XLV. HOW BARNABAS SOUGHT COUNSEL OF THE DUCHESS "BO'SUN?"…

XLV. HOW BARNABAS SOUGHT COUNSEL OF THE DUCHESS "BO'SUN?"

"Sir?"

"Do you know the Duchess of Camberhurst well?"

"Know her, sir?" repeated the Bo'sun, giving a dubious pull at his starboard whisker; "why, Mr. Beverley, sir, there's two things as I knows on, as no man never did know on, nor never will know on,--and one on 'em's a ship and t' other's a woman."

"But do you know her well enough to like and--trust?"

"Why, Mr. Beverley, sir, since you ax me, I'll tell you--plain and to the p'int. We'll take 'er Grace the Duchess and say, clap her helm a-lee to tack up ag'in a beam wind, a wind, mind you, as ain't strong enough to lift her pennant,--and yet she'll fall off and miss her stays, d'ye see, or get took a-back and yaw to port or starboard, though, if you ax me why or wherefore, I'll tell you as how,--her being a woman and me only a man,--I don't know. Then, again, on the contrary, let it blow up foul--a roaring hurricane say, wi' the seas running high, ah! wi' the scud flying over her top-s'l yard, and she'll rise to it like a bird, answer to a spoke, and come up into the wind as sweet as ever you see. The Duchess ain't no fair-weather craft, I'll allow, but in 'owling, raging tempest she's staunch, sir, --ah, that she is,--from truck to keelson! And there y'are, Mr. Beverley, sir!"

"Do you mean," inquired Barnabas, puzzled of look, "that she is to be depended on--in an emergency?"

"Ay, sir--that she is!"

"Ah!" said Barnabas, nodding, "I'm glad to know that, Bo'sun,--very glad." And here he became thoughtful all at once. Yet after a while he spoke again, this time to Peterby.

"You are very silent, John."

"I am--your valet, sir!"

"Then, oh! man," exclaimed Barnabas, touching up the galloping bays quite unnecessarily, "oh, man--forget it a while! Here we sit--three men together, with London miles behind us, and the Fashionable World further still. Here we sit, three men, with no difference between us, except that the Bo'sun has fought and bled for this England of ours, you have travelled and seen much of the world, and I, being the youngest, have done neither the one nor the other, and very little else--as yet. So, John,--be yourself; talk, John, talk!"

Now hereupon John Peterby's grave dignity relaxed, a twinkle dawned in his eyes, and his lips took on their old-time, humorous curve. And lo! the valet became merged and lost in the cosmopolitan, the dweller in many cities, who had done and seen much, and could tell of such things so wittily and well that the miles passed unheeded, while the gallant bays whirled the light phaeton up hill and down dale, contemptuous of fatigue.

It needs not here to describe more fully this journey whose tedium was unnoticed by reason of good-fellowship. Nor of the meal they ate at the "Chequers" Inn at Tonbridge, and how they drank (at the Bo'sun's somewhat diffident suggestion) a health "to his Honor the Cap'n, and the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four."

And thus Barnabas, clad in purple and fine linen and driving his own blood horses, talked and laughed with a one-legged mariner, and sought the companionship of his own valet; which irregularity must be excused by his youth and inexperience, and the lamentable fact that, despite his purple and fine linen, he was, as yet, only a man, alas!

Thus, then, as evening fell, behold them spinning along that winding road where stood a certain ancient finger-post pointing the wayfarer:

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST

At sight of which weather-worn piece of timber. Barnabas must needs smile, though very tenderly, and thereafter fall a-sighing. But all at once he checked his sighs to stare in amazement, for there, demurely seated beneath the finger-post, and completely engrossed in her needlework, was a small, lonely figure, at sight of which Barnabas pulled up the bays in mid-career.

"Why--Duchess!" he exclaimed, and, giving Peterby the reins, stepped out of the phaeton.

"Ah! is that you, Mr. Beverley?" sighed the Duchess, looking up from her embroidery, which, like herself, was very elaborate, very dainty, and very small. "You find me here, sitting by the wayside,--and a very desolate figure I must look, I'm sure,--you find me here because I have been driven away by the tantrums of an undutiful god-daughter, and the barbarity of a bloodthirsty buccaneer. I mean the Captain, of course. And all because I had the forethought to tell Cleone her nose was red,--which it was,--sunburn you know, and because I remarked that the Captain was growing as rotund as a Frenchman, which he is,--I mean fat, of course. All Frenchmen are fat--at least some are. And then he will wear such a shabby old coat! So here I am, Mr. Beverley, very lonely and very sad, but industrious you see, quite as busy as Penelope, who used to spin webs all day long,--which sounds as though she were a spider instead of a classical lady who used to undo them again at night,--I mean the webs, not the spiders. But, indeed, you're very silent, Mr. Beverley, though I'm glad to see you are here so well to time."

"To time, madam?"

"Because, you see, I 've won my bet. Oh yes, indeed, I bet about everything nowadays,--oh, feverishly, sir, and shall do, until the race is over, I suppose."

"Indeed, Duchess?"

"Yes. I bet Cleone an Indian shawl against a pair of beaded mittens that you would be here, to-day, before ten o'clock. So you see, you are hours before your time, and the mittens are mine. Talking of Cleone, sir, she's in the orchard. She's also in a shocking temper--indeed quite cattish, so you'd better stay here and talk to me. But then--she's alone, and looking vastly handsome, I'll admit, so, of course, you're dying to be gone--now aren't you?"

"No," Barnabas replied, and turning, bade Peterby drive on to the house.

"Then you ought to be!" retorted the Duchess, shaking an admonitory finger at him, yet smiling also as the carriage rolled away. "Youth can never prefer to listen to a chattering old woman--in a wig!"

"But you see, madam, I need your help, your advice," said Barnabas gravely.

"Ah, now I love giving people advice! It's so pleasant and--easy!"

"I wish to confide in you,--if I may."

"Confidences are always interesting--especially in the country!"

"Duchess, I--I--have a confession to make."

"A confession, sir? Then I needn't pretend to work any longer--besides, I always prick myself. There!" And rolling the very small piece of embroidery into a ball, she gave it to Barnabas. "Pray sir, hide the odious thing in your pocket. Will you sit beside me? No? Very well--now, begin, sir!"

"Why, then, madam, in the first place, I--"

"Yes?"

"I--that is to say,--you--must understand that--in the first place--"

"You've said 'first place' twice!" nodded the Duchess as he paused.

"Yes--Oh!--Did I? Indeed I--I fear it is going to be even harder to speak of than I thought, and I have been nerving myself to tell you ever since I started from London."

"To tell me what?"

"That which may provoke your scorn of me, which may earn me Cleone's bitterest contempt."

"Why then, sir--don't say another word about it--"

"Ah, but I must--indeed I must! For I know now that to balk at it, to--to keep silent any longer would be dishonorable--and the act of a coward!"

"Oh dear me!" sighed the Duchess, "I fear you are going to be dreadfully heroic about something!"

"Let us say--truthful, madam!"

"But, sir,--surely Truthfulness, after all, is merely the last resource of the hopelessly incompetent! Anyhow it must be very uncomfortable, I'm sure," said the Duchess, nodding her head. Yet she was quick to notice the distress in his voice, and the gleam of moisture among the curls at his temple, hence her tone was more encouraging as she continued. "Still, sir, speak on if you wish, for even a Duchess may appreciate honor and truth--in another, of course,--though she does wear a wig!"

"Believe me," sighed Barnabas, beginning to stride restlessly to and fro, "the full significance of my conduct never occurred to me until it was forced on my notice by--by another, and then--" he paused and brushed the damp curls from his brow. "To-day I tried to write to Cleone--to tell her everything, but I--couldn't."

"So you decided to come and tell me first, which was very nice of you," nodded the Duchess, "oh, very right and proper! Well, sir, I'm listening."

"First, then," said Barnabas, coming to a halt, and looking down at her steadfast-eyed, "you must know that my real name is--Barty."

"Barty?" repeated the Duchess, raising her brows. "Mm! I like Beverley much better."

"Beverley was my mother's name. She was Joan Beverley."

"Joan? Joan Beverley? Why y-e-s, I think I remember her, and the talk there was. Joan? Ah yes, to be sure,--very handsome, and--disappeared. No one knew why, but now,--I begin to understand. You would suggest--"

"That she became the honorable wife of my father, John Barty, the celebrated pugilist and ex-champion of England, now keeper of a village inn," said Barnabas, speaking all in a breath, but maintaining his steadfast gaze.

"Eh?" cried the Duchess, and rose to her feet with astonishing ease for one of her years, "eh, sir, an innkeeper! And your mother--actually married him?" and the Duchess shivered.

"Yes, madam. I am their lawful son."

"Dreadful!" cried the Duchess, "handsome Joan Beverley--married to an--inn-keeper! Horrible! She'd much better have died--say, in a ditch--so much more respectable!"

"My father is an honorable man!" said Barnabas, with upflung head.

"Your father is--an inn-keeper!"

"And--my father, madam!"

"The wretch!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Oh, frightful!" and she shivered again.

"And his son--loves Cleone!"

"Dreadful! Frightful" cried the Duchess. "An inn-keeper's son! Beer and skittles and clay pipes! Oh, shocking!" And here, shuddering for the third time as only a great lady might, she turned her back on him.

"Ah," cried Barnabas, "so you scorn me--already?"

"Of course."

"For being--an inn-keeper's son?"

"For--telling of it!"

"And yet," said Barnabas, "I think Barnabas Barty is a better man than Barnabas Beverley, and a more worthy lover; indeed I know he is. And, as Barnabas Barty, I bid your Grace good-by!"

"Where are you going?"

"To the village inn, madam, my proper place, it seems. But--to-morrow morning, unless you have told Cleone, I shall. And now, if your Grace will have the kindness to send my servant to me--"

"But--why tell Cleone?" inquired the Duchess over her shoulder; "there is one alternative left to you."

"Then, madam, in heaven's name,--tell it me!" cried Barnabas eagerly.

"A ridiculously simple one, sir."

"Oh, madam--what can I do--pray tell me."

"You must--disown this inn-keeping wretch, of course. You must cast him off--now, at once, and forever!"

"Disown him--my father!"

"Certainly,"

Barnabas stared wide-eyed. Then he laughed, and uncovering his head, bowed deeply.

"Madam," said he, "I have the honor to bid your Grace good-by!"

"You--will tell Cleone then?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Why?"

"Because I love her. Because I, therefore, hate deceit, and because I--"

"Well?"

"And because Mr. Chichester knows already."

"Ah! You mean that he has forced your hand, sir, and now you would make the best of it--"

"I mean that he has opened my eyes, madam."

"And to-morrow you will tell Cleone?"

"Yes."

"And, of course, she will scorn you for an impudent impostor?"

Now at this Barnabas flinched, for these were Chichester's own words, and they bore a double sting.

"And yet--I must tell her!" he groaned.

"And afterwards, where shall you go?"

"Anywhere," he sighed, with a hopeless gesture.

"And--the race?"

"Will be run without me."

"And your friends--the Marquis, Viscount Devenham, and the rest?"

"Will, I expect, turn their gentlemanly backs upon me--as you yourself have done. So, madam, I thank you for your past kindness, and bid you--good-by"

"Stop, sir!"

"Of what avail, madam?" sighed Barnabas, turning away.

"Come back--I command you!"

"I am beneath your Grace's commands, henceforth," said Barnabas, and plodded on down the road.

"Then I--beg of you!"

"Why?" he inquired, pausing.

"Because--oh, because you are running off with my precious needlework, of course. In your pocket, sir,--the left one!" So, perforce, Barnabas came back, and standing again beneath the finger-post, gave the Duchess her very small piece of embroidery. But, behold! his hand was caught and held between two others, which, though very fragile, were very imperious.

"Barnabas," said the Duchess very softly, "oh, dear me, I'm glad you told me, oh very! I hoped you would!"

"Hoped? Why--why, madam, you--then you knew?"

"All about it, of course! Oh, you needn't stare--it wasn't witchcraft, it was this letter--read it." And taking a letter from her reticule, she gave it to Barnabas, and watched him while he read:

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF CAMBERHURST.

MADAM,--In justice to yourself I take occasion to warn your Grace against the person calling himself Barnabas Beverley. He is, in reality, an impudent impostor of humble birth and mean extraction. His real name and condition I will prove absolutely to your Grace at another time.

Your Grace's most humble obedt.

WILFRED CHICHESTER.

"So you see I'm not a witch, sir,--oh no, I'm only an old woman, with, among many other useful gifts, a very sharp eye for faces, a remarkable genius for asking questions, and the feminine capacity for adding two and two together and making them--eight. So, upon reading this letter, I made inquiries on my own account with the result that yesterday I drove over to a certain inn called the 'Coursing Hound,' and talked with your father. Very handsome he is too--as he always was, and I saw him in the hey-day of his fame, remember. Well, I sipped his ale,--very good ale I found it, and while I sipped, we talked. He is very proud of his son, it seems, and he even showed me a letter this son had written him from the 'George' inn at Southwark. Ha! Joan Beverley was to have married an ugly old wretch of a marquis, and John Barty is handsome still. But an inn-keeper, hum!"

"So--that was why my mother ran away, madam?"

"And Wilfred Chichester knows of this, and will tell Cleone, of course!"

"I think not--at least not yet," answered Barnabas thoughtfully,-- "you see, he is using this knowledge as a weapon against me."

"Why?"

"I promised to help Ronald Barrymaine--"

"That wretched boy! Well?"

"And the only way to do so was to remove him from Chichester's influence altogether. So I warned Mr. Chichester that unless he forswore Barrymaine's society, I would, as Joan Beverley's son and heir to the Beverley heritage, prove my claim and dispossess him."

"You actually threatened Wilfred Chichester with this, and forgot that in finding you your mother's son, he would prove you to be your father's also?"

"Yes, I--I only remembered my promise."

"The one you gave Cleone, which she had no right to exact--as I told her--"

"But, madam--"

"Oh, she confessed to me all about it, and how you had tried to pay Ronald's debts for him out of your own pocket,--which was very magnificent but quite absurd."

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "so now I am determined to free him from Chichester first--"

"By dispossessing Chichester?"

"Yes, madam."

"But--can't you see, if you force him to expose you it will mean your social ruin?"

"But then I gave--Her--my promise."

"Oh, Barnabas," said the Duchess, looking up at him with her young, beautiful eyes that were so like Cleone's, "what a superb fool you are! And your father is only a village inn-keeper!"

"No, madam,--he was champion of all England as well."

"Oh!" sighed the Duchess, shaking her head, "that poor Sir Mortimer Carnaby! But, as for you, sir, you 're a fool, either a very clumsy, or a very--unselfish one,--anyhow, you're a fool, you know!"

"Yes," sighed Barnabas, his head hanging, "I fear I am."

"Oh yes,--you're quite a fool--not a doubt of it!" said the Duchess with a nod of finality. "And yet, oh, dear me! I think it may be because I'm seventy-one and growing younger every day, or perhaps because I'm so old that I have to wear a wig, but my tastes are so peculiar that there are some fools I could almost--love. So you may give me your arm,--Barnabas."

He obeyed mechanically, and they went on down the road together in silence until they came to a pair of tall, hospitable gates, and here Barnabas paused, and spoke wonderingly:

"Madam, you--you surely forget I am the son of--"

"A champion of all England, Barnabas. But, though you can thrash Sir Mortimer Carnaby, Wilfred Chichester is the kind of creature that only a truly clever woman can hope to deal with, so you may leave him to me!"

"But, madam, I--"

"Barnabas, quite so. But Wilfred Chichester always makes me shudder, and I love to shudder--now and then, especially in the hot weather. And then everything bores me lately--Cleone, myself,--even Whist, so I'll try my hand at another game--with Wilfred Chichester as an opponent."

"But, Duchess, indeed I--"

"Very true, Barnabas! but the matter is quite settled. And now, you are still determined to--confess your father to Cleone, I suppose?"

"Yes, I dare not speak to her otherwise, how could I, knowing myself an--"

"Impudent impostor, sir? Quite so and fiddlesticks! Heigho! you are so abominably high-minded and heroic, Barnabas,--it's quite depressing. Cleone is only a human woman, who powders her nose when it's red, and quite right too--I mean the powder of course, not the redness. Oh! indeed she's very human, and after all, your mother was a Beverley, and I know you are rich and--ah! there she is--on the terrace with the Captain, and I'm sure she has seen you, Barnabas, because she's so vastly unconscious. Observe the pose of her head,--she has a perfect neck and shoulders, and she knows it. There! see her kissing the Captain,--that's all for my benefit, the yellow minx! just because I happened to call him a 'hunks,' and so he is--though I don't know what I meant,--because he refused to change that dreadful old service coat. There! now she's patting his cheek--the golden jade! Now--watch her surprise when she pretends to catch sight of us!"

Hereupon, as they advanced over the smooth turf, the Duchess raised her voice.

"My bird!" she called in dulcet tones, "Clo dear, Cleone my lamb, here is Barnabas, I found him--under the finger-post, my dove!"

My lady turned, gave the least little start in the world, was surprised, glad, demure, all in the self-same minute, and taking the arm of her Tyrant, who had already begun a truly nautical greeting, led him, forthwith, down the terrace steps, the shining curls at her temple brushing his shabby coat-sleeve as they came.

"Ha!" cried the Captain, "my dear fellow, we're glad--I say we're all of us glad to see you. Welcome to 'The Gables,'--eh, Clo?"

And Cleone? With what gracious ease she greeted him! With what clear eyes she looked at him! With what demure dignity she gave him her white hand to kiss! As though--for all the world as though she could ever hope to deceive anything so old and so very knowing as the ancient finger-post upon the London road!

"Clo dear," said the Duchess, "they're going to talk horses and racing, and bets and things,--I know they are,--your arm, my love. Now,--lead on, gentlemen. And now, my dear," she continued, speaking in Cleone's ear as Barnabas and the Captain moved on, "he simply--adores you!"

"Really, God-mother--how clever of you!" said Cleone, her eyes brim full of merriment, "how wonderful you are!"

"Yes, my lady Pert,--he worships you and, consequently, is deceiving you with every breath he draws!"

"Deceiving me--!"

"With every moment he lives!"

"But--oh, God-mother--!"

"Cleone,--he is not what he seems!"

"Deceiving me?"

"His very name is false!"

"What do you mean? Ah no, no--I'm sure he would not, and yet--oh, God-mother,--why?"

"Because--hush, Cleone--he's immensely rich, one of the wealthiest young men in London, and--hush! He would be--loved for himself alone. So, Cleone,--listen,--he may perhaps come to you with some wonderful story of poverty and humble birth. He may tell you his father was only a--a farmer, or a tinker, or a--an inn-keeper. Oh dear me,--so delightfully romantic! Therefore, loving him as you do--"

"I don't!"

