Mr. and Mrs. Squeers at Home
Mr. Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and the boys standing
with the luggage in the road, to amuse themselves by looking at the
coach as it changed horses, while he ran into the tavern and went
through the leg-stretching process at the bar. After some minutes, he
returned, with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and
a short hiccup afforded any criterion; and at the same time there came
out of the yard a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by two labouring
men.
‘Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,’ said Squeers, rubbing his
hands; ‘and this young man and me will go on in the chaise. Get in,
Nickleby.’
Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing the pony to
obey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to
follow at leisure.
‘Are you cold, Nickleby?’ inquired Squeers, after they had travelled
some distance in silence.
‘Rather, sir, I must say.’
‘Well, I don’t find fault with that,’ said Squeers; ‘it’s a long journey
this weather.’
‘Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?’ asked Nicholas.
‘About three mile from here,’ replied Squeers. ‘But you needn’t call it
a Hall down here.’
Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.
‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall,’ observed Squeers drily.
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence much
astonished.
‘No,’ replied Squeers. ‘We call it a Hall up in London, because it
sounds better, but they don’t know it by that name in these parts. A man
may call his house an island if he likes; there’s no act of Parliament
against that, I believe?’
‘I believe not, sir,’ rejoined Nicholas.
Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this little
dialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appeared in
nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, contented himself with
lashing the pony until they reached their journey’s end.
‘Jump out,’ said Squeers. ‘Hallo there! Come and put this horse up. Be
quick, will you!’
While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries,
Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking
house, one storey high, with a few straggling out-buildings behind, and
a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the
noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a
tall lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.
‘Is that you, Smike?’ cried Squeers.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.
‘Then why the devil didn’t you come before?’
‘Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,’ answered Smike, with
humility.
‘Fire! what fire? Where’s there a fire?’ demanded the schoolmaster,
sharply.
‘Only in the kitchen, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘Missus said as I was
sitting up, I might go in there for a warm.’
‘Your missus is a fool,’ retorted Squeers. ‘You’d have been a deuced
deal more wakeful in the cold, I’ll engage.’
By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to
see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn’t any more corn that
night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-door a minute while he went
round and let him in.
A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas
during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled
force when he was left alone. His great distance from home and the
impossibility of reaching it, except on foot, should he feel ever so
anxious to return, presented itself to him in most alarming colours; and
as he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild
country round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and
spirit which he had never experienced before.
‘Now then!’ cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front-door. ‘Where
are you, Nickleby?’
‘Here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Come in, then,’ said Squeers ‘the wind blows in, at this door, fit to
knock a man off his legs.’
Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr. Squeers, having bolted the door to
keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantily furnished with a
few chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall, and a couple of tables;
one of which bore some preparations for supper; while, on the other, a
tutor’s assistant, a Murray’s grammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and
a worn letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in
picturesque confusion.
They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, when a female
bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat, gave him
two loud kisses: one close after the other, like a postman’s knock. The
lady, who was of a large raw-boned figure, was about half a head taller
than Mr. Squeers, and was dressed in a dimity night-jacket; with her hair
in papers; she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton
handkerchief which tied it under the chin.
‘How is my Squeery?’ said this lady in a playful manner, and a very
hoarse voice.
‘Quite well, my love,’ replied Squeers. ‘How’s the cows?’
‘All right, every one of’em,’ answered the lady.
‘And the pigs?’ said Squeers.
‘As well as they were when you went away.’
‘Come; that’s a blessing,’ said Squeers, pulling off his great-coat.
‘The boys are all as they were, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes, they’re well enough,’ replied Mrs. Squeers, snappishly. ‘That
young Pitcher’s had a fever.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Squeers. ‘Damn that boy, he’s always at something of
that sort.’
‘Never was such a boy, I do believe,’ said Mrs. Squeers; ‘whatever he
has is always catching too. I say it’s obstinacy, and nothing shall ever
convince me that it isn’t. I’d beat it out of him; and I told you that,
six months ago.’
‘So you did, my love,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We’ll try what can be done.’
Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood, awkwardly enough,
in the middle of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected
to retire into the passage, or to remain where he was. He was now
relieved from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.
‘This is the new young man, my dear,’ said that gentleman.
‘Oh,’ replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him
coldly from top to toe.
‘He’ll take a meal with us tonight,’ said Squeers, ‘and go among the
boys tomorrow morning. You can give him a shake-down here, tonight,
can’t you?’
‘We must manage it somehow,’ replied the lady. ‘You don’t much mind how
you sleep, I suppose, sir?’
No, indeed,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I am not particular.’
‘That’s lucky,’ said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady’s humour was
considered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and
seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.
After some further conversation between the master and mistress relative
to the success of Mr. Squeers’s trip and the people who had paid, and the
people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in
a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the
boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.
Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different
boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The
boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if
with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was
a very painful one, and went to Nicholas’s heart at once; for it told a
long and very sad history.
It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was
surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which
formed his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or
nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit,
such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most
absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his
attenuated frame. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in
perfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of
boots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some
stout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven
knows how long he had been there, but he still wore the same linen which
he had first taken down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child’s
frill, only half concealed by a coarse, man’s neckerchief. He was lame;
and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the
letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that
Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
‘What are you bothering about there, Smike?’ cried Mrs. Squeers; ‘let the
things alone, can’t you?’
‘Eh!’ said Squeers, looking up. ‘Oh! it’s you, is it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to
control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. ‘Is there--’
‘Well!’ said Squeers.
‘Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?’
‘Devil a bit,’ replied Squeers testily.
The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved
towards the door.
