Comprises certain particulars arising out of a visit of
condolence, which may prove important hereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a
very old friend, who invites him to his house, and will take no denial
QUITE UNCONSCIOUS of the demonstrations of their amorous neighbour, or their
effects upon the susceptible bosom of her mamma, Kate Nickleby had, by this
time, begun to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which,
even in occasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger. Living
under the same roof with the beloved brother from whom she had been so suddenly
and hardly separated: with a mind at ease, and free from any persecutions which
could call a blush into her cheek, or a pang into her heart: she seemed to have
passed into a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her step
regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had forsaken her cheek
visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more beautiful than ever.
Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy's ruminations and observations
led her, when the cottage had been, as she emphatically said, `thoroughly got to
rights, from the chimney-pots to the street-door scraper,' and the busy little
woman had at length a moment's time to think about its inmates.
`Which I declare I haven't had since I first came down here,' said Miss La
Creevy; `for I have thought of nothing but hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and
gimlets, morning, noon, and night.'
`You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,' returned Kate,
smiling.
`Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanter things to think of,
I should be a goose if I did,' said Miss La Creevy. `By-the-bye, I have thought
of somebody too. Do you know, that I observe a great change in one of this
family -- a very extraordinary change?'
`In whom?' asked Kate, anxiously. `Not in --'
`Not in your brother, my dear,' returned Miss La Creevy, anticipating the
close of the sentence, `for he is always the same affectionate good-natured
clever creature, with a spice of the -- I won't say who -- in him when there's
any occasion, that he was when I first knew you. No. Smike, as he will be
called, poor fellow! for he won't hear of a Mr before his name, is greatly
altered, even in this short time.'
`How?' asked Kate. `Not in health?'
`N--n--o; perhaps not in health exactly,' said Miss La Creevy, pausing to
consider, `although he is a worn and feeble creature, and has that in his face
which it would wring my heart to see in yours. No; not in health.'
`How then?'
`I scarcely know,' said the miniature painter. `But I have watched him, and
he has brought the tears into my eyes many times. It is not a very difficult
matter to do that, certainly, for I am easily melted; still I think these came
with good cause and reason. I am sure that since he has been here, he has grown,
from some strong cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He feels it more.
It gives him greater pain to know that he wanders sometimes, and cannot
understand very simple things. I have watched him when you have not been by, my
dear, sit brooding by himself, with such a look of pain as I could scarcely bear
to see, and then get up and leave the room: so sorrowfully, and in such
dejection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not three weeks ago, he
was a light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be in a bustle, and as happy as
the day was long. Now, he is another being -- the same willing, harmless,
faithful, loving creature -- but the same in nothing else.'
`Surely this will all pass off,' said Kate. `Poor fellow!'
`I hope,' returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusual in her, `it
may. I hope, for the sake of that poor lad, it may. However,' said Miss La
Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful, chattering tone, which was habitual to her,
`I have said my say, and a very long say it is, and a very wrong say too, I
shouldn't wonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for if he
is to be my squire all the way to the Strand, I shall talk on, and on, and on,
and never leave off, till I have roused him into a laugh at something. So the
sooner he goes, the better for him, and the sooner I go, the better for me, I am
sure, or else I shall have my maid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the
house -- though what there is to take away, besides tables and chairs, I don't
know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever thief who can dispose of them to
any great advantage, for I can't, I know, and that's the honest truth.'
So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flat bonnet, and
herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself tightly into the latter, by
means of a large pin, declared that the omnibus might come as soon as it
pleased, for she was quite ready.
But there was still Mrs Nickleby to take leave of; and long before that good
lady had concluded some reminiscences bearing upon, and appropriate to, the
occasion, the omnibus arrived. This put Miss La Creevy in a great bustle, in
consequence whereof, as she secretly rewarded the servant girl with
eighteen-pence behind the street-door, she pulled out of her reticule
ten-pennyworth of halfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the
passage, and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. This ceremony
had, of course, to be succeeded by a second kissing of Kate and Mrs Nickleby,
and a gathering together of the little basket and the brown-paper parcel, during
which proceedings, `the omnibus,' as Miss La Creevy protested, `swore so
dreadfully, that it was quite awful to hear it.' At length and at last, it made
a feint of going-away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, and darted in,
apologising with great volubility to all the passengers, and declaring that she
wouldn't purposely have kept them waiting on any account whatever. While she was
looking about for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried
that it was all right -- though it wasn't -- and away went the huge vehicle,
with the noise of half-a-dozen brewers' drays at least.
