Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with MessrsPyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest arebeyond all Bounds.
Mrs Nickleby had not felt so proud and important formany a day, as when, on reaching home, she gaveherself wholly up to the pleasant visions which hadaccompanied her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry Hawk—thatwas the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk!—On Tuesday last,at St George’s, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend theBishop of Llandaff, Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, NorthWales, to Catherine, only daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby,Esquire, of Devonshire. ‘Upon my word!’ cried Mrs NicholasNickleby, ‘it sounds very well.’
Having dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities,to the perfect satisfaction of her own mind, the sanguine motherpictured to her imagination a long train of honours anddistinctions which could not fail to accompany Kate in her newand brilliant sphere. She would be presented at court, of course.
On the anniversary of her birthday, which was upon thenineteenth of July (‘at ten minutes past three o’clock in themorning,’ thought Mrs Nickleby in a parenthesis, ‘for I recollectasking what o’clock it was’), Sir Mulberry would give a great feastto all his tenants, and would return them three and a half per centon the amount of their last half-year’s rent, as would be fullydescribed and recorded in the fashionable intelligence, to the immeasurable delight and admiration of all the readers thereof.
Kate’s picture, too, would be in at least half-a-dozen of theannuals, and on the opposite page would appear, in delicate type,‘Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady Mulberry Hawk. BySir Dingleby Dabber.’ Perhaps some one annual, of morecomprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain aportrait of the mother of Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by thefather of Sir Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had come topass. Less interesting portraits had appeared. As this thoughtoccurred to the good lady, her countenance unconsciouslyassumed that compound expression of simpering and sleepinesswhich, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one reasonwhy they are always so charming and agreeable.
With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs Nicklebyoccupy the whole evening after her accidental introduction toRalph’s titled friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and equallypromising, haunted her sleep that night. She was preparing forher frugal dinner next day, still occupied with the same ideas—alittle softened down perhaps by sleep and daylight—when the girlwho attended her, partly for company, and partly to assist in thehousehold affairs, rushed into the room in unwonted agitation,and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the passagefor permission to walk upstairs.
‘Bless my heart!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, hastily arranging her capand front, ‘if it should be—dear me, standing in the passage all thistime—why don’t you go and ask them to walk up, you stupidthing?’
While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs Nickleby hastilyswept into a cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely done, and seated herself with looks as collectedas she could assume, when two gentlemen, both perfect strangers,presented themselves.
‘How do you do?’ said one gentleman, laying great stress on thelast word of the inquiry.
‘How do you do?’ said the other gentleman, altering theemphasis, as if to give variety to the salutation.
Mrs Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, andremarked, rubbing her hands as she did so, that she hadn’t the—really—the honour to—‘To know us,’ said the first gentleman. ‘The loss has been ours,Mrs Nickleby. Has the loss been ours, Pyke?’
‘It has, Pluck,’ answered the other gentleman.
‘We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?’ said the firstgentleman.
‘Very often, Pluck,’ answered the second.
‘But now,’ said the first gentleman, ‘now we have the happinesswe have pined and languished for. Have we pined and languishedfor this happiness, Pyke, or have we not?’
‘You know we have, Pluck,’ said Pyke, reproachfully.
‘You hear him, ma’am?’ said Mr Pluck, looking round; ‘youhear the unimpeachable testimony of my friend Pyke—thatreminds me,—formalities, formalities, must not be neglected incivilised society. Pyke—Mrs Nickleby.’
Mr Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.
‘Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,’ saidMr Pluck—‘whether I shall say myself that my name is Pluck, orwhether I shall ask my friend Pyke (who being now regularlyintroduced, is competent to the office) to state for me, Mrs Nickleby, that my name is Pluck; whether I shall claim youracquaintance on the plain ground of the strong interest I take inyour welfare, or whether I shall make myself known to you as thefriend of Sir Mulberry Hawk—these, Mrs Nickleby, areconsiderations which I leave to you to determine.’
‘Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk’s requires no betterintroduction to me,’ observed Mrs Nickleby, graciously.
‘It is delightful to hear you say so,’ said Mr Pluck, drawing achair close to Mrs Nickleby, and sitting himself down. ‘It isrefreshing to know that you hold my excellent friend, SirMulberry, in such high esteem. A word in your ear, Mrs Nickleby.
When Sir Mulberry knows it, he will be a happy man—I say, MrsNickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.’
‘My good opinion,’ said Mrs Nickleby, and the poor lady exultedin the idea that she was marvellously sly,—‘my good opinion canbe of very little consequence to a gentleman like Sir Mulberry.’
