Chapter XIX…

Chapter XIX

WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS TALKS WITH MY LADY CLEONE FOR THE SECOND TIME

It was dark among the trees, but, away to his left, though as yet low down, the moon was rising, filling the woods with mystery, a radiant glow wherein objects seemed to start forth with a new significance; here the ragged hole of a tree, gnarled, misshapen; there a wide-flung branch, weirdly contorted, and there again a tangle of twigs and strange, leafy shapes that moved not. And over all was a deep and brooding quietude.

Yes, it was dark among the trees, yet not so black as the frown that clouded the face of Barnabas as he strode on through the wood, and so betimes reached again the ancient barn of Oakshott. And lo! even as he came there, it was night, and because the trees grew tall and close together, the shadows lay thicker than ever save only in one place where the moon, finding some rift among the leaves, sent down a shaft of silvery light that made a pool of radiance amid the gloom. Now, as Barnabas gazed at this, he stopped all at once, for, just within this patch of light, he saw a foot. It was a small foot, proudly arched, a shapely foot and slender, like the ankle above; indeed, a haughty and most impatient foot, that beat the ground with angry little taps, and yet, in all and every sense, surely, and beyond a doubt, the most alluring foot in the world. Therefore Barnabas sighed and came a step nearer, and in that moment it vanished; therefore Barnabas stood still again. There followed a moment's silence, and then:

"Dear," said a low, thrilling voice, "have you come--at last? Ah! but you are late, I began to fear--" The soft voice faltered and broke off with a little gasp, and, as Barnabas stepped out of the shadows, she shrank away, back and back, to the mossy wall of the barn, and leaned there staring up at him with eyes wide and fearful. Her hood, close drawn, served but to enhance the proud beauty of her face, pale under the moon, and her cloak, caught close in one white hand, fell about her ripe loveliness in subtly revealing folds. Now in her other hand she carried a silver-mounted riding-whip. And because of the wonder of her beauty, Barnabas sighed again, and because of the place wherein they stood, he frowned; yet, when he spoke, his voice was gentle:

"Don't be afraid, madam, he is gone."

"Gone!" she echoed, faintly.

"Yes, we are quite alone; consequently you have no more reason to be afraid."

"Afraid, sir? I thought--why, 'twas you who startled me."

"Ay," nodded Barnabas, "you expected--him!"

"Where is he? When did he go?"

"Some half-hour since."

"Yet he expected me; he knew I should come; why did he go?"

Now hereupon Barnabas lifted a hand to his throat, and loosened his neckcloth.

"Why then," said he slowly, "you have--perhaps--met him hereabouts--before to-night?"

"Sir," she retorted, "you haven't answered me; why did he go so soon?"

"He was--forced to, madam."

"Forced to go,--without seeing me,--without one word! Oh, impossible!"

"I walked with him to the cross-roads, and saw him out of sight."

"But I--I came as soon as I could! Ah! surely he gave you some message--some word for me?"

"None, madam!" said Barnabas evenly, but his hand had clenched itself suddenly on the stick he held.

"But I--don't understand!" she sighed, with a helpless gesture of her white hands, "to hurry away like this, without a word! Oh, why--why did he go?"

"Madam," said Barnabas, "it was because I asked him to."

"You--asked him to?"

"I did."

"But why--why?"

"Because, from what little I know of him, I judged it best."

"Sir," she said, softly, "sir--what do you mean?"

"I mean, that this is such a very lonely place for any woman and--such as he."

Now even as Barnabas uttered the words she advanced upon him with upflung head and eyes aflame with sudden passionate scorn.

"Insolent," she exclaimed. "So it was you--you actually dared to interfere?"

"Madam," said Barnabas, "I did."

Very straight and proud she stood, and motionless save for the pant and tumult of her bosom, fierce-eyed and contemptuous of lip.

"And remained to insult me--with impunity."

"To take you home again," said Barnabas, "therefore pray let us begone."

"Us? Sir, you grow presumptuous."

"As you will," said Barnabas, "only let us go."

"With you?" she exclaimed.

"With me."

"No--not a step, sir; When I choose to go, I go alone."

"But to-night," said Barnabas, gentle of voice but resolute of eye, "to-night--I go with you."

"You!" she cried, "a man I have seen but once, a man who may be anything, a--a thief, a ploughman, a runaway groom for aught I know." Now, watching him beneath disdainful drooping lashes, she saw Barnabas flinch at this, and the curve of her scornful lips grew more bitter.

"And now I'm going--alone. Stand aside, and let me pass."

"No, madam."

"Let me pass, I warn you!"

For a minute they fronted each other, eye to eye, very silent and still, like two antagonists that measure each other's strength; then Barnabas smiled and shook his head. And in that very instant, quick and passionate, she raised her whip and struck him across the cheek. Then, as she stood panting, half fearful of what she had done, Barnabas reached out and took the whip, and snapped it between his hands.

"And now," said he, tossing aside the broken pieces, "pray let us go."

"No."

"Why, then," sighed Barnabas, "I must carry you again."

Once more she shrank away from him, back and back to the crumbling wall, and leaned there. But now because of his passionless strength, she fell a-trembling and, because of his calmly resolute eyes and grimly smiling mouth, fear came upon her, and therefore, because she could not by him, because she knew herself helpless against him, she suddenly covered her face from his eyes, and a great sob burst from her.

Barnabas stopped, and looking at her bowed head and shrinking figure, knew not what to do. And as he stood there within a yard of her, debating within himself, upon the quiet broke a sudden sound--a small, sharp sound, yet full of infinite significance--the snapping of a dry twig among the shadows; a sound that made the ensuing silence but the more profound, a breathless quietude which, as moment after moment dragged by, grew full of deadly omen. And now, even as Barnabas turned to front these menacing shadows, the moon went out.

XX. OF THE PROPHECY OF ONE BILLY BUTTON, A MADMAN

Upon the quiet stole a rustle of leaves, a whisper that came and went, intermittently, that grew louder and louder, and so was gone again; but in place of this was another sound, a musical jingle like the chime of fairy bells, very far, and faint, and sweet. All at once Barnabas knew that his companion's fear of him was gone, swallowed up--forgotten in terror of the unknown. He heard a slow-drawn, quivering sigh, and then, pale in the dimness, her hand came out to him, crept down his arm, and finding his hand, hid itself in his warm clasp; and her hand was marvellous cold, and her fingers stirred and trembled in his.

Came again a rustling in the leaves, but louder now, and drawing nearer and nearer, and ever the fairy chime swelled upon the air. And even as it came Barnabas felt her closer, until her shoulder touched his, until the fragrance of her breath fanned his cheek, until the warmth of her soft body thrilled through him, until, loud and sudden in the silence, a voice rose--a rich, deep voice:

"'Now is the witching hour when graveyards yawn'--the witching hour--aha!--Oh! poor pale ghost, I know thee--by thy night-black hair and sad, sweet eyes--I know thee. Alas, so young and dead--while I, alas, so old and much alive! Yet I, too, must die some day--soon, soon, beloved shadow. Then shall my shade encompass thine and float up with thee into the infinite. But now, aha! now is the witching hour! Oh! shades and phantoms, I summon thee, fairies, pixies, ghosts and goblins, come forth, and I will sing you and dance you."

"Tis a rare song, mine--and well liked by the quality,--you've heard it before, perchance--ay, ay for you, being dead, hear and see all things, oh, Wise Ones! Come, press round me, so. Now, hearkee, 'Oysters! oysters! and away we go."

"'Many a knight and lady fair My oysters fine would try, They are the finest oysters, sir, That ever you did buy. Oysters! who'll buy my oysters, oh!'"

The bushes rustled again, and into the dimness leapt a tall, dark figure that sang in a rich, sweet voice, and capered among the shadows with a fantastic dancing step, then grew suddenly silent and still. And in that moment the moon shone out again, shone down upon a strange, wild creature, bareheaded and bare of foot. A very tall man he was, with curling gray hair that hung low upon his shoulders, and upon his coat were countless buttons of all makes and kinds that winked and glittered in the moonlight, and jingled faintly as he moved. For a moment he stood motionless and staring, then, laying one hand to the gleaming buttons on his bosom, bowed with an easy, courtly grace.

"Who are you?" demanded Barnabas.

"Billy, sir, poor Billy--Sir William, perhaps--but, mum for that; the moon knows, but cannot tell, then why should I?"

"And what do you want--here?"

"To sing, sir, for you and the lady, if you will. I sing for high folk and low folk. I have many songs, old and new, grave and gay, but folk generally ask for my Oyster Song. I sing for rich and poor, for the sad and for the merry. I sing at country fairs sometimes, and sometimes to trees in lonely places--trees are excellent listeners always. But to-night I sing for--Them."

"And who are they?"

"The Wise Ones, who, being dead, know all things, and live on for ever. Ah, but they're kind to poor Billy, and though they have no buttons to give him, yet they tell him things sometimes. Aha! such things!--things to marvel at! So I sing for them always when the moon is full, but, most of all, I sing for Her."

"Who is she?"

"One who died, many years ago. Folk told her I was dead, killed at sea, and her heart broke--hearts will break--sometimes. So when she died, I put off the shoes from my feet, and shall go barefoot to my grave. Folk tell me that poor Billy's mad--well, perhaps he is--but he sees and hears more than folk think; the Wise Ones tell me things. You now; what do they tell me of you? Hush! You are on your way to London, they tell me--yes--yes, to London town; you are rich, and shall feast with princes, but youth is over-confident, and thus shall you sup with beggars. They tell me you came here to-night--oh, Youth!--oh, Impulse!--hasting--hasting to save a wanton from herself."

"Fool!" exclaimed Barnabas, turning upon the speaker in swift anger; for my lady's hand had freed itself from his clasp, and she had drawn away from him.

"Fool?" repeated the man, shaking his head, "nay, sir, I am only mad, folk tell me. Yet the Wise Ones make me their confidant, they tell me that she--this proud lady--is here to aid an unworthy brother, who sent a rogue instead."

"Brother!" exclaimed Barnabas, with a sudden light in his eyes.

"Who else, sir?" demands my lady, very cold and proud again all at once.

"But," stammered Barnabas, "but--I thought--"

"Evil of me!" says she.

"No--that is--I--I--Forgive me!"

"Sir, there are some things no woman can forgive; you dared to think--"

"Of the rogue who came instead," said Barnabas.

"Ah!--the rogue?"

"His name is Chichester," said Barnabas.

"Chichester!" she repeated, incredulously. "Chichester!"

"A tall, slender, dark man, with a scar on his cheek," added Barnabas.

"Do you mean he was here--here to meet me--alone?"

Now, at this she seemed to shrink into herself; and, all at once, sank down, crouching upon her knees, and hid her face from the moon.

"My lady!"

"Oh!" she sighed, "oh, that he should have come to this!"

"My Lady Cleone!" said Barnabas, and touched her very gently.

"And you--you!" she cried, shuddering away from him, "you thought me what--he would have made me! You thought I--Oh, shame! Ah, don't touch me!"

But Barnabas stooped and caught her hands, and sank upon his knees, and thus, as they knelt together in the moonlight, he drew her so that she must needs let him see her face.

"My lady," said he, very reverently, "my thought of you is this, that, if such great honor may be mine, I will marry you--to-night."

But hereupon, with her two hands still prisoned in his, and with the tears yet thick upon her lashes, she threw back her head, and laughed with her eyes staring into his. Thereat Barnabas frowned blackly, and dropped her hands, then caught her suddenly in his long arms, and held her close.

"By God!" he exclaimed, "I'd kiss you, Cleone, on that scornful, laughing mouth, only--I love you--and this is a solitude. Come away!"

"A solitude," she repeated; "yes, and he sent me here, to meet a beast--a satyr! And now--you! You drove away the other brute, oh! I can't struggle--you are too strong--and nothing matters now!" And so she sighed, and closed her eyes. Then gazing down upon her rich, warm beauty, Barnabas trembled, and loosed her, and sprang to his feet.

"I think," said he, turning away to pick up his cudgel, "I think--we had--better--go."

But my lady remained crouched upon her knees, gazing up at him under her wet lashes.

"You didn't--kiss me!" she said, wonderingly.

"You were so--helpless!" said Barnabas. "And I honor you because it was--your brother."

"Ah! but you doubted me first, you thought I came here to meet that--beast!"

"Forgive me," said Barnabas, humbly.

"Why should I?"

"Because I love you."

"So many men have told me that," she sighed.

"But I," said Barnabas, "I am the last, and it is written 'the last shall be first,' and I love you because you are passionate, and pure, and very brave."

"Love!" she exclaimed, "so soon; you have seen me only once!"

"Yes," he nodded, "it is, therefore, to be expected that I shall worship you also--in due season."

Now Barnabas stood leaning upon his stick, a tall, impassive figure; his voice was low, yet it thrilled in her ears, and there was that in his steadfast eyes before which her own wavered and fell; yet, even so, from the shadow of her hood, she must needs question him further.

"Worship me? When?"

"When you are--my--wife."

Again she was silent, while one slender hand plucked nervously at the grass.

"Are you so sure of me?" she inquired at last.

"No; only of myself."

"Ah! you mean to--force a promise from me--here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is night, and you are solitary; I would not have you fear me again. But I shall come to you, one day, a day when the sun is in the sky, and friends are within call. I shall come and ask you then."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall wait."

"Until I wed another?"

"Until you change your mind."

"I think I shall--refuse you."

"Indeed, I fear it is very likely."

"Why?"

"Because of my unworthiness; and, therefore, I would not have you kneel while I stand."

"And the grass is very damp," she sighed.

So Barnabas stepped forward with hand outstretched to aid her, but, as he did so, the wandering singer was between them, looking from one to the other with his keen, bright eyes.

"Stay!" said he. "The Wise Ones have told me that she who kneels before you now, coveted for her beauty, besought for her money, shall kneel thus in the time to come; and one--even I, poor Billy--shall stand betwixt you and join your hands thus, and bid you go forth trusting in each other's love and strength, even as poor Billy does now. And, mayhap, in that hour you shall heed the voice, for time rings many changes; the proud are brought low, the humble exalted. Hush! the Wise Ones grow impatient for my song; I hear them calling from the trees, and must begone. But hearkee! they have told me your name, Barnabas? yes, yes; Barn--, Barnabas; for the other, no matter--mum for that! Barnabas, aha! that minds me--at Barnaby Bright we shall meet again, all three of us, under an orbed moon, at Barnaby Bright:--"

"Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright, The sun's awake, and shines all night!"

"Ay, ay, 't is the night o' the fairies--when spirits pervade the air. Then will I tell you other truths; but now--They call me. She is fair, and passing fair, and by her beauty, suffering shall come upon thee; but 'tis by suffering that men are made, and because of pride, shame shall come on her; but by shame cometh humility. Farewell; I must begone--farewell till Barnaby Bright. We are to meet again in London town, I think--yes, yes--in London. Oho! oysters! oysters, sir?"

"Many a knight and lady gay My oysters fine would try, They are the finest oysters That ever you could buy! Oysters! Oysters."

And so he bowed, turned, and danced away into the shadows, and above the hush of the leaves rose the silvery jingle of his many buttons, that sank to a chime, to a murmur, and was gone. And now my lady sighed and rose to her feet, and looking at Barnabas, sighed again--though indeed a very soft, little sigh this time. As for Barnabas, he yet stood wondering, and looking after the strange creature, and pondering his wild words. Thus my lady, unobserved, viewed him at her leisure; noted the dark, close-curled hair, the full, well-opened, brilliant eye, the dominating jaw, the sensitive nostrils, the tender curve of the firm, strong mouth. And she had called him "a ploughman--a runaway footman," and had even--she could see the mark upon his cheek--how red it glowed! Did it hurt much, she wondered?

"Mad of course--yes a madman, poor fellow!" said Barnabas, thoughtfully.

"And he said your name is Barnabas."

"Why, to be sure, so he did," said Barnabas, rubbing his chin as one at a loss, "which is very strange, for I never saw or heard of him before."

"So then, your name is--Barnabas?"

"Yes. Barnabas Bar--Beverley."

"Beverley?"

"Yes--Beverley. But we must go."

"First, tell me how you learned my name?"

"From the Viscount--Viscount Devenham?"

"Then, you know the Viscount?"

"I do; we also know each other as rivals."

"Rivals? For what?"

"Yourself."

"For me? Sir--sir--what did you tell him?"

"My name is Barnabas. And I told him that I should probably marry you, some day."

"You told him--that?"

"I did. I thought it but honorable, seeing he is my friend."

"Your friend!--since when, sir?"

"Since about ten o'clock this morning."

"Sir--sir--are you not a very precipitate person?"

"I begin to think I am. And my name is Barnabas."

"Since ten o'clock this morning! Then you knew--me first?"

"By about an hour."

Swiftly she turned away, yet not before he had seen the betraying dimple in her cheek. And so, side by side, they came to the edge of the clearing.

Now as he stooped to open a way for her among the brambles, she must needs behold again the glowing mark upon his cheek, and seeing it, her glance fell, and her lips grew very tender and pitiful, and, in that moment, she spoke.

"Sir," she said, very softly, "sir?"

"My name is Barnabas."

"I fear--I--does your cheek pain you very much, Mr. Beverley?"

"Thank you, no. And my name is Barnabas."