Leaving it to pursue its journey at the pleasure of the conductor
afore-mentioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind, smoking an
odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, or gallop, or crawl, as
that gentleman deemed expedient and advisable; this narrative may embrace the
opportunity of ascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to what
extent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuries consequent on being
flung violently from his cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.
With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfigured by
half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent pain and fever, Sir
Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on the couch to which he was doomed
to be a prisoner for some weeks yet to come. Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck sat drinking
hard in the next room, now and then varying the monotonous murmurs of their
conversation with a half-smothered laugh, while the young lord -- the only
member of the party who was not thoroughly irredeemable, and who really had a
kind heart -- sat beside his Mentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him,
by the light of a lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as
were most likely to yield him interest or amusement.
`Curse those hounds!' said the invalid, turning his head impatiently towards
the adjoining room; `will nothing stop their infernal throats?'
Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stopped immediately: winking
to each other as they did so, and filling their glasses to the brim, as some
recompense for the deprivation of speech.
`Damn!' muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing impatiently in
his bed. `Isn't this mattress hard enough, and the room dull enough, and pain
bad enough, but they must torture me? What's the time?'
`Half-past eight,' replied his friend.
`Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,' said Sir
Mulberry. `More piquet. Come.'
It was curious to see how eagerly the sick man, debarred from any change of
position save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched every
motion of his friend in the progress of the game; and with what eagerness and
interest he played, and yet how warily and coolly. His address and skill were
more than twenty times a match for his adversary, who could make little head
against them, even when fortune favoured him with good cards, which was not
often the case. Sir Mulberry won every game; and when his companion threw down
the cards, and refused to play any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and
caught up the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh, though
considerably lowered in tone, that had resounded in Ralph Nickleby's
dining-room, months before.
While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr Ralph
Nickleby was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.
`Better,' said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.
`Mr Nickleby wishes to know, sir --'
`I tell you, better,' replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon the table.
The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that Mr Nickleby had
requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it was not inconvenient.
`It is inconvenient. I can't see him. I can't see anybody,' said his master,
more violently than before. `You know that, you blockhead.'
`I am very sorry, sir,' returned the man. `But Mr Nickleby pressed so much,
sir --'
The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who, being anxious to
earn his money with a view to future favours, held the door in his hand, and
ventured to linger still.
`Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?' inquired Sir
Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.
`No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr Nickleby said,
sir.'
`Tell him to come up. Here,' cried Sir Mulberry, calling the man back, as he
passed his hand over his disfigured face, `move that lamp, and put it on the
stand behind me. Wheel that table away, and place a chair there -- further off.
Leave it so.'
The man obeyed these directions as if he quite comprehended the motive with
which they were dictated, and left the room. Lord Frederick Verisopht, remarking
that he would look in presently, strolled into the adjoining apartment, and
closed the folding door behind him.
Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat in
hand, crept softly into the room, with his body bent forward as if in profound
respect, and his eyes fixed upon the face of his worthy client.
`Well, Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chair by the couch
side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, `I have had a bad accident,
you see.'
`I see,' rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. `Bad, indeed! I should
not have known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This is bad.'
Ralph's manner was one of profound humility and respect; and the low tone of
voice was that, which the gentlest consideration for a sick man would have
taught a visitor to assume. But the expression of his face, Sir Mulberry's being
averted, was in extraordinary contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude,
calmly looking on the prostrate form before him, all that part of his features
which was not cast into shadow by his protruding and contracted brows, bore the
impress of a sarcastic smile.
`Sit down,' said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a violent
effort. `Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?'
As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and making as though he
were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but was determined not to do
so, sat down with well-acted confusion.
`I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,' said Ralph, `twice a
day, indeed, at first -- and tonight, presuming upon old acquaintance, and past
transactions by which we have mutually benefited in some degree, I could not
resist soliciting admission to your chamber. Have you -- have you suffered
much?' said Ralph, bending forward, and allowing the same harsh smile to gather
upon his face, as the other closed his eyes.
