sat a little old lady,
plump and placid like himself, and the pony was
coming along at his own pace, and doing exactly
as he pleased with the whole concern. If the
old gentleman remonstrated by shaking the
reins, the pony replied by shaking his head. It
was plain that the utmost the pony would con-
sent to do was to go in his own way up any
street that the old gentleman particularly wished
to traverse, but that it was an understanding
between them that he must do this after his
own fashion, or not at all.
As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so
wistfully at the little turn-out, that the old gen-
tleman looked at him. Kit rising and putting
his hand to his hat, the old gentleman intimated
to the pony that he wished to stop, to which pro-
posal the pony (who seldom objected to that
part of his duty) graciously acceded.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Kit. “I’m
sorry you stopped, sir. I only meant did you
want your horse minded ?”
“I’m going to get down in the next streetº
returned the old gentleman. “If you like to
come on after us, you may have the job.”
Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The
pony ran off at a.sharp angle to inspect a lamp-
post on the opposite side of the way, and then
went off at a tangent to another lamp-post on
the other side. Having satisfied himself that
they were of the same pattern and materials, he
came to a stop, apparently absorbed in medita-
tion. - -
“Will you go on, sir,” said the old gentleman
gravely, “ or are we to wait here for you till it's
too late for our appointment P”
The pony remained immovable. -
“Oh, you naughty Whisker!” said the old lady. .
“Fie upon you ! I am ashamed of such con-
duct.” r
The pony appeared to be touched by this
appeal to his feelings, for he trotted on directly,
though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more
until he came to a door whereon was a brass
plate with the words “Witherden—Notary.”
Here the old gentleman got out and helped out
the old lady, and then took from under the seat
a nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions
a full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut
short off. This, the old lady carried into the
house with a staid and stately air, and the old
gentleman (who had a club-foot) followed close
upon her.
They went, as it was easy to tell from the
sound of their voices, into the front parlour,
which seemed to be a kind of office. The day
being very warm and the street a quiet one, the
windows were wide open; and it was easy to
hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed
inside. -
At first there was a great shaking of hands
and shuffling of feet, succeeded by the presenta-
tion of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by the
listener to be that of Mr. Witherden, the notary,
was heard to exclaim a great many times, “Oh,
delicious !” “Oh, fragrant indeed I" and a nose,
also supposed to be the property of that gentle-
man, was heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle
of exceeding pleasure. *
“I brought it in honour of the occasion, sir,"
said the old lady. -
“Ah an occasion indeed, ma'am ; an occa-
sion which does honour to me, ma'am, honour
to me,” rejoined Mr. Witherden, the notary. “I
have had many a gentleman articled to me,
ma'am, many a one. Some of them are now
rolling in riches, unmindful of their old com-
panion and friend, ma'am; others are in the
habit of calling upon me to this day and saying,
AVE W FRZAEAWDS AWOR A-Z 7. 55
* Mr. Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours
I ever spent in my life were spent in this office
—were spent, sir, upon this very stool ;' but
there was never one among the number, ma'am,
attached as I have been to many of them, of
whom I augured such bright things as I do of
your only son.”
“Oh dear !” said the old lady. “How happy
you do make us when you tell us that, to be sure t”
“I tell you, ma'am,” said Mr. Witherden,
“what I think as an honest man, which, as the
poet observes; is the noblest work of God. I
agree with the poet in every particular, ma'am.
The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or a
humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point
of workmanship, to an honest man—or woman
—or woman.”
“Anything that Mr. Witherden can say of me,”
observed a small quiet voice, “I can say, with
interest, of him, I am sure.” .
“It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy cir-
cumstance,” said the notary, “to happen too upon
his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I hope I
know how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr. Gar-
land, my dear sir, that we may mutually congratu-
late each other upon this auspicious occasion.”
To this the old gentleman replied that he felt
assured they might. There appeared to be
another shaking of hands in consequence, and,
when it was over, the old gentleman said that,
though he said it who should not, he believed no
son had ever been a greater comfort to his
parents than Abel Garland had been to his.
“Marrying, as his mother and I did, late in
life, sir, after waiting for a great many years,
until we were well enough off—coming together
when we were no longer young, and then being
blessed with one child who has always been
dutiful and affectionate—why, it's a source of
great happiness to us both, sir.” .
“Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,” re-
turned the notary in a sympathising voice. “It’s
the contemplation of this sort of thing that makes
me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There
was a young lady once, sir, the daughter of an
outfitting warehouse of the first respectability—
but that's a weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr.
Abel's articles.” -
“You see, Mr. Witherden,” said the old lady,
“that Abel has not been brought up like the
run of young men. He has always had a pleasure
in our society, and always been with us. Abel
has never been absent from us for a day; has
he, my dear?”
“Never, my dear,” returned the old gentle-
man, “except when he went to Margate one
Saturday with Mr. Tomkinley, that had beco a
teacher at that school hé went to, and came
back upon the Monday; but he was very ill
after that, you remember, my dear; it was quite
a dissipation.” •.
“He was not used to it, you know,” said the
old lady; “and he couldn't bear it, that's the
truth. Besides, he had no comfort in being
there without us, and had nobody to talk to or
enjoy himself with.”
“That was it, you know,” interposed the same
small quiet voice that had spoken once before.
“I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate,
and to think that the sea was between us—oh, I
never shall forget what I felt when I first thought
that the sea was between us !” .
“Very natural under the circumstances,” ob-
served the notary. “Mr. Abel's feelings did
Credit to his nature, and credit to your nature,
ma'am, and his father's nature, and human
nature. I trace the same current, now, flowing
through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceed-
ings.-I am about to sign my name, you observe,
at the foot of the articles which Mr. Chuckster
will witness; and placing my finger upon this
blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am
constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice
—don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is merely a form
of law—that I deliver this as my act and deed.
'Mr. Abel will place his name against the other
wafer, repeating the same cabalistic words, and
the business is over. Ha, ha, ha- You see
how easily these things are done ".
There was a short silence, apparently, while
Mr. Abel went through the prescribed form, and
then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet
were renewed, and shortly afterwards there was
a clinking of wine-glasses and a great talkative-
ness on the part of everybody. In about a
quarter of an hour Mr. Chuckster (with a pen
behind his ear and his face inflamed with wine)
appeared at the door, and, condescending to
address Kit by the jocose appellation of “Young
Snob,” informed him that the visitors were
coming out.
Out they came forthwith ; Mr. Witherden, who
was short, chubby, fresh-coloured, brisk, and
pompous, leading the old lady with extreme
politeness, and the father and son following
them, arm-in-arm. Mr. Abel, who had a quaint
old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of
the same age as his father, and bore a wonderful
resemblance to him in face and figure, though
wanting something of his full, round cheerful-
ness, and substituting in its place a timid reserve.
In all other respects, in the neatness of the
dress, and even in the club-foot, he and the old
gentieman were precisely alike.
58.
- ºn
* 8.
, 7 HE OLD CUR/OS/TY SHOP.
Having seen the old lady safely in her seat,
and assisted in the arrangement of her cloak and
a small basket which formed an indispensable
portion of her equipage, Mr. Abel got into a
little box behind which had evidently been
made for his express accommodation, and smiled
at everybody present by turns, beginning with
his mother and ending with the pony. There
was then a great to-do to make the pony hold
up his head, that the bearing-rein might be
fastened ; at last even this was effected; and
the old gentleman, taking his seat and the reins,
put his hands in his pocket to find a sixpence
for Kit,
He had no sixpences, neither had the old
lady, nor Mr. Abel, nor the notary, nor Mr.
Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling
too much, but there was no shop in the street
to get change at, so he gave it to the boy.
“There,” he said jokingly, “I’m coming here
again next Monday at the same time, and mind
you're here, my lad, to work it out." .
“Thank you, sir,” said Kit. “I’ll be sure to
be here.”
He was quite serious, but they all laughed
heartily at his saying so, especially Mr. Chuck-
ster, who roared outright, and appeared to
relish the joke amazingly. As the pony, with a
presentiment that he was going home, or a de-
termination that he would not go anywhere else
(which was the same thing), trotted away pretty
nimbly, Kit had no time to justify himself, and
went his way also. Having expended his
treasure in such purchases as he knew would be
most acceptable at home, not forgetting some
seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back
as fast as he could, so elated with his success
and great good fortune, that he more than half
expected Nell and the old man would have
arrived before him.
——
CHAPTER XV.
FTEN, while they were yet pacing
the silent streets of the town on the
morning of their departure, the child
trembled with a mingled sensation
of hope and fear as, in some far-off
distance, her fancy traced a likeness to
honest Kit. But although she would
gladly have given him her hand, and thanked
him for what he had said at their last meeting,
it was always a relief to find, when they came
nearer to each other, that the person who ap-
proached was not he, but a stranger; for even
the shadows of the night.
covered up close and dark, felt it was morning,
gº * º
figure imperfectly seen in the clear
if she had not dreaded the effect which the sight ſº
of him might have wrought upon her fellow-
traveller, she felt that to bid farewell to anybody
now, and most of all to him who had been so
faithful and so true, was more than she could
bear. . It was enough to leave dumb things
behind, and objects that were insensible both to
her love and sorrow. To have parted from her
only other friend, upon the threshold of that
wild journey, would have wrung her heart
indeed. :
Why is it that we can better Lear to part in
spirit than in body, and while we have the for-
titude to act farewell have not the nerve to say
it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence
of many years, friends who are tenderly attached
will separate with the usual look, the usual
pressure of the hand, planning one final inter-
view for the morrow, while each well knows that
it is but a poor feint to save the pain of uttering
that one word, and that the meeting will never
be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than
certainties P. We do not shun our dying friends;
the not having distinctly taken leave of one
among them, whom we left in all kindness and
affection, will often embitter the whole remainder
of a life.
The town was glad with morning light; places
that had shown ugly and distrustful all night
long, now wore a smile ; and sparkling sunbeams
dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling
through blind and curtain before sleepers' eyes,
shed light even into dreams, and chased away
Birds in hot rooms,
and chaſed and grew restless in their little cells;
bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes
and nestled timidly together; the sleek house-
cat, forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the
rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny
in the door, and longed for her stealthy run and
warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts
confined in dens stood motionless behind their
bars, and gazed on fluttering boughs, and sun-
shine peeping through some little window, with
eyes in which old forests gleamed—then trodim-
patiently the track their prisoned feet had worn—
and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dun-
geons stretched their cramped cold limbs, and
cursed the stone that no bright sky could warm.
The flowers that sleep by night opened their
gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The
light, creation's mind, was everywhere. and all
things owned its power. * - .
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's
hands, or exchanging a smile or cheerful look,
pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy.
\

WAAVDERING A WA Y. 57.
—w-
as it was, there was something solemn in the
long deserted streets, from which, like bodies
without souls, all habitual character and ex-
pression had departed, leaving but one dead
uniform repose, that made them all alike. All
was so still at that early hour, that the few
pale people whom they met seemed as much
unsuited to the scene as the sickly lamp which
had been here and there left burning was power-
less and faint in the full glory of the sun.
Before they had penetrated very far into the
labyrinth of men's abodes which yet lay between
them and the outskirts, this aspect, began to
melt away, and noise and . bustle to usurp
its place. Some straggling carts and coaches
rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others
came, then others yet more active, then a
crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see a trades-
man's room window open, but now it was a rare
thing to see one closed; then, smoke rose slowly
from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown up
to let in air, and doors were opened, and ser-
vant-girls, looking lazily in all directions but
their brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust
into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened
disconsolately to milkmen who spoke of country
fairs, and told of waggons in the mews, with
awnings and all things complete, and gallant
swains to boot, which another hour would see
upon their journey.
This quarter passed, they came upon the
haunts of commerce and great traffic, where
many people were resorting, and business was
already rife. The old man looked about him
with a startled and bewildered gaze, for these
were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed
his finger on his lip, and drew the child along
by narrow courts and winding ways, nor did he
seem at ease until they had left it far behind,
often casting a backward look towards it, mur-
muring that ruin and self-murder were crouch-
ing in every street, and would follow if they
scented them; and that they could not fly too
fast.
Again this quarter passed, they came upon
a straggling neighbourhood, where the mean
houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows
patched with rags and paper, told of the popu-
lous poverty that sheltered there. The shops
sold goods that only poverty could buy, and
sellers and buyers were pinched and griped
alike. Here were poor streets where faded gen-
tility essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked
means to make its last feeble stand, but tax-
gatherer and creditor came there as elsewhere,
and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was
hardly less squalid and manifest than that
which had long ago submitted and given up the
game.
This was a wide, wide track—for the humble
followers of the camp of wealth pitch their tents
round about it for many a mile—but its charac-
ter was still the same. Damp rotten houses,
many to let, many yet building, many half built
and mouldering away—lodgings where it would
be hard to tell which needed pity most, those
who let or those who came to take—children,
scantily fed and clothed, spread over every
street, and sprawling in the dust—scolding
mothers stamping their slipshod feet with noisy
threats upon the pavement—shabby fathers
hurrying with dispirited looks to the occupa-
tion which brought them “daily bread” and
little more–mangling-women, washerwomen,
cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving their trades
in parlours and kitchens and back-rooms and
garrets, and sometimes all of them under the
same roof–brick-fields skirting gardens paled
with staves of old casks, or timber pillaged from
houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered
by the flames—mounds of dockweed, nettles,
coarse grass, and oyster shells heaped in rank
confusion—small Dissenting chapels to teach,
with no lack of illustration, the miseries of
Earth, and plenty of new churches, erected
with a little superfluous wealth, to show the way
to Heaven.
At length these streets, decoming more strag-
gling yet, dwindled and dwindled away, until
there were only small garden patches bordering
the road, with many a summer-house innocent
of paint, and built of old timber or some frag-
ments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-
stalks that grew about it, and grottoed at the
seams with toadstools and tight-sticking snails.
To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two,
with plots of ground in front, laid out in angular
beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths
between, where footstep never strayed to make
the gravel rough. Then, came the public-house,
freshly painted in green and white, with tea-
gardens and a bowling-green, spurning its old
neighbour with the horse-trough where the wag-
gons stopped ; then fields; and then some
houses, one by one, of goodly size, with lawns.
some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter
and his wife. Then came a turnpike; then
fields again with trees and haystacks; then, a
hill; and on the top of that, the traveller might
stop, and—looking back at old St. Paul's loom-
ing through the smoke, its cross peeping above
the cloud (if the day were clear) and glittering
in the sun; and casting his eyes upon the Babel
... out of which it grew until he traced it down to the
sº
THE O/LA) CURIOS/TY SHOA'.
furthest outposts of the invading army of bricks
and mortar whose station lay for the present
nearly at his feet—might feel at last that he was
clear of London, -
Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant
field, the old, man and his little guide (if guide
she were, who knew not whither they were
bound) sat down to rest. She had had the pre-
caution to furnish her basket with some slices
of bread and meat, and here they made their
frugal breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing of ther
birds, the beauty of the waving grass, the deep
green leaves, the wild flowers, and the thousand
exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the
air, deep joys to most of us, but most of all to
those whose life is in a crowd, or who live soli-
tarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human
well,—sunk into their breasts and made them
very glad. The child had repeated her artless
prayers once that morning, more earnestly, per-
haps, than she had ever done in all her life, but
as she felt all this, they rose to her lips again.
The old man took off his hat—he had no
memory for the words—but he said amen, and
that they were very good. -
There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's
Progress, with strange plates, upon a shelf at
home, over which she had often, pored whole
evenings, wondering whether it was true in
every word, and where those distant countries
with the curious names might be. As she
looked back upon the place they had left, one
part of it came strongly on her mind.
“Dear grandfather,” she said, “only that this
place is prettier and a great deal better than the
real one, if that in the book is like it, I feel as
if we were both Christian, and laid down on
this grass all the cares and troubles we brought
with us; never to take them up again.”
“No-never to return—never to return,” re-
plied the old man, waving his hand toward the
city. “Thou and I are free of it now, Nell.
They shall never lure us back.”
“Are you tired?” said the child. “Are you
sure you don’t feel ill from this long walk?”
“I shall never feel ill again, now that we are
once away,” was his reply. “Let us be stirring,
Nell. We must be further away—a long, long
way further. We are too near to stop, and be
at rest. Come !” \
. There was a pool of clear water. In the field,
in which the child laved her hands and face,
and cooled her feet before setting forth to walk
again. She would have the old man refresh
himself in this way too, and making him sit
down upon the grass, cast the water on him
|
with her hands, and dried it with her simple
dress. - - #
“I can do nothing for myself, my darling,”
said the grandfather. “I don't know how it is,
I could once, but the time's gone. Don't leave
me, Nell; say that thou’lt not leave me. 'I
loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I
lose thee too, my dear, I must die I" -
He laid his head upon her shoulder and
moaned piteously. The time had been, and a
yery few days before, when the child could not
have restrained her tears, and/must have wept
with him. But now she soothed him with
gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking
they could ever part, and rallied him cheerfully
upon the jest. He was soon calmed and fell
asleep, singing to himself in a low voice, like a
little child. - - ,
He awoke refreshed, and they continued their
journey. The road was pleasant, lying between
beautiful pastures and fields of corm, above
which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the
lark trilled out her happy song. The air came
laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way,
and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath,
hummed forth their drowsy satisfaction as they
floated by. -
They were now in the open country; the
houses were very few and scattered at long in-
tervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they
came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with
a chair or low board put across the open door
to keep the scrambling children from the road,
others shut up close while all the family were
working in the fields. These were often the
commencement of a little village : and after an
interval came a wheelwright's shed, or perhaps
a blacksmith's forge; then a thriving farm with
sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses
peering over the low wall and scampering away
when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as
though in triumph at their freedom. There were
dull pigs too, turning up the ground in search
of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous
grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed
each other in their quest; plump pigeons skim-
ming round the roof or strutting on the eaves;
and ducks and geese, far more graceful in their
own conceit, waddling awkwardly about the
edges of the pond, or sailing glibly on its sur-
face. The farmyard passed, then came the little
inn; the humbler beer-shop; and the village
tradesman's ; then the lawyer's and the parson's,
at whose dread names the beer-shop trembled;
the church then peeped out modestly from a
clump of trees; then there were a few more
cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not
JZYZZ WAAVZ) ERYAVG. 59
unfrequently, on a bank by the wayside, a deep
old dusty well. Then came the trim-hedged
fields on either hand, and the open road again.
They walked all day, and slept that night at a
small cottage where beds were let to travellers.
Next morning they were afoot again, and though
jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before
long, and proceeded briskly forward.
They often stopped to rest, but only for a
short space at a time, and still kept on, having
had but slight refreshment since the morning.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when,
drawing near another cluster of labourers' huts,
the child looked wistfully in each, doubtful at
which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and
buy a draught of milk. -
It was not easy to determine, for she was timid,
and fearful of being repulsed. Here was a cry-
ing child, and there a noisy wife. In this, the
people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At
length she stopped at one where the family were
seated round a table—chiefly because there was
an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside
the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather,
and would feel for hers.
There were, besides, the cottager and his wife,
and three young sturdy children, brown as berries.
The request was no sooner preferred than granted.
The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the
second dragged two stools towards the door, and
the youngest crept to his mother's gown, and
looked at the strangers from beneath his sun-
burnt hand. - .
“God save you, master,” said the old cottager
in a thin piping voice; “are you travelling far?”
“’Yes, sir, a long way,” replied the child; for
her grandfather appealed to her. -
.#. Kondon P” inquired the old man.
The child said yes. *
Ah! he had been in London many a time—
used to go there often once, with waggons. It
was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been
there last, and he did hear say there were great
changes. Like enough He had changed him-
self, since them. Two-and thirty year was a long
time, and eighty-four a great age, though there
was some he had known that had lived to very
hard upon a hundred—and, not so hearty as he
neither—no, nothing like it.
“Sit thee down, master, in the elbow-chair,”
said the old man, knocking his stick upon the
brick floor, and trying to do so sharply. “Take
a pinch out o' that box; I don't take much
myself, for it comes dear, but I find it wakes me
up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I
should have a son pretty nigh as old as you if
he'd lived, but they listed him for a so’ger—he
come back home, though, for all he had but one
poor leg. He always said he'd be buried near
the sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was
a baby, did my poor boy, and his words come
true—you can see the place with your own eyes;
we've kept the turf up ever since.”
He shook his head, and looking at his daughter
with watery eyes, said she needn't be afraid that
he was going to talk about that any more. He
didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had
troubled anybody by what he said, he asked
pardon, that was all. -
The milk arrived, and the child producing her
little basket and selecting its best fragments for
her grandfather, they made a hearty meal. The
furniture of the room was very homely, of course
—a few rough chairs and a table, a corner cup-
board with their little stock of crockery and delf,
a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright
red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few
common, coloured Scripture subjects in frames
upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothes-
press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright
saucepans and a kettle, comprised the whole.
But everything was clean and neat, and as the
child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of
comfort and content to which she had long been
unaccustomed.
“How far is it to any town or village P” she
asked of the husband.
“A matter of good five mile, my dear,” was
the reply; “but you're not going on to-night?”
“Yes, yes, Nell,” said the old man hastily,
urging her too by signs. “Further on, further
on, darling, further away, if we walk till mid-
night.”
“There's a good barn hard by, master,” said
the man, “ or there's traveller's lodging, I know,
at the Plow an’ Harrer. Excuse me, but you
do seem a little tired, and unless you're very
**
anxious to get on
“Yes, yes, we are,” returned the old man
fretfully. “Further away, dear Nell, pray further
away.” - &
“We must go on, indeed,” said the child,
yielding to his restless wish, “We thank you
very much, but we cannot stop so, soon. I'm
quite ready, grandfather.”
But the woman had observed, from the young
wanderer's gait, that one of her little feet was
blistered and sore, and, being a woman and a
mother too, she would not suffer her to go until
she had washed the place and applied some
simple remedy, which she did so carefully and
with such a gentle hand—rough-grained and
hard though it was with work—that the child's
heart was too full to admit of her saying more
6o 7TP/E O/C/O CUR/OS/TY SHOP
than a fervent “God bless you !” nor could she
look back nor trust herself to speak, until they
had left the cottage some distance behind.
When she turned her head, she saw that the
whole family, even the old grandfather, were
standing in the road watching them as they
went, and so with many waves of the hand, and
cheering nods, and on one side at least not
without tears, they parted company.
They trudged forward more slowly and pain-
fully than they had done yet, for another mile or
thereabouts, when they heard the sound of
wheels behind them, and looking round, ob-
served an empty cart approaching prettybriskly.
The driver, on coming up to them, stopped his
horse, and looked earnestly at Nell.
“Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder P”
he said. -
“Yes, sir,” replied the child.
“Ah ! They asked me to look out for you,”
said the man. “I’m going your way. Give me
your hand—jump up, master.”
This was a great relief, for they were very
much fatigued, and could scarcely crawl along.
To them the jolting cart was a luxurious carriage,
and the ride the most delicious in the world.
Nell had scarcely settled herself on a little heap
of straw in one corner, when she fell asleep, for
the first time that day.
She was awakened by the stopping of the cart,
which was about to turn up a by-lane. The
driver kindly got down to help her out, and
pointing to some trees at a very short distance
before them, said that the town lay there, and
that they had better take the path which they
would see leading through the churchyard.
Accordingly, towards this spot they directed
their weary steps.
===Q-
CHAPTER XVI.
G-NG
/ºil º HE sun was setting when they reached
}%: j the wicket-gate at which the path
ºf 5/6; began, and, as the rain falls upon
{2}º the just and unjust alike, it shed its
º warm tint even upon the resting-
§) places of the dead, and bade them be of
* good hope for its rising. on the morrow.
The church was old and grey, with ivy
clinging to the walls, and round the porch.
Shunning the tombs, it crept about the mounds,
beneath which slept poor humble men: twining
for them the first wreaths they had ever won,
but wreaths less liable to wither, and far more
lasting in their kind, than some which were
graven deep in stone and marble, and told in
pompous terms of virtues meekly hidden for
many a year, and only revealed at last to exe.
cutors and mourning legatees. -
The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull
blunt sound among the graves, was cropping the
grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation
from the dead parishioners, and enforcing last
Sunday's text that this was what all flesh came
to ; a lean ass who had sought to expound it
also, without being qualified and ordained, was
Pricking his ears in an empty pound hard by,
and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly
neighbour. -
The old man and the child quitted the gravel
path, and strayed among the tombs; for there
the ground was soft, and easy to their tired feet.
As they passed behind the church, they heard
voices near at hand, and presently came on
those who had spoken.
They were two men who were seated in easy
attitudes upon the grass, and so busily engaged
as to be at first unconscious of intruders. It was
not difficult to divine that they were of a class
of itinerant showmen—exhibitors of the freaks
of Punch—for, perched cross-legged upon a
tombstone behind them was a figure of that hero
himself, his nose and chin as hooked and his
face as beaming as usual. Perhaps his imper-
turbable character was never more strikingly
developed, for he preserved his usual equable
smile, notwithstanding that his body was dangling
in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and
limp and shapeless, while his long peaked cap,
unequally balanced against his exceedingly slight
legs, threatened every instant to bring him top-
pling down. -
In part scattered upon the ground at the feet
of the two men, and in part jumbled together in
a long flat box, were the other persons of the
Drama. The hero's wife and one child, the
hobby-horse, the doctor, the foreign gentleman
who, not being familiar with the language, is
unable in the representation to express his ideas
otherwise than by the utterance of the word
“Shallabalah” three distinct times, the radical
neighbour who will by no means admit that a
tin bell is an organ, the executioner, and the
devil, were all here. Their owners had evidently
come to that spot to make some needful repairs
in the stage arrangements, for one of them was
engaged in binding together a small gallows
with thread, while the other was intent upon
fixing a new black wig, with the aid of a small
hammer and some tacks, upon the head of the
radical neighbour, who had been beaten bald.
They raised their eyes when the old man and
his young companion were close upon them, and







*s
{ i PUAVCH IN Z HE CHURCHYARD. or
ſ 2—-
pausing in their work, returned their looks of
curiosity. One of them, the actual exhibitor no
doubt, was a little merry-faced man with a
twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to
have unconsciously imbibed something of his
hero's character. The other—that was he who
took the money—had rather a careful and
cautious look, which was perhaps inseparable
from his occupation also.
The merry man was the first to greet- the
strangers with a nod; and following the old
man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was
the first time he had ever seen a Punch off the
stage. (Punch, it may be remarked, seemed to
be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most
flourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling over it
with all his heart.) -
“Why do you come here to do this?" said
the old man, sitting down beside them, and
looking at the figures with extreme delight.
“Why, you see,” rejoined the little man,
“we’re putting up for to-night at the public-
house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see
the present company undergoing repair.”
“No 1" cried the old man, making signs to
Nell to listen; “why not, eh? why not?”
“Because it would destroy all the delusion,
and take away all the interest, wouldn't it?”
replied the little man. “Would you care a
ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you knowed
him in private and without his wig P Certainly
not,” -
“Good 1" said the old man, venturing to
touch one of the puppets, and drawing away
his hand with a shrill laugh, “Are you going
to show 'em to-night? Are you?”
“That is the intention, governor,” replied the
other, “and, unless I'm much mistaken, Tommy
Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we've
lost through your coming upon us. Cheer up,
Tommy, it can't be much.”
The little man accompanied these latter words
with a wink, expressive of the estimate he had
formed of the travellers' finances.
To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grum-
bling manner, replied, as he twitched Punch off
the tombstone and flung him into the box.
“I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but
you're too free. If you stood in front of the
curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd
know human natur’ better.”
“Ah it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy,
your taking to that branch,” rejoined his com-
panion. “When you played the ghost in the
reg’lar drama in the fairs, you believed in every-
thing—except ghosts. But now you're a universal
mistruster. "I never see a man so changed.”
9LD:CuRuosºx SHOE, 5-a
of a discontented philosopher.
falling to pieces again.
“Never mind;” said Mr. Codlin with the air
“I know better
now, and p'raps I’m sorry for it.”
Turning over the figures in the box like one
who knew and despised them, Mr. Codlin drew
one forth, and held it up for the inspection of
his friend :
“Look here; here's all this Judy's clothes
You haven't got a
needle and thread I suppose 2"
The little man shook his head, and scratched
it ruefully as he contemplated this severe indis-
position of a principal performer. Seeing that
they were at a loss, the child said timidly:
“I have a needle, sir, in my basket, and
thread too. Will you let me try to mend it for
you ? F think I can do it neater than you
could.”
Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against
a proposal so seasonable. Nelly, kneeling down
beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her
task, and accomplishing it to a miracle.
While she was thus engaged, the merry little
man looked at her with an interest which did
not appear to be diminished when he glanced
at her helpless companion. When she had
finished her work he thanked her, and inquired
whither they were travelling.
“N—no further to-night, I think,” said the
child, looking towards her grandfather. .
“If you're wanting a place to stop at,” the
man remarked, “I should advise you to take up
at the same house with us. That's it—the long,
low, white house there. It's very cheap.”
The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue,
would have remained in the churchyard all
night if his new acquaintance had stayed there
too. As he yielded to this suggestion a ready
and rapturous assent, they all rose and walked
away together; he keeping close to the box of
puppets in which he was quite absorbed, the
merry little man carrying it slung over his arm
by a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly
having hold of her grandfather's hand, and Mr.
Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting up at
the church tower and neighbouring trees such
looks as he was accustomed in town practice to
direct to drawing-room and nursery windows,
when seeking for a profitable spot on which to
plant the showe
The public-house was kept by a fat old land-
lord and landlady who made no objection to
receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's .
beauty, and were at once prepossessed in her
behalf. There was no other company in the
kitchen but the two shownen, and the child
felt very thankful that they had fallen upon
253,
62
THE OLD cur/OSITY SHOP.
such good quarters. The landlady was very
much astonished to learn that they had come
all the way from London, and appeared to have
no little curiosity touching their farther destina-
tion. The child parried her inquiries as well as
she could, and with no great trouble, for, find-
ing that they appeared to give her pain, the old
lady desisted.
“These two gentlemen have ordered supper
in an hour's time,” she said, taking her into the
bar ; “and your best plan will be to sup with
then. Meanwhile, you shall have a little taste
of something that'll do you good, for I am sure
you must want it after all you have gone through
to-day. Now, don't look after the old gentle-
man, because, when you've drank that, he shall
have some too.” -
As nothing could induce the child to leave
him alone, however, or to touch anything in
which he was not the first and greatest sharer,
the old lady was obliged to help him first. When
they had been thus refreshed, the whole house
hurried away into an empty stable where the
show stood, and where, by the light of a few
flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung
by a line from the ceiling, it was to be forthwith
exhibited.
And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, the misan-
thrope, after blowing away at the Pan's pipes
until he was intensely wretched, took his station
on one side of the checked drapery which con-
cealed the mover of the figures, and putting his
hands in his pockets, prepared to reply to all
questions and remarks of Punch, and to make
a dismal feint of being his most intimate private
friend, of believing in him to the fullest and
most unlimited extent, of knowing that he en-
joyed day, and night a merry and glorious exist-
ence in that temple, and that he was at all
times and under every circumstance the same
intelligent and joyful person that the spectators
then beheld him. All this Mr. Codlin did with
the air of a man who had made up his mind for
the worst, and was quite resigned ; his eyes
slowly wandering about during the briskest
repartee to observe the effect upon the audi-
ence, and particularly the impression made
upon the landlord and landlady, which might
be productive of very important results in con-
nection with the supper. -
Upon this head, however, he had no cause
for any anxiety, for the whole performance was
applauded to the echo, and voluntary contribu-
tions were showered in with a liberality which
testified yet more strongly to the general delight.
Among the laughter none was more loud and
frequent than the old man's. Nell's was un-
- heard, for she, poor child, with her head dioop-
ing on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept
too soundly to be roused by any of his éfforts
to awaken her to a participation in his glee.
The supper was very good, but she was too
tired to eat, and yet would not leave the old
man until she had kissed him in his bed. He,
happily insensible to every care and anxiety, sat
listening with a vacant smile and admiring face
to all that his new friends said; and it was not
until they retired yawning to their room, that he
followed the child up-stairs. .
It was but a loft partitioned into two com-
partments, where they were to rest, but they
were well pleased with their lodging, and had
hoped for none so good. The old man was
uneasy when he had lain down, and begged
that Nell would come and sit at his bedside as
she had done for so many nights. She hastened
to him, and sat there till he slept.
There was a little window, hardly more than
a chink in the wall, in her room, and when she
left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the
silence. The sight of the old church and the
graves about it in the moonlight, and the dark
trees whispering among themselves, made her
more thoughtful than before. She closed the
window again, and sitting down upon the bed,
thought of the life that was before them.
She had a little money, but it was very little,
and when that was gone, they must begin to
beg. There was one piece of gold among it,
and an emergency might come when its worth
to them would be increased a hundred-fold. It
would be best to hide this coin, and never pro-
duce it unless their case was absolutely despe-
rate, and no other resource was left them.
Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of
gold into her dress, and, going to bed with a
lighter heart, sunk into a deep slumber.
—e-
CHAPTER XVII. f
2 ºf NOTHER bright day shining in
&N through the small casement, and
claiming fellowship with the kindred
eyes of the child, awoke her. At
sight of the strange room and its
unaccustomed objects she started
up in alarm, wondering how she had
ë been moved from the familiar chamber in
which she seemed to have fallen asleep last
night, and whither she had been conveyed:
But another glance around called to her mind
-


LITTLE MELL AND
all that had lately passed, and she sprung from
her bed, hoping and trustful.
It was yet early, and the old man being still
asleep, she walked out into the churchyard,
brushing the dew from the long grass with her
feet, and often turning aside into places where
it grew longer than in others, that she might not
tread upon the graves. - She felt a curious kind
of pleasure in lingering among these houses of
the dead, and read the inscriptions on the tombs
of the good people (a great number of good
people were buried there), passing on from one
to another with increasing interest.
It was a very quiet place, as such a place
should be, save for the cawing of the rooks who
had built their nests among the branches of
some tall old trees, and were calling to one
another, high up in air. First, one sleek bird,
hovering near his ragged house as it swung and
dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry,
quite by chance as it would seem, and in a
sober tone, as though he were but talking to
himself. Another answered, and he called
again, but louder than before ; then another
spoke, and then another; and each time, the
first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on
his case more strongly. Other voices, silent
till now, struck in from boughs lower down and
higher up and midway, and to the right and left,
and from the tree-tops; and others, arriving
hastily from the grey church turrets, and old
belfry window, joined the clamour which rose ||
and fell, and swelled and dropped again, and
still went on ; and all this noisy contention
amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting
on fresh branches, and frequent change of
place, which satirised the old restlessness of
those who lay so still beneath the moss and turf
below, and the strife in which they had worn
away their lives.
Frequently raising her eyes to the trees
whence these sounds came down, and feeling
as though they made the place more quiet than
perfect silence would have done, the child loi-
tered from grave to grave, now stopping to re-
place with careful hands the bramble which had
started from some green mound it helped to
keep in shape, and now peeping through one of
the low latticed windows into the church, with
its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize
of whitened green mouldering from the pew-
sides and leaving the naked wood to view.
There were the seats where the poor old people
sat, worn, spare, and yellow like themselves;
the rugged font where children had their names,
the homely'altar where they knelt in after life,
the plain black trestles that bore their weight on
THE OLO WOMAM. 63
their last visit to the cool old shady church.
Everything told of long use, and quiet slow
decay; the very bell-rope in the porch was
frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.
She was looking at a humble stone which
told of a young man who had died at twenty-
three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she
heard a faltering step approaching, and looking
round, saw a feeble woman bent with the weight
of years, who tottered to the foot of that same
grave, and asked her to read the writing on the
stone. The old woman thanked her when she
had done, saying that she had had the words
by heart for many a long, long year, but could
not see them now. -
“Where you his mother?” said the child.
“I was his wife, my dear.”
She the wife of a young man of three-and-
twenty Ah, true ! It was fifty-five years ago.
“You wonder to hear me say that,” remarked
the old woman, shaking her head. “You're not
the first. Older folk than you have wondered at
the same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife.
Death doesn't change us more than life, my
dear.”
“Do you come here often ?” asked the child.
“I sit here very often in the summer-time,”
she answered. “I used to come here once to
cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago,
bless God . " -
“I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take
them home,” said the old woman, after a short
silence. “I like no flowers so well as these, and
haven't for five-and-fifty years. It's a long time,
and I’m getting very old !”
Then growing garrulous upon a theme which
was new to one listener, though it were but a
child, she told her how she had wept and
moaned and prayed to die herself, when this
happened; and how, when she first came to
that place, a young creature strong in love and
grief, she had hoped that her heart was break-
ing, as it seemed to be. But that time passed
by, and although she continued to be sad when
she came there, still she could bear to come,
and so went on until it was pain no longer, but
a solemn pleasure, and a duty she had learned
to like. And now that five-and-fifty years were
gone, she spoke of the dead man as if he had
been her son or grandson, with a kind of pity
for his youth, growing out of her own old age,
and an exalting of his strength and manly beauty
as compared with her own weakness and decay;
\and yet she spoke about him as her husband too,
and thinking of herself in connection with him
as she used to be, and not as she was now,
talked of their meeting in another, world as if
64 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
he were dead but yesterday, and she, separated
from her former self, were thinking of the happi-
ness of that comely girl who seemed to have
died with him.
The child left her gathering the flowers that
grew upon the grave, and thoughtfully retraced
her steps.
The old man was by this time up and dressed.
Mr. Codlin, still doomed to contemplate the
harsh realities of existence, was packing among
his linen the candle-ends which had been saved
from the previous night's performance; while his
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companion received the compliments of all the
loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to sepa-
rate him from the master mind of Punch, set
him down as next in importance to that merry
outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When he
had sufficiently acknowledged his popularity he
came in to breakfast, at which meal they all sat
down together.
“And where are you going to-day P” said the
little man, addressing himself to Nell.
“Indeed I hardly know, we have not deter-
mined yet,” replied the child.
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“NELLY, KNEELING Down BESIDE THE Box, was soon BUSILY ENGAGED IN HER-TASK.”
“We're going on to the races,” said the little
man. “If that's your way, and you like to have
us for company, let us travel together. If you
prefer going alone, only say the word, and you'll
find that we shan't trouble you.”
“We'll go with you,” said the old man.
“Nell,—with them, with them.” º
The child considered for a moment, and re-
flecting, that she must shortly beg, and could
scarcely hope to do so at a better place than
where crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were
assembled together for purposes of enjoyment
and festivity, determined to accompany these
men so far. She therefore thanked the little
man for his offer, and said, glancing timidly
towards his friend, that if there was no objection
to their accompanying them as far as the race
town
“Objection " said the little man. “Now be
gracious for once, Tommy, and say that you'd
rather they went with us. I know you would-
Be gracious, Tommy.”
“Trotters,” said Mr. Codlin, who talked very
slowly and ate very greedily, as is not uncommon
with philosophers and misanthropes; “you're too
free.”







WYTH MESSR.S. COD/ZW AAWD SHOR7. 65
“Why, what harm can it do?" urged the other.
“No harm at all in this particular case, per-
haps,” replied Mr. Codlin; “but the principle's
a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell, vou.”
“Well, are they to go with us or not P”
“Yes, they are,” said Mr. Codlin; “but you
might have made a favour of it, mightn't you?”
The real name of the little man was Harris,
but it had gradually merged into the less eupho-
nious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory
adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him
by reason of the small size of his legs. Short
Trotters, however, being a compound name, in-
convenient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentle-
man on whom it had been bestowed was known
among his intimates either as “Short,” or “Trot-
ters,” and was seldom accosted at full length as
Short Trotters, except in formal conversations
and on occasions of ceremony.
Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases,
returned unto the remonstrance of his friend Mr.
Thomas Codlin a jocose answer calculated to
turn aside his discontent; and applying himself
with great relish to the cold boiled beef, the tea,
and bread-and-butter, strongly impressed upon
his companions that they should do the like.
Mr. Codlin, indeed, required no such persuasion,
as he had already eaten as much as he could
possibly carry, and was now moistening his clay
with strong ale, whereof he took deep draughts
with a silent relish, and invited nobody to par-
take, -thus again strongly indicating his misan-
thropical turn of mind. - - -
Breakfast being at length over, Mr. Codlin
called the bill, and charging the ale to the com-
pany generally (a practice also savouring of mis-
anthropy), divided the sum-total into two fair
and equal parts, assigning one moiety to himself
and friend, and the other to Nelly and her grand-
father. These being duly discharged, and all
things ready for their departure, they took fare-
Well of the landlord and landlady, and resumed
their journey. .
And here Mr. Codlin's false position in society,
and the effect it wrought upon his wounded spirit,
Were strongly illustrated; for whereas he had been
last night accosted by Mr. Punch as “master,”
and had by inference left the audience to under-
stand that he maintained that individual for his
own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he
Was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of
that same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily
upon his shoulders on a sultry day and along a
dusty road. In place of enlivening his patron
With a constant fire of wit, or the cheerful rattle
of his quarter-staff on the heads of his rela-
tions and acquaintance, here was that beaming
Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and
drooping in a dark box, with his legs doubled
up round his neck, and not one of his social
qualities remaining.
Mr. Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a
word or two at intervals with. Short, and stop-
ping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led
the way; with the flat box, the private luggage
(which was not extensive) tied up in a bundle,
and a brazen trumpet slung from his shoulder-
blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next
him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought
up the rear.
When they came to any town or village, or
even to a detached house of good appearance,
Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet,
and carolled a fragment of a song in that hila-
rious tone common to Punches and their con-
sorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr.
Codlin pitched the temple, and hastily unfurl-
ing the drapery and concealing Short therewith,
flourished hysterically on the Pipes, and per-
formed an air. Then the entertainment began
as soon as might be ; Mr. Codlin having the
responsibility of deciding on its length, and of
protracting or expediting the time for the hero's
final triumph over the enemy of mankind, accord-
ing as he judged that the after-crop of halfpence
would be plentiful or scant. When it had been
gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his
load, and on they went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll across a
bridge or ferry, and once exhibited by particular
desire at a turnpike, where the collector, being
drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to
have it to himself. There was one small place of
rich promise in which their hopes were blighted,
for a favourite character in the play having gold
lace upon his coat, and being a meddling, wooden-
headed fellow, was held to be a libel on the
beadle, for which reason the authorities enforced
a quick retreat; but they were generally well
received, and seldom left a town without a troop
of ragged children shouting at their heels,
They made a long day's journey, despite
these interruptions, and were yet upon the road
when the moon was shining in the sky. Short
beguiled the time with songs and jests, and made
the best of everything that happened. Mr.
Codlin, on the other hand, cursed his fate, and
all the hollow things of earth (but Punch espe-
cially), and limped along with the theatre on his
back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.
They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-
post where four roads met, and Mr. Codlin, in
his deep misanthropy, had let down the drapery
and seated himself in the bottom of the show,
66 - THE ozo cuRIOS/zy SHOP.
invisible to mortal eyes, and disdainful of the
company of his fellow-creatures, when two mon-
strous shadows were seen stalking towards them
from a turning in the road by which they had
come. The child was at first quite terrified by
the sight of these gaunt giants—for such they
looked as they advanced with lofty strides be-,
neath the shadow of the trees—but Short, tell-
ing her there was nothing to fear, blew a blast
upon the 'trumpet, which was answered by a
cheerful shout.
“It's Grinder's lot, an’t it?” cried Mr. Short,
in a loud key. -
“Yes,” replied a couple of shrill voices.
“Come on, then,” said Short. “Let's have a
look at you. I thought it was you.”
Thus invited, “Grinder's lot" approached with
redoubled speed, and soon came up with the
little party. - *
Mr. Grinder's company, familiarly termed a
lot, consisted of a young gentleman and a young
lady on stilts, and Mr. Grinder himself, who
used his natural legs for pedestrian purposes, and
carried at his back a drum. The public costume
of the young people was of the Highland kind,
but the night being damp and cold, the young
gentleman wore over his kilt a man's pea-jacket
reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the
young lady too was muffled in an old cloth
pelisse, and had a handkerchief tied about her
head. Their Scotch bonnets ornamented with
plumes of jet-black feathers Mr. Grinder carried
on his instrument. -
“Bound for the races, I see,” said Mr. Grinder,
coming up out of breath. “So are we. How
are you, Short?” With that they shook hands
in a very friendly manner. The young people
being too high up for the ordinary salutations,
saluted Short after their own fashion. ... The
young gentleman twisted up his right stilt and
patted him on the shoulder, and the young lady
rattled her tambourine.
“Practice?” said Short, pointing to the stilts.
“No,” returned Grinder. “It comes either
to walkin' in 'em or carryin' of 'em, and they
like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery pleasant for
the prospects. Which road are you takin'?
We go the nighest.”
“Why, the fact is,” said Short, “that we are
going the longest way, because then we could
stop for the night, a mile and a half on.
three or four mile gained to-night is so many
saved to-morrow, and if you keep on, I think
our best way is to do the same.”
“Where's your partner?” inquired Grinder.
“Here he is,” cried Mr. Thomas Codlin, pre-
senting his head and face in the proscenium of
urged Short.
the mile and a half to-night.
But | \{º
the stage, and exhibiting an expression of coun-
tenance not often seen there ; “and he'll see his
partner boiled alive before he'll go on to-night.
That's what he says.”
“Well, don’t say such things as them in a
spear which is dewoted to something pleasanter,”
“Respect associations, Tommy,
even if you do cut up rough.”.
“Rough or smooth,” said Mr. Codlin, beating
his hand on the little foot-board, where Punch,
when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his
legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is
accustomed to exhibit them to popular admira-
tion, “rough or smooth, I won't go further than
I put up at the
Jolly Sandboys, and nowhere else. If you like
to come there, come there. If you like to go
on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do with-
out me if you can.” - *s
So saying, Mr. Codlin disappeared from the
scene. and immediately presenting himself out-
side the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a
jerk, and made off with most remarkable agility.
Any further controversy being now out of the
question, Short was ſain to part with Mr. Grinder
and his pupils, and to follow his morose com-
panion. After lingering at the finger-post.for a
few minutes to see the stilts frisking away in the
moonlight, and the bearer of the drum toiling
slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the
trumpet as a parting salute, and hastened with
all speed to follow Mr. Codlin. With this view
he gave his unoccupied hand to Nell, and
bidding her be of good cheer as they would soon
be at the end of their journey for that night, and
stimulating the old man with a similar assurance,
led them at a pretty swift pace towards their
destination, which he was the less unwilling to
make for, as the moon was now overcast and
the clouds were threatening rain.
-º-
CHAPTER XVIII.
Å HE Jolly Sandboys was a small road-
Tº side inn of pretty ancient date, with
}\ a sign, representing three Sandboys
Kö) increasing their jollity with as many
3% jugs of ale and bags of gold, creak-
ing and swinging on its post on the oppo-
& site side of the road. As the travellers
? had observed that day many indications
of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race
town, such as gipsy camps, carts laden with
gambling booths and their appurtenances, itine-
rant showmen of various kinds, and beggars and


Az ZHE Jozzy SANDžoys. 67
trampers of every degree, all wending their way
in the same direction, Mr. Codlin was fearful of
finding the accommodations forestalled: this
fear increasing as he diminished the distance
between himself and the hostelry, he quickened
his pace, and notwithstanding the burden he
had to carry, maintained a round trot until he
reached the threshold. Here he had the grati-
fication of finding that his fears were without
foundation, for the landlord was leaning against
the door-post looking lazily at the rain, which
had by this time begun to descend heavily, and
ſno tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous shout,
nor noisy chorus, gave note of company within.
“All alone?” said Mr. Codlin, putting down
his burden and wiping his forehead.
“All alone as yet,” rejoined the landlord,
glancing at the sky, “but we shall have more com-
pany to-night I expect. Here, one of you boys,
carry that show into the barn. Make haste in out
of the wet, Tom ; when it came on to rain, I told
'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious
blaze in the kitchen I can tell you.”
Mr. Codlin followed with a willing mind, and
soon found that the landlord had not com-
mended his preparations without good reason. A
mighty fire was blazing on the hearth and roaring.
up the wide chimney, with a cheerful sound,
which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and sim-
mering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell.
There was a deep red ruddy blush upon the
room, and when the landlord stirred the fire,
sending the flames skipping and leaping up—
when he took off the lid of the iron pot, and
there rushed out a savoury smell, while the bub-
bling sourid grew deeper and more rich, and an
unctuous steam came floating out, hanging in a
delicious mist above their heads—when he did
this, Mr. Codlin's heart was touched. He sat
down in the chimney-corner and smiled. -
Mr. Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner,
eyeing the landlord as with a roguish look he
held the cover in his hand, and feigning that his
doing so was needful to the welfare of the
cookery, suffered the delightſul steam to tickle
the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire
was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his
twinkling eye, and upon his watering mouth,
and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round
fat figure. Mr. Codlin drew his sleeve across
his lips, and said in a murmuring voice, “What
is it P”
“It's a stew of tripe,” said the landlord,
Smacking his lips, “and cow-heel,” Smacking
them again, “and bacon,” Smacking them once
more, “and steak,” smacking them for the fourth
time, “and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and
*
sparrow-grass, all working up together in one
delicious gravy.” Having come to the climax,
he smacked his lips a great many times, and
taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that
was hovering about, put on the cover again with
the air of one whose toils on earth were over.
“At what time will it be ready ?” asked Mr.
Codlin faintly.
“It will be done to a turn,” said the landlord,
looking up at the clock—and the very clock had
a colour in its fat white face, and looked a clock
for Jolly Sandboys to consult—“it’ll be done to
a turn at twenty-two minutes before eleven.”
“Then,” said Mr. Codlin, “fetch me a pint
of warm ale, and don’t let nobody bring into
the room even so much as a biscuit till the time
arrives.”
Nodding his approval of this decisive and
manly course of procedure, the landlord retired
to draw the beer, and presently returning with
it, applied himself to warm the same in a small
tin vessel shaped funnel-wise, for the convenience
of sticking it far down in the fire and getting at
the bright places. This was soon done, and he
handed it over to Mr. Codlin with that creamy
froth upon the surface which is one of the happy
circumstances attendant on mulled malt.
"Greatly softened by this soothing beverage,
Mr. Codlin now bethought him of his com-
panions, and acquainted mine host of the Sand-
boys that their arrival might be shortly looked
for. The rain was rattling against the windows
and pouring down in torrents, and such was Mr.
Codlin's extreme amiability of mind, that he
more than once expressed his earnest hope that
they would not be so foolish as to get wet.
At length they arrived, drenched with the rain
and presenting a most miserable appearance,
notwithstanding that Short had sheltered the
child as well as he could under the skirts of his
own coat, and they were nearly breathless from
the haste they had made. But their steps were
no sooner heard upon the road than the landlord,
who had been at the outer door anxiously
watching for their coming, rushed into the
kitchen and took the cover off. The effect was
electrical. They all came in with smiling faces,
though the wet was dripping from their clothes
upon the floor, and Short's first remark was,
“What a delicious smell !”
It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud
by the side of a cheerful fire, and in a bright
room. They were furnished with slippers and
such dry garments as the house or their own
bundles afforded, and ensconcing themselves, as
_Mr. Codlin had already done, in the warm
chimney-corner, soon forgot their late troubles,
68 THE ozo cuRIOSITY SHOP
or only ren-embered them as enhancing the
delights of the present time. Overpowered by
the warmth and comfort and the fatigue they
had undergone, Nelly and the old man had not
long taken their seats here when they fell asleep.
“Who are they P” whispered the landlord.
... Short shook his head, and wished he knew
himself.
“Don’t you know?" asked the host, turning
to Mr. Codlin.
“Not I,” he replied.
suppose.”
“They're no harm,” said Short. “Depend
upon that. I tell your what—it's plain that the
old man ain't in his right mind x y
“If you haven't got anything newer than that
to say,” growled Mr. Codlin, glancing at the
clock, “ you'd better let us fix our minds upon
the supper, and not disturb us.” - -
“Hear me out, won't you?” retorted his
friend. “It’s very plain to me, besides, that
they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell
me that that -handsome child has been in the
habit of prowling about as she's done these last
two or three days. I know better.”
“They're no good, I
“Well, who does tell you she has 2" growled
Mr. Codlin, again glancing at the clock, and
from it to the cauldron. “Can't you think of
anything more suitable to present circumstances
than saying things, and then contradicting 'em P”
“I wish somebody would give you your sup-
per,” returned Short; “for there'll be no peace
till you've got it. Have you seen how anxious
the old man is to get on—always wanting to
be furder away—furder away P Have you seen
that P”
“Ah ! what then P” nuttered Thomas Codlin.
“He has given his
“This, then,” said Short.
friends the slip. Mind what I say,+he has
given his friends the slip, and persuaded this.
delicate young creetur, all along of her fondness
for him, to be his guide and travelling com-
panion—where to, he knows no more than the
man in the moon. Now I'm not a-going to
Stand that.” -
“You're not a-going to stand that 1" cried
Mr. Codlin, glancing at the clock again, and
pulling his hair with both hands in a kind o
frenzy, but whether occasioned by his com-
panion's observation or the tardy pace of Time,
it was difficult to determine. “Here's a world
to live in "
“I,” repeated Short emphatically and slowly,
“am not a-going to stand it. I am not a-going
to see this fair young child a falling into bad
hands, and getting among people that she's no
more fit for thal, they are to get among angels
as their ordinary chums. Therefore, when they
dewelope an intention of parting company from
us, I shall take measures for detaining of 'em,
and restoring 'em to their friends, who I dare
say have had their disconsolation pasted up on
every wall in London by this time.”
“Short,” said Mr. Codlin, who with his head
upon his hands and his elbows on his knees,
had been shaking himself impatiently from side
to side up to this point, and occasionally stamp-
ing on the ground, but who now looked up with
eager eyes; “it’s possible that there may be un-
common good sense in what you've said. If
there is, and there should be a reward, Short,
remember that we're partners in everything !”
His companion had only time to nod a brief
assent to this position, for the child-awoke. at the
instant. They had drawn close together during
the previous whispering, and now hastily sepa-
rated, and were rather awkwardly endeavouring
to exchange some casual remarks in their usual
tone, when strange footsteps were heard without,
and fresh company entered. -
These were no other than four very dismal
dogs, who came pattering in one after the other,
headed by an old bandy dog of particularly
mournful aspect, who, stopping when the last of
his followers had got as far as the door erected
himself upon his hind-legs and looked round at
his companions, who immediately stood upon
their hind-legs, in a grave and melancholy row.
Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance
about these dogs, for each of them wore a kind
of little coat of some gaudy colour trimmed with
tarnished spangles, and one of them had a cap
upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin,
which had fallen down upon his nose, and com-
pletely obscured one eye; add to this that the
gaudy coats were all wet through and discoloured
with rain, and that the wearers were splashed
and dirty, and some idea may be formed of the
unusual appearance of these new visitors to the
Jolly Sandboys.
Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas
Codlin, however, was the least surprised, merely
remarking that these were Jerry's dogs, and that
Jerry could not be far behind. So there the
dogs stood, patiently winking and gaping anº
looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until
Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped
down at once, and walked about the room *
their natural manner. This posture, it must be
confessed, did not much improve their appear
ance, as their own personal tails and their coat.
tails—both capital things in their way—did not
agree together.
Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs,
-"
was a tall 'black-whiskered man in a velveteen
coat, who seemed well known to the landlord
and his guests, and accosted them with great
cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a barrel-
organ which he placed upon a chair, and retain-
ing in his hand a small whip wherewith to awe his
company of comedians, he came up to the fire
to dry himself, and entered into conversation.
“Your people don't usually travel in cha-
racter, do they?” said Short, pointing to the
dresses of the dogs. “It must come expensive
if they do.”
“No,” replied Jerry, “no, it's not the custom
with us. But we've been playing a little on the
road to-day, and we come out with a new ward-
robe at the races, so I didn't think it worth while
to stop to undress. Down, Pedro !” -
This was addressed to the dog with the cap
on, who, being a new member of the company
and not quite certain of his duty, kept his un-
obscured eye anxiously on his master, and was
perpetually starting upon his hind-legs when
there was no occasion, and falling down again.
“I’ve got a animal here,” said Jerry, putting
his hand into the capacious pocket of his coat,
and diving into one corner as if he were feeling
for a small orange or an apple or some such
article, “a animal here wot I think you know
something of, Short l” *.
“Ah!” cried Short,
him.”
“Here he is,” said Jerry, producing a little
terrier from his pocket. “He was once a Toby
of yours, warn’t he?”
In some versions of the great drama of Punch
there is a small dog—a modern innovation—
supposed to be the private property of that
gentleman, whose name is always Toby. This
Toby has been stolen in youth from another
gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the con-
fiding hero, who, having no guile himself, has
no suspicion that it lurks in others; but Toby,
entertaining a grateful recollection of his old
master, and scorning to attach himself to any
new patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at
the bidding of Punch, but, to mark his old
fidelity more strongly, seizes him by the nose
and wrings the same with violence, at which
instance of canine attachment the spectators are
deeply affected. This was the character which
the little terrier in question had once sustained;
if there had been any doubt upon the subject,
“let’s have a look at
he would speedily have resolved it by his con-.
duct: for not only did he, on seeing Short, give
the strongest tokens of recognition, but, catching
sight of the flat box, he barked so furiously at
the pasteboard nose which he knew was inside.
\ **
JERRY'S DoGS. 69
that his master was obliged to gather him up
and put him into his pocket again, to the great
relief of the whole company.
The landlord now busied himself in laying
the cloth, in which process Mr. Codlin obligingly
assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork
in the most convenient place, and establishing
himself behind them. When everything was
ready, the landlord took off the cover for the
last time, and then indeed there burst forth such
a goodly promise of supper, that if he had
offered to put it on again, or had hinted at post-
ponement, he would certainly have been sacri-
ficed on his own hearth.
However, he did nothing of the kind, but
instead thereof assisted a stout servant-girl in
turning the contents of the cauldron into a large
tureen ; a proceeding which the dogs, proof
against various hot splashes which fell upon their
noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At
length the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs
of ale having been previously set round, little
Nell ventured to say grace, and Supper began.
At this juncture the poor dogs were standing
on their hind-legs quite surprisingly ; the child,
having pity on them, was about to cast some
morsels of food to them before she tasted it her:
self, hungry though she was, when their master
interposed.
“No, my dear, no, not an atom from any-
body's hand but mine, if you please. That
dog,” said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of
the troop, and speaking in a terrible voice, “lost
3. halfpºny to-day. He goes without his sup-
per.” "
The unfortunate creature dropped upon his
fore-legs directly, wagged his tail, and looked
imploringly at his master.
“You must be more careful, sir,” said Jerry,
walking coolly to the chair where he had placed
the organ, and setting the stop. “Come here.
Now, sir, you play away at that while we have
supper, and leave off if you dare : ”
The dog immediately began to grind most
mournful music. His master, having shown him
the whip, resumed his seat and called up the
others, who, at his directions, formed in a row)
standing upright as a file of soldiers.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jerry, looking at them
attentively. “The dog whose name's called, eats,
The dogs whose names an’t called, keep quiet.
Carlo I" *
The lucky individual whose name was called
snapped up the morsel thrown towards him but
none of the others moved a muscle. In this
manner they were fed at the discretion of their
master. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace ground
7o THE OLD curroSITY SHop.
hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, some.
times in slow, but never leaving off for an instant.
When the knives and forks rattled very much, or
any of his fellows got an unusually large piece of
fat, he accompanied the music with a short howl,
but he immediately checked it on his master look.
ing round, and applied himself with increased
diligence to the Old Hundredth.
—e-
CHAPTER xix.
> A UPPER was not yet over, when there
arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two
º haven as the rest, who had been walk-
2} ing in the rain for some hours, and
One of these was the proprietor of a
giant, and a little lady without legs or
arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the
other, a silent gentleman who earned his living
by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had
rather deranged the natural expression of his
countenance by putting small leaden lozenges
into his eyes and bringing them out at his
mouth, which was one of his professional ac-
complishments. The name of the first of these
new-comers was Vuffin; the other, probably as
a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called
Sweet William. To render them as comfortable
as he could, the landlord bestirred himself nimbly,
and in a very short time both gentlemen were
perfectly at their ease. 30
“How's the Giant P” said Short when they
all sat smoking round the fire. -
, “Rather weak upon his legs,” returned Mr.
Vuffin. “I begin to be afraid he's going at the
Knees.” -
“That's a bad look-out,” said Short.
“Ay! Bad indeed,” replied Mr. Vuffin, con-
templating the fire with a sigh. “Once get a
giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no
more about him than they do for a dead cabbage-
stalk.”
“What becomes of the old giants?” said Short,
turning to him again after a little reflection. .
“They're usually kept in carawans to wait
upon the dwarfs,” said Mr. Vuffin.
“The maintaining of 'em must come expen-
sive, when they can't be shown, eh?” remarked
Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
“It's better that than letting 'em go upon the
parish or about the streets,” said Mr. Vuffin.
“Once make a giant common, and giants will
never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If
\ more travellers bound for the same
came in shining and heavy with water. .
4 º' *
there was only one man with-a wooden leg what
a property he'd be l’” -
“So he would " observed the landlord and
Short both together. “That's very true.”
“Instead of which,” pursued Mr. Vuffin, “if
you was to advertise Shakspeare played entirely
by wooden legs, it's my belief you wouldn't draw
a sixpence.” -
“I don't suppose you would,” said Short. And
the landlord said so too. -
“This shows, you see,” said Mr. Vuffin, waving
his pipe with an argumentative air, “this shows
the policy of keeping the used-up giants still in
the carawans, where they get food and lodging
for nothing all their lives, and in general very
glad they are to stop there. There was one
giant—a black 'un-as left his carawan some
year ago, and took to carrying coach-bills about
London, making himself as cheap as crossing-
sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation
against anybody in particular,” said Mr. Vuffin,
looking solemnly round, “but he was ruining
the trade;—and he died.”
The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked
at the owner of the dogs, who nodded and said
gruffly that he remembered.
“I know you do, Jerry,” said Mr. Vuffin with
profound meaning. “I know you remember it,
Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it
served him right. Why, I remember the time
when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty
wans—I remember the time when old Maunders
had in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter-
time, when the season was over, eight male ard
female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day,
who was waited on by eight old giants in green
coats, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-
lows; and there was one dwarf as had grown
elderly and wicious, who, whenever his giant
wasn't quick enough to please him, used to stick
pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any
higher. I know that's a fact, for Maunders told
it me himself.” -
“What about the dwarfs when they get old?”
inquired the landlord.
“The older the dwarf is, the better worth he
is,” returned Mr. Vuffin ; “a grey-headed dwarf,
well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a
giant weak in the legs, and not standing upright !
—keep him in the carawan, but never show him,
never show him, for any persuasion that can be
offered.” -
While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends smoked
their pipes and beguiled the time with such con-
versation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a
warm corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow,
sixpennyworth of halfpence for practice, balanc. . .


DESIGNS of copſ. IN AND SHOR7. 71
ing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other
ſeats of dexterity of that kind, without paying
any regard whatever to the company, who in
their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length
the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather
to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the com-
pany yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast
asleep at a humble distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell
retired to her poor garret, but had scarcely
closed the door when it was gently tapped at.
She opened it directly, and was ā little startled
by the sight of Mr. Thomas Codlin, whom she
had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down-
stairs. - -
“What is the matter P” said the child.
“Nothing's the matter, my dear,” returned her
visitor. “I’m your friend. Perhaps you haven't
thought so, but it's me that's your friend—not
him.” -
“Not who P” the child inquired.
“Short, my dear. I tell you what,” said Cod.
lin, “for all his having a kind of way with him
that you'd be very apt to like, I’m the real,
open-hearted man. I mayn't look it, but I am
indeed.” -
The child began to be alarmed, considering
that the afe had taken effect upon Mr. Codlin,
and that this commendation of himself was the
consequence. • * -
“Short's very well, and seems kind,” resumed
the misanthrope, “but he overdoes it. Now I
don't.” -
Certainly, if there were any fault in Mr. Cod-
lin's usual deportment, it was that , he rather
underdid his kindness to those about him than
overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could
not tell what to say. ... *
“Take my advice,” said Codlin; “don’t ask
me why, but take it. As long as you travel with
us, keep as near me as you can. Don't offer to
leave us—not on any account—but always stick
to me, and say that I'm your friend. Will you
bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that
it was me that was your friend ?”
, “Say So where, and when P” inquired the
child innocently.
“Oh nowhere in particular,” replied Codlin,
a little put out as it seemed by the question; “I
am only anxious that you should think me so,
and do me justice, You can't think what an
interest I have in you.'
your little history—that about you and the poor
old gentleman P I'm the best adviser that ever
was, and so interested in you—so much more
interested than Short. I think they're breaking
up down-stairs ; you needn't tell Short, you
Why didn't you tell me
know, that we've had this little talk together.
God bless you ! Recollect the friend. Codlin's
the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far
as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin—not
Short.”
Eking out these professions with a number of
benevolent and protecting looks and great ſer-
vour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on
tiptoe, leaving the child in a state of extreme
surprise. . She was still ruminating upon his
curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy
stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of
the other travellers, who were passing to their
beds. When they had all passed, and the sound'
of their footsteps had died away, one of them
returned, and after a little hesitation and rustling
in the passage, as if he were doubtful what doo
to knock at, knocked at hers. -
“Yes?” said the child from within. -
“It's me—Short,” a voice called through the
keyhole. “I only wanted to say that we must
be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because,
unless we get the start of the dogs and the con.
jurer, the villages won't be worth a penny. You’ll
be sure to be stirring early, and go with us? I'll
call you.”
The child answered in the affirmative, and,
returning his “good night,” heard him creep
away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety
of these men, increased by the recollection of
their whispering together down-stairs, and their
slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she
quite free from a misgiving that they were not
the fittest companions she could have stumbled
on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing,
weighed against her fatigue ; and she soon forgot
it in sleep.
Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his
promise, and, knocking softly at her door, en-
treated that she would get up directly, as the
proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if
they lost no time they might get a good deal in
advance both of him and the conjurer, who
was talking in his sleep, and, from what he could
be heard to say, appeared to be balancing a
donkey in his dreams. She started from her bed
without delay, and roused the old man with so
much expedition that they were both ready as
soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's un-
speakable gratification and relief.
After a very unceremonious and scrambling
breakfast, of which the staple commodities were
bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of
the landlord, and issued from the door of the
Jolly Sandboys. The morning was fine and
warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late
rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air
'72 THE OLD CURIOS/Ty SHOP
clear, and everything fresh and healthful. Sur-
rounded by these influences, they walked on
pleasantly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the child
was again struck by the altered behaviour of Mr.
Thomas Codlin, who, instead of plodding on
sulkily by himself as he had theretofore done,
kept close to her, and when he had an opportu-
mity of looking at her unseen by his companion,
warned her, by certain wry faces and jerks of
the head, not to put any trust in Short, but to
reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did
he confine himself to looks and gestures, for
when she and her grandfather were walking on
beside the aforesaid Short, and that little man
was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on
a variety of indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin
testified his jealousy and distrust by following
close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing
her ankles with the legs of the theatre in a very
abrupt and painful manner.
All these proceedings naturally made the child
º:
sº
32.
sº
3.
“Now, GENTLEMEN,” SAID JERRY, LOOKING AT THEM ATTENTIVELY.
“THE DOG WHOSE NAME'S
CALLED, EATS.”
imore watchful and suspicious, and she soon ob-
served that, whenever they halted to perform
outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr.
Codlin, while he went through his share of the
entertainments, kept his eye steadily upon her
and the old man, or with a show of great friend-
ship and consideration invited the latter to lean
upon his arm, and so held him tight until the
representation was over and they again went for-
ward." Even Short seemed;to change in this
respect, and to mingle with his good-nature
something of a desire to keep them in safe cus-
tody. . This increased the child's misgivings, and
made her yet more anxious and uneasy.
Meanwhile they were drawing near the town
where the races were to begin next day; for,
from passing numerous groups, of gipsies and
trampers on the road, wending their way to-
wards it, and straggling out from every by-way
and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a

IITTLE AWEZ.Z. At ESOL VES ON FLIGHZ. . 73
stream of people, some walking by the side of
covered carts, others with horses, others with
donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads upon
their backs, but all tending to the same point.
The public-houses by the wayside, from being
empty and noiseless as those in the remoter
parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts
and clouds of smoke ; and, from the misty win-
dows, clusters of broad red faces looked down
upon the road. On every piece of waste or
common ground, some small gambler drove his
noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passers-by
to stop and try their chance; the crowd grew
thicker and more noisy; gilt, gingerbread in
blanket-stalls exposed its glories to the dust;
and often a four-horse carriage, dashing by, ob-
scured all objects in the gritty cloud it raised,
and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind.
It was dark before they reached the town
itself, and long indeed the few last miles had
been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the
streets were filled with throngs of people—many
strangers were there, it seemed, by the looks
they cast about—the church bells rang out their
noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows
and housetops. In the large inn yards waiters
flitted to and fro and ran against each. other,
horses clattered on the uneven stones, carriage
steps fell rattling down, and sickening smells
from many dinners came in a heavy lukewarm
breath upon the sense. In the smaller public-
houses, fiddles with all their might and main
were squeaking out the tune to staggering feet;
drunken men, oblivious of the burden of their
song, joined in a senseless howl, which drowned
the tinkling of the feeble bell, and made them
Savage for their drink; vagabond groups assem-
bled round the doors to see the stroller woman
dance, and add their uproar to the shrill flageolet
and deafening drum. - -
. Through this delirious scene, the child,
frightened and repelled by all she saw, led on
her bewildered charge, clinging close to her
conductor, and trembling lest in the press she
should be separated from him and left to find
her way alone. Quickening their steps to get
clear of all the roar and riot, they at length
passed through the town, and made for the
race-course, which was upon an open heath,
situated on an eminence, a full mile distant
from its furthest bounds.
Although there were many people here, none §
of the best favoured or best clad, busily erecting
tents and driving stakes into the ground, and
hurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a
grumbled oath—although there were tired chil-
drenacradled-on heaps of straw between the
sent back.
“Keep close to me all day.
wheels of carts, crying themselves to sleep—
and poor lean horses and donkeys just turned
loose, grazing among the men and women, and
pots and kettles, and half-lighted fires, and ends
of candles flaring and wasting in the air—for all
this, the child felt it an escape from the town,
and drew her breath more freely. After a scanty
supper, the purchase of which reduced her little
stock so low, that she had only a few halfpence
with which to buy a breakfast on the morrow,
she and the old man lay down to rest in a
corner of a tent, and slept, despite the busy
preparations that were going on around them all
night long. * -
And now they had come to the time when
they must beg their bread. Soon after sunrise
in the morning she stole out from the tent, and
rambling into some fields at a short distance,
plucked a few wild roses and such humble
flowers, purposing to make them into little
nosegays, and offer them to the ladies in the
carriages when the company arrived. Her
thoughts were not idle while she was thus em-
ployed. When she returned and was seated be-
side the old man in one corner of the tent,
tying her flowers together, while the two men
lay dozing in another corner, she plucked him
by the sleeve, and, slightly glancing towards
them, said in a low voice :
“Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of,
and don't seem as if I spoke of anything but
what I am about. What was that you told me
before we left the old house 2 That if they
knew what we were going to do, they would say
that you were mad, and part us?”
The old man turned to her with an aspect of
wild terror; but she checked him by a look, and
bidding him hold some flowers, while she tied
them up, and so bringing her lips closer to his
ear, said:
“I know that was what you told me. You
needn't speak, dear. I recollect it very well-
lt was not likely that I should forget it. Grand-
father, these men suspect that we have secretly
left our friends, and mean to carry us before
some gentleman, and have us taken care of and
If you let your hand tremble so,
we can never get away from them, but, if you're
only quiet now, we shall do so easily.”
“How P” muttered the old man. “Dear
Nelly, how P They will shut me up in a stone
room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the
wall, Nell—flog me with whips, and never let
me see thee more . "
“You're trembling again,” said the child.
- Never mind them,
don't look at them, but me. I shall find a time
74 f THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
when we can steal away. When I do, mind
you come with me, and do not stop or speak a
word. Hush | That’s all.”
“Halloa what are you up to, my dear?”
said Mr. Codlin, raising his head, and yawning.
Then, observing that his companion was fast
asleep, he added in an earnest whisper, “Cod-
lin's the friend, remember—not Short.”
“Making some nosegays,” the child replied ;
“I am going to try and sell some, these three
days of the races. Will you have one—as a
present I mean P”
Mr. Codlin would have risen to receive it,
but the child hurried towards him and placed it
in his hand. He stuck it in his button-hole
with an air of ineffable complacency for a misan-
thrope, and, leering exultingly at the unconscious
Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again,
“Tom Codlin's the friend, by G– 1"
As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a
gayer and more brilliant appearance, and iong
lines of carriages came rolling softly on the turf.
Men who had lounged about all right in smock-
frocks and leather leggings came out in silken .
vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or
mountebanks; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-
spoken servants at gambling booths; or in
sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful
games. Black-eyed gipsy girls, hooded in showy
handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell fortunes, and
pale slender women with consumptive faces
lingered upon the footsteps of ventriloquists
and conjurers, and counted the sixpences with
anxious eyes long before they were gained. As
many of the children as could be kept within
bounds were stowed away, with all the other
signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys,
carts, and horses ; and as many as could not be
thus disposed of ran in and out in all intricate
spots, crept between people's legs and carriage
wheels, and came forth unharmed from under
horses' hoofs. The dancing dogs, the stilts, the
little lady and the tall man, and all the other
attractions, with organs out of number and
bands innumerable, emerged from the holes and
corners in which they had passed the night, and
flourished boldly in the sun,
Along the uncleared course Short led his
party, sounding the brazen trumpet, and revel-
ling in the voice of Punch; and at his heels
went Thomas Codlin, bearing the show as usual,
and keeping his eye on Nelly and her grand-
father, as they rather lingered in the rear. The
child bore upon her arm the little basket with
her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid
and modest looks, to offer them at some gay
carriage; but alas ! there were many bolder
beggars there, gipsies who promised husbands,
and other adepts in their trade, and, although
some ladies smiled gently as they shook their
heads, and others cried to the gentlemen beside
them, “See, what a pretty face : " they let the
pretty face pass on, and never thought that it
looked tired or hungry. .
There was but one lady who seemed to under-
stand the child, and she was one who sat alone
in a handsome carriage, while two young men in
dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from
it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance,
appearing to forget her quite. There were many
ladies all around, but they turned their backs,
or looked another way, or at the two young men
(not unfavourably at them), and left her to her.
self. She motioned away a gipsy woman urgent
to tell her fortune, saying that it was told already,
and had been for some years, but called the
child towards her, and, taking her flowers, put
money into her trembling hand, and bade her
go home and keep at home for God's sake. -
Many a time they went up and down those
long long lines, seeing everything but the horses
and the race; when the bell rung to clear the
course, going back to rest among the carts and
donkeys, and not coming out again until the
heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch
displayed in the full zenith of his humour, but
all this while the eye of Thomas Codlin was
upon them, and to escape without notice was
impracticable. -
At length, late in the day, Mr. Codlin pitched
the show in a convenient spot, and the specta-
tors were soon in the very triumph of the scene.
The child, sitting down with the old man close
behind it, had been thinking how strange it was
that horses who were such fine honest creatures
should seem to make vagabonds of all the men
they drew about them, when a loud laugh at
some extermporaneous witticism of Mr. Short's,
having allusion to the circumstances of the day,
roused her from her meditation and caused her
to look around. -
If they were ever to get away unseen, that
was the very moment. Short was plying the
quarter-staves vigorously, and knocking the cha-
racters in the fury of the combat against the
sides of the show, the people were looking on
with laughing faces, and Mr. Codlin had relaxed
into a grim smile as his roving eye detected
hands going into waistcoat pockets, and groping
secretly for sixpences. If they were ever to get
away unseen, that was the very moment. They
seized it, and fled.
They made a path through booths and car-
riages and throngs of people, and never once
A VT KEEPS HIS AA-A2O/WTMAEAVZ. 75
stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing
and the course was cleared by the time they
reached the ropes, but they dashed across it,
insensible to the shouts and screeching that
assailed them for breaking in upon its sanctity,
and, creeping under the brow of the hill at a
quick pace, made for the open fields.
CHAPTER XX.
homeward, returning from some new
effort to procure employment, Kit
raised his eyes to the window of the
: little room he had so much com-
mended to the child, and hoped to see
y \º some indication of her presence. His
scº own earnest wish, coupled with the assur-
ance he had received from Quilp, filled him with
the belief that she would yet arrive to claim the
humble shelter he had offered, and from the
death of each day's hope, another hope sprung
up to live to-morrow.
“I think they must certainly come to-morrow,
eh, mother ?” said Kit, laying aside his hat with
a weary air, and sighing as he spoke. “They
have been gone a week. They surely couldn't
stop away more than a week, could they now P”
The mother shook her head, and reminded
him how often he had been disappointed already.
“For the matter of that,” said Kit, “ you
speak true and sensible enough, as you always
do, mother. Still, I do consider that a week is
quite long enough for 'em to be rambling about;
don't you say so P” -
“Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough,
but they may not come back for all that.”
Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed
by this contradiction, and not the less so from
having anticipated it in his own mind, and
knowing how just it was. But the impulse was
Only momentary, and the vexed look became a
kind one before it had crossed the room.
“Then what do you think, mother, has be-
come of 'em 2 You don't think they've gone to
sea, anyhow P” -
“Not gone for sailors, certainly,” returned the
mother with a smile. “But I can't help thinking
that they have gone to some foreign country.”
“I say,” cried Kit with a rueful face, “don’t
talk like that, mother.”
“I am afraid they have, and that's the truth,”
She said. “It's the talk of all the neighbours,
and there are some even that know of their
having been seen on board ship, and can tell
you the name of the place they've gone to,
which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a
very hard one.” -
“I don’t believe it,” said Kit. “Not a word of it.
A set of idle chatterboxes, how should they know?"
“They may be wrong, of course,” returned
the mother. “I can't tell about that, though I
don't think it's at all unlikely that they're in the
right, for the talk is that the old gentleman had
put by a little money that nobody knew of, not
even that ugly little man you talk to me about
—what's his name 2–Quilp ; and that he and
Miss Nell have gone to live abroad, where it
can't be taken from them, and they will never
, be disturbed. That don't seem very far out of
the way now, do it?”
Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant
admission that it did not, and clambering up to
the old nail, took down the cage and set himself
to clean it and to feed the bird. His thoughts.
reverting from this occupation to the little old
gentleman who had given him the shilling, he
suddenly recollected that that was the very day
—nay, nearly the very hour—at which the little .
old gentleman had said he should be at the
notary's house again. He no sooner remem-
bered this than he hung up the cage with great
precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature
of his errand, went off at full speed to the
appointed place.' - t
It was some two minutes after the time when
he reached the spot, which was a considerable
distance from his home, but by great good luck
the little old gentleman had not yet arrived ; at
least there was no pony-chaise to be seen, and it
was not likely that he had come and gone again
in so short a space. Greatly relieved to find
that he was not too late, Kit leant against a
lamp-post to take breath, and waited the advent
of the pony and his charge.
Sure enough, before long the pony came
trotting round the corner of the street, looking
as obstinate as pony might, and picking his steps
as if he were spying about for the cleanest places,
and would by no means dirty his feet or hurry
himself inconveniently. Behind the pony sat
the little old gentleman, and by the old gentle.
man's side sat the little old lady, carrying just
such a nosegay as she had brought before.
The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony,
and the chaise came up the street in perfect
unanimity, until they arrived within some halfa.
dozen doors of the notary's house, when the
pony, deceived by a brass plate beneath a tailor's
knocker, came to a halt, and maintained by a
sturdy silence that that was the house they
wanted.


76
THE OLD curroSITY SHOP
“Now, sir, will you have the goodness to go
on 2 This is not the place.” said the old centle-
ſhall].
The pony looked with great attention into a
fire-plug which was near him, and appeared to
he quite absorbed in contemplating it.
“Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker 1" cried
the old lady. “After being so good too, and
coming along so well ! I am quite ashamed of
him. I don't know what we arc to do with him,
I really don't.” -
a * ºr - sº º . º º
sº , - 'º - ºn 3. . . w
tºº. – º tº . . s.s.l. º.
--->
v
The pony, having thoroughly satisfied himself
as to the nature and properties of the fire-plug,
looked into the air after his old enemies the
flies, and as there happened to be one of them
tickling his ear at that moment, he shook his
head and whisked his tail, after which he ap-
peared full of thought, but quite comfortable
and collected. The old gentleman, having ex-
hausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to
lead him ; whereupon the pony, perhaps because
he held this to be a sufficient concession, per-
“THERE WAS BUT ONE LADY WHO SEEMED TO UNDERSTAND THE CHILD, AND SHE WAS oNE"who SAT
ALONE IN A HANDSOME CARRIAGE.”
haps because he happened to catch sight of the .
other brass plate, or perhaps because he was in
a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady,
and stopped at the right house, leaving the old
gentleman to come panting on behind.
. It was then that Kit presented himself at the
pony's head, and touched his hat with a smile.
“Why, bless me," cried the old gentleman,
“the lad is here ! My dear, do you see Pº
“I said I’d be here, sir,” said Kit, patting
Whisker's neck. “I hope you've had a pleasant
ride, sir. He's a very nice little pony.”
: “My dear!” said the old gentleman. “This
is an uncommon lad! a good lad, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure he is,” rejoined the old lady. . “A
very good lad, and I'm sure he is a good son.”
Kit acknowledged these expressions of con.
fidence by touching his hat again, and blushing
very much. The old gentleman then handed
the old lady out, and after looking at him with
an approving smile, they went into the house—
talking about him as they went, Kit could not
help feeling. Presently Mr. Witherden, smelling
very hard at the nosegay, came to the window



THE AWE W FRAE/WDS AGAAAW.
77
and looked at him, and after that Mr. Abel came
and looked at him, and after that the old gentle-
man and lady came and looked at him again,
and after that they all came and looked at him
together, which Kit, feeling very much embar-
rassed by, made a pretence of not observing.
Therefore he patted the pony more and more;
and this liberty the pony most handsomely per-
mitted. •
The faces had not disappeared from the win-
dow many moments, when Mr. Chuckster in his
official coat, and with his hat hanging on his
head just as it happened to fall from its peg,
appeared upon the pavement, and telling him
he was wanted inside, bade him go in, and he
would mind the chaise the while. In giving
him this direction Mr. Chuckster remarked that
he wished that he might be blessed if he could
make out whether he (Kit) was “precious raw "
or “precious deep,” but intimated, by a dis-
trustful shake of the head, that he inclined to
the latter opinion.
Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for
he was not used to going among strange ladies
and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and bundles
of dusty papers had in his eyes an awful and
venerable air. Mr. Witherden, too, was a
bustling gentleman, who talked loud and fast,
and all eyes were upon him, and he was very
shabby. * -
“Well, boy,” said Mr. Witherden, “you came
to work out that shilling;-not to get another,
hey?”
“No Indeed, sir," replied Kit, taking courage
to look up. “I never thought of such a thing.”
“Father alive?" said the notary.
“Dead, sir.” .
“Mother?"
“Yes, sir.” * - --
“Married again—eh?" -
Kit made answer, not without some indigna-
tion, that she was a widow with three children,
and that as to her marrying again, if the gentle-
man knew her he wouldn't think of such a thing.
At this reply Mr. Witherden buried his nose in
the flowers again, and whispered behind the
nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed
the lad was as honest a lad as need be.
“Now,” said Mr. Garland when they had
made some further inquiries of him, “I am not
going to give you anything xx *
“Thank you, sir,” Kit replied; and quite
seriously too, for this announcement seemed to
free him from the suspicion which the notary
had hinted. 8 .
“—But,” resumed the old gentleman, “per-
haps I may want to know something more about
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 6.
you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put iſ
down in my pocket-book.” -
Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote
down the address with his pencil. He had
scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar
in the street, and the old lady, hurrying to the
window, cried that Whisker had run away, upon
which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the
others followed.
It seemed that Mr. Chuckster had been stand-
ing with his hands in his pockets looking care-
lessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting
him with such admonitions as “Stand still,”—
“Be quiet,”—“Woa-a-a 1" and the like, which
by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Conse-
quently, the pony being deterred by no con-
siderations of duty or obedience, and not
having before him the slightest fear of the
human eye, had at length started off, and was
at that moment rattling down the street,_Mr.
Chuckster, with his hat off and a pen behind his
ear, hanging on in the rear of the chaise, and
making futile attempts to draw it the other way,
to the unspeakable admiration of all beholders.
Even in running away, however, Whisker was
perverse, for he had not gone very far when he
suddenly stopped, and before assistance could
be rendered, commenced backing at nearly as
quick a pace as he had gone forward. By these
means Mr. Chuckster was pushed and hustled
to the office again in a most inglorious manner,
and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and
discomfiture. > - -
The old lady then stepped into her seat, and
Mr. Abel (whom they had come to fetch) into
his. The old gentleman, after reasoning with
the pony on the extreme impropriety of his con-
duct, and making the best amends in his power
to Mr. Chuckster, took his place also, and they
drove away, waving a farewell to the notary and
his clerk, and more than once turning to nod
..., to Kit as he watched them from the
IO3Cl.
CHAPTER XXI.
the pony, and the chaise, and the
little old lady, and the little old gen.
tleman, and the little young gentle-
§ man to boot, in thinking what could
* have become of his late master and
§º) his lovely grandchild, who were the foun-
&/ tain-head of all his meditations. Still
casting about for some plausible means of ac-
counting for their non-appearance, and of per-
254

78 's zºz of D curroSITY SHOP

suading himself that they must soon return, he
bent his steps towards home, intending to finish
the task which the sudden recollection of his
contract had interrupted, and then to salky forth
once more to seek his fortune for the day.
When he came to the corner of the court in
which he lived, lo and behold there was the
pony again Yes, there he was, looking more
obstinate than ever; and, alone in the chaise,
keeping a steady watch upon his every wink, sat
Mr. Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by chance and
seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though he
would have nodded his head off.
Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near
his own home too, but it never occurred to him
for what purpose the pony might have come
there, or where the old lady and the old gentle-
man had gone, until he lifted the latch of the
door, and walking in, found them seated in the
room in conversation with his mother, at which
unexpected sight he pulled off his hat and made
his best bow in some confusion. .
“We are here before you, you see, Christo-
pher,” said Mr. Garland, smiling.
“Yes, sir," said Kit; and, as he said it, he
looked towards his mother for an explanation of
the visit. --
“The gentleman's been kind enough, my
dear,” said she in reply to this mute interroga-
tion, “to ask me whether you were in a good
place, or in any place at all, and when I told
him no, you were not in any, he was so good as
to say that yº --
“That we wanted a good lad in our house,”
said the old gentleman and the old lady both
together, “...and that perhaps we might think of
it, if we found everything as we would wish it
to be.”
As this thinking of it plainly meant the think-
ing of engaging Kit, he immediately partook of
his mother's anxiety, and fell into a great flutter;
for the little old couple were very methodical
and cautious, and asked so many questions that
he began to be afraid there was no chance of his
SucCeSS.
“You see, my good woman,” said Mrs. Gar-
land to Kit's mother, “that it's necessary to be
very careful and particular in such a matter as
this, for we're only three in family, and are very
quiet regular folks, and it would be a sad thing
if we made any kind of mistake, and found things
different from what we hoped and expected.”
To this Kit's mother replied that certainly it
was quite true, and quite fight, and quite proper,
and Heaven forbid that she should shrink, or
have cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her
character, or that of her son, who was a very
good son, though she was his mother, in which
respect, she was bold to say, he took after his
father, who was not only a good son to his
mother, but the best of husbands and the best
of fathers besides, which Kit could and would
corroborate she knew, and so would little Jacob
and the baby likewise if they were old enough,
which unfortunately they were not, though, as
they didn't know what a loss they had had, per-
haps it was a great deal better that they should
be as young as they were ; and so Kit's mother
wound up a long story by wiping her eyes with
her apron, and patting littie Jacob's head, who
was rocking the cradle and staring with all his
might at the strange lady and gentleman.
When Kit's mother had done speaking the old
lady struck in again, and said that she was quite
sure she was a very honest and very respectable
person, or she never would have expressed herself
in that manner, and that certainly the appearance
of the children and the cleanliness of the house
deserved great praise, and did her the utmost
credit, whereat Kit's mother dropped a curtsy
and became consoled. Then the good woman
entered into a long and minute account of Kit's
life and history from the earliest period down to
that time, not omitting to make mention of his
miraculous fall out of a back-parlour window
when an infant of tender years, or his uncommon
sufferings in a state of measles, which were illus-
trated by correct imitations of the plaintive man-
ner in which he called for toast-and-water day
and night, and said “Don’t cry, mother, I shall
soon be better;" for proof of which statements
reference was made to Mrs. Green, lodger, at
the cheesemonger's round the corner, and divers
other ladies and gentlemen in various parts of
England and Wales (and one Mr. Brown, who
was supposed to be then a corporal in the East
Indies, and who coulds of course be found with
very little trouble), within whose personal know-
ledge the circumstances had occurred. This
narration ended, Mr. Garland put some ques-
tions to Kit respecting his qualifications and
general acquirements, while Mrs. Garland no-
ticed the children, and hearing from Kit's mother
certain remarkable circumstances which had at-
tended the birth of each, related certain other
remarkable circumstances which had attended
the birth of her own son, Mr. Abel, from which
it appeared that both Kit's mother and herself
had been, above and beyond all other women of
what condition or age soever, peculiarly hemmed
in with perils and dangers. Lastly, inquiry was
made into the nature and extent of Kit's ward-
robe, and a small advance being made to in-
prove the same, he was formally hired at *
AZZ TARES SAA VVCE WIZH MAE, GARZAAWD.
79
annual income of Six Pounds, over and above
his board and lodging, by Mr. and Mrs. Garland,
of Abel Cottage, Finchley.
It would be difficult to say which party ap-
peared most pleased with this arrangement, the
conclusion of which was hailed with nothing but
pleasant looks and cheerful smiles on both
sides. It was settled that Kit should repair to
his new abode on the next day but one, in the
morning; and finally, the little old couple, aſter
bestowing a bright half-crown on little Jacob and
another on the baby, took their leaves; being
escorted as far as the street by their new attend-
vant, who held the obdurate pony by the bridle
while they took their seats, and saw them drive
away with a lightened heart.
“Well, mother,” said Kit, hurrying back into
the house, “I think my fortune's about made
now.” º
“I should think it was indeed, Kit,” rejoined
his mother. “Six pound a year ! Only think ”
“Ah !” said Kit, trying to maintain the gra-
vity which the consideration of such a sum de-
manded, but grinning with delight in spite o
himself. “There's a property 1" -
Kit drew a long breath when he had said this,
and putting his hands deep into his pockets as
if there were one year's wages at least in each,
looked at his mother as though he saw through
her, and down an immense perspective of sove-
reigns beyond. - -
* Please God we'll make such a lady of you
for Sundays, mother | Such a scholar of Jacob,
such a child of the baby, such a room of the one
up-stairs Six pound a year !”
“Hem ’’ croaked a strange voice. “What's
that about six pound a year 2 What about six
pound a year?” And as the voice made this
inquiry, Daniel Quilp walked in, with Richard
Swiveller at his heels.
“Who said he was to have six pound a year?”
said Quilp, looking sharply round. “Did the
old man say it, or did little Nell say it P And
what's he to have it for, and where are they, eb P”
The good woman was so much alarmed by
the sudden apparition of this unknown piece of
ugliness, that she hastily caught the baby from
its cradle, and retreated into the furthest corner
of the room ; while little Jacob, sitting on his
stool with his hands on his knees, looked full at
him in a species of fascination, roaring lustily all
the time. . Richard Swiveller took an easy ob-
servation of the family over Mr. Quilp's head,
and Quilp himself, with his hands in his pockets,
Smiled in an exquisite enjoyment of the commo-
tion he occasioned. -
“Don’t be frightened, mistress,” said Quilp
after a pause. “Your son knows me; I don't
eat babies ; I don't like 'em. It will be as well
to stop that young screamer, though, in case I
should be tempted to do him a mischief. Holloa,
sir Will you be quiet P”
Little Jacob stemmed the course of two tears
which he was squeezing out of his eyes, and
instantly subsided into a silent horror.
“Mind you don't break out again, you villain,”
said Quilp, looking sternly at him, “ or I'll make
faces at you, and throw you into fits, I will.
Now, you sir, why haven't you been to me as
you promised ?”
“What should I come for P” retorted Kit.
“I hadn't any business with you, no more than
you had with me.”
“Here, mistress,” said Quilp, turning quickly
away, and appealing from Kit to his mother.
“When did his old master come or send here
last P Is he here now P If not, where's he
gone P”
“He has not been here at all,” she replied
“I wish we knew where they have gone, for it
would make my son a good deal easier in his
mind, and me too. If you're the gentleman
named Mr. Quilp, I should have thought you'd
have known, and so I told him only this very
day.”
“Humph : " muttered Quilp, evidently dis-
appointed to believe that this was true. “That's
what you tell this gentleman too, is it?”
“If the gentleman comes to ask the same
question, I can't tell him anything else, sir; and
I only wish I could, for our own sakes,” was the
reply.
Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and ob-
served that having met him on the threshold, he
assumed that he had come in search of some
intelligence of the fugitives. He supposed he
was right P
“Yes,” said Dick, “that was the object of the
present expedition. I fancied it possible—but
let us go ring fancy's knell. I’ll begin it.”
“You seem disappointed,” observed Quilp.
“A baffler, sir, a baffler, that's all,” returned
Dick. “I have entered upon a speculation
which has proved a baffler; and a Being of
brightness and beauty will be offered up a sacri-
fice at Cheggs's altar. That's all, sir.”
The dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic
Smile, but Richard, who had been taking a
rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him
not, and continued to deplore his fate with
mournful and despondent looks. Quilp plainly
discerned that there was some secret reason for
this visit and his uncommon disappointment,
and, in the hope there might be means of mis-
$o THE OLD curzoszzy shop
chief lurking beneath it, resolved to worm, it
out. He had no sooner adopted this resolution,
than he conveyed as much honesty into his face
as it was capable of expressing, and sympathised
with Mr. Swiveller exceedingly.
“I’m disappointed myself,” said Quilp, “out
of mere friendly feeling for them ; but you have
real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt,
for your disappointment, and therefore it comes
heavier than mine.”
“Why, of course it does,” Dick observed
testily. -
“Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry.
I’m rather cast down myself. As we are com-
panions in adversity, shall we be companions in
the surest way of forgetting it 2 If you had no
particular business, now, to lead you in another
direction,” urged Quilp, plucking him by, the
sheeve, and looking slily up into his face out of
the corners of his eyes, “there is a house by the
water-side where they have some of the noblest
Schiedam—reputed to be smuggled, but that's
between ourselves—that can be got in all the
world. The landlord knows me. There's a
little summer-house overlooking the river, where
we might take a glass of this delicious, liquor
with a whiff of the best tobacco—it's in this
case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain
knowledge—and be perfectly Snug and happy,
could we possibly contrive it; or is there any
very particular engagement that peremptorily
takes you another way, Mr. Swiveller, eh?”
As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a
compliant smile, and his eyebrows slowly un-
bent. By the time he had finished, Dick was
looking down at Quilp in the same sly manner
as Quilp was looking up at him, and there re-
mained nothing more to be done but to set out
for the house in question. This they did straight:
way.
little Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from
the point where Quilp had frozen him.
The summer-house of which Mr. Quilp had
spoken was a rugged wooden box, rotten and
bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and
threatened to slide down into it. The tavern to
which it belonged was a crazy building, sapped
and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by
great bars of wood which were reared against its
walls, and had propped it up so long that even
they were decaying and yielding with their load,
and of a windy night might be heard to creak
and crack as if the whole fabric were about to
eome toppling down. The house stood—if any-
thing so old and feeble could be said to stand—
on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the
unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys, and
The moment their backs were turned, .
*—” *::= -——º.
echoing the clank of iron wheels and rush of
troubled water. Its internal accommodations
amply fulfilled the promise of the outside. The
rooms were low and damp, the clammy walls
were pierced with chinks and holes, the rotten
floors had sunk from their level, the very beams
started from their places and warned the timid
stranger from their neighbourhood.
To this inviting spot, entreating him to ob-
serve its beauties as they passed along, Mr.
Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table
of the summer-house, scored deep with many a
gallows and initial letter, there soon appeared a
wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor. Draw-
ing it off into the glasses with the skill of a
practised hand, and mixing it with about a third
part of water, Mr. Quilp assigned to Richard
Swiveller his portion, and lighting his pipe from
an end of a candle in a very old and battered
lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and
puffed away. -
“Is it good?” said Quilp as Richard Swiveller
smacked his lips, “is it strong and fiery P Does
it make you wink and choke, and your eyes
water, and your breath come short—does it?”
“I)óes it P” cried Dick, throwing away part
of the contents of his glass, and filling it up with
water. “Why, man, you don't mean to tell me
that you drink such fire as this P”
“No 1" rejoined Quilp. “Not drink it !
Look here. And here. And here, again. Not
drink it !”
As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank
three small glassfuls of the raw spirit, and then
with a horrible grimace took a great many pulls
at his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, dis-
charged it in a heavy cloud from his nose. This
feat accomplished, he drew himself together in
his former position, and laughed excessively.
“Give us a toast !” cried Quilp, rattling on
the table in a dexterous manner with his fist and
elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, “a woman,
a beauty.
Let's haye a beauty for our toast,
and empty our glasses to the last drop. Her
name, come !”
“If you want a name,” said Dick, “here's
Sophy Wackles.”
“Sophy Wackles,” screamed the dwarf, “Miss
Sophy Wackles that is—Mrs. Richard Swiveller
that shall be—that shall be—ha, ha, ha!”
“Ah!" said Dick, “you might have said that
a few weeks ago, but it won't do now, my
buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of
Cheggs y?
“Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears' off,” re-
joined Quilp. “I won't hear of Cheggs. Her
name is Swiveller or nothing. I'll drink her
MR. QUILP IAWDUZG ES MAW A ZAZZZZ SPOR7. 81
I
health again, and her father's and her mother's;
and to all her sisters and brothers—the glorious
family of the Wackleses—all the Wackleses in
ſº
º
one glass—down with it to the dregs
“Well,” said Richard Swiveller, stopping short
in the act of raising the glass to his lips, and
looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor as he
flourished his arms and legs about ; “you're a
jolly fellow, but of all the jolly fellows I ever
saw or heard of, you have the queerest and most
extraordinary way with you, upon my life you
have.”
This candid declaration tended rather to in-
crease than restrain Mr. Quilp's eccentricities,
and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in
such a roystering vein, and drinking not a little
himself, for company, began imperceptibly to
become more companionable and confiding, so
that, being judiciously led on by Mr. Quilp, he
grew at last very confiding indeed. Having
once got him into this mood, and knowing now
the key-note to strike whenever he was at a loss,
Daniel Quilp's task was comparatively an easy
one, and he was soon in possession of the whole
details of the scheme contrived between the easy
Dick and his more designing friend.
“Stop!” said Quilp. “That's the thing,
that's the thing. It can be brought about, it
shall be brought about. There's my hand upon
it; I'm your friend from this minute.”
“What I do you think there's still a chance P”
inquired Dick, in surprise at this encourage-
Innent.
“A cnance 1" echoed the dwarf, “a certainty
Sophy Wackles may become a Cheggs, or any-
thing else she likes, but not a Swiveller. Oh,
you lucky dog | He's richer than any Jew alive;
you're a made man. I see in you now nothing
but Nelly's husband, rolling in gold and silver.
I'll help you. It shall be done. Mind my
words, it shall be done.”
“But how P” said Dick.
“There's plenty of time,” rejoined the dwarf,
“ and it shall be done. We'll sit down and talk
it over again all the way through. Fill your
glass while I'm gone. I shall be back directly
—directly.”
With these hasty words, Daniel Quilp with-
drew into a dismantled skittle-ground behind the
public-house, and, throwing himself upon the
ground, actually screamed and rolled about in
uncontrollable delight.
“Here's sport 1" he cried, “sport ready to my
hand, all invented and arranged, and only to be
enjoyed. It was this shallow-pated fellow who
made my bones ache t'other day, was it? It
was his friend and fellow-plotter, Mr, Trent, that
once made eyes at Mrs. Quilp, and leered and
looked, was it? After labouring for two or three
years in their precious scheme, to find that they've
got a beggar at last, and one of them tied for
life. Ha, ha, ha! He shall marry Nell. He
shall have her, and I’ll be the first man, when the
knot's tied hard and fast, to tell 'em what they've
gained and what I’ve helped 'em to. Here will
be a clearing of old scores, here will be a time
to remind 'em what a capital friend I was, and
how I helped 'em to the heiress. Ha, ha, ha!”
In the height of his ecstasy, Mr. Quilp had
like to have met with a disagreeable check, for
rolling very near a broken dog-kennel, there
leaped forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his
chain was of the shortest, would have given him
a disagreeable salute. As it was, the dwarf
remained upon his back in perfect safety, taunt-
ing the dog with hideous faces, and triumphing
over him in his inability to advance another
inch, though there were not a couple of feet be-
.tween them.
“Why don't you come and bite me, why don't
you come and tear me to pieces, you coward P”
said Quilp, hissing and worrying the animal till
he was nearly mad. “You're afraid, you bully,
you're afraid, you know you are.”
The dog tore and strained at his chain with
starting eyes and furious bark, but there the
dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with gestures of
defiance and contempt. When he had suffi-
ciently recovered from his delight, he rose, and
with his arms a-kimbo, achieved a kind of
demon-dance round the kennel, just without the
limits of the chain, driving the dog quite wild.
Having by this means composed his spirits and
put himself in a pleasant train, he returned to
his unsuspicious companion, whom he found
looking at the tide with exceeding gravity, and
thinking of that same gold and silver which Mr.
Quilp had mentioned.
-º-
CHAPTER XXII.
for the Nubbles family, to whom
everything connected with Kit's out-
-------> fit and departure was matter of as
§ great moment as if he had been about to
}* penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to
take a cruise round the world. It would
be difficult to suppose that there ever was a box
which -was opened and shut so many times
within four-and-twenty hours as that which con-