"With every one of your yellow hairs--"

"I do--not!"

"From the sole of your foot--"

"God-mother!"

"To the crown of your wilful head,--oh, Youth, Youth!--you may let your heart answer as it would. Oh Fire! Passion! Romance! (yes, yes, Jack,--we're coming!) Your heart, I say, Cleone, may have its way, because with all his wealth he has a father who--hush!--at one time was the greatest man in all England,--a powerful man, Clo,--a famous man, indeed a man of the most--striking capabilities. So, when your heart--(dear me, how impatient Jack is!) Oh, supper? Excellent, for, child, now I come to think of it, I'm positively swooning with hunger!"

Chapter XLVI

WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH SMALL THINGS IN GENERAL, AND A PEBBLE IN PARTICULAR

To those who, standing apart from the rush and flurry of life, look upon the world with a seeing eye, it is, surely, interesting to observe on what small and apparently insignificant things great matters depend. To the student History abounds with examples, and to the philosopher they are to be met with everywhere.

But how should Barnabas (being neither a student nor a philosopher) know, or even guess, that all his fine ideas and intentions were to be frustrated, and his whole future entirely changed by nothing more nor less than--a pebble, an ordinary, smooth, round pebble, as innocent-seeming as any of its kind, yet (like young David's) singled out by destiny to be one of these "smaller things"?

They were sitting on the terrace, the Duchess, Cleone, Barnabas, and the Captain, and they were very silent,--the Duchess, perhaps, because she had supped adequately, the Captain because of his long, clay pipe, Cleone because she happened to be lost in contemplation of the moon, and Barnabas, because he was utterly absorbed in contemplation of Cleone.

The night was very warm and very still, and upon the quietude stole a sound--softer, yet more insistent than the whisper of wind among leaves,--a soothing, murmurous sound that seemed to make the pervading quiet but the more complete.

"How cool the brook sounds!" sighed the Duchess at last, "and the perfume of the roses,--oh dear me, how delicious! Indeed I think the scent of roses always seems more intoxicating after one has supped well, for, after all, one must be well-fed to be really romantic,--eh, Jack?"

"Romantic, mam!" snorted the Captain, "romantic,--I say bosh, mam! I say--"

"And then--the moon, Jack!"

"Moon? And what of it, mam,--I say--"

"Roses always smell sweeter by moonlight, Jack, and are far more inclined to--go to the head--"

"Roses!" snorted the Captain, louder than before, "you must be thinking of rum, mam, rum--"

"Then, Jack, to the perfume of roses, add the trill of a nightingale--"

"And of all rums, mam, give me real old Jamaica--"

"And to the trill of a nightingale, add again the murmur of an unseen brook, Jack--"

"Eh, mam, eh? Nightingales, brooks? I say--oh, Gad, mam!" and the Captain relapsed into tobacco-puffing indignation.

"What more could youth and beauty ask? Ah, Jack, Jack!" sighed the Duchess, "had you paid more attention to brooks and nightingales, and stared at the moon in your youth, you might have been a green young grandfather to-night, instead of a hoary old bachelor in a shabby coat--sucking consolation from a clay pipe!"

"Consolation, mam! For what--I say, I demand to know for what?"

"Loneliness, Jack!"

"Eh, Duchess,--what, mam? Haven't I got my dear Clo, and the Bo'sun, eh, mam--eh?"

"The Bo'sun, yes,--he smokes a pipe, but Cleone can't, so she looks at the moon instead,--don't you dear?"

"The moon, God-mother?" exclaimed Cleone, bringing her gaze earthwards on the instant. "Why I,--I--the moon, indeed!"

"And she listens to the brook, Jack,--don't you, my dove?"

"Why, God-mother, I--the brook? Of course not!" said Cleone.

"And, consequently, Jack, you mustn't expect to keep her much longer--"

"Eh!" cried the bewildered Captain, "what's all this, Duchess,--I say, what d'ye mean, mam?"

"Some women," sighed the Duchess, "some women never know they're in love until they've married the wrong man, and then it's too late, poor things. But our sweet Clo, on the contrary--"

"Love!" snorted the Captain louder than ever, "now sink me, mam,--I say, sink and scuttle me; but what's love got to do with Clo, eh, mam?"

"More than you think, Jack--ask her!"

But lo! my lady had risen, and was already descending the terrace steps, a little hurriedly perhaps, yet in most stately fashion. Whereupon Barnabas, feeling her Grace's impelling hand upon his arm, obeyed the imperious command and rising, also descended the steps,--though in fashion not at all stately,--and strode after my lady, and being come beside her, walked on--yet found nothing to say, abashed by her very dignity. But, after they had gone thus some distance, venturing to glance at her averted face, Barnabas espied the dimple beside her mouth.

"Cleone," said he suddenly, "what has love to do with you?"

Now, for a moment, she looked up at him, then her lashes drooped, and she turned away.

"Oh, sir," she answered, "lift up your eyes and look upon the moon!"

"Cleone, has love--come to you--at last? Tell me!" But my lady walked on for a distance with head again averted, and--with never a word. "Speak!" said Barnabas, and caught her hand (unresisting now), and held it to his lips. "Oh, Cleone,--answer me!"

Then Cleone obeyed and spoke, though her voice was tremulous and low.

"Ah, sir," said she, "listen to the brook!"

Now it so chanced they had drawn very near this talkative stream, whose voice reached them--now in hoarse whisperings, now in throaty chucklings, and whose ripples were bright with the reflected glory of the moon. Just where they stood, a path led down to these shimmering waters,--a narrow and very steep path screened by bending willows; and, moved by Fate, or Chance, or Destiny, Barnabas descended this path, and turning, reached up his hands to Cleone.

"Come!" he said. And thus, for a moment, while he looked up into her eyes, she looked down into his, and sighed, and moved towards him, and--set her foot upon the pebble.

And thus, behold the pebble had achieved its purpose, for, next moment Cleone was lying in his arms, and for neither of them was life or the world to be ever the same thereafter.

Yes, indeed, the perfume of the roses was full of intoxication to-night; the murmurous brook whispered of things scarce dreamed of; and the waning moon was bright enough to show the look in her eyes and the quiver of her mouth as Barnabas stooped above her.

"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone--can you--do you--love me? Oh, my white lady,--my woman that I love,--do you love me?"

She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer, until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.

Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her with bent head.

"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"

"Barnabas?"

"Forgive me,--I should have spoken,--indeed, I meant to,--but I couldn't think,--it was so sudden,--forgive me! I didn't mean to even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear, --I am not--not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very --humble fellow. The son of a village--inn-keeper. Your eyes were--kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow is--unworthy, as I fear,--I--I will try to--forget."

Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke, her voice was very tender.

"Can you--ever forget?"

"I will--try!"

"Then--oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I--think I could--love this--humble fellow, Barnabas."

The moon, of course, has looked on many a happy lover, yet where find one, before or since, more radiant than young Barnabas; and the brook, even in its softest, most tender murmurs, could never hope to catch the faintest echo of Cleone's voice or the indescribable thrill of it.

And as for the pebble that was so round, so smooth and innocent-seeming, whether its part had been that of beneficent sprite, or malevolent demon, he who troubles to read on may learn.

XLVII. HOW BARNABAS FOUND HIS MANHOOD

"Oh--hif you please, sir!"

Barnabas started, and looking about, presently espied a figure in the shadow of the osiers; a very small figure, upon whose diminutive jacket were numerous buttons that glittered under the moon.

"Why--it's Milo of Crotona!" said Cleone.

"Yes, my lady--hif you please, it are," answered Milo of Crotona, touching the peak of his leather cap.

"But--what are you doing here? How did you know where to find us?"

"'Cause as I came up the drive, m'lady, I jest 'appened to see you a-walking together,--so I followed you, I did, m'lady."

"Followed us?" repeated Cleone rather faintly. "Oh!"

"And then--when I seen you slip, m'lady, I thought as 'ow I'd better--wait a bit. So I waited, I did." And here, again, Milo of Crotona touched the peak of his cap, and looked from Barnabas to Cleone's flushing loveliness with eyes wide and profoundly innocent,--a very cherub in top-boots, only his buttons (Ah, his buttons!) seemed to leer and wink one to another, as much as to say: "Oh yes! Of course! to--be--sure?"

"And what brings you so far from London?" inquired Barnabas, rather hurriedly.

"Coach, sir,--box seat, sir!"

"And you brought your master with you, of course,--is the Viscount here?"

"No, m'lady. I 'ad to leave 'im be'ind 'count of 'im being unfit to travel--"

"Is he ill?"

"Oh, no, not hill, m'lady,--only shot, 'e is."

"Shot!" exclaimed Barnabas, "how--where?"

"In the harm, sir,--all on 'count of 'is 'oss,--'Moonraker' sir."

"His horse?"

"Yessir. 'S arternoon it were. Ye see, for a long time I ain't been easy in me mind about them stables where 'im and you keeps your 'osses, sir, 'count of it not being safe enough,--worritted I 'ave, sir. So 's arternoon, as we was passing the end o' the street, I sez to m'lud, I sez, 'Won't your Ludship jest pop your nob round the corner and squint your peepers at the 'osses?' I sez. So 'e laughs, easy like, and in we pops. And the first thing we see was your 'ead groom, Mr. Martin, wiv blood on 'is mug and one peeper in mourning a-wrastling wiv two coves, and our 'ead groom, Standish, wiv another of 'em. Jest as we run up, down goes Mr. Martin, but--afore they could maul 'im wiv their trotters, there's m'lud wiv 'is fists an' me wiv a pitchfork as 'appened to lie 'andy. And very lively it were, sir, for a minute or two. Then off goes a barker and off go the coves, and there's m'lud 'olding onto 'is harm and swearing 'eavens 'ard. And that's all, sir."

"And these men were--trying to get at the horses?"

"Ah! Meant to nobble 'Moonraker,' they did,--'im bein' one o' the favorites, d' ye see, sir, and it looked to me as if they meant to do for your 'oss, 'The Terror', as well."

"And is the Viscount much hurt?"

"Why no, sir. And it were only 'is whip-arm. 'Urts a bit o' course, but 'e managed to write you a letter, 'e did; an' 'ere it is."

So Barnabas took the letter, and holding it in the moonlight where Cleone could see it, they, together, made out these words:

MY DEAR BEV,--There is durty work afoot. Some Raskells have tried to lame 'Moonraker,' but thanks to my Imp and your man Martin, quite unsuccessfully. How-beit your man Martin--regular game for all his years--has a broken nob and one ogle closed up, and I a ball through my arm, but nothing to matter. But I am greatly pirtirbed for the safety of 'Moonraker' and mean to get him into safer quarters and advise you to do likewise. Also, though your horse 'The Terror,' as the stable-boys call him, is not even in the betting, it almost seems, from what I can gather, that they meant to nobble him also. Therefore I think you were wiser to return at once, and I am anxious to see you on another matter as well. Your bets with Carnaby and Chichester have somehow got about and are the talk of the town, and from what I hear, much to your disparagement, I fear.

A pity to shorten your stay in the country, but under the circumstances, most advisable.

Yours ever, etc.,

DICK.

P.S. My love and service to the Duchess, Cleone and the Capt.

Now here Barnabas looked at Cleone, and sighed, and Cleone sighing also, nodded her head:

"You must go," said she, very softly, and sighed again.

"Yes, I must go, and yet--it is so very soon, Cleone!"

"Yes, it is dreadfully soon, Barnabas. But what does he mean by saying that people are talking of you to your disparagement? How dare they? Why should they?"

"I think because I, a rank outsider, ventured to lay a wager against Sir Mortimer Carnaby."

"Do you mean you bet him that you would win the race, Barnabas?"

"No,--only that I would beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby."

"But, oh Barnabas,--he is the race! Surely you know he and the Viscount are favorites?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then you do think you can win?"

"I mean to try--very hard!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little.

"And I begin to think," said Cleone, struck by his resolute eyes and indomitable mouth, "oh, Barnabas--I begin to think you--almost may."

"And if I did?"

"Then I should be very--proud of you."

"And if I lost?"

"Then you would be--"

"Yes?"

"Just--"

"Yes, Cleone?"

"My, Barnabas! Ah, no, no!" she whispered suddenly, "you are crushing me--dreadfully, and besides, that boy has terribly sharp eyes!" and Cleone nodded to where Master Milo stood, some distance away, with his innocent orbs lifted pensively towards the heavens, more like a cherub than ever.

"But he's not looking, and oh, Cleone,--how can I bear to leave you so soon? You are more to me than anything else in the world. You are my life, my soul,--my honor,--oh my dear!"

"Do you--love me so very much, Barnabas?" said she, with a sudden catch in her voice.

"And always must! Oh my dear, my dear,--don't you know? But indeed, words are so small and my love is so great that I fear you can never quite guess, or I tell it all."

"Then, Barnabas,--you will go?"

"Must I, Cleone? It will be so very hard to lose you--so soon."

"But a man always chooses the harder course, doesn't he, Barnabas? And, dear, you cannot lose me,--and so you will go, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll go--because I love you!"

Then Cleone drew him deeper into the shade of the willows, and with a sudden, swift gesture, reached up her hands and set them about his neck.

"Oh my dear," she murmured, "oh Barnabas dear, I think I can guess--now. And I'm sure--the boy--can't see us--here!"

No, surely, neither this particular brook nor any other water-brook, stream or freshet, that ever sang, or sighed, or murmured among the reeds, could ever hope to catch all the thrilling tenderness of the sweet soft tones of Cleone's voice.

A brook indeed? Ridiculous!

Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible, and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings, and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable, ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true, but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.

"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"

Milo of Crotona turned and--looked at her. And though his face was as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.

"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty child!"

Surely no cherub--especially one in such knowing top-boots--could be reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew positively murderous.

"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he coldly, and with his most superb air.

"Groom?" said the Duchess, staring, "what a very small one, to be sure!"

"It ain't inches as counts wiv 'osses, mam,--or hany-think else, mam, --it's nerves as counts, it is."

"Why, yes, you seem to have plenty of nerve!"

"Well, mam, there ain't much as I trembles at, there ain't,--and when I do, I don't show it, I don't."

"And such a pretty child, too!" sighed the Duchess.

"Child, mam? I ain't no child, I'm a groom, I am. Child yourself, mam!"

"Lud! I do believe he's even paying me compliments! How old are you, boy?"

"A lot more 'n you think, and hoceans more 'n I look, mam."

"And what's your name?"

"Milo, mam,--Milo o' Crotona, but my pals generally calls me Tony, for short, they do."

"Milo of Crotona!" repeated the Duchess, with her eyes wider than ever, "but he was a giant who slew an ox with his fist, and ate it whole!"

"Why, mam, I'm oncommon fond of oxes,--roasted, I am."

"Well," said the Duchess, "you are the very smallest giant I ever saw."

"Why, you ain't werry large yourself, mam, you ain't."

"No, I fear I am rather petite," said the Duchess with a trill of girlish laughter. "And pray, Giant, what may you be doing here?"

"Come up on the coach, I did,--box seat, mam,--to take Mr. Beverley back wiv me 'cause 'is 'oss ain't safe, and--"

"Not safe,--what do you mean, boy?"

"Some coves got in and tried to nobble 'Moonraker' and 'im--"

"Nobble, boy?"

"Lame 'em, mam,--put 'em out o' the running."

"The wretches!"

"Yes'm. Ye see us sportsmen 'ave our worritting times, we do."

"But where is Mr. Beverley?"

"Why, I ain't looked, mam, I ain't,--but they're down by the brook--behind them bushes, they are."

"Oh, are they!" said the Duchess, "Hum!"

"No mam,--'e's a-coming, and so's she."

"Why, Barnabas," cried the Duchess, as Cleone and he stepped out of the shadow, "what's all this I hear about your horse,--what is the meaning of it?"

"That I must start for London to-night, Duchess."

"Leave to-night? Absurd!"

"And yet, madam, Cleone seems to think I must, and so does Viscount Devenham,--see what he writes." So the Duchess took the Viscount's letter and, having deciphered it with some difficulty, turned upon Barnabas with admonishing finger upraised:

"So you 've been betting, eh? And with Sir Mortimer Carnaby and Mr. Chichester of all people?"

"Yes, madam."

"Ah! You backed the Viscount, I suppose?"

"No,--I backed myself, Duchess."

"Gracious goodness--"

"But only to beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"

"The other favorite. Oh, ridiculous! What odds did they give you?"

"None."

"You mean--oh, dear me!--you actually backed yourself--at even money?"

"Yes, Duchess."

"But you haven't a chance, Barnabas,--not a chance! You didn't bet much, I hope?"

"Not so much as I intended, madam."

"Pray what was the sum?"

"Twenty thousand pounds."

"Not--each?"

"Yes, madam."

"Forty thousand pounds! Against a favorite! Cleone, my dear," said the Duchess, with one of her quick, incisive nods, "Cleone, this Barnabas of ours is either a madman or a fool! And yet--stoop down, sir,--here where I can see you,--hum! And yet, Cleone, there are times when I think he is perhaps a little wiser than he seems,--nothing is so baffling as simplicity, my dear! If you wished to be talked about, Barnabas, you have succeeded admirably,--no wonder all London is laughing over such a preposterous bet. Forty thousand pounds! Well, it will at least buy you notoriety, and that is next to fame."

"Indeed, I hadn't thought of that," said Barnabas.

"And supposing your horse had been lamed and you couldn't ride,--how then?"

"Why, then, I forfeit the money, madam."

Now here the Duchess frowned thoughtfully, and thereafter said "ha!" so suddenly, that Cleone started and hurried to her side.

"Dear God-mother, what is it?"

"A thought, my dear!"

"But--"

"Call it a woman's intuition if you will."

"What is your thought, dear?"

"That you are right, Cleone,--he must go--at once!"

"Go? Barnabas?"

"Yes; to London,--now--this very instant! Unless you prefer to forfeit your money, Barnabas?"

But Barnabas only smiled and shook his head.

"You would be wiser!"

"But I was never very wise, I fear," said Barnabas.

"And--much safer!"

"Oh, God-mother,--do you think there is--danger, then?"

"Yes, child, I do. Indeed, Barnabas, you were wiser and safer to forfeit your wagers and stay here with me and--Cleone!"

But Barnabas only sighed and shook his head.

"Cleone," said the Duchess, "speak to him."

So blushing a little, sighing a little, Cleone reached out her hand to Barnabas, while the Duchess watched them with her young, bright eyes.

"Oh, Barnabas, God-mother is very wise, and if--there is danger--you mustn't go--for my sake."

But Barnabas shook his head again, and taking in his strong clasp the pleading hand upon his arm, turned to the Duchess.

