“It’s an old bill. I take my solemn oath it’s an old bill,” shrieked out the Baronet.
“You drew it yesterday, and you dated it three months back purposely. By Gad, Clavering, you sicken me with lies, I can’t help telling you so. I’ve no patience with you, by Gad. You cheat everybody, yourself included. I’ve seen a deal of the world, but I never met your equal at humbugging. It’s my belief you had rather lie than not.”
“Have you come here, you old—old beast, to tempt me to—to pitch into you, and—and knock your old head off?” said the Baronet, with a poisonous look of hatred at the Major.
“What, sir?” shouted out the old Major, rising to his feet and clasping his cane, and looking so fiercely, that the Baronet’s tone instantly changed towards him.
“No, no,” said Clavering, piteously, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to be angry, or say anything unkind, only you’re so damned harsh to me, Major Pendennis. What is it you want of me? Why have you been hunting me so? Do you want money out of me too? By Jove, you know I’ve not got a shilling,”—and so Clavering, according to his custom, passed from a curse into a whimper.
Major Pendennis saw, from the other’s tone, that Clavering knew his secret was in the Major’s hands.
“I’ve no errand from anybody, or no design upon you,” Pendennis said, “but an endeavour, if it’s not too late, to save you and your family from utter ruin, through the infernal recklessness of your courses. I knew your secret——”
“I didn’t know it when I married her; upon my oath I didn’t know it till the d——d scoundrel came back and told me himself; and it’s the misery about that which makes me so reckless, Pendennis; indeed it is,” the Baronet cried, clasping his hands.
“I knew your secret from the very first day when I saw Amory come drunk into your dining-room in Grosvenor Place. I never forget faces. I remember that fellow in Sydney a convict, and he remembers me. I know his trial, the date of his marriage, and of his reported death in the bush. I could swear to him. And I know that you are no more married to Lady Clavering than I am. I’ve kept your secret well enough, for I’ve not told a single soul that I know it,—not your wife, not yourself till now.”
“Poor Lady C., it would cut her up dreadfully,” whimpered Sir Francis; “and it wasn’t my fault, Major; you know it wasn’t.”