“Of course I know French,” says the other; “but what’s the meaning of this?”
“Screwcome came back by the five o’clock train. I was in it, and his royal highness would scarcely speak to me. Took Brown’s fly from the station. Brown won’t enrich his family much by the operation,” says Mr. Potts.
“But what do I care?” cries Jack Harris; “we don’t attend him, and we don’t lose much by that. Howell attends him, ever since Vidler and he had that row.”
“Hulloh! I say, it’s a mistake,” cries Mr. Taplow, smoking in his chair. “This letter is for the party in the Benbow. The gent which the Prince spoke to him, and called him Jack the other day when he was here. Here’s a nice business, and the seal broke, and all. Is the Benbow party gone to bed? John, you must carry him in this here note.” John, quite innocent of the note and its contents, for he that moment had entered the clubroom with Mr. Potts’s supper, took the note to the Benbow, from which he presently returned to his master with a very scared countenance. He said the gent in the Benbow was a most harbitrary gent. He had almost choked John after reading the letter, and John wouldn’t stand it; and when John said he supposed that Mr. Harris in the Boscawen—that Mr. Jack Harris, had opened the letter, the other gent cursed and swore awful.
“Potts,” said Taplow, who was only too communicative on some occasions after he had imbibed too much of his own brandy-and-water, “it’s my belief that that party’s name is no more Harris than mine is. I have sent his linen to the wash, and there was two white pocket-handkerchiefs with H. and a coronet.”
On the next day we drove over to Newcome, hoping perhaps to find that Lord Highgate had taken the warning sent to him and quitted the place. But we were disappointed. He was walking in front of the hotel, where a thousand persons might see him as well as ourselves.
We entered into his private apartment with him, and there expostulated upon his appearance in the public street, where Barnes Newcome or any passer-by might recognise him. He then told us of the mishap which had befallen Florac’s letter on the previous night.
“I can’t go away now, whatever might have happened previously: by this time that villain knows that I am here. If I go, he will say I was afraid of him, and ran away. Oh, how I wish he would come and find me!” He broke out with a savage laugh.
“It is best to run away,” one of us interposed sadly.
“Pendennis,” he said with a tone of great softness, “your wife is a good woman. God bless her! God bless her for all she has said and done—would have done, if that villain had let her! Do you know the poor thing hasn’t a single friend in the world, not one, one—except me, and that girl they are selling to Farintosh, and who does not count for much. He has driven away all her friends from her: one and all turn upon her. Her relations, of course; when did they ever fail to hit a poor fellow or a poor girl when she was down? The poor angel! The mother who sold her comes and preaches at her; Kew’s wife turns up her little cursed nose and scorns her; Rooster, forsooth, must ride high the horse, now he is married and lives at Chanticlere, and give her warning to avoid my company or his! Do you know the only friend she ever had was that old woman with the stick—old Kew; the old witch whom they buried four months ago after nobbling her money for the beauty of the family? She used to protect her—that old woman; heaven bless her for it, wherever she is now, the old hag—a good word won’t do her any harm. Ha! ha!” His laughter was cruel to hear.