82 7 HE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP
tained his wardrobe and necessaries; and cer-
tainly there never was one which to two small
eyes presented such a mine of clothing as this
mighty chest, with its three shirts and propor.
tionate allowance of stockings and pocket-
handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision
of little Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the
carrier's, at whose house at Finchley, Kit was to
find it next day; and the box being gone, there
remained but two questions for consideration :
firstly, whether the carrier would lose, or dis-
homestly ſeign to lose, the box upon the road ;
and secondly, whether Kit's mother perſectly
understood how to take care of herself in the
absence of her son.
“I don't think there's hardly a chance of his
really losing it, but carriers are under great
temptation to pretend they lose things, no doubt,”
said Mrs. Nubbles apprehensively, in reference
to the first point,
“No doubt about it,” returned Kit with a
serious look; “upon my word, mother, I don't
think it was right to trust it to itself. Somebody
ought to have gone with it, I'm afraid.”
“We can't help it now,” said his mother;
“but it was foolish and wrong. People oughtn't
to be tempted.”
Kit inwardly resolved that he would never
tempt a carrier any more, save with an empty
box; and, having formed this Christian deter-
mination, he turned his thoughts to the second
question.
“You know you must keep up your spirits,
mother, and not be lonesome because I’m not
at home. I shall very often be able to look in
when I come into town I dare say, and I shall
send you a letter sometimes, and when the
quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of
course; and then see if we don’t take little
Jacob to the play, and let him know what oysters
means.”
“I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I’m
a'most aſ aid,” said Mrs. Nubbles.
“I know who has been putting that in your
head,” rejoined her son disconsolately; “that's
Little Bethel again. Now I say, mother, pray
don't take to going there regularly, for if I was
to see your good-humoured face, that has always
made home cheerful, turned into a grievous one,
and the baby trained to look grievous too, and
to call itself a young sinner (bless its heart) and
a child of the devil (which is calling its dead
father names); if I was to see this, and see little
Jacob looking grievous likewise, I should so take
it to heart that I'm sure I should go and list for
a soldier, and run my head on purpose against
the first cannon-ball I saw coming my way.”
In Ore.
“Oh, Kit, don't talk like that "
“I would indeed, mother, and, unless you
want to make me feel very wretched and unconi-
fortable, you'll keep that bow on your bonnet,
which you'd more than half a mind to pull off
last week. Can you suppose there's any harm
in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as
our poor circumstances will permit P Do I see
anything in the way I'm made, which calls upon
me to be a snivelling, solemn, whispering chap,
Sneaking about as if I couldn't help it, and ex-
pressing myself in a most unpleasant snuffle?
On the contrairy, don't I see every reason why
I shouldn't P Just hear this Ha, ha, haſ
An’t that as nat'ral as walking, and as good for
the health P Ha, ha, ha! An’t that as nat'ral
as a sheep's bleating, or a pig's grunting, or a
horse's neighing, or a bird's singing P Ha, ha,
ha Isn't it, mother P”
There was something contagious in Kit's
laugh, for his mother, who had looked grave
before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell
to joining in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to
say that he knew it was natural, and to laugh the
Kit and his mother, laughing together
in a pretty loud key, woke the baby, who, find-
ing that there was something very jovial and
agreeable in progress, was no sooner in its
mother's arms than it began to kick and laug
most vigorously. This new illustration of his
argument so tickled Kit, that he fell backward
in his chair in a state of exhaustion, pointing at
the baby, and shaking his sides till he rocked
again. After recovering twice or thrice, and as
often relapsing, he wiped his eyes and said
grace; and a very cheerful meal their scanty
Supper was.
With more kisses, and hugs, and tears than
many young gentlemen who start upon their
travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind
them, would deem within the bounds of pro-
bability (if matter so low could be herein Sct
down), Kit left the house at an early hour next
morning, and set out, to walk to Finchley; feel-
ing a sufficient pride in his appearance to have
warranted his excommunication from Little
Bethel from that time forth, if he had ever been
one of that mournful congregation.
Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know
how Kit was clad, it may be briefly remarked
that he wore no livery, but was dressed in a coat
of pepper-and-salt, with waistcoat of canary
colour, and nether garments of iron grey; be-
sides these glories, he shone in the lustre of a
new pair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny
hat, which, on being struck anywhere with the
knuckles, sounded like a drum, And in this
“A MAID CAD/CED BAZAAR.A.” 83
attire, rather wondering that he attracted so
little attention, and attributing the circumstance
to the insensibility of those who got up early, he
made his way towards Abel Cottage.
Without encountering any more. remarkable
adventure on the road than meeting a lad in a
brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his old
one, on whom he bestowed half the sixpence he
possessed, Kit arrived in course of time at
the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honour
of human nature, he found the box in Safety.
Receiving from the wife of this immaculate man
'a direction to Mr. Garland's, he took the box
upon his shoulder and repaired thither directly.
To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage
with a thatched roof and little spires at the
gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in some
of the windows, almost as large as pocket-books.
On one side of the house was a little stable, just
the size for the pony, with a little room over it,
just the size for Kit. White curtains were flutter-
ing, and birds in cages that looked as bright as
if they were made of gold, were singing at the
windows; plants were arrānged on either side
of the path, and clustered about the door; and
the garden was bright with flowers in full bloom,
which shed a sweet odour all round, and had a
charming and elegant appearance. Everything,
within the house and without, seemed to be the
perfection of neatness and order. In the garden
there was not a weed to be seen, and to judge
from some dapper gardening tools, a basket, and
a pair of gloves which were lying in one of the
walks, old Mr. Garland had been at work in it
that very morning.
Kit looked about him, and admired, and
looked again, and this a great many times,
before he could make up his mind to turn his
head another way and ring the bell. There was
abundance of time to look about him again,
though, when he had rung it, for nobody came,
so after ringing twice or thrice, he sat down
upon his box, and waited.
He rung the bell a great many times, and yet
nobody’ came. But at last, as he was sitting
upon the box thinking about giants' castles, and
princesses tied up to pegs by the hair of their
heads, and dragons bursting out from behind
gates, and other incidents of the like nature,
common in story books to youths of low degree
on their first visit to strange houses, the door was
gently opened, and a little servant-girl, very tidy,
modest, and demure, but very pretty too, ap-
peared. º
“I suppose you're Christopher, Sir,” said the
Servant-girl.’
Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was.
“I'm afraid you've rung a good many times,
perhaps,” she rejoined, “but we couldn't hear
you, because we've been catching the pony.”
Kit rather wondered what this meant, but, as
the couldn't stop there asking questions, he
shouldered the box again and followed the girl
into the hall, where, through a back-door, he
descried Mr. Garland leading Whisker in triumph
up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as
he afterwards learned) dodged the family round
a small paddock in the rear for one hour and
three-quarters.
The old gentleman received him very kindly,
and so did the old lady, whose previous good
opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his
wiping his boots on the mat until the soles of
his feet burnt again. He was then taken into
the parlour to be inspected in his new clothes;
and when he had been surveyed several times,
and had afforded by his appearance unlimited
satisfaction, he was taken into the stable (where
the pony received him with uncommon com-
plaisance); and thence into the little chamber
he had already observed, which was very clean
and comfortable; and thence into the garden,
in which the old gentleman told him he would
be taught to employ himself, and where he told
him, besides, what great things he meant to do
to make him comfortable and happy, if he
found he deserved it. All these kindnesses
Kit acknowledged with various expressions of
gratitude, and so many touches of the new hat,
that the brim suffered considerably. When the
old gentleman had said all he had to say in the
way of promise and advice, and Kit had said all
he had to say in the way of assurance and thank-
fulness, he was handed over again to the old
lady, who, summoning the little servant-girl
(whose name was Barbara), instructed her to
take him down-stairs and give him something to
eat and drink, after his walk.
Down-stairs, therefore, Kit went ; and at the
bottom of the stairs there was such a kitchen
as was never before seen or heard of out of a
toy-shop window, with everything in it as bright
and glowing, and as precisely ordered too, as
Barbara herself. And in this kitchen Kit sat
himself down at a table as white' as a table-cloth,
to eat Cold meat, and drink small ale, and use
his knife and fork the more awkwardly, because
there was an unknown Barbara looking on and
observing him.
It did not appear, however, that there was
anything remarkably tremendous about this
strange Barbara, who, having lived a very quiet
life, blushed very much, and was quite as embar-
rassed and uncertain what she ought to say or
S4 THE OLD CURIoszzy São P.
do as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat
for some little time, attentive to the ticking of
the sober clock, he ventured to glance curiously
at the dresser, and there, among the plates and
dishes, were Barbara's little workbox with a
sliding lid to shut in the balls of cotton, and
Barbara's Prayer-book, and Barbara's hymn-book,
and Barbara's Bible. Barbara's little looking-
glass hung in a good light near the window, and
Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind the door.
From all these mute signs and tokens of her pre-
sence, he naturally glanced at . Barbara herself,
who sat as mute as they, shelling peas into a
dish; and just when Kit was looking at her eye-
lashes, and wondering—quite in the simplicity .
of his heart—what colour her eyes might be, it
perversely happened that Barbara raised her
head a little to look at him, when both pair of
eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit leant
over his plate, and Barbara over her pea-shells,
each in extreme confusion at having been
detected by the other. -
—º-
CHAPTER XXIII.
Něºf R. RICHARD SWIVELLER, wend-
*A ing homewards from the Wilderness
i\ || || Zºº (for such was the appropriate name
Vs (WA º, of Quilp's choice retreat), after a
tº sinuous and cork-screw fashion, with
º many checks and stumbles; after
& stopping suddenly and staring about him,
& then as suddenly running forward for a
few paces, and as suddenly halting again and
shaking his head; doing everything with a jerk,
and nothing by premeditation;–Mr. Richard
Swiveller, wending his way homewards after this
fashion, which is considered by evil-minded men
to be symbolical of intoxication, and is not held
by such persons to denote that state of deep
wisdom and reflection in which the actor knows
himself to be, began to think that possibly he
had misplaced his confidence, and that the
dwarf might not be precisely the sort of person
to whom to intrust a secret of such delicacy and
importance. And being led and tempted on by
this remorseful thought into a condition which
the evil-minded class before referred to would
term the maudlin state or stage of drunkenness,
it occurred to Mr. Swiveller to cast his hat upon
the ground, and moan, crying aloud that he was
an unhappy orphan, and that, if he had not been
an unhappy orphan, things had never come to
this.
“Left an infant by my parents at an early
appearance.
age,” said Mr. Swiveller, bewailing his hard lot,
“cast upon the world in my tenderest period,
and thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf,
who can wonder at my weakness P Here's a
miserable orphan for you. Here,” said Mr.
Swiveller, raising his voice to a high pitch, and
looking sleepily round, “is a miserable orphan 1"
“Then,” said somebody hard by, “let me be
a father to you.”
Mr. Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to
preserve his balance, and, looking into a kind of
haze which seemed to surround him, at last per-
ceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the
mist, which he observed, after a short time, were
in the neighbourhood of a nose and mouth.
Casting his eyes down towards that quarter in
which, with reference to a man's face, his legs
are usually to be ſound, he observed that the
face had a body attached : and, when he looked
more intently, he was satisfied that the person
was Mr. Quilp, who indeed had been in his com-
pany all the time, but whom he had some vague
idea of having left a mile or two behind.
“You have deceived an orphan, sir,” said Mr.
Swiveller solemnly. -
“I ('m a second father to you,'
Quilp.
“You my father, sir!” retorted Dick. “Being
all right myself, sir, I request to be left alone—
instantly, sir.”
“What a funny fellow you are : " cried Quilp.
“Go, sir,” returned Dick, leaning against a
post and waving his hand. “Go, deceiver, go,
Some day, sir, p'raps you'll waken, from pleasure's
dream to know, the grief of orphans forsaker.
Will you go, sir?” - -
The dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration,
Mr. Swiveller advanced with the view of inflict-
ing upon him condign chastisement. But, for-
getting his purpose or changing his mind before
he came close to him, he seized his hand and
vowed eternal friendship, declaring with an
agreeable frankness that from that time ſorth
they were brothers in everything but personal
Then he told his secret all over
again, with the addition of being pathetic on the
}
replied
subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave Mr.
Quilp to understand, was the occasion of any
'slight incoherency he might observe in his
speech at that moment, which was attributable
Solely to the strength of his affection, and not to
rosy wine or other fermented liquor. And then
they went on arm-in-arm, very lovingly together.
“I’m as sharp,” said Quilp to him, at parting,
“as sharp as a ferret, and as cunning as a weasel.
You bring Trent to me; assure him that I’m his
friend, though I fear he a little distrusts me (I



CHOICE SAE/R/TS.
3-4 --___º * * *.-- * ~ *-* -- =
don't know why, I have not deserved it); and
you've both of you made your fortunes—in per-
spective.” .
“That's the worst of it,” returned Dick.
“These fortunes in perspective look Such a long
way off.”
85
“But they look smaller than they really are,
on that account,” said Quilp, pressing his arm.
“You’ll have no conception of the value of your
prize until you draw close to it. Mark that.”
“D'ye think not?” said Dick.
“Ay, I do ; and I am certain of what I say,
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“AND THEN THEY WENT ON ARM-
that's better,” returned the dwarf. “You bring
Trent to me, Tell him I am his friend and
yours. Why shouldn't I be?”
“There's no reason why you shouldn't, cer.
tainly,” replied Dick, “and perhaps there are a
great many why you should—at least, there
IN-ARM, VERY LOWINGLY TOGETHER.”
would be nothing strange in your wanting to be
my friend, if you were a choice spirit, but then
you know you're not a choice spirit.”
“I not a choice spirit J "cried Quilp.
“Devil a bit, sir,” returned Dick. “A man
of your appearance couldn't be. If you're any










'86 THE OLD corroSyzy SHOP
*. **—º- ºr -º
spirit at all, sir, you re an evil spirit. Choice
spirits,” added Dick, smiting himself on the
breast, “are quite a different-looking sort of
people, you may take your oath of that, sir.”
Quilp glanced at his free-spoken friend with
a mingled expression of Cunning and dislike, and,
wringing his hand almost at the same moment,
declared that he was an uncommon character,
and had his warmest esteem. With that they
parted; Mr. Swiveller to make the best of his
way home and sleep himself sober ; and Quilp
to cogitate upon the discovery he had made,
and exult in the prospect of the rich field of en-
joyment and reprisal it opened to him.
It was not without great reluctance and mis-
giving that Mr. Swiveller, next morning, his
head racked by the fumes of the renowned
Schiedam, repaired to the lodging of his friend
Trent (which was in the roof of an old house in
an old ghostly inn), and recounted by very slow
degrees what had yesterday taken place between
him and Quilp. Nor was it without great sur-
prise and much speculation on Quilp's probable
motives, nor without many bitter comments on
Dick Swiveller's folly, that his friend received
the tale.
“I don't defend myself, Fred,” said the peni-
tent Richard ; “but the fellow has such a queer
way with him, and is such an artful dog, that
first of all he set me upon thinking whether
there was any harm in telling him, and while I
was thinking, screwed it out of me. If you had
seen him drink and smoke, as I did, you couldn't
have kept anything from him. He's a Sala-
mander, you know, that's what he is.”
Without inquiring whether Salamanders were
of necessity good confidential agents, or whether
a fire-proof man was as a matter of course trust-
worthy, Frederick Trent threw himself into a
chair, and, burying his head in his hands, en-
deavoured to fathom the motives which had led
Quilp to insinuate himself into Richard Swivel-
ler's confidence ; for that the disclosure was of
his seeking, and had not been spontaneously
revealed by Dick, was sufficiently plain from
Quilp's seeking his company and enticing him
away.
The dwarf had twice encountered him when
he was endeavouring to obtain intelligence of
the fugitives. This, perhaps, as he had not
shown any previous anxiety about them, was
enough to awaken suspicion in the breast of a
creature. So jealous and distrustful by nature,
setting aside any additional impulse to curiosity
that he might have dérived from Dick's incau-
tious manner. But k..., wing the scheme they
had planned, why should he offer to assist it?
This was a question more difficult of solution;
but as knaves generally overreach themselves by
imputing their own designs to others, the idea
immediately presented itself that some circum-
stances of irritation between Quilp and the old
man, arising out of their secret transactions, and
not unconnected, perhaps, with his sudden dis-
appearance, now rendered the former desirous
of revenging himself upon him by seeking to
entrap the sole object of his love and anxiety
into a connection of which he knew he had a
dread and hatred. As Frederick Trent himself,
utterly regardless of his sister, had this object at
heart, only second to the hope of gain, it seemed
to him the more likely to be Quilp's main prin-
ciple of action. Once investing the dwarf with
a design of his own in abetting them, which the
attainment of their purpose would serve, it was
easy to believe him sincere and hearty in the
cause ; and as there could be no doubt of his
proving a powerful and useful auxiliary, Trent
determined to accept his invitation and go to
his house that night, and if what he said and
did confirmed him in the impression he had
formed, to let him share the labour of their plan,
but not the profit. -
Having revolved these things in his mind and
arrived at this conclusion, he communicated to
Mr. Swiveller as much of his meditations as he
thought proper (Dick would have been perfectly
satisfied with less), and, giving him the day to
recover himself from his late salamandering,
accompanied him at evening to Mr. Quilp's
house.
Mightily glad Mr. Quilp was to see them, or
mightily glad he seemed to be ; and fearfully
polite Mr. Quilp was to Mrs. Quilp and Mrs.
Jiniwin ; and very sharp was the look he cast
on his wife to observe how she was affected by
the recognition of young Trent. Mrs. Quilp was
as innocent as her own mother of any emotion,
painful or pleasant, which the sight of him
awakened, but as her husband's glance made
her timid and confused, and uncertain what to
do or what was required of her, Mr. Quilp did
not fail to assign her embarrassment to the
cause he had in his mind, and, while he chuckled
at his penetration, was secretly exasperated by
his jealousy. e
Nothing of this appeared, however. On the
contrary, Mr. Quilp was all blandness and suavity,
and presided over the case-bottle of rum with
extraordinary open-heartedness.
“Why, let me see,” said Quilp. “It must be
a matter of nearly two years since we were first
acquainted.”
“Nearer three, I think,” said Trent. ,
WEZ.COME BA CA / & 37
“Nearer three 1” cried Quilp. , “How fast
time flies I Does it seem as . long as that to
you, Mrs. Quilp ?” * * *
“Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp,”
was the unfortunate reply. “Oh indeed, ma'am,”
thought Quilp, “you have been pining, have
you? Very good, ma'am.”
“It seems to me but yesterday that you went
out to Demerara in the MaryAnne,” said Quilp ;
“but yesterday, I declare. Well, I like a little
wildness. I was wild myself once.” sº
Mr. Quilp accompanied this admission with
such an awful wink, indicative of old rovings
and backslidings, that Mrs. Jiniwin was indig-
nant, and could not forbear from remarking
under her breath that he might at least put off
his confessions until his wife was absent; for
which act of boldness and insubordination Mr.
Quilp first stared her out of countenance, and
then drank her health ceremoniously.
“I thought you'd come back directly, Fred.
I always thought that,” said Quilp, setting down
his glass. “And when the MaryAnne returned
with you on board, instead of a letter, to say
what a contrite heart you had, and how happy
you were in the situation that had been provided
for you, I was amused—exceedingly amused:
Ha, ha, hal" -
The young man smiled, but not as though the
theme was the most agreeable, one that could
have been selected for his entertainment; and
for that reason Quilp pursued it.
“I always will say,” he resumed, “that when
a rich relation having two young people—sisters
or brothers, or brother and sister—dependent
on him, attaches himself exclusively to one, and
casts off the other, he does wrong.” ge
The young man made a movement of impa-
tience, but Quilp went on as calmly as if he
were discussing some abstract question in which
nobody present had the slightest personal in-
terest.
“It's very true,” said Quilp, “that your
grandfather urged repeated forgiveness, ingrati-
tude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but,
as I told him, ‘these are common faults.” ‘’But
he's a scoundrel,' said he. ‘Granting that,’
said I (for the sake of argument, of course), ‘a
great many young noblemen and gentlemen are
scoundrels too !? But he wouldn't be con-
vinced.”.
“I wonder at that, Mr. Quilp,” said the young
man sarcastically.
“Well, so did I at the time,” returned Quilp,
“but he was always obstinate. He was in a
manner a friend of mine, but he was always
obstinate and wrong-headed. Little Nell is a
nice girl, a charming girl, but you're her brother,
Frederick. You're her brother after all ; as you
told him the last time you met, he can't alter
that.”
“He would if he could, confound him for that
and all other kindnesses,” said the young man
impatiently. “But nothing can come of this
subject now, and let us have done with it in the
devil's name.” *
“Agreed,” returned Quilp, “agreed on my
part readily. Why have I alluded to it? Just
to show you, Frederick, that I have always stood
your friend. You little knew who was your
friend and who your foe; now did you? You
thought I was against you, and so there has
been a coolness between us; but it was all on
your side, entirely on your side. Let's shake
hands again, Fred.”
With his head sunk down between his shoul- .
ders, and a hideous grin overspreading his face,
the dwarf stood up and stretched his short arm
across the table. After a moment's hesitation,
the young man stretched out his to meet it ;
Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip that for the
moment stopped the current of the blood within
them, and pressing his other hand upon his lip,
and frowning towards the unsuspicious Richard,
released them and sat down.
This action was not lost upon Trent, who,
knowing that Richard Swiveller was a mere tool
in his hands, and knew no more of his designs
than he thought proper to communicate, saw
that the dwarf perfectly understood their relative
position, and fully entered into the character of
his friend. It is something to be appreciated,
even in knavery. This silent homage to his
superior abilities, no less than a sense of the
power with which the dwarf's quick perception
had already invested him, inclined the young
man towards that ugly worthy, and determined
him to profit by his aid.
It being now Mr. Quilp's cue to change the
subject with all convenient expedition, lest
Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness should
reveal anything which it was inexpedient for the
women to know, he proposed a game at four-
handed cribbage; and partners being cut for,
. Mrs. Quilp fell to Frederick Trent, and Dick
himself to Quilp.
Mrs. Jiniwin, being very fond
of cards, was carefully excluded by her son-in-
law from any participation in the game, and had
assigned to her the duty of occasionally replenish-
ing the glasses from the case-bottle; Mr. Quilp
from that moment keeping one eye constantly
upon her, lest she should by any means procure a
taste of the same, and thereby tantalising the
wretched old lady (who was as much attached to
38 , THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
the case-bottle as the cards) in a double degree
and most ingenious manner.
But it was not to Mrs. Jiniwin alone that Mr.
Quilp's attention was restricted, as several other
matters required his constant vigilance. Among
his various eccentric habits he had a humorous
one of always cheating at cards, which rendered
necessary on his part, not only a close observance
of the game, and a sleight-of-hand-in counting and
scoring, but also involved the constant correc-
tion, by looks, and frowns, and kicks under the
table, of Richard Swiveller, who, being bewildered.
by the rapidity with which his cards were told,
and the rate at which the pegs travelled down
the board, could not be prevented from some-
times expressing his surprise and incredulity.
Mrs. Quilp, too, was the partner of young Trent,
and for every look that passed between them,
and every word they spoke, and every card they
played, the dwarf had eyes and ears; not occu-
pied alone with what was passing above the
table, but with signals that might be exchanging
beneath it, which he laid all kinds of traps to
detect; besides often treading on his wife's toes
to see whether she cried out or remained silent
under the infliction, in which latter case it would
have been quite clear that Trent had been tread-
ing on her toes before. Yet, in the midst of all
these distractions, the one eye was upon the old
lady always, and if she so much as stealthily
advanced a tea-spoon towards a neighbouring .
glass (which she often did), for the purpose of
abstracting but one sup of its sweet contents,
Quilp's hands would overset it in the very mo-
ment of her triumph, and Quilp's mocking voice
implore her to regard her precious health. And
in any one of these his many cares, from first to
last, Quilp never flagged nor faltered.
At length when they had played a great many
rubbers and drawn pretty freely upon the case-
bottle, Mr. Quilp warned his lady to retire to
rest, and that submissive wife complying, and
being followed by her indignant mother, Mr.
Swiveller fell asleep. The dwarf, beckoning his
remaining companion to the other end of the
room, held a short conference with him in
whispers.
“It's as well not to say more than one can
help before our worthy friend,” said Quilp,
making a grimace towards the slumbering Dick.
“Is it a bargain between us, Fred P Shall he
marry little rosy Nell by-and-by P”
“You have some end of your own to answer, .
of course,” returned the other.
“Of course I have, dear Fred,” said Quilp,
grinning to think how little he suspected what
the real end was. “It’s retaliation, perhaps ;
easily.
perhaps whim. I have influence, Fred, to help
or oppose. Which way shall I use it? There
are a pair of scales, and it goes into one.”
“Throw it into mine, then,” said Trent.
“It's done, Fred,” rejoined Quilp, stretching
out his clenched hand and opening it as if he
had let some weight fall out. “It’s in the scale
from this time, and turns it, Fred. Mind that.”
“Where have they gone P” asked Trent.
Quilp shook his head, and said that point
remained to be discovered, which it might be
When it was, they would begin their
preliminary advances. He would visit the old
man, or even Richard Swiveller might visit him,
and by affecting a deep concern in his behalf,
and imploring him to settle in some worthy
home, lead to the child's remembering him with
... gratitude and favour. Once impressed to this
extent, it would be easy, he said, to win her in
a year or two, for she supposed the old man to
be poor, as it was a part of his jealous policy
(in common with many other misers) to feign to
be so to those about him.
“He has feigned it often enough to me, of
late,” said Trent.
“Oh, and to me too !” replied the dwarf.
“Which is more extraordinary, as I know how
rich he really is.”
“I suppose you should,” said Trent. .
“I think I should indeed,” rejoined the dwarf;
and in that, at least, he spoke the truth.
After a few more whispered words, they re-
turned to the table, and the young man, rousing
Richard Swiveller, informed him that he was
waiting to depart. This was welcome news to
Dick, who started up directly. After a few
words of confidence in the result of their pro-
ject had been exchanged, they bade the grinning
Quilp good night.
Quilp crept to the window as they passed in
the street below, and listened. Trent was pro-
nouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they
were both wondering by what enchantment she
had, been brought to marry such a misshapen
wretch as he. The dwarf, after watching their
retreating shadows with a wider grin than his
face had yet displayed, stole softly in the dark
to bed.
In this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent
nor Quilp had had one thought about the hap-
piness or misery of poor innſ cent Nell. It
would have been strange if the careless profligate,
who was the butt of both, had been harassed by
any such consideration ; for his high opinion of
his own merits and deserts rendered the project
rather a laudable one than otherwise ; 2nd if he
had been visited by so unwonted a guest as
SAAEAE A*6M PURSU/7. 89
**.*zº-
reflection, he would—being a brute only in the
gratification of his appetites—have soothed his
conscience with the plea that he did not mean
to beat or kill his wife, and would therefore,
after all said and done, be a very tolerable,
average husband.
-º-º-
CHAPTER XXIV.
lºº hausted, and could no longer main-
§ tain the pace at which they had fled
A% from the race-ground, that the old
Rºš man and the child ventured to stop,
and sit down to rest upon the bor-
ders of a little wood. Here, though the
course was hidden from their view, they
could yet faintly distinguish the noise of distant
shouts, the hum of voices, and the beating of
drums. Climbing the eminence which lay be-
tween them and the spot they had left, the child
could even discern the fluttering flags and white
tops of booths; but no person was approaching
towards them, and their resting-place was solitary
and still. -
Some time elapsed before she could reassure
her trembling companion, or restore him to a
state of moderate tranquillity. His disordered
imagination represented to him a crowd of per-
sons stealing towards them beneath the cover of
the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peeping
from the boughs of every rustling tree. He was
haunted by apprehensions of being led captive
to some gloomy place where he would be chained
and scourged, and, worse than all, where Nell
could never come to see him, save through iron
bars and gratings in the wall. His terrors
affected the child. Separation from her grand-
father was the greatest evil she could dread ;
and feeling for the time as though, go where
they would, they were to be hunted down, and
could never be safe but in hiding, her heart
failed her, and her courage drooped.
In one so young, and so unused to the scenes
in which she had lately moºed, this sinking of
the spirit was not surprising. But Nature often
enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak
bosoms—oftenest, God bless her, in female
breasts—and when the child, casting her tearful
eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak
he was, and how destitute and helpless he would
be if she failed him, her heart swelled within
her, and animated her with new strength and
fortilude. x *.
“We are quite safe now, and have nothing to
fear indeed, dear grandfather,” she said. -
“Nothing to fear !” returned the old man.
“Nothing to fear if they took me from thee!
Nothing to fear if they parted us ! Nobody is
true to me. No, not one. Not even Nell !”
“Oh I do not say that,” replied the child,
“for if ever anybody was true at heart, and ear-
nest, I am. I am sure you know I am.”
“Then how,” said the old man, looking fear-
fully round, “how can you bear to think that we
are safe, when they are searching for me every-
where, and may come here and steal upon us,
even while we're talking P”
“Because I'm sure we have not been followed,”
said the child. “Judge for yourself, dear grand-
father; look round, and see how quiet and still
it is. We are alone together, and may ramble
where we like. Not safe Could I feel easy—
did I feel at ease—when any danger threatened
Out P’’
yo, True, true,” he answered, pressing her hand,
but still looking anxiously about. “What noise
was that P” -
“A bird,” said the child, “flying into the
wood, and leading the way for us to follow.
You remember that we said we would walk in
woods and fields, and by the side of rivers, and
how happy we would be—you remember that?
But here, while the sun shines above our heads,
and everything is bright and happy, we are sit-
ting sadly down, and losing time. See what a
pleasant path ; and there's the bird—the same
bird—now he flies to another tree, and stays to
sing. Come !”
When they rose up from the ground, and took
the shady track which led them through the
wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny
footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so
light, a pressure, and gave it back as mirrors
throw off breath; and thus she lured the old man
on, with many a backward look and merry beck,
now pointing stealthily to some lone bird as it
perched and twittered on a branch that strayed
across their path, now stopping to listen to the
songs that broke the happy silence, or watch
the sun as it trembled through the leaves, and
stealing in among the ivied trunks of stout old
trees, opened long paths of light. As they
passed onward, parting the boughs that clustered
in their way, the serenity which the child had
first assumed stole into her breast in earnest;
the old man cast no longer fearful looks behind,
but felt at ease, and cheerful, for the further they
passed into the deep green shade, the more they
felt that the tranquil mind of God was there, and
shed its peace on them.
At length the path, becoming clearer and less
intricate, brought them to the end of the wood,




96 ŽHA; O ZZ) COA&/OS/7"Y SHOP.
and into a public road. Taking their way along
it for a short distance, they came to a lane, so
shaded by the trees on either hand that they
met together overhead, and arched the narrow
way. A broken finger-post announced that this
led to a village three miles off; and thither they
resolved to bend their steps.
The miles appeared so long that they some-
times thought they must have missed their road.
But at last, to their great joy, it led downward
in a steep descent, with overhanging banks over
which the footpaths led ; and the clustered houses
of the village peeped from the woody hollow
below. -
It was a very small place. The men and boys
were playing at cricket on the green ; and as the
other folks were looking on, they wandered up
and down, uncertain where to seek a humble
lodging. There was but one old man in the
little garden before his cottage, and him they
were timid of approaching, for he was the school-
master, and had “School” written up over his
window in black letters on a white board. He
was a pale, simple-looking man, of a spare and
meagre habit, and sat among his flowers and
beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch
before his door.
“Speak to him, dear,” the old man whispered.
“I am almost afraid to disturb him,” said the
child timidly. “He does not seem to see us.
, Perhaps, if we wait a little, he may look this
way.”
They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no
look towards them, and still sat, thoughtful and
silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face.
In his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and
meagre. They fancied, too, a lonely air about
him and his house, but perhaps that was because
the other people formed a merry company upon
the green, and he seemed the only solitary man
in all the place.
They were very tired, and the child would
have been bold enough to address even a school-
master, but for something in his manner which
seemed to denote that he was uneasy or dis-
tressed. As they stood hesitating at a little dis-
tance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at
a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside
his pipe and took a few turns in his garden, then
approached the gate and looked towards the
green, then took up his pipe again with a sigh.
and sat down thoughtfully as before.
As nobody else appeared, and it would soon
be dark, Nell at length took courage, and, when
he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to
draw near, leading her grandfather by the hand.’
The slight noise they made in raising the latch
* 8-34. A
of the wicket-gate caught his attention. He
looked at them kindly, but seemed disappointed
too, and slightly shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsy, and told him they were
poor travellers who sought a shelter for the
night, which they would gladly pay for, so far as
their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked
earnestly at her as she spoke, laid aside his pipe,
and rose up directly.
“If you could direct us anywhere, sir,” said
the child, “we should take it very kindly.”
“You have been walking a long way,” said
the schoolmaster.
“A long way, sir,” the child replied.
“You’re a young traveller, my child,” he said,
laying his hand gently on her head. “Your
grandchild, friend ?”
“Ay, sir,” cried the old man, “and the stay
and comfort of my life.”
“Come in,” said the schoolmaster.
Without ſurther preface he conducted them
into his little schoolroom, which was parlour and
kitchen likewise, and told them they were wel-
come to remain under his roof till morning.
Before they had done thanking him, he spread
a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives
and platters; and, bringing out some bread and
cold meat and a jug of beer, besought them to
eat and drink.
The child looked round the room as she took
her seat. There were a couple of forms, notched
and cut and inked all over ; a small deal desk
perched on four legs, at which no doubt the mas-
ter sat; a few dog's-eared books upon a high shelf;
and beside them a motley collection of pegtops,
balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, half-eaten
apples, and other confiscated property of idle
urchins. Displayed on hooks upon the wall in
all their terrors were the cane and ruler; and
near them, on a small shelf of its own, the
dunce's cap, made of old newspapers, and deco-
rated with glaring wafers of the largest size. But
the great ornaments of the walls were certain
moral sentences fairly copied in good round text,
and well-worked sums in simple addition and mul-
tiplication, evidently achieved by the same hand,
which were plentifully pasted all round the room :
for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing
testimony to the excellence of the school, and
kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of
the scholars.
, “Yes,” said the old schoolmaster, observing
that her attention was caught by these latter Spe-
cimens. “That's beautiful writing, my dear.”
“Very, sir,” replied the child modestly. “Is
it yours ?”
“Mine !” he returned, taking out his spec-
UNDAER THE SCHOOZMASTER'S AOOF 91
* EA-º-º-º-º:
tacles and putting them on, to have a better view
of the triumphs so dear to his heart. “A couldn't
write like that, nowadays. No. They're all
done by one hand; a little hand it is, not so old
as yours, but a very clever one.”
As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a
small blot of ink had been thrown on one of the
copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket,
and, going up to the wall, carefully scraped it
out. When he had finished, he walked slowly
backward from the writing, admiring it as one
might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with
something of sadness in his voice and manner
which quite touched the child, though she was
unacquainted with its cause. -
“A little hand indeed,” said the poor school-
master. “Far beyond all his companions, in
his learning and his sports too, how did he ever
come to be so fond of me? That I should love
him is no wonder, but that he should love
me——” And there the schoolmaster stopped,
and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as
though they had grown dim.
“I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said
Nell anxiously. !
“Not much, my dear,” returned the school-
master. “I hoped to have seen him on the
green to-night. He was always foremost among
them. But he’ll be there to-morrow.”
“Has he been ill P” asked the child with a
child's quick sympathy.
“Not very. They said he was wandering in
his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said
the day before. But that's a part of that kind of
disorder ; it's not a bad sign—not at all a bad
sign.”
The child was silent. He walked to the door,
and looked wistfully out. The shadows of might
were gathering, and all was still.
“If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he
would come to me, I know,” he said, 1eturning
into the room. “He always came into the gar-
den to say good night. But perhaps his illness
has only just taken a favourable turn, and it's too
late for him to come out, for it's very damp, and
there's a heavy dew. It's much better he
shouldn't come to-night.”
The Schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened
the window shutter, and closed the door. But
after he had done this, and sat silent a little
time, he took dywn lis hat, and said he would
go and satisfy himself, in Nell would sit up till
he returned. The child readily complied, and
he went out.
She sat there half an hour or more, feeling the
place very strange and lonely, for she had pre-
vailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there
they all three partook of it together.
was nothing to be heard but the ticking of an
old clock, and the whistling of the wind among
the trees. When he returned, he took his seat
in the chimney-corner, but remained silent for a
long time. At length he turned to her, and,
speaking very gently, hoped she would say a
prayer that night for a sick child. A
“My favourite scholar !” said the poor school-
master, smoking a pipe he had forgotten to light,
and looking mournfully round upon the walls.
“It is a little hand to have done all that, and
waste away with sickness. It is a very, very
little hand , ”
CHAPTER XXV.
FTER a sound night's rest in a cham-
ber in the thatched roof, in which it
seemed the sexton had for some
Nº years been a lodger, but which he
\C) had lately deserted for a wiſe and a
{ cottage of his own, the child rose early
in the morning, and descended to the
* * room where she had supped last night.
As the schoolmaster had already left his bed
and gone out, she bestirred herself to make it
neat and comfortable, and had just finished its
... arrangement when the kind host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the
old dame who usually did such offices for him
had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he
had told her of. The child asked how he was,
and hoped he was better.
“No,” rejoined the schoolmaster, shaking his
head sorrowfully, “no better. They even say
he is worse.”
“I am very sorry for that, sir,” said the child.
The poor schoolmaster appeared to be grati-
fied by her earnest manner, but yet rendered
more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that
anxious people often magnified an evil, and
thought it greater than it was. “For my part,”
he said in his quiet, patient way, “I hope it's
not so. I don't think he can be worse.”
The child asked his leave to prepare break-
fast, and her grandfather coming down-stairs,
While the
meal was in progress, their host remarked that
the old man seemed much fatigued, and evi-
dently stood in need of rest.
“If the journey you have before you is a long
one,” he said, “and don’t press you for one
day, you're very welcome to pass another night
here. I should really be glad if you would,
friend.”
He saw that the old man looked at Nell, un-

92 THE O//) CURIOS/7'y SHOP.
certain whether to accept or decline his offer:
and added :
“I shall be glad to have your young com-
panion with me for one day. If you can do a
charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the
same time, do so.
your journey, I wish you well through it, and
will walk a little way with you before school
begins.”
“What are we to do, Nell ?” said the old man
irresolutely. “Say what we're to do, clear.”
It required no great persuasion to induce the
child to answer that they had better accept the
invitation and remain.
her gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busy-
ing herself in the performance of such household
duties as his little cottage stood in need of.
When these were done, she took some néedle-
work from her basket, and sat herself down upon
a stool beside the lattice, where the honeysuckle
and woodbine entwined their tender stems, and
stealing into the room, filled it with their deli-
cious breath.
the sun outside, breathing the perfume of the
flowers, and idly watching the clouds as they
floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two
forms in due order, took his seat behind his desk
and made other preparations for school, the.
child was apprehensive that she might be in the
way, and offered to withdraw to her little bed-
room. But this he would not allow, and, as he
seemed pleased to have her there, she remained,
busying herself with her work.
“Have you many scholars, sir?” she asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and
said that they barely filled the two forms.
“Are the others clever, sir?” asked the child,
glancing at the trophies on the wall.
“Good boys,” returned the schoolmaster,
“good boys enough, my dear, but they'll never
do like that.”
A small, white-headed boy with a sunburnt
face appeared at the deor while he was speaking,
and, stopping there to make a rustic bow, came
in and took his seat upon one of the forms. The
white-headed boy then put an open book, as-
tonishingly dog's-eared, upon his knees, and,
thrusting his hands into his pockets, began
counting, the marbles with which they were
filled'; displaying in the expression of his face a
remarkable capacity of totally abstracting his
mind from the spelling on which his eyes were
fixed. Soon afterwards another white-headed
little boy came straggling in, and after him a
red-headed lad, and after him two more with
white heads, and then one with a flaxen poll,
§:
If you must proceed upon
She was happy to show
Her grandfather was basking in
and so on until the forms were occupied by a
dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every
colour but grey, and ranging in their ages from.
four years old to fourteen years or more; for the
legs of the youngest were a long way from the
floor when he sat upon the form, and the eldest
was a heavy, good-tempered, foolish fellow,
abolit half a head taller than the schoolmaster.
At the top of the first form—the post of
honour in the school—was thé vacant place of
the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row.
of pegs on which those who came in hats or caps
were wont to hang them up, one was left empty.
No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat
or peg, but many a one looked from the empty
spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered his
idle neighbour behind his hand.
Then began the hum of conning over lessons
and getting them by heart, the whispered jest
and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl.
of school ; and in the midst of the din sat the
poor schoolmaster, the very image of meekness
and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his mind
upon the duties of the day, and to forget his
little friend. But the tedium of his office re-
minded him more strongly of the willing scholar,
and his thoughts were rambling from his pupils
-it was plain.
None knew this better than the idlest boys,
who, growing bolder with impunity, waxed
louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even
under the master's eye, eating apples openly and
without rebuke, pinching each other in sport or
malice without the least 1eserve, and cutting
their autographs in the very legs of his desk.
The puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say
his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the
ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to
the master's elbow and boldly cast his eye upon
the page; the wag of the little troop Squinted
and made grimaces (at the smallest boy, of
course), holding no book before his face, and
his approving audience knew no constraint in
their delight. If the master did chance to rouse
himself and seem aliye to what was going on,
the noise subsided for a moment, and no eyes
met his but wore a studious and a deeply humble
look; but the instant he relapsed again, it broke
out afresh, and ten times louder than before.
Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to
be outside, and how they looked at the open
door and window, as if they haſ meditated
rushing violently out, plunging into the woods,
and being wild' boys and savages from that time
forth ! What rebellious thoughts of the cool
river, and some shady bathing-place beneath
willow-trees with branches dipping in the water,
A HAZA-ATO/C/DA V. 93
kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who,
with his shirt-collar unbuttoned and flung back
as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed face
with a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, or
a tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at
school on that hot, broiling day ! Heat I Ask
that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the
door, gave him opportunities of gliding out into
the garden and driving his companions to mad-
ness by dipping his face into the bucket of the
well, and/then. rolling on the grass—ask him if
there were ever such a day as that, when even
the bees were diving deep down into the cups of
flowers, and stopping there, as if they had made
up their minds to retire from business and be
manufacturers of honey no more. : The day was
made for laziness, and lying on one's back in
green places, and staring at the sky till its
brightness forced one to shut Öfie's eyes and go
to sleep ; and was this a time to be poring over
musty books in a dark room, slighted by the
very.sun itself? Monstrous !
Nell sat by the window occupied with her
work, but attentive still to all that passed, though
|
º
-"' ...” “sº
ººze
“A SMALL WHITE-HEADED BOY WITH A SUNBURNT FACE APPEARED AT THE DOOR WHILE HE WAS SPEAKING,
AND, STOPPING THERE To MAKE A RUSTIC BOW, CAME IN.”
sometimes rather timid of the boisterous boys.
The lessons over, writing-time began ; and there
being but one desk, and that the master's, each
boy sat at it in turn and laboured at his crooked
copy, while the master walked about. This was
a quieter time; for he would come and look
over the writer's shoulder, and tell him mildly
to observe how such a letter was turned in such
a copy on the wall, praise such an up-stroke here
and such a down-stroke there, and bid him take
it for his model. Then he would stop and tell
them what the sick child had said last night, and
THE QLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 7.
how he had longed to be among them once
again; and such was the poor schoolmaster's
gentle and affectionate manner, that the boys
seemed quite remorseful that they had worried
him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating
no apples, cutting no names, inflicting no
pinches, and making no grimaces for full two
minutes afterwards.
“I think, boys,” said the schoolmaster, when
the clock struck twelve, “that I shall give an
extra half-holiday this afternoon.”
_. At this intelligence, the boys, led on and
25.5 -

94 Z}{E OLD CURIOS/2"Y SAIOP.
headed by the tall boy, raised a great shout, in
the midst of which the master was seen to speak,
but could not be heard. As he held up his
hand, however, in token of his wish that they
should be silent, they were considerate enough
to leave off as soon as the longest-winded among
them were quite out of breath.
“You must promise me first,” said the school-
master, “that you’ll not be noisy, or at least, if
you are, that you'll go away and be so—away
out of the village I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't
disturb your old playmate and companion.”
There was a general murmur land perhaps a
very sincere one, for they were but boys) in the
negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely
as any of them, called those about him to wit-
ness that he had only shouted in a whisper.
“Then pray don't forget, there's 'my dear
scholars,” said the schoolmaster, “what I have
asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Be
as happy as you can, and don't be unmindful
that you are blessed with health. Good-bye
all !”
“Thankee, sir,” and “Good-bye, sir,” were
said a great many times in a variety of voices,
and the boys went out very slowly and softly.
But there was the sun shining, and there were
the birds singing, as the sun only shines and the
birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays;
there were the trees waving to all free boys to
climb and nestle among their leafy branches ;
the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it
to the pure air; the green corn, gently beckon-
ing towards wood and stream ; the smooth
ground, rendered ºsmoother still by blending
lights and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps,
and long walks God knows whither. It was
more than boy could bear, and with a joyous
whoop the whole cluster took to their heels and
spread themselves about, shouting and laughing
as they went. -
“It's natural, thank Heaven " said the poor
schoolmaster, looking aſter them.
glad they didn't mind me !”
It is difficult, however, to please everybody,
as most of us would have discovered, even with-
out the fable which bears that moral; and in the
“I’m very
course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts .
of pupils looked in to express their entire disap-
proval of the schoolmaster's proceeding. A few
confined themselves to hints, such as politely in-
Quiring what red-letter day or saint's day the
almanac said it was ; a few (these were the pro-
found .village politicians) argued that it was a
slight to the throne and an affrónt to church and
state, and savoured of revolutionary principles,
to grant a half-holiday upon any lighter occasion
sharp about them.
than the birthday of the Monarch ; but the
majority expressed their displeasure on private
grounds and in plain terms, arguing that to put
the pupils on this short allowance of learning
was nothing but an act of downright robbery and
fraud: and one old lady, finding that she could
not inflame or irritate the peaceable school-
master by talking to him, bounced out of his
house and talked at him for half an hour outside
his own window, to another old lady, saying that
of course he would deduct this half holiday from
his weekly charge, or of course. he would
naturally expect to have an opposition started
against him ; there was no want of idle chaps in
that neighbourhood (here the old lady raised her
voice), and some chaps who were too idle even
to be schoolmasters, might soon find that there
were other chaps put over their heads, and so she
would have them take care, and look pretty
But all these taunts and
vexations failed to elicit one word from the
meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child by
his side,-a little more dejected, perhaps, but
quite silent and uncomplaining.
Towards night an old woman came tottering
up the garden as speedily as she could, and,
meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he
was to go to Dame West's directly, and had best
run on before her. He and the child were on
the point of going out together for a walk, and
without relinquishing her hand, the Schoolmaster
hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as
she might. - -
They stopped at a cottage door, and the
schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand.
It was opened without loss of time. They en-
tered a room where a little group of women were
gathered about one, older than the rest, who
was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her
hands and rocking herself to and fro.
“Oh, dame !” said the schoolmaster, drawing
near her chair, “is it so bad as this P.”
“He’s going fast,” cried the old woman ; “my
grandson's dying. It's all along of you. You
shouldn't see him now, but for his being so ear-
nest on it. This is what his learning has brought
him to. Oh dear, dear, dear, what can I do?”
“Do not say that I am in any fault,” urged
the gentle schoolmaster. “I am not hurt, dame:
No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and
don't mean what you say. I am sure vou don't.”
“I do,” returned the old woman. “I mean
it all. If he hadn’t been poring over his books
out of fear of you, he would have been well and
merry now, I know he would.” “
The schoolmaster looked round upon the
, other women as if to entreat some one among
THE FA Vovk/TE ZZZZZZ, SCHOZAR.
them to say a kind word for him, but they shook
their heads, and murmured to each other that
they never thought there was much good in
learning, and that this convinced them. With-
out saying a word in reply, or giving them a
look of reproach, he followed the old woman
who had summoned him (and who had now re-
joined them) into another room, where his infant
friend, half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
He was a very young boy; quite a little child.
His hair still hung in curls about his face, and
his eyes were very bright; but their light was of .
Heaven, not earth. . . The schoolmaster took a
seat beside him, and, stooping over the pillow,
whispered his name. The boy sprung up, stroked
his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms
around his neck. crying out that he was his dear
kind friend.
“I hope I always was. I meant to be, God
knows,” said the poor schoolmaster.
* Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell.
“I am afraid-to kiss her, lest I should make her
ill, . Ask her to shake hands with me.”
The sobbing child came closer up, and took
the little languid hand, in hers. Releasing his
again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently ,
down.
“You rennember the garden, Harry,” whis-
pered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him,
for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child,
“and how pleasant it used to be in the evening.
time P. You must make haste to visit it again,
for I think the very flowers have missed you, and
aro less gay than they used to be. You will
come soon, nty dears very soon now, won't
you ?” -
The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly
—and put his hand upon his friend's grey head.
He moved his lips too, but no voice came from
them ; no, not a sound. . /
In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant
voices borne upon the evening air came floating
through, the open window. “What's that P”
said the sick child, opening his eyes.
“The boys at play upon the green.”
He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and
tried to wave it above his head." But the feeble
arm dropped pêwerless down.
“Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.
“Please wave it at the window,” was the faint
reply. “Tie it to the lattice. Some of them
may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me
and look this way.”
He raised his head, and glanced from the
fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay with slate
and book and other boyish property upon a table
in the room,
And then he laid him softly down
oS
once more, and asked if the little girl were there,
for he could not see her,
She stepped forward, and pressed the passive
hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old
friends and companions—for such they were,
though, they were man and child—held each
other in a long embrace, and then the little
scholar turned his face towards the wail, and fell
asleep.
The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place,
holding the small cold hand in his, and chafing
it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He
felt that ; and yet he chaſed it still, and could
not lay it down.
CHAPTER XXVI.
LMOST broken-hearted, Nell with-
drew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside, and returned to his cottage.
In the midst of her grief and tears
º §§ she was yet careful to conceal their
§) real cause from the old man, for the
Sºº-º-dead boy had been a grandchild, and
left but one aged relative to mourn his
premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could,
and, when she was alone, gave free vent to the
sorrow with which her breast was overcharged.
But the sad scene she had witnessed was not
without its lesson of content and gratitude; of
content with the lot which left her health and
freedom ; and gratitude that she was spared to
the one relative and friend she loved, and to live
and move in a beautiful world, when so many
young creatures—as young and full of hope as
, she—were stricken down and gathered to their
graves. How many of the mounds in that old
churchyard where she had lately strayed, grew
green above the graves of children And
though she thought as a child herself, and did
not, perhaps, sufficiently consider to what a
bright and happy existence those who die young
are borne, and how in death they lose the pain
of seeing others die around them, bearing to the
tomb some strong affection of their hearts (which
makes the old die many times in one long life),
still she thought wisely enough to draw a plain
and easy moral from what she had seen that
night, and to store it deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar : not
coffined and covered up, but mingling with
angels, and smiling happily. The sun, darting
his cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and
_now there remained but to take leave of the
“poor schoolmaster, and wander forth once more,


96 7A/E OLD CURIO.SYTY SHOP
By the time they were ready to depart, school.
had begun. In the darkened room the din of
yesterday was going on again : a little sobered
and softened down, perhaps, but only a very
little, if at all. The schoolmaster rose from his
desk, and walked with them to the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand
that the child held out to him the money which
the lady had given her at the races for her
flowers : faltering in her thanks as she thought
how small the sum was, and blushing as she
offered it. But he bade her put it up, and,
stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his
house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when
he was at the door again ; the old man retraced
his steps to shake hands, and the child did the
S3LTI) e. .
“Good fortune and happiness go with you !”
said the poor schoolmaster. “I am quite a soli-
tary man now. If you ever pass this way again,
you'll not forget the little village school.”
“We shall never forget it, sir," rejoined Nell;
“nor ever forget to be grateful to you for your
kindness to us.”
“I have heard such words from the lips of
children very often,” said the schoolmaster,
shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, “but
they were soon forgotten. I had attached one
young friend to me, the better friend for being
young—but that's over—God bless you !”
They bade him farewell very many times, and
turned away, walking slowly and often looking
back, until they could see him no more. At
length they had left the village far behind, and
even lost sight of the smoke among the trees.
They trudged onward now at a quicker pace,
resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever
it might lead them.
But main roads stretch a long, long way.
With the exception of two or three inconsider-
able clusters of cottages which they passed with-
out stopping, and one lonely roadside public-
house where they had some bread and cheese,
this highway had led them to nothing—late in
the afternoon—and still lengthened out, far in
the distance, the same dull, tedious, winding
course that they had been pursuing all day. As
they had no resource, however, but to go for-
ward, they still kept on, though at a much slower
pace, being very weary and fatigued.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful
evening, when they arrived at a point where the
road made a sharp turn and struck across a com-
mon. On the border of this common, and close
to the hedge which divided it from the cultivated
fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon
which, by reason of its situation, they came so
suddenly that they could not have avoided it if
they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a
smart little house upon wheels, with white dimity
curtains festooning the windows, and window
shutters of green picked out with panels of a
staring red, in which happily-contrasted colours
the whole concern shone brilliant. Neither was
it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or
emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty
good condition were released from the shafts
and grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it
a gipsy caravan, for at the open door (graced
with a bright brass knocker) sat a Christian lady,
stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore
a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that
it was not an unprovided or destitute caravan
was clear from this lady's occupation, which was
the very pleasant and refreshing one of taking
tea. The tea things, including a bottle of rather
suspicious character and a cold knuckle of ham,
were set forth upon a drum, covered with a
white napkin ; and there, as if at the most con-
venient round table in all the world, sat this
roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the
prospect. -
It happened that at that moment the lady of
the caravan had her cup (which, that everything
about her might be of a stout and comfortable
kind, was a breakfast-cup) to her lips, and that
having her eyes liſted to the sky in her enjoy-
ment of the full flavour of the tea, not unmingled
possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of
something out of the suspicious bottle—but this
is mere speculation, and not distinct matter of
history—it happened that being thus agreeably
engaged, she did not see the travellers when
they first came up. It was not until she was in
the act of setting down the cup, and drawing a
long breath after the exertion of causing its con-
tents to disappear, that the lady of the caravan
beheld an old man and a young child walking
slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with
eyes of modest but hungry admiration.
“Hey P” cried the lady of the caravan, scoop-
ing the crumbs out of her lap, and swallowing
the same before wiping her lips. “Yes, to be
sure.—Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?"
“Won what, ma'am P” asked Nell.
“The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child
—the plate that was run for on the second day.”
“On the second day, ma'am P.”
“Second day ! Yes, second day,” repeated
the lady with an air of impatience. “Can't you
say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when
you're asked the question civilly P"
7 HE ZAD V ÖF ZHAE CARA WAAV, 97
* ...as tº
“I don't know, ma'am.” *
“Don’t know !” repeated the lady of the
caravan; “why, you were there. I saw you
with my own eyes.”
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, sup-
posing that the lady might be intimately ac-
quainted with the firm of Short and Codlin ; but
what followed tended to reassure her.
“And very sorry I was,” said the lady of the
caravan, “to see you in company with a Punch;
a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people
should scorn to look at.” #
“I was not there by choice,” returned the
child; “we didn't know our way, and the two
men were very kind to us, and let us travel with
them. Do you—do you know them, ma'am P.”
“Know 'em, child !” cried the lady of the
caravan in a sort of shriek. “Know them /
But you're young and inexperienced, and that's
your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I
look as if I knowed 'em, does the caravan look
as if it knowed 'em P” -
“No, ma'am, no,” said the child, fearing she
had committed some grievous fault. “I beg
your pardon.”
It was granted immediately, though the lady
stili appeared much ruffled and discomposed by
the degrading supposition. The child then ex-
plained that they had left the races on the first
Gay, and were travelling to the next town on
that road, where they purposed to spend the
night. As the countenance of the stout lady
began to clear up, she ventured to inquire how
far it was. The reply—which the stout lady did
not come to until she had thoroughly explained
that she went to the races on the first day in a
gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that
her presence there had no connection with any
matters of business or profit—was, that the town
was eight miles off.
This discouraging information a little dashed
the child, who could scarcely repress a tear as
she glanced along the darkening road. Her
grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed
heavily as he leaned upon his staff, and vainly
tried to pierce the dusty distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the act of
gathering her tea equipage together preparatory
to clearing the table, but, noting the , child's
anxious manner, she hesitated and stopped. The
child curtsied, thanked her for her information,
and giving her hand to the old man, had already
got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady
of the caravan called to her to return.
“Come nearer, nearer still,” said she, beckon-
ing to her to ascend the steps. “Are you
bungry, child?”
“Not very, but we are tired, and it's—it is a
long way y
“Well, hungry or not, you had better have
some tea,” rejoined her new acquaintance. “I
suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentle-
man P”
The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and
thanked her. The lady of the caravan then bade
him come up the steps likewise, but the drum
..proving an inconvenient table for two, they
descended again, and sat upon the grass, where
she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread
and butter, the knuckle of ham, and, in short,
everything of which she had partaken herself,
except the bottle, which she had already em-
braced an opportunity of slipping into her
pocket. -
“Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's
the best place,” said their friend, superintending
the arrangements from above. “Now hand up
the teapot for a little more hot water, and a
pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you eat and
drink as much as you can, and don't spare any-
thing ; that's all I ask of you.”
They might, perhaps, have carried out the
lady's wish, if it had been less freely expressed,
or even if it had not been expressed at all. But
as this direction relieved them from any shadow
of delicacy or uneasiness, they made a hearty
meal, and enjoyed it to the utmost.
While they were thus engaged, the lady of the
caravan alighted on the earth, and with her
hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet
trembling excessively, walked up and down in a
measured tread and very stately manner, survey-
ing the caravan from time to time with an air of
calm delight, and deriving particular gratification
from the red panels and the brass knocker.
When she had taken this gentle exercise for some
time, she sat down upon the steps and called
“George ; ” whereupon a man in a carter's frock,
who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this
time as to see everything that passed without
being seen himself, parted the twigs that con-
cealed him, and appeared in a sitting attitude,
supporting on his legs a baking-dish and a half-
gallon stone bottle, and bearing in his right hand
a knife, and in his left a fork.
“Yes, missus,” said George.
“How did you find the cold pie, George P”
“It warn’t amiss, mum.”
“And the beer,” said the lady of the caravan,
with an appearance of being more interested in
this question than the last; “is it passable,
George P”
“It's more flatterer than it might be,” George
returned, “but it ain't so bad for all that.”
98 7A/F O ZZ) C UAE/OS/7”y” SA/OA.
To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he
took a sip (amounting in quantity to a pint or
thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then
smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded
his head. No doubt with the same amiable de-
sire, he immediately resumed his knife and fork,
as a practical assurance that the beer had
wrought no bad effect upon his appetite. ,
The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly
for some time, and then said:
“Have you nearly finished?”
“Wery nigh, mum.” And indeed, after scrap-
ing the dish all round with his knife, and carrying
the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after
taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle
that, by degrees almost imperceptible to the
sight, his head went further and further back
until he lay nearly at his full length upon the
ground, this gentleman declared himself quite
disengaged, and came forth from his retreat. .
“I hope I haven’t hurried you, George,” said
his mistress, who appeared to have a great sym-
pathy with his late pursuit. g
“If you have,” returned the follower, wisely
reserving himself for any favourable contingency
that might occur, “we must make up for it next
time, that's all.”
“We are not a heavy load, George P.” wº
“That's always what the ladies say,” replied
the man, looking a long way round, as if he
were appealing to Nature in general against such
monstrous propositions. “If you Šee a Woman
a driving, you'll always perceive that she never .
will keep her whip still; the horse can't go fast
enough for her. If cattle have got their proper
load, you never can persuade a woman that
they'll not bear something more. What is the
cause of this here P”
“Would these two travellers make much dif-
ference to the horses, if we took them with us?”
asked his mistress, offering no reply to the philo-
sophical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the
old man, who were painfully preparing to resume
their journey on foot.
“They'd make a difference, in course,” said
George doggedly. -
“Would they make much difference?” re-
peated his mistress. “They can't be very
heavy.”
“The weight o' the pair, mum,” said George,
eyeing them with, the look of a man who was
calculating within half an ounce or so, “would
be a trifle under that of Oliver Cromwell.”
Nell was very much surprised that the man
should be so accurately acquainted with the
weight of one whom she had read of in books as
having lived considerably before their time, but
speedily forgot the subject in the joy of hearing
that they were to go forward in the caravan, for
which she thanked its lady with unaffected ear.
nestness. She helped with great readiness and
alacrity to put away the tea-things and other
matters that were lying about, and, the horses
being by that time harnessed, mounted into the
vehicle, followed by her delighted grandfather.
Their patroness then shut the door, and sat her.
self down by her drum at an open window ; and,
the steps being struck by George and stowed
under the carriage, away they went, with a great
noise of flapping and creaking and straining;
and the bright brass knocker, which nobody
ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual double
, knock of its own accord as they jolted heavily
along. *
CHAPTER XXVII.
HEN they had travelled slowly for-
ward for some short distance, Neil
ventured to steal a look round the
caravan, and observe it more
closely. One half of it—that
moiety in which the comfortable
§ proprietress was then seated — was car-
tº peted, and so partitioned off at the further
end as to accommodate a sleeping-place,
constructed after the fashion of a berth on board .
ship, which was shaded, like the little windows,
with fair white curtains, and looked comfortable
enough, though by what kind of gymnastic exer-
cise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to
get into it was an unfathomable mystery. The
other half served for a kitchen, and was fitted
up with a stove whose small chimney passed
through the roof. It held also a closet or larder,
several chests, a great pitcher of water, and a
few cooking utensils and articles of crockery.
These latter necessaries hung upon the walls,
which, in that portion of the establishment de-
voted to the lady of the caravan, were orna-
mented with such gayer and lighter decorations
as a triangle and a couple of well-thumbed
tambourines. . e
The lady of the caravan sat at one window in
all the pride and poetry of the musical instru-
ments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at
the other in all the humility of the kettle and
saucepans, while the machine jogged on and
shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. At
first the two travellers spoke little, and only in
whispers, but, as they grew more familiar with
the place, they ventured to converse with greater
freedom, and talked about the country through

THE CZoRFES OF JARZAE 9'S WAX. WoRK. 90
which they were passing, and the different ob-
jects that presented themselves, until the old
man fell asleep; which the lady of the caravan
observing, invited Nell to come and sit beside
her. -
“Well, child,” she said, “how do you like
this way of travelling P”
Nell replied that she thought it was very plea-
sant indeed, to which the lady assented in the
case of people who had their spirits.
self, she said, she was troubled with a lowness in
that respect which required a constant stimulant;
though whether the aforesaid stimulant was de-
rived from the suspicious bottle of which mention
has been already made, or from other sources,
she did not say.
“That's the happiness of you young people,”
she continued. “You don't know what it is to
be low in your feelings. You always have your
appetites, too, and what a comfort that is 1”
Nell thought that she could sometimes dis-
pense with her own appetite very conveniently;
2nd thought, moreover, that there was nothing,
e? her in the lady's personal appearance or in
her manner of taking tea, to lead to the conclu-
sion that her natural relish for meat and drink
had at all failed her. She silently assented,
lowever, as in duty bound, to what the lady
had said, and waited until she should speak
again.
Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking
at the child for a long time in silence, and then
getting up, brought out from a corner a large
roll of canvas about a yard in width. which she
laid upon the floor and spread open with her
foot, until it nearly reached from one end of the
Caravan to the other.
“There, child,” she said, “read that.”
Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enor-
mous black letters, the inscription, “JARLEy's
WAX-WoRK.”
“Read it again,” said the lady complacently.
“Jarley's Wax-Work,” repeated Nell.
“That's me,” said the lady. “I am Mrs.
Jarley.”
Giving the child an encouraging look, in-
tended to reassure her and let her know that,
although she stood in the presence of the ori-
ginal Jarley, she must not allow herself to be
utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady
of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon
was the inscription, “One hundred figures the
full size of life,” and then another scroll, on
which was written, “The only stupendous col-
lection of real wax-work in the world,” and then
Several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as,
“Now exhibiting within"—“The genuine and
For her- .
only Jarley"—“Jarley's unrivalled collection ”
—“Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and
Gentry”—“The Royal Family are the patrons
of Jarley.” When she had exhibited these levia-
thans of public announcement to the astonished
child; she brought forth specimens of the lesser
fry in the shape of handbills, some of which
were couched in the form of parodies on popular
melodies, as, “Believe me if all Jarley's wax-
work so rare”—“I saw thy show in youthful
prime”—“Over the water to Jarley;” while, to
consult all tastes, others were composed with a
view to the lighter and more facetious spirits, as
a parody on the favourite air of “If I had a
donkey,” beginning:
“If I know’d a donkey wot wouldn’t go
To see Mrs. JARLEY’s wax-work show
Do you think I'd acknowledge him P
Oh no no
Then run to Jarley's "–
—besides several compositions in prose, pur-
porting to be dialogues between the Emperor of
China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of Can-
terbury and a Dissenter on the subject of church
rates, but all having the same moral, namely,
that the reader must make haste to Jarley's, and
that children and servants were admitted at half-
price. When she had brought all these testi-
monials of her important position in society to
bear upon her young companion, Mrs. Jarley
rolled them up, and having put them carefully
away, sat down again, and looked at the child
in triumph.
“Never go into the company of a filthy Punch
any more,” said Mrs. Jarley, “after this.”
“I never saw any wax-work, ma'am,” said Nell.
“Is it funnier than Punch P”
“Funnier I’” said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice.
“It is not funny at all.”
“Oh ſ* said Nell with all possible humility.
“It isn't funny at all,” repeated Mrs. Jarley.
“It's calm and—what's that word again—cri-
tical ?—no—classical, that's it—it's calm and
classical. No low beatings and knockings about,
no jokings and squeakings like your precious
Punches, but always the same, with a constantly
unchanging air of coldness and gentility ; and
so like life, that if wax-work only spoke and
walked about, you'd hardly know the differ-
ence. I won't go so far as to say that, as it is,
I’ve seen wax-work quite like life, but I've
certainly seen some life that was exactly like
wax-work.” -
“Is it here, ma'am P” asked Nell, whose curi-
osity was awakened by this description.
“Is what here, child P”
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“SHE HANDED DOWN TO THEM THE TEA-TRAv, THE BREAD AND BU rTER, THE KNUckLE or HAM, AND, IN
SHORT, EVERYTHING OF WHICH SHE HAD PARTAKEN HERSELF.”
couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so
much.”
“I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am,”
said the child.
“Not there !” cried Mrs. Jarley. “Then
where will you be P”
“I—I–don't quite know. I am not certain."
“You don’t mean to say that you're travelling
about the country without knowing where you're
going to ?” said the lady of the caravan. “What
curious people you are : What line are you in *
You looked to me at the races, child, as if you

MRS. JARZAEY MAKES A PROPOSA L. I O I
were quite out of your element, and had got
there by accident.”
“We were there quite by accident,” returned
Nell, conſused by this abrupt questioning. “We
are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering
about. We have nothing to do —I wish we
had.”
“You amaze me more and more,” said Mrs.
Jarley after remaining for some time as mute as
one of her own figures. “Why, what do you
call yourselves 2 Not beggars P”
“Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we
are,” returned the child.
“Lord bless me !” said the lady of the cara-
van. “I never heard of such a thing. Who'd
have thought it?”
She remained so long silent after this ex-
clamation, that Nell feared she felt her having
been induced to bestow her protection and con-
versation upon one so poor, to be an outrage
upon her dignity that nothing could repair.
This persuasion was rather confirmed than
otherwise by the tone in which she at length
broke silence and said:
“And yet you can read. And write too, I
shouldn't wonder P”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the child, fearful of giv-
ing new offence by the confession.
“Well, and what a thing that is 1” returned
Mrs. Jarley. “I can't l” -
Nell said “Indeed ’’ in a tone which might
imply, either that she was reasonably surprised
to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was
the delight of the Nobility and Gentry, and the
peculiar pet of the Royal Family, destitute of
these familiar arts; or that she presumed so
great a lady could scarcely stand in need of
such ordinary accomplishments. In whatever
way Mrs. Jarley received the response, it did
not provoke her to further questioning, or tempt
her into any more remarks at the time, for she
relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained
in that state so long that Nell withdrew to the
other window and rejoined her grandfather, who
was now awake. .
At length the lady of the caravan shook off
her fit of meditation, and, summoning the driver
to come under the window at which she was
seated, held a long conversation with him in a
low tone of voice, as if she were asking his
advice on an important point, and discussing
the pros and cons of some very weighty matter.
This conference at length concluded, she drew
in her head again, and beckoned Nell to ap-
proach.
“And the old gentleman too,” said Mrs.
Jarley; “for I want to have a word with him.
Jarley's wax-work, remember.
Do you want a good situation for your grand-
daughter, master? If you do, I can put her in
the way of getting one. What do you say?”
“I can't leave her,” answered the old man.
“We can't separate. What would become of me
without her P”
“I should have thought you were old enougn
to take care of yourself, if you ever will be,” re-
torted Mrs. Jarley sharply.
“But he never will be,” said the child in an
earnest whisper. “I fear he never will be again.
Pray do not speak harshly to him. We are very
thankful to you,” she added aloud; “but neither
of us could part from the other, if all the wealth
of the world were halved between us.”
Mrs. Jarley was a little disconcerted by this
reception of her proposal, and looked at the old
man, who tenderly took Nell's hand and de-
tained it in his own, as if she could have very
well dispensed with his company, or even his
earthly existence. After an awkward pause, she
thrust her head out of the window again, and
had another conference with the driver upon
some point on which they did not seem to
agree quite so readily as on their former topic
of discussion ; but they concluded at last, and
she addressed the grandfather again.
“If you're really disposed to employ your-
self,” said Mrs. Jarley, “there would be plenty
for you to do in the way of helping to dust the
figures, and take the checks, and so forth.
What I want your grand-daughter for is to point
'em out to the company; they would be soon
learnt, and she has a way with her that people
wouldn't think unpleasant, though she does
come after me ; for I’ve been always accus-
tomed to go round with visitors myself, which I
should keep on doing now, only that my spirits
make a little ease absolutely necessary. It's not
a common offer, bear in mind,” said the lady,
rising into the tone and manner in which she
was accustomed to address her audiences; “it’s
The duty's very
light and genteel, the company particular select,
the exhibition takes place in assembly-rooms,
town-halls, large rooms at inns, or auction gal-
leries. There is none of your open-air wagrancy
at Jarley's, recollect ; there is no tarpaulin and
sawdust at Jarley's, remember. Every expecta-
tion held out in the handbills is realised to the
utmost, and the -whole forms an effect of im-
posing brilliancy hitherto unrivalled in this king-
dom. Remember that the price of admission is
only sixpence, and that this is an opportunity
which may never occur again l’”
Descending from the sublime, when she had
reached this point, to the details of common
I O2
7AE orz curſoszzy SHOP
life, Mrs. Jarley remarked that with reference to
salary she could pledge herself to no specific
sum until she had sufficiently tested Nell's
abilities, and narrowly watched her in the per-
formance of her duties. But board and lodging,
both for her and her grandfather, she bound her-
self to provide, and she furthermore passed her.
word that the board should always be good in
quality, and in quantity plentiful.
Nell and her grandfather consulted together,
and while they were so engaged, Mrs. Jarley, .
with her hands behind her, walked up and down:
the caravan, as she had walked after tea on the
dull earth, with uncommon dignity and self-
esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circum-
stance as to be unworthy of mention, when it is
remembered that the caravan was in uneasy
motion all the time, and that none but a person
of great natural stateliness and acquired grace
could have forborne to stagger.
“Now, child P” cried Mrs. Jarley, coming to
a halt as Nell turned towards her.
“We are very much obliged to you, ma'am,”
said Nell, “and thankfully accept your offer.”
“And you'll never be sorry for it,” returned
Mrs. Jarley. “I’m pretty sure of that. So, as
that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper.”
In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on
as if it too had been drinking strong beer and
was drowsy, and came at last upon the paved
streets of a town which were clear of passengers,
and quiet, for it was by this time near midnight,
and the townspeople were all abed. As it was
too late an hour to repair to the exhibition-
room, they turned aside into a piece of waste
ground that lay just within the old town-gate,
and drew up there for the night near to another
Caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore on
the lawful panel the great name of Jarley, and
was employed, besides, in conveying from place
to place the wax-work which was its country's
pride, was designated by a grovelling Stamp
Office as a “Common Stage Waggon,” and
numbered too—seven thousand odd hundred
—as though its precious freight were mere flour
or coals.
This ill-used machine being empty (for it had
deposited its burden at the place of exhibition,
and lingered here until its services were again
required) was assigned to the old man as his
sleeping-place for the night; and within its
wooden walls Nell made him up the best bed
she could from the materials at hand. For her.
self, she was to sleep in Mrs. Jarley's own
travelling carriage, as a signal mark of that
lady's favour and confidence.
She had tâken leave of her grandfather, and
was returning to the other waggon, when she
was tempted by the pleasant coolness of the
night to linger for a little while in the air. The
moon was shining down upon the old gateway
of the town, leaving the low archway very black
and dark; and with a mingled sensation of curi-
osity and fear, she slowly approached the gate,
and stood still to look up at it, wondering to see
how dark, and grim, and old, and cold it
looked.’
There was an empty niche from which some
old statue had fallen or been carried away hun-
dreds of years ago, and she was thinking what
strange people it must have looked down upon
when it stood there, and how many hard
struggles might have taken place, and how
many murders might have been done, upon that
silent spot, when there suddenly emerged, from
the black shade of the arch, a man. The in-
stant he appeared, she recognised him. Who
could have failed to recognise, in that instant,
the ugly misshapen Quilp ? .
The street beyond was so narrow, and the
shadow of the houses on one side of the way
so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of the
earth. . But there he was. The child withdrew
into a dark corner, and saw him pass close to
her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he
had got clear of the shadow of the gateway,
he leant upon it, looked back—directly, as it
seemed, towards where she stood—and beckoned.
To her P Oh no, thank God, not to her for
as she stood, in an extremity of fear, hesitating
whether to scream for help, or come from her
hiding-place and fly, before he should draw
nearer, there issued slowly forth from the arch
another figure—that of a boy—who carried on
his back a trunk. -
“Faster, sirrah!” said Quilp, looking up at
the old gateway, and showing in the moonlight
like some monstrous image that had come down
from its niche, and was casting a backward
glance at its old house, “faster 1"
“It's a dreadful heavy load, sir,” the boy
pleaded. “I’ve come on very fast, consider-
ing.”
“You have come fast, considering !” retorted
Quilp ; “you creep, you dog, you crawl, you
measure distance like a worm. There are the
chimes now, half-past twelve.”
He stopped to listen, and then, turning upon
the boy with a suddenness and ſerocity that
made him start, asked at what hour the London
coach passed the corner of the road. The boy
replied, at one. *
“Come on, then,” said Quilp, “or. I shall be
too late, Faster—do you hear me P Faster.”
MRS. JARZAE Y'S PROGRESS.
----a-
The boy made all the speed he could, and
Quilp led onward, constantly turning back to
threaten him, and urge him to greater haste.
Nell did not dare to move until they were out
of sight and hearing, and then hurried to where
she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the
very passing of the dwarf so near him must have
filled him with alarm and terror. But he was
sleeping soundly, and she softly withdrew.
As she was making her way to her own bed,
she determined to say nothing of this adventure,
as, upon whatever errand the dwarf had come
(and she feared it must have been in search of
them), it was clear, by his inquiry about the
London coach, that he was on his way home-
ward, and, as he had passed through that place,
it was but reasonable to suppose that they were
safer from his inquiries there than they could be
elsewhere. These reflections did not remove
her own alarm, for she had been too much
terrified to be easily composed, and felt as if
she were hemmed in by a legion of Quilps, and
the very air itself were filled with them.
The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and
the patronised of Royalty had, by some process
of self-abridgment known only to herself, got
into her travelling bed, where she was snoring
peacefully, while the large bonnet, carefully dis-
posed upon the drum, was revealing its glories
by the light of a dim lamp that swung from the
roof. The child's bed was already made upon
the floor, and it was a great comfort to her to
hear the steps removed as soon as she had
entered, and to know that all easy communica-
tion between persons outside and the brass
knocker was by this means effectually pre-
vented. Certain guttural sounds, too, which
from time to time ascended through the floor of
the caravan, and a rustling of straw in the same
direction, apprised her that the driver was
couched upon the ground beneath, and gave
her an additional feeling of security.
Notwithstanding these protections, she could
get none, but broken sleep by fits and starts all
night, for fear of Quilp, who throughout her un-
easy dreams was somehow connected with the
wax-work, or was wax-work himself, or was Mrs.
Jarley and wax-work too, or was himself, Mrs.
Jarley, wax-work, and a barrel-organ all in one,
and yet not exactly any of them either. At
length, towards break of day, that deep sleep
came upon her which succeeds to weariness and
overwatching, and which has no consciousness
but one of overpowering and irresistible enjoy-
Inent.
1 off
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LEEP hung upon the eyelids of the
child so long, that. when she awoke,
Mrs. Jarley was already decorated
with her large bonnet, and actively
25 engaged in preparing breakfast. She
received Nell's apology for being so
late with perfect good-humour, and said
that she should not have roused her if
she had slept on until noon.
“Because it does you good,” said the lady of
the caravan, “when you're tired, to sleep as
long as ever you can, and get the fatigue quite
off, and that's another blessing of your time of
life—you can sleep so very sound.”
“Have you had a bad night, ma'am P” asked
Nell.
“I seldom have anything else, child,” replied
Mrs. Jarley with the air of a martyr. “I some-
times wonder how I bear it.”
Remembering the snores which had pro-
ceeded from that cleft in the caravan in which
the proprietress of the wax-work passed the
night, Nell rather thought she must have been
dreaming of lying awake. However, she ex-
pressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal
account of her state of health, and shortly after-
wards sat down with her grandfather and Mrs.
Jarley to breakfast. The meal finished, Nell
assisted to wash the cups and saucers, and put
them in their proper places, and these house-
hold duties performed, Mrs. Jarley arrayed her-
self in an exceedingly bright shawl for the pur-
pose of making a progress through the streets of
the town.
“The wan will come on to bring the boxes,”
said Mrs. Jarley, “and you had better come in
it, child. I am obliged to walk, very much
against my will : but the people expect it of me,
and public characters can't be their own masters
and mistresses in such matters as these. How
do I look, child?” -
Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs.
Jarley, after sticking a great many pins into
various parts of her figure, and making several
abortive attempts to obtain a full view of her
own back, was at last satisfied with her appear-
ance, and went forth majestically.
The caravan followed at no great distance.
As it went jolting through the streets, Nell
peeped from the window, curious to see in what
kind of place they were, and yet fearful of en-
countering at every turn the dreaded face of
Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open
º
square which they were crawling slowly across,
and in the middle of which was the Town-hall,


164
THE OLD curroSITY SHOP.
with a clock tower and a weather-cock. There
were houses of stone, houses of red brick, houses
of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster; and
houses of wood, many of them very old, with
withered faces carved upon the beams, and
staring down into the street. These had very
little winking windows, and low arched doors,
and, in some of the narrower ways, quite over-
hung the pavement. The streets were very
clean, very sunny, very empty, and very dull.
A few idle men lounged about the two inns, and
the empty market-place, and the tradesmen's
doors, and some old people were dozing in
chairs outside an ālmshouse wall; but scarcely
any passengers who seemed bent on going any-
where, or to have any object in view, went by ;
and if perchance some straggler did, his foot-
steps echoed on the hot bright pavement for
minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be
going on but the clocks, and they had such
drowsy faces, such heavy lazy hands, and such
cracked voices, that they surely must have been
too slow. The very dogs were all asleep, and
the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's
shop, forgot their wings and briskness, and baked
to death in dusty corners of the window.
Rumbling along with most unwonted noise,
the caravan stopped at last at the place of exhi-
bition, where Nell dismounted amidst an ad-
miring group of children, who evidently sup-
posed her to be an important item of the curi-.
osities, and were fully impressed with the belief
that her grandfather was a cunning device in
wax. The chests were taken out with all con-
venient dispatch, and taken in to be unlocked
by Mrs. Jarley, who, attended by George and
another man in velveteen shorts and a drab hat
ornamented with turnpike tickets, were waiting
to dispose their contents (consisting of red fes-
toons and other ornamental devices in upholstery
work) to the best advantage in the decoration
of the room.
They all got to work without loss of time, and
very busy they were. As the stupendous col-
lection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the
envious dust should injure their complexions,
Nell bestirred herself to assist in the embellish-
ment of the room, in which her grandfather also
was of great service. The two men, being well
used to it, did a great deal in a short time; and
Mrs. Jarley served out the tin tacks from a linen.
pocket like a toll-collector's which she wore for
the purpose, and encouraged her assistants to
renewed exertion. -
While they were thus employed, a tallish gen-
tleman with a hook nose and black hair, dressed
in a military surtout very short and tight in the
sleeves, and which had once been frogged and
braided all over, but was now sadly shorn of
its garniture and quite threadbare—dressed, too,
in ancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the
leg, and a pair of pumps in the winter of their
existence—looked in at the door, and smiled
affably. Mrs. Jarley's back being then towards
him, the military gentleman shook his forefinger
as a sign that her myrmidons were not to ap-
prise her of his presence, and stealing up close
behind her, tapped her on the neck, and cried
playfully “Boh "
“What, Mr. Slum !” cried the lady of the
wax-work. “Lor who'd have thought of seeing
you here P”
“’Pon my soul and honour,” said Mr. Slum,
“that's a good remark. 'Pon my soul and
honour that's a wise remark. Who would have
thought it? George, my faithful feller, how are
you?”
George received this advance with a surly
indifference, observing that he was well enough
for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all
the time. -
“I came here,” said the military gentleman,
turning to Mrs. Jarley, “’pon my soul and
honour I hardly know what I came here for. It
would puzzle me to tell you, it would by Gad.
I wanted a little inspiration, a little freshening up,
a little change of ideas, and 'Pon my soul
and honour,” said the military gentleman, check-
ing himself and looking round the room, “what
a devilish classical thing this is . By Gad, it's
quite Minervian l’’
“It'll look well enough when it comes to be
finished,” observed Mrs. Jarley.
“Well enough 1” said Mr. Slum. “Will you
believe me when I say it's the delight of my
life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I’ve
exercised my pen upon this charming theme P
By the way—any orders? Is there any little
thing I can do for you?”
“It comes so very expensive, sir,” replied
Mrs. Jarley, “and I really don't think it does
much good.”
“ Hush | No, no "returned Mr. Slum, ele-
vating his hand. “No fibs. I’ll not hear it.
Don't say it don't do good. Don't say it. I
know better l’”
“I don't think it does,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“Ha, ha!” cried Mr. Slum, “you're giving
way, you're coming down. Ask the perfumers,
ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask
the old lottery-office keepers—ask any man
among 'em what my poetry has done for him,
and mark, my words, he blesses the name of
Slum. If he's an honest man, he raises his eyes
MRS. JARLE Y'S POET.
Io 5
to heaven, and blesses the name of Slum—mark
that You are acquainted with Westminster
Abbey, Mrs. Jarley?”
“Yes, surely.”
“Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am,
you will find in a certain angle of that dreary
pile, called Poet's Corner, a few smaller names
than Slum,” retorted that gentleman, tapping
himself expressively on the forehead to imply
at there was some slight quantity of brains
behind it. “I’ve got a little trifle here now,”
said Mr. Slum, taking off his hat, which was full
of -craps of paper, “a little trifle here, thrown off
in Jue heat of the moment, which I should say
was exactly the thing you wanted to set this
place on fire with. It's an acrostic—the name
at this moment is Warren, but the idea's a con-
vertible one, and a positive inspiration for Jarley.
THave the acrostic.” .
“I suppose it's very dear,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“Five shillings,” returned Mr. Slum, using his
pencil as a toothpick. “Cheaper than any
prose.”
“I couldn't give more than three,” said Mrs.
Jarley.
“–And six,” retorted Slum. “Come. Three-
and-six.”
Mrs. Jarley was not proof against the poet's
insinuating manner, and Mr. Slum entered the
order in a small note-book as a three-and-six-
penny one. Mr. Slum then withdrew to alter
the acrostic, after taking the most affectionate
leave of his patroness, and promising to return
as soon as he possiblv could with a fair copy
for the printer.
As his presence had not interfered with or in-
terrupted the preparations, they were now far
advanced, and were completed shortly after his
departure. When the festoons were all put up
as tastily as they might be, the stupendous col-
lection was uncovered, and there were displayed
on a raised platform some two feet from the floor,
running round the room and parted from the
rude public by a crimson rope breast high, divers
sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly
and in groups, clad in glittering dresses of
various climes and times, and standing more or
less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes
very wide open, and their nostrils very much
inflated, and the muscles of their legs and arms
very strongly developed, and all their counte-
nances expressing great surprise. All the gentle-
men were very pigeon-breasted and very blue
about the beards; and all the ladies were mira-
culous figures; and all the ladies and all the
gentlemen were looking intensely nowhere, and
staring with extraordinary earnestness at nothing.
When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at
this glorious sight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room
to be cleared of all but herself and the child, and,
sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the centre,
formally invested Nell with a willow wand, long
used by herself for pointing out the characters,
and was at great pains to instruct her in her
duty.
“That,” said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition
tone, as Nell touched a figure at the beginning
of the platform, “is an unfortunate Maid of
Honour, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who
died from pricking her finger in consequence of
working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood
which is trickling from her finger; also the gold-
eyed needle of the period, with which she is at
work.”
All this Nell repeated twice or thrice: point-
ing to the ſinger and the needle at the right
times: and then passed on to the aext. .
“That, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs.
Jarley, “is Jasper Packlemerton of atrocious
memory, who courted and married fourteen
wives, and destroyed them all, by tickling the
soles of their feet when they were sleeping in
the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On
being brought to the scaffold and asked if he
was sorry for what he had done, he replied yes,
he was sorry for having let ’em off so easy, and
hoped all Christian husbands would pardon him
the offence. Let this be a warning to all young
ladies to be particular in the character of the
gentlemen of their choice. Observe that his
fingers are curled as if in the act of tickling, and
that his face is represented with a wink, as he
appeared when committing his barbarous mur-
ders.”
When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton,
and could say it without faltering, Mrs. Jarley
passed on to the ſat man, and then to the thin
man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady
-who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty-
two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who
poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts,
and other historical characters and interesting
but misguided individuals. And so well did
Nell profit by her instructions, and so apt was
she to remember them, that, by the time they
had been shut up together for a couple of hours,
she was in full possession of the history of the
whole establishment, and perfectly competent to
the enlightenment of visitors.
Mrs. Jarley was hot slow to express her admi-
ration at this happy result, and carried her young
friend and pupil to inspect the remaining arrange-
ments within doors, by virtue of which the pas-
sage had been already converted into a grove of
Ioé
7 HE O ZZ) CUR/OS/7"Y SAFOA'.
green baize hung with the inscriptions she had
already seen (Mr. Slum's productions), and a
highly-ornamented table placed at the upper end
for Mrs. Jarley herself, at which she was to pre-
side and take the money, in company with his
Majesty King George the Third, Mr. Grimaldi
as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous
gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr.
Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the
bill for the imposition of the window duty. The
preparations without doors had not been ne-
glected either; a nun of great personal attractions
was telling her beads on the little portico over
the door ; and a brigand with the blackest pos-
sible head of hair, and the clearest possible com-
plexion, was at that moment going round the
town in a cart, consulting the miniature of a
lady.
It now only remained that Mr. Slum's com-
positions should be judiciously distributed ; that
the pathetic effusions should find their way to
all private houses and tradespeople ; and that
the parody commencing “If I know’d a donkey,”
should be confined to the taverns, and circulated
only among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits
of the place. When this had been done, and
Mrs. Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools
in person, with a handbill composed expressly
for them, in which it was distinctly proved that
wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste,
and enlarged the sphere of human understand-
ing, that indefatigable lady sat down to dinner,
and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a
flourishing campaign
CHAPTER XXIX.
PS&A
º NQUESTIONABLY Mrs. Jarley had
jº an inventive genius. In the midst
of the various devices for attracting
visitors to the exhibition, little Nell
was not forgotten. The light cart
in which the Brigand usually made
his perambulations being gaily dressed
ić) with flags and streamers, and the Brigand
placed therein, contemplating the miniature of
his beloved as usual, Nell was accommodated
with a seat beside him, decorated with artificial
flowers, and in this state and ceremony rode
slowly through the town every morning, dis-
persing handbills from a basket, to the sound
of drum and trumpet. The beauty of the
child, coupled with her-gentle and timid bear-
ing, produced quite a sensation in the little
country place. The Brigand, heretofore a source
when they saw it.
of exclusive interest in the streets, became a
mere secondary consideration, and to be im-
portant only as a part of the show of which she
was the chief attraction. Grown-up folks began
to be interested in the bright-eyed girl, and
some score of little boys fell desperately in love,
and constantly left enclosures of nuts and
apples, directed in small-text, at the wax-work
door.
This desirable in pression was not lost on
Mrs. Jarley, who, lest Nell should become too
cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone again,
and kept her in the exhibition-room, where she
described the figures every half-hour to the great
satisfaction of admiring audiences. And these
audiences were of a very superior description,
including a great many young ladies' boarding-
schools, whose favour Mrs. Jarley had been at
great pains to conciliate, by altering the face and
costume of Mr. Grimaldi as clown to represent
Mr. Lindley Murray as he appeared when en-
gaged in the composition of his English Gram-
mar, and turning a murderess of great renown
-into Mrs. Hannah More—both of which like-
nesses were admitted by Miss Monflathers, who
was at the head of the head Boarding and Day
Establishment in the town, and who conde-
scended to take a Private View with eight chosen
young ladies, to be quite startling from their ex-
treme correctness. Mr. Pitt in a nightcap and
bedgown, and without his boots, represented the
poet Cowper with perfect exactness; and Mary
Queen of Scots in a dark wig, white shirt collar,
and male attire, was such a complete image of
Lord Byron that the young ladies quite screamed
Miss Monflathers, however,
rebuked this enthusiasm, and took occasion to
reprove Mrs. Jarley for not keeping her collec-
tion more select: observing that his Ilordship
had held certain opinions quite incompatible
with wax-work honours, and adding something
about a Dean and Chapter, which Mrs. Jarley
did not understand.
Although her duties were sufficiently laborious,
Nell found in the lady of the caravan a very
kind and considerate person, who had not only
a peculiar relish for being comfortable herself,
but for making everybody about her comfortable
also ; which latter taste, it may be remarked, is,
even in persons who live in much finer places
than caravans, a far more rare and uncommon
one than the first, and is not by any means its
necessary conséquence. As her popularity pro-
cured her various little fees from the visitors on
which her patroness never demanded any toll,
and as her grandfather too was well treated and
useful, she had no cause of anxiety in connection




CA. UGH 7" /AW A STORM.
107
with the wax-work, beyond that which sprung
from her recollection of Quilp, and her fears that
he might return, and one day suddenly encounter
them. &
Quilp, indeed, was a perpetual nightmare to
the child, who was constantly haunted by a
vision of his ugly face and stunted figure. She
slept, for their better security, in the room where
the wax-work figures were, and she never retired
to this place at night but she tortured herself—
she could not help it—with imagining a resem-
blance, in some one or other of their death-like
faces, to the dwarf, and this fancy would some-
times so gain upon her that she would almost
believe he had removed the figure and stood
within the clothes. Then there were so many
of them with their great glassy eyes—and, as
they stood one behind the other all about her
bed, they looked so like living creatures, and
yet so unlike in their grim stillness and silence,
that she had a kind of terror of them for their
own sakes, and would often lie watching their
dusky figures until she was obliged to rise and
light a candle, or go and sit at the open window,
and feel a companionship in the bright stars.
At these times she would recall the old house,
and the window at which she used to sit alone ;
and then she would think of poor Kit and all
his kindness, until the tears came into her eyes,'
and she would weep and smile together.
Often and anxiously, at this silent hour, her
thoughts reverted to her grandfather, and she
would wonder how much he remembered of their
former life, and whether he was ever really
mindful of the change in their condition, and of
their late helplessness and destitution. When
they were wandering about, she seldom thought
of this, but now she could not help considering
what would become of them if he fell sick, or
her own strength were to fail her. He was very
patient and willing, happy to execute any little
task, and glad to be of use ; but he was in the
same listless state, with no prospect of improve-
ment—a mere child—a poor, thoughtless, vacant
Creature—a harmless, fond old man, susceptible
of tender love and regard for her, and of pleasant
and painful impressions, but alive to nothing
more. It made her very sad to know that this
was so—so sad to see it, that sometimes when
he sat idly by, smiling and nodding to her when
she looked round, or when he caressed some
little child and carried it to, and fro, as he was
fond of doing by the hour together, perplexed
by its simple questions, yet patient under his
own infirmity, and seeming almost conscious of
it too, and humbled even before the mind of an
infant—so sad it made her to see him thus, that
she would burst into tears, and, withdrawing
into some secret place, fall down upon her knees
and pray that he might be restored. .
But, the bitterness of her grief was not in
beholding him in this condition, when he was at
least content and tranquil, nor in her solitary
meditations on his altered state, though these
were trials for a young heart. Cause for deeper
and heavier sorrow was yet to come.
One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell
and her grandfather went out to walk. They
had been rather closely confined for some days,
and the weather being warm, they strolled a
long distance. Clear of the town, they took a
footpath which struck through some pleasant
fields, judging that it would terminate in the
road they quitted, and enable them to return
that way. It made, however, a much wider cir-
cuit than they had supposed, and thus they were
tempted onward until sunset, when they reached
the track of which they were in search, and
stopped to rest.
It had been gradually getting overcast, and
now the sky was dark and lowering, save where
the glory of the departing sun piled up masses
of gold and burning fire, decaying embers of
which gleamed here and there through the black
veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The
wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the
sun went down carrying glad day elsewhere;
and a train of dull clouds, coming up against it,
menaced thunder and lightning. Large drops
of rain soon began to fall, and, as the storm
clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the
void they left behind, and spread over all the
sky. Then was heard the low rumbling of dis-
tant thunder, then the lightning quivered, and
- then the darkness of an hour seemed to have
gathered in an instant.
Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or
hedge, the old man and the child hurried along
the high-road, hoping to find some house in
which they could seek a refuge from the storm,
which had now burst forth in earnest, and every
moment increased in violence. Drenched with
the pelting rain, confused by the deafening
thunder, and bewildered by the glare of the
forked lightning, they would have passed a soli-
tary house without being aware of its vicinity,
had not a man, who was standing at the door,
called lustily to them to enter.
“Your ears ought to be better than other
folks', at any rate, if you make so little of the
chance of being struck blind,” he said, retreating
from the door and shading his eyes with his
hands as the jagged lightning came again.
“What were you going past for, eh?” he added,
Ioš
7 H.A. O.J. D C UR/O.S./7"Y SAIOP
as he closed the door and led the way along a
passage to a room behind.
“We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard
you calling,” Nell replied.
“No wonder,” said the man, “with this
lightning in one's eyes, by-the-bye. You had
better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves
a bit. You can call for what you like if you
want anything. If you don't want anything,
you're not obliged to give an order. Don't be
afraid of that. ... This is a public-house, that's all.
%
§ §
The Vaiiant Soldier is pretty well known here-
abouts.” - -
“Is this house called the Valiant Soldier. Sir P”
asked Nell. -
“I thought everybody knew that,” replied the
landlord. “Where have you come from, if you
don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the
Church Catechism P This is the Valiant Soldier
by James Groves, Jem Groves—honest Jem
Groves, as is a man of unblemished a moral
character, and has a good dry skittle-ground. If
i
j
:
“AND IN THIS STATE AND CEREMONY Robe SLowLy THROUGH THE TOWN EVERY MORNING.”
any man has got anything to say again Jem
Groves, let him say it to Jem Groves, and Jem
Groves can accommodate him with a customer.
on any terms from four pound a side to forty.”
With these words, the speaker tapped himself
on the waistcoat, to intimate that he was the
Jem Groves so highly eulogised; sparred scien-
tifically at a counterfeit Jem Groves, who was
sparring at Society in general from a black frame
over the chimney-piece; and, applying a half.
emptied 3 glass of spirits-and-water to his lips,
drank Jem Groves's health.
The night being warm, there was a large screen
drawn across the room, for a barrier against the
heat of the fire. It seemed as if somebody on
the other side of this screen had been insinuating
doubts of Mr. Groves's prowess, and had thereby
given rise to these egotistical expressions, for
Mr. Groves wound up his defiance by giving a
loud knock upon it with his knuckles, and
pausing for a reply from the other side.
“There ain't many men,” said Mr. Groves,
no answer being returned, “who would ventur
to cross Jem Groves under his own roof. There's
only one man, I know, that has nerve enough
for that, and that man's not a hundred mile from

