"Why no," replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his handkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. "That's pretty plain, that is."
"Has he been long so?" asked Kate.
"A long while."
"And is there no hope for him?" said Kate, compassionately.
"Not a bit, and don't deserve to be," replied the keeper. "He's a deal pleasanter without his senses than with 'cm. He was the crudest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath."
"Indeed!" said Kate.
"By George!" replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically that he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on, "I never come across such a vagabond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife's heart, turned his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into the streets—it was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he'd have drove many others so. Hope for him, an old rip! There isn't too much hope going, but I'll bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more deserving chaps than him, anyhow."
With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again, as much as to say that nothing short of this would do, if things were to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily—not that he was in an ill humour, but that his subject ruffed him—descended the ladder, and took it away.
During this conversation, Mrs. Nickleby had regarded the man with a severe and stedfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and pursing up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtful manner.
"Poor creature!" said Kate.
"Ah! poor indeed!" rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. "It's shameful that such things should be allowed.—Shameful!"
"How can they be helped, mama?" said Kate, mournfully. "The infirmities of nature——"
"Nature!" said Mrs. Nickleby. "What! Do you suppose this poor gentleman is out of his mind?"
"Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?"
"Why then, I just tell you this, Kate," returned Mrs. Nickleby, "that he is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can be so imposed upon. It's some plot of these people to possess themselves of his property—didn't he say so himself? He may be a little odd and flighty, perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and express himself as he does, respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and making offers with so much thought, and care, and prudence—not as if he ran into the streets, and went down upon his knees to the first chit of a girl he met, as a madman would! No, no, Kate, there's a great deal too much method in his madness; depend upon that, my dear."