‘Not a word,’ resumed Squeers, ‘and never will be. Now, this is a pretty
sort of thing, isn’t it, that you should have been left here, all these
years, and no money paid after the first six--nor no notice taken, nor
no clue to be got who you belong to? It’s a pretty sort of thing that I
should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one
penny for it, isn’t it?’
The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to
recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,
gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
‘I’ll tell you what, Squeers,’ remarked his wife as the door closed, ‘I
think that young chap’s turning silly.’
‘I hope not,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘for he’s a handy fellow out of
doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should think he’d have
wit enough for us though, if he was. But come; let’s have supper, for I
am hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.’
This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr. Squeers, who speedily
proceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but his
appetite was effectually taken away.
‘How’s the steak, Squeers?’ said Mrs. S.
‘Tender as a lamb,’ replied Squeers. ‘Have a bit.’
‘I couldn’t eat a morsel,’ replied his wife. ‘What’ll the young man
take, my dear?’
‘Whatever he likes that’s present,’ rejoined Squeers, in a most unusual
burst of generosity.
‘What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy?’ inquired Mrs. Squeers.
‘I’ll take a little of the pie, if you please,’ replied Nicholas. ‘A
very little, for I’m not hungry.’
Well, it’s a pity to cut the pie if you’re not hungry, isn’t it?’ said
Mrs. Squeers. ‘Will you try a bit of the beef?’
‘Whatever you please,’ replied Nicholas abstractedly; ‘it’s all the same
to me.’
Mrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; and nodding
to Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find the young man
knew his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meat with her own fair
hands.
‘Ale, Squeery?’ inquired the lady, winking and frowning to give him to
understand that the question propounded, was, whether Nicholas should
have ale, and not whether he (Squeers) would take any.
‘Certainly,’ said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner. ‘A
glassful.’
So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his own reflections,
drank it, in happy innocence of all the foregone proceedings.
‘Uncommon juicy steak that,’ said Squeers, as he laid down his knife and
fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.
‘It’s prime meat,’ rejoined his lady. ‘I bought a good large piece of it
myself on purpose for--’
‘For what!’ exclaimed Squeers hastily. ‘Not for the--’
‘No, no; not for them,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers; ‘on purpose for you
against you came home. Lor! you didn’t think I could have made such a
mistake as that.’
‘Upon my word, my dear, I didn’t know what you were going to say,’ said
Squeers, who had turned pale.
‘You needn’t make yourself uncomfortable,’ remarked his wife, laughing
heartily. ‘To think that I should be such a noddy! Well!’
This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; but popular
rumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr. Squeers, being amiably
opposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequently purchased for boy
consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death;
possibly he was apprehensive of having unintentionally devoured some
choice morsel intended for the young gentlemen.
Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with a hungry
eye, Mrs. Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe
custody the clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, and who were
half-way up the troublesome flight of steps which leads to death’s door,
in consequence of exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with
a light supper of porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a small
bedstead, to warm each other, and dream of a substantial meal with
something hot after it, if their fancies set that way: which it is not
at all improbable they did.
Mr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, made
on the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for the dissolution of
the sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholas the ghost of a small
glassful of the same compound. This done, Mr. and Mrs. Squeers drew
close up to the fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender, talked
confidentially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor’s
assistant, read the interesting legends in the miscellaneous questions,
and all the figures into the bargain, with as much thought or
consciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a magnetic
slumber.
At length, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it was high time
to go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs. Squeers and the girl dragged in a
small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a
couch for Nicholas.
‘We’ll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickelby,’ said
Squeers. ‘Let me see! Who sleeps in Brooks’s bed, my dear?’
‘In Brooks’s,’ said Mrs. Squeers, pondering. ‘There’s Jennings, little
Bolder, Graymarsh, and what’s his name.’
‘So there is,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Yes! Brooks is full.’
‘Full!’ thought Nicholas. ‘I should think he was.’
‘There’s a place somewhere, I know,’ said Squeers; ‘but I can’t at this
moment call to mind where it is. However, we’ll have that all settled
tomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o’clock in the morning, mind.’
‘I shall be ready, sir,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Good-night.’
‘I’ll come in myself and show you where the well is,’ said Squeers.
‘You’ll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that
belongs to you.’
Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers was again going
away, when he once more turned back.
‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ he said, ‘whose towel to put you on; but
if you’ll make shift with something tomorrow morning, Mrs. Squeers will
arrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don’t forget.’
‘I’ll take care,’ replied Mrs. Squeers; ‘and mind YOU take care, young
man, and get first wash. The teacher ought always to have it; but they
get the better of him if they can.’
Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring away the brandy bottle, lest
Nicholas should help himself in the night; and the lady having seized it
with great precipitation, they retired together.
Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and down the room
in a condition of much agitation and excitement; but, growing gradually
calmer, sat himself down in a chair, and mentally resolved that, come
what come might, he would endeavour, for a time, to bear whatever
wretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering the
helplessness of his mother and sister, he would give his uncle no
plea for deserting them in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of
producing some good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew
less desponding, and--so sanguine and buoyant is youth--even hoped that
affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than they promised.
He was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness,
when a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving
London, it had escaped his attention, and had not occurred to him since,
but it at once brought back to him the recollection of the mysterious
behaviour of Newman Noggs.
‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas; ‘what an extraordinary hand!’
It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in
such cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great
difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read as follows:--
My dear young Man.
I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a
kindness when there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not
be bound on such a journey.
If ever you want a shelter in London (don’t be angry at this, I once
thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign of the
Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner of Silver
Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come at
night. Once, nobody was ashamed--never mind that. It’s all over.
Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have
forgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.
NEWMAN NOGGS.
P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the
King’s Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will not charge you
for it. You may say Mr. Noggs there, for I was a gentleman then. I was
indeed.
It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had
folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby’s
eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might have been taken for tears.