 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chet Chris, London, UK. Nicholas Nicolby, by Charles Dickens. Chapter 8. Of the internal economy of Do the Boys Hall. A ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather is one of the best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over the rough couch of Nicholas and whispered their airy nothings in his ear were of an agreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed, when the faint glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognising as part and parcel of Mr. Squeers, admonished him that it was time to rise. "'Pass seven, Nicolby,' said Mr. Squeers. "'Has morning come already?' asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed. "'Ah, that has it,' replied Squeers, and ready iced, too. "'Now, Nicolby, come, tumble up, will you?' Nicholas needed no further admonition, but tumbled up at once, and proceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper which Mr. Squeers carried in his hand. "'Here's a pretty go,' said that gentleman. "'Their pumps froze.' "'Indeed,' said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelligence. "'Yes,' replied Squeers. "'You can't wash yourself this morning.' "'Not wash myself?' exclaimed Nicholas. "'No, not a bit of it,' rejoined Squeers, tartly. "'So you must be content with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and you can get a bucket full out for the boys. "'Don't stand staring at me, but do look sharp, will you?' Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his clothes. Squeers, meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew the candle out, when the voice of his amiable consort was heard in the passage, demanding admittance. "'Come in, my love,' said Squeers. Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night-jacket which had displayed the symmetry of her figure on the previous night, and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet of some antiquity, which she wore with much ease and lightness on the top of the night-cap before mentioned. "'Drap the things,' said the lady, opening the cupboard. "'I can't find the school's spoon anywhere.' "'Never mind it, my dear,' observed Squeers, in a soothing manner. "'It's of no consequence—' "'No consequence? Why, how you talk?' retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply. "'Isn't it Brimstone morning?' "'I forgot, my dear, rejoined Squeers. Yes, it certainly is. We purify the boys' bloods now and then, Nicolby.' "'Purify fiddle-sticks' ends,' said his lady. "'Don't think, young man, that we go to the expense of flour and Brimstone and molasses just to purify them, because if you think we carry on the business in that way you'll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.' "'My dear,' said Squeers, frowning. "'Oh, nonsense,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers. "'If the young man comes to be a teacher here, let him understand at once that we don't want any foolery about the boys. They have the Brimstone and Treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine there'd be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So it does them good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough, I'm sure.' Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her head into the closet and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr. Squeers assisted. A few words passed between them while they were thus engaged, but as their voices were partially stifled by the cupboard, all that Nicholas could distinguish was that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers had said was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. Squeers said was stuff. A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless, smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers and boxed by Mr. Squeers. Which course of treatment brightening his intellects enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket, as indeed turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously protested, however, that she was quite certain she had not got it, smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his mistress, together with the promise of a sound thrashing if he were not more respectful in future, so that he took nothing very advantageous by his motion. A most invaluable woman, that Nicolby, said Squeers, when his consort had hurried away, pushing the drudge before her. Indeed, sir, observed Nicholas. I don't know her equal, said Squeers. I do not know her equal. That woman, Nicolby, is always the same. Always the same bustling, lively, active, saving creature that you see here now. Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable domestic prospect thus opened to him. But Squeers was fortunately too much occupied with his own reflections to perceive it. It's my way to say, when I'm up in London, continued Squeers, that to them boys she's a mother. But she's more than a mother to them. Ten times more. She does things for them boys, Nicolby, that I don't believe half the mother's going would do for their own sons. I should think they would not, sir, answered Nicholas. Now the fact was that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed the boys in the light of their proper and natural enemies, or in other words they held and considered that their business and profession was to get as much from every boy as could by possibility be screwed out of him. On this point they were both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The only difference between them was that Mrs. Squeers waged war against the enemy openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality even at home with a spice of his habitual deceit, as if he really had a notion of some day or other being able to take himself in and persuade his own mind that he was a very good fellow. But come, said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some thoughts to this effect in the mind of his usher. Let's go to the schoolroom, and let me a hand with my schoolcoat, will you? Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old Faustian shooting-jacket, which he took down from a peg in the passage, and Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a yard to a door in the rear of the house. There, said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together, this is our shop, Nicolby. It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract attention, that at first Nicholas stared about him really without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereover tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copy-books and paper. There were a couple of long, old rickety desks cut and notched and inked and damaged in every possible way. Two or three forms, a detached desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported like that of a barn by cross-beams and rafters, and the walls were so stained and discoloured that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash. But the pupils, the young noble men, how the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay around, pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long meager legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together. There were the bleared eye, the hair-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There were little faces which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining. There were vicious-faced boys brooding with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail. And there were young creatures on whom the sins of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every kindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion that confessed her in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in silence, what an insipient hell was breeding here. And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features, which in a less interested observer than Nicholas might have provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense base in a brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she administered a large instalment to each boy in succession, using for the purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufactured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth considerably. They being all obliged under heavy corporal penalties to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In another corner, huddled together for companionship, were the little boys who had arrived on the preceding night. Three of them in very large leather britches, and two in old trousers. Something tighter fit than drawers are usually worn. At no great distance from these were seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers, a striking likeness of his father, kicking with great vigor under the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots that bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which the least of the little boys had worn on the journey down, as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he was regarding the appropriation with the look of most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a long row of boys waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled, and another phile, who had just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of rye mouths indicative of anything but satisfaction. The whole were attired in such motley, ill-assorted, ordinary garments, as would have been irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder, and disease with which they were associated. Now, said Squeers, giving the desk a great wrap with his cane, which made half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, is that fizzicking over? Just over, said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him. Hey, you, Smyke, take away now, look sharp! Smyke shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers, having called up a little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out after him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire and a large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were arranged upon a board. Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant, put a brown composition which looked like diluted pin-cushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was inserted into each bowl, when they had eaten their porridge by means of the bread, the boy's et of the bread itself, and had finished their breakfast. Whereupon Mr. Squeers said in a solemn voice, For what we have received made the Lord-makers truly thankful, and went away to his own. Mr. Squeers distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the same reason which induces some savages to swallow earth, lest they should be inconveniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted to him in virtue of his office, he sat himself down, to wait for school-time. He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be. There was none of the noise and clamour of a school-room, none of its boisterous play or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The only pupil who evinced the slightest tendency towards locomotion or playfulness was Master Squeers. And as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other boy's toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable than otherwise. After some half-hours delay Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took their places and their books, of which latter commodity the average might be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called up the first class. Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the schoolmaster's desk, half a dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows, one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye. This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nicolby, said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. We'll get up a Latin one and hand that over to you. Now then, where's the first boy? Please, sir, is cleaning the back-parler window," said the temporary head of the philosophical class. So he is, to be sure, rejoined Squeers. We go up on the practical mode of teaching, Nicolby, the regular education system. C-L-E-A-N, clean, verb active, to make bright, to scour, W-I-N win, D-E-R-D, window, a casement. When the boy knows this out of a book, he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy? Please, sir, is weeding the garden," replied a small voice, to be sure, said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. So he is, B-O-T-Bot, T-I-N, tin, botin, N-E-Y, knee, botiny, noun substantive and knowledge of plants. When he's learned that botany means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows them. That's our system, Nicolby. What do you think of it? It's a very useful one at any rate, answered Nicolus. I believe you, rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his usher. Third boy, what's horse? A beast, sir, replied the boy. So it is, said Squeers. Ain't it, Nicolby? I believe there's no doubt of that, sir, answered Nicolus. Of course there isn't, said Squeers. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped slattin' for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of having grammars at all? Where, indeed, said Nicolus abstractedly. As you're perfect in that, resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, go and look after my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day tomorrow and they want the coppers filled. So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in practical philosophy, and eyed Nicolus with a look half cunning and half doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think of him by this time. That's the way we do it, Nicolby, he said, after a pause. Nicolus shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely perceptible, and said, he saw it was. And a very good way it is, too, said Squeers. Now just take them fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because you know you must begin to be useful. I then about here won't do. Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him either that he must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were arranged in a semi-circle around the new master, and it was soon listening to their dull, sprawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engrossing interest which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling books. In this exciting occupation the morning lagged heavily on. At one o'clock the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicolus was graciously permitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this there was another hour of crouching in the school room, and shivering with cold, and then school began again. It was Mr. Squeers's custom to call the boys together and make a sort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the relations and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the letters he had brought down, the bills which had been paid, the accounts which had been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return. Perhaps because the boys acquired strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or possibly because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and inflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was want to indulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from House Window, Garden, Stable, and Cow Yard, and the school were assembled in full conclave, where Mr. Squeers, with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and Mrs. S, following with a pair of canes, entered the room and proclaimed silence. Let any boys speak a word without leave, said Mr. Squeers mildly, and I'll take the skin off his back. This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a death-like silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on to say, Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as strong and well as ever. According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! I've seen the parents of some boys, continued Squeers, turning over his papers, and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on that there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for all parties. Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but the greater part of the young gentleman having no particular parents to speak of were wholly uninterested in the thing one way or another. I have had disappointments to contend against, said Squeers, looking very grim. Boulder's father was two pound ten short. Where's Boulder? Here he is, please, sir, rejoin twenty officious voices. Boys are very like men, to be sure. Come here, Boulder, said Squeers. An unhealthy-looking boy with warts all over his hands stepped from his place to the master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers' face. His own quite white from the rapid beating of his heart. Boulder, said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering as the saying goes where to have him. Boulder, if your father thinks that because—why, what's this, sir? As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust. What do you call this, sir? demanded the schoolmaster, administering a cut with the cane to expedite the reply. I can't help it, indeed, sir, rejoined the boy, crying. There will come. It's the dirty work, I think—at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault. Boulder, said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands and moistening the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the cane. After an incorrigible young scoundrel—and as the last thrash indeed you know good, we must see what another will do towards beating it out of you. With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly, not leaving off indeed until his arm was tired out. There, said Squeers, when he'd quite done, rub away as hard as you like. You won't rub that off in a hurry. Oh, you won't hold that noise, won't you? Put him out, smike. The drudge knew better from long experience than to hesitate about obeying. So he bundled the victim out by a side door, and Mr. Squeers perched himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. Squeers, who occupied another at his side. Now, let us see, said Squeers, a letter for Cobbie. Stand up, Cobbie. Another boy stood up and eyed the letter very hard, while Squeers made a mental abstract of the same. Oh, said Squeers, Cobbie's grandmother is dead, and his Uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends except 18 pence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the money? The worthy lady pocketed the 18 pence with the most businesslike air, and Squeers passed on to the next boy as coolly as possible. Gray Marsh, said Squeers, he's the next. Stand up, Gray Marsh. The boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the letter as before. Gray Marsh's maternal aunt, said Squeers, when he had possessed himself of the contents, is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards attract instead, and hopes Gray Marsh will put his trust in Providence. Hopes above all that he will study in everything to please Mr. Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends, and that he will love Master Squeers, and not object to sleep in five in a bed which no Christian should—ah, said Squeers, folding it up—a delightful letter, very affecting indeed. It was affecting in one sense. For Gray Marsh's maternal aunt was strongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be no other than his maternal parent. Squeers, however, without alluding to this part of the story, which would have sounded immoral before boys, proceeded with the business by calling out, Mobs, whereupon another boy rose, and Gray Marsh resumed his seat. Mobs's stepmother, said Squeers, took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to, if he squarrels with his vitals, and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the London Newspapers, not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind and too good to set anybody against anybody, and it has vexed her so much, Mobs can't think. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also stopped his hate near weak pocket money, and given a double-bladed knife for the corkscrewing it to the missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling, said Squeers, after a terrible pause, during which he had moistened the palm of his right hand again, won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobs come to me. Mobs move slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so, and he soon afterwards retired by the side door, with as good cause as a boy need have. Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection of letters, some enclosing money which Mrs. Squeers took care of, and others referring to small articles of apparel as caps and so forth, all of which the same lady stated to be too large, or too small, and calculated for nobody but young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most accommodating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted him to a nicety. His head in particular must have been singularly elastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to him. This at business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the school-room, which was very cold, and where a meal of bread and cheese was served out shortly after dark. There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest to the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down so depressed and self-degraded by the consciousness of his position, that if death could have come upon him at that time, he would have been almost happy to meet it. The cruelty of which had been an unwilling witness, the coarse and ruffianly behaviour of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy place, the sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state of feeling. But when he recollected that, being there as an assistant, he actually seemed, no matter what unhappy train of circumstances had brought him to that pass, to be the aider and a better of a system which filled him with honest disgust and indignation, he loathed himself, and felt for the moment as though the mere consciousness of his present situation must through all time to come prevent his raising his head again. But for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution he had formed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. He had written to his mother and sister, announcing the safe conclusion of his journey, and saying as little about do the boys hall, and saying that little as cheerfully as he possibly could. He hoped that by remaining where he was he might do some good even there. At all events others depended too much on his uncle's favour to admit of his awakening his wrath just then. One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish considerations arising out of his own position. This was the probable destination of his sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him, and might he not consign her to some miserable place, where her youth and beauty would prove a far greater curse than ugliness and decrepitude. To a caged man bound hand and foot this was a terrible idea. But no, he thought, his mother was by. There was the portrait painter too, simple enough but still living in the world and of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph Nicolby had conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty good reason by this time to reciprocate it, he had no difficulty in arriving at this conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that the feeling extended no farther than between them. As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smyke, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrunk back as if expecting a blow. "'You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly. "'Are you cold?' "'No.' "'You're shivering.' "'I'm not cold,' replied Smyke quickly. "'I'm used to it.' There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "'Poor fellow.' If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word, but now he burst into tears. "'Oh, dear, oh, dear,' cried he, covering his face with his cracked and horny hands. "'My heart will break. It will, it will.' "'Hush,' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "'Be a man. You are nearly one by years. God help you.' "'By years,' cried Smyke. "'Oh, dear, dear, how many of them?' "'How many of them, since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now. Where are they all?' "'Whom do you speak of?' inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor half-witted creature to reason. "'Tell me.' "'My friends,' he replied. "'My self, my—oh, what sufferings mine have been!' "'There is always hope,' said Nicholas. He knew not what to say. "'No,' rejoined the other. "'No, none for me. "'Do you