Tim was so completely overcome by this little mark of recollection, that he was quite unequal to any more conversation at the moment. Nicholas therefore slipped quietly out, and went to brother Charles’s room.
If he had previously sustained his firmness and fortitude, it had been by an effort which had cost him no little pain; but the warm welcome, the hearty manner, the homely unaffected commiseration, of the good old man, went to his heart, and no inward struggle could prevent his showing it.
“Come, come, my dear sir,” said the benevolent merchant; “we must not be cast down; no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune, and we must remember that there are many sources of consolation even in death. Every day that this poor lad had lived, he must have been less and less qualified for the world, and more and more unhappy in his own deficiencies. It is better as it is, my dear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it’s better as it is.”
“I have thought of all that, sir,” replied Nicholas, clearing his throat. “I feel it, I assure you.”
“Yes, that’s well,” replied Mr. Cheeryble, who, in the midst of all his comforting, was quite as much taken aback as honest old Tim; “that’s well. Where is my brother Ned? Tim Linkinwater, sir, where is my brother Ned?”
“Gone out with Mr. Trimmers, about getting that unfortunate man into the hospital, and sending a nurse to his children,” said Tim.
“My brother Ned is a fine fellow, a great fellow!” exclaimed brother Charles as he shut the door and returned to Nicholas. “He will be overjoyed to see you, my dear sir. We have been speaking of you every day.”
“To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find you alone,” said Nicholas, with some natural hesitation; “for I am anxious to say something to you. Can you spare me a very few minutes?”
“Surely, surely,” returned brother Charles, looking at him with an anxious countenance. “Say on, my dear sir, say on.”
“I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,” said Nicholas. “If ever one mortal had reason to be penetrated with love and reverence for another: with such attachment as would make the hardest service in his behalf a pleasure and delight: with such grateful recollections as must rouse the utmost zeal and fidelity of his nature: those are the feelings which I should entertain for you, and do, from my heart and soul, believe me!”
“I do believe you,” replied the old gentleman, “and I am happy in the belief. I have never doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I never shall.”
“Your telling me that so kindly,” said Nicholas, “emboldens me to proceed. When you first took me into your confidence, and dispatched me on those missions to Miss Bray, I should have told you that I had seen her long before; that her beauty had made an impression upon me which I could not efface; and that I had fruitlessly endeavoured to trace her, and become acquainted with her history. I did not tell you so, because I vainly thought I could conquer my weaker feelings, and render every consideration subservient to my duty to you.”
“Mr. Nickleby,” said brother Charles, “you did not violate the confidence I placed in you, or take an unworthy advantage of it. I am sure you did not.”
“I did not,” said Nicholas, firmly. “Although I found that the necessity for self-command and restraint became every day more imperious, and the difficulty greater, I never, for one instant, spoke or looked but as I would have done had you been by. I never, for one moment, deserted my trust, nor have I to this instant. But I find that constant association and companionship with this sweet girl is fatal to my peace of mind, and may prove destructive to the resolutions I made in the beginning, and up to this time have faithfully kept. In short, sir, I cannot trust myself, and I implore and beseech you to remove this young lady from under the charge of my mother and sister without delay. I know that to anyone but myself—to you, who consider the immeasurable distance between me and this young lady, who is now your ward, and the object of your peculiar care—my loving her, even in thought, must appear the height of rashness and presumption. I know it is so. But who can see her as I have seen, who can know what her life has been, and not love her? I have no excuse but that; and as I cannot fly from this temptation, and cannot repress this passion, with its object constantly before me, what can I do but pray and beseech you to remove it, and to leave me to forget her?”
“Mr. Nickleby,” said the old man, after a short silence, “you can do no more. I was wrong to expose a young man like you to this trial. I might have foreseen what would happen. Thank you, sir, thank you. Madeline shall be removed.”
“If you would grant me one favour, dear sir, and suffer her to remember me with esteem, by never revealing to her this confession—”
“I will take care,” said Mr. Cheeryble. “And now, is this all you have to tell me?”
“No!” returned Nicholas, meeting his eye, “it is not.”
“I know the rest,” said Mr. Cheeryble, apparently very much relieved by this prompt reply. “When did it come to your knowledge?”
“When I reached home this morning.”
“You felt it your duty immediately to come to me, and tell me what your sister no doubt
