Чарльз Диккенс
Nicholas Nickleby
‘I can’t hear what you say – don’t talk to me – it isn’t safe – go away – go away!’ returned Gride.
‘Come down, I say. Will you come down?’ said Ralph fiercely.
‘No – o – o – oo,’ snarled Gride. He drew in his head; and Ralph, left standing in the street, could hear the sash closed, as gently and carefully as it had been opened.
‘How is this,’ said he, ‘that they all fall from me, and shun me like the plague, these men who have licked the dust from my feet? is my day past, and is this indeed the coming on of night? I’ll know what it means! I will, at any cost. I am firmer and more myself, just now, than I have been these many days.’
Turning from the door, which, in the first transport of his rage, he had meditated battering upon until Gride’s very fears should impel him to open it, he turned his face towards the city, and working his way steadily through the crowd which was pouring from it (it was by this time between five and six o’clock in the afternoon) went straight to the house of business of the brothers Cheeryble, and putting his head into the glass case, found Tim Linkinwater alone.
‘My name’s Nickleby,’ said Ralph.
‘I know it,’ replied Tim, surveying him through his spectacles.
‘Which of your firm was it who called on me this morning?’ demanded Ralph.
‘Mr. Charles.’
‘Then, tell Mr. Charles I want to see him.’
‘You shall see,’ said Tim, getting off his stool with great agility, ‘you shall see, not only Mr. Charles, but Mr. Ned likewise.’
Tim stopped, looked steadily and severely at Ralph, nodded his head once, in a curt manner which seemed to say there was a little more behind, and vanished. After a short interval, he returned, and, ushering Ralph into the presence of the two brothers, remained in the room himself.
‘I want to speak to you, who spoke to me this morning,’ said Ralph, pointing out with his finger the man whom he addressed.
‘I have no secrets from my brother Ned, or from Tim Linkinwater,’ observed brother Charles quietly.
‘I have,’ said Ralph.
‘Mr. Nickleby, sir,’ said brother Ned, ‘the matter upon which my brother Charles called upon you this morning is one which is already perfectly well known to us three, and to others besides, and must unhappily soon become known to a great many more. He waited upon you, sir, this morning, alone, as a matter of delicacy and consideration. We feel, now, that further delicacy and consideration would be misplaced; and, if we confer together, it must be as we are or not at all.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Ralph with a curl of the lip, ‘talking in riddles would seem to be the peculiar forte of you two, and I suppose your clerk, like a prudent man, has studied the art also with a view to your good graces. Talk in company, gentlemen, in God’s name. I’ll humour you.’
‘Humour!’ cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly growing very red in the face. ‘He’ll humour us! He’ll humour Cheeryble Brothers! Do you hear that? Do you hear him? Do you hear him say he’ll humour Cheeryble Brothers?’
‘Tim,’ said Charles and Ned together, ‘pray, Tim, pray now, don’t.’
Tim, taking the hint, stifled his indignation as well as he could, and suffered it to escape through his spectacles, with the additional safety-valve of a short hysterical laugh now and then, which seemed to relieve him mightily.
‘As nobody bids me to a seat,’ said Ralph, looking round, ‘I’ll take one, for I am fatigued with walking. And now, if you please, gentlemen, I wish to know – I demand to know; I have the right – what you have to say to me, which justifies such a tone as you have assumed, and that underhand interference in my affairs which, I have reason to suppose, you have been practising. I tell you plainly, gentlemen, that little as I care for the opinion of the world (as the slang goes), I don’t choose to submit quietly to slander and malice. Whether you suffer yourselves to be imposed upon too easily, or wilfully make yourselves parties to it, the result to me is the same. In either case, you can’t expect from a plain man like myself much consideration or forbearance.’
So coolly and deliberately was this said, that nine men out of ten, ignorant of the circumstances, would have supposed Ralph to be really an injured man. There he sat, with folded arms; paler than usual, certainly, and sufficiently ill-favoured, but quite collected – far more so than the brothers or the exasperated Tim – and ready to face out the worst.
‘Very well, sir,’ said brother Charles. ‘Very well. Brother Ned, will you ring the bell?’
‘Charles, my dear fellow! stop one instant,’ returned the other. ‘It will be better for Mr. Nickleby and for our object that he should remain silent, if he can, till we have said what we have to say. I wish him to understand that.’
‘Quite right, quite right,’ said brother Charles.
