Containing the further Progress of the Plotcontrived by Mr Ralph Nickleby and Mr ArthurGride.

　　With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose towhich extreme circumstances so often give birth, actingupon far less excitable and more sluggishtemperaments than that which was the lot of Madeline Bray’sadmirer, Nicholas started, at dawn of day, from the restless couchwhich no sleep had visited on the previous night, and prepared tomake that last appeal, by whose slight and fragile thread her onlyremaining hope of escape depended.

　　Although, to restless and ardent minds, morning may be thefitting season for exertion and activity, it is not always at that timethat hope is strongest or the spirit most sanguine and buoyant. Intrying and doubtful positions, youth, custom, a steadycontemplation of the difficulties which surround us, and afamiliarity with them, imperceptibly diminish our apprehensionsand beget comparative indifference, if not a vague and recklessconfidence in some relief, the means or nature of which we carenot to foresee. But when we come, fresh, upon such things in themorning, with that dark and silent gap between us and yesterday;with every link in the brittle chain of hope, to rivet afresh; our hotenthusiasm subdued, and cool calm reason substituted in its stead;doubt and misgiving revive. As the traveller sees farthest by day,and becomes aware of rugged mountains and trackless plains which the friendly darkness had shrouded from his sight and mindtogether, so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of human life sees,with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount, somenew height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which,last night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light whichgilds all nature with its cheerful beams, seems but to shine uponthe weary obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.

　　So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to asituation like his, he softly left the house, and, feeling as though toremain in bed were to lose most precious time, and to be up andstirring were in some way to promote the end he had in view,wandered into London; perfectly well knowing that for hours tocome he could not obtain speech with Madeline, and could donothing but wish the intervening time away.

　　And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly lookedround on the gradually increasing bustle and preparation for theday, everything appeared to yield him some new occasion fordespondency. Last night, the sacrifice of a young, affectionate, andbeautiful creature, to such a wretch, and in such a cause, hadseemed a thing too monstrous to succeed; and the warmer hegrew, the more confident he felt that some interposition must saveher from his clutches. But now, when he thought how regularlythings went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying round;how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived totteringon; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts werepoor and sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses,and how many of those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each dayand laid them down each night, and lived and died, father and son,mother and child, race upon race, and generation upon generation, without a home to shelter them or the energies of onesingle man directed to their aid; how, in seeking, not a luxuriousand splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched andinadequate subsistence, there were women and children in thatone town, divided into classes, numbered and estimated asregularly as the noble families and folks of great degree, andreared from infancy to drive most criminal and dreadful trades;how ignorance was punished and never taught; how jail-doorsgaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands urged towards them bycircumstances darkly curtaining their very cradles’ heads, and butfor which they might have earned their honest bread and lived inpeace; how many died in soul, and had no chance of life; howmany who could scarcely go astray, be they vicious as they would,turned haughtily from the crushed and stricken wretch who couldscarce do otherwise, and who would have been a greater wonderhad he or she done well, than even they had they done ill; howmuch injustice, misery, and wrong, there was, and yet how theworld rolled on, from year to year, alike careless and indifferent,and no man seeking to remedy or redress it; when he thought ofall this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on whichhis thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that there was little groundfor hope, and little reason why it should not form an atom in thehuge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one small andunimportant unit to swell the great amount.

　　But youth is not prone to contemplate the darkest side of apicture it can shift at will. By dint of reflecting on what he had todo, and reviving the train of thought which night had interrupted,Nicholas gradually summoned up his utmost energy, and whenthe morning was sufficiently advanced for his purpose, had no thought but that of using it to the best advantage. A hastybreakfast taken, and such affairs of business as required promptattention disposed of, he directed his steps to the residence ofMadeline Bray: whither he lost no time in arriving.

