Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, andMr Squeers; and of various Matters and Personsconnected no less with the Squeerses than NicholasNickleby.
When Mr Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, hebetook himself, as has been before remarked, to hisown fireside, which was situated—not in the room inwhich Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival, but in asmaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady wife,his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the fullenjoyment of each other’s society; Mrs Squeers being engaged inthe matronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and the young lady andgentleman being occupied in the adjustment of some youthfuldifferences, by means of a pugilistic contest across the table,which, on the approach of their honoured parent, subsided into anoiseless exchange of kicks beneath it.
And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, thatMiss Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If therebe any one grace or loveliness inseparable from that particularperiod of life, Miss Squeers may be presumed to have beenpossessed of it, as there is no reason to suppose that she was asolitary exception to an universal rule. She was not tall like hermother, but short like her father; from the former she inherited avoice of harsh quality; from the latter a remarkable expression ofthe right eye, something akin to having none at all.
Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with aneighbouring friend, and had only just returned to the parentalroof. To this circumstance may be referred, her having heardnothing of Nicholas, until Mr Squeers himself now made him thesubject of conversation.
‘Well, my dear,’ said Squeers, drawing up his chair, ‘what doyou think of him by this time?’
‘Think of who?’ inquired Mrs Squeers; who (as she oftenremarked) was no grammarian, thank Heaven.
‘Of the young man—the new teacher—who else could I mean?’
‘Oh! that Knuckleboy,’ said Mrs Squeers impatiently. ‘I hatehim.’
‘What do you hate him for, my dear?’ asked Squeers.
‘What’s that to you?’ retorted Mrs Squeers. ‘If I hate him, that’senough, ain’t it?’
‘Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much Idare say, if he knew it,’ replied Squeers in a pacific tone. ‘I onlyask from curiosity, my dear.’
‘Well, then, if you want to know,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers, ‘I’ll tellyou. Because he’s a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-upnosed peacock.’
Mrs Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use stronglanguage, and, moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets,some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock, andfurthermore the allusion to Nicholas’s nose, which was notintended to be taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear alatitude of construction according to the fancy of the hearers.
Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, somuch as to the object on whom they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present case: a peacock with a turned-up nose being anovelty in ornithology, and a thing not commonly seen.
‘Hem!’ said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak.
‘He is cheap, my dear; the young man is very cheap.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ retorted Mrs Squeers.
‘Five pound a year,’ said Squeers.
‘What of that; it’s dear if you don’t want him, isn’t it?’ repliedhis wife.
‘But we do want him,’ urged Squeers.
‘I don’t see that you want him any more than the dead,’ saidMrs Squeers. ‘Don’t tell me. You can put on the cards and in theadvertisements, “Education by Mr Wackford Squeers and ableassistants,” without having any assistants, can’t you? Isn’t it doneevery day by all the masters about? I’ve no patience with you.’
‘Haven’t you!’ said Squeers, sternly. ‘Now I’ll tell you what, MrsSqueers. In this matter of having a teacher, I’ll take my own way, ifyou please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a manunder him, to see that his blacks don’t run away, or get up arebellion; and I’ll have a man under me to do the same with ourblacks, till such time as little Wackford is able to take charge of theschool.’
‘Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?’
said Wackford junior, suspending, in the excess of his delight, avicious kick which he was administering to his sister.
‘You are, my son,’ replied Mr Squeers, in a sentimental voice.
‘Oh my eye, won’t I give it to the boys!’ exclaimed theinteresting child, grasping his father’s cane. ‘Oh, father, won’t Imake ’em squeak again!’
It was a proud moment in Mr Squeers’s life, when he witnessed that burst of enthusiasm in his young child’s mind, and saw in it aforeshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed a penny into hishand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wifealso), in a shout of approving laughter. The infantine appeal totheir common sympathies, at once restored cheerfulness to theconversation, and harmony to the company.