Ralph smiled, but made no reply. The bell was rung; the room-door opened; a man came in, with a halting walk; and, looking round, Ralph’s eyes met those of Newman Noggs. From that moment, his heart began to fail him.
‘This is a good beginning,’ he said bitterly. ‘Oh! this is a good beginning. You are candid, honest, open-hearted, fair-dealing men! I always knew the real worth of such characters as yours! To tamper with a fellow like this, who would sell his soul (if he had one) for drink, and whose every word is a lie. What men are safe if this is done? Oh, it’s a good beginning!’
‘I will speak,’ cried Newman, standing on tiptoe to look over Tim’s head, who had interposed to prevent him. ‘Hallo, you sir – old Nickleby! – what do you mean when you talk of “a fellow like this”? Who made me “a fellow like this”? If I would sell my soul for drink, why wasn’t I a thief, swindler, housebreaker, area sneak, robber of pence out of the trays of blind men’s dogs, rather than your drudge and packhorse? If my every word was a lie, why wasn’t I a pet and favourite of yours? Lie! When did I ever cringe and fawn to you. Tell me that! I served you faithfully. I did more work, because I was poor, and took more hard words from you because I despised you and them, than any man you could have got from the parish workhouse. I did. I served you because I was proud; because I was a lonely man with you, and there were no other drudges to see my degradation; and because nobody knew, better than you, that I was a ruined man: that I hadn’t always been what I am: and that I might have been better off, if I hadn’t been a fool and fallen into the hands of you and others who were knaves. Do you deny that?’
‘Gently,’ reasoned Tim; ‘you said you wouldn’t.’
‘I said I wouldn’t!’ cried Newman, thrusting him aside, and moving his hand as Tim moved, so as to keep him at arm’s length; ‘don’t tell me! Here, you Nickleby! Don’t pretend not to mind me; it won’t do; I know better. You were talking of tampering, just now. Who tampered with Yorkshire schoolmasters, and, while they sent the drudge out, that he shouldn’t overhear, forgot that such great caution might render him suspicious, and that he might watch his master out at nights, and might set other eyes to watch the schoolmaster? Who tampered with a selfish father, urging him to sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and tampered with Gride too, and did so in the little office, with a closet in the room?’
Ralph had put a great command upon himself; but he could not have suppressed a slight start, if he had been certain to be beheaded for it next moment.
‘Aha!’ cried Newman, ‘you mind me now, do you? What first set this fag to be jealous of his master’s actions, and to feel that, if he hadn’t crossed him when he might, he would have been as bad as he, or worse? That master’s cruel treatment of his own flesh and blood, and vile designs upon a young girl who interested even his broken-down, drunken, miserable hack, and made him linger in his service, in the hope of doing her some good (as, thank God, he had done others once or twice before), when he would, otherwise, have relieved his feelings by pummelling his master soundly, and then going to the Devil. He would – mark that; and mark this – that I’m here now, because these gentlemen thought it best. When I sought them out (as I did; there was no tampering with me), I told them I wanted help to find you out, to trace you down, to go through with what I had begun, to help the right; and that when I had done it, I’d burst into your room and tell you all, face to face, man to man, and like a man. Now I’ve said my say, and let anybody else say theirs, and fire away!’
With this concluding sentiment, Newman Noggs, who had been perpetually sitting down and getting up again all through his speech, which he had delivered in a series of jerks; and who was, from the violent exercise and the excitement combined, in a state of most intense and fiery heat; became, without passing through any intermediate stage, stiff, upright, and motionless, and so remained, staring at Ralph Nickleby with all his might and main.
Ralph looked at him for an instant, and for an instant only; then, waved his hand, and beating the ground with his foot, said in a choking voice:
‘Go on, gentlemen, go on! I’m patient, you see. There’s law to be had, there’s law. I shall call you to an account for this. Take care what you say; I shall make you prove it.’
‘The proof is ready,’ returned brother Charles, ‘quite ready to our hands. The man Snawley, last night, made a confession.’
‘Who may “the man Snawley” be,’ returned Ralph, ‘and what may his “confession” have to do with my affairs?’
To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexibility of manner, the old gentleman returned no answer, but went on to say, that to show him how much they were in earnest, it would be necessary to tell him, not only what accusations were made against him, but what proof of them they had, and how that proof had been acquired. This laying open of the whole question brought up brother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and Newman Noggs, all three at once; who, after a vast deal of talking together, and a scene of great confusion, laid before Ralph, in distinct terms, the following statement.
