This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chet Chris, London, UK. Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens Chapter 24 Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Nevalici and the first appearance of Nicholas upon any stage This was up at times in the morning. But he had scarcely begun to dress, not withstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and was presently saluted by the voices of Mr. Folare, the pantomymist, and Mr. Lenville, the Tragedian. "'House, house, house!' cried Mr. Folare. "'What ho! within there?' said Mr. Lenville, in a deep voice. "'Confound these fellows,' thought Nicholas. "'They've come to breakfast, I suppose.' "'I'll open the door directly, if you'll wait an instant.' The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself, and to beguile the interval had a fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the very small landing-place, to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers downstairs. "'Here, come in,' said Nicholas, when he'd completed his toilet. "'In the name of all that's horrible, don't make that noise outside.' "'An uncommon snug little box this,' said Mr. Lenville, stepping into the front room, and taking his hat off before he could get in at all. "'Pernicious snug!' "'For a man at all particular in such matters it might be a trifle too snug,' said Nicholas. "'For although it is undoubtedly a great convenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your chair, still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the most limited size.' "'It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,' returned Mr. Lenville. "'All that reminds me—my wife, Mr. Johnson, I hope she'll have some good part in this piece of yours.' "'I glanced at the French coppe last night,' said Nicholas. "'It looks very good, I think.' "'What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?' asked Mr. Lenville, poking the struggling fire with his walking stick, and afterwards wiping it on the skirt of his coat. "'Anything in the gruff and grumble way?' "'You turn your wife and child out of doors,' said Nicholas, and in a fit of rage and jealousy stab your oldest son in the library. "'Do I, though?' exclaimed Mr. Lenville.  "'Very good.' "'You pause,' said Nicholas. "'You recollect, or have heard a clock strike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand. You are overcome. You burst into tears, and become a virtuous and exemplary character for ever afterwards.' "'Capital,' said Mr. Lenville. "'That's a sure card—a sure card. Get the curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumphant success.' "'Is there anything good for me?' inquired Mr. Folare anxiously. "'Let me see,' said Nicholas. "'You play the faithful and detached servant.  Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,' sighed Mr. Folare. "'And we go into poor lodgings where I won't take any wages and talk sentiment, I suppose.' "'Why, yes,' replied Nicholas. "'That is the course of the piece.' "'I must have a dance of some kind, you know,' said Mr. Folare. "'You'll have to introduce one for the phenomenon, so you'd better make a part-a-deur and save time.' "'There's nothing easier than that,' said Mr. Lenville, observing the disturbed looks of the young dramatist. "'Upon my word, I don't see how it's to be done,' rejoined Nicholas. "'Why, isn't it obvious?' "'Reason, Mr. Lenville, God-zooks! Who can help seeing the way to do it? You astonish me!' "'You get the distressed lady and the little child and the attached servant into the poor lodgings, don't you?' "'Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into a chair and buries her face in her pocket-handkerchief. "'What makes you weep, mamma?' says the child.  "'What can we do to raise your spirits, dear mamma?' says the little child. "'Aye, what can we do?' says the faithful servant. "'Oh, Pierre,' says the distressed lady, would that I could shake off these painful thoughts. "'Try, mam, try,' says the faithful servant. "'Rouse yourself, mam, be amused.' "'I will,' says the lady. "'I will learn to suffer with fortitude. "'Do you remember that dance, my honest friend, which in happier days you practised with this sweet angel? "'It never failed to calm my spirits, then. "'Oh, let me see it once again before I die.' "'There it is, cue for the band, before I die.' "'And off they go. "'That's the regular thing, isn't it, Tommy?' "'That's it,' replied Mr. Folare. "'The distressed lady, overpowered by old recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a picture.' Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the best breakfast he could. And, when he at length got rid of them, applied himself to his task. By no means displeased to find that it was so much easier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day, and did not leave his room until the evening, when he went down to the theatre with a smike had repaired before him to go on with another gentleman as a general rebellion. Here all the people were so much changed that he scarcely knew them. False hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles—they had become different beings. Mr. Lenville was a blooming warrior of most exquisite proportions. Mr. Krummels, his large face, shaded by a profusion of black hair, a highland outlaw of most majestic bearing. One of the old gentlemen, a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch. The comic countryman, a fighting man of great valor, relieved by a touch of humour. Each of the master Krummels was a prince in his own right, and the low-spirited lover a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet ready-spread for the Third Act, consisting of two paste-bored vases, one plate of biscuits, a black of bottle, and a vinegar-cruet, and in short, everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation. Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating the first scene, which was a gothic archway about two feet shorter than Mr. Krummels, through which that gentleman was to make his first entrance, and now listening to a couple of people who were cracking nuts in the gallery, wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the manager himself walked familiarly up and accosted him. "'Been in front to-night,' said Mr. Krummels. "'No,' replied Nicholas. "'Not yet. I'm going to see the play.' "'We've had a pretty good let,' said Mr. Krummels. "'Four front places in the centre and the whole of the stage-box.' "'Oh, indeed,' said Nicholas. "'A family, I suppose?' "'Yes,' replied Mr. Krummels. "'Yes. It's an affecting thing. There are six children, and they never come unless the phenomenon plays.' It would have been difficult for any party, family or otherwise, to have visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon did not play, inasmuch as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly, two or three characters every night. But Nicholas, sympathising with the feelings of a father, refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr. Krummels continued to talk uninterrupted by him. "'Six,' said that gentleman. "'Pa and ma eight, aunt nine, governess ten, grandfather and grandmother twelve. Then there's the footman, who stands outside with a bag of oranges and a jug of toast and water, and sees the play for nothing through the little pane of glass in the box door. It's cheap at a guinea. They gain by taking a box.' "'I wonder you allow so many,' observed Nicholas. "'There's no help for it,' replied Mr. Krummels. "'It's always expected in the country. If there are six children, six people come to hold them in their laps. A family box carries double-allways. Ring in the orchestra, grudden.' That useful lady did, as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the tuning of three fiddles was heard. Which process, having been protracted as long as it was supposed that the patience of the audience could possibly bear it, was put to stop to by another jerk of the bell, which, being the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs with involuntary variations. If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the better, which the gentleman displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of the manager's box, he beheld Miss Nevilleachie in all the glories of white muslin with a golden hem, and Mrs. Krummels in all the dignity of the outlaw's wife, and Miss Bravassa in all the sweetness of Miss Nevilleachie's confidential friend, and Miss Belvornie in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing to live and die in the service of everybody, he could scarcely contain his admiration, which testified itself in great applause, and the closest possible attention to the business of the scene. The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody's previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing something somewhere, and came home in triumph to the sound of shouts and fiddles to greet his wife, a lady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her father's bones, which it seemed were unburied. Though whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman himself, or the reprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear. This outlaw's wife was somehow or other mixed up with a patriarch, living in a castle a long way off, and this patriarch was the father of several of the characters, but he didn't exactly know which, and was uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in his castle or the wrong ones. He rather inclined to the latter opinion, and being uneasy, relieved his mind with the banquet, during which solemnity somebody in a cloak said, Beware! Which somebody was known by nobody except the audience to be the outlaw himself, who had come there for reasons unexplained, but possibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an agreeable little surprise in the way of certain love passages between the desponding captive and Miss Nevalichi, and the comic fighting man and Miss Bravassa, besides which Mr. Lenville had several very tragic scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions, which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic fighting man, who overheard whatever was said all through the piece, and the intrepidity of Miss Nevalichi, who adopted tights, and therein repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with a small basket of refreshments and a dark lantern. At last it came out that the patriarch was the man who had treated the bones of the outlaw's father-in-law with so much disrespect, for which cause and reason the outlaw's wife repaired to his castle to kill him. And so got into a dark room, where after a good deal of groping in the dark everybody got hold of everybody else and took them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of confusion, with some pistoling, loss of life, and torchlight, after which the patriarch came forward and observing with a knowing look that he knew all about his children now, and would tell them when they got inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion for marrying the young people than that. And therefore he joined their hands with the full consent of the indefatigable page, who, being the only other person surviving, pointed with his cap into the clouds and his right hand to the ground, thereby invoking a blessing and giving the cue for the curtain to come down, which it did amidst general applause. What did you think of that? asked Mr. Crumles, when Nicholas went round to the stage again. Mr. Crumles was very red and hot, for your outlaws are desperate fellows to shout. I think it was very capital indeed, replied Nicholas. Miss Nevalichi, in particular, was uncommonly good. She's a genius, said Mr. Crumles, quite a genius, that girl.  