Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and
Mr. Timothy Linkinwater. The brothers give a Banquet on a great Annual
Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it, receives a mysterious and
important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs. Nickleby
The square in which the counting-house of the brothers Cheeryble
was situated, although it might not wholly realise the very sanguine
expectations which a stranger would be disposed to form on hearing
the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim Linkinwater, was,
nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy town
like London, and one which occupied a high place in the affectionate
remembrances of several grave persons domiciled in the neighbourhood,
whose recollections, however, dated from a much more recent period,
and whose attachment to the spot was far less absorbing, than were the
recollections and attachment of the enthusiastic Tim.
And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the aristocratic
gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, the dowager barrenness
and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the gravel walks and garden seats
of the Squares of Russell and Euston, suppose that the affections of
Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers of this particular locality, had
been awakened and kept alive by any refreshing associations with leaves,
however dingy, or grass, however bare and thin. The city square has no
enclosure, save the lamp-post in the middle: and no grass, but the
weeds which spring up round its base. It is a quiet, little-frequented,
retired spot, favourable to melancholy and contemplation, and
appointments of long-waiting; and up and down its every side the
Appointed saunters idly by the hour together wakening the echoes with
the monotonous sound of his footsteps on the smooth worn stones, and
counting, first the windows, and then the very bricks of the tall silent
houses that hem him round about. In winter-time, the snow will linger
there, long after it has melted from the busy streets and highways. The
summer’s sun holds it in some respect, and while he darts his cheerful
rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery heat and glare for
noisier and less-imposing precincts. It is so quiet, that you can
almost hear the ticking of your own watch when you stop to cool in
its refreshing atmosphere. There is a distant hum--of coaches, not of
insects--but no other sound disturbs the stillness of the square. The
ticket porter leans idly against the post at the corner: comfortably
warm, but not hot, although the day is broiling. His white apron flaps
languidly in the air, his head gradually droops upon his breast, he
takes very long winks with both eyes at once; even he is unable to
withstand the soporific influence of the place, and is gradually falling
asleep. But now, he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two,
and gazes out before him with eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or
a boy at marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear an organ? No; sight
more unwonted still--there is a butterfly in the square--a real, live
butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the iron
heads of the dusty area railings.
But if there were not many matters immediately without the doors of
Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distract the thoughts of
the young clerk, there were not a few within, to interest and amuse him.
There was scarcely an object in the place, animate or inanimate, which
did not partake in some degree of the scrupulous method and punctuality
of Mr. Timothy Linkinwater. Punctual as the counting-house dial, which he
maintained to be the best time-keeper in London next after the clock
of some old, hidden, unknown church hard by, (for Tim held the fabled
goodness of that at the Horse Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented
by jealous West-enders,) the old clerk performed the minutest actions
of the day, and arranged the minutest articles in the little room, in a
precise and regular order, which could not have been exceeded if it had
actually been a real glass case, fitted with the choicest curiosities.
Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers, pounce-box, string-box,
fire-box, Tim’s hat, Tim’s scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim’s other
coat--looking precisely like a back view of himself as it hung against
the wall--all had their accustomed inches of space. Except the clock,
there was not such an accurate and unimpeachable instrument in existence
as the little thermometer which hung behind the door. There was not a
bird of such methodical and business-like habits in all the world, as
the blind blackbird, who dreamed and dozed away his days in a large
snug cage, and had lost his voice, from old age, years before Tim first
bought him. There was not such an eventful story in the whole range
of anecdote, as Tim could tell concerning the acquisition of that very
bird; how, compassionating his starved and suffering condition, he had
purchased him, with the view of humanely terminating his wretched life;
how he determined to wait three days and see whether the bird revived;
how, before half the time was out, the bird did revive; and how he
went on reviving and picking up his appetite and good looks until he
gradually became what--‘what you see him now, sir,’--Tim would say,
glancing proudly at the cage. And with that, Tim would utter a melodious
chirrup, and cry ‘Dick;’ and Dick, who, for any sign of life he had
previously given, might have been a wooden or stuffed representation of
a blackbird indifferently executed, would come to the side of the cage
in three small jumps, and, thrusting his bill between the bars, turn his
sightless head towards his old master--and at that moment it would be
very difficult to determine which of the two was the happier, the bird
or Tim Linkinwater.
Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflection of the
kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen and porters were such
sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a treat to see them. Among the
shipping announcements and steam-packet lists which decorated the
counting-house wall, were designs for almshouses, statements of
charities, and plans for new hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords
hung above the chimney-piece, for the terror of evil-doers, but the
blunderbuss was rusty and shattered, and the swords were broken and
edgeless. Elsewhere, their open display in such a condition would have
realised a smile; but, there, it seemed as though even violent and
offensive weapons partook of the reigning influence, and became emblems
of mercy and forbearance.
Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly, on the
morning when he first took possession of the vacant stool, and looked
about him, more freely and at ease, than he had before enjoyed an
opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encouraged and stimulated him to
exertion, for, during the next two weeks, all his spare hours, late at
night and early in the morning, were incessantly devoted to acquiring
the mysteries of book-keeping and some other forms of mercantile
account. To these, he applied himself with such steadiness and
perseverance that, although he brought no greater amount of previous
knowledge to the subject than certain dim recollections of two or three
very long sums entered into a ciphering-book at school, and relieved for
parental inspection by the effigy of a fat swan tastefully flourished
by the writing-master’s own hand, he found himself, at the end of a
fortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to Mr. Linkinwater,
and to claim his promise that he, Nicholas Nickleby, should now be
allowed to assist him in his graver labours.
It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater slowly bring out a massive
ledger and day-book, and, after turning them over and over, and
affectionately dusting their backs and sides, open the leaves here and
there, and cast his eyes, half mournfully, half proudly, upon the fair
and unblotted entries.
‘Four-and-forty year, next May!’ said Tim. ‘Many new ledgers since then.
Four-and-forty year!’
Tim closed the book again.
‘Come, come,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am all impatience to begin.’
Tim Linkinwater shook his head with an air of mild reproof. Mr. Nickleby
was not sufficiently impressed with the deep and awful nature of his
undertaking. Suppose there should be any mistake--any scratching out!
Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they will rush upon,
sometimes. Without even taking the precaution of sitting himself down
upon his stool, but standing leisurely at the desk, and with a smile
upon his face--actually a smile--there was no mistake about it; Mr
Linkinwater often mentioned it afterwards--Nicholas dipped his pen
into the inkstand before him, and plunged into the books of Cheeryble
Brothers!
Tim Linkinwater turned pale, and tilting up his stool on the two legs
nearest Nicholas, looked over his shoulder in breathless anxiety.
Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the counting-house together; but
Tim Linkinwater, without looking round, impatiently waved his hand as a
caution that profound silence must be observed, and followed the nib of
the inexperienced pen with strained and eager eyes.
The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but Tim Linkinwater smiled
not, nor moved for some minutes. At length, he drew a long slow breath,
and still maintaining his position on the tilted stool, glanced at
brother Charles, secretly pointed with the feather of his pen towards
Nicholas, and nodded his head in a grave and resolute manner, plainly
signifying ‘He’ll do.’
Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing look with brother
Ned; but, just then, Nicholas stopped to refer to some other page,
and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain his satisfaction any longer,
descended from his stool, and caught him rapturously by the hand.
‘He has done it!’ said Tim, looking round at his employers and shaking
his head triumphantly. ‘His capital B’s and D’s are exactly like mine;
he dots all his small i’s and crosses every t as he writes it. There
an’t such a young man as this in all London,’ said Tim, clapping
Nicholas on the back; ‘not one. Don’t tell me! The city can’t produce
his equal. I challenge the city to do it!’
With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim Linkinwater struck the desk
such a blow with his clenched fist, that the old blackbird tumbled off
his perch with the start it gave him, and actually uttered a feeble
croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.
