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Title: The Amateur Gentleman

Author: Jeffery Farnol et al

Release Date: February, 2006  [EBook #9879]
[This file was first posted on October 27, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: US-ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN ***




E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distribulted Proofreading Team







THE AMATEUR GENTLEMAN

BY

JEFFERY FARNOL

AUTHOR OF "THE BROAD HIGHWAY"

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

HERMAN PFEIFER







TO MY FATHER WHO HAS EVER CHOSEN THE "HARDER WAY,"
WHICH IS A PATH THAT CAN BE TRODDEN ONLY BY THE FOOT OF A MAN




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

      I  In which Barnabas Knocks Down his Father, though as Dutifully as
         may be.

     II  In which is Much Unpleasing Matter regarding Silk Purses, Sows'
         Ears, Men, and Gentlemen.

    III  How Barnabas Set Out for London Town.

     IV  How Barnabas Fell In with a Pedler of Books, and Purchased a
         "Priceless Wollum".

      V  In which the Historian Sees Fit to Introduce a Lady of Quality;
         and Further Narrates How Barnabas Tore a Wonderful Bottle-green
         Coat.

     VI  Of the Bewitchment of Black Eyelashes; and of a Fateful Lace
         Handkerchief

    VII  In which may be Found Divers Rules and Maxims for the Art of
         Bowing.

   VIII  Concerning the Captain's Arm, the Bo'sun's Leg, and the
         "Belisarius," Seventy-four.

     IX  Which Concerns Itself, among Other Matters, with the Virtues
         of a Pair of Stocks and the Perversity of Fathers.

      X  Which Describes a Peripatetic Conversation.

     XI  In which Fists are Clenched; and of a Selfish Man, who was an
         Apostle of Peace.

    XII  Of the Stranger's Tale, which, being Short, may perhaps Meet
         with the Reader's Kind Approbation.

   XIII  In which Barnabas Makes a Confession.

    XIV  Concerning the Buttons of One Milo of Crotona.

     XV  In which the Patient Reader may Learn Something of the Gentleman
         in the Jaunty Hat.

    XVI  In which Barnabas Engages One without a Character.

   XVII  In which Barnabas Parts Company with the Person of Quality.

  XVIII  How Barnabas Came to Oakshott's Barn.

    XIX  Which Tells How Barnabas Talks with my Lady Cleone for the
         Second Time.

     XX  Of the Prophecy of One Billy Button, a Madman.

    XXI  In which Barnabas Undertakes a Mission.

   XXII  In which the Reader is Introduced to an Ancient Finger-post.

  XXIII  How Barnabas Saved his Life--because he was Afraid.

   XXIV  Which Relates Something of the "White Lion" at Tenterden.

    XXV  Of the Coachman's Story.

   XXVI  Concerning the Duties of a Valet--and a Man.

  XXVII  How Barnabas Bought an Unridable Horse--and Rode it.

 XXVIII  Concerning, among Other Things, the Legs of a
         Gentleman-in-powder.

   XXIX  Which Describes Something of the Misfortunes of Ronald
         Barrymaine.

    XXX  In which Ronald Barrymaine Makes his Choice.

   XXXI  Which Describes some of the Evils of Vindictiveness.

  XXXII  Of Corporal Richard Roe, late of the Grenadiers; and Further
         Concerning Mr. Shrig's Little Reader.

 XXXIII  Concerning the Duty of Fathers; more Especially the
         Viscount's "Roman".

  XXXIV  Of the Luck of Captain Slingsby, of the Guards.

   XXXV  How Barnabas Met Jasper Gaunt, and what Came of It.

  XXXVI  Of an Ethical Discussion, which the Reader is Advised to Skip.

 XXXVII  In which the Bo'sun Discourses on Love and its Symptoms.

XXXVIII  How Barnabas Climbed a Wall.

  XXXIX  In which the Patient Reader is Introduced to an Almost Human
         Duchess.

     XL  Which Relates Sundry Happenings at the Garden Fete.

    XLI  In which Barnabas Makes a Surprising Discovery, that may not
         Surprise the Reader in the Least.

   XLII  In which shall be Found Further Mention of a Finger-post.

  XLIII  In which Barnabas Makes a Bet, and Receives a Warning.

   XLIV  Of the Tribulations of the Legs of the Gentleman-in-powder.

    XLV  How Barnabas Sought Counsel of the Duchess.

   XLVI  Which Concerns Itself with Small Things in General, and a
         Pebble in Particular.

  XLVII  How Barnabas Found his Manhood.

 XLVIII  In which "The Terror," Hitherto Known as "Four-Legs,"
         Justifies his New Name.

   XLIX  Which, being Somewhat Important, is Consequently Short.

      L  In which Ronald Barrymaine Speaks his Mind.

     LI  Which Tells How and Why Mr. Shrig's Case was Spoiled.

    LII  Of a Breakfast, a Roman Parent, and a Kiss.

   LIII  In which shall be Found some Account of the Gentleman's
         Steeplechase.

    LIV  Which Concerns itself Chiefly with a Letter.

     LV  Which Narrates Sundry Happenings at Oakshott's Barn.

    LVI  Of the Gathering of the Shadows.

   LVII  Being a Parenthetical Chapter on Doubt, which, though
         Uninteresting, is very Short.

  LVIII  How Viscount Devenham Found him a Viscountess.

    LIX  Which Relates, among other Things, How Barnabas Lost his Hat.

     LX  Which Tells of a Reconciliation.

    LXI  How Barnabas Went to his Triumph.

   LXII  Which Tells How Barnabas Triumphed in Spite of All.

  LXIII  Which Tells How Barnabas Heard the Ticking of a Clock.

   LXIV  Which Shows Something of the Horrors of Remorse.

    LXV  Which Tells How Barnabas Discharged his Valet.

   LXVI  Of Certain Con-clusions Drawn by Mr. Shrig.

  LXVII  Which Gives some Account of the Worst Place in the World.

 LXVIII  Concerning the Identity of Mr. Bimby's Guest.

   LXIX  How Barnabas Led a Hue and Cry.

    LXX  Which Tells How Barnabas Rode Another Race.

   LXXI  Which Tells How Barnabas, in his Folly, Chose the Harder Course.

  LXXII  How Ronald Barrymaine Squared his Account.

 LXXIII  Which Recounts Three Awakenings.

  LXXIV  How the Duchess Made up her Mind, and Barnabas Did the Like.

   LXXV  Which Tells Why Barnabas Forgot his Breakfast.

  LXXVI  How the Viscount Proposed a Toast.

 LXXVII  How Barnabas Rode Homewards, and Took Counsel of a Pedler
         of Books.

LXXVIII  Which Tells How Barnabas Came Home Again, and How he Awoke
         for the Fourth Time.





ILLUSTRATIONS


Barnabas frowned, tore the letter across in sudden fury, and looked
up to find Cleone frowning also.

"Man Jack, 't is proud you should be to lie there."

"Oh, sir, I grieve to disappoint you," said she, and rose.

"Let me pass, I warn you!" For a minute they fronted each other, eye
to eye.

"But this is murder--positive murder!" cried Mr. Dalton.

Sir Mortimer paused, and with a sudden gesture tore the rose from
his coat and tossed it away.

"So you meant to buy me, sir, as you would a horse or dog?"

All at once, Sir Mortimer was on his feet and had caught up a heavy
riding-whip.

Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng





CHAPTER I


IN WHICH BABNABAS KNOCKS DOWN HIS FATHER,
THOUGH AS DUTIFULLY AS MAY BE

John Barty, ex-champion of England and landlord of the "Coursing
Hound," sat screwed round in his chair with his eyes yet turned to
the door that had closed after the departing lawyer fully five
minutes ago, and his eyes were wide and blank, and his mouth (grim
and close-lipped as a rule) gaped, becoming aware of which, he
closed it with a snap, and passed a great knotted fist across his
brow.

"Barnabas," said he slowly, "I beant asleep an' dreaming be I,
Barnabas?"

"No, father!"

"But--seven--'undred--thousand--pound. It were seven--'undred
thousand pound, weren't it, Barnabas?"

"Yes, father!"

"Seven--'undred--thou--! No! I can't believe it, Barnabas my bye."

"Neither can I, father," said Barnabas, still staring down at the
papers which littered the table before him.

"Nor I aren't a-going to try to believe it, Barnabas."

"And yet--here it is, all written down in black and white, and you
heard what Mr. Crabtree said?"

"Ah,--I heered, but arter all Crabtree's only a lawyer--though
a good un as lawyers go, always been honest an' square wi'
me--leastways I 've never caught him trying to bamboozle John Barty
yet--an' what the eye don't ob-serve the heart don't grieve,
Barnabas my bye, an' there y'are. But seven 'undred thousand pound
is coming it a bit too strong--if he'd ha' knocked off a few 'undred
thousand I could ha' took it easier Barnabas, but, as it is--no,
Barnabas!"

"It's a great fortune!" said Barnabas in the same repressed tone and
with his eyes still intent.

"Fortun'," repeated the father, "fortun'--it's fetched me one in the
ribs--low, Barnabas, low!--it's took my wind an' I'm a-hanging on to
the ropes, lad. Why, Lord love me! I never thought as your uncle Tom
'ad it in him to keep hisself from starving, let alone make a fortun'!
My scapegrace brother Tom--poor Tom as sailed away in a emigrant
ship (which is a un-common bad kind of a ship to sail in--so I've
heered, Barnabas) an' now, to think as he went an' made all that
fortun'--away off in Jamaiky--out o' vegetables."

"And lucky speculation, father--!"

"Now, Barnabas," exclaimed his father, beginning to rasp his fingers
to and fro across his great, square, shaven chin, "why argufy? Your
uncle Tom was a planter--very well! Why is a man a planter--because
he plants things, an' what should a man plant but vegetables? So
Barnabas, vegetables I says, an' vegetables I abide by, now an'
hereafter. Seven 'undred thousand pound all made in Jamaiky--out o'
vegetables--an' there y' are!"

Here John Barty paused and sat with his chin 'twixt finger and thumb
in expectation of his son's rejoinder, but finding him silent, he
presently continued:

"Now what astonishes an' fetches me a leveller as fair doubles me up
is--why should my brother Tom leave all this money to a young hop o'
me thumb like you, Barnabas? you, as he never see but once and you
then a infant (and large for your age) in your blessed mother's arms,
Barnabas, a-kicking an' a-squaring away wi' your little pink fists
as proper as ever I seen inside the Ring or out. Ah, Barnabas!"
sighed his father shaking his head at him, "you was a promising
infant, likewise a promising bye; me an' Natty Bell had great hopes
of ye, Barnabas; if you'd been governed by me and Natty Bell you
might ha' done us all proud in the Prize Ring. You was cut out for
the 'Fancy.' Why, Lord! you might even ha' come to be Champion o'
England in time--you 're the very spit o' what I was when I beat
the Fighting Quaker at Dartford thirty years ago."

"But you see, father--"

"That was why me an' Natty Bell took you in hand--learned you all
we knowed o' the game--an' there aren't a fighting man in all
England as knows so much about the Noble Art as me an' Natty Bell."

"But father--"

"If you 'd only followed your nat'ral gifts, Barnabas, I say you
might ha' been Champion of England to-day, wi' Markisses an' Lords
an' Earls proud to shake your hand--if you'd only been ruled by
Natty Bell an' me, I'm disappointed in ye, Barnabas--an' so's Natty
Bell."

"I'm sorry, father--but as I told you--"

"Still Barnabas, what ain't to be, ain't--an' what is, is. Some is
born wi' a nat'ral love o' the 'Fancy' an' gift for the game, like
me an' Natty Bell--an' some wi' a love for reading out o' books an'
a-cyphering into books--like you: though a reader an' a writer
generally has a hard time on it an' dies poor--which, arter all, is
only nat'ral--an' there y' are!"

Here John Barty paused to take up the tankard of ale at his elbow,
and pursed up his lips to blow off the foam, but in that moment,
observing his son about to speak, he immediately set down the ale
untasted and continued:

"Not as I quarrels wi' your reading and writing, Barnabas, no, and
because why? Because reading and writing is apt to be useful now an'
then, and because it were a promise--as I made--to--your mother.
When--your mother were alive, Barnabas, she used to keep all my
accounts for me. She likewise larned me to spell my own name wi' a
capital G for John, an' a capital B for Barty, an' when she died,
Barnabas (being a infant, you don't remember), but when she died, lad!
I was that lost--that broke an' helpless, that all the fight were
took out o' me, and it's a wonder I didn't throw up the sponge
altogether. Ah! an' it's likely I should ha' done but for Natty Bell."

"Yes, father--"

"No man ever 'ad a better friend than Natty Bell--Ah! yes, though I
did beat him out o' the Championship which come very nigh breaking
his heart at the time, Barnabas; but--as I says to him that day as
they carried him out of the ring--it was arter the ninety-seventh
round, d' ye see, Barnabas--'what is to be, is, Natty Bell,' I says,
'an' what ain't, ain't. It were ordained,' I says, 'as I should be
Champion o' England,' I says--'an' as you an' me should be
friends--now an' hereafter,' I says--an' right good friends we have
been, as you know, Barnabas."

"Indeed, yes, father," said Barnabas, with another vain attempt to
stem his father's volubility.

"But your mother, Barnabas, your mother, God rest her sweet
soul!--your mother weren't like me--no nor Natty Bell--she were
away up over me an' the likes o' me--a wonderful scholard she were,
an'--when she died, Barnabas--" here the ex-champion's voice grew
uncertain and his steady gaze wavered--sought the sanded floor--the
raftered ceiling--wandered down the wall and eventually fixed upon
the bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantel, "when she
died," he continued, "she made me promise as you should be taught to
read an' cypher--an' taught I've had you according--for a promise is
a promise, Barnabas--an' there y' are."

"For which I can never be sufficiently grateful, both to her--and to
you!" said Barnabas, who sat with his chin propped upon his hand,
gazing through the open lattice to where the broad white road wound
away betwixt blooming hedges, growing ever narrower till it vanished
over the brow of a distant hill. "Not as I holds wi' eddication
myself, Barnabas, as you know," pursued his father, "but that's why
you was sent to school, that's why me an' Natty Bell sat by quiet
an' watched ye at your books. Sometimes when I've seen you
a-stooping your back over your reading, or cramping your fist
round a pen, Barnabas, why--I've took it hard, Barnabas, hard,
I'll not deny--But Natty Bell has minded me as it was her wish and
so--why--there y' are."

It was seldom his father mentioned to Barnabas the mother whose face
he had never seen, upon which rare occasions John Barty's deep voice
was wont to take on a hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that were
usually so steady, would go wandering off until they fixed themselves
on some remote object. Thus he sat now, leaning back in his elbow
chair, gazing in rapt attention at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss
above the mantel, while his son, chin on fist, stared always and
ever to where the road dipped, and vanished over the hill--leading
on and on to London, and the great world beyond.

"She died, Barnabas--just twenty-one years ago--buried at Maidstone
where you were born. Twenty-one years is a longish time, lad, but
memory's longer, an' deeper,--an' stronger than time, arter all, an'
I know that her memory will go wi' me--all along the way--d' ye see
lad: and so Barnabas," said John Barty lowering his gaze to his
son's face, "so Barnabas, there y' are."

"Yes, father!" nodded Barnabas, still intent upon the road.

"And now I come to your uncle Tom--an' speaking of him--Barnabas my
lad,--what are ye going to do wi' all this money?"

Barnabas turned from the window and met his father's eye.

"Do with it," he began, "why first of all--"

"Because," pursued his father, "we might buy the 'White Hart'--t' other
side o' Sevenoaks,--to be sure you're over young to have any say in
the matter--still arter all the money's yours, Barnabas--what d' ye
say to the 'White Hart'?"

"A very good house!" nodded Barnabas, stealing a glance at the road
again--"but--"

"To be sure there's the 'Running Horse,'" said his father, "just
beyond Purley on the Brighton Road--a coaching-house, wi' plenty o'
custom, what d' ye think o' the 'Running Horse'?"

"Any one you choose, father, but--"

"Then there's the 'Sun in the Sands' on Shooter's Hill--a fine inn
an' not to be sneezed at, Barnabas--we might take that."

"Just as you wish, father, only--"

"Though I've often thought the 'Greyhound' at Croydon would be a
comfortable house to own."

"Buy whichever you choose, father, it will be all one to me!"

"Good lad!" nodded John, "you can leave it all to Natty Bell an' me."

"Yes," said Barnabas, rising and fronting his father across the table,
"you see I intend to go away, sir."

"Eh?" exclaimed his father, staring--"go away--where to?"

"To London!"

"London? and what should you want in London--a slip of a lad like you?"

"I'm turned twenty-two, father!"

"And what should a slip of a lad of twenty-two want in London? You
leave London alone, Barnabas. London indeed! what should you want
wi' London?"

"Learn to be a gentleman."

"A--what?" As he spoke, John Barty rose up out of his chair, his
eyes wide, his mouth agape with utter astonishment. As he
encountered his son's look, however, his expression slowly changed
from amazement to contempt, from contempt to growing ridicule, and
from ridicule to black anger. John Barty was a very tall man, broad
and massive, but, even so, he had to look up to Barnabas as they
faced each other across the table. And as they stood thus eye to eye,
the resemblance between them was marked. Each possessed the same
indomitable jaw, the same square brow and compelling eyes, the same
grim prominence of chin; but there all likeness ended. In Barnabas
the high carriage of the head, the soft brilliancy of the full,
well-opened gray eye, the curve of the sensitive nostrils, the sweet
set of the firm, shapely mouth--all were the heritage of that mother
who was to him but a vague memory. But now while John Barty frowned
upon his son, Barnabas frowned back at his father, and the added
grimness of his chin offset the sweetness of the mouth above.

"Barnabas," said his father at last, "did you say a--gentleman,
Barnabas?"

"Yes."

"What--you?" Here John Barty's frown vanished suddenly and,
expanding his great chest, he threw back his head and roared with
laughter. Barnabas clenched his fists, and his mouth lost something
of its sweetness, and his eyes glinted through their curving lashes,
while his father laughed and laughed till the place rang again,
which of itself stung Barnabas sharper than any blow could have done.

But now having had his laugh out, John Barty frowned again blacker
than ever, and resting his two hands upon the table, leaned towards
Barnabas with his great, square chin jutted forward, and his
deep-set eyes narrowed to shining slits--the "fighting face" that had
daunted many a man ere now.

"So you want to be a gentleman--hey?"

"Yes."

"You aren't crazed in your 'ead, are ye, Barnabas?"

"Not that I know of, father."

"This here fortun' then--it's been an' turned your brain, that's
what it is."

Barnabas smiled and shook his head.

"Listen, father," said he, "it has always been the dream and
ambition of my life to better my condition, to strive for a higher
place in the world--to be a gentleman. This was why I refused to
become a pugilist, as you and Natty Bell desired, this was why I
worked and studied--ah! a great deal harder than you ever
guessed--though up till to-day I hardly dared hope my dream would
ever be realized--but now--"

"Now you want to go to London and be a gentleman--hey?"

"Yes."

"Which all comes along o' your reading o' fool book! Why, Lord! you
can no more become a gentleman than I can or the--blunderbuss yonder.
And because why? Because a gentleman must be a gentleman born, and
his father afore him, and _his_ father afore him. You, Barnabas, you
was born the son of a Champion of England, an' that should be enough
for most lads; but your head's chock full o' fool's notions an'
crazy fancies, an' as your lawful father it's my bounden duty to get
'em out again, Barnabas my lad." So saying, John Barty proceeded to
take off his coat and belcher neckerchief, and rolled his shirt
sleeves over his mighty forearms, motioning Barnabas to do the like.

"A father's duty be a very solemn thing, Barnabas," he continued
slowly, "an' your 'ead being (as I say) full o' wild idees, I'm
going to try to punch 'em out again as a well-meaning father should,
so help me back wi' the table out o' the road, an' off wi' your coat
and neckercher."

Well knowing the utter futility of argument with his father at such
a time, Barnabas obediently helped to set back the table, thus
leaving the floor clear, which done, he, in turn, stripped off coat
and neckcloth, and rolled up his sleeves, while his father watched
him with sharply appraising eye.

"You peel well, Barnabas," he nodded. "You peel like a fighting man,
you've a tidy arm an' a goodish spread o' shoulder, likewise your
legs is clean an' straight, but your skin's womanish, Barnabas,
womanish, an' your muscles soft wi' books. So, lad!--are ye ready?
Then come on."

Thus, without more ado they faced each other foot to foot,
bare-armed and alert of eye. For a moment they sparred watchfully,
then John Barty feinted Barnabas into an opening, in that same
moment his fist shot out and Barnabas measured his length on the
floor.

"Ah--I knowed as much!" John sighed mournfully as he aided Barnabas
to his feet, "and 't were only a love-tap, so to speak,--this is
what comes o' your book reading."

"Try me again," said Barnabas.

"It'll be harder next time!" said his father.

"As hard as you like!" nodded Barnabas.

Once more came the light tread of quick-moving feet, once more John
Barty feinted cunningly--once more his fist shot out, but this time
it missed its mark, for, ducking the blow, Barnabas smacked home two
lightning blows on his father's ribs and danced away again light and
buoyant as a cork.

"Stand up an' fight, lad!" growled his father, "plant your feet
square--never go hopping about on your toe-points like a French
dancing-master."

"Why as to that, father, Natty Bell, as you know, holds that it is
the quicker method," here Barnabas smote his father twice upon the
ribs, "and indeed I think it is," said he, deftly eluding the
ex-champion's return.

"Quicker, hey?" sneered his father, and with the words came his
fist--to whizz harmlessly past Barnabas's ear--"we'll prove that."

"Haven't we had almost enough?" inquired Barnabas, dropping his fists.

"Enough? why we aren't begun yet, lad."

"Then how long are we to go on?"

"How long?" repeated John, frowning; "why--that depends on you,
Barnabas."

"How on me, father?"

"Are ye still minded to go to London?"

"Of course."

"Then we'll go on till you think better of it--or till you knock me
down, Barnabas my lad."

"Why then, father, the sooner I knock you down the better!"

"What?" exclaimed John Barty, staring, "d' ye mean to say--you think
you can?--me?--you?"

"Yes," nodded Barnabas.

"My poor lad!" sighed his father, "your head's fair crazed, sure as
sure, but if you think you can knock John Barty off his pins, do it,
and there y' are."

"I will," said Barnabas, "though as gently as possible."

And now they fell to it in silence, a grim silence broken only by
the quick tread and shuffle of feet and the muffled thud of blows.
John Barty, resolute of jaw, indomitable and calm of eye, as in the
days when champions had gone down before the might of his fist;
Barnabas, taller, slighter, but full of the supreme confidence of
youth. Moreover, he had not been the daily pupil of two such past
masters in the art for nothing; and now he brought to bear all his
father's craft and cunning, backed up by the lightning precision of
Natty Bell. In all his many hard-fought battles John Barty had ever
been accounted most dangerous when he smiled, and he was smiling now.
Twice Barnabas staggered back to the wall, and there was an ugly
smear upon his cheek, yet as they struck and parried, and feinted,
Barnabas, this quick-eyed, swift-footed Barnabas, was smiling also.
Thus, while they smiled upon and smote each other, the likeness
between them was more apparent than ever, only the smile of Barnabas
was the smile of youth, joyous, exuberant, unconquerable. Noting
which Experienced Age laughed short and fierce, and strode in to
strike Youth down--then came a rush of feet, the panting hiss of
breath, the shock of vicious blows, and John Barty, the unbeaten
ex-champion of all England, threw up his arms, staggered back the
length of the room, and went down with a crash.

For a moment Barnabas stood wide-eyed, panting, then ran towards him
with hands outstretched, but in that moment the door was flung open,
and Natty Bell stood between them, one hand upon the laboring breast
of Barnabas, the other stretched down to the fallen ex-champion.

"Man Jack," he exclaimed, in his strangely melodious voice.
"Oh, John!--John Barty, you as ever was the king o' the milling coves,
here's my hand, shake it. Lord, John, what a master o' the Game
we've made of our lad. He's stronger than you and quicker than ever
I was. Man Jack, 'twas as sweet, as neat, as pretty a knockdown as
ever we gave in our best days, John. Man Jack, 'tis proud you should
be to lie there and know as you have a son as can stop even _your_
rush wi' his left an' down you wi' his right as neat and proper, John,
as clean an' delicate as ever man saw. Man Jack, God bless him, and
here's my hand, John."

So, sitting there upon the floor, John Barty solemnly shook the hand
Natty Bell held out to him, which done, he turned and looked at his
son as though he had never seen him before.

"Why, Barnabas!" said he; then, for all his weight, sprang nimbly to
his feet and coming to the mantel took thence his pipe and began to
fill it, staring at Barnabas the while.

"Father," said Barnabas, advancing with hand outstretched, though
rather diffidently--"Father!"

John Barty pursed up his lips into a soundless whistle and went on
filling his pipe.

"Father," said Barnabas again, "I did it--as gently--as I could."
The pipe shivered to fragments on the hearth, and Barnabas felt his
fingers caught in his father's mighty grip.

"Why, Barnabas, lad, I be all mazed like; there aren't many men as
have knocked me off my pins, an' I aren't used to it, Barnabas, lad,
but 't was a clean blow, as Natty Bell says, and why--I be proud of
thee, Barnabas, an'--there y' are."

"Spoke like true fighting men!" said Natty Bell, standing with a
hand on the shoulder of each, "and, John, we shall see this lad,
this Barnabas of ours, Champion of England yet." John frowned and
shook his head.

"No," said he, "Barnabas'll never be Champion, Natty Bell--there
aren't a fighting man in the Ring to-day as could stand up to him,
but he'll never be Champion, an' you can lay to that, Natty Bell.
And if you ask me why," said he, turning to select another pipe from
the sheaf in the mantel-shelf, "I should tell you because he prefers
to go to London an' try to turn himself into a gentleman."

"London," exclaimed Natty Bell, "a gentleman--our Barnabas--what?"

"Bide an' listen, Natty Bell," said the ex-champion, beginning to
fill his new pipe.

"I'm listening, John."

"Well then, you must know, then, his uncle, my scapegrace brother
Tom--you'll mind Tom as sailed away in a emigrant ship--well, Natty
Bell, Tom has took an' died an' left a fortun' to our lad here."

"A fortun', John!--how much?"

"Seven--'undred--thousand--pound," said John, with a ponderous nod
after each word, "seven--'undred--thousand--pound, Natty Bell, and
there y' are."

Natty Bell opened his mouth, shut it, thrust his hands down into his
pockets and brought out a short clay pipe.

"Man Jack," said he, beginning to fill the pipe, yet with gaze
abstracted, "did I hear you say aught about a--gentleman?"

"Natty Bell, you did; our lad's took the idee into his nob to be a
gentleman, an' I were trying to knock it out again, but as it is.
Natty Bell, I fear me," and John Barty shook his handsome head and
sighed ponderously.

"Why then, John, let's sit down, all three of us, and talk this
matter over."




CHAPTER II


IN WHICH IS MUCH UNPLEASING MATTER REGARDING SILK PURSES,
SOWS' EARS, MEN, AND GENTLEMEN

A slender man was Natty Bell, yet bigger than he looked, and
prodigiously long in the reach, with a pair of very quick, bright
eyes, and a wide, good-humored mouth ever ready to curve into a smile.
But he was solemn enough now, and there was trouble in his eyes as
he looked from John to Barnabas, who sat between them, his chair
drawn up to the hearth, gazing down into the empty fireplace.

"An' you tell me, John," said he, as soon as his pipe was well
alight,--"you tell me that our Barnabas has took it into his head
to set up as a gentleman, do you?"

"Ah!" nodded John. Whereupon Natty Bell crossed his legs and leaning
back in his chair fell a-singing to himself in his sweet voice, as
was his custom when at all inclined to deep thought:


  "A true Briton from Bristol, a rum one to fib,
  He's Champion of England, his name is Tom Cribb;"


"Ah! and you likewise tell me as our Barnabas has come into a fortun'."

"Seven--'undred--thousand--pound."

"Hum!" said Natty Bell,--"quite a tidy sum, John."

  "Come list, all ye fighting gills
    And coves of boxing note, sirs,
  While I relate some bloody mills
    In our time have been fought, sirs."

"Yes, a good deal can be done wi' such a sum as that, John."

"But it can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, Natty Bell,--nor
yet a gentlemen out o' you or me--or Barnabas here."

"For instance," continued Natty Bell, "for instance, John:

  "Since boxing is a manly game,
    And Britain's recreation,
  By boxing we will raise our fame
    'Bove every other nation."

"As I say, John, a young and promising life can be wrecked, and
utterly blasted by a much less sum than seven hundred thousand pound."

"Ah!" nodded John, "but a sow's ear aren't a silk purse, Natty Bell,
no, nor never can be."

"True, John; but, arter all, a silk purse ain't much good if 't is
empty--it's the gold inside of it as counts."

"But a silk purse is ever and always a silk purse--empty or no,
Natty Bell."

"An' a man is always a man, John, which a gentleman often ain't."

"But surely," said Barnabas, speaking for the first time,
"a gentleman is both."

"No--not nohow, my lad!" exclaimed John, beginning to rasp at his
chin again. "A man is ever and allus a man--like me and you, an'
Natty Bell, an' a gentleman's a gentleman like--Sir George
Annersley--up at the great house yonder."

"But--" began Barnabas.

"Now, Barnabas"--remonstrated his father, rasping his chin harder
than ever--"wherefore argufy--if you do go for to argufy--"

"We come back to the silk purses and the sows' ears," added Natty Bell.

"And I believe," said Barnabas, frowning down at the empty hearth,
"I'm sure, that gentility rests not so much on birth as upon
hereditary instinct."

"Hey?" said his father, glancing at him from the corners of his
eyes--"go easy, Barnabas, my lad--give it time--on what did 'ee say?"

"On instinct, father."

"Instinct!" repeated John Barty, puffing out a vast cloud of smoke--
"instinct does all right for 'osses, Barnabas, dogs likewise; but
what's nat'ral to 'osses an' dogs aren't nowise nat'ral to us! No,
you can't come instinct over human beings,--not nohowsoever, Barnabas,
my lad. And, as I told you afore, a gentleman is nat'rally born a
gentleman an' his feyther afore him an' his grand-feyther afore him,
back an' back--"

"To Adam?" inquired Barnabas; "now, if so, the question is--was Adam
a gentleman?"

"Lord, Barnabas!" exclaimed John Barty, with a reproachful look--
"why drag in Adam? You leave poor old Adam alone, my lad. Adam indeed!
What's Adam got to do wi' it?"

"Everything, we being all his descendants,--at least the Bible says
so.--Lords and Commons, Peers and Peasants--all are children of Adam;
so come now, father, was Adam a gentleman, Yes or No?"

John Barty frowned up at the ceiling, frowned down at the floor, and
finally spoke:

"What do you say to that, Natty Bell?"

"Why, I should say, John--hum!"

  "Pray haven't you heard of a jolly young coal-heaver,
  Who down at Hungerford used for to ply,
  His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity
  Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye."

"Ha!--I should say, John, that Adam being in the habit o' going
about--well, as you might put it--in a free and easy, airy manner,
fig leaves an' suchlike, John,--I should say as he didn't have no
call to be a gentleman, seeing as there weren't any tailors."

"Tailors!" exclaimed John, staring. "Lord! and what have tailors got
to do wi' it, Natty Bell?"

"A great deal more than you 'd think, John; everything, John, seeing
't was tailors as invented gentlemen as a matter o' trade, John. So,
if Barnabas wants to have a try at being one--he must first of all
go dressed in the fashion."

"That is very true," said Barnabas, nodding.

"Though," pursued Natty Bell, "if you were the best dressed, the
handsomest, the strongest, the bravest, the cleverest, the most
honorable man in the world--that wouldn't make you a gentleman. I
tell you, Barnabas, if you went among 'em and tried to be one of
'em,--they'd find you out some day an' turn their gentlemanly backs
on you."

"Ah," nodded John, "and serve you right, lad,--because if you should
try to turn yourself into a gentleman, why, Lord, Barnabas!--you'd
only be a sort of a amitoor arter all, lad."

"Then," said Barnabas, rising up from his chair and crossing with
resolute foot to the door, "then, just so soon as this law business
is settled and the money mine, an Amateur Gentleman I'll be."




CHAPTER III


HOW BARNABAS SET OUT FOR LONDON TOWN

It was upon a certain glorious morning, some three weeks later, that
Barnabas fared forth into the world; a morning full of the thousand
scents of herb and flower and ripening fruits; a morning glad with
the song of birds. And because it was still very early, the dew yet
lay heavy, it twinkled in the grass, it sparkled in the hedges, and
gemmed every leaf and twig with a flaming pendant. And amidst it all,
fresh like the morning and young like the sun, came Barnabas, who,
closing the door of the "Coursing Hound" behind him, leapt lightly
down the stone steps and, turning his back upon the ancient inn, set
off towards that hill, beyond which lay London and the Future.
Yet--being gone but a very little way--he halted suddenly and came
striding back again. And standing thus before the inn he let his
eyes wander over its massive crossbeams, its leaning gables, its
rows of gleaming lattices, and so up to the great sign swinging
above the door--an ancient sign whereon a weather-beaten hound,
dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that, by common
report, was held to be a hare. But it was to a certain casement that
his gaze oftenest reverted, behind whose open lattice he knew his
father lay asleep, and his eyes, all at once, grew suffused with a
glittering brightness that was not of the morning, and he took a
step forward, half minded to clasp his father's hand once more ere
he set out to meet those marvels and wonders that lay waiting for
him over the hills--London-wards. Now, as he stood hesitating, he
heard a voice that called his name softly, and, glancing round and up,
espied Natty Bell, bare of neck and touzled of head, who leaned far
out from the casement of his bedchamber above.

"Ah, Barnabas, lad!" said he with a nod--"So you're going to leave us,
then?"

"Yes!" said Barnabas.

"And all dressed in your new clothes as fine as ever was!--stand
back a bit and let me have a look at you."

"How are they, Natty Bell?" inquired Barnabas with a note of anxiety
in his voice--"the Tenderden tailor assured me they were of the very
latest cut and fashion--what do you think, Natty Bell?"

"Hum!" said the ex-pugilist, staring down at Barnabas, chin in hand.
"Ha! they're very good clothes, Barnabas, yes indeed; just the very
thing--for the country."

"The country!--I had these made for London, Natty Bell."

"For London, Barnabas--hum!"

"What do you mean by 'hum,' Natty Bell?"

"Why--look ye now--'t is a good sensible coat, I'll not deny,
Barnabas; likewise the breeches is serviceable--but being only a
coat and breeches, why--they ain't per-lite enough. For in the world
of London, the per-lite world, Barnabas, clothes ain't garments to
keep a man warm--they're works of art; in the country a man puts 'em
on, and forgets all about 'em--in the per-lite world he has 'em put
on for him, and remembers 'em. In the country a man wears his clothes,
in the per-lite world his clothes wears him, ah! and they're often
the perlitest thing about him, too!"

"I suppose," sighed Barnabas, "a man's clothes are very
important--in the fashionable world?"

"Important! They are the most importantest part o' the fashionable
world, lad. Now there's Mr. Brummell--him as they call the
'Beau'--well, he ain't exactly a Lord Nelson nor yet a Champion of
England, he ain't never done nothing, good, bad, or indifferent--but
he does know how to wear his clothes--consequently he's a very
famous gentleman indeed--in the per-lite world, Barnabas." Here
there fell a silence while Barnabas stared up at the inn and Natty
Bell stared down at him. "To be sure, the old 'Hound' ain't much of
a place, lad--not the kind of inn as a gentleman of quality would go
out of his way to seek and search for, p'r'aps--but there be worse
places in London, Barnabas, I was born there and I know. There, there!
dear lad, never hang your head--youth must have its dreams I've heard;
so go your ways, Barnabas. You're a master wi' your fists, thanks to
John an' me--and you might have been Champion of England if you
hadn't set your heart on being only a gentleman. Well, well, lad!
don't forget as there are two old cocks o' the Game down here in Kent
as will think o' you and talk o' you, Barnabas, and what you might
have been if you hadn't happened to--Ah well, let be. But
wherever you go and whatever you come to be--you're our lad
still, and so, Barnabas, take this, wear it in memory of old
Natty Bell--steady--catch!" And, with the word, he tossed
down his great silver watch.

"Why, Natty Bell!" exclaimed Barnabas, very hoarse of voice.
"Dear old Natty--I can't take this!"

"Ah, but you can--it was presented to me twenty and one years ago,
Barnabas, the time I beat the Ruffian on Bexley Heath."

"But I can't--I couldn't take it," said Barnabas again, looking down
at the broad-faced, ponderous timepiece in his hand, which he knew
had long been Natty Bell's most cherished possession.

"Ay, but you can, lad--you must--'t is all I have to offer, and it
may serve to mind you of me, now and then, so take it! take it! And,
Barnabas, when you're tired o' being a fine gentleman up there in
London, why--come back to us here at the old 'Hound' and be content
to be just--a man. Good-by, lad; good-by!" saying which, Natty Bell
nodded, drew in his head and vanished, leaving Barnabas to stare up
at the closed lattice, with the ponderous timepiece ticking in his
hand.

So, in a while, Barnabas slipped it into his pocket and, turning his
back upon the "Coursing Hound," began to climb that hill beyond
which lay the London of his dreams. Therefore as he went he kept his
eyes lifted up to the summit of the hill, and his step grew light,
his eye brightened, for Adventure lay in wait for him; Life beckoned
to him from the distance; there was magic in the air. Thus Barnabas
strode on up the hill full of expectancy and the blind confidence in
destiny which is the glory of youth.

Oh, Spirit of Youth, to whose fearless eyes all things are matters
to wonder at; oh, brave, strong Spirit of Youth, to whom dangers are
but trifles to smile at, and death itself but an adventure; to thee,
since failure is unknown, all things are possible, and thou mayest,
peradventure, make the world thy football, juggle with the stars,
and even become a Fine Gentleman despite thy country homespun--and
yet--

But as for young Barnabas, striding blithely upon his way, he might
verily have been the Spirit of Youth itself--head high, eyes a-dance,
his heart light as his step, his gaze ever upon the distance ahead,
for he was upon the road at last, and every step carried him nearer
the fulfilment of his dream.

"At Tonbridge he would take the coach," he thought, or perhaps hire
a chaise and ride to London like a gentleman. A gentleman! and here
he was whistling away like any ploughboy. Happily the road was
deserted at this early hour, but Barnabas shook his head at himself
reproachfully, and whistled no more--for a time.

But now, having reached the summit of the hill, he paused and turned
to look back. Below him lay the old inn, blinking in its many
casements in the level rays of the newly risen sun; and now, all at
once, as he gazed down at it from this eminence, it seemed, somehow,
to have shrunk, to have grown more weather-beaten and worn--truly
never had it looked so small and mean as it did at this moment.
Indeed, he had been wont to regard the "Coursing Hound" as the very
embodiment of what an English inn should be--but now! Barnabas
sighed--which was a new thing for him. "Was the change really in the
old inn, or in himself?" he wondered. Hereupon he sighed again, and
turning, went on down the hill. But now, as he went, his step lagged
and his head drooped. "Was the change in the inn, or could it be
that money can so quickly alter one?" he wondered. And straightway
the coins in his pocket chinked and jingled "yes, yes!" wherefore
Barnabas sighed for the third time, and his head drooped lower yet.

Well then, since he was rich, he would buy his father a better
inn--the best in all England. A better inn! and the "Coursing Hound"
had been his home as long as he could remember. A better inn! Here
Barnabas sighed for the fourth time, and his step was heavier than
ever as he went on down the hill.




CHAPTER IV


HOW BARNABAS FELL IN WITH A PEDLER OF BOOKS, AND PURCHASED A
"PRICELESS WOLLUM"

"Heads up, young master, never say die! and wi' the larks and the
throstles a-singing away so inspiring too--Lord love me!"

Barnabas started guiltily, and turning with upflung head, perceived
a very small man perched on an adjacent milestone, with a very large
pack at his feet, a very large hunk of bread and cheese in his hand,
and with a book open upon his knee.

"Listen to that theer lark," said the man, pointing upwards with the
knife he held.

"Well?" said Barnabas, a trifle haughtily perhaps.

"There's music for ye; there's j'y. I never hear a lark but it takes
me back to London--to Lime'us, to Giles's Rents, down by the River."

"Pray, why?" inquired Barnabas, still a trifle haughtily.

"Because it's so different; there ain't much j'y, no, nor yet music
in Giles's Rents, down by the River."

"Rather an unpleasant place!" said Barnabas.

"Unpleasant, young sir. I should say so--the worst place in the
world--but listen to that theer blessed lark; there's a woice for ye;
there's music with a capital M.; an' I've read as they cooks and
eats 'em."

"Who do?"

"Nobs do--swells--gentlemen--ah, an' ladies, too!"

"More shame to them, then."

"Why, so says I, young master, but, ye see, beef an' mutton, ducks
an' chicken, an' sich, ain't good enough for your Nobs nowadays, oh
no! They must dewour larks wi' gusto, and French hortolons wi'
avidity, and wi' a occasional leg of a frog throw'd in for a
relish--though, to be sure, a frog's leg ain't over meaty at the
best o' times. Oh, it's all true, young sir; it's all wrote down
here in this priceless wollum." Here he tapped the book upon his knee.
"Ye see, with the Quality it is quality as counts--not quantity.
It's flavor as is their constant want, or, as you might say, desire;
flavor in their meat, in their drink, and above all, in their books;
an' see you, I sell books, an' I know."

"What kind of flavor?" demanded Barnabas, coming a step nearer,
though in a somewhat stately fashion.

"Why, a gamey flavor, to be sure, young sir; a 'igh flavor--ah! the
'igher the better. Specially in books. Now here," continued the
Chapman, holding up the volume he had been reading. "'Ere's a book
as ain't to be ekalled nowheers nor nohow--not in Latin nor Greek,
nor Persian, no, nor yet 'Indoo. A book as is fuller o' information
than a egg is o' meat. A book as was wrote by a person o' quality,
therefore a elewating book; wi' nice bold type into it--ah! an'
wood-cuts--picters an' engravin's, works o' art as is not to be beat
nowheers nor nohow; not in China, Asia, nor Africa, a book therefore
as is above an' beyond all price."

"What book is it?" inquired Barnabas, forgetting his haughtiness,
and coming up beside the Chapman.

"It's a book," said the Chapman; "no, it's THE book as any young
gentleman a-going out into the world ought to have wi' him, asleep
or awake."

"But what is it all about?" inquired Barnabas a trifle impatiently.

"Why, everything," answered the Chapman; "an' I know because I 've
read it--a thing I rarely do."

"What's the title?"

"The title, young sir; well theer! read for yourself."

And with the words the Chapman held up the book open at the
title-page, and Barnabas read:

              HINTS ON ETIQUETTE,

                     OR

  THE COMPLEAT ART OF A GENTLEMANLY DEPORTMENT
           BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

"You'll note that theer Person o' Quality, will ye?" said the Chapman.

"Strange!" said Barnabas.

"Not a bit of it!" retorted the Chapman. "Lord, love me! any one
could be a gentleman by just reading and inwardly di-gesting o' this
here priceless wollum; it's all down here in print, an' nice bold
type, too--pat as you please. If it didn't 'appen as my horryscope
demands as I should be a chapman, an' sell books an' sich along the
roads, I might ha' been as fine a gentleman as any on 'em, just by
follering the directions printed into this here blessed tome, an' in
nice large type, too, an' woodcuts."

"This is certainly very remarkable!" said Barnabas.

"Ah!" nodded the Chapman, "it's the most remarkablest book as ever
was!--Lookee--heer's picters for ye--lookee!" and he began turning
over the pages, calling out the subject of the pictures as he did so.

"Gentleman going a walk in a jerry 'at. Gentleman eating soup!
Gentleman kissing lady's 'and. Gentleman dancing with lady--note
them theer legs, will ye--theer's elegance for ye! Gentleman riding
a 'oss in one o' these 'ere noo buckled 'ats. Gentleman shaking 'ands
with ditto--observe the cock o' that little finger, will ye!
Gentleman eating ruffles--no, truffles, which is a vegetable, as all
pigs is uncommon partial to. Gentleman proposing lady's 'ealth in a
frilled shirt an' a pair o' skin-tights. Gentleman making a bow."

"And remarkably stiff in the legs about it, too!" nodded Barnabas.

"Stiff in the legs!" cried the Chapman reproachfully. "Lord love you,
young sir! I've seen many a leg stiffer than that."

"And how much is the book?"

The Chapman cast a shrewd glance up at the tall youthful figure, at
the earnest young face, at the deep and solemn eyes, and coughed
behind his hand.

"Well, young sir," said he, gazing thoughtfully up at the blue
sky--"since you are you, an' nobody else--an' ax me on so fair
a morning, wi' the song o' birds filling the air--we'll charge you
only--well--say ten shillings: say eight, say seven-an'-six--say
five--theer, make it five shillings, an' dirt-cheap at the price, too."

Barnabas hesitated, and the Chapman was about to come down a
shilling or two more when Barnabas spoke.

"Then you're not thinking of learning to become a gentleman yourself?"

"O Lord love you--no!"

"Then I'll buy it," said Barnabas, and forthwith handed over the
five shillings. Slipping the book into his pocket, he turned to go,
yet paused again and addressed the Chapman over his shoulder.

"Shouldn't you like to become a gentleman?" he inquired.

Again the Chapman regarded him from the corners of his eyes, and
again he coughed behind his hand.

"Well," he admitted, "I should an' I shouldn't. O' course it must be
a fine thing to bow to a duchess, or 'and a earl's daughter into a
chariot wi' four 'orses an' a couple o' footmen, or even to sit wi'
a markus an' eat a French hortolon (which never 'aving seen, I don't
know the taste on, but it sounds promising); oh yes, that part would
suit me to a T; but then theer's t'other part to it, y' see."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, a gentleman has a great deal to live up to--theer's his dignity,
y' see."

"Yes, I suppose so," Barnabas admitted.

"For instance, a gentleman couldn't very well be expected to sit in
a ditch and enj'y a crust o' bread an' cheese; 'is dignity wouldn't
allow of it, now would it?"

"Certainly not," said Barnabas.

"Nor yet drink 'ome-brewed out of a tin pot in a inn kitchen."

"Well, he might, if he were very thirsty," Barnabas ventured to think.
But the Chapman scouted the idea.

"For," said he, "a gentleman's dignity lifts him above inn kitchens
and raises him superior to tin pots. Now tin pots is a perticler
weakness o' mine, leastways when theer's good ale inside of 'em. And
then again an' lastly," said the Chapman, balancing a piece of
cheese on the flat of his knife-blade, "lastly theer's his clothes,
an', as I've read somewhere, 'clothes make the man'--werry
good--chuck in dignity an' theer's your gentleman!"

"Hum," said Barnabas, profoundly thoughtful.

"An' a gentleman's clothes is a world o' trouble and anxiety to him,
and takes up most o' his time, what wi' his walking breeches an'
riding breeches an' breeches for dancing; what wi' his coats cut
'igh an' his coats cut low; what wi' his flowered satin weskits;
what wi' his boots an' his gloves, an' his cravats an' his 'ats, why,
Lord love ye, he passes his days getting out o' one suit of clothes
an' into another. And it's just this clothes part as I can't nowise
put up wi', for I'm one as loves a easy life, I am."

"And is your life so easy?" inquired Barnabas, eyeing the very small
Chapman's very large pack.

"Why, to be sure theer's easier," the Chapman admitted, scratching
his ear and frowning; "but then," and here his brow cleared again,
"I've only got this one single suit of clothes to bother my 'ead over,
which, being wore out as you can see, don't bother me at all."

"Then are you satisfied to be as you are?"

"Well," answered the Chapman, clinking the five shillings in his
pocket, "I aren't one to grumble at fate, nor yet growl at fortun'."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, "I wish you good morning."

"Good morning, young sir, and remember now, if you should ever feel
like being a gentleman--it's quite easy--all as you've got to do is
to read the instructions in that theer priceless wollum--mark
'em--learn 'em, and inwardly di-gest 'em, and you'll be a gentleman
afore you know it."

Now hereupon Barnabas smiled, a very pleasant smile and radiant with
youth, whereat the Chapman's pinched features softened for pure good
fellowship, and for the moment he almost wished that he had charged
less for the "priceless wollum," as, so smiling, Barnabas turned and
strode away, London-wards.




CHAPTER V


IN WHICH THE HISTORIAN SEES FIT TO INTRODUCE A LADY OF QUALITY; AND
FURTHER NARRATES HOW BARNABAS TORE A WONDERFUL BOTTLE-GREEN COAT

Now in a while Barnabas came to where was a stile with a path
beyond--a narrow path that led up over a hill until it lost itself
in a wood that crowned the ascent; a wood where were shady dells
full of a quivering green twilight; where broad glades led away
beneath leafy arches, and where a stream ran gurgling in the shade of
osiers and willows; a wood that Barnabas had known from boyhood.
Therefore, setting his hand upon the stile, he vaulted lightly over,
minded to go through the wood and join the high road further on.
This he did by purest chance, and all unthinking followed the winding
path.

Now had Barnabas gone on by the road how different this history
might have been, and how vastly different his career! But, as it
happened, moved by Chance, or Fate, or Destiny, or what you will,
Barnabas vaulted over the stile and strode on up the winding path,
whistling as he went, and, whistling, plunged into the green twilight
of the wood, and, whistling still, swung suddenly into a broad and
grassy glade splashed green and gold with sunlight, and then stopped
all at once and stood there silent, dumb, the very breath in check
between his lips.

She lay upon her side--full length upon the sward, and her tumbled
hair made a glory in the grass, a golden mane. Beneath this silken
curtain he saw dark brows that frowned a little--a vivid mouth, and
lashes thick and dark like her eyebrows, that curled upon the pallor
of her cheek.

Motionless stood Barnabas, with eyes that wandered from the small
polished riding-boot, with its delicately spurred heel, to follow
the gracious line that swelled voluptuously from knee to rounded hip,
that sank in sweetly to a slender waist, yet rose again to the
rounded beauty of her bosom.

So Barnabas stood and looked and looked, and looking sighed, and
stole a step near and stopped again, for behold the leafy screen was
parted suddenly, and Barnabas beheld two boots--large boots they
were but of exquisite shape--boots that strode strongly and planted
themselves masterfully; Hessian boots, elegant, glossy and
betasselled. Glancing higher, he observed a coat of a bottle-green,
high-collared, close-fitting and silver-buttoned; a coat that served
but to make more apparent the broad chest, powerful shoulders, and
lithe waist of its wearer. Indeed a truly marvellous coat (at least,
so thought Barnabas), and in that moment, he, for the first time,
became aware how clumsy and ill-contrived were his own garments; he
understood now what Natty Bell had meant when he had said they were
not polite enough; and as for his boots--blunt of toe, thick-soled
and ponderous--he positively blushed for them. Here, it occurred to
him that the wearer of the coat possessed a face, and he looked at
it accordingly. It was a handsome face he saw, dark of eye,
square-chinned and full-lipped. Just now the eyes were lowered, for
their possessor stood apparently lost in leisurely contemplation of
her who lay outstretched between them; and as his gaze wandered to
and fro over her defenceless beauty, a glow dawned in the eyes, and
the full lips parted in a slow smile, whereat Barnabas frowned darkly,
and his cheeks grew hot because of her too betraying habit.

"Sir!" said he between snapping teeth.

Then, very slowly and unwillingly, the gentleman raised his eyes and
stared across at him.

"And pray," said he carelessly, "pray who might you be?"

At his tone Barnabas grew more angry and therefore more polite.

"Sir, that--permit me to say--does not concern you."

"Not in the least," the other retorted, "and I bid you good day; you
can go, my man, I am acquainted with this lady; she is quite safe in
my care."

"That, sir, I humbly beg leave to doubt," said Barnabas, his
politeness growing.

"Why--you impudent scoundrel!"

Barnabas smiled.

"Come, take yourself off!" said the gentleman, frowning, "I'll take
care of this lady."

"Pardon me! but I think not."

The gentleman stared at Barnabas through suddenly narrow lids, and
laughed softly, and Barnabas thought his laugh worse than his frown.

"Ha! d' you mean to say you--won't go?"

"With all the humility in the world, I do, sir."

"Why, you cursed, interfering yokel! must I thrash you?"

Now "yokel" stung, for Barnabas remembered his blunt-toed boots,
therefore he smiled with lips suddenly grim, and his politeness grew
almost aggressive.

"Thrash me, sir!" he repeated, "indeed I almost venture to fear that
you must." But the gentleman's gaze had wandered to the fallen girl
once more, and the glow was back in his roving eyes.

"Pah!" said he, still intent, "if it is her purse you are after--here,
take mine and leave us in peace." As he spoke, he flung his purse
towards Barnabas, and took a long step nearer the girl. But in that
same instant Barnabas strode forward also and, being nearer, reached
her first, and, stepping over her, it thus befell that they came
face to face within a foot of one another. For a moment they stood
thus, staring into each other's eyes, then without a word swift and
sudden they closed and grappled.

The gentleman was very quick, and more than ordinarily strong, so
also was Barnabas, but the gentleman's handsome face was contorted
with black rage, whereas Barnabas was smiling, and therein seemed
the only difference between them as they strove together breast to
breast, now in sunlight, now in shadow, but always grimly silent.

So, within the glory of the morning, they reeled and staggered to
and fro, back and forth, trampling down the young grass, straining,
panting, swaying--the one frowning and determined, the other smiling
and grim.

Suddenly the bottle-green coat ripped and tore as its wearer broke
free; there was the thud of a blow, and Barnabas staggered back with
blood upon his face--staggered, I say, and in that moment, as his
antagonist rushed, laughed fierce and short, and stepped lightly
aside and smote him clean and true under the chin, a little to one
side.

The gentleman's fists flew wide, he twisted upon his heels, pitched
over upon his face, and lay still.

Smiling still, Barnabas looked down upon him, then grew grave.

"Indeed," said he, "indeed it was a great pity to spoil such a
wonderful coat."

So he turned away, and coming to where she, who was the unwitting
cause of all this, yet lay, stopped all at once, for it seemed to
him that her posture was altered; her habit had become more decorous,
and yet the lashes, so dark in contrast to her hair, those shadowy
lashes yet curled upon her cheek. Therefore, very presently, Barnabas
stooped, and raising her in his arms bore her away through the wood
towards the dim recesses where, hidden in the green shadows, his
friend the brook went singing upon its way.

And in a while the gentleman stirred and sat up, and, beholding his
torn coat, swore viciously, and, chancing upon his purse, pocketed it,
and so went upon his way, and by contrast with the glory of the
morning his frown seemed the blacker.




CHAPTER VI


OF THE BEWITCHMENT OF BLACK EYELASHES; AND OF A FATEFUL LACE
HANDKERCHIEF

Let it be understood that Barnabas was not looking at her as she lay
all warm and yielding in his embrace, on the contrary, he walked
with his gaze fixed pertinaciously upon the leafy path he followed,
nevertheless he was possessed, more than once, of a sudden feeling
that her eyes had opened and were watching him, therefore, after a
while be it noted, needs must he steal a downward glance at her
beauty, only to behold the shadowy lashes curling upon her cheeks,
as was but natural, of course. And now he began to discover that
these were, indeed, no ordinary lashes (though to be sure his
experience in such had been passing small), yet the longer he gazed
upon them the more certain he became that these were, altogether and
in all respects, the most demurely tantalizing lashes in the world.
Then, again, there was her mouth--warmly red, full-lipped and
sensitive like the delicate nostrils above; a mouth all sweet curves;
a mouth, he thought, that might grow firm and proud, or wonderfully
tender as the case might be, a mouth of scarlet bewitchment; a mouth
that for some happy mortal might be--here our Barnabas came near
blundering into a tree, and thenceforth he kept his gaze upon the
path again. So, strong armed and sure of foot, he bore her through
the magic twilight of the wood until he reached the brook. And coming
to where the bending willows made a leafy bower he laid her there,
then, turning, went down to the brook and drawing off his
neckerchief began to moisten it in the clear, cool water.

And lo! in the same minute, the curling lashes were lifted suddenly,
and beneath their shadow two eyes looked out--deep and soft and
darkly blue, the eyes of a maid--now frank and ingenuous, now shyly
troubled, but brimful of witchery ever and always. And pray what
could there be in all the fair world more proper for a maid's eyes
to rest upon than young Alcides, bare of throat, and with the sun in
his curls, as he knelt to moisten the neckerchief in the brook?

Therefore, as she lay, she gazed upon him in her turn, even as he
had first looked upon her, pleased to find his face so young and
handsome, to note the breadth of his shoulders, the graceful
carriage of his limbs, his air of virile strength and latent power,
yet doubting too, because of her sex, because of the loneliness, and
because he was a man; thus she lay blushing a little, sighing a
little, fearing a little, waiting for him to turn. True, he had been
almost reverent so far, but then the place was so very lonely. And
yet--

Barnabas turned and came striding up the bank. And how was he to
know anything of all this, as he stood above her with his dripping
neckerchief in his hand, looking down at her lying so very still,
and pitying her mightily because her lashes showed so dark against
the pallor of her cheek? How was he to know how her heart leapt in
her white bosom as he sank upon his knees beside her? Therefore he
leaned above her closer and raised the dripping neckerchief. But in
that moment she (not minded to be wet) sighed, her white lids
fluttered, and, sitting up, she stared at him for all the world as
though she had never beheld him until that very moment.

"What are you going to do?" she demanded, drawing away from the
streaming neckerchief. "Who are you? Why am I here?--what has
happened?"

Barnabas hesitated, first because he was overwhelmed by this sudden
torrent of questions, and secondly because he rarely spoke without
thinking; therefore, finding him silent, she questioned him again--

"Where am I?"

"In Annersley Wood, madam."

"Ah, yes, I remember, my horse ran away."

"So I brought you here to the brook."

"Why?"

"You were hurt; I found you bleeding and senseless."

"Bleeding!" And out came a dainty lace handkerchief on the instant.

"There," said Barnabas, "above your eyebrow," and he indicated a
very small trickle of blood upon the snow of her temple.

"And you--found me, sir?"

"Beneath the riven oak in the Broad Glade--over yonder."

"That is a great way from here, sir!"

"You are not--heavy!" Barnabas explained, a little clumsily perhaps,
for she fell silent at this, and stooped her head the better to dab
tenderly at the cut above her eyebrow; also the color deepened in her
cheeks.

"Madam," said Barnabas, "that is the wrong eyebrow."

"Then why don't you tell me where I'm hurt?" she sighed. For answer,
after a moment's hesitation, Barnabas reached out and taking her hand,
handkerchief and all, laid it very gently upon the cut, though to be
sure it was a very poor thing, as cuts go, after all.

"There," said he again, "though indeed it is very trifling."

"Indeed, sir, it pains atrociously!" she retorted, and to bear out
her words showed him her handkerchief, upon whose snow was a tiny
vivid stain.

"Then perhaps," ventured Barnabas, "perhaps I'd better bathe it with
this!" and he held up his dripping handkerchief.

"Nay, sir, I thank you," she answered, "keep it for your own
wounds--there is a cut upon your cheek."

