The Crisis of the Project and its Result.

　　There are not many men who lie abed too late, or oversleepthemselves, on their wedding morning. A legend there isof somebody remarkable for absence of mind, who openedhis eyes upon the day which was to give him a young wife, andforgetting all about the matter, rated his servants for providinghim with such fine clothes as had been prepared for the festival.

　　There is also a legend of a young gentleman, who, not havingbefore his eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such casesmade and provided, conceived a passion for his grandmother.

　　Both cases are of a singular and special kind and it is verydoubtful whether either can be considered as a precedent likely tobe extensively followed by succeeding generations.

　　Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his marriage garments ofbottle-green, a full hour before Mrs Sliderskew, shaking off hermore heavy slumbers, knocked at his chamber door; and he hadhobbled downstairs in full array and smacked his lips over ascanty taste of his favourite cordial, ere that delicate piece ofantiquity enlightened the kitchen with her presence.

　　‘Faugh!’ said Peg, grubbing, in the discharge of her domesticfunctions, among a scanty heap of ashes in the rusty grate.

　　‘Wedding indeed! A precious wedding! He wants somebody betterthan his old Peg to take care of him, does he? And what has hesaid to me, many and many a time, to keep me content with shortfood, small wages, and little fire? “My will, Peg! my will!” says he:

　　 “I’m a bachelor—no friends—no relations, Peg.” Lies! And nowhe’s to bring home a new mistress, a baby-faced chit of a girl! If hewanted a wife, the fool, why couldn’t he have one suitable to hisage, and that knew his ways? She won’t come in my way, he says.

　　No, that she won’t, but you little think why, Arthur boy!’

　　While Mrs Sliderskew, influenced possibly by some lingeringfeelings of disappointment and personal slight, occasioned by herold master’s preference for another, was giving loose to thesegrumblings below stairs, Arthur Gride was cogitating in theparlour upon what had taken place last night.

　　‘I can’t think how he can have picked up what he knows,’ saidArthur, ‘unless I have committed myself—let something drop atBray’s, for instance—which has been overheard. Perhaps I may. Ishouldn’t be surprised if that was it. Mr Nickleby was often angryat my talking to him before we got outside the door. I mustn’t tellhim that part of the business, or he’ll put me out of sorts, andmake me nervous for the day.’

　　Ralph was universally looked up to, and recognised among hisfellows as a superior genius, but upon Arthur Gride his sternunyielding character and consummate art had made so deep animpression, that he was actually afraid of him. Cringing andcowardly to the core by nature, Arthur Gride humbled himself inthe dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when they had not thisstake in common, would have licked his shoes and crawled uponthe ground before him rather than venture to return him word forword, or retort upon him in any other spirit than one of the mostslavish and abject sycophancy.

　　To Ralph Nickleby’s, Arthur Gride now betook himselfaccording to appointment; and to Ralph Nickleby he related how, last night, some young blustering blade, whom he had never seen,forced his way into his house, and tried to frighten him from theproposed nuptials. Told, in short, what Nicholas had said anddone, with the slight reservation upon which he had determined.

　　‘Well, and what then?’ said Ralph.

　　‘Oh! nothing more,’ rejoined Gride.

　　‘He tried to frighten you,’ said Ralph, ‘and you were frightened Isuppose; is that it?’

　　‘I frightened him by crying thieves and murder,’ replied Gride.

　　‘Once I was in earnest, I tell you that, for I had more than half amind to swear he uttered threats, and demanded my life or mymoney.’

　　‘Oho!’ said Ralph, eyeing him askew. ‘Jealous too!’

　　‘Dear now, see that!’ cried Arthur, rubbing his hands andaffecting to laugh.

　　‘Why do you make those grimaces, man?’ said Ralph; ‘you arejealous—and with good cause I think.’

　　‘No, no, no; not with good cause, hey? You don’t think withgood cause, do you?’ cried Arthur, faltering. ‘Do you though, hey?’

　　‘Why, how stands the fact?’ returned Ralph. ‘Here is an old manabout to be forced in marriage upon a girl; and to this old manthere comes a handsome young fellow—you said he washandsome, didn’t you?’

