Bab Bab 17 · A Perfidious Ally

. A Perfidious Ally

"But homeward--home--what home? had he a home?

His home--he walk'd;

Then down the long street having slowly stolen,

His heart foreshadowing all calamity,

His eyes upon the stones, he reached his home."

Paul had been careful, whilst in the hearing of his friends, to give the

cabman a fictitious address, but as soon as he reached the Euston Road,

he stopped the man and ordered him to put him down at the church near

the south end of Westbourne Terrace, for he dared not drive up openly to

his own door.

At last he found himself standing safely on the pavement, looking down

the long line of yellow lamps of his own terrace, only a few hundred

yards from home.

But though his purpose was now within easy reach, his spirits were far

from high; his anxiety had returned with tenfold power; he felt no

eagerness or exultation; on the contrary, the task he had set himself

had never before seemed so hopeless, so insurmountable.

He stood for some time by the railing of the church, which was lighted

up for evening service, listening blankly to the solemn drone of the

organ within, unable to summon up resolution to move from the spot and

present himself to his unsuspecting family.

It was a cold night, with a howling wind, and high in the blue black sky

fleecy clouds were coursing swiftly along; he obliged himself to set out

at last, and walked down the flags towards his house, shivering as much

from nervousness as cold.

There was a dance somewhere in the terrace that evening, a large one; as

far as he could see there were close ranks of carriages with blazing

lamps, and he even fancied he could hear the shouts of the link-boys and

the whistles summoning cabs.

As he came nearer, he had a hideous suspicion, which soon became a

certainty, that the entertainment was at his own house; worse still, it

was of a kind and on a scale calculated to shock and horrify any prudent

householder and father of a family.

The balcony above the portico was positively hung with gaudy Chinese

lanterns, and there were even some strange sticks and shapes up in one

corner that looked suspiciously like fireworks. Fireworks in Westbourne

Terrace! What would the neighbours think or do?

Between the wall which separates the main road from the terrace and the

street front there were no less than four piano-organs, playing, it is

to be feared, by express invitation; and there was the usual crowd of

idlers and loungers standing about by the awning stretched over the

portico, listening to the music and loud laughter which came from the

brilliantly lighted upper rooms.

Paul remembered then, too late, that Barbara in that memorable letter

of hers had mentioned a grand children's party as being in

contemplation. Dick had held his tongue about it that morning; and he

himself had not thought it was to be so soon.

For an instant he felt almost inclined to turn away and give the whole

thing up in sick despair--even to return to Market Rodwell and brave the

Doctor's anger; for how could he hope to explain matters to his family

and servants, or get the Garuda Stone safely into his hands again before

all these guests, in the whirl and tumult of an evening party?

And yet he dared not, after all, go back to Crichton House--that was too

terrible an alternative, and he obviously could not roam the world to

any extent, a runaway schoolboy to all appearance, and with less than a

sovereign in his pocket!

After a short struggle, he felt he must make his way in, watch and wait,

and leave the rest to chance. It was his evil fate, after all, that had

led him on to make his escape on this night of all others, and had

allowed him to come through so much, only to be met with these

unforeseen complications just when he might have imagined the worst was

over.

He forced his way through the staring crowd, and went down the steps

into the area; for he naturally shrank from braving the front door, with

its crowd of footmen and hired waiters.

He found the door in the basement open, which was fortunate, and slipped

quietly through the pantry, intending to reach the hall by the kitchen

stairs. But here another check met him. The glass door which led to the

stairs happened to be shut, and he heard voices in the kitchen, which

convinced him that if he wished to escape notice he must wait quietly in

the darkness until the door was opened for him, whenever that might be.

The door from the pantry to the kitchen was partly open, however, and

Mr. Bultitude could not avoid hearing everything that passed there,

although every fresh word added to his uneasiness, until at last he

would have given worlds to escape from his involuntary position of

eavesdropper.

There were only two persons just then in the kitchen: his cook, who,

still in her working dress, was refreshing herself after her labours

over the supper with a journal of some sort, and the housemaid, who, in

neat gala costume, was engaged in fastening a pin more securely in her

white cap.

