Though little Miss La Creevy’s indignation was not so singularly displayed as Newman’s, it was scarcely inferior in violence and intensity. Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had happened to make his appearance in the room at that moment, there is some doubt whether he would not have found Miss La Creevy a more dangerous opponent than even Newman Noggs himself.
“God forgive me for saying so,” said Miss La Creevy, as a windup to all her expressions of anger, “but I really feel as if I could stick this into him with pleasure.”
It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, it being in fact nothing more nor less than a blacklead pencil; but discovering her mistake, the little portrait painter exchanged it for a mother-of-pearl fruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperate thoughts, she made a lunge as she spoke, which would have scarcely disturbed the crumb of a half-quartern loaf.
“She won’t stop where she is after tonight,” said Newman. “That’s a comfort.”
“Stop!” cried Miss La Creevy, “she should have left there, weeks ago.”
“—If we had known of this,” rejoined Newman. “But we didn’t. Nobody could properly interfere but her mother or brother. The mother’s weak—poor thing—weak. The dear young man will be here tonight.”
“Heart alive!” cried Miss La Creevy. “He will do something desperate, Mr. Noggs, if you tell him all at once.”
Newman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtful look.
“Depend upon it,” said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, “if you are not very careful in breaking out the truth to him, he will do some violence upon his uncle or one of these men that will bring some terrible calamity upon his own head, and grief and sorrow to us all.”
“I never thought of that,” rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more and more. “I came to ask you to receive his sister in case he brought her here, but—”
“But this is a matter of much greater importance,” interrupted Miss La Creevy; “that you might have been sure of before you came, but the end of this, nobody can foresee, unless you are very guarded and careful.”
“What can I do?” cried Newman, scratching his head with an air of great vexation and perplexity. “If he was to talk of pistoling ’em all, I should be obliged to say, ‘Certainly—serve ’em right.’ ”
Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearing this, and instantly set about extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he would use his utmost endeavours to pacify the wrath of Nicholas; which, after some demur, was conceded. They then consulted together on the safest and surest mode of communicating to him the circumstances which had rendered his presence necessary.
“He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,” said Miss La Creevy. “That is of the greatest consequence. He must not be told until late at night.”
“But he’ll be in town between six and seven this evening,” replied Newman. “I can’t keep it from him when he asks me.”
“Then you must go out, Mr. Noggs,” said Miss La Creevy. “You can easily have been kept away by business, and must not return till nearly midnight.”
“Then he will come straight here,” retorted Newman.
“So I suppose,” observed Miss La Creevy; “but he won’t find me at home, for I’ll go straight to the city the instant you leave me, make up matters with Mrs. Nickleby, and take her away to the theatre, so that he may not even know where his sister lives.”
Upon further discussion, this appeared the safest and most feasible mode of proceeding that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it was finally determined that matters should be so arranged, and Newman, after listening to many supplementary cautions and entreaties, took his leave of Miss La Creevy and trudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as he went upon a vast number of possibilities and impossibilities which crowded upon his brain, and arose out of the conversation that had just terminated.
XXXII
Relating chiefly to some remarkable conversation, and some remarkable proceedings to which it gives rise.
“London at last!” cried Nicholas, throwing back his greatcoat and rousing Smike from a long nap. “It seemed to me as though we should never reach it.”
“And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,” observed the coachman, looking over his shoulder at Nicholas with no very pleasant expression of countenance.
“Ay, I know that,” was the reply; “but I have been very anxious to be at my journey’s end, and that makes the way seem long.”
“Well,” remarked the coachman, “if the way seemed long with such cattle as you’ve sat behind, you must have been most uncommon anxious”; and so saying, he let out his whiplash and touched up a little boy on the calves of his legs by way of emphasis.
They rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street of London, now displaying long double rows of brightly-burning lamps, dotted here and there with the chemists’ glaring lights, and illuminated besides with the brilliant flood that streamed from the windows of the shops, where sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of the richest colours, the most inviting delicacies, and most sumptuous articles of luxurious ornament, succeeded each other in rich and glittering profusion. Streams of people apparently without end poured on and on, jostling each other in the crowd and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches that surrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes and makes, mingled up together in one moving mass, like running water, lent their ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.
As they dashed by the quickly-changing and ever-varying objects, it was curious to observe in what
