The Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful
Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into
their Confidence
In an old house, dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to have withered,
like himself, and to have grown yellow and shrivelled in hoarding him
from the light of day, as he had in hoarding his money, lived Arthur
Gride. Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare and bony make, and hard
and cold as misers’ hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against the
gloomy walls; attenuated presses, grown lank and lantern-jawed in
guarding the treasures they enclosed, and tottering, as though from
constant fear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark corners, whence
they cast no shadows on the ground, and seemed to hide and cower from
observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs, with long lean hands and
famished face, ticked in cautious whispers; and when it struck the time,
in thin and piping sounds, like an old man’s voice, rattled, as if it
were pinched with hunger.
No fireside couch was there, to invite repose and comfort. Elbow-chairs
there were, but they looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms
suspiciously and timidly, and kept upon their guard. Others, were
fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawn themselves up to their
utmost height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare all comers out
of countenance. Others, again, knocked up against their neighbours, or
leant for support against the wall--somewhat ostentatiously, as if to
call all men to witness that they were not worth the taking. The dark
square lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty
hangings seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among
themselves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledge of the
tempting wares that lurked within the dark and tight-locked closets.
From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry
house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride’s voice,
as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some forgotten song, of
which the burden ran:
Ta--ran--tan--too,
Throw the old shoe,
And may the wedding be lucky!
which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and again,
until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue in
silence, the occupation upon which he was engaged.
This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm-eaten
wardrobe a quantity of frouzy garments, one by one; to subject each to
a careful and minute inspection by holding it up against the light, and
after folding it with great exactness, to lay it on one or other of
two little heaps beside him. He never took two articles of clothing out
together, but always brought them forth, singly, and never failed to
shut the wardrobe door, and turn the key, between each visit to its
shelves.
‘The snuff-coloured suit,’ said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare
coat. ‘Did I look well in snuff-colour? Let me think.’
The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, for he folded
the garment once more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to get down
another, chirping while he did so:
Young, loving, and fair,
Oh what happiness there!
The wedding is sure to be lucky!
‘They always put in “young,”’ said old Arthur, ‘but songs are only
written for the sake of rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor
country-people sang, when I was a little boy. Though stop--young is
quite right too--it means the bride--yes. He, he, he! It means the
bride. Oh dear, that’s good. That’s very good. And true besides, quite
true!’
In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verse again,
with increased expression, and a shake or two here and there. He then
resumed his employment.
‘The bottle-green,’ said old Arthur; ‘the bottle-green was a famous
suit to wear, and I bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker’s, and there
was--he, he, he!--a tarnished shilling in the waistcoat pocket. To think
that the pawnbroker shouldn’t have known there was a shilling in it! I
knew it! I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog
of a pawnbroker! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle-green. The very
day I put it on first, old Lord Mallowford was burnt to death in
his bed, and all the post-obits fell in. I’ll be married in the
bottle-green. Peg. Peg Sliderskew--I’ll wear the bottle-green!’
This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room-door, brought
into the apartment a short, thin, weasen, blear-eyed old woman,
palsy-stricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping her shrivelled face upon
her dirty apron, inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people
commonly speak:
‘Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets
so bad, I never know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it
must be one of you, because nothing else never stirs in the house.’
‘Me, Peg, me,’ said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to
render the reply more intelligible.
‘You, eh?’ returned Peg. ‘And what do YOU want?’
‘I’ll be married in the bottle-green,’ cried Arthur Gride.
‘It’s a deal too good to be married in, master,’ rejoined Peg, after
a short inspection of the suit. ‘Haven’t you got anything worse than
this?’
‘Nothing that’ll do,’ replied old Arthur.
‘Why not do?’ retorted Peg. ‘Why don’t you wear your every-day clothes,
like a man--eh?’
‘They an’t becoming enough, Peg,’ returned her master.
‘Not what enough?’ said Peg.
‘Becoming.’
‘Becoming what?’ said Peg, sharply. ‘Not becoming too old to wear?’
Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper’s deafness, as
he roared in her ear:
‘Not smart enough! I want to look as well as I can.’
‘Look?’ cried Peg. ‘If she’s as handsome as you say she is, she won’t
look much at you, master, take your oath of that; and as to how you look
yourself--pepper-and-salt, bottle-green, sky-blue, or tartan-plaid will
make no difference in you.’
