Nicholas Nickleby
‘Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow
your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,’ observed
Mrs. Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. ‘Your uncle’s time is
very valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be--and naturally
desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so
little of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the
pleasure of having him among us, still, we are bound not to be selfish,
but to take into consideration the important nature of his occupations
in the city.’
‘I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,’ said Ralph with a scarcely
perceptible sneer. ‘An absence of business habits in this family leads,
apparently, to a great waste of words before business--when it does come
under consideration--is arrived at, at all.’
‘I fear it is so indeed,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby with a sigh. ‘Your poor
brother--’
‘My poor brother, ma’am,’ interposed Ralph tartly, ‘had no idea what
business was--was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning
of the word.’
‘I fear he was,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘If it hadn’t been for me, I don’t know what would have become of him.’
What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out
by Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At
every small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the
course of the four-and-twenty hours to remind her of her straitened
and altered circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand
pounds had arisen before Mrs. Nickleby’s mind, until, at last, she had
come to persuade herself that of all her late husband’s creditors she
was the worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him
dearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is
the usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A
decent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train, at
once.
‘Repining is of no use, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Of all fruitless errands,
sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.’
‘So it is,’ sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. ‘So it is.’
‘As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences
of inattention to business, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘I am sure 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. ‘Sad experience, you
know, brother-in-law.--Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter
to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write.’
Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty
sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition,
went on to say:
‘The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma’am, is
with--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, who are so well acquainted with
all matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep
equipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune.’
Now, the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickleby’s mind by the words
milliner and dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined
with black oilskin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and
fro in the streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and
were replaced by visions of large houses at the West end, neat private
carriages, and a banker’s book; all of which images succeeded each other
with such rapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than
she nodded her head and said ‘Very true,’ with great appearance of
satisfaction.
‘What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘I recollect when your poor papa and I came to town after we were
married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with
white and green trimming, and green persian lining, in her own carriage,
which drove up to the door full gallop;--at least, I am not quite
certain whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I
remember very well that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning
round, and that your poor papa said he hadn’t had any corn for a
fortnight.’
This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners,
was not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as
Kate hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very
intelligible symptoms of extreme 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 her there directly.’
‘Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?’ inquired Mrs. Nickleby.
‘A great deal,’ replied Kate; ‘but not now. I would rather speak to him
when we are alone;--it will save his time if I thank him and say what I
wish to say to him, as we walk along.’
With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that
were stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while
Mrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law by giving him, with many tears, a
detailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had
possessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute description
of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs
to match the 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 return in her
walking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the
whole time of her absence, lost no time, and used very little ceremony,
in descending into the street.
‘Now,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘walk as fast as you can, and you’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 affected besides.
Let me see no more of it.’
Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and
sensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene
of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but it had its effect
notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few
moments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.
It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk
through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to
the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared
to lose him in the throng; and how the stern and hard-featured man of
business went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and
then exchanging a gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who
turned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of
surprise, and seemed to wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But,
it would have been a stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts
that were beating side by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence
of the one, and the rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the
guileless thoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among
all the wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not be
one word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. But so it
was; and stranger still--though this is a thing of every day--the warm
young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions,
while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only
as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or
fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.
‘Uncle,’ said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination,
‘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 from morning till
night--occasionally perhaps till morning again.’
‘But at night, I mean,’ said Kate; ‘I cannot leave her, uncle. I must
have some place that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you
know, and may be a very humble one.’
‘May be!’ said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the
remark; ‘must be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?’
‘The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,’ urged Kate.
‘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. I spoke of you as
an out-of-door worker; so you will go to this home that may be humble,
every night.’
There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks for her uncle’s
consideration, which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all, and
they arrived without any further conversation at the dressmaker’s door,
which displayed a very large plate, with Madame Mantalini’s name and
occupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was
a shop to 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 fact which was
notified to the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the
handsomely curtained windows, of two or three elegant bonnets of the
newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.
A liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph’s inquiry
whether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them, through a handsome
hall and up a spacious staircase, into the show saloon, which comprised
two spacious drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety of superb
dresses and materials for dresses: some arranged on stands, others
laid carelessly on sofas, and others again, scattered over the carpet,
hanging on the cheval-glasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the
rich furniture of various descriptions, which was profusely displayed.
They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr. Ralph
Nickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little
concern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman
suddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeing somebody there, as
suddenly popped it out again.
‘Here. Hollo!’ cried Ralph. ‘Who’s that?’
At the sound of Ralph’s voice, the head reappeared, and the mouth,
displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing
tone the words, ‘Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!’ Having uttered
which ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, and shook hands with Ralph,
with great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with
a waistcoat and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk
neckerchief, and bright green slippers, and had a very copious
watch-chain wound round his body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a
moustache, both dyed black and gracefully curled.
‘Demmit, you don’t mean to say you want me, do you, demmit?’ said this
gentleman, smiting Ralph on the shoulder.
‘Not yet,’ said Ralph, sarcastically.