‘He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that’s what I consider him,’ saidMrs Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.
‘Supposing he is,’ said Squeers, ‘he is as well stuck up in ourschoolroom as anywhere else, isn’t he?—especially as he don’t likeit.’
‘Well,’ observed Mrs Squeers, ‘there’s something in that. I hopeit’ll bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if itdon’t.’
Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a veryextraordinary and unaccountable thing to hear of,—any usher atall being a novelty; but a proud one, a being of whose existence thewildest imagination could never have dreamed—that MissSqueers, who seldom troubled herself with scholastic matters,inquired with much curiosity who this Knuckleboy was, that gavehimself such airs.
‘Nickleby,’ said Squeers, spelling the name according to someeccentric system which prevailed in his own mind; ‘your motheralways calls things and people by their wrong names.’
‘No matter for that,’ said Mrs Squeers; ‘I see them with righteyes, and that’s quite enough for me. I watched him when youwere laying on to little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as blackas thunder, all the while, and, one time, started up as if he hadmore than got it in his mind to make a rush at you. I saw him, though he thought I didn’t.’
‘Never mind that, father,’ said Miss Squeers, as the head of thefamily was about to reply. ‘Who is the man?’
‘Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he’sthe son of a poor gentleman that died the other day,’ said MrsSqueers.
‘The son of a gentleman!’
‘Yes; but I don’t believe a word of it. If he’s a gentleman’s son atall, he’s a fondling, that’s my opinion.’
‘Mrs Squeers intended to say ‘foundling,’ but, as she frequentlyremarked when she made any such mistake, it would be all thesame a hundred years hence; with which axiom of philosophy,indeed, she was in the constant habit of consoling the boys whenthey laboured under more than ordinary ill-usage.
‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ said Squeers, in answer to the aboveremark, ‘for his father was married to his mother years before hewas born, and she is alive now. If he was, it would be no businessof ours, for we make a very good friend by having him here; and ifhe likes to learn the boys anything besides minding them, I haveno objection I am sure.’
‘I say again, I hate him worse than poison,’ said Mrs Squeersvehemently.
‘If you dislike him, my dear,’ returned Squeers, ‘I don’t knowanybody who can show dislike better than you, and of coursethere’s no occasion, with him, to take the trouble to hide it.’
‘I don’t intend to, I assure you,’ interposed Mrs S.
‘That’s right,’ said Squeers; ‘and if he has a touch of pride abouthim, as I think he has, I don’t believe there’s woman in all Englandthat can bring anybody’s spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.’
Mrs Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flatteringcompliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit ortwo in her day. It is but due to her character to say, that inconjunction with her estimable husband, she had broken manyand many a one.
Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and muchmore conversation on the same subject, until she retired for thenight, when she questioned the hungry servant, minutely,regarding the outward appearance and demeanour of Nicholas; towhich queries the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, coupledwith so many laudatory remarks touching his beautiful dark eyes,and his sweet smile, and his straight legs—upon which last-namedarticles she laid particular stress; the general run of legs atDotheboys Hall being crooked—that Miss Squeers was not long inarriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a veryremarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,‘something quite out of the common.’ And so Miss Squeers madeup her mind that she would take a personal observation ofNicholas the very next day.
In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched theopportunity of her mother being engaged, and her father absent,and went accidentally into the schoolroom to get a pen mended:
where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boys, sheblushed very deeply, and exhibited great confusion.
‘I beg your pardon,’ faltered Miss Squeers; ‘I thought my fatherwas—or might be—dear me, how very awkward!’
‘Mr Squeers is out,’ said Nicholas, by no means overcome bythe apparition, unexpected though it was.
‘Do you know will he be long, sir?’ asked Miss Squeers, withbashful hesitation.
‘He said about an hour,’ replied Nicholas—politely of course,but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by MissSqueers’s charms.
