To those who, standing apart from the rush and flurry of life, look upon the world with a seeing eye, it is, surely, interesting to observe on what small and apparently insignificant things great matters depend. To the student History abounds with examples, and to the philosopher they are to be met with everywhere.
But how should Barnabas (being neither a student nor a philosopher) know, or even guess, that all his fine ideas and intentions were to be frustrated, and his whole future entirely changed by nothing more nor less than—a pebble, an ordinary, smooth, round pebble, as innocent-seeming as any of its kind, yet (like young David's) singled out by destiny to be one of these "smaller things"?
They were sitting on the terrace, the Duchess, Cleone, Barnabas, and the Captain, and they were very silent,—the Duchess, perhaps, because she had supped adequately, the Captain because of his long, clay pipe, Cleone because she happened to be lost in contemplation of the moon, and Barnabas, because he was utterly absorbed in contemplation of Cleone.
The night was very warm and very still, and upon the quietude stole a sound—softer, yet more insistent than the whisper of wind among leaves,—a soothing, murmurous sound that seemed to make the pervading quiet but the more complete.
"How cool the brook sounds!" sighed the Duchess at last, "and the perfume of the roses,—oh dear me, how delicious! Indeed I think the scent of roses always seems more intoxicating after one has supped well, for, after all, one must be well-fed to be really romantic,—eh, Jack?"
"Romantic, mam!" snorted the Captain, "romantic,—I say bosh, mam! I say—"
"And then—the moon, Jack!"
"Moon? And what of it, mam,—I say—"
"Roses always smell sweeter by moonlight, Jack, and are far more inclined to—go to the head—"
"Roses!" snorted the Captain, louder than before, "you must be thinking of rum, mam, rum—"
"Then, Jack, to the perfume of roses, add the trill of a nightingale—"
"And of all rums, mam, give me real old Jamaica—"
"And to the trill of a nightingale, add again the murmur of an unseen brook, Jack—"
"Eh, mam, eh? Nightingales, brooks? I say—oh, Gad, mam!" and theCaptain relapsed into tobacco-puffing indignation.
"What more could youth and beauty ask? Ah, Jack, Jack!" sighed the Duchess, "had you paid more attention to brooks and nightingales, and stared at the moon in your youth, you might have been a green young grandfather to-night, instead of a hoary old bachelor in a shabby coat—sucking consolation from a clay pipe!"
"Consolation, mam! For what—I say, I demand to know for what?"
"Loneliness, Jack!"
"Eh, Duchess,—what, mam? Haven't I got my dear Clo, and the Bo'sun, eh, mam—eh?"
"The Bo'sun, yes,—he smokes a pipe, but Cleone can't, so she looks at the moon instead,—don't you dear?"
"The moon, God-mother?" exclaimed Cleone, bringing her gaze earthwards on the instant. "Why I,—I—the moon, indeed!"
"And she listens to the brook, Jack,—don't you, my dove?"
"Why, God-mother, I—the brook? Of course not!" said Cleone.
"And, consequently, Jack, you mustn't expect to keep her much longer—"
"Eh!" cried the bewildered Captain, "what's all this, Duchess,—I say, what d'ye mean, mam?"
"Some women," sighed the Duchess, "some women never know they're in love until they've married the wrong man, and then it's too late, poor things. But our sweet Clo, on the contrary—"
"Love!" snorted the Captain louder than ever, "now sink me, mam,—I say, sink and scuttle me; but what's love got to do with Clo, eh, mam?"
"More than you think, Jack—ask her!"
But lo! my lady had risen, and was already descending the terrace steps, a little hurriedly perhaps, yet in most stately fashion. Whereupon Barnabas, feeling her Grace's impelling hand upon his arm, obeyed the imperious command and rising, also descended the steps,—though in fashion not at all stately,—and strode after my lady, and being come beside her, walked on—yet found nothing to say, abashed by her very dignity. But, after they had gone thus some distance, venturing to glance at her averted face, Barnabas espied the dimple beside her mouth.
"Cleone," said he suddenly, "whathaslove to do with you?"
Now, for a moment, she looked up at him, then her lashes drooped, and she turned away.
"Oh, sir," she answered, "lift up your eyes and look upon the moon!"
"Cleone, has love—come to you—at last? Tell me!" But my lady walked on for a distance with head again averted, and—with never a word. "Speak!" said Barnabas, and caught her hand (unresisting now), and held it to his lips. "Oh, Cleone,—answer me!"
Then Cleone obeyed and spoke, though her voice was tremulous and low.
"Ah, sir," said she, "listen to the brook!"
Now it so chanced they had drawn very near this talkative stream, whose voice reached them—now in hoarse whisperings, now in throaty chucklings, and whose ripples were bright with the reflected glory of the moon. Just where they stood, a path led down to these shimmering waters,—a narrow and very steep path screened by bending willows; and, moved by Fate, or Chance, or Destiny, Barnabas descended this path, and turning, reached up his hands to Cleone.
"Come!" he said. And thus, for a moment, while he looked up into her eyes, she looked down into his, and sighed, and moved towards him, and—set her foot upon the pebble.
And thus, behold the pebble had achieved its purpose, for, next moment Cleone was lying in his arms, and for neither of them was life or the world to be ever the same thereafter.
Yes, indeed, the perfume of the roses was full of intoxication to-night; the murmurous brook whispered of things scarce dreamed of; and the waning moon was bright enough to show the look in her eyes and the quiver of her mouth as Barnabas stooped above her.
"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone—can you—do you—love me? Oh, my white lady,—my woman that I love,—do you love me?"
