‘What a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this confounded old cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every tinkle1 of which is enough to throw a strong man into blue convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh demmit,’—said Mr. Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he spoke2, on Ralph Nickleby’s scraper.
‘I didn’t hear the bell more than once,’ replied Newman.
‘Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,’ said Mr. Mantalini, ‘as deaf as a demnition post.’
Mr. Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making his way to the door of Ralph’s office with very little ceremony, when Newman interposed his body; and hinting that Mr. Nickleby was unwilling3 to be disturbed, inquired whether the client’s business was of a pressing nature.
‘It is most demnebly particular,’ said Mr. Mantalini. ‘It is to melt some scraps4 of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling5, demd mint sauce.’
Newman uttered a significant grunt7, and taking Mr. Mantalini’s proffered8 card, limped with it into his master’s office. As he thrust his head in at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed the thoughtful posture9 into which he had fallen after perusing10 his nephew’s letter, and that he seemed to have been reading it again, as he once more held it open in his hand. The glance was but momentary11, for Ralph, being disturbed, turned to demand the cause of the interruption.
As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and grasping Ralph’s horny hand with uncommon12 affection, vowed13 that he had never seen him looking so well in all his life.
‘There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance14,’ said Mr. Mantalini, seating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and whiskers. ‘You look quite juvenile15 and jolly, demmit!’
‘Good!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his teeth. ‘What did I want! Yes. Ha, ha! Very good. What did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!’
‘What do you want, man?’ demanded Ralph, sternly.
‘Money is scarce,’ said Ralph.
‘Demd scarce, or I shouldn’t want it,’ interrupted Mr. Mantalini.
‘The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,’ continued Ralph. ‘I don’t want to do business just now, in fact I would rather not; but as you are a friend—how many bills have you there?’
‘Two,’ returned Mr. Mantalini.
‘What is the gross amount?’
‘Demd trifling—five-and-seventy.’
‘And the dates?’
‘Two months, and four.’
‘I’ll do them for you—mind, for you; I wouldn’t for many people—for five-and-twenty pounds,’ said Ralph, deliberately19.
‘Why, that leaves you fifty,’ retorted Ralph. ‘What would you have? Let me see the names.’
‘You are so demd hard, Nickleby,’ remonstrated22 Mr. Mantalini.
‘Let me see the names,’ replied Ralph, impatiently extending his hand for the bills. ‘Well! They are not sure, but they are safe enough. Do you consent to the terms, and will you take the money? I don’t want you to do so. I would rather you didn’t.’
‘Demmit, Nickleby, can’t you—’ began Mr. Mantalini.
‘No,’ replied Ralph, interrupting him. ‘I can’t. Will you take the money—down, mind; no delay, no going into the city and pretending to negotiate with some other party who has no existence, and never had. Is it a bargain, or is it not?’
Ralph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, and carelessly rattled23 his cash-box, as though by mere24 accident. The sound was too much for Mr Mantalini. He closed the bargain directly it reached his ears, and Ralph told the money out upon the table.
He had scarcely done so, and Mr. Mantalini had not yet gathered it all up, when a ring was heard at the bell, and immediately afterwards Newman ushered26 in no less a person than Madame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr Mantalini evinced considerable discomposure, and swept the cash into his pocket with remarkable27 alacrity28.
‘Oh, you are here,’ said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.
‘Yes, my life and soul, I am,’ replied her husband, dropping on his knees, and pouncing29 with kitten-like playfulness upon a stray sovereign. ‘I am here, my soul’s delight, upon Tom Tiddler’s ground, picking up the demnition gold and silver.’
‘I am ashamed of you,’ said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.
‘Ashamed—of me, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charming sweetness, but naughty fibs,’ returned Mr. Mantalini. ‘It knows it is not ashamed of its own popolorum tibby.’
Whatever were the circumstances which had led to such a result, it certainly appeared as though the popolorum tibby had rather miscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady’s affection. Madame Mantalini only looked scornful in reply; and, turning to Ralph, begged him to excuse her intrusion.
‘Which is entirely30 attributable,’ said Madame, ‘to the gross misconduct and most improper32 behaviour of Mr. Mantalini.’
‘Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!’