"I did not mean to--to--"

"No, no, the fault was mine--I--I frightened you, and indeed the pain is quite gone," he stammered, holding aside the brambles for her passage. Yet she stood where she was, and her face was hidden in her hood. At last she spoke and her voice was very low.

"Quite gone, sir?"

"Quite gone, and my name is--"

"I'm very--glad--Barnabas."

Four words only, be it noted; yet on the face of Barnabas was a light that was not of the moon, as they entered the dim woodland together.

XXI. IN WHICH BARNABAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION

Their progress through the wood was slow, by reason of the undergrowth, yet Barnabas noticed that where the way permitted, she hurried on at speed, and moreover, that she was very silent and kept her face turned from him; therefore he questioned her.

"Are you afraid of these woods?"

"No."

"Of me?"

"No."

"Then, I fear you are angry again."

"I think Barnab--your name is--hateful!"

"Strange!" said Barnabas, "I was just thinking how musical it was--as you say it."

"I--oh! I thought your cheek was paining you," said she, petulantly.

"My cheek?--what has that to do with it?"

"Everything, sir!"

"That," said Barnabas, "that I don't understand."

"Of course you don't!" she retorted.

"Hum!" said Barnabas.

"And now!" she demanded, "pray how did you know I was to be at Oakshott's Barn to-night?"

"From my valet."

"Your valet?"

"Yes; though to be sure, he was a poacher, then."

"Sir, pray be serious!"

"I generally am."

"But why have a poacher for your valet?"

"That he might poach no more; and because I understand that he is the best valet in the world."

Here she glanced up at Barnabas and shook her head: "I fear I shall never understand you, Mr. Beverley."

"That time will show; and my name is Barnabas."

"But how did--this poacher--know?"

"He was the man who brought you the letter from Mr. Chichester."

"It was written by my--brother, sir."

"He was the man who gave you your brother's letter in Annersley Wood."

"Yes--I remember--in the wood."

"Where I found you lying quite unconscious."

"Where you found me--yes."

"Lying--quite unconscious!"

"Yes," she answered, beginning to hasten her steps again. "And where you left me without telling me your name--or--even asking mine."

"For which I blamed myself--afterwards," said Barnabas.

"Indeed, it was very remiss of you."

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "I came back to try and find you."

"Really, sir?" said she, with black brows arched--"did you indeed, sir?"

"But I was too late, and I feared I had lost you--"

"Why, that reminds me, I lost my handkerchief."

"Oh!" said Barnabas, staring up at the moon.

"I think I must have dropped it--in the wood."

"Then, of course, it is gone--you may depend upon that," said Barnabas, shaking his head at the moon.

"It had my monogram embroidered in one corner."

"Indeed!" said Barnabas.

"Yes; I was--hoping--that you had seen it, perhaps?"

"On a bramble-bush," said Barnabas, nodding at the moon.

"Then--you did find it, sir?"

"Yes; and I beg to remind you that my name--"

"Where is it?"

"In my pocket."

"Then why couldn't you say so before?"

"Because I wished to keep it there."

"Please give it to me!"

"Why?"

"Because no man shall have my favors to wear until he has my promise, also."

"Then, since I have the one--give me the other."

"Mr. Beverley, you will please return my handkerchief," and stopping all at once, she held out her hand imperiously.

"Of course," sighed Barnabas, "on a condition--"

"On no condition, sir!"

"That you remember my name is Barnabas."

"But I detest your name."

"I am hoping that by use it may become a little less objectionable," said he, rather ponderously.

"It never can--never; and I want my handkerchief,--Barnabas."

So Barnabas sighed again, and perforce gave the handkerchief into her keeping. And now it was she who smiled up at the moon; but as for Barnabas, his gaze was bent earthwards. After they had gone some way in silence, he spoke.

"Have you met--Sir Mortimer Carnaby--often?" he inquired.

"Yes," she answered, then seeing his scowling look, added, "very often, oh, very often indeed, sir!"

"Ha!" said frowning Barnabas, "and is he one of the many who have--told you their love?"

"Yes."

"Hum," said Barnabas, and strode on in gloomy silence. Seeing which she smiled in the shadow of her hood, and thereafter grew angry all at once.

"And pray, why not, sir?" she demanded, haughtily, "though, indeed, it does not at all concern you; and he is at least a gentleman, and a friend of the Prince--"

"And has an excellent eye for horseflesh--and women," added Barnabas.

Now when he said this, she merely looked at him once, and thereafter forgot all about him, whereby Barnabas gradually perceived that his offence was great, and would have made humble atonement, yet found her blind and deaf, which was but natural, seeing that, for her, he had ceased to exist.

But they reached a stile. It was an uncommonly high stile, an awkward stile at any time, more especially at night. Nevertheless, she faced it resolutely, even though Barnabas had ceased to exist. When, therefore, having vaulted over, he would have helped her, she looked over him, and past him, and through him, and mounted unaided, confident of herself, proud and supremely disdainful both of the stile and Barnabas; and then--because of her pride, or her disdain, or her long cloak, or all three--she slipped, and to save herself must needs catch at Barnabas, and yield herself to his arm; so, for a moment, she lay in his embrace, felt his tight clasp about her, felt his quick breath upon her cheek. Then he had set her down, and was eyeing her anxiously.

"Your foot, is it hurt?" he inquired.

"Thank you, no," she answered, and turning with head carried high, hurried on faster than ever.

"You should have taken my hand," said he; but he spoke to deaf ears.

"You will find the next stile easier, I think," he ventured; but still she hurried on, unheeding.

"You walk very fast!" said he again, but still she deigned him no reply; therefore he stooped till he might see beneath her hood.

"Dear lady," said he very gently, "if I offended you a while ago--forgive me--Cleone."

"Indeed," said she, looking away from him; "it would seem I must be always forgiving you, Mr. Beverley."

"Why, surely it is a woman's privilege to forgive, Cleone--and my name--"

"And a man's prerogative to be forgiven, I suppose, Mr. Beverley."

"When he repents as I do, Cleone; and my--"

"Oh! I forgive you," she sighed.

"Yet you still walk very fast."

"It must be nearly ten o'clock."

"I suppose so," said Barnabas, "and you will, naturally, be anxious to reach home again."

"Home," she said bitterly; "I have no home."

"But--"

"I live in a gaol--a prison. Yes, a hateful, hateful prison, watched by a one-legged gaoler, and guarded by a one-armed tyrant--yes, a tyrant!" Here, having stopped to stamp her foot, she walked on faster than ever.

"Can you possibly mean old Jerry and the Captain?"

Here my lady paused in her quick walk, and even condescended to look at Barnabas.

"Do you happen to know them too, sir?"

"Yes; and my name is--"

"Perhaps you met them also this morning, sir?"

"Yes; and my--"

"Indeed," said she, with curling lip; "this has been quite an eventful day for you."

"On the whole, I think it has; and may I remind you that my--"

"Perhaps you don't believe me when I say he is a tyrant?"

"Hum," said Barnabas.

"You don't, do you?"

"Why, I'm afraid not," he admitted.

"I'm nineteen!" said she, standing very erect.

"I should have judged you a little older," said Barnabas.

"So I am--in mind, and--and experience. Yet here I live, prisoned in a dreary old house, and with nothing to see but trees, and toads, and cows and cabbages; and I'm watched over, and tended from morning till night, and am the subject of more councils of war than Buonaparte's army ever was."

"What do you mean by councils of war?"

"Oh! whenever I do anything my tyrant disapproves of, he retires to what he calls the 'round house,' summons the Bo'sun, and they argue and talk over me as though I were a hostile fleet, and march up and down forming plans of attack and defence, till I burst in on them, and then--and then--Oh! there are many kinds of tyrants, and he is one. And so to-night I left him; I ran away to meet--" She stopped suddenly, and her head drooped, and Barnabas saw her white hands clench themselves.

"Your brother," said he.

"Yes, my--brother," but her voice faltered at the word, and she went on through the wood, but slowly now, and with head still drooping. And so, at last, they came out of the shadows into the soft radiance of the moon, and thus Barnabas saw that she was weeping; and she, because she could no longer hide her grief, turned and laid a pleading hand upon his arm.

"Pray, think of him as kindly as you can," she sighed, "you see--he is only a boy--my brother."

"So young?" said Barnabas.

"Just twenty, but younger than his age--much younger. You see," she went on hastily, "he went to London a boy--and--and he thought Mr. Chichester was his friend, and he lost much money at play, and, somehow, put himself in Mr. Chichester's power. He is my half-brother, really; but I--love him so, and I've tried to take care of him--I was always so much stronger than he--and--and so I would have you think of him as generously as you can."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes." But now she stopped again so that he must needs stop too, and when she spoke her soft voice thrilled with a new intensity.

"Will you do more? You are going to London--will you seek him out, will you try to--save him from himself? Will you promise me to do this--will you?"

Now seeing the passionate entreaty in her eyes, feeling it in the twitching fingers upon his arm, Barnabas suddenly laid his own above that slender hand, and took it into his warm clasp.

"My lady," said he, solemnly, "I will." As he spoke he stooped his head low and lower, until she felt his lips warm upon her palm, a long, silent pressure, and yet her hand was not withdrawn.

Now although Barnabas had clean forgotten the rules and precepts set down in the "priceless wollum," he did it all with a graceful ease which could not have been bettered--no, not even by the Person of Quality itself.

"But it will be difficult," she sighed, as they went on together. "Ronald is very headstrong and proud--it will be very difficult!"

"No matter," said Barnabas.

"And--dangerous, perhaps."

"No matter for that either," said Barnabas.

"Does it seem strange that I should ask so much of you?"

"The most natural thing in the world," said Barnabas.

"But you are a stranger--almost!"

"But I--love you, Cleone."

After this there fell a silence between them; and so having crossed the moonlit meadow, they came to a tall hedge beyond whose shadow the road led away, white under the moon; close by the ways divided, and here stood a weather-beaten finger-post. Now beneath this hedge they stopped, and it is to be noted that neither looked at the other.

"Sir," said she, softly, "we part here, my home lies yonder," and she pointed to where above the motionless tree-tops rose the gables and chimneys of a goodly house.

"It would seem to be fairly comfortable as prisons go," said Barnabas; but my lady only sighed.

"Do you start for London--soon?"

"To-night," nodded Barnabas.

"Sir," said she, after a pause, "I would thank you, if I could, for--for all that you have done for me."

"No, no," said Barnabas, hastily.

"Words are poor things, I know, but how else may I show my gratitude?"

And now it was Barnabas who was silent; but at last--

"There is a way," said he, staring at the finger-post.

"How--what way?"

"You might--kiss me--once, Cleone."

Now here she must needs steal a swift look at him, and thus she saw that he still stared at the ancient finger-post, but that his hands were tight clenched.

"I only ask," he continued heavily, "for what I might have taken."

"But didn't!" she added, with lips and eyes grown suddenly tender.

"No," sighed Barnabas, "nor shall I ever,--until you will it so,--because, you see, I love you."

Now as he gazed at the finger-post, even so she gazed at him; and thus she saw again the mark upon his cheek, and looking, sighed; indeed, it was the veriest ghost of a sigh, yet Barnabas heard it, and straightway forgot the finger-post, forgot the world and all things in it, save her warm beauty, the red allurement of her mouth, and the witchery of her drooping lashes; therefore he reached out his hands to her, and she saw that they were trembling.

"Cleone," he murmured, "oh, Cleone--look up!"

But even as he spoke she recoiled from his touch, for, plain and clear, came the sound of footsteps on the road near by. Sighing, Barnabas turned thitherwards and beheld advancing towards them one who paused, now and then, to look about him as though at a loss, and then hurried on again. A very desolate figure he was, and quaintly pathetic because of his gray hair, and the empty sleeve that flapped helplessly to and fro with the hurry of his going--a figure, indeed, that there was no mistaking. Being come to the finger-post, he paused to look wistfully on all sides, and Barnabas could see that his face was drawn and haggard. For a moment he gazed about him wild-eyed and eager, then with a sudden, hopeless gesture, he leaned his one arm against the battered sign-post and hid his face there.

"Oh, my lass--my dear!" he cried in a strangled voice, "why did you leave me? Oh, my lass!"

Then all at once came a rustle of parting leaves, the flutter of flying draperies, and Cleone had fled to that drooping, disconsolate figure, had wreathed her protecting arms about it, and so all moans, and sobs, and little tender cries, had drawn her tyrant's head down upon her gentle bosom and clasped it there.

XXII. IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ANCIENT FINGER-POST

"Why, Cleone!" exclaimed the Captain, and folded his solitary arm about her; but not content with this, my lady must needs take his empty sleeve also, and, drawing it close about her neck, she held it there.

"Oh, Cleone!" sighed the Captain, "my dear, dear lass!"

"No," she cried, "I'm a heartless savage, an ungrateful wretch! I am, I am--and I hate myself!" and here, forthwith, she stamped her foot at herself.

"No, no, you're not--I say no! You didn't mean to break my heart. You've come back to me, thank God, and--and--Oh, egad, Cleone, I swear--I say I swear--by Gog and Magog, I'm snuffling like a birched schoolboy; but then I--couldn't bear to--lose my dear maid."

"Dear," she sighed, brushing away his tears with the cuff of his empty sleeve, "dear, if you'd only try to hate me a little--just a little, now and then, I don't think I should be quite such a wretch to you." Here she stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the chin, that being nearest. "I'm a cat--yes, a spiteful cat, and I must scratch sometimes; but ah! if you knew how I hated myself after! And I know you'll go and forgive me again, and that's what makes it so hard to bear."

"Forgive you, Clo'--ay, to be sure! You've come back to me, you see, and you didn't mean to leave me solitary and--"

"Ah, but I did--I did! And that's why I am a wretch, and a cat, and a savage! I meant to run away and leave you for ever and ever!"

"The house would be very dark without you, Cleone."

"Dear, hold me tighter--now listen! There are times when I hate the house, and the country, and--yes, even you. And at such times I grow afraid of myself--hold me tighter!--at such times I long for London--and--and--Ah, but you do love me, don't you?"

"Love you--my own lass!" The Captain's voice was very low, yet eloquent with yearning tenderness; but even so, his quick ear had caught a rustle in the hedge, and his sharp eye had seen Barnabas standing in the shadow. "Who's that?" he demanded sharply.

"Why, indeed," says my lady, "I had forgotten him. 'Tis a friend of yours, I think. Pray come out, Mr. Beverley."

"Beverley!" exclaimed the Captain. "Now sink me! what's all this? Come out, sir,--I say come out and show yourself!"

So Barnabas stepped out from the hedge, and uncovering his head, bowed low.

"Your very humble, obedient servant, sir," said he.

"Ha! by Thor and Odin, so it's you again, is it, sir? Pray, what brings you still so far from the fashionable world? What d'ye want, sir, eh, sir?"

"Briefly, sir," answered Barnabas, "your ward."

"Eh--what? what?" cried the Captain.

"Sir," returned Barnabas, "since you are the Lady Cleone's lawful guardian, it is but right to tell you that I hope to marry her--some day."

"Marry!" exclaimed the Captain. "Marry my--damme, sir, but you're cool--I say cool and devilish impudent, and--and--oh, Gad, Cleone!"

"My dear," said she, smiling and stroking her tyrant's shaven cheek, "why distress ourselves, we can always refuse him, can't we?"

"Ay, to be sure, so we can," nodded the Captain, "but oh! sink me,--I say sink and scuttle me, the audacity of it! I say he's a cool, impudent, audacious fellow!"

"Yes, dear, indeed I think he's all that," said my lady, nodding her head at Barnabas very decidedly, "and I forgot to tell you that beside all this, he is the--gentleman who--saved me from my folly to-night, and brought me back to you."

"Eh? eh?" cried the Captain, staring.

"Yes, dear, and this is he who--" But here she drew down her tyrant's gray head, and whispered three words in his ear. Whatever she said it affected the Captain mightily, for his frown changed suddenly into his youthful smile, and reaching out impulsively, he grasped Barnabas by the hand.

"Aha, sir!" said he, "you have a good, big fist here!"

"Indeed," said Barnabas, glancing down at it somewhat ruefully, "it is--very large, I fear."

"Over large, sir!" says my lady, also regarding it, and with her head at a critical angle, "it could never be called--an elegant hand, could it?"

"Elegant!" snorted the Captain, "I say pooh! I say pish! Sir, you must come in and sup with us, my house is near by. Good English beef and ale, sir."

Barnabas hesitated, and glanced toward Cleone, but her face was hidden in the shadow of her hood, wherefore his look presently wandered to the finger-post, near by, upon whose battered sign he read the words:--

TO HAWKHURST. TO LONDON.

"Sir," said he, "I would, most gratefully, but that I start for London at once." Yet while he spoke, he frowned blackly at the finger-post, as though it had been his worst enemy.

"London!" exclaimed the Captain, "so you are still bound for the fashionable world, are ye?"

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "but I--"

"Pish, sir, I say fiddle-de-dee!"

"I have lately undertaken a mission."

"Ha! So you won't come in?"

"Thank you, no; this mission is important, and I must be gone;" and here again Barnabas sighed.

Then my lady turned and looked at Barnabas, and, though she uttered no word, her eyes were eloquent; so that the heart of him was uplifted, and he placed his hand upon the finger-post as though it had been his best friend.