She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer, until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.
Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her with bent head.
"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"
"Barnabas?"
"Forgive me,—I should have spoken,—indeed, I meant to,—but I couldn't think,—it was so sudden,—forgive me! I didn't mean to even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear, —I am not—not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very —humble fellow. The son of a village—inn-keeper. Your eyes were—kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow is—unworthy, as I fear,—I—I will try to—forget."
Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke, her voice was very tender.
"Can you—ever forget?"
"I will—try!"
"Then—oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I—think I could—love this—humble fellow, Barnabas."
The moon, of course, has looked on many a happy lover, yet where find one, before or since, more radiant than young Barnabas; and the brook, even in its softest, most tender murmurs, could never hope to catch the faintest echo of Cleone's voice or the indescribable thrill of it.
And as for the pebble that was so round, so smooth and innocent-seeming, whether its part had been that of beneficent sprite, or malevolent demon, he who troubles to read on may learn.
"Oh—hif you please, sir!"
Barnabas started, and looking about, presently espied a figure in the shadow of the osiers; a very small figure, upon whose diminutive jacket were numerous buttons that glittered under the moon.
"Why—it's Milo of Crotona!" said Cleone.
"Yes, my lady—hif you please, it are," answered Milo of Crotona, touching the peak of his leather cap.
"But—what are you doing here? How did you know where to find us?"
"'Cause as I came up the drive, m'lady, I jest 'appened to see you a-walking together,—so I followed you, I did, m'lady."
"Followed us?" repeated Cleone rather faintly. "Oh!"
"And then—when I seen you slip, m'lady, I thought as 'ow I'd better—wait a bit. So I waited, I did." And here, again, Milo of Crotona touched the peak of his cap, and looked from Barnabas to Cleone's flushing loveliness with eyes wide and profoundly innocent,—a very cherub in top-boots, only his buttons (Ah, his buttons!) seemed to leer and wink one to another, as much as to say: "Oh yes! Of course! to—be—sure?"
"And what brings you so far from London?" inquired Barnabas, rather hurriedly.
"Coach, sir,—box seat, sir!"
"And you brought your master with you, of course,—is the Viscount here?"
"No, m'lady. I 'ad to leave 'im be'ind 'count of 'im being unfit to travel—"
"Is he ill?"
"Oh, no, not hill, m'lady,—only shot, 'e is."
"Shot!" exclaimed Barnabas, "how—where?"
"In the harm, sir,—all on 'count of 'is 'oss,—'Moonraker' sir."
"His horse?"
"Yessir. 'S arternoon it were. Ye see, for a long time I ain't been easy in me mind about them stables where 'im and you keeps your 'osses, sir, 'count of it not being safe enough,—worritted I 'ave, sir. So 's arternoon, as we was passing the end o' the street, I sez to m'lud, I sez, 'Won't your Ludship jest pop your nob round the corner and squint your peepers at the 'osses?' I sez. So 'e laughs, easy like, and in we pops. And the first thing we see was your 'ead groom, Mr. Martin, wiv blood on 'is mug and one peeper in mourning a-wrastling wiv two coves, and our 'ead groom, Standish, wiv another of 'em. Jest as we run up, down goes Mr. Martin, but—afore they could maul 'im wiv their trotters, there's m'lud wiv 'is fists an' me wiv a pitchfork as 'appened to lie 'andy. And very lively it were, sir, for a minute or two. Then off goes a barker and off go the coves, and there's m'lud 'olding onto 'is harm and swearing 'eavens 'ard. And that's all, sir."
"And these men were—trying to get at the horses?"
"Ah! Meant to nobble 'Moonraker,' they did,—'im bein' one o' the favorites, d' ye see, sir, and it looked to me as if they meant to do for your 'oss, 'The Terror', as well."
"And is the Viscount much hurt?"
"Why no, sir. And it were only 'is whip-arm. 'Urts a bit o' course, but 'e managed to write you a letter, 'e did; an' 'ere it is."
So Barnabas took the letter, and holding it in the moonlight whereCleone could see it, they, together, made out these words:
MY DEAR BEV,—There is durty work afoot. Some Raskells have tried to lame 'Moonraker,' but thanks to my Imp and your man Martin, quite unsuccessfully. How-beit your man Martin—regular game for all his years—has a broken nob and one ogle closed up, and I a ball through my arm, but nothing to matter. But I am greatly pirtirbed for the safety of 'Moonraker' and mean to get him into safer quarters and advise you to do likewise. Also, though your horse 'The Terror,' as the stable-boys call him, is not even in the betting, it almost seems, from what I can gather, that they meant to nobble him also. Therefore I think you were wiser to return at once, and I am anxious to see you on another matter as well. Your bets with Carnaby and Chichester have somehow got about and are the talk of the town, and from what I hear, much to your disparagement, I fear.
A pity to shorten your stay in the country, but under the circumstances, most advisable.
Yours ever, etc.,
P.S. My love and service to the Duchess, Cleone and the Capt.
Now here Barnabas looked at Cleone, and sighed, and Cleone sighing also, nodded her head:
"You must go," said she, very softly, and sighed again.
"Yes, I must go, and yet—it is so very soon, Cleone!"
"Yes, it is dreadfully soon, Barnabas. But what does he mean by saying that people are talking of you to your disparagement? How dare they? Why should they?"
"I think because I, a rank outsider, ventured to lay a wager againstSir Mortimer Carnaby."
"Do you mean you bet him that you would win the race, Barnabas?"
