could it?”
“Elegant!” snorted the Captain, “I say pooh! I say pish! Sir, you must come in and sup with us, my house is near by. Good English beef and ale, sir.”
Barnabas hesitated, and glanced toward Cleone, but her face was hidden in the shadow of her hood, wherefore his look presently wandered to the finger-post, near by, upon whose battered sign he read the words:–
TO HAWKHURST. TO LONDON.
“Sir,” said he, “I would, most gratefully, but that I start for London at once.” Yet while he spoke, he frowned blackly at the finger-post, as though it had been his worst enemy.
“London!” exclaimed the Captain, “so you are still bound for the fashionable world, are ye?”
“Yes,” sighed Barnabas, “but I–“
“Pish, sir, I say fiddle-de-dee!”
“I have lately undertaken a mission.”
“Ha! So you won’t come in?”
“Thank you, no; this mission is important, and I must be gone;” and here again Barnabas sighed.
Then my lady turned and looked at Barnabas, and, though she uttered no word, her eyes were eloquent; so that the heart of him was uplifted, and he placed his hand upon the finger-post as though it had been his best friend.
“Why then, so be it, young sir,” said the Captain, “it remains only to thank you, which I do, I say which I do most heartily, and to bid you good-by.”
“Until we meet again, Captain.”
“Eh–what, sir? meet when?”
“At ‘Barnaby Bright,'” says my lady, staring up at the moon.
“In a month’s time,” added Barnabas.
“Eh?” exclaimed the Captain, “what’s all this?”
“In a month’s time, sir, I shall return to ask Cleone to be my wife,” Barnabas explained.
“And,” said my lady, smiling at the Captain’s perplexity, “we shall be glad to see him, shan’t we, dear? and shall, of course, refuse him, shan’t we, dear?”
“Refuse him? yes–no–egad! I don’t know,” said the Captain, running his fingers through his hair, “I say, deuce take me–I’m adrift; I say where’s the Bo’sun?”
“Good-by, sir!” says my lady, very seriously, and gave him her hand; “good-by.”
“Till ‘Barnaby Bright,'” said Barnabas.
At this she smiled, a little tremulously perhaps.
“May heaven prosper you in your mission,” said she, and turned away.
“Young sir,” said the Captain, “always remember my name is Chumly, John Chumly, plain and unvarnished, and, whether we refuse you or not, John Chumly will ever be ready to take you by the hand. Farewell, sir!”
So tyrant and captive turned away and went down the by-road together, and his solitary arm was close about her. But Barnabas stood there under the finger-post until a bend in the road hid them; then he, too, sighed and turned away. Yet he had gone only a little distance when he heard a voice calling him, and, swinging round, he saw Cleone standing under the finger-post.
“I wanted to give you–this,” said she, as he came striding back, and held out a folded paper. “It is his–my brother’s–letter. Take it with you, it will serve to show you what a boy he is, and will tell you where to find him.”
So Barnabas took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. But she yet stood before him, and now, once again, their glances avoided each other.
“I also wanted to–ask you–about your cheek,” said she at last.
“Yes?” said Barnabas.
“You are quite sure it doesn’t–pain you, Mr. Bev–“
“Must I remind you that my name–“
“Are you quite sure–Barnabas?”
“Quite sure–yes, oh yes!” he stammered.
“Because it–glows very red!” she sighed, though indeed she still kept her gaze averted, “so will you please–stoop your head a little?”
Wonderingly Barnabas obeyed, and then–even as he did so, she leaned swiftly towards him, and for an instant her soft, warm mouth rested upon his cheek. Then, before he could stay her, she was off and away; and her flying feet had borne her out of sight.
Then Barnabas sighed, and would have followed, but the ancient finger-post barred his way with its two arms pointing:–
TO HAWKHURST. TO LONDON.
So he stopped, glanced about him to fix the hallowed place in his memory, and, obeying the directing finger, set off London-wards.
CHAPTER XXIII
HOW BARNABAS SAVED HIS LIFE–BECAUSE HE WAS AFRAID
On went Barnabas swift of foot and light of heart, walking through a World of Romance, and with his eyes turned up to the luminous heaven. Yet it was neither of the moon, nor the stars, nor the wonder thereof that he was thinking, but only of the witchery of a woman’s eyes, and the thrill of a woman’s lips upon his cheek; and, indeed, what more natural, more right, and altogether proper? Little recked he of the future, of the perils and dangers to be encountered, of the sorrows and tribulations that lay in wait for him, or of the enemies that he had made that day, for youth is little given to brooding, and is loftily indifferent to consequences.
So it was of Lady Cleone Meredith he thought as he strode along the moonlit highway, and it was of her that he was thinking as he turned into that narrow by-lane where stood “The Spotted Cow.” As he advanced, he espied some one standing in the shadow of one of the great trees, who, as he came nearer, stepped out into the moonlight; and then Barnabas saw that it was none other than his newly engaged valet. The same, yet not the same, for the shabby clothes had given place to a sober, well-fitting habit, and as he took off his hat in salutation, Barnabas noticed that his hollow cheeks were clean and freshly shaved; he was, indeed, a new man.
But now, as they faced each other, Barnabas observed something else; John Peterby’s lips were compressed, and in his eye was anxiety, the which had, somehow, got into his voice when he spoke, though his tone was low and modulated: “Sir, if you are for London to-night, we had better start at once, the coach leaves Tenterden within the hour.”
“But,” says Barnabas, setting his head aslant, and rubbing his chin with the argumentative air that was so very like his father, “I have ordered supper here, Peterby.”
“Which–under the circumstances–I have ventured to countermand, sir.”
“Oh?” said Barnabas, “pray, what circumstances?”
“Sir, as I told you, the mail–“
“John Peterby, speak out–what is troubling you?”
But now, even while Peterby stood hesitating, from the open casement of the inn, near at hand, came the sound of a laugh: a soft, gentle, sibilant laugh which Barnabas immediately recognized.
“Ah!” said he, clenching his fist. “I think I understand.” As he turned towards the inn, Peterby interposed.
“Sir,” he whispered, “sir, if ever a man meant mischief–he does. He came back an hour ago, and they have been waiting for you ever since.”
“They?”
“He and the other.”
“What other?”
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“Is he a very–young man, this other?”
“Yes, sir, he seems so. And they have been drinking together and–I’ve heard enough to know that they mean you harm.” But here Master Barnabas smiled with all the arrogance of youth and shook his head.
“John Peterby,” said he, “learn that the first thing I desire in my valet is obedience. Pray stand out of my way!” So, perforce Peterby stood aside, yet Barnabas had scarce taken a dozen strides ere Clemency stood before him.
“Go back,” she whispered, “go back!”
“Impossible,” said Barnabas, “I have a mission to fulfil.”
“Go back!” she repeated in the same tense whisper, “you must–oh, you must! I’ve heard he has killed a man before now–“
“And yet I must see and speak with his companion.”
“No, no–ah! I pray you–“
“Nay,” said Barnabas, “if you will, and if need be, pray for me.” So saying he put her gently aside, and entering the inn, came to the door of that room wherein he had written the letter to his father.
“I tell you I’ll kill him, Dalton,” said a soft, deliberate voice.
“Undoubtedly; the light’s excellent; but, my dear fellow, why–?”
“I object to him strongly, for one thing, and–“
The voice was hushed suddenly, as Barnabas set wide the door and stepped into the room, with Peterby at his heels.
Mr. Chichester was seated at the table with a glass beside him, but Barnabas looked past him to his companion who sprawled on the other side of the hearth–a sleepy, sighing gentleman, very high as to collar, very tight as to waist, and most ornate as to waistcoat; young he was certainly, yet with his first glance, Barnabas knew instinctively that this could not be the youth he sought. Nevertheless he took off his hat and saluted him with a bow that for stateliness left the “stiff-legged gentleman” nowhere.
“Sir,” said he, “pray what might your name be?”
Instead of replying, the sleepy gentleman opened his eyes rather wider than was usual and stared at Barnabas with a growing surprise, stared at him from head to foot and up again, then, without changing his lounging attitude, spoke:
“Oh, Gad, Chichester!–is this the–man?”
“Yes.”
“But–my dear Chit! Surely you don’t propose to–this fellow! Who is he? What is he? Look at his boots–oh, Gad!”
Hereupon Barnabas resumed his hat, and advancing leaned his clenched fists on the table, and from that eminence smiled down at the speaker, that is to say his lips curled and his teeth gleamed in the candle-light.
“Sir,” said he gently, “you will perhaps have the extreme condescension to note that my boots are strong boots, and very serviceable either for walking, or for kicking an insolent puppy.”
“If I had a whip, now,” sighed the gentleman, “if I only had a whip, I’d whip you out of the room. Chichester,–pray look at that coat, oh, Gad!”
But Mr. Chichester had risen, and now crossing to the door, he locked it, and dropped the key into his pocket.
“As you say, the light is excellent, my dear Dalton,” said he, fixing Barnabas with his unwavering stare.