THE O//) 7°EMPTATIOM.
here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and
I let him say of me whatever he likes in conse-
quence,—he knows that.”
;In return for this complimentary address, a ,
very gruff hoarse voice bade Mr. Groves “hold
his nise and light a candle.” And the same
voice remarked that the same gentleman “needn't
waste his breath in brag, for most people knew
pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of.”
“Nell, they're—they're playing cards,” whis-
pered the old man, suddenly interested. “Don’t
you hear them P "
“Look sharp with that candle,” said the voice;
“it’s as much as I can do to see the pips on the
cards as it is ; and get this shutter closed as quick
as you can, will you? Your beer will be the
worse for to-night's thunder I expect.—Game !
Seven-and-sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand
over.” -
“Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them P "
whispered the old man again, with increased
earnestness, as the money chinked upon the
table.
“I haven't seen such a storm as this,” said a
sharp cracked voice of most disagreeable quality,
when a tremendous peal of thunder had died away,
“since the night when old Luke Withers won
thirteen times running on the red. We all said
he had the Devil's luck and his own, and, as it
was the kind of night for the Devil to be out and
busy, I suppose he was looking over his shoulder,
if anybody could have seen him.”
“Ah !” returned the gruff voice, “for all old
Duke's winning through thick and thin of late
years, I remember the time when he was the
unluckiest and unfortunatest of men. He never
took a dice-box in his hand, or held a card, but
he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out
completely.” *.
. “To you hear what he says?” whispered the
old man. “Do you hear that, Nell ?”
The child saw with astonishment and alarm
that his whole appearance had undergone a com-
plete change. His face was flushed and eager,
his eyes were strained, his teeth set, his breath
came short and thick, and the hand he laid upon
her arm trembled sovviolently that she shook
beneath its grasp.
“Bear witness,” he muttered, looking upward,
“that I always said it ; that I knew it, dreamed
of it, felt it was the truth, and that it must
be so | What money have we, Nell? Come !
I saw you with money yesterday. What money
have we? Give it to me.”
“No, no, let me keep it, grandfather,” said the
frightened child. “Let us go away from here.
Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 8.
, thy good.
"right thee yet, I will indeed.
föð
“Give it to me, I say,” returned the old man
fiercely. “Hush, hush, don't cry, Néll. If I
spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it. It's for
I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will
Where is the
money?” --
“Do not take it,” said the child. “Pray do
not take it, dear. For both our sakes let me
keep it, or let me throw it away—better let me
throw it away, than you take it now. Let us go ;
do let us go.”
“Give me the money,” returned the old man ;
“I must have it. There—there—that's my dear
Nell. I’ll right thee one day, child, I’ll right
thee, never fear!”
She took from her pocket a little purse. He
seized it with the same rapid impatience which
had characterised his speech, and hastily made
his way to the other side of the screen. It was
impossible to restrain him, and the trembling
child followed close behind.
The landlord had placed a light upon the table,
and was engaged in drawing the curtain of the
window. The speakers whom they had heard
were two men, who had a pack of cards and some
silver money between them, while upon the screen
itself the games they had played were scored in
chalk. The man with the rough voice was a
burly fellow of middle age, with large black
whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide mouth,
and bull neck, which was pretty freely displayed,
as his shirt collar was only confined by a loose
red neckerchief. He wore his hat, which was of
a brownish white, and had beside him a thick
knotted stick. The other man, whom his com-
panion had called Isaac, was of a more slender
figure—stooping, and high in the shoulders—
with a very ill-favoured face, and a most sinister
and villainous squint.
“Now, old gentleman,” said Isaac, looking
round. “Do you know either of us? This side
of the screen is private, sir.”
“No offence, I hope,” returned the old man.
“But by G—, sir, there is offence,” said the
other, interrupting him, “when you intrude your-
self upon a couple of gentlemen who are par-
ticularly engaged.”
“I had no intention to offend,” said the old
man, looking anxiously at the cards. “I thought
that * ,
“But you nad no right to think, sir,” retorted
the other. “What the devil has a man at your
time of life to do with thinking P”
“Now, bully boy,” said the stout man, raising
his eyes from his cards for the first time, “can't
you let him speak P”
The landlord, who had apparently resolved to
250
I IC,
remain neutral until he knew which side of the
question the stout man would espouse, chimed
in at this place with “Ah, to be sure, can't you
let him speak, Isaac List?” 4-
“Can't I let him speak?” sneered Isaac in
reply, mimicking as nearly as he could, in his
shrill voice, the Cones of the landlord. “Yes, I
can let him speak, Jemmy Groves.” . -
“Well, then, do it, will you?” said the land-
lord. -
Mr. List's squint assumed a portentous cha-
racter, which seemed to threaten a prolongation
of this controversy, when his companion, who
had been looking sharply at the old man, put a
timely stop to it.
“Who knows,” said he with a cunning look,
“but the gentleman may have civilly meant to
ask if he might have the honour to take a hand
with us 2 ”
“I did mean it,” cried the old man. “That
is what I mean, . That is what I want now !”
“I thought so,” returned the same man.
“Then who knows but the gentleman, antici-
pating our objection to play for love, civilly
desired to play for money P”
The old man replied by shaking the little
purse in his eager hand, and then throwing it
down upon the table, and gathering up the cards
as a miser would clutch at gold. -
“Oh That indeed ’ said Isaac. “If
that's what the gentleman meant, I beg the
gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's
little purse P A very pretty little purse. Rather
a light purse,” added Isaac, throwing it into the
air and catching it dexterously, “but enough to
amuse a gentleman for half an hour or so.”
“We'll make a four-handed game of it, and
take in Groves,” said the stout man. “Come,
Jemmy.”
The landlord, who conducted himself like
one who was well used to such little parties,
approached the table and took his seat. The
child,’ in a perfect agony, drew her grandfather
aside, and implored him, even then, to come
away. -
“Come ; and we may be so happy,” said the
child.
“We will be happy,” replied the old man
hastily. “Let me “go, Nell. The means of
happiness are on the cards and in the dice.
We must rise from little winnings to great.
There's little to be won here ; but great will
come in time. I shall but win back-my own,
and it's all for thee, my darling."
“God help us 1” cried the X child.
what hard fortune brought us here P”
“ Hush 1” rejoined the old man, laying his
* Oh I
The ozo curroszzy SHoP.
* - - - - 4–--—- *—---—t -
hand upon her mouth. “Fortune will not bear
chiding. We must not reproach her, or she
shuns us ; I have found that out.” -
“Now, mister,” said the stout man. “If
'you're not coming yourself, give us the cards,
will you ?” -
“I am coming.” cried the old man. “Sit
thee down, Nell; sit thee down and look on.
Be of good heart, it's all for thee—all—-every
penny. I don't tell them, no, no, or else they
wouldn't play, dreading the chance that such a
cause must give me. Look, at them, see what
they are, and what thou art. “Who doubts that
we must win P”
“The gentleman has thought better of it, and
isn't coming,” said Isaac, making as though he
would rise from the table. “I’m sorry the
gentleman's daunted—nothing venture, nothing
have—but the gentleman knows best.”
“Why, I am ready. You have all been slow
but me,” said the old man. “I wonder who's
more anxious to begin than I.”
As he spoke he drew a chair to the table ; and
the other three closing round it at the same time,
the game commenced. -
The child sat by, and watched its progress
with a troubled mind. Regardless of the run of
luck, and mindful only of the desperate passion
which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses
and gains were to her alike. Exulting in some
brief triumph, or cast down by a defeat, there he
sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and in-
tensely anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous
for the paltry stakes, that she could have almost
better borne to see him dead. . And yet she was
the innocent cause of all this torture, and he,
gambling with such a savage thirst for gain as the
most insatiable gambler never felt, had not one
selfish thought !
On the contrary, the other three—knaves and
gamesters by their trade—while intent upon their
game, were yet as cool and quiet as if every
virtue had been centred in their breasts. Some-
times one would look up to smile to another, Ö,
to snuff the feeble candle, or to glance at the
lightning as it shot through the open window
and fluttering curtain, or to listen to some louder
peal of thunder than the rest, with a kind of
momentary-impatience, as if it put him out; but
there they sat, with a calm indifference to every-
thing but their cards, perfect philosophers in
appearance, and with no greater show of passion
or excitement than if thev had been made of
Stone.
: The storm had raged for fu'ſ three hours; the
lightning had grown fainter and less frequent;
the thunder, from seeming to roll and break above
MEZZ S PIECE OF Gozz).
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!
their heads, had gradually died away into a deep
hoarse distance; and still the game went on,
and still the anxious child was quite forgotten.
—º-
CHAPTER XXX.
T length the play came to an end,
and Mr. Isaac List rose the only
winner. Mat and the landlord bore
their losses with professional forti-
tude. Isaac pocketed his gains with
the air of a man who had quite
made up his mind to win all along,
3% and was neither surprised nor pleased.
Nell's little purse was exhausted; but, although
it lay empty by his side, and the other players
had now risen from the table, the old.man sat
poring over the cards, dealing them as they had
been dealt before, and turning up the different
hands to see what each man would have held if
they had still been playing. He was quite
absorbed in this occupation, when the child drew
near and laid her hand upon his shoulder, telling
him it was near midnight. -
“See the curse of poverty, Nell,” he said,
pointing to the packs he had spread out upon the
table. “If I could have gone on a little longer,
only a little longer, the luck would have turned
on my side. Yes, it's as plain as the marks upon
the cards. See here—and there—and here again.”
“Put them away,” urged the child. “Try to
forget them.” - º “s - -
* Try to forget them!” he rejoined, raising his
haggard face to hers, and regarding her with an
incredulous stare. “To forget them How are
we ever to grow rich if I forget them P’’
The child could only shake her head. .
“No, no, Nell,” said the old man, patting her
cheek; “tthey must not be forgotten. We must
make amends for this as Soon as We Can.
Patience—patience, and we'll right thee yet, I
promise thee. Lose to-day, win to-morrow,
And nothing can be won without anxiety and
care—nothing. Come, I am ready.” e
“Do you know what the time is P’’ said Mr.
Groves, who was smoking with his friends.
“Past twelve o'clock »
“—And a rainy night,” added the stout man.
“The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves.
Good Beds. Cheap entertainment for man and
beast,” said Mr. Groves, quoting his sign-board.
“Half-past twelve o'clock.” -
“It's very late,” said the uneasy child. , ‘I
wish we had gone before. What will they think
of us? It will be two o'clock by the time we get
back. What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?”
“Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper
and beer, one shilling; total, two shillings and
sixpence,” replied the Valiant Soldier.
Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in
her dress; and when she came to consider the
lateness of the hour, and the somnolent habits of
Mrs. Jarley, and to imagine the state of conster-
nation in which they would certainly throw that
good lady by knocking her up in the middle of
the night—and when she reflected, on the other
hand, that if they remained where they were;
and rose early in the morning, they might get back
before she awoke, and could plead the violence
of the storm by which they had been overtaken
as a good apology for their absence — she
decided, after a great deal of hesitation, to
remain. She therefore took her grandfather
aside, and telling him that she had still enough
left to defray the cost of their lodging, proposed
that they should stay there for the night.
“If I had had but that momey before | If I
had only known of it a few minutes ago l’ mut-
tered the old man. -
“We will decide to stop here if you please,”
said Nell, turning hastily to the landlord.
“I think that's prudent,” returned Mr. Groves.
“You shall have your suppers directly.”
Accordingly, when Mr. Groves had smoked
his pipe out, knocked out the ashes, and placed
it carefully in a corner of the fire-place, with the
bowl downwards, he brought in the bread and
cheese, and beer, with many high encomiums
upon their excellence, and bade his guests fall
to, and make themselves at home. Nell and her
grandfather ate sparingly, for both were occupied
with their own reflections: the other gentlemen,
for whose constitutions beer was too weak and
tame a liquid, consoled themselves with spirits
and tobacco.
As they would leave the house very early in the
morning, the child was anxious to pay for their
entertainment before they retired to bed. But
as she felt the necessity of concealing her little
hoard from her grandfather, and had to change
the piece of gold, she took it secretly from its
place of concealment, and embraced an oppor-
tunity of following the landlord when he went out
of the room, and tendered it to him in the littlebar.
“Will you give me the change here, if you
please?” said the child. -
Mr. James Groves was evidently surprised, and
looked at the money, and rung it, and looked at
the child, and at the money again, as though he
had a mind to inquire how she came by it. The
coin being genuine, however, and changed
at his house, he probably felt, like a wise land-
lord, that it was no business of his. At any

a 12
7 HE OLD CUR/OS/7"Y SAEIOA.
rate, he counted out the change, and gave it her.
The child was returning to the room where they
had passed the evening, when she fancied she
saw a figure just gliding in at the door. There
was nothing but a long dark passage between this
door and the place where she had changed the
money, and, being very certain that no person
had passed in or out while she stood there, the
thought struck her that she had been watched.
But by whom P When she re-entered the
room, she found its inmates exactly as she had
left them. The stout fellow lay upon two chairs,
resting his head on his hand, and the squinting
man reposed in a similar attitude on the opposite
side of the table. Between them sat her grand-
father, looking intently at the winner with a kind
of hungry admiration, and hanging upon his
words as if he were some superior being. She
was puzzled for a moment, and looked round to
see if any one else was there. No. Then she
asked her grandfather in a whisper whether any-
body had left the room while she was absent.
“No,” he said, “nobody.”
It must have been her fancy, then ; and yet it
was strange that, without anything in her pre-
vious thoughts to lead to it, she should have
imagined this figure so very distinctly. She was
still wondering and thinking of it, when a girl
came to light her to bed. - -
The old man took leave of the company at
the same time, and they went up-stairs together.
It was a great rambling house, with dull corri-
dors and wide staircases, which the flaring
candles seemed to make more gloomy. She left
her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her
guide to another, which was at the end of a
passage, and approached by some half-dozen
crazy steps. This was prepared for her. The
girl lingered a little while to talk, and tell her
grievances. She had not a good place, she said;
the wages were low, and the work was hard.
She was going to leave it in a fortnight; the
child couldn't recommend her to another, she
supposed ? Indeed, she was afraid another
would be difficult to get after living there, for the
house had a very indifferent character; there was
far too much card-playing, and such-like. She
was very much mistaken if some of the people
who came there oftenest were quite as honest as
they might be, but she wouldn’t have it known
that she had said so, for the world. Then there
were some rambling allusions to a rejected sweet-
heart, who had threatened to go a soldiering—a
final promise of knocking at the door early in the
morning—and “Good night.”
The child did not feel comfortable when she
was left alone. She could not help thinking of
the figure stealing through the passage down-
stairs; and what the girl had said did not tend
to reassure her. The men were very ill-looking.
They might get their living by robbing and mur-
dering travellers. Who could tell ?
Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing
sight of them for a little while, there came the
anxiety to which the adventures of the night gave
rise. Here was the old passion awakened again
in her grandfather's breast, and to what further
distraction it might tempt him Heaven only
knew. What fears their absence might have
occasioned already! Persons might be seeking
for them even then. Would they be forgiven in
the morning, or turned adrift again? Oh! why
had they stopped in that strange place? It
would have been better, under any circumstances,
to have gone on 1
At last, sleep gradually stole upon her—a
broken, fitful sleep, troubled by dreams of falling
from high towers, and waking with a start and in
great terror. A deeper slumber followed this—
and then What? That figure in the room
A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up
the blind to admit the light when it should dawi,
and there, between the foot of the bed and the
dark casement, it crouched and slunk along,
groping its way with noiseless hands, and stealing
round the bed. She had no voice to cry for
help, no power to move, but lay still, watching it.
On it came—on, silently and stealthily, to the
bed's head. The breath so near her pillow, that
she shrunk back into it, lest those wandering
hands should light upon her face. Back again
it stole to the window—then turned its head
towards her. -
The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter
darkness of the room, but she saw the turning of
the head, and felt and knew how the eyes looked
and the ears listened. There it remained,
motionless as she. At length, still keeping the
face towards her, it busied its hands in something,
and she heard the chink of money.
Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as
before, and replacing the garments it had taken
from the bedside, dropped upon its hands and
knees, and crawled away. How slowly it seemed
to move, now that she could hear but not see it,
creeping along the floor It reached the door at
last, and stood upon its feet. The steps creaked
beneath its noiseless tread, and it was gone.
The first impulse of the child was to fly from
the terror of being by herself in that room—to
have somebody by—not to be alonc—and then
her power of speech would be restored. With
no consciousness of having moved, she gained
the door. .
7THE ACOAE BAEA’.
1 13
There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the
bottom of the steps. -
She could not pass it ; she might have done so,
perhaps, in the darkness, without being seized,
but her blood curdled at the thought. The figure
stood quite still, and so did she ; not boldly, but
of necessity; for going back into the room was
hardly less terrible than going on.
The rain beat fast and furiously without, and
ran down in plashing streams from the thatched
roof. Some summer insect, with no escape into
the air, flew blindly to and fro, beating its body
against the walls and ceiling, and filling the silent.
place with murmurs. The figure moved again.
The child involuntarily did the same. Once in
her grandfather's room, she would be safe.
. It crept along the passage until it came to the
very door she longed so ardently to reach. The
child, in the agony of being so near, had almost
darted forward with the design of bursting into
the room and closing it behind her, when the
figure stopped again.
The idea flashed suddenly upon her—what if
it entered there, and had a design upon the old
man's life? She turned faint and sick. It did.
It went in. There was a light inside. The
figure was now within the chamber, and she, still
dumb–quite dumb, and almost senseless—stood
looking on. -
The door was partly open. Not knowing what
she meant to do, but meaning to preserve him
or be killed herself, she staggered forward and
looked in.
What sight was that which met her view P
The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth
and empty. And at a table sat the old man
himself; the only living creature there; his white
face pinched and sharpened by the greediness
which made his eyes unnaturally bright—count:
ing the money of which his hands had robbed
her. &
-º-
CHAPTER XXXI.
ITH steps more faltering and un-
'steady than those with which she
had approached the room, the child
3, withdrew from the door, and groped
her way back to her own chamber.
The terror she had lately felt was
nothing compared with that which now
oppressed her. No strange robber, no
treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his
guests, or stealing to their beds to kill them in
their sleep, no nightly prowler, however terrible
and cruel, could have awakened in her bosom
stole down the stairs and passage again.
half the dread which the recognition of her silent
visitor inspired. The grey-headed old man
gliding like a ghost into her room and acting the
thief while he supposed her fast asleep, then
bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the
ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was worse
—immeasurably worse, and far more dreadful,
for the moment, to reflect upon—than anything
her wildest fancy could have suggested. If he
should return—there was no lock or bolt upon
the door, and if, distrustful of having left some
money yet behind, he should come back to seek
for more—a vague awe and horror surrounded
the idea of his slinking in again with stealthy
tread, and turning his face toward the empty
bed, while she shrank down close at his feet to
avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable.
She sat and listened. Hark | A footstep on the
stairs, and now the door was slowly opening.
It was but imagination, yet imagination had all
the terrors of reality ; nay, it was worse, for the
reality would have come and gone, and there an
end, but in imagination it was always coming,
and never went away. -
The feeling which beset the child was one of
dim uncertain horror. She had no fear of the
dear old grandfather, in whose love for her this
disease of the brain had been engendered; but
the man she had seen that night, wrapped in the
game of chance, lurking in - her room, and
counting the money by the glimmering light,
seemed like another creature in his shape, a
monstrous distortion of his image, a something
to recoil from, and be the more afraid of, because
it bore a likeness to him, and kept close about
her, as he did. She could scarcely connect her
own affectionate companion, save by his loss,
with this old man, so like, yet so unlike him.
She had wept to see him dull and quiet. How
much greater cause she had for weeping now
The child sat watching and thinking of these
things, until the phantom in her mind so in-
creased in gločm and terror, that she felt it would
be a relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he
were asleep, even to see him, and banish some
of the fears that clustered round his image. She
The
door was still ajar as she had left it, and the
candle burning as before.
She had her own candle in her hand, prepared
to say, if he were waking, that she was uneasy
and could not rest, and had come to see if his
were still alight. Looking into the room, she
saw him lying calmly on his bed, and so took
courage to enter.
Fast asleep—no passion in the face, no avarice,
no anxiety, no wild desire; all gentle, tranquil,




THE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP
II 4
and at peace. This was not the gambler, or the
shadow in her room; this was not even the worn
and jaded man whose face had so often met her
own in the grey morning light ; this was her dear
old friend, her harmless fellow-traveller, her good,
kind grandfather.
She had no fear as she looked upon his
slumbering features, but she had a deep and
weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.
“God bless him 1" said the child, stooping
softly to kiss his placid cheek. “I see too well
now that they would indeed part us if they found
us out, and shut him up from the light of the sun
and sky. He has only me to help him. God
bless us both !” -
Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently
as she had come, and gaining her own room
once more, sat up during the remainder of that,
long, long, miserable night.
At last the day turned her waning candle pale,
and she fell asleep. She was quickly roused by
the girl who had shown her up to bed; and, as
soon as she was dressed, prepared to go down to
her grandfather. But first she searched her
pocket, and found that her money was all gone
—not a sixpence remained.
The old man was ready, and in a few seconds
they were on their road. The child thought he
rather avoided her eye, and appeared to expect,
that she would tell him of her loss. She felt she
must do that, or he might suspect the truth.
“Grandfather,” she said in a tremulous voice,
after they had walked about a mile in silence,
“do you think they are honest people at the
house yonder P”
“Why?", returned the old man, trembling.
“Do I think them honest?
honestly.”
“I’ll tell you why I ask,” rejoined Nell. “I
lost some money last night—out of my bedroom
I afm sure. . . Unless it was taken by somebody in
jest—only in jest, dear grandfather, which would
make me laugh heartily if I could but know
it—” -
“Who would take money in jest?” returned
the old man in a hurried manner. “Those who
take, money, take it to keep. Don't talk, of
jest.” " . . . . .
“Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,”
by the manner of this reply.
said the child, whose last hope was destroved
“But is there no more, Nell?” said the old
man ; “no more anywhere P Was it al. taken—
every farthing of it—was there nothing left?”
“Nothing,” replied the child. -
“We must get more,” said the old man, “we
must earn it, Nell, hoard it up, scrape it together,
sincere; she was sure of that.
Yes, they played.
come by it somehow. Never mind this loss.
Tell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it,
Don't ask how ;-we may regain it, and a great
deal more ; but tell nobody, or trouble may come
of it. And so they took it out of thy room, when
thou wert asleep !” he added in a compassionate
tone, very different from the secret, cunning way
in which he had spoken until now. “Poor Nell,
poor little Nell "
The child hung down her head and wept. The
sympathising tone in which he spoke was quite
It was not the
lightest part of her sorrow to know that this was
done for her.
“Not a word about it to any one but me,”
said the old man; “no, not even to me,” he
added hastily, “for it can do no good. All the
losses that ever were are not worth tears from
thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when
we will win them back?”
“Let them go,” said the child, looking up.
“Let them go, once and for ever, and I would
never shed another tear if every penny had been
a thousand pounds.”
“Well, well,” returned the old man, checking
himself as some impetuous answer rose to his
lips, “she knows no better. I should be thanks
ful for it.” -
“But listen to me,” said the child earnestly,
“Will you listen to me?”
“Ay, ay, I'll listen,” returned the old man,
still without looking at her; “a pretty voice It
has always a sweet sound to me. It always
had when it was her mother's, poor child !”
“Let me persuade you, then—oh I do let me
persuade you,” said the child, “to think no more
of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but the
fortune we pursue together.”
“We pursue this aim together,” retorted her
grandfather, still looking away, and seeming to
confer with himself. “Whose image sanctifies
the game P”
“Have we been worse off,” resumed the child,
“since you forgot these cares, and we have been
travelling on together P Have we not been
much better and happier without a home to
shelter us than ever we were in that unhappy
house, when they were on your mind?”
“She speaks the truth,” murmured the old
man in the same tone as before. “It must not
turn me, but it is the truth—no doubt it is.”.
“Only remember what we have been since
that bright morning when we turned our backs
upon it for the last time,” said Nell, “only
remember what we have been since we have
been free of all those miseries—what peaceful
days and quiet nights we have had—what plea-
AN EXPEDITION TO MISS MONFLATHERS'S.
II 5
sant times we have known—what happiness we
have enjoyed. If we have been tired or hungry,
we have been soon refreshed, and slept the
sounder for it. Think what beautiful things we
have seen, and how contented we have felt.
And why was this blessed change?”
He stopped her with a motion of his hand,
and bade her talk to him no more just then, for
he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek,
still motioning her to silence, and walked on
looking far before him, and sometimes stopping
and gazing with a puckered’ brow upon the
ground, as if he were painfully trying to collect
his disordered thoughts. Once she saw tears in
his eyes. When he had gone on thus for some
time, he took her hand in his as he was accus-
tomed to do, with nothing of the violence or
animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees
so fine that the child could not trace them,
settled down into his usual quiet way, and suf-
fered her to lead him where she would.
When they presented themselves in the midst
of the stupendous collection, they found, as Nell
had anticipated, that Mrs. Jarley was not yet
out of bed, and that, although she had suffered
some uneasiness on their account overnight, and
had, indeed, sat up for them until past eleven
o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion that,
being overtaken by storm at some distance from
home, they had sought the nearest shelter, and
would not return before morning. Nell imme-
diately applied herself with great assiduity to
the decoration and preparation of the room, and
had the satisfaction of completing her task, and
dressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the
Royal Family came down to breakfast.
“We haven't had,” said Mrs. Jarley when the
meal was over, “more than eight of Miss Mon-
flathers's young ladies all the time we've been
here, and there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told
by the cook when I asked her a question or two,
and put her on the free-list. We must try 'em
with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it,
my dear, and see what effect that has upon 'em.”
The proposed expedition being one of para-
mount importance, Mrs. Jarley adjusted Nell's
bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that
she certainly did look very pretty, and reflected
credit on the establishment, dismissed her with
many commendations, and certain needful direc-
tions as to the turnings on the right which she
was to take, and the turnings on the left which
she was to avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no
difficulty in finding out Miss Monflathers's
Boarding and Day Establishment, which was a
large house, with a high wall, and a large garden-
gate with a large brass plate, and a small grating
parasols likewise.
through which Miss Monflathers's parlour-maid
inspected all visitors before admitting them; for
nothing in the shape of a man—no, not even a
milkman—was suffered, without special licence,
to pass that gate. Even the tax-gatherer, who
was stout, and wore spectacles and a broad-
brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the
grating. More obdurate than gate of adamant
or brass, this gate of Miss Monflathers's frowned
on all mankind. The very butcher respected it
as a gate of mystery, and left off whistling when
he rang the bell.
As Nell approached the awful door, it turned
slowly upon its hinges with a creaking noise,
and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came
a long file of young ladies, two and two, all with
open books in their hands, and some with
And last of the goodly pro-
cession came Miss Monflathers, bearing herself
a parasol of lilac silk, and supported by two
smiling teachers, each mortally envious of the
other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers.
Confused by the looks and whispers of the
girls, Nell stood with downcast eyes and suffered
the procession to pass on, until Miss Monflathers,
bringing up the rear, approached her, when she
curtsied and presented her little packet; on
receipt whereof Miss Monflathers commanded
that the line should halt.
“You’re the wax-work child, are you not P”
said Miss Monflathers.
“Yes, ma'am,” replied Nell, colouring deeply,
for the young ladies had collected about her, and
she was the centre on which all eyes were fixed.
“And don't you think you must be a very
wicked little child,” said Miss Monflathers, who
was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no
opportunity of impressing moral truths upon
the tender minds of the young ladies, “to be a
wax-work child at all?” -
Poor Nell had never viewed her position in
this light, and not knowing what to say, re-
mained silent, blushing more deeply than before.
“Don’t you know,” said Miss Monflathers,
“ that it's very haughty and unfeminine, and a
perversion of the properties wisely and be-
nignantly transmitted to us, with expansive
powers to be roused from their dormant state
through the medium of cultivation P’’
The two teachers murmured their respectful
approval of this home-thrust, and looked at Nell
as though they would have said that there indeed
Miss Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then
they smiled and glanced at Miss Monflathers,
and then, their eyes meeting, they exchanged
looks which plainly said that each considered
herself smiler in ordinary to Miss Monflathers,
116
THE "O ZZ) CURIOS/ZY SAEIOP
and regarded the other as having no right to
smile, and that her so doing was an act of pre-
sumption and impertinence. :
“Don’t you feel how naughty it is of you,
esumed Miss Monflathers, “to be a wax-work
child, when you might have the proud cons
99
3.
.
\
ſ
º
ſl.
§:Wºr
fiftſ
º -
ſº
iſºlſ|ſº
|
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|
“YOU’RE THE WAX-WORK
week? Don't you know that the harder you are
at work, the happier you are P”
“‘How doth the little—’” murmured one
of the teachers, in quotation from Doctor Watts.
“Eh P’’ said Miss Monflathers, turningsmartly ,
round.. “Who said that?”
-
sciousness of assisting, to the extent of your
infant powers, the manufactures of your country;
of improving your mind by the constant contem:
plation of the steam-engine; and of earning a
comfortable and independent subsistence of
from two-and-ninepence to three shillings per
2/117/£4:
CHILD, ARE YoU Not P”
Of course the teacher who had not said it
indicated the rival who had, whom Miss Mon-
flathers frowningly requested to hold her peace ;
by that means throwing the informing teacher
into raptures of joy.
“The little busy bee,” said. Miss Monflathers.


M/SS MOAVAEZAZAZAZA'S'S MORAZ AX/O.M.S.
drawing herself up, “is applicable only to gen-
teel children. -
‘In books. or work, or healthful play,”
is quite right as far as they are concerned ; and
the work means painting on velvet, fancy needle-
work, or embroidery. In such cases as these,”
pointing to Nell with her parasol, “and in the
case of all poor people's children, we should
read it thūs: -
“In work, work, work. In work alway
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last.’”
A deep hum of applause rose not only from
the two teachers, but from all the pupils, who
were equally astonished to hear Miss Mon-
flathers improvising after this brilliant style; for
although she had been long known as a poli-
tician, she had never appeared before as an
original poet. Just then somebody happened to
discover that Nell was crying, and all eyes were
again turned towards her. -
There were indeed tears in her eyes, and
drawing out her handkerchief to brush them
away, she happened to let it fall. Before she
could stoop to pick it up, one young lady of
about fifteen or sixteen, who had been standing
a little apart from the others, as though she had
no recognised place among them, sprang for-
ward and put it in her hand. She was gliding
timidly away again, when she was arrested by
the governess.
“It was Miss Edwards who did that, I know,”
said Miss Monflathers predictively.
am sure that was Miss Edwards.”
It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it
was Miss Edwards, and Miss Edwards herself
admitted that it was. - -
“Is it not,” said Miss Monflathers, putting
down her parasol to take a severer view of the
offender, “a most remarkable thing, Miss Ed-
wards, that you have an attachment to the lower
classes which always draws you to their sides ;
or rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing
that all I say and do will not wean you from
propensities which your original station in life
has unhappily rendered habitual to you, you
extremely vulgar-minded girl?”
“I really intended no harm, ma'am,” said a
Sweet voice. “It was a momentary impulse,
indeed.” -
“An impulse !” repeated Miss Monflathers
Scornfully. “I wonder that you presume to
speak of impulses to me.”—both the teachers
assented—“I am astonished”—both the teach-
“Now I
117
ers were astonished—“I suppose it is an impulse
which induces you to take the part of every
grovelling and debased person that comes in
your way ”—both the teachers supposed so too.
“But I would have you know, Miss Edwards,”
resumed the governess in a tone of increased
severity, “that you cannot be permitted—if it be
only for the sake of preserving a proper example
and decorum in this establishment—that you
cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be
permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in
this exceedingly gross manner. If you...have no
reason to feel a becoming pride before wax-
work children, there are young ladies here who
have, and you must either defer to those young
ladies or leave the establishment, Miss Ed-
wards.”
This young lady, being motherless and poor,
was apprenticed at the school—taught for nothing
—teaching others what she learnt, for nothing—
boarded for nothing—lodged for nothing—and
set down and rated as something immeasurably
less than nothing by all the dwellers in the
house. The servant-maids felt her inferiority,
for they were better treated, free to come and
go, and regarded in their stations with much
more respect. The teachers were infinitely
superior, for they had paid to go to school in
their time, and were paid now. The pupils
cared little for a companion who had no grand
stories to tell about home; no friends to come
with post-horses, and be received in all humility,
with cake and wine, by the governess; nb de-
ferential servant to attend and bear her home
for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk about,
and nothing to display. But why was Miss
Monflathers always vexed and irritated with the
poor apprentice? How did that come to pass 2
Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's
cap, and the brightest glory of Miss Monflathers's
school, was a baronet's daughter—the real live
daughter of a real live baronet—who, by some
extraordinary reversal of the Laws of Nature,
was not only plain in features, but dull in intel-
lect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready
wit, and a handsome face and figure. It seems
incredible. Here was Miss Edwards, who only
paid a small premium which had been spent long
ago, every day outshining and excelling the baro-
net's daughter, who learned all, the extras (or
was taught them all), and whose half-yearly bill
came to double that of any other young lady's
in the school, making no account of the honour
and reputation of her pupilage. Therefore, and
because she was a dependant, Miss Monflathers
had a great dislike to Miss Edwards, and was
spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, and, when
I 18
THE OLD CURIOS/ZY SHOP
she had compassion on little Nell, verbally fell
upon and maltreated her as we have already
See I). -
“You will not take the air to-day, Miss Ed-
wards,” said Miss Monflathers. “Have the
goodness to retire to your own room, and not
to leave it without permission.”
The poor girl was moving hastily away, when
she was suddenly, in nautical phrase, “brought
to ” by a subdued shriek from Miss Monflathers.
“She has passed me without any salute 1 " .
clied the governess, raising her eyes to the sky.
“She has actually passed me without the slightest
acknowledgment of my presence l’’
The young lady turned and curtsied. Nell
could see that she raised her dark eyes to the
face of her superior, and that their expression,
and that of her whole attitude for the instant,
was one of mute but most touching appeal against
this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only
tossed her head in reply, and the great gate
closed upon a bursting heart.
“As for you, you wicked child,” said Miss
Monflathers, turning to Nell, “tell your mistress
that if she presumes to take the liberty of sending
to me any more, I will write to the legislative
authorities, and have her put in the stocks, or
compelled to do penance in a white sheet; and
you may depend upon it that you shall certainly
experience the treadmill if you dare to come here.
again. Now, ladies, on.”
The procession filed off, two and two, with the
books and parasols, and Miss Monflathers, call-
ing the baronet's daughter to walk with her and
smooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two
teachers—who by this time had exchanged their
Smiles for looks of sympathy—and left them to
bring up the rear, and hate each other a little
more for being obliged to walk together.
CHAPTER XXXII.
(RS. JARLEY'S wrath, on first learn-
| ing that she had been threatened
with the indignity of Stocks and
Penance, passed all description. The
genuine and only Jarley exposed to
public scorn, jeered by children, and
douted by beadles The delight of the
êo Nobility and Gentry shorn of a bonnet
which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to
wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle
of mortification and humility And Miss Mon-
flathers, the audacious creature, who presumed, -
even in the dimmest and remotest distance of
her imagination, to conjure up the degrading
picture, “I am almost inclined,” said Mrs. Jarley,
bursting with the fulness of her anger and the
weakness of her means of revenge, “to turn
atheist when I think of it !” -
But, instead of adopting this course of retalia-
tion, Mrs. Jarley, on second thoughts, brought
out the suspicious bottle, and ordering glasses to
be set fºrth upon her favourite drum, and sinking
into a chair behind it, called her satellites about
her, and to them several times recounted, word
for word, the affronts she had received. This
done, she begged them in a kind of deep despair
to drink; then laughed, then cried, then took a
little sip herself, then laughed and cried again,
and took a little more ; and so, by degrees, the
worthy lady went on, increasing in smiles and
decreasing in tears, until at last she could not
laugh enough at Miss Monflathers, who, from
being an object of dire vexation, became one of
sheer ridicule and absurdity.
“For which of us is best off, I wonder,” quoth
Mrs. Jarley, “she or me? It's only talking, when
all is said and done, and if she talks of me in
the stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks,
which is a good deal funnier if we come to that.
Lord, what does it matter, after all P”
Having arrived at this comfortable frame of
mind (to which she had been greatly assisted by
certain short interjectional remarks of the philo-
Sophic George), Mrs. Jarley consoled Nell with
many kind words, and requested as a personal
favour that, whenever she thought of Miss Mon-
flathers, she would do nothing else but laugh at
her all the days of her life.
So ended Mrs. Jarley's wrath, which subsided
long before the going down of the sun. Nell's
anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind, and
the checks they imposed upon her cheerfulness
were not so easily removed.
That evening, as she had dreaded, her grand-
father stole away, and did not come back until
the night was far spent. Worn out as she was,
and fatigued in mind and body, she sat up alone,
counting the minutes, until he returned—penni-
less, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still hotly
bent upon his infatuation.
“Get me money,” he said wildly as they parted
for the night. “I must have money, Nell. It
shall be paid thee back with gallant interest one
day, but all the money that comes into thy hands
must be mine—not for myself, but to use for
thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee l’’
What could the child do, with the knowledge
she had, but give him every penny that came
into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to

THE TWO SISTERS.
I 19
rob their benefactress P If she told the truth (so
thought the child), he would be treated as a
madman ; if she did not supply him with money,
he would supply himself; supplying him, she fed
the fire that burnt him up, and put him perhaps
beyond recovery. Distracted by these thoughts,
borne down by the weight of the sorrow which
she dared not tell, tortured by a crowd of appre-
hensions whenever the old man was absent, and
dreading alike his stay and his return, the colour
forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her
heart was oppressed and heavy. All her old
sorrows had come back upon her, augmented
by new fears and doubts ; by day they were
ever present to her mind; by night they hovered
round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams.
It was natural that, in the midst of her afflic-
tion, she should often revert to that sweet young
lady of whom she had only caught a hasty glance,
but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief
action, dwelt in her memory like the kindnesses
of years. She would often think, if she had such
a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, how
much lighter her heart would be—that if she
were but free to hear that voice, she would be
happier. Then she would wish that she were
something better, that she were not quite so
poor and humble, that she dared address her
without fearing a repulse; and then feel that
there was an immeasurable distance between
them, and have no hope that the young lady
thought of her any more.
It was now holiday-time at the schools, and
the young ladies had gone home, and Miss
Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in
London, and damaging the hearts of middle-
aged gentlemen, but nobody said anything about
Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home, or
whether she had any home to go to, whether she
was still at the school, or anything about her.
But one evening, as Nell was returning from a
lonely walk, she happened to pass the inn where
the stage-coaches stopped, just as one drove up,
and there was the beautiful girl she so well re-
membered, pressing forward to embrace a young
child whom they were helping down from the
roof.
Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much
younger than Nell, whom she had not seen (so
the story went afterwards) for five years, and to
bring whom to that place on a short visit, she
had been saving her poor means all that time.
Nell felt as if her heart would break when she
saw them meet. They went a little apart from
the knot of people who had congregated about
the coach, and fell upon each other's neck, and
Sobbed, and wept with joy. Their plain and
Tsimple dress, the distance which the child had
come alone, their agitation and delight, and the
tears they shed, would have told their historv
by themselves. *
They became a little more composed in a
short time, and went away, not so much hand-
in-hand as clinging to each other. “Are you
sure you're happy, sister P” said the child as they
passed where Nell was standing. “Quite happy
now,” she answered. “But always P” said the
child. “Ah, sister, why do you turn away your
face P’’
Nell could not help following at a little dis.
tance. They went to the house of an old nurse,
where the elder sister had engaged a bedroom
for the child. “I shall come to you early every
morning,” she said, “ and we can be together all
the day.”—“Why not at night-time too? Dear
sister, would they be angry with you for that ?”
Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that
night, with tears like those of the two sisters ?
Why did she bear a grateful heart because they
had met, and feel it pain to think that they would
shortly part? Let us not believe that any selfish
reference—unconscious though it might have
been—to her own trials awoke this sympathy,
but thank God that the innocent joys of others
Can strongly move -us, and that we, even in our
fallen nature, have one source of pure emotion
which must be prized in Heaven -
By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still
by evening's gentle light, the child, with a respect
for the short and happy intercourse of these two
sisters which forbade her to approach and say a
thankful word, although she yearned to do so,
followed them at a distance in their walks and
rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting on
the grass when they sat down, rising when they
went on, and feeling it a companionship and
delight to be so near them. Their evening walk
was by a river's side. Here, every night, the
child was too, unseen by them, unthought of,
unregarded ; but feeling as if they were her
friends, as if they had confidences and trusts
together, as if her load were lightened and less
hard to bear; as if they mingled their sorrows,
and found mutual consolation. It was a weak
fancy perhaps, the childish fancy of a young and
lonely creature; but, night after night, and still
the sisters loitered in the same place, and still
the child followed with a mild and softened
heart.
She was much startled, on returning home one
night, to find that Mrs. Jarley had commanded
an announcement to be prepared, to the effect
that the stupendous collection would only remain
in its present quarters one day longer; in fulfil-
I 2 O
THE OLD CUR/OS/ZY SAOA.
ment of which threat (for all announcements
connectad with public amusements are well
known to be irrevocable and most exact), the
stupendous collection shut up next day. . .
& Are we going from this place directly,
ma'am P” said Nell.
“Look here, child,” returned Mrs. Jarley.
“That’ll inform you.” And so saying, Mrs. Jar-
ley produced another announcement, wherein it
was stated that, in consequence of numerous
inquiries at the wax-work, door, and in conse-
quence of crowds having been disappointed in
obtaining admission, the Exhibition would be
continued for one week longer, and would re-
open next day. -
“For now that the schools are gone, and the
regular sight-seers exhausted,” said Mrs. Jarley,
“we come to the General Public, and they want
stimulating.”
Upon the following day, at noon, Mrs. Jarley
established herself behind the highly-ornamented
table, attended by the distinguished effigies before
mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown
open for the readmission of a discerning and en-
lightened public. But the first day's operations
were by no means of a successful character,
inasmuch as the general public, though they
manifested a lively interest in Mrs. Jarley per-
sonally, and such of her waxen satellites as were
to be seen for nothing, were not affected by any
impulses moving them to the payment of six-
pence a head. Thus, notwithstanding that a
great many people continued to stare at the entry
and the figures therein displayed; and remained
there with great perseverance, by the hour at a
time, to hear the barrel-organ played and to read
the bills; and notwithstanding that they were
kind enough to recommend their friends to pa-
tronise the exhibition in the like manner, until
the doorway was regularly blockaded by half the
population of the town, who, when they went off
duty, were relieved by the other half; it was not
found that the treasury was any the richer, or
that the prospects of the establishment were at
all encouraging. t
In this depressed state of the classical market,
Mrs. Jarley made extraordinary efforts to stimu-
late the popular taste, and whet the popular
curiosity. Certain machinery in the body of the
nun on the leads over the door was cleaned up
and put in motion, so that the figure shook its
head paralytically all day long, to the great ad-
miration of a drunken, but very Protestant,
barber over the way, who looked upon the said
paralytic motion as typical of the degrading
effect wrought upon the human mind by the
ceremonies of the Romish Church, and dis
such a brilliant gratification.
–
coursed upon that theme with great eloquence
and morality. The two carters constantly passed
in and out of the exhibition-room, under various
disguises, protesting aloud that the sight was
better worth the money than anything they had
beheld in all their lives, and urging the by-
standers, with tears in their eyes, not to neglect
Mrs. Jarley sat in
the pay-place, chinking silver moneys from noon
till night, and solemnly calling upon the crowd
to take notice that the price of admission was
only sixpence, and that the departure of the
whole collection, on a short tour among the
Crowned Heads of Europe, was positively fixed
for that day week.
“So be in time, be in time, be in time,” said
Mrs. Jarley at the close of every such address.
“Remember that this is Jarley's stupendous col-
lection of upwards of one Hundred Figures, and
that it is the only collection in the world; all
others being impostors and deceptions. Be in
time, be in time, be in time !”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
# 7 S the course of this tale requires that
we should become acquainted, some-
where hereabouts, with a few parti-
culars connected with the domestic
economy of Mr. Sampson Brass, and
as a more convenient place than the
present is not likely to occur for that
º purpose, the historian takes the friendly
reader by the hand, and springing with him into
the air, and cleaving the same at a greater rate
than ever Don Cleophas Leandro Perez Zam-
bullo and his familiar travelled through that
pleasant region in company, alights with him
upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.
The intrepid aeronauts alight before a small
dark house, once the residence.of Mr. Sampson
Brass. : - -
In the parlour window of this little habitation,
which is so close upon the footway that ſhe pas-
senger who takes the wall brushes the dim glass
with his coat-sleeve—much to its improvement,
for it is very dirty—in this parlour window, in
the days of its occupation by Sampson Brass,
there hung, all awry and slack, and discoloured
by the sun, a curtain of faded green, so thread
bare from long service as by no means to inter
cept the view of the little dark room, but rather
to afford a favourable medium through which tº
observe it accurately There was not much tº
look at. A rickety table, with spare bundles of


MISS S.A.A.A. Y. BRASS..
T 2 iſ .
papers, yellow and ragged from long carriage in
the pocket, ostentatiously displayed upon its
top ; a couple of stools set face to face on oppo-
site sides of this crazy piece of furniture; a
treacherous old chair by the fire-place, whose
withered arms had hugged full many a client and
helped to squeeze him dry ; a second-hand wig-
box, used as a depository for blank writs and
declarations and other small forms of law, once
the sole contents of the head which belonged to
the wig which belonged to the box, as they were
now of the box itself; two or three common
books of practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box,
a stunted hearth-broom, a carpet trodden to
shreds, but still clinging with the tightness of
desperation to its tacks—these, with the yellow
wainscot of the walls, the smoke - discoloured
ceiling, the dust and cobwebs, were among the
most prominent decorations of the office of Mr.
Sampson Brass.
But this was mere still-life, of no greater im-
portance than the plate, “BRASS, Solicitor,”
upon the door, and the bill, “First floor to let
to a single gentleman,” which was tied to the
Knocker. The office commonly held two ex-
amples of animated nature, more to the purpose
of this history, and in whom it has a stronger
interest and more particular concern.
Of these, one was Mr. Brass himself, who has
already appeared in these pages. The other was
his clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary, con-
fidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill-of-
cost increaser, Miss Brass—a kind of Amazon at
common law, of whom it may be desirable to
offer a brief description.
Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-
five or thereabouts, of a gaunt and bony figure,
and a resolute bearing, which, if it repressed the
softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a
distance, certainly inspired a feeling akin to awe
in the breasts of those male strangers who had
the happiness to approach her. In face she bore
a striking resemblance to her brother Sampson
—so exact, indeed, was the likeness between
them, that had it consorted with Miss Brass's
maiden modesty and gentle womanhood to have
assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic, and sat
down beside him, it would have been difficult
for the oldest friend of the family to determine
which was Sampson and which Sally, especially
as the lady carried upon her upper lip certain
reddish demonstrations, which, if the imagina-
tion had been assisted by her attire, might have
been mistaken for a beard. These were, how-
ever, in all probability, nothing more than eye-
lashes in a wrong place, as the eyes of Miss Brass
were quite free from any such natural imperti-
nences. In complexion Miss Brass was sallow
—rather a dirty sallow, so to speak—but this
hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy glow
which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing
nose. Her voice was exceedingly impressive—
deep and rich in quality, and, once heard, not
easily forgotten. Her usual dress was a green
gown, in colour not unlike the curtain of the
office window, made tight to the figure, and ter-
minating at the throat, where it was fastened
behind by a peculiarly large and massive button.
Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and plainness
are the soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore no
collar or kerchief except upon her head, which
was invariably ornamented with a brown gauze
scarf, like the wing of the fabled vampire, and
which, twisted into any form that happened to
suggest itself, formed an easy and graceful head-
dress.
Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind,
she was of a strong and vigorous turn, having
from her earliest youth devoted herself with un-
common ardour to the study of the law; not
wasting her speculations upon its eagle flights,
which are rare, but tracing it attentively through
all the slippery and eel-like crawlings in which it
commonly pursues its way. Nor had she, like
many persons of great intellect, confined herself
to theory, or stopped short where practical use-
fulness begins; inasmuch as she could engross,
fair-copy, fill up printed forms with perfect accu-
racy, and, in short, transact any ordinary duty of
the office down to pouncing a skin of parchment
or mending a pen. It is difficult to understand
how, possessed of these combined attractions,
she should remain Miss Brass; but whether she
had steeled her heart against mankind, or whether
those who might have wooed and won her were
deterred by fears that, being learned in the law, she
might have too near her fingers’ ends those par
ticular statutes which regulate what are familiarly
termed actions for breach, certain it is that she
was still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily
occupation of her old stool opposite to that of
her brother Sampson. And equally certain it is,
by the way, that between these two stools a great
many people had come to the ground.
One morning Mr. Sampson Brass sat upon his
stool copying some legal process, and viciously
digging his pen deep into the paper, as if he
were writing upon the very heart of the party
against whom it was directed; and Miss Sally
Brass sat upon her stool making a new pen pre-
paratory to drawing out a little bill, which was
her favourite occupation; and so they sat in
silence for a long time, until Miss Brass broke
silence.
I 2.2
THE ozz, curroSIZY SHOP. T.
*
* “Have you nearly done, Sammy P” said Missº
Brass ; for in her mild and feminine lips Samp-
son became Sammy, and all things were softened
down,
“No,” returned her brother. “It would have
been all done, though: if vou had helped at the
right time.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” cried Miss Sally; “you
want my help, don't you ?—you, too, that are
going to keep a clerk 1"
“Am I going to keep a clerk for my own
pleasure, or because of my own wish, you pro-
voking rascal?” said Mr. Brass, putting his pen
in his mouth, and grinning spitefully at his
sister. “What do you taunt me about going to ||
keep a clerk for P”
It may be observed in this place, lest the fact
of Mr. Brass calling a lady a rascal should occa-,
sion any wonderment or surprise, that he was so
habituated to having her near him in a man's
capacity, that he had gradually accustomed him-
self to talk to her as though she were really a
man. And this feeling was so perfectly reci-
procal, that not only did Mrs Brass often call
Miss Brass a rascal, or even put an adjective
before the rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon it
as quite a matter of course, and was as little
moved as any other lady would be by being
called an angel. - &
“What do you taunt me, after three hours'
talk last night, with going to keep a clerk for P”
repeated Mr. Brass, grinning again with the pen
in his mouth, like some nobleman's or gentle-
man's crest. “Is it my fault?”
“All I know is,” said Miss Sally, smiling
drily, for she delighted in nothing so much as
irritating her brother, “that if every one of your
clients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether
we want to or not, you had better leave off
business, strike yourself off the roll, and get
taken in execution as soon as you can.”
“Have we got any other client like him P”
said Brass. “Have we got another client like
him, now—will you answer me that P”
“Do you mean in the face?” said his sister.
“Do I mean in the face P” sneered Sampson
Brass, reaching over to take up the bill book,
and fluttering its leaves rapidly.
Daniel Quilp, Esquire—Daniel Quilp, Esquire
—Daniel Quilp, Esquire—all through. Whether
should I take a clerk that he recommends, and
says, “This is the man for you,' or lose all this
—eh P” --
Miss Sally deigned to make no reply, but
smiled again, and went on with her work.
“But I know what it is,” resumed Brass after
a short silence. “You’re afraid you won't have
“Look here—
there the discussion ended.
‘the fair Miss Brass.
bandage off her eyes, and, without , the sword
- **- - - - * ---------~~~~. . . . * j4
as long a finger in the business as you've been
used to have. Do vou, think I don't.see through
that P”
“The business wouldn't go on very long, I
expect, without me,” returned his sister com:
posedly. “Don’t you be a fool and provoké
me, Sammy, but mind what you're doing, and
do.it.” -
Sampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear
of his sister, Sulkily bent over his writing again,
and listened as she said :
“If I determined that the clerk ought not to
come, of course he wouldn't be allowed to come.
You know that well enough, so don't talk, non-
sense.” -
Mr. Brass received this observation with in-
creased meekness, merely remarking, under his
breath, that he didn't like that kind of joking,
and that Miss Sally would be “a much better
fellow” if she forbore to aggravate him. To this
compliment Miss Sally replied that she had a
relish for the amusement, and had no intention
to forego its gratification. Mr. Brass not caring,
as it seemed, to pursue the subject any further,
they both plied their pens at a great pace, and
... While they were thus employed, the window
was suddenly darkened, as by some person stand-
ing close against it. As Mr. Brass and Miss
Sally looked up to ascertain the cause, the top
sash was nimbly lowered from without, and
Quilp thrust in his head.
, “Hallo I" he said, standing on tiptoe on the
window-sill, and looking down into the room.
“Is there anybody at home P Is there any of
the devil's ware here? Is Brass at a premium,
eh P” +
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the lawyer in an
affected ecstasy. “Oh, very good, sir! Oh,
very good indeed I Quite eccentric | Dear me,
what humour he has 1”
“Is that my Sally P” croaked the dwarf, ogling
“Is it Justice with the
and scales? Is it the Strong,Arm of the Law 2
: Is it the Virgin of Bevis P”
“What an amazing flow of spirits t” cried
Brass. “Upon my word, it's quite, extraordi-
nary 1”
“Open the door,” said Quilp. “I’ve got
him here. . Such a clerk for you, Brass, such a
prize, such an ace of trumps. Be quick and
open the door, or, if there's another lawyer near
and he should happen to look out of window,
he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will.”
. It is probable that the loss of the phoenix of
clerks, even to a rival practitioner, would not
1 A COZZAZA G UE AWOA’ MWSS S.A./Z Y BAZA.S.S.
have broken Mr. Brass's heart; but, pretending
great alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going
to the door, returned, introducing his client, who
led by the hand no less a person than Mr.
Richard Swiveller.
“There she is,” said Quilp, stopping short at
the door, and wrinkling up his eyebrows as he
looked towards Miss Sally; “there is the woman
I ought to have married—there is the beautiful
Sarah—there is the female who has all the
charms of her sex, and none of their weaknesses.
Oh, Sally, Sally 1" tº
To this amorous address Miss Brass briefly
responded “Bother " -
“Hard-hearted as the metal from which she
takes her name,” said Quilp. “Why don’t she
change it—melt down the brass, and take another
name P” -
“Hold your nonsense, Mr. Quilp, do,” re-
turned Miss Sally with a grim smile. “I
wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a
strange young man.”
“The strange young man,” said Quilp, hand-
ing Dick Swiveller forward, “is too susceptible
himself, not to understand me well. This is
Mr. Swiveller, my intimate friend—a gentleman
of good family and great expectations, but who,
having rather involved himself by youthful indis-
cretion, is content for a time to fill the humble
station of a clerk—humble, but here most envi-
able. What a delicious atmosphere !”
If Mr. Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to
imply that the air breathed by Miss Sally Brass was
sweetened, and rarefied by that dainty creature,
he had doubtless good reason for what he said.
But if he spoke of the delights of the atmo-
sphere of Mr. Brass's office in a literal sense, he
had certainly a peculiar taste, as it was of a close
and earthy kind, and, besides being frequently
impregnated with strong whiffs of the second-
hand wearing apparel exposed for sale in Duke's
Place and Houndsditch, had a decided flavour
of rats and mice, and a taint of mouldiness.
Perhaps some doubts of its pure delight pre-
sented themselves to Mr. Swiveller, as he gave
vent to one or two short abrupt sniffs, and looked
incredulously at the grinning dwarf.
“Mr. Swiveller,” said Quilp, “being pretty
well accustomed to the agricultural pursuits of
Sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently con-
siders that half a loaf is better than no bread.
To be out of harm's way he prudently thinks
is something too, and therefore he accepts
your brother's offer. Brass, Mr. Swiveller is
yours.”
“I am very glad, sir,” said Mr. Brass, “very
glad indeed. Mr. Swiveller, sir, is fortunate to
not extensive.
I 23
have your friendship. You may be very proud,
sir, to have the friendship of Mr. Quilp.”
Dick murmured something about never want-
ing a friend or a bottle to give him, and also
gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing of
friendship and its never moulting a feather; but
his faculties appeared to be absorbed in the
contemplation of Miss Sally Brass, at whom he
stared with blank and rueful looks, which de-
lighted the watchful dwarf beyond measure. As
to the divine Miss Sally herself, she rubbed her
hands as men of business. do, and took a few
turns up and down the office with her pen be-
hind her ear.
“I suppose,” said the dwarf, turning briskly
to his legal friend, “that Mr. Swiveller enters
upon his duties at once? It's Monday morning.”
“At once, if you please, sir, by all means,”
returned Brass.
“Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful
study of the law,” said Quilp ; “she'll be his
guide, his friend, his companion, his Blackstone,
his Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's
Best Companion.”
“He is exceedingly eloquent,” said Brass,
like a man abstracted, and looking at the roofs
of the opposite houses; with his hands in his
pockets : “he has an extraordinary flow of
language. Beautiful, really.”
“With Miss Sally,” Quilp went on, “and the
beautiful fictions of the law, his days will pass
like minutes. Those charming creations of the
poet, John Doe and Richard Roe, when they
first dawn upon him, will open a new world for
the enlargement of his mind and the improve-
ment of his heart.”
, “Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Beau-ti-ful indeed!”
cried Brass. “It’s a treat to hear him l’’
“Where will Mr. Swiveller sit?” said Quilp,
looking round.
“Why, we’ll buy another stool, sir,” returned
Brass. “We hadn't any thoughts of having a
gentleman with us, sir, until you were kind
enough to suggest it, and our accommodation's
We'll look about for a second
hand stool, sir. In the meantime, if Mr.
Swiveller will take my seat, and try his hand at
a fair copy of this ejectment, as I Shall be out
pretty well all the morning 3y
“Walk with me,” said Quilp. “I have a
word or two to say to you on points of business.
Can you spare the time P”
“Can I spare the time to walk with you, sir?
You're joking, sir, you're joking with me,” re-
plied the lawyer, putting on his hat. “I’m
ready, sir, quite ready. My time must be fully
occupied indeed, sir, not to leave me time to
I 24.
THE OLD CURIOS/TY SAHOF.
walk with you. It's not everybody, sir, who has
an opportunity of improving himself by the con-
versation of Mr. Quilp.”
The dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen
friend, and, with a short dry cough, turned upon
his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally. After a
very gallant parting on his side, and a very cool
and gentlemanly sort of one on hers, he nodded
to Dick Swiveller, and withdrew with the attor-
ney.
Dick stood at the desk in a state of utter
stupefaction, staring with all his might at the
beauteous Sally, as if she had been some curious
animal whose like had never lived. When the
dwarf got into the street, he mounted again
upon the window-sill, and looked into the office
for a moment with a grinning face, as a man
might peep into a cage. Dick glanced upward
at him, but without any token of recognition ;
and long after he had disappeared, still stood
gazing upon Miss Sally Brass, seeing or think-
ing of nothing else, and rooted to the spot.
Miss Brass, being by this time deep in the
bill of costs, took no notice whatever of Dick,
but went scratching on, with a noisy pen, scor-
ing down the figures with evident delight, and
working like a steam-engine. There stood Dick,
gazing now at the green gown, now at the brown
head-dress, now at the face, and now at the
rapid pen, in a state of stupid perplexity, won-
dering how he got into the company of that
strange monster, and whether it was a dream
and he would ever wake. At last he heaved a
deep sigh, and began slowly pulling off his coat.
Mr. Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded
it up with great elaboration, staring at Miss
Sally all the time; then put on a blue jacket
with a double row of gilt buttons, which he had
originally ordered for aquatic expeditions, but
had brought with him that morning for office
purposes; and still keeping his eye upon her,
suffered himself to drop down silently upon Mr.
Brass's stool. Then he underwent a relapse,
and becoming powerless again, rested his chin
upon his hand, and opened his eyes so wide,
that it appeared quite out of the question that
he could ever close them any more. º
When he had looked so long that he could
see nothing, Dick took his eyes off the fair
object of his amazement, turned over the leaves
of the draft he was to copy, dipped his pen into
the inkstand, and at last, and by slow ap-
proaches, began to write. But he had not
written half-a-dozen words when, reaching over
to the inkstand to take a fresh dip, he happened
to raise his eyes. There was the intolerable
brown head-dress—there was the green gown—
there, in short, was Miss Sally Brass, arrayed
in all her charms, and more tremendous than
ever.
This happened so often, that Mr. Swireller
by degrees began to feel strange influences
creeping over him—horrible desires to anni-
hilate this Sally Brass—mysterious promptings
to knock her head-dress off, and try how she
looked without it. There was a very large ruler
on the table—a large, black, shining ruler. Mr.
Swiveller took it up and began to rub his nose
with it. ſº
From rubbing his nose with the ruler, to
poising it in his hand and giving it an occa-
sional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the
transition was easy and natural. In some of
these flourishes it went close to Miss Sally's
head; the ragged edges of the head-dress flut-
tered with the wind it raised; advance it but an
inch, and that great brown knot was on the
ground : yet still the unconscious maiden
worked away, and never raised her eyes.
Well, this was a great relief. It was a good
thing to write doggedly and obstinately until he
was desperate, and then snatch up the ruler and
whirl it about the brown head-dress with the
consciousness that h 2 could have it off if he
liked. It was a good thing to draw it back, and
rub his nose very hard with it, if he thought
Miss Sally was going to look up, and to recom-
pense himself with more hardy flourishes when
he found she was still absorbed. By these
means Mr. Swiveller calmed the agitation of his
feelings, until his applications to the ruler be-
came less fierce and frequent, and he could even
write as many as half-a-dozen consecutive lines
without having recourse to it—which was a great
victory.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
: N course of time, that is to say, after
a couple of hours or so of diligent
application, Miss Brass arrived at
the conclusion of her task, and re-
corded the fact by wiping her pen
upon the green gown, and taking a
pinch of snuff from a little round tin box
§ which she carried in her pocket. Hav-
ing disposed of this temperate refreshment, she
arose from her stool, tied her papers into a
formal packet with red tape, and taking them
under her arm, marched out of the office.
Mr. Swiveller had scarcely sprung off his seat
and commenced the performance of a maniac

\
t
WAZAZ" AVAEXZ"?
I 25
–– -
horipipe, when he was interrupted in the fulness.
of his joy at being again alone, by the opening
of the door, and the reappearance of Miss
Sally's head.
“I am going out,” said Miss Brass.
“Very good, ma'am,” returned Dick. “And
don't hurry yourself on my account to come
back, ma'am,” he added inwardly.
“If anybody comes on office business, take
their messages, and say that the gentleman who
attends to that matter isn't in at present, will
you?” said Miss Brass. -
“I will, ma'am,” replied Dick.
. “I shan't be very long,” said Miss Brass, re-
tiring:
“I’m sorry to hear it, ma'am,” rejoined Dick
when she had shut the door. “I hope you may
be unexpectedly detained, ma'am. If you could
manage to be run over, ma'am, but not seri-
ously, so much the better.”
Uttering these expressions of good-will with
extreme gravity, Mr. Swiveller sat down in the
client's chair and pondered; then, took a few
turns up and down the room, and fell into the
chair again.
“So I'm Brass's clerk, am I ?” said Dick.
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“IN soME OF THESE, FLOURISHEs IT went CLOSE To Miss SALLY's HEAD.”
“Brass's clerk, eh? And the clerk of Brass's
sister—clerk to a female Dragon. Very good,
very good:l What shall I be next 2 Shall I be
a convict in a felt hat and a grey suit, trotting
about a dockyard with my number neatly em-
broidered on my uniform, and the order of the
garter on my leg, restrained from chaffng my.
ankle by a twisted Belcher handkerchief? Shall
I be that P Will that do, or is it too genteel P
Whatever you please, have it your own way of
course.”
As he was entirely alone, it may be presumed
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, Q.
that, in these remarks, Mr. Swiveller addressed
himself to his fate or destiny, whom, as we learn
by the precedents, it is the custom of heroes to
taunt in a very bitter and ironical manner when
they find themselves in situations of an unplea-
sant nature. This is the more probable from
the circumstance of Mr. Swiveller directing his
observations to the ceiling, which these bodiless
personages are usually supposed to inhabit—ex-
cept in theatrical cases, when they live in the
heart of the great chandelier. *-
“Quilp offers me this place, which he says he
* -
2 S 7






I 26
can insure me,” resumed Dick aſter a thoughtful
silence, and telling off the circumstances of his
position, one by one, upon his fingers; “Fred,
who, I could have taken my affidavit, would not
have heard of such a thing, backs Quilp to my
astonishment, and urges me to take it also—
staggerer number one !
to say that she has made a new will, and left me
out of it—staggerer number two | No money;
no credit; no support from Fred, who seems to
turn steady all at once ; notice to quit the old
lodgings—staggerers three, four, five, and six
Under an accumulation of staggerers, no man
can be considered a free agent. No man knocks
himself down ; if his destiny knocks him down,
his destiny must pick him up again. Then I'm
very glad that mine has brought all this upon
itself, and I shall be as, Careless as I can, and
make myself quite at home to spite it. So go on,
my buck,” said Mr. Swiveller, taking his leave of
the ceiling with a significant mod, “ and let us'
see which of us will be tired first l”
Dismissing the subject of his downſall with
these reflections, which were no doubt very pro-
found, and are indeed not altogether unknown
in certain systems of moral philosophy, Mr.
Swiveller shook off his despondency and as-
sumed the cheerful ease of an irresponsible
clerk. -
As a means towards his composure and self-
possession, he entered into a more minute ex-
annination of the office than he had yet had time
to make; looked into the wig-box, the books,
and ink-bottle ; untied and inspected all the
papers; carved a few devices on the table with |
the sharp blade of Mr. Brass's penknife; and
wrote his name on the inside of the wooden
coal-scuttle. Having, as it were, taken formal
possession of his clerkship in virtue of these
proceedings, he opened the window and leaned
negligently out of it until a beer-boy happened
to pass, whom he commanded to set down his
tray and to serve him with a pint of mild porter,
which he drank upon the spot and promptly
paid for, with the view of breaking ground for a
system of future credit, and opening a corre-
spondence tending thereto, without loss of time.
Then, three or ſour little boys dropped in, on
legal errands from three or four attorneys of the
Brass grade ; whom Mr. Swiveller received and
dismissed with about as professional a manner,
and as correct and comprehensive an under-
standing of their business, as would have been
shown by a clown in a pantomime under similar
circumstances. These things débe and over,
he got upon his stool again, and tried his hand
My aunt in the country
stops the supplies, and writes an affectionate note
lodgings P” returned the girl.
shillings a week, and us finding plate and linen:
*
×3
THE OLD CURIOSI 7"Y SATO P.

|
+-
at drawing caricatures of Miss Brass with a
pen and ink, whistling very cheerſully º the
[lme.
• He was occupied in this diversion when a.
coach stopped near the door, and presently
afterwards there was a loud double knoºk. As
this was no business of Mr. Swiveller's, the per-
son not ringing the office bell, he pursued his
diversion with perfect composure, notwithstand-
ing that he rather thought there was nobody else
in the house. w
In this, however, he was mistaken for, after
the knock had been repeated with increased in-
patience, the door was opened, and somebody
with a very heavy tread went up the stairs and
into the room above. Mr. Swiveller w s won-
dering whether this might be another Miss
Brass, twin sister to the Dragon, when there
came a rapping of knuckles at the office door.
“Come in ' " said Dick. “Don’t stand upon
ceremony. The business will get rather compli-
cated if I’ve many more customers. Come
in "
“Oh, please,” said a little voice very low
down in the doorway, “will you come and show
* 2 xx
the lodgings : .
Dick leant over the table, and descried a
small slipshod girl in a dirty coarse apron and
bib, which left nothing of her visible but her
face and feet. She might as well have been
dressed in a violin case.
“Why, who are you?” said Dick.
To which the only reply was, “Oh, please
will you come and show the lodgings?”
There never was such an old-fashioned child
in her looks and manner. She must have been
at work from her cradle. She seemed as much
afraid of Dick as Dick was amazed at her.
“I haven't got anything to do with the lodg-
ings,” said Dick. “Tell 'em to call again.”
“Oh, but please will you come and show the
“It's eighteen
Boots and clothes is extra, and fires in winter-
time is eightpence a day.”
“Why don't you show 'em . yourself? You
seem to know all about 'em,” said Dick.
“Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people
wouldn't believe the attendance was good if they
saw how small I was first.”
“Well, but they'll see how small you are after-
wards, won't they P” said Dick,
“Ah ! But then they'll have taken 'em for a
fortnight certain,” replied the child with a shrewd
look; “and people don't like moving when
they're once settled.” -
“This is a queer sort of thing,” muttered
2THE ZO/DG/AWGS 7.4 KAEAW A Y A S/AWG/AE GAEAV7'ZAZMAAV,
Dick, rising. “What do you mean to say you
are—the cook?”
“Yes, I do plain cooking,” replied the child.
“I’m housemaid too : I do all the work of the
house.”
“I suppose Brass and the Dragon and I do
the dirtiest part of it,” thought Dick. And he
might have thought much more, being in a
doubtful and hesitating mood, but that the girl
again urged her request, and certain mysterious
bumping sounds on the passage and staircase
seemed to give note of the applicant's impa-
tience. Richard Swiveller, therefore, sticking a
pen behind each ear, and carrying another in
his mouth as a token of his great importance
and devotion to business, hurried out to meet
and treat with the single gentleman.
He was a little surprised to perceive that the
bumping sounds were occasioned by the pro-
gress up-stairs of the single gentleman's trunk,
which, being nearly twice as wide as the stair-
case, and exceedingly heavy withal, it was no
easy matter for the united exertions of the single
gentleman and the coachman to convey up the
steep ascent. But there they were, crushing each
other, and pushing and pulling with all their
might, and getting the trunk tight and fast in all
kinds of impossible angles, and to pass them was
out of the question; for which sufficient reason,
Mr. Swiveller followed slowly behind, entering a
new protest on every stair against the house of
Mr. Sampson Brass being thus taken by storm.
To these remonstrances the single gentleman
answered not a word, but, when the trunk was at
last got into the bedroom, sat down upon it,
and wiped his bald head and face with his hand-
kerchief. He was very warm, and well he might
be ; for, not to mention the exertion of getting
the trunk up-stairs, he was closely muffled in
winter garments, though the thermometer had
stood all day at eighty-one in the shade.
“I believe, sir,” said Richard Swiveller, taking
his pen out of his mouth, “that you desire to
look at these apartments. They are very charm-
ing apartments, sir. They command an unin-
terrupted view of of over the way, and they are
within one minute's walk of—of the corner of
the street. There is exceedingly mild porter,
sir, in the immediate vicinity, and the contingent
advantages, are extraordinary.”
“What's the rent?” said the single gentle-
lilan.
“One pound per week,” replied Dick, im-
proving on the terms.
& & #. 'em.”
“The boots and clothes are extras,” said
Dick; “and the fires in the winter-time are—”
|
127
*
—s
“All agreed to,” answered the single gentle-
In 3.11. .*
“Two weeks certain,” said Dick, “are the
“Two weeks 1” cried the single gentleman
gruffly, eyeing him from top to toe. “Two
years. I shall live here for two years. Here,
Ten pound down. The bargain's made.”
“Why, you see,” said “Dick, “my name's not
Brass, and 73
“Who said it was P My name's not Brass.
What then P”
“The name of the master of the house is,”
said Dick.
“I’m glad of it,” returned the single gentle-
man; “it’s a good name for a lawyer. Coach-
man, you may go. So may you, sir.”
Mr. Swiveller was so much confounded by the
$y
single gentleman riding rough-shod over him at
this rate, that he stood looking at him almost as
hard as he had looked at Miss Sally. The single
gentleman, however, was not in the slightest
degree affected by this circumstance, but pro-
ceeded with perfect composure to unwind the
shawl which was tied round his neck, and then
to pull off his boots. Freed of thesegencum-
brances, he went on to divest himself of his
other clothing, which he folded up, piece by
piece, and ranged in order on the trunk. Then,
he pulled down the window blinds, drew the
curtains, wound up his watch, and, quite leisurely
and methodically, got into bed.
: “Take down the bill,” were his parting
words as he looked out from between the cur-
tains; “and let nobody call me till I ſing the
bell.”
With that the curtains closed, and he seemed
to snore immediate
“This is a most remarkable and supernatural
sort of house !” said Mr. Swiveller as he walked
into the office with the bill in his hand. “She-
dragons in the business, conducting themselves
like professional gentlemen; plain coöks of three
feet high appearing mysteriously from under-
ground; strangers walking in and going to bed
without leave or licence in the middle of the
day ! If he should be one of the miraculous
fellows that turn up now and then, and has gone
to sleep for two years, I shall be in a pleasant
situation. It's my destiny, however, and I hope
Brass may like it. I shall be sorry if he don't.
But it's no business of mine—I have nothing
whatever to do with it !”
7 HAE OZ/D CUR/OS/7"Y SA/OA.
CHAPTER xxxv.
R. BRASS, on returning home, received
the report of his clerk with much com-
placency and satisfaction, and was particular
in inquiring after the ten-pound note, which,
proving on examination to be a good and law-
fuí note of the Governor and Company of
the Bank of England, increased his good-
humour considerably. Indeed, he so over-
:
•º
. Nº
4. K-->
flowed with liberality and condescension, that,
in the fulness of his heart, he invited Mr.
Swiveller to partake of a bowl of punch with
him at that remote and indefinite period which
is currently denominated “one of these days,"
and paid him many handsome compliments on
the uncommon aptitude for business which his
conduct on the first day of his devotion to it had
so plainly evinced. e
It was a maxim with Mr. Brass that the habit
º
|
{ ** *
- ‘," j * --Wºr, .
- §
g . f
G * :
THE LODGINGS 2 ”
“OH, PLEASE,” SAID A LITTLE voice very Low Down IN THE DOORWAY, “WILL YOU COME AND SHOW
of paying compliments kept a man's tongue oiled
without any expense; and, as that useful mem-
ber ought never to grow rusty or creak in turning
on its hinges in the case of a practitioner of the
law, in whom it should be always glib and easy,
he lost few opportunities of improving himself by
the utterance of handsome speeches and eulo-
gistic expressions. And this had passed into
such a habit with him, that, if he could not be
correctly said to have his tongue at his fingers'
ends, he might certainly be said to have it any:
where but in his face: which being, as We have
already seen, of a harsh and repulsive charaº;
was not oiled so easily, but frowned above all
the smöoth speeches—one of nature's º
warning off those who navigated the shoals.”
breakers of the World, or of that daº.
strait the Law, and admonishing them 2 º'
less treacherous harbours, and try their fortune
elsewhere.

&/AWA CCO UAV ZAAAA. B.F.A.A. provk OA' 7"HE ZO/DGA2/2.
129
While Mr. Brass by turns overwhelmed his
clerk with compliments, and inspected the ten-
pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion,
and that of no pleasurable kind, for, as the
tendency of her legal practice had been to fix
her thoughts on small gains and gripings, and
to whet and sharpen her natural wisdom, she
was not a little disappointed that the single
gentleman had obtained the lodgings at such an
easy rate, arguing that when he was seen to have
set his mind upon them, he should have been
at the least charged double or treble the usual
terms, and that, in exact proportion as he pressed
forward, Mr. Swiveller should have hung back.
But neither the good opinion of Mr. Brass, nor
the dissatisfaction of Miss Sally, wrought any
impression upon that young gentleman, who,
throwing the responsibility of this and all other
acts and deeds thereafter to be done by him
upon his unlucky destiny, was quite resigned
and comfortable: fully prepared for the worst,
and philosophically indifferent to the best.
“Good morning, Mr. Richard,” said Brass on
the second day of Mr. Swiveller's clerkship.
“Sally found you a second-hand stool, sir, yes-
terday evening, in Whitechapel. She's a rare
fellow at a bargain, I can tell you, Mr. Richard.
You'll find that a first-rate stool. sir, take my
word for it.” te
“It's rather a crazy one to look at,” said
Dick. -
* “You’ll find it a most amazing stool to sit
down upon, you may depend,” returned Mr.
Brass. “It was bought in the open street just
opposite the hospital, and, as it has been stand-
ing there a month or two, it has got rather dusty
and a little brown from being in the sun, that's
all.” --
“I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything
of that sort in it,” said Dick, sitting himself
down discontentedly, between Mr. Sampson and
the chaste Sally. “One of the legs is longer
than the others.”
“Then we get a bit of timber in, sir,” re-
torted Brass. “Ha, ha, ha! We get a bit of
timber in, sir, and that's another advantage of
my sister's going to market for us. Miss Brass,
Mr. Richard, is the y?
“Will you keep quiet?” interrupted the fair
Subject of these remarks, looking up from her
papers. “How an I to work if you keep on
chattering P "A
“What an uncertain chap you are ” returned
the lawyer. “Sometimes you're all for a chat.
At another time you're all for work. A man
never knows what humour he'll find you in.”
“I’m in a working humour now,” said Miss
Sally, “so don't disturb me, if you please. And
don’t take him,” Miss Sally pointed with the
feather of her pen to Richard, “off his business.
He won't do more than he can help, I dare
say.”
Mr. Brass had evidently a strong inclination
to make an angry reply, but was deterred by
prudent or timid considerations, as he only mut-
tered something about aggravation and a vaga-
bond ; not associating the terms with any indi-
vidual, but mentioning them as connected with
some abstract ideas which happened to occur to
him. They went on writing for a long time in
silence after this—in such a dull silence that Mr.
Swiveller (who required excitement) had several
times fallen asleep, and written divers strange
words in an unknown character with his eyes
shut, when Miss Sally at length broke in upon
the monotony of the office by pulling out the
little tin box, taking a noisy pinch of snuff, and
then expressing her opinion that Mr. Richard
Swiveller had “done it.”
“Done what, ma'am P” said Richard.
“Do you know,” returned Miss Brass, “that
the lodger isn't up yet—that nothing has been
seen or heard of him since he went to bed yes-
terday afternoon P”
& “Well, ma'am,” said Dick, “I suppose he may
sleep his ten pound out in peace and quietness,
if he likes.”
“Ah ! I begin to think he'll never wake,”
observed Miss Sally.
“It’s a very remarkable circumstance,” said
Brass, laying down his pen ; “really, very
remarkable, Mr. Richard, you'll remember, if
this gentleman should be found to have hung
himself to the bed-post, or any unpleasant acci-
dent of that kind should happen—you'll remem.
ber, Mr. Richard, that this ten-pound note was
given to you in part payment of two years' rent?
You'll bear that in mind, Mr. Richard ; you had
better make a note of it, sir, in case you should
ever be called upon to give evidence.” -
Mr. Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap,
and, with a countenance of profound gravity,
began to make a very small note in one corner.
“We can never be too cautious,” said Mr.
Brass. “There is a deal of wickedness going
about the world, a deal of wickedness. Did the
gentleman happen to say, Sir But never
mind that at present, sir; finish that little
memorandum first.”
Dick did so, and handed it to Mr. Brass, who
had dismounted from his stool, and was walking
up and down the office. -
“Oh, this is the memorandum, is it P” said
JBrass, running his eye over the document.
3.
I 3G
THE OLD CURIOSzzy São P.
*

“Very good. Now, Mr. Richard, did the
gentleman say anything else?” -
& 4 No.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Richard,” said Brass
solemnly, “that the gentleman said nothing
else P”
“Devil a word, sir,” replied Dick.
“Think again, sir,” said Brass ; “it’s my duty,
sir, in the position in which I stand, and as an
honourable member of the legal profession—the
first profession in this country, sir, or in any
other country, or in any of the planets that shine
above us at night, and are supposed to be
inhabited—it's my duty, sir, as an honourable
member of that profession, not to put to you a
leading question in a matter of this delicacy and
importance. Did the gentleman, sir, who took
the first floor of you yesterday afternoon, and who
brought with him a box of property—a box of
property—say anything more than is set down
in this memorandum ?”
“Come, don't be a fool,” said Miss Sally.
Dick looked at her, and then at Brass, and
then at Miss Sally again, and still said “No.”
“Pooh, pooh Deuce take it, Mr. Richard,
how dull you are l’ cried Brass, relaxing into a
smile. “Did he say anything about his pro-
perty 2 There !” -
“That's the way to put it,” said Miss Sally,
nodding to her brother.
“Did he say, for instance,” added Brass in a
kind of comfortable, cosy tone—“I don't assert
that he did say so, mind; I only ask you to
refresh your memory—did he say, for instance,
that he was a stranger in London—that it was
not his humour or within his ability to give any
references—that he felt we had a right to require
them—and that, in case anything should happen
to him at any time, he particularly desired that
whatever property he had upon the premises
should be considered mine, as some slight recom-
pense for the trouble and annoyance I should
sustain—and were you, in short,” added Brass,
still more comfortably and cosily than before,
“were you induced to accept him on my behalf,
as a tenant, upon those conditions?”
“Certainly not,” replied Dick.
“Why, then, Mr. Richard,” said Brass, dart-
ing at him a supercilious and reproachful look,
“it’s my opinion that you've mistaken your
calling, and will never make a lawyer.”
“Not if you live a thousand years,” added
Miss Sally. Whereupon the brother and sister
took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the "little
tin box, and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.
Nothing further passed up to Mr. Swiveller's
dinner-time, which was at three o'clock, and
[.
X---
seemed about three weeks in coming. At the
first stroke of the hour, the new clerk disappeared.
At the last stroke of five he reappeared, and the
office, as if by magic, became fragrant with the
smell of gin-and-water, and lemon-peel.
“Mr. Richard,” said Brass, “this man's not
up yet. Nothing will wake him, sir. What's to
be done P”
“I should let him have his sleep out,” returned
Dick.
“Sleep out !” cried Brass; “why, he has
been asleep now six-and-twenty hours. We
have been moving chests of drawers over his
head, we have knocked double knocks at the
street-door, we have made the servant-girl fall
down-stairs several times, (she's a lightweight,
and it don't hurt her much,) but nothing wakes
him.”
“Perhaps a ladder,” suggested Dick, “and
getting in at the first-floor window——.”
“But then there's a door between ; besides,
the neighbourhood would be up in arins,” said
Brass.
“What do you say to getting on the roof ot
the house through the trap-door, and dropping
down the chimney 2” suggested Dick.
“That would be an excellent plan,” said
Brass, “if anybody would be "—and here he
looked very hard at Mr. Swiveller—“would be
kind, and friendly, and generous enough to
undertake it,
thing like as disagreeable as one supposes.”
Dick had made the suggestion, thinking that
the duty might possibly fall within Miss Sally's
department. As he said nothing further, and
declined taking the hint, Mr. Brass was fain to
propose that they should go up-stairs together,
and make a last effort to awaken the sleeper by
some less violent means, which, if they failed on
this last trial, must positively be succeeded by
stronger measures. Mr. Swiveller, assenting,
armed himself with his stool and the large ruler,
and repaired with his employer to the scene of
action, where Miss Brass was already ringing a
hand-bell with all her might, and yet without
producing the smallest effect upon their mys-
terious lodger.
“There are his boots, Mr. Richard I", said
Brass.
“Very obstinate-looking articles they are too,”
quoth Richard Swiveller.
as sturdy and bluff a pair of boots as one would
wish to see ; as firmly planted on the ground as
if their owner's legs and feet had been in them :
and seeming, with their broad soles and blunt
toes, to hold possession of their place by main
force. . . . . . -
-º-,
I dare say it would not be any- .
And truly they were
º
MAE, SWVEzzzz RzAsows W17A, 7AE ZODGER. , 131
“I can't see anything but the curtain of the
bed,” said Brass, applying his eye to the keyhole
of the door. “Is he a strong man, Mr.
Richard P.” &
“Very,” answered Dick.
“It would be an extremely unpleasant cir-
cumstance if he was to bounce out suddenly,”
said Brass. “Keep the stairs clear. I should
be more than a match for him, of course, but I’m
the master of the house, and the laws of hospi-
tality must be respected.—Hallo there ! Hallo,
hallo l’’ -
While Mr. Brass, with his eye curiously twisted
into the keyhole, uttered these sounds as a means
of attracting the lodger's attention, and while
Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr. Swiveller put
his stool close against the wall by the side of the
door, and mounting on the top and standing
bolt upright, so that if the lodger did make a
rush, he would most probably pass him in its
onward fury, began a violent battery with the
ruler upon the upper panels of the door. Cap-
tivated with his own ingenuity, and confident in
the strength of his position, which he had taken
up after the method of those hardy individuals
who open the pit and gallery doors of theatres
on crowded nights, Mr. Swiveller rained down.
such a shower of blows, that the noise of the bell
was drowned ; and the small servant, who lin-
gered on the stairs below, ready to fly at a
moment's notice, was obliged to hold her ears
lest she should be rendered deaf for life.
Suddenly the door was unlocked on the inside,
and flung violently open. The small servant fled
to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived into her own
bedroom; Mr. Brass, who was not remarkable
for personal courage, ran into the next street,
and finding that nobody followed him, armed
With a poker or other offensive weapon, put his
hands in his pockets, walked very slowly all at
Once, and whistled.
Meanwhile, Mr. Swiveller, on the top of the
stool, drew himself into as flat a shape as possible
against the wall, and looked, not unconcernedly,
down upon the single gentleman, who appeared
at the door growling and cursing in a very awful
manner, and, with the boots in his hand, seemed
to have an intention of hurling them down-stairs
On Speculation. This idea, however, he aban-
dºned. He was turning into his room again,
still growling vengefully, when his eyes met those
of the watchful Richard.
." Have you been making that horrible noise?”
said the single gentleman.
“I have been helping, sir,” returned Oick,
keeping his eye upon him, and waving the ruler
Šently in his right hand, as an indication of what
the single gentleman had to expect, if he
attempted any violence. - *-
“IHow dare you, then,” said the lodger, “eh?”
To this Dick made no other reply than by
inquiring whether the lodger held it to be con-
sistent with the conduct and character of a gen:
tleman to go to sleep for six-and-twenty hours at
a stretch, and whether the peace of an amiable
and virtuous family was to-weigh as nothing in
the balance.
“Is my peace nothing P” said the single gen-
tleman.
“Is their peace nothing, sir?” returned Dick.
“I don't wish to hold out any threats, sir—in-
deed, the law does not allow of threats, for to
threaten is an indictable offence—but, if ever*
you do that again, take care you're not sat upon
by the coroner and buried in a cross-road before
you wake. We have been distracted with fears
that you were dead, sir,” said Dick, gently slid-
ing to the ground, “and the short and the long
of it is, that we cannot allow single gentlemen
to come into this establishment and sleep like
double gentlemen without paying extra for
it.”
“Indeed 1" cried the lodger.
“Yes, sir, indeed,” returned Dick, yielding to
his destiny, and saying whatever came upper-
most ; “an equal quantity of slumber was never
got out of one bed and bedstead, and, if you're
going to sleep in that way, you must pay for a
double-bedded room.”
Instead of being thrown into a greater passion
by these remarks, the lodger lapsed into a broad
grin, and looked at Mr. Swiveller with twinkling
eyes. He was a brown-faced sunburnt man, and
appeared browner and more sunburnt from hav-
ing a white nightcap on. As it was clear that
he was a choleric fellow in some respects, Mr.
Swiveller was relieved to find him in such good-
humour, and, to encourage him in it, Smiled
himself.
The lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely
roused, had pushed his nightcap very much on
one side of his bald head. This gave him a
rakish eccentric air which, now that he had
leisure to observe it, charmed Mr. Swiveller ex-
ceedingly; therefore, by way of propitiation, he
expressed his hope that the gentleman was going
to get up, and further, that he would never do so
any more.
“Come here, you impudent rascal l’’ was the
lodger's answer as he re-entered his room.
Mr. Swiveller followed him in, leaving the
stool outside, but reserving the ruler in case of a
surprise. He rather congratulated himself on
his prudence when the single gentleman, without
sº
132
7 HE OZZX CUR/OSI 7"Y SHOP.
notice or explanation of any kind, double locked
the door.
“Can you drink anything?” was his next
Inquiry.
Mr. Swiveller replied that he had very recently
been assuaging the pangs of thirst, but that he
was still open to “a modest quencher,” if the
materials were at hand. Without another word
spoken on either side, the lodger took from his
great trunk a kind of temple, shining as of
polished silver, and placed it carefully on the table.
Greatly interested in his proceedings, Mr.
Swiveller observed him closely. Into one little
chamber of this temple he dropped an egg; into
another some coffee ; into a third a compact
piece of raw steak from a neat tin case; into a
fourth he poured some water. Then, with the
aid of a phosphorus box and some matches, he
procured a light and applied it to a spirit-lamp
which had a place of its own below the temple;
then, he shut down the lids of all the little cham-
bers; then he opened them ; and then, by some
wonderful and unseen agency, the steak was
done, the egg was boiled, the coffee was accu-
rately prepared, and his breakfast was ready.
“Hot water”—said the lodger, handing it to
Mr. Swiveller with as much coolness as if he had
a kitchen fire before him—“extraordinary rum
—sugar—and a travelling glass. Mix for your-
self. And make haste.”
Dick complied, his eyes wandering all the
time from the temple on the table, which seemed
to do everything, to the great trunk which seemed
to hold everything. The lodger took his break-
fast like a man who was used to work these
miracles, and thought nothing of them.
“The man of the house is a lawyer, is he
not?” said the lodger.
T)ick nodded. The rum was amazing
“The wonan of the house—what's she P”
“A dragon,” said Dick.
The single gentleman, perhaps because he had
met with such things in his travels, or perhaps
because he was a single gentleman, evinced no
surprise, but merely inquired “Wife or sister?”
“Sister,” said Dick.-“So much the better,”
said the single gentleman, “he can get rid of her.
when he likes.”
“I want to do as I like, young man,” he
added after a short silence : “to go to bed when
I like, get up when I like, come in when I like, go
out when I like, to be asked no questions, and
be surrounded by no spies.
servants are the devil. There's only one here.”
- “And a very little one,” said Dick.
“And a very little one,” repeated thd lodger,
“Well, the place will suit me, will it?”
In this last respect
“Yes,” said Dick.
“Sharks, I suppose P” said the lodger.
Dick nodded assent, and drained his glass
“Let them know my humour,” said the single
gentleman, rising, “If they disturb me, they
lose a good tenant. If they know me to be that,
they know enough. If they try to know more,
it’s a notice to quit. It's better to understand
these things at once. Good day.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Dick, halting in his
passage to the door, which the lodger prepared
to open. “When he who adores thee has left
but the name ”
“What do you mean?”
“—But the name,” said Dick—“ has left but
the name—in case of letters or parcels—”
“I never have any,” returned the lodger.
“Or in case anybody should call.”
“Nobody ever calls on me.”
“If any mistake should arise from not having
the name, don't say it was my fault, sir,” added
Dick, still lingering.—“Oh, blame not the
bard 57
“I’ll blame nobody,” said the lodger with
such irascibility that in a moment Dick found
himself on the staircase, and the locked door
between them.
Mr. Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard
by, having been, indeed, only routed from the
keyhole by Mr. Swiveller's abrupt exit. As their
utmost exertions had not enabled them to over-
hear a word of the interview, however, in conse-
quence of a quarrel for precedence, which, though
limited of necessity to pushes and pinches and
such quiet pantomime, had lasted the whole
time, they hurried him down to the office to hear
his account of the conversation.
This Mr. Swiveller gave them—faithfully as
regarded the wishes and character of the single
gentleman, and poetically as concerned the great
trunk, of which he gave a description more re-
markable for brilliancy of imagination than a
strict adherence to truth ; declaring, with many
strong asseverations, that it contained a speci-
men of every kind of rich food and wine known
in these times, and in particular that it was of a
self-acting kind, and served up whatever was
required, as he supposed by clockwork. He
also gave them to understand that the cooking
apparatus roasted a fine piece of sirloin of .beef,
weighing about six pounds, avoirdupois, in two
minutes and a quarter, as he had himself wit
nessed, and proved by his sense of taste § and
further, that, however the effect was produced.
he had distinctly seen water boil and bubble up
when the single gentleman winked ; from which
facts he (Mr. Swiveller) was led to infer that the
MR. S I// VE//A2/8 MAW OFF/CE.
I 33
lodger was some great conjurer or chemist, or
both, whose residence under that roof could not
fail at some future day to shed a great credit
and distinction on the name of Brass, and add a
new interest to the history of Bevis Marks.
There was one point which Mr. Swiveller
deemed it unnecessary to enlarge upon, and that
was the fact of the modest quencher, which by
reason of its intrinsic strength and its coming
close upon the heels of the temperate beverage
he had discussed at dinner, awakened a slight
degree of fever, and rendered necessary two or
three other modest quenchers at the public-house
in the course of the evening.
º
CHAPTER XXXVI.
S the single gentleman, after some
weeks' occupation of his lodgings,
still declined to correspond, by word
or gesture, either with Mr. Brass or
his sister Sally, but invariably chose
Richard Swiveller as his channel of
sº communication; and as he proved him-
º self in all respects a highly desirable
inmate, paying for everything beforehand, giving
very little trouble, making no noise, and keeping
early hours; Mr. Richard in perceptibly rose to
an important position in the family, as one who
had influence over this mysterious lodger, and
could negotiate with him, for good or evil, when
nobody else durst approach his person.
If the truth must be told, even Mr. Swiveller's
approaches to the single gentleman were of a
very distant kind, and met with small encourage-
ment ; but, as he never returned from a mono-
syllabic conference with the unknown without
quoting such expressions as “Swiveller, I know
I can rely upon you,”—“I have no hesitation in
saying, Swiveller, that I entertain a regard for
you,”—“Swiveller, you are my friend, and will
stand by me I am sure,” with many other short
speeches of the same familiar and confiding kind,
purporting to have been addressed by the single
gentleman to himself, and to form the staple of
their ordinary discourse, neither Mr. Brass nor
Miss Sally for a moment questioned the extent
of his influence, but accorded to him their fullest
and most unqualified belief. - -
But quite apart from, and independent of, this
source of popularity, Mr. Swiveller had another,
which promised to be equally enduring, and to
lighten his position considerably. -
He found favour in the eyes of Miss Sally
Brass. Let not the light, scorners of female
i.
fascination erect their ears to listen to a new tale
of love which shall serve them for a jest; for
Miss Brass, however accurately formed to be
beloved, was not of the loving kind. That
amiable virgin, having clung to the skirts of the
Law from her earliest youth; having sustained
herself by their aid, as it were, in her first running
alone, and maintained a firm grasp upon them
ever since ; had passed her life in a kind of legal
childhood. She had been remarkable, when a
tender prattler, for an uncommon talent in coun-
terfeiting the walk and manner of a bailiff: in
which character she had learned to tap her little
playfellows on the shoulder, and to carry them
off to imaginary sponging-houses, with a correct-
ness of imitation which was the surprise and
delight of all who witnessed her performances,
and which was only to be exceeded by her ex-
quisite manner of putting an execution into her
doll's house, end taking an exact inventory of
the chairs and tables. These artless Sports had
maturally soothed and cheered the decline of
her widowed father: a most exemplary gen-
tleman, (called “old Foxey” by his friends, from
his extreme sagacity,) who encouraged them to
the utmost, and whose chief regret, on finding
that he drew near to Houndsditch chârchyard,
was, that his daughter could not take out an
attorney's certificate and hold a place upon the
roll. Filled with this affectionate and touching
sorrow, he had solemnly confided her to his son
Sampson as an invaluable auxiliary ; and from
the old gentleman's decease to the period of
which we treat, Miss Sally Brass had been the
prop and pillar of his business.
It is obvious that, having devoted herself
from infancy to this one pursuit and study, Miss
Brass could know but little of the world, other-
wise than in connection with the law; and that
from a lady gifted with such high tastes, pro-
ficiency in those gentler and softer arts in which
women usually excel was scarcely to be looked
for. Miss Sally's accomplishments were all of a
masculine and strictly legal kind. They began
with the practice of an attorney, and they ended
with it. She was in a state of lawful innocence,
So to speak. The law had been her nurse.
And, as bandy legs or such physical deformities
in children are held to be the consequence of
bad nursing, so, if in a mind so beautiful any
moral twist or bandiness could be found, Miss
Sally Brass's nurse was alone to blame.
It was on this lady, then, that Mr. Swiveller
burst in full freshness as something new and
hitherto undreamed of, lighting up the office.
with scraps of song and merriment, conjuring
with inkstands and boxes of wafers, Čatching
J
v-

I 34
THE OLD CURIOS/7"Y SHOP
three oranges in one hand, balancing stools upon
his chin and penknives on his nose, and Con-
stantly performing a hundred other feats with
equal ingenuity; for with such unbendings did
Richard, in Mr. Brass's absence, relieve the
tedium of his confinement. These social qua-
lities, which Miss Sally first discovered by acci-
dent, gradually made such an impression upon
her, that she would entreat Mr. Swiveller to
relax as though she were not by, which Mr.
Swiveller, nothing loath, would readily consent
to do. By these means a friendship sprung up
between them. Mr. Swiveller gradually came
to look upon her as her brother Sampson did,
and as he would have looked upon any other
clerk. He imparted to her the mystery of going
the odd man or plain Newmarket for fruit, ginger-
beer, baked potatoes, or even a modest quencher,
of which Miss Brass did not scruple to partake.
He would often persuade her to undertake his
share of writing in addition to her own ; nay,
he would sometimes reward her with a hearty slap
on the back, and protest that she was a devilish
good fellow, a jolly dog, and so forth : all of
which compliments Miss Sally would receive
in entire good part and with perfect satisfaction.
One -circumstance troubled Mr. Swiveller's
mind very much, and that was that the small
servant always remained somewhere in the bowels
of the earth under Bevis Marks, and never came
to the surface unless the single gentleman rang
his bell, when she would answer it and innme-
diately disappear again. She never went out, or
came into the office, or had a clean face, or took
off the coarse apron, or looked out of any one of
the windows, or stood at the street-door for a
breath of air, or had any rest or enjoyment
whatever. Nobody ever came to see her, no-
body spoke of her, nobody cared about her. Mr.
Brass had said once that he believed she was
a “love-child,” (which means anything but a
child of love,) and that was all the information
Richard Swiveller could obtain.
“It's of no use asking the dragon,” thought
Dick one day as he sat contemplating the features
of Miss Sally Brass. “I suspect, if I asked any
questions on that head, our alliance would be at
an end. I wonder whether she is a dragon by-
the-bye, or something in the mermaid way. She
has rather a scaly appearance. But mermaids
are ſond of looking at themselves in the glass,
which she can't be. And they have a habit of
combing their hair, which she hasn't. No, she's
a dragon.”
“Where are you going, old fellow P” said Dick
aloud, as Miss Sally wiped her pen as usual on
the green dress, and uprose from her seat,
“To dinner,” answered the dragon.
“To dinner 1" thought Dick ; “that's another
circumstance. I don't believe that small servant
ever has anything to eat.”
“Sammy won't be home,” said Miss Brass.
“Stop till I come back. I shan't be long.”
Dick nodded, and followed Miss Brass—with
his eyes to the door, and with his ears to a little
back-parlour, where she and her brother took
their meals,
“Now,” said Dick, walking up and down with
his hands in his pockets, “I’d give something—
if I had it—to know how they use that child,
and where they keep her. My mother must
have been a very inquisitive woman ; I have no
doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation
somewhere. My feelings I smother, but thou
hast been the cause of this anguish my
Upon my word.” said Mr. Swiveller, checking
himself and falling thoughtfully into the client's
chair, “I should like to know how they use
her.” -
After running on in this way ſor some time,
Mr. Swiveller softly opened the office door, with
the intention of darting across the street for a glass
of the mild porter. At that moment he caught
a parting glimpse of the brown head-dress of
Miss Brass flitting down the kitchen stairs.
“And, by Jove 1" thought Dick, “she's going to
feed the Marchioness. Now or never !”
First peeping over the handrail and allowing
the head-dress to disappear in the darkness be-
low, he groped his way down, and arrived at the
door of a back-kitchen immediately after Miss
Brass had entered the same, bearing in her hand
a cold leg of mutton. It was a very dark miser-
able place, very low, and very damp : the walls
disfigured by a thousand rents and blotches.
The water was trickling out of a leaky butt, and
a most wretched cat was lapping up the drops
with the sickly eagerness of starvation. The
grate, which was a wide one, was wound and
screwed up tight, so as to hold no more than a
little thin sandwich of fire. Everything was
looked up ; the coal-cellar, the candle-box, the
salt-box, the meat-safe, were all padlocked.
There was nothing that a beetle could have
lunched upon. The pinched and meagre aspect
of the place would have killed a chameleon : he
would have known, at the first mouthful, that
the air was not eatable, and must have given up
the ghost in despair.
The small servant stood with humility in pre-
sence of Miss Sally, and hung her head.
“Are you there P” said Miss Sally.
“Yes, ma'am,” was the answer in a weak
voice. -
A UMWCAT JAV BAE VIS MAA’A.S.
I35
“Go further away from the leg of mutton, or
you'll be picking it, I know,” said Miss Sally.
The girl withdrew into a corner, while Miss.
Brass took a key from her pocket, and, opening
the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold
potatoes, looking as eatable as Stonehenge. This
she placed before the small servant, ordering
her to sit down before it, and then, taking up a
great carving-knife, made a mighty show of
sharpening it upon the carving-fork.
“Do you see this P” said Miss Brass, slicing
off about two square inches of cold mutton;
after all this preparation, and holding it out on
the point of a fork.
The small servant looked hard enough at it
with her hungry eyes to see every shred of it,
small as it was, and answered, “Yes.”
“Then don't you ever go and say,” retorted
Miss Sally, “that you hadn't meat here. There,
eat it up.”
This was soon done. “Now, do you want
any more ?” said Miss Sally.
The hungry, creature answered with a ſaint
“No.” They were evidently going through an
established form.
“You’ve been helped once to meat,” said
Miss Brass, summing up the facts; “you have
had as much as you can eat, you're asked if
you want any more, and you answer, “No l’
Then don't you ever go and say you were allow-
anced, mind that.” -
With those words, Miss Sally put the meat
away and locked the safe, and then, drawing
near to the small servant, overlooked her while
she finished the potatoes,
It was plain that some extraordinary grudge
was working in Miss Brass's gentle breast, and
that it was this which impelled her, without the
Smallest present cause, to rap the child with
the blade of the knife, now on her hand, now
on her head, and now on her back, as if she
found it quite impossible to stand so close to
her without administering a few slight knocks.
But Mr. Swiveller was not a little surprised to
See his fellow-clerk, after walking slowly back-
wards towards the door, as if she were trying to
withdraw herself from the room, but could not
accomplish it, dart suddenly forward, and, fall-
ing on the small servant, give her some hard
blows with her clenched hand. The victim
cried, but in a subdued manner, as if she feared
to raise her voice, and Miss Sally, comforting
herself with a pinch of snuff, ascended the
stairs, just as Richard had safely reached the
pffice. -
of little importance,
CHAPTER XXXVII.
HE single gentleman, among his
other peculiarities—and he had a
very plentiful stock, of which he
every day furnished some new speci-
men—took a most extraordinary and
§) remarkable interest in the exhibition of
gº” Punch. If the sound of a Punch's voice,
** at ever so remote a distance, reached Bevis
Marks, the single gentleman, though in bed and
asleep, would start up, and, hurrying on his
clothes, make for the spot with all speed, and
presently return at the head of a long procession
of idlers, having in the midst the theatre and its
proprietors. Straightway the stage would be set
up in front of Mr. Brass's house; the single gen-
tleman would establish himself at the first-floor
window ; and the entertainment would proceed,
with all its exciting accompaniments of fife and
drum and shout, to the excessive consternation
of all sober votaries of business in that silent
thoroughfare. It might have been expected
that when the play was done, both players and
audience would have dispersed; but the epilogue
was as bad as the play, for no sooner was the
Devil dead than the manager of the puppets and
his partner were summoned by the single gentle-
man to his chamber, where they were regaled
with strong waters from his private store, and
where they held with him long conversations,
the purport of which no human being could
fathom. But the secret of these discussions was
It was sufficient to know
that, while they were proceeding, the concourse
without still lingered round the house; that boys
beat upon the drum with their fists, and imitated
Punch with their tender voices ; that the office
window was rendered opaque by flattened noses,
and the keyhole of the street-door luminous with
eyes; that every time the single gentleman or
either of his guests was seen at the upper window,
or so much as the end of one of their noses was
visible, there was a great shout of execration
from the excluded mob, who remained howling
and yelling, and refusing consolation, until the
exhibitors were delivered up to them to be
attended elsewhere. It was sufficient, in short,
to know that Bevis Marks was revolutionised by
these popular movements, and that peace and
quietness fled from its precincts. -
Nobody was rendered more indignant by these
proceedings than Mr. Sampson Brass, who, as
he could by—no means afford to lose so profit-
able an innate, deemed it prudent to pocket his
lodger's affront along with his cash, and to annoy
the audiences who clustered round his door by


136
*
g
zºre ozo curroSITY SHOP
such imperfect means of retaliation as were open
to him, and which were confined to the trickling
down of foul water on their heads from unseen
watering-pots, pelting them with fragments of tile
and mortar from the roof of the house, and brib-
ing the drivers of hackney cabriolets to come
suddenly round the corner, and dash in among
them precipitately. It may, at first sight, be
matter of surprise to the thoughtless few that
Mr. Brass, being a professional gentleman, should
not have legally indicted some party or parties,
active in the promotion of the nuisance; but
they will be good enough to remember, that 3
Doctors seldom take their own prescriptions,
and Divines do not always practise what they
preach, so, lawyers are shy of meddling with the
Law on their own account : knowing it to be an
edged tool of uncertain application, very expen-
sive in the working, and rather remarkable for
its properties of close shaving, than for its always
shaving the right person.
“Come,” said Mr. Brass one afternoon, “this
is two days without a Punch. I'm in hopes he
has run through 'em all, at last.”
Nº
§
t
§
§
|
§
R
º
§
|
“Do You SEE THIS P”
“Why are you in hopes?” returned Miss Sally.
“What harm do they do?”
“Here's a pretty sort of a fellow !” cried Brass,
laying down his pen in despair. “Now here's
an aggravating animal 1"
“Well, what harm do they do?” retorted
Sally. -
“What harm P” cried Brass. “Is it no harm
to have a constant hallooing and hooting under
one's very nose distracting one from business,
and making one grind one's teeth with vexa-
tion ? Is it no harm to be blinded and choked
up, and have the king's highway stopped with a
set of screamers and roarers whose throats must
be made of of "
“Brass,” suggested Mr. Swiveller.
“Ah! of brass,” said the lawyer, glancing at
his clerk, to assure himself that he had sug-
gested the word in good faith, and without any
sinister intention. “Is that no harm P”
The lawyer stopped short in his invective, and
listening for a moment, and recognising the well-
known voice, rested his head upon his hand,
raised his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered
faintly:
“There's another l’”

