In which another old Friend encounters Smike,very opportunely1 and to some Purpose.
The night, fraught2 with so much bitterness to one poor soul,had given place to a bright and cloudless summermorning, when a north-country mail-coach traversed, withcheerful noise, the yet silent streets of Islington, and, giving brisknote of its approach with the lively winding4 of the guard’s horn,clattered onward5 to its halting-place hard by the Post Office.
The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-lookingcountryman on the box, who, with his eyes fixed6 upon the dome7 ofSt Paul’s Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as tobe quite insensible to all the bustle8 of getting out the bags andparcels, until one of the coach windows being let sharply down, helooked round, and encountered a pretty female face which wasjust then thrust out.
‘See there, lass!’ bawled9 the countryman, pointing towards theobject of his admiration10. ‘There be Paul’s Church. ‘Ecod, he be asoizable ’un, he be.’
‘Goodness, John! I shouldn’t have thought it could have beenhalf the size. What a monster!’
‘Monsther!—Ye’re aboot right theer, I reckon, Mrs Browdie,’
said the countryman good-humouredly, as he came slowly down inhis huge top-coat; ‘and wa’at dost thee tak yon place to be noo—thot ’un owor the wa’? Ye’d never coom near it ’gin you thried fortwolve moonths. It’s na’ but a Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge for dooble-latthers. A Poast Office! Wa’at dost thee think o’
thot? ’Ecod, if thot’s on’y a Poast Office, I’d loike to see where theLord Mayor o’ Lunnun lives.’
So saying, John Browdie—for he it was—opened the coach-door, and tapping Mrs Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek ashe looked in, burst into a boisterous11 fit of laughter.
‘Weel!’ said John. ‘Dang my bootuns if she bean’t asleep agean!’
‘She’s been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for aminute or two now and then,’ replied John Browdie’s choice, ‘andI was very sorry when she woke, for she has been so cross!’
The subject of these remarks was a slumbering12 figure, somuffled in shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter ofimpossibility to guess at its sex but for a brown beaver13 bonnet14 andgreen veil which ornamented15 the head, and which, having beencrushed and flattened16, for two hundred and fifty miles, in thatparticular angle of the vehicle from which the lady’s snores nowproceeded, presented an appearance sufficiently17 ludicrous to havemoved less risible18 muscles than those of John Browdie’s ruddyface.
‘Hollo!’ cried John, twitching19 one end of the dragged veil.
‘Coom, wakken oop, will ’ee?’
After several burrowings into the old corner, and manyexclamations of impatience20 and fatigue21, the figure struggled into asitting posture22; and there, under a mass of crumpled23 beaver, andsurrounded by a semicircle of blue curl-papers, were the delicatefeatures of Miss Fanny Squeers.
‘Oh, ’Tilda!’ cried Miss Squeers, ‘how you have been kicking ofme through this blessed night!’
‘Well, I do like that,’ replied her friend, laughing, ‘when you have had nearly the whole coach to yourself.’
‘Don’t deny it, ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, impressively, ‘becauseyou have, and it’s no use to go attempting to say you haven’t. Youmightn’t have known it in your sleep, ’Tilda, but I haven’t closedmy eyes for a single wink24, and so I think I am to be believed.’
With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil,which nothing but supernatural interference and an uttersuspension of nature’s laws could have reduced to any shape orform; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonlyneat, brushed off the sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit whichhad accumulated in her lap, and availing herself of John Browdie’sproffered arm, descended25 from the coach.
‘Noo,’ said John, when a hackney coach had been called, andthe ladies and the luggage hurried in, ‘gang to the Sarah’s Head,mun.’
‘To the vere?’ cried the coachman.
‘Lawk, Mr Browdie!’ interrupted Miss Squeers. ‘The idea!
Saracen’s Head.’
‘Sure-ly,’ said John, ‘I know’d it was something aboot Sarah’sSon’s Head. Dost thou know thot?’
‘Oh, ah! I know that,’ replied the coachman gruffly, as hebanged the door.
‘‘Tilda, dear, really,’ remonstrated26 Miss Squeers, ‘we shall betaken for I don’t know what.’
‘Let them tak’ us as they foind us,’ said John Browdie; ‘wedean’t come to Lunnun to do nought27 but ‘joy oursel, do we?’