"Madam," said he, "dear Duchess, to-night I have found my manhood, for to-night I have learned that a man must ever choose the hardest course and follow it--to the end. To-night Cleone has taught me--many things."

"And you will--stay?" inquired the Duchess.

"I must go!" said Barnabas.

"Then good-by--Barnabas!" said her Grace, looking up at him with a sudden, radiant smile, "good-by!" said she very softly, "it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, perhaps,--but it is a godlike thing to be--a man!" So saying, she gave him her hand, and as Barnabas stooped to kiss those small, white fingers, she looked down at his curly head with such an expression as surely few had ever seen within the eyes of this ancient, childless woman, her Grace of Camberhurst.

"Now Giant!" she called, as Barnabas turned towards Cleone, "come here, Giant, and promise me to take care of Mr. Beverley."

"Yes, mam,--all right, mam,--you jest leave 'im to me," replied Master Milo with his superb air, "don't you worrit on 'is account, 'e'll be all right along o' me, mam, 'e will."

"For that," cried the Duchess, catching him by two of his gleaming buttons, "for that I mean to kiss you, Giant!" The which, despite his reproving blushes, she did forthwith.

And Cleone and Barnabas? Well, it so chanced, her Grace's back was towards them; while as for Master Milo--abashed, and for once forgetful of his bepolished topboots, he became in very truth a child, though one utterly unused to the motherly touch of a tender woman's lips; therefore he suffered the embrace with closed eyes,--even his buttons were eclipsed, and, in that moment, the Duchess whispered something in his ear. Then he turned and followed after Barnabas, who was already striding away across the wide lawn, his head carried high, a new light in his eyes and a wondrous great joy at his heart, --a man henceforth--resolute to attempt all things, glorying in his strength and contemptuous of failure, because of the trill of a woman's voice and the quick hot touch of a woman's soft lips, whose caress had been in no sense--motherly. And presently, being come to the hospitable gates, he turned with bared head to look back at the two women, the one a childless mother, old and worn, yet wise with years, and the maid, strong and proud in all the glory of her warm, young womanhood. Side by side with arms entwined they stood, to watch young Barnabas, and in the eyes of each, an expression so much alike, yet so dissimilar. Then, with a flourish of his hat, Barnabas went on down the road, past the finger-post, with Milo of Crotona's small top-boots twinkling at his side.

"Sir," said he suddenly, speaking in an awed tone, "is she a real Doochess--the little old 'un?"

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "very real. Why, Imp?"

"'Cos I called 'er a child, I did--Lord! An' then she--she kissed me, she did, sir--which ain't much in my line, it ain't. But she give me a guinea, sir, an' she likewise whispered in my ear, she did."

"Oh?" said Barnabas, thinking of Cleone--"whispered, did she?"

"Ah! she says to me--quick like, sir,--she says, 'tell 'im,' she says--meaning you, sir, 'tell 'im to beware o' Wilfred Chichester!' she says."

Chapter XLVIII

IN WHICH "THE TERROR," HITHERTO KNOWN AS "FOUR-LEGS," JUSTIFIES HIS NEW NAME

The chill of dawn was in the air as the chaise began to rumble over the London cobble-stones, whereupon Master Milo (who for the last hour had slumbered peacefully, coiled up in his corner like a kitten) roused himself, sat suddenly very upright, straightened his cap and pulled down his coat, broad awake all at once, and with his eyes as round and bright as his buttons.

"Are you tired, Imp?" inquired Barnabas, yawning.

"Tired, sir, ho no, sir--not a bit, I ain't."

"But you haven't slept much."

"Slep', sir? I ain't slep'. I only jest 'appened to close me eyes, sir. Ye see, I don't need much sleep, I don't,--four hours is enough for any man,--my pal Nick says so, and Nick knows a precious lot, 'e do."

"Who is Nick?"

"Nick's a cobbler, sir,--boots and shoes,--ladies' and gents', and a very good cobbler 'e is too, although a cripple wiv a game leg. Me and 'im's pals, sir, and though we 'as our little turn-ups 'count of 'im coming it so strong agin the Quality, I'm never very 'ard on 'im 'count of 'is crutch, d'ye see, sir."

"What do you mean by the 'Quality,' Imp?"

"Gentle-folks, sir,--rich folks like you an' m'lud. 'I'd gillertine the lot, if I'd my way,' he says, 'like the Frenchies did in Ninety-three,' 'e says. But 'e wouldn't reelly o'course, for Nick's very tender-hearted, though 'e don't like it known. So we 're pals, we are, and I often drop in to smoke a pipe wiv 'im--"

"What! Do you smoke, Imp?"

"Why, yes, o' course, sir,--all grooms smokes or chews, but I prefers a pipe--allus 'ave, ah! ever since I were a kid. But I mostly only 'as a pipe when I drop in on my pal Nick in Giles's Rents."

"Down by the River?" inquired Barnabas.

"Yessir. And now, shall I horder the post-boy to stop?"

"What for?"

"Well, the stables is near by, sir, and I thought as you might like to take a glimp at the 'osses,--just to make your mind easy, sir."

"Oh, very well!" said Barnabas, for there was something in the boy's small, eager face that he could not resist.

Therefore, having paid and dismissed the chaise, they turned into a certain narrow by-street. It was very dark as yet, although in the east was a faint, gray streak, and the air struck so chill, after the warmth of the chaise, that Barnabas shivered violently, and, happening to glance down, he saw that the boy was shivering also. On they went, side by side, between houses of gloom and silence, and thus, in a while, came to another narrow street, or rather, blind alley, at the foot of which were the stables.

"Hush, sir!" said the Imp, staring away to where the stable buildings loomed up before them, shadowy and indistinct in the dawn. "Hush, sir!" he repeated, and Barnabas saw that he was creeping forward on tip-toe, and, though scarce knowing why, he himself did the same.

They found the great swing doors fast, bolted from within, and, in this still dead hour, save for their own soft breathing, not a sound reached them. Then Barnabas laughed suddenly, and clapped Master Milo upon his small, rigid shoulder.

"There, Imp,--you see it's all right!" said he, and then paused, and held his breath.

"Did ye hear anythink?" whispered the boy.

"A chain--rattled, I think."

"And 't was in The Terror's' stall,--there? didn't ye hear somethink else, sir?"

"No!"

"I did,--it sounded like--" the boy's voice tailed off suddenly and, upon the silence, a low whistle sounded; then a thud, as of some one dropping from a height, quickly followed by another,--and thus two figures darted away, impalpable as ghosts in the dawn, but the alley was filled with the rush and patter of their flight. Instantly Barnabas turned in pursuit, then stopped and stood utterly still, his head turned, his eyes wide, glaring back towards the gloom of the stables. For, in that moment, above the sudden harsh jangling of chains from within, above the pattering footsteps of the fugitives without, was an appalling sound rising high and ever higher--shrill, unearthly, and full of horror and torment unspeakable. And now, sudden as it had come, it was gone, but in its place was another sound,--a sound dull and muffled, but continuous, and pierced, all at once, by the loud, hideous whinnying of a horse. Then Barnabas sprang back to the doors, beating upon them with his fists and calling wildly for some one to open.

And, in a while, a key grated, a bolt shrieked; the doors swung back, revealing Martin, half-dressed and with a lantern in his hand, while three or four undergrooms hovered, pale-faced, in the shadows behind.

"My horse!" said Barnabas, and snatched the lantern.

"'The Terror'!" cried Milo, "this way, sir!"

Coming to a certain shadowy corner, Barnabas unfastened and threw open the half-door; and there, rising from the gloom of the stall, was a fiendish, black head with ears laid back, eyes rolling, and teeth laid bare,--cruel teeth, whose gleaming white was hatefully splotched,--strong teeth, in whose vicious grip something yet dangled.

"Why--what's he got there!" cried Martin suddenly, and then-- "Oh, my God! sir,--look yonder!" and, covering his eyes, he pointed towards a corner of the stall where the light of the lantern fell. And--twisted and contorted,--something lay there; something hideously battered, and torn, and trampled; something that now lay so very quiet and still, but which had left dark splashes and stains on walls and flooring; something that yet clutched the knife which was to have hamstrung and ended the career of Four-legs once and for all; something that had once been a man.

XLIX. WHICH, BEING SOMEWHAT IMPORTANT, IS CONSEQUENTLY SHORT

"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, stifling a yawn beneath the bedclothes, "you rise with the lark,--or should it be linnet? Anyhow, you do, you know. So deuced early!"

"I am here early because I haven't been to bed, Dick."

"Ah, night mail? Dev'lish uncomfortable! Didn't think you'd come back in such a deuce of a hurry, though!"

"But you wanted to see me, Dick, what is it?"

"Why,--egad, Bev, I'm afraid it's nothing much, after all. It's that fellow Smivvle's fault, really."

"Smivvle?"

"Fellow actually called here yesterday--twice, Bev. Dev'lish importunate fellow y'know. Wanted to see you,--deuced insistent about it, too!"

"Why?"

"Well, from what I could make out, he seemed to think--sounds ridiculous so early in the morning,--but he seemed to fancy you were in some kind of--danger, Bev."

"How, Dick?"

"Well, when I told him he couldn't see you because you had driven over to Hawkhurst, the fellow positively couldn't sit still--deuced nervous, y'know,--though probably owing to drink. 'Hawkhurst!' says he, staring at me as if I were a ghost, my dear fellow, 'yes,' says I, 'and the door's open, sir!' 'I see it is,' says he, sitting tight. 'But you must get him back!' 'Can't be done!' says I. 'Are you his friend?' says he. 'I hope so,' says I. 'Then,' says he, before I could remind him of the door again, 'then you must get him back-- at once!' I asked him why, but he only stared and shook his head, and so took himself off. I'll own the fellow shook me rather, Bev, --he seemed so very much in earnest, but, knowing where you were, I wouldn't have disturbed you for the world if it hadn't been for the horses."

"Ah, yes--the horses!" said Barnabas thoughtfully. "How is your arm now, Dick?"

"A bit stiff, but otherwise right as a trivet, Bev. But now--about yourself, my dear fellow,--what on earth possessed you to lay Carnaby such a bet? What a perfectly reckless fellow you are! Of course the money is as good as in Carnaby's pocket already, not to mention Chichester's--damn him! As I told you in my letter, the affair has gone the round of the clubs,--every one is laughing at the 'Galloping Countryman,' as they call you. Jerningham came within an ace of fighting Tufton Green of the Guards about it, but the Marquis is deuced knowing with the barkers, and Tufton, very wisely, thought better of it. Still, I'm afraid the name will stick--!"

"And why not, Dick? I am a countryman, indeed quite a yokel in many ways, and I shall certainly gallop--when it comes to it."

"Which brings us back to the horses, Bev. I 've been thinking we ought to get 'em away--into the country--some quiet place like--say, the--the 'Spotted Cow,' Bev."

"Yes, the 'Spotted Cow' should do very well; especially as Clemency--"

"Talking about the horses, Bev," said the Viscount, sitting up in bed and speaking rather hurriedly, "I protest, since the rascally attempt on 'Moonraker' last night, I've been on pins and needles, positively,--nerve quite gone, y'know, Bev. If 'Moonraker' didn't happen to be a horse, he'd be a mare,--of course he would,--but I mean a nightmare. I've thought of him all day and dreamed of him all night, oh, most cursed, y'know! Just ring for my fellow, will you, Bev?--I'll get up, and we'll go round to the stables together."

"Quite unnecessary, Dick."

"Eh? Why?"

"Because I have just left there."

"Are the horses all right, Bev?"

"Yes, Dick."

"Ah!" sighed the Viscount, falling back among his pillows, "and everything is quite quiet, eh?"

"Very quiet,--now, Dick."

"Eh?" cried the Viscount, coming erect again, "Bev, what d' you mean?"

"I mean that three men broke in again to-night--"

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed the Viscount, beginning to scramble out of bed.

"But we drove them off before they had done--what they came for."

"Did you, Bev,--did you? ah,--but didn't you catch any of 'em?"

"No; but my horse did."

"Your horse? Oh, Beverley,--d'you mean he--"

"Killed him, Dick!"

Once more the Viscount sank back among his pillows and stared up at the ceiling a while ere he spoke again--

"By the Lord, Bev," said he, at last, "the stable-boys might well call him 'The Terror'!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "he has earned his name, Dick."

"And the man was--dead, you say?"

"Hideously dead, Dick,--and in his pocket we found this!" and Barnabas produced a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, and put it into the Viscount's reluctant hand. "Look at it, Dick, and tell me what it is."

"Why, Bev,--deuce take me, it's a plan of our stables! And they've got it right, too! Here's 'Moonraker's' stall marked out as pat as you please, and 'The Terror's,' but they've got his name wrong--"

"My horse had no name, Dick."

"But there's something written here."

"Yes, look at it carefully, Dick."

"Well, here's an H, and an E, and--looks like 'Hera,' Bev!"

"Yes, but it isn't. Look at that last letter again, Dick!"

"Why, I believe--by God, Bev,--it's an E!"

"Yes,--an E, Dick."

"'Here'!" said the Viscount, staring at the paper; "why, then--why, Bev,--it was--your horse they were after!"

"My horse,--yes, Dick."

"But he's a rank outsider--he isn't even in the betting! In heaven's name, why should any one--"

"Look on the other side of the paper, Dick."

Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this:

RONALD BARRYMAINE ESQUIRE.

"And Dick," said Barnabas, "it is in Chichester's handwriting."

L. IN WHICH RONALD BARRYMAINE SPEAKS HIS MIND

The whiskers of Mr. Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.

He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to the cheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire. At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeing Barnabas, sank back again.

"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again--that is to say--" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner, "that is to say,--I mean--ah--in short, my dear Beverley, I'm delighted to see you!"

"Pray what do you mean by safe?"

"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean--safe, sir,--a very natural wish, surely?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"

"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,--"why, yes, of course--"

"At least, the Viscount told me so."

"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,--very!"

"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was evidently a bedroom.

"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it. You have hit the nail exactly--upon the nob, sir." Here, having found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it, and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,--it is a bitter cud, cursedly so,--wherein the milk of human kindness is curdled, sir, curdled most damnably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my friend Barry--wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the hammer of Adversity alone can weld,--scorning Friendship's holy obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,--upon Digby,--upon faithful Dig, and--in short has--ah--hopped the mutual perch, sir."

"Do you mean he has left you?"

"Yes, sir. We had words this morning--a good many and, the end of it was--he departed--for good, and all on your account!"

"My account?"

"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages, and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"

"But how on my account?"

"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine is cursed proud, but so am I--as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart of a Smivvle,--as all the world knows,--becomes a--an accursed flint, sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand to--ah--pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to remember if you fastened the front door securely?"

"No."

"I ask because the latch is faulty,--like most things about here,--and in this delightful Garden of Hatton and the--ah--hot-beds adjoining there are weeds, sir, of the rambling species which, given opportunity--will ramble anywhere. Several of 'em--choice exotics, too! have found their way up here lately,--one of 'em got in here this very morning after Barrymaine had gone,--characteristic specimen in a fur cap. But, as I was saying, you may have noticed that Chichester is not altogether--friendly towards you?"

"Chichester?" said Barnabas. "Yes!"

"And it would almost seem that he's determined that Barrymaine shall--be the same. Poor fellow's been very strange lately,--Gaunt's been pressing him again worse than ever,--even threatened him with the Marshalsea. Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually brimmed--Chichester's doing, of course,--and he seems to consider you his mortal enemy, and--in short, I think it only right to--put you on your guard."

"You mean against--Chichester?"

"I mean against--Barrymaine!"

"Ah!" said Barnabas, chin in hand, "but why?"

"Well, you'll remember that the only time you met him he was inclined to be--just a l-ee-tle--violent, perhaps?"

"When he attacked me with the bottle,--yes!" sighed Barnabas, "but surely that was only because he was drunk?"

"Y-e-s, perhaps so," said Mr. Smivvle, fumbling for his whisker again, "but this morning he--wasn't so drunk as usual."

"Well?"

"And yet he was more violent than ever--raved against you like a maniac."

"But--why?"

"It was just after he had received another of Jasper Gaunt's letters,--here it is!" and, stooping, Mr. Smivvle picked up a crumpled paper that had lain among the ashes, and smoothing it out, tendered it to Barnabas. "Read it, sir,--read it!" he said earnestly, "it will explain matters, I think,--and much better than I can. Yes indeed, read it, for it concerns you too!" So Barnabas took the letter, and this is what he read:

DEAR MR. BARRYMAINE,--In reply to your favor, re interest, requesting more time, I take occasion once more to remind you that I am no longer your creditor, being merely his agent, as Mr. Beverley himself could, and will, doubtless, inform you.

I am, therefore, compelled to demand payment within thirty days from date; otherwise the usual steps must be taken in lieu of same.

Yours obediently,

JASPER GAUNT.

Now when Barnabas had read the letter a sudden fit of rage possessed him, and, crumpling the paper in his fist, he dashed it down and set his foot upon it.

"A lie!" he cried, "a foul, cowardly lie!"

"Then you--you didn't buy up the debt, Beverley?"

"No! no!--I couldn't,--Gaunt had sold already, and by heaven I believe the real creditor is--"

"Ha!" cried Smivvle, pointing suddenly, "the door wasn't fastened, Beverley,--look there!"

Barnabas started, and glancing round, saw that the door was opening very slowly, and inch by inch; then, as they watched its stealthy movement, all at once a shaggy head slid into view, a round head, with a face remarkably hirsute as to eyebrow and whisker, and surmounted by a dingy fur cap.

"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, speaking hoarsely, and rolling its eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,--vich on ye might that be, now?"

"Ha?" cried Mr. Smivvle angrily, "so you're here again, are you!"

"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, blinking its round eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,--no offence,--vich?"

"Come," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to tug at his whiskers,-- "come, get out,--d'ye hear!"

"But, axing your pardons, gents,--vich on ye might be--name o' Barrymaine?"

"What do you want with him--eh?" demanded Mr. Smivvle, his whiskers growing momentarily more ferocious, "speak out, man!"

"Got a letter for 'im--leastways it's wrote to 'im," answered the head, "'ere's a B, and a Nay, and a Nar, and another on 'em, and a Vy,--that spells Barry, don't it? Then, arter that, comes a M., and a--"

"Oh, all right,--give it me!" said Mr. Smivvle, rising.

"Are you name o' Barrymaine?"

"No, but you can leave it with me, and I--"

"Leave it?" repeated the head, in a slightly injured tone, "leave it? axing your pardons, gents,--but burn my neck if I do! If you ain't name o' Barrymaine v'y then--p'r'aps this is 'im a-coming upstairs now,--and werry 'asty about it, too!" And, sure enough, hurried feet were heard ascending; whereupon Mr. Smivvle uttered a startled exclamation, and, motioning Barnabas to be seated in the dingiest corner, strode quickly to the door, and thus came face to face with Ronald Barrymaine upon the threshold.

