Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast, the next morning, I had put my chair away, and was going out of the room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then gravely repaired to another table, where his sister sat herself at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his pockets, stood looking out of window; and I stood looking at them all.
“David,” said Mr. Murdstone, “to the young this is a world for action; not for moping and droning in.”
—“As you do,” added his sister.
“Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, to the young this is a world for action, and not for moping and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and to which no greater service can be done than to force it to conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it and break it.”
“For stubbornness won’t do here,” said his sister. “What it wants, is, to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be, too!”
He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approval, and went on:
“I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. At any rate, you know it now. You have received some considerable education already. Education is costly; and even if it were not, and I could afford it, I am of opinion that it would not be at all advantageous to you to be kept at a school. What is before you, is a fight with the world; and the sooner you begin it, the better.”
I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in my poor way: but it occurs to me now, whether or no.
“You have heard ‘the counting-house’ mentioned sometimes,” said Mr. Murdstone.
“The counting-house, sir?” I repeated.