‘Of you,’ returned his wife. ‘But I will not allow it. I will not submit to be ruined by the extravagance and profligacy33 of any man. I call Mr Nickleby to witness the course I intend to pursue with you.’
‘Pray don’t call me to witness anything, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Settle it between yourselves, settle it between yourselves.’
‘No, but I must beg you as a favour,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘to hear me give him notice of what it is my fixed34 intention to do—my fixed intention, sir,’ repeated Madame Mantalini, darting35 an angry look at her husband.
‘Will she call me “Sir”?’ cried Mantalini. ‘Me who dote upon her with the demdest ardour! She, who coils her fascinations36 round me like a pure angelic rattlesnake! It will be all up with my feelings; she will throw me into a demd state.’
‘Don’t talk of feelings, sir,’ rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating herself, and turning her back upon him. ‘You don’t consider mine.’
‘I do not consider yours, my soul!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.
‘No,’ replied his wife.
And notwithstanding various blandishments on the part of Mr. Mantalini, Madame Mantalini still said no, and said it too with such determined37 and resolute38 ill-temper, that Mr. Mantalini was clearly taken aback.
‘His extravagance, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini, addressing herself to Ralph, who leant against his easy-chair with his hands behind him, and regarded the amiable39 couple with a smile of the supremest and most unmitigated contempt,—‘his extravagance is beyond all bounds.’
‘I should scarcely have supposed it,’ answered Ralph, sarcastically40.
‘I assure you, Mr. Nickleby, however, that it is,’ returned Madame Mantalini. ‘It makes me miserable41! I am under constant apprehensions42, and in constant difficulty. And even this,’ said Madame Mantalini, wiping her eyes, ‘is not the worst. He took some papers of value out of my desk this morning without asking my permission.’
‘I am obliged,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘since our late misfortunes, to pay Miss Knag a great deal of money for having her name in the business, and I really cannot afford to encourage him in all his wastefulness45. As I have no doubt that he came straight here, Mr. Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of, into money, and as you have assisted us very often before, and are very much connected with us in this kind of matters, I wish you to know the determination at which his conduct has compelled me to arrive.’
Mr. Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife’s bonnet46, and fitting a sovereign into one of his eyes, winked47 with the other at Ralph. Having achieved this performance with great dexterity48, he whipped the coin into his pocket, and groaned again with increased penitence49.
‘I have made up my mind,’ said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of impatience50 manifested themselves in Ralph’s countenance, ‘to allowance him.’
‘To do that, my joy?’ inquired Mr. Mantalini, who did not seem to have caught the words.
‘To put him,’ said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, and prudently51 abstaining52 from the slightest glance at her husband, lest his many graces should induce her to falter53 in her resolution, ‘to put him upon a fixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundred and twenty pounds a year for his clothes and pocket-money, he may consider himself a very fortunate man.’
0457m
Original
Mr. Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amount of the proposed stipend54, but when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and cane55 upon the floor, and drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, gave vent18 to his feelings in a dismal56 moan.
‘Demnition!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, suddenly skipping out of his chair, and as suddenly skipping into it again, to the great discomposure of his lady’s nerves. ‘But no. It is a demd horrid57 dream. It is not reality. No!’
Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr. Mantalini closed his eyes and waited patiently till such time as he should wake up.
‘A very judicious58 arrangement,’ observed Ralph with a sneer59, ‘if your husband will keep within it, ma’am—as no doubt he will.’
‘Demmit!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini, opening his eyes at the sound of Ralph’s voice, ‘it is a horrid reality. She is sitting there before me. There is the graceful60 outline of her form; it cannot be mistaken—there is nothing like it. The two countesses had no outlines at all, and the dowager’s was a demd outline. Why is she so excruciatingly beautiful that I cannot be angry with her, even now?’
‘You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,’ returned Madame Mantalini—still reproachfully, but in a softened61 tone.
‘I am a demd villain62!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, smiting63 himself on the head. ‘I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign in halfpence and drown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angry with her, even then, for I will put a note in the twopenny-post as I go along, to tell her where the body is. She will be a lovely widow. I shall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.’
‘She calls me cruel—me—me—who for her sake will become a demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.
‘You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a thing,’ replied Madame Mantalini.
