Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by amost vigorous and remarkable proceeding, whichleads to Consequences of some Importance.
The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing inat the windows of the common sleeping-room, whenNicholas, raising himself on his arm, looked among theprostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though insearch of some particular object.
It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled massof sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closelypacked together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with their patchedand ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharpoutlines of pale faces, over which the sombre light shed the samedull heavy colour; with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth:
its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in allits shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their backswith upturned faces and clenched hands, just visible in the leadenlight, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of living creatures;and there were others coiled up into strange and fantasticpostures, such as might have been taken for the uneasy efforts ofpain to gain some temporary relief, rather than the freaks ofslumber. A few—and these were among the youngest of thechildren—slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces,dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavysigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day; and, asmorning took the place of night, the smiles gradually faded away,with the friendly darkness which had given them birth.
Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sporton earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of thesun, which lights grim care and stern reality on their dailypilgrimage through the world.
Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of onewho gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lostnone of its sorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, witha more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man would whomissed something his eye was accustomed to meet, and hadexpected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this search, andhad half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his quest, when thevoice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Now then,’ cried that gentleman, ‘are you going to sleep all day,up there—’
‘You lazy hounds?’ added Mrs Squeers, finishing the sentence,and producing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which isoccasioned by the lacing of stays.
‘We shall be down directly, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Down directly!’ said Squeers. ‘Ah! you had better be downdirectly, or I’ll be down upon some of you in less. Where’s thatSmike?’
Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.
‘Smike!’ shouted Squeers.
‘Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?’
demanded his amiable lady in the same key.
Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did the greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.
‘Confound his impudence!’ muttered Squeers, rapping thestair-rail impatiently with his cane. ‘Nickleby!’
‘Well, sir.’
‘Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don’t you hear mecalling?’
‘He is not here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Don’t tell me a lie,’ retorted the schoolmaster. ‘He is.’
‘He is not,’ retorted Nicholas angrily, ‘don’t tell me one.’
‘We shall soon see that,’ said Mr Squeers, rushing upstairs. ‘I’llfind him, I warrant you.’
With which assurance, Mr Squeers bounced into the dormitory,and, swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into thecorner where the lean body of the drudge was usually stretched atnight. The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. Therewas nobody there.
‘What does this mean?’ said Squeers, turning round with a verypale face. ‘Where have you hid him?’
‘I have seen nothing of him since last night,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Come,’ said Squeers, evidently frightened, though heendeavoured to look otherwise, ‘you won’t save him this way.
Where is he?’
‘At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,’ rejoinedNicholas in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master’sface.
‘Damn you, what do you mean by that?’ retorted Squeers ingreat perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of theboys whether any one among them knew anything of their missingschoolmate.
There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst ofwhich, one shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybodythought):
‘Please, sir, I think Smike’s run away, sir.’
‘Ha!’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round. ‘Who said that?’
‘Tomkins, please sir,’ rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr Squeersmade a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very littleboy, habited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression ofwhose countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed tointimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he was about to bepunished or rewarded for the suggestion. He was not long indoubt.
‘You think he has run away, do you, sir?’ demanded Squeers.
‘Yes, please sir,’ replied the little boy.
‘And what, sir,’ said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly bythe arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterousmanner, ‘what reason have you to suppose that any boy wouldwant to run away from this establishment? Eh, sir?’
The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and MrSqueers, throwing himself into the most favourable attitude forexercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in hiswrithings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifullyallowed him to roll away, as he best could.
‘There,’ said Squeers. ‘Now if any other boy thinks Smike hasrun away, I shall be glad to have a talk with him.’
There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholasshowed his disgust as plainly as looks could show it.
‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. ‘YOUthink he has run away, I suppose?’
‘I think it extremely likely,’ replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ sneered Squeers. ‘Maybe you know hehas?’
‘I know nothing of the kind.’
‘He didn’t tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?’ sneeredSqueers.
‘He did not,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I am very glad he did not, for itwould then have been my duty to have warned you in time.’
‘Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,’ saidSqueers in a taunting fashion.
‘I should indeed,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You interpret my feelingswith great accuracy.’
Mrs Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottomof the stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed hernight-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.
‘What’s all this here to-do?’ said the lady, as the boys fell offright and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage withher brawny arms. ‘What on earth are you a talking to him for,Squeery!’
‘Why, my dear,’ said Squeers, ‘the fact is, that Smike is not to befound.’
‘Well, I know that,’ said the lady, ‘and where’s the wonder? Ifyou get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the youngdogs a rebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young man, youjust have the kindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, andtake the boys off with you, and don’t you stir out of there till youhave leave given you, or you and I may fall out in a way that’ll spoilyour beauty, handsome as you think yourself, and so I tell you.’
‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,’ said theexcited lady; ‘and I wouldn’t keep such as you in the houseanother hour, if I had my way.’
