The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens [ebook offline reader TXT] 📗

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 ‘raa’ther 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 waat’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 jail—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 waa’t 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.