“Not a bit of it,” retorted Mrs. Squeers.
“Five pound a year,” said Squeers.
“What of that; it’s dear if you don’t want him, isn’t it?” 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 assistants,’ without having any assistants, 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 care of the school when I grow up a man, father?” said Wackford junior, 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 ’em squeak again!”
It was a proud moment in Mr. Squeers’s life, when he witnessed that burst of enthusiasm in his young child’s mind, and saw in it 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 appeal 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 Mrs. Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.
“Supposing he is,” said Squeers, “he is as well stuck up in our schoolroom as anywhere else, isn’t he?—especially as he don’t like it.”
“Well,” observed Mrs. 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 Knuckleboy was, that gave himself such airs.
“Nickleby,” 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 Bolder 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 has got some nonsense in his head that he’s 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 would 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 laboured 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 is 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, I 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,” returned 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.
Miss 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-named articles she laid particular stress; the general run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked—that Miss 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 Miss Squeers made up her mind that she