“But my dear Chit, you never mean to fight the fellow–a–a being who wears such a coat! such boots! My dear fellow, be reasonable! Observe that hat! Good Gad! Take your cane and whip him out–positively you cannot fight this bumpkin.”
“None the less I mean to shoot him–like a cur, Dalton.” And Mr. Chichester drew a pistol from his pocket, and fell to examining flint and priming with a practised eye. “I should have preferred my regular tools; but I dare say this will do the business well enough; pray, snuff the candles.”
Now, as Barnabas listened to the soft, deliberate words, as he noted Mr. Chichester’s assured air, his firm hand, his glowing eye and quivering nostrils, a sudden deadly nausea came over him, and he leaned heavily upon the table.
“Sirs,” said he, uncertainly, and speaking with an effort, “I have never used a pistol in my life.”
“One could tell as much from his boots,” murmured Mr. Dalton, snuffing the candles.
“You have another pistol, I think, Dalton; pray lend it to him. We will take opposite corners of the room, and fire when you give the word.”
“All quite useless, Chit; this fellow won’t fight.”
“No,” said Barnabas, thrusting his trembling hands into his pockets, “not–in a corner.”
Mr. Chichester shrugged his shoulders, sat down, and leaning back in his chair stared up at pale-faced Barnabas, tapping the table-edge softly with the barrel of his weapon.
“Not in a corner–I told you so, Chit. Oh, take your cane and whip him out!”
“I mean,” said Barnabas, very conscious of the betraying quaver in his voice, “I mean that, as I’m–unused to–shooting, the corner would be–too far.”
“Too far? Oh, Gad!” exclaimed Mr. Dalton. “What’s this?”
“As for pistols, I have one here,” continued Barnabas, “and if we must shoot, we’ll do it here–across the table.”
“Eh–what? Across the table! but, oh, Gad, Chichester! this is madness!” said Mr. Dalton.
“Most duels are,” said Barnabas, and as he spoke he drew from his pocket the pistol he had taken from Mr. Chichester earlier in the evening and, weapon in hand, sank into a chair, thus facing Mr. Chichester across the table.
“But this is murder–positive murder!” cried Mr. Dalton.
“Sir,” said Barnabas, “I am no duellist, as I told you; and it seems to me that this equalizes our chances, for I can no more fail of hitting my man at this distance than he of shooting me dead across the width of the room. And, sir–if I am to–die to-night, I shall most earnestly endeavor to take Mr. Chichester with me.”
There was a tremor in his voice again as he spoke, but his eye was calm, his brow serene, and his hand steady as he cocked the pistol, and leaning his elbow upon the table, levelled it within six inches of Mr. Chichester’s shirt frill. But hereupon Mr. Dalton sprang to his feet with a stifled oath:
“I tell you it’s murder–murder!” he exclaimed, and took a quick step towards them.
“Peterby!” said Barnabas.
“Sir?” said Peterby, who had been standing rigid beside the door.
“Take my stick,” said Barnabas, holding it out towards him, but keeping his gaze upon Mr. Chichester’s narrowed eyes; “it’s heavy you’ll find, and should this person presume to interfere, knock him down with it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peterby, and took the stick accordingly.
“But–oh, Gad!” exclaimed Dalton, “I tell you this can’t go on!”
“Indeed, I hope not,” said Barnabas; “but it is for Mr. Chichester to decide. I am ready for the count when he is.”
But Mr. Chichester sat utterly still, his chin on his breast, staring at Barnabas under his brows, one hand tight clenched about the stock of his weapon on the table before him, the other hanging limply at his side. So for an interval they remained thus, staring into each other’s eyes, in a stillness so profound that it seemed all four men had ceased breathing. Then Mr. Chichester sighed faintly, dropped his eyes to the muzzle of the weapon so perilously near, glanced back at the pale, set face and unwinking eyes of him who held it, and sighed again.
“Dalton,” said he, “pray open the door, and order the chaise,” and he laid the key upon the table.
“First,” said Barnabas, “I will relieve you of that–encumbrance,” and he pointed to the pistol yet gripped in Mr. Chichester’s right hand. Without a word Mr. Chichester rose, and leaving the weapon upon the table, turned and walked to the window, while Mr. Dalton, having unlocked the door, hurried away to the stable-yard, and was now heard calling for the ostlers.
“Peterby,” said Barnabas, “take this thing and throw it into the horse-pond; yet, no, give it to the gentleman who just went out.”
“Yes, sir,” said Peterby, and, taking up the pistol, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Chichester still lounged in the window, and hummed softly to himself; but as for Barnabas, he sat rigid in his chair, staring blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes wide, his lips tense, and with a gleam of moisture amid the curls at his temples. So the one lounged and hummed, and the other glared stonily before him until came the grind of wheels and the stamping of hoofs. Then Mr. Chichester took up his hat and cane, and, humming still, crossed to the door, and lounged out into the yard.
Came a jingle of harness, a sound of voices, the slam of a door, and the chaise rolled away down the lane, farther and farther, until the rumble of its wheels died away in the distance. Then Barnabas laughed–a sudden shrill laugh–and clenched his fists, and strove against the laughter, and choked, and so sank forward with his face upon his arms as one that is very weary. Now, presently, as he sat thus, it seemed to him that one spoke a long way off, whereupon, in a little, he raised his head, and beheld Clemency.
“You–are not hurt?” she inquired anxiously.
“Hurt?” said Barnabas, “no, not hurt, Mistress Clemency, not hurt, I thank you; but I think I have grown a–great deal–older.”
“I saw it all, through the window, and yet I–don’t know why you are alive.”
“I think because I was so very much–afraid,” said Barnabas.
“Sir,” said she, with her brown hands clasped together, “was it for–if it was for–my sake that you–quarrelled, and–“
“No,” said Barnabas, “it was because of–another.”
Now, when he said this, Clemency stared at him wide-eyed, and, all in a moment, flushed painfully and turned away, so that Barnabas wondered.
“Good-by!” said she, suddenly, and crossed to the door, but upon the threshold paused; “I did pray for you,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Ah!” said Barnabas, rising, “you prayed for me, and behold, I am alive.”
“Good-by!” she repeated, her face still averted.
“Good-by!” said Barnabas, “and will you remember me in your prayers–sometimes?”
“My prayers! Why?”
“Because the prayers of a sweet, pure woman may come between man and evil–like a shield.”
“I will,” said she, very softly. “Oh, I will,” and so, with a swift glance, was gone.
Being come out of the inn, Barnabas met with his valet, John Peterby.
“Sir,” he inquired, “what now?”
“Now,” said Barnabas, “the Tenterden coach, and London.”
CHAPTER XXIV
WHICH RELATES SOMETHING OF THE “WHITE LION” AT TENTERDEN
Of all the lions that ever existed, painted or otherwise, white lions, blue lions, black, green, or red lions, surely never was there one like the “White Lion” at Tenterden. For he was such a remarkably placid lion, although precariously balanced upon the extreme point of one claw, and he stared down at all and sundry with such round, inquiring eyes, as much as to say:
“Who are you? What’s your father? Where are you going?” Indeed, so very inquisitive was he that his very tail had writhed itself into a note of interrogation, and, like a certain historical personage, was forever asking a question. To-night he had singled out Barnabas from the throng, and was positively bombarding him with questions, as:
“Dark or fair? Tall or short? Does she love you? Will she remember you? Will she kiss you–next time? Aha! will she, will she?”
But here, feeling a touch upon his arm, Barnabas turned to find Peterby at his elbow, and thus once more became aware of the hubbub about him.
“Box seat, sir; next to the coachman!” says Peterby above the din, for voices are shouting, horses snorting and stamping, ostlers are hurrying here, running there, and swearing everywhere; waiters and serving-maids are dodging to and fro, and all is hurry and bustle, for the night mail is on the eve of departure for London.
Throned above all this clamor, calmly aloof, yet withal watchful of eye, sits the coachman, beshawled to the ears of him, hatted to the eyes of him, and in a wondrous coat of many capes; a ponderous man, hoarse of voice and mottled of face, who, having swallowed his hot rum and water in three leisurely gulps, tosses down the glass to the waiting pot-boy (and very nearly hits a fussy little gentleman in a green spencer, who carries a hat-box in one hand and a bulging valise in the other, and who ducks indignantly, but just in time), sighs, shakes his head, and proceeds to rewind the shawl about his neck and chin, and to belt himself into his seat, throwing an occasional encouraging curse to the perspiring ostlers below.
“Coachman!” cries the fussy gentleman, “hi, coachman!”
“The ‘Markis’ seems a bit fresh to-night, Sam,” says Mottle-face affably to one of the ostlers.
“Fresh!” exclaims that worthy as the ‘Marquis’ rears again, “fresh, I believe you–burn ‘is bones!”
“Driver!” shouts the fussy gentleman, “driver!”
“Why then, bear ‘im up werry short, Sam.”
“Driver!” roars the fussy little gentleman, “driver! coachman! oh, driver!”
