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    Chapter 12

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    Chapter 12
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    CHAPTER 12

    Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of
    Miss Fanny Squeer's Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or
    otherwise.

    It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when
    her worthy papa returned home on the night of the small tea-party,
    he was what the initiated term 'too far gone' to observe the
    numerous tokens of extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly
    visible in her countenance. Being, however, of a rather violent and
    quarrelsome mood in his cups, it is not impossible that he might
    have fallen out with her, either on this or some imaginary topic, if
    the young lady had not, with a foresight and prudence highly
    commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose, to bear the first brunt of
    the good gentleman's anger; which, having vented itself in a variety
    of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to admit of his being
    persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots on, and an
    umbrella under his arm.

    The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according
    to custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little offices of her
    toilet, and administer as much flattery as she could get up, for the
    purpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently
    vain and frivolous withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only
    the arbitrary distinctions of rank and station which prevented her
    from being one.

    'How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!' said the handmaiden.
    'I declare if it isn't a pity and a shame to brush it out!'

    'Hold your tongue!' replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.

    Some considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all
    surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers.
    Having a half-perception of what had occurred in the course of the
    evening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable, and
    proceeded on the indirect tack.

    'Well, I couldn't help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,'
    said the attendant, 'that I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss
    Price this night.'

    Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.

    'I know it's very wrong in me to say so, miss,' continued the girl,
    delighted to see the impression she was making, 'Miss Price being a
    friend of your'n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and go on
    in such a manner to get noticed, that--oh--well, if people only saw
    themselves!'

    'What do you mean, Phib?' asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own
    little glass, where, like most of us, she saw--not herself, but the
    reflection of some pleasant image in her own brain. 'How you talk!'

    'Talk, miss! It's enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar,
    only to see how she tosses her head,' replied the handmaid.

    'She DOES toss her head,' observed Miss Squeers, with an air of
    abstraction.

    'So vain, and so very--very plain,' said the girl.

    'Poor 'Tilda!' sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately.

    'And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,' pursued
    the servant. 'Oh, dear! It's positive indelicate.'

    'I can't allow you to talk in that way, Phib,' said Miss Squeers.
    "Tilda's friends are low people, and if she don't know any better,
    it's their fault, and not hers.'

    'Well, but you know, miss,' said Phoebe, for which name 'Phib' was
    used as a patronising abbreviation, 'if she was only to take copy by
    a friend--oh! if she only knew how wrong she was, and would but set
    herself right by you, what a nice young woman she might be in time!'

    'Phib,' rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, 'it's not proper
    for me to hear these comparisons drawn; they make 'Tilda look a
    coarse improper sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me to
    listen to them. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at
    the same time, I must say, that if 'Tilda Price would take pattern
    by somebody--not me particularly--'

    'Oh yes; you, miss,' interposed Phib.

    'Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,' said Miss Squeers. 'I
    must say, that if she would, she would be all the better for it.'

    'So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,' said the girl
    mysteriously.

    'What do you mean?' demanded Miss Squeers.

    'Never mind, miss,' replied the girl; 'I know what I know; that's
    all.'

    'Phib,' said Miss Squeers dramatically, 'I insist upon your
    explaining yourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.'

    'Why, if you will have it, miss, it's this,' said the servant girl.
    'Mr John Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn't too far gone
    to do it creditable, he'd be very glad to be off with Miss Price,
    and on with Miss Squeers.'

    'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with
    great dignity. 'What is this?'

    'Truth, ma'am, and nothing but truth,' replied the artful Phib.

    'What a situation!' cried Miss Squeers; 'on the brink of
    unconsciously destroying the peace and happiness of my own 'Tilda.
    What is the reason that men fall in love with me, whether I like it
    or not, and desert their chosen intendeds for my sake?'

    'Because they can't help it, miss,' replied the girl; 'the reason's
    plain.' (If Miss Squeers were the reason, it was very plain.)

    'Never let me hear of it again,' retorted Miss Squeers. 'Never! Do
    you hear? 'Tilda Price has faults--many faults--but I wish her
    well, and above all I wish her married; for I think it highly
    desirable--most desirable from the very nature of her failings--that
    she should be married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have
    Mr Browdie. I may pity HIM, poor fellow; but I have a great regard
    for 'Tilda, and only hope she may make a better wife than I think
    she will.'

    With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.

    Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble of
    feelings, and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in the
    language. Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts that
    what the miserable serving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying
    flattery, as did the girl herself; yet the mere opportunity of
    venting a little ill-nature against the offending Miss Price, and
    affecting to compassionate her weaknesses and foibles, though only
    in the presence of a solitary dependant, was almost as great a
    relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel truth. Nay,
    more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion when they are
    exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high-minded and
    great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie's hand, and
    looked down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness and
    tranquillity, that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled
    feelings.

