How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece andSister-in-Law.
O n the second morning after the departure of Nicholas forYorkshire, Kate Nickleby sat in a very faded chair raisedupon a very dusty throne in Miss La Creevy’s room, givingthat lady a sitting for the portrait upon which she was engaged;and towards the full perfection of which, Miss La Creevy had hadthe street-door case brought upstairs, in order that she might bethe better able to infuse into the counterfeit countenance of MissNickleby, a bright salmon flesh-tint which she had originally hitupon while executing the miniature of a young officer thereincontained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered, byMiss La Creevy’s chief friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty inart: as indeed it was.
‘I think I have caught it now,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘The veryshade! This will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done,certainly.’
‘It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,’ repliedKate, smiling.
‘No, no, I won’t allow that, my dear,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.
‘It’s a very nice subject—a very nice subject, indeed—though, ofcourse, something depends upon the mode of treatment.’
‘And not a little,’ observed Kate.
‘Why, my dear, you are right there,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘in themain you are right there; though I don’t allow that it is of such very great importance in the present case. Ah! The difficulties ofArt, my dear, are great.’
‘They must be, I have no doubt,’ said Kate, humouring hergood-natured little friend.
‘They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conceptionof,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘What with bringing out eyes with allone’s power, and keeping down noses with all one’s force, andadding to heads, and taking away teeth altogether, you have noidea of the trouble one little miniature is.’
‘The remuneration can scarcely repay you,’ said Kate.
‘Why, it does not, and that’s the truth,’ answered Miss LaCreevy; ‘and then people are so dissatisfied and unreasonable,that, nine times out of ten, there’s no pleasure in painting them.
Sometimes they say, “Oh, how very serious you have made melook, Miss La Creevy!” and at others, “La, Miss La Creevy, howvery smirking!” when the very essence of a good portrait is, that itmust be either serious or smirking, or it’s no portrait at all.’
‘Indeed!’ said Kate, laughing.
‘Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are always either theone or the other,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘Look at the RoyalAcademy! All those beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen in blackvelvet waistcoats, with their fists doubled up on round tables, ormarble slabs, are serious, you know; and all the ladies who areplaying with little parasols, or little dogs, or little children—it’s thesame rule in art, only varying the objects—are smirking. In fact,’
said Miss La Creevy, sinking her voice to a confidential whisper,‘there are only two styles of portrait painting; the serious and thesmirk; and we always use the serious for professional people(except actors sometimes), and the smirk for private ladies and gentlemen who don’t care so much about looking clever.’
Kate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss LaCreevy went on painting and talking, with immovablecomplacency.
‘What a number of officers you seem to paint!’ said Kate,availing herself of a pause in the discourse, and glancing round theroom.
‘Number of what, child?’ inquired Miss La Creevy, looking upfrom her work. ‘Character portraits, oh yes—they’re not realmilitary men, you know.’
‘No!’
‘Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire auniform coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag.
Some artists,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘keep a red coat, and chargeseven-and-sixpence extra for hire and carmine; but I don’t do thatmyself, for I don’t consider it legitimate.’
Drawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly uponnot resorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy appliedherself, more intently, to her task: only raising her headoccasionally, to look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touchshe had just put in: and now and then giving Miss Nickleby tounderstand what particular feature she was at work upon, at themoment; ‘not,’ she expressly observed, ‘that you should make it upfor painting, my dear, but because it’s our custom sometimes totell sitters what part we are upon, in order that if there’s anyparticular expression they want introduced, they may throw it in,at the time, you know.’
‘And when,’ said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, aninterval of full a minute and a half, ‘when do you expect to see your uncle again?’
‘I scarcely know; I had expected to have seen him before now,’
replied Kate. ‘Soon I hope, for this state of uncertainty is worsethan anything.’
‘I suppose he has money, hasn’t he?’ inquired Miss La Creevy.
‘He is very rich, I have heard,’ rejoined Kate. ‘I don’t know thathe is, but I believe so.’
