Чарльз Диккенс
Nicholas Nickleby
But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid succession of bitter and passionate feelings that whirled through her mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked up by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at indefinite periods, and ‘found’ in food and lodging like the very boys themselves; and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller’s daughter of eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks’ time, to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have choked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.
But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and that was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in every day she could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction of some slight, or insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some effect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so sensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind, Miss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing that Mr. Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper, that she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from her.
And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything better, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously contemplated the possibility of his being of a different opinion from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and beautiful, and that her father was master, and Nicholas man, and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had none, all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the young man should feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed to recollect, either, how much more agreeable she could render his situation if she were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she were his enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlemen than Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he had thought proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.
‘Let him see,’ said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her own room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, ‘if I don’t set mother against him a little more when she comes back!’
It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as her word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging, and the being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid misery, was treated with every special indignity that malice could suggest, or the most grasping cupidity put upon him.
Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and cruelty.
The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face; and a word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an object now; and that object was, to show his attachment to the only person – that person a stranger – who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but like a human creature.
Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been nothing – Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without cause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also he had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as he paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost bursting to think that his protection and countenance should have increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of his thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some task which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects that congregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
‘I can’t do it,’ said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter disappointment in every feature. ‘No, no.’
‘Do not try,’ replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
‘Do not for God’s sake,’ said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; ‘I cannot bear to see you.’
‘They are more hard with me than ever,’ sobbed the boy.
‘I know it,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘They are.’
‘But for you,’ said the outcast, ‘I should die. They would kill me; they would; I know they would.’
‘You will do better, poor fellow,’ replied Nicholas, shaking his head mournfully, ‘when I am gone.’
‘Gone!’ cried the other, looking intently in his face.
‘Softly!’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you going?’ demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
‘I cannot say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I was speaking more to my own thoughts, than to you.’
‘Tell me,’ said the boy imploringly, ‘oh do tell me, will you go —will you?’
‘I shall be driven to that at last!’ said Nicholas. ‘The world is before me, after all.’
‘Tell me,’ urged Smike, ‘is the world as bad and dismal as this place?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own thoughts; ‘its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.’
‘Should I ever meet you there?’ demanded the boy, speaking with unusual wildness and volubility.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.
‘No, no!’ said the other, clasping him by the hand. ‘Should I – should I – tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.’
‘You would,’ replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, ‘and I would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done here.’
The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately in his, and, hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his old corner.
CHAPTER 13
Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance
The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself on his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though in search of some particular object.
It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with their patched and ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour; with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of living creatures; and there were others coiled up into strange and fantastic postures, such as might have been taken for the uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than the freaks of slumber. A few – and these were among the youngest of the children – slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day; and, as morning took the place of night, the smiles gradually faded away, with the friendly darkness which had given them birth.
Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the world.
Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its sorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, with a more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed something his eye was accustomed to meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his quest, when the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Now then,’ cried that gentleman, ‘are you going to sleep all day, up there – ’
‘You lazy hounds?’ added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sentence, and producing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which is occasioned by the lacing of stays.
‘We shall be down directly, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Down directly!’ said Squeers. ‘Ah! you had better be down directly, or I’ll be down upon some of you in less. Where’s that Smike?’
Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.
‘Smike!’ shouted Squeers.
‘Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?’ demanded his amiable lady in the same key.
Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did the greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.
‘Confound his impudence!’ muttered Squeers, rapping the stair-rail impatiently with his cane. ‘Nickleby!’
‘Well, sir.’
‘Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don’t you hear me calling?’
‘He is not here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Don’t tell me a lie,’ retorted the schoolmaster. ‘He is.’
‘He is not,’ retorted Nicholas angrily, ‘don’t tell me one.’
‘We shall soon see that,’ said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. ‘I’ll find him, I warrant you.’
With which assurance, Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and, swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner where the lean body of the drudge was usually stretched at night. The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There was nobody there.
‘What does this mean?’ said Squeers, turning round with a very pale face. ‘Where have you hid him?’
‘I have seen nothing of him since last night,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Come,’ said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeavoured to look otherwise, ‘you won’t save him this way. Where is he?’
‘At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,’ rejoined Nicholas in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master’s face.
‘Damn you, what do you mean by that?’ retorted Squeers in great perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys whether any one among them knew anything of their missing schoolmate.
There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which, one shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):
‘Please, sir, I think Smike’s run away, sir.’
‘Ha!’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round. ‘Who said that?’
‘Tomkins, please sir,’ rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very little boy, habited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression of whose countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed to intimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he was about to be punished or rewarded for the suggestion. He was not long in doubt.
‘You think he has run away, do you, sir?’ demanded Squeers.
‘Yes, please sir,’ replied the little boy.
‘And what, sir,’ said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly by the arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterous manner, ‘what reason have you to suppose that any boy would want to run away from this establishment? Eh, sir?’
The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr. Squeers, throwing himself into the most favourable attitude for exercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in his writhings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifully allowed him to roll away, as he best could.
‘There,’ said Squeers. ‘Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away, I shall be glad to have a talk with him.’
There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed his disgust as plainly as looks could show it.
‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. ‘You think he has run away, I suppose?’
‘I think it extremely likely,’ replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ sneered Squeers. ‘Maybe you know he has?’
‘I know nothing of the kind.’
‘He didn’t tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?’ sneered Squeers.
‘He did not,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I am very glad he did not, for it would then have been my duty to have warned you in time.’
‘Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,’ said Squeers in a taunting fashion.
‘I should indeed,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You interpret my feelings with great accuracy.’
Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottom of the stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed her night-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.
‘What’s all this here to-do?’ said the lady, as the boys fell off right and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny arms. ‘What on earth are you a talking to him for, Squeery!’
