“Refute these calumnies,” said Kate, “and be more patient, so that you may give them no advantage. Tell us what you really did, and show that they are untrue.”
“Of what do they—or of what does he—accuse me?” said Nicholas.
“First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace of qualifying yourself to be tried for murder,” interposed Ralph. “I speak plainly, young man, bluster as you will.”
“I interfered,” said Nicholas, “to save a miserable creature from the vilest cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a wretch as he will not readily forget, though far less than he deserved from me. If the same scene were renewed before me now, I would take the same part; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such marks as he should carry to his grave, go to it when he would.”
“You hear?” said Ralph, turning to Mrs. Nickleby. “Penitence, this!”
“Oh dear me!” cried Mrs. Nickleby, “I don’t know what to think, I really don’t.”
“Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,” said Kate. “Dear Nicholas, I only tell you, that you may know what wickedness can prompt, but they accuse you of—a ring is missing, and they dare to say that—”
“The woman,” said Nicholas, haughtily, “the wife of the fellow from whom these charges come, dropped—as I suppose—a worthless ring among some clothes of mine, early in the morning on which I left the house. At least, I know that she was in the bedroom where they lay, struggling with an unhappy child, and that I found it when I opened my bundle on the road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and they have it now.”
“I knew, I knew,” said Kate, looking towards her uncle. “About this boy, love, in whose company they say you left?”
“The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hard usage, is with me now,” rejoined Nicholas.
“You hear?” said Ralph, appealing to the mother again, “everything proved, even upon his own confession. Do you choose to restore that boy, sir?”
“No, I do not,” replied Nicholas.
“You do not?” sneered Ralph.
“No,” repeated Nicholas, “not to the man with whom I found him. I would that I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: I might wring something from his sense of shame, if he were dead to every tie of nature.”
“Indeed!” said Ralph. “Now, sir, will you hear a word or two from me?”
“You can speak when and what you please,” replied Nicholas, embracing his sister. “I take little heed of what you say or threaten.”
“Mighty well, sir,” retorted Ralph; “but perhaps it may concern others, who may think it worth their while to listen, and consider what I tell them. I will address your mother, sir, who knows the world.”
“Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn’t,” sobbed Mrs. Nickleby.
There really was no necessity for the good lady to be much distressed upon this particular head; the extent of her worldly knowledge being, to say the least, very questionable; and so Ralph seemed to think, for he smiled as she spoke. He then glanced steadily at her and Nicholas by turns, as he delivered himself in these words:
“Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma’am, and my niece, I say not one syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you to judge for yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I say that this boy, headstrong, wilful and disorderly as he is, should not have one penny of my money, or one crust of my bread, or one grasp of my hand, to save him from the loftiest gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him, come where he comes, or hear his name. I will not help him, or those who help him. With a full knowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has come back in his selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your wants, and a burden upon his sister’s scanty wages. I regret to leave you, and more to leave her, now, but I will not encourage this compound of meanness and cruelty, and, as I will not ask you to renounce him, I see you no more.”
If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding those he hated, his glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its force, as he proceeded in the above address. Innocent as the young man was of all wrong, every artful insinuation stung, every well-considered sarcasm cut him to the quick; and when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering lip, he hugged himself to mark how well he had chosen the taunts best calculated to strike deep into a young and ardent spirit.
“I can’t help it,” cried Mrs. Nickleby. “I know you have been very good to us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am quite sure of that; I know you did, and it was very kind of you, having her at your house and all—and of course it would have been a great thing for her and for me too. But I can’t, you know, brother-in-law, I can’t renounce my own son, even if he has done all you say he has—it’s not possible; I couldn’t do it; so we must go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can bear it, I dare say.” Pouring forth these and a perfectly wonderful train of other disjointed expressions of regret, which no mortal power but Mrs. Nickleby’s could ever have strung together, that lady wrung her hands, and her tears fell faster.
“Why do you say ‘if Nicholas has done what they say he has,’ mama?” asked Kate, with honest anger. “You know he has not.”
“I don’t know what to think, one way or other, my dear,” said Mrs. Nickleby; “Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so much composure, that I can