"Why, Barry!" said he, standing so as to block Barrymaine's view of the dingy corner, "so you've come back, then?"

"Come back, yes!" returned the other petulantly, "I had to,--mislaid a letter, must have left it here, somewhere. Did you find it?"

"Axing your pardon, sir, but might you be name o' Barrymaine, no offence, but might you?"

The shaggy head had slid quite into the room now, bringing after it a short, thick-set person clad after the fashion of a bargeman.

"Yes; what do you want?"

"Might this 'ere be the letter as you come back for,--no offence, but might it?"

"Yes! yes," cried Barrymaine, and, snatching it, he tore it fiercely across and across, and made a gesture as if to fling the fragments into the hearth, then thrust them into his pocket instead. "Here's a shilling for you," said he, turning to the bargeman, "that is--Dig, l-lend me a shilling, I--" Ronald Barrymaine's voice ended abruptly, for he had caught sight of Barnabas sitting in the dingy corner, and now, pushing past Smivvle, he stood staring, his handsome features distorted with sudden fury, his teeth gleaming between his parted lips.

"So it's--you, is it?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Barnabas, and stood up.

"So--you're--back again, are you?"

"Thank you, yes," said Barnabas, "and quite safe!"

"S-safe?"

"As yet," answered Barnabas.

"You aren't d-drunk, are you?"

"No," said Barnabas, "nor are you, for once."

Barrymaine clenched his fists and took a step towards Barnabas, but spying the bargeman, who now lurched forward, turned upon him in a fury.

"What the d-devil d' you want? Get out of the way, d' ye hear?--get out, I say!"

"Axing your pardon, sir, an' meaning no offence, but summat was said about a bob, sir--vun shilling!"

"Damnation! Give the fellow his s-shilling, Dig, and then k-kick him out."

Hereupon Mr. Smivvle, having felt through his pockets, slowly produced the coin demanded, and handing it to the bargeman, pointed to the door.

"No,--see him downstairs--into the street, Dig. And you needn't hurry back, I'm going to speak my mind to this f-fellow--once and for all! So l-lock the street door, Dig."

Mr. Smivvle hesitated, glanced at Barnabas, shrugged his shoulders and followed the bargeman out of the room. As the door closed, Barrymaine sprang to it, and, turning the key, faced Barnabas with arms folded, head lowered, and a smile upon his lips:

"Now," said he, "you are going to listen to me--d'you hear? We are going to understand each other before you leave this room! D'you see?"

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"Oh!" he cried bitterly, "I know the sort of c-crawling thing you are, Gaunt has warned me--"

"Gaunt is a liar!" said Barnabas.

"I say,--he's told me,--are you listening? Y-you think, because you've bought my debts, you've bought me, too, body and soul, and--through me--Cleone! Ah, but you haven't,--before that happens y-you'll be dead and rotting--and I, and she as well. Are you listening?--she as well! You think you've g-got me--there beneath your foot--b-but you haven't, no, by God, you haven't--"

"I tell you Gaunt is a liar!" repeated Barnabas. "I couldn't buy your debts because he had sold them already. Come with me, and I'll prove it,--come and let me face him with the truth--"

"The truth? You? Oh, I might have guessed you'd come creeping round here to see S-Smivvle behind my back--as you do my sister--"

"Sir!" said Barnabas, flushing.

"What--do you dare deny it? Do you d-dare deny that you have met her--by stealth,--do you? do you? Oh, I know of your secret meetings with her. I know how you have imposed upon the credulity of a weak-minded old woman and a one-armed d-dotard sufficiently to get yourself invited to Hawkhurst. But I tell you this shall stop,--it shall! Yes, by God,--you shall give me your promise to c-cease your persecution of my sister before you leave this room, or--"

"Or?" said Barnabas.

"Or it will be the w-worse for you!"

"How?"

"I--I'll k-kill you!"

"Murder me?"

"It's no m-murder to kill your sort!"

"Then it is a pistol you have in your pocket, there?"

"Yes--l-look at it!" And, speaking, Barrymaine drew and levelled the weapon with practised hand. "Now listen!" said he. "You will s-sit down at that table there, and write Gaunt to g-give me all the time I need for your c-cursed interest--"

"But I tell you--"

"Liar!" cried Barrymaine, advancing a threatening step. "Liar,--I know! Then, after you've done that,--you will swear never to see or c-communicate with my sister again, or I'll shoot you dead where you stand,--s-so help me God!"

"You are mad," said Barnabas, "I am not your creditor, and--"

"Liar! I know!" repeated Barrymaine.

"And yet," said Barnabas, fronting him, white-faced, across the table, "I think--I'm sure, there are four things you don't know. The first is that Lady Cleone has promised to marry me--some day--"

"Go on to the next, liar!"

"The second is that my stables were broken into again, this morning,--the third is that my horse killed the man who was trying to hamstring him,--and the fourth is that in the dead man's pocket I found--this!" And Barnabas produced that crumpled piece of paper whereon was drawn the plan of the stables.

Now, at the sight of this paper, Barrymaine fell back a step, his pistol-hand wavered, fell to his side, and sinking into a chair, he seemed to shrink into himself as he stared dully at a worn patch in the carpet.

"Only one beside myself knows of this," said Barnabas.

"Well?" The word seemed wrung from Barrymaine's quivering lips. He lay back in the rickety chair, his arms dangling, his chin upon his breast, never lifting his haggard eyes, and, almost as he spoke, the pistol slipped from his lax fingers and lay all unheeded.

"Not another soul shall ever know," said Barnabas earnestly, "the world shall be none the wiser if you will promise to stop,--now, --to free yourself from Chichester's influence, now,--to let me help you to redeem the past. Promise me this, and I, as your friend, will tear up this damning evidence--here and now."

"And--if I--c-can't?"

Barnabas sighed, and folding up the crumpled paper, thrust it back into his pocket.

"You shall have--a week, to make up your mind. You know my address, I think,--at least, Mr. Smivvle does." So saying, Barnabas stepped towards the door, but, seeing the look on Barrymaine's face, he stooped very suddenly, and picked up the pistol. Then he unlocked the door and went out, closing it behind him. Upon the dark stairs he encountered Mr. Smivvle, who had been sitting there making nervous havoc of his whiskers.

"Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed, "I ought not to have left you alone with him,--deuce of a state about it, 'pon my honor. But what could I do,--as I sat here listening to you both I was afraid."

"So was I," said Barnabas. "But he will be quiet now, I think. Here is one of his pistols, you'd better hide it. And--forget your differences with him, for if ever a man needed a friend, he does. As for your rent, don't worry about that, I'll send it round to you this evening. Good-by."

So Barnabas went on down the dark stairs, and being come to the door with the faulty latch, let himself out into the dingy street, and thus came face to face with the man in the fur cap.

"Lord, Mr. Barty, sir," said that worthy, glancing up and down the street with a pair of mild, round eyes, "you can burn my neck if I wasn't beginning to vorry about you, up theer all alone vith that 'ere child o' mine. For, sir, of all the Capital coves as ever I see, --'e's vun o' the werry capital-est."

LI. WHICH TELLS HOW AND WHY MR. SHRIG'S CASE WAS SPOILED

"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, starting, "is that you, Mr. Shrig?"

"As ever vas, sir. I ain't partial to disguises as a rule, but circumstances obleeges me to it now and then," sighed Mr. Shrig as they turned into Hatton Garden. "Ye see, I've been keeping a eye--or as you might say, a fatherly ogle on vun o' my fambly, vich is the v'y and the v'erefore o' these 'ere v'iskers. Yesterday, I vas a market gerdener, vith a basket o' fine wegetables as nobody 'ad ordered,--the day afore, a sailor-man out o' furrin parts, as vos a-seeking and a-searchin' for a gray-'eaded feyther as didn't exist,--to-day I'm a riverside cove as 'ad found a letter--a letter as I'd stole--"

"Stolen!" repeated Barnabas.

"Vell, let's say borreyed, sir,--borreyed for purposes o' obserwation, --out o' young Barrymaine's pocket, and werry neatly I done it too!" Here Mr. Shrig chuckled softly, checked himself suddenly, and shook his placid head. "But life ain't all lavender, sir,--not by no manner o' means, it ain't," said he dolefully. "Things is werry slack vith me,--nothing in the murder line this veek, and only vun sooicide, a couple o' 'ighvay robberies, and a 'sault and battery! You can scrag me if I know v'ot things is coming to. And then, to make it vorse, I 've jest 'ad a loss as vell."

"I'm sorry for that, Mr. Shrig, but--"

"A loss, sir, as I shan't get over in a 'urry. You'll remember V'istlin' Dick, p'r'aps,--the leary, flash cove as you give such a leveller to, the first time as ever I clapped my day-lights on ye?"

"Yes, I remember him."

"Veil sir,' e's been and took, and gone, and got 'isself kicked to death by an 'orse!"

"Eh,--a horse?" exclaimed Barnabas, starting.

"An 'orse, sir, yes. Vich I means to say is coming it a bit low down on me, sir,--sich conduct ain't 'ardly fair, for V'istlin' Dick vos a werry promising cove as Capitals go. And now to see 'im cut off afore 'is time, and in such a outrageous, onnat'ral manner, touches me up, Mr. Barty, sir,--touches me up werry sharp it do! For arter all, a nice, strong gibbet vith a good long drop is qvicker, neater, and much more pleasant than an 'orse's 'oof,--now ain't it? Still," said Mr. Shrig, sighing and shaking his head again, "things is allus blackest afore the dawn, sir, and--'twixt you and me,--I'm 'oping to bring off a nice little murder case afore long--"

"Hoping?"

"Veil--let's say--expecting, sir. Quite a bang up affair it'll be too,--nobs, all on 'em, and there's three on 'em concerned. I'll call the murderer Number Vun, Number Two is the accessory afore the fact, and Number Three is the unfort'nate wictim. Now sir, from private obserwation, the deed is doo to be brought off any time in the next three veeks, and as soon as it's done, v'y then I lays my right 'and on Number Vun, and my left 'and on Number Two, and--"

"But--what about Number Three?" inquired Barnabas.

Mr. Shrig paused, glanced at Barnabas, and scratched his ear, thoughtfully.

"V'y sir," said he at last, "Number Three vill be a corp."

"A what?" said Barnabas.

"A corp, sir--a stiff--"

"Do you mean--dead?"

"Ah,--I mean werry much so!" nodded Mr. Shrig.

"Number Three vill be stone cold,--somev'eres in the country it'll 'appen, I fancy,--say in a vood! And the leaves'll keep a-fluttering over 'im, and the birds'll keep a-singing to 'im,--oh, Number Three'll be comfortable enough,--'e von't 'ave to vorry about nothink no more, it'll be Number Vun and Number Two as'll do the vorrying, and me--till I gets my 'ooks on 'em, and then--"

"But," said Barnabas earnestly, "why not try to prevent it?"

"Prewent it, sir?" said Mr. Shrig, in a tone of pained surprise. "Prewent it? Lord, Mr. Barty, sir--then vere vould my murder case be? Besides, I ain't so onprofessional as to step in afore my time. Prewent it? No, sir. My dooty is to apprehend a man arter the crime, not afore it."

"But surely you don't mean to allow this unfortunate person to be done to death?"

"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, beginning to finger his ear again, "unfort'nate wictims is born to be--vell, let's say--unfort'nate. You can't 'elp 'em being born wictims. I can't 'elp it,--nobody can't, for natur' vill 'ave 'er own vay, sir, and I ain't vun to go agin natur' nor yet to spile a good case,--good cases is few enough. Oh, life ain't all lavender, as I said afore,--burn my neck if it is!" And here Mr. Shrig shook his head again, sighed again, and walked on in a somewhat gloomy silence.

Now, all at once, as they turned into the rush and roar of Holborn, Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng; a face whose proud, dark beauty there was no mistaking despite its added look of sorrow; and a figure whose ripe loveliness the threadbare cloak could not disguise. For a moment her eyes looked up into his, dark and suddenly wide,--then, quick and light of foot, she was gone, lost in the bustling crowd.

But, even so, Barnabas turned and followed, striding on and on until at length he saw again the flutter of the threadbare cloak. And, because of its shabbiness, he frowned and hastened his steps, and because of the look he had read in her eyes, he paused again, yet followed doggedly nevertheless. She led him down Holborn Hill past the Fleet Market, over Blackfriars Bridge, and so, turning sharp to the right, along a somewhat narrow and very grimy street between rows of dirty, tumble-down houses, with, upon the right hand, numerous narrow courts and alley-ways that gave upon the turgid river. Down one of these alleys the fluttering cloak turned suddenly, yet when Barnabas reached the corner, behold the alley was quite deserted, save for a small and pallid urchin who sat upon a rotting stump, staring at the river, with a pallid infant in his arms.

"Which way did the lady go?" inquired Barnabas.

"Lady?" said the urchin, staring.

"Yes. She wore a cloak,--a gray cloak. Where did she go?" and Barnabas held up a shilling. Instantly the urchin rose and, swinging the pallid infant to his ragged hip, pattered over the cobbles with his bare feet, and with one small, dirty claw extended.

"A bob!" he cried in a shrill, cracked voice, "gimme it, sir! Yus, --yus,--I'll tell ye. She's wiv Nick--lives dere, she do. Now gimme th' bob,--she's in dere!" And he pointed to a narrow door at the further end of the alley. So Barnabas gave the shilling into the eager clutching fingers, and approaching the door, knocked upon the rotting timbers with the head of his cane.

"Come in!" roared a mighty voice. Hereupon Barnabas pushed open the crazy door, and descending three steps, found himself in a small, dark room, full of the smell of leather. And here, its solitary inmate, was a very small man crouched above a last, with a hammer in his hand and an open book before him. His head was bald save for a few white hairs that stood up, fiercely erect, and upon his short, pugnacious nose he wore a pair of huge, horn-rimmed spectacles.

"What's for you, sir?" he demanded in the same great, fierce voice, viewing Barnabas over his spectacles with sharp, bright eyes. "If it's a pair o' Hessians you'll be wanting--"

"It isn't," said Barnabas, "I--"

"Or a fine pair o' dancing shoes--?"

"No, thank you, I want to--"

"Or a smart pair o' bang up riding-jacks--?"

"No," said Barnabas again, "I came here to see--"

"You can't 'ave 'em! And because why?" demanded the little man, his fierce eyes growing fiercer as he stared at Barnabas from modish hat to flowered waistcoat, "because I don't make for the Quality. Quality--bah! If I 'ad my way, I'd gillertine 'em all,--ah, that I would! Like the Frenchies did when they revolutioned. I'd cut off their 'eads! By the dozen! With j'y!"

"You are Nick, the Cobbler, I think?"

"And what if I am? I'd chop off their 'eads, I tell ye,--with j'y and gusto!"

"And pray where is Clemency?"

"Eh?" exclaimed the little cobbler, pushing up his horn spectacles, "'oo did ye say?"

"Where is the lady who came in here a moment ago?"

"Lady?" said the cobbler, shaking his round, bald head, "Lord, sir, your heyes 'as been a-deceiving of you!"

"I am--her friend!"

"Friend!" exclaimed the cobbler, "to which I says--Hookey Walker, sir! 'Andsome gells don't want friends o' your kind. Besides, she ain't here--you can see that for yourself. Your heyes 'as been a-deceiving of you,--try next door."

"But I must see her," said Barnabas, "I wish to help her,--I have good news for her--"

"Noos?" said the cobbler, "Oh? Ah! Well go and tell your noos to someone else as ain't so 'andsome,--Mrs. Snummitt, say, as lives next door,--a widder,--respectable, but with only one heye,--try Mrs. Snummitt."

"Ah,--perhaps she's in the room yonder," said Barnabas, "anyhow, I mean to see--"

"No ye don't!" cried the little cobbler, seizing a crutch that leant near him, and springing up with astonishing agility, "no ye don't, my fine gentleman,--she ain't for you,--not while I'm 'ere to protect her!" and snatching up a long awl, he flourished it above his head. "I'm a cobbler, oh yes,--but then I'm a valiant cobbler, as valiant as Sir Bedevere, or Sir Lancelot, or any of 'em,--every bit,--come and try me!" and he made a pass in the air with the awl as though it had been a two-edged sword. But, at this moment, the door of the inner room was pushed open and Clemency appeared. She had laid aside her threadbare cloak, and Barnabas was struck afresh by her proud, dark loveliness.

"You good, brave Nick!" said she, laying her hand upon the little cripple's bent shoulder, "but we can trust this gentleman, I know."

"Trust him!" repeated the cobbler, peering at Barnahas, more particularly at his feet, "why, your boots is trustworthy--now I come to look at 'em, sir,"

"Boots?" said Barnabas.

"Ah," nodded the cobbler, "a man wears his character into 'is boots a sight quicker than 'e does into 'is face,--and I can read boots and shoes easier than I can print,--and that's saying summat, for I'm a great reader, I am. Why didn't ye show me your boots at first and have done with it?" saying which the cobbler snorted and sat down; then, having apparently swallowed a handful of nails, he began to hammer away lustily, while Barnabas followed Clemency into the inner room, and, being there, they stood for a long moment looking on each other in silence.

And now Barnabas saw that, with her apron and mobcap, the country serving-maid had vanished quite. In her stead was a noble woman, proud and stately, whose clear, sad eyes returned his gaze with a gentle dignity; Clemency indeed was gone, but Beatrix had come to life. Yet, when he spoke, Barnabas used the name he had known her by first.

"Clemency," said he, "your father is seeking for you."

"My--father!" she exclaimed, speaking in a whisper. "You have seen--my father? You know him?"

"Yes. I met him--not long ago. His name is Ralph Darville, he told me, and he goes up and down the countryside searching for you--has done so, ever since he lost you, and he preaches always Forgiveness and Forgetfulness of Self!"

"My father!" she whispered again with quivering lips. "Preaching?"

"He tramps the roads hoping to find you, Clemency, and he preaches at country wakes and fairs because, he told me, he was once a very selfish man, and unforgiving."

"And--oh, you have seen him, you say,--lately?" she cried.

"Yes. And I sent him to Frittenden--to the 'Spotted Cow.' But Clemency, he was just a day too late."

Now when Barnabas said this, Clemency uttered a broken cry, and covered her face.

"Oh, father!" she whispered, "if I had only known,--if I could but have guessed! Oh, father! father!"

"Clemency, why did you run away?"

"Because I--I was afraid!"

"Of Chichcster?"

"No!" she cried in sudden scorn, "him I only--hate!"

"Then--whom did you fear?"

Clemency was silent, but, all at once, Barnabas saw a burning flush that crept up, over rounded throat and drooping face, until it was lost in the dark shadow of her hair.