‘I never knew anything happen so cross,’ exclaimed the younglady. ‘Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn’tthought my father was here, I wouldn’t upon any account have—itis very provoking—must look so very strange,’ murmured MissSqueers, blushing once more, and glancing, from the pen in herhand, to Nicholas at his desk, and back again.
‘If that is all you want,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, andsmiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of theschoolmaster’s daughter, ‘perhaps I can supply his place.’
Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the proprietyof advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round theschoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by thepresence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas anddelivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixture ofreserve and condescension.
‘Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?’ inquired Nicholas, smiling toprevent himself from laughing outright.
‘He has a beautiful smile,’ thought Miss Squeers.
‘Which did you say?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, Ideclare,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! as soft as possible, if youplease.’ With which words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, togive Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that thepen was wanted to match.
Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gaveit to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stoopedto pick it up, Miss Squeers stopped also, and they knocked theirheads together; whereat five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud:
being positively for the first and only time that half-year.
‘Very awkward of me,’ said Nicholas, opening the door for theyoung lady’s retreat.
‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Miss Squeers; ‘it was my fault. It was allmy foolish—a—a—good-morning!’
‘Goodbye,’ said Nicholas. ‘The next I make for you, I hope willbe made less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.’
‘Really,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘so embarrassing that I scarcelyknow what I—very sorry to give you so much trouble.’
‘Not the least trouble in the world,’ replied Nicholas, closing theschoolroom door.
‘I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!’ said MissSqueers, as she walked away.
In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.
To account for the rapidity with which this young lady hadconceived a passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, thatthe friend from whom she had so recently returned, was a miller’sdaughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto theson of a small corn-factor, resident in the nearest market town.
Miss Squeers and the miller’s daughter, being fast friends, hadcovenanted together some two years before, according to a customprevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first engaged tobe married, should straightway confide the mighty secret to thebosom of the other, before communicating it to any living soul,and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time; in fulfilment of which pledge the miller’s daughter, when her engagement wasformed, came out express, at eleven o’clock at night as the corn-factor’s son made an offer of his hand and heart at twenty-fiveminutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushedinto Miss Squeers’s bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now,Miss Squeers being five years older, and out of her teens (which isalso a great matter), had, since, been more than commonlyanxious to return the compliment, and possess her friend with asimilar secret; but, either in consequence of finding it hard toplease herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had neverhad an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she had no such secretto disclose. The little interview with Nicholas had no soonerpassed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers, puttingon her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to herfriend’s house, and, upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows ofsecrecy, revealed how that she was—not exactly engaged, butgoing to be—to a gentleman’s son—(none of your corn-factors, buta gentleman’s son of high descent)—who had come down asteacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most mysterious and remarkablecircumstances—indeed, as Miss Squeers more than once hintedshe had good reason to believe, induced, by the fame of her manycharms, to seek her out, and woo and win her.
‘Isn’t it an extraordinary thing?’ said Miss Squeers,emphasising the adjective strongly.
‘Most extraordinary,’ replied the friend. ‘But what has he saidto you?’
‘Don’t ask me what he said, my dear,’ rejoined Miss Squeers. ‘Ifyou had only seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome inall my life.’
‘Did he look in this way?’ inquired the miller’s daughter,counterfeiting, as nearly as she could, a favourite leer of the corn-factor.
‘Very like that—only more genteel,’ replied Miss Squeers.
‘Ah!’ said the friend, ‘then he means something, depend on it.’
Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was byno means ill pleased to be confirmed by a competent authority;and discovering, on further conversation and comparison of notes,a great many points of resemblance between the behaviour ofNicholas, and that of the corn-factor, grew so exceedinglyconfidential, that she intrusted her friend with a vast number ofthings Nicholas had not said, which were all so verycomplimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated on thefearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuouslyopposed to her intended husband; on which unhappycircumstance she dwelt at great length; for the friend’s father andmother were quite agreeable to her being married, and the wholecourtship was in consequence as flat and common-place an affairas it was possible to imagine.
