The project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his friend approaching a successful issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another party, not admitted into their confidence I N AN OLD HOUSE , dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to have withered, like himself, and to have grown yellow and shrivelled in hoarding him from the light of day, as he had in hoarding his money, lived Arthur Gride. Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare and bony make, and hard and cold as misers' hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against the gloomy walls; attenuated presses, grown lank and lantern-jawed in guarding the treasures they enclosed, and tottering, as though from constant fear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark corners, whence they cast no shadows on the ground, and seemed to hide and cower from observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs, with long lean hands and famished face, ticked in cautious whispers; and when it struck the time, in thin and piping sounds, like an old man's voice, rattled, as if it were pinched with hunger.
No fireside couch was there, to invite repose and comfort. Elbow-chairs there were, but they looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms suspiciously and timidly, and kept upon their guard. Others, were fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawn themselves up to their utmost height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare all comers out of countenance. Others, again, knocked up against their neighbours, or leant for support against the wall--somewhat ostentatiously, as if to call all men to witness that they were not worth the taking. The dark square lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty hangings seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among themselves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledge of the tempting wares that lurked within the dark and tight-locked closets.
From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride's voice, as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some forgotten song, of which the burden ran-- `Ta--ran--tan--too, Throw the old shoe, And may the wedding be lucky!' which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and again, until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue, in silence, the occupation upon which he was engaged.
This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm-eaten wardrobe a quantity of frouzy garments, one by one; to subject each to a careful and minute inspection by holding it up against the light, and after folding it with great exactness, to lay it on one or other of two little heaps beside him. He never took two articles of clothing out together, but always brought them forth singly: and never failed to shut the wardrobe door, and turn the key, between each visit to its shelves.
`The snuff-coloured suit,' said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare coat. `Did I look well in snuff-colour? let me think.'
The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, for he folded the garment once more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to get down another: chirping while he did so-- `Young, loving, and fair, Oh what happiness there! The wedding is sure to be lucky!'
`They always put in "young,"' said old Arthur, `but songs are only written for the sake of rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor country-people sang, when I was a little boy. Though stop--young is quite right too--it means the bride--yes. He, he, he! It means the bride. Oh dear, that's good.
That's very good. And true besides--quite true!'
In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verse again, with increased expression, and a shake or two here and there. He then resumed his employment.
`The bottle-green,' said old Arthur; `the bottle-green was a famous suit to wear, and I bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker's, and there was--he, he, he!--a tarnished shilling in the waistcoat pocket. To think that the pawnbroker shouldn't have known there was a shilling in it! I knew it! I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle-green. The very day I put it on first, old Lord Mallowford was burnt to death in his bed, and all the postobits fell in. I'll be married in the bottle-green. Peg--Peg Sliderskew--I'll wear the bottle-green!'
This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room-door, brought into the apartment a short, thin, weasen, blear-eyed old woman, palsystricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping her shrivelled face upon her dirty apron, inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people commonly speak:--`Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets so bad, I never know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it must be one of you, because nothing else never stirs in the house.'
`Me, Peg--me,' said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to render the reply more intelligible.
`You, eh?' returned Peg. `And what do you want?'
`I'll be married in the bottle-green,' cried Arthur Gride.
`It's a deal too good to be married in, master,' rejoined Peg, after a short inspection of the suit. `Haven't you got anything worse than this?'
`Nothing that'll do,' replied old Arthur.
`Why not do?' retorted Peg. `Why don't you wear your every-day clothes, like a man--eh?'
`They an't becoming enough, Peg,' returned her master.
`Not what enough?' said Peg.
`Becoming.'
`Becoming what?' said Peg, sharply. `Not becoming too old to wear?'
Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper's deafness, as he roared in her ear:--`Not smart enough! I want to look as well as I can.'
`Look?' cried Peg. `If she's as handsome as you say she is, she won't look much at you, master, take your oath of that; and as to how you look yourself--pepper-and-salt, bottle-green, sky-blue, or tartan-plaid will make no difference in you.'
