“Let me proceed, ma’am, pray,” said Ralph, interrupting his sister-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 better allow your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,” observed Mrs. Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. “Your uncle’s time is very valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be—and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so little of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the pleasure of having him among us, still, we are bound not to be selfish, but to take into consideration the important nature of his occupations in the city.”
“I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,” said Ralph with a scarcely perceptible sneer. “An absence of business habits in this family leads, apparently, to a great waste of words before business—when it does come under consideration—is arrived at, at all.”
“I fear it is so indeed,” replied Mrs. Nickleby with a sigh. “Your poor brother—”
“My poor brother, ma’am,” interposed Ralph tartly, “had no idea what business was—was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning of the word.”
“I fear he was,” said Mrs. Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes. “If it hadn’t been for me, I don’t know what would have become of him.”
What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out by Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At every small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the course of the four-and-twenty hours to remind her of her straitened and altered circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand pounds had arisen before Mrs. Nickleby’s mind, until, at last, she had come to persuade herself that of all her late husband’s creditors she was the worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him dearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is the usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A decent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train, at once.
“Repining is of no use, ma’am,” said Ralph. “Of all fruitless errands, sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.”
“So it is,” sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. “So it is.”
“As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences of inattention to business, ma’am,” said Ralph, “I am sure 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. “Sad experience, you know, brother-in-law.—Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write.”
Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition, went on to say:
“The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma’am, is with—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, who are so well acquainted with all matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune.”
Now, the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickleby’s mind by the words milliner and dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined with black oilskin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and fro in the streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and were replaced by visions of large houses at the West End, neat private carriages, and a banker’s book; all of which images succeeded each other with such rapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than she nodded her head and said “Very true,” with great appearance of satisfaction.
“What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby. “I recollect when your poor papa and I came to town after we were married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with white and green trimming, and green persian lining, in her own carriage, which drove up to the door full gallop;—at least, I am not quite certain whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that your poor papa said he hadn’t had any corn for a fortnight.”
This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners, was not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as Kate hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms of extreme 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 her there directly.”
“Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?” inquired Mrs. Nickleby.
“A great deal,” replied Kate; “but not now. I would rather speak to him when we are alone;—it will save his time if I thank him and say what I wish to say to him, as we walk along.”
With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that were stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while Mrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law by giving him, with many tears, a detailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had possessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute description of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs to match the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece, and had gone at