"Why then, so be it, young sir," said the Captain, "it remains only to thank you, which I do, I say which I do most heartily, and to bid you good-by."

"Until we meet again, Captain."

"Eh--what, sir? meet when?"

"At 'Barnaby Bright,'" says my lady, staring up at the moon.

"In a month's time," added Barnabas.

"Eh?" exclaimed the Captain, "what's all this?"

"In a month's time, sir, I shall return to ask Cleone to be my wife," Barnabas explained.

"And," said my lady, smiling at the Captain's perplexity, "we shall be glad to see him, shan't we, dear? and shall, of course, refuse him, shan't we, dear?"

"Refuse him? yes--no--egad! I don't know," said the Captain, running his fingers through his hair, "I say, deuce take me--I'm adrift; I say where's the Bo'sun?"

"Good-by, sir!" says my lady, very seriously, and gave him her hand; "good-by."

"Till 'Barnaby Bright,'" said Barnabas.

At this she smiled, a little tremulously perhaps.

"May heaven prosper you in your mission," said she, and turned away.

"Young sir," said the Captain, "always remember my name is Chumly, John Chumly, plain and unvarnished, and, whether we refuse you or not, John Chumly will ever be ready to take you by the hand. Farewell, sir!"

So tyrant and captive turned away and went down the by-road together, and his solitary arm was close about her. But Barnabas stood there under the finger-post until a bend in the road hid them; then he, too, sighed and turned away. Yet he had gone only a little distance when he heard a voice calling him, and, swinging round, he saw Cleone standing under the finger-post.

"I wanted to give you--this," said she, as he came striding back, and held out a folded paper. "It is his--my brother's--letter. Take it with you, it will serve to show you what a boy he is, and will tell you where to find him."

So Barnabas took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. But she yet stood before him, and now, once again, their glances avoided each other.

"I also wanted to--ask you--about your cheek," said she at last.

"Yes?" said Barnabas.

"You are quite sure it doesn't--pain you, Mr. Bev--"

"Must I remind you that my name--"

"Are you quite sure--Barnabas?"

"Quite sure--yes, oh yes!" he stammered.

"Because it--glows very red!" she sighed, though indeed she still kept her gaze averted, "so will you please--stoop your head a little?"

Wonderingly Barnabas obeyed, and then--even as he did so, she leaned swiftly towards him, and for an instant her soft, warm mouth rested upon his cheek. Then, before he could stay her, she was off and away; and her flying feet had borne her out of sight.

Then Barnabas sighed, and would have followed, but the ancient finger-post barred his way with its two arms pointing:--

TO HAWKHURST. TO LONDON.

So he stopped, glanced about him to fix the hallowed place in his memory, and, obeying the directing finger, set off London-wards.

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."

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.

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.

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.

XXVII. HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE--AND RODE IT

The coffee-room at the "George" is a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,--but upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon, flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and bowed.

"Dinner, sir?" he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and coughed disapprobation into his napkin. "Did you say dinner, sir?" he inquired again.

"Thank you, no," answered Barnabas.

"Perhaps cheese an' a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say--a half of porter?"

"I've only just had breakfast," said Barnabas, aware of the waiter's scrutiny.

"Ah!" sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, "you're Number Four, I think--night coach?"

"Yes."

"From the country of course, sir?"

"Yes--from the country," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little, "but how in the world did you guess that?"

"From your 'toot example,' sir, as they say in France--from your appearance, sir."

"You are evidently a very observant man!" said Barnabas.

"Well," answered the waiter, with his gaze still riveted upon the neckcloth--indeed it seemed to fascinate him, "well, I can see as far through a brick wall as most,--there ain't much as I miss, sir."

"Why, then," said Barnabas, "you may perhaps have noticed a door behind you?"

The waiter stared from the neckcloth to the door and back again, and scratched his chin dubiously.

"Door, sir--yessir!"

"Then suppose you go out of that door, and bring me pens, and ink, and paper."

"Yessir!"

"Also the latest newspapers."

"Yessir--certainly, sir;" and with another slight, though eloquent cough into his napkin, he started off upon his errand. Hereupon, as soon as he was alone, Barnabas must needs glance down at that offending neckcloth, and his frown grew the blacker.

"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as he set them on the table.

"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."

"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.

"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again, "now--what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make it sherry?"

"Neither," said Barnabas.

"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir--'ighly esteemed by connysoors and (cough again) other--gentlemen."

"No, thank you."

"On the other 'and--to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"--here the waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head--"ale, sir, likewise beer, small and otherwise."

"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door is still where it was."

"Door, sir, yessir--oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of the room.

Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and began to write as follows:--

George Inn, Borough. June 2, 18--.

To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,

MY DEAR DICK,--I did not think to be asking favors of you so soon, but--(here a blot).

"Confound it!" exclaimed Barnabas, and taking out his penknife he began to mend the spluttering quill. But, in the midst of this operation, chancing to glance out of the window, he espied a long-legged gentleman with a remarkably fierce pair of whiskers; he wore a coat of ultra-fashionable cut, and stood with his booted legs wide apart, staring up at the inn from under a curly-brimmed hat. But the hat had evidently seen better days, the coat was frayed at seam and elbow, and the boots lacked polish; yet these small blemishes were more than offset by his general dashing, knowing air, and the untamable ferocity of his whiskers. As Barnabas watched him, he drew a letter from the interior of his shabby coat, unfolded it with a prodigious flourish, and began to con it over. Now, all at once, Barnabas dropped knife and pen, thrust a hand into his own breast and took thence a letter also, at sight of which he straightway forgot the bewhiskered gentleman; for what he read was this:--

Dearest and Best of Sisters,--Never, in all this world was there such an unfortunate, luckless dog as I--were it not for your unfailing love I should have made an end of it all, before now.

I write this letter to beg and implore you to grant me another interview, anywhere and at any time you may name. Of course you will think it is more money I want--so I do; I'm always in need of it, and begin to fear I always shall be. But my reasons for wishing this meeting are much more than this--indeed, most urgent! (this underlined). I am threatened by a GRAVE DANGER (this doubly underlined). I am at my wit's end, and only you can save me, Cleone--you and you only. Chichester has been more than kind, indeed, a true friend to me! (this also underlined). I would that you could feel kinder towards him.

This letter must reach you where none of your guardian's spies can intercept it; your precious Captain has always hated me, damn him! (this scratched out). Oh, shame that he, a stranger, should ever have been allowed to come between brother and sister. I shall journey down to Hawkhurst to see you and shall stay about until you can contrive to meet me. Chichester may accompany me, and if he should, try to be kinder to your brother's only remaining friend. How different are our situations! you surrounded by every luxury, while I--yet heaven forbid I should forget my manhood and fill this letter with my woes. But if you ever loved your unfortunate brother, do not fail him in this, Cleone.

Your loving, but desperate,

RONALD BARRYMAINE.

Having read this effusion twice over, and very carefully, Barnabas was yet staring at the last line with its scrawling signature, all unnecessary curls and flourishes, when he heard a slight sound in the adjacent box, and turning sharply, was just in time to see the top of a hat ere it vanished behind the curtain above the partition.

Therefore he sat very still, waiting. And lo! after the lapse of half a minute, or thereabouts, it reappeared, slowly and by degrees--a beaver hat, something the worse for wear. Slowly it rose up over the curtain--the dusty crown, the frayed band, the curly brim, and eventually a pair of bold, black eyes that grew suddenly very wide as they met the unwinking gaze of Barnabas. Hereupon the lips, as yet unseen, vented a deep sigh, and, thereafter, uttered these words:

"The same, and yet, curse me, the nose!--y-e-s, the nose seems, on closer inspection, a trifle too aquiline, perhaps; and the chin--y-e-s, decidedly a thought too long! And yet--!" Here another sigh, and the face rising into full view, Barnabas recognized the bewhiskered gentleman he had noticed in the yard.

"Sir," continued the stranger, removing the curly-brimmed hat with a flourish, and bowing over the partition as well as he could, "you don't happen to be a sailor--Royal Navy, do you?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas.

"And your name don't happen to be Smivvle, does it?"

"No, sir," said Barnabas again.

"And yet," sighed the bewhiskered gentleman, regarding him with half-closed eyes, and with his head very much on one side, "in spite of your nose, and in spite of your chin, you are the counterpart, sir, the facsimile--I might say the breathing image of a--ha!--of a nephew of mine; noble youth, handsome as Adonis--Royal Navy--regular Apollo; went to sea, sir, years ago; never heard of more; tragic, sir--devilish tragic, on my soul and honor."

"Very!" said Barnabas; "but--"

"Saw you from the yard, sir, immediately struck by close resemblance; flew here, borne on the wings of hope, sir; you 're quite sure your name ain't Smivvle, are you?"

"Quite sure."

"Ah, well--mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as 'Dig,' at your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals, damn scoundrels,--by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by George!--eat you alive. Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little place in Worcestershire--King's Heath,--know it, perhaps? No? Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks, larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic--though devilish draughty, upon my soul and honor!"

Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand, Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table, from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.

"Sir," said Barnabas without looking up, "pray excuse the blot, the pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see."

Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and, having found it, tugged it viciously.

"Blot, sir!" he exclaimed loudly; "now, upon my soul and honor--what blot, sir?"

"This," said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the Viscount--"if you've finished, we may as well destroy it," and forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty fireplace.

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, louder than before, "'pon my soul, now, if you mean to insinuate--" Here he paused, staring at Barnabas, and with his whiskers fiercer than ever.

"Well, sir?" inquired Barnabas, still busily trimming his quill.

Mr. Smivvle frowned; but finding Barnabas was quite unconscious of it, shook his head, felt for his whisker again, found it, tugged it, and laughed jovially.

"Sir," said he, "you are a devilish sharp fellow, and a fine fellow. I swear you are. I like your spirit, on my soul and honor I do, and, as for blots, I vow to you I never write a letter myself that I don't smear most damnably--curse me if I don't. That blot, sir, shall be another bond between us, for I have conceived a great regard for you. The astounding likeness between you and one who--was snatched away in the flower of his youth--draws me, sir, draws me most damnably; for I have a heart, sir, a heart--why should I disguise it?" Here Mr. Smivvle tapped the third left-hand button of his coat. "And so long as that organ continues its functions, you may count Digby Smivvle your friend, and at his little place in Worcestershire he will be proud to show you the hospitality of a Smivvle. Meanwhile, sir, seeing we are both strangers in a strange place, supposing we--join forces and, if you are up for the race, I propose--"

"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, looking up suddenly.

"Yes, sir, devilish swell affair, with gentlemen to ride, and Royalty to look on--a race of races! London's agog with it, all the clubs discuss it, coffee houses ring with it, inns and taverns clamor with it--soul and honor, betting--everywhere. The odds slightly favor Sir Mortimer Carnaby's 'Clasher'; but Viscount Devenham's 'Moonraker' is well up. Then there's Captain Slingsby's 'Rascal,' Mr. Tressider's 'Pilot,' Lord Jerningham's 'Clinker,' and five or six others. But, as I tell you, 'Clasher' and 'Moonraker' carry the money, though many knowing ones are sweet on the 'Rascal.' But, surely, you must have heard of the great steeplechase? Devilish ugly course, they tell me."

"The Viscount spoke of it, I remember," said Barnabas, absently.

"Viscount, sir--not--Viscount Devenham?"

"Yes."

Here Mr. Smivvle whistled softly, took off the curly-brimmed hat, looked at it, and put it on again at a more rakish angle than ever.

"Didn't happen to mention my name, did he--Smivvle, sir?"

"No."

"Nor Dig, perhaps?"

"No, sir."

"Remarkable--hum!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head; "but I'm ready to lay you odds that he did speak of my friend Barry. I may say my bosom companion--a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir."

"Ronald Barrymaine," repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker's keen glance, none the less. "No, he did not."

"Astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.

"Why so?"

"Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir, was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go, sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for the Jews--curse 'em!"

"And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?"

At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom, and bowed.

"Sir," said he, "for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a Smivvle, once given, is given for good."

As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which Barnabas observed was none too clean.

"The hand of a Smivvle, sir," pursued that gentleman, "the hand of a Smivvle is never withdrawn either on account of adversity, plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews--dammem! As for my friend Barrymaine; but, perhaps, you are acquainted with him, sir."

"No," answered Barnabas.

"Ah! a noble fellow, sir! Heroic youth, blood, birth, and breeding to his finger-tips, sir. But he is, above all else, a brother to a--a sister, sir. Ah! what a creature! Fair, sir? fair as the immortal Helena! Proud, sir? proud as an arch-duchess! Handsome, sir? handsome, sir, as--as--oh, dammit, words fail me; but go, sir, go and ransack Olympus, and you couldn't match her, 'pon my soul! Diana, sir? Diana was a frump! Venus? Venus was a dowdy hoyden, by George! and as for the ox-eyed Juno, she was a positive cow to this young beauty! And then--her heart, sir!"

"Well, what of it?" inquired Barnabas, rather sharply.

"Utterly devoted--beats only for my friend--"

"You mean her brother?"

"I mean her brother, yes, sir; though I have heard a rumor that Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"

"Pooh!" said Barnabas.

"With pleasure, sir; but the fact remains that it was partly on his account, and partly because of another, that she was dragged away from London--"

"What other?"

"Well, let us say--H.R.H."

"Sir," inquired Barnabas, frowning, "do you mean the Prince?"

"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, with a smiling shake of the head, "I prefer the letters H.R.H. Anyhow, there were many rumors afloat at the time, and her guardian--a regular, tarry old sea dog, by George--drags her away from her brother's side, and buries her in the country, like the one-armed old pirate he is, eye to her money they tell me; regular old skinflint; bad as a Jew--damn him! But speaking of the race, sir, do you happen to--know anything?"

"I know that it is to be run on the fifteenth of July," said Barnabas abstractedly.

"Oh, very good!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle--"ha! ha!--excellent! knows it is to be run on the fifteenth; very facetious, curse me! But, joking apart, sir, have you any private knowledge? The Viscount, now, did he happen to tell you anything that--"

But, at this juncture, they were interrupted by a sudden tumult in the yard outside, a hubbub of shouts, the ring and stamp of hoofs, and, thereafter, a solitary voice upraised in oaths and curses. Barnabas sprang to his feet, and hurrying out into the yard, beheld a powerful black horse that reared and plunged in the grip of two struggling grooms; in an adjacent corner was the late rider, who sat upon a pile of stable-sweepings and swore, while, near by, perched precariously upon an upturned bucket, his slim legs stretched out before him, was a young exquisite--a Corinthian from top to toe--who rocked with laughter, yet was careful to keep his head rigid, so as to avoid crushing his cravat, a thing of wonder which immediately arrested the attention of Barnabas, because of its prodigious height, and the artful arrangement of its voluminous folds.

"Oh, dooce take me," he exclaimed in a faint voice, clapping a hand to his side, "I'll be shot if I saw anything neater, no, not even at Sadler's Wells! Captain Slingsby of the Guards in his famous double somersault! Oh, damme, Sling! I'd give a hundred guineas to see you do it again--I would, dooce take me!"

But Captain Slingsby continued to shake his fist at the great, black horse, and to swear with unabated fervor.

"You black devil!" he exclaimed, "you four-legged imp of Satan! So, you're up to your tricks again, are you? Well, this is the last chance you shall have to break my neck, b'gad! I'm done with you for a--"

Here the Captain became extremely fluent, and redder of face than ever, as he poured forth a minute description of the animal; he cursed him from muzzle to crupper and back again; he damned his eyes, he damned his legs, individually and collectively, and reviled him, through sire and dam, back to the Flood.

Meanwhile Barnabas turned from raging Two-legs to superbly wrathful Four-legs; viewed him from sweeping tail to lofty crest; observed his rolling eye and quivering nostril; took careful heed of his broad chest, slender legs, and powerful, sloping haunches with keen, appraising eyes, that were the eyes of knowledge and immediate desire. And so, from disdainful Four-legs he turned back to ruffled Two-legs, who, having pretty well sworn himself out by this time, rose gingerly to his feet, felt an elbow with gentle inquiry, tenderly rubbed a muddied knee, and limped out from the corner.

Now, standing somewhat apart, was a broad-shouldered man, a rough-looking customer in threadbare clothes, whose dusty boots spoke of travel. He was an elderly man, for the hair, beneath the battered hat, was gray, and he leaned wearily upon a short stick. Very still he stood, and Barnabas noticed that he kept his gaze bent ever upon the horse; nor did he look away even when the Captain began to speak again.

"B'gad!" exclaimed the Captain, "I'll sell the brute to the highest bidder. You, Jerningham, you seem devilish amused, b'gad! If you think you can back him he's yours for what you like. Come, what's the word?"

"Emphatically no, my dear, good Sling," laughed the young Corinthian, shaking his curly head. "I don't mean to risk this most precious neck of mine until the fifteenth, dear fellow, dooce take me if I do!"

"Why then, b'gad! I'll sell him to any one fool enough to bid. Come now," cried the Captain, glancing round the yard, "who'll buy him? B'gad! who'll give ten pounds for an accursed brute that nobody can possibly ride?"

"I will!" said Barnabas.

