Chapter 35

Nicholas Nickleby

by Charles Dickens

Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also
meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the
Family

Having established his mother and sister in the apartments of
the kind-hearted miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry
Hawk was in no danger of losing his life, Nicholas turned his
thoughts to poor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman Noggs,
had remained, in a disconsolate state, at that worthy creature's
lodgings, waiting, with much anxiety, for further intelligence of his
protector.

'As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we
live, or whatever fortune is in reserve for us,' thought Nicholas, 'I
must present the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him
for his own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full
extent I could wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for
mine.'

Nicholas said 'they', but his misgivings were confined to one
person. He was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother's peculiarities,
and was not quite so certain that Smike would find favour in the eyes
of Mrs Nickleby.

'However,' thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent
errand; 'she cannot fail to become attached to him, when she knows
what a devoted creature he is, and as she must quickly make the
discovery, his probation will be a short one.'

'I was afraid,' said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again,
'that you had fallen into some fresh trouble; the time seemed so
long, at last, that I almost feared you were lost.'

'Lost!' replied Nicholas gaily. 'You will not be rid of me so
easily, I promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousand
times yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me down, the more
quickly I shall rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take
you home.'

'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.

'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'

'I had such hopes once,' said Smike; 'day and night, day and
night, for many years. I longed for home till I was weary, and pined
away with grief, but now--'

'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face.
'What now, old friend?'

'I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,' replied
Smike, pressing his hand; 'except one, except one. I shall never be
an old man; and if your hand placed me in the grave, and I could
think, before I died, that you would come and look upon it sometimes
with one of your kind smiles, and in the summer weather, when
everything was alive--not dead like me--I could go to that home
almost without a tear.'

'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one
with me?' said Nicholas.

'Because I should change; not those about me. And if they
forgot me, I should never know it,' replied Smike. 'In the
churchyard we are all alike, but here there are none like me. I am a
poor creature, but I know that.'

'You are a foolish, silly creature,' said Nicholas cheerfully.
'If that is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here's a dismal
face for ladies' company!--my pretty sister too, whom you have so
often asked me about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame!
for shame!'

Smike brightened up and smiled.

'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine--which
is yours of course. If it were defined by any particular four walls
and a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to say
whereabouts it lay; but that is not what I mean. When I speak of
home, I speak of the place where--in default of a better--those I
love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy's tent, or
a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding. And
now, for what is my present home, which, however alarming your
expectations may be, will neither terrify you by its extent nor its
magnificence!'

So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a
great deal more to the same purpose, and pointing out various things
to amuse and interest him as they went along, led the way to Miss La
Creevy's house.

'And this, Kate,' said Nicholas, entering the room where his
sister sat alone, 'is the faithful friend and affectionate
fellow-traveller whom I prepared you to receive.'

Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at
first, but Kate advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a
sweet voice, how anxious she had been to see him after all her
brother had told her, and how much she had to thank him for having
comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he
began to be very doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and
became still more flurried. However, he managed to say, in a broken
voice, that Nicholas was his only friend, and that he would lay down
his life to help him; and Kate, although she was so kind and
considerate, seemed to be so wholly unconscious of his distress and
embarrassment, that he recovered almost immediately and felt quite at
home.

Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be
presented also. And Miss La Creevy was very kind too, and
wonderfully talkative: not to Smike, for that would have made him
uneasy at first, but to Nicholas and his sister. Then, after a time,
she would speak to Smike himself now and then, asking him whether he
was a judge of likenesses, and whether he thought that picture in the
corner was like herself, and whether he didn't think it would have
looked better if she had made herself ten years younger, and whether
he didn't think, as a matter of general observation, that young
ladies looked better not only in pictures, but out of them too, than
old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious remarks, which
were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that Smike
thought, within himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen;
even nicer than Mrs Grudden, of Mr Vincent Crummles's theatre; and
she was a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly
louder, than Miss La Creevy.

At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in;
and Nicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling
her his mother, led her towards the chair from which Smike had risen
when she entered the room.

'You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed,
my dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'so you will be favourably disposed
towards him, I know.'

