Chapter 44

Nicholas Nickleby

by Charles Dickens

Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. It would also appear
from the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and Wife,
may be sometimes carried too far

There are some men who, living with the one object of enriching
themselves, no matter by what means, and being perfectly conscious of
the baseness and rascality of the means which they will use every day
towards this end, affect nevertheless--even to themselves--a high
tone of moral rectitude, and shake their heads and sigh over the
depravity of the world. Some of the craftiest scoundrels that ever
walked this earth, or rather--for walking implies, at least, an erect
position and the bearing of a man--that ever crawled and crept
through life by its dirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot
down in diaries the events of every day, and keep a regular debtor
and creditor account with Heaven, which shall always show a floating
balance in their own favour. Whether this is a gratuitous (the only
gratuitous) part of the falsehood and trickery of such men's lives,
or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven itself, and lay up
treasure in the next world by the same process which has enabled them
to lay up treasure in this--not to question how it is, so it is.
And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain autobiographies which
have enlightened the world) cannot fail to prove serviceable, in the
one respect of sparing the recording Angel some time and labour.

Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding,
dogged, and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond
it, save the gratification of two passions, avarice, the first and
predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second. Affecting
to consider himself but a type of all humanity, he was at little
pains to conceal his true character from the world in general, and in
his own heart he exulted over and cherished every bad design as it
had birth. The only scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby
heeded, in the letter, was 'know thyself.' He knew himself well, and
choosing to imagine that all mankind were cast in the same mould,
hated them; for, though no man hates himself, the coldest among us
having too much self-love for that, yet most men unconsciously judge
the world from themselves, and it will be very generally found that
those who sneer habitually at human nature, and affect to despise it,
are among its worst and least pleasant samples.

But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph
himself, who stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while
that worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and spreading them
carefully on the palm of his left hand, and flattening them with his
right to take the creases out, proceeded to roll them up with an
absent air as if he were utterly regardless of all things else, in
the deep interest of the ceremonial.

'Gone out of town!' said Ralph, slowly. 'A mistake of yours.
Go back again.'

'No mistake,' returned Newman. 'Not even going; gone.'

'Has he turned girl or baby?' muttered Ralph, with a fretful
gesture.

'I don't know,' said Newman, 'but he's gone.'

The repetition of the word 'gone' seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He
uttered the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as long
as he decently could, and when he could hold out no longer without
attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if even that
were a satisfaction.

'And where has he gone?' said Ralph.

'France,' replied Newman. 'Danger of another attack of
erysipelas --a worse attack--in the head. So the doctors ordered him
off. And he's gone.'

'And Lord Frederick--?' began Ralph.

'He's gone too,' replied Newman.

'And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?' said Ralph,
turning away; 'pockets his bruises, and sneaks off without the
retaliation of a word, or seeking the smallest reparation!'

'He's too ill,' said Newman.

'Too ill!' repeated Ralph. 'Why I would have it if I were
dying; in that case I should only be the more determined to have it,
and that without delay--I mean if I were he. But he's too ill! Poor
Sir Mulberry! Too ill!'

Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation
of manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave the room; and
throwing himself into his chair, beat his foot impatiently upon the
ground.

'There is some spell about that boy,' said Ralph, grinding his
teeth. 'Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune's
favours! What is even money to such Devil's luck as this?'

He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, but
notwithstanding his previous reflection there was some consolation
there, for his face relaxed a little; and although there was still a
deep frown upon the contracted brow, it was one of calculation, and
not of disappointment.

'This Hawk will come back, however,' muttered Ralph; 'and if I
know the man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lost
nothing of its violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live in
retirement--the monotony of a sick-room to a man of his habits--no
life--no drink--no play--nothing that he likes and lives by. He is
not likely to forget his obligations to the cause of all this. Few
men would; but he of all others? No, no!'

He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon his
hand, fell a musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose and rang
the bell.

'That Mr Squeers; has he been here?' said Ralph.

'He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,'
returned Newman.