‘Nor would you if I had mine,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Now, boys!’
‘Ah! Now, boys,’ said Mrs Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as shecould, the voice and manner of the usher. ‘Follow your leader,boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare. See what he’ll get forhimself, when he is brought back; and, mind! I tell you that youshall have as bad, and twice as bad, if you so much as open yourmouths about him.’
‘If I catch him,’ said Squeers, ‘I’ll only stop short of flaying himalive. I give you notice, boys.’
‘IF you catch him,’ retorted Mrs Squeers, contemptuously; ‘youare sure to; you can’t help it, if you go the right way to work.
Come! Away with you!’
With these words, Mrs Squeers dismissed the boys, and after alittle light skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressingforward to get out of the way, but were detained for a fewmoments by the throng in front, succeeded in clearing the room,when she confronted her spouse alone.
‘He is off,’ said Mrs Squeers. ‘The cow-house and stable arelocked up, so he can’t be there; and he’s not downstairs anywhere,for the girl has looked. He must have gone York way, and by apublic road too.’
‘Why must he?’ inquired Squeers.
‘Stupid!’ said Mrs Squeers angrily. ‘He hadn’t any money, hadhe?’
‘Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,’
replied Squeers.
‘To be sure,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers, ‘and he didn’t take anythingto eat with him; that I’ll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Squeers.
‘Then, of course,’ said Mrs S., ‘he must beg his way, and hecould do that, nowhere, but on the public road.’
‘That’s true,’ exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
‘True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that,if I hadn’t said so,’ replied his wife. ‘Now, if you take the chaiseand go one road, and I borrow Swallow’s chaise, and go the other,what with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one orother of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him.’
The worthy lady’s plan was adopted and put in executionwithout a moment’s delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and theprosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of whichseemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers startedforth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and vengeance.
Shortly afterwards, Mrs Squeers, arrayed in the white top-coat,and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, issued forth inanother chaise and another direction, taking with her a good-sizedbludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout labouringman: all provided and carried upon the expedition, with the soleobject of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring thesafe custody of the unfortunate Smike.
Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible thatwhatever might be the upshot of the boy’s flight, nothing butpainful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it.
Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best thatcould be expected from the protracted wandering of so poor andhelpless a creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choosebetween this fate and a return to the tender mercies of theYorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a holdupon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache atthe prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. Helingered on, in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities,until the evening of next day, when Squeers returned, alone, andunsuccessful.
‘No news of the scamp!’ said the schoolmaster, who hadevidently been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a fewtimes during the journey. ‘I’ll have consolation for this out ofsomebody, Nickleby, if Mrs Squeers don’t hunt him down; so Igive you warning.’
‘It is not in my power to console you, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘It isnothing to me.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Squeers in a threatening manner. ‘We shall see!’
‘We shall,’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘Here’s the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to comehome with a hack cob, that’ll cost fifteen shillings besides otherexpenses,’ said Squeers; ‘who’s to pay for that, do you hear?’
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
‘I’ll have it out of somebody, I tell you,’ said Squeers, his usualharsh crafty manner changed to open bullying ‘None of yourwhining vapourings here, Mr Puppy, but be off to your kennel, forit’s past your bedtime! Come! Get out!’
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for hisfinger-ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that theman was drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl,he contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and walked, as majestically as he could, upstairs: not a littlenettled, however, to observe that Miss Squeers and MasterSqueers, and the servant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snugcorner; the two former indulging in many edifying remarks aboutthe presumption of poor upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal oflaughter, in which even the most miserable of all miserableservant girls joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew overhis head such bedclothes as he had, and sternly resolved that theoutstanding account between himself and Mr Squeers should besettled rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when heheard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped.
The voice of Mrs Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering aglass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient signthat something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardlydared to look out of the window; but he did so, and the very firstobject that met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so bedabbledwith mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but forhis garments being such as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear,he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
‘Lift him out,’ said Squeers, after he had literally feasted hiseyes, in silence, upon the culprit. ‘Bring him in; bring him in!’
‘Take care,’ cried Mrs Squeers, as her husband proffered hisassistance. ‘We tied his legs under the apron and made ’em fast tothe chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.’
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened thecord; and Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, wasbrought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar, untilsuch time as Mr Squeers should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the assembled school.
Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may bematter of surprise to some persons, that Mr and Mrs Squeersshould have taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of anincumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; buttheir surprise will cease when they are informed that the manifoldservices of the drudge, if performed by anybody else, would havecost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings per week in theshape of wages; and furthermore, that all runaways were, as amatter of policy, made severe examples of, at Dotheboys Hall,inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of itsattractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerfulimpulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number oflegs and the power of using them, to remain.
The news that Smike had been caught and brought back intriumph, ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, andexpectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it wasdestined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers,having refreshed himself with his dinner, and furtherstrengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made hisappearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with acountenance of portentous import, and a fearful instrument offlagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new,—in short,purchased that morning, expressly for the occasion.