"They haven't give me a answer yet, Eliza," said the cook, looking up

from her paper.

"Lor, cook!" said Eliza, "you couldn't hardly expect it, seeing you only

wrote on Friday."

"No more I did, Eliza. You see it on'y began to come into my mind sudden

like this last week. I'm sure I no more dreamt----. But they've answered

a lady who's bin in much the same situation as me aperiently. You just

'ark to this a minute." And she proceeded to read from her paper:

"'_Lady Bird._--You ask us (1) what are the signs by which you may

recognise the first dawnings of your lover's affection. On so delicate a

matter we are naturally averse from advising you; your own heart must be

your best guide. But perhaps we may mention a few of the most usual and

infallible symptoms'--What sort of a thing is a symptim, Eliza?"

"A symptim, cook," explained Eliza, "is somethink wrong with the inside.

Her at my last place in Cadogan Square had them uncommon bad. She was

what they call aesthetical, pore young thing. Them infallible ones are

always the worst."

"It don't seem to make sense though, Eliza," objected cook doubtfully.

"Hear how it goes on: 'Infallible symptoms. If you have truly inspired

him with a genuine and lasting passion' (don't he write beautiful?)

'passion, he will continually haunt those places in which you are most

likely to be found' (I couldn't tell you the times master's bin down in

my kitching this last week); 'he will appear awkward and constrained in

your presence' (anything more awkward than master _I_ never set eyes on.

He's knocked down one of the best porcelain vegetables this very

afternoon!); 'he will beg for any little favours, some trifle, it may

be, made by your own hand' (master's always a-asking if I've got any of

those doughnuts to give away); 'and, if granted, he will treasure them

in secret with pride and rapture' (I don't think master kep' any of them

doughnuts though, Eliza. I saw him swaller five; but you couldn't

treasure a doughnut, not to mention---- I'll make him a pincushion when

I've time, and see what he does with it). 'If you detect all these

indications of liking in the person you suspect of paying his addresses

to you, you may safely reckon upon bringing him to your feet in a very

short space of time. (2) Yes, fuller's earth will make them exquisitely

white.'"

"There, Eliza!" said cook, with some pride, when she had finished; "if

it had been meant for me it couldn't have been clearer. Ain't it written

nice? And on'y to think of my bringing master to my feet! It seems

almost too much for a cook to expect!"

"I wouldn't say so, cook; I wouldn't. Have some proper pride. Don't let

him think he's only to ask and have! Why, in the _London Journal_ last

week there was a dook as married a governess; and I should 'ope as a

cook ranked above a governess. Nor yet master ain't a dook; he's only in

the City! But are you sure he's not only a-trifling with your

affections, cook? He's bin very affable and pleasant with all of us

lately."

"It ain't for me to speak too positive, Eliza," said cook almost

bashfully, "nor to lay bare the feelings of a bosom, beyond what's right

and proper. You're young yet, Eliza, and don't understand these

things--leastways, it's to be hoped not" (Eliza having apparently tossed

her head); "but do you remember that afternoon last week as master

stayed at home a-playin' games with the children? I was a-goin' upstairs

to fetch my thimble, and there, on the bedroom landin', was master all

alone, with one of Master Dick's toy-guns in his 'and, and a old slouch

'at on his head.

"'Have you got a pass, cook?' he says, and my 'art came right up into my

mouth, he looked that severe and lofty at me. I thought he was put out

about something."

"I said I didn't know as it was required, but I could get one, I says,

not knowing what he was alludin' to all the same."

"But he says, quite soft and tender-like," (here Paul shivered with

shame), "'No, you needn't do that, cook, there ain't any occasion for

it; only,' he says, 'if you haven't got no pass, you'll have to give me

a kiss, you know, cook!' I thought I should have sunk through the

stairs, I was that overcome. I saw through his rouge with half an eye."

"Why, he said the same to me," said Eliza, "only I had a pass, as luck

had it, which Miss Barbara give me. I'd ha' boxed his ears if he'd tried

it, too, master or no master!"

