Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows
Although Mrs. Nickleby had been made acquainted by her son and daughter
with every circumstance of Madeline Bray’s history which was known to
them; although the responsible situation in which Nicholas stood had
been carefully explained to her, and she had been prepared, even for
the possible contingency of having to receive the young lady in her
own house, improbable as such a result had appeared only a few minutes
before it came about, still, Mrs. Nickleby, from the moment when this
confidence was first reposed in her, late on the previous evening, had
remained in an unsatisfactory and profoundly mystified state, from which
no explanations or arguments could relieve her, and which every fresh
soliloquy and reflection only aggravated more and more.
‘Bless my heart, Kate!’ so the good lady argued; ‘if the Mr. Cheerybles
don’t want this young lady to be married, why don’t they file a bill
against the Lord Chancellor, make her a Chancery ward, and shut her
up in the Fleet prison for safety?--I have read of such things in the
newspapers a hundred times. Or, if they are so very fond of her as
Nicholas says they are, why don’t they marry her themselves--one of them
I mean? And even supposing they don’t want her to be married, and don’t
want to marry her themselves, why in the name of wonder should Nicholas
go about the world, forbidding people’s banns?’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said Kate, gently.
‘Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you’re very polite!’ replied Mrs
Nickleby. ‘I have been married myself I hope, and I have seen other
people married. Not understand, indeed!’
‘I know you have had great experience, dear mama,’ said Kate; ‘I mean
that perhaps you don’t quite understand all the circumstances in this
instance. We have stated them awkwardly, I dare say.’
‘That I dare say you have,’ retorted her mother, briskly. ‘That’s very
likely. I am not to be held accountable for that; though, at the same
time, as the circumstances speak for themselves, I shall take the
liberty, my love, of saying that I do understand them, and perfectly
well too; whatever you and Nicholas may choose to think to the contrary.
Why is such a great fuss made because this Miss Magdalen is going to
marry somebody who is older than herself? Your poor papa was older than
I was, four years and a half older. Jane Dibabs--the Dibabses lived in
the beautiful little thatched white house one story high, covered all
over with ivy and creeping plants, with an exquisite little porch with
twining honysuckles and all sorts of things: where the earwigs used
to fall into one’s tea on a summer evening, and always fell upon their
backs and kicked dreadfully, and where the frogs used to get into the
rushlight shades when one stopped all night, and sit up and look through
the little holes like Christians--Jane Dibabs, SHE married a man who was
a great deal older than herself, and WOULD marry him, notwithstanding
all that could be said to the contrary, and she was so fond of him that
nothing was ever equal to it. There was no fuss made about Jane Dibabs,
and her husband was a most honourable and excellent man, and everybody
spoke well of him. Then why should there by any fuss about this
Magdalen?’
‘Her husband is much older; he is not her own choice; his character is
the very reverse of that which you have just described. Don’t you see a
broad destinction between the two cases?’ said Kate.
To this, Mrs. Nickleby only replied that she durst say she was very
stupid, indeed she had no doubt she was, for her own children almost as
much as told her so, every day of her life; to be sure she was a little
older than they, and perhaps some foolish people might think she ought
reasonably to know best. However, no doubt she was wrong; of course she
was; she always was, she couldn’t be right, she couldn’t be expected
to be; so she had better not expose herself any more; and to all Kate’s
conciliations and concessions for an hour ensuing, the good lady gave no
other replies than Oh, certainly, why did they ask HER?, HER opinion
was of no consequence, it didn’t matter what SHE said, with many other
rejoinders of the same class.
In this frame of mind (expressed, when she had become too resigned
for speech, by nods of the head, upliftings of the eyes, and little
beginnings of groans, converted, as they attracted attention, into short
coughs), Mrs. Nickleby remained until Nicholas and Kate returned with the
object of their solicitude; when, having by this time asserted her own
importance, and becoming besides interested in the trials of one
so young and beautiful, she not only displayed the utmost zeal and
solicitude, but took great credit to herself for recommending the course
of procedure which her son had adopted: frequently declaring, with an
expressive look, that it was very fortunate things were AS they were:
and hinting, that but for great encouragement and wisdom on her own
part, they never could have been brought to that pass.