‘Is every boy here?’ asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, soSqueers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eyedrooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so.
‘Each boy keep his place,’ said Squeers, administering his favourite blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfactionthe universal start which it never failed to occasion. ‘Nickleby! toyour desk, sir.’
It was remarked by more than one small observer, that therewas a very curious and unusual expression in the usher’s face; buthe took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, castinga triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of mostcomprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortlyafterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar—or rather bythat fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where hiscollar would have been, had he boasted such a decoration.
In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded,spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compassionand remonstrance. It had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats; and a few of the boldest venturedto steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastenedon the luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in suchcases, whether he had anything to say for himself.
‘Nothing, I suppose?’ said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, onNicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look wasriveted on his desk.
‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Squeers again: givinghis right arm two or three flourishes to try its power andsuppleness. ‘Stand a little out of the way, Mrs Squeers, my dear;I’ve hardly got room enough.’
‘Spare me, sir!’ cried Smike.
‘Oh! that’s all, is it?’ said Squeers. ‘Yes, I’ll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mrs Squeers, ‘that’s a good ’un!’
‘I was driven to do it,’ said Smike faintly; and casting anotherimploring look about him.
‘Driven to do it, were you?’ said Squeers. ‘Oh! it wasn’t yourfault; it was mine, I suppose—eh?’
‘A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneakingdog,’ exclaimed Mrs Squeers, taking Smike’s head under her arm,and administering a cuff at every epithet; ‘what does he mean bythat?’
‘Stand aside, my dear,’ replied Squeers. ‘We’ll try and find out.’
Mrs Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied.
Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut hadfallen on his body—he was wincing from the lash and uttering ascream of pain—it was raised again, and again about to fall—whenNicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried ‘Stop!’ in a voicethat made the rafters ring.
‘Who cried stop?’ said Squeers, turning savagely round.
‘I,’ said Nicholas, stepping forward. ‘This must not go on.’
‘Must not go on!’ cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
‘No!’ thundered Nicholas.
Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference,Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace ortwo, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.
‘I say must not,’ repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; ‘shall not.
I will prevent it.’
Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting outof his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, berefthim of speech.
‘You have disregarded all my quiet interference in themiserable lad’s behalf,’ said Nicholas; ‘you have returned noanswer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, andoffered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don’tblame me for this public interference. You have brought it uponyourself; not I.’
‘Sit down, beggar!’ screamed Squeers, almost beside himselfwith rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.
‘Wretch,’ rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, ‘touch him at your peril! Iwill not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have thestrength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven Iwill not spare you, if you drive me on!’
‘Stand back,’ cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
‘I have a long series of insults to avenge,’ said Nicholas, flushedwith passion; ‘and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardlycruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have acare; for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shallfall heavily upon your own head!’
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak ofwrath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him,and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument oftorture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted.
Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into thatone moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation,Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand,and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared formercy.
The boys—with the exception of Master Squeers, who, comingto his father’s assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear—moved not, hand or foot; but Mrs Squeers, with many shrieks for aid,hung on to the tail of her partner’s coat, and endeavoured to draghim from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who hadbeen peeping through the keyhole in expectation of a verydifferent scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, andafter launching a shower of inkstands at the usher’s head, beatNicholas to her heart’s content; animating herself, at every blow,with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, andthus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she tookafter her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of theweakest.
Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows nomore than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becomingtired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weakbesides, he threw all his remaining strength into half-a-dozenfinishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him with all the force hecould muster. The violence of his fall precipitated Mrs Squeerscompletely over an adjacent form; and Squeers striking his headagainst it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground,stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, andascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was onlystunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had someunpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore him,and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. Helooked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room, but he wasnowhere to be seen.
After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in asmall leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortlyafterwards, struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.
When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give hispresent circumstances some little reflection, they did not appearin a very encouraging light; he had only four shillings and a fewpence in his pocket, and was something more than two hundredand fifty miles from London, whither he resolved to direct hissteps, that he might ascertain, among other things, what accountof the morning’s proceedings Mr Squeers transmitted to his mostaffectionate uncle.
Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that therewas no remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld ahorseman coming towards him, whom, on nearer approach, hediscovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no other than Mr JohnBrowdie, who, clad in cords and leather leggings, was urging hisanimal forward by means of a thick ash stick, which seemed tohave been recently cut from some stout sapling.
‘I am in no mood for more noise and riot,’ thought Nicholas,‘and yet, do what I will, I shall have an altercation with this honestblockhead, and perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.’
In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such aresult would follow from the encounter, for John Browdie nosooner saw Nicholas advancing, than he reined in his horse by thefootpath, and waited until such time as he should come up; lookingmeanwhile, very sternly between the horse’s ears, at Nicholas, ashe came on at his leisure.