“Vell, sir, that’s me?” says Mottle-face, condescending to become aware of him at last.
“Give me a hand up with my valise–d’ye hear?”
“Walise, sir? No, sir, can’t be done, sir. In the boot, sir; guard, sir.”
“Boot!” cries the fussy gentleman indignantly. “I’ll never trust my property in the boot!”
“Then v’y not leave it be’ind, sir, and stay vith it, or–“
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the little man, growing angry. “I tell you this is valuable property. D’ye know who I am?”
“Or ye might climb into the boot along vith it, sir–“
“Do you know who I am?”
“All aboard–all aboard for London!” roared the guard, coming up at the instant.
“Valter!” cried Mottle-face.
“Ay, ay, Joe?”
“Gentleman’s walise for the boot, Valter; and sharp’s the vord!”
“Ay, ay, Joe!” and, as he spoke, the guard caught the valise from the protesting small gentleman with one hand, and the hat-box with the other, and, forthwith, vanished. Hereupon the fussy gentleman, redder of face, and more angry than ever, clambered to the roof, still loudly protesting; all of which seemed entirely lost upon Mottle-face, who, taking up the reins and settling his feet against the dash-board, winked a solemn, owl-like eye at Barnabas sitting beside him, and carolled a song in a husky voice, frequently interrupting himself to admonish the ostlers, in this wise:–
“She vore no ‘at upon ‘er ‘ead,
Nor a cap, nor a–“
“Bear the ‘Markis’ up werry short, Sam, vill ‘ee?
“–dandy bonnet,
But ‘er ‘air it ‘ung all down ‘er back, Like a–“
“Easy–easy now! Hold on to them leaders, Dick!
“–bunch of carrots upon it.
Ven she cried ‘sprats’ in Vestminister, Oh! sich a sveet loud woice, sir,
You could ‘ear ‘er all up Parlyment Street, And as far as Charing Cross, sir.”
“All aboard, all aboard for London!” roars the guard, and roaring, swings himself up into the boot.
“All right be’ind?” cries Mottle-face.
“All right, Joe!” sings the guard.
“Then–leggo, there!” cries Mottle-face.
Back spring the ostlers, forward leap the four quivering horses, their straining hoofs beating out showers of sparks from the cobbles; the coach lurches forward and is off, amid a waving of hats and pocket-handkerchiefs, and Barnabas, casting a farewell glance around, is immediately fixed by the gaze of the “White Lion,” as inquiring of eye and interrogatory of tail as ever.
“Tall or short? Dark or fair? Will she kiss you–next time–will she, will she? Will she even be glad to see you again–will she, now will she?”
Whereupon Barnabas must needs become profoundly thoughtful all at once.
“Now–I wonder?” said he to himself.
CHAPTER XXV
OF THE COACHMAN’S STORY
Long before the lights of the “White Lion” had vanished behind them, the guard blows a sudden fanfare on the horn, such a blast as goes echoing merrily far and wide, and brings folk running to open doors and lighted windows to catch a glimpse of the London Mail ere it vanishes into the night; and so, almost while the cheery notes ring upon the air, Tenterden is behind them, and they are bowling along the highway into the open country beyond. A wonderful country this, familiar and yet wholly new; a nightmare world where ghosts and goblins flit under a dying moon; where hedge and tree become monsters crouched to spring, or lift knotted arms to smite; while in the gloom of woods beyond, unimagined horrors lurk.
But, bless you, Mottle-face, having viewed it all under the slant of his hat-brim, merely settles his mottled chin deeper in his shawls, flicks the off ear of the near leader with a delicate turn of the wrists, and turning his owl-like eye upon Barnabas, remarks that “It’s a werry fine night!” But hereupon the fussy gentleman, leaning over, taps Mottle-face upon the shoulder.
“Coachman,” says he, “pray, when do you expect to reach The Borough, London?”
“Vich I begs to re-mark, sir,” retorts Mottle-face, settling his curly-brimmed hat a little further over his left eye, “vich I ‘umbly begs to re-mark as I don’t expect nohow!”
“Eh–what! what! you don’t expect to–“
“Vich I am vun, sir, as don’t novise expect nothin’, consequent am never novise disapp’inted,” says Mottle-face with a solemn nod; “but, vind an’ veather permittin’, ve shall be at the ‘George’ o’ South’ark at five, or thereabouts!”
“Ha!” says the fussy gentleman, “and what about my valise? is it safe?”
“Safe, ah! safe as the Bank o’ England, unless ve should ‘appen to be stopped–“
“Stopped? stopped, coachman? d’ you mean–?”
“Ah! stopped by Blue-chinned Jack o’ Brockley, or Gallopin’ Toby o’ Tottenham, or–“
“Eh–what! what! d’ you mean there are highwaymen on this road?”
“‘Ighvaymen!” snorted Mottle-face, winking ponderously at Barnabas, “by Goles, I should say so, it fair bristles vith ’em.”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman in an altered tone, “but you are armed, of course?”
“Armed?” repeated Mottle-face, more owl-like of eye than ever, “armed, sir, Lord love me yes! my guard carries a brace o’ barkers in the boot.”
“I’m glad of that,” said the fussy gentleman, “very!”
“Though,” pursued Mottle-face, rolling his head heavily, “Joe ain’t ‘zactly what you might call a dead shot, nor yet a ex-pert, bein’ blind in ‘is off blinker, d’ye see.”
“Eh–blind, d’ye say–blind?” exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
“Only in ‘is off eye,” nodded Mottle-face, reassuringly, “t’other ‘un’s as good as yours or mine, ven ‘e ain’t got a cold in it.”
“But this–this is an outrage!” spluttered the fussy gentleman, “a guard blind in one eye! Scandalous! I shall write to the papers of this. But you–surely you carry a weapon too?”
“A vepping? Ay, to be sure, sir, I’ve got a blunder-bush, under this ‘ere werry seat, loaded up to the muzzle wi’ slugs too,–though it von’t go off.”
“Won’t–eh, what? Won’t go off?”
“Not on no account, sir, vich ain’t to be ‘spected of it, seeing as it ain’t got no trigger.”
“But–heaven preserve us! why carry such a useless thing?”
“Force of ‘abit, sir; ye see, I’ve carried that theer old blunderbush for a matter of five-an’-twenty year, an’ my feyther ‘e carried it afore me.”
“But suppose we are attacked?”
“Vich I begs to re-mark, sir, as I don’t never suppose no such thing, like my feyther afore me. Brave as a lion were my feyther, sir, an’ bred up to the road; v’y, Lord! ‘e were born vith a coachman’s v’ip in ‘is mouth–no, I mean ‘is fist, as ye might say; an’ ‘e were the boldest–“
“But what’s your father got to do with it?” cried the fussy gentleman. “What about my valise?”
“Your walise, sir? we’m a-coming to that;” and here, once more, Mottle-face slowly winked his owl-like eye at Barnabas. “My feyther, sir,” he continued, “my feyther, ‘e druv’ the Dartford Mail, an’ ‘e were the finest v’ip as ever druv’ a coach, Dartford or otherwise; ‘Andsome ‘Arry’ ‘e vere called, though v’y ‘andsome I don’t know, seeing as ‘is nose veren’t all it might ha’ been, on account o’ a quart pot; an’ v’y ‘Arry I don’t know, seeing as ‘is name vos Villiam; but, ”Andsome ‘Arry’ ‘e vere called, an’ werry much respected ‘e vere too. Lord! there vos never less than a dozen or so young bloods to see ‘im start. Ah! a great favorite ‘e vere vith them, an’ no error, an’ werry much admired; admired? I should say so. They copied ‘is ‘at they copied ‘is boots, they copied ‘is coat, they’d a copied ‘im inside as well as out if they could.”
“Hum!” said the fussy gentleman. “Ha!”
“Oh, ‘e vos a great fav’rite vith the Quality,” nodded Mottle-face. “Ah! it vos a dream to see ‘im ‘andle the ribbons,–an’ spit? Lord! it vos a eddication to see my feyther spit, I should say so! Vun young blood–a dock’s son he vere too–vent an’ ‘ad a front tooth drawed a purpose, but I never ‘eard as it done much good; bless you, to spit like my feyther you must be born to it!” (here Mottle-face paused to suit the action to the word). “And, mark you! over an’ above all this, my feyther vere the boldest cove that ever–“
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman impatiently, “but where does my valise come in?”
“Your walise, sir,” said Mottle-face, deftly flicking the off wheeler, “your walise comes in–at the end, sir, and I’m a-comin’ to it as qvick as you’ll let me.”
“Hum!” said the gentleman again.
“Now, in my feyther’s time,” resumed Mottle-face serenely, “the roads vos vorse than they are to-day, ah! a sight vorse, an’ as for ‘ighvaymen–Lord! they vos as thick as blackberries–blackberries? I should say so! Theer vos footpads be’ind every ‘edge–gangs of ’em–an’ ‘ighvaymen on every ‘eath–“
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman, “so many?”