'I know that, fool, do I not?' said Ralph, irascibly. 'Has he
been here since? Was he here this morning?'

'No,' bawled Newman, in a very loud key.

'If he comes while I am out--he is pretty sure to be here by
nine tonight--let him wait. And if there's another man with him, as
there will be--perhaps,' said Ralph, checking himself, 'let him wait
too.'

'Let 'em both wait?' said Newman.

'Ay,' replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. 'Help
me on with this spencer, and don't repeat after me, like a croaking
parrot.'

'I wish I was a parrot,' Newman, sulkily.

'I wish you were,' rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; 'I'd
have wrung your neck long ago.'

Newman returned no answer to this compliment, but looked over
Ralph's shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the
spencer behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed to tweak
him by the nose. Meeting Ralph's eye, however, he suddenly recalled
his wandering fingers, and rubbed his own red nose with a vehemence
quite astonishing.

Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than a
threatening look, and an admonition to be careful and make no
mistake, Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked out.

He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneous
connection, and very odd calls he made, some at great rich houses,
and some at small poor ones, but all upon one subject: money. His
face was a talisman to the porters and servants of his more dashing
clients, and procured him ready admission, though he trudged on foot,
and others, who were denied, rattled to the door in carriages. Here
he was all softness and cringing civility; his step so light, that it
scarcely produced a sound upon the thick carpets; his voice so soft
that it was not audible beyond the person to whom it was addressed.
But in the poorer habitations Ralph was another man; his boots
creaked upon the passage floor as he walked boldly in; his voice was
harsh and loud as he demanded the money that was overdue; his threats
were coarse and angry. With another class of customers, Ralph was
again another man. These were attorneys of more than doubtful
reputation, who helped him to new business, or raised fresh profits
upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and jocose, humorous upon the
topics of the day, and especially pleasant upon bankruptcies and
pecuniary difficulties that made good for trade. In short, it would
have been difficult to have recognised the same man under these
various aspects, but for the bulky leather case full of bills and
notes which he drew from his pocket at every house, and the constant
repetition of the same complaint, (varied only in tone and style of
delivery,) that the world thought him rich, and that perhaps he might
be if he had his own; but there was no getting money in when it was
once out, either principal or interest, and it was a hard matter to
live; even to live from day to day.

It was evening before a long round of such visits (interrupted
only by a scanty dinner at an eating-house) terminated at Pimlico,
and Ralph walked along St James's Park, on his way home.

There were some deep schemes in his head, as the puckered brow
and firmly-set mouth would have abundantly testified, even if they
had been unaccompanied by a complete indifference to, or
unconsciousness of, the objects about him. So complete was his
abstraction, however, that Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as any
man, did not observe that he was followed by a shambling figure,
which at one time stole behind him with noiseless footsteps, at
another crept a few paces before him, and at another glided along by
his side; at all times regarding him with an eye so keen, and a look
so eager and attentive, that it was more like the expression of an
intrusive face in some powerful picture or strongly marked dream,
than the scrutiny even of a most interested and anxious observer.

The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and the
commencement of a violent storm of rain drove Ralph for shelter to a
tree. He was leaning against it with folded arms, still buried in
thought, when, happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met those of
a man who, creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a
searching look. There was something in the usurer's expression at
the moment, which the man appeared to remember well, for it decided
him; and stepping close up to Ralph, he pronounced his name.

Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of paces and
surveyed him from head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man, of
about his own age, with a stooping body, and a very sinister face
rendered more ill-favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeply
sunburnt, and thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with the
perfect whiteness of his hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments, of
a strange and uncouth make; and having about him an indefinable
manner of depression and degradation--this, for a moment, was all he
saw. But he looked again, and the face and person seemed gradually
to grow less strange; to change as he looked, to subside and soften
into lineaments that were familiar, until at last they resolved
themselves, as if by some strange optical illusion, into those of one
whom he had known for many years, and forgotten and lost sight of for
nearly as many more.