‘Servant, young genelman,’ said John.
‘Yours,’ said Nicholas.
‘Weel; we ha’ met at last,’ observed John, making the stirrup ring under a smart touch of the ash stick.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, hesitating. ‘Come!’ he said, frankly, aftera moment’s pause, ‘we parted on no very good terms the last timewe met; it was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention ofoffending you, and no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry forit, afterwards. Will you shake hands?’
‘Shake honds!’ cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; ‘ah!
that I weel;’ at the same time, he bent down from the saddle, andgave Nicholas’s fist a huge wrench: ‘but wa’at be the matther wi’
thy feace, mun? it be all brokken loike.’
‘It is a cut,’ said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke, ‘a blow;but I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.’
‘Noa, did ’ee though?’ exclaimed John Browdie. ‘Well deane! Iloike ’un for thot.’
‘The fact is,’ said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to makethe avowal, ‘the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.’
‘Noa!’ interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for hewas a giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, inhis eyes, seemed a mere dwarf; ‘dean’t say thot.’
‘Yes, I have,’ replied Nicholas, ‘by that man Squeers, and I havebeaten him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.’
‘What!’ cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, thatthe horse quite shied at it. ‘Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho!
ho! Beatten the schoolmeasther! who ever heard o’ the loike o’
that noo! Giv’ us thee hond agean, yoongster. Beatten theschoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov’ thee for’t.’
With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed andlaughed again—so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent backnothing but jovial peals of merriment—and shook Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no less heartily. When his mirth had subsided,he inquired what Nicholas meant to do; on his informing him, togo straight to London, he shook his head doubtfully, and inquiredif he knew how much the coaches charged to carry passengers sofar.
‘No, I do not,’ said Nicholas; ‘but it is of no great consequence tome, for I intend walking.’
‘Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!’ cried John, in amazement.
‘Every step of the way,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I should be manysteps further on by this time, and so goodbye!’
‘Nay noo,’ replied the honest countryman, reining in hisimpatient horse, ‘stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast theegotten?’
‘Not much,’ said Nicholas, colouring, ‘but I can make it enough.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, you know.’
John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, butputting his hand in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solidleather, and insisted that Nicholas should borrow from himwhatever he required for his present necessities.
‘Dean’t be afeard, mun,’ he said; ‘tak’ eneaf to carry theewhoam. Thee’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.’
Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow morethan a sovereign, with which loan Mr Browdie, after manyentreaties that he would accept of more (observing, with a touch ofYorkshire caution, that if he didn’t spend it all, he could put thesurplus by, till he had an opportunity of remitting it carriage free),was fain to content himself.
‘Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’, mun,’ he added,pressing his stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; ‘keep a good heart, and bless thee. Beatten theschoolmeasther! ‘Cod it’s the best thing a’ve heerd this twontyyear!’
So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might havebeen expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for thepurpose of avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, JohnBrowdie set spurs to his horse, and went off at a smart canter:
looking back, from time to time, as Nicholas stood gazing afterhim, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to encourage him on hisway. Nicholas watched the horse and rider until they disappearedover the brow of a distant hill, and then set forward on his journey.
He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it wasnearly dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which notonly rendered the way toilsome, but the track uncertain anddifficult to find, after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. Helay, that night, at a cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate tothe more humble class of travellers; and, rising betimes nextmorning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge. Passingthrough that town in search of some cheap resting-place, hestumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred yards ofthe roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his wearylimbs, and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams,which had been all connected with his recent sojourn atDotheboys Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes and stared—not withthe most composed countenance possible—at some motionlessobject which seemed to be stationed within a few yards in front ofhim.
‘Strange!’ cried Nicholas; ‘can this be some lingering creation of the visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real—and yetI—I am awake! Smike!’
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its kneesat his feet. It was Smike indeed.
‘Why do you kneel to me?’ said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
‘To go with you—anywhere—everywhere—to the world’s end—to the churchyard grave,’ replied Smike, clinging to his hand. ‘Letme, oh do let me. You are my home—my kind friend—take mewith you, pray.’
‘I am a friend who can do little for you,’ said Nicholas, kindly.
‘How came you here?’
He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him allthe way; had watched while he slept, and when he halted forrefreshment; and had feared to appear before, lest he should besent back. He had not intended to appear now, but Nicholas hadawakened more suddenly than he looked for, and he had had notime to conceal himself.
‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, ‘your hard fate denies you anyfriend but one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.’
‘May I—may I go with you?’ asked Smike, timidly. ‘I will beyour faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want noclothes,’ added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; ‘thesewill do very well. I only want to be near you.’
‘And you shall,’ cried Nicholas. ‘And the world shall deal by youas it does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better.
Come!’
With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders,and, taking his stick in one hand, extended the other to hisdelighted charge; and so they passed out of the old barn, together.
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