"A cut!" repeated Barnabas--bethinking him of the gentleman's signet
ring.

"Yes, a cut, sir," she repeated, and stole a glance at him under her
long lashes; "pray did _your_ horse run away also?"

Barnabas was silent again, this time because he knew not how to
answer--therefore he began rubbing at his injured cheek while she
watched him--and after a while spoke.

"Sir," said she, "that is the wrong cheek."

"Then, indeed, this must be very trifling also," said Barnabas,
smiling.

"Does it pain you, sir?"

"Thank you--no."

"Yet it bleeds! You say it was not your horse, sir?" she inquired,
wonderfully innocent of eye.

"No, it was not my horse."

"Why, then--pray, how did it happen?"

"Happen, madam?--why, I fancy I must have--scratched myself,"
returned Barnabas, beginning to wring out his neckerchief.

"Scratched yourself. Ah! of course!" said she, and was silent while
Barnabas continued to wring the water from his neckerchief.

"Pray," she inquired suddenly, "do you often scratch yourself--until
you bleed?--'t is surely a most distressing habit." Now glancing up
suddenly, Barnabas saw her eyes were wonderfully bright for all her
solemn mouth, and suspicion grew upon him.--"Did she know? Had she
seen?" he wondered.

"Nevertheless, sir--my thanks are due to you--"

"For what?" he inquired quickly.

"Why--for--for--"

"For bringing you here?" he suggested, beginning to wring out his
neckerchief again.

"Yes; believe me I am more than grateful for--for--"

"For what, madam?" he inquired again, looking at her now.

"For--your--kindness, sir."

"Pray, how have I been kind?--you refused my neckerchief."

Surely he was rather an unpleasant person after all, she thought,
with his persistently direct eyes, and his absurdly blunt mode of
questioning--and she detested answering questions.

"Sir," said she, with her dimpled chin a little higher than usual,
"it is a great pity you troubled yourself about me, or spoilt your
neckerchief with water."

"I thought you were hurt, you see--"

"Oh, sir, I grieve to disappoint you," said she, and rose, and
indeed she gained her feet with admirable grace and dignity
notwithstanding her recent fall, and the hampering folds of her habit;
and now Barnabas saw that she was taller than he had thought.

"Disappoint me!" repeated Barnabas, rising also; "the words are
unjust."

For a moment she stood, her head thrown back, her eyes averted
disdainfully, and it was now that Barnabas first noticed the dimple
in her chin, and he was yet observing it very exactly when he became
aware that her haughtiness was gone again and that her eyes were
looking up at him, half laughing, half shy, and of course wholly
bewitching.

"Yes, I know it was," she admitted, "but oh! won't you please
believe that a woman can't fall off her horse without being hurt,
though it won't bleed much." Now as she spoke a distant clock began
to strike and she to count the strokes, soft and mellow with distance.

"Nine!" she exclaimed with an air of tragedy--"then I shall be late
for breakfast, and I'm ravenous--and gracious heavens!"

"What now, madam?"

"My hair! It's all come down--look at it!"

"I've been doing so ever since I--met you," Barnabas confessed.

"Oh, have you! Then why didn't you tell me of it--and I've lost
nearly all my hairpins--and--oh dear! what will they think?"

"That it is the most beautiful hair in all the world, of course,"
said Barnabas. She was already busy twisting it into a shining rope,
but here she paused to look up at him from under this bright nimbus,
and with two hair-pins in her mouth.

"Oh!" said she again very thoughtfully, and then "Do you think so?"
she inquired, speaking over and round the hairpins as it were.

"Yes," said Barnabas, steady-eyed; and immediately down came the
curling lashes again, while with dexterous white fingers she began
to transform the rope into a coronet.

"I'm afraid it won't hold up," she said, giving her head a tentative
shake, "though, fortunately, I haven't far to go."

"How far?" asked Barnabas.

"To Annersley House, sir."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "that is very near--the glade yonder leads
into the park."

"Do you know Annersley, then, sir?"

Barnabas hesitated and, having gone over the question in his mind,
shook his head.

"I know of it," he answered.

"Do you know Sir George Annersley?"

Again Barnabas hesitated. As a matter of fact he knew as much of Sir
George as he knew of the "great house," as it was called thereabouts,
that is to say he had seen him once or twice--in the distance. But it
would never do to admit as much to her, who now looked up at him
with eyes of witchery as she waited for him to speak. Therefore
Barnabas shook his head, and answered airily enough:

"We are not exactly acquainted, madam."

Yesterday he would have scorned the subterfuge; but to-day there was
money in his purse; London awaited him with expectant arms, the very
air was fraught with a magic whereby the impossible might become
concrete fact, wherein dreams might become realities; was not she
herself, as she stood before him lithe and vigorous in all the
perfection of her warm young womanhood--was she not the very
embodiment of those dreams that had haunted him sleeping and waking?
Verily. Therefore with this magic in the air might he not meet Sir
George Annersley at the next cross-roads or by-lane, and strike up
an enduring friendship on the spot--truly, for anything was possible
to-day. Meanwhile my lady had gathered up the folds of her
riding-habit, and yet in the act of turning into the leafy path,
spoke:

"Are you going far, sir?"

"To London."

"Have you many friends there?"

"None,--as yet, madam."

After this they walked on in silence, she with her eyes on the
lookout for obstacles, he lost to all but the beauty of the young
body before him--the proud carriage of the head, the sway of the hips,
the firm poise of the small and slender foot--all this he saw and
admired, yet (be it remarked) his face bore nothing of the look that
had distorted the features of the gentleman in the bottle-green
coat--though to be sure our Barnabas was but an amateur at
best--even as Natty Bell had said. So at last she reached the
fateful glade beyond which, though small with distance, was a noble
house set upon a gentle hill that rose above the swaying green of
trees. Here my lady paused; she looked up the glade and down the
glade, and finally at him. And her eyes were the eyes of a maid, shy,
mischievous, demure, challenging.

"Sir," said she, shyly, demurely--but with eyes still challenging--
"sir, I have to thank you. I do thank you--more than these poor lips
can tell. If there is anything I could--do--to--to prove my gratitude,
you--have but to--name it."

"Do," stammered Barnabas. "Do--indeed--I--no."

The challenging eyes were hidden now, but the lips curved
wonderfully tempting and full of allurement. Barnabas clenched his
fists hard.

"I see, sir, your cheek has stopped bleeding, 't is almost well.
I think--there are others--whose hurts will not heal--quite so
soon--and, between you and me, sir, I'm glad--glad! Good-by! and may
you find as many friends in London as you deserve." So saying, she
turned and went on down the glade.

And in a little Barnabas sighed, and turning also, strode on
London-wards.

Now when she had gone but a very short way, my lady must needs
glance back over her shoulder, then, screened to be sure by a
convenient bramble-bush, she stood to watch him as he swung along,
strong, graceful, but with never a look behind.

"Who was he?" she wondered. "What was he? From his clothes he might
be anything between a gamekeeper and a farmer."

Alas! poor Barnabas! To be sure his voice was low and modulated, and
his words well chosen--who was he, what was he? And he was going to
London where he had no friends. And he had never told his name, nor,
what was a great deal worse, asked for hers! Here my lady frowned,
for such indifference was wholly new in her experience. But on went
long-legged Barnabas, all unconscious, striding through sunlight and
shadow, with step blithe and free--and still (Oh! Barnabas) with
never a look behind. Therefore, my lady's frown grew more portentous,
and she stamped her foot at his unconscious back; then all at once
the frown vanished in a sudden smile, and she instinctively shrank
closer into cover, for Barnabas had stopped.

"Oh, indeed, sir!" she mocked, secure behind her leafy screen,
nodding her head at his unconscious back; "so you've actually
thought better of it, have you?"

Here Barnabas turned.

"Really, sir, you will even trouble to come all the way back, will
you, just to learn her name--or, perhaps to--indeed, what
condescension. But, dear sir, you're too late; oh, yes, indeed you
are! 'for he who will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay.'
I grieve to say you are too late--quite too late! Good morning,
Master Shill-I-shall-I." And with the word she turned, then hastily
drew a certain lace handkerchief from her bosom, and set it very
cleverly among the thorns of a bramble, and so sped away among the
leaves.




CHAPTER VII


IN WHICH MAY BE FOUND DIVERS RULES AND MAXIMS FOR THE ART OF BOWING

"Now, by the Lord!" said Barnabas, stopping all at once, "forgetful
fool that I am! I never bowed to her!" Therefore, being minded to
repair so grave an omission, he turned sharp about, and came
striding back again, and thus it befell that he presently espied the
lace handkerchief fluttering from the bramble, and having extricated
the delicate lace from the naturally reluctant thorns with a vast
degree of care and trouble, he began to look about for the late owner.
But search how he might, his efforts proved unavailing--Annersley
Wood was empty save for himself. Having satisfied himself of the fact,
Barnabas sighed again, thrust the handkerchief into his pocket, and
once more set off upon his way.

But now, as he went, he must needs remember his awkward stiffness
when she had thanked him; he grew hot all over at the mere
recollection, and, moreover, he had forgotten even to bow! But there
again, was he quite sure that he could bow as a gentleman should?
There were doubtless certain rules and maxims for the bow as there
were for mathematics--various motions to be observed in the making
of it, of which Barnabas confessed to himself his utter ignorance.
What then was a bow? Hereupon, bethinking him of the book in his
pocket, he drew it out, and turning to a certain page, began to
study the "stiff-legged-gentleman" with a new and enthralled interest.
Now over against this gentleman, that is to say, on the opposite page,
he read these words:--

           "THE ART OF BOWING."

  "To know how, and when, and to whom to bow,
  is in itself an art. The bow is, indeed, an
  all-important accomplishment,--it is the
  'Open Sesame' of the 'Polite World.' To bow
  gracefully, therefore, may be regarded as
  the most important part of a gentlemanly
  deportment."

"Hum!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown at this; and yet, according
to the title-page, these were the words of a "Person of Quality."

  "To bow gracefully,"--the Person of Quality
  chattered on,--"the feet should be primarily
  disposed as in the first position of dancing."

Barnabas sighed, frowning still.

  "The left hand should be lifted airily and laid
  upon the bosom, the fingers kept elegantly spread.
  The head is now stooped forward, the body following
  easily from the hips, the right hand, at the same
  moment, being waved gracefully in the air. It is,
  moreover, very necessary that the expression of the
  features should assume as engaging an air as possible.
  The depth of the bow is to be regulated to the rank
  of the person saluted."

And so forth and so on for two pages more.

Barnabas sighed and shook his head hopelessly.

"Ah!" said he, "under these circumstances it is perhaps just as well
that I forgot to try. It would seem I should have bungled it quite
shamefully. Who would have thought a thing so simple could become a
thing so very complicated!" Saying which, he shut the book, and
thrust it back into his pocket, and thus became aware of a certain
very small handful of dainty lace and cambric, and took it out, and,
looking at it, beheld again the diminutive stain, while there stole
to his nostrils a perfume, faint and very sweet.

"I wonder," said he to himself. "I wonder who she was--I might have
asked her name but, fool that I am, I even forgot that!"

Here Barnabas sighed, and, sighing, hid the handkerchief in his
pocket.

"And yet," he pursued, "had she told me her name, I should have been
compelled to announce mine, and--Barnabas Barty--hum! somehow there
is no suggestion about it of broad acres, or knightly ancestors; no,
Barty will never do." Here Barnabas became very thoughtful.
"Mortimer sounds better," said he, after a while, "or Mandeville.
Then there's Neville, and Desborough, and Ravenswood--all very good
names, and yet none of them seems quite suitable. Still I must have
a name that is beyond all question!" And Barnabas walked on more
thoughtful than ever. All at once he stopped, and clapped hand to
thigh.

"My mother's name, of course--Beverley; yes, it is an excellent name,
and, since it was hers, I have more right to it than to any other.
So Beverley it shall be--Barnabas Beverley--good!" Here Barnabas
stopped and very gravely lifted his hat to his shadow.

"Mr. Beverley," said he, "I salute you, your very humble obedient
servant, Mr. Beverley, sir, God keep you!" Hereupon he put on his
hat again, and fell into his swinging stride.

"So," said he, "that point being settled it remains to master the
intricacies of the bow." Saying which, he once more had recourse to
the "priceless wollum," and walked on through the glory of the
morning, with his eyes upon the valuable instructions of the
"Person of Quality."

Now, as he went, chancing to look up suddenly, he beheld a gate-post.
A very ancient gate-post it was--a decrepit gate-post, worn and
heavy with years, for it leaned far out from the perpendicular. And
with his gaze upon this, Barnabas halted suddenly, clapped the book
to his bosom, and raising his hat with an elegant flourish, bowed to
that gnarled and withered piece of timber as though it had been an
Archduke at the very least, or the loveliest lady in the land.

"Ha! by Thor and Odin, what's all this?" cried a voice behind him.
"I say what the devil's all this?"

Turning sharp about, Barnabas beheld a shortish, broad-shouldered
individual in a befrogged surtout and cords, something the worse for
wear, who stood with his booted legs wide apart and stared at him
from a handsome bronzed face, with a pair of round blue eyes; he
held a broad-brimmed hat in his hand--the other, Barnabas noticed,
was gone from the elbow.

"Egad!" said he, staring at Barnabas with his blue eyes. "What's in
the wind? I say, what the devil, sir--eh, sir?"

Forthwith Barnabas beamed upon him, and swept him another bow almost
as low as that he had bestowed upon the gate-post.

"Sir," said he, hat gracefully flourished in the air, "your very
humble obedient servant to command."

"A humble obedient fiddlestick, sir!" retorted the new comer.
"Pooh, sir!--I say dammit!--are ye mad, sir, to go bowing and
scraping to a gate-post, as though it were an Admiral of the Fleet
or Nelson himself--are ye mad or only drunk, sir? I say, what d' ye
mean?"

Here Barnabas put on his hat and opened the book.

"Plainly, sir," he answered, "being overcome with a sudden desire to
bow to something or other, I bowed to that gate-post in want of a
worthier object; but now, seeing you arrive so very opportunely, I'
11 take the liberty of trying another. Oblige me by observing if my
expression is sufficiently engaging," and with the words Barnabas
bowed as elaborately as before.

"Sink me!" exclaimed the one-armed individual, rounder of eye than
ever, "the fellow's mad--stark, staring mad."

"No, indeed, sir," smiled Barnabas, reassuringly, "but the book
here--which I am given to understand is wholly infallible--says that
to bow is the most important item of a gentlemanly equipment, and in
the World of Fashion--"

"In the World of Fashion, sir, there are no gentlemen left," his
hearer broke in.

"How, sir--?"

"I say no, sir, no one. I say, damme, sir--"

"But, sir--"

"I say there are no gentlemen in the fashionable world--they are all
blackguardly Bucks, cursed Corinthians, and mincing Macaronies
nowadays, sir. Fashionable world--bah, sir!"

"But, sir, is not the Prince himself--"

"The Prince, sir!" Here the one-armed gentleman clapped on his hat
and snorted, "The Prince is a--prince, sir; he's also an authority
on sauce and shoe-buckles. Let us talk of something more
interesting--yourself, for instance."

Barnabas bowed.

"Sir," said he, "my name is Barnabas--Barnabas Beverley."

"Hum!" said the other, thoughtfully, "I remember a Beverley--a
lieutenant under Hardy in the 'Agamemnon'--though, to be sure, he
spelt his name with an 'l-e-y.'"

"So do I, sir," said Barnabas.

"Hum!"

"Secondly, I am on my way to London."

"London! Egad! here's another of 'em! London, of course--well?"

"Where I hope to cut some figure in the--er--World of Fashion."

"Fashion--Gog and Magog!--why not try drowning. 'T would be simpler
and better for you in the long run. London! Fashion! in that hat,
that coat, those--"

"Sir," said Barnabas, flushing, "I have already--"

"Fashion, eh? Why, then, you must cramp that chest into an abortion,
all collar, tail, and buttons, and much too tight to breathe in; you
must struggle into breeches tight enough to burst, and cram your
feet into bepolished torments--"

"But, sir," Barnabas ventured again, "surely the Prince himself is
accountable for the prevailing fashion, and as you must know, he is
said to be the First Gentleman in Europe and--"

"Fiddle-de-dee and the devil, sir!--who says he is? A set of
crawling sycophants, sir--a gang of young reprobates and bullies.
First Gentleman in--I say pish, sir! I say bah! Don't I tell you
that gentlemen went out o' fashion when Bucks came in? I say there
isn't a gentleman left in England except perhaps one or two. This is
the age of your swaggering, prize-fighting Corinthians. London
swarms with 'em, Brighton's rank with 'em, yet they pervade even
these solitudes, damme! I saw one of 'em only half an hour ago,
limping out of a wood yonder. Ah! a polished, smiling rascal--a
dangerous rogue! One of your sleepy libertines--one of your lucky
gamblers--one of your conscienceless young reprobates equally ready
to win your money, ruin your sister, or shoot you dead as the case
may be, and all in the approved way of gallantry, sir; and, being all
this, and consequently high in royal favor, he is become a very lion
in the World of Fashion. Would you succeed, young sir, you must
model yourself upon him as nearly as may be."

"And he was limping, you say?" inquired Barnabas, thoughtfully.

"And serve him right, sir--egad! I say damme! he should limp in
irons to Botany Bay and stay there if I had my way."

"Did you happen to notice the color of his coat?" inquired Barnabas
again.

"Ay, 't was green, sir; but what of it--have you seen him?"

"I think I have, sir," said Barnabas, "if 't was a green coat he wore.
Pray, sir, what might his name be?"

"His name, sir, is Carnaby--Sir Mortimer Carnaby."

"Sir Mortimer Carnaby!" said Barnabas, nodding his head.

"And, sir," pursued his informant, regarding Barnabas from beneath
his frowning brows, "since it is your ambition to cut a figure in
the World of Fashion, your best course is to cultivate him, frequent
his society as much as possible, act upon his counsel, and in six
months, or less, I don't doubt you'll be as polished a young
blackguard as any of 'em. Good morning, sir."

Here the one-armed gentleman nodded and turned to enter the field.

"Sir," said Barnabas, "one moment! Since you have been so obliging
as to describe a Buck, will you tell me who and what in your
estimation is a gentleman?"

"A gentleman? Egad, sir! must I tell you that? No, I say I
won't--the Bo'sun shall." Hereupon the speaker faced suddenly about
and raised his voice: "Aft there!" he bellowed. "Pass the word for
the Bo'sun--I say where's Bo'sun Jerry?"

Immediately upon these words there came another roar surprisingly
hoarse, deep, and near at hand.

"Ay, ay, sir! here I be, Cap'n," the voice bellowed back. "Here I be,
sir, my helm hard a-starboard, studden sails set, and all a-drawing
alow and aloft, but making bad weather on it on account o' these
here furrers and this here jury-mast o' mine, but I'll fetch up
alongside in a couple o' tacks."

Now glancing in the direction of the voice, Barnabas perceived a
head and face that bobbed up and down on the opposite side of the
hedge. A red face it was, a jovial, good-humored face, lit up with
quick, bright eyes that twinkled from under a prodigious pair of
eyebrows; a square honest face whose broad good nature beamed out
from a mighty bush of curling whisker and pigtail, and was
surmounted by a shining, glazed hat.

Being come opposite to them, he paused to mop at his red face with a
neckerchief of vivid hue, which done, he touched the brim of the
glazed hat, and though separated from them by no more than the hedge
and ditch, immediately let out another roar--for all the world as
though he had been hailing the maintop of a Seventy-four in a gale
of wind.

"Here I be, Cap'n!" he bellowed, "studden sails set an' drawing,
tho' obleeged to haul my wind, d'ye see, on account o' this here
spar o' mine a-running foul o' the furrers." Having said the which,
he advanced again with a heave to port and a lurch to starboard very
like a ship in a heavy sea; this peculiarity of gait was explained as
he hove into full view, for then Barnabas saw that his left leg was
gone from the knee and had been replaced by a wooden one.

"Bo'sun," said the Captain, indicating Barnabas, with a flap of his
empty sleeve, "Bo'sun--favor me, I say oblige me by explaining to
this young gentleman your opinion of a gentleman--I say tell him who
you think is the First Gentleman in Europe!"

The Bo'sun stared from Barnabas to the Captain and back again.

"Begging your Honor's parding," said he, touching the brim of the
glazed hat, "but surely nobody don't need to be told that 'ere?"

"It would seem so, Jerry."

"Why then, Cap'n--since you ax me, I should tell you--bold an' free
like, as the First Gentleman in Europe--ah! or anywhere else--was
Lord Nelson an' your Honor."

As he spoke the Bo'sun stood up very straight despite his wooden leg,
and when he touched his hat again, his very pigtail seemed
straighter and stiffer than ever.

"Young sir," said the Captain, regarding Barnabas from the corners
of his eyes, "what d' ye say to that?"

"Why," returned Barnabas, "now I come to think of it, I believe the
Bo'sun is right."

"Sir," nodded the Captain, "the Bo'sun generally is; my Bo'sun, sir,
is as remarkable as that leg of his which he has contrived so that
it will screw on or off--in sections sir--I mean the wooden one."

"But," said Barnabas, beginning to stroke his chin in the
argumentative way that was all his father's, "but, sir, I was
meaning gentlemen yet living, and Lord Nelson, unfortunately, is dead."

"Bo'sun," said the Captain, "what d' ye say to that?"

"Why, Cap'n, axing the young gentleman's pardon, I beg leave to
remark, or as you might say, ob-serve, as men like 'im don't die,
they jest gets promoted, so to speak."

"Very true, Jerry," nodded the Captain again, "they do, but go to a
higher service, very true. And now, Bo'sun, the bread!"

"Ay, ay, sir!" said the Bo'sun, and, taking the neat parcel the
Captain held out, dropped it forthwith into the crown of the glazed
hat.

"Bo'sun, the meat! the young fool will be hungry by now, poor lad!"

"Ay, ay, Cap'n!" And, the meat having disappeared into the same
receptacle, the Bo'sun resumed his hat. Now turning to Barnabas, the
Captain held out his hand.

"Sir," said he, "I wish you good-by and a prosperous voyage,
and may you find yourself too much a man ever to fall so low
as 'fashion,'--I say dammit! The bread and meat, sir, are for
a young fool who thinks, like yourself, that the World of Fashion
is _the_ world. By heaven, sir, I say by Gog and Magog! if
I had a son with fashionable aspirations, I'd have him triced up
to the triangles and flogged with the 'cat'--I say with the
cat-o'-ninetails, sir, that is--no I wouldn't, besides I--never
had a son--she--died, sir--and good-by!"

"Stay," said Barnabas, "pray tell me to whom I am indebted for so
much good instruction."

"My name, sir, is Chumly--plain Chumly--spelt with a U and an
M, sir; none of your _olmondeleys_ for me, sir, and I beg you to
know that I have no crest or monogram or coat of arms; there's
neither or, azure, nor argent about me; I'm neither rampant, nor
passant, nor even regardant. And I want none of your sables, ermines,
bars, escallops, embattled fiddle-de-dees, or dencette tarradiddles,
sir. I'm Chumly, Captain John Chumly, plain and without any
fashionable varnish. Consequently, though I have commanded many good
ships, sloops, frigates, and even one Seventy-four--"

"The 'Bully-Sawyer,' Trafalgar!" added the Bo'sun.

"Seeing I am only John Chumly, with a U and an M, I retire still a
captain. Now, had I clapped in an _olmondeley_ and the rest of the
fashionable gewgaws, I should now be doubtless a Rear Admiral at the
very least, for the polite world--the World of Fashion is rampant,
sir, not to mention passant and regardant. So, if you would achieve
a reputation among Persons of Quality nowadays--bow, sir, bow
everywhere day in and day out--keep a supple back, young sir, and
spell your name with as many unnecessary letters as you can. And as
regards my idea of a gentleman, he is, I take it, a man--who is
gentle--I say good morning, young sir." As he ended, the Captain
took off his hat, with his remaining arm put it on again, and then
reached out, suddenly, and clapped Barnabas upon the shoulder.
"Here's wishing you a straight course, lad," said he with a smile,
every whit as young and winning as that which curved the lips of
Barnabas, "a fair course and a good, clean wind to blow all these
fashionable fooleries out of your head. Good-by!" So he nodded,
turned sharp about and went upon his way.

Hereupon the Bo'sun shook his head, took off the glazed hat, stared
into it, and putting it on again, turned and stumped along beside
Barnabas.




CHAPTER VIII


CONCERNING THE CAPTAIN'S ARM, THE BOSUN'S LEG, AND THE "BELISARIUS,"
SEVENTY-FOUR

"The 'Bully-Sawyer,' Trafalgar!" murmured the Bo'sun, as they went
on side by side; "you've 'eerd o' the 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four,
o' course, young sir?"

"I'm afraid not," said Barnabas, rather apologetically.

"Not 'eerd o' the 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four, Lord, young sir!
axing your pardon, but--not 'eerd o' the--why, she were in the van
that day one o' the first to engage the enemy--but a cable's length
to wind'ard o' the 'Victory'--one o' the first to come up wi' the
Mounseers, she were. An' now you tell me as you ain't 'eerd o'
the--Lord, sir!" and the Bo'sun sighed, and shook his head till it
was a marvel how the glazed hat kept its position.

"Won't you tell me of her, Bo'sun?"

"Tell you about the old 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four, ay surely, sir,
surely. Ah! 't were a grand day for us, a grand day for our Nelson,
and a grand day for England--that twenty-first o' October--though 't
were that day as they French and Spanishers done for the poor old
'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four, and his honor's arm and my leg, d' ye
see. The wind were light that day as we bore down on their line--in
two columns, d' ye see, sir--we was in Nelson's column, the weather
line 'bout a cable's length astarn o' the 'Victory.' On we went,
creeping nearer and nearer--the 'Victory,' the old 'Bully-Sawyer,'
and the 'Temeraire'--and every now and then the Mounseers trying a
shot at us to find the range, d' ye see. Right ahead o' us lay the
'Santissima Trinidado'--a great four-decker, young sir--astarn o'
her was the 'Beaucenture,' and astarn o' her again, the 'Redoutable,'
wi' eight or nine others. On we went wi' the Admiral's favorite
signal flying, 'Engage the enemy more closely.' Ah, young sir, there
weren't no stand-offishness about our Nelson, God bless him! As we
bore closer their shot began to come aboard o' us, but the old
'Bully-Sawyer' never took no notice, no, not so much as a gun. Lord!
I can see her now as she bore down on their line; every sail drawing
aloft, the white decks below--the gleam o' her guns wi' their crews
stripped to the waist, every eye on the enemy, every man at his
post--very different she looked an hour arterwards. Well, sir, all
at once the great 'Santissima Trinidado' lets fly at us wi' her
whole four tiers o' broadside, raking us fore and aft, and that begun
it; down comes our foretopmast wi' a litter o' falling spars and
top-hamper, and the decks was all at once splashed, here and there,
wi' ugly blotches. But, Lord! the old 'Bully-Sawyer' never paid no
heed, and still the men stood to the guns, and his Honor, the Captain,
strolled up and down, chatting to his flag officer. Then the enemy's
ships opened on us one arter another, the 'Beaucenture,' the 'San
Nicholas,' and the 'Redoutable' swept and battered us wi' their
murderous broadsides; the air seemed full o' smoke and flame, and
the old 'Bully-Sawyer' in the thick o' it. But still we could see the
'Victory' through the drifting smoke ahead o' us wi' the signal
flying, 'Engage the enemy more closely,' and still we waited and
waited very patient, and crept down on the enemy nearer and nearer."

"And every minute their fire grew hotter, and their aim truer--down
came our mizzen-topgallant-mast, and hung down over our quarter;
away went our bowsprit--but we held on till we struck their line
'twixt the 'Santissima Trinidado' and the 'Beaucenture,' and, as we
crossed the Spanisher's wake, so close that our yard-arms grazed her
gilded starn, up flashed his Honor's sword, 'Now, lads!' cried he,
hailing the guns--and then--why then, afore I'd took my whistle
from my lips, the old 'Bully-Sawyer,' as had been so patient, so
very patient, let fly wi' every starboard gun as it bore, slap into
the great Spanisher's towering starn, and, a moment arter, her
larboard guns roared and flamed as her broadside smashed into the
'Beaucenture,' and 'bout five minutes arterwards we fell aboard o'
the 'Fougeux,' and there we lay, young sir, and fought it out
yard-arm to yard-arm, and muzzle to muzzle, so close that the flame
o' their guns blackened and scorched us, and we was obliged to heave
buckets o' water, arter every discharge, to put out the fire. Lord!
but the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer' were in a tight corner then, what
wi' the 'Fougeux' to port, the 'Beaucenture' to starboard, and the
great Spanisher hammering us astarn, d' ye see. But there was our
lads--what was left o' 'em--reeking wi' sweat, black wi' powder,
splashed wi' blood, fighting the guns; and there was his Honor the
Cap'n, leaning against the quarter-rail wi' his sword in one hand,
and his snuff-box in t' other--he had two hands then, d'ye see,
young sir; and there was me, hauling on the tackle o' one o' the
quarter-guns--it happened to be short-handed, d'ye see--when, all at
once, I felt a kind o' shock, and there I was flat o' my back, and
wi' the wreckage o' that there quarter-gun on this here left leg o'
mine, pinning me to the deck. As I lay there I heerd our lads a
cheering above the roar and din, and presently, the smoke lifting a
bit, I see the Spanisher had struck, but I likewise see as the poor
old 'Bully-Sawyer' were done for; she lay a wreck--black wi' smoke,
blistered wi' fire, her decks foul wi' blood, her fore and mainmasts
beat overboard, and only the mizzen standing. All this I see in a
glance--ah! and something more--for the mizzen-topgallant had been
shot clean through at the cap, and hung dangling. But now, what wi'
the quiver o' the guns and the roll o' the vessel, down she come
sliding, and sliding, nearer and nearer, till the splintered end
brought up ag'in the wreck o' my gun. But presently I see it begin
to slide ag'in nearer to me--very slow, d'ye see--inch by inch, and
there's me pinned on the flat o' my back, watching it come. 'Another
foot,' I sez, 'and there's an end o' Jerry Tucker--another ten inches,
another eight, another six.' Lord, young sir, I heaved and I
strained at that crushed leg o' mine; but there I was, fast as ever,
while down came the t'gallant--inch by inch. Then, all at once, I
kinder let go o' myself. I give a shout, sir, and then--why
then--there's his Honor the Cap'n leaning over me. 'Is that you,
Jerry?' sez he--for I were black wi' powder, d' ye see, sir. 'Is
that you, Jerry?' sez he. 'Ay, ay, sir,' sez I, 'it be me surely,
till this here spar slips down and does for me.' 'It shan't do that,'
sez he, very square in the jaw. 'It must,' sez I. 'No,' sez he.
'Nothing to stop it, sir,' sez I. 'Yes, there is,' sez he. 'What's
that,' sez I. 'This,' sez he, 'twixt his shut teeth, young sir. And
then, under that there hellish, murdering piece of timber, the Cap'n
sets his hand and arm--his naked hand and arm, sir!' In the name o'
God!' I sez, 'let it come, sir!' 'And lose my Bo'sun?--not me!' sez
he. Then, sir, I see his face go white--and whiter. I heerd the
bones o' his hand and arm crack--like so many sticks--and down he
falls atop o' me in a dead faint, sir."

"But the t'gallant were stopped, and the life were kept in this here
carcase o' mine. So--that's how the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer,'
Seventy-four, were done for--that's how his Honor lost his arm, and
me my leg, sir. And theer be the stocks, and theer be our young
gentleman inside o' 'em, as cool and smiling and comfortable as you
please."




CHAPTER IX


WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, WITH THE VIRTUES OF A
PAIR OF STOCKS AND THE PERVERSITY OF FATHERS

Before them was a church, a small church, gray with age, and, like
age, lonely. It stood well back from the road which wound away down
the hill to the scattered cottages in the valley below.

About this church was a burial ground, upon whose green mounds and
leaning headstones the great square tower cast a protecting shadow
that was like a silent benediction. A rural graveyard this, very far
removed from the strife and bustle of cities, and, therefore, a good
place to sleep in.

A low stone wall was set about it, and in the wall was a gate with a
weather-beaten porch, and beside the gate were the stocks, and in
the stocks, with his hands in his pockets, and his back against the
wall, sat a young gentleman.

A lonely figure, indeed, whose boots, bright and polished, were
thrust helplessly enough through the leg-holes of the stocks, as
though offering themselves to the notice of every passer-by. Tall he
was, and _point-de-vice_ from those same helpless boots to the
gleaming silver buckle in his hat band.

Now observing the elegance of his clothes, and the modish languor of
his lounging figure, Barnabas at once recognized him as a gentleman
par excellence, and immediately the memory of his own country-made
habiliments and clumsy boots arose and smote him. The solitary
prisoner seemed in no whit cast down by his awkward and most
undignified situation, indeed, as they drew nearer, Barnabas could
hear him whistling softly to himself. At the sound of their approach,
however, he glanced up, and observed them from under the brim of the
buckled hat with a pair of the merriest blue eyes in the world.

"Aha, Jerry!" he cried, "whom do you bring to triumph over me in my
abasement? For shame, Jerry! Is this the act of a loving and
affectionate Bo'sun, the Bo'sun of my innocent childhood? Oh, bruise
and blister me!"

"Why, sir," answered the Bo'sun, beaming through his whiskers,
"this be only a young genelman, like yourself, as be bound for Lonnon,
Master Horatio."

The face, beneath the devil-may-care rake of the buckled hat, was
pale and handsome, and, despite its studied air of gentlemanly
weariness, the eyes were singularly quick and young, and wholly
ingenuous.

Now, as they gazed at each other, eye to eye--the merry blue and the
steadfast gray--suddenly, unaffectedly, as though drawn by instinct,
their hands reached out and met in a warm and firm clasp, and, in
that instant, the one forgot his modish languor, and the other his
country clothes and blunt-toed boots, for the Spirit of Youth stood
between them, and smile answered smile.

"And so you are bound for London, sir; pray, are you in a hurry to
get there?"

"Not particularly," Barnabas rejoined.

"Then there you have the advantage of me, for I am, sir. But here I
sit, a martyr for conscience sake. Now, sir, if you are in no great
hurry, and have a mind to travel in company with a martyr, just as
soon as I am free of these bilboes, we'll take the road together.
What d' ye say?"

"With pleasure!" answered Barnabas.

"Why then, sir, pray sit down. I blush to offer you the stocks, but
the grass is devilish dewy and damp, and there's deuce a chair to be
had--which is only natural, of course; but pray sit somewhere until
the Bo'sun, like the jolly old dog he is, produces the key, and lets
me out."

"Bo'sun, you'll perceive the gentleman is waiting, and, for that
matter, so am I. The key, Jerry, the key."

"Axing your pardons, gentlemen both," began the Bo'sun, taking
himself by the starboard whisker, "but orders is orders, and I was
to tell you, Master Horatio, sir, as there was firstly a round o'
beef cold, for breakfus!"

"Beef!" exclaimed the prisoner, striking himself on the crown of the
hat.

"Next a smoked tongue--" continued the Bo'sun.

"Tongue!" sighed the prisoner, turning to Barnabas. "You hear that,
sir, my unnatural father and uncle batten upon rounds of beef, and
smoked tongues, while I sit here, my legs at a most uncomfortable
angle, and my inner man as empty as a drum; oh, confound and curse it!"

"A brace o' cold fowl," went on the Bo'sun inexorably; "a biled 'am--"

"Enough, Jerry, enough, lest I forget filial piety and affection and
rail upon 'em for heartless gluttons."

"And," pursued the Bo'sun, still busy with his whisker and
abstracted of eye--"and I were to say as you was now free to come
out of they stocks--"

"Aha, Jerry! even the most Roman of fathers can relent, then. Out
with the key, Jerry! Egad! I can positively taste that beef from here;
unlock me, Jerry, that I may haste to pay my respects to Roman parent,
uncle, and beef--last, but not least, Jerry--"

"Always supposing," added the Bo'sun, giving a final twist to his
whisker, "that you've 'ad time to think better on it, d' ye see, and
change your mind, Master Horatio, my Lord."

Barnabas pricked up his ears; a lord, and in the stocks! preposterous!
and yet surely these were the boots, and clothes, and hat of a lord.

"Change my mind, Jerry!" exclaimed his Lordship, "impossible; you
know I never change my mind. What! yield up my freedom for a mess of
beef and tongue, or even a brace of cold fowl--"

"Not to mention a cold biled 'am, Master Horatio, sir."

"No, Jerry, not for all the Roman parents, rounds of beef,
tyrannical uncles and cold hams in England. Tempt me no more, Jerry;
Bo'sun, avaunt, and leave me to melancholy and emptiness."

"Why then," said the Bo'sun, removing the glazed hat and extracting
therefrom the Captain's meat packages, "I were to give you this meat,
Master Horatio, beef and bread, my Lord."

"From the Captain, I'll be sworn, eh, Jerry?"

"Ay, ay, my Lord, from his Honor the Cap'n."

"Now God bless him for a tender-hearted old martinet, eh, Bo'sun?"

"Which I begs to say, amen, Master Horatio, sir."

"To be sure there is nothing Roman about my uncle." Saying which,
his Lordship, tearing open the packages, and using his fingers as
forks, began to devour the edibles with huge appetite.

"There was a tongue, I think you mentioned, Jerry," he inquired
suddenly.

"Ay, sir, likewise a cold biled 'am."

His Lordship sighed plaintively.

"And yet," said he, sandwiching a slice of beef between two pieces
of bread with great care and nicety, "who would be so mean-spirited
as to sell that freedom which is the glorious prerogative of man
(and which I beg you to notice is a not unpleasing phrase, sir) who,
I demand, would surrender this for a base smoked tongue?"

"Not forgetting a fine, cold biled 'am, Master Horatio, my Lord. And
now, wi' your permission, I'll stand away for the village, leaving
you to talk wi' this here young gentleman and take them vittles
aboard, till I bring up alongside again, Cap'n's orders, Master
Horatio." Saying which, the Bo'sun touched the glazed hat, went about,
and, squaring his yards, bore away for the village.

"Sir," said his Lordship, glancing whimsically at Barnabas over his
fast-disappearing hunch of bread and meat, "you have never
been--called upon to--sit in the stocks, perhaps?"

"Never--as yet," answered Barnabas, smiling.

"Why, then, sir, let me inform you the stocks have their virtues.
I'll not deny a chair is more comfortable, and certainly more
dignified, but give me the stocks for thought, there's nothing like
'em for profound meditation. The Bible says, I believe, that one
should seek the seclusion of one's closet, but, believe me, for deep
reverie there's nothing like the stocks. You see, a poor devil has
nothing else to do, therefore he meditates."

"And pray," inquired Barnabas, "may I ask what brings you sitting in
this place of thought?"

"Three things, sir, namely, matrimony, a horse race, and a father.
Three very serious matters, sir, and the last the gravest of all.
For you must know I am, shall I say--blessed? yes, certainly,
blessed in a father who is essentially Roman, being a man of his word,
sir. Now a man of his word, more especially a father, may prove a
very mixed blessing. Speaking of fathers, generally, sir, you may
have noticed that they are the most unreasonable class of beings,
and delight to arrogate to themselves an authority which is, to say
the least, trying; my father especially so--for, as I believe I
hinted before, he is so infernally Roman."

"Indeed," smiled Barnabas, "the best of fathers are, after all, only
human."

"Aha!" cried his Lordship, "there speaks experience. And yet, sir,
these human fathers, one and all, believe in what I may term the
divine right of fathers to thwart, and bother, and annoy sons old
enough to be--ha--"

"To know their own minds," said Barnabas.

"Precisely," nodded his Lordship. "Consequently, my Roman father and
I fell out--my honored Roman and I frequently do fall out--but this
morning, sir, unfortunately 't was before breakfast." Here his
Lordship snatched a hasty bite of bread and meat with great appetite
and gusto, while Barnabas sat, dreamy of eye, staring away across
the valley.

"Pray," said he suddenly, yet with his gaze still far away,
"do you chance to be acquainted with a Sir Mortimer Carnaby?"

"Acquainted," cried his Lordship, speaking with his mouth full.
"Oh, Gad, sir, every one who _is_ any one is acquainted with Sir
Mortimer Carnaby."

"Ah!" said Barnabas musingly, "then you probably know him."

"He honors me with his friendship."

"Hum!" said Barnabas.

Here his Lordship glanced up quickly and with a slight contraction
of the brow.

"Sir," he retorted, with a very creditable attempt at dignity,
despite the stocks and his hunch of bread and meat, "Sir, permit me
to add that I am proud of his friendship."

"And pray," inquired Barnabas, turning his eyes suddenly to his
companion's face, "do you like him?"

"Like him, sir!"

"Or trust him!" persisted Barnabas, steadfast-eyed.

"Trust him, sir," his Lordship repeated, his gaze beginning to wander,
"trust him!" Here, chancing to espy what yet remained of the bread
and meat, he immediately took another bite, and when he spoke it was
in a somewhat muffled tone in consequence. "Trust him? Egad, sir,
the boot's on t'other leg, for 'twixt you and me, I owe him a cool
thousand, as it is!"

"He is a great figure in the fashionable world, I understand," said
Barnabas.

"He is the most admired Buck in London, sir," nodded his Lordship,
"the most dashing, the most sought after, a boon companion of
Royalty itself, sir, the Corinthian of Corinthians."

"Do you mean," said Barnabas, with his eyes on the distance again,
"that he is a personal friend of the Prince?"

"One of the favored few," nodded his Lordship, "and, talking of him,
brings us back to my honored Roman."

"How so?" inquired Barnabas, his gaze on the distance once more.

"Because, sir, with that unreasonableness peculiar to fathers, he
has taken a violent antipathy to my friend Carnaby, though, as far
as I know, he has never met my friend Carnaby. This morning, sir, my
father summoned me to the library. 'Horatio,' says he, in his most
Roman manner,--he never calls me Horatio unless about to treat me to
the divine right of fathers,--'Horatio,' says he, 'you're old enough
to marry.' 'Indeed, I greatly fear so, sir,' says I. 'Then,' says he,
solemn as an owl, 'why not settle down here and marry?' Here he
named a certain lovely person whom, 'twixt you and me, sir, I have
long ago determined to marry, but, in my own time, be it understood.
'Sir,' said I, 'believe me I would ride over and settle the matter
with her this very morning, only that I am to race 'Moonraker'
(a horse of mine, you'll understand, sir) against Sir Mortimer
Carnaby's 'Clasher' and if I should happen to break my neck, it
might disappoint the lady in question, or even break her heart.'
'Horatio,' says my Roman--more Roman than ever--'I strongly
disapprove of your sporting propensities, and, more especially, the
circle of acquaintances you have formed in London.' 'Blackguardedly
Bucks and cursed Corinthians!' snarls my uncle, the Captain,
flapping his empty sleeve at me. 'That, sirs, I deeply regret,' says
I, preserving a polite serenity, 'but the match is made, and a man
must needs form some circle of acquaintance when he lives in London.'
'Then,' says my honored Roman, with that lack of reasonableness
peculiar to fathers, 'don't live in London, and as for the horse
match give it up.' 'Quite impossible, sir,' says I, calmly determined,
'the match has been made and recorded duly at White's, and if you
were as familiar with the fashionable sporting set as I, you would
understand.' 'Pish, boy,' says my Roman--'t is a trick fathers have
at such times of casting one's youth in one's teeth, you may
probably have noticed this for yourself, sir--'Pish, boy,' says he,
'I know, I know, I've lived in London!' 'True, sir,' says I, 'but
things have changed since your day, your customs went out with your
tie-wigs, and are as antiquated as your wide-skirted coats and
buckled shoes'--this was a sly dig at my worthy uncle, the Captain,
sir. 'Ha!' cries he, flapping his empty sleeve at me again, 'and
nice figure-heads you made of yourselves with your ridiculous stocks
and skin-tight breeches,' and indeed," said his Lordship, stooping
to catch a side-view of his imprisoned legs, "they are a most
excellent fit, I think you'll agree."

"Marvellous!" sighed Barnabas, observing them with the eyes of envy.

"Well, sir," pursued his Lordship, "the long and short of it was--my
honored Roman, having worked himself into a state of 'divine right'
necessary to the occasion, vows that unless I give up the race and
spend less time and money in London, he will clap me into the stocks.
'Then, sir,' says I, smiling and unruffled, 'pray clap me in as
soon as you will'; and he being, as I told you, a man of his
word,--well--here I am."

"Where I find you enduring your situation with a remarkable fortitude,"
said Barnabas.

"Egad, sir! how else should I endure it? I flatter myself I am
something of a philosopher, and thus, enduring in the cause of
freedom and free will, I scorn my bonds, and am consequently free.
Though, I'll admit, 'twixt you and me, sir, the position cramps
one's legs most damnably."

"Now in regard to Sir Mortimer Carnaby," persisted Barnabas,
"your father, it would seem, neither likes nor trusts him."

"My father, sir, is--a father, consequently perverse. Sir Mortimer
Carnaby is my friend, therefore, though my father has never met Sir
Mortimer Carnaby, he takes a mortal antipathy to Sir Mortimer Carnaby,
Q.E.D., and all the rest of it."

"On the other hand," pursued Barnabas the steadfast-eyed,
"you--admire, respect, and honor your friend Sir Mortimer Carnaby!"

"Admire him, sir, who wouldn't? There isn't such another all-round
sportsman in London--no, nor England. Only last week he drove
cross-country in his tilbury over hedges and ditches, fences and all,
and never turned a hair. Beat the 'Fighting Tanner' at Islington in
four rounds, and won over ten thousand pounds in a single night's
play from Egalite d'Orleans himself. Oh, egad, sir! Carnaby's the
most wonderful fellow in the world!"

"Though a very indifferent boxer!" added Barnabas.

"Indiff--!" His Lordship let fall the last fragments of his bread
and meat, and stared at Barnabas in wide-eyed amazement. "Did you
say--indifferent?"

"I did," nodded Barnabas, "he is much too passionate ever to make a
good boxer."

"Why, deuce take me! I tell you there isn't a pugilist in England
cares to stand up to him with the muffles, or bare knuckles!"

"Probably because there are no pugilists left in England, worth the
name," said Barnabas.

"Gad, sir! we are all pugilists nowadays--the Manly Art is all the
fashion--and, I think, a very excellent fashion. And permit me to
tell you I know what I'm talking of, I have myself boxed with nearly
all the best 'milling coves' in London, and am esteemed no novice at
the sport. Indeed love of the 'Fancy' was born in me, for my father,
sir--though occasionally Roman--was a great patron of the game, and
witnessed the great battle between 'Glorious John Barty' and
Nathaniel Bell--"

"At Dartford!" added Barnabas.

"And when Bell was knocked down, at the end of the fight--"

"After the ninety-seventh round!" nodded Barnabas.

"My father, sir, was the first to jump into the ring and clasp the
Champion's fist--and proud he is to tell of it!"

"Proud!" said Barnabas, staring.

"Proud, sir--yes, why not? so should I have been--so would any man
have been. Why let me tell you, sir, at home, in the hall, between
the ensign my uncle's ship bore through Trafalgar, and the small
sword my grandfather carried at Blenheim, we have the belt John Barty
wore that day."

"His belt!" exclaimed Barnabas, "my--John Barty's belt?"

"So you see I should know what I am talking about. Therefore, when
you condemn such a justly celebrated man of his hands as my friend
Carnaby, I naturally demand to know who you are to pronounce judgment?"

"I am one," answered Barnabas, "who has been taught the science by
that very Nathaniel Bell and 'Glorious John' you mention."

"Hey--what?--what?" cried his Lordship.

"I have boxed with them regularly every day," Barnabas continued,
"and I have learned that strength of arm, quickness of foot, and a
true eye are all unavailing unless they be governed by a calm,
unruffled temper, for passion clouds the judgment, and in fighting
as in all else, it is judgment that tells in the long run."

"Now, by heaven!" exclaimed his Lordship, jerking his imprisoned
legs pettishly, "if I didn't happen to be sitting trussed up here,
and we had a couple of pair of muffles, why we might have had a
friendly 'go' just to take each other's measures; as it is--"

But at this moment they heard a hoarse bellow, and, looking round,
beheld the Bo'sun who, redder of face than ever and pitching and
rolling in his course, bore rapidly down on them, and hauling his
wind, took off the glazed hat.

"Ha, Jerry!" exclaimed his Lordship, "what now? If you happen to
have anything else eatable in that hat of yours, out with it, for I
am devilish sharp-set still."

"Why, I have got summat, Master Horatio, but it aren't bread nor yet
beef, nor yet again biled 'am, my Lord--it can't be eat nor it can't
be drank--and here it be!" and with the words the Bo'sun produced a
ponderous iron key.

"Why, my dear old Jerry--my lovely Bo'sun--"

"Captured by his Honor, Master Horatio--carried off by the Cap'n
under your own father's very own nose, sir--or as you might say, cut
out under the enemy's guns, my Lord!" With which explanation the old
sailor unfastened the padlock, raised the upper leg-board, and set
the prisoner free.

"Ah!--but it's good to have the use of one's legs again!" exclaimed
his Lordship, stretching the members in question, "and that," said he,
turning to Barnabas with his whimsical smile, "that is another value
of the stocks--one never knows how pleasant and useful a pair of
legs can be until one has sat with 'em stretched out helplessly at
right angles for an hour or two." Here, the Bo'sun having stowed
back the key and resumed his hat, his Lordship reached out and
gripped his hand. "So it was Uncle John, was it, Jerry--how very
like Uncle John--eh, Jerry?"

"Never was nobody born into this here vale o' sorrer like the
Cap'n--no, nor never will be--nohow!" said the Bo'sun with a solemn
nod.

"God bless him, eh, Jerry?"

"Amen to that, my Lord."

"You'll let him know I said 'God bless him,' Jerry?"

"I will, my Lord, ay, ay, God bless him it is, Master Horatio!"

"Now as to my Roman--my father, Jerry, tell him--er--"

"Be you still set on squaring away for London, then, sir?"

"As a rock, Jerry, as a rock!"

"Then 't is 'good-by,' you're wishing me?"

"Yes, 'good-by,' Jerry, remember 'God bless Uncle John,'
and--er--tell my father that--ah, what the deuce shall you tell him
now?--it should be something a little affecting--wholly dutiful, and
above all gently dignified--hum! Ah, yes--tell him that whether I
win or lose the race, whether I break my unworthy neck or no, I
shall never forget that I am the Earl of Bamborough's son. And as
for you, Jerry, why, I shall always think of you as the jolly old
sea dog who used to stoop down to let me get at his whiskers, they
were a trifle blacker in those days. Gad! how I did pull 'em, Jerry,
even then I admired your whiskers, didn't I? I swear there isn't such
another pair in England. Good-by, Jerry!" Saying which his Lordship
turned swiftly upon his heel and walked on a pace or two, while
Barnabas paused to wring the old seaman's brown hand; then they went
on down the hill together.

And the Bo'sun, sitting upon the empty stocks with his wooden pin
sticking straight out before him, sighed as he watched them striding
London-wards, the Lord's son, tall, slender, elegant, a gentleman to
his finger tips, and the commoner's son, shaped like a young god,
despite his homespun, and between them, as it were linking them
together, fresh and bright and young as the morning, went the joyous
Spirit of Youth.

Now whether the Bo'sun saw aught of this, who shall say, but old
eyes see many things. And thus, perhaps, the sigh that escaped the
battered old man-o'-war's man's lips was only because of his own
vanished youth--his gray head and wooden leg, after all.




CHAPTER X


WHICH DESCRIBES A PERIPATETIC CONVERSATION

"Sir," said his Lordship, after they had gone some way in silence,
"you are thoughtful, not to say, devilish grave!"

"And you," retorted Barnabas, "have sighed--three times."

"No, did I though?--why then, to be candid,--I detest saying
'Good-by!'--and I have been devoutly wishing for two pair of muffles,
for, sir, I have taken a prodigious liking to you--but--"

"But?" inquired Barnabas.

"Some time since you mentioned the names of two men--champions
both--ornaments of the 'Fancy'--great fighters of unblemished
reputation."

"You mean my--er--that is, Natty Bell and John Barty."

"Precisely!--you claim to have--boxed with them, sir?"

"Every day!" nodded Barnabas.

"With both of them,--I understand?"

"With both of them."

"Hum!"

"Sir," said Barnabas, growing suddenly polite, "do you doubt my word?"

"Well," answered his Lordship, with his whimsical look, "I'll admit
I could have taken it easier had you named only one, for surely, sir,
you must be aware that these were Masters of the Fist--the greatest
since the days of Jack Broughton and Mendoza."

"I know each had been champion--but it would almost seem that I have
entertained angels unawares!--and I boxed with both because they
happened to live together."

"Then, sir," said the Viscount, extending his hand in his frank,
impetuous manner, "you are blest of the gods. I congratulate you and,
incidentally, my desire for muffles grows apace,--you must
positively put 'em on with me at the first opportunity."

"Right willingly, sir," said Barnabas.

"But deuce take me!" exclaimed the Viscount, "if we are to become
friends, which I sincerely hope, we ought at least to know each
other's name. Mine, sir, is Bellasis, Horatio Bellasis; I was named
Horatio after Lord Nelson, consequently my friends generally call me
Tom, Dick, or Harry, for with all due respect to his Lordship,
Horatio is a very devil of a name, now isn't it? Pray what's yours?"

"Barnabas--Beverley. At your service."

"Barnabas--hum! Yours isn't much better. Egad! I think 't is about
as bad. Barnabas!--No, I'll call you Bev, on condition that you make
mine Dick; what d' ye say, my dear Bev?"

"Agreed, Dick," answered Barnabas, smiling, whereupon they stopped,
and having very solemnly shaken hands, went on again, merrier than
ever.

"Now what," inquired the Viscount, suddenly, "what do you think of
marriage, my dear Bev?"

"Marriage?" repeated Barnabas, staring.

"Marriage!" nodded his Lordship, airily, "matrimony, Bev,--wedlock,
my dear fellow?"

"I--indeed I have never had occasion to think of it."

"Fortunate fellow!" sighed his companion.

"Until--this morning!" added Barnabas, as his fingers encountered a
small, soft, lacy bundle in his pocket.

"Un-fortunate fellow!" sighed the Viscount, shaking his head.
"So you are haunted by the grim spectre, are you? Well, that should
be an added bond between us. Not that I quarrel with matrimony, mark
you, Bev; in the abstract it is a very excellent institution,
though--mark me again!--when a man begins to think of marriage it is
generally the beginning of the end. Ah, my dear fellow! many a
bright and promising career has been blighted--sapped--snapped
off--and--er--ruthlessly devoured by the ravenous maw of marriage.
There was young Egerton with a natural gift for boxing, and one of
the best whips I ever knew--we raced our coaches to Brighton and
back for a thousand a side and he beat me by six yards--a splendid
all round sportsman--ruined by matrimony! He's buried somewhere in
the country and passing his days in the humdrum pursuit of being
husband and father. Oh, bruise and blister me! it's all very pitiful,
and yet"--here the Viscount sighed again--"I do not quarrel with
the state, for marriage has often proved a--er--very present help in
the time of trouble, Bev."

"Trouble?" repeated Barnabas.

"Money-troubles, my dear Bev, pecuniary unpleasantnesses, debts, and
duns, and devilish things of that kind."

"But surely," said Barnabas, "no man--no honorable man would marry
and burden a woman with debts of his own contracting?"

At this, the Viscount looked at Barnabas, somewhat askance, and fell
to scratching his chin. "Of course," he continued, somewhat hurriedly,
"I shall have all the money I need--more than I shall need some day."

"You mean," inquired Barnabas, "when your father dies?"

Here the Viscount's smooth brow clouded suddenly.

"Sir," said he, "we will not mention that contingency. My father is
a great Roman, I'll admit, but, 'twixt you and me,--I--I'm devilish
fond of him, and, strangely enough, I prefer to have him Romanly
alive and my purse empty--than to possess his money and have him
dea--Oh damn it! let's talk of something else,--Carnaby for instance."

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "your friend, Carnaby."

"Well, then, in the first place, I think I hinted to you that I owe
him five thousand pounds?"

"Five thousand! indeed, no, it was only one, when you mentioned it
to me last."

"Was it so? but then, d'ye see, Bev, we were a good two miles nearer
my honored Roman when I mentioned the matter before, and trees
sometimes have ears, consequently I--er--kept it down a bit, my dear
Bev, I kept it down a bit; but the fact remains that it's five, and
I won't be sure but that there's an odd hundred or two hanging on to
it somewhere, beside."

"You led your father to believe it was only one thousand, then?"

"I did, Bev; you see money seems to make him so infernally Roman,
and I've been going the pace a bit these last six months. There's
another thousand to Jerningham, but he can wait, then there's six
hundred to my tailor, deuce take him!"

"Six hundred!" exclaimed Barnabas, aghast.

"Though I won't swear it isn't seven."

"To be sure he is a very excellent tailor," Barnabas added.

"Gad, yes! and the fellow knows it! Then, let's see, there's another
three hundred and fifty to the coach builders, how much does that
make, Bev?"

"Six thousand, nine hundred and fifty pounds!"

"So much--deuce take it! And that's not all, you know."

"Not?"

"No, Bev, I dare say I could make you up another three or four
hundred or so if I were to rake about a bit, but six thousand is
enough to go on with, thank you!"

"Six thousand pounds is a deal of money to owe!" said Barnabas.

"Yes," answered the Viscount, scratching his chin again, "though,
mark me, Bev, it might be worse! Slingsby, a friend of mine, got
plucked for fifteen thousand in a single night last year. Oh! it
might be worse. As it is, Bev, the case lies thus: unless I win the
race some three weeks from now--I've backed myself heavily, you'll
understand--unless I win, I am between the deep sea of matrimony and
the devil of old Jasper Gaunt."

"And who is Jasper Gaunt?"

"Oh, delicious innocence! Ah, Bev! it's evident you are new to London.
Gaunt is an outcome of the City, as harsh and dingy as its bricks,
as flinty and hard as its pavements. Gad! most of our set know
Jasper Gaunt--to their cost! Who is Jasper Gaunt, you ask; well, my
dear fellow, question Slingsby of the Guards, he's getting deeper
every day, poor old Sling! Ask it, but in a whisper, at Almack's, or
White's, or Brooke's, and my Lord this, that, or t'other shall tell
you pat and to the point in no measured terms. Ask it of wretched
debtors in the prisons, of haggard toilers in the streets, of
pale-faced women and lonely widows, and they'll tell you, one and all,
that Jasper Gaunt is the harshest, most merciless bloodsucker that
ever battened and grew rich on the poverty and suffering of his
fellow men, and--oh here we are!"

Saying which, his Lordship abruptly turned down an unexpected and
very narrow side lane, where, screened behind three great trees, was
a small inn, or hedge tavern with a horse-trough before the door
and a sign whereon was the legend, "The Spotted Cow," with a
representation of that quadruped below, surely the very spottiest
of spotted cows that ever adorned an inn sign.

"Not much to look at, my dear Bev," said the Viscount, with a wave
of his hand towards the inn, "but it's kept by an old sailor, a
shipmate of the Bo'sun's. I can at least promise you a good breakfast,
and the ale you will find excellent. But first I want to show you a
very small demon of mine, a particularly diminutive fiend; follow me,
my dear fellow."