remember the boy that died here?' "'I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently. "'But what of him?' "'Why?' replied the youth, drawing closer to his question aside. "'I was with him at night. And when it was all silent, he cried, "'No more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, "'but began to see faces round his bed that came from home. "'He said they smiled and talked to him. "'And he died at last, lifting his head to kiss them. "'Do you hear?' "'Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas. "'What faces will smile on me when I die?' cried his companion, shivering. "'Who will talk to me in those long nights? "'They cannot come from home. "'They would frighten me if they did, for I don't know what it is, "'and shouldn't know them. "'Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. "'No hope, no hope.'" The bell rang to bed, and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards, no, not retired, there was no retirement there, followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory. End of chapter 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chetchris, London, UK. Nicholas Nicolby. By Charles Dickens. Chapter 9. Of Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr. Squeers, and of various matters and persons connected no less with the Squeers'ers than Nicholas Nicolby. When Mr. Squeers left the school room for the night, he betook himself, as has been before remarked, to his own fireside, which was situated not in the room in which Nicholas had slept on the night of his arrival, but in a smaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady-wife, his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full enjoyment of each other's society. Mrs. Squeers being engaged in the matronly pursuit of stocking-darning, and the young lady and gentleman being occupied in the adjustment of some youthful differences by means of a pugilistic contest across the table, which, on the approach of their honoured parent, subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks beneath it. And in this place it may be as well to apprise the reader that Miss Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If there be any one grace or loveliness inseparable from that particular period of life, Miss Squeers may be presumed to have been possessed of it, as there is no reason to suppose that she was a solitary exception to a universal rule. She was not tall like her mother, but short like her father. From the former she inherited a voice of harsh quality, from the latter a remarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to having none at all. Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neighbouring friend, and had only just returned to the parental roof. To this circumstance may be referred her having heard nothing of Nicholas, until Mr. Squeers himself now made him the subject of conversation. Well, my dear, said Squeers, drawing up his chair. What do you think of him by this time? Think of who? inquired Mrs. Squeers, who, as she often remarked, was no Grammarian, thank heaven. What of that young man, the new teacher? Who else could I mean? Oh, that knuckle-boy, said Mrs. Squeers impatiently. I hate him. What do you hate him for, my dear? asked Squeers. What's that to you? retorted Mrs. Squeers. If I hate him, that's enough, ain't it? Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much I dare say if he knew it, replied Squeers, in a Pacific town. I only asked from curiosity, my dear. Well then, if you want to know, rejoin Mrs. Squeers, I'll tell you, because he's a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock. Mrs. Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to you strong language, and moreover to make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock, and furthermore the allusion to Nicholas's nose, which was not intended to be taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear a latitude of construction according to the fancy of the hearers. Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so much 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 a novelty in ornithology, and a thing not commonly seen. Herm, I said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak. He is cheap, my dear. The young man is very cheap. What 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? replied his wife. But we do want him, urged Squeers. I don't see that you want him any more than the dead, said Mrs. Squeers. Don't tell me. You can put on the cards and in the advertisements, Education by Mr. Wackford Squeers and Able Assistance, without having any assistance, can't you? Isn't it done every day by all the masters about? I've no patience with you. Haven't you? said Squeers sternly. Now I'll tell you what, Mrs. Squeers. In this matter of having a teacher, I'll take my own way, if you please. A slave-driver in the West Indies is allowed a man under him to see that his blacks don't run away or get up a rebellion, and I'll have a man under me to do the same with our blacks, till such time as Little Wackford is able to take charge of the school. Am I to take charge of the school when I grow up a man, father? said Wackford, Jr., suspending in the excess of his delight a vicious 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 the interesting child, grasping his father's cane. Oh, father, won't I make him 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 a foreshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed a penny into his hand, and gave vent to his feelings as did his exemplary wife also, in a shout of approving laughter. The infantine appealed to their common sympathies at once restored cheerfulness to the conversation and harmony to the company. He's a nasty, stuck-up monkey. That's what I consider him, said Mr. Squeers, reverting to Nicholas. Supposing he is, said Squeers, he's as well stuck up in our school, roamers anywhere else, isn't he, especially as he don't like it? Well, observed Mr. Squeers, there's something in that. I hope it'll bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it don't. Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very extraordinary and unaccountable thing to hear of. Any usher at all, being a novelty, but a proud one, a being of whose existence the wildest imagination could never have dreamed, that Miss Squeers, who seldom troubled herself with scholastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this knuckle-boy was, that gave himself such heirs. Nickelby, said Squeers, spelling the name according to some eccentric system which prevailed in his own mind. Your mother always calls things and people by their wrong names. No matter for that, said Mrs. Squeers, I see them with right eyes, and that's quite enough for me. I watched him when you were laying on to little boulder this afternoon. He looked as black as thunder all the while, and one time started up as if he had more 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 the family was about to reply, who is the man? Why, your father's got some nonsense in his head that is the son of a poor gentleman that died the other day, said Mrs. Squeers. The son of a gentleman? Yes, but I don't believe a word of it. If he's a gentleman's son at all, he's a fondling, that's my opinion. Mrs. Squeers intended to say, foundling, but as she frequently remarked when she made any such mistake, it will be all the same a hundred years hence. With which axiom of philosophy, indeed, she was in the constant habit of consoling the boys when they labored under more than ordinary ill usage. He's nothing of the kind, said Squeers in answer to the above remark, for his father was married to his mother years before he was born, and she's alive now. If he was it would be no business of ours, for we make a very good friend by having him here, and if he likes to learn the boys anything besides minding them, have no objection, I am sure. I say again, I hate him worse than poison, said Mrs. Squeers vehemently. If you dislike him, my dear, return, Squeers, I don't know anybody who can show dislike better than you. And of course there'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 about him, as I think he has, I don't believe there's a woman in all England that can bring anybody's spirit down as quick as you can, my love. Mrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flattering compliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit or two in her day. It is but due to her character to say that in conjunction with her estimable husband, she had broken many and many a one. Mrs. Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much more conversation on the same subject, until she retired for the night, when she questioned the hungry servant minutely, regarding the outward appearance and demeanour of Nicholas. To which queries the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many laudatory remarks touching his beautiful dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight legs, upon which last name articles she laid particular stress, the general run of legs at do the boy's hall being crooked, that Mrs. Squeers was not long in arriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a very remarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it, something quite out of the common. And so Mrs. Squeers made up her mind that she would take a personal observation of Nicholas the very next day. In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of her mother being engaged and her father absent, and went accidentally into the school-room to get a pen mended. Where seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boy's, she blushed very deeply and exhibited great confusion. I beg your pardon, faulted Mrs. Squeers. I thought my father was, or might be, dear me, how very awkward. Mr. Squeers is out, said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the apparition, unexpected though it was. Do you know will he belong, sir? asked Mrs. Squeers with bashful hesitation. He said about an hour, replied Nicholas politely, of course, but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by Mrs. Squeers's charms. I never knew anything happened so cross, exclaimed the young lady. Thank you. I'm very sorry I intruded, I'm sure. If I hadn't thought my father was here, I wouldn't upon any account of—it's very provoking. Must look so very strange, murmured Mrs. Squeers, blushing once more and glancing from the pen in her hand to Nicholas at his desk, and back again. If that is all you want, said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, and smiling in spite of himself, at the effected embarrassment of the schoolmaster's daughter, perhaps I can supply his place. Mrs. Squeers glanced at the door as if dubious of the propriety of advancing any nearer to another stranger, and then round the schoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys, and finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with the most winning mixture of reserve and condescension. Shall it be a hard or a soft nib, inquired Nicholas, smiling to prevent himself from laughing outright? "'He has a beautiful smile,' thought Mrs. Squeers. "'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas. "'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment I declare,' replied Mrs. Squeers. "'Oh, as soft as possible, if you please.' With which words Mrs. Squeers sighed? It might be to give Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to match. From these instructions Nicholas made the pen, and when he gave it to Mrs. Squeers, Mrs. Squeers dropped it, and when he stooped to pick it up, Mrs. Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together, where at 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 the young lady's retreat. "'Not at all, sir,' replied Mrs. Squeers. "'It was my fault. It was all my foolish—'Good morning.' "'Good-bye,' said Nicholas. "'The next I make for you, I hope, will be made less clumsily.' "'Take care, you are biting the nib off now.' "'Really,' said Mrs. Squeers. "'So embarrassing that I scarcely know what I—'Very sorry to give you so much trouble.' "'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the schoolroom door. "'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life,' said Mrs. Squeers as she walked away. In fact, Mrs. Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby. To account for the rapidity with which this young lady had conceived a passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state that the friend from whom she had so recently returned was a miller's daughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto the son of a small corn-factor, resident in the nearest market-town. Mrs. Squeers and the miller's daughter being fast friends had covenanted together some two years before, according to a custom prevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first engaged to be married should straightway confide the mighty secret to the bosom 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 was formed, 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-five minutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushed into Mrs. Squeers' bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now Mrs. Squeers, being five years older and out of her teens, which is also a great matter, had since been more than commonly anxious to return the compliment, and possess her friend with a similar secret. But either in consequence of finding it hard to please herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had never had an opportunity to do so, inasmuch as she had no such secret to disclose. The little interview with Nicholas had no sooner past as above described, however, than Mrs. Squeers putting on her bonnet made her way with great precipitation to her friend's house, and upon a solemn renewal of diver's old vows of secrecy, revealed how that she was not exactly engaged, but going to be, to a gentleman's son, none of your corn-factors, but a gentleman's son of high descent, who had come down as teacher to do the boy's haul under most mysterious and remarkable circumstances. Indeed, as Mrs. Squeers more than once hinted she had good reason to believe, induced by the fame of her many charms, to seek her out, and woo and win her. "'Isn't it an extraordinary thing?' said Mrs. Squeers, emphasizing the adjective strongly. "'Most extraordinary,' replied the friend, but what has he said to you?' "'Don't ask me what he said, my dear,' rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "'if you had only seen his looks and smiles. I never was so overcome in all 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 gentile,' replied Mrs. Squeers. "'Ah,' said the friend, then he means something, depend on it.' Mrs. Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was by no 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 of Nicholas and that of the corn-factor, grew so exceedingly confidential that she entrusted her friend with a vast number of things Nicholas had not said, which were also very complementary as to be quite conclusive. Then she dilated on the fearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuously opposed to her intended husband, on which unhappy circumstance she dwelt at great length, for the friend's father and mother were quite agreeable to her being married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat and commonplace in affair as it was possible to imagine. "'How I should like to see him,' exclaimed the friend. "'So you shall, Tilda,' replied Mrs. Squeers. "'I shall consider myself one of the most ungrateful creatures alive if I denied you. I think mother's going away for two days to fetch some boys, and when she does I'll ask you and John up to tea and have him to meet you.' This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the friends parted. It so fell out that Mrs. Squeers' journey to some distance to fetch three new boys, and done the relations of two old ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed that very afternoon for the next day but one. And on the next day but one Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle containing something in a bottle and some sandwiches, and carrying besides a large white top coat to wear in the night-time, with which baggage she went her way. Ever such opportunities as these occurred, it was Squeers' custom to drive over to the market-town every evening on pretense of urgent business, and stopped till ten or eleven o'clock at a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in his way, therefore, but rather afforded a means of compromise with Mrs. Squeers, he readily yielded his full assent thereon to, and willingly communicated to Nicholas that he was expected to take his tea in the parlour that evening at five o'clock. To be sure Mrs. Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the time approached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the best advantage. With her hair it had more than a tinge of red and she wore it in a crop, curled in five distinct rows up to the very top of her head, and arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye. To say nothing of the blue sash which floated down her back, or the worked apron, or the long gloves, or the green gore scarf worn over one shoulder and under the other, or any of the numerous devices which were to be as so many arrows to the heart of Nicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements to her entire satisfaction when the friend arrived with a whitey-brown parcel, flat and three-cornered, containing sundry small adornments which were to be put on upstairs, and which the friend 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 entire satisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with the long gloves on, all ready for company. Where's John Tilda? said Miss Squeers. Only gone home to clean himself, replied the friend. He'll be here by the time the tea's drawn. I do so palpitate, observed Miss Squeers. I know what it is, replied the friend. I've 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. While they 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. Say, come in. Come in, cried Miss Squeers faintly, and in walked Nicholas. Good evening, said that young gentleman, all unconscious of his conquest. I understood from Mr. Squeers that, oh yes, it's all right, interpose, Miss Squeers. Father don't tea with us, but you won't mind that, I dare say. This was said archly. Nicholas opened his eyes at this. But he turned the matter off very coolly, not caring particularly about anything just then, and went through the ceremony of introduction to the miller's daughter, with so much grace that that young lady was lost in admiration. We're only waiting for one more gentleman, said Miss Squeers, taking off the teapot lid and looking in to see how the tea was getting on. It was a matter of equal moment to Nicholas, whether they were waiting for one gentleman or twenty. So he received the intelligence with perfect unconcern, and, being out of spirits, and not seeing any special reason why he should make himself agreeable, looked out of the window and sighed involuntarily. As luck would have it, Miss Squeers' friend was of a playful turn, and, hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rally the lovers on their loneness of spirits. But if it's caused by my being here, said the young lady, don't mind me a bit, for I'm quite as bad. You may go on just as you would if you were alone. Tilda, said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls, I'm ashamed of you. And here the two friends burst into a variety of giggles, and glanced from time to time over the tops of their pocket hand achieves at Nicholas, who, from a state of unmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressible laughter, occasioned partly by the bare notion of his being in love with Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterous appearance and behaviour of the two girls. These two causes of merriment, taken together, struck him as being so keenly ridiculous that, despite his miserable condition, he laughed till he was thoroughly exhausted. Well, thought Nicholas, as I am here and seem expected for some reason or other to be amiable, it's of no use looking like a goose. I may as well accommodate myself to the company. We blushed to tell it, but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting for the time the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed this resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began to make himself more at home than in all probability an usher has ever done in his employer's house since ushers were first invented. The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour on the part of Mr. Nicolby, when the expected swain arrived, with his hair very damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereof the collar might have belonged to some giant ancestor, forming together with a white waistcoat of similar dimensions the chief ornament of his person. Well, John, said Miss Matilda Price, which by the by was the name of the miller's daughter. Well, said John, with a grin that even the collar could not conceal. Ah, I beg your pardon, interposed Miss Squeers hastening to do the honours. Mr. Nicolby, Mr. John Browdy. Servants, sir? said John, who was something over six feet high, with the face and body rather above the dew proportion than below it. Yours to command, sir? replied Nicholas, making fearful ravages on the bread and butter. Mr. Browdy was not a gentleman of great conversational powers. So he grinned twice more, and having now bestowed his customary mark of recognition on every person in company, grinned at nothing in particular, and helped himself to food. Old woman away, banshee! said Mr. Browdy with his mouth full. Miss Squeers nodded ascent. Mr. Browdy gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really was something to laugh at. I went to work at the bread and butter with increased vigor. It was quite a sight to behold how he and Nicholas emptied the plate between them. You won't get bread and butter every night, I expect, man, said Mr. Browdy, after it sat staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty plate. Nicholas bit his lip and culled, but effected not to hear the remark. Hey, God, said Mr. Browdy, laughing boisterously, that I put too much into him. You'll be no but skin and bones if you stop here long enough. You are facetious, sir, said Nicholas scornfully. No, I don't know, replied Mr. Browdy, but to the teacher. God, he would have learned, and he would. The recollection of the last teacher's leanness seemed to afford Mr. Browdy the most exquisite delight, for he laughed until he found it necessary to apply his coat-cuffs to his eyes. I don't know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough, Mr. Browdy, to enable you to understand that your remarks are offensive, said Nicholas in a towering passion, but if they are, have the goodness to— If you say another word, John, shriek, Miss Price, stopping her admirer's mouth as he was about to interrupt, only half a word, I'll never forgive you or speak to you again. Well, molasse, I don't care about him, said the corn-factor, bestowing a heart-ikis on Miss Matilda. Letting-gang on, letting-gang on! It now became Miss Squeers' turn to intercede with Nicholas, which he did with many symptoms of alarm and horror. The effect of the double intercession was that he and John Browdy shook hands across the table with much gravity, and such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial that Miss Squeers was overcome 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 Mr. Nicolby? 