‘Well said, Tim--well said, Tim Linkinwater!’ cried brother Charles,
scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his hands gently
as he spoke. ‘I knew our young friend would take great pains, and I was
quite certain he would succeed, in no time. Didn’t I say so, brother
Ned?’
‘You did, my dear brother; certainly, my dear brother, you said so, and
you were quite right,’ replied Ned. ‘Quite right. Tim Linkinwater is
excited, but he is justly excited, properly excited. Tim is a fine
fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir--you’re a fine fellow.’
‘Here’s a pleasant thing to think of!’ said Tim, wholly regardless of
this address to himself, and raising his spectacles from the ledger to
the brothers. ‘Here’s a pleasant thing. Do you suppose I haven’t often
thought of what would become of these books when I was gone? Do you
suppose I haven’t often thought that things might go on irregular and
untidy here, after I was taken away? But now,’ said Tim, extending his
forefinger towards Nicholas, ‘now, when I’ve shown him a little more,
I’m satisfied. The business will go on, when I’m dead, as well as it did
when I was alive--just the same--and I shall have the satisfaction of
knowing that there never were such books--never were such books! No, nor
never will be such books--as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.’
Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr. Linkinwater gave vent to
a short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of London and
Westminster, and, turning again to his desk, quietly carried seventy-six
from the last column he had added up, and went on with his work.
‘Tim Linkinwater, sir,’ said brother Charles; ‘give me your hand, sir.
This is your birthday. How dare you talk about anything else till you
have been wished many happy returns of the day, Tim Linkinwater? God
bless you, Tim! God bless you!’
‘My dear brother,’ said the other, seizing Tim’s disengaged fist, ‘Tim
Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on his last birthday.’
‘Brother Ned, my dear boy,’ returned the other old fellow, ‘I believe
that Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty years old, and
is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty; for he’s younger every
birthday than he was the year before.’
‘So he is, brother Charles, so he is,’ replied brother Ned. ‘There’s not
a doubt about it.’
‘Remember, Tim,’ said brother Charles, ‘that we dine at half-past five
today instead of two o’clock; we always depart from our usual custom on
this anniversary, as you very well know, Tim Linkinwater. Mr. Nickleby,
my dear sir, you will make one. Tim Linkinwater, give me your snuff-box
as a remembrance to brother Charles and myself of an attached and
faithful rascal, and take that, in exchange, as a feeble mark of our
respect and esteem, and don’t open it until you go to bed, and never
say another word upon the subject, or I’ll kill the blackbird. A dog! He
should have had a golden cage half-a-dozen years ago, if it would have
made him or his master a bit the happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear
fellow, I’m ready. At half-past five, remember, Mr. Nickleby! Tim
Linkinwater, sir, take care of Mr. Nickleby at half-past five. Now,
brother Ned.’
Chattering away thus, according to custom, to prevent the possibility
of any thanks or acknowledgment being expressed on the other side, the
twins trotted off, arm-in-arm; having endowed Tim Linkinwater with a
costly gold snuff-box, enclosing a bank note worth more than its value
ten times told.
At a quarter past five o’clock, punctual to the minute, arrived,
according to annual usage, Tim Linkinwater’s sister; and a great to-do
there was, between Tim Linkinwater’s sister and the old housekeeper,
respecting Tim Linkinwater’s sister’s cap, which had been dispatched,
per boy, from the house of the family where Tim Linkinwater’s sister
boarded, and had not yet come to hand: notwithstanding that it had
been packed up in a bandbox, and the bandbox in a handkerchief, and the
handkerchief tied on to the boy’s arm; and notwithstanding, too, that
the place of its consignment had been duly set forth, at full length,
on the back of an old letter, and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers
horrible penalties, the full extent of which the eye of man could not
foresee, to deliver the same with all possible speed, and not to loiter
by the way. Tim Linkinwater’s sister lamented; the housekeeper condoled;
and both kept thrusting their heads out of the second-floor window to
see if the boy was ‘coming’--which would have been highly satisfactory,
and, upon the whole, tantamount to his being come, as the distance to
the corner was not quite five yards--when, all of a sudden, and when he
was least expected, the messenger, carrying the bandbox with elaborate
caution, appeared in an exactly opposite direction, puffing and panting
for breath, and flushed with recent exercise; as well he might be; for
he had taken the air, in the first instance, behind a hackney coach that
went to Camberwell, and had followed two Punches afterwards and had seen
the Stilts home to their own door. The cap was all safe, however--that
was one comfort--and it was no use scolding him--that was another;
so the boy went upon his way rejoicing, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister
presented herself to the company below-stairs, just five minutes after
the half-hour had struck by Tim Linkinwater’s own infallible clock.