So, by devious ways, the Viscount led Barnabas round to the back of
the inn, and across a yard to where, beyond a gate, was a rick-yard,
and beyond that again, a small field or paddock. Now, within this
paddock, the admired of a group of gaping rustics, was the very
smallest groom Barnabas had ever beheld, for, from the crown of his
leather postilion's hat to the soles of his small top boots, he
could not have measured more than four feet at the very most.

"There he is, Bev, behold him!" said the Viscount, with his
whimsical smile, "the very smallest fiend, the most diminutive demon
that ever wore top boots!"

The small groom was engaged in walking a fine blood horse up and
down the paddock, or rather the horse was walking the groom, for
the animal being very tall and powerful and much given to divers
startings, snortings, and tossings of the head, it thus befell that
to every step the diminutive groom marched on terra firma, he took
one in mid-air, at which times, swinging pendulum-like, he poured
forth a stream of invective that the most experienced ostler, guard,
or coachman might well have envied, and all in a voice so gruff, so
hoarse and guttural, despite his tender years, as filled the
listening rustics with much apparent awe and wonder.

"And he can't be a day older than fourteen, my dear Bev," said the
Viscount, with a complacent nod, as they halted in the perfumed
shade of an adjacent rick; "that's his stable voice assumed for the
occasion, and, between you and me, I can't think how he does it. Egad!
he's the most remarkable boy that ever wore livery, the sharpest,
the gamest. I picked him up in London, a ragged urchin--caught him
picking my pocket, Been with me ever since, and I wouldn't part with
him for his weight in gold."

"Picking your pocket!" said Barnabas, "hum!"

The Viscount looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Why you see, my dear
fellow," he explained, "he was so--so deuced--small, Bev, a wretched
little pale-faced, shivering atomy, peeping up at me over a ragged
elbow waiting to be thrashed, and I liked him because he didn't
snivel, and he was too insignificant for prison, so, when he told me
how hungry he was, I forgot to cuff his shrinking, dirty little head,
and suggested a plate of beef at one of the a la mode shops. 'Beef?'
says he. 'Yes, beef,' says I, 'could you eat any?' 'Beef?' says he
again, 'couldn't I? why, I could eat a ox whole, I could!' So I
naturally dubbed him Milo of Crotona on the spot."

"And has he ever tried to pick your pocket since?"

"No, Bev; you see, he's never hungry nowadays. Gad!" said the
Viscount, taking Barnabas by the arm, "I've set the fashion in tigers,
Bev. Half the fellows at White's and Brooke's are wild to get that
very small demon of mine; but he isn't to be bought or bribed or
stolen--for what there is of him is faithful, Bev,--and now come in
to breakfast."

So saying, the Viscount led Barnabas across the yard to a certain
wing or off-shoot of the inn, where beneath a deep, shadowy gable
was a door. Yet here he must needs pause a moment to glance down at
himself to settle a ruffle and adjust his hat ere, lifting the latch,
he ushered Barnabas into a kitchen.

A kitchen indeed? Ay, but such a kitchen! Surely wood was never
whiter, nor pewter more gleaming than in this kitchen; surely no
flagstones ever glowed a warmer red; surely oak panelling never
shone with a mellower lustre; surely no viands could look more
delicious than the great joint upon the polished sideboard, flanked
by the crisp loaf and the yellow cheese; surely no flowers could
ever bloom fairer or smell sweeter than those that overflowed the
huge punch bowl at the window and filled the Uncle Toby jugs upon
the mantel; surely nowhere could there be at one and the same time
such dainty orderliness and comfortable comfort as in this kitchen.

Indeed the historian is bold to say that within no kitchen in this
world were all things in such a constant state of winking, twinkling,
gleaming and glowing purity, from the very legs of the oaken table
and chairs, to the hacked and battered old cutlass above the chimney,
as in this self-same kitchen of "The Spotted Cow."

And yet--and yet! Sweeter, whiter, warmer, purer, and far more
delicious than anything in this kitchen (or out of it) was she who
had started up to her feet so suddenly, and now stood with blushing
cheeks and hurried bosom, gazing shy-eyed upon the young Viscount;
all dainty grace from the ribbons in her mob-cap to the slender,
buckled shoe peeping out beneath her print gown; and Barnabas,
standing between them, saw her flush reflected as it were for a
moment in the Viscount's usually pale cheek.

"My Lord!" said she, and stopped.

"Why, Clemency, you--you are--handsomer than ever!" stammered the
Viscount.

"Oh, my Lord!" she exclaimed; and as she turned away Barnabas
thought there were tears in her eyes.

"Did we startle you, Clemency? Forgive me--but I--that is,
we are--hungry, ravenous. Er--this is a friend of mine--Mr.
Beverley--Mistress Clemency Dare; and oh, Clemency, I've had no
breakfast!"

But seeing she yet stood with head averted, the Viscount with a
freedom born of long acquaintance, yet with a courtly deference also,
took the hand that hung so listless, and looked down into the
flushed beauty of her face, and, as he looked, beheld a great tear
that crept upon her cheek.

"Why, Clemency!" he exclaimed, his raillery gone, his voice suddenly
tender, "Clemency--you're crying, my dear maid; what is it?"

Now, beholding her confusion, and because of it, Barnabas turned
away and walked to the other end of the kitchen, and there it
chanced that he spied two objects that lay beneath the table, and
stooping, forthwith, he picked them up. They were small and
insignificant enough in themselves--being a scrap of crumpled paper,
and a handsome embossed coat button; yet as Barnabas gazed upon this
last, he smiled grimly, and so smiling slipped the objects into his
pocket.

"Come now, Clemency," persisted the Viscount, gently, "what is wrong?"

"Nothing; indeed, nothing, my Lord."

"Ay, but there is. See how red your eyes are; they quite spoil your
beauty--"

"Beauty!" she cried. "Oh, my Lord; even you!"

"What? What have I said? You are beautiful you know, Clem, and--"

"Beauty!" she cried again, and turned upon him with clenched hands
and dark eyes aflame. "I hate it--oh, I hate it!" and with the
words she stamped her foot passionately, and turning, sped away,
banging the door behind her.

"Now, upon my soul!" said the Viscount, taking off his hat and
ruffling up his auburn locks, "of all the amazing, contradictory
creatures in the world, Bev! I've known Clemency--hum--a goodish time,
my dear fellow; but never saw her like this before, I wonder what
the deuce--"

But at this juncture a door at the further end of the kitchen opened,
and a man entered. He, like the Bo'sun, was merry of eye, breezy of
manner, and hairy of visage; but there all similarity ended, for,
whereas the Bo'sun was a square man, this man was round--round of
head, round of face, and round of eye. At the sight of the Viscount,
his round face expanded in a genial smile that widened until it was
lost in whisker, and he set two fingers to his round forehead and
made a leg.

"Lord love me, my Lord, and is it you?" he exclaimed, clasping the
hand the Viscount had extended. "Now, from what that imp of a
bye--axing his parding--your tiger, Mr. Milo, told me, I were to
expect you at nine sharp--and here it be nigh on to ten--"

"True, Jack; but then both he and I reckoned without my father. My
father had the bad taste to--er--disagree with me, hence I am late,
Jack, and breakfastless, and my friend Mr. Beverley is as hungry as
I am. Bev, my dear fellow, this is a very old friend of mine--Jack
Truelove, who fought under my uncle at Trafalgar."

"Servant, sir!" says Jack, saluting Barnabas.

"The 'Belisarius,' Seventy-four!" smiled Barnabas.

"Ay, ay," says Jack, with a shake of his round head, "the poor old
'Bully-Sawyer'--But, Lord love me! if you be hungry--"

"Devilish!" said the Viscount, "but first, Jack--what's amiss with
Clemency?"

"Clemency? Why, where be that niece o' mine?"

"She's run away, Jack. I found her in tears, and I had scarce said a
dozen words to her when--hey presto! She's off and away."

"Tears is it, my Lord?--and 'er sighed, too, I reckon. Come now--'er
sighed likewise. Eh, my Lord?"

"Why, yes, she may have sighed, but--"

"There," says Jack, rolling his round head knowingly, "it be nought
but a touch o' love, my Lord."

"Love!" exclaimed the Viscount sharply.

"Ah, love! Nieces is difficult craft, and very apt to be took all
aback by the wind o' love, as you might say--but Lord! it's only
natural arter all. Ah! the rearing o' motherless nieces is a
ticklish matter, gentlemen--as to nevvys, I can't say, never 'aving
'ad none _to_ rear--but nieces--Lord! I could write a book on 'em,
that is, s'posing I could write, which I can't; for, as I've told
you many a time, my Lord, and you then but a bye over here on a
visit, wi' the Bo'sun, or his Honor the Cap'n, and you no older then
than--er--Mr. Milo, though longer in the leg, as I 've told you many
a time and oft--a very ob-servant man I be in most things, consequent'
I aren't observed this here niece--this Clem o' mine fair weather
and foul wi'out larning the kind o' craft nieces be. Consequent',
when you tell me she weeps, and likewise sighs, then I make bold to
tell you she's got a touch o' love, and you can lay to that, my Lord."

"Love," exclaimed the Viscount again, and frowning this time;
"now, who the devil should she be in love with!"

"That, my Lord, I can't say, not having yet observed. But now, by
your leave, I'll pass the word for breakfast."

Hereupon the landlord of "The Spotted Cow" opened the lattice, and
sent a deep-lunged hail across the yard.

"Ahoy!" he roared, "Oliver, Penelope, Bess--breakfast ho!--breakfast
for the Viscount--and friend. They be all watching of that theer
imp--axing his pardon--that theer groom o' yours, what theer be of
him, which though small ain't by no means to be despised, him being
equally ready wi' his tongue as his fist."

Here entered two maids, both somewhat flushed with haste but both
equally bright of eye, neat of person, and light of foot, who very
soon had laid a snowy cloth and duly set out thereon the beef, the
bread and cheese, and a mighty ham, before which the Viscount seated
himself forthwith, while their sailor host, more jovial than ever,
pointed out its many beauties with an eloquent thumb. And so, having
seen his guests seated opposite each other, he pulled his forelock
at them, made a leg to them, and left them to their breakfast.




CHAPTER XI


IN WHICH FISTS ARE CLENCHED; AND OF A SELFISH MAN, WHO WAS AN
APOSTLE OF PEACE

Conversation, though in itself a blessed and delightful thing, yet
may be sometimes out of place, and wholly impertinent. If wine is a
loosener of tongues, surely food is the greatest, pleasantest, and
most complete silencer; for what man when hunger gnaws and food is
before him--what man, at such a time, will stay to discuss the
wonders of the world, of science--or even himself?

Thus our two young travellers, with a very proper respect for the
noble fare before them, paid their homage to it in silence--but a
silence that was eloquent none the less. At length, however, each
spoke, and each with a sigh.

_The Viscount_. "The ham, my dear fellow--!"

_Barnabas_. "The beef, my dear Dick--!"

_The Viscount and Barnabus_. "Is beyond words."

Having said which, they relapsed again into a silence, broken only
by the occasional rattle of knife and fork.

_The Viscount_ (hacking at the loaf). "It's a grand thing to be hungry,
my dear fellow."

_Barnabas_ (glancing over the rim of his tankard). "When you have the
means of satisfying it--yes."

_The Viscount_ (becoming suddenly abstracted, and turning his piece of
bread over and over in his fingers). "Now regarding--Mistress Clemency,
my dear Bev; what do you think of her?"

_Barnabas_ (helping himself to more beef). "That she is a remarkably
handsome girl!"

_The Viscount_ (frowning at his piece of bread). "Hum! d'you think so?"

_Barnabas_. "Any man would. I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."

_The Viscount_. "Yes; I suppose they would."

_Barnabas_. "Some probably do--especially men with an eye for fine
women."

_The Viscount_ (frowning blacker than ever). "Pray, what mean you
by that?"

_Barnabas_. "Your friend Carnaby undoubtedly does."

_The Viscount_ (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into
your head? Carnaby's never seen her."

_Barnabas_. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."

_The Viscount_ (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist).
"Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't--he's never been near this place."

_Barnabas_. "There you are quite wrong."

_The Viscount_ (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what
the devil are you driving at?"

_Barnabas_. "I mean that he was here this morning."

_The Viscount_. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should
make you think so?"

"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the
floor.

"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the
crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it
sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across
to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:--

  --felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely
  heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind
  you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand
  pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely
  July 16,

  Your humble, obedient Servant,

  JASPER GAUNT.

"Jasper Gaunt!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Sixty thousand pounds! Poor
Carnaby! Sixty thousand pounds payable on July sixteenth! Now the
fifteenth, my dear Bev, is the day of the race, and if he should lose,
it looks very much as though Carnaby would be ruined, Bev."

"Unless he marries 'the lovely heiress'!" added Barnabas.

"Hum!" said the Viscount, frowning. "I wish I'd never seen this
cursed paper, Bev!" and as he spoke he crumpled it up and threw it
into the great fireplace. "Where in the name of mischief did you get
it?"

"It was in the corner yonder," answered Barnabas. "I also found this."
And he laid a handsomely embossed coat button on the table.
"It has been wrenched off you will notice."

"Yes," nodded the Viscount, "torn off! Do you think--"

"I think," said Barnabas, putting the button back into his pocket,
"that Mistress Clemency's tears are accounted for--"

"By God, Beverley," said the Viscount, an ugly light in his eyes,
"if I thought that--!" and the hand upon the table became a fist.

"I think that Mistress Clemency is a match for any man--or brute,"
said Barnabas, and drew his hand from his pocket.

Now the Viscount's fist was opening and shutting convulsively, the
breath whistled between his teeth, he glanced towards the door, and
made as though he would spring to his feet; but in that moment came
a diversion, for Barnabas drew his hand from his pocket, and as he
did so, something white fluttered to the floor, close beside the
Viscount's chair. Both men saw it and both stooped to recover it,
but the Viscount, being nearer, picked it up, glanced at it, looked
at Barnabas with a knowing smile, glanced at it again, was arrested
by certain initials embroidered in one corner, stooped his head
suddenly, inhaling its subtle perfume, and so handed it back to
Barnabas, who took it with a word of thanks and thrust it into an
inner pocket, while the Viscount stared at him under his drawn brows.
But Barnabas, all unconscious, proceeded to cut himself another
slice of beef, offering to do the same for the Viscount.

"Thank you--no," said he.

"What--have you done, so soon?"

"Yes," said he, and thereafter sat watching Barnabas ply knife and
fork, who, presently catching his eye, smiled.

"Pray," said the Viscount after a while, "pray are you acquainted
with the Lady Cleone Meredith?"

"No," answered Barnabas. "I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."

"Have you ever met the Lady Cleone Meredith?"

"Never", answered Barnabas, innocent of eye.

Hereupon the Viscount rose up out of the chair and leaned across the
table.

"Sir," said he, "you are a most consummate liar!"

Hereupon Barnabas helped himself to the mustard with grave
deliberation, then, leaning back in his chair, he smiled up into the
Viscount's glowing eyes as politely and with as engaging an air as
might be.

"My Lord," said he gently, "give me leave to remark that he who says
so, lies himself most foully." Having said which Barnabas set down
the mustard, and bowed.

"Mr. Beverley," said the Viscount, regarding him calm-eyed across
the table, "there is a place I know of near by, a very excellent
place, being hidden by trees, a smooth, grassy place--shall we go?"

"Whenever you will, my Lord," said Barnabas, rising.

Forthwith having bowed to each other and put on their hats, they
stepped out into the yard, and so walked on side by side, a trifle
stiffer and more upright than usual maybe, until they came to a stile.
Here they must needs pause to bow once more, each wishful to give
way to the other, and, having duly crossed the stile, they presently
came to a place, even as the Viscount had said, being shady with
trees, and where a brook ran between steep banks. Here, too, was a
small foot-bridge, with hand-rails supported at either end by posts.
Now upon the right-hand post the Viscount set his hat and coat, and
upon the left, Barnabas hung his. Then, having rolled up their
shirt-sleeves, they bowed once more, and coming to where the grass
was very smooth and level they faced each other with clenched fists.

"Mr. Beverley," said the Viscount, "you will remember I sighed for
muffles, but, sir, I count this more fortunate, for to my mind there
is nothing like bare fists, after all, to try a man's capabilities."

"My Lord," said Barnabas, "you will also remember that when I told
you I had boxed daily both with 'Glorious John' and Nathaniel Bell,
you doubted my word? I therefore intend to try and convince you as
speedily as may be."

"Egad!" exclaimed the Viscount, his blue eyes a-dance, "this is
positively more than I had ventured to hope, my dear fell--Ah!
Mr. Beverley, at your service, sir?"

And, after a season, Barnabas spoke, albeit pantingly, and dabbing
at his bloody mouth the while.

"Sir," said he, "I trust--you are not--incommoded at all?" whereupon
the Viscount, coming slowly to his elbow and gazing round about him
with an expression of some wonder, made answer, albeit also
pantingly and short of breath:

"On the contrary, sir, am vastly--enjoying myself--shall give
myself the pleasure--of continuing--just as soon as the ground
subsides a little."

Therefore Barnabas, still dabbing at his mouth, stepped forward
being minded to aid him to his feet, but ere he could do so, a voice
arrested him.

"Stop!" said the voice.

Now glancing round, Barnabas beheld a man, a small man and slender,
whose clothes, old and worn, seemed only to accentuate the dignity
and high nobility of his face.

Bareheaded he advanced towards them and his hair glistened silver
white in the sunshine, though his brows were dark, like the glowing
eyes below. Upon his cheek was the dark stain of blood, and on his
lips was a smile ineffably sweet and gentle as he came forward,
looking from one to the other.

"And pray, sir," inquired the Viscount, sitting cross-legged upon
the green, "pray, who might you be?"

"I am an apostle of peace, young sir," answered the stranger,
"a teacher of forgiveness, though, doubtless, an unworthy one."

"Peace, sir!" cried the Viscount, "deuce take me!--but you are the
most warlike Apostle of Peace that eyes ever beheld; by your looks
you might have been fighting the Seven Champions of Christendom, one
down, t' other come on--"

"You mean that I am bleeding, sir; indeed, I frequently do, and
therein is my joy, for this is the blood of atonement."

"The blood of atonement?" said Barnabas.

"Last night," pursued the stranger in his gentle voice, "I sought to
teach the Gospel of Mercy and Universal Forgiveness at a country
fair not so very far from here, and they drove me away with sticks
and stones; indeed, I fear our rustics are sometimes woefully
ignorant, and Ignorance is always cruel. So, to-day, as soon as the
stiffness is gone from me, I shall go back to them, sirs, for even
Ignorance has ears."

Now whereupon, the Viscount got upon his legs, rather unsteadily,
and bowed.

"Sir," said he, "I humbly ask your pardon; surely so brave an
apostle should do great works."

"Then," said the stranger, drawing nearer, "if such is your thought,
let me see you two clasp hands."

"But, sir," said the Viscount, somewhat taken aback, "indeed we
have--scarcely begun--"

"So much the better," returned the teacher of forgiveness with his
gentle smile, and laying a hand upon the arm of each.

"But, sir, I went so far as to give this gentleman the lie!" resumed
the Viscount.

"Which I went so far as to--return," said Barnabas.

"But surely the matter can be explained?" inquired the stranger.

"Possibly!" nodded the Viscount, "though I generally leave
explanations until afterwards."

"Then," said the stranger, glancing from one proud young face to
the other, "in this instance, shake hands first. Hate and anger
are human attributes, but to forgive is Godlike. Therefore now,
forget yourselves and in this thing be gods. For, young sirs,
as it seems to me, it was ordained that you two should be friends.
And you are young and full of great possibilities and friendship
is a mighty factor in this hard world, since by friendship comes
self-forgctfulness, and no man can do great works unless he forgets
Self. So, young sirs, shake hands!"

Now, as they looked upon each other, of a sudden, despite his split
lip, Barnabas smiled and, in that same moment, the Viscount held out
his hand.

"Beverley," said he, as their fingers gripped, "after your most
convincing--shall we say, argument?--if you tell me you have boxed
with all and every champion back to Mendoza, Jack Slack, and
Broughton, egad! I'll believe you, for you have a devilish striking
and forcible way with you at times!" Here the Viscount cherished his
bruised ribs with touches of tender inquiry. "Yes," he nodded,
"there is a highly commendable thoroughness in your methods, my dear
Bev, and I'm free to confess I like you better and better--but--!"

"But?" inquired Barnabas.

"As regards the handkerchief now--?"

"I found it--on a bramble-bush--in a wood," said Barnabas.

"In a wood!"

"In Annersley Wood; I found a lady there also."

"A lady--oh, egad!"

"A very beautiful woman," said Barnabas thoughtfully, "with
wonderful yellow hair!"

"The Lady Cleone Meredith!" exclaimed the Viscount, "but in a--wood!"

"She had fallen from her horse."

"How? When? Was she hurt?"

"How, I cannot tell you, but it happened about two hours ago, and
her hurt was trifling."

"And you--found her?"

"I also saw her safely out of the wood."

"And you did not know her name?"

"I quite--forgot to ask it," Barnabas admitted, "and I never saw her
until this morning."

"Why, then, my dear Bev," said the Viscount, his brow clearing,
"let us go back to breakfast, all three of us."

But, now turning about, they perceived that the stranger was gone,
yet, coming to the bridge, they presently espied him sitting beside
the stream laving his hurts in the cool water.

"Sir," said Barnabas, "our thanks are due to you--"

"And you must come back to the inn with us," added the Viscount;
"the ham surpasses description."

"And I would know what you meant by the 'blood of atonement,'" said
Barnabas, the persistent.

"As to breakfast, young sirs," said the stranger, shaking his head,
"I thank you, but I have already assuaged my hunger; as to my story,
well, 'tis not over long, and indeed it is a story to think upon--a
warning to heed, for it is a story of Self, and Self is the most
insidious enemy that man possesses. So, if you would listen to the
tale of a selfish man, sit down here beside me, and I'll tell you."




CHAPTER XII


OF THE STRANGER'S TALE, WHICH, BEING SHORT, MAY PERHAPS MEET WITH
THE READER'S KIND APPROBATION.

"In ancient times, sirs," began the stranger, with his gaze upon the
hurrying waters of the brook, "when a man had committed some great
sin he hid himself from the world, and lashed himself with cruel
stripes, he walked barefoot upon sharp flints and afflicted himself
with grievous pains and penalties, glorying in the blood of his
atonement, and wasting himself and his remaining years in woeful
solitude, seeking, thereby, to reclaim his soul from the wrath
to come. But, as for me, I walk the highways preaching always
forgiveness and forgetfulness of self, and if men grow angry at my
teaching and misuse me, the pain of wounds, the hardships, the
fatigue, I endure them all with a glad and cheerful mind, seeking
thereby to work out my redemption and atonement, for I was a very
selfish man." Here the stranger paused, and his face seemed more
lined and worn, and his white hair whiter, as he stared down into
the running waters of the brook.

"Sirs," he continued, speaking with bent head, "I once had a daughter,
and I loved her dearly, but my name was dearer yet. I was proud of
her beauty, but prouder of my ancient name, for I was a selfish man."

"We lived in the country, a place remote and quiet, and consequently
led a very solitary, humdrum life, because I was ever fond of books
and flowers and the solitude of trees--a selfish man always. And so,
at last, because she was young and high-spirited, she ran away from
my lonely cottage with one who was a villain. And I grieved for her,
young sirs, I grieved much and long, because I was lonely, but I
grieved more for my name, my honorable name that she had besmirched,
because, as I told you, I was a selfish man." Again the stranger was
silent, sitting ever with bent head staring down at the crystal
waters of the brook, only he clasped his thin hands and wrung them
as he continued:

"One evening, as I sat among my roses with a book in my hand, she
came back to me through the twilight, and flung herself upon her
knees before me, and besought my forgiveness with sobs and bitter,
bitter tears. Ah, young sirs! I can hear her weeping yet. The sound
of it is always in my ears. So she knelt to me in her abasement with
imploring hands stretched out to me. Ah, the pity of those white
appealing hands, the pity of them! But I, sirs, being as I say a
selfish man and remembering only my proud and honorable name, I, her
father, spurned her from me with reproaches and vile words, such
burning, searing words as no daughter should hear or father utter."

"And so, weeping still, she turned away wearily, hopelessly, and I
stood to watch her bowed figure till she had crept away into the
evening and was gone."

"Thus, sirs, I drove her from me, this wounded lamb, this poor
broken-hearted maid--bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh--I drove her
from me, I who should have comforted and cherished her, I drove her
out into the night with hateful words and bitter curses. Oh, was
ever sin like mine? Oh, Self, Self! In ancient times, sirs, when a
man had committed some great sin he lashed himself with cruel stripes,
but I tell you no rod, no whip of many thongs ever stung or bit so
sharp and deep as remorse--it is an abiding pain. Therefore I walk
these highways preaching always forgiveness and forgetfulness of self,
and so needs must I walk until my days be done, or until--I find her
again." The stranger rose suddenly and so stood with bent head and
very still, only his hands griped and wrung each other. Yet when he
looked up his brow was serene and a smile was on his lips."

"But you, sirs, you are friends again, and that is good, for
friendship is a blessed thing. And you have youth and strength, and
all things are possible to you, therefore. But oh, beware of self,
take warning of a selfish man, forget self, so may you achieve great
things."

"But, as for me, I never stand upon a country road when evening
falls but I see her, a broken, desolate figure, creeping away from me,
always away from me, into the shadows, and the sound of her weeping
comes to me in the night silences." So saying, the stranger turned
from them and went upon his way, limping a little because of his
hurts, and his hair gleamed silver in the sunshine as he went.




CHAPTER XIII


IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A CONFESSION

"A very remarkable man!" said the Viscount, taking up his hat.

"And a very pitiful story!" said Barnabas, thoughtfully.

"Though I could wish," pursued the Viscount, dreamy of eye, and
settling his hat with a light tap on the crown, "yes, I do certainly
wish that he hadn't interfered quite so soon, I was just beginning
to--ah--enjoy myself."

"It must be a terrible thing to be haunted by remorse so bitter as
his, 'to fancy her voice weeping in the night,' and to see her
creeping on into the shadows always--away from him," said Barnabas.

But now, having helped each other into their coats, they set off
back to the inn.

"My ribs," said the Viscount, feeling that region of his person with
tender solicitude as he spoke, "my ribs are infernally sore, Bev,
though it was kind of you not to mark my face; I'm sorry for your lip,
my dear fellow, but really it was the only opening you gave me; I
hope it isn't painful?"

"Indeed I had forgotten it," returned Barnabas.

"Then needs must I try to forget my bruised ribs," said the Viscount,
making a wry face as he clambered over the stile.

But here Barnabas paused to turn and look back at the scene of their
encounter, quite deserted now, for the stranger had long since
disappeared in the green.

"Yes, a very remarkable man!" sighed Barnabas, thoughtfully.
"I wish he had come back with us to the inn and--Clemency. Yes, a
very strange man. I wonder now--"

"And I beg you to remember," added the Viscount, taking him by the
arm, "he said that you and I were ordained to be friends, and by Gad!
I think he spoke the truth, Bev."

"I feel sure of it, Viscount," Barnabas nodded.

"Furthermore, Bev, if you are 'Bev' to me, I must be 'Dick' to you
henceforth--amen and so forth!"

"Agreed, Dick."

"Then, my dear Bev?" said the Viscount impulsively.

"Yes, my dear Dick?"

"Suppose we shake hands on it?"

"Willingly, Dick, yet, first, I think it but honorable to tell you
that I--love the Lady Cleone Meredith."

"Eh--what?" exclaimed the Viscount, falling back a step, "you love
her? the devil you do! since when?"

"Since this morning."

"Love her!" repeated the Viscount, "but you've seen her but once in
your life."

"True," said Barnabas, "but then I mean to see her many times,
henceforth."

"Ah! the deuce you do!"

"Yes," answered Barnabas. "I shall possibly marry her--some day."

The Viscount laughed, and frowned, and laughed again, then noting
the set mouth and chin of the speaker, grew thoughtful, and
thereafter stood looking at Barnabas with a new and suddenly
awakened interest. Who was he? What was he? From his clothes he
might have been anything between a gentleman farmer and a gamekeeper.

As for Barnabas himself, as he leaned there against the stile with
his gaze on the distance, his eyes a-dream, he had clean forgotten
his awkward clothes and blunt-toed boots.

And after all, what can boots or clothes matter to man or woman?
indeed, they sink into insignificance when the face of their wearer
is stamped with the serene yet determined confidence that marked
Barnabas as he spoke.

"Marry--Cleone Meredith?" said the Viscount at last.

"Marry her--yes," said Barnabas slowly.

"Why then, in the first place let me tell you she's devilish high
and proud."

"'T is so I would have her!" nodded Barnabas.

"And cursedly hard to please."

"So I should judge her," nodded Barnabas.

"And heiress to great wealth."

"No matter for that," said Barnabas.

"And full of whims and fancies."

"And therefore womanly," said Barnabas.

"My dear Beverley," said the Viscount, smiling again, "I tell you
the man who wins Cleone Meredith must be stronger, handsomer, richer,
and more accomplished than any 'Buck,' 'Corinthian,' or 'Macaroni'
of 'em all--"

"Or more determined!" added Barnabas.

"Or more determined, yes," nodded the Viscount.

"Then I shall certainly marry her--some day," said Barnabas.

Again the Viscount eyed Barnabas a while in silence, but this time,
be it noted, he smiled no more.

"Hum!" said he at last, "so it seems in finding a friend I have also
found myself another rival?"

"I greatly fear so," said Barnabas, and they walked on together.

But when they had gone some distance in moody silence, the Viscount
spoke:

"Beverley," said he, "forewarned is forearmed!"

"Yes," answered Barnabas, "that is why I told you."

"Then," said the Viscount, "I think we'll--shake hands--after all."

The which they did forthwith.

Now it was at this moment that Milo of Crotona took it upon himself
to become visible.




CHAPTER XIV


CONCERNING THE BUTTONS OF ONE MILO OF CROTONA

Never did a pair of top boots, big or little, shine with a lustre
more resplendent; never was postilion's jacket more excellent of fit,
nattier, or more carefully brushed; and nowhere could there be found
two rows of crested silver buttons with such an air of waggish
roguery, so sly, so knowing, and so pertinaciously on the everlasting
wink, as these same eight buttons that adorned the very small person
of his groomship, Milo of Crotona. He had slipped out suddenly from
the hedge, and now stood cap in hand, staring from the Viscount to
Barnabas, and back again, with his innocent blue eyes, and with every
blinking, twinkling button on his jacket. And his eyes were wide and
guileless--the eyes of a cherub; but his buttons!

Yea, forsooth, it was all in his buttons as they winked slyly one to
another as much as to say:

"Aha! we don't know why his Lordship's nankeens are greened at the
knees, not we! nor why the gent's lower lip is unduly swelled. Lord
love your eyes and limbs, oh no!"

"What, my imp of innocence!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Where have you
sprung from?"

"'Edge, m'lud."

"Ah! and what might you have been doing in the hedge now?"

"Think'n', m'lud."

"And what were you thinking?"

"I were think'n', m'lud, as the tall genelman here is a top-sawyer
wi' 'is daddies, m'lud. I was."

"Aha! so you've been watching, eh?"

"Not watchin'--oh no, m'lud; I just 'appened ter notice--that's all,
m'lud."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Viscount; "then I suppose you happened to notice
me being--knocked down?"

"No, m'lud; ye see, I shut my eyes--every time."

"Every time, eh!" said his Lordship, with his whimsical smile.
"Oh Loyalty, thy name is Milo! But hallo!" he broke off, "I believe
you've been fighting again--come here!"

"Fightin', m'lud! What, me?"

"What's the matter with your face--it's all swollen; there, your
cheek?"

"Swellin', m'lud; I don't feel no swellin'."

"No, no; the other cheek."

"Oh, this, m'lud. Oh, 'e done it, 'e did; but I weren't fightin'."

"Who did it?"

"S' Mortimer's friend, 'e done it, 'e did."

"Sir Mortimer's friend?"

"Ah, 'im, m'lud."

"But, how in the world--"

"Wi' his fist, m'lud."

"What for?"

"'Cos I kicked 'im, I did."

"You--kicked Sir Mortimer Carnaby's friend!" exclaimed the Viscount.
"What in heaven's name did you do that for?"

"'Cos you told me to, m'lud, you did."

"I told you to kick--"

"Yes, m'lud, you did. You sez to me, last week--arter I done up that
butcher's boy--you sez to me, 'don't fight 'cept you can't 'elp it,'
you sez; 'but allus pertect the ladies,' you sez, 'an if so be as
'e's too big to reach wi' your fists--why, use your boots,' you sez,
an' so I did, m'lud."

"So you were protecting a lady, were you, Imp?"

"Miss Clemency, mam; yes, m'lud. She's been good ter me, Miss Clemency,
mam 'as--an' so when I seen 'im strugglin' an' a-tryin' to kiss
'er--when I 'eered 'er cry out--I came in froo de winder, an' I kicked
'im, I did, an' then--"

"Imp," said the Viscount gravely, "you are forgetting your aitches!
And so Sir Mortimer's friend kissed her, did he? Mind your aitches
now!"

"Yes, m' lud; an' when Hi seen the tears hin her eyes--"

"Now you are mixing them, Imp!--tears in her eyes. Well?"

"Why then I kicked him, m' lud, an' he turned round an' give me this
'ere."

"And what was Sir Mortimer's friend like?"

"A tall--werry sleepy gentleman, wot smiled, m' lud."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Viscount, starting; "and with a scar upon one
cheek?"

"Yes, m'lud."

His Lordship frowned. "That would be Chichester," said he
thoughtfully. "Now I wonder what the devil should bring that fellow
so far from London?"

"Well, m' lud," suggested Milo, shaking his golden curls, "I kind of
'specks there's a woman at the bottom of it. There mostly generally
is."

"Hum!" said the Viscount.

"'Sides, m' lud, I 'eard 'im talkin' 'bout a lady to S' Mortimer!"

"Did they mention her name?"

"The sleepy one 'e did, m' lud. Jist as S' Mortimer climbed into the
chaise--'Here's wishing you luck wi' the lovely Meredyth,' 'e sez."

"Meredith!" exclaimed the Viscount.

"Meredith, m' lud; 'the lovely Meredith,' 'e sez, an' then, as he
stood watchin' the chaise drive away, 'may the best man win,' sez 'e
to himself, 'an' that's me,' sez'e."

"Boy," said the Viscount, "have the horses put to--at once."

"Werry good, m' lud," and, touching his small hat, Milo of Crotona
turned and set off as fast as his small legs would carry him.

"Gad!" exclaimed his Lordship, "this is more than I bargained for. I
must be off."

"Indeed!" said Barnabas, who for the last minute or so had been
watching a man who was strolling idly up the lane, a tall, languid
gentleman in a jaunty hat. "You seem all at once in a mighty hurry
to get to London."

"London!" repeated the Viscount, staring blankly. "London? Oh, why
yes, to be sure, I was going to London; but--hum--fact of the matter
is, I've changed my mind about it, my dear Bev; I'm going--back. I'm
following Carnaby."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, still intent upon the man in the lane,
"Carnaby again."

"Oh, damn the fellow!" exclaimed the Viscount.

"But--he is your friend."

"Hum!" said the Viscount; "but Carnaby is always--Carnaby, and she--"

"Meaning the Lady Cleone," said Barnabas.

"Is a woman--"

"'The lovely Meredith'!" nodded Barnabas.

"Exactly!" said the Viscount, frowning; "and Carnaby is the devil
with women."

"But not this woman," answered Barnabas, frowning a little also.

"My dear fellow, men like Carnaby attract all women--"

"That," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "that I cannot believe."

"Have you known many women, Bev?"

"No," answered Barnabas; "but I have met the Lady Cleone--"

"Once!" added the Viscount significantly.

"Once!" nodded Barnabas.

"Hum," said the Viscount. "And, therefore," added Barnabas,
"I don't think that we need fear Sir Mortimer as a rival."

"That," retorted the Viscount, shaking his head, "is because you
don't know him--either."

Hereupon, having come to the inn and having settled their score, the
Viscount stepped out to the stables accompanied by the round-faced
landlord, while Barnabas, leaning out from the open casement, stared
idly into the lane. And thus he once more beheld the gentleman in
the jaunty hat, who stood lounging in the shade of one of the great
trees that grew before the inn, glancing up and down the lane in the
attitude of one who waits. He was tall and slender, and clad in a
tight-fitting blue coat cut in the extreme of the prevailing fashion,
and beneath his curly-brimmed hat, Barnabas saw a sallow face with
lips a little too heavy, nostrils a little too thin, and eyes a
little too close together, at least, so Barnabas thought, but what he
noticed more particularly was the fact that one of the buttons of
the blue coat had been wrenched away.

Now, as the gentleman lounged there against the tree, he switched
languidly at a bluebell that happened to grow within his reach, cut
it down, and with gentle, lazy taps beat it slowly into nothingness,
which done, he drew out his watch, glanced at it, frowned, and was
in the act of thrusting it back into his fob when the hedge opposite
was parted suddenly and a man came through. A wretched being he
looked, dusty, unkempt, unshorn, whose quick, bright eyes gleamed in
the thin oval of his pallid face. At sight of this man the
gentleman's lassitude vanished, and he stepped quickly forward.

"Well," he demanded, "did you find her?"

"Yes, sir."

"And a cursed time you've been about it."

"Annersley is further than I thought, sir, and--"

"Pah! no matter, give me her answer," and the gentleman held out a
slim white hand.

"She had no time to write, sir," said the man, "but she bid me tell
you--"

"Damnation!" exclaimed the gentleman, glancing towards the inn,
"not here, come further down the lane," and with the word he turned
and strode away, with the man at his heels.

"Annersley," said Barnabas, as he watched them go; "Annersley."

But now, with a prodigious clatter of hoofs and grinding of wheels,
the Viscount drove round in his curricle, and drew up before the
door in masterly fashion; whereupon the two high-mettled bloods
immediately began to rear and plunge (as is the way of their kind),
to snort, to toss their sleek heads, and to dance, drumming their
hoofs with a sound like a brigade of cavalry at the charge, whereupon
the Viscount immediately fell to swearing at them, and his
diminutive groom to roaring at them in his "stable voice," and the
two ostlers to cursing them, and one another; in the midst of which
hubbub out came Barnabas to stare at them with the quick, appraising
eye of one who knows and loves horses.

To whom, thusly, the Viscount, speaking both to him and the horses:

"Oh, there you are, Bev--stand still, damn you! There's blood for you,
eh, my dear fellow--devil burn your hide! Jump up, my dear
fellow--Gad, they're pulling my arms off."

"Then you want me to come with you, Dick?"

"My dear Bev, of course I do--stand still, damn you--though we are
rivals, we're friends first--curse your livers and bones--so jump up,
Bev, and--oh dammem, there's no holding 'em--quick, up with you."

Now, as Barnabas stepped forward, afar off up the lane he chanced to
espy a certain jaunty hat, and immediately, acting for once upon
impulse, he shook his head.

"No, thanks," said he.

"Eh--no?" repeated the Viscount, "but you shall see her, I'll
introduce you myself."

"Thanks, Dick, but I've decided not to go back."

"What, you won't come then?"

"No."

"Ah, well, we shall meet in London. Inquire for me at White's or
Brooke's, any one will tell you where to find me. Good-by!"

Then, settling his feet more firmly, he took a fresh grip upon the
reins, and glanced over his shoulder to where Milo of Crotona sat
with folded arms in the rumble.

"All right behind?"

"Right, m'lud."

"Then give 'em their heads, let 'em go!"

The grooms sprang away, the powerful bays reared, once, twice, and
then, with a thunder of hoofs, started away at a gallop that set the
light vehicle rocking and swaying, yet which in no whit seemed to
trouble Milo of Crotona, who sat upon his perch behind with folded
arms as stiff and steady as a small graven image, until he and the
Viscount and the curricle had been whirled into the distance and
vanished in a cloud of dust.




CHAPTER XV


IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER MAY LEARN SOMETHING OF THE GENTLEMAN IN
THE JAUNTY HAT

"Lord, but this is a great day for the old 'Cow,' sir," said the
landlord, as Barnabas yet stood staring down the road, "we aren't
had so many o' the quality here for years. Last night the young
Vi-count, this morning, bright and early, Sir Mortimer Carnaby and
friend, then the Vi-count again, along o' you, sir, an' now you an'
Sir Mortimer's friend; you don't be no ways acquainted wi' Sir
Mortimer's friend, be you, sir?"

"No," answered Barnabas, "what is his name?"

"Well, Sir Mortimer hailed him as 'Chichester,' I fancy, sir, though
I aren't prepared to swear it, no more yet to oath it, not 'aving
properly ob-served, but 'Chichester,' I think it were; and, 'twixt
you an' me, sir, he be one o' your fine gentlemen as I aren't no
wise partial to, an' he's ordered dinner and supper."

"Has he," said Barnabas, "then I think I'll do the same."

"Ay, ay, sir, very good."

"In the meantime could you let me have pen, ink and paper?"

"Ay, sir, surely, in the sanded parlor, this way, sir."

Forthwith he led Barnabas into a long, low panelled room, with a
wide fireplace at the further end, beside which stood a great
high-backed settle with a table before it. Then Barnabas sat down
and wrote a letter to his father, as here follows:--

       *       *       *       *       *

  My Dear Father and Natty Bell,--I have read somewhere in my books
  that 'adventures are to the adventurous,' and, indeed, I have
  already found this to be true. Now, since I am adventuring the great
  world, I adventure lesser things also.

  Thus I have met and talked with an entertaining pedler, from whom I
  have learned that the worst place in the world is Giles's Rents down
  by the River; from him, likewise, I purchased a book as to the
  merits of which I begin to entertain doubts.

  Then I have already thrashed a friend of the Prince Regent, and
  somewhat spoiled a very fine gentleman, and, I fear, am like to be
  necessitated to spoil another before the day is much older; from
  each of whom I learn that a Prince's friend may be an arrant knave.

  Furthermore, I have become acquainted with the son of an Earl, and
  finding him a man also, have formed a friendship with him, which I
  trust may endure.

  Thus far, you see, much has happened to me; adventures have
  befallen me in rapid succession. 'Wonderful!' say you. 'Not at all,'
  say I, since I have found but what I sought after, for, as has been
  said--'adventures are to the adventurous.' Therefore, within the
  next few hours, I confidently expect other, and perchance weightier,
  happenings to overtake me because--I intend them to. So much for
  myself.

  Now, as for you and Natty Bell, it is with deep affection that I
  think of you--an affection that shall abide with me always. Also,
  you are both in my thoughts continually. I remember our bouts with
  the 'muffles,' and my wild gallops on unbroken horses with Natty Bell;
  surely he knows a horse better than any, and is a better rider than
  boxer, if that could well be. Indeed, I am fortunate in having
  studied under two such masters.

  Furthermore, I pray you to consider that this absence of mine will
  only draw us closer together, in a sense. Indeed, now, when I think
  of you both, I am half-minded to give up this project and come back
  to you. But my destiny commands me, and destiny must be obeyed.
  Therefore I shall persist unto the end; but whether I succeed or no,
  remember, I pray of you, that I am always,

  Your lover and friend,

  Barnabas.

  P.S.--Regarding the friend of the Prince Regent, I could wish now
  that I had struck a little harder, and shall do so next time, should
  the opportunity be given.

  B.

Having finished this letter, in which it will be seen he made no
mention of the Lady Cleone, though his mind was yet full of her,
having finished his letter I say, Barnabas sanded it, folded it,
affixed wafers, and had taken up his pen to write the superscription,
when he was arrested by a man's voice speaking in a lazy drawl, just
outside the open lattice behind him.

"Now 'pon my soul and honor, Beatrix--so much off ended virtue for a
stolen kiss--begad! you were prodigal of 'em once--"

"How-dare you! Oh, coward that you are!" exclaimed another voice,
low and repressed, yet vibrant with bitter scorn; "you know that I
found you out--in time, thank God!"

"Beatrix?" said Barnabas to himself.

"In time; ah! and pray who'd believe it? You ran away from me--but
you ran away with me--first! In time? Did your father believe it,
that virtuous old miser? would any one, who saw us together, believe
it? No, Beatrix, I tell you all the world knows you for my--"

"Stop!" A moment's silence and then came a soft, gently amused laugh.

"Lord, Beatrix, how handsome you are!--handsomer than ever, begad!
I'm doubly fortunate to have found you again. Six years is a long
time, but they've only matured you--ripened you. Yes, you're
handsomer than ever; upon my life and soul you are!"

But here came the sudden rush of flying draperies, the sound of swift,
light footsteps, and Barnabas was aware of the door behind him being
opened, closed and bolted, and thereafter, the repressed sound of a
woman's passionate weeping. Therefore he rose up from the settle, and
glancing over its high back, beheld Clemency.

Almost in the same moment she saw him, and started back to the wall,
glanced from Barnabas to the open lattice, and covered her face with
her hands. And now not knowing what to do, Barnabas crossed to the
window and, being there, looked out, and thus espied again the
languid gentleman, strolling up the lane, with his beaver hat cocked
at the same jaunty angle, and swinging his betasselled stick as he
went.

"You--you heard, then!" said Clemency, almost in a whisper.

"Yes," answered Barnabas, without turning; "but, being a great
rascal he probably lied."

"No, it is--quite true--I did run away with him; but oh! indeed,
indeed I left him again before--before--"

"Yes, yes," said Barnabas, a little hurriedly, aware that her face
was still hidden in her hands, though he kept his eyes studiously
averted. Then all at once she was beside him, her hands were upon
his arm, pleading, compelling; and thus she forced him to look at her,
and, though her cheeks yet burned, her eyes met his, frank and
unashamed.

"Sir," said she, "you do believe that I--that I found him out in
time--that I--escaped his vileness--you must believe--you shall!"
and her slender fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, tell me--tell me,
you believe!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, looking down into the troubled depths of her
eyes; "yes, I do believe."

The compelling hands dropped from his arm, and she stood before him,
staring out blindly into the glory of the morning; and Barnabas
could not but see how the tears glistened under her lashes; also he
noticed how her brown, shapely hands griped and wrung each other.

"Sir," said she suddenly; "you are a friend of--Viscount Devenham."

"I count myself so fortunate."

"And--therefore--a gentleman."

"Indeed, it is my earnest wish."

"Then you will promise me that, should you ever hear anything spoken
to the dishonor of Beatrice Darville, you will deny it."

"Yes," said Barnabas, smiling a little grimly, "though I think I
should do--more than that."

Now when he said this, Clemency looked up at him suddenly, and in
her eyes there was a glow no tears could quench; her lips quivered
but no words came, and then, all at once, she caught his hand,
kissed it, and so was gone, swift and light, and shy as any bird.

And, in a while, happening to spy his letter on the table, Barnabas
sat down and wrote out the superscription with many careful
flourishes, which done, observing his hat near by, he took it up,
brushed it absently, put it on, and went out into the sunshine.

Yet when he had gone but a very little way, he paused, and seeing he
still carried the letter in his hand, thrust it into his breast, and
so remained staring thoughtfully towards that spot, green and shady
with trees, where he and the Viscount had talked with the Apostle of
Peace. And with his gaze bent thitherwards he uttered a name, and
the name was--

"Beatrix."




CHAPTER XVI


IN WHICH BARNABAS ENGAGES ONE WITHOUT A CHARACTER

Barnabas walked on along the lane, head on breast, plunged in a
profound reverie, and following a haphazard course, so much so that,
chancing presently to look about him, he found that the lane had
narrowed into a rough cart track that wound away between high banks
gay with wild flowers, and crowned with hedges, a pleasant, shady
spot, indeed, as any thoughtful man could wish for.

Now as he walked, he noticed a dry ditch--a grassy, and most
inviting ditch; therefore Barnabas sat him down therein, leaning his
back against the bank.

"Beatrix!" said he, again, and thrusting his hands into his pockets
he became aware of the "priceless wollum." Taking it out, he began
turning its pages, idly enough, and eventually paused at one headed
thus:

       *       *       *       *       *

            THE CULT OF DRESS.

       *       *       *       *       *

But he had not read a dozen words when he was aware of a rustling of
leaves, near by, that was not of the wind, and then the panting of
breath drawn in painful gasps; and, therefore, having duly marked
his place with a finger, he raised his head and glanced about him.
As he did so, the hedge, almost opposite, was burst asunder and a man
came slipping down the bank, and, regaining his feet, stood staring
at Barnabas and panting. A dusty, bedraggled wretch he looked,
unshaven and unkempt, with quick, bright eyes that gleamed in the
pale oval of his face.

"What do you want?" Barnabas demanded.

"Everything!" the man panted, with the ghost of a smile on his
pallid lips; "but--the ditch would do."

"And why the ditch?"

"Because they're--after me."

"Who are?"

"Gamekeepers!"

"Then, you're a poacher?"

"And a very clumsy one--they had me once--close on me now."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Then--hum!--get into the ditch," said Barnabas.

Now the ditch, as has been said, was deep and dry, and next moment,
the miserable fugitive was hidden from view by reason of this, and
of the grasses and wild flowers that grew luxuriantly there; seeing
which, Barnabas went back to his reading.

  "It is permitted," solemnly writes the Person of Quality, "that
  white waistcoats be worn,--though sparingly, for caution is always
  advisable, and a buff waistcoat therefore is recommended as safer.
  Coats, on the contrary, may occasionally vary both as to the height
  of the collar, which must, of course, roll, and the number of
  buttons--"

Thus far the Person of Quality when:

"Hallo, theer" roared a stentorian voice.

  "Breeches, on the other hand," continues the Person of Quality
  gravely, "are governed as inexorably as the Medes and Persians; thus,
  for mornings they must be either pantaloons and Hessians--"

"Hallo theer! oho!--hi!--waken oop will 'ee!"

  "Or buckskins and top boots--"

"Hi!" roared the voice, louder than ever, "you theer under
th' 'edge,--oho!"

Once more Barnabas marked the place with his finger, and glancing up,
straightway espied Stentor, somewhat red-faced, as was but natural,
clad in a velveteen jacket and with a long barrelled gun on his
shoulder.

"Might you be shouting at me?" inquired Barnabas.

"Well," replied Stentor, looking up and down the lane, "I don't see
nobody else to shout at, so let's s'pose as I be shouting at ye,
bean't deaf, be ye?"

"No, thank God."

"'Cause if so be as y' are deaf, a can shout a tidy bit louder nor
that a reckon."

"I can hear you very well as it is."

"Don't go for to be too sartin, now; ye see I've got a tidy voice, I
have, which I aren't noways afeared o' usin'!"

"So it would appear!" nodded Barnabas.

"You're quite sure as ye can 'ear me, then?"

"Quite."

"Werry good then, if you are sure as you can 'ear me I'd like to ax
'ee a question, though, mark me, I'll shout it, ah! an' willin'; if
so be you're minded, say the word!"

But, before Barnabas could reply, another man appeared, being also
clad in velveteens and carrying a long barrelled gun.

"Wot be doin', Jarge?" he inquired of Stentor, in a surly tone,
"wot be wastin' time for"

"W'y, lookee, I be about to ax this 'ere deaf chap a question,
though ready, ah! an' willin' to shout it, if so be 'e gives the word."

"Stow yer gab, Jarge," retorted Surly, more surly than ever, "you be
a sight too fond o' usin' that theer voice o' your'n!" saying which
he turned to Barnabas:

"Did ye see ever a desprit, poachin' wagabone run down this 'ere lane,
sir?" he inquired.

"No," answered Barnabas.

"Well, did ye see ever a thievin' wastrel run oop this 'ere lane?"
demanded Stentor.

"No," answered Barnabas.

"But we seen 'im run this way," demurred Surly.

"Ah!--he must ha' run oop or down this 'ere lane," said Stentor.

"He did neither," said Barnabas.

"Why, then p'r'aps you be stone blind as well as stone deaf?"
suggested Stentor.

"Neither one nor the other," answered Barnabas, "and now, since I
have answered all your questions, suppose you go and look somewhere
else?"

"Look, is it?--look wheer--d'ye mean--?"

"I mean--go."

"Go!" repeated Stentor, round of eye, "then s'pose you tell us--wheer!"

"Anywhere you like, only--be off!"

"Now you can claw me!" exclaimed Stentor with an injured air,
nodding to his gun, seeing his companion had already hurried off,
"you can grab and duck me if this don't beat all!--you can burn an'
blister me if ever I met a deaf cove as was so ongrateful as this
'ere deaf cove,--me 'avin' used this yer v'ice o' mine for 'is
be'oof an' likewise benefit; v'ices like mine is a gift as was
bestowed for deaf 'uns like 'im;--I've met deaf 'uns afore, yes,--but
such a ongrateful deaf 'un as 'im,--no. All I 'opes is as 'e gets
deafer an' deafer, as deaf as a stock, as a stone, as a--dead
sow,--that's all I 'opes!"

Having said which, Stentor nodded to his gun again, glanced at
Barnabas again, and strode off, muttering, after his companion.

Hereupon Barnabas once more opened his book; yet he was quite aware
that the fugitive had thrust his head out of the ditch, and having
glanced swiftly about, was now regarding him out of the corners of
his eyes.

"Why do you stare at me?" he demanded suddenly.

"I was wondering why you took the trouble and risk of shielding such
a thing as I am," answered the fugitive.

"Hum!" said Barnabas, "upon my soul,--I don't know."

"No," said the man, with the ghostly smile upon his lips again,
"I thought not."

Now, as he looked at the man, Barnabas saw that his cheeks, beneath
their stubble, were hollow and pinched, as though by the cruel hands
of want and suffering. And yet in despite of all this and of the
grizzled hair at his temples, the face was not old, moreover there
was a merry twinkle in the eye, and a humorous curve to the
wide-lipped mouth that appealed to Barnabas.

"And you are a poacher, you say?"

"Yes, sir, and that is bad, I confess, but, what is worse, I was,
until I took to poaching, an honest man without a shred of character."

"How so?"

"I was discharged--under a cloud that was never dispelled."

"To be sure, you don't look like an ordinary poacher."

"That is because I am an extraordinary one."

"You mean?"

"That I poach that I may live to--poach again, sir. I am, at once, a
necessitous poacher, and a poacher by necessity."

"And what by choice?"

"A gentleman, sir, with plenty of money and no ambitions."

"Why deny ambition?"

"Because I would live a quiet life, and who ever heard of an
ambitious man ever being quiet, much less happy and contented?"

"Hum!" said Barnabas, "and what were you by profession?"

"My calling, sir, was to work for, think for, and shoulder the blame
for others--generally fools, sir. I was a confidential servant, a
valet, sir. And I have worked, thought, and taken the blame for
others so very successfully, that I must needs take to poaching that
I may live."

"But--other men may require valets!"

"True, sir, and there are plenty of valets to be had--of a sort; but
the most accomplished one in the world, if without a character, had
better go and hang himself out of the way, and have done with it.
And indeed, I have seriously contemplated so doing."

"You rate yourself very highly."

"And I go in rags! Though a professed thief may do well in the world,
though the blackest rascal, the slyest rogue, may thrive and prosper,
the greatest of valets being without a character, may go in rags and
starve--and very probably will."

"Hum!" said Barnabas.

"Now, to starve, sir, is unpleasant; thus I, having a foolish,
though very natural, dread of it, poach rabbits that I may exist. I
possess also an inborn horror of rags and dirt, therefore
I--exchanged this coat and breeches from a farmhouse, the folk being
all away in the fields, and though they are awkward, badly-made
garments, still beggars--and--"

"Thieves!" added Barnabas.

"And thieves, sir, cannot always be choosers, can they?"

"Then you admit you are a thief?"

Here the fugitive glanced at Barnabas with a wry smile.

"Sir, I fear I must. Exchange is no robbery they say; but my rags
were so very ragged, and these garments are at least wearable."

"You have also been a--great valet, I understand?"

"And have served many gentlemen in my time."

"Then you probably know London and the fashionable world?"

"Yes, sir," said the man, with a sigh.

"Now," pursued Barnabas, "I am given to understand, on the authority
of a Person of Quality, that to dress properly is an art."

The fugitive nodded. "Indeed, sir, though your Person of Quality
should rather have called it the greatest of all the arts."

"Why so?"

"Because by dress it is possible to make--something out of nothing!"

"Explain yourself."

"Why, there was the case of young Lord Ambleside, a nobleman
remarkable for a vague stare, and seldom saying anything but 'What!'
or 'Dey-vil take me!' though I'll admit he could curse almost
coherently--at times. I found him nothing but a lord, and very crude
material at that, yet in less than six months he was made."

"Made?"

"Made, sir," nodded the fugitive. "I began him with a cravat, an
entirely original creation, which drew the approval of Brummell
himself, and, consequently, took London by storm, and I continued
him with a waistcoat."

"Not a--white one?" Barnabas inquired.

"No, sir, it was a delicate pink, embroidered with gold, and of
quite a new cut and design, which was the means of introducing him
to the notice of Royalty itself. The Prince had one copied from it,
and wore it at a state reception. And I finished him with a pair of
pantaloons which swept the world of fashion clean off its legs, and
brought him into lasting favor with the Regent. So my Lord was made,
and eventually I married him to an heiress."

"You married him?"

"That is to say, I dictated all his letters, and composed all his
verses, which speedily brought the affair to a happy culmination."

"You seem to be a man of many and varied gifts?"

"And one--without a character, sir."

"Nevertheless," said Barnabas, "I think you are the very man I
require."

"Sir," exclaimed the fugitive, staring, "sir?"

"And therefore," continued Barnabas, "you may consider yourself
engaged."

"Engaged, sir--engaged!" stammered the man--"me?"

"As my valet," nodded Barnabas.

"But, sir, I told you--I was--a thief!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and therefore I have great hopes of your
future honesty."

Now hereupon the man, still staring, rose up to his knees, and with
a swift, appealing gesture, stretched out his hands towards Barnabas,
and his hands were trembling all at once.

"Sir!" said he, "oh, sir--d'ye mean it? You don't know, you can't
know what such an offer means to me. Sir, you're not jesting with me?"

"No," answered Barnabas, calmly serious of eye, "no, I'm not jesting;
and to prove it, here is an advance of wages." And he dropped two
guineas into the man's open palm.

The man stared down at the coins in his hand, then rose abruptly to
his feet and turned away, and when he spoke again his voice was
hoarse.

"Sir," said he, jerkily, "for such trust I would thank you, only
words are too poor. But if, as I think, it is your desire to enter
the World of Fashion, it becomes my duty, as an honest man, to tell
you that all your efforts, all your money, would be unavailing, even
though you had been introduced by Barrymore, or Hanger, or Vibart, or
Brummell himself."

"Ah," said Barnabas, "and why?"

"Because you have made a fatal beginning."

"How?"

"By knocking down the Prince's friend and favorite--Sir Mortimer
Carnaby."




CHAPTER XVII


IN WHICH BARNABAS PARTS COMPANY WITH THE PERSON OF QUALITY

For a long moment the two remained silent, each staring at the other,
Barnabas still seated in the ditch and the man standing before him,
with the coins clutched in his hand.