‘How I should like to see him!’ exclaimed the friend.
‘So you shall, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘I should considermyself one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. Ithink mother’s going away for two days to fetch some boys; andwhen she does, I’ll ask you and John up to tea, and have him tomeet you.’
This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, thefriends parted.
It so fell out, that Mrs Squeers’s journey, to some distance, tofetch three new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for thenext day but one; and on the next day but one, Mrs Squeers got upoutside the coach, as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, takingwith her a small bundle containing something in a bottle, andsome sandwiches, and carrying besides a large white top-coat towear in the night-time; with which baggage she went her way.
Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it wasSqueers’s custom to drive over to the market town, every evening,on pretence of urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven o’clockat a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in his way,therefore, but rather afforded a means of compromise with MissSqueers, he readily yielded his full assent thereunto, and willinglycommunicated to Nicholas that he was expected to take his tea inthe parlour that evening, at five o’clock.
To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the timeapproached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the bestadvantage: with her hair—it had more than a tinge of red, and shewore it in a crop—curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top ofher head, and arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to saynothing of the blue sash which floated down her back, or theworked apron or the long gloves, or the green gauze scarf wornover one shoulder and under the other; or any of the numerousdevices which were to be as so many arrows to the heart ofNicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements to herentire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity-brownparcel—flat and three-cornered—containing sundry smalladornments which were to be put on upstairs, and which thefriend put on, talking incessantly. When Miss Squeers had ‘done’
the friend’s hair, the friend ‘did’ Miss Squeers’s hair, throwing in some striking improvements in the way of ringlets down the neck;and then, when they were both touched up to their entiresatisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with the long gloveson, all ready for company.
‘Where’s John, ’Tilda?’ said Miss Squeers.
‘Only gone home to clean himself,’ replied the friend. ‘He willbe here by the time the tea’s drawn.’
‘I do so palpitate,’ observed Miss Squeers.
‘Ah! I know what it is,’ replied the friend.
‘I have not been used to it, you know, ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers,applying her hand to the left side of her sash.
‘You’ll soon get the better of it, dear,’ rejoined the friend. Whilethey were talking thus, the hungry servant brought in the tea-things, and, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the room door.
‘There he is!’ cried Miss Squeers. ‘Oh ‘Tilda!’
‘Hush!’ said ’Tilda. ‘Hem! Say, come in.’
‘Come in,’ cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked Nicholas.
‘Good-evening,’ said that young gentleman, all unconscious ofhis conquest. ‘I understood from Mr Squeers that—’
‘Oh yes; it’s all right,’ interposed Miss Squeers. ‘Father don’ttea with us, but you won’t mind that, I dare say.’ (This was saidarchly.)Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter offvery coolly—not caring, particularly, about anything just then—and went through the ceremony of introduction to the miller’sdaughter with so much grace, that that young lady was lost inadmiration.
‘We are only waiting for one more gentleman,’ said MissSqueers, taking off the teapot lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was getting on.
It was matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they werewaiting for one gentleman or twenty, so he received theintelligence with perfect unconcern; and, being out of spirits, andnot seeing any especial reason why he should make himselfagreeable, looked out of the window and sighed involuntarily.
As luck would have it, Miss Squeers’s friend was of a playfulturn, and hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rallythe lovers on their lowness of spirits.
‘But if it’s caused by my being here,’ said the young lady, ‘don’tmind me a bit, for I’m quite as bad. You may go on just as youwould if you were alone.’
‘’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls,‘I am ashamed of you;’ and here the two friends burst into avariety of giggles, and glanced from time to time, over the tops oftheir pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state ofunmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressiblelaughter—occasioned, partly by the bare notion of his being inlove with Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterousappearance and behaviour of the two girls. These two causes ofmerriment, taken together, struck him as being so keenlyridiculous, that, despite his miserable condition, he laughed till hewas thoroughly exhausted.