‘Can I live to be mistrusted?’ cried her husband. ‘Have I cut my heart into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them all away, one after another, to the same little engrossing65 demnition captivater, and can I live to be suspected by her? Demmit, no I can’t.’
‘Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,’ reasoned Madame Mantalini.
‘I don’t want any sum,’ replied her disconsolate66 husband; ‘I shall require no demd allowance. I will be a body.’
On this repetition of Mr. Mantalini’s fatal threat, Madame Mantalini wrung67 her hands, and implored68 the interference of Ralph Nickleby; and after a great quantity of tears and talking, and several attempts on the part of Mr. Mantalini to reach the door, preparatory to straightway committing violence upon himself, that gentleman was prevailed upon, with difficulty, to promise that he wouldn’t be a body. This great point attained69, Madame Mantalini argued the question of the allowance, and Mr. Mantalini did the same, taking occasion to show that he could live with uncommon satisfaction upon bread and water, and go clad in rags, but that he could not support existence with the additional burden of being mistrusted by the object of his most devoted70 and disinterested71 affection. This brought fresh tears into Madame Mantalini’s eyes, which having just begun to open to some few of the demerits of Mr. Mantalini, were only open a very little way, and could be easily closed again. The result was, that without quite giving up the allowance question, Madame Mantalini, postponed72 its further consideration; and Ralph saw, clearly enough, that Mr. Mantalini had gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and that, for some time longer at all events, his degradation73 and downfall were postponed.
‘But it will come soon enough,’ thought Ralph; ‘all love—bah! that I should use the cant6 of boys and girls—is fleeting74 enough; though that which has its sole root in the admiration75 of a whiskered face like that of yonder baboon76, perhaps lasts the longest, as it originates in the greater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime the fools bring grist to my mill, so let them live out their day, and the longer it is, the better.’
These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry77 small caresses78 and endearments79, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged between the objects of his thoughts.
‘If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr. Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘we will take our leaves. I am sure we have detained him much too long already.’
Mr. Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame Mantalini several times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words that he had nothing more to say.
‘Demmit! I have, though,’ he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph into a corner. ‘Here’s an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry. Such a demd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind of thing as never was—eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ralph.
‘Don’t you know, demmit?’ asked Mr. Mantalini.
‘I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last night, and severely80 injured, and that his life is in some danger,’ answered Ralph with great composure; ‘but I see nothing extraordinary in that—accidents are not miraculous81 events, when men live hard, and drive after dinner.’
‘Not unless it was as I have just supposed,’ replied Ralph, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, as if to give his questioner to understand that he had no curiosity upon the subject.
‘Demmit, you amaze me,’ cried Mantalini.
Ralph shrugged83 his shoulders again, as if it were no great feat84 to amaze Mr. Mantalini, and cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman Noggs, which had several times appeared behind a couple of panes85 of glass in the room door; it being a part of Newman’s duty, when unimportant people called, to make various feints of supposing that the bell had rung for him to show them out: by way of a gentle hint to such visitors that it was time to go.
‘Don’t you know,’ said Mr. Mantalini, taking Ralph by the button, ‘that it wasn’t an accident at all, but a demd, furious, manslaughtering attack made upon him by your nephew?’
‘Demmit, Nickleby, you’re as great a tiger as he is,’ said Mantalini, alarmed at these demonstrations88.
‘Go on,’ cried Ralph. ‘Tell me what you mean. What is this story? Who told you? Speak,’ growled89 Ralph. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘’Gad, Nickleby,’ said Mr. Mantalini, retreating towards his wife, ‘what a demneble fierce old evil genius you are! You’re enough to frighten the life and soul out of her little delicious wits—flying all at once into such a blazing, ravaging90, raging passion as never was, demmit!’
‘Pshaw,’ rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. ‘It is but manner.’
‘It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,’ said Mr Mantalini, picking up his cane.
Ralph affected91 to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr. Mantalini had derived92 his information.
‘From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,’ replied Mantalini. ‘Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.’
‘And what said he?’ asked Ralph, knitting his brows.
‘That it happened this way—that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse, fell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab, swore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon the horse’s back or hooked himself on to the horse’s tail; smashed his countenance, which is a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse, pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and—’
‘And was killed?’ interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. ‘Was he? Is he dead?’