"No,—only that I would beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"But, oh Barnabas,—heisthe race! Surely you know he and theViscount are favorites?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then you do think you can win?"
"I mean to try—very hard!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little.
"And I begin to think," said Cleone, struck by his resolute eyes and indomitable mouth, "oh, Barnabas—I begin to think you—almost may."
"And if I did?"
"Then I should be very—proud of you."
"And if I lost?"
"Then you would be—"
"Yes?"
"Just—"
"Yes, Cleone?"
"My, Barnabas! Ah, no, no!" she whispered suddenly, "you are crushing me—dreadfully, and besides, that boy has terribly sharp eyes!" and Cleone nodded to where Master Milo stood, some distance away, with his innocent orbs lifted pensively towards the heavens, more like a cherub than ever.
"But he's not looking, and oh, Cleone,—how can I bear to leave you so soon? You are more to me than anything else in the world. You are my life, my soul,—my honor,—oh my dear!"
"Do you—love me so very much, Barnabas?" said she, with a sudden catch in her voice.
"And always must! Oh my dear, my dear,—don't you know? But indeed, words are so small and my love is so great that I fear you can never quite guess, or I tell it all."
"Then, Barnabas,—you will go?"
"Must I, Cleone? It will be so very hard to lose you—so soon."
"But a man always chooses the harder course, doesn't he, Barnabas?And, dear, you cannot lose me,—and so you will go, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll go—because I love you!"
Then Cleone drew him deeper into the shade of the willows, and with a sudden, swift gesture, reached up her hands and set them about his neck.
"Oh my dear," she murmured, "oh Barnabas dear, I think I can guess—now. And I'm sure—the boy—can't see us—here!"
No, surely, neither this particular brook nor any other water-brook, stream or freshet, that ever sang, or sighed, or murmured among the reeds, could ever hope to catch all the thrilling tenderness of the sweet soft tones of Cleone's voice.
A brook indeed? Ridiculous!
Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible, and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings, and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable, ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true, but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.
"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"
Milo of Crotona turned and—looked at her. And though his face was as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.
"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty child!"
Surely no cherub—especially one in such knowing top-boots—could be reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew positively murderous.
"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he coldly, and with his most superb air.
"Groom?" said the Duchess, staring, "what a very small one, to be sure!"
"It ain't inches as counts wiv 'osses, mam,—or hany-think else, mam, —it's nerves as counts, it is."
"Why, yes, you seem to have plenty of nerve!"
"Well, mam, there ain't much as I trembles at, there ain't,—and when I do, I don't show it, I don't."
"And such a pretty child, too!" sighed the Duchess.
"Child, mam? I ain't no child, I'm a groom, I am. Child yourself, mam!"
"Lud! I do believe he's even paying me compliments! How old are you, boy?"
"A lot more 'n you think, and hoceans more 'n I look, mam."
"And what's your name?"
"Milo, mam,—Milo o' Crotona, but my pals generally calls me Tony, for short, they do."
"Milo of Crotona!" repeated the Duchess, with her eyes wider than ever, "but he was a giant who slew an ox with his fist, and ate it whole!"
"Why, mam, I'm oncommon fond of oxes,—roasted, I am."
"Well," said the Duchess, "you are the very smallest giant I ever saw."
"Why, you ain't werry large yourself, mam, you ain't."
"No, I fear I am rather petite," said the Duchess with a trill of girlish laughter. "And pray, Giant, what may you be doing here?"
"Come up on the coach, I did,—box seat, mam,—to take Mr. Beverley back wiv me 'cause 'is 'oss ain't safe, and—"
"Not safe,—what do you mean, boy?"
"Some coves got in and tried to nobble 'Moonraker' and 'im—"
"Nobble, boy?"
"Lame 'em, mam,—put 'em out o' the running."
"The wretches!"
"Yes'm. Ye see us sportsmen 'ave our worritting times, we do."
"But where is Mr. Beverley?"
"Why, I ain't looked, mam, I ain't,—but they're down by the brook—behind them bushes, they are."
"Oh, are they!" said the Duchess, "Hum!"
"No mam,—'e's a-coming, and so's she."
"Why, Barnabas," cried the Duchess, as Cleone and he stepped out of the shadow, "what's all this I hear about your horse,—what is the meaning of it?"
"That I must start for London to-night, Duchess."
"Leave to-night? Absurd!"
"And yet, madam, Cleone seems to think I must, and so does ViscountDevenham,—see what he writes." So the Duchess took the Viscount'sletter and, having deciphered it with some difficulty, turned uponBarnabas with admonishing finger upraised:
"So you 've been betting, eh? And with Sir Mortimer Carnaby andMr. Chichester of all people?"
"Yes, madam."
"Ah! You backed the Viscount, I suppose?"
"No,—I backed myself, Duchess."
"Gracious goodness—"
"But only to beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby—"
"The other favorite. Oh, ridiculous! What odds did they give you?"
"None."
"You mean—oh, dear me!—you actually backed yourself—at even money?"
"Yes, Duchess."
"But you haven't a chance, Barnabas,—not a chance! You didn't bet much, I hope?"
"Not so much as I intended, madam."
"Pray what was the sum?"
"Twenty thousand pounds."
"Not—each?"
"Yes, madam."
"Forty thousand pounds! Against a favorite! Cleone, my dear," said the Duchess, with one of her quick, incisive nods, "Cleone, this Barnabas of ours is either a madman or a fool! And yet—stoop down, sir,—here where I can see you,—hum! And yet, Cleone, there are times when I think he is perhaps a little wiser than he seems,—nothing is so baffling as simplicity, my dear! If you wished to be talked about, Barnabas, you have succeeded admirably,—no wonder all London is laughing over such a preposterous bet. Forty thousand pounds! Well, it will at least buy you notoriety, and that is next to fame."
