In which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs a Mediator, whose
Proceedings are crowned with unexpected Success, excepting in one
solitary Particular
Once more out of the clutches of his old persecutor, it needed no fresh
stimulation to call forth the utmost energy and exertion that Smike was
capable of summoning to his aid. Without pausing for a moment to reflect
upon the course he was taking, or the probability of its leading him
homewards or the reverse, he fled away with surprising swiftness and
constancy of purpose, borne upon such wings as only Fear can wear, and
impelled by imaginary shouts in the well remembered voice of Squeers,
who, with a host of pursuers, seemed to the poor fellow’s disordered
senses to press hard upon his track; now left at a greater distance
in the rear, and now gaining faster and faster upon him, as the
alternations of hope and terror agitated him by turns. Long after he had
become assured that these sounds were but the creation of his excited
brain, he still held on, at a pace which even weakness and exhaustion
could scarcely retard. It was not until the darkness and quiet of a
country road, recalled him to a sense of external objects, and the
starry sky, above, warned him of the rapid flight of time, that, covered
with dust and panting for breath, he stopped to listen and look about
him.
All was still and silent. A glare of light in the distance, casting a
warm glow upon the sky, marked where the huge city lay. Solitary fields,
divided by hedges and ditches, through many of which he had crashed and
scrambled in his flight, skirted the road, both by the way he had come
and upon the opposite side. It was late now. They could scarcely trace
him by such paths as he had taken, and if he could hope to regain his
own dwelling, it must surely be at such a time as that, and under cover
of the darkness. This, by degrees, became pretty plain, even to the mind
of Smike. He had, at first, entertained some vague and childish idea of
travelling into the country for ten or a dozen miles, and then returning
homewards by a wide circuit, which should keep him clear of London--so
great was his apprehension of traversing the streets alone, lest
he should again encounter his dreaded enemy--but, yielding to the
conviction which these thoughts inspired, he turned back, and taking the
open road, though not without many fears and misgivings, made for London
again, with scarcely less speed of foot than that with which he had left
the temporary abode of Mr. Squeers.
By the time he re-entered it, at the western extremity, the greater part
of the shops were closed. Of the throngs of people who had been tempted
abroad after the heat of the day, but few remained in the streets, and
they were lounging home. But of these he asked his way from time to
time, and by dint of repeated inquiries, he at length reached the
dwelling of Newman Noggs.
All that evening, Newman had been hunting and searching in byways and
corners for the very person who now knocked at his door, while Nicholas
had been pursuing the same inquiry in other directions. He was sitting,
with a melancholy air, at his poor supper, when Smike’s timorous and
uncertain knock reached his ears. Alive to every sound, in his anxious
and expectant state, Newman hurried downstairs, and, uttering a cry of
joyful surprise, dragged the welcome visitor into the passage and up the
stairs, and said not a word until he had him safe in his own garret
and the door was shut behind them, when he mixed a great mug-full of
gin-and-water, and holding it to Smike’s mouth, as one might hold a bowl
of medicine to the lips of a refractory child, commanded him to drain it
to the last drop.
Newman looked uncommonly blank when he found that Smike did little more
than put his lips to the precious mixture; he was in the act of raising
the mug to his own mouth with a deep sigh of compassion for his poor
friend’s weakness, when Smike, beginning to relate the adventures which
had befallen him, arrested him half-way, and he stood listening, with
the mug in his hand.
It was odd enough to see the change that came over Newman as Smike
proceeded. At first he stood, rubbing his lips with the back of his
hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards composing himself for a draught;
then, at the mention of Squeers, he took the mug under his arm, and
opening his eyes very wide, looked on, in the utmost astonishment. When
Smike came to the assault upon himself in the hackney coach, he hastily
deposited the mug upon the table, and limped up and down the room in a
state of the greatest excitement, stopping himself with a jerk, every
now and then, as if to listen more attentively. When John Browdie came
to be spoken of, he dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into a chair,
and rubbing his hands upon his knees--quicker and quicker as the story
reached its climax--burst, at last, into a laugh composed of one
loud sonorous ‘Ha! ha!’ having given vent to which, his countenance
immediately fell again as he inquired, with the utmost anxiety, whether
it was probable that John Browdie and Squeers had come to blows.