‘Of little consequence!’ exclaimed Mr Pluck. ‘Pyke, of whatconsequence to our friend, Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion ofMrs Nickleby?’
‘Of what consequence?’ echoed Pyke.
‘Ay,’ repeated Pluck; ‘is it of the greatest consequence?’
‘Of the very greatest consequence,’ replied Pyke.
‘Mrs Nickleby cannot be ignorant,’ said Mr Pluck, ‘of theimmense impression which that sweet girl has—’
‘Pluck!’ said his friend, ‘beware!’
‘Pyke is right,’ muttered Mr Pluck, after a short pause; ‘I wasnot to mention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.’
‘Well now, really,’ thought Mrs Nickleby within herself. ‘Suchdelicacy as that, I never saw!’
Mr Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of greatembarrassment for some minutes, resumed the conversation byentreating Mrs Nickleby to take no heed of what he hadinadvertently said—to consider him imprudent, rash, injudicious.
The only stipulation he would make in his own favour was, thatshe should give him credit for the best intentions.
‘But when,’ said Mr Pluck, ‘when I see so much sweetness andbeauty on the one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on theother, I—pardon me, Pyke, I didn’t intend to resume that theme.
Change the subject, Pyke.’
‘We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,’ said Pyke,‘that we’d call this morning and inquire whether you took any coldlast night.’
‘Not the least in the world last night, sir,’ replied Mrs Nickleby,‘with many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing methe honour to inquire; not the least—which is the more singular,as I really am very subject to colds, indeed—very subject. I had acold once,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I think it was in the year eighteenhundred and seventeen; let me see, four and five are nine, and—yes, eighteen hundred and seventeen, that I thought I nevershould get rid of; actually and seriously, that I thought I nevershould get rid of. I was only cured at last by a remedy that I don’tknow whether you ever happened to hear of, Mr Pluck. You have agallon of water as hot as you can possibly bear it, with a pound ofsalt, and sixpen’orth of the finest bran, and sit with your head in itfor twenty minutes every night just before going to bed; at least, Idon’t mean your head—your feet. It’s a most extraordinary cure—a most extraordinary cure. I used it for the first time, I recollect,the day after Christmas Day, and by the middle of April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a miracle when you come tothink of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of September.’
‘What an afflicting calamity!’ said Mr Pyke.
‘Perfectly horrid!’ exclaimed Mr Pluck.
‘But it’s worth the pain of hearing, only to know that MrsNickleby recovered it, isn’t it, Pluck?’ cried Mr Pyke.
‘That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrillinginterest,’ replied Mr Pluck.
‘But come,’ said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; ‘wemust not forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. Wecome on a mission, Mrs Nickleby.’
‘On a mission,’ exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind adefinite proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself inlively colours.
‘From Sir Mulberry,’ replied Pyke. ‘You must be very dull here.’
‘Rather dull, I confess,’ said Mrs Nickleby.
‘We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and athousand entreaties that you’ll take a seat in a private box at theplay tonight,’ said Mr Pluck.
‘Oh dear!’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I never go out at all, never.’
‘And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs Nickleby, why youshould go out tonight,’ retorted Mr Pluck. ‘Pyke, entreat MrsNickleby.’
‘Oh, pray do,’ said Pyke.
‘You positively must,’ urged Pluck.
‘You are very kind,’ said Mrs Nickleby, hesitating; ‘but—’
‘There’s not a but in the case, my dear Mrs Nickleby,’
remonstrated Mr Pluck; ‘not such a word in the vocabulary. Yourbrother-in-law joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us—a refusal is out of the question. SirMulberry sends a carriage for you—twenty minutes before sevento the moment—you’ll not be so cruel as to disappoint the wholeparty, Mrs Nickleby?’
‘You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,’
replied the worthy lady.
‘Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,’
urged Mr Pluck. ‘Mrs Nickleby,’ said that excellent gentleman,lowering his voice, ‘there is the most trifling, the most excusablebreach of confidence in what I am about to say; and yet if myfriend Pyke there overheard it—such is that man’s delicate senseof honour, Mrs Nickleby—he’d have me out before dinner-time.’
Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke,who had walked to the window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing herhand, went on:
‘Your daughter has made a conquest—a conquest on which Imay congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma’am, Sir Mulberryis her devoted slave. Hem!’
‘Hah!’ cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching somethingfrom the chimney-piece with a theatrical air. ‘What is this! what doI behold!’
‘What do you behold, my dear fellow?’ asked Mr Pluck.