‘I hope not, Mr Browdie,’ replied Miss Squeers, lookingsingularly dismal28.
‘Well, then,’ said John, ‘it’s no matther. I’ve only been a married man fower days, ‘account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin’ itoff. Here be a weddin’ party—broide and broide’s-maid, and thegroom—if a mun dean’t ’joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Dratit all, thot’s what I want to know.’
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, andlose no time, Mr Browdie gave his wife a hearty29 kiss, andsucceeded in wresting30 another from Miss Squeers, after amaidenly resistance of scratching and struggling on the part ofthat young lady, which was not quite over when they reached theSaracen’s Head.
Here, the party straightway retired31 to rest; the refreshment32 ofsleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they metagain about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction ofMr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commandingan uninterrupted view of the stables.
To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested33 of the brown beaver,the green veil, and the blue curl-papers, and arrayed in all thevirgin splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslinbonnet, and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the insidethereof—her luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight thatit was impossible they could come out by any accident, and herbonnet-cap trimmed with little damask roses, which might besupposed to be so many promising34 scions35 of the big rose—to haveseen all this, and to have seen the broad damask belt, matchingboth the family rose and the little roses, which encircled herslender waist, and by a happy ingenuity36 took off from theshortness of the spencer behind,—to have beheld37 all this, and tohave taken further into account the coral bracelets38 (rather short ofbeads, and with a very visible black string) which clasped her wrists, and the coral necklace which rested on her neck,supporting, outside her frock, a lonely cornelian heart, typical ofher own disengaged affections—to have contemplated39 all thesemute but expressive40 appeals to the purest feelings of our nature,might have thawed41 the frost of age, and added new andinextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.
The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had humanpassions and feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers ashe handed the muffins.
‘Is my pa in, do you know?’ asked Miss Squeers with dignity.
‘Beg your pardon, miss?’
‘My pa,’ repeated Miss Squeers; ‘is he in?’
‘In where, miss?’
‘In here—in the house!’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘My pa—MrWackford Squeers—he’s stopping here. Is he at home?’
‘I didn’t know there was any gen’l’man of that name in thehouse, miss’ replied the waiter. ‘There may be, in the coffee-room.’
May Be. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, whohad been depending, all the way to London, upon showing herfriends how much at home she would be, and how much respectfulnotice her name and connections would excite, told that her fathermight be there! ‘As if he was a feller!’ observed Miss Squeers, withemphatic indignation.
‘Ye’d betther inquire, mun,’ said John Browdie. ‘An’ hond upanother pigeon-pie, will ’ee? Dang the chap,’ muttered John,looking into the empty dish as the waiter retired; ‘does he ca’ this apie—three yoong pigeons and a troifling matther o’ steak, and acrust so loight that you doant know when it’s in your mooth andwhen it’s gane? I wonder hoo many pies goes to a breakfast!’
After a short interval42, which John Browdie employed upon theham and a cold round of beef, the waiter returned with anotherpie, and the information that Mr Squeers was not stopping in thehouse, but that he came there every day and that directly hearrived, he should be shown upstairs. With this, he retired; and hehad not retired two minutes, when he returned with Mr Squeersand his hopeful son.
‘Why, who’d have thought of this?’ said Mr Squeers, when hehad saluted43 the party and received some private familyintelligence from his daughter.
‘Who, indeed, pa!’ replied that young lady, spitefully. ‘But yousee ’Tilda is married at last.’
‘And I stond threat for a soight o’ Lunnun, schoolmeasther,’
said John, vigorously attacking the pie.
‘One of them things that young men do when they get married,’
returned Squeers; ‘and as runs through with their money likenothing at all! How much better wouldn’t it be now, to save it upfor the eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come onyou,’ said Mr Squeers in a moralising way, ‘before you’re aware ofit; mine did upon me.’
‘Will ’ee pick a bit?’ said John.
‘I won’t myself,’ returned Squeers; ‘but if you’ll just let littleWackford tuck into something fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give ithim in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there’s lot ofprofit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waitercoming, sir, shove it in your pocket and look out of the window,d’ye hear?’
‘I’m awake, father,’ replied the dutiful Wackford.
‘Well,’ said Squeers, turning to his daughter, ‘it’s your turn to be married next. You must make haste.’
‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ said Miss Squeers, very sharply.
‘No, Fanny?’ cried her old friend with some archness.
‘No, ’Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, shaking her headvehemently. ‘I can wait.’
‘So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,’ observed MrsBrowdie.
‘They an’t draw’d into it by me, ’Tilda,’ retorted Miss Squeers.
‘No,’ returned her friend; ‘that’s exceedingly true.’
The sarcastic44 tone of this reply might have provoked a ratheracrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of aconstitutionally vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by traveland recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old recollectionsand the failure of her own designs upon Mr Browdie; and theacrimonious retort might have led to a great many other retorts,which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject ofconversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentallychanged by Mr Squeers himself‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you supposewe have laid hands on, Wackford and me?’
‘Pa! not Mr—?’ Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence,but Mrs Browdie did it for her, and added, ‘Nickleby?’
‘No,’ said Squeers. ‘But next door to him though.’
‘You can’t mean Smike?’ cried Miss Squeers, clapping herhands.
‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard andfast.’
‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Gotthat poor—dom’d scoondrel? Where?’
‘Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,’ replied Squeers,‘with him on one side, and the key on the other.’
‘At thy loodgin’! Thee’st gotten him at thy loodgin’? Ho! ho! Theschoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I’mdarned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot.—Gotten him atthy loodgin’?’
‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under thecongratulatory blow on the chest which the stout45 Yorkshiremandealt him; ‘thankee. Don’t do it again. You mean it kindly46, I know,but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘Ba’ad!’ repeated John Browdie. ‘It’s eneaf to scare a mun tohear tell on.’
‘I thought it would surprise you a bit,’ said Squeers, rubbing hishands. ‘It was pretty neatly47 done, and pretty quick too.’
‘Hoo wor it?’ inquired John, sitting down close to him. ‘Tell usall aboot it, mun; coom, quick!’
Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie’simpatience, Mr Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smikehad fallen into his hands, as quickly as he could, and, except whenhe was interrupted by the admiring remarks of his auditors,paused not in the recital48 until he had brought it to an end.
‘For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,’ observedSqueers, when he had finished, looking very cunning, ‘I’ve takenthree outsides for tomorrow morning—for Wackford and him andme—and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys tothe agent, don’t you see? So it’s very lucky you come today, oryou’d have missed us; and as it is, unless you could come and teawith me tonight, we shan’t see anything more of you before we goaway.’
‘Dean’t say anoother wurd,’ returned the Yorkshireman,shaking him by the hand. ‘We’d coom, if it was twonty mile.’
‘No, would you though?’ returned Mr Squeers, who had notexpected quite such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or hewould have considered twice before he gave it.
John Browdie’s only reply was another squeeze of the hand,and an assurance that they would not begin to see London tilltomorrow, so that they might be at Mr Snawley’s at six o’clockwithout fail; and after some further conversation, Mr Squeers andhis son departed.
During the remainder of the day, Mr Browdie was in a very oddand excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion oflaughter, and then taking up his hat and running into the coach-yard to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantlywalking in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scrapsof uncouth50 country dances, and, in short, conducting himself insuch a very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined hewas going mad, and, begging her dear ’Tilda not to distressherself, communicated her suspicions in so many words. MrsBrowdie, however, without discovering any great alarm, observedthat she had seen him so once before, and that although he wasalmost sure to be ill after it, it would not be anything very serious,and therefore he was better left alone.
The result proved her to be perfectly51 correct for, while theywere all sitting in Mr Snawley’s parlour that night, and just as itwas beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, andseized with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the wholecompany were thrown into the utmost consternation52. His goodlady, indeed, was the only person present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he were allowed to lie down onMr Squeers’s bed for an hour or so, and left entirely53 to himself, hewould be sure to recover again almost as quickly as he had beentaken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the effect of so reasonable aproposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John wassupported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrousweight, and regularly tumbling down two steps every time theyhoisted him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in chargeof his wife, who, after a short interval, reappeared in the parlour,with the gratifying intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.
Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, JohnBrowdie was sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen,cramming the corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent hisroaring out loud with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded insuppressing this emotion, than he slipped off his shoes, andcreeping to the adjoining room where the prisoner was confined,turned the key, which was on the outside, and darting54 in, coveredSmike’s mouth with his huge hand before he could utter a sound.