'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking
very hard at her new friend, and bending to him with something more
of majesty than the occasion seemed to require: 'I am sure any friend
of yours has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must have, of
course, you know, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a very
great pleasure to me to be introduced to anybody you take an interest
in. There can he no doubt about that; none at all; not the least in
the world,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'At the same time I must say,
Nicholas, my dear, as I used to say to your poor dear papa, when he
would bring gentlemen home to dinner, and there was nothing in the
house, that if he had come the day before yesterday--no, I don't mean
the day before yesterday now; I should have said, perhaps, the year
before last--we should have been better able to entertain him.'

With which remarks, Mrs Nickleby turned to her daughter, and
inquired, in an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was going to
stop all night.

'Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I don't
see that it's possible for him to sleep anywhere, and that's the
truth.'

Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of
annoyance or irritation, breathed a few words into her mother's
ear.

'La, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, shrinking back, 'how you
do tickle one! Of course, I understand that, my love, without your
telling me; and I said the same to Nicholas, and I am very much
pleased. You didn't tell me, Nicholas, my dear,' added Mrs Nickleby,
turning round with an air of less reserve than she had before
assumed, 'what your friend's name is.'

'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'

The effect of this communication was by no means anticipated;
but the name was no sooner pronounced, than Mrs Nickleby dropped upon
a chair, and burst into a fit of crying.

'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support
her.

'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke.
Oh! don't speak to me--I shall be better presently.'

And after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all
its stages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a full
tumbler, and spilling the remainder, Mrs Nickleby was better, and
remarked, with a feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she
knew.

'It's a weakness in our family,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'so, of
course, I can't be blamed for it. Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly
the same--precisely. The least excitement, the slightest
surprise--she fainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and
often, that when she was a young lady, and before she was married,
she was turning a corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran
against her own hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a
bear;--the mere suddenness of the encounter made her faint away
directly. Wait, though,' added Mrs Nickleby, pausing to consider.
'Let me be sure I'm right. Was it her hairdresser who had escaped
from a bear, or was it a bear who had escaped from her hairdresser's?
I declare I can't remember just now, but the hairdresser was a very
handsome man, I know, and quite a gentleman in his manners; so that
it has nothing to do with the point of the story.'

Mrs Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her
retrospective moods, improved in temper from that moment, and glided,
by an easy change of the conversation occasionally, into various
other anecdotes, no less remarkable for their strict application to
the subject in hand.

'Mr Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs
Nickleby, after dinner, and when she had been silent for some
time.

'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not
forgotten his melancholy history.'

'O dear no,' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Ah! melancholy, indeed. You
don't happen, Mr Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of
Grimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding, do you?' said the good
lady, addressing herself to him. 'A very proud man, Sir Thomas
Grimble, with six grown-up and most lovely daughters, and the finest
park in the county.'

'My dear mother,' reasoned Nicholas, 'do you suppose that the
unfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receive many
cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in the
neighbourhood?'

'Really, my dear, I don't know why it should be so very
extraordinary,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I know that when I was at
school, I always went at least twice every half-year to the Hawkinses
at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer than the Grimbles, and
connected with them in marriage; so you see it's not so very
unlikely, after all.'

Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs Nickleby
was suddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an
irresistible tendency to call him Mr Slammons; which circumstance she
attributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names in point of
sound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt with an M.
But whatever doubt there might be on this point, there was none as to
his being a most excellent listener; which circumstance had
considerable influence in placing them on the very best terms, and
inducing Mrs Nickleby to express the highest opinion of his general
deportment and disposition.

Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and
agreeable footing, until the Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew
himself from it for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the state
of his affairs, and to determine, if he could, upon some course of
life, which would enable him to support those who were so entirely
dependent upon his exertions.

Mr Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate
was acquainted with the whole history of his connection with that
gentleman, his mother was not; and he foresaw a thousand fretful
objections, on her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage.
There were graver reasons, too, against his returning to that mode of
life. Independently of those arising out of its spare and precarious
earnings, and his own internal conviction that he could never hope to
aspire to any great distinction, even as a provincial actor, how
could he carry his sister from town to town, and place to place, and
debar her from any other associates than those with whom he would be
compelled, almost without distinction, to mingle? 'It won't do,'
said Nicholas, shaking his head; 'I must try something else.'

