Chapter 38

Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visitof Condolence, which may prove importanthereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a veryold Friend, who invites him to his House, and willtake no Denial.

　　Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorousneighbour, or their effects upon the susceptible bosom ofher mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoya settled feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which, even inoccasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger.

　　Living under the same roof with the beloved brother from whomshe had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with a mind atease, and free from any persecutions which could call a blush intoher cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passedinto a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored,her step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which hadforsaken her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby lookedmore beautiful than ever.

　　Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy’s ruminations andobservations led her, when the cottage had been, as sheemphatically said, ‘thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-potsto the street-door scraper,’ and the busy little woman had at lengtha moment’s time to think about its inmates.

　　‘Which I declare I haven’t had since I first came down here,’

　　 said Miss La Creevy; ‘for I have thought of nothing but hammers,nails, screwdrivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and night.’

　　‘You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,’

　　returned Kate, smiling.

　　‘Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanterthings 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 Iobserve a great change in one of this family—a very extraordinarychange?’

　　‘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 sameaffectionate good-natured clever creature, with a spice of the—Iwon’t say who—in him when there’s any occasion, that he waswhen 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, evenin this short time.’

　　‘How?’ asked Kate. ‘Not in health?’

　　‘N-n-o; perhaps not in health exactly,’ said Miss La Creevy,pausing to consider, ‘although he is a worn and feeble creature,and has that in his face which it would wring my heart to see inyours. No; not in health.’

　　‘How then?’

　　‘I scarcely know,’ said the miniature painter. ‘But I havewatched him, and he has brought the tears into my eyes manytimes. It is not a very difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I ameasily melted; still I think these came with good cause and reason.

　　I am sure that since he has been here, he has grown, from somestrong cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know that he wanderssometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I havewatched him when you have not been by, my dear, sit brooding byhimself, 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 suchdejection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not threeweeks ago, he was a light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be ina bustle, and as happy as the day was long. Now, he is anotherbeing—the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving creature—butthe same in nothing else.’

　　‘Surely this will all pass off,’ said Kate. ‘Poor fellow!’

　　‘I hope,’ returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusualin her, ‘it may. I hope, for the sake of that poor lad, it may.

　　However,’ said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful,chattering tone, which was habitual to her, ‘I have said my say,and a very long say it is, and a very wrong say too, I shouldn’twonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for if he isto be my squire all the way to the Strand, I shall talk on, and on,and on, and never leave off, till I have roused him into a laugh atsomething. So the sooner he goes, the better for him, and thesooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I shall have mymaid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the house—thoughwhat 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 ofthem to any great advantage, for I can’t, I know, and that’s thehonest truth.’

　　So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flatbonnet, and herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself tightlyinto 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 longbefore that good lady had concluded some reminiscences bearingupon, and appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus arrived. Thisput Miss La Creevy in a great bustle, in consequence whereof, asshe secretly rewarded the servant girl with eighteen-pence behindthe street-door, she pulled out of her reticule ten-pennyworth ofhalfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the passage,and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. Thisceremony had, of course, to be succeeded by a second kissing ofKate and Mrs Nickleby, and a gathering together of the littlebasket and the brown-paper parcel, during which proceedings,‘the omnibus,’ as Miss La Creevy protested, ‘swore so dreadfully,that it was quite awful to hear it.’ At length and at last, it made afeint of going away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, anddarted in, apologising with great volubility to all the passengers,and declaring that she wouldn’t purposely have kept them waitingon any account whatever. While she was looking about for aconvenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried that itwas 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 conductoraforementioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind,smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, orgallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient andadvisable; this narrative may embrace the opportunity ofascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to whatextent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuriesconsequent on being flung violently from his cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.

　　With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfiguredby half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent painand fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on thecouch to which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeksyet to come. Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck sat drinking hard in the nextroom, now and then varying the monotonous murmurs of theirconversation with a half-smothered laugh, while the young lord—the only member of the party who was not thoroughlyirredeemable, and who really had a kind heart—sat beside hisMentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light ofa lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as weremost likely to yield him interest or amusement.

　　‘Curse those hounds!’ said the invalid, turning his headimpatiently towards the adjoining room; ‘will nothing stop theirinfernal throats?’

　　Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stoppedimmediately: winking to each other as they did so, and filling theirglasses to the brim, as some recompense for the deprivation ofspeech.

