The Greatest Children's Classics of Charles Dickens (Illustrated). Charles Dickens

with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first, and then all the friends, and then her—no, killed all the friends first, and then herself, and then himself—which it is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a momentary pause, ‘they always are journeyman shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers. I don’t know how it is—something in the leather, I suppose.’

      ‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker—what has he done, mother, what has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs. Nickleby herself. ‘You know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.’

      ‘My dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the ashes in the grate, ‘he has done and said all sorts of things.’

      ‘Is there no mistake on your part?’ asked Nicholas.

      ‘Mistake!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I don’t know when a man’s in earnest?’

      ‘Well, well!’ muttered Nicholas.

      ‘Every time I go to the window,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘he kisses one hand, and lays the other upon his heart—of course it’s very foolish of him to do so, and I dare say you’ll say it’s very wrong, but he does it very respectfully—very respectfully indeed—and very tenderly, extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt about that. Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the wall every day, and very fine they certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of pickling the rest for next winter. And last evening,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, with increased confusion, ‘he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the garden, and proposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a musical glass—very like a musical glass indeed—but of course I didn’t listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear, what am I to do?’

      ‘Does Kate know of this?’ asked Nicholas.

      ‘I have not said a word about it yet,’ answered his mother.

      ‘Then, for Heaven’s sake,’ rejoined Nicholas, rising, ‘do not, for it would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what you should do, my dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling, and respect for my father’s memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways in which you can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting attentions. If you act as decidedly as you ought and they are still continued, and to your annoyance, I can speedily put a stop to them. But I should not interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance to it, until you have vindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially one of your age and condition, in circumstances like these, which are unworthy of a serious thought. I would not shame you by seeming to take them to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant. Absurd old idiot!’

      So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and they retired to their respective chambers.

      To do Mrs. Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would have prevented her seriously contemplating a second marriage, even if she could have so far conquered her recollections of her late husband as to have any strong inclinations that way. But, although there was no evil and little real selfishness in Mrs. Nickleby’s heart, she had a weak head and a vain one; and there was something so flattering in being sought (and vainly sought) in marriage at this time of day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the unknown gentleman quite so summarily or lightly as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.

      ‘As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,’ thought Mrs Nickleby, communing with herself in her own room, ‘I don’t see that, at all. It’s hopeless on his part, certainly; but why he should be an absurd old idiot, I confess I don’t see. He is not to be supposed to know it’s hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, I think!’

      Having made these reflections, Mrs. Nickleby looked in her little dressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried to remember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas was one-and-twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother than her son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished her candle, and drew up the window-blind to admit the light of morning, which had, by this time, begun to dawn.

      ‘It’s a bad light to distinguish objects in,’ murmured Mrs. Nickleby, peering into the garden, ‘and my eyes are not very good—I was short-sighted from a child—but, upon my word, I think there’s another large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the broken glass bottles at the top of the wall!’