‘Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?’ whispered theYorkshireman to the bewildered lad. ‘Browdie. Chap as met theeefther schoolmeasther was banged?’
‘Yes, yes,’ cried Smike. ‘Oh! help me.’
‘Help thee!’ replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instanthe had said this much. ‘Thee didn’t need help, if thee warn’t assilly yoongster as ever draw’d breath. Wa’at did ’ee come here for,then?’
‘He brought me; oh! he brought me,’ cried Smike.
‘Brout thee!’ replied John. ‘Why didn’t ’ee punch his head, orlay theeself doon and kick, and squeal55 out for the pollis? I’d ha’
licked a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee. But theebe’est a poor broken-doon chap,’ said John, sadly, ‘and God forgi’
me for bragging56 ower yan o’ his weakest creeturs!’
Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stoppedhim.
‘Stan’ still,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘and doant’ee speak amorsel o’ talk till I tell’ee.’
With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly,and drawing a screwdriver57 from his pocket, took off the box of thelock in a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and laid it,together with the implement58, on the floor.
‘See thot?’ said John ‘Thot be thy doin’. Noo, coot awa’!’
Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend hismeaning.
‘I say, coot awa’,’ repeated John, hastily. ‘Dost thee know wherethee livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, orschoolmeasther’s?’
‘Mine,’ replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to theadjoining room, and pointed59 out a pair of shoes and a coat whichwere lying on a chair.
‘On wi’ ’em,’ said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrongsleeve, and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive’s neck.
‘Noo, foller me, and when thee get’st ootside door, turn to theright, and they wean’t see thee pass.’
‘But—but—he’ll hear me shut the door,’ replied Smike,trembling from head to foot.
‘Then dean’t shut it at all,’ retorted John Browdie. ‘Dang it,thee bean’t afeard o’ schoolmeasther’s takkin cold, I hope?’
‘N-no,’ said Smike, his teeth chattering60 in his head. ‘But he brought me back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.’
‘He wull, he wull!’ replied John impatiently. ‘He wean’t, hewean’t. Look’ee! I wont49 to do this neighbourly loike, and let themthink thee’s gotten awa’ o’ theeself, but if he cooms oot o’ thotparlour awhiles theer’t clearing off, he mun’ have mercy on hisoun boans, for I wean’t. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I’ll put ’unon a wrong scent61, I warrant ’ee. But if thee keep’st a good hart,thee’lt be at whoam afore they know thee’st gotten off. Coom!’
Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it wasintended as encouragement, prepared to follow with totteringsteps, when John whispered in his ear.
‘Thee’lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m sploiced to ‘TillyPrice, and to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that Ibean’t jealous of ’un—dang it, I’m loike to boost when I think o’
that neight! ’Cod, I think I see ’un now, a powderin’ awa’ at thethin bread an’ butther!’
It was rather a ticklish62 recollection for John just then, for hewas within an ace3 of breaking out into a loud guffaw63. Restraininghimself, however, just in time, by a great effort, he glideddownstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself closeto the parlour door, to confront the first person that might comeout, signed to him to make off.
Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Openingthe house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled64 gratitude65 andterror at his deliverer, he took the direction which had beenindicated to him, and sped away like the wind.
The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but,finding that there was no pause in the conversation inside, creptback again unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into MrSqueers’s bed, once more, and drawing the clothes over his head,laughed till he was nearly smothered66.
If there could only have been somebody by, to see how thebedclothes shook, and to see the Yorkshireman’s great red faceand round head appear above the sheets, every now and then, likesome jovial67 monster coming to the surface to breathe, and oncemore dive down convulsed with the laughter which came burstingforth afresh—that somebody would have been scarcely lessamused than John Browdie himself.
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opportunely
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fraught
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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winding
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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fixed
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dome
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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bawled
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admiration
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boisterous
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slumbering
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beaver
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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sufficiently
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risible
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twitching
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impatience
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fatigue
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posture
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crumpled
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wink
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descended
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remonstrated
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nought
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dismal
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hearty
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wresting
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retired
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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promising
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scions
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ingenuity
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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bracelets
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contemplated
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expressive
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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55
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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56
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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57
screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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