‘No! I think not,’ replied Smike. ‘I don’t think he could have missed me
till I had got quite away.’
Newman scratched his head with a shout of great disappointment, and
once more lifting up the mug, applied himself to the contents; smiling
meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim and ghastly smile at Smike.
‘You shall stay here,’ said Newman; ‘you’re tired--fagged. I’ll tell
them you’re come back. They have been half mad about you. Mr. Nicholas--’
‘God bless him!’ cried Smike.
‘Amen!’ returned Newman. ‘He hasn’t had a minute’s rest or peace; no
more has the old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.’
‘No, no. Has SHE thought about me?’ said Smike. ‘Has she though? oh, has
she, has she? Don’t tell me so if she has not.’
‘She has,’ cried Newman. ‘She is as noble-hearted as she is beautiful.’
‘Yes, yes!’ cried Smike. ‘Well said!’
‘So mild and gentle,’ said Newman.
‘Yes, yes!’ cried Smike, with increasing eagerness.
‘And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,’ pursued Newman.
He was going on, in his enthusiasm, when, chancing to look at his
companion, he saw that he had covered his face with his hands, and that
tears were stealing out between his fingers.
A moment before, the boy’s eyes were sparkling with unwonted fire, and
every feature had been lighted up with an excitement which made him
appear, for the moment, quite a different being.
‘Well, well,’ muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. ‘It has
touched ME, more than once, to think such a nature should have been
exposed to such trials; this poor fellow--yes, yes,--he feels that
too--it softens him--makes him think of his former misery. Hah! That’s
it? Yes, that’s--hum!’
It was by no means clear, from the tone of these broken reflections,
that Newman Noggs considered them as explaining, at all satisfactorily,
the emotion which had suggested them. He sat, in a musing attitude, for
some time, regarding Smike occasionally with an anxious and doubtful
glance, which sufficiently showed that he was not very remotely
connected with his thoughts.
At length he repeated his proposition that Smike should remain where he
was for that night, and that he (Noggs) should straightway repair to the
cottage to relieve the suspense of the family. But, as Smike would
not hear of this--pleading his anxiety to see his friends again--they
eventually sallied forth together; and the night being, by this time,
far advanced, and Smike being, besides, so footsore that he could hardly
crawl along, it was within an hour of sunrise when they reached their
destination.
At the first sound of their voices outside the house, Nicholas, who had
passed a sleepless night, devising schemes for the recovery of his lost
charge, started from his bed, and joyfully admitted them. There was so
much noisy conversation, and congratulation, and indignation, that the
remainder of the family were soon awakened, and Smike received a warm
and cordial welcome, not only from Kate, but from Mrs. Nickleby also, who
assured him of her future favour and regard, and was so obliging as to
relate, for his entertainment and that of the assembled circle, a most
remarkable account extracted from some work the name of which she had
never known, of a miraculous escape from some prison, but what one she
couldn’t remember, effected by an officer whose name she had forgotten,
confined for some crime which she didn’t clearly recollect.
At first Nicholas was disposed to give his uncle credit for some portion
of this bold attempt (which had so nearly proved successful) to carry
off Smike; but on more mature consideration, he was inclined to
think that the full merit of it rested with Mr. Squeers. Determined to
ascertain, if he could, through John Browdie, how the case really stood,
he betook himself to his daily occupation: meditating, as he went, on
a great variety of schemes for the punishment of the Yorkshire
schoolmaster, all of which had their foundation in the strictest
principles of retributive justice, and had but the one drawback of being
wholly impracticable.
‘A fine morning, Mr. Linkinwater!’ said Nicholas, entering the office.
‘Ah!’ replied Tim, ‘talk of the country, indeed! What do you think of
this, now, for a day--a London day--eh?’
‘It’s a little clearer out of town,’ said Nicholas.
‘Clearer!’ echoed Tim Linkinwater. ‘You should see it from my bedroom
window.’
‘You should see it from MINE,’ replied Nicholas, with a smile.
‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Tim Linkinwater, ‘don’t tell me. Country!’ (Bow was
quite a rustic place to Tim.) ‘Nonsense! What can you get in the country
but new-laid eggs and flowers? I can buy new-laid eggs in Leadenhall
Market, any morning before breakfast; and as to flowers, it’s worth a
run upstairs to smell my mignonette, or to see the double wallflower in
the back-attic window, at No. 6, in the court.’
