conduct jeered at and brutally misconstrued; he heard her name bandied from mouth to mouth, and herself made the subject of coarse and insolent wagers, free speech, and licentious jesting.
The man who had spoken first, led the conversation, and indeed almost engrossed it, being only stimulated from time to time by some slight observation from one or other of his companions. To him then Nicholas addressed himself when he was sufficiently composed to stand before the party, and force the words from his parched and scorching throat.
‘Let me have a word with you, sir,’ said Nicholas.
‘With me, sir?’ retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful surprise.
‘I said with you,’ replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty, for his passion choked him.
‘A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!’ exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising his wine-glass to his lips, and looking round upon his friends.
‘Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?’ said Nicholas sternly.
Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him either name his business or leave the table.
Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.
‘There, sir,’ said Nicholas; ‘my business you will guess.’
A momentary expression of astonishment, not unmixed with some confusion, appeared in the face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name; but he subdued it in an instant, and tossing the card to Lord Verisopht, who sat opposite, drew a toothpick from a glass before him, and very leisurely applied it to his mouth.
‘Your name and address?’ said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion kindled.
‘I shall give you neither,’ replied Sir Mulberry.
‘If there is a gentleman in this party,’ said Nicholas, looking round and scarcely able to make his white lips form the words, ‘he will acquaint me with the name and residence of this man.’
There was a dead silence.
‘I am the brother of the young lady who has been the subject of conversation here,’ said Nicholas. ‘I denounce this person as a liar, and impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend here, he will save him the disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name—and utterly useless one—for I will find it out, nor leave him until I have.’
Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his companions, said—
‘Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of his station; and his pretty sister shall save him a broken head, if he talks till midnight.’
‘You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!’ said Nicholas, ‘and shall be proclaimed so to the world. I will know you; I will follow you home if you walk the streets till morning.’
Sir Mulberry’s hand involuntarily closed upon the decanter, and he seemed for an instant about to launch it at the head of his challenger. But he only filled his glass, and laughed in derision.
Nicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and, summoning the waiter, paid his bill.
‘Do you know that person’s name?’ he inquired of the man in an audible voice; pointing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.
Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always spoken together, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.
‘That gentleman, sir?’ replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knew his cue, and answered with just as little respect, and just as much impertinence as he could safely show: ‘no, sir, I do not, sir.’
‘Here, you sir,’ cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; ‘do you know that person’s name?’
‘Name, sir? No, sir.’
‘Then you’ll find it there,’ said Sir Mulberry, throwing Nicholas’s card towards him; ‘and when you have made yourself master of it, put that piece of pasteboard in the fire—do you hear me?’
The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised the matter by sticking the card in the chimney-glass. Having done this, he retired.
Nicholas folded his arms, and biting his lip, sat perfectly quiet; sufficiently expressing by his manner, however, a firm determination to carry his threat of following Sir Mulberry home, into steady execution.
It was evident from the tone in which the younger member of the party appeared to remonstrate with his friend, that he objected to this course of proceeding, and urged him to comply with the request which Nicholas had made. Sir Mulberry, however, who was not quite sober, and who was in a sullen and dogged state of obstinacy, soon silenced the representations of his weak young friend, and further seemed—as if to save himself from a repetition of them—to insist on being left alone. However this might have been, the young gentleman and the two who had always spoken together, actually rose to go after a short interval, and presently retired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.
It will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition of Nicholas, the minutes appeared to move with leaden wings indeed, and that their progress did not seem the more rapid from the monotonous ticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of its little bell which told the quarters. But there he sat; and in his old seat on the opposite side of the room reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his legs upon the cushion, and his handkerchief thrown negligently over his knees: finishing his magnum of claret with the utmost coolness and indifference.
Thus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour—Nicholas would have thought for three hours at least, but that the little bell had only gone four times. Twice or thrice he looked angrily and impatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in the same attitude, putting his glass to his lips from time to time, and looking vacantly at the wall, as if he were wholly ignorant of the presence of any living person.
At length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coolly to the glass, and having surveyed himself therein, turned round and honoured Nicholas with a long and contemptuous stare. Nicholas stared again with right good-will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his shoulders, smiled slightly, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to help him on with his greatcoat.
The man did so, and held the door open.
‘Don’t wait,’ said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.
Sir Mulberry took several turns up and down the room, whistling carelessly all the time; stopped to finish the last glass of claret which he had poured out a few minutes before, walked again, put on his hat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves, and, at last, walked slowly out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chafing until he was nearly wild, darted from his seat, and followed him: so closely, that before the door had swung upon its hinges after Sir Mulberry’s passing out, they stood side by side in the street together.
There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the apron, and jumped out to the horse’s head.
‘Will you make yourself known to me?’ asked Nicholas in a suppressed voice.
‘No,’ replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an oath. ‘No.’
‘If you trust to your horse’s speed, you will find yourself mistaken,’ said Nicholas. ‘I will accompany you. By Heaven I will, if I hang on to the foot-board.’
‘You shall be horsewhipped if you do,’ returned Sir Mulberry.
‘You are a villain,’ said Nicholas.
‘You are an errand-boy for aught I know,’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
‘I am the son of a country gentleman,’ returned Nicholas, ‘your equal in birth and education, and your superior I trust in everything besides. I tell you again, Miss Nickleby is my sister. Will you or will you not answer for your unmanly and brutal conduct?’
‘To a proper champion—yes.