Nicholas Nickleby
home; and no less characteristically forgetting, that there were such
things as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every
week of the year.
‘I 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,’ replied Miss La Creevy, with
as much sprightliness 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 neighbourhood
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 upstairs, 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,’ said 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 your master?’
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 LOVE.
‘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 Newman 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, notwithstanding 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
coachyard, on the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire?’
Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs. Nickleby and said ‘No,’ most
unblushingly.
‘No!’ 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.’
Newman was very, very far 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 persisting in sending the servant girl for a
coach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To
both conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach
came; and, after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running
backwards and forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La
Creevy, in the course of which the yellow turban came into violent
contact 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 assurances 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
vehicles 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 interior 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, fragments 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 on 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
frowning and how dark it looks!’
‘Lord, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, ‘don’t talk in that way, or
you’ll frighten me to death.’
‘It is only my foolish fancy, mama,’ said Kate, forcing a smile.
‘Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep 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 company 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 yesterday, 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 halfpennyworth
of milk for tea that stood upon a shelf, or filled the rusty kettle on
the hob, or collected the woodchips 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, mama,’ 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, 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 12
Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of
Miss Fanny Squeer’s Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or
otherwise.
It 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 quarrelsome mood in
his cups, it is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her,
either on this or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with
a foresight and prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose,
to bear the first brunt of the good gentleman’s anger; which, having
vented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to
admit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots
on, and an umbrella under his arm.
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; and it was only the
arbitrary distinctions of rank and station which prevented her from
being one.
‘How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!’ 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 proceeded
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 your’n, 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!’
‘What do you mean, Phib?’ 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!’
‘Talk, miss! It’s enough to make a Tom cat 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, compassionately.
‘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.