"Indeed, I hadn't thought of that," said Barnabas.
"And supposing your horse had been lamed and you couldn't ride,—how then?"
"Why, then, I forfeit the money, madam."
Now here the Duchess frowned thoughtfully, and thereafter said "ha!" so suddenly, that Cleone started and hurried to her side.
"Dear God-mother, what is it?"
"A thought, my dear!"
"But—"
"Call it a woman's intuition if you will."
"What is your thought, dear?"
"That you are right, Cleone,—he must go—at once!"
"Go? Barnabas?"
"Yes; to London,—now—this very instant! Unless you prefer to forfeit your money, Barnabas?"
But Barnabas only smiled and shook his head.
"You would be wiser!"
"But I was never very wise, I fear," said Barnabas.
"And—much safer!"
"Oh, God-mother,—do you think there is—danger, then?"
"Yes, child, I do. Indeed, Barnabas, you were wiser and safer to forfeit your wagers and stay here with me and—Cleone!"
But Barnabas only sighed and shook his head.
"Cleone," said the Duchess, "speak to him."
So blushing a little, sighing a little, Cleone reached out her hand to Barnabas, while the Duchess watched them with her young, bright eyes.
"Oh, Barnabas, God-mother is very wise, and if—there is danger—you mustn't go—for my sake."
But Barnabas shook his head again, and taking in his strong clasp the pleading hand upon his arm, turned to the Duchess.
"Madam," said he, "dear Duchess, to-night I have found my manhood, for to-night I have learned that a man must ever choose the hardest course and follow it—to the end. To-night Cleone has taught me—many things."
"And you will—stay?" inquired the Duchess.
"I must go!" said Barnabas.
"Then good-by—Barnabas!" said her Grace, looking up at him with a sudden, radiant smile, "good-by!" said she very softly, "it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, perhaps,—but it is a godlike thing to be—a man!" So saying, she gave him her hand, and as Barnabas stooped to kiss those small, white fingers, she looked down at his curly head with such an expression as surely few had ever seen within the eyes of this ancient, childless woman, her Grace of Camberhurst.
"Now Giant!" she called, as Barnabas turned towards Cleone, "come here, Giant, and promise me to take care of Mr. Beverley."
"Yes, mam,—all right, mam,—you jest leave 'im to me," replied Master Milo with his superb air, "don't you worrit on 'is account, 'e'll be all right along o' me, mam, 'e will."
"For that," cried the Duchess, catching him by two of his gleaming buttons, "for that I mean to kiss you, Giant!" The which, despite his reproving blushes, she did forthwith.
And Cleone and Barnabas? Well, it so chanced, her Grace's back was towards them; while as for Master Milo—abashed, and for once forgetful of his bepolished topboots, he became in very truth a child, though one utterly unused to the motherly touch of a tender woman's lips; therefore he suffered the embrace with closed eyes,—even his buttons were eclipsed, and, in that moment, the Duchess whispered something in his ear. Then he turned and followed after Barnabas, who was already striding away across the wide lawn, his head carried high, a new light in his eyes and a wondrous great joy at his heart, —a man henceforth—resolute to attempt all things, glorying in his strength and contemptuous of failure, because of the trill of a woman's voice and the quick hot touch of a woman's soft lips, whose caress had been in no sense—motherly. And presently, being come to the hospitable gates, he turned with bared head to look back at the two women, the one a childless mother, old and worn, yet wise with years, and the maid, strong and proud in all the glory of her warm, young womanhood. Side by side with arms entwined they stood, to watch young Barnabas, and in the eyes of each, an expression so much alike, yet so dissimilar. Then, with a flourish of his hat, Barnabas went on down the road, past the finger-post, with Milo of Crotona's small top-boots twinkling at his side.
"Sir," said he suddenly, speaking in an awed tone, "is she a realDoochess—the little old 'un?"
"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "very real. Why, Imp?"
"'Cos I called 'er a child, I did—Lord! An' then she—she kissed me, she did, sir—which ain't much in my line, it ain't. But she give me a guinea, sir, an' she likewise whispered in my ear, she did."
"Oh?" said Barnabas, thinking of Cleone—"whispered, did she?"
"Ah! she says to me—quick like, sir,—she says, 'tell 'im,' she says—meaning you, sir, 'tell 'im to beware o' Wilfred Chichester!' she says."
The chill of dawn was in the air as the chaise began to rumble over the London cobble-stones, whereupon Master Milo (who for the last hour had slumbered peacefully, coiled up in his corner like a kitten) roused himself, sat suddenly very upright, straightened his cap and pulled down his coat, broad awake all at once, and with his eyes as round and bright as his buttons.
"Are you tired, Imp?" inquired Barnabas, yawning.
"Tired, sir, ho no, sir—not a bit, I ain't."
"But you haven't slept much."
"Slep', sir? I ain't slep'. I only jest 'appened to close me eyes, sir. Ye see, I don't need much sleep, I don't,—four hours is enough for any man,—my pal Nick says so, and Nick knows a precious lot, 'e do."
"Who is Nick?"
"Nick's a cobbler, sir,—boots and shoes,—ladies' and gents', and a very good cobbler 'e is too, although a cripple wiv a game leg. Me and 'im's pals, sir, and though we 'as our little turn-ups 'count of 'im coming it so strong agin the Quality, I'm never very 'ard on 'im 'count of 'is crutch, d'ye see, sir."