"Was it--the Viscount?" Barnabas demanded suddenly.

"No--no, I--I think it was--myself. Oh, I--I am very wretched and--lonely!" she sobbed, "I want--my father!"

"And he shall be found," said Barnabas, "I promise you! But, until then, will you trust me, Clemency, as--as a sister might trust her brother? Will you let me take you from this dreary place,--will you, Clemency? I--I'll buy you a house--I mean a--a cottage--in the country--or anywhere you wish."

"Oh, Mr. Beverley!" she sighed, looking up at him with tear-dimmed eyes, but with the ghost of a smile hovering round her scarlet lips, "I thank you,--indeed, indeed I do, but how can I? How may I?"

"Quite easily," said Barnabas stoutly, "oh quite--until I bring your father to you."

"Dear, dear father!" she sighed. "Is he much changed, I wonder? Is he well,--quite well?"

"Yes, he is very well," answered Barnabas, "but you--indeed you cannot stay here--"

"I must," she answered. "I can earn enough for my needs with my needle, and poor little Nick is very kind--so gentle and considerate in spite of his great, rough voice and fierce ways. I think he is the gentlest little man in all the world. He actually refused to take my money at first, until I threatened to go somewhere else."

"But how did you find your way to--such a place as this?"

"Milo brought me here."

"The Viscount's little imp of a groom?"

"Yes, though he promised never to tell--him where I was, and Milo always keeps his word. And you, Mr. Beverley, you will promise also, won't you?"

"You mean--never to tell the Viscount of your whereabouts?"

Clemency nodded.

"Yes," said Barnabas, "I will promise, but--on condition that you henceforth will regard me as a brother. That you will allow me the privilege of helping you whenever I may, and will always turn to me in your need. Will you promise me this, Clemency?" And Barnabas held out his hand.

"Yes," she answered, smiling up into his earnest eyes, "I think I shall be--proud to--have you for a brother." And she put her hand into his.

"Ah! so you're a-going, are ye?" demanded the cobbler, disgorging the last of the nails as Barnabas stepped into the dark little shop.

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and, if you think my boots sufficiently trustworthy, I should like to shake your hand."

"Eh?" exclaimed the cobbler, "shake 'ands with old Nick, sir? But you're one o' the Quality, and I 'ates the Quality--chop off their 'eads if I 'ad my way, I would! and my 'and's very dirty--jest let me wipe it a bit,--there sir, if you wish to! and 'ere's 'oping to see you again. Though, mark you, the Frenchies was quite right,--there's nothing like the gillertine, I say. Good arternoon, sir."

Then Barnabas went out into the narrow, grimy alley, and closed the crazy door behind him. But he had not gone a dozen yards when he heard Clemency calling his name, and hastened back.

"Mr. Beverley," said she, "I want to ask you--something else--about my father--"

"Yes," said Barnabas, as she hesitated.

"Does he think I am--does he know that--though I ran away with--a beast, I--ran away--from him, also,--does he know--?"

"He knows you for the sweet, pure woman you are," said Barnabas as she fell silent again, "he knows the truth, and lives but to find you again--my sister!" Now, when he said this, Barnabas saw within her tearful eyes the light of a joy unutterable; so he bared his head and, turning about, strode quickly away up the alley.

Being come into the narrow, dingy street, he suddenly espied Mr. Shrig who leaned against a convenient post and stared with round eyes at the tumble-down houses opposite, while upon his usually placid brow he wore a frown of deep perplexity.

"So you followed me?" exclaimed Barnabas.

"V'y, sir, since you mention it,--I did take that 'ere liberty. This is a werry on-savory neighborhood at most times, an' the air's werry bad for--fob-seals, say,--and cravat-sparklers at all times. Sich things 'as a 'abit o' wanishing theirselves avay." Having said which, Mr. Shrig walked on beside Barnabas as one who profoundly meditates, for his brow was yet furrowed deep with thought.

"Why so silent, Mr. Shrig?" inquired Barnabas as they crossed Blackfriars Bridge.

"Because I'm vorking out a problem, sir. For some time I've been trying to add two and two together, and now I'm droring my conclusions. So you know Old Nick the cobbler, do you, sir?"

"I didn't--an hour ago."

"Sir, when you vos in his shop, I took the liberty o' peeping in at the winder."

"Indeed?"

"And I seen that theer 'andsome gal."

"Oh, did you?"

"I likewise 'eered her call your name--Beverley, I think?"

"Yes,--well?"

"Beverley!" repeated Mr. Shrig.

"Yes."

"But your name's--Barty!"

"True, but in London I'm known as Beverley, Mr. Shrig."

"Not--not--the Beverley? Not the bang up Corinthian? Not the Beverley as is to ride in the steeplechase?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "the very same,--why?"

"Now--dang me for a ass!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and, snatching off the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and crammed it back upon his head,--all in a moment.

"Why--what's the matter?"

"Matter!" said Mr. Shrig, "matter, sir? Veil, vot vith your qviet, innocent looks and vays, and vot vith me a-adding two and two together and werry carefully making 'em--three, my case is spiled--won't come off,--can't come off,--mustn't come off!"

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Mean, sir? I mean as, if Number Vun is the murderer, and Number Two is the accessory afore the fact,--then Number Three--the unfort'nate wictim is--vait a bit!" Here, pausing in a quiet corner of Fleet Market, Mr. Shrig dived into his breast and fetched up his little book. "Sir," said he, turning over its pages with a questing finger, "v'en I borreyed that theer letter out o' young B.'s pocket, I made so free as to take a copy of it into my little reader,--'ere it is, --jest take a peep at it."

Then, looking where he pointed, Barnabas read these words, very neatly set down:

MY DEAR BARRYMAINE,--I rather suspect Beverley will not ride in the race on the Fifteenth. Just now he is at Hawkhurst visiting Cleone! He is with--your sister! If you are still in the same mind about a certain project, no place were better suited. If you are still set on trying for him, and I know how determined you are where your honor, or Cleone's, is concerned, the country is the place for it, and I will go with you, though I am convinced he is no fighter, and will refuse to meet you, on one pretext or another. However, you may as well bring your pistols,--mine are at the gun-smith's.--Yours always,

WILFRED CHICHESTER

"So you see, sir," sighed Mr. Shrig, as he put away the little book, "my case is spiled,--can't come off,--mustn't come off! For if young B. is Number Vun, the murderer, and C. is Number Two, the accessory afore the fact, v'y then Number Three, the unfort'nate wictim is--you, sir,--you! And you--" said Mr. Shrig, sighing deeper than ever, "you 'appen to be my pal!"

LII. OF A BREAKFAST, A ROMAN PARENT, AND A KISS

Bright rose the sun upon the "White Hart" tavern that stands within Eltham village, softening its rugged lines, gilding its lattices, lending its ancient timbers a mellower hue.

This inn of the "White Hart" is an ancient structure and very unpretentious (as great age often is), and being so very old, it has known full many a golden dawn. But surely never, in all its length of days, had it experienced quite such a morning as this. All night long there had been a strange hum upon the air, and now, early though the hour, Eltham village was awake and full of an unusual bustle and excitement. And the air still hummed, but louder now, a confused sound made up of the tramp of horse-hoofs, the rumble of wheels, the tread of feet and the murmur of voices. From north and south, from east and west, a great company was gathering, a motley throng of rich and poor, old and young: they came by high road and by-road, by lane and footpath, from sleepy village and noisy town,--but, one and all, with their faces set towards the ancient village of Eltham. For to-day is the fateful fifteenth of July; to-day the great Steeplechase is to be run--seven good miles across country from point to point; to-day the very vexed and all-important question as to which horse out of twenty-three can jump and gallop the fastest over divers awkward obstacles is to be settled once and for all.

Up rose the sun higher and higher, chasing the morning mists from dell and dingle, filling the earth with his glory and making glad the heart of man, and beast, and bird.

And presently, from a certain casement in the gable of the "White Hart," his curls still wet with his ablutions, Barnabas thrust his touzled head to cast an anxious glance first up at the cloudless blue of the sky, then down at the tender green of the world about, and to breathe in the sweet, cool freshness of the morning. But longest and very wistfully he gazed to where, marked out by small flags, was a track that led over field, and meadow, and winding stream, over brown earth newly turned by the plough, over hedge, and ditch, and fence, away to the hazy distance. And, as he looked, his eye brightened, his fingers clenched themselves and he frowned, yet smiled thereafter, and unfolding a letter he held, read as follows:

OUR DEAR LAD,--Yours received, and we are rejoyced to know you so successful so far. Yet be not over confident, says your father, and bids me remind you as a sow's ear ain't a silk purse, Barnabas, nor ever can be. Your description of horse reads well, though brief. But as to the Rayce, Barnabas, though you be a rider born, yet having ridden a many rayces in my day, I now offer you, my dear lad, a word of advice. In a rayce a man must think as quick as he sees, and act as quick as he thinks, and must have a nice judgment of payce. Now here comes my word of advice.

1. Remember that many riders beat themselves by over-eagerness. Well--let 'em, Barnabas.

2. Don't rush your fences, give your mount time, and steady him about twenty yards from the jump.

3. Remember that a balking horse generally swerves to the left, Barnabas.

4. Keep your eye open for the best take-offs and landings.

5. Gauge your payce, save your horse for raycing at finish.

6. Remember it's the last half-mile as counts, Barnabas.

7. So keep your spurs till they 're needed, my lad.

A rayce, Barnabas lad, is very like a fight, after all. Given a good horse it's the man with judgment and cool head as generally wins. So, Barnabas, keep your temper. This is all I have to say, or your father, only that no matter how near you come to turning yourself into a fine gentleman, we have faith as it won't spoil you, and that you may come a-walking into the old 'Hound' one of these days just the same dear Barnabas as we shall always love and remember.

Signed:

NATL. BELL. GON BARTY.

Now, as he conned over these words of Natty Bell, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, glancing round, he beheld the Viscount in all the bravery of scarlet hunting frock, of snowy buckskins and spurred boots, a little paler than usual, perhaps, but as gallant a figure as need be.

"What, Bev!" he exclaimed, "not dressed yet?"

"Why I've only just woke up, Dick!"

"Woke up! D' you mean to say you've actually--been asleep?" demanded the Viscount reproachfully. "Gad! what a devilish cold-blooded fish you are, Bev! Haven't closed a peeper all night, myself. Couldn't, y' know, what with one deuced thing or another. So I got up, hours ago, went and looked at the horses. Found your man Martin on guard with a loaded pistol in each pocket, y' know,--deuced trustworthy fellow. The horses couldn't look better, Bev. Egad! I believe they know to-day is--the day! There's your 'Terror' pawing and fidgeting, and 'Moonraker' stamping and quivering--"

"But how is your arm, Dick?"

"Arm?" said the Viscount innocently. "Oh,--ah, to be sure,--thanks, couldn't be better, considering."

"Are you--quite sure?" persisted Barnabas, aware of the Viscount's haggard cheek and feverish eye.

"Quite, Bev, quite,--behold! feel!" and doubling his fist, he smote Barnabas a playful blow in the ribs. "Oh, my dear fellow, it's going to be a grand race though,--ding-dong to the finish! And it's dry, thank heaven, for 'Moonraker''s no mud-horse. But I shall be glad when we line up for the start, Bev."

"In about--four hours, Dick."

"Yes! Devilish long time till eleven o'clock!" sighed the Viscount, seating himself upon the bed and swinging his spurred heels petulantly to and fro. "And I hate to be kept waiting, Bev--egad, I do!"

"Viscount, do you love the Lady Cleone?"

"Eh? Who? Love? Now deuce take it, Beverley, how sudden you are!"

"Do you love her, Dick?"

"Love her--of course, yes--aren't we rivals? Love her, certainly, oh yes--ask my Roman parent!" And the Viscount frowned blackly, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Why then," said Barnabas, "since you--honor me with your friendship, I feel constrained to tell you that she has given me to--to understand she will--marry me--some day."

"Eh? Oh! Marry you? The devil! Oh, has she though!" and hereupon the Viscount stared, whistled, and, in that moment, Barnabas saw that his frown had vanished.

"Will you--congratulate me, Dick?"

"My dear fellow," cried the Viscount, springing up, "with all my heart!"

"Dick," said Barnabas, as their hands met, "would you give me your hand as readily had it been--Clemency?"

Now here the Viscount's usually direct gaze wavered and fell, while his pallid cheek flushed a dull red. He did not answer at once, but his sudden frown was eloquent.

"Egad, Bev, I--since you ask me--I don't think I should."

"Why?"

"Oh well, I suppose--you see--oh, I'll be shot if I know!"

"You--don't love her, do you, Dick?"

"Clemency? Of course not--that is--suppose I do--what then?"

"Why then she'd make a very handsome Viscountess, Dick."

"Beverley," said the Viscount, staring wide-eyed, "are you mad?"

"No," Barnabas retorted, "but I take you to be an honorable man, my Lord."

The Viscount sprang to his feet, clenched his fists, then took two or three turns across the room.

"Sir," said he, in his iciest tones, "you presume too much on my friendship."

"My Lord," said Barnabas, "with your good leave I'll ring for my servant." Which he did, forthwith.

"Sir," said the Viscount, pale and stern, and with folded arms, "your remark was, I consider, a direct reflection upon my honor."

"My Lord," answered Barnabas, struggling with his breeches, "your honor is surely your friend's, also?"

"Sir," said the Viscount, with arms still folded, and sitting very upright on the bed, "were I to--call you out for that remark I should be only within my rights."

"My Lord," answered Barnabas, struggling with his shirt, "were you to call from now till doomsday--I shouldn't come."

"Then, sir," said the Viscount, cold and sneering, "a whip, perhaps,--or a cane might--"

But at this juncture, with a discreet knock, Peterby entered, and, having bowed to the scowling Viscount, proceeded to invest Barnabas with polished boots, waistcoat and scarlet coat, and to tie his voluminous cravat, all with that deftness, that swift and silent dexterity which helped to make him the marvel he was.

"Sir," said he, when Barnabas stood equipped from head to foot, "Captain Slingsby's groom called to say that his master and the Marquis of Jerningham are expecting you and Viscount Devenham to breakfast at 'The Chequers'--a little higher up the street, sir. Breakfast is ordered for eight o'clock."

"Thank you, Peterby," said Barnabas, and, bowing to the Viscount, followed him from the room and downstairs, out into the dewy freshness of the morning. To avoid the crowded street they went by a field-path behind the inn, a path which to-day was beset by, and wound between, booths and stalls and carts of all sorts. And here was gathered a motley crowd; bespangled tumblers and acrobats, dark-browed gipsy fortune-tellers and horse-coupers, thimble-riggers, showmen, itinerant musicians,--all those nomads who are to be found on every race-course, fair, and village green, when the world goes a-holiday making. Through all this bustling throng went our two young gentlemen, each remarkably stiff and upright as to back, and each excessively polite, yet walking, for the most part, in a dignified silence, until, having left the crowd behind, Barnabas paused suddenly in the shade of a deserted caravan, and turned to his companion.

"Dick!" said he smiling, and with hand outstretched.

"Sir?" said the Viscount, frowning and with eyes averted.

"My Lord," said Barnabas, bowing profoundly, "if I have offended your Lordship--I am sorry, but--"

"But, sir?"

"But your continued resentment for a fancied wrong is so much stronger than your avowed friendship for me, it would seem--that henceforth I--"

With a warning cry the Viscount sprang forward and, turning in a flash, Barnabas saw a heavy bludgeon in the air above him; saw the Viscount meet it with up-flung arm; heard the thud of the blow, a snarling curse; saw a figure dart away and vanish among the jungle of carts; saw the Viscount stagger against the caravan and lean there, his pale face convulsed with pain.

"Oh, Bev," he groaned, "my game arm, ye know. Hold me up, I--"

"Dick!" cried Barnabas, supporting the Viscount's writhing figure, "oh, Dick--it was meant for me! Are you much hurt?"

"No--nothing to--mention, my dear fellow. Comes a bit--sharp at first, y' know,--better in a minute or two."

"Dick--Dick, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing,--don't worry, Bev,--right as ninepence in a minute, y' know!" stammered the Viscount, trying to steady his twitching mouth.

"Come back," pleaded Barnabas, "come back and let me bathe it--have it attended to."

"Bathe it? Pooh!" said the Viscount, contriving to smile, "pain's quite gone, I assure you, my dear fellow. I shall be all right now, if--if you don't mind giving me your arm. Egad, Bev, some one seems devilish determined you shan't ride to-day!"

"But I shall--now, thanks to you, Dick!"

So they presently walked on together, but no longer unnaturally stiff as to back, for arm was locked in arm, and they forgot to be polite to each other.

Thus, in a while, they reached the "Chequers" inn, and were immediately shown into a comfortable sanded parlor where breakfast was preparing. And here behold Captain Slingsby lounging upon two chairs and very busily casting up his betting book, while the Marquis, by the aid of a small, cracked mirror, that chanced to hang against the wall, was frowning at his reflection and pulling at the folds of a most elaborate cravat with petulant fingers.

"Ah, Beverley--here's the dooce of a go!" he exclaimed, "that fool of a fellow of mine has actually sent me out to ride in a 'Trone d'Amour' cravat, and I've only just discovered it! The rascal knows I always take the field in an 'Osbaldistone' or 'Waterfall.' Now how the dooce can I be expected to ride in a thing like this! Most distressing, by Jove it is!"

"Eight thousand guineas!" said the Captain, yawning. "Steepish, b'gad, steepish! Eight thousand at ten to one--hum! Now, if Fortune should happen to smile on me to-day--by mistake, of course--still, if she does, I shall clear enough to win free of Gaunt's claws for good and all, b'gad!"

"Then I shall be devilish sorry to have to beat you, Sling, my boy!" drawled the Marquis, "yes, doocid sorry,--still--"

"Eh--what? Beat the 'Rascal,' Jerny? Not on your weedy 'Clinker,' b'gad--"

"Oh, but dooce take me, Sling, you'd never say the 'Rascal' was the better horse? Why, in the first place, there's too much daylight under him for your weight--besides--"

"But, my dear Jerny, you must admit that your 'Clinker' 's inclined to be just--a le-e-etle cow-hocked, come now, b'gad?"

"And then--as I've often remarked, my dear Sling, the 'Rascal' is too long in the pasterns, not to mention--"

"B'gad! give me a horse with good bellows,--round, d' ye see, well ribbed home--"

"My dear Sling, if you could manage to get your 'Rascal' four new legs, deeper shoulders, and, say, fuller haunches, he might possibly stand a chance. As it is, Sling, my boy, I commiserate you--but hallo! Devenham, what's wrong? You look a little off color."

"Well, for one thing, I want my breakfast," answered the Viscount.