‘Why, my dear,’ said Squeers, ‘the fact is, that Smike is not to be found.’
‘Well, I know that,’ said the lady, ‘and where’s the wonder? If you get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the young dogs a rebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young man, you just have the kindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take the boys off with you, and don’t you stir out of there till you have leave given you, or you and I may fall out in a way that’ll spoil your beauty, handsome as you think yourself, and so I tell you.’
‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,’ said the excited lady; ‘and I wouldn’t keep such as you in the house another hour, if I had my way.’
‘Nor would you if I had mine,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Now, boys!’
‘Ah! Now, boys,’ said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as she could, the voice and manner of the usher. ‘Follow your leader, boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare. See what he’ll get for himself, when he is brought back; and, mind! I tell you that you shall have as bad, and twice as bad, if you so much as open your mouths about him.’
‘If I catch him,’ said Squeers, ‘I’ll only stop short of flaying him alive. I give you notice, boys.’
‘If you catch him,’ retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuously; ‘you are sure to; you can’t help it, if you go the right way to work. Come! Away with you!’
With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and after a little light skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressing forward to get out of the way, but were detained for a few moments by the throng in front, succeeded in clearing the room, when she confronted her spouse alone.
‘He is off,’ said Mrs. Squeers. ‘The cow-house and stable are locked up, so he can’t be there; and he’s not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road too.’
‘Why must he?’ inquired Squeers.
‘Stupid!’ said Mrs. Squeers angrily. ‘He hadn’t any money, had he?’
‘Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,’ replied Squeers.
‘To be sure,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers, ‘and he didn’t take anything to eat with him; that I’ll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Squeers.
‘Then, of course,’ said Mrs. S., ‘he must beg his way, and he could do that, nowhere, but on the public road.’
‘That’s true,’ exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
‘True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I hadn’t said so,’ replied his wife. ‘Now, if you take the chaise and go one road, and I borrow Swallow’s chaise, and go the other, what with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him.’
The worthy lady’s plan was adopted and put in execution without a moment’s delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise and another direction, taking with her a good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout labouring man: all provided and carried upon the expedition, with the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.
Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever might be the upshot of the boy’s flight, nothing but painful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from the protracted wandering of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender mercies of the Yorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on, in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening of next day, when Squeers returned, alone, and unsuccessful.
‘No news of the scamp!’ said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the journey. ‘I’ll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs Squeers don’t hunt him down; so I give you warning.’
‘It is not in my power to console you, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is nothing to me.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Squeers in a threatening manner. ‘We shall see!’
‘We shall,’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘Here’s the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home with a hack cob, that’ll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,’ said Squeers; ‘who’s to pay for that, do you hear?’
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
‘I’ll have it out of somebody, I tell you,’ said Squeers, his usual harsh crafty manner changed to open bullying ‘None of your whining vapourings here, Mr. Puppy, but be off to your kennel, for it’s past your bedtime! Come! Get out!’
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his fingerends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man was drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and walked, as majestically as he could, upstairs: not a little nettled, however, to observe that Miss Squeers and Master Squeers, and the servant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snug corner; the two former indulging in many edifying remarks about the presumption of poor upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the most miserable of all miserable servant girls joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his head such bedclothes as he had, and sternly resolved that the outstanding account between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs. Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
‘Lift him out,’ said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes, in silence, upon the culprit. ‘Bring him in; bring him in!’
‘Take care,’ cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance. ‘We tied his legs under the apron and made’em fast to the chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.’
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the assembled school.
Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may be matter of surprise to some persons, that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; but their surprise will cease when they are informed that the manifold services of the drudge, if performed by anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, that all runaways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of, at Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of its attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs and the power of using them, to remain.
The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner, and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new, – in short, purchased that morning, expressly for the occasion.
‘Is every boy here?’ asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so.
‘Each boy keep his place,’ said Squeers, administering his favourite blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start which it never failed to occasion. ‘Nickleby! to your desk, sir.’
It was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very curious and unusual expression in the usher’s face; but he took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar – or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such a decoration.
In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases, whether he had anything to say for himself.
‘Nothing, I suppose?’ said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his desk.
‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. ‘Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I’ve hardly got room enough.’
‘Spare me, sir!’ cried Smike.
‘Oh! that’s all, is it?’ said Squeers. ‘Yes, I’ll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mrs. Squeers, ‘that’s a good ‘un!’
‘I was driven to do it,’ said Smike faintly; and casting another imploring look about him.
‘Driven to do it, were you?’ said Squeers. ‘Oh! it wasn’t your fault; it was mine, I suppose – eh?’
‘A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,’ exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike’s head under her arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet; ‘what does he mean by that?’
‘Stand aside, my dear,’ replied Squeers. ‘We’ll try and find out.’
Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body – he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain – it was raised again, and again about to fall – when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried ‘Stop!’ in a voice that made the rafters ring.
‘Who cried stop?’ said Squeers, turning savagely round.
‘I,’ said Nicholas, stepping forward. ‘This must not go on.’
‘Must not go on!’ cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
‘No!’ thundered Nicholas.
Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.
‘I say must not,’ repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; ‘shall not. I will prevent it.’
Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech.
‘You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad’s behalf,’ said Nicholas; ‘you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don’t blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.’
‘Sit down, beggar!’ screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.
‘Wretch,’ rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, ‘touch him at your peril! I will not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you, if you drive me on!’
‘Stand back,’ cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
‘I have a long series of insults to avenge,’ said Nicholas, flushed with passion; ‘and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon your own head!’
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.
The boys – with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his father’s assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear – moved not, hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner’s coat, and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher’s head, beat Nicholas to her heart’s content; animating herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of the weakest.
Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him with all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form; and Squeers striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.
After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortly afterwards, struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.