"What do you mean by the 'Quality,' Imp?"
"Gentle-folks, sir,—rich folks like you an' m'lud. 'I'd gillertine the lot, if I'd my way,' he says, 'like the Frenchies did in Ninety-three,' 'e says. But 'e wouldn't reelly o'course, for Nick's very tender-hearted, though 'e don't like it known. So we 're pals, we are, and I often drop in to smoke a pipe wiv 'im—"
"What! Do you smoke, Imp?"
"Why, yes, o' course, sir,—all grooms smokes or chews, but I prefers a pipe—allus 'ave, ah! ever since I were a kid. But I mostly only 'as a pipe when I drop in on my pal Nick in Giles's Rents."
"Down by the River?" inquired Barnabas.
"Yessir. And now, shall I horder the post-boy to stop?"
"What for?"
"Well, the stables is near by, sir, and I thought as you might like to take a glimp at the 'osses,—just to make your mind easy, sir."
"Oh, very well!" said Barnabas, for there was something in the boy's small, eager face that he could not resist.
Therefore, having paid and dismissed the chaise, they turned into a certain narrow by-street. It was very dark as yet, although in the east was a faint, gray streak, and the air struck so chill, after the warmth of the chaise, that Barnabas shivered violently, and, happening to glance down, he saw that the boy was shivering also. On they went, side by side, between houses of gloom and silence, and thus, in a while, came to another narrow street, or rather, blind alley, at the foot of which were the stables.
"Hush, sir!" said the Imp, staring away to where the stable buildings loomed up before them, shadowy and indistinct in the dawn. "Hush, sir!" he repeated, and Barnabas saw that he was creeping forward on tip-toe, and, though scarce knowing why, he himself did the same.
They found the great swing doors fast, bolted from within, and, in this still dead hour, save for their own soft breathing, not a sound reached them. Then Barnabas laughed suddenly, and clapped Master Milo upon his small, rigid shoulder.
"There, Imp,—you see it's all right!" said he, and then paused, and held his breath.
"Did ye hear anythink?" whispered the boy.
"A chain—rattled, I think."
"And 't was in The Terror's' stall,—there? didn't ye hear somethink else, sir?"
"No!"
"I did,—it sounded like—" the boy's voice tailed off suddenly and, upon the silence, a low whistle sounded; then a thud, as of some one dropping from a height, quickly followed by another,—and thus two figures darted away, impalpable as ghosts in the dawn, but the alley was filled with the rush and patter of their flight. Instantly Barnabas turned in pursuit, then stopped and stood utterly still, his head turned, his eyes wide, glaring back towards the gloom of the stables. For, in that moment, above the sudden harsh jangling of chains from within, above the pattering footsteps of the fugitives without, was an appalling sound rising high and ever higher—shrill, unearthly, and full of horror and torment unspeakable. And now, sudden as it had come, it was gone, but in its place was another sound,—a sound dull and muffled, but continuous, and pierced, all at once, by the loud, hideous whinnying of a horse. Then Barnabas sprang back to the doors, beating upon them with his fists and calling wildly for some one to open.
And, in a while, a key grated, a bolt shrieked; the doors swung back, revealing Martin, half-dressed and with a lantern in his hand, while three or four undergrooms hovered, pale-faced, in the shadows behind.
"My horse!" said Barnabas, and snatched the lantern.
"'The Terror'!" cried Milo, "this way, sir!"
Coming to a certain shadowy corner, Barnabas unfastened and threw open the half-door; and there, rising from the gloom of the stall, was a fiendish, black head with ears laid back, eyes rolling, and teeth laid bare,—cruel teeth, whose gleaming white was hatefully splotched,—strong teeth, in whose vicious grip something yet dangled.
"Why—what's he got there!" cried Martin suddenly, and then— "Oh, my God! sir,—look yonder!" and, covering his eyes, he pointed towards a corner of the stall where the light of the lantern fell. And—twisted and contorted,—something lay there; something hideously battered, and torn, and trampled; something that now lay so very quiet and still, but which had left dark splashes and stains on walls and flooring; something that yet clutched the knife which was to have hamstrung and ended the career of Four-legs once and for all; something that had once been a man.
"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, stifling a yawn beneath the bedclothes, "you rise with the lark,—or should it be linnet? Anyhow, you do, you know. So deuced early!"
"I am here early because I haven't been to bed, Dick."
"Ah, night mail? Dev'lish uncomfortable! Didn't think you'd come back in such a deuce of a hurry, though!"
"But you wanted to see me, Dick, what is it?"
"Why,—egad, Bev, I'm afraid it's nothing much, after all.It's that fellow Smivvle's fault, really."
"Smivvle?"
"Fellow actually called here yesterday—twice, Bev. Dev'lish importunate fellow y'know. Wanted to see you,—deuced insistent about it, too!"
"Why?"
"Well, from what I could make out, he seemed to think—sounds ridiculous so early in the morning,—but he seemed to fancy you were in some kind of—danger, Bev."
"How, Dick?"
"Well, when I told him he couldn't see you because you had driven over to Hawkhurst, the fellow positively couldn't sit still—deuced nervous, y'know,—though probably owing to drink. 'Hawkhurst!' says he, staring at me as if I were a ghost, my dear fellow, 'yes,' says I, 'and the door's open, sir!' 'I see it is,' says he, sitting tight. 'But you must get him back!' 'Can't be done!' says I. 'Are you his friend?' says he. 'I hope so,' says I. 'Then,' says he, before I could remind him of the door again, 'then you must get him back— at once!' I asked him why, but he only stared and shook his head, and so took himself off. I'll own the fellow shook me rather, Bev, —he seemed so very much in earnest, but, knowing where you were, I wouldn't have disturbed you for the world if it hadn't been for the horses."
