“Is this the hend?”
(“_Nicholas Nickleby._”)
Bathed in the radiance of the newly-risen Sun, the billows are surging
and bristling below the Cliff, along which the Poet is thoughtfully
wending his way. It may possibly surprise the reader that he should
not ere this have obtained an interview with his beloved Sukie: he may
ask the reason: he will ask in vain: to record with rigid accuracy the
progress of events is the sole duty of the historian: were he to go
beyond that, and attempt to dive into the hidden causes of things, the
why and the wherefore, he would be trespassing on the province of the
metaphysician.
Presently the Poet reached a small rising ground at the end of the
gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a view of the sea, and
here he sunk down wearily.
For a while he gazed dreamily upon the expanse of ocean, then, struck
by a sudden thought, he opened a small pocket book, and proceeded to
correct and complete his last poem. Slowly to himself he muttered the
words “death--saith--breath,” impatiently tapping the ground with
his foot. “Ah, that’ll do,” he said at last, with an air of relief,
“breath”:
“His barque had perished in the storm,
Whirled by its fiery breath
On sunken rocks, his stalwart form
Was doomed to watery death.”
“That last line’s good,” he continued exaltingly, “and on Coleridge’s
principle of alliteration, too--W. D., W. D.--was doomed to watery
death.”
“Take care,” growled a deep voice in his ear, “what you say will be
used in evidence against you--now it’s no use trying that, we’ve got
you tight,” this last remark being caused by the struggles of the Poet,
naturally indignant at being unexpectedly collared by two men from
behind.
“He’s confessed to it, constable? you heard him?” said the first
speaker (who rejoiced in the euphonious title of Muggle, and whom it is
almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder traveller of
Chapter One)! “it’s as much as his life is worth.”
“I say, stow that----” warmly responded the other; “seems to me the
gen’leman was a spouting potry.”
“What--what’s the matter?” here gasped our unfortunate hero, who had
recovered his breath; “you--Muggle--what do you mean by it?”
“Mean by it!” blustered his quondam friend, “what do _you_ mean by it,
if you comes to that? You’re an assassin, that’s what you are! Where’s
the waiter you had with you last night? answer me that!”
“The--the waiter?” slowly repeated the Poet, still stunned by the
suddenness of his capture, “why, he’s dr----”
“I knew it!” cried his friend, who was at him in a moment, and choked
up the unfinished word in his throat, “drowned, Constable! I told you
so--and who did it?” he continued, loosing his grip a moment to obtain
an answer.
The Poet’s answer, so far as it could be gathered, (for it came out in
a very fragmentary state, and as it were by crumbs, in intervals of
choking) was the following: “It was my--my--you’ll kill me--fault--I
say, fault--I--I--gave him--you--you’re suffoca--I say--I gave him----”
“a push I suppose,” concluded the other, who here “shut off” the
slender supply of breath he had hitherto allowed his victim “and he
fell in: no doubt. I heard some one had fallen off the Bridge last
night,” turning to the Constable; “no doubt this unfortunate waiter.
Now mark my words! from this moment I renounce this man as my friend:
don’t pity him, constable! don’t think of letting him go to spare _my_
feelings!”
Some convulsive sounds were heard at this moment from the Poet, which,
on attentive consideration, were found to be “the punch--was--was
too much--for him--quite--it--quite----” “Miserable man!” sternly
interposed Muggle; “can you jest about it? You gave him a punch, did
you? and what then?”
“It quite--quite--upset him,” continued the unhappy Schmitz, in a sort
of rambling soliloquy, which was here cut short by the impatience of
the Constable, and the party set forth on their return to the town.
But an unexpected character burst upon the scene and broke into
a speech far more remarkable for energetic delivery than for
grammatical accuracy: “I’ve only just ’erd of it--I were hasleep under
table--’avin’ taken more punch than I could stand--he’s as hinnocent as
I am--dead indeed! I’m more alive than you, a precious sight!”
This speech produced various effects on its hearers: the Constable
calmly released his man, the bewildered Muggle muttered “Impossible!
conspiracy--perjury--have it tried at assizes”: while the happy Poet
rushed into the arms of his deliverer crying in a broken voice: “No,
never from this hour to part. We’ll live and love so true!” a sentiment
which the waiter did not echo with the cordiality that might have been
expected.
Later in the day, Wilhelm and Sukie were sitting conversing with the
waiter and a few friends, when the penitent Muggle suddenly entered the
room, placed a folded paper on the knees of Schmitz, pronounced in a
hollow tone the affecting words “be happy!” vanished, and was seen no
more.
After perusing the paper, Wilhelm rose to his feet; in the excitement
of the moment he was roused into unconscious and extempore verse:
“My Sukie! He hath bought, yea, Muggle’s self,
Convinced at last of deeds unjust and foul,
The licence of a vacant public-house.
We are licensed here to sell to all,
Spirits, porter, snuff, and ale!”
So we leave him: his after happiness who dare to doubt? has he not
Sukie? and having her, he is content.