Nicholas Nickleby
of no slight kind so to affect a man like him, was sufficiently shown by
his haggard face, jaded air, and hollow languid eyes: which he raised
at last with a start and a hasty glance around him, as one who suddenly
awakes from sleep, and cannot immediately recognise the place in which
he finds himself.
‘What is this,’ he said, ‘that hangs over me, and I cannot shake off? I
have never pampered myself, and should not be ill. I have never moped,
and pined, and yielded to fancies; but what CAN a man do without rest?’
He pressed his hand upon his forehead.
‘Night after night comes and goes, and I have no rest. If I sleep, what
rest is that which is disturbed by constant dreams of the same detested
faces crowding round me--of the same detested people, in every variety
of action, mingling with all I say and do, and always to my defeat?
Waking, what rest have I, constantly haunted by this heavy shadow of--I
know not what--which is its worst character? I must have rest. One
night’s unbroken rest, and I should be a man again.’
Pushing the table from him while he spoke, as though he loathed the
sight of food, he encountered the watch: the hands of which were almost
upon noon.
‘This is strange!’ he said; ‘noon, and Noggs not here! What drunken
brawl keeps him away? I would give something now--something in money
even after that dreadful loss--if he had stabbed a man in a tavern
scuffle, or broken into a house, or picked a pocket, or done anything
that would send him abroad with an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of
him. Better still, if I could throw temptation in his way, and lure him
on to rob me. He should be welcome to what he took, so I brought the law
upon him; for he is a traitor, I swear! How, or when, or where, I don’t
know, though I suspect.’
After waiting for another half-hour, he dispatched the woman who kept
his house to Newman’s lodging, to inquire if he were ill, and why he had
not come or sent. She brought back answer that he had not been home all
night, and that no one could tell her anything about him.
‘But there is a gentleman, sir,’ she said, ‘below, who was standing at
the door when I came in, and he says--’
‘What says he?’ demanded Ralph, turning angrily upon her. ‘I told you I
would see nobody.’
‘He says,’ replied the woman, abashed by his harshness, ‘that he comes
on very particular business which admits of no excuse; and I thought
perhaps it might be about--’
‘About what, in the devil’s name?’ said Ralph. ‘You spy and speculate on
people’s business with me, do you?’
‘Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious, and thought it might be about Mr
Noggs; that’s all.’
‘Saw I was anxious!’ muttered Ralph; ‘they all watch me, now. Where is
this person? You did not say I was not down yet, I hope?’
The woman replied that he was in the little office, and that she had
said her master was engaged, but she would take the message.
‘Well,’ said Ralph, ‘I’ll see him. Go you to your kitchen, and keep
there. Do you mind me?’
Glad to be released, the woman quickly disappeared. Collecting himself,
and assuming as much of his accustomed manner as his utmost resolution
could summon, Ralph descended the stairs. After pausing for a few
moments, with his hand upon the lock, he entered Newman’s room, and
confronted Mr. Charles Cheeryble.
Of all men alive, this was one of the last he would have wished to meet
at any time; but, now that he recognised in him only the patron
and protector of Nicholas, he would rather have seen a spectre. One
beneficial effect, however, the encounter had upon him. It instantly
roused all his dormant energies; rekindled in his breast the passions
that, for many years, had found an improving home there; called up all
his wrath, hatred, and malice; restored the sneer to his lip, and the
scowl to his brow; and made him again, in all outward appearance, the
same Ralph Nickleby whom so many had bitter cause to remember.
‘Humph!’ said Ralph, pausing at the door. ‘This is an unexpected favour,
sir.’
‘And an unwelcome one,’ said brother Charles; ‘an unwelcome one, I
know.’
‘Men say you are truth itself, sir,’ replied Ralph. ‘You speak truth
now, at all events, and I’ll not contradict you. The favour is, at
least, as unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can scarcely say more.’
‘Plainly, sir--’ began brother Charles.
‘Plainly, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, ‘I wish this conference to be a short
one, and to end where it begins. I guess the subject upon which you are
about to speak, and I’ll not hear you. You like plainness, I believe;
there it is. Here is the door as you see. Our way lies in very different
directions. Take yours, I beg of you, and leave me to pursue mine in
quiet.’
‘In quiet!’ repeated brother Charles mildly, and looking at him with
more of pity than reproach. ‘To pursue HIS way in quiet!’
‘You will scarcely remain in my house, I presume, sir, against my will,’
said Ralph; ‘or you can scarcely hope to make an impression upon a
man who closes his ears to all that you can say, and is firmly and
resolutely determined not to hear you.’
‘Mr. Nickleby, sir,’ returned brother Charles: no less mildly than
before, but firmly too: ‘I come here against my will, sorely and
grievously against my will. I have never been in this house before; and,
to speak my mind, sir, I don’t feel at home or easy in it, and have no
wish ever to be here again. You do not guess the subject on which I come
to speak to you; you do not indeed. I am sure of that, or your manner
would be a very different one.’
Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear eye and open countenance of
the honest old merchant underwent no change of expression, and met his
look without reserve.
‘Shall I go on?’ said Mr. Cheeryble.
‘Oh, by all means, if you please,’ returned Ralph drily. ‘Here are walls
to speak to, sir, a desk, and two stools: most attentive auditors, and
certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg; make my house yours, and
perhaps by the time I return from my walk, you will have finished what
you have to say, and will yield me up possession again.’
