Nicholas Nickleby
One of the hands being then cautiously unclasped, the old gentleman
dropped into a sitting posture, and was looking round to smile and bow
to Mrs. Nickleby, when he disappeared with some precipitation, as if his
legs had been pulled from below.
Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning to speak
to her mama, when the dirty hands again became visible, and were
immediately followed by the figure of a coarse squat man, who ascended
by the steps which had been recently occupied by their singular
neighbour.
‘Beg your pardon, ladies,’ said this new comer, grinning and touching
his hat. ‘Has he been making love to either of you?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate.
‘Ah!’ rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hat and
wiping his face, ‘he always will, you know. Nothing will prevent his
making love.’
‘I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,’ said Kate.
‘Why no,’ replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his
handkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. ‘That’s pretty
plain, that is.’
‘Has he been long so?’ asked Kate.
‘A long while.’
‘And is there no hope for him?’ said Kate, compassionately
‘Not a bit, and don’t deserve to be,’ replied the keeper. ‘He’s a deal
pleasanter without his senses than with ‘em. He was the cruellest,
wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath.’
‘Indeed!’ said Kate.
‘By George!’ replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically that
he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on. ‘I never come across such a
vagabond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife’s heart, turned
his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into the streets; it was a
blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness,
and selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he’d have drove many
others so. Hope for HIM, an old rip! There isn’t too much hope going,
but I’ll bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more deserving
chaps than him, anyhow.’
With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again, as
much as to say that nothing short of this would do, if things were to
go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily--not that he was in an ill
humour, but that his subject ruffled him--descended the ladder, and took
it away.
During this conversation, Mrs. Nickleby had regarded the man with a
severe and steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and pursing
up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtful manner.
‘Poor creature!’ said Kate.
‘Ah! poor indeed!’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. ‘It’s shameful that such
things should be allowed. Shameful!’
‘How can they be helped, mama?’ said Kate, mournfully. ‘The infirmities
of nature--’
‘Nature!’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘What! Do YOU suppose this poor gentleman
is out of his mind?’
‘Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?’
‘Why then, I just tell you this, Kate,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that, he
is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can be so imposed
upon. It’s some plot of these people to possess themselves of his
property--didn’t he say so himself? He may be a little odd and flighty,
perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and express himself as
he does, respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and making offers
with so much thought, and care, and prudence--not as if he ran into the
streets, and went down upon his knees to the first chit of a girl he
met, as a madman would! No, no, Kate, there’s a great deal too much
method in HIS madness; depend upon that, my dear.’
CHAPTER 42
Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends must
sometimes part
The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all day in the
heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guarding the entrance to the
hostelry of whose name and sign they are the duplicate presentments,
looked--or seemed, in the eyes of jaded and footsore passers-by, to
look--more vicious than usual, after blistering and scorching in the
sun, when, in one of the inn’s smallest sitting-rooms, through whose
open window there rose, in a palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from
reeking coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed
in neat and inviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and boiled,
a tongue, a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little
matters of the like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, are
generally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,
stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.
Mr. John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered restlessly about
these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies out of the
sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in
the milk-pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut off a little knob of
crust, and a little corner of meat, and swallow them at two gulps like a
couple of pills. After every one of these flirtations with the eatables,
he pulled out his watch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic
that he couldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.
‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and half
asleep upon a sofa.
‘Well, John!’
‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feel
hoongry, lass?’
‘Not very,’ said Mrs. Browdie.
‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hear her
say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthry thot
aggravates a mon ‘stead of pacifying him! Not vary!’
‘Here’s a gen’l’man for you, sir,’ said the waiter, looking in.
‘A wa’at for me?’ cried John, as though he thought it must be a letter,
or a parcel.
‘A gen’l’man, sir.’
‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom and say
thot for? In wi’ ‘un.’
‘Are you at home, sir?’
‘At whoam!’ cried John, ‘I wish I wur; I’d ha tea’d two hour ago. Why, I
told t’oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell ‘un d’rectly he
coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ‘un. Aha! Thee hond, Misther
Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest day o’ my life, sir. Hoo be
all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’
Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of his salutation,
John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping
his palm with great violence between each shake, to add warmth to the
reception.
‘Ah! there she be,’ said John, observing the look which Nicholas
directed towards his wife. ‘There she be--we shan’t quarrel about her
noo--eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot--but thou want’st soom’at to eat.
Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive--’
No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing more was heard,
for John had already begun to play such a knife and fork, that his
speech was, for the time, gone.
‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr. Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as he
placed a chair for the bride.
‘Tak’ whatever thou like’st,’ said John, ‘and when a’s gane, ca’ for
more.’
Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs. Browdie,
and handed her to her seat.
‘I say,’ said John, rather astounded for the moment, ‘mak’ theeself
quite at whoam, will ‘ee?’
‘You may depend upon that,’ replied Nicholas; ‘on one condition.’
‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.
‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for
one.’
‘Eh! d’ye hear thot?’ cried John, laying down his knife and fork. ‘A
godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly--hear till ‘un--a godfeyther! Divn’t say
a word more, ye’ll never beat thot. Occasion for ‘un--a godfeyther! Ha!
ha! ha!’
Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as John Browdie
was with this. He chuckled, roared, half suffocated himself by laughing
large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roared again, persisted in
eating at the same time, got red in the face and black in the forehead,
coughed, cried, got better, went off again laughing inwardly, got worse,
choked, had his back thumped, stamped about, frightened his wife, and
at last recovered in a state of the last exhaustion and with the water
streaming from his eyes, but still faintly ejaculating, ‘A godfeyther--a
godfeyther, Tilly!’ in a tone bespeaking an exquisite relish of the
sally, which no suffering could diminish.
‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ said Nicholas.
‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.
‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs. Browdie?’
said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’
‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, Mr. Nickleby, you’d
have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I never was so frightened in
all my life.’
‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’st betther than
thot, Tilly.’
‘So I was,’ replied Mrs. Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mind never to
speak to you again.’
‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’most made up
her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, and wheedlin’, and wheedlin’
a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou let yon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?”
says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, a squeedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?”
says I. “Noa,” says she, a squeedgin of me agean.’
‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much. ‘How can
you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt of such a thing!’
‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I think that’s
loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re a feeckle,
changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,” says she.
“Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thou bean’t,
efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” says she, quite
screeching. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she--and she coom a
deal closer and squeedged a deal harder than she’d deane afore--“dost
thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that having such a proper mun as thou
to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ opp wi’ such a leetle scanty
whipper-snapper as yon?” she says. Ha! ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper!
“Ecod!” I says, “efther thot, neame the day, and let’s have it ower!”
Ha! ha! ha!’
Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story, both on account of its
telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare the blushes of
Mrs. Browdie, whose protestations were drowned in peals of laughter from
her husband. His good-nature soon put her at her ease; and although she
still denied the charge, she laughed so heartily at it, that Nicholas
had the satisfaction of feeling assured that in all essential respects
it was strictly true.
‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have ever taken a
meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yet it really
seems to me as if I were among old friends.’
‘Weel!’ observed the Yorkshireman, ‘so I say.’
‘And I am sure I do,’ added his young wife.
‘I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,’ said
Nicholas; ‘for if it had not been for your kindness of heart, my good
friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know not what
might have become of me or what plight I should have been in by this
time.’
‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnot bother.’
‘It must be a new song to the same tune then,’ said Nicholas, smiling.
‘I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired your sympathy
with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk of involving yourself
in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how 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 know’d I had takken pity on him.’