"Fifteen, sir!" cried the shabby man on the instant, with his gaze still on the horse.

"Twenty!" said Barnabas, like an echo.

"Twenty-five, sir!" retorted the shabby man.

"Hey?" cried the Captain, staring from one to the other. "What's all this? B'gad! I say stop a bit--wait a minute! Bob, lend me your bucket."

Hereupon the Corinthian obligingly vacating that article. Captain Slingsby incontinent stood upon it, and from that altitude began to harangue the yard, flourishing his whip after the manner of an auctioneer's hammer.

"Now here you are, gentlemen!" he cried. "I offer you a devilishly ugly, damnably vicious brute, b'gad! I offer you a four-legged demon, an accursed beast that nobody can ever hope to ride--a regular terror, curse me! Killed one groom already, will probably kill another. Now, what is your price for this lady's pet? Look him over and bid accordingly."

"Twenty-five pound, sir," said the shabby man.

"Thirty!" said Barnabas.

"Thirty-one, sir."

"Fifty!" said Barnabas.

"Fifty!" cried the Captain, flourishing his whip. "Fifty pounds from the gentleman in the neckcloth--fifty's the figure. Any more? Any advance on fifty? What, all done! Won't any one go another pound for a beast fit only for the knacker's yard? Oh, Gad, gentlemen, why this reticence? Are you all done?"

"I can't go no higher, sir," said the shabby man, shaking his gray head sadly.

"Then going at fifty--at fifty! Going! Going! Gone, b'gad! Sold to the knowing young cove in the neckcloth."

Now, at the repetition of this word, Barnabas began to frown.

"And b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain, stepping down from the bucket, "a devilish bad bargain he's got, too."

"That, sir, remains to be seen," said Barnabas, shortly.

"Why, what do you mean to do with the brute?"

"Ride him."

"Do you, b'gad?"

"I do."

"Lay you ten guineas you don't sit him ten minutes."

"Done!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.

But now, glancing round, he saw that the shabby man had turned away, and was trudging heavily out of the yard, therefore Barnabas hastened after him, and touched him upon the arm.

"I'm sorry you were disappointed," said he.

"Is it about the 'oss you mean, sir?" inquired the shabby man, touching his hat.

"Yes."

"Why, it do come a bit 'ard-like to ha' lost 'im, sir, arter waiting my chance so long. But fifty guineas be a sight o' money to a chap as be out of a job, though 'e's dirt-cheap at the price. There ain't many 'osses like 'im, sir."

"That was why I should have bought him at ten times the price," said Barnabas.

The man took off his hat, ran his stubby fingers through his grizzled hair, and stared hard at Barnabas.

"Sir," said he, "even at that you couldn't ha' done wrong. He ain't a kind 'oss--never 'aving been understood, d' ye see; but take my word for it, 'e's a wonder, that 'oss!"

"You know him, perhaps?"

"Since 'e were foaled, sir. I was stud-groom; but folks think I'm too old for the job, d' ye see, sir?"

"Do you think he 'd remember you?"

"Ay, that 'e would!"

"Do you suppose--look at him!--do you suppose you could hold him quieter than those ostlers?"

"'Old 'im, sir!" exclaimed the man, throwing back his shoulders. "'Old 'im--ah, that I could! Try me!"

"I will," said Barnabas. "How would forty shillings a week suit you?"

"Sir?" exclaimed the old groom, staring.

"Since you need a job, and I need a groom, I'll have you--if you're willing."

The man's square jaw relaxed, his eyes glistened; then all at once he shook his head and sighed.

"Ah! sir," said he, "ah! young sir, my 'air's gray, an' I'm not so spry as I was--nobody wants a man as old as I be, and, seeing as you've got the 'oss, you ain't got no call to make game o' me, young sir. You 've got--the 'oss!"

Now at this particular moment Captain Slingsby took it into his head to interrupt them, which he did in characteristic fashion.

"Hallo!--hi there!" he shouted, flourishing his whip.

"But I'm not making game of you," said Barnabas, utterly unconscious of the Captain, at least his glance never wavered from the eager face of the old groom.

"Hallo, there!" roared the Captain, louder than ever.

"And to prove it," Barnabas continued, "here is a guinea in advance," and he slipped the coin into the old groom's lax hand.

"Oh, b'gad," cried the Captain, hoarsely, "don't you hear me, you over there? Hi! you in the neckcloth!"

"Sir," said Barnabas, turning sharply and frowning again at the repetition of the word, "if you are pleased to allude to me, I would humbly inform you that my name is Beverley."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Captain, "I see--young Beverley, son of old Beverley--and a devilish good name too!"

"Sir, I'm vastly relieved to hear you say so," retorted Barnabas, with a profound obeisance. Then taking out his purse, he beckoned his new groom to approach.

"What is your name?" he inquired, as he counted out a certain sum.

"Gabriel Martin, sir."

"Then, Martin, pray give the fellow his money."

"Sir?"

"I mean the red-faced man in the dirty jacket, Martin," added Barnabas.

The old groom hesitated, glanced from the Captain's scowling brow to the smiling lips of Barnabas.

"Very good, sir," said he, touching his shabby hat, and taking the money Barnabas held out, he tendered it to the Captain, who, redder of face than ever, took it, stared from it to Barnabas, and whistled.

"Now, damme!" he exclaimed, "damme, if I don't believe the fellow means to be offensive!"

"If so, sir, the desire would seem to be mutual!" returned Barnabas.

"Yes, b'gad! I really believe he means to be offensive!" repeated the Captain, nodding as he pocketed the money.

"Of that you are the best judge, sir," Barnabas retorted. Captain Slingsby whistled again, frowned, and tossing aside his whip, proceeded to button up his coat.

"Why then," said he, "we must trouble this offensive person to apologize or--or put 'em up, begad!"

But hereupon the young Corinthian (who had been watching them languidly through the glass he carried at the end of a broad ribbon) stepped forward, though languidly, and laid a white and languid hand upon the Captain's arm.

"No, no, Sling," said he in a die-away voice, "he's a doocid fine 'bit of stuff'--look at those shoulders! and quick on his pins--remark those legs! No, no, my dear fellow, remember your knee, you hurt it, you know--fell on it when you were thrown,--must be doocid painful! Must let me take your place. Shall insist! Pleasure's all mine, 'sure you."

"Never, Jerningham!" fumed the Captain, "not to be thought of, my dear Bob--no begad, he's mine; why you heard him, he--he positively called me a--a fellow!"

"So you are, Sling," murmured the Corinthian, surveying Barnabas with an approving eye, "dev'lish dashing fellow, an 'out-and-outer' with the 'ribbons'--fiddle it with any one, by George, but no good with your mauleys, damme if you are! Besides, there's your knee, you know--don't forget your knee--"

"Curse my knee!"

"Certainly, dear fellow, but--"

"My knee's sound enough to teach this countryman manners, b'gad; you heard him say my coat was filthy?"

"So it is, Sling, my boy, devilish dirty! So are your knees--look at 'em! But if you will dismount head over heels into a muck-heap, my dear fellow, what the dooce can you expect?" The Captain merely swore.

"Doocid annoying, of course," his friend continued, "I mean your knee, you know, you can hardly walk, and this country fellow looks a regular, bang up milling cove. Let me have a try at him, do now. Have a little thought for others, and don't be so infernally selfish, Sling, my boy."

As he spoke, the Corinthian took off his hat, which he forced into the Captain's unwilling grasp, drew off his very tight-fitting coat, which he tossed over the Captain's unwilling arm, and, rolling back his snowy shirt-sleeves, turned to Barnabas with shining eyes and smiling lips.

"Sir," said he, "seeing my friend's knee is not quite all it should be, perhaps you will permit me to take his place, pleasure's entirely mine, 'sure you. Shall we have it here, or would you prefer the stables--more comfortable, perhaps--stables?"

Now while Barnabas hesitated, somewhat taken aback by this unlooked-for turn of events, as luck would have it, there came a diversion. A high, yellow-wheeled curricle swung suddenly into the yard, and its two foam-spattered bays were pulled up in masterly fashion, but within a yard of the great, black horse, which immediately began to rear and plunge again; whereupon the bays began to snort, and dance, and tremble (like the thoroughbreds they were), and all was uproar and confusion; in the midst of which, down from the rumble of the dusty curricle dropped a dusty and remarkably diminutive groom, who, running to the leader's head, sprang up and, grasping the bridle, hung there manfully, rebuking the animal, meanwhile, in a voice astonishingly hoarse and gruff for one of his tender years.

"Dooce take me," exclaimed the Corinthian, feeling for his eye-glass, "it's Devenham!"

"Why, Dicky!" cried the Captain, "where have you sprung from?" and, forgetful of Barnabas, they hurried forward to greet the Viscount, who, having beaten some of the dust from his driving coat, sprang down from his high seat and shook hands cordially.

Then, finding himself unnoticed, Barnabas carefully loosed his neckerchief, and drew out the ends so that they dangled in full view.

"I've been rusticating with my 'Roman,'" the Viscount was proceeding to explain, keeping his eye upon his horses, "but found him more Roman than usual--Gad, I did that! Have 'em well rubbed down, Milo," he broke off suddenly, as the bays were led off to the stables, "half a bucket of water apiece, no more, mind, and--say, a dash of brandy!"

"Werry good, m'lud!" This from Milo of Crotona, portentous of brow and stern of eye, as he overlooked the ostlers who were busily unbuckling straps and traces.

"My 'Roman,' as I say," continued the Viscount, "was rather more so than usual, actually wanted me to give up the Race! After that of course I had to be firm with him, and we had a slight--ah, misunderstanding in consequence--fathers, as a rule, are so infernally parental and inconsiderate! Met Carnaby on the road, raced him for a hundred; ding-dong all the way, wheel and wheel to Bromley, though he nearly ditched me twice, confound him! Coming down Mason's Hill I gave him my dust, up the rise he drew level again. 'Ease up for the town, Carnaby,' says I, 'Be damned if I do!' says he, so at it we went, full tilt. Gad! to see the folk jump! Carnaby drove like a devil, had the lead to Southend, but, mark you, his whip was going! At Catford we were level again. At Lewisham I took the lead and kept it, and the last I saw of him he was cursing and lashing away at his cattle, like a brute. Carnaby's a devilish bad loser, I've noticed, and here I am. And oh! by the way--he's got a devil of an eye, and a split lip. Says he fell out of his curricle, but looks as though some one had--thrashed him."

"But my very dear fellow!" exclaimed the Corinthian, "thrash Carnaby? pooh!"

"Never in the world!" added the Captain.

"Hum!" said the Viscount, feeling a tender part of his own ribs thoughtfully, "ha! But, hallo, Jerningham! have you been at it too? Why are you buffed?" And he nodded to the Corinthian's bare arms.

"Oh, dooce take me, I forgot!" exclaimed the Marquis, looking about; "queer cove, doocid touchy, looks as if he might fib though. Ah, there he is! talking to the rough-looking customer over yonder;" and he pointed to Barnabas, who stood with his coat thrown open, and the objectionable neckcloth in full evidence. The Viscount looked, started, uttered a "view hallo," and, striding forward, caught Barnabas by the hand.

"Why, Bev, my dear fellow, this is lucky!" he exclaimed. Now Barnabas was quick to catch the glad ring in the Viscount's voice, and to notice that the neckcloth was entirely lost upon him, therefore he smiled as he returned the Viscount's hearty grip.

"When did you get here? what are you doing? and what the deuce is the trouble between you and Jerningham?" inquired the Viscount all in a breath. But before Barnabas could answer, the great, black horse, tired of comparative inaction, began again to snort and rear, and jerk his proud head viciously, whereupon the two ostlers fell to swearing, and the Viscount's bays at the other end of the yard to capering, and the Viscount's small groom to anathematizing, all in a moment.

"Slingsby!" cried his Lordship, "look to that black demon of yours!"

"He is no concern of mine, Devenham," replied the Captain airily, "sold him, b'gad!"

"And I bought him," added Barnabas.

"You did?" the Viscount exclaimed, "in heaven's name, what for?"

"To ride--"

"Eh? my dear fellow!"

"I should like to try him for the race on the fifteenth, if it could be managed, Dick."

"The race!" exclaimed the Viscount, staring.

"I 've been wondering if you could--get me entered for it," Barnabas went on, rather diffidently, "I'd give anything for the chance."

"What--with that brute! my dear fellow, are you mad?"

"No, Dick."

"But he's unmanageable, Bev; he's full of vice--a killer--look at him now!"

And indeed at this moment, as if to bear out this character, up went the great, black head again, eyes rolling, teeth gleaming, and ears laid back.

"I tell you, Bev, no one could ride that devil!" the Viscount repeated.

"But," said Barnabas, "I've bet your friend Captain Slingsby that I could."

"It would be madness!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Ha! look out! There--I told you so!" For in that moment the powerful animal reared suddenly--broke from the grip of one ostler, and swinging the other aside, stood free, and all was confusion. With a warning shout, the old groom sprang to his head, but Barnabas was beside him, had caught the hanging reins, and swung himself into the saddle.

"I've got him, sir," cried Martin, "find yer stirrups!"

"Your stick," said Barnabas, "quick, man! Now--let go!"

For a moment the horse stood rigid, then reared again, up and up--his teeth bared, his forefeet lashing; but down came the heavy stick between the flattened ears, once--twice, and brought him to earth again.

And now began a struggle between the man and the brute--each young, each indomitable, for neither had as yet been mastered, and therefore each was alike disdainful of the other. The head of the horse was high and proud, his round hoofs spurned the earth beneath, fire was in his eye, rage in his heart--rage and scorn of this presumptuous Two-legs who sought to pit his puny strength against his own quivering, four-legged might. Therefore he mocked Two-legs, scorned and contemned him, laughed ha! ha! (like his long-dead ancestor among the Psalmist's trumpets) and gathered himself together--eager for the battle.

But the eyes of Barnabas were wide and bright, his lips were curved, his jaw salient--his knees gripped tight, and his grasp was strong and sure upon the reins.

And now Four-legs, having voiced his defiance, tossed his crest on high, then plunged giddily forward, was checked amid a whirlwind of lashing hoofs, rose on his hind legs higher and higher, swinging giddily round and round, felt a stunning blow, staggered, and dropping on all fours, stove in the stable door with a fling of his hind hoofs. But the eyes of Barnabas were glowing, his lips still curved, and his grip upon the reins was more masterful. And, feeling all this, Four-legs, foaming with rage, his nostrils flaring, turned upon his foe with snapping teeth, found him out of reach, and so sought to play off an old trick that had served him more than once; he would smash his rider's leg against a post or wall, or brush him off altogether and get rid of him that way. But lo! even as he leapt in fulfilment of this manoeuvre, his head was wrenched round, further and further, until he must perforce, stop--until he was glaring up into the face above, the face of his bitter foe, with its smiling mouth, its glowing eye, its serene brow.

"Time's up!" cried the Captain, suddenly; "b'gad, sir, you win the bet!" But Barnabas scarcely heard.

"You've done it--you win; eleven and a half minutes, b'gad!" roared the Captain again--"don't you hear, sir?--come off, before he breaks your neck!"

But Barnabas only shook his head, and, dropping the stick, leaned over and laid his hand upon that proud, defiant crest, a hand grown suddenly gentle, and drew it down caressingly from ear to quivering nostril, once, twice, and spoke words in a soft tone, and so, loosed the cruel grip upon the rein, and sat back--waiting. But Four-legs had become thoughtful; true, he still tossed his head and pawed an impatient hoof, but that was merely for the sake of appearances--Four-legs was thoughtful. No one had ever touched him so, before--indeed blows had latterly been his portion--but this Two-legs was different from his kind, besides, he had a pleasing voice--a voice to soothe ragged nerves--there it was again! And then surely, the touch of this hand awoke dim memories, reminded him of far-off times when two-legged creatures had feared him less; and there was the hand again! After all, things might be worse--the hand that could be so gentle could be strong also; his mouth was sore yet, and a strong man, strong-handed and gentle of voice, was better than--oh, well!

Whether of all this, or any part of it, the great, black horse was really thinking, who shall say? Howbeit Barnabas presently turned in his saddle and beckoned the old groom to his stirrup.

"He'll be quiet now, I think," said he.

"Ah! that he will, sir. You've larned the trick o' voice an' hand--it ain't many as has it--must be born in a man, I reckon, an' 'tis that as does more nor all your whips and spurs, an' curb-bits, sir. 'E'll be a babe wi' you arter this, sir, an' I'm thinkin' as you won't be wantin' me now, maybe? I ain't young enough nor smart enough, d' ye see."

Here Barnabas dismounted, and gave the reins into the old groom's eager hand.

"I shan't be wanting him for--probably three or four days, Gabriel, until then--look after him, exercise him regularly, for I'm hoping to do great things with him, soon, Gabriel, perhaps." And so Barnabas smiled, and as Martin led the horse to the stables, turned to find the young Corinthian at his elbow; he had resumed hat and coat, and now regarded Barnabas as smiling and imperturbable as ever.

"Sir," said he, "I congratulate you heartily. Sir, any friend of Viscount Devenham is also mine, I trust; and I know your name, and--hem!--I swear Slingsby does! Beverley, I think--hem!--son of old Beverley, and a devilish good name too! Eh, Sling my boy?"