When? asked Nicholas. The night of her bespeak, her benefit night, when her friends and patrons bespeak the play, said Mr. Crumles. Oh, I understand, replied Nicholas. You see, said Mr. Crumles, it's sure to go on such an occasion, and even if it should not work up quite as well as we expect, why it will be her risk, you know, and not ours. Yours, you mean, said Nicholas. I said mine, didn't I? returned Mr. Crumles. A next Monday week, what do you say? You'll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lovers' part, long before that time. I don't know about long before, replied Nicholas, but by that time I think I can undertake to be ready. Very good, pursued Mr. Crumles. Then we'll call that settled. Now, I want to ask you something else. There's a little, what shall I call it, a little canvassing takes place on these occasions. Among the patrons, I suppose, said Nicholas, among the patrons. And the fact is that Snevelychie has had so many bespeaks in this place that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when her uncle died. And Mrs. Crumles and myself have had bespeaks on the anniversary of the phenomenon's birthday, and our wedding day, and occasions of that description, so that, in fact, there's some difficulty in getting a good one. Now, won't you help this poor girl, Mr. Johnson, said Crumles, sitting himself down on a drum, and taking a great pinch of snuff as he looked him steadily in the face? How do you mean, rejoin Nicholas? Don't you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning to call with her at the houses of one or two of the principal people? murmured the manager in a persuasive tone. Oh, dear me, said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection. I shouldn't like to do that. The infant will accompany her, said Mr. Crumles. The moment it was suggested to me I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not be the smallest impropriety. Miss Nevalici, sir, is the very soul of honour. It would be of material service. The gentleman from London, author of the new piece, actor in the new piece, first appearance on any boards. It would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson. I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and more especially a lady, replied Nicholas. But really I must decidedly object to making one of the canvassing party. What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent? Inquired a voice close to his ear, and looking round he found Mrs. Crumles and Miss Nevalici herself standing behind him. He has some objection, my dear, replied Mr. Crumles looking at Nicholas. Objection! exclaimed Mrs. Crumles. Can it be possible? Oh, I hope not! cried Miss Nevalici. You surely are not so cruel. Oh, dear me! Well, I—to think of that now, after all one's looking forward to it. Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear, said Mrs. Crumles. Think better of him than to suppose it. Gallantry! Humanity! All the best feelings of his nature must be enlisted in the interesting cause. Which moves even a manager, said Mr. Crumles, smiling. And a manager's wife, added Mrs. Crumles, in her accustomed tragedy tones. Come, come, you will relent. I know you will. It is not in my nature, said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, to resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positively wrong, and beyond the feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it, then. I yield. Miss Nevalici was at once overwhelmed with blushers and expressions of gratitude, of which latter commodity, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crumles, was by any means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her at her lodgings at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted, he to return home to his authorship, Miss Nevalici to dress for the after-piece, and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have two-thirds of the profits, by solemn treaty of agreement. At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings of Miss Nevalici, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded the little passage, and the tailor's daughter, who opened the door, appeared in that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical getting-up of a family's linen. Miss Nevalici lives here, I believe, said Nicholas, when the door was opened. The tailor's daughter replied in the affirmative. Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here? said Nicholas.  Nicholas followed the young lady and was shown into a small apartment on the first floor, communicating with the back room, in which, as he judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound as of cups and saucers, Miss Nevalici was then taking her breakfast in bed. You're to wait, if you please," said the tailor's daughter, after a short period of absence, during which the clinking in the back room had ceased, and been succeeded by whispering, She won't be long. As she spoke, she pulled up the window blind, and, having by this means, as she thought, diverted Mr. Johnson's attention from the room to the street, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had very much the appearance of stockings, and darted off. As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have bestowed upon it.  Hanging over the back of a chair was a half-finished muslin apron, with little pockets ornamented with red ribbons, such as waiting-women were on the stage, and, by consequence, are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive pair of top-boots in which Miss Nevalichi was accustomed to enact the little jockey, and folded on a chair, hard by, was a small parcel, which bore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion's smalls. But the most interesting object of all was perhaps the open scrapbook, displayed in the midst of some theatrical duodesimos that were strewn upon the table, and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical notices of Miss Nevalichi's acting, extracted from different provincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour, commencing, Sing God of Love, and tell me in what dearth Thrice gifted Snevalichi came on earth, to thrillers with her smile, her tear, her eye, Sing God of Love, and tell me quickly why. Besides this effusion there were innumerable complementary allusions also extracted from newspapers, such as We observe from an advertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming and highly talented Miss Nevalichi takes her benefit on Wednesday, for which occasion she has put forth a bill of fair that might kindle exhilaration in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our fellow townsmen have not lost that high appreciation of public utility and private worth, for which they have long been so pre-eminently distinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted with a bumper. To correspondence, J.S. is misinformed when he supposes that the highly gifted and beautiful Miss Nevalichi, nightly captivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre, is not the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune, residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made honourable proposals. We have reason to know that Miss Nevalichi is the lady who was implicated in that mysterious and romantic affair, and whose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to her head and heart than do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius. A copious assortment of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits all ending with come early in large capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss Nevalichi's scrapbook. Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a circumstantial and melancholy account of the train of events which had led to Miss Nevalichi's spraining her ankle by slipping on a piece of orange peel, flung by a monster in human form, so the paper said, upon the stage at Winchester, when that young lady herself attired in the coal-scuttle bonnet and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room with a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the appointed time. But really, said Miss Nevalichi, my darling Led, who lives with me here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have expired in my arms. Such a fate is almost to be envied, returned Nicholas, but I am very sorry to hear it, nevertheless.  If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments, rejoin Nicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, you have better specimens of it here.  How careless of Led! How could she be so naughty? I thought you had kindly left it here on purpose for me to read, said Nicholas. And really it did seem possible. I wouldn't have had you see it for the world, rejoin Miss Nevalichi. I never was so vexed, never. But she is such a careless thing there's no trusting her. The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon. Who had discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now presented herself with much grace and lightness, abetting in her hand a very little green parasol with a broad fringe border and no handle. After a few words, of course, they salad into the street. The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion. For first the right sandal came down, and then the left. And these mischances being repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be longer than the other. Besides these accidents, the green parasol was dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great difficulty and by dint of much exertion. However, it was impossible to scold her, as she was the manager's daughter. So Nicholas took it all in perfect good humour, and walked on with Miss Nevalichi, arm in arm on one side, and the offending infant on the other. The first house to which they bent their steps was situated in a terrace of respectable appearance. Miss Nevalichi's modest double-knock was answered by a footboy, who, in reply to her inquiry whether Mrs. Curdle was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very much, and said he didn't know but he'd inquire. With this he showed them into a parlour, where he kept them waiting, until the two women servants had repaired thither under false pretenses to see the play actors, and having compared notes with them in the passage, and joined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling, yet length went upstairs with Miss Nevalichi's name. Now Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on such points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to literature and the drama, and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet of sixty-four pages, post-Octavo, on the character of the nurse's deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really had been a merry man in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his widow's affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He had likewise proved that by altering the received mode of punctuation any one of Shakespeare's plays could be made quite different, and the sense completely changed. It is needless to say, therefore, that he was a great critic, and a very profound and most original thinker. Well, Miss Nevalichi, said Mrs. Curdle entering the parlour, and how do you do? Miss Nevalichi made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was well, as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs.  