"You talk light, Eliza," said the cook sentimentally, "but you weren't

there to see. It wasn't only the words, it was the way he said it, and

the 'ug he gave me at the time. It was as good as a proposial. And, I

tell you, whatever you may say--and mark my words--I 'ave 'opes!"

"Then, if I was you, cook," said Eliza, "I'd try if I could get him to

speak out plain in writing; then, whatever came of it, there'd be as

good as five hundred pounds in your pockets."

"Love-letters!" cried the cook, "why, Lord love you, Eliza---- Why,

William, how you made me jump! I thought you was up seein' to the

supper-table."

"The pastrycook's man is looking after all that, Jane," said Boaler's

voice. "I've been up outside the droring-room all this time, lookin' at

the games goin' on in there. It's as good as a play to see the way as

master is a unbendin' of himself, and such a out and out stiff-un as he

used to be, too! But it ain't what I like to see in a respectable house.

I'm glad I give warning. It doesn't do for a man in my position to

compromise his character by such goings on. I never see anything like it

in any families I lived with before. Just come up and see for yourself.

You needn't mind about cleanin' of yourself--they won't see you."

So the cook allowed herself to be persuaded by Boaler, and the two went

up to the hall, and, to Mr. Bultitude's intense relief, forgot to close

the glazed door which cut him off from the staircase.

As he followed them upstairs at a cautious interval, and thought over

what he had just so unwillingly overheard, he felt as one who had just

been subjected to a moral showerbath. "That dreadful woman!" he groaned.

"Who would have dreamed that she would get such horrible ideas into her

head? I shall never be able to look either of those women in the face

again: they will both have to go--and she made such excellent soup, too.

I do hope that miserable Dick has not been fool enough to write to

her--but no, that's too absurd."

But more than ever he began to wish that he had stayed in the

playground.

When he reached the hall he stood there for some moments in anxious

deliberation over his best course of proceeding. His main idea was to

lie in wait somewhere for Dick, and try the result of an appeal to his

better feelings to acknowledge his outcast parent and abdicate

gracefully.

If that failed, and there was every reason to expect that it would fail,

he must threaten to denounce him before the whole party. It would cause

a considerable scandal no doubt, and be extremely repugnant to his own

feelings, but still he must do it, or frighten Dick by threatening to do

it, and at all hazards he must contrive during the interview to snatch

or purloin the magic stone; without that he was practically helpless.

He looked round him: the study was piled up with small boys' hats and

coats, and in one corner was a kind of refined bar, where till lately a

trim housemaid had been dispensing coffee and weak lemonade; she might

return at any moment, he would not be safe there.

Nor would the dining-room be more secluded, for in it there was an

elaborate supper being laid out by the waiters which, as far as he could

see through the crack in the door, consisted chiefly of lobsters,

trifle, and pink champagne. He felt a grim joy at the sight, more than

he would suffer for this night's festivities.

As he stole about, with a dismal sense of the unfitness of his sneaking

about his own house in this guilty fashion, he became gradually aware of

the scent of a fine cigar, one of his own special Cabanas. He wondered

who had the impudence to trespass on his cigar-chest; it could hardly be

one of the children.

He traced the scent to a billiard room which he had built out at the

side of the house, which was a corner one, and going down to the door

opened it sharply and walked in.

Comfortably imbedded in the depths of a long well-padded lounging chair,

with a spirit case and two or three bottles of soda water at his elbow,

sat a man who was lazily glancing through the _Field_ with his feet

resting on the mantelpiece, one on each side of the blazing fire. He was

a man of about the middle size, with a face rather bronzed and reddened

by climate, a nose slightly aquiline and higher in colour, quick black

eyes with an uneasy glance in them, bushy black whiskers, more like the

antiquated "Dundreary" type than modern fashion permits, and a wide

flexible mouth.