Not to strain the question whether Mrs. Nickleby had or had not any great
hand in bringing matters about, it is unquestionable that she had strong
ground for exultation. The brothers, on their return, bestowed such
commendations on Nicholas for the part he had taken, and evinced so
much joy at the altered state of events and the recovery of their young
friend from trials so great and dangers so threatening, that, as she
more than once informed her daughter, she now considered the fortunes of
the family ‘as good as’ made. Mr. Charles Cheeryble, indeed, Mrs. Nickleby
positively asserted, had, in the first transports of his surprise and
delight, ‘as good as’ said so. Without precisely explaining what this
qualification meant, she subsided, whenever she mentioned the subject,
into such a mysterious and important state, and had such visions of
wealth and dignity in perspective, that (vague and clouded though they
were) she was, at such times, almost as happy as if she had really been
permanently provided for, on a scale of great splendour.
The sudden and terrible shock she had received, combined with the great
affliction and anxiety of mind which she had, for a long time, endured,
proved too much for Madeline’s strength. Recovering from the state of
stupefaction into which the sudden death of her father happily plunged
her, she only exchanged that condition for one of dangerous and active
illness. When the delicate physical powers which have been sustained
by an unnatural strain upon the mental energies and a resolute
determination not to yield, at last give way, their degree of
prostration is usually proportionate to the strength of the effort which
has previously upheld them. Thus it was that the illness which fell
on Madeline was of no slight or temporary nature, but one which, for a
time, threatened her reason, and--scarcely worse--her life itself.
Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe and dangerous, could
be insensible to the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as gentle,
tender, earnest Kate? On whom could the sweet soft voice, the light
step, the delicate hand, the quiet, cheerful, noiseless discharge of
those thousand little offices of kindness and relief which we feel so
deeply when we are ill, and forget so lightly when we are well--on whom
could they make so deep an impression as on a young heart stored with
every pure and true affection that women cherish; almost a stranger to
the endearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt them from
itself; and rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly susceptible of
the sympathy so long unknown and so long sought in vain? What wonder
that days became as years in knitting them together! What wonder,
if with every hour of returning health, there came some stronger and
sweeter recognition of the praises which Kate, when they recalled old
scenes--they seemed old now, and to have been acted years ago--would
lavish on her brother! Where would have been the wonder, even, if those
praises had found a quick response in the breast of Madeline, and if,
with the image of Nicholas so constantly recurring in the features of
his sister that she could scarcely separate the two, she had sometimes
found it equally difficult to assign to each the feelings they had first
inspired, and had imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to Nicholas,
some of that warmer feeling which she had assigned to Kate?
‘My dear,’ Mrs. Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an
elaborate caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid
rather more than the entry of a horse-soldier at full gallop; ‘how do
you find yourself tonight? I hope you are better.’
‘Almost well, mama,’ Kate would reply, laying down her work, and taking
Madeline’s hand in hers.
‘Kate!’ Mrs. Nickleby would say, reprovingly, ‘don’t talk so loud’ (the
worthy lady herself talking in a whisper that would have made the blood
of the stoutest man run cold in his veins).
Kate would take this reproof very quietly, and Mrs. Nickleby, making
every board creak and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily about,
would add:
‘My son Nicholas has just come home, and I have come, according to
custom, my dear, to know, from your own lips, exactly how you are; for
he won’t take my account, and never will.’
‘He is later than usual to-night,’ perhaps Madeline would reply. ‘Nearly
half an hour.’