The man saw that the recognition was mutual, and beckoning to
Ralph to take his former place under the tree, and not to stand in
the falling rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been quite
regardless, addressed him in a hoarse, faint tone.

'You would hardly have known me from my voice, I suppose, Mr
Nickleby?' he said.

'No,' returned Ralph, bending a severe look upon him. 'Though
there is something in that, that I remember now.'

'There is little in me that you can call to mind as having been
there eight years ago, I dare say?' observed the other.

'Quite enough,' said Ralph, carelessly, and averting his face.
'More than enough.'

'If I had remained in doubt about you, Mr Nickleby,' said the
other, 'this reception, and your manner, would have decided me very
soon.'

'Did you expect any other?' asked Ralph, sharply.

'No!' said the man.

'You were right,' retorted Ralph; 'and as you feel no surprise,
need express none.'

'Mr Nickleby,' said the man, bluntly, after a brief pause,
during which he had seemed to struggle with an inclination to answer
him by some reproach, 'will you hear a few words that I have to
say?'

'I am obliged to wait here till the rain holds a little,' said
Ralph, looking abroad. 'If you talk, sir, I shall not put my fingers
in my ears, though your talking may have as much effect as if I
did.'

'I was once in your confidence--' thus his companion began.
Ralph looked round, and smiled involuntarily.

'Well,' said the other, 'as much in your confidence as you ever
chose to let anybody be.'

'Ah!' rejoined Ralph, folding his arms; 'that's another thing,
quite another thing.'

'Don't let us play upon words, Mr Nickleby, in the name of
humanity.'

'Of what?' said Ralph.

'Of humanity,' replied the other, sternly. 'I am hungry and in
want. If the change that you must see in me after so long an
absence--must see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow and hard
degrees, see it and know it well--will not move you to pity, let the
knowledge that bread; not the daily bread of the Lord's Prayer,
which, as it is offered up in cities like this, is understood to
include half the luxuries of the world for the rich, and just as much
coarse food as will support life for the poor--not that, but bread, a
crust of dry hard bread, is beyond my reach today--let that have some
weight with you, if nothing else has.'

'If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,' said Ralph,
'you have studied your part well; but if you will take advice from
one who knows something of the world and its ways, I should recommend
a lower tone; a little lower tone, or you stand a fair chance of
being starved in good earnest.'

As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with his
right hand, and inclining his head a little on one side and dropping
his chin upon his breast, looked at him whom he addressed with a
frowning, sullen face. The very picture of a man whom nothing could
move or soften.

'Yesterday was my first day in London,' said the old man,
glancing at his travel-stained dress and worn shoes.

'It would have been better for you, I think, if it had been your
last also,' replied Ralph.

'I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought you
were most likely to be found,' resumed the other more humbly, 'and I
met you here at last, when I had almost given up the hope of
encountering you, Mr Nickleby.'

He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph giving him none, he
continued:

'I am a most miserable and wretched outcast, nearly sixty years
old, and as destitute and helpless as a child of six.'

'I am sixty years old, too,' replied Ralph, 'and am neither
destitute nor helpless. Work. Don't make fine play-acting speeches
about bread, but earn it.'

'How?' cried the other. 'Where? Show me the means. Will you
give them to me--will you?'

'I did once,' replied Ralph, composedly; 'you scarcely need ask
me whether I will again.'

'It's twenty years ago, or more,' said the man, in a suppressed
voice, 'since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed a
share in the profits of some business I brought to you, and, as I
persisted, you arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, odd
shillings, including interest at fifty per cent, or so.'

'I remember something of it,' replied Ralph, carelessly. 'What
then?'

'That didn't part us,' said the man. 'I made submission, being
on the wrong side of the bolts and bars; and as you were not the made
man then that you are now, you were glad enough to take back a clerk
who wasn't over nice, and who knew something of the trade you
drove.'

'You begged and prayed, and I consented,' returned Ralph. 'That
was kind of me. Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I should think I
did, or you would have begged in vain. You were useful; not too
honest, not too delicate, not too nice of hand or heart; but
useful.'

