It now became an offence to him that Beauchamp should continue doing this in the speeches and lectures he was reported to be delivering; he stamped his foot at the sight of his nephew’s name in the daily journals; a novel sentiment of social indignation was expressed by his crying out, at the next request for money: “Money to prime you to turn the country into a rat-hole? Not a square inch of Pennsylvanian paper-bonds! What right have you to be lecturing and orationing? You’ve no knowledge. All you’ve got is your instincts, and that you show in your readiness to exhibit them like a monkey. You ought to be turned inside out on your own stage. You’ve lumped your brains on a point or two about Land, and Commonland, and the Suffrage, and you pound away upon them, as if you had the key of the difficulty. It’s the Scotchman’s metaphysics; you know nothing clear, and your working-classes know nothing at all; and you blow them with wind like an over-stuffed cow. What you’re driving at is to get hob-nail boots to dance on our heads. Stukely says you should be off over to Ireland. There you’d swim in your element, and have speechifying from instinct, and howling and pummelling too, enough to last you out. I’ll hand you money for that expedition. You’re one above the number wanted here. You’ve a look of bad powder fit only to flash in the pan. I saved you from the post of public donkey, by keeping you out of Parliament. You’re braying and kicking your worst for it still at these meetings of yours. A naval officer preaching about Republicanism and parcelling out the Land!” Beauchamp replied quietly, “The lectures I read are Dr. Shrapnel’s. When I speak I have his knowledge to back my deficiencies. He is too ill to work, and I consider it my duty to do as much of his work as I can undertake.” “Ha! You’re the old infidel’s Amen clerk. It would rather astonish orthodox congregations to see clerks in our churches getting into the pulpit to read the sermon for sick clergymen,” said Lord Avonley. His countenance furrowed. “I’ll pay that bill,” he added. “Pay down half a million!” thundered Beauchamp; and dropping his voice, “or go to him.” “You remind me,” his uncle observed. “I recommend you to ring that bell, and have Mrs. Culling here.” “If she comes she will hear what I think of her.” “Then, out of the house!” “Very well, sir. You decline to supply me with money?” “I do.” “I must have it!” “I dare say. Money’s a chain-cable for holding men to their senses.” “I ask you, my lord, how I am to carry on Holdesbury?” “Give it up.” “I shall have to,” said Beauchamp, striving to be prudent. “There isn’t a doubt of it,” said his uncle, upon a series of nods diminishing in their depth until his head assumed a droll interrogative fixity, with an air of “What next?” CHAPTER XXXIX. BETWEEN BEAUCHAMP AND CECILIA Beauchamp quitted the house without answering as to what next, and without seeing Rosamund.