Paul knew him at once, though he had not seen him for some years; it was

Paradine, his disreputable brother-in-law--the "Uncle Marmaduke" who, by

importing the mysterious Garuda Stone, had brought all these woes upon

him; he noticed at once that his appearance was unusually prosperous,

and that the braided smoking coat he wore over his evening clothes was

new and handsome. "No wonder," he thought bitterly, "the fellow has been

living on me for a week!" He stood by the cue-rack looking at him for

some time, and then he said with a cold ironic dignity that (if he had

known it) came oddly from his boyish lips: "I hope you are making

yourself quite comfortable?"

Marmaduke put down his cigar and stared: "Uncommonly attentive and

polite of you to inquire," he said at last, with a dubious smile, which

showed a row of very white teeth, "whoever you are. If it will relieve

your mind at all to know, young man, I'm happy to say I am tolerably

comfortable, thanks."

"I--I concluded as much," said Paul, nearly choked with rage.

"You've been very nicely brought up," said Uncle Marmaduke, "I can see

that at a glance. So you've come in here, like me, eh? because the

children bore you, and you want a quiet gossip over the world in

general? Sit down then, take a cigar, if you don't think it will make

you very unwell. I shouldn't recommend it myself, you know, before

supper--but you're a man of the world and know what's good for you. Come

along, enjoy yourself till you find yourself getting queer--then drop

it."

Mr. Bultitude had always detested the man--there was an underbred

swagger and familiarity in his manner that made him indescribably

offensive; just now he seemed doubly detestable, and yet Paul by a

strong effort succeeded in controlling his temper.

He could not afford to make enemies just then, and objectionable as the

man was, his astuteness made him a valuable ally; he determined, without

considering the risk of making such a confident, to tell him all and ask

his advice and help.

"Don't you know me, Paradine?"

"I don't think I have the privilege--you're one of Miss Barbara's

numerous young friends, I suppose? and yet, now I look at you, you

don't seem to be exactly got up for an evening party; there's something

in your voice, too, I ought to know."

"You ought," said Paul, with a gulp. "My name is Paul Bultitude!"

"To be sure!" cried Marmaduke. "By Jove, then, you're my young nephew,

don't you know; I'm your long-lost uncle, my boy, I am indeed (I'll

excuse you from coming to my arms, however; I never was good at family

embraces). But, I say, you little rascal, you've never been asked to

these festivities, you ought to be miles away, fast asleep in your bed

at school. What in the name of wonder are you doing here?"

"I've--left school," said Paul.

"So I perceive. Sulky because they left you out of all this, eh? Thought

you'd turn up in the middle of the banquet, like the spectre

bridegroom--'the worms they crawled in, and the worms they crawled out,'

eh? Well, I like your pluck, but, ahem--I'm afraid you'll find they've

rather an unpleasant way of laying your kind of apparitions."

"Never mind about that," said Paul hurriedly; "I have something I must

tell you--I've no time to lose. I'm a desperate man!"

"You are," Paradine assented with a loud laugh, "oh, you are indeed! 'a

desperate man.' Capital! a stern chase, eh? the schoolmaster close

behind with the birch! It's quite exciting, you know, but, seriously,

I'm very much afraid you'll catch it!"

"If," began Mr. Bultitude in great embarrassment, "if I was to tell you

that I was not myself at all--but somebody else, a--in fact, an entirely

different person from what I seem to you to be--I suppose you would

laugh?"

"I beg your pardon," said his brother-in-law politely, "I don't think I

quite catch the idea."

"When I assure you now, solemnly, as I stand here before you, that I am

not the miserable boy whose form I am condemned to--to wear, you'll say

it is incredible?"

"Not at all--by no means, I quite believe you. Only (really it's a mere

detail), but I should rather like to know, if you're not that particular

boy, what other boy you may happen to be. You'll forgive my curiosity."

"I'm not a boy at all--I'm your own unhappy brother-in-law, Paul! You

don't believe me, I see."

"Oh, pardon me, it's perfectly clear! you're not your own son, but your

own father--it's a little confusing at first, but no doubt common

enough. I'm glad you mentioned it, though."

