Nicholas Nickleby
act of wondering when it was going to begin.
At the tea-table there was plenty of conversation on a great variety of
subjects, nor were there wanting jocose matters of discussion, such as
they were; for young Mr. Cheeryble’s recent stay in Germany happening to
be alluded to, old Mr. Cheeryble informed the company that the aforesaid
young Mr. Cheeryble was suspected to have fallen deeply in love with
the daughter of a certain German burgomaster. This accusation young
Mr. Cheeryble most indignantly repelled, upon which Mrs. Nickleby slyly
remarked, that she suspected, from the very warmth of the denial, there
must be something in it. Young Mr. Cheeryble then earnestly entreated old
Mr. Cheeryble to confess that it was all a jest, which old Mr. Cheeryble
at last did, young Mr. Cheeryble being so much in earnest about it,
that--as Mrs. Nickleby said many thousand times afterwards in recalling
the scene--he ‘quite coloured,’ which she rightly considered a memorable
circumstance, and one worthy of remark, young men not being as a class
remarkable for modesty or self-denial, especially when there is a lady
in the case, when, if they colour at all, it is rather their practice to
colour the story, and not themselves.
After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening being very
fine they strolled out at the garden-gate into some lanes and bye-roads,
and sauntered up and down until it grew quite dark. The time seemed to
pass very quickly with all the party. Kate went first, leaning upon
her brother’s arm, and talking with him and Mr. Frank Cheeryble; and
Mrs. Nickleby and the elder gentleman followed at a short distance, the
kindness of the good merchant, his interest in the welfare of Nicholas,
and his admiration of Kate, so operating upon the good lady’s feelings,
that the usual current of her speech was confined within very narrow
and circumscribed limits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an object of
interest in his life, had been one that day) accompanied them, joining
sometimes one group and sometimes the other, as brother Charles, laying
his hand upon his shoulder, bade him walk with him, or Nicholas, looking
smilingly round, beckoned him to come and talk with the old friend who
understood him best, and who could win a smile into his careworn face
when none else could.
Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the pride of
a mother in her children, for that is a compound of two cardinal
virtues--faith and hope. This was the pride which swelled Mrs. Nickleby’s
heart that night, and this it was which left upon her face, glistening
in the light when they returned home, traces of the most grateful tears
she had ever shed.
There was a quiet mirth about the little supper, which harmonised
exactly with this tone of feeling, and at length the two gentlemen
took their leave. There was one circumstance in the leave-taking which
occasioned a vast deal of smiling and pleasantry, and that was, that Mr
Frank Cheeryble offered his hand to Kate twice over, quite forgetting
that he had bade her adieu already. This was held by the elder Mr
Cheeryble to be a convincing proof that he was thinking of his German
flame, and the jest occasioned immense laughter. So easy is it to move
light hearts.
In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil happiness; and as we
all have some bright day--many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of
others--to which we revert with particular delight, so this one was
often looked back to afterwards, as holding a conspicuous place in the
calendar of those who shared it.
Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to have been most
happy?
Who was that who, in the silence of his own chamber, sunk upon his knees
to pray as his first friend had taught him, and folding his hands and
stretching them wildly in the air, fell upon his face in a passion of
bitter grief?
CHAPTER 44
Mr. Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. It would also appear from
the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and Wife, may be
sometimes carried too far
There are some men who, living with the one object of enriching
themselves, no matter by what means, and being perfectly conscious of
the baseness and rascality of the means which they will use every day
towards this end, affect nevertheless--even to themselves--a high tone
of moral rectitude, and shake their heads and sigh over the depravity of
the world. Some of the craftiest scoundrels that ever walked this earth,
or rather--for walking implies, at least, an erect position and the
bearing of a man--that ever crawled and crept through life by its
dirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries the
events of every day, and keep a regular debtor and creditor account with
Heaven, which shall always show a floating balance in their own favour.
Whether this is a gratuitous (the only gratuitous) part of the falsehood
and trickery of such men’s lives, or whether they really hope to cheat
Heaven itself, and lay up treasure in the next world by the same process
which has enabled them to lay up treasure in this--not to question
how it is, so it is. And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain
autobiographies which have enlightened the world) cannot fail to prove
serviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angel some time
and labour.
Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding, dogged,
and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it, save
the gratification of two passions, avarice, the first and predominant
appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second. Affecting to consider
himself but a type of all humanity, he was at little pains to conceal
his true character from the world in general, and in his own heart he
exulted over and cherished every bad design as it had birth. The only
scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby heeded, in the letter, was
‘know thyself.’ He knew himself well, and choosing to imagine that all
mankind were cast in the same mould, hated them; for, though no man
hates himself, the coldest among us having too much self-love for that,
yet most men unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will
be very generally found that those who sneer habitually at human
nature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant
samples.
But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself, who
stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that worthy took
off his fingerless gloves, and spreading them carefully on the palm of
his left hand, and flattening them with his right to take the creases
out, proceeded to roll them up with an absent air as if he were utterly
regardless of all things else, in the deep interest of the ceremonial.
‘Gone out of town!’ said Ralph, slowly. ‘A mistake of yours. Go back
again.’
‘No mistake,’ returned Newman. ‘Not even going; gone.’
‘Has he turned girl or baby?’ muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.
‘I don’t know,’ said Newman, ‘but he’s gone.’
The repetition of the word ‘gone’ seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He
uttered the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as long
as he decently could, and when he could hold out no longer without
attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if even that were
a satisfaction.
‘And WHERE has he gone?’ said Ralph.
‘France,’ replied Newman. ‘Danger of another attack of erysipelas--a
worse attack--in the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And he’s
gone.’
‘And Lord Frederick--?’ began Ralph.
‘He’s gone too,’ replied Newman.
‘And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?’ said Ralph, turning
away; ‘pockets his bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation of a
word, or seeking the smallest reparation!’
‘He’s too ill,’ said Newman.
‘Too ill!’ repeated Ralph. ‘Why I would have it if I were dying; in that
case I should only be the more determined to have it, and that without
delay--I mean if I were he. But he’s too ill! Poor Sir Mulberry! Too
ill!’
Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation of
manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave the room; and throwing
himself into his chair, beat his foot impatiently upon the ground.
‘There is some spell about that boy,’ said Ralph, grinding his teeth.
‘Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune’s favours! What is
even money to such Devil’s luck as this?’
He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, but notwithstanding
his previous reflection there was some consolation there, for his face
relaxed a little; and although there was still a deep frown upon the
contracted brow, it was one of calculation, and not of disappointment.
‘This Hawk will come back, however,’ muttered Ralph; ‘and if I know the
man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lost nothing of its
violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live in retirement--the
monotony of a sick-room to a man of his habits--no life--no drink--no
play--nothing that he likes and lives by. He is not likely to forget
his obligations to the cause of all this. Few men would; but he of all
others? No, no!’
He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon his hand, fell a
musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose and rang the bell.
‘That Mr. Squeers; has he been here?’ said Ralph.
‘He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,’ returned
Newman.
‘I know that, fool, do I not?’ said Ralph, irascibly. ‘Has he been here
since? Was he here this morning?’
‘No,’ bawled Newman, in a very loud key.
‘If he comes while I am out--he is pretty sure to be here by nine
tonight--let him wait. And if there’s another man with him, as there
will be--perhaps,’ said Ralph, checking himself, ‘let him wait too.’
‘Let ‘em both wait?’ said Newman.
‘Ay,’ replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. ‘Help me on
with this spencer, and don’t repeat after me, like a croaking parrot.’
‘I wish I was a parrot,’ Newman, sulkily.
‘I wish you were,’ rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; ‘I’d have
wrung your neck long ago.’
Newman returned no answer to this compliment, but looked over Ralph’s
shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the spencer
behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed to tweak him by the
nose. Meeting Ralph’s eye, however, he suddenly recalled his wandering
fingers, and rubbed his own red nose with a vehemence quite astonishing.
Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than a
threatening look, and an admonition to be careful and make no mistake,
Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked out.
He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneous connection,
and very odd calls he made, some at great rich houses, and some at small
poor ones, but all upon one subject: money. His face was a talisman to
the porters and servants of his more dashing clients, and procured him
ready admission, though he trudged on foot, and others, who were denied,
rattled to the door in carriages. Here he was all softness and cringing
civility; his step so light, that it scarcely produced a sound upon
the thick carpets; his voice so soft that it was not audible beyond the
person to whom it was addressed. But in the poorer habitations Ralph
was another man; his boots creaked upon the passage floor as he walked
boldly in; his voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money that
was overdue; his threats were coarse and angry. With another class of
customers, Ralph was again another man. These were attorneys of more
than doubtful reputation, who helped him to new business, or raised
fresh profits upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and jocose,
humorous upon the topics of the day, and especially pleasant upon