‘Ah, you may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn’t be so surly,’
remarked Miss La Creevy, who was an odd little mixture ofshrewdness and simplicity. ‘When a man’s a bear, he is generallypretty independent.’
‘His manner is rough,’ said Kate.
‘Rough!’ cried Miss La Creevy, ‘a porcupine’s a featherbed tohim! I never met with such a cross-grained old savage.’
‘It is only his manner, I believe,’ observed Kate, timidly; ‘he wasdisappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had histemper soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill ofhim until I knew he deserved it.’
‘Well; that’s very right and proper,’ observed the miniaturepainter, ‘and Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of yourdoing so! But, now, mightn’t he, without feeling it himself, makeyou and your mama some nice little allowance that would keepyou both comfortable until you were well married, and be a littlefortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred a year forinstance, be to him?’
‘I don’t know what it would be to him,’ said Kate, with energy,‘but it would be that to me I would rather die than take.’
‘Heyday!’ cried Miss La Creevy.
‘A dependence upon him,’ said Kate, ‘would embitter my whole life. I should feel begging a far less degradation.’
‘Well!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy. ‘This of a relation whom youwill not hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, soundsoddly enough, I confess.’
‘I dare say it does,’ replied Kate, speaking more gently, ‘indeedI am sure it must. I—I—only mean that with the feelings andrecollection of better times upon me, I could not bear to live onanybody’s bounty—not his particularly, but anybody’s.’
Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubtedwhether Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeingthat her young friend was distressed, made no remark.
‘I only ask of him,’ continued Kate, whose tears fell while shespoke, ‘that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as toenable me by his recommendation—only by hisrecommendation—to earn, literally, my bread and remain with mymother. Whether we shall ever taste happiness again, dependsupon the fortunes of my dear brother; but if he will do this, andNicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I shall becontented.’
As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screenwhich stood between her and the door, and some person knockedat the wainscot.’
‘Come in, whoever it is!’ cried Miss La Creevy.
The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave toview the form and features of no less an individual than Mr RalphNickleby himself.
‘Your servant, ladies,’ said Ralph, looking sharply at them byturns. ‘You were talking so loud, that I was unable to make youhear.’
When the man of business had a more than commonly vicioussnarl lurking at his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing hiseyes under their thick and protruding brows, for an instant, andthen displaying them in their full keenness. As he did so now, andtried to keep down the smile which parted his thin compressedlips, and puckered up the bad lines about his mouth, they both feltcertain that some part, if not the whole, of their recentconversation, had been overheard.
‘I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting tofind you here,’ said Ralph, addressing his niece, and lookingcontemptuously at the portrait. ‘Is that my niece’s portrait,ma’am?’
‘Yes it is, Mr Nickleby,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a verysprightly air, ‘and between you and me and the post, sir, it will bea very nice portrait too, though I say it who am the painter.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself to show it to me, ma’am,’ cried Ralph,moving away, ‘I have no eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished?’
‘Why, yes,’ replied Miss La Creevy, considering with the pencilend of her brush in her mouth. ‘Two sittings more will—’
‘Have them at once, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘She’ll have no time toidle over fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma’am, work; we must allwork. Have you let your lodgings, ma’am?’
‘I have not put a bill up yet, sir.’
‘Put it up at once, ma’am; they won’t want the rooms after thisweek, or if they do, can’t pay for them. Now, my dear, if you’reready, we’ll lose no more time.’
With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon himeven than his usual manner, Mr Ralph Nickleby motioned to theyoung lady to precede him, and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed upstairs, where Mrs Nicklebyreceived him with many expressions of regard. Stopping themsomewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an impatientgesture, and proceeded to the object of his visit.
‘I have found a situation for your daughter, ma’am,’ said Ralph.