‘There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the court, is there?’ said
Nicholas.
‘Yes, is there!’ replied Tim, ‘and planted in a cracked jug, without a
spout. There were hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming, in--but
you’ll laugh at that, of course.’
‘At what?’
‘At their blossoming in old blacking-bottles,’ said Tim.
‘Not I, indeed,’ returned Nicholas.
Tim looked wistfully at him, for a moment, as if he were encouraged
by the tone of this reply to be more communicative on the subject; and
sticking behind his ear, a pen that he had been making, and shutting up
his knife with a smart click, said,
‘They belong to a sickly bedridden hump-backed boy, and seem to be the
only pleasure, Mr. Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many years is it,’
said Tim, pondering, ‘since I first noticed him, quite a little child,
dragging himself about on a pair of tiny crutches? Well! Well! Not many;
but though they would appear nothing, if I thought of other things, they
seem a long, long time, when I think of him. It is a sad thing,’ said
Tim, breaking off, ‘to see a little deformed child sitting apart from
other children, who are active and merry, watching the games he is
denied the power to share in. He made my heart ache very often.’
‘It is a good heart,’ said Nicholas, ‘that disentangles itself from the
close avocations of every day, to heed such things. You were saying--’
‘That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,’ said Tim; ‘that’s all.
When it is fine weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he draws a chair
close to the window, and sits there, looking at them and arranging
them, all day long. He used to nod, at first, and then we came to speak.
Formerly, when I called to him of a morning, and asked him how he was,
he would smile, and say, “Better!” but now he shakes his head, and only
bends more closely over his old plants. It must be dull to watch the
dark housetops and the flying clouds, for so many months; but he is very
patient.’
‘Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?’ asked Nicholas.
‘His father lives there, I believe,’ replied Tim, ‘and other people too;
but no one seems to care much for the poor sickly cripple. I have asked
him, very often, if I can do nothing for him; his answer is always the
same. “Nothing.” His voice is growing weak of late, but I can SEE that
he makes the old reply. He can’t leave his bed now, so they have moved
it close beside the window, and there he lies, all day: now looking at
the sky, and now at his flowers, which he still makes shift to trim and
water, with his own thin hands. At night, when he sees my candle, he
draws back his curtain, and leaves it so, till I am in bed. It seems
such company to him to know that I am there, that I often sit at my
window for an hour or more, that he may see I am still awake; and
sometimes I get up in the night to look at the dull melancholy light in
his little room, and wonder whether he is awake or sleeping.
‘The night will not be long coming,’ said Tim, ‘when he will sleep, and
never wake again on earth. We have never so much as shaken hands in all
our lives; and yet I shall miss him like an old friend. Are there any
country flowers that could interest me like these, do you think? Or
do you suppose that the withering of a hundred kinds of the choicest
flowers that blow, called by the hardest Latin names that were ever
invented, would give me one fraction of the pain that I shall feel when
these old jugs and bottles are swept away as lumber? Country!’ cried
Tim, with a contemptuous emphasis; ‘don’t you know that I couldn’t have
such a court under my bedroom window, anywhere, but in London?’
With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and pretending to be absorbed
in his accounts, took an opportunity of hastily wiping his eyes when he
supposed Nicholas was looking another way.
Whether it was that Tim’s accounts were more than usually intricate that
morning, or whether it was that his habitual serenity had been a little
disturbed by these recollections, it so happened that when Nicholas
returned from executing some commission, and inquired whether Mr. Charles
Cheeryble was alone in his room, Tim promptly, and without the smallest
hesitation, replied in the affirmative, although somebody had passed
into the room not ten minutes before, and Tim took especial and
particular pride in preventing any intrusion on either of the brothers
when they were engaged with any visitor whatever.
‘I’ll take this letter to him at once,’ said Nicholas, ‘if that’s the
case.’ And with that, he walked to the room and knocked at the door.
No answer.
Another knock, and still no answer.
‘He can’t be here,’ thought Nicholas. ‘I’ll lay it on his table.’