“Many?” snorted Mottle-face, “there vos armies of ’em. But my feyther, as I think I mentioned afore, vere the bravest, boldest, best-plucked coachman as ever sat on a box.”
“I hope it runs in the family.”
“Sir, I ain’t one give to boastin’, nor yet to blowin’ my own ‘orn, but truth is truth, and–it do!”
“Good!” said the fussy gentleman, “very good!”
“Now the vorst of all these rogues vos a cove called Black Dan, a thieving, murdering, desprit wagabone as vere ewcntually ‘ung sky-‘igh on Pembury ‘Ill–“
“Good!” said the fussy gentleman louder than before, “good! Glad of it!”
“An’ yet,” sighed Mottle-face, “‘e ‘ad a werry good ‘eart–as ‘ighvaymen’s ‘earts go; never shot nobody unless ‘e couldn’t help it, an’ ven ‘e did, ‘e allus made a werry neat job of it, an’ polished ’em off nice an’ qvick.”
“Hum!” said the fussy gentleman, “still, I’m glad he’s hanged.”
“Black Dan used to vork the roads south o’ London,
“Kent an’ Surrey mostly, conseqvent it vere a long time afore ‘im an’ my feyther met; but at last vun night, as my feyther vos driving along–a good fifteen mile an hour, for it vere a uncommon fine night, vith a moon, like as it might be now–“
“Ah?” said the fussy gentleman.
“An’ presently ‘e came to vere the road narrered a bit, same as it might be yonder–“
“Ah!” murmured the fussy gentleman again.
“An’ vith a clump o’ trees beyond, nice, dark, shady trees–like it might be them werry trees ahead of us–“
“Oh!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
“An’ as ‘e come up nearer an’ nearer, all at vunce ‘e made out a shadder in the shade o’ them trees–“
“Dear me!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman uneasily, staring very hard at the trees in front.
“A shadder as moved, although the leaves vos all dead still. So my feyther–being a bold cove–reached down for ‘is blunderbush–this werry same old blunderbush as I ‘ve got under the box at this i-dentical minute, (though its trigger veren’t broke then) but, afore ‘e can get it out, into the road leaps a man on a great black ‘oss–like it might be dead ahead of us, a masked man, an’ vith a pistol in each fist as long as yer arm.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
“‘Stand an’ deliver!’ roars the masked man, so my feyther, cocking ‘is heye at the pistols, pulls up, an’ there ‘e is, starin’ down at the ‘ighvayman, an’ the ‘ighvayman staring up at ‘im. ‘You ‘re ‘Andsome ‘Arry, ain’t you?’ sez the ‘ighvayman. ‘Ay,’ sez my feyther, ‘an’ I guess you ‘re Black Dan.’ ‘Sure as you ‘re born!’ sez Black Dan, ‘I’ve ‘eered o’ you before to-day, ‘Andsome ‘Arry,’ sez ‘e, ‘an’ meant to make your acquaintance afore this, but I ‘ve been kep’ too busy till to-night,’ sez ‘e, ‘but ‘ere ve are at last,’ ‘e sez, ‘an’ now–vot d’ ye think o’ that?’ sez ‘e, an’ pi’nts a pistol under my feyther’s werry nose. Now, as I think I ‘ve ‘inted afore, my feyther vere a nat’rally bold, courage-ful cove, so ‘e took a look at the murderous vepping, an’ nodded. ‘It’s a pistol, ain’t it?’ sez ‘e. ‘Sure as you’re settin’ on that there box, it is,’ sez Black Dan, ‘an’ ‘ere’s another.’ ‘An’ werry good veppings too,’ sez my feyther, ‘but vot might you be vanting vith me, Black Dan?’ ‘First of all, I vants you to come down off that box,’ sez Black Dan. ‘Oh?’ sez my feyther, cool as a coocumber. ‘Ah!’ sez Black Dan. ‘Verefore an’ v’y?’ enkvires my feyther, but Black Dan only vagged ‘is veppings in my feyther’s face, an’ grinned under ‘is mask. ‘I vants you, so, ‘Andsome ‘Arry–come down!’ sez ‘e. Now I’ve told you as my feyther vos the boldest–“
“Yes, yes,” cried the fussy gentleman. “Well?”
“Vell, sir, my feyther stared at them murderous pistols, stared at Black Dan, an’ being the werry gamest an’ bravest cove you ever see, didn’t ‘esitate a second.”
“Well,” cried the fussy gentleman, “what did he do then?”
“Do, sir–v’y I’ll tell you–my feyther–come down.”
“Yes, yes,” said the fussy gentleman, as Mottle-face paused. “Go on, go on!”
“Go on v’ere, sir?”
“Go on with your story. What was the end of it?”
“V’y, that’s the end on it.”
“But it isn’t; you haven’t told us what happened after he got down. What became of him after?”
“Took the ‘Ring o’ Bells,’ out Islington vay, an’ drank hisself to death all quite nat’ral and reg’lar.”
“But that’s not the end of your story.”
“It vere the end o’ my feyther though–an’ a werry good end it vere, too.”
Now here there ensued a silence, during which the fussy gentleman stared fixedly at Mottle-face, who chirruped to the horses solicitously, and turned a serene but owl-like eye up to the waning moon.
“And pray,” said the fussy gentleman at length, very red in the face, and more indignant than ever, “pray what’s all this to do with my valise, I should like to know?”
“So should I,” nodded Mottle-face–“ah, that I should.”
“You–you told me,” spluttered the fussy gentleman, in sudden wrath, “that you were coming to my valise.”
“An’ so ve have,” nodded Mottle-face, triumphantly. “Ve’re at it now; ve’ve been a-coming to that theer blessed walise ever since you come aboard.”
“Well, and what’s to be done about it?” snapped the fussy gentleman.
“Vell,” said Mottle-face, with another ponderous wink at Barnabas, “if it troubles you much more, sir, if I vos you I should get a werry strong rope, and a werry large stone, and tie ’em together werry tight, an’ drop that theer blessed walise into the river, and get rid of it that way.”
Hereupon the fussy gentleman uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and, throwing himself back in his seat, tugged his hat over his eyes, and was heard no more.
But Mottle-face, touching up the near leader with deft and delicate play of wrist, or flicking the off wheeler, ever and anon gave vent to sounds which, though somewhat muffled, on account of coat-collar and shawl, were uncommonly like a chuckle. Yet if this were so or no, Barnabas did not trouble to ascertain, for he was already in that dreamy state ‘twixt sleeping and waking, drowsily conscious of being borne on through the summer night, past lonely cottage and farmhouse, past fragrant ricks and barns, past wayside pools on whose still waters stars seemed to float–on and ever on, rumbling over bridges, clattering through sleeping hamlets and villages, up hill and down hill, on and ever on toward London and the wonders thereof. But, little by little, the chink and jingle of the harness, the rumble of the wheels, the rhythmic beat of the sixteen hoofs, all became merged into a drone that gradually softened to a drowsy murmur, and Barnabas fell into a doze; yet only to be awakened, as it seemed to him, a moment later by lights and voices, and to find that they were changing horses once more. Whereupon Mottle-face, leaning over, winked his owl-like eye, and spoke in a hoarse, penetrating whisper:
“Ten mile, sir, an’ not a vord out o’ old Walise so far!” saying which he jerked his head towards the huddled form of the fussy gentleman, winked again, and turned away to curse the hurrying ostlers, albeit in a tone good-natured and jovial.
And so, betimes, off they went again, down hill and up, by rolling meadow and winding stream, ‘neath the leafy arches of motionless trees, through a night profoundly still save for the noise of their own going, the crow of a cock, or the bark of a dog from some farmyard. The moon sank and was gone, but on went the London Mail swirling through eddying mist that lay in every hollow like ghostly pools. Gradually the stars paled to the dawn, for low down in the east was a gray streak that grew ever broader, that changed to a faint pink, deepening to rose, to crimson, to gold–an ever brightening glory, till at last up rose the sun, at whose advent the mists rolled away and vanished, and lo! day was born.
Yawning, Barnabas opened drowsy eyes, and saw that here and there were houses in fair gardens, yet as they went the houses grew thicker and the gardens more scant. And now Barnabas became aware of a sound, soft with distance, that rose and fell–a never-ceasing murmur; therefore, blinking drowsily at Mottle-face, he inquired what this might be.
“That, sir, that’s London, sir–cobble-stones, sir, cart-vheels, sir, and–Lord love you!”–here Mottle-face leaned over and once more winked his owl-like eye–“but ‘e ain’t mentioned the vord ‘walise’ all night, sir–so ‘elp me!” Having said which, Mottle-face vented a throaty chuckle, and proceeded to touch up his horses.
And now as one in a dream, Barnabas is aware that they are threading streets, broad streets and narrow, and all alive with great wagons and country wains; on they go, past gloomy taverns, past churches whose gilded weather-cocks glitter in the early sunbeams, past crooked side-streets and dark alley-ways, and so, swinging suddenly to the right, have pulled up at last in the yard of the “George.”