'Useful, indeed!' said the man. 'Come. You had pinched and
ground me down for some years before that, but I had served you
faithfully up to that time, in spite of all your dog's usage. Had
I?'

Ralph made no reply.

'Had I?' said the man again.

'You had had your wages,' rejoined Ralph, 'and had done your
work. We stood on equal ground so far, and could both cry quits.'

'Then, but not afterwards,' said the other.

'Not afterwards, certainly, nor even then, for (as you have just
said) you owed me money, and do still,' replied Ralph.

'That's not all,' said the man, eagerly. 'That's not all. Mark
that. I didn't forget that old sore, trust me. Partly in
remembrance of that, and partly in the hope of making money someday
by the scheme, I took advantage of my position about you, and
possessed myself of a hold upon you, which you would give half of all
you have to know, and never can know but through me. I left
you--long after that time, remember--and, for some poor trickery that
came within the law, but was nothing to what you money-makers daily
practise just outside its bounds, was sent away a convict for seven
years. I have returned what you see me. Now, Mr Nickleby,' said the
man, with a strange mixture of humility and sense of power, 'what
help and assistance will you give me; what bribe, to speak out
plainly? My expectations are not monstrous, but I must live, and to
live I must eat and drink. Money is on your side, and hunger and
thirst on mine. You may drive an easy bargain.'

'Is that all?' said Ralph, still eyeing his companion with the
same steady look, and moving nothing but his lips.

'It depends on you, Mr Nickleby, whether that's all or not,' was
the rejoinder.

'Why then, harkye, Mr--, I don't know by what name I am to call
you,' said Ralph.

'By my old one, if you like.'

'Why then, harkye, Mr Brooker,' said Ralph, in his harshest
accents, 'and don't expect to draw another speech from me. Harkye,
sir. I know you of old for a ready scoundrel, but you never had a
stout heart; and hard work, with (maybe) chains upon those legs of
yours, and shorter food than when I "pinched" and "ground" you, has
blunted your wits, or you would not come with such a tale as this to
me. You a hold upon me! Keep it, or publish it to the world, if you
like.'

'I can't do that,' interposed Brooker. 'That wouldn't serve
me.'

'Wouldn't it?' said Ralph. 'It will serve you as much as
bringing it to me, I promise you. To be plain with you, I am a
careful man, and know my affairs thoroughly. I know the world, and
the world knows me. Whatever you gleaned, or heard, or saw, when you
served me, the world knows and magnifies already. You could tell it
nothing that would surprise it, unless, indeed, it redounded to my
credit or honour, and then it would scout you for a liar. And yet I
don't find business slack, or clients scrupulous. Quite the
contrary. I am reviled or threatened every day by one man or
another,' said Ralph; 'but things roll on just the same, and I don't
grow poorer either.'

'I neither revile nor threaten,' rejoined the man. 'I can tell
you of what you have lost by my act, what I only can restore, and
what, if I die without restoring, dies with me, and never can be
regained.'

'I tell my money pretty accurately, and generally keep it in my
own custody,' said Ralph. 'I look sharply after most men that I deal
with, and most of all I looked sharply after you. You are welcome to
all you have kept from me.'

'Are those of your own name dear to you?' said the man
emphatically. 'If they are--'

'They are not,' returned Ralph, exasperated at this
perseverance, and the thought of Nicholas, which the last question
awakened. 'They are not. If you had come as a common beggar, I might
have thrown a sixpence to you in remembrance of the clever knave you
used to be; but since you try to palm these stale tricks upon one you
might have known better, I'll not part with a halfpenny--nor would I
to save you from rotting. And remember this, 'scape-gallows,' said
Ralph, menacing him with his hand, 'that if we meet again, and you so
much as notice me by one begging gesture, you shall see the inside of
a jail once more, and tighten this hold upon me in intervals of the
hard labour that vagabonds are put to. There's my answer to your
trash. Take it.'

