Chapter 60

by Charles Dickens

　　The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is toldInstead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first streetcabriolet he could find, and, directing the driver towards thepolice-office of the district in which Mr Squeers's misfortunes hadoccurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, discharging theman, went the rest of his way thither on foot. Inquiring for theobject of his solicitude, he learnt that he had timed his visitwell; for Mr Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for ahackney coach he had ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding tohis week's retirement, like a gentleman.Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into a kind ofwaiting-room in which, by reason of his scholastic profession andsuperior respectability, Mr Squeers had been permitted to pass theday. Here, by the light of a guttering and blackened candle, hecould barely discern the schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench in aremote corner. An empty glass stood on a table before him, which,with his somnolent condition and a very strong smell of brandy andwater, forewarned the visitor that Mr Squeers had been seeking, increature comforts, a temporary forgetfulness of his unpleasantsituation.It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic and heavywere his slumbers. Regaining his faculties by slow and faintglimmerings, he at length sat upright; and, displaying a very yellowface, a very red nose, and a very bristly beard: the joint effect ofwhich was considerably heightened by a dirty white handkerchief,spotted with blood, drawn over the crown of his head and tied underhis chin: stared ruefully at Ralph in silence, until his feelingsfound a vent in this pithy sentence:'I say, young fellow, you've been and done it now; you have!''What's the matter with your head?' asked Ralph.'Why, your man, your informing kidnapping man, has been and brokeit,' rejoined Squeers sulkily; 'that's what's the matter with it.You've come at last, have you?''Why have you not sent to me?' said Ralph. 'How could I come till Iknew what had befallen you?''My family!' hiccuped Mr Squeers, raising his eye to the ceiling:'my daughter, as is at that age when all the sensibilities is a-coming out strong in blow--my son as is the young Norval of privatelife, and the pride and ornament of a doting willage--here's a shockfor my family! The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses is tore, and theirsun is gone down into the ocean wave!''You have been drinking,' said Ralph, 'and have not yet sleptyourself sober.''I haven't been drinking your health, my codger,' replied MrSqueers; 'so you have nothing to do with that.'Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster's alteredand insolent manner awakened, and asked again why he had not sent tohim.'What should I get by sending to you?' returned Squeers. 'To beknown to be in with you wouldn't do me a deal of good, and theywon't take bail till they know something more of the case, so heream I hard and fast: and there are you, loose and comfortable.''And so must you be in a few days,' retorted Ralph, with affectedgood-humour. 'They can't hurt you, man.''Why, I suppose they can't do much to me, if I explain how it wasthat I got into the good company of that there ca-daverous oldSlider,' replied Squeers viciously, 'who I wish was dead and buried,and resurrected and dissected, and hung upon wires in a anatomicalmuseum, before ever I'd had anything to do with her. This is whathim with the powdered head says this morning, in so many words:"Prisoner! As you have been found in company with this woman; asyou were detected in possession of this document; as you wereengaged with her in fraudulently destroying others, and can give nosatisfactory account of yourself; I shall remand you for a week, inorder that inquiries may be made, and evidence got. And meanwhile Ican't take any bail for your appearance." Well then, what I say nowis, that I can give a satisfactory account of myself; I can hand inthe card of my establishment and say, "I am the Wackford Squeers asis therein named, sir. I am the man as is guaranteed, byunimpeachable references, to be a out-and-outer in morals anduprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong in this business is nofault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I was not awarethat anything was wrong. I was merely employed by a friend, myfriend Mr Ralph Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send for him, sir, andask him what he has to say; he's the man; not me!"''What document was it that you had?' asked Ralph, evading, for themoment, the point just raised.'What document? Why, the document,' replied Squeers. 'The MadelineWhat's-her-name one. It was a will; that's what it was.''Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, to whatextent?' asked Ralph hurriedly.'A will in her favour; that's all I know,' rejoined Squeers, 'andthat's more than you'd have known, if you'd had them bellows on yourhead. It's all owing to your precious caution that they got hold ofit. If you had let me burn it, and taken my word that it was gone,it would have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, instead of beingwhole and sound, inside of my great-coat.''Beaten at every point!' muttered Ralph.'Ah!' sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water and hisbroken head, wandered strangely, 'at the delightful village ofDotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded,clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided withall necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead,mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry--this isa altered state of trigonomics, this is! A double 1--all,everything--a cobbler's weapon. U-p-up, adjective, not down. S-q-u-double e-r-s-Squeers, noun substantive, a educator of youth.Total, all up with Squeers!'His running on, in this way, had afforded Ralph an opportunity ofrecovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested to him thenecessity of removing, as far as possible, the schoolmaster'smisgivings, and leading him to believe that his safety and bestpolicy lay in the preservation of a rigid silence.'I tell you, once again,' he said, 'they can't hurt you. You shallhave an action for false imprisonment, and make a profit of this,yet. We will devise a story for you that should carry you throughtwenty times such a trivial scrape as this; and if they wantsecurity in a thousand pounds for your reappearance in case youshould be called upon, you shall have it. All you have to do is, tokeep back the truth. You're a little fuddled tonight, and may notbe able to see this as clearly as you would at another time; butthis is what you must do, and you'll need all your senses about you;for a slip might be awkward.''Oh!' said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with his headstuck on one side, like an old raven. 'That's what I'm to do, isit? Now then, just you hear a word or two from me. I an't a-goingto have any stories made for me, and I an't a-going to stick to any.If I find matters going again me, I shall expect you to take yourshare, and I'll take care you do. You never said anything aboutdanger. I never bargained for being brought into such a plight asthis, and I don't mean to take it as quiet as you think. I let youlead me on, from one thing to another, because we had been mixed uptogether in a certain sort of a way, and if you had liked to be ill-natured you might perhaps have hurt the business, and if you likedto be good-natured you might throw a good deal in my way. Well; ifall goes right now, that's quite correct, and I don't mind it; butif anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I shall just sayand do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advice fromnobody. My moral influence with them lads,' added Mr Squeers, withdeeper gravity, 'is a tottering to its basis. The images of MrsSqueers, my daughter, and my son Wackford, all short of vittles, isperpetually before me; every other consideration melts away andvanishes, in front of these; the only number in all arithmetic thatI know of, as a husband and a father, is number one, under this heremost fatal go!'How long Mr Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy a discussionhis declamation might have led to, nobody knows. Being interrupted,at this point, by the arrival of the coach and an attendant who wasto bear him company, he perched his hat with great dignity on thetop of the handkerchief that bound his head; and, thrusting one handin his pocket, and taking the attendant's arm with the other,suffered himself to be led forth.'As I supposed from his not sending!' thought Ralph. 'This fellow,I plainly see through all his tipsy fooling, has made up his mind toturn upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in, that they are not onlyall struck with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have theirfling at me now, though time was, and no longer ago than yesterdaytoo, when they were all civility and compliance. But they shall notmove me. I'll not give way. I will not budge one inch!'He went home, and was glad to find his housekeeper complaining ofillness, that he might have an excuse for being alone and sendingher away to where she lived: which was hard by. Then, he sat downby the light of a single candle, and began to think, for the firsttime, on all that had taken place that day.He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, in addition tothe anxiety of mind he had undergone, had been travelling about,from place to place almost incessantly, for many hours. He feltsick and exhausted, but could taste nothing save a glass of water,and continued to sit with his head upon his hand; not resting northinking, but laboriously trying to do both, and feeling that everysense but one of weariness and desolation, was for the timebenumbed.It was nearly ten o'clock when he heard a knocking at the door, andstill sat quiet as before, as if he could not even bring histhoughts to bear upon that. It had been often repeated, and he had,several times, heard a voice outside, saying there was a light inthe window (meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before he couldrouse himself and go downstairs.'Mr Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent to begyou will come with me directly,' said a voice he seemed torecognise. He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, sawTim Linkinwater on the steps.'Come where?' demanded Ralph.'To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coach here.''Why should I go there?' said Ralph.'Don't ask me why, but pray come with me.''Another edition of today!' returned Ralph, making as though hewould shut the door.'No, no!' cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking mostearnestly; 'it is only that you may hear something that hasoccurred: something very dreadful, Mr Nickleby, which concerns younearly. Do you think I would tell you so or come to you like this,if it were not the case?'Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeed greatlyexcited, he faltered, and could not tell what to say or think.'You had better hear this now, than at any other time,' said Tim;'it may have some influence with you. For Heaven's sake come!'Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph's obstinacy and dislike would havebeen proof against any appeal from such a quarter, howeveremphatically urged; but now, after a moment's hesitation, he wentinto the hall for his hat, and returning, got into the coach withoutspeaking a word.Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as RalphNickleby went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by thelight of the candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel andstagger like a drunken man. He well remembered, too, that when hehad placed his foot upon the coach-steps, he turned round and lookedupon him with a face so ashy pale and so very wild and vacant thatit made him shudder, and for the moment almost afraid to follow.People were fond of saying that he had some dark presentiment uponhim then, but his emotion might, perhaps, with greater show ofreason, be referred to what he had undergone that day.A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived at theirplace of destination, Ralph followed his conductor into the house,and into a room where the two brothers were. He was so astounded,not to say awed, by something of a mute compassion for himself whichwas visible in their manner and in that of the old clerk, that hecould scarcely speak.Having taken a seat, however, he contrived to say, though in brokenwords, 'What--what have you to say to me--more than has been saidalready?'The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, and terminatedin a bay window, about which hung some heavy drapery. Casting hiseyes in this direction as he spoke, he thought he made out the duskyfigure of a man. He was confirmed in this impression by seeing thatthe object moved, as if uneasy under his scrutiny.'Who's that yonder?' he said.'One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, theintelligence which caused our sending to you,' replied brotherCharles. 'Let him be, sir, let him be for the present.''More riddles!' said Ralph, faintly. 'Well, sir?'In turning his face towards the brothers he was obliged to avert itfrom the window; but, before either of them could speak, he hadlooked round again. It was evident that he was rendered restlessand uncomfortable by the presence of the unseen person; for herepeated this action several times, and at length, as if in anervous state which rendered him positively unable to turn away fromthe place, sat so as to have it opposite him, muttering as an excusethat he could not bear the light.The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their manner showingthat they were agitated. Ralph glanced at them twice or thrice, andultimately said, with a great effort to recover his self-possession,'Now, what is this? If I am brought from home at this time ofnight, let it be for something. What have you got to tell me?'After a short pause, he added, 'Is my niece dead?'He had struck upon a key which rendered the task of commencement aneasier one. Brother Charles turned, and said that it was a death ofwhich they had to tell him, but that his niece was well.'You don't mean to tell me,' said Ralph, as his eyes brightened,'that her brother's dead? No, that's too good. I'd not believe it,if you told me so. It would be too welcome news to be true.''Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural man,' cried the otherbrother, warmly. 'Prepare yourself for intelligence which, if youhave any human feeling in your breast, will make even you shrink andtremble. What if we tell you that a poor unfortunate boy: a childin everything but never having known one of those tenderendearments, or one of those lightsome hours which make ourchildhood a time to be remembered like a happy dream through all ourafter life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionate creature, whonever offended you, or did you wrong, but on whom you have ventedthe malice and hatred you have conceived for your nephew, and whomyou have made an instrument for wreaking your bad passions upon him:what if we tell you that, sinking under your persecution, sir, andthe misery and ill-usage of a life short in years but long insuffering, this poor creature has gone to tell his sad tale where,for your part in it, you must surely answer?''If you tell me,' said Ralph; 'if you tell me that he is dead, Iforgive you all else. If you tell me that he is dead, I am in yourdebt and bound to you for life. He is! I see it in your faces.Who triumphs now? Is this your dreadful news; this your terribleintelligence? You see how it moves me. You did well to send. Iwould