Quite unconscious of the demonstrations1 of their amorous2 neighbour, or their effects upon the susceptible3 bosom4 of her mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity5 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 pang6 into her heart, she seemed to have passed into a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her step regained7 its elasticity8 and lightness, the colour which had forsaken9 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, ‘thoroughly11 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 inmates12.
‘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, screwdrivers13, and gimlets, morning, noon, and night.’
‘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 wring15 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 bustle16, 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, chattering17 tone, which was habitual18 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 squire19 all the way to the Strand20, 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 bonnet21, 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 gathering24 together of the little basket and the brown-paper parcel, during which proceedings25, ‘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 darted27 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 aforementioned, who lounged gracefully28 on his little shelf behind, smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, or gallop29, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient30 and advisable; this narrative31 may embrace the opportunity of ascertaining32 the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk33, 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 detailed34.
With a shattered limb, a body severely35 bruised36, a face disfigured by half-healed scars, and pallid37 from the exhaustion38 of recent pain and fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on the couch to which he was doomed39 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 monotonous40 murmurs41 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 Mentor42, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light of a lamp, such scraps43 of intelligence from a paper of the day, as were most likely to yield him interest or amusement.
‘Curse those hounds!’ said the invalid44, turning his head impatiently towards the adjoining room; ‘will nothing stop their infernal throats?’
Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation45, and stopped immediately: winking46 to each other as they did so, and filling their glasses to the brim, as some recompense for the deprivation47 of speech.
‘Damn!’ muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing48 impatiently in his bed. ‘Isn’t this mattress49 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 mere50 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 warily51 and coolly. His address and skill were more than twenty times a match for his adversary52, 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 forth53 his wasted arm and caught up the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse54 laugh, though considerably55 lowered in tone, that had resounded56 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 inconvenient57.
‘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 bribed58 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 motive59 with which they were dictated60, 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 subdued61 footstep on the stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat in hand, crept softly into the room, with his body bent62 forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed63 upon the face of his worthy64 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 humility65 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 averted66, was in extraordinary contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude, calmly looking on the prostrate67 form before him, all that part of his features which was not cast into shadow by his protruding68 and contracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic69 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 recoiled70 a step or two, and making as though he were irresistibly71 impelled72 to express astonishment73, but was determined74 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 soliciting76 admission to your chamber77. 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 hacks78 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 shrugged79 his shoulders in deprecation of the intense irritation80 with which this had been said; for there was an aggravating81, 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 renewal82; 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 inflicted83 such punishment on you as—’
‘Punishment!’ interposed Sir Mulberry.
‘I know it has been a severe one,’ said Ralph, wilfully84 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 kin23 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 interfere85.’
‘This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?’ asked Sir Mulberry, clenching86 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.’
‘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 ecstasy88 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 slit89 his nose and ears, flog him, maim90 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 tingled91 in his cheeks at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered, that, knave92 and usurer as he was, he must, in some early time of infancy93, 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 galling94 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 patron of the ring once, were you not?’
The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as one of acquiescence95.
‘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 jauntily96; looking for you, I swear,’ said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred97 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 kennel98 for the dogs to tear.’
As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented99 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. Croak100, 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 ferociously101 as before.
Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as this tirade102 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 alteration103. 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 emphatic10 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 vehemence104 than he had displayed before,
‘I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister is as virtuous105 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 manly106 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 confidential107 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 previously108 refreshed with just a sip109 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 mutual75 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 dread26 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 shrill110 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, shuddering111 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 tenacity112 of a bull-dog!
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One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified creature became utterly113 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 countenance114 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 fixedly115 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 faculties116 as the poor fellow possessed117, had utterly deserted118 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 meditate119 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 bantering120 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 attire121 which the care of Nicholas had provided for him; and wrung122 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 anatomy123 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 poking124 Smike in the chest with the ferrule of his umbrella, and dealing125 a smart shower of blows, with the ribs126 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 relish127, too!’
Poor Smike! He warded22 off the blows, as well as he could, and now shrunk into a corner of the coach, with his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on his knees; he was stunned128 and stupefied, and had no more idea that any act of his, would enable him to escape from the all-powerful 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 jolting129 on. At last Mr. Squeers began to thrust his head out of the widow every half-minute, and to bawl130 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 tugged131 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 shutters132. There’s brass133 plate on the door, with the name of Snawley.’
‘No!’ bawled135 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 sleek136 and sanctified gentleman who confided137 two sons (in law) to the parental138 care of Mr. Squeers, as narrated139 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 lodgings140 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 lobster141 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 repeating 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 runaway142.
‘It’s clear that there has been a Providence143 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.’
‘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 benefactor145, feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap’s classical, commercial, mathematical, philosophical146, 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 delightful147 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 curds148 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 cuffs149 could elicit150 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 consigned151, than utter one syllable152 which could involve his first and true friend. He had already called to mind the strict injunctions of secrecy153 as to his past life, which Nicholas had laid upon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused and perplexed154 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 apathy155 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 intimidation156 and persuasion157. Finding every effort useless, Mr. Squeers conducted him to a little back room up-stairs, 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 muster158 up sufficient energy to make an attempt at escape, that worthy gentleman left him to his meditations159.
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 misery160 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 rusted161 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 twilight162, preceding such a night of intellect as his.
There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but their welcome tones could not penetrate163 there; and he crept to bed the same listless, hopeless, blighted164 creature, that Nicholas had first found him at the Yorkshire school.
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1
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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2
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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3
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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5
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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6
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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7
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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8
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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9
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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10
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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11
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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12
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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13
screwdrivers
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| n.螺丝刀( screwdriver的名词复数 )；螺丝起子；改锥；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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14
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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16
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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17
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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18
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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19
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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20
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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21
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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22
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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23
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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24
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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25
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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26
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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27
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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28
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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29
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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30
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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31
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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32
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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33
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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34
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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35
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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36
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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37
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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38
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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39
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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40
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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41
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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42
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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43
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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44
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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45
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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46
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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47
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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48
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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49
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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50
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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52
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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55
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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56
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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57
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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58
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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59
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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60
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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61
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
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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64
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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65
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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66
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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67
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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68
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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69
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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70
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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71
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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72
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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76
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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77
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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78
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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79
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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81
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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82
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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83
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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85
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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86
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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87
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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88
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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89
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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90
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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91
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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93
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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94
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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95
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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96
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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97
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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98
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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99
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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101
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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102
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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103
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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104
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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105
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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106
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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107
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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108
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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109
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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110
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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111
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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112
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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113
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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114
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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115
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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116
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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117
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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118
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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119
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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120
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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121
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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122
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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123
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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124
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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125
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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126
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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127
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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128
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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130
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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131
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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133
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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134
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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135
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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136
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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137
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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138
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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139
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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141
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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142
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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143
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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144
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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145
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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146
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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147
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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148
curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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149
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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151
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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152
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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153
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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154
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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155
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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156
intimidation
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| n.恐吓，威胁 | |
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157
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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158
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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159
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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160
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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161
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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163
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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164
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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