With a disdainful scowl at the object of his anger, who met his
eye but uttered not a word, Ralph walked away at his usual pace,
without manifesting the slightest curiosity to see what became of his
late companion, or indeed once looking behind him. The man remained
on the same spot with his eyes fixed upon his retreating figure until
it was lost to view, and then drawing his arm about his chest, as if
the damp and lack of food struck coldly to him, lingered with
slouching steps by the wayside, and begged of those who passed
along.

Ralph, in no-wise moved by what had lately passed, further than
as he had already expressed himself, walked deliberately on, and
turning out of the Park and leaving Golden Square on his right, took
his way through some streets at the west end of the town until he
arrived in that particular one in which stood the residence of Madame
Mantalini. The name of that lady no longer appeared on the flaming
door-plate, that of Miss Knag being substituted in its stead; but the
bonnets and dresses were still dimly visible in the first-floor
windows by the decaying light of a summer's evening, and excepting
this ostensible alteration in the proprietorship, the establishment
wore its old appearance.

'Humph!' muttered Ralph, drawing his hand across his mouth with
a connoisseur-like air, and surveying the house from top to bottom;
'these people look pretty well. They can't last long; but if I know
of their going in good time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. I
must keep them closely in view; that's all.'

So, nodding his head very complacently, Ralph was leaving the
spot, when his quick ear caught the sound of a confused noise and
hubbub of voices, mingled with a great running up and down stairs, in
the very house which had been the subject of his scrutiny; and while
he was hesitating whether to knock at the door or listen at the
keyhole a little longer, a female servant of Madame Mantalini's (whom
he had often seen) opened it abruptly and bounced out, with her blue
cap- ribbons streaming in the air.

'Hallo here. Stop!' cried Ralph. 'What's the matter? Here am
I. Didn't you hear me knock?'

'Oh! Mr Nickleby, sir,' said the girl. 'Go up, for the love of
Gracious. Master's been and done it again.'

'Done what?' said Ralph, tartly; 'what d'ye mean?'

'I knew he would if he was drove to it,' cried the girl. 'I
said so all along.'

'Come here, you silly wench,' said Ralph, catching her by the
wrist; 'and don't carry family matters to the neighbours, destroying
the credit of the establishment. Come here; do you hear me,
girl?'

Without any further expostulation, he led or rather pulled the
frightened handmaid into the house, and shut the door; then bidding
her walk upstairs before him, followed without more ceremony.

Guided by the noise of a great many voices all talking together,
and passing the girl in his impatience, before they had ascended many
steps, Ralph quickly reached the private sitting-room, when he was
rather amazed by the confused and inexplicable scene in which he
suddenly found himself.

There were all the young-lady workers, some with bonnets and
some without, in various attitudes expressive of alarm and
consternation; some gathered round Madame Mantalini, who was in tears
upon one chair; and others round Miss Knag, who was in opposition
tears upon another; and others round Mr Mantalini, who was perhaps
the most striking figure in the whole group, for Mr Mantalini's legs
were extended at full length upon the floor, and his head and
shoulders were supported by a very tall footman, who didn't seem to
know what to do with them, and Mr Mantalini's eyes were closed, and
his face was pale and his hair was comparatively straight, and his
whiskers and moustache were limp, and his teeth were clenched, and he
had a little bottle in his right hand, and a little tea-spoon in his
left; and his hands, arms, legs, and shoulders, were all stiff and
powerless. And yet Madame Mantalini was not weeping upon the body,
but was scolding violently upon her chair; and all this amidst a
clamour of tongues perfectly deafening, and which really appeared to
have driven the unfortunate footman to the utmost verge of
distraction.

'What is the matter here?' said Ralph, pressing forward.

At this inquiry, the clamour was increased twenty-fold, and an
astounding string of such shrill contradictions as 'He's poisoned
himself'--'He hasn't'--'Send for a doctor'--'Don't'--'He's dying'--
'He isn't, he's only pretending'--with various other cries, poured
forth with bewildering volubility, until Madame Mantalini was seen to
address herself to Ralph, when female curiosity to know what she
would say, prevailed, and, as if by general consent, a dead silence,
unbroken by a single whisper, instantaneously succeeded.