"Ah, yes—the horses!" said Barnabas thoughtfully. "How is your arm now, Dick?"
"A bit stiff, but otherwise right as a trivet, Bev. But now—about yourself, my dear fellow,—what on earth possessed you to lay Carnaby such a bet? What a perfectly reckless fellow you are! Of course the money is as good as in Carnaby's pocket already, not to mention Chichester's—damn him! As I told you in my letter, the affair has gone the round of the clubs,—every one is laughing at the 'Galloping Countryman,' as they call you. Jerningham came within an ace of fighting Tufton Green of the Guards about it, but the Marquis is deuced knowing with the barkers, and Tufton, very wisely, thought better of it. Still, I'm afraid the name will stick—!"
"And why not, Dick? I am a countryman, indeed quite a yokel in many ways, and I shall certainly gallop—when it comes to it."
"Which brings us back to the horses, Bev. I 've been thinking we ought to get 'em away—into the country—some quiet place like—say, the—the 'Spotted Cow,' Bev."
"Yes, the 'Spotted Cow' should do very well; especially as Clemency—"
"Talking about the horses, Bev," said the Viscount, sitting up in bed and speaking rather hurriedly, "I protest, since the rascally attempt on 'Moonraker' last night, I've been on pins and needles, positively,—nerve quite gone, y'know, Bev. If 'Moonraker' didn't happen to be a horse, he'd be a mare,—of course he would,—but I mean a nightmare. I've thought of him all day and dreamed of him all night, oh, most cursed, y'know! Just ring for my fellow, will you, Bev?—I'll get up, and we'll go round to the stables together."
"Quite unnecessary, Dick."
"Eh? Why?"
"Because I have just left there."
"Are the horses all right, Bev?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Ah!" sighed the Viscount, falling back among his pillows, "and everything is quite quiet, eh?"
"Very quiet,—now, Dick."
"Eh?" cried the Viscount, coming erect again, "Bev, what d' you mean?"
"I mean that three men broke in again to-night—"
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed the Viscount, beginning to scramble out of bed.
"But we drove them off before they had done—what they came for."
"Did you, Bev,—did you? ah,—but didn't you catch any of 'em?"
"No; but my horse did."
"Your horse? Oh, Beverley,—d'you mean he—"
"Killed him, Dick!"
Once more the Viscount sank back among his pillows and stared up at the ceiling a while ere he spoke again—
"By the Lord, Bev," said he, at last, "the stable-boys might well call him 'The Terror'!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "he has earned his name, Dick."
"And the man was—dead, you say?"
"Hideously dead, Dick,—and in his pocket we found this!" and Barnabas produced a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and put it into the Viscount's reluctant hand. "Look at it, Dick, and tell me what it is."
"Why, Bev,—deuce take me, it's a plan of our stables! And they've got it right, too! Here's 'Moonraker's' stall marked out as pat as you please, and 'The Terror's,' but they've got his name wrong—"
"My horse had no name, Dick."
"But there's something written here."
"Yes, look at it carefully, Dick."
"Well, here's an H, and an E, and—looks like 'Hera,' Bev!"
"Yes, but it isn't. Look at that last letter again, Dick!"
"Why, I believe—by God, Bev,—it's an E!"
"Yes,—an E, Dick."
"'Here'!" said the Viscount, staring at the paper; "why, then—why,Bev,—it was—your horse they were after!"
"My horse,—yes, Dick."
"But he's a rank outsider—he isn't even in the betting! In heaven's name, why should any one—"
"Look on the other side of the paper, Dick."
Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this:
"And Dick," said Barnabas, "it is in Chichester's handwriting."
The whiskers of Mr. Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.
He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to thecheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire.At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeingBarnabas, sank back again.
"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again—that is to say—" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner, "that is to say,—I mean—ah—in short, my dear Beverley, I'm delighted to see you!"
"Pray what do you mean by safe?"
"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean—safe, sir,—a very natural wish, surely?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"
"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,—"why, yes, of course—"
"At least, the Viscount told me so."
"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,—very!"
"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was evidently a bedroom.
"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it. You have hit the nail exactly—upon the nob, sir." Here, having found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it, and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,—it is a bitter cud, cursedly so,—wherein the milk of human kindness is curdled, sir, curdled most damnably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my friend Barry—wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the hammer of Adversity alone can weld,—scorning Friendship's holy obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,—upon Digby,—upon faithful Dig, and—in short has—ah—hopped the mutual perch, sir."
"Do you mean he has left you?"
"Yes, sir. We had words this morning—a good many and, the end of it was—he departed—for good, and all on your account!"
"My account?"
"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages, and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"
"But how on my account?"
"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine is cursed proud, but so am I—as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart of a Smivvle,—as all the world knows,—becomes a—an accursed flint, sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand to—ah—pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to remember if you fastened the front door securely?"
"No."
"I ask because the latch is faulty,—like most things about here,—and in this delightful Garden of Hatton and the—ah—hot-beds adjoining there are weeds, sir, of the rambling species which, given opportunity—will ramble anywhere. Several of 'em—choice exotics, too! have found their way up here lately,—one of 'em got in here this very morning after Barrymaine had gone,—characteristic specimen in a fur cap. But, as I was saying, you may have noticed that Chichester is not altogether—friendly towards you?"
