Nicholas Nickleby
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, insinuating himself into the warmest
corner, ‘you did very right to catch hold of them horses. I should have
done it myself if I had come to in time, but I am very glad you did it.
You did it very well; very well.’
‘So well,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem to approve
very much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers, ‘that if they had
not been firmly checked when they were, you would most probably have had
no brains left to teach with.’
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 have escaped, of course,’ observed Squeers: ‘every
man is glad when he escapes from danger; but if any one of my charges
had been hurt--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? Why the wheel a-top of my head would have been
far preferable to it.’
‘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
greatcoat pocket for cards. ‘They are all under the same parental and
affectionate treatment. Mrs. Squeers and myself are a mother and father
to every one of ‘em. Mr. Nickleby, hand the lady them cards, and offer
these to the gentleman. Perhaps they might know of some parents that
would be glad to avail themselves of the establishment.’
Expressing himself to this effect, Mr. Squeers, who lost no opportunity
of advertising gratuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and looked
at the pupils with as much benignity as he could possibly affect, while
Nicholas, blushing with shame, handed round the cards as directed.
‘I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma’am?’ said the
merry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as though he were
charitably desirous to change the subject.
‘No bodily inconvenience,’ replied the lady.
‘No mental inconvenience, I hope?’
‘The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,’ replied the
lady with strong emotion; ‘and I beg you as a gentleman, not to refer to
it.’
‘Dear me,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrier still, ‘I
merely intended to inquire--’
‘I hope no inquiries will be made,’ said the lady, ‘or I shall be
compelled to throw myself on the protection of the other gentlemen.
Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside the door--and if
a green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham, to stop it
instantly.’
The people of the house were evidently overcome by this request, and
when the lady charged the boy to remember, as a means of identifying the
expected green chariot, that it would have a coachman with a gold-laced
hat on the box, and a footman, most probably in silk stockings, behind,
the attentions of the good woman of the inn were redoubled. Even the
box-passenger caught the infection, and growing wonderfully deferential,
immediately inquired whether there was not very good society in that
neighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner
which sufficiently implied that she moved at the very tiptop and summit
of it all.
‘As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to get another coach,’
said the good-tempered gentleman when they had been all sitting round
the fire, for some time, in silence, ‘and as he must be gone a couple
of hours at the very least, I propose a bowl of hot punch. What say you,
sir?’
This question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, who was a man
of very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not past the
middle age, but his hair was grey; it seemed to have been prematurely
turned by care or sorrow. He readily acceded to the proposal, and
appeared to be prepossessed by the frank good-nature of the individual
from whom it emanated.
This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapster when the
punch was ready, and after dispensing it all round, led the conversation
to the antiquities of York, with which both he and the grey-haired
gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. When this topic flagged, he
turned with a smile to the grey-headed gentleman, and asked if he could
sing.
‘I cannot indeed,’ replied 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?’
The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; that they
wished they could; that they couldn’t remember the words of anything
without the book; and so forth.
‘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
contemptuously, and murmured some further expression of surprise
regarding the absence of the green chariot, one or two voices urged
upon the president himself, the propriety of making an attempt for the
general benefit.
‘I would if I could,’ said he of the good-tempered face; ‘for I hold
that in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers to
each other are thrown unexpectedly together, they should endeavour
to render themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake of the little
community, as possible.’
‘I wish the maxim were more generally acted on, in all cases,’ said the
grey-headed gentleman.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ returned the other. ‘Perhaps, as you can’t sing,
you’ll tell us a story?’
‘Nay. I should ask you.’
‘After you, I will, with pleasure.’
‘Indeed!’ said the grey-haired gentleman, smiling, ‘Well, let it be so.
I fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten the time
you must pass here; but you have brought this upon yourselves, and shall
judge. We were speaking of York Minster just now. My story shall have
some reference to it. Let us call it
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 eldest was in her
twenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third a year younger
than the second, and the fourth a year younger than the third. They were
tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair of jet; dignity
and grace were in their every movement; and the fame of their great
beauty had spread through all the country round.
‘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 beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be! If, while
our bodies grow old and withered, our hearts could but retain their
early youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows and
sufferings! But, the faint image of Eden which is stamped upon them in
childhood, chafes and rubs in our rough struggles with the world,
and soon wears away: too often to leave nothing but a mournful blank
remaining.
‘The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness. Devoted
attachment to her sisters, and a fervent love of all beautiful things
in nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesome voice and merry laugh
were the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life.
The brightest flowers in the garden were reared by her; the caged
birds sang when they heard her voice, and pined when they missed its
sweetness. Alice, dear Alice; what living thing within the sphere of her
gentle witchery, could fail to love her!
‘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, through which he passed, closing it behind him. The
noise of soft voices in conversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon
his ears ere he had advanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher
than was his humble wont, he descried, at no great distance, the five
sisters seated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying
their customary task of embroidering.
‘“Save you, fair daughters!” said the friar; and fair in truth they
were. Even a monk might have loved them as choice masterpieces of his
Maker’s hand.
‘The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, and the
eldest motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar
shook his head, and bumped himself down on a very hard stone,--at which,
no doubt, approving angels were gratified.
‘“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
beneath 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!”
‘“Father,” urged the maiden, pausing, as did each of the others, in