‘It is the face, the countenance, the expression,’ cried Mr Pyke,falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; ‘feeblyportrayed, imperfectly caught, but still the face, the countenance,the expression.’
‘I recognise it at this distance!’ exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit ofenthusiasm. ‘Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of—’
‘It is my daughter’s portrait,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride. And so it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought ithome for inspection only two nights before.
Mr Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in hisconjecture, than he launched into the most extravagantencomiums of the divine original; and in the warmth of hisenthusiasm kissed the picture a thousand times, while Mr Pluckpressed Mrs Nickleby’s hand to his heart, and congratulated heron the possession of such a daughter, with so much earnestnessand affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand, in his eyes.
Poor Mrs Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviablecomplacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by thesetokens of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even theservant girl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted tothe spot in astonishment at the ecstasies of the two friendlyvisitors.
By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs Nickleby went onto entertain her guests with a lament over her fallen fortunes, anda picturesque account of her old house in the country: comprisinga full description of the different apartments, not forgetting thelittle store-room, and a lively recollection of how many steps youwent down to get into the garden, and which way you turned whenyou came out at the parlour door, and what capital fixtures therewere in the kitchen. This last reflection naturally conducted herinto the wash-house, where she stumbled upon the brewingutensils, among which she might have wandered for an hour, if themere mention of those implements had not, by an association ofideas, instantly reminded Mr Pyke that he was ‘amazing thirsty.’
‘And I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr Pyke; ‘if you’ll send round to thepublic-house for a pot of milk half-and-half, positively and actually I’ll drink it.’
And positively and actually Mr Pyke did drink it, and Mr Pluckhelped him, while Mrs Nickleby looked on in divided admirationof the condescension of the two, and the aptitude with which theyaccommodated themselves to the pewter-pot; in explanation ofwhich seeming marvel it may be here observed, that gentlemenwho, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck, live upon their wits (or not somuch, perhaps, upon the presence of their own wits as upon theabsence of wits in other people) are occasionally reduced to verynarrow shifts and straits, and are at such periods accustomed toregale themselves in a very simple and primitive manner.
‘At twenty minutes before seven, then,’ said Mr Pyke, rising,‘the coach will be here. One more look—one little look—at thatsweet face. Ah! here it is. Unmoved, unchanged!’ This, by the way,was a very remarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to somany changes of expression—‘Oh, Pluck! Pluck!’
Mr Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs Nickleby’shand with a great show of feeling and attachment; Mr Pyke havingdone the same, both gentlemen hastily withdrew.
Mrs Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself creditfor a pretty tolerable share of penetration and acuteness, but shehad never felt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness as shedid that day. She had found it all out the night before. She hadnever seen Sir Mulberry and Kate together—never even heard SirMulberry’s name—and yet hadn’t she said to herself from the veryfirst, that she saw how the case stood? and what a triumph it was,for there was now no doubt about it. If these flattering attentionsto herself were not sufficient proofs, Sir Mulberry’s confidentialfriend had suffered the secret to escape him in so many words. ‘I am quite in love with that dear Mr Pluck, I declare I am,’ said MrsNickleby.
There was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of thisgood fortune, and that was the having nobody by, to whom shecould confide it. Once or twice she almost resolved to walk straightto Miss La Creevy’s and tell it all to her. ‘But I don’t know,’
thought Mrs Nickleby; ‘she is a very worthy person, but I amafraid too much beneath Sir Mulberry’s station for us to make acompanion of. Poor thing!’ Acting upon this grave considerationshe rejected the idea of taking the little portrait painter into herconfidence, and contented herself with holding out sundry vagueand mysterious hopes of preferment to the servant girl, whoreceived these obscure hints of dawning greatness with muchveneration and respect.
Punctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was nohackney coach, but a private chariot, having behind it a footman,whose legs, although somewhat large for his body, might, as mereabstract legs, have set themselves up for models at the RoyalAcademy. It was quite exhilarating to hear the clash and bustlewith which he banged the door and jumped up behind after MrsNickleby was in; and as that good lady was perfectly unconsciousthat he applied the gold-headed end of his long stick to his nose,and so telegraphed most disrespectfully to the coachman over hervery head, she sat in a state of much stiffness and dignity, not alittle proud of her position.
At the theatre entrance there was more banging and morebustle, and there were also Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting toescort her to her box; and so polite were they, that Mr Pykethreatened with many oaths to ‘smifligate’ a very old man with a lantern who accidentally stumbled in her way—to the great terrorof Mrs Nickleby, who, conjecturing more from Mr Pyke’sexcitement than any previous acquaintan............