‘Well,’ thought Nicholas, ‘as I am here, and seem expected, forsome reason or other, to be amiable, it’s of no use looking like agoose. I may as well accommodate myself to the company.’
We blush to tell it; but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting,for the time, the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formedthis resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began tomake himself more at home than in all probability an usher hasever done in his employer’s house since ushers were firstinvented.
The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour onthe part of Mr Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, with hishair very damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereofthe collar might have belonged to some giant ancestor, forming,together with a white waistcoat of similar dimensions, the chiefornament of his person.
‘Well, John,’ said Miss Matilda Price (which, by-the-bye, wasthe name of the miller’s daughter).
‘Weel,’ said John with a grin that even the collar could notconceal.
‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to dothe honours. ‘Mr Nickleby—Mr John Browdie.’
‘Servant, sir,’ said John, who was something over six feet high,with a face and body rather above the due proportion than belowit.
‘Yours to command, sir,’ replied Nicholas, making fearfulravages on the bread and butter.
Mr Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversationalpowers, so he grinned twice more, and having now bestowed hiscustomary mark of recognition on every person in company,grinned at nothing in particular, and helped himself to food.
‘Old wooman awa’, bean’t she?’ said Mr Browdie, with hismouth full.
Miss Squeers nodded assent.
Mr Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really was something to laugh at, and went to work at the breadand butter with increased vigour. It was quite a sight to beholdhow he and Nicholas emptied the plate between them.
‘Ye wean’t get bread and butther ev’ry neight, I expect, mun,’
said Mr Browdie, after he had sat staring at Nicholas a long timeover the empty plate.
Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear theremark.
‘Ecod,’ said Mr Browdie, laughing boisterously, ‘they dean’t puttoo much intiv’em. Ye’ll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stophere long eneaf. Ho! ho! ho!’
‘You are facetious, sir,’ said Nicholas, scornfully.
‘Na; I dean’t know,’ replied Mr Browdie, ‘but t’oother teacher,‘cod he wur a learn ’un, he wur.’ The recollection of the lastteacher’s leanness seemed to afford Mr Browdie the mostexquisite delight, for he laughed until he found it necessary toapply his coat-cuffs to his eyes.
‘I don’t know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough,Mr Browdie, to enable you to understand that your remarks areoffensive,’ said Nicholas in a towering passion, ‘but if they are,have the goodness to—’
‘If you say another word, John,’ shrieked Miss Price, stoppingher admirer’s mouth as he was about to interrupt, ‘only half aword, I’ll never forgive you, or speak to you again.’
‘Weel, my lass, I dean’t care aboot ’un,’ said the corn-factor,bestowing a hearty kiss on Miss Matilda; ‘let ’un gang on, let ’ungang on.’
It now became Miss Squeers’s turn to intercede with Nicholas,which she did with many symptoms of alarm and horror; the effect of the double intercession was, that he and John Browdie shookhands across the table with much gravity; and such was theimposing nature of the ceremonial, that Miss Squeers wasovercome and shed tears.
‘What’s the matter, Fanny?’ said Miss Price.
‘Nothing, ’Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, sobbing.
‘There never was any danger,’ said Miss Price, ‘was there, MrNickleby?’
‘None at all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Absurd.’
‘That’s right,’ whispered Miss Price, ‘say something kind to her,and she’ll soon come round. Here! Shall John and I go into thelittle kitchen, and come back presently?’
‘Not on any account,’ rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at theproposition. ‘What on earth should you do that for?’
‘Well,’ said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking withsome degree of contempt—‘you are a one to keep company.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Nicholas; ‘I am not a one to keepcompany at all—here at all events. I can’t make this out.’
‘No, nor I neither,” rejoined Miss Price; ‘but men are alwaysfickle, and always were, and always will be; that I can make out,very easily.’