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 the little kitchen and come back presently. Not on any account, rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at the proposition. What on earth should you do that for? Well, said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking with some degree of contempt, you are a one-to-keep company. What do you mean? I'm not a one-to-keep company at all, here at all events. I can't make this out. No, nor I neither, rejoined Miss Price, but men are always fickle and always were, and always will be. That I can make out very easily. Fickle! cried Nicholas. What do you suppose? You don't mean to say that you think, oh no, I think nothing at all, retorted Miss Price, pettishly. Look at her, dress so beautiful and looking so well—really, all most handsome. I'm ashamed at you. My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing beautifully all 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 small way, and Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him the property of somebody else, which were all reasons why she should be gratified to think she had made an impression on him. Or Fanny will be saying it's my fault. Come, we're going to have a game at cards. Pronouncing these last words aloud, she tripped away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman. This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no other distinct impression on his mind at the moment than that Miss Squeers was an ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price a pretty one. But he had not time to enlighten himself by reflection, for the half-being by this time swept up, and the candle snuffed, they sat down to play speculation. There are only four of us tilled, said Miss Squeers, looking slyly at Nicholas. So we are better go partners, two against two. What do you say, Mr. Nicolby, inquired Miss Price. With all the pleasure in life, replied Nicholas, and so saying, quite unconscious of his heinous offence, he amalgamated into one common heap, those portions of a do-the-boys-haul card of terms which represented his own counters, and those allotted to Miss Price, respectively. Mr. Browdy, said Miss Squeers hysterically, shall we make a bank against them? The Yorkshireman assented, apparently quite overwhelmed by the new Usher's impudence, and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her friend, and giggled confulsively. The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered. We intend to win everything, said he. Till there has won something she didn't expect, I think, haven't she dear? said Miss Squeers maliciously. Only a dozen and eight, love, replied Miss Price, affecting to take the question in a literal sense. How dull you are to-night, sneered Miss Squeers. No indeed, replied Miss Price, I am in excellent spirits. I was thinking you seemed out of sorts. Me, cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips and trembling with very jealousy. Oh no! That's well, remarked Miss Price, your hair's coming out of curl, dear. Never mind me, titted Miss Squeers, you better attend to your partner. A thank you for reminding her, said Nicholas, so she had. The Yorkshireman flattened his nose once or twice with his clenched fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity of exercising it upon the features of some other gentleman. A Miss Squeers tossed her head with such indignation that the gust of wind raised by the multitudinous curls in motion nearly blew the candle out. I never had such luck, really, exclaimed Cuckettish Miss Price after another hand or two. It's all along of you, Mr. Nicolby, I think. 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, said Miss Price. Not if your wish is gratified, replied Nicholas. I am sure I shall have a good one in that case. To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head and the corn-factor flattened his nose while this conversation was carrying on. It would have been worth a small annuity to have beheld that, let alone Miss Price's evident joy at making them jealous, and Nicholas Nicolby's happy unconsciousness of making anybody uncomfortable. We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems, said Nicholas, looking good humbly round the table as he took up the cards for a fresh deal. You'd do it so well, titted Miss Squeers, that it would be a pity to interrupt, wouldn't it, Mr. Browdy? Ha-ha-ha! Nay, said Nicholas, we do it in default of having anybody else to talk to. We'll talk to you, you know, if you'll say anything, said Miss Price. Thank you, tilde 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 say something? Say, some-it, repeated the orcishman, aye, and not sit there so silent and glum. Well, then, said the orcishman, striking the table heavily with his fist, what aye says this, dang my bones and body if I stand this only longer, to ye gang o' home with me, and you'll unloyten tight young whipster look sharp out for a brocken head next time he comes under my ond. Mercy on us, what's all this? cried Miss Price in affected astonishment. Come on, telly, come on! replied the orcishman sternly. And as he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of tears, arising in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate somebody's countenance with her fair fingernails. This state of things have been brought about by divers means and workings. Miss Squeers had brought it about by aspiring to the high state and condition of being matrimonially engaged, without good grounds for so doing. Miss Price had brought it about by indulging in three motives of action. First a desire to punish her friend for laying claim to a rival ship indignity, having no good title. Secondly the gratification of her own vanity in receiving the compliments of a smart young man. And thirdly a wish to convince the corn-factor of the great danger he ran in deferring the celebration of their expected nuptials, while Nicholas had brought it about by half an hour's gaiety and thoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid the imputation of inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means employed, and the end produced, were alike the most natural in the world. For young ladies will look forward to being married, and will jostle each other in the race to the altar, and will avail themselves of all opportunities of displaying their own attractions to the best advantage, down to the very end of time, as they have done from its beginning. Why, and here's Fanny in tears now, exclaim Miss Price, as if in fresh amazement, what can be the matter? Oh, you don't know, Miss, of course, you don't know. Pray don't trouble yourself to inquire," said Miss Squeers, forcing that change of countenance which children call making a face. Well, I'm sure," exclaimed Miss Price, and who cares whether you're sure or not, ma'am," retorted Miss Squeers, making another face. You were 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 you are, ma'am, however, rejoin Miss Price, because that's quite unnecessary. Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God that she hadn't got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder, congratulated herself upon not being possessed of the envious feeling of other people. Whereupon Miss Squeers made some general remark touching the danger of associating with low persons, in which Miss Price entirely coincided, observing that it was very true indeed, that she had thought so a long time. Tilda, exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, I hate you. There's no love lost between us, I assure you," said Miss Price, tying her bonnet-strings with a jerk. You'll cry your eyes out when I'm gone, you know you will. I scorn your words, minks, said Miss Squeers. You pay me a great compliment when you say so," answered the miller's daughter, curtsying very low. Wish you a very good night, ma'am, and pleasant dreams attend you sleep. With this parting benediction Miss Price swept from the room, followed by the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas at parting that peculiarly expressive scowl with which the cut and thrust counts in melodramatic performances inform each other they will meet again. They were no sooner gone than Miss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of her quantum friend by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears, and uttering various dismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but feeling uncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced, or scratched, and considering that either inflection will be equally agreeable, he walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in her pocket handkerchief. This is one consequence thought Nicholas when he had groped his way to the dark sleeping-room, of my cursed readiness to adapt myself to any society in which chance carries me. If I had sat mute and motionless as I might have done, this would not have happened. He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet. I was glad, he murmured, to grasp at any relief from the sight of this dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have set these people by the ears and made two new enemies where heaven knows I needed none. Well, it is a just punishment for having forgotten even for an hour what is around me now. So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-hearted sleepers, and crept into his poor bed. End of Chapter 9 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Czechris, London, UK Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens Chapter 10 How Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his niece and sister-in-law On the second morning, after the departure of Nicholas for Yorkshire, Kate Nickleby sat in a very faded chair, raised upon a very dusty throne in Miss Lacreevy's room, giving that lady a sitting for the portrait upon which she was engaged. And towards the full perfection of which, Miss Lacreevy had had the street-door case brought upstairs. In order that she might be the better able to infuse into the count of it countenance of Miss Nickleby a bright salmon flesh-tint, which she had originally hit upon, while executing the miniature of a young officer therein contained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered by Miss Lacreevy's chief friends and patrons to be quite a novelty in art. As indeed it was. I think I have caught it now, said Miss Lacreevy, the very shade. This will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done, certainly. It will be your genius that makes it so, then I am sure," replied Kate, smiling. No, no, I won't allow that, my dear, rejoin, Miss Lacreevy. It's a very nice subject, a very nice subject indeed, though, of course, something depends upon the mode of treatment. And not a little, observed Kate. Why, my dear, you're right there," said Miss Lacreevy, in the main you are right there, though I don't allow that it is of such very great importance in the present case. Ah, the difficulties of art, my dear, are great. They must be, I have no doubt, said Kate, humoring her good-natured little friend. They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conception of," replied Miss Lacreevy. Not with bringing out eyes with all one's power, and keeping down noses with all one's force, and adding to heads, and taking away teeth altogether, you've no idea of the trouble one little miniature is. The remuneration can scarcely repay you, said Kate. Why, it does not, and that's the truth," answered Miss Lacreevy. And then people are so dissatisfied and unreasonable that nine times out of ten there's no pleasure in painting them. Sometimes they say, oh, how very serious you've made me look, Miss Lacreevy. And at others, la, Miss Lacreevy, how very smirking, when the very essence of a good portrait is that it must be either serious or smirking, or it's no portrait at all. Indeed, said Kate, laughing. Certainly, my dear, because the sitters are always either the one or the other," replied Miss Lacreevy, look at the Royal Academy. All those beautiful, shiny portraits of gentlemen in black velvet waist-cuts with their fists doubled up on round tables, or marble slabs, are serious, you know. And all the ladies who are playing with little parasols, or little dogs, or little children, it's the same rule in art, only varying the objects, are smirking. In fact, said Miss Lacreevy, sinking her voice to a confidential whisper, there are only two styles of portrait painting, the serious, and the smirk. And we always use the serious for professional people, except actors sometimes, and the smirk for private ladies and gentlemen who don't care so much about looking clever. Kate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss Lacreevy went on painting and talking with immovable complacency. What a number of officers you seem to paint, said Kate, availing herself of a pause in the discourse and glancing round the room. What of what, child?" inquired Miss Lacreevy, looking up from her work. A character portrait, so yes, they're not real military men, you know. No. Bless your heart, of course not. Only clerks and that who hire a uniform coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag. Some artists, said Miss Lacreevy, keep a red coat and charge seven and sixpence extra for hire and Carmine. But I don't do that myself, for I don't consider it legitimate. Drawing herself up as though she plumed herself greatly upon not resorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss Lacreevy applied herself