Mantalini shook his head.
‘Ugh,’ said Ralph, turning away. ‘Then he has done nothing. Stay,’ he added, looking round again. ‘He broke a leg or an arm, or put his shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib31 or two? His neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and slow-healing injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.’
‘No,’ rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. ‘Unless he was dashed into such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn’t hurt, for he went off as quiet and comfortable as—as—as demnition,’ said Mr Mantalini, rather at a loss for a simile93.
‘And what,’ said Ralph, hesitating a little, ‘what was the cause of quarrel?’
‘You are the demdest, knowing hand,’ replied Mr. Mantalini, in an admiring tone, ‘the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox—oh dem!—to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed niece—the softest, sweetest, prettiest—’
‘Alfred!’ interposed Madame Mantalini.
‘She is always right,’ rejoined Mr. Mantalini soothingly94, ‘and when she says it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and when she walks along the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say, with envy, she has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say with rapture95, he has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be right and neither wrong, upon my life and soul—oh demmit!’
With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the purpose, Mr. Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph Nickleby, and drawing his lady’s arm through his, led her mincingly96 away.
‘So, so,’ muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; ‘this devil is loose again, and thwarting97 me, as he was born to do, at every turn. He told me once there should be a day of reckoning between us, sooner or later. I’ll make him a true prophet, for it shall surely come.’
‘Are you at home?’ asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.
‘No,’ replied Ralph, with equal abruptness98.
Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.
‘You’re quite sure you’re not at home, are you?’ said Newman.
‘He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may have heard your voice—that’s all,’ said Newman, rubbing his hands.
‘Who has?’ demanded Ralph, wrought100 by the intelligence he had just heard, and his clerk’s provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of irritation101.
The necessity of a reply was superseded102 by the unlooked-for entrance of a third party—the individual in question—who, bringing his one eye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph Nickleby, made a great many shambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with his hands on his knees, and his short black trousers drawn103 up so high in the legs by the exertion104 of seating himself, that they scarcely reached below the tops of his Wellington boots.
‘Why, this is a surprise!’ said Ralph, bending his gaze upon the visitor, and half smiling as he scrutinised him attentively105; ‘I should know your face, Mr. Squeers.’
‘Ah!’ replied that worthy106, ‘and you’d have know’d it better, sir, if it hadn’t been for all that I’ve been a-going through. Just lift that little boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and tell him to come in here, will you, my man?’ said Squeers, addressing himself to Newman. ‘Oh, he’s lifted his-self off. My son, sir, little Wackford. What do you think of him, sir, for a specimen107 of the Dotheboys Hall feeding? Ain’t he fit to bust108 out of his clothes, and start the seams, and make the very buttons fly off with his fatness? Here’s flesh!’ cried Squeers, turning the boy about, and indenting109 the plumpest parts of his figure with divers110 pokes111 and punches, to the great discomposure of his son and heir. ‘Here’s firmness, here’s solidness! Why you can hardly get up enough of him between your finger and thumb to pinch him anywheres.’
In however good condition Master Squeers might have been, he certainly did not present this remarkable compactness of person, for on his father’s closing his finger and thumb in illustration of his remark, he uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the most natural manner possible.
‘Well,’ remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, ‘I had him there; but that’s because we breakfasted early this morning, and he hasn’t had his lunch yet. Why you couldn’t shut a bit of him in a door, when he’s had his dinner. Look at them tears, sir,’ said Squeers, with a triumphant112 air, as Master Wackford wiped his eyes with the cuff113 of his jacket, ‘there’s oiliness!’
‘He looks well, indeed,’ returned Ralph, who, for some purposes of his own, seemed desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. ‘But how is Mrs Squeers, and how are you?’
‘Mrs. Squeers, sir,’ replied the proprietor114 of Dotheboys, ‘is as she always is—a mother to them lads, and a blessing115, and a comfort, and a joy to all them as knows her. One of our boys—gorging his-self with vittles, and then turning in; that’s their way—got a abscess on him last week. To see how she operated upon him with a pen-knife! Oh Lor!’ said Squeers, heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great many times, ‘what a member of society that woman is!’