"Chichester?" said Barnabas. "Yes!"
"And it would almost seem that he's determined that Barrymaine shall—be the same. Poor fellow's been very strange lately,—Gaunt's been pressing him again worse than ever,—even threatened him with the Marshalsea. Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually brimmed—Chichester's doing, of course,—and he seems to consider you his mortal enemy, and—in short, I think it only right to—put you on your guard."
"You mean against—Chichester?"
"I mean against—Barrymaine!"
"Ah!" said Barnabas, chin in hand, "but why?"
"Well, you'll remember that the only time you met him he was inclined to be—just a l-ee-tle—violent, perhaps?"
"When he attacked me with the bottle,—yes!" sighed Barnabas, "but surely that was only because he was drunk?"
"Y-e-s, perhaps so," said Mr. Smivvle, fumbling for his whisker again, "but this morning he—wasn't so drunk as usual."
"Well?"
"And yet he was more violent than ever—raved against you like a maniac."
"But—why?"
"It was just after he had received another of Jasper Gaunt's letters,—here it is!" and, stooping, Mr. Smivvle picked up a crumpled paper that had lain among the ashes, and smoothing it out, tendered it to Barnabas. "Read it, sir,—read it!" he said earnestly, "it will explain matters, I think,—and much better than I can. Yes indeed, read it, for it concerns you too!" So Barnabas took the letter, and this is what he read:
DEAR MR. BARRYMAINE,—In reply to your favor,reinterest, requesting more time, I take occasion once more to remind you that I am no longer your creditor, being merely his agent, as Mr. Beverley himself could, and will, doubtless, inform you.
I am, therefore, compelled to demand payment within thirty days from date; otherwise the usual steps must be taken in lieu of same.
Yours obediently,
Now when Barnabas had read the letter a sudden fit of rage possessed him, and, crumpling the paper in his fist, he dashed it down and set his foot upon it.
"A lie!" he cried, "a foul, cowardly lie!"
"Then you—you didn't buy up the debt, Beverley?"
"No! no!—I couldn't,—Gaunt had sold already, and by heaven I believe the real creditor is—"
"Ha!" cried Smivvle, pointing suddenly, "the door wasn't fastened,Beverley,—look there!"
Barnabas started, and glancing round, saw that the door was opening very slowly, and inch by inch; then, as they watched its stealthy movement, all at once a shaggy head slid into view, a round head, with a face remarkably hirsute as to eyebrow and whisker, and surmounted by a dingy fur cap.
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, speaking hoarsely, and rolling its eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—vich on ye might that be, now?"
"Ha?" cried Mr. Smivvle angrily, "so you're here again, are you!"
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, blinking its round eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—no offence,—vich?"
"Come," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to tug at his whiskers,— "come, get out,—d'ye hear!"
"But, axing your pardons, gents,—vich on ye might be—name o'Barrymaine?"
"What do you want with him—eh?" demanded Mr. Smivvle, his whiskers growing momentarily more ferocious, "speak out, man!"
"Got a letter for 'im—leastways it's wrote to 'im," answered the head, "'ere's a B, and a Nay, and a Nar, and another on 'em, and a Vy,—that spells Barry, don't it? Then, arter that, comes a M., and a—"
"Oh, all right,—give it me!" said Mr. Smivvle, rising.
"Are you name o' Barrymaine?"
"No, but you can leave it with me, and I—"
"Leave it?" repeated the head, in a slightly injured tone, "leave it? axing your pardons, gents,—but burn my neck if I do! If you ain't name o' Barrymaine v'y then—p'r'aps this is 'im a-coming upstairs now,—and werry 'asty about it, too!" And, sure enough, hurried feet were heard ascending; whereupon Mr. Smivvle uttered a startled exclamation, and, motioning Barnabas to be seated in the dingiest corner, strode quickly to the door, and thus came face to face with Ronald Barrymaine upon the threshold.
"Why, Barry!" said he, standing so as to block Barrymaine's view of the dingy corner, "so you've come back, then?"
"Come back, yes!" returned the other petulantly, "I had to,—mislaid a letter, must have left it here, somewhere. Did you find it?"
"Axing your pardon, sir, but might you be name o' Barrymaine, no offence, but might you?"
The shaggy head had slid quite into the room now, bringing after it a short, thick-set person clad after the fashion of a bargeman.
"Yes; what do you want?"
"Might this 'ere be the letter as you come back for,—no offence, but might it?"
"Yes! yes," cried Barrymaine, and, snatching it, he tore it fiercely across and across, and made a gesture as if to fling the fragments into the hearth, then thrust them into his pocket instead. "Here's a shilling for you," said he, turning to the bargeman, "that is—Dig, l-lend me a shilling, I—" Ronald Barrymaine's voice ended abruptly, for he had caught sight of Barnabas sitting in the dingy corner, and now, pushing past Smivvle, he stood staring, his handsome features distorted with sudden fury, his teeth gleaming between his parted lips.
"So it's—you, is it?" he demanded.
"Yes," said Barnabas, and stood up.
"So—you're—back again, are you?"
"Thank you, yes," said Barnabas, "and quite safe!"
"S-safe?"
"As yet," answered Barnabas.
"You aren't d-drunk, are you?"
"No," said Barnabas, "nor are you, for once."
Barrymaine clenched his fists and took a step towards Barnabas, but spying the bargeman, who now lurched forward, turned upon him in a fury.
"What the d-devil d' you want? Get out of the way, d' ye hear?—get out, I say!"