I ventured to call for the purpose of asking whether you would put your name to my bespeak, ma'am, said Miss Nevalichi producing documents. Oh, I really don't know what to say, replied Mrs. Curdle. It's not as if the theatre was in its high and palmy days. You needn't stand, Miss Nevalichi. The drama is gone, perfectly gone. As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions, and a realisation of human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments, and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama is gone. Perfectly gone, said Mr. Curdle. What man is there now living, who can present before us all those changing and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is invested? exclaimed Mrs. Curdle. What man indeed, upon the stage, said Mr. Curdle, with a small reservation in favour of himself. Hamlet? Ridiculous. Hamlet is gone. Perfectly gone. Quite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed, and sat for some short time without speaking. At length the lady turning to Miss Nevalichi inquired what play she had proposed to have. Quite a new one, said Miss Nevalichi, of which this gentleman is the author and in which he plays, being his first appearance on any stage. Mr. Johnson is the gentleman's name. I hope you have preserved the unit is, sir, said Mr. Curdle. The original piece is a French one, said Nicholas. There is abundance of incident, sprightly dialogue, strongly marked characters, all unavailing without a strict observance of the unit is, sir, returned Mr. Curdle. The unit is of the drama, before everything. Might I ask you, said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he ought to assume, and his love of the whimsical, might I ask you what the unit is are? Mr. Curdle coughed and considered. The unit is, sir, he said, are a completeness, a kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place and time, a sort of general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so strong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unit is, so far as I have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have read much upon the subject and thought much. I find, running through the performances of this child, said Mr. Curdle, turning to the phenomenon, a unity of feeling, a breath, a light and shade, a warmth of colouring, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical development of original conceptions, which I look for in vain among older performers. I don't know whether I make myself understood. Perfectly, replied Nicholas. Just so, said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his netcloth, that is my definition of the unit is of the drama. Mrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with great complacency. It being finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought about putting down their names. I don't know, my dear. Upon my word, I don't know, said Mr. Curdle. If we do, it must be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves to the quality of the performances. Let it go forth to the world that we do not give them the sanction of our names, but that we confer the distinction merely upon Miss Nevalichi. That being clearly stated, I take it to be as it were a duty that we should extend our patronage to a degraded stage, even for the sake of the associations with which it is entwined. Have you got two and sixpence for half a crown, Miss Nevalichi? Said Mr. Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of money. Miss Nevalichi felt in all the corners of the Pink Reticule, but there was nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an author, and thought it best not to go through the form of feeling in his own pockets at all. Let me see, said Mr. Curdle, twice, four as eight, four shillings apiece to the boxes. Miss Nevalichi is exceedingly dear in the present state of the drama. The three half crowns is seven and six. We shall not differ about sixpence, I suppose. Sixpence will not part as Miss Nevalichi. Poor Miss Nevalichi took the three half crowns, with many smiles and bends. And Mrs. Curdle, adding several supplementary directions relative to keeping the places for them, and dusting the seat, and sending two clean bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell as a signal for breaking up the conference. Odd people, those, said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house. I assure you, said Miss Nevalichi, taking his arm, that I think myself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being sixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would give people to understand that they had always patronised you, and if you were to fail, they would have been quite certain of that from the very beginning. At the next house they visited they were in great glory, for there resided the six children who were so enraptured with the public actions of the phenomenon, and who, being called down from the nursery to be treated with a private view of that young lady, proceeded to poke their fingers into her eyes and tread upon her toes, and show her many other little attentions peculiar to their time of life. I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box, said the lady of the house, after a most gracious reception. I shall only take two of the children, and will make up the rest of the party of gentlemen your admirers, Miss Nevalichi.  This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon behind, apparently with the view of ascertaining whether she was real. I am sure you must be very tired, said the mamar, turning to Miss Nevalichi. I cannot think of allowing you to go without first taking a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you. Miss Lane, my dear, pray, see to the children. Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by the abrupt behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the phenomenon's little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while the distracted infant looked helplessly on. I am sure where you ever learnt to act as you do, said good-natured Mrs Borum, turning again to Miss Nevalichi. I cannot understand, Emma, don't stare so, laughing in one piece and crying in the next, and so natural in all. Oh, dear! I am very happy to hear you express so favourable an opinion, said Miss Nevalichi. It's quite delightful to think you like it. Like it, cried Mrs Borum. Who can help liking it? I would go to the play twice a week, if I could. I'd dot upon it. Only you're too affecting sometimes. You do put me in such a state, into such fits of crying. Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment that poor child so? The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb. For two strong little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were dragging her in different directions as a trial of strength. However, Miss Lane, who had herself been too much occupied in contemplating the grown-up actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings, rescued the unhappy infant at this juncture. Who, being recruited with a glass of wine, was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after sustaining no more serious damage than a flattening of the pink gore's bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock and trousers. It was a trying morning, for there were a great many calls to make, and everybody wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others comedies. Some objected to dancing. Some wanted scarcely anything else. Some thought the comic singer decidedly low, and others hoped he would have more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn't promise to go, because other people wouldn't promise to go, and other people wouldn't go at all, because other people went. At length, and by little and little, omitting something in this place, and adding something in that, Miss Nevalichi pledged herself to a bill of fare, which was comprehensive enough, if it had no other merit. It included, among other trifles, four pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and several dancers. And they returned home pretty well exhausted with the business of the day. Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into rehearsal, and then worked away at his own part, which he studied with great perseverance, and acted, as the whole company said, to perfection. And at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent round in the morning to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in all the thoroughfares, and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches wide were dispersed in all directions, flung down all the areas, thrust under all the knockers, and developed in all the shops. They were placarded on the walls, too, though not with complete success, for an illiterate person having undertaken this office during the indisposition of the regular bill-sticker, apart were posted sideways, and the remainder upside down. At half-past five there was a rush of four people to the gallery door. At a quarter before six there were at least a dozen. At six o'clock the kicks were terrific, and when the elder Master Krummels opened the door, he was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen shillings were taken by Mrs. Grudden in the first ten minutes. Behind the scenes the same unwanted excitement prevailed. Mrs. Nevalichi was in such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely stay on her face. Mrs. Krummels was so nervous that she could hardly remember her part. Mrs. Bravasse's ringlets came out of curl with the heat and anxiety, and even Mr. Krummels himself kept peeping through the hole in the curtain, and running back every now and then to announce that another man had come into the pit. At last the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new piece. The first scene, in which there was nobody particular, passed off calmly enough. But when Mrs. Nevalichi went on, in the second, accompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause broke out. The people in the boarum box rose as one man, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and duttering shouts of Bravo! Mrs. Boarum and the governess cast wreaths upon the stage, of which some fluttered into the lamps, and one crowned the temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who, looking eagerly toward the scene, remained unconscious of the honour. The tailor and his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes till they threatened to come out altogether. The very ginger beer boy remained transfixed in the centre of the house. A young officer, supposed to entertain a passion for Mrs. Nevalichi, stuck his glass in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again Mrs. Nevalichi curts it lower and lower, and again and again the applause came down louder and louder. At length, when the phenomenon picked up one of the smoking wreaths and put it on sideways over Mrs. Nevalichi's eye, it reached its climax, and the play proceeded. But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs. Crummel's, what a clapping of hands there was! When Mrs. Crummel's, who was his unworthy mother, sneered and called him presumptuous boy, and he defied her, what a tumult of applause came on! When he quarrelled with the other gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols said that if he was a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room until the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of two. How boxers, pit, and gallery joined in one most vigorous cheer! When he called his mother names, because she wouldn't give up the young lady's property, and she, relenting, caused him to relent likewise, and fall down on one knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the audience sobbed. When he was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the wicked relation poked a sharp sword in every direction save where his legs were plainly visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the house! His air, his figure, his walk, his look, everything he said or did, was the subject of commendation. There was a round of applause every time he spoke. And when, at last, in the pump and tub scene, Mrs. Grudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed members of the company came in and tumbled down in various directions, not because that had anything to do with the plot, but in order to finish off with a tableau, the audience, who had by this time increased considerably, gave vent to such a shout of enthusiasm as had not been heard in those walls for many and many a day. In short, the success both of new peace and new actor was complete, and when Miss Nevalichi was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas led her on, and divided the applause. 25 Concerning a young lady from London, who joins the company, and an elderly admirer who follows in her train, with an affecting ceremony consequent on their arrival. The new peace being a decided hit was announced for every evening of performance until further notice, and the evenings when the theatre was closed were reduced from three in the week to two. Nor were these the only tokens of extraordinary success, for on the succeeding Saturday, Nicholas received by favour of the indefatigable Mrs. Grudden no less a sum than thirty shillings. Besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed considerable fame and honour, having a presentation copy of Mr. Kirdle's pamphlet forwarded to the theatre, with that gentleman's own autograph, in itself an inestimable treasure, on the flyleaf, accompanied with a note containing many expressions of approval, and an unsolicited assurance that Mr. Kirdle would be very happy to reach Shakespeare to him for three hours every morning before breakfast, during his stay in the town. I've got another novelty, Johnson," said Mr. Crummel's one morning in great glee. What's that, rejoined Nicholas? The pony? No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else has failed, said Mr. Crummel's. I don't think we shall come to the pony at all this season. No, no, not the pony. A boy phenomenon perhaps, suggested Nicholas. There is only one phenomenon, sir," replied Mr. Crummel's impressively. And that's a girl. A very true, said Nicholas. I beg your pardon. Then I don't know what it is, I am sure. What should you say to a young lady from London? Inquired Mr. Crummel's miss so-and-so of the theatre royal Drury Lane. I should say she would look very well in the bills, said Nicholas. You're about right there," said Mr. Crummel's. And if you had said she would look very well upon the stage too, you wouldn't have been far out. Look here, what do you think of this? With this inquiry Mr. Crummel's unfolded a red poster and a blue poster and a yellow poster. At the top of each of which public notification was inscribed in enormous characters, first appearance of the unrivalled Miss Patauca of the theatre royal Drury Lane. Dear me, said Nicholas, I know that lady. Then you are acquainted with as much talent as was ever compressed into one young person's body," retorted Mr. Crummel's, rolling up the bills again. That is, talent of a certain sort, of a certain sort. The blood-drinker, added Mr. Crummel's with the prophetic sigh.  And she's the only sylph I ever saw who could stand upon one leg and play the tambourine on her other knee like a sylph. When does she come down, asked Nicholas? We expect her to-day," replied Mr. Crummel's. She's an old friend of Mrs. Crummel's. Mrs. Crummel's saw what she could do, always knew it from the first. She taught her indeed nearly all she knows. Mrs. Crummel's was the original blood-drinker. Was she, indeed? Yes. She was obliged to give it up, though. Did it disagree with her? asked Nicholas. Not so much with her as with her audiences, replied Mr. Crummel's. Nobody could stand it. It was too tremendous. You don't quite know what Mrs. Crummel's is yet. Nicholas ventured to insinuate that he thought he did. No, no, you don't, said Mr. Crummel's. You don't, indeed. I don't. And that's a fact. I don't think her country will till she's dead. Some new proof of talent bursts from that astonishing woman every year of her life. Look at her! Mother of six children, three of them alive and all upon the stage. Extraordinary! cried Nicholas. Ah!  I pled you my professional word. I didn't even know she could dance till her last benefit. And then she played Juliet and Helen McGregor, and did the skipping rope-horn pipe between the pieces. The very first time I saw that admirable woman, Johnson, said Mr. Crummel's, drawing a little nearer, and speaking in the tone of confidential friendship, she stood upon her head on the bottom of a spear, surrounded with blazing fireworks. You astonish me, said Nicholas. She astonished me, returned Mr. Crummel's, with a very serious countenance. Such grace, coupled with such dignity. I adored her from that moment. The arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupt termination to Mr. Crummel's as eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards, Master Percy Crummel's entered with a letter which had arrived by the general post, and was directed to his gracious mother. At sight of the superscription whereof, Mrs. Crummel's exclaimed, From Henrietta Patauker I do declare, and instantly became absorbed in the contents. Is it? inquired Mr. Crummel's, hesitating. Oh yes, it's all right, replied Mrs. Crummel's, anticipating the question. What an excellent thing for her, to be sure. It's the best thing altogether that I ever heard of, I think, said Mr. Crummel's. And then Mr. Crummel's, Mrs. Crummel's, and Master Percy Crummel's all fell to laughing violently. Nicholas left them to enjoy their mirth together, and walked to his lodgings, wondering very much what mystery connected with Miss Patauker could provoke such merriment, and pondering still more on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regard his sudden enlistment in a profession of which she was such a distinguished and brilliant ornament. But, in this latter respect, he was mistaken. For, whether Mr. Vincent Crummel's had paved the way, or Miss Patauker had some special reason for treating him with even more than her usual amyability, their meeting at the theatre next day was more like that of two dear friends who had been inseparable from infancy, than a recognition passing between a lady and gentleman who had only met some half a dozen times, and then by mere chance. Nay, Miss Patauker even whispered that she had wholly dropped the Kenwigzes in her conversations with the manager's family, and had represented herself as having encountered Mr. Johnson in the very first and most fashionable circles. And on Nicholas receiving this intelligence with unfaithful surprise, she added with a sweet glance that she had a claim on his good nature now, and might tax it before long. Nicholas had the honour of playing in a slight peace with Miss Patauker that night, and could not but observe that the warmth of her reception was mainly attributable to a most persevering umbrella in the upper boxes. He saw, too, that the enchanting actress cast many sweet looks towards the quarter whence these sounds proceeded, and that every time she did so, the umbrella broke out afresh. Once, he thought that a peculiarly shaped hat in the same corner was not wholly unknown to him. But, being occupied with his share of the stage business, he bestowed no great attention upon this circumstance, and it had quite vanished from his memory by the time he reached home. He had just sat down to supper with Smyke, when one of the people of the house came outside the door, and announced that a gentleman below stairs wished to speak to Mr. Johnson. Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up. That's all I know, replied Nicholas. One of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smyke. His fellow lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation of the quantity that would be left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he had cut for himself, in order that the visitor's encroachments might be less formidable in their effects.  Come in, come in. In the name of wonder, Mr. Lilivick! It was indeed the collector of water-rates, who, regarding Nicholas with a fixed look and immovable countenance, shook hands with most portentous solemnity, and sat himself down in a seat by the chimney corner. Why, when did you come here? asked Nicholas. This morning, sir, replied Mr. Lilivick. Oh, I see.  