That, Newman, having been solemnly assured by one not then producible that Smike was not the son of Snawley, and this person having offered to make oath to that effect, if necessary, they had by this communication been first led to doubt the claim set up, which they would otherwise have seen no reason to dispute, supported as it was by evidence which they had no power of disproving. That, once suspecting the existence of a conspiracy, they had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to the malice of Ralph, and the vindictiveness and avarice of Squeers. That, suspicion and proof being two very different things, they had been advised by a lawyer, eminent for his sagacity and acuteness in such practice, to resist the proceedings taken on the other side for the recovery of the youth as slowly and artfully as possible, and meanwhile to beset Snawley (with whom it was clear the main falsehood must rest); to lead him, if possible, into contradictory and conflicting statements; to harass him by all available means; and so to practise on his fears, and regard for his own safety, as to induce him to divulge the whole scheme, and to give up his employer and whomsoever else he could implicate. That, all this had been skilfully done; but that Snawley, who was well practised in the arts of low cunning and intrigue, had successfully baffled all their attempts, until an unexpected circumstance had brought him, last night, upon his knees.
It thus arose. When Newman Noggs reported that Squeers was again in town, and that an interview of such secrecy had taken place between him and Ralph that he had been sent out of the house, plainly lest he should overhear a word, a watch was set upon the schoolmaster, in the hope that something might be discovered which would throw some light upon the suspected plot. It being found, however, that he held no further communication with Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived quite alone, they were completely at fault; the watch was withdrawn, and they would have observed his motions no longer, if it had not happened that, one night, Newman stumbled unobserved on him and Ralph in the street together. Following them, he discovered, to his surprise, that they repaired to various low lodging-houses, and taverns kept by broken gamblers, to more than one of whom Ralph was known, and that they were in pursuit – so he found by inquiries when they had left – of an old woman, whose description exactly tallied with that of deaf Mrs. Sliderskew. Affairs now appearing to assume a more serious complexion, the watch was renewed with increased vigilance; an officer was procured, who took up his abode in the same tavern with Squeers: and by him and Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of the unconscious schoolmaster were dogged, until he was safely housed in the lodging at Lambeth. Mr. Squeers having shifted his lodging, the officer shifted his, and lying concealed in the same street, and, indeed, in the opposite house, soon found that Mr. Squeers and Mrs. Sliderskew were in constant communication.
In this state of things, Arthur Gride was appealed to. The robbery, partly owing to the inquisitiveness of the neighbours, and partly to his own grief and rage, had, long ago, become known; but he positively refused to give his sanction or yield any assistance to the old woman’s capture, and was seized with such a panic at the idea of being called upon to give evidence against her, that he shut himself up close in his house, and refused to hold communication with anybody. Upon this, the pursuers took counsel together, and, coming so near the truth as to arrive at the conclusion that Gride and Ralph, with Squeers for their instrument, were negotiating for the recovery of some of the stolen papers which would not bear the light, and might possibly explain the hints relative to Madeline which Newman had overheard, resolved that Mrs. Sliderskew should be taken into custody before she had parted with them: and Squeers too, if anything suspicious could be attached to him. Accordingly, a search-warrant being procured, and all prepared, Mr. Squeers’s window was watched, until his light was put out, and the time arrived when, as had been previously ascertained, he usually visited Mrs. Sliderskew. This done, Frank Cheeryble and Newman stole upstairs to listen to their discourse, and to give the signal to the officer at the most favourable time. At what an opportune moment they arrived, how they listened, and what they heard, is already known to the reader. Mr. Squeers, still half stunned, was hurried off with a stolen deed in his possession, and Mrs. Sliderskew was apprehended likewise. The information being promptly carried to Snawley that Squeers was in custody – he was not told for what – that worthy, first extorting a promise that he should be kept harmless, declared the whole tale concerning Smike to be a fiction and forgery, and implicated Ralph Nickleby to the fullest extent. As to Mr. Squeers, he had, that morning, undergone a private examination before a magistrate; and, being unable to account satisfactorily for his possession of the deed or his companionship with Mrs. Sliderskew, had been, with her, remanded for a week.
All these discoveries were now related to Ralph, circumstantially, and in detail. Whatever impression they secretly produced, he suffered no sign of emotion to escape him, but sat perfectly still, not raising his frowning eyes from the ground, and covering his mouth with his hand. When the narrative was concluded; he raised his head hastily, as if about to speak, but on brother Charles resuming, fell into his old attitude again.
