Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-taking and his Fellow- Travellers, and
what befell them on the Road
If tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve its owner from sorrow and
misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby would have commenced his expedition under most
happy auspices. There was so much to be done, and so little time to do it in; so
many kind words to be spoken, and such bitter pain in the hearts in which they
rose to impede their utterance; that the little preparations for his journey were
made mournfully indeed. A hundred things which the anxious care of his mother
and sister deemed indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted on leaving
behind, as they might prove of some after use, or might be convertible into
money if occasion required. A hundred affectionate contests on such points as
these, took place on the sad night which preceded his departure; and, as the
termination of every angerless dispute brought them nearer and nearer to the
close of their slight preparations, Kate grew busier and busier, and wept more
The box was packed at last, and then there came supper, with some little
delicacy provided for the occasion, and as a set-off against the expense of which,
Kate and her mother had feigned to dine when Nicholas was out. The poor lady
nearly choked himself by attempting to partake of it, and almost suffocated
himself in affecting a jest or two, and forcing a melancholy laugh. Thus, they
lingered on till the hour of separating for the night was long past; and then they
found that they might as well have given vent to their real feelings before, for they
could not suppress them, do what they would. So, they let them have their way,
and even that was a relief.
Nicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or of what was home
once--no matter which, for things that are changed or gone will come back as
they used to be, thank God! in sleep--and rose quite brisk and gay. He wrote a
few lines in pencil, to say the goodbye which he was afraid to pronounce himself,
and laying them, with half his scanty stock of money, at his sister's door,
shouldered his box and crept softly downstairs.
'Is that you, Hannah?' cried a voice from Miss La Creevy's sitting- room, whence
shone the light of a feeble candle.
'It is I, Miss La Creevy,' said Nicholas, putting down the box and looking in.
'Bless us!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting her hand to her curl-
papers. 'You're up very early, Mr Nickleby.'
'So are you,' replied Nicholas.
'It's the fine arts that bring me out of bed, Mr Nickleby,' returned the lady. 'I'm
waiting for the light to carry out an idea.'
Miss La Creevy had got up early to put a fancy nose into a miniature of an ugly
little boy, destined for his grandmother in the country, who was expected to
bequeath him property if he was like the family.
'To carry out an idea,' repeated Miss La Creevy; 'and that's the great
convenience of living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. When I want a nose or an