‘Well, I never saw such people in all my life as you are, for time, up
here!’ Mrs. Nickleby would exclaim in great astonishment; ‘I declare I
never did! I had not the least idea that Nicholas was after his time,
not the smallest. Mr. Nickleby used to say--your poor papa, I am speaking
of, Kate my dear--used to say, that appetite was the best clock in the
world, but you have no appetite, my dear Miss Bray, I wish you had, and
upon my word I really think you ought to take something that would give
you one. I am sure I don’t know, but I have heard that two or three
dozen native lobsters give an appetite, though that comes to the same
thing after all, for I suppose you must have an appetite before you can
take ‘em. If I said lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it’s all
the same, though really how you came to know about Nicholas--’
‘We happened to be just talking about him, mama; that was it.’
‘You never seem to me to be talking about anything else, Kate, and upon
my word I am quite surprised at your being so very thoughtless. You
can find subjects enough to talk about sometimes, and when you know how
important it is to keep up Miss Bray’s spirits, and interest her, and
all that, it really is quite extraordinary to me what can induce you to
keep on prose, prose, prose, din, din, din, everlastingly, upon the same
theme. You are a very kind nurse, Kate, and a very good one, and I know
you mean very well; but I will say this--that if it wasn’t for me, I
really don’t know what would become of Miss Bray’s spirits, and so I
tell the doctor every day. He says he wonders how I sustain my own, and
I am sure I very often wonder myself how I can contrive to keep up as I
do. Of course it’s an exertion, but still, when I know how much
depends upon me in this house, I am obliged to make it. There’s nothing
praiseworthy in that, but it’s necessary, and I do it.’
With that, Mrs. Nickleby would draw up a chair, and for some
three-quarters of an hour run through a great variety of distracting
topics in the most distracting manner possible; tearing herself away,
at length, on the plea that she must now go and amuse Nicholas while
he took his supper. After a preliminary raising of his spirits with the
information that she considered the patient decidedly worse, she would
further cheer him up by relating how dull, listless, and low-spirited
Miss Bray was, because Kate foolishly talked about nothing else but him
and family matters. When she had made Nicholas thoroughly comfortable
with these and other inspiriting remarks, she would discourse at length
on the arduous duties she had performed that day; and, sometimes, be
moved to tears in wondering how, if anything were to happen to herself,
the family would ever get on without her.
At other times, when Nicholas came home at night, he would be
accompanied by Mr. Frank Cheeryble, who was commissioned by the brothers
to inquire how Madeline was that evening. On such occasions (and they
were of very frequent occurrence), Mrs. Nickleby deemed it of particular
importance that she should have her wits about her; for, from certain
signs and tokens which had attracted her attention, she shrewdly
suspected that Mr. Frank, interested as his uncles were in Madeline, came
quite as much to see Kate as to inquire after her; the more especially
as the brothers were in constant communication with the medical man,
came backwards and forwards very frequently themselves, and received a
full report from Nicholas every morning. These were proud times for Mrs
Nickleby; never was anybody half so discreet and sage as she, or half
so mysterious withal; and never were there such cunning generalship, and
such unfathomable designs, as she brought to bear upon Mr. Frank, with
the view of ascertaining whether her suspicions were well founded:
and if so, of tantalising him into taking her into his confidence and
throwing himself upon her merciful consideration. Extensive was the
artillery, heavy and light, which Mrs. Nickleby brought into play for the
furtherance of these great schemes; various and opposite the means which
she employed to bring about the end she had in view. At one time, she
was all cordiality and ease; at another, all stiffness and frigidity.
Now, she would seem to open her whole heart to her unhappy victim; the
next time they met, she would receive him with the most distant and
studious reserve, as if a new light had broken in upon her, and,
guessing his intentions, she had resolved to check them in the bud; as
if she felt it her bounden duty to act with Spartan firmness, and at
once and for ever to discourage hopes which never could be realised.
