Nicholas Nickleby
near Dawlish, I think her name was Rogers; indeed I am sure it was if it
wasn’t Murphy, which is the only doubt I have--’
‘Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?’ said Nicholas
quietly.
‘About HER!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how
CAN you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor
dear papa,--just his way--always wandering, never able to fix his
thoughts on any one subject for two minutes together. I think I see him
now!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes, ‘looking at me while I was
talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state
of perfect conglomeration! Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly,
would have supposed I was confusing and distracting him instead of
making things plainer; upon my word they would.’
‘I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate
slowness of apprehension,’ said Nicholas, kindly; ‘but I’ll do my best
to understand you, if you’ll only go straight on: indeed I will.’
‘Your poor pa!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, pondering. ‘He never knew, till it
was too late, what I would have had him do!’
This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr. Nickleby had
not arrived at the knowledge when he died. Neither had Mrs. Nickleby
herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation of the circumstance.
‘However,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, drying her tears, ‘this has nothing to
do--certainly nothing whatever to do--with the gentleman in the next
house.’
‘I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to
do with us,’ returned Nicholas.
‘There can be no doubt,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that he IS a gentleman,
and has the manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentleman,
although he does wear smalls and grey worsted stockings. That may
be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don’t see why he
shouldn’t be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel
Lambert, who was also a fat man; HE was proud of his legs. So was Miss
Biffin: she was--no,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, correcting, herself, ‘I think
she had only toes, but the principle is the same.’
Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme.
Which seemed just what Mrs. Nickleby had expected him to be.
‘You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am sure I
was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my blood.
The bottom of his garden joins the bottom of ours, and of course I had
several times seen him sitting among the scarlet-beans in his little
arbour, or working at his little hot-beds. I used to think he stared
rather, but I didn’t take any particular notice of that, as we were
newcomers, and he might be curious to see what we were like. But when he
began to throw his cucumbers over our wall--’
‘To throw his cucumbers over our wall!’ repeated Nicholas, in great
astonishment.
‘Yes, Nicholas, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby in a very serious tone;
‘his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.’
‘Confound his impudence!’ said Nicholas, firing immediately. ‘What does
he mean by that?’
‘I don’t think he means it impertinently at all,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.
‘What!’ said Nicholas, ‘cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at the
heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, and not meant
impertinently! Why, mother--’
Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of
placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between
the borders of Mrs. Nickleby’s nightcap, which arrested his attention
suddenly.
‘He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,’ said
Mrs. Nickleby; ‘blamable indeed--at least I suppose other people would
consider him so; of course I can’t be expected to express any opinion on
that point, especially after always defending your poor dear papa when
other people blamed him for making proposals to me; and to be sure there
can be no doubt that he has taken a very singular way of showing it.
Still at the same time, his attentions are--that is, as far as it goes,
and to a certain extent of course--a flattering sort of thing; and
although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl like
Kate still unsettled in life--’
‘Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?’
said Nicholas.
‘Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,’ returned his mother in a peevish
tone, ‘isn’t that precisely what I am saying, if you would only let me
speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, and I am surprised
and astonished that you should suppose me capable of such a thing. All
I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to reject these advances
civilly and delicately, and without hurting his feelings too much,
and driving him to despair, or anything of that kind? My goodness me!’
exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, with a half-simper, ‘suppose he was to go doing
anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas?’
Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling,
as he rejoined, ‘Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be
likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?’
‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby; ‘really,
I don’t know. I am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday’s
paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers, about a journeyman
shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an adjoining
village, because she wouldn’t shut herself up in an air-tight
three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him; and who
went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed
out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first,
and then all the friends, and then her--no, killed all the friends
first, and then herself, and then HIMself--which it is quite frightful
to think of. Somehow or other,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a momentary
pause, ‘they always ARE journeyman shoemakers who do these things in
France, according to the papers. I don’t know how it is--something in
the leather, I suppose.’
‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker--what has he done, mother, what
has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but
looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs. Nickleby herself. ‘You
know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into
a formal declaration of attachment.’
‘My dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the
ashes in the grate, ‘he has done and said all sorts of things.’
‘Is there no mistake on your part?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Mistake!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I
don’t know when a man’s in earnest?’
‘Well, well!’ muttered Nicholas.
‘Every time I go to the window,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘he kisses one hand,
and lays the other upon his heart--of course it’s very foolish of him
to do so, and I dare say you’ll say it’s very wrong, but he does it very
respectfully--very respectfully indeed--and very tenderly, extremely
tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt
about that. Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the
wall every day, and very fine they certainly are, very fine; we had one
of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of pickling the rest
for next winter. And last evening,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, with increased
confusion, ‘he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the
garden, and proposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear
as a bell or a musical glass--very like a musical glass indeed--but of
course I didn’t listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear,
what am I to do?’
‘Does Kate know of this?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I have not said a word about it yet,’ answered his mother.
‘Then, for Heaven’s sake,’ rejoined Nicholas, rising, ‘do not, for it
would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what you should do, my
dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling, and respect for my
father’s memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways in which you
can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting attentions. If
you act as decidedly as you ought and they are still continued, and
to your annoyance, I can speedily put a stop to them. But I should not
interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance to it, until
you have vindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially
one of your age and condition, in circumstances like these, which are
unworthy of a serious thought. I would not shame you by seeming to
take them to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant. Absurd old
idiot!’
So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and they
retired to their respective chambers.
To do Mrs. Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would have
prevented her seriously contemplating a second marriage, even if she
could have so far conquered her recollections of her late husband as to
have any strong inclinations that way. But, although there was no evil
and little real selfishness in Mrs. Nickleby’s heart, she had a weak head
and a vain one; and there was something so flattering in being sought
(and vainly sought) in marriage at this time of day, that she could
not dismiss the passion of the unknown gentleman quite so summarily or
lightly as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.
‘As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,’ thought Mrs
Nickleby, communing with herself in her own room, ‘I don’t see that,
at all. It’s hopeless on his part, certainly; but why he should be an
absurd old idiot, I confess I don’t see. He is not to be supposed to
know it’s hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, I think!’
Having made these reflections, Mrs. Nickleby looked in her little
dressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried
to remember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas was
one-and-twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother than her
son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished
her candle, and drew up the window-blind to admit the light of morning,
which had, by this time, begun to dawn.
‘It’s a bad light to distinguish objects in,’ murmured Mrs. Nickleby,
peering into the garden, ‘and my eyes are not very good--I was
short-sighted from a child--but, upon my word, I think there’s another
large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the broken glass
bottles at the top of the wall!’
CHAPTER 38
Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence,
which may prove important hereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a
very old Friend, who invites him to his House, and will take no Denial
Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorous neighbour, or
their effects upon the susceptible bosom of her mama, Kate Nickleby
had, by this time, begun to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity and
happiness, to which, even in occasional and transitory glimpses, she
had long been a stranger. Living under the same roof with the beloved
brother from whom she had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with
a mind at ease, and free from any persecutions which could call a blush
into her cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passed into
a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her step
regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had forsaken
her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more beautiful
than ever.
Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy’s ruminations and
observations led her, when the cottage had been, as she emphatically
said, ‘thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-pots to the
street-door scraper,’ and the busy little woman had at length a moment’s
time to think about its inmates.