So, Nicholas opened the door and walked in; and very quickly he
turned to walk out again, when he saw, to his great astonishment and
discomfiture, a young lady upon her knees at Mr. Cheeryble’s feet, and Mr
Cheeryble beseeching her to rise, and entreating a third person, who
had the appearance of the young lady’s female attendant, to add her
persuasions to his to induce her to do so.
Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology, and was precipitately
retiring, when the young lady, turning her head a little, presented
to his view the features of the lovely girl whom he had seen at the
register-office on his first visit long before. Glancing from her to the
attendant, he recognised the same clumsy servant who had accompanied
her then; and between his admiration of the young lady’s beauty, and
the confusion and surprise of this unexpected recognition, he stood
stock-still, in such a bewildered state of surprise and embarrassment
that, for the moment, he was quite bereft of the power either to speak
or move.
‘My dear ma’am--my dear young lady,’ cried brother Charles in violent
agitation, ‘pray don’t--not another word, I beseech and entreat you! I
implore you--I beg of you--to rise. We--we--are not alone.’
As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chair and
swooned away.
‘She has fainted, sir,’ said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.
‘Poor dear, poor dear!’ cried brother Charles ‘Where is my brother Ned?
Ned, my dear brother, come here pray.’
‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied his brother, hurrying into
the room, ‘what is the--ah! what--’
‘Hush! hush!--not a word for your life, brother Ned,’ returned the
other. ‘Ring for the housekeeper, my dear brother--call Tim Linkinwater!
Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir--Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir, leave the room, I
beg and beseech of you.’
‘I think she is better now,’ said Nicholas, who had been watching the
patient so eagerly, that he had not heard the request.
‘Poor bird!’ cried brother Charles, gently taking her hand in his, and
laying her head upon his arm. ‘Brother Ned, my dear fellow, you will be
surprised, I know, to witness this, in business hours; but--’ here he
was again reminded of the presence of Nicholas, and shaking him by
the hand, earnestly requested him to leave the room, and to send Tim
Linkinwater without an instant’s delay.
Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on his way to the counting-house, met
both the old housekeeper and Tim Linkinwater, jostling each other in the
passage, and hurrying to the scene of action with extraordinary speed.
Without waiting to hear his message, Tim Linkinwater darted into the
room, and presently afterwards Nicholas heard the door shut and locked
on the inside.
He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, for Tim
Linkinwater was absent during the greater part of an hour, during the
whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing but the young lady, and
her exceeding beauty, and what could possibly have brought her there,
and why they made such a mystery of it. The more he thought of all this,
the more it perplexed him, and the more anxious he became to know who
and what she was. ‘I should have known her among ten thousand,’ thought
Nicholas. And with that he walked up and down the room, and recalling
her face and figure (of which he had a peculiarly vivid remembrance),
discarded all other subjects of reflection and dwelt upon that alone.
At length Tim Linkinwater came back--provokingly cool, and with papers
in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.
‘Is she quite recovered?’ said Nicholas, impetuously.
‘Who?’ returned Tim Linkinwater.
‘Who!’ repeated Nicholas. ‘The young lady.’
‘What do you make, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Tim, taking his pen out of his
mouth, ‘what do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven times three
thousand two hundred and thirty-eight?’
‘Nay,’ returned Nicholas, ‘what do you make of my question first? I
asked you--’
‘About the young lady,’ said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles.
‘To be sure. Yes. Oh! she’s very well.’
‘Very well, is she?’ returned Nicholas.
‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Linkinwater, gravely.
‘Will she be able to go home today?’ asked Nicholas.
‘She’s gone,’ said Tim.
‘Gone!’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope she has not far to go?’ said Nicholas, looking earnestly at the
other.
‘Ay,’ replied the immovable Tim, ‘I hope she hasn’t.’
Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it was evident that
Tim Linkinwater had his own reasons for evading the subject, and that
he was determined to afford no further information respecting the fair
unknown, who had awakened so much curiosity in the breast of his young
friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse, Nicholas returned to the charge
next day, emboldened by the circumstance of Mr. Linkinwater being in
a very talkative and communicative mood; but, directly he resumed the
theme, Tim relapsed into a state of most provoking taciturnity, and from
answering in monosyllables, came to returning no answers at all, save
such as were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which
only served to whet that appetite for intelligence in Nicholas, which
had already attained a most unreasonable height.
Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself with watching
for the young lady’s next visit, but here again he was disappointed.
Day after day passed, and she did not return. He looked eagerly at the
superscription of all the notes and letters, but there was not one among
them which he could fancy to be in her handwriting. On two or three
occasions he was employed on business which took him to a distance, and
had formerly been transacted by Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help
suspecting that, for some reason or other, he was sent out of the way
on purpose, and that the young lady was there in his absence. Nothing
transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion, and Tim could not be
entrapped into any confession or admission tending to support it in the
smallest degree.
Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the
growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. ‘Out
of sight, out of mind,’ is well enough as a proverb applicable to cases
of friendship, though absence is not always necessary to hollowness
of heart, even between friends, and truth and honesty, like precious
stones, are perhaps most easily imitated at a distance, when the
counterfeits often pass for real. Love, however, is very materially
assisted by a warm and active imagination: which has a long memory, and
will thrive, for a considerable time, on very slight and sparing
food. Thus it is, that it often attains its most luxuriant growth in
separation and under circumstances of the utmost difficulty; and thus it
was, that Nicholas, thinking of nothing but the unknown young lady, from
day to day and from hour to hour, began, at last, to think that he was
very desperately in love with her, and that never was such an ill-used
and persecuted lover as he.
Still, though he loved and languished after the most orthodox models,
and was only deterred from making a confidante of Kate by the slight
considerations of having never, in all his life, spoken to the object
of his passion, and having never set eyes upon her, except on two
occasions, on both of which she had come and gone like a flash of
lightning--or, as Nicholas himself said, in the numerous conversations
he held with himself, like a vision of youth and beauty much too bright
to last--his ardour and devotion remained without its reward. The young
lady appeared no more; so there was a great deal of love wasted (enough
indeed to have set up half-a-dozen young gentlemen, as times go, with
the utmost decency), and nobody was a bit the wiser for it; not even
Nicholas himself, who, on the contrary, became more dull, sentimental,
and lackadaisical, every day.
While matters were in this state, the failure of a correspondent of
the brothers Cheeryble, in Germany, imposed upon Tim Linkinwater and
Nicholas the necessity of going through some very long and complicated
accounts, extending over a considerable space of time. To get through
them with the greater dispatch, Tim Linkinwater proposed that they
should remain at the counting-house, for a week or so, until ten o’clock
at night; to this, as nothing damped the zeal of Nicholas in the
service of his kind patrons--not even romance, which has seldom business
habits--he cheerfully assented. On the very first night of these later
hours, at nine exactly, there came: not the young lady herself, but her
servant, who, being closeted with brother Charles for some time, went
away, and returned next night at the same hour, and on the next, and on
the next again.
These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of Nicholas to the very
highest pitch. Tantalised and excited, beyond all bearing, and unable
to fathom the mystery without neglecting his duty, he confided the whole
secret to Newman Noggs, imploring him to be on the watch next night;
to follow the girl home; to set on foot such inquiries relative to
the name, condition, and history of her mistress, as he could, without
exciting suspicion; and to report the result to him with the least
possible delay.
Beyond all measure proud of this commission, Newman Noggs took up his
post, in the square, on the following evening, a full hour before the
needful time, and planting himself behind the pump and pulling his hat
over his eyes, began his watch with an elaborate appearance of mystery,
admirably calculated to excite the suspicion of all beholders. Indeed,
divers servant girls who came to draw water, and sundry little boys who
stopped to drink at the ladle, were almost scared out of their senses,
by the apparition of Newman Noggs looking stealthily round the
pump, with nothing of him visible but his face, and that wearing the
expression of a meditative Ogre.
Punctual to her time, the messenger came again, and, after an interview
of rather longer duration than usual, departed. Newman had made two
appointments with Nicholas: one for the next evening, conditional on his
success: and one the next night following, which was to be kept under
all circumstances. The first night he was not at the place of meeting (a
certain tavern about half-way between the city and Golden Square), but
on the second night he was there before Nicholas, and received him with
open arms.
‘It’s all right,’ whispered Newman. ‘Sit down. Sit down, there’s a dear
young man, and let me tell you all about it.’
Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquired what was the
news.
‘There’s a great deal of news,’ said Newman, in a flutter of exultation.