What did you think of that performance? As so far as I could judge, being on the stage, replied Nicholas, I thought it very agreeable. Agreeable! cried the collector. I mean to say, sir, that it was delicious. Mr. Lilivick bent forward to pronounce the last word with greater emphasis, and, having done so, drew himself up and frowned and nodded a great many times. I say delicious, repeated Mr. Lilivick, absorbing, fairy-like, too multuous. And again Mr. Lilivick drew himself up, and again he frowned and nodded. Ah, said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms of ecstatic approbation. Yes, she is a clever girl. She is a divinity, returned Mr. Lilivick, giving a collector's double-knock on the ground with the umbrella before mentioned. I have known divine actresses before now, sir. I used to collect—at least I used to call for, and very often call for, the water-rate of the house of a divine actress who lived in my beat for upwards of four years, but never—no, never, sir, of all divine creatures, actresses, or no actresses, did I see a diviner one than his Henrietta Patauca. Nicholas had much adieu to prevent himself from laughing. Not trusting himself to speak, he merely nodded in accordance with Mr. Lilivick's nods, and remained silent. Let me speak a word with you in private, said Mr. Lilivick. Nicholas looked good-humouredly at Smyke, who, taking the hint, disappeared.  Is he? asked Nicholas. He is, rejoined the collector. I have lived in the world for nigh sixty years, and I ought to know what it is. You ought to know, certainly, thought Nicholas, but whether you do or not is another question. If a bachelor happens to have saved a little matter of money, said Mr. Lilivick, his sisters and brothers and nephews and nieces looked to that money, and not to him. Even if, by being a public character, he is the head of the family, or, as it may be, the main from which all the other little branches are turned on, they still wish him dead all the while, and get low-spirited every time they see him looking in good health, because they want to come into his little property. You see that? Oh yes, replied Nicholas, it's very true, no doubt. The great reason for not being married, resumed Mr. Lilivick, is the expense. That's what's kept me off, or else Lord, said Mr. Lilivick, snapping his fingers. I might have had fifty women. Fine women? asked Nicholas. Fine women, sir, replied the collector. Aye, not so fine as Henrietta Patauke, for she is an uncommon specimen, but such women as don't fall into every man's way, I can tell you. Now suppose a man can get a fortune in a wife, instead of with her, eh? Why, then, he's a lucky fellow, replied Nicholas. That's what I say, retorted the collector, patting him benignantly on the side of the head with his umbrella. Just what I say. Henrietta Patauke, the talented Henrietta Patauke, has a fortune in herself, and I am going to make her Mrs. Lilivick? suggested Nicholas. No, sir, not to make her Mrs. Lilivick, replied the collector. Actresses, sir, always keep their maiden names, that's the regular thing. But I'm going to marry her, and the day after tomorrow, too. I congratulate you, sir, said Nicholas. Thank you, sir, replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. I shall draw her salary, of course, and I hope, after all, that it's nearly as cheap to keep two as it is to keep one. That's a consolation. Surely you don't want any consolation at such a moment, observed Nicholas. No, replied Mr. Lilivick, shaking his head nervously. No, of course not. But how come you both here, if you're going to be married, Mr. Lilivick? asked Nicholas. Why, that's what I came to explain to you, replied the collector of water rate. The fact is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from the family. Family, said Nicholas, what family? The Ken Wigsers, of course, rejoined Mr. Lilivick. If my niece and the children had known a word about it before I came away, they'd have gone into fits at my feet, and never have come out of them till I took an oath not to marry anybody, or they'd have got out a commission of lunacy or some dreadful thing, said the collector, quite trembling as he spoke. To be sure, said Nicholas, yes, they would have been jealous, no doubt. To prevent which, said Mr. Lilivick, Henrietta Patauke, it was settled between us, shall come down here to her friends, the Cromelsers, under pretense of this engagement, and I shall go down to Guildford the day before and join her on the coach there, which I did, and we came down from Guildford yesterday together. Now, for fear you should be writing to Mr. Noggs, or might say anything about us, we have thought it best to let you into the secret. We shall be married from the Cromelsers lodgings, and shall be delighted to see you, either before church or at breakfast time, which you like. It won't be expensive, you know, said the collector, highly anxious to prevent any misunderstanding on this point. Just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a shrimp or something of that sort for a relish, you know. Yes, yes, I understand, replied Nicholas. Oh, I shall be most happy to come. It will give me the greatest pleasure. Where's the lady stopping, with Mrs. Cromels? Why no, said the collector. They couldn't very well dispose of her at night, and so she is staying with an acquaintance of hers and another young lady. They both belong to the theatre. Miss Nevalichi, I suppose, said Nicholas. Yes, that's the name. And they'll be bridesmaids, I presume, said Nicholas. Why, said the collector, with a rueful face, they will have four bridesmaids. I'm afraid they'll make it rather theatrical. Oh, no, not at all, replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt to convert a laugh into a cough. Who may the four be? Miss Nevalichi, of course, Miss Ledruc, the, uh, the phenomenon, groaned the collector. Ha-ha! cried Nicholas. I beg your pardon. I don't know what I'm laughing at. Yes, that'll be very pretty, the phenomenon. Who else? Some young woman or other, replied the collector, rising. Some other friend of Henrietta Pataukas. Well, you'll be careful not to say anything about it, will you?   No, said the collector. I haven't any appetite. I should think it was a very pleasant life, the married one, eh? I have not the least doubt of it, rejoined Nicholas. Yes, said the collector, certainly. Oh, yes, no doubt. Good night. With these words, Mr. Lilivick, whose manner had exhibited through the whole of this interview a most extraordinary compound of precipitation, hesitation, confidence and doubt, fondness, misgiving, meanness, and self-importance, turned his back upon the room, and left Nicholas to enjoy a laugh by himself, if he felt so disposed. Without stopping to inquire whether the intervening day appeared to Nicholas to consist of the usual number of hours of the ordinary length, it may be remarked that to the parties more directly interested in the forthcoming ceremony it passed with great rapidity. In so much that when Miss Patauka awoke on the succeeding morning, in the chamber of Miss Nevalici, she declared that nothing should ever persuade her that that really was the day which was to behold a change in her condition. I never will believe it, said Miss Patauka. I cannot really. It's of no use talking. I never can make up my mind to go through with such a trial. On hearing this, Miss Nevalici and Miss Ledruk, who knew perfectly well that their fair friend's mind had been made up for three or four years, at any period of which time she would have cheerfully undergone the desperate trial now approaching if she could have found any eligible gentleman disposed for the venture, began to preach comfort and firmness, and to say how very proud she ought to feel that it was in her power to confer lasting bliss on a deserving object, and how necessary it was for the happiness of mankind in general that women should possess fortitude and resignation on such occasions, and that although for their parts they held true happiness to consist in a single life, which they would not willingly exchange, no, not for any worldly consideration, still, thank God, if ever the time should come, they hoped they knew their duty too well to repine, but would they rather submit with meekness and humility of spirit to a fate for which Providence had clearly designed them with a view to the contentment and reward of their fellow creatures? I might feel it was a great blow, said Miss Nevalici, to break up old associations and what-do columns of that kind, but I would submit, my dear, I would indeed. So would I, said Miss Ledruc. I would rather cut the yoke than shun it. I have broken hearts before now, and I am very sorry for it, for it is a terrible thing to reflect upon. It is indeed, said Miss Nevalici. Now, led, my dear, we must positively get her ready, or we shall be too late, we shall indeed. This pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of being too late, supported the bride through the ceremony of robing, after which strong tea and brandy were administered in alternate doses as a means of strengthening her feeble limbs and causing her to walk steadier. How do you feel now, my love? inquired Miss Nevalici. Oh, lily-vic, cried the bride, if you knew what I am undergoing for you. Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it, said Miss Ledruc. Do you think he won't? cried Miss Petauka, really showing great capability for the stage. Oh, do you think he won't? Do you think lily-vic will always remember it? Always, always, always. There is no knowing in what this burst of feelings might have ended, if Miss Nevalici had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival of the fly, which so astounded the bride that she shook off divers alarming symptoms which were coming on very strong, and running to the glass adjusted her dress, and calmly declared that she was ready for the sacrifice. She was accordingly supported into the coach, and there kept up, as Miss Nevalici said, with perpetual sniffs of salvolatl and sips of brandy and other gentle stimulants, until they reached the manager's door, which was already opened by the two master-crummelsers, who wore white cockades, and were decorated with the choicest and most resplendent whiskers in the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined exertions of these young gentlemen and the bridesmaids, assisted by the coachmen, Miss Petauka was at length supported in a condition of much exhaustion to the first floor, where she no sooner encountered the youthful bridegroom, than she fainted with great decorum. Henrietta Petauka, said the collector, cheer up, my lovely one. Miss Petauka grasped the collector's hand, but emotion choked her utterance. Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petauka? said the collector. Oh no, no, no! rejoined the bride. But all the friends, the darling friends of my youthful days, to leave them all, it is such a shock. With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petauka went on to enumerate the dear friends of her youthful days one by one, and to call upon such of them as were present to come and embrace her. This done, she remembered that Mrs. Crummels had been more than a mother to her, and after that that Mr. Crummels had been more than a father to her, and after that that the Master Crummels's and Miss Nenette Crummels had been more than brothers and sisters to her. These various remembrances being each accompanied with a series of hugs occupied a long time, and they were obliged to drive to church very fast for fear they should be too late. The procession consisted of two flies, in the first of which were Miss Bravasse, the fourth bridesmaid, Mrs. Crummels, the collector, and Mr. Folare, who had been chosen as his second on the occasion. In the other were the bride, Mr. Crummels, Miss Nevalici, Miss Ledruc, and the phenomenon. The costumes were beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite covered with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon in particular was rendered almost invisible by the portable arbor in which she was enshrined. Miss Ledruc, who was of her a romantic turn, wore in her breast the miniature of some field officer unknown which she had purchased, a great bargain, not very long before. The other ladies displayed several dazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almost equal to real. A Mrs. Crummels came out in a stern and gloomy majesty which attracted the admiration of all beholders. But perhaps the appearance of Mr. Crummels was more striking and appropriate than that of any member of the party. This gentleman, who personated the bride's father, had in pursuance of a happy and original conception, made up for the part by arraying himself in a theatrical wig of a style and pattern commonly known as a brown George, and moreover assuming a snuff-coloured suit of the previous century with grey silk stockings and buckles to his shoes. The better to support his assumed character he had determined to be greatly overcome, and consequently when they entered the church the sobs of the affectionate parent were so heart-rending that the pew opener suggested the propriety of his retiring to the vestry and comforting himself for the glass of water before the ceremony began. The procession of the aisle was beautiful. The bride with the four bridesmaids forming a group previously arranged and rehearsed, the collector followed by his second imitating his walk and gestures to the indescribable amusement of some theatrical friends in the gallery. Mr. Crummels was an infirm and feeble gate. Mrs. Crummels advancing with that stage-walk, which consists of a stride and a stop alternately. It was the completest thing ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly disposed of, and all parties present having signed the register, for which purpose when it came to his turn Mr. Crummels carefully wiped and put on an immense pair of spectacles. They went back to breakfast in high spirits, and here they found Nicholas awaiting their arrival. Now then, Crummels, who had been assisting Mrs. Grudden in the preparation, which were on a more extensive scale than was quite agreeable to the collector, breakfast, breakfast. No second invitation was required. The company crowded and squeezed themselves at the table as well as they could, and fell too immediately. Miss Patauka blushing very much when anybody was looking, and eating very much when anybody was not looking. Mr. Lilivick going to work as though with a cool resolve that since the good things must be paid for by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummelsers to eat up afterwards. It's very soon done, sir, isn't it? inquired Mr. Folare of the collector, leaning over the table to address him. Oh, what is soon done, sir? return, Mr. Lilivick. The tying up. The fixing oneself with a wife, replied Mr. Folare. It don't take long, does it? No, sir, replied Mr. Lilivick, coloring it. Does not take long. And what then, sir? Oh, nothing, said the actor. It don't take a man long to hang himself, either, eh? Mr. Lilivick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table with indignant astonishment. To hang himself, repeated Mr. Lilivick. A profound silence came upon all, for Mr. Lilivick was dignified beyond expression. To hang himself, cried Mr. Lilivick again. Is any parallel attempted to be drawn in this company between matrimony and hanging? The noose, you know, said Mr. Folare, a little crestfallen. The noose, sir, retorted Mr. Lilivick. Does any man dare to speak to me of a noose, and Henrietta Lilivick suggested Mr. Cromwells. And Henrietta Lilivick in the same breath, said the collector. In this house, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Cromwells, who have brought up a talented and virtuous family to be blessings and phenomenons, and what not, are we to hear talk of nooses? Folare, said Mr. Cromwells, deeming it a matter of decency to be affected by this allusion to himself and partner. I'm astonished at you. What are you going on in this way at me for, urged the unfortunate actor? What have I done? Done, sir, cried Mr. Lilivick, aimed a blow at the whole framework of society. And the best and tenderest feelings, added Cromwells, relapsing into the old man. And the highest and most estimable of social ties, said the collector, noose, as if one was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by the leg, instead of going into it of one's own accord and glorying in the act. I didn't mean to make it out that you were caught and trapped and pinned by the leg, replied the actor. I am sorry for it. I can't say any more. So you ought to be, sir, return Mr. Lilivick, and I'm glad to hear that you have enough of feeling left to be so. The quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, and Mrs. Lilivick considered that the fittest occasion, the attention of the company being no longer distracted, to burst into tears, and require the assistance of all four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though not without some confusion, for the room being small and the table-cloth long, a whole detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first move. Regardless of this circumstance, however, Mrs. Lilivick refused to be comforted, until the belligerents had passed their words that the dispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient show of reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr. Folare sat in moody silence, contenting himself with pinching Nicholas's leg when anything was said, and so expressing his contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments to which he gave utterance. There were a great number of speeches made, some by Nicholas, and some by Cromwells, and some by the collector, two by the master Cromwells'ers in returning thanks for themselves, and one by the phenomenon in behalf of the bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Cromwells shed tears. There were some singing, too, from Miss Ledrucca, Miss Bravasa, and very likely there might have been more if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happy-pair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ride, had not sent in a peremptory message intimating that if they didn't come directly, he should infallibly demand eighteen pence over and above his agreement. This desperate threat effectually broke up the party.  As the steamboat people, deceived by her size, would, he had previously ascertained, transport her at half price. As there was no performance that night, Mr. Cromwells declared his intention of keeping it up till everything to drink was disposed of. But Nicholas having to play Romeo for the first time on the ensuing evening, contrived to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion, occasioned by the unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the conduct of Mrs. Grudden. To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations, but by his anxiety on account of Smyke, who, having to sustain the character of the apothecary, had been as yet wholly unable to get any more of the part into his head than the general idea that he was very hungry, which perhaps from older collections he had acquired with great aptitude. I don't know what's to be done, Smyke, said Nicholas, laying down the book. I'm afraid you can't learn it, my poor fellow. I'm afraid not, said Smyke, shaking his head. I think if you—but that would give you so much trouble. What? inquired Nicholas. Never mind me. I think, said Smyke, if you were to keep saying it to me in little bits over and over again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing you. Do you think so? exclaimed Nicholas. Well said. Let us see who tires first. Not I, Smyke. Trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud? Who calls so loud? said Smyke. Who calls so loud? repeated Nicholas. Who calls so loud? cried Smyke. Thus they continued to ask each other who called so loud over and over again. And when Smyke had that by heart Nicholas went to another sentence, and then to two at a time, and then to three, and so on. Until at midnight poor Smyke found to his unspeakable joy that he really began to remember something about the text. Early in the morning they went to it again, and Smyke rendered more confident by the progress he'd already made, got on faster and with better heart. As soon as he began to acquire the words pretty freely, Nicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands spread out upon his stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the established form, by which people on the stage always denote that they want something to eat. After the morning's rehearsal they went to work again, nor did they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time to repair to the theatre at night. Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a more patient, unwearying, considerate, kind-hearted master. As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon the stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The Romeo was received with hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smyke was pronounced unanimously, alike by audience and actors, the very Prince and prodigy of Apothecaries. End of Chapter 25 Nicholas Nicolby by Charles Dickens Chapter 26 Is fraught with some danger to miss Nicolby's peace of mind? The place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street. The time was three o'clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding, and the first hour of morning to the gay and spirited. The persons were Lord Frederick Veresoft, and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawke. These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple of sofas with a table between them, on which were scattered in rich confusion the materials of an untasted breakfast. Newspapers laced strewn about the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected and unnoticed. Not, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions of the journals from being called into request. For not a word was exchanged between the two, nor was any sound uttered. Save when one, in tossing about to find an easy arresting place for his aching head, uttered an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to communicate a new restlessness to his companion. These appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong clue to the extent of the debauch of the previous night, even if there had not been other indications of the amusements in which it had been passed. A couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt. Two battered hats. A champagne bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck to allow of its being grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive weapon. A broken cane. A card case without the top. An empty purse. A watch-guard snapped asunder. A handful of silver mingled with fragments of half-smoked cigars and their stale and crumbled ashes. These and many other tokens of riot and disorder hinted very intelligibly at the nature of last night's gentlemanly frolics. Lord Frederick Veresoft was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered foot on the ground and yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting posture and turned his dull-languid eyes towards his friend, to whom he called in a drowsy voice. Hello, replied Samulbury, turning round. Are we going to lie here all day? said the Lord. I don't know that we're fit for anything else, replied Samulbury, yet a while at least. I haven't a grain of life in me this morning. Life! cried Lord Veresoft. I feel as if there would be nothing so snug and comfortable as to die at once.  With which inquiry he turned his face away and seemed to occupy himself in an attempt to fall asleep. His hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast table and essayed to eat. But finding that impossible, lounged to the window, then loitered up and down the room with his hand to his fevered head, and finally threw himself again on his sofa, aroused his friend once more. What the devil's the matter? groaned Samulbury, sitting upright on the couch. Although Samulbury said this with sufficient ill humour, he did not seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent. For after stretching himself very often and declaring with a shiver that it was infernal cold, he made an experiment at the breakfast table, and proving more successful in it than his less seasoned friend, remained there.  Which little Nicolby? The moneylender or the gahal? asked Lord Veresoft. You take me, I see, replied Samulbury. The girl, of course. You promised me you'd find her out, said Lord Veresoft. So I did, rejoined his friend. But I've thought further of the matter since then. You distrust me in the business. You shall find her out yourself. Nay, remonstrated Lord Veresoft. But I say yes, returned his friend. You shall find her out yourself. Don't think that I mean when you can. I know as well as you that if I did you could never get sight of her without me. No, I say you shall find her out. Shall. And I'll put you in the way.  I'll tell you how, said Samulbury. She was at that dinner as a bait for you. No, cried the young Lord.  Old Nicolby told me so himself.  Yes, said Samulbury. He knew she was a smart little creature. Smart, interposed the young Lord. Upon my soul-hawk she's a perfect beauty. A picture. A statue. Upon my soul she is. Well, replied Samulbury, shrugging his shoulders and manifesting an indifference whether he felt it or not. That's a matter of taste. If mine doesn't agree with yours, so much the better. Couldn't found it, reasoned the Lord.  I could hardly get in a word. Well enough for once. Well enough for once, replied Samulbury. Then not worth the trouble of being agreeable to again. If you seriously want to follow up the niece, tell the uncle that you must know where she lives and how she lives and with whom, or you're no longer a customer of his. He'll tell you fast enough. Why didn't you say this before, asked Lord Veresoft, instead of letting me go on burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable existence for an age. I didn't know it in the first place, answered Samulbury carelessly. And in the second I didn't believe you were so very much in earnest. Now, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed since the dinner at Ralph Nicolby's, Samulbury Hawk had been furtively trying by every means in his power to discover whence Kate had so suddenly appeared and whither she had disappeared. Unassisted by Ralph, however, with whom he had held no communication since their angry parting on that occasion, all his efforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore arrived at the determination of communicating to the young lord the substance of the admission he had gleaned from that worthy. To this he was impelled by various considerations, among which the certainty of knowing whatever the weak young man knew was decidedly not the least, as the desire of encountering the usurer's niece again and using his utmost arts to reduce her pride and revenge himself for her contempt was uppermost in his thoughts. It was a politic course of proceeding, and one which could not fail to redound to his advantage in every point of view, since the very circumstance of his having extorted from Ralph Nicolby his real design in introducing his niece to such society, coupled with his extreme disinterestedness in communicating it so freely to his friend, could not but advance his interests in that quarter, and greatly facilitate the passage of coin pretty frequent and speedy already, from the pockets of Lord Frederick very soft to those of Samulbury hawk. Thus reasoned Samulbury, and in pursuance of this reasoning he and his friend soon afterwards repaired to Ralph Nicolby's, there to execute a plan of operations concerted by Samulbury himself, avowedly to promote his friend's object, and really to attain his own. They found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into the drawing-room, the recollection of the scene which had taken place there seemed to occur to him, for he cast a curious look at Samulbury, who bestowed upon it no other acknowledgement than a careless smile. They had a short conference upon some money-matters then in progress, which was scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe, in pursuance of his friend's instructions, requested with some embarrassment to speak to Ralph alone. Alone, eh? cried Samulbury, affecting surprise. Oh, very good. I'll walk into the next room here. Don't keep me along, that's all. So saying, Samulbury took up his hat, and humming a fragment of a song disappeared through the door of communication between the two drawing-rooms, and closed it after him. Now, my lord, said Ralph, what is it? Nicolby, said his client, throwing himself along the sofa on which he had been previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old man's ear.  Is she, my lord? replied Ralph. Maybe. Maybe. I don't trouble my head with such matters. You know she's a davelish fine girl, said the client. You must know that, Nicolby. Come, don't deny that. Yes, I believe she is considered so, replied Ralph. Indeed, I know she is. If I did not, you are an authority on such points, and your taste, my lord, on all points, indeed, is undeniable. Nobody but the young man to whom these words were addressed could have been deaf to the sneering tone in which they were spoken, or blind to the look of contempt by which they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick, very soft, was both, and took them to be complementary.  I want to know where this beauty lives, that I may have another peep at her, Nicolby. Really, Ralph began in his usual tones. Don't talk so loud, cried the other, achieving the great point of his lesson to a miracle. I don't want hawk to hear. You know he's your rival, do you? said Ralph, looking sharply at him. He always is.  He'll cut up so rough, Nicolby, at our talking together without him. Where does she live, Nicolby? That's all. Only tell me where she lives, Nicolby. He bites, thought Ralph. He bites. Eh, Nicolby, eh? pursued the client. Where does she live? Really, my lord, said Ralph, rubbing his hands slowly over each other. I must think, before I tell you. No, not a bit of it, Nicolby. You mustn't think at all, replied very soft. Where is it? No good can come of your knowing, replied Ralph. She's been virtuously and well brought up. To be sure, she's handsome. Poor, unprotected. Poor girl. Poor girl. Ralph ran over this brief summary of Kate's condition, as if it were merely passing through his own mind, and he had no intention to speak aloud.  I tell you, I only want to see her, cried his client, and ma, may look at a pretty woman without harm, mainty. Now, where does she live? You know you're making a fortune out of me, Nicolby, and upon my soul nobody shall ever take me to anybody else, if you only tell me this. As you promised that, my lord, said Ralph, with feigned reluctance, and as I am most anxious to oblige you, and as there's no harm in it—no harm—I'll tell you. But you had better keep it to yourself, my lord. Strictly to yourself. Ralph pointed to the adjoining room as he spoke, and nodded expressively. The young lord, feigning to be equally impressed with the necessity of this precaution, Ralph disclosed the present address and occupation of his niece. Observing that from what he heard of the family, they appeared very ambitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and that a lord could doubtless introduce himself with great ease, if he felt disposed. Your object being only to see her again, said Ralph, you could effect it at any time you chose by that means. Lord very soft acknowledged the hint, with the great many squeezers of Ralph's hard, horny hand, and whispering that they would now do well to close the conversation, called to some Ulbary Hawk that he might come back. I thought you'd gone to sleep, said some Ulbary, reappearing with an ill-tempered air. Sorry to detain you, replied the gull, but Nicolby has been so amazingly funny that I couldn't tear myself away. No, no, said Ralph, it was all his lordship.  