It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into
effect. With no greater experience of the world than he had acquired
for himself in his short trials; with a sufficient share of headlong
rashness and precipitation (qualities not altogether unnatural at his
time of life); with a very slender stock of money, and a still more
scanty stock of friends; what could he do? 'Egad!' said Nicholas,
'I'll try that Register Office again.'

He smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for,
an instant before, he had been internally blaming his own
precipitation. He did not laugh himself out of the intention,
however, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he approached the
place, all kinds of splendid possibilities, and impossibilities too,
for that matter, and thinking himself, perhaps with good reason, very
fortunate to be endowed with so buoyant and sanguine a
temperament.

The office looked just the same as when he had left it last,
and, indeed, with one or two exceptions, there seemed to be the very
same placards in the window that he had seen before. There were the
same unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous
servants, and the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable
masters and mistresses, and the same magnificent estates for the
investment of capital, and the same enormous quantities of capital to
be invested in estates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all
sorts for people who wanted to make their fortunes. And a most
extraordinary proof it was of the national prosperity, that people
had not been found to avail themselves of such advantages long
ago.

As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman
happened to stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the
window-panes from left to right in search of some capital-text
placard which should be applicable to his own case, caught sight of
this old gentleman's figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyes from
the window, to observe the same more closely.

He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, made
pretty large, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky
legs clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head
protected by a low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy
grazier might wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled
double chin rested in the folds of a white neckerchief--not one of
your stiff- starched apoplectic cravats, but a good, easy,
old-fashioned white neckcloth that a man might go to bed in and be
none the worse for. But what principally attracted the attention of
Nicholas was the old gentleman's eye,--never was such a clear,
twinkling, honest, merry, happy eye, as that. And there he stood,
looking a little upward, with one hand thrust into the breast of his
coat, and the other playing with his old-fashioned gold watch-chain:
his head thrown a little on one side, and his hat a little more on
one side than his head, (but that was evidently accident; not his
ordinary way of wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing about
his mouth, and such a comical expression of mingled slyness,
simplicity, kind- heartedness, and good-humour, lighting up his jolly
old face, that Nicholas would have been content to have stood there
and looked at him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile,
that there was such a thing as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance
to be met with in the whole wide world.

But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not
to be made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of having been
the subject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas; and the
latter, fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the window
instantly.

Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to
placard, and Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his face
again. Grafted upon the quaintness and oddity of his appearance, was
something so indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much worth,
and there were so many little lights hovering about the corners of
his mouth and eyes, that it was not a mere amusement, but a positive
pleasure and delight to look at him.

This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught
Nicholas in the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholas
coloured and looked embarrassed: for the truth is, that he had begun
to wonder whether the stranger could, by any possibility, be looking
for a clerk or secretary; and thinking this, he felt as if the old
gentleman must know it.

Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of
minutes in passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholas caught
his eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the moment, stammered out
an apology.

'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.

This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so
exactly what it should have been from such a speaker, and there was
such a cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas was emboldened to
speak again.

'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as
he motioned towards the window.

'A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have
seriously thought so very often, I dare say,' replied the old man.
'Poor fellows, poor fellows!'

He moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was
about to speak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were
unwilling to cut him short. After a little of that hesitation which
may be sometimes observed between two people in the street who have
exchanged a nod, and are both uncertain whether they shall turn back
and speak, or not, Nicholas found himself at the old man's side.

'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going
to say?'

'Merely that I almost hoped--I mean to say, thought--you had
some object in consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.

'Ay, ay? what object now--what object?' returned the old man,
looking slyly at Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now
--eh? Did you think I did?'

Nicholas shook his head.

'Ha! ha!' laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and
wrists as if he were washing them. 'A very natural thought, at all
events, after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same of
you, at first; upon my word I did.'

'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have
been far from the truth,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Eh?' cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot.
'What! Dear me! No, no. Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to
such a necessity! No no, no no.'

Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his
heel.

'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where
they could converse with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'

'Merely that your kind face and manner--both so unlike any I
have ever seen--tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other
stranger in this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of
making,' returned Nicholas.

