"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.
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,—ifyouplease." 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.
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.
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:
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 theCaptain?"
"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!"
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.
"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 ofCleone."
"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 fête. 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 MortimerCarnaby has her promise!"
"Fiddlesticks!"