“Thanking you for your advice which was not required, Mr. Browdie,” returned Miss Squeers, with laborious politeness, “have the goodness not to presume to meddle with my Christian name. Even my pity shall never make me forget what’s due to myself, Mr. Browdie. ’Tilda,” said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accession of violence that John started in his boots, “I throw you off forever, miss. I abandon you. I renounce you. I wouldn’t,” cried Miss Squeers in a solemn voice, “have a child named ’Tilda, not to save it from its grave.”
“As for the matther o’ that,” observed John, “it’ll be time eneaf to think aboot neaming of it when it cooms.”
“John!” interposed his wife, “don’t tease her.”
“Oh! Tease, indeed!” cried Miss Squeers, bridling up. “Tease, indeed! He, he! Tease, too! No, don’t tease her. Consider her feelings, pray!”
“If it’s fated that listeners are never to hear any good of themselves,” said Mrs. Browdie, “I can’t help it, and I am very sorry for it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have spoken so kindly of you behind your back, that even you could have found no fault with what I said.”
“Oh, I dare say not, ma’am!” cried Miss Squeers, with another curtsy. “Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging and praying you not to be hard upon me another time!”
“I don’t know,” resumed Mrs. Browdie, “that I have said anything very bad of you, even now. At all events, what I did say was quite true; but if I have, I am very sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. You have said much worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have never borne any malice to you, and I hope you’ll not bear any to me.”
Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying her former friend from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the air with ineffable disdain. But some indistinct allusions to a “puss,” and a “minx,” and a “contemptible creature,” escaped her; and this, together with a severe biting of the lips, great difficulty in swallowing, and very frequent comings and goings of breath, seemed to imply that feelings were swelling in Miss Squeers’s bosom too great for utterance.
While the foregoing conversation was proceeding, Master Wackford, finding himself unnoticed, and feeling his preponderating inclinations strong upon him, had by little and little sidled up to the table and attacked the food with such slight skirmishing as drawing his fingers round and round the inside of the plates, and afterwards sucking them with infinite relish; picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over the surface of the butter; pocketing lumps of sugar, pretending all the time to be absorbed in thought; and so forth. Finding that no interference was attempted with these small liberties, he gradually mounted to greater, and, after helping himself to a moderately good cold collation, was, by this time, deep in the pie.
Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr. Squeers, who, so long as the attention of the company was fixed upon other objects, hugged himself to think that his son and heir should be fattening at the enemy’s expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary calm, in which the proceedings of little Wackford could scarcely fail to be observed, he feigned to be aware of the circumstance for the first time, and inflicted upon the face of that young gentleman a slap that made the very teacups ring.
“Eating!” cried Mr. Squeers, “of what his father’s enemies has left! It’s fit to go and poison you, you unnat’ral boy.”
“It wean’t hurt him,” said John, apparently very much relieved by the prospect of having a man in the quarrel; “let ’un eat. I wish the whole school was here. I’d give ’em soom’at to stay their unfort’nate stomachs wi’, if I spent the last penny I had!”
Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most malicious expression of which his face was capable—it was a face of remarkable capability, too, in that way—and shook his fist stealthily.
“Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,” said John, “dinnot make a fool o’ thyself; for if I was to sheake mine—only once—thou’d fa’ doon wi’ the wind o’ it.”
“It was you, was it,” returned Squeers, “that helped off my runaway boy? It was you, was it?”
“Me!” returned John, in a loud tone. “Yes, it wa’ me, coom; wa’at o’ that? It wa’ me. Noo then!”
“You hear him say he did it, my child!” said Squeers, appealing to his daughter. “You hear him say he did it!”
“Did it!” cried John. “I’ll tell ’ee more; hear this, too. If thou’d got another roonaway boy, I’d do it agean. If thou’d got twonty roonaway boys, I’d do it twonty times ower, and twonty more to thot; and I tell thee more,” said John, “noo my blood is oop, that thou’rt an old ra’ascal; and that it’s weel for thou, thou be’est an old ’un, or I’d ha’ poonded thee to flour when thou told an honest mun hoo thou’d licked that poor chap in t’ coorch.”
“An honest man!” cried Squeers, with a sneer.
“Ah! an honest man,” replied John; “honest in ought but ever putting legs under seame table wi’ such as thou.”
“Scandal!” said Squeers, exultingly. “Two witnesses to it; Wackford knows the nature of an oath, he does; we shall have you there, sir. Rascal, eh?” Mr. Squeers took out his pocketbook and made a note of it. “Very good. I should say that was worth full twenty pound at the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.”
“ ’Soizes,” cried John, “thou’d betther not talk to me o’ Soizes. Yorkshire schools have been shown up at ’Soizes afore noo, mun, and it’s a ticklish soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.”
Mr. Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, looking very white with passion; and taking his daughter’s arm, and dragging little Wackford by the