"Ah!" said Barnabas, at last, "then you were in the wood?"

"I lay hidden behind a bush, and watched you do it, sir."

"And what were you doing in Annersley Wood?"

"I bore a message, sir, for the lady."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "the lady--yes."

"Who lay watching you, also."

"No," said Barnabas, "the lady was unconscious."

"Yet recovered sufficiently to adjust her habit, and to watch you
knock him down."

"Hum!" said Barnabas, and was silent a while. "Have you heard such a
name as Chichester?" he inquired suddenly.

"No, sir."

"And did you deliver the letter?"

"I did, sir."

"And she--sent back an answer?"

"Yes, sir."

"The gentleman who sent the letter was tall and slender, I think,
with dark hair, and a scar on his cheek?"

"Yes, sir."

"And when you came back with her answer, he met you down the lane
yonder, and I heard you say that the lady had no time to write."

"Yes, sir; but she promised to meet him at a place called Oakshott's
Barn."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "I think I know it."

"At sunset, sir!"

"That would be somewhere about half past seven," mused Barnabas,
staring blankly, down at the book on his knee.

"Yes, sir."

"How came you to be carrying his letter?"

"He offered me five shillings to go and bring her answer."

"Did you know the lady?"

"No, sir, but he described her."

"To be sure." said Barnabas; "he mentioned her hair, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir."

"Her--eyelashes, perhaps?"

"And her eyes also, sir."

"Yes, her eyes, of course. He seemed to know her well, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she--promised to meet him--in a very lonely place?"

"At Oakshott's Barn, sir."

Once again Barnabas stared down at his book, and was silent so long
that his new servant wondered, grew fidgety, coughed, and at last
spoke.

"Sir," said he, "what are your orders?"

Barnabas started and looked up.

"Orders?" he repeated; "why, first of all, get something to eat,
then find yourself a barber, and wait for me at 'The Spotted Cow.'"

"Yes, sir." The man bowed, turned away, took three or four steps,
and came back again.

"Sir," said he, "I have two guineas of yours, and you have never
even asked my name."

"True," said Barnabas.

"Supposing I go, and never come back?"

"Then I shall be two guineas the poorer, and you will have proved
yourself a thief; but until you do, you are an honest man, so far as
I am concerned."

"Sir, said the fugitive, hoarsely, but with a new light in his face,"
for that, if I were not your servant--I--should like to--clasp your
hand; and, sir, my name is John Peterby."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, smiling all at once, "why then, John
Peterby, here it is!"

So, for a moment their hands met, and then John Peterby turned sharp
about and strode away down the lane, his step grown light and his
head held high.

But as for Barnabas, he sat there in the ditch, staring at nothing;
and as he stared his brow grew black and ever blacker, until
chancing at last to espy the "priceless wollum," where it lay beside
him, he took it up, balanced it in his hand, then hurled it over the
opposite hedge: which done, he laughed sudden and harsh, and
clenched his fists.

"God!" he exclaimed, "a goddess and a satyr!" and so sat staring on
at nothingness again.




CHAPTER XVIII


HOW BARNABAS CAME TO OAKSHOTT'S BARN

The sun was getting low, as Barnabas parted the brambles, and
looking about him, frowned. He stood in a grassy glade or clearing,
a green oasis hemmed in on every side with bushes. Before him was
Oakshott's Barn, an ancient structure, its rotting thatch dishevelled,
its doors gone long since, its aged walls cracked and scarred by
years, a very monument of desolation; upon its threshold weeds had
sprung up, and within its hoary shadow breathed an air damp, heavy,
and acrid with decay.

It was indeed a place of solitude full of the "hush" of leaves, shut
out from the world, close hidden from observation, a place apt for
the meetings of lovers. And, therefore, leaning in the shadow of the
yawning doorway, Barnabas frowned.

Evening was falling, and from shadowy wood, from dewy grass and
flower, stole wafts of perfume, while from some thicket near by a
blackbird filled the air with the rich note of his languorous song;
but Barnabas frowned only the blacker, and his hand clenched itself
on the stick he carried, a heavy stick, that he had cut from the
hedge as he came.

All at once the blackbird's song was hushed, and gave place to a
rustle of leaves that drew nearer and nearer; yet Barnabas never
moved, not even when the bushes were pushed aside and a man stepped
into the clearing--a tall, elegant figure, who having paused to
glance sharply about him, strolled on again towards the barn,
swinging his tasselled walking-cane, and humming softly to himself
as he came. He was within a yard of Barnabas when he saw him, and
stopped dead.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, softly; and thereafter the two eyed each other
in an ominous silence.

"And who the devil are you?" he inquired at length, his eyes still
intent.

"Sir," said Barnabas, yet leaning in the doorway--"your name I think,
is Chichester?"

"Well?"

"Permit me to return your coat button!" and Barnabas held out the
article in question, but Mr. Chichester never so much as glanced at
it.

"What do you want here?" he demanded, soft of voice.

"To tell you that this dismal place is called Oakshott's Barn, sir."

"Well?"

"To warn you that Oakshott's Barn is an unhealthy place--for your
sort, sir."

"Ha!" said Mr. Chichester, his heavy-lidded eyes unwinking,
"do you threaten?"

"Let us rather say--I warn!"

"So you do threaten!"

"I warn!" repeated Barnabas.

"To the devil with you and your warning!" All this time neither of
them had moved or raised his voice, only Mr. Chichcster's thin,
curving nostrils began to twitch all at once, while his eyes gleamed
beneath their narrowed lids. But now Barnabas stepped clear of the
doorway, the heavy stick swinging in his hand.

"Then, sir," said he, "let me advise. Let me advise you to hurry
from this solitude."

Mr. Chichester laughed--a low, rippling laugh.

"Ah!" said he, "ah, so that's it!"

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, shifting his gaze to Mr. Chichester's right
hand, a white beringed hand, whose long, slender fingers toyed with
the seals that dangled at his fob, "so pray take up your button and
go!"

Mr. Chichester glanced at the heavy stick; at the powerful hand, the
broad shoulders and resolute face of him who held it, and laughed
again, and, laughing, bowed.

"Your solicitude for my health--touches me, sir,--touches me, my
thanks are due to you, for my health is paramount. I owe you a debt
which I shall hope to repay. This place, as you say, is dismal. I
wish you good evening!" saying which, Mr. Chichester turned away. But
in that same instant, swift and lithe as a panther, Barnabas leapt,
and dropping his stick, caught that slender, jewelled hand, bent it,
twisted it, and wrenched the weapon from its grasp. Mr. Chichester
stood motionless, white-lipped and silent, but a devil looked out of
his eyes.

"Ah!" said Barnabas, glancing down at the pistol he held, "I judged
you would not venture into these wilds without something of the sort.
The path, you will notice, lies to your left; it is a winding path,
I will go with you therefore, to see that you do not lose your way,
and wander--back here again."

Without a word Mr. Chichester turned, and coming to the path
followed it, walking neither fast nor slow, never once looking to
where Barnabas strode behind, and heedless of briar or bramble that
dragged at him as he passed. On they went, until the path lost
itself in a grassy lane, until the lane ended in a five-barred gate.
Now, having opened the gate, Mr. Chichester passed through into the
high road, and then, for one moment he looked at Barnabas, a long,
burning look that took in face, form and feature, and so, still
without uttering a word, he went upon his way, walking neither fast
nor slow, and swinging his tasselled cane as he went, while Barnabas,
leaning upon the gate, watched him until his tall, slender figure
had merged into the dusk, and was gone.

Then Barnabas sighed, and becoming aware of the pistol in his hand,
smiled contemptuously, and was greatly minded to throw it away, but
slipped it into his pocket instead, for he remembered the devil in
the eyes of Mr. Chichester.




CHAPTER XIX


WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS TALKS WITH MY LADY CLEONE FOR THE SECOND
TIME

It was dark among the trees, but, away to his left, though as yet
low down, the moon was rising, filling the woods with mystery, a
radiant glow wherein objects seemed to start forth with a new
significance; here the ragged hole of a tree, gnarled, misshapen;
there a wide-flung branch, weirdly contorted, and there again a
tangle of twigs and strange, leafy shapes that moved not. And over
all was a deep and brooding quietude.

Yes, it was dark among the trees, yet not so black as the frown that
clouded the face of Barnabas as he strode on through the wood, and
so betimes reached again the ancient barn of Oakshott. And lo! even
as he came there, it was night, and because the trees grew tall and
close together, the shadows lay thicker than ever save only in one
place where the moon, finding some rift among the leaves, sent down
a shaft of silvery light that made a pool of radiance amid the gloom.
Now, as Barnabas gazed at this, he stopped all at once, for, just
within this patch of light, he saw a foot. It was a small foot,
proudly arched, a shapely foot and slender, like the ankle above;
indeed, a haughty and most impatient foot, that beat the ground with
angry little taps, and yet, in all and every sense, surely, and
beyond a doubt, the most alluring foot in the world. Therefore
Barnabas sighed and came a step nearer, and in that moment it
vanished; therefore Barnabas stood still again. There followed a
moment's silence, and then:


"Dear," said a low, thrilling voice, "have you come--at last? Ah!
but you are late, I began to fear--" The soft voice faltered and
broke off with a little gasp, and, as Barnabas stepped out of the
shadows, she shrank away, back and back, to the mossy wall of the
barn, and leaned there staring up at him with eyes wide and fearful.
Her hood, close drawn, served but to enhance the proud beauty of her
face, pale under the moon, and her cloak, caught close in one white
hand, fell about her ripe loveliness in subtly revealing folds. Now
in her other hand she carried a silver-mounted riding-whip. And
because of the wonder of her beauty, Barnabas sighed again, and
because of the place wherein they stood, he frowned; yet, when he
spoke, his voice was gentle:

"Don't be afraid, madam, he is gone."

"Gone!" she echoed, faintly.

"Yes, we are quite alone; consequently you have no more reason to be
afraid."

"Afraid, sir? I thought--why, 'twas you who startled me."

"Ay," nodded Barnabas, "you expected--him!"

"Where is he? When did he go?"

"Some half-hour since."

"Yet he expected me; he knew I should come; why did he go?"

Now hereupon Barnabas lifted a hand to his throat, and loosened his
neckcloth.

"Why then," said he slowly, "you have--perhaps--met him
hereabouts--before to-night?"

"Sir," she retorted, "you haven't answered me; why did he go so soon?"

"He was--forced to, madam."

"Forced to go,--without seeing me,--without one word! Oh, impossible!"

"I walked with him to the cross-roads, and saw him out of sight."

"But I--I came as soon as I could! Ah! surely he gave you some
message--some word for me?"

"None, madam!" said Barnabas evenly, but his hand had clenched
itself suddenly on the stick he held.

"But I--don't understand!" she sighed, with a helpless gesture of
her white hands, "to hurry away like this, without a word! Oh,
why--why did he go?"

"Madam," said Barnabas, "it was because I asked him to."

"You--asked him to?"

"I did."

"But why--why?"

"Because, from what little I know of him, I judged it best."

"Sir," she said, softly, "sir--what do you mean?"

"I mean, that this is such a very lonely place for any woman
and--such as he."

Now even as Barnabas uttered the words she advanced upon him with
upflung head and eyes aflame with sudden passionate scorn.

"Insolent," she exclaimed. "So it was you--you actually dared to
interfere?"

"Madam," said Barnabas, "I did."

Very straight and proud she stood, and motionless save for the pant
and tumult of her bosom, fierce-eyed and contemptuous of lip.

"And remained to insult me--with impunity."

"To take you home again," said Barnabas, "therefore pray let us
begone."

"Us? Sir, you grow presumptuous."

"As you will," said Barnabas, "only let us go."

"With you?" she exclaimed.

"With me."

"No--not a step, sir; When I choose to go, I go alone."

"But to-night," said Barnabas, gentle of voice but resolute of eye,
"to-night--I go with you."

"You!" she cried, "a man I have seen but once, a man who may be
anything, a--a thief, a ploughman, a runaway groom for aught I know."
Now, watching him beneath disdainful drooping lashes, she saw
Barnabas flinch at this, and the curve of her scornful lips grew
more bitter.

"And now I'm going--alone. Stand aside, and let me pass."

"No, madam."

"Let me pass, I warn you!"

For a minute they fronted each other, eye to eye, very silent and
still, like two antagonists that measure each other's strength; then
Barnabas smiled and shook his head. And in that very instant, quick
and passionate, she raised her whip and struck him across the cheek.
Then, as she stood panting, half fearful of what she had done,
Barnabas reached out and took the whip, and snapped it between his
hands.

"And now," said he, tossing aside the broken pieces, "pray let us go."

"No."

"Why, then," sighed Barnabas, "I must carry you again."

Once more she shrank away from him, back and back to the crumbling
wall, and leaned there. But now because of his passionless strength,
she fell a-trembling and, because of his calmly resolute eyes and
grimly smiling mouth, fear came upon her, and therefore, because she
could not by him, because she knew herself helpless against him, she
suddenly covered her face from his eyes, and a great sob burst from
her.

Barnabas stopped, and looking at her bowed head and shrinking figure,
knew not what to do. And as he stood there within a yard of her,
debating within himself, upon the quiet broke a sudden sound--a small,
sharp sound, yet full of infinite significance--the snapping of a dry
twig among the shadows; a sound that made the ensuing silence but
the more profound, a breathless quietude which, as moment after
moment dragged by, grew full of deadly omen. And now, even as
Barnabas turned to front these menacing shadows, the moon went out.




CHAPTER XX


OF THE PROPHECY OF ONE BILLY BUTTON, A MADMAN

Upon the quiet stole a rustle of leaves, a whisper that came and went,
intermittently, that grew louder and louder, and so was gone again;
but in place of this was another sound, a musical jingle like the
chime of fairy bells, very far, and faint, and sweet. All at once
Barnabas knew that his companion's fear of him was gone, swallowed
up--forgotten in terror of the unknown. He heard a slow-drawn,
quivering sigh, and then, pale in the dimness, her hand came out to
him, crept down his arm, and finding his hand, hid itself in his
warm clasp; and her hand was marvellous cold, and her fingers
stirred and trembled in his.

Came again a rustling in the leaves, but louder now, and drawing
nearer and nearer, and ever the fairy chime swelled upon the air.
And even as it came Barnabas felt her closer, until her shoulder
touched his, until the fragrance of her breath fanned his cheek,
until the warmth of her soft body thrilled through him, until, loud
and sudden in the silence, a voice rose--a rich, deep voice:

"'Now is the witching hour when graveyards yawn'--the witching
hour--aha!--Oh! poor pale ghost, I know thee--by thy night-black
hair and sad, sweet eyes--I know thee. Alas, so young and
dead--while I, alas, so old and much alive! Yet I, too, must die
some day--soon, soon, beloved shadow. Then shall my shade encompass
thine and float up with thee into the infinite. But now, aha! now is
the witching hour! Oh! shades and phantoms, I summon thee, fairies,
pixies, ghosts and goblins, come forth, and I will sing you and
dance you."

"Tis a rare song, mine--and well liked by the quality,--you've heard
it before, perchance--ay, ay for you, being dead, hear and see all
things, oh, Wise Ones! Come, press round me, so. Now, hearkee,
'Oysters! oysters! and away we go."

  "'Many a knight and lady fair
    My oysters fine would try,
  They are the finest oysters, sir,
    That ever you did buy.
  Oysters! who'll buy my oysters, oh!'"

The bushes rustled again, and into the dimness leapt a tall, dark
figure that sang in a rich, sweet voice, and capered among the
shadows with a fantastic dancing step, then grew suddenly silent and
still. And in that moment the moon shone out again, shone down upon
a strange, wild creature, bareheaded and bare of foot. A very tall
man he was, with curling gray hair that hung low upon his shoulders,
and upon his coat were countless buttons of all makes and kinds that
winked and glittered in the moonlight, and jingled faintly as he
moved. For a moment he stood motionless and staring, then, laying one
hand to the gleaming buttons on his bosom, bowed with an easy,
courtly grace.

"Who are you?" demanded Barnabas.

"Billy, sir, poor Billy--Sir William, perhaps--but, mum for that;
the moon knows, but cannot tell, then why should I?"

"And what do you want--here?"

"To sing, sir, for you and the lady, if you will. I sing for high
folk and low folk. I have many songs, old and new, grave and gay,
but folk generally ask for my Oyster Song. I sing for rich and poor,
for the sad and for the merry. I sing at country fairs sometimes,
and sometimes to trees in lonely places--trees are excellent
listeners always. But to-night I sing for--Them."

"And who are they?"

"The Wise Ones, who, being dead, know all things, and live on for
ever. Ah, but they're kind to poor Billy, and though they have no
buttons to give him, yet they tell him things sometimes. Aha! such
things!--things to marvel at! So I sing for them always when the moon
is full, but, most of all, I sing for Her."

"Who is she?"

"One who died, many years ago. Folk told her I was dead, killed at
sea, and her heart broke--hearts will break--sometimes. So when she
died, I put off the shoes from my feet, and shall go barefoot to my
grave. Folk tell me that poor Billy's mad--well, perhaps he is--but
he sees and hears more than folk think; the Wise Ones tell me things.
You now; what do they tell me of you? Hush! You are on your way to
London, they tell me--yes--yes, to London town; you are rich, and
shall feast with princes, but youth is over-confident, and thus
shall you sup with beggars. They tell me you came here to-night--oh,
Youth!--oh, Impulse!--hasting--hasting to save a wanton from herself."

"Fool!" exclaimed Barnabas, turning upon the speaker in swift anger;
for my lady's hand had freed itself from his clasp, and she had
drawn away from him.

"Fool?" repeated the man, shaking his head, "nay, sir, I am only mad,
folk tell me. Yet the Wise Ones make me their confidant, they tell
me that she--this proud lady--is here to aid an unworthy brother, who
sent a rogue instead."

"Brother!" exclaimed Barnabas, with a sudden light in his eyes.

"Who else, sir?" demands my lady, very cold and proud again all at
once.

"But," stammered Barnabas, "but--I thought--"

"Evil of me!" says she.

"No--that is--I--I--Forgive me!"

"Sir, there are some things no woman can forgive; you dared to
think--"

"Of the rogue who came instead," said Barnabas.

"Ah!--the rogue?"

"His name is Chichester," said Barnabas.

"Chichester!" she repeated, incredulously. "Chichester!"

"A tall, slender, dark man, with a scar on his cheek," added Barnabas.

"Do you mean he was here--here to meet me--alone?"

Now, at this she seemed to shrink into herself; and, all at once,
sank down, crouching upon her knees, and hid her face from the moon.

"My lady!"

"Oh!" she sighed, "oh, that he should have come to this!"

"My Lady Cleone!" said Barnabas, and touched her very gently.

"And you--you!" she cried, shuddering away from him, "you thought me
what--he would have made me! You thought I--Oh, shame! Ah, don't
touch me!"

But Barnabas stooped and caught her hands, and sank upon his knees,
and thus, as they knelt together in the moonlight, he drew her so
that she must needs let him see her face.

"My lady," said he, very reverently, "my thought of you is this, that,
if such great honor may be mine, I will marry you--to-night."

But hereupon, with her two hands still prisoned in his, and with the
tears yet thick upon her lashes, she threw back her head, and
laughed with her eyes staring into his. Thereat Barnabas frowned
blackly, and dropped her hands, then caught her suddenly in his long
arms, and held her close.

"By God!" he exclaimed, "I'd kiss you, Cleone, on that scornful,
laughing mouth, only--I love you--and this is a solitude. Come away!"

"A solitude," she repeated; "yes, and he sent me here, to meet a
beast--a satyr! And now--you! You drove away the other brute, oh! I
can't struggle--you are too strong--and nothing matters now!" And so
she sighed, and closed her eyes. Then gazing down upon her rich,
warm beauty, Barnabas trembled, and loosed her, and sprang to his
feet.

"I think," said he, turning away to pick up his cudgel, "I think--we
had--better--go."

But my lady remained crouched upon her knees, gazing up at him under
her wet lashes.

"You didn't--kiss me!" she said, wonderingly.

"You were so--helpless!" said Barnabas. "And I honor you because it
was--your brother."

"Ah! but you doubted me first, you thought I came here to meet
that--beast!"

"Forgive me," said Barnabas, humbly.

"Why should I?"

"Because I love you."

"So many men have told me that," she sighed.

"But I," said Barnabas, "I am the last, and it is written 'the last
shall be first,' and I love you because you are passionate, and pure,
and very brave."

"Love!" she exclaimed, "so soon; you have seen me only once!"

"Yes," he nodded, "it is, therefore, to be expected that I shall
worship you also--in due season."

Now Barnabas stood leaning upon his stick, a tall, impassive figure;
his voice was low, yet it thrilled in her ears, and there was that
in his steadfast eyes before which her own wavered and fell; yet,
even so, from the shadow of her hood, she must needs question him
further.

"Worship me? When?"

"When you are--my--wife."

Again she was silent, while one slender hand plucked nervously at
the grass.

"Are you so sure of me?" she inquired at last.

"No; only of myself."

"Ah! you mean to--force a promise from me--here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is night, and you are solitary; I would not have you
fear me again. But I shall come to you, one day, a day when the sun
is in the sky, and friends are within call. I shall come and ask you
then."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall wait."

"Until I wed another?"

"Until you change your mind."

"I think I shall--refuse you."

"Indeed, I fear it is very likely."

"Why?"

"Because of my unworthiness; and, therefore, I would not have you
kneel while I stand."

"And the grass is very damp," she sighed.

So Barnabas stepped forward with hand outstretched to aid her, but,
as he did so, the wandering singer was between them, looking from
one to the other with his keen, bright eyes.

"Stay!" said he. "The Wise Ones have told me that she who kneels
before you now, coveted for her beauty, besought for her money,
shall kneel thus in the time to come; and one--even I, poor
Billy--shall stand betwixt you and join your hands thus, and bid you
go forth trusting in each other's love and strength, even as poor
Billy does now. And, mayhap, in that hour you shall heed the voice,
for time rings many changes; the proud are brought low, the humble
exalted. Hush! the Wise Ones grow impatient for my song; I hear them
calling from the trees, and must begone. But hearkee! they have told
me your name, Barnabas? yes, yes; Barn--, Barnabas; for the other,
no matter--mum for that! Barnabas, aha! that minds me--at Barnaby
Bright we shall meet again, all three of us, under an orbed moon, at
Barnaby Bright:--"

  "Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright,
  The sun's awake, and shines all night!"

"Ay, ay, 't is the night o' the fairies--when spirits pervade the air.
Then will I tell you other truths; but now--They call me. She is
fair, and passing fair, and by her beauty, suffering shall come upon
thee; but 'tis by suffering that men are made, and because of pride,
shame shall come on her; but by shame cometh humility. Farewell; I
must begone--farewell till Barnaby Bright. We are to meet again in
London town, I think--yes, yes--in London. Oho! oysters! oysters, sir?"

  "Many a knight and lady gay
  My oysters fine would try,
  They are the finest oysters
  That ever you could buy!
  Oysters! Oysters."

And so he bowed, turned, and danced away into the shadows, and above
the hush of the leaves rose the silvery jingle of his many buttons,
that sank to a chime, to a murmur, and was gone. And now my lady
sighed and rose to her feet, and looking at Barnabas, sighed
again--though indeed a very soft, little sigh this time. As for
Barnabas, he yet stood wondering, and looking after the strange
creature, and pondering his wild words. Thus my lady, unobserved,
viewed him at her leisure; noted the dark, close-curled hair, the
full, well-opened, brilliant eye, the dominating jaw, the sensitive
nostrils, the tender curve of the firm, strong mouth. And she had
called him "a ploughman--a runaway footman," and had even--she could
see the mark upon his cheek--how red it glowed! Did it hurt much,
she wondered?

"Mad of course--yes a madman, poor fellow!" said Barnabas,
thoughtfully.

"And he said your name is Barnabas."

"Why, to be sure, so he did," said Barnabas, rubbing his chin as one
at a loss, "which is very strange, for I never saw or heard of him
before."

"So then, your name is--Barnabas?"

"Yes. Barnabas Bar--Beverley."

"Beverley?"

"Yes--Beverley. But we must go."

"First, tell me how you learned my name?"

"From the Viscount--Viscount Devenham?"

"Then, you know the Viscount?"

"I do; we also know each other as rivals."

"Rivals? For what?"

"Yourself."

"For me? Sir--sir--what did you tell him?"

"My name is Barnabas. And I told him that I should probably marry you,
some day."

"You told him--that?"

"I did. I thought it but honorable, seeing he is my friend."

"Your friend!--since when, sir?"

"Since about ten o'clock this morning."

"Sir--sir--are you not a very precipitate person?"

"I begin to think I am. And my name is Barnabas."

"Since ten o'clock this morning! Then you knew--me first?"

"By about an hour."

Swiftly she turned away, yet not before he had seen the betraying
dimple in her cheek. And so, side by side, they came to the edge of
the clearing.

Now as he stooped to open a way for her among the brambles, she must
needs behold again the glowing mark upon his cheek, and seeing it,
her glance fell, and her lips grew very tender and pitiful, and, in
that moment, she spoke.

"Sir," she said, very softly, "sir?"

"My name is Barnabas."

"I fear--I--does your cheek pain you very much, Mr. Beverley?"

"Thank you, no. And my name is Barnabas."

"I did not mean to--to--"

"No, no, the fault was mine--I--I frightened you, and indeed the
pain is quite gone," he stammered, holding aside the brambles for
her passage. Yet she stood where she was, and her face was hidden in
her hood. At last she spoke and her voice was very low.

"Quite gone, sir?"

"Quite gone, and my name is--"

"I'm very--glad--Barnabas."

Four words only, be it noted; yet on the face of Barnabas was a
light that was not of the moon, as they entered the dim woodland
together.




CHAPTER XXI


IN WHICH BARNABAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION

Their progress through the wood was slow, by reason of the
undergrowth, yet Barnabas noticed that where the way permitted, she
hurried on at speed, and moreover, that she was very silent and kept
her face turned from him; therefore he questioned her.

"Are you afraid of these woods?"

"No."

"Of me?"

"No."

"Then, I fear you are angry again."

"I think Barnab--your name is--hateful!"

"Strange!" said Barnabas, "I was just thinking how musical it
was--as you say it."

"I--oh! I thought your cheek was paining you," said she, petulantly.

"My cheek?--what has that to do with it?"

"Everything, sir!"

"That," said Barnabas, "that I don't understand."

"Of course you don't!" she retorted.

"Hum!" said Barnabas.

"And now!" she demanded, "pray how did you know I was to be at
Oakshott's Barn to-night?"

"From my valet."

"Your valet?"

"Yes; though to be sure, he was a poacher, then."

"Sir, pray be serious!"

"I generally am."

"But why have a poacher for your valet?"

"That he might poach no more; and because I understand that he is
the best valet in the world."

Here she glanced up at Barnabas and shook her head: "I fear I shall
never understand you, Mr. Beverley."

"That time will show; and my name is Barnabas."

"But how did--this poacher--know?"

"He was the man who brought you the letter from Mr. Chichester."

"It was written by my--brother, sir."

"He was the man who gave you your brother's letter in Annersley Wood."

"Yes--I remember--in the wood."

"Where I found you lying quite unconscious."

"Where you found me--yes."

"Lying--quite unconscious!"

"Yes," she answered, beginning to hasten her steps again. "And where
you left me without telling me your name--or--even asking mine."

"For which I blamed myself--afterwards," said Barnabas.

"Indeed, it was very remiss of you."

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "I came back to try and find you."

"Really, sir?" said she, with black brows arched--"did you indeed,
sir?"

"But I was too late, and I feared I had lost you--"

"Why, that reminds me, I lost my handkerchief."

"Oh!" said Barnabas, staring up at the moon.

"I think I must have dropped it--in the wood."

"Then, of course, it is gone--you may depend upon that," said
Barnabas, shaking his head at the moon.

"It had my monogram embroidered in one corner."

"Indeed!" said Barnabas.

"Yes; I was--hoping--that you had seen it, perhaps?"

"On a bramble-bush," said Barnabas, nodding at the moon.

"Then--you did find it, sir?"

"Yes; and I beg to remind you that my name--"

"Where is it?"

"In my pocket."

"Then why couldn't you say so before?"

"Because I wished to keep it there."

"Please give it to me!"

"Why?"

"Because no man shall have my favors to wear until he has my promise,
also."

"Then, since I have the one--give me the other."

"Mr. Beverley, you will please return my handkerchief," and stopping
all at once, she held out her hand imperiously.

"Of course," sighed Barnabas, "on a condition--"

"On no condition, sir!"

"That you remember my name is Barnabas."

"But I detest your name."

"I am hoping that by use it may become a little less objectionable,"
said he, rather ponderously.

"It never can--never; and I want my handkerchief,--Barnabas."

So Barnabas sighed again, and perforce gave the handkerchief into
her keeping. And now it was she who smiled up at the moon; but as
for Barnabas, his gaze was bent earthwards. After they had gone some
way in silence, he spoke.

"Have you met--Sir Mortimer Carnaby--often?" he inquired.

"Yes," she answered, then seeing his scowling look, added, "very
often, oh, very often indeed, sir!"

"Ha!" said frowning Barnabas, "and is he one of the many who
have--told you their love?"

"Yes."

"Hum," said Barnabas, and strode on in gloomy silence. Seeing which
she smiled in the shadow of her hood, and thereafter grew angry all
at once.

"And pray, why not, sir?" she demanded, haughtily, "though, indeed,
it does not at all concern you; and he is at least a gentleman, and
a friend of the Prince--"

"And has an excellent eye for horseflesh--and women," added Barnabas.

Now when he said this, she merely looked at him once, and thereafter
forgot all about him, whereby Barnabas gradually perceived that his
offence was great, and would have made humble atonement, yet found
her blind and deaf, which was but natural, seeing that, for her, he
had ceased to exist.

But they reached a stile. It was an uncommonly high stile, an
awkward stile at any time, more especially at night. Nevertheless,
she faced it resolutely, even though Barnabas had ceased to exist.
When, therefore, having vaulted over, he would have helped her, she
looked over him, and past him, and through him, and mounted unaided,
confident of herself, proud and supremely disdainful both of the
stile and Barnabas; and then--because of her pride, or her disdain,
or her long cloak, or all three--she slipped, and to save herself
must needs catch at Barnabas, and yield herself to his arm; so, for
a moment, she lay in his embrace, felt his tight clasp about her,
felt his quick breath upon her cheek. Then he had set her down, and
was eyeing her anxiously.

"Your foot, is it hurt?" he inquired.

"Thank you, no," she answered, and turning with head carried high,
hurried on faster than ever.

"You should have taken my hand," said he; but he spoke to deaf ears.

"You will find the next stile easier, I think," he ventured; but
still she hurried on, unheeding.

"You walk very fast!" said he again, but still she deigned him no
reply; therefore he stooped till he might see beneath her hood.

"Dear lady," said he very gently, "if I offended you a while
ago--forgive me--Cleone."

"Indeed," said she, looking away from him; "it would seem I must be
always forgiving you, Mr. Beverley."

"Why, surely it is a woman's privilege to forgive, Cleone--and my
name--"

"And a man's prerogative to be forgiven, I suppose, Mr. Beverley."

"When he repents as I do, Cleone; and my--"

"Oh! I forgive you," she sighed.

"Yet you still walk very fast."

"It must be nearly ten o'clock."

"I suppose so," said Barnabas, "and you will, naturally, be anxious
to reach home again."

"Home," she said bitterly; "I have no home."

"But--"

"I live in a gaol--a prison. Yes, a hateful, hateful prison, watched
by a one-legged gaoler, and guarded by a one-armed tyrant--yes, a
tyrant!" Here, having stopped to stamp her foot, she walked on
faster than ever.

"Can you possibly mean old Jerry and the Captain?"

Here my lady paused in her quick walk, and even condescended to look
at Barnabas.

"Do you happen to know them too, sir?"

"Yes; and my name is--"

"Perhaps you met them also this morning, sir?"

"Yes; and my--"

"Indeed," said she, with curling lip; "this has been quite an
eventful day for you."

"On the whole, I think it has; and may I remind you that my--"

"Perhaps you don't believe me when I say he is a tyrant?"

"Hum," said Barnabas.

"You don't, do you?"

"Why, I'm afraid not," he admitted.

"I'm nineteen!" said she, standing very erect.

"I should have judged you a little older," said Barnabas.

"So I am--in mind, and--and experience. Yet here I live, prisoned in
a dreary old house, and with nothing to see but trees, and toads,
and cows and cabbages; and I'm watched over, and tended from morning
till night, and am the subject of more councils of war than
Buonaparte's army ever was."

"What do you mean by councils of war?"

"Oh! whenever I do anything my tyrant disapproves of, he retires to
what he calls the 'round house,' summons the Bo'sun, and they argue
and talk over me as though I were a hostile fleet, and march up and
down forming plans of attack and defence, till I burst in on them,
and then--and then--Oh! there are many kinds of tyrants, and he is
one. And so to-night I left him; I ran away to meet--" She stopped
suddenly, and her head drooped, and Barnabas saw her white hands
clench themselves.

"Your brother," said he.

"Yes, my--brother," but her voice faltered at the word, and she went
on through the wood, but slowly now, and with head still drooping.
And so, at last, they came out of the shadows into the soft radiance
of the moon, and thus Barnabas saw that she was weeping; and she,
because she could no longer hide her grief, turned and laid a
pleading hand upon his arm.

"Pray, think of him as kindly as you can," she sighed, "you see--he
is only a boy--my brother."

"So young?" said Barnabas.

"Just twenty, but younger than his age--much younger. You see," she
went on hastily, "he went to London a boy--and--and he thought
Mr. Chichester was his friend, and he lost much money at play, and,
somehow, put himself in Mr. Chichester's power. He is my half-brother,
really; but I--love him so, and I've tried to take care of him--I
was always so much stronger than he--and--and so I would have you
think of him as generously as you can."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes." But now she stopped again so that he
must needs stop too, and when she spoke her soft voice thrilled with
a new intensity.

"Will you do more? You are going to London--will you seek him out,
will you try to--save him from himself? Will you promise me to do
this--will you?"

Now seeing the passionate entreaty in her eyes, feeling it in the
twitching fingers upon his arm, Barnabas suddenly laid his own above
that slender hand, and took it into his warm clasp.

"My lady," said he, solemnly, "I will." As he spoke he stooped his
head low and lower, until she felt his lips warm upon her palm, a
long, silent pressure, and yet her hand was not withdrawn.

Now although Barnabas had clean forgotten the rules and precepts set
down in the "priceless wollum," he did it all with a graceful ease
which could not have been bettered--no, not even by the Person of
Quality itself.

"But it will be difficult," she sighed, as they went on together.
"Ronald is very headstrong and proud--it will be very difficult!"

"No matter," said Barnabas.

"And--dangerous, perhaps."

"No matter for that either," said Barnabas.

"Does it seem strange that I should ask so much of you?"

"The most natural thing in the world," said Barnabas.

"But you are a stranger--almost!"

"But I--love you, Cleone."

After this there fell a silence between them; and so having crossed
the moonlit meadow, they came to a tall hedge beyond whose shadow
the road led away, white under the moon; close by the ways divided,
and here stood a weather-beaten finger-post. Now beneath this hedge
they stopped, and it is to be noted that neither looked at the other.

"Sir," said she, softly, "we part here, my home lies yonder," and
she pointed to where above the motionless tree-tops rose the gables
and chimneys of a goodly house.

"It would seem to be fairly comfortable as prisons go," said Barnabas;
but my lady only sighed.

"Do you start for London--soon?"

"To-night," nodded Barnabas.

"Sir," said she, after a pause, "I would thank you, if I could,
for--for all that you have done for me."

"No, no," said Barnabas, hastily.

"Words are poor things, I know, but how else may I show my gratitude?"

And now it was Barnabas who was silent; but at last--

"There is a way," said he, staring at the finger-post.

"How--what way?"

"You might--kiss me--once, Cleone."

Now here she must needs steal a swift look at him, and thus she saw
that he still stared at the ancient finger-post, but that his hands
were tight clenched.

"I only ask," he continued heavily, "for what I might have taken."

"But didn't!" she added, with lips and eyes grown suddenly tender.

"No," sighed Barnabas, "nor shall I ever,--until you will
it so,--because, you see, I love you."

Now as he gazed at the finger-post, even so she gazed at him; and
thus she saw again the mark upon his cheek, and looking, sighed;
indeed, it was the veriest ghost of a sigh, yet Barnabas heard it,
and straightway forgot the finger-post, forgot the world and all
things in it, save her warm beauty, the red allurement of her mouth,
and the witchery of her drooping lashes; therefore he reached out
his hands to her, and she saw that they were trembling.

"Cleone," he murmured, "oh, Cleone--look up!"

But even as he spoke she recoiled from his touch, for, plain and
clear, came the sound of footsteps on the road near by. Sighing,
Barnabas turned thitherwards and beheld advancing towards them one
who paused, now and then, to look about him as though at a loss, and
then hurried on again. A very desolate figure he was, and quaintly
pathetic because of his gray hair, and the empty sleeve that flapped
helplessly to and fro with the hurry of his going--a figure, indeed,
that there was no mistaking. Being come to the finger-post, he
paused to look wistfully on all sides, and Barnabas could see that
his face was drawn and haggard. For a moment he gazed about him
wild-eyed and eager, then with a sudden, hopeless gesture, he leaned
his one arm against the battered sign-post and hid his face there.

"Oh, my lass--my dear!" he cried in a strangled voice, "why did you
leave me? Oh, my lass!"

Then all at once came a rustle of parting leaves, the flutter of
flying draperies, and Cleone had fled to that drooping, disconsolate
figure, had wreathed her protecting arms about it, and so all moans,
and sobs, and little tender cries, had drawn her tyrant's head down
upon her gentle bosom and clasped it there.




CHAPTER XXII


IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ANCIENT FINGER-POST

"Why, Cleone!" exclaimed the Captain, and folded his solitary arm
about her; but not content with this, my lady must needs take his
empty sleeve also, and, drawing it close about her neck, she held it
there.

"Oh, Cleone!" sighed the Captain, "my dear, dear lass!"

"No," she cried, "I'm a heartless savage, an ungrateful wretch! I am,
I am--and I hate myself!" and here, forthwith, she stamped her foot
at herself.

"No, no, you're not--I say no! You didn't mean to break my heart.
You've come back to me, thank God, and--and--Oh, egad, Cleone, I
swear--I say I swear--by Gog and Magog, I'm snuffling like a
birched schoolboy; but then I--couldn't bear to--lose my dear maid."

"Dear," she sighed, brushing away his tears with the cuff of his
empty sleeve, "dear, if you'd only try to hate me a little--just a
little, now and then, I don't think I should be quite such a wretch
to you." Here she stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the chin, that
being nearest. "I'm a cat--yes, a spiteful cat, and I must scratch
sometimes; but ah! if you knew how I hated myself after! And I know
you'll go and forgive me again, and that's what makes it so hard to
bear."

"Forgive you, Clo'--ay, to be sure! You've come back to me, you see,
and you didn't mean to leave me solitary and--"

"Ah, but I did--I did! And that's why I am a wretch, and a cat, and
a savage! I meant to run away and leave you for ever and ever!"

"The house would be very dark without you, Cleone."

"Dear, hold me tighter--now listen! There are times when I hate the
house, and the country, and--yes, even you. And at such times I grow
afraid of myself--hold me tighter!--at such times I long for
London--and--and--Ah, but you do love me, don't you?"

"Love you--my own lass!" The Captain's voice was very low, yet
eloquent with yearning tenderness; but even so, his quick ear had
caught a rustle in the hedge, and his sharp eye had seen Barnabas
standing in the shadow. "Who's that?" he demanded sharply.

"Why, indeed," says my lady, "I had forgotten him. 'Tis a friend of
yours, I think. Pray come out, Mr. Beverley."

"Beverley!" exclaimed the Captain. "Now sink me! what's all this?
Come out, sir,--I say come out and show yourself!"

So Barnabas stepped out from the hedge, and uncovering his head,
bowed low.

"Your very humble, obedient servant, sir," said he.

"Ha! by Thor and Odin, so it's you again, is it, sir? Pray, what
brings you still so far from the fashionable world? What d'ye want,
sir, eh, sir?"

"Briefly, sir," answered Barnabas, "your ward."

"Eh--what? what?" cried the Captain.

"Sir," returned Barnabas, "since you are the Lady Cleone's lawful
guardian, it is but right to tell you that I hope to marry her--some
day."

"Marry!" exclaimed the Captain. "Marry my--damme, sir, but you're
cool--I say cool and devilish impudent, and--and--oh, Gad, Cleone!"

"My dear," said she, smiling and stroking her tyrant's shaven cheek,
"why distress ourselves, we can always refuse him, can't we?"

"Ay, to be sure, so we can," nodded the Captain, "but oh! sink
me,--I say sink and scuttle me, the audacity of it! I say he's
a cool, impudent, audacious fellow!"

"Yes, dear, indeed I think he's all that," said my lady, nodding her
head at Barnabas very decidedly, "and I forgot to tell you that
beside all this, he is the--gentleman who--saved me from my folly
to-night, and brought me back to you."

"Eh? eh?" cried the Captain, staring.

"Yes, dear, and this is he who--" But here she drew down her
tyrant's gray head, and whispered three words in his ear. Whatever
she said it affected the Captain mightily, for his frown changed
suddenly into his youthful smile, and reaching out impulsively, he
grasped Barnabas by the hand.

"Aha, sir!" said he, "you have a good, big fist here!"

"Indeed," said Barnabas, glancing down at it somewhat ruefully,
"it is--very large, I fear."

"Over large, sir!" says my lady, also regarding it, and with her
head at a critical angle, "it could never be called--an elegant hand,
could it?"

"Elegant!" snorted the Captain, "I say pooh! I say pish! Sir, you
must come in and sup with us, my house is near by. Good English beef
and ale, sir."

Barnabas hesitated, and glanced toward Cleone, but her face was
hidden in the shadow of her hood, wherefore his look presently
wandered to the finger-post, near by, upon whose battered sign he
read the words:--

     TO HAWKHURST.    TO LONDON.

"Sir," said he, "I would, most gratefully, but that I start for
London at once." Yet while he spoke, he frowned blackly at the
finger-post, as though it had been his worst enemy.

"London!" exclaimed the Captain, "so you are still bound for the
fashionable world, are ye?"

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "but I--"

"Pish, sir, I say fiddle-de-dee!"

"I have lately undertaken a mission."

"Ha! So you won't come in?"

"Thank you, no; this mission is important, and I must be gone;" and
here again Barnabas sighed.

Then my lady turned and looked at Barnabas, and, though she uttered
no word, her eyes were eloquent; so that the heart of him was
uplifted, and he placed his hand upon the finger-post as though it
had been his best friend.

"Why then, so be it, young sir," said the Captain, "it remains only
to thank you, which I do, I say which I do most heartily, and to bid
you good-by."

"Until we meet again, Captain."

"Eh--what, sir? meet when?"

"At 'Barnaby Bright,'" says my lady, staring up at the moon.

"In a month's time," added Barnabas.

"Eh?" exclaimed the Captain, "what's all this?"

"In a month's time, sir, I shall return to ask Cleone to be my wife,"
Barnabas explained.

"And," said my lady, smiling at the Captain's perplexity, "we shall
be glad to see him, shan't we, dear? and shall, of course, refuse him,
shan't we, dear?"

"Refuse him? yes--no--egad! I don't know," said the Captain, running
his fingers through his hair, "I say, deuce take me--I'm adrift; I
say where's the Bo'sun?"

"Good-by, sir!" says my lady, very seriously, and gave him her hand;
"good-by."

"Till 'Barnaby Bright,'" said Barnabas.

At this she smiled, a little tremulously perhaps.

"May heaven prosper you in your mission," said she, and turned away.

"Young sir," said the Captain, "always remember my name is Chumly,
John Chumly, plain and unvarnished, and, whether we refuse you or not,
John Chumly will ever be ready to take you by the hand. Farewell, sir!"

So tyrant and captive turned away and went down the by-road together,
and his solitary arm was close about her. But Barnabas stood there
under the finger-post until a bend in the road hid them; then he, too,
sighed and turned away. Yet he had gone only a little distance when
he heard a voice calling him, and, swinging round, he saw Cleone
standing under the finger-post.

"I wanted to give you--this," said she, as he came striding back,
and held out a folded paper. "It is his--my brother's--letter. Take
it with you, it will serve to show you what a boy he is, and will
tell you where to find him."

So Barnabas took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. But she
yet stood before him, and now, once again, their glances avoided
each other.

"I also wanted to--ask you--about your cheek," said she at last.

"Yes?" said Barnabas.

"You are quite sure it doesn't--pain you, Mr. Bev--"

"Must I remind you that my name--"

"Are you quite sure--Barnabas?"

"Quite sure--yes, oh yes!" he stammered.

"Because it--glows very red!" she sighed, though indeed she still
kept her gaze averted, "so will you please--stoop your head a little?"

Wonderingly Barnabas obeyed, and then--even as he did so, she leaned
swiftly towards him, and for an instant her soft, warm mouth rested
upon his cheek. Then, before he could stay her, she was off and away;
and her flying feet had borne her out of sight.

Then Barnabas sighed, and would have followed, but the ancient
finger-post barred his way with its two arms pointing:--

     TO HAWKHURST.     TO LONDON.

So he stopped, glanced about him to fix the hallowed place in his
memory, and, obeying the directing finger, set off London-wards.




CHAPTER XXIII


HOW BARNABAS SAVED HIS LIFE--BECAUSE HE WAS AFRAID

On went Barnabas swift of foot and light of heart, walking through a
World of Romance, and with his eyes turned up to the luminous heaven.
Yet it was neither of the moon, nor the stars, nor the wonder
thereof that he was thinking, but only of the witchery of a woman's
eyes, and the thrill of a woman's lips upon his cheek; and, indeed,
what more natural, more right, and altogether proper? Little recked
he of the future, of the perils and dangers to be encountered, of
the sorrows and tribulations that lay in wait for him, or of the
enemies that he had made that day, for youth is little given to
brooding, and is loftily indifferent to consequences.

So it was of Lady Cleone Meredith he thought as he strode along the
moonlit highway, and it was of her that he was thinking as he turned
into that narrow by-lane where stood "The Spotted Cow." As he
advanced, he espied some one standing in the shadow of one of the
great trees, who, as he came nearer, stepped out into the moonlight;
and then Barnabas saw that it was none other than his newly engaged
valet. The same, yet not the same, for the shabby clothes had given
place to a sober, well-fitting habit, and as he took off his hat in
salutation, Barnabas noticed that his hollow cheeks were clean and
freshly shaved; he was, indeed, a new man.

But now, as they faced each other, Barnabas observed something else;
John Peterby's lips were compressed, and in his eye was anxiety, the
which had, somehow, got into his voice when he spoke, though his
tone was low and modulated: "Sir, if you are for London to-night, we
had better start at once, the coach leaves Tenterden within the hour."

"But," says Barnabas, setting his head aslant, and rubbing his chin
with the argumentative air that was so very like his father,
"I have ordered supper here, Peterby."

"Which--under the circumstances--I have ventured to countermand, sir."

"Oh?" said Barnabas, "pray, what circumstances?"

"Sir, as I told you, the mail--"

"John Peterby, speak out--what is troubling you?"

But now, even while Peterby stood hesitating, from the open casement
of the inn, near at hand, came the sound of a laugh: a soft, gentle,
sibilant laugh which Barnabas immediately recognized.

"Ah!" said he, clenching his fist. "I think I understand." As he
turned towards the inn, Peterby interposed.

"Sir," he whispered, "sir, if ever a man meant mischief--he does. He
came back an hour ago, and they have been waiting for you ever since."

"They?"

"He and the other."

"What other?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"Is he a very--young man, this other?"

"Yes, sir, he seems so. And they have been drinking together
and--I've heard enough to know that they mean you harm." But here
Master Barnabas smiled with all the arrogance of youth and shook his
head.

"John Peterby," said he, "learn that the first thing I desire in my
valet is obedience. Pray stand out of my way!" So, perforce Peterby
stood aside, yet Barnabas had scarce taken a dozen strides ere
Clemency stood before him.

"Go back," she whispered, "go back!"

"Impossible," said Barnabas, "I have a mission to fulfil."

"Go back!" she repeated in the same tense whisper, "you must--oh,
you must! I've heard he has killed a man before now--"

"And yet I must see and speak with his companion."

"No, no--ah! I pray you--"

"Nay," said Barnabas, "if you will, and if need be, pray for me." So
saying he put her gently aside, and entering the inn, came to the
door of that room wherein he had written the letter to his father.

"I tell you I'll kill him, Dalton," said a soft, deliberate voice.

"Undoubtedly; the light's excellent; but, my dear fellow, why--?"

"I object to him strongly, for one thing, and--"

The voice was hushed suddenly, as Barnabas set wide the door and
stepped into the room, with Peterby at his heels.

Mr. Chichester was seated at the table with a glass beside him, but
Barnabas looked past him to his companion who sprawled on the other
side of the hearth--a sleepy, sighing gentleman, very high as to
collar, very tight as to waist, and most ornate as to waistcoat;
young he was certainly, yet with his first glance, Barnabas knew
instinctively that this could not be the youth he sought.
Nevertheless he took off his hat and saluted him with a bow that for
stateliness left the "stiff-legged gentleman" nowhere.

"Sir," said he, "pray what might your name be?"

Instead of replying, the sleepy gentleman opened his eyes rather
wider than was usual and stared at Barnabas with a growing surprise,
stared at him from head to foot and up again, then, without changing
his lounging attitude, spoke:

"Oh, Gad, Chichester!--is this the--man?"

"Yes."

"But--my dear Chit! Surely you don't propose to--this fellow! Who is
he? What is he? Look at his boots--oh, Gad!"

Hereupon Barnabas resumed his hat, and advancing leaned his clenched
fists on the table, and from that eminence smiled down at the speaker,
that is to say his lips curled and his teeth gleamed in the
candle-light.

"Sir," said he gently, "you will perhaps have the extreme
condescension to note that my boots are strong boots, and very
serviceable either for walking, or for kicking an insolent puppy."

"If I had a whip, now," sighed the gentleman, "if I only had a whip,
I'd whip you out of the room. Chichester,--pray look at that coat, oh,
Gad!"

But Mr. Chichester had risen, and now crossing to the door, he
locked it, and dropped the key into his pocket.

"As you say, the light is excellent, my dear Dalton," said he,
fixing Barnabas with his unwavering stare.

"But my dear Chit, you never mean to fight the fellow--a--a being
who wears such a coat! such boots! My dear fellow, be reasonable!
Observe that hat! Good Gad! Take your cane and whip him
out--positively you cannot fight this bumpkin."

"None the less I mean to shoot him--like a cur, Dalton." And Mr.
Chichester drew a pistol from his pocket, and fell to examining
flint and priming with a practised eye. "I should have preferred my
regular tools; but I dare say this will do the business well enough;
pray, snuff the candles."

Now, as Barnabas listened to the soft, deliberate words, as he noted
Mr. Chichester's assured air, his firm hand, his glowing eye and
quivering nostrils, a sudden deadly nausea came over him, and he
leaned heavily upon the table.

"Sirs," said he, uncertainly, and speaking with an effort, "I have
never used a pistol in my life."

"One could tell as much from his boots," murmured Mr. Dalton,
snuffing the candles.

"You have another pistol, I think, Dalton; pray lend it to him. We
will take opposite corners of the room, and fire when you give the
word."

"All quite useless, Chit; this fellow won't fight."

"No," said Barnabas, thrusting his trembling hands into his pockets,
"not--in a corner."

Mr. Chichester shrugged his shoulders, sat down, and leaning back in
his chair stared up at pale-faced Barnabas, tapping the table-edge
softly with the barrel of his weapon.

"Not in a corner--I told you so, Chit. Oh, take your cane and whip
him out!"

"I mean," said Barnabas, very conscious of the betraying quaver in
his voice, "I mean that, as I'm--unused to--shooting, the corner
would be--too far."

"Too far? Oh, Gad!" exclaimed Mr. Dalton. "What's this?"

"As for pistols, I have one here," continued Barnabas, "and if we
must shoot, we'll do it here--across the table."

"Eh--what? Across the table! but, oh, Gad, Chichester! this is
madness!" said Mr. Dalton.

"Most duels are," said Barnabas, and as he spoke he drew from his
pocket the pistol he had taken from Mr. Chichester earlier in the
evening and, weapon in hand, sank into a chair, thus facing Mr.
Chichester across the table.

"But this is murder--positive murder!" cried Mr. Dalton.

"Sir," said Barnabas, "I am no duellist, as I told you; and it seems
to me that this equalizes our chances, for I can no more fail of
hitting my man at this distance than he of shooting me dead across
the width of the room. And, sir--if I am to--die to-night, I shall
most earnestly endeavor to take Mr. Chichester with me."

There was a tremor in his voice again as he spoke, but his eye was
calm, his brow serene, and his hand steady as he cocked the pistol,
and leaning his elbow upon the table, levelled it within six inches
of Mr. Chichester's shirt frill. But hereupon Mr. Dalton sprang to
his feet with a stifled oath:

"I tell you it's murder--murder!" he exclaimed, and took a quick
step towards them.

"Peterby!" said Barnabas.

"Sir?" said Peterby, who had been standing rigid beside the door.

"Take my stick," said Barnabas, holding it out towards him, but
keeping his gaze upon Mr. Chichester's narrowed eyes; "it's heavy
you'll find, and should this person presume to interfere, knock him
down with it."

"Yes, sir," said Peterby, and took the stick accordingly.

"But--oh, Gad!" exclaimed Dalton, "I tell you this can't go on!"

"Indeed, I hope not," said Barnabas; "but it is for Mr. Chichester
to decide. I am ready for the count when he is."

But Mr. Chichester sat utterly still, his chin on his breast,
staring at Barnabas under his brows, one hand tight clenched about
the stock of his weapon on the table before him, the other hanging
limply at his side. So for an interval they remained thus, staring
into each other's eyes, in a stillness so profound that it seemed
all four men had ceased breathing. Then Mr. Chichester sighed faintly,
dropped his eyes to the muzzle of the weapon so perilously near,
glanced back at the pale, set face and unwinking eyes of him who
held it, and sighed again.

"Dalton," said he, "pray open the door, and order the chaise," and
he laid the key upon the table.

"First," said Barnabas, "I will relieve you of that--encumbrance,"
and he pointed to the pistol yet gripped in Mr. Chichester's right
hand. Without a word Mr. Chichester rose, and leaving the weapon
upon the table, turned and walked to the window, while Mr. Dalton,
having unlocked the door, hurried away to the stable-yard, and was
now heard calling for the ostlers.

"Peterby," said Barnabas, "take this thing and throw it into the
horse-pond; yet, no, give it to the gentleman who just went out."

"Yes, sir," said Peterby, and, taking up the pistol, he went out,
closing the door behind him.

Mr. Chichester still lounged in the window, and hummed softly to
himself; but as for Barnabas, he sat rigid in his chair, staring
blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes wide, his lips tense, and
with a gleam of moisture amid the curls at his temples. So the
one lounged and hummed, and the other glared stonily before him
until came the grind of wheels and the stamping of hoofs. Then
Mr. Chichester took up his hat and cane, and, humming still,
crossed to the door, and lounged out into the yard.

Came a jingle of harness, a sound of voices, the slam of a door, and
the chaise rolled away down the lane, farther and farther, until the
rumble of its wheels died away in the distance. Then Barnabas
laughed--a sudden shrill laugh--and clenched his fists, and strove
against the laughter, and choked, and so sank forward with his face
upon his arms as one that is very weary. Now, presently, as he sat
thus, it seemed to him that one spoke a long way off, whereupon, in
a little, he raised his head, and beheld Clemency.

"You--are not hurt?" she inquired anxiously.

"Hurt?" said Barnabas, "no, not hurt, Mistress Clemency, not hurt, I
thank you; but I think I have grown a--great deal--older."

"I saw it all, through the window, and yet I--don't know why you are
alive."

"I think because I was so very much--afraid," said Barnabas.

"Sir," said she, with her brown hands clasped together, "was it
for--if it was for--my sake that you--quarrelled, and--"

"No," said Barnabas, "it was because of--another."

Now, when he said this, Clemency stared at him wide-eyed, and, all
in a moment, flushed painfully and turned away, so that Barnabas
wondered.

"Good-by!" said she, suddenly, and crossed to the door, but upon the
threshold paused; "I did pray for you," she said, over her shoulder.

"Ah!" said Barnabas, rising, "you prayed for me, and behold, I am
alive."

"Good-by!" she repeated, her face still averted.

"Good-by!" said Barnabas, "and will you remember me in your
prayers--sometimes?"

"My prayers! Why?"

"Because the prayers of a sweet, pure woman may come between man
and evil--like a shield."

"I will," said she, very softly. "Oh, I will," and so, with a swift
glance, was gone.

Being come out of the inn, Barnabas met with his valet, John Peterby.

"Sir," he inquired, "what now?"

"Now," said Barnabas, "the Tenterden coach, and London."




CHAPTER XXIV


WHICH RELATES SOMETHING OF THE "WHITE LION" AT TENTERDEN

Of all the lions that ever existed, painted or otherwise, white lions,
blue lions, black, green, or red lions, surely never was there one
like the "White Lion" at Tenterden. For he was such a remarkably
placid lion, although precariously balanced upon the extreme point
of one claw, and he stared down at all and sundry with such round,
inquiring eyes, as much as to say:

"Who are you? What's your father? Where are you going?" Indeed, so
very inquisitive was he that his very tail had writhed itself into a
note of interrogation, and, like a certain historical personage, was
forever asking a question. To-night he had singled out Barnabas from
the throng, and was positively bombarding him with questions, as:

"Dark or fair? Tall or short? Does she love you? Will she remember
you? Will she kiss you--next time? Aha! will she, will she?"

But here, feeling a touch upon his arm, Barnabas turned to find
Peterby at his elbow, and thus once more became aware of the hubbub
about him.

"Box seat, sir; next to the coachman!" says Peterby above the din,
for voices are shouting, horses snorting and stamping, ostlers are
hurrying here, running there, and swearing everywhere; waiters and
serving-maids are dodging to and fro, and all is hurry and bustle,
for the night mail is on the eve of departure for London.

Throned above all this clamor, calmly aloof, yet withal watchful of
eye, sits the coachman, beshawled to the ears of him, hatted to the
eyes of him, and in a wondrous coat of many capes; a ponderous man,
hoarse of voice and mottled of face, who, having swallowed his hot
rum and water in three leisurely gulps, tosses down the glass to the
waiting pot-boy (and very nearly hits a fussy little gentleman in a
green spencer, who carries a hat-box in one hand and a bulging
valise in the other, and who ducks indignantly, but just in time),
sighs, shakes his head, and proceeds to rewind the shawl about his
neck and chin, and to belt himself into his seat, throwing an
occasional encouraging curse to the perspiring ostlers below.

"Coachman!" cries the fussy gentleman, "hi, coachman!"

"The 'Markis' seems a bit fresh to-night, Sam," says Mottle-face
affably to one of the ostlers.

"Fresh!" exclaims that worthy as the 'Marquis' rears again,
"fresh, I believe you--burn 'is bones!"

