The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens [ebook offline reader TXT] 📗

be said. I am undone. Whichever way I turn, I am undone. I am betrayed. I shall be given up. I shall die in Newgate!’

With frantic exclamations such as these, and with many others in which fear, grief, and rage, were strangely blended, the panic-stricken wretch gradually subdued his first loud outcry, until it had softened down into a low despairing moan, chequered now and then by a howl, as, going over such papers as were left in the chest, he discovered some new loss. With very little excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left him, and, greatly disappointing the loiterers outside the house by telling them there was nothing the matter, got into the coach, and was driven to his own home.

A letter lay on his table. He let it lie there for some time, as if he had not the courage to open it, but at length did so and turned deadly pale.

‘The worst has happened,’ he said; ‘the house has failed. I see. The rumour was abroad in the city last night, and reached the ears of those merchants. Well, well!’

He strode violently up and down the room and stopped again.

‘Ten thousand pounds! And only lying there for a day—for one day! How many anxious years, how many pinching days and sleepless nights, before I scraped together that ten thousand pounds!—Ten thousand pounds! How many proud painted dames would have fawned and smiled, and how many spendthrift blockheads done me lip-service to my face and cursed me in their hearts, while I turned that ten thousand pounds into twenty! While I ground, and pinched, and used these needy borrowers for my pleasure and profit, what smooth-tongued speeches, and courteous looks, and civil letters, they would have given me! The cant of the lying world is, that men like me compass our riches by dissimulation and treachery: by fawning, cringing, and stooping. Why, how many lies, what mean and abject evasions, what humbled behaviour from upstarts who, but for my money, would spurn me aside as they do their betters every day, would that ten thousand pounds have brought me in! Grant that I had doubled it—made cent. per cent.—for every sovereign told another—there would not be one piece of money in all the heap which wouldn’t represent ten thousand mean and paltry lies, told, not by the money-lender, oh no! but by the money-borrowers, your liberal, thoughtless, generous, dashing folks, who wouldn’t be so mean as save a sixpence for the world!’

Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of the bitterness of his regrets in the bitterness of these other thoughts, Ralph continued to pace the room. There was less and less of resolution in his manner as his mind gradually reverted to his loss; at length, dropping into his elbow-chair and grasping its sides so firmly that they creaked again, he said:

‘The time has been when nothing could have moved me like the loss of this great sum. Nothing. For births, deaths, marriages, and all the events which are of interest to most men, have (unless they are connected with gain or loss of money) no interest for me. But now, I swear, I mix up with the loss, his triumph in telling it. If he had brought it about,—I almost feel as if he had,—I couldn’t hate him more. Let me but retaliate upon him, by degrees, however slow— let me but begin to get the better of him, let me but turn the scale—and I can bear it.’

His meditations were long and deep. They terminated in his dispatching a letter by Newman, addressed to Mr Squeers at the Saracen’s Head, with instructions to inquire whether he had arrived in town, and, if so, to wait an answer. Newman brought back the information that Mr Squeers had come by mail that morning, and had received the letter in bed; but that he sent his duty, and word that he would get up and wait upon Mr Nickleby directly.

The interval between the delivery of this message, and the arrival of Mr Squeers, was very short; but, before he came, Ralph had suppressed every sign of emotion, and once more regained the hard, immovable, inflexible manner which was habitual to him, and to which, perhaps, was ascribable no small part of the influence which, over many men of no very strong prejudices on the score of morality, he could exert, almost at will.

‘Well, Mr Squeers,’ he said, welcoming that worthy with his accustomed smile, of which a sharp look and a thoughtful frown were part and parcel: ‘how do YOU do?’

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Squeers, ‘I’m pretty well. So’s the family, and so’s the boys, except for a sort of rash as is a running through the school, and rather puts ‘em off their feed. But it’s a ill wind as blows no good to nobody; that’s what I always say when them lads has a wisitation. A wisitation, sir, is the lot of mortality. Mortality itself, sir, is a wisitation. The world is chock full of wisitations; and if a boy repines at a wisitation and makes you uncomfortable with his noise, he must have his head punched. That’s going according to the Scripter, that is.’

‘Mr Squeers,’ said Ralph, drily.

‘Sir.’

‘We’ll avoid these precious morsels of morality if you please, and talk of business.’

‘With all my heart, sir,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and first let me say—’

‘First let ME say, if you please.—Noggs!’

Newman presented himself when the summons had been twice or thrice repeated, and asked if his master called.

‘I did. Go to your dinner. And go at once. Do you hear?’

‘It an’t time,’ said Newman, doggedly.

‘My time is yours, and I say it is,’ returned Ralph.

‘You alter it every day,’ said Newman. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘You don’t keep many cooks, and can easily apologise to them for the trouble,’ retorted Ralph. ‘Begone, sir!’

