Chapter 51

CHAPTER 51

The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a
successful Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not
admitted into their Confidence

In 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