It is a great inn with two galleries one above another and many windows, and here, despite the early hour, a motley crowd is gathered. Forthwith Barnabas climbs down, and edging his way through the throng, presently finds Peterby at his elbow.
“Breakfast, sir?”
“Bed, Peterby.”
“Very good–this way, sir.”
Thereafter, though he scarcely knows how, he finds himself following a trim-footed damsel, who, having shown him up a winding stair, worn by the tread of countless travellers, brings him to a smallish, dullish chamber, opening upon the lower gallery. Hereupon Barnabas bids her “good night,” but, blinking in the sunlight, gravely changes it to “good morning.” The trim-footed maid smiles, curtsies, and vanishes, closing the door behind her.
Now upon the wall of the chamber, facing the bed, hangs the picture of a gentleman in a military habit with an uncomfortably high stock. He is an eagle-nosed gentleman with black whiskers, and a pair of remarkably round wide-awake eyes, which stare at Barnabas as much as to say–
“And who the devil are you, sir?”
Below him his name and titles are set forth fully and with many flourishes, thus–
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF POMFROY, K.G., K.T.S., etc., etc., etc.
So remarkably wide-awake is he, indeed, that it seems to drowsy Barnabas as if these round eyes wait to catch him unawares and follow him pertinaciously about the smallish, dullish chamber. Nevertheless Barnabas yawns, and proceeds to undress, which done, remembering he is in London, he takes purse and valuables and very carefully sets them under his pillow, places Mr. Chichester’s pistol on the small table conveniently near, and gets into bed.
Yet now, sleepy though he is, he must needs turn to take another look at the Honorable the Earl of Pomfroy, wonders idly what the three “etc.’s” may mean, admires the glossy curl of his whiskers, counts the medals and orders on his bulging breast, glances last of all at his eyes, and immediately becomes aware that they are curiously like those of the “White Lion” at Tenterden, in that they are plying him with questions.
“Tall or short? dark or fair? Will she kiss you–next time, sir? Will she even be glad to see you again, you presumptuous young dog–will she–will she, confound you?”
“Ah!” sighed Barnabas. “Next time–I wonder!”
So saying, he sighed again, once, twice, and with the third fell fast asleep, and dreamed that a certain White Lion, clad in a Lieutenant-General’s uniform, and with a pair of handsome black whiskers, stood balancing himself upon a single claw on the rail of the bed.
CHAPTER XXVI
CONCERNING THE DUTIES OF A VALET–AND A MAN
“And now, Peterby,” said Barnabas, pushing his chair from the breakfast table, “the first thing I shall require is–a tailor.”
“Very true, sir.”
“These clothes were good enough for the country, Peterby, but–“
“Exactly, sir!” answered Peterby, bowing.
“Hum!” said Barnabas, with a quick glance. “Though mark you,” he continued argumentatively,–“they might be worse, Peterby; the fit is good, and the cloth is excellent. Yes, they might be a great deal worse.”
“It is–possible, sir,” answered Peterby, with another bow. Hereupon, having glanced at his solemn face, Barnabas rose, and surveyed himself, as well as he might, in the tarnished mirror on the wall.
“Are they so bad as all that?” he inquired.
Peterby’s mouth relaxed, and a twinkle dawned in his eye.
“As garments they are–serviceable, sir,” said he, gravely, “but as clothes they–don’t exist.”
“Why then,” said Barnabas, “the sooner we get some that do,–the better. Do you know of a good tailor?”
“I know them all, sir.”
“Who is the best–the most expensive?”
“Stultz, sir, in Clifford Street; but I shouldn’t advise you to have him.”
“And why not?”
“Because he _is_ a tailor.”
“Oh?” said Barnabas.
“I mean that the clothes he makes are all stamped with his individuality, as it were,–their very excellence damns them. They are the clothes of a tailor instead of being simply a gentleman’s garments.”
“Hum!” said Barnabas, beginning to frown at this, “it would seem that dress can be a very profound subject, Peterby.”
“Sir,” answered Peterby, shaking his head, “it is a life study, and, so far as I know, there are only two people in the world who understand it aright; Beau Brummell was one, and, because he was the Beau, had London and the World of Fashion at his feet.”
“And who was the other?”
Peterby took himself by the chin, and, though his mouth was solemn, the twinkle was back in his eye as he glanced at Barnabas.
“The other, sir,” he answered, “was one who, until yesterday, was reduced to the necessity of living upon poached rabbits.”
Here Barnabas stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
“I remember you told me you were the best valet in the world,” said he.
“It is my earnest desire to prove it, sir.”
“And yet,” said Barnabas, with his gaze still turned ceiling-wards, “I would have you–even more than this, Peterby.”
“More, sir?”
“I would have you, sometimes, forget that you are only ‘the best valet in the world,’ and remember that you are–a man: one in whom I can confide; one who has lived in this great world, and felt, and suffered, and who can therefore advise me; one I may trust to in an emergency; for London is a very big place, they tell me, and my friends are few–or none–and–do you understand me, Peterby?”
“Sir,” said Peterby in an altered tone, “I think I do.”
“Then–sit down, John, and let us talk.”
With a murmur of thanks Peterby drew up a chair and sat watching Barnabas with his shrewd eyes.
“You will remember,” began Barnabas, staring up at the ceiling again, “that when I engaged you I told you that I intended to–hum! to–cut a figure in the fashionable world?”
“Yes, sir; and I told you that,–after what happened in a certain wood,–it was practically impossible.”
“You mean because I thrashed a scoundrel?”
“I mean because you knocked down a friend of the Prince Regent.”
“And is Carnaby so very powerful, Peterby?”
“Sir, he is–the Prince’s friend! He is also as great a Buck as George Hanger, as Jehu, or Jockey of Norfolk, and as famous, almost, as the late Sir Maurice Vibart.”
“Ah!” said Barnabas.
“And since the retirement of Mr. Brummell, he and the Marquis of Jerningham have to some extent taken his place and become the Arbiters of Fashion.”
“Oh!” said Barnabas.
“And furthermore, sir, I would warn you that he is a dangerous enemy, said to be one of the best pistol-shots in England.”
“Hum,” said Barnabas, “nevertheless, I mean to begin–“
“To begin, sir?”
“At once, Peterby.”
“But–how, sir?”
“That is for you to decide, Peterby.”
“Me, sir?”
“You, Peterby.”
Here Peterby took himself by the chin again, and looked at Barnabas with thoughtful eyes and gloomy brow.
“Sir,” said he, “the World of Fashion is a trivial world where all must appear trivial; it is a place where all must act a part, and where those are most regarded who are most affected; it is a world of shams and insincerity, and very jealously guarded.”
“So I have heard,” nodded Barnabas.
“To gain admission you must, first of all, have money.”
“Yes,” said Barnabas.
“Birth–if possible.”
“Hum,” said Barnabas.
“Wit and looks may be helpful, but all these are utterly useless unless you have what I may call the magic key.”
“And what is that?”
“Notoriety, sir.”
“For what?”
“For anything that will serve to lift you out of the ruck–to set you above the throng,–you must be one apart–an original.”
“Originality is divine!” said Barnabas.
“More or less, sir,” added Peterby, “for it is very easily achieved. Lord Alvanly managed it with apricot tarts; Lord Petersham with snuff-boxes; Mr. Mackinnon by his agility in climbing round drawing-rooms on the furniture; Jockey of Norfolk by consuming a vast number of beef-steaks, one after the other; Sir George Cassilis, who was neither rich nor handsome nor witty, by being insolent; Sir John Lade by dressing like a stagecoach-man, and driving like the devil; Sir George Skeffington by inventing a new color and writing bad plays; and I could name you many others beside–“
“Why then, Peterby–what of Sir Mortimer Carnaby?”
“He managed it by going into the ring with Jack Fearby, the ‘Young Ruffian,’ and beating him in twenty-odd rounds for one thing, and winning a cross-country race–“
“Ha!” exclaimed Barnabas, “a race!” and so he fell to staring up at the ceiling again.
“But I fear, sir,” continued Peterby, “that in making him your enemy, you have damned your chances at the very outset, as I told you.”
“A race!” said Barnabas again, vastly thoughtful.
“And therefore,” added Peterby, leaning nearer in his earnestness, “since you honor me by asking my advice, I would strive with all my power to dissuade you.”
“John Peterby–why?”
“Because, in the first place, I know it to be impossible.”
“I begin to think not, John.”
“Why, then, because–it’s dangerous!”
“Danger is everywhere, more or less, John.”
“And because, sir, because you–you–” Peterby rose, and stood with bent head and hands outstretched, “because you gave a miserable wretch another chance to live; and therefore I–I would not see you crushed and humiliated. Ah, sir! I know this London, I know those who make up the fashionable world. Sir, it is a heartless world, cruel and shallow, where inexperience is made a mock of–generosity laughed to scorn; where he is most respected who can shoot the straightest; where men seldom stoop to quarrel, but where death is frequent, none the less–and, sir, I could not bear–I–I wouldn’t have you cut off thus–!”