Hereupon the Captain limped forward, if possible redder of face than ever, very much like a large schoolboy in fault.

"Sir," he began, "b'gad--!" here he paused to clear his throat loudly once or twice--"a devil incarnate! Fourteen minutes and a half, by my watch, and devil a spur! I'd have lent you my boots had there been time, I would, b'gad! As it is, if you've any desire to shake hands with a--ha!--with a fellow--hum!--in a dirty coat--why--here's mine, b'gad!"

"Captain the Honorable Marmaduke Slingsby--Mr. Beverley--The Marquis of Jerningham--Mr. Beverley. And now," said the Viscount, as Barnabas shook hands, "now tell 'em why you bought the horse, Bev."

"I was hoping, sirs," said Barnabas, rather diffidently, "that I might perhaps have the honor of riding in the Steeplechase on the fifteenth."

Hereupon the Captain struck his riding boot a resounding blow with his whip, and whistled; while the Marquis dangled his eyeglass by its riband, viewing it with eyes of mild surprise, and the Viscount glanced from one to the other with an enigmatical smile upon his lips.

"That would rest with Carnaby to decide, of course," said the Captain at last.

"Why so?" inquired Barnabas.

"Because--well, because he--is Carnaby, I suppose," the Captain answered.

"Though Jerningham has the casting-vote," added the Viscount.

"True," said the Marquis, rearranging a fold of his cravat with a self-conscious air, "but, as Sling says--Carnaby is--Carnaby."

"Sirs," began Barnabas, very earnestly, "believe me I would spare no expense--"

"Expense, sir?" repeated the Marquis, lifting a languid eyebrow; "of course it is no question of 'expense'!" Here the Viscount looked uncomfortable all at once, and Barnabas grew suddenly hot.

"I mean," he stammered, "I mean that my being entered so late in the day--the fees might be made proportionately heavier--double them if need be--I should none the less be--be inestimably indebted to you; indeed I--I cannot tell you--" Now as Barnabas broke off, the Marquis smiled and reached out his hand--a languid-seeming hand, slim and delicate, yet by no means languid of grip.

"My dear Beverley," said he, "I like your earnestness. A race--especially this one--is a doocid serious thing; for some of us, perhaps, even more serious than we bargain for. It's going to be a punishing race from start to finish, a test of endurance for horse and man, over the worst imaginable country. It originated in a match between Devenham on his 'Moonraker' and myself on 'Clinker,' but Sling here was hot to match his 'Rascal,' and Carnaby fancied his 'Clasher,' and begad! applications came so fast that we had a field in no time."

"Good fellows and sportsmen all!" nodded the Captain. "Gentlemen riders--no tag-rag, gamest of the game, sir."

"Now, as to yourself, my dear Beverley," continued the Marquis authoritatively, "you 're doocid late, y' know; but then--"

"He can ride," said the Viscount.

"And he's game," nodded the Captain.

"And, therefore," added the Marquis, "we'll see what can be done about it."

"And b'gad, here's wishing you luck!" said the Captain.

At this moment Peterby entered the yard, deep in converse with a slim, gentleman-like person, whose noble cravat immediately attracted the attention of the Marquis.

"By the way," pursued the Captain, "we three are dining together at my club; may I have a cover laid for you, Mr. Beverley?"

"Sir," answered Barnabas, "I thank you, but, owing to--circumstances" --here he cast a downward glance at his neckerchief--"I am unable to accept. But, perhaps, you will, all three of you, favor me to dinner at my house--say, in three days' time?"

The invitation was no sooner given than accepted.

"But," said the Viscount, "I didn't know that you had a place here in town, Bev. Where is it?"

"Why, indeed, now you come to mention it, I haven't the least idea; but, perhaps, my man can tell me."

"Eh--what?" exclaimed the Captain. "Oh, b'gad, he's smoking us!"

"Peterby!"

"Sir?" and having saluted the company, Peterby stood at respectful attention.

"I shall be giving a small dinner in three days' time."

"Certainly, sir."

"At my house, Peterby,--consequently I desire to know its location. Where do I live now, Peterby?"

"Number five, St. James's Square, sir."

"Thank you, Peterby."

"An invaluable fellow, that of yours," laughed the Marquis, as Peterby bowed and turned away.

"Indeed, I begin to think he is, my Lord," answered Barnabas, "and I shall expect you all, at six o'clock, on Friday next." So, having shaken hands again, Captain Slingsby took the arm of the Marquis, and limped off.

Now, when they were alone, the Viscount gazed at Barnabas, chin in hand, and with twinkling eyes.

"My dear Bev," said he, "you can hang me if I know what to make of you. Egad, you're the most incomprehensible fellow alive; you are, upon my soul! If I may ask, what the deuce did it all mean--about this house of yours?"

"Simply that until this moment I wasn't sure if I had one yet."

"But--your fellow--"

"Yes. I sent him out this morning to buy me one."

"To buy you--a house?"

"Yes; also horses and carriages, and many other things, chief among them--a tailor."

The Viscount gasped.

"But--my dear fellow--to leave all that to your--servant! Oh, Gad!"

"But, as the Marquis remarked, Peterby is an inestimable fellow."

The Viscount eyed Barnabas with brows wrinkled in perplexity; then all at once his expression changed.

"By the way," said he, "talking of Carnaby, he's got the most beautiful eye you ever saw!"

"Oh?" said Barnabas, beginning to tuck in the ends of his neckerchief.

"And a devil of a split lip!"

"Oh?" said Barnabas again.

"And his coat had been nearly ripped off him; I saw it under his cape!"

"Ah?" said Barnabas, still busy with his neckcloth.

"And naturally enough," pursued the Viscount, "I've been trying to imagine--yes, Bev, I've been racking my brain most damnably, wondering why you--did it?

"It was in the wood," said Barnabas.

"So it was you, then?"

"Yes, Dick."

"But--he didn't even mark you?"

"He lost his temper, Dick."

"You thrashed--Carnaby! Gad, Bev, there isn't a milling cove in England could have done it."

"Yes--there are two--Natty Bell, and Glorious John."

"And I'll warrant he deserved it, Bev."

"I think so," said Barnabas; "it was in the wood, Dick."

"The wood? Ah! do you mean where you--"

"Where I found her lying unconscious."

"Unconscious! And with him beside her! My God, man!" cried the Viscount, with a vicious snap of his teeth. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"Because I was beside her--first, Dick."

"Damn him!" exclaimed the Viscount bitterly.

"But he is your friend, Dick."

"Was, Bev, was! We'll make it in the past tense hereafter."

"Then you agree with your father after all?"

"I do, Bev; my father is a cursed, long-sighted, devilish observant man! I'll back him against anybody, though he is such a Roman. But oh, the devil!" exclaimed the Viscount suddenly, "you can never ride in the race after this."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll meet Carnaby; and that mustn't happen."

"Why not?"

"Because he'll shoot you."

"You mean he'd challenge me? Hum," said Barnabas, "that is awkward! But I can't give up the race."

"Then what shall you do?"

"Risk it, Dick."

But now, Mr. Smivvle, who from an adjoining corner had been an interested spectator thus far, emerged, and flourishing off the curly-brimmed hat, bowed profoundly, and addressed himself to the Viscount.

"I believe," said he, smiling affably, "that I have the pleasure to behold Viscount Devenham?"

"The same, sir," rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.

"You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?"

The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.

"No, I don't, sir."

Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.

"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"

The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.

"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.

Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.

"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse--the multitude--the ah--the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir, --a Smivvle, every inch of me,--while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,' and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a friend--"

"Indeed, sir," said the Viscount, in a tone of faint surprise, and beckoning a passing ostler, ordered out his curricle.

"As I say," repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to search for his whisker again, "I have a friend, my Lord--"

"Congratulate you," murmured the Viscount, pulling at his glove.

"A friend who has frequently spoken of your Lordship--"

"Very kind of him!" murmured the Viscount.

"And though, my Lord, though my name is not familiar, I think you will remember his; the name of my friend is "--here Mr. Smivvle, having at length discovered his whisker, gave it a fierce twirl,-- "Ronald Barrymaine."

The Viscount's smooth brow remained unclouded, only the glove tore in his fingers; so he smiled, shook his head, and drawing it off, tossed it away.

"Hum?" said he, "I seem to have heard some such name--somewhere or other--ah! there's my Imp at last, as tight and smart as they make 'em, eh, Bev? Well, good-by, my dear fellow, I shan't forget Friday next." So saying, the Viscount shook hands, climbed into his curricle, and, with a flourish of his whip, was off and away in a moment.

"A fine young fellow, that!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle; "yes, sir, regular out-and-outer, a Bang up! by heaven, a Blood, sir! a Tippy! a Go! a regular Dash! High, sir, high, damned high, like my friend Barrymaine,--indeed, you may have remarked a similarity between 'em, sir?"

"You forget, I have never met your friend," said Barnabas.

"Ah, to be sure, a great pity! You'd like him, for Barrymaine is a cursed fine fellow in spite of the Jews, dammem! yes,--you ought to know my friend, sir."

"I should be glad to," said Barnabas.

"Would you though, would you indeed, sir? Nothing simpler; call a chaise! Stay though, poor Barry's not himself to-day, under a cloud, sir. Youthful prodigalities are apt to bring worries in their train--chiefly in the shape of Jews, sir, and devilish bad shapes too! Better wait a day--say to-morrow, or Thursday--or even Friday would do."

"Let it be Saturday," said Barnabas.

"Saturday by all means, sir, I'll give myself the pleasure of calling upon you."

"St. James's Square," said Barnabas, "number five."

But now Peterby, who had been eyeing Mr. Smivvle very much askance, ventured to step forward.

"Sir," said he, "may I remind you of your appointment?"

"I hadn't forgotten, Peterby; and good day, Mr. Smivvle."

"Au revoir, sir, delighted to have had the happiness. If you should chance ever to be in Worcestershire, the Hall is open to you. Good afternoon, sir!" And so, with a prodigious flourish of the hat, Mr. Smivvle bowed, smiled, and swaggered off. Then, as he turned to follow Peterby into the inn, Barnabas must needs pause to glance towards the spot where lay the Viscount's torn glove.

Chapter XXVIII

CONCERNING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, THE LEGS OF A GENTLEMAN-IN-POWDER

In that delightful book, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments," one may read of Spirits good, and bad, and indifferent; of slaves of lamps, of rings and amulets, and talismanic charms; and of the marvels and wonders they performed. But never did Afrit, Djinn, or Genie perform greater miracles than steady-eyed, soft-voiced Peterby. For if the far away Orient has its potent charms and spells, so, in this less romantic Occident, have we also a spell whereby all things are possible, a charm to move mountains--a spell whereby kings become slaves, and slaves, kings; and we call it Money.

Aladdin had his wonderful Lamp, and lo! at the Genie's word, up sprang a palace, and the wilderness blossomed; Barnabas had his overflowing purse, and behold! Peterby went forth, and the dull room at the "George" became a mansion in the midst of Vanity Fair.

Thus, at precisely four o'clock on the afternoon of the third day, Barnabas stood before a cheval mirror in the dressing-room of his new house, surveying his reflection with a certain complacent satisfaction.

His silver-buttoned blue coat, high-waisted and cunningly rolled of collar, was a sartorial triumph; his black stockinette pantaloons, close-fitting from hip to ankle and there looped and buttoned, accentuated muscled calf and virile thigh in a manner somewhat disconcerting; his snowy waistcoat was of an original fashion and cut, and his cravat, folded and caressed into being by Peterby's fingers, was an elaborate masterpiece, a matchless creation never before seen upon the town. Barnabas had become a dandy, from the crown of his curly head to his silk stockings and polished shoes, and, upon the whole, was not ill-pleased with himself.

"But they're--dangerously tight, aren't they, Peterby?" he inquired suddenly, speaking his thought aloud.

"Tight, sir!" repeated Mr. Barry, the tailor, reproachfully, and shaking his gentleman-like head, "impossible, sir,--with such a leg inside 'em."

"Tight, sir?" exclaimed Peterby, from where he knelt upon the floor, having just finished looping and buttoning the garments in question, "indeed, sir, since you mention it, I almost fear they are a trifle too--roomy. Can you raise your bent knee, sir?"

"Only with an effort, John."

"That settles it, Barry," said Peterby with a grim nod, "you must take them in at least a quarter of an inch."

"Take 'em in?" exclaimed Barnabas, aghast, "no, I'll be shot if you do,--not a fraction! I can scarcely manage 'em as it is." Peterby shook his head in grave doubt, but at this juncture they were interrupted by a discreet knock, and the door opening, a Gentleman-in-Powder appeared. He was a languid gentleman, an extremely superior gentleman, but his character lay chiefly in his nose, which was remarkably short and remarkably supercilious of tip, and his legs which were large and nobly shaped; they were, in a sense, eloquent legs, being given to divers tremors and quiverings when their possessor labored under any strong feeling or excitement; but, above all, they were haughty legs, contemptuous of this paltry world and all that therein is, yea, even of themselves, for their very calves seemed striving to turn their backs upon each other.

"Are you in, sir?" he inquired in an utterly impersonal tone.

"In?" repeated Barnabas, with a quick downward glance at his tight nether garments, "in?--in what?--in where?"

"Are you at 'ome, sir?"

"At home? Of course,--can't you see that?"

"Yes, sir," returned the Gentleman-in-Powder, his legs growing a little agitated.

"Then why do you ask?"

"There is a--person below, sir."

"A person?"

"Yes, sir,--very much so! Got 'is foot in the door--wouldn't take it out--had to let 'em in--waiting in the 'all, sir."

"What's he like, who is he?"

"Whiskers, sir,--name of Snivels,--no card!" Here might have been observed the same agitation of the plump legs.

"Ask him to wait."

"Beg pardon, sir--did you say--to wait?" (Agitation growing.)

"Yes. Say I'll be down at once." (Agitation extreme.)

"Meaning as you will--see 'im, sir?" (Agitation indescribable.)

"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes, of course."

The Gentleman-in-Powder bowed; his eye was calm, his brow unruffled, but his legs!!! And his nose was more supercilious than ever as he closed the door upon it.

Mr. Smivvle, meanwhile, was standing downstairs before a mirror, apparently lost in contemplation of his whiskers, and indeed they seemed to afford him a vast degree of pleasure, for he stroked them with caressing fingers, and smiled upon them quite benevolently.

"Six pair of silver candlesticks!" he murmured. "Persian rugs! Bric-a-brac, rare--costly pictures! He's a Nabob, by heaven,--yes he is,--a mysterious young Nabob, wallowing in wealth! Five shillings? --preposterous! we'll make it--ten,--and--yes, shall we say another five for the pampered menial? By all means let us make it another five shillings for the cursed flunkey,--here he comes!"

And indeed, at that moment the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder might have been descried descending the stair rather more pompously than usual. As soon as they had become stationary, Mr. Smivvle directed a glance at the nearest, and addressed it.

"James!" said he.

The Gentleman-in-Powder became lost in dreamy abstraction, with the exception of his legs which worked slightly. Hereupon Mr. Smivvle reached out and poked him gently with the head of his tasselled cane.

"Awake, James?" said he.

"Name of Harthur--if you please, sir!" retorted the Gentleman-in-Powder, brushing away the touch of the cane, and eyeing the place with much concern.

"If, James," continued Mr. Smivvle, belligerent of whisker, "if you would continue to ornament this lordly mansion, James, be more respectful, hereafter, to your master's old and tried friends," saying which Mr. Smivvle gave a twirl to each whisker, and turned to inspect a cabinet of old china.

"Sevres, by George!" he murmured, "we'll make it a pound!" He was still lost in contemplation of the luxurious appointments that everywhere met his view, and was seriously considering the advisability of "making it thirty shillings," when the appearance of Barnabas cut him short, and he at once became all smiles, flourishes and whiskers.

"Ah, Beverley, my boy!" he cried heartily, "pray forgive this horribly unseasonable visit, but--under the circumstances--I felt it my duty to--ah--to drop in on you, my dear fellow."

"What circumstances?" demanded Barnabas, a little stiffly, perhaps.

"Circumstances affecting our friend Barrymaine, sir."

"Ah?" said Barnabas, his tone changing, "what of him? though you forget, Mr. Barrymaine and I are still strangers."

"By heaven, you are right, sir, though, egad! I'm only a little previous,--eh, my dear fellow?" and, smiling engagingly, Mr. Smivvle followed Barnabas into a side room, and shutting the door with elaborate care, immediately shook his whiskers and heaved a profound sigh. "My friend Barrymaine is low, sir,--devilish low," he proceeded to explain, "indeed I'm quite distressed for the poor fellow, 'pon my soul and honor I am,--for he is--in a manner of speaking--in eclipse as it were, sir!"

"I fear I don't understand," said Barnabas.

"Why, then--in plain words, my dear Beverley,--he's suffering from an acute attack of the Jews, dammem!--a positive seizure, sir!"

"Do you mean he has been taken--for debt?"

"Precisely, my dear fellow. An old affair--ages ago--a stab in the dark! Nothing very much, in fact a mere bagatelle, only, as luck will have it, I am damnably short myself just now."

"How much is it?"

"Altogether exactly twenty-five pound ten. An absurd sum, but all my odd cash is on the race. So I ventured here on my young friend's behalf to ask for a trifling loan,--a pound--or say thirty shillings would be something."