`More than enough to please me, and less than enough to please some
broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who lay their ruin between us, I
dare say,' returned Sir Mulberry, tossing his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intense irritation with
which this had been said; for there was an aggravating, cold distinctness in his
speech and manner which so grated on the sick man that he could scarcely endure
it.
`And what is it in these "past transactions," that brought you here tonight?'
asked Sir Mulberry.
`Nothing,' replied Ralph. `There are some bills of my lord's which need
renewal; but let them be till you are well. I -- I -- came,' said Ralph,
speaking more slowly, and with harsher emphasis, `I came to say how grieved I am
that any relative of mine, although disowned by me, should have inflicted such
punishment on you as --'
`Punishment!' interposed Sir Mulberry.
`I know it has been a severe one,' said Ralph, wilfully mistaking the meaning
of the interruption, `and that has made me the more anxious to tell you that I
disown this vagabond -- that I acknowledge him as no kin of mine -- and that I
leave him to take his deserts from you, and every man besides. You may wring his
neck if you please. I shall not interfere.'
`This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?' asked Sir
Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.
`Noised in all directions,' replied Ralph. `Every club and gaming-room has
rung with it. There has been a good song made about it, as I am told,' said
Ralph, looking eagerly at his questioner. `I have not heard it myself, not being
in the way of such things, but I have been told it's even printed -- for private
circulation -- but that's all over town, of course.'
`It's a lie!' said Sir Mulberry; `I tell you it's all a lie. The mare took
fright.'
`They say he frightened her,' observed Ralph, in the same unmoved and quiet
manner. `Some say he frightened you, but that's a lie, I know. I have said that
boldly -- oh, a score of times! I am a peaceable man, but I can't hear folks
tell that of you -- no, no.'
When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bent forward with his
hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its every line of sternness had been
cast in iron.
`When I am off this cursed bed,' said the invalid, actually striking at his
broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, `I'll have such revenge as never man
had yet. By God, I will. Accident favouring him, he has marked me for a week or
two, but I'll put a mark on him that he shall carry to his grave. I'll slit his
nose and ears -- flog him -- maim him for life. I'll do more than that; I'll
drag that pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate sister,
through --'
It might have been that even Ralph's cold blood tingled in his cheeks at that
moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered, that, knave and usurer
as he was, he must, in some early time of infancy, have twined his arm about her
father's neck. He stopped, and menacing with his hand, confirmed the unuttered
threat with a tremendous oath.
`It is a galling thing,' said Ralph, after a short term of silence, during
which he had eyed the sufferer keenly, `to think that the man about town, the
rake, the roue, the rook of twenty seasons should be brought to this pass by a
mere boy!'
Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph's eyes were bent upon
the ground, and his face wore no other expression than one of thoughtfulness.
`A raw, slight stripling,' continued Ralph, `against a man whose very weight
might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in -- I am right, I think,' said
Ralph, raising his eyes, `you were a parton of the ring once, were you not?'
The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as one
of acquiescence.
`Ha!' he said, `I thought so. That was before I knew you, but I was pretty
sure I couldn't be mistaken. He is light and active, I suppose. But those were
slight advantages compared with yours. Luck, luck -- these hang-dog outcasts
have it.'
`He'll need the most he has, when I am well again,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk,
`let him fly where he will.'
`Oh!' returned Ralph quickly, `he doesn't dream of that. He is here, good
sir, waiting your pleasure -- here in London, walking the streets at noonday;
carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, I swear,' said Ralph, his face
darkening, and his own hatred getting the upper hand of him, for the first time,
as this gay picture of Nicholas presented itself; `if we were only citizens of a
country where it could be safely done, I'd give good money to have him stabbed
to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs to tear.'
As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented this little
piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat preparatory to departing,
Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.
`Why what in the deyvle's name, Hawk, have you and Nickleby been talking
about?' said the young man. `I neyver heard such an insufferable riot. Croak,
croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has it all been about?'
`Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,' said Ralph, looking towards the
couch.
`Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has it,
Nickleby?'