"Go on," said Paul bitterly, "make light of it--you fancy you are being

very clever, but you will find out the truth in time!"

"Not without external assistance, I'm afraid," said Paradine calmly. "A

more awful little liar for your age I never saw!"

"I'm tired of this," said Paul. "Only listen to reason and common

sense!"

"Only give me a chance."

"I tell you," protested Paul earnestly, "it's the sober awful truth--I'm

not a boy, it's years since I was a boy--I'm a middle-aged man, thrust

into this, this humiliating form."

"Don't say that," murmured the other; "it's an excellent fit--very

becoming, I assure you."

"Do you want to drive me mad with your clumsy jeers?" cried Paul. "Look

at me. Do I speak, do I behave, like an ordinary schoolboy?"

"I really hope not--for the sake of the rising generation," said Uncle

Marmaduke, chuckling at his own powers of repartee.

"You are very jaunty to-day--you look as if you were well off," said

Paul slowly. "I remember a time when a certain bill was presented to me,

drawn by you, and appearing to be accepted (long before I ever saw it)

by me. I consented to meet it for my poor Maria's sake, and because to

disown my signature would have ruined you for life. Do you remember how

you went down on your knees in my private room and swore you would

reform and be a credit to your family yet? You weren't quite so well

off, or so jaunty then, unless I am very much mistaken."

These words had an extraordinary effect upon Uncle Marmaduke; he turned

ashy white, and his quick eyes shifted restlessly as he half rose from

his chair and threw away his unfinished cigar.

"You young hound!" he said, breathing hard and speaking under his

breath. "How did you get hold of that--that lying story? Your father

must have let it out! Why do you bring up bygones like this? You--you're

a confounded, disagreeable little prig! Who told you to play an

ill-natured trick of this sort on an uncle, who may have been wild and

reckless in his youth--was in fact--but who never, never misused his

relation towards you as--as an uncle?"

"How did I get hold of the story?" said Paul, observing the impression

he had made. "Do you think if I were really a boy of thirteen I should

know as much about you as I do? Do you want to know more? Ask, if you

dare! Shall I tell you how it was you left your army coach without going

up for examination? Will you have the story of your career in my old

friend Parkinson's counting-house, or the real reason of your trip to

New York, or what it was that made your father add that codicil, cutting

you off with a set of engravings of the 'Rake's Progress,' and a guinea

to pay for framing them? I can tell you all about it, if you care to

hear."

"No!" shrieked Paradine, "I won't listen. When you grow up, ask your

father to buy you a cheap Society journal. You're cut out for an editor

of one. It doesn't interest me."

"Do you believe my story or not?" asked Paul.

"I don't know. Who could believe it?" said the other sullenly. "How can

you possibly account for it?"

"Do you remember giving Maria a little sandal-wood box with a small

stone in it?" said Paul.

"I have some recollection of giving her something of that kind. A

curiosity, wasn't it?"

"I wish I had never seen it. That infernal stone, Paradine, has done all

this to me. Did no one tell you it was supposed to have any magic

power?"

"Why, now I think of it, that old black rascal, Bindabun Doss, did try

to humbug me with some such story; said it was believed to be a

talisman, but the secret was lost. I thought it was just his stingy way

of trying to make the rubbish out as something priceless, as it ought to

have been, considering all I did for the old ruffian."

"You told Maria it was a talisman. Bindabun what's-his-name was right.

It is a talisman of the deadliest sort. I'll soon convince you, if you

will only hear me out."

And then, in white-hot wrath and indignation, Mr. Bultitude began to

tell the story I have already attempted to sketch here, dwelling

bitterly on Dick's heartless selfishness and cruelty, and piteously on

his own incredible sufferings, while Uncle Marmaduke, lolling back in

his armchair with an attempt (which was soon abandoned) to retain a

smile of amused scepticism on his face, heard him out in complete

silence and with all due gravity.

Indeed, Paul's manner left him no room for further unbelief. His tale,

wild and improbable as it was, was too consistent and elaborate for any

schoolboy to have invented, and, besides, the imposture would have been

so entirely purposeless.

