Nicholas Nickleby
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, hesitating. ‘Come!’ he said, frankly, after a
moment’s pause, ‘we parted on no very good terms the last time we met;
it was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention of offending you, and
no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it, afterwards. Will
you shake hands?’
‘Shake honds!’ cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; ‘ah! that I weel;’
at the same time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas’s fist
a huge wrench: ‘but wa’at be the matther wi’ thy feace, mun? it be all
brokken loike.’
‘It is a cut,’ said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke,--‘a blow; but
I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.’
‘Noa, did ‘ee though?’ exclaimed John Browdie. ‘Well deane! I loike ‘un
for thot.’
‘The fact is,’ said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the
avowal, ‘the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.’
‘Noa!’ interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a
giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, in his eyes,
seemed a mere dwarf; ‘dean’t say thot.’
‘Yes, I have,’ replied Nicholas, ‘by that man Squeers, and I have beaten
him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.’
‘What!’ cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse
quite shied at it. ‘Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten the
schoolmeasther! who ever heard o’ the loike o’ that noo! Giv’ us thee
hond agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov’ thee
for’t.’
With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed and laughed
again--so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing but
jovial peals of merriment--and shook Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no
less heartily. When his mirth had subsided, he inquired what Nicholas
meant to do; on his informing him, to go straight to London, he shook
his head doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches
charged to carry passengers so far.
‘No, I do not,’ said Nicholas; ‘but it is of no great consequence to me,
for I intend walking.’
‘Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!’ cried John, in amazement.
‘Every step of the way,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I should be many steps
further on by this time, and so goodbye!’
‘Nay noo,’ replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient
horse, ‘stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?’
‘Not much,’ said Nicholas, colouring, ‘but I can make it enough. Where
there’s a will, there’s a way, you know.’
John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand
in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted
that Nicholas should borrow from him whatever he required for his
present necessities.
‘Dean’t be afeard, mun,’ he said; ‘tak’ eneaf to carry thee whoam.
Thee’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.’
Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a
sovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties that he
would accept of more (observing, with a touch of Yorkshire caution, that
if he didn’t spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he had an
opportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.
‘Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’, mun,’ he added, pressing
his stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; ‘keep a good
heart, and bless thee. Beatten the schoolmeasther! ‘Cod it’s the best
thing a’ve heerd this twonty year!’
So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been
expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of
avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, John Browdie set spurs
to his horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking back, from time to
time, as Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily,
as if to encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider
until they disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set
forward on his journey.
He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly
dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered
the way toilsome, but the track uncertain and difficult to find, after
daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a
cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of
travellers; and, rising betimes next morning, made his way before night
to Boroughbridge. Passing through that town in search of some cheap
resting-place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred
yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary
limbs, and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had
been all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat
up, rubbed his eyes and stared--not with the most composed countenance
possible--at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed within
a few yards in front of him.
‘Strange!’ cried Nicholas; ‘can this be some lingering creation of the
visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real--and yet I--I am
awake! Smike!’
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet.
It was Smike indeed.
‘Why do you kneel to me?’ said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
‘To go with you--anywhere--everywhere--to the world’s end--to the
churchyard grave,’ replied Smike, clinging to his hand. ‘Let me, oh do
let me. You are my home--my kind friend--take me with you, pray.’
‘I am a friend who can do little for you,’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘How
came you here?’
He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way;
had watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and
had feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not
intended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he
looked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, ‘your hard fate denies you any friend but
one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.’
‘May I--may I go with you?’ asked Smike, timidly. ‘I will be your
faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,’ added
the poor creature, drawing his rags together; ‘these will do very well.
I only want to be near you.’
‘And you shall,’ cried Nicholas. ‘And the world shall deal by you as it
does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!’
With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking
his stick in one hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and
so they passed out of the old barn, together.
CHAPTER 14
Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily
of a Mean and Vulgar Character
In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is
a bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two irregular rows of tall
meagre houses, which seem to have stared each other out of countenance
years ago. The very chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy,
from having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the
way. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and,
here and there, some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to
one side, and toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking revenge
for half a century’s neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of the garrets
beneath.
The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and
thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt,
and which any country cock or hen would be puzzled to understand, are
perfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners. Dingy,
ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring
children, to get a livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to
stone, in forlorn search of some hidden eatable in the mud, and can
scarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything approaching
to a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker’s; and even he is hoarse, in
consequence of bad living in his last place.
To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time,
tenanted by persons of better condition than their present occupants;
but they are now let off, by the week, in floors or rooms, and every
door has almost as many plates or bell-handles as there are apartments
within. The windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified
in appearance, being ornamented with every variety of common blind and
curtain that can easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up,
and rendered nearly impassable, by a motley collection of children and
porter pots of all sizes, from the baby in arms and the half-pint pot,
to the full-grown girl and half-gallon can.
In the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought
dirtier than any of its neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles,
children, and porter pots, and caught in all its freshness the first
gust of the thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a
large brewery hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one
room to let within its walls, though on what story the vacant room could
be--regard being had to the outward tokens of many lodgers which the
whole front displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the
flower-pots on the parapet--it would have been beyond the power of a
calculating boy to discover.
The common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a
curious visitor who had to climb his way to the top, might have observed
that there were not wanting indications of the progressive poverty
of the inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the first-floor
lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table--real
mahogany--on the landing-place outside, which was only taken in, when
occasion required. On the second story, the spare furniture dwindled
down to a couple of old deal chairs, of which one, belonging to the
back-room, was shorn of a leg, and bottomless. The story above,
boasted no greater excess than a worm-eaten wash-tub; and the garret
landing-place displayed no costlier articles than two crippled pitchers,
and some broken blacking-bottles.
It was on this garret landing-place that a hard-featured square-faced
man, elderly and shabby, stopped to unlock the door of the front attic,
into which, having surmounted the task of turning the rusty key in its
still more rusty wards, he walked with the air of legal owner.
This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he took off
with his hat, and hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a dirty
cotton nightcap, and groped about in the dark till he found a remnant of
candle, he knocked at the partition which divided the two garrets, and
inquired, in a loud voice, whether Mr. Noggs had a light.
The sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster, and it
seemed moreover as though the speaker had uttered them from the interior
of a mug or other drinking vessel; but they were in the voice of Newman,
and conveyed a reply in the affirmative.
‘A nasty night, Mr. Noggs!’ said the man in the nightcap, stepping in to
light his candle.
‘Does it rain?’ asked Newman.
‘Does it?’ replied the other pettishly. ‘I am wet through.’
‘It doesn’t take much to wet you and me through, Mr. Crowl,’ said Newman,
laying his hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.
‘Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,’ observed Mr. Crowl, in the
same pettish tone.
Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harsh countenance was
the very epitome of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out of
the grate, and, emptying the glass which Noggs had pushed towards him,
inquired where he kept his coals.
Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and Mr. Crowl, seizing