　　It had occurred to him that, very possibly, the young lady mightbe denied, although to him she never had been; and he was stillpondering upon the surest method of obtaining access to her inthat case, when, coming to the door of the house, he found it hadbeen left ajar—probably by the last person who had gone out. Theoccasion was not one upon which to observe the nicest ceremony;therefore, availing himself of this advantage, Nicholas walkedgently upstairs and knocked at the door of the room into which hehad been accustomed to be shown. Receiving permission to enter,from some person on the other side, he opened the door andwalked in.

　　Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone. It was nearlythree weeks since he had seen her last, but there was a change inthe lovely girl before him which told Nicholas, in startling terms,how much mental suffering had been compressed into that shorttime. There are no words which can express, nothing with whichcan be compared, the perfect pallor, the clear transparentwhiteness, of the beautiful face which turned towards him whenhe entered. Her hair was a rich deep brown, but shading that face,and straying upon a neck that rivalled it in whiteness, it seemed bythe strong contrast raven black. Something of wildness andrestlessness there was in the dark eye, but there was the samepatient look, the same expression of gentle mournfulness which hewell remembered, and no trace of a single tear. Most beautiful—more beautiful, perhaps, than ever—there was something in her face which quite unmanned him, and appeared far more touchingthan the wildest agony of grief. It was not merely calm andcomposed, but fixed and rigid, as though the violent effort whichhad summoned that composure beneath her father’s eye, while itmastered all other thoughts, had prevented even the momentaryexpression they had communicated to the features from subsiding,and had fastened it there, as an evidence of its triumph.

　　The father sat opposite to her; not looking directly in her face,but glancing at her, as he talked with a gay air which ill disguisedthe anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials were not ontheir accustomed table, nor were any of the other tokens of herusual occupations to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas hadalways seen filled with fresh flowers were empty, or supplied onlywith a few withered stalks and leaves. The bird was silent. Thecloth that covered his cage at night was not removed. His mistresshad forgotten him.

　　There are times when, the mind being painfully alive to receiveimpressions, a great deal may be noted at a glance. This was one,for Nicholas had but glanced round him when he was recognisedby Mr Bray, who said impatiently:

　　‘Now, sir, what do you want? Name your errand here, quickly,if you please, for my daughter and I are busily engaged with otherand more important matters than those you come about. Come,sir, address yourself to your business at once.’

　　Nicholas could very well discern that the irritability andimpatience of this speech were assumed, and that Bray, in hisheart, was rejoiced at any interruption which promised to engagethe attention of his daughter. He bent his eyes involuntarily uponthe father as he spoke, and marked his uneasiness; for he coloured and turned his head away.

　　The device, however, so far as it was a device for causingMadeline to interfere, was successful. She rose, and advancingtowards Nicholas paused half-way, and stretched out her hand asexpecting a letter.

　　‘Madeline,’ said her father impatiently, ‘my love, what are youdoing?’

　　‘Miss Bray expects an inclosure perhaps,’ said Nicholas,speaking very distinctly, and with an emphasis she could scarcelymisunderstand. ‘My employer is absent from England, or I shouldhave brought a letter with me. I hope she will give me time—alittle time. I ask a very little time.’

　　‘If that is all you come about, sir,’ said Mr Bray, ‘you may makeyourself easy on that head. Madeline, my dear, I didn’t know thisperson was in your debt?’

　　‘A—a trifle, I believe,’ returned Madeline, faintly.

　　‘I suppose you think now,’ said Bray, wheeling his chair roundand confronting Nicholas, ‘that, but for such pitiful sums as youbring here, because my daughter has chosen to employ her time asshe has, we should starve?’

　　‘I have not thought about it,’ returned Nicholas.

　　‘You have not thought about it!’ sneered the invalid. ‘You knowyou have thought about it, and have thought that, and think soevery time you come here. Do you suppose, young man, that Idon’t know what little purse-proud tradesmen are, when, throughsome fortunate circumstances, they get the upper hand for a briefday—or think they get the upper hand—of a gentleman?’

　　‘My business,’ said Nicholas respectfully, ‘is with a lady.’

