An old acquaintance is recognised under melancholy
circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever
NICHOLAS was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is shared by the
friends of adverse and less fortunate days. Surrounded by every fascination of
love and hope, his warm heart yearned towards plain John Browdie. He remembered
their first meeting with a smile, and their second with a tear; saw poor Smike
once again with the bundle on his shoulder trudging patiently by his side; and
heard the honest Yorkshireman's rough words of encouragement as he left them on
their road to London.
Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to produce a letter which
should acquaint John at full length with his altered fortunes, and assure him of
his friendship and gratitude. It so happened, however, that the letter could
never be written. Although they applied themselves to it with the best
intentions in the world, it chanced that they always fell to talking about
something else, and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he found it impossible to
write one-half of what he wished to say, or to pen anything, indeed, which on
re-perusal did not appear cold and unsatisfactory compared with what he had in
his mind. At last, after going on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself
more and more, he resolved (the more readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to
make a hasty trip into Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr and Mrs Browdie
without a word of notice.
Thus it was that between seven and eight o'clock one evening, he and Kate
found themselves in the Saracen's Head booking-office, securing a place to Greta
Bridge by the next morning's coach. They had to go westward, to procure some
little necessaries for his journey, and, as it was a fine night, they agreed to
walk there, and ride home.
The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and Kate had
so many anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes of Frank, and each
was so interested in what the other said, and both were so happy and confiding,
and had so much to talk about, that it was not until they had plunged for a full
half-hour into that labyrinth of streets which lies between Seven Dials and Soho,
without emerging into any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it
just possible they might have lost their way.
The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking about,
and walking first to one end of the street and then to the other, he could find
no landmark he could recognise, and was fain to turn back again in quest of some
place at which he could seek a direction.
It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched shops
they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed across the
pavement from a cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or three steps so as
to render himself visible to those below and make his inquiry, when he was
arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a woman's voice.
`Oh come away!' said Kate, `they are quarrelling. You'll be hurt.'
`Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there's anything the matter,'
returned her brother. `Hush!'
`You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,' cried the woman, stamping
on the ground, `why don't you turn the mangle?'
`So I am, my life and soul!' replied the man's voice. `I am always turning. I
am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition mill. My life is
one demd horrid grind!'
`Then why don't you go and list for a soldier?' retorted the woman; `you're
welcome to.'
`For a soldier!' cried the man. `For a soldier! Would his joy and gladness
see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear of his being
slapped and beat by drummers demnebly? Would she have him fire off real guns,
and have his hair cut, and his whiskers shaved, and his eyes turned right and
left, and his trousers pipeclayed?'
`Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, `you don't know who that is. It's Mr
Mantalini I am confident.'
`Do make sure! Peep at him while I ask the way,' said Nicholas. `Come down a
step or two -- come!'
Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down the steps and looked into a small
boarded cellar. There, amidst clothes-baskets and clothes, stripped up to his
shirt-sleeves, but wearing still an old patched pair of pantaloons of
superlative make, a once brilliant waistcoat, and moustache and whiskers as of
yore, but lacking their lustrous dye -- there, endeavouring to mollify the wrath
of a buxom female -- not the lawful Madame Mantalini, but the proprietress of
the concern -- and grinding meanwhile as if for very life at the mangle, whose
creaking noise, mingled with her shrill tones, appeared almost to deafen him --
there was the graceful, elegant, fascinating, and once dashing Mantalini.
`Oh you false traitor!' cried the lady, threatening personal violence on Mr
Mantalini's face.
`False! Oh dem! Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most
demnebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,' said Mr Mantalini, humbly.
`I won't!' screamed the woman. `I'll tear your eyes out!'
`Oh! What a demd savage lamb!' cried Mr Mantalini.
`You're never to be trusted,' screamed the woman; `you were out all day
yesterday, and gallivanting somewhere I know -- you know you were! Isn't it
enough that I paid two pound fourteen for you, and took you out of prison and
let you live here like a gentleman, but must you go on like this: breaking, my
heart besides?'
