Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, andMr Squeers; and of various Matters and Personsconnected no less with the Squeerses than NicholasNickleby.

　　When Mr Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, hebetook himself, as has been before remarked, to hisown fireside, which was situated—not in the room inwhich Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival, but in asmaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady wife,his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the fullenjoyment of each other’s society; Mrs Squeers being engaged inthe matronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and the young lady andgentleman being occupied in the adjustment of some youthfuldifferences, by means of a pugilistic contest across the table,which, on the approach of their honoured parent, subsided into anoiseless exchange of kicks beneath it.

　　And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, thatMiss Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If therebe any one grace or loveliness inseparable from that particularperiod of life, Miss Squeers may be presumed to have beenpossessed of it, as there is no reason to suppose that she was asolitary exception to an universal rule. She was not tall like hermother, but short like her father; from the former she inherited avoice of harsh quality; from the latter a remarkable expression ofthe right eye, something akin to having none at all.

　　 Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with aneighbouring friend, and had only just returned to the parentalroof. To this circumstance may be referred, her having heardnothing of Nicholas, until Mr Squeers himself now made him thesubject of conversation.

　　‘Well, my dear,’ said Squeers, drawing up his chair, ‘what doyou think of him by this time?’

　　‘Think of who?’ inquired Mrs Squeers; who (as she oftenremarked) was no grammarian, thank Heaven.

　　‘Of the young man—the new teacher—who else could I mean?’

　　‘Oh! that Knuckleboy,’ said Mrs Squeers impatiently. ‘I hatehim.’

　　‘What do you hate him for, my dear?’ asked Squeers.

　　‘What’s that to you?’ retorted Mrs Squeers. ‘If I hate him, that’senough, ain’t it?’

　　‘Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much Idare say, if he knew it,’ replied Squeers in a pacific tone. ‘I onlyask from curiosity, my dear.’

　　‘Well, then, if you want to know,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers, ‘I’ll tellyou. Because he’s a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-upnosed peacock.’

　　Mrs Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use stronglanguage, and, moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets,some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock, andfurthermore the allusion to Nicholas’s nose, which was notintended to be taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear alatitude of construction according to the fancy of the hearers.

　　Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, somuch 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 anovelty in ornithology, and a thing not commonly seen.

　　‘Hem!’ said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak.

　　‘He is cheap, my dear; the young man is very cheap.’

　　‘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?’ repliedhis wife.

　　‘But we do want him,’ urged Squeers.

　　‘I don’t see that you want him any more than the dead,’ saidMrs Squeers. ‘Don’t tell me. You can put on the cards and in theadvertisements, “Education by Mr Wackford Squeers and ableassistants,” without having any assistants, can’t you? Isn’t it doneevery day by all the masters about? I’ve no patience with you.’

　　‘Haven’t you!’ said Squeers, sternly. ‘Now I’ll tell you what, MrsSqueers. In this matter of having a teacher, I’ll take my own way, ifyou please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a manunder him, to see that his blacks don’t run away, or get up arebellion; and I’ll have a man under me to do the same with ourblacks, till such time as little Wackford is able to take charge of theschool.’

　　‘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, avicious 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 theinteresting child, grasping his father’s cane. ‘Oh, father, won’t Imake ’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 aforeshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed a penny into hishand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wifealso), in a shout of approving laughter. The infantine appeal totheir common sympathies, at once restored cheerfulness to theconversation, and harmony to the company.

　　‘He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that’s what I consider him,’ saidMrs Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.

　　‘Supposing he is,’ said Squeers, ‘he is as well stuck up in ourschoolroom as anywhere else, isn’t he?—especially as he don’t likeit.’

　　‘Well,’ observed Mrs Squeers, ‘there’s something in that. I hopeit’ll bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if itdon’t.’

　　Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a veryextraordinary and unaccountable thing to hear of,—any usher atall being a novelty; but a proud one, a being of whose existence thewildest imagination could never have dreamed—that MissSqueers, who seldom troubled herself with scholastic matters,inquired with much curiosity who this Knuckleboy was, that gavehimself such airs.