　　‘With a gentleman’s daughter, sir,’ returned the sick man, ‘and the pettifogging spirit is the same. But perhaps you bring orders,eh? Have you any fresh orders for my daughter, sir?’

　　Nicholas understood the tone of triumph in which thisinterrogatory was put; but remembering the necessity ofsupporting his assumed character, produced a scrap of paperpurporting to contain a list of some subjects for drawings whichhis employer desired to have executed; and with which he hadprepared himself in case of any such contingency.

　　‘Oh!’ said Mr Bray. ‘These are the orders, are they?’

　　‘Since you insist upon the term, sir, yes,’ replied Nicholas.

　　‘Then you may tell your master,’ said Bray, tossing the paperback again, with an exulting smile, ‘that my daughter, MissMadeline Bray, condescends to employ herself no longer in suchlabours as these; that she is not at his beck and call, as hesupposes her to be; that we don’t live upon his money, as heflatters himself we do; that he may give whatever he owes us, tothe first beggar that passes his shop, or add it to his own profitsnext time he calculates them; and that he may go to the devil forme. That’s my acknowledgment of his orders, sir!’

　　‘And this is the independence of a man who sells his daughteras he has sold that weeping girl!’ thought Nicholas.

　　The father was too much absorbed with his own exultation tomark the look of scorn which, for an instant, Nicholas could nothave suppressed had he been upon the rack. ‘There,’ hecontinued, after a short silence, ‘you have your message and canretire—unless you have any further—ha!—any further orders.’

　　‘I have none,’ said Nicholas; ‘nor, in the consideration of thestation you once held, have I used that or any other word which,however harmless in itself, could be supposed to imply authority on my part or dependence on yours. I have no orders, but I havefears—fears that I will express, chafe as you may—fears that youmay be consigning that young lady to something worse thansupporting you by the labour of her hands, had she worked herselfdead. These are my fears, and these fears I found upon your owndemeanour. Your conscience will tell you, sir, whether I construeit well or not.’

　　‘For Heaven’s sake!’ cried Madeline, interposing in alarmbetween them. ‘Remember, sir, he is ill.’

　　‘Ill!’ cried the invalid, gasping and catching for breath. ‘Ill! Ill! Iam bearded and bullied by a shop-boy, and she beseeches him topity me and remember I am ill!’

　　He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so violent that for a fewmoments Nicholas was alarmed for his life; but finding that hebegan to recover, he withdrew, after signifying by a gesture to theyoung lady that he had something important to communicate, andwould wait for her outside the room. He could hear that the sickman came gradually, but slowly, to himself, and that without anyreference to what had just occurred, as though he had no distinctrecollection of it as yet, he requested to be left alone.

　　‘Oh!’ thought Nicholas, ‘that this slender chance might not belost, and that I might prevail, if it were but for one week’s time andreconsideration!’

　　‘You are charged with some commission to me, sir,’ saidMadeline, presenting herself in great agitation. ‘Do not press itnow, I beg and pray you. The day after tomorrow; come herethen.’

　　‘It will be too late—too late for what I have to say,’ rejoinedNicholas, ‘and you will not be here. Oh, madam, if you have but one thought of him who sent me here, but one last lingering carefor your own peace of mind and heart, I do for God’s sake urge youto give me a hearing.’

　　She attempted to pass him, but Nicholas gently detained her.

　　‘A hearing,’ said Nicholas. ‘I ask you but to hear me: not mealone, but him for whom I speak, who is far away and does notknow your danger. In the name of Heaven hear me!’

　　The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and red withweeping, stood by; and to her Nicholas appealed in suchpassionate terms that she opened a side-door, and, supporting hermistress into an adjoining room, beckoned Nicholas to followthem.

　　‘Leave me, sir, pray,’ said the young lady.

　　‘I cannot, will not leave you thus,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I have aduty to discharge; and, either here, or in the room from which wehave just now come, at whatever risk or hazard to Mr Bray, I mustbeseech you to contemplate again the fearful course to which youhave been impelled.’

　　‘What course is this you speak of, and impelled by whom, sir?’

　　demanded the young lady, with an effort to speak proudly.