`I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never do so any
more; I will never be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,' said Mr
Mantalini, dropping the handle of the mangle, and folding his palms together;
`it is all up with its handsome friend! He has gone to the demnition bow-wows.
It will have pity? it will not scratch and claw, but pet and comfort? Oh,
demmit!'
Very little affected, to judge from her action, by this tender appeal, the
lady was on the point of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas, raising his
voice, asked his way to Piccadilly.
Mr Mantalini turned round, caught sight of Kate, and, without another word,
leapt at one bound into a bed which stood behind the door, and drew the
counterpane over his face: kicking meanwhile convulsively.
`Demmit,' he cried, in a suffocating voice, `it's little Nickleby! Shut the
door, put out the candle, turn me up in the bedstead! Oh, dem, dem, dem!'
The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr Mantalini, as if
uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr Mantalini
happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from under the bedclothes, in his
anxiety to ascertain whether the visitors were gone, she suddenly, and with a
dexterity which could only have been acquired by long practice, flung a pretty
heavy clothes-basket at him, with so good an aim that he kicked more violently
than before, though without venturing to make any effort to disengage his head,
which was quite extinguished. Thinking this a favourable opportunity for
departing before any of the torrent of her wrath discharged itself upon him,
Nicholas hurried Kate off, and left the unfortunate subject of this unexpected
recognition to explain his conduct as he best could.
The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather:
forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first travelled
that road, and how many vicissitudes and changes he had since undergone. He was
alone inside the greater part of the way, and sometimes, when he had fallen into
a doze, and, rousing himself, looked out of the window, and recognised some
place which he well remembered as having passed, either on his journey down, or
in the long walk back with poor Smike, he could hardly believe but that all
which had since happened had been a dream, and that they were still plodding
wearily on towards London, with the world before them.
To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as night set
in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the little alehouse where
he had heard the story of the bold Baron of Grogzwig, everything looked as if he
had seen it but yesterday, and not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs
had melted away. Encouraging the train of ideas which flocked upon him, he could
almost persuade himself that he sat again outside the coach, with Squeers and
the boys; that he heard their voices in the air; and that he felt again, but
with a mingled sensation of pain and pleasure now, that old sinking of the
heart, and longing after home. While he was yet yielding himself up to these
fancies he fell asleep, and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot them.
He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and, rising
at a very early hour next morning, walked to the market town, and inquired for
John Browdie's house. John lived in the outskirts, now he was a family man; and
as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no difficulty in finding a boy who undertook
to guide him to his residence.
Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not wen stopping to
admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either, Nicholas made his way to
the kitchen door, and knocked lustily with his stick.
`Halloa!' cried a voice inside, `wa'et be the matther noo? Be the toon afire?
Ding, but thou mak'est noise eneaf!'
With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his eyes
too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together, and burst
into a hearty roar:
`Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be Misther
Nickleby. Gi' us thee hond, mun. Coom awa', coom awa'. In wi 'un, doon beside
the fire; tak' a soop o' thot. Dinnot say a word till thou'st droonk it a'! Oop
wi' it, mun. Ding! but I'm reeght glod to see thee.'
Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen,
forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out from an
enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it into his hand,
opened his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to him to drink it instantly,
and stood with a broad grin of welcome overspreading his great red face like a
jolly giant.
`I might ha' knowa'd,' said John,;' that nobody but thou would ha' coom wi'
sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa' thou knocked at schoolmeasther's door, eh?
Ha, ha, ha! But I say -- wa'at be a' this aboot schoolmeasther?'
`You know it then?' said Nicholas.
`They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,' replied John, `but
neane on 'em seemed quite to un'erstan' it, loike.'
`After various shiftings and delays,' said Nicholas, `he has been sentenced
to be transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful possession of a
stolen will; and, after that, he has to suffer the consequence of a conspiracy.'
`Whew!' cried John, `a conspiracy! Soom'at in the pooder-plot wa' -- eh?
Soom'at in the Guy Faurx line?'