'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It is a wilderness,'
said the old man with much animation. 'It was a wilderness to me
once. I came here barefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!'
and he raised his hat from his head, and looked very grave.

'What's the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?'
said the old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and
walking him up the street. 'You're--Eh?' laying his finger on the
sleeve of his black coat. 'Who's it for, eh?'

'My father,' replied Nicholas.

'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young
man to lose his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?'

Nicholas sighed.

'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'

'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.

'Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?'
said the old man, looking wistfully into the face of the young
one.

'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.

'Fine thing,' said the old gentleman, 'education a great thing:
a very great thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others.
A very fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me
hear it all. No impertinent curiosity--no, no, no.'

There was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which
all this was said, and such a complete disregard of all conventional
restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not resist it. Among
men who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so
contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection
instantly, and ran over the main points of his little history without
reserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as lightly as
possible upon his uncle's treatment of Kate. The old man listened
with great attention, and when he had concluded, drew his arm eagerly
through his own.

'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come
along with me. We mustn't lose a minute.'

So saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford
Street, and hailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushed
Nicholas in before him, and followed himself.

As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless
excitement, and whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediately
interposed with: 'Don't say another word, my dear sir, on any
account--not another word,' the young man thought it better to
attempt no further interruption. Into the city they journeyed
accordingly, without interchanging any conversation; and the farther
they went, the more Nicholas wondered what the end of the adventure
could possibly be.

The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they
reached the Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried
him along Threadneedle Street, and through some lanes and passages on
the right, until they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little
square. Into the oldest and cleanest-looking house of business in
the square, he led the way. The only inscription on the door-post
was 'Cheeryble, Brothers;' but from a hasty glance at the directions
of some packages which were lying about, Nicholas supposed that the
brothers Cheeryble were German merchants.

Passing through a warehouse which presented every indication of
a thriving business, Mr Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to
be, from the respect which had been shown him by the warehousemen and
porters whom they passed) led him into a little partitioned-off
counting-house like a large glass case, in which counting-house there
sat--as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed into the
glass case before the top was put on, and had never come out since--a
fat, elderly, large-faced clerk, with silver spectacles and a
powdered head.

'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble, with no
less kindness of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.

'Yes, he is, sir,' replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle-
glasses towards his principal, and his eyes towards Nicholas, 'but Mr
Trimmers is with him.'

'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble.

'He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a
man who was killed in the East India Docks this morning, sir,'
rejoined Tim. 'Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.'

'He is a good creature,' said Mr Cheeryble, with great
earnestness. 'He is a kind soul. I am very much obliged to Trimmers.
Trimmers is one of the best friends we have. He makes a thousand
cases known to us that we should never discover of ourselves. I am
very much obliged to Trimmers.' Saying which, Mr Cheeryble rubbed
his hands with infinite delight, and Mr Trimmers happening to pass
the door that instant, on his way out, shot out after him and caught
him by the hand.

'I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I
take it very friendly of you, very friendly indeed,' said Mr
Cheeryble, dragging him into a corner to get out of hearing. 'How
many children are there, and what has my brother Ned given,
Trimmers?'

'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your
brother has given us twenty pounds.'

'My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you're a good fellow too,
Trimmers,' said the old man, shaking him by both hands with trembling
eagerness. 'Put me down for another twenty--or--stop a minute, stop
a minute. We mustn't look ostentatious; put me down ten pound, and
Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound for Mr
Trimmers, Tim. God bless you, Trimmers--and come and dine with us
some day this week; you'll always find a knife and fork, and we shall
be delighted. Now, my dear sir--cheque from Mr Linkinwater, Tim.
Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor children--oh dear, dear,
dear!'

Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any
friendly remonstrances from the collector of the subscription on the
large amount of his donation, Mr Cheeryble led Nicholas, equally
astonished and affected by what he had seen and heard in this short
space, to the half-opened door of another room.

'Brother Ned,' said Mr Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, 'are you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare
time for a word or two with me?'

'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a voice from the
inside, so like in its tones to that which had just spoken, that
Nicholas started, and almost thought it was the same, 'don't ask me
such a question, but come in directly.'