"So do I!" cried the Captain, springing to his feet, "but, b'gad, Dick, you do look a bit palish round the gills, y' know."

"Effect of hunger and a bad night, perhaps."

"Had a bad night, hey, Dick? Why, so did I," said the Captain, frowning. "Dreamed that the 'Rascal' fell and broke his neck, poor devil, and that I was running like the wind--jumping hedges and ditches with Jasper Gaunt close at my heels--oh, cursed unpleasant, y'know! What--is breakfast ready? Then let's sit down, b'gad, I'm famished!"

So down they sat forthwith and, despite the Viscount's arm, and the Marquis of Jerningham's cravat, a very hearty and merry meal they made of it.

But lo! as they prepared to rise from the table, voices were heard beyond the door, whereupon the Viscount sat up suddenly to listen.

"Why--egad!" he exclaimed, "I do believe it's my Roman!"

"No, by heaven!" said the Marquis, also listening, "dooce take me if it isn't my great-aunt--her Graceless Grace, by Jove it is!"

Even as he spoke, the door opened and the Duchess swept in, all rustling silks and furbelows, very small, very dignified, and very imperious. Behind her, Barnabas saw a tall, graceful figure, strangely young-looking despite his white hair, which he wore tied behind in a queue, also his clothes, though elegant, were of a somewhat antiquated fashion; but indeed, this man with his kindly eyes and gentle, humorous mouth, was not at all like the Roman parent Barnabas had pictured.

"Ah, gentlemen!" cried the Duchess, acknowledging their four bows with a profound curtsy, "I am here to wish you success--all four of you--which is quite an impossible wish of course--still, I wish it. Lud, Captain Slingsby, how well you look in scarlet! Marquis--my fan! Mr. Beverley--my cane! A chair? thank you, Viscount. Yes indeed, gentlemen, I've backed you all--I shall gain quite a fortune if you all happen to win--which you can't possibly, of course,--still, one of you will, I hope,--and--oh, dear me, Viscount, how pale you are! Look at him, Bamborough--it's his arm, I know it is!"

"Arm, madam?" repeated the Viscount with an admirable look of surprise, "does your Grace suggest--"

But here the Earl of Bamborough stepped into the room and, closing the door, bowed to the company.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I have the honor to salute you! Viscount--your most dutiful, humble, obedient father to command."

"My Lord," answered the Viscount, gravely returning his father's bow, "your Lordship's most obliged and grateful son!"

"My dear Devenham," continued the Earl solemnly, "being, I fear, something of a fogy and fossil, I don't know if you Bucks allow the formality of shaking hands. Still, Viscount, as father and son--or rather son and father, it may perhaps be permitted us? How are you, Viscount?"

Now as they clasped hands, Barnabas saw the Viscount set his jaw grimly, and something glistened upon his temple, yet his smile was quite engaging as he answered:

"Thank you, my Lord,--never better!"

"Yes," said his Lordship, as he slowly relinquished the Viscount's hand, "your Grace was right, as usual,--it is his arm!"

"Then of course he cannot ride, Bamborough--you will forbid it?"

"On the contrary, madam, he must ride. Being a favorite, much money has changed hands already on his account, and, arm or no arm, he must ride now--he owes it to his backers. You intend to, of course, Horatio?"

"My Lord, I do."

"It's your right arm, luckily, and a horseman needs only his left. You ride fairly well, I understand, Viscount?"

"Oh, indifferent well, sir, I thank you. But allow me to present my friend to your Lordship,--Mr. Beverley--my father!"

So Barnabas shook hands with the Viscount's Roman parent, and, meeting his kindly eyes, saw that, for all their kindliness, they were eyes that looked deep into the heart of things.

"Come, gentlemen," cried the Duchess rising, "if you have quite finished breakfast, take me to the stables, for I'm dying to see the horses, I vow I am. Lead the way, Viscount. Mr. Beverley shall give me his arm."

So towards the stables they set forth accordingly, the Duchess and Barnabas well to the rear, for, be it remarked, she walked very slowly.

"Here it is, Barnabas," said she, as soon as the others were out of ear-shot.

"What, madam?"

"Oh, dear me, how frightfully dense you are, Barnabas!" she exclaimed, fumbling in her reticule. "What should it be but a letter, to be sure--Cleone's letter."

"A letter from Cleone! Oh, Duchess--"

"Here--take it. She wrote it last night--poor child didn't sleep a wink, I know, and--all on your account, sir. I promised I'd deliver it for her,--I mean the letter--that's why I made Bamborough bring me here. So you see I've kept my word as I always do--that is--sometimes. Oh, dear me, I'm so excited--about the race, I mean--and Cleone's so nervous--came and woke me long before dawn, and there were tears on her lashes--I know because I felt 'em when I kissed them--I mean her eyes. And Patten dressed me in such a hurry this morning--which was really my fault, and I know my wig's not straight--and there you stand staring at it as though you wanted to kiss it--I mean Cleone's letter, not my wig. That ridiculous Mr. Tressider told Cleone that it was the best course he ever hoped to ride over--meaning 'the worst' of course, so Cleone's quite wretched, dear lamb--but oh, Barnabas, it would be dreadful if-- if you were--killed--oh!" And the Duchess shivered and turned away.

"Would you mind? So much, madam?"

"Barnabas--I never had a son--or a daughter--but I think I know just how--your mother would be feeling--now!"

"And I do not remember my mother!" said Barnabas.

"Poor, poor Joan!" sighed the Duchess, very gently. "Were she here I think she would--but then she was much taller than I, and--oh, boy, stoop--stoop down, you great, tall Barnabas--how am I ever to reach you if you don't?"

Then Barnabas stooped his head, and the Duchess kissed him--even as his own mother might have done, and so, smiling a little tremulously, turned away. "There! Barnabas," she sighed. "And now--oh, I know you are dying to read your letter--of course you are, so pray sir,--go back and fetch my fan,--here it is, it will serve as an excuse, while I go on to look at the horses." And with a quick, smiling nod, she hurried away across the paddock after the others. Then Barnabas broke the seal of Cleone's letter, and--though to be sure it might have been longer--he found it all sufficient. Here it is:

The Palace Grange, Eltham, Midnight.

Ever Dearest,--The race is to-morrow and, because I love you greatly, so am I greatly afraid for you. And dear, I love you because you are so strong, and gentle, and honorable. And therefore, here on my knees I have prayed God to keep you ever in his care, my Barnabas.

CLEONE.

Chapter LIII

IN WHICH SHALL BE FOUND SOME ACCOUNT OF THE GENTLEMAN'S STEEPLECHASE

Truly it is a great day for "The Terror," hitherto known as "Four-legs," and well he knows it.

Behold him as he stands, with his velvet muzzle upon old Martin's shoulder, the while the under-grooms, his two-legged slaves, hover solicitously about him! Behold the proud arch of his powerful neck, the knowing gleam of his rolling eye, the satiny sheen of his velvet coat! See how he flings up his shapely head to snuff the balmy air of morning, the while he paws the green earth with a round, bepolished hoof.

Yes, indeed, it is a great day for "The Terror," and well he knows it.

"He looks very well, Martin!" says Barnabas.

"And 'e's better than 'e looks, sir!" nods Martin. "And they're laying thirty to one ag'in you, sir!"

"So much, Martin?"

"Ah, but it'll be backed down a bit afore you get to the post, I reckon, so I got my fifty guineas down on you a good hour ago."

"Why, Martin, do you mean you actually backed me--to win--for fifty guineas?"

"Why, y'see sir," said Martin apologetically, "fifty guineas is all I've got, sir!"

Now at this moment, Barnabas became aware of a very shiny glazed hat, which bobbed along, among other hats of all sorts and shapes, now hidden, now rising again--very like a cock-boat in a heavy sea; and, presently, sure enough, the Bo'sun hove into view, and bringing himself to an anchor, made a leg, touched the brim of his hat, and gripped the hand Barnabas extended.

"Mr. Beverley, sir," said he, "I first of all begs leave to say as, arter Master Horatio his Lordship, it's you as I'd be j'yful to see come into port first, or--as you might say--win this 'ere race. Therefore and wherefore I have laid five guineas on you, sir, by reason o' you being you, and the odds so long. Secondly, sir, I were to give you this here, sir, naming no names, but she says as you'd understand."

Hereupon the Bo'sun took off the glazed hat, inserted a hairy paw, and brought forth a single, red rose.

So Barnabas took the rose, and bowed his head above it, and straightway forgot the throng and bustle about him, and all things else, yea even the great race itself until, feeling a touch upon his arm, he turned to find the Earl of Bamborough beside him.

"He is very pale, Mr. Beverley!" said his Lordship, and, glancing whither he looked, Barnabas saw the Viscount who was already mounted upon his bay horse "Moonraker."

"Can you tell me, sir," pursued the Earl, "how serious his hurt really is?"

"I know that he was shot, my Lord," Barnabas answered, "and that he received a violent blow upon his wounded arm this morning, but he is very reticent."

Here the Viscount chanced to catch sight of them, and, with his groom at "Moonraker's" head, paced up to them.

"Viscount," said his Lordship, looking up at his son with wise, dark eyes, "your arm is troubling you, I see."

"Indeed, sir, it might be--a great deal worse."

"Still, you will be under a disadvantage, for it will be a punishing race for horse and man."

"Yes, sir."

"And--you will do your best, of course, Horatio?"

"Of course, sir."

"But--Horace, may I ask you to remember--that your father has--only one son?"

"Yes, sir,--and, father, may I tell you that--that thoughtless though he may be, he never forgets that--he is your son!" Saying which the Viscount leaned down from his saddle, with his hand stretched out impulsively, and, this time, his father's clasp was very light and gentle. So the Earl bowed, and turning, walked away.

"He's--deuced Roman, of course, Bev," said the Viscount, staring hard after his father's upright figure, "but there are times when he's--rather more--than human!" And sighing, the Viscount nodded and rode off.

"Only ten minutes more, sir!" said Martin.

"Well, I'm ready, Martin," answered Barnabas, and, setting the rose in his breast very securely, he swung himself lightly into the saddle, and with the old groom at "The Terror's" head, paced slowly out of the paddock towards the starting post.

Here a great pavilion had been set up, an ornate contrivance of silk and gold cords, and gay with flags and bunting, above which floated the Royal Standard of England, and beneath which was seated no less ornate a personage than the First Gentleman in Europe--His Royal Highness the Prince Regent himself, surrounded by all that was fairest and bravest in the Fashionable and Sporting World. Before this pavilion the riders were being marshalled in line, a gallant sight in their scarlet coats, and, each and every, mounted upon a fiery animal every whit as high-bred as himself; which fact they manifested in many and divers ways, as--in rearing and plunging, in tossing of heads, in lashing of heels, in quivering, and snorting, and stamping--and all for no apparent reason, yet which is the prerogative of your thoroughbred all the world over.

Amidst this confusion of tossing heads and manes, Barnabas caught a momentary glimpse of the Viscount, some way down the line, his face frowning and pale; saw the Marquis alternately bowing gracefully towards the great, gaudy pavilion, soothing his plunging horse, and re-settling his cravat; caught a more distant view of Captain Slingsby, sitting his kicking sorrel like a centaur; and finally, was aware that Sir Mortimer Carnaby had ridden up beside him, who, handsome and debonair, bestrode his powerful gray with a certain air of easy assurance, and laughed softly as he talked with his other neighbor, a thinnish, youngish gentleman in sandy whiskers, who giggled frequently.

"....very mysterious person," Sir Mortimer was saying, "nobody knows him, devilish odd, eh, Tressider? Tufton Green dubbed him the 'Galloping Countryman,'--what do you think of the name?"

"Could have suggested a better, curse me if I couldn't, yes, Carnaby, oh damme! Why not 'the Prancing Ploughman,' or 'the Cantering Clodhopper'?" Here Sir Mortimer laughed loudly, and the thinnish, youngish gentleman giggled again.

Barnabas frowned, but looking down at the red rose upon his breast, he smiled instead, a little grimly, as he settled his feet in the stirrups, and shortening his reins, sat waiting, very patiently. Not so "The Terror." Patient, forsooth! He backed and sidled and tossed his head, he fidgeted with his bit, he glared viciously this way and that, and so became aware of other four-legged creatures like himself, notably of Sir Mortimer's powerful gray near by, and in his heart he scorned them, one and all, proud of his strength and might, and sure of himself because of the hand upon his bridle. Therefore he snuffed the air with quivering nostril, and pawed the earth with an impatient hoof,--eager for the fray.

Now all at once Sir Mortimer laughed again, louder than before, and in that same moment his gray swerved and cannoned lightly against "The Terror," and--reared back only just in time to avoid the vicious snap of two rows of gleaming teeth.

"Damnation!" cried Sir Mortimer, very nearly unseated, "can't you manage that brute of yours!" and he struck savagely at "The Terror" with his whip. But Barnabas parried the blow, and now--even as they stared and frowned upon each other, so did their horses, the black and the gray, glare at each other with bared teeth.

But, here, a sudden shout arose that spread and spread, and swelled into a roar; the swaying line of horsemen surges forward, bends, splits into plunging groups, and man and horse are off and away--the great Steeplechase has begun.

Half a length behind Carnaby's gray gallops "The Terror," fire in his eye, rage in his heart, for there are horses ahead of him, and that must not be. Therefore he strains upon the bit, and would fain lengthen his stride, but the hand upon his bridle is strong and compelling.

On sweeps the race, across the level and up the slope; twice Sir Mortimer glances over his shoulder, and twice he increases his pace, yet, as they top the rise, "The Terror" still gallops half a length behind.

Far in advance races Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman in sandy whiskers, hotly pressed by the Marquis, and with eight or nine others hard in their rear; behind these again, rides the Viscount, while to the right of Barnabas races Slingsby on his long-legged sorrel, with the rest thundering on behind. And now before them is the first jump--a hedge with the gleam of water beyond; and the hedge is high, and the water broad. Nearer it looms, and nearer--half a mile away! a quarter! less! Tressider's horse rises to it, and is well over, with the Marquis hard on his heels. But now shouts are heard, and vicious cries, as several horses, refusing, swerve violently; there is a crash! a muffled cry--some one is down. Then, as Barnabas watches, anxious-eyed, mindful of the Viscount's injured arm--"Moonraker" shoots forward and has cleared it gallantly.

And now it is that "The Terror" feels the restraining bit relax and thereupon, with his fierce eyes ever upon the gray flanks of his chosen foe, he tosses his great head, lengthens his stride, and with a snort of defiance sweeps past Carnaby's gray, on and on, with thundering hoofs and ears laid back, while Barnabas, eyeing the hedge with frowning brows, gauges his distance,--a hundred yards! fifty! twenty-five! steadies "The Terror" in his stride and sends him at it--feels the spring and sway of the powerful loins,--a rush of wind, and is over and away, with a foot to spare. But behind him is the sound of a floundering splash,--another! and another! The air is full of shouts and cries quickly lost in the rush of wind and the drumming of galloping hoofs, and, in a while, turning his head, he sees Slingsby's "Rascal" racing close behind.

"Bit of a rasper, that, b'gad!" bellows the Captain, radiant of face. "Thinned 'em out a bit, ye know, Beverley. Six of 'em--down and out of it b'gad! Carnaby's behind, too,--foot short at the water. Told you it would be--a good race, and b'gad--so it is!"

Inch by inch the great, black horse and the raking sorrel creep up nearer the leaders, and, closing in with the Viscount, Barnabas wonders to see the ghastly pallor of his cheek and the grim set of mouth and jaw, till, glancing at the sleeve of his whip-arm, he sees there a dark stain, and wonders no more. And the race is but begun!

"Dick!" he cried.

"That you, Bev?"

"Your arm, Dick,--keep your hand up!"

"Arm, Bev--right as a trivet!"

And to prove his words, the Viscount flourished his whip in the air.

"Deuce take me! but Jerningham's setting a devilish hot pace," he cried. "Means to weed out the unlikely ones right away. Gad! there's riding for you!--Tressider's 'Pilot''s blown already--Marquis hasn't turned a hair!"

And indeed the Marquis, it would seem, has at last ceased to worry over his cravat, and has taken the lead, and now, stooped low in the saddle, gallops a good twelve yards in front of Tressider.

"Come on Bev!" cries the Viscount and, uttering a loud "view hallo," flourishes his whip. "Moonraker" leaps forward, lengthens his stride, and away he goes fast and furious, filling the air with flying clods, on and on,--is level with Tressider,--is past, and galloping neck and neck with the Marquis.

Onward sweeps the race, over fallow and plough, over hedge and ditch and fence, until, afar off, Barnabas sees again the gleam of water--a jump full thirty feet across. Now, as he rides with "The Terror" well in hand, Barnahas is aware of a gray head with flaring nostrils, of a neck outstretched, of a powerful shoulder, a heaving flank, and Carnaby goes by. "The Terror" sees this too and, snorting, bores savagely upon the bit--but in front of him gallops Tressider's chestnut, and beside him races the Captain's sorrel. So, foot by foot, and yard by yard, the gray wins by. Over a hedge--across a ditch, they race together till, as they approach the water-jump, behold! once more "The Terror" gallops half a length behind Sir Mortimer's gray.

The Marquis and the Viscount, racing knee and knee, have increased their twelve yards by half, and now, as Barnabas watches, down go their heads, in go their spurs, and away go chestnut and bay, fast and faster, take off almost together, land fairly, and are steadied down again to a rolling gallop.

And now, away races Carnaby, with Barnabas hard upon his left, the pace quickens to a stretching gallop,--the earth flies beneath them. Barnabas marks his take-off and rides for it--touches "The Terror" with his spur and--in that moment, Carnaby's gray swerves. Barnabas sees the danger and, clenching his teeth, swings "The Terror" aside, just in time; who, thus balked, yet makes a brave attempt,--leaps, is short, and goes down with a floundering splash, flinging Barnabas clear.

Half-stunned, half-blinded, plastered with mud and ooze, Barnabas staggers up to his feet, is aware in a dazed manner that horses are galloping down upon him, thundering past and well-nigh over him; is conscious also that "The Terror" is scrambling up and, even as he gets upon his legs, has caught the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and strikes in his spurs,--whereat "The Terror" snorts, rears and sets off after the others. And a mighty joy fills his heart, for now the hand upon his bridle restrains him no longer--nay, rather urges him forward; and far in the distance gallop others of his kind, others whom he scorns, one and all--notably a certain gray. Therefore as he spurns the earth beneath him faster and faster, the heart of "The Terror" is uplifted and full of rejoicing.