‘It’s all right. Don’t be anxious. I don’t know where to begin. Never
mind that. Keep up your spirits. It’s all right.’
‘Well?’ said Nicholas eagerly. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ replied Newman. ‘That’s it.’
‘What’s it?’ said Nicholas. ‘The name--the name, my dear fellow!’
‘The name’s Bobster,’ replied Newman.
‘Bobster!’ repeated Nicholas, indignantly.
‘That’s the name,’ said Newman. ‘I remember it by lobster.’
‘Bobster!’ repeated Nicholas, more emphatically than before. ‘That must
be the servant’s name.’
‘No, it an’t,’ said Newman, shaking his head with great positiveness.
‘Miss Cecilia Bobster.’
‘Cecilia, eh?’ returned Nicholas, muttering the two names together
over and over again in every variety of tone, to try the effect. ‘Well,
Cecilia is a pretty name.’
‘Very. And a pretty creature too,’ said Newman.
‘Who?’ said Nicholas.
‘Miss Bobster.’
‘Why, where have you seen her?’ demanded Nicholas.
‘Never mind, my dear boy,’ retorted Noggs, clapping him on the shoulder.
‘I HAVE seen her. You shall see her. I’ve managed it all.’
‘My dear Newman,’ cried Nicholas, grasping his hand, ‘are you serious?’
‘I am,’ replied Newman. ‘I mean it all. Every word. You shall see her
tomorrow night. She consents to hear you speak for yourself. I persuaded
her. She is all affability, goodness, sweetness, and beauty.’
‘I know she is; I know she must be, Newman!’ said Nicholas, wringing his
hand.
‘You are right,’ returned Newman.
‘Where does she live?’ cried Nicholas. ‘What have you learnt of her
history? Has she a father--mother--any brothers--sisters? What did she
say? How came you to see her? Was she not very much surprised? Did you
say how passionately I have longed to speak to her? Did you tell her
where I had seen her? Did you tell her how, and when, and where, and how
long, and how often, I have thought of that sweet face which came upon
me in my bitterest distress like a glimpse of some better world--did
you, Newman--did you?’
Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this flood of questions rushed
upon him, and moved spasmodically in his chair at every fresh inquiry,
staring at Nicholas meanwhile with a most ludicrous expression of
perplexity.
‘No,’ said Newman, ‘I didn’t tell her that.’
‘Didn’t tell her which?’ asked Nicholas.
‘About the glimpse of the better world,’ said Newman. ‘I didn’t tell her
who you were, either, or where you’d seen her. I said you loved her to
distraction.’
‘That’s true, Newman,’ replied Nicholas, with his characteristic
vehemence. ‘Heaven knows I do!’
‘I said too, that you had admired her for a long time in secret,’ said
Newman.
‘Yes, yes. What did she say to that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Blushed,’ said Newman.
‘To be sure. Of course she would,’ said Nicholas approvingly. Newman
then went on to say, that the young lady was an only child, that her
mother was dead, that she resided with her father, and that she had been
induced to allow her lover a secret interview, at the intercession of
her servant, who had great influence with her. He further related how it
required much moving and great eloquence to bring the young lady to this
pass; how it was expressly understood that she merely afforded Nicholas
an opportunity of declaring his passion; and how she by no means pledged
herself to be favourably impressed with his attentions. The mystery of
her visits to the brothers Cheeryble remained wholly unexplained, for
Newman had not alluded to them, either in his preliminary conversations
with the servant or his subsequent interview with the mistress, merely
remarking that he had been instructed to watch the girl home and plead
his young friend’s cause, and not saying how far he had followed her,
or from what point. But Newman hinted that from what had fallen from the
confidante, he had been led to suspect that the young lady led a very
miserable and unhappy life, under the strict control of her only parent,
who was of a violent and brutal temper; a circumstance which he thought
might in some degree account, both for her having sought the protection
and friendship of the brothers, and her suffering herself to be
prevailed upon to grant the promised interview. The last he held to be a
very logical deduction from the premises, inasmuch as it was but natural
to suppose that a young lady, whose present condition was so unenviable,
would be more than commonly desirous to change it.
