Ralph would have walked into any poverty-stricken debtor’s house, and pointed him out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child’s deathbed, without the smallest concern, because it would have been a matter quite in the ordinary course of business, and the man would have been an offender against his only code of morality. But, here was a young girl, who had done no wrong save that of coming into the world alive; who had patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried hard to please him—above all, who didn’t owe him money—and he felt awkward and nervous.
Ralph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a little nearer; then, moved a little nearer still; then, nearer again, and finally sat himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on Kate’s arm.
“Hush, my dear!” he said, as she drew it back, and her sobs burst out afresh. “Hush, hush! Don’t mind it, now; don’t think of it.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, let me go home,” cried Kate. “Let me leave this house, and go home.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ralph. “You shall. But you must dry your eyes first, and compose yourself. Let me raise your head. There—there.”
“Oh, uncle!” exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. “What have I done—what have I done—that you should subject me to this? If I had wronged you in thought, or word, or deed, it would have been most cruel to me, and the memory of one you must have loved in some old time; but—”
“Only listen to me for a moment,” interrupted Ralph, seriously alarmed by the violence of her emotions. “I didn’t know it would be so; it was impossible for me to foresee it. I did all I could.—Come, let us walk about. You are faint with the closeness of the room, and the heat of these lamps. You will be better now, if you make the slightest effort.”
“I will do anything,” replied Kate, “if you will only send me home.”
“Well, well, I will,” said Ralph; “but you must get back your own looks; for those you have, will frighten them, and nobody must know of this but you and I. Now let us walk the other way. There. You look better even now.”
With such encouragements as these, Ralph Nickleby walked to and fro, with his niece leaning on his arm; actually trembling beneath her touch.
In the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her to depart, he supported her downstairs, after adjusting her shawl and performing such little offices, most probably for the first time in his life. Across the hall, and down the steps, Ralph led her too; nor did he withdraw his hand until she was seated in the coach.
As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate’s hair, close at her uncle’s feet; and as he picked it up, and returned it into her hand, the light from a neighbouring lamp shone upon her face. The lock of hair that had escaped and curled loosely over her brow, the traces of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of sorrow, all fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man’s breast; and the face of his dead brother seemed present before him, with the very look it bore on some occasion of boyish grief, of which every minutest circumstance flashed upon his mind, with the distinctness of a scene of yesterday.
Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood and kindred—who was steeled against every tale of sorrow and distress—staggered while he looked, and went back into his house, as a man who had seen a spirit from some world beyond the grave.
XX
Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his uncle, to whom he expresses his sentiments with much candour. His resolution.
Little Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streets at the west end of the town, early on Monday morning—the day after the dinner—charged with the important commission of acquainting Madame Mantalini that Miss Nickleby was too unwell to attend that day, but hoped to be enabled to resume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La Creevy walked along, revolving in her mind various genteel forms and elegant turns of expression, with a view to the selection of the very best in which to couch her communication, she cogitated a good deal upon the probable causes of her young friend’s indisposition.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Miss La Creevy. “Her eyes were decidedly red last night. She said she had a headache; headaches don’t occasion red eyes. She must have been crying.”
Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had established to her perfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on to consider—as she had done nearly all night—what new cause of unhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.
“I can’t think of anything,” said the little portrait painter. “Nothing at all, unless it was the behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I suppose? Unpleasant brute!”
Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was vented upon empty air, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini’s; and being informed that the governing power was not yet out of bed, requested an interview with the second in command; whereupon Miss Knag appeared.
“So far as I am concerned,” said Miss Knag, when the message had been delivered, with many ornaments of speech; “I could spare Miss Nickleby for evermore.”
“Oh, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended. “But, you see, you are not mistress of the business, and therefore it’s of no great consequence.”
“Very good, ma’am,” said Miss Knag. “Have you any further commands for me?”
“No, I
