Чарльз Диккенс
Nicholas Nickleby
Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may be observed – not that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously deferential to Madame Mantalini, since these are facts which require no comment; but that every now and then, she was accustomed, in the torrent of her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear ‘hem!’ the import and meaning of which, was variously interpreted by her acquaintance; some holding that Miss Knag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the monosyllable when any fresh invention was in course of coinage in her brain; others, that when she wanted a word, she threw it in to gain time, and prevent anybody else from striking into the conversation. It may be further remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although she had shot beyond it, years ago; and that she was weak and vain, and one of those people who are best described by the axiom, that you may trust them as far as you can see them, and no farther.
‘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 good-will 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 gone, and felt, for the first time, humbled by her occupation. She had, it is true, quailed at the prospect of drudgery and hard service; but she had felt no degradation in working for her bread, until she found herself exposed to insolence and pride. Philosophy would have taught her that the degradation was on the side of those who had sunk so low as to display such passions habitually, and without cause: but she was too young for such consolation, and her honest feeling was hurt. May not the complaint, that common people are above their station, often take its rise in the fact of uncommon people being below theirs?
In such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nine o’clock, when Kate, jaded and dispirited with the occurrences of the day, hastened from the confinement of the workroom, to join her mother at the street corner, and walk home: – the more sadly, from having to disguise her real feelings, and feign to participate in all the sanguine visions of her companion.
‘Bless my soul, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘I’ve been thinking all day what a delightful thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take you into partnership – such a likely thing too, you know! Why, your poor dear papa’s cousin’s sister-in-law – a Miss Browndock – was taken into partnership by a lady that kept a school at Hammersmith, and made her fortune in no time at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss Browndock was the same lady that got the ten thousand pounds prize in the lottery, but I think she was; indeed, now I come to think of it, I am sure she was. “Mantalini and Nickleby”, how well it would sound! – and if Nicholas has any good fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the head-master of Westminster School, living in the same street.’
‘Dear Nicholas!’ cried Kate, taking from her reticule her brother’s letter from Dotheboys Hall. ‘In all our misfortunes, how happy it makes me, mama, to hear he is doing well, and to find him writing in such good spirits! It consoles me for all we may undergo, to think that he is comfortable and happy.’
Poor Kate! she little thought how weak her consolation was, and how soon she would be undeceived.
CHAPTER 18
Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to form this Resolution
There are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering, which, having no stirring interest for any but those who lead them, are disregarded by persons who do not want thought or feeling, but who pamper their compassion and need high stimulants to rouse it.
There are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their vocation, scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in theirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy and compassion are every day expended on out-of-the-way objects, when only too many demands upon the legitimate exercise of the same virtues in a healthy state, are constantly within the sight and hearing of the most unobservant person alive. In short, charity must have its romance, as the novelist or playwright must have his. A thief in fustian is a vulgar character, scarcely to be thought of by persons of refinement; but dress him in green velvet, with a high-crowned hat, and change the scene of his operations, from a thickly-peopled city, to a mountain road, and you shall find in him the very soul of poetry and adventure. So it is with the one great cardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exercised, leads to, if it does not necessarily include, all the others. It must have its romance; and the less of real, hard, struggling work-a-day life there is in that romance, the better.
The life to which poor Kate Nickleby was devoted, in consequence of the unforeseen train of circumstances already developed in this narrative, was a hard one; but lest the very dulness, unhealthy confinement, and bodily fatigue, which made up its sum and substance, should deprive it of any interest with the mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would rather keep Miss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in the outset, by a minute and lengthened description of the establishment presided over by Madame Mantalini.
‘Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,’ said Miss Knag, as Kate was taking her weary way homewards on the first night of her novitiate; ‘that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable young person – a very creditable young person indeed – hem – upon my word, Madame Mantalini, it does very extraordinary credit even to your discrimination that you should have found such a very excellent, very well-behaved, very – hem – very unassuming young woman to assist in the fitting on. I have seen some young women when they had the opportunity of displaying before their betters, behave in such a – oh, dear – well – but you’re always right, Madame Mantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies, how you do contrive to be always right, when so many people are so often wrong, is to me a mystery indeed.’
‘Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has not done anything very remarkable today – that I am aware of, at least,’ said Madame Mantalini in reply.
‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Knag; ‘but you must allow a great deal for inexperience, you know.’
‘And youth?’ inquired Madame.
‘Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,’ replied Miss Knag, reddening; ‘because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn’t have – ’
‘Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,’ suggested Madame.
‘Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,’ rejoined Miss Knag most complacently, ‘and that’s the fact, for you know what one’s going to say, before it has time to rise to one’s lips. Oh, very good! Ha, ha, ha!’