　　‘No!’ snarled Arthur Gride.

　　‘Oh!’ rejoined Ralph, ‘I thought you did. Well! Handsome or nothandsome, to this old man there comes a young fellow who castsall manner of fierce defiances in his teeth—gums I should rathersay—and tells him in plain terms that his mistress hates him. Whatdoes he do that for? Philanthropy’s sake?’

　　 ‘Not for love of the lady,’ replied Gride, ‘for he said that no wordof love—his very words—had ever passed between ’em.’

　　‘He said!’ repeated Ralph, contemptuously. ‘But I like him forone thing, and that is, his giving you this fair warning to keepyour—what is it?—Tit-tit or dainty chick—which?—under lockand key. Be careful, Gride, be careful. It’s a triumph, too, to tearher away from a gallant young rival: a great triumph for an oldman! It only remains to keep her safe when you have her—that’sall.’

　　‘What a man it is!’ cried Arthur Gride, affecting, in theextremity of his torture, to be highly amused. And then he added,anxiously, ‘Yes; to keep her safe, that’s all. And that isn’t much, isit?’

　　‘Much!’ said Ralph, with a sneer. ‘Why, everybody knows whateasy things to understand and to control, women are. But come,it’s very nearly time for you to be made happy. You’ll pay the bondnow, I suppose, to save us trouble afterwards.’

　　‘Oh what a man you are!’ croaked Arthur.

　　‘Why not?’ said Ralph. ‘Nobody will pay you interest for themoney, I suppose, between this and twelve o’clock; will they?’

　　‘But nobody would pay you interest for it either, you know,’

　　returned Arthur, leering at Ralph with all the cunning and slynesshe could throw into his face.

　　‘Besides which,’ said Ralph, suffering his lip to curl into a smile,‘you haven’t the money about you, and you weren’t prepared forthis, or you’d have brought it with you; and there’s nobody you’dso much like to accommodate as me. I see. We trust each other inabout an equal degree. Are you ready?’

　　Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and nod, and chatter,  1000during this last speech of Ralph’s, answered in the affirmative;and, producing from his hat a couple of large white favours,pinned one on his breast, and with considerable difficulty inducedhis friend to do the like. Thus accoutred, they got into a hiredcoach which Ralph had in waiting, and drove to the residence ofthe fair and most wretched bride.

　　Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradually failed him moreand more as they approached nearer and nearer to the house, wasutterly dismayed and cowed by the mournful silence whichpervaded it. The face of the poor servant girl, the only person theysaw, was disfigured with tears and want of sleep. There wasnobody to receive or welcome them; and they stole upstairs intothe usual sitting-room, more like two burglars than thebridegroom and his friend.

　　‘One would think,’ said Ralph, speaking, in spite of himself, in alow and subdued voice, ‘that there was a funeral going on here,and not a wedding.’

　　‘He, he!’ tittered his friend, ‘you are so—so very funny!’

　　‘I need be,’ remarked Ralph, drily, ‘for this is rather dull andchilling. Look a little brisker, man, and not so hangdog like!’

　　‘Yes, yes, I will,’ said Gride. ‘But—but—you don’t think she’scoming just yet, do you?’

　　‘Why, I suppose she’ll not come till she is obliged,’ returnedRalph, looking at his watch, ‘and she has a good half-hour to spareyet. Curb your impatience.’

　　‘I—I—am not impatient,’ stammered Arthur. ‘I wouldn’t behard with her for the world. Oh dear, dear, not on any account. Lether take her time—her own time. Her time shall be ours by allmeans.’

　　  1001While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend a keen look, whichshowed that he perfectly understood the reason of this greatconsideration and regard, a footstep was heard upon the stairs,and Bray himself came into the room on tiptoe, and holding up hishand with a cautious gesture, as if there were some sick personnear, who must not be disturbed.

　　‘Hush!’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She was very ill last night. Ithought she would have broken her heart. She is dressed, andcrying bitterly in her own room; but she’s better, and quite quiet.

　　That’s everything!’

　　‘She is ready, is she?’ said Ralph.

　　‘Quite ready,’ returned the father.