When his brother-in-law had come to the end of his sad history, Paradine

was silent for some time. It was some relief to know that the darkest

secrets of his life had not been ferreted out by a phenomenally sharp

nephew; but the change in the situation was not without its

drawbacks--it remained to be seen how it might affect himself. He

already saw his reign in Westbourne Terrace threatened with a speedy

determination unless he played his cards well.

"Well," he said at last, with a swift, keen glance at Paul, who sat

anxiously waiting for his next words; "suppose I were to say that I

think there may be something in this story of yours, what then? What is

it you want me to do for you?"

"Why," said Paul, "with all you owe to me, now you know the horrible

injustice I have had to bear, you surely don't mean to say that you

won't help me to right myself?"

"And if I did help you, what then?"

"Why, I should be able to recover all I have lost, of course," said Mr.

Bultitude. He thought his brother-in-law had grown very dull.

"Ah, but I mean, what's to become of _me_?"

"You?" repeated Paul (he had not thought of that). "Well, hum, from what

I know and what you know that I know about your past life, you can't

expect me to encourage you to remain here?"

"No," said Uncle Marmaduke. "Of course not; very right and proper."

"But," said Paul, willing to make all reasonable concessions, "anything

I can do to advance your prospects--such as paying your passage out to

New York, you know, and so on--I should be very ready to do."

"Thank you!" said the other.

"And even, if necessary, provide you with a small fund to start afresh

upon--honestly," said Paul; "you will not find me difficult to deal

with."

"It's a dazzling proposition," remarked Paradine drily. "You have such

an alluring way of putting things. But the fact, is, you'll hardly

believe it, but I'm remarkably well off here. I am indeed. Your son, you

know, though not you (except as a mere matter of form), really makes, as

they say of the marmalade in the advertisements, an admirable

substitute. I doubt, I do assure you, whether you yourself would have

received me with quite the same warmth and hospitality I have met with

from him."

"So do I," said Paul; "very much."

"Just so; for, without your admirable business capacity and

extraordinary firmness of character, you know, he has, if you'll excuse

my saying so, a more open guileless nature, a more entire and touching

faith in his fellow-man and brother-in-law, than were ever yours."

"To say that to me," said Paul hotly, "is nothing less than sheer

impudence."

"My dear Paul (it does seem deuced odd to be talking to a little shrimp

like you as a grown-up brother-in-law. I shall get used to it presently,

I daresay). I flatter myself I am a man of the world. We're dealing with

one another now, as the lawyers have it, at arm's length. Just put

yourself in my place (you're so remarkably good at putting yourself in

other people's places, you know). Look at the thing from my point of

view. Accidentally dropping in at your offices to negotiate (if I could)

a small temporary loan from anyone I chanced to meet on the premises, I

find myself, to my surprise, welcomed with effusion into what I then

imagined to be your arms. More than that, I was invited here for an

indefinite time, all my little eccentricities unmentioned, overlooked. I

was deeply touched (it struck me, I confess, at one time that you must

be touched too), but I made the best use of my opportunities. I made hay

while the sun shone."

"Do you mean to make me lose my temper?" interrupted Paul. "It will not

take much more."

"I have no objection. I find men as a rule easier to deal with when they

have once lost their temper, their heads so often go too. But to return:

a man with nerve and his fair share of brains, like myself, only wants a

capitalist (he need not be a millionaire) at his back to conquer the

world. It's not by any means my first campaign, and I've had my

reverses, but I see victory in my grasp, sir, in my grasp at last!"

Paul groaned.

"Now you--it's not your fault, I know, a mere defect of constitution;

but you, as a speculator, were, if I may venture to put it so, not worth

your salt; no boldness, no dash, all caution. But your promising son is

a regular whale on speculation, and I may tell you that we stand in

together in some little ventures that would very probably make your hair

stand on end--_you_ wouldn't have touched them. And yet there's money in

every one of them."

"_My_ money!" said Paul savagely; "and it won't come out again."