At other times, when Nicholas was not there to overhear, and Kate was
upstairs busily tending her sick friend, the worthy lady would throw out
dark hints of an intention to send her daughter to France for three or
four years, or to Scotland for the improvement of her health impaired by
her late fatigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere that threatened
a long and tedious separation. Nay, she even went so far as to hint,
obscurely, at an attachment entertained for her daughter by the son of
an old neighbour of theirs, one Horatio Peltirogus (a young gentleman
who might have been, at that time, four years old, or thereabouts),
and to represent it, indeed, as almost a settled thing between the
families--only waiting for her daughter’s final decision, to come off
with the sanction of the church, and to the unspeakable happiness and
content of all parties.
It was in the full pride and glory of having sprung this last mine one
night with extraordinary success, that Mrs. Nickleby took the opportunity
of being left alone with her son before retiring to rest, to sound him
on the subject which so occupied her thoughts: not doubting that they
could have but one opinion respecting it. To this end, she approached
the question with divers laudatory and appropriate remarks touching the
general amiability of Mr. Frank Cheeryble.
‘You are quite right, mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘quite right. He is a fine
fellow.’
‘Good-looking, too,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘Decidedly good-looking,’ answered Nicholas.
‘What may you call his nose, now, my dear?’ pursued Mrs. Nickleby,
wishing to interest Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.
‘Call it?’ repeated Nicholas.
‘Ah!’ returned his mother, ‘what style of nose? What order of
architecture, if one may say so. I am not very learned in noses. Do you
call it a Roman or a Grecian?’
‘Upon my word, mother,’ said Nicholas, laughing, ‘as well as I remember,
I should call it a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. But I have no
very strong recollection on the subject. If it will afford you any
gratification, I’ll observe it more closely, and let you know.’
‘I wish you would, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with an earnest look.
‘Very well,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I will.’
Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book he had been reading, when
the dialogue had gone thus far. Mrs. Nickleby, after stopping a little
for consideration, resumed.
‘He is very much attached to you, Nicholas, my dear.’
Nicholas laughingly said, as he closed his book, that he was glad to
hear it, and observed that his mother seemed deep in their new friend’s
confidence already.
‘Hem!’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I don’t know about that, my dear, but I think
it is very necessary that somebody should be in his confidence; highly
necessary.’
Elated by a look of curiosity from her son, and the consciousness of
possessing a great secret, all to herself, Mrs. Nickleby went on with
great animation:
‘I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can have failed to notice it, is,
to me, quite extraordinary; though I don’t know why I should say that,
either, because, of course, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent,
there is a great deal in this sort of thing, especially in this early
stage, which, however clear it may be to females, can scarcely be
expected to be so evident to men. I don’t say that I have any particular
penetration in such matters. I may have; those about me should know
best about that, and perhaps do know. Upon that point I shall express no
opinion, it wouldn’t become me to do so, it’s quite out of the question,
quite.’
Nicholas snuffed the candles, put his hands in his pockets, and, leaning
back in his chair, assumed a look of patient suffering and melancholy
resignation.
‘I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,’ resumed his mother, ‘to tell
you what I know: not only because you have a right to know it too, and
to know everything that happens in this family, but because you have it
in your power to promote and assist the thing very much; and there is
no doubt that the sooner one can come to a clear understanding on such
subjects, it is always better, every way. There are a great many things
you might do; such as taking a walk in the garden sometimes, or sitting
upstairs in your own room for a little while, or making believe to fall
asleep occasionally, or pretending that you recollected some business,
and going out for an hour or so, and taking Mr. Smike with you. These
seem very slight things, and I dare say you will be amused at my making
them of so much importance; at the same time, my dear, I can assure you
(and you’ll find this out, Nicholas, for yourself one of these days,
if you ever fall in love with anybody; as I trust and hope you will,
provided she is respectable and well conducted, and of course you’d
never dream of falling in love with anybody who was not), I say, I can
assure you that a great deal more depends upon these little things than
you would suppose possible. If your poor papa was alive, he would tell
you how much depended on the parties being left alone. Of course, you
are not to go out of the room as if you meant it and did it on purpose,
but as if it was quite an accident, and to come back again in the same
way. If you cough in the passage before you open the door, or whistle
carelessly, or hum a tune, or something of that sort, to let them know
you’re coming, it’s always better; because, of course, though it’s not
only natural but perfectly correct and proper under the circumstances,
still it is very confusing if you interrupt young people when they
are--when they are sitting on the sofa, and--and all that sort of thing:
which is very nonsensical, perhaps, but still they will do it.’