‘Well,’ replied Mrs Nickleby. ‘Now, I will say that that is onlyjust what I have expected of you. “Depend upon it,” I said to Kate,only yesterday morning at breakfast, “that after your uncle hasprovided, in that most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will notleave us until he has done at least the same for you.” These weremy very words, as near as I remember. Kate, my dear, why don’tyou thank your—’
‘Let me proceed, ma’am, pray,’ said Ralph, interrupting hissister-in-law in the full 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 opened the door, and in reply to Ralph’sinquiry whether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them,through a handsome hall and up a spacious staircase, into theshow saloon, which comprised two spacious drawing-rooms, andexhibited an immense variety of superb dresses and materials fordresses: some arranged on stands, others laid carelessly on sofas,and others again, scattered over the carpet, hanging on the chevalglasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the rich furniture ofvarious descriptions, which was profusely displayed.
They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to MrRalph Nickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with verylittle concern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeingsomebody 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 themouth, displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in amincing tone the words, ‘Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!’
Having uttered which ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, andshook hands with Ralph, with great warmth. He was dressed in agorgeous morning gown, with a waistcoat and Turkish trousers ofthe same pattern, a pink silk neckerchief, and bright greenslippers, and had a very copious watch-chain wound round hisbody. Moreover, he had whiskers and a moustache, both dyedblack 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.
‘Ha! ha! demmit,’ cried the gentleman; when, wheeling roundto laugh with greater elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby,who was standing near.
‘My niece,’ said Ralph.
‘I remember,’ said the gentleman, striking his nose with theknuckle of his forefinger as a chastening for his forgetfulness.
‘Demmit, I remember what you come for. Step this way, Nickleby;my dear, will you follow me? Ha! ha! They all follow me, Nickleby;always did, demmit, always.’
Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagination, after thisfashion, the gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on thesecond floor, scarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartmentbelow, where the presence of a silver coffee-pot, an egg-shell, and sloppy china for one, seemed to show that he had just breakfasted.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ said the gentleman: first staring MissNickleby out of countenance, and then grinning in delight at theachievement. ‘This cursed high room takes one’s breath away.
These infernal sky parlours—I’m afraid I must move, Nickleby.’
‘I would, by all means,’ replied Ralph, looking bitterly round.
‘What a demd rum fellow you are, Nickleby,’ said thegentleman, ‘the demdest, longest-headed, queerest-tempered oldcoiner of gold and silver ever was—demmit.’
Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rangthe bell, and stared at Miss Nickleby until it was answered, whenhe left off to bid the man desire his mistress to come directly; afterwhich, he began again, and left off no more until MadameMantalini appeared.
The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed andrather good-looking, but much older than the gentleman in theTurkish trousers, whom she had wedded some six months before.
His name was originally Muntle; but it had been converted, by aneasy transition, into Mantalini: the lady rightly considering that anEnglish appellation would be of serious injury to the business. Hehad married on his whiskers; upon which property he hadpreviously subsisted, in a genteel manner, for some years; andwhich he had recently improved, after patient cultivation by theaddition of a moustache, which promised to secure him an easyindependence: his share in the labours of the business being atpresent confined to spending the money, and occasionally, whenthat ran short, driving to Mr Ralph Nickleby to procure discount—at a percentage—for the customers’ bills.
‘My life,’ said Mr Mantalini, ‘what a demd devil of a time you have been!’
‘I didn’t even know Mr Nickleby was here, my love,’ saidMadame Mantalini.
‘Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman mustbe, my soul,’ remonstrated Mr Mantalini.
‘My dear,’ said Madame, ‘that is entirely your fault.’
‘My fault, my heart’s joy?’
‘Certainly,’ returned the lady; ‘what can you expect, dearest, ifyou will not correct the man?’
‘Correct the man, my soul’s delight!’
‘Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,’ saidMadame, pouting.
‘Then do not vex itself,’ said Mr Mantalini; ‘he shall be horsewhipped till he cries out demnebly.’ With this promise MrMantalini kissed Madame Mantalini, and, after that performance,Madame Mantalini pulled Mr Mantalini playfully by the ear: whichdone, they descended to business.
‘Now, ma’am,’ said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, withsuch scorn as few men can express in looks, ‘this is my niece.’
‘Just so, Mr Nickleby,’ replied Madame Mantalini, surveyingKate from head to foot, and back again. ‘Can you speak French,child?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she feltthat the eyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown weredirected towards her.
