“Ah! Mr. Noggs!” cried Arthur Gride, rubbing his hands. “My good friend, Mr. Noggs, what news do you bring for me?”
Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixed eye very fixed indeed, replied, suiting the action to the word, “A letter. From Mr. Nickleby. Bearer waits.”
“Won’t you take a—a—”
Newman looked up, and smacked his lips.
“—A chair?” said Arthur Gride.
“No,” replied Newman. “Thankee.”
Arthur opened the letter with trembling hands, and devoured its contents with the utmost greediness; chuckling rapturously over it, and reading it several times, before he could take it from before his eyes. So many times did he peruse and re-peruse it, that Newman considered it expedient to remind him of his presence.
“Answer,” said Newman. “Bearer waits.”
“True,” replied old Arthur. “Yes—yes; I almost forgot, I do declare.”
“I thought you were forgetting,” said Newman.
“Quite right to remind me, Mr. Noggs. Oh, very right indeed,” said Arthur. “Yes. I’ll write a line. I’m—I’m—rather flurried, Mr. Noggs. The news is—”
“Bad?” interrupted Newman.
“No, Mr. Noggs, thank you; good, good. The very best of news. Sit down. I’ll get the pen and ink, and write a line in answer. I’ll not detain you long. I know you’re a treasure to your master, Mr. Noggs. He speaks of you in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you’d be astonished. I may say that I do too, and always did. I always say the same of you.”
“That’s ‘Curse Mr. Noggs with all my heart!’ then, if you do,” thought Newman, as Gride hurried out.
The letter had fallen on the ground. Looking carefully about him for an instant, Newman, impelled by curiosity to know the result of the design he had overheard from his office closet, caught it up and rapidly read as follows:
“Gride.
“I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day after tomorrow (as you suggested) for the marriage. There is no objection on his part, and all days are alike to his daughter. We will go together, and you must be with me by seven in the morning. I need not tell you to be punctual.
“Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You have been there, of late, much oftener than you should. She does not languish for you, and it might have been dangerous. Restrain your youthful ardour for eight-and-forty hours, and leave her to the father. You only undo what he does, and does well.
A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter on the same spot again, pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering away, regained his seat in a single stride, and looked as vacant and unconscious as ever mortal looked. Arthur Gride, after peering nervously about him, spied it on the ground, picked it up, and sitting down to write, glanced at Newman Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an intensity so remarkable, that Arthur was quite alarmed.
“Do you see anything particular, Mr. Noggs?” said Arthur, trying to follow the direction of Newman’s eyes—which was an impossibility, and a thing no man had ever done.
“Only a cobweb,” replied Newman.
“Oh! is that all?”
“No,” said Newman. “There’s a fly in it.”
“There are a good many cobwebs here,” observed Arthur Gride.
“So there are in our place,” returned Newman; “and flies too.”
Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and to the great discomposure of Arthur Gride’s nerves, produced a series of sharp cracks from his finger-joints, resembling the noise of a distant discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing his reply to Ralph’s note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the eccentric messenger for delivery.
“That’s it, Mr. Noggs,” said Gride.
Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when Gride, whose doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and said, in a shrill whisper, and with a grin which puckered up his whole face, and almost obscured his eyes:
“Will you—will you take a little drop of something—just a taste?”
In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would not have drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever made; but to see what he would be at, and to punish him as much as he could, he accepted the offer immediately.
Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaint bottles: some with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle of promising appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.
“You never tasted this,” said Arthur. “It’s eau-d’or—golden water. I like it on account of its name. It’s a delicious name. Water of gold, golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!”
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses, and clinked it, twice or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled it—though not to the brim—and then filled his own.
“Stop, stop; don’t drink it yet,” he said, laying his hand on Newman’s; “it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste, which is ve—ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand, and tease myself. We’ll drink a toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr. Noggs?”
“Ah!” said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. “Look sharp. Bearer waits.”
“Why, then, I’ll tell you what,” tittered Arthur, “we’ll drink—he, he, he!—we’ll drink a lady.”
“The ladies?” said Newman.
“No, no, Mr. Noggs,” replied Gride, arresting his hand, “A lady. You wonder to hear me say A lady. I know you do, I know you do. Here’s little Madeline. That’s the toast. Mr. Noggs. Little Madeline!”
“Madeline!” said Newman; inwardly adding, “and God help her!”
The