　　‘Damn!’ muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhingimpatiently in his bed. ‘Isn’t this mattress hard enough, and theroom dull enough, and pain bad enough, but they must tortureme? 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 fromany change of position save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched every motion of his friend in the progress of thegame; and with what eagerness and interest he played, and yethow warily and coolly. His address and skill were more thantwenty times a match for his adversary, who could make littlehead against them, even when fortune favoured him with goodcards, which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won everygame; and when his companion threw down the cards, andrefused to play any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and caughtup the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh,though considerably lowered in tone, that had resounded in RalphNickleby’s dining-room, months before.

　　While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announcethat Mr Ralph Nickleby was below, and wished to know how hewas, tonight.

　　‘Better,’ said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.

　　‘Mr Nickleby wishes to know, sir—’

　　‘I tell you, better,’ replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand uponthe table.

　　The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that MrNickleby had requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if itwas not inconvenient.

　　‘It is inconvenient. I can’t see him. I can’t see anybody,’ said hismaster, more violently than before. ‘You know that, youblockhead.’

　　‘I am very sorry, sir,’ returned the man. ‘But Mr Nicklebypressed so much, sir—’

　　The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who,being anxious to earn his money with a view to future favours,held the door in his hand, and ventured to linger still.

　　 ‘Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?’

　　inquired Sir Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.

　　‘No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, MrNickleby said, sir.’

　　‘Tell him to come up. Here,’ cried Sir Mulberry, calling the manback, as he passed his hand over his disfigured face, ‘move thatlamp, 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 comprehendedthe motive with which they were dictated, and left the room. LordFrederick Verisopht, remarking that he would look in presently,strolled into the adjoining apartment, and closed the folding doorbehind him.

　　Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and RalphNickleby, hat in hand, crept softly into the room, with his bodybent forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed upon theface of his worthy client.

　　‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chairby the couch side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, ‘Ihave 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 ISbad.’

　　Ralph’s manner was one of profound humility and respect; andthe low tone of voice was that, which the gentlest consideration fora sick man would have taught a visitor to assume. But theexpression of his face, Sir Mulberry’s being averted, was inextraordinary contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude,calmly looking on the prostrate form before him, all that part of his features which was not cast into shadow by his protruding andcontracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic smile.

　　‘Sit down,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as thoughby a violent effort. ‘Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?’

　　As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and makingas though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment,but was determined not to do so, sat down with well-actedconfusion.

　　‘I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,’ saidRalph, ‘twice a day, indeed, at first—and tonight, presuming uponold acquaintance, and past transactions by which we havemutually benefited in some degree, I could not resist solicitingadmission to your chamber. Have you—have you suffered much?’

　　said Ralph, bending forward, and allowing the same harsh smile togather upon his face, as the other closed his eyes.

　　‘More than enough to please me, and less than enough to pleasesome broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who laytheir ruin between us, I dare say,’ returned Sir Mulberry, tossinghis arm restlessly upon the coverlet.

　　Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intenseirritation with which this had been said; for there was anaggravating, cold distinctness in his speech and manner which sograted on the sick man that he could scarcely endure it.

　　‘And what is it in these “past transactions,” that brought youhere tonight?’ asked Sir Mulberry.

　　‘Nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘There are some bills of my lord’swhich need renewal; but let them be till you are well. I—I—came,’

　　said Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher emphasis, ‘Icame to say how grieved I am that any relative of mine, although disowned by me, should have inflicted such punishment on youas—’

　　‘Punishment!’ interposed Sir Mulberry.

　　‘I know it has been a severe one,’ said Ralph, wilfully mistakingthe meaning of the interruption, ‘and that has made me the moreanxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond—that Iacknowledge him as no kin of mine—and that I leave him to takehis deserts from you, and every man besides. You may wring hisneck if you please. I shall not interfere.’

　　‘This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?’

　　asked Sir Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.

　　‘Noised in all directions,’ replied Ralph. ‘Every club andgaming-room has rung with it. There has been a good song madeabout it, as I am told,’ said Ralph, looking eagerly at hisquestioner. ‘I have not heard it myself, not being in the way ofsuch things, but I have been told it’s even printed—for privatecirculation—but that’s all over town, of course.’

　　‘It’s a lie!’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘I tell you it’s all a lie. The maretook fright.’

　　‘They say he frightened her,’ observed Ralph, in the sameunmoved and quiet manner. ‘Some say he frightened you, butthat’s a lie, I know. I have said that boldly—oh, a score of times! Iam a peaceable man, but I can’t hear folks tell that of you. No, no.’

　　When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bentforward with his hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its everyline of sternness had been cast in iron.