But,--bruised, bleeding and torn, all mud from heel to head, and with a numbness in his brain Barnabas rides, stooped low in the saddle, for he is sick and very faint. His hat is gone, and the cool wind in his hair revives him somewhat, but the numbness remains. Yet it is as one in a dream that he finds his stirrups, and is vaguely conscious of voices about him--a thudding of hoofs and the creak of leather. As one in a dream he lifts "The Terror" to a fence that vanishes and gives place to a hedge which in turn is gone, or is magically transfigured into an ugly wall. And, still as one in a dream, he is thereafter aware of cries and shouting, and knows that horses are galloping beside him--riderless. But on and ever on races the great, black horse--head stretched out, ears laid back, iron hoofs pounding--on and on, over hedge and ditch and wall--over fence and brook--past blown and weary stragglers--his long stride unfaltering over ploughland and fallowland, tireless, indomitable--on and ever on until Barnabas can distinguish, at last, the horsemen in front.

Therefore, still as one in a dream, he begins to count them to himself, over and over again. Yet, count how he will, can make them no more than seven all told, and he wonders dully where the rest may be.

Well in advance of the survivors the Viscount is going strong, with Slingsby and the Marquis knee and knee behind; next rides Carnaby with two others, while Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman, brings up the rear. Inch by inch Barnabas gains upon him, draws level and is past, and so "The Terror" once more sees before him Sir Mortimer's galloping gray.

But now--something is wrong in front,--there is a warning yell from the Marquis--up flashes the Captain's long arm, for "Moonraker" has swerved suddenly, unaccountably,--loses his stride, and falls back until he is neck and neck with "The Terror." Thus, still as one in a dream, Barnabas is aware, little by little, that the Viscount's hat and whip are gone, and that he is swaying oddly in the saddle with "Moonraker's" every stride--catches a momentary glimpse of a pale, agonized face, and hears the Viscount speaking:

"No go, Bev!" he pants. "Oh, Bev, I'm done! 'Moonraker's' game, but--I'm--done, Bev--arm, y'know--devilish shame, y'know--"

And Barnabas sees that the Viscount's sleeve is all blood from the elbow down. And in that moment Barnabas casts off the numbness, and his brain clears again.

"Hold on, Dick!" he cries.

"Can't Bev,--I--I'm done. Tried my best--but--I--" Barnabas reaches out suddenly--but is too far off--the Viscount lurches forward, loses his stirrups, sways--and "Moonraker" gallops--riderless. But help is at hand, for Barnabas sees divers rustic onlookers who run forward to lift the Viscount's inanimate form. Therefore he turns him back to the race, and bends all his energies upon this, the last and grimmest part of the struggle; as for "The Terror," he vents a snort of joyful defiance, for now he is galloping again in full view of Sir Mortimer Carnaby's foam-flecked gray.

And now--it's hey! for the rush and tear of wind through the hair! for the muffled thunder of galloping hoofs! for the long, racing stride, the creak of leather! Hey! for the sob and pant and strain of the conflict!

Inch by inch the great, black horse creeps up, but Carnaby sees him coming, and the gray leaps forward under his goading heels,--is up level with Slingsby and the Marquis,--but with "The Terror" always close behind.

Over a hedge,--across a ditch,--and down a slope they race together, --knees in, heads low,--to where, at the bottom, is a wall. An ancient, mossy wall it is, yet hideous for all that, an almost impossible jump, except in one place, a gap so narrow that but one may take it at a time. And who shall be first? The Marquis is losing ground rapidly--a foot--a yard--six! and losing still, races now a yard behind Barnabas. Thus, two by two, they thunder down upon the gap that is but wide enough for one. Slingsby is plying his whip, Carnaby is rowelling savagely, yet, neck and neck, the sorrel and the gray race for the jump, with Barnabas and the Marquis behind.

"Give way, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.

"Be damned if I do!" roars the Captain, and in go his spurs.

"Pull over, Slingsby!" shouts Sir Mortimer.

"No, b'gad! Pull over yourself," roars the Captain. "Give way, Carnaby--I have you by a head!"

An exultant yell from Slingsby,--a savage shout from Sir Mortimer--a sudden, crunching thud, and the gallant sorrel is lying a twisted, kicking heap, with Captain Slingsby pinned beneath.

"What, Beverley!" he cries, coming weakly to his elbow, "well ridden, b'gad! After him! The 'Rascal' 's done for, poor devil! So am I, --it's you or Carnaby now--ride, Beverley, ride!" And so, as Barnabas flashes past and over him, Captain Slingsby of the Guards sinks back, and lies very white and still.

A stake-fence, a hedge, a ditch, and beyond that a clear stretch to the winning-post.

At the fence, Carnaby sees "The Terror's" black head some six yards behind; at the hedge, Barnabas has lessened the six to three; and at the ditch once again the great, black horse gallops half a length behind the powerful gray. And now, louder and louder, shouts come down the wind!

"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'! 'Clasher'!"

But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure, grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?

Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing, spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and uncertainty.

Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner could possess.

"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley! Beverley--hurrah!"

Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by inches--by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his hand.

"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!--I caught Carnaby--at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for--my cravat--" But here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream, he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd--that he is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.

"Well ridden, sir!" says the gentleman. "Couldn't have done it better myself, no, by Gad I couldn't--could I, Sherry?"

"No, George, by George you couldn't!" answered a voice.

"Must take a run down to Brighton, Mr.--Mr.--ah, yes--Beverley. Show you some sport at Brighton, sir. A magnificent race, --congratulate you, sir. Must see more of you!"

Then, still as one in a dream, Barnabas bows again, sees Martin at "The Terror's" bridle, and is led back, through a pushing, jostling throng all eager to behold the winner, and thus, presently finds himself once more in the quiet of the paddock behind the "White Hart" inn.

Stiffly and painfully he descends from the saddle, hears a feeble voice call his name and turning, beholds a hurdle set in the shade of a tree, and upon the hurdle the long, limp form of Captain Slingsby, with three or four strangers kneeling beside him.

"Ah, Beverley!" said he faintly. "Glad you beat Carnaby, he--crowded me a bit--at the wall, y' know. Poor old 'Rascal' 's gone, b'gad--and I'm going, but prefer to--go--out of doors,--seems more room for it somehow--give me the sky to look at. Told you it would be a grand race, and--b'gad, so it was! Best I--ever rode--or ever shall. Eh--what, Beverley? No, no--mustn't take it--so hard, dear fellow. B'gad it--might be worse, y' know. I--might have lost, and--lived--been deeper in Gaunt's clutches than ever,--then. As it is, I'm going beyond--beyond his reach--for good and all. Which is the purest--bit of luck I ever had. Lift me up a little--will you, Beverley? Deuced fine day, b'gad! And how green the grass is--never saw it so green before--probably because--never troubled to look though, was always so--deuced busy, b'gad!--The poor old 'Rascal' broke his back, Beverley--so did I. They--shot 'The Rascal,' but--"

Here the Captain sighed, and closed his eyes wearily, but after a moment opened them again.

"A fine race, gentlemen!" said he, addressing the silent group, "a fine race well ridden--and won by--my friend, Beverley. I'll warrant him a--true-blue, gentlemen. Beverley, I--I congratulate--"

Once more he closed his eyes, sighed deeply and, with the sigh, Captain Slingsby of the Guards had paid his debts--for good and all.

LIV. WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH A LETTER

And now, the "Galloping Countryman" found himself famous, and, being so, made the further, sudden discovery that all men were his "warmest friends," nay, even among the gentler sex this obtained, for the most dragon-like dowagers, the haughtiest matrons, became infinitely gracious; noble fathers were familiarly jocose; the proudest beauties wore, for him, their most bewitching airs, since as well as being famous, he was known to be one of the wealthiest young men about town; moreover His Royal Highness had deigned to notice him, and Her Grace of Camberhurst was his professed friend. Hence, all this being taken into consideration, it is not surprising that invitations poured in upon him, and that the doors of the most exclusive clubs flew open at his step.

Number Five St. James's Square suddenly became a rendezvous of Sport and Fashion, before its portal were to be seen dashing turn-outs of all descriptions, from phaetons to coaches; liveried menials, bearing cards, embossed, gild-edged, and otherwise, descended upon St. James's Square in multi-colored shoals; in a word, the Polite World forthwith took Barnabas to its bosom, which, though perhaps a somewhat cold and flinty bosom, made up for such minor deficiencies by the ardor of its embrace. By reason of these things, the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder were exalted,--that is to say, were in a perpetual quiver of superior gratification, and Barnabas himself enjoyed it all vastly--for a week.

At the end of which period behold him at twelve o'clock in the morning, as he sits over his breakfast (with the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted, statuesque, behind his chair), frowning at a stupendous and tumbled pile of Fashionable note-paper, and Polite cards.

"Are these all?" he inquired, waving his hand towards the letters.

"Them, sir, is--hall!" answered the Gentleman-in-Powder.

"Then ask Mr. Peterby to come to me," said Barnabas, his frown growing blacker.

"Cer-tainly, sir!" Here the Gentleman-in-Powder posed his legs, bowed, and took them out of the room. Then Barnabas drew a letter from his pocket and began to read as follows:

The Gables, Hawkhurst.

MY DEAR BARNABAS,--As Cleone's letter looks very long (she sits opposite me at this precise moment writing to you, and blushing very prettily over something her pen has just scribbled--I can't quite see what, the table is too wide), mine shall be short, that is, as short as possible. Of course we are all disappointed not to have seen you here since the race--that terrible race (poor, dear Captain Slingsby,--how dreadful it was!) but of course, it is quite right you should stay near the Viscount during his illness. I rejoice to hear he is so much better. I am having my town house, the one in Berkeley Square, put in order, for Cleone has had quite enough of the country, I think, so have I. Though indeed she seems perfectly content (I mean Cleone) and is very fond of listening to the brook. O Youth! O Romance! Well, I used to listen to brooks once upon a time--before I took to a wig. As for yourself now, Barnabas, the Marquis writes to tell me that your cravats are 'all the thing,' and your waistcoats 'all the go,' and that your new coat with the opened cuff finds very many admirers. This is very well, but since Society has taken you up and made a lion of you, it will necessarily expect you to roar occasionally, just to maintain your position. And there are many ways of roaring, Barnabas. Brummell (whom I ever despised) roared like an insolent cat--he was always very precise and cat-like, and dreadfully insolent, but insolence palls, after a while--even in Society. Indeed I might give you many hints on Roaring, Barnabas, but--considering the length of Cleone's letter, I will spare you more, nor even give you any advice though I yearn to--only this: Be yourself, Barnabas, in Society or out, so shall I always subscribe myself:

Your affectionate friend,

FANNY CAMBERHURST.

3 P.M.--I have opened this letter to tell you that Mr. Chichester and Ronald called here and stayed an hour. Ronald was full of his woes, as usual, so I left him to Cleone, and kept Mr. Chichester dancing attendance on me. And, oh dear me! to see the white rage of the man! It was deliciously thrilling, and I shivered most delightfully.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Peterby, as Barnabas re-folded the letter.

"Yes, John. Are you sure there is no other letter this morning from--from Hawkhurst?"

"Quite, sir."

"Yet the Duchess tells me that the Lady Cleone wrote me also. This letter came by the post this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"And no other? It's very strange!"

But here, the Gentleman-in-Powder re-appeared to say that the Marquis of Jerningham desired to see Mr. Beverley on a matter of importance, and that nobleman presenting himself, Peterby withdrew.

"Excuse this intrusion, my dear Beverley," said the Marquis as the door closed, "doocid early I know, but the--ah--the matter is pressing. First, though, how's Devenham, you saw him last night as usual, I suppose?"

"Yes," answered Barnabas, shaking hands, "he ought to be up and about again in a day or two."

"Excellent," nodded the Marquis, "I'll run over to Half-moon Street this afternoon. Is Bamborough with him still?"

"No, his Lordship left yesterday."

"Ha!" said the Marquis, and taking out his snuff-box, he looked at it, tapped it, and put it away again. "Poor old Sling," said he gently, "I miss him damnably, y'know, Beverley."

"Marquis," said Barnabas, "what is it?"

"Well, I want you to do me a favor, my dear fellow, and I don't know how to ask you--doocid big favor--ah--I was wondering if you would consent to--act for me?"

"Act for you?" repeated Barnabas, wholly at a loss.

"Yes, in my little affair with Carnaby--poor old Sling, d' you see. What, don't you twig, Beverley, haven't you heard?"

"No!" answered Barnabas, "you don't mean that you and Carnaby are going--to fight?"

"Exactly, my dear fellow, of course! He fouled poor old Sling at the wall, y'know--you saw it, I saw it, so naturally I mean to call him to account for it. And he can't refuse--I spoke doocid plainly, and White's was full. He has the choice of weapons,--pistols I expect. Personally, I should like it over as soon as possible, and anywhere would do, though Eltham for preference, Beverley. So if you will oblige me--"

But here, once again the Gentleman-in-Powder knocked to announce: "Mr. Tressider."

The thinnish, youngish gentleman in sandy whiskers entered with a rush, but, seeing the Marquis, paused.

"What, then--you 're before me, are you, Jerningham?" he exclaimed; then turning, he saluted Barnabas, and burst into a torrent of speech. "Beverley!" he cried, "cursed early to call, but I'm full o' news--bursting with it, damme if I'm not--and tell it I must! First, then, by Gad!--it was at White's you'll understand, and the card-room was full--crammed, sir, curse me if it wasn't, and there's Carnaby and Tufton Green, and myself and three or four others, playing hazard, d'ye see,--when up strolls Jerningham here. 'It's your play, Carnaby,' says I. 'Why then,' says the Marquis,--'why then,' says he, 'look out for fouling!' says he, cool as a cucumber, curse me! 'Eh--what?' cries Tufton, 'why--what d' ye mean?' 'Mean?' says the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box, 'I mean that Sir Mortimer Carnaby is a most accursed rascal' (your very words, Marquis, damme if they weren't). Highly dramatic, Beverley--could have heard a pin drop--curse me if you couldn't! End of it was they arranged a meeting of course, and I was Carnaby's second, but--"

"Was?" repeated the Marquis.

"Yes, was,--for begad! when I called on my man this morning he'd bolted, damme if he hadn't!"

"Gone?" exclaimed the Marquis in blank amazement.

"Clean gone! Bag and baggage! I tell you he's bolted, but--with all due respect to you, Marquis, only from his creditors. He was devilish deep in with Gaunt, I know, beside Beverley here. Oh damme yes, he only did it to bilk his creditors, for Carnaby was always game, curse me if he wasn't!"

Hereupon the Marquis had recourse to his snuff-box again.

"Under the circumstances," said he, sighing and shaking his head, "I think I'll go and talk with our invalid--"

"No good, my boy, if you mean Devenham," said Tressider, shaking his head, "just been there,--Viscount's disappeared too--been away all night!"

"What?" cried Barnabas, springing to his feet, "gone?"

"Damme if he hasn't! Found his fellow in the devil of a way about it, and his little rascal of a groom blubbering on the stairs."

"Then I must dress! You'll excuse me, I know!" said Barnabas, and rang for Peterby. But his hand was even yet upon the bellrope when stumbling feet were heard outside, the door was flung wide, and the Viscount himself stood upon the threshold.

Pale and haggard of eye, dusty and unkempt, he leaned there, then staggering to a chair he sank down and so lay staring at the floor.

"Oh, Bev!" he groaned, "she's gone--Clemency's gone, I--I can't find her, Bev!"

Now hereupon the Marquis very quietly took up his hat and, nodding to Barnabas, linked his arm in Tressider's and went softly from the room, closing the door behind him.

"Dick!" cried Barnabas, bending over him, "my dear fellow!"

"Ever since you spoke, I--I've wanted her, Bev. All through my illness I've hungered for her--the sound of her voice,--the touch of her hand. As soon as I was strong enough--last night, I think it was--I went to find her, to--to kneel at her feet, Bev. I drove down to Frittenden and oh, Bev--she was gone! So I started back--looking for her all night. My arm bothered me--a bit, you know, and I didn't think I could do it. But I kept fancying I saw her before me in the dark. Sometimes I called to her--but she--never answered, she's--gone, Bev, and I--"

"Oh, Dick--she left there weeks ago--"

"What--you knew?"

"Yes, Dick."

"Then oh, Bev,--tell me where!"

"Dick, I--can't!"

"Why--why?"

"I promised her to keep it secret."

"Then--you won't tell me?"

"I can't."

"Won't! won't! Ah, but you shall, yes, by God!"

"Dick, I--"

"By God, but you shall, I say you shall--you must--where is she?" The Viscount's pale cheek grew suddenly suffused, his eyes glared fiercely, and his set teeth gleamed between his pallid lips. "Tell me!" he demanded.

"No," said Barnabas, and shook his head.

Then, in that moment the Viscount sprang up and, pinning him with his left hand, swung Barnabas savagely to the wall.

"She's mine!" he panted, "mine, I tell you--no one shall take her from me, neither you nor the devil himself. She's mine--mine. Tell me where she is,--speak before I choke you--speak!"

But Barnabas stood rigid and utterly still. Thus, in a while, the griping fingers fell away, the Viscount stepped back, and groaning, bowed his head.

"Oh, Bev," said he, "forgive me, I--I'm mad I think. I want her so and I can't find her. And I had a spill last night--dark road you see, and only one hand,--and I'm not quite myself in consequence. I'll go--"

But, as he turned toward the door, Barnabas interposed.

"Dick, I can't let you go like this--what do you intend to do?"

"Will you tell me where she is?"

"No, but--"

"Then, sir, my further movements need not concern you."

"Dick, be reasonable,--listen--"

"Have the goodness to let me pass, sir."

"You are faint, worn out--stay here, Dick, and I--"

"Thanks, Beverley, but I accept favors from my friends only--pray stand aside."

"Dick, if you'll only wait, I'll go to her now--this moment--I'll beg her to see you--"

"Very kind, sir!" sneered the Viscount, "you are--privileged it seems. But, by God, I don't need you, or any one else, to act as go-between or plead my cause. And mark me, sir! I'll find her yet. I swear to you I'll never rest until I find her again. And now, sir, once and for all, I have the honor to wish you a very good day!" saying which the Viscount bowed, and, having re-settled his arm in its sling, walked away down the corridor, very upright as to back, yet a little uncertain in his stride nevertheless, and so was gone.

Then Barnabas, becoming aware of the polite letters, and cards, embossed, gilt-edged and otherwise, swept them incontinent to the floor and, sinking into a chair, set his elbows upon the table, and leaning his head upon his hands fell into a gloomy meditation. It was thus that the Gentleman-in-Powder presently found him, and, advancing into the room with insinuating legs, coughed gently to attract his attention, the which proving ineffectual, he spoke:

"Ex-cuse me, sir, but there is a--person downstairs, sir--at the door, sir!"

"What kind of person?" inquired Barnabas without looking up.

"A most ex-tremely low person, sir--very common indeed, sir. Won't give no name, sir, won't go away, sir. A very 'orrid person--in gaiters, sir."