　　‘Nickleby,’ said Squeers, spelling the name according to someeccentric system which prevailed in his own mind; ‘your motheralways calls things and people by their wrong names.’

　　‘No matter for that,’ said Mrs Squeers; ‘I see them with righteyes, and that’s quite enough for me. I watched him when youwere laying on to little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as blackas thunder, all the while, and, one time, started up as if he hadmore 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 thefamily was about to reply. ‘Who is the man?’

　　‘Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he’sthe son of a poor gentleman that died the other day,’ said MrsSqueers.

　　‘The son of a gentleman!’

　　‘Yes; but I don’t believe a word of it. If he’s a gentleman’s son atall, he’s a fondling, that’s my opinion.’

　　‘Mrs Squeers intended to say ‘foundling,’ but, as she frequentlyremarked when she made any such mistake, it would be all thesame a hundred years hence; with which axiom of philosophy,indeed, she was in the constant habit of consoling the boys whenthey laboured under more than ordinary ill-usage.

　　‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ said Squeers, in answer to the aboveremark, ‘for his father was married to his mother years before hewas born, and she is alive now. If he was, it would be no businessof ours, for we make a very good friend by having him here; and ifhe likes to learn the boys anything besides minding them, I haveno objection I am sure.’

　　‘I say again, I hate him worse than poison,’ said Mrs Squeersvehemently.

　　‘If you dislike him, my dear,’ returned Squeers, ‘I don’t knowanybody who can show dislike better than you, and of coursethere’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 abouthim, as I think he has, I don’t believe there’s woman in all Englandthat can bring anybody’s spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.’

　　Mrs Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flatteringcompliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit ortwo in her day. It is but due to her character to say, that inconjunction with her estimable husband, she had broken manyand many a one.

　　Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and muchmore conversation on the same subject, until she retired for thenight, when she questioned the hungry servant, minutely,regarding the outward appearance and demeanour of Nicholas; towhich queries the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, coupledwith so many laudatory remarks touching his beautiful dark eyes,and his sweet smile, and his straight legs—upon which last-namedarticles she laid particular stress; the general run of legs atDotheboys Hall being crooked—that Miss Squeers was not long inarriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a veryremarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,‘something quite out of the common.’ And so Miss Squeers madeup her mind that she would take a personal observation ofNicholas the very next day.

　　In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched theopportunity of her mother being engaged, and her father absent,and went accidentally into the schoolroom to get a pen mended:

　　where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boys, sheblushed very deeply, and exhibited great confusion.

　　‘I beg your pardon,’ faltered Miss Squeers; ‘I thought my fatherwas—or might be—dear me, how very awkward!’

　　‘Mr Squeers is out,’ said Nicholas, by no means overcome bythe apparition, unexpected though it was.

　　 ‘Do you know will he be long, sir?’ asked Miss Squeers, withbashful hesitation.

　　‘He said about an hour,’ replied Nicholas—politely of course,but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by MissSqueers’s charms.

　　‘I never knew anything happen so cross,’ exclaimed the younglady. ‘Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn’tthought my father was here, I wouldn’t upon any account have—itis very provoking—must look so very strange,’ murmured MissSqueers, blushing once more, and glancing, from the pen in herhand, to Nicholas at his desk, and back again.

　　‘If that is all you want,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, andsmiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of theschoolmaster’s daughter, ‘perhaps I can supply his place.’

　　Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the proprietyof advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round theschoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by thepresence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas anddelivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixture ofreserve and condescension.

　　‘Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?’ inquired Nicholas, smiling toprevent himself from laughing outright.

　　‘He has a beautiful smile,’ thought Miss Squeers.

　　‘Which did you say?’ asked Nicholas.

　　‘Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, Ideclare,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! as soft as possible, if youplease.’ With which words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, togive Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that thepen was wanted to match.

