Чарльз Диккенс
Nicholas Nickleby
Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.
‘There was a lady in our neighbourhood,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘speaking of sons puts me in mind of it – a lady in our neighbourhood when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name was Rogers; indeed I am sure it was if it wasn’t Murphy, which is the only doubt I have – ’
‘Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?’ said Nicholas quietly.
‘About her!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how can you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor dear papa, – just his way – always wandering, never able to fix his thoughts on any one subject for two minutes together. I think I see him now!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes, ‘looking at me while I was talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state of perfect conglomeration! Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly, would have supposed I was confusing and distracting him instead of making things plainer; upon my word they would.’
‘I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate slowness of apprehension,’ said Nicholas, kindly; ‘but I’ll do my best to understand you, if you’ll only go straight on: indeed I will.’
‘Your poor pa!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, pondering. ‘He never knew, till it was too late, what I would have had him do!’
This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr. Nickleby had not arrived at the knowledge. Then he died. Neither had Mrs. Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation of the circumstance.
‘However,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, drying her tears, ‘this has nothing to do – certainly nothing whatever to do – with the gentleman in the next house.’
‘I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to do with us,’ returned Nicholas.
‘There can be no doubt,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that he is a gentleman, and has the manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentleman, although he does wear smalls and grey worsted stockings. That may be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel Lambert, who was also a fat man; he was proud of his legs. So was Miss Biffin: she was – no,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, correcting, herself, ‘I think she had only toes, but the principle is the same.’
Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme. Which seemed just what Mrs. Nickleby had expected him to be.
‘You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am sure I was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my blood. The bottom of his garden joins the bottom of ours, and of course I had several times seen him sitting among the scarlet-beans in his little arbour, or working at his little hot-beds. I used to think he stared rather, but I didn’t take any particular notice of that, as we were newcomers, and he might be curious to see what we were like. But when he began to throw his cucumbers over our wall – ’
‘To throw his cucumbers over our wall!’ repeated Nicholas, in great astonishment.
‘Yes, Nicholas, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby in a very serious tone; ‘his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.’
‘Confound his impudence!’ said Nicholas, firing immediately. ‘What does he mean by that?’
‘I don’t think he means it impertinently at all,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.
‘What!’ said Nicholas, ‘cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at the heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, and not meant impertinently! Why, mother – ’
Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between the borders of Mrs. Nickleby’s nightcap, which arrested his attention suddenly.
‘He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘blamable indeed – at least I suppose other people would consider him so; of course I can’t be expected to express any opinion on that point, especially after always defending your poor dear papa when other people blamed him for making proposals to me; and to be sure there can be no doubt that he has taken a very singular way of showing it. Still at the same time, his attentions are – that is, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course – a flattering sort of thing; and although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl like Kate still unsettled in life – ’
‘Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?’ said Nicholas.
‘Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,’ returned his mother in a peevish tone, ‘isn’t that precisely what I am saying, if you would only let me speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, and I am surprised and astonished that you should suppose me capable of such a thing. All I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to reject these advances civilly and delicately, and without hurting his feelings too much, and driving him to despair, or anything of that kind? My goodness me!’ exclaimed Mrs Nickleby, with a half-simper, ‘suppose he was to go doing anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas?’
Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling, as he rejoined, ‘Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?’
‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby; ‘really, I don’t know. I am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday’s paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers, about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an adjoining village, because she wouldn’t shut herself up in an air-tight three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first, and then all the friends, and then her – no, killed all the friends first, and then herself, and then himself – which it is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a momentary pause, ‘they always are journeyman shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers. I don’t know how it is – something in the leather, I suppose.’
‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker – what has he done, mother, what has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs. Nickleby herself. ‘You know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.’
‘My dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the ashes in the grate, ‘he has done and said all sorts of things.’
‘Is there no mistake on your part?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Mistake!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I don’t know when a man’s in earnest?’
‘Well, well!’ muttered Nicholas.
‘Every time I go to the window,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘he kisses one hand, and lays the other upon his heart – of course it’s very foolish of him to do so, and I dare say you’ll say it’s very wrong, but he does it very respectfully – very respectfully indeed – and very tenderly, extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt about that. Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the wall every day, and very fine they certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of pickling the rest for next winter. And last evening,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, with increased confusion, ‘he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the garden, and proposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a musical glass – very like a musical glass indeed – but of course I didn’t listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear, what am I to do?’
‘Does Kate know of this?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I have not said a word about it yet,’ answered his mother.
‘Then, for Heaven’s sake,’ rejoined Nicholas, rising, ‘do not, for it would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what you should do, my dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling, and respect for my father’s memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways in which you can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting attentions. If you act as decidedly as you ought and they are still continued, and to your annoyance, I can speedily put a stop to them. But I should not interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance to it, until you have vindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially one of your age and condition, in circumstances like these, which are unworthy of a serious thought. I would not shame you by seeming to take them to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant. Absurd old idiot!’