‘I told you this morning,’ said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his brother’s shoulder, ‘that I came to you in mercy. How far you may be implicated in this last transaction, or how far the person who is now in custody may criminate you, you best know. But, justice must take its course against the parties implicated in the plot against this poor, unoffending, injured lad. It is not in my power, or in the power of my brother Ned, to save you from the consequences. The utmost we can do is, to warn you in time, and to give you an opportunity of escaping them. We would not have an old man like you disgraced and punished by your near relation; nor would we have him forget, like you, all ties of blood and nature. We entreat you – brother Ned, you join me, I know, in this entreaty, and so, Tim Linkinwater, do you, although you pretend to be an obstinate dog, sir, and sit there frowning as if you didn’t – we entreat you to retire from London, to take shelter in some place where you will be safe from the consequences of these wicked designs, and where you may have time, sir, to atone for them, and to become a better man.’
‘And do you think,’ returned Ralph, rising, ‘and do you think, you will so easily crush me? Do you think that a hundred well-arranged plans, or a hundred suborned witnesses, or a hundred false curs at my heels, or a hundred canting speeches full of oily words, will move me? I thank you for disclosing your schemes, which I am now prepared for. You have not the man to deal with that you think; try me! and remember that I spit upon your fair words and false dealings, and dare you – provoke you – taunt you – to do to me the very worst you can!’
Thus they parted, for that time; but the worst had not come yet.
CHAPTER 60
The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is Told
Instead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first street cabriolet he could find, and, directing the driver towards the police-office of the district in which Mr. Squeers’s misfortunes had occurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, discharging the man, went the rest of his way thither on foot. Inquiring for the object of his solicitude, he learnt that he had timed his visit well; for Mr. Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for a hackney coach he had ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding to his week’s retirement, like a gentleman.
Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into a kind of waiting-room in which, by reason of his scholastic profession and superior respectability, Mr. Squeers had been permitted to pass the day. Here, by the light of a guttering and blackened candle, he could barely discern the schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench in a remote corner. An empty glass stood on a table before him, which, with his somnolent condition and a very strong smell of brandy and water, forewarned the visitor that Mr Squeers had been seeking, in creature comforts, a temporary forgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.
It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic and heavy were his slumbers. Regaining his faculties by slow and faint glimmerings, he at length sat upright; and, displaying a very yellow face, a very red nose, and a very bristly beard: the joint effect of which was considerably heightened by a dirty white handkerchief, spotted with blood, drawn over the crown of his head and tied under his chin: stared ruefully at Ralph in silence, until his feelings found 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 broke it,’ 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 I knew 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 private life, and the pride and ornament of a doting willage – here’s a shock for my family! The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses is tore, and their sun is gone down into the ocean wave!’
‘You have been drinking,’ said Ralph, ‘and have not yet slept yourself sober.’
‘I haven’t been drinking your health, my codger,’ replied Mr. Squeers; ‘so you have nothing to do with that.’
Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster’s altered and insolent manner awakened, and asked again why he had not sent to him.
‘What should I get by sending to you?’ returned Squeers. ‘To be known to be in with you wouldn’t do me a deal of good, and they won’t take bail till they know something more of the case, so here am I hard and fast: and there are you, loose and comfortable.’
‘And so must you be in a few days,’ retorted Ralph, with affected good-humour. ‘They can’t hurt you, man.’
‘Why, I suppose they can’t do much to me, if I explain how it was that I got into the good company of that there ca-daverous old Slider,’ replied Squeers viciously, ‘who I wish was dead and buried, and resurrected and dissected, and hung upon wires in a anatomical museum, before ever I’d had anything to do with her. This is what him with the powdered head says this morning, in so many words: “Prisoner! As you have been found in company with this woman; as you were detected in possession of this document; as you were engaged with her in fraudulently destroying others, and can give no satisfactory account of yourself; I shall remand you for a week, in order that inquiries may be made, and evidence got. And meanwhile I can’t take any bail for your appearance.” Well then, what I say now is, that I can give a satisfactory account of myself; I can hand in the card of my establishment and say, “I am the Wackford Squeers as is therein named, sir. I am the man as is guaranteed, by unimpeachable references, to be a out-and-outer in morals and uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong in this business is no fault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I was not aware that anything was wrong. I was merely employed by a friend, my friend Mr. Ralph Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send for him, sir, and ask him what he has to say; he’s the man; not me!”’