"You don't know much about these things, you see," said Marmaduke; "I

tell you I have my eye on some fine openings for capital."

"Your pockets always were very fine openings for capital," retorted

Paul.

"Ha, ha, deuced sharp that! But, to come to the point, you were always a

sensible practical kind of a fellow, and you must see, that, for me to

back you up and upset this young rascal who has stepped into your

slippers, might be morally meritorious enough, but, treating it from a

purely pecuniary point of view, it's not business."

"I see," said Mr. Bultitude heavily; "then you side against me?"

"Did I ever say I would side against you? Let us hear first what you

propose to do."

Paul, upon this, explained that, as he believed the Stone still retained

its power of granting one wish to any other person who happened to get

hold of it, his idea was to get possession of it somehow from Dick, who

probably would have it about him somewhere, and then pass it on to some

one whom he could trust not to misuse it so basely.

"A good idea that, Paul, my boy," said Paradine, smiling; "but you

don't imagine our young friend would be quite such an idiot as not to

see your game! Why, he would pitch the Stone in the gutter or stamp it

to powder, rather than let you get hold of it."

"He's quite capable of it," said Paul; "in fact, he threatened to do

worse than that. I doubt if I shall ever be able to manage it myself;

but what am I to do? I must try, and I've no time to lose about it

either."

"I tell you this," said Marmaduke, "if you let him see you here, it's

all up with you. What you want is some friend to manage this for you,

some one he won't suspect. Now, suppose I were willing to risk it for

you?"

"You!" cried Paul, with involuntary distrust.

"Why not?" said Marmaduke, with a touch of feeling. "Ah, I see, you

can't trust me. You've got an idea into your head that I'm a

thorough-paced rascal, without a trace of human feeling about me. I

daresay I deserve it, I daresay I do; but it's not generous, my boy, for

all that. I hope to show you your mistake yet, if you give me the

chance. You allow yourself to be prejudiced by the past, that's where

you make your mistake. I only put before you clearly and plainly what it

was I was giving up in helping you. A fellow may have a hard cynical

kind of way of putting things, and yet, take my word for it, Paul, have

a heart as tender as a spring chicken underneath. I believe I'm

something like that myself. I tell you I'm sorry for you. I don't like

to see a family man of your position in such a regular deuce of a hole.

I feel bound to give you a lift out of it, and let my prospects take

their own chance. I leave the gratitude to you. When I've done, kick me

down the doorsteps if you like. I shall go out into the world with the

glow of self-approval (and rapid motion) warming my system. Take my

advice, don't attempt to tackle Master Dick yourself. Leave him to me."

"If I could only make up my mind to trust you!" muttered Paul.

"The old distrust!" cried Marmaduke; "you can't forget. You won't

believe a poor devil like me can have any gratitude, any

disinterestedness left in him. Never mind, I'll go. I'll leave it to

you. I'll send Dick in here, and we shall see whether he's such a fool

as you think him."

"No," said Paul, "no; I feel you're right; that would never do."

"It would be for my advantage, I think," said the other, "but you had

better take me while I am in a magnanimous mood, the opportunity may

never occur again. Come, am I to help you or not? Yes or no?"

"I must accept," said Paul reluctantly; "I can't find Boaler now, and it

might take hours to make him see what I wanted. I'll trust to your

honour. What shall I do?"

"Do? Get away from this, he'll be coming in here very soon to see me.

Run away and play with the children or hide in the china

closet--anything but stay here."

"I--I must be here while you are managing him," objected Paul.

"Nonsense!" said Paradine angrily. "I tell you it will spoil all, unless

you--who's that? it's his step--too late now--dash it all! Behind that

screen, quick--don't move for your life till I tell you you may come

out!"

Mr. Bultitude had no choice; there was just time to set up an old

folding screen which stood in a corner of the room and slip behind it

before the door opened.

It might not be the highest wisdom to trust everything to his new ally

in this manner; but what else could he do, except stand by in forced

inactivity while the momentous duel was being fought out? Just then, at

all events, he saw no other course.