Barnabas crossed to a cabinet, unlocked a drawer, and taking thence a smallish bag that jingled, began to count out a certain sum upon the table.

"You said twenty-five pounds ten, I think?" said Barnabas, and pushed that amount across the table. Mr. Smivvle stared from the money to Barnabas and back again, and felt for his whisker with fumbling fingers.

"Sir," he said, "you can't--you don't mean to--to--"

"Yes," said Barnabas, turning to re-lock the drawer. Mr. Smivvle's hand dropped from his whiskers, indeed, for the moment he almost seemed to have forgotten their existence.

"Sir," he stammered, "I cannot allow--no indeed, sir! Mr. Beverley, you overwhelm me--"

"Debts are necessary evils," said Barnabas, "and must be paid." Mr. Smivvle stared at Barnabas, his brow furrowed by perplexity, --stared like one who is suddenly at a loss; and indeed his usual knowing air was quite gone. Then, dropping his gaze to the money on the table, he swept it into his pocket, almost furtively, and took up his hat and cane, and, it is worthy of note, that he did it all without a flourish.

"Mr. Beverley," said he, "in the name of my friend Barrymaine, I thank you, and--I--I thank you!" So he turned and went out of the room, and, as he went, he even forgot to swagger.

Then Barnabas crossed to a mirror, and, once more, fell to studying his reflection with critical eyes, in the midst of which examination he looked up to find Peterby beside him.

"Are you quite satisfied, sir?"

"They are wonderful, John."

"The coat," said Peterby, "y-e-s, the coat will pass well enough, but I have grave doubts as regard the pantaloons."

"I refuse to have 'em touched, John. And Natty Bell was quite right."

"Sir?" said Peterby.

"You don't know Natty Bell as yet, John, but you may; he is a very remarkable man! He told me, I remember, that in Town, a man had his clothes put on for him, and--remembered them,--and so he does,--the difficulty will be ever to forget 'em, they"--here Barnabas stole a glance at his legs--"they positively obtrude themselves, John! Yes, clothes are wonderful things, but I fear they will take a great deal of living up to!"

Here Barnabas drew a long sigh, in the midst of which he was interrupted by the calves of the Gentleman-in-Powder, which presented themselves at the doorway with the announcement:

"Viscount Deafenem, sir!"

Barnabas started and hurried forward, very conscious, very nervous, and for once uncertain of himself by reason of his new and unaccustomed splendor. But the look in the Viscount's boyish eyes, his smiling nod of frank approval, and the warm clasp of his hand, were vastly reassuring.

"Why, Bev, that coat's a marvel!" he exclaimed impulsively, "it is, I swear it is; turn round--so! Gad, what a fit!"

"I hoped you 'd approve of it, Dick," said Barnabas, a little flushed, "you see, I know very little about such things, and--"

"Approve of it! My dear fellow! And the cut!"

"Now--as for these--er--pantaloons, Dick--?"

"Dashing, my dear fellow,--devilish dashing!"

"But rather too--too tight, don't you think?"

"Can't be, Bev, tighter the better,--have 'em made too tight to get into, and you're right; look at mine, if I bend, I split,--deuced uncomfortable but all the mode, and a man must wear something! My fellow has the deuce of a time getting me into 'em, confound 'em. Oh, for ease, give me boots and buckskins!" Hereupon the Viscount having walked round Barnabas three times, and viewed him critically from every angle, nodded with an air of finality. "Yes, they do you infinite credit, my dear fellow,--like everything else;" and he cast a comprehensive glance round the luxurious apartment.

"The credit of it all rests entirely with Peterby," said Barnabas. "John--where are you?" But Peterby had disappeared.

"You're the most incomprehensible fellow, Bev," said the Viscount, seating himself on the edge of the table and swinging his leg. "You have been a constant surprise to me ever since you found me--er--let us say--ruminating in the bilboes, and now"--here he shook his head gravely--"and now it seems you are to become a source of infernal worry and anxiety as well."

"I hope not, Dick."

"You are, though," repeated the Viscount, looking graver than ever.

"Why?"

"Because--well, because you are evidently bent upon dying young."

"How so, Dick?"

"Well, if you ride in the race and don't break your neck, Carnaby will want a word with you; and if he doesn't shoot you, why then Chichester certainly will--next time, damn him!"

"Next time?"

"Oh, I know all about your little affair with him--across the table. Gad, Beverley, what a perfectly reckless fellow you are!"

"But--how do you know of this?"

"From Clemency."

"So you've seen her again, Dick?"

"Yes, of course; that is, I took 'Moonraker' for a gallop yesterday, and--happened to be that way."

"Ah!" said Barnabas.

"And she told me--everything," said the Viscount, beginning to stride up and down the room, with his usual placidity quite gone, "I mean about--about the button you found, it was that devil Chichester's it seems, and--and--Beverley, give me your hand! She told me how you confronted the fellow. Ha! I'll swear you had him shaking in his villain's shoes, duellist as he is."

"But," said Barnabas, as the Viscount caught his hand, "it was not altogether on Clemency's account, Dick."

"No matter, you frightened the fellow off. Oh, I know--she told me; I made her! She had to fight with the beast, that's how he lost his button. I tell you, if ever I get the chance at him, he or I shall get his quietus. By God, Bev, I'm half-minded to send the brute a challenge, as it is."

"Because of Clemency, Dick?"

"Well--and why not?"

"The Earl of Bamborough's son fight a duel over the chambermaid of a hedge tavern!"

The Viscount's handsome face grew suddenly red, and as suddenly pale again, and his eyes glowed as he fronted Barnabas across the hearth.

"Mr. Beverley," said he very quietly, "how am I to take that?"

"In friendship, Dick, for the truth of it is that--though she is as brave, as pure, as beautiful as any lady in the land, she is a chambermaid none the less."

The Viscount turned, and striding to the window stood there, looking out with bent head.

"Have I offended you?" inquired Barnabas.

"You go--too far, Beverley."

"I would go farther yet for my friend, Viscount, or for our Lady Cleone."

Now when Barnabas said this, the Viscount's head drooped lower yet, and he stood silent. Then, all at once, he turned, and coming to the hearth, the two stood looking at each other.

"Yes, I believe you would, Beverley. But you have a way of jumping to conclusions that is--devilish disconcerting. As for Chichester, the world would be well rid of him. And, talking of him, I met another rascal as I came--I mean that fellow Smivvle; had he been here?"

"Yes."

"Begging, I suppose?"

"He borrowed some money for his friend Barrymaine."

The Viscount flushed hotly, and looked at Barnabas with a sudden frown.

"Perhaps you are unaware, that is a name I never allow spoken in my presence, Mr. Beverley."

"Indeed, Viscount, and pray, why not?"

"For one thing, because he is--what he is--"

"Lady Cleone's brother."

"Half-brother, sir, and none the less a--knave."

"How--?"

"I mean that he is a card-sharper, a common cheat."

"Her brother--?"

"Half-brother!"

"A cheat! Are you sure?"

"Certain! I had the misfortune to make the discovery. And it killed him in London, all the clubs shut their doors upon him of course, he was cut in the streets,--it is damning to be seen in his company or even to mention his name--now."

"And you--you exposed him?"

"I said I made the discovery; but I kept it to myself. The stakes were unusually high that night, and we played late. I went home with him, but Chichester was there, waiting for him. So I took him aside, and, in as friendly a spirit as I could, told him of my discovery. He broke down, and, never attempting a denial, offered restitution and promised amendment. I gave my word to keep silent and, on one pretext or another, the loser's money was returned. But next week, the whole town hummed with the news. One night--it was at White's--he confronted me, and--he gave me--the lie!" The Viscount's fists were tight clenched, and he stared down blindly at the floor. "And, sir, though you'll scarcely credit it of course, I--there, before them all--I took it."

"Of course," said Barnabas, "for Her sake."

"Beverley!" exclaimed the Viscount, looking up with a sudden light in his eyes. "Oh, Bev!" and their hands met and gripped.

"You couldn't do anything else, Dick."

"No, Bev, no, but I'm glad you understand. Later it got about that I--that I was--afraid of the fellow--he's a dead shot, they say, young as he is--and--well, it--it wasn't pleasant, Bev. Indeed it got worse until I called out one of Chichester's friends, and winged him--a fellow named Dalton."

"I think I've seen him," said Barnabas, nodding.

"Anyhow, Barrymaine was utterly discredited and done for--he's an outcast, and to be seen with him, or his friends, is to be damned also."

"And yet," said Barnabas, sighing and shaking his head, "I must call upon him to-morrow."

"Call upon him! Man--are you mad?"

"No; but he is her brother, and--"

"And, as I tell you, he is banned by society as a cheat!"

"And is that so great a sin, Dick?"

"Are there any--worse?"

"Oh, yes; one might kill a man in a duel, or dishonor a trusting woman, or blast a man's character; indeed it seems to me that there are many greater sins!"

The Viscount dropped back in his chair, and stared at Barnabas with horrified eyes.

"My--dear--Beverley," said he at last, "are you--serious?"

"My dear Viscount--of course I am."

"Then let me warn you, such views will never do here: any one holding such views will never succeed in London."

"Yet I mean to try," said Barnabas, squaring his jaw.

"But why," said the Viscount, impatiently, "why trouble yourself about such a fellow?"

"Because She loves him, and because She asked me to help him."

"She asked--you to?"

"Yes."

"And--do you think you can?"

"I shall try."

"How?"

"First, by freeing him from debt."

"Do you know him--have you ever met him?"

"No, Dick, but I love his sister."

"And because of this, you'd shoulder his debts? Ah, but you can't, and if you ask me why, I tell you, because Jasper Gaunt has got him, and means to keep him. To my knowledge Barrymaine has twice had the money to liquidate his debt--but Gaunt has put him off, on one pretext or another, until the money has all slipped away. I tell you, Bev, Jasper Gaunt has got him in his clutches--as he's got Sling, and poor George Danby, and--God knows how many more--as he'd get me if he could, damn him! Yes, Gaunt has got his claws into him, and he'll never let him go again--never."

"Then," said Barnabas, "I must see Jasper Gaunt as soon as may be."

"Oh, by all means," nodded the Viscount, "if you have a taste for snakes, and spiders, and vermin of that sort, Slingsby will show you where to find him--Slingsby knows his den well enough, poor old Sling! But look to yourself, for spiders sting and snakes bite, and Jasper Gaunt does both."

The knuckles of the Gentleman-in-Powder here made themselves heard, and thereafter the door opened to admit his calves, which were immediately eclipsed by the Marquis, who appeared to be in a state of unwonted hurry.

"What, have I beat Slingsby, then?" he inquired, glancing round the room, "he was close behind me in Piccadilly--must have had a spill--that's the worst of those high curricles. As a matter of fact," he proceeded to explain, "I rushed round here--that is we both did, but I've got here first, to tell you that--Oh, dooce take me!" and out came the Marquis's eyeglass. "Positively you must excuse me, my dear Beverley. Thought I knew 'em all, but no--damme if I ever saw the fellow to yours! Permit me!" Saying which the Marquis gently led Barnabas to the window, and began to study his cravat with the most profound interest.

"By George, Devenham," he exclaimed suddenly,--"it's new!"

"Gad!" said the Viscount, "now you come to mention it,--so it is!"

"Positively--new!" repeated the Marquis in an awestruck voice, staring at the Viscount wide-eyed. "D'you grasp the importance of this, Devenham?--d'you see the possibilities, Dick? It will create a sensation,--it will set all the clubs by the ears, by George! We shall have the Prince galloping up from Brighton. By heaven, it's stupendous! Permit me, my dear Beverley. See--here we have three folds and a tuck, then--oh, Jupiter, it's a positive work of art, --how the deuce d'you tie it? Never saw anything approaching this, and I've tried 'em all,--the Mail-coach, the Trone d'Amour, the Osbaldistone, the Napoleon, the Irish tie, the Mathematical tie, and the Oriental,--no, 'pon my honor it's unique, it's--it's--" the Marquis sighed, shook his head, and words failing him, took out his enamelled snuff-box. "Sir," said he, "I have the very highest regard for a man of refined taste, and if there is one thing in which that manifests itself more than another, it is the cravat. Sir, I make you free of my box, pray honor me." And the Marquis flicked open his snuff-box and extended it towards Barnabas with a bow.

"My Lord," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "I appreciate the honor you do me, but pray excuse me,--I never take it."

"No?" said the Marquis with raised brows, "you astonish me; but then--between ourselves--neither do I. Can't bear the infernal stuff. Makes me sneeze most damnably. And then, it has such a cursed way of blowing about! Still, one must conform to fashion, and--"

"Captain Slingsby!"

The Gentleman-in-Powder had scarcely articulated the words, when the Captain had gripped Barnabas by the hand.

"Congratulate you, Beverley, heartily."

"Thank you, but why?" inquired Barnabas.

"Eh--what? Hasn't Jerningham told you? B'gad, is it possible you don't know--"

"Why, dooce take me, Sling, if I didn't forget!" said the Marquis, clapping hand to thigh, "but his cravat put everything else out of my nob, and small wonder either! You tell him."

"No," answered the Captain. "I upset a cursed apple-stall on my way here--you got in first--tell him yourself."

"Why, then, Beverley," said the Marquis, extending his hand, in his turn, as he spoke, "we have pleasure, Sling and I, to tell you that you are entered for the race on the fifteenth."

"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, flushing. "You mean I'm to ride then?"

"Yes," nodded the Captain, "but b'gad! we mean more than that, we mean that you are one of us, that Devenham's friend must be ours because he's game--"

"And can ride," said the Viscount.

"And is a man of taste," added the Marquis.

Thus it was as one in a dream that Barnabas beheld the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder, and heard the words:

"Dinner is served, gentlemen!"

But scarcely had they taken their places at the table when the Marquis rose, his brimming glass in his hand.

"Mr. Beverley," said he, bowing, "when Devenham, Slingsby, and I meet at table, it is our invariable custom to drink to one whom we all--hum--"

"Admire!" said the Viscount, rising.

"Adore!" said the Captain, rising also.

"Therefore, gentlemen," pursued the Marquis, "with our host's permission, we will--"

"Stay a moment, Jerningham," said the Viscount,--"it is only right to tell you that my friend Beverley is one with us in this,--he also is a suitor for the hand of Lady Cleone."

"Is he, b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain. "Dooce take me!" said the Marquis, "might have known it though. Ah, well! one more or less makes small difference among so many."

So Barnabas rose, and lifting his glass with the others, drank to--

"Our Lady Cleone--God bless her!"

Chapter XXIX

WHICH DESCRIBES SOMETHING OF THE MISFORTUNES OF RONALD BARRYMAINE

Holborn was in full song,--a rumbling, roaring melody, a clattering, rushing, blaring symphony made up of the grind of wheels upon resounding cobble-stones, the thudding beat of horse-hoofs, the tread of countless feet, the shrill note of voices; it was all there, the bass and the treble blending together, harsh, discordant, yet the real symphony of life.

And, amidst it all, of it all, came Barnabas, eager-eyed, forgetful of his companion, lost to all but the stir and bustle, the rush and roar of the wonderful city about him. The which Mr. Smivvle duly remarked from under the curly-brimmed hat, but was uncommonly silent. Indeed, though his hat was at its usual rakish angle, though he swung his cane and strode with all his ordinary devil-may-care swagger, though his whiskers were as self-assertive as ever, yet Mr. Smivvle himself was unusually pensive, and in his bold black eyes was a look very like anxiety. But in a while, as they turned out of the rush of Holborn Hill, he sighed, threw back his shoulders, and spoke.

"Nearly there now, my dear fellow, this is the Garden."

"Garden?" said Barnabas, glancing about. "Where?"

"Here, sir; we're in it,--Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot, you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries once, I believe,--flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a few of 'em still left to--ah--blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's another--a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a blush-rose, but damnably run to seed, like the rest of us. And--ah--talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that we may find him a trifle--queer--a leetle touched perhaps." And Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible glass, and tossed down its imaginary contents with an expression of much beatitude.

"Is he given to--that sort of thing?"

"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "can you blame one who seeks forgetfulness in the flowing bowl--and my friend Barry has very much to forget--can you blame him?"

"No, poor fellow!"

"Sir, allow me to tell you my friend Barry needs no man's pity, though I confess I could wish Chichester was not quite so generous--in one respect."

"How?"

"In--ah--in keeping the flowing bowl continually brimming, my dear fellow."

"Is Mr. Chichester a friend of his?"

"The only one, with the exception of yours obediently, who has not deserted him in his adversity."

"Why?"

"Because, well,--between you and me, my dear fellow, I believe his regard for Barry's half-sister, the Lady Cleone, is largely accountable in Chichester's case; as for myself, because, as I think I mentioned, the hand of a Smivvle once given, sir, is never withdrawn, either on account of plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews, --dammem! This way, my dear fellow!" and turning into Cross Street, up towards Leather Lane, Mr. Smivvle halted at a certain dingy door, opened it, and showed Barnabas into a dingier hall, and so, leading the way up the dingiest stairs in the world, eventually ushered him into a fair-sized, though dingy, room; and being entered, immediately stood upon tip-toe and laid a finger on his lips.