Mr. Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarter of a minute, as if this allusion116 to his lady’s excellences117 had naturally led his mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waiting for him to say something.
‘Have you quite recovered that scoundrel’s attack?’ asked Ralph.
‘I’ve only just done it, if I’ve done it now,’ replied Squeers. ‘I was one blessed bruise118, sir,’ said Squeers, touching119 first the roots of his hair, and then the toes of his boots, ‘from here to there. Vinegar and brown paper, vinegar and brown paper, from morning to night. I suppose there was a matter of half a ream of brown paper stuck upon me, from first to last. As I laid all of a heap in our kitchen, plastered all over, you might have thought I was a large brown-paper parcel, chock full of nothing but groans120. Did I groan44 loud, Wackford, or did I groan soft?’ asked Mr Squeers, appealing to his son.
‘Loud,’ replied Wackford.
‘Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition, Wackford, or was they glad?’ asked Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental121 manner.
‘Gl—’
‘Eh?’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
‘Sorry,’ rejoined his son.
‘Oh!’ said Squeers, catching122 him a smart box on the ear. ‘Then take your hands out of your pockets, and don’t stammer123 when you’re asked a question. Hold your noise, sir, in a gentleman’s office, or I’ll run away from my family and never come back any more; and then what would become of all them precious and forlorn lads as would be let loose on the world, without their best friend at their elbers?’
‘Were you obliged to have medical attendance?’ inquired Ralph.
‘Ay, was I,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and a precious bill the medical attendant brought in too; but I paid it though.’
Ralph elevated his eyebrows124 in a manner which might be expressive125 of either sympathy or astonishment—just as the beholder126 was pleased to take it.
‘Yes, I paid it, every farthing,’ replied Squeers, who seemed to know the man he had to deal with, too well to suppose that any blinking of the question would induce him to subscribe127 towards the expenses; ‘I wasn’t out of pocket by it after all, either.’
‘No!’ said Ralph.
‘Not a halfpenny,’ replied Squeers. ‘The fact is, we have only one extra with our boys, and that is for doctors when required—and not then, unless we’re sure of our customers. Do you see?’
‘I understand,’ said Ralph.
‘Very good,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Then, after my bill was run up, we picked out five little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure pay) that had never had the scarlet128 fever, and we sent one to a cottage where they’d got it, and he took it, and then we put the four others to sleep with him, and they took it, and then the doctor came and attended ‘em once all round, and we divided my total among ‘em, and added it on to their little bills, and the parents paid it. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘And a good plan too,’ said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.
‘I believe you,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We always do it. Why, when Mrs. Squeers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the hooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged her expenses among ‘em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!’
Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest approach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr. Squeers had enjoyed the professional joke to his heart’s content, inquired what had brought him to town.
‘Some bothering law business,’ replied Squeers, scratching his head, ‘connected with an action, for what they call neglect of a boy. I don’t know what they would have. He had as good grazing, that boy had, as there is about us.’
Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.
‘Grazing,’ said Squeers, raising his voice, under the impression that as Ralph failed to comprehend him, he must be deaf. ‘When a boy gets weak and ill and don’t relish129 his meals, we give him a change of diet—turn him out, for an hour or so every day, into a neighbour’s turnip130 field, or sometimes, if it’s a delicate case, a turnip field and a piece of carrots alternately, and let him eat as many as he likes. There an’t better land in the country than this perwerse lad grazed on, and yet he goes and catches cold and indigestion and what not, and then his friends brings a lawsuit131 against me! Now, you’d hardly suppose,’ added Squeers, moving in his chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, ‘that people’s ingratitude132 would carry them quite as far as that; would you?’
‘A hard case, indeed,’ observed Ralph.
‘You don’t say more than the truth when you say that,’ replied Squeers. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a man going, as possesses the fondness for youth that I do. There’s youth to the amount of eight hundred pound a year at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I’d take sixteen hundred pound worth if I could get ‘em, and be as fond of every individual twenty pound among ‘em as nothing should equal it!’
‘Are you stopping at your old quarters?’ asked Ralph.