"Driver!" shouts the fussy gentleman, "driver!"

"Why then, bear 'im up werry short, Sam."

"Driver!" roars the fussy little gentleman, "driver! coachman! oh,
driver!"

"Vell, sir, that's me?" says Mottle-face, condescending to become
aware of him at last.

"Give me a hand up with my valise--d'ye hear?"

"Walise, sir? No, sir, can't be done, sir. In the boot, sir; guard,
sir."

"Boot!" cries the fussy gentleman indignantly. "I'll never trust my
property in the boot!"

"Then v'y not leave it be'ind, sir, and stay vith it, or--"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the little man, growing angry. "I tell you
this is valuable property. D'ye know who I am?"

"Or ye might climb into the boot along vith it, sir--"

"Do you know who I am?"

"All aboard--all aboard for London!" roared the guard, coming up at
the instant.

"Valter!" cried Mottle-face.

"Ay, ay, Joe?"

"Gentleman's walise for the boot, Valter; and sharp's the vord!"

"Ay, ay, Joe!" and, as he spoke, the guard caught the valise from
the protesting small gentleman with one hand, and the hat-box with
the other, and, forthwith, vanished. Hereupon the fussy gentleman,
redder of face, and more angry than ever, clambered to the roof,
still loudly protesting; all of which seemed entirely lost upon
Mottle-face, who, taking up the reins and settling his feet against
the dash-board, winked a solemn, owl-like eye at Barnabas sitting
beside him, and carolled a song in a husky voice, frequently
interrupting himself to admonish the ostlers, in this wise:--

  "She vore no 'at upon 'er 'ead,
  Nor a cap, nor a--"

"Bear the 'Markis' up werry short, Sam, vill 'ee?

  "--dandy bonnet,
  But 'er 'air it 'ung all down 'er back,
  Like a--"

"Easy--easy now! Hold on to them leaders, Dick!

  "--bunch of carrots upon it.
  Ven she cried 'sprats' in Vestminister,
  Oh! sich a sveet loud woice, sir,
  You could 'ear 'er all up Parlyment Street,
  And as far as Charing Cross, sir."

"All aboard, all aboard for London!" roars the guard, and roaring,
swings himself up into the boot.

"All right be'ind?" cries Mottle-face.

"All right, Joe!" sings the guard.

"Then--leggo, there!" cries Mottle-face.

Back spring the ostlers, forward leap the four quivering horses,
their straining hoofs beating out showers of sparks from the cobbles;
the coach lurches forward and is off, amid a waving of hats and
pocket-handkerchiefs, and Barnabas, casting a farewell glance around,
is immediately fixed by the gaze of the "White Lion," as inquiring
of eye and interrogatory of tail as ever.

"Tall or short? Dark or fair? Will she kiss you--next time--will she,
will she? Will she even be glad to see you again--will she, now will
she?"

Whereupon Barnabas must needs become profoundly thoughtful all at
once.

"Now--I wonder?" said he to himself.




CHAPTER XXV


OF THE COACHMAN'S STORY

Long before the lights of the "White Lion" had vanished behind them,
the guard blows a sudden fanfare on the horn, such a blast as goes
echoing merrily far and wide, and brings folk running to open doors
and lighted windows to catch a glimpse of the London Mail ere it
vanishes into the night; and so, almost while the cheery notes ring
upon the air, Tenterden is behind them, and they are bowling along
the highway into the open country beyond. A wonderful country this,
familiar and yet wholly new; a nightmare world where ghosts and
goblins flit under a dying moon; where hedge and tree become monsters
crouched to spring, or lift knotted arms to smite; while in the
gloom of woods beyond, unimagined horrors lurk.

But, bless you, Mottle-face, having viewed it all under the slant of
his hat-brim, merely settles his mottled chin deeper in his shawls,
flicks the off ear of the near leader with a delicate turn of the
wrists, and turning his owl-like eye upon Barnabas, remarks that
"It's a werry fine night!" But hereupon the fussy gentleman, leaning
over, taps Mottle-face upon the shoulder.

"Coachman," says he, "pray, when do you expect to reach The Borough,
London?"

"Vich I begs to re-mark, sir," retorts Mottle-face, settling his
curly-brimmed hat a little further over his left eye, "vich I 'umbly
begs to re-mark as I don't expect nohow!"

"Eh--what! what! you don't expect to--"

"Vich I am vun, sir, as don't novise expect nothin', consequent am
never novise disapp'inted," says Mottle-face with a solemn nod;
"but, vind an' veather permittin', ve shall be at the 'George' o'
South'ark at five, or thereabouts!"

"Ha!" says the fussy gentleman, "and what about my valise? is it safe?"

"Safe, ah! safe as the Bank o' England, unless ve should 'appen to
be stopped--"

"Stopped? stopped, coachman? d' you mean--?"

"Ah! stopped by Blue-chinned Jack o' Brockley, or Gallopin' Toby o'
Tottenham, or--"

"Eh--what! what! d' you mean there are highwaymen on this road?"

"'Ighvaymen!" snorted Mottle-face, winking ponderously at Barnabas,
"by Goles, I should say so, it fair bristles vith 'em."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman in an altered tone,
"but you are armed, of course?"

"Armed?" repeated Mottle-face, more owl-like of eye than ever,
"armed, sir, Lord love me yes! my guard carries a brace o' barkers
in the boot."

"I'm glad of that," said the fussy gentleman, "very!"

"Though," pursued Mottle-face, rolling his head heavily, "Joe ain't
'zactly what you might call a dead shot, nor yet a ex-pert, bein'
blind in 'is off blinker, d'ye see."

"Eh--blind, d'ye say--blind?" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.

"Only in 'is off eye," nodded Mottle-face, reassuringly, "t'other
'un's as good as yours or mine, ven 'e ain't got a cold in it."

"But this--this is an outrage!" spluttered the fussy gentleman,
"a guard blind in one eye! Scandalous! I shall write to the papers
of this. But you--surely you carry a weapon too?"

"A vepping? Ay, to be sure, sir, I've got a blunder-bush, under this
'ere werry seat, loaded up to the muzzle wi' slugs too,--though it
von't go off."

"Won't--eh, what? Won't go off?"

"Not on no account, sir, vich ain't to be 'spected of it, seeing as
it ain't got no trigger."

"But--heaven preserve us! why carry such a useless thing?"

"Force of 'abit, sir; ye see, I've carried that theer old
blunderbush for a matter of five-an'-twenty year, an' my feyther 'e
carried it afore me."

"But suppose we are attacked?"

"Vich I begs to re-mark, sir, as I don't never suppose no such thing,
like my feyther afore me. Brave as a lion were my feyther, sir, an'
bred up to the road; v'y, Lord! 'e were born vith a coachman's v'ip
in 'is mouth--no, I mean 'is fist, as ye might say; an' 'e were the
boldest--"

"But what's your father got to do with it?" cried the fussy gentleman.
"What about my valise?"

"Your walise, sir? we'm a-coming to that;" and here, once more,
Mottle-face slowly winked his owl-like eye at Barnabas. "My feyther,
sir," he continued, "my feyther, 'e druv' the Dartford Mail, an' 'e
were the finest v'ip as ever druv' a coach, Dartford or otherwise;
'Andsome 'Arry' 'e vere called, though v'y 'andsome I don't know,
seeing as 'is nose veren't all it might ha' been, on account o' a
quart pot; an' v'y 'Arry I don't know, seeing as 'is name vos Villiam;
but, ''Andsome 'Arry' 'e vere called, an' werry much respected 'e
vere too. Lord! there vos never less than a dozen or so young bloods
to see 'im start. Ah! a great favorite 'e vere vith them, an' no
error, an' werry much admired; admired? I should say so. They copied
'is 'at they copied 'is boots, they copied 'is coat, they'd a
copied 'im inside as well as out if they could."

"Hum!" said the fussy gentleman. "Ha!"

"Oh, 'e vos a great fav'rite vith the Quality," nodded Mottle-face.
"Ah! it vos a dream to see 'im 'andle the ribbons,--an' spit? Lord!
it vos a eddication to see my feyther spit, I should say so! Vun
young blood--a dock's son he vere too--vent an' 'ad a front tooth
drawed a purpose, but I never 'eard as it done much good; bless you,
to spit like my feyther you must be born to it!" (here Mottle-face
paused to suit the action to the word). "And, mark you! over an'
above all this, my feyther vere the boldest cove that ever--"

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman impatiently, "but where
does my valise come in?"

"Your walise, sir," said Mottle-face, deftly flicking the off wheeler,
"your walise comes in--at the end, sir, and I'm a-comin' to it as
qvick as you'll let me."

"Hum!" said the gentleman again.

"Now, in my feyther's time," resumed Mottle-face serenely, "the
roads vos vorse than they are to-day, ah! a sight vorse, an' as for
'ighvaymen--Lord! they vos as thick as blackberries--blackberries? I
should say so! Theer vos footpads be'ind every 'edge--gangs of
'em--an' 'ighvaymen on every 'eath--"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman, "so many?"

"Many?" snorted Mottle-face, "there vos armies of 'em. But my feyther,
as I think I mentioned afore, vere the bravest, boldest, best-plucked
coachman as ever sat on a box."

"I hope it runs in the family."

"Sir, I ain't one give to boastin', nor yet to blowin' my own 'orn,
but truth is truth, and--it do!"

"Good!" said the fussy gentleman, "very good!"

"Now the vorst of all these rogues vos a cove called Black Dan, a
thieving, murdering, desprit wagabone as vere ewcntually 'ung
sky-'igh on Pembury 'Ill--"

"Good!" said the fussy gentleman louder than before, "good! Glad of it!"

"An' yet," sighed Mottle-face, "'e 'ad a werry good 'eart--as
'ighvaymen's 'earts go; never shot nobody unless 'e couldn't help it,
an' ven 'e did, 'e allus made a werry neat job of it, an' polished
'em off nice an' qvick."

"Hum!" said the fussy gentleman, "still, I'm glad he's hanged."

"Black Dan used to vork the roads south o' London,

"Kent an' Surrey mostly, conseqvent it vere a long time afore 'im an'
my feyther met; but at last vun night, as my feyther vos driving
along--a good fifteen mile an hour, for it vere a uncommon fine night,
vith a moon, like as it might be now--"

"Ah?" said the fussy gentleman.

"An' presently 'e came to vere the road narrered a bit, same as it
might be yonder--"

"Ah!" murmured the fussy gentleman again.

"An' vith a clump o' trees beyond, nice, dark, shady trees--like it
might be them werry trees ahead of us--"

"Oh!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.

"An' as 'e come up nearer an' nearer, all at vunce 'e made out a
shadder in the shade o' them trees--"

"Dear me!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman uneasily, staring very hard
at the trees in front.

"A shadder as moved, although the leaves vos all dead still. So my
feyther--being a bold cove--reached down for 'is blunderbush--this
werry same old blunderbush as I 've got under the box at this
i-dentical minute, (though its trigger veren't broke then) but,
afore 'e can get it out, into the road leaps a man on a great black
'oss--like it might be dead ahead of us, a masked man, an' vith a
pistol in each fist as long as yer arm."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.

"'Stand an' deliver!' roars the masked man, so my feyther, cocking
'is heye at the pistols, pulls up, an' there 'e is, starin' down at
the 'ighvayman, an' the 'ighvayman staring up at 'im. 'You 're
'Andsome 'Arry, ain't you?' sez the 'ighvayman. 'Ay,' sez my feyther,
'an' I guess you 're Black Dan.' 'Sure as you 're born!' sez Black
Dan, 'I've 'eered o' you before to-day, 'Andsome 'Arry,' sez 'e,
'an' meant to make your acquaintance afore this, but I 've been kep'
too busy till to-night,' sez 'e, 'but 'ere ve are at last,' 'e sez,
'an' now--vot d' ye think o' that?' sez 'e, an' pi'nts a pistol
under my feyther's werry nose. Now, as I think I 've 'inted afore,
my feyther vere a nat'rally bold, courage-ful cove, so 'e took a
look at the murderous vepping, an' nodded. 'It's a pistol, ain't it?'
sez 'e. 'Sure as you're settin' on that there box, it is,' sez Black
Dan, 'an' 'ere's another.' 'An' werry good veppings too,' sez my
feyther, 'but vot might you be vanting vith me, Black Dan?' 'First
of all, I vants you to come down off that box,' sez Black Dan. 'Oh?'
sez my feyther, cool as a coocumber. 'Ah!' sez Black Dan. 'Verefore
an' v'y?' enkvires my feyther, but Black Dan only vagged 'is
veppings in my feyther's face, an' grinned under 'is mask. 'I vants
you, so, 'Andsome 'Arry--come down!' sez 'e. Now I've told you as my
feyther vos the boldest--"

"Yes, yes," cried the fussy gentleman. "Well?"

"Vell, sir, my feyther stared at them murderous pistols, stared at
Black Dan, an' being the werry gamest an' bravest cove you ever see,
didn't 'esitate a second."

"Well," cried the fussy gentleman, "what did he do then?"

"Do, sir--v'y I'll tell you--my feyther--come down."

"Yes, yes," said the fussy gentleman, as Mottle-face paused.
"Go on, go on!"

"Go on v'ere, sir?"

"Go on with your story. What was the end of it?"

"V'y, that's the end on it."

"But it isn't; you haven't told us what happened after he got down.
What became of him after?"

"Took the 'Ring o' Bells,' out Islington vay, an' drank hisself to
death all quite nat'ral and reg'lar."

"But that's not the end of your story."

"It vere the end o' my feyther though--an' a werry good end it vere,
too."

Now here there ensued a silence, during which the fussy gentleman
stared fixedly at Mottle-face, who chirruped to the horses
solicitously, and turned a serene but owl-like eye up to the waning
moon.

"And pray," said the fussy gentleman at length, very red in the face,
and more indignant than ever, "pray what's all this to do with my
valise, I should like to know?"

"So should I," nodded Mottle-face--"ah, that I should."

"You--you told me," spluttered the fussy gentleman, in sudden wrath,
"that you were coming to my valise."

"An' so ve have," nodded Mottle-face, triumphantly. "Ve're at it now;
ve've been a-coming to that theer blessed walise ever since you
come aboard."

"Well, and what's to be done about it?" snapped the fussy gentleman.

"Vell," said Mottle-face, with another ponderous wink at Barnabas,
"if it troubles you much more, sir, if I vos you I should get a
werry strong rope, and a werry large stone, and tie 'em together
werry tight, an' drop that theer blessed walise into the river, and
get rid of it that way."

Hereupon the fussy gentleman uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and,
throwing himself back in his seat, tugged his hat over his eyes, and
was heard no more.

But Mottle-face, touching up the near leader with deft and delicate
play of wrist, or flicking the off wheeler, ever and anon gave vent
to sounds which, though somewhat muffled, on account of coat-collar
and shawl, were uncommonly like a chuckle. Yet if this were so or no,
Barnabas did not trouble to ascertain, for he was already in that
dreamy state 'twixt sleeping and waking, drowsily conscious of being
borne on through the summer night, past lonely cottage and farmhouse,
past fragrant ricks and barns, past wayside pools on whose still
waters stars seemed to float--on and ever on, rumbling over bridges,
clattering through sleeping hamlets and villages, up hill and down
hill, on and ever on toward London and the wonders thereof. But,
little by little, the chink and jingle of the harness, the rumble of
the wheels, the rhythmic beat of the sixteen hoofs, all became
merged into a drone that gradually softened to a drowsy murmur, and
Barnabas fell into a doze; yet only to be awakened, as it seemed to
him, a moment later by lights and voices, and to find that they were
changing horses once more. Whereupon Mottle-face, leaning over,
winked his owl-like eye, and spoke in a hoarse, penetrating whisper:

"Ten mile, sir, an' not a vord out o' old Walise so far!" saying
which he jerked his head towards the huddled form of the fussy
gentleman, winked again, and turned away to curse the hurrying
ostlers, albeit in a tone good-natured and jovial.

And so, betimes, off they went again, down hill and up, by rolling
meadow and winding stream, 'neath the leafy arches of motionless
trees, through a night profoundly still save for the noise of their
own going, the crow of a cock, or the bark of a dog from some
farmyard. The moon sank and was gone, but on went the London Mail
swirling through eddying mist that lay in every hollow like ghostly
pools. Gradually the stars paled to the dawn, for low down in the
east was a gray streak that grew ever broader, that changed to a
faint pink, deepening to rose, to crimson, to gold--an ever
brightening glory, till at last up rose the sun, at whose advent the
mists rolled away and vanished, and lo! day was born.

Yawning, Barnabas opened drowsy eyes, and saw that here and there
were houses in fair gardens, yet as they went the houses grew
thicker and the gardens more scant. And now Barnabas became aware of
a sound, soft with distance, that rose and fell--a never-ceasing
murmur; therefore, blinking drowsily at Mottle-face, he inquired
what this might be.

"That, sir, that's London, sir--cobble-stones, sir, cart-vheels, sir,
and--Lord love you!"--here Mottle-face leaned over and once more
winked his owl-like eye--"but 'e ain't mentioned the vord 'walise'
all night, sir--so 'elp me!" Having said which, Mottle-face vented a
throaty chuckle, and proceeded to touch up his horses.

And now as one in a dream, Barnabas is aware that they are threading
streets, broad streets and narrow, and all alive with great wagons
and country wains; on they go, past gloomy taverns, past churches
whose gilded weather-cocks glitter in the early sunbeams, past
crooked side-streets and dark alley-ways, and so, swinging suddenly
to the right, have pulled up at last in the yard of the "George."

It is a great inn with two galleries one above another and many
windows, and here, despite the early hour, a motley crowd is gathered.
Forthwith Barnabas climbs down, and edging his way through the throng,
presently finds Peterby at his elbow.

"Breakfast, sir?"

"Bed, Peterby."

"Very good--this way, sir."

Thereafter, though he scarcely knows how, he finds himself following
a trim-footed damsel, who, having shown him up a winding stair, worn
by the tread of countless travellers, brings him to a smallish,
dullish chamber, opening upon the lower gallery. Hereupon Barnabas
bids her "good night," but, blinking in the sunlight, gravely
changes it to "good morning." The trim-footed maid smiles, curtsies,
and vanishes, closing the door behind her.

Now upon the wall of the chamber, facing the bed, hangs the picture
of a gentleman in a military habit with an uncomfortably high stock.
He is an eagle-nosed gentleman with black whiskers, and a pair of
remarkably round wide-awake eyes, which stare at Barnabas as much as
to say--

"And who the devil are you, sir?"

Below him his name and titles are set forth fully and with many
flourishes, thus--

  LIEUTENANT-GENERAL THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF POMFROY,
              K.G., K.T.S., etc., etc., etc.

So remarkably wide-awake is he, indeed, that it seems to drowsy
Barnabas as if these round eyes wait to catch him unawares and
follow him pertinaciously about the smallish, dullish chamber.
Nevertheless Barnabas yawns, and proceeds to undress, which done,
remembering he is in London, he takes purse and valuables and very
carefully sets them under his pillow, places Mr. Chichester's pistol
on the small table conveniently near, and gets into bed.

Yet now, sleepy though he is, he must needs turn to take another
look at the Honorable the Earl of Pomfroy, wonders idly what the
three "etc.'s" may mean, admires the glossy curl of his whiskers,
counts the medals and orders on his bulging breast, glances last of
all at his eyes, and immediately becomes aware that they are
curiously like those of the "White Lion" at Tenterden, in that they
are plying him with questions.

"Tall or short? dark or fair? Will she kiss you--next time, sir?
Will she even be glad to see you again, you presumptuous young
dog--will she--will she, confound you?"

"Ah!" sighed Barnabas. "Next time--I wonder!"

So saying, he sighed again, once, twice, and with the third fell
fast asleep, and dreamed that a certain White Lion, clad in a
Lieutenant-General's uniform, and with a pair of handsome black
whiskers, stood balancing himself upon a single claw on the rail of
the bed.




CHAPTER XXVI


CONCERNING THE DUTIES OF A VALET--AND A MAN

"And now, Peterby," said Barnabas, pushing his chair from the
breakfast table, "the first thing I shall require is--a tailor."

"Very true, sir."

"These clothes were good enough for the country, Peterby, but--"

"Exactly, sir!" answered Peterby, bowing.

"Hum!" said Barnabas, with a quick glance. "Though mark you," he
continued argumentatively,--"they might be worse, Peterby; the fit
is good, and the cloth is excellent. Yes, they might be a great deal
worse."

"It is--possible, sir," answered Peterby, with another bow. Hereupon,
having glanced at his solemn face, Barnabas rose, and surveyed
himself, as well as he might, in the tarnished mirror on the wall.

"Are they so bad as all that?" he inquired.

Peterby's mouth relaxed, and a twinkle dawned in his eye.

"As garments they are--serviceable, sir," said he, gravely,
"but as clothes they--don't exist."

"Why then," said Barnabas, "the sooner we get some that do,--the
better. Do you know of a good tailor?"

"I know them all, sir."

"Who is the best--the most expensive?"

"Stultz, sir, in Clifford Street; but I shouldn't advise you to
have him."

"And why not?"

"Because he _is_ a tailor."

"Oh?" said Barnabas.

"I mean that the clothes he makes are all stamped with his
individuality, as it were,--their very excellence damns them. They
are the clothes of a tailor instead of being simply a gentleman's
garments."

"Hum!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown at this, "it would seem
that dress can be a very profound subject, Peterby."

"Sir," answered Peterby, shaking his head, "it is a life study, and,
so far as I know, there are only two people in the world who
understand it aright; Beau Brummell was one, and, because he was the
Beau, had London and the World of Fashion at his feet."

"And who was the other?"

Peterby took himself by the chin, and, though his mouth was solemn,
the twinkle was back in his eye as he glanced at Barnabas.

"The other, sir," he answered, "was one who, until yesterday, was
reduced to the necessity of living upon poached rabbits."

Here Barnabas stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

"I remember you told me you were the best valet in the world,"
said he.

"It is my earnest desire to prove it, sir."

"And yet," said Barnabas, with his gaze still turned ceiling-wards,
"I would have you--even more than this, Peterby."

"More, sir?"

"I would have you, sometimes, forget that you are only 'the best
valet in the world,' and remember that you are--a man: one in whom I
can confide; one who has lived in this great world, and felt, and
suffered, and who can therefore advise me; one I may trust to in an
emergency; for London is a very big place, they tell me, and my
friends are few--or none--and--do you understand me, Peterby?"

"Sir," said Peterby in an altered tone, "I think I do."

"Then--sit down, John, and let us talk."

With a murmur of thanks Peterby drew up a chair and sat watching
Barnabas with his shrewd eyes.

"You will remember," began Barnabas, staring up at the ceiling again,
"that when I engaged you I told you that I intended to--hum! to--cut
a figure in the fashionable world?"

"Yes, sir; and I told you that,--after what happened in a certain
wood,--it was practically impossible."

"You mean because I thrashed a scoundrel?"

"I mean because you knocked down a friend of the Prince Regent."

"And is Carnaby so very powerful, Peterby?"

"Sir, he is--the Prince's friend! He is also as great a Buck as
George Hanger, as Jehu, or Jockey of Norfolk, and as famous, almost,
as the late Sir Maurice Vibart."

"Ah!" said Barnabas.

"And since the retirement of Mr. Brummell, he and the Marquis of
Jerningham have to some extent taken his place and become the
Arbiters of Fashion."

"Oh!" said Barnabas.

"And furthermore, sir, I would warn you that he is a dangerous enemy,
said to be one of the best pistol-shots in England."

"Hum," said Barnabas, "nevertheless, I mean to begin--"

"To begin, sir?"

"At once, Peterby."

"But--how, sir?"

"That is for you to decide, Peterby."

"Me, sir?"

"You, Peterby."

Here Peterby took himself by the chin again, and looked at Barnabas
with thoughtful eyes and gloomy brow.

"Sir," said he, "the World of Fashion is a trivial world where all
must appear trivial; it is a place where all must act a part, and
where those are most regarded who are most affected; it is a world
of shams and insincerity, and very jealously guarded."

"So I have heard," nodded Barnabas.

"To gain admission you must, first of all, have money."

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"Birth--if possible."

"Hum," said Barnabas.

"Wit and looks may be helpful, but all these are utterly useless
unless you have what I may call the magic key."

"And what is that?"

"Notoriety, sir."

"For what?"

"For anything that will serve to lift you out of the ruck--to set
you above the throng,--you must be one apart--an original."

"Originality is divine!" said Barnabas.

"More or less, sir," added Peterby, "for it is very easily achieved.
Lord Alvanly managed it with apricot tarts; Lord Petersham with
snuff-boxes; Mr. Mackinnon by his agility in climbing round
drawing-rooms on the furniture; Jockey of Norfolk by consuming a
vast number of beef-steaks, one after the other; Sir George Cassilis,
who was neither rich nor handsome nor witty, by being insolent; Sir
John Lade by dressing like a stagecoach-man, and driving like the
devil; Sir George Skeffington by inventing a new color and writing
bad plays; and I could name you many others beside--"

"Why then, Peterby--what of Sir Mortimer Carnaby?"

"He managed it by going into the ring with Jack Fearby, the 'Young
Ruffian,' and beating him in twenty-odd rounds for one thing, and
winning a cross-country race--"

"Ha!" exclaimed Barnabas, "a race!" and so he fell to staring up at
the ceiling again.

"But I fear, sir," continued Peterby, "that in making him your enemy,
you have damned your chances at the very outset, as I told you."

"A race!" said Barnabas again, vastly thoughtful.

"And therefore," added Peterby, leaning nearer in his earnestness,
"since you honor me by asking my advice, I would strive with all my
power to dissuade you."

"John Peterby--why?"

"Because, in the first place, I know it to be impossible."

"I begin to think not, John."

"Why, then, because--it's dangerous!"

"Danger is everywhere, more or less, John."

"And because, sir, because you--you--" Peterby rose, and stood with
bent head and hands outstretched, "because you gave a miserable
wretch another chance to live; and therefore I--I would not see you
crushed and humiliated. Ah, sir! I know this London, I know those
who make up the fashionable world. Sir, it is a heartless world,
cruel and shallow, where inexperience is made a mock of--generosity
laughed to scorn; where he is most respected who can shoot the
straightest; where men seldom stoop to quarrel, but where death is
frequent, none the less--and, sir, I could not bear--I--I wouldn't
have you cut off thus--!"

Peterby stopped suddenly, and his head sank lower; but as he stood
Barnabas rose, and coming to him, took his hand into his own firm
clasp.

"Thank you, John Peterby," said he. "You may be the best valet in
the world--I hope you are--but I know that you are a man, and, as a
man, I tell you that I have decided upon going on with the adventure."

"Then I cannot hope to dissuade you, sir?"

"No, John!"

"Indeed, I feared not."

"It was for this I came to London, and I begin--at once."

"Very good, sir."

"Consequently, you have a busy day before you; you see I shall
require, first of all, clothes, John; then--well, I suppose a house
to live in--"

"A--house, sir?"

"In a fashionable quarter, and furnished, if possible."

"A lodging, St. James's Street way, is less expensive, sir, and more
usual."

"Good!" said Barnabas; "to buy a house will be more original, at
least. Then there must be servants, horses--vehicles--but you will
understand--"

"Certainly, sir."

"Well then, John--go and get 'em."

"Sir?" exclaimed Peterby.

"Go now, John," said Barnabas, pulling out his purse, "this very
moment."

"But," stammered Peterby, "but, sir--you will--"

"I shall stay here--I don't intend to stir out until you have me
dressed as I should be--in 'clothes that exist,' John!"

"But you--don't mean to--to entrust--everything--to--me?"

"Of course, John."

"But sir--"

"I have every confidence in your judgment, you see. Here is money,
you will want more, of course, but this will do to go on with."

But Peterby only stared from Barnabas to the money on the table, and
back again.

"Sir," said he at last, "this is--a great deal of money."

"Well, John?"

"And I would remind you that we are in London, sir, and that
yesterday I--was a poacher--a man of no character--a--"

"But to-day you are my valet, John. So take the money and buy me
whatever I require, but a tailor first of all."

Then, as one in a dream, Peterby took up the money, counted it,
buttoned it into his pocket, and crossed to the door; but there he
paused and turned.

"Sir," said he slowly, "I'll bring you a man who, though he is
little known as yet, will be famous some day, for he is what I may
term an artist in cloth. And sir,"--here Peterby's voice grew
uncertain--"you shall find me worthy of your trust, so help me God!"
Then he opened the door, went out, and closed it softly behind him.
But as for Barnabas, he sat with his gaze fixed on the ceiling again,
lost in reverie and very silent. After a while he spoke his thoughts
aloud.

"A race!" said he.




CHAPTER XXVII


HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE--AND RODE IT

The coffee-room at the "George" is a longish, narrowish, dullish
chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,--but
upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here
Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very
like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and
dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as
he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a
salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon,
flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and
bowed.

"Dinner, sir?" he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set
engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from
boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there
while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and
coughed disapprobation into his napkin. "Did you say dinner, sir?"
he inquired again.

"Thank you, no," answered Barnabas.

"Perhaps cheese an' a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say--a
half of porter?"

"I've only just had breakfast," said Barnabas, aware of the waiter's
scrutiny.

"Ah!" sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, "you're
Number Four, I think--night coach?"

"Yes."

"From the country of course, sir?"

"Yes--from the country," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little,
"but how in the world did you guess that?"

"From your 'toot example,' sir, as they say in France--from your
appearance, sir."

"You are evidently a very observant man!" said Barnabas.

"Well," answered the waiter, with his gaze still riveted upon the
neckcloth--indeed it seemed to fascinate him, "well, I can see as
far through a brick wall as most,--there ain't much as I miss, sir."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, "you may perhaps have noticed a door
behind you?"

The waiter stared from the neckcloth to the door and back again, and
scratched his chin dubiously.

"Door, sir--yessir!"

"Then suppose you go out of that door, and bring me pens, and ink,
and paper."

"Yessir!"

"Also the latest newspapers."

"Yessir--certainly, sir;" and with another slight, though eloquent
cough into his napkin, he started off upon his errand. Hereupon, as
soon as he was alone, Barnabas must needs glance down at that
offending neckcloth, and his frown grew the blacker.

"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But
here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person
reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as
he set them on the table.

"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."

"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.

"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again,
"now--what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make
it sherry?"

"Neither," said Barnabas.

"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir--'ighly esteemed by
connysoors and (cough again) other--gentlemen."

"No, thank you."

"On the other 'and--to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"--here the
waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head--"ale, sir,
likewise beer, small and otherwise."

"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door
is still where it was."

"Door, sir, yessir--oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of
the room.

Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and
began to write as follows:--

  George Inn,
  Borough.
  June 2, 18--.

  To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,

  MY DEAR DICK,--I did not think to be asking favors
  of you so soon, but--(here a blot).

"Confound it!" exclaimed Barnabas, and taking out his penknife he
began to mend the spluttering quill. But, in the midst of this
operation, chancing to glance out of the window, he espied a
long-legged gentleman with a remarkably fierce pair of whiskers; he
wore a coat of ultra-fashionable cut, and stood with his booted legs
wide apart, staring up at the inn from under a curly-brimmed hat.
But the hat had evidently seen better days, the coat was frayed at
seam and elbow, and the boots lacked polish; yet these small
blemishes were more than offset by his general dashing, knowing air,
and the untamable ferocity of his whiskers. As Barnabas watched him,
he drew a letter from the interior of his shabby coat, unfolded it
with a prodigious flourish, and began to con it over. Now, all at
once, Barnabas dropped knife and pen, thrust a hand into his own
breast and took thence a letter also, at sight of which he
straightway forgot the bewhiskered gentleman; for what he read was
this:--

  Dearest and Best of Sisters,--Never, in all this
  world was there such an unfortunate, luckless dog as I--were
  it not for your unfailing love I should have
  made an end of it all, before now.

  I write this letter to beg and implore you to grant
  me another interview, anywhere and at any time you may
  name. Of course you will think it is more money I want--so
  I do; I'm always in need of it, and begin to fear
  I always shall be. But my reasons for wishing this meeting
  are much more than this--indeed, _most urgent_!
  (this underlined). I am threatened by a GRAVE DANGER
  (this doubly underlined). I am at my wit's end, and
  only you can save me, Cleone--you and you only.
  Chichester has been more than kind, _indeed, a true friend
  to me_! (this also underlined). I would that you could
  feel kinder towards him.

  This letter must reach you where none of your
  guardian's spies can intercept it; your precious Captain
  has always hated me, damn him! (this scratched out).
  Oh, shame that he, a stranger, should ever have been
  allowed to come between brother and sister. I shall
  journey down to Hawkhurst to see you and shall stay
  about until you can contrive to meet me. Chichester
  may accompany me, and if he should, try to be kinder
  to your brother's only remaining friend. How different
  are our situations! you surrounded by every luxury,
  while I--yet heaven forbid I should forget my manhood
  and fill this letter with my woes. But if you ever loved
  your unfortunate brother, do not fail him in this, Cleone.

  Your loving, but desperate,

  RONALD BARRYMAINE.

Having read this effusion twice over, and very carefully, Barnabas
was yet staring at the last line with its scrawling signature, all
unnecessary curls and flourishes, when he heard a slight sound in
the adjacent box, and turning sharply, was just in time to see the
top of a hat ere it vanished behind the curtain above the partition.

Therefore he sat very still, waiting. And lo! after the lapse of
half a minute, or thereabouts, it reappeared, slowly and by
degrees--a beaver hat, something the worse for wear. Slowly it rose
up over the curtain--the dusty crown, the frayed band, the curly brim,
and eventually a pair of bold, black eyes that grew suddenly very
wide as they met the unwinking gaze of Barnabas. Hereupon the lips,
as yet unseen, vented a deep sigh, and, thereafter, uttered these
words:

"The same, and yet, curse me, the nose!--y-e-s, the nose seems, on
closer inspection, a trifle too aquiline, perhaps; and the
chin--y-e-s, decidedly a thought too long! And yet--!" Here another
sigh, and the face rising into full view, Barnabas recognized the
bewhiskered gentleman he had noticed in the yard.

"Sir," continued the stranger, removing the curly-brimmed hat with a
flourish, and bowing over the partition as well as he could,
"you don't happen to be a sailor--Royal Navy, do you?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas.

"And your name don't happen to be Smivvle, does it?"

"No, sir," said Barnabas again.

"And yet," sighed the bewhiskered gentleman, regarding him with
half-closed eyes, and with his head very much on one side, "in spite
of your nose, and in spite of your chin, you are the counterpart, sir,
the facsimile--I might say the breathing image of a--ha!--of a
nephew of mine; noble youth, handsome as Adonis--Royal Navy--regular
Apollo; went to sea, sir, years ago; never heard of more; tragic,
sir--devilish tragic, on my soul and honor."

"Very!" said Barnabas; "but--"

"Saw you from the yard, sir, immediately struck by close resemblance;
flew here, borne on the wings of hope, sir; you 're quite sure your
name ain't Smivvle, are you?"

"Quite sure."

"Ah, well--mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as 'Dig,' at
your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals,
damn scoundrels,--by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by
George!--eat you alive. Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little
place in Worcestershire--King's Heath,--know it, perhaps? No?
Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks,
larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a
Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the
Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic--though devilish draughty,
upon my soul and honor!"

Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand,
Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle
smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted
glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table,
from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude
they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.

"Sir," said Barnabas without looking up, "pray excuse the blot, the
pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see."

Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at
unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and,
having found it, tugged it viciously.

"Blot, sir!" he exclaimed loudly; "now, upon my soul and honor--what
blot, sir?"

"This," said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the
Viscount--"if you've finished, we may as well destroy it," and
forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty
fireplace.

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, louder than before, "'pon my soul, now,
if you mean to insinuate--" Here he paused, staring at Barnabas, and
with his whiskers fiercer than ever.

"Well, sir?" inquired Barnabas, still busily trimming his quill.

Mr. Smivvle frowned; but finding Barnabas was quite unconscious of it,
shook his head, felt for his whisker again, found it, tugged it, and
laughed jovially.

"Sir," said he, "you are a devilish sharp fellow, and a fine fellow.
I swear you are. I like your spirit, on my soul and honor I do, and,
as for blots, I vow to you I never write a letter myself that I
don't smear most damnably--curse me if I don't. That blot, sir,
shall be another bond between us, for I have conceived a great
regard for you. The astounding likeness between you and one who--was
snatched away in the flower of his youth--draws me, sir, draws me
most damnably; for I have a heart, sir, a heart--why should I
disguise it?" Here Mr. Smivvle tapped the third left-hand button of
his coat. "And so long as that organ continues its functions, you
may count Digby Smivvle your friend, and at his little place in
Worcestershire he will be proud to show you the hospitality _of_ a
Smivvle. Meanwhile, sir, seeing we are both strangers in a strange
place, supposing we--join forces and, if you are up for the race, I
propose--"

"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, looking up suddenly.

"Yes, sir, devilish swell affair, with gentlemen to ride, and
Royalty to look on--a race of races! London's agog with it, all the
clubs discuss it, coffee houses ring with it, inns and taverns
clamor with it--soul and honor, betting--everywhere. The odds
slightly favor Sir Mortimer Carnaby's 'Clasher'; but Viscount
Devenham's 'Moonraker' is well up. Then there's Captain Slingsby's
'Rascal,' Mr. Tressider's 'Pilot,' Lord Jerningham's 'Clinker,' and
five or six others. But, as I tell you, 'Clasher' and 'Moonraker'
carry the money, though many knowing ones are sweet on the 'Rascal.'
But, surely, you must have heard of the great steeplechase? Devilish
ugly course, they tell me."

"The Viscount spoke of it, I remember," said Barnabas, absently.

"Viscount, sir--not--Viscount Devenham?"

"Yes."

Here Mr. Smivvle whistled softly, took off the curly-brimmed hat,
looked at it, and put it on again at a more rakish angle than ever.

"Didn't happen to mention my name, did he--Smivvle, sir?"

"No."

"Nor Dig, perhaps?"

"No, sir."

"Remarkable--hum!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head;
"but I'm ready to lay you odds that he _did_ speak of my friend Barry.
I may say my bosom companion--a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir."

"Ronald Barrymaine," repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his
pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker's keen glance,
none the less. "No, he did not."

"Astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.

"Why so?"

"Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his
Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir,
was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go,
sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for
the Jews--curse 'em!"

"And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?"

At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom,
and bowed.

"Sir," said he, "for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a
Smivvle, once given, is given for good."

As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which
Barnabas observed was none too clean.

"The hand of a Smivvle, sir," pursued that gentleman, "the hand of a
Smivvle is never withdrawn either on account of adversity, plague,
poverty, pestilence, or Jews--dammem! As for my friend Barrymaine;
but, perhaps, you are acquainted with him, sir."

"No," answered Barnabas.

"Ah! a noble fellow, sir! Heroic youth, blood, birth, and breeding
to his finger-tips, sir. But he is, above all else, a brother to
a--a sister, sir. Ah! what a creature! Fair, sir? fair as the
immortal Helena! Proud, sir? proud as an arch-duchess! Handsome, sir?
handsome, sir, as--as--oh, dammit, words fail me; but go, sir, go
and ransack Olympus, and you couldn't match her, 'pon my soul! Diana,
sir? Diana was a frump! Venus? Venus was a dowdy hoyden, by George!
and as for the ox-eyed Juno, she was a positive cow to this young
beauty! And then--her heart, sir!"

"Well, what of it?" inquired Barnabas, rather sharply.

"Utterly devoted--beats only for my friend--"

"You mean her brother?"

"I mean her brother, yes, sir; though I have heard a rumor that
Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"

"Pooh!" said Barnabas.

"With pleasure, sir; but the fact remains that it was partly on his
account, and partly because of another, that she was dragged away
from London--"

"What other?"

"Well, let us say--H.R.H."

"Sir," inquired Barnabas, frowning, "do you mean the Prince?"

"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, with a smiling shake of the head, "I prefer
the letters H.R.H. Anyhow, there were many rumors afloat at the time,
and her guardian--a regular, tarry old sea dog, by George--drags her
away from her brother's side, and buries her in the country, like
the one-armed old pirate he is, eye to her money they tell me;
regular old skinflint; bad as a Jew--damn him! But speaking of the
race, sir, do you happen to--know anything?"

"I know that it is to be run on the fifteenth of July," said
Barnabas abstractedly.

"Oh, very good!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle--"ha! ha!--excellent! knows
it is to be run on the fifteenth; very facetious, curse me! But,
joking apart, sir, have you any private knowledge? The Viscount, now,
did he happen to tell you anything that--"

But, at this juncture, they were interrupted by a sudden tumult in
the yard outside, a hubbub of shouts, the ring and stamp of hoofs,
and, thereafter, a solitary voice upraised in oaths and curses.
Barnabas sprang to his feet, and hurrying out into the yard, beheld
a powerful black horse that reared and plunged in the grip of two
struggling grooms; in an adjacent corner was the late rider, who sat
upon a pile of stable-sweepings and swore, while, near by, perched
precariously upon an upturned bucket, his slim legs stretched out
before him, was a young exquisite--a Corinthian from top to toe--who
rocked with laughter, yet was careful to keep his head rigid, so as
to avoid crushing his cravat, a thing of wonder which immediately
arrested the attention of Barnabas, because of its prodigious height,
and the artful arrangement of its voluminous folds.

"Oh, dooce take me," he exclaimed in a faint voice, clapping a hand
to his side, "I'll be shot if I saw anything neater, no, not even at
Sadler's Wells! Captain Slingsby of the Guards in his famous double
somersault! Oh, damme, Sling! I'd give a hundred guineas to see you
do it again--I would, dooce take me!"

But Captain Slingsby continued to shake his fist at the great, black
horse, and to swear with unabated fervor.

"You black devil!" he exclaimed, "you four-legged imp of Satan! So,
you're up to your tricks again, are you? Well, this is the last
chance you shall have to break my neck, b'gad! I'm done with you
for a--"

Here the Captain became extremely fluent, and redder of face than
ever, as he poured forth a minute description of the animal; he
cursed him from muzzle to crupper and back again; he damned his eyes,
he damned his legs, individually and collectively, and reviled him,
through sire and dam, back to the Flood.

Meanwhile Barnabas turned from raging Two-legs to superbly wrathful
Four-legs; viewed him from sweeping tail to lofty crest; observed
his rolling eye and quivering nostril; took careful heed of his
broad chest, slender legs, and powerful, sloping haunches with keen,
appraising eyes, that were the eyes of knowledge and immediate desire.
And so, from disdainful Four-legs he turned back to ruffled Two-legs,
who, having pretty well sworn himself out by this time, rose
gingerly to his feet, felt an elbow with gentle inquiry, tenderly
rubbed a muddied knee, and limped out from the corner.

Now, standing somewhat apart, was a broad-shouldered man, a
rough-looking customer in threadbare clothes, whose dusty boots
spoke of travel. He was an elderly man, for the hair, beneath the
battered hat, was gray, and he leaned wearily upon a short stick.
Very still he stood, and Barnabas noticed that he kept his gaze bent
ever upon the horse; nor did he look away even when the Captain
began to speak again.

"B'gad!" exclaimed the Captain, "I'll sell the brute to the highest
bidder. You, Jerningham, you seem devilish amused, b'gad! If you
think you can back him he's yours for what you like. Come, what's
the word?"

"Emphatically no, my dear, good Sling," laughed the young Corinthian,
shaking his curly head. "I don't mean to risk this most precious
neck of mine until the fifteenth, dear fellow, dooce take me if I do!"

"Why then, b'gad! I'll sell him to any one fool enough to bid. Come
now," cried the Captain, glancing round the yard, "who'll buy him?
B'gad! who'll give ten pounds for an accursed brute that nobody can
possibly ride?"

"I will!" said Barnabas.

"Fifteen, sir!" cried the shabby man on the instant, with his gaze
still on the horse.

"Twenty!" said Barnabas, like an echo.

"Twenty-five, sir!" retorted the shabby man.

"Hey?" cried the Captain, staring from one to the other. "What's all
this? B'gad! I say stop a bit--wait a minute! Bob, lend me your
bucket."

Hereupon the Corinthian obligingly vacating that article. Captain
Slingsby incontinent stood upon it, and from that altitude began to
harangue the yard, flourishing his whip after the manner of an
auctioneer's hammer.

"Now here you are, gentlemen!" he cried. "I offer you a devilishly
ugly, damnably vicious brute, b'gad! I offer you a four-legged demon,
an accursed beast that nobody can ever hope to ride--a regular terror,
curse me! Killed one groom already, will probably kill another. Now,
what is your price for this lady's pet? Look him over and bid
accordingly."

"Twenty-five pound, sir," said the shabby man.

"Thirty!" said Barnabas.

"Thirty-one, sir."

"Fifty!" said Barnabas.

"Fifty!" cried the Captain, flourishing his whip. "Fifty pounds from
the gentleman in the neckcloth--fifty's the figure. Any more? Any
advance on fifty? What, all done! Won't any one go another pound for
a beast fit only for the knacker's yard? Oh, Gad, gentlemen, why
this reticence? Are you all done?"

"I can't go no higher, sir," said the shabby man, shaking his gray
head sadly.

"Then going at fifty--at fifty! Going! Going! Gone, b'gad! Sold to
the knowing young cove in the neckcloth."

Now, at the repetition of this word, Barnabas began to frown.

"And b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain, stepping down from the bucket,
"a devilish bad bargain he's got, too."

"That, sir, remains to be seen," said Barnabas, shortly.

"Why, what do you mean to do with the brute?"

"Ride him."

"Do you, b'gad?"

"I do."

"Lay you ten guineas you don't sit him ten minutes."

"Done!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.

But now, glancing round, he saw that the shabby man had turned away,
and was trudging heavily out of the yard, therefore Barnabas
hastened after him, and touched him upon the arm.

"I'm sorry you were disappointed," said he.

"Is it about the 'oss you mean, sir?" inquired the shabby man,
touching his hat.

"Yes."

"Why, it do come a bit 'ard-like to ha' lost 'im, sir, arter waiting
my chance so long. But fifty guineas be a sight o' money to a chap
as be out of a job, though 'e's dirt-cheap at the price. There ain't
many 'osses like 'im, sir."

"That was why I should have bought him at ten times the price," said
Barnabas.

The man took off his hat, ran his stubby fingers through his
grizzled hair, and stared hard at Barnabas.

"Sir," said he, "even at that you couldn't ha' done wrong. He ain't
a kind 'oss--never 'aving been understood, d' ye see; but take my
word for it, 'e's a wonder, that 'oss!"

"You know him, perhaps?"

"Since 'e were foaled, sir. I was stud-groom; but folks think I'm
too old for the job, d' ye see, sir?"

"Do you think he 'd remember you?"

"Ay, that 'e would!"

"Do you suppose--look at him!--do you suppose you could hold him
quieter than those ostlers?"

"'Old 'im, sir!" exclaimed the man, throwing back his shoulders.
"'Old 'im--ah, that I could! Try me!"

"I will," said Barnabas. "How would forty shillings a week suit you?"

"Sir?" exclaimed the old groom, staring.

"Since you need a job, and I need a groom, I'll have you--if you're
willing."

The man's square jaw relaxed, his eyes glistened; then all at once
he shook his head and sighed.

"Ah! sir," said he, "ah! young sir, my 'air's gray, an' I'm not so
spry as I was--nobody wants a man as old as I be, and, seeing as
you've got the 'oss, you ain't got no call to make game o' me, young
sir. You 've got--the 'oss!"

Now at this particular moment Captain Slingsby took it into his head
to interrupt them, which he did in characteristic fashion.

"Hallo!--hi there!" he shouted, flourishing his whip.

"But I'm not making game of you," said Barnabas, utterly unconscious
of the Captain, at least his glance never wavered from the eager
face of the old groom.

"Hallo, there!" roared the Captain, louder than ever.

"And to prove it," Barnabas continued, "here is a guinea in advance,"
and he slipped the coin into the old groom's lax hand.

"Oh, b'gad," cried the Captain, hoarsely, "don't you hear me, you
over there? Hi! you in the neckcloth!"

"Sir," said Barnabas, turning sharply and frowning again at the
repetition of the word, "if you are pleased to allude to me, I would
humbly inform you that my name is Beverley."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Captain, "I see--young Beverley, son of old
Beverley--and a devilish good name too!"

"Sir, I'm vastly relieved to hear you say so," retorted Barnabas,
with a profound obeisance. Then taking out his purse, he beckoned
his new groom to approach.

"What is your name?" he inquired, as he counted out a certain sum.

"Gabriel Martin, sir."

"Then, Martin, pray give the fellow his money."

"Sir?"

"I mean the red-faced man in the dirty jacket, Martin," added
Barnabas.

The old groom hesitated, glanced from the Captain's scowling brow to
the smiling lips of Barnabas.

"Very good, sir," said he, touching his shabby hat, and taking the
money Barnabas held out, he tendered it to the Captain, who, redder
of face than ever, took it, stared from it to Barnabas, and whistled.

"Now, damme!" he exclaimed, "damme, if I don't believe the fellow
means to be offensive!"

"If so, sir, the desire would seem to be mutual!" returned Barnabas.

"Yes, b'gad! I really believe he means to be offensive!" repeated
the Captain, nodding as he pocketed the money.

"Of that you are the best judge, sir," Barnabas retorted. Captain
Slingsby whistled again, frowned, and tossing aside his whip,
proceeded to button up his coat.

"Why then," said he, "we must trouble this offensive person to
apologize or--or put 'em up, begad!"

But hereupon the young Corinthian (who had been watching them
languidly through the glass he carried at the end of a broad ribbon)
stepped forward, though languidly, and laid a white and languid hand
upon the Captain's arm.

"No, no, Sling," said he in a die-away voice, "he's a doocid fine
'bit of stuff'--look at those shoulders! and quick on his
pins--remark those legs! No, no, my dear fellow, remember your knee,
you hurt it, you know--fell on it when you were thrown,--must be
doocid painful! Must let me take your place. Shall insist! Pleasure's
all mine, 'sure you."

"Never, Jerningham!" fumed the Captain, "not to be thought of, my
dear Bob--no begad, he's mine; why you heard him, he--he positively
called me a--a fellow!"

"So you are, Sling," murmured the Corinthian, surveying Barnabas
with an approving eye, "dev'lish dashing fellow, an 'out-and-outer'
with the 'ribbons'--fiddle it with any one, by George, but no good
with your mauleys, damme if you are! Besides, there's your knee, you
know--don't forget your knee--"

"Curse my knee!"

"Certainly, dear fellow, but--"

"My knee's sound enough to teach this countryman manners, b'gad; you
heard him say my coat was filthy?"

"So it is, Sling, my boy, devilish dirty! So are your knees--look at
'em! But if you will dismount head over heels into a muck-heap, my
dear fellow, what the dooce can you expect?" The Captain merely swore.

"Doocid annoying, of course," his friend continued, "I mean your knee,
you know, you can hardly walk, and this country fellow looks a
regular, bang up milling cove. Let me have a try at him, do now.
Have a little thought for others, and don't be so infernally selfish,
Sling, my boy."

As he spoke, the Corinthian took off his hat, which he forced into
the Captain's unwilling grasp, drew off his very tight-fitting coat,
which he tossed over the Captain's unwilling arm, and, rolling back
his snowy shirt-sleeves, turned to Barnabas with shining eyes and
smiling lips.

"Sir," said he, "seeing my friend's knee is not quite all it should
be, perhaps you will permit me to take his place, pleasure's
entirely mine, 'sure you. Shall we have it here, or would you prefer
the stables--more comfortable, perhaps--stables?"

Now while Barnabas hesitated, somewhat taken aback by this
unlooked-for turn of events, as luck would have it, there came a
diversion. A high, yellow-wheeled curricle swung suddenly into the
yard, and its two foam-spattered bays were pulled up in masterly
fashion, but within a yard of the great, black horse, which
immediately began to rear and plunge again; whereupon the bays began
to snort, and dance, and tremble (like the thoroughbreds they were),
and all was uproar and confusion; in the midst of which, down from
the rumble of the dusty curricle dropped a dusty and remarkably
diminutive groom, who, running to the leader's head, sprang up and,
grasping the bridle, hung there manfully, rebuking the animal,
meanwhile, in a voice astonishingly hoarse and gruff for one of his
tender years.

"Dooce take me," exclaimed the Corinthian, feeling for his eye-glass,
"it's Devenham!"

"Why, Dicky!" cried the Captain, "where have you sprung from?" and,
forgetful of Barnabas, they hurried forward to greet the Viscount,
who, having beaten some of the dust from his driving coat, sprang
down from his high seat and shook hands cordially.

Then, finding himself unnoticed, Barnabas carefully loosed his
neckerchief, and drew out the ends so that they dangled in full view.

"I've been rusticating with my 'Roman,'" the Viscount was proceeding
to explain, keeping his eye upon his horses, "but found him more
Roman than usual--Gad, I did that! Have 'em well rubbed down, Milo,"
he broke off suddenly, as the bays were led off to the stables,
"half a bucket of water apiece, no more, mind, and--say, a dash of
brandy!"

"Werry good, m'lud!" This from Milo of Crotona, portentous of brow
and stern of eye, as he overlooked the ostlers who were busily
unbuckling straps and traces.

"My 'Roman,' as I say," continued the Viscount, "was rather more so
than usual, actually wanted me to give up the Race! After that of
course I had to be firm with him, and we had a slight--ah,
misunderstanding in consequence--fathers, as a rule, are so
infernally parental and inconsiderate! Met Carnaby on the road, raced
him for a hundred; ding-dong all the way, wheel and wheel to Bromley,
though he nearly ditched me twice, confound him! Coming down Mason's
Hill I gave him my dust, up the rise he drew level again. 'Ease up
for the town, Carnaby,' says I, 'Be damned if I do!' says he, so at
it we went, full tilt. Gad! to see the folk jump! Carnaby drove like
a devil, had the lead to Southend, but, mark you, his whip was going!
At Catford we were level again. At Lewisham I took the lead and kept
it, and the last I saw of him he was cursing and lashing away at his
cattle, like a brute. Carnaby's a devilish bad loser, I've noticed,
and here I am. And oh! by the way--he's got a devil of an eye, and a
split lip. Says he fell out of his curricle, but looks as though
some one had--thrashed him."

"But my very dear fellow!" exclaimed the Corinthian, "thrash Carnaby?
pooh!"

"Never in the world!" added the Captain.

"Hum!" said the Viscount, feeling a tender part of his own ribs
thoughtfully, "ha! But, hallo, Jerningham! have you been at it too?
Why are you buffed?" And he nodded to the Corinthian's bare arms.

"Oh, dooce take me, I forgot!" exclaimed the Marquis, looking about;
"queer cove, doocid touchy, looks as if he might fib though. Ah,
there he is! talking to the rough-looking customer over yonder;" and
he pointed to Barnabas, who stood with his coat thrown open, and the
objectionable neckcloth in full evidence. The Viscount looked,
started, uttered a "view hallo," and, striding forward, caught
Barnabas by the hand.

"Why, Bev, my dear fellow, this is lucky!" he exclaimed. Now
Barnabas was quick to catch the glad ring in the Viscount's voice,
and to notice that the neckcloth was entirely lost upon him,
therefore he smiled as he returned the Viscount's hearty grip.

"When did you get here? what are you doing? and what the deuce is
the trouble between you and Jerningham?" inquired the Viscount all
in a breath. But before Barnabas could answer, the great, black horse,
tired of comparative inaction, began again to snort and rear, and
jerk his proud head viciously, whereupon the two ostlers fell to
swearing, and the Viscount's bays at the other end of the yard to
capering, and the Viscount's small groom to anathematizing, all in a
moment.

"Slingsby!" cried his Lordship, "look to that black demon of yours!"

"He is no concern of mine, Devenham," replied the Captain airily,
"sold him, b'gad!"

"And I bought him," added Barnabas.

"You did?" the Viscount exclaimed, "in heaven's name, what for?"

"To ride--"

"Eh? my dear fellow!"

"I should like to try him for the race on the fifteenth, if it could
be managed, Dick."

"The race!" exclaimed the Viscount, staring.

"I 've been wondering if you could--get me entered for it," Barnabas
went on, rather diffidently, "I'd give anything for the chance."

"What--with that brute! my dear fellow, are you mad?"

"No, Dick."

"But he's unmanageable, Bev; he's full of vice--a killer--look at
him now!"

And indeed at this moment, as if to bear out this character, up went
the great, black head again, eyes rolling, teeth gleaming, and ears
laid back.

"I tell you, Bev, no one could ride that devil!" the Viscount
repeated.

"But," said Barnabas, "I've bet your friend Captain Slingsby that I
could."

"It would be madness!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Ha! look out!
There--I told you so!" For in that moment the powerful animal reared
suddenly--broke from the grip of one ostler, and swinging the other
aside, stood free, and all was confusion. With a warning shout, the
old groom sprang to his head, but Barnabas was beside him, had
caught the hanging reins, and swung himself into the saddle.

"I've got him, sir," cried Martin, "find yer stirrups!"

"Your stick," said Barnabas, "quick, man! Now--let go!"

For a moment the horse stood rigid, then reared again, up and
up--his teeth bared, his forefeet lashing; but down came the heavy
stick between the flattened ears, once--twice, and brought him to
earth again.

And now began a struggle between the man and the brute--each young,
each indomitable, for neither had as yet been mastered, and
therefore each was alike disdainful of the other. The head of the
horse was high and proud, his round hoofs spurned the earth beneath,
fire was in his eye, rage in his heart--rage and scorn of this
presumptuous Two-legs who sought to pit his puny strength against
his own quivering, four-legged might. Therefore he mocked Two-legs,
scorned and contemned him, laughed ha! ha! (like his long-dead
ancestor among the Psalmist's trumpets) and gathered himself
together--eager for the battle.

But the eyes of Barnabas were wide and bright, his lips were curved,
his jaw salient--his knees gripped tight, and his grasp was strong
and sure upon the reins.

And now Four-legs, having voiced his defiance, tossed his crest on
high, then plunged giddily forward, was checked amid a whirlwind of
lashing hoofs, rose on his hind legs higher and higher, swinging
giddily round and round, felt a stunning blow, staggered, and
dropping on all fours, stove in the stable door with a fling of his
hind hoofs. But the eyes of Barnabas were glowing, his lips still
curved, and his grip upon the reins was more masterful. And, feeling
all this, Four-legs, foaming with rage, his nostrils flaring, turned
upon his foe with snapping teeth, found him out of reach, and so
sought to play off an old trick that had served him more than once;
he would smash his rider's leg against a post or wall, or brush him
off altogether and get rid of him that way. But lo! even as he leapt
in fulfilment of this manoeuvre, his head was wrenched round,
further and further, until he must perforce, stop--until he was
glaring up into the face above, the face of his bitter foe, with its
smiling mouth, its glowing eye, its serene brow.

"Time's up!" cried the Captain, suddenly; "b'gad, sir, you win the
bet!" But Barnabas scarcely heard.

"You've done it--you win; eleven and a half minutes, b'gad!" roared
the Captain again--"don't you hear, sir?--come off, before he breaks
your neck!"