`No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I'll explain it
presently.'
`Thot's reeght!' said John, `explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for thou
be'est hoongry, and so am I; and Tilly she mun' be at the bottom o' a'
explanations, for she says thot's the mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod, it's
a room start, is the mutual confidence!'
The entrance of Mrs Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many apologies for
their having been detected in the act of breakfasting in the kitchen, stopped
John in his discussion of this grave subject, and hastened the breakfast: which,
being composed of vast mounds of toast, new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire
pie, and other cold substantials (of which heavy relays were constantly
appearing from another kitchen under the direction of a very plump servant), was
admirably adapted to the cold bleak morning, and received the utmost justice
from all parties. At last, it came to a close; and the fire which had been
lighted in the best parlour having by this time burnt up, they adjourned
thither, to hear what Nicholas had to tell.
Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened so many
emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest John groaned
in sympathy, and at another roared with joy; at one time he vowed to go up to
London on purpose to get a sight of the brothers Cheeryble; and, at another,
swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive such a ham by coach, and carriage
free, as mortal knife had never carved. When Nicholas began to describe
Madeline, he sat with his mouth wide open, nudging Mrs Browdie from time to
time, and exclaiming under his breath that she must be `raather a tidy sart,'
and when he heard at last that his young friend had come down purposely to
communicate his good fortune, and to convey to him all those assurances of
friendship which he could not state with sufficient warmth in writing -- that
the only object of his journey was to share his happiness with them, and to tell
them that when he was married they must come up to see him, and that Madeline
insisted on it as well as he -- John could hold out no longer, but after looking
indignantly at his wife, and demanding to know what she was whimpering for, drew
his coat sleeve over his eyes and blubbered outright.
`Tell'ee wa'at though,' said John seriously, when a great deal had been said
on both sides, `to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot 'un has reached
school today, the old 'ooman wean't have a whole boan in her boddy, nor Fanny
neither.'
`Oh, John!' cried Mrs Browdie.
`Ah! and Oh, John, agean,' replied the Yorkshireman. `I dinnot know what they
lads mightn't do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was in trouble,
some feythers and moothers sent and took their young chaps awa'. If them as is
left should know wa'at's coom tiv'un, there'll be sike a revolution and rebel!
-- Ding! But I think they'll a' gang daft, and spill bluid like wather!'
In fact, John Browdie's apprehensions were so strong that he determined to
ride over to the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to accompany him,
which, however, he declined, pleading that his presence might perhaps aggravate
the bitterness of their adversity.
`Thot's true!' said John; `I should ne'er ha' thought o' thot.'
`I must return tomorrow,' said Nicholas, `but I mean to dine with you today,
and if Mrs Browdie can give me a bed--'
`Bed!' cried John, `I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once. Ecod,
thou shouldst have 'em a'. Bide till I coom back, on'y bide till I coom back,
and ecod we'll make a day of it.'
Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of the
hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs Browdie to apply herself
to hospitable preparations, and his young friend to stroll about the
neighbourhood, and revisit spots which were rendered familiar to him by many a
miserable association.
John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a gate
and made his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on the inside. A
tremendous noise and riot arose from within, and, applying his eye to a
convenient crevice in the wall, he did not remain long in ignorance of its
meaning.
The news of Mr Squeers's downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite
clear. To all appearance, it had very recently become known to the young
gentlemen; for the rebellion had just broken out.
