Mrs. Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to Sir Mulberry, but when she was more than usually out of temper, attributed the circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervous indisposition. However, as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat taken with Kate, and that she, Mrs. Wititterly, was quite a secondary person, dawned upon that lady’s mind and gradually developed itself, she became possessed with a large quantity of highly proper and most virtuous indignation, and felt it her duty, as a married lady and a moral member of society, to mention the circumstance to “the young person” without delay.
Accordingly Mrs. Wititterly broke ground next morning, during a pause in the novel-reading.
“Miss Nickleby,” said Mrs. Wititterly, “I wish to speak to you very gravely. I am sorry to have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry, but you leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.” Here Mrs. Wititterly tossed her head—not passionately, only virtuously—and remarked, with some appearance of excitement, that she feared that palpitation of the heart was coming on again.
“Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,” resumed the lady, “is very far from pleasing me—very far. I am very anxious indeed that you should do well, but you may depend upon it, Miss Nickleby, you will not, if you go on as you do.”
“Ma’am!” exclaimed Kate, proudly.
“Don’t agitate me by speaking in that way, Miss Nickleby, don’t,” said Mrs. Wititterly, with some violence, “or you’ll compel me to ring the bell.”
Kate looked at her, but said nothing.
“You needn’t suppose,” resumed Mrs. Wititterly, “that your looking at me in that way, Miss Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I am going to say, which I feel to be a religious duty. You needn’t direct your glances towards me,” said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sudden burst of spite; “I am not Sir Mulberry, no, nor Lord Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby, nor am I Mr. Pyke, nor Mr. Pluck either.”
Kate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; and resting her elbow on the table, covered her eyes with her hand.
“If such things had been done when I was a young girl,” said Mrs. Wititterly (this, by the way, must have been some little time before), “I don’t suppose anybody would have believed it.”
“I don’t think they would,” murmured Kate. “I do not think anybody would believe, without actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to undergo!”
“Don’t talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, if you please,” said Mrs. Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quite surprising in so great an invalid. “I will not be answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not accustomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for an instant. Do you hear?” she added, waiting with some apparent inconsistency for an answer.
“I do hear you, ma’am,” replied Kate, “with surprise—with greater surprise than I can express.”
“I have always considered you a particularly well-behaved young person for your station in life,” said Mrs. Wititterly; “and as you are a person of healthy appearance, and neat in your dress and so forth, I have taken an interest in you, as I do still, considering that I owe a sort of duty to that respectable old female, your mother. For these reasons, Miss Nickleby, I must tell you once for all, and begging you to mind what I say, that I must insist upon your immediately altering your very forward behaviour to the gentlemen who visit at this house. It really is not becoming,” said Mrs. Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke; “it is improper—quite improper.”
“Oh!” cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; “is not this, is not this, too cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enough that I should have suffered as I have, night and day; that I should almost have sunk in my own estimation from very shame of having been brought into contact with such people; but must I also be exposed to this unjust and most unfounded charge!”
“You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,” said Mrs. Wititterly, “that when you use such terms as ‘unjust,’ and ‘unfounded,’ you charge me, in effect, with stating that which is untrue.”
“I do,” said Kate with honest indignation. “Whether you make this accusation of yourself, or at the prompting of others, is alike to me. I say it is vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it possible!” cried Kate, “that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not have seen the misery these men have caused me? Is it possible that you, ma’am, can have been present, and failed to mark the insulting freedom that their every look bespoke? Is it possible that you can have avoided seeing, that these libertines, in their utter disrespect for you, and utter disregard of all gentlemanly behaviour, and almost of decency, have had but one object in introducing themselves here, and that the furtherance of their designs upon a friendless, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating confession, might have hoped to receive from one so much her senior something like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not—I cannot believe it!”
If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she certainly would not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she had been lashed, upon such an injudicious speech as this. Its effect was precisely what a more experienced observer would have foreseen. Mrs. Wititterly received the attack upon her veracity with exemplary calmness, and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate’s account of her own sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held in disregard by the gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and this blow was no sooner followed up by the remark concerning her seniority, than she fell back upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.
“What is the matter?” cried Mr. Wititterly, bouncing into the room. “Heavens, what do I see? Julia!