'Mr Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini; 'by what chance you came
here, I don't know.'

Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate, as part of the
wanderings of a sick man, the words 'Demnition sweetness!' but nobody
heeded them except the footman, who, being startled to hear such
awful tones proceeding, as it were, from between his very fingers,
dropped his master's head upon the floor with a pretty loud crash,
and then, without an effort to lift it up, gazed upon the bystanders,
as if he had done something rather clever than otherwise.

'I will, however,' continued Madame Mantalini, drying her eyes,
and speaking with great indignation, 'say before you, and before
everybody here, for the first time, and once for all, that I never
will supply that man's extravagances and viciousness again. I have
been a dupe and a fool to him long enough. In future, he shall
support himself if he can, and then he may spend what money he
pleases, upon whom and how he pleases; but it shall not be mine, and
therefore you had better pause before you trust him further.'

Thereupon Madame Mantalini, quite unmoved by some most pathetic
lamentations on the part of her husband, that the apothecary had not
mixed the prussic acid strong enough, and that he must take another
bottle or two to finish the work he had in hand, entered into a
catalogue of that amiable gentleman's gallantries, deceptions,
extravagances, and infidelities (especially the last), winding up
with a protest against being supposed to entertain the smallest
remnant of regard for him; and adducing, in proof of the altered
state of her affections, the circumstance of his having poisoned
himself in private no less than six times within the last fortnight,
and her not having once interfered by word or deed to save his
life.

'And I insist on being separated and left to myself,' said
Madame Mantalini, sobbing. 'If he dares to refuse me a separation,
I'll have one in law--I can--and I hope this will be a warning to all
girls who have seen this disgraceful exhibition.'

Miss Knag, who was unquestionably the oldest girl in company,
said with great solemnity, that it would be a warning to her, and so
did the young ladies generally, with the exception of one or two who
appeared to entertain some doubts whether such whispers could do
wrong.

'Why do you say all this before so many listeners?' said Ralph,
in a low voice. 'You know you are not in earnest.'

'I am in earnest,' replied Madame Mantalini, aloud, and
retreating towards Miss Knag.

'Well, but consider,' reasoned Ralph, who had a great interest
in the matter. 'It would be well to reflect. A married woman has no
property.'

'Not a solitary single individual dem, my soul,' and Mr
Mantalini, raising himself upon his elbow.

'I am quite aware of that,' retorted Madame Mantalini, tossing
her head; 'and I have none. The business, the stock, this house, and
everything in it, all belong to Miss Knag.'

'That's quite true, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, with whom
her late employer had secretly come to an amicable understanding on
this point. 'Very true, indeed, Madame Mantalini--hem--very true.
And I never was more glad in all my life, that I had strength of mind
to resist matrimonial offers, no matter how advantageous, than I am
when I think of my present position as compared with your most
unfortunate and most undeserved one, Madame Mantalini.'

'Demmit!' cried Mr Mantalini, turning his head towards his wife.
'Will it not slap and pinch the envious dowager, that dares to
reflect upon its own delicious?'

But the day of Mr Mantalini's blandishments had departed. 'Miss
Knag, sir,' said his wife, 'is my particular friend;' and although Mr
Mantalini leered till his eyes seemed in danger of never coming back
to their right places again, Madame Mantalini showed no signs of
softening.

To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she had been mainly
instrumental in bringing about this altered state of things, for,
finding by daily experience, that there was no chance of the business
thriving, or even continuing to exist, while Mr Mantalini had any
hand in the expenditure, and having now a considerable interest in
its well-doing, she had sedulously applied herself to the
investigation of some little matters connected with that gentleman's
private character, which she had so well elucidated, and artfully
imparted to Madame Mantalini, as to open her eyes more effectually
than the closest and most philosophical reasoning could have done in
a series of years. To which end, the accidental discovery by Miss
Knag of some tender correspondence, in which Madame Mantalini was
described as 'old' and 'ordinary,' had most providentially
contributed.

