LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

      ‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

      ‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the—clergyman.’

      ‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. ‘Angel! Certainly—this moment!’

      ‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the door; ‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.’

      ‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

      ‘Oh! Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and she left the room.

      Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

      ‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

      ‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

      ‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

      ‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle. ‘Hush—I’m going to the clergyman.’

      ‘No!’ said Parsons. ‘How well you have managed it!’

      ‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

      ‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane. He’s waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could have carried it off so!’

      Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat.

      ‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

      ‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?’

      Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.

      ‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.’

      ‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

      ‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

      ‘Mr. Charles is at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.’

      ‘I am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

      ‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.

      ‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.’

      ‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; ‘Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

      They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

      ‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

      ‘How do you do, sir?’ replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was.

      ‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked-hat.

      ‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour. ‘Pray sit down.’

      Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

      Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. ‘May I ask,’ he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, ‘whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?’

      ‘Our friend is in my confidence,’ replied Watkins, with considerable importance.

      ‘Then, sir,’ said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, ‘allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part you have acted in this affair.’

      ‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle. ‘Confound these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.’

      ‘I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,’ continued Timson. ‘Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few men who would have acted as you have done.’

      Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily, ‘When is it to be?’

      ‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at half-past eight.’

      ‘Uncommonly early,’ observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant self-denial. ‘I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.’ (This was intended for a joke.)

      ‘Never mind, my dear fellow,’ replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, ‘so long as we see you to breakfast, you know—’

      ‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

      ‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

      ‘I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,’ replied Timson, ‘we will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.’

      Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson with appalling perseverance.

      ‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm, ‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’

      Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs. Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’

      ‘Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,’ angrily exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson,—‘but have the goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?’

      ‘This note,’ replied Timson, ‘is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have

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