Chapter one

Uncle Ralph

'I can understand a broken neck or a broken leg, but not a broken heart.'

Mr Ralph Nickleby closed the thick book that contained the names of all the people who owed him money. His money-lending business was doing well, he thought with a satisfied smile. Life had never been better. It was true that he had never married, he had no friends and he was unpopular with his neighbours, but he did not care. People admired him because he was rich, and that was good enough for him. In his world, money was the only thing that mattered.

While Mr Nickleby was congratulating himself on his own success, there was a knock at the door. A tall, middle-aged man with strange, wild eyes walked into the room. It was Newman Noggs, Mr Nickleby's clerk.

'What do you want, Newman?' Mr Nickleby said, annoyed by his interruption.

'I have a letter for you,' the clerk replied, one eye looking at his employer, the other looking out of the window.

'Well, bring it here, man!' Mr Nickleby said impatiently.

Newman took the letter carefully out of his badly fitting suit, carried it slowly across the room and gave it to his employer.

Mr Nickleby read it quickly. 'My brother's dead,' he said. 'That was sudden.' He stood up, walked across to the window, and stared thoughtfully through its dirty glass into the smoke-blackened yard behind his house.

'Children alive?' Noggs asked.

'Unfortunately for me, yes,' Mr Nickleby said. 'Both of them. And the mother, too. No money, and now they expect me to take care of them. They're all in London now, waiting for my help. What do I care about them? I never met them.'

Noggs looked at his employer's back with a strange expression on his face.

It was not exactly a smile, but it was not a look of sadness either. Nobody could ever understand the expressions on Newman Noggs's face.

'Get me my coat and gloves, Newman,' Mr Nickleby suddenly decided, turning away from the window. 'I have a visit to make.'

Mr Nickleby walked quickly to the Strand, one of the busiest streets in London. He knocked several times on the door of a small house and waited.

The door was finally opened by a servant girl.

'Is Mrs Nickleby at home?' he demanded.

'You mean Miss La Creevy?' the girl replied.

'No, I mean Mrs Nickleby!'

'Show the gentleman up, Hannah,' a voice called from inside the house.

Mr Nickleby walked straight past the servant girl into the hall of the house and quickly up the stairs. On the first floor he met a small, bird-like, middle- aged woman wearing black gloves and a yellow cloth tied around her head.

'My name's Miss La Creevy,' the woman said with a friendly smile. 'I'm an artist. Would you like me to paint your picture for you? You have a wonderfully serious face. Such strong eyes!'

'I'm not here for a painting, madam,' Mr Nickleby replied impatiently. 'I'm looking for a Mrs Nickleby. Is she here?'

'A lady from the country and her two children have rented a room on the second floor,' the woman said. 'She's a widow.'

'A poor widow?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'That's her,' Mr Nickleby sighed.

The servant girl led him upstairs and into a small room. When he entered, a woman wearing a long black dress rose from her chair. A beautiful girl of about seventeen moved across the room to take her arm. A young man, two or three years older than his sister, stepped forwards and greeted Ralph as his uncle.

'You are Nicholas, I suppose?' Ralph said.

'That is my name, sir,' the young man smiled.

Ralph did not return his nephew's smile, but turned immediately to Mrs Nickleby. 'Well, madam, how are you?' he said. 'You must be brave in your sadness. I always am.'

'This is no ordinary sadness,' Mrs Nickleby said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

'I disagree,' Ralph said, calmly unbuttoning his coat. 'Husbands die every day, ma'am, and wives, too.'

'And brothers also, sir,' Nicholas said, already beginning to dislike his uncle.

'Yes, sir, and dogs and cats,' Ralph replied, sitting down. 'You didn't say in your letter how my brother died, ma'am.'

'Nobody knows,' Mrs Nickleby said, her eyes filled with tears. 'We believe that he died of a broken heart.'

'Impossible!' Ralph said angrily. 'I can understand a broken neck or a broken leg, but not a broken heart. It is an excuse for people who want to escape their debts.'

'Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,' said Nicholas quietly.

Ralph turned round in his chair and looked at his nephew with scorn. 'How old is this boy?' he demanded.

'Nicholas is nearly nineteen,' said the widow.

'Nineteen, eh?' said Ralph. 'And do you have a job?'

'Not yet,' Nicholas answered proudly, 'but I'll find one.'

'You'd better,' Ralph said, staring at him with cold, grey eyes. 'You haven't got a penny in the world, have you?'