The profound astonishment with which her son regarded her during this
long address, gradually increasing as it approached its climax in no
way discomposed Mrs. Nickleby, but rather exalted her opinion of her own
cleverness; therefore, merely stopping to remark, with much complacency,
that she had fully expected him to be surprised, she entered on a vast
quantity of circumstantial evidence of a particularly incoherent and
perplexing kind; the upshot of which was, to establish, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that Mr. Frank Cheeryble had fallen desperately in
love with Kate.
‘With whom?’ cried Nicholas.
Mrs. Nickleby repeated, with Kate.
‘What! OUR Kate! My sister!’
‘Lord, Nicholas!’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘whose Kate should it be, if
not ours; or what should I care about it, or take any interest in it
for, if it was anybody but your sister?’
‘Dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘surely it can’t be!’
‘Very good, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, with great confidence. ‘Wait
and see.’
Nicholas had never, until that moment, bestowed a thought upon
the remote possibility of such an occurrence as that which was now
communicated to him; for, besides that he had been much from home of
late and closely occupied with other matters, his own jealous fears had
prompted the suspicion that some secret interest in Madeline, akin to
that which he felt himself, occasioned those visits of Frank Cheeryble
which had recently become so frequent. Even now, although he knew that
the observation of an anxious mother was much more likely to be correct
in such a case than his own, and although she reminded him of many
little circumstances which, taken together, were certainly susceptible
of the construction she triumphantly put upon them, he was not quite
convinced but that they arose from mere good-natured thoughtless
gallantry, which would have dictated the same conduct towards any
other girl who was young and pleasing. At all events, he hoped so, and
therefore tried to believe it.
‘I am very much disturbed by what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, after a
little reflection, ‘though I yet hope you may be mistaken.’
‘I don’t understand why you should hope so,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I
confess; but you may depend upon it I am not.’
‘What of Kate?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘Why that, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘is just the point upon
which I am not yet satisfied. During this sickness, she has been
constantly at Madeline’s bedside--never were two people so fond of each
other as they have grown--and to tell you the truth, Nicholas, I have
rather kept her away now and then, because I think it’s a good plan, and
urges a young man on. He doesn’t get too sure, you know.’
She said this with such a mingling of high delight and
self-congratulation, that it was inexpressibly painful to Nicholas to
dash her hopes; but he felt that there was only one honourable course
before him, and that he was bound to take it.
‘Dear mother,’ he said kindly, ‘don’t you see that if there were really
any serious inclination on the part of Mr. Frank towards Kate, and we
suffered ourselves for a moment to encourage it, we should be acting a
most dishonourable and ungrateful part? I ask you if you don’t see it,
but I need not say that I know you don’t, or you would have been more
strictly on your guard. Let me explain my meaning to you. Remember how
poor we are.’
Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, and said, through her tears, that poverty
was not a crime.
‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and for that reason poverty should engender an
honest pride, that it may not lead and tempt us to unworthy actions, and
that we may preserve the self-respect which a hewer of wood and drawer
of water may maintain, and does better in maintaining than a monarch in
preserving his. Think what we owe to these two brothers: remember what
they have done, and what they do every day for us with a generosity
and delicacy for which the devotion of our whole lives would be a most
imperfect and inadequate return. What kind of return would that be which
would be comprised in our permitting their nephew, their only relative,
whom they regard as a son, and for whom it would be mere childishness to
suppose they have not formed plans suitably adapted to the education he
has had, and the fortune he will inherit--in our permitting him to marry
a portionless girl: so closely connected with us, that the irresistible
inference must be, that he was entrapped by a plot; that it was a
deliberate scheme, and a speculation amongst us three? Bring the matter
clearly before yourself, mother. Now, how would you feel, if they were
married, and the brothers, coming here on one of those kind errands
which bring them here so often, you had to break out to them the truth?