It appeared, on further questioning--for it was only by a very long and
arduous process that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs--that
Newman, in explanation of his shabby appearance, had represented himself
as being, for certain wise and indispensable purposes connected with
that intrigue, in disguise; and, being questioned how he had come to
exceed his commission so far as to procure an interview, he responded,
that the lady appearing willing to grant it, he considered himself
bound, both in duty and gallantry, to avail himself of such a golden
means of enabling Nicholas to prosecute his addresses. After these and
all possible questions had been asked and answered twenty times over,
they parted, undertaking to meet on the following night at half-past
ten, for the purpose of fulfilling the appointment; which was for eleven
o’clock.
‘Things come about very strangely!’ thought Nicholas, as he walked
home. ‘I never contemplated anything of this kind; never dreamt of the
possibility of it. To know something of the life of one in whom I felt
such interest; to see her in the street, to pass the house in which she
lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks, to hope that a day might
come when I might be in a condition to tell her of my love, this was
the utmost extent of my thoughts. Now, however--but I should be a fool,
indeed, to repine at my own good fortune!’
Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was more in the
dissatisfaction than mere revulsion of feeling. He was angry with the
young lady for being so easily won, ‘because,’ reasoned Nicholas, ‘it is
not as if she knew it was I, but it might have been anybody,’--which was
certainly not pleasant. The next moment, he was angry with himself for
entertaining such thoughts, arguing that nothing but goodness could
dwell in such a temple, and that the behaviour of the brothers
sufficiently showed the estimation in which they held her. ‘The fact
is, she’s a mystery altogether,’ said Nicholas. This was not more
satisfactory than his previous course of reflection, and only drove him
out upon a new sea of speculation and conjecture, where he tossed and
tumbled, in great discomfort of mind, until the clock struck ten, and
the hour of meeting drew nigh.
Nicholas had dressed himself with great care, and even Newman Noggs had
trimmed himself up a little; his coat presenting the phenomenon of
two consecutive buttons, and the supplementary pins being inserted at
tolerably regular intervals. He wore his hat, too, in the newest
taste, with a pocket-handkerchief in the crown, and a twisted end of it
straggling out behind after the fashion of a pigtail, though he could
scarcely lay claim to the ingenuity of inventing this latter decoration,
inasmuch as he was utterly unconscious of it: being in a nervous and
excited condition which rendered him quite insensible to everything but
the great object of the expedition.
They traversed the streets in profound silence; and after walking at a
round pace for some distance, arrived in one, of a gloomy appearance and
very little frequented, near the Edgeware Road.
‘Number twelve,’ said Newman.
‘Oh!’ replied Nicholas, looking about him.
‘Good street?’ said Newman.
‘Yes,’ returned Nicholas. ‘Rather dull.’
Newman made no answer to this remark, but, halting abruptly, planted
Nicholas with his back to some area railings, and gave him to understand
that he was to wait there, without moving hand or foot, until it was
satisfactorily ascertained that the coast was clear. This done, Noggs
limped away with great alacrity; looking over his shoulder every
instant, to make quite certain that Nicholas was obeying his directions;
and, ascending the steps of a house some half-dozen doors off, was lost
to view.
After a short delay, he reappeared, and limping back again, halted
midway, and beckoned Nicholas to follow him.
‘Well?’ said Nicholas, advancing towards him on tiptoe.
‘All right,’ replied Newman, in high glee. ‘All ready; nobody at home.
Couldn’t be better. Ha! ha!’
With this fortifying assurance, he stole past a street-door, on which
Nicholas caught a glimpse of a brass plate, with ‘BOBSTER,’ in very
large letters; and, stopping at the area-gate, which was open, signed to
his young friend to descend.
‘What the devil!’ cried Nicholas, drawing back. ‘Are we to sneak into
the kitchen, as if we came after the forks?’
‘Hush!’ replied Newman. ‘Old Bobster--ferocious Turk. He’d kill ‘em
all--box the young lady’s ears--he does--often.’
‘What!’ cried Nicholas, in high wrath, ‘do you mean to tell me that any
man would dare to box the ears of such a--’
He had no time to sing the praises of his mistress, just then, for
Newman gave him a gentle push which had nearly precipitated him to the
bottom of the area steps. Thinking it best to take the hint in good
part, Nicholas descended, without further remonstrance, but with a
countenance bespeaking anything rather than the hope and rapture of a
passionate lover. Newman followed--he would have followed head first,
but for the timely assistance of Nicholas--and, taking his hand, led him
through a stone passage, profoundly dark, into a back-kitchen or cellar,
of the blackest and most pitchy obscurity, where they stopped.
