CHAPTER V.
NICHOLAS STARTS FOR YORKSHIRE.—OF HIS LEAVE-TAKING AND HIS FELLOW-TRAVELLERS, AND WHAT BEFEL 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 silently.
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 lad 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 good bye 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 down stairs.
"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."