    This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a
    reconciliation; for, when a knock came at the front-door next day,
    and the miller's daughter was announced, Miss Squeers betook herself
    to the parlour in a Christian frame of spirit, perfectly beautiful
    to behold.

    'Well, Fanny,' said the miller's daughter, 'you see I have come to
    see you, although we HAD some words last night.'

    'I pity your bad passions, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'but I
    bear no malice. I am above it.'

    'Don't be cross, Fanny,' said Miss Price. 'I have come to tell you
    something that I know will please you.'

    'What may that be, 'Tilda?' demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her
    lips, and looking as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could
    afford her the slightest gleam of satisfaction.

    'This,' rejoined Miss Price. 'After we left here last night John
    and I had a dreadful quarrel.'

    'That doesn't please me,' said Miss Squeers--relaxing into a smile
    though.

    'Lor! I wouldn't think so bad of you as to suppose it did,'
    rejoined her companion. 'That's not it.'

    'Oh!' said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy. 'Go on.'

    'After a great deal of wrangling, and saying we would never see each
    other any more,' continued Miss Price, 'we made it up, and this
    morning John went and wrote our names down to be put up, for the
    first time, next Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and
    I give you notice to get your frock made.'

    There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. The prospect
    of the friend's being married so soon was the gall, and the
    certainty of her not entertaining serious designs upon Nicholas was
    the honey. Upon the whole, the sweet greatly preponderated over the
    bitter, so Miss Squeers said she would get the frock made, and that
    she hoped 'Tilda might be happy, though at the same time she didn't
    know, and would not have her build too much upon it, for men were
    strange creatures, and a great many married women were very
    miserable, and wished themselves single again with all their hearts;
    to which condolences Miss Squeers added others equally calculated to
    raise her friend's spirits and promote her cheerfulness of mind.

    'But come now, Fanny,' said Miss Price, 'I want to have a word or
    two with you about young Mr Nickleby.'

    'He is nothing to me,' interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical
    symptoms. 'I despise him too much!'

    'Oh, you don't mean that, I am sure?' replied her friend. 'Confess,
    Fanny; don't you like him now?'

    Without returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell
    into a paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a
    wretched, neglected, miserable castaway.

    'I hate everybody,' said Miss Squeers, 'and I wish that everybody
    was dead--that I do.'

    'Dear, dear,' said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal of
    misanthropical sentiments. 'You are not serious, I am sure.'

    'Yes, I am,' rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her pocket-
    handkerchief and clenching her teeth. 'And I wish I was dead too.
    There!'

    'Oh! you'll think very differently in another five minutes,' said
    Matilda. 'How much better to take him into favour again, than to
    hurt yourself by going on in that way. Wouldn't it be much nicer,
    now, to have him all to yourself on good terms, in a company-
    keeping, love-making, pleasant sort of manner?'

    'I don't know but what it would,' sobbed Miss Squeers. 'Oh!
    'Tilda, how could you have acted so mean and dishonourable! I
    wouldn't have believed it of you, if anybody had told me.'

    'Heyday!' exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. 'One would suppose I had
    been murdering somebody at least.'

    'Very nigh as bad,' said Miss Squeers passionately.

    'And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make
    people civil to me,' cried Miss Price. 'Persons don't make their
    own faces, and it's no more my fault if mine is a good one than it
    is other people's fault if theirs is a bad one.'

    'Hold your tongue,' shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone;
    'or you'll make me slap you, 'Tilda, and afterwards I should be
    sorry for it!'

    It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young
    lady was in some slight degree affected by the tone of her
    conversation, and that a dash of personality was infused into the
    altercation, in consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight
    beginnings, rose to a considerable height, and was assuming a very
    violent complexion, when both parties, falling into a great passion
    of tears, exclaimed simultaneously, that they had never thought of
    being spoken to in that way: which exclamation, leading to a
    remonstrance, gradually brought on an explanation: and the upshot
    was, that they fell into each other's arms and vowed eternal
    friendship; the occasion in question making the fifty-second time of
    repeating the same impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth.

    Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued
    upon the number and nature of the garments which would be
    indispensable for Miss Price's entrance into the holy state of
    matrimony, when Miss Squeers clearly showed that a great many more
    than the miller could, or would, afford, were absolutely necessary,
    and could not decently be dispensed with. The young lady then, by
    an easy digression, led the discourse to her own wardrobe, and after
    recounting its principal beauties at some length, took her friend
    upstairs to make inspection thereof. The treasures of two drawers
    and a closet having been displayed, and all the smaller articles
    tried on, it was time for Miss Price to return home; and as she had
    been in raptures with all the frocks, and had been stricken quite
    dumb with admiration of a new pink scarf, Miss Squeers said in high
    good humour, that she would walk part of the way with her, for the
    pleasure of her company; and off they went together: Miss Squeers
    dilating, as they walked along, upon her father's accomplishments:
    and multiplying his income by ten, to give her friend some faint
    notion of the vast importance and superiority of her family.