‘Like a demd native?’ asked the husband.
Miss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned herback upon the questioner, as if addressing herself to make answerto what his wife might demand.
‘We keep twenty young women constantly employed in theestablishment,’ said Madame.
‘Indeed, ma’am!’ replied Kate, timidly.
‘Yes; and some of ’em demd handsome, too,’ said the master.
‘Mantalini!’ exclaimed his wife, in an awful voice.
‘My senses’ idol!’ said Mantalini.
‘Do you wish to break my heart?’
‘Not for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with—with—with little ballet-dancers,’ replied Mantalini in a poetical strain.
‘Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking,’ saidhis wife. ‘What can Mr Nickleby think when he hears you?’
‘Oh! Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘I know hisamiable nature, and yours,—mere little remarks that give a zest toyour daily intercourse—lovers’ quarrels that add sweetness tothose domestic joys which promise to last so long—that’s all; that’sall.’
If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges,and to make a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, andgrind them to powder in the process, it would emit a pleasantersound in so doing, than did these words in the rough and bittervoice in which they were uttered by Ralph. Even Mr Mantalini felttheir influence, and turning affrighted round, exclaimed: ‘What ademd horrid croaking!’
‘You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr Mantalinisays,’ observed his wife, addressing Miss Nickleby.
‘I do not, ma’am,’ said Kate, with quiet contempt.
‘Mr Mantalini knows nothing whatever about any of the youngwomen,’ continued Madame, looking at her husband, andspeaking to Kate. ‘If he has seen any of them, he must have seen them in the street, going to, or returning from, their work, and nothere. He was never even in the room. I do not allow it. What hoursof work have you been accustomed to?’
‘I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma’am,’
replied Kate, in a low voice.
‘For which reason she’ll work all the better now,’ said Ralph,putting in a word, lest this confession should injure thenegotiation.
‘I hope so,’ returned Madame Mantalini; ‘our hours are fromnine to nine, with extra work when we’re very full of business, forwhich I allow payment as overtime.’
Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and wassatisfied.
‘Your meals,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘that is, dinner andtea, you will take here. I should think your wages would averagefrom five to seven shillings a week; but I can’t give you any certaininformation on that point, until I see what you can do.’
Kate bowed her head again.
‘If you’re ready to come,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘you hadbetter begin on Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knagthe forewoman shall then have directions to try you with someeasy work at first. Is there anything more, Mr Nickleby?’
‘Nothing more, ma’am,’ replied Ralph, rising.
‘Then I believe that’s all,’ said the lady. Having arrived at thisnatural conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to begone, but hesitated notwithstanding, as though unwilling to leaveto Mr Mantalini the sole honour of showing them downstairs.
Ralph relieved her from her perplexity by taking his departurewithout delay: Madame Mantalini making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them; and Mr Mantalini anathematisingthe stairs with great volubility as he followed them down, in thehope of inducing Kate to look round,—a hope, however, which wasdestined to remain ungratified.
‘There!’ said Ralph when they got into the street; ‘now you’reprovided for.’
Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.
‘I had some idea,’ he said, ‘of providing for your mother in apleasant part of the country—(he had a presentation to somealmshouses on the borders of Cornwall, which had occurred tohim more than once)—but as you want to be together, I must dosomething else for her. She has a little money?’
‘A very little,’ replied Kate.
‘A little will go a long way if it’s used sparingly,’ said Ralph.
‘She must see how long she can make it last, living rent free. Youleave your lodgings on Saturday?’
‘You told us to do so, uncle.’
‘Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can putyou into till it is let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps Ishall have another. You must live there.’
‘Is it far from here, sir?’ inquired Kate.
‘Pretty well,’ said Ralph; ‘in another quarter of the town—at theEast end; but I’ll send my clerk down to you, at five o’clock onSaturday, to take you there. Goodbye. You know your way?
Straight on.’
Coldly shaking his niece’s hand, Ralph left her at the top ofRegent Street, and turned down a by-thoroughfare, intent onschemes of money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to theirlodgings in the Strand.
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