`No, my Lord, no,' returned Ralph. `On that point we always agree. Sir
Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of --'
There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph to proceed; for Sir
Mulberry took up the theme, and vented his threats and oaths against Nicholas,
almost as ferociously as before.
Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as this tirade
proceeded, the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht, who at the commencement had
been twirling his whiskers with a most dandified and listless air, underwent a
complete alteration. He was still more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to
speak, the young lord angrily, and almost unaffectedly, requested never to have
the subject renewed in his presence.
`Mind that, Hawk!' he added, with unusual energy. `I never will be a party
to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon this young fellow.'
`Cowardly!' interrupted his friend.
`Ye-es,' said the other, turning full upon him. `If you had told him who you
were; if you had given him your card, and found out, afterwards, that his
station or character prevented your fighting him, it would have been bad enough
then; upon my soul it would have been bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong.
I did wrong too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to you
afterwards, was as much the consequence of accident as design, and more your
fault than his; and it shall not, with my knowledge, be cruelly visited upon him
-- it shall not indeed.'
With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, the young lord turned
upon his heel; but before he had reached the adjoining room he turned back
again, and said, with even greater vehemence than he had displayed before.
`I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister is as
virtuous and modest a young lady as she is a handsome one; and of the brother, I
say this, that he acted as her brother should, and in a manly and spirited
manner. And I only wish, with all my heart and soul, that any one of us came out
of this matter half as well as he does.'
So saying, Lord Frederick Verisopht walked out of the room, leaving Ralph
Nickleby and Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant astonishment.
`Is this your pupil?' asked Ralph, softly, `or has he come fresh from some
country parson?'
`Green fools take these fits sometimes,' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk, biting
his lip, and pointing to the door. `Leave him to me.'
Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; for they had
suddenly grown confidential again in this alarming surprise; and took his way
home, thoughtfully and slowly.
While these things were being said and done, and long before they were
concluded, the omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevy and her escort, and they had
arrived at her own door. Now, the good-nature of the little miniature painter
would by no means allow of Smike's walking back again, until he had been
previously refreshed with just a sip of something comfortable and a mixed
biscuit or so; and Smike, entertaining no objection either to the sip of
something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit, but, considering on the contrary
that they would be a very pleasant preparation for a walk to Bow, it fell out
that he delayed much longer than he originally intended, and that it was some
half-hour after dusk when he set forth on his journey home.
There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quite straight
before him, and he had walked into town with Nicholas, and back alone, almost
every day. So, Miss La Creevy and he shook hands with mutual confidence, and,
being charged with more kind remembrances to Mrs and Miss Nickleby, Smike
started off.
At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road to satisfy
his curiosity by having a look at Newgate. After staring up at the sombre walls,
from the opposite side of the way, with great care and dread for some minutes,
he turned back again into the old track, and walked briskly through the City;
stopping now and then to gaze in at the window of some particularly attractive
shop, then running for a little way, then stopping again, and so on, as any
other country lad might do.
He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller's window, wishing he
could take some of the beautiful trinkets home as a present, and imagining what
delight they would afford if he could, when the clocks struck three-quarters
past eight; roused by the sound, he hurried on at a very quick pace, and was
crossing the corner of a by-street when he felt himself violently brought to,
with a jerk so sudden that he was obliged to cling to a lamp-post to save
himself from falling. At the same moment, a small boy clung tight round his leg,
and a shrill cry of `Here he is, father! Hooray!' vibrated in his ears.
Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyes downward towards
the form from which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from head to foot, looked
round. Mr Squeers had hooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his
umbrella, and was hanging on at the other end with all his might and main. The
cry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who, regardless of all his kicks
and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of a bull-dog!
One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified creature
became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.
`Here's a go!' cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-over-hand down the
umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had got tight hold of the victim's
collar. `Here's a delicious go! Wackford, my boy, call up one of them coaches.'
`A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.
`Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the countenance
of Smike. `Damn the expense. Let's have him in a coach.'
`What's he been a doing of?' asked a labourer with a hod of bricks, against
whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers had backed, on the first jerk of the
umbrella.
`Everything!' replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in a sort
of rapturous trance. `Everything -- running away, sir -- joining in bloodthirsty
attacks upon his master -- there's nothing that's bad that he hasn't done. Oh,
what a delicious go is this here, good Lord!'