The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, Tim Linkinwater, a
ruddy-faced white-headed friend of Tim’s (who was a superannuated bank
clerk), and Nicholas, who was presented to Tim Linkinwater’s sister with
much gravity and solemnity. The party being now completed, brother Ned
rang for dinner, and, dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led
Tim Linkinwater’s sister into the next room, where it was set forth with
great preparation. Then, brother Ned took the head of the table, and
brother Charles the foot; and Tim Linkinwater’s sister sat on the left
hand of brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater himself on his right: and an
ancient butler of apoplectic appearance, and with very short legs, took
up his position at the back of brother Ned’s armchair, and, waving his
right arm preparatory to taking off the covers with a flourish, stood
bolt upright and motionless.
‘For these and all other blessings, brother Charles,’ said Ned.
‘Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,’ said Charles.
Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the soup tureen,
and shot, all at once, into a state of violent activity.
There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its ever
flagging, for the good-humour of the glorious old twins drew
everybody out, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister went off into a long and
circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater’s infancy, immediately after
the very first glass of champagne--taking care to premise that she was
very much Tim’s junior, and had only become acquainted with the facts
from their being preserved and handed down in the family. This history
concluded, brother Ned related how that, exactly thirty-five years ago,
Tim Linkinwater was suspected to have received a love-letter, and how
that vague information had been brought to the counting-house of his
having been seen walking down Cheapside with an uncommonly handsome
spinster; at which there was a roar of laughter, and Tim Linkinwater
being charged with blushing, and called upon to explain, denied that the
accusation was true; and further, that there would have been any harm in
it if it had been; which last position occasioned the superannuated bank
clerk to laugh tremendously, and to declare that it was the very best
thing he had ever heard in his life, and that Tim Linkinwater might say
a great many things before he said anything which would beat THAT.
There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both the matter and
manner of which made a very strong impression upon Nicholas. The cloth
having been removed and the decanters sent round for the first time, a
profound silence succeeded, and in the cheerful faces of the brothers
there appeared an expression, not of absolute melancholy, but of quiet
thoughtfulness very unusual at a festive table. As Nicholas, struck
by this sudden alteration, was wondering what it could portend, the
brothers rose together, and the one at the top of the table leaning
forward towards the other, and speaking in a low voice as if he were
addressing him individually, said:
‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another association connected
with this day which must never be forgotten, and never can be forgotten,
by you and me. This day, which brought into the world a most faithful
and excellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the kindest and very
best of parents, the very best of parents to us both. I wish that
she could have seen us in our prosperity, and shared it, and had the
happiness of knowing how dearly we loved her in it, as we did when we
were two poor boys; but that was not to be. My dear brother--The Memory
of our Mother.’
‘Good Lord!’ thought Nicholas, ‘and there are scores of people of their
own station, knowing all this, and twenty thousand times more, who
wouldn’t ask these men to dinner because they eat with their knives and
never went to school!’
But there was no time to moralise, for the joviality again became very
brisk, and the decanter of port being nearly out, brother Ned pulled the
bell, which was instantly answered by the apoplectic butler.
‘David,’ said brother Ned.
‘Sir,’ replied the butler.
‘A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the health of Mr
Linkinwater.’
Instantly, by a feat of dexterity, which was the admiration of all the
company, and had been, annually, for some years past, the apoplectic
butler, bringing his left hand from behind the small of his back,
produced the bottle with the corkscrew already inserted; uncorked it at
a jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork before his master with the
dignity of conscious cleverness.