‘Yes, we are at the Saracen,’ replied Squeers, ‘and as it don’t want very long to the end of the half-year, we shall continney to stop there till I’ve collected the money, and some new boys too, I hope. I’ve brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and guardians133. I shall put him in the advertisement, this time. Look at that boy—himself a pupil. Why he’s a miracle of high feeding, that boy is!’
‘I should like to have a word with you,’ said Ralph, who had both spoken and listened mechanically for some time, and seemed to have been thinking.
‘As many words as you like, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Wackford, you go and play in the back office, and don’t move about too much or you’ll get thin, and that won’t do. You haven’t got such a thing as twopence, Mr. Nickleby, have you?’ said Squeers, rattling134 a bunch of keys in his coat pocket, and muttering something about its being all silver.
‘I—think I have,’ said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after much rummaging135 in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.
‘Thankee,’ said Squeers, bestowing136 it upon his son. ‘Here! You go and buy a tart—Mr. Nickleby’s man will show you where—and mind you buy a rich one. Pastry,’ added Squeers, closing the door on Master Wackford, ‘makes his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks that a healthy sign.’
With this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke137 it out, Mr Squeers moved his chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph Nickleby at no great distance off; and having planted it to his entire satisfaction, sat down.
‘Attend to me,’ said Ralph, bending forward a little.
Squeers nodded.
‘I am not to suppose,’ said Ralph, ‘that you are dolt138 enough to forgive or forget, very readily, the violence that was committed upon you, or the exposure which accompanied it?’
‘Devil a bit,’ replied Squeers, tartly.
‘Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you could get one?’ said Ralph.
‘Show me one, and try,’ rejoined Squeers.
‘Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?’ said Ralph, raising his eyes to the schoolmaster’s face.
‘N-n-no, I don’t know that,’ replied Squeers. ‘I thought that if it was in your power to make me, besides the trifle of money you sent, any compensation—’
‘Ah!’ cried Ralph, interrupting him. ‘You needn’t go on.’
After a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in contemplation, he again broke silence by asking:
‘Who is this boy that he took with him?’
Squeers stated his name.
‘Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable139 or rebellious140? Speak out, man,’ retorted Ralph.
‘Why, he wasn’t young,’ answered Squeers; ‘that is, not young for a boy, you know.’
‘That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?’ interrupted Ralph.
‘Well,’ returned Squeers, briskly, as if he felt relieved by the suggestion, ‘he might have been nigh twenty. He wouldn’t seem so old, though, to them as didn’t know him, for he was a little wanting here,’ touching his forehead; ‘nobody at home, you know, if you knocked ever so often.’
‘And you did knock pretty often, I dare say?’ muttered Ralph.
‘Pretty well,’ returned Squeers with a grin.
‘When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt of this trifle of money as you call it,’ said Ralph, ‘you told me his friends had deserted141 him long ago, and that you had not the faintest clue or trace to tell you who he was. Is that the truth?’
‘It is, worse luck!’ replied Squeers, becoming more and more easy and familiar in his manner, as Ralph pursued his inquiries142 with the less reserve. ‘It’s fourteen years ago, by the entry in my book, since a strange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and left him there; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in advance. He might have been five or six year old at that time—not more.’
‘What more do you know about him?’ demanded Ralph.
‘Devilish little, I’m sorry to say,’ replied Squeers. ‘The money was paid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He had given an address in London, had this chap; but when it came to the point, of course nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad out of—out of—’
‘Charity?’ suggested Ralph drily.
‘Charity, to be sure,’ returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, ‘and when he begins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoundrel of a Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the most vexatious and aggeravating part of the whole affair is,’ said Squeers, dropping his voice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph, ‘that some questions have been asked about him at last—not of me, but, in a roundabout kind of way, of people in our village. So, that just when I might have had all arrears143 paid up, perhaps, and perhaps—who knows? such things have happened in our business before—a present besides for putting him out to a farmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to disgrace his parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our boys are—damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don’t collar him in open day, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.’
‘We will both cry quits with him before long,’ said Ralph, laying his hand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.
‘Quits!’ echoed Squeers. ‘Ah! and I should like to leave a small balance in his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs. Squeers could catch hold of him. Bless her heart! She’d murder him, Mr. Nickleby—she would, as soon as eat her dinner.’