A/ESSAs cood/w AND SHORT WITH THE Zozczz.
1.37
directly. - *
“There's another,' repeated Brass; “and if I
could get a brake and four blood horses to cut
into the Marks when the crowd is at its thickest,
I'd give eighteen-pence and never grudge it !”
The distant squeak was heard again. The
single gentleman's door burst open. . He ran
violently down the stairs, out into the street,
and so past the window, without any hat, towards
the quarter whence the sound proceeded—bent,
no doubt, upon securing the strangers' services
directly.
“I wish I only knew who his friends were,”
muttered Sampson, filling his pocket with papers;
“if they'd just get up a pretty little Commission
de lunatico at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house, and
give me the job, I'd be content to have the
lodgings empty for one while, at all events.”
With , which words, and knocking his hat
over his eyes as if for the purpose of shutting
out even a glimpse of the dreadful visitation,
Mr. Brass rushed from the house and hurried
away. -
As Mr. Swiveller was decidedly favourable to
these performances, upon the ground that look-
ing at a Punch, or indeed looking at anything
out of window, was better than working; and as
he had been, for this reason, at some pains to
awaken in his fellow-clerk a sense of their beau-
ties and manifold deserts; both he and Miss
Sally rose as with one accord, and took up their
positions at the window ; upon the sill whereof,
as in a post of honour, sundry young ladies and
gentlemen who were employed in the dry nur-
ture of babies, and who made a point of being
present, with their young-charges, on such occa-
sions, had already established themselves as com-
fortably as the dircumstances would allow.
The glass being dim, Mr. Swiveller, agreeably
to a friendly custom which he had established
between them, hitched off the brown head-dress
from Miss Sally's head, and dusted it carefully
therewith. By the time he had handed it back,
and its beautiful wearer had put it on again
(which she did with perfect composure and in-
difference), the lodger returned with the show
and showmen at his heels, and a strong addition
to the body of spectators. The exhibitor dis-
appeared with all speed behind the drapery ;
and his partner, stationing himself by the side
of the theatre, surveyed the audience with a re-
markable expression of melancholy, which be-
came more remarkable still when he breathed a
hornpipe tune into that sweet musical instrument
which is popularly termed a mouth-organ, without.
at all changing the mournful expression of the
*
Up went the single gentleman's window |
upper part of his face, though his mouth and
chim were, of necessity, in lively spasms.
The drama proceeded to its close, and held
the spectators enchained in the customary man-
ner. The sensation which kindles in large
assemblies, when they are relieved from a state
of breathless suspense and are again free to
speak and move, was yet rife, when the lodger,
as usual, summoned the men up-stairs.
“Both of you,” he called from the window;
for only the actual exhibitor—a little fat man—
prepared to obey the summons. “I want to talk
to you. Come both of you !”
“Come, Tommy,” said the little man.
“I an’t a talker,” replied the other. “Tell
him so. What should I go and talk for P”
“Don’t you see the gentleman's got a bottle
and glass up there P” returned the little man.
“And couldn't you have said so at first P”
retorted the other with sudden alacrity. “Now,
what are you waiting for? Are you going to
keep the gentleman, expecting us all day ?
Haven't you no manners ?” -
With this remonstrance, the melancholy man,
who was no other than Mr. Thomas Codlim,
pushed past his friend and brother in the craſt,
Mr. Harris, otherwise Short or Trotters, and
hurried before him to the single gentleman's
apartment.
“Now, my men,” said the single gentle-
man; “you have done very well. What will you
take? Tell that little man behind to shut the
door.”
“Shut the door, can't you?” said Mr. Codlin,
turning gruffly to his friend. “You might have
knowed that the gentleman wanted the door
shut, without being told, I think.”
Mr. Short obeyed, observing under his breath
that his friend seemed unusually “cranky,” and
expressing a hope that there was no dairy in the
neighbourhood, or his temper would certainly
spoil its contents.
The gentleman pointed to a couple of chairs,
and intimated by an emphatic nod of his head
that he expected them to be seated. Messrs.
Codlin and Short, after looking at each other
with considerable doubt and indecision, at length
sat down—each on the extreme edge of the chair
pointed out to him—and held their hats' very
tight, while the single gentleman filled a couple
of glasses from a bottle on the table beside him,
and presented them in due form.
“You’re pretty well browned by the sun both
of you,” said their entertainer. “Have you been
travelling P” *
Mr. Short replied in the affirmative with a nod
and a smile. Mr. Codlin added a corroborative
138
ZTHAE O ZZ) CURIO.SYZ"Y SATO P.
nod and a short groan, as if he still felt the
weight of the Temple on his shoulders.
“To fairs, markets, races, and so forth, I sup-
pose P” pursued the single gentleman.
“Yes, sir,” returned Short, “pretty nigh all
over the West of England.”
“I have talked to men of your craft from
North, East, and South,” returned their host in
rather a hasty manner; “but I never lighted on
any from the West before.”
“It’s our reg’lar summer circuit is the West,
master,” said Short: “that's where it is. We
takes the East of London in the spring and
winter, and the West of England in the sum-
mer-time. Many’s the hard day's walking. in
rain and mud, and with never a penny earned,
we've had down in the West.”
“Let me fill your glass again.” -
“Much obleeged to you, sir, I think I will,”
said Mr. Codlin, suddenly thrusting in his own,
and turning Short's aside. “I’m the sufferer,
sir, in all the travelling, and in all the staying at
home. In town or country, wet or dry, hot or
cold, Tom Codlin suffers. But Tom Codlin
isn't to complain for all that. Oh no Short
may complain, but if Codlin grumbles by so
much as a word—oh dear, down with him, down
with him directly It isn't his place to grumble.
That's quite out of the question.”
“Codlin an’t without his usefulness,” observed
Short with an arch look, “but he don't always
keep his eyes open. He falls asleep sometimes,
you know. Remember them last races, Tommy.”
“Will you never leave off aggravating a man?”
said Codlin. “It’s very like I was asleep when
five-and-tenpence was collected in one round,
isn't it? I was attending to my business, and
couldn't have my eyes in twenty places at once,
like a peacock, no more than you could. If I
an’t a match for an old man and a young child,
you an’t neither, so don't throw that out against
me, for the cap fits your head quite as correct as
it fits mine.” -
“You may as well drop the subject, Tom,”
said Short. “It isn't particular agreeable to the
gentleman, I dare say.”
“Then you shouldn't have brought it up,”
returned Mr. Codlin; “and I ask the gentleman's
pardon on your account, as a giddy chap that
likes to hear himself taſk, and don't much care
what he talks about, so that he does talk.”
Their entertainer had sat perfectly quiet in
the beginning of this dispute, looking first at
one man and then at the other, as if he were
lying in wait for an opportunity of putting some
further question, or reverting to that from which
the discourse had strayed. But, from the point
where Mr. Codlin was charged with sleepiness,
he had shown an increasing interest in the dis.
cussion : which now attained a very high pitch.
“You are the two men I want,” he said, “the
two men I have been looking for, and searching
after | Where are that old man and that child
you speak of P” -
“Sir P” said Short, hesitating and looking
towards his friend.
“The old man and his grandchild who travelled
with you—where are they P. It will be worth
your while to speak out, I assure you; much
better worth your while than you believe. They
left you, you say,+at those races, as I under-
stand. They have been traced to that place,
and there lost sight of Have you no clue, can
you suggest no clue, to their recovery 2”
“Did I always say, Thomas,” cried Short,
turning with a look of amazement to his friend,
“ that there was sure to be an inquiry after them
two travellers ?”
“You said I" returned Mr. Codlin. “Did I
always say that that 'ere blessed child was the
most interesting I ever see? Did I always say
I loved her, and doted on her ? Pretty creetur,
I think I hear her now. “Codlin's my friend,
she says with a tear of gratitude trickling down
her little eye; ‘Codlin's my friend,' she says—
‘not Short. Short's very well, she says ; ‘I’ve
no quarrel with Short ; he means kind, I dare
say: but Codlin,’ she says, “has the feelings for
my money, though he mayn't look it.’” -
Repeating these words with great emotion,
Mr. Codlin rubbed the bridge of his nose with
his coat-sleeve, and shaking his head mournfully
from side to side, left the single gentleman to
infer that, from the moment when he lost sight
of his dear young charge, his peace of mind and
happiness had fled.
* Good Heaven " said the single gentleman,
pacing up and down the room, “ have I found
these men at last, only to discover that they can
give me no information or assistance?. It would
have been better to have lived on in hope, from
day to day, and never to have lighted on them,
than to have my expectations scattered thus.
“Stay a minute,” said Short. “A man ºf the
name of Jerry—you know Jerry, Thomas?",
“Oh, don't talk to me of Jerrys " replied
Mr. Coalin. “How can I care a pinch of snuff
for Jerrys, when I think of that 'ere dailing
Šhild P : Codlin's my friend,' she says, dear,
good, kind Codlin, as is always a devising ple.
sures for me! I don't object to Short,' she sº:
‘ but I cotton to Codlin.' Once,” said that
gentleman reflectively, “she called me, Father
Codlin. I thought I should have bust
LOOK AT HOME.
I 39
“A man of the name of Jerry, sir,” said Short,
turning from his selfish colleague to their new
acquaintance, “wot keeps a company of dancing
dogs, told me, in a accidental sort of a way,
that he had seen the old gentleman in connec-
tion with a travelling wax-work, unbeknown to
him. As they'd give us the slip, and nothing
had come of it, and this was down in the
country that he'd been seen, I took no measures
about it, and asked no questions. But I can,
if you like.”
“Is this man in town P” said the impatient
single gentleman. “Speak faster.”
“No, he isn’t, but he will be to-morrow, for he
lodges in our house,” replied Mr. Short rapidly.
“Then bring him here,” said the single gentle-
man. “Here's a sovereign apiece. If I can
find these people through your means, it is but a
prelude to twenty more. Return to me to-
morrow, and keep your own counsel, on this
subject, though I need hardly tell you that, for
you'll do so for your own sakes.
your address, and leave me.”
The address was given, the two men departed,
the crowd went with them, and the single gentle-
man for two mortal hours walked in uncommon
agitation up and down his room, over the won-
i. heads of Mr. Swiveller and Miss Sally
I&SS.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IT-for it happens, at this juncture,
not only that we have breathing-time
to follow his fortunes, but that the
necessities of these adventures so
§§§ adapt themselves to our ease and
* inclination as to call upon us im-
peratively to pursue the track we most
%2 desire to take—Kit, while the matters
treated of in the last fifteen chapters were yet in
progress, was, as the reader may suppose, gradu-
ally familiarising himself more and more with
Mr. and Mrs. Garland, Mr. Abel, the pony, and
Barbara, and gradually coming to consider them
one and all as his particular private friends, and
Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own proper home.
Stay—the words are written, and may go, but
if they convey any notion that Kit, in the plenti-
ful board and comfortable lodging of his new
abode, began to think slightingly of the poor fare
and furniture of his old dwelling, they do their
office badly, and commit injustice. Who so mind-
ful of those he left at home—albeit they were
but a mother and two young babies—as Kit?
What boastful father, in the fulness of his heart,
Now, give me
ever related such wonders of his inſant prodigy
as Kit never wearied of telling Barbara in the
evening-time concerning little Jacob P Was
there ever such a mother as Kit's mother, on her
son's showing; or was there ever such comfort
in poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, if
any correct judgment might be arrived at from
his own glowing account 2
And let me linger in this place, for an instant,
to remark that, if ever household affections
and loves are graceful things, they are graceful
in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and
the proud to home may be forged on earth, but
those which link the poor man to his humble
hearth are of the truer metal, and bear the stamp
of Heaven. The man of high descent may love
the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part
of himself: as trophies.of his birth and power;
his associations with them are associations of
pride and wealth and triumph ; the poor man's
attachment to the tenement he holds, which
strangers have held before, and may to-morrow
occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep
into a puret soil. His household gods are of
flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, gold, or
precious stone ; he has no property but in the
affections of his own heart; and when they
endear bare floors and walls, despite of rags and
toil and scanty fare, that man has his love of
home from God, and his rude hut becomes a
Solemn place.
Oh! if those who rule the destinies of nations
would but remember this—if they would but
think how hard, it is for the very poor to have
engendered in their hearts that love of home
from which all domestic virtues spring, when
they live in dense and squalid masses where
Social decency is lost, or rather never found—if
they would but turn aside from the wide tho-
roughfares and great houses, and strive to im-
prove the wretched dwellings in by-ways where
only Poverty may walk—many low roofs would
point more truly to the sky than the loftiest
steeple that now rears proudly up from the midst
of guilt, and crime, and horrible disease, to mock
them by its ‘contrast. In hollow voices from
Workhouse, Hospital, and Gaol, this truth is
preached from day to day, and has been pro-
claimed for years. It is no light matter—no
outcry from the working vulgar—no mere ques-
tion of the people's health and comforts that may
be whistled down on Wednesday nights. In
love of home, the love of country has its rise;
and who are the truer patriots, or the better in
time of need—those who venerate the land,
owning its wood, and stream, and earth, and all
that they produce; or those who "love their

I 4O
ZTHE OLD CUR/OSZZY SAFOA
country, boasting not a foot of ground in all its
wide domain P
Kit knew nothing about such questions, but he
knew that his old home was a very poor place,
and that his new one was very unlike it, and yet
he was constantly looking back with grateful satis-
faction and affectionate anxiety, and often indited
square-folded letters to his mother, enclosing a
shilling or eighteen-pence, or such other small
remittance, which Mr. Abel's liberality enabled
him to make. Sometimes, being in the neigh-
bourhood, he had leisure to call upon her, and
then, great was the joy and pride of Kit's
mother, and extremely noisy the satisfaction of
little Jacob and the baby, and cordial the con-
gratulations of the whole court, who listened
with admiring ears to the accounts of Abel Cot-
tage, and could never be told too much of its
wonders and magnificence.
Although Kit was in the very highest ſavour
with the old lady and gentleman, and Mr. Abel,
and Barbara, it is certain that no member of the
family evinced such a remarkable partiality for
him as the self-willed pony, who, from being the
most obstinate and opinionated pony on the
face of the eartil, was, in his hands, the meekest
and most tractable of animals. It is true that in
exact proportion as he became manageable by
Kit he became utterly ungovernable by anybody
else, (as if he had determined to keep him
in the family at all risks and hazards,) and that,
even under the guidance of his favourite, he
would sometimes perform a great variety of
strange freaks and capers, to the extreme dis-
composure of the old lady's nerves; but as Kit
always represented that this was only his fun, or
a way he had of showing his attachment to his
employers, Mrs. Garland gradually suffered her-
self to be persuaded into the belief, in which she
at last became so strongly confirmed, that iſ, in
one of these ebullitions, he had overtyurned the
chaise, she would have been quite satisfied that
he did it with the very best intentions.
Besides becoming in a short time a perfect
marvel in all stable matters, Kit soon made him-
self a very tolerable gardener, a handy fellow
within doors, and an indispensable attendant on
Mr. Abel, who, every day gave him some new
proof of his confidence and approbation. Mr.
Witherden the notary, too, regarded him with a
friendly eye; and even Mr. Chuckster would
sometimes condescend to give him a slight nod,
or to honour him with that peculiar form of
recognition which is called “taking a sight,” or
to favour him with some other salute combining
pleasantry with patronage." -
One morning Kit drove Mr. Abel to the
were preparing to retire.
notary's office, as he sometimes did, and, having
set him down at the house, was about to drive
off to a livery stable hard by, when this same
Mr. Chuckster emerged from the office door, and
cried “Woa-a-a-a-a-a!”—dwelling upon the note
a long time, for the purpose of striking terror
into the pony's heart, and asserting the supremacy
of man over the inferior animals.",
“Pull up, Snobby,” cried Mr. Chuckster,
addressing himself to Kit. “You’re wanted
inside here.”
“Has Mr. Abel forgotten anything, I wonder?”
said Kit as he dismounted. &
“Ask no questions, Snobby,” returned Mr.
Chuckster, “but go and see. Woa-a-a then, will
you ? If that pony was mine, I’d break him.”
“You must be very gentle with him, if you
please,” said Kit, “ or you'll find him trouble-
some. You'd better not kcep on pulling his
ears, please. I know he won't like it.”
To this remonstrance Mr. Chuckster deigned
no other answer than addressing Kit with a
lofty and distant air as “young feller,” and re-
questing him to cut, and come again with all
speed. The “young feller” complying, Mr.
Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and
tried to look as if he were not minding the pony,
but happening to be lounging there by accident.
Kit scraped his shoes very carefully, (for he
had not yet lost his reverence for the bundles
of papers and the tin boxes,) and tapped at the
office door, which was quickly opened by the
notary himself.
“Oh! come in, Christopher,” said Mr. Wither-
den.
“Is that the lad P” asked an elderly gentleman,
but of a stout, bluff figure—who was in the room.
“That's the lad,” said Mr. Witherden. “He
fell in with my client, Mr. Garland, sir, at this
very door. I have reason to think he is a good
lad, sir, and that you may believe what he says.
Let me introduce Mr. Abel Garland, sir—his
young master; my articled pupil, sir, and most
particular friend —my most particular friend,
sir,” repeated the notary, drawing out his silk
handkerchief and flourishing it about his face.
“Your servant, sir,” said the stranger gentle-
Iſlan. :
“Yours, sir, I'm sure,” replied Mr. Abel
mildly. “You were wishing to speak to Chris-
topher, sir.” *
“Yes, I was. Have I your permission P”
“By all means.”
“My business is no secret ; or I should
rather say it need be no secret here,” said the
stranger, observing that Mr. Abel and the notary
“It relates to a dealer
INQUIRIES FROM THE SINGLE GEAVTLEMAM.
in curiosities with whom he lived, and in whom
I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have
been a stranger to this country, gentlemen, for
very many years, and, if I am deficient in form
and ceremony, I hope you will forgive me.”
“No forgiveness is necessary, sir;-none what-
ever,” replied the notary. And so said Mr.
Abel. . - *
“I have been making inquiries in the neigh-
bourhood in which his old master lived,” said
the stranger, “and I learn that he was served
by this ſad. I have ſound out his mother's
house, and have been directed by her to this
place as the nearest in which I should be likely
to find him. That's the cause of my presenting
myself here this morning.” *
“I am very glad of any cause, sir,” said the
notary, “which procures me the honour of this
visit.” .
“Sir,” retorted the stranger, “you speak like
a mere man of the world, and I think you some-
thing better. Therefore, pray do not sink your
real character in paying unmeaning compliments
to me.”
“Hem I." coughed the notary.
plain speaker, sir”
“And a plain dealer,” returned the stranger.
“It may be my long absence and inexperience
that lead me to the conclusion ; but, if plain
speakers are scarce in this part of the world, I
fancy plain dealers are still scarcer. If my
speaking shall offend you sir, mw dealing, I
hope, will make amends.” -
“You’re a
Mr. Witherden seemed a little disconcerted .
by the elderly gentleman's mode of conducting
the dialogue; and as for Kit, he looked at him
in open-mouthed astonishment ; wondering
what kind of language he would address to him,
if he talked in that free and easy way to a notary.
It was with no harshness, however, though with
something of constitutional irritability and haste,
that he turned to Kit and said:
“If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing
these inquiries with any other view than that of
serving and reclaiming those I am in search of,
you do me a very great wrong, and deceive
yourself. Don't be deceived, I beg of you, but
tely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen,”
he added, turning again to the notary and his
pupil, “that I am in a very painful and wholly
unexpected position, I came to this city with a
darling object at my heart, expecting to find no
obstacle or difficulty in the way of its attainment.
I find myself suddenly checked and stopped
Short, in the execution of my design, by a mys-
tery which I cannot penetrate. Every effort I
have made to penetrate it has only served to
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, Io.
I41
render it darker and more obscure ; and I am
afraid to stir openly in the matter, lest those
whom I anxiously pursue should fly still farther
from me. I assure you that, if you could give
me any assistance, you would not be sorry to do
so, if you knew how greatly I stand in need of
it, and what a load it would relieve me from.”
There was a simplicity in this confidence
which occasioned it to find a quick response in
the breast of the good-natured notary, who re-
plied, in the same spirit, that the stranger had
not mistaken his desire, and that, if he could be
of service to him, he would most readily.
Kit was then put under examination, and
closely questioned by the unknown gentleman
touching his old master and the child, their
lonely way of life, their retired habits, and strict
seclusion. The nightly absence of the old man,
the solitary existence of the child at those times,
his illness and recovery, Quilp's possession of
the house, and their sudden disappearance, were
all the subjects of much questioning and answer.
Finally, Kit informed the gentleman that the
premises were now to let, and that a board upon
the door referred all inquirers to Mr. Sampson
Brass, Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he
might perhaps learn some further particulars.
“Not by inquiry,” said the gentleman. Shak-
ing his head. “I live there.”
“Live at Brass's the attorney's " cried Mr.
Witherden in some surprise : having professional
knowledge of the gentleman in question.
“Ay,” was the reply. “I entered on his
lodgings tother day, chiefly because I had seen
this very board. It matters little to me where I
live, and I had a desperate hope that some in-
telligence might be cast in my way there, which
would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at
Brass's—more shame for me, I suppose P”
“That's a mere matter of opinion,” said the
notary, shrugglng his shoulders. “He is looked
upon as rather a doubtful character.”
“Doubtful?” echoed the other. “I am glad to
hear there's any doubt about it. I supposed that
had been thoroughly settled long ago. But will
you let me speak a word or two with you in
private?”
Mr. Witherden consenting, they walked into
that gentleman's private closet, and remained
there, in close conversation, for some quarter of
an hour, when they returned into the outer
office. The stranger had left his hat in Mr.
•Witherden's room, and seemed to have esta-
blished himself, in this short interval, on quite a
friendly footing.
“I’ll not detain you any longer now,” he said,
putting a crown into Kit's hand, and looking to-
258
I42
7A7A2 OZA) CURAOS/7"Y SATO AEP
wards the notary. “You shall hear from me
again. Not a word of this, you know, except
to your master and mistress."
“Mother, sir, would be glad to know
said Kit, faltering.
“ Glad to know what P”
“Anything—so that it was no harm—about
&ſiss Nell.”
“Would she P Well, then, you may tell her
if she can keep a secret. But mind, not a word
of this to anybody else. Don't forget that. Be
particular.”
“I’ll take care, sir,” said Kit.
sir, and good morning.”
Now, it happened that the gentleman, in his
anxiety to impress upon Kit that he was not to
tell anybody what had passed between them,
followed him out to the door to repeat his cau-
tion, and it further happened that at that
moment the eyes of Mr. Richard Swiveller were
turned in that direction, and beheld, his myste-
rious friend and Kit together.
It was quite an accident, and the way in
which it came about was this. Mr. Chuckster,
being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and re-
fined spirit, was one of that Lodge of Glorious
Apollos, whereof Mr. Swiveller was Perpetual
Grand. Mr. Swiveller, passing through the
Street in the execution of some Brazen errand,
and beholding one of his Glorious Brotherhood
intently gazing on a pony, crossed over to give
him that fraternal greeting with which Perpetual
Grands are, by the very constitution of their
office, bound to cheer and encourage their dis-
ciples. He had scarcely bestowed upon him his
blessing; and followed it with a general remark
touching the present state and prospects of the
weather, when, lifting up his eyes, he beheld the
single gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest con-
versation with Christopher Nubbles.
“Hallo!” said Dick, “who is that?”
“He called to see my Governor this morning,”
replied Mr. Chuckster; “beyond that I don’t
know him from Adam.” -
“At least you know his name P” said Dick.
To which Mr. Chuckster replied, with an
elevation of speech becoming a Glorious
Apollo, that he was “everlastingly blessed” if
he did.
“All I know, my dear feller,” said Mr. Chuck-
ster, running his fingers through his hair, “is,
that he is the cause of my having stood here
twenty minutes, for which I hate him with a
mortal and undying hatred, and would pursue
him to the confines of etermity if I could afford
the time.” -
While they were thus discoursing, the subject
> *
“Thankee,
of their conversation (who had not appeared to
recognise Mr. Richard Swiveller) re-entered the
house, and Kit came down the steps and joined
them ; to whom Mr. Swiveller again propounded
his inquiry with no better success.
“He is a very nice gentleman, sir,” said Kit,
“ and that's all Z know about him.”
Mr. Chuckster waxed wroth at this 2nswer,
and, without applying the remark to any pa.-
ticular case, mentioned, as a general truth, that
it was expedient to break the heads of Snobs,
and to tweak their noses. . Without expressing
his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr. Swiveller,
after, a few moments of abstraction, inquired
which way Kit was driving, and, being informed,
declared it was his way, and that he would tres-
pass on him for a lift. Kit would gladly have
declined the proffered honour, but, as Mr.
Swiveller was already established in the seat
beside him, he had no means of doing so, other-
wise than by a forcible ejectment, and therefore
drove briskly off—so briskly, indeed, as to cut
short the leave-taking between Mr. Chuckster
and his Grand Master, and to occasion the for-
mergentleman some inconvenience from having
his corns Squeezed by the impatient pony.
As Whisker was tired of spanding, and Mr.
Swiveller was kind enough to stimulate him by
shrill whistles and various sporting cries, they
rattled off at too sharp a pace to admit of much
conversation : especially as the pony, incensed
by Mr. Swiveller's admonitions, took a particular
fancy for the lamp-posts and cart' wheels, and
evinced a strong desire to run on the pavement
and rasp himself against the brick walls. It was
not, therefore, until they had arrived at the
stable, and the chaise had been extricated from
a very small doorway, in which the pony dragged
it under the impression that he could take it
along with him into his usual stall, that Mr.
Swiveller found time to talk.
“It's hard work,” said Richard.
you say to some beer?” +.
Kit at first declined, but presently consented,
and they adjourned to the neighbouring bar
together.
“We'll drink our friend what's-his-name,” said
Dick, holding up the bright frothy pot; “that
was talking to you this morning, you know—I
know him—a good fellow, but eccentric—very—
here's what's-his-name.”
Kit pledged him.
“He lives in my house,” said Dick; “at least,
in the house occupied by the firm in which I'm
a sort of a-of a managing partner—a difficult
fellow to get anything out of, but we like him—
we like him.”
“What do
QUARTER-DAP.
143
“I must be going, sir, if you please,” said Kit.
moving away.
“Don’t be in a hurry, Christopherſ” replied
his patron; “we’ll drink your mother.”
“Thank you, sir."
“An excellent woman that mother of yours,
Christopher,” said Mr. Swiveller. “Who ran to
catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to
make it well ? My mother. A charming woman.
He's a liberal sort of fellow. We must get him
to do something for your mother. Does he
know her, Christopher ?”
Rit shook his head, and, glancing slily at his
questioner, thanked him, and made off before
he could say another word.
“Humph : " said Mr. Swiveller, pondering,
“this is queer. Nothing but mysteries in con-
nection with Brass's house. I'll keep my own
counsel, however. Everybody and anybody has
been in my confidence as yet, but now I think
I'll set up in business for myself. Queer—very
queer . "
After pondering deeply and with a race of
exceeding wisdom for some time, Mr. Swiveller
drank some more of the beer, and, summoning
a small boy who had been watching his proceed-
ings, poured forth the few remaining drops as a
libation on the gravel, and bade him carry the
empty vessel to the bar with his compliments,
and above all things to lead a sober and tem-
perate life, and abstain from all intoxicating and
exciting liquors. Having given him this piece
of moral advice for his trouble (which, as he
wisely observed, was far better than halfpence),
the Perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious
Apollos thrust his hands into his pockets and
sauntered away : still pondering as he went.
CHAPTER xxxix.
LL that day, though he waited for
Mr. Abel until evening, Kit kept
clear of his mother's house, deter-
mined not to anticipate the pleasures
of the morrow, but to let them come
% in their full rush of delight ; for to-
morrow was the great and long-looked-
# for epoch in his life—to-morrow was the
end of his first quarter—the day of receiving, for
the first time, one fourth part of his annual income
of Six Pounds in one vast sum of Thirty Shillings
—to-morrow was to be a half-holiday devoted to
a whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was
to know what oysters meant, and to see a play.
All manner of incidents combined in favour
W
of the occasion: not only had Mr. and Mrs.
Garland forewarned him that they intended to
make no deduction for his outfit from the
great amount, but to pay it him unbroken in
all its gigantic grandeur; not only had the un-
known gentleman increased the stock by the
sum of five shillings, which was a perfect god-
send, and in itself a fortune; not only had
these things come to pass which nobody could
have calculated upon, or in their wildest dreams
have hoped ; but it was Barbara's quarter too—
Barbara's quarter, that very day—and Barbara
had a half-holiday as well as Kit, and Barbara's
mother was going to make one of the party, and
to take tea with Kit's mothér, and cultivate her
acquaintance.
To be sure Kit looked out of his window very
early that morning to see which way the clouds
were flying, and to be sure Barbara would have
been at hers too, if she had not sat up so late
overnight, starching and ironing small pieces of
muslin, and crimping them into frills, and sew-
ing them on to other pieces to form magni-
ficent wholes for the next day's wear. But they
were both up very early for all that, and had
small appetites for breakfast and less for dinner,
and were in a state of great excitement when
Barbara's mother came in, with astonishing ac-
counts of the fineness of the weather out of
doors (but with a very large umbrella notwith-
standing, for people like Barbara's mother seld
make holiday without one), and when the bell
rung for them to go up-stairs and receive their
quarter's money in gold and silver.
Well, wasn't Mr. Garland kind when he said,
“Christopher, here's your money, and you have
earned it well;" and wasn't Mrs. Garland kind
when she said, “Barbara, here's yours, and I am
much pleased with you ;” and didn't Kit sign
his name bold to his receipt, and didn't Barbara
sign her name all a trembling to hers ; and
wasn’t it beautiful to see how Mrs. Garland
poured out Barbara's mother a glass of wine;
and didn't Barbara's mother speak up when she
said, “Here's blessing you, ma'am, as a good
iady, and you, sir, as a good gentleman, and
Barbara, my love to you, and here's towards you,
Mr. Christopher ;” and wasn't she as long drink-
ing it as if it had been a tumblerful; and didn't
she look genteel, standing there with her gloves
on ; and wasn't there plenty of laughing and
talking among them as they reviewed all these
things upon the top of the coach; and didn't
they pity the people who hadn't got a holiday 2
But Kit's mother, again—wouldn't anybody
have supposed she had come of a good stock,
and been a lady all her life P There she was,

I44
7A/E O//D CURIOS/7"Y SA/OA.
quite ready to receive them, with a display of
tea-things that might have warmed the heart of
a china shop; and little Jacob and the baby in
Such a state of perfection that their clothes looked
as good as new, though Heaven knows they were
old enough Didn't she say, before they had
sat down five minutes, that Barbara's mother
was exactly the sort of lady she expected, and
didn't Barbara's mother say that Kit's mother
was the very picture of what she had expected,
and didn't Kit's mother compliment Barbara's
mother on Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother
compliment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn’t
Barbara herself quite fascinated with little Jacob,
and did ever a child show off, when he was
wanted, as that child did, or make such friends
as he made P :- -
“And we are both widows too !” said Bar-
bara's mother. “We must have been made to
know each other.”
“I haven't a doubt about it,” returned Mrs.
Nubbles. “And what a pity it is we didn't know
each other sooner | * -
“But then, you know, it's such a pleasure,”
said Barbara's mother, “to have it brought about
by one's son and daughter, that it's fully made
up for. Now, ain't it?” .
To this Kit's mother yielded her full assent,
and tracing things back from effects to causes,
they naturally reverted to their deceased hus-
bandº, respecting whose lives, deaths, and bu-
rials, they compared notes, and discovered
sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful
exactness; such as Barbara's father having been
exactly four years and ten months older than
Kit's father, and one of them having died on a
Wednesday and the other on a Thursday, and
both of them having been of a very fine make
and remarkably good-looking, with other extra-
ordinary coincidences. These recollections being
of a kind calculated to cast a shadow on the
brightness of the holiday, Kit diverted the con-
versation to general topics, and they were soon
in great force again, and as merry as before.
Among other things, Kit told them about his old
place, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of
whom he had talked to Barbara a thousand
times already); but the last-named circumstance
failed to interest his hearers to anything like the
extent he had supposed, and even his mother.
said (looking accidentally at Barbara at the same
time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was
very pretty, but she was but a child after all, and
there were many young women quite as pretty as
she ; and Barbara mildly-observed that she should
think so, and that she never could help believing
Mr. Christopher must be under a mistake—
which Kit wondered at very much, not being
able to conceive what reason she had for doubt
ing him. Barbara's mother, too, observed that
it was very common for young folks to change at
about fourteen or fifteen, and whereas they had
been very pretty before, to grow up quite plain;
which truth she illustrated by many forcible ex'
amples, especially one of a young man, who,
being a builder with great prospects, had been
particular in his attentions to Barbara, but whom
Barbara would have nothing to say to ; which
(though everything happened for the best) she
almost thought was a pity. Kit said he thought
so too, and so he did honestly, and he wondered
what made Barbara so silent all at once, and
why his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't
have said it.
However, it was high time now to be thinking
of the play; for which great preparation was re.
quired, in the way of shawls and bonnets, not to
mention one handkerchief full of oranges and
another of apples, which took some time tying
up, in consequence of the fruit having a tendency
to roll out at the corners. At length everything
was ready, and they went off very fast; Kit's
mother carrying the baby, who was dreadfully
wide awake, and Kit holding little Jacob in one
hand, and escorting Barbara with the other—a
state of things which occasioned the two mothers,
who walked behind, to declare that they looked
quite family folks, and caused Barbara to blush
and say, “Now don't, mother ' " But Kit said
she had no call to mind what they said; and in-
deed she need not have had, if she had known
how very far from Kit's thoughts any love-making
was. Poor Barbara ! -
At last they got to the theatre, which was
Astley's; and in some two minutes after they had
reached the yet unopened door, little Jacob was
squeezed flat, and the baby had received divers
concussions, and Barbara's mother's umbrella.
had been carried several yards off, and passed
back to her over the shoulders of the people,
and Kit had hit a man on the head with the
handkerchief of apples for “scrowdging” his
parent with unnecessary violence, and there was
a great uproar. But, when they were once past
the pay-place and tearing away for very life with
their checks in their hands, and, above all, when
they were fairly in the theatre, and seated in
such places that they couldn't have had better if
they had picked them out, and taken them be-
forehand, all this was looked upon as quite a
capital joke, and an essential part of the enter-
talnment. - ſ
Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Ast-
ley's with all the paint, gilding, and looking-
A HO/C/DA Y WAVDEAED,
glass : the vague smell of horses suggestive of
corning wonders; the curtain that hid such gorge-
ous mysteries; the clean white sawdust down
in the circus; the company coming in and taking
their places; the fiddlers looking carelessly up
at them while they tuned their instruments, as if
they didn't want the play to begin, and knew it
all beforehand What a glow was that which
burst upon them all, when that long, clear, bril-
liant row of lights came slowly up ; and what the
I45
feverish excitement when the little bell ſang and
the music began in good earnest, with strong
parts for the drums, and sweet effects for the
triangles | Well might Barbara's mother say to
kit's mother that the gallery was the place to
see from, and wonder it wasn't much dearer
than the boxes; well might Barbara feel doubt.
ful whether to laugh or cry in her flutter of
delight. * * * *
Then the play itself; the horses which little
YTIII:S
º
|
!
“AT LENGTH EVERYTHING WAS READY, AND THEY WENT OFF.”
Jacob believed from the first to be alive, and
the ladies and gentlemen of whose reality he
could be by no means persuaded, having never
seen or heard anything at all like them—the
firing, which made Barbara wink—the forlorn
lady, who made her cry—the tyrant, who made
her tremble—the man who sang the song with
the lady's-maid and danced the chorus, who
made her laugh—the pony who reared up on his
hind-legs when he saw the murderer, and wouldn't
hear of walking on all fours again until he was
taken into custody—the clown who ventured on
such familiarities with the Umilitary man in boots
—the lady who jumped over the nine-and-twenty
ribbons and came down safe upon the horse's
back-i-everything was delightful, splendid, and
Surprising ! Little Jacob applauded till his
hands were sore. Kit cried “an-kor” at the
end of everything, the three-act piece included;
and Barbara's mother beat her umbrella on the
floor, in her ecstasies, until it was nearly worn
down to the gingham.

146
THE OZZ, C&R/OS/7 y SAEIOP
In the midst of all these fascinations, Bar-
bara's thoughts seemed to have been still running
on what Kit had said at tea-time ; for, when they
were coming out of the play, she asked him,
with an hysterical simper, if Miss Nell was as
handsome as the lady who juniped over the
ribbons. . . . :
“As handsome as her ?” said Kit. “ Double
as handsome.”
“Oh, Christopher I'm sure she was the
beautifullest creature ever was,” said Barbara.
“Nonsense !” returned Kit. “She was well
enough, I don't deny that ; but think how she
was dressed and painted, and what a difference
that made. Why, you are a good deal better-
looking than her, Barbara.” - - -
“Oh, Christopher." said Barbara, looking
down.
“You are, any day,” said Kit, “and so's your
Inother.” w .
Poor.Barbara !
**
What was all this though—even all this—to
the extraordinary dissipation that ensued, when
Rit, walking into an oyster shop as bold as if he
lived there, and not so much as looking at the
counter or the man behind it, led his party into
a box—a private box, fitted up with red curtains,
white table-cloth, and cruet-stand complete—and
ordered a fierce gentleman with whiskers, who
acted as waiter and called him, him, Christopher
Nubbles, “sir,” to bring three dozen of his
largest-sized oysters, and to look sharp about it?
Yes, Kit told this gentleman to look sharp, and
he not only said he would look sharp, but he
actually did, and presently came running back
with the newest loaves, and the freshest butter,
and the largest oysters, ever seen. Then said
Kit to this gentleman, “A pot of beer”—just
so—and the gentleman, instead of replying, “Sir,
did you address that language to me 2'' only
said, “Pot o' beer, sir? yes, sir,” and went off
and fetched it, and put it on the table in a small
decanter-stand, like those which blind men's
dogs carry about the streets in their mouths, to
catch the halfpence in ; and both Kit's mother
and Barbara's mother declared, as he turned
away, that he was one of the slimmest and
gracefullest young men she had ever looked
upon. - -
Then they fell to work upon the supper in
earnest; and there was Barbara, that foolish
Barbara, declaring that she couldn't eat more
than two, and wanting more pressing than you
would believe before she would eat four: though
her mother and Kit's mother made up for it
pretty well, and ate and laughed and enjoyed
themselves so thoroughly that it did Kit good to .ſ.
that a heart of iron must have loved him
| short, there never was a more successful supper;
k
place.
See them, and made him laugh and eat likewise
from strong sympathy.' But the greatest miracle
of the night was little Jacob, who ate oysters as
if he had been born and bred to the business—
sprinkled the pepper and the vinegar with a dis-
cretion beyond his years—and afterwards built a
grotto on the table with the shells. There was
the baby, too, who had never, closed an eye all
night, but had sat as good as gold, trying to
force a large orange into his mouth, and gazing
intently at the lights-in the chandelier—there he
was, sitting up in his mother's lap, staring at the
gas without winking, and making indentations in
his soft visage with an oyster shell, to that degree
In
and when Kit ordered in a glass of something
hot to finish with, and proposed Mr. and Mrs.
Garland before sending it round, there were not
six happier people in all the world.
, But all happiness has an end—hence the chief
pleasure of its next beginning—and as it was
now growing late, they agreed it was time to
turn their faces homewards. So, after going a
little out of their way to see Barbara and Bar-
bara's mother safe to a friend's house where they
were to pass the night, Kit and his mother left
them at the door, with an early appointment for
returning to Finchley next morning, and a great
many plans for next quarter's enjoyment. Then,
Kit took little Jacob on his back, and giving his
arm to his mother, and a kiss to the baby, they
all trudged merrily home together.
CHAPTER XL
ULL of that vague kind of penitence
which holidays awaken next morn-
ing, Kit turned out at sunrise, and,
with his faith in last night's enjoy-
ments a little shaken by cool day-
light and the return to every-day
duties and occupations, went to meet
Barbara and her mother at the appointed
And being careful not to awakeh any of
the little household, who were yet resting from
their unusual fatigues, Kit left his money on the
chimney-piece; with an inscription in chalk call-
ing his mother's attention to the circumstance,
and informing her that it came from her dutiful
n; and went his way, with a heart something
eavier than his pockets, but free from any very
great oppression notwithstanding.
Oh these holidays Why will they leave us
some regret? Why cannot we push them back

AZT WAAV7'ED.
only a week or two in our memories, so as to
put them at once at that convenient distance
whence they may be regarded either with a calm
indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection ?
Why will they hang about us like the flavour of
yesterday's wine, suggestive of headaches and
lassitude, and those good intentions for the
future, which, under the earth, form the ever-
lasting pavement of a large estate, and, upon it,
usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts?
Who will wonder that Barbara had a head-
ache, or that Barbara's mother was disposed to
be cross, or that she slightly underrated Astley's,
and thought the clown was older than they had
taken him to be last night P. Kit was not sur-
prised to hear her say so—not he. He had
already had a misgiving that the inconstant
actors in that dazzling vision had been doing
the same thing the night before last, and would
do it again that night, and the next, and for
weeks and months to come, though he would
not be there. Such is the difference between
yesterday and to-day. We are all going to the
play, or coming home from it.
However, the Sun himself is weak when he
first rises, and gathers strength and courage as
the day gets on. By degrees, they began to
recall circumstances more and more pleasant in
their nature, until, what between talking, walk-
ing, and laughing, they reached Finchley in such
good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she
never felt less tired or in better spirits. And so
said Kit. Barbara had been silent all the way
but she said so too. Poor little Barbara ! She
was very quiet. -
They were at home in such good time that Kit
had rubbed down the pony, and made him as
spruce as a race-horse, before Mr. Garland came
down to breakfast; which punctual and indus-
trious conduct the old lady, and the old gentle-
man, and Mr. Abel highly extolled. At his usual
hour (or rather, at his usual minute and second,
for he was the soul of punctuality) Mr. Abel
walked out, to be overtaken by the London
coach, and Kit and the old gentleman went to
work in the garden. “
This was not the least pleasant of Kit's em-
ployments. On a fine day they were quite a
family party; the old lady sitting hard by with
her work-basket on a little table; the old gentle-
man digging, or pruning, or clipping about with
a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some
way or other with great assiduity; and Whisker
looking on from his paddock in placid contem-
plation of them all. To-day they were to trim
the grape-vine, so Kit mounted half-way up a
short ladder, and began to snip and hammer
I47
away, while the old gentleman, with a great
interest in his proceedings, handed up the nails
and shreds of cloth as he wanted them. The
old lady and Whisker looked on as usual.
“Well, Christopher,” said Mr. Garland, “and
so you have made a new friend, eh?” .
“I beg your pardon, sir?” returned Kit,
looking down from the ladder.
“You have made a new friend, I hear from
Mr. Abel,” said the old gentleman, “at the
office.” -
“Oh—yes, sir, yes!
some, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” returned the old gentle-
man with a smile. “He is disposed to behave
more handsomely still, though, Christopher.”
“Indeed, sir! It's very kind in him, but I
don't want him to, I'm sure,” said Kit, hammer-
ing stoutly at an obdurate nail.
“He is rather anxious,” pursued the old gen-
tleman, “to have you in his own service. Take
care what you're doing, or you will fall down and
hurt yourself.”
“To have me in his service, sir!” cried Kit,
who had. stopped short in his work and faced
about on the ladder like some dexterous tumbler.
“Why, sir, I don’t think he can be in earnest
when he says that.”
“Oh But he is indeed,” said Mr. Garland.
“And he has told Mr. Abel so.”
“I never heard of such a thing !” muttered
Kit, looking ruefully at his master and mistress.
“I wonder at him; that I do.” -
“You see, Christopher,” said Mr. Garland,
“this is a point of much importance to you, and
you should understand and consider it in that
light. This gentleman is able to give you more
money than I—not, I hope, to carry through
the various relations of master and servant more
kindness and confidence, but certainly, Chris-
topher, to give you more money.” -
“Well,” said Kit, “after that, sir
“Wait a moment,” interposed Mr. Garland.
“That is not all. You were a very faithful ser-
He behaved very hand-
t
x,
vant to your old employers, as I understand,
and should this gentleman recover them, as it is
his purpose to attempt doing by every means in
his power, I have no doubt that you, being in
his service, would meet with your reward. Be-
sides,” added the old gentleman with stronger
emphasis, “besides having the pleasure of being
again brought into communication with those
to whom you seem to be so very strongly and
disinterestedly attached. You must think of all
this, Christopher, and not be rash or hasty in
your choice.” - -
Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary
'148
THE OLD curſoszzy São P.
pang, in keeping the resolution he had already
formed, when this last argument passed swiftly
into his thoughts, and conjured up the realisa-
tion of all his hopes and fancies. But it was
gone in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined that
the gentleman must look out for somebody else,
as he did think he might have done at first.
“He has no right to think that I'd be led
away to go to him, sir,” said Kit, turning round
again after half a minute's hammering. “Dºes
he think I’m a fool P”
“He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse
his offer,” said Mr. Garland gravely.
“Then let him, sir,” retorted Kit. “What do
I care, sir, what he thinks P Why should I care
for his thinking, sir, when I know that I should
be a fool, and worse than a fool, sir, to leave
the kindest master and mistress that ever was
or can be, who took me out of the streets a very
poor and hungry lad indeed—poorer and hun-
grier, perhaps, than ever you think for, sir—to go
to him or anybody ? If Miss Nell was to come
back, ma'am,” added Kit, turning suddenly to
his mistress, “why that would be another thing,
and perhaps, if she wanted me, I might ask you
now and then to let me work for her when all
was done at home. But when she comes back, I
see now that she'll be rich as old master always
said she would, and being a rich young lady,
what could she want of me? No, no,” added
Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully, “she'll never
want me any more, and bless her, I hope she
never may, though I should like to see her
too !”
Here Kiº drove a nail into the wall very hard
—much harder than was necessary—and having
done so, faced about again. 2.
“There's the pony, sir,” said Kit, —“Whisker,
ma'am (and he knows so well I'm talking about
him that he begins to neigh directly, sir), would
he let anybody come near him but me, ma'am P
Here's the garden, sir, and Mr. Abel, ma'am.
Would Mr. Abel part with me, sir, or is there
anybody that could be ſonder of the garden,
ma'am P. It would break mother's heart, sir, and
even little Jacob would have sense enough to
cry his eyes out, ma'am, if he thought that Mr.
Abel could wish to part with me so soon, after
having told me, only the other day, that he hoped
we might be together for years to come—”
There is no telling how long Kit might have
stood upon the ladder, addressing his master
and mistress by turns, and generally turning
towards the wrong person, if Barbara had not
at that moment come running up to say that a
messenger from the office had brought a note,
which, with an expression of some surprise at
Kit's oratorical appearance, she put into her
master's hand. -
“Oh ſ” said the old gentleman after reading
it, “ask the messenger to walk this way.” Bar.
bara tripping off to do as she was bid, he
turned to Kit, and said that they would not
pursue the subject any further, and that Kit
could not be more unwilling to part with them
than they would be to part with Kit; a senti-
ment which the old lady very generously echoed.
“At the same time, Christopher," added Mr.
Garland, glancing at the note in his hand, “if
the gentleman should want to borrow you now
and then for an hour or so, or even a day or so,
at a time, we must consent to lend you, and you
must consent to be lent.—Oh! here is the youn
gentleman. How do you do, sir?” -
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Chuck-
ster, who, with his hat extremely on one side,
and his hair a long way beyond it, carne swag.
gering up the walk. -
“Hope I see you well, sir," returned that
gentleman. “Hope. I see you well, ma'am.
Charming box this, sir. - Delicious country to
be sure.”
“You want to take Kit back with you, I
find P” observed Mr. Garland.
“I've got a chariot-cab waiting on purpose,"
replied the clerk. “A very spanking grey in
that cab, sir, if you're a judge of horse-flesh.”
Declining to inspect the spanking grey, on the
plea that he was but poorly acquainted with such
matters, and would but imperfectly appreciate
his beauties, Mr. Garland invited Mr. Chuckster
to partake of a slight repast in the way of lunch.
That gentleman readily consenting, certain cold
viands, flanked with ale and wine, were speedily
prepared for his refreshment. At this repast Mr.
Chuckster exerted his utmost abilities to enchant
his entertainers, and impress them with a con-
viction of the mental superiority of those who
dwelt in town; with which view he led the dis-
course to the small scandal of the day, in which
he was justly considered by his friends to shine
prodigiously. Thus, he was in a condition to
relate the exact circumstances of the difference
between the Marquis of Mizzler and Lord Bobby,
which it appeared originated in a disputed bottle
of champagne, and not in a pigeon-pie, as
erroneously reported in the newspapers; neither
had Lord Bobby said to the Marquis of Mizzler,
“Mizzler, one of us two tells a lie, and I'm not
the man,” as incorrectly stated by the same
authorities; but, “Mizzler, you know where I'm
to be found, and, damme, sir, find me if you
want me"—which, of course, entirely changed
| the aspect of this interesting question, and placed
THE SINGLE GENTZEMAN MEETS WITH AMoTHER DIFF/cv/ry 149
it in a very different light. He also acquainted
them with the precise amount of the income
guaranteed by the Duke of Thigsberry to Vio-
letta Stetta of the Italian Opera, which it
appeared was payable quarterly, and not half-
yearly, as the public had been given to under-
stand, and which was exclusive, and not inclusive,
(as had been monstrously stated,) of jewellery,
perfumery, hair, powder for five footmen, and two
daily changes of kid gloves for a page. Having
entreated the old lady and gentleman to set their
minds at rest on these absorbing points, for they
might rely on his statement being the correct
one, Mr. Chuckster entertained them with thea-
trical chit-chat and the court circular ; and so
wound up a brilliant and fascinating conversa-
tion which he had maintained alone, and with-
out any assistance whatever for upwards of
three-quarters of an hour.
“And now that the nag has got his wind
again,” said Mr. Chuckster, rising in a graceful
manner, “I'm afraid I must cut my stick.”
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Garland offered any
opposition to his tearing himself away, (feeling,
no doubt, that such a man could ill be spared
from his proper sphere of action,) and therefore
Mr. Chuckster and Kit were shortly afterwards
upon their way to town ; Kit being perched upon
the box of the cabriolet beside the driver, and
Mr. Chuckster seated in solitary state inside,
with one of his boots sticking out at each of the
front windows. -
When they reached the notary's house, Kit
followed into the office, and was desired by Mr.
Abel to sit down and wait, for the gentleman
who wanted him had gone out, and perhaps
might not return for some time. This anticipa-
tion was strictly verified, for Kit had had his
dinner, and his tea, and had read all the lighter
matter in the Law-List and the Post-Office
Directory, and had fallen asleep a great many
times, before the gentleman whom he had seen
before came in ; which he did at last in a very
great hurry. - *
He was closeted with Mr. Witherden for some,
little time, and Mr. Abel had been called in to
assist at the conference, before Kit, wondering
very much what he was wanted for, was sum-
moned to attend them. t
“Christopher,” said the gentleman, turning to
him directly he entered the room, “I have found
your old master and young mistress.” .
“No, sir! Have you, though P” returned
Kit, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Where
are they, sir? How are they, sir? Are they—
are they near here P" -
“A long way from here,” returned the gentle-
man, shaking his head. “But I am going away
to-night to bring them back, and I want you to
go with me.” -
“Me, sir?” cried Kit, full of joy and surprise.
“The place,” said the strange gentleman,
turning thoughtfully to the notary, “indicated
by this man of the dogs, is—how far from here
—sixty miles?” -
“From sixty to seventy.”
“ Humph ! If we travel post all night, we
shall reach there in good time to-morrow morn-
ing. Now, the only question is, as they will not
know me, and the child, God bless her, would
think that any stranger pursuing them had a
design upon her grandfather's liberty, can I do
better than take this lad, whom they both know
and will readily remember, as an assurance to
them of my friendly intentions P”
“Certainly not,” replied the notary.
Christopher by all means.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Kit, who had
listened to this discourse with a lengthening
countenance, “but, if that's the reason, I’m
afraid I should do more harm than good. Miss
Nell, sir, she knows me, and would trust in me,
I am sure ; but old master—I don’t know why,
gentlemen; nobody does—would not bear me
in his sight after he had been ill, and Miss Nell
herself told me that I must not go near him, or
let him see me any more. I should spoil all
that you were doing if I went, I'm afraid. I'd
give the world to go, but you had better not
take me, sir.”
“Another difficulty 1" cried the impetuous
gentleman. “Was ever man so beset as I? Is
there nobody else that knew them, nobody else
in whom they had any confidence P Solitary as
their lives were, is there no one person who
would serve my purpose P” -
“Is there, Christopher ?” said the notary. .
“Not one, sir,” replied Kit. “Yes, though—
there's my mother.”
“Did they know her ?” said the single gentle-
man. -
“Know her, sir!
“Take
Why, she was always com-
ing backwards and forwards. They were as kind
to her as they were to me. Bless you, sir, she
expected they'd come back to her house.”
“Then where the devil is the woman P” said
the impatient gentleman, catching up his hat.
“Why isn't she here? Why is that woman
always out of the way when she is most wanted P”
In a word, the single gentleman was bursting
out of the office, bent upon laying violent hands
on Kit's mother, forcing her into a post-chaise,
and carrying her off, when this novel kind of
abduction was with some difficulty prevented
15o
THE OLD CURIO.SYTY SHOA'.
by the joint efforts of Mr. Abel and the notary,
who restrained him by dint of their remon-
strances, and persuaded him to sound Kit upon
the probability of her being able and willing to
undertake such a journey on so short a notice.
This occasioned some doubts on the part of
Kit, and some violent demonstrations on that of
the single gentleman, and a great many soothing
speeches on that of the notary and Mr. Abel.
The upshot of thg business was, that Kit, after .
weighing the matter in his mind and considering
it carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother;
that she should be ready within two hours from
that time to undertake the expedition, and
engaged to produce her in that place, in all
respects equipped and prepared for the journey,
before the specified period had expired. -
Having given this pledge, which was rather a
bold one, and not particularly easy of redemp-
tion, Kit lost no time in sallying forth and taking
measures for its innmediate fulfillment.
——
CHAPTER XLI.
IT made his way through the crowded
streets, dividing the stream of people,
dashing across the busy roadways,
diving into lanes and alleys, and
# stopping or turning aside for nothing,
until he came in front of the Old
Curiosity Shöp, when he came to a stand;
[] partly from habit, and partly from being
out of breath. ſ -
It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he
thought the old place had never looked so dismal
as in its dreary twilight. The windows broken,
the rusty sashes rattling in their frames, the
deserted house a dull barrier dividing the glaring
lights and bustle of the street into two long lines,
and standing in the midst cold, dark, and empty,
–presented a cheerless spectacle which mingled
harshly with the bright prospects the boy had
been building up for its late inmates, and came
like a disappointment or misfortune. Kit would
have had a good fire roaring up the empty
chimneys, lights sparkling and shining through
the windows, people moving briskly to and fro,
voices in cheerful conversation, something in
unison with the new hopes that were astir. He
had not expected that the house would wear any
different aspect—had known, indeed, that it
could not—but coming upon it in the midst of
eager thoughts and expectations, it checked the
current in its flow, and darkened it with a mourn-
ful shadow. a .
Kit, however, fortunately for himself, was not
learned enough or contemplative enough to be
troubled with presages of evil afar, off, and,
having no mental spectacles to assist his vision
in this respect, saw nothing but the dull house,
which jarred uncomfortably upon his previous
thoughts. So, almost wishing' that he had not
passed it, though hardly knowing why, he hurried
on again, making up by his increased speed for
the few moments he had lost. - -
“Now, if she should be out,” thought Kit as
he approached the poor dwelling of his mother,
“and I not able to find her, this inpatient gen-
tleman would be in a pretty taking. And sure
enough there's no light, and the door's fast.
Now, God forgive me for saying so, but if this is
Little Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethéſ was—
was farther off,” said Kit, checking himself, and
knocking at the door. - - -
A second knock brought no reply from within
the house; but caused a woman over the way to
look out and inquire who that was a wanting
Mrs. Nubbles.
“Me,” said Kit. “She's at—at Little Bethel,
I suppose?”—getting out the name of the ob.
noxious conventicle with some reluctance, and
laying a spiteful emphasis upon the words
The neighbour nodded assent.
“Then pray tell me where it is,” said Kit,
“for I have come on a pressing matter, and
must fetch her out, even. if she was in the
pulpit.”
It was not very easy to procure a direction to
the fold in question, as none of the neighbours
were of the flock that resorted thither, and few
knew anything more of it than the name. At
last, a gossip of Mrs. Nubbles's, who had accom-
panied her. to chapel on one or two occasions
when a comfortable cup of tea had preceded her
devotions, furnished the needful information,
which Kit had no sooner obtained than he
started off again. -
Little Bethel might have been nearer, and
might have been in a straighter road, though in
that case the reverend gentleman who presided
over its congregation would have lost his ſa-
vourite allusion to the crooked ways by which it
was approached, and which enabled him to liken.
it, to Paradise itself, in contradistinction to the
parish church and the broad thoroughfare lead-
ing thereunto. . Kit found it, at last, after some
trouble, and pausing at the door to take breath
that he might enter, with becoming decency,
passed into the chapel. - -
It was not badly named in one respect, being
in truth a particularly little Bethel—a Béthel of
the smallest dimensions—with a small number


.THE SHEEP IN THE FOZD.
15I
of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a
small gentleman (by trade a Shoemaker, and by
calling a Divine) was delivering, in a by no
means small voice, a by no means small sermon,
judging of its dimensions by the condition of his
audience, which, if their gross amount were but
small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers;
as the majority were slumbering.
. Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding
it matter of extreme difficulty fo keep her eyes
open after the fatigues of last night, and feeling
their inclination to close strongly backed and
seconded by the arguments of the preacher, had
yielded to the drowsiness that overpowered
her, and fallen asleep; though not so soundly
but that she could, from time to time, utter a
slight and almost inaudible groan, as if in recog-
nition of the orator's doctrines. The baby in
her arms was as fast asleep as she ; and little
Jacob, whose youth prevented him from recog-
nising in this prolonged spiritual nourishment
anything half as interesting as oysters, was alter-
nately very fast asleep and ºvery wide awake, as
his inclination to slumber, or his terror of being
personally alluded to in the discourse, gained
the mastery over him.
“And now I'm here,” thought Kit, gliding into
the nearest empty pew which was opposite his
mother's, and on the other side of the little
aisle, “how am I ever to get at her, or persuade
her to come out 2 I might as well be twenty
miles off. She'll never wake till it's all over, and
If he would but
there goes the clock again
leave off for a minute, or if they'd only sing !”.'
But there was little encouragement to believe
that either event would happen for a couple of
hours to come. The preacher went on telling
them what he meant to convince them of before
he had done, and it was clear that if he only
kept to one-half of his promises and forgot the
other, he was good for that time at least.
In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast
his eyes about the chapel, and, happening to let
them fall upon a little seat in front of the clerk's
desk, could scarcely believe them when they
showed him—Quilp
He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they
insisted that Quilp was there, and there indeed
he was, sitting with his hands upon his knees,
and his hat between them, on a little wooden
brackēt, with the accustomed grin on his dirty
face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He
certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother,
and appeared utterly unconscious of their pre-
sence ; still Kit could not help feeling, directly,
that the attention of the sly little fiend was fast-
ened upon them, and upon nothing else.
again.
But, astounded as he was by the apparition of
the dwarf among the Little Bethelites, and not
free from a misgiving that it was the forerunner
of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled
to subdue his wonder, and to take active mea-
sures for the withdrawal of his parent, as the
evening was now creeping on, and the matter
grew serious. Therefore, the next time little
Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract his wan-
dering attention, and this not being a very diffi-
cult task (one sneeze effected it), he signed to
him to rouse his mother.
Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just
then; the preacher, in a forcible exposition of one
head of his discourse, leaned . over upon the
pulpit-desk, so that very little more of him than
his legs remained inside : and, while he made
vehement gestures with his right hand, and held
on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare,
straight into little Jacob's eyes, threatening him
by his strained look and attitude—so it appeared
to the child—that if he so much as moved a
muscle, he, the preacher, would be literally, and
not figuratively, “down upon him” that instant.
In this fearful state of things, distracted by the
sudden appearance of Kit, and fascinated by the
eyes of the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat
bolt upright, wholly incapable of motion, strongly
disposed to cry, but afraid to do so, and return-
ing his pastor's gaze until his infant eyes seemed
starting from their sockets.
“If I must do it openly I must,” thought Kit.
With that he walked softly out of his pew and
into his mother's, and, as Mr. Swiveller would
have observed if he had been present, “collared”
the baby without speaking a word.
“Hush, mother " whispered Kit. “Come
along with me. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Where am I ?” said Mrs. Nubbles.
“In this blessed Little Bethel,” returned her
son peevishly. -
“Blessed indeed 1" cried Mrs. Nubbles, catch-
ing at the word. “Oh, Christopher, how have I
been edified this night !”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Kit hastily; “but
come along, mother, everybody's looking at us.
Don't make a noise—bring Jacob—that's right !”
“Stay, Satan, stay !” cried the preacher as Kit
was moving off. -
“The gentleman says you're to stay, Christo-
pher,” whispered his mother .
“Stay, Satan, stay !” roared the preacher
“Tempt not the woman that doth in-
cline her ear to thee, but hearken to the voice of
him that calleth. He hath a lamb from the
fold !” cried the preacher, raising his voice still
higher, and pointing to the baby. “He beareth
* 52
ZHE OLD CURIOS/TP SHOP
off a lamb, a precious lamb He goeth about,
like a wolf in the night season, and inveigleth
the tender lambs ’’ - -
Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world,
but considering this strong language, and being
somewhat excited by the circumstances in which
he was placed, he faced round to the pulpit with
the baby in his arms, and replied aloud:
“No, I don't. He's my brother.”
“He’s my brother ” cried the preacher.
“He isn't,” said Kit indignantly. “How can
you say such a thing?—And don't call me names,
if you please ; what harm have I done? I
shouldn't have come to take 'em away, unless I
was obliged, you may depend upon that... I
wanted to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't let
me. Now, you have the goodness to abuse
Satan and them as much as you like, sir, and to
let me alone, if you please.”
So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel,
followed by his mother and little Jacob, and
found himself in the open air, with an indistinct
recollection of having seen the people wake up
and look surprised, and of Quilp having re-
mained, throughout the interruption, in his old
attitude, without moving his eyes from the ceil-
ing, or appearing to take the Smallest notice of
anything that passed.
“Oh, Kit ” said his mother, with her hand-
kerchief to her eyes, “what have you done P I
never can go there again—never !”.
“I’m glad of it, mother. What was there in
the little bit of pleasure you took last night that
made it necessary for you to be low-spirited and
sorrowful to-night P. That's the way you do. If
you're happy or merry ever, you come here to
say, along with that chap, that you're sorry for
1t.
to say.”
“Hush, dear !” said Mrs. Nubbles; “ you
don't mean what you say, I know, but you're
talking sinfulness,”
“Don’t mean it? But I do mean it !” re-
torted Kit. “I don't believe, mother, that
harmless cheerfulness and good-humour are
thought greater sins in Heaven than shirt-collars
are, and I do believe that those chaps are just
about as right and sensible in putting down the
one as in leaving off the other—that's my belief.
ut I won't say anything more about it, if you'll
promise not to Cry, that's all; and you take the
baby that's a lighter weight, and give me little
Jacob ; and as we go along (which we must do
pretty quick) I’ll tell you'the news I bring, which
will surprise you a little, I can tell you. There
—that's right. Now you look as if you'd never
seen Little Bethel in all your life, as I hope you
More shame for you, mother, I was going.
- … . . . . . ...' . re
never will again; and here's the baby; and little
Jacob, you get atop of my back, and catch hold
of me tight round the neck, and, whenever a
Little Bethel parson calls you a precious lamb,
or says your brother's one, you tell him it's the
truest thing he's said for a twelvemonth, and that
if he'd got a little more of the lamb himself, and
less of the mint sauce—not being quite so sharp
and sour over it—I should like him all the better.
That's what you've got to say to him, Jacob "
Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in
earnest, and cheering up his mother, the children,
and himself, by the one simple process!of deter.
mining to be in a good humour, Kit led them
briskly forward ; and, on the road home, he
related what had passed at the notary's house,
and the purpose with which he had intruded on
the solemnities of Little Bethel.
His mother was not a little startled on learning
what service was required of her, and presently
fell into a confusion of ideas, of which the most
prominent were that it was a great honour and
dignity to ride in a post-chaise, and that it was
a moral impossibility to leave the children be.
hind. But this objection, and a great many
others, founded on certain articles of dress being
at the wash, and certain other articles having no
existence in the wardrobe of Mrs. Nubbles, were
overcome by Kit, who opposed to each and
every of them the pleasure of recovering Nell,
| and the delight it would be to bring her back in
triumph.
“There's only ten minutes now, mother,” said
Kit when they reached home. “There's a
bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll
be off directly.” . -
To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all
sorts of things which could, by no remote con-
tingency, be wanted, and how he left out every.
thing likely to be of the smallest use; how a
neighbour was persuaded to come and stop with
the children, and how the children at first cried
dismally, and then laughed heartily on being
promised all kinds of impossible and unheard-of
toys; how Kit's mother wouldn't leave off kissing
them, and how Kit couldn't make up his mind
to be vexed with her for doing it; would take
more time and room than you and I can spare.
So, passing over all such matters, it is sufficient
to say that within a few minutes after the two
hours had expired, Kit and his mother arrived
at the notary's door, where a post-chaise was
already waiting. *
“With four horses, I declare 1” said Kit, quite
aghast at the preparations. “Well, you gº?
going to do it, mother | Here she is, sir. Here's
Imy mother. She's quite ready, sir.”
FURTHER FORTUAVES OF LITTLE WELL.
153
“That's well,” returned the gentleman. “Now,
don't be in a flutter, ma'am ; you'll be taken
great care of. Where's the box with the new
ãothing and necessaries for them P”
“Here it is,” said the notary.
Christopher.” *
“All right, sir,” replied Kit. “Quite ready
now, sir.”
“Then come along,” said the single gentle.
man. And thereupon he gave his arm to Kit's
mother, handed her into the carriage as politely
as you please, and took his seat beside her.
Up went the steps, bang went the door, round
whirled the wheels, and off they rattled, with
Kit's mother hanging out at one window waving
a damp pocket-handkerchief, and screaming out
a great many messages to little Jacob and the
baby, of which nobody heard a word.
Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked
after them with tears in his eyes—not brought
there by the departure he witnessed, but by the
return to which he looked forward. “They
went away,” he thought, “on foot, with nobody
to speak to them or say a kind word at parting,
ang they'll come back, drawn by four horses,
with this rich gentleman for their friend, and all
their troubles over ! She'll forget that she taught
me to write y? ' ' ' . ~
Whatever Kit thought about, after this, took
some time to think of, for he stood gazing up
the lines of shining lamps, long after the chaise
had disappeared, and did not return into the
house until the notary and Mr. Abel, who had
themselves lingered outside till the sound of the
wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several
times wondered what could possibly detain him.
CHAPTER XLII.
T behoves us to leave Kit for awhile,
thoughtful and expectant, and to fol-
low the fortunès of little Nell ; re-
suming the thread of the narrative
at the point where it was left, some
chaptérs back.
In one of those wanderings in the
evening-time, when, following the two
sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sym-
pathy with them and her recognition in their
trials of something akin to her own loneliness of
spirit, a comfort and consolation which made
such moments a time of deep delight, though
the softened pleasure they yielded was of that
kind which lives and dies in tears—in one of
those wanderings at the quiet hour of twilight,
º
&
“In with it.
when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling water,
and Sound of distant bells, claimed kindred with
the emotions of the solitary child, and inspired
her with soothing thoughts, but not of a child's
world or its easy joys—in one of those rambles
which had now become her only pleasure or
relief from care, light had faded into darkness
and evenihg deepened into night, and still the
young creature lingered in the gloom ; feeling a
companionship in Nature so serene and still,
when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights
would have been solitude indeed.
The sisters had gone home, and she was alone.
She raised her eyes to the bright stars, looking
down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, and
gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her
view, and more beyond, and more beyond again
until the whole great expanse sparkled with
shining spheres, rising higher and higher in
immeasurable space, eternal in their numbers as
in their changeless and incorruptible existence.
She bent over the calm river, and saw them
shining in the same majestic order as when the
dove beheld them gleaming through the swollen
waters, upon the mountain-tops down far below,
and dead mankind, a million fathoms deep.
The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed
in her very breath by the stillness of the night,
and all its attendant wonders. The time and
place awoke reflection, and she thought with a
quiet hope—less hope, perhaps, than resignation
—on the past, and present, and what was yet
before her. Between the old man and herself
there had come a gradual separation, harder to
bear than any former sorrow. Every evening,
and often in the daytime too, he was absent,’
alone; and although she well knew where he
went, and why—too well from the constant
drain upon her scanty purse and from his hag-
gard looks—he evaded all inquiry, maintained
a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence.
She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this
change, and mingling it, as it were, with every-
thing about her, when the distant church-clock
bell struck nine. Rising at the sound, she re-
traced her step, and turned thoughtfully towards
the town.
She had gained a little wooden bridge, which
thrown across the stream, led into a meadow in
her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy
light, and looking forward more attentively, dis.
cerned that it proceeded from what appeared to
be an encampment of gipsies, who had made a
fire in one corner at no great distance from the
path, and were sitting or lying round it. As
she was too poor to have any fear of them, she
did not alter her course, (which, indeed, she

154
Zºe ozo curſoszzy shop
could not have done without going a long way
round,) but quickened her pace a little, and
kept straight on.
A movement of timid curiosity impelled her,
when she approached the spot, to glance towards
the fire. There was a form between it and her,
the outline strongly developed against the light,
which caused her to stop abruptly. Then, as if
she had reasoned with herself, and were assured
that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that
it was not, that of the person she had supposed,
she went on again.
But at that instant the conversation, whatever
it was, which had been carried on near this fire was
resumed, and the tones of the voice that spoke
—she could not distinguish words—sounded as
familiar to her as her own.
She turned, and looked back. The person
had been seated before, but was now in a stand-
ing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on
which he rested both hands. The attitude was
no less familiar to her than the tone of voice had
been. It was her grandfather.
Her first impulse was to call to him ; her next
to wonder who his associates could be, and for
what purpose they were together. Some vague
apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the
strong inclination it awakened, she drew nearer to
the place; not advancing across the open field,
however, but creeping towards it by the hedge.
In this way she advanced within a few feet
of the fire, and standing among a few young
trees, could both see and hear, without much
danger of being observed.
There were no women or children, as she had
seen in other gipsy camps they had passed in
their wayfaring, and but one gipsy—a tall athletic
man, who stood with his arms folded, leaning
against a tree at a little distance off, looking now
at the fire, and now, under his black eyelashes,
at three other men who were there, with a watch-
ful but half-concealed interest in their conversa-
tion. Of these, her grandfather was one ; the
others she recognised as the first card-players at
the public-house on the eventful night of the
storm—the man whom they had called Isaac
List, and his gruff companion. One of the low,
arched gipsy tents, common to that people, was
pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared
to be, empty.
“Well, are you going?” said the stout man,
looking up from the ground where he was lying
at his ease, into her grandfather's face. “You
were in a mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if
you like. You're your own master, I hope?”
“Don’t vex him,” returned Isaac List, who
was squatting like a frog on the other side of
my pains.
*...a. "…ºf
-mºr,
the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he
seemed to be squinting all over: “he didn't
mean any offence.” l
“You keep me poor, and plunder me, and
make a sport and jest of me besides,” said the
old man, turning from one to the other. Tº yell
drive me mad among ye.” -
The utter irresolution and feebleness of the
grey-haired child, contrasted with the keen and
cunning looks of those in whose hands he was,
smote upon the little listener's heart. But she
constrained herself to attend to all that passed,
and to note each look and word.
“Confound you, what do you mean?” said
the stout man, rising a little, and supporting
himself on his elbow. “Keep you poori You'à
keep us poor if you could, wouldn't you? That's
the way with you whining, puny, pitiful players.
When you lose, you're martyrs; but I don't find
that when you win, you look upon the other
losers in that light. As to plunder 1" cried the
fellow, raising his voice—“ damme, what do you
mean by such ungentlemanly language as plun-
der, eh-P” -
The speaker laid himself down again at full
length, and gave one or two short, angry kicks,
as if in further expression of his unbounded in-
dignation. It was quite plain that he acted the
bully, and his friend the peacemaker, for some
particular purpose; or rather, it would have been
to any one but the weak old man; for they ex-
changed glances quite openly, both with each
other and with the gipsy, who grinned his
approval of the jest until his white teeth shone
again. -
The old man stood helplessly among them for
a little time, and then said, turning to his as-
sailant: -
“You yourself were speaking of plunder just
now, you know. Don't be so violent with me.
You were, were you not P”
“Not of plundering among present company.
Honour among—among gentlemen, sir,” returned
the other, who seemed to have been very near
giving an awkward termination to the sentence.
“Don’t be hard upon him, Jowl,” said Isaac
List. “He’s very sorry for giving offence.
There—go on with what you were saying—go
on.”
“I’m a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am,”
cried Mr. Jowl, “to be sitting here at my time
of life giving advice, when l know it won't be
taken, and that I shall get nothing but abuse for
But that's the way I've gone through
life. Experience has never put a chill upon my
warm-heartedness.” -
“I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?” re-
al—º-
monstrated Isaac List “and that he wishes
you'd go on.”
“Does he wish it?” said the other.
“Ay,” groaned the old man, sitting down, and
rocking himself to and fro. “Go on, go on.
It's in vain to fight with it; I can't do it; go
on.” - -
“I go on, then,” said Jowl, “where I left off,
when you got up so quick. If you're persuaded
that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly is,
and find that you haven't means enough to try
it, (and that’s where it is, for you know, yourself,
that you never have the funds to keep on long
enough at a sitting,) help yourself to what seems
put in your way on purpose. Borrow it, I say,
and, when you're able, pay it back again.”
“Certainly,” Isaac List struck in, “if this
good lady as keeps the wax-works has money,
and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to
bed, and doesn't lock her door for fear of fire, it
seems a easy thing; quite a Providence, Z
should call it—but then I’ve been religiously
brought up:” .
“You see, Isaac,”, said his friend, growing
more eager, and drawing himself closer to the
old man, while he signed to the gipsy not to
come between them; “you see, Isaac, strangers
are going in and out, every hour of the day;
nothing would be more likely than for one of
these strangers to get under the good lady's bed,
or lock himself in the cupboard; suspicion would
be very wide, and would fall a long way from the
mark, no doubt. I'd give him his revenge to
the last farthing he brought, whatever the amount
was.”
“But could you?" urged Isaac List. “Is
your bank strong enough P”
“Strong enough t” answered the other with
assumed disdain... “Here, you sir, give me that
box out of the straw "
This was addressed to the gipsy, who crawled
into the low tent on all fours, and after some
rummaging and rustling returned with a cash-
box, which the man, who had spoken opened
with a key he wore about his person.
“Do you see this?” he said, gathering up the
money in his hand, and letting it drop back into
the box, between his fingers, like water. “Do
you hear it P Do you know the sound of gold 2
There, put it back—and don't talk about banks
again, Isaac, till you’ve got one of your own.”
Isaac List, with great apparent humility, pro-
tested that he had never doubted the credit of a
gentleman so notorious for his honourable dealing
as Mr. Jowk, and that he had hinted at the pro-
duction of the box, not for the satisfaction of his
doubts, for he could have none, but with a view
THE OLD TEMP7A7/ow Awp MEW ZEMPTERS.
j 55
to being regaled with a sight of so much wealth,
which, though it might be deemed by some but
an unsubstantial and visionary pleasure, was to
one in his circumstances a source of extreme
delight, only to be surpassed by its safe depository
in his own personal pockets. Although Mr. List
and Mr. Jowl addressed themselves to each
other, it was remarkable that they both looked
narrowly at the old man, who, with his eyes fixed
upon the fire, sat brooding over it, yet listening
eagerly—as it seemed, from a certain involun-
tary motion of the head, or twitching of the face
from time to time—to all they said.
“My advice,” said Jowl, lying down again,
with a careless air, “is plain—I have given it, in
fact. I act as a friend. Why should I help a
man to the means perhaps of winning all I have,
unless I considered him my friend? It's foolish,
I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the welfare of
other people, but that's my constitution, and I
can't help it; so don't blame me, Isaac List.”
“I blame you !” returned the person ad-
dressed ; “not for the world, Mr. Jowl. I wish
I could afford to be as liberal as you ; and, as
you say, he might pay it back if he won—and if
he lost 32
“You’re not to take that into consideration at
all,” said Jowl. “But suppose he did, (and
nothing's less likely, from all I know of chances,)
why, it's better to lose other people's monev
than one's own, I hope 1"
“Ah!" cried Isaac List rapturously, “the
pleasures of winning ! The delight of picking
up the money—the bright. shining yellow-boys
—and sweeping 'em into one's pocket ! The
deliciousness of having a triumph at last, and
thinking that one didn't stop short and turn
back, but went half-way to meet it ! The
But you're not going, old gentleman P”
“I’ll do it,” said the old man, who had risen
and taken two or three hurried steps away, and
now returned as hurriedly. “I’ll have it every
penny.”
“Why, that's brave,” cried Isaac, jumping up
and slapping him on the shoulder; “and I
respect you for having so much young blood
left. Ha, ha, ha! Joe Jowl's half sorry he
advised you now. We've got the laugh against
him. Ha, ha, ha!”
“He gives me my revenge, mind,” said the
old man, pointing to him eagerly with his
shrivelled hand : “mind—he stakes coin against
coin, down to the last one in the box, be there
many or few. Remember that "
“I’m witness,” returned Isaac.
between you.”
“I have passed my word,
“I’ll see fair
xx
said Jowl with
1 Sö
THE OZA) CURNOS/7"Y SA/OA.
a
When
I wish it was over.
feigned reluctance, “and I'll keep it.
does this match come off 2
—To-night?”
“I must have the money first,” said the old
man ; “and that I’ll have to-morrow jy
“Why not to-night?” urged Jowl.
“It’s late now, and I shall be flushed and
“It must be softly.
flurried,” said the old man.
done No, to-morrow night.”
“Then to-morrow be it,” said Jowl.
- “A drop
of comfort here. Luck to the best man
Fill t”
The gipsy produced three tin cups, and filled
º
for diverting suspicion. The old man then
shook hands with his tempters, and withdrew.
They watched his bowed and stooping figure
as it retreated slowly, and when he turned his
head to look back, which he often did, waved
their hands, or shouted some brief encourage-
ment. It was not until they had seen him
gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the
distant road, that they turned to each other, and
ventured to laugh aloud º,
“So,” said Jowl, warming his hands at the
fire, “it’s done at last. He wanted more per-
Suading than I expected. It's three weeks ago
A 4 º Q: -: º E- º:
ºr sº- º Cº---- -
“THE OLD MAN STooD HELPLESSLY AMong THEM FOR A LTTTT.F. TIME.”
them to the brim with brandy. The old man
turned aside and muttered to himself before he
drank. Her own name struck upon the listener's
ear, coupled with some wish so fervent, that he
seemed to breathe it in an agony of supplication.
“God be merciful to us !” cried the child
within herself, “and help us in this trying hour !
What shall I do to save him P” .
The remainder of their conversation was
carried on in a lower tone of voice, and was
sufficiently concise; relating merely to the exe-
cution of the project, and the best precautions
since we first put this in his head. What'll he
bring, do you think P”
“Whatever he brings, it's halved between us,”
returned Isaac List.
The other man nodded. “We must make
quick work of it,” he said, “ and then cut his
acquaintance, or we may be suspected. Sharp's
the word.”
List and the gipsy acquiesced When they
had all three amused themselves a little with
their victim's infatuation, they dismissed the
subject as one which had been sufficiently dis-
cussed, and began to talk in a jargon which the



t
º
FZIGHT FROM A Zork/BZE DREAM.
157
child did not understand. As their discourse
appeared to relate to matters in which they were
warmly interested, however, she deemed it the
best time for escaping unobserved: and crept
away with slow and cautious steps, keeping in
the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path
through them or the dry ditches, until she could
emerge upon the road at a point beyond their
range of vision. Then she fled homewards as
quickly, as she could, torn and bleeding from
the wounds of thorns and briers, but more
lacerated in mind, and threw herself upon her
bed, distracted. .
The first idea that flashed upon her mind was
flight, instant flight; dragging him from that
place, and rather dying of want upon the road-
side than ever exposing him again to such terrible
temptations. Then, she remembered that the
crime was not to be committed until next night,
and there was the intermediate time for thinking,
and resolving what to do. Then, she was dis-
tracted with a horrible fear that he might be
committing it at that moment; with a dread of
hearing shrieks and cries piercing the silence of
the night; with fearful thoughts of what he
might be tempted and led on to do, if he were
detected in the act, and had but a woman to
struggle with. It was impossible to bear such
torture. She stole to the room where the money
was, opened the door, and looked in. God be
praised He was not there, and she was sleep-
ing soundly.
She went back to her own room, and tried to
prepare herself for bed. But who could sleep—
sleep ! who could lie passively down, distracted
by such terrors P. They came upon her more
and more strongly yet. Half undressed, and
with her hair in wiſd disorder, she flew to the
old man's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and
roused him from his sleep. -
What's this?” he cried, starting up in bed,
amid fixing his eyes upon her spectral face.
“I have had a dreadful dream,” said the child
with an energy that nothing but such terrors
could have inspired.
dream. I have had it once before. It is a
dream of grey-haired men like you, in darkened
rooms by night, robbing the sleepers of their
gold. Up, up !” The old man shock in every
joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.
“Not to me,” said the child, “not to me—to
Heaven, to save us from such deeds ! This
dream is too real, I cannot sleep, I cannot stay
here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof
lººſe such dreams come... Up ! We must
y.”
He looked at her as if she were a spirit—she
\ THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, II,
“A dreadful, horrible
|
might have been, for all the look of earth she
had—and trembled more and more.
“There is no time to lose; I will not lose
one minute," said the child. “Up and away
with me !” -
“To-night?" murmured the old man.
“Yes, to-night,” replied the child. “To-
morrow night will be too late. The dream will
have come again. Nothing but flight can save
us. Up !” .
The old man rose from his bed: his forehead
bedeved with the cold sweat of fear; and, bend-
ing before the child as if she had been an angel
messenger sent to lead him where she would,
made ready to follow her. She took him by the
hand, and led him on. As they passed the door
of the room he had proposed to rob, she shud-
dered and looked up into his face. What a
white face was that, and with what a look did he
meet hers
She took him to her own chamber, and, still
holding him by the hand as if she feared to lose
him for an instant, gathered together the little
stock she had, and hung her basket on her arm.
The old man took his wallet from her hands,
and strapped it on his shoulders—his staff, too,
she had brought away—and then she led him
forth.
Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked
outskirts, their trembling feet passed quickly.
Up the steep hill too, crowned by the old grey
| castle, they toiled with rapid steps, and had not
Once looked behind.
But, as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the
moon rose in all her gentle glory, and, from their
venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss, and
waving grass, the child looked back upon the
sleeping town, deep in the valley's shade:
and on the far-off river with its winding track
of light: and on the distant hills; and as she
did so, she clasped the hand she held less
firmly, and bursting into tears; fell upon the old
man's neck. -
CHAPTER XLIII.
ER momentary weakness past, the
child again summoned the resolution
which had until now sustained her,
and, endeavouring to keep steadily
in her view the one idea that they
were flying from disgrace and crime, and
that her grandfather's preservation must
Ae depend solely on her firmness, unaided
by , one word of advice or any helping hand,
urged him onward, and looked back no more.
259,
sºn º



t58
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to
crouch before her, and to shrink and cower down,
as if in the presence of some superior creature,
the child herself was sensible of a new feeling
within her, which elevated her nature, and in-
spired her with an energy and confidence she
had never known. There was no divided re-
sponsibility now ; the whole burden of their two
lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she
must think and act for both. “I have saved
him,” she thought. “In all dangers and dis-
tresses, I will remember that.”
At any other time, the recollection of having
deserted the friend who had shown them so much
homely kindness without a word of justification
—the thought that they were guilty, in appear-
ance, of treachery and ingratitude—even the
having parted from the two sisters—would have
filled her with sorrow and regret. But now, all
other considerations were lost in the new un-
certainties and anxieties of their wild and wan-
dering life; and the very desperation of their
cofidition roused and stimulated her.
In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness
of its own to the delicate face where thoughtful
care already mingled with the winning grace and
loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the
spiritual head, the lips that pressed each other
with such high resolve and courage of the heart,
the slight figure firm in its bearing, and yet so
very weak, told their silent tale; but told it only
to the wind that rustled by, which, taking up its
burden, carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow,
faint dreams of childhood fading in its bloom,
and resting in the sleep that knows no waking.
The night crept on apace, the moon went
town, the stars grew pale and dim, the morning,
cold, as they, slowly approached. Then, from
behind a distant hill, the noble sun rose up,
driving the mists in phantom shapes before it,
and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till
darkness came again. When it had climbed
higher into the sky, and there was warmth in its
cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep
upon a bank, hard by some water.
But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's
arm, and, long after he was slumbering soundly,
watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole
over her at last ; her grasp relaxed, tightened,
relaxed again, and they slept side by side.
A confused sound of voices, mingling with her
dreams, awoke her. A man of very uncouth and
rough appearance was standing over them, and
two of his companions were looking on, from a
long heavy boat which had come close to the
bank while they were sleeping. The boat had
neither oar nor sail, but was towed by a couple
of those in the boat.
of horses, who, with the rope to which they were
harnessed slack and dripping in the water, were
resting on the path.
“Holloa 1" said the man roughly.
the matter here P” -
“We were only asleep, sir,” said Nell; “We
have been walking all night.”
“A pair of queer travellers to be walking all
night,” observed the man who had first accosted
them. “One of you is a trifle too old for that
sort of work, and the other a trifle too young.
Where are you going?” ,”
Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards
the West, upon which the man inquired if she
meant a certain town which he named. Nell,
to avoid more questioning, said, “Yes, that was
the place.”
“Where have you come from ?” was the next
question; and this being an easier one to answer,
Nell mentioned the name of the village in which
their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less
likely to be known to the men, or to provoke
further inquiry. -
“I thought somebody had been robbing and
ill-using you, might be,” said the man. “That's
all. Good day.”
Returning his salute, and feeling greatly re-
lieved by his departure, Nell looked after him as
he mounted one of the horses, and the boat
went on. It had not gone very far, when it
stopped again, and she saw the men beckoning
to her.
“Did you call to me?” said Nell, running up
to them.
“You may go with us if you like,” replied one
“We’re going to the same
“What's
place.”
The child hesitated for a moment. Thinking,
as she had thought with great trepidation more
than once before, that the men whom she had
seen with her grandfather might, perhaps, in
their eagerness for the booty, follow them, and,
regaining their influence over him, set hers at
nought; and that, if they went with these men,
all traces of them must surely be lost at that
spot; she determined to accept the offer. The
boat came close to the bank again, and, before
she had had any more time for consideration,
she and her grandfather were on board, and
gliding smoothly down the canal.
The sun shone pleasantly on the bright water,
which was sometimes shaded by trees, and
sometimes open to a wide extent of country,
intersected by running streams, and rich with
wooded hills, cultivated land, and sheltered
farms. Now and then, a village, with its modest
spire, thatched roofs, and gable-ends, would
*
AºE/GAZZ" A Y WA 7TER.
peep out from among the trees; and, more than
once, a distant town, with great church towers
looming through its smoke, and high factories
or workshops rising above the mass of houses,
would come in view, and, by the length of time
it lingered in the distance, show them how
slowly they travelled. Their way lay, for the
most part, through the low grounds and open
plains ; and except these distant places, and
occasionally some men working in the fields, or
iounging on the bridges under which they passed,
to see them, creep along, nothing encroached on
their monotonous and secluded track.
Nell was rather disheartened, when they
stopped at a kind of wharf late in the afternoon,
to learn from one of the men that they would
not reach their place of destination until next
day, and that, if she had no provision with her,
she had better buy it there. She had but a few
pence, having already bargained with them for
some bread, but even of these it was necessary
to be very careful, as they were on their way to
an utterly strange place, with no resource what-
ever. A small loaf and a morsel of cheese,
therefore, were all she could afford, and with
these she took her place in the boat again, and
after half an hour's delay, during which the men
were drinking at the public-house, proceeded on
the journey.
They brought some beer and spirits into the
boat with them, and what with drinking freely
before, and again now, were soon in a fair way
of being quarrelsome and intoxicated. Avoid-
ing the small cabin, therefore, which was very
dark and filthy, and to which they often invited
both her and her grandfather, Nell sat in the
open air with the old man by her side : listen-
ing to their boisterous hosts with a palpitating
heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore
again, though she should have to walk all
night. - -
They were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows,
and quite brutal among themselves, though civil
enough to their two passengers. Thus, when a
quarrel arose between the man who was steering
and his friend in the cabin, upon the question
who had first suggested the propriety of offering
Nell some beer, and when the quarrel led to a
scuffle in which they beat each other fearfully,
to her inexpressible terror, neither visited his
displeasure upon her, but each contented him-
self with venting it on his adversary, on whom,
in addition to blows, he bestowed a variety of
compliments, which, happily for the child, were
conveyed in terms to her quite unintelligible.
The difference was finally adjusted by the man
who had come out of the cabin knocking the
travelled on 1
I59
other into it head first, and taking the helm into
his own hands, without evincing the least dis-
composure himself, or causing any in his friend,
who, being of a tolerably strong constitution
and perfectly inured to such trifles, went to
sleep as he was, with his heels upwards, and in
a couple of minutes or so was snoring comfort.
ably.
By this time it was night again, and though
the child felt cold, being but poorly clad, her
anxious thoughts were far removed from her
own suffering or uneasiness, and busily engaged
in endeavouring to devise some scheme for their
joint subsistence. The same spirit which had
supported her on the previous night, upheld and
sustained her now. Her grandfather lay sleep-
ing safely at her side, and the crime to which
his madness urged him was not committed.
That was her comfort. .
How every circumstance of her short, eventful
life came thronging into her mind as they
Slight incidents, never thought
of or remembered until now ; faces seen once,
and ever since forgotten ; words, scarcely heeded
at the time; scenes, of a year ago and those of
yesterday, mixing up and linking themselves
together; familiar places shaping themselves out
in the darkness from things which, when ap-
proached, were, of all others, the most remote
and most unlike them ; sometimes, a strange
confusion in her mind relative to the occasion
of her being there, and the place to which she
was going, and the people she was with ; and
imagination suggesting remarks and questions
which sounded so plainly in her ears, that she
would start, and turn, and be almost tempted to
reply;-all the fancies and contradictions. Com-
mon in watching and excitement, and restless
change of place, beset the child.
She happened, while she was thus engaged, to
encounter the face of the man on deck, in whom
the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now
succeeded to the boisterous, and who, taking
from his mouth a short pipe, quilted over with
string, for its longer preservation, requested that
she would oblige him with a song.
“You’ve got a very pretty voice, a very soft
eye, and a very strong memory,” said this gentle-
man ; “the voice and eye I’ve got evidence for,
and the memory's an opinion of my own. And
I'm never wrong. Let me hear a song this
minute.” -
“I don't think I know one, sir,” returned
Nell.
“You know forty-seven songs,” said the man
with a gravity which admitted of no altercation
on the subject. “Forty-seven's your number.
16o
ZTHE OLZ) CUR/OS/7"Y SATO AE.
Let me hear one of 'em—the best. Give me a
song this minute.”
Not knowing what might be the consequences
of irritating her friend, and trembling with the
fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little
ditty which she had learned in happier times,
and which was so agreeable to his ear, that on
its conclusion he in the same peremptory manner
requested to be favoured with another, to which
he was so obliging as to roar a chorus to no
*
particular tune, and with no words at all, but
which annply made up in its amazing energy for
its deficiency in other respects. The noise of
this vocal performance awakened the other man,
who, staggering upon deck and shaking his late
opponent by the hand, swore that singing was
, his pride and joy and chief delight, and that he
desired no better entertainment. With a third
call, more imperative than either of the two
former, Nell felt obliged to comply, and this
N <-->
\\};}}
* \,-10°. * 'N
sº-i-Shisºsº.
ºſ---
* “A MAN OF VERY UNCOUTH AND Rough APPEARANCE WAS STANDING OVER THEM.” - -
time a chorus was maintained not only by the
two men together, but also by the third man on
horseback, who, being by his position debarred
from a nearer participation in the revels of the
night, roared when his companions roared, and
rent the very air. ->
tion, and singing the same songs again and
again, the tired and exhausted child kept them
in good-humour all that night; and many a
cottager, who was roused from his soundest
sleep by the discordant chorus as it floated
In this way, with little cessa-
away upon the wind, hid his head beneath the
bedclothes and trembled at the sounds.
At length the morning dawned. It was no
sooner light than it began to rain heavily. As
the child could not endure the intolerable
vapours of the cabin, they covered her, in re-
turn for her exertions, with some pieces of sail-
cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to
keep her tolerably dry, and to shelter her grand-
father besides. As the day advanced the rain
increased. At noon it poured down more hope"


\
AºA G H 7" A Y CAAVID.
lessly and heavily than ever, without the faintest
promise of abatement. .
They had, for some time, been gradually ap-
proaching the place for which they were bound.
The water had become thicker and dirtier;
other barges, coming from it, passed them fre-
quently; the paths of coal-ash and huts of star-
ing brick marked the vicinity of some great
manufacturing town ; while scattered streets
and houses, and smoke from distant furnaces,
indicated that they were alreatly in the outskirts.
Now, the clustered roofs and piles of buildings,
trembling with the working of engines, and
dimly resounding with their shrieks and throb-
bings; the tall chimneys vomiting forth a black
vapour, which hung in a dense ill-favoured
cloud above the housetops, and filled the air
with gloom; the clank of hammers beating
upon iron, the roar of busy streets and noisy
crowds, gradually augmenting until all the
various sounds blended into one, and none
was distinguishable for itself, announced the
termination of their journey.
The boat floated into the wharf to which it
belonged. The men were occupied directly.
The child and her grandfather, after waiting in
vain to thank them, or ask them whither they
should go, passed through a dirty lane into a
crowded street, and stood, amid its din and
tumult, and in the pouring rain, as strange, be-
wildered, and confused, as if they had lived a
thousand years before, and were raised from the
dead and placed there by a miracle. -
CHAPTER XLIV.
HE throng of people hurried by in
§ two opposite streams, with no
symptom of ºcessation or exhaus-
tion; intent upon their own affairs;
and undisturbed in their business
speculations by the roar of carts
apd waggons laden with clashing wares,
the slipping of horses' feet upon the wet
and greasy pavement, the rattling of the rain on
windows and umbrella-tops, the jostling, of the
more impatient passengers, and all the noise
and tumult of a crowded street in the high tide
of its occupation : while the two poor strangers,
stunned and bewildered by the hurry they be:
held but had no part in, looked mournfully on ;
feeling, amidst the crowd, a solitude which has
no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked
mariner, who, tossed to and fro upon the billows
of a hughty ocean, his fed eyes blinded by look. ‘I
16t
ing on the water which hems him in on every
side, has not one drop to cool his burning
tongue.
They withdrew into a low archway for shelter
from the rain, and watched the faces of those
who passed, to find in one among them a ray of
encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some
smiled, some muttered to themselves, some
made slight gestures, as if anticipating the con-
versation in which they would shortly be en-
gaged, some wore the cunning look of bargain-
ing and plotting, some were anxious and eager,
some slow and dull ; in some countenances
were written gain ; in others, loss. It was like
being in the confidence of all these people to
stand quietly there, looking into their faces as
they flitted past. In busy places, where each
man has an object of his own, and feels assured
that every other man has his, his character and
purpose are written broadly in his face. In the
public walks and lounges of a town, people go
to see and to be seen, and there the same ex-
pression, with little variety, is repeated a hun-
dred times. The working-day faces come nearer
to the truth, and let it out more plainly.
Falling into that kind of abstraction which
such a solitude awakens, the child continued to
gaze upon the passing crowd with, a wondering '
interest, amounting almost to a temporary for-
getfulness of her own condition. But cold, wet,
hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in
which to lay her aching head, soon brought her
thoughts back to the point whence they had
strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice
them, or to whom she durst appeal. After some
time, they left their place of reſuge from the
weather, and mingled with the concourse.
Evening came on. They were still wandering
up and down, with fewer people about them,
but with the same sense of solitude in their own
breasts, and the same indifference from all
around. The lights in the streets and shops
made them feel yet more desolate, for, with
their help, night and darkness seemed to come on
faster. Shivering with the cold and damp. ill in
body, and sick to death at healt, the child
needed her utmost firmness and resolution even
to creep along.
Why had they ever come to this noisy town,
when there were peaceful country places, in
which, at least, they might have hungered and
thirsted with less suffering than in its squalid
strife? They were but an atom here, in a moun-
tain heap of misery, the very sight of which in-
creased their hoplessness and suffering.
The child had not only to endure the accu-
mulated hardships of their destitute condition, but

162
ZHE Ozz curroSITY SHOP
to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who
began to murmur at having been led away from
their late abode, and demand that they should
return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief
or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced
their steps through the deserted streets, and
went back to the wharf, hoping to find the boat
in which they had come, and to be allowed to
sleep on board that night.
were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and
some “fierce dogs, barking at their approach,
obliged them to.retreat.
“We must sleep in the open air to-night,
dear,” said the child in a weak voice, as they
turned away from this last repulse ; “and to-
morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part
of the country, and try to earn our bread in
very humble work.”
“Why did you bring me here P” returned
the old man fiercely. “I cannot bear these
close etermal streets. We came from a quiet
part. Why did you force me to leave it?”
of no more,” said the child with a momentary
firmness that lost itself in tears; “and we must
live among poor people, or it will come again.
Dear grandfather, you are old and weak, I
know ; but look at me. I never will complain
if you will not, but I have some suffering in-
deed.”
“Ah poor, houseless, wandering, motherless
child !” cried the old man, clasping his hands,
and gazing as if for the first time upon her
anxious face, her travel-stained dress, and
bruised and swollen feet; “has all my agony
of care brought her to this at last P Was I a
happy man once, and have I lost happiness and
all I had, for this P”
“If we were in the country now,” said the
child with assumed cheerfulness, as they walked
on looking about them for a shelter, “we should
find some good old tree, stretching out his green
arms as if he loved us, and nodding and rustling
as if he would have us fall asleep, thinking of
him while he watched. Please God, we shall be
there soon—to-morrow or next day at the
farthest—and in the meantime let us think,
dear, that it was a good thing we came here;
for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this
place, and, if any cruel people should pursue us,
they could surely never trace us further. There's
comfort in that. And here's a deep old door-
way—very dark, but quite dry, and warm too,
for the wind don't blow in here- . What's
that P " -
Uttering a half-shriek, she recoiled from a
black figure which came suddenly out of the
*
But here again they
“Because I must have that dream. I told you *
dark recess in which they were about to
“What can I do?”
---
take
refuge, and stood still, looking at them. . .
“Speak again,” it said. “Do I know the
voice P”
“No,” replied the child timidly; “we are
‘strangers, and, having no money for a night's
lodging, were going to rest here.”
There was a feeble lamp at no great distance;
the only one in the place, which was a kind of
square yard, but sufficient to show how poor
and mean it was. To this the figure beckoned
them ; at the same time drawing within its rays,
as if to show that it had no desire to conceal
itself, or take them at an advantage. .
The form was that of a man, miserably clad
and begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its
contrast with the natural colour of his skin,
made him look paler than he really was. That
he was naturally of a very wan and pallid aspect,
however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and
sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of pa-
tient endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice
was harsh by nature, but not brutal; and though
his face, besides possessing the characteristics
already mentioned, was overshadowed by a
quantity of long dark hair, its expression was
neither ſerocious nor bad. * =
“How came you to think of resting there P”
he said. “Or how," he added, looking more
attentively at the child, “do you come to want
a place of rest at this time of night P”
“Our misfortunes,” the grandſather answered,
“are the cause.” -
“Do you know,” said the man, looking still
more earnestly at Nell, “how wet she is, and
that the damp streets are not a place for
her P” ,
“I know it well, God help me !” he replied.
The man looked at Nell again, and gently
touched her garments, ſron which the rain was
running off in little streams. “I can, give you
warmth,” he said after a pause ; “nothing else,
Such lodging as I have is in that house,” point-
ing to the doorway from which he had emerged,
“but she is safer and better there. than here.
The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass
the night beside it safely, if you'll trust, your-
selves to me. You see that red light yonder P”
They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare
hanging in the dark sky; the dull reflection of
some distant fire. -
“It’s not far,” said the man. “Shall I take
you there P You were going to sleep upon cold
bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes—
nothing better.”
Without waiting for any farther reply than he
A/AGAE 7" A £2 A*/RE,
163
saw in their looks, he took Nell in his arms, and
bade the old man follow.
Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as
if she had been an infant, and showing himself
both swift and sure of foot, he led the way
through what appeared to be the poorest and
most wretched quarter of the town; not turning
aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or run-
ning water-spouts, but holding his course, re-
gardless of such obstructions, and making his
way straight through them. They had proceeded
thus, in silence, for some quarter of an hour, and
had lost sight of the glare to which he had
pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which
they had come, when it suddenly burst upon
them again, streaming up from the high chimney
of a building close before them.
“This is the place,” he said, pausing at a door
to put Nell down and take her hand. “Don’t
be afraid. There's nobody here will harm you.”
It needed a strong confidence in this assur-
ance to induce them to enter, and what they
saw inside did not diminish their apprehension
and alarm. In a large and lofty building, sup-
ported by pillars of iron, with great black aper-
tures in the upper walls, open to the external
air; echoing to the roof with the beating of ham-
mers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hiss-
ing of red-hot metal plunged in water, and a
hundred strange unearthly noises never heard
elsewhere; in this gloomy place, moving like .
demons among the flame and Smoke, dimly and
fitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the burn-
ing fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty
blow from any one of which must have crushed
some workman's skull, a number of men laboured
like giants. Others, reposing upon heaps of
coals or ashes, with their faces turned to the
black vault above, slept or rested from their toil.
Others, again, opening the white-hot furnace
doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rush-
ing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up
like oil. Others drew forth, with clashing noise,
upon the ground, great sheets of glowing steel,
emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep
light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage
beasts.
Through these bewildering sights and deafen-
ing sounds their conductor led them to where,
in a dark portion of the building, one furnace
burnt by night and day—so, at least, they ga-
thered from the motion of his lips, for as yet
they could only see him speak: not hear him.
The man who had been watching this fire, and
whose task was ended for the present, gladly
withdrew, and left them with their friend, who,
spreading Nell's little cloak upon a heap of
ashes, and showing her where she could hang
her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the
old man to lie down and sleep. For himself, he
took his station on a rugged mat before the fur-
nace door, and, resting his chin upon his hands,
watched the flame as it shone through the iron
chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into
their bright hot grave below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as
it was, combined with the great fatigue she had
—undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place
to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's
tired ears, and was ...ot long in lulling her to
sleep. The old man was stretched beside her,
and, with her hand upon his neck, she lay and
dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she
know how long, or for how short a time, she had
slept. But, she found herself protected, both
from any cold air that might find its way into
the building, and from the scorching heat, by
some of the workmen's clothes; and, glancing at
their friend, saw that he sat in exactly the same
attitude, looking with a fixed earnestness of
attention towards the fire, and keeping so very
still that he did not even seem to breathe. She
lay in the state between sleeping and waking,
looking so long at his motionless figure that at
length she almost feared he had died as he sat
there ; and, softly rising and drawing close to
him, ventured to whisper in his ear.
He moved, and glancing from her to the place
she had lately occupied, as if to assure himself
that it was really the child so near him, looked
inquiringly into her face.
“I feared you were ill,” she said. “The
other men are all in motion, and you are so very
quiet.”
“They leave me to myself,” he replied. “They
know my humour. They laugh at me, but don't
harm me in it. See yonder there—that's my
friend.”
“The fire?” said the child.
“It has been alive as long as I have,” the
man made answer. “We talk and think together
all night long.”
The child glanced quickly at him in her sur-
prise, but he had turned his eyes in their former
direction, and was musing as before.
“It’s like a book to me,” he said—“the only
book I ever learned to read ; and many an old
story it tells me. It's music, for I should know
it's voice among a thousand, and there are other
voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You
don't know how many strange faces and different
scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my
| memory, that fire, and shows me all my life.”
164
7 HE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP
The child, bending down to listen to his words,
could not help remarking with what brightened
eyes he continued to speak and muse.
“Yes,” he said with a faint smile, “it was the
same when I was quite a baby, and crawled
about it till I fell asleep. My father watched
it then.”
“Had you no mother ?” asked the child.
“No, she was dead. Women work hard in
these parts. She worked herself to death, they
told me, and, as they said so then, the fire has
gone on saying the same thing ever since. I
suppose it was true. I have always believed
it.”
“Were you brought up here, then P” said the
child.
“Summer and winter,” he replied. “Secretly
at first, but, when they found it out, they let him
keep me here. So the fire nursed me—the same
fire. It has never gone out.”
“You are fond of it?” said the child.
“Of course I am. He died before it. I saw
him fall down—just there, where those ashes are
burning now—and wondered, I remember, why
it didn't help him.”
“Have you been here ever since r" asked the
child.
“Ever since I came to watch it ; but there
was a while between, and a very cold dreary
while it was. It burnt all the time, though, and
roared and leaped when I came back, as it used
to do in our play days. You may guess, from
looking at me, what kind of child I was ; but, for
all the difference between us, I was a child, and,
when I saw you in the street to-night, you put
me in mind of myself as I was after he died, and
made me wish to bring you to the fire. I thought
of those old times again, when I saw you sleep-
ing by it. You should be sleeping now. Lie
down again, poor child, lie down again "
With that, he led her to her rude couch, and,
covering her with the clothes with which she had
found herself enveloped when she woke, returned
to his seat, whence he moved no more unless to
feed the furnace, but remained motionless as a
statue. The child continued to watch him for a
little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness
that came upon her, and, in the dark strange
place and on the heap of ashes, slept as peace-
fully as if the room had been a palace chamber,
and the bed a bed of down.
When she awoke again, broad day was shining
through the lofty openings in the walls, and,
stealing in slanting rays but midway down,
seemed to make the building darker than it had
been at night. The clang and tumult were still
going on, and the remorseless fires were burning
fiercely as before; for few changes of night and
day brought rest or quiet there.
Her friend parted his breakfast—a scanty mess
of coffee and some coarse bread—with the child
and her grandfather, and inquired whither they
were going. She told him that they sought some
distant country place, remote ſrom towns or even
other villages, and with a faltering tongue in-
quired what road they would do best to take.
“I know little of the country,” he said, shak-
ing his head, “for such as I pass all our lives
before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to
breathe. But there are such places yonder.”
“And far from here P” said Nell.
“Ay, surely. How could they be near us,
and be green and fresh P The road lies, too,
through miles and miles, all lighted up by fires
like ours—a strange black road, and one that
would frighten you by night.” .
“We are here, and must go on,” said the child
boldly; for she saw that the old man listened
with anxious ears to this account.
“Rough people—paths never made for little
feet like yours—a dismal, blighted way—is there
no turning back, my child P”
“There is none,” cried Nell, pressing forward.
“If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not
seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you
do not know the danger that we shun, and how
right and true we are in flying from it, or you
would not try to stop us, I am sure you would
“God forbid, if it is so t” said their uncouth
protector, glancing from the eager child to her
grandfather, who hung his head and bent his
eyes upon the ground. “I’ll direct you, from
the door the best I can. I wish I could do
more.”
He showed them, then, by which road they
must leave the town, and what course they should
hold when they had gained it. ' He lingered so
long on these instructions, that the child, with a
fervent blessing, tore herself away, and stayed to
hear no more.
But, before they had reached the corner or
the lane, the man came running after them, and,
pressing her hand, left something in it—two
old, battered, smoke-incrusted, penny pieces.
who knows but they shone as brightly in the
eyes of angels as golden gifts that have been
chronicled on tombs P & -
And thus they separated; the child tº lead
her sacred charge farther from guilt and shame;
and the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the
spot where his guests had slept, and read new
histories in his furnace fire.
AZZGAT THzovcA THE BLACKENED TOWA.
CHAPTER XLV.
3N all their journeying, they had never
longed so ardently, they had never
so pined and wearied, for the free-
dom of pure air and open country as
now. No, not even on that memo-
rable morning when, deserting their
old home, they abandoned themselves to
a the mercies of a strange world, and left
all the dumb and senseless things they had
known and loved behind—not even then had
they so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood,
hill-side, and field as now, when the noise and
dirt and vapour of the great manufacturing town,
reeking with lean misery and hungry wretched-
ness, hemmed them in on every side, and
seemed to shut out hooe. and render escape
impossible.
“Two days and nights 1" thought the child.
“He said two days and nights we should have
to spend among such scenes as these. Oh if
we live to reach the country once again, if we
get clear of these dreadful places, though it is
only to lie down and die, with what a grateful
heart I shall thank God for so much mercy "
With thoughts like this, and with some vague
design of travelling to a great distance among
streams and mountains, where only-very poor
and simple people lived, and where they might
maintain themselves by very humble helping
work in farms, free from such terrors as that from
which they fled, the child, with no resource but
the poor man's gift, and no encouragement but
that which flowed from her own heart, and its
sense of the truth and right of what she did,
nerved herself to this last journey, and boldly
pursued her task.
“We shall be very slow to-day, dear,” she
said as they toiled painfully through the streets;
“my feet are sore, and I have pains in all my
limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that he
looked at us, and thought of that, when he said
how long we should be upon the road.”
“It was a dreary way he told us of,” returned
her grandfather piteously. “Is there no other
road P Will you not let me go some other way
than this P”
“Places lie beyond these,” said the child
firmly, “where we may live in peace, and be
tempted to do no harm. We will take the road
that promises to have that end, and we would
not turn out of it, if it were a hundred times
worse than our fears lend us to expect. We
would not dear, would we ?”
“No,” replied the old man, wavering in his
voice, no less than in his manner. “No. Let
1.65
us go on. I am - ready. I am quite ready,
Nell.”
The child walked with more difficulty than she
had led her companion to expect, for the pains
that racked her joints were of no common se-
verity, and every exertion increased them. But
they wrung from her no complaint, or look of
suffering; and, though the two travellers pro-
ceeded very slowly, they did proceed. Clearing
the town in course of time, they began to feel
that they were fairly on their way.
A long suburb of red brick houses, some
with patches of garden ground, where coal-dust
and factory smoke darkened the shrinking leaves
and coarse rank flowers, and where the strug-
gling vegetation sickened and sank under the
hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by
its presence seem yet more blighting and un-
wholesome than in the town itself-a long, flat,
straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow de-
grees, upon a cheerless region, where not a
blade of grass was seen to grow, where not a bud
put forth its promise in the spring, where nothing
green could live but on the surface of the stag-
nant pools, which here and there lay idly swel-
*tering by the black roadside. -
Advancing more and more into the shadow of
this mournful place, its dark depressing influence
stole upon their spirits, and filled them with a
dismal gloom. On every side, and far as the
eye could see into the heavy distance, tall chim-
neys, crowding on each other, and presenting
that endless repetition of the same dull, ugly
form which is the horror of oppressive dreams,
poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the
light, and made foul the melancholy air. On
mounds of ashes by the wayside, sheltered only
by a few rough boards, or rotten pent-house
roofs, strange engines spun and writhed like
tortured creatures: clanking their iron chains,
shrieking in their rapid whirl from time to time
as though in torment unendurable, and making
the ground tremble with their agonies. Dis-
mantled houses here and there appeared, totter-
ing to the earth, propped up by fragments of
others that had fallen down, unroofed, window-
less, blackened, desolate, but yet inhabited.
Men, women, children, wan in their looks and
ragged in attire, tended the engines, fed their
tributary fires, begged upon the road, or scowled
half naked from the doorless houses. Then came
more of the wrathful monsters, whose like they
almost seemed to be in their wildness and their
untamed air, screeching and turning round and
round again; and still, before, behind, and to
the right and left, was the same interminable
perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in

I 66
THE Ozzy CurzoSZZY SHOP.
their black vomit, blasting all things living or
inanimate, shutting out the face of day, and
closing in on all these horrors with a dense
dark cloud.
But, night-time in this dreadful spot –night,
when the smoke was changed to fire; when
every chirtıney spurted up its flame; and places,
that had been dark vaults all day, now shone
red-hot, with figures moving to and fro within
their blazing jaws, and calling, to one another
with hoarse cries—night, when the noise of every
strange machine was aggravated by the dark-
ness; when the people near them looked wilder
and more savage; when bands of unemployed
labourers paraded the roads, or clustered by
torch-light round their leaders, who told them,
in stern language, of their wrongs, and urged
them on to frightful cries and threats; when
maddened men, armed with sword and firebrand,
spurning the tears and prayers of women who
would restrain then, rushed forth on errands of
terror and destruction, to work no ruin half so
Surely as their own— night, when carts came
rumbling by, filled with rude coffins (for con-
tagious disease and death had been busy with
the living crops); when orphans cried, and dis-
tracted women shrieked and followed in their
wake–night, when some called for bread, and
some for drink to drown their cares, and some
with tears, and some with staggering feet, and
some with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home—
night, which, unlike the night that Heaven sends
on earth, brought with it no peace, nor quiet,
nor signs of blessed sleep—who shall tell the ter-
rors of the night to the young wandering child P
And yet she lay down, with nothing between
her and the sky; and, with no fear for herself,
for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the
poor old man. So very weak and spent she
felt, so very calm and unresisting, that she had
no thought of any wants of her own, but prayed
that God would raise up some friend for him.
She tried to recall the way they had come, and
to look in the direction where the fire by which
they had slept last night was burning. She had
forgotten to ask the name of the poor man, their
friend, and, when she had remembered him in
her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to turn one
look towards the spot where he was watching.
A penny loaf was all they had had that day.
It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten
in the strange tranquillity that crept over her
senses. She lay down very gently, and, with a
quiet smile upon her face, fell into a slumber.
It was not like sleep—and yet it must have
been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little
scholar all night long P
Morning came. Much weaker, diminished
powers even of sight and hearing, and yet the
child made no complaint—perhaps would have
made none, even if she had not had that induce-
ment to be silent travelling by her side. She
felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated
together from that forlorn place; a dull convic-
tion that she was very ill, perhaps dying; but
no fear or anxiety. i
A loathing of food, that she was not conscious
of until they expended their last penny in the
purchase of another loaf, prevented her par-
taking even of this poor repast. Her grand-
father ate greedily, which she was glad to
SCC, - -
Their way lay through the same scenes as
yesterday, with no variety or improvement. There
was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the
same blighted ground, the same hopeless pros-
pect, the same misery and distress. Objects
appeared more dim, the noise less, the path
more rugged and uneven, for sometimes she
stumbled, and became roused, as it were, in the
effort to prevent herself from falling. Poor child !
the cause was in her tottering feet.
Towards the afternoon, her grandfather com-
plained bitterly of hunger. She approached one
of the wretched hovels by the wayside, and
knocked with her hand upon the door. .
“What would you have here P” said a gaunt
man, opening it.
“Charity. A morsel of bread.”
“Do you see that?” returned the man hoarsely,
pointing to a kind of bundle on the ground.
“That's a dead child. I and five hundred other
men were thrown out of work three months ago.
That is my third dead child, and last. Do you
think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of
bread to spare P" .
The child recoited from the door, and it
closed upon her. Impelled by strong neces-
sity, she knocked at another: a neighbouring
one, which, yielding to the slight pressure of her
hand, flew open. -
It seemed that a couple of poor families lived
in this hovel, for two women, each among chil-
dren of her own, occupied different portions of
the room. In the centre, stood a grave gentle-
man in black, who appeared to have just entered.
and who held by the arm a boy.
“Here, woman,” he said, “here's your deaf-
and-dumb son. You may thank me for restoring
him to you. He was brought, before me this
morning, charged with theft; and with any other
boy it would have gone hard, I assure you. But,
as I had compassion on his infirmities, and
thought he might have learnt no better, I have
A’z/G#7 7//kovćA THE BZ/GATED covyzzy.
167
—-º-i-
sº-
managed to bring him back to vou. Take more
care of him for the future.” -
“And won't you give me back my son P” said
the other woman, hastily rising and confronting
him. “Won't you give me back my son, sir,
who was transported for the same offence P”
“Was he deaf and dumb, woman P” asked the
gentleman sternly.
“Was he not, sir?”
“You know he was not.” -
“He was,” cried the woman. “He was deaf,
dumb, and blind to all that was good and right
from his cradle. Her boy may have learnt no
better 1 Where did mine learn better P where
could he P who was there to teach him better,
or where was it to be learnt P”
“Peace, woman 1" said the gentleman; “your
boy was in possession of all his senses.”
“He was,” cried the mother; “and he was
the more easy to be led astray because he had
them. If you save this boy because he may not
know right from wrong, why did you not save
mine who was never taught the difference? You
gentlemen have as good a right to punish her
boy, that God has kept in ignorance of sound
and speech, as you have to punish miné, that
you kept in ignorance yourselves. How many
of the girls and boys—ah, men and women too !
—that are brought before you, and you don’t
pity, are deaf and dumb in their minds, and go
wrong in that state, and are punished in that
state, body and soul, while you gentlemen are
quarrelling among yourselves whether they ought
to learn this or that P−Be a just man, sir, and
give me back my son " . -
“You are desperate,” said the gentleman,
taking out his snuff-box, “and I am sorry for
you.”
“I am desperate,” returned the woman, “and
you have made me so. Give me back my son,
to work for these helpless children. Be a just
man, sir, and, as you haye had mercy upon this
boy, give me back my son | *
The child had seen and heard enough to
know that this was not a place at which to ask
for alms. She, led the old man softly from the
door, and they pursued their journey.
With less and less of hope or strength as they
went on, but with an undininished resolution
not to betray by any word or sign her sinking
state, so long as she had energy to move, the
child, throughout the remainder of that hard
day, compelled herself to proceed'; ' not even
stopping to rest as frequently as usual, to com-
pensate in some measure for the tardy pace at
which she was obliged to walk. Evening was
drawing on, but had not closed in, when—still
&
travelling among the same dismal objects—they
| came to a busy town.
Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets
were insupportable. After humbly asking for
relief at some few doors, and being repulsed,
they agreed to make their way out of it as
speedily as they could, and try if the inmates of
any lone house beyond would have more pity
on their exhausted state. *.
They were dragging themselves along through
the last street, and the child felt that the time
was close at hand when her enfeebled powers
would bear no more. There appeared beſore
them, at this juncture, going in the same direc-
tion as theniselves, a traveller on foot, who, with
a portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon
a stout stick as he walked, and read from a book
which he held in his other hand.
It was not an easy matter to come up with
Jhim, and beseech his aid, for he walked fast, and
was a little distance in advance. At length he
stopped, to look more attentively at some pas-
sage in his book. Animated with a ray of hope,
the child shot on before her grandfather, and,
going close to the stranger without rousing him
by the sound of her footsteps, began, in a few
ſaint words, to implore his help.
He turned his head. The child clapped her
hands together, uttered a wild shriek, and fell
senseless at his feet.
"CHAPTER XLVI.
&
|
§§
ſ: ºt was the poor schoolmaster. No
§ ( other than the poor schoolmaster.
§§§ Scarcely less moved and surprised by
}. the sight of the child than she had
*ś been on recognising him, he stood,
- for a moment, silent and confounded
- by this unexpected apparition, without
º even the presence of mind to raise her
from the ground.
But quickly recovering his self-possession, he
threw down his stick and book, and, dropping on
one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such
simple means as occurred to him, to restore her
to herself; while her grandfather, standing idly
by, wrung his hands, and implored her with
many endearing expressions to speak to him,
were it only a word.
“She is quite exhausted,” said the school-
master, glancing upward into his face. “You
have taxed her powers too far, friend.”
“She is perishing of want,” rejoined the old
man. “I never thought how weak and ill she
was till now.”