‘Ha!’ said brother Ned, first examining the cork and afterwards filling
his glass, while the old butler looked complacently and amiably on, as
if it were all his own property, but the company were quite welcome to
make free with it, ‘this looks well, David.’
‘It ought to, sir,’ replied David. ‘You’d be troubled to find such a
glass of wine as is our double-diamond, and that Mr. Linkinwater knows
very well. That was laid down when Mr. Linkinwater first come: that wine
was, gentlemen.’
‘Nay, David, nay,’ interposed brother Charles.
‘I wrote the entry in the cellar-book myself, sir, if you please,’ said
David, in the tone of a man, quite confident in the strength of his
facts. ‘Mr. Linkinwater had only been here twenty year, sir, when that
pipe of double-diamond was laid down.’
‘David is quite right, quite right, brother Charles,’ said Ned: ‘are the
people here, David?’
‘Outside the door, sir,’ replied the butler.
‘Show ‘em in, David, show ‘em in.’
At this bidding, the older butler placed before his master a small tray
of clean glasses, and opening the door admitted the jolly porters and
warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below. They were four in all, and as
they came in, bowing, and grinning, and blushing, the housekeeper, and
cook, and housemaid, brought up the rear.
‘Seven,’ said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number of glasses
with the double-diamond, ‘and David, eight. There! Now, you’re all of
you to drink the health of your best friend Mr. Timothy Linkinwater, and
wish him health and long life and many happy returns of this day, both
for his own sake and that of your old masters, who consider him an
inestimable treasure. Tim Linkinwater, sir, your health. Devil take you,
Tim Linkinwater, sir, God bless you.’
With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave Tim
Linkinwater a slap on the back, which made him look, for the moment,
almost as apoplectic as the butler: and tossed off the contents of his
glass in a twinkling.
The toast was scarcely drunk with all honour to Tim Linkinwater, when
the sturdiest and jolliest subordinate elbowed himself a little
in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a very hot and flushed
countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hair in the middle of his
forehead as a respectful salute to the company, and delivered himself
as follows--rubbing the palms of his hands very hard on a blue cotton
handkerchief as he did so:
‘We’re allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen’lemen, and if you
please we’ll take it now; there being no time like the present, and no
two birds in the hand worth one in the bush, as is well known--leastways
in a contrairy sense, which the meaning is the same. (A pause--the
butler unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that there never
was (looking at the butler)--such--(looking at the cook)
noble--excellent--(looking everywhere and seeing nobody) free,
generous-spirited masters as them as has treated us so handsome
this day. And here’s thanking of ‘em for all their goodness as is so
constancy a diffusing of itself over everywhere, and wishing they may
live long and die happy!’
When the foregoing speech was over--and it might have been much more
elegant and much less to the purpose--the whole body of subordinates
under command of the apoplectic butler gave three soft cheers; which, to
that gentleman’s great indignation, were not very regular, inasmuch as
the women persisted in giving an immense number of little shrill hurrahs
among themselves, in utter disregard of the time. This done, they
withdrew; shortly afterwards, Tim Linkinwater’s sister withdrew; in
reasonable time after that, the sitting was broken up for tea and
coffee, and a round game of cards.
At half-past ten--late hours for the square--there appeared a little
tray of sandwiches and a bowl of bishop, which bishop coming on the top
of the double-diamond, and other excitements, had such an effect
upon Tim Linkinwater, that he drew Nicholas aside, and gave him to
understand, confidentially, that it was quite true about the uncommonly
handsome spinster, and that she was to the full as good-looking as she
had been described--more so, indeed--but that she was in too much of a
hurry to change her condition, and consequently, while Tim was courting
her and thinking of changing his, got married to somebody else. ‘After
all, I dare say it was my fault,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll show you a print
I have got upstairs, one of these days. It cost me five-and-twenty
shillings. I bought it soon after we were cool to each other. Don’t
mention it, but it’s the most extraordinary accidental likeness you ever
saw--her very portrait, sir!’
