Cluffe wished the whole company, except himself, at the bottom of the Red Sea; for he was taking his revenge of Puddock, and had already lost a gammon and two hits.  Little Puddock won by the force of the dice.  He was not much of a player; and the sight of Dangerfield—­that repulsive, impenetrable, moneyed man, who had ‘overcome him like a summer cloud,’ when the sky of his fortunes looked clearest and sunniest, always led him to Belmont, and the side of his lady-love.

If Cluffe’s mind wandered in that direction, his reveries were rather comfortable.  He had his own opinion about his progress with Aunt Rebecca, who had come to like his conversation, and talked with him a great deal about Puddock, and always with acerbity; Cluffe, who was a sort of patron of Puddock’s, always, to do him justice, defended him respectfully.  And Aunt Rebecca would listen very attentively, and then shake her head, and say, ’You’re a great deal too good-natured, captain; and he’ll never thank you for your pains, never—­I can tell you.’

Well, Cluffe knew that the higher powers favoured Dangerfield; and that, beside his absurd sentiment, not to say passion, which could not but be provoking, Puddock’s complicity in the abortive hostilities of poor Nutter and the gallant O’Flaherty rankled in Aunt Becky’s heart.  She was, indeed, usually appeasable and forgiving enough; but in this case her dislike seemed inveterate and vindictive; and she would say—­

’Well, let’s talk no more of him; ’tis easy finding a more agreeable subject:  but you can’t deny, captain, that ’twas an unworthy hypocrisy his pretending to sentiments against duelling to me, and then engaging as second in one on the very first opportunity that presented.’

Then Cluffe would argue his case, and plead his excuses, and fumbled over it a good while; not that he’d have cried a great deal if Puddock had been hanged; but, I’m afraid, chiefly because, being a fellow of more gaiety and accomplishment than quickness of invention, it was rather convenient, than otherwise, to have a topic, no matter what, supplied to him, and one that put him in an amiable point of view, and in a kind of graceful, intercessorial relation to the object of his highly prudent passion.  And Cluffe thought how patiently she heard him, though he was conscious ’twas rather tedious, and one time very like another.  But then, ’twasn’t the talk, but the talker; and he was glad, at all risks, to help poor Puddock out of his disgrace, like a generous soul, as he was.

CHAPTER LIX.

TELLING HOW A COACH DREW UP AT THE ELMS, AND TWO FINE LADIES, DRESSED FOR THE BALL, STEPPED IN.

It was now more than a fortnight since Sturk’s mishap in the Butcher’s Wood, and he was still alive, but still under the spell of coma.  He was sinking, but very slowly; yet it was enough to indicate the finality of that ‘life in death.’