‘For myself,’ observed Madame Mantalini, glancing with affected carelessness at her assistant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, ‘I consider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I ever saw in my life.’
‘Poor dear thing,’ said Miss Knag, ‘it’s not her fault. If it was, we might hope to cure it; but as it’s her misfortune, Madame Mantalini, why really you know, as the man said about the blind horse, we ought to respect it.’
‘Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,’ remarked Madame Mantalini. ‘I think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever met with.’
‘Ordinary!’ cried Miss Knag with a countenance beaming delight; ‘and awkward! Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that I quite love the poor girl; and that if she was twice as indifferent-looking, and twice as awkward as she is, I should be only so much the more her friend, and that’s the truth of it.’
In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for Kate Nickleby, after witnessing her failure that morning, and this short conversation with her superior increased the favourable prepossession to a most surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as when she first scanned that young lady’s face and figure, she had entertained certain inward misgivings that they would never agree.
‘But now,’ said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herself in a mirror at no great distance, ‘I love her – I quite love her – I declare I do!’
Of such a highly disinterested quality was this devoted friendship, and so superior was it to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill-nature, that the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidly informed Kate Nickleby, next day, that she saw she would never do for the business, but that she need not give herself the slightest uneasiness on this account, for that she (Miss Knag), by increased exertions on her own part, would keep her as much as possible in the background, and that all she would have to do, would be to remain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink from attracting notice by every means in her power. This last suggestion was so much in accordance with the timid girl’s own feelings and wishes, that she readily promised implicit reliance on the excellent spinster’s advice: without questioning, or indeed bestowing a moment’s reflection upon, the motives that dictated it.
‘I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon my word,’ said Miss Knag; ‘a sister’s interest, actually. It’s the most singular circumstance I ever knew.’
Undoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a strong interest in Kate Nickleby, it should not rather have been the interest of a maiden aunt or grandmother; that being the conclusion to which the difference in their respective ages would have naturally tended. But Miss Knag wore clothes of a very youthful pattern, and perhaps her feelings took the same shape.
‘Bless you!’ said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at the conclusion of the second day’s work, ‘how very awkward you have been all day.’
‘I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me,’ sighed Kate.
‘No, no, I dare say not,’ rejoined Miss Knag, in a most uncommon flow of good humour. ‘But how much better that you should know it at first, and so be able to go on, straight and comfortable! Which way are you walking, my love?’
‘Towards the city,’ replied Kate.
‘The city!’ cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favour in the glass as she tied her bonnet. ‘Goodness gracious me! now do you really live in the city?’
‘Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?’ asked Kate, half smiling.
‘I couldn’t have believed it possible that any young woman could have lived there, under any circumstances whatever, for three days together,’ replied Miss Knag.
‘Reduced – I should say poor people,’ answered Kate, correcting herself hastily, for she was afraid of appearing proud, ‘must live where they can.’
‘Ah! very true, so they must; very proper indeed!’ rejoined Miss Knag with that sort of half-sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight nods of the head, is pity’s small change in general society; ‘and that’s what I very often tell my brother, when our servants go away ill, one after another, and he thinks the back-kitchen’s rather too damp for ‘em to sleep in. These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to sleep anywhere! Heaven suits the back to the burden. What a nice thing it is to think that it should be so, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ replied Kate.
‘I’ll walk with you part of the way, my dear,’ said Miss Knag, ‘for you must go very near our house; and as it’s quite dark, and our last servant went to the hospital a week ago, with St Anthony’s fire in her face, I shall be glad of your company.’
Kate would willingly have excused herself from this flattering companionship; but Miss Knag having adjusted her bonnet to her entire satisfaction, took her arm with an air which plainly showed how much she felt the compliment she was conferring, and they were in the street before she could say another word.
‘I fear,’ said Kate, hesitating, ‘that mama – my mother, I mean – is waiting for me.’
‘You needn’t make the least apology, my dear,’ said Miss Knag, smiling sweetly as she spoke; ‘I dare say she is a very respectable old person, and I shall be quite – hem – quite pleased to know her.’
As poor Mrs. Nickleby was cooling – not her heels alone, but her limbs generally at the street corner, Kate had no alternative but to make her known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last new carriage customer at second-hand, acknowledged the introduction with condescending politeness. The three then walked away, arm in arm: with Miss Knag in the middle, in a special state of amiability.
‘I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs. Nickleby, you can’t think,’ said Miss Knag, after she had proceeded a little distance in dignified silence.
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘though it is nothing new to me, that even strangers should like Kate.’
‘Hem!’ cried Miss Knag.
‘You will like her better when you know how good she is,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘It is a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to have a child, who knows neither pride nor vanity, and whose bringing-up might very well have excused a little of both at first. You don’t know what it is to lose a husband, Miss Knag.’