　　‘When I am off this cursed bed,’ said the invalid, actuallystriking at his broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, ‘I’ll havesuch 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 amark on him that he shall carry to his grave. I’ll slit his nose andears, flog him, maim him for life. I’ll do more than that; I’ll dragthat pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate sister,through—’

　　It might have been that even Ralph’s cold blood tingled in hischeeks at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberryremembered, that, knave and usurer as he was, he must, in someearly time of infancy, have twined his arm about her father’s neck.

　　He stopped, and menacing with his hand, confirmed the unutteredthreat with a tremendous oath.

　　‘It is a galling thing,’ said Ralph, after a short term of silence,during which he had eyed the sufferer keenly, ‘to think that theman about town, the rake, the roué, the rook of twenty seasonsshould be brought to this pass by a mere boy!’

　　Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph’s eyeswere bent upon the ground, and his face wore no other expressionthan one of thoughtfulness.

　　‘A raw, slight stripling,’ continued Ralph, ‘against a man whosevery weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in—I amright, I think,’ said Ralph, raising his eyes, ‘you were a patron ofthe ring once, were you not?’

　　The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose toconsider as one of acquiescence.

　　‘Ha!’ he said, ‘I thought so. That was before I knew you, but Iwas pretty sure I couldn’t be mistaken. He is light and active, Isuppose. 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 ishere, good sir, waiting your pleasure, here in London, walking thestreets at noonday; carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, Iswear,’ said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred gettingthe upper hand of him, for the first time, as this gay picture ofNicholas presented itself; ‘if we were only citizens of a countrywhere it could be safely done, I’d give good money to have himstabbed to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs totear.’

　　As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented thislittle piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat preparatoryto departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.

　　‘Why what in the deyvle’s name, Hawk, have you and Nicklebybeen talking about?’ said the young man. ‘I neyver heard such aninsufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has itall been about?’

　　‘Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,’ said Ralph, lookingtowards 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 alwaysagree. Sir Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of—’

　　There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph toproceed; for Sir Mulberry took up the theme, and vented histhreats and oaths against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.

　　Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see thatas this tirade proceeded, the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht,who at the commencement had been twirling his whiskers with a most dandified and listless air, underwent a complete alteration.

　　He was still more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to speak,the young lord angrily, and almost unaffectedly, requested neverto have the subject renewed in his presence.

　　‘Mind that, Hawk!’ he added, with unusual energy. ‘I never willbe a party to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon thisyoung fellow.’

　　‘Cowardly!’ interrupted his friend.

　　‘Ye-es,’ said the other, turning full upon him. ‘If you had toldhim who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out,afterwards, that his station or character prevented your fightinghim, it would have been bad enough then; upon my soul it wouldhave been bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did wrongtoo, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to youafterwards, was as much the consequence of accident as design,and more your fault than his; and it shall not, with my knowledge,be cruelly visited upon him, it shall not indeed.’

　　With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, theyoung lord turned upon his heel; but before he had reached theadjoining room he turned back again, and said, with even greatervehemence than he had displayed before,‘I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sisteris as virtuous and modest a young lady as she is a handsome one;and of the brother, I say this, that he acted as her brother should,and in a manly and spirited manner. And I only wish, with all myheart and soul, that any one of us came out of this matter half aswell 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 freshfrom some country parson?’

　　‘Green fools take these fits sometimes,’ replied Sir MulberryHawk, biting his lip, and pointing to the door. ‘Leave him to me.’

　　Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; forthey had suddenly grown confidential again in this alarmingsurprise; and took his way home, thoughtfully and slowly.

　　While these things were being said and done, and long beforethey were concluded, the omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevyand her escort, and they had arrived at her own door. Now, thegood-nature of the little miniature painter would by no meansallow of Smike’s walking back again, until he had been previouslyrefreshed with just a sip of something comfortable and a mixedbiscuit or so; and Smike, entertaining no objection either to the sipof something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit, but, consideringon the contrary that they would be a very pleasant preparation fora walk to Bow, it fell out that he delayed much longer than heoriginally intended, and that it was some half-hour after duskwhen he set forth on his journey home.

　　There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quitestraight before him, and he had walked into town with Nicholas,and back alone, almost every day. So, Miss La Creevy and heshook hands with mutual confidence, and, being charged withmore kind remembrances to Mrs and Miss Nickleby, Smikestarted off.

　　At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road tosatisfy his curiosity by having a look at Newgate. After staring upat the sombre walls, from the opposite side of the way, with great care and dread for some minutes, he turned back again into theold track, and walked briskly through the city; stopping now andthen to gaze in at the window of some particularly attractive shop,then running for a little way, then stopping again, and so on, asany other country lad might do.