The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as the poor
fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him. The coach came up; Master Wackford
entered; Squeers pushed in his prize, and following close at his heels, pulled
up the glasses. The coachman mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving the
two bricklayers, and an old apple-woman, and a town-made little boy returning
from an evening school, who had been the only witnesses of the scene, to
meditate upon it at their leisure.
Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to the unfortunate Smike,
and, planting his hands firmly on his knees, looked at him for some five
minutes, when, seeming to recover from his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and
slapped his old pupil's face several times -- taking the right and left sides
alternately.
`It isn't a dream!' said Squeers. `That's real flesh and blood! I know the
feel of it!' and being quite assured of his good fortune by these experiments,
Mr Squeers administered a few boxes on the ear, lest the entertainments should
seem to partake of sameness, and laughed louder and longer at every one.
`Your mother will be fit to jump out of her skin, my boy, when she hears of
this,' said Squeers to his son.
`Oh, won't she though, father?' replied Master Wackford.
`To think,' said Squeers, `that you and me should be turning out of a street,
and come upon him at the very nick; and that I should have him tight, at only
one cast of the umbrella, as if I had hooked him with a grappling-iron -- Ha,
ha!'
`Didn't I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?' said little Wackford.
`You did; like a good 'un, my boy,' said Mr Squeers, patting his son's head,
`and you shall have the best button-over jacket and waistcoat that the next new
boy brings down, as a reward of merit -- mind that. You always keep on in the
same path, and do them things that you see your father do, and when you die
you'll go right slap to Heaven and no questions asked.'
Improving the occasion in these words, Mr Squeers patted his son's head
again, and then patted Smike's -- but harder; and inquired in a bantering tone
how he found himself by this time.
`I must go home,' replied Smike, looking wildly round.
`To be sure you must. You're about right there,' replied Mr Squeers. `You'll
go home very soon, you will. You'll find yourself at the peaceful village of
Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in something under a week's time, my young friend; and
the next time you get away from there, I give you leave to keep away. Where's
the clothes you run off in, you ungrateful robber?' said Mr Squeers, in a severe
voice.
Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas had provided for
him; and wrung his hands.
`Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the Old Bailey, for making
away with them articles of property?' said Squeers. `Do you know that it's a
hanging matter -- and I an't quite certain whether it an't an anatomy one
besides -- to walk off with up'ards of the valley of five pound from a
dwelling-house? Eh -- do you know that? What do you suppose was the worth of
them clothes you had? Do you know that that Wellington boot you wore, cost
eight-and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the shoe seven-and-six? But
you came to the right shop for mercy when you came to me, and thank your stars
that it is me as has got to serve you with the article.'
Anybody not in Mr Squeers's confidence would have supposed that he was quite
out of the article in question, instead of having a large stock on hand ready
for all comers; nor would the opinion of sceptical persons have undergone much
alteration when he followed up the remark by poking Smike in the chest with the
ferrule of his umbrella, and dealing a smart shower of blows, with the ribs of
the same instrument, upon his head and shoulders.
`I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,' said Mr Squeers, when he
stopped to rest. `There's inconveniency in it, but the novelty gives it a sort
of relish, too!'
Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, and now shrunk into
a corner of the coach, with his held resting on his hands, and his elbows on his
knees; he was stunned and stupefied, and had no more idea that any act of his,
would enable him to escape from the allpowerful Squeers, now that he had no
friend to speak to or to advise with, than he had had in all the weary years of
his Yorkshire life which preceded the arrival of Nicholas.
The journey seemed endless; street after street was entered and left behind;
and still they went jolting on. At last Mr Squeers began to thrust his head out
of the widow every half-minute, and to bawl a variety of directions to the
coachman; and after passing, with some difficulty, through several mean streets
which the appearance of the houses and the bad state of the road denoted to have
been recently built, Mr Squeers suddenly tugged at the check-string with all his
might, and cried, `Stop!'
`What are you pulling a man's arm off for?' said the coachman looking angrily
down.
`That's the house,' replied Squeers. `The second of them four little houses,
one story high, with the green shutters -- there's brass plate on the door, with
the name of Snawley.'