But Barnabas only shook his head, and, dropping the stick, leaned
over and laid his hand upon that proud, defiant crest, a hand grown
suddenly gentle, and drew it down caressingly from ear to quivering
nostril, once, twice, and spoke words in a soft tone, and so,
loosed the cruel grip upon the rein, and sat back--waiting. But
Four-legs had become thoughtful; true, he still tossed his head
and pawed an impatient hoof, but that was merely for the sake of
appearances--Four-legs was thoughtful. No one had ever touched him so,
before--indeed blows had latterly been his portion--but this
Two-legs was different from his kind, besides, he had a pleasing
voice--a voice to soothe ragged nerves--there it was again! And then
surely, the touch of this hand awoke dim memories, reminded him of
far-off times when two-legged creatures had feared him less; and
there was the hand again! After all, things might be worse--the hand
that could be so gentle could be strong also; his mouth was sore yet,
and a strong man, strong-handed and gentle of voice, was better
than--oh, well!

Whether of all this, or any part of it, the great, black horse was
really thinking, who shall say? Howbeit Barnabas presently turned in
his saddle and beckoned the old groom to his stirrup.

"He'll be quiet now, I think," said he.

"Ah! that he will, sir. You've larned the trick o' voice an'
hand--it ain't many as has it--must be born in a man, I reckon, an'
'tis that as does more nor all your whips and spurs, an' curb-bits,
sir. 'E'll be a babe wi' you arter this, sir, an' I'm thinkin' as
you won't be wantin' me now, maybe? I ain't young enough nor smart
enough, d' ye see."

Here Barnabas dismounted, and gave the reins into the old groom's
eager hand.

"I shan't be wanting him for--probably three or four days, Gabriel,
until then--look after him, exercise him regularly, for I'm hoping
to do great things with him, soon, Gabriel, perhaps." And so
Barnabas smiled, and as Martin led the horse to the stables, turned
to find the young Corinthian at his elbow; he had resumed hat and
coat, and now regarded Barnabas as smiling and imperturbable as ever.

"Sir," said he, "I congratulate you heartily. Sir, any friend of
Viscount Devenham is also mine, I trust; and I know your name,
and--hem!--I swear Slingsby does! Beverley, I think--hem!--son of
old Beverley, and a devilish good name too! Eh, Sling my boy?"

Hereupon the Captain limped forward, if possible redder of face than
ever, very much like a large schoolboy in fault.

"Sir," he began, "b'gad--!" here he paused to clear his throat
loudly once or twice--"a devil incarnate! Fourteen minutes and a half,
by my watch, and devil a spur! I'd have lent you my boots had there
been time, I would, b'gad! As it is, if you've any desire to shake
hands with a--ha!--with a fellow--hum!--in a dirty coat--why--here's
mine, b'gad!"

"Captain the Honorable Marmaduke Slingsby--Mr. Beverley--The Marquis
of Jerningham--Mr. Beverley. And now," said the Viscount, as
Barnabas shook hands, "now tell 'em why you bought the horse, Bev."

"I was hoping, sirs," said Barnabas, rather diffidently, "that I
might perhaps have the honor of riding in the Steeplechase on the
fifteenth."

Hereupon the Captain struck his riding boot a resounding blow with
his whip, and whistled; while the Marquis dangled his eyeglass by
its riband, viewing it with eyes of mild surprise, and the Viscount
glanced from one to the other with an enigmatical smile upon his lips.

"That would rest with Carnaby to decide, of course," said the
Captain at last.

"Why so?" inquired Barnabas.

"Because--well, because he--is Carnaby, I suppose," the Captain
answered.

"Though Jerningham has the casting-vote," added the Viscount.

"True," said the Marquis, rearranging a fold of his cravat with a
self-conscious air, "but, as Sling says--Carnaby is--Carnaby."

"Sirs," began Barnabas, very earnestly, "believe me I would spare no
expense--"

"Expense, sir?" repeated the Marquis, lifting a languid eyebrow;
"of course it is no question of 'expense'!" Here the Viscount looked
uncomfortable all at once, and Barnabas grew suddenly hot.

"I mean," he stammered, "I mean that my being entered so late in the
day--the fees might be made proportionately heavier--double them if
need be--I should none the less be--be inestimably indebted to you;
indeed I--I cannot tell you--" Now as Barnabas broke off, the
Marquis smiled and reached out his hand--a languid-seeming hand,
slim and delicate, yet by no means languid of grip.

"My dear Beverley," said he, "I like your earnestness. A
race--especially this one--is a doocid serious thing; for some of us,
perhaps, even more serious than we bargain for. It's going to be a
punishing race from start to finish, a test of endurance for horse
and man, over the worst imaginable country. It originated in a match
between Devenham on his 'Moonraker' and myself on 'Clinker,' but
Sling here was hot to match his 'Rascal,' and Carnaby fancied his
'Clasher,' and begad! applications came so fast that we had a field
in no time."

"Good fellows and sportsmen all!" nodded the Captain. "Gentlemen
riders--no tag-rag, gamest of the game, sir."

"Now, as to yourself, my dear Beverley," continued the Marquis
authoritatively, "you 're doocid late, y' know; but then--"

"He can ride," said the Viscount.

"And he's game," nodded the Captain.

"And, therefore," added the Marquis, "we'll see what can be done
about it."

"And b'gad, here's wishing you luck!" said the Captain.

At this moment Peterby entered the yard, deep in converse with a slim,
gentleman-like person, whose noble cravat immediately attracted the
attention of the Marquis.

"By the way," pursued the Captain, "we three are dining together at
my club; may I have a cover laid for you, Mr. Beverley?"

"Sir," answered Barnabas, "I thank you, but, owing to--circumstances"
--here he cast a downward glance at his neckerchief--"I am unable to
accept. But, perhaps, you will, all three of you, favor me to dinner
at my house--say, in three days' time?"

The invitation was no sooner given than accepted.

"But," said the Viscount, "I didn't know that you had a place here
in town, Bev. Where is it?"

"Why, indeed, now you come to mention it, I haven't the least idea;
but, perhaps, my man can tell me."

"Eh--what?" exclaimed the Captain. "Oh, b'gad, he's smoking us!"

"Peterby!"

"Sir?" and having saluted the company, Peterby stood at respectful
attention.

"I shall be giving a small dinner in three days' time."

"Certainly, sir."

"At my house, Peterby,--consequently I desire to know its location.
Where do I live now, Peterby?"

"Number five, St. James's Square, sir."

"Thank you, Peterby."

"An invaluable fellow, that of yours," laughed the Marquis, as
Peterby bowed and turned away.

"Indeed, I begin to think he is, my Lord," answered Barnabas,
"and I shall expect you all, at six o'clock, on Friday next." So,
having shaken hands again, Captain Slingsby took the arm of the
Marquis, and limped off.

Now, when they were alone, the Viscount gazed at Barnabas, chin in
hand, and with twinkling eyes.

"My dear Bev," said he, "you can hang me if I know what to make of
you. Egad, you're the most incomprehensible fellow alive; you are,
upon my soul! If I may ask, what the deuce did it all mean--about
this house of yours?"

"Simply that until this moment I wasn't sure if I had one yet."

"But--your fellow--"

"Yes. I sent him out this morning to buy me one."

"To buy you--a house?"

"Yes; also horses and carriages, and many other things, chief among
them--a tailor."

The Viscount gasped.

"But--my dear fellow--to leave all that to your--servant! Oh, Gad!"

"But, as the Marquis remarked, Peterby is an inestimable fellow."

The Viscount eyed Barnabas with brows wrinkled in perplexity; then
all at once his expression changed.

"By the way," said he, "talking of Carnaby, he's got the most
beautiful eye you ever saw!"

"Oh?" said Barnabas, beginning to tuck in the ends of his neckerchief.

"And a devil of a split lip!"

"Oh?" said Barnabas again.

"And his coat had been nearly ripped off him; I saw it under his cape!"

"Ah?" said Barnabas, still busy with his neckcloth.

"And naturally enough," pursued the Viscount, "I've been trying to
imagine--yes, Bev, I've been racking my brain most damnably,
wondering why you--did it?

"It was in the wood," said Barnabas.

"So it _was_ you, then?"

"Yes, Dick."

"But--he didn't even mark you?"

"He lost his temper, Dick."

"You thrashed--Carnaby! Gad, Bev, there isn't a milling cove in
England could have done it."

"Yes--there are two--Natty Bell, and Glorious John."

"And I'll warrant he deserved it, Bev."

"I think so," said Barnabas; "it was in the wood, Dick."

"The wood? Ah! do you mean where you--"

"Where I found her lying unconscious."

"Unconscious! And with him beside her! My God, man!" cried the
Viscount, with a vicious snap of his teeth. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"Because I was beside her--first, Dick."

"Damn him!" exclaimed the Viscount bitterly.

"But he is your friend, Dick."

"Was, Bev, was! We'll make it in the past tense hereafter."

"Then you agree with your father after all?"

"I do, Bev; my father is a cursed, long-sighted, devilish observant
man! I'll back him against anybody, though he is such a Roman. But oh,
the devil!" exclaimed the Viscount suddenly, "you can never ride in
the race after this."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll meet Carnaby; and that mustn't happen."

"Why not?"

"Because he'll shoot you."

"You mean he'd challenge me? Hum," said Barnabas, "that is awkward!
But I can't give up the race."

"Then what shall you do?"

"Risk it, Dick."

But now, Mr. Smivvle, who from an adjoining corner had been an
interested spectator thus far, emerged, and flourishing off the
curly-brimmed hat, bowed profoundly, and addressed himself to the
Viscount.

"I believe," said he, smiling affably, "that I have the pleasure to
behold Viscount Devenham?"

"The same, sir," rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.

"You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?"

The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.

"No, I don't, sir."

Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.

"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though
perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"

The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.

"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.

Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.

"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse--the
multitude--the ah--the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir,
--a Smivvle, every inch of me,--while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,'
and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a
friend--"

"Indeed, sir," said the Viscount, in a tone of faint surprise, and
beckoning a passing ostler, ordered out his curricle.

"As I say," repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to search for his
whisker again, "I have a friend, my Lord--"

"Congratulate you," murmured the Viscount, pulling at his glove.

"A friend who has frequently spoken of your Lordship--"

"Very kind of him!" murmured the Viscount.

"And though, my Lord, though my name is not familiar, I think you
will remember his; the name of my friend is "--here Mr. Smivvle,
having at length discovered his whisker, gave it a fierce twirl,--
"Ronald Barrymaine."

The Viscount's smooth brow remained unclouded, only the glove tore
in his fingers; so he smiled, shook his head, and drawing it off,
tossed it away.

"Hum?" said he, "I seem to have heard some such name--somewhere or
other--ah! there's my Imp at last, as tight and smart as they make
'em, eh, Bev? Well, good-by, my dear fellow, I shan't forget Friday
next." So saying, the Viscount shook hands, climbed into his curricle,
and, with a flourish of his whip, was off and away in a moment.

"A fine young fellow, that!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle; "yes, sir,
regular out-and-outer, a Bang up! by heaven, a Blood, sir! a Tippy!
a Go! a regular Dash! High, sir, high, damned high, like my friend
Barrymaine,--indeed, you may have remarked a similarity between 'em,
sir?"

"You forget, I have never met your friend," said Barnabas.

"Ah, to be sure, a great pity! You'd like him, for Barrymaine is a
cursed fine fellow in spite of the Jews, dammem! yes,--you ought to
know my friend, sir."

"I should be glad to," said Barnabas.

"Would you though, would you indeed, sir? Nothing simpler; call a
chaise! Stay though, poor Barry's not himself to-day, under a cloud,
sir. Youthful prodigalities are apt to bring worries in their
train--chiefly in the shape of Jews, sir, and devilish bad shapes too!
Better wait a day--say to-morrow, or Thursday--or even Friday would
do."

"Let it be Saturday," said Barnabas.

"Saturday by all means, sir, I'll give myself the pleasure of
calling upon you."

"St. James's Square," said Barnabas, "number five."

But now Peterby, who had been eyeing Mr. Smivvle very much askance,
ventured to step forward.

"Sir," said he, "may I remind you of your appointment?"

"I hadn't forgotten, Peterby; and good day, Mr. Smivvle."

"Au revoir, sir, delighted to have had the happiness. If you _should_
chance ever to be in Worcestershire, the Hall is open to you. Good
afternoon, sir!" And so, with a prodigious flourish of the hat,
Mr. Smivvle bowed, smiled, and swaggered off. Then, as he turned to
follow Peterby into the inn, Barnabas must needs pause to glance
towards the spot where lay the Viscount's torn glove.




CHAPTER XXVIII


CONCERNING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, THE LEGS OF A GENTLEMAN-IN-POWDER

In that delightful book, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments," one
may read of Spirits good, and bad, and indifferent; of slaves of
lamps, of rings and amulets, and talismanic charms; and of the
marvels and wonders they performed. But never did Afrit, Djinn, or
Genie perform greater miracles than steady-eyed, soft-voiced Peterby.
For if the far away Orient has its potent charms and spells, so, in
this less romantic Occident, have we also a spell whereby all things
are possible, a charm to move mountains--a spell whereby kings
become slaves, and slaves, kings; and we call it Money.

Aladdin had his wonderful Lamp, and lo! at the Genie's word, up
sprang a palace, and the wilderness blossomed; Barnabas had his
overflowing purse, and behold! Peterby went forth, and the dull room
at the "George" became a mansion in the midst of Vanity Fair.

Thus, at precisely four o'clock on the afternoon of the third day,
Barnabas stood before a cheval mirror in the dressing-room of his
new house, surveying his reflection with a certain complacent
satisfaction.

His silver-buttoned blue coat, high-waisted and cunningly rolled of
collar, was a sartorial triumph; his black stockinette pantaloons,
close-fitting from hip to ankle and there looped and buttoned,
accentuated muscled calf and virile thigh in a manner somewhat
disconcerting; his snowy waistcoat was of an original fashion and cut,
and his cravat, folded and caressed into being by Peterby's fingers,
was an elaborate masterpiece, a matchless creation never before seen
upon the town. Barnabas had become a dandy, from the crown of his
curly head to his silk stockings and polished shoes, and, upon the
whole, was not ill-pleased with himself.

"But they're--dangerously tight, aren't they, Peterby?" he inquired
suddenly, speaking his thought aloud.

"Tight, sir!" repeated Mr. Barry, the tailor, reproachfully, and
shaking his gentleman-like head, "impossible, sir,--with such a leg
inside 'em."

"Tight, sir?" exclaimed Peterby, from where he knelt upon the floor,
having just finished looping and buttoning the garments in question,
"indeed, sir, since you mention it, I almost fear they are a trifle
too--roomy. Can you raise your bent knee, sir?"

"Only with an effort, John."

"That settles it, Barry," said Peterby with a grim nod, "you must
take them in at least a quarter of an inch."

"Take 'em in?" exclaimed Barnabas, aghast, "no, I'll be shot if you
do,--not a fraction! I can scarcely manage 'em as it is." Peterby
shook his head in grave doubt, but at this juncture they were
interrupted by a discreet knock, and the door opening, a
Gentleman-in-Powder appeared. He was a languid gentleman, an
extremely superior gentleman, but his character lay chiefly in his
nose, which was remarkably short and remarkably supercilious of tip,
and his legs which were large and nobly shaped; they were, in a sense,
eloquent legs, being given to divers tremors and quiverings when
their possessor labored under any strong feeling or excitement; but,
above all, they were haughty legs, contemptuous of this paltry world
and all that therein is, yea, even of themselves, for their very
calves seemed striving to turn their backs upon each other.

"Are you in, sir?" he inquired in an utterly impersonal tone.

"In?" repeated Barnabas, with a quick downward glance at his tight
nether garments, "in?--in what?--in where?"

"Are you at 'ome, sir?"

"At home? Of course,--can't you see that?"

"Yes, sir," returned the Gentleman-in-Powder, his legs growing a
little agitated.

"Then why do you ask?"

"There is a--person below, sir."

"A person?"

"Yes, sir,--very much so! Got 'is foot in the door--wouldn't take it
out--had to let 'em in--waiting in the 'all, sir."

"What's he like, who is he?"

"Whiskers, sir,--name of Snivels,--no card!" Here might have been
observed the same agitation of the plump legs.

"Ask him to wait."

"Beg pardon, sir--did you say--to wait?" (Agitation growing.)

"Yes. Say I'll be down at once." (Agitation extreme.)

"Meaning as you will--see 'im, sir?" (Agitation indescribable.)

"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes, of course."

The Gentleman-in-Powder bowed; his eye was calm, his brow unruffled,
but his legs!!! And his nose was more supercilious than ever as he
closed the door upon it.

Mr. Smivvle, meanwhile, was standing downstairs before a mirror,
apparently lost in contemplation of his whiskers, and indeed they
seemed to afford him a vast degree of pleasure, for he stroked them
with caressing fingers, and smiled upon them quite benevolently.

"Six pair of silver candlesticks!" he murmured. "Persian rugs!
Bric-a-brac, rare--costly pictures! He's a Nabob, by heaven,--yes he
is,--a mysterious young Nabob, wallowing in wealth! Five shillings?
--preposterous! we'll make it--ten,--and--yes, shall we say another
five for the pampered menial? By all means let us make it another
five shillings for the cursed flunkey,--here he comes!"

And indeed, at that moment the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder might
have been descried descending the stair rather more pompously than
usual. As soon as they had become stationary, Mr. Smivvle directed a
glance at the nearest, and addressed it.

"James!" said he.

The Gentleman-in-Powder became lost in dreamy abstraction, with the
exception of his legs which worked slightly. Hereupon Mr. Smivvle
reached out and poked him gently with the head of his tasselled cane.

"Awake, James?" said he.

"Name of Harthur--_if_ you please, sir!" retorted the
Gentleman-in-Powder, brushing away the touch of the cane, and eyeing
the place with much concern.

"If, James," continued Mr. Smivvle, belligerent of whisker,
"if you would continue to ornament this lordly mansion, James, be
more respectful, hereafter, to your master's old and tried friends,"
saying which Mr. Smivvle gave a twirl to each whisker, and turned to
inspect a cabinet of old china.

"Sevres, by George!" he murmured, "we'll make it a pound!" He was
still lost in contemplation of the luxurious appointments that
everywhere met his view, and was seriously considering the
advisability of "making it thirty shillings," when the appearance of
Barnabas cut him short, and he at once became all smiles, flourishes
and whiskers.

"Ah, Beverley, my boy!" he cried heartily, "pray forgive this
horribly unseasonable visit, but--under the circumstances--I felt it
my duty to--ah--to drop in on you, my dear fellow."

"What circumstances?" demanded Barnabas, a little stiffly, perhaps.

"Circumstances affecting our friend Barrymaine, sir."

"Ah?" said Barnabas, his tone changing, "what of him? though you
forget, Mr. Barrymaine and I are still strangers."

"By heaven, you are right, sir, though, egad! I'm only a little
previous,--eh, my dear fellow?" and, smiling engagingly, Mr. Smivvle
followed Barnabas into a side room, and shutting the door with
elaborate care, immediately shook his whiskers and heaved a profound
sigh. "My friend Barrymaine is low, sir,--devilish low," he
proceeded to explain, "indeed I'm quite distressed for the poor
fellow, 'pon my soul and honor I am,--for he is--in a manner of
speaking--in eclipse as it were, sir!"

"I fear I don't understand," said Barnabas.

"Why, then--in plain words, my dear Beverley,--he's suffering from
an acute attack of the Jews, dammem!--a positive seizure, sir!"

"Do you mean he has been taken--for debt?"

"Precisely, my dear fellow. An old affair--ages ago--a stab in the
dark! Nothing very much, in fact a mere bagatelle, only, as luck
will have it, I am damnably short myself just now."

"How much is it?"

"Altogether exactly twenty-five pound ten. An absurd sum, but all my
odd cash is on the race. So I ventured here on my young friend's
behalf to ask for a trifling loan,--a pound--or say thirty shillings
would be something."

Barnabas crossed to a cabinet, unlocked a drawer, and taking thence
a smallish bag that jingled, began to count out a certain sum upon
the table.

"You said twenty-five pounds ten, I think?" said Barnabas, and
pushed that amount across the table. Mr. Smivvle stared from the
money to Barnabas and back again, and felt for his whisker with
fumbling fingers.

"Sir," he said, "you can't--you don't mean to--to--"

"Yes," said Barnabas, turning to re-lock the drawer. Mr. Smivvle's
hand dropped from his whiskers, indeed, for the moment he almost
seemed to have forgotten their existence.

"Sir," he stammered, "I cannot allow--no indeed, sir! Mr. Beverley,
you overwhelm me--"

"Debts are necessary evils," said Barnabas, "and must be paid."
Mr. Smivvle stared at Barnabas, his brow furrowed by perplexity,
--stared like one who is suddenly at a loss; and indeed his usual
knowing air was quite gone. Then, dropping his gaze to the money on
the table, he swept it into his pocket, almost furtively, and took
up his hat and cane, and, it is worthy of note, that he did it all
without a flourish.

"Mr. Beverley," said he, "in the name of my friend Barrymaine, I
thank you, and--I--I thank you!" So he turned and went out of the
room, and, as he went, he even forgot to swagger.

Then Barnabas crossed to a mirror, and, once more, fell to studying
his reflection with critical eyes, in the midst of which examination
he looked up to find Peterby beside him.

"Are you quite satisfied, sir?"

"They are wonderful, John."

"The coat," said Peterby, "y-e-s, the coat will pass well enough,
but I have grave doubts as regard the pantaloons."

"I refuse to have 'em touched, John. And Natty Bell was quite right."

"Sir?" said Peterby.

"You don't know Natty Bell as yet, John, but you may; he is a very
remarkable man! He told me, I remember, that in Town, a man had his
clothes put on for him, and--remembered them,--and so he does,--the
difficulty will be ever to forget 'em, they"--here Barnabas stole a
glance at his legs--"they positively obtrude themselves, John! Yes,
clothes are wonderful things, but I fear they will take a great deal
of living up to!"

Here Barnabas drew a long sigh, in the midst of which he was
interrupted by the calves of the Gentleman-in-Powder, which
presented themselves at the doorway with the announcement:

"Viscount Deafenem, sir!"

Barnabas started and hurried forward, very conscious, very nervous,
and for once uncertain of himself by reason of his new and
unaccustomed splendor. But the look in the Viscount's boyish eyes,
his smiling nod of frank approval, and the warm clasp of his hand,
were vastly reassuring.

"Why, Bev, that coat's a marvel!" he exclaimed impulsively,
"it is, I swear it is; turn round--so! Gad, what a fit!"

"I hoped you 'd approve of it, Dick," said Barnabas, a little flushed,
"you see, I know very little about such things, and--"

"Approve of it! My dear fellow! And the cut!"

"Now--as for these--er--pantaloons, Dick--?"

"Dashing, my dear fellow,--devilish dashing!"

"But rather too--too tight, don't you think?"

"Can't be, Bev, tighter the better,--have 'em made too tight to get
into, and you're right; look at mine, if I bend, I split,--deuced
uncomfortable but all the mode, and a man must wear something! My
fellow has the deuce of a time getting me into 'em, confound 'em. Oh,
for ease, give me boots and buckskins!" Hereupon the Viscount having
walked round Barnabas three times, and viewed him critically from
every angle, nodded with an air of finality. "Yes, they do you
infinite credit, my dear fellow,--like everything else;" and he cast
a comprehensive glance round the luxurious apartment.

"The credit of it all rests entirely with Peterby," said Barnabas.
"John--where are you?" But Peterby had disappeared.

"You're the most incomprehensible fellow, Bev," said the Viscount,
seating himself on the edge of the table and swinging his leg.
"You have been a constant surprise to me ever since you found
me--er--let us say--ruminating in the bilboes, and now"--here he
shook his head gravely--"and now it seems you are to become a source
of infernal worry and anxiety as well."

"I hope not, Dick."

"You are, though," repeated the Viscount, looking graver than ever.

"Why?"

"Because--well, because you are evidently bent upon dying young."

"How so, Dick?"

"Well, if you ride in the race and don't break your neck, Carnaby
will want a word with you; and if he doesn't shoot you, why then
Chichester certainly will--next time, damn him!"

"Next time?"

"Oh, I know all about your little affair with him--across the table.
Gad, Beverley, what a perfectly reckless fellow you are!"

"But--how do you know of this?"

"From Clemency."

"So you've seen her again, Dick?"

"Yes, of course; that is, I took 'Moonraker' for a gallop yesterday,
and--happened to be that way."

"Ah!" said Barnabas.

"And she told me--everything," said the Viscount, beginning to
stride up and down the room, with his usual placidity quite gone,
"I mean about--about the button you found, it was that devil
Chichester's it seems, and--and--Beverley, give me your hand! She
told me how you confronted the fellow. Ha! I'll swear you had him
shaking in his villain's shoes, duellist as he is."

"But," said Barnabas, as the Viscount caught his hand, "it was not
altogether on Clemency's account, Dick."

"No matter, you frightened the fellow off. Oh, I know--she told me;
I made her! She had to fight with the beast, that's how he lost his
button. I tell you, if ever I get the chance at him, he or I shall
get his quietus. By God, Bev, I'm half-minded to send the brute a
challenge, as it is."

"Because of Clemency, Dick?"

"Well--and why not?"

"The Earl of Bamborough's son fight a duel over the chambermaid of a
hedge tavern!"

The Viscount's handsome face grew suddenly red, and as suddenly pale
again, and his eyes glowed as he fronted Barnabas across the hearth.

"Mr. Beverley," said he very quietly, "how am I to take that?"

"In friendship, Dick, for the truth of it is that--though she is as
brave, as pure, as beautiful as any lady in the land, she is a
chambermaid none the less."

The Viscount turned, and striding to the window stood there, looking
out with bent head.

"Have I offended you?" inquired Barnabas.

"You go--too far, Beverley."

"I would go farther yet for my friend, Viscount, or for our Lady
Cleone."

Now when Barnabas said this, the Viscount's head drooped lower yet,
and he stood silent. Then, all at once, he turned, and coming to the
hearth, the two stood looking at each other.

"Yes, I believe you would, Beverley. But you have a way of jumping
to conclusions that is--devilish disconcerting. As for Chichester,
the world would be well rid of him. And, talking of him, I met
another rascal as I came--I mean that fellow Smivvle; had he been
here?"

"Yes."

"Begging, I suppose?"

"He borrowed some money for his friend Barrymaine."

The Viscount flushed hotly, and looked at Barnabas with a sudden
frown.

"Perhaps you are unaware, that is a name I never allow spoken in my
presence, Mr. Beverley."

"Indeed, Viscount, and pray, why not?"

"For one thing, because he is--what he is--"

"Lady Cleone's brother."

"Half-brother, sir, and none the less a--knave."

"How--?"

"I mean that he is a card-sharper, a common cheat."

"Her brother--?"

"Half-brother!"

"A cheat! Are you sure?"

"Certain! I had the misfortune to make the discovery. And it killed
him in London, all the clubs shut their doors upon him of course, he
was cut in the streets,--it is damning to be seen in his company or
even to mention his name--now."

"And you--you exposed him?"

"I said I made the discovery; but I kept it to myself. The stakes
were unusually high that night, and we played late. I went home with
him, but Chichester was there, waiting for him. So I took him aside,
and, in as friendly a spirit as I could, told him of my discovery.
He broke down, and, never attempting a denial, offered restitution
and promised amendment. I gave my word to keep silent and, on one
pretext or another, the loser's money was returned. But next week,
the whole town hummed with the news. One night--it was at
White's--he confronted me, and--he gave me--the lie!" The Viscount's
fists were tight clenched, and he stared down blindly at the floor.
"And, sir, though you'll scarcely credit it of course, I--there,
before them all--I took it."

"Of course," said Barnabas, "for Her sake."

"Beverley!" exclaimed the Viscount, looking up with a sudden light
in his eyes. "Oh, Bev!" and their hands met and gripped.

"You couldn't do anything else, Dick."

"No, Bev, no, but I'm glad you understand. Later it got about that
I--that I was--afraid of the fellow--he's a dead shot, they say,
young as he is--and--well, it--it wasn't pleasant, Bev. Indeed it
got worse until I called out one of Chichester's friends, and winged
him--a fellow named Dalton."

"I think I've seen him," said Barnabas, nodding.

"Anyhow, Barrymaine was utterly discredited and done for--he's an
outcast, and to be seen with him, or his friends, is to be damned
also."

"And yet," said Barnabas, sighing and shaking his head, "I must call
upon him to-morrow."

"Call upon him! Man--are you mad?"

"No; but he is her brother, and--"

"And, as I tell you, he is banned by society as a cheat!"

"And is that so great a sin, Dick?"

"Are there any--worse?"

"Oh, yes; one might kill a man in a duel, or dishonor a trusting
woman, or blast a man's character; indeed it seems to me that there
are many greater sins!"

The Viscount dropped back in his chair, and stared at Barnabas with
horrified eyes.

"My--dear--Beverley," said he at last, "are you--serious?"

"My dear Viscount--of course I am."

"Then let me warn you, such views will never do here: any one
holding such views will never succeed in London."

"Yet I mean to try," said Barnabas, squaring his jaw.

"But why," said the Viscount, impatiently, "why trouble yourself
about such a fellow?"

"Because She loves him, and because She asked me to help him."

"She asked--you to?"

"Yes."

"And--do you think you can?"

"I shall try."

"How?"

"First, by freeing him from debt."

"Do you know him--have you ever met him?"

"No, Dick, but I love his sister."

"And because of this, you'd shoulder his debts? Ah, but you can't,
and if you ask me why, I tell you, because Jasper Gaunt has got him,
and means to keep him. To my knowledge Barrymaine has twice had
the money to liquidate his debt--but Gaunt has put him off, on one
pretext or another, until the money has all slipped away. I tell you,
Bev, Jasper Gaunt has got him in his clutches--as he's got Sling,
and poor George Danby, and--God knows how many more--as he'd get me
if he could, damn him! Yes, Gaunt has got his claws into him, and
he'll never let him go again--never."

"Then," said Barnabas, "I must see Jasper Gaunt as soon as may be."

"Oh, by all means," nodded the Viscount, "if you have a taste for
snakes, and spiders, and vermin of that sort, Slingsby will show you
where to find him--Slingsby knows his den well enough, poor old Sling!
But look to yourself, for spiders sting and snakes bite, and Jasper
Gaunt does both."

The knuckles of the Gentleman-in-Powder here made themselves heard,
and thereafter the door opened to admit his calves, which were
immediately eclipsed by the Marquis, who appeared to be in a state
of unwonted hurry.

"What, have I beat Slingsby, then?" he inquired, glancing round the
room, "he was close behind me in Piccadilly--must have had a
spill--that's the worst of those high curricles. As a matter of fact,"
he proceeded to explain, "I rushed round here--that is we both did,
but I've got here first, to tell you that--Oh, dooce take me!" and
out came the Marquis's eyeglass. "Positively you must excuse me, my
dear Beverley. Thought I knew 'em all, but no--damme if I ever saw
the fellow to yours! Permit me!" Saying which the Marquis gently led
Barnabas to the window, and began to study his cravat with the most
profound interest.

"By George, Devenham," he exclaimed suddenly,--"it's new!"

"Gad!" said the Viscount, "now you come to mention it,--so it is!"

"Positively--new!" repeated the Marquis in an awestruck voice,
staring at the Viscount wide-eyed. "D'you grasp the importance of
this, Devenham?--d'you see the possibilities, Dick? It will create a
sensation,--it will set all the clubs by the ears, by George! We
shall have the Prince galloping up from Brighton. By heaven, it's
stupendous! Permit me, my dear Beverley. See--here we have three
folds and a tuck, then--oh, Jupiter, it's a positive work of art,
--how the deuce d'you tie it? Never saw anything approaching this,
and I've tried 'em all,--the Mail-coach, the Trone d'Amour, the
Osbaldistone, the Napoleon, the Irish tie, the Mathematical tie, and
the Oriental,--no, 'pon my honor it's unique, it's--it's--" the
Marquis sighed, shook his head, and words failing him, took out his
enamelled snuff-box. "Sir," said he, "I have the very highest regard
for a man of refined taste, and if there is one thing in which that
manifests itself more than another, it is the cravat. Sir, I make
you free of my box, pray honor me." And the Marquis flicked open his
snuff-box and extended it towards Barnabas with a bow.

"My Lord," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "I appreciate the honor
you do me, but pray excuse me,--I never take it."

"No?" said the Marquis with raised brows, "you astonish me; but
then--between ourselves--neither do I. Can't bear the infernal stuff.
Makes me sneeze most damnably. And then, it has such a cursed way of
blowing about! Still, one must conform to fashion, and--"

"Captain Slingsby!"

The Gentleman-in-Powder had scarcely articulated the words, when the
Captain had gripped Barnabas by the hand.

"Congratulate you, Beverley, heartily."

"Thank you, but why?" inquired Barnabas.

"Eh--what? Hasn't Jerningham told you? B'gad, is it possible you
don't know--"

"Why, dooce take me, Sling, if I didn't forget!" said the Marquis,
clapping hand to thigh, "but his cravat put everything else out of
my nob, and small wonder either! You tell him."

"No," answered the Captain. "I upset a cursed apple-stall on my way
here--you got in first--tell him yourself."

"Why, then, Beverley," said the Marquis, extending his hand, in his
turn, as he spoke, "we have pleasure, Sling and I, to tell you that
you are entered for the race on the fifteenth."

"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, flushing. "You mean I'm to ride then?"

"Yes," nodded the Captain, "but b'gad! we mean more than that, we
mean that you are one of us, that Devenham's friend must be ours
because he's game--"

"And can ride," said the Viscount.

"And is a man of taste," added the Marquis.

Thus it was as one in a dream that Barnabas beheld the legs of the
Gentleman-in-Powder, and heard the words:

"Dinner is served, gentlemen!"

But scarcely had they taken their places at the table when the
Marquis rose, his brimming glass in his hand.

"Mr. Beverley," said he, bowing, "when Devenham, Slingsby, and I
meet at table, it is our invariable custom to drink to one whom we
all--hum--"

"Admire!" said the Viscount, rising.

"Adore!" said the Captain, rising also.

"Therefore, gentlemen," pursued the Marquis, "with our host's
permission, we will--"

"Stay a moment, Jerningham," said the Viscount,--"it is only right
to tell you that my friend Beverley is one with us in this,--he also
is a suitor for the hand of Lady Cleone."

"Is he, b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain. "Dooce take me!" said the
Marquis, "might have known it though. Ah, well! one more or less
makes small difference among so many."

So Barnabas rose, and lifting his glass with the others, drank to--

"Our Lady Cleone--God bless her!"




CHAPTER XXIX


WHICH DESCRIBES SOMETHING OF THE MISFORTUNES OF RONALD BARRYMAINE

Holborn was in full song,--a rumbling, roaring melody, a clattering,
rushing, blaring symphony made up of the grind of wheels upon
resounding cobble-stones, the thudding beat of horse-hoofs, the
tread of countless feet, the shrill note of voices; it was all there,
the bass and the treble blending together, harsh, discordant, yet
the real symphony of life.

And, amidst it all, of it all, came Barnabas, eager-eyed, forgetful
of his companion, lost to all but the stir and bustle, the rush and
roar of the wonderful city about him. The which Mr. Smivvle duly
remarked from under the curly-brimmed hat, but was uncommonly silent.
Indeed, though his hat was at its usual rakish angle, though he
swung his cane and strode with all his ordinary devil-may-care
swagger, though his whiskers were as self-assertive as ever, yet
Mr. Smivvle himself was unusually pensive, and in his bold black
eyes was a look very like anxiety. But in a while, as they turned
out of the rush of Holborn Hill, he sighed, threw back his shoulders,
and spoke.

"Nearly there now, my dear fellow, this is the Garden."

"Garden?" said Barnabas, glancing about. "Where?"

"Here, sir; we're in it,--Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot,
you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries
once, I believe,--flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a
few of 'em still left to--ah--blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's
another--a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a
blush-rose, but damnably run to seed, like the rest of us.
And--ah--talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that
we may find him a trifle--queer--a leetle touched perhaps." And
Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible glass, and tossed down its imaginary
contents with an expression of much beatitude.

"Is he given to--that sort of thing?"

"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "can you blame one who seeks forgetfulness
in the flowing bowl--and my friend Barry has very much to
forget--can you blame him?"

"No, poor fellow!"

"Sir, allow me to tell you my friend Barry needs no man's pity,
though I confess I could wish Chichester was not quite so
generous--in one respect."

"How?"

"In--ah--in keeping the flowing bowl continually brimming, my dear
fellow."

"Is Mr. Chichester a friend of his?"

"The only one, with the exception of yours obediently, who has not
deserted him in his adversity."

"Why?"

"Because, well,--between you and me, my dear fellow, I believe his
regard for Barry's half-sister, the Lady Cleone, is largely
accountable in Chichester's case; as for myself, because, as I think
I mentioned, the hand of a Smivvle once given, sir, is never
withdrawn, either on account of plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews,
--dammem! This way, my dear fellow!" and turning into Cross Street,
up towards Leather Lane, Mr. Smivvle halted at a certain dingy door,
opened it, and showed Barnabas into a dingier hall, and so, leading
the way up the dingiest stairs in the world, eventually ushered him
into a fair-sized, though dingy, room; and being entered,
immediately stood upon tip-toe and laid a finger on his lips.

"Hush! the poor fellow's asleep, but you'll excuse him, I know."

Barnabas nodded, and, softly approaching the couch, looked down upon
the sleeper, and, with the look, felt his heart leap.

A young face he saw, delicately featured, a handsome face with
disdainful lips that yet drooped in pitiful weariness, a face which,
for all its youth, was marred by the indelible traces of fierce,
ungoverned passions. And gazing down upon these features, so
dissimilar in expression, yet so strangely like in their beauty and
lofty pride, Barnabas felt his heart leap,--because of the long
lashes that curled so black against the waxen pallor of the cheek;
for in that moment he almost seemed to be back in the green, morning
freshness of Annersley Wood, and upon his lips there breathed a
name--"Cleone."

But all at once the sleeper stirred, frowned, and started up with a
bitter imprecation upon his lips that ended in a vacant stare.

"Why, Barry," cried Mr. Smivvle leaning over him, "my dear boy, did
we disturb you?"

"Ah, Dig--is that you? Fell asleep--brandy, perhaps, and--ha,--your
pardon, sir!" and Ronald Barrymaine rose, somewhat unsteadily, and,
folding his threadbare dressing-gown about him, bowed, and so stood
facing Barnabas, a little drunk and very stately.

"This is my friend Beverley, of whom I told you," Mr. Smivvle
hastened to explain. "Mr. Barnabas Beverley,--Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."

"You are--welcome, sir," said Mr. Barrymaine, speaking with
elaborate care, as if to make quite sure of his utterance. "Pray be
seated, Mr. Bev'ley. We--we are a little crowded I f-fear. Move
those boots off the chair, Dig. Indeed my apartment might be a
little more commodious, but it's all I have at p-present, and by God!"
he cried, suddenly fierce, "I shouldn't have even this but for Dig
here! Dig's the only f-friend I have in the world--except Chichester.
Push the brandy over, Dig. Of course there's--Cleone, but she's only
a sister, after all. Don't know what I should do if it wasn't for
Dig--d-do I, Dig? And Chichester of course. Give Mr. Bev'ley a chair.
Dig. I'll get him--glass!" Hereupon Mr. Smivvle hurried forward with
a chair which, like all the rest of the furniture, had long ago seen
its best days, during which manoeuvre he contrived to whisper
hurriedly:

"Poor Barry's decidedly 'touched' to-day, a little more so than usual,
but you'll excuse him I know, my dear fellow. Hush!" for Barrymaine,
who had crossed to the other end of the room, now turned and came
towards them, swaying a little, and with a glass in his hand.

"It's rickety, sir, you'll notice," said he, nodding. "I--I mean
that chair--dev'lish rickety, like everything else 'bout
here--especially myself, eh, Dig? B-but don't be alarmed, it--will
bear you, sir. D-devil of a place to ask--gentleman to sit down in,
--but the Spanswick hasn't been round to clean the place this
week--damn her! S-scarcely blame her, though--never gets
paid--except when Dig remembers it. Don't know what I should do
without D-Dig,--raised twenty pounds yesterday, damme if I know where!
said it was watch--but watch went weeks ago. Couldn't ever pay the
Spanswick. That's the accursed part of it--pay, pay! debt on debt,
and--n-nothing to pay with. All swallowed up by that merciless
bloodsucker--that--"

"Now, Barry!" Mr. Smivvle expostulated, "my dear boy--"

"He's a cursed v-vampire, I tell you!" retorted Barrymaine, his pale
cheeks suddenly flushed, and his dark eyes flashing in swift passion,
--"he's a snake."

"Now, my dear fellow, calm yourself."

"Calm myself. How can I, when everything I have is his, when
everything I g-get belongs to him before--curse him--even before I
get it! I tell you, Dig, he's--he's draining my life away, drop by
drop! He's g-got me down with his foot on my neck--crushing me into
the mud. I say he's stamping me down into hell--damn him!"

"Restrain yourself, Barry, my dear boy, remember Mr. Beverley is our
guest--"

"Restrain myself--yes, Dig, yes. B-beg Mr. Beverley's pardon for me,
Dig. Not myself to-day,--but must restrain myself--certainly. Give
me some more brandy--ha! and pass bottle to Mr. Bev'ley, Dig. No,
sir? Ah well, help yourself, Dig. Must forgive exhibition of feeling,
sir, but I always do get carried away when I remember that inhuman
monster--God's curse on him!"

"Sir," said Barnabas, "whom do you mean?"

"Mean? ha! ha! oh damme, hark to that, Dig! Dev'lish witty I call
that--oh c-cursed rich! Whom do I mean? Why," cried Barrymaine,
starting up from the couch, "whom should I mean but Gaunt! Gaunt!
Gaunt!" and he shook his clenched fists passionately in the air. Then,
as suddenly he turned upon Barnabas with a wild, despairing gesture,
and stretching out his arms, pointed to each wrist in turn.
"D'ye see 'em?" he cried, "d'ye hear 'em; jangle? No? Ah, but they
_are_ there! riveted on, never to come off, eating deeper into my
flesh every day! I'm shackled, I tell you,--fettered hand and foot.
Oh! egad, I'm an object lesson!--point a moral and adorn a tale,
--beware of p-prodigality and m-money lenders. Shackled--shackled
hand and foot, and must drag my chain until I f-fall into a debtor's
grave."

"No!" cried Barnabas, so suddenly that Ronald Barrymaine started,
and thereafter grew very high and haughty.

"Sir," said he with upflung head, "I don't permit my word to be--to
be--contra--dicted,--never did and never will. Though you see before
you a m-miserable wretch, yet that wretch is still a gentleman at
heart, and that wretch tells you again he's shackled, sir, hand and
foot--yes, damme, and so I am!"

"Well then," said Barnabas, "why not free yourself?"

Ronald Barrymaine sank down upon the couch, looked at Barnabas,
looked at Smivvle, drained his glass and shook his head.

"My dear Dig," said he, "your friend's either mad or drunk--mos'
probably drunk. Yes, that's it,--or else he's smoking me, and I
won't be smoked, no man shall laugh at me now that I'm down. Show
him the door, Dig. I--I won't have my private affairs discussed by
s-strangers, no, by heaven!"

"Now, Barry," exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, "do be calm, Mr. Beverley only
wants to help you--er--that is, in a friendly way, of course, and I
'm sure--"

"Damn his help! I'd rather die in the g-gutter than ask help or
charity of any one."

"Yes, yes--of course, my dear fellow! But you're so touchy, Barry,
so infernally proud, my dear boy. Mr. Beverley merely wishes to--"

"Be honored with your friendship," said Barnabas with his ingenuous
smile.

"Why then, Dig," says his youthful Mightiness, beginning to relent,
"pray beg Mr. Bev'ley's pardon for me again, and 'sure him the honor
is mine."

"And I would have you trust me also," Barnabas pursued.

"Trust you?" repeated Barrymaine with a sudden laugh. "Gad, yes,
willingly! Only it happens I've n-noth-ing left to trust you with,
--no, not enough to pay the Spanswick."

"And yet, if you will, you may be free," said Barnabas the persistent.

"Free! He's at it again, Dig."

"Believe me it is my earnest desire to help you,--to--"

"Help me, sir! a stranger! by heaven,--no! A stranger, damme!"

"Let us say your friend."

"I tell you, sir," said Barrymaine, starting up unsteadily,
"I seek no man's aid--s-scorn it! I'm not one to weep out my
misfortunes to strangers. Damme, I'm man enough to manage my own
affairs, what's left of 'em. I want nobody's accursed pity
either--pah!" and he made a gesture of repudiation so fierce that he
staggered and recovered himself only by clutching at Mr. Smivvle's
ready arm. "The Past, sir," said he, supporting himself by that
trusty arm, "the Past is done with, and the F-Future I'll face alone,
as I have done all along, eh, Dig?"

"But surely--"

"Ay, surely, sir, I'm no object of charity whining for alms, no, by
Gad! I--I'm--Dig, push the brandy!"

"If you would but listen--" Barnabas began again.

"Not--not a word. Why should I? Past's dead, and damn the Future. Dig,
pass the brandy."

"And I tell you," said Barnabas, "that in the future are hope and
the chance of a new life, once you are free of Gaunt."

"Free of Gaunt! Hark to that, Dig. Must be dev'lish drunk to talk
such cursed f-folly! Why, I tell you again," he cried in rising
passion, "that I couldn't get free of Gaunt's talons even if I had
the money, and mine's all gone long ago, and half Cleone's beside,
--her Guardian's tied up the rest. She can't touch another penny
without his consent, damn him!--so I'm done. The future? In the
future is a debtor's prison that opens for me whenever Jasper Gaunt
says the word. Hope? There can be no hope for me till Jasper Gaunt's
dead and shrieking in hell-fire."

"But your debts shall be paid,--if you will."

"Paid? Who--who's to pay 'em?"

"I will."

"You!--you?"

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "on a condition."

Ronald Barrymaine sank back upon the couch, staring at Barnabas with
eyes wide and with parted lips; then, leaned suddenly forward,
sobered by surprise.

"Ah-h!" said he slowly. "I think I begin to understand. You have
seen my--my sister."

"Yes."

"Do you know--how much I owe?"

"No, but I'll pay it,--on a condition."

"A condition?" For a long moment the passionate dark eyes met and
questioned the steady gray; then Barrymaine's long lashes fluttered
and fell.

"Of course it would be a loan. I--I'd pay you back," he muttered.

"At your own convenience."

"And you would advance the money at once?"

"On a condition!"

Once again their eyes met, and once again Barrymaine's dropped; his
fingers clenched and unclenched themselves, he stirred restlessly,
and, finally, spoke.

"And your condition. Is it--Cleone?"

"No!" said Barnabas vehemently.

"Then, what is it?"

"That from this hour you give up brandy and Mr. Chichester--both
evil things."

"Well, and what more,--what--for yourself? How can this benefit you?
Come, speak out,--what is your real motive?"

"The hope that you may, some day, be worthy of your sister's love."

"Worthy, sir!" exclaimed Barrymaine, flushing angrily. "Poverty is
no crime!"

"No; but there remain brandy and Mr. Chichester."

"Ha! would you insult m-my friend?"

"Impossible. You have no friend, unless it be Mr. Smivvle here."

"Now by heaven," began Barrymaine passionately, "I tell you--"

"And I tell you that these are my only conditions," said Barnabas.
"Accept them and you may begin a new life. It is in your power to
become the man you might be, to regain the place in men's esteem
that you have lost, for if you are but sufficiently determined,
nothing is impossible."

Now as he spoke, Barnabas beheld Barrymaine's drooping head uplifted,
his curving back grew straight, and a new light sprang into his eyes.

"A new life," he muttered, "to come back to it all, to outface them
all after their cursed sneers and slights! Are you sure you don't
promise too much,--are you sure it's not too late?"

"Sure and certain!" said Barnabas. "But remember the chance of
salvation rests only with and by yourself, after all," and he
pointed to the half-emptied bottle. "Do you agree to my conditions?"

"Yes, yes, by God I do!"

"Then, friend, give me your hand. To-day I go to see Jasper Gaunt."

So Ronald Barrymaine, standing square upon his feet, gave Barnabas
his hand. But even in that moment Barnabas was conscious that the
door had opened softly behind him, saw the light fade out of
Barrymaine's eyes, felt the hand grow soft and lax, and turning about,
beheld Mr. Chichester smiling at them from the threshold.




CHAPTER XXX


IN WHICH RONALD BARRYMAINE MAKES HIS CHOICE

There was a moment of strained silence, then, as Barnabas sank back
on the rickety chair, Mr. Chichester laughed softly, and stepped
into the room.

"Salvation, was it, and a new life?" he inquired, "are you the one
to be saved, Ronald, or Smivvle here, or both?"

Ronald Barrymaine was dumb, his eyes sought the floor, and his pale
cheek became, all at once, suffused with a burning, vivid scarlet.

"I couldn't help but overhear as I came upstairs," pursued
Mr. Chichester pleasantly, "and devilish dark stairs they are--"

"Though excellent for eavesdropping, it appears!" added Barnabas.

"What?" cried Barrymaine, starting up, "listening, were
you--s-spying on me--is that your game, Chichester?" But hereupon
Mr. Smivvle started forward.

"Now, my dear Barry," he remonstrated, "be calm--"

"Calm? I tell you nobody's going to spy on me,--no, by heaven!
neither you, nor Chichester, nor the d-devil himself--"

"Certainly not, my dear fellow," answered Mr. Smivvle, drawing
Barrymaine's clenched fist through his arm and holding it there,
"nobody wants to. And, as for you, Chichester--couldn't come at a
better time--let me introduce our friend Mr. Beverley--"

"Thank you, Smivvle, but we've met before," said Mr. Chichester dryly,
"last time he posed as Rustic Virtue in homespun, to-day it seems he
is the Good Samaritan in a flowered waistcoat, very anxiously bent
on saving some one or other--conditionally, of course!"

"And what the devil has it to do with you?" cried Barrymaine
passionately.

"Nothing, my dear boy, nothing in the world,--except that until
to-day you have been my friend, and have honored me with your
confidence."

"Yes, by heavens! So I have--utterly--utterly,--and what I haven't
told you--y-you've found out for yourself--though God knows how.
N-not that I've anything to f-fear,--not I!"

"Of course not," smiled Mr. Chichester, "I am--your friend, Ronald,
--and I think you will always remember that." Mr. Chichester's tone
was soothing, and the pat he bestowed upon Barrymaine's drooping
shoulder was gentle as a caress, yet Barrymaine flinched and drew
away, and the hand he stretched out towards the bottle was trembling
all at once.

"Yes," Mr. Chichester repeated more softly than before, "yes, I am
your friend, Ronald, you must always remember that, and indeed
I--fancy--you always will." So saying, Mr. Chichester patted the
drooping shoulder again, and turned to lay aside his hat and cane.
Barrymaine was silent, but into his eyes had crept a look--such a
look as Barnabas had never seen--such a look as Barnabas could never
afterwards forget; then Barrymaine stooped to reach for the bottle.

"Well," said he, without looking up again, "s-suppose you are my
friend,--what then?"

"Why, then, my dear fellow, hearing you are to be saved--on a
condition--I am, naturally enough, anxious to know what that
condition may be?"

"Sir," said Barnabas, "let me hasten to set your anxiety at rest. My
condition is merely that Mr. Barrymaine gives up two evil
things--namely, brandy and yourself."

And now there fell a silence so utter that Barnabas could distinctly
hear the tick of Natty Bell's great watch in his fob; a silence in
which Mr. Smivvle stared with wide-eyed dismay, while Barrymaine sat
motionless with his glass half-way to his lips. Then Mr. Chichester
laughed again, but the scar glowed upon his pallid cheek, and the
lurking demon peeped out of his narrowed eyes.

"And for this," said he, shaking his head in gentle disbelief,
"for this our young Good Samaritan is positively eager to pay twenty
thousand odd pounds--"

"As a loan," muttered Barrymaine, "it would be only a loan, and I--I
should be free of Jasper Gaunt f-for good and all, damn him!"

"Let us rather say you would try a change of masters--"

"Now--by God--Chichester--!"

"Ah!--ah, to be sure, Ronald, our young Good Samaritan having
purchased the brother, would naturally expect the sister--"

"Have a c-care, Chichester, I say!"

"The sister to be grateful, my dear boy. Pah! don't you see it,
Ronald? a sprat to catch a whale! The brother saved, the sister's
gratitude gained--Oh, most disinterested, young Good Samaritan!"

"Ha! by heaven, I never thought of that!" cried Barrymaine, turning
upon Barnabas, "is it Cleone--is it? is it?"

"No," said Barnabas, folding his arms--a little ostentatiously,
"I seek only to be your friend in this."

"Friend!" exclaimed Mr. Chichester, laughing again, "friend, Ronald?
Nay, let us rather say your guardian angel in cords and Hessians."

"Since you condescend to mention my boots, sir," said Barnabas
growing polite, "may I humbly beg you to notice that, in spite of
their polish and tassels, they are as strong, as serviceable for
kicking purposes as those I wore when we last--sat at table together."

Mr. Chichester's iron self-control wavered for a moment, his brows
twitched together, and he turned upon Barnabas with threatening
gesture but, reading the purpose in the calm eye and smiling lip of
Barnabas, he restrained himself; yet seeming aware of the glowing
mark upon his cheek, he turned suddenly and, coming to the dingy
casement, stood with his back to the room, staring down into the
dingy street. Then Barnabas leaned forward and laid his hand upon
Barrymaine's, and it so happened it was the hand that yet held the
slopping wineglass.

"Think--think!" said Barnabas earnestly, "once you are free of Gaunt,
life will begin afresh for you, you can hold up your head again--"

"Though never in London, Ronald, I fear," added Mr. Chichester over
his shoulder.

"Once free of Gaunt, you may attain to higher things than you ever
did," said Barnabas.

"Unless the dead past should happen to come to life again, and find
a voice some day," added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder.

"No, no!" said Barnabas, feeling the quiver of the fingers within
his own, "I tell you it would mean a new beginning--a new life--a
new ending for you--"

"And for Cleone!" added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder, "our young,
disinterested Good Samaritan knows she is too proud to permit a
stranger to shoulder her brother's responsibilities--"

"Proud, eh?" cried Barrymaine, leaping up in sudden boyish passion,
"well, am I not proud? Did you ever know me anything else--did you?"

"Never, my dear Ronald," cried Mr. Chichester, turning at last.
"You are unfortunate, but you have always met disaster--so far,
with the fortitude of a gentleman, scorning your detractors
and--abominating charity."

"C-charity! damn you, Chichester, d' ye think I-I'd accept any man's
c-charity? D' you think I'd ever drag Cleone to that depth--do you?"

"Never, Barrymaine, never, I swear."

"Why then--leave me alone, I can m-manage my own affairs--"
"Perfectly, my dear fellow, I am sure of it."

"Then sir," said Barnabas, rising, "seeing it really is no concern
of yours, after all, suppose you cease to trouble yourself any
further in the matter, and allow Mr. Barrymaine to choose for
himself--"

"I--I have decided!" cried Barrymaine, "and I tell you--"

"Wait!" said Barnabas.

"Speak!" said Mr. Chichester.

"Wait!" repeated Barnabas, "Mr. Chichester is--going, I think. Let
us wait until we are alone." Then, bowing to Mr. Chichester,
Barnabas opened the door wide. "Sir," said he, "may I venture to
suggest that your presence is--not at all necessary?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Chichester, "you will certainly compel me to kill you,
some day."

"'Sufficient unto the day,' sir!" Barnabas retorted; "in the
meantime I shall most certainly give myself the pleasure of kicking
you downstairs unless you choose to walk--at once."

As he spoke, Barnabas took a stride towards Mr. Chichester's rigid
figure, but, in that moment, Barrymaine snatched up the bottle and
sprang between them.

"Ah!--would you?" he cried, "who are you to order my f-friends
about--and in m-my own place too! Ha! did you think you could buy me,
d-did you? Did you think I--I'd sacrifice my sister--did you? Ha!
drunk, am I? Well, I'm sober enough to--to 'venge my honor and hers;
by God I'll kill you! Ah--let go, Dig! Let go, I say! Didn't you hear?
Tempt me with his cursed money, will he! Oh, let go my arm! Damn him,
I say--I'll kill him!"

But, as he struck, Mr. Smivvle caught his wrist, the bottle crashed
splintering to the floor, and they were locked in a fierce grapple.

"Beverley--my dear fellow--go!" panted Mr. Smivvle, "must
forgive--poor Barry--not himself. Go--go,--I can--manage him. Now
Barry, do be calm! Go, my dear fellow--leave him to me--go!" So,
perforce, Barnabas turned away and went down the dingy stairs, and
in his ears was the echo of the boy's drunken ravings and Mr.
Chichester's soft laughter.

And presently, being come into the dingy street, Barnabas paused to
look up at the dingy house, and looking, sighed.

"She said it would be 'difficult, and dangerous, perhaps,'" said he
to himself, "and indeed I think she was right."

Then he turned and went upon his way, heavy-footed and chin on breast.
On he went, plunged in gloomy abstraction, turning corners at random,
lost to all but the problem he had set himself, which was this:

How he might save Ronald Barrymaine in spite of Ronald Barrymaine.




CHAPTER XXXI


WHICH DESCRIBES SOME OF THE EVILS OF VINDICTIVENESS

Barnabas stumbled suddenly, dropped his cane, saw his hat spin
through the air and roll on before him; staggered sideways, was
brought up by a wall, and turning, found three men about him,
--evil-faced men whose every move and look held a menace. A darting
hand snatched at his fob-seals, but Barnabas smote, swift and hard,
and the three were reduced, for the moment, to two. Thus with his
back to the wall stood Barnabas, fists clenched, grim of mouth, and
with eyes quick and bright; wherefore, beholding him in this posture,
his assailants hesitated. But the diamonds sparkled at them from his
cravat, the bunch of seals gleamed at them from his fob, and the
fallen man having risen, albeit unsteadily, they began to close in
upon him. Then, all at once, even as he poised himself to meet their
rush, a distant voice uttered a sharp, warning cry, whereat the three,
spattering curses, incontinent took to their heels, and were gone
with a thud of flying feet.

For a moment Barnabas stood dazed by the suddenness of it all, then,
stooping to recover hat and cane, glanced about, and saw that he was
in a dirty, narrow street, or rather alley. Now up this alley a man
was approaching, very deliberately, for as he came, he appeared to
be perusing a small book. He was a short, broad-shouldered man, a
mild-faced man of a sober habit of dress, with a broad-brimmed hat
upon his head--a hat higher in the crown than was the custom, and a
remarkably nobbly stick beneath his arm; otherwise, and in all
respects, he was a very ordinary-looking man indeed, and as he walked,
book in hand, might have been some small tradesman busily casting up
his profit and loss, albeit he had a bright and roving eye.

Being come up with Barnabas, he stopped, closed his book upon his
finger, touched the broad rim of his hat, and looked at Barnabas, or
to be exact, at the third left-hand button of his coat.

"Anything stole, sir?" he inquired hopefully.

"No," answered Barnabas, "no, I think not."

"Ah, then you won't be vantin' to mek a charge ag'in 'em, sir?"