They went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of
Nicholas when his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting
with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself--the
same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth,
the same breeches and gaiters--nay, there was the very same white hat
hanging against the wall!

As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted
up by beaming looks of affection, which would have been most
delightful to behold in infants, and which, in men so old, was
inexpressibly touching: Nicholas could observe that the last old
gentleman was something stouter than his brother; this, and a slight
additional shade of clumsiness in his gait and stature, formed the
only perceptible difference between them. Nobody could have doubted
their being twin brothers.

'Brother Ned,' said Nicholas's friend, closing the room-door,
'here is a young friend of mine whom we must assist. We must make
proper inquiries into his statements, in justice to him as well as to
ourselves, and if they are confirmed--as I feel assured they will
be--we must assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.'

'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,'
returned the other. 'When you say that, no further inquiries are
needed. He shall be assisted. What are his necessities, and what
does he require? Where is Tim Linkinwater? Let us have him
here.'

Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic
and earnest delivery; both had lost nearly the same teeth, which
imparted the same peculiarity to their speech; and both spoke as if,
besides possessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest and
most unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting the
plums from Fortune's choicest pudding, retained a few for present
use, and kept them in their mouths.

'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.

'Stop, stop, stop!' said brother Charles, taking the other
aside. 'I've a plan, my dear brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting
old, and Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don't
think pensioning Tim's mother and sister, and buying a little tomb
for the family when his poor brother died, was a sufficient
recompense for his faithful services.'

'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half
enough, not half.'

'If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the old gentleman, 'and
prevail upon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleep in
the fresh air, besides, two or three times a week (which he could, if
he began business an hour later in the morning), old Tim Linkinwater
would grow young again in time; and he's three good years our senior
now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I
recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy, don't you? Ha, ha,
ha! Poor Tim, poor Tim!'

And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with
a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

'But hear this first--hear this first, brother Ned,' said the
old man, hastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas:
'I'll tell it you myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman is
modest, and is a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn't feel it right that he
should tell us his story over and over again as if he was a beggar,
or as if we doubted him. No, no no.'

'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely.
'Very right, my dear brother, very right.'

'He will tell me I'm wrong, if I make a mistake,' said
Nicholas's friend. 'But whether I do or not, you'll be very much
affected, brother Ned, remembering the time when we were two
friendless lads, and earned our first shilling in this great
city.'

The twins pressed each other's hands in silence; and in his own
homely manner, brother Charles related the particulars he had heard
from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued was a long one, and
when it was over, a secret conference of almost equal duration took
place between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It is
no disparagement to Nicholas to say, that before he had been closeted
with the two brothers ten minutes, he could only wave his hand at
every fresh expression of kindness and sympathy, and sob like a
little child.

At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together,
when Tim instantly walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in
a very brief sentence (for Tim was ordinarily a man of few words),
that he had taken down the address in the Strand, and would call upon
him that evening, at eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his
spectacles and put them on, preparatory to hearing what more the
brothers Cheeryble had got to say.

'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an
intention of taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?'

Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and
quite approved of it; and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew
himself up and looked particularly fat, and very important. After
which, there was a profound silence.

'I'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,' said
Tim, breaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. 'I'm not
going to sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I'm not going into the
country either. A pretty thing at this time of day, certainly.
Pho!'

'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,' said brother Charles,
looking at him without the faintest spark of anger, and with a
countenance radiant with attachment to the old clerk. 'Damn your
obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what do you mean, sir?'

'It's forty-four year,' said Tim, making a calculation in the
air with his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up,
'forty-four year, next May, since I first kept the books of
Cheeryble, Brothers. I've opened the safe every morning all that
time (Sundays excepted) as the clock struck nine, and gone over the
house every night at half-past ten (except on Foreign Post nights,
and then twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors fastened, and
the fires out. I've never slept out of the back-attic one single
night. There's the same mignonette box in the middle of the window,
and the same four flower-pots, two on each side, that I brought with
me when I first came. There an't--I've said it again and again, and
I'll maintain it--there an't such a square as this in the world. I
know there an't,' said Tim, with sudden energy, and looking sternly
about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in summer-time or
winter--I don't care which--there's nothing like it. There's not such
a spring in England as the pump under the archway. There's not such a
view in England as the view out of my window; I've seen it every
morning before I shaved, and I ought to know something about it. I
have slept in that room,' added Tim, sinking his voice a little, 'for
four-and-forty year; and if it wasn't inconvenient, and didn't
interfere with business, I should request leave to die there.'