Mind the step, my lord, sir Ulbary, pray, give way. With such courtesies as these, and many low bows, and the same cold sneer upon his face all the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his visitors downstairs, and otherwise them by the slightest possible motion about the corners of his mouth, returned no show of answer to the look of admiration with which some Ulbary Hawk seemed to compliment him on being such an accomplished and most consumant scoundrel. There had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, which was answered by Newman-nogs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary course of business Newman would have either admitted the newcomer in silence, or have requested him or her to stand aside while the gentleman passed out. But he no sooner saw who it was than as if for some private reason of his own he boldly departed from the established custom of Ralph's mansion in business hours, and looking towards the respectable trio who were approaching, cried in a loud and sonorous voice, A Mrs. Nickelby! Mrs. Nickelby! cried some Ulbary Hawk, as his friend looked back and stared him in the face. It was indeed that well-intentioned lady who, having received an offer for the empty house in the city directed to the landlord, had brought it post-haste to Mr. Nickelby without delay. Nobody you know, said Ralph. Step into the office, my dear. I'll be with you directly. Nobody I know! cried some Ulbary Hawk, advancing to the astonished lady. Is this Mrs. Nickelby the mother of Miss Nickelby, the delightful creature I had the happiness of meeting in this house the very last time I dined here? But no, said some Ulbary, stopping short. No, it can't be. There's the same cast of features, the same indescribable air of— No, no. This lady is too young for that. I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-in-law, if it concerns him to know, said Mrs. Nickelby, acknowledging the compliment of the graceful bend, that Kate Nickelby is my daughter. Her daughter, my lord! cried some Ulbary, turning to his friend. This lady's daughter, my lord. My lord! thought Mrs. Nickelby. Well, I never did. This, then, my lord, said some Ulbary, is the lady to whose obliging marriage we owe so much happiness.  Do you observe the extraordinary likeness, my lord? Nickelby introduced us. Ralph did so in a kind of desperation. Pond, my soul, it's a most delightful thing, said Lord Frederick, pressing forward. How did you? Mrs. Nickelby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kind salutations, and her regrets at not having on her other bonnet to make an immediate reply, so she merely continued to bend and smile and betray great agitation. And how is Miss Nickelby? said Lord Frederick. Well, I hope. She's quite well. I'm obliged to you, my lord. Return, Mrs. Nickelby, recovering. Quite well. She wasn't well for some days after that day she dined here, and I can't help thinking that she caught cold in that Hackney coach coming home. Hackney coach, as my lord, is such nasty things, that it's almost better to walk at any time. For although I believe a Hackney coachman can be transported for life, if he has a broken window, still they are so reckless that they nearly all have broken windows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks, my lord, from riding in a Hackney coach. I think it was a Hackney coach, said Mrs. Nickelby, reflecting.  At all events, I know it was a dark green, with a very long number, beginning with an aught and ending with a nine. No, beginning with a nine and ending with a nought, that was it. And of course the stamp office people would know at once whether it was a coach or a chariot, if any inquiries were made there. However, that was. There it was with a broken window, and there was I for six weeks with a swelled face. I think that was the very same Hackney coach that we found out afterwards, had the top open all the time, and we should never even have known it if they hadn't charged us a shilling an hour extra for having it open, which it seems is the law, or was then, and the most shameful law it appears to be. I don't understand the subject, but I should say the Corn Laws could be nothing to that act of Parliament. Having pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs. Nickelby stopped as suddenly as she'd started off, and repeated that Kate was quite well. Indeed, said Mrs. Nickelby, I don't think she ever was better since she had the whooping cough, scarlet fever, and measles all at the same time, and that's the fact. Is that letter for me, growl-ralf, pointing to the little packet, Mrs. Nickelby held in her hand? For you, brother-in-law, replied Mrs. Nickelby, and I walked all the way up here on purpose to give it to you. All the way up here, cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon the chance of discovering where Mrs. Nickelby had come from. What a confounded distance! How far do you call it now? How far do I call it, said Mrs. Nickelby? Let me see, it's just a mile from our door to the old Bailey. No, no, not so much as that, urged Sir Mulberry. Oh, it is indeed, said Mrs. Nickelby. I appeal to his lordship. I should decidedly say it was a mile, remarked Lord Frederick with a solemn aspect. It must be. It can't be a yard less, said Mrs. Nickelby. All down Newgate Street, all down Cheepside, all up Lombard Street, down Grace Church Street, and along Thames Street, as far as Spigwithin's Wharf. Oh, it's a mile. Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was, replied Sir Mulberry. But you don't surely mean to walk all the way back. Oh, no, rejoined Mrs. Nickelby. I shall go back in an omnipus. I didn't travel about in omnipuses when my poor dear Nicholas was alive, brother-in-law, but as it is, you know. Yes, yes, replied Ralph impatiently. And you'd better get back before dark. Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had, returned Mrs. Nickelby. I think I'd better say goodbye at once. Not stop and rest, said Ralph, who seldom offered refreshments, unless something was to be got by it. Oh, dear me, no, returned Mrs. Nickelby glancing at the dial. Lord Frederick, said Sir Mulberry, we are going Mrs. Nickelby's way. We'll see her safe to the omnipus. By all means, yes. Oh, I really couldn't think of it, said Mrs. Nickelby. But Sir Mulberry Hawke and Lord very soft were peremptory in their politeness. And leaving Ralph, who seemed to think not unwisely that he looked less ridiculous as a mere spectator, than he would have done if he had taken any part in these proceedings, they quitted the house with Mrs. Nickelby between them. That good lady in a perfect ecstasy of satisfaction, no less with the attention shown her by two titled gentlemen, than with the conviction that Kate might now pick and choose at least between two large fortunes and most unexceptionable husbands. As she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible train of thought, all connected with her daughter's future greatness, Sir Mulberry Hawke and his friend exchanged glances over the top of the bonnet, which the poor lady so much regretted not having left at home, and proceeded to dilate with great rapture, but much respect on the manifold perfections of Miss Nickelby. What a delight! What a comfort! What a happiness this amiable creature must be to you! said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice an indication of the warmest feeling. She is indeed, Sir, replied Mrs. Nickelby. She's the sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted creature, and so clever. She looks clever, said Lord Veresoft, with the air of a judge of cleverness. I assure you she is, my Lord, return, Mrs. Nickelby. When she was at school in Devonshire, she was universally allowed to be beyond all exception the very cleverest girl there, and there were a great many very clever ones, too, and that's the truth. Twenty-five young ladies, fifty guineas a year without the et cetera's. Both the misdowdles, the most accomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures. Oh, dear me! said Mrs. Nickelby. I never shall forget what pleasure she used to give me and her poor dear papa when she was at that school. Never! Such a delightful letter every half year, telling us that she was the first pupil in the whole establishment, and had made more progress than anybody else. I can scarcely bear to think of it even now. The girls wrote all the letters themselves, and had Mrs. Nickelby, and the writing master touched them up afterwards with a magnifying glass and a silver pen. At least I think they wrote them, though Kate was never quite certain about that, because she didn't know the handwriting of hers again. But anyway, I know it was a circular which they all copied, and of course it was a very gratifying very gratifying. With similar recollections Mrs. Nickelby beguiled the tediousness of the way until they reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of her new friends would not allow them to leave until it actually started, when they took their hats as Mrs. Nickelby solemnly assured her hearers on many subsequent occasions completely off, and kissed their straw-colored kid-gloves till they were no longer visible. Mrs. Nickelby lent back in the furthest corner of the conveyance, and closing her eyes, resigned herself to a host of most pleasing meditations. Kate had never said a word about having met either of these gentlemen. That, she thought, argues that she strongly prepossessed in favour of one of them. Then the question arose which one could it be? The Lord was the youngest, and his title was certainly the grandest. Still Kate was not the girl to be swayed by such considerations as these. I will never put any constraint upon her inclinations, said Mrs. Nickelby to herself, but upon my word I think there is no comparison between his lordship and Samolbury. Samolbury is such an attentive, gentlemanly creature, so much manner, such a fine man, and has so much to say for himself. I hope it's Samolbury. I think it must be Samolbury. And then her thoughts flew back to her old predictions, and the number of times she'd said that Kate, with no fortune, would marry better than other people's daughters with thousands. And as she pictured with the brightness of her mother's fancy all the beauty and grace of the poor girl who had struggled so cheerfully with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart grew too full, and the tears trickled down her face. Meanwhile Ralf walked to and fro in his little back office, troubled in mind by what had just occurred. To say that Ralf loved or cared for, in the most ordinary acceptation of those terms, any one of God's creatures, would be the wildest fiction. Still there had somehow stolen upon him from time to time a thought of his niece which was tinged with compassion and pity, breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or indifference which darkened men and women in his eyes. There was, in her case, the faintest gleam of light, a most feeble and sickly ray at the best of times, but there it was, and it showed the poor girl in a better and purer aspect than any in which he had looked on human nature yet. I wish, thought Ralf, I had never done this, and yet it will keep this boy to me while there is money to be made. Selling a girl, throwing her in the way of temptation and insult and coarse speech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him already though. Matchmaking mothers do the same thing every day. He sat down and told the chances foreigned against on his fingers. If I had not put them in the right track today, thought Ralf, this foolish woman would have done so. Well, if her daughter is as true to herself as she should be from what I've seen, what harm ensues.  Yes, said Ralf aloud as he locked his iron safe. She must take her chance. She must take her chance. End of Chapter 26