These observations were partly addressed to the old gentleman, partly to Kate, and partly delivered in soliloquy. Towards their conclusion, the suitor evinced a very irreverent degree of inattention, and Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely finished speaking, when, to the great terror both of that lady and her daughter, he suddenly flung off his coat, and springing on the top of the wall, threw himself into an attitude which displayed his small-clothes and grey worsteds to the fullest advantage, and concluded by standing on one leg, and repeating his favourite bellow with increased vehemence.
While he was still dwelling on the last note, and embellishing it with a prolonged flourish, a dirty hand was observed to glide stealthily and swiftly along the top of the wall, as if in pursuit of a fly, and then to clasp with the utmost dexterity one of the old gentleman’s ankles. This done, the companion hand appeared, and clasped the other ankle.
Thus encumbered the old gentleman lifted his legs awkwardly once or twice, as if they were very clumsy and imperfect pieces of machinery, and then looking down on his own side of the wall, burst into a loud laugh.
“It’s you, is it?” said the old gentleman.
“Yes, it’s me,” replied a gruff voice.
“How’s the Emperor of Tartary?” said the old gentleman.
“Oh! he’s much the same as usual,” was the reply. “No better and no worse.”
“The young Prince of China,” said the old gentleman, with much interest. “Is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman?”
“No,” answered the gruff voice; “and he says he never will be, that’s more.”
“If that’s the case,” observed the old gentleman, “perhaps I’d better come down.”
“Well,” said the man on the other side, “I think you had, perhaps.”
One of the hands being then cautiously unclasped, the old gentleman dropped into a sitting posture, and was looking round to smile and bow to Mrs. Nickleby, when he disappeared with some precipitation, as if his legs had been pulled from below.
Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning to speak to her mama, when the dirty hands again became visible, and were immediately followed by the figure of a coarse squat man, who ascended by the steps which had been recently occupied by their singular neighbour.
“Beg your pardon, ladies,” said this newcomer, grinning and touching his hat. “Has he been making love to either of you?”
“Yes,” said Kate.
“Ah!” rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hat and wiping his face, “he always will, you know. Nothing will prevent his making love.”
“I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,” said Kate.
“Why no,” replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his handkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. “That’s pretty plain, that is.”
“Has he been long so?” asked Kate.
“A long while.”
“And is there no hope for him?” said Kate, compassionately.
“Not a bit, and don’t deserve to be,” replied the keeper. “He’s a deal pleasanter without his senses than with ’em. He was the cruellest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath.”
“Indeed!” said Kate.
“By George!” replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically that he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on. “I never come across such a vagabond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife’s heart, turned his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into the streets; it was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he’d have drove many others so. Hope for him, an old rip! There isn’t too much hope going, but I’ll bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more deserving chaps than him, anyhow.”
With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again, as much as to say that nothing short of this would do, if things were to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily—not that he was in an ill humour, but that his subject ruffled him—descended the ladder, and took it away.
During this conversation, Mrs. Nickleby had regarded the man with a severe and steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and pursing up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtful manner.
“Poor creature!” said Kate.
“Ah! poor indeed!” rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. “It’s shameful that such things should be allowed. Shameful!”
“How can they be helped, mama?” said Kate, mournfully. “The infirmities of nature—”
“Nature!” said Mrs. Nickleby. “What! Do you suppose this poor gentleman is out of his mind?”
“Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?”
“Why then, I just tell you this, Kate,” returned Mrs. Nickleby, “that, he is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can be so imposed upon. It’s some plot of these people to possess themselves of his property—didn’t he say so himself? He may be a little odd and flighty, perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and express himself as he does, respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and making offers with so much thought, and care, and prudence—not as if he ran into the streets, and went down upon his knees to the first chit of a girl he met, as a madman would! No, no, Kate, there’s a great deal too much method in his madness; depend upon that, my dear.”
XLII
Illustrative of the convivial sentiment, that the