　　 Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gaveit to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stoopedto pick it up, Miss Squeers stopped also, and they knocked theirheads together; whereat 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 theyoung lady’s retreat.

　　‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Miss Squeers; ‘it was my fault. It was allmy foolish—a—a—good-morning!’

　　‘Goodbye,’ said Nicholas. ‘The next I make for you, I hope willbe made less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.’

　　‘Really,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘so embarrassing that I scarcelyknow what I—very sorry to give you so much trouble.’

　　‘Not the least trouble in the world,’ replied Nicholas, closing theschoolroom door.

　　‘I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!’ said MissSqueers, as she walked away.

　　In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.

　　To account for the rapidity with which this young lady hadconceived a passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, thatthe friend from whom she had so recently returned, was a miller’sdaughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto theson of a small corn-factor, resident in the nearest market town.

　　Miss Squeers and the miller’s daughter, being fast friends, hadcovenanted together some two years before, according to a customprevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first engaged tobe married, should straightway confide the mighty secret to thebosom 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 wasformed, 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-fiveminutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushedinto Miss Squeers’s bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now,Miss Squeers being five years older, and out of her teens (which isalso a great matter), had, since, been more than commonlyanxious to return the compliment, and possess her friend with asimilar secret; but, either in consequence of finding it hard toplease herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had neverhad an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she had no such secretto disclose. The little interview with Nicholas had no soonerpassed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers, puttingon her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to herfriend’s house, and, upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows ofsecrecy, revealed how that she was—not exactly engaged, butgoing to be—to a gentleman’s son—(none of your corn-factors, buta gentleman’s son of high descent)—who had come down asteacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most mysterious and remarkablecircumstances—indeed, as Miss Squeers more than once hintedshe had good reason to believe, induced, by the fame of her manycharms, to seek her out, and woo and win her.

　　‘Isn’t it an extraordinary thing?’ said Miss Squeers,emphasising the adjective strongly.

　　‘Most extraordinary,’ replied the friend. ‘But what has he saidto you?’

　　‘Don’t ask me what he said, my dear,’ rejoined Miss Squeers. ‘Ifyou had only seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome inall 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 genteel,’ replied Miss Squeers.

　　‘Ah!’ said the friend, ‘then he means something, depend on it.’

　　Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was byno 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 ofNicholas, and that of the corn-factor, grew so exceedinglyconfidential, that she intrusted her friend with a vast number ofthings Nicholas had not said, which were all so verycomplimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated on thefearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuouslyopposed to her intended husband; on which unhappycircumstance she dwelt at great length; for the friend’s father andmother were quite agreeable to her being married, and the wholecourtship was in consequence as flat and common-place an affairas it was possible to imagine.

　　‘How I should like to see him!’ exclaimed the friend.

　　‘So you shall, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘I should considermyself one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. Ithink mother’s going away for two days to fetch some boys; andwhen she does, I’ll ask you and John up to tea, and have him tomeet you.’

　　This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, thefriends parted.

　　It so fell out, that Mrs Squeers’s journey, to some distance, tofetch three new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for thenext day but one; and on the next day but one, Mrs Squeers got upoutside the coach, as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, takingwith her a small bundle containing something in a bottle, andsome sandwiches, and carrying besides a large white top-coat towear in the night-time; with which baggage she went her way.

　　Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it wasSqueers’s custom to drive over to the market town, every evening,on pretence of urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven o’clockat a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in his way,therefore, but rather afforded a means of compromise with MissSqueers, he readily yielded his full assent thereunto, and willinglycommunicated to Nicholas that he was expected to take his tea inthe parlour that evening, at five o’clock.

　　To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the timeapproached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the bestadvantage: with her hair—it had more than a tinge of red, and shewore it in a crop—curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top ofher head, and arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to saynothing of the blue sash which floated down her back, or theworked apron or the long gloves, or the green gauze scarf wornover one shoulder and under the other; or any of the numerousdevices which were to be as so many arrows to the heart ofNicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements to herentire satisfaction, when the friend arrive............