So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and they retired to their respective chambers.
To do Mrs. Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would have prevented her seriously contemplating a second marriage, even if she could have so far conquered her recollections of her late husband as to have any strong inclinations that way. But, although there was no evil and little real selfishness in Mrs. Nickleby’s heart, she had a weak head and a vain one; and there was something so flattering in being sought (and vainly sought) in marriage at this time of day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the unknown gentleman quite so summarily or lightly as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.
‘As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,’ thought Mrs Nickleby, communing with herself in her own room, ‘I don’t see that, at all. It’s hopeless on his part, certainly; but why he should be an absurd old idiot, I confess I don’t see. He is not to be supposed to know it’s hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, I think!’
Having made these reflections, Mrs. Nickleby looked in her little dressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried to remember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas was one-and-twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother than her son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished her candle, and drew up the window-blind to admit the light of morning, which had, by this time, begun to dawn.
‘It’s a bad light to distinguish objects in,’ murmured Mrs. Nickleby, peering into the garden, ‘and my eyes are not very good – I was short-sighted from a child – but, upon my word, I think there’s another large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the broken glass bottles at the top of the wall!’
CHAPTER 38
Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a very old Friend, who invites him to his House, and will take no Denial
Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorous neighbour, or their effects upon the susceptible bosom of her mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which, even in occasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger. Living under the same roof with the beloved brother from whom she had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with a mind at ease, and free from any persecutions which could call a blush into her cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passed into a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had forsaken her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more beautiful than ever.
Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy’s ruminations and observations led her, when the cottage had been, as she emphatically said, ‘thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-pots to the street-door scraper,’ and the busy little woman had at length a moment’s time to think about its inmates.
‘Which I declare I haven’t had since I first came down here,’ said Miss La Creevy; ‘for I have thought of nothing but hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and night.’
‘You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,’ returned Kate, smiling.
‘Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanter things to think of, I should be a goose if I did,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘By-the-bye, I have thought of somebody too. Do you know, that I observe a great change in one of this family – a very extraordinary change?’
‘In whom?’ asked Kate, anxiously. ‘Not in – ’
‘Not in your brother, my dear,’ returned Miss La Creevy, anticipating the close of the sentence, ‘for he is always the same affectionate good-natured clever creature, with a spice of the – I won’t say who – in him when there’s any occasion, that he was when I first knew you. No. Smike, as he will be called, poor fellow! for he won’t hear of a Mr before his name, is greatly altered, even in this short time.’
‘How?’ asked Kate. ‘Not in health?’
‘N – n – o; perhaps not in health exactly,’ said Miss La Creevy, pausing to consider, ‘although he is a worn and feeble creature, and has that in his face which it would wring my heart to see in yours. No; not in health.’
‘How then?’
‘I scarcely know,’ said the miniature painter. ‘But I have watched him, and he has brought the tears into my eyes many times. It is not a very difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I am easily melted; still I think these came with good cause and reason. I am sure that since he has been here, he has grown, from some strong cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know that he wanders sometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I have watched him when you have not been by, my dear, sit brooding by himself, with such a look of pain as I could scarcely bear to see, and then get up and leave the room: so sorrowfully, and in such dejection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not three weeks ago, he was a light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be in a bustle, and as happy as the day was long. Now, he is another being – the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving creature – but the same in nothing else.’
‘Surely this will all pass off,’ said Kate. ‘Poor fellow!’
‘I hope,’ returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusual in her, ‘it may. I hope, for the sake of that poor lad, it may. However,’ said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful, chattering tone, which was habitual to her, ‘I have said my say, and a very long say it is, and a very wrong say too, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for if he is to be my squire all the way to the Strand, I shall talk on, and on, and on, and never leave off, till I have roused him into a laugh at something. So the sooner he goes, the better for him, and the sooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I shall have my maid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the house – though what there is to take away, besides tables and chairs, I don’t know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever thief who can dispose of them to any great advantage, for I can’t, I know, and that’s the honest truth.’
So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flat bonnet, and herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself tightly into the latter, by means of a large pin, declared that the omnibus might come as soon as it pleased, for she was quite ready.