"No,--besides, they've escaped."

"Escaped, Lord no, sir, they've only run avay, I can allus put my
'ooks on 'em,--I spotted 'em, d'ye see. And I know 'em, Lord love you!
--like a feyther! They vas Bunty Fagan, Dancin' James, and Vistlin'
Dick, two buzmen an' a prig."

"What do you mean?" inquired Barnabas, beginning to eye the man
askance for all his obtrusive mildness.

"I means two pickpockets and a thief, sir. It vas Vistlin' Dick as
you give such a 'leveller' to,--a rare pretty knock-down I vill say,
sir,--never saw a cleaner--Oh! they're a bad lot, they are,
'specially Vistlin' Dick, an' it's lucky for you as I 'appened to
come this vay."

"Why, do you mean to say," said Barnabas, staring at the mild-faced
man, "do you want me to believe that it was the sight of you that
sent them running?"

"Vell, there veren't nobody else to, as I could see, sir," said the
man, with a gentle smile and shake of the head. "Volks ain't partial
to me in these yere parts, and as to them three, they're a bad lot,
they are, but Vistlin' Dick's the vorst--mark my vords, 'e'll come to
be topped yet."

"What do you mean by 'topped'?"

"V'y, I means scragged, sir," answered the man, his roving eye
glancing continually up and down the alley,

"I means 'anged, sir,--Lord love you, it's in 'is face--never see a
more promising mug, consequent, I 've got Vistlin' Dick down in my
little book 'ere, along vith a lot of other promising vuns."

"But why in your book?"

"Veil, d' ye see, I keeps a record of all the likely coves, Capital
Coves as you might call 'em--" Here the mild man jerked his head
convulsively to one side, rolled up his eyes, and protruded his
tongue, all in hideous pantomime, and was immediately his placid
self again.

"Ah! you mean--hanged?" said Barnabas.

"As ever vas, sir, capital punishment. And I goes round reg'lar jest
to keep an eye on my capital coves. Lord! I vatches over 'em
all--like a feyther. Theer's some volks as collects books, an' some
volks as collects picters an' old coins, but I collects capital
coves,--names and faces. The faces I keeps 'ere," and he tapped his
placid forehead, "the names I keeps 'ere," and he tapped the little
book. "It's my trade d' ye see, and though there's better trades,
still there's trades as is vorse, an' that's summat, ain't it?"

"And what might your trade be?" inquired Barnabas, as they walked on
together along the narrow alley.

"Veil, sir, I'm vot they calls a bashaw of the pigs--but I'm more
than that."

"Pray," said Barnabas, "what do you mean?" For answer the man smiled,
and half drew from his pocket a short staff surmounted by a crown.

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "a Bow Street Runner?"

"And my name is Shrig, sir, Jasper Shrig. You'll have heard it afore,
o'course."

"No!" said Barnabas. Mr. Shrig seemed placidly surprised, and vented
a gentle sigh.

"It's pretty vell known, in London, sir, though it ain't a pretty
name, I'll allow. Ye-es, I've 'eard prettier, but then it's better
than a good many, and that's sum-mat, ain't it? And then, as I said
afore, it's pretty vell known."

"How so?"

"Vell, sir, there be some as 'as a leanin' to one branch o' the
profession, and some to another,--now mine's murders."

"Murders?" said Barnabas, staring.

"Vith a werry big M., sir. V'y, Lord love you, there's been more
murderers took and topped through me than any o' the other traps in
London, it's a nat'ral gift vith me. Ye see, I collects 'em--afore
the fact, as ye might say. I can smell 'em out, feel 'em out, taste
'em out, it's jest a nat'ral gift."

"But--how? What do you mean?"

"I means as I'll be valking along a street, say, looking at every
face as I pass. Vell, all at once I'll spot a cove or covess vith
vot I calls a capital mug, I'll follow that cove or covess, and by
'ook or by crook I'll find out that there cove or covess's name,
and--down it goes in my little book, d' ye see?" and he tapped the
little book.

"But surely," said Barnabas, "surely they don't all prove to be
murderers?"

"Vell no, sir--that's hardly to be expected,--ye see, some on 'em
wanishes away, an' some goes an' dies, but they mostly turns out
true capitals--if I only vaits for 'em long enough, and--up they goes."

"And are you always on the lookout for such faces?"

"Yes, sir,--v'en I ain't busy on some case. A man must 'ave some
little relaxation, and that's mine. Lord love you, sir, scarcely a
day goes by that I don't spot one or two. I calls 'em my children,
an' a werry large, an' a werry mixed lot they are too! Rich an' poor,
men an' women,--rolling in their coaches an' crawling along the
kennel. Aha! if you could look into my little reader an' see the
names o' some o' my most promisin' children they'd as-tonish you.
I've been to 'ave a look at a couple of 'em this mornin'. Aha! it
would a-maze you if you could look into my little reader."

"I should like to," said Barnabas, eyeing the small, shabby book
with a new interest. But Mr. Shrig only blinked his wide, innocent
eyes, and slipping the book into his pocket, led the way round a
sudden corner into another alley narrower than the last, and, if
possible, dirtier.

"Where are we going?" Barnabas demanded, for Mr. Shrig, though
always placid, had suddenly taken on an air that was almost alert,
his bright, roving eye wandered more than ever, and he appeared to
be hearkening to distant sounds. "Where are we going?" repeated
Barnabas.

"Gray's Inn is 'andiest, sir, and I must ask you to step out a bit,
they're a rough crowd as lives 'ereabouts,--scamps an' hunters,
didlers an' cly-fakers, so I must ask you to step out a bit, this is
a bad country for me."

"Bad for you? Why?"

"On account o' windictiveness, sir!"

"Of what?"

"Windictiveness, sir--windictiveness in every shape an' form, but
brick-ends mostly--vith a occasional chimbley-pot."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Barnabas began.

"Veil then," explained Mr. Shrig as they strode along, "I vere the
means o' four coves bein' topped d' ye see, 'ighvay robbery vith
wiolence,--'bout a month ago, used to live round 'ere, they did, an'
their famblies an' friends is windictive against me accordingly, an'
werry nat'ral too, for 'uman natur' is only 'uman natur', ain't it?
Werry good then. Now their windictiveness,--or as you might say,
'uman natur',--generally takes the shape of chimbley-pots and
brick-ends, though I 'ave met windictiveness in the form o' b'iling
vater and flat-irons, not to mention saucepans an' sich, afore now,
and vunce a arm-cheer, all of vich is apt to vorry you a bit until
you gets used to it. Then there's knives--knives is allus awk'ard,
and bludgeons ain't to be sneezed at, neither. But, Lord! every
perfession and trade 'as its drawbacks, an' there's a sight o'
comfort in that, ain't there?"

All this time the eyes of Mr. Shrig were roving here, wandering there,
now apparently glancing up at the strip of sky between the dingy
house tops, now down at the cobbles beneath their feet; also
Barnabas noticed that his step, all at once, grew slower and more
deliberate, as one who hesitates, uncertain as to whether he shall
go on, or turn back. It was after one of those swift, upward glances,
that Mr. Shrig stopped all at once, seized Barnabas by the middle
and dragged him into an adjacent doorway, as something crashed down
and splintered within a yard of them.

"What now--what is it?" cried Barnabas.

"Win-dictiveness!" sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head at the missile,
"a piece o' coping-stone, thirty pound if a ounce--Lord! Keep flat
agin the door sir, same as me, they may try another--I don't think
so--still they may, so keep close ag'in the door. A partic'lar narrer
shave I calls it!" nodded Mr. Shrig; "shook ye a bit sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, wiping his brow.

"Ah well, it shook me--and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now,"
he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder,
bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones--Lord love me!"

"But a brick would have killed you just the same--"

"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"

"But, if it had hit you on the head--"

"On the 'at sir, the 'at--or as you might say--the castor--this, sir,"
said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley
he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this
'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."

"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.

"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."

"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with--"

"Iron, sir. My own inwention ag'in windictiveness in the shape o'
bricks an' bludgeons, an' werry useful an comfortin' I've found it.
But if they're going to begin on me vith coping-stones,--v'y Lord!"
And Mr. Shrig sighed his gentle sigh, and rubbed his placid brow, and
once more covered it with the "inwention."

"And now sir, you've got a pair o' good, long legs--can ye use 'em?"

"Use them,--yes. Why?"

"Because it's about time as we cut our stick an' run for it."

"What are we to run for?"

"Because they're arter me,--nine on 'em,--consequent they're arter
you too, d' ye see. There's four on 'em be'ind us, an' five on 'em
in front. You can't see 'em because they're layin' low. And they're
bad uns all, an' they means business."

"What--a fight?"

"As ever vas, sir. I've 'ad my eye on 'em some time. That 'ere
coping-stone vas the signal."

"Ha!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.

"Now, are ye ready, sir?"

"Quite!"

"Then keep close be'ind me--go!" With the word Mr. Shrig began to run,
always keeping close beside the wall; indeed he ran so fast and was
so very nimble that Barnabas had some ado to keep up with him. They
had gone but a little distance when five rough looking fellows
started into view further up the alley, completely blocking their
advance, and by the clatter of feet behind, Barnabas knew that their
retreat was cut off, and instinctively he set his teeth, and gripped
his cane more firmly. But on ran Mr. Shrig, keeping close beside the
wall, head low, shoulders back, elbows well in, for all the world as
if he intended to hurl himself upon his assailants in some desperate
hope of breaking through them; but all at once, like a rabbit into
his burrow, he turned short off in mid career, and vanished down a
dark and very narrow entry or passage, and, as Barnabas followed, he
heard, above the vicious thud of footsteps, hoarse cries of anger
and disappointment. Half-way down the passage Mr. Shrig halted
abruptly and turned, as the first of their pursuers appeared.

"This'll do!" he panted, swinging the nobbly stick in his hand,
"can't come on more nor two at vunce. Be ready vith your stick--at
their eyes--poke at 'em--no 'itting--" the rest was drowned in the
echoing rush of heavy feet and the boom of hoarse voices. But now,
seeing their quarry stand on the defensive, the pursuers checked
their advance, their cries sank to growling murmurs, till, with a
fierce shout, one of their number rushed forward brandishing a heavy
stick, whereupon the others followed, and there, in the echoing
dimness, the battle was joined, and waxed furious and grim.

Almost at the first onset the slender cane Barnabas wielded broke
short off, and he was borne staggering back, the centre of a panting,
close-locked, desperate fray. But in that narrow space his
assailants were hampered by their very numbers, and here was small
room for bludgeon-play,--and Barnabas had his fists.

There came a moment of thudding blows, trampling feet, oaths, cries,
--and Barnabas was free, staring dazedly at his broken knuckles. He
heard a sudden shout, a vicious roar, and the Bow Street Runner,
dropping the nobbly stick, tottered weakly and fell,--strove to rise,
was smitten down again, and, in that moment, Barnabas was astride him;
felt the shock of stinging blows, and laughing fierce and short,
leapt in under the blows, every nerve and muscle braced and quivering;
saw a scowling face,--smote it away; caught a bony wrist, wrenched
the bludgeon from the griping fingers, struck and parried and struck
again with untiring arm, felt the press thin out before him as his
assailants gave back, and so, stood panting.

"Run! Run!" whispered Mr. Shrig's voice behind him. "Ve can do it now,
--run!"

"No!" panted Barnabas, wiping the blood from his cheek. "Run!"
cried Mr. Shrig again, "there's a place I knows on close by--ve can
reach it in a jiff--this vay,--run!"

"No!"

"Not run? then v'ot vill ye do?"

"Make them!"

"Are ye mad? Ha!--look out!" Once more the echoing passage roared
with the din of conflict, as their assailants rushed again, were
checked, smote and were smitten, and fell back howling before the
thrust of the nobbly stick and the swing of the heavy bludgeon.

"Now vill ye run?" panted Mr. Shrig, straightening the broad-brimmed
hat.

"No!"

"V'y then, I vill!" which Mr. Shrig immediately proceeded to do.

But the scowl of Barnabas grew only the blacker, his lips but curled
the fiercer, and his fingers tightened their grip upon the bludgeon
as, alone now, he fronted those who remained of the nine.

Now chancing to glance towards a certain spot, he espied something
that lay in the angle of the wall, and, instinctively stooping, he
picked up Mr. Shrig's little book, slipped it into his pocket, felt
a stunning blow, and reeled back, suddenly faint and sick. And now a
mist seemed to envelop him, but in the mist were faces above, below,
around him, faces to be struck at. But his blows grew weak and ever
weaker, the cudgel was torn from his lax grip, he staggered back on
stumbling feet knowing he could fight no more, and felt himself
caught by a mighty arm, saw a face near by, comely and dimpled of
chin, blue-eyed, and with whiskers trimmed into precise little tufts
on either cheek. Thereafter he was aware of faint cries and shouts,
of a rushing patter like rain among leaves, and of a voice speaking
in his ear.

"Right about face,--march! Easy does it! mind me 'ook, sir, the
p'int's oncommon sharp like. By your left--wheel! Now two steps up,
sir--that's it! Now three steps down, easy does it! and 'ere we are.
A cheer, sir, now water and a sponge!"

Here Barnabas, sinking back in the chair, leaned his head against
the wall behind him, and the mist grew more dense, obliterating all
things.




CHAPTER XXXII


OF CORPORAL RICHARD ROE, LATE OF THE GRENADIERS; AND FURTHER
CONCERNING MR. SHRIG'S LITTLE READER

A small, dim chamber, with many glasses and bottles arrayed very
precisely on numerous shelves; a very tall, broad-shouldered man who
smiled down from the rafters while he pulled at a very precise
whisker with his right hand, for his left had been replaced by a
shining steel hook; and Mr. Shrig who shook his placid head as he
leaned upon a long musket whose bayonet twinkled wickedly in the dim
light; all this Barnabas saw as, sighing, he opened his eyes.

"'E's all right now!" nodded the smiling giant.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, "but vith a lump on 'is 'ead like a negg.
'Run!' I sez. 'No!' sez 'e,--and 'ere's me vith vun eye a-going into
mourning, and 'im vith a lump on 'is nob like a noo-laid egg!"

"'E's game though, Jarsper," said the benevolent giant.

"Game! I believe you, Corp!" nodded Mr. Shrig. "Run!' I sez. 'No!'
sez 'e. 'Then v'ot vill you do?' sez I. 'Make them!' sez 'e. Game?
Lord love me, I should say so!" Here, seeing Barnabas sit upright,
Mr. Shrig laid by the musket and came towards him with his hand out.

"Sir," said he, "when them raskels got me down they meant to do for
me; ah! they'd ha' given me my quietus for good an' all if you
'adn't stood 'em off. Sir, if it ain't too much, I should like to
shake your daddle for that!"

"But you saved my life twice," said Barnabas, clasping the proffered
hand.

"V'y the coping-stone I'll not go for to deny, sir," said Mr. Shrig,
stroking his smooth brow, "but t'other time it were my friend and
pal the Corp 'ere,--Corporal Richard Roe, late Grenadiers. 'E's only
got an 'ook for an 'and, but vith that 'ook 'e's oncommonly 'andy,
and as a veapon it ain't by no means to be sneezed at. No, 'e ain't
none the worse for that 'ook, though they thought so in the army,
and it vere 'im as brought you off v'ile I vos a-chasing of the
enemy vith 'is gun, yonder."

"Why, then I should like to thank Corporal Richard Roe," said
Barnabas,--(here the Corporal tugged at his precise and carefully
trimmed whisker again), "and to shake his hand as well." Here the
giant blushed and extended a huge fist.

"Honored, sir," said he, clicking his heels together.

"And now," said Mr. Shrig, "ve're all a-going to drink--at my
expense."

"No, at mine," said Barnabas.

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, round and placid of eye, "ven I says a thing
I means it. Consequent you are now a-going to sluice your ivory vith
a glass of the Vun an' Only, at my expense,--you must and you shall."

"Yes," said Barnabas, feeling in his pockets. "I must, my purse is
gone."

"Purse!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, his innocent eyes rounder than ever,
"gone, sir?"

"Stolen," nodded Barnabas.

"Think o' that now!" sighed Mr. Shrig, "but I ain't surprised, no, I
ain't surprised, and--by Goles!"

"What now?"

"Your cravat-sparkler!--that's wanished too!" Barnabas felt his
rumpled cravat, and nodded. "And your vatch, now--don't tell me as
they 've took--"

"Yes, my watch also," sighed Barnabas.

"A great pity!" said Mr. Shrig, "though it ain't to be vondered
at,--not a bit."

"I valued the watch greatly, because it was given me by a very good
friend," said Barnabas, sighing again.

"Walleyed it, hey?" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, "walleyed it, sir?--v'y then,
'ere it be!" and from a capacious side-pocket he produced Natty
Bell's great watch, seals and all.

"Why--!" exclaimed Barnabas, staring.

"Also your purse, sir,--not forgetting the sparkler." Mr. Shrig
continued, producing each article in turn.

"But--how in the world--?" began Barnabas.

"I took 'em from you v'ile you vos a-lookin' at my castor. Lord love
me, a babe could ha' done it,--let alone a old 'and, like me!"

"Do you mean--?" began Barnabas, and hesitated.

"In my young days, sir," explained Mr. Shrig with his placid smile,
"I vere a champion buzman, ah! and a prime rook at queering the gulls,
too, but I ewentually turned honest all along of a flash, morning-sneak
covess as got 'erself conwerted."

"What do you mean by a morning-sneak covess?"

"I means a area-sneak, sir, as vorks werry early in the morning. A
fine 'andsome gal she vere, and vith nothing of the flash mollisher
about 'er, either, though born on the streets, as ye might say, same
as me. Vell, she gets con-werted, and she's alvays napping 'er bib
over me,--as you'd say, piping 'er eye, d'ye see? vanting me to turn
honest and be con-werted too. 'Turn honest,' says she, 'and ve'll be
married ter-morrow,' says she."

"So you turned honest and married her?" said Barnabas, as Mr. Shrig
paused.

"No, sir, I turned honest and she married a coal-v'ipper, v'ich,
though it did come a bit 'ard on me at first, vos all for the best
in the end, for she deweloped a chaffer,--as you might say, a tongue,
d' ye see, sir, and I'm vun as is fond of a quiet life, v'en I can
get it. Howsomever, I turned honest, and come werry near starving
for the first year, but I kept honest, and I ain't never repented
it--so fur. So, as for the prigs, and scamps, and buzmen, and flash
leary coves, I'm up to all their dodges, 'aving been one of them,
d'ye see. And now," said Mr. Shrig, as the big Corporal having
selected divers bottles from his precise array, took himself off to
concoct a jorum of the One and Only--"now sir, what do you think o'
my pal Corporal Dick?"

"A splendid fellow!" said Barnabas.

"'E is that, sir,--so 'e is,--a giant, eh sir?"

"A giant, yes, and handsome too!" said Barnabas.

"V'y you're a sizable cove yourself, sir," nodded Mr. Shrig,
"but you ain't much alongside my pal the Corp, are you? I'm
nat'rally proud of 'im, d'ye see, for 't were me as saved 'im."

"Saved him from what? How?"

"Me being only a smallish chap myself, I've allus 'ad a 'ankering
arter sizable coves. But I never seen a finer figger of a man than
Corporal Dick--height, six foot six and a quarter, chest,
fifty-eight and a narf, and sir--'e were a-going to drownd it all in
the River, all along o' losing his 'and and being drove out o' the
army, v'ich vould ha' been a great vaste of good material, as ye
might say, seeing as there's so much of 'im. It vas a dark night,
the night I found 'im, vith vind and rain, and there vos me and 'im
a-grappling on the edge of a vharf--leastvays I vere a-holding onto
'is leg, d'ye see--ah, and a mortal 'ard struggle it vere too, and
in the end I didn't save 'im arter all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean as it vere 'im as saved me, for v'ot vith the vind, and the
rain, and the dark, ve lost our footing and over ve vent into the
River together--down and down till I thought as ve should never come
up again, but ve did, o' course, and then, jest as 'ard as 'e'd
struggled to throw 'imself in, 'e fought to get me out, so it vere
'im as really saved me, d'ye see?"

"No," said Barnabas, "it was you who really saved him."

"V'y, I'm as glad as you think so, sir, only d'ye see, I can't svim,
and it vos 'im as pulled me out. And it all come along of 'im losing
'is 'and--come nigh to breaking 'is 'eart to be discharged, it did."

"Poor fellow!" said Barnabas, "and how did he lose his hand?"

"V'y, I could tell you, or you could read of it in the Gazette--jest
three or four lines o' printing--and they've spelt 'is name wrong at
that, curse 'em! But Corporal Dick can tell you best. Let 'im. 'Ere
'e comes, vith a steaming brew o' the Vun and Only."

And indeed, at this moment the Corporal re-entered, bearing a jug
that gave forth a most enticing and delicious aroma, and upon which
Mr. Shrig cast amorous glances, what time he reached three glasses
from the marshalled array on the shelves.

And now, sitting at the small table that stood in a snug corner
beside the chimney, Mr. Shrig, having filled the three glasses with
all due care, tendered one to Barnabas with the words:

"Jest give that a snuff with your sneezer, sir,--there's perfume,
there's fray-grance for ye! There ain't a man in London as can brew
a glass o' rum-punch like the Corp,--though 'e 'as only got vun 'and.
And now, Corporal Dick, afore ve begin, three steamers."

"Ay, for sure, Jarsper!" said the Corporal; and opening a small
corner cupboard he took thence three new pipes and a paper of tobacco.

"Will you smoke, sir?" he inquired diffidently of Barnabas.

"Thank you, yes, Corporal," said Barnabas, and taking the proffered
pipe he filled and lighted it.

Now when the pipes were in full blast, when the One and Only had
been tasted, and pronounced by Mr. Shrig to be "up to the mark," he
nodded to Corporal Dick with the words:

"Tell our young gent 'ow you lost your 'and, Corp."

But hereupon the Corporal frowned, shuffled his feet, stroked his
trim whiskers with his hook, and finally addressed Barnabas.

"I aren't much of a talker, sir,--and it aren't much of a story, but
if you so wish--"

"I do so wish," said Barnabas heartily.

"Why, very good, sir!" Saying which the Corporal sat up, squared his
mighty shoulders, coughed, and began:

"It was when they Cuirassiers broke our square at Quatre-bras,
sir,--fine fellows those Cuirassiers! They rode into us, through us,
over us,--the square was tottering, and it was 'the colors--rally!'
Ah, sir! the colors means the life or death of a square at such times.
And just then, when horses was a-trampling us and the air full o'
the flash o' French steel, just then I see our colors dip and sway,
and down they went. But still it's 'the colors--rally!' and there's
no colors to rally to; and all the time the square is being cut to
pieces. But I, being nearest, caught up the colors in this here left
hand," here the Corporal raised his gleaming hook, "but a Cuirassier,
'e caught them too, and there's him at one end o' the staff and me
at t'other, pulling and hauling, and then--all at once he'd got 'em.
And because why? Because I hadn't got no left 'and to 'old with. But
I'd got my right, and in my right was 'Brown Bess' there," and the
Corporal pointed to the long musket in the corner. "My bayonet was
gone, and there weren't no time to reload, so--I used the butt. Then
I picked up the colors again and 'eld 'em high over my head, for the
smoke were pretty thick, and, 'To the colors,' I shouted,' Rally,
lads, rally!' And oh, by the Lord, sir,--to hear our lads cheer! And
so the square formed up again--what was left of it--formed up close
and true round me and the colors, and the last thing I mind was the
cheering. Ah! they was fine fellows, they Cuirassiers!"

"So that vere the end o' the Corp's soldiering!" nodded Mr. Shrig.

"Yes," sighed the Corporal, "a one-handed soldier ain't much good,
ye see, sir."

"So they--throwed 'im out!" snarled Mr. Shrig.

"Now Jarsper," smiled the giant, shaking his head. "Why so 'ard
 on the sarvice? They give me m' stripe."

"And your dis-charge!" added Mr. Shrig.

"And a--pension," said the soldier.

"Pension," sniffed Mr. Shrig, "a fine, large vord, Dick, as means
werry little to you!"

"And they mentioned me in the Gazette, Jarsper," said the Corporal
looking very sheepish, and stroking his whisker again with his hook.

"And a lot o' good that done you, didn't it? Your 'eart vos broke
the night I found you--down by the River."

"Why, I did feel as I weren't much good, Jarsper, I'll admit. You see,
I 'adn't my hook then, sir. But I think I'd ha' give my other
'and--ah! that I would--to ha' been allowed to march on wi' the
rest o' the lads to Waterloo."

"So you vos a-going to throw yerself into the River!"

"I were, Jarsper, should ha' done it but for you, comrade."

"But you didn't do it, so later on ve took this 'ere place."

"You did, Jarsper--"

"Ve took it together, Dick. And werry vell you're a-doing vith it,
for both of us."

"I do my best, Jarsper."

"V'ich couldn't be bettered, Dick. Then look how you 'elp me vith my
cases."

"Do I, Jarsper?" said the Corporal, his blue eyes shining.

"That you do, Dick. And now I've got another case as I'm a-vaiting
for,--a extra-special Capital case it is too!"

"Another murder, Jarsper?"

"Ah, a murder, Dick,--a murder as ain't been committed yet, a murder
as I'm expecting to come off in--say a month, from information
received this 'ere werry arternoon. A murder, Dick, as is going to
be done by a capital cove as I spotted over a month ago. Now v'ot I
'm going to tell you is betwixt us--private and confidential and--"
But here Barnabas pushed back his chair.

"Then perhaps I had better be going?" said he.

"Going, sir? and for v'y?"

"That you may be more private, and talk more freely."

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig. "I knows v'en to speak and v'en not. My eyes
tells me who I can trust and who not. And, sir, I've took to you,
and so's the Corp,--ain't you, Dick?"

"Yes, sir," said the giant diffidently.

"Sir," pursued Mr. Shrig, "you're a Nob, I know, a Corinthian by
your looks, a Buck, sir, a Dash, a 'eavy Toddler, but also, I takes
the liberty o' telling you as you're only a man, arter all, like the
rest on us, and it's that man as I'm a-talking to. Now v'en a man
'as stood up for me, shed 'is good blood for me, I makes that man my
pal, and my pal I allus trusts."

"And you shall find me worthy of your confidence," said Barnabas,
"and there's my hand on it, though, indeed, you hardly know
me--really."

"More than you think, sir. Besides, it ain't v'ot a cove tells me
about 'imself as matters, nor v'ot other coves tell me about a cove,
as matters, it's v'ot a cove carries in 'is face as I goes by,--the
cock of 'is eye, an' all the rest of it. And then, I knows as your
name's Barnabas Barty--"

"Barty!--you know that?" exclaimed Barnabas, starting,--"how--how in
the world did you find out?"

"Took the liberty to look at your vatch, sir."

"Watch!" said Barnabas, drawing it from his fob, "what do you mean?"

"Give it 'ere, and I'll show ye, sir." So saying, Mr. Shrig took the
great timepiece and, opening the back, handed it to Barnabas. And
there, in the cavity between the two cases was a very small folded
paper, and upon this paper, in Natty Bell's handwriting, these words:

  "To my dear lad Barnabas Barty, hoping that he may prove
  as fine a gentleman as he is--a man."

Having read this, Barnabas folded the paper very gently, and putting
it back, closed the watch, and slipped it into his fob.

"And now," said Mr. Shrig, exhaling a vast cloud of smoke, "afore I
go on to tell you about this 'ere murder as I'm a-vaiting for, I
must show ye my little reader." Here Mr. Shrig thrust a hand into
his pocket,--then his pipe shivered to fragments on the stone floor
and he started up, mouth agape and eyes staring.

"Lord, Jarsper!" cried the Corporal, "what is it, comrade?"

"It's gone, Dick!" he gasped, "my little reader's been stole."

But now, even as he turned towards the door, Barnabas laid a
detaining hand upon his arm.

"Not stolen--lost!" said he, "and indeed, I'm not at all surprised!"
Here Barnabas smiled his quick, bright smile.

"Sir--sir?" stammered Mr. Shrig, "oh, Pal, d'ye mean--?"

"That I found it, yes," said Barnabas, "and here it is."

Mr. Shrig took his little book, opened it, closed it, thrust it into
his pocket, and took it out again.

"Sir," said he, catching Barnabas by the hand, "this here little
book is more to me nor gold or rubies. Sir, you are my pal,--and
consequent the Corp's also, and this 'ere chaffing-crib is allus
open to you. And if ever you want a man at your back--I'm your man,
and v'en not me--there's my pal Dick, ain't there, Di--"

Mr. Shrig stopped suddenly and stood with his head to one side as
one that listens. And thus, upon the stillness came the sound of one
who strode along the narrow passage-way outside, whistling as he went.

"'Sally in our Alley,' I think?" said Mr. Shrig.

"Yes," said Barnabas, wondering.

"V'ich means as I'm vanted, ah!--and vanted precious qvick too,"
saying which, Mr. Shrig caught up his "castor," seized the nobbly
stick, crossed to the door, and came back again.

"Dick," said he, "I'll get you to look after my little reader for me,
--I ain't a-going to risk losing it again."

"Right you are, Jarsper," nodded the Corporal.

"And sir," continued Mr. Shrig, turning towards Barnabas with the
book in his hand, "you said, I think, as you'd like to see what I'd
got inside o' this 'ere.--If so be you're in the same mind about it,
why--'ere it is." And Mr. Shrig laid the little book on the table
before Barnabas. "And v'ot's more, any time as you're passing, drop
in to the 'Gun,' and drink a glass o' the Vun and Only vith Dick and
me." So Mr. Shrig nodded, unlocked the door, shut it very gently
behind him, and his footsteps died away along the echoing passage.

Then, while the Corporal puffed at his long pipe, Barnabas opened
the little book, and turning the pages haphazard presently came to
one where, painfully written in a neat, round hand, he read this:

                            CAPITAL COVES

                            EXTRA-SPECIALS
  ___________________________________________________________________
  |Name.                  |When      |Date of |Sentence.  |Date of   |
  |                       |spotted.  |Murder. |           |Execution.|
  | ______________________| _________|________| __________|__________|
  |James Aston (Porter)   |Feb. 2    |March 30|Hanged     |April 5   |
  |Digbeth Andover (Gent) |March 3   |April 28|Transported|May 5     |
  |John Barnes (Sailor)   |March 10  |Waiting |Waiting    |Waiting   |
  |Sir Richard Brock(Bart)|April 5   |May 3   |Hanged     |May 30    |
  |Thomas Beal (Tinker)   |March 23  |April 15|Hanged     |May 30    |
  |_______________________|__________|________|___________|__________|

There were many such names all carefully set down in alphabetical
order, and Barnabas read them through with perfunctory interest.
But--half-way down the list of B's his glance was suddenly arrested,
his hands clenched themselves, and he grew rigid in his
chair--staring wide-eyed at a certain name. In a while he closed the
little book, yet sat there very still, gazing at nothing in
particular, until the voice of the Corporal roused him somewhat.

"A wonderful man, my comrade Jarsper, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas absently.

"Though he wouldn't ha' passed as a Grenadier,--not being tall enough,
you see."

"No," said Barnabas, his gaze still fixed.

"But as a trap, sir,--as a limb o' the law, he ain't to be
ekalled--nowheres nor nohow."

"No," said Barnabas, rising.

"What? are you off, sir--must you march?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, taking up his hat, "yes, I must go."

"'Olborn way, sir?"

"Yes."

"Why then--foller me, sir,--front door takes you into Gray's Inn
Lane--by your left turn and 'Olborn lays straight afore you,--this
way, sir." But, being come to the front door of the "Gun," Barnabas
paused upon the threshold, lost in abstraction again, and staring at
nothing in particular while the big Corporal watched him with a
growing uneasiness.

"Is it your 'ead, sir?" he inquired suddenly.

"Head?" repeated Barnabas.

"Not troubling you, is it, sir?"

"No,--oh no, thank you," answered Barnabas, and stretched out his
hand. "Good-by, Corporal, I'm glad to have met you, and the One and
Only was excellent."

"Thankee, sir. I hope as you'll do me and my comrade the honor to
try it again--frequent. Good-by, sir." But standing to watch
Barnabas as he went, the Corporal shook his head and muttered to
himself, for Barnabas walked with a dragging step, and his chin upon
his breast.

Holborn was still full of the stir and bustle, the rush and roar of
thronging humanity, but now Barnabas was blind and deaf to it all,
for wherever he looked he seemed to see the page of Mr. Shrig's
little book with its list of carefully  written  names,--those
names  beginning  with B.--thus:

  _________________________________________________________
  |Name.        |When    |Date       |Sentence.|Date of   |
  |             |spotted.|of Murder. |         |Execution.|
  |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________|
  |Sir Richard  |        |           |         |          |
  |Brock (Bart.)|April 5 |   May 3   | Hanged  |  May 30  |
  |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________|
  |Thomas Beal  |        |           |         |          |
  |(Tinker)     |March 23|  April 15 | Hanged  |  May 30  |
  |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________|
  |Ronald       |        |           |         |          |
  |Barrymaine   | May 12 |  Waiting  | Waiting |  Waiting |
  |_____________|________|___________|_________|__________|




CHAPTER XXXIII


CONCERNING THE DUTY OF FATHERS; MORE ESPECIALLY THE VISCOUNT'S
"ROMAN"

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon that Barnabas knocked at
the door of the Viscount's chambers in Half-moon Street and was duly
admitted by a dignified, albeit somewhat mournful gentleman in blue
and silver, who, after a moment of sighing hesitancy, ushered him
into a small reception room where sat a bullet-headed man with one
eye and a remarkably bristly chin, a sinister looking person who
stared very hard with his one eye, and sucked very hard, with much
apparent relish and gusto, at the knob of the stick he carried. At
sight of this man the mournful gentleman averted his head, and
vented a sound which, despite his impressive dignity, greatly
resembled a sniff, and, bowing to Barnabas, betook himself upstairs
to announce the visitor. Hereupon the one-eyed man having surveyed
Barnabas from head to foot with his solitary orb, drew the knob of
his stick from his mouth, dried it upon his sleeve, looked at it,
gave it a final rub, and spoke.

"Sir," said he in a jovial voice that belied his sinister aspect,
"did you 'ear that rainbow sniff?"

"Rainbow?" said Barnabas.

"Well,--wallet, then,--footman--the ornamental cove as jest popped
you in 'ere. Makes one 'undred and eleven of 'em!"

"One hundred and eleven what?"

"Sniffs, sir,--s-n-i-double-f-s! I've took the trouble to count 'em,
--nothing else to do. I ain't got a word out of 'im yet, an' I've
been sittin' 'ere ever since eight o'clock s'mornin'. I'm a
conwivial cock, I am,--a sociable cove, yes, sir, a s-o-s-h-able
cove as ever wore a pair o' boots. Wot I sez is,--though a bum, why
not a sociable bum, and try to make things nice and pleasant, and I
does my best, give you my word! But Lord! all my efforts is wasted
on that 'ere rainbow--nothing but sniffs!"

"Why then--who--what are you?"

"I'm Perks and Condy, wines and sperrits,--eighty-five pound,
eighteen, three--that's me, sir."

"Do you mean that you are--in possession--here?"

"Just that, sir,--ever since eight o'clock s'morning--and nothing
but sniffs--so fur." Here the bullet-headed man nodded and eyed the
knob of his stick hungrily. But at this moment the door opened, and
the dignified (though mournful) gentleman appeared, and informed
Barnabas (with a sigh) that "his Lordship begged Mr. Beverley would
walk upstairs."

Upstairs accordingly Barnabas stepped, and guided by a merry
whistling, pushed open a certain door, and so found the Viscount
busily engaged in the manufacture of a paper dart, composed of a
sheet of the Gazette, in the midst of which occupation he paused to
grip Barnabas by the hand.

"Delighted to see you, Bev," said he heartily, "pray sit down, my
dear fellow--sit anywhere--no, not there--that's the toast, deuce
take it! Oh, never mind a chair, bed'll do, eh? Yes, I'm rather
late this morning, Bev,--but then I was so late last night that I
was devilish early, and I'm making up for it,--must have steady
nerves for the fifteenth, you know. Ah, and that reminds me!" Here
the Viscount took up his unfinished dart and sighed over it.
"I'm suffering from a rather sharp attack of Romanism, my dear fellow,
my Honored Parent has been at it again, Bev, and then, I dropped two
hundred pounds in Jermyn Street last night."

"Dropped it! Do you mean you lost it, or were you robbed?" inquired
Barnabas the Simple. Now when he said this, the Viscount stared at
him incredulously, but, meeting the clear gaze of the candid gray
eyes, he smiled all at once and shook his head.

"Gad!" he exclaimed, "what a strange fellow you are, Bev. And yet I
wouldn't have you altered, no, damme! you're too refreshing. You ask
me 'did I lose it, or was I robbed?' I answer you,--both, my dear
fellow. It was a case of sharps and flats, and--I was the flat."

"Ah,--you mean gambling, Dick?"

"Gambling, Bev,--at a hell in Jermyn Street."

"Two hundred pounds is a great deal of money to lose at cards," said
Barnabas, shaking his head gravely.

"Humph!" murmured the Viscount, busied upon his paper dart again,
"you should congratulate me, I think, that it was no more,--might
just as easily have been two thousand, you see, indeed I wonder it
wasn't. Egad! the more I think of it, the more fortunate I consider
myself. Yes, I certainly think you should congratulate me. Now--watch
me hit Sling!" and the Viscount poised his completed dart.

"Captain Slingsby--here?" exclaimed Barnabas, glancing about.

"Under the settee, yonder," nodded the Viscount, "wrapped up in the
table-cloth."

"Table-cloth!" repeated Barnabas.

"By way of military cloak," explained the Viscount. "You see--Sling
was rather--mellow, last night, and--at such times he always imagines
he's campaigning again--insists upon sleeping on the floor."

Now, looking where the Viscount pointed, Barnabas espied the touzled
head of Captain Slingsby of the Guards protruding from beneath the
settee, and reposing upon a cushion. The Captain's features were
serene, and his breathing soft and regular, albeit deepening, ever
and anon, into a gentle snore.

"Poor old Sling!" said the Viscount, leaning forward the better to
aim his missile, "in two hours' time he must go and face the Ogre,
--poor old Sling! Now watch me hit him!" So saying Viscount Devenham
launched his paper dart which, gliding gracefully through the air,
buried its point in the Captain's whisker, whereupon that warrior,
murmuring plaintively, turned over and fell once more gently
a-snoring.

"Talking about the Ogre--" began the Viscount.

"You mean--Jasper Gaunt?" Barnabas inquired.

"Precisely, dear fellow, and, talking of him, did you happen to
notice a--fellow, hanging about downstairs,--a bristly being with
one eye, Bev?"

"Yes, Dick."

"Ha!" said the Viscount nodding, "and talking of him, brings me back
to my Honored Roman--thus, Bev. Chancing to find myself
in--ha--hum--a little difficulty, a--let us say--financial tightness,
Bev. I immediately thought of my father, which,--under the
circumstances was, I think, very natural--and filial, my dear fellow.
I said to myself, here is a man, the author of my being, who, though
confoundedly Roman, is still my father, and, as such, owes certain
duties to his son, sacred duties, Bev, not to be lightly esteemed,
blinked, or set aside,--eh, Bev?"

"Undoubtedly!" said Barnabas.

"I, therefore, ventured to send him a letter, post-haste, gently
reminding him of those same duties, and acquainting him with
my--ah--needy situation,--which was also very natural, I think."

"Certainly!" said Barnabas, smiling.

"But--would you believe it, my dear fellow, he wrote, or rather,
indited me an epistle, or, I should say, indictment, in his most
Roman manner which--but egad! I'll read it to you, I have it here
somewhere." And the Viscount began to rummage among the bedclothes,
to feel and fumble under pillow and bolster, and eventually dragged
forth a woefully crumpled document which he smoothed out upon his
knees, and from which he began to read as follows:

  MY DEAR HORATIO.

"As soon as I saw that' t--i--o,' Bev, I knew it was no go. Had it
been merely a--c--e I should have nourished hopes, but the 't--i--o'
slew 'em--killed 'em stone dead and prepared me for a screed in my
Honored Roman's best style, bristling with the Divine Right of
Fathers, and, Bev--I got it. Listen:"

  Upon reading your long and very eloquent letter, I was surprised
  to learn, firstly, that you required money, and secondly to observe
  that you committed only four solecisms in spelling,

("Gives  me one  at  the  very beginning, you'll notice,
Bev.")

  As regards the money, you will, I am sure, be amazed, nay astounded,
  to learn that you have already exceeded your allowance by some five
  hundred pounds--

("So I was, Bev, begad--I thought it was eight.")

  As regards your spelling--

("Ah! here he leads again with his left, and gets one in,--low,
Bev, low!")

  As regards your spelling, as you know, I admire originality in
  all things; but it has, hitherto, been universally conceded that the
  word "eliminate" shall not and cannot begin with the letters i-l-l!
  "Vanquish" does not need a k. "Apathy" is spelled with but one p--
  while never before have I beheld "anguish" with a w.

("Now, Bev, that's what I call coming it a bit too strong!" sighed
the Viscount, shaking his head; "'anguish' is anguish however you
spell it! And, as for the others, let me tell you when a fellow has
a one-eyed being with bristles hanging about his place, he isn't
likely to be over particular as to his p's and q's, no, damme! Let's
see, where were we? ah! here it is,--'anguish' with a 'w'!")

  I quite agree with your remarks, viz. that a father's duties to
  his son are sacred and holy--

("This is where I counter, Bev, very neatly,--listen! He quite
agrees that,--")

  --a father's duties to his son are sacred and holy, and not to be
  lightly esteemed, blinked, or set aside--

("Aha! had him there, Bev,--inside his guard, eh?")

  I also appreciate, and heartily endorse your statement that it is
  to his father that a son should naturally turn for help--

("Had him again--a leveller that time, egad!")

  naturally turn for help, but, when the son is constantly turning,
  then, surely, the father may occasionally turn too, like the worm.
  The simile, though unpleasant, is yet strikingly apt.

("Hum! there he counters me and gets one back, I suppose, Bev? Oh,
I'll admit the old boy is as neat and quick with his pen as he used
to be with his hands. He ends like this:")

  I rejoice to hear that you are well in health, and pray that,
  despite the forthcoming steeplechase, dangerous as I hear it is, you
  may so continue. Upon this head I am naturally somewhat anxious,
  since I possess only one son. And I further pray that, wilfully
  reckless though he is, he may yet be spared to be worthy of the name
  that will be his when I shall have risen beyond it.

  BAMBOROUGH AND REVELSDEN.

The Viscount sighed, and folded up his father's letter rather
carefully.

"He's a deuced old Roman, of course," said he, "and yet--!" Here the
Viscount turned, and slipped the letter back under his pillow with a
hand grown suddenly gentle. "But there you are, Bev! Not a word about
money,--so downstairs Bristles must continue to sit until--"

"If," said Barnabas diffidently, "if you would allow me to lend--"

"No, no, Bev--though I swear it's uncommon good of you. But really I
couldn't allow it. Besides, Jerningham owes me something, I believe,
at least, if he doesn't he did, and it's all one anyway. I sent the
Imp over to him an hour ago; he'll let me have it, I know. Though I
thank you none the less, my dear fellow, on my soul I do! But--oh
deuce take me--you've nothing to drink! what will you take--?"

"Nothing, thanks, Dick. As a matter of fact, I came to ask you a
favor--"

"Granted, my dear fellow!"

"I want you to ask Captain Slingsby to introduce me to Jasper Gaunt."

"Ah?" said the Viscount, coming to his elbow, "you mean on behalf of
that--"

"Of Barrymaine, yes."

"It's--it's utterly preposterous!" fumed the Viscount.

"So you said before, Dick."

"You mean to--go on with it?"

"Of course!"

"You are still determined to befriend a--"

"More than ever, Dick."

"For--Her sake?"

"For Her sake. Yes, Dick," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little.
"I mean to free him from Gaunt, and rescue him from Chichester--if I
can."

"But Chichester is about the only friend he has left, Bev."

"On the contrary, I think Chichester is his worst enemy."

"But--my dear fellow! Chichester is the only one who has stood by
him in his disgrace, though why, I can't imagine."

"I think I can tell you the reason, and in one word," said Barnabas,
his face growing blacker.

"Well, Bev,--what is it?"

"Cleone!" The Viscount started.

"What,--you think--? Oh, impossible! The fellow would never have a
chance, she despises him, I know."

"And fears him too, Dick."

"Fears him? Gad! what do you mean, Bev?"

"I mean that, unworthy though he may be, she idolizes her brother."

"Half-brother, Bev."

"And for his sake, would sacrifice her fortune,--ah! and herself!"

"Well?"

"Well, Dick, Chichester knows this, and is laying his plans
accordingly."

"How?"

"He's teaching Barrymaine to drink, for one thing--"

"He didn't need much teaching, Bev."

"Then, he has got him in his power,--somehow or other, anyhow,
Barrymaine fears him, I know. When the time comes, Chichester means
to reach the sister through her love for her brother, and--before he
shall do that, Dick--" Barnabas threw up his head and clenched his
fists.

"Well, Bev?"

"I'll--kill him, Dick."

"You mean--fight him, of course?"

"It would be all one," said Barnabas grimly.

"And how do you propose to--go about the matter--to save Barrymaine?"

"I shall pay off his debts, first of all."

"And then?"

"Take him away with me."

"When?"

"To-morrow, if possible--the sooner the better."

"And give up the race, Bev?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, sighing, "even that if need be."

Here the Viscount lay back among his pillows and stared up at the
tester of the bed, and his gaze was still directed thitherwards when
he spoke:

"And you would do all this--"

"For--Her sake," said Barnabas softly, "besides, I promised, Dick."

"And you have seen her--only once, Bev!"

"Twice, Dick."

Again there was silence while the Viscount stared up at the tester
and Barnabas frowned down at the clenched fist on his knee.

"Gad!" said the Viscount suddenly, "Gad, Beverley, what a deuced
determined fellow you are!"

"You see--I love her, Dick."

"And by the Lord, Bev, shall I tell you what I begin to think?"

"Yes, Dick."

"Well, I begin to think that in spite of--er--me, and hum--all the
rest of 'em, in spite of everything--herself included, if need be,
--you'll win her yet."

"And shall I tell you what I begin to think, Dick?"

"Yes."

"I begin to think that you have never--loved her at all."

"Eh?" cried the Viscount, starting up very suddenly, "what?--never
lov--oh, Gad, Beverley! what the deuce should make you think that?"

"Clemency!" said Barnabas.

The Viscount stared, opened his mouth, shut it, ran his fingers
through his hair, and fell flat upon his pillows again.

"So now," said Barnabas the persistent, "now you know why I am so
anxious to meet Jasper Gaunt."

"Gaunt!" said the Viscount dreamily, "Gaunt!"

"Captain Slingsby has to see him this afternoon,--at least so you
said, and I was wondering--"

"Slingsby! Oh, egad I forgot! so he has,--curricle's ordered for
half-past three. Will you oblige me by prodding him with your cane,
Bev? Don't be afraid,--poke away, my dear fellow, Sling takes a
devil of a lot of waking."

Thus admonished, Barnabas presently succeeded in arousing the
somnolent Slingsby, who, lifting a drowsy head, blinked sleepily,
and demanded in an injured tone:

"Wha' the dooce it was all about, b'gad?" Then having yawned
prodigiously and come somewhat to himself, he proceeded to crawl
from under the settee, when, catching sight of Barnabas, he sprang
lightly to his feet and greeted him cordially.

"Ah, Beverley!" he cried,--"how goes it? Glad you woke me--was
having a devil of a dream. Thought the 'Rascal' had strained his
'off' fore-leg, and was out of the race! What damnable things dreams
are, b'gad!"

"My dear Sling," said the Viscount, "it is exactly a quarter past
three."

"Oh, is it, b'gad! Well?"

"And at four o'clock I believe you have an appointment with Gaunt."

"Gaunt!" repeated the Captain, starting, and Barnabas saw all the
light and animation die out of his face, "Gaunt,--yes, I--b'gad!--I
'd forgotten, Devenham."

"You ordered your curricle for half-past three, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I've no time to bathe--ought to shave, though, and oh,
damme,--look at my cravat!"

"You'll find everything you need in my dressing-room, Sling."

The Captain nodded his thanks, and forthwith vanished into the
adjacent chamber, whence he was to be heard at his ablutions,
puffing and blowing, grampus-like. To whom thus the Viscount,
raising his voice: "Oh, by the way, Sling, Beverley wants to go with
you." Here the Captain stopped, as it seemed in the very middle of a
puff, and when he spoke it was in a tone of hoarse incredulity:

"Eh,--b'gad, what's that?"

"He wants you to introduce him to Jasper Gaunt."

Here a sudden explosive exclamation, and, thereafter, the Captain
appeared as in the act of drying himself, his red face glowing from
between the folds of the towel while he stared from the Viscount to
Barnabas with round eyes.

"What!" he exclaimed at last, "you, too, Beverley! Poor devil, have
you come to it--and so soon?"

"No," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "I wish to see him on behalf
of another--"

"Eh? Another? Oh--!"

"On behalf of Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."

"Of Barrym--" Here the Captain suddenly fell to towelling himself
violently, stopped to stare at Barnabas again, gave himself another
futile rub or two, and, finally, dropped the towel altogether.
"On behalf of--oh b'gad!" he exclaimed, and incontinent vanished
into the dressing-room. But, almost immediately he was back again,
this time wielding a shaving brush. "Wish to see--Gaunt, do you?" he
inquired.

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"And," said the Captain, staring very hard at the shaving brush,
"not--on your own account?"

"No," answered Barnabas.

"But on behalf--I think you said--of--"

"Of Ronald Barrymaine," said Barnabas.

"Oh!" murmured the Captain, and vanished again. But now Barnabas
followed him.

"Have you any objection to my going with you?" he inquired.

"Not in the least," answered the Captain, making hideous faces at
himself in the mirror as he shaved, "oh, no--delighted, 'pon my soul,
b'gad--only--"

"Well?"

"Only, if it's time you're going to ask for--it's no go, my
boy--hard-fisted old rasper, you know the saying,--(Bible, I think),
figs, b'gad, and thistles, bread from stones, but no mercy from
Jasper Gaunt."

"I don't seek his mercy," said Barnabas.

"Why, then, my dear Beverley--ha! there's Jenk come up to say the
curricle's at the door."

Sure enough, at the moment, the Viscount's gentleman presented
himself to announce the fact, albeit mournfully and with a sigh. He
was about to bow himself out again when the Viscount stayed him with
an upraised finger.

"Jenkins," said he, "my very good Jenk!"

"Yes, m'lud?" said Jenkins.

"Is the person with the--ah--bristles--still downstairs?"

"He is, m'lud," said Jenkins, with another sigh.

"Then tell him to possess his soul in patience, Jenk,--for I fear he
will remain there a long, long time."




CHAPTER XXXIV


OF THE LUCK OF CAPTAIN SLINGSBY, OF THE GUARDS

"You don't mind if we--drive about a bit, do you, Beverley?"

"Not in the least."

"I--er--I generally go the longest way round when I have to call on--"

"On Gaunt?"

"Yes."

Now as they went, Barnabas noticed that a change had come over his
companion, his voice had lost much of its jovial ring, his eye its
sparkle, while his ruddy cheeks were paler than their wont; moreover
he was very silent, and sat with bent head and with his square
shoulders slouched dejectedly. Therefore Barnabas must needs cast
about for some means of rousing him from this depression.

"You drive a very handsome turnout," said he at last.

"It is neat, isn't it?" nodded Slingsby, his eye brightening.

"Very!" said Barnabas, "and the horses--"

"Horses!" cried the Captain, almost himself again, "ha,
b'gad--there's action for you--and blood too! I was a year matching
'em. Cost me eight hundred guineas--and cheap at the money--but--"

"Well?"

"After all, Beverley, they--aren't mine, you see."

"Not yours?"

"No. They're--his!"

"You mean--Gaunt's?"

The Captain nodded gloomily.

"Yes," said he, "my horses are his, my curricle's his, my clothes
are his--everything's his. So am I, b'gad! Oh, you needn't look so
infernal incredulous--fact, I assure you. And, when you come to
think of it--it's all cursed humorous, isn't it?" and here the
Captain contrived to laugh, though it rang very hollow, to be sure.

"You owe--a great deal then?" said Barnabas.

"Owe?" said the Captain, turning to look at him, "I'm in up to my
neck, and getting deeper. Owe! B'gad, Beverley--I believe you!" But
now, at sight of gravefaced Barnabas, he laughed again, and this
time it sounded less ghoul-like. "Debt is a habit," he continued
sententiously, "that grows on one most damnably, and creditors are
the most annoying people in the world--so confoundedly unreasonable!
Of course I pay 'em--now and then--deserving cases, y' know. Fellow
called on me t' other day,--seemed to know his face. 'Who are you?'
says I. 'I'm the man who makes your whips, sir,' says he. 'And
devilish good whips too!' says I, 'how much do I owe you?' 'Fifteen
pounds, sir,' says he, 'I wouldn't bother you only'--well, it
seemed his wife was sick--fellow actually blubbered! So of course I
rang for my rascal Danby, Danby's my valet, y' know. 'Have you any
money, Danby?' says I. 'No sir,' says he; queer thing, but Danby
never has, although I pay him regularly--devilish improvident fellow,
Danby! So I went out and unearthed Jerningham--and paid the fellow
on the spot--only right, y' know."

"But why not pay your debts with your own money?" Barnabas inquired.

"For the very good reason that it all went,--ages ago!"

"Why, then," said Barnabas, "earn more."

"Eh?" said the Captain, staring, "earn it? My dear Beverley, I never
earned anything in my life, except my beggarly pay, and that isn't
enough even for my cravats."

"Well, why not begin?"

"Begin? To earn money? How?"

"You might work," suggested Barnabas.

"Work?" repeated the Captain, starting, "eh, what? Oh, I see, you're
joking, of course,--deuced quaint, b'gad!"

"No, I'm very serious," said Barnabas thoughtfully.

"Are you though! But what the deuce kind of work d'you suppose I'm
fit for?"

"All men can work!" said Barnabas, more thoughtfully than before.

"Well,--I can ride, and shoot, and drive a coach with any one."

"Anything more?"

"No,--not that I can think of."

"Have you never tried to work, then,--hard work, I mean?"

"Oh Lord, no! Besides, I've always been too busy, y'know. I've never
had to work. Y' see, as luck would have it, I was born a gentleman,
Beverley."

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, more thoughtful than ever, "but--what is a
gentleman?"

"A gentleman? Why--let me think!" said the Captain, manoeuvring his
horses skilfully as they swung into the Strand.

And when he had thought as far as the Savoy he spoke:

"A gentleman," said he, "is a fellow who goes to a university, but
doesn't have to learn anything; who goes out into the world, but
doesn't have to--work at anything; and who has never been
blackballed at any of the clubs. I've done a good many things in my
time, but I've never had to work."

"That is a great pity!" sighed Barnabas.

"Oh! is it, b'gad! And why?"

"Because hard work ennobles a man," said Barnabas.

"Always heard it was a deuce of a bore!" murmured the Captain.

"Exertion," Barnabas continued, growing a little didactic perhaps,
"exertion is--life. By idleness come degeneration and death."

"Sounds cursed unpleasant, b'gad!" said the Captain.

"The work a man does lives on after him," Barnabas continued,
"it is his monument when he is no more, far better than your
high-sounding epitaphs and stately tombs, yes, even though it be
only the furrow he has ploughed, or the earth his spade has turned."

"But,--my dear fellow, you surely wouldn't suggest that I should
take up--digging?"

"You might do worse," said Barnabas, "but--"

"Ha!" said the Captain, "well now, supposing I was a--deuced good
digger,--a regular rasper, b'gad! I don't know what a digger earns,
but let's be moderate and say five or six pounds a week. Well, what
the deuce good d'you suppose that would be to me? Why, I still owe
Gaunt, as far as I can figure it up, about eighty thousand pounds,
which is a deuced lot more than it sounds. I should have been
rotting in the Fleet, or the Marshalsea, years ago if it hadn't been
for my uncle's gout, b'gad!"

"His gout?"

"Precisely! Every twinge he has--up goes my credit. I'm his only heir,
y'know, and he's seventy-one. At present he's as sound as a bell,
--actually rode to hounds last week, b'gad! Consequently my
credit's--nowhere. Jolly old boy, though--deuced fond of him--ha!
there's Haynes! Over yonder! Fellow driving the phaeton with the
black-a-moor in the rumble."

"You mean the man in the bright green coat?"

"Yes. Call him 'Pea-green Haynes'--one of your second-rate, ultra
dandies. Twig his vasty whiskers, will you! Takes his fellow hours
to curl 'em. And then his cravat, b'gad!"

"How does he turn his head?" inquired Barnabas.

"Never does,--can't! I lost a devilish lot to him at hazard a few
years ago--crippled me, y' know. But talking of my uncle--devilish
fond of him--always was."

"But mark you, Beverley, a man has no right--no business to go
on living after he's seventy, at least, it shows deuced bad
taste, I think--so thoughtless, y'know. Hallo! why there's Ball
Hughes--driving the chocolate-colored coach, and got up like a
regular jarvey. Devilish rich, y'know--call him 'The Golden
Ball'--deuce of a fellow! Pitch and toss, or whist at five pound
points, damme! Won small fortune from Petersham at battledore and
shuttlecock,--played all night too."

"And have you lost to him also?"

"Of course?"

"Do you ever win?"

"Oh, well--now and then, y'know, though I'm generally unlucky. Must
have been under--Aldeboran, is it?--anyhow, some cursed star or other.
Been dogged by ill-luck from my cradle, b'gad! On the turf, in the
clubs and bells, even in the Peninsular!"

"So you fought in the Peninsular?"

"Oh, yes."

"And did you gamble there too?"

"Naturally--whenever I could."

"And did you lose?"

"Generally. Everything's been against me, y'know--even my size."

"How so?"