　　‘And not likely to delay us by any young-lady weaknesses—fainting, or so forth?’ said Ralph.

　　‘She may be safely trusted now,’ returned Bray. ‘I have beentalking to her this morning. Here! Come a little this way.’ He drewRalph Nickleby to the further end of the room, and pointedtowards Gride, who sat huddled together in a corner, fumblingnervously with the buttons of his coat, and exhibiting a face, ofwhich every skulking and base expression was sharpened andaggravated to the utmost by his anxiety and trepidation.

　　‘Look at that man,’ whispered Bray, emphatically. ‘This seems acruel thing, after all.’

　　‘What seems a cruel thing?’ inquired Ralph, with as muchstolidity of face, as if he really were in utter ignorance of theother’s meaning.

　　‘This marriage,’ answered Bray. ‘Don’t ask me what. You knowas well as I do.’

　　Ralph shrugged his shoulders, in silent deprecation of Bray’s  1002impatience, and elevated his eyebrows, and pursed his lips, asmen do when they are prepared with a sufficient answer to someremark, but wait for a more favourable opportunity of advancingit, or think it scarcely worth while to answer their adversary at all.

　　‘Look at him. Does it not seem cruel?’ said Bray.

　　‘No!’ replied Ralph, boldly.

　　‘I say it does,’ retorted Bray, with a show of much irritation. ‘Itis a cruel thing, by all that’s bad and treacherous!’

　　When men are about to commit, or to sanction the commissionof some injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity forthe object either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feelthemselves, at the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immenselysuperior to those who express no pity at all. This is a kind ofupholding of faith above works, and is very comfortable. To doRalph Nickleby justice, he seldom practised this sort ofdissimulation; but he understood those who did, and thereforesuffered Bray to say, again and again, with great vehemence, thatthey were jointly doing a very cruel thing, before he again offeredto interpose a word.

　　‘You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old chip it is,’ returnedRalph, when the other was at length silent. ‘If he were younger, itmight be cruel, but as it is—harkee, Mr Bray, he’ll die soon, andleave her a rich young widow! Miss Madeline consults your tastesthis time; let her consult her own next.’

　　‘True, true,’ said Bray, biting his nails, and plainly very ill atease. ‘I couldn’t do anything better for her than advise her toaccept these proposals, could I? Now, I ask you, Nickleby, as aman of the world; could I?’

　　‘Surely not,’ answered Ralph. ‘I tell you what, sir; there are a  1003hundred fathers, within a circuit of five miles from this place; welloff; good, rich, substantial men; who would gladly give theirdaughters, and their own ears with them, to that very man yonder,ape and mummy as he looks.’

　　‘So there are!’ exclaimed Bray, eagerly catching at anythingwhich seemed a justification of himself. ‘And so I told her, bothlast night and today.’

　　‘You told her truth,’ said Ralph, ‘and did well to do so; though Imust say, at the same time, that if I had a daughter, and myfreedom, pleasure, nay, my very health and life, depended on hertaking a husband whom I pointed out, I should hope it would notbe necessary to advance any other arguments to induce her toconsent to my wishes.’

　　Bray looked at Ralph as if to see whether he spoke in earnest,and having nodded twice or thrice in unqualified assent to whathad fallen from him, said:

　　‘I must go upstairs for a few minutes, to finish dressing. When Icome down, I’ll bring Madeline with me. Do you know, I had avery strange dream last night, which I have not remembered tillthis instant. I dreamt that it was this morning, and you and I hadbeen talking as we have been this minute; that I went upstairs, forthe very purpose for which I am going now; and that as I stretchedout my hand to take Madeline’s, and lead her down, the floor sunkwith me, and after falling from such an indescribable andtremendous height as the imagination scarcely conceives, exceptin dreams, I alighted in a grave.’

　　‘And you awoke, and found you were lying on your back, orwith your head hanging over the bedside, or suffering some painfrom indigestion?’ said Ralph. ‘Pshaw, Mr Bray! Do as I do (you  1004will have the opportunity, now that a constant round of pleasureand enjoyment opens upon you), and, occupying yourself a littlem............