more intently to her task, only raising her head occasionally, to look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touch she had just put in, and now and then giving Miss Nicolby to understand what particular feature she was at work upon at the moment. Not, she expressly observed, that you should make it up for painting, my dear, but because it's our custom sometimes to tell sitters what part we are upon, in order that if there's any particular expression they want introduced, they may throw it in at the time, you know. And when, said Miss Lacreevy after a long silence, to it an interval of full a minute and a half, and when do you expect to see your uncle again? I scarcely know. I had expected to have seen him before now, replied Kate. Soon I hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than anything. I suppose he has money, hasn't he? inquired Miss Lacreevy. He is very rich, I have heard, rejoined Kate. I don't know that he is, but I believe so. Ah! You may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn't be so surly! remarked Miss Lacreevy, who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness and simplicity. When a man's a bear, he is generally pretty independent. His manner is rough, said Kate. Rough! cried Miss Lacreevy. A porcupine's a feather-bed to him, and never met with such a cross-grained old savage. It's only his manner, I believe, observed Kate timidly. He was disappointed in early life, I think I've heard, or has had his temper soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I knew he deserved it. Well, that's very right and proper," observed the miniature painter, and heaven forbid that I should be the cause of your doing so. But now, mightn't he, without feeling it himself, make you and your mamar some nice little allowance that would keep you both comfortable until you were well married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred a year, for instance, be to him? I don't know what it would be to him, said Kate, with energy, but it would be that to me I would rather die than take. Hey, day! cried Miss Lacreevy. A dependence on him, said Kate, would embitter my whole life. I should feel begging a far less degradation. Well! exclaimed Miss Lacreevy. This of a relation whom you will not hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough I confess. I dare say it does, replied Kate, speaking more gently. Indeed I am sure it must. I—I only mean that with the feelings and recollection of better times upon me I could not bear to live on anybody's bounty. Not his particularly, but anybody's. Miss Lacreevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike. But seeing that her young friend was distressed made no remark. I only ask of him, continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke, that he will move so little out of his way in my behalf as to enable me by his recommendation, only by his recommendation, to earn literally my bread, and remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever taste happiness again depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother. But if he will do this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I shall be contented. As she ceased to speak there was a rustling behind the screen, which stood between her and the door, and some person knocked at the wainscot. Come in, whoever it is, cried Miss Lacreevy. The person complied, and coming forward at once gave to view the form and features of no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickelby himself. Your servant, ladies, said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns, you were talking so loud that I was unable to make you hear. When the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking at his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their thick and protruding brows for an instant, and then displaying them in their full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep down the smile which parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines about his mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the whole of their recent conversation, had been overheard. I called in on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you here, said Ralph, addressing his niece and looking contemptuously at the portrait. Is that my niece's portrait, ma'am? Yes, it is, Mr. Nickelby, said Miss Lacreevy, with a very sprightly air, and between you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very nice portrait, too, though I say it to am the painter. Don't trouble yourself to show it to me, ma'am, said Ralph, moving away. I've no eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished? Why, yes, replied Miss Lacreevy, considering with the pencil end of her brush in her mouth. Two sittings more will have them at once, ma'am, said Ralph. She'll have no time to idle over fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma'am, work, we must all work. Have you let your lodgings, ma'am? I have not put a bill up yet, sir. Put it up at once, ma'am. They won't want the rooms after this week, or if they do, can't pay for them. Now, my dear, if you're ready, we'll lose no more time. With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his usual manner, Mr. Ralph Nickelby motioned to the young lady to precede him, and bowing gravely to Miss Lacreevy, closed the door and followed upstairs, where Mrs. Nickelby received him with many expressions of regard. Seeing them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an impatient gesture and proceeded to the object of his visit. I have found a situation for your daughter, ma'am," said Ralph. Well, replied Mrs. Nickelby, now I will say that that is only just what I have expected of you. Depend upon it, I said to Kate, only yesterday morning at breakfast, that after your uncle has provided in that most ready manner for Nicholas he will not leave us until he has done at least the same for you. These were my very words as near as I remember. Kate, my dear, why don't you thank you— Let me proceed, ma'am, pray," said Ralph, interrupting his sister-in-law in the full torrent of her discourse. Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed, said Mrs. Nickelby. I am most anxious that he should, ma'am," rejoined Kate. Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow your uncle to say what he has to say without interruption. Your uncle's time is very valuable, my dear, and however desirous you may be, and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so little of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protect the pleasure of having him among us. Still, we are bound not to be selfish, but to take into consideration the important nature of his occupations in the city. I am very much obliged, you ma'am," said Ralph, with a scarcely perceptible sneer. An absence of business habits in this family leads, apparently, to a great waste of words before business, when it does come under consideration, is arrived at at all. I fear it is so indeed," replied Mrs. Nickelby with a sigh. Your poor brother—my poor brother, ma'am—interposed Ralph, tartly, had no idea what business was. I was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning of the word. I fear he was, said Mrs. Nickelby, with her handkerchief to her eyes. If it hadn't been for me, I don't know what would have become of him. What strange creatures we are! The slight bait, so skillfully thrown out by Ralph on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At every small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the course of the four and twenty hours, to remind her of as straightened and altered circumstances, pivish visions of her dour of one thousand pounds had arisen before Mrs. Nickelby's mind, until at last she come to persuade herself that of all her late husband's creditors she was the worst used and the most to be pitted. And yet she had loved him dearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is the usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A decent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train at once. Repining is of no use, ma'am, said Ralph. Of all fruitless errands, sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless. So it is, sub-Mrs. Nickelby, so it is. As you feel so keenly in your own person to person the consequences of inattention to business, ma'am, said Ralph, I am sure you will impress upon your children the necessity of attaching themselves to it early in life. Of course I must see that, rejoined Mrs. Nickelby. Sad experience, you know, brother-in-law. Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write. Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition, went on to say, the situation that I have made interest to procure, ma'am, is with a milliner and dress-maker, in short. A milliner, cried Mrs. Nickelby. A milliner and dress-maker, ma'am, replied Ralph, dress-makers in London, as I need not to remind you, ma'am, who are so well acquainted with all matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune. Now the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickelby's mind by the words milliner and dress-maker, were connected with certain wicker baskets lined with black oil-skin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and fro in the streets. But as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared and were replaced by visions of large houses at the West End, neat private carriages, and a banker's book, all of which images succeeded each other with such rapidity, then he had no sooner finish speaking than she nodded her head, and said, very true, with great appearance of satisfaction. What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear, said Mrs. Nickelby. I recollect when your poor papar and I came to town after we were married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage bonnet, with white and green trimming and green persian lining in her own carriage, which drove up to the door full gallop. At least I am not quite certain whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that your poor papar said he hadn't had any corn for a fortnight. This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners, was not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as Kate hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms of extreme impatience. The lady's name, said Ralph hastily striking in, is Mantellini, Madame Mantellini. I know her. She lives near Cavendish Square. If your daughter is disposed to try after the situation, I'll take her there directly. Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?" inquired Mrs. Nickelby. A great deal, replied Kate, but not now. I would rather speak to him when we are alone. It will save his time, if I thank him and say what I wish to say to him as we walk along. Under these words, Kate hurried away to hide the traces of emotion that was stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk. While Mrs. Nickelby amused her brother-in-law by giving him with many tears, a detailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had possessed in their days of affluence. Together with a minute description of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chint squabs to match the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece, and had gone at the sale for a mere nothing. These reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate's return in her walking-dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the whole time of her absence, lost no time and used very little ceremony in descending into the street. Now, he said, taking her arm, walk as fast as you can, and you'll get into the step that you'll have to walk to business with every morning. So saying, he led Kate off at a good round pace, towards Cavendish Square. I'm very much obliged to you, Uncle, said the young lady, after they had hurried on in silence for some time. Very. I'm glad to hear it, said Ralph. I hope you'll do your duty. I will try to please Uncle, replied Kate. Indeed, I— Don't begin to cry, growl, Ralph, I hate crying. It's very foolish, I know, Uncle, began poor Kate. It is, replied Ralph, stopping her short, and very affected besides. Let me see no more of it. Perhaps this was not the best way to drive the tears of a young and sensitive female about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene of life, among cold and uninterested strangers. But it had its effect notwithstanding. Kate culled deeply, breathed quickly for a few moments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step. It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared to lose him in the throng, and how the stern and hard-featured man of business went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and then exchanging a gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed to wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But it would have been a stranger contrast still to have read the hearts that were beating side by side, to have laid bare the gentle innocence of the one, and the rugged villainy of the other, to have hung upon the guileless thoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that among all the wily plots and calculations of the old man there should not be one word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. So it was. And stranger still, though this is a thing of every day, the warm young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions, while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope or fear or love or care for any living thing. Uncle, said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination. I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home? At home, replied Ralph. Where's that? I mean with my mother. The widow, said Kate emphatically. You will live to all intents and purposes here, rejoined Ralph, for here you will take your meals, and here you will be from morning till night. Occasionally perhaps till morning again. But at night I mean, said Kate, I cannot leave her, uncle. I must have some place that I can call a home. It will be wherever she is, you know, and may be a very humble one. Maybe, said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the remark, must be you mean. Maybe a humble one. Is the girl mad? The word slipped from my lips. I did not mean it indeed, urged Kate. I hope not, said Ralph. But my question, uncle, you have not answered it. Why, I anticipated something of the kind, said Ralph, and, though I object very strongly, mind, have provided against it. I spoke of you as an out-of-door worker, so you will go to this home that may be humble every night. There was comfort in this. Kate put forth many thanks for her uncle's consideration, which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all. And they arrived without any further conversation at the dressmaker's door, which displayed a very large plate with Madame Mantellini's name and occupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was a shop to the house, but it was let off to an importer of Otto of Roses. Madame Mantellini's showrooms were on the first floor, a fact which was notified to the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition near the handsomely-curtained windows of two or three elegant bonnets of the newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste. A liberated footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph's inquiry where the Madame Mantellini was at home, ushered them through a handsome hall, and up a spacious staircase, into the show saloon, which comprised two spacious drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety of superb dresses and materials for dresses. Some arranged on stands, others laid carelessly on sofas, and others again scattered over the carpet, hanging on the chival glasses, or mingling in some other way with the rich furniture of various descriptions, which was profusely displayed. They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr. Ralph Nickelby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little concern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped his head into the room, and seeing somebody there, as suddenly popped it out again. Here, hello, cried Ralph, who's that? At the sound of Ralph's voice the head reappeared, and the mouth, displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing tone the words, DIMMIT! WHAT! Nickelby! OH! DIMMIT! Having uttered which ejaculations the gentleman advanced, and shook hands with Ralph with great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with a waist-cut and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk neckerchief, and bright green slippers, and had a very copious watch-chain wound round his body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a moustache, both dyed black and gracefully curled. DIMMIT! YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY YOU WANT ME, DO YOU, DIMMIT! After this gentleman, smiting Ralph on the shoulder, Not yet, said Ralph sarcastically. HA! HA! DIMMIT! Cried the gentleman. When wheeling round to laugh with greater elegance he encountered Kate Nickelby, who was standing near. My niece, said Ralph. I remember, said the gentleman, striking his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger, as a chastening for his forgetfulness. DIMMIT! I REMEMBER WHAT YOU COME FOR! Get this way, Nickelby. My dear, will you follow me? HA! HA! They all follow me, Nickelby. Always did, DIMMIT. Always! Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagination after this fashion, the gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on the second floor, scarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartment below, where the presence of a silver coffee-pot, an eggshell, and sloppy china for one, came to show that he had just breakfasted. Sit down, my dear, said the gentleman, first staring Miss Nickelby out of countenance, and then grinning in delight at the achievement. This cursed high-room takes one's breath away, these infernal sky parlours. I'm afraid I must move, Nickelby. I would, by all means, replied Ralph, looking bitterly round. What a dim drum-fellow you are, Nickelby, said the dim-dest, longest-headed, queerest, tempered old coiner of golden silver ever was, DIMMIT! Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rang the bell, and stared at Miss Nickelby until it was answered, when he left off to bid the man desire his mistress to come directly, after which he began again and left off no more, until Madame Mantellini appeared. The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed and rather good-looking, but much older than the gentleman in the Turkish trousers, whom she had wedded some six months before. His name was originally Montel, but it had been converted by an easy transition into Mantellini, the lady rightly considering that an English appellation would be of serious injury to the business. He had married on his whiskers, upon which property he had previously subsisted in a gentile manner for some years, and which he had recently improved after patient cultivation by the addition of a moustache, which promised to secure him an easy independence, his share in the labours of the business being at present confined to spending the money, and occasionally when that ran short, driving to Mr. Ralph Nickelby to procure discount at a percentage for the customer's bills. My life, said Mr. Mantellini, what a dim devil of a time you've been! I didn't even know Mr. Nickelby was here, my love, said Madam Mantellini. Then what a doubly-demmed infernal rascal that footman must be, my soul, remonstrated Mr. Mantellini. My dear, said Madame, that is entirely your fault. My fault, my heart's joy. Certainly return the lady. What can you expect, dearest, if you will not correct the man? Correct the man. My soul's delight. Yes, I am sure he wants speaking to badly enough, said Madame, pouting. Then do not vex itself, said Mr. Mantellini. He shall be horse-whipped till he cries out dimnably. With this promise Mr. Mantellini kissed Madam Mantellini, and after that performance Madam Mantellini pulled Mr. Mantellini playfully by the ear, which done they descended to business. Now, ma'am, said Ralph, who had looked on at all this with such scorn as few men can express in looks. This is my niece. Just so, Mr. Nicolby, replied Madame Mantellini, surveying Kate from head to foot, and back again. Can you speak French, child? Yes, ma'am, replied Kate, not daring to look up, for she felt that the eyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown were directed towards her. Like a dimmed native, asked the husband. Miss Nicolby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned her back upon the questioner, as if addressing herself to make answer to what his wife might demand. We keep twenty young women constantly employed in the establishment, said Madame. Indeed, ma'am, replied Kate timidly. Yes, and some of them dimmed handsome, too, said the master. Mantellini exclaimed his wife in an awful voice. My senses idle, said Mantellini. Do you wish to break my heart? What for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with little ballet dancers? replied Mantellini in a poetical strain. Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking, said his wife. What can Mr. Nicolby think when he hears you? Oh, nothing, ma'am, nothing, replied Ralph. I know his amiable nature, and yours, mere little remarks that give a zest to your daily intercourse, lovers' quarrels that add sweetness to those domestic joys which promised to last so long. That's all. That's all. If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges, and to make a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to powder in the process, it would emit a pleasanter sound in so doing, than did these words in the rough and bitter voice in which they were uttered by Ralph. Even Mr. Mantellini felt their influence, and turning a frighted round, exclaimed, What a damned, horrid croaking! You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr. Mantellini says, observed his wife, addressing Miss Nicolby. I do not, ma'am, said Kate, with quiet contempt. Mr. Mantellini knows nothing whatever about any of the young women, continued Madame, looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate. If he has seen any of them, he must have seen them in the street, going to or returning from their work, and not here. He was never even in the room. I do not allow it. What hours of work have you been accustomed to? I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma'am," replied Kate in a low voice. For which reason she'll work all the better now? said Ralph, putting in a word, lest this confession should injure the negotiation. I hope so, returned Madame Mantellini. Your hours are from nine to nine, with extra work when we're very full of business, for which I allow payment as overtime. Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard and was satisfied. Your meals, continued Madame Mantellini, that is dinner and tea you will take here. I should think your wages would average from five to seven shillings a week, but I can't give you any certain information on that point until I see what you can do. Kate bowed her head again. If you're ready to come, said Madame Mantellini, you had better begin on Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Nag, the forewoman, shall then have directions to try you with some easy work at first. Is there anything more, Mr. Nickelby? Nothing more, ma'am," bled Ralph, rising. Then I believe that's all, said the lady. Having arrived at this natural conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to be gone, but hesitated not withstanding as though unwilling to leave to Mr. Mantellini the sole honor of showing them downstairs. Ralph relieved her from her perplexity by taking his departure without delay. Madame Mantellini making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them. And Mr. Mantellini anathematizing the stairs with great volubility as he followed them down, in the hope of inducing Kate to look round. A hope, however, which was destined to remain ungratified. There, said Ralph, when they got into the street, now you're provided for. Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her. I had some idea, he said, of providing for your mother in a pleasant part of the country. He had a presentation to some arms-houses on the borders of Cornwall, which had occurred to him more than once. But as you want to be together I must do something else for her. She has a little money. A very little, replied Kate. A little will go a long way if it's used sparingly, said Ralph. She must see how long she can make it last, living rent-free. You leave your lodgings on Saturday. You told us to do so, uncle. Yes, there's a house empty that belongs to me, which I can put you into until it's let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I shall have another. You must live there. Is it far from here, sir? inquired Kate. Pretty well, said Ralph, in another quarter of the town, at the east end. But I'll send my clerk down to you at five o'clock on Saturday to take you there. Goodbye. You know your way? Straight on." Coldly shaking his niece's hand, Ralph left her at the top of Regent Street, and turned down a by-ther affair, intent on schemes of money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to their lodgings in the strand. CHAPTER 11 Human-nogs inducts Mrs. and Miss Nicolby into their new dwelling in the city. Miss Nicolby's reflections, as she wended her way homewards, were of that desponding nature which the occurrences of the morning had been sufficiently calculated to awaken. Her uncle's was not a manor likely to dispel any doubts or apprehensions she might have formed in the outset. Neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame Mantellini's establishment by any means encouraging. It was with many gloomy forebodings and misgivings therefore that she looked forward with a heavy heart to the opening of her new career. If her mother's consolations could have restored her to a pleasanter and more enviable state of mind, there were abundance of them to produce the effect. By the time Kate reached home the good lady had called to mind two authentic cases of milleners who had been possessed of considerable property, though whether they had acquired it all in business or had had a capital to start with, or had been lucky and married to Advantage she could not exactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked, there must have been some young person in that way of business who had made a fortune without having anything to begin with, and that being taken for granted, why should not Kate do the same? Miss LaCrievie, who was a member of the Little Council, ventured to insinuate some doubts relative to the probability of Miss Nicolby's arriving at this happy consummation in the compass of an ordinary lifetime, but the good lady set that question entirely at rest by informing them that she had a presentiment on the subject, a species of second sight with which she had been in the habit of clenching every argument with the deceased Mr. Nicolby, and in nine cases and three quarters out of every ten determining it the wrong way. I'm afraid it's an unhealthy occupation, said Miss LaCrievie. I recollect getting three young milliners to sit to me when I first began to paint, and I remember that they were all very pale and sickly. Oh, that's not a general rule by any means, observed Miss Nicolby, for I remember as well as if it was only yesterday employing one that I was particularly recommended to, to make me a scarlet cloak at the time when scarlet cloaks were fashionable, and she had a very red face, a very red face indeed. Perhaps she drank, suggested Miss LaCrievie. I don't know how that may have been, returned Mrs. Nicolby, but I know she had a very red face, so your argument goes for nothing. In this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did the worthy matron meet every little objection that presented itself to the new scheme of the morning. Happy, Mrs. Nicolby! A project had but to be new, and it came home to her mind brightly varnished and gilded as a glittering toy. This question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle's desire about the empty house, to which Mrs. Nicolby assented with equal readiness, characteristically remarking that, on the fine evenings it would be a pleasant amusement for her to walk to the West End to fetch her daughter home, and no less characteristically forgetting that there were such things as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every week of the year. I shall be sorry, truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend," said Kate, on whom the good feeling of the poor miniature painter had made a deep impression. You shall not shake me off for all that, replied Miss LaCrievie, with as much sprightliness as she could assume. I shall see you very often, and come and hear how you get on, and if in all London or all the wide world besides there is no other heart that takes an interest in your welfare, there will be one little lonely woman that prays for it night and day. With this, the poor soul who had a heart big enough for Gog, the guardian genius of London, and enough to spare for May Gog to boot, after making a great many extraordinary faces which would have secured her an ample fortune, could she have transferred them to ivory or canvas, sat down in a corner and had what she termed a real good cry. But no crying or talking or hoping or fearing could keep off the dreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman-nogs either, who punctual to his time, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiff of cordial gin through the keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in the neighbourhood has agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited for the last stroke, and then not. From Mr. Ralph Niccolby, said Newman, announcing his errand when he got upstairs, with all possible brevity. We shall be ready directly, said Kate. We have not much to carry, but I fear we must have a coach. I'll get one, replied Newman. Indeed, you shall not trouble yourself, said Mrs. Niccolby. I will, said Newman. I can't suffer you to think of such a thing, said Mrs. Niccolby. You can't help it, said Newman. Not help it? No. I thought of it as I came along, but didn't get one thinking you mightn't be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent that. Oh, yes, I understand you, Mr. Nogs, said Mrs. Niccolby. Our thoughts are free, of course. Everybody's thoughts are their own, clearly. They wouldn't be if some people had their way, muttered Newman. Well, no more they would, Mr. Nogs, and that's very true, rejoined Mrs. Niccolby. Some people, to be sure, are such. How's your master? Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with a strong emphasis on the last word of his answer, that Mr. Ralph Niccolby was well, and sent his love. I'm sure we're very much obliged to him, observed Mrs. Niccolby. Very, said Newman, I'll tell him so. It was no very easy matter to mistake Newman, Nogs, after having once seen him. And as Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner, in which on this occasion, however, there was something respectful and even delicate, notwithstanding the abruptness of his speech, looked at him more closely, she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that strange figure before. Excuse my curiosity, she said, but did I not see you in the coachyard? On the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire. Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs. Niccolby, and said, Oh! Most unblushingly. No, exclaimed Kate, I should have said so anywhere. You'd have said wrong, rejoined Newman. It's the first time I've been out for three weeks. I've had the gout. Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject, and so Kate could not help thinking. But the conference was cut short by Mrs. Niccolby's insisting on having the door shut, lest Mr. Nogs should take cold, and further persisting in sending the servant-girl for a coach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To both conditions Newman was compelled to yield. Presently the coach came, and after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running backwards and forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss Lackreevy, in the course of which the yellow-turban came into violent contact with sundry foot-passengers, it, that is to say the coach, not the woman, went away again, with the two ladies and their luggage inside, and Newman, despite all Mrs. Niccolby's assurances that it would be his death, on the box beside the driver. They went into the city, turning down by the riverside, and after a long and very slow drive the streets being crowded at that hour with vehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a large old dingy house in Thames Street. The door and windows of which were so bespattered with mud, that it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years. The door of this deserted mansion, Newman opened with a key, which he took out of his hat, in which by the buying consequence of the dilapidated state of his pockets he deposited everything, and would most likely have carried his money if he had had any, and the coach being discharged he led the way into the interior of the mansion. Old and gloomy and black in truth it was, and sullen and dark were the rooms, one so bustling with life and enterprise. There was a wharf behind opening on the Thames, an empty dog-kennel, some bones of animals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks lay strewn about, but no life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent decay. "'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, and seems as if some blight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious I should be almost inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrated within these old walls, and that the place had never prospered since. How frowning and how dark it looks! "'Lord, my dear,' replied Mrs. Nicolby, "'don't talk in that way, or you'll fright a mitt of death. "'It's only my foolish fancy, mamma,' said Kate, forcing a smile. "'Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to yourself, and not wake up my foolish fancy to keep it company,' retorted Mrs. Nicolby. "'Why didn't you think of all this before? You're so careless. We might have asked Miss LeCrévis to keep his company, or borrowed a dog, or a thousand things. But it always was the way, and was just the same with your poor dear father, unless I thought of everything.' This was Mrs. Nicolby's usual commencement of a general lamentation running through a dozen or so of complicated sentences addressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched until her breath was exhausted. Newman appeared not to hear these remarks, but preceded them to a couple of rooms on the first floor, which some kind of attempt had been made to render habitable. In one were a few chairs, a table, an old hearth-rog, and some faded bays, and the fire was ready-laid in the grate. In the other stood an old tent-bedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber furniture. "'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Nicolby, trying to be pleased, "'now, isn't this thoughtful and considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not have had anything but the bed we bought yesterday to lie down upon, if it hadn't been for his thoughtfulness.' "'Very kind indeed,' replied Kate, looking round. Newman-nogs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture they saw, from Attic and Seller. All that he had taken in the half-penny-worth of milk for tea that stood upon a shelf, all filled the rusty kettle on the hob, or collected the woodchips from the wharf, or begged the coals. But the notion of Ralph Nicolby having directed it to be done tickled his fancy so much that he could not refrain from cracking all his ten fingers in succession. At which performance Mrs. Nicolby was rather startled at first, but supposing it to be in some remote manner connected with the gout did not remark upon. "'We need detain you no longer,' I think,' said Kate. "'Is there nothing I can do?' asked Newman. "'Nothing, thank you,' rejoined Mrs. Nicolby. "'Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Nogs would like to drink our health,' said Mrs. Nicolby, fumbling in her reticule for some small coin. "'I think, Mama,' said Kate, hesitating, and remarking Newman's averted face, you would hurt his feelings if you offered it.' Newman Nogs, bowing to the young lady more like a gentleman than the miserable wretch he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast, and pausing for a moment with the air of a man who struggles to speak but is uncertain what to say, quitted the room. As the jarring echoes of the heavy house door closing on its latch reverberated dismally through the building, Kate felt half tempted to call him back and beg him to remain a little while. But she was ashamed to own her fears, and Newman Nogs was on his road, homewards.