Ralph not only issued this order in his most peremptory manner, but, under pretence of fetching some papers from the little office, saw it obeyed, and, when Newman had left the house, chained the door, to prevent the possibility of his returning secretly, by means of his latch-key.

‘I have reason to suspect that fellow,’ said Ralph, when he returned to his own office. ‘Therefore, until I have thought of the shortest and least troublesome way of ruining him, I hold it best to keep him at a distance.’

‘It wouldn’t take much to ruin him, I should think,’ said Squeers, with a grin.

‘Perhaps not,’ answered Ralph. ‘Nor to ruin a great many people whom I know. You were going to say—?’

Ralph’s summary and matter-of-course way of holding up this example, and throwing out the hint that followed it, had evidently an effect (as doubtless it was designed to have) upon Mr Squeers, who said, after a little hesitation and in a much more subdued tone:

‘Why, what I was a-going to say, sir, is, that this here business regarding of that ungrateful and hard-hearted chap, Snawley senior, puts me out of my way, and occasions a inconveniency quite unparalleled, besides, as I may say, making, for whole weeks together, Mrs Squeers a perfect widder. It’s a pleasure to me to act with you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Ralph, drily.

‘Yes, I say of course,’ resumed Mr Squeers, rubbing his knees, ‘but at the same time, when one comes, as I do now, better than two hundred and fifty mile to take a afferdavid, it does put a man out a good deal, letting alone the risk.’

‘And where may the risk be, Mr Squeers?’ said Ralph.

‘I said, letting alone the risk,’ replied Squeers, evasively.

‘And I said, where was the risk?’

‘I wasn’t complaining, you know, Mr Nickleby,’ pleaded Squeers. ‘Upon my word I never see such a—’

‘I ask you where is the risk?’ repeated Ralph, emphatically.

‘Where the risk?’ returned Squeers, rubbing his knees still harder. ‘Why, it an’t necessary to mention. Certain subjects is best awoided. Oh, you know what risk I mean.’

‘How often have I told you,’ said Ralph, ‘and how often am I to tell you, that you run no risk? What have you sworn, or what are you asked to swear, but that at such and such a time a boy was left with you in the name of Smike; that he was at your school for a given number of years, was lost under such and such circumstances, is now found, and has been identified by you in such and such keeping? This is all true; is it not?’

‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, ‘that’s all true.’

‘Well, then,’ said Ralph, ‘what risk do you run? Who swears to a lie but Snawley; a man whom I have paid much less than I have you?’

‘He certainly did it cheap, did Snawley,’ observed Squeers.

‘He did it cheap!’ retorted Ralph, testily; ‘yes, and he did it well, and carries it off with a hypocritical face and a sanctified air, but you! Risk! What do you mean by risk? The certificates are all genuine, Snawley HAD another son, he HAS been married twice, his first wife IS dead, none but her ghost could tell that she didn’t write that letter, none but Snawley himself can tell that this is not his son, and that his son is food for worms! The only perjury is Snawley’s, and I fancy he is pretty well used to it. Where’s your risk?’

‘Why, you know,’ said Squeers, fidgeting in his chair, ‘if you come to that, I might say where’s yours?’

‘You might say where’s mine!’ returned Ralph; ‘you may say where’s mine. I don’t appear in the business, neither do you. All Snawley’s interest is to stick well to the story he has told; and all his risk is, to depart from it in the least. Talk of YOUR risk in the conspiracy!’

‘I say,’ remonstrated Squeers, looking uneasily round: ‘don’t call it that! Just as a favour, don’t.’

‘Call it what you like,’ said Ralph, irritably, ‘but attend to me. This tale was originally fabricated as a means of annoyance against one who hurt your trade and half cudgelled you to death, and to enable you to obtain repossession of a half-dead drudge, whom you wished to regain, because, while you wreaked your vengeance on him for his share in the business, you knew that the knowledge that he was again in your power would be the best punishment you could inflict upon your enemy. Is that so, Mr Squeers?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Squeers, almost overpowered by the determination which Ralph displayed to make everything tell against him, and by his stern unyielding manner, ‘in a measure it was.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Ralph.

‘Why, in a measure means,” returned Squeers, ‘as it may be, that it wasn’t all on my account, because you had some old grudge to satisfy, too.’

‘If I had not had,’ said Ralph, in no way abashed by the reminder, ‘do you think I should have helped you?’

‘Why no, I don’t suppose you would,’ Squeers replied. ‘I only wanted that point to be all square and straight between us.’

‘How can it ever be otherwise?’ retorted Ralph. ‘Except that the account is against me, for I spend money to gratify my hatred, and you pocket it, and gratify yours at the same time. You are, at least, as avaricious as you are revengeful. So am I. Which is best off? You, who win money and revenge, at the same time and by the same process, and who are, at all events, sure of money, if not of revenge; or I, who am only sure of spending money in any case, and can but win bare revenge at last?’

As Mr Squeers could only answer this proposition by shrugs and smiles, Ralph bade him be silent, and thankful that