    It happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily
    interval which was suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly
    called the dinner of Mr Squeers's pupils, and their return to the
    pursuit of useful knowledge, was precisely the hour when Nicholas
    was accustomed to issue forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood,
    as he sauntered listlessly through the village, upon his miserable
    lot. Miss Squeers knew this perfectly well, but had perhaps
    forgotten it, for when she caught sight of that young gentleman
    advancing towards them, she evinced many symptoms of surprise and
    consternation, and assured her friend that she 'felt fit to drop
    into the earth.'

    'Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?' asked Miss Price. 'He
    don't see us yet.'

    'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'it is my duty to go through
    with it, and I will!'

    As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high
    moral resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and
    catchings of breath, indicative of feelings at a high pressure, her
    friend made no further remark, and they bore straight down upon
    Nicholas, who, walking with his eyes bent upon the ground, was not
    aware of their approach until they were close upon him; otherwise,
    he might, perhaps, have taken shelter himself.

    'Good-morning,' said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.

    'He is going,' murmured Miss Squeers. 'I shall choke, 'Tilda.'

    'Come back, Mr Nickleby, do!' cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at
    her friend's threat, but really actuated by a malicious wish to hear
    what Nicholas would say; 'come back, Mr Nickleby!'

    Mr Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he
    inquired whether the ladies had any commands for him.

    'Don't stop to talk,' urged Miss Price, hastily; 'but support her on
    the other side. How do you feel now, dear?'

    'Better,' sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of a reddish
    brown with a green veil attached, on Mr Nickleby's shoulder. 'This
    foolish faintness!'

    'Don't call it foolish, dear,' said Miss Price: her bright eye
    dancing with merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; 'you
    have no reason to be ashamed of it. It's those who are too proud to
    come round again, without all this to-do, that ought to be ashamed.'

    'You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,' said Nicholas, smiling,
    'although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.'

    'There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,' remarked the wicked
    Miss Price. 'Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him?
    He says it was not his fault. You hear; I think that's apology
    enough.'

    'You will not understand me,' said Nicholas. 'Pray dispense with
    this jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to be
    the subject or promoter of mirth just now.'

    'What do you mean?' asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.

    'Don't ask him, 'Tilda,' cried Miss Squeers; 'I forgive him.'

    'Dear me,' said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his
    shoulder again, 'this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me!
    Will you have the goodness to hear me speak?'

    Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most
    unfeigned astonishment a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers,
    shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden,
    and went on to say:

    'I am very sorry--truly and sincerely sorry--for having been the
    cause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself,
    most bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the
    dissension that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most
    unwittingly and heedlessly.'

    'Well; that's not all you have got to say surely,' exclaimed Miss
    Price as Nicholas paused.

    'I fear there is something more,' stammered Nicholas with a half-
    smile, and looking towards Miss Squeers, 'it is a most awkward thing
    to say--but--the very mention of such a supposition makes one look
    like a puppy--still--may I ask if that lady supposes that I
    entertain any--in short, does she think that I am in love with her?'

    'Delightful embarrassment,' thought Miss Squeers, 'I have brought
    him to it, at last. Answer for me, dear,' she whispered to her
    friend.

    'Does she think so?' rejoined Miss Price; 'of course she does.'

    'She does!' exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as
    might have been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.

    'Certainly,' replied Miss Price

    'If Mr Nickleby has doubted that, 'Tilda,' said the blushing Miss
    Squeers in soft accents, 'he may set his mind at rest. His
    sentiments are recipro--'

    'Stop,' cried Nicholas hurriedly; 'pray hear me. This is the
    grossest and wildest delusion, the completest and most signal
    mistake, that ever human being laboured under, or committed. I have
    scarcely seen the young lady half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen
    her sixty times, or am destined to see her sixty thousand, it would
    be, and will be, precisely the same. I have not one thought, wish,
    or hope, connected with her, unless it be--and I say this, not to
    hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the real state of my own
    --unless it be the one object, dear to my heart as life itself, of
    being one day able to turn my back upon this accursed place, never
    to set foot in it again, or think of it--even think of it--but with
    loathing and disgust.'

    With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which
    he made with all the vehemence that his indignant and excited
    feelings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no
    more, retreated.

    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.
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