said Mrs Nickleby; `most excellent. And I am sure that at all times it will give me pleasure -- really pleasure now -- to have you, Mrs Browdie, to see me in this plain and homely manner. We make no display,' said Mrs Nickleby, with an air which seemed to insinuate that they could make a vast deal if they were so disposed--`no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn't allow it. I said, "Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs Browdie feel uncomfortable, and how very foolish and inconsiderate that would be!" '
`I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma'am,' returned Mrs Browdie, gratefully. `It's nearly eleven o'clock, John. I am afraid we are keeping you up very late, ma'am.'
`Late!' cried Mrs Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and one little cough at the end, like a note of admiration expressed. `This is quite early for us. We used to keep such hours! Twelve, one, two, three o'clock was nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card--parties--never were such rakes as the people about where we used to live. I often think now, I am sure, that how we ever could go through with it is quite astonishing--and that is just the evil of having a large connection and being a great deal sought after, which I would recommend all young married people steadily to resist;though of course, and it's perfectly clear, and a very happy thing too, I think, that very few young married people can be exposed to such temptations. There was one family in particular, that used to live about a mile from us--not straight down the road, but turning sharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over the donkey--that were quite extraordinary people for giving the most extravagant parties, with artificial flowers and champagne, and variegated lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of eating and drinking that the most singular epicure could possibly require--I don't think that there ever were such people as thosePeltiroguses.
You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate?'
Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time to stay this flood of recollection, so answered that she entertained of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct remembrance; and then said that Mr Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that he would sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should redeem his promise, because she was sure it would afford her mamma more amusement and pleasure than it was possible to express.
Mrs Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace--for there was patronage in that too, and a kind of implication that she had a discerning taste in such matters, and was something of a critic--John Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and to take his wife's recollection respecting the same. This done, he made divers ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular fly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyes upon him, and began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of thunder.
At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had waited until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent knocking at the street-door--so loud and so violent, indeed, that the ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.
`It must be some mistake,' said Nicholas, carelessly. `We know nobody who would come here at this hour.'
Mrs Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the counting-house was burnt down, or perhaps `the Mr Cheerybles' had sent to take Nicholas into partnership (which certainly appeared highly probable at that time of night), or perhaps Mr Linkinwater had run away with the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps--But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in her conjectures, and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.
`Stay,' said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards him, threw herself upon his arm. `Before that boy says a word, hear me.'
Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner, but appeared for the moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kate clung closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind them, and John Browdie, who had heard of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty in recognising him, stepped between the old man and his young friend, as if with the intention of preventing either of them from advancing a step further.
`Hear me, I say,' said Ralph, `and not him.'
`Say what thou'st gotten to say then, sir,' retorted John; `and tak'
care thou dinnot put up angry bluid which thou'dst betther try to quiet.'
`I should know you ,' said Ralph, `by your tongue; and him '
(pointing to Smike) `by his looks.'
`Don't speak to him,' said Nicholas, recovering his voice. `I will not have it. I will not hear him. I do not know that man. I cannot breathe the air that he corrupts. His presence is an insult to my sister. It is shame to see him. I will not bear it, by--'
`Stand!' cried John, laying his heavy hand upon his chest.
`Then let him instantly retire,' said Nicholas, struggling. `I am not going to lay hands upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have him here. John--John Browdie--is this my house--am I a child? If he stands there,' cried Nicholas, burning with fury, `looking so calmly upon those who know his black and dastardly heart, he'll drive me mad.'
To all these exclamations John Browdie answered not a word, but he retained his hold upon Nicholas; and when he was silent again, spoke.
`There's more to say and hear than thou think'st for,' said John. `Itell `he I ha' gotten scent o' thot already. Wa'at be that shadow ootside door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself, mun; dinnot be sheame-feaced.
Noo, auld gen'l'man, let's have schoolmeasther, coom.'