So saying, he buttoned his coat, and turning into the passage, took down
his hat. The old gentleman followed, and was about to speak, when Ralph
waved him off impatiently, and said:
‘Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word. Virtuous as you are, you are
not an angel yet, to appear in men’s houses whether they will or no, and
pour your speech into unwilling ears. Preach to the walls I tell you;
not to me!’
‘I am no angel, Heaven knows,’ returned brother Charles, shaking his
head, ‘but an erring and imperfect man; nevertheless, there is
one quality which all men have, in common with the angels, blessed
opportunities of exercising, if they will; mercy. It is an errand of
mercy that brings me here. Pray let me discharge it.’
‘I show no mercy,’ retorted Ralph with a triumphant smile, ‘and I
ask none. Seek no mercy from me, sir, in behalf of the fellow who has
imposed upon your childish credulity, but let him expect the worst that
I can do.’
‘HE ask mercy at your hands!’ exclaimed the old merchant warmly; ‘ask it
at his, sir; ask it at his. If you will not hear me now, when you may,
hear me when you must, or anticipate what I would say, and take measures
to prevent our ever meeting again. Your nephew is a noble lad, sir, an
honest, noble lad. What you are, Mr. Nickleby, I will not say; but what
you have done, I know. Now, sir, when you go about the business in which
you have been recently engaged, and find it difficult of pursuing, come
to me and my brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater, sir, and we’ll explain
it for you--and come soon, or it may be too late, and you may have it
explained with a little more roughness, and a little less delicacy--and
never forget, sir, that I came here this morning, in mercy to you, and
am still ready to talk to you in the same spirit.’
With these words, uttered with great emphasis and emotion, brother
Charles put on his broad-brimmed hat, and, passing Ralph Nickleby
without any other remark, trotted nimbly into the street. Ralph looked
after him, but neither moved nor spoke for some time: when he broke what
almost seemed the silence of stupefaction, by a scornful laugh.
‘This,’ he said, ‘from its wildness, should be another of those dreams
that have so broken my rest of late. In mercy to me! Pho! The old
simpleton has gone mad.’
Although he expressed himself in this derisive and contemptuous manner,
it was plain that, the more Ralph pondered, the more ill at ease he
became, and the more he laboured under some vague anxiety and alarm,
which increased as the time passed on and no tidings of Newman Noggs
arrived. After waiting until late in the afternoon, tortured by various
apprehensions and misgivings, and the recollection of the warning which
his nephew had given him when they last met: the further confirmation of
which now presented itself in one shape of probability, now in another,
and haunted him perpetually: he left home, and, scarcely knowing why,
save that he was in a suspicious and agitated mood, betook himself to
Snawley’s house. His wife presented herself; and, of her, Ralph inquired
whether her husband was at home.
‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘he is not indeed, and I don’t think he will be
at home for a very long time; that’s more.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Ralph.
‘Oh yes, I know you very well; too well, perhaps, and perhaps he does
too, and sorry am I that I should have to say it.’
‘Tell him that I saw him through the window-blind above, as I crossed
the road just now, and that I would speak to him on business,’ said
Ralph. ‘Do you hear?’
‘I hear,’ rejoined Mrs. Snawley, taking no further notice of the request.
‘I knew this woman was a hypocrite, in the way of psalms and Scripture
phrases,’ said Ralph, passing quietly by, ‘but I never knew she drank
before.’
‘Stop! You don’t come in here,’ said Mr. Snawley’s better-half,
interposing her person, which was a robust one, in the doorway. ‘You
have said more than enough to him on business, before now. I always told
him what dealing with you and working out your schemes would come to.
It was either you or the schoolmaster--one of you, or the two between
you--that got the forged letter done; remember that! That wasn’t his
doing, so don’t lay it at his door.’
‘Hold your tongue, you Jezebel,’ said Ralph, looking fearfully round.
‘Ah, I know when to hold my tongue, and when to speak, Mr. Nickleby,’
retorted the dame. ‘Take care that other people know when to hold
theirs.’
‘You jade,’ said Ralph, ‘if your husband has been idiot enough to trust
you with his secrets, keep them; keep them, she-devil that you are!’
‘Not so much his secrets as other people’s secrets, perhaps,’ retorted
the woman; ‘not so much his secrets as yours. None of your black looks
at me! You’ll want ‘em all, perhaps, for another time. You had better
keep ‘em.’
‘Will you,’ said Ralph, suppressing his passion as well as he could,
and clutching her tightly by the wrist; ‘will you go to your husband and
tell him that I know he is at home, and that I must see him? And
will you tell me what it is that you and he mean by this new style of
behaviour?’
‘No,’ replied the woman, violently disengaging herself, ‘I’ll do
neither.’
‘You set me at defiance, do you?’ said Ralph.
‘Yes,’ was the answer. I do.’
For an instant Ralph had his hand raised, as though he were about to
strike her; but, checking himself, and nodding his head and muttering as
though to assure her he would not forget this, walked away.
Thence, he went straight to the inn which Mr. Squeers frequented, and
inquired when he had been there last; in the vague hope that, successful
or unsuccessful, he might, by this time, have returned from his mission