have travelled a hundred miles afoot, through mud, mire, anddarkness, to hear this news just at this time.'Even then, moved as he was by this savage joy, Ralph could see inthe faces of the two brothers, mingling with their look of disgustand horror, something of that indefinable compassion for himselfwhich he had noticed before.'And he brought you the intelligence, did he?' said Ralph, pointingwith his finger towards the recess already mentioned; 'and satthere, no doubt, to see me prostrated and overwhelmed by it! Ha,ha, ha! But I tell him that I'll be a sharp thorn in his side formany a long day to come; and I tell you two, again, that you don'tknow him yet; and that you'll rue the day you took compassion on thevagabond.''You take me for your nephew,' said a hollow voice; 'it would bebetter for you, and for me too, if I were he indeed.'The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowly down.He started back, for he found that he confronted--not Nicholas, ashe had supposed, but Brooker.Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had neverfeared him before; but the pallor which had been observed in hisface when he issued forth that night, came upon him again. He wasseen to tremble, and his voice changed as he said, keeping his eyesupon him,'What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, a felon,a common thief?''Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr Nickleby, hear what he has totell you, be he what he may!' cried the brothers, with such emphaticearnestness, that Ralph turned to them in wonder. They pointed toBrooker. Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemed mechanically.'That boy,' said the man, 'that these gentlemen have been talkingof--''That boy,' repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.'Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who is nowin his grave--''Who is now in his grave,' echoed Ralph, like one who talks in hissleep.The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnly together:'--Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!'In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his twohands upon his temples. He removed them, after a minute, and neverwas there seen, part of a living man undisfigured by any wound, sucha ghastly face as he then disclosed. He looked at Brooker, who wasby this time standing at a short distance from him; but did not sayone word, or make the slightest sound or gesture.'Gentlemen,' said the man, 'I offer no excuses for myself. I amlong past that. If, in telling you how this has happened, I tellyou that I was harshly used, and perhaps driven out of my realnature, I do it only as a necessary part of my story, and not toshield myself. I am a guilty man.'He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking away from Ralph, andaddressing himself to the brothers, proceeded in a subdued andhumble tone:'Among those who once had dealings with this man, gentlemen--that'sfrom twenty to five-and-twenty years ago--there was one: a roughfox-hunting, hard-drinking gentleman, who had run through his ownfortune, and wanted to squander away that of his sister: they wereboth orphans, and she lived with him and managed his house. I don'tknow whether it was, originally, to back his influence and try toover-persuade the young woman or not, but he,' pointing, to Ralph,'used to go down to the house in Leicestershire pretty often, andstop there many days at a time. They had had a great many dealingstogether, and he may have gone on some of those, or to patch up hisclient's affairs, which were in a ruinous state; of course he wentfor profit. The gentlewoman was not a girl, but she was, I haveheard say, handsome, and entitled to a pretty large property. Incourse of time, he married her. The same love of gain which led himto contract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly private;for a clause in her father's will declared that if she marriedwithout her brother's consent, the property, in which she had onlysome life interest while she remained single, should pass awayaltogether to another branch of the family. The brother would giveno consent that the sister didn't buy, and pay for handsomely; MrNickleby would consent to no such sacrifice; and so they went on,keeping their marriage secret, and waiting for him to break his neckor die of a fever. He did neither, and meanwhile the result of thisprivate marriage was a son. The child was put out to nurse, a longway off; his mother never saw him but once or twice, and then bystealth; and his father--so eagerly did he thirst after the moneywhich seemed to come almost within his grasp now, for his brother-in-law was very ill, and breaking more and more every day--neverwent near him, to avoid raising any suspicion. The brother lingeredon; Mr Nickleby's wife constantly urged him to avow their marriage;he peremptorily refused. She remained alone in a dull countryhouse: seeing little or no company but riotous, drunken sportsmen.He lived in London and clung to his business. Angry quarrels andrecriminations took place, and when they had been married nearlyseven years, and were within a few weeks of the time when thebrother's death would have adjusted all, she eloped with a youngerman, and left him.'Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signed tohim to proceed.'It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstances fromhis own lips. They were no secrets then; for the brother, andothers, knew them; but they were communicated to me, not on thisaccount, but because I was wanted. He followed the fugitives. Somesaid to make money of his wife's shame, but, I believe, to take someviolent revenge, for that was as much his character as the other;perhaps more. He didn't find them, and she died not long after. Idon't know whether he began to think he might like the child, orwhether he wished to make sure that it should never fall into itsmother's hands; but, before he went, he intrusted me with the chargeof bringing it home. And I did so.'He went on, from this point, in a still more humble tone, and spokein a very low voice; pointing to Ralph as he resumed.'He had used me ill--cruelly--I reminded him in what, not long agowhen I met him in the street--and I hated him. I brought the childhome to his own house, and lodged him in the front garret. Neglecthad made him very sickly, and I was obliged to call in a doctor, whosaid he must be removed for change of air, or he would die. I thinkthat first put it in my head. I did it then. He was gone six weeks,and when he came back, I told him--with every circumstance wellplanned and proved; nobody could have suspected me--that the childwas dead and buried. He might have been disappointed in someintention he had formed, or he might have had some naturalaffection, but he was grieved at that, and I was confirmed in mydesign of opening up the secret one day, and making it a means ofgetting money from him. I had heard, like most other men, ofYorkshire schools. I took the child to one kept by a man namedSqueers, and left it there. I gave him the name of Smike. Year byyear, I paid twenty pounds a-year for him for six years; neverbreathing the secret all the time; for I had left his father'sservice after more hard usage, and quarrelled with him again. I wassent away from this country. I have been away nearly eight years.Directly I came home again, I travelled down into Yorkshire, and,skulking in the village of an evening-time, made inquiries about theboys at the school, and found that this one, whom I had placedthere, had run away with a young man bearing the name of his ownfather. I sought his father out in London, and hinting at what Icould tell him, tried for a little money to support life; but herepulsed me with threats. I then found out his clerk, and, going onfrom little to little, and showing him that there were good reasonsfor communicating with me, learnt what was going on; and it was Iwho told him that the boy was no son of the man who claimed to behis father. All this time I had never seen the boy. At length, Iheard from this same source that he was very ill, and where he was.I travelled down there, that I might recall myself, if possible, tohis recollection and confirm my story. I came upon himunexpectedly; but before I could speak he knew me--he had good causeto remember me, poor lad!--and I would have sworn to him if I hadmet him in the Indies. I knew the piteous face I had seen in thelittle child. After a few days' indecision, I applied to the younggentleman in whose care he was, and I found that he was dead. Heknows how quickly he recognised me again, how often he had describedme and my leaving him at the school, and how he told him of a garrethe recollected: which is the one I have spoken of, and in hisfather's house to this day. This is my story. I demand to bebrought face to face with the schoolmaster, and put to any possibleproof of any part of it, and I will show that it's too true, andthat I have this guilt upon my soul.''Unhappy man!' said the brothers. 'What reparation can you make forthis?''None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing to hopenow. I am old in years, and older still in misery and care. Thisconfession can bring nothing upon me but new suffering andpunishment; but I make it, and will abide by it whatever comes. Ihave been made the instrument of working out this dreadfulretribution upon the head of a man who, in the hot pursuit of hisbad ends, has persecuted and hunted down his own child to death. Itmust descend upon me too. I know it must fall. My reparation comestoo late; and, neither in this world nor in the next, can I havehope again!'He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon the tableclose to where Ralph was seated, and which was the only one in theroom, was thrown to the ground, and left them in darkness. Therewas some trifling confusion in obtaining another light; the intervalwas a mere nothing; but when the light appeared, Ralph Nickleby wasgone.The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time indiscussing the probability of his return; and, when it becameapparent that he would not come back, they hesitated whether or noto send after him. At length, remembering how strangely andsilently he had sat in one immovable position during the interview,and thinking he might possibly be ill, they determined, although itwas now very late, to send to his house on some pretence. Findingan excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom they knew not how todispose of without consulting his wishes, they concluded to act uponthis resolution before going to bed.