"Hush! the poor fellow's asleep, but you'll excuse him, I know."

Barnabas nodded, and, softly approaching the couch, looked down upon the sleeper, and, with the look, felt his heart leap.

A young face he saw, delicately featured, a handsome face with disdainful lips that yet drooped in pitiful weariness, a face which, for all its youth, was marred by the indelible traces of fierce, ungoverned passions. And gazing down upon these features, so dissimilar in expression, yet so strangely like in their beauty and lofty pride, Barnabas felt his heart leap,--because of the long lashes that curled so black against the waxen pallor of the cheek; for in that moment he almost seemed to be back in the green, morning freshness of Annersley Wood, and upon his lips there breathed a name--"Cleone."

But all at once the sleeper stirred, frowned, and started up with a bitter imprecation upon his lips that ended in a vacant stare.

"Why, Barry," cried Mr. Smivvle leaning over him, "my dear boy, did we disturb you?"

"Ah, Dig--is that you? Fell asleep--brandy, perhaps, and--ha,--your pardon, sir!" and Ronald Barrymaine rose, somewhat unsteadily, and, folding his threadbare dressing-gown about him, bowed, and so stood facing Barnabas, a little drunk and very stately.

"This is my friend Beverley, of whom I told you," Mr. Smivvle hastened to explain. "Mr. Barnabas Beverley,--Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."

"You are--welcome, sir," said Mr. Barrymaine, speaking with elaborate care, as if to make quite sure of his utterance. "Pray be seated, Mr. Bev'ley. We--we are a little crowded I f-fear. Move those boots off the chair, Dig. Indeed my apartment might be a little more commodious, but it's all I have at p-present, and by God!" he cried, suddenly fierce, "I shouldn't have even this but for Dig here! Dig's the only f-friend I have in the world--except Chichester. Push the brandy over, Dig. Of course there's--Cleone, but she's only a sister, after all. Don't know what I should do if it wasn't for Dig--d-do I, Dig? And Chichester of course. Give Mr. Bev'ley a chair. Dig. I'll get him--glass!" Hereupon Mr. Smivvle hurried forward with a chair which, like all the rest of the furniture, had long ago seen its best days, during which manoeuvre he contrived to whisper hurriedly:

"Poor Barry's decidedly 'touched' to-day, a little more so than usual, but you'll excuse him I know, my dear fellow. Hush!" for Barrymaine, who had crossed to the other end of the room, now turned and came towards them, swaying a little, and with a glass in his hand.

"It's rickety, sir, you'll notice," said he, nodding. "I--I mean that chair--dev'lish rickety, like everything else 'bout here--especially myself, eh, Dig? B-but don't be alarmed, it--will bear you, sir. D-devil of a place to ask--gentleman to sit down in, --but the Spanswick hasn't been round to clean the place this week--damn her! S-scarcely blame her, though--never gets paid--except when Dig remembers it. Don't know what I should do without D-Dig,--raised twenty pounds yesterday, damme if I know where! said it was watch--but watch went weeks ago. Couldn't ever pay the Spanswick. That's the accursed part of it--pay, pay! debt on debt, and--n-nothing to pay with. All swallowed up by that merciless bloodsucker--that--"

"Now, Barry!" Mr. Smivvle expostulated, "my dear boy--"

"He's a cursed v-vampire, I tell you!" retorted Barrymaine, his pale cheeks suddenly flushed, and his dark eyes flashing in swift passion, --"he's a snake."

"Now, my dear fellow, calm yourself."

"Calm myself. How can I, when everything I have is his, when everything I g-get belongs to him before--curse him--even before I get it! I tell you, Dig, he's--he's draining my life away, drop by drop! He's g-got me down with his foot on my neck--crushing me into the mud. I say he's stamping me down into hell--damn him!"

"Restrain yourself, Barry, my dear boy, remember Mr. Beverley is our guest--"

"Restrain myself--yes, Dig, yes. B-beg Mr. Beverley's pardon for me, Dig. Not myself to-day,--but must restrain myself--certainly. Give me some more brandy--ha! and pass bottle to Mr. Bev'ley, Dig. No, sir? Ah well, help yourself, Dig. Must forgive exhibition of feeling, sir, but I always do get carried away when I remember that inhuman monster--God's curse on him!"

"Sir," said Barnabas, "whom do you mean?"

"Mean? ha! ha! oh damme, hark to that, Dig! Dev'lish witty I call that--oh c-cursed rich! Whom do I mean? Why," cried Barrymaine, starting up from the couch, "whom should I mean but Gaunt! Gaunt! Gaunt!" and he shook his clenched fists passionately in the air. Then, as suddenly he turned upon Barnabas with a wild, despairing gesture, and stretching out his arms, pointed to each wrist in turn. "D'ye see 'em?" he cried, "d'ye hear 'em; jangle? No? Ah, but they are there! riveted on, never to come off, eating deeper into my flesh every day! I'm shackled, I tell you,--fettered hand and foot. Oh! egad, I'm an object lesson!--point a moral and adorn a tale, --beware of p-prodigality and m-money lenders. Shackled--shackled hand and foot, and must drag my chain until I f-fall into a debtor's grave."

"No!" cried Barnabas, so suddenly that Ronald Barrymaine started, and thereafter grew very high and haughty.

"Sir," said he with upflung head, "I don't permit my word to be--to be--contra--dicted,--never did and never will. Though you see before you a m-miserable wretch, yet that wretch is still a gentleman at heart, and that wretch tells you again he's shackled, sir, hand and foot--yes, damme, and so I am!"

"Well then," said Barnabas, "why not free yourself?"

Ronald Barrymaine sank down upon the couch, looked at Barnabas, looked at Smivvle, drained his glass and shook his head.

"My dear Dig," said he, "your friend's either mad or drunk--mos' probably drunk. Yes, that's it,--or else he's smoking me, and I won't be smoked, no man shall laugh at me now that I'm down. Show him the door, Dig. I--I won't have my private affairs discussed by s-strangers, no, by heaven!"

"Now, Barry," exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, "do be calm, Mr. Beverley only wants to help you--er--that is, in a friendly way, of course, and I 'm sure--"

"Damn his help! I'd rather die in the g-gutter than ask help or charity of any one."

"Yes, yes--of course, my dear fellow! But you're so touchy, Barry, so infernally proud, my dear boy. Mr. Beverley merely wishes to--"

"Be honored with your friendship," said Barnabas with his ingenuous smile.

"Why then, Dig," says his youthful Mightiness, beginning to relent, "pray beg Mr. Bev'ley's pardon for me again, and 'sure him the honor is mine."

"And I would have you trust me also," Barnabas pursued.

"Trust you?" repeated Barrymaine with a sudden laugh. "Gad, yes, willingly! Only it happens I've n-noth-ing left to trust you with, --no, not enough to pay the Spanswick."

"And yet, if you will, you may be free," said Barnabas the persistent.

"Free! He's at it again, Dig."

"Believe me it is my earnest desire to help you,--to--"

"Help me, sir! a stranger! by heaven,--no! A stranger, damme!"

"Let us say your friend."

"I tell you, sir," said Barrymaine, starting up unsteadily, "I seek no man's aid--s-scorn it! I'm not one to weep out my misfortunes to strangers. Damme, I'm man enough to manage my own affairs, what's left of 'em. I want nobody's accursed pity either--pah!" and he made a gesture of repudiation so fierce that he staggered and recovered himself only by clutching at Mr. Smivvle's ready arm. "The Past, sir," said he, supporting himself by that trusty arm, "the Past is done with, and the F-Future I'll face alone, as I have done all along, eh, Dig?"

"But surely--"

"Ay, surely, sir, I'm no object of charity whining for alms, no, by Gad! I--I'm--Dig, push the brandy!"

"If you would but listen--" Barnabas began again.

"Not--not a word. Why should I? Past's dead, and damn the Future. Dig, pass the brandy."

"And I tell you," said Barnabas, "that in the future are hope and the chance of a new life, once you are free of Gaunt."

"Free of Gaunt! Hark to that, Dig. Must be dev'lish drunk to talk such cursed f-folly! Why, I tell you again," he cried in rising passion, "that I couldn't get free of Gaunt's talons even if I had the money, and mine's all gone long ago, and half Cleone's beside, --her Guardian's tied up the rest. She can't touch another penny without his consent, damn him!--so I'm done. The future? In the future is a debtor's prison that opens for me whenever Jasper Gaunt says the word. Hope? There can be no hope for me till Jasper Gaunt's dead and shrieking in hell-fire."

"But your debts shall be paid,--if you will."

"Paid? Who--who's to pay 'em?"

"I will."

"You!--you?"

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "on a condition."

Ronald Barrymaine sank back upon the couch, staring at Barnabas with eyes wide and with parted lips; then, leaned suddenly forward, sobered by surprise.

"Ah-h!" said he slowly. "I think I begin to understand. You have seen my--my sister."

"Yes."

"Do you know--how much I owe?"

"No, but I'll pay it,--on a condition."

"A condition?" For a long moment the passionate dark eyes met and questioned the steady gray; then Barrymaine's long lashes fluttered and fell.

"Of course it would be a loan. I--I'd pay you back," he muttered.

"At your own convenience."

"And you would advance the money at once?"

"On a condition!"

Once again their eyes met, and once again Barrymaine's dropped; his fingers clenched and unclenched themselves, he stirred restlessly, and, finally, spoke.

"And your condition. Is it--Cleone?"

"No!" said Barnabas vehemently.

"Then, what is it?"

"That from this hour you give up brandy and Mr. Chichester--both evil things."

"Well, and what more,--what--for yourself? How can this benefit you? Come, speak out,--what is your real motive?"

"The hope that you may, some day, be worthy of your sister's love."

"Worthy, sir!" exclaimed Barrymaine, flushing angrily. "Poverty is no crime!"

"No; but there remain brandy and Mr. Chichester."

"Ha! would you insult m-my friend?"

"Impossible. You have no friend, unless it be Mr. Smivvle here."

"Now by heaven," began Barrymaine passionately, "I tell you--"

"And I tell you that these are my only conditions," said Barnabas. "Accept them and you may begin a new life. It is in your power to become the man you might be, to regain the place in men's esteem that you have lost, for if you are but sufficiently determined, nothing is impossible."

Now as he spoke, Barnabas beheld Barrymaine's drooping head uplifted, his curving back grew straight, and a new light sprang into his eyes.

"A new life," he muttered, "to come back to it all, to outface them all after their cursed sneers and slights! Are you sure you don't promise too much,--are you sure it's not too late?"

"Sure and certain!" said Barnabas. "But remember the chance of salvation rests only with and by yourself, after all," and he pointed to the half-emptied bottle. "Do you agree to my conditions?"

"Yes, yes, by God I do!"

"Then, friend, give me your hand. To-day I go to see Jasper Gaunt."

So Ronald Barrymaine, standing square upon his feet, gave Barnabas his hand. But even in that moment Barnabas was conscious that the door had opened softly behind him, saw the light fade out of Barrymaine's eyes, felt the hand grow soft and lax, and turning about, beheld Mr. Chichester smiling at them from the threshold.

XXX. IN WHICH RONALD BARRYMAINE MAKES HIS CHOICE

There was a moment of strained silence, then, as Barnabas sank back on the rickety chair, Mr. Chichester laughed softly, and stepped into the room.

"Salvation, was it, and a new life?" he inquired, "are you the one to be saved, Ronald, or Smivvle here, or both?"

Ronald Barrymaine was dumb, his eyes sought the floor, and his pale cheek became, all at once, suffused with a burning, vivid scarlet.

"I couldn't help but overhear as I came upstairs," pursued Mr. Chichester pleasantly, "and devilish dark stairs they are--"

"Though excellent for eavesdropping, it appears!" added Barnabas.

"What?" cried Barrymaine, starting up, "listening, were you--s-spying on me--is that your game, Chichester?" But hereupon Mr. Smivvle started forward.

"Now, my dear Barry," he remonstrated, "be calm--"

"Calm? I tell you nobody's going to spy on me,--no, by heaven! neither you, nor Chichester, nor the d-devil himself--"

"Certainly not, my dear fellow," answered Mr. Smivvle, drawing Barrymaine's clenched fist through his arm and holding it there, "nobody wants to. And, as for you, Chichester--couldn't come at a better time--let me introduce our friend Mr. Beverley--"

"Thank you, Smivvle, but we've met before," said Mr. Chichester dryly, "last time he posed as Rustic Virtue in homespun, to-day it seems he is the Good Samaritan in a flowered waistcoat, very anxiously bent on saving some one or other--conditionally, of course!"

"And what the devil has it to do with you?" cried Barrymaine passionately.

"Nothing, my dear boy, nothing in the world,--except that until to-day you have been my friend, and have honored me with your confidence."

"Yes, by heavens! So I have--utterly--utterly,--and what I haven't told you--y-you've found out for yourself--though God knows how. N-not that I've anything to f-fear,--not I!"

"Of course not," smiled Mr. Chichester, "I am--your friend, Ronald, --and I think you will always remember that." Mr. Chichester's tone was soothing, and the pat he bestowed upon Barrymaine's drooping shoulder was gentle as a caress, yet Barrymaine flinched and drew away, and the hand he stretched out towards the bottle was trembling all at once.

"Yes," Mr. Chichester repeated more softly than before, "yes, I am your friend, Ronald, you must always remember that, and indeed I--fancy--you always will." So saying, Mr. Chichester patted the drooping shoulder again, and turned to lay aside his hat and cane. Barrymaine was silent, but into his eyes had crept a look--such a look as Barnabas had never seen--such a look as Barnabas could never afterwards forget; then Barrymaine stooped to reach for the bottle.

"Well," said he, without looking up again, "s-suppose you are my friend,--what then?"

"Why, then, my dear fellow, hearing you are to be saved--on a condition--I am, naturally enough, anxious to know what that condition may be?"

"Sir," said Barnabas, "let me hasten to set your anxiety at rest. My condition is merely that Mr. Barrymaine gives up two evil things--namely, brandy and yourself."

And now there fell a silence so utter that Barnabas could distinctly hear the tick of Natty Bell's great watch in his fob; a silence in which Mr. Smivvle stared with wide-eyed dismay, while Barrymaine sat motionless with his glass half-way to his lips. Then Mr. Chichester laughed again, but the scar glowed upon his pallid cheek, and the lurking demon peeped out of his narrowed eyes.

"And for this," said he, shaking his head in gentle disbelief, "for this our young Good Samaritan is positively eager to pay twenty thousand odd pounds--"

"As a loan," muttered Barrymaine, "it would be only a loan, and I--I should be free of Jasper Gaunt f-for good and all, damn him!"

"Let us rather say you would try a change of masters--"

"Now--by God--Chichester--!"

"Ah!--ah, to be sure, Ronald, our young Good Samaritan having purchased the brother, would naturally expect the sister--"

"Have a c-care, Chichester, I say!"

"The sister to be grateful, my dear boy. Pah! don't you see it, Ronald? a sprat to catch a whale! The brother saved, the sister's gratitude gained--Oh, most disinterested, young Good Samaritan!"

"Ha! by heaven, I never thought of that!" cried Barrymaine, turning upon Barnabas, "is it Cleone--is it? is it?"

"No," said Barnabas, folding his arms--a little ostentatiously, "I seek only to be your friend in this."

"Friend!" exclaimed Mr. Chichester, laughing again, "friend, Ronald? Nay, let us rather say your guardian angel in cords and Hessians."

"Since you condescend to mention my boots, sir," said Barnabas growing polite, "may I humbly beg you to notice that, in spite of their polish and tassels, they are as strong, as serviceable for kicking purposes as those I wore when we last--sat at table together."

Mr. Chichester's iron self-control wavered for a moment, his brows twitched together, and he turned upon Barnabas with threatening gesture but, reading the purpose in the calm eye and smiling lip of Barnabas, he restrained himself; yet seeming aware of the glowing mark upon his cheek, he turned suddenly and, coming to the dingy casement, stood with his back to the room, staring down into the dingy street. Then Barnabas leaned forward and laid his hand upon Barrymaine's, and it so happened it was the hand that yet held the slopping wineglass.

"Think--think!" said Barnabas earnestly, "once you are free of Gaunt, life will begin afresh for you, you can hold up your head again--"

"Though never in London, Ronald, I fear," added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder.

"Once free of Gaunt, you may attain to higher things than you ever did," said Barnabas.

"Unless the dead past should happen to come to life again, and find a voice some day," added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder.

"No, no!" said Barnabas, feeling the quiver of the fingers within his own, "I tell you it would mean a new beginning--a new life--a new ending for you--"

"And for Cleone!" added Mr. Chichester over his shoulder, "our young, disinterested Good Samaritan knows she is too proud to permit a stranger to shoulder her brother's responsibilities--"

"Proud, eh?" cried Barrymaine, leaping up in sudden boyish passion, "well, am I not proud? Did you ever know me anything else--did you?"

"Never, my dear Ronald," cried Mr. Chichester, turning at last. "You are unfortunate, but you have always met disaster--so far, with the fortitude of a gentleman, scorning your detractors and--abominating charity."

"C-charity! damn you, Chichester, d' ye think I-I'd accept any man's c-charity? D' you think I'd ever drag Cleone to that depth--do you?"