168
g
THE OLD C UR/OS/7'y SAOA).
Casting a look upon him, half reproachful and
half compassionate, the schoolmaster took the
child in his arms, and, bidding the old man
gather up her little basket and follow him
directly, bore her away at his utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which,
it wotild seem, he had been directing his steps
when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this
place he hurried with his unconscious burden,
and rushing into the kitchen, and calling upon
the company there assembled to make way for
'God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire.
The company, who rose in confusion on the
schoolmaster's entrance, did as people usually
do under such circumstances. Everybody called
for his or her favourite remedy, which nobody.
brought ; each cried for more air, at the same
time carefully excluding what air there was, by
closing round the object of sympathy; and all
wondered why somebody else didn't do what it
never appeared to occur to them might be done
by themselves. - -
The landlady, however, who possessed more
readiness and activity than any of them, and who
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“she is QUITE ExHAUSTED,” SAID THE SCHOOLMASTER,
had withal a quicker perception of the merits of
the case, soon came running in, with a little hot
brandy-and-water, followed by her servant-girl,
carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling-salts, and
such other restoratives; which, being duly ad-
ministered, recovered the child so far as to
enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and
to extend her hand to the poor schoolmaster,
who stood with an anxious face hard by. With-
out suffering her to speak another word, or so
much as to stir a finger any more, the women
straightway carried her off to bed; and, having
covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and
speed, and, taking his seat by the
wrapped them in flannel, they dispatched a
messenger for the doctor.
The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman
with a great bunch of seals dangling below a
waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with al.
bedside of
poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her pulse.
Then he iocked at her tongue, then he felt, hº
'pulse again, and, while he did so, he eyed the half.
emptied wine-glass as if in profound abstraº”.
* I should give her”—said the doctor *
length—“a teaspoonful, every now and then, of
hot brandy-and-water.”

A&ESZ" AAWD AE/E/CAE.
169
“Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!”
said the delighted landlady.
“I should also,” observed the doctor, who
had passed the foot-bath on the stairs, “I should
also,” said the doctor, in the voice of an oracle,
“put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up
in flannel. I should likewise,” said the doctor
with increased solemnity, “give her something
light for supper—the wing of a roasted fowl
In OW y?
“Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking
at the kitchen fire this instant l’’ cried the land-
lady. And so indeed it was, for the school-
master had ordered it to be put down, and it
was getting on so well that the doctor might
have smelt it if he had tried—perhaps he did.
“You may then,” said the doctor, rising
gravely, give her a glass of hot mulled port wine,
if she likes wine—” \
“And a toast, sir?” suggested the landlady.
“Ay,” says the doctor, in the tone of a man
who makes a dignified concession. “And a
toast—of bread. But be very particular to
make it of bread, if you please, ma'am.”
With which parting injunction, slowly and
portentously delivered, the doctor departed,
leaving the whole house in admiration of that
wisdom which tallied so closely with their own.
Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor
indeed, and knew perfectly what people's con-
stitutions were; which there appears some reason
to suppose he did. -
While her supper was preparing, the child fell
into a refreshing sleep, from which they were
obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she
evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning
that her grandfather was below-stairs, and was
greatly troubled at the thought of their being
apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her
still very restless on this head, they made him
up a bed in an inner room, to which he presently
retired. The key of this chamber happened by
good fortune to be on that side of the door
which was in Nell's room; she turned it on him
when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept
to bed again with a thankful heart. -
The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking
his pipe by the kitchen fire, which was now
deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on
the fortunate chance which had brought him so
opportunely to the child's assistance, and parry-
ing, as well as in his simple way he could, the
inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady,
who had a great curiosity to be made acquainted
with every particular of Nell's life and history.
The poor schoolmaster was so open-hearted,
and so little versed in the most ordinary cunning
or deceit, that she could not have ſailed to
succeed in the first five minutes, but that he
happened to be unacquainted with what she
wished to know ; and so he told her. The land-
lady, by no means satisfied with this assurance,
which she considered an ingenious evasion of
the question, rejoined that he had his reasons, of
course. Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry
into the affairs of her customers, which, indeed.
were no business of hers, who had so many of
her own. She had merely asked a civil question,
and to be sure she knew it would meet with a
civil answer. She was quite satisfied—quite.
She had rather, perhaps, that he would have said
at once that he didn't choose to be communi-
cative, because that would have been plain and
intelligible. However, she had no right to be
offended, of course. He was the best judge,
and had a perfect right to say what he pleased ;
nobody could dispute that for a moment. Oh
dear, no
“I assure you, my good lady,” said the mild
schoolmaster, “that I have told you the plain
truth—as I hope to be saved, I have told you
the truth.” .
“Why, then, I do believe you are in earnest,”
rejoined the landlady with ready good-humour,
“ and I'm very sorry I’ve teased you. But
curiosity, you know, is the curse of our sex, and
that's the fact.”
The landlord scratched his head, as if he
thought the curse sometimes involved the other
sex likewise; but he was prevented from making
any remark to that effect, if he had it in contem-
plation to do so, by the schoolmaster's rejoinder.
“You should question me for half-a-dozen
hours at a sitting, and welcome, and I would
answer you patiently for the kindness of heart
you have shown to-night, if I could,” he said.
“As it is, please to take care of her in the morn-
ing, and let me know early how she is ; and
to understand that I am paymaster for the
three.”
So parting with them on most friendly terms,
not the less cordial, perhaps, for this last direc-
tion, the schoolmaster went to his bed, and the
host and hostess to theirs. “A
The report in the morning was that the child
was better, but was extremely weak, and would
at least require a day's rest, and careful nursing,
before she could proceed upon her journey. The
schoolmaster received this communication with
perfect cheerfulness, observing that he had a day
to spare—two days for that matter—and could
very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit
up in the evening, he appointed to visit her in
her room at a certain hour, and, rambling out
17o
THE ozo curſoszzy Sãoz
with his book, did not return until the hour
arrived. *.
Nell could not help weeping when they were
left alone; whereat, and at sight of her pale
face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster
shed a few tears himself, at the same time show-
ing in very energetic language how foolish it was
to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided,
if one tried. ---
* “It makes me unhappy even in the midst of
all this kindness,” said the child, “to think that
we should be a burden upon you.
ever thank you? If I had not met you so far
from home, I must have died, and he would have
been left alone.” ~
“We'll not talk about dying,” said the school-
master; “and as to burdens, I have made my
fortune since you slept at my cottage.”
“Indeed " cried the child joyfully.
“Oh yes " returned her friend. “I have been
appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village
a long way from here—and a long way from the
old one, as you may suppose—at five-and-thirty
pounds a year. Five-and-thirty pounds !”
“I am very glad,” said the child—“so very,
very glad.”
“I am on my way there now,” resumed the
schoolmaster. “They allowed me the stage-
coach hire—outside stage-coach hire all the way.
Bless you, they grudge me nothing. But, as the
time at which I am expected there left me ample
leisure, I determined to walk instead. How
glad I am to think I did so ſ” º
“How glad should we be " - *
“Yes, yes,” said the schoolmaster, moving
restlessly in his chair, “certainly, that's very true.
But you—where are you going, where are you
coming from, what have you been doing since
you left me, what had you been doing before ?
Now, tell me—do tell me. I know very little
of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted
to advise me in its affairs than I am qualified to
give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and I
have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for
loving you. I have felt since that time as if my
love for him who died had been transferred to
you who stood beside his bed. If this,” he
added, looking upwards, “is the beautiful crea-
tion that springs from ashes, let its peace prosper
with me, as I deal tenderly and compassionately
by this young child !”
The plain, frank kindness on the honest school-
master, the affectionate earnestness of his speech
and manner, the truth which was stamped upon
his every word and look, gave the child a con-
fidence in him, which the utmost arts of treachery
and dissimulation could never have awakened
How can I .
in her breast. She told him all—that they had
no friend or relative—that she had fled with the
old man, to save him from a madhouse and all
the miseries he dreaded—that she was flying
now, to save him from himself—and that she
sought an asylum in some remote and primitive
place, where the temptation before which he fell
would never enter, and her late sorrows and dis-
tresses could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with astonish-
ment. “This child !”—he thought—“ has this
child heroically persevered under all doubts and
dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering,
upheld and sustained by strong affection and the
consciousness of rectitude alone P And yet the
world is full of such heroism. Have I yet. to
learn that the hardest and best-borne trials are
those which are never chronicled in any earthly
record, and are suffered every day ? And should
I be surprised to hear the story of this child?”
What more he thought or said, matters not.
It was concluded that Nell and her grandfather
should accompany him to the village whither he
was bound, and that he should endeavour to
find them some humble occupation by which
they could subsist. “We shall be sure to suc-
ceed,” said the schoolmaster heartily. “The
cause is too good a one to fail.”
They arranged to proceed upon their journey
next évening, as a stage-waggon, which travelled
for some distance on the same road as they
must take, would stop at the inn to change
horses, and the driver for a small gratuity would
give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon
struck when the waggon came ; and in due time
it rolled away; with the child comfortably be-
stowed among the softer packages, her grand-
father and the schoolmaster walking on beside
the driver, and the landlady, and all the good
folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes
and farewells.
What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of
travelling, to lie inside that slowly-moving moun-
tain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells,
the occasional smacking of the carter's whip,
the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the
rattle of the harness, the cheery good nights of
passing travellers jogging past on little short-
stepped horses—all made pleasantly indistinct
by the thick awning, which seemed made for
lazy listening under, till one fell asleep ! The
very going to sleep, still with an indistinct idea,
as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow,
of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue,
and hearing all these sounds like dreamy music,
lulling to the senses—and the slow waking up,
and finding one's self staring out through the
A REST/AWG-AZACE. 171
breezy curtain half opened in front, far up into the
cold bright sky with its countless stars, and down-
ward at the driver's lantern dancing on like its
namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes, and
sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at
the long bare road rising up, up, up, until it
stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as if there
were no more road, and all beyond was sky—
and the stopping at the inn to bait, and being
helped out, and going into a room with fire and
candles, and winking very much, and being
agreeably reminded that the night was cold, and
anxious for very comfort's sake to think it colder
than it was l—What a delicious journey was that
journey in the waggon
Then the going on again—so fresn at first, and
shortly afterwards so sleepy. The waking from
a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like
a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and
rattling hoofs, and visions of a guard behind,
standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a
gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and
looking wild and stupefied—the stopping at the
turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and
knocking at the door until he answered with a
smothered shout from under the bedclothes in
the little room above, where the faint light was
burning, and presently came down, nightcapped
and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and
wish all waggons off the road, except by day.
The cold sharp interval between night and morn-
ing—the distant streak of light widening and
spreading, and turning from grey to white, and
from white to yellow, and from yellow to burn-
ing red—the presence of day, with all its cheer-
fulness and life—men and horses at the plough
—birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in
solitary fields, frightening them away with rattles.
The coming to a town—people busy in the
market; light carts and chaises round the tavern-
yard ; tradesmen standing at their doors. ;
men running horses up and down the street for
sale ; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty
distance, getting off with long strings at their
legs, running into clean chemists' shops, and
being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices; the
night coach changing horses—the passengers
cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented, with
three months' growth of hair in one night—the
coachman fresh as from a bandbox, and exqui-
sitely beautiful by contrast :—so much bustle, so
many things in motion, such a variety of inci-
dents—when was there a journey with so many
delights as that journey in the waggon P
Sometimes walking for a mile or two while he
grandfather rode inside, and sometimes even
prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her
place and lie down to rest, Nell travelled on
very happily until they caree to a large town,
where the waggon stopped, and where they
spent a night. They passed a large church;
and in the streets were a number of old houses,
built of a kind of earth or plaster, crossed and
recrossed in a great many directions with black
beams, which gave them a remarkable and very
ancient look. The doors, too, were arched and
low, some with oaken portals and quaint benches,
where the former inhabitants had sat on summer
evenings. The windows were latticed in little
diamond panes, that seemed to wink and blink
upon the passengers as if they were dim of
sight. They had long since got clear of the
smoke and furnaces, except in one or two soli-
tary instances, where a factory planted among
fields withered the space about it, like a burning
mountain. When they had passed through
this town, they entered again upon the country,
and began to draw near their place of destina-
tion.
It was not so near, however, but that they
spent another night upon the road ; not that
their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but
that the schoolmaster, when they approached
within a few miles of his village, had a fidgety
sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was
unwilling to make his entry in dusty shoes and
travel-disordered dress. It was a fine, clear,
autumn morning when they came upon the
scene of his promotion, and stopped to con-
template its beauties.
“See—here's the church 1” cried the delighted
schoolmaster in a low voice; “and that old
building close beside it is the school-house, I'll
be sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this
beautiful place l’”
They admired everything—the old grey porch,
the mullioned windows, the venerable grave-
stones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient
tower, the very weather-cock; the brown thatched
roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping
from among the trees; the stream that rippled
by the distant water-mill; the blue Welsh moun-
tains far away. It was for such a spot the child
had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts
of labour. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst
the squalid horrors through which they had
forced their way, visions of such scenes—beauti-
ful indeed, but not more beautiful than this
sweet reality—had been always present to her
mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim
and airy distance, as the prospect of ever be-
holding them again grew fainter; but, as they
receded, she had loved and panted for them
| In Ore.
172
ZHE old curſoszzy São P.
“I must leave you somewhere for a few
minutes,” said the schoolmaster, at length break-
ing the silence into which they had fallen in
their gladness. “I have a letter to present, and
inquiries to make, you know. Where shall I
take you? To the little inn yonder P”
“Let us wait here,” rejoined Nell. “The
gate is open. We will sit in the church porch
till you come back.” -
“A good place too,” said the schoolmaster,
leading the way towards it, disencumbering him-
self of his portmanteau, and placing it on the
stone seat. “Be sure that I come back with
good news, and am not long gone.”
So, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-
new pair of gloves which he had carried in a
little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried
off, full of ardour and excitement.
The child watched him from the porch until
the intervening foliage hid him from her view,
and then stepped softly out into the old church-
yard—so solemn and quiet that every rustle of
her dress upon the fallen leaves, which strewed
the path and made her footsteps noiseless,
secnned an invasion of its silence. It was a very
aged, ghostly place ; the church had been built
many hundreds of years ago, and had once had
a convent or monastery attached; for arches in
ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments
of blackened walls, were yet standing; while
other portions of the old building, which had
crumbled away and fallen down, were mingled
with the churchyard earth and overgrown with
grass, as if they too claimed a burying-place,
and Gought to mix their ashes with the dust of
men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years,
and forming a part of the ruin which some pains
had been taken to render habitable in modern
times, were two small dwellings with sunken
windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to
decay, empty and desolate.
Upon these tenements the attention of the
child became exclusively riveted. She knew
not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated
graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's
thoughts, but from the moment when her eyes
first rested on these two dwellings, she could
turn to nothing else. Even when she had made
the circuit of the enclosure, and, returning to the
porch, sat pensively waiting for their friend,
she took her station where she could still look
upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that
spot.
CHAPTER XLVII.
;IT'S mother and the single gentle.
man—upon whose track it is expe.
dient to follow with hurried steps,
lest this history should be chargeable
with inconstancy, and the offence of
leaving its characters in situations of
uncertainty and doubt—Kit's mother and
& the single gentleman, speeding onward in
the post-chaise and four, whose departure from
the notary's door we have already witnessed,
soon left the town behind them, and struck fire
from the flints of the broad highway.
The good woman, being not a little embar-
rassed by the novelty of her situation, and cer-
tain maternal apprehensions that perhaps by
this time little Jacob, or the baby, or both, had
fallen into the fire, or tumbled down-stairs, or
had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded
their windpipes in endeavouring to allay their
thirst at the spouts of tea-kettles, preserved an
uneasy silence; and meeting from the window
the eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus drivers, and
others, felt in the new dignity of her position
like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being
greatly afflicted by the loss of the departed,
recognises his every-day acquaintance from the
window of the mourning-coach, but is con-
strained to preserve a decent solemnity, and
the appearance of being indifferent to all ex-
ternal objects.
To have been indifferent to the companion-
ship of the single gentleman would have been
tantamount to being gifted with nerves of steel.
Never did chaise enclose, or horses draw, such
a restless gentleman as he. He never sat in the
same position for two minutes together, but was
perpetually tossing his arms and legs about, pull-
ing up the sashes and letting them violently down,
or thrusting his head out of one window to draw
it in again and thrust it out of another. He oar-
ried in his pocket, too, a fire-box of mysterious
and unknown construction ; and, as sure as ever
Kit's mother closed her eyes, so surely—whisk,
rattle, fizz—there was the single gentleman con-
sulting his watch by a flame of fire, and letting
the sparks fall down among the straw as if ther.
were no such thing as a possibility of himself
and Kit's mother being roasted alive before the
boys could stop their horses. Whenever they
halted to change, there he was—out of the car-
riage without letting down the steps, bursting
about the inn yard like a lighted cracker, pulling
out his watch by lamp-light and forgetting to look
at it before he put it up again, and, in short, com"
mitting so many extrayagances that Kit's mother

Q
Zºº SZAWGZAE GENZZAEMAN ON 7:HE ROAD.
was quite afraid of him. Then, when the horses
were to, in he came like a Harlequin, and before
they had gone a mile, out came the watch and
the fire-box together, and Kit's mother was wide
awake again, with no hope of a wink of sleep for
that stage. -
“Are you comfortable?" the single gentleman
would say after one of these exploits, turning
sharply round. -
“Quite, sir, thank you.”
“Are you sure ? An't you cold P”
“It is a little chilly, sir,” Kit's mother would
reply. -
“I knew it!” cried the single gentleman, letting
down one of the front glasses. “She wants some
brandy-and-water | Of course she does. How
could I forget it? Hallo! Stop at the next inn,
and call out for a glass of hot brandy-and-water.”
It was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that
she stood in need of nothing of the kind. The
single gentleman was inexorable; and, whenever
he had exhausted all other modes and fashions
of restlessness, it invariably occurred fo him that
Kit's mother wanted brandy-and-water.
In this way they travelled on until near mid
night, when they stopped to supper, for which
meal the single gentleman ordered everything
eatable that the house contained ; and because
Kit's mother didn't eat everything at once, and
eat it all, he took it into his head that she must
be ill. W
“You're faint,” said the single gentleman, who
did nothing himself but walk about the room. “I
See what's the matter with vou, ma'am.
faint.” -
“Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed.” -
“I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this
poor woman from the bosom of her family at a
minute's notice, and she goes on getting fainter
and fainter before my eyes. I'm a pretty fellow !
How many children have you got, ma'am P.”
“Two, sir, besides Kit.”
“Boys, ma'am P”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are they christened P”
“Only half baptized as yet, sir.”
A
“I’m godfather to both of 'em. Remember.
that, if you please, ma'am. You had better have
some mulled wine.”
“I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir.”
“You must,” said the single gentleman. “I
See you want it. I ought to have thought of it
before.”
‘Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for
mulled wine as impetuously as if it had been
Wanted for instant use in the recovery of some
Person apparently drowned, the single gentlé-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 12. . .
You're
I73
man made Kit's mother swallow a bumper of it
at such a high temperature that the tears ran
down her face, and then hustled her off to the
chaise again, where—not impossibly from the
effects of this agreeable sedative—she soon be-
came insensible to his restlessness, and fell fast
asleep. Nor were the happy effects of this pre-
seription of a transitory nature, as, notwithstand-
ing that the distance was greater, and the journey
longer, than the single gentleman had antici-
pated, she did not awake until it was broad
day, and they were clattering over the pavement
of a town.
“This is the place " cried her companion,
letting down all the glasses. “Drive to the
wax-work 1"
The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and
setting spurs to his horse, to the end that they
might go in brilliantly, all four broke into a
smart canter, and dashed through the streets
with a noise that brought the good folks won-
dering to their doors and windows, and drowned
the sober voices of the town clocks as they
chimed out half-past eight. They drove up to
a door round which a crowd of persons were
collected, and there stopped.
“What's this P” said the single gentleman,
thrusting out his head. “Is anything the matter
here P’’
“A wedding, sir, a wedding !” cried several
voices. “ Hurrah ” -
The single gentleman, rather bewildered by
finding himself the centre of this noisy throng,
alighted with the assistance of one of the postil-
lions, and handed out Kit's mother, at the sight
of whom the populace cried out, “Here's another
“wedding !” and roared and leaped for joy.
“The world has gone mad, I think,” said the
single gentleman, pressing through the concourse
with his supposed bride. “Stand back here, will
you ? and let me knock.”
Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to
a crowd. A score of dirty hands were raised
directly to knock for him, and seldom has a
knocker of equal powers been made to pro-
duce more deafening sounds than this particular
engine on the occasion in question. Having
rendered these voluntary services, the throng
modestly retired a little, preferring that the single
gentleman should bear their consequences alone.
“Now, sir, what do you want P” said a man
with a large white bow at his button-hole, open-
ing the door, and confronting him with a very
stoical aspect.
“Who has been married, here, my friend ?"
said the single géntleman.
“I have.” /
26o
174
7HE OLD curroSITy SHOP
{}
“You ! and to whom in the devil's name?”,
“What right have you to ask?” returned the
bridegroom, eyeing him from top to toe.
“What right !” cried the single gentleman
drawing the arm of Kit's mother more tightly
through his own, for that good woman evidently
had it in contemplation to run away. “A right
you little dream of Mind, good people, if this
fellow has been marrying a minor— Tut, tut,
that can't be Where is the child you have here,
my good fellow? You call her Nell. Where is
She P”
As he propounded this question, which Kit's
Imother echoed, somebody in a room near at
hand uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in
a white dress came running to the door, and
supported herself upon the bridegroom's arm.
“Where is she P” cried this lady. “What
news have you brought me? What has become
Of her P’’
The single gentleman started back, and gazed
upon the face of the late Mrs. Jarley (that morn-
ing wedded to the philosophic George, to the
eternal wrath and despair of Mr. Slum the poet),
with looks of conflicting apprehension, disap.
pointment, and incredulity. At length he stam-
mered out : .
“I ask you where she is.
- What do you
Inean P”
“Oh, sir!” cried the bride, “if you have
come here to do her any good, why weren't you
here a week ago?”
. “She is not—not dead P” said the person to
whom she addressed herself, turning very pale.
“No, not so bad as that.”
“I thank God,” cried the single gentleman
feebly. “Let me come in.”
They drew back to admit him, and, when he
had entered, closed the door.
“You see in me, good people,” he said, turn-
ing to the newly-married couple, “one to whom
life itself is not dearer than the two persons
whom I seek. They would not know me. My
features are strange to them, but, if they or
either of them are here, take this good woman
with you, and let them see her first, for her they
both know. If you deny them from any mis-
taken regard or fear for them, judge of my in-
tentions by their recognition of this person as
their old humble friend.”
“I always said it !” cried the bride. “I knew
she was not a common child Alas, sir! we
have no power to help you, for all that we could
do has been tried in vain.”
With that, they related to him, without dis-
guise or concealment, all that they knew of Nell
and her grandfather, from their first meeting
A
.l
with them, down to the time of their sudden
disappearance; adding (which was quite true)
that they had made every possible effort to
trace them, but without success; having been
at first in great alarm for their safety, as well
as on account of the suspicions to which they
thémselves might one day be exposed in conse-
'quence of their abrupt departure. They dwelt
upon the old man's imbecility of mind, upon
the uneasiness the child had always testified
when he was absent, upon the company he had
been supposed to keep, and upon the increased
depression which had gradually crept over her,
and changed her both in health and spirits.
Whether she had missed the old man in the
night, and, knowing or conjecturing whither he
had bent his steps, had gone in pursuit, or
whether they had left the house together, they
had no means of determining. Certain they
considered it that there was but slender pros-
pect left of hearing of them again, and that
whether their flight originated with the old man,
or with the child, there was now no hope of
their return.
To all this the single gentleman listened with
the air of a man quite borne down by grief
and disappointment. He shed tears when they
spoke of the grandfather, and appeared in deep
affliction, . -
Not to protract this portion of our narrative,
and to make short work of a long story, let it be
briefly written that, before the interview came
to a close, the single gentleman, deemed he had
| sufficient evidence of having been told the truth,
and that he endeavoured to force upon the bride
and bridegroom an acknowledgment of their
kindness to the unfriended child, which, how-
ever, they steadily declined accepting. In the
end, the happy couple jolted away in the caravan
to spend their honeymoon in a country excur-
sion; and the single gentleman and Kit's mother
stood ruefully before their carriage door.
“Where shall we drive you, sir?” said the
postboy.
“You may drive me,” said the single gentle-
man, “to the ” He was not going to add
“inn,” but he added it for the sake of Kit's
mother; and to the inn they went.
Rumours had already got abroad that the little
girl who used to show the wax-work was the
child of great people, who had been stolen from
her parents in infancy, and had only just been
traced. Opinion was divided whether she was
the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, a
viscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the
main fact, and that the single gentleman was her
father; and all bent forward to catch a glimpse,
AAV AGGRA VAZYAVG WITNESS.
17s
though it were only of the tip of his noble nose,
as he rode away, desponding, in his four-horse
chaise.
What would he have given to know, and what
sorrow would have been saved if he had only
known, that at that moment both child and
grandfather were seated in the old church porch,
patiently awaiting the schoolmaster's return
CHAPTER XLVIII.
NOPULAR rumour concerning the
! single gentleman and his errand,
travelling from mouth to mouth, and
waxing stronger in the marvellous as
- à. it was bandied about—for your popu-
º lar rumour, unlike the rolling Stone of
65 the proverb, is one which gathers a deal
* of moss in its wanderings up and down—
occasioned his dismounting at the inn door to be
looked upon as an exciting and attractive spec-
tacle, which could scarcely be enough admired;
and drew together a large concourse of idlers,
who, having recently been, as it were, thrown
out of employment by the closing of the wax-
work and the completion of the nuptial ceremo-
nies, considered his arrival as little else than a
special providence, and hailed it with demon-
strations of the liveliest joy.
Not at all participating in the general sensa-
tion, but wearing the depressed and wearied look
of one who sought to meditate on his disappoint-
ment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman
alighted, and handed out Kit's mother with a
gloomy politeness which impressed the lookers-
on extremely. That done, he gave her his arm
and escorted her into the house, while several
aëtive waiters ran on before as a skirmishing
§
łº
jº
party, to clear the way and to show the room
which was ready for their reception.
“Any room will do,” said the single gentleman.
“Let it be near at hand, that's all.”
“Close here, sir, if you please to walk this
way.” - *:
“Would the gentleman like this room P” said
a voice, as a little out-of-the-way door at the foot
of the well staircase flew briskly open and a head
popped out. “He’s quite welcome to it. He's
as welcome as flowers in May, or coals at Christ-
mas. Would you like this room, sir? Honour
me by walking in. Do me the favour, pray.”
... Goodnéss gracious me!" cried Kit's mother,
º; back in extreme surprise, “only think of
llS
She had some reason to be astonished, for the
person who proffered the gracious invitation was
no other than Daniel Quilp. The little door
out of which he had thrust his head was close to
the inn larder; and there he stood, bowing with
grotesque politeness ; as much at his ease as if
the door were that of his own house; blighting
all the legs of mutton and cold roast fowls by his
close companionship, and looking like the evil
genius of the cellars come from underground
upon some work of mischief.
“Would you do me the honour?” said Quilp.
“I prefer being alone,” replied the single
gentleman.
“Oh ” said Quilp. And, with that, he darted
in again with one jerk, and clapped the little
door to, like a figure in a Dutch clock when the
hour strikes.
“Why, it was only last night, sir,” whispered
Kit's mother, “that I left him in Little Bethel.”
“Indeed " said her fellow-passenger. “When
did that person come here, waiter?”
“Come down by the night coach this morn-
ing, sir.”
“Humph And when is he going?”
“Can't say, sir, really. When the chamber-
maid asked him just now if he should want a
bed, sir, he first made faces at her, and then
wanted to kiss her.” -
“Beg him to walk this way,” said the single
gentleman. “I should be glad to exchange a
word with him, tell him. Beg him to come at
once, do you hear?” -
The man stared on receiving these instruc-
tions, for the single gentleman had not only dis-
played as much astonishment as Kit's mother at
sight of the dwarf, but, standing in no fear of
him, had been at less pains to conceal his dislike
and repugnance. He departed on his errand,
however, and immediately returned, ushering in
its object.
“Your servant, sir,” said the dwarf. “I en-
countered your messenger half-way. I thought
you'd allow me to pay my compliments to you.
I hope you're well. I hope you're very well.”
There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with
half-shut eyes and puckered face, stood waiting for
an answer. Receiving none, he turned towards
his more familiar acquaintance.
“ Christopher's mother " he cried. “Such a
dear lady, such a worthy woman, so blessed in
her honest son 1 How is Christopher's mother?
Have change of air and scene improved her?
Her little family too, and Christopher P. Do
they thrive? Do they flourish P Are they grow-
ing into worthy citizens, eh?”
Making his voice ascend in the scale with
every succeeding question, Mr. Quilp finished in


176
7:HE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP.
a shrill squeak, and subsided into the panting
look which was customary with him, and which,
whether it were assumed or natural, had equally
the effect of banishing all expression from his
face, and rendering it, as far as it afforded any
index to his mood or meaning, a perfect blank.
“Mr. Quilp,” said the single gentleman. ,
The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped
ear, and counterfeited the closest attention.
“We, too, have met before yj
“Surely,” cried Quilp, nodding his head. “Oh,
Surely, sir! Such an honour and pleasure—it's
both, Christopher's mother, it's both—is not to
be forgotten so soon. By no means !”
“You may remember that, the day I arrived
in London, and found the house to which I
drove empty and deserted, I was directed by
Some of the neighbours to you, and waited upon
you without stopping for rest or refreshment?”
“How precipitate that was, and yet what an
earnest and vigorous measure t” said Quilp, con-
ſerring with himself, in imitation of his friend,
Mr. Sampson Brass.
“I found,” said the single gentleman, “you
most unaccountably in possession of everything
that had so recently belonged to another man,
and that other man, who, up to the time of your
entering upon his property, had been looked
upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beggary,
and driven from house and home.”
“We had warrant for what we did, my good
sir," rejoined Quilp, “we had our warrant.
Don't say driven either. He went of his own
accord—vanished in the night, sir.”
“No matter,” said the single gentleman angrily.
“He was gone.”
“Yes, he was gone,” said Quilp with the same
exasperating compesure.
gone. The only question was, where.
a question still.”
“Now, what am I to think,” said the single
gentleman, sternly regarding him, “of you, who,
plainly indisposed to give me any information
then—may, obviously holding back, and shelter-
ing yourself with all kinds of cunning, trickery,
and evasion—are dogging my footsteps now P’’
“I dogging !” cried Quilp.
* Why, are you not?” returned his questioner,
fretted into a state of the utmost irritation,
“Were you not, a few hours since, sixty miles
off, and in the chapel to which this good woman
goes to say her prayers ?” . -
. “She was there too, I think?” said Quilp,
still perfectly unmoved. “I might say, if I was
inclined to be rude, how do I know but you are
dogging my footsteps ? Yes, I was at chapel.
What then P I've read in books that pilgrims
“No doubt he was
And it's
pleasant journey—back; sir.
i
| were used to go to chapel before they went on
journeys, to put up petitions for their safe return,
Wise men journeys are very perilous—espe-
cially outside the coach. Wheels come off, horses
take fright, coachmen drive too fast, coaches
overturn. I always go to chapel before I start
on journeys. It's the last thing I do on such
occasions, indeed.”
That Quilp lied most heartily in this speech,
it needed no very great penetration to discover,
although, for anything that he suffered to appear
in his face, voice, or manner, he might have been
clinging to the truth with the quiet constancy of
a martyr. -
“In the name of all that's calculated to drive
one crazy, man,” said the unfortunate single gen-
tleman, “ have you not, for some reason of your
own, taken upon yourself my errand P Don't
you know with what object I have come here,
and, if you do krrow, can you throw no light
upon it P” -
“You think I’m a conjurer, sir, replied Quilp,
shrugging up his shoulders. “If I was, I should
tell my own fortune—and make it.”
“Ah, ! we have said all we need say, I see,”
returned the other, throwing himself impatiently
upon a sofa. “Pray leave us, if you please.”
“Willingly,” returned Quilp. “Most willingly.
Christopher's mother, my good soul, farewell. A
Ahem tº -
With these parting words, and with a grin.
upon his features altogether indescribable, but
which seemed to be compounded of every
monstrous grimace of which men or monkeys
are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated and
closed the door behind him. - - -
“Oho!” he said when he had regained his
own room, and sat himself down in a chair with
his arms a-kimbo. “Oho! Are you there, my
friend ?" In-deed tº .
Chuckling as though in very great glee, and
recompensing himself for the restraint he had
lately put upon his countenance by twisting it
into all imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr.
Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in his chair,
and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell
into certain meditations, of which it may be
necessary to relate the substance. - -
First, he reviewed the circumstances which
had led to his repairing to that spot, which
were briefly these. Dropping in at Mr. Samp-
son Brass's office on the previous evening, in
the absence of that gentleman and his learned
sister, he had lighted upon Mr. Swiveller, who
chanced at the moment to be sprinkling a glass
of warm gin-and-water on the, dust of the law;
and to be moistening his clay, as the phrase,
QUIZP AWURSES HIS WRAZA.
goes, rather copiously. But as clay in the ab-
stract, when too much moistened, becomes of a
weak and uncertain consistency, breaking down
in unexpected places, retaining impressions but
faintly, and preserving no strength or steadiness
of character, so Mr. Swiveller's clay, having im-
bibed a considerable quantity of moisture, was
in a very loose and slippery state, insomuch
that the various ideas impressed upon it were
fast losing their distinctive character, and run-
ning into each other. It is not uncommon for
human clay in this condition to value itself
above all things upon its great prudence and
sagacity; and Mr. Swiveller, especially prizing
himself upon these qualities, took occasion to
remark that he had made strange discoveries, in
connection with the single gentleman who lodged
above, which he had determined to keep within
his own bosom, and which neither tortures nor
cajolery should ever induce him to reveal. Of
this determination Mr. Quilp expressed his high
approval, and, setting himself in the same
breath to goad Mr. Swiveller on to further
hints, soon made out that the single gentleman
had been seen in communication with Kit, and
that this was the secret which was never to be
disclosed. -
Possessed of this piece of information, Mr.
Quilp directly supposed that the single gentle-
man above-stairs must be the same individual
who had waited on him, and, having assured
himself by further inquiries that this surmise
was correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the
conclusion that,the intent and object of his cor-
respondence with Kit was the recovery of his
old client and the child. Burning with curiosity
to know what proceedings were afoot, he re-
solved to pounce upon Kit's mother as the per-
son least able to resist his arts, and conse-
quently the most likely to be entrapped into
such revelations as he sought; so, taking an
abrupt leave of Mr. Swiveller, he hurried to her
house. The good woman being from heme, he
made inquiries of a neighbour, as Kit himself
did soon afterwards, and, being directed to the
chapel, betook himself there, in order to waylay
her at the conclusion of the service.
He had not sat in the chapel more than a
quarter of an hour, and with his eyes piously
fixed upon the ceiling, was chuckling inwardly
over the joke of his being there at all, when
Kit himself appeared. Watchful as a lynx, one
glance showed the dwarf that he had come on
business. Absorbed in appearance, as we have
seen, and feigning a profound abstraction, he
noted every circumstance of his behaviour, and,
when he withdrew with his family, shot out after
177
him. In fine, he traced them to the notary's
house; learnt the destination of the carriage
from one of the postillions; and knowing that a
fast night coach started for the same place, at
the very hour which was on the point of striking,
from a street hard by, darted round to the coach.
office without more ado, and took his seat upon
the roof. After passing and repassing the car.
riage on the road, and being passed and re-
passed by it sundry times in the course of the
night, according as their stoppages were longer
or shorter, or their rate of travelling varied, they
reached the town almost together. Quilp kept
the chaise in sight, mingled with the crowd,
learnt the single gentleman's errand, and its
failure, and, having possessed himself of all that
it was material to know, hurried off, reached the
inn before him, had the interview just now de-
tailed, and shut himself up in the little room in
which he hastily reviewed all these occurrences.
“You are there, are you, my friend?” he re-
peated, greedily biting his nails. “I am sus-
pected and thrown aside, and Kit's the con-
fidential agent, is he P T shall have to dispose
of him, I fear. If we had come up with them
this morning,” he continued after a thoughtful
pause, “I was ready to prove a pretty good
claim. I could have made my profit. But for
these canting hypocrites, the lad and his mother,
I could get this fiery gentleman as comfortable
into my net as our old friend—our mutual friend,
ha I ha l—and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst
it's a golden opportunity, not to be lost. Let
us find them first, and I'll find means of draining
you of some of your superfluous cash, sir, while
there are prison bars and bolts, and locks, to
keep your friend or kinsman safely. I hate your
virtuous people !" said the dwarf, throwing off
a bumper of brandy, and smacking his lips,
“ah ! I hate 'em every one l"
This was not a mere empty va unt, but a de-
liberate avowal of his real sentiments; ſor Mr.
Quilp, who loved nobody, had by little and
little come to hate everybody, nearly or re-
motely connected with his ruined client :—the
old man himself, because he had been able to
deceive him and elude his vigilance—the child,
because she was the object of Mrs. Quilp's com-
miseration and constant self-reproach—the single
gentleman, because of his unconcealed aversion
to himself—Kit and his mother, most mortally
for the reasons already shown. Above and be-
yond that general feeling of opposition to them,
which would have been inseparable from his
Travenous desire to enrich himself by these
altered circumstances, Daniel Quilp hated them
every one.
178
THE Ozz corſoszzy SHOP.
In , this 'amiable mood, Mr. Quilp enlivened
himself and his hatreds with more brandy, and
then, changing his quarters, withdrew to an
obscure alehouse, under cover of which seclu-
sion he instituted all possible inquiries that
might lead to the discovery of the old man
and his grandchild. But all was in vain. . Not
the slightest trace or clue could be obtained.
They had leſt the town by night; no one had
seen them go ; no one had met them- on the
road; the driver of no coach, cart, or waggon
had seen any travellers answering their descrip-
tion; nobody had fallen in with them or heard
of them. Convinced at last that for the pre-
sent all such attempts were hopeless, he ap-
pointed two or three scouts, with promises of
large rewards in case of their forwarding him
any intelligence, and returned to London by
next day's coach. &
It was some gratification to Mr. Quilp to
find, as he took his place upon the roof, that
Kit's mother was alone inside; from which cir-
cumstance he derived, in the course of the
journey, much cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch
as her solitary condition enabled him to terrify
her with many extraordinary, annoyances; such
as hanging over the side of the coach at the risk
of his life, and staring in with his great goggle
eyes, which seemed in hers the more horrible
from his face being upside down ; dodging her
in this way from one window to another ; get.
ting nimbly down whenever they changed
horses, and thrusting his head in at the window
with a dismal squint; which ingenious tortures
had such an effect upon Mrs. Nubbles, that she
was quite unable for the time to resist the belief
that Mr. Quilp did in his own person represent
and embody that Evil Power who was so vigor-
ously attacked at Little Bethel, and who, by
reason of her backslidings in respect of Ast-
ley's and oysters, was now frolicsome and
rampant.
Kit, having been apprised by letter of his
mother's intended return, was waiting for her at
the coach-office ; and great was his surprise
when he saw, leering over the coachman's
shoulder like some familiar demon, invisible
to all eyes but his, the well-known face of
Quilp.
“How are you, Christopher ?” croaked the
dwarf from the coach-top. “All right, Chris-
topher. Mother's inside.”
“Why, how did he come here, mother P”
whispered Kit,
“I don't know how he came, or why, my
dear,” rejoined Mrs. Nubbles, dismounting with
her son's assistance, “but he has been a terri-
fying of me out of my seven senses all this,
blessed day.”
“He has P’’ cried Kit.
“You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't,”
replied his mother, “but don't say a word to
him, for I really don't believe he's human.
Hush ' Don't turn round as if I was talking of
him, but he's a squinting at me now in the full
blaze of the coach lamp, quite awſul "
In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned
sharply round to look. Mr. Quilp was serenely
gazing at the stars, quite absorbed in celestial
contemplation.
“Oh, he's the artfullest creetur !” cried Mrs.
Nubbles. “But come away. Don't speak to
him for the world.”
“Yes, I will, mother.
say, sir
Mr. Quilp affected to start, and looked smil-
ingly round.
“You let my mother alone, will you?” said
Kit, “How dare you tease a poor lone woman
like her, making her miserable and melancholy,
as if she hadn't got enough to make her so
without you? An't you ashamed of yourself,
you little monster P”
“Monster I " said Quilp inwardly with a
smile. “Ugliest dwarf that could be seen any-
where for a penny—monster—ah !”
“You show her any of your impudence
again,” resumed Kit, shouldering the bandbox,
“ and I tell you what, Mr. Quilp, I won't bear
with you any more. You have no right to do
it; I'm sure we never interfered with you. This
isn't the first time; and, if ever you worry or
frighten her again, you’ll oblige me (though I
should be...very sorry to do it, on account of
your size) to beat you.” -
Quilp said not a word, in reply, but, walking
up so close to Kit as to bring his eyes within
two or three inches of his face, looked fixedly at
What nonsense I
him, retreated a little distance without averting
his gaze, approached again, again withdrew, and
so on for half-a-dozen times, like a , head in a
phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in
expectation of an immediate assault, but, finding
that nothing came of these gestures, Snapped
his fingers and walked away; his mother
dragging him off as fast as she could, and,
even in the midst of his news of little Jacob
and the baby, looking anxiously over her
shoulder to see if Quilp were following.
COMA’AAVY
CHAPTER XLIX.
}IT'S mother might have spared her-
self the trouble of looking back so
often, for nothing was further from
Mr. Quilp's thoughts than any in-
\ºsº; tention of pursuing her and her son,
$º or renewing the quarrel with which
º sº they had parted. He went his way,
§§2 whistling from time to time some frag-
ments of a tune; and, with a face quite tranquil
and composed, jogged pleasantly towards home;
entertaining himself as he went with visions of
the fears and terrors of Mrs. Quilp, who, having
received no intelligence of him for three whole
days and two mights, and having had no previous
notice of his absence, was doubtless by that time
in a state of distraction, and constantly fainting
away with anxiety and grief.
This facetious probability was so congenial to
the dwarf's humour, and so exquisitely amusing
to him, that he laughed as he went along until
the tears ran down his cheeks; and more than
once, when he found himself in a by-street,
vented his delight in a 'shrill scream, which,
greatly terrifying any lonely passenger who hap-
pened to be walking on before him expecting
nothing so little, increased his mirth, and made
him remarkably cheerful and light-hearted.
In this happy flow of spirits Mr. Quilp reached
Tower Hill, when, gazing up at the window of
his own sitting-room, he thought he descried
more light than is usual in a house of mourning.
Drawing nearer, and listening attentively, he
could hear several voices in earnest conversa-
tion, among which he could distinguish, not only
those of his wife and mother-in-law, but the
tongues of men.
“Hal” cried the jealous dwarf. “What's
this? Do they entertain such visitors while I'm
away?”
A smothered cough from above was the
reply. He felt in his pockets for his latch-key,
but had forgotten it. There was no resource
but to knock at the door.
“A light in the passage,” said Quilp, peeping
through the keyhole. “A very soft knock; and,
by your leave, my lady, I may yet steal upon
you unawares. Soho l’”
A very low and gentle rap received no answer
from within. But after a second application to
the knocker, no louder than the first, the door
was softly opened by the boy from the wharf,
whom Quilp instantly gagged with one hand,
and dragged into the street with the other.
“You’ll throttle me, master,” whispered the
boy, “Let go, will you?” -
OWAE-S7.4//ø.S.
179
“Who's up-stairs, you dog?” retorted Quilp
in the same tone. “Tell me. And don't speak
above your breath, or I'll choke you in good
earnest.” ,'
The boy could only point to the window, and
reply with a stifled giggle, expressive of such
intense enjoyment, that Quilp clutched him-by
the throat again, and might have carried his
threat into execution, or at least have made very
good progress towards that end, but for the boy's
nimbly extricating himself from his grasp, and
fortifying himself behind the nearest post, at
which, after some fruitless attempts to catch
him by the hair of his head, his master was
obliged to come to a parley.
“Will you answer me?” said Quilp. “What's
going on above P”
“You won't let one speak,” replied the boy.
“They—ha, ha, ha!—they think you're—you're
dead. Ha, ha hal"
“Dead " cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim
laugh himself. “No Do they? Do they
really, you dog?”
“They think you're—you're drowned,” replied
the boy, who in his malicious nature had a strong
infusion of his master. “You was last seen on
the brink of the wharf, and they think you tum-
bled over. Ha, ha!”
The prospect of playing the spy under such
delicious circumstances, and of disappointing
them all by walking in alive, gave more delight
to Quilp than the greatest stroke of good fortune
could possibly have inspired him with. He was
no less tickled than his hopeful assistant, and
they both stood for some seconds, grinning and
gasping, and wagging their heads at each other,
on either side of the post, like an unmatchable
pair of Chinese idols.
“Not a word,” said Quilp, making towards
the door on tiptoe. “Not a sound, not so much
as a creaking board, or a stumble against a cob-
web. Drowned, eh, Mrs. Quilp ? Drowned 1"
So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off
his shoes, and groped his way up-stairs; leaving
his delighted young friend in an ecstasy of sum-
mersets on the pavement.
The bedroom door on the staircase being
unlocked, Mr. Quilp slipped in, and planted
himself behind the door of communication be-
tween that chamber and the sitting-room, which
standing ajar to render both more airy, and
having a very convenient chink (of which he
had often availed himself for purposes of espial,
and had, indeed, enlarged with his pocket-knife),
enabled him not only to hear, but to see dis-
tinctly, what was passing.
Applying his eye to this convenient place, he



18o.
7AE of D curroSZZY SHOP
descried Mr. Brass seated at the table with pen,
ink, and paper, and the case-bottle of rum—his
own case-bottle, and his own particular Jamaica
—convenient to his hand; with hot water,
fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things
fifting; from which choice materials, Sampson,
by no means insensible to their claims upon his
attention, had compounded a mighty glass of
punch reeking hot; which he was at that very
moment stirring up with a tea-spoon, and Con-
templating with looks in which a faint assump-
tion of sentimentai regret struggled but weakly
with a bland and comfortable joy. At the same
table, with both her elbows upon it, was Mrs.
Jiniwin; no longer sipping other people's punch
feloniously with tea-spoons, but taking deep
draughts from a jorum of her own ; while her
daughter—not exactly with ashes on her head,
or sackcloth on her back, but preserving a very
decent and becoming appearance of sorrow
nevertheless—was reclining in an easy-chair, and
soothing her grief with a smaller allowance of
the same glib liquid. There were also present
a couple of water-side men, bearing between
them certain machines called drags; even these
fellows were accommodated with a stiff glass
apiece; and as they drank with a great relish,
and were naturally of a red-nosed, pimple-
faced, convivial look, their presence rather in-
creased than detracted from that decided ap-
pearance of comfort, which was the great charac-
teristic of the party.
“If I could poison that dear old lady's
rum-and-water,” murmured Quild, “I’d die
happy.”
“Ah " said Mr. Brass, breaking the silence,
and raising his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh,
“who knows but he may be looking down upon
us now P Who knows but he may be surveying
of us from—from somewheres or another, and .
contemplating us with a watchful eye? Oh
LOr l’” w
Here Mr. Brass stopped to drink half his
punch, and then resumed ; looking at the other
half, as he spoke, with a dejected smile.
“I can almost fancy,” said the lawyer, shaking
his head, “that I see his eye glistening down at
the very bottom of my liquor. When shall we
look upon his like again P Never, never ! One
minute we are here”—holding his tumbler be-
fore his eyes—“the next we are there”—gulping
down its contents, and striking himself emphati-
cally a little below the chest—“in the silent
tomb. To think that I should be drinking his
Very rum ! . It seems like a dream.”
1. With the view, no doubt, of testing the reality
of his position, Mr. Brass pushed his tumbler as
old lady.
he spoke towards Mrs. Jiniwin for the purpose
of being replenished; and turned towards the
attendant mariners.
“The search has been quite unsuccessful,
then P”. - - .
“Quite, master. But I should say that, if he
turns up anywhere, he'll come ashore somewhere
about Grinidge to-morrow, at ebb tide, eh,
mate P”
The other gentleman assented, observing that
he was expected at the Hospital, and that several
pensioners would be ready to receive him when-
ever he arrived.
“Then we have nothing for it but resigna-
tion,” said Mr. Brass; “nothing but resignation,
and expectation. It would be a comfort to have
his body; it would be a dreary comfort.”
“Oh, beyond a doubt tº assented Mrs. Jini-
win hastily; “if we once had that, we should be
quite sure.”.
“With regard to the descriptive advertise-
ment,” said Sampson Brass, taking up his pen.
“It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits.
Respecting his legs, now——?”
“Crooked, certainly,” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Do you think they were crooked P” said
Brass in an insinuating tone. “I think I see
them now coming up the street very wide apart,
in nankeen pantaloons a little shrunk, and with-
out straps. Ah! what a vale of tears we live in
Do we say crooked P”
“I think they were a livtle so,” observed Mrs.
Quilp with a sob.
“Legs crooked,” said Brass, writing as he spoke.
* Large head, short body, legs crooked——”
“Very crooked,” suggested Mrs. Jiniwin.
“We'll not say yery crooked, ma'am,” said
Brass piously. “Let us not bear hard upon the
weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma'am,
to where his legs will never come in question.--
We will content ourselves with crooked, Mrs.
Jiniwin.”
“I thought you wanted the truth,” said the
“That's all.” -
“Bless your eyes, how I love you !” mut:
tered Quilp. “There she goes again. Nothing
but punch " -
“This is an occupation,” said the lawyer,
laying down his pen and emptying his glass,
“which seems to bring him before my eyes like
the Ghost of Hamlet's father, in the very clothes
that he wore on work-a-days.
His coat, his
waistcoat, his shoes" and stockings, his trousers,
his hat, his wit and humour, his pathos and his
umbrella, all come before me like visions of my
youth. His linen "said Mr. Brass, smiling fondly
at the wall, “his, linen, which was always of a
QUILP RETURNS FROM THE GRA VE.
181
particular colour, for such was his whim and
fancy—how plain I see his linen now !”
“You had better go on, sir,” said Mrs. Jiniwin
impatiently.
“True, ma'am, true,” cried Mr. Brass.
faculties must not freeze with grief. I’ll trouble
you for a little more of that, ma'am. A question
now arises with relation to his nose.”
“Flat,” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Aquiline !” cried Quilp, thrusting in his
head, and striking the feature with his fist.
“Our
“Aquiline, you hag! Do you see it P Do you
call this flat P Do you? Eh P”
“Oh, capital, capital 1" shouted Brass, from
the mere force of habit. “Excellent How
very good he is . He's a most remarkable man
—so extremely whimsical | Such an amazing
power of taking people by surprise : ”
Quilp paid no regard whatever to these com-
pliments, nor to the dubious and frightened look
into which the lawyer gradually subsided, nor to
the shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law, nor to
:
! i’ī;;
{{ift
11'ſ 'ill'
I
“AQUILINE | " CRIED QUILP, THRUSTING IN HIs HEAD.
the latter's running from the room, norto the
former's fainting away. Keeping his eye fixed
on Sampson Brass, he walked up to the table,
and, beginning with his glass, drank off the con-
tents, and went regularly round until he had
Smptied the other two, when he seized the case-
99ttle, and, hugging it under his arm, surveyed
him. with a most extraordinary leer.
et Not yet, Sampson,” said Quilp. “Not just
yet I
“Oh, very good indeed " cried Brass, re-
covering his spirits a little. “Ha, ha, ha! Ch,
exceedingly good l There's not another man
alive who would carry it off like that. ( A
most difficult position to carry off. But he has
such a flow of good-humour, such an amazing
flow !” -
“Good night,” said the dwarf, nodding ex-
pressively.
“Good night, sir, good night,” cried the law-
yer, retreating backwards towards the door.
“This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely

'#82
Z}/A2 OZZO CURIOSYZ"Y SAFOA'.
joyful, Ha, ha, ha! Oh, very rich, very rich
indeed, re-markably so ”
Waiting until Mr. Brass's ejaculations died
away in the distance (for he continued to pour
them out, all the way down-stairs), Quilp ad-
vanced towards the two men, who yet lingered
in a kind of stupid amazement.
“Have you been dragging the river all day,
gentlemen?” said the dwarf, holding the door
open with great politeness.
“And yesterday too, master.”
“Dear me, you've had a deal of trouble.
Pray consider everything yours that you find
upon the—upon the body. Coqd might !” --
The men looked at each other, but had evi-
dently no inclination to argue the point just
then, and shuffled out of the room. This speedy
clearance effected, Quilp locked the doors; and,
still embracing the case-bottle with shrugged-up
shoulders and folded arms, stood looking at his
insensible wife like a dismounted nightmare.
CHAPTER L.
º ſ ATRIMONIAL differences are usu-
| ally discussed by the parties con-
cerned in the form of dialogue, in
§ which the lady bears at least her
§ * full half-share. Those of Mr. and
: l Mrs. Quilp, however, were an exception
to the general rule; the remarks which
* they occasioned being limited to a long
soliloquy on the part of the gentleman, with
perhaps a few deprecatory observations from the
lady, not extending beyond a trembling mono-
syllable uttered at long intervals, and in a very
submissive and humble tone. On the present
occasion, Mrs. Quilp did not for a long time
venture even on this gentle defence, but, when
she had recovered from her fainting fit, sat in a
tearful silence, meekly listening to the reproaches
of her lord and master.
Of these Mr. Quilp delivered himself with the
utmost animation and rapidity, and with so
many distortions of limb and feature, that even
his wife, although tolerably well accustomed to
his proficiency in these respects, was well-nigh
beside herself with alarm. But the Jamaica rum,
and the joy of having occasioned a heavy disap-
pointment, by degrees cooled Mr. Quilp's wrath;
which, from being at savage heat, dropped slowly
to the bantering or chuckling point, at which
it steadily remained.
“So you thought I was dead and gone, did
very sorry
you?” said Quilp. “You thought you were a
widow, eh? Ha, ha, ha, you jade 1"
“Indeed, Quilp,” returned his wife, “I’m
very sorry j?
“Who doubts it?” cried the dwarf. “You
To be sure you are Who doubts
that you're very sorry?”
“I don't mean sorry that you have come home
again alive and well,” said his wife, “but sorry
that I should have been led into such a belief.
I am glad to see you, Quilp ; indeed I am.”
In truth, Mrs. Quilp did seem a great deal
more glad to behold her lord than might have
been expected, and did evince a degree of inter-
est in his safety which, all things considered,
was rather unaccountable. Upon Quilp, how-
ever, this circumstance made no impression,
farther than as it moved him to snap his fingers
close to his wife's eyes, with divers grins of
triumph. and derision.
“How could you go away so long, without
saying a word to me, or letting me hear of you,
or know anything about you?” asked the poor
little woman, sobbing. “How could you be so
cruel, Quilp ?” - t -
“How could I be so cruel ! cruel !” cried the
dwarf. “Because I was in the humour. I’m in
the humour now. I shall be cruel when I like.
I’m going away again.”
“Not again "
“Yes, again. I’m going away now. I’m off
directly. I mean to go and live wherever the
fancy seizes me—at the wharf–at the counting-
house—and be a jolly bachelor. You were a
widow in anticipation. Damme,” screamed the
dwarf, “I’ll be a bachelor in earnest l”
“You can’t be serious, Quilp,” sobbed his
wife. -
“I tell you,” said the dwarf, exulting in his
project, “that I'll be a bachelor, a devil-may-
care bachelor; and I'll have my bachelor's hall
at the counting-house, and at such times come
near it if you dare. And mind, too, that I don't
pounce in upon you at unseasonable hours again,
for Pll be a spy upon you, and come and go like
a mole or a weasel. Tom Scott—where's Tom
Scott P”
“Here I am, master,” cried the voice of the
boy, as Quilp threw up the window.
“Wait there, you dog,” returned the dwarf,
“to carry a bachelor's portmanteau. Pack it up,
Mrs. Quilp. Knock up the dear old lady to
help ; knock her up. Hallo there ! Hallo I"
With these exclamations, Mr. Quilp caught up
the poker, and, hurrying to the door of the good
lady's sleeping-closet, beat upon it therewith
until she awoke in inexpressible terrcº, thinking


QUILP RAESOL VAZS ZO BE A BACHEZOA’.
183
that her amiable son-in-law surely intended to
murder her in justification of the legs she had
slandered. Impressed with this idea, she was
no sooner fairly awake than she screamed vio-
lently, and would have quickly precipitated her-
self out of the window and through a neighbouring
sky-light, if her daughter had not hastened in
to undeceive her, and implore her assistance.
Somewhat reassured by her account of the ser-
vice she was required to render, Mrs. Jiniwin
made her appearance in a flannel dressing-gown ;
and both mother and daughter, trembling with
terror and cold—for the night was now far ad-
vanced—obeyed Mr. Quilp's directions in sub-
missive silence. Prolonging his preparations as
much as possible, for their greater comfort, that
eccentric gentleman superintended the packing
of his wardrobe, and having added to it, with
his own hands, a plate, knife and fork, spoon,
teacup and saucer, and other small household
matters of that nature; strapped up the port-
manteau, took it on his shoulders, and actually
marched off without another word, and with the
case-bottle (which he had never once put down)
still tightly clasped under his arm. Consigning
his heavier burden to the care of Tom Scott
when he reached the street, taking a dram from
the-bottle for his own encouragement, and giving
the boy a rap on the head with it as a small
taste for himself, Quilp very deliberately led the
way to the wharf, and reached it between three
and four o'clock in the morning.
“Snug,” said Quilp, when he had groped his
way to the wooden counting-house, and opened
the door with a key he carried about with him.
“Beautifully snug Call me at eight, you dog.”
. With no more formal leave-taking or explana-
tion, he clutched the portmanteau, shut the door
on his attendant, and climbing on the desk, and
rolling himself up as round as a hedgehog in an .
old boat-cloak, fell fast asleep.
Being roused in the morning at the appointed
time, and roused with difficulty, after his late
fatigues, Quilp instructed Tom Scott to make a
fire in the yard of sundry pieces of old timber,
and to prepare some coffee for breakfast; for
the better furnishing of which repast he intrusted
him with certain small moneys, to be expended
in the purchase of hot rolls, butter, sugar, Yar-
mouth bloaters, and other articles of house-
keeping; so that in a few minutes a savoury
meal was smoking on the board.
substantial comfort the dwarf regaled himself to
his heart's content; and being highly satisfied
with this free and gipsy mode of life (which he
had often"meditated, as offering, whenever he
chose to avail himself of it, an agreeable freedom
With this
from the restraints of matrimony, and a choice
means of keeping Mrs. Quilp and her mother
in a state of incessant agitation and suspense),
bestirred himself to improve his retreat, and
render it more commodious and comfortable.
With this view, he issued forth to a place hard
by, where sea-stores, were sold, purchased a
second-hand hammock, and had it slung in sea-
manlike fashion from the ceiling of the counting.
house. He also caused to be erected, in the
same mouldy cabin, an old ship's stove with a
rusty funnel to carry the smoke through the
roof; and, these arrangements completed, sur-
veyed them with ineffable delight.
“I’ve got a country house like Robinson
Crusoe," said the dwarf, ogling the accommoda-
tions; “a solitary, sequestered, desolate-island
Sort of spot, where I can be quite alone when
I have business on hand, and be secure from
all spies and listeners. Nobody near me here
but rats, and they are fine stealthy secret fellows.
I shall be as merry as a grig among these gentry.
I'll look out for one like Christopher, and poison
him—ha, ha, ha! Business, though—business
—we must be mindful of business in the midst
of pleasure, and the time has flown this morning,
I declare.”
Enjoining Tom Scott to await his return, and
not to stand upon his head, or throw a summer-
Set, or so Imuch as walk upon his hands mean-
while, on pain of lingering torments, the dwarf
threw himself into a boat, and crossing to the
other side of the river, and then speeding away
on foot, reached Mr. Swiveller's usual house of
entertainment in Bevis Marks, just as that gen-
tleman sat down alone to dinner in its dusky
parlour.
“Dick,” said the dwarf, thrusting his head in
at the door, “my pet, my pupil, the apple of
my eye, hey, hey!”
“Oh, you're there, are you?” returned Mr.
Swiveller. “How are you?”
“How's Dick P” retorted Quilp. “How s the
cream of clerkship, eh?”
“Why, rather sour, sir,” replied Mr. Swiveller.
“Beginning to border upon cheesiness, in fact.”
“What's the matter P” said the dwarf, ad-
vancing. “Has Sally proved unkind? ‘Of all
the girls that are so smart, there's none like >
Eh, Dick P’’
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Swiveller, eating
his dinner with great gravity, “none like her.
She's the sphynx of private life, is Sally B.”
“You’re out of spirits,” said Quilp, drawing
up a chair. “What's the matter P”
“The law don't agree with me,” returned
Dick. “It isn't moist enough, and there's too
184
THE OLD CURAOS/TY SHOA.
—f
much confinement. I have been thinking of upon which, however, Mr. Swiveller appeared in
running away.”
“Bah 1” said the dwarf.
run to, Dick P” -
“I don't know,” returned Mr. Swiveller.
“Towards Highgate, I suppose. Perhaps the
bells might strike up “Turn again, Swiveller,
Lord Mayor of London.’ Whittington's name
was Dick. I wish cats were scarcer.”
Quilp looked at his companion with his eyes
screwed up into a comical expression of curiosity,
and patiently awaited his further explanation ;
“Where would you
no hurry to enter, as he ate a very long dinner
in profound silence, finally pushed away his
plate, threw himself back into his chair, folded
his arms, and stared ruefully at the fire, in which
some ends of cigars were smoking on their own
account, and sending up a fragrant odour.
“Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake,” said Dick,
at last turning to the dwarf. “You’re quite
welcome to it. You ought to be, for it's of your
making.”
“What do you mean?” said Quilp.
º
* *
f
f
1 ſ :
§
|
|
DIRECTIONS IN SUBMISSIVE SILENCE.”
^
Mr. Swiveller replied by taking from his
pocket a small and very greasy parcel, slowly
unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum-
cake, extremely indigestible in appearance, and
bordered with a paste of white sugar an inch
and a half deep.
“What should you say this was P” demanded
Mr. Swiveller. - -
“It looks like bride-cake,” replied the dwarf,
grinning. -
“And whose should you say it was P” in-
quired Mr. Swiveller, rubbing the pastry
against his nose with a dreadful calmness.
“Whose P”
“ Not yy
“Yes,” said Dick, “the same. You needn't
mention her name. There's no such name now.
Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet
loved I as man never loved that hadn't wooden
legs, and my heart, my heart is breaking for the .
love of Sophy Cheggs.” -
With this extemporary adaptation of a popular
ballad to the distressing circumstances of his
own case, Mr. Swiveller folded up the parcel

—º-3-ºxº~-k
again, beat it very flat between the palms of his
hands, thrust it into his breast, buttoned his
coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole.
“Now I hope you're satisfied, sir,” said Dick;
“and I hope Fred's satisfied. You went part-
ners in the mischief, and I hope you like it.
This is the triumph I was to have, is it? It's
like the old country dance of that name, where
there are two gentlemen to one lady, and one
has her, and the other hasn't but comes limping
up behind to make out the figure. But it's
Destiny, and mine's a crusher l’’
Disguising his secret joy in Mr. Swiveller's
defeat, Daniel Quilp adopted the surest means
of soothing him, by ringing the bell, and order-
ing in a supply of rosy wine (that is to say, of
its usual representative), which he put about
with great alacrity, calling upon Mr. Swiveller to
pledge him in various toasts derisive of Cheggs,
and eulogistic of the happiness of single men.
Such was their impression on Mr. Swiveller,
coupled with the reflection that no man could
oppose his destiny, that in a very short space of
time his spirits rose surprisingly, and he was
enabled to give the dwarf an account of the
receipt of the cake, which, it appeared, had been
brought to Bevis Marks by the two surviving
Miss Wackleses in person, and delivered at the
office door with much giggling and joyfulness.
“Hal” said Quilp. “It will be our turn to
giggle soon. And that reminds me—you spoke
of young Trent—where is he P”
Mr. Swiveller explained that his respectable
friend had recently accepted a responsible situa-
tion in a locomotive gaming-house, and was at
that time absent on a professional tour among.
the adventurous spirits of Great Britain.
“That's unfortunate,” said the dwarf, “for I
came, in fact, to ask you about him. A thought
has occurred to me, Dick ; your friend over the
way 95
“Which friend ?”
“In the first floor.”
“Yes P”
“Your friend in the first floor, Dick, may
know him.”
“No, he don't,” said Mr. Swiveller, shaking
his head.
“Don’t. No, because he has never seen him,”
rejoined Quilp ; “but if we were to bring them
together, who knows, Dick, but Fred, properly
introduced, would serve his turn almost as well
as little Nell or her grandfather—who knows
but it might make the young fellow's fortune,
and, through him, yours, eh?”
“Why, the fact is, you see,” said Mr. Swi-
veller, “that they have been brought together.”
OUILP pºſs/ZS MR. St// WEZZAR.
185
“Have been 1" cried the dwarf, looking sus-
piciously at his companion. “Through whose
means ?”
“Through mine,” said Dick, slightly confused.
“Didn't I mention it to you the last time you
called over yonder P”
“You know you didn't,” returned the dwarf.
“I believe you're right,” said Dick. “No.
I didn't, I recollect. Oh yes, I brought 'em
together that, very day ! It was Fred's sugges-
tion.”
“And what came of it?”
“Why, instead of my friend's bursting into
tears when he knew who Fred was, embracing
him kindly, and telling him that he was his
grandfather, or his grandmother in disguise
(which we fully expected), he flew into a tre-
mendous passion; called him all manner of
names; said it was in a great measure his fault
that little Nell and the old gentleman had ever
been brought to poverty; didn't hint at our
taking anything to drink; and—and, in short,
rather turned us out of the room than otherwise.”
“That's strange,” said the dwarf, musing.
“So we remarked to each other at the time,”
returned Dick coolly, “but quite true.”
Quilp was plainly staggered by this intelli-
gence, over which he brooded for some time in
moody silence, often raising his eyes to Mr.
Swiveller's face, and sharply scanning its ex-
pression. As he could read in it, however, no
additional information, or anything to lead him
to believe he had spoken falsely ; and as Mr.
Swiveller, left to his own meditations, sighed
deeply, and was evidently growing maudlin on
the subject of Mrs. Cheggs; the dwarf soon
broke up the conference and took his departure,
leaving the bereaved one to his melancholy
ruminations.
“Have been brought together, eh?” said the
dwarf as he walked the streets alone. “My
friend has stolen a march upon me. It led him
to nothing, and therefore is no great matter,
save in the intention. I'm glad he has lost his
mistress. Ha, ha! The blockhead mustn't
leave the law at present. I'm sure of him where
he is, whenever I want him for my own pur-
poses, and, besides, he's a good unconscious
spy on Brass, and tells, in his cups, all that he
sees and hears. You're useful to me, Dick,
and cost nothing but a little treating now and
then. I am not sure that it may not be worth
while, before long, to take credit with the stranger,
Dick, by discovering your designs upon the
child; but for the present we'll remain the best
friends in the world, with your good leave.”
Pursuing these thoughts, and gasping as he
186
ZTB/A2 O ZZO CUR/OS/ZTY SATO AE’.
went along, after his own peculiar fashion, Mr.
Quilp once more crossed the Thames, and shut
himself up in his Bachelor's Hall, which, by rea-
son of his newly-erected chimney depositing the
smoke inside the room and carrying none of it .
off, was not quite so agreeable as more fastidious
q.eople might have desired. Such inconve-
niences, however, instead of disgusting the
dwarf with his new abode, rather suited his
humour; so, after dining luxuriously from the
public-house, he lighted his pipe, and Smoked
against the chimney until nothing of him was
visible through the mist but a pair of red and
highly-inflamed eyes, with sometimes a dim.
vision of his head and face, as, in a violent fit of
coughing, he slightly stirred the smoke and scat
tered the heavy wreaths by which they were ob-
scured. In the midst of this atmosphere, which
must infallibly have smothered any other man,
Mr. Quilp passed the evening with great cheer-
fulness; solacing himself all the time with the
pipe and the case-bottle ; and occasionally
entertaining himself with a melodious howl,
intended for a song, but bearing not the faintest
resemblance to any scrap of any piece of music,
vocal or instrumental, ever invented by man.
Thus he amused himself until nearly midnight,
when he turned into his hammock with the
utmost satisfaction.
The first sound that met his ears in the morn-
ing—as he half opened his eyes, and, finding
himself so unusually near the ceiling, entertained
a drowsy idea that he must have been trans-
formed into a fly or blue-bottle in the course of
the night—was that of a stifled sobbing and
weeping in the room.
- Peeping cautiously over the side of his ham- -
mock, he descried Mrs. Quilp, to whom, after
contemplating her for some time in silence, he
communicated a violent start by suddenly yell-
ing out :
“ Halloa ”
“Oh, Quilp !” cried his poor little wife, look-
ing up. “How you frightened me !”
“I meant to, you jade,” returned the dwarf.
“What do you want here P I'm dead, an’t I ?”
“Oh, please come home, do come home 1”.
said Mrs. Quilp, sobbing; “we’ll never do so
any more, Quilp, and, after all, it was only a
mistake that grew out of our anxiety.”
“Out of your anxiety ” grinned the dwarf.
“Yes, I know that—out of your anxiety for my
death. I shall come home when I please, I
I shall come home when I please,
tell you.
and go when I please. I'll be a Will o' the
Wisp, now here, now there, dancing about
you always, starting up when you least expect
there.
* , , ...sº a º
me, and keeping you in a constant state offèSf
lessness and irritation. Will you begone?”
Mrs. Quilp durst only make a gesture of
entreaty.
“I tell you no,” cried the dwarf.
&
“ No. If
you dare to come here again unless you're sent
for, I’ll keep watch-dogs in the yard that'll
growl and bite—I’ll have man-tſaps, cunningly
altered and improved for catching women—i'll
have spring guns that shall explode when you
tread upon the wires, and blow you into little
pieces. Will you go?”
“Do forgive me. Do come back,” said his
wife earnestly.
“No-o-o-o-o "roared Quilp. “Not till my
own good time, and then I'll-return again as
often as I choose, and be accountable to nobody
for my goings or comings.’ You see the dogr
Will you go?”
Mr. Quilp delivered this last command in such
a very energetic voice, and moreover accom-
panied it with such a sudden gesture, indicative
of an intention to spring out of his hammock,
and, mightcapped as he was, bear his wife home
again through the public streets, that she sped
away like an arrow. Her worthy lord stretched
his neck and eyes until she had crossed the
yard, and then, not at all sorry to have had this
opportunity of carrying his point, and asserting
the sanctity of his castle, fell into an immoderate
fit of laughter, and laid himself down to sleep
again. - -
CHAPTER LI.
HE bland and open-hearted pro-
prietor of Bachelor's Hall slept on
amidst the congenial accompani-
ments of rain, mud, dirt, damp, fog,
*4 and rats, until late in the day;
when, summoning his valet Tom Scott
to assist him to rise, and to prepare break-
P fast, he quitted his couch, and made his
toilet. This duty performed, and his repast
ended, he again betook himself to Bevis Marks.
This visit was not intended for Mr. Swiveller,
but for his friend and employer, Mr. Sampson
Brass. Both gentlemen, however, were from
home; nor was the life and light of law, Miss
Sally, at her post either. The fact of their joint
desertion of the office was made known to all
comers by a scrap of paper in the handwriting
of Mr. Swiveller, which was attached to the bell-
handle, and which, giving the reader no clue to
the time of day when it was first posted, fur-


A GREEN SPOZ, ZAV ZALE WIZOAEAEAVESS.
187
nished, him with the rather vague and unsatis-
factory information that that gentleman would
“return in an hour.” -
“There's a servant, I suppose,” said the
dwarf, knocking at the house-door. “She’ll
do.”
After a sufficiently long interval, the door was
opened, and a small voice inmediately accosted
him with, “Oh, please will you leave a card or
message?" -
“Eh P” said the dwarf, looking down (it was
something quite new to him) upon the Small
Servant. .
To this, the child, conducting her conversa-
tion as upon the occasion of her first interview
with Mr. Swiveller, again replied, “Oh, please
will you leave a card or message?”
“I’ll write a note,” said the dwarf, pushing
past her into the office; “and mind your master
has it directly he comes home.” So Mr. Quilp
climbed up to the top of a tall stool to write the
note, and the small servant, carefully tutored for
such emergencies, looked on, with her eyes wide
open, ready, if he so much as abstracted a wafer,
to rush into the street and give the alarm to the
police. -
As Mr. Quilp folded his note (which was
soon written: being a very short one) he en-
countered the gaze of the small servant. He
looked at her long and earnestly.
“How are you?” said the dwarf, moistening
a wafer with horrible grimaces.
The small servant, perhaps frightened by his
looks, returned no audible reply; but it appeared,
from the motion of her lips, that she was in-
wardly repeating the same form of expression
concerning the note or message.
“Do they use you ill here? Is your mistress
a Tartar P” said Quilp with a chuckle.
In reply to the last interrogation, the small
servant, with a look of infinite cunning mingled
with fear, screwed up her mouth very tight and
round, and nodded violently.
Whether there was anything in the peculiar
slyness of her action which fascinated Mr.
Quilp, or anything in the expression of her
features at the moment which attracted his
attention for some other reason; or whether
it merely occurred to him as a pleasant whim
to stare the small servant out of countenance ;
certain it is, that he planted his elbows square
and firmly on the desk, and, squeezing up his
cheeks with his hands, looked at her fixedly.
“Where do you come from ?” he said after a
long pause, stroking his chin.
“I don't know.”
“What's your name P”
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense !” retorted Quilp. “What does
your mistress call you when she wants you?”
“A little devil,” said the child.
She added in the same breath, as if fearful of
any further questioning, “But please will you
leave a card or message P.”
. . These unusual answers might naturally have
provoked some more inquiries. Quilp, how-
ever, without uttering another word, withdrew
his eyes from the small servant, stroked his
chin more thoughtfully than before, and then,
bending over the note as if to direct it with
scrupulous and hair-breadth nicety, looked at
her, covertly but very narrowly, from under his
bushy eyebrows. . . The result of this secret
surrey was that he shaded his face with his
hands, and laughed slily and noiselessly, until
every vein in it was swollen almost to bursting.
Pulling his hat over his brow to conceal his
mirth and its effects, he tossed the letter to the
child, and hastily withdrew.
Once in the street, moved by some secret
impulse, he laughed, and held his sides, and
laughed again, and tried to peer through the
dusty area railings, as if to catch another glimpse
of the child, until he was quite tired out. At
last he travelled back to the Wilderness, which
was within rifle-shot of his bachelor retreat, and
ordered tea in the wooden summer-house that
afternoon for three persons; an invitation to
Miss Sally Brass and her brother to partake of
that entertainment at that place having been the
object both of his journey and his note.
It was not precisely the kind of weather in
which people usually take tea in summer-houses,
far less in summer-houses in an advanced state
of decay, and overlooking the slimy banks of a
great river at low water. Nevertheless, it was in
this choice retreat that Mr. Quilp ordered a cold
collation to be prepared, and it was beneath its
cracked and leaky roof. that he, in due course
of time, received Mr. Sampson and his sister
Sally. -
“You’re fond of the beauties of nature,” said
Quilp with a grin. “Is this charming, Brass?
Is it unusual, unsophisticated, primitive P”
“It's delightful indeed, sir,” replied the
lawyer.
“Cool P” said Quilp.
“N-not particularly so, I think, sir," rejoined
Brass, with his teeth chattering in his head. .
“Perhaps a little damp and aguish?” said
Quilp. -
“just damp-enough to be cheerful, sir," re-
joined Brass. “Nothing more, sir, nothing
more.”
188
7A/E O/L/) CUR/OS/7"P SEZOA’.
“And Sally P” said the delighted dwarf.
“Does she like it?”
“She'll like it better,” returned that strong-
minded lady, “when she has tea : so let us have
it, and don't bother.”
“Sweet Sally " cried Quilp, extending his
arms as if about to embrace her. “Gentle,
charming, overwhelming Sally.”
“He’s a very remarkable man indeed . "
soliloquised Mr. Brass. “He’s quite a Trouba-
dour, you know ; quite a Troubadour !”
These complimentary expressions were uttered
in a somewhat absent and distracted manner;
for the unfortunate lawyer, besides having a bad
cold in his head, had got wet in coming, and
would have willingly borne some pecuniary
sacrifice if he could have shifted his present raw
quarters to a warm room, and dried himself at a
fire. Quilp, however, who, beyond the grati-
fication of his demon whims, owed Sampson
some acknowledgment of the part he had played
in the mourning scene of which he had been a
hidden witness, marked these symptoms of
uneasiness with a delight past all expression,
and derived from them a secret joy which the
costliest banquet could never have afforded him.
It is worthy of remark too, as illustrating a
little feature in the character of Miss Sally Brass,
that, although on her own account she would
have borne the discomforts of the Wilderness
with a very ill grace, and would probably, in-
deed, have walked off before the tea appeared,
she no sooner beheld the latent uneasiness and
misery of her brother than she developed a grim
satisfaction, and began to enjoy herself after her
own manner. Though the wet came stealing
through the roof and trickling down upon their
heads, Miss Brass uttered no complaint, but
presided over the tea equipage with imperturb-
able composure. While Mr. Quilp, in his up-
roarious hospitality, seated himself upon an
empty beer-barrel, vaunted the place as the
most beautiful and comfortable in the three
kingdoms, and elevating his glass, drank to
their next merry-meeting in that jovial spot;
and Mr. Brass, with the rain plashing down into
his teacup, made a dismal attempt to pluck up
his spirits and appear at his ease; and Tom
Scott, who was in waiting at the door under an
old umbrella, exulted in his agonies, and bade
fair to split his sides with laughing; while all
this was passing, Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of
the wet which dripped down upon her own
feminine person and fair apparel, sat placidly
behind the tea-board, erect and grizzly, contem-
plating the unhappiness of her brother with a
mind at ease, and content in her amiable dis-
his pocket-book and pencil.
*——x-a-—
regard of self, to sit there all night, witnessing
the torments which his avaricious and grovelling
nature compelled him to endure and forbade
him to resent. And this, it must be observed,
or the illustration would be incomplete, although
in a business point of view she had the strongest
sympathy with Mr. Sampson, and would have
been beyond measure indignant if he had
thwarted their client in any one respect. -
In the height of his boisterous merriment, Mr.
Quilp, having on some pretence dismissed his
attendant sprite for the moment, resumed his
usual manner all at once, dismounted from his
cask, and laid his hand upon the lawyer's
sleeve.
“A word,” said the dwarf, “before we go
farther. Sally, harkee for a minute.”
Miss Sally drew closer, as if accustomed to
business conferences with their host which were
the better for not having air.
“Business,” said the dwarf, glancing from
brother to sister. “Very private business. Lay
your heads together when you're by yourselves.”
“Certainly, sir,” returned Brass, taking out
“I’ll take down
the heads if you please, sir. Remarkable docu-
ments,” added the lawyer, raising his eyes to
the ceiling, “most remarkable documents. He
states his points so clearly that it's a treat to
have 'em I don't know any Act of Parliament
that's equal to him in clearness.”
“I shall deprive you of a treat,” said Quilp.
“Put up your book. We don't want any docu-
ments. So. There's a lad named Kit y?
Miss Sally nodded, implying that she knew of
him.
“Kit !” said Mr. Sampson. “Kit! Ha!
I've heard the name before, but I don't exactly
call to mind—I don't exactly——” *
“You’re as slow as a tortoise, and more
thick-headed than a rhinoceros,” returned his
obliging client with an impatient gesture.
“He's extremely pleasant l” cried the ob-
sequious Sampson. “His acquaintance with
Natural History, too, is surprising. Quite a
Buffoon, quite l’”
There is no doubt that Mr. Brass intended
some compliment or other; and it has been
argued, with show of reason, that he would
have said Buffon, but made use of a superfluous
vowel. Be this as it may, Quilp gave him no
time for correction, as he performed that office
himself by more than tapping him on the head
with the handle of his unmbrella.
“Don’t let's have any wrangling,” said Miss
Sally, staying his hand. “I’ve showed you that
. I know him, and that's enough."
A /ZT /AV DA/VGAZA’.
199
“She's always foremost " said the dwarf,
patting her on the back and looking con-
temptuously at Sampson. “I don't Jike Kit,
Sally.”
“Nor I,” rejoined Miss Brass.
“Nor I,” said Sampson.
“Why, that's right !” cried Quilp. “Half
ur work is done already. This Kit is one of
your honest people; one of your fair characters;
a prowling, prying hound; a hypocrite ; a
dog to all besides, and most of all to me. In
short, I owe him a grudge.”
“That's enough, sir,” said Sampson.
“No, it's not enough, sir,” sneered Quilp.
“Will you hear me out 2 Besides that I owe
him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at
this minute, and stands between me and an end
which might otherwise prove a golden one to us
all. Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses
my humour, and I hate him. Now, you know
the lad, and can guess the rest. Devise your
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, I ?
“ELEVATING His GLAss, DRANK TO THEIR NEXT MERRY-MEETING IN THAT Jovial. Sºot.”
double-faced, white-livered, sneaking spy , a
crouching cur to those that feed and coax him,
and a barking, yelping dog to all besides.”
“Fearfully eloquent ' " cried Brass with a
sneeze. “Quite appalling!”
“Come to the point,” said Miss Sally, “and
don't talk so much.”
“Right again " exclaimcd Quilp with an-
other contemptuous look at Sampson ; “always
foremost I say, Sally, he is a yelping, insolent
*:::::::gº: 㺠-.
own means of putting him out of my way, an
execute them. Shall it be done P”
* It shall, sir,” said Sampson.
“Then give me your hand,” retorted Quilp.
“Sally, girl, yours. I rely as much, or more,
on you than him. Tom Scott comes back.
Lantern, pipes, more grog, and a jolly night
of it !”
No other word was spoken, no other look
exchanged, which had the slight est reference to
this, the real occasion of their meeting. The
261



190
THE OLD CURIOSZZY SHOP
trio were well accustomed to act together, and
were linked to each other by ties of mutual interest
and advantage, and nothing more was needed.
Resuming his boisterous manner with the same
ease with which he had thrown it off, Quilp was
in an instant the same uproarious, reckless little
savage he had been a few seconds before. It
was ten o'clock at night before the amiable Sally
supported her beloved and loving brother from
the Wilderness, by which time he needed the
utmost support her tender frame could render ;
his walk being, for some unknown reason, any-
thing but steady, and his legs constantly doubling
up in unexpected places.
Overpowered, notwithstanding his late pro-
longed slumbers, by the fatigues of the last few
days, the dwarf lost no time in Creeping to his
dainty house, and was soon dreaming in his
hammock. Leaving him to visions, in which,
perhaps, the quiet figures we quitted in the old
church porch were not without their share, be it
our task to rejoin them as they sat and watched.
CHAPTER LII.
©N
ſº->º->
ſº
appeared at the wicket-gate of the
churchyard, and hurried towards
them, jingling in his hand, as he
came along, a bundle of rusty keys.
He was quite breathless with pleasure
and haste when he reached the
wards the old building which the child had been
contemplating so earnestly.
last.
“Yes, surely,” replied Nell. “I have been
looking at them nearly all the time you have
been away.”
“And you would have looked at them more
curiously yet, if you could have guessed what I
“One of
have to tell you,” said her friend.
those houses is mine.'
Without saying any more, or giving the child
time to reply, the schoolmaster took her hand,
and, his honest face quite radiant with exultation,
led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low arched door.
After trying several of the keys in vain, the school-
master found one to fit the huge lock, which
turned back, creaking, and admitted them into
the house.
The room into which they entered was a
vaulted chamber, once nobly ornamented by
FTER a long time, the schoolmaster
porch, and at first could only point to- |
“You see those two old houses P” he said at
|
cunning architects, and still retaining, in it.
beautiful groined roof and rich stone tracery,
choice remnants of its ancient splendour. Folk
age carved in the stone, and emulating the
mastery of Nature's hand, yet remained to tell
how many times the leaves outside had comé
and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The
broken figures supporting the burden of the
chimney-piece, though mutilated, were still dis-
tinguishable for what they had been—far dif-
ferent from the dust without—and showed sadly
by the empty hearth, like creatures who had
outlived their kind, and mourned their own too
slow decay.
In some old time—for even change was old
in that old place—a wooden partition had been
constructed in one part of the chamber to form
a sleeping-closet, into which the light was ad-
mitted at the same period by a rude window, or
rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen,
together with two seats in the broad chimney,
had at some forgotten date been part of the
church or convent; for the oak, hastily appro-
priated to its present purpose, had been little
altered from its former shape, and presented to
the eye a pile of fragments of rich carving from
old monkish stalls. -
An open door leading to a small room or
cell, dim with the light that came through leaves
of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of
the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture.
A few strange chairs, whose arms and legs looked
as though they had dwindled away with age; a
table, the very spectre of its race; a great old
chest that had once held records in the church,
with other quaintly-fashioned domestic neces-
saries, and store of fire-wood for the winter,
were scattered around, and gave evident tokens
of its occupation as a dwelling-place at no very
distant time.
The child looked around her with that solemn
feeling with which we contemplate the work of
ages that have become but drops of water in
the great ocean of eternity. The old man had
followed them, but they were all three bushed
for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if
they feared, to break the silence even by so
slight a sound.
“It is a very beautiful place : " said the child
in a low voice.
“I almost feared you thought otherwise,” re-
turned the schoolmaster. “You shivered when
we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy.”
“It was not that,” said Nell, glancing round
with a slight shudder. “Indeed, I cannot tell
you what it was, but when I saw the outside,
from the church porch, the same feeling Call] &




