“Come, come,” said Ned, “Frank will be jealous, and we shall have some cutting of throats before dinner.”
“Then let him take her away, Ned, let him take her away. Madeline’s in the next room. Let all the lovers get out of the way, and talk among themselves, if they’ve anything to say. Turn ’em out, Ned, every one!”
Brother Charles began the clearance by leading the blushing girl to the door, and dismissing her with a kiss. Frank was not very slow to follow, and Nicholas had disappeared first of all. So there only remained Mrs. Nickleby and Miss La Creevy, who were both sobbing heartily; the two brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who now came in to shake hands with everybody: his round face all radiant and beaming with smiles.
“Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,” said brother Charles, who was always spokesman, “now the young folks are happy, sir.”
“You didn’t keep ’em in suspense as long as you said you would, though,” returned Tim, archly. “Why, Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Frank were to have been in your room for I don’t know how long; and I don’t know what you weren’t to have told them before you came out with the truth.”
“Now, did you ever know such a villain as this, Ned?” said the old gentleman; “did you ever know such a villain as Tim Linkinwater? He accusing me of being impatient, and he the very man who has been wearying us morning, noon, and night, and torturing us for leave to go and tell ’em what was in store, before our plans were half complete, or we had arranged a single thing. A treacherous dog!”
“So he is, brother Charles,” returned Ned; “Tim is a treacherous dog. Tim is not to be trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow. He wants gravity and steadiness; he must sow his wild oats, and then perhaps he’ll become in time a respectable member of society.”
This being one of the standing jokes between the old fellows and Tim, they all three laughed very heartily, and might have laughed much longer, but that the brothers, seeing that Mrs. Nickleby was labouring to express her feelings, and was really overwhelmed by the happiness of the time, took her between them, and led her from the room under pretence of having to consult her on some most important arrangements.
Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very often, and had always been very chatty and pleasant together—had always been great friends—and consequently it was the most natural thing in the world that Tim, finding that she still sobbed, should endeavour to console her. As Miss La Creevy sat on a large old-fashioned window-seat, where there was ample room for two, it was also natural that Tim should sit down beside her; and as to Tim’s being unusually spruce and particular in his attire that day, why it was a high festival and a great occasion, and that was the most natural thing of all.
Tim sat down beside Miss La Creevy, and, crossing one leg over the other so that his foot—he had very comely feet and happened to be wearing the neatest shoes and black silk stockings possible—should come easily within the range of her eye, said in a soothing way:
“Don’t cry!”
“I must,” rejoined Miss La Creevy.
“No, don’t,” said Tim. “Please don’t; pray don’t.”
“I am so happy!” sobbed the little woman.
“Then laugh,” said Tim. “Do laugh.”
What in the world Tim was doing with his arm, it is impossible to conjecture, but he knocked his elbow against that part of the window which was quite on the other side of Miss La Creevy; and it is clear that it could have no business there.
“Do laugh,” said Tim, “or I’ll cry.”
“Why should you cry?” asked Miss La Creevy, smiling.
“Because I’m happy too,” said Tim. “We are both happy, and I should like to do as you do.”
Surely, there never was a man who fidgeted as Tim must have done then; for he knocked the window again—almost in the same place—and Miss La Creevy said she was sure he’d break it.
“I knew,” said Tim, “that you would be pleased with this scene.”
“It was very thoughtful and kind to remember me,” returned Miss La Creevy. “Nothing could have delighted me half so much.”
Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater have said all this in a whisper? It was no secret. And why should Tim Linkinwater have looked so hard at Miss La Creevy, and why should Miss La Creevy have looked so hard at the ground?
“It’s a pleasant thing,” said Tim, “to people like us, who have passed all our lives in the world alone, to see young folks that we are fond of, brought together with so many years of happiness before them.”
“Ah!” cried the little woman with all her heart, “that it is!”
“Although,” pursued Tim, “although it makes one feel quite solitary and cast away. Now don’t it?”
Miss La Creevy said she didn’t know. And why should she say she didn’t know? Because she must have known whether it did or not.
“It’s almost enough to make us get married after all, isn’t it?” said Tim.
“Oh, nonsense!” replied Miss La Creevy, laughing. “We are too old.”
“Not a bit,” said Tim; “we are too old to be single. Why shouldn’t we both be married, instead of sitting through the long winter evenings by our solitary firesides? Why shouldn’t we make one fireside of it, and marry each other?”
“Oh, Mr. Linkinwater, you’re joking!”
“No, no, I’m not. I’m not indeed,” said Tim. “I will, if you will. Do, my dear!”
“It would make people laugh so.”
“Let ’em laugh,” cried Tim stoutly; “we have good tempers I know, and we’ll laugh too. Why, what hearty laughs we have had since we’ve known each other!”
“So we have,” cried
