“Here is the letter for Ralph,” said Nicholas, “and here the key. When you come to me this evening, not a word of last night. Ill news travels fast, and they will know it soon enough. Have you heard if he was much hurt?”
Newman shook his head.
“I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,” said Nicholas.
“You had better take some rest,” returned Newman. “You are fevered and ill.”
Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing the indisposition he really felt, now that the excitement which had sustained him was over, took a hurried farewell of Newman Noggs, and left him.
Newman was not three minutes’ walk from Golden Square, but in the course of that three minutes he took the letter out of his hat and put it in again twenty times at least. First the front, then the back, then the sides, then the superscription, then the seal, were objects of Newman’s admiration. Then he held it at arm’s length as if to take in the whole at one delicious survey, and then he rubbed his hands in a perfect ecstasy with his commission.
He reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laid the letter and key upon the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes, the well-known creaking of his boots was heard on the stairs, and then the bell rung.
“Has the post come in?”
“No.”
“Any other letters?”
“One.” Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.
“What’s this?” asked Ralph, taking up the key.
“Left with the letter;—a boy brought them—quarter of an hour ago, or less.”
Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as follows:—
“You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I could heap upon your head which would carry with them one thousandth part of the grovelling shame that this assurance will awaken even in your breast.
“Your brother’s widow and her orphan child spurn the shelter of your roof, and shun you with disgust and loathing. Your kindred renounce you, for they know no shame but the ties of blood which bind them in name with you.
“You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May every recollection of your life cling to your false heart, and cast their darkness on your deathbed.”
Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fell into a fit of musing; the paper fluttered from his hand and dropped upon the floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held it still.
Suddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it all crumpled into his pocket, turned furiously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask him why he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved, with his back towards him, following up, with the worn and blackened stump of an old pen, some figures in an interest-table which was pasted against the wall, and apparently quite abstracted from every other object.
XXXIV
Wherein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is visited by persons with whom the reader has been already made acquainted.
“What a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this confounded old cracked teakettle of a bell, every tinkle of which is enough to throw a strong man into blue convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh demmit,”—said Mr. Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he spoke, on Ralph Nickleby’s scraper.
“I didn’t hear the bell more than once,” replied Newman.
“Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,” said Mr. Mantalini, “as deaf as a demnition post.”
Mr. Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making his way to the door of Ralph’s office with very little ceremony, when Newman interposed his body; and hinting that Mr. Nickleby was unwilling to be disturbed, inquired whether the client’s business was of a pressing nature.
“It is most demnebly particular,” said Mr. Mantalini. “It is to melt some scraps of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling, demd mint sauce.”
Newman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr. Mantalini’s proffered card, limped with it into his master’s office. As he thrust his head in at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed the thoughtful posture into which he had fallen after perusing his nephew’s letter, and that he seemed to have been reading it again, as he once more held it open in his hand. The glance was but momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed, turned to demand the cause of the interruption.
As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and grasping Ralph’s horny hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he had never seen him looking so well in all his life.
“There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance,” said Mr. Mantalini, seating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and whiskers. “You look quite juvenile and jolly, demmit!”
“We are alone,” returned Ralph, tartly. “What do you want with me?”
“Good!” cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his teeth. “What did I want! Yes. Ha, ha! Very good. What did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!”
“What do you want, man?” demanded Ralph, sternly.
“Demnition discount,” returned Mr. Mantalini, with a grin, and shaking his head waggishly.
“Money is scarce,” said Ralph.
“Demd scarce, or I shouldn’t want it,” interrupted Mr. Mantalini.
“The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,” continued Ralph. “I don’t want to do business just now, in fact I would rather not; but as you are a friend—how many bills have you there?”
“Two,” returned Mr. Mantalini.
“What is the gross amount?”
“Demd trifling—five-and-seventy.”
“And the dates?”
“Two months, and four.”
“I’ll do them for you—mind, for you; I wouldn’t for many people—for five-and-twenty pounds,” said Ralph, deliberately.
“Oh demmit!” cried Mr. Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably at this handsome proposal.
“Why, that leaves you fifty,” retorted Ralph. “What would you have? Let me see the names.”
“You are so demd hard, Nickleby,” remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.
“Let me see the names,” replied Ralph, impatiently extending his hand for the bills. “Well! They are not sure, but they are safe