With which consolatory assurance, Peg Sliderskew gathered up the chosen
suit, and folding her skinny arms upon the bundle, stood, mouthing, and
grinning, and blinking her watery eyes, like an uncouth figure in some
monstrous piece of carving.
‘You’re in a funny humour, an’t you, Peg?’ said Arthur, with not the
best possible grace.
‘Why, isn’t it enough to make me?’ rejoined the old woman. ‘I shall,
soon enough, be put out, though, if anybody tries to domineer it over
me: and so I give you notice, master. Nobody shall be put over Peg
Sliderskew’s head, after so many years; you know that, and so I needn’t
tell you! That won’t do for me--no, no, nor for you. Try that once, and
come to ruin--ruin--ruin!’
‘Oh dear, dear, I shall never try it,’ said Arthur Gride, appalled by
the mention of the word, ‘not for the world. It would be very easy to
ruin me; we must be very careful; more saving than ever, with another
mouth to feed. Only we--we mustn’t let her lose her good looks, Peg,
because I like to see ‘em.’
‘Take care you don’t find good looks come expensive,’ returned Peg,
shaking her forefinger.
‘But she can earn money herself, Peg,’ said Arthur Gride, eagerly
watching what effect his communication produced upon the old woman’s
countenance: ‘she can draw, paint, work all manner of pretty things for
ornamenting stools and chairs: slippers, Peg, watch-guards, hair-chains,
and a thousand little dainty trifles that I couldn’t give you half the
names of. Then she can play the piano, (and, what’s more, she’s got
one), and sing like a little bird. She’ll be very cheap to dress and
keep, Peg; don’t you think she will?’
‘If you don’t let her make a fool of you, she may,’ returned Peg.
‘A fool of ME!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Trust your old master not to be
fooled by pretty faces, Peg; no, no, no--nor by ugly ones neither, Mrs
Sliderskew,’ he softly added by way of soliloquy.
‘You’re a saying something you don’t want me to hear,’ said Peg; ‘I know
you are.’
‘Oh dear! the devil’s in this woman,’ muttered Arthur; adding with an
ugly leer, ‘I said I trusted everything to you, Peg. That was all.’
‘You do that, master, and all your cares are over,’ said Peg
approvingly.
‘WHEN I do that, Peg Sliderskew,’ thought Arthur Gride, ‘they will be.’
Although he thought this very distinctly, he durst not move his lips
lest the old woman should detect him. He even seemed half afraid that
she might have read his thoughts; for he leered coaxingly upon her, as
he said aloud:
‘Take up all loose stitches in the bottle-green with the best black
silk. Have a skein of the best, and some new buttons for the coat,
and--this is a good idea, Peg, and one you’ll like, I know--as I have
never given her anything yet, and girls like such attentions, you shall
polish up a sparking necklace that I have got upstairs, and I’ll give
it her upon the wedding morning--clasp it round her charming little neck
myself--and take it away again next day. He, he, he! I’ll lock it up for
her, Peg, and lose it. Who’ll be made the fool of there, I wonder, to
begin with--eh, Peg?’
Mrs. Sliderskew appeared to approve highly of this ingenious scheme, and
expressed her satisfaction by various rackings and twitchings of
her head and body, which by no means enhanced her charms. These she
prolonged until she had hobbled to the door, when she exchanged them
for a sour malignant look, and twisting her under-jaw from side to side,
muttered hearty curses upon the future Mrs. Gride, as she crept slowly
down the stairs, and paused for breath at nearly every one.
‘She’s half a witch, I think,’ said Arthur Gride, when he found himself
again alone. ‘But she’s very frugal, and she’s very deaf. Her living
costs me next to nothing; and it’s no use her listening at keyholes; for
she can’t hear. She’s a charming woman--for the purpose; a most discreet
old housekeeper, and worth her weight in--copper.’
Having extolled the merits of his domestic in these high terms, old
Arthur went back to the burden of his song. The suit destined to grace
his approaching nuptials being now selected, he replaced the others with
no less care than he had displayed in drawing them from the musty nooks
where they had silently reposed for many years.
Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily concluded this operation, and
locked the press; but there was no need for any particular hurry, as the
discreet Peg seldom knew the bell was rung unless she happened to cast
her dim eyes upwards, and to see it shaking against the kitchen ceiling.
