Nicholas Nickleby
‘Very,’ returned the captain; ‘a blow has been struck, and there is but
one course, OF course.’
‘No apology, I suppose?’ said Mr. Westwood.
‘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 subjects, charges, and
counter-charges. Sir Mulberry 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
hour 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?’
‘Sharp work,’ replied the captain, referring to his watch; ‘however, as
this seems to have been a long time breeding, and negotiation 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?’
The captain saw no objection.
‘Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads from Petersham
to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when we arrive there?’ said Mr
Westwood.
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 communicated 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 morning; 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 countless opportunities neglected.
With throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts
hurried and disordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach, and
shrunk involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul 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 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 come to this.
The past night, the day before, and many other days and nights beside,
all mingled themselves 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 boisterously. When they stopped, he was a little surprised to
find himself in the act of smoking; but, on reflection, he remembered
when and where he had taken the cigar.
They stopped at the avenue gate and alighted, leaving the carriage to
the care of the servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as well
accustomed 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 bloodshot, his dress disordered,
and his hair dishevelled. For the face, it expressed nothing but violent
and evil passions. He shaded his eyes with his hand; grazed 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.
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 Mulberry. ‘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; goodbye!’
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,
amidst 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.
CHAPTER 51
The Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful
Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into
their Confidence
In 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 hoarding 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 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 ostentatiously, 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
themselves, 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!
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.
‘The snuff-coloured suit,’ said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare
coat. ‘Did I look well in snuff-colour? 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 lucky!
‘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!--a tarnished shilling in the waistcoat pocket. To think
that the pawnbroker shouldn’t have known there was a shilling in it! I
knew it! I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog
of a pawnbroker! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle-green. The very
day I put it on first, old Lord Mallowford was burnt to death in