By this time it was past eleven o’clock; and Tim Linkinwater’s sister
declaring that she ought to have been at home a full hour ago, a coach
was procured, into which she was handed with great ceremony by brother
Ned, while brother Charles imparted the fullest directions to the
coachman, and besides paying the man a shilling over and above his fare,
in order that he might take the utmost care of the lady, all but choked
him with a glass of spirits of uncommon strength, and then nearly
knocked all the breath out of his body in his energetic endeavours to
knock it in again.
At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister being now
fairly on her way home, Nicholas and Tim Linkinwater’s friend took
their leaves together, and left old Tim and the worthy brothers to their
repose.
As Nicholas had some distance to walk, it was considerably past midnight
by the time he reached home, where he found his mother and Smike sitting
up to receive him. It was long after their usual hour of retiring, and
they had expected him, at the very latest, two hours ago; but the time
had not hung heavily on their hands, for Mrs. Nickleby had entertained
Smike with a genealogical account of her family by the mother’s side,
comprising biographical sketches of the principal members, and Smike had
sat wondering what it was all about, and whether it was learnt from
a book, or said out of Mrs. Nickleby’s own head; so that they got on
together very pleasantly.
Nicholas could not go to bed without expatiating on the excellences and
munificence of the brothers Cheeryble, and relating the great success
which had attended his efforts that day. But before he had said a dozen
words, Mrs. Nickleby, with many sly winks and nods, observed, that she
was sure Mr. Smike must be quite tired out, and that she positively must
insist on his not sitting up a minute longer.
‘A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, when
Smike had wished them good-night and left the room. ‘I know you’ll
excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don’t like to do this before a third
person; indeed, before a young man it would not be quite proper, though
really, after all, I don’t know what harm there is in it, except that
to be sure it’s not a very becoming thing, though some people say it is
very much so, and really I don’t know why it should not be, if it’s
well got up, and the borders are small-plaited; of course, a good deal
depends upon that.’
With which preface, Mrs. Nickleby took her nightcap from between the
leaves of a very large prayer-book where it had been folded up small,
and proceeded to tie it on: talking away in her usual discursive manner,
all the time.
‘People may say what they like,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby, ‘but there’s
a great deal of comfort in a nightcap, as I’m sure you would confess,
Nicholas my dear, if you would only have strings to yours, and wear it
like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very top of your head
like a blue-coat boy. You needn’t think it an unmanly or quizzical thing
to be particular about your nightcap, for I have often heard your poor
dear papa, and the Reverend Mr. What’s-his-name, who used to read prayers
in that old church with the curious little steeple that the weathercock
was blown off the night week before you were born,--I have often heard
them say, that the young men at college are uncommonly particular about
their nightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated
for their strength and goodness; so much so, indeed, that the young men
never dream of going to bed without ‘em, and I believe it’s admitted on
all hands that THEY know what’s good, and don’t coddle themselves.’
Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject of this
lengthened harangue, reverted to the pleasant tone of the little
birthday party. And as Mrs. Nickleby instantly became very curious
respecting it, and made a great number of inquiries touching what they
had had for dinner, and how it was put on table, and whether it was
overdone or underdone, and who was there, and what ‘the Mr. Cherrybles’
said, and what Nicholas said, and what the Mr. Cherrybles said when he
said that; Nicholas described the festivities at full length, and also
the occurrences of the morning.
‘Late as it is,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am almost selfish enough to wish
that Kate had been up to hear all this. I was all impatience, as I came
along, to tell her.’
‘Why, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, putting her feet upon the fender, and
drawing her chair close to it, as if settling herself for a long
talk. ‘Kate has been in bed--oh! a couple of hours--and I’m very glad,
Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to sit up, for I wished
very much to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you. I am
naturally anxious about it, and of course it’s a very delightful and
consoling thing to have a grown-up son that one can put confidence in,
and advise with; indeed I don’t know any use there would be in having
sons at all, unless people could put confidence in them.’
Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to
speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.
‘There was a lady in our neighbourhood,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘speaking
of sons puts me in mind of it--a lady in our neighbourhood when we lived
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!’