AVE/Z SAETZTLA.D WZZAZ 7 FZE SCAOOZMAS7 FA'.
over me. It is its being so old and grey,
perhaps.” .
“A peaceful place to live in, don't you think
so P” said her friend.
“Oh yes 1’’ rejoined the chiki, clasping her
hands earnestly. “A quiet, happy place—a
place to live and learn to die in 1" She would
have said more, but that the energy of her
thoughts caused ºler voice to falter, and come
in trembling whispers from her lips.
“A place to live, and learn to live, and gather
health of mind and body in,” said the school-
master; “for this old house is yours.”
“Ours : " cried the child.
“Ay,” returned the schoolmaster gaily, “for
many a merry year to come, I hope. I shall
be a close neighbour—only next door—but this
house is yours.”
Having now disburdened himself of his great
surprise, the schoolmaster sat down, and, draw-
ing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt
that that ancient tenement had been occupied
for a very long time by an old person, nearly a
hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the
church, opened and closed it for the services,
and showed it to strangers; how she had died
not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been
found to fill the office; how, learning all this in
an interview with the sexton, who was confined
to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold
to make mention of his fellow-traveller, which
had been so favourably received by that high
authority, that he had taken courage, acting on
his advice, to propound the matter to the clergy-
man. In a word, the result of his exertions was,
that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried
before the last-named gentleman next day; and,
his approval of their conduct and appearance
reserved as a matter of form, that they were
already appointed to the vacant post.
“There's a small allowance of money,” said
the schoolmaster. “It is not much, but still
enough to live upon in this retired spot. By
clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely;
no fear of that.”
“Heaven bless and prosper you !” Sobbed
the child. -
“Amen, my dear,” returned her ºriend cheer-
fully; “and all of us, as it will, and has, in
leading us through sorrow and trouble to this
tranquil life. But we must look at my house
now. Come !” -
They repaired to the other tenement; tried
the rusty keys as before; at length found the
right one; and opened the worm-eaten, dººr.
It led into a chamber, vaulted and old, like
that from which they had come, but not so
191
spacious, and having only one other little room
attached. It was not difficult to divine that the
other house was of right the schoolmaster's, and
| that he had chosen for himself the least commo-
dious, in his care and regard for them. Like
the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles
of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and
had its stack of fire-wood.
To make these dwellings as habitable and full
of comfort as they could was now their pleasant
care. In a short time each had its cheerful
fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and
reddening the pale old walls with a hale and
healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle,
repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew
together the rents that time had worn in the
threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them
whole and decent. The schoolmaster swept and
smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed
the long grass, trained the ivy and Creeping
plants, which hung their drooping heads in
melancholy neglect ; and gave to the outer
walls a cheery air of home. The old man,
sometimes by his side and sometimes with the
child, lent his aid to both, went here and there
on little patient services, and was happy. Neigh-
bours too, as they came from work, proffered
their help ; or sent their children with such
small presents or loans as the strangers needed
most. It was a busy day; and night came on,
and found them wondering that there was yet
so much to do, and that it should be dark so
SOOI). -
They took their supper together in the house
which may be henceſorth called the child's ;
and, when they had finished their meal, drew
round the fire, and almost in whispers—their
hearts were too quiet and glad for loud expres-
sion—discussed their future plans. Before they
separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers
aloud; and then, full of gratitude and happi-
ness, they parted for the night.
At that silent hour, when her grandfather was
sleeping peacefully in his bed, and every sound
was hushed, the child lingered before the dying
embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they
had been a dream, and she only now awoke.
The glare of the sinking flame, reflected iº. the
oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly
seen in the gloom of the dusky roof–the aged
walls, where strange shadows came and went
with every flickering of the fire—the sºlemn
presence, within, of that decay, which falls, on
senseless things the most enduring in their
nature; and, without, and round about on evº
side, of Death—filled her with deep and thought-
ful feelings, but with none of terror or alarm-
192
THE Ozz, cuRIOS/7'y SAOP.
A change had been gradually stealing over her
in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With
failing strength and heightening resolution, there
had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there
had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and
hopes, which are the portion of few but the
weak.and drooping. There were none to see
the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the
fire and leaned pensively at the open casement;
none but the stars to look into the upturned
face and read its history. The old church bell
rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if it
had grown sad from so much communing with
the dead and unheeded warning to the living ;
the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon
the graves; all else was still and sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close
within the shadow of the church—touching the
wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and pro-
tection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the
changing shade of trees; others, by the path,
that footsteps might come near them ; others,
among the graves of little children. Some had
desired to, rest beneath the very ground they
had trodden in their daily walks; some, where
the setting sun might shine upon their beds;
some, where its light would fall upon them when
it rose. Perhaps not one of the unprisoned souls
had been able quite to separate itself in living
thought from its old companion. If any had, it
had still felt for it a love like that which captives
have been known to bear towards the cell in
which they have been long confined, and, even
at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds affec-
tionately.
It was long before the child closed the window,
and approached her bed. Again something of
the same sensation as before—an involuntary
chill—a momentary feeling akin to fear—but
vanishing directly, and leaving no alarm behind.
Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of the
roof opening, and a column of bright faces, rising
far away into the sky, as she had seen in some
old scriptural picture once, and looking down
on her, asleep. It was a Sweet and happy dream.
The quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the
Same, save that there was music in the air, and
a sound of angels' wings. After a time the
sisters came there, hand-in-hand, and stood
among the graves. And then the dream grew
dim, and faded.
With the brighthess and joy of morning came
the renewal of yesterday's labours, the revival of
its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its ener-
gies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked gaily
in ordering and arranging their houses until noon,
and then went to visit the clergyman.
He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a
shrinking, subdued spirit, accustomed to retire-
ment, and very little acquainted with the world,
which he had left many years before to come
and settle in that place. His wife had died in
the house in which he still lived, and he had
long since lost sight of any earthly cares or
hopes beyond it.
He received them very kindly, and at once
showed an interest in Nell; asking her name
and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which
had led her there, and so forth. The school-
master had already told her story. They had
no other friends or home to leave, he said, and
had come to share his fortunes. He loved the
child as though she were his own.
“Well, well,” said the clergyman.
be as you desire. She is very young.”
“Old in adversity and trial, sir,” replied the
schoolmaster.
“God help her | Let her rest, and forget
them,” said the old gentleman. “But an old
church is a dull and gloomy place for one so
young as you, my child.”
“Oh no, sir!” returned Nell.
such thoughts, indeed.”
“I would rather see her dancing on the green
at nights,” said the old gentleman, laying his
hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, “than
have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering
arches. You must look to this, and see that her
heart does not grow heavy among these solemn
ruins. Your request is granted, friend.”
After more kind words, they withdrew, and
repaired to the child's house; where they were
yet in conversation or their happy fortune, when
another friend appeared.
. This was the little old gentleman, who lived
in the parsonage-house, and had resided there
(so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the
death of the clergyman's wife, which had hap-
pened fifteen years before. He had been his
College friend, and always his close companion;
in the first shock of his grief he had come to con-
sole and comfort him; and from that time they
had never parted company. The little old gen-
tleman was the active spirit of the place, the
adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all
merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend's
“Let it
“I have no
bounty, and of no small charity of his own be-
sides; the universal mediator, comforter, and
friend. . None of the simple villagers had cared
to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store
it in their memory. Perhaps from some vague
rumour of his college honours which had been
whispered abroad on his first arrival, perhaps
because he was an unmarried, unencumbered
A NOTHER FRIEND.
Í 93
gentleman, he had been called the Bachelor.
The name pleased him, or suited him as well as
any other, and the bachelor he had ever since
remained. And the bachelor it was, it may be
added, who with his own hands had laid in the
stock of fuel which the wanderers had found in
their new habitations.
The bachelor, then—to call him by his usual
appellation—lifted the latch, showed his little
round mild face for a moment at the door, and
stepped into the room like one who was no
stranger to it.
“You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster?”
he said, greeting Nell's kind friend.
“I am, sir.”
“You come well recommended, and I am
glad to see you. I should have been in the way
yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the
country to carry a message from a sick mother
to her daughter in service some miles off, and
have but just now returned. This is our young
church-keeper? You are not the less welcome,
friend, for her sake, or for this old man's ; nor
the worse teacher for having learnt humanity.”
“She has been ill, sir, very lately,” said the
Schoolmaster, in answer to the look with which
their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed
her cheek.
“Yes, yes. I know she has,” he rejoined.
“There have been suffering and heartache
here.”
“Indeed there have, sir.”
The little old gentleman glanced at the grand-
father, and back again at the child, whose hand
he took tenderly in his, and held. O
“You will be happier here,” he said ; “we
will try, at least, to make you so. You have
made great improvements here already. Are
they the work of your hands P”
“Yes, sir.” -
“We may make some others—not better in
themselves, but with better means, perhaps,”
said the bachelor. “Let us see, now let us see.”
Nell accompanied him into the other little
rooms, and over both the houses, in which he
found various small comforts wanting, which he
engaged to supply from a certain collection of
odds and ends he had at home, and which must
have been a very miscellaneous and extensive
one, as it comprehended the most opposite arti-
cles imaginable. They all came, however, and
came without loss of time; for the little old gen-
tleman, disappearing for some five or ten minutes,
presently returned, laden with old shelves, rugs,
blankets, and other household gear, and followed
by a boy bearing a similar load. These being
Cast on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a
quantity of occupation in arranging, erecting,
and putting away; the superintendence of which
task evidently afforded the old gentleman ex-
treme delight, and engaged him for some time
with great briskness and activity. When nothing
more was left to be done, he charged the boy to
run off and bring his schoolmates to be mar-
shalled before their new master, and solemnly
reviewed.
“As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd
wish to see,” he said, turning to the school-
master when the boy was gone; “but I don't
let 'em know I think so. That wouldn't do
at all.”
The messenger soon returned at the head of
a long row of urchins, great and small, who,
being confronted by the bachelor at the house-
door, fell into various convulsions of politeness;
clutching their hats and caps, squeezing them
into the smallest possible dimensions, and mak-
ing all manner of bows and scrapes, which the
little old gentleman contemplated with excessive
satisfaction, and expressed his approval of by a
great many nods and smiles. Indeed, his appro-
bation of the boys was by no means so scrupu-
lously disguised as he had led the schoolmaster
to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in Sundry
loud whispers and confidential remarks which
were perfectly audible to them every one.
“This first boy, schoolmaster,” said the baché
lor, “is John Owen; a lad of good parts, sir,
and frank, honest temper; but too thoughtless,
too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy,
my good sir, would break his neck with pleasure,
and deprive his parents of their chief comfort—
and between ourselves, when you come to see
him at hare and hounds, taking the fence and
ditch by the finger-post, and sliding down the
face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it.
It's beautiful l’”
John Owen having been thus rebuked, and
being in perfect possession of the speech aside,
the bachelor singled out another boy.
“Now, look at that lad, sir,” said the bachelor.
“You see that fellow P Richard Evans his
name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed
with a good memory, and a ready understanding,
and moreover with a good voice and ear for
psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us.
Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll
never die in his bed; he's always falling asleep
in church in sermon-time—and, to tell you the
truth, Mr. Marton, I always did the same at his
age, and feel quite certain that it was natural to
my constitution, and I couldn't help it.”
This hopeful pupil edified by the above terri
ble reproval, the bachelor turned to another.
I94
7A7A O.EZ) CUR/OS/7"Y SATO AE’.
“But if we talk of examples to be shunned,”
said he, “if we come to boys that should be a
warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's
the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This
is the lad, sir; this one with the blue eyes and
light hair. This is a swimmer, sir, this fellow—
a diver, Lord save us ! This is a boy, sir, who
had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of
water, with his clothes on, and bringing up a
blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the
weight of his chain and collar, while his master
stood wringing his hands upon the bank, be-
wailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent
the boy two guineas anohymously, sir,” added
the bachelor in his peculiar whisper, “directly I
heard of it; but never mention it on any account,
for he hasn’t the least idea that it came from
me.”
Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor
turned to another, and from him to another, and
so on through the whole array, laying, for their
wholesome restriction within due bounds, the
same cutting emphasis on such of their propen-
sities as were dearest to his heart, and were un-
questionably referable to his own precept and
example. Thoroughly persuaded, in the end,
that he had made them miserable by his severity,
he dismissed them with a small present, and an
admonition to walk quietly home, without any
leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way:
which injunction (he informed the schoolmaster
in the same audible confidence) he did not think
he could have obeyed when he was a boy, had
his life depended on it.
. Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's.
disposition as so many assurances of his own.
welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster
parted from him with a light heart and joyous
spirits, and deemed himself one of the happiest
men on earth. The windows of the two old
houses were ruddy again, that night, with the
reflection of the cheerful fires that burnt within;
and the bachelor and his friend, pausing to look
upon them as they returned from their evening
Walk, spoke softly together of the beautiful
child, and looked round upon the churchyard
with a sigh.
CHAPTER LIII.
NEEL was stirring early in the morning, and
having discharged her household tasks,
and put everything in order for the good
Schoolmaster (though sorely against his will,
for he would have spared her the pains), took
down, from its nail by the fireside, a little
bundle of keys with which the bachelor had
formally invested her on the previous day, and
went out alone to visit the old church.
The sky was serene and bright, the air cléar,
perfumed with the fresh scent of newly-fallen
leaves, and grateful to every sense. The neigh-
bouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with
a tuneful sound ; the dew glistened on the green
mounds, like tears shed by Good Spirits over
the dead.
Some young children sported among the
tombs, and hid from each other, with laughing
faces. They had an infant with them, and had
laid it down asleep upon a child's grave, in a
little bed of leaves. It was a new grave—the
resting-piece, perhaps, of some little creature,
who, meek and patient in its illness, had often
sat and watched them, and now seemed, to their
minds, scarcely changed.
She drew near, and asked one of them whose
grave it was. The child answered that that was
not its name; it was a garden—his brother's. It
was greener, he said, than all the other gardens,
and the birds loved it better because he had
been used to feed them. When he had done
speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and
kneeling down and nestling for a moment with
his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away.
She passed the church. gazing upward at its
old tower, went through the wicket-gate, and so
into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a
crutch, was taking the air at his cottage door,
and gave her good morrow.
“You are better?” said the child, stopping
to speak to him. -
“Ay, Surely,” returned the old man.
thankful to say, much better.”
“You will be quite well soon.” -
“With Heaven's leave, and a little patience.
But come in, come in l’”
The old man limped on before, and warning
& & I’m
her of the downward step, which he achieved
himself with no small difficulty, led the way into
his little cottage. *
“It is but one room, you see. "There is
another up above, but the stair has got harder
to climb o' late years, and I never use it. I'm
thinking of taking to it again next summer,
though.”
The child wondered how a grey-headed man
like him—one of his trade too—could talk
of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering
to the tools that hung upon the wall, and
smiled. *
“I warrant now,” he said, “that you think all
those are used in making graves.”
Z}/AE OZZ) SAEX7 OAZ
,195
“Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so
many.” . . ,’
“And well you might. I am a gardener. I
dig the ground, and plant things that are to live
and grow. My works don't all moulder away,
and rot in the earth. You see that spade in
the centre P”.
“The very old one—so notched and worn ?
Yes.” -
“That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-
used one, as you see. We're healthy, people
here, but it has done a power of work. If it
could speak now, that spade, it would tell you
of many an unexpected job that it and I have
done together; but I forget ’em, for my memory's
a poor one.—That's nothing new,” he added
hastily. “It always was.”
“There are flowers and shrubs to speak to
your other work,” said the child.
“Oh yes | And tall trees. . But, they are not
so separated from the sexton's labours as you
think. -
“ No 1" -
“Not in my mind, and recollection—such as
it is,” said the old man. “Indeed, they often
help it. For say that I planted such a tree for
such a man. . There it stands, to remind me
that he died. When I look at its broad shadow,
and remember what it was in his time, it helps
me to the age of my other work, and I can'tell
you pretty nearly when I made his grave.”
“But it may remind you of one who is still
alive,” said the child.
“Of twenty that are dead, in connection with
that one who lives, then,” rejoined the old man;
“wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters, chil-
dren, friends—a score at least. So it happens
that the sexton's spade gets worn and battered.
I shall need a new one—next summer.”
The child looked quickly towards him, think-
ing that he jested with his age and infirmity :
but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest.
“Ah!” he said after a brief silence. “People
never learn. They never learn. It's only we
who turn up the ground, where nothing grows
and everything decays, who think of such things
as these—who think of them properly, I mean.
You have been into the church P”
“I am going there now,” the child replied.
“There's an old well there,” said the sexton,
“right underneath the belfry; a deep, dark,
echoing well. Forty year ago you had only to
let down the bucket till the first knot in the rope
was free of the windlass, and you heard it splash-
ing in the cold dull water. By little and little
the water fell away, so that, in ten year after
that, a second knot was made, and you must
unwind so much rope, or the bucket swung light.
and empty at tize end. In ten years' time the
water fell again, and a third knot, was made.
In ten year more, the well dried up; and now,
if you lower the bucket till your arms are tired
and let out nearly all the cord, you'll-hear it of
a sudden clanking, and rattling on the ground
below with a sound of being so deep and so
far down, that your heart leaps into your mouth,
and you start away as if you were falling in.” -
“A dreadful place to come on in the dark 1"
exclaimed the child, who had followed the old
man's looks and words until she seemed to stand
upon its brink. .
“What is it but a grave?” said the sexton.
“What else? And which of our old folks,
knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided,
of their own failing strength and lessening life?.
Not one l’” .
“Are you very old yourself?” asked the child
involuntarily.
“I shall be seventy-nine—next summer.”
“You still work when you are well ?”
“Work To be sure. You shall see my
gardens hereabout. Look at the window there.
I made, and have kept, that plot of ground en-
tirely with my own hands. By this time next
year I shall hardly see the sky, the boughs will
have grown so thick. I have my winter work at
night besides.”
He opened, as he spoke, a cupboard close to
where he sat, and produced some miniature
boxes, carved in a homely manner, and made of
old wood.
“Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient
days, and what belongs to then,” he said, “like
to buy these keepsakes from our church and
ruins. Sometimes I make them of scraps of
oak that turn up here and there; sometimes of
bits of coffins which the vaults have long pre-
served. See here—this is a little chest of the
last kind, clasped at the edges with fragments of
brass plates that had writing on 'em once, though
it would be hard to read it now. I haven't
many by me at this time of year, but these
shelves will be full—next summer.”
The child admired and praised his work, and
shortly afterwards departed; thinking, as she
went, how strange it was that this old man,
drawing from his pursuits, and everything around
him, one stern moral, never contemplated its
application to himself; and, while he dwelt upon
the uncertainty of human life, seemed both in
word and deed to deem himself immortal. But
her musings did not stop here, for she was wise
enough to think that by a good and merciful
adjustment this must be human nature, and that
196
The ozo curſoszzy São P.
the old sexton, with his plans for next summer,
was but a type of all mankind.
Full of these meditations, she reached the
church. It was easy to find the key belonging
to the outer door, for each was labelled on a
scrap of yellow parchment. Its very turning in
the lock awoke a hollow Sound, and, when she
entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it
raised in closing made her start.
If the peace of the simple village had moved
'the child more strongly because of the dark and
troubled ways that lay beyond, and through
which she had journeyed with such failing feet,
what was the deep impression of finding herself
alone in that solemn building, where the very
light, coming through sunken windows, seemed
old and grey, and the air, redolent of earth and
mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by
time of all its grosser particles, and sighing
through arch and aisle, and clustered pillars,
like the breath of ages gone ! Here was the
broken pavement, worn, so long ago, by pious
feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims' steps,
had trodden out their track, and left but crum-
bling stones. Here were the rotten beam, the
sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering wall,
the lowly trench of earth, the stately tomb on
which no epitaph remained,—all—marble, stone,
iron, wood, and dust—one common monument
of ruin. The best work and the worst, the
plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the
least imposing—both of Heaven's work and
Man's—all found one common level here, and
told one common tale.
Some part of the edifice had been a baronial
chapel, and here were effigies of warriors,
stretched upon their beds of stone with folded
hands—cross-legged, those who had fought in
the Holy Wars—girded with their swords, and
cased in armour as they had lived. Some of
these knights had their own weapons, helmets,
coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by,
and dangling from rusty hooks. Broken and
dilapidated as they were, they yet retained their
ancient form, and something of their ancient
aspect.
the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will
survive in mournful shapes, long after those who
worked the desolation are but atoms of earth
themselves.
The child sat down, in this old, silent place,
among the stark figures on the tombs—they
made it more quiet there than elsewhere, to her
fancy—and gazing round with a feeling of awe,
tempered with a calm delight, felt that now she
was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from
the shelf, and read ; then, laying it down,
Thus violent deeds live after men upon
thought of the summer days and the bright
spring-time that would come—of the rays of
sun that would fall in aslant upon the sleeping
forms—of the leaves that would flutter at the
window, and play in glistening shadows on the
pavement—of the songs of birds, and growth of
buds and blossoms out of doors—of the sweet
air that would steal in, and gently wave the
tattered banners overhead. What if the spot
awakened thoughts of death P Die who would,
it would still remain the same ; these sights and
sounds would still go on as happily as ever. It
would be no pain to sleep amidst them.
She left the chapel—very slowly, and often
turning back to gaze again—and coming to a
low door, which plainly led into the tower,
opened it, and climbed the winding stair in
darkness; save where she looked down, through
narrow loopholes, on the place she had left, or
caught a glimmering vision of the dusty bells.
At length she gained the end of the ascent, and
stood upon the turret top.
Oh! the glory of the sudden burst of light;
the freshness of the fields and woods, stretching
away on every side, and meeting the bright blue
sky; the cattle grazing in the pasturage; the
Smoke that, coming from among the trees, seemed
to rise upward from the green earth; the chil-
dren yet at their gambols down below—all,
everything, so beautiful and happy . It was
like passing from death to life; it was drawing
nearer Heaven -
The children were gone when she emerged
into the porch and locked the door. As she
passed the school-house she could hear the busy
hum of voices. Her friend had begun his
labours only that day. The noise grew louder,
and, looking back, she saw the boys come troop-
ing out and disperse themselves; with merry
shouts and play. “It's a good thing,” thought
the child; “iam very glad they pass the church.”
And then she stopped to fancy how the noise
would sound inside, and how gently it would
seem to die away upon the ear. .
Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole
back to the old chapel, and in her former seat
read from the same book, or indulged the same
quiet train of thought. Even when it had grown
dusk, and the shadows of coming night made it
more solemn still, the child remained like one
rooted to the spot, and had no fear or thought
of stirring. -
They found her there, at last, and took her
home. She looked pale, but very happy, until
they separated for the night; and then, as the
poor schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her
cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon his face-
THE BACHEZOA’’S RE VE/?A2AVCE FO/C ZAZAZ Z)/2A/D.
I 97
CHAPTER LIV.
G
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A\ Z. occupations, found in the old church
\ a constant source of interest and
amusement. Taking that pride in
it which men conceive for the won-
ders of their own little world, he had made
its history his study; and many a Summer
day within its walls, and many a winter's
night beside the parsonage fire, had found the
bachelor still poring over, and adding to, his
goodly store of tale and legend.
HE bachelor, among his various
As he was not one of those rough spirits who
would strip fair Truth of every little shadowy
vestment in which time and teeming fancies
love to array her—and some of which become
her pleasantly enough, serving, like the waters
of her well, to add new graces to the charms
they half conceal and half suggest, and to awaken
interest and pursuit rather than languor and
indifference—as, unlike this stern and obdurate
class, he loved to see the goddess crowned with
those garlands-of wild flowers which tradition
wreathes for her gentle wearing, and which are
often freshest in their homeliest shapes, he
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“THE CHILD SAT DOWN IN THIS oLD, SILENT PLACE.”
trod with a light step and bore with a light hand
upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish
any of the airy shrines that had been raised
above it, if any good feeling or affection of the .
human heart were hiding thereabouts. Thus,
in the case of an ancient coffin of rough stone,
Supposed, for many generations, to contain the
bones of a certain baron, who, after ravaging,
With cut, and thrust, and plunder, in foreign
lands, came back with a penitent and sorrowing
heart to die at home, but which had been lately
shown by learned antiquaries to be no such
thing, as the baron in question (so they con-
tended) had died hard in battle, gnashing his
teeth and cursing with his latest breath,<-the
bachelor'stoutly maintained that the old tale was
the true one; that the baron, repenting him of
"the evil, had done great charities and meekly
given up the ghost; and that, if ever baron went
to heaven, that baron was then at peace. In
like manner, when the aforesaid antiquaries did
argue and contend that a certain secret vault
was not the tomb of a grey-haired lady who had
been hanged and drawn and quartered by
glorious Queen Bess for succouring a wretched
priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at her








198
THE OLD CURIO.SYZ"Y-SAHOP
door, the bachelor did solemnly maintain, against
all comers, that the church was hallowed by
the said poor lady's ashes; that her remains
had been collected in the night from four of
the city's gates, and thither in secret brought,
and ºthere deposited; and the bachelor did
further (being highly excited at such times) deny
the glory of Queen Bess, and assert the immea-
surably greater glory of the meanest woman in
her realm, who had a merciful and tender heart.
As to the assertions that the flat stone near the
door was not the grave of the miser who had
disowned his only child and left a sum of money
to the church to buy a peal of bells, the bachelor
did readily admit the same, and that the place
had given birth to no such man. In a word, he
would have had every stone and plate of brass the
monument only of deeds whose memory should
survive. All others he was willing to forget.
They might be buried in consecrated ground,
but he would have had them buried deep, and
never brought to light again.
It was from the lips of such a tutor that the
child learnt her easy task. Already impressed,
beyond all telling, by the silent building and the
peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood—
majestic age surrounded by perpetual youth—it
seemed to her, when she heard these things,
sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was
another world, where sin and sorrow never
came ; a tranquil place of rest, where nothing
evil entered.
When the bachelor had given her, in connec-
tion with almost every tomb and flat gravestone,
some history of its own, he took her down into
the old Crypt, now a mere dull vault, and showed
her how it had been lighted up in the time of
the monks, and how, amid lamps depending from
the roof, and Swinging censers exhaling scented
odours, and habits glittering with gold and
silver, and pictures, and precious stuffs, and
jewels all flashing and glistening through the
low arches, the chant of aged voices had been
many a time heard there, at midnight, in old
days, while hooded figures knelt and prayed
around, and told their rosaries of beads. Thence,
he took her above-ground again, and showed
her, high up in the old walls, small galleries,
where the nuns had been wont to glide along—
dimly seen in their dark dresses so far off—or
to pause like gloomy shadows, listening to the
prayers. He showed her, too, how the warriors,
whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn
those rotting scraps of armour up above—how
this had been a helmet, and that a shield, and
that a gauntlet—and how they had wielded the
great two-handed swords, and beaten men down.
with yonder iron mace. All that he told the
child she treasured in her mind; and sometimes,
when she awoke at night from dreams of those
old times, and rising from her bed looked out
at the dark church, she almost hoped to see the
windows lighted up, and hear the organ's swell,
and sound of voices on the rushing wind.
The old. Sexton Soon got better, and was about
again. From him the child learnt many other
things, though of a different kind. He was not
able to work, but one day there was a grave to
be made, and he came to overlook the man who
dug it. He was in a talkative mood; and the
child, at first standing by his side, and after-
wards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her
thoughtful face raised towards his, began to
converse with him.
Now, the man who did the scxton's duty was
a little older than he, though much more active.
But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who
peradventure, on a pinch, might have walked a
mile with great difficulty in half-a-dozen hours)
exchanged a remark with him about his work,
the child could not help noticing that he did so
with an impatient kind of pity for his infirmity,
as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest
man alive.
“I’m sorry to see there is this to do,” said
the child when she approached. “I heard of
no one having died.”
“She lived in another hamlet, my dear,”
returned the sexton. “Three mile away.”
“Was she young?”
“Ye—yes,” said the sexton ; “not more than
sixty-four, I think. David, was she more than
sixty-four P”
David, who was digging hard, heard nothing
of the question. The sexton, as he could not
reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too
infirm to rise without assistance, called his atten-
tion by throwing a little mould upon his red
nightcap. - - -
“What's the matter now P” said David, look-
ing up. -
“How old was Becky Morgan P” asked the
SeXtOn. - -
“Becky Morgan P” repeated David.
“Yes,” replied the sexton; adding, in a half.
compassionate, half-irritable tone, which the old
man couldn't hear, “You’re getting very deaf,
Davy, very deaf to be sure "
The old man stopped in his work, and cleans-
ing his spade with a piece of slate he had by
him for the purpose—and scraping off, in the
process, the essence of Heaven knows how many
Becky Morgans—set himself to consider the
| Subject.
AECKY MORGAN'S AGE.
- -
“Let me think," quoth he “I saw last night
what they had put upon the coffin—was it
seventy-nine P”
“No, no,” said the sexton.
“Ah, yes, it was, though " returned the old
man with a sigh. “For I remember thinking
she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-
mine.” -*
“Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure,
Davy P” asked the sexton with signs of some
emotion. -
“What?” said the old man. “Say that again.”
“He’s very deaf. He's very deaf indeed,”
cried the sexton petulantly. “Are you sure
you're right about the figures?”
“Oh, quite 1" replied the old man.
not P”
“He’s exceedingly deaf,” muttered the sexton
to himself. “I think he's getting foolish.”
The child rather wondered what had led him
to this belief, as, to say the truth, the old man
seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely
more robust. As the sexton said nothing more
just then, however, she forgot it for the time,
and spoke again.
& 4 Why
“You were telling me,” she said, “about your.
gardening. Do you ever plant things here P”
“In the churchyard P” returned the sexton.
& & Not I.” |
“I have seen some flowers and little shrubs
about,” the child rejoined ; “there are some
over there, you see. I thought they were of your
rearing, though indeed they grow but poorly.”
“They grow as Heaven wills,” said the old
man; “and it kindly ordains that they shall
never flourish here.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Why, this it is,” said the sexton. “They
mark the graves of those who had very tender,
loving friends.”
“I was sure they did " the child exclaimed.
“I am very glad to know they do 1"
“Ay,” returned the old man; “but stay.
Look at them. See how they hang their heads,
and droop, and, wither Do you guess the
reason P” -
“No,” the child replied.
“Because the memory of those who lie below
passes away so soon. At first they tend them
morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to
come less frequently; from once.a day to once
a week; from once a week to once a month ;
then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not
at all. Such tokens seldom flourish long. I
have known the briefest summer flowers outlive
them.”
“I grieve to hear it,” said the child.
shaking his head, “but I say otherwise.
right.
I99
“Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down
here to look about them,” returned the old man,
* It's
a pretty custom you have in this part of the
country,’ they say to me sometimes, “to plant
the graves, but it's melancholy to see these
things, all...withering or dead.' I crave their
pardon, and tell them that, as I take it, 'tis a
good sign for the happiness of the living. And
so it is. It's nature.”
“Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the
blue sky by day, and to the stars by night, and
to think that the dead are there, and not in
graves,” said the child in an earnest voice.
“Perhaps so,” replied the old man doubtfully.
“It may be.”
“Whether it be as I believe it is, or no,”
thought the child within herself, “I’ll make
this place my garden. It will be no harm at
least to work here day by day, and pleasant
thoughts will come of it, I am sure.”
Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed
unnoticed by the sexton, who turned towards
old David, and called him by his name. It was
plain that Becky Morgan's age still troubled
him ; though why, the child could scarcely
understand.
The second or third repetition of his name
attracted the old man's attention. Pausing from
his work, he leant on his spade, and put his
hand to his dull ear.
“Did you call?” he said.
“I have been thinking, Davy,” replied the
sexton, “that she,” he pointed to the grave,
“must have been a deal older than you or me.”
“Seventy-nine,” answered the old man with a
shake of the head ; “I tell you that I saw it.”
“Saw it?” replied the sexton. “Ay, but,
Davy, women don't always tell the truth about
their age.”
“That's true, indeed,” said the other old man
with a sudden sparkle in his eye. “She might
have been older”
“I’m sure she must have been. Why, only
think how old she looked. You and I seemed
but boys to her.” -
“She did look old,” rejoined David. “You’re
She did look old.”
“Call to mind how old she looked for many
a long, long year, and say if she could be but
seventy-nine at last—only our age,” said the
SeXton. -
“Five year older at the very least !” cried the
other.
“Five : * retorted the sexton. “Ten. Good
eighty-nine. I call to mind the time her daughter
died. She was eighty-nine if she was a day,
2OO
\ The ozo cuRIOSITY SHOP.
and tries to pass supon us now for ten year
younger. Oh human vanity 1"
The other old man was not behindhand with
some moral reflections on this fruitful theme,
and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such
weight as to render it doubtful—not whether
the deceased was of the age suggested, but
whether she had not almost reached the patri-
archal term of a hundred. When they had
settled this question to their mutual satisfac-
tion, the sexton, with his friend's assistance,
rose to go.
“It’s chilly sitting here, and I must be careful
—till the summer,” he said as he prepared to
limp away.
“What?” asked old David.
“He’s very deaf, poor fellow !” cried the
sextone “Good-bye.”
“Ah !” said old David, looking after him.
“He’s failing very fast. He ages every day.”
And so they parted ; each persuaded that the
other had less life in him than himself; and
both greatly consoled and comforted by the
little fiction they had agreed upon respecting
Becky Morgan, whose decease was no longer a
precedent of uncomfortable application, and
would be no business of theirs for halſ-a-score
of years to come.
The child remained, for some minutes, watch-
ing the deaf old man as he threw out the earth
with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and
fetch his breath, still muttered to himself, with
a kind of sober chuckle, that the sexton was
wearing fast. At length she turned away, and,
walking thoughtfully through the churchyard,
came unexpectedly upon the schoolmaster, who
was sitting on a green grave in the sun, read-
ling.
“Nell here?” he said cheerfully, as he closed
his book. “It does me good to see you in the
air and light. I feared you were again in the
church, where you so often are.”
“Feared " replied the child, sitting down be-
side him. “Is it not a good place P’’
“Yes, yes,” said the schoolmaster. “But you
must be gay sometimes. Nay, don't shake your
head and smile so sadly.”
“Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not
look at me as if you thought me sorrowful.
There is not a happier creature on the earth
than I am now.” -
Full of grateful tenderness, the child took
his hand, and folded it between her own. “It’s
God’s will,” she said, when they had been silent
for some time.
“What P " -
“All this,” she rejoined; “all this about us. -
But which of us is sad now P You see
am Smiling.”
“And so am I,” said the schoolmaster;
“smiling to think how often we shall laugh in
this same place. Were. you not talking yon-
that I
“Yes,” the child rejoined. -
“Of something that has made you...sorrow-
ful P ''
There was a long pause. .
“What was it?” said the schoolmaster ten-
derly. “Come. Tell me what it was.”
“I rather grieve—I do rather grieve to think,”
said the child, bursting into tears, “that those
who die about us are so soon forgotten.
“And do you think,” said the schoolmaster,
marking the glance she had thrown around,
“ that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a
faded flower or two, are tokens of forgetfulness
or cold neglect? Do you think there are no
deeds, far away from here, in which these dead
may be best remembered P. Nell, Nell, there
may be people busy in the world, at this in-
stant, in whose good actions and good thoughts
these very graves—neglected as they look to us
—are the chief instruments.”
“Tell me no more,” said the child quickly.
“Tell me no more. I feel, I know it. How
could Z be unmindful of it, when I thought of
you ?”
“There is nothing,” cried her friend, “no,
nothing innocent or good, that dies, and is for-
gotten. Let us hold to that faith, or nome. An
infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will
live again in, the better thoughts of those who
loved it, and will play its part, through them, in
t’.e redeeming actions of the world, though its
body, be burnt to ashes or drowned in the
deepest sea. There is not an angel added to
the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work
on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten
Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could
be traced to their source, how beautiful would
even death appear; for how much charity,
mercy, and purified affection would be seen to
: have their growth in dusty graves | *
“Yes,” said the child, “it is the truth. I
know it is. Who should feel its force so much
as I, in whom your little scholar lives again?
Dear, dear, good friend, if you knew the com-
fort you have given me !”
The poor schoolmaster made her no answer,
but bent over her in silence ; for his heart was
full.
They were yet seated in the same place,
when the grandfather approached. Before they
had spoken many words together, the church
MEZZY'S GAAEDEN. 2OI
clock struck the hour of school, and their friend
withdrew. t
“A good man,” said the grandfather, looking
after him ; “a kind man. Surely he will never
harm'us, Nell. We are safe here, at last—eh P
We will never go away from here P’’
The child shook her head and smiled.
“She needs rest,” said the old man, patting
her cheek; “too pale—too pale. She is not
like what she was.”
“When P” asked the child.
“Ha!” said the old man, “to be sure—
How many weeks ago? Could I
Ilet them rest,
when P
count them en my fingers?
though ; they're better gone.”
“Much better, dear,” replied the child. “We
will forget them ; or, if we ever call them to
mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream
that has passed away.”
“Hush "said the old man, motioning hastily
to her with his hand, and looking over his
shoulder; “no more talk of the dream, and all
the miseries it brought. There are no dreams
here. 'Tis a quiet place, and they keep away.
Let us never think about them, lest they should
pursue us again. Sunken eyes , and hollow
cheeks—wet, cold, and famine—and horrors
before them , all, that were even worse—we
must forget such things if we would be tranquil
here.” -
“Thank Heaven " inwardly exclaimed the
child, “for this most happy change . "
“I will be patient,” said the old man,
“humble, very thankful and obedient, if you
will let me stay. But do not hide from me ; do
not steal away alone; let me keep beside you.
Indeed, I will be very true and faithful, Nell."
“I steal away alone Why, that,” replied the
child with assumed gaiety, “would be a pleasant
jest indeed. See here, dear grandfather, we'll
make this place our garden—why not? It is a
very good one—and to-morrow we'll begin, and
work together, side by side.”
“It is a brave thought !” cried her grand-
father. “Mind, darling—we begin to-morrow !”
Who so delighted as the old man when they
next day began their labour 2 Who so uncon-
scious of all associations connected with the
spot as he P They plucked the kong grass and
nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor shrubs
and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it
of the leaves and weeds. They were yet in the
ardour of their work, when the child, raising her
head from the ground over which she bent, ob-
served that the bachelor was sitting on the stile
close by, watching them in silence.
“A kind office,” said the little gentleman,
$9 -
peared to struggle faintly in his mind.
nodding to Nell as she curtsied to him. “Have
you done alſ that this morning?”
“It is very little, sir,” returned the child with
downcast eyes, “to what we mean to do.”
“Good work, good work,” said the bachelor.
“But do you only labour at the graves of chil-
dren and young people?”
“We shall come to the others in good time,
sir,” replied Nell, turning her head aside, and
speaking softly. r
It was a slight incident, and might have been
design, or accident, or the child's unconscious
sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike
upon her grandfather, though he had not noticed
it before. He looked in a hurried manner at
the graves, then anxiously at the child, then
pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to
rest. Something he had long forgotten ap-
It did
not pass away, as weightier things had done ;
but came uppermost again, and yet again, and
many times that day, and often afterwards.
Once, while they were yet at work, the child,
seeing that he often turned and looked uneasily
at her, as though he were trying to resolve some
painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts,
urged him to tell the reason. But he said it was
nothing—nothing—and, laying her head upon
his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and
muttered that she grew stronger every day, and
would be a woman soon.
CHAPTER LV
AROM that time there sprung up in
the old man's mind a solicitude
about the child which never slept or
left him. There are chords in the
* \e * human heart—strange, varying strings
—which are only struck by accident ;
which will remain mute and senseless to
appeals the most passionate and earnest,
and respond at last to the slightest casual touch.
In the most insensible or childish minds there is
some train of reflection which art can seldom
lead, or skill attest, but which will reveal itself,
as great truths have done, by chance, and when
the discoverer has the plainest and simplest end
in view. From that time, the old man never,
for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion
of the child; from the time of that slight inci-
dent, he, who had seen her toiling by his side
through so much difficulty and suffering, and had
scarcely thought of her otherwise than as the
partner, of miseries which he felt severely in


2O2
THE OLD curroSZZY SHOP
his own person, and deplored for his own sake
at least as much as hers, awoke to a sense of
what he owed her, and what those miseries had
made her. Never, no, never once, in one un-
guarded moment from that time to the end, did
any care for himself, any thought of his own
comfort, any selfish consideration or regard,
distract his thoughts from the gentle obiect of
his love. *
He would follow her up and down, waiting
till she should tire and lean upon his arm—he
would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner,
content to watch, and look, until she raised her
head and Smiled upon him as of old—he would
discharge by stealth those household duties
which tasked her powers too heavily—he would
rise, in the cold dark nights, to listen to her
breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch for
hours by her bedside only to touch her hand.
He who knows all, can only know what hopes,
and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were
in that one disordered brain, and what a change
had fallen upon the poor old man.
Sometimes—weeks had crept on then—the
child, exhausted, though with little fatigue, would
pass whole evenings on a couch beside the fire.
At such times the schoolmaster would bring in
books, and read to her aloud; and seldom an
evening passed but the bachelor came in, and
took his turn of reading. The old man sat and
listened,—with little understanding for the words,
but with his eyes fixed upon the child,—and, if
she smiled or brightened with the story, he would
say it was a good one, and conceive a fondness
for the very book. When, in their evening talk,
the bachelor told some tale that pleased her (as
his tales were sure to do), the old man would
painfully try to store it in his mind; nay, when
the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip
out after him, and humbly beg that he would
tell him such a part again, that he might learn to
win a smile from Nell.
But these were rare occasions, happily; for
the child yearned to be out of doors, and walking
in her solemn garden. Parties, too, would come
to see the church; and those who came, speak-
ing to others of the child, sent more ; so even at
that season of the year they had visitors almost
daily. The old man would follow them at a little
distance through the building, listening to the
yoice he loved so well; and when the strangers
left, and parted from Nell, he would mingle
with them to catch up fragments of their conver-
sation; or he would stand for the same purpose,
with his grey head uncovered, at the gate, as
they passed through.
They always praised the child, her sense and
beauty, and he was proud to hear them. But
what was that, so often added, which wrung his
heart, and made him sob and weep alone in
some dull corner P Alas! even careless strangers
—they who had no feeling for her but the inter.
est of the moment—they who would go away
and forget next week that such a being lived—
even they saw it—even they pitied her—even
they bade him good day compassionately, and
whispered as they passed.
The people of the village, too, of whom there
was not one but grew to have a fondness for
poor Nell; even among them there was the same
feeling ; a tenderness towards her—a compas-
sionate regard for her, increasing every day.
The very school-boys, light-hearted and thought-
less as they were, even they cared for her. The
roughest among them was sorry if he missed her
in the usual place upon his way to School, and
would turn out of the path to ask for her at the
latticed window. If she were sitting in the
church, they perhaps might peep in Softly at the
open door; but they never spoke to her, unless
she rose and went to speak to them. Some
feeling was abroad which raised the child above
them all. -
So when Sunday came. They were all poor
country-people in the church, for the castle in
which the old family had lived was an empty
ruin, and there were none but humble folks for
seven miles around. There, as elsewhere, they
had an interest in Nell. They would gather
round her in the porch, before and after service ;
young children would cluster at her skirts; and
aged men and women forsake their gossips, to
give her kindly greeting. None of them, young
or old, thought of passing the child without a
friendly word. Many who came from three or
four miles distant brought her little presents;
the humblest and rudest had good wishes to
bestow.
She had sought out the young children whom
she first saw playing in the churchyard. One
of these—he who had spoken of his brother—
was her little favourite and friend, and often sat
by her side in the church, or climbed with her
to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her,
or to fancy that he did so, and they soon became
close companions.
It happened that, as she was reading in the
old spot by herself one day, this child came
running in with his eyes full of tears, and after
holding her from him, and looking at her eagerly
for a moment, clasped his little arms passionately
about her neck. -
“What now?” said Nell, soothing him. “What
is the matter?” - -
*
AWOZ’’ VA27 /
2O3
“She is not one yet !” cried the boy, em-
bracing her still more closely. “No, no. Not
yet.” -
She looked at him wonderingly, and putting
his hair back from his face, and kissing him,
asked what he meant.
“You must not be one, dear Nell,” cried the
boy. “We can't see them. They never come
to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are.
You are better so.”
“I do not understand you,” said the child.
“Tell me what you mean.”
“Why, they say,” replied the boy, looking up
into her face, “that yºu will be an Angel before
the birds sing again. But you won't be, will
you? Don't leave us, Nell, though the sky is
bright. Do not leave us !”
The child dropped her head, and put her
hands before her face.
“She cannot bear the thought !” cried the
boy, exulting through his tears. “You will not
You know how sorry we should be. Dear
Nell, tell me that you'll stay amongst us. Oh
pray, pray tell me that you will !”
The little creature folded his hands, and knelt
down at her feet.
“Only look at me, Nell,” said the boy, “and
tell me that you'll stop, and then I shall know
that they are wrong, and will cry no more.
Won't you say yes, Nell ?”
Still the drooping head and hidden face, and
the child quite silent—save for her sobs.
“After a time,” pursued the boy, trying to
draw away her hand, “the kind angels will be
glad to think that you are not among them, and
that you stayed here to be with us. Willy went
away to join them ; but, if he had known how I
should miss him in our little bed at night, he
never would have left me, I am sure.” -
Yet the child could make him no answer, and
sobbed as though her heart were bursting.
“Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you
would not be happy when you heard that we
were crying for your loss. They say that Willy
is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer
there, and yet I’m sure he grieves when I lie
down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn
to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell,” said the
boy, caressing her, and pressing his face to hers,
“be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I
love him still, and how much I loved you ; and
when I think that you two are together, and are
happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you
pain by doing wrong—indeed I never will !”
The child suffered him to move her hands,
and put them round his neck. There was a
tearful silence, but it was not long before she
looked upon him with a smile, and promised
him, in a very gentle quiet voice, that she would
stay and be his friend as long as Heaven would
let her. He clapped his hands for joy, and
thanked her many times; and, being charged to
tell no person what had passed between them,
gave her an earnest promise that he never
would.
Nor did he, so far as the child could learn;
but was her quiet companion in all her walks
and musings, and never again adverted to the
theme, which he felt had given her pain, although
he was unconscious of its cause. Something of
distrust lingered about him still; for he would
often come, even in the dark evenings, and call
in a timid voice outside the door to know if she
were safe within ; and being answered yes, and
bade to enter, would take his station on a low
stool at her feet, and sit there patiently until
they came to seek and take him home. Sure as
the porning came, it found him lingering near
the house to ask if she were well; and, morning,
noon, or night, go where she would, he would
forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her
Company.
“And a good little friend he is, too,” said
the old sexton to her once. “When his elder
brother died—elder seems a strange word, for
he was only seven year old—I remember this
one took it soreiy to heart.”
The child thought of what the schoolmaster
lad told her, and felt how its truth was shadowed
out even in this infant.
“It has given him something of a quiet way,
I think,” said the old man, “though for that he
is merry enough at times. I’d wager now that
you and he have been listening by the old well.”
“Indeed we have not,” the child replied. “I
have been afraid to go near it; for I am not
often down in that part of the church, and do
not know the ground.”
“Come down with me,” said the old man.
“I have known it from a boy. Come !”
They descended the narrow steps which led
into the crypt, and paused among the gloomy
arches, in a dim and murky spot, -
“This is the place,” said the old man. “Give
me your hand while you throw back the cover,
lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too
old—I mean rheumatic—to stoop myself.”
“A black and dreadful place " exclaimed the
child.
“Look in,” said the old man, pointing down-
ward with his finger.
The child complied, and gazed down into the
1t.
Pl: It looks like a grave itself,” said the old man,
2O4
THE Ozzy cur/OS/7 Kºsñoz.
+--—
“It does,” replied the child.
“I have often had the fancy,” said the sexton,
“ that it might have been dug at first to make
the old place more gloomy, and the old monks
more religious. It’s to be closed up, and built
Over.”
The child still stood looking thoughtfully into
the vault.
“We shall see,” said the sexton, “on what
gay heads other earth will have closed when the
light is shut out from here. God knows
They'll close it up next spring.” -
“The birds sing again in spring,” thought the
child as she leaned at her casement window, and
“Spring ! A beau-
gazed at the declining sun.
tiful and happy time !”
CHAPTER LVI.
£ºſº ©
% DAY or two after the Quilp tea-
party at the Wilderness, Mr. Swi-
º | veller walked into Sampson Brass's
3$) office at the usual hour, and, being
Q)
alone, in that Temple of Probity,
% Placed his hat upon the desk, and
& * taking from his pocket a small parcel
of black crape, applied himself to fold-
ing and pinning the same upon it after the
manner of a hat-band. Having completed the
construction of this appendage, he surveyed his
work with great complacency, and put his hat
on again—very much over one eye, to increase
the mournfulness of the effect. These arrange-
ments perfected to his entire satisfaction, he
thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked
up and down the office with measured steps. . .
“It has always been the same with me,” said
Mr. Swiveller, “always. 'Twas ever thus, from
childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes
decay, I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas
the first to fade away; I never nursed a dear
Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but
when it came to know me well, and love me, it
was sure to marry a market gardener.”
9verpowered by these reflections, Mr. Swi.
veller stopped short at the clients' chair, and
flung himself into its open arms.
“And this,” said Mr. Swiveller with a kind
of bantering composure, “is life, I believe. Oh,
certainly Why not? I’m quite satisfied. I
shall wear," added Richard, taking off his hat
again, and looking hard at it, as if he were only
deterred by pecuniary considerations from Spurn-
ing it with his foot, “I shall wear this emblem
of woman's perfidy, in remembrance of her wº
whom I shall never again thread the windings
of the mazy; whom I shall never more pledge
in the rosy ; who, during the short remainder of
my existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, ha,
lma, l’’
... It may be necessary to observe, lest there
should appear any incongruity in the close of
this soliloquy, that Mr. Swiveller did not wind
up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would
have been undoubtedly at variance with his
solemn reflections, but that, being in a theatrical
mood, he merely achieved that perførmance
which is designated in melodramas ::1aughing
like a fiend,"—for it seems that your fiends
always laugh in syllables, and always in three
syllables, never more nor less, which is a re.
markable property in such gentry, and oiſe
worthy of remembrance. - * -
The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and
Mr. Swiveller was still sitting in a very grim
state in the clients' chair, when there came a
ring—or, if we may adapt the sound to his then
humour, a knell—at the 'office bell. - Opening
} the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive
countenance of Mr. Chuckster, between whom
and himself a fraternal greeting ensued.
“You’re devilish early at this pestiferous old
slaughter-house,” said that gentleman, poising
himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an
easy manner.
“Rather,” returned Dick. -
“Rather l’’ retorted Mr. Chuckster with that
air of graceful trifling which so well became him.
“A should think so. Why, my good feller, do
you know what o'clock it is P Half-past nine
A.M. in the morning.”
“Won't you come in P” said Dick. “All
alone. Swiveller solus. ‘'Tis now the witch-
ing—— y; t *
“‘Hour of night !”
“‘When churchyards yawn,'" -
“‘And graves give up their dead.’”
At the end of this quotation in dialogue, each
gentleman struck an attitude, and, immediately
subsiding into prose, walked into the office.
Such morsels of enthusiasm were common among
the Glorious Apollos, and were, indeed, the
links that bound them together, and raised them
above the cold dull earth. -
“Well, and how are you, my buck?” said
Mr. Chuckster, taking a stool. “..." I was forced
to come into the City upon some little private
matters of my own, and couldn't pass the corner
of the street without looking in, but, upon my
Soul, I didn't expect to find you. NIt is so êveſ.
lastingly early.”



ZHE DEMER17s of YoUMG SNoBA P.
205
tº
Mr. Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments;
and it appearing, on further conversation, that
he was in good health, and that Mr. Chuckster
was in the like enviable condition, both gentle-
men; in compliance with a solemn custom of the
ancient Brotherhood to, which they belonged,
joined in a fragment of the popular duet of
“All's Well,” with a long shake at the end.
“And what's the news P” said Richard.
“The town's as flat, my dear feller,” replied
Mr. Chuckster, “as the surface of a Dutch oven.
There's no news. By-the-bye, that lodger of
yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite
eludes the most vigorous comprehension, you
know. Never was such a feller (''
“What has he been doing now P” said Dick.
“By Jove, sir,” returned Mr. Chuckster, taking
out an oblong snuff-box, the lid whereof was
ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved
in brass, “that man is an unfathomable. Sir,
that man has made friends with our articled
clerk. There's no harm in him, but he is so
amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a
friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a
thing or two, and could do him some good by
his manners and conversation? I have my
ſaults, sir–” said Mr. Chuckster.
“No, no,” interposed Mr. Swiveller.
“Oh yes, I have I have my faults; no nuan
knows his faults better that I know mine. But,”
said Mr. Chuckster, “I’m not meek. My worst
enemies—every man has his enemies, sir, and I
have mine—never accused me of being meek.
And I tell you what, sir, if I hadn't more of
these qualities that commonly endear man to
man than our articled clerk has, I'd steal a
Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and
drown myself. I'd die degraded, as I had
lived. I would, upon my honour.”
Mr. Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head
exactly on the nose with the knuckle of the fore-
finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily
at Mr. Swiveller, as much as to say that if he
thought he was going to sneeze, he would find
himself mistaken.
“Not contented, sir,” said Mr. Chuckster,
“with making friends with Abel, he has culti-
wated the acquaintance of his father and mother.
Since he came home from that wild-goose chase,
he has been there—actually been there. He
patronises' young Snobby, besides; you'll find,
sir, that he'll be constantly coming backwards
and forwards to this place : yet I don't suppose
that, beyond the common forms of civility, he
has ever exchanged half-a-dozen words with ºne.
Now, upon my soul, you know,” said Mr.
Chuckster, shaking, his head gravely, as men are
| THE OLD.CURíosity SHOP, F4. "
wont to do when they consider things are going
a little too far, “this is altogether such a low-
minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the
governor, and know that he could never get on
without me, I should be obliged to cut the
connection. I should have no alternative.”
Mr. Swiveller, who sat on another stool oppo-
site to his friend, stirred the fire in an excess of
sympathy, but said nothing.
“As to young Snob, sir,” pursued Mr. Chuck-
ster with a prophetic look, “you'll find he'll
turn out bad. In our profession we know some-
thing of human nature, and take my word for
it, that the feller that came back to work out
that shilling will show himself one of these days
in his true colours. He's a low thief, sir. He
must be.”
Mr. Chuckster, being roused, would probably
have pursued this subject further, and in more
emphatic language, but for a tap at the door,
which, seeming to announce the arrival of some-
body on business, caused him to assume a
greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps
quite consistent with his late declaration. Mr.
Swiveller, hearing the same sound, caused his
stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it
brought him to his desk, into which, having
forgotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits to
part with the poker, he thrust it as he cried
“Come in l’’
Who should present himself but that very
Kit who had been the theme of Mr. Chuckster's
wrath? Never did man pluck up his courage
so quickly, or look so fierce, as Mr. Chuckster
when he found it was he. Mr. Swiveller stared
at him for a moment, and then leaping from his
stool, and drawing out the poker from its place
of concealmerit, performed the broad-sword ex-
ercise, with all the cuts and guards complete, in
a species of frenzy
“Is the gentleman at home P” said Kit, rather
astonished by this uncommon reception. .
Before Mr. Swiveller could make any reply,
Mr. Chuckster took occasion to enter his indig-
nánt protest against this form of inquiry; which
he held to be of a disrespectful and snobbish
tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer, seeing two
gentlemen then and there present, should have
spoken of the other gentleman ; or rather (for it
was not impossible that the object of his search
might be of inferior quality), should have men-
tioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to de-
termine his degree as they thought proper. Mr.
Chuckster likewise remarked that he had some
reason to believe this form of address was per-
Sonal to himself, and that he was not a man to
be trifled with—as certain snobs (whom he did
*- - 262
* -- . * * *~- *s
206
ZHE Ozz coºk/OS/ZZ SHOP.,
not more particularly mention or describe)
might find to their cost
‘I mean the gentleman up-stairs,” said Kit,
turning to Richard Swiveller. “Is he at home?”
“Why?” rejoined Dick.
“Because, if he is, I have a letter for him.”
“From whom P” said Dick.
“From Mr. Garland.”
“Oh ſ* said Dick with extreme politeness.
“Then you may hand it over, sir. And, if
you re to wait for an answer, sir, you may wait
in the passage, sir, which is an airy and well-
ventilated apartment, sir.”
“Thank you,” returned Kit,
give it to himself, if you please.”
The excessive audacity of this retort so over-
powered Mr. Chuckster, and so moved his ten-
der regard for his friend's honour, that he de-
clared, if he were not restrained by official con-
siderations, he must certainly have annihilated
Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront
which he did consider, under the extraordinary
circumstances of aggravation attending it, could
not but have met with the proper sanction and
approval of a jury of Englishmen, who, he had
no doubt, would have returned a verdict of
Justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testi-
mony to the morals and character of the Avenger.
Mr. Swiveller, without being quite so hot upon
the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's
excitement, and not a little puzzled how to act
(Kit being quite cool and good-humoured), when
the single gentleman was heard to call violently
down the stairs.
“T)idn't I see somebodv for me come in P”
cried the lodger. - *
“Yes, sir,” replied Dick. “Certainly, sir.”
“Then where is he?” roared the single gen-
tleman. -
“He’s here, sir,” rejoined Mr. Swiveller.
“Now, young man, don’t you hear you're to go
up-stairs P Are you deaf P”
Kit did not appear to think it worth his while
to enter into any altercation, but hurried off, and
left the Glorious Apollos gazing at each other in
silence. sº
“Didn't I tell you so P” said Mr. Chuckster.
“What do you think of that P”
Mr. Swiveller being in the main a good-
natured fellow, and not perceiving in the con-
duct of Kit any villainy of enormous magnitude,
scarcely knew what answer to return. He was
relieved from his perplexity, however, by the
entrance of Mr. Sampson and his sister Sally,
at sight of whom Mr. Chuckster precipitately
retired. -- -
Mr. Brass and his lovely companion appeared
“But I am to
to have been holding a consultation, over their
temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great
interest and importance. On the occasion of
such conferences, they generally appeared in
the office some half an hour after their usual
time, and in a very smiling state, as though their
late plots and designs had tranquillised their
minds, and shed a light upon their toilsome way.
In the present instance they seemed particularly
gay; Miss Sally's aspect being of a most oily
kind, and Mr. Brass rubbing his hands in an
exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner.
“Well, Mr. Richard,” said Brass, “how are
we this morning P Are we pretty fresh and
cheerful, sir—eh, Mr. Richard P.” -
“Pretty well, sir,” replied Dick.
“That’s well,” said Brass. “Ha, ha! We
should be as gay as larks, Mr. Richard—why
not P It's a pleasant world we live in, sir, a
very pleasant world. There are bad people in
it, Mr. Richard ; but, if there were no bad
people, there would be no good lawyers. Ha,
haſ Any letters by the post this morning, Mr.
Richard P”
Mr. Swiveller answered in the negative.
“Hal” said Brass, “no matter. If there's
little business to-day, there'll be more to-morrow.
A contented spirit, Mr. Richard, is the sweet-
ness of existence. Anybody been here, sir?”
“Only my friend,” replied Dick. “‘May we
ne'er want a y 25
“‘Friend,’” Brass chimed in quickly, “‘or a
bottle to give him.’ Ha, ha! That's the way
the song runs, isn't it? A very good song, Mr.
Richard, very good. I like the sentiment of it.
Ha, ha! Your friend's the young man from
Witherden's office I think—yes. ‘May we
ne'er want a Nobody else at all been,
Mr. Richard P”
“Only somebody to the lodger,” replied Mr.
Swiveller.
“Oh, indeed 1" cried Brass. “Somebody to
the lodger, eh? Ha, ha! ‘May we ne'er want
a friend, or a-' Somebody to the lodger, eh,
Mr. Richard P”
“Yes,” said Dick, a little disconcerted by the
excessive buoyancy of spirits which his employer
displayed. “With him now.”
“With him now !” cried Brass. “Ha, ha!
There let 'em be, merry and free, toor rul lol le.
Eh, Mr. Richard P. Ha, ha " .
“Oh, certainly 1” replied Dick. *
“And who,” said Brass, shuffling among his
papers, “who is the lodger's visitor—not a lady
visitor I hope, eh, Mr. Richard? The morals
of the Marks you know, sir—‘when lovely woma.
stoops to folly'—and all that—eh, Mr. Richard?
z/VEz/NESS OF SAMASON BRASS. 20;
“Another young man who belongs to Wither-
den's too, or half belongs there,” returned
Richard. “Kit they call him.”
“Kit, eh?” said Brass. “Strange name—
name of a dancing-master's fiddle, ell, Mr.
Richard P. Ha, ha! Kit's there, is he? Oh ſ*
Dick.looked at Miss Sally, wondering that
she didn't check this uncommon exuberance on
the part of Mr. Sampson; but as she made no
attempt to do so, and rather appeared to ex-
hibit a tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded
that they had just been cheating somebody, and
receiving the bill.
“Will you have the goodness, Mr. Richard,”
said Brass, taking a letter from his desk, “just
to step over to Peckham Rya with that? There's
no answer, but it's rather particular, and should
go by hand. . Charge the office with your coach
hire back, you know ; don't spare the office ;
get as much out of it as you can—clerk's motto
—eh, Mr. Richard P. Ha, ha!”
Mr. Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic
jacket, put on his coat, took down his hat from
its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As
Soon as he was gone, uprose Miss Sally Brass,
and, smiling sweetly at her brother who nodded
and smote his nose in return , withdrew
also.
Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone than
he set the office door wide open, and establish-
ing himself at his desk directly opposite, so that
he could not fail to see anybody who came down-
stairs and passed out at the street-door, began
to write with extreme cheerfulness and assiduity;
humming as he did so, in a voice that was any.
thing but musical, certain vocal snatches which
appeared to have reference to the union between
Church and State, inasmuch as they were com
pounded of the Evening Hymn and God save
the King.
Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and
wrote, and hummed for a long time, except
when he stopped to listen with a very cunning
face, and, hearing nothing, went on humming
louder, and writing slower than ever. At length,
in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's
door open and shut, and footsteps coming down
the stairs. Then, Mr. Brass left off writing
&ntirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed
his very loudest; shaking his head meanwhile
from side to side, like a man whose whole soul
was in the music, and Smiling in a manner quite
Seraphic.
It was towards this moving spectacle that the
Staircase and the sweet sounds guided Kit : on
Whose arrival before his door, Mr. Brass stopped
his singing, but not his smiling, and nodded
affably: at the same time beckoning to him with
Jhis pen.
“Kit,” said Mr. Brass in the pleasantest way
imaginable, “how do you do?”
Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a
suitable reply, and had his hand upon the lock
of the street-door, when Mr. Brass called him
softly back. -
“You are not to go, if you please, Kit,” said
the attorney in a mysterious and business-like
way. “You are to step in here, if you please.
Dear me, dear me ! When I look at you,” said
the lawyer, quitting his stool, and standing before
the fire with his back towards it, “I am reminded
of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes be:
held. I remember your coming there, twice or
thrice, when we were in possession. Ah, Kit,
my dear fellow, gentlemen in my profession
have such painful duties to perform some-
times, that you needn't envy us—you needn't
indeed . "
“I don’t, sir,” said Kit, “though it isn't for
the like of me to judge.”
“Our only consolation, Kit,” pursued the
lawyer, looking at him in a sort of pensive ab-
straction, “is, that although, we cannot turn
away the wind, we can soften it ; we can temper
it, if I may say so, to the shorn lambs.”
“Shorn indeed l’ thought Kit.
close " But he didn't say so.
“On that occasion, Kit,” said Mr. Brass, “on
that occasion that I have just alluded to, I had
a hard battle with Mr. Quilp" (for Mr. Quilp is a
very hard man) to obtain them the indulgence
they had. It might have cost me a client. But
suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed.”
“He’s not so bad after all,” thought honest
Kit, as the attorney pursed up his lips and looked
like a man who was struggling with his better
feelings.
“I respect you, Kit,” said Brass with emotion.
“I saw enough of your conduct, at that time, to
rèspect you, though your station is humble, and
your fortune lowly. It isn't the waistcoat that I
look at. It is the heart. The checks in the
waistcoat are but the wires of the cage. But
the heart is the bird. Ah How many sich
birds are perpetually moulting, and putting
their beaks through the wires to peck at all
mankind ’’
This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in
special allusion to his own checked waistcoat,
quite overcame him; Mr. Brass's voice and
manner added not a little to its effect, for he
discoursed with all the mild austerity of a herº
mit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of
his rusty surtout, and a skull on the chimney-
“Pretty
208
7 H.A. OZA) CC/KZOS/7"Y SAOA.
pièce, to be completely set up in that line of
business.
“Well, well,” said Sampson, smiling as good
men smile when they compassionate their own
weakness or that of their fellow-creatures, “this
is wide of the bull's-eye. You're to take that, if
you please.” As he spoke, he pointed to a
couple of half-crowns on the desk.
Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson,
and hesitated.
“For yourself,” said Brass.
** Fronn jy
“No matter about the person they came
from,” replied the lawyer. “Say me, if you
like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit,
and we mustn't ask questions or talk too much
—you understand? You're to take them, that's
all ; and, between you and me, I don't think
they’H be the last you'll Iſàve to take from the
same place. I hope not. Good-bye, Kit.
Good-bye!”
With many thanks, and many more self.
reproaches for having on such slight grounds
suspected one who in their very first conversa-
tion turned out such a different man from what
he had supposed, Kit took the money and made
the best of his way home. Mr. Brass remained
airing himself at the fire, and resumed his vocal
exercise, and his Seraphic smile, simultaneously.
“May I come in P” said Miss Sally, peep-
Ing.
“Oh yes, you may come in ” returned her
brother.
“Ahem P” coughed Miss Brass interroga-
tively.
“Why, yes,” returned Sampson, “I should
Say as good as done.”
CHAPTER LVII.
ºf R. CHUCKSTER'S indignant ap-
| prehensions were not without foun-
dation. Certainly the friendship
between the single gentleman and
- Mr. Garland was not suffered to
}: 5N- cool, but had a rapid growth and
& flourished exceedingly. They were soon
* in habits of constant intercourse and
communication ; and the single gentleman
labouring at this time under a slight attack of
illness—the consequence, most probably, of his
late excited feelings and subsequent disappoint-
ment—furnished a reason for their holding yet
more frequent correspondence; so that some
one of the inmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley,
>~--> ׺ Æ
-º-º:
came backwards and forwards, between that
place and Bevis Marks almost every day.
As the pony had now thrown off all disguise,
and, without any mincing of the matter or beat.
ing about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven
by anybody but Kit, it generally happened that
whether old Mr. Garland came, or Mr. Abel,
Kit was of the party. Of all messages and in-
quiries, Kit was, in right of his position, the
bearer; thus it came about that, while the single
gentleman remained indisposed, Kit turned into
Bevis Marks every morning with nearly as much
regularity as the General Postman.
Mr. Sanmpson Brass, who no doubt had his
reasons for looking sharply about him, soon
learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the
clatter of the little chaise at the corner of the
street. Whenever this sound reached his ears,
he would immediately lay down his pen, and
fall to rubbing his hands and exhibiting the
greatest glee. -
“Ha, ha!” he would cry. “Here's the pony
again Most remarkable pony, extremely docile,
eh, Mr. Richard, eh, sir?”
Dick would return some matter-of-course
reply, and Mr. Brass, standing on the bottom,
rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street
over the top of the window blind, would take an
observation of the visitors. .
“The old gentleman again 1" he would ex-
claim ; “a very prepossessing old gentleman,
Mr. Richard—charming countenance, sir—ex-
tremely calm—benevolence in every feature, sir.
He quite realises my idea of King Lear, as he
appeared when in possession of his kingdom,
Mr. Richard—the same good-humour, the same
white hair and partial baldness, the same lia-
bility to be imposed upon. ... Ah! - A sweet
subject for contemplation, sir, very sweet !”
Then, Mr. Garland having alighted and gone
up-stairs, Sampson would nod and smile to Kit
from the window, and presently walk out into
‘the street to greet him, when some such con-
versation as the following would ensue. g
“Admirably groomed, Kit"—Mr. Brass is
patting the pony—“does you great credit-
.amazingly sleek and bright to be sure. He
literally looks as if he had been varnished all
Over.” -
Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the poly
himself, and expresses his conviction “that Mt.
Brass will not find many like him.”
“A beautiful animal indeed ”
“Sagacious too P”
“Bless you !” replies Kit, “he knows what
you say to him as well as a Christian does."
“Does he indeed P” cries Brass, who has
cries Braş3.

Mr. Brass curzyVATES X/7's ACQUAVNZANCE,
209
—amº–
heard the same thing in the same place from be could not be expected to return for two or
the same person in the same words a dozen
times, but is paralysed with astonishment not-
withstanding. “Dear me!”
“I little thought, the first time I saw him,
sir,” says Kit, pleased with the attorney's strong
interest in his favourite, “that I should come to
be as intimate with him as I am now.”
“Ah ” rejoins Mr. Brass, brinful of moral
precepts and love of virtue. “A charming sub-
ject of reflection for you, very charming ! . A
subject of proper pride and congratulation,
Christopher. Honesty is the best policy.—I
always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven
pound ten by being honest this morning. But
it's all gain, it's gain ”
Mr. Brass slily tickles his nose with his pen,
and looks at Kit with the water standing in his
eyes. Kit thinks that, if ever there was a good
man who belied his appearance, that man is
Sampson Brass.
“A man,” says Sampson, “who loses forty-
seven pound ten in one morning by his honesty
is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty
pound, the luxuriousness of feeling would have
been increased. Every pound lost would have
been a hundredweight of happiness gained.
The still small voice, Christopher,” cries Brass,
smiling, and tapping himself on the bosom, “is
a singing comic songs within me, and all is
happiness and joy "
Kit is so improved by the conversation, and
finds it go so completely hoſhe to his feelings,
that he is considering what he shall say, when
Mr. Garland appears. The old gentleman is
helped into the chaise with great obsequiousness
by Mr. Sampson Brass; and the pony; after
shaking his head several times, and standing for
three or four minutes with all his four legs
planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made
up his mind never to stir from that spot, but
there to live and die, suddenly darts off, without
the smallest notice, at the rate of twelve English
miles an hour. Then, Mr. Brass and his sister
(who has joined him at the door) exchange an
odd kind of smile—not at all a pleasant one in
its expression—and return to the society of Mr.
Richard Swiveller, who, during their absence,
has been regaling himself with various feats of
pantomime, and is discovered at his desk, in a
very flushed and heated condition, violently
scratching out nothing with half a penknife.
Whenever Kit came alone, and without the
chaise, it always happened that Sampson Brass
was reminded of some mission, calling Mr.
Swiveller, if not to Peckham Rye again, at all
events to some pretty distan; place from which
three hours, or in all probability a much longer
period, as that gentleman was not, to say the
truth, renowned for using great expedition on
such occasions, but rather for protracting and
spinning out the time to the very utmost limit
of possibility. Mr. Swiveller out of sight, Miss
Sally immediately withdrew. Mr. Brass would
then set the office door wide open, hum his old
tune with great gaiety of heart, and smile
seraphically as before. Kit, coming down-
stairs, would be called in ; entertained with
some moral and agreeable conversation ; per-
haps entreated to mind the office for an instant
while Mr. Brass stepped over the way ; and
afterwards presented with one or two half-
crowns, as the case might be. This occurred
so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but that
they came from the single gentleman, who had
already rewarded his mother with great libe-
rality, could not enough admire his generosity;
and bought so many cheap presents for her, and
for little Jacob, and for the baby, and for Bar-
bara to boot, that one or other of them was
having some new trifle every day of their lives.
While these acts and deeds were in progress
in and out of the office of Sampson Brass,
Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein,
began to find the time hang heavy on his hands.
For the better preservation of his cheerfulness,
therefore, and to prevent his faculties from rust-
ing, he provided himself with a cribbage-board
and pack of cards, and accustomed himself to
play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty,
thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds
a side, besides many hazardous bets to a con-
siderable amount.
As these games were very silently conducted,
notwithstanding the magnitude of the interests
involved, Mr. Swiveller began to think that on
those evenings when Mr. and Miss Brass were
out (and they often went out now) he heard a
kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the
direction of the door, which it occurred to him,
after some reflection, must proceed from the
small servant, who always had a cold from
damp living. Looking intently that way one
night, he plainly distinguished an eye gleaming
and glistening at the keyhole; and, having now
no doubt that his suspicions were correct, he
stole softly to the door, and pounced upon her
before she was aware of his approach.
“Oh I didn’t mean any harm indeed,
upon my word I didn't,” cried the small servant,
struggling like a much larger one. “It’s so very
dull down-stairs. Please don't you tell upon
me, please don't.”
2 IO
THE O/CD CUR/O.SYZ"Y SATO AE.
“Tell upon you !” said Dick. “Do you
mean to say you were looking through the key-
hole for company P”
“Yes, upon my word I was,” replied the
small servant.
“How long have you been cooling your eye
there P” said Dick.
“Oh, ever since you first began to play them
cards, and long before 1"
Vague recollections of several fantastic exer-
cises with which he had refreshed himself after
the fatigues of business, and to all of which, no
doubt, the small servant was a party, rather dis-
concerted Mr. Swiveller; but he was not very
sensitive on such points, and recovered himself
speedily.
“Well,—come in,” he said aſter a little con-
sideration. “Here—sit down, and I’ll teach
you how to play.” -
“Oh I durstn't do it,” rejoined the small
servant; “Miss Sally 'ud kill me if she knowed
I come up here.”
“Have you got a fire down-stairs P” said
Dick.
“A very little one,” replied the small servant.
“Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she knowed I
went down there, so I’ll come,” said Richard,
putting the cards into his pocket.
thin you are What do you mean by it P”
“It ain't my fault.”
“Could you eat any bread and meat P” said
Dick, taking down his hat, “Yes? Ah
I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?”
“I had a sip of it once,” said the small servant.
“Here's a state of things 1" cried Mr.
Swiveller, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “She
never tasted it—it can't be tasted in a sip ! Why,
how old are you?” -
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and
appeared thoughtful for a moment; then, bid-
ding the child mind the door until he came back,
vanished straightway.
Wresently he returned, followed by the boy
from the public-house, who bore in one hand a
plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great
pot, filled with some very fragrant compound,
which sent forth a grateful steam, and was indeed
choice purl, made aſter a particular recipe which
Mr. Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a
period when he was deep in his books, and de-
sirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving
the boy of his burden at the door, and charg-
ing his little companion to faster, it to prevent
surprise, Mr. Swiveller followed her into the
kitchen. -
“There !” said Richard, putting the plate
“Why, how
before her, “First of all, clear that off, and
then you'll see what's next.”
The small servant needed no second bidding,
and the plate was soon empty. -
“Next,” said Dick, handing the purl, “take
a pull at that ; but moderate your transports,
you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it
good?”
“Oh isn’t it P” said the small servant.
Mr. Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all
expression by this reply, and took a long draught
himself: steadfastly regarding his companion
while he did so. These preliminaries disposed
of, he applied himself to teaching her the game,
which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both
sharp-witted and cunning.
“Now,” said Mr. Swiveller, putting two six-
pences into a saucer, and trimming the wretched
candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt,
“those are the stakes. If you win, you get 'em
all. If I win, I get 'em. To make it seem more
real, and pleasant. I shall call you the Marchioness,
do you hear?”
The small servant nodded.
“Then, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “fire
away !”
The Marchioness, holding her cards very
tight in both hands, considered which to play,
and Mr. Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashion-
able air which such society required, took an-
other pull at the tankard, and waited for her lead.
CHAPTER LVIII.
.. § ºf R. SWIVELLER and his partner
ſº:/º played several rubbers with varying
success, until the loss of three six-
A pences, the gradual sinking of the
§2.2% purl, and the striking of ten o'clock
§ combined to render that gentleman
§§ mindful of the flight of Time, and the
Č. expediency of withdrawing before Mir.
Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned. º
“With which object in view, Marchioness,” said
Mr. Swiveller gravely, “I shall ask your lady:
ship's permission to put the board in my pocket,
and to retire from the presence when I have
finished this tankard; merely observing, Mar.
chioness, that since life like a river is ſlowing."
care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while
such purl on the bank still is growing, and such
eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness,
your health. You will excuse my wearing my
hat, but the palace is damp, and the marble



AOZATE COZVVERSA TVOAV WZZZZ 7A/Z MAA’ CA/ZOAVESS.
2 I I
floor is—if I may be allowed the expression—
sloppy.”
As a precaution against this latter inconve-
nience, Mr. Swiveller had been sitting for some
time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude
he now gave utterance to these apologetic ob-
servations, and slowly sipped, the last choice
drops of nectar.
“The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair
sister are (you tell me) at the Play?” said Mr.
Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the
table, and raising his voice and his right leg after
the manner of a theatrical bandit.
The Marchioness nodded.
“Ha!” said Mr. Swiveller, with a portentous
frown. “'Tis well. Marchioness — 3 But no
matter. Some wine there. Ho / " He illus-
trated these melodramatic morsels by handing
the tankard to himself with great humility, re-
ceiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily,
and smacking his lips fiercely
The small servant, who was not so well ac-
quainted with theatrical conventionalities as Mr.
Swiveller (having, indeed, never seen a play, or
heard one spoken of, except by chance through
chinks of doors and in other forbidden places),
was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel
in their nature, and showed her concern so
plainly in her looks, that Mr. Swiveller felt it
necessary to discharge his brigand manner for
one more suitable to private life, as he asked:
“Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and
leave you here?”
“Oh yes; I believe you they do | * returned
the small servant. “Miss Sally's such a one-er
for that, she is.”
“Such a what P” said Dick.
“Such a one-er,” returned the Marchioness.
After a moment's reflection, Mr. Swiveller de-
termined to forego his responsible duty of set-
ting her right, and to suffer her to talk on ; as it
was evident that her tongue was loosened by the
purl, and her opportunities for conversation
were not so frequent as to render a momentary
check of little consequence.
“They sometimes go to see Mr. Quilp,” said
the small servant with a shrewd look; “they go
to a many places, bless you !”
“Is Mr. Brass, a wunner P” said Dick.
“Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't,” re-
plied the small servant, shaking her head.
“Bless you, he'd never do anything without
her.”
“Oh He wouldn't, wouldn't he?” said Dick.
“Miss Sally keeps him in such order,” said
the small servant; “he always asks her advice,
he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless
f
you, you wouldn’t believe how much he catches
it.”
“I suppose,” said Dick, “that they consult
together a good deal, and talk about a great
many people—about me, for instance, some-
times, eh, Marchioness P”
The Marchioness nodded amazingly.
“Complimentary 2” said Mr. Swiveller.
The Marchioness changed the motion of her
head, which had not yet left off nodding, and
suddenly began to shake it from side to side
with a vehemence which threatened to dislocate
her neck. -
“Humph [" Dick muttered. “Would it be
any breach of confidence, Marchioness, to re-
late what they say of the humble individual who
has now the honour to }}
“Miss Sally, says you're a funny chap,” re-
plied his friend.
“Well, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller,
“that's not uncomplimentary. Merriment,
Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading
quality. Old King Cole was himself a merry
old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages
of history.”
“But she says,” pursued his companion, “that
you an’t to be trusted.”
“Why, really, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swi-
veller thoughtfully ; “several ladies and gen-
tlemen—not exactly professional persons, but
tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople—have made
the same remark. The obscure citizen who
keeps the hotel over the way inclined strongly
to that opinion to-night when I ordered him to
prepare the banquet. It's a popular prejudice,
Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know
why, for I have been trusted in my time to a
considerable amount, and I can safely say that
I never forsook my trust until it deserted me—
never. Mr. Brass is of the same opinion, I
Suppose P” -
His friend nodded again, with a cunning look
which seemed to hint that Mr. Brass held
stronger opinions on the subject than his sister;
and, seeming to recollect herself, added implor-
ingly, “but don't you ever tell upon me, or I
shall be beat to death.”
“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, rising,
“the word of a gentleman is as good as his
bond—sometimes better, as in the present case,
where his bond might prove but a doubtful sort
of security. I am your friend, and I hope we
shall play many more rubbers together in this
same saloon. But, Marchioness,” added Richard,
stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling
slowly round upon the Small servant, who was
following with the candle; “it occurs to me
2 I 2
7F/E OZZ) CUR/OS/7"Y SATO AE2.
that you must be in the constant habit of airing
your eye at keyholes, to know all this.” -
“I only wanted,” replied the trembling Mar-
chioness, “to know where the key of the safe"
was hid ; that was all; and I wouldn't have
taken much; if I had found it—only enough to
squench my hunger.” >
“You didn't find it, then P” said Dick. “But
of course you didn't, or you'd be plumper.
Good night, Marchioness.
-** -
º º º º
|
sº
Fare thee well, and .
if for ever, then for ever fare thee well—and puſ
up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents.”
With this parting injunction, Mr. Swiveller
-emerged from the house; and feeling that he
had by this time taken quite as much to drink
as promised to be good for his constitution
(purl being a rather strong and heady compound),
wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings,
and to bed at once. Homeward he went, there.
fore; and his apartments (for he still retained
| - - Al * US
||f||
|#####|| º
Sºrº
# {
--- --> ---
ºr "--
the plural fiction) being at no great distance
from the office, he was soon seated in his own
bedchamber, where, having pulled off one boot ||
and forgotten the other, he fell into deep cogita-,
tion.
“THEN, MARCHIONESs,”, said, MR, swiveLLER, “FIRE Away . "
these things be her destiny, or has some unknown
person started an opposition to the decrees of
fate? It is a most inscrutable and unmitigated
staggerer ," - - *
When his meditations had attained this satis’
factory point, he became aware of his remaining
, boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity, he
#proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head
with exceeding gravity all the time, and sighing
deeply. -- *
“These rubbers,” said Mr. Swiveller, putting
“This Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, fold-:
ing his arms, “is a very extraordinary person—
surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the tasteſ'
of beer, unacquainted with her own name (which:
is less remarkable), and taking a limited view of.
Society through the keyholes of doors. Can



*
-g -, * * - - - - * ~ * ***—
on his nightcap in exactly the same style as he
wore his hat, “remind me of the matrimonial.
Cheggs's wife plays Cribbage ; all-fours'
fireside.
likewise. She rings the changes on 'em now.
From sport to sport they hurry her, to banish
her regrets, and when they win a smile from her,
they think that she forgets—but she don’t. By
this time, I should say,” added Richard, getting
his left chiek intô profile, and looking com-
placently at the reflection of a very little scrap
of whisker in the looking-glass; “by this time,
Í should say, the iron has entered into her soul.
It serves her right !” -
Melting from this stern and obdurate into the
tender and pathetic mood, Mr. Swiveller groaned
a little, walked wildly up and down, and even
• made a show of tearing his hair, which, however,
he thought better of, and wrenched the tassel
from his nightcap instead. At last, undressing.
himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into
bed.
Some men in his blighted position would have
taken to drinking; but as Mr. Swiveller had
taken to that before, he only took, on receiving
the news that Sophy Wackles was lost to him
for ever, to playing the flute; thinking, after
mature consideration, that it was a good, sound,
dismal occupation, not only in unison with his
own sad thoughts, but calculated to awaken a
fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours.
In pursuance of this.resolution, he now drew a
little table to his bedside, and arranging the light
and a small oblong music-book to the best ad-
vantage, took his flute from its box, and began
to play most mournfully.
The air was, “Away with melancholy”—a
£omposition which, when it is played very slowly
on the flute in bed, with the further disadvantage
of being performed by a gentleman but imper
fectly acquainted with the instrument, who re-
peats one note a great many times before he
can find the next, has not a lively effect. Yet,
for half the night, or more, Mr. Swiveller, lying
sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the
ceiling, and sometimes half out of bed to correct
himself by the book, played this unhappy tune .
over and over again; never leaving off, save for
a minute or two at a time to take breath and
soliloquise about the Marchioness, and then
beginning again with renewed vigour. It was
not until he had quite exhausted his several sub-
jects of meditation, and had breathed into the
flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to
its very dregs, and had nearly maddened the
people of the house, and at both the next doors,
and over the way, that he shut up the music-
jbook, extinguished the candle, and finding him-
PROAAA’zy MISSEp.
_ars
self greatly lightened and relieved in his mind,
turned round and fell asleep. --
He awoke in the morning much refreshed ;
and having taken half an hour's exercise at the
flute, and graciously received a notice to quit
from his landlady, who had been in waiting on
the stairs for that purpose since the dawn of
day, repaired to Bevis Marks; where the beau-
tiful Sally was already at her post, bearing in
her looks a radiance mild as that which beameth
from the virgin moon.
Mr. Swiveller acknowledged her presence by
a nod, and exchanged his coat for the aquatic
jacket ; which usually took some time fitting on,
for, in consequence of a tightness in the sleeves,
it was only to be got into by a series of struggles.
This difficulty overcome, he took his seat at the
desk. *
“I say," quoth Miss Brass, abruptly breaking
Silence, “you haven't seen a silver pencil-case
this morning, have you ?”
“I didn't meet many in the street,” rejoined
Mr. Swiveller. “I saw one—a stout pencil-
case of respectable appearance—but, as he was
in company with an elderly penknife and a
—º-
, young toothpick with whom he was in earnest
conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him.”
“No, but have you?” returned Miss Brass.
“Seriously, you know.”
“What a dull dog you must be to ask me
such a question seriously l’” said Mr. Swiveller.
“Haven't I this moment come P”
... “Well, all I know is,” replied Miss Sally,
“that it's not to be found, and that it dis-
appeared one day this week, when I left it on
the desk.”
“Halloa ("thought Richard, “I hope the
Marchioness hasn’t been at work here.”
“There was a knife too,” said Miss Sally, “of
the same pattern. They were given to me by
my father, years ago, and are both gone. You
haven't missed anything yourself, have you?”
Mr. Swiveller involuntarily clapped his hands
to the jacket, to be quite sure that it was a
‘jacket, and not a skirted coat; and, having
satisfied himself of the safety of this, his only
movable in Bevis Marks, made answer in the
negative. -
“It’s a very unpleasant thing, Dick,” said
Miss Brass, pulling out the tin box and refresh-
ing herself with a pinch of snuff; “but, between
you and me—between friends you know, for, if
Sammy knew it, I should never hear the last of
it—some of the office money, too, that has been
left about, has gone in the same way. In par-
ticular, I have missed three half-crowns at three
different times.”
214
Z'HE OLD CURIOS/7'y SHOP
“You don't mean that?” cried Dick: “Be
careful what you say, old boy, for this is a seri.
ous matter. Are you quite sure?
mistake P”
“It is so, and there can't be any mistake at
all,” rejoined Miss Brass emphatically.
“Then, by Jove,” thought Richard, laying
down his pen, “I am afraid the Marchioness is |
done for "
The more he discussed the subject in his
thoughts, the more probable it appeared to
Dick that the miserable little servant was the
culprit. When he considered on what a spare
allowance of food she lived, how neglected and
untaught she was, and how her natural cunning
had been sharpened by necessity and privation,
he scarcely doubted it. And yet he pitied her
So much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter
of such gravity disturbing the oddity of their
acquaintance, that he thought, and thought
truly, that rather than receive fifty pounds
down, he would have the Marchioness proved
Innocent.
While he was plunged in very profound and
serious meditation upon this theme, Miss Sally
Sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery
and doubt; when the voice of her brother
Sampson carolling a cheerful strain was heard ||.
in the passage, and that gentleman himself,
beaming with virtuous smiles, appeared.
“Mr. Richard, sir, good morning ! Here we
are again, sir, entering upon another day, with
our bodies strengthened by slumber and break-
fast, and our spirits fresh and flowing. Here we
are, Mr. Richard, rising with the sun to run our
little course—our course of duty, sir—and, like
him, to get through our day's work with credit
to ourselves and advantage to our fellow-crea-
tures. A charming reflection, sir, very charm-
in ! »
While he addressed his clerk in these words,
Mr. Brass was, somewhat ostentatiously, en-
gaged in minutely examining and holding up
against the light a five-pound bank note, which
he had brought in in his hand.
Mr. Richard not receiving his remarks with
anything like enthusiasm, his employer turned
his eyes to his face, and observed that it wore a
troubled expression.
“You’re out of spirits, sir,” said Brass. “Mr.
Richard, sir, we should fall to work cheerfully,
and not in a despondent state. It becomes us,
Mr. Richard, sir, to-
Here the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh.
“Dear me !” said Mr. Sampson, “you too !
Is anything the matter P Mr. Richard, sir—”
Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she
Is there no
was making signals to him to acquaint her
brother with the subject of their recent conversa-
tion. As his own position was not a very pleasant
one until the matter was set at rest one way or
other, he did so ; and Miss Brass, plying her
Snuff-box at a most wasteful rate, corroborated
his account. -
The countenance of Sampson fell, and anxiety
overspread his features. . Instead of passionately
bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally
had expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door,
opened it, looked outside, shut it softly, re-
turned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper:
“This is a most extraordinary and painful
circumstance—Mr. Richard, sir, a most painful
circumstance. The fact is, that I myself have
missed several small sums from the desk of late,
and have refrained from mentioning it, hoping
that accident would discover the offender; but
it has not done so—it has not done so. Sally
—Mr. Richard, sir—this is a particularly dis-
tressing affair.”
As. Sampson spoke, he laid the bank note
upon the desk among some papers in an absent
manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets.
Richard Swiveller pointed to it, and admonished
him to take it up.
“No, Mr. Richard, sir,” rejoined Brass with
emotion, “I will not take it up. I will let it lie
there, sir. To take it up, Mr. Richard, sir,
would imply a doubt of you; and in you, sir, I
have unlimited confidence. We will let it lie
there, sir, if you please, and we will not take it
up by any means.” With that, Mr. Brass patted
him twice or thrice on the shoulder in a most
friendly manner, and entreated him to believe
that he had as much faith in his honesty as he
had in his own. e
Although at another time Mr. Swiveller might
have looked upon this as a doubtful compliment,
he felt it, under the then existing circumstances,
a great relief to be assured that he was not
wrongfully suspected. When he had made a
suitable reply, Mr. Brass wrung him by the
hand, and fell into a brown study, as did Miss
Sally likewise. Richard, too, remained in a
thoughtful state; fearing every moment to hear
the Marchioness impeached, and unable to re-
sist the conviction that she must be guilty. .
When they had severally remained in this
condition for some minutes, Miss Sally all at
once gave a loud rap upon the desk with her
clenched fist, and cried, “I’ve hit it!”—as in-
déed she had, and chipped a piece out of it too;
but that was not her meaning.
“Well !” cried Brass anxiously. “Go on,
will you?”
REME WED LIVELINESS OF SAMPSON BRASS.
2 I 5
“Why," replied his sister with an air of
triumph, “ hasn't there been somebody always
coming in and out of this office for the last
three or four weeks; hasn't that somebody been
left alone in it sometimes-thanks to you ; and
do you mean to tell me that that somebody isn't
the thief P”
“What somebody ?" blustered Brass.
“Why, what do you call him—Kit.”
“Mr. Garland's young man 2"
“To be sure.”
“Never !” cried Brass. “Never ! I'll not
hear of it. Don't tell me !” said Sampson,
shaking his head, and working with both his
hands as if he were clearing away ten thousand
cobwebs. “I’ll never believe it of him.
Never !” &
“I say,” repeated Miss Brass, taking another
pinch of snuff, “that he's the thief.”
“I say,” returned Sampson violently, “that
he is not. What do you mean P. How dare
you? Are characters to be whispered away
like this P Do you know that he's the homestest
and faithfullest fellow that ever lived, and that
he has an irreproachable good name 2 Corne in,
conne in , ”
These last words were not addressed to
Miss Sally, though they partook of the tone in
which the indignant remonstrances that pre-
ceded them had been uttered. They were ad-
dressed to some person who had knocked at the
office door; and they had hardly passed the
lips of Mr. Brass, when this very Kit himself
looked in.
“Is the gentleman up-stairs,
please ?”
“Yes, “ICit,” said Brass, still fired with an
homest indignation, and frowning with knotted
brows upon his sister ; “yes, Kit, he is. I am
glad to see you, Kit; I am rejoiced to see you.
Look in again as you come down-stairs, Kit.
That lad a robber 1" cried Brass when he had
withdrawn, “with that frank and open counte-
nance I'd trust him with untold gold. Mr.
Richard, sir, have the goodness to step directly
to Wrasp and Co.'s in Broad Street, and inquire
if they have had instructions to appear in
Carkenn and Painter. That lad a robber 1 °
sneered Sampson, flushed and heated with his
wrath. “Am I blind, deaf, silly; do I know
nothing of human nature when I see it before
me? Kit a robber Bah ” º
Flinging this final interjection at Miss Sally
with immeasurable scorn and contempt, Samp-
son Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to
shut the base world from his view, and breathed
defiance from under its half-closed lid.
sir, if you
CHAPTER LIX.
HEN Kit, having discharged his
errand, came down-stairs from the
§ single gentleman's apartment after
the lapse of a quarter of an hour
or So, Mr. Sampson Brass was
alone in the office. He was not
§§§ singing as usual, nor was he seated at his
desk. The open door showed him stand-
ing before the fire with his back towards it, and
looking so very strange that Kit supposed he
must have been suddenly taken ill.
“Is anything the matter, sir?” said Kit.
“Matter t” cried Brass. “No. Why any-
thing the matter?”
“You are so very pale,” said Kit, “ that I
should hardly have known you.”
“Pooh, pooh mere fancy,” cried Brass,
stooping to throw up the cinders. “Never
better, Kit, never better in all my life. Merry
too. Ha, ha! How's our friend above-stairs,
eln P’’
“A great deal better,” said Kit.
“I’m glad to hear it,” rejoined Brass;
“ thankful, I may say. An excellent gentleman
-—worthy, liberal, generous, gives very little
trouble—an admirable lodger. Ha, ha! Mr.
Garland—he's well I hope, Kit—and the pony
—my friend, my particular friend, you know.
Ha, ha!”
Kit gave a satisfactory account of all the
little household at Abel Cottage. Mr. Brass,
who seemed remarkably inattentive and im-
patient, umounted on his stool, and, beckoning
him to come nearer, took him bv. the button-
hole.
* I have been thinking, Kit,” said the lawyer,
“ that I could throw some little emoluments
into your mother's way. You have a mother, I
think? If I recollect right, you told me——”
“Oh yes, sir, yes, certainly ”
“A widow, I think? an industrious widow P”
“A harder-working woman or a better mother
never lived, sir.” -
“Ah ” cried Brass. “That's affecting, truly
affecting. A poor widow struggling to maintain
her orphans in decency and comfort is a deli-
cious picture of human goodness.—Put down
your hat, Kit.”
“Thank you, sir, I must be going directly.”
“Put it down while you stay, at any rate,”
said Brass, taking it from him and making some
confusion among the papers, in finding a place
for it on the desk. “I was thinking, Kit, that
we have oſten houses to let for people we are
concerned for, and matters of that sort. Now,

2 I 6
THE OLD CURIO.SYTY SHOA.
you know we're obliged to put people into those
houses to take care of 'em—very often unde-
serving people that we can't depend upon.
What's to prevent our having a person that we
can depend upon, and enjoying the delight of
doing a good action at the same time? I say,
what's to prevent our employing this worthy
woman, your mother? What with one job and
another, there's lodging—and good lodging too
—pretty well all the year round, rent free, and
a weekly allowance besides, Kit, that would
provide her with a great many comforts she
“THE AIR WAS, Away witH MELANCHOLY.' "
upon him and thrusting his face close to Kit's
with such a repulsive Smile that the latter, even
in the very height of his gratitude, drew back,
quite startled. “Why, then, it's done.”
Kit looked at him in some confusion.
“Done, I say,” added Sampson, rubbing his
hands and veiling himself again in his usual oily
manner. “Ha, ha! and so you shall find, Kit,
so you shall find. But, dear me,” said Brass,
“what a time Mr. Richard, is gone A sad
loiterer to be sure | Will you mind the office
one minute while I run up-stairs P Only one
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don't at present enjoy. Now what do you
think of that P Do you see any objection 2
My only desire is to serve you, Kit; therefore,
if you do, say so freely.” *
As Brass spoke, he moved the hat twice or
thrice, and shuffled among the papers again, as
if in search of something.
“How can I see any objection to such a kind
offer, sir?” replied Kit with his whole heart.
“I don't know how to thank you, sir, I don't
indeed.”
“Why, then,” said Brass, suddenly turning
º:
ñº;
1|| º 5
pºº
f : º º
minute. I'll not detain you an instant longer,
on any account, Kit.”
Talking as he went, Mr. Brass bustled out of
the office, and in a very short time returned.
Mr. Swiveller came back almost at the same
instant; and as Kit was leaving the room
hastily, to make up for lost time, Miss Brass
herself €ncountered him in the doorway.
“Oh ” sneered Sally, looking after him as
she entered. “There goes your pct, Sammy,
eh P’’
“Ah
There he goes,” replied Brass, “My















































































A BA/WK AWOZTE COAVE.
27
pet, if you please. An honest fellow,
Richard, sir—a worthy fellow indeed ' "
“Hem ’ ” coughed Miss Brass. *
“I tell you, you aggravating vagabond,” said
the angry Sampson, “that I'd stake my life upon
his honesty. Am I never to hear the last of
this? Am I always to be baited and beset by
your mean suspicions P Have you no regard
for true merit, you malignant fellow 2 If you
come to that, I’d sooner suspect your honesty
than his.”
Miss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-box, and
took a long, slow pinch : regarding her brother
with a steady gaze all the time.
“She drives me wild, Mr. Richard, sir,” said
Brass; “she exasperates me beyond all bearing.
I am heated and excited, sir, I know I am.
These are not business manners, sir, nor busi-
ness looks, but she carries me out of myself.”
“Why don't you leave him alone P” said
ick
Mr.
“Because she can’t, sir,” retorted Brass ;
“because to chaſe and vex me is a part of her
nature, sir, and she will and must do it, or I
don't believe she'd have her health. But never
mind,” said Brass, “never mind. I’ve carried
my point. I've shown my confidence in the
lad. He has minded the office again. Ha,
ha! Ugh, you viper "
The beautiful virgin took another pinch, and
put the snuff-box in her pocket; still looking at
her brother with perfect composure.
“He has minded the office again,” said Brass
triumphantly; “he has had my confidence, and
he shall continue to have it; he—why, where's
the-–”
“What nave you lost P” inquired Mr. Swi-
veller.
“Dear me !” said Brass, slapping all his
pockets one after another, and looking into his
desk, and under it, and upon it, and wildly
tossing the papers about, “the note, Mr.
Richard, sir, the five-pound note—what can
have become of it P I laid it down here. God
bless me !” -
“What l” cried Miss Sally, starting up, clap-
ping her hands, and scattering the papers on
the floor. “Gone Now who's right P Now
who's got it? Never mind five pounds—what's
five pounds? He's honest you know, quite
honest. It would be mean to suspect him.
Don't run after him. No, no, not for the
World ! ”
“Is it really gone, though P” said Dick, look-
ing at Brass with a face as pale as his own.
“Upon my word, Mr. Richard, sir,” replied
the lawyer, feeling in all his pockets with looks
of the greatest agitation, “I fear this is a black
business. ... It's certainly gone, sir.
What's to
be done?”
“Don’t run after him,” said Miss Sally, taking
more snuff. “Don’t run after him on any ac,
count. Give him time to get rid of it, you
know. It would be cruel to find him out !”
Mr. Swiveller and Sampson Brass looked
from Miss Sally to each other in a state of
bewilderment, and then, as by one impulse,
caught up their hats and rushed out into the
street–darting along in the middle of the road,
and dashing aside all obstructions, as though
they were running for their lives.
It happened that Kit had been running too,
though not so fast, and, having the start of them
by Some few minutes, was a good distance ahead.
As they were pretty certain of the road he must
have taken, however, and kept on at a great
pace, they came up with him, at the very
moment when he had taken breath. and was
breaking into a run again.
“Stop!” cried Sampson, laying his hand on
one shoulder, while Mr. Swiveller pounced upon
the other. “Not so fast, sir. You're in a
hurry P”
“’Yes, I am,” said Kit, looking from one to
the other in great surprise.
“I—I—can hardly believe it,” panted Samp-
son, “but something of value is missing from
the office. I hope you don't know what.”
“Know what Good Heaven, Mr. Brass *
cried Kit, trembling from head to foot; “you
don't suppose——”
“No, no,” rejoined Brass quickly, “I don't
suppose anything. Don't say I said you did. "
You'll come back quietly, I hope P”
“Of course I will,” returned Kit. “Why
“Why not? I
not P ''
“To be sure : " said Brass.
hope there may turn out to be no why not. If
you knew the trouble I've been in this morning,
through taking your part, Christopher, you'd be
sorry for it.”
“And I am sure you'll be sorry for having
suspected me, sir,” replied Kit. “Come. Let
us make haste back.”
“Certainly 1" cried Brass, “the quicker the
better. Mr. Richard—have the goodness, sir,
to take that arm. I'll take this one. It's not
easy walking three abreast, but under these
circumstances it must be done, Sir there's no
help for it.” -
Rit did turn from white to red, and from red
to white again, when they secured him thus, and
for a moment seemed disposed to resist. But,
quickly recollecting himself, and remembering
218
—º
ZAE. Ozzy COR/OS/7 y SHOP.
*A.
gºm-
that if he made any struggle, he would perhaps
be dragged by the collar through the public.
streets, he only repeated, with great earnestness,
and with the tears standing in his eyes, that they
would be sorry for this—and suffered them to
lead him off. While they were on the way back,
Mr. Swiveller, upon whom his present functions
sat very irksomely, took an opportunity of whis-
pering in his ear that if he would confess his
guilt, even by so much as a nod, and promise
not to do so any more, he would connive at his
kicking Sampson Brass on the shins and escap-
ing up a court; but Kit indignantly rejecting
this proposal, Mr. Richard had nothing for it
but to hold him tight until they reached Bevis
Marks, and ushered him into the presence of
the charming Sarah, who immediately took the
precaution of locking the door.
“Now, you know,” said Brass, “if this is a
case of innocence, it is a case of that description,
Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is the
best satisfaction for everybody. Therefore, if
you'll consent to an examination,” he demon-
strated what kind of examination he meant by
turning back the cuffs of his coat, “it will be a
comfortable and pleasant thing for all parties.”
“Search me,” said Kit, proudly holding up
his arms. “But mind, sir—I know you'll be
sorry for this to the last day of your life.”
“It is certainly a very painſul occurrence,”
said Brass with a sigh, as he dived into one of
Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous
collection of small articles; “very painful.
Nothing here, Mr. Richard, sir; all perfectly
satisfactory. . Nor here, sir. Nor in the waist-
coat, Mr. Richard; nor in the coat-tails. So far,
I am rejoiced, I am sure.”
Richard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his
hand, was watching the proceedings with great
interest, and bore upon his face the slightest
possible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting
one of his eyes, looked with the other up the
inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves as if
it were a telescope—when Sampson, turning
hastily to him, bade him search the hat.
“Here's a handkerchief,” said Dick.
“No harm in that, sir,” rejoined Brass, ap-
plying his eye to the other sleeve, and speaking
in the voice, of one who was contemplating an
immense extent of prospect. “No harm in a
handkerchief, sir, whatever. The faculty don't
consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr.
Richard, to carry one's handkerchief in one's
hat—I have heard that it keeps the head too
warm—but, in every other point of view, its
being there is extremely satisfactory—ex-tremely
so.” r
go
An exclamation, at once from Richard Swi-
veller, Miss Sally, and Kit himself, cut the lawyer
short. He turned his head, and saw. Dick
standing with the bank note in his hand.
“In the hat?” cried Brass in a sort of shriek.
“Under the handkerchief, and tucked beneath
the lining,” said Dick, aghast at the discovery,
Mr. Brass looked at him, at his sister, at the
walls, at the ceiling, at the floor—everywhere
but at Kit, who stood quite stupefied and
motionless.
“And this,” cried Sampson, clasping his hands,
“is the world that turns upon its own axis, and
has Lunar influences, and revolutions round
Heavenly Bodies, and various games of that
sort | This is human natur', is it P Oh, natur',
natur’. This is the miscreant that I was going
to benefit with all my little arts, and that, even
now, I feel so much for as to wish to let him
But,” added Mr. Brass with greater forti-
tude, “I am myself a lawyer, and bound to set
an example in carrying the laws of my happy
country into effect. Sally, my dear, forgive ºne,
and catch hold of him on the other side. Mr.
Richard, sir, have the goodness to run and fetch
a constable. The weakness is past and over,
sir, and moral strength returns. A constable,
sir, if you please I”
• * – -º-
CHAPTER LX.
#IT stood as one entranced, with his
eyes opened wide and fixed upon the
ground, regardless alike of the treliu.
lous hold which Mr. Brass maintained
on one side of his cravat, and of the
firmer grasp of Miss Sally upon the
other; although this latter detention was
£) in itself no small inconvenience, as that
'fascinating woman, besides screwing her knuckles
inconveniently into his throat from time to time,
had fastened upon him, in the first instance,
with so tight a grip that even in the disorder
and distraction of his thoughts he could not
divest himself of an uneasy sense of choking.
Between the brother and sister he remained in
this posture, quite unresisting and passive, until
Mr. Swiveller returned, with a police constable
at his heels.
This functionary, being, of course, well used
to such scenes; looking upon all kinds of
robbery, ſrom petty larceny up to housebreaking
or ventures on the highway, as matters in the
regular course of business; and regarding the
perpetrators in the light of so many customers