‘What document was it that you had?’ asked Ralph, evading, for the moment, the point just raised.
‘What document? Why, the document,’ replied Squeers. ‘The Madeline What’s-her-name one. It was a will; that’s what it was.’
‘Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, to what extent?’ asked Ralph hurriedly.
‘A will in her favour; that’s all I know,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and that’s more than you’d have known, if you’d had them bellows on your head. It’s all owing to your precious caution that they got hold of it. 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 being whole and sound, inside of my great-coat.’
‘Beaten at every point!’ muttered Ralph.
‘Ah!’ sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water and his broken head, wandered strangely, ‘at the delightful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry – this is a 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 of recovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested to him the necessity of removing, as far as possible, the schoolmaster’s misgivings, and leading him to believe that his safety and best policy lay in the preservation of a rigid silence.
‘I tell you, once again,’ he said, ‘they can’t hurt you. You shall have an action for false imprisonment, and make a profit of this, yet. We will devise a story for you that should carry you through twenty times such a trivial scrape as this; and if they want security in a thousand pounds for your reappearance in case you should be called upon, you shall have it. All you have to do is, to keep back the truth. You’re a little fuddled tonight, and may not be able to see this as clearly as you would at another time; but this 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 head stuck on one side, like an old raven. ‘That’s what I’m to do, is it? Now then, just you hear a word or two from me. I an’t a-going to 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 your share, and I’ll take care you do. You never said anything about danger. I never bargained for being brought into such a plight as this, and I don’t mean to take it as quiet as you think. I let you lead me on, from one thing to another, because we had been mixed up together 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 liked to be good-natured you might throw a good deal in my way. Well; if all goes right now, that’s quite correct, and I don’t mind it; but if anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I shall just say and do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advice from nobody. My moral influence with them lads,’ added Mr. Squeers, with deeper gravity, ‘is a tottering to its basis. The images of Mrs. Squeers, my daughter, and my son Wackford, all short of vittles, is perpetually before me; every other consideration melts away and vanishes, in front of these; the only number in all arithmetic that I know of, as a husband and a father, is number one, under this here most fatal go!’
How long Mr. Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy a discussion his declamation might have led to, nobody knows. Being interrupted, at this point, by the arrival of the coach and an attendant who was to bear him company, he perched his hat with great dignity on the top of the handkerchief that bound his head; and, thrusting one hand in 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 to turn upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in, that they are not only all struck with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have their fling at me now, though time was, and no longer ago than yesterday too, when they were all civility and compliance. But they shall not move me. I’ll not give way. I will not budge one inch!’
He went home, and was glad to find his housekeeper complaining of illness, that he might have an excuse for being alone and sending her away to where she lived: which was hard by. Then, he sat down by the light of a single candle, and began to think, for the first time, on all that had taken place that day.
He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, in addition to the anxiety of mind he had undergone, had been travelling about, from place to place almost incessantly, for many hours. He felt sick and exhausted, but could taste nothing save a glass of water, and continued to sit with his head upon his hand; not resting nor thinking, but laboriously trying to do both, and feeling that every sense but one of weariness and desolation, was for the time benumbed.
It was nearly ten o’clock when he heard a knocking at the door, and still sat quiet as before, as if he could not even bring his thoughts to bear upon that. It had been often repeated, and he had, several times, heard a voice outside, saying there was a light in the window (meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before he could rouse himself and go downstairs.
‘Mr. Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent to beg you will come with me directly,’ said a voice he seemed to recognise. He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, saw Tim 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 he would shut the door.
‘No, no!’ cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking most earnestly; ‘it is only that you may hear something that has occurred: something very dreadful, Mr. Nickleby, which concerns you nearly. 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 greatly excited, 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 have been proof against any appeal from such a quarter, however emphatically urged; but now, after a moment’s hesitation, he went into the hall for his hat, and returning, got into the coach without speaking a word.
Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as Ralph Nickleby went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by the light of the candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel and stagger like a drunken man. He well remembered, too, that when he had placed his foot upon the coach-steps, he turned round and looked upon him with a face so ashy pale and so very wild and vacant that it made him shudder, and for the moment almost afraid to follow. People were fond of saying that he had some dark presentiment upon him then, but his emotion might, perhaps, with greater show of reason, be referred to what he had undergone that day.
A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived at their place 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 which was visible in their manner and in that of the old clerk, that he could scarcely speak.