‘Fickle!’ cried Nicholas; ‘what do you suppose? You don’t meanto say that you think—’
‘Oh no, I think nothing at all,’ retorted Miss Price, pettishly.
‘Look at her, dressed so beautiful and looking so well—reallyalmost handsome. I am ashamed at you.’
‘My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressingbeautifully or looking well?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘Come, don’t call me a dear girl,’ said Miss Price—smiling a little though, for she was pretty, and a coquette too in her smallway, and Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him theproperty of somebody else, which were all reasons why she shouldbe gratified to think she had made an impression on him,—‘orFanny will be saying it’s my fault. Come; we’re going to have agame at cards.’ Pronouncing these last words aloud, she trippedaway and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.
This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no otherdistinct impression on his mind at the moment, than that MissSqueers was an ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price apretty one; but he had not time to enlighten himself by reflection,for the hearth being by this time swept up, and the candle snuffed,they sat down to play speculation.
‘There are only four of us, ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, lookingslyly at Nicholas; ‘so we had better go partners, two against two.’
‘What do you say, Mr Nickleby?’ inquired Miss Price.
‘With all the pleasure in life,’ replied Nicholas. And so saying,quite unconscious of his heinous offence, he amalgamated into onecommon heap those portions of a Dotheboys Hall card of terms,which represented his own counters, and those allotted to MissPrice, respectively.
‘Mr Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers hysterically, ‘shall we make abank against them?’
The Yorkshireman assented—apparently quite overwhelmedby the new usher’s impudence—and Miss Squeers darted aspiteful look at her friend, and giggled convulsively.
The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered.
‘We intend to win everything,’ said he.
‘’Tilda has won something she didn’t expect, I think, haven’t you, dear?’ said Miss Squeers, maliciously.
‘Only a dozen and eight, love,’ replied Miss Price, affecting totake the question in a literal sense.
‘How dull you are tonight!’ sneered Miss Squeers.
‘No, indeed,’ replied Miss Price, ‘I am in excellent spirits. I wasthinking you seemed out of sorts.’
‘Me!’ cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling withvery jealousy. ‘Oh no!’
‘That’s well,’ remarked Miss Price. ‘Your hair’s coming out ofcurl, dear.’
‘Never mind me,’ tittered Miss Squeers; ‘you had better attendto your partner.’
‘Thank you for reminding her,’ said Nicholas. ‘So she had.’
The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with hisclenched fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity ofexercising it upon the features of some other gentleman; and MissSqueers tossed her head with such indignation, that the gust ofwind raised by the multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew thecandle out.
‘I never had such luck, really,’ exclaimed coquettish Miss Price,after another hand or two. ‘It’s all along of you, Mr Nickleby, Ithink. I should like to have you for a partner always.’
‘I wish you had.’
‘You’ll have a bad wife, though, if you always win at cards,’ saidMiss Price.
‘Not if your wish is gratified,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I am sure I shallhave a good one in that case.’
To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn-factorflattened his nose, while this conversation was carrying on! It would have been worth a small annuity to have beheld that; letalone Miss Price’s evident joy at making them jealous, andNicholas Nickleby’s happy unconsciousness of making anybodyuncomfortable.
‘We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,’ said Nicholas,looking good-humouredly round the table as he took up the cardsfor a fresh deal.
‘You do it so well,’ tittered Miss Squeers, ‘that it would be a pityto interrupt, wouldn’t it, Mr Browdie? He! he! he!’
‘Nay,’ said Nicholas, ‘we do it in default of having anybody elseto talk to.’
‘We’ll talk to you, you know, if you’ll say anything,’ said MissPrice.
‘Thank you, ’Tilda, dear,’ retorted Miss Squeers, majestically.
‘Or you can talk to each other, if you don’t choose to talk to us,’
said Miss Price, rallying her dear friend. ‘John, why don’t you saysomething?’
‘Say summat?’ repeated the Yorkshireman.
‘Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.’