As Miss Knag had never yet known what it was to gain one, it followed, very nearly as a matter of course, that she didn’t know what it was to lose one; so she said, in some haste, ‘No, indeed I don’t,’ and said it with an air intending to signify that she should like to catch herself marrying anybody – no, no, she knew better than that.
‘Kate has improved even in this little time, I have no doubt,’ said Mrs Nickleby, glancing proudly at her daughter.
‘Oh! of course,’ said Miss Knag.
‘And will improve still more,’ added Mrs. Nickleby.
‘That she will, I’ll be bound,’ replied Miss Knag, squeezing Kate’s arm in her own, to point the joke.
‘She always was clever,’ said poor Mrs. Nickleby, brightening up, ‘always, from a baby. I recollect when she was only two years and a half old, that a gentleman who used to visit very much at our house – Mr. Watkins, you know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went bail for, who afterwards ran away to the United States, and sent us a pair of snow shoes, with such an affectionate letter that it made your poor dear father cry for a week. You remember the letter? In which he said that he was very sorry he couldn’t repay the fifty pounds just then, because his capital was all out at interest, and he was very busy making his fortune, but that he didn’t forget you were his god-daughter, and he should take it very unkind if we didn’t buy you a silver coral and put it down to his old account? Dear me, yes, my dear, how stupid you are! and spoke so affectionately of the old port wine that he used to drink a bottle and a half of every time he came. You must remember, Kate?’
‘Yes, yes, mama; what of him?’
‘Why, that Mr. Watkins, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby slowly, as if she were making a tremendous effort to recollect something of paramount importance; ‘that Mr. Watkins – he wasn’t any relation, Miss Knag will understand, to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the village; by-the-bye, I don’t remember whether it was the Old Boar or the George the Third, but it was one of the two, I know, and it’s much the same – that Mr. Watkins said, when you were only two years and a half old, that you were one of the most astonishing children he ever saw. He did indeed, Miss Knag, and he wasn’t at all fond of children, and couldn’t have had the slightest motive for doing it. I know it was he who said so, because I recollect, as well as if it was only yesterday, his borrowing twenty pounds of her poor dear papa the very moment afterwards.’
Having quoted this extraordinary and most disinterested testimony to her daughter’s excellence, Mrs. Nickleby stopped to breathe; and Miss Knag, finding that the discourse was turning upon family greatness, lost no time in striking in, with a small reminiscence on her own account.
‘Don’t talk of lending money, Mrs. Nickleby,’ said Miss Knag, ‘or you’ll drive me crazy, perfectly crazy. My mama – hem – was the most lovely and beautiful creature, with the most striking and exquisite – hem – the most exquisite nose that ever was put upon a human face, I do believe, Mrs Nickleby (here Miss Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically); the most delightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she had that one failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extent that she lent – hem – oh! thousands of pounds, all our little fortunes, and what’s more, Mrs. Nickleby, I don’t think, if we were to live till – till – hem – till the very end of time, that we should ever get them back again. I don’t indeed.’
After concluding this effort of invention without being interrupted, Miss Knag fell into many more recollections, no less interesting than true, the full tide of which, Mrs. Nickleby in vain attempting to stem, at length sailed smoothly down by adding an under-current of her own recollections; and so both ladies went on talking together in perfect contentment; the only difference between them being, that whereas Miss Knag addressed herself to Kate, and talked very loud, Mrs. Nickleby kept on in one unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly satisfied to be talking and caring very little whether anybody listened or not.
In this manner they walked on, very amicably, until they arrived at Miss Knag’s brother’s, who was an ornamental stationer and small circulating library keeper, in a by-street off Tottenham Court Road; and who let out by the day, week, month, or year, the newest old novels, whereof the titles were displayed in pen-and-ink characters on a sheet of pasteboard, swinging at his door-post. As Miss Knag happened, at the moment, to be in the middle of an account of her twenty-second offer from a gentleman of large property, she insisted upon their all going in to supper together; and in they went.
‘Don’t go away, Mortimer,’ said Miss Knag as they entered the shop. ‘It’s only one of our young ladies and her mother. Mrs. and Miss Nickleby.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mr. Mortimer Knag. ‘Ah!’
Having given utterance to these ejaculations with a very profound and thoughtful air, Mr. Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the counter, and two more in the window, and then snuffed himself from a box in his waistcoat pocket.
There was something very impressive in the ghostly air with which all this was done; and as Mr. Knag was a tall lank gentleman of solemn features, wearing spectacles, and garnished with much less hair than a gentleman bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually boasts, Mrs. Nickleby whispered her daughter that she thought he must be literary.
‘Past ten,’ said Mr. Knag, consulting his watch. ‘Thomas, close the warehouse.’
Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and the warehouse was a shop about the size of three hackney coaches.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as he restored to its parent shelf the book he had been reading. ‘Well – yes – I believe supper is ready, sister.’
With another sigh Mr. Knag took up the kitchen candles from the counter, and preceded the ladies with mournful steps to a back-parlour, where a charwoman, employed in the absence of the sick servant, and remunerated with certain eighteenpences to be deducted from her wages due, was putting the supper out.
‘Mrs. Blockson,’ said Miss Knag, reproachfully, ‘how very often I have begged you not to come into the room with your bonnet on!’
‘I can’t help it, Miss Knag,’ said the charwoman, bridling up on the shortest notice. ‘There’s been a deal o’cleaning to do in this house, and if you don’t like it, I must trouble you to look out for somebody else, for it don’t hardly pay me, and that’s the truth, if I was to be hung this minute.’
‘I don’t want any remarks if you please,’ said Miss Knag, with a strong emphasis on the personal pronoun. ‘Is there any fire downstairs for some hot water presently?’
‘No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,’ replied the substitute; ‘and so I won’t tell you no stories about it.’
‘Then why isn’t there?’ said Miss Knag.
‘Because there arn’t no coals left out, and if I could make coals I would, but as I can’t I won’t, and so I make bold to tell you, Mem,’ replied Mrs Blockson.
‘Will you hold your tongue – female?’ said Mr. Mortimer Knag, plunging violently into this dialogue.
‘By your leave, Mr. Knag,’ retorted the charwoman, turning sharp round. ‘I’m only too glad not to speak in this house, excepting when and where I’m spoke to, sir; and with regard to being a female, sir, I should wish to know what you considered yourself?’
‘A miserable wretch,’ exclaimed Mr. Knag, striking his forehead. ‘A miserable wretch.’
‘I’m very glad to find that you don’t call yourself out of your name, sir,’ said Mrs. Blockson; ‘and as I had two twin children the day before yesterday was only seven weeks, and my little Charley fell down a airy and put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it as a favour if you’ll send nine shillings, for one week’s work, to my house, afore the clock strikes ten tomorrow.’
With these parting words, the good woman quitted the room with great ease of manner, leaving the door wide open; Mr. Knag, at the same moment, flung himself into the ‘warehouse,’ and groaned aloud.
‘What is the matter with that gentleman, pray?’ inquired Mrs. Nickleby, greatly disturbed by the sound.
‘Is he ill?’ inquired Kate, really alarmed.
‘Hush!’ replied Miss Knag; ‘a most melancholy history. He was once most devotedly attached to – hem – to Madame Mantalini.’
‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.
‘Yes,’ continued Miss Knag, ‘and received great encouragement too, and confidently hoped to marry her. He has a most romantic heart, Mrs Nickleby, as indeed – hem – as indeed all our family have, and the disappointment was a dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully accomplished man – most extraordinarily accomplished – reads – hem – reads every novel that comes out; I mean every novel that – hem – that has any fashion in it, of course. The fact is, that he did find so much in the books he read, applicable to his own misfortunes, and did find himself in every respect so much like the heroes – because of course he is conscious of his own superiority, as we all are, and very naturally – that he took to scorning everything, and became a genius; and I am quite sure that he is, at this very present moment, writing another book.’
‘Another book!’ repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left for somebody to say something.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Knag, nodding in great triumph; ‘another book, in three volumes post octavo. Of course it’s a great advantage to him, in all his little fashionable descriptions, to have the benefit of my – hem – of my experience, because, of course, few authors who write about such things can have such opportunities of knowing them as I have. He’s so wrapped up in high life, that the least allusion to business or worldly matters – like that woman just now, for instance – quite distracts him; but, as I often say, I think his disappointment a great thing for him, because if he hadn’t been disappointed he couldn’t have written about blighted hopes and all that; and the fact is, if it hadn’t happened as it has, I don’t believe his genius would ever have come out at all.’
How much more communicative Miss Knag might have become under more favourable circumstances, it is impossible to divine, but as the gloomy one was within ear-shot, and the fire wanted making up, her disclosures stopped here. To judge from all appearances, and the difficulty of making the water warm, the last servant could not have been much accustomed to any other fire than St Anthony’s; but a little brandy and water was made at last, and the guests, having been previously regaled with cold leg of mutton and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took leave; Kate amusing herself, all the way home, with the recollection of her last glimpse of Mr Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; and Mrs. Nickleby by debating within herself whether the dressmaking firm would ultimately become ‘Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby’, or ‘Mantalini, Nickleby, and Knag’.
At this high point, Miss Knag’s friendship remained for three whole days, much to the wonderment of Madame Mantalini’s young ladies who had never beheld such constancy in that quarter, before; but on the fourth, it received a check no less violent than sudden, which thus occurred.
