me, sir. But you knew
no better: and I forgive----"

"Arthur--in God's name--in your father's, who, by Heavens, was the
proudest man alive, and had the honour of the family always at heart--in
mine--for the sake of a poor broken-down old fellow, who has always been
dev'lish fond of you--don't fling this chance away--I pray you, I beg
you, I implore you, my dear, dear boy, don't fling this chance away.
It's the making of you. You're sure to get on. You'll be a Baronet; it's
three thousand a year: dammy, on my knees, there, I beg of you, don't do
this."

And the old man actually sank down on his knees, and, seizing one of
Arthur's hands, looked up piteously at him. It was cruel to remark the
shaking hands, the wrinkled and quivering face, the old eyes weeping and
winking, the broken voice. "Ah, sir," said Arthur, with a groan, "you
have brought pain enough on me, spare me this. You have wished me to
marry Blanche. I marry her. For God's sake, sir, rise! I can't bear it."

"You--you mean to say that you will take her as a beggar, and be one
yourself?" said the old gentleman, rising up and coughing violently.

"I look at her as a person to whom a great calamity has befallen, and
to whom I am promised. She cannot help the misfortune; and as she had my
word when she was prosperous, I shall not withdraw it now she is poor. I
will not take Clavering's seat, unless afterwards it should be given
of his free will. I will not have a shilling more than her original
fortune."

"Have the kindness to ring the bell," said the old gentleman. "I
have done my best, and said my say; and I'm a dev'lish old fellow.
And--and--it don't matter. And--and Shakspeare was right--and Cardinal
Wolsey--begad--'and had I but served my God as I've served you'--yes, on
my knees, by Jove, to my own nephew--I mightn't have been--Good night,
sir, you needn't trouble yourself to call again."

Arthur took his hand, which the old man left to him; it was quite
passive and clammy. He looked very much oldened; and it seemed as if the
contest and defeat had quite broken him.

On the next day he kept his bed, and refused to see his nephew.

CHAPTER LXXII. In which the Decks begin to clear

When, arrayed in his dressing-gown, Pen walked up, according to custom,
to Warrington's chambers next morning, to inform his friend of the issue
of the last night's interview with his uncle, and to ask, as usual, for
George's advice and opinion, Mrs. Flanagan, th