KZZ ZAV CUSTOZ) V.
. re.
coming to be served at the wholesale and retail
shop of criminal law where he stood behind the
counter; received Mr. Brass's statement of facts
with about as much interest and surprise as an
undertaker might evince if required to listen to
a circumstantial account of the last illness of a
person whom he was called in to wait upon pro-
fessionally; and took Kit into custody with a
decent indifference.
“We had better,” said this subordinate minis-
ter of justice, “get to the office while there's a
magistrate sitting. I shall want you to come
along with us, Mr. Brass, and the—”. He
looked at Miss Sally as if in some doubt
whether she might not be a griffin or other
fabulous monster.
“The lady, eh?” said Sampson.
“Ah !” replied the constable. “Yes—the
lady. Likewise the young man that found the
property.”
“Mr. Richard, sir,” said Brass in a mournful
voice. “A sad necessity. But the altar of our
country, sir 3)
“You’ll have a hackney coach, I suppose?”
interrupted the constable, holding Kit (whom
his other captors had released) carelessly by the
arm, a little above the elbow. “Be so good as
send for one, will you?”
“But hear me speak a word,” cried Kit,
raising his eyes, and looking imploringly about
him. “Hear me speak a word. I am no more
guilty than any one of you. Upon my soul I
am not. I a thief Oh, Mr. Brass, you know
me better | I am sure you know me better.
This is not right of you, indeed.”
“I give you my word, constable said
Brass. But here the constable interposed with
the constitutional principle, “Words be blowed;”
observing that words were but spoon-meat for
babes and sucklings, and that oaths were the
food for strong men.
“Quite true, constable,” assented Brass in the
same mournful tone. “Strictly correct. I give
you my oath, constable, that down to a few
minutes ago, when this fatal discovery was
made, I had such confidence in that lad, that I'd
have trusted him with A hackney coach,
Mr. Richard, sir; you're very slow, sir.”
“Who is there that knows me,” cried Kit,
“ that would not trust me—that does not P Ask
anybody whether they have ever doubted me;
whether I have ever wronged them of a farthing.
Was I ever once dishonest when I was poor
and hungry, and is it likely I would begin now P
Oh, consider what you do How can I meet
the kindest friends that ever human creature
had, with this dreadful charge upon me?”
33
219
Mr. Brass rejoined that it would have been
well for the prisoner if he had thought of that
before, and was about to make some other
gloomy observations when the voice of the
single gentleman was heard, demanding from
above-stairs what was the matter, and what was
the cause of all that noise and hurry. Kit made
an involuntary start towards the door in his
anxiety to answer for himself, but, being speedily
detained by the constable, had the agony of
seeing Sampson Brass run out alone to tell the
story in his own way.
“And he can hardly believe it, either,” said
Sampson when he returned, “nor nobody will.
I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses,
but their depositions are unimpeachable. It's of
no use cross-examining my eyes,” Cried Sampson,
winking and rubbing them, “they stick to their
first account, and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the
coach in the Marks ; get on your bonnet, and
we'll be off. A sad errand a moral funeral,
quite l"
“Mr. Brass,” said Kit, “do me one favour,
Take me to Mr. Witherden's first.”
Sampson shook his head irresolutely.
“Do,” said Kit. “My master's there.
Heaven's sake, take me there first 1”
“Well, I don't know,” stammered Brass, who
perhaps had his reasons for wishing to show as
fair as possible in the eyes of the notary.
“How do we stand in point of time, con-
stable, eh?”
The constable, who had been chewing a straw
all this while with great philosophy, replied that
if they went away at once they would have time
enough, but that, if they stood shilly-shallying
there any longer, they must go straight to the
Mansion House ; and finally expressed his
opinion that that was where it was, and that was
all about it.
Mr. Richard Swiveller having arrived inside
the coach, and still remaining immovable in the
most commodious corner with his face to the
horses, Mr. Brass instructed the officer to re-
move his prisoner, and declared himself quite
ready. Therefore, the constable, still holding
Kit in the same manner, and pushing him on a
little before him, so as to keep him at about
three-quarters of an arm's length in advance
(which is the professional mode), thrust him
into the vehicle, and followed himself. Miss
Sally entered next; and, there being now four
inside. Sampson Brass got upon the box, and
made the coachman drive on.
Still completely stunned by the sudden and
terrible change which had taken place in his
affairs, Kit sat gazing out of the coach window,
For
22O
THE OZZ5 COR/OS/7"Y SHOP.
almost hoping to see some monstrous pheno-
menon in the streets which might give him
reason to believe he was in a dream. Alas !
everything was too real and familiar: the same
succession of turnings, the same houses, the
same streams of people running side by side in
different directions upon the pavement, the
same bustle of carts and carriages in the road,
the same well-remembered objects in the shop-
windows : a regularity in the very noise and
hurry which no dream ever mirrored. Dream-
like as the story was, it was true. He stood
charged with, robbery; the note had been found
upon him, though he was innocent in thought
and deed ; and they were carrying him back a
prisoner.
Absorbed in these painful ruminations, think-
ing with a drooping heart of his mother and .
little Jacob, feeling as though even the con-
Sciousness of innocence would be insufficient to
support him in the presence of his friends if they
believed him guilty, and sinking in hope and
courage more and more as they drew nearer to
the notary's, poor Kit was looking earnestly out
of the window, observant of nothing,-when all
at once, as though it had been conjured up by
magic, he became aware of the face of Quilp.
And what a leer there was upon the face.
It was from the open window of a tavern that
it looked out; and the dwarf had so spread
himself over it, with his elbows on the window-
sill and his head resting on both his hands, that
what between this attitude and his being swollen
with suppressed laughter, he looked puffed and
bloated into twice his usual breadth. Mr. Brass,
on recognising him, immediately stopped, the
coach. As it came to a halt directly opposite
to where he stood, the dwarf pulled off his hat,
and Saluted the party with a hideous and gro-
tesque politeness.
“Aha!” he cried. “Where now, Brass?
where now? Sally with you too P Sweet Sally
* Dick P. Pleasant Dick | And Kit? Honest
it tº -
“He’s extremely cheerful 1" said Brass to the
coachman. “Very much so | Ah, sir—a sad
business Never believe in honesty any more,
Sir.”
“Why not?” returned the dwarf.
not, you rogue of a lawyer, why not?”
“Bank note lost in our office, sir,” said Brass,
shaking his head. “Found in his hat, sir—he
previously left alone there—no mistake at all,
sir—chain of evidence complete—not a link
wanting.”
“What t” cried the dwarf, leaning half his
body out of window, “ Kit a thief : Kit a thief
4t. Why -
Ha, ha, ha! Why, he's an uglier-looking thief
than can be seen anywhere for a penny. Eh,
Kit—eh? Ha, ha, ha! Have you taken Kit
into custody before he had time and opportunity
to beat me P Eh, Kit, eh?” And, with that,
he burst into a yell of laughter, manifestly to the
great terror of the coachman, and pointed to a
dyer's pole hard by, where a dangling suit of
clothes bore some resemblance to a man upon
a gibbet.
“Is it coming to that, Kit?” cried the dwarf,
rubbing his hands violently. “Ha, ha, ha, ha!
What a disappointment for little Jacob, and for
his darling mother | Let him have the Bethel
minister to comfort and console him, Brass.
Eh, Kit, eh? Drive on, coachey, drive on.
Bye, bye, Kit; all good go with you; keep up
your spirits; my love to the Garlands—the dear
old lady and gentleman. Say I inquired after
'em, will you? Blessings on 'em, and on you,
and on everybody, Kit. Blessings on all the
World !”
With such good wishes and farewells, poured
out in a rapid torrent until they were out of
hearing, Quilp suffered them to depart; and,
when he could see the coach no longer, drew in
his head, and rolled upon the ground in an
ecstasy of enjoyment.
. When they reached the notary's, which they
were not long in doing, for they had encountered
the dwarf in a by-street at a very little distance
from the house, Mr. Brass dismounted ; and,
opening the coach door with a melancholy visage,
requested his sister to accompany him into the
office, with the view of preparing the good people
within for the mournful intelligence that awaited
them. Miss Sally complying, he desired Mr.
Swiveller to accompany them. So, into the
office they went ; Mr. Sampson and his sister
arm-in-arm ; and Mr. Swiveller following alone.
The notary was standing before the fire in the
outer office, talking to Mr. Abel and the elder
Mr. Garland, while Mr. Chuckster sat writing at
the desk, picking up such crumbs of their con-
versation as happened to fall in his way. This
posture of affairs Mr. Brass observed through
the glass door as he was turning the handle,
and, seeing that the notary recognised him, he
began to shake his head and sigh deeply while
that pārtition yet divided them.
“Sir,” said Sampson, taking off his hat, and
kissing the two forefingers of his right-hand
beaver glove, “my name is Brass—Brass of
Bevis Marks, sir. I have had the honour and
pleasure, sir, of being concerned against you in
Some little testamentary matters. How do you
do, sir?”
*
"My clerk will attend to any business you?
may have come upon, Mr. Brass,” said the
notiry, turning away.
“Thank you, sir,” said Brass, “ thank you, If
am sure. Allow me, sir, to introduce my sister;
—quite one of us, sir, although of the weaker;
sex—of great use in my business, sir, I assure
you. Mr. Richard, sir, have the goodness to:
come forward, if you please. No, really,” said
Brass, stepping between the notary and his pri-
vate office (towards which he had begun to re-.
treat), and speaking in the tone of an injured
man, “really, sir, I must, under favour, request
a word or two with you, indeed.”
“Mr. Brass,” said the other in a decided tone,
“I am engaged. You see that I am occupied
with these gentlemen. If you will communicate ;
your business to Mr. Chuckster yonder, you willj
receive every attention.” *
“Gentlemen,” said Brass, laying his rightſ
hand on his waistcoat, and looking towards the
father and son with a smooth smile—“gentle-
men, I appeal to you—really, gentlemen—con-3
sider, I beg of you. I am of the law. I am;
styled ‘gentleman’ by Act of Parliament. I
maintain the title by the annual payment' of
twelve pounds sterling for a certificate. I am
not one of your players of music, stage actors,
writers of books, or painters of pictures, who
assume a station that the laws of their country
don't recognise. I am none of your strollers or
vagabonds. If any man brings his action against
me, he must describe me as a gentleman, or his
action is null and void. I appeal to you—is this
quite respectful ? Really, gentlemen——” *
“Well, will you have the goodness to state
your business, then, Mr. Brass P” said the
notary.
“Sir,” rejoined Brass, “I will. Ah, Mr.
Witherden you little know the— But I
will not be tempted to travel from the point,
sir. I believe the name of one of these gentle-.
men is Garland.”
“Of both,” said the notary. -
“In-deed ' " rejoined Brass, cringing exces-
sively. “But I might have known that from
the uncommon likeness, Extremely happy, I am
sure, to have the honour of an introduction to
two such gentlemen, although the occasion is a
most painful one. One of you gentlemen has a
servant called Kit.”
“Both,” replied the notary. • *
: “Two Kits?” said Brass, smiling. “Dear me!”
“One Kit, sir,” returned Mr. Witherden
angrily, “who is employed by both gentlemen.
What of him P”
“This of him, sir,” rejoined Br: <s, dropping
' THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 15.
\ AIT'S CASE GEZSEWORSE AND WORSE.
22 iſ
his voice impressively. “That young man, sir,
that I have felt unbounded and unlimited con-
fidence in, and always behaved to as if he was
my equal—that young man has this morning
committed a robbery in my office, and been
taken almost in the fact.”
| “This must be some falsehood l’ cried the
ł notary.
; : “It is not possible,” said Mr. Abel.
“I’ll not believe one word of it,” exclaimed
the old gentleman. .*
# Mr. Brass looked mildly round, upon them,
# and rejoined :
“Mr. Witherden, sir, your words are action-
able, and if I was a man of low and mean stand-
ing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I should
proceed for damages. Hows'ever, sir, being what
I am, I merely scorn such expressions. The
honest warmth of the other gentleman. I respect,
and I’m truly sorry to be the messenger of such
unpleasant news. I shouldn't have put myself
in this painful position, I assure you, but that
the lad himself desired to be brought here in
the first instance, and I yielded to his prayers.
Mr. Chuckster, sir, will you have the goodness
to tap at the window for the constable that's
waiting in the coach P” -
The three gentlemen looked at each other
with blank faces when these words were uttered,
and Mr. Chuckster, doing as he was desired,
and leaping off his stool with something of the
excitement of an inspired prophet whose fore-
tellings had in the fulness of time been realised,
held the door open for the entrance of the
wretched captive.
Such a scene as there was when Kit came in,
and, bursting into the rude eloquence with which
Truth at length inspired him, called Heaven to
witness that he was innocent, and that how the
property came to be found upon him he knew
not Such a confusion of tongues before the
circumstances were related, and the proofs dis-
closed Such a dead silence when all was told,
and his three friends exchanged looks of doubt
and amazement
“Is it not possible,” said Mr. Witherden after
a long pause, “that this note may have found
its way into the hat by some accident, such as
the removal of papers on the desk, for instance?”
But this was clearly shown to be quite im-
possible. Mr. Swiveller, though an unwilling
witness, could not help proving to demonstra-
tion, from the position in which it was found,
that it must have been designedly secreted.
“It's very distressing,” said Brass, “immensely
distressing, I am sure, When he comes to be
tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him
263

222
THE OLD CUR/US/7"Y SHOP.
to mercy on account of his previous good cha-
racter. I did lose money before, certainly, but
it doesn't quite follow that he took it. The pre-
sumption's against him—strongly against him—
but we're Christians, I hope.”
“I suppose,” said the constable, looking
round, “that no gentleman here can give evi-
dence as to whether he's been flush of money
of late. Do you happen to know, sir?”
“He has had money from time to time, cer-
tainly,” returned Mr. Garland, to whom the man
had put the question. “But that, as he always
told me, was given him by Mr. Brass him-
Self.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Kit eagerly.
can bear me out in that, sir?”
“Eh P” cried Brass, looking from face to face
with an expression of stupid amazement.
“The money, you know, the half-crowns that
you gave me—from the lodger,” said Kit.
“Oh dear me!” cried Brass, shaking his head
and frowning heavily. “This is a bad case, I
find a very bad case indeed l’’
“What!, Did you give him no money on
account of anybody, sir?” asked Mr. Garland
with great anxiety.
“I give him money, sir!” returned Sampson.
“You
“Oh, come, you know, this is too barefaced
Constable, my good fellow, we had better be
going.” -
“What "shrieked Kit, “Does he deny that
he did? Ask him, somebody, pray. Ask him to
tell you whether he did or not l”
“Did you, sir?” asked the notary. -
“I tell you what, gentlemen,” replied Bras
in a very grave manner, “he’ll not serve his
case this way, and really, if you feel any interest
in him, you had better advise him to go upon
Some other tack. Did I, sir? Of course I
never did.”
“Gentlemen,” cried Kit, on whom a light
broke suddenly, “Master, Mr. Abel, Mr. Wither.
den, every one of you—he did it What I have
done to offend him I don't know, but this is a
plot to ruin me. Mind, gentlemen, it's a plot,
and, whatever comes of it, I will say with my
dying breath that he put that note in my hat!
himself! Look, at him, gentlemen See how
he changes colour ! Which of us looks the guilty
person—he or I ?” -
“You hear him, gentlemen P” said Brass,
smiling, “you hear him P Now, does this case
strike you as assuming rather a black com-
plexion, or does it not 2 Is it at all a trea.
cherous case, do you think, or is it one of mere
ordinary guilt P Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had
not said this in your presence, and I had re-
ported it, you'd have held this to be impossible
likewise, eh?”
With such pacific and bantering remarks did
Mr. Brass refute the foul aspersion on his cha-
racter; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger
feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more
jealous regard for the honour of her family, flew
from her brother's side, without any previous
intimation of her design, and darted at the pri-
soner with the utmost fury. It would undoubt-
edly have gone hard with Kit's face, but that
the wary constable, foreseeing her design, drew
him aside at the critical moment, and thus
placed. Mr. Chuckster in circumstances of some
jeopardy; for that gentleman happening to be
next the object of Miss Brass's wrath; and rage
being, like love and fortune, blind; was pounced
upon by the fair enslaver, and had a false collar
plucked up by the roots, and his hair very much
dishevelled, before the exertions of the company
could make her sensible of her mistake. . .
The constable, taking warning by this des-
perate attack, and thinking, perhaps, that it
would be more satisfactory to the ends of jus’
tice if the prisoner were taken before a magp-
trate whole, rather than in small pieces, led him
back to the hackney coach without more ago,
and, moreover, insisted on Miss Brass becoming
an outside passenger; to which proposal the
charming creature, after a little angry discus-
sion, yielded her consent, and so took her
brother Sampson's place upon the box : Mr.
Brass, with some reluctance, agreeing to occupy
her seat inside. These arrangements perfected,
they drove to the justice-room with all speed,
followed by the notary and his two friends, in
another coach. Mr. Chuckster alone was left
behind—greatly to his indignation; for he held
the evidence he could have given, relative to
Kit's returning to work out the shilling, to be
so very material as bearing upon his hypocritical
and designing character, that he considered its
suppression little better than a compromise of
felony. &
At the justice-room they found the single
gentleman, who had gone straight there, and
was expecting them with desperate impatience.
But, not fiſty single gentlemen rolled into one
could have helped poor Kit, who in half an
hour afterwards was committed for trial, and
was assured by a friendly officer, on his way to
prison, that there was no occasion to be cast
down, for the sessions would soon be on, and
he would, in all likelihood, get his little affair
disposed of, and be comfortably transported, in
less than a fortnight.
AZT IN GAOZ.
223
CHAPTER LXI.
ºš ET moralists and philosophers say
º º) what they may, it is very question-
ºš% able whether a guilty man would
à % have felt half as much misery that
§: night as Kit did, being innocent.
㺠* The world, being in the constant
º commission of vast quantities of injustice,
@, is a little too apt to comfort itself with the
idea that, if the victim of its falsehood and
malice have a clear conscience, he cannot fail
to be sustained under his trials, and, somehow
or other, to come right at last ; “in which case,”
say they who have hunted him down—“though
we certainly don't expect it—nobody will be
better pleased than we.” Whereas, the world
would do well to reflect that injustice is in itself,
to every generous and properly-constituted
mind, an injury of all others the most insuffer-
able, the most torturing, and the most hard to
bear; and that many clear consciences have
gone to their account elsewhere, and many
sound hearts have broken, because of this very
reason ; the knowledge of their own deserts only
aggravating their sufferings, and rendering them
the less endurable.
The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's
case. But, Kit was innocent; and, knowing
this, and feeling that his best friends deemed
him guilty—that Mr. and Mrs. Garland would
look upon him as a monster of ingratitude—that
Barbara would associate him with all that was
bad and criminal—that the pony would con-
sider himself forsaken—and that even his own
mother might perhaps yield to the strong ap-
pearances against him, and believe him to be
the wretch he seemed—knowing and feeling all
this, he experienced, at first, an agony of mind
which no words can describe, and walked up
and down the little cell in which he was locked
up for the might, almost beside himself with
grief.
Even when the violence of these emotions
had in some degree subsided, and he was be-
ginning to grow more calm, there came into his
mind a new thought, the anguish of which was
scarcely less. The child—the bright star of the
simple fellow's life—she who always came back
upon him like a beautiful dream—who had made
the poorest part of his existence the happiest
and best—who had ever been so gentle, and
considerate, and good—if she were ever to hear
of this, what would she think? As this idea
occurred to him, the walls of the prison seemed
to melt away, and the old place to reveal itself.
in their stead, as it was wont to be on winter
nights—the fireside, the little supper-table, the
old man's hat, and coat, and stick—the half-
opened door, leading to her little room—they
were all there. And Nell herself was there, and
he—both laughing heartily as they had often
done—and, when he had got as far as this, Kit
could go no farther, but flung himself upon his
poor bedstead and wept.
It was a long night, which seemed as though
it would have no end : but he slept too, and
dreamed—always of being at liberty, and roving
about, now with one person, and now with
another, but ever with a vague dread of being
recalled to prison; not that prison, but one
which was in itself a dim idea—not of a place,
but of a care and sorrow ; of something op-
pressive and always present, and yet impossible
to define. At last, the morning dawned, and
there was the gaol itself—cold, black, and
dreary, and very real indeed.
He was left to himself, however, and there
was comfort in that. He had liberty to walk in
a small paved yard at a certain hour, and learnt
from the turnkey, who came to unlock his cell
and show him where to wash, that there was a
regular time for visiting every day, and that, if
any of his friends came to see him, he would be
fetched down to the grate. When he had given
him this information, and a tin porringer con-
taining his breakfast, the man locked him up
again; and went clattering along the stone pas-
sage, opening and shutting a great many other
doors, and raising numberless loud echoes
which resounded through the building for a
long time, as if they were in prison too, and
unable to get out.
This turnkey had given him to understand
that he was lodged, like some few others, in the
gaol, apart from the mass of prisoners; because
he was not supposed to be utterly depraved and
irreclaimable, and had never occupied apart-
ments in that mansion before. Kit was thank-
ful for this indulgence, and sat reading the
Church Catechism very attentively (though he
had known it by heart from a little child), until
he heard the key in the lock, and the man
entered again. *
“Now then,” he said, “ come on 1"
“Where to, sir?” asked Kit.
The man contented himself by briefly reply.
ing, “Wisitors;” and, taking him by the arm
in exactly the same manner as the constable
had done the day before, led him, through
several winding ways and strong gates, into a
passage, where he placed him at a grating and
turned upon his heel. Beyond this grating, at the
distance of about four or five feet, was another,



THE O/L D C Uſ"/OS/TY SANOA.
2.24
exactly like it. In the space between sat a
turnkey reading a newspaper ; and outside the
further railing, Kit saw, with a palpitating heart,
his mother with the baby in her arms ; Barbara's
mother with her never-ſailing umbrella ; and
poor little Jacob, staring in with all his might,
as though he were looking for the bird, or the
wild beast, and thought the men were mere
accidents with whom the bars could have no
possible concern.
But, when little Jacob saw his brother, and,
thrusting his arms between the rails to hug him,
found that he came no nearer, but still stood
afar off with his head resting on the arm by
which he held to one of the bars, he began to
cry most piteously; whereupon Kit's mother
and Barbara's mother, who had restrained them-
selves as much as possible, burst out sobbing
and weeping aſnesh. Poor Kit could not help
joining them, and not one of them could speak
a word.
During this melancholy pause the turnkey
read his newspaper with a waggish look (he had
evidently got among the facetious paragraphs),
until, happening to take his eyes off it for an
instant, as if to get by dint of contemplation at .
the very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort
than the rest, it appeared to occur to him, for
the first time, that somebody was crying.
“Now, ladies, ladies,” he said, looking round
with surprise, “I’d advise you not to waste time
like this. It's allowanced here, you know. You
mustn't let that child make that noise either.
It's against all rules.”
“I’m his poor mother, sir,” sobbed Mrs.
Nubbles, curtsying humbly, “ and this is his
brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me !”
“Well!" replied the turnkey, folding his
paper on his knee, so as to get with greater
convenience at the top of the next column.
“It can't be helped, you know. He an’t the
only one in the same fix. You mustn't make a
noise about it !”
With that, he went on reading. The man
was not naturally cruel or hard-hearted. He
had come to look upon felony as a kind of dis-
order, like the scarlet ſever or erysipelas: some
people had it—some hadn't—just as it might be.
“Oh my darling Kit,” said his mother,
whom Barbara's mother had charitably relieved
of the baby, “that I should see my poor boy
here !”
“You don't believe I did what they accuse
me of mother dear?” cried Kit in a choking
VOICe.
“I believe it !” exclaimed the poor woman,
“J, that never knew you tell a lie, or do a
Jacob.
bad action from your cradle—that have never
had a moment's sorrow on your account, except
it was for the poor meals that you have taken
with such good-humour and content, that I ſor-
got how little there was, when I thought how
kind and thoughtful you were, though you were
but a child ! I believe it of the son that's been
a comfort to me from the hour of his birth to
this time, and that I never laid down one night
in anger with ! I believe it of you, Kit P”
“Why, then, thank God " said Kit, clutch-
ing the bars with an earnestness that shook
them, “and I can bear it, mother Come what
may, I shall always have one drop of happiness
in my heart when I think that you said that.”
At this, the poor woman fell a crying again,
and Barbara's mother too. And little Jacob,
whose disjointed thoughts had by this time
resolved themselves into a pretty distinct im-
pression that Kit couldn't go out for a walk if
he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions,
tigers, or other natural curiosities behind those
bars—nothing, indeed, but a caged brother—
added his tears to theirs with as little noise as
possible.
Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening
them, poor soul, more than she dried them), now
took from the ground a small basket, and sub-
missively addressed herself to the turnkey, say-
ing, would he please to listen to her for a
minute 2 The turnkey, being in the very crisis
and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his
hand to keep silent one minute longer, for her
life. Nor did he remove his hand into its
former posture, but kept it in the same warning
attitude until he had finished the paragraph,
when he paused for a few seconds, with a smile
upon his face, as who should say, “This editor
is a comical blade—a funny dog,” and then
asked her what she wanted.
“I have brought him a little something to
eat,” said the good wonan. “If you please, sir,
might he have it 2 ” - g
- “Yes, he may have it.
against that.
There's no rule
Give it to me when you go, and
‘l’ll take care he has it.”
“No, but if you please, sir—don't be angry
with me, sir—I am his mother, and you had a
mother once—if I might only see him eat a
little bit, I should go away so much more
satished that he was all comfortable.”
And again the tears of Kit's mother burst
forth, and of Barbara's mother, and of little
As to the baby, it was crowing and
laughing with all its might—under the idea, ap-
parently, that the whole scene had been invented
and got up for its particular satisfaction.
c;
A COAEDIA Z FOR THE PRZSOAVER. 225
The turnkey looked as if he thought the re-
quest a strange one, and rather out of the
common way, but nevertheless he laid down
his paper, and &oming round to where Kit's
mother stood, took the basket from her, and
after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit,
and went back to his place. It may be easily
conceived that the prisoner had no great appe-
tite, but he sat down on the ground, and ate as
hard as he could, while, at every morsel he put
into his mouth, his mother sobbed and wept
afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke
the satisfaction the sight afforded her.
While he was thus engaged, Kit made some
anxious inquiries about his employers, and
whether they had expressed any opinion con-
cerning him ; but all he could learn was, that
Mr. Abel had himself broken the intelligence to
his mother, with great kindness and delicacy,
late on the previous night, but had himself ex-
pressed no opinion of his innocence or guilt.
Kit was on the point of mustering courage to
ask Barbara's mother about Barbara, when the
turnkey who had conducted him reappeared, a
second turnkey appeared behind his visitors,
and the third turnkey with the newspaper cried,
“Time's up !”—adding, in the same breath,
“Now for the next party 1" and then plunging
deep into his newspaper again. Kit was taken
off in an instant, with a blessing from his
mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing
in his ears. As he was crossing the next yard
with the basket in his hand, under the guidance
of his former conductor, another officer called
to them to stop, and came up with a pint pot of
porter in his hand.
“This is Christopher Nubbles, isn't it, that
come in last night for felony P” said the man.
His comrade replied that this was the chicken
in question.
“Then here's your beer,” said the other man
to Christopher.
There an’t a discharge in it.”
“I beg-your pardon,” said Kit.
it me?”
“Why, your friend,” replied the man. “You’re
to have it every day, he says. And so you will,
if he pays for it.”
“My friend "repeated Kit.
“You’re all abroad, seemingly,” returned the
other man. “There's his letter. Take hold !”
Kit took it, and, when he was locked up
again, read as follows:
“Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell
“Who sent
in its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality.
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen'ſ
Zer cup was a fiction, but this is reality
“What are you looking 'at? “
account's a pretty large one.
(Barclay and Co.'s). If they ever send it in a
flat state, complain to the Governor. Yours,
R. S.” -
“R. S. 1" said Kit after some consideration.
“It must be Mr. Richard Swiveller. Well, it's
very kind of him, and I thank him heartily ”
CHAPTER LXII.
KGW.
FAINT light, twinkling from the
window of the counting-house on
Quilp's wharf, and looking inflamed
and red through the night fog, as
though it suffered from it like an
eye, forewarned Mr. Sampson Brass,
as he approached the wooden cabin
& as with a cautious step, that the excellent
proprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and
probably waiting with his accustomed patience
and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the
appointment which now brought Mr. Brass
within his fair domain.
“A treacherous place to pick one's steps in
of a dark night,” muttered Sampson as he
stumbled for the twentieth time over some
stray lumber, and limped in pain. “I believe
that boy strews the ground differently every day,
on purpose to bruise and maim one ; unless his
master does it with his own hands, which is
more than likely. I hate to come to this place
without Sally. She's more protection than a
dozen men.”
As he paid this compliment to the merit of
the absent charmer, Mr. Brass came to a halt;
looking doubtfully towards the light, and over
his shoulder.
“What's he about, I wonder P” murmured
the lawyer, standing on tiptoe, and endeavour.
ing to obtain a glimpse of what was passing
inside, which at that distance was impossible.
“Drinking, I suppose, making himself more
fiery and furious, and heating his malice and
mischievousness till they boil. I’m always
afraid to come here by myself, when his
I don't believe
he'd mind throttling me, and dropping me softly
into the river, when the tide was at its strongest,
any more than he'd mind killing a rat—indeed,
I don't know whether he wouldn't consider it a
pleasant joke. Hark! Now he's singing !”
Mr. Quilp was certainly entertaining himself
with vocal exercise, but it was rather a kind of
chant than a song; being a monotonous repeti-
tion of one sentence in a very rapid manner,
with a long stress upon the last word, which he

226
2. HA. O.L.D CURIOS/2"Y SHOP.
swelled into a dismal roar. Nor did the burden
of this performance bear any reference to love,
or war, or wine, or loyalty, or any other the
standard topics of song, but to a subject not
often set to music or generally known in bal-
lads; the words being these :—“The worthy
magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner
would find some difficulty in persuading a jury
to believe his tale, committed him to take his
trial at the approaching sessions; and directed
the customary recognizances to be entered into
for the pros-e-cu-tion.” -
Every time he came to this concluding word,
and had exhausted all possible stress upon it,
Quilp burst into a shriek of laughter, and began
again.
“He’s dreadfully imprudent,” muttered Brass
after he had listened to two or three repetitions
of the chant. “Horribly imprudent. I wish he
was dumb. I wish he was deaf. I wish he was
blind. Hang him ” cried Brass as the chant
began again. “I wish he was dead l’”
Giving utterance to these friendly aspirations
in behalf of his client, Mr. Sampson composed
his face into its usual state of Smoothness, and,
waiting until the shriek came again and was
dying away, went up to the wooden house, and
knocked at the door.
“Come in ” cried the dwarf.
“How do you do to-night, sir?” said Saump-
son, peeping in. “Ha, ha, ha! How do you
do, sir? Oh dear me, how very whimsical
Amazingly whimsical to be sure . "
“Conne in, you fool!” returned the dwarf,
“ and don't stand there shaking your head and
showing your teeth. Come in, you false witness,
you perjurer, you suborner of evidence, come
in ! yy
“He has the richest humour !” cried Brass,
shutting the door behind him ; “the most
amazing vein of comicality . But isn't it rather
injudicious, sir ??
“What?” demanded Quilp. “What, Judas 2"
“Judas! ” cried Brass. “He has such extra-
ordinary spirits His humour is so extremely
playful Judas
good Ha, ha, hal"
All this time Sampson was rubbing his hands,
and staring, with ludicrous surprise and dismay,
at a great, goggle-eyed, blunt nosed figure-head
of some old ship, which was reared up against
the wall in a corner near the stove, looking like
a goblin or hideous idol whom the dwarf wor-
shipped. A mass of timber on its head, carved
into the dim and distant semblance of a cocked-
hat, together with a representation of a star on
the left breast and epaulets on the shoulders,
off at the waist.
Oh yes—dear me, how very
sº
—a
denoted that it was intended for the effigy of
some famous admiral ; but, without those helps,
any observer might have supposed it the
authentic portrait of a distinguished merman,
or great sea-monster. Being originally much
too large for the apartment which it was now
ermployed to decorate, it had been sawn short
Even in this state it reached
from floor to ceiling; and thrusting itself for-
ward, with that excessively wide-awake aspect,
and air of somewhat obtrusive politeness, by
which figure-heads are usually characterised,
seemed to reduce everything else to mere
pigmy proportions. -
“Do you know it?” said the dwarf, watching
Sampson's eyes. “Do you see the likeness?"
“Eh P” said Brass, holding his head on one
side, and throwing it a little back, as connois-
seurs do. “Now I look at it again, I fancy 1
See a—yes, there certainly is something in the
Smile that reminds me of—and yet, upon my
word, I }) -
Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having
never seen anything in the smallest degree re-
sembling this substantial phantom, was much
perplexed ; being uncertain whether Mr. Quilp
considered it like hinself, and had therefore
bought it for a family portrait; or whether he
was pleased to consider it as the likeness of
some enemy. He was not very long in doubt;
for, while he was surveying it with that knowing
look which people assume when they are con-
templating for the first time portraits which
they ought to recognise, but don’t, the dwarf
threw down the newspaper from which he had
been chanting the words already quoted,” and
seizing a rusty iron bar, which he used in
lieu of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke on
the nose that it rocked again. -
“Is it like Kit—is it his picture, his image,
his very self?” cried the dwarf, aiming a shower
of blows at the insensible countenance, and
covering it with deep dimples. “Is it the exact
model and counterpart of the dog—is it—is it—
is it?” And, with every repetition of the ques-
tion, he battered the great image, until the per-
| spiration streamed down his face with the violence
of the exercise.
Although this might have been a very comical
thing to look at from a secure gallery, as a bull-
fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle by
those who are not in the arena, and a house on
fire is better than a play to people who don't
live near it, there was something in the earnest-
ness of Mr. Quilp's manner which made his legal
adviser feel that the counting-house was a little
too small, and a deal too lonely, for the cou)"
A GAAV7'ZA, ST/MUZAM7.
227
plete enjoyment of these.humours. Therefore,
ine stood as far off as he could while the dwarf
was thus engaged, whimpering out but feeble
applause; and, when Quilp left off and sat
down again from pure exhaustion, approached
with more obsequiousness than ever.
“Excellent indeed : " cried Brass.
Oh, very good, sir! You know,” said Sampson,
looking round as if in appeal to the bruised ad-
miral, “he's quite a remarkable man—quite '"
“Sit down,” said the dwarf. “I bought the
dog yesterday. I've been screwing gimlets
into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and
cutting my name on him. I mean to burn him
at last.”
“Ha, ha!” cried Brass.
taining, indeed l’”
“Come here !” said Quilp, beckoning him to
draw near. “What's injudicious, hey?”
“Nothing, sir—nothing. Scarcely worth men-
tioning, sir; but I thought that song—admirably
humorous in itself, you know—was perhaps
rather—” -
“Yes,” said Quilp, “rather what?”
“Just bordering, or as one may say remotely
verging, upon the confines of injudiciousness,
perhaps, sir,” returned Brass, looking timidly at
the dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned
towards the fire, and reflected its red light.
“Why?” inquired Quilp, without looking up.
“Why, you know, sir,” returned Brass, ven-
turing to be more familiar: “the fact is, sir,
that any allusion to these little combinings to-
gether of friends, for objects in themselves ex-
tremely laudable, but which the law terms con-
spiracies, are—you take me, sir?—best kept
snug and among friends, you know.”
“Eh P’’ said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly
vacant countenance. “What do you mean P”
“Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right
“Extremely enter-
* He, he
and propert” cried Brass, nodding his head.
“Mum, sir, even here—my meaning, sir, ex-
actly.”
“Your meaning exactly, you brazen scare-
3. *
crow, what's your meaning?” retorted Quilp.
“Why do you talk to me of combining together?.
T}o / combine P
your combinings P”
“No, no, sir—certainly not; not by any
means,” returned Brass. -
“If you so wink and nod at me,” said the
dwarf, looking about him as if for his poker,
“I’ll spoil the expression of your monkey's
face, I will.”
“Don’t put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,”
Tejoined Brass, checking himself with great
alacrity. “You’re quite right, sir, quite right.
Do I know anything about
\
I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, sir.
It's much better not to. You're quite right,
sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were
asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger. He
has not returned, sir."
“No P” said Quilp, heating some rum in a
little saucepan, and watching it to prevent its
boiling over. “Why not 2"
“Why, sir,” returned Brass, “he-dear me,
Mr. Quilp, sir 33
“What's the matter?” said the dwarf, stopping
his hand in the act of carrying the saucepan to
his mouth.
“You have forgotten the water, sir,” said
Brass. “And—excuse me, sir—but it's burning
hot.” -
Deigning no other than a practical answer to
this remonstrance, Mr. Quilp raised the hot
saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off
all the spirit it contained, which might have
been in quantity about half a pint, and had been
but a moment before, when he took it off the
fire, bubbling and hissing fiercely. Having
swallowed this gentle stimulant, and shaken his
fist at the admiral, he bade Mr. Brass proceed.
“But first,” said Quilp with his accustomed
grin, “have a drop yourself—a nice drop—a
good, warm, fiery drop.”
“Why, sir,” replied Brass, “if there was such
a thing as a mouthful of water that could be got
without trouble 3)
“There's no such thing to be had here,” cried
the dwarf. “Water for lawyers Melted lead
and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering
pitch and tar—that's the thing for them—eh,
Brass, eh?” -
“Ha, ha, ha 1" laughed Mr. Brass. “Oh,
very biting and yet it's like being tickled—
there's a pleasure in it too, sir!”
“Drink that,” said the dwarf, who had by
this time heated some more. “Toss it off, don't
leave any heel-tap, scorch your throat and be
happy :"
The wretched Sampson took a few short sips of
the liquor, which immediately distilled itself into
burning tears, and in that form came rolling down
his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour
of his face and eyelids to a deep red, and giving
rise to a violent fit of coughing, in the midst of
which he was still heard to declare, with the
constancy of a martyr, that it was “beautiful
indeed " While he was yet in unspeakable
agonies, the dwarf renewed their conversation.
“The lodger,” said Quilp, “what about him P”
“He is still, sir,” returned Brass with intervals
of coughing, “stopping with the Garland family.
He has only been home once, sir, since the day
228
7AHE OLD CUR/OS/7"Y SAIOA.
of the examination of that culprit. He informed
Mr. Richard, sir, that he couldn't bear the house
after what had taken place; that he was wretched
in it; and that he looked upon himself as being
in a certain kind of way the cause of the occur-
rence.—A very excellent lodger, sir. I hope we
may not lose him.”
“Yah!” cried the dwarf. - “Never thinking
of anybody but yourself. Why don't you re-
trench, then—scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?”
“Why, sir,” replied Brass, “upon my word I
§
§§
- \\\\\\ º, -
\ \ w S .NY \\ Niš NS
* * \*, *, * A*.* w ~~
\ NºN Nº:
tº ºvý
\ W
plied Sampson.
think Sarah's as good an economiser as any
going. I do indeed, Mr. Quilp.”
“Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink,
man :” cried the dwarf: “You took a clerk to
oblige me.”
“Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any time,” re
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Then, now you may discharge him,” said
Quilp: “There's a means of retrenchment for
you at once.” *
“Discharge Mr. Richard, sir?” cried Brass.
\\
\\
Wºś.
§
* --------
“Is IT LIKE KIT-IS IT HIS PICTURE, HIS IMAGE, HIS VERY SELF : *
“Have you more than one clerk, you parrot,
that you ask the question? Yes.”
“Upon my word, sir,” said Brass, “I wasn't
prepared for this 35
“How could you be,” sneered the dwarf,
“when Y wasn't P. How often am I to tell you
that I brought him, to you that I might always
have my eye on him and know where he was
i-and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little quiet
piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very
cream and essence was, that this old man and
grandchild (who have sunk underground I think)
should be, while he and his precious friend
believed them rich, in reality as poor as frozen
rats.”
s “I quite understood that, sir,” rejoined Brass.
“Thoroughly.”
“Well, sir,” retorted Quilp, “and do you
'understand now, that they're not poor—that
| they can't be, if they have such men as your.


MR. SWIVEZZZR GO/WG OUT OF OFFICE.
lodger searching for them, and scouring the
country far and wide P”
“Of course I do, sir,” said Sampson.
“Of course you do 1" retorted the dwarf,
iciously snapping at his words. “Of course do
you understand, then, that it's no matter what
comes of this fellow P Of course do you under-
stand that for any other purpose he's no man
for me, nor for you ?”
“I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,” re-
turned Brass, “that he was of no use at all in
the business. You can't put any confidence in
him, sir. If you'll believe me, I've found that
fellow, in the commonest little matters of the
office that have been trusted to him, blurting out
the truth, though expressly cautioned. The
aggravation of that chap, sir, has exceeded any-
thing you can imagine, it has indeed. Nothing
but the respect and obligation I owe to you,
SII. Jy
As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a
complimentary harangue, unless he received a
timely interruption, Mr. Quilp politely tapped
him on the crown of his head with the little
saucepan, and requested that he would be so
obliging as to hold his peace.
“Practical, sir, practical,” said Brass, rubbing
the place and smiling ; “but still extremely
pleasant—immensely so "
“Hearken to me, will you ?” returned Quiſp,
“or I'll be a little more pleasant presently.
There's no chance of his comrade and friend
returning. The scamp has been obliged to fly,
as I learn, for some knavery, and has found his
way abroad. Let him rot there.”
“Certainly, sir, Quite proper.—Forcible : ”
cried Brass, glancing at the admiral again, as if
he made a third in company. “Extremely
forcible l’”
“I hate him,” said Quilp between his teeth,
“and have always hated him, for family reasons,
Besides he was an intractable ruffian ; otherwise
he would have been of use. This fellow is
pigeon-hearted, and light-headed. I don't want
him any longer.
starve—go to the devil.”
“By all means, sir,” returned Brass. “When
would you wish him, sir, to—ha, ha!—to make
that little excursion ?”
“When this trial's over,” said Quilp. “As
soon as that's ended, send him about his busi-
ness.”
“It shall be done, sir,” returned Brass ; “ by
all means. It will be rather a blow to Sarah,
sir, but she has all her feelings under control. .
Ah, Mr. Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had only
pleased Providence to bring you and Sarah
Let him hang or drown—-
229
together in earlier life, what blessed results would
have flowed from such a union You never
saw our dear father, sir?—A charming gentle-
man. Sarah was his pride and joy, sir. He
would have closed his eyes in bliss, would Foxey,
Mr. Quilp, if he could have found her such a
partner. You esteem her, sir?”
“I love her,” croaked the dwarf.
“You’re very good, sir,” returned Brass, “I
am sure. Is there any other order, sir, that I
can take a note of, besides this little matter of
Mr. Richard P.”
“None,” replied the dwarf, seizing the sauce-
pan. “Let us drink the lovely Sarah.”
“If we could do it in something, sir, that
wasn't quite boiling,” suggested Brass humbly,
“perhaps it would be better. I think it will be
more agreeable to Sarah's feelings, when she
comes to hear from me of the honour you have
done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather
cooler than the last, sir.”
But to these remonstrances Mr. Quilp turned
a deaf ear. Sampson Brass, who was, by this
time, anything but sober, being compelled to
take further draughts of the same strong bowl,
found that, instead of at all contributing to his
recovery, they had the novel effect of making
the counting-house spin round and round with
extreme velocity, and causing the floor and
ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner.
After a brief stupor, he awoke to a conscious-
ness of being partly under the table, and partly
under the grate. This position not being the
most comfortable one he could have chosen for
himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and,
holding on by the admiral, looked round for his
host.
Mr. Brass's first impression was, that his host
was gone, and had left him there alone—per-
haps locked him in for the night. A strong
smell of tobacco, however, suggesting a new
train of ideas, he looked upward, and saw that
the dwarf was smoking in his hammock,
“Good-bye, sir,” cried Brass faintly.
bye, sir.”
“Won't you stop all night?” said the dwarf,
peeping out. “Do stop all night !”
“I couldn’t indeed, sir,” replied Brass, who
was almost dead from nauses and the closeness
of the room. “If you'd have the goodness to
show me a light, so that I may see my way
across the yard, Sir 13
Quilp was out in an instant ; not with his legs
first, or his head first, or his arms first, but bodily
—altogether.
“To be sure,” he said, taking up a lantern,
which was now the only light in the place,
“Good-
230
THE OLD COR/OS/TY SHOAZ
“Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Be
sure to pick your way, among the timber, for all
the rusty nails are upwards. There's a dog in
the lane. He bit a man last night, and a woman
the night before, and last Tuesday he killed a
child—but that was in play. Don't go too
near him.”
“Which side of the road is he, sir?” asked
Brass in great dismay.
“He lives on the right hand,” said Quilp,
“but sometimes he hides on the left, ready for
a spring. He's uncertain in that respect. Mind
you take care of yourself. I’ll never forgive
you if you don't. There's the light out—never
mind—you know the way—straight on ; ”
Quilp had slily shaded the light by holding it
against his breast, and now stood chuckling and
shaking from head to foot in a rapture of de-
light, as he heard the lawyer stumbling up the
yard, and now and then falling heavily down.
At length, however, he got quit of the place, and
was out of hearing.
The dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang .
once more into his hammock.
CHAPTER LXIII.
given Kit that consolatory piece of
information relative to the settle-
ment of his trifle of business at the
Bºº Old Bailey, and the probability of
§3) its being very soon disposed of, turned
* out to be quite correct in his prognosti-
- cations. In eight days' time the sessions
commenced. In one day afterwards, the Grand
Jury found a True Bill against Christopher
Nubbles for felony'; and, in two days from that
finding, the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was
called upon to plead Guilty or Not Guilty to an
Indictment for that he the said Christopher did
feloniously abstract and steal from the dwelling.
house and office of one Sampson Brass, gentle-
man, one Bank Note for Five Pounds issued by
the Governor and Company of the Bank of
England; in contravention of the Statutes in
that case made and provided, and against the
peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his
crown, and dignity.
To this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in
a low and trembling voice, pleaded Not Guilty :
and here, let those who are in the habit of form-
ing hasty judgments from appearances, and who
would have had Christopher, if innocent, 'speak
out ºvery strong and loud, observe, that confine-
HE professional gentleman who had -
he said, did the Jury know Bevis Marks?
ment and anxiety will subdue the stoutest
hearts; and that to one who has been close
shut up, though it be only for ten or eleven
days, seeing but stone walls and a very few
stony faces, the sudden entrance into a great
hall filled with life is a rather disconcerting and
startling circumstance. To this it must be
added, that life in a wig is, to a large class of
people, much more terrifying and impressive
than life with its own head of hair ; and if, in
addition to these considerations, there be taken
into account’Kit's natural emotion on seeing the
two Mr. Garlands and the little notary looking
on with pale and anxious faces, it will perhaps
seem matter of no very, great wonder that he
should have been rather out of sorts, and unable
to make himself quite at home.
Although he had never seen either of the Mr.
Garlands, or Mr. Witherden, since the time of
his arrest, he had been given to understand that
they had employed counsel for him. Therefore,
when one of the gentlemen in wigs got up and
said, “I am for the prisoner, my Lord,” Kit
made him a bow; and when another gentleman
in a wig got up and said, “And I'm against
him, my Lord,” Kit trembled very much, and
bowed to him too. And didn't he hope in his
own heart that his gentleman was a match for
the other gentleman, and would make him
ashamed of himself in no time !
The gentleman who was against him had to
speak first, and being in dreadfully good spirits
(for he had, in the last trial, very nearly pro-
cured the acquittal of a young gentleman who
had had the misfortune to murder his father), he
spoke up, you may be sure; telling the Jury
that if they acquitted this prisoner they must
expect to suffer no less pangs and agonies than
he had told the other Jury they would certainly
undergo if they convicted that prisoner. And
when he had told them all about the case, and
that he had never known a worse case, he
stopped a little while, like a man who had
something terrible to tell them, and then said
that he understood an attempt would be made
by his learned friend (and here he looked side-
ways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the testi-
mony of those immaculate , witnesses whom he
should call before them ; but ne did hope and
trust that his learned friend would have a greater
respect and veneration for the character of the
prosecutor ; than whom, as he well knew, there
did not exist, and never had existed, a more
honourable member of that most honourable
profession to which he was attached. And then
And
if they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted, ſor

TRZAZ, FORENSIC INGENUITY, AAWD VERD/C7.
23ſ
their own characters, they did), did they know
the historical and elevating associations con-
nected with that most remarkable spot? Did
they believe that a man like Brass could reside
in a place like Bevis Marks, and not be a vir-
tuous and most upright character P And when he
had said a great deal to them on this point, he
remembered that it was an insult to their under-
standings to make any remarks on what they
must have felt so strongly without him, and
therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-
box straightway.
Then up comes Mr. Brass, very brisk and º
fresh ; and, having bowed to the judge, like a
man who has had the pleasure of seeing him
before, and who hopes he has been pretty well
since their last meeting, folds his arms, and
łooks at his gentleman as much as to say,
“Here I am—full of evidence—tap me !”
And the gentleman does tap him presently, and
with great discretion too; drawing off the evi-
dence by little and little, and making it run
quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present.
Then, Kit's gentleman takes him in hand, but
can make nothing of him; and, after a great many
very long questions and very short answers, Mr.
Sampson Brass goes down in glory.
To him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner
is easy to be managed by Mr. Brass's gentie-’i
man, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short,
Kit's gentleman can get nothing out of her but
a repetition of what she has said before (only a
little stronger this time, as against his client),
and therefore lets her go, in some confusion.
Then, Mr. Brass's gentleman calls Richard
Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears ac-
cordingly. .
Now, Mr. Brass's gentleman has it whispered
in his ear that this witness is disposed to be
friendly to the prisoner—which, to say the truth,
he is rather glad to hear, as his strength is con-
sidered to lie in what is familiarly termed bad-
gering. Wherefore, he begins by requesting the
officer to be quite sure that this witness kisses
the book, and then goes to work at him, tooth
and nail. 4
“Mr. Swiveller,” says this gentleman to Dick
when he has told his tale with evident reluctance,
and a desire to make the best of it: “pray, sir,
where did you dine yesterday ?”—“Where did
I dine yesterday?”—“Ay, sir, where did you
dine yesterday—was it near here, sir?”—
“Oh, to be sure —yes—just over the way.”
“To be sure. Yes. Just over the way,” re-
peats Mr. Brass's gentleman with a glance at the
Court. “Alóne, sir?”—“I beg your pardon,”
says Mr. Swiveller, who has not caught the
question.—“Alone, sir?” repeats Mr. Brass's
gentleman in a voice of thunder; “did you dine
alone? Did you treat anybody, sir? Come 1”
—“Oh yes, to be sure —yes, I did,” says Mr.
Swiveller with a smile. “Have the goodness
to banish a levity, sir, which is very ill suited to
the place in which you stand (though perhaps
you have reason to be thankful that it's only
that place),” says Mr. Brass's gentleman with a
nod of the head, insinuating that the dock is
Mr. Swiveller's legitimate sphere of action ; “and
attend to me. You were waiting about here,
yesterday, in expectation that this' trial was
coming on. You dined over the way. You
treated somebody. . Now, was that somebody
brother to the prisoner at the bar P”—Mr.
Swiveller is proceeding to explain—“Yes or
No, sir?” cries Mr. Brass's gentleman.--‘‘ But
will you allow me —”—“Yes or No, sir?”—
“Yes, it was, but ”—“Yes, it was,” cries
the gentleman, taking him up short. “And a
very pretty witness you are l’”
Down sits Mr. Brass's gentleman. Kit's gen-
tleman, not knowing how the matter really
stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard
Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, Jury, and
spectators have visions of his lounging about
with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute
young fellow of six feet high. The reality is,
little Jacob, with the calves of his legs exposed
to the open air, and himself tied up in a shawl.
Nobody knows the truth; everybody believes a
falsehood; and all because of the ingenuity of
Mr. Brass's gentleman.
Then came the witnesses to character, and
here Mr. Brass's gentleman shines again. It
turns out that Mr. Garland has had no character
with Kit, no recommendation of him, but from
his own mother, and that he was suddenly dis-
missed by his former master for unknown reasons.
“Really, Mr. Garland,” says Mr. Brass's gentle-
man, “for a person who has arrived at your
time of life, you are, to say the least of it,
singularly indiscreet, I think.” The Jury think
so too, and find Kit guilty.' He is taken off,
humbly protesting his innocence. The spectators
settle themselves in their places with renewed
attention, for there are several female witnesses
to be examined in the next case, and it has been
rumoured that Mr. Brass's gentleman will make
great fun in cross-examining them for the
prisoner.
Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the
grate below-stairs, accompanied by Barbara's
mother (who, honest soulſ never does anything
but cry and hold the baby), and a sad interview
ensues. The newspaper-reading turnkey has
232
7:HE OZZ) curſoszzy SHOP
told them all. ... He don't think, it will be trans
portation for life, because there's time to prove
the good character yet, and that is sure to serve
him. He wonders what he did it for. “He
never did it !” cries Kit's mother.
the turnkey, “I won't contradict you.
one now, whether he did it or not.”
Kit's mother can reach his hand through the
bars, and she clasps it—God, and those to whom
He has given such tenderness, only know in
how much agony. Kit bids her keep a godd
heart, and, under pretence of having the children
lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in
a whisper to take her home.
“Some friend will rise up for us, mother,”
cries Kit, “I am sure.
My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall
It's all
be brought back again; I feel a confidence in
that. You must teach little Jacob and the baby
how all this was, for if they thought I had ever
been dishonest, when they grew old enough to .
understand, it would break my heart to know it,
if I was thousands of miles away.—Oh ! is there
no good gentleman here who will take care of
her P”
The hand slips out of his, for the poor crea-
ture sinks down upon the earth insensible.
Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the
bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some
trouble) in one arm after the manner of theatrical
ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and commanding
Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach
waiting, bears her swiftly off.
Well Richard took her home.
astonishing absurdities, in the way of quotation
from song and poem, he perpetrated on the
road, no man knows. He took her home, and
stayed till she was recovered; and, having no
money to pay the coach, went back in state toº
Bevis Marks, bidding the driver (for it was
Saturday night) wait at the door while he went
in for “change.”
“Mr. Richard, sir,”
“good evening !”
said Brass cheerfully,
Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared at first,
Mr. Richard did, that night, half suspect his
affable employer of some deep villainy. Per-
haps it was but the misery he had just witnessed
which gave his careless nature this impulse ;
but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon
him, and he said in as few words as possible
what he wanted. e
“ Money P” cried Brass, taking out his purse.
“ Ha, ha! To be sure, Mr. Richard, to be
sure, sir. All men must live. You haven't
change for a five-pound note, have you, Sir P”
“No,” returned Dick, shortly.
“Well,” says
ing.
If not now, before long.
And what
silence.
“Oh ſ* said Bråss, “here's the very sum.
That saves trouble. You're very welcome I'm
sure.—Mr. Richard, sir— -
Dick, who had by this time reached the door.
turned round. - - -
“You needn't,” said Brass, “ trouble yourself
to come back any more, sir."
{ { Eh P”
“You see, Mr. Richard,” said Brass, thrusting
his hands in his pockets, add rocking himself to
and fro on his stool, “the fact is, that a man of
your abilities is lost, sir, quite lost, in our dry
and mouldy line. It's terrible drudgery—shock-
I should say, now, that the stage, or the
—or the army, Mr. Richard—or something very
superior in the licensed victualling way—was
the kind of thing that would call out the genius
of such a rhan as you; I hope you'll look in to
see us now and, then. Sally, sir, will be de-
lighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry to lose
you, Mr. Richard, but a sense of her duty to
society reconciles her. An amazing creature
that, sir! You'll find the money quite correct,
I think. There's a cracked window, sir, but
I've not made any deduction on that account.
Whenever we part with friends, Mr. Richard,
let us part liberally. A delightful sentiment,
Šir. 1"
To all these rambling observations Mr. Swi-
veller answered not one word, but, returning for
the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round
ball: looking steadily at Brass meanwhile, as if
he had some intention of bowling him down
with it. He only took it under his arm, how-
ever, and marched out of the office in profound
When he had closed the door, he
reopened it, stared in again for a few moments
with the same portentous gravity, and nodding
his head once, in a slow and ghost-like manner,
vanished. t
He paid the coachman, and turned his back
on Bevis Marks, big with great designs for the
comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit
himself.
But, the lives of gentlemen devoted to such
pleasures as Richard Swiveller are extremely
precarious. ... The spiritual excitement of the last
fortnight, working upon a system affected in nº
slight degree by the spirituous excitement of
some years, proved a little too much for him.
That very night Mr. Richard was seized with an
alarming illness, and in twenty-four hours Was
stricken with a raging ſever. -
A/R. S. W//VE/C/CAER ATEEA?S HIS PAE D.
CHAPTER LXIV.
OSSING to and fro upon his hot,
Tº uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce
thirst which nothing could appease;
, Wºff unable to find, in any change of
º posture, a moment's peace or ease;
§) and rambling, ever, through deserts of
* thought where there was no resting-place,
ſ? no sight or sound suggestive of refresh-
ment or repose, nothing but a dull eternal weari-
ness, with no change but the restless shiftings
of his miserable body, and the weary wanderings
of his mind, constant still to one ever-present
anxiety—to a sense of something left undone,
of some fearful obstacle to be surmounted, of
some carking care that would not be driven
away, and which haunted the distempered brain,
now in this form, now in that, always shadowy
and dim, but recognisable for the same phantom
in every shape it took : darkening every vision
like an evil conscience, and making slumber
horrible—in these slow tortures of his dread
disease, the unfortunate Richard lay wasting and
consuming inch by inch, until, at last, when he
seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to
be held down by devils, he sank into a deep
sleep, and dreamed no more.
He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful
rest, better than sleep itself, he began gradually
to remember something of these sufferings, and
to think what a long night it had been, and
whether he had not been delirious twice or
thrice. Hāppening, in the midst of these cogi-
tations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to
find how heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and
light it really was. Still, he felt indifferent and
happy; and, having no curiosity to pursue the
subject, remained in the same waking slumber
until his attention was attracted by a cough.
This made him doubt whether he had locked
his door last night, and feel a little surprised at
having a companion in the room. Still he
lacked energy to follow up this train of thought;
and unconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose, to
staring at some green stripes on the bed-furni-
ture, and associating them strangely with patches
of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between
made gravel-walks, and so helped out a long
perspective of trim gardens.
He was rambling in imagination on these
terraces, and had quite lost himself among them,
indeed, when he heard the cough once more.
The walks shrunk into stripes again at the sound ;
and raising himself a little in the bed, and
holding the curtain open with one hand, he
looked out.
233
The same room certainly, and still by candle-
light; but with what unbounded astonishment
did he see all those bottles, and basins, and
articles of linen airing by the fire, and such-like
furniture of a sick chamber—all very clean and
neat, but all quite different from anything he
had left there. when he went to bed | The
atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell of herbs
and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled ; the—
the what? The Marchioness P
Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the
table. There she sat, intent upon her game,
coughing now and then in a subdued manner as
if she feared to disturb him—shuffling the cards,
cutting, dealing, playing, counting, pegging—
going through all the mysteries of Cribbage as if
she had been in full practice from her cradle !
Mr. Swiveller contemplated these things for
a short time, and, suffering the curtain to fall
into its former position, laid his head on the
pillow again.
“I’m dreaming,” thought Richard, “that's
clear. When I went to bed, my hands were
not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost
see through 'em. If this is not a dream, I have
woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian Night, in-
stead of a London one. But I have no doubt
I'm asleep. Not the least.”
Here the small servant had another cough.
“Very remarkable 1" thought Mr. Swiveller,
“I never dreamt such a real cough as that before.
I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either a
cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the
philosophy of dreams that one never does.
There's another—and another—I say !—I’m
dreaming rather fast !”
For the purpose of testing his real condition,
Mr. Swiveller, after some reflection, pinched
himself in the arm.
“Queerer still !” he thought. “I came to
bed rather plump than otherwise, and now there's
nothing to lay hold of. I’ll take another survey.”
The result of this additional inspection was,
to convince Mr. Swiveller that the objects by
which he was surrounded were real, and that he
saw them, beyond all question, with his waking
eyes.
“It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,”
said Richard. “I’m in Damascus or Grand
Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having
had a wager with another Genie about who is
the handsomest young man alive, and the wor-
thiest to be the husband of the Princess of China,
has brought me away, room and all, to compare
us together. Perhaps,” suid Mr. Swiveller, turn-
ing languidly round on his pillow, and looking
on that side of his bed which was next the





234
7Hz ozo corroszzy Szop.
wall, “the Princess may be still— No. she's
gone.” º
Not feeling quite satisfied with this explana-
tion, as, even taking it to be the correct one, it
still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr.
Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to
take the first favourable opportunity of address-
ing his companion. An occasion soon pre-
sented itself. The . Marchioness dealt, turned
up a knave, and omitted to take the usual
advantage; upon which Mr. Swiveller called out
as loud, as he could—“Two for his heels l’
The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and
clapped her hands. “Arabian Nights, certainly,”
thought Mr. Swiveller; “they always clap their
hands instead of ringing the bell. Now for the
two thousand black slaves, with jars of jewels
on their heads !”
It appeared, however, that she had only clapped
her hands for joy; as, directly afterwards, she
began to laugh, and then to Cry; declaring, not
in choice Arabic, but in familiar English, that
she was “so glad, she didn't know what to do.”
“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller thought-
fully, “be pleased to draw nearer. First of all,
will you have the goodness to inform me where
I shall find imy voice; and secondly, what has
become of my flesh?”
The Marchioness only shook her head mourn-
fully, and cried again; whereupon Mr. Swiveller
(being very weak) felt his own eyes affected
likewise.
“I begin to infer, from your manner and these
appearances, Marchioness,” said Richard-after a
pause, and smiling with a £rembling lip, “that
I have been ill.”
“You just have 1" replied the small servant,
wiping her eyes. . “And haven't you been ä.
talking nonsense !”
“Oh ſ* said Dick. “Very ill, Marchioness,
have I been P” -
“Dead, all but,” replied the small servant.
“I never, thought you'd get better. Thank
Heaven you have 1°.
Mr. Swiveller.was silent for a long while. By-
and-by he began to talk again : inquiring how
long he had been there.
“Three weeks, to-morrow,” replied the small
Servant. -
“Three what?” said Dick.
“Weeks,” returned the Marchioness emphati-
cally; “three long, slow weeks.”
The bare thought of having been in such
extremity caused Richard to fall into another
silence, and to lie flat down again at his full
length. The Marchioness, having arranged the
bedclóthes more comfortably, and ſelt that his
hands and forehead were quite cool—a discovery
that filled her with delight—cried a little more,
and then applied herself to getting tea ready,
and making some thin dry toast. -
While she was thus engaged, Mr. Swiveller
looked on with a grateful heart, very mugh
astonished to see how thoroughly at home she
made herself, and attributing this attention, in
its origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his own mind,
he could nöt thank enough. When the Mar-
chioness had finished her toasting, she spread a
clean cloth on a tray, and brought him some
crisp slices and a great basin of weak tea, with
which (she said) the doctor had left word he
might refresh himself when he awoke. She
propped him up with pillows, if not as skilfully
as if she had been a professional nurse all her
life, at least as tenderly; and looked on with
unutterable satisfaction while the patient—stop-
ping every now and then to shake her by the
hand—took his poor meal with an appetite and
relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth,
under any other circumstances, would have
failed to provoke. Having cleared away, and
disposed everything comfortably about him again,
she sat down at the table to take her own tea.
“Marchioness,”, said Mr. Swiveller, “how's
Sally P”
The small servant screwed her ſace into an
éxpression of the very uttermost entanglement
of slyness, and shook her head.
“What, haven't you seen her lately P” said
Dick.
“Seen her l’ cried the small servant.
you, I’ve-run away !” w
Mr. Swiveller immediately laid himself down
again quite flat, and so remained for about five
minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his
sitting posture. after that lapse of time, and
inquired : -
“And where do you live, Marchioness P”
“Live!” cried the small servant. “Here!”
“Oh I’’ said Mr. Swiveller.
And with that he fell down flat again, as sud-
denly as if he had been shot. Thus he re-
mained, motionless and bereſt of speech, until
she had finished her meal, put everything in its
place, and swept the hearth; when he motioned
her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being
propped up again, opened a farther conversation.
“And so,” said Dick, “you have run away?”
“Yes,” said, the Marchioness, “and they've
been a tizing of me.”
“Been—I beg your pardon,” said Dick—
“what have they been doing?”
“Been a tizing of me—tizing you know—in
the newspapers,” rejoined the Marchioness,
“Eless
7A7A, MAA’ CA/VO/WZ.S.S. A.XZ2/CAAVS.
235
“Ay, ay,” said Dick, “advertising?”
The small servant nodded, and winked. Her
cyes were so red with waking and crying, that
the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater
consistency. And so Dick felt.
“Tell me,” said he, “how it was that you
thought of coming here.”
“Why, you see,” returned the Marchioness,
“when you was gone, I hadn't any friend at all,
Lecause the lodger he never come back, and I
didn't know where either him or you was to be
found, you know. But one morning, when I
WQS 33 -
“Was near a keyhole P” suggested Mr. Swi-
veller, observing that she faltered.
“Well, then,” said the small servant, nodding;
“when I was near the office keyhole—as, you
see me through, you know—I heard somebody
saying that she lived here, and was the lady
whose house you lodged at, and that you was
took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and
take care of you. Mr. Brass, he says, “It’s no
business of mine,’ he says ; and Miss Sally, she
says, “He’s a funny chap, but it's no business of
mine;’ and the lady went away, and slammed
the door to, when she went out, I can tell you.
So I ran away that night, and come here, and
told 'em you was my brother, and they believed
me, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“This poor little Marchioness has been wear-
ing herself to death !” cried Dick.
“No, I haven't,” she returned, “not a bit of
it. Don't you mind about me. I like sitting
up, and i've often had a sleep, bless you, in one
of them chairs. But if you could have seen how
you tried to jump out owindow, and if you
could have heard how you used to keep on
singing and making speeches. you wouldn't have
believed it. I'm so glad you're better, Mr.
Liverer.”
“Liverer, indeed " said Dick thoughtfully.
“It’s well I am a liverer. I strongly suspect I
should have died, Marchioness, but for you.”
At this point Mr. Swiveller took the small
servant's hand in his again, and being, as we
have seen, but poorly, might, in struggling to
express his thanks, have made his eyes as red
as hers, but that she quickly changed the theme
by making him lie down, and urging him to
keep very quiet.
“The doctor,” she told him, “ said you was to
keep quite still, and there was to be no noise
hor nothing. Now take a rest, and then we'll
talk again. I’ll sit by you, you know. If you
shut your eyes, perhaps you'll go to sleep. You'll
be all the better for it if you do.”
The Marchioness, in saying these words,
brought a little table to the bedside, took her
seat at it, and began to work away at the con-
coction of some cooling drink with the address
of a score of chemists. Richard Swiveller, being
indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and, waking
in about half an hour, inquired what time it was.
“Just gone half aſter six,” replied his small
friend, helping him to sit up again.
“Marchioness,” said Richard, passing his hand
over his forehead and turning suddenly round,
as though the subject but that moment flashed
upon him, “what has become of Kit?”
He had been sentenced to transportation for
a great many years, she said. •
“Has he gone P” asked Dick. “His mother
—how is she—what has become of ber P”
His nurse shook her head, and answered
that she knew nothing about them. “But if I
thought,” said she, very slowly, “that you'd
keep quiet, and not put yourself into another
ſever, I could tell you—but I won't now.”
“Yes, do,” said Dick. “It will amuse me.”
“Oh I would it, though P” rejoined the small
servant with a horrified look. “I know better
than that. Wait till you're better, and then I'll
tell you.”
Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend:
and his eyes, being large and hollow from ill-
ness, assisted the expression so much, that she
was quite frightened, and besought him not to
think any more about it. What had already
fallen from her, however, had not only piqued
his curiosity, but seriously alarmed him, where-
fore he urged her to tell him the worst at once.
“Oh I there's no worst in it,” said the smal
servant. “It hasn't anything to do with you.”
“Has it anything to do with—is it anything
you heard through chinks or keyholes—and that
you were not intended to hear?” asked Dick in
a breathless slate.
“Yes,” replied the small servant.
“In—in Bevis Marks?” pursued Dick hastily.
“Conversations between Brass and Sally P”
“Yes,” cried the small servant again.
Richard Swiveller thrust his lank-arm out of
bed, and, griping her by the wrist and drawing
her close to him, bade her out with it, and
freely too, or he would not answer for the con.
sequences; being wholly unable to endure that
state of excitement and expectation. She, see-
ing that he was greatly agitated, and that the
effects of postponing her revelation might be
Inuch more injurious than any that were likely
to ensue from its being made at once, promised
compliance, on condition that the patient kept
himself perfectly quiet, and abstained from
starting up or tossing about, i
236
THE OLD CUR/OS, 7"Y SHOA'.
“But, if you begin to do that,” said the small |
servant, “I’ll leave off. And so I tell you.”
“You can't leave off till you have gone on,”
said Dick. “And do go on, there's a darling.
Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly, say. Oh,
tell me when, and tell me where, pray, Mar-
chioness, I beseech you !”
Unable to resist these fervent adjurations,
which Richard Swiveller poured out as pas-
sionately as if they had been of the most
solemn and tremendous nature, his companion
spoke thus:
-#|
thought they might forget me, and only take
care of themselves, you know. So, whenever I
See an old rusty key anywhere, I picked it up,
and tried if it would fit the door, and at last I
found in the dust-cellar a key that did fit it.”
Here Mr. Swiveller made a violent demon-
stration with his legs. But the small servant
immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided
again, and, pleading a momentary forgetfulness
of their compact, entreated her to proceed.
“They kept me very short,” said the small
Servant.
#|:#;"| 8 || º º
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“Oh you can't think how short they
—-
“Well ! Before I run away, I used to sleep
in the kitchen—where we played cards, you
know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the
kitchen door in her pocket, and she always
come down at night to take away the candle
and rake out the fire. When she had done that,
she left me to go to bed in the dark, locked the
door on the outside, put the key in her pocket
again, and kept me locked up till she come
down in the morning—very early I can tell you
—and let me out. I was terrible afraid of being
kept like this, because, if there was a fire, I
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kept me ! So I used to come out at night after
they'd gone to bed, and feel about in the dark
for bits of biscuit, or sangwitches that you'd
left in the office, or even pieces of orange-peel
to put into cold water and make believe it was
wine. Did you ever taste orange-peel and
water P”
Mr. Swiveller replied that he had never tasted,
that ardent liquor; and once more urged his
friend to resume the thread of her narrative.
“If you make believe very much, it's quite
nice,” said the small servant; “but if you don't,

ząż MARCHIowess AN ACCREDITED AGEvz.
. . ~ . . ." 7.... *
you know, it seems as if it would bear a little
more seasoning, certainly. -Well, sometimes I.
used to come out after they'd gone to bed, and
sometimes before; you know ; and one or two
nights before there was all that precious noise
in the office—when the young man was took, I
mean—I come up-stairs while Mr. Brass and
Miss Sally was a sittin' at the office fire; and
I'll tell you the truth, that I come to listen again
about the key of the safe.
Mr. Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to
make a great cone of the bedclothes, and con-
veyed into his countenance an expression of the
utmost concern. But, the small servant paus-
ing, and holding up her finger, the cone gently
disappeared, though the look of concern did
not.
“There was hum and her,” said the Small
servant, “a sittin' by the fire, and talking softly
together. Mr. Brass says to Miss Sally, ‘Upon
my word,” he says, “it’s a dangerous thing, and
it might get us into a world of trouble, and I
don't half like it.” She says—you know her
way—she says, “You’re the chickenest-hearted,
feeblest, faintest man I ever See, and I think,’
he says, “that I ought to have been the brother,
and you the sister. Isn't Quilp,' she says, “our
principal support P’ ‘He certainly is,’ says Mr.
Brass. ‘And an’t we,” she says, “constantly
ruining somebody or other in the way of busi-
ness P’ ‘We certainly are,’ says Mr. Brass.
“Then does it signify, she says, “about ruining
this Kit when Quilp desires it P’ ‘It certainly
does not signify,’ says Mr. Brass.
whispered and laughed for a long time about
there being no danger if it was well done, and
then Mr. Brass pulls out his pocket-book, and
says, “Well, he says, “here it is—Quilp's own
five-pound note. We'H agree that way, then,
he says. ‘Kit's coming to-morrow morning, I
know. While he's up-stairs, you'll get out of
the way, and I’ll clear off Mr. Richard. Having
Kit alone, I’ll hold him in conversation, and
put this property in his hat. I'll manage so,
besides, he says, “that Mr. Richard shall find it
there, and be the evidence. And if that don't
get Christopher out of Mr. Quilp's way, and
satisfy Mr. Quilp's grudges,’ he says, “the Devil's
in it.' Miss Sally laughed, and said that was
the plan, and as they seemed to be moving
away, and I was afraid to stop any longer, I
went down-stairs again.—There !” -
The small servant had gradually worked her-
self into as much agitation as Mr. Swiveller, and
therefore made no effort to restrain him when
he sat up in bed and hastily demanded whether
this story had been told to anybody.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOF, 16.
Then, they
237
~xº~~
sº." How could it be?”;replied his nurse. “I
was almost afraid to think about it, and’hôpéd
the young man would be ſet off. When I heard
'em say they had, found him guilty of what he
didn't-do, you was gone, and so was the lodger
—though I think I should have been frightened
to tell him, even if he'd been there. Ever since
I come here, you've been out of your senses;
and what would have been the good of telling
you then P” -
“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, plucking
off his nightcap, and flinging it to the other.end
of the room ; “if you'll do me the favour to
retire for a few minutes, and see what sort of a
night it is, I'll get up.”
... “You mustn't think of such a thing,” cried his
IlúISé.
“I must indeed,” said the patient, looking
round the room. “Whereabouts are my clothes?”
“Oh, I’m so glad—you haven't got any ſ”
replied the Marchioness.
“Ma’am I" said. Mr. Swiveller in great asto-
nishment.
“I’ve been obliged to sell them, every one, to
get the things that was ordered for you. But
don't take on about that,” urged the Marchio-
ness, as Dick fell back upon his pillow. “You’re
too weak to stand, indeed.”
“I am afraid,” said Richard dolefully, “that
you're right. What ought I to do P What is to
be done?” *
It naturally occurred to him, on very little
reflection, that the first step to take would be to
communicate with one of the Mr. Garlands
instantly. It was very possible that Mr. Abel
had not yet left the office. In as little time as
it takes to tell it, the small servant had the
address in pencil on a piece of paper ; a verbal
description of father and son, which would
enable her to recognise either without difficulty;
and a special caution to be shy of Mr. Chuckster,
in consequence of that gentleman's known anti-
pathy to Kit. Armed with these slender powers,
she hurried away, commissioned to bring either
Mr. Abel, bodily, to that
apartment. -.
“I suppose,” said Dick as she closed the door
slowly, and peeped into the room again, to make
sure that he was comfortable, “I suppose there's
nothing left—not so much as a waistcoat even P”
“No, nothing.”
“It's embarrassing,” said Mr. Swiveller, “In
old Mr. Garland OT
case of fire—even an umbrella would be some-
thing—but you did quite right, dear Marchio.
ness. I should have died without you !”
===sº-
264.
... -- - -º
THE O/C/D CUR/OS/7"Y SATO P.
CHAPTER }_XV.
}T was well for the small servant that
she was of a sharp, quick nature, or
the consequence of sending her out
! alone, from the very neighbourhood
in which it was most dangerous for
her to appear, would probably have
been the restoration of Miss Sally Brass
to the supreme authority over her per-
Not unmindful of the risk she ran, how-
SOI).
ever, the Marchioness no sooner left the house,
than she dived into the first dark by-way that
presented itself, and, without any present refer-
ence to the point to which her journey tended,
made it her first business to put two good miles
of brick and mortar between herself and Bevis
Marks.
When she had accomplished this object, she
began to shape her course for the notary's office,
to which—shrewdly inquiring of apple-women
and oyster-sellers at street corners, rather than
in lighted shops or of well-dressed people, at the
hazard of attracting notice—she easily procured
a direction. As carrier pigeons, on being first
let loose in a strange place, beat the air at ran-
dom for a short time, before darting off towards
the spot for which they are designed, so did the
Marchioness flutter round and round until she
believed herself in safety, and then bear swiftly
down upon the port for which she was bound,
She had no bonnet—nothing on her head but
a great cap which, in some old time, had been
worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses
was, as we have seen, peculiar—and her speed
was rather retarded than assisted by her shoes,
which, being extremely large and slipshod, flew
off every now and then, and were difficult to find
Igain among the crowd of passengers. Indeed,
the poor little creature experienced so much
trouble and delay from having to grope for these
articles of dress in mud and kennel, and suffered
in these researches so much jostling, pushing,
squeezing, and bandying from hand to hand,
that by the time she reached the street in which
the notary lived, she was fairly worn out and
exhausted, and could not refrain from tears.
But to have got there at last was a great com-
fort, especially as there were lights still burning
in the office window, and therefore some hope
that she was not too late. So, the Marchioness
dried her eyes with the backs of her hands, and,
stealing softly up the steps, peeped in through
the glass door.
Mr. Chuckster was standing behind the lid of
his desk, making such preparations towards
finishing off for the might as pulling down his
wristbands and pulling up his shirt collar, settling
his neck more gracefully in his stock, and secretly
arranging his whiskers by the aid of a little
triangular bit of looking-glass. Before the ashes
of the fire stood two gentlemen, one of whom
she rightly judged to be the notary, and the
other (who was buttoning his great-coat, and
was evidently about to depart immediately) Mr.
Abel Garland.
Having made these observations, the small
Spy took counsel with herself, and resolved to
wait in the street until Mr. Abel came out, as
there would be then no fear of having to speak
before Mr. Chuckster, and less difficulty in de-
livering her message. With this purpose she
slipped out again, and, crossing the road, sat
down upon a door-step just opposite.
She had hardly taken this position, when
there came dancing up the street, with his legs
all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a
pony. This pony had a little phaeton behind
him, and a man in it; but, neither man nor
phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as
he reared up on his hind-legs, or stopped, or
went on, or stood still again, or backed, or went
sideways, without the smallest reference to them,
—just as the fancy seized him, and as if he were
the freest animal in creation. When they came
to the notary's door, the man called out in a
very respectful manner, “Woa then,”—intimat-
ing that, if he might venture to express a wish,
it would be that they stopped there. The pony
made a moment's pause; but, as if it occurred
to him that to stop when he was required might
be to establish an inconvenient and dangerous
precedent, he immediately started off again,
rattled at a fast trot to the street corner, wheeled
round, came back, and then stopped of his own
accord.
“Oh you're a precious creatur’ſ ” said the
man—who didn't venture, by-the-bye, to come
out in his true colours until he was safe on the
pavement. “I wish I had the rewarding of
you, -I do.”
“What has he been doing?” said Mr. Abel,
tying a shawl round his neck as he came down
the steps. -
“He’s enough to fret a man's heast out,”
replied the hostler. “He is the most wicious
rascal—— Woa then, will you ?”
“He'll never stand still if you call him
names,” said Mr. Abel, getting in, and taking
the reins. “He’s a very good fellow if you
know how to manage him. This is the first
time he has been out this long while, for he has
lost his old driver, altd wouldn't stir for anybody
else till this morning. The lamps are right, are


SozęMN DISCZoSURE OF THE MARCHIowess.
239
they P. That's well. Be here to take him to-
morrow, if you please. Good night !” º
And, after one or two strange plunges, quite
of his own invention, the pony yielded to Mr.
Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.
All this time Mr. Chuckster had been stand-
ing at the door, and the small servant had been
afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now,
therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call
to Mr. Abel to stop. Being out of breath when
she came up with it, she was unable to make
him hear. The case was desperate ; for the
pony was quickening his pace. The Mar-
chioness hung on behind for a few moments,
and, feeling that she could go no farther, and
must soon yield, clambered by a vigorous effort
into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of
the shoes for ever.
Mr. Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind,
and having quite enough to do to keep the pony
going, went jogging on without looking round:
little dreaming of the strange figure that was
close behind him, until the Marchioness, having
in some degree recovered her breath, and the
loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position,
uttered close into his ear the words:
“I say, sir—”
He turned his head quickly enough then,
and, stopping the pony, cried, with some trepi-
dation, “God bless me, what is this?”
“Don’t be frightened, sir,” replied the still
panting messenger. “Oh, lºſe run such a way
after you !”
“What do you want with me?” said Mr.
Abel. “How did you come here?”
“I got in behind,” replied the Marchioness.
“Oh, please drive on, sir—don't stop—and go
towards the City, will you? And oh, do please
make haste, because it's of consequence
There's somebody wants to see you there. He
sent me to say would you come directly, and
that he knowed all about Kit, and could save
him yet, and prove his innocence.”
“What do you tell me, child?”
“The truth, upon my word and honour I
do. But please to drive on—quick, please !
j been . Such a time gone, he'll think I'm
ost.” *-
Mr. Abel involuntarily urged the pony for-
ward. . The pony, impelled by some secret
sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a
great pace, and neither slackened it, nor in-
dulged in any eccentric performances, until they
arrived at the door of Mr. Swiveller's lodging,
where, marvellous to relate, he consented to
stop when Mr.Abel checked him.
“See | It's that room up there,” said the
*
as he hurried towards him.
Marchioness, pointing to one where there was a
faint light. “Come !”
Mr. Abel, who was one of the simplest and
most retiring creatures in existence, and natu-
rally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard
of people being decoyed into strange places to
be robbed and murdered, under circumstances
very like the present, and, for anything he knew
to the contrary, by guides very like the Mar.
chioness. His regard for Kit, however, over.
came every other consideration. So, intrusting
Whisker to the charge of a man who was linger
ing hard by in expectation of the job, he suf
fered his companion to take his hand, and to
lead him up the dark and narrow stairs. - -
He was not a little surprised to find himself
conducted into a dimly-lighted sick chamber
where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.
“An’t it nice to see him lying there so
quiet P” said his guide in an earnest whisper.
“Oh you'd say it was, if you had only seen
him two or three days ago.” . -
Mr. Abel made no answer, and, to say the
truth, kept a long way from the bed, and very
near the door. His guide, who appeared to
understand his reluctance, trimmed the candle,
and, taking it in her hand, approached the bed.
As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he
recognised in the wasted face the features of
Richard Swiveller.
“Why, how is this?” said Mr. Abel kindly,
“You have been
ill P " -
“Very,” replied Dick. “Nearly dead. You
might have chanced to hear of your Richard on
his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you.
Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you
please. Sit down, sir.”
Mr. Abel seemed rat'.er astonished to hear
of the quality of his guide, and took a chair by
the bedside.
“I have sent for you, sir,” said Dick—“but
she told you on what account?”
“She did. I am quite bewildered by all this
I really don't know what to say or think,” re-
plied Mr. Abel.
“You’ll say that presently,” retorted Dick.
“Marchioness, take a seat on the bed, will you?
Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me;
and be particular. Don't you speak another
word, sir.” -
The story was repeated; it was, in effect,
exactly the same as before, without any devia-
tion or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his
eyes fixed on his visitor during its narration,
and, directly it was concluded, took the word
again.
240 –t --→ *- →
THE OLD CURIOS/7 y SHOP.
“You have heard it all, and you'll not forget
it's I'm too giddy and too queer to suggest
anything; but you and your friends will know
what to do. After this long delay, every minute
is an age. If ever you went home fast in your
life, go home fast to-night. Don't stop to say
one word to me, but go. She will be found
here, whenever, she's wanted ; and as to me,
you're pretty sure to find me at home for a
week or two. There are more reasons than
one for that. Marchioness, a light ! If you
lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I'll
never forgive you !”
Mr. Abel needed no more remonstrance or
persuasion. He was gone in an instant ; and
the Marchioness, returning from lighting him
down-stairs, reported that the pony, without
any preliminary objection whatever, had dashed
away at full gallop.
“That's right !” said Dick; “and hearty of
‘i she HAD Nothing For IT Now, THEREFORE, BUT to RUN AFTER THE CHAſsº."
him; and I honour him from this time. But
get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am
sure you must be tired. . Do have a mug of
beer. It will do me as much good to see you
take it as if I might drink it myself.”
* Nothing but this assurance could have pre-
vailed upon the small nurse to indulge in such
a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr.
Swiveller'3 extreme contentment, given him his
drink, and put everything in neat order, she
wrapped herself in an old coverlet, and lay
down upon the rug before the fire. - -
Mr. Swiveller was by that time murmuring in
his sleep, “Strew then, oh strew, a bed of
rushes. Here will we stay till morning blushes.
Good night, Marchioness' "

wº
Mºrºsivrvezzzz's areAxPasz.
24f
CHAPTER LXVI
N awaking in the morning, Richärd
Swiveller became conscious, by slow
room. Looking out between the
curtains, he espied Mr. Garland,
Mr. Abel, the notary, and the single
géntleman gathered round the Mar-
chioness, and talking to her with great
earnestness, but in very subdued tones—fearing,
no doubt, to disturb him. He lost no time in
letting them know that this precaution was un-
necessary, and all four gentlemen directly ap-
proached his bedside. Old Mr. Garland was
the first to stretch out his hand and inquire how
he felt. -
IDick was about to answer that he felt much
better, though still as weak as need be, when
his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and
pressing up to his pillow, as if in jealousy of
their interference, set-his breakfast before him,
and insisted on his taking it before he under-
went the fatigue of peaking or of being spoken
to. Mr. Swiveller, who was perfectly ravenous,
and had had, all night, amazingly distinct and
consistent dreams of mutton chops, double
stout, and similar delicacies, felt even the weak
tea and dry toast such irresistible temptations,
that he consented to eat and drink on one
condition. .
“And that is,” said Dick, returning the
pressure of Mr. Garland's hand, “that you
answer me this question truly, before I take a
bit or drop. Is it too late P”
“For completing the work you began so well
last night?” returned the old gentleman. “No.
Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not,
I assure you.”
Comforted by this intelligence, the patient
applied himself to his food with a keen appetite,
though evidently not with a greater zest in the
eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing
him eat, The manner of his meal was this:—
Mr. Swiveller, folding the slice of toast or cup
Sof"tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or
Kirink, as the case might be, constantly kept, in
his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight
locked; and to shake or even to kiss this im-
isoned hand, he would stop every now and
then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect
seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity.
As often as he put anything into his mouth,
whether for eating or drinking, the face of the
Marchioness lighted up beyond all description;
but, whenever he gave her one or other of these
fokens of recognition, her countenance became
*†,
degrees, of whispering voices in his
3. overshadowed, and she began to söğRóż,
whether she was in her laughing joy, or in her
crying one, the Marchioness could not help
turning to the visitors with an appealing look,
which seemed to say, “You see this fellow—
can I help this?"—and they, being thus made,
as it were, parties to the scene, as regularly
answered by another look, “No. Certainly
not.” This dumb-show, taking place during the
whole time of the invalid's breakfast, and the
invalid himself, pale and emaciated, performing
no small part in the same, it may be fairly ques-
tioned whether at any meal, where no word;
good or bad, was spoken from beginning to endy
so much was expressed by gestures in them.
selves so slight and unimportant. -
At length—and, to say the truth, before very
long—Mr. Swiveller had dispatched as much
toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it
was discreet to let him have. But the cares of
the Marchioness did not stop here; for, dis.
appearing for an instant, and presently returning
with a basin of fair water, she laved his face
and hands, brushed his hair, and, in short, made
him as spruce and smart as anybody under such
circumstances could be made; and all this in as
brisk and business-like a manner as if he were a
very little boy, and she his grown-up nurse. To
these various attentions Mr. Swiveller submitted
in a kind of grateful astonishment beyond the
reach of language. When they were at last
brought to an end, and the Marchioness had
withdrawn into a distant corner to take her own
poor breakfast (cold enough by that time), he
turned his face away for some few moments,
and shook hands heartily with the air.
“Gentlemen,” said Dick, rousing himself from
this pause, and turning round again, “you'll ex-
cuse me. Men who have been brought so low
as I have been are easily fatigued. I am fresh'
again now, and fit for talking. We're short of
chairs here, among other trifles, but if you'll do
me the favour to sit upon the bed y)
“What can we do for you?” said Mr. Gar-
land kindly. - •
“If you could make the Marchioness yonder
a Marchioness in real, sober earnest,” returned
Dick, “I’d thank you to get it done off-hand.
But as you can't, and as the question is not
what you will do for me, but what you will do
for somebody else, who has a better claim upon
you, pray, sir, let me know what you intend
doing.” -
“It's chiefly on that account that we have
come just now,” said the single gentleman, “for
you will have another visitor presently. We
feated you would be anxious unless you knew


242.
7"HE O/AD CURIOSITY SHOA'.
from Sºlves what steps we intended to take,
and therefore came to you before we stirred in
the matter.”
“Gentlemen,” returned Dick, “I thank you.
Anybody in the helpless state that you see me
in is naturally anxious. Don't let me interrupt
you, sir.”
“Then, you see, my good fellow,” said the
|single gentleman, “that while we have no doubt
whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which
has so providentially come to light 33
“—Meaning hers P” said Dick, pointing
towards the Marchioness.
“Meaning hers, of course. While we have
no doubt of that, or that a proper use of it
would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon
and liberation, we have a great doubt whether
it would, by itself, enable us to reach Quilp, the
chief agent in this villainy.' I should tell you
that this doubt has been Gonfirmed into some-
thing very nearly approaching certainty by the
best opinions we have been enabled, in this
short space of time, to take upon the subject.
You'll agree with us, that to give him even the
most distant chance of escape, if we could help
it, would be monstrous. You say with us, no
doubt, if somebody must escape, let it be any
one but he.”
“Yes,” returned Dick, “certainly. That is,
if somebody must—but, upon my word, I'm un-
willing that anybody should. Since laws were
made for every degree, to curb vice in others as
well as in me—and so forth you know—doesn't
it strike you in that light P”
The single gentleman smiled as if the light in
which Mr. Swiveller had put the question were
not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to
explain that they contemplated proceeding by
stratagem in the first instance ; and that their
design was to endeavour to extort a confession
from the gentle Sarah.
“When she finds how much we know, and
how we know it,” he said, “and that she is
clearly compromised already, we are not without
strong hopes that we may be enabled, through
her means, to punish the other two effectually.
If we could do that, she might go scot-fee for
aught I cared.”
Dick received this project in anything but a
gracious manner, representing, with as much
warmth as he was then capable of showing, that
they would find the old buck (meaning Šarah)
more difficult to manage than Quilp himself—
that, for any tampering, terrifying, or cajolery,
she was a very unpromising and unyielding sub-
ject—that she was of a kind of brass not easily
melted or moulded into shape—in short, that
her power of speech quite gorie.
they were no match for her, and would be sig-
nally defeated. But, it was in vain to urge them
to adopt some other course. The single gentle-
man has been described as explaining their joint
intentions, but it should have been written that
they all spoke together; that if any one of them
by chance held his peace for a moment, he stood
gasping and panting for an opportunity to strike
in again; in a word, that they had reached that
pitch of impatience and anxiety where men can
neither be persuaded nor reasoned with ; and
that it would have been as easy to turn the most
impetuous wind that ever blew, as to prevail on
them to reconsider their determination. So, after
telling Mr. Swiveller how they had not lost sight
of Kit's mother and the children; how they had
never once even lost sight of Kit himself, but
had been unremitting in their endeavours to
procure a mitigation of his sentence; how they
had been perfectly distracted between the strong
proofs of his guilt, and their own fading hopes
of his innocence; and how he, Richard Swiveller,
might keep his mind at rest, for everything should
be happily adjusted between that time and night;
—after telling him all this, and adding a great
many kind and cordial expressions, personal to
himself, which it is unnecessary to recite, Mr.
Garland, the notary, and the single gentleman
took their leaves at a very critical time, or Richard
Swiveller must assuredly have been driven into
another fever, whereof the results might have
been fatal.
Mr. Abel remained behind, very often looking
at his watch and at the room-door, until Mr.
Swiveller was roused from a short nap by the
setting down on the landing-place outside, as
from the shoulders of a porter, of some giant
load, which seemed to shake the house, and
make the little physic’ bottles on the mantel- .
shelf ring again. Directly this sound reached
his ears, Mr. Abel started, up, and hobbled to
the door, and opened it; and behold there
stood a strong man, with a mighty hamper,
which, being hauled into the room and pre-
sently unpacked, disgorged such treasures of
tea, and coffee, and wine, and rusks, and
oranges, and grapes, and fowls ready trussed
for boiling, and calves'-foot jelly, and arrow-
root, and sago, and other delicate restoratives,
that the small servant, who had never thought
it possible that such things could be, except in
shops, stood rooted to the spot in Yer one shoe,
with her mouth and eyes watering in unison, and
But, not so
Mr. Abel ; or the strong man who emptied the
hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling; and not
so the nice old lady, who appeared so suddenly
COMFAAFAWCE WITH SAAzY ARASS.
that she might have come out of the hamper too
(it was quite large enough), and who, bustling
about on tiptoe and without noise—now here,
now there, now everywhere at once—began to
fill out the jelly in teacups, and to make chicken
broth in Small saucepans, and to peel oranges
for the sick man, and to cut them up in little
pieces, and to ply the small servant with glasses
of wine and choice bits of everything until more
substantial meat could be prepared for her re-
freshment. The whole of which appearances
were so unexpected and bewildering, that Mr.
Swiveller, when he had taken two oranges and
a little jelly, and had seen the strong man walk
off with the empty basket, plainly leaving all
that abundance for his use and benefit, was fain
to lie down and fall to sleep again, from sheer
inability to entertain such wonders in his
mind.
Meanwhile, the single gentleman, the notary,
and Mr. Garland repaired to a certain coffee-
house, and from that place indited and sent a
letter to Miss Sally Brass, requesting her, in
terms mysterious and brief, to favour an un-
known friend, who wished to consult her, with
her company there as speedily as possible. The
communication performed its errand so well,
that within ten minutes of the messenger's re-
turn and report of its delivery, Miss Brass herself
was announced.
“Pray, ma'am,” said the single gentleman,
whom she ſound alone in the room. “take a
chair.”
Miss Brass sat herself down in a very stiff
and frigid state, and seemed—as indeed she
was—not a little astonished to find that the
lodger and her mysterious correspondent were
one and the same person.
“You did not expect to see me,” said the
single gentleman.
“I didn’t think much about it,” returned the
beauty. “I supposed it was business of some
kind or other. If it's about the apartments, of
course you'll give my brother regular notice, you
know—or money. That's very easily settled.
You're a responsible party, and in such a case
lawful monev and lawful notice are pretty much
the same.”
“I am obliged to you for your good opinion,”
retorted the single gentleman, “and quite concur
in those sentiments. But, that is not the subject
on which I wish to speak with you.”
“Oh " said Sally. “Then just state the par-
ticulars, will you ? I suppose it's professional
business P” -
“Why, it is connected with the law, certainly.”
“Very well,” returned Miss Brass. “My
243
brother and I are just the same. I can take
—any instructions, or give you any advice.”
“As there are other parties interested besides
myself,” said the single gentleman, rising and
opening the door of an inner room, “we had
better confer together. Miss Brass is here, gen-
tlemen l’”
Mr. Garland and the notary walked in, look-
ing very grave : and, drawing up two chairs, one
on each side of the single gentleman, formed a
kind of fence round the gentle Sarah, and
penned her into a corner. Her brother Samp-
son, under such circumstances, would certainly
have evinced some confusion or anxiety, but
she—all composure—pulled out the tin box,
and calmly took a pinch of snuff.
“Miss Brass,” said the notary, taking the
word at this crisis, “we professional people
understand each other, and, when we choose,
can say what we have to say in very few words.
You advertised a runaway servant the other
day P”
“Well,” returned Miss Sally with a sudden
flush overspreading her features, “what of that?”
“She is found, ma'am,” said the notary, pulling
out his pocket-handkerchief with a flourish.
“She is found.”
“Who found her?” demanded Sarah hastily.
“We did, ma'am—we three. Only last night,
or you would have heard from us before.”
“And now I have heard from you,” said Miss
Brass, folding her arms as though she were
about to deny something to the death, “what
have you got to say ? Something you have got
into your heads about her, of course. Prove it;
will you ?—that’s all. Prove it. You have
found her, you say. I can tell you (if you don't
know it) that you have found the most artful,
lying, pilfering, devilish little minx that was
ever born.—Have you got her here?” she added,
looking sharply round.
“No, she is not here at present,” returned
the notary. “But she is quite safe.”
“Hal” cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff.
out of her box, as spitefully as if she were in the
very act of wrenching off the small servant's
nose; “she shall be safe enough from this time;
I warrant you.”
“I hope so,” replied the notary.—“Did it
occur to you for the first time, when you found
she had run away, that there were two keys to
your kitchen door P”
Miss Sally took another pinch, and, putting
her head on one side, looked at her questioner,
with a curious kind of spasm about her mouth,
but with a cunning aspect of immense expres-
S101).
244,
THE OLD CURIOS/7"Y SHOP.
-“Two keys,” repeated the notary; “one of
which gave her the opportunities of roaming
through the house at nights when you supposed,
her fast locked up, and of overhearing confi-
dential consultations—among others, that par-
ticular conference, to be described to-day before
a justice, which you will have an opportunity of
hearing her relate; that conference which you
and Mr. Brass held together, on the night before
that most unfortunate and innocent young man
was accused of robbery, by a horrible device of
which I will only say that it may be charac-
terised by the epithets you have applied to this
wretched little witness, and by a few stronger
ones besides.” -
Sally took another pinch. Although her face
was wonderfully composed, it was apparent that
she was wholly taken by surprise, and that what
she had expected to be taxed with, in connection
with her small servant, was something véry dif-
ferent from this.
“Come, come, Miss Brass,” said the notary,
“you have great command of feature, but you
feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered
your imagination, this base design is revealed,
and two of its plotters must be brought to jus-
tice. Now, you know the pains and penalties
you are liable to, and so I need not dilate upon
them, but I have a proposal to make to you.
You have the honour of being sister to one of
the greatest scoundrels unhung; and, if I may
venture to say so to a lady, you are in every
respect quite worthy of him. But, connected
with you two is a third party, a villain of the
name of Quilp, the prime mover of the whole
diabolical device, who I believe to be worse
than either.
the favour to reveal the whole history of this
affair. Let me remind you that your doing so,
at our instance, will place you in a safe and
comfortable position—your present one is not
desirable—and cannot injure your brother ; for
against him and you we have quite sufficient
evidence (as you hear) already. I will not say
to you that we suggest this course in mercy (for,
to tell you the truth, we do not entertain any
regard for you), but it is a necessity to which
we are reduced, and I recommend it to you as
a matter of the very best policy. Time,” said
Mr. Witherden, pulling out his watch, “in a
business like this, is exceedingly precious. Fa-
vour us with your decision as speedily as pos-
sible, ma'am.”
With a smile upon her face, and looking at
each of the three by turns, Miss Brass took two
or three more pinches of snuff, and having by
this time very little left, travelled round and
For his sake, Miss Brass, do us
round the box with her forefinger and thumb,
scraping up another. Having disposed of this
likewise, and put the box carefully in her pocket,
she said: •
“I am to accept or reject at once, am I ?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Witherden.
The charming creature was opening her lips
to speak in reply, when the door was hastily
opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was
thrust into the room.
“Excuse me,” said that gentleman hastily.
“Wait a bit l”
So saying, and quite indifferent to the astonish-
ment his presence occasioned, he crept in, shut
the door, kissed his greasy glove as servilely
as if it were the dust, and made a most abject
bow.
“Sarah,” said Brass, “hold your tongue, if
you please, and let me speak. Gentlemen, if I
could express the pleasure it gives me to see
three such men in a happy unity of feeling and
concord of sentiment, I think you would hardly
believe me. But though I am unfortunate—nay,
gentlemen, criminal, if we are to use harsh ex-
pressions in a company like this—still, I have
my feelings like other men. I have heard of a
poet who remarked that feelings were the coni-
mon lot of all. If he could have been a pig,
gentlemen, and have uttered that sentiment, he
would still have been immortal.”
“If you're not an idiot,” said Miss Brass
harshly, “hold your peace.”
“Sarah, my dear,” returned her brother, “thank
you. But I know what I am about, my love,
and will take the liberty of expressing myself
accordingly. Mr. Witherden, sir, your hand-
kerchief is hanging out of your pocket—would
you allow me to yy
As Mr. Brass advanced to remedy this acci-
dent, the notary shrunk from him with an air of
disgust. Brass, who, over and above his usual
prepossessing qualities, had a scratched face, a
green shade over one eye, and a hat grievously
crushed, stopped short, and looked round with
a pitiful smile.
“He shuns me,” said Sampson, “even when
*
I would, as I may say, heap coals of fire upon
his head. Well Ah But I am a falling
house, and the rats (if I may be allowed the ex-
pression in reference to a gentleman I respect
and love beyond everything) fly from me ! Gen-
tlemen—regarding your conversation just now,
I happened to see my sister on her way here,
and, wondering where she could be going to,
and being—may I venture to say?—naturally of
a suspicious tuirn, followed her. Since then I
have been listening.”
Mr. Brass offers Ars AssiszawcE.
“If you're not mad,” interposed Miss Sally,
“stop there, and say no more.”
“Sarah, my dear,” rejoined Brass with undi-
minished politeness, “I thank you kindly, but
will still proceed. Mr. Witherden, sir, as we
have the honour to be members of the same
profession—to say nothing of that other gentle-
man having been my lodger, and having partaken,
as one may say, of the hospitality of my roof–I
think you might have. given me the réfusal of
this offer in the first instance. I do indeed.
Now, my dear sir,’ cried Brass, seeing that the
notary was about to interrupt him, “suffer me
to speak, I beg.”
Mr. Witherden was silent, and Brass went
OI).
“If you will do me the favour,” he said, hold-
ing up the green shade, and revealing an eye
most horribly discoloured, “to look at this, you
will naturally inquire, in your own minds, how
did I get it? If you look from that to my face,
you will wonder what could have been the cause
of all these scratches. And if from them to my
hat, how it came into the state in which you
See it. Gentlemen,” said Brass, striking the
hat fiercely with his clenched hand, “to all
these questions I answer—Quilp ſ”
The three gentlemen looked at each other,
but said nothing.
“I say,” pursued Brass, glancing aside at his
sister, as though he were talking for her informa-
tion, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in
violent contrast to his usual smoothness, “that
I answer to all these questions,—Quilp—Quilp,
who deludes me into his infernal den, and takes
a delight in looking on and chuckling while I
Scorch, and burn, and bruise, and maim myself
–Quilp, who never once, no, never once, in all
our communications together, has treated me
otherwise than as a dog—Quilp, whom I have
always hated with my whole heart, but never so
much as lately. He gives me the cold shoulder
on this very matter, as if he had had nothing to
do with it, instead of being the first to pro-
pose it. I can't trust him. In one of his
howling, raving, blazing humours, I believe he'd
let it out, if it was murder, and never, think of
himself so long as he could terrify me. Now,”
said Brass, picking up his hat again, replacing
the shade over his eye, and actually crouching
down in the excess of his servility, “what does
all this head me to ?—what should you say it led
me to, gentlemen?—could you guess at all near
the mark?”.
Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking for a
little while, as if he had propounded some choice
conundrum; and then said:
245
“To be short with you, then, it leads me to
this. If the truth has come out, as it plainly has
in a manner that there's no standing up against—
and a very sublime and grand thing is Truth,
gentlemen, in its way, though, like other sublime
and grand things, such as thunder-storms and
that, we're not always over and above glad to
see it—I had better turn upon this man than let
this man turn upon me. It's clear to me that I
am done for. Therefore, if anybody is to split,
I had better be the person, and have the advan-
tage of it. Sarah, my dear, comparatively speak-
Ing, you're safe. I relate these circumstances
for my own profit.”
With that, Mr. Brass, in a great hurry, revealed
the whole story; bearing as heavily as possible
on his amiable employer, and making himself
out to be rather a saint-like and holy character,
though subject—he acknowledged — to human
weaknesses. He concluded thus:
“Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does
things by halves. Being in for a penny, I am
ready, as the saying is, to be in for a pound.
You must do with me what you please, and take
me where you please. If you wish to have this
in writing, we'll reduce it into manuscript imme-
diately. You will be tender with me, I am sure.
I am quite confident you will be tender with me.
You are men of honour, and have feeling
hearts. I yielded from necessity to Quilp, for
though necessity has no law, she has her lawyers.
I yield to you from necessity too; from policy
besides; and because of feelings that have been
a pretty long time working within me. Punish
Quilp, gentlemen. Weigh heavily upon him.
Grind him down. Tread him under foot. He
has done as much by me, for many and many a
day.” -
Having now arrived at the conclusion of his
discourse, Sampson checked the current of his
wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as
only parasites and cowards can.
“And this,” said Miss Brass, raising her
head, with which she had hitherto sat resting
on her hands, and surveying him from head to
foot with a bitter sneer, “this is my brother, is
it P. This is my brother, that I have worked
and toiled for, and believed to have had some
thing of the man in him 1"
“Sarah, my dear,” returned Sampson, rubbing
his hands ſeebly ; “you disturb our friends.
Besides, you—you're disappointed, Sarah, and,
not knowing what you say, expose yourself.”
“Yes, you pitiful dastard,” retorted the lovely
damsel, “I understand you. You feared that
I should be beforehand with you. . But do you
think that I would have been enticed to say a
246
The ozo corroszzy shop
word? I'd have scorned it, if they had tried
and tempted me for twenty years.”
“He, he ” simpered Brass, who, in his deep
debasement, really, seenied to have changed
sexes with his sister, and to have made over to
her any spark of manliness he might have pos-
Sessed. “You think so, Sarah, you think so,
perhaps ; but you would have acted quite dif-
ferent, my good fellow. You will not have for-
gotten that it was a maxim with Foxey—our
revered father, gentlemen —‘Always suspect
everybody.' That's the maxim to go through
life with ! If you. were not actually about to
purchase your own safety when I showed my-
Self, I suspect you'd have done it by this time.
And therefore I've done it myself, and spared
you the trouble as well as the shame. The
shame, gentlemen,” added Brass, allowing him-
self to be slightly overcome, “if there is any, is
mine. It's better that a female should be spared
it.”
With deference to the better opinion of Mr.
Brass, and more particularly to the authority of
his Great Ancestor, it may be doubted, with
humility, whether the elevating principle laid
down by the latter gentleman, and acted upon
by his descendant, is always a prudent one, or
attended in practice with the desired results.
This is, beyond question, a bold and presump-
tuous doubt, inasmuch as many distinguished
characters, called men of the world, long-headed
Customers, knowing dogs, shrewd fellows, capital
hands at business, and the like, have made, and
do daily make, this axiom their polar star and
compass. Still, the doubt may be gently in-
sinuated. And in illustration it may be observed
that if Mr. Brass, not being over-suspicious, had,
without prying and listening, left his sister to
manage the conference on their joint behalf, or,
prying and listening, had not been in such a
mighty hurry to anticipate her (which he would
not have been, but for his distrust and j ealousy),
he would probably have found himself much
better off in the end. Thus, it will always.
happen that these men of the world, who go
through it in armour, defend themselves from
quite as much good as evil; to say nothing of
the inconvenience and absurdity of mounting
guard with a microscope at all times, and of
Wearing a coat of mail on the most innocent
OCCaS1OnS.
The three gentlemen spoke together apart for
a few moments. At the end of their consulta-
tio9, which was very brief, the notary pointed
to the writing materials on the tablé, and in-
formed Mr. Brass that, if he wished to make
any statement in writing, he had the oppor.
tunity of doing so. At the same time he felt
bound to tell him that they would require his
attendance, presently, before a justice of the
peace, and that, in what he did or said, he was
guided entirely by his own discretion.
“Gentlemen,” said Brass, drawing off his
gloves, and crawling in spirit upon the ground
before them, “I will justify the tenderness with
which I know I shall be treated ; and as, with-
out tenderness, I should, now that this dis-
covery has been made, stand in the worst posi-
tion of the three, you may depend upon it I will
make a clean breast. Mr. Witherden, sir, a
kind of faintness is upon my spirits—if you
would do me the favour to ring the bell and
order up a glass of something warm and spicy,
I shall, notwithstanding what has passed, have
a melancholy pleasure in drinking your good
health. I had hoped,” said Brass, looking
round with a mournful Smile, “to have seen
you three gentlemen, one day or another, with
your legs under the mahogany in my humble
parlour in the Marks. But hopes are fleeting.
Dear me !”
Mr. Brass found himself so exceedingly
affected at this point, that he could say or do
nothing more until some refreshment arrived.
Having partaken of it, pretty freely for one in
his agitated state, he sat down to write.
The lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded,
and now with her hands clasped behind her,
paced the room with many strides while her
brother was thus employed, and sometimes
stopped to pull out her snuff-box and bite the
lid. She continued to pace up and down until
she was quite tired, and then fell asleep on a
chair near the door.
It has been since supposed, with some rea-
son, that this slumber was a sham or feint, as
she contrived to slip away unobserved in the
dusk of the afternoon. Whether this was an
intentional and waking departure, or a Somnam-
bulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep,
may remain a subject of contention; but, on
one point (and indeed the main ope), all parties
are agreed. In whatever state she walked
away, she certainly did not walk back again.
Mention having been made of the dusk of
the afternoon, it will be inferred that Mr. Brass's
task occupied some time in the completion.
It was not finished until evening ; but, being
done at last, that worthy person and the three
friends adjourned in a hackney coach to the
private office of a justice, who, giving Mr. Brass
a warm reception, and detaining him in a secure
place that he might insure to himself the plea.
sure of seeing him on the morrow, dismissed
g M/C. S W/WZZZAZZ BEAAES AVE WIS AAE Z/7ZZAZ FXAAECZ'ED.
247
the others with the cheering assurance that a
warrant could not fail to be granted next day for
the apprehension of Mr. Quilp, and that a
proper application and statement of all the
circumstances to the secretary of state (who
was fortunately in town) would no doubt pro-
cure Kit's free pardon and liberation without
delay. &
And now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp's
malignant career was drawing to a close, and
that retribution, which often travels slowly—
especially when heaviest—had tracked his foot-
steps with a sure and certain scent, and was
gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her stealthy
tread, her victim holds his course in fancied
triumph. Still at his heels she comes, and,
once afoot, is never turned aside
Their business ended, the three gentlemen
hastened back to the lodgings of Mr. Swiveller,
whom they found progressing so favourably in
his recovery as to have been able to sit up for
half an hour, and to have conversed with cheer-
fulness. Mrs. Garland had gone home some
time since, but Mr. Abel was still sitting with
him. After telling him all they had done, the
two Mr. Garlands and the single gentleman, as
if by some previous understanding, took their
leaves for the night, leaving the invalid alone
with the notary and the small servant.
“As you are so much better,” said Mr.
Witherden, sitting down at the bedside, “I may
venture to communicate to you a piece of news
which has come to me professionally.”
The idea of any professional intelligence from
a gentleman connected with legal matters ap-
peared to afford Richard anything but a pleas-
ing anticipation. Perhaps he connected it in
his own mind with one or two outstanding
accounts, in reference to which he had already
received divers threatening letters. His coun-
tenance fell as he replied :
“Certainly, sir. I hope it's not anything of
a very disagreeable nature, though P”
- “If I thought it so, I should choose some
better time for communicating it,” replied the
notary. “Let me tell you, first, that my friends
who have been here to-day know nothing of it,
and that their kindness to you has been quite
Spontaneous, and with no hope of return. It
may do a thoughtless, careless man good to
know that.”
Dick thanked him, and said he hoped it
would.
“I have been making some inquiries about
you,” said Mr. Witherden, “little thinking that
I should find you under such circumstances as
£hose which have brought us together. You
are the nephew of Rebecca Swiveller, spinster,
deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorsetshire.”
“ Deceased ” cried Dick.
“ Deceased. If you had been another sort
of nephew, you would have come into posses-
sion (so says the will, and I see no reason to
doubt it) of five-and-twenty thousand pounds.
As it is, you have fallen into an annuity of one
hundred and fifty pounds a year; but I think I
may congratulate you even upon that.”
“Sir,” said Dick, sobbing and laughing
together, “you may. For, please God, we'll
make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet !
And she shall walk in silk attire, and siller have
to spare, or may I never rise from this bed
again ”
CHAPTER LXVII.
ºf NCONSCIOUS of the proceedings
;
§ $ e
º | faithfully narrated in the last chapter,
and little dreaming of the mine which
had been sprung beneath him (for,
to the end that he should have no
warning of the business afoot, the
§.º.º.
tº-
* profoundest secrecy was observed in the
}
Ø whole transaction), Mr. Quilp remained
shut up in his hermitage, undisturbed by any
suspicion, and extremely well satisfied with the
result of his machinations. Being engaged in
the adjustment of some accounts—an occupa-
tion to which the silence and solitude of his
retreat were very favourable—he had not strayed
from his den for two whole days. The third day
of his devotion to this pursuit found him still
hard at work, and little disposed to stir abroad.
It was the day next after Mr. Brass's confes-
sion, and, consequently, that which threatened
the rest.iction of Mr. Quilp's liberty, and the
abrupt communication to him of some very un-
pleasant and unwelcome facts. Having no in-
tuitive perception of the cloud which lowered
upon his house, the dwarſ was in his ordinary
state of cheerfulness; and, when he found he
was becoming too much engrossed by business
with a due regard to his health and spirits, he
varied its monotonous routine with a little
screeching, or howling, or some other innocent
relaxation of that nature.
He was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott,
who sat crouching over the fire after the manner
of a toad, and, from time to time, when his
master's back was turned, imitated his grimaces
with a ſearful exactness. The figure-head had
not yet disappeared, but remained in its old