‘Weel, then!’ said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavilywith his fist, ‘what I say’s this—Dang my boans and boddy, if Istan’ this ony longer. Do ye gang whoam wi’ me, and do yon loightan’ toight young whipster look sharp out for a brokken head, nexttime he cums under my hond.’
‘Mercy on us, what’s all this?’ cried Miss Price, in affectedastonishment.
‘Cum whoam, tell ’e, cum whoam,’ replied the Yorkshireman,sternly. And as he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into ashower of tears; arising in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate somebody’s countenancewith her fair finger-nails.
This state of things had been brought about by divers meansand workings. Miss Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring tothe high state and condition of being matrimonially engaged,without good grounds for so doing; Miss Price had brought itabout, by indulging in three motives of action: first, a desire topunish her friend for laying claim to a rivalship in dignity, havingno good title: secondly, the gratification of her own vanity, inreceiving the compliments of a smart young man: and thirdly, awish to convince the corn-factor of the great danger he ran, indeferring the celebration of their expected nuptials; whileNicholas had brought it about, by half an hour’s gaiety andthoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid the imputationof inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means employed, andthe end produced, were alike the most natural in the world; foryoung ladies will look forward to being married, and will jostleeach other in the race to the altar, and will avail themselves of allopportunities of displaying their own attractions to the bestadvantage, down to the very end of time, as they have done fromits beginning.
‘Why, and here’s Fanny in tears now!’ exclaimed Miss Price, asif in fresh amazement. ‘What can be the matter?’
‘Oh! you don’t know, miss, of course you don’t know. Pray don’ttrouble yourself to inquire,’ said Miss Squeers, producing thatchange of countenance which children call making a face.
‘Well, I’m sure!’ exclaimed Miss Price.
‘And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma’am?’ retortedMiss Squeers, making another face.
‘You are monstrous polite, ma’am,’ said Miss Price.
‘I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma’am!’
retorted Miss Squeers.
‘You needn’t take the trouble to make yourself plainer than youare, ma’am, however,’ rejoined Miss Price, ‘because that’s quiteunnecessary.’
Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God thatshe hadn’t got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, inrejoinder, congratulated herself upon not being possessed of theenvious feeling of other people; whereupon Miss Squeers madesome general remark touching the danger of associating with lowpersons; in which Miss Price entirely coincided: observing that itwas very true indeed, and she had thought so a long time.
‘’Tilda,’ exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, ‘I hate you.’
‘Ah! There’s no love lost between us, I assure you,’ said MissPrice, tying her bonnet strings with a jerk. ‘You’ll cry your eyesout, when I’m gone; you know you will.’
‘I scorn your words, Minx,’ said Miss Squeers.
‘You pay me a great compliment when you say so,’ answeredthe miller’s daughter, curtseying very low. ‘Wish you a very good-night, ma’am, and pleasant dreams attend your sleep!’
With this parting benediction, Miss Price swept from the room,followed by the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged withNicholas, at parting, that peculiarly expressive scowl with whichthe cut-and-thrust counts, in melodramatic performances, informeach other they will meet again. They were no sooner gone, thanMiss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of her quondam friend bygiving vent to a most copious burst of tears, and uttering variousdismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but feelinguncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced, orscratched, and considering that either infliction would be equallyagreeable, he walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers wasmoaning in her pocket-handkerchief.
‘This is one consequence,’ thought Nicholas, when he hadgroped his way to the dark sleeping-room, ‘of my cursed readinessto adapt myself to any society in which chance carries me. If I hadsat mute and motionless, as I might have done, this would nothave happened.’
He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.
‘I was glad,’ he murmured, ‘to grasp at any relief from the sightof this dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have setthese people by the ears, and made two new enemies, where,Heaven knows, I needed none. Well, it is a just punishment forhaving forgotten, even for an hour, what is around me now!’
So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-heartedsleepers, and crept into his poor bed.
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