After a short delay, however, Peg tottered in, followed by Newman Noggs.
‘Ah! Mr. Noggs!’ cried Arthur Gride, rubbing his hands. ‘My good friend,
Mr. Noggs, what news do you bring for me?’
Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixed eye very
fixed indeed, replied, suiting the action to the word, ‘A letter. From
Mr. Nickleby. Bearer waits.’
‘Won’t you take a--a--’
Newman looked up, and smacked his lips.
‘--A chair?’ said Arthur Gride.
‘No,’ replied Newman. ‘Thankee.’
Arthur opened the letter with trembling hands, and devoured its contents
with the utmost greediness; chuckling rapturously over it, and reading
it several times, before he could take it from before his eyes. So
many times did he peruse and re-peruse it, that Newman considered it
expedient to remind him of his presence.
‘Answer,’ said Newman. ‘Bearer waits.’
‘True,’ replied old Arthur. ‘Yes--yes; I almost forgot, I do declare.’
‘I thought you were forgetting,’ said Newman.
‘Quite right to remind me, Mr. Noggs. Oh, very right indeed,’ said
Arthur. ‘Yes. I’ll write a line. I’m--I’m--rather flurried, Mr. Noggs.
The news is--’
‘Bad?’ interrupted Newman.
‘No, Mr. Noggs, thank you; good, good. The very best of news. Sit down.
I’ll get the pen and ink, and write a line in answer. I’ll not detain
you long. I know you’re a treasure to your master, Mr. Noggs. He speaks
of you in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you’d be astonished. I
may say that I do too, and always did. I always say the same of you.’
‘That’s “Curse Mr. Noggs with all my heart!” then, if you do,’ thought
Newman, as Gride hurried out.
The letter had fallen on the ground. Looking carefully about him for an
instant, Newman, impelled by curiosity to know the result of the design
he had overheard from his office closet, caught it up and rapidly read
as follows:
‘GRIDE.
‘I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day after tomorrow (as
you suggested) for the marriage. There is no objection on his part, and
all days are alike to his daughter. We will go together, and you must be
with me by seven in the morning. I need not tell you to be punctual.
‘Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You have been
there, of late, much oftener than you should. She does not languish for
you, and it might have been dangerous. Restrain your youthful ardour for
eight-and-forty hours, and leave her to the father. You only undo what
he does, and does well.
‘Yours,
‘RALPH NICKLEBY.’
A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter on the same spot
again, pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering away, regained
his seat in a single stride, and looked as vacant and unconscious as
ever mortal looked. Arthur Gride, after peering nervously about him,
spied it on the ground, picked it up, and sitting down to write, glanced
at Newman Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an intensity so
remarkable, that Arthur was quite alarmed.
‘Do you see anything particular, Mr. Noggs?’ said Arthur, trying to
follow the direction of Newman’s eyes--which was an impossibility, and a
thing no man had ever done.
‘Only a cobweb,’ replied Newman.
‘Oh! is that all?’
‘No,’ said Newman. ‘There’s a fly in it.’
‘There are a good many cobwebs here,’ observed Arthur Gride.
‘So there are in our place,’ returned Newman; ‘and flies too.’
Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and
to the great discomposure of Arthur Gride’s nerves, produced a series of
sharp cracks from his finger-joints, resembling the noise of a distant
discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing his reply
to Ralph’s note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the
eccentric messenger for delivery.
‘That’s it, Mr. Noggs,’ said Gride.
Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when
Gride, whose doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and
said, in a shrill whisper, and with a grin which puckered up his whole
face, and almost obscured his eyes:
‘Will you--will you take a little drop of something--just a taste?’
In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would
not have drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever
made; but to see what he would be at, and to punish him as much as he
could, he accepted the offer immediately.
Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a
shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaint bottles:
some with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built
bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle of
promising appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.
‘You never tasted this,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s EAU-D’OR--golden water. I
like it on account of its name. It’s a delicious name. Water of gold,
golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!’
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the
stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its
old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses, and clinked it,
twice or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he
had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled
it--though not to the brim--and then filled his own.
‘Stop, stop; don’t drink it yet,’ he said, laying his hand on Newman’s;
‘it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste,
which is ve--ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand, and tease
myself. We’ll drink a toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr. Noggs?’
