“You’ll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, and so forth,” said Madame Mantalini; “and so I’ll leave her with you. You’ll not forget my directions, Miss Knag?”
Miss Knag of course replied, that to forget anything Madame Mantalini had directed, was a moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a general good morning among her assistants, sailed away.
“Charming creature, isn’t she, Miss Nickleby?” said Miss Knag, rubbing her hands together.
“I have seen very little of her,” said Kate. “I hardly know yet.”
“Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?” inquired Miss Knag.
“Yes; I have seen him twice.”
“Isn’t he a charming creature?”
“Indeed he does not strike me as being so, by any means,” replied Kate.
“No, my dear!” cried Miss Knag, elevating her hands. “Why, goodness gracious mercy, where’s your taste? Such a fine tall, full-whiskered dashing gentlemanly man, with such teeth and hair, and—hem—well now, you do astonish me.”
“I dare say I am very foolish,” replied Kate, laying aside her bonnet; “but as my opinion is of very little importance to him or anyone else, I do not regret having formed it, and shall be slow to change it, I think.”
“He is a very fine man, don’t you think so?” asked one of the young ladies.
“Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,” replied Kate.
“And drives very beautiful horses, doesn’t he?” inquired another.
“I dare say he may, but I never saw them,” answered Kate.
“Never saw them!” interposed Miss Knag. “Oh, well! There it is at once you know; how can you possibly pronounce an opinion about a gentleman—hem—if you don’t see him as he turns out altogether?”
There was so much of the world—even of the little world of the country girl—in this idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who was anxious, for every reason, to change the subject, made no further remark, and left Miss Knag in possession of the field.
After a short silence, during which most of the young people made a closer inspection of Kate’s appearance, and compared notes respecting it, one of them offered to help her off with her shawl, and the offer being accepted, inquired whether she did not find black very uncomfortable wear.
“I do indeed,” replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.
“So dusty and hot,” observed the same speaker, adjusting her dress for her.
Kate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldest wear which mortals can assume; that it not only chills the breasts of those it clothes, but extending its influence to summer friends, freezes up their sources of goodwill and kindness, and withering all the buds of promise they once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing but bared and rotten hearts exposed. There are few who have lost a friend or relative constituting in life their sole dependence, who have not keenly felt this chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt it acutely, and feeling it at the moment, could not quite restrain her tears.
“I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtless speech,” said her companion. “I did not think of it. You are in mourning for some near relation?”
“For my father,” answered Kate.
“For what relation, Miss Simmonds?” asked Miss Knag, in an audible voice.
“Her father,” replied the other softly.
“Her father, eh?” said Miss Knag, without the slightest depression of her voice. “Ah! A long illness, Miss Simmonds?”
“Hush,” replied the girl; “I don’t know.”
“Our misfortune was very sudden,” said Kate, turning away, “or I might perhaps, at a time like this, be enabled to support it better.”
There had existed not a little desire in the room, according to invariable custom, when any new “young person” came, to know who Kate was, and what she was, and all about her; but, although it might have been very naturally increased by her appearance and emotion, the knowledge that it pained her to be questioned, was sufficient to repress even this curiosity; and Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt extracting any further particulars just then, reluctantly commanded silence, and bade the work proceed.
In silence, then, the tasks were plied until half-past one, when a baked leg of mutton, with potatoes to correspond, were served in the kitchen. The meal over, and the young ladies having enjoyed the additional relaxation of washing their hands, the work began again, and was again performed in silence, until the noise of carriages rattling through the streets, and of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day’s work of the more fortunate members of society was proceeding in its turn.
One of these double knocks at Madame Mantalini’s door, announced the equipage of some great lady—or rather rich one, for there is occasionally a distinction between riches and greatness—who had come with her daughter to approve of some court-dresses which had been a long time preparing, and upon whom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by Miss Knag, and officered of course by Madame Mantalini.
Kate’s part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties being limited to holding articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them on, and now and then tying a string, or fastening a hook-and-eye. She might, not unreasonably, have supposed herself beneath the reach of any arrogance, or bad humour; but it happened that the lady and daughter were both out of temper that day, and the poor girl came in for her share of their revilings. She was awkward—her hands were cold—dirty—coarse—she could do nothing right; they wondered how Madame Mantalini could have such people about her; requested they might see some other young woman the next time they came; and so forth.
So common an occurrence would be hardly deserving of mention, but for its effect. Kate shed many bitter tears when these people were