‘Well!’ said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, ‘this is not all, I
suppose, is it?’
‘No, no,’ rejoined Noggs; ‘they’ll be here directly. It’s all right.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Nicholas. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it, I
confess.’
They exchanged no further words, and there Nicholas stood, listening to
the loud breathing of Newman Noggs, and imagining that his nose seemed
to glow like a red-hot coal, even in the midst of the darkness which
enshrouded them. Suddenly the sound of cautious footsteps attracted his
ear, and directly afterwards a female voice inquired if the gentleman
was there.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from which the voice
proceeded. ‘Who is that?’
‘Only me, sir,’ replied the voice. ‘Now if you please, ma’am.’
A gleam of light shone into the place, and presently the servant girl
appeared, bearing a light, and followed by her young mistress, who
seemed to be overwhelmed by modesty and confusion.
At sight of the young lady, Nicholas started and changed colour; his
heart beat violently, and he stood rooted to the spot. At that instant,
and almost simultaneously with her arrival and that of the candle, there
was heard a loud and furious knocking at the street-door, which caused
Newman Noggs to jump up, with great agility, from a beer-barrel on which
he had been seated astride, and to exclaim abruptly, and with a face of
ashy paleness, ‘Bobster, by the Lord!’
The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung her hands, Nicholas gazed
from one to the other in apparent stupefaction, and Newman hurried to
and fro, thrusting his hands into all his pockets successively, and
drawing out the linings of every one in the excess of his irresolution.
It was but a moment, but the confusion crowded into that one moment no
imagination can exaggerate.
‘Leave the house, for Heaven’s sake! We have done wrong, we deserve it
all,’ cried the young lady. ‘Leave the house, or I am ruined and undone
for ever.’
‘Will you hear me say but one word?’ cried Nicholas. ‘Only one. I will
not detain you. Will you hear me say one word, in explanation of this
mischance?’
But Nicholas might as well have spoken to the wind, for the young lady,
with distracted looks, hurried up the stairs. He would have followed
her, but Newman, twisting his hand in his coat collar, dragged him
towards the passage by which they had entered.
‘Let me go, Newman, in the Devil’s name!’ cried Nicholas. ‘I must speak
to her. I will! I will not leave this house without.’
‘Reputation--character--violence--consider,’ said Newman, clinging round
him with both arms, and hurrying him away. ‘Let them open the door.
We’ll go, as we came, directly it’s shut. Come. This way. Here.’
Overpowered by the remonstrances of Newman, and the tears and prayers
of the girl, and the tremendous knocking above, which had never ceased,
Nicholas allowed himself to be hurried off; and, precisely as Mr. Bobster
made his entrance by the street-door, he and Noggs made their exit by
the area-gate.
They hurried away, through several streets, without stopping or
speaking. At last, they halted and confronted each other with blank and
rueful faces.
‘Never mind,’ said Newman, gasping for breath. ‘Don’t be cast down. It’s
all right. More fortunate next time. It couldn’t be helped. I did MY
part.’
‘Excellently,’ replied Nicholas, taking his hand. ‘Excellently, and like
the true and zealous friend you are. Only--mind, I am not disappointed,
Newman, and feel just as much indebted to you--only IT WAS THE WRONG
LADY.’
‘Eh?’ cried Newman Noggs. ‘Taken in by the servant?’
‘Newman, Newman,’ said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder: ‘it
was the wrong servant too.’
Newman’s under-jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, with his sound eye
fixed fast and motionless in his head.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ said Nicholas; ‘it’s of no consequence; you
see I don’t care about it; you followed the wrong person, that’s all.’
That WAS all. Whether Newman Noggs had looked round the pump, in a
slanting direction, so long, that his sight became impaired; or whether,
finding that there was time to spare, he had recruited himself with a
few drops of something stronger than the pump could yield--by whatsoever
means it had come to pass, this was his mistake. And Nicholas went home
to brood upon it, and to meditate upon the charms of the unknown young
lady, now as far beyond his reach as ever.