　　He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller’swindow, wishing he could take some of the beautiful trinketshome as a present, and imagining what delight they would affordif he could, when the clocks struck three-quarters past eight;roused by the sound, he hurried on at a very quick pace, and wascrossing the corner of a by-street when he felt himself violentlybrought to, with a jerk so sudden that he was obliged to cling to alamp-post to save himself from falling. At the same moment, asmall boy clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of ‘Here he is,father! Hooray!’ vibrated in his ears.

　　Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyesdownward towards the form from which it had proceeded, and,shuddering from head to foot, looked round. Mr Squeers hadhooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his umbrella, andwas hanging on at the other end with all his might and main. Thecry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who, regardlessof all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of abull-dog!

　　One glance showed him this; and in that one glance theterrified creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter asound.

　　‘Here’s a go!’ cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-overhand down the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had gottight 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 thecountenance of Smike. ‘Damn the expense. Let’s have him in acoach.’

　　‘What’s he been a doing of?’ asked a labourer with a hod ofbricks, against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers hadbacked, on the first jerk of the umbrella.

　　‘Everything!’ replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his oldpupil in a sort of rapturous trance. ‘Everything—running away,sir—joining in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master—there’snothing that’s bad that he hasn’t done. Oh, what a delicious go isthis here, good Lord!’

　　The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mentalfaculties as the poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him.

　　The coach came up; Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed inhis prize, and following close at his heels, pulled up the glasses.

　　The coachman mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving thetwo bricklayers, and an old apple-woman, and a town-made littleboy returning from an evening school, who had been the onlywitnesses of the scene, to meditate upon it at their leisure.

　　Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to theunfortunate Smike, and, planting his hands firmly on his knees,looked at him for some five minutes, when, seeming to recoverfrom his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and slapped his oldpupil’s face several times—taking the right and left sidesalternately.

　　‘It isn’t a dream!’ said Squeers. ‘That’s real flesh and blood! Iknow the feel of it!’ and being quite assured of his good fortune by these experiments, Mr Squeers administered a few boxes on theear, 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, whenshe 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 outof a street, and come upon him at the very nick; and that I shouldhave him tight, at only one cast of the umbrella, as if I had hookedhim with a grappling-iron! Ha, ha!’

　　‘Didn’t I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?’ said littleWackford.

　　‘You did; like a good ’un, my boy,’ said Mr Squeers, patting hisson’s head, ‘and you shall have the best button-over jacket andwaistcoat that the next new boy brings down, as a reward of merit.

　　Mind that. You always keep on in the same path, and do themthings that you see your father do, and when you die you’ll goright slap to Heaven and no questions asked.’

　　Improving the occasion in these words, Mr Squeers patted hisson’s head again, and then patted Smike’s—but harder; andinquired in a bantering tone how he found himself by this time.

　　‘I must go home,’ replied Smike, looking wildly round.

　　‘To be sure you must. You’re about right there,’ replied MrSqueers. ‘You’ll go home very soon, you will. You’ll find yourself atthe peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in somethingunder a week’s time, my young friend; and the next time you getaway from there, I give you leave to keep away. Where’s theclothes you run off in, you ungrateful robber?’ said Mr Squeers, ina severe voice.

　　 Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas hadprovided for him; and wrung his hands.

　　‘Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the OldBailey, for making away with them articles of property?’ saidSqueers. ‘Do you know that it’s a hanging matter—and I an’t quitecertain whether it an’t an anatomy one besides—to walk off withup’ards of the valley of five pound from a dwelling-house? Eh? Doyou know that? What do you suppose was the worth of themclothes you had? Do you know that that Wellington boot you wore,cost eight-and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the shoeseven-and-six? But you came to the right shop for mercy whenyou came to me, and thank your stars that it IS me as has got toserve you with the article.’

　　Anybody not in Mr Squeers’s confidence would have supposedthat he was quite out of the article in question, instead of having alarge stock on hand ready for all comers; nor would the opinion ofsceptical persons have undergone much alteration when hefollowed up the remark by poking Smike in the chest with theferrule of his umbrella, and dealing a smart shower of blows, withthe ribs of the same instrument, upon his head and shoulders.

　　‘I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,’ said MrSqueers, when he stopped to rest. ‘There’s inconveniency in it, butthe novelty gives it a sort of relish, too!’

