herty 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.'

Dangerfield once or twice attacked Toole rather tartly about Sturk's
case.

'Can nothing be done to make him speak? Five minutes' consciousness
would unravel the mystery.'

Then Toole would shrug, and say, 'Pooh--pooh! my dear Sir, you know
nothing.'

'Why, there's _life_!'

'Ay, the mechanical functions of life, but the brain's over-powered,'
replied Toole, with a wise frown.

'Well, relieve it.'

'By Jupiter, Sir, you make me laugh,' cried Toole with a grin, throwing
up his eyebrows. 'I take it, you think we doctors can work miracles.'

'Quite the reverse, Sir,' retorted Dangerfield, with a cold scoff. 'But
you say he may possibly live six weeks more; and all that time the wick
is smouldering, though the candle's short--can't you blow it in, and
give us even one minute's light?'

'Ay, a smouldering wick and a candle if you please; bu