`Mrs Nickleby cannot be ignorant,' said Mr Pluck, `of the immense impression which that sweet girl has--'
`Pluck!' said his friend, `beware!'
`Pyke is right,' muttered Mr Pluck, after a short pause; `I was not to mention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.'
`Well now, really,' thought Mrs Nickleby within herself. `Such delicacy as that, I never saw!'
Mr Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of great embarrassment for some minutes, resumed the conversation by entreating Mrs Nickleby to take no heed of what he had inadvertently said--to consider him imprudent, rash, injudicious. The only stipulation he would make in his own favour was, that she should give him credit for the best intentions.
`But when,' said Mr Pluck, `when I see so much sweetness and beauty on the one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on the other, I--pardon me, Pyke, I didn't intend to resume that theme. Change the subject, Pyke.'
`We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,' said Pyke, `that we'd call this morning and inquire whether you took any cold last night.'
`Not the least in the world last night, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby, `with many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the honour to inquire; not the least--which is the more singular, as I really am very subject to colds, indeed--very subject. I had a cold once,' said Mrs Nickleby, `I think it was in the year eighteen hundred and seventeen; let me see, four and five are nine, and--yes, eighteen hundred and seventeen, that I thought I never should get rid of; actually and seriously, that I thought I never should get rid of. I was only cured at last by a remedy that Idon't know whether you ever happened to hear of, Mr Pluck. You have a gallon of water as hot as you can possibly bear it, with a pound of salt, and sixpen'orth of the finest bran, and sit with your head in it for twenty minutes every night just before going to bed; at least, I don't mean your head--your feet. It's a most extraordinary cure--a most extraordinary cure.
I used it for the first time, I recollect, the day after Christmas Day, and by the middle of April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a miracle when you come to think of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of September.'
`What an afflicting calamity!' said Mr Pyke.
`Perfectly horrid!' exclaimed Mr Pluck.
`But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs Nickleby recovered it, isn't it, Pluck?' cried Mr Pyke.
`That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest,'
replied Mr Pluck.
`But come,' said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; `we must not forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a mission, Mrs Nickleby.'
`On a mission,' exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definite proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself in lively colours.
`From Sir Mulberry,' replied Pyke. `You must be very dull here.'
`Rather dull, I confess,' said Mrs Nickleby.
`We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand entreaties that you'll take a seat in a private box at the play tonight,' said Mr Pluck.
`Oh dear!' said Mrs Nickleby, `I never go out at all, never.'
`And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs Nickleby, why you should go out tonight,' retorted Mr Pluck. `Pyke, entreat Mrs Nickleby.'
`Oh, pray do,' said Pyke.
`You positively must,' urged Pluck.
`You are very kind,' said Mrs Nickleby, hesitating; `but--'
`There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr Pluck; `not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us-- a refusal is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you--twenty minutes before seven to the moment--you'll not be so cruel as to disappoint the whole party, Mrs Nickleby?'
`You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied the worthy lady.
`Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr Pluck.
`Mrs Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice, `there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence in what Iam about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard it--such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs Nickleby--he'd have me out before dinner-time.'
Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had walked to the window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on--`Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her devoted slave. Hem!'
`Hah!' cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the chimney-piece with a theatrical air. `What is this! what do I behold!'
`What do you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr Pluck.
`It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr Pyke, falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; `feebly portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still the face, the countenance, the expression.'
`I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit of enthusiasm.
`Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--'
`It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride.
And so it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection only two nights before.
Mr Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in his conjecture, than he launched into the most extravagant encomiums of the divine original;and in the warmth of his enthusiasm kissed the picture a thousand times, while Mr Pluck pressed Mrs Nickleby's hand to his heart, and congratulated her on the possession of such a daughter, with so much earnestness and affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand, in his eyes. Poor Mrs Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable complacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by these tokens of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even the servant girl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted to the spot in astonishment at the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.