Peterby stopped suddenly, and his head sank lower; but as he stood Barnabas rose, and coming to him, took his hand into his own firm clasp.
“Thank you, John Peterby,” said he. “You may be the best valet in the world–I hope you are–but I know that you are a man, and, as a man, I tell you that I have decided upon going on with the adventure.”
“Then I cannot hope to dissuade you, sir?”
“No, John!”
“Indeed, I feared not.”
“It was for this I came to London, and I begin–at once.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Consequently, you have a busy day before you; you see I shall require, first of all, clothes, John; then–well, I suppose a house to live in–“
“A–house, sir?”
“In a fashionable quarter, and furnished, if possible.”
“A lodging, St. James’s Street way, is less expensive, sir, and more usual.”
“Good!” said Barnabas; “to buy a house will be more original, at least. Then there must be servants, horses–vehicles–but you will understand–“
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well then, John–go and get ’em.”
“Sir?” exclaimed Peterby.
“Go now, John,” said Barnabas, pulling out his purse, “this very moment.”
“But,” stammered Peterby, “but, sir–you will–“
“I shall stay here–I don’t intend to stir out until you have me dressed as I should be–in ‘clothes that exist,’ John!”
“But you–don’t mean to–to entrust–everything–to–me?”
“Of course, John.”
“But sir–“
“I have every confidence in your judgment, you see. Here is money, you will want more, of course, but this will do to go on with.”
But Peterby only stared from Barnabas to the money on the table, and back again.
“Sir,” said he at last, “this is–a great deal of money.”
“Well, John?”
“And I would remind you that we are in London, sir, and that yesterday I–was a poacher–a man of no character–a–“
“But to-day you are my valet, John. So take the money and buy me whatever I require, but a tailor first of all.”
Then, as one in a dream, Peterby took up the money, counted it, buttoned it into his pocket, and crossed to the door; but there he paused and turned.
“Sir,” said he slowly, “I’ll bring you a man who, though he is little known as yet, will be famous some day, for he is what I may term an artist in cloth. And sir,”–here Peterby’s voice grew uncertain–“you shall find me worthy of your trust, so help me God!” Then he opened the door, went out, and closed it softly behind him. But as for Barnabas, he sat with his gaze fixed on the ceiling again, lost in reverie and very silent. After a while he spoke his thoughts aloud.
“A race!” said he.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE–AND RODE IT
The coffee-room at the “George” is a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,–but upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon, flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and bowed.
“Dinner, sir?” he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and coughed disapprobation into his napkin. “Did you say dinner, sir?” he inquired again.
“Thank you, no,” answered Barnabas.
“Perhaps cheese an’ a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say–a half of porter?”
“I’ve only just had breakfast,” said Barnabas, aware of the waiter’s scrutiny.
“Ah!” sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, “you’re Number Four, I think–night coach?”
“Yes.”
“From the country of course, sir?”
“Yes–from the country,” said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little, “but how in the world did you guess that?”
“From your ‘toot example,’ sir, as they say in France–from your appearance, sir.”
“You are evidently a very observant man!” said Barnabas.
“Well,” answered the waiter, with his gaze still riveted upon the neckcloth–indeed it seemed to fascinate him, “well, I can see as far through a brick wall as most,–there ain’t much as I miss, sir.”
“Why, then,” said Barnabas, “you may perhaps have noticed a door behind you?”
The waiter stared from the neckcloth to the door and back again, and scratched his chin dubiously.
“Door, sir–yessir!”
“Then suppose you go out of that door, and bring me pens, and ink, and paper.”
“Yessir!”
“Also the latest newspapers.”
“Yessir–certainly, sir;” and with another slight, though eloquent cough into his napkin, he started off upon his errand. Hereupon, as soon as he was alone, Barnabas must needs glance down at that offending neckcloth, and his frown grew the blacker.
“Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?” he said to himself. But here came the creak of the waiter’s boots, and that observant person reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as he set them on the table.
“A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette.”
“Thank you,” said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.
“And now, sir,” here the waiter coughed into his napkin again, “now–what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make it sherry?”
“Neither,” said Barnabas.
“Why, then, we ‘ave some rare old burgundy, sir–‘ighly esteemed by connysoors and (cough again) other–gentlemen.”
“No, thank you.”
“On the other ‘and–to suit ‘umbler tastes, we ‘ave,”–here the waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head–“ale, sir, likewise beer, small and otherwise.”
“Nothing, thank you,” said Barnabas; “and you will observe the door is still where it was.”
“Door, sir, yessir–oh, certainly, sir!” said he, and stalked out of the room.
Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and began to write as follows:–
George Inn,
Borough.
June 2, 18–.
To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,
MY DEAR DICK,–I did not think to be asking favors of you so soon, but–(here a blot).
“Confound it!” exclaimed Barnabas, and taking out his penknife he began to mend the spluttering quill. But, in the midst of this operation, chancing to glance out of the window, he espied a long-legged gentleman with a remarkably fierce pair of whiskers; he wore a coat of ultra-fashionable cut, and stood with his booted legs wide apart, staring up at the inn from under a curly-brimmed hat. But the hat had evidently seen better days, the coat was frayed at seam and elbow, and the boots lacked polish; yet these small blemishes were more than offset by his general dashing, knowing air, and the untamable ferocity of his whiskers. As Barnabas watched him, he drew a letter from the interior of his shabby coat, unfolded it with a prodigious flourish, and began to con it over. Now, all at once, Barnabas dropped knife and pen, thrust a hand into his own breast and took thence a letter also, at sight of which he straightway forgot the bewhiskered gentleman; for what he read was this:–
Dearest and Best of Sisters,–Never, in all this world was there such an unfortunate, luckless dog as I–were it not for your unfailing love I should have made an end of it all, before now.
I write this letter to beg and implore you to grant me another interview, anywhere and at any time you may name. Of course you will think it is more money I want–so I do; I’m always in need of it, and begin to fear I always shall be. But my reasons for wishing this meeting are much more than this–indeed, _most urgent_! (this underlined). I am threatened by a GRAVE DANGER (this doubly underlined). I am at my wit’s end, and only you can save me, Cleone–you and you only. Chichester has been more than kind, _indeed, a true friend to me_! (this also underlined). I would that you could feel kinder towards him.
This letter must reach you where none of your guardian’s spies can intercept it; your precious Captain has always hated me, damn him! (this scratched out). Oh, shame that he, a stranger, should ever have been allowed to come between brother and sister. I shall journey down to Hawkhurst to see you and shall stay about until you can contrive to meet me. Chichester may accompany me, and if he should, try to be kinder to your brother’s only remaining friend. How different are our situations! you surrounded by every luxury, while I–yet heaven forbid I should forget my manhood and fill this letter with my woes. But if you ever loved your unfortunate brother, do not fail him in this, Cleone.
Your loving, but desperate,
RONALD BARRYMAINE.
Having read this effusion twice over, and very carefully, Barnabas was yet staring at the last line with its scrawling signature, all unnecessary curls and flourishes, when he heard a slight sound in the adjacent box, and turning sharply, was just in time to see the top of a hat ere it vanished behind the curtain above the partition.
Therefore he sat very still, waiting. And lo! after the lapse of half a minute, or thereabouts, it reappeared, slowly and by degrees–a beaver hat, something the worse for wear. Slowly it rose up over the curtain–the dusty crown, the frayed band, the curly brim, and eventually a pair of bold, black eyes that grew suddenly very wide as they met the unwinking gaze of Barnabas. Hereupon the lips, as yet unseen, vented a deep sigh, and, thereafter, uttered these words:
“The same, and yet, curse me, the nose!–y-e-s, the nose seems, on closer inspection, a trifle too aquiline, perhaps; and the chin–y-e-s, decidedly a thought too long! And yet–!” Here another sigh, and the face rising into full view, Barnabas recognized the bewhiskered gentleman he had noticed in the yard.
“Sir,” continued the stranger, removing the curly-brimmed hat with a flourish, and bowing over the partition as well as he could, “you don’t happen to be a sailor–Royal Navy, do you?”
“No, sir,” answered Barnabas.
“And your name don’t happen to be Smivvle, does it?”
“No, sir,” said Barnabas again.
“And yet,” sighed the bewhiskered gentleman, regarding him with half-closed eyes, and with his head very much on one side, “in spite of your nose, and in spite of your chin, you are the counterpart, sir, the facsimile–I might say the breathing image of a–ha!–of a nephew of mine; noble youth, handsome as Adonis–Royal Navy–regular Apollo; went to sea, sir, years ago; never heard of more; tragic, sir–devilish tragic, on my soul and honor.”
“Very!” said Barnabas; “but–“
“Saw you from the yard, sir, immediately struck by close resemblance; flew here, borne on the wings of hope, sir; you ‘re quite sure your name ain’t Smivvle, are you?”
“Quite sure.”
“Ah, well–mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as ‘Dig,’ at your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?”
“Yes,” said Barnabas.
“Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals, damn scoundrels,–by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by George!–eat you alive. Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little place in Worcestershire–King’s Heath,–know it, perhaps? No? Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks, larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic–though devilish draughty, upon my soul and honor!”
Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand, Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table, from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.
“Sir,” said Barnabas without looking up, “pray excuse the blot, the pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see.”
Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and, having found it, tugged it viciously.
“Blot, sir!” he exclaimed loudly; “now, upon my soul and honor–what blot, sir?”
“This,” said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the Viscount–“if you’ve finished, we may as well destroy it,” and forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty fireplace.
“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, louder than before, “‘pon my soul, now, if you mean to insinuate–” Here he paused, staring at Barnabas, and with his whiskers fiercer than ever.
“Well, sir?” inquired Barnabas, still busily trimming his quill.
Mr. Smivvle frowned; but finding Barnabas was quite unconscious of it, shook his head, felt for his whisker again, found it, tugged it, and laughed jovially.
“Sir,” said he, “you are a devilish sharp fellow, and a fine fellow. I swear you are. I like your spirit, on my soul and honor I do, and, as for blots, I vow to you I never write a letter myself that I don’t smear most damnably–curse me if I don’t. That blot, sir, shall be another bond between us, for I have conceived a great regard for you. The astounding likeness between you and one who–was snatched away in the flower of his youth–draws me, sir, draws me most damnably; for I have a heart, sir, a heart–why should I disguise it?” Here Mr. Smivvle tapped the third left-hand button of his coat. “And so long as that organ continues its functions, you may count Digby Smivvle your friend, and at his little place in Worcestershire he will be proud to show you the hospitality _of_ a Smivvle. Meanwhile, sir, seeing we are both strangers in a strange place, supposing we–join forces and, if you are up for the race, I propose–“
“The race!” exclaimed Barnabas, looking up suddenly.
“Yes, sir, devilish swell affair, with gentlemen to ride, and Royalty to look on–a race of races! London’s agog with it, all the clubs discuss it, coffee houses ring with it, inns and taverns clamor with it–soul and honor, betting–everywhere. The odds slightly favor Sir Mortimer Carnaby’s ‘Clasher’; but Viscount Devenham’s ‘Moonraker’ is well up. Then there’s Captain Slingsby’s ‘Rascal,’ Mr. Tressider’s ‘Pilot,’ Lord Jerningham’s ‘Clinker,’ and five or six others. But, as I tell you, ‘Clasher’ and ‘Moonraker’ carry the money, though many knowing ones are sweet on the ‘Rascal.’ But, surely, you must have heard of the great steeplechase? Devilish ugly course, they tell me.”
“The Viscount spoke of it, I remember,” said Barnabas, absently.
“Viscount, sir–not–Viscount Devenham?”
“Yes.”
Here Mr. Smivvle whistled softly, took off the curly-brimmed hat, looked at it, and put it on again at a more rakish angle than ever.
“Didn’t happen to mention my name, did he–Smivvle, sir?”
“No.”
“Nor Dig, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
“Remarkable–hum!” exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head; “but I’m ready to lay you odds that he _did_ speak of my friend Barry. I may say my bosom companion–a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir.”
“Ronald Barrymaine,” repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker’s keen glance, none the less. “No, he did not.”
“Astounding!” exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.
“Why so?”
“Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir, was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go, sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for the Jews–curse ’em!”
“And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?”
At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom, and bowed.
“Sir,” said he, “for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a Smivvle, once given, is given for good.”
As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which Barnabas observed was none too clean.
“The hand of a Smivvle, sir,” pursued that gentleman, “the hand of a Smivvle is never withdrawn either on account of adversity, plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews–dammem! As for my friend Barrymaine; but, perhaps, you are acquainted with him, sir.”
“No,” answered Barnabas.
“Ah! a noble fellow, sir! Heroic youth, blood, birth, and breeding to his finger-tips, sir. But he is, above all else, a brother to a–a sister, sir. Ah! what a creature! Fair, sir? fair as the immortal Helena! Proud, sir? proud as an arch-duchess! Handsome, sir? handsome, sir, as–as–oh, dammit, words fail me; but go, sir, go and ransack Olympus, and you couldn’t match her, ‘pon my soul! Diana, sir? Diana was a frump! Venus? Venus was a dowdy hoyden, by George! and as for the ox-eyed Juno, she was a positive cow to this young beauty! And then–her heart, sir!”
“Well, what of it?” inquired Barnabas, rather sharply.
“Utterly devoted–beats only for my friend–“
“You mean her brother?”
“I mean her brother, yes, sir; though I have heard a rumor that Sir Mortimer Carnaby–“
“Pooh!” said Barnabas.
“With pleasure, sir; but the fact remains that it was partly on his account, and partly because of another, that she was dragged away from London–“
“What other?”
“Well, let us say–H.R.H.”
“Sir,” inquired Barnabas, frowning, “do you mean the Prince?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Smivvle, with a smiling shake of the head, “I prefer the letters H.R.H. Anyhow, there were many rumors afloat at the time, and her guardian–a regular, tarry old sea dog, by George–drags her away from her brother’s side, and buries her in the country, like the one-armed old pirate he is, eye to her money they tell me; regular old skinflint; bad as a Jew–damn him! But speaking of the race, sir, do you happen to–know anything?”
“I know that it is to be run on the fifteenth of July,” said Barnabas abstractedly.
“Oh, very good!” exclaimed Mr. Smivvle–“ha! ha!–excellent! knows it is to be run on the fifteenth; very facetious, curse me! But, joking apart, sir, have you any private knowledge? The Viscount, now, did he happen to tell you anything that–“
But, at this juncture, they were interrupted by a sudden tumult in the yard outside, a hubbub of shouts, the ring and stamp of hoofs, and, thereafter, a solitary voice upraised in oaths and curses. Barnabas sprang to his feet, and hurrying out into the yard, beheld a powerful black horse that reared and plunged in the grip of two struggling grooms; in an adjacent corner was the late rider, who sat upon a pile of stable-sweepings and swore, while, near by, perched precariously upon an upturned bucket, his slim legs stretched out before him, was a young exquisite–a Corinthian from top to toe–who rocked with laughter, yet was careful to keep his head rigid, so as to avoid crushing his cravat, a thing of wonder which immediately arrested the attention of Barnabas, because of its prodigious height, and the artful arrangement of its voluminous folds.
“Oh, dooce take me,” he exclaimed in a faint voice, clapping a hand to his side, “I’ll be shot if I saw anything neater, no, not even at Sadler’s Wells! Captain Slingsby of the Guards in his famous double somersault! Oh, damme, Sling! I’d give a hundred guineas to see you do it again–I would, dooce take me!”
But Captain Slingsby continued to shake his fist at the great, black horse, and to swear with unabated fervor.
“You black devil!” he exclaimed, “you four-legged imp of Satan! So, you’re up to your tricks again, are you? Well, this is the last chance you shall have to break my neck, b’gad! I’m done with you for a–“
Here the Captain became extremely fluent, and redder of face than ever, as he poured forth a minute description of the animal; he cursed him from muzzle to crupper and back again; he damned his eyes, he damned his legs, individually and collectively, and reviled him, through sire and dam, back to the Flood.
Meanwhile Barnabas turned from raging Two-legs to superbly wrathful Four-legs; viewed him from sweeping tail to lofty crest; observed his rolling eye and quivering nostril; took careful heed of his broad chest, slender legs, and powerful, sloping haunches with keen, appraising eyes, that were the eyes of knowledge and immediate desire. And so, from disdainful Four-legs he turned back to ruffled Two-legs, who, having pretty well sworn himself out by this time, rose gingerly to his feet, felt an elbow with gentle inquiry, tenderly rubbed a muddied knee, and limped out from the corner.
Now, standing somewhat apart, was a broad-shouldered man, a rough-looking customer in threadbare clothes, whose dusty boots spoke of travel. He was an elderly man, for the hair, beneath the battered hat, was gray, and he leaned wearily upon a short stick. Very still he stood, and Barnabas noticed that he kept his gaze bent ever upon the horse; nor did he look away even when the Captain began to speak again.
“B’gad!” exclaimed the Captain, “I’ll sell the brute to the highest bidder. You, Jerningham, you seem devilish amused, b’gad! If you think you can back him he’s yours for what you like. Come, what’s the word?”
“Emphatically no, my dear, good Sling,” laughed the young Corinthian, shaking his curly head. “I don’t mean to risk this most precious neck of mine until the fifteenth, dear fellow, dooce take me if I do!”
“Why then, b’gad! I’ll sell him to any one fool enough to bid. Come now,” cried the Captain, glancing round the yard, “who’ll buy him? B’gad! who’ll give ten pounds for an accursed brute that nobody can possibly ride?”
“I will!” said Barnabas.
“Fifteen, sir!” cried the shabby man on the instant, with his gaze still on the horse.
“Twenty!” said Barnabas, like an echo.
“Twenty-five, sir!” retorted the shabby man.
“Hey?” cried the Captain, staring from one to the other. “What’s all this? B’gad! I say stop a bit–wait a minute! Bob, lend me your bucket.”