‘Ah!’ said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. ‘Look sharp.
Bearer waits.’
‘Why, then, I’ll tell you what,’ tittered Arthur, ‘we’ll drink--he, he,
he!--we’ll drink a lady.’
‘THE ladies?’ said Newman.
‘No, no, Mr. Noggs,’ replied Gride, arresting his hand, ‘A lady. You
wonder to hear me say A lady. I know you do, I know you do. Here’s
little Madeline. That’s the toast. Mr. Noggs. Little Madeline!’
‘Madeline!’ said Newman; inwardly adding, ‘and God help her!’
The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed his portion of
the golden water, had a great effect upon the old man, who sat upright
in his chair, and gazed at him, open-mouthed, as if the sight had taken
away his breath. Quite unmoved, however, Newman left him to sip his own
at leisure, or to pour it back again into the bottle, if he chose,
and departed; after greatly outraging the dignity of Peg Sliderskew
by brushing past her, in the passage, without a word of apology or
recognition.
Mr. Gride and his housekeeper, immediately on being left alone, resolved
themselves into a committee of ways and means, and discussed the
arrangements which should be made for the reception of the young bride.
As they were, like some other committees, extremely dull and prolix in
debate, this history may pursue the footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby
combining advantage with necessity; for it would have been necessary
to do so under any circumstances, and necessity has no law, as all the
world knows.
‘You’ve been a long time,’ said Ralph, when Newman returned.
‘HE was a long time,’ replied Newman.
‘Bah!’ cried Ralph impatiently. ‘Give me his note, if he gave you one:
his message, if he didn’t. And don’t go away. I want a word with you,
sir.’
Newman handed in the note, and looked very virtuous and innocent while
his employer broke the seal, and glanced his eye over it.
‘He’ll be sure to come,’ muttered Ralph, as he tore it to pieces; ‘why
of course, I know he’ll be sure to come. What need to say that? Noggs!
Pray, sir, what man was that, with whom I saw you in the street last
night?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Newman.
‘You had better refresh your memory, sir,’ said Ralph, with a
threatening look.
‘I tell you,’ returned Newman boldly, ‘that I don’t know. He came here
twice, and asked for you. You were out. He came again. You packed him
off, yourself. He gave the name of Brooker.’
‘I know he did,’ said Ralph; ‘what then?’
‘What then? Why, then he lurked about and dogged me in the street. He
follows me, night after night, and urges me to bring him face to face
with you; as he says he has been once, and not long ago either. He
wants to see you face to face, he says, and you’ll soon hear him out, he
warrants.’
‘And what say you to that?’ inquired Ralph, looking keenly at his
drudge.
‘That it’s no business of mine, and I won’t. I told him he might catch
you in the street, if that was all he wanted, but no! that wouldn’t do.
You wouldn’t hear a word there, he said. He must have you alone in a
room with the door locked, where he could speak without fear, and you’d
soon change your tone, and hear him patiently.’
‘An audacious dog!’ Ralph muttered.
‘That’s all I know,’ said Newman. ‘I say again, I don’t know what man
he is. I don’t believe he knows himself. You have seen him; perhaps YOU
do.’
‘I think I do,’ replied Ralph.
‘Well,’ retored Newman, sulkily, ‘don’t expect me to know him too;
that’s all. You’ll ask me, next, why I never told you this before. What
would you say, if I was to tell you all that people say of you? What
do you call me when I sometimes do? “Brute, ass!” and snap at me like a
dragon.’
This was true enough; though the question which Newman anticipated, was,
in fact, upon Ralph’s lips at the moment.
‘He is an idle ruffian,’ said Ralph; ‘a vagabond from beyond the sea
where he travelled for his crimes; a felon let loose to run his neck
into the halter; a swindler, who has the audacity to try his schemes on
me who know him well. The next time he tampers with you, hand him over
to the police, for attempting to extort money by lies and threats,--d’ye
hear?--and leave the rest to me. He shall cool his heels in jail a
little time, and I’ll be bound he looks for other folks to fleece, when
he comes out. You mind what I say, do you?’
‘I hear,’ said Newman.
‘Do it then,’ returned Ralph, ‘and I’ll reward you. Now, you may go.’
