Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. Itwould also appear from the Contents hereof, that aJoke, even between Husband and Wife, may besometimes carried too far.

　　There are some men who, living with the one object ofenriching themselves, no matter by what means, andbeing perfectly conscious of the baseness and rascality ofthe means which they will use every day towards this end, affectnevertheless—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, orrather—for walking implies, at least, an erect position and thebearing of a man—that ever crawled and crept through life by itsdirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries theevents of every day, and keep a regular debtor and creditoraccount with Heaven, which shall always show a floating balancein their own favour. Whether this is a gratuitous (the onlygratuitous) part of the falsehood and trickery of such men’s lives,or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven itself, and lay uptreasure in the next world by the same process which has enabledthem to lay up treasure in this—not to question how it is, so it is.

　　And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain autobiographieswhich have enlightened the world) cannot fail to proveserviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angelsome time and labour.

　　 Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding,dogged, and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, orbeyond it, save the gratification of two passions, avarice, the firstand predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second.

　　Affecting to consider himself but a type of all humanity, he was atlittle pains to conceal his true character from the world in general,and in his own heart he exulted over and cherished every baddesign as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition that RalphNickleby heeded, in the letter, was ‘know thyself.’ He knewhimself well, and choosing to imagine that all mankind were castin the same mould, hated them; for, though no man hates himself,the coldest among us having too much self-love for that, yet mostmen unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will bevery generally found that those who sneer habitually at humannature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and leastpleasant samples.

　　But the present business of these adventures is with Ralphhimself, who stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown,while that worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and spreadingthem carefully on the palm of his left hand, and flattening themwith his right to take the creases out, proceeded to roll them upwith 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. Goback again.’

　　‘No mistake,’ returned Newman. ‘Not even going; gone.’

　　‘Has he turned girl or baby?’ muttered Ralph, with a fretfulgesture.

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

　　 The repetition of the word ‘gone’ seemed to afford NewmanNoggs inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed RalphNickleby. He uttered the word with a full round emphasis,dwelling upon it as long as he decently could, and when he couldhold out no longer without attracting observation, stood gasping itto himself as if even that were a satisfaction.

　　‘And where has he gone?’ said Ralph.

　　‘France,’ replied Newman. ‘Danger of another attack oferysipelas—a worse attack—in the head. So the doctors orderedhim 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 theretaliation 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; inthat case I should only be the more determined to have it, and thatwithout delay—I mean if I were he. But he’s too ill! Poor SirMulberry! Too ill!’

　　Uttering these words with supreme contempt and greatirritation of manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave theroom; and throwing himself into his chair, beat his footimpatiently upon the ground.

　　‘There is some spell about that boy,’ said Ralph, grinding histeeth. ‘Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune’sfavours! What is even money to such Devil’s luck as this?’

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

　　‘This Hawk will come back, however,’ muttered Ralph; ‘and if Iknow the man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lostnothing of its violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live inretirement—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. Heis not likely to forget his obligations to the cause of all this. Fewmen would; but he of all others? No, no!’

　　He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon hishand, fell a musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose andrang 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 beenhere 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 ninetonight—let him wait. And if there’s another man with him, asthere will be—perhaps,’ said Ralph, checking himself, ‘let him waittoo.’

　　‘Let ’em both wait?’ said Newman.

　　‘Ay,’ replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. ‘Helpme on with this spencer, and don’t repeat after me, like a croakingparrot.’

　　‘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 lookedover Ralph’s shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collarof the spencer behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed totweak him by the nose. Meeting Ralph’s eye, however, hesuddenly recalled his wandering fingers, and rubbed his own rednose with a vehemence quite astonishing.

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

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

　　It was evening before a long round of such visits (interruptedonly 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 puckeredbrow and firmly-set mouth would have abundantly testified, evenif they had been unaccompanied by a complete indifference to, orunconsciousness of, the objects about him. So complete was hisabstraction, however, that Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as anyman, did not observe that he was followed by a shambling figure,which at one time stole behind him with noiseless footsteps, atanother crept a few paces before him, and at another glided alongby his side; at all times regarding him with an eye so keen, and alook so eager and attentive, that it was more like the expression ofan intrusive face in some powerful picture or strongly markeddream, than the scrutiny even of a most interested and anxiousobserver.