'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?'
roared the twins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses
violently.

'That's what I've got to say, Mr Edwin and Mr Charles,' said
Tim, squaring his shoulders again. 'This isn't the first time you've
talked about superannuating me; but, if you please, we'll make it the
last, and drop the subject for evermore.'

With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself
up in his glass case, with the air of a man who had had his say, and
was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.

The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen
times without speaking.

'He must be done something with, brother Ned,' said the other,
warmly; 'we must disregard his old scruples; they can't be tolerated,
or borne. He must be made a partner, brother Ned; and if he won't
submit to it peaceably, we must have recourse to violence.'

'Quite right,' replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man
thoroughly determined; 'quite right, my dear brother. If he won't
listen to reason, we must do it against his will, and show him that
we are determined to exert our authority. We must quarrel with him,
brother Charles.'

'We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim
Linkinwater,' said the other. 'But in the meantime, my dear brother,
we are keeping our young friend; and the poor lady and her daughter
will be anxious for his return. So let us say goodbye for the
present, and --there, there--take care of that box, my dear
sir--and--no, no, not a word now; but be careful of the crossings
and--'

And with any disjointed and unconnected words which would
prevent Nicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried
him out: shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting very
unsuccessfully--they were poor hands at deception!--to be wholly
unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.

Nicholas's heart was too full to allow of his turning into the
street until he had recovered some composure. When he at last glided
out of the dark doorway corner in which he had been compelled to
halt, he caught a glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at one
corner of the glass case, evidently undecided whether they should
follow up their late attack without delay, or for the present
postpone laying further siege to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.

To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances
just detailed awakened at Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that
were done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied in
consequence, is beside the present course and purpose of these
adventures. It is sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr Timothy
Linkinwater arrived, punctual to his appointment; that, oddity as he
was, and jealous, as he was bound to be, of the proper exercise of
his employers' most comprehensive liberality, he reported strongly
and warmly in favour of Nicholas; and that, next day, he was
appointed to the vacant stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble,
Brothers, with a present salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a
year.

'And I think, my dear brother,' said Nicholas's first friend,
'that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is
empty, at something under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?'

'For nothing at all,' said brother Ned. 'We are rich, and
should be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as
these. Where is Tim Linkinwater?--for nothing at all, my dear
brother, for nothing at all.'

'Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,'
suggested the other, mildly; 'it would help to preserve habits of
frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming
obligations. We might say fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it
was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. And I
might secretly advance a small loan towards a little furniture, and
you might secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned; and if we
find them doing well--as we shall; there's no fear, no fear--we can
change the loans into gifts. Carefully, brother Ned, and by degrees,
and without pressing upon them too much; what do you say now,
brother?'

Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should
be done, but had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took
possession of the stool, and Mrs Nickleby and Kate took possession of
the house, and all was hope, bustle, and light-heartedness.

There surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises
as the first week of that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came
home, something new had been found out. One day it was a grapevine,
and another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of
the front-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on
through a hundred items. Then, this room was embellished with a
muslin curtain, and that room was rendered quite elegant by a
window-blind, and such improvements were made, as no one would have
supposed possible. Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out
in the omnibus to stop a day or two and help, and who was perpetually
losing a very small brown-paper parcel of tin tacks and a very large
hammer, and running about with her sleeves tucked up at the wrists,
and falling off pairs of steps and hurting herself very much--and Mrs
Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and did something now and then, but
not often--and Kate, who busied herself noiselessly everywhere, and
was pleased with everything--and Smike, who made the garden a perfect
wonder to look upon--and Nicholas, who helped and encouraged them
every one--all the peace and cheerfulness of home restored, with such
new zest imparted to every frugal pleasure, and such delight to every
hour of meeting, as misfortune and separation alone could give!

In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the
rich Nickleby was alone and miserable.