`Couldn't you say that without wrenching a man's limbs off his body?'
inquired the coachman.
`No!' bawled Mr Squeers. `Say another word, and I'll summons you for having a
broken winder. Stop!'
Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr Snawley's door. Mr
Snawley may be remembered as the sleek and sanctified gentleman who confided two
sons (in law) to the parental care of Mr Squeers, as narrated in the fourth
chapter of this history. Mr Snawley's house was on the extreme borders of some
new settlements adjoining Somers Town, and Mr Squeers had taken lodgings therein
for a short time, as his stay was longer than usual, and the Saracen, having
experience of Master Wackford's appetite, had declined to receive him on any
other terms than as a full-grown customer.
`Here we are!' said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour, where Mr
Snawley and his wife were taking a lobster supper. `Here's the vagrant -- the
felon -- the rebel -- the monster of unthankfulness.'
`What! The boy that run away!' cried Snawley, resting his knife and fork
upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their full width.
`The very boy', said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike's nose, and
drawing it away again, and repenting the process several times, with a vicious
aspect. `If there wasn't a lady present, I'd fetch him such a -- never mind,
I'll owe it him.'
And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and where, he
had picked up the runaway.
`It's clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,' said Mr Snawley,
casting down his eyes with an air of humility, and elevating his fork) with a
bit of lobster on the top of it, towards the ceiling.
`Providence is against him, no doubt,' replied Mr Squeers, scratching his
nose. `Of course; that was to be expected. Anybody might have known that.'
`Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,' said Mr Snawley.
`Never was such a thing known,' rejoined Squeers, taking a little roll of
notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were all safe.
`I have been, Mr Snawley,' said Mr Squeers, when he had satisfied himself
upon this point, `I have been that chap's benefactor, feeder, teacher, and
clother. I have been that chap's classical, commercial, mathematical,
philosophical, and trigonomical friend. My son -- my only son, Wackford -- has
been his brother; Mrs Squeers has been his mother, grandmother, aunt, -- ah! and
I may say uncle too, all in one. She never cottoned to anybody, except them two
engaging and delightful boys of yours, as she cottoned to this chap. What's my
return? What's come of my milk of human kindness? It turns into curds and whey
when I look at him.'
`Well it may, sir,' said Mrs Snawley. `Oh! Well it may, sir.'
`Where has he been all this time?' inquired Snawley. `Has he been living with
--?'
`Ah, sir!' interposed Squeers, confronting him again. `Have you been a living
with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?'
But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word of reply to this
question; for he had internally resolved that he would rather perish in the
wretched prison to which he was again about to be consigned, than utter one
syllable which could involve his first and true friend. He had already called to
mind the strict injunctions of secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had
laid upon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused and perplexed
idea that his benefactor might have committed some terrible crime in bringing
him away, which would render him liable to heavy punishment if detected, had
contributed, in some degree, to reduce him to his present state of apathy and
terror.
Such were the thoughts -- if to visions so imperfect and undefined as those
which wandered through his enfeebled brain, the term can be applied -- which
were present to the mind of Smike, and rendered him deaf alike to intimidation
and persuasion. Finding every effort useless, Mr Squeers conducted him to a
little back-room upstairs, where he was to pass the night; and, taking the
precaution of removing his shoes, and coat and waistcoat, and also of locking
the door on the outside, lest he should muster up sufficient energy to make an
attempt at escape, that worthy gentleman left him to his meditations.
What those meditations were, and how the poor creature's heart sunk within
him when he thought -- when did he, for a moment, cease to think? -- of his late
home, and the dear friends and familiar faces with which it was associated,
cannot be told. To prepare the mind for such a heavy sleep, its growth must be
stopped by rigour and cruelty in childhood; there must be years of misery and
suffering, lightened by no ray of hope; the chords of the heart, which beat a
quick response to the voice of gentleness and affection, must have rusted and
broken in their secret places, and bear the lingering echo of no old word of
love or kindness. Gloomy, indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the
long, long twilight, preceding such a night of intellect as his.
There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but their welcome
tones could not penetrate there; and he crept to bed the same listless,
hopeless, blighted creature, that Nicholas had first found him at the Yorkshire
school.
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