Would you be at ease, and feel that you had played an open part?’
Poor Mrs. Nickleby, crying more and more, murmured that of course Mr
Frank would ask the consent of his uncles first.
‘Why, to be sure, that would place HIM in a better situation with them,’
said Nicholas, ‘but we should still be open to the same suspicions; the
distance between us would still be as great; the advantages to be gained
would still be as manifest as now. We may be reckoning without our host
in all this,’ he added more cheerfully, ‘and I trust, and almost believe
we are. If it be otherwise, I have that confidence in Kate that I know
she will feel as I do--and in you, dear mother, to be assured that after
a little consideration you will do the same.’
After many more representations and entreaties, Nicholas obtained a
promise from Mrs. Nickleby that she would try all she could to think
as he did; and that if Mr. Frank persevered in his attentions she would
endeavour to discourage them, or, at the least, would render him no
countenance or assistance. He determined to forbear mentioning the
subject to Kate until he was quite convinced that there existed a real
necessity for his doing so; and resolved to assure himself, as well
as he could by close personal observation, of the exact position of
affairs. This was a very wise resolution, but he was prevented from
putting it in practice by a new source of anxiety and uneasiness.
Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and exhausted that he could
scarcely move from room to room without assistance; and so worn and
emaciated, that it was painful to look upon him. Nicholas was warned,
by the same medical authority to whom he had at first appealed, that the
last chance and hope of his life depended on his being instantly removed
from London. That part of Devonshire in which Nicholas had been
himself bred was named as the most favourable spot; but this advice was
cautiously coupled with the information, that whoever accompanied
him thither must be prepared for the worst; for every token of rapid
consumption had appeared, and he might never return alive.
The kind brothers, who were acquainted with the poor creature’s sad
history, dispatched old Tim to be present at this consultation. That
same morning, Nicholas was summoned by brother Charles into his private
room, and thus addressed:
‘My dear sir, no time must be lost. This lad shall not die, if such
human means as we can use can save his life; neither shall he die alone,
and in a strange place. Remove him tomorrow morning, see that he has
every comfort that his situation requires, and don’t leave him; don’t
leave him, my dear sir, until you know that there is no longer any
immediate danger. It would be hard, indeed, to part you now. No, no, no!
Tim shall wait upon you tonight, sir; Tim shall wait upon you tonight
with a parting word or two. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, Mr. Nickleby
waits to shake hands and say goodbye; Mr. Nickleby won’t be long gone;
this poor chap will soon get better, very soon get better; and then
he’ll find out some nice homely country-people to leave him with, and
will go backwards and forwards sometimes--backwards and forwards you
know, Ned. And there’s no cause to be downhearted, for he’ll very soon
get better, very soon. Won’t he, won’t he, Ned?’
What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he brought with him that night, needs
not to be told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeble companion began
their journey.
And who but one--and that one he who, but for those who crowded
round him then, had never met a look of kindness, or known a word
of pity--could tell what agony of mind, what blighted thoughts, what
unavailing sorrow, were involved in that sad parting?
‘See,’ cried Nicholas eagerly, as he looked from the coach window, ‘they
are at the corner of the lane still! And now there’s Kate, poor
Kate, whom you said you couldn’t bear to say goodbye to, waving her
handkerchief. Don’t go without one gesture of farewell to Kate!’
‘I cannot make it!’ cried his trembling companion, falling back in his
seat and covering his eyes. ‘Do you see her now? Is she there still?’
‘Yes, yes!’ said Nicholas earnestly. ‘There! She waves her hand again! I
have answered it for you--and now they are out of sight. Do not give way
so bitterly, dear friend, don’t. You will meet them all again.’
He whom he thus encouraged, raised his withered hands and clasped them
fervently together.
‘In heaven. I humbly pray to God in heaven.’
It sounded like the prayer of a broken heart.