“And when,” said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, an interval 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 worse than 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 that he 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 of shrewdness and simplicity. “When a man’s a bear, he is generally pretty independent.”
“His manner is rough,” said Kate.
“Rough!” cried Miss La Creevy, “a porcupine’s a featherbed to him! I never met with such a cross-grained old savage.”
“It is only his manner, I believe,” observed Kate, timidly; “he was disappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I knew he deserved it.”
“Well; that’s very right and proper,” observed the miniature painter, “and Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of your doing so! But, now, mightn’t he, without feeling it himself, make you and your mama some nice little allowance that would keep you both comfortable until you were well married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred a year for instance, 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 you will not hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough, I confess.”
“I dare say it does,” replied Kate, speaking more gently, “indeed I am sure it must. I—I—only mean that with the feelings and recollection of better times upon me, I could not bear to live on anybody’s bounty—not his particularly, but anybody’s.”
Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeing that her young friend was distressed, made no remark.
“I only ask of him,” continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke, “that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as to enable me by his recommendation—only by his recommendation—to earn, literally, my bread and remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever taste happiness again, depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother; but if he will do this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I shall be contented.”
As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screen which stood between her and the door, and some person knocked at the wainscot.
“Come in, whoever it is!” cried Miss La Creevy.
The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave to view the form and features of no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickleby himself.
“Your servant, ladies,” said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns. “You were talking so loud, that I was unable to make you hear.”
When the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking at his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their thick and protruding brows, for an instant, and then displaying them in their full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep down the smile which parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines about his mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the whole, of their recent conversation, had been overheard.
“I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you here,” said Ralph, addressing his niece, and looking contemptuously at the portrait. “Is that my niece’s portrait, ma’am?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Nickleby,” said Miss La Creevy, with a very sprightly air, “and between you and me and the post, sir, it will be a 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 pencil end of her brush in her mouth. “Two sittings more will—”
“Have them at once, ma’am,” said Ralph. “She’ll have no time to idle over fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma’am, work; we must all work. 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 this week, or if they do, can’t pay for them. Now, my dear, if you’re ready, we’ll lose no more time.”
With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his usual manner, Mr. Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young lady to precede him, and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed upstairs, where Mrs. Nickleby received him with many expressions of regard. Stopping them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an impatient gesture, 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 only just what I have expected of you. ‘Depend upon it,’ I said to Kate, only yesterday morning at breakfast, ‘that after your uncle has provided, in that most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us until he has done at least the