　　The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and thecommencement of a violent storm of rain drove Ralph for shelterto a tree. He was leaning against it with folded arms, still buried inthought, when, happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met thoseof a man who, creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a searching look. There was something in the usurer’s expressionat the moment, which the man appeared to remember well, for itdecided him; and stepping close up to Ralph, he pronounced hisname.

　　Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of pacesand surveyed him from head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man,of about his own age, with a stooping body, and a very sinister facerendered more ill-favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeplysunburnt, and thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with theperfect whiteness of his hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments,of a strange and uncouth make; and having about him anindefinable manner of depression and degradation—this, for amoment, was all he saw. But he looked again, and the face andperson seemed gradually to grow less strange; to change as helooked, to subside and soften into lineaments that were familiar,until at last they resolved themselves, as if by some strange opticalillusion, 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 beckoningto Ralph to take his former place under the tree, and not to standin the falling rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been quiteregardless, 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. ‘Thoughthere is something in that, that I remember now.’

　　‘There is little in me that you can call to mind as having beenthere 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 theother, ‘this reception, and your manner, would have decided mevery 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, duringwhich he had seemed to struggle with an inclination to answerhim by some reproach, ‘will you hear a few words that I have tosay?’

　　‘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 myears, 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 everchose 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 ofhumanity.’

　　‘Of what?’ said Ralph.

　　‘Of humanity,’ replied the other, sternly. ‘I am hungry and inwant. If the change that you must see in me after so long anabsence—must see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow andhard degrees, see it and know it well—will not move you to pity, letthe knowledge that bread; not the daily bread of the Lord’s Prayer, which, as it is offered up in cities like this, is understood toinclude half the luxuries of the world for the rich, and just as muchcoarse food as will support life for the poor—not that, but bread, acrust of dry hard bread, is beyond my reach today—let that havesome weight with you, if nothing else has.’

　　‘If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,’ said Ralph, ‘youhave studied your part well; but if you will take advice from onewho knows something of the world and its ways, I shouldrecommend a lower tone; a little lower tone, or you stand a fairchance of being starved in good earnest.’

　　As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with hisright hand, and inclining his head a little on one side and droppinghis chin upon his breast, looked at him whom he addressed with afrowning, sullen face. The very picture of a man whom nothingcould 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 yourlast also,’ replied Ralph.

　　‘I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought youwere 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 ofencountering 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 yearsold, and as destitute and helpless as a child of six.’

　　‘I am sixty years old, too,’ replied Ralph, ‘and am neitherdestitute 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 yougive them to me—will you?’

　　‘I did once,’ replied Ralph, composedly; ‘you scarcely need askme whether I will again.’

　　‘It’s twenty years ago, or more,’ said the man, in a suppressedvoice, ‘since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed ashare in the profits of some business I brought to you, and, as Ipersisted, you arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, oddshillings, including interest at fifty per cent, or so.’

　　‘I remember something of it,’ replied Ralph, carelessly. ‘Whatthen?’

　　‘That didn’t part us,’ said the man. ‘I made submission, beingon the wrong side of the bolts and bars; and as you were not themade man then that you are now, you were glad enough to takeback a clerk who wasn’t over nice, and who knew something of thetrade you drove.’

　　‘You begged and prayed, and I consented,’ returned Ralph.

　　‘That was kind of me. Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I shouldthink 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; butuseful.’

　　‘Useful, indeed!’ said the man. ‘Come. You had pinched andground me down for some years before that, but I had served youfaithfully 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 yourwork. 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 justsaid) 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 ofthat, and partly in the hope of making money someday by thescheme, I took advantage of my position about you, and possessedmyself of a hold upon you, which you would give half of all youhave to know, and never can know but through me. I left you—long after that time, remember—and, for some poor trickery thatcame within the law, but was nothing to what you money-makersdaily practise just outside its bounds, was sent away a convict forseven years. I have returned what you see me. Now, Mr Nickl............