　　‘I speak of this marriage,’ returned Nicholas, ‘of this marriage,fixed for tomorrow, by one who never faltered in a bad purpose, orlent his aid to any good design; of this marriage, the history ofwhich is known to me, better, far better, than it is to you. I knowwhat web is wound about you. I know what men they are fromwhom these schemes have come. You are betrayed and sold formoney; for gold, whose every coin is rusted with tears, if not redwith the blood of ruined men, who have fallen desperately by theirown mad hands.’

　　 ‘You say you have a duty to discharge,’ said Madeline, ‘and sohave I. And with the help of Heaven I will perform it.’

　　‘Say rather with the help of devils,’ replied Nicholas, ‘with thehelp of men, one of them your destined husband, who are—’

　　‘I must not hear this,’ cried the young lady, striving to repress ashudder, occasioned, as it seemed, even by this slight allusion toArthur Gride. ‘This evil, if evil it be, has been of my own seeking. Iam impelled to this course by no one, but follow it of my own freewill. You see I am not constrained or forced. Report this,’ saidMadeline, ‘to my dear friend and benefactor, and, taking with youmy prayers and thanks for him and for yourself, leave me for ever!’

　　‘Not until I have besought you, with all the earnestness andfervour by which I am animated,’ cried Nicholas, ‘to postpone thismarriage for one short week. Not until I have besought you tothink more deeply than you can have done, influenced as you are,upon the step you are about to take. Although you cannot be fullyconscious of the villainy of this man to whom you are about to giveyour hand, some of his deeds you know. You have heard himspeak, and have looked upon his face. Reflect, reflect, before it istoo late, on the mockery of plighting to him at the altar, faith inwhich your heart can have no share—of uttering solemn words,against which nature and reason must rebel—of the degradationof yourself in your own esteem, which must ensue, and must beaggravated every day, as his detested character opens upon youmore and more. Shrink from the loathsome companionship of thiswretch as you would from corruption and disease. Suffer toil andlabour if you will, but shun him, shun him, and be happy. For,believe me, I speak the truth; the most abject poverty, the mostwretched condition of human life, with a pure and upright mind, would be happiness to that which you must undergo as the wife ofsuch a man as this!’

　　Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the young lady buriedher face in her hands, and gave her tears free way. In a voice atfirst inarticulate with emotion, but gradually recovering strengthas she proceeded, she answered him:

　　‘I will not disguise from you, sir—though perhaps I ought—thatI have undergone great pain of mind, and have been nearlybroken-hearted since I saw you last. I do not love this gentleman.

　　The difference between our ages, tastes, and habits, forbids it.

　　This he knows, and knowing, still offers me his hand. By acceptingit, and by that step alone, I can release my father who is dying inthis place; prolong his life, perhaps, for many years; restore him tocomfort—I may almost call it affluence; and relieve a generousman from the burden of assisting one, by whom, I grieve to say, hisnoble heart is little understood. Do not think so poorly of me as tobelieve that I feign a love I do not feel. Do not report so ill of me,for that I could not bear. If I cannot, in reason or in nature, lovethe man who pays this price for my poor hand, I can discharge theduties of a wife: I can be all he seeks in me, and will. He is contentto take me as I am. I have passed my word, and should rejoice, notweep, that it is so. I do. The interest you take in one so friendlessand forlorn as I, the delicacy with which you have discharged yourtrust, the faith you have kept with me, have my warmest thanks:

　　and, while I make this last feeble acknowledgment, move me totears, as you see. But I do not repent, nor am I unhappy. I amhappy in the prospect of all I can achieve so easily. I shall be moreso when I look back upon it, and all is done, I know.’

　　‘Your tears fall faster as you talk of happiness,’ said Nicholas, ‘and you shun the contemplation of that dark future which mustbe laden with so much misery to you. Defer this marriage for aweek. For but one week!’

　　‘He was talking, when you came upon us just now, with suchsmiles as I remember to have seen of ............