Mr. Squeers’s catalogue of his own merits and accomplishments, which was partly the result of a concerted plan between himself and Ralph Nickleby, and flowed, in part, from the black bottle, was here interrupted by Mrs. Sliderskew.
“Ha, ha, ha!” she cried, folding her arms and wagging her head; “and so he wasn’t married after all, wasn’t he. Not married after all?”
“No,” replied Squeers, “that he wasn’t!”
“And a young lover come and carried off the bride, eh?” said Peg.
“From under his very nose,” replied Squeers; “and I’m told the young chap cut up rough besides, and broke the winders, and forced him to swaller his wedding favour which nearly choked him.”
“Tell me all about it again,” cried Peg, with a malicious relish of her old master’s defeat, which made her natural hideousness something quite fearful; “let’s hear it all again, beginning at the beginning now, as if you’d never told me. Let’s have it every word—now—now—beginning at the very first, you know, when he went to the house that morning!”
Mr. Squeers, plying Mrs. Sliderskew freely with the liquor, and sustaining himself under the exertion of speaking so loud by frequent applications to it himself, complied with this request by describing the discomfiture of Arthur Gride, with such improvements on the truth as happened to occur to him, and the ingenious invention and application of which had been very instrumental in recommending him to her notice in the beginning of their acquaintance. Mrs. Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of delight, rolling her head about, drawing up her skinny shoulders, and wrinkling her cadaverous face into so many and such complicated forms of ugliness, as awakened the unbounded astonishment and disgust even of Mr. Squeers.
“He’s a treacherous old goat,” said Peg, “and cozened me with cunning tricks and lying promises, but never mind. I’m even with him. I’m even with him.”
“More than even, Slider,” returned Squeers; “you’d have been even with him if he’d got married; but with the disappointment besides, you’re a long way ahead. Out of sight, Slider, quite out of sight. And that reminds me,” he added, handing her the glass, “if you want me to give you my opinion of them deeds, and tell you what you’d better keep and what you’d better burn, why, now’s your time, Slider.”
“There an’t no hurry for that,” said Peg, with several knowing looks and winks.
“Oh! very well!” observed Squeers, “it don’t matter to me; you asked me, you know. I shouldn’t charge you nothing, being a friend. You’re the best judge of course. But you’re a bold woman, Slider.”
“How do you mean, bold?” said Peg.
“Why, I only mean that if it was me, I wouldn’t keep papers as might hang me, littering about when they might be turned into money—them as wasn’t useful made away with, and them as was, laid by somewheres, safe; that’s all,” returned Squeers; “but everybody’s the best judge of their own affairs. All I say is, Slider, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Come,” said Peg, “then you shall see ’em.”
“I don’t want to see ’em,” replied Squeers, affecting to be out of humour; “don’t talk as if it was a treat. Show ’em to somebody else, and take their advice.”
Mr. Squeers would, very likely, have carried on the farce of being offended a little longer, if Mrs. Sliderskew, in her anxiety to restore herself to her former high position in his good graces, had not become so extremely affectionate that he stood at some risk of being smothered by her caresses. Repressing, with as good a grace as possible, these little familiarities—for which, there is reason to believe, the black bottle was at least as much to blame as any constitutional infirmity on the part of Mrs. Sliderskew—he protested that he had only been joking: and, in proof of his unimpaired good-humour, that he was ready to examine the deeds at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any satisfaction or relief of mind to his fair friend.
“And now you’re up, my Slider,” bawled Squeers, as she rose to fetch them, “bolt the door.”
Peg trotted to the door, and after fumbling at the bolt, crept to the other end of the room, and from beneath the coals which filled the bottom of the cupboard, drew forth a small deal box. Having placed this on the floor at Squeers’s feet, she brought, from under the pillow of her bed, a small key, with which she signed to that gentleman to open it. Mr. Squeers, who had eagerly followed her every motion, lost no time in obeying this hint: and, throwing back the lid, gazed with rapture on the documents which lay within.
“Now you see,” said Peg, kneeling down on the floor beside him, and staying his impatient hand; “what’s of no use we’ll burn; what we can get any money by, we’ll keep; and if there’s any we could get him into trouble by, and fret and waste away his heart to shreds, those we’ll take particular care of; for that’s what I want to do, and what I hoped to do when I left him.”
“I thought,” said Squeers, “that you didn’t bear him any particular goodwill. But, I say, why didn’t you take some money besides?”
“Some what?” asked Peg.
“Some money,” roared Squeers. “I do believe the woman hears me, and wants to make me break a wessel, so that she may have the pleasure of nursing me. Some money, Slider, money!”
“Why, what a man you are to ask!” cried Peg, with some contempt. “If I had taken money from Arthur Gride, he’d have scoured the whole earth to find me—aye, and he’d have smelt it out, and raked it up, somehow, if I had buried it at the bottom of the deepest well in England. No, no! I knew better than that. I took what I thought his secrets were hid in: and them he couldn’t afford to make public, let’em be