However, notwithstanding her firmness, Madame Mantalini wept
very piteously; and as she leant upon Miss Knag, and signed towards
the door, that young lady and all the other young ladies with
sympathising faces, proceeded to bear her out.

'Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini in tears, 'you have been made a
witness to this demnition cruelty, on the part of the demdest
enslaver and captivator that never was, oh dem! I forgive that
woman.'

'Forgive!' repeated Madame Mantalini, angrily.

'I do forgive her, Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini. 'You will
blame me, the world will blame me, the women will blame me; everybody
will laugh, and scoff, and smile, and grin most demnebly. They will
say, "She had a blessing. She did not know it. He was too weak; he
was too good; he was a dem'd fine fellow, but he loved too strong; he
could not bear her to be cross, and call him wicked names. It was a
dem'd case, there never was a demder." But I forgive her.'

With this affecting speech Mr Mantalini fell down again very
flat, and lay to all appearance without sense or motion, until all
the females had left the room, when he came cautiously into a sitting
posture, and confronted Ralph with a very blank face, and the little
bottle still in one hand and the tea-spoon in the other.

'You may put away those fooleries now, and live by your wits
again,' said Ralph, coolly putting on his hat.

'Demmit, Nickleby, you're not serious?'

'I seldom joke,' said Ralph. 'Good-night.'

'No, but Nickleby--' said Mantalini.

'I am wrong, perhaps,' rejoined Ralph. 'I hope so. You should
know best. Good-night.'

Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he would stay and
advise with him, Ralph left the crest-fallen Mr Mantalini to his
meditations, and left the house quietly.

'Oho!' he said, 'sets the wind that way so soon? Half knave and
half fool, and detected in both characters? I think your day is
over, sir.'

As he said this, he made some memorandum in his pocket-book in
which Mr Mantalini's name figured conspicuously, and finding by his
watch that it was between nine and ten o'clock, made all speed
home.

'Are they here?' was the first question he asked of Newman.

Newman nodded. 'Been here half an hour.'

'Two of them? One a fat sleek man?'

'Ay,' said Newman. 'In your room now.'

'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Get me a coach.'

'A coach! What, you--going to--eh?' stammered Newman.

Ralph angrily repeated his orders, and Noggs, who might well
have been excused for wondering at such an unusual and extraordinary
circumstance (for he had never seen Ralph in a coach in his life)
departed on his errand, and presently returned with the
conveyance.

Into it went Mr Squeers, and Ralph, and the third man, whom
Newman Noggs had never seen. Newman stood upon the door-step to see
them off, not troubling himself to wonder where or upon what business
they were going, until he chanced by mere accident to hear Ralph name
the address whither the coachman was to drive.

Quick as lightning and in a state of the most extreme wonder,
Newman darted into his little office for his hat, and limped after
the coach as if with the intention of getting up behind; but in this
design he was balked, for it had too much the start of him and was
soon hopelessly ahead, leaving him gaping in the empty street.

'I don't know though,' said Noggs, stopping for breath, 'any
good that I could have done by going too. He would have seen me if I
had. Drive there! What can come of this? If I had only known it
yesterday I could have told--drive there! There's mischief in it.
There must be.'

His reflections were interrupted by a grey-haired man of a very
remarkable, though far from prepossessing appearance, who, coming
stealthily towards him, solicited relief.

Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away; but the man
followed him, and pressed him with such a tale of misery that Newman
(who might have been considered a hopeless person to beg from, and
who had little enough to give) looked into his hat for some halfpence
which he usually kept screwed up, when he had any, in a corner of his
pocket-handkerchief.

While he was busily untwisting the knot with his teeth, the man
said something which attracted his attention; whatever that something
was, it led to something else, and in the end he and Newman walked
away side by side--the strange man talking earnestly, and Newman
listening.