　　Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, andnow shrunk into a corner of the coach, with his head resting on hishands, and his elbows on his knees; he was stunned and stupefied,and had no more idea that any act of his, would enable him toescape from the all-powerful Squeers, now that he had no friend tospeak 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 andleft behind; and still they went jolting on. At last Mr Squeersbegan to thrust his head out of the widow every half-minute, andto bawl a variety of directions to the coachman; and after passing,with some difficulty, through several mean streets which theappearance of the houses and the bad state of the road denoted tohave been recently built, Mr Squeers suddenly tugged at thecheck string with all his might, and cried, ‘Stop!’

　　‘What are you pulling a man’s arm off for?’ said the coachmanlooking angrily down.

　　‘That’s the house,’ replied Squeers. ‘The second of them fourlittle houses, one story high, with the green shutters. There’s brassplate on the door, with the name of Snawley.’

　　‘Couldn’t you say that without wrenching a man’s limbs off hisbody?’ inquired the coachman.

　　‘No!’ bawled Mr Squeers. ‘Say another word, and I’ll summonsyou for having a broken winder. Stop!’

　　Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr Snawley’sdoor. Mr Snawley may be remembered as the sleek and sanctifiedgentleman who confided two sons (in law) to the parental care ofMr Squeers, as narrated in the fourth chapter of this history. MrSnawley’s house was on the extreme borders of some newsettlements adjoining Somers Town, and Mr Squeers had takenlodgings therein for a short time, as his stay was longer than usual,and the Saracen, having experience of Master Wackford’sappetite, had declined to receive him on any other terms than as afull-grown customer.

　　‘Here we are!’ said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour, where Mr Snawley and his wife were taking a lobstersupper. ‘Here’s the vagrant—the felon—the rebel—the monster ofunthankfulness.’

　　‘What! The boy that run away!’ cried Snawley, resting his knifeand fork upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their fullwidth.

　　‘The very boy’, said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike’snose, and drawing it away again, and repeating the process severaltimes, with a vicious aspect. ‘If there wasn’t a lady present, I’dfetch him such a—: never mind, I’ll owe it him.’

　　And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, andwhen and where, he had picked up the runaway.

　　‘It’s clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,’ said MrSnawley, casting down his eyes with an air of humility, andelevating his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards theceiling.

　　‘Providence is against him, no doubt,’ replied Mr Squeers,scratching his nose. ‘Of course; that was to be expected. Anybodymight have known that.’

　　‘Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,’ saidMr Snawley.

　　‘Never was such a thing known,’ rejoined Squeers, taking alittle roll of notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were allsafe.

　　‘I have been, Mr Snawley,’ said Mr Squeers, when he hadsatisfied himself upon this point, ‘I have been that chap’sbenefactor, feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap’sclassical, commercial, mathematical, philosophical, andtrigonomical 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 cottonedto anybody, except them two engaging and delightful boys ofyours, as she cottoned to this chap. What’s my return? What’scome of my milk of human kindness? It turns into curds and wheywhen 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 hebeen living with—?’

　　‘Ah, sir!’ interposed Squeers, confronting him again. ‘Have youbeen a living with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?’

　　But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word ofreply to this question; for he had internally resolved that he wouldrather perish in the wretched prison to which he was again aboutto be consigned, than utter one syllable which could involve hisfirst and true friend. He had already called to mind the strictinjunctions of secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had laidupon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused andperplexed idea that his benefactor might have committed someterrible crime in bringing him away, which would render himliable to heavy punishment if detected, had contributed, in somedegree, to reduce him to his present state of apathy and terror.

　　Such were the thoughts—if to visions so imperfect andundefined as those which wandered through his enfeebled brain,the term can be applied—which were present to the mind ofSmike, and rendered him deaf alike to intimidation andpersuasion. Finding every effort useless, Mr Squeers conductedhim 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 heshould muster up sufficient energy to make an attempt at escape,that worthy gentleman left him to his meditations.

　　What those meditations were, and how the poor creature’sheart sunk within him when he thought—when did he, for amoment, cease to think?—of his late home, and the dear friendsand familiar faces with which it was associated, cannot be told. Toprepare the mind for such a heavy sleep, its growth must bestopped by rigour and cruelty in childhood; there must be years ofmisery and suffering, lightened by no ray of hope; the chords ofthe heart, which beat a quick response to the voice of gentlenessand affection, must have rusted and broken in their secret places,and bear the lingering echo of no old word of love or kindness.

　　Gloomy, indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the long,long twilight, preceding such a night of intellect as his.

　　There were voices which would have roused him, even then;but their welcome tones could not penetrate there; and he crept tobed the same listless, hopeless, blighted creature, that Nicholashad first found him at the Yorkshire school.