Newman readily availed himself of the permission, and, shutting himself
up in his little office, remained there, in very serious cogitation,
all day. When he was released at night, he proceeded, with all the
expedition he could use, to the city, and took up his old position
behind the pump, to watch for Nicholas. For Newman Noggs was proud in
his way, and could not bear to appear as his friend, before the brothers
Cheeryble, in the shabby and degraded state to which he was reduced.
He had not occupied this position many minutes, when he was rejoiced to
see Nicholas approaching, and darted out from his ambuscade to meet him.
Nicholas, on his part, was no less pleased to encounter his friend, whom
he had not seen for some time; so, their greeting was a warm one.
‘I was thinking of you, at that moment,’ said Nicholas.
‘That’s right,’ rejoined Newman, ‘and I of you. I couldn’t help coming
up, tonight. I say, I think I am going to find out something.’
‘And what may that be?’ returned Nicholas, smiling at this odd
communication.
‘I don’t know what it may be, I don’t know what it may not be,’ said
Newman; ‘it’s some secret in which your uncle is concerned, but
what, I’ve not yet been able to discover, although I have my strong
suspicions. I’ll not hint ‘em now, in case you should be disappointed.’
‘I disappointed!’ cried Nicholas; ‘am I interested?’
‘I think you are,’ replied Newman. ‘I have a crotchet in my head that it
must be so. I have found out a man, who plainly knows more than he cares
to tell at once. And he has already dropped such hints to me as puzzle
me--I say, as puzzle me,’ said Newman, scratching his red nose into
a state of violent inflammation, and staring at Nicholas with all his
might and main meanwhile.
Admiring what could have wound his friend up to such a pitch of mystery,
Nicholas endeavoured, by a series of questions, to elucidate the cause;
but in vain. Newman could not be drawn into any more explicit statement
than a repetition of the perplexities he had already thrown out, and
a confused oration, showing, How it was necessary to use the utmost
caution; how the lynx-eyed Ralph had already seen him in company with
his unknown correspondent; and how he had baffled the said Ralph by
extreme guardedness of manner and ingenuity of speech; having prepared
himself for such a contingency from the first.
Remembering his companion’s propensity,--of which his nose, indeed,
perpetually warned all beholders like a beacon,--Nicholas had drawn him
into a sequestered tavern. Here, they fell to reviewing the origin and
progress of their acquaintance, as men sometimes do, and tracing out the
little events by which it was most strongly marked, came at last to Miss
Cecilia Bobster.
‘And that reminds me,’ said Newman, ‘that you never told me the young
lady’s real name.’
‘Madeline!’ said Nicholas.
‘Madeline!’ cried Newman. ‘What Madeline? Her other name. Say her other
name.’
‘Bray,’ said Nicholas, in great astonishment.
‘It’s the same!’ cried Newman. ‘Sad story! Can you stand idly by, and
let that unnatural marriage take place without one attempt to save her?’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Nicholas, starting up; ‘marriage! are you
mad?’
‘Are you? Is she? Are you blind, deaf, senseless, dead?’ said Newman.
‘Do you know that within one day, by means of your uncle Ralph, she will
be married to a man as bad as he, and worse, if worse there is? Do you
know that, within one day, she will be sacrificed, as sure as you stand
there alive, to a hoary wretch--a devil born and bred, and grey in
devils’ ways?’
‘Be careful what you say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘For Heaven’s sake be
careful! I am left here alone, and those who could stretch out a hand to
rescue her are far away. What is it that you mean?’
‘I never heard her name,’ said Newman, choking with his energy. ‘Why
didn’t you tell me? How was I to know? We might, at least, have had some
time to think!’
‘What is it that you mean?’ cried Nicholas.
It was not an easy task to arrive at this information; but, after a
great quantity of extraordinary pantomime, which in no way assisted it,
Nicholas, who was almost as wild as Newman Noggs himself, forced the
latter down upon his seat and held him down until he began his tale.
Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm of passions, rushed through
the listener’s heart, as the plot was laid bare. He no sooner understood
it all, than with a face of ashy paleness, and trembling in every limb,
he darted from the house.
‘Stop him!’ cried Newman, bolting out in pursuit. ‘He’ll be doing
something desperate; he’ll murder somebody. Hallo! there, stop him. Stop
thief! stop thief!’