"Axing your pardon, sir, an' meaning no offence, but summat was said about a bob, sir—vun shilling!"
"Damnation! Give the fellow his s-shilling, Dig, and then k-kick him out."
Hereupon Mr. Smivvle, having felt through his pockets, slowly produced the coin demanded, and handing it to the bargeman, pointed to the door.
"No,—see him downstairs—into the street, Dig. And you needn't hurry back, I'm going to speak my mind to this f-fellow—once and for all! So l-lock the street door, Dig."
Mr. Smivvle hesitated, glanced at Barnabas, shrugged his shoulders and followed the bargeman out of the room. As the door closed, Barrymaine sprang to it, and, turning the key, faced Barnabas with arms folded, head lowered, and a smile upon his lips:
"Now," said he, "you are going to listen to me—d'you hear? We are going to understand each other before you leave this room! D'you see?"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"Oh!" he cried bitterly, "I know the sort of c-crawling thing you are,Gaunt has warned me—"
"Gaunt is a liar!" said Barnabas.
"I say,—he's told me,—are you listening? Y-you think, because you've bought my debts, you've bought me, too, body and soul, and—through me—Cleone! Ah, but you haven't,—before that happens y-you'll be dead and rotting—and I, and she as well. Are you listening?—she as well! You think you've g-got me—there beneath your foot—b-but you haven't, no, by God, you haven't—"
"I tell you Gaunt is a liar!" repeated Barnabas. "I couldn't buy your debts because he had sold them already. Come with me, and I'll prove it,—come and let me face him with the truth—"
"The truth? You? Oh, I might have guessed you'd come creeping round here to see S-Smivvle behind my back—as you do my sister—"
"Sir!" said Barnabas, flushing.
"What—do you dare deny it? Do you d-dare deny that you have met her—by stealth,—do you? do you? Oh, I know of your secret meetings with her. I know how you have imposed upon the credulity of a weak-minded old woman and a one-armed d-dotard sufficiently to get yourself invited to Hawkhurst. But I tell you this shall stop,—it shall! Yes, by God,—you shall give me your promise to c-cease your persecution of my sister before you leave this room, or—"
"Or?" said Barnabas.
"Or it will be the w-worse for you!"
"How?"
"I—I'll k-kill you!"
"Murder me?"
"It's no m-murder to kill your sort!"
"Then itisa pistol you have in your pocket, there?"
"Yes—l-look at it!" And, speaking, Barrymaine drew and levelled the weapon with practised hand. "Now listen!" said he. "You will s-sit down at that table there, and write Gaunt to g-give me all the time I need for your c-cursed interest—"
"But I tell you—"
"Liar!" cried Barrymaine, advancing a threatening step. "Liar,—I know! Then, after you've done that,—you will swear never to see or c-communicate with my sister again, or I'll shoot you dead where you stand,—s-so help me God!"
"You are mad," said Barnabas, "I am not your creditor, and—"
"Liar! I know!" repeated Barrymaine.
"And yet," said Barnabas, fronting him, white-faced, across the table, "I think—I'm sure, there are four things you don't know. The first is that Lady Cleone has promised to marry me—some day—"
"Go on to the next, liar!"
"The second is that my stables were broken into again, this morning,—the third is that my horse killed the man who was trying to hamstring him,—and the fourth is that in the dead man's pocket I found—this!" And Barnabas produced that crumpled piece of paper whereon was drawn the plan of the stables.
Now, at the sight of this paper, Barrymaine fell back a step, his pistol-hand wavered, fell to his side, and sinking into a chair, he seemed to shrink into himself as he stared dully at a worn patch in the carpet.
"Only one beside myself knows of this," said Barnabas.
"Well?" The word seemed wrung from Barrymaine's quivering lips. He lay back in the rickety chair, his arms dangling, his chin upon his breast, never lifting his haggard eyes, and, almost as he spoke, the pistol slipped from his lax fingers and lay all unheeded.
"Not another soul shall ever know," said Barnabas earnestly, "the world shall be none the wiser if you will promise to stop,—now, —to free yourself from Chichester's influence, now,—to let me help you to redeem the past. Promise me this, and I, as your friend, will tear up this damning evidence—here and now."
"And—if I—c-can't?"
Barnabas sighed, and folding up the crumpled paper, thrust it back into his pocket.
"You shall have—a week, to make up your mind. You know my address, I think,—at least, Mr. Smivvle does." So saying, Barnabas stepped towards the door, but, seeing the look on Barrymaine's face, he stooped very suddenly, and picked up the pistol. Then he unlocked the door and went out, closing it behind him. Upon the dark stairs he encountered Mr. Smivvle, who had been sitting there making nervous havoc of his whiskers.
"Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed, "I ought not to have left you alone with him,—deuce of a state about it, 'pon my honor. But what could I do,—as I sat here listening to you both I was afraid."
"So was I," said Barnabas. "But he will be quiet now, I think. Here is one of his pistols, you'd better hide it. And—forget your differences with him, for if ever a man needed a friend, he does. As for your rent, don't worry about that, I'll send it round to you this evening. Good-by."
So Barnabas went on down the dark stairs, and being come to the door with the faulty latch, let himself out into the dingy street, and thus came face to face with the man in the fur cap.
"Lord, Mr. Barty, sir," said that worthy, glancing up and down the street with a pair of mild, round eyes, "you can burn my neck if I wasn't beginning to vorry about you, up theer all alone vith that 'ere child o' mine. For, sir, of all the Capital coves as ever I see, —'e's vun o' the werry capital-est."