But there was still Mrs. Nickleby to take leave of; and long before that good lady had concluded some reminiscences bearing upon, and appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus arrived. This put Miss La Creevy in a great bustle, in consequence whereof, as she secretly rewarded the servant girl with eighteen-pence behind the street-door, she pulled out of her reticule ten-pennyworth of halfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the passage, and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. This ceremony had, of course, to be succeeded by a second kissing of Kate and Mrs. Nickleby, and a gathering together of the little basket and the brown-paper parcel, during which proceedings, ‘the omnibus,’ as Miss La Creevy protested, ‘swore so dreadfully, that it was quite awful to hear it.’ At length and at last, it made a feint of going away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, and darted in, apologising with great volubility to all the passengers, and declaring that she wouldn’t purposely have kept them waiting on any account whatever. While she was looking about for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried that it was all right – though it wasn’t – and away went the huge vehicle, with the noise of half-a-dozen brewers’ drays at least.
Leaving it to pursue its journey at the pleasure of the conductor aforementioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind, smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, or gallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient and advisable; this narrative may embrace the opportunity of ascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to what extent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuries consequent on being flung violently from his cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.
With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfigured by half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent pain and fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on the couch to which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeks yet to come. Mr. Pyke and Mr. Pluck sat drinking hard in the next room, now and then varying the monotonous murmurs of their conversation with a half-smothered laugh, while the young lord – the only member of the party who was not thoroughly irredeemable, and who really had a kind heart – sat beside his Mentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light of a lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as were most likely to yield him interest or amusement.
‘Curse those hounds!’ said the invalid, turning his head impatiently towards the adjoining room; ‘will nothing stop their infernal throats?’
Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stopped immediately: winking to each other as they did so, and filling their glasses to the brim, as some recompense for the deprivation of speech.
‘Damn!’ muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing impatiently in his bed. ‘Isn’t this mattress hard enough, and the room dull enough, and pain bad enough, but they must torture me? What’s the time?’
‘Half-past eight,’ replied his friend.
‘Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘More piquet. Come.’
It was curious to see how eagerly the sick man, debarred from any change of position save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched every motion of his friend in the progress of the game; and with what eagerness and interest he played, and yet how warily and coolly. His address and skill were more than twenty times a match for his adversary, who could make little head against them, even when fortune favoured him with good cards, which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won every game; and when his companion threw down the cards, and refused to play any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and caught up the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh, though considerably lowered in tone, that had resounded in Ralph Nickleby’s dining-room, months before.
While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr. Ralph Nickleby was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.
‘Better,’ said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.
‘Mr. Nickleby wishes to know, sir – ’
‘I tell you, better,’ replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon the table.
The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that Mr. Nickleby had requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it was not inconvenient.
‘It is inconvenient. I can’t see him. I can’t see anybody,’ said his master, more violently than before. ‘You know that, you blockhead.’
‘I am very sorry, sir,’ returned the man. ‘But Mr. Nickleby pressed so much, sir – ’
The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who, being anxious to earn his money with a view to future favours, held the door in his hand, and ventured to linger still.
‘Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?’ inquired Sir Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.
‘No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr. Nickleby said, sir.’
‘Tell him to come up. Here,’ cried Sir Mulberry, calling the man back, as he passed his hand over his disfigured face, ‘move that lamp, and put it on the stand behind me. Wheel that table away, and place a chair there – further off. Leave it so.’
The man obeyed these directions as if he quite comprehended the motive with which they were dictated, and left the room. Lord Frederick Verisopht, remarking that he would look in presently, strolled into the adjoining apartment, and closed the folding door behind him.
Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat in hand, crept softly into the room, with his body bent forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed upon the face of his worthy client.
‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chair by the couch side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, ‘I have had a bad accident, you see.’
‘I see,’ rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. ‘Bad, indeed! I should not have known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This is bad.’
Ralph’s manner was one of profound humility and respect; and the low tone of voice was that, which the gentlest consideration for a sick man would have taught a visitor to assume. But the expression of his face, Sir Mulberry’s being averted, was in extraordinary contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude, calmly looking on the prostrate form before him, all that part of his features which was not cast into shadow by his protruding and contracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic smile.
‘Sit down,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a violent effort. ‘Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?’
As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and making as though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but was determined not to do so, sat down with well-acted confusion.
‘I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,’ said Ralph, ‘twice a day, indeed, at first – and tonight, presuming upon old acquaintance, and past transactions by which we have mutually benefited in some degree, I could not resist soliciting admission to your chamber. Have you – have you suffered much?’ said Ralph, bending forward, and allowing the same harsh smile to gather upon his face, as the other closed his eyes.
‘More than enough to please me, and less than enough to please some broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who lay their ruin between us, I dare say,’ returned Sir Mulberry, tossing his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intense irritation with which this had been said; for there was an aggravating, cold distinctness in his speech and manner which so grated on the sick man that he could scarcely endure it.
‘And what is it in these “past transactions,” that brought you here tonight?’ asked Sir Mulberry.
