Nicholas Nickleby

by provided for his N

torrent of her discourse.　　‘Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,’ said Mrs Nickleby.　　‘I am most anxious that he should, mama,’ rejoined Kate.　　‘Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had betterallow your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,’　　observed Mrs Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. ‘Youruncle’s time is very valuable, my dear; and however desirous youmay be—and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affectionaterelations who have seen so little of your uncle as we have, mustnaturally be to protract the pleasure of having him among us, still,we are bound not to be selfish, but to take into consideration theimportant nature of his occupations in the city.’　　‘I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,’ said Ralph with ascarcely perceptible sneer. ‘An absence of business habits in thisfamily leads, apparently, to a great waste of words beforebusiness—when it does come under consideration—is arrived at, at all.’　　‘I fear it is so indeed,’ replied Mrs Nickleby with a sigh. ‘Yourpoor brother—’　　‘My poor brother, ma’am,’ interposed Ralph tartly, ‘had no ideawhat business was—was unacquainted, I verily believe, with thevery meaning of the word.’　　‘I fear he was,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with her handkerchief to hereyes. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, I don’t know what would havebecome of him.’　　What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfullythrown out by Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on thehook yet. At every small deprivation or discomfort whichpresented itself in the course of the four-and-twenty hours toremind her of her straitened and altered circumstances, peevishvisions of her dower of one thousand pounds had arisen beforeMrs Nickleby’s mind, until, at last, she had come to persuadeherself that of all her late husband’s creditors she was the worstused and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him dearlyfor many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is theusual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. Adecent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their oldtrain, at once.　　‘Repining is of no use, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Of all fruitlesserrands, sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the mostfruitless.’　　‘So it is,’ sobbed Mrs Nickleby. ‘So it is.’　　‘As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, theconsequences of inattention to business, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘I amsure you will impress upon your children the necessity of attaching themselves to it early in life.’　　‘Of course I must see that,’ rejoined Mrs Nickleby. ‘Sadexperience, you know, brother-in-law.—Kate, my dear, put thatdown in the next letter to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if Iwrite.’　　Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had nowmade pretty sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected tohis proposition, went on to say:　　‘The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma’am, iswith—with a milliner and dressmaker, in short.’　　‘A milliner!’ cried Mrs Nickleby.　　‘A milliner and dressmaker, ma’am,’ replied Ralph.　　‘Dressmakers in London, as I need not remind you, ma’am, whoare so well acquainted with all matters in the ordinary routine oflife, make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become persons ofgreat wealth and fortune.’　　Now, the first idea called up in Mrs Nickleby’s mind by thewords milliner and dressmaker were connected with certainwicker baskets lined with black oilskin, which she remembered tohave seen carried to and fro in the streets; but, as Ralphproceeded, these disappeared, and were replaced by visions oflarge houses at the West end, neat private carriages, and abanker’s book; all of which images succeeded each other with suchrapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than she noddedher head and said ‘Very true,’ with great appearance ofsatisfaction.　　‘What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,’ said MrsNickleby. ‘I recollect when your poor papa and I came to townafter we were married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with white and green trimming, and green persianlining, in her own carriage, which drove up to the door fullgallop;—at least, I am not quite certain whether it was her owncarriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well that thehorse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that yourpoor papa said he hadn’t had any corn for a fortnight.’　　This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence ofmilliners, was not received with any great demonstration offeeling, inasmuch as Kate hung down her head while it wasrelating, and Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms ofextreme impatience.　　‘The lady’s name,’ said Ralph, hastily striking in, ‘is Mantalini—Madame Mantalini. I know her. She lives near Cavendish Square.　　If your daughter is disposed to try after the situation, I’ll take herthere directly.’　　‘Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?’ inquired MrsNickleby.　　‘A great deal,’ replied Kate; ‘but not now. I would rather speakto him when we are alone;—it will save his time if I thank him andsay what I wish to say to him, as we walk along.’　　With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces ofemotion that were stealing down her face, and to prepare herselffor the walk, while Mrs Nickleby amused her brother-in-law bygiving him, with many tears, a detailed account of the dimensionsof a rosewood cabinet piano they had possessed in their days ofaffluence, together with a minute description of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs to matchthe curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece,and had gone at the sale for a mere nothing.　　 These reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate’s returnin her walking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting andfuming during the whole time of her absence, lost no time, andused very little ceremony, in descending into the street.　　‘Now,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘walk as fast as you can, andyou’ll get into the step that you’ll have to walk to business with,every morning.’ So saying, he led Kate off, at a good round pace,towards Cavendish Square.　　‘I am very much obliged to you, uncle,’ said the young lady,after they had hurried on in silence for some time; ‘very.’　　‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Ralph. ‘I hope you’ll do your duty.’　　‘I will try to please, uncle,’ replied Kate: ‘indeed I—’　　‘Don’t begin to cry,’ growled Ralph; ‘I hate crying.’　　‘It’s very foolish, I know, uncle,’ began poor Kate.　　‘It is,’ replied Ralph, stopping her short, ‘and very affectedbesides. Let me see no more of it.’　　Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a youngand sensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirelynew scene of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but ithad its effect notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathedquickly for a few moments, and then walked on with a firmer andmore determined step.　　It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girlshrunk through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets,giving way to the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph asthough she feared to lose him in the throng; and how the stern andhard-featured man of business went doggedly on, elbowing thepassengers aside, and now and then exchanging a gruff salutationwith some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed towonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But, it would have beena stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts that were beatingside by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence of the one, andthe rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the guilelessthoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among allthe wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not beone word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. Butso it was; and stranger still—though this is a thing of every day—the warm young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties andapprehensions, while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in itscell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yieldingno one throb of hope, or fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.　　‘Uncle,’ said Kate, when she judged they must be near theirdestination, ‘I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home?’　　‘At home!’ replied Ralph; ‘where’s that?’　　‘I mean with my mother—the widow,’ said Kate emphatically.　　‘You will live, to all intents and purposes, here,’ rejoined Ralph;‘for here you will take your meals, and here you will be frommorning till night—occasionally perhaps till morning again.’　　‘But at night, I mean,’ said Kate; ‘I cannot leave her, uncle. Imust have some place that I can call a home; it will be wherevershe is, you know, and may be a very humble one.’　　‘May be!’ said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatienceprovoked by the remark; ‘must be, you mean. May be a humbleone! Is the girl mad?’　　‘The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,’ urgedKate.　　‘I hope not,’ said Ralph.　　 ‘But my question, uncle; you have not answered it.’　　‘Why, I anticipated something of the kind,’ said Ralph; ‘and—though I object very strongly, mind—have provided against it. Ispoke of you as an out-of-door worker; so you will go to this homethat may be humble, every night.’　　There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks forher uncle’s consideration, which Ralph received as if he haddeserved them all, and they arrived without any furtherconversation at the dressmaker’s door, which displayed a verylarge plate, with Madame Mantalini’s name and occupation, andwas approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was a shopto the house, but it was let off to an importer of otto of roses.　　Madame Mantalini’s shows-rooms were on the first-floor: a factwhich was notified to the nobility and gentry by the casualexhibition, near the handsomely curtained windows, of two orthree elegant bonnets of the newest fashion, and some costlygarments in the most approved taste.　　A liveried footman open