Hereupon the Corinthian obligingly vacating that article. Captain Slingsby incontinent stood upon it, and from that altitude began to harangue the yard, flourishing his whip after the manner of an auctioneer’s hammer.
“Now here you are, gentlemen!” he cried. “I offer you a devilishly ugly, damnably vicious brute, b’gad! I offer you a four-legged demon, an accursed beast that nobody can ever hope to ride–a regular terror, curse me! Killed one groom already, will probably kill another. Now, what is your price for this lady’s pet? Look him over and bid accordingly.”
“Twenty-five pound, sir,” said the shabby man.
“Thirty!” said Barnabas.
“Thirty-one, sir.”
“Fifty!” said Barnabas.
“Fifty!” cried the Captain, flourishing his whip. “Fifty pounds from the gentleman in the neckcloth–fifty’s the figure. Any more? Any advance on fifty? What, all done! Won’t any one go another pound for a beast fit only for the knacker’s yard? Oh, Gad, gentlemen, why this reticence? Are you all done?”
“I can’t go no higher, sir,” said the shabby man, shaking his gray head sadly.
“Then going at fifty–at fifty! Going! Going! Gone, b’gad! Sold to the knowing young cove in the neckcloth.”
Now, at the repetition of this word, Barnabas began to frown.
“And b’gad!” exclaimed the Captain, stepping down from the bucket, “a devilish bad bargain he’s got, too.”
“That, sir, remains to be seen,” said Barnabas, shortly.
“Why, what do you mean to do with the brute?”
“Ride him.”
“Do you, b’gad?”
“I do.”
“Lay you ten guineas you don’t sit him ten minutes.”
“Done!” said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.
But now, glancing round, he saw that the shabby man had turned away, and was trudging heavily out of the yard, therefore Barnabas hastened after him, and touched him upon the arm.
“I’m sorry you were disappointed,” said he.
“Is it about the ‘oss you mean, sir?” inquired the shabby man, touching his hat.
“Yes.”
“Why, it do come a bit ‘ard-like to ha’ lost ‘im, sir, arter waiting my chance so long. But fifty guineas be a sight o’ money to a chap as be out of a job, though ‘e’s dirt-cheap at the price. There ain’t many ‘osses like ‘im, sir.”
“That was why I should have bought him at ten times the price,” said Barnabas.
The man took off his hat, ran his stubby fingers through his grizzled hair, and stared hard at Barnabas.
“Sir,” said he, “even at that you couldn’t ha’ done wrong. He ain’t a kind ‘oss–never ‘aving been understood, d’ ye see; but take my word for it, ‘e’s a wonder, that ‘oss!”
“You know him, perhaps?”
“Since ‘e were foaled, sir. I was stud-groom; but folks think I’m too old for the job, d’ ye see, sir?”
“Do you think he ‘d remember you?”
“Ay, that ‘e would!”
“Do you suppose–look at him!–do you suppose you could hold him quieter than those ostlers?”
“‘Old ‘im, sir!” exclaimed the man, throwing back his shoulders. “‘Old ‘im–ah, that I could! Try me!”
“I will,” said Barnabas. “How would forty shillings a week suit you?”
“Sir?” exclaimed the old groom, staring.
“Since you need a job, and I need a groom, I’ll have you–if you’re willing.”
The man’s square jaw relaxed, his eyes glistened; then all at once he shook his head and sighed.
“Ah! sir,” said he, “ah! young sir, my ‘air’s gray, an’ I’m not so spry as I was–nobody wants a man as old as I be, and, seeing as you’ve got the ‘oss, you ain’t got no call to make game o’ me, young sir. You ‘ve got–the ‘oss!”
Now at this particular moment Captain Slingsby took it into his head to interrupt them, which he did in characteristic fashion.
“Hallo!–hi there!” he shouted, flourishing his whip.
“But I’m not making game of you,” said Barnabas, utterly unconscious of the Captain, at least his glance never wavered from the eager face of the old groom.
“Hallo, there!” roared the Captain, louder than ever.
“And to prove it,” Barnabas continued, “here is a guinea in advance,” and he slipped the coin into the old groom’s lax hand.
“Oh, b’gad,” cried the Captain, hoarsely, “don’t you hear me, you over there? Hi! you in the neckcloth!”
“Sir,” said Barnabas, turning sharply and frowning again at the repetition of the word, “if you are pleased to allude to me, I would humbly inform you that my name is Beverley.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Captain, “I see–young Beverley, son of old Beverley–and a devilish good name too!”
“Sir, I’m vastly relieved to hear you say so,” retorted Barnabas, with a profound obeisance. Then taking out his purse, he beckoned his new groom to approach.
“What is your name?” he inquired, as he counted out a certain sum.
“Gabriel Martin, sir.”
“Then, Martin, pray give the fellow his money.”
“Sir?”
“I mean the red-faced man in the dirty jacket, Martin,” added Barnabas.
The old groom hesitated, glanced from the Captain’s scowling brow to the smiling lips of Barnabas.
“Very good, sir,” said he, touching his shabby hat, and taking the money Barnabas held out, he tendered it to the Captain, who, redder of face than ever, took it, stared from it to Barnabas, and whistled.
“Now, damme!” he exclaimed, “damme, if I don’t believe the fellow means to be offensive!”
“If so, sir, the desire would seem to be mutual!” returned Barnabas.
“Yes, b’gad! I really believe he means to be offensive!” repeated the Captain, nodding as he pocketed the money.
“Of that you are the best judge, sir,” Barnabas retorted. Captain Slingsby whistled again, frowned, and tossing aside his whip, proceeded to button up his coat.
“Why then,” said he, “we must trouble this offensive person to apologize or–or put ’em up, begad!”
But hereupon the young Corinthian (who had been watching them languidly through the glass he carried at the end of a broad ribbon) stepped forward, though languidly, and laid a white and languid hand upon the Captain’s arm.
“No, no, Sling,” said he in a die-away voice, “he’s a doocid fine ‘bit of stuff’–look at those shoulders! and quick on his pins–remark those legs! No, no, my dear fellow, remember your knee, you hurt it, you know–fell on it when you were thrown,–must be doocid painful! Must let me take your place. Shall insist! Pleasure’s all mine, ‘sure you.”
“Never, Jerningham!” fumed the Captain, “not to be thought of, my dear Bob–no begad, he’s mine; why you heard him, he–he positively called me a–a fellow!”
“So you are, Sling,” murmured the Corinthian, surveying Barnabas with an approving eye, “dev’lish dashing fellow, an ‘out-and-outer’ with the ‘ribbons’–fiddle it with any one, by George, but no good with your mauleys, damme if you are! Besides, there’s your knee, you know–don’t forget your knee–“
“Curse my knee!”
“Certainly, dear fellow, but–“
“My knee’s sound enough to teach this countryman manners, b’gad; you heard him say my coat was filthy?”
“So it is, Sling, my boy, devilish dirty! So are your knees–look at ’em! But if you will dismount head over heels into a muck-heap, my dear fellow, what the dooce can you expect?” The Captain merely swore.
“Doocid annoying, of course,” his friend continued, “I mean your knee, you know, you can hardly walk, and this country fellow looks a regular, bang up milling cove. Let me have a try at him, do now. Have a little thought for others, and don’t be so infernally selfish, Sling, my boy.”
As he spoke, the Corinthian took off his hat, which he forced into the Captain’s unwilling grasp, drew off his very tight-fitting coat, which he tossed over the Captain’s unwilling arm, and, rolling back his snowy shirt-sleeves, turned to Barnabas with shining eyes and smiling lips.
“Sir,” said he, “seeing my friend’s knee is not quite all it should be, perhaps you will permit me to take his place, pleasure’s entirely mine, ‘sure you. Shall we have it here, or would you prefer the stables–more comfortable, perhaps–stables?”
Now while Barnabas hesitated, somewhat taken aback by this unlooked-for turn of events, as luck would have it, there came a diversion. A high, yellow-wheeled curricle swung suddenly into the yard, and its two foam-spattered bays were pulled up in masterly fashion, but within a yard of the great, black horse, which immediately began to rear and plunge again; whereupon the bays began to snort, and dance, and tremble (like the thoroughbreds they were), and all was uproar and confusion; in the midst of which, down from the rumble of the dusty curricle dropped a dusty and remarkably diminutive groom, who, running to the leader’s head, sprang up and, grasping the bridle, hung there manfully, rebuking the animal, meanwhile, in a voice astonishingly hoarse and gruff for one of his tender years.
“Dooce take me,” exclaimed the Corinthian, feeling for his eye-glass, “it’s Devenham!”
“Why, Dicky!” cried the Captain, “where have you sprung from?” and, forgetful of Barnabas, they hurried forward to greet the Viscount, who, having beaten some of the dust from his driving coat, sprang down from his high seat and shook hands cordially.
Then, finding himself unnoticed, Barnabas carefully loosed his neckerchief, and drew out the ends so that they dangled in full view.