'That's true,' Nicholas said. 'But don't worry. I won't need your help.'

Nicholas's mother begged the emotional young man to control himself and asked Ralph to forgive her son for his rudeness.

Ralph gave Nicholas another scornful smile, then turned to Mrs Nickleby again. 'You say in your letter, ma'am, that my brother left you nothing when he died,' he said.

'That's true,' the widow said. 'I've had to sell our home to pay my husband's debts, and I've spent the last of my money on the journey to London.

'I hoped that you would be able to help your brother's children. That was his dying wish.'

'What can your daughter do, ma'am?' Ralph asked.

'She has learnt a little French and music.'

'And have you ever done anything?' Ralph said to Nicholas.

'No,' Nicholas replied.

'I thought not!' Ralph said, looking again at Mrs Nickleby. 'Your husband was a dreamer, ma'am. That's why he left you with no money, and left me with the problem of helping you. He was a foolish, selfish man.'

'Yes, that's true, I suppose,' Mrs Nickleby agreed. 'He never listened to my advice about money. I often think that I made a bad mistake when I married him...'

Ralph listened to Mrs Nickleby's complaints about her husband with a halfsmile. When she had finished, he looked at his nephew and said, 'Are you willing to work, sir?'

'Of course I am.'

'Then I have something here that may interest you.'

He took a newspaper from his pocket, and showed him an advertisement:

Mr Wackford Squeers's School for Boys, Dotheboys Hall, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, needs an assistant. He will be paid five pounds a year. Mr Squeers is staying in London, at the Saracens Head Hotel, Snow Hill.

'Five pounds a year isn't much,' Kate complained. And Yorkshire is so far away!'

'Be quiet, dear,' Mrs Nickleby told her. 'I'm sure your uncle knows best.'

'And if I get this job,' Nicholas wanted to know, 'what will happen to my mother and sister?'

'I will take care of them,' Ralph promised. 'I will find your sister a job with a dressmaker that I know. But only if you take this job. Do you understand?'

'Then I agree,' Nicholas said, forgetting his anger of minutes earlier and shaking his uncle's hand. 'I'll take the job - if Mr Squeers will have me.'

He will accept you - I can promise you that,' Ralph said. Now, get your hat and coat, young man. We must go to the Saracen's Head immediately!'

Chapter two

Dotheboys Hall

Nicholas's heart was filled with pity for these poor children,who suffered such cruel treatment.

Wackford Squeers was a strange-looking man with flat, oily hair. His black jacket was much too big for him, and his trousers were much too short. But the strangest thing about him was his face. He only had one eye, which looked like a dirty window. When he smiled, it seemed to shine with a frightening green light.

At first, Mr Squeers was unwilling to accept Nicholas as his assistant because he was too young and had not been to college. But after a few quiet words with the boy's uncle, he offered Nicholas the job. 'The coach leaves at eight o'clock tomorrow morning,' he said. 'You mustn't be late.'

Nicholas woke up at six o'clock the next morning and hurried to the Saracen's Head. While he was helping Mr Squeers to lift a few small, frightened-looking boys onto the coach, he was surprised to see his mother and sister. His uncle had brought them to say goodbye.

'Why didn't you wake us?' Mrs Nickleby said, throwing her arms around her son. 'You left without breakfast!'

'There's no time for this, Nickleby!' Squeers interrupted rudely, buttoning his coat against the cold. 'Get onto the coach immediately. One of my boys has already nearly fallen off. If a boy died now, I'd lose twenty pounds!'

'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, leading her brother away. 'What kind of place are you going to?'

'I don't know, Kate,' Nicholas replied, pressing his sister's hand. 'I suppose the people in Yorkshire are rougher than people in London.'

'He's a nasty little man. He's so rude.'

'But he's my employer,' Nicholas reminded her.

Nicholas kissed his tearful sister and mother and shook his uncle's hand. Then he jumped up into his seat on the coach.

However, as he was waving goodbye, an odd thing happened. Somebody started pulling softly at his leg. He looked down and saw a tall, thin man with strange, wild eyes.

'What's this?' Nicholas asked, when the man pushed a dirty letter into his hand.

'You don't know me,' the man whispered nervously, 'but I work for your uncle. Take it and read it.'

Before Nicholas could say another word, the man had gone.

The journey to Yorkshire was long and uncomfortable. It snowed heavily on the way, and everybody felt cold and hungry. At six o'clock the next evening, they finally arrived at Greta Bridge. Mr Squeers and Nicholas took the boys off the coach and put them into a small cart.