"Well, there was a fellow in the Eighty-eighth, name of Crichton.
I'd lost to him pretty heavily while we were before Ciudad Rodrigo.
The night before the storming--we both happened to have volunteered,
y'know--'Crichton,' says I, 'I'll go you double or quits I'm into
the town to-morrow before you are.' 'Done!' says he. Well, we
advanced to the attack about dawn, about four hundred of us. The
breach was wide enough to drive a battery through, but the enemy had
thrown up a breast-work and fortified it during the night. But up we
went at the 'double,' Crichton and I in front, you may be sure. As
soon as the Frenchies opened fire, I began to run,--so did Crichton,
but being longer in the leg, I was at the breach first, and began to
scramble over the debris. Crichton was a little fellow, y' know, but
game all through, and active as a cat, and b'gad, presently above
the roar and din, I could hear him panting close behind me. Up we
went, nearer and nearer, with our fellows about a hundred yards in
our rear, clambering after us and cheering as they came. I was close
upon the confounded breastwork when I took a musket-ball through my
leg, and over I went like a shot rabbit, b'gad! Just then Crichton
panted up. 'Hurt?' says he. 'Only my leg,' says I, 'go on, and good
luck to you.' 'Devilish rough on you, Sling!' says he, and on he went.
But he'd only gone about a couple of yards when he threw up his arms
and pitched over on his face. 'Poor Crichton's done for!' says I to
myself, and made shift to crawl over to him. But b'gad! he saw me
coming, and began to crawl too. So there we were, on our hands and
knees, crawling up towards the Frenchies as hard as we could go. My
leg was deuced--uncomfortable, y' know, but I put on a spurt, and
managed to draw level with him. 'Hallo, Sling!' says he, 'here's
where you win, for I'm done!' and over he goes again. 'So am I, for
that matter,' says I--which was only the truth, Beverley. So b'gad,
there we lay, side by side, till up came our fellows, yelling like
fiends, past us and over us, and charged the breastwork with the
bayonet,--and carried it too! Presently, up came two stragglers,--a
corporal of the Eighty-eighth  and a  sergeant of 'Ours.' 'Hi,
Corporal,' yells Crichton, 'ten pounds if you can get me over the
breastwork--quick's the word!' 'Sergeant,' says I, 'twenty pounds if
you get me over first.' Well, down went the Corporal's musket and the
Sergeant's pike, and on to their backs we scrambled--a deuced
painful business for both of us, I give you my word, Beverley. So we
began our race again--mounted this time. But it was devilish bad
going, and though the Sergeant did his best, I came in a very bad
second. You see, I'm no light weight, and Crichton was."

"You lost, then?"

"Oh, of course, even my size is against me, you see." Hereupon, once
more, and very suddenly, the Captain relapsed into his gloomy mood,
nor could Barnabas dispel it; his efforts were rewarded only by
monosyllables until, swinging round into a short and rather narrow
street, he brought his horses to a walk.

"Here we are, Beverley!"

"Where?" Barnabas inquired.

"Kirby Street,--his street. And there's the house,--his house," and
Captain Slingsby pointed his whip at a high, flat-fronted house. It
was a repellent-looking place with an iron railing before it, and
beyond this railing a deep and narrow area, where a flight of damp
steps led down to a gloomy door. The street was seemingly a quiet one,
and, at this hour, deserted save for themselves and a solitary man
who stood with his back to them upon the opposite side of the way,
apparently lost in profound thought. A very tall man he was, and
very upright, despite the long white hair that showed beneath his hat,
which, like his clothes, was old and shabby, and Barnabas noticed
that his feet were bare. This man Captain Slingsby incontinent
hailed in his characteristic fashion.

"Hi,--you over there!" he called. "Hallo!" The man never stirred.
"Oho! b'gad, are you deaf? Just come over here and hold my horses
for me, will you?" The man raised his head suddenly and turned. So
quickly did he turn that the countless gleaming buttons that he wore
upon his coat rang a jingling chime. Now, looking upon this strange
figure, Barnabas started up, and springing from the curricle,
crossed the street and looked upon the man with a smile.

"Have you forgotten me?" said Barnabas. The man smiled in turn, and
sweeping off the weather-beaten hat, saluted him with an old-time
bow of elaborate grace.

"Sir." he answered in his deep, rich voice, "Billy Button never
forgets--faces. You are Barnaby Bright--Barnabas, 't is all the same.
Sir, Billy Button salutes you."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, rather diffidently, seeing the other's
grave dignity, "will you oblige me by--by holding my friend's horses?
They are rather high-spirited and nervous."

"Nervous, sir? Ah, then they need me. Billy Button shall sing to them,
horses love music, and, like trees, are excellent listeners."
Forthwith Billy Button crossed the street with his long, stately
stride, and taking the leader's bridle, fell to soothing the horses
with soft words, and to patting them with gentle, knowing hands.

"B'gad!" exclaimed the Captain, staring, "that fellow has been used
to horses--once upon a time. Poor devil!" As he spoke he glanced
from Billy Button's naked feet and threadbare clothes to his own
glossy Hessians and immaculate garments, and Barnabas saw him wince
as he turned towards the door of Jasper Gaunt's house. Now when
Barnabas would have followed, Billy Button caught him suddenly by
the sleeve.

"You are not going--there?" he whispered, frowning and nodding
towards the house.

"Yes."

"Don't!" he whispered, "don't! An evil place, a place of, sin and
shadows, of sorrow, and tears, and black despair. Ah, an evil place!
No place for Barnaby Bright."

"I must," said Barnabas.

"So say they all. Youth goes in, and leaves his youth behind; men go
in, and leave all strength and hope behind; age goes in, and creeps
out--to a grave. Hear me, Barnaby Bright. There is one within there
already marked for destruction. Death follows at his heel, for evil
begetteth evil, and the sword, the sword. He is already doomed.
Listen,--blood! I've seen it upon the door yonder,--a bloody hand! I
know, for They have told me--They--the Wise Ones. And so I come here,
sometimes by day, sometimes by night, and I watch--I watch. But this
is no place for you,--'t is the grave of youth, don't go--don't go!"

"I must," repeated Barnabas, "for another's sake."

"Then must the blighting shadow fall upon you, too,--ah, yes, I know.
Oh, Barnaby,--Barnaby Bright!"

Here, roused by the Captain's voice, rather hoarser than usual,
Barnabas turned and saw that the door of the house was open, and
that Captain Slingsby stood waiting for him with a slender,
youthful-seeming person who smiled; a pale-faced, youngish man, with
colorless hair, and eyes so very pale as to be almost imperceptible
in the pallor of his face. Now, even as the door closed, Barnabas
could hear Billy Button singing softly to the horses.




CHAPTER XXXV


HOW BARNABAS MET JASPER GAUNT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

Barnabas followed the Captain along a somewhat gloomy hall, up a
narrow and winding staircase, and here, halfway up, was a small
landing with an alcove where stood a tall, wizen-faced clock with
skeleton hands and a loud, insistent, very deliberate tick; so, up
more stairs to another hall, also somewhat gloomy, and a door which
the pale-eyed, smiling person obligingly opened, and, having ushered
them into a handsomely furnished chamber, disappeared. The Captain
crossed to the hearth, and standing before the empty grate, put up
his hand and loosened his high stock with suddenly petulant fingers,
rather as though he found some difficulty in breathing; and, looking
at him, Barnabas saw that the debonair Slingsby had vanished quite;
in his place was another--a much older man, haggard of eye, with a
face peaked, and gray, and careworn beneath the brim of the jaunty
hat.

"My dear Beverley," said he, staring down into the empty grate,
"if you 're ever in need--if you're ever reduced to--destitution,
then, in heaven's name, go quietly away and--starve! Deuced
unpleasant, of course, but it's--sooner over, b'gad!"

At this moment the smiling person reappeared at a different door,
and uttered the words:

"Captain Slingsby,--if _you_ please." Hereupon the Captain visibly
braced himself, squared his shoulders, took off his hat, crossed the
room in a couple of strides, and Barnabas was alone.

Now as he sat there waiting, he gradually became aware of a sound
that stole upon the quiet, a soft, low sound, exactly what he could
not define, nevertheless it greatly perturbed him. Therefore he rose,
and approaching that part of the room whence it proceeded, he saw
another door. And then, all at once, as he stood before this door,
he knew what the sound was, and why it had so distressed him; and,
even as the knowledge came, he opened the door and stepped into the
room beyond.

And this is what he saw:

A bare little room, or office; the pale, smiling gentleman, who
lounged in a cushioned chair, a comb in one hand, and in the other a
small pocket mirror, by the aid of which he was attending to a
diminutive tuft of flaxen whisker; and a woman, in threadbare
garments, who crouched upon a bench beside the opposite wall, her
face bowed upon her hands, her whole frame shaken by great,
heart-broken, gasping sobs,--a sound full of misery, and of
desolation unutterable.

At the opening of the door, the pale gentleman started and turned,
and the woman looked up with eyes swollen and inflamed by weeping.

"Sir," said the pale gentleman, speaking softly, yet in the tone of
one used to command, "may I ask what this intrusion means?" Now as
he looked into the speaker's pallid eyes, Barnabas saw that he was
much older than he had thought. He had laid aside the comb and mirror,
and now rose in a leisurely manner, and his smile was more
unpleasant than ever as he faced Barnabas.

"This place is private, sir--you understand, private, sir. May I
suggest that you--go, that you--leave us?" As he uttered the last
two words, he thrust out his head and jaw in a very ugly manner,
therefore Barnabas turned and addressed himself to the woman.

"Pray, madam," said he, "tell me your trouble; what is the matter?"
But the woman only wrung her hands together, and stared with great,
frightened eyes at the colorless man, who now advanced, smiling still,
and tapped Barnabas smartly on the shoulder.

"The trouble is her own, sir, the matter is--entirely a private one,"
said he, fixing Barnabas with his pale stare, "I repeat, sir,--a
private one. May I, therefore, suggest that you withdraw--at once?"

"As often as you please, sir," retorted Barnabas,
bowing.

"Ah!" sighed the man, thrusting out his head again, "and what do you
want--here?"

"First, is your name Jasper Gaunt?"

"No; but it is as well known as his--better to a great many."

"And your name is--?"

"Quigly."

"Then, Mr. Quigly, pray be seated while I learn this poor creature's
sorrow."

"I think--yes, I think you'd better go," said Mr. Quigly,--"ah,
yes--and at once, or--"

"Or?" said Barnabas, smiling and clenching his fists.

"Or it will be the worse--for you--"

"Yes?"

"And for your friend the Captain."

"Yes?"

"And you will give this woman more reason for her tears!"

Then, looking from the pale, threatening eyes, and smiling lips of
the man, to the trembling fear of the weeping woman, and remembering
Slingsby's deathly cheek and shaking hand, a sudden, great anger
came upon Barnabas; his long arm shot out and, pinning Mr. Quigly by
the cravat, he shook him to and fro in a paroxysm of fury. Twice he
raised his cane to strike, twice he lowered it, and finally loosing
his grip, Mr. Quigly staggered back to the opposite wall, and leaned
there, panting.

Hereupon Barnabas, somewhat shocked at his own loss of self-restraint,
re-settled his cuff, straightened his cravat, and, when he spoke,
was more polite than ever.

"Mr. Quigly, pray sit down," said he; "I have no wish to thrash you,--it
would be a pity to spoil my cane, so--oblige me by sitting down."

Mr. Quigly opened his mouth as if to speak, but, glancing at Barnabas,
thought better of it; yet his eyes grew so pale that they seemed all
whites as he sank into the chair.

"And now," said Barnabas, turning to the crouching woman, "I don't
think Mr. Quigly will interrupt us again, you may freely tell your
trouble--if you will."

"Oh, sir,--it's my husband! He's been in prison a whole year, and
now--now he's dying--they've killed him. It was fifty pounds a year
ago. I saved, and scraped, and worked day and night, and a month
ago--I brought the fifty pounds. But then--Oh, my God!--then they
told me I must find twenty more--interest, they called it. Twenty
pounds! why, it would take me months and months to earn so much,
--and my husband was dying!--dying! But, sir, I went away despairing.
Then I grew wild,--desperate--yes, desperate--oh, believe it, sir,
and I,--I--Ah, sir--what won't a desperate woman do for one she loves?
And so I--trod shameful ways! To-day I brought the twenty pounds,
and now--dear God! now they say it must be twenty-three. Three
pounds more, and I have no more--and I can't--Oh, I--can't go back
to it again--the shame and horror--I--can't, sir!" So she covered
her face again, and shook with the bitter passion of her woe.

And, after a while, Barnabas found voice, though his voice was very
hoarse and uneven.

"I think," said he slowly, "yes, I think my cane could not have a
worthier end than splintering on your villain's back, Mr. Quigly."

But, even as Barnabas advanced with very evident purpose, a tall
figure stood framed in the open doorway.

"Ah, Quigly,--pray what is all this?" a chill, incisive voice
demanded. Barnabas turned, and lowering the cane, stood looking
curiously at the speaker. A tall, slender man he was, with a face
that might have been any age,--a mask-like face, smooth and long,
and devoid of hair as it was of wrinkles; an arresting face, with
its curving nostrils, thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, high, prominent
brow, and small, piercingly-bright eyes; quick eyes, that glinted
between their red-rimmed, hairless lids, old in their experience of
men and the ways of men. For the rest, he was clad in a rich yet
sober habit, unrelieved by any color save for the gleaming seals at
his fob, and the snowy lace at throat and wrist; his hair--evidently
a wig--curled low on either cheek, and his hands were well cared for,
with long, prehensile fingers.

"You are Jasper Gaunt, I think?" said Barnabas at last.

"At your service, sir, and you, I know, are Mr. Barnabas Beverley."

So they stood, fronting each other, the Youth, unconquered as yet,
and therefore indomitable, and the Man, with glittering eyes old in
their experience of men and the ways of men.

"You wished to see me on a matter of business, Mr. Beverley?"

"Yes."

"Then pray step this way."

"No," said Barnabas, "first I require your signature to this lady's
papers."

Jasper Gaunt smiled, and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Such clients as this, sir,--I leave entirely to Mr. Quigly."

"Then, in this instance, sir, you will perhaps favor me by giving
the matter your personal attention!"

Jasper Gaunt hesitated, observed the glowing eye, flushed cheek,
and firm-set lips of the speaker, and being wise in men and their
ways,--bowed.

"To oblige you, Mr. Beverley, with pleasure. Though I understand
from Mr. Quigly that she is unable to meet--"

"Seventy-eight pounds, sir! She can pay it all--every blood-stained,
tear-soaked farthing. She should meet it were it double--treble the
sum!" said Barnabas, opening his purse.

"Ah, indeed, I see! I see!" nodded Jasper Gaunt. "Take the money,
Quigly, I will make out the receipt. If you desire, you shall see me
sign it, Mr. Beverley." So saying, he crossed to the desk, wrote the
document, and handed it to Barnabas, with a bow that was almost
ironical.

Then Barnabas gave the precious paper into the woman's eager fingers,
and looked down into the woman's shining eyes.

"Sir," said she between trembling lips, "I cannot thank you,--I--I
cannot. But God sees, and He will surely repay."

"Indeed," stammered Barnabas, "I--it was only three pounds, after all,
and--there,--go,--hurry away to your husband, and--ah! that reminds
me,--he will want help, perhaps!" Here Barnabas took out his card,
and thrust it into her hand. "Take that to my house, ask to see my
Steward, Mr. Peterby,--stay, I'll write the name for you, he will
look after you, and--good-by!"

"It is a truly pleasant thing to meet with heartfelt gratitude, sir,"
said Jasper Gaunt, as the door closed behind the woman. "And now I
am entirely at your service,--this way, sir."

Forthwith Barnabas followed him into another room, where sat the
Captain, his long legs stretched out before him, his chin on his
breast, staring away at vacancy.

"Sir," said Jasper Gaunt, glancing from Barnabas to the Captain and
back again, "he will not trouble us, I think, but if you wish him to
withdraw--?"

"Thank you--no," answered Barnabas, "Captain Slingsby is my friend!"
Jasper Gaunt bowed, and seated himself at his desk opposite Barnabas.
His face was in shadow, for the blind had been half-drawn to exclude
the glare of the afternoon sun, and he sat, or rather lolled, in a
low, deeply cushioned chair, studying Barnabas with his eyes that
were so bright and so very knowing in the ways of mankind; very
still he sat, and very quiet, waiting for Barnabas to begin. Now on
the wall, immediately behind him, was a long, keen-bladed dagger,
that glittered evilly where the light caught it; and as he sat there
so very quiet and still, with his face in the shadow, it seemed to
Barnabas as though he lolled there dead, with the dagger smitten
sideways through his throat, and in that moment Barnabas fancied he
could hear the deliberate tick-tock of the wizen-faced clock upon
the stairs.

"I have come," began Barnabas at last, withdrawing his eyes from the
glittering steel with an effort, "I am here on behalf of one--in
whom I take an interest--a great interest."

"Yes, Mr. Beverley?"

"I have undertaken to--liquidate his debts."

"Yes, Mr. Beverley."

"To pay--whatever he may owe, both principal and interest."

"Indeed, Mr. Beverley! And--his name?"

"His name is Ronald Barrymaine."

"Ronald--Barrymaine!" There was a pause between the words, and the
smooth, soft voice had suddenly grown so harsh, so deep and vibrant,
that it seemed incredible the words could have proceeded from the
lips of the motionless figure lolling in the chair with his face in
the shadow and the knife glittering behind him.

"I have made out to you a draft for more than enough, as I judge, to
cover Mr. Barrymaine's liabilities."

"For how much, sir?"

"Twenty-two thousand pounds."

Then Jasper Gaunt stirred, sighed, and leaned forward in his chair.

"A handsome sum, sir,--a very handsome sum, but--" and he smiled and
shook his head.

"Pray what do you mean by 'but'?" demanded Barnabas.

"That the sum is--inadequate, sir."

"Twenty-two thousand pounds is not enough then?"

"It is--not enough, Mr. Beverley."

"Then, if you will tell me the precise amount, I will make up the
deficiency." But, here again, Jasper Gaunt smiled his slow smile and
shook his head.

"That, I grieve to say, is quite impossible, Mr. Beverley."

"Why?"

"Because I make it a rule never to divulge my clients' affairs to a
third party; and, sir,--I never break my rules."

"Then--you refuse to tell me?"

"It is--quite impossible."

So there fell a silence while the wide, fearless eyes of Youth
looked into the narrow, watchful eyes of Experience. Then Barnabas
rose, and began to pace to and fro across the luxurious carpet; he
walked with his head bent, and the hands behind his back were
tightly clenched. Suddenly he stopped, and throwing up his head faced
Jasper Gaunt, who sat lolling back in his chair again.

"I have heard," said he, "that this sum was twenty thousand pounds,
but, as you say, it may be more,--a few pounds more, or a few
hundreds more."

"Precisely, Mr. Beverley."

"I am, therefore, going to make you an offer--"

"Which I must--refuse."

"And my offer is this: instead of twenty thousand pounds I will
double the sum."

Jasper Gaunt's lolling figure grew slowly rigid, and leaning across
the desk, he stared up at Barnabas under his hairless brows. Even
Captain Slingsby stirred and lifted his heavy head.

"Forty thousand pounds!" said Jasper Gaunt, speaking almost in a
whisper.

"Yes," said Barnabas, and sitting down, he folded his arms a little
ostentatiously. Jasper Gaunt's head drooped, and he stared down at
the papers on the desk before him, nor did he move, only his long,
white fingers began to tap softly upon his chair-arms, one after the
other.

"I will pay you forty thousand pounds," said Barnabas. Then, all in
one movement as it seemed, Gaunt had risen and turned to the window,
and stood there awhile with his back to the room.

"Well?" inquired Barnabas at last.

"I--cannot, sir."

"You mean--will not!" said Barnabas, clenching his fists.

"Cannot, sir." As Gaunt turned, Barnabas rose and approached him
until barely a yard separated them, until he could look into the
eyes that glittered between their hairless lids, very like the
cruel-looking dagger on the wall.

"Very well," said Barnabas, "then I'll treble it. I'll pay you sixty
thousand pounds! What do you say? Come--speak!" But now, the eyes so
keen and sharp to read men and the ways of men wavered and fell
before the indomitable steadfastness of unconquered Youth; the long,
white hands beneath their ruffles seemed to writhe with griping,
contorted fingers, while upon his temple was something that
glittered a moment, rolled down his cheek, and so was gone.

"Speak!" said Barnabas.

Yet still no answer came, only Jasper Gaunt sank down in his chair
with his elbows on the desk, his long, white face clasped between
his long, white hands, staring into vacancy; but now his smooth brow
was furrowed, his narrow eyes were narrower yet, and his thin lips
moved as though he had whispered to himself "sixty thousand pounds!"

"Sir,--for the last time--do you accept?" demanded Barnabas.

Without glancing up, or even altering the direction of his vacant
stare, and with his face still framed between his hands, Jasper
Gaunt shook his head from side to side, once, twice, and thrice; a
gesture there was no mistaking.

Then Barnabas fell back a step, with clenched fist upraised, but in
that moment the Captain was before him and had caught his arm.

"By Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed in a shaken voice, "are you mad?"

"No," said Barnabas, "but I came here to buy those bills, and buy
them I will! If trebling it isn't enough, then--"

"Ah!" cried Slingsby, pointing to the usurer's distorted face,
"can't you see? Don't you guess? He can't sell! No money-lender of
'em all could resist such an offer. I tell you he daren't sell, the
bills aren't his! Come away--"

"Not his!" cried Barnabas, "then whose?"

"God knows! But it's true,--look at him!"

"Tell me," cried Barnabas, striving to see Gaunt's averted eyes,
"tell me who holds these bills,--if you have one spark of
generosity--tell me!"

But Jasper Gaunt gave no sign, only the writhing fingers crept
across his face, over staring eyes and twitching lips.

So, presently, Barnabas suffered Captain Slingsby to lead him from
the room, and down the somewhat dark and winding stair, past the
wizen-faced clock, out into the street already full of the glow of
evening.

"It's a wonder to me," said the Captain, "yes, it's a great wonder
to me, that nobody has happened to kill Gaunt before now."

So the Captain frowned, sighed, and climbed up to his seat. But,
when Barnabas would have followed, Billy Button touched him on the
arm.

"Oh, Barnaby!" said he, "oh, Barnaby Bright, look--the day is dying,
the shadows are coming,--in a little while it will be night. But, oh
Youth, alas! alas! I can see the shadows have touched you already!"
And so, with a quick upflung glance at the dismal house, he turned,
waved his hand, and sped away on noiseless feet, and so was gone.




CHAPTER XXXVI


OF AN ETHICAL DISCUSSION, WHICH THE READER IS ADVISED TO SKIP

Oho! for the rush of wind in the hair, for the rolling thunder of
galloping hoofs, now echoing on the hard, white road, now muffled in
dewy grass.

Oho! for the horse and his rider and the glory of them; for the long,
swinging stride that makes nothing of distance, for the tireless
spring of the powerful loins, for the masterful hand on the bridle,
strong, yet gentle as a caress, for the firm seat--the balance and
sway that is an aid to speed, and proves the born rider. And what
horse should this be but Four-legs, his black coat glossy and
shining in the sun, his great, round hoofs spurning the flying earth,
all a-quiver with high courage, with life and the joy of it? And who
should be the rider but young Barnabas?

He rides with his hat in his whip-hand, that he may feel the wind,
and with never a look behind, for birds are carolling from the cool
freshness of dewy wood and copse, in every hedge and tree the young
sun has set a myriad gems flashing and sparkling; while, out of the
green distance ahead, Love is calling; brooks babble of it, birds
sing of it, the very leaves find each a small, soft voice to whisper
of it.

So away--away rides Barnabas by village green and lonely cot, past
hedge and gate and barn, up hill and down hill,--away from the dirt
and noise of London, away from its joys and sorrows, its splendors
and its miseries, and from the oncoming, engulfing shadow. Spur and
gallop, Barnabas,--ride, youth, ride! for the shadow has already
touched you, even as the madman said.

Therefore while youth yet abides, while the sun yet shines,--ride,
Barnabas, ride!

Now as he went, Barnabas presently espied a leafy by-lane, and
across this lane a fence had been erected,--a high fence, but with a
fair "take-off" and consequently, a most inviting fence. At this,
forthwith, Barnabas rode, steadied Four-legs in his stride, touched
him with the spur, and cleared it with a foot to spare. Then, all at
once, he drew rein and paced over the dewy grass to where, beneath
the hedge, was a solitary man who knelt before a fire of twigs
fanning it to a blaze with his wide-eaved hat.

He was a slender man, and something stooping of shoulder, and his
hair shone silver-white in the sunshine. Hearing Barnabas approach,
he looked up, rose to his feet, and so stood staring as one in doubt.
Therefore Barnabas uncovered his head and saluted him with grave
politeness.

"Sir," said he, reining in his great horse, "you have not forgotten
me, I hope?"

"No indeed, young sir," answered the Apostle of Peace, with a
dawning smile of welcome. "But you are dressed very differently from
what I remember. The quiet, country youth has become lost, and
transfigured into the dashing Corinthian. What a vast difference
clothes can make in one! And yet your face is the same, your
expression unchanged. London has not altered you yet, and I hope it
never may. No, sir, your face is not one to be forgotten,--indeed it
reminds me of other days."

"But we have only met once before," said Barnabas.

"True! And yet I seem to have known you years ago,--that is what
puzzles me! But come, young sir,--if you have time and inclination
to share a vagrant's breakfast, I can offer you eggs and new milk,
and bread and butter,--simple fare, but more wholesome than your
French ragouts and highly-seasoned dishes."

"You are very kind," said Barnabas, "the ride has made me hungry,
--besides, I should like to talk with you."

"Why, then--light down from that great horse of yours, and join me.
The grass must be both chair and table, but here is a tree for your
back, and the bank for mine."

So, having dismounted and secured his horse's bridle to a convenient
branch, Barnabas sat himself down with his back to the tree, and
accepted the wandering Preacher's bounty as freely as it was offered.
And when the Preacher had spoken a short grace, they began to eat,
and while they ate, to talk, as follows:

_Barnabas_.  "It is three weeks, I think, since we met?"

_The Preacher_. "A month, young sir."

_Barnabas_. "So long a time?"

_The Preacher_. "So short a time. You have been busy, I take it?"

_Barnabas_. "Yes, sir. Since last we met I have bought a house and set
up an establishment in London, and I have also had the good fortune
to be entered for the Gentleman's Steeplechase on the fifteenth."

_The Preacher_.  "You are rich, young sir?"

_Barnabas_. "And I hope to be famous also."

_The Preacher_. "Then indeed do I begin to tremble for you."

_Barnabas_ (staring).  "Why so?"

_The Preacher_. "Because wealth is apt to paralyze effort, and Fame is
generally harder to bear, and far more dangerous, than failure."

_Barnabas_.  "How dangerous, sir?"

_The Preacher_. "Because he who listens too often to the applause of
the multitude grows deaf to the voice of Inspiration, for it is a
very small, soft voice, and must be hearkened for, and some call it
Genius, and some the Voice of God--"

_Barnabas_. "But Fame means Power, and I would succeed for the sake of
others beside myself. Yes,--I must succeed, and, as I think you once
said, all things are possible to us! Pray, what did you mean?"

_The Preacher_.  "Young sir, into each of us who are born into this
world God puts something of Himself, and by reason of this Divine
part, all things are possible."

_Barnabas_. "Yet the world is full of failures."

_The Preacher_. "Alas! yes; but only because men do not realize power
within them. For man is a selfish creature, and Self is always
grossly blind. But let a man look within himself, let him but become
convinced of this Divine power, and the sure and certain knowledge
of ultimate success will be his. So, striving diligently, this power
shall grow within him, and by and by he shall achieve great things,
and the world proclaim him a Genius."

_Barnabas_. "Then--all men might succeed."

_The Preacher_. "Assuredly! for success is the common heritage of Man.
It is only Self, blind, ignorant Self, who is the coward, crying 'I
cannot! I dare not! It is impossible!'"

_Barnabas_. "What do you mean by 'Self'?"

_The Preacher_. "I mean the grosser part, the slave that panders to
the body, a slave that, left unchecked, may grow into a tyrant, a
Circe, changing Man to brute."

Here Barnabas, having finished his bread and butter, very
thoughtfully cut himself another slice.

_Barnabas_ (still thoughtful). "And do you still go about preaching
Forgetfulness of Self, sir?"

_The Preacher_. "And Forgiveness, yes. A good theme, young sir,
but--very unpopular. Men prefer to dwell upon the wrongs done them,
rather than cherish the memory of benefits conferred. But,
nevertheless, I go up and down the ways, preaching always."

_Barnabas_. "Why, then, I take it, your search is still unsuccessful."

_The Preacher_. "Quite! Sometimes a fear comes upon me that she may be
beyond my reach--"

_Barnabas_. "You mean--?"

_The Preacher_. "Dead, sir. At such times, things grow very black
until I remember that God is a just God, and therein lies my sure
and certain hope. But I would not trouble you with my griefs, young
sir, more especially on such a glorious morning,--hark to the
throstle yonder, he surely sings of Life and Hope. So, if you will,
pray tell me of yourself, young sir, of your hopes and ambitions."

_Barnabas_. "My ambitions, sir, are many, but first,--I would be a
gentleman."

_The Preacher_ (nodding). "Good! So far as it goes, the ambition is a
laudable one."

_Barnabas_ (staring thoughtfully at his bread and butter). "The first
difficulty is to know precisely what a gentleman should be. Pray, sir,
what is your definition?"

_The Preacher_. "A gentleman, young sir, is (I take it) one born with
the Godlike capacity to think and feel for others, irrespective of
their rank or condition."

_Barnabas_. "Hum! One who is unselfish?"

_The Preacher_. "One who possesses an ideal so lofty, a mind so
delicate, that it lifts him above all things ignoble and base, yet
strengthens his hands to raise those who are fallen--no matter how
low. This, I think, is to be truly a gentleman, and of all gentle
men Jesus of Nazareth was the first."

_Barnabas_ (shaking his head). "And yet, sir, I remember a whip of
small cords."

_The Preacher_. "Truly, for Evil sometimes so deadens the soul that it
can feel only through the flesh."

_Barnabas_. "Then--a man may fight and yet be a gentleman?"

_The Preacher_. "He who can forgive, can fight."

_Barnabas_. "Sir, I am relieved to know that. But must Forgiveness
always come after?"

_The Preacher_. "If the evil is truly repented of."

_Barnabas_. "Even though the evil remain?"

_The Preacher_. "Ay, young sir, for then Forgiveness becomes truly
divine."

_Barnabas_. "Hum!"

_The Preacher_. "But you eat nothing, young sir."

_Barnabas_. "I was thinking."

_The Preacher_. "Of what?"

_Barnabas_. "Sir, my thought embraced you."

_The Preacher_. "How, young sir?"

_Barnabas_. "I was wondering if you had ever heard of a man named
Chichester?"

_The Preacher_ (speaking brokenly, and in a whisper). "Sir!--young
sir,--you said--?"

_Barnabas_ (rising). "Chichester!"

_The Preacher_ (coming to his knees). "Sir,--oh, sir,--this
man--Chichester is he who stole away--my daughter,--who blasted her
honor and my life,--who--"

_Barnabas_.    "No!"

_The Preacher_ (covering his face). "Yes,--yes! God help me, it's true!
But in her shame I love her still, oh, my pride is dead long ago. I
remember only that I am her father, with all a father's loving pity,
and that she--"

_Barnabas_. "And that she is the stainless maid she always was--"

"Sir," cried the Preacher, "oh, sir,--what do you mean?" and
Barnabas saw the thin hands clasp and wring themselves, even as he
remembered Clemency's had done.

"I mean," answered Barnabas, "that she fled from pollution, and
found refuge among honest folk. I mean that she is alive and well,
that she lives but to bless your arms and feel a father's kiss of
forgiveness. If you would find her, go to the 'Spotted Cow,' near
Frittenden, and ask for 'Clemency'!"

"Clemency!" repeated the Preacher, "Clemency means mercy. And she
called herself--Clemency!" Then, with a sudden, rapturous gesture,
he lifted his thin hands, and with his eyes upturned to the blue
heaven, spoke.

"Oh, God!" he cried, "Oh, Father of Mercy, I thank Thee!" And so he
arose from his knees, and turning about, set off through the golden
morning towards Frittenden, and Clemency.




CHAPTER XXXVII


IN WHICH THE BO'SUN DISCOURSES ON LOVE AND ITS SYMPTOMS

Oho! for the warmth and splendor of the mid-day sun; for the dance
and flurry of leafy shadows on the sward; for stilly wayside pools
whose waters, deep and dark in the shade of overhanging boughs, are
yet dappled here and there with glory; for merry brooks leaping
and laughing along their stony beds; for darkling copse and sunny
upland,--oho! for youth and life and the joy of it.

To the eyes of Barnabas, the beauty of the world about him served
only to remind him of the beauty of her who was compounded of all
things beautiful,--the One and Only Woman, whose hair was yellow
like the ripening corn, whose eyes were deep and blue as the infinite
heaven, whose lips were red as the poppies that bloomed beside the
way, and whose body was warm with youth, and soft and white as the
billowy clouds above.

Thus on galloped Barnabas with the dust behind and the white road
before, and with never a thought of London, or its wonders, or the
gathering shadow.

It was well past noon when he beheld a certain lonely church where
many a green mound and mossy headstone marked the resting-place of
those that sleep awhile. And here, beside the weather-worn porch,
were the stocks, that "place of thought" where Viscount Devenham had
sat in solitary, though dignified meditation. A glance, a smile, and
Barnabas was past, and galloping down the hill towards where the
village nestled in the valley. Before the inn he dismounted, and,
having seen Four-legs well bestowed, and given various directions to
a certain sleepy-voiced ostler, he entered the inn, and calling for
dinner, ate it with huge relish. Now, when he had done, came the
landlord to smoke a pipe with him,--a red-faced man, vast of paunch
and garrulous of tongue.

"Fine doin's there be up at t' great 'ouse, sir," he began.

"You mean Annersley House?"

"Ay, sir. All the quality is there,--my son's a groom there an' 'e
told me, so 'e did. Theer ain't nobody as ain't either a Markus or a
Earl or a Vi'count, and as for Barry-nets, they're as thick as flies,
they are,--an' all to meet a little, old 'ooman as don't come up to
my shoulder! But then--she's a Duchess, an' that makes all the
difference!"

"Yes, of course," said Barnabas.

"A little old 'ooman wi' curls, as don't come no-wise near so 'igh
as my shoulder! Druv up to that theer very door as you see theer, in
'er great coach an' four, she did,--orders the steps to be lowered,
--comes tapping into this 'ere very room with 'er little cane, she do,
--sits down in that theer very chair as you're a-sittin' in, she do,
fannin' 'erself with a little fan--an' calls for--now, what d' ye
suppose, sir?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"She calls, sir,--though you won't believe me, it aren't to be
expected,--no, not on my affer-daver,--she being a Duchess, ye see--"

"Well, what did she call for?" inquired Barnabas, rising.

"Sir, she called for--on my solemn oath it's true--though I don't ax
ye to believe me, mind,--she sat in that theer identical chair,--an'
mark me, 'er a Duchess,--she sat in that cheer, a-fannin' 'erself
with 'er little fan, an' calls for a 'arf of Kentish ale--'Westerham
brew,' says she; an' 'er a Duchess! In a tankard! But I know as you
won't believe me,--nor I don't ax any man to,--no, not if I went
down on my bended marrer-bones--"

"But I do believe you," said Barnabas.

"What--you do?" cried the landlord, almost reproachfully.

"Certainly! A Duchess is, sometimes, almost human."

"But you--actooally--believe me?"

"Yes."

"Well--you surprise me, sir! Ale! A Duchess! In a tankard! No, it
aren't nat'ral. Never would I ha' believed as any one would ha'
believed such a--"

But here Barnabas laughed, and taking up his hat, sallied out into
the sunshine.

He went by field paths that led him past woods in whose green
twilight thrushes and blackbirds piped, by sunny meadows where larks
mounted heavenward in an ecstasy of song, and so, eventually he
found himself in a road where stood a weather-beaten finger-post,
with its two arms wide-spread and pointing:

     TO LONDON.    TO HAWKHURST

Here Barnabas paused a while, and bared his head as one who stands
on hallowed ground. And looking upon the weather-worn finger-post,
he smiled very tenderly, as one might who meets an old friend. Then
he went on again until he came to a pair of tall iron gates,
hospitable gates that stood open as though inviting him to enter.
Therefore he went on, and thus presently espied a low, rambling
house of many gables, about which were trim lawns and stately trees.
Now as he stood looking at this house, he heard a voice near by, a
deep, rolling bass upraised in song, and the words of it were these:

  "What shall we do with the drunken sailor,
   Heave, my lads, yo-ho!
     Why, put him in the boat and roll him over,
     Put him in the boat till he gets sober,
     Put him in the boat and roll him over,
   With a heave, my lads, yo-ho!"

Following the direction of this voice, Barnabas came to a lawn
screened from the house by hedges of clipped yew. At the further end
of this lawn was a small building which had been made to look as
much as possible like the after-cabin of a ship. It had a door midway,
with a row of small, square windows on either side, and was flanked
at each end by a flight of wooden steps, with elaborately carved
hand-rails, that led up to the quarterdeck above, which was
protected by more carved posts and rails. Here a stout pole had been
erected and rigged with block and fall, and from this, a flag
stirred lazily in the gentle wind.

Now before this building, his blue coat laid by, his shirt sleeves
rolled up, his glazed hat on the back of his head, was the Bo'sun,
polishing away at a small, brass cannon that was mounted on a
platform, and singing lustily as he worked. So loudly did he sing,
and so engrossed was he, that he did not look up until he felt
Barnabas touch him. Then he started, turned, stared, hesitated, and,
finally, broke into a smile.

"Ah, it's you, sir,--the young gemman as bore away for Lon'on
alongside Master Horatio, his Lordship!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, extending his hand, "how are you, Bo'sun?"

"Hearty, sir, hearty, I thank ye!" Saying which he touched his
forehead, rubbed his hand upon his trousers, looked at it, rubbed it
again, and finally gave it to Barnabas, though with an air of apology.
"Been making things a bit ship-shape, sir, 'count o' this here day
being a occasion,--but I'm hearty, sir, hearty, I thank ye."

"And the Captain," said Barnabas with some hesitation. "How is the
Captain?"

"The Cap'n, sir," answered the Bo'sun, "the Cap'n is likewise hearty."

"And--Lady Cleone--is she well, is she happy?"

"Why, sir, she's as 'appy as can be expected--under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Love, sir."

"Love!" exclaimed Barnabas, "why, Bo'sun--what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, as she's fell in love at last--

"How do you know--who with--where is she--?"

"Well, sir, I know on account o' 'er lowness o' sperrits,--noticed
it for a week or more. Likewise I've heered 'er sigh very frequent,
and I've seen 'er sit a-staring up at the moon--ah, that I have!
Now lovers is generally low in their sperrits, I've heered tell,
and they allus stare very 'ard at the moon,--why, I don't know,
but they do,--leastways, so I've--"

"But--in love--with whom? Can I see her? Where is she? Are you sure?"

"And sartain, sir. Only t' other night, as I sat a-smoking my pipe
on the lawn, yonder,--she comes out to me, and nestles down under my
lee--like she used to years ago. 'Jerry, dear,' says she, 'er voice
all low and soft-like, 'look at the moon,--how beautiful it is!' says
she, and--she give a sigh. 'Yes, my lady,' says I. 'Oh, Jerry,' says
she, 'call me Clo, as you used to do.' 'Yes, my Lady Clo,' says I.
But she grapples me by the collar, and stamps 'er foot at  me, all
in a moment. 'Leave out the 'lady,'' says she. 'Yes, Clo,' says I.
So she nestles an' sighs and stares at the moon again. 'Jerry, dear,'
says she after a bit, 'when will the moon be at the full?' 'To-morrer,
Clo,' says I. And after she's stared and sighed  a bit longer--'Jerry,
dear,' says she again, 'it's sweet to think that while we are
looking up at the moon--others perhaps are looking at it too, I mean
others who are far away. It--almost seems to bring them nearer,
doesn't it? Then I knowed as 't were love, with a big L, sartin and
sure, and--"

"Bo'sun," said Barnabas, catching him by the arm, "who is it she
loves?"

"Well, sir,--I aren't quite sure, seeing as there are so many on 'em
in 'er wake, but I think,--and I 'ope, as it's 'is Lordship, Master
Horatio."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, his frowning brow relaxing.

"If it ain't 'im,--why then it's mutiny,--that's what it is, sir!"

"Mutiny?"

"Ye see, sir," the Bo'sun went on to explain, "orders is orders, and
if she don't love Master Horatio--well, she ought to."

"Why?"

"Because they was made for each other. Because they was promised to
each other years ago. It were all arranged an' settled 'twixt Master
Horatio's father, the Earl, and Lady Cleone's guardian, the Cap'n."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "and where is she--and the Captain?"

"Out, sir; an' she made him put on 'is best uniform, as he only
wears on Trafalgar Day, and such great occasions. She orders out the
fam'ly coach, and away they go, 'im the very picter o' what a
post-captain o' Lord Nelson should be (though to be sure, there's a
darn in his white silk stocking--the one to starboard, just abaft
the shoe-buckle, and, therefore, not to be noticed, and I were allus
'andy wi' my needle), and her--looking the picter o' the handsomest
lady, the loveliest, properest maid in all this 'ere world. Away
they go, wi' a fair wind to sarve 'em, an' should ha' dropped anchor
at Annersley House a full hour ago."

"At Annersley?" said Barnabas. "There is a reception there, I hear?"

"Yes, sir, all great folk from Lon'on, besides country folk o'
quality,--to meet the Duchess o' Camberhurst, and she's the greatest
of 'em all. Lord! There's enough blue blood among 'em to float a
Seventy-four. Nat'rally, the Cap'n wanted to keep a good offing to
windward of 'em. 'For look ye, Jerry,' says he, 'I'm no confounded
courtier to go bowing and scraping to a painted old woman, with a
lot of other fools, just because she happens to be a duchess,--no,
damme!' and down 'e sits on the breech o' the gun here. But, just
then, my lady heaves into sight, brings up alongside, and comes to
an anchor on his knee. 'Dear,' says she, with her round, white arm
about his neck, and her soft, smooth cheek agin his, 'dear, it's
almost time we began to dress.' 'Dress?' says he, 'what for, Clo,--I
say, what d'ye mean?' 'Why, for the reception,' says she. 'To-day is
my birthday' (which it is, sir, wherefore the flag at our peak,
yonder), 'and I know you mean to take me,' says she, 'so I told
Robert we should want the coach at three. So come along and
dress,--like a dear.' The Cap'n stared at 'er, dazed-like, give
me a look, and,--well--" the Bo'sun smiled and shook his head.
"Ye see, sir, in some ways the Cap'n 's very like a ordinary man,
arter all!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII


HOW  BARNABAS  CLIMBED A WALL

Now presently, as he went, he became aware of a sound that was not
the stir of leaves, nor the twitter of birds, nor the music of
running waters, though all these were in his ears,--for this was
altogether different; a distant sound that came and went, that
swelled to a murmur, sank to a whisper, yet never wholly died away.
Little by little the sound grew plainer, more insistent, until,
mingled with the leafy stirrings, he could hear a plaintive melody,
rising and falling, faint with distance.

Hereupon Barnabas halted suddenly, his chin in hand, his brow
furrowed in thought, while over his senses stole the wailing melody
of the distant violins. A while he stood thus, then plunged into the
cool shadow of a wood, and hurried on by winding tracks, through
broad glades, until the wood was left behind, until the path became
a grassy lane; and ever the throbbing melody swelled and grew. It
was a shady lane, tortuous and narrow, but on strode Barnabas until,
rounding a bend, he beheld a wall, an ancient, mossy wall of red
brick; and with his gaze upon this, he stopped again. But the melody
called to him, louder now and more insistent, and mingled with the
throb of the violins was the sound of voices and laughter.

Then, standing on tip-toe, Barnabas set his hands to the coping of
the wall, and drawing himself up, caught a momentary vision of
smiling gardens, of green lawns where bright figures moved, of
winding walks and neat trimmed hedges, ere, swinging himself over,
he dropped down among a bed of Sir George Annersley's stocks.

Before him was a shady walk winding between clipped yews, and,
following this, Barnabas presently espied a small arbor some
distance away. Now between him and this arbor was a place where four
paths met, and where stood an ancient sun-dial with quaintly carved
seats. And here, the sun making a glory of her wondrous hair, was my
Lady Cleone, with the Marquis of Jerningham beside her. She sat with
her elbow on her knee and her dimpled chin upon her palm, and, even
from where he stood, Barnabas could see again the witchery of her
lashes that drooped dark upon the oval of her cheek.

The Marquis was talking earnestly, gesturing now and then with his
slender hand that had quite lost its habitual languor, and stooping
that he might look into the drooping beauty of her face, utterly
regardless of the havoc he thus wrought upon the artful folds of his
marvellous cravat. All at once she looked up, laughed and shook her
head, and, closing her fan, pointed with it towards the distant house,
laughing still, but imperious. Hereupon the Marquis rose, albeit
unwillingly, and bowing, hurried off to obey her behest. Then Cleone
rose also, and turning, went on slowly toward the arbor, with head
drooping as one in thought.

And now, with his gaze upon that shapely back, all youthful
loveliness from slender foot to the crowning glory of her hair,
Barnabas sighed, and felt his heart leap as he strode after her. But,
even as he followed, oblivious of all else under heaven, he beheld
another back that obtruded itself suddenly upon the scene, a broad,
graceful back in a coat of fine blue cloth,--a back that bore itself
with a masterful swing of the shoulders. And, in that instant,
Barnabas recognized Sir Mortimer Carnaby.

Cleone had reached the arbor, but on the threshold turned to meet
Sir Mortimer's sweeping bow. And now she seemed to hesitate, then
extended her hand, and Sir Mortimer followed her into the arbor. My
lady's cheeks were warm with rich color, her eyes were suddenly and
strangely bright as she sank into a chair, and Sir Mortimer,
misinterpreting this, had caught and imprisoned her hands.

"Cleone," said he, "at last!" The slender hands fluttered in his
grasp, but his grasp was strong, and, ere she could stay him, he was
down before her on his knee, and speaking quick and passionately.

"Cleone!--hear me! nay, I will speak! All the afternoon I have tried
to get a word with you, and now you must hear me--you shall. And
yet you know what I would say. You know I love you, and have done
from the first hour I saw you. And from that hour I've hungered for
your, Cleone, do you hear?  Ah, tell me you love me!"

But my lady sat wide-eyed, staring at the face amid the leaves
beyond the open window,--a face so handsome, yet so distorted; saw
the gleam of clenched teeth, the frowning brows, the menacing gray
eyes.

Sir Mortimer, all unconscious, had caught her listless hands to his
lips, and was speaking again between his kisses.

"Speak, Cleone! You know how long I have loved you,--speak and bid
me hope! What, silent still? Why, then--give me that rose from your
bosom,--let it be hope's messenger, and speak for you."

But still my lady sat dumb, staring up at the face amid the leaves,
the face of Man Primeval, aglow with all the primitive passions;
beheld the drawn lips and quivering nostrils, the tense jaw savage
and masterful, and the glowing eyes that threatened her. And, in
that moment, she threw tip her head rebellious, and sighed, and
smiled,--a woman's smile, proud, defiant; and, uttering no word,
gave Sir Mortimer the rose. Then, even as she did so, sprang to her
feet, and laughed, a little tremulously, and bade Sir Mortimer Go! Go!
Go! Wherefore, Sir Mortimer, seeing her thus, and being wise in the
ways of women, pressed the flower to his lips, and so turned and
strode off down the path. And when his step had died away Cleone
sank down in the chair, and spoke.

"Come out--spy!" she called. And Barnabas stepped out from the leaves.
Then, because she knew what look was in his eyes, she kept her own
averted; and because she was a woman young, and very proud, she
lashed him with her tongue.

"So much for your watching and listening!" said she.

"But--he has your rose!" said Barnabas.

"And what of that?"

"And he has your promise!"

"I never spoke--"

"But the rose did!"

"The rose will fade and wither--"

"But it bears your promise--"

"I gave no promise, and--and--oh, why did you--look at me!"

"Look at you?"

"Why did you frown at me?"

"Why did you give him the rose?"

"Because it was so my pleasure. Why did you frown at me with eyes
like--like a devil's?"

"I wanted to kill him--then!"

"And now?"

"Now, I wish him well of his bargain, and my thanks are due to him."

"Why?"

"Because, without knowing it, he has taught me what women are."

"What do you mean?"

"I--loved you, Cleone. To me you were one apart--holy, immaculate--"

"Yes?" said Cleone very softly.

"And I find you--"

"Only a--woman, sir,--who will not be watched, and frowned at, and
spied upon."

"--a heartless coquette--" said Barnabas.

"--who despises eavesdroppers, and will not be spied upon, or
frowned at!"

"I did not spy upon you," cried Barnabas, stung at last, "or if I did,
God knows it was well intended."

"How, sir?"

"I remembered the last time we three were together,--in Annersley
Wood."  Here my lady shivered and hid her face. "And now, you gave
him the rose! Do you want the love of this man, Cleone?"

"There is only one man in all the world I despise more, and his name
is--Barnabas," said she, without looking up.

"So you--despise me, Cleone?"

"Yes--Barnabas."

"And I came here to tell you that I--loved you--to ask you to be my
wife--"

"And looked at me with Devil's eyes--"

"Because you were mine, and because he--"

"Yours, Barnabas? I never said so."

"Because I loved you--worshipped you, and because--"

"Because you were--jealous, Barnabas!"

"Because I would have my wife immaculate--"

"But I am not your--wife."

"No," said Barnabas, frowning, "she must be immaculate."

Now when he said this he heard her draw a long, quivering sigh, and
with the sigh she rose to her feet and faced him, and her eyes were
wide and very bright, and the fan she held snapped suddenly across
in her white fingers.

"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip
now, your cheek should burn again."

"But I should not ask you to kiss it,--this time!" said Barnabas.

"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you--for
a creeping spy, a fool, a coward--a maligner of women. Oh,
go away,--pray  go. Leave me, lest I stifle."

But now, seeing the flaming scorn of him in her eyes, in the
passionate quiver of her hands, he grew afraid, cowed by her very
womanhood.

"Indeed," he stammered, "you are unjust. I--I did not mean--"

"Go!" said she, cold as ice, "get back over the wall. Oh! I saw you
climb over like a--thief! Go away, before I call for help--before I
call the grooms and stable-boys to whip you out into the road where
you belong--go, I say!" And frowning now, she stamped her foot, and
pointed to the wall. Then Barnabas laughed softty, savagely, and,
reaching out, caught her up in his long arms and crushed her to him.

"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to
you that my wife should come to me immaculate--fortune's spoiled
darling though she be,--petted, wooed, pampered though she is,--and,
by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will
some day call you 'wife,'--in spite of all your lovers, and all the
roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,--call them if you will." So
saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my
lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him
once,--frowning a little, panting a little,--a long wondering look
beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then
Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into
his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon
his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.




CHAPTER XXXIX


IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ALMOST HUMAN DUCHESS

"Very dramatic, sir! Though, indeed, you missed an opportunity,
and--gracious heaven, how he frowns!" A woman's voice, sharp,
high-pitched, imperious.

Barnabas started, and glancing up, beheld an ancient lady, very
small and very upright; her cheeks were suspiciously pink, her curls
suspiciously dark and luxuriant, but her eyes were wonderfully young
and handsome; one slender mittened hand rested upon the ivory head
of a stick, and in the other she carried a small fan.

"Now, he stares!" she exclaimed, as she met his look. "Lud, how he
stares! As if I were a ghost, or a goblin, instead of only an old
woman with raddled cheeks and a wig. Oh, yes! I wear a wig, sir, and
very hideous I look without it! But even I was young once upon a
time--many, many years ago, and quite as beautiful as She, indeed,
rather more so, I think,--and I should have treated you exactly as
She did--only more so,--I mean Cleone. Your blonde women are either
too cold or overpassionate,--I know, for my hair was as yellow as
Cleone's, hundreds of years ago, and I think, more abundant. To-day,
being only a dyed brunette, I am neither too cold nor over-passionate,
and I tell you, sir, you deserved it, every word."

Here Barnabas rose, and, finding nothing to say, bowed.

"But," continued the ancient lady, sweeping him with a quick,
approving gaze, "I like your face, and y-e-s, you have a very good
leg. You also possess a tongue, perhaps, and can speak?"

"Given the occasion, madam," said Barnabas, smiling.

"Ha, sir! do I talk so much then? Well, perhaps I do, for when a
woman ceases to talk she's dead, and I'm very much alive indeed. So
you may give me your arm, sir, and listen to me, and drop an
occasional remark while I take breath,--your arm, sir!" And here the
small, ancient lady held out a small, imperious hand, while her
handsome young eyes smiled up into his.

"Madam, you honor me!"

"But I am only an old woman,--with a wig!"

"Age is always honorable, madam."

"Now that is very prettily said, indeed you improve, sir. Do you
know who I am?"

"No, madam; but I can guess."

"Ah, well,--you shall talk to me. Now, sir,--begin. Talk to me of
Cleone."

"Madam--I had rather not."

"Eh, sir,--you won't?"

"No, madam."

"Why, then, I will!" Here the ancient lady glanced up at Barnabas
with a malicious little smile. "Let me see, now--what were her words?
'Spy,' I think. Ah, yes--'a creeping spy,' 'a fool' and 'a coward.'
Really, I don't think I could have bettered that--even in my best
days,--especially the 'creeping spy.'"

"Madam," said Barnabas in frowning surprise, "you were listening?"

"At the back of the arbor," she nodded, "with my ear to the panelling,
--I am sometimes a little deaf, you see."

"You mean that you were--actually prying--?"

"And I enjoyed it all very much, especially your 'immaculate' speech,
which was very heroic, but perfectly ridiculous, of course. Indeed,
you are a dreadfully young, young sir, I fear. In future, I warn you
not to tell a woman, too often, how much you respect her, or she'll
begin to think you don't love her at all. To be over-respectful
doesn't sit well on a lover, and 'tis most unfair and very trying to
the lady, poor soul!"

"To hearken to a private conversation doesn't sit well on a lady,
madam, or an honorable woman."

"No, indeed, young sir. But then, you see, I'm neither. I'm only a
Duchess, and a very old one at that, and I think I told you I wore a
wig? But 'all the world loves a lover,' and so do I. As soon as ever
I saw you I knew you for a lover of the 'everything-or-nothing' type.
Oh, yes, all lovers are of different types, sir, and I think I know
'em all. You see, when I was young and beautiful--ages ago--lovers
were a hobby of mine,--I studied them, sir. And, of 'em all, I
preferred the 'everything-or-nothing, fire-and-ice, kiss-me-or-kill-me'
type. That was why I followed you, that was why I watched and listened,
and, I grieve to say, I didn't find you as deliciously brutal as I
had hoped."

"Brutal, madam? Indeed, I--"

"Of course! When you snatched her up in your arms,--and I'll admit
you did it very well,--when you had her there, you should have
covered her with burning kisses, and with an oath after each. Girls
like Cleone need a little brutality and--Ah! there's the Countess!
And smiling at me quite lovingly, I declare! Now I wonder what rod
she has in pickle for me? Dear me, sir, how dusty your coat is! And
spurred boots and buckskins are scarcely the mode for a garden fete.
Still, they're distinctive, and show off your leg to advantage,
better than those abominable Cossack things,--and I doat upon a good
leg--" But here she broke off and turned to greet the Countess,--a
large, imposing, bony lady in a turban, with the eye and the beak of
a hawk.

"My dearest Letitia!"

"My dear Duchess,--my darling Fanny, you 're younger than ever,
positively you are,--I'd never have believed it!" cried the Countess,
more hawk-like than ever. "I heard you were failing fast, but now I
look at you, dearest Fanny, I vow you don't look a day older than
seventy."

"And I'm seventy-one, alas!" sighed the Duchess, her eyes young with
mischief. "And you, my sweetest creature,--how well you look! Who
would ever imagine that we were at school together, Letitia!"

"But indeed I was--quite an infant, Fanny."

"Quite, my love, and used to do my sums for me. But let me present
to you a young friend of mine, Mr.--Mr.--dear, dear! I quite
forget--my memory is going, you see, Letitia! Mr.--"

"Beverley, madam," said Barnabas.

"Thank you,--Beverley, of course! Mr. Beverley--the Countess of Orme."

Hereupon Barnabas bowed low before the haughty stare of the keen,
hawk-like eyes.

"And now, my sweet Letty," continued the Duchess, "you are always so
delightfully gossipy--have you any news,--any stories to laugh over?"

"No, dear Fanny, neither the one nor the other--only--"

"'Only,' my love?"

"Only--but you've heard it already, of course,--you would be the
very first to know of it!"

"Letitia, my dear--I always hated conundrums, you'll remember."

"I mean, every one is talking of it, already."

"Heigho! How warm the sun is!"

"Of course it may be only gossip, but they do say Cleone Meredith
has refused the hand of your grandnephew."

"Jerningham, oh yes," added the Duchess, "on the whole, it's just as
well."

"But I thought--" the hawk-eyes were very piercing indeed. "I feared
it would be quite a blow to you--"

The Duchess shook her head, with a little ripple of laughter.

"I had formed other plans for him weeks ago,--they were quite
unsuited to each other, my love."

"I'm delighted you take it so well, my own Fanny," said the Countess,
looking the reverse. "We leave almost immediately,--but when you
pass through Sevenoaks, you must positively stay with me for a day
or two. Goodby, my sweet Fanny!" So the two ancient ladies gravely
curtsied to each other, pecked each other on either cheek, and, with
a bow to Barnabas, the Countess swept away with an imposing rustle
of her voluminous skirts.

"Cat!" exclaimed the Duchess, shaking her fan at the receding figure;
"the creature hates me fervently, and consequently, kisses me--on
both cheeks. Oh, yes, indeed, sir, she detests me--and quite
naturally. You see, we were girls together,--she's six months my
junior, and has never let me forget it,--and the Duke--God rest
him--admired us both, and, well,--I married him. And so Cleone has
actually refused poor Jerningham,--the yellow-maned minx!"

"Why, then--you didn't know of it?" inquired Barnabas.

"Oh, Innocent! of course I didn't. I'm not omniscient, and I only
ordered him to propose an hour ago. The golden hussy! the proud jade!
Refuse my grand-nephew indeed! Well, there's one of your rivals
disposed of, it seems,--count that to your advantage, sir!"

"But," said Barnabas, frowning and shaking his head, "Sir Mortimer
Carnaby has her promise!"

"Fiddlesticks!"

"She gave him the rose!" said Barnabas, between set teeth. The
Duchess tittered.

"Dear heart! how tragic you are!" she sighed. "Suppose she did,--what
then? And besides--hum! This time it is young D'Arcy, it seems,--callow,
pink, and quite harmless."

"Madam?" said Barnabas, wondering.

"Over there--behind the marble faun,--quite harmless, and very pink,
you'll notice. I mean young D'Arcy--not the faun. Clever minx! Now I
mean Cleone, of course--there she is!" Following the direction of the
Duchess's pointing fan, Barnabas saw Cleone, sure enough. Her eyes
were drooped demurely before the ardent gaze of the handsome,
pink-cheeked young soldier who stood before her, and in her white
fingers she held--a single red rose. Now, all at once, (and as
though utterly unconscious of the burning, watchful eyes of Barnabas)
she lifted the rose to her lips, and, smiling, gave it into the
young soldier's eager hand. Then they strolled away, his epaulette
very near the gleaming curls at her temple.

"Lud, young sir!" exclaimed the Duchess, catching Barnabas by the
coat, "how dreadfully sudden you are in your movements--"

"Madam, pray loose me!"

"Why?"

"I'm going--I cannot bear--any more!"

"You mean--?"

"I mean that--she has--"

"A very remarkable head, she is as resourceful as I was--almost."

"Resourceful!" exclaimed Barnabas, "she is--"

"An extremely clever girl--"

"Madam, pray let me go."

"No, sir! my finger is twisted in your buttonhole,--if you pull
yourself away I expect you'll break it, so pray don't pull; naturally,
I detest pain. And I have much to talk about."

"As you will, madam," said Barnabas, frowning.

"First, tell me--you're quite handsome when