“The halfpenny be demd,” said Mr. Mantalini, impatiently.
“By all means if you vish it,” retorted Mr. Scaley; “and the ninepence.”
“It don’t matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound went along with it, that I know on,” observed Mr. Tix.
“Not a button,” said Scaley.
“Well,” said the same gentleman, after a pause, “wot’s to be done—anything? Is it only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash? A breakup of the constitootion is it?—werry good. Then Mr. Tom Tix, esk-vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family as you won’t sleep at home for three nights to come, along of being in possession here. Wot’s the good of the lady a fretting herself?” continued Mr. Scaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. “A good half of wot’s here isn’t paid for, I des-say, and wot a consolation oughtn’t that to be to her feelings!”
With these remarks, combining great pleasantry with sound moral encouragement under difficulties, Mr. Scaley proceeded to take the inventory, in which delicate task he was materially assisted by the uncommon tact and experience of Mr. Tix, the broker.
“My cup of happiness’s sweetener,” said Mantalini, approaching his wife with a penitent air; “will you listen to me for two minutes?”
“Oh! don’t speak to me,” replied his wife, sobbing. “You have ruined me, and that’s enough.”
Mr. Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner heard these words pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he recoiled several paces, assumed an expression of consuming mental agony, rushed headlong from the room, and was, soon afterwards, heard to slam the door of an upstairs dressing-room with great violence.
“Miss Nickleby,” cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her ear, “make haste, for Heaven’s sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, my darling Alfred.”
With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who, although she did not quite participate in the fond wife’s apprehensions, was a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being hastily flung open, Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his shirt-collar symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a breakfast knife by means of his razor strop.
“Ah!” cried Mr. Mantalini, “interrupted!” and whisk went the breakfast knife into Mr. Mantalini’s dressing-gown pocket, while Mr. Mantalini’s eyes rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wild disorder, mingled with his whiskers.
“Alfred,” cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, “I didn’t mean to say it, I didn’t mean to say it!”
“Ruined!” cried Mr. Mantalini. “Have I brought ruin upon the best and purest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let me go.” At this crisis of his ravings Mr. Mantalini made a pluck at the breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife’s grasp, attempted to dash his head against the wall—taking very good care to be at least six feet from it.
“Compose yourself, my own angel,” said Madame. “It was nobody’s fault; it was mine as much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred, come.”
Mr. Mantalini did not think proper to come to, all at once; but, after calling several times for poison, and requesting some lady or gentleman to blow his brains out, gentler feelings came upon him, and he wept pathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did not oppose the capture of the knife—which, to tell the truth, he was rather glad to be rid of, as an inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt pocket—and finally he suffered himself to be led away by his affectionate partner.
After a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies were informed that their services would be dispensed with until further notice, and at the expiration of two days, the name of Mantalini appeared in the list of bankrupts: Miss Nickleby received an intimation per post, on the same morning, that the business would be, in future, carried on under the name of Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be required—a piece of intelligence with which Mrs. Nickleby was no sooner made acquainted, than that good lady declared she had expected it all along and cited divers unknown occasions on which she had prophesied to that precise effect.
“And I say again,” remarked Mrs. Nickleby (who, it is scarcely necessary to observe, had never said so before), “I say again, that a milliner’s and dressmaker’s is the very last description of business, Kate, that you should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don’t make it a reproach to you, my love; but still I will say, that if you had consulted your own mother—”
“Well, well, mama,” said Kate, mildly: “what would you recommend now?”
“Recommend!” cried Mrs. Nickleby, “isn’t it obvious, my dear, that of all occupations in this world for a young lady situated as you are, that of companion to some amiable lady is the very thing for which your education, and manners, and personal appearance, and everything else, exactly qualify you? Did you never hear your poor dear papa speak of the young lady who was the daughter of the old lady who boarded in the same house that he boarded in once, when he was a bachelor—what was her name again? I know it began with a B, and ended with g, but whether it was Waters or—no, it couldn’t have been that, either; but whatever her name was, don’t you know that that young lady went as companion to a married lady who died soon afterwards, and that she married the husband, and had one of the finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen—all within eighteen months?”
Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourable recollection was occasioned by some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had discovered, in the companionship walk of life. She therefore waited, very patiently, until all reminiscences and anecdotes, bearing or not bearing upon the subject, had been exhausted,