248
7A/E O/z) cz/R70S77'y SºrøPº
place. The face, horribly seared by the frequent
application of the red-hot poker, and further”
ornamented by the insertion, in the tip of the
nose, of a tempenny nail, yet smiled blandly in
its less lacerated parts, and seemed, like a sturdy;
martyr, to provoke its tormentor to the conn-
mission of new outrages and insults.
The day; in the highest and brightest quarters'
of the town, was damp, dark, cold, and gloomy.
In that low and marshy spot the fog filled every
nook and corner with a thick dense cloud.
Every object was obscured at one or two yards'
distance. The warning lights and fires upon the
river were powerless beneath this pall, and but
for a raw and piercing chilness in the air, and
now and then the cry of some bewildered boat-
man as he rested on his oars and tried to make
out where he was, the river itself might have
been miles away. -
The mist, though sluggish and slow to move,
was of a keenly searching kind. No muffling
up in furs and broadcloth kept it out. It seemed
to penetrate into the very bones of the shrinking
wayfarers, and to rack them with cold and pains.
Everything was wet and clammy to the touch.
The warm blaze alone defied it, and leaped and
Sparkled merrily. It was a day to be at home,
crowding about the fire, telling stories Öf tra-
vellers who had lost their way in such weather
on heaths and moors; and to love a warm
hearth more than ever.
The dwarf's humour, as we know, was to have
a fireside to himselſ; and, when he was disposed
to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone. By no
means insensible to the comfort of being within
doors, he ordered Tom Scott to pile the little
stove with coals, and, dismissing his work for
that day, determined to be jovial.
To this end, he lighted up fresh candles and
heaped more fuel on the fire; and having dined
off a beef-steak, which he cooked himself, in
somewhat of a savage and cannibal-like manner,
brewed a great bowl of hot punch, lighted his
pipe, and sat down to spend the evening.
At this moment a low knocking at the cabin
door arrested his attention. When it had been
twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened the
little window, and thrusting his head out, de-
manded who was there.
“Only me, Quilp,” replied a woman's voice.
“Only you !” cried the dwarf, stretching his
neck to obtain a better view of his visitor. “And
what brings you here, you jade? How dare
you approach the ogre's castle, eh?”
“I have come with some news,” rejoined his
spouse. “Don’t be angry with me.”
“Is it good news, pleasant news, news to .
nothing the natter with her.
- gy : . . . --º- e
make a man skip and snap his fingers?” said
the dwarf. “Is the dear old lady dead?”
“I don't know what news it is, or whetherit's
good or bad,” rejoined his wife.
“Then she's alive,” said Quilp, “and there's
Go home again,
you bird of evil note, go home !”
“I have brought a letter ” cried the meek
little woman.
“Toss it in at the window here, and go your
ways,” said Quiſp, interrupting her, “ or I'll
come out and scratch you.”
“No, but please, Quilp—do hear me speak,”
urged his submissive wife in tears. “Please do!”
“Speak, then,” growled the dwarf with a
malicious grin.” “Be quick and short about it.
Speak, will you?”.
“It was left at our house this afternoon,” said
Mrs. Quilp, trembling, “by a boy who said he
didn't know from whom it came, but that it was
given to him to leave, and that he was told to
say it must be brought on to you directly, for it
was of the very greatest consequence.—But
please,” she added; as her husband stretched out
his hand for it, “please let me in. You don't
know how wet and cold I am, or how many
times I have lost my way in coming'here through
this thick fog. Let me dry myself at the fire for
five minutes. I’ll go away directly you tell me
to, Quilp. Upon my word I will.”
Her amiable husband hesitated for a few
moments; but, bethinking himself that the letter
might require some answer, of which she could
be the bearer, closed the window, opened the
door, and bade her enter. Mrs. Quilp obeyed
right willingly, and, kneeling down before the
fire to warm her hands, delivered into his a little
packet. º
“I’m glad you're wet,” said Quilp, Snatching
it, and squinting at her. “I’m glad you're cold.
I'm glad you've lost your way. I'm glad your
eyes are red with crying. It does my heart
good to see your little nose so pinched and
frosty.” & 8
“Oh, Quilp : " sobbed his wife.
it is of you !” g *
“Diá she think I was dead?" said Quilp,
wrinkling his face into a most extraordinary
series of grimaces. “Did she think she was
going to have all the money, and to marry,
somebody she liked P. Ha, ha, ha! Did she?
These taunts elicited no reply from the poor
little woman, who remained on her knees, warm.
ing her hands, and sobbing, to Mr. Quilp's great
delight. But, just as he was contemplating her,
and chuckling excessively, he happened to ob-
serve that Tom Scott was delighted too ; where.
“How cruel
WARN/AWG FROM M/SS BAASS.
tº - :------—a –– * - - - - - - -
fore, that he might have no presumptuous partner
in his glee, the dwarf instantly collared him,
dragged him to the door, and, after a short
scuffle, kicked him into the yard. In return for
this mark of attention, Tom immediately walked
upon his hands to the window, and—if the ex-
pression be allowable—looked in with his shoes:
besides rattling his feet upon the glass like a
Banshee upside down. As a matter of course,
Mr. Quilp lost no time in resorting to the in-
fallible poker, with which, after some dodging
and lying in ambush, he paid his young friend
---, -º-º-º:
243
one or two such unequivocal compliments that
he vanished precipitately, and left him in quiet
possession of the field.
“So I That little job being disposed of,” said
the dwarf coolly, “I’ll read my letter. Humph ["
he muttered, looking at the direction. “I ought
to know this writing. Beautiful Sally "
Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal
hand, as follows:
“Sammy has been practised upon, and has
broken confidence. It has all come out. You
had better not be in the way, for strangers are
“TUM IMMEDIATELY WALKED UPON HIS HANDs To THE window, AND–IF THE EXPRESSION BE ALLOWAitle
—LookED IN witH HIS SHOES.”
&
going to call upon you. They have been very
quiet as yet, because they mean to surprise you.
Don't lose time. I didn't. I and not to be
found anywhere. If I was you, I wouldn't be,
either. S. B., late of B. M.”
To describe the changes that passed over
Quilp's face, as he read this letter half-a-dozen
times, would require some new language : such,
for power of expression, as was never written,
read, or spoken. For a long time he did not
utter one word : but, after a considerable in-
terval, during which Mrs. Quilp was almost
paralysed with the alarm his ooks engendered
he contrived to gasp out :
“If I had him here !
here—”
“Oh, Quilp ſ” said his wife, “what's the
matter? Who are you angry with P” -
“I should drown him,” said the dwarf, not
heeding her. “Too easy a death, too short, too
quick—but the river runs close at hand. Oh,
If I had him here ! Just to take him to the
brink, coaxingly and pleasantly—holding him
by the button-hole—joking with him—and, with
If I only had him


25o
*Fº
THE OLZD C UR/OSI 7"Y SHOP.
a sudden push, to send him splashing down
Drowning men come to the surface three times
they say. Ah! To see him those three times,
and mock him as his face came bobbing up,
oh, what a rich treat that would be l’
“Quilp !” stammered his wife, venturing at
the same time to touch him on the shoulder :
“what has gone wrong P” -
She was so terrified by the relish with which
he pictured this pleasure to himself, that she
could scarcely make herself intelligible.
“Such a bloodless cur !” said Quilp, rubbing
his hands very slowly, and pressing them tight
together. “I thought his cowardice and ser-
vility were the best guarantee for his keeping
silence. Oh, Brass, Brass—my dear, good,
affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming
friend—if I only had you here !”
His wife, who had retreated lest she should
seem to listen to these mutterings, ventured to
approach him again, and was about to speak,
when he hurried to the door and called Tom
Scott, who, remembering his late gentle admoni-
tion, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.
“There !” said the dwarf, pulling him in.
“Take her home. Don't come here to-morrow,
for this place will be shut up. Come back no
more till you hear from me or see me. Do you
mind?” *
Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs.
Quilp to lead the way.
“As for you,” said the dwarf, addressing him-
self to her, “ask no questions about me, make
no search for me, say nothing concerning me.
I shall not be dead, mistress, and that'll comfort
you. He'll take care of you.”
“But, Quilp ! What is the matter? Where
are you going? Do say something more.”
“I’ll say that,” said the dwarf, seizing her by
the arm, “and do that too, which undone and
unsaid would be best for you, unless you go
directly.” .
“Has anything happened?” cried his wife.
“Oh ! Do tell me that l”
“Yes,” snarled the dwarf. “No. What
matter which? I have told you what to do.
Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey
me by a hair's breadth. Will you go?”
. “I am going, I’ll go directly; but,” faltered
his wife, “answer me one question first. Has
this letter any connection with dear little Nell?
I must ask you that—I must indeed, Quilp.
You cannot think what days and nights of sor-
row I have had through having once deceived
that child. I don't know what harm I may
have brought about, but, great or little, I did it
for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me
when I did it. Do answer me this question, if
you please.”
The exasperated dwarf returned no answer,
but turned round and caught up his usual
weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott
dragged his charge away by main force, and as
swiftly as he could. It was well he did so, for
Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued
them to the neighbouring lane, and might have
prolonged the chase but for the dense mist
which obscured them from his view, and ap-
peared to thicken every moment.
“It will be a good night for travelling anony-
mously,” he said as he returned slowly: being
pretty well breathed with his run. “Stay. We
may look better here. This is too hospitable
and free.” w
By a great exertion of strength he closed the
two old gates, which were deeply sunken in the
mud, and barred them with a heavy beam.
That done, he shook his matted hair from about
his eyes, and tried them.—Strong and fast.
“The fence between this wharf and the next
is easily climbed,” said the dwarf when he had
taken these precautions. “There's a back-lane,
too, from there. That shall be my way out. A
man need know his road well to find it in this
lovely place to-night. I need fear no unwel-
come visitors while this lasts, I think.”
Almost reduced to the necessity of groping
his way with his hands (it had grown so dark,
and the fog had so much increased), he returned
to his lair; and, after musing for some time over
the fire, busied himself in preparations for a
speedy departure.”
While he was collecting a few necessaries,
and cramming them into his pockets, he never
once ceased communing with himself in a low
voice, or unclenched his teeth: which he had
ground together on finishing Miss Brass's note.
“Oh, Sampson 1" he muttered, “good, worthy
creature—if I could but hug you ! If I could
only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your
ribs, as I could squeeze them if I once had
you tight—what a meeting there would be be-
tween us! If we ever do cross each other
again, Sampson, we'll have a greeting not easily
to be forgotten, trust me. This time, Sampson,
this moment when all had gone on so well, was
So nicely chosen I It was so thoughtful of you,
so penitent, so good. Oh, if we were face to
face in this room again, my white-livered man
of law, how well contented one of us would bel"
There he stopped; and raising the bowl of
punch to his lips, drank a long deep draught,
as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched
mouth. Setting it down abruptly, and re-
A RO WAVED f
suming his preparations, he went on with his
soliloquy. -
“There's Sally,” he said with flashing eyes;
“the woman has spirit, determination, purpose
—was she asleep, or petrified ? She could have
stabbed him—poisoned him safely. She might
have seen this coming on. Why does she give
me notice when it’s too late P When he sat
there, yonder there, over there, with his white
face, and red head, and sickly smile, why didn't
I know what was passing in his heart? It should
have stopped beating that night, if I had been
in his secret, or there are no drugs to lull a man
to sleep, and no fire to burn him 1"
Another draught from the bowl ; and, cower-
ing over the fire with a ferocious aspect, he mut-
tered to himself again.
“And this, like every other trouble and anxiety
. I have had of late times, springs from that old
dotard and his darling child—two wretched
feeble wanderers I’ll be their evil genius yet.
And you, Sweet Kit, honest Kit, virtuous, inno-
cent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I
bite. I hate, you, my darling fellow, with good
cause, and, proud as you are to-night, I’ll have
my turn.—What's that P”
A knocking at the gate he had closed. A
loud and violent knocking. Then, a pause ; as
if those who knocked had stopped to listen.
Then, the noise again, more clamorous and
importunate than before.
“So soon l’” said the dwarf. “And so eager
I am afraid I shall disappoint you. It's well
I’m quite prepared. Sally, I thank you !”
As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In
his impetuous attempts to subdue the brightness
of the fire, he overset the stove, which came
tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon, the
burning embers it had shot forth in its descent,
leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The noise
at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to
the door, and stepped into the open air.
At that moment the knocking ceased. It was
about eight o'clock; but the dead of the darkest
night would have been as noonday, in com-
parison with the thick cloud which then rested
upon the earth, and shrouded everything from
V] eV.
into the mouth of some dim, yawning cavern;
then, thinking he had gone wrong, changed the
direction of his steps; then, stood still, not .
knowing where to turn.
“If they would knock again,” said Quilp, try-
ing to peer into the gloom by which he was
'surrounded, “the sound might guide me. Come!
Batter the gate once more ".
as ºs- --- - - - - - - - - - -
He stood listening intently, but the noise was
He darted forward for a few paces, as if
25E
not renewed. Nothing was to be heard in that
deserted place but, at intervals, the distant
barkings of dogs. The sound was far away—
now in one quarter, now answered in another—
nor was it any guide, for it often came from ship.
board, as he knew.
“If I could find a wall or fence,” said the
dwarf, stretching out his arms, and walking slowly
on, “I should know which way to turn. A good,
black, devil's night this, to have my dear friend
here ! If I had but that wish, it might, for any-
thing I cared, never be day again.”
As the word passed his lips, he staggered and
fell—and next moment was fighting with the
cold dark water
For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears,
he could hear the knocking at the gate again—
could hear a shout that followed it—could recog-
nise the voice. For all his struggling and plash-
ing, he could understand that they had lost
their way, afta had wandered back to the point
from which they started ; that they were all but
looking on, while he was drowned; that they
were close at hand, but could not make an effort
to save him ; that he himself had shut and barred
them out. He answered the shout—with a yell,
which seemed to make the hundred fires that
danced before his eyes tremble and flicker as if
a gust of wind had stirred them. It was of no
avail. The strong tide filled his throat, and
bore him on upon its rapid current. º
Another mortal struggle, and he was up again,
beating the water with his hands, and looking
out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him
some black object he was drifting close upon.
The hull of a ship ! He could touch its smooth
and slippery surface with his hand. One loud
cry, now But the resistless water bore him
down before he could give it utterance, and,
driving him under it, it carried away a corpse: ;
It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight,
now bruising it against the slimy piles, now
hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now drag-
ging it heavily over rough stones and gravel,
now feigning to yield it to its own. element,
and in the same action luring it away, until,
tired of the ugly plaything, it flung it on a
swamp—a dismal place where pirates had swung
in chains through many a wintry night—and left
it there to bleach.
And there it lay alone. The sky was red
with flame, and the water that bore it there had
been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed
along. The place, the deserted carcase had left
, so recently a living man, was now a blazing ruin.
There was something of the glare upon its face.
The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in
252
7///5 OZ/) CUR/OS/ZY SHOP.
= z_*
a kind of mockery of death—such a mockery as
the dead man himself would have delighted in
when alive—about its head, and its dress flut-
tered idly in the night wind.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
§ [GHTED rooms, bright fires, cheer-
A ful faces, the music of glad voices,
words of love and welcome, warm
hearts, and tears of happiness—
what a change is this But it is to
such delights that Kit is hastening.
are awaiting him, he knows. He
They
ſears he will die of joy before he gets
among them. -
They have prepared him for this, all day.
He is not to be carried off to-morrow with the
rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let
him know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries
are to be made, and perhaps he may be par-
doned after all. At last, the evening being
come, they bring him to a room where some
gentlemen are assembled. Foremost among
them is his good old master, who comes and
takes him by the hand. He hears that his
innocence is established, and that he is par-
doned. He cannot see the speaker, but he
turns towards the voice, and, in trying to
answer, falls down inserisible.
They recover him again, and tell him he must
be composed, and bear this like a man. Some-
body says he must think of his poor mother.
It is because he does think of her so much that
the happy news has overpowered him. They
crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has
gone abroad, and that all the town and country
ring with sympathy for his misfortunes. He has
no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have no .
wider range than home. Does she know it?
what did she say? who told her ? He can
Speak of nothing else.
They make him drink a little wine, and talk
kindly to him for awhile, until, he is more col-
lected, and can listen, and thank them. He' is
free to go. Mr. Garland thinks, if he feels
better, it is time they went away. The gentle-
men cluster round him, and shake hands with
him. He feels very grateful to them for the
interest they have in him, and for the kind pro-
mises they make ; "but the power of speech is
gone again, and he has much ado to keep his.
feet, even though leaning on his master's arm.
ſ’ As they come through the dismal passages,
some officers of the gaol who are in waiting
there congratulate him, in their rough way, on
his release. The newsmonger is of the number,
but his manner is not quite hearty—there is
something of Surliness in his compliments. He
looks upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has
obtained admission to that place on false pre-
tences, who has enjoyed a privilege without
being duly qualified. He may be a very good
sort of young man, he thinks, but he has no
business there, and the sooner he is gone the
better.
The last door shuts behind them. They
have passed the outer wall, and stand in the
open air—in the street he has so often pictured
to himself when hemmed in by the gloomy
stones, and which has been in all his dreams.
It seems wider and more busy than it used to
be. The night is bad, and yet how cheerful and
gay in his eyes | One of the gentlemen, in
taking leave of him, pressed some money into
his hand. He has not counted it ; but, when
they have gone a few paces beyond the box for
poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and drops
lt in.
Mr. Garland has a coach waiting in a neigh-
bouring street, and, taking Kit inside with him,
bids the man drive home. . At first, they can
only travel at a foot-pace, and then with torches
going on before, because of the heavy fog. But,
as they get farther from the river, and leave the
closer portions of the town behind, they are
able to dispense with this precaution, and to
proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard
galloping would be too slow for Kit; but, when
they are drawing near their journey's end, he
begs they may go more slowly, and, when the
house appears in sight, that they may stop-
only for a minute or two, to give him time to
breathe. -
But there is no stopping then, for the old
gentleman speaks stoutly to him, the horses
mend their pace, and they are already at the
garden-gate. Next minute they are at the door.
There is a noise of tongues, and tread of feet,
inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and finds his
mother clinging round his neck.
And there, too, is the ever-faithful Barbara's
mother, still holding the baby as if she had
never put it down since that sad day when they
little hoped to have such joy as this—there she
is, Heaven bless her, crying her eyes out, and
sobbing as never woman sobbed before ; and
there is little Barbara—poor little Barbara, so
much thinner and so much paler, and yet so
very pretty—trembling like a leaf, and support.
ing herself against the wall; and there is Mrs.

A /7" /S FREE,
253
Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting
away stone dead with nobody to help her; and
there is Mr. Abel, violently blowing his nose,
and wanting to embrace everybody; and there
is the single gentleman hovering round them all,
and constant to nothing for an instant; and
there is that good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob,
sitting all alone by himself on the bottom stair
with his hands on his knees like an old man,
toaring fearfully without giving any trouble to
anybody; and each and all of them are for the
time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and
severally commit all manner of follies.
And even when the rest have in some mea-
sure come to themselves again, and can find
words and smiles, Barbara—that soft-hearted,
gentle, foolish little Barbara—is suddenly missed,
and found to be in a swoon by herself in the
back-parlour, from which swoon she falls into
hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon
again, and is, indeed, so bad that, despite a
mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water, she
is hardly a bit better at last than she was at
first. Then, Kit's mother comes in and says,
will he come and speak to her P and Kit says
“Yes,” and goes ; and he says in a kind voice
“Barbara !” and Barbara's mother tells her that
“it’s only Kit; ” and Barbara says (with her
eyes closed all the time), “Oh but is it him
indeed?” and Barbara's mother says, “To be
• THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 17.
“THE STRONG TIDE FILLED HIS THROAT, AND BORE HIM ON UPoN ITS RAPID current.”
sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the matter
now.” And, in further assurance that he's Safe
and sound, Kit speaks to her again; and then
Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and
then into another fit of crying; and then Bar-
bara's mother and Kit's mother nod to each
other, and pretend to scold her—but only to
bring her to herself the faster, bless you !—and
being experienced matrons, and acute at per-
ceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery,
265


254
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
they comfort Kit with the assurance that “she'll
do now,” and so dismiss him to the place from
whence he canne.
Well In that place (which is the next
room) there are decanters of wine, and all that
sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his
friends were first-rate company; and there is
little Jacob, walking, as the popular phrase is,
into a home-made plum-cake at a most surpris-
ing pace, and keeping his eye on the figs and
oranges which are to follow, and making the
best use of his time, you may believe.
sooner comes in than that single gentleman
(never was such a busy gentleman) charges all
the glasses—bumpers—and drinks his health,
and tells him he shall never want a friend while
ſhe lives; and so does Mr. Garland, and so does
Mrs. Garland, and so does Mr. Abel. But,
even this honour and distinction is not all, for
the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of his
pocket a massive silver watch—going hard, and
right to half a second—and upon the back of
this watch is engraved Kit's name, with flou-
rishes all over; and, in short, it is Kit's watch,
bought expressly for him, and presented to him
on the spot. You may rest assured that Mr.
and Mrs. Garland can’t help hinting about their
present in store, and that Mr. Abel tells out-
right that he has his ; and that Kit is the hap-
piest of the happy.
There is one friend he has not seen yet, and,
as he cannot be conveniently introduced into
the family circle, by reason of his being an iron-
shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity
of slipping away and hurrying to the stable.
The moment he lays his hand upon the latch,
the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting;
before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is
capering about his loose box (for he brooks not
the indignity of a halter), mad to give him wel-
Come; and, when Kit goes up to caress and pat
him, the pony rubs his nose against his Coat,
and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony
fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance
of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and Kit
fairly. Puts his arm round whisker's neck and
hugs him.
But how comes Barbara to trip in there P
And how Smart she is again She has been at
i. glass Since she recovered. How comes
arbara in the stable, of all places in the world P
. since Kit has been away, the pony would
ake his -food from nobody but her, and Bar-
bara, you see, not dreaming Christopher was
there, and just looking in to see that everything
*** ſight, has come upon him unawares. Bush.
irig little Barbara !
Kit no.
It may be that Kit has caressed the pony
enough ; it may be that there are even better
things to caress than ponies. He leaves him
for Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better.
Yes. Barbara is a great deal better. She is
afraid—and here Barbara looks down and
blushes more—that he must have thought her
very foolish. “Not at all,” says Kit. Barbara
is glad of that, and coughs—Hem —just
the slightest cough possible—not more than
that.
What a discreet pony when he chooses . He
is as quiet, now, as if he were of marble. He
has a very knowing look, but that he always
has. “We have hardly had time to shake hands,
Barbara,” says Kit. Barbara gives him hers.
Why, she is trembling now ! Foolish, fluttering
Barbara !
Arm's length 2 The length of an arm is not
much. Barbara's was not a long arm, by any
means, and besides, she didn't hold it out
straight, but bent a little. Kit was so near her
when they shook hands, that he could see a
small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash.
It was natural that he should look at it, un-
known to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara
should raise her eyes unconsciously, and find
him out. Was it natural that at that instant,
without any previous impulse or design, Kit
should kiss Barbara P. He did it, whether or no.
Barbara said “For shame,” but let him do it too
—twice. He might have done it thrice, but the
pony kicked up his heels and, shook his head,
as if he were suddenly taken with convulsions
of delight, and Barbara, being frightened, ran
away—not straight to where her mother and
Kit's mother were, though, lest they should see
how red her cheeks were, and should ask her
why. Sly little Barbara !
When the first transports of the whole party
had subsided, and Kit and his mother, and
Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and
the baby to boot, had had their suppers together
—which there was no hurrying over, for they
were going to stop there all night—Mr. Garland
called Kit to him, and, taking him into a room
where they could be alone, told him that he
had something yet to say, which would surprise
him greatly. Kit looked so anxious and turned
so pale on hearing this, that the old gentleman
hastened to add, he would be agreeably Sur-
prised; and asked him if he would be ready
next morning for a journey.
“For a journey, sir!” cried Kit.
“In company with me and my friend in the
next room. Can you guess its purpose P”
Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.
PREAEAAEATIO/W FOA' A /OURNEY:
“Oh yes | I think you do already,” said his
master. “Try.” g
Kit murmured something rather rambling and
unintelligible, but he plainly pronounced the
words “Miss Nell” three or four times—shaking
his head while he did so, as if he would add that
there was no hope of that. -
But, Mr. Garland, instead of saying “ Try.
again,” as Kit had made sure he would, told him,
very seriously, that he had guessed right.
“The place of their retreat is indeed dis-
covered,” he said, “at last. And that is our
journey's end.”
Kit faltered out such questions as, where was
it, and how had it been found, and how long
since, and was she well and happy P .
“Happy she is, beyond all doubt,” said Mr.
Garland. “And well, I—I trust she will be.
soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn,
but she was better when I heard this morning,
and they were full of hope. Sit vou down, and
you shall hear the rest.”
Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did |
as he was told. Mr. Garland then related to
him how he had a brother (of whom he would
remember to have heard him speak, and whose
picture, taken when he was a young man, hung
in the best room), and how this brother lived a
long way off, in a country place, with an old
clergyman who had been his early friend. How,
although they loved each . other as brothers
should, they had not met for many years, but
had communicated by letter from time to time,
always looking forward to some period when
they would take each other by the hand once
more, and still letting the Present time steal on,
as it was the habit of men to do, and suffering
the Future to melt into the Past. How this
brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet
and retiring—such as Mr. Abel's—was greatly
beloved by the simple people among whom he
dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor (for so
they called him), and had every one experienced
his charity and benevolence. How even those
slight circumstances had come to his knowledge
very slowly and in course of years, for the Bache-
lor was one of those whose goodness shuns the
light, and who have more pleasure in discover-
ing and extolling the good deeds of others than
in trumpeting their own, be they never so com-
mendable. How, for that reason, he seldom
told them of his village friends ; but how, for
all that, his mind had become so full of two
among them—a child and an old man, to whom
he had been very kind—that, in a letter received
a few days before, he had dwelt upon them—
from first to last, and had told such a tale of
255
their wandering, and mutual love, that few could
read it without being moved to tears. How he,
the recipient of that letter, was directly led to
the belief that these must be the very wanderers
for whom so much search had been made, and
whom Heaven had directed to his brother's care.
How he had written for such further information
as would put the fact beyond all doubt; how it
had that morning arrived; had confirmed his
first impression into a certainty; and was the
immediate cause of that journey being planned,
which they were to take to-morrow.
. “In the meantime,” said the old gentleman,
ising, and laying his hand on Kit's shoulder,
“you have great need of rest; for such a day as
this would wear out the strongest man. Good
night, and Heaven send our journey may have
a prosperous ending !”
CHAPTER LXIX.
3 IT was no sluggard next morning, but,
springing from his bed some time
before day, began to prepare for his
welcome expedition. The hurry of
§ spirits consequent upon the events
of yesterday, and the unexpected in-
telligence, he had heard at night, had
§§Z troubled his sleep through the long dark
hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about
his pillow that it was rest to rise.
‘But had it been the beginning of some great
labour with the same end in view—had it been
the commencement of a long journey, to be per-
formed on ſoot in that inclement season of the
year, to be pursued under every privation and
difficulty, and to be achieved only with great
distress, fatigue, and suffering—had it been the
aawn of some painful enterprise, certain to task
his utmost powers of resolution and endurance,
and to need his utmost ſortitude, but only likely
to end, if happily achieved, in good fortune and
delight to Nell—Kit's cheerful zeal would have
been as highly roused : Kit's ardour and im-
patience would have been, at least, the same.
Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before
he had been up a quarter of an hour the whole
house was astir..and busy. Everybody hurried
to do something towards facilitating the prepa-
rations. The single gentleman, it is true, could
do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody
else, and was more locomotive than anybody.
The work of packing and making ready went
briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation,
==#-sº
- *** *-- *

256
THE OLD co-R/OSITY SHOP
for the journey was completed. . Then, Kit
began to wish they had not been quite so ninble;
for the travelling carriage which had been hired
for the occasion was not to arrive until nine
o'clock, and there was nothing but breakfast to
fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a
half. -
Yes, there was, though. There was Barbara.
Barbara was busy, to be sure, but so much the
better—Kit could help her, and that would pass
away the time better than any means that could
be devised. Barbara had no objection to this
arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea
which had come upon him so suddenly over-
night, began to think that surely Barbara was
fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara.
Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told—as it
must and ought to be—Barbara seemed, of all
the little household, to take least pleasure in the
bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the
openness of his heart, told her how glad and
overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more
downcast still, and seemed to have even less
pleasure in it than before.
“You have not been home so long, Christo-
pher,” said Barbara—and it is impossible to tell
how carelessly she said it—“you have not been
home so long, that you need be glad to go away
again, I should think.”
“But for such a purpose,” returned Kit. “To
bring back Miss Nell ! To see her again Only
think of that I am so pleased, too, to think
that you will see her, Barbara, at last.”
Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt
no great gratification on this point, but she ex-
pressed the sentiment so plainly by one little
toss of her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted,
and wondered, in his simplicity, why she was
so cool about it.
“You’ll say she has the sweetest and beauti-
fullest face you ever saw, I know,” said Kit,
rubbing his hands. “I’m sure you'll say that l”
Barbara tossed her head again.
“What's the matter, Barbara P” said Kit.
“Nothing,” cried Barbara. And Barbara.
pouted—not sulkily, or in an ugly manner, but
just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped
than ever. * g
There is no school in which a pupil gets on
So fast as that in which Kit became a scholar
when he gave Barbara the kiss. . He saw what
Barbara meant now—he had his lesson by heart
all at once—she was the book—there it was
before him, as plain as print. -
º Barbara,” said Kit, “ you're not cross with
Ine jº
Oh dear no Why should Barbara be cross?
ought to be.
And what right had she to be cross 2 And what
did it matter whether she was cross or no P
Who minded her ?
“Why, I do,” said Kit. “Of course I do.”
Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all.
Kit was sure she must. Would she think
again?
Certainly Barbara would think again. No,
she didn't see why it was of course. She didn't
understand what Christopher meant. And be-
sides, she was sure they wanted her up-stairs by
this time, and she must go, indeed
“No, but, Barbara,” said Kit, detaining her
gently, “let us part friends. I was always think-
ing of you in my troubles. I should have been
a great deal more miserable than I was, if it
hadn't been for you.”
Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was
when she coloured—and when she trembled,
like a little shrinking bird -
“I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon
my word, but not half so strong as I could wish,”
said Kit. “When I want you to be pleased
to see Miss Nell, it's only because I should
like you to be pleased with what pleases me—
that's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could
almost die to do her service, but you would
think so too, if you knew her as I do. I am
sure you would.”
Barbara was touched, and sorry to have ap-
peared indifferent. .
“I have bedn used, you see,” said Kit, “to
talk and think of her almost as if she was an
angel, When I look forward to meeting her
again, I think of her smiling as she used to do,
and being glad to see me, and putting out her
hand and saying, ‘It’s my own old Kit,” or some
such words as those—like what she used to say.
I think of seeing her happy, and with friends about
her, and brought up as she deserves, and as she
When I think of myself, it's as
her old servant, and one that loved her dearly,
as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and who
would have gone—yes, and still would go—
through any harm to serve her. Once I couldn't
help being afraid that, if she came back with
friends about her, she might forget, or be ashamed
of having known, a humble lad like me, and so
might speak coldly, which would have cut me,
Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I
came to think again, I felt sure that I was doing
her wrong in this ; and so I went on, as I did at
first, hoping to see her once more, just as she
used to be. Hoping this, and remembering what
she was, has made me feel as if I would always
try to please her, and always be what I should
like to seem to her if I was still her servant.
ow THE Journey.
- - - - - - *** 257
If I'm the better for that—and I don't think
I'm the worse—I am grateful to her for it, and ,
love and honour her the more. That's the plain
honest truth, dear Barbara, upon my word it is "
Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capri-
cious nature, and, being full of remorse, melted
into tears. To what more conversation this
might have led, we need not stop to inquire; for
the wheels of the carriage were heard at that
moment, and, being followed by a smart ring at
the garden-gate, caused the bustle in the house,
which had lain dormant for a short time, to burst
again into tenfold life and vigour. • .
Simultaneously with the travelling equipage
arrived Mr. Chuckster in a hackney cab, with
certain papers and supplies of money for the
single gentleman, into whose hands he delivered
them. This duty discharged, he subsided into
the bosom of the family: and, entertaining him-
self with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast,
watched with a genteel indifference the process
of loading the carriage. -
“Snobby's in this I see, sir?” he said to Mr.
Abel Garland. “I thought he wasn't in the last
trip because it was expected that his presence
wouldn't be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.”
“To whom, sir?” demanded Mr. Abel.
“To the old gentleman,” returned Mr. Chuck-
ster, slightly abashed.
“Our client prefers to take him now,” said
Mr. Abel drily. “There is no longer any need
for that precaution, as my father's relationship
to a gentleman in whom the objects of his
search have full confidence will be a sufficient
guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.”
“Ah!” thought Mr. Chuckster, looking out
of window, “anybody but me !' Snobby before
me, of course. He didn't happen to take that
particular five-pound note, but I have not the
smallest doubt that he's always up to something
of that sort. I always said it, long before this
came out. Devilish pretty girl that 'Pon my
soul, an amazing little creature I’’
Barbara was the subject of Mr. Chuckster's
commendations: and, as she was lingering near :
the carriage (all being now ready for its depar-
ture), that gentleman was suddenly seized with
a strong interest in the proceedings, which im-
pelled him to Swagger down the garden, and
take up his position at a convenient ogling dis-
tance. Having had great experience of the sex,
and being perfectly acquainted with all those
little artifices which find the readiest road to
their hearts, Mr. Chuckster, on taking his ground,
planted one hand on his hip, and with the other
adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite
attitude. in the polite circles, and, accompanied
with a graceful whistling, has been known to do
IIIlmenSe executIOn.
Such, however, is the difference between town
and country, that nobody took the smallest notice
of this insinuating figure ; the wretches being
wholly engaged in bidding the travellers fare-
well, in kissing hands to each other, waving
handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar
practices. For, now, the single gentleman and
Mr. Garland were in the carriage, and the post-
boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped
and muffled up, was in the rumble behind; and
Mrs. Garland was there, and Mr. Abel was there,
and Kit's mother was there; and little Jacob was
there, and Barbara's mother was visible in remote
perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby; and
all were nodding, beckoning, curtsying, or crying
out, “Good-bye!” with all the energy they could
express. In another minute the carriage was out
of sight; and Mr. Chuckster remained alone on
the spot where it had lately been, with a vision
of Kit standing up in the rumble waving his
hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full light
and lustre of his eyes—his eyes—Chuckster's—
Chuckster the successful—on whom ladies of
quality had looked with favour from phaetons in
the parks on Sundays—waving hers to Kit.
How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by this mon-
strous fact, stood for some time rooted to the
earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the
Prince of felonious characters, and very Emperor
or Great Mogul of Snobs, and how he clearly
traced this revolting circumstance back to that
old villainy of the shilling, are matters foreign
to our purpose; which is to track the rolling
wheels, and bear the travellers company on their
cold, bleak journey.
It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing,
and rushed against them fiercely : bleaching the
hard ground, shaking the white frost from the
trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust.
But, little Kit cared for weather. There was a
freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came
howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was
"welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost,
bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and
withered leaves, and carrying them away pell-
mell, it seemed as though some general Sym-
pathy had got abroad, and everything was in a
hurry, like themselves. The harder the gusts,
the better progress they appeared to make. . It
was a good thing to go struggling and fighting
forward, vanquishing them one by one ; to watch
them driving up, gathering strength and fury as
, they came along; to bend for a moment as they
whistled past; and then to look back and see
them speed away, their hoarse noise dying in
258
THE or D curroSITY SHOP
the distance, and the stout trees cowering down
before them.
All day long it blew without cessation. The
night was clear and starlight, but the wind had
not fallen, and the cold was piercing. Some-
times—towards the end of a long stage—Kit
could not help wishing it were a little warmer :
but when they stopped to change horses, and he
had had a good run, and what with that, and the
bustle of paying the old postillion, and rousing
the new one, and running to and fro again until
the horses were put to, he was so warm that the
blood tingled and smarted in his fingers’ ends—
then he felt as if to have it one degree less cold
would be to lose half the delight and glory of
the journey : and up he jumped again, right
cheerily, singing to the merry music of the wheels
as they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople
in their warm beds, pursued their course along
the lonely road.
Meantine the two gentlemen inside, who were
little disposed to sleep, beguiled the time with
conversation. As both were anxious and ex-
pectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of
their expedition, on the manner in which it had
been brought about, and on the hopes and fears
they entertained respecting it. Of the former
they had many, of the latter few—none, perhaps,
beyond that indefinable uneasiness which is in-
separable from suddenly-awakened hope and
protracted expectation. /
In one of the pauses of their discourse, and
when half the night had worn away, the single
gentleman, who had gradually become more and
more silent and thoughtful, turned to his com-
panion, and said, abruptly:
“Are you a good listener?”
“Like most other men, I suppose,” returned
Mr. Garland, smiling. “I can be, if I am in-
terested; and, if not interested, I should still
try to appear so. Why do you ask P”
“I have a short narrative on my lips,” re-
joined his friend, “and will try you with it. It
is very brief.”
Pausing for no reply, he laid his and on the
old gentleman's sleeve, and proceeded thus :
“There were once two brothers, who loved
each other dearly. There was a disparity in
their ages—some twelve years. I am not sure
but they may, insensibly have loved each other
the better for that reason. Wide as the interval
between them was, however, they became rivals
too soon. The deepest and strongest affection
of both their hearts settled upon one object.
“The youngest—there were reasons for his
being sensitive and watchful—was the first to
find this out... I will not tell you what misery
he underwent, what agony of Soul he knew, how
great his mental struggle was. He had been a
'sickly child. His brother, patient and con-
siderate in the midst of his own high health
and strength, had many and many a day denied
himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his
couch, telling him old stories till his pale face
lighted up with an unwonted glow ; to carry him
in his arms to some green spot, where he could
tend the poor pensive boy as he looked upon
the bright summer day, and saw all nature
healthy but himself; to be, in any way, his fond
and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all he
did to make the poor, weak creature love him,
or my tale would have no end. But, when the
time of trial came, the younger brother's heart
was full of those old days. Heaven strengthened
it to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate youth
by one of thoughtful manhood. He left his
brother to be happy. The truth never passed
his lips, and he quitted the country, hoping to
die abroad.
“The elder brother married her. She was in
Heaven before long, and left him with an infant
daughter.
“If you have seen the picture-gallery of any
one old family, you will remember how the same
face and figure—often the fairest and slightest
of them all—come upon you in different genera-
tions; and how you trace the same sweet girl
through a long line of portraits—never growing
old or changing—the Good Angel of the race—
abiding by them in all reverses—redeeming all
their sins.
“In this daughter the mother lived again.
You may judge with what devotion he who lost
that mother almost in the winning, clung to this
girl, her breathing image. She grew to woman-
hood, and gave her heart to one who could not
know its worth. Well ! Her fond fathér could'
not see her pine and droop. He might be more
deserving than he thought him. He surely might
become so, with a wife like her. He joined their
hands, and they were married.
“Through all the misery that followed this
union; through all the cold neglect and unde-
served reproach ; through all the poverty he
brought upon her; through all the struggles of
their daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell, but
dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep
devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature,
as only women can. Her means and substance
wasted ; her father nearly beggared by her hus-
band's hand, and the hourly witness (for they
lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and
unhappiness, she never, but for him, bewailed
her fate. Patient, and upheld by strong affec-
STILE ow THE /ot/RAVEY.
259
tion to the last, she died a widow of some three
weeks” date, leaving to her father's care two
orphans; one a son of ten or twelve years old;
the other a girl—such another infant child—the
same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature
—as she had been herself when her young
mother died.
“The elder brother, grandfather to these two
children, was now a broken man; crushed and
borne down, less by the weight of years than by
the heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of |
his possessions, he began to trade—in pictures
first, and then in Curious ancient things. He
had entertained a fondness for such matters
from a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated
were now to yield him an anxious and pre-
carious subsistence.
“The boy grew like his father in mind and
person; the girl so like her mother, that when
the old man had her on his knee, and looked
into her mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening
from a wretched dream, and his daughter were
a little child again. The wayward boy soon
spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought asso-
ciates more congenial to his taste. The old
man and the child dwelt alone together.
“. It was then, when the love of two dead
people who had been nearest and dearesſ to his
heart was all transferred to this, slight creature;
when her face, constantly before him, reminded
him, from hour to hour, of the too early change
he had seen in such another—of all the suffer-
ings he had watched and known, and all his
child had undergone ; when the young man's
profligate and hardened course drained him of
money as his father's had, and even sometimes
Occasioned them temporary privation and dis-
tress; it was then that there began to beset him,
and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of
poverty and want. He had no thought for him-
self in this. His fear was for the child. It was
a spectre in his house, and haunted him night
and day.
“The younger brother had been a traveller in
many countries, and had made his pilgrimage
through life alone. His voluntary banishment
had been misconstrued, and he had borne (not
without pain) reproach and slight, for doing that
which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful
Shadow on his path. Apart from this, commu-
nication between him and the elder was difficult
and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not
so wholly broken off but that he learnt—with
long blanks and gaps between each interval of
information—all that I have told you now.
“Then, dreams of their young, happy life—
happy to him, though laden with pain and early
care—visited his pillow yet oftener than before;
and every night, a boy again, he was at his
brother's side. With the utmost speed he could
exert, he settled his affairs ; converted into
money all the goods he had ; and, with honour-
able wealth euough for both. with open heart
and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore
him on, with emotion such as men can hardly
bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's
door l’” -
The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately,
stopped. “The rest,” said Mr. Garland, press-
ing his hand after a pause, “I know.”
“Yes,” rejoined his friend, “we may spare
ourselves the sequel. You know the poor result
of all my search. Even when, by dint of such
inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity
could set on foot, we found they had been seen
with two poor travelling showmen—and in time
discovered the men themselves—and in time the
actual place of their retreat ; even then we were
too late. Pray God we are not too late again 1"
“We cannot be,” said Mr. Garland. “This
time we must succeed.”
“I have believed and hoped so,” returned
the other. “I try to believe and hope so still.
But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my
good friend, and the sadness that gathers over
me will yield to neither hope nor reason.”
“That does not surprise me,” said Mr. Gar-
land; “it is a natural consequence of the events
you have recalled ; of this dreary time and
place; and, above all, of this wild and dismal
night. A dismal night indeed Hark! how
the wind is howling !”
CHAPTER LXX.
their way. Since leaving home,
they had halted here and there for
necessary refreshment, and had fre-
w quently been delayed, especially in
the night-time, by waiting for fresh
horses. They had made no other stop-
C pages, but the weather continued rough,
and the roads were often steep and heavy. It
would be night again before they reached their
place of destination.
Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went
on manfully; and, having enough to do to keep
his blood circulating, to picture to himself the
happy end of this adventurous journey, and to
look about him and be amazed at everything,


'26ö
Zºº Oz/) CUR/OSATY SHOP.
had little spare time for thinking of discomforts.
Though his impatience, and that of his fellow-
travellers, rapidly increased as the day waned,
the hours did not stand still. The short day-
light of winter soon faded away, and it was
dark again when they had yet many miles to
travel.
As it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant
moanings were more low and mournful; and, as
it came creeping up the road, and rattling
covertly among the dry brambles on either
hand, it seemed like some great phantom for
whom the way was narrow, whose garments
rustled as it stalked along. By degrees it lulled
and died away, and then it came on to snow.
The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering
the ground some inches deep, and spreading
abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels
were noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of
the horses' hoofs became a dull, muffled tramp.
The life of their progress seemed to be slowly
hushed, and something death-like to usurp its
place.
Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which
froze upon their lashes, and obscured his sight,
Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse of
twinkling lights denoting their approach to some
not distant town. He could descry objects
enough at such times, but none correctly. Now,
a tall church spire appeared in view, which pre-
sently became a tree, a barn, a shadow on the
ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps.
Now, there were horsemen, foot-passengers,
carriages going on before, or meeting them in
narrow ways; which, when they were close upon
them, turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a
sturdy gable-end, would rise up in the road;
and, when they were plunging headlong at it,
would be the road itself. Strange turnings, too,
bridges, and sheets of water, appeared to start
up here and there, making the way doubtful and
uncertain ; and yet they were on the same bare
road, and these things, like the others, as they
were passed, turned into dim illusions.
He descended slowly from his seat—for his
limbs were numbed—when they arrived at a lone
posting-house, and inquired how far they had to
go to reach their journey's end. It was a late
hour in such by-places, and the people were
abed ; but a voice answered from an upper
window, 'Ten miles. The ten minutes that
ensued appeared an hour; but, at the end of
that time, a shivering figure led out the horses
they required, and, after another brief delay,
they were again in motion.
It was a cross-country road, full, after the first
three or four miles, of holes and cart-ruts, which,
could plainly hear, troubled them.
- - - --ºr r- a-
*** * * * • .
being covered by the snow, were so many pit-
falls to the trembling horses, and obliged them
to keep a foot-pace. As it was next to impos-
sible for men so much agitated as they were by
this time to sit still and move so slowly, all three
got out and plodded on behind the carriage.
The distance seemed interminable, and the walk
was most laborious. As each was thinking
within himself that the driver must have lost his
way, a church bell, close at hand, struck the
hour of midnight, and the carriage stopped. It
had moved softly enough, but, when it ceased to
crunch the snow, the silence was as startling as
if some great noise had been replaced by perfect
stillness.
“This is the place, gerätlemen,” said the
driver, dismounting from his horse, and knock-
ing at the door of a little inn. “Halloa Past
twelve o'clock is the dead of night here.”
The knocking was loud and long, but it failed
to rouse the drowsy inmates. All continued
dark and silent as before. They fell back a
little, and looked up at the windows, which were
mere black patches in the whitened house-front.
No light appeared. The house might have been
deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life
it had about it.
They spoke together, with a strange incon-
sistency, in whispers; unwilling to disturb again
the dreary echoes they had just now raised.
“Let us go on,” said the younger brother,
“ and leave this good ſellow to wake them, if he
Can. I cannot rest until I know that we are
not too late. Let us go on, in the name cf
Heaven ” "
They did so, leaving the postillion to order
Such accommodation as the house afforded, and
to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied thern
with a little bundle, which he had hung in the
carriage when they left home, and had not for-
gotten since—the bird in his old cage—just as
she had left him. She would be glad to see her
bird, he knew.
The road wound gently downward. As they
proceeded, they lost sight of the church whose
clock they had heard, and of the small village
clustering round it. The knocking, which was
now renewed, and which in that stillness they
They wished
the man would förbear, or that they had told
him not to break the silence until they returned.
The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb
of pure cold white, again rose up before them,
and a few moments brought them close beside
it. A venerable building—grey, even in the
midst of the hoary landscape. An ancient sun-
dial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the
NEAR THE /O URAVE Y'S END.
snow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it
was. Time itself seemed to have grown dull
and old, as if no day were ever to displace the
melancholy night.
A wicket-gate was close at hand, but there
was more than one path across the churchyard
to which it led, and, uncertain which to take
they came to a stand again.
The village street—if street that could be
called which was an irregular cluster of poor
cottages of many heights and ages, some with
their fronts, some with their backs, and some
with gable-ends towards the road, with here and
there a sign-post, or a shed encroaching on the
path—was close at hand. There was a faint
light in a chamber window not far off, and Kit
ran towards that house to ask their way.
His first shout was answered by an old man
within, who presently appeared at the casement,
wrapping some garment round his throat as a
protection from the cold, and demanded, who
was abroad at that unseasonable hour wanting
him. -
“'Tis hard weather this,” he grumbled, “and
not a night to call me up in. My trade is not
of that kind that I need be roused from bed.
The business on which folks want me will keep
cold, especially at this season. What do you
want P”
“I would not have roused you if I had known
you were old and ill,” said Kit.
“Old !” repeated the other peevishly. “How
do you know I am old P. Not so old as you
think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you will
find many young people in worse case than I
am. More's the pity that it should be so—not
that I should be strong and hearty for my years,
I mean, but that they should be weak and
tender. I ask your pardon, though,” said the
old man, “if I spoke rather rough at first. My
eyes are not good at night—that's neither age
nor illness; they never were—and I didn't see
you were a stranger.”
“I am sorry to call you from your bed,” said
Kit, “but those gentlemen you may see by the
churchyard gate are strangers too, who have
just arrived from a long journey, and seek the
parsonage-house. You can direct us?”
“I should be able to,” answered the old
man in a trembling voice, “for, come next
summer, I have been sexton here good fifty
years. The right-hand path, friend, is the road.
—There is no ill news for our good gentleman,
I hope?”
Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty
answer in the negative. He was turning back,
when his attention was caught by the voice of
e.
a child. Looking up, he saw a very little crea-
ture at a neighbouring window.
“What is that P” cried the chud earnestly.
“Has my dream come true? Pray speak to
me, whoever that is awake and up.”
“Poor boy " said the sexton, before Kit
could answer, “how goes it, darling P” -
“Has my dream come true P” exclaimed the
child again, in a voice so fervent that it might
have thrilled to the heart of any listener. “But
no, that can never be . How could it be 2 Oh!
how could it 2 °
“I guess his meaning,” said the sexton. “To
bed again, poor boy "
“Ay!” cried the child in a burst of despair.
“I knew it could never be ; I felt too sure of
that, before I asked | But, all to-night, and
last night too, it was the same. I never fall
asleep but that cruel dream comes back.”
“Try to sleep again,” said the old man sooth-
ingly. “It will go in time.”
“No, no, I would rather that it stayed—cruel
as it is, I would rather that it stayed,” rejoined
the child. “I am not afraid to have it in my
sleep, but I am so sad—so very, very sad.”
The old man blessed him, the child in tears
replied Good night, and Kit was again alone.
He hurried back, moved by what he had
heard, though more by the child's manner than
by anything he had said, as his meaning was
hidden from him. They took the path indicated
by the sexton, and soon arrived before the
parsonage wall. Turning round to look about
them when they had got thus far, they saw,
among some ruined buildings at a distance, one
single solitary light.
It shone from what appeared to be an old
oriel window, and being surrounded by the deep
shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled , like a
star. Bright and glimmering as the stars above
their heads, lonely and motionless as they, it
seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal
lamps of Heaven, and to burn in ſellowship with
them.
“What light is that P” said the younger
brother.
“It is surely,” said Mr. Garland, “in the
ruin where they live. I see no other ruin
hereabouts.”
“They cannot,” returned the brother hastily,
“be waking at this late hour yy -
Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while
they rang and waited at the gate, they would
let him, make his way to where this light was
Shining and try to ascertain if any people were
about. Obtaining the permission he desired,
he darted off with breathless eagerness, and,
262
THE OLD CUR/OS/Z’Y SAHOA'.
still carrying the bird-cage in his hand, made
straight towards the spot. .
It was not easy to hold that pace among the
graves, and at another time he might have gone
more slowly, or round by the path. Unmindful
of all obstacles, however, he pressed forward
without slackening his speed, and soon arrived
within a few yards of the window.
He approached as softly as he could, and,
advancing so near the wall as to brush the
whitened ivy with his dress, listened. There
was no sound inside. The church itself was
not more quiet. Touching the glass with his
cheek, he listened again. No. And yet there
was such a silence all around that he felt sure
he could have heard even the breathing of a
sleeper, if there had been one there.
A strange - circumstance, a light in such a
place at that time of night, with no one near it.
A curtain was drawn across the lower portion.
of the window, and he could not see into the
room. But there was no shadow thrown upon
it from within. To have gained a footing on
the wall, and tried to look in from above, would
have been attended with some danger—certainly
with some noise, and the chance of terrifying
the child, if that really were her habitation.
Again and again he listened; again and again
the same wearisome blank.
Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps,
and skirting the ruin for a few paces, he came
at length to a door. He knocked. No answer.
But there was a curious noise inside. It was
difficult to determine what it was. It bore a
resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain,
but it was not that, being far too regular and
Constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now
a wail—seemed, that is, to his changing fancy,
for the sound itself was never changed or
checked. It was unlike anything he had ever
heard; and in its tone there was something
fearful, chilling, and unearthly.
The listener's blood ran colder now than ever
it had done in frost and snow, but he knocked
again. There was no answer, and the sound
went on without any interruption. He laid his
hand Softly upon the latch, and put his knee
against the door. It was secured on the inside,
but yielded to the pressure, and turned upon
its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire
upon the old walls, and entered.
CHAPTER LXXI.'
HE dull, red glow of a wood fire—
for no lamp or candle burnt within
the room—showed him a figure,
seated on the hearth with its back
º towards him, bending over the fitful
light... The attitude was that of one who
sought the heat. . It was, and yet was
not. The stooping posture and the
cowering form were there, but no hands were
stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no
shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the
piercing told outside. With limbs huddled
together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon
the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked
to and fro, upon its seat without a moment's
pause, accompanying the action with the mourn-
ful sound he had heard.
The heavy door had closed behind him, on
$2.
ºllº
*
|}
his entrance, with a crash that made him start.
The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look,
nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of
having heard the noise. The form was that of
an old man, his white head akin in colour to the
mouldering embers upon which he gazed. He,
and the failing light and dying fire, the time-
worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and
gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust,
and ruin
Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some
words, though what they were he scarcely knew.
Still the same terrible low cry went on—still the
same rocking in the chair—the same stricken
figure was there, unchanged and heedless of his
presence.
He had his hand upon the latch, when some-
thing in the form-distinctly seen as one log
broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up—arrested
it. He returned to where he had stood before
—advanced a pace—another—another still.
Another, and he saw the face. Yes | Changed
as it was, he knew it well.
“Master 1" he cried, stooping on one knee
and catching at his hand. “Dear master
Speak to me!”
The old man turned slowly towards him; and
muttered in a hollow voice:
“This is another —How many of these spirits
there have been to-night !”
“No spirit, master. No one but your old
servant. You know me now, I am sure P Miss
Nell—where is she—where is she?” -
“They all say that l” cried the old miam.
“They all ask the same question. A spirit !”
“Where is she P” demanded Kit. “Oh, tell
me but that—but that, dear master 1"
*ºr






THE JOURNEY'S EAWD.
“She is asleep—yonder—in there.”
“Thank God ”
“Ay! Thank God " returned the old man.
“I have prayed to Him many, and many, and
many a livelong night, when she has been
asleep, He knows. Hark! Did she call?”
“I heard no voice.”
“You did. You heay her now.
me that you don’t hear that 2"
He started up, and listened again.
“Nor that P” he cried with a triumphant
smile. “Can anybody know that voice so well
as I? Hush husb ” -
Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away
into another chamber After a short absence
(during which he coulu be heard to speak in a
softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in
his hand a lamp. - .
“She is still asleep,” he whispered. “You
were right. She did not call—unless she did so
in her slumber. She has called to me in her
sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by watching,
I have seen her lips move, and have known,
though no sound came from them, that she
spoke of me, I feared the light might dazzle
her eyes and wake her, so I brought it here.”
He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor,
but, when he had put the lamp upon the table,
he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary
recollection or curiosity, and held it near his
face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in the
very action, he turned away, and put it down
again.
“She is sleeping soundly,” he said ; “but no
wonder. Angel hands have strewn the ground
deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may
be lighter yet ; and the very birds are dead,
that they may not wake her. She used to feed
them, sir. Though never so cold and hungry,
the timid things would fly from us. They never
flew from her . "
Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely
drawing breath, listened for a long, long time.
That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took
out some clothes as fondly as if they had been
living things, and began to smooth and brush
them with his hand.
“Why dost thou lie so idle, there, dear Nell,”
he murmured, “when there are bright red berries
out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them P
Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little
friends come creeping to the door, crying,
“Where is Nell—sweet Nell ?'—and sob and
weep because they do not see thee P She was
always gentle with children. The wildest would
do her bidding—she had a tender way with
them, indeed she had ”
Do you tell
263
Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were
filled with tears.
“Her little homely dress, her favourite l’”
cried the old man, pressing it to his breast, and
patting it with his shrivelled hand. “She will
miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here
in sport, but she shall have it—she shall have
it. I would not vex my darling for the wide
world's riches. See here—these shoes—how
worn they are —she kept them to remind her
of our last long journey. You see where the
little feet went bare upon the ground. They
told me afterwards that the stones had cut and
bruised them. She never told me that. No,
no, God bless her and, I have remembered
since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might
not see how lame she was—but yet she had my
hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still.”
He pressed them to his lips, and, having care-
fully put them back again, went on communing
with himself—looking wistfully from time to
time towards the chamber he had lately visited.
“She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she
was well then. We must have patience. When
she is well again, she will rise early as she used
to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morn-
ing-time. I often tried to track the way she
had gone, but her small footstep left no print
upon the dewy ground to guide me.—Who is
that ? Shut the door. Quick | Have we not
enough to do to drive away that marble cold,
and keep her warm P’’
The door was indeed opened for the entrance
of Mr. Garland and his friend, accompanied by
two other persons. These were the school-
master and the bachelor. The former held a
light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone
to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted
lamp, at the moment when Kit came up and
found the old man alone.
He softened again at sight of these two
friends, and, laying aside the angry manner—
if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can
be applied—in which he had spoken when the
door opened, resumed his former seat, and sub-
sided, by little and little, into the old action,
and the old, dull, wandering sound.
Of the strangers he took no heed whatever.
He had seen them, but appeared quite incapable
of interest or curiosity. The younger brother
stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards
the old man, and sat down close beside him.
After a long silence, he ventured to speak.
“Another night, and not in bed ” he said
softly. “I hoped you would be more mindful
of your promise to me. Why do you not take
some rest P”
264.
7'HE OLD CURIOS/TY SHOP
“Sleep has left me,” returned the old man.
“It is all with her ”
“It would pain her very much to know that
you were watching thus,” said the bachelor.
“You would not give her pain?” -
“I am not so sure of that, if it would only
rouse her. She has slept so very long. And
yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy
sleep—eh P”
“Indeed it is,” returned the bachelor.
deed. indeed it is 1"
& 4 In-
i
ºf iº . .
§ ſº.
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£=::::::: - --> ==E:
“MASTER " HE CRIED, STOOPING ON ONE KNEE AND CATCHING AT HIS HAND.
“That's well —and the waking—” faltered
the old man.
“Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell,
or heart of man conceive.”
They watched him as he rose and stole on
tiptoe to the other chamber, where the lamp
had been replaced. They listened as he spoke
again within its silent walls. They looked into
the faces of each other, and no man's cheek was
free from tears. He came back, whispering that
she was still asleep, but that he thought she had
“ DEAR MASTER I
SPEAK TO ME! ”
moved. It was her hand, he said—a little—a
very, very little—but he was pretty sure she had
moved it—perhaps in seeking his. He had
known her do that, before now, though in the
deepest sleep the while. And, when he had
said this, he dropped into his chair again, and,
clasping his hands above his head, uttered a cry
never to be forgotten.
The poor schoolmaster motioned to the
tachelor that he would come on the other
side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked
his fingers, which he had twisted in his grey
hair, and pressed them in their own.
“He will hear me,” said the schoolmaster, “I
am sure. He will hear either me or you if we
beseech him. She would at all times.”
“I will hear any voice she liked to hear,”
cried the old man. “I love all she loved l’”
“I know you do,” returned the schoolmaster.
“I am certain of it. Think of her ; think of all
the sorrows and afflictions you have shared
together; of all the trials, and all the peaceful
pleasures, you have jointly known.”
“I do. I do. I think of nothing else.”
“I would have you think of nothing else to-
night—of nothing but those things which will


AER DESOZAZE GRAND FATHER.
soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to
*
old affections and old times. It is so that she
would speak to you herself, and in her name it
is that I speak now.”
“You do well to speak softly,” said the old
man. “We will not wake her. I should be
glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile.
There is a smile upon her young face now, but
it is fixed and changeless. I would have it come
and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time.
We will not wake her.” -
“Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as
she used to be when you were journeying toge-
ther, far away—as she was at home, in the old
house from which you fled together—as she was
in the old cheerful time,” said the schoolmaster.
“She was always cheerful—very cheerful,”
cried the old man, looking steadfastly at him.
“There was ever something mild and quiet
about her, I remember, from the first ; but she
was of a happy nature.” -
“We have heard you say,” pursued the
Schoolmaster, “that in this, and in all good-
ness, she was like her mother. You can think
of and remember her P’’
He maintained his steadfast look, but gave
110 a.IISWCr.
“Or even one before her,” said the bachelor.
“It is many years ago, and affliction makes the
time longer, but you have not forgotten her
whose death contributed to make this child so
dear to you, even before you knew her worth or
could read her heart? Say, that you could
carry back your thoughts to very distant days
—to the time of your early life—when, unlike
this fair flower, you did not pass your youth
alone. Say, that you could remember, long
ago, another child who loved you dearly, you
being but a child yourself. Say, that you had a
brother, long forgotten, long unseen, long sepa-
rated from you, who now, at last, in your
utmost need came back to comfort and con-
sole you—”
“To be to you what you were once to him,”
cried the younger, falling on his knee before him;
“to repay your old affection, brother dear, by
constant care, solicitude, and love ; to be, at
your right hand, what he has never ceased to be
when oceans rolled between us; to call to wit-
ness his unchanging truth and mindfulness of
bygone days, whole years of desolation. Give
me but one word of recognition, brother—and
never—no, never, in the brightest moment of
our youngest days, when, poor silly boys, we
thought to pass our lives together—have we
been half as dear and precious to each other as
we shall be from this time hence . "
265
The old man looked from face to face, and
his lips moved ; but no sound came from them
in reply.
“If we were knit together then,” pursued the
younger brother, “what will be the bond be.
tween us now ! Our love and fellowship began
in childhood, when life was all before us, and
will be resumed when we have proved it, and
are but children at the last. As many restless
spirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or plea-
sure through the world, retire in their decline to
where they first drew breath, vainly seeking to
be children once again before they die, so we,
less fortunate than they in early life, but happier
in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again
among our boyish haunts, and going home with
no hope realised, that had its growth in man-
hood—carrying back nothing that we brought
away, but our old yearnings to each other—
saving no fragment from the wreck of life, but
that which first endeared it—may be indeed but
children as at first. And even,” he added in an
altered voice, “even if what I dread to name
has come to pass—even if that be so, or is to
be (which Heaven forbid and spare us !)—still,
dear brother, we are not apart, and have that
comfort in our great affliction.”
By little and little the old man had drawn
back towards the inner chamber while these
words were spoken. He pointed there, as he
replied, with trembling lips:
“You plot among you to wean my heart from
her. You never will do that—never while I
have life. I have no relative or friend but her
—I never had—I never will have. She is all
in all to me. It is too late to part us now.”
Waving them off with his hand, and calling
softly to her as he went, he stole into the room.
They who were left behind drew close together,
and after a few whispered words—not unbroken
by emotion, or easily uttered—followed him.
They moved so gently, that their footsteps
made no noise; but there were sobs from
among the group, and sounds of grief and
mourning.
For she was dead. There, upon her little
ºbed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was
no marvel now. -
She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and
calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to
look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from
the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of
life; not one who had lived and suffered death.
Her couch was dressed with here and there
some winter berries and green leaves, gathered
in a spot she had been used to favour. “When
I die, put near me something that has loved the
266
THE oz/2 cwRſoszzy Sãozi
light, and had the sky above it always.” Those
were her words.
She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble º
Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight
thing the pressure of a finger would have
crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and
the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute
and motionless for ever.
Where were the traces of her early cares, her
sufferings, and ſatigues P All gone. Sorrow
was dead-indeed in her, but peace and perfect
happiness were born ; imaged in her tranquil
beauty and profound repose.
And still her former self lay there, unaltered
in - this change. Yes. . The old fireside had
smiled upon that same Sweet face ; it had
passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery
and care; at the door of the poor Schoolmaster
on the summer evening, before the furnace fire
upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of
the dying boy, there had been the same mild
lovely look. So shall we know the angels in
their majesty, after death.
The old man held one languid arm in his,
and had the small hand tight folded to his
breast for warmth. It was the hand she had
stretched out to him with her last smile—the
hand that had led him on through all their
wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to
his lips; then hugged it to his breast again,
murmuring that it was warmer now ; and, as
he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who
º around, as if imploring them to help
er.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of
it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill
with life, even while her own was waning fast—
the garden she had tended—the eyes she had
gladdened—the noiseless haunts of many a
thoughtful hour—the paths she had trodden
as it were but yesterday—could know her never
In Ore.
“It is not,” said the schoolmaster as he bent
down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his
tears free vent, “it is not on earth that Heaven's
justice ends. Think what earth is, compared
with the world to which her young spirit has
winged its early flight; and say, iſ one delibe-
rate wish expressed in solemn terms above this
bed could call her back to liſe, which of us
would utter it?”
CHAPTER LXXII.
|HEN morning came, and they
6 could speak more calmly on the
subject of their grief, they heard
Mº how her life had closed.
ğ) She had been dead two days.
* They were all about her at the
7 time, knowing that the end was drawing
on. She died soon after daybreak. They
had read and talked” to her in the earlier
portion of the night, but, as the hours crept on,
she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what
she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were
of her journeyings with the old man ; they were
of no painful scenes, but of people who had
helped and used them kindly, for she often
said “God bless you !” with great fervour.
Waking, she never wandered in her mind but
once, and that was of beautiful music which she
said was in the air. God knows. It may have
been.
Opening her eyes at last from a véry quiet
sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once
again. That done, she turned to the old man
with a lovely smile upon her face—such, they
said, as they had never seen, and never could
forget—and clung with both her arms about his
neck. They did not know that she was dead at
first. 1.
She had spoken very often of the two sisters,
who, she said, were like dear friends to her.
She wished they could be told how much she
thought about them, and how she had watched
them as they walked together by the river-side
at night. She would like to see poor Kit, she
had often said of late. She wished there was
somebody to take her love to Kit. And, even
then, she never thought or spoke about him
but with something of her old, clear, , merry
laugh.
For the rest, she had never murmured or
complained ; but, with a quiet mind, and manner
quite unaltered, save that she every day became
more earnest and more grateful to them—faded
like the light upon a summer's evening.
The child who had been her little friend
came there, almost as soon as it was day, with
an offering of dried flowers which he begged
them to lay upon her breast. It was he who
had come to the window overnight and spoken
to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces
of small feet, where he had been lingering near
the room in which she lay, before he went to
bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had
left her there alone ; and could not bear the
* * *
* - -
thought’ -

AEAE AE URIA/C.
1267
He told them of his dream again, and that it
was of her being restored to them, just as she
used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying
that he would be very quiet, and that they need.
not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone
by his young brother all day long, when he was
dead, and had felt glad to be so near him.
They let him have his wish ; and indeed he
kept his sword, and was, in his childish way, a
lesson to them all.
Up to that time, the old man had not spoken
once—except to her—or stirred from the bed-
side. But, when he saw her little favourite, he
was moved as they had not seen him yet, and
made as though he would have him come nearer.
. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears
for the first time, and they who stood by, know-
ing that the sight of this child had done him
good, left them alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the
child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk-
abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And
when the day came on, which must remove her
in her earthly shape from earthly eyes for ever,
he led him away, that he might not know when
she was taken from him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and berries
for her bed. It was Sunday—a bright, clear,
wintry afternoon—and, as they traversed the
village street, those who were walking in their
path drew back to make way for them, and
gave them a softened greeting. Some shook
the old man kindly by the hand, some stood
uncovered while he tottered by, and many cried
“God help him 1" as he passed along.
“Neighbour !” said the old man, stopping at
the Cottage where his young guide's mother
dwelt, “how is it that the ſolks are nearly all
in black to-day P I have seen a mourning
ribbon or a piece of crape on almost every
one.”
She could not tell, the woman said.
“Why, you yourself—you wear the colour
too !” he said. “Windows are closed that
never used to be by day. What does this
mean P”
Again the woman said she could not tell.
“We must go back,” said, the old man hur-
riedly. “We must see what this is.”
“No, no,” cried the child, detaining him.
the old green lane, where she and I so often
were, and where you found us, more than once,
making those garlands for her garden: Do not
turn back l’”
“Where is she now P” said the old man.
“Tell me that.” sº
“Do you not know?" returned the child,
“Did we not leave her but just now?”
“True. True. It was her we left-was
it P " -
He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked
vacantly round, and, as if impelled by a sudden
thought, crossed the road, and entered the
sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were
sitting before the fire. Both rose up on seeing
who it was:
The child made a hasty sign to them with
his hand. It was the action of an instant,
but that, and the old man's look, were quite
enough.
“Do you—do you bury any one to-day ?” he
said eagerly.
“No, no! Who should we bury, sir?” re-
turned the sexton.
“Ay, who indeed 2 I say with you, who
indeed P”
“It is a holiday with us, good sir,” returned
the sexton mildly. “We have no work to do
to-day.”
“Why, then, I'll go where you will,” said the
old man, turning to the child. “You’re sure of
what you tell me? You would not deceive me?
I am changed, even in the little time since you
last saw me.” .
“Go thy ways with him, sir,” cried the sexton,
“ and Heaven be with ye both !”
“I am quite ready,” said the old man meekly.
“ Come, boy, come,” and so submitted to be led
away.
And now the bell—the bell she had so often
heard by night and day, and listened to with
solemn pleasure almost as a living voice—rung
its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beau-
tiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life,
and blooming youth, and helpless infancy
poured forth—on crutches, in the pride of
strength and health, in the full blush of promise,
in the mere dawn of life—to gather round her
tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were
dim' and senses failing—grandmothers, who
might have died ten years ago, and still been
old—the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied,
the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see
the closing of that early grave. What was the
death it would shut in, to that which still could
e crawl and creep above it?
“Remember what you promised. Our way is to
Along the crowded path they bore her now;
pure as the newly-fallen 'snow that covered it;
whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under
the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in
its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she
passed again; and the old church received her
in its quiet shade.
268
THE OLD CUR/OSI 7"Y SHOP.
They carried her to one old nook, where she
had many and many a time sat musing, and
laid their burden softly on the pavement. The
light streamed on it through the coloured win-
dow—a window where the boughs of trees were
ever rustling in the summer, and where the
birds sang sweetly all day long. With every
breath of air that stirred annong those branches
in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light
would fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath,
many a stifled sob was heard. Some—and they
were not a few—knelt down. All were sincere
and truthful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood apart,
and the villagers closed round to look into the
grave before the pavement stone should be re-
placed. One called to mind how he had seen
her sitting on that very spot, and how her book
had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a
pensive face upon the sky. Another told how
he had wondered much that one so delicate as
she should be so bold; how she had never feared
to enter the church alone at night, but had loved
to linger there when all was quiet, and even to
climb the tower stair, with no more light than
that of the moon rays stealing through the loop-
holes in the thick old wall. A whisper went
about among the oldest, that she had seen and
talked with angels; and when they called to
mind how she had looked and spoken, and her
early death, some thought it might be so indeed.
Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and
glancing down, and giving place to others, and
falling off in whispering groups of three or four,
the church was cleared, in time, of all but the
sexton and the mourning friends.
They saw the vault covered, and the stone
fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening
had come on, and not a sound disturbed the
Sacred stillness of the place—when the bright
moon poured in her light on tomb and monu-
ment, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all
(it seemed to them) upon her quiet grave—in
that calm time, when outward things and inward
thoughts teem with assurances of immortality,
and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the
dust before them—then, with tranquil and sub-
missive hearts, they turned away, and left the
child with God.
Oh I it is hard to take to heart the lesson that
such deaths will teach ; but let no man reject it,
for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty,
universal Truth. When Death strikes down the
innocent and young, for every fragile form from
which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred
virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and
love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every
tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green
graves, some good is born, some gentler nature
comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring
up bright creations that defy his power, and his
dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven]
It was late when the old man came home.
The boy had led him to his own dwelling, under
Some pretence, on their way back ; and, ren-
dered drowsy by his long ramble and late want
of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the
fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they
were careful not to rouse him. The slumber
held him a long time, and, when he at length
awoke, the moon was shining. -
The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted
absence, was watching at the door for his coming,
when he appeared in the pathway with his little
guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly
obliging the old man to lean upon his arm,
conducted him with slow and trembling steps
towards the house. -
He repaired to her chamber straight. Not
finding what he had left there, he returned with
distracted looks to the room in which they were
assenbled. From that, he rushed into the school-
master's cottage, calling her name. They fol-
lowed close upon him, and, when he had vainly
searched it, brought him home.
With such persuasive words as pity and affec-
tion could suggest, they prevailed upon him to
sit among them and hear what they should tell
him. Then, endeavouring by every little artifice
to prepare his mind for what must come, and
dwelling with many fervent words upon the
happy lot to which she had been removed, they
told him, at last, the truth. The moment it had
passed their lips, he fell down among them like
a murdered man.
For many hours they had little hope of nus
surviving ; but grief is strong, and he recovered
If there be any who have never known the
blank that follows death—the weary void—the ,
sense of desolation that will come upon the
strongest minds, when something familiar and
beloved is missed at every turn—the connection
between inanimate and senseless things, and the
object of recollection, when every household
god becomes a monument, and every room a
grave—if there be any who have not known
this, and proved it by their own experience, they
can never ſaintly guess how, for many days, the
old man pined and moped away the time, and
wandered here and there as seeking something,
and had no comfort, -- w
7"HEY Ae/EST 7 OGAE, ZAZEAP.
26%
Whatever power of thought or memory he
retained was all bound up in her. He never
understood, or seemed to care to understand,
about his brother. To every endearment and
attention he continued listless. If they spoke to
him on this or any other theme—save one—he
would hear them patiently for awhile, then turn
away, and go on seeking as before.
On that one theme, which was in his and all
their minds, it was impossible to touch. Dead!
He could not hear or bear the word. The
slightest hint of it would throw him into a
paroxysm, like that he had had when it was first
spoken. In what hope he lived, no man could
tell ; but that he had some hope of finding her
again—some faint and shadowy hope, deferred
from day to day, and making him from day to
day more sick and sore at heart—was plain to all.
. They bethought them of a removal from the
scene of this last sorrow ; of trying whether
change of place would rouse or cheer him. His
brother sought the advice of those who were
accounted skilful in such matters, and they came
and saw him. Some of the number stayed upon
the spot, conversed with him when he would
Converse, and watched him as he wandered up
and down, alone and silent. Move him where
they might, they said, he would ever seek to get
back there. His mind would run upon that spot.
If they confined him closely, and kept a strict
guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner
but, if he could by any means escape, he would
surely wander back to that place, or die upon
the road.
The boy to whom he had submitted at first,
had no longer any influence with him. At times
he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or
would even take such notice of his presence as
giving him his hand, or would stop to kiss his
cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times
he would entreat him—not unkindly—to be
gone, and would not brook him near. But,
whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with
those who would have given him, at any cost or
sacrifice, Some consolation or some peace of
mind, if happily the means could have been
devised, he was at all times the same—with no
love or care for anything in life—a broken-
hearted man. -
At length, they found, one day, that he had
tsen early, and, with his knapsack on his back,
his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little
basket full of such things as she had been used to
‘ carry, was gone. As they were making ready to
pursue him far and wide, a frightened school-boy
Canne who had seen him, but a moment before,
sitting in the church—upon her grave, he said.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 18.
They hastened there, and, going softly to the
door, espied him in the attitude of one who
waited patiently. They did not disturb him
then, but kept a watch upon him all that day.
When it grew quite dark, he rose and returned
home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself,
“She will come to-morrow !”
Upon the morrow he was there again from
sunrise until night; and still at night he laid
him down to rest, and murmured, “She will
come to-morrow !”
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long,
he waited at her grave for her. How many pic-
tures of new journeys over pleasant country, of
resting-places under the free broad sky, of
rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not
often trodden—how many tones of that one well-
remembered voice—how many glimpses of the
form, the fluttering dress, the hair that waved so
gaily in the wind—how many visions of what had
been, and what he hoped was yet to be—rose
up before him, in the old, dull, silent church 1
He never told them what he thought, or where
he went. He would sit with them at night,
pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could
see, upon the flight that he and she would take
before night came again; and still they would
hear him whisper in his prayers, “Lord ' Let
her come to-morrow !”
The last time was on a genial day in spring.
He did not return at the usual hour, and they
went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the
Stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he
had loved so well ; and, in the church where they
had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand-
in-hand, the child and the old man slept together.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
HE magic reel, which, rolling on
§ before, has led the chronicler thus
far, now slackens in its pace, and
stops. It lies before the goal; the
pursuit is at an end.
It remains but to dismiss the leaders of
the little crowd who have borne us Com-
pany upon the road, and so to close the
journey.
Foremost among them, smooth Sampson Brass
and Sally, arm-in-arm, claim our polite atten-
tlOn.
Mr. Sampson, then, being detained, as already
has been shown, by the justice upon whom he
called, and being so strongly pressed to protract
266


27C
THE OLD curſoszzy SHOP
his stay that he could by no means refuse,
remained under his protection for a consider-
able time, during which the great attention of
his entertainer kept him so extremely close, that
he was quite lost to society, and never even
went abroad for exercise saving into a small
paved yard. So well, indeed, was his modest
and retiring temper understood by those with
whom he had to deal, and so jealous were they
of his absence, that they required a kind of
friendly bond to be entered into by two sub-
stantial housekeepers, in the sum of fifteen
hundred pounds apiece, before they would
suffer him to quit their hospitable roof–doubt-
ing, it appeared, that he would return, if once
let loose, on any other terms. Mr. Brass,
struck with the humour of this jest, and carry-
ing out its spirit to the utmost, sought from his
wide connection a pair of friends whose joint
possessions fell some halfpence short of fifteen-
pence, and proffered them as bail—for that was
the merry word agreed upon on both sides.
These gentlemen being rejected after twenty-
four hours' pleasantry, Mr. Brass consented to
remain, and did remain, until a club of choice
spirits called a Grand Jury (who were in the
joke) Summoned him to a trial before twelve
other wags for perjury and fraud, who in their
turn found him guilty with a most facetious joy
—nay, the very populace entered into the whim,
and, when Mr. Brass was moving in a hackney
coach towards the building where these wags
assembled, saluted him with rotten eggs and
Carcases of kittens, and feigſled to wish to tear
him into shreds, which greatly, increased the
comicality of the thing. and made him relish it
the morè, no doubt. -
To work this sportive vein still further, Mr.
Brass, by his counsel, moved in arrest of judg-
ment that he had been led to criminate himself,
by assurances of safety and promises of pardon,
and claimed the leniency whiêh the law extends
to such confiding natures as Are thus deluded.
After solemn argument, this point (with others
of a technical nature, whose humorous extrava-
gance it would be difficult to exaggerate) was
referred to the judges for their decision, Sampson
being meantime removed to his former quarters.
Finally, some of the points were given in Samp-
son's favour, and some against him; and the
upshot was, that, instead of being desired to
travel for a time in foreign parts, he was per-
Imitted to grace the mother country under certain
insignificant restrictions.
These were, that he should, for a term of
years, reside in a spacious mansion where seve-
ral other gentlemen were lodged and boarded
—ah- - - --> *_-
at the public charge, who went clad in a sober
uniform of grey turned up with yellow, had
their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived
on gruel and light Soup. It was also required
of him that he should partake of their exercise
of constantly ascending an endless flight of
stairs; and, lest his legs, unused to such exer-
tion, should be weakened by it, that he should
wear upon one ankle an amulet or charm of
iron. These conditions being arranged, he was
removed one evening to his new abode, and
enjoyed, in common with nine other gentlemen
and two ladies, the privilege of being taken to
his place of retirement in one of Royalty's own
carriages.
Over and above these trifling penalties, his
name was erased and blotted out from the roll
of attorneys ; which erasure has been always
held in these latter times to be a great degrada-
tion and reproach, and to imply the commission
of some amazing villainy—as indeed would
seem to be the case, when so many worthless
names remain among its better records un-
molested.
Of Sally Brass conflicting rumours went
abroad. Some said with confidence that she
had gone down to the docks in male attire,
and had become a female sailor; others darkly
whispered that she had enlisted as a private in
the second regiment of Foot Guards, and had
been seen in uniform, and on duty, to wit,
leaning on her musket and looking out of a
Sentry-box in St. James's Park, one evening,
There were many such whispers as these in
circulation; but the truth appears to be that,
after a lapse of some five years (during which
there is no direct evidence of her having been
seen at all), two wretched people were more
than once observed to crawl at dusk from the
inmost recesses of St. Giles's, and to take their
way along the streets, with shuffling steps and
cowering shivering forms, looking into the roads
and kennels as they went in search of refuse
food or disregarded offal. These forms were
never beheld but in those nights of cold and
gloom, when the terrible spectres, who lie at
all other times in the obscene hiding-places of
London, in archways, dark vaults, and cellars,
venture to creep into the streets; the embodied
spirits of Disease, and Vice, and Famine. It
was whispered, by those who should have known,
that these were Sampson and his sister Sally ;
and to this day, it is said, they sometimes
pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome *
guise, close at the elbow of the shrinking pas-
Senger.
The body of Quilp being ſound—though not
r
f
GA ZAIERAE/O 7 PAREADS.
until some days had elapsed—an inquest was
held on it near the spot where it had been
washed ashore. The general supposition was
that he had committed suicide, and, this appear-
ing to be favoured by all the circumstances of
his death, the verdict was to that effect. He
was left to be buried with a stake through his
heart in the centre of four lonely roads.
It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible
and barbarous ceremony had been dispensed
with, and that the remains had been secretly
given up to Tom Scott. But even here opinion
was divided ; for some said Tom had dug them
up at midnight, and carried them to a place
indicated to him by the widow. It is probable
that both these stories may have had their
origin in the simple fact of Tom's shedding
tears upon the inquest—which he certainly did,
extraordinary as it may appear. He manifested,
besides, a strong desire to assault the jury; and,
being restrained and conducted out of court,
darkened its only window by standing on his
head upon the sill, until he was dexterously
tilted upon his feet again by a cautious beadle.
Being cast upon the world by his master's
death, he determined to go through it upon his
head and hands, and accordingly began to
tumble for his bread. Finding, however, his
English birth an insurmountable obstacle to his
advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding
that his art was in high repute and favour), he
assumed the name of an Italian image lad with
whom he had become acquainted; and after-
wards tumbled with extraordinary success, and
to overflowing audiences.
Little Mrs. Quilp never quite forgave herself
the one deceit that lay so heavy on her con-
science, and never spoke or thought of it but
with bitter tears. Her husband had no rela-
tions, and she was rich. He had made no
will, or she would probably have been poor.
Having married the first time at her mother's
instigation, she consulted in her second choice
nobody but herself. It fell upon a smart young
fellow enough ; and, as he made it a preliminary
condition that Mrs. Jiniwin should be thence-
forth an out-pensioner, they lived together after
marriage with no more than the average amount
of quarrelling, and led a merry life upon the
dead dwarf's money. - - -
Mr. and Mrs. Garland, and Mr. Abel, went
out as usual (except that there was a change
in their household, as will be seen presently),
and in due time the latter went into partnership
with his friend the notary, on which occasion
there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent
of dissipation. Unto this ball there happened
27t
to be invited the most bashful young lady that
was ever seen, with whom Mr. Abel happened
to fall in love. How it happened, or how they
found it out, or which of them first com-
municated the discovery to the other, nobody
knows. But, certain it is that in course of time
they were married; and equaſly certain it is
that they were the happiest of the happy; and
no less certain it is that they deserved to be so.
And it is pleasant to write down that they
reared a family; because any propagation of
goodness and benevolence is no small addition
to the aristocracy of nature, and no small sub-
ject of rejoicing for mankind at large.
The pony preserved his character for inde-
pendence and principle down to the last moment
of his life; which was an unusually long one,
and caused him to be looked upon, indeed, as
the very Old Parr of ponies. He often went to
and fro with the littlé phaeton between Mr.
Garland's and his son's, and, as the old people
and the young were frequently together, had a.
stable of his own at the new establishment, into
which he would walk of himself with surprising
dignity, Ie condescended to play with the
children as they grew old enough to cultivate
his friendship, and would run up and down
the little paddock with them like a dog; but
though he relaxed so far, and allowed them such.
small freedoms as caresses, or even to look at.
his shoes or hang on by his tail, he never per-
mitted any one among them to mount his back
or drive him ; thus showing that even their
familiarity finust have its limits, and that there
were points between them far too serious for
trifling.
He was not unsusceptible of warm attach–
ments in his later life ; for, when the good.
bachelor came to live with Mr. Garland upon
the clergyman's 'ecease, he conceived a great.
friendship for him, and amiably submitted to be
driven by his hands without the least resistance.
He did no work for two or three years before he
died, but lived in clover; and his last act (like
a choleric old gentleman) was to kick his doctor.
Mr. Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his
illness, and entering into the receipt of his
annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome
stock of clothes, and put her to school forthwith,
in redemption of the vow he had made upon his
fevered bed. After casting about for some time
for a name which should be worthy of her, he
decided in favour of Sophronia Sphynx, as being
euphonious and genteel, and furthermore indi-
cative of mystery. Under this title the Mar-
chioness repaired, in tears, to the school of his.
selection, from which, as she soon distanced all
272
Zºe ozo curſoszzy SHOP.
competitors, she was removed before the lapse
of many quarters to one of a higher grade. It
is but bare justice to Mr. Swiveller to say that,
although the expenses of her education kept him
in straitened circumstances for half-a-dozen
years, he never slackened in his zeal, and always
º
.:
i
sº-
In a word, Mr. Swiveller kept the Marchioness
at this establishment until she was; at a moderate
guess, full nineteen years of age—good-looking,
clever, and good-humoured ; when he began to
consider seriously what was to be done next.
On one of his periodical visits, while he was
held himself sufficiently repaid by the accounts
he heard (with great gravity) of her advance-
ment, on his monthly visits to the governess,
who looked upon him as a literary gentleman of
eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent
in quotation.
“Two WRETCHED PEOPLE were MoRE THAN ONCE OBSERVED TO CRAWL AT DUSK FROM THE INMOST
RECESSES OF ST. GILES’.S.”
revolving this question in his mind, the Mar-
chioness came down to him alone, looking more
Smiling and more fresh than ever. . Then, it
occurred to him, but not for the first time, that
if she would marry him, how comfortable they
might be . So Richard asked her, Whatever

*
S W/V/5, / L/2 RAA/V S UMMA R Y.
she said, it wasn't No ; and they were married
in good earnest that day week, which gave Mr.
Swiveller frequent occasion to remark, at divers
subsequent periods, that there had been a young
lady saving up for him after all.
A little cottage at Hampstead being to let,
which had in its garden a smoking-box, the
envy of the civilised world, they agreed to be-
come its tenants; and, when the honeymoon
was over, entered upon its occupation. To this
retreat Mr. Chuckster repaired regularly every
Sunday to spend the day—usually beginning
with breakfast—and here he was the great pur-
veyor of general news and fashionable intelli-
gence. For some years he continued a deadly
foe to Kit, protesting that he had a better
opinion of him when he was supposed to have
stolen the five-pound note than when he was
shown to be perfectly free of the crime; inas-
much as his guilt would have had in it some-
thing daring and bold, whereas his innocence
was but another proof of a sneaking and crafty
disposition: . By slow degrees, however, he was
reconciled to him in the end ; and even went so
far as to honour him with his patronage, as
one who had in some measure reformed, and
was therefore to be forgiven. But he never
forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the
shilling ; holding that if he had come back to
get another he would have done well enough,
but that his returning to work out the former
gift was a stain upon his moral character which
no penitence or contrition could ever wash away.
Mr. Swiveller, having always been in some
measure of a philosophic and reflective turn,
grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the
smoking-box, and was accustomed at such periods
to debate in his own mind the mysterious
question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia
herself supposed she was an orphan; but Mr.
Swiveller, putting various slight circumstances
together, often thought Miss Brass must know
better than that ; and having heard from his
wife of her strange interview with Quilp, enter-
tained sundry misgivings whether that person,
in his lifetime, might not also have been able to
solve the riddle, had he chosen. These specu-
lations, however, gave him no uneasiness; for
Sophronia was ever a most cheerful, affectionate,
and provident wife to him; and Dick (excepting
for an occasional outbreak with Mr. Chuckster,
which she had the good sense rather to encourage
than oppose) was to her an attached and domes-
ticated husband. And they played many hun-
§red thousand games of cribbage together. And
let it be added to Dick's honour, that though we
have called her Sophronia, he called her the
273
Marchioness from first to last ; and that, upon
every anniversary of the day on which he found
her in his sick-room, Mr. Chuckster came to
dinner, and there was great glorification.
The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their
trusty confederate, Mr. James Groves of unim-
peachable memory, pursued their course with
varying success, until the failure of a spirited
enterprise in the way of their profession dispersed
them in different directions, and caused their
career to receive a sudden check from the long
and strong arm of the law. This defeat had its
origin in the untoward detection of a new asso-
ciate—young Frederick Trent—who thus became
the unconstºpus instrument of their punishment
and his own.
For the young man himself, he rioted abroad
for a brief term, living by his wits—which means
by the abuse of every faculty that worthily
employed raises man above the beasts, and, so
degraded, sinks him far below them. It was not
long before his body was recognised by a stranger,
who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where
the drowned are laid out to be owned, despite
the bruises and disfigurements which were said
to have been occasioned by some previous
scuffle. But the stranger kept his own counsel
until he returned home, and it was never claimed
or cared for.
The young brother, or the single gentleman,
—for that designation is more familiar, -would
have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone
retreat, and made him his companion and friend.
But the humble village teacher was timid of
venturing into the noisy world, and had become
fond of his dwelling in the old churchyard.
Calmly happy in his school, and in the spot,
and in the attachment of Her little mourner, he
pursued his quiet course in peace; and was,
through the righteous gratitude of his friend—
let this brief mention suffice for that—a poor
Schoolmaster no more. -
That friend—single gentleman, or younger
brother, which you will—had at his heart a heavy
sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or
monastic gloom. He went forth into the
world, a lover of his kind. For a long, long
time it was his chief delight to travel in the
steps of the old man and the child (so far as he
could trace them from her last narrative), to halt
where they had halted, sympathise where they
had suffered, and rejoice where they had been
made glad. Those who had been kind to them
did not escape his search. The sisters at the
school—they who were her friends, because
themselves so friendless—Mrs. Jarley of the wax-
work, Codlin, Short—he found them all; and,
274
777/7 OAA) CUA’ſ OS/7"Y SAIOP
trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was
not forgotten.
Rit's story, having got abroad, raised him up.
a host of friends, and many offers of provision
for his future life. He had no idea, at first, of
ever quitting Mr. Garland's service; but, after
serious remonstrance and advice from that gen-
tleman, began to contemplate the possibility of
such a change being brought about in time.
A good post was procured for him, with a
rapidity which took away his breath, by some of
the gentlemen who had believed him guilty of
the offence laid to his charge, and who had
acted upon that belief. Through the same kind
agency, his mother was secured from want, and
made quite happy. Thus, as Kit often said,
his great misfortune turned out to be the source
of all his subsequent prosperity.
Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did
he marry P. Of course he married, and who
should be his wife but Barbara P And the best
of it was, he married so soon that little Jacob
was an uncle before the calves of his legs,
already mentioned in this history, had ever been
encased in broadcloth pantaloons,—though that
was not quite the best either, for of necessity the
baby was an uncle, too. The delight of Kit's
mother and of Barbara's mother upon the great
occasion is past all telling. Finding they agreed
so well on that, and on all other subjects, they
took up their abode together, and were a most
harmonious pair of friends from that time forth.
And hadn't Astley's cause to bless itself for their
all going together once a quarter—to the pit—
and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they
painted the outside, that Kit's last treat had
helped to that, and wonder what the manager
would feel if he but knew it as they passed his
house. ,
When Kit had children six and seven years
old, there was a Barbara among them, and a
pretty Barbara she was. Nor was there wanting
an exact facsimile and copy of little Jacob as he
appeared in those remote times when they
taught him what oysters meant. Of course
there was an Abel, own godson to the Mr.
Garland of that name ; and there was a Dick,
whom Mr. Swiveller did especially favour. Thé
little group would often gather round him of a
might, and beg him to tell again that story of
good Miss Nell who died. This Kit would do;
and when they cried to hear it, wishing it longer
too, he would teach them how she had gone to
Heaven, as all good people did; and how, if
they were good like her, they might hope to be
there too, one day, and to see and know her as
he had done when he was quite a boy. Then
he would relate to them how needy he used to
be, and how she had taught him what he was
otherwise too poor to learn, and how the old
man had been used to say, “She always laughs .
at Kit;” at which they would brush away their
tears, and laugh themselves to think that &s
had done so, and be again quite merry.
He sometimes took them to the street where
she had lived ; but new improvements had
altered it so much, it was not like the same.
The old house had been long ago pulled down,
and a fine broad road was in its place. At
first, he would draw with his stick a square
upon the ground to show them where it used
to stand. But, he soon became uncertain of
the spot, and could only say it was there-
abouts, he thought, and that these alterations
were confusing.
Such are the changes which a few years bring
about, and so do things pass away, like a tale,
that is told ! f : .
THE END
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