It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle mornings, and Mrs Squeers had entered
school according to custom with the large bowl and spoon, followed by Miss
Squeers and the amiable Wackford: who, during his father's absence, had taken
upon him such minor branches of the executive as kicking the pupils with his
nailed boots, pulling the hair of some of the smaller boys, pinching the others
in aggravating places, and rendering himself, in various similar ways, a great
comfort and happiness to his mother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or
a simultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one detachment rushed to
the door and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and forms, the stoutest
(and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane, and confronting Mrs Squeers
with a stern countenance, snatched off her cap and beaver bonnet, put them on
his own head, armed himself with the wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of
death, go down upon her knees and take a dose directly. Before that estimable
lady could recover herself, or offer the slightest retaliation, she was forced
into a kneeling posture by a crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled to
swallow a spoonful of the odious mixture, rendered more than usually savoury by
the immersion in the bowl of Master Wackford's head, whose ducking was intrusted
to another rebel. The success of this first achievement prompted the malicious
crowd, whose faces were clustered together in every variety of lank and
half-starved ugliness, to further acts of outrage. The leader was insisting upon
Mrs Squeers repeating her dose, Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the
treacle, and a violent assault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when John
Browdie, bursting open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed to the rescue. The
shouts, screams, groans, hoots, and clapping of hands, suddenly ceased, and a
dead silence ensued.
`Ye be noice chaps,' said John, looking steadily round. `What's to do here,
thou yoong dogs?'
`Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!' cried a score of shrill
voices. `We won't stop, we won't stop!'
`Weel, then, dinnot stop,' replied John; `who waants thee to stop? Roon awa'
loike men, but dinnot hurt the women.'
`Hurrah!' cried the shrill voices, more shrilly still.
`Hurrah?' repeated John. `Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look out. Hip
-- hip -- hip -- hurrah!'
`Hurrah!' cried the voices.
`Hurrah! Agean;' said John. `Looder still.'
The boys obeyed.
`Anoother!' said John. `Dinnot be afeared on it. Let's have a good 'un!'
`Hurrah!'
`Noo then,' said John, `let's have yan more to end wi', and then coot off as
quick as you loike. Tak'a good breath noo -- Squeers be in gaol -- the school's
brokken oop -- it's a' ower -- past and gane -- think o' thot, and let it be a
hearty 'un! Hurrah!'
Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed before,
and were destined never to respond to again. When the sound had died away, the
school was empty; and of the busy noisy crowd which had peopled it but five
minutes before, not one remained.
`Very well, Mr Browdie!' said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the recent
encounter, but vixenish to the last; `you've been and excited our boys to run
away. Now see if we don't pay you out for that, sir! If my pa is unfortunate and
trod down by henemies, we're not going to be basely crowed and conquered over by
you and 'Tilda.'
`Noa!' replied John bluntly, `thou bean't. Tak' thy oath o' thot. Think
betther o' us, Fanny. I tell'ee both, that I'm glod the auld man has been caught
out at last -- dom'd glod -- but ye'll sooffer eneaf wi'out any crowin' fra' me,
and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass, so I tell'ee flat. More
than thot, I tell'ee noo, that if thou need'st friends to help thee awa' from
this place -- dinnot turn up thy nose, Fanny, thou may'st -- thou'lt foind Tilly
and I wi' a thout o' old times aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I
say thot, dinnot think I be asheamed of wa'at I've deane, for I say again,
Hurrah! and dom the schoolmeasther -- there!'
His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted his
nag, put him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily forth some
fragments of an old song, to which the horse's hoofs rang a merry accompaniment,
sped back to his pretty wife and to Nicholas.
For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with boys,
who, the report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr and Mrs Browdie, not
only with a hearty meal of bread and meat, but with sundry shillings and
sixpences to help them on their way. To this rumour John always returned a stout
denial, which he accompanied, however, with a lurking grin, that rendered the
suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed all previous believers.
There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been, and
many as were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still knew no other
home, and had formed for it a sort of attachment, which made them weep when the
bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a refuge. Of these, some were found
crying under hedges and in such places, frightened at the solitude. One had a
dead bird in a little cage; he had wandered nearly twenty miles, and when his
poor favourite died, lost courage, and lay down beside him. Another was
discovered in a yard hard by the school, sleeping with a dog, who bit at those
who came to remove him, and licked the sleeping child's pale face.
They were taken back, and some other stragglers were recovered, but by
degrees they were claimed, or lost again; and, in course of time, Dotheboys Hall
and its last breaking-up began to be forgotten by the neighbours, or to be only
spoken of as among the things that had been.
|