“Of this,” said Smike. “I know you are unhappy, and have got into great trouble by bringing me away. I ought to have known that, and stopped behind—I would, indeed, if I had thought it then. You—you—are not rich; you have not enough for yourself, and I should not be here. You grow,” said the lad, laying his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, “you grow thinner every day; your cheek is paler, and your eye more sunk. Indeed I cannot bear to see you so, and think how I am burdening you. I tried to go away today, but the thought of your kind face drew me back. I could not leave you without a word.” The poor fellow could say no more, for his eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
“The word which separates us,” said Nicholas, grasping him heartily by the shoulder, “shall never be said by me, for you are my only comfort and stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all the world could give. The thought of you has upheld me through all I have endured today, and shall, through fifty times such trouble. Give me your hand. My heart is linked to yours. We will journey from this place together, before the week is out. What, if I am steeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we will be poor together.”
XXI
Madam Mantalini finds herself in a situation of some difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no situation at all.
The agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nickleby unable to resume her duties at the dressmaker’s for three days, at the expiration of which interval she betook herself at the accustomed hour, and with languid steps, to the temple of fashion where Madame Mantalini reigned paramount and supreme.
The ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in the interval. The young ladies still scrupulously shrunk from all companionship with their denounced associate; and when that exemplary female arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at no pains to conceal the displeasure with which she regarded Kate’s return.
“Upon my word!” said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round, to relieve her of her bonnet and shawl; “I should have thought some people would have had spirit enough to stop away altogether, when they know what an incumbrance their presence is to right-minded persons. But it’s a queer world; oh! it’s a queer world!”
Miss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in the tone in which most people do pass comments on the world when they are out of temper, that is to say, as if they by no means belonged to it, concluded by heaving a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to compassionate the wickedness of mankind.
The attendants were not slow to echo the sigh, and Miss Knag was apparently on the eve of favouring them with some further moral reflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini, conveyed through the speaking-tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs to assist in the arrangement of the showroom; a distinction which caused Miss Knag to toss her head so much, and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of conversation were, for the time, annihilated.
“Well, Miss Nickleby, child,” said Madame Mantalini, when Kate presented herself; “are you quite well again?”
“A great deal better, thank you,” replied Kate.
“I wish I could say the same,” remarked Madame Mantalini, seating herself with an air of weariness.
“Are you ill?” asked Kate. “I am very sorry for that.”
“Not exactly ill, but worried, child—worried,” rejoined Madame.
“I am still more sorry to hear that,” said Kate, gently. “Bodily illness is more easy to bear than mental.”
“Ah! and it’s much easier to talk than to bear either,” said Madame, rubbing her nose with much irritability of manner. “There, get to your work, child, and put the things in order, do.”
While Kate was wondering within herself what these symptoms of unusual vexation portended, Mr. Mantalini put the tips of his whiskers, and, by degrees, his head, through the half-opened door, and cried in a soft voice—
“Is my life and soul there?”
“No,” replied his wife.
“How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little rose in a demnition flowerpot?” urged Mantalini. “May its poppet come in and talk?”
“Certainly not,” replied Madame: “you know I never allow you here. Go along!”
The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this reply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss as he came along.
“Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching nutcrackers?” said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of his life and soul, and drawing her towards him with his right.
“Oh! I can’t bear you,” replied his wife.
“Not—eh, not bear me!” exclaimed Mantalini. “Fibs, fibs. It couldn’t be. There’s not a woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my face—to my own face.” Mr. Mantalini stroked his chin, as he said this, and glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.
“Such destructive extravagance,” reasoned his wife, in a low tone.
“All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little Venus, such a demd, enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating little Venus,” said Mantalini.
“See what a situation you have placed me in!” urged Madame.
“No harm will come, no harm shall come, to its own darling,” rejoined Mr. Mantalini. “It is all over; there will be nothing the matter; money shall be got in; and if it don’t come in fast enough, old Nickleby shall stump up again, or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex and hurt the little—”
“Hush!” interposed Madame. “Don’t you see?”
Mr. Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters with his wife, had overlooked, or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took the hint, and laying his finger on his lip, sunk his voice still lower. There was, then, a great