"Never, Barrymaine, never, I swear."

"Why then--leave me alone, I can m-manage my own affairs--" "Perfectly, my dear fellow, I am sure of it."

"Then sir," said Barnabas, rising, "seeing it really is no concern of yours, after all, suppose you cease to trouble yourself any further in the matter, and allow Mr. Barrymaine to choose for himself--"

"I--I have decided!" cried Barrymaine, "and I tell you--"

"Wait!" said Barnabas.

"Speak!" said Mr. Chichester.

"Wait!" repeated Barnabas, "Mr. Chichester is--going, I think. Let us wait until we are alone." Then, bowing to Mr. Chichester, Barnabas opened the door wide. "Sir," said he, "may I venture to suggest that your presence is--not at all necessary?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Chichester, "you will certainly compel me to kill you, some day."

"'Sufficient unto the day,' sir!" Barnabas retorted; "in the meantime I shall most certainly give myself the pleasure of kicking you downstairs unless you choose to walk--at once."

As he spoke, Barnabas took a stride towards Mr. Chichester's rigid figure, but, in that moment, Barrymaine snatched up the bottle and sprang between them.

"Ah!--would you?" he cried, "who are you to order my f-friends about--and in m-my own place too! Ha! did you think you could buy me, d-did you? Did you think I--I'd sacrifice my sister--did you? Ha! drunk, am I? Well, I'm sober enough to--to 'venge my honor and hers; by God I'll kill you! Ah--let go, Dig! Let go, I say! Didn't you hear? Tempt me with his cursed money, will he! Oh, let go my arm! Damn him, I say--I'll kill him!"

But, as he struck, Mr. Smivvle caught his wrist, the bottle crashed splintering to the floor, and they were locked in a fierce grapple.

"Beverley--my dear fellow--go!" panted Mr. Smivvle, "must forgive--poor Barry--not himself. Go--go,--I can--manage him. Now Barry, do be calm! Go, my dear fellow--leave him to me--go!" So, perforce, Barnabas turned away and went down the dingy stairs, and in his ears was the echo of the boy's drunken ravings and Mr. Chichester's soft laughter.

And presently, being come into the dingy street, Barnabas paused to look up at the dingy house, and looking, sighed.

"She said it would be 'difficult, and dangerous, perhaps,'" said he to himself, "and indeed I think she was right."

Then he turned and went upon his way, heavy-footed and chin on breast. On he went, plunged in gloomy abstraction, turning corners at random, lost to all but the problem he had set himself, which was this:

How he might save Ronald Barrymaine in spite of Ronald Barrymaine.

XXXI. WHICH DESCRIBES SOME OF THE EVILS OF VINDICTIVENESS

Barnabas stumbled suddenly, dropped his cane, saw his hat spin through the air and roll on before him; staggered sideways, was brought up by a wall, and turning, found three men about him, --evil-faced men whose every move and look held a menace. A darting hand snatched at his fob-seals, but Barnabas smote, swift and hard, and the three were reduced, for the moment, to two. Thus with his back to the wall stood Barnabas, fists clenched, grim of mouth, and with eyes quick and bright; wherefore, beholding him in this posture, his assailants hesitated. But the diamonds sparkled at them from his cravat, the bunch of seals gleamed at them from his fob, and the fallen man having risen, albeit unsteadily, they began to close in upon him. Then, all at once, even as he poised himself to meet their rush, a distant voice uttered a sharp, warning cry, whereat the three, spattering curses, incontinent took to their heels, and were gone with a thud of flying feet.

For a moment Barnabas stood dazed by the suddenness of it all, then, stooping to recover hat and cane, glanced about, and saw that he was in a dirty, narrow street, or rather alley. Now up this alley a man was approaching, very deliberately, for as he came, he appeared to be perusing a small book. He was a short, broad-shouldered man, a mild-faced man of a sober habit of dress, with a broad-brimmed hat upon his head--a hat higher in the crown than was the custom, and a remarkably nobbly stick beneath his arm; otherwise, and in all respects, he was a very ordinary-looking man indeed, and as he walked, book in hand, might have been some small tradesman busily casting up his profit and loss, albeit he had a bright and roving eye.

Being come up with Barnabas, he stopped, closed his book upon his finger, touched the broad rim of his hat, and looked at Barnabas, or to be exact, at the third left-hand button of his coat.

"Anything stole, sir?" he inquired hopefully.

"No," answered Barnabas, "no, I think not."

"Ah, then you won't be vantin' to mek a charge ag'in 'em, sir?"

"No,--besides, they've escaped."

"Escaped, Lord no, sir, they've only run avay, I can allus put my 'ooks on 'em,--I spotted 'em, d'ye see. And I know 'em, Lord love you! --like a feyther! They vas Bunty Fagan, Dancin' James, and Vistlin' Dick, two buzmen an' a prig."

"What do you mean?" inquired Barnabas, beginning to eye the man askance for all his obtrusive mildness.

"I means two pickpockets and a thief, sir. It vas Vistlin' Dick as you give such a 'leveller' to,--a rare pretty knock-down I vill say, sir,--never saw a cleaner--Oh! they're a bad lot, they are, 'specially Vistlin' Dick, an' it's lucky for you as I 'appened to come this vay."

"Why, do you mean to say," said Barnabas, staring at the mild-faced man, "do you want me to believe that it was the sight of you that sent them running?"

"Vell, there veren't nobody else to, as I could see, sir," said the man, with a gentle smile and shake of the head. "Volks ain't partial to me in these yere parts, and as to them three, they're a bad lot, they are, but Vistlin' Dick's the vorst--mark my vords, 'e'll come to be topped yet."

"What do you mean by 'topped'?"

"V'y, I means scragged, sir," answered the man, his roving eye glancing continually up and down the alley,

"I means 'anged, sir,--Lord love you, it's in 'is face--never see a more promising mug, consequent, I 've got Vistlin' Dick down in my little book 'ere, along vith a lot of other promising vuns."

"But why in your book?"

"Veil, d' ye see, I keeps a record of all the likely coves, Capital Coves as you might call 'em--" Here the mild man jerked his head convulsively to one side, rolled up his eyes, and protruded his tongue, all in hideous pantomime, and was immediately his placid self again.

"Ah! you mean--hanged?" said Barnabas.

"As ever vas, sir, capital punishment. And I goes round reg'lar jest to keep an eye on my capital coves. Lord! I vatches over 'em all--like a feyther. Theer's some volks as collects books, an' some volks as collects picters an' old coins, but I collects capital coves,--names and faces. The faces I keeps 'ere," and he tapped his placid forehead, "the names I keeps 'ere," and he tapped the little book. "It's my trade d' ye see, and though there's better trades, still there's trades as is vorse, an' that's summat, ain't it?"

"And what might your trade be?" inquired Barnabas, as they walked on together along the narrow alley.

"Veil, sir, I'm vot they calls a bashaw of the pigs--but I'm more than that."

"Pray," said Barnabas, "what do you mean?" For answer the man smiled, and half drew from his pocket a short staff surmounted by a crown.

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "a Bow Street Runner?"

"And my name is Shrig, sir, Jasper Shrig. You'll have heard it afore, o'course."

"No!" said Barnabas. Mr. Shrig seemed placidly surprised, and vented a gentle sigh.

"It's pretty vell known, in London, sir, though it ain't a pretty name, I'll allow. Ye-es, I've 'eard prettier, but then it's better than a good many, and that's sum-mat, ain't it? And then, as I said afore, it's pretty vell known."

"How so?"

"Vell, sir, there be some as 'as a leanin' to one branch o' the profession, and some to another,--now mine's murders."

"Murders?" said Barnabas, staring.

"Vith a werry big M., sir. V'y, Lord love you, there's been more murderers took and topped through me than any o' the other traps in London, it's a nat'ral gift vith me. Ye see, I collects 'em--afore the fact, as ye might say. I can smell 'em out, feel 'em out, taste 'em out, it's jest a nat'ral gift."

"But--how? What do you mean?"

"I means as I'll be valking along a street, say, looking at every face as I pass. Vell, all at once I'll spot a cove or covess vith vot I calls a capital mug, I'll follow that cove or covess, and by 'ook or by crook I'll find out that there cove or covess's name, and--down it goes in my little book, d' ye see?" and he tapped the little book.

"But surely," said Barnabas, "surely they don't all prove to be murderers?"

"Vell no, sir--that's hardly to be expected,--ye see, some on 'em wanishes away, an' some goes an' dies, but they mostly turns out true capitals--if I only vaits for 'em long enough, and--up they goes."

"And are you always on the lookout for such faces?"

"Yes, sir,--v'en I ain't busy on some case. A man must 'ave some little relaxation, and that's mine. Lord love you, sir, scarcely a day goes by that I don't spot one or two. I calls 'em my children, an' a werry large, an' a werry mixed lot they are too! Rich an' poor, men an' women,--rolling in their coaches an' crawling along the kennel. Aha! if you could look into my little reader an' see the names o' some o' my most promisin' children they'd as-tonish you. I've been to 'ave a look at a couple of 'em this mornin'. Aha! it would a-maze you if you could look into my little reader."

"I should like to," said Barnabas, eyeing the small, shabby book with a new interest. But Mr. Shrig only blinked his wide, innocent eyes, and slipping the book into his pocket, led the way round a sudden corner into another alley narrower than the last, and, if possible, dirtier.

"Where are we going?" Barnabas demanded, for Mr. Shrig, though always placid, had suddenly taken on an air that was almost alert, his bright, roving eye wandered more than ever, and he appeared to be hearkening to distant sounds. "Where are we going?" repeated Barnabas.

"Gray's Inn is 'andiest, sir, and I must ask you to step out a bit, they're a rough crowd as lives 'ereabouts,--scamps an' hunters, didlers an' cly-fakers, so I must ask you to step out a bit, this is a bad country for me."

"Bad for you? Why?"

"On account o' windictiveness, sir!"

"Of what?"

"Windictiveness, sir--windictiveness in every shape an' form, but brick-ends mostly--vith a occasional chimbley-pot."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Barnabas began.

"Veil then," explained Mr. Shrig as they strode along, "I vere the means o' four coves bein' topped d' ye see, 'ighvay robbery vith wiolence,--'bout a month ago, used to live round 'ere, they did, an' their famblies an' friends is windictive against me accordingly, an' werry nat'ral too, for 'uman natur' is only 'uman natur', ain't it? Werry good then. Now their windictiveness,--or as you might say, 'uman natur',--generally takes the shape of chimbley-pots and brick-ends, though I 'ave met windictiveness in the form o' b'iling vater and flat-irons, not to mention saucepans an' sich, afore now, and vunce a arm-cheer, all of vich is apt to vorry you a bit until you gets used to it. Then there's knives--knives is allus awk'ard, and bludgeons ain't to be sneezed at, neither. But, Lord! every perfession and trade 'as its drawbacks, an' there's a sight o' comfort in that, ain't there?"

All this time the eyes of Mr. Shrig were roving here, wandering there, now apparently glancing up at the strip of sky between the dingy house tops, now down at the cobbles beneath their feet; also Barnabas noticed that his step, all at once, grew slower and more deliberate, as one who hesitates, uncertain as to whether he shall go on, or turn back. It was after one of those swift, upward glances, that Mr. Shrig stopped all at once, seized Barnabas by the middle and dragged him into an adjacent doorway, as something crashed down and splintered within a yard of them.

"What now--what is it?" cried Barnabas.

"Win-dictiveness!" sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head at the missile, "a piece o' coping-stone, thirty pound if a ounce--Lord! Keep flat agin the door sir, same as me, they may try another--I don't think so--still they may, so keep close ag'in the door. A partic'lar narrer shave I calls it!" nodded Mr. Shrig; "shook ye a bit sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, wiping his brow.

"Ah well, it shook me--and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now," he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder, bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones--Lord love me!"

"But a brick would have killed you just the same--"

"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"

"But, if it had hit you on the head--"

"On the 'at sir, the 'at--or as you might say--the castor--this, sir," said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this 'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."

"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.

"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."

"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with--"

"Iron, sir. My own inwention ag'in windictiveness in the shape o' bricks an' bludgeons, an' werry useful an comfortin' I've found it. But if they're going to begin on me vith coping-stones,--v'y Lord!" And Mr. Shrig sighed his gentle sigh, and rubbed his placid brow, and once more covered it with the "inwention."

"And now sir, you've got a pair o' good, long legs--can ye use 'em?"

"Use them,--yes. Why?"

"Because it's about time as we cut our stick an' run for it."

"What are we to run for?"

"Because they're arter me,--nine on 'em,--consequent they're arter you too, d' ye see. There's four on 'em be'ind us, an' five on 'em in front. You can't see 'em because they're layin' low. And they're bad uns all, an' they means business."

"What--a fight?"

"As ever vas, sir. I've 'ad my eye on 'em some time. That 'ere coping-stone vas the signal."

"Ha!" said Barnabas, buttoning up his coat.

"Now, are ye ready, sir?"

"Quite!"

"Then keep close be'ind me--go!" With the word Mr. Shrig began to run, always keeping close beside the wall; indeed he ran so fast and was so very nimble that Barnabas had some ado to keep up with him. They had gone but a little distance when five rough looking fellows started into view further up the alley, completely blocking their advance, and by the clatter of feet behind, Barnabas knew that their retreat was cut off, and instinctively he set his teeth, and gripped his cane more firmly. But on ran Mr. Shrig, keeping close beside the wall, head low, shoulders back, elbows well in, for all the world as if he intended to hurl himself upon his assailants in some desperate hope of breaking through them; but all at once, like a rabbit into his burrow, he turned short off in mid career, and vanished down a dark and very narrow entry or passage, and, as Barnabas followed, he heard, above the vicious thud of footsteps, hoarse cries of anger and disappointment. Half-way down the passage Mr. Shrig halted abruptly and turned, as the first of their pursuers appeared.

"This'll do!" he panted, swinging the nobbly stick in his hand, "can't come on more nor two at vunce. Be ready vith your stick--at their eyes--poke at 'em--no 'itting--" the rest was drowned in the echoing rush of heavy feet and the boom of hoarse voices. But now, seeing their quarry stand on the defensive, the pursuers checked their advance, their cries sank to growling murmurs, till, with a fierce shout, one of their number rushed forward brandishing a heavy stick, whereupon the others followed, and there, in the echoing dimness, the battle was joined, and waxed furious and grim.

Almost at the first onset the slender cane Barnabas wielded broke short off, and he was borne staggering back, the centre of a panting, close-locked, desperate fray. But in that narrow space his assailants were hampered by their very numbers, and here was small room for bludgeon-play,--and Barnabas had his fists.

There came a moment of thudding blows, trampling feet, oaths, cries, --and Barnabas was free, staring dazedly at his broken knuckles. He heard a sudden shout, a vicious roar, and the Bow Street Runner, dropping the nobbly stick, tottered weakly and fell,--strove to rise, was smitten down again, and, in that moment, Barnabas was astride him; felt the shock of stinging blows, and laughing fierce and short, leapt in under the blows, every nerve and muscle braced and quivering; saw a scowling face,--smote it away; caught a bony wrist, wrenched the bludgeon from the griping fingers, struck and parried and struck again with untiring arm, felt the press thin out before him as his assailants gave back, and so, stood panting.

"Run! Run!" whispered Mr. Shrig's voice behind him. "Ve can do it now, --run!"

"No!" panted Barnabas, wiping the blood from his cheek. "Run!" cried Mr. Shrig again, "there's a place I knows on close by--ve can reach it in a jiff--this vay,--run!"

"No!"

"Not run? then v'ot vill ye do?"

"Make them!"

"Are ye mad? Ha!--look out!" Once more the echoing passage roared with the din of conflict, as their assailants rushed again, were checked, smote and were smitten, and fell back howling before the thrust of the nobbly stick and the swing of the heavy bludgeon.

"Now vill ye run?" panted Mr. Shrig, straightening the broad-brimmed hat.

"No!"

"V'y then, I vill!" which Mr. Shrig immediately proceeded to do.

But the scowl of Barnabas grew only the blacker, his lips but curled the fiercer, and his fingers tightened their grip upon the bludgeon as, alone now, he fronted those who remained of the nine.

Now chancing to glance towards a certain spot, he espied something that lay in the angle of the wall, and, instinctively stooping, he picked up Mr. Shrig's little book, slipped it into his pocket, felt a stunning blow, and reeled back, suddenly faint and sick. And now a mist seemed to envelop him, but in the mist were faces above, below, around him, faces to be struck at. But his blows grew weak and ever weaker, the cudgel was torn from his lax grip, he staggered back on stumbling feet knowing he could fight no more, and felt himself caught by a mighty arm, saw a face near by, comely and dimpled of chin, blue-eyed, and with whiskers trimmed into precise little tufts on either cheek. Thereafter he was aware of faint cries and shouts, of a rushing patter like rain among leaves, and of a voice speaking in his ear.

"Right about face,--march! Easy does it! mind me 'ook, sir, the p'int's oncommon sharp like. By your left--wheel! Now two steps up, sir--that's it! Now three steps down, easy does it! and 'ere we are. A cheer, sir, now water and a sponge!"

Here Barnabas, sinking back in the chair, leaned his head against the wall behind him, and the mist grew more dense, obliterating all things.