‘Nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘There are some bills of my lord’s which need renewal; but let them be till you are well. I – I – came,’ said Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher emphasis, ‘I came to say how grieved I am that any relative of mine, although disowned by me, should have inflicted such punishment on you as – ’
‘Punishment!’ interposed Sir Mulberry.
‘I know it has been a severe one,’ said Ralph, wilfully mistaking the meaning of the interruption, ‘and that has made me the more anxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond – that I acknowledge him as no kin of mine – and that I leave him to take his deserts from you, and every man besides. You may wring his neck if you please. I shall not interfere.’
‘This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?’ asked Sir Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.
‘Noised in all directions,’ replied Ralph. ‘Every club and gaming-room has rung with it. There has been a good song made about it, as I am told,’ said Ralph, looking eagerly at his questioner. ‘I have not heard it myself, not being in the way of such things, but I have been told it’s even printed – for private circulation – but that’s all over town, of course.’
‘It’s a lie!’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘I tell you it’s all a lie. The mare took fright.’
‘They say he frightened her,’ observed Ralph, in the same unmoved and quiet manner. ‘Some say he frightened you, but that’s a lie, I know. I have said that boldly – oh, a score of times! I am a peaceable man, but I can’t hear folks tell that of you. No, no.’
When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bent forward with his hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its every line of sternness had been cast in iron.
‘When I am off this cursed bed,’ said the invalid, actually striking at his broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, ‘I’ll have such revenge as never man had yet. By God, I will. Accident favouring him, he has marked me for a week or two, but I’ll put a mark on him that he shall carry to his grave. I’ll slit his nose and ears, flog him, maim him for life. I’ll do more than that; I’ll drag that pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate sister, through – ’
It might have been that even Ralph’s cold blood tingled in his cheeks at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered, that, knave and usurer as he was, he must, in some early time of infancy, have twined his arm about her father’s neck. He stopped, and menacing with his hand, confirmed the unuttered threat with a tremendous oath.
‘It is a galling thing,’ said Ralph, after a short term of silence, during which he had eyed the sufferer keenly, ‘to think that the man about town, the rake, the roue, the rook of twenty seasons should be brought to this pass by a mere boy!’
Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph’s eyes were bent upon the ground, and his face wore no other expression than one of thoughtfulness.
‘A raw, slight stripling,’ continued Ralph, ‘against a man whose very weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in – I am right, I think,’ said Ralph, raising his eyes, ‘you were a patron of the ring once, were you not?’
The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as one of acquiescence.
‘Ha!’ he said, ‘I thought so. That was before I knew you, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t be mistaken. He is light and active, I suppose. But those were slight advantages compared with yours. Luck, luck! These hang-dog outcasts have it.’
‘He’ll need the most he has, when I am well again,’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk, ‘let him fly where he will.’
‘Oh!’ returned Ralph quickly, ‘he doesn’t dream of that. He is here, good sir, waiting your pleasure, here in London, walking the streets at noonday; carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, I swear,’ said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred getting the upper hand of him, for the first time, as this gay picture of Nicholas presented itself; ‘if we were only citizens of a country where it could be safely done, I’d give good money to have him stabbed to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs to tear.’
As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented this little piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat preparatory to departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.
‘Why what in the deyvle’s name, Hawk, have you and Nickleby been talking about?’ said the young man. ‘I neyver heard such an insufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has it all been about?’
‘Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,’ said Ralph, looking towards the couch.
‘Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has it, Nickleby?’
‘No, my Lord, no,’ returned Ralph. ‘On that point we always agree. Sir Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of – ’
There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph to proceed; for Sir Mulberry took up the theme, and vented his threats and oaths against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.
Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as this tirade proceeded, the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht, who at the commencement had been twirling his whiskers with a most dandified and listless air, underwent a complete alteration. He was still more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to speak, the young lord angrily, and almost unaffectedly, requested never to have the subject renewed in his presence.
‘Mind that, Hawk!’ he added, with unusual energy. ‘I never will be a party to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon this young fellow.’
‘Cowardly!’ interrupted his friend.
‘Ye-es,’ said the other, turning full upon him. ‘If you had told him who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out, afterwards, that his station or character prevented your fighting him, it would have been bad enough then; upon my soul it would have been bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did wrong too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to you afterwards, was as much the consequence of accident as design, and more your fault than his; and it shall not, with my knowledge, be cruelly visited upon him, it shall not indeed.’
With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, the young lord turned upon his heel; but before he had reached the adjoining room he turned back again, and said, with even greater vehemence than he had displayed before,
‘I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister is as virtuous and modest a young lady as she is a handsome one; and of the brother, I say this, that he acted as her brother should, and in a manly and spirited manner. And I only wish, with all my heart and soul, that any one of us came out of this matter half as well as he does.’