‘We will talk of this again,’ said Ralph. ‘I must have time to think of it. To wound him through his own affections and fancies—. If I could strike him through this boy—’
‘Strike him how you like, sir,’ interrupted Squeers, ‘only hit him hard enough, that’s all—and with that, I’ll say good-morning. Here!—just chuck that little boy’s hat off that corner peg144, and lift him off the stool will you?’
Bawling145 these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr. Squeers betook himself to the little back-office, and fitted on his child’s hat with parental146 anxiety, while Newman, with his pen behind his ear, sat, stiff and immovable, on his stool, regarding the father and son by turns with a broad stare.
‘He’s a fine boy, an’t he?’ said Squeers, throwing his head a little on one side, and falling back to the desk, the better to estimate the proportions of little Wackford.
‘Very,’ said Newman.
‘Pretty well swelled147 out, an’t he?’ pursued Squeers. ‘He has the fatness of twenty boys, he has.’
‘Ah!’ replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of Squeers, ‘he has;—the fatness of twenty!—more! He’s got it all. God help that others. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!’
Having uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon his desk and began to write with most marvellous rapidity.
‘Why, what does the man mean?’ cried Squeers, colouring. ‘Is he drunk?’
Newman made no reply.
‘Is he mad?’ said Squeers.
But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his own; so, Mr. Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk and mad; and, with this parting observation, he led his hopeful son away.
In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of a struggling and lingering regard for Kate, had his detestation of Nicholas augmented148. It might be, that to atone149 for the weakness of inclining to any one person, he held it necessary to hate some other more intensely than before; but such had been the course of his feelings. And now, to be defied and spurned150, to be held up to her in the worst and most repulsive151 colours, to know that she was taught to hate and despise him: to feel that there was infection in his touch, and taint152 in his companionship—to know all this, and to know that the mover of it all was that same boyish poor relation who had twitted him in their very first interview, and openly bearded and braved him since, wrought his quiet and stealthy malignity153 to such a pitch, that there was scarcely anything he would not have hazarded to gratify it, if he could have seen his way to some immediate25 retaliation154.
But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; and although he cast about all that day, and kept a corner of his brain working on the one anxious subject through all the round of schemes and business that came with it, night found him at last, still harping155 on the same theme, and still pursuing the same unprofitable reflections.
‘When my brother was such as he,’ said Ralph, ‘the first comparisons were drawn between us—always in my disfavour. he was open, liberal, gallant156, gay; I a crafty157 hunks of cold and stagnant158 blood, with no passion but love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst for gain. I recollected159 it well when I first saw this whipster; but I remember it better now.’
He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas’s letter into atoms; and as he spoke, he scattered160 it in a tiny shower about him.
‘Recollections like these,’ pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, ‘flock upon me—when I resign myself to them—in crowds, and from countless161 quarters. As a portion of the world affect to despise the power of money, I must try and show them what it is.’
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1
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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waggishly
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| adv.waggish（滑稽的，诙谐的）的变形 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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43
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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45
wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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47
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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48
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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49
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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50
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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51
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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52
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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53
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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54
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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55
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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56
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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57
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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58
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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59
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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60
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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61
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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62
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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63
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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64
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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65
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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66
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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67
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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68
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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70
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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71
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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72
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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74
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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75
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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76
baboon
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| n.狒狒 | |
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77
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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80
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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81
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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82
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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83
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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86
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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87
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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88
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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89
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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ravaging
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| 毁坏( ravage的现在分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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92
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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95
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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mincingly
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thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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98
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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99
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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100
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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101
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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102
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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105
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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106
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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107
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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108
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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109
indenting
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| n.成穴的v.切割…使呈锯齿状( indent的现在分词 )；缩进排版 | |
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110
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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111
pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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112
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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113
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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114
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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115
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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116
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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117
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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118
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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119
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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120
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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121
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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122
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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123
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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124
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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125
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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126
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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127
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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128
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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129
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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130
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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131
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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132
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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133
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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134
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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135
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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136
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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137
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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138
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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139
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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140
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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141
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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142
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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143
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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144
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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145
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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146
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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147
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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148
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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149
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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150
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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152
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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153
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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154
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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155
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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156
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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157
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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158
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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159
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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161
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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162
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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