Then dreadful rumours were heard. The Beargarden must surely be abandoned. “It is such a pity,” said Nidderdale, “because there never has been anything like it.”
“Smoke all over the house!” said Dolly.
“No horrid nonsense about closing,” said Grasslough, “and no infernal old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing.”
“Not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! That’s what I liked,” said Nidderdale.
“It’s an old story,” said Mr. Lupton, “that if you put a man into Paradise he’ll make it too hot to hold him. That’s what you’ve done here.”
“What we ought to do,” said Dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of his own good fortune in regard to Squercum, “is to get some fellow like Vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his regular pay. Then we could subscribe that among us. I really think that might be done. Squercum would find a fellow, no doubt.” But Mr. Lupton was of opinion that the new Vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity.
One day, before the Whitstable marriage, when it was understood that the club would actually be closed on the 12th August unless some new heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation, Nidderdale, Grasslough, and Dolly were hanging about the hall and the steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner, when Sir Felix Carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a creeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. He had nearly recovered from his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court plaster on his upper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak as though he had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. He had heard little or nothing of what had been done at the Beargarden since Vossner’s defection. It was now a month since he had been seen at the club. His thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but latterly his existence had been almost forgotten. Now, with difficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so completely had he been cowed by the latter circumstances of his life; but he had determined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to his old associates as though no evil thing had befallen him. He had still money enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber of whist. If fortune should go against him he might glide into I.O.U.s;—as others had done before, so much to his cost. “By George, here’s Carbury!” said Dolly. Lord Grasslough whistled, turned his back, and walked upstairs; but Nidderdale and Dolly consented to have their hands shaken by the stranger.
“Thought you were out of town,” said Nidderdale. “Haven’t seen you for the last ever so long.”
“I have been out of town,” said Felix—lying; “down in Suffolk. But I’m back now. How are things going on here?”
“They’re not going at all;—they’re gone,” said Dolly.
“Everything is smashed,” said Nidderdale. “We shall all have to pay, I don’t know how much.”
“Wasn’t Vossner ever caught?” asked the baronet.
“Caught!” ejaculated Dolly. “No;—but he has caught us. I don’t know that there has ever been much idea of catching Vossner. We close altogether next Monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for. Flatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. Indeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to Flatfleece. He’s always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the cellar.”
“That don’t matter,” said Nidderdale, “as Vossner took care that there shouldn’t be any wine.”
“He’s got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we have as a favour.”
“I suppose one can get a dinner here?”
“Yes; today you can, and perhaps tomorrow.”
“Isn’t there any playing?” asked Felix with dismay.
“I haven’t seen a card this fortnight,” said Dolly. “There hasn’t been anybody to play. Everything has gone to the dogs. There has been the affair of Melmotte, you know;—though, I suppose, you do know all about that.”
“Of course I know he poisoned himself.”
“Of course that had effect,” said Dolly, continuing his history. “Though why fellows shouldn’t play cards because another fellow like that takes poison, I can’t understand. Last year the only day I managed to get down in February, the hounds didn’t come because some old cove had died. What harm could our hunting have done him? I call that rot.”
“Melmotte’s death was rather awful,” said Nidderdale.
“Not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. And now they say the girl is going to be married to Fisker. I don’t know how you and Nidderdale like that. I never went in for her myself. Squercum never seemed to see it.”
“Poor dear!” said Nidderdale. “She’s welcome for me, and I dare say she couldn’t do better with herself. I was very fond of her;—I’ll be shot if I wasn’t.”
“And Carbury too, I suppose,” said Dolly.
“No; I wasn’t. If I’d really been fond of her I suppose it would have come off. I should have had her safe enough to America, if I’d cared about it.” This was Sir Felix’s view of the matter.
“Come into the smoking-room, Dolly,” said Nidderdale. “I can stand most things, and I try to stand everything; but, by George, that fellow is such a cad that I cannot stand him. You and I are bad enough—but I don’t think we’re so heartless as Carbury.”
“I don’t think I’m heartless at all,” said Dolly. “I’m good-natured to everybody