'Is it much further to Dotheboys Hall, sir?' Nicholas asked Squeers when the cart had left Greta Bridge.

'About three miles,' Squeers replied. 'But we don't call it a "Hall" up here - only in London, because it sounds better.'

Squeers laughed to himself, and Nicholas stared into the darkness until they reached Dotheboys Hall. Then he understood. The 'Hall' was just a long, low, cold-looking house with a few old farm buildings behind it.

While Nicholas sat in the cart with the boys, Squeers jumped down and shouted for someone to open the gate. Several minutes later, a tall boy in old, thin clothes ran out of the house.

'Why did you take so long, Smike?' Squeers shouted.

'Sorry, sir, but I fell asleep by the fire.'

'Fire? What fire?' the schoolmaster demanded angrily.

'Mrs Squeers said that I could sit by the fire in the kitchen to keep warm.'

'Mrs Squeers is a fool,' Squeers replied. 'You'd stay awake better in the cold!'

The boy called Smike opened the gate, looking nervously at Squeers. A few minutes later, Nicholas was standing outside the door with the boys and the luggage. He stared up at the cold-looking house with its dark windows and sighed. He was a long way from his home and family, and he had never felt so lonely.

Life at Dotheboys Hall was very hard. There was no heating in the school, and the boys had to wash with buckets of icy water in the mornings. They wore the same clothes every day, and they were always hungry. Mrs Squeers fed them a thick, horrible soup every day which Mr Squeers called their 'medicine'. It was the cheapest food that they could find.

The classroom was cold and dirty with broken windows. There were a couple of old, long desks for the children, and two desks at the front of the room - one for Squeers, and a smaller one for his assistant. During the lessons, the boys sat quietly, shaking with the cold. Letters from home were opened in front of the whole class and Squeers took all their money. He did the same with packages of clothes. If the boys complained, Squeers hit them with a big stick. Nicholas watched this happen with tears of anger in his eyes, but he felt powerless to do anything.

Squeers gave to his son, young Wackford, all the clothes that he stole from the boys. He, of course, was the only boy in the school who was never cold and hungry. He was also as nasty as his father. His favourite activity was kicking the other boys and making them cry. If they tried to defend themselves, young Wackford reported them to his father and they were cruelly punished.

Nicholas's heart was filled with pity for these poor children, who suffered such cruel treatment. All the beauty of innocence had disappeared from their pale, thin faces. He never heard them laughing, and there was no hope in their dull, empty eyes.

He was especially sorry for the boy called Smike. He was older than the other boys - about eighteen or nineteen years old. He was tall for his age but wore children's clothes that were much too short for him. He did not have lessons, but was made to do all the hard, dirty jobs around the school. If he did something wrong, Mr Squeers beat him and shouted at him. Smike had been left at the school many years earlier by parents who did not want him. However, Squeers still received money for him from somewhere. He kept him at the school because he was useful.

One evening, Nicholas sat on his hard, wooden bed in the crowded, unheated room that he shared with several other boys. He was thinking sadly of home when suddenly he remembered the letter which the man with wild eyes had given him. He took it out of his pocket and read:

My dear young man, I know the world. Your father did not, and you do not either. If you knew the world, you would not go on this journey. If you ever want help in London don't be angry, go to the Crown Hotel, in Golden Square. They will give you my address. You can come at night. Many years ago, people were not ashamed to know me. Now things are different - but that is not important. There is no future. Newman Noggs.

While Nicholas was putting the letter back in his pocket, a strange thing happened to him. His eyes filled with tears.

The next day, Nicholas saw Smike on his knees, trying to light a fire. Smike looked up at Nicholas with a frightened expression.

'Don't be afraid, ' Nicholas said kindly. 'I'm not going to hurt you. Are you cold?'

Smike covered his face with his thin, dirty hands and started crying. 'My heart will break if I stay in this horrible place,' he said. 'Before you arrived, a boy died here. He was my last friend. Just before he died, his face was lit up by a lovely smile. He said that he could see the faces of his friends around his bed. They had come from home and they were smiling and talking to him. What faces will smile at me when I die? There's no hope for me, alive or dead. No hope.'

'There's always hope,' Nicholas said gently, resting his hand on the boy's bony shoulder.

Eventually, Smike stopped crying and moved away, like a frightened animal, into the shadows. Nicholas sighed sadly and went to bed.