"What does he want?" said Barnabas, with head still bent.

"Says as 'ow 'e 'as a letter for you, sir, but--"

Barnabas was on his feet so quickly that the Gentleman-in-Powder recoiled in alarm.

"Show him up--at once!"

"Oh!--cer-tainly, sir!" And though the bow of the Gentleman-in-Powder was all that it should be, his legs quivered disapprobation as they took him downstairs.

When next the door opened it was to admit the person in gaiters, a shortish, broad-shouldered, bullet-headed person he was, and his leggings were still rank of the stables; he was indeed a very horsey person who stared and chewed upon a straw. At sight of Barnabas he set a stubby finger to one eyebrow, and chewed faster than ever.

"You have a letter for me, I think?"

"Yessir!"

"Then give it to me."

The horsey person coughed, took out his straw, looked at it, shook his head at it, and put it back again.

"Name o' Beverley, sir?" he inquired, chewing feverishly.

"Yes."

Hereupon the horsey person drew a letter from his pocket, chewed over it a moment, nodded, and finally handed it to Barnabas, who, seeing the superscription, hurriedly broke the seal. Observing which, the horsey person sighed plaintively and shook his head, alternately chewing upon and looking at his straw the while Barnabas read the following:

Oh, Barnabas dear, when shall I see you again? I am very foolish to-day perhaps, but though the sun shines gloriously, I am cold, it is my heart that is cold, a deadly chill--as if an icy hand had touched it. And I seem to be waiting--waiting for something to happen, something dreadful that I cannot avert. I fear you will think me weak and fanciful, but, dear, I cannot help wondering what it all means. You ask me if I love you. Can you doubt? How often in my dreams have I seen you kneeling beside me with your neck all bare and the dripping kerchief in your hand. Oh, dear Wood of Annersley! it was there that I first felt your arms about me, Barnabas, and I dream of that too--sometimes. But last night I dreamed of that awful race,--I saw you gallop past the winning post again, your dear face all cut and bleeding, and as you passed me your eyes looked into mine--such an awful look, Barnabas. And then it seemed that you galloped into a great, black shadow that swallowed you up, and so you were lost to me, and I awoke trembling. Oh Barnabas, come to me! I want you here beside me, for although the sky here is blue and cloudless, away to the north where London lies, there is a great, black shadow like the shadow of my dream, and God keep all shadows from you, Barnabas. So come to me--meet me to-morrow--there is a new moon. Come to Oakshott's Barn at 7:30, and we will walk back to the house together.

I am longing to see you, and yet I am a little afraid also, because my love is not a quiet love or gentle, but such a love as frightens me sometimes, because it has grown so deep and strong.

This window, you may remember, faces north, and now as I lift my eyes I can see that the shadow is still dark over London, and very threatening. Come to me soon, and that God may keep all shadows from you is the prayer of

Your CLEONE.

Now when he had finished reading, Barnabas sighed, and glancing up, found the horsey person still busy with his straw, but now he took it from his mouth, shook his head at it more sternly than ever, dropped it upon the carpet and set his foot upon it; which done, he turned and looked at Barnabas with a pair of very round, bright eyes.

"Now," said he, "I should like to take the liberty o' axing you one or two questions, Mr. Barty, sir,--or as I should say, p'r'aps, Mr. Beverley."

"What," exclaimed Barnabas, starting up, "it's you again, Mr. Shrig?"

"That werry same i-dentical, sir. Disguises again, ye see. Yesterday, a journeyman peg-maker vith a fine lot o' pegs as I didn't vant to sell--to-day a groom looking for a job as I don't need. Been a-keeping my ogles on Number Vun and Number Two, and things is beginning to look werry rosy, sir, yes, things is werry promising indeed."

"How do you mean?"

"Vell, to begin vith," said Mr. Shrig, taking the chair Barnabas proffered, "you didn't 'appen to notice as that theer letter had been broke open and sealed up again, did ye?"

"No," said Barnabas, staring at what was left of the seal.

"No, o' course you didn't--you opened it too quick to notice anything--but I did."

"Oh, surely not--"

"That theer letter," said Mr. Shrig impressively, "vas wrote you by a certain lady, vasn't it?"

"Yes."

"And I brought you that theer letter, didn't I?"

"Yes, but--"

"And 'oo do ye suppose give me that theer letter, to bring to you,--the lady? Oh no! I'll tell you 'oo give it me,--it vas--shall ve say, Number Two, the Accessory afore the fact,--shall ve call 'im C.? Werry good! Now, 'ow did C. or Number Two, 'appen to give me that theer letter? I'll tell you. Ven Number Vun and Number Two, B. and C., vent down to Hawkhurst, I vent down to Hawkhurst. They put up at the 'Qveen's 'ead,' so I 'angs about the 'Qveen's 'ead,'--offers myself as groom--I'm 'andy vith an 'orse--got in the 'abit o' doing odd jobs for Number Vun and Number Two, and, last night, Number Two gives me that theer letter to deliver, and werry pertickler 'e vas as I should give it into your werry own daddle, 'e also gives me a guinea and tells as 'ow 'e don't vant me no more, and them's the circumstances, sir."

"But," said Barnabas in frowning perplexity, "I don't understand. How did he get hold of the letter?"

"Lord, sir, 'ow do I know that? But get it 'e did--'e likewise broke the seal."

"But--why?"

"Vell now, first, it's a love-letter, ain't it?"

"Why--I--"

"Werry good! Now, sir, might that theer letter be making a app'intment--come?"

"Yes, an appointment for to-morrow evening."

"Ah! In a nice, qviet, lonely place--say a vood?"

"Yes, at a very lonely place called Oakshott's Barn."

"Come, that's better and better!" nodded Mr. Shrig brightly, "that's werry pretty, that is--things is rosier than I 'oped, but then, as I said afore, things is allus blackest afore the dawn. Oakshott's Barn, eh? Ecod, now, but it sounds a nice, lonesome place--just the sort o' place for it, a--a--capital place as you might call it." And Mr. Shrig positively chuckled and rubbed his chubby hands together; but all at once, he shook his head gloomily, and glancing at Barnabas, sighed deeply. "But you--von't go, o' course, sir?"

"Go?"

"To Oakshott's Barn, to-morrow evening?"

"Yes, of course," answered Barnabas, "the appointment is for seven-thirty."

"Seven-thirty!" nodded Mr. Shrig, "and a werry nice time for it too! Sunset, it'll be about--a good light and not too long to vait till dark! Yes, seven-thirty's a werry good time for it!"

"For what?"

"V'y," said Mr. Shrig, lowering his voice suddenly, "let's say for 'it'!"

"'It,'" repeated Barnabas, staring.

"Might I jest take a peep at that theer letter, v'ere it says seven-thirty, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, pointing to a certain line of Cleone's letter, "here it is!"

"Ah," exclaimed Mr. Shrig, nodding and rubbing his hands again, "your eyes is good 'uns, ain't they, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then jest take a good look at that theer seven-thirty, vill you, sir--come, vot do you see?"

"That the paper is roughened a little, and the ink has run."

"Yes, and vot else? Look at it a bit closer, sir."

"Why," said Barnabas staring hard at the spot, "it looks as though something had been scratched out!"

"And so it has, sir. If you go there at seven-thirty, it von't be a fair lady as'll be vaiting to meet you. The time's been altered o' course--jest as I 'oped and expected."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, slowly and very softly, and clenched his fist.

"So now, d'ye see, you can't go--can ye?" said Mr. Shrig in a hopeless tone.

"Yes!" said Barnabas.

"Eh? Vot--you vill?"

"Most assuredly!"

"But--but it'll be madness!" stammered Mr. Shrig, his round eyes rounder than ever, "it'll be fair asking to be made a unfort'nate wictim of, if ye go. O' course it 'ud be a good case for me, and good cases is few enough--but you mustn't go now, it 'ud be madness!"

"No," said Barnabas, frowning darkly, "because I shall go--before seven-thirty, you see."

LV. WHICH NARRATES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS AT OAKSHOTT'S BARN

Even on a summer's afternoon Oakshott's Barn is a desolate place, a place of shadows and solitude, whose slumberous silence is broken only by the rustle of leaves, the trill of a skylark high overhead, or the pipe of throstle and blackbird.

It is a place apart, shut out from the world of life and motion, a place suggestive of decay and degeneration, and therefore a depressing place at all times.

Yet, standing here, Barnabas smiled and uncovered his head, for here, once, SHE had stood, she who was for him the only woman in all the world. So having paused awhile to look about him, he presently went on into the gloom of the barn, a gloom damp and musty with years and decay.

Now glancing sharply this way and that, Barnabas espied a ladder or rather the mouldering remains of one, that led up from the darkest corner to a loft; up this ladder, with all due care, he mounted, and thus found himself in what had once served as a hay-loft, for in one corner there yet remained a rotting pile. It was much lighter up here, for in many places the thatch was quite gone, while at one end of the loft was a square opening or window. He was in the act of looking from this window when, all at once he started and crouched down, for, upon the stillness broke a sudden sound,--the rustling of leaves, and a voice speaking in loud, querulous tones. And in a while as he watched, screening himself from all chance of observation, Barnabas saw two figures emerge into the clearing and advance towards the barn.

"I tell you C-Chichester, it will be either him or m-me!"

"If he--condescends to fight you, my dear Ronald."

"C-condescend?" cried Barrymaine, and it needed but a glance at his flushed cheek and swaying figure to see that he had been drinking more heavily than usual. "C-condescend, damn his insolence! Condescend, will he? I'll give him no chance for his c-cursed condescension, I--I tell you, Chichester, I'll--"

"But you can't make a man fight, Ronald."

"Can't I? Why then if he won't fight I'll--"

"Hush! don't speak so loud!"

"Well, I will, Chichester,--s-so help me God, I will!"

"Will--what, Ronald?"

"W-wait and see!"

"You don't mean--murder, Ronald?"

"I didn't s-say so, d-did I?"

"Of course not, my dear Barrymaine, but--shall I take the pistols?" And Mr. Chichester stretched out his hand towards a flat, oblong box that Barrymaine carried clutched beneath his arm. "Better give them to me, Ronald."

"No,--w-why should I?"

"Well,--in your present mood--"

"I--I'm not--d-drunk,--damme, I'm not, I tell you! And I'll give the f-fellow every chance--honorable meeting."

"Then, if he refuses to fight you, as of course he will, you'll let him go to--ah--make love to Cleone?"

"No, by God!" cried Barrymaine in a sudden, wild fury, "I-I'll sh-shoot him first!"

"Kill him?"

"Yes, k-kill him!"

"Oh no you won't, Ronald, for two reasons. First of all, it would be murder--!"

"Murder!" Barrymaine repeated, "so it would--murder! Yes, by God!"

"And secondly, you haven't the nerve. Though he has clandestine meetings with your sister, though he crush you into the mud, trample you under his feet, throw you into a debtor's prison to rot out your days--though he ruin you body and soul, and compromise your sister's honor--still you'd never--murder him, Ronald, you couldn't, you haven't the heart, because it would be--murder!"

Mr. Chichester's voice was low, yet each incisive, quick-spoken word reached Barnabas, while upon Barrymaine their effect was demoniac. Dropping his pistol-case, he threw up wild arms and shook his clenched fists in the air.

"Damn him!" he cried, "damn him! B-bury me in a debtor's prison, will he? Foul my sister's honor w-will he? Never! never! I tell you I'll kill him first!"

"Murder him, Ronald?"

"Murder? I t-tell you it's no murder to kill his sort. G-give me the pistols."

"Hush! Come into the barn."

"No. W-what for?"

"Well, the time is getting on, Ronald,--nearly seven o'clock, and your ardent lovers are usually before their time. Come into the barn."

"N-no,--devilish dark hole!"

"But--he'll see you here!"

"What if he does, can't g-get away from me,--better f-for it out here--lighter."

"What do you mean? Better--for what?"

"The m-meeting."

"What--you mean to try and make him fight, do you?"

"Of course--try that way first. Give him a ch-chance, you know, --c-can't shoot him down on s-sight."

"Ah-h!" said Mr. Chichester, very slowly, "you can't shoot him on sight--of course you can't. I see."

"What? W-what d'ye see? Devilish dark hole in there!"

"All the better, Ronald,--think of his surprise when instead of finding an armful of warm loveliness waiting for him in the shadows, he finds the avenging brother! Come into the shadows, Ronald."

"All right,--yes, the shadow. Instead of the sister, the b-brother--yes, by God!"

Now the flooring of the loft where Barnabas lay was full of wide cracks and fissures, for the boards had warped by reason of many years of rain and sun; thus, lying at full length, Barnabas saw them below, Barrymaine leaning against the crumbling wall, while Mr. Chichester stooped above the open duelling-case.

"What--they're loaded are they?" said he.

"Of c-course!"

"They're handsome tools, Ronald, and with your monogram, I see!"

"Yes. Is your f-flask empty, Chichester?"

"No, I think not," answered Mr. Chichester, still stooping above the pistol in his hand.

"Then give it me, will you--m-my throat's on fire."

"Surely you 've had enough, Ronald? Did you know this flint was loose?"

"I'm n-not drunk, I t-tell you. I know when I've had enough, g-give me some brandy, Chit, I know there's p-precious little left."

"Why then, fix this flint first, Ronald, I see you have all the necessary tools here." So saying, Mr. Chichester rose and began feeling through his pockets, while Barrymaine, grumbling, stooped above the pistol-case. Then, even as he did so, Mr. Chichester drew out a silver flask, unscrewed it, and thereafter made a certain quick, stealthy gesture behind his companion's back, which done, he screwed up the flask again, shook it, and, as Barrymaine rose, held it out to him:

"Yes, I'm afraid there's very little left, Ronald," said he. With a murmur of thanks Barrymaine took the flask and, setting it to his lips, drained it at a gulp, and handed it back.

"Gad, Chichester!" he exclaimed, "it tastes damnably of the f-flask--faugh! What time is it?"

"A quarter to seven!"

"Th-three quarters of an hour to wait!"

"It will soon pass, Ronald, besides, he's sure to be early."

"Hope so! But I--I think I'll s-sit down."

"Well, the floor's dry, though dirty."

"D-dirty? So it is, but beggars can't be c-choosers and--dev'lish drowsy place, this!--I'm a b-beggar--you know t-that, and--pah! I think I'm l-losing my--taste for brandy--"

"Really, Ronald? I've thought you seemed over fond of it--especially lately."

"No--no!" answered Barrymaine, speaking in a thick, indistinct voice and rocking unsteadily upon his heels, "I'm not--n-not drunk, only--dev'lish sleepy!" and swaying to the wall he leaned there with head drooping.

"Then you'd better--lie down, Ronald."

"Yes, I'll--lie down, dev'lish--drowsy p-place--lie down," mumbled Barrymaine, suiting the action to the word; yet after lying down full length, he must needs struggle up to his elbow again to blink at Mr. Chichester, heavy eyed and with one hand to his wrinkling brow. "Wha-what w-was it we--came for? Oh y-yes--I know--Bev'ley, of course! You'll w-wake me--when he c-comes?"

"I'll wake you, Ronald."

"S-such a c-cursed--drowsy--" Barrymaine sank down upon his side, rolled over upon his back, threw wide his arms, and so lay, breathing stertorously.

Then Mr. Chichester smiled, and coming beside him, looked down upon his helpless form and flushed face and, smiling still, spoke in his soft, gentle voice:

"Are you asleep, Ronald?" he inquired, and stirred Barrymaine lightly with his foot, but, feeling him so helpless, the stirring foot grew slowly more vicious. "Oh Ronald," he murmured, "what a fool you are! what a drunken, sottish fool you are. So you'd give him a chance, would you? Ah, but you mustn't, Ronald, you shan't, for your sake and my sake. My hand is steadier than yours, so sleep, my dear Ronald, and wake to find that you have rid us of our good, young Samaritan--once and for all, and then--hey for Cleone, and no more dread of the Future. Sleep on, you swinish sot!"

Mr. Chichester's voice was as soft as ever, but, as he turned away, the sleeping youth started and groaned beneath the sudden movement of that vicious foot.

And now Mr. Chichester stooped, and taking the pistols, one by one, examined flint and priming with attentive eye, which done, he crossed to a darkened window and, bursting open the rotting shutter, knelt and levelled one of the weapons, steadying his wrist upon the sill; then, nodding as though satisfied, he laid the pistols upon the floor within easy reach, and drew out his watch.

Slowly the sun declined, and slowly the shadows lengthened about Oakshott's Barn, as they had done many and many a time before; a rabbit darted across the clearing, a blackbird called to his mate in the thicket, but save for this, nothing stirred; a great quiet was upon the place, a stillness so profound that Barnabas could distinctly hear the scutter of a rat in the shadows behind him, and the slow, heavy breathing of the sleeper down below. And ever that crouching figure knelt beside the broken shutter, very silent, very still, and very patient.

But all at once, as he watched, Barnabas saw the rigid figure grow suddenly alert, saw the right arm raised slowly, stealthily, saw the pistol gleam as it was levelled across the sill; for now, upon the quiet rose a sound faint and far, yet that grew and ever grew, the on-coming rustle of leaves.

Then, even as Barnabas stared down wide-eyed, the rigid figure started, the deadly pistol-hand wavered, was snatched back, and Mr. Chichester leapt to his feet. He stood a moment hesitating as one at a sudden loss, then crossing to the unconscious form of Barrymaine, he set the pistol under his lax hand, turned, and vanished into the shadow.

Thereafter, from the rear of the barn, came the sound of a blow and the creak of a rusty hinge, quickly followed by a rustle of leaves that grew fainter and fainter, and so was presently gone. Then Barnabas rose, and coming to the window, peered cautiously out, and there, standing before the barn surveying its dilapidation with round, approving eyes, his nobbly stick beneath his arm, his high-crowned, broad-brimmed hat upon his head, was Mr. Shrig.

LVI. OF THE GATHERING OF THE SHADOWS

Surprise and something very like disappointment were in Mr. Shrig's look as Barnabas stepped out from the yawning doorway of the barn.

"V'y, sir," said he, consulting a large-faced watch. "V'y, Mr. Beverley, it's eggs-actly tventy minutes arter the time for it!"

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"And you--ain't shot, then?"

"No, thank heaven."

"Nor even--vinged?"

"Nor even winged, Mr. Shrig."

"Fate," said Mr. Shrig, shaking a dejected head at him, "Fate is a werry wexed problem, sir! 'Ere's you now, Number Three, as I might say, the unfort'nate wictim as was to be--'ere you are a-valking up to Fate axing to be made a corp', and vot do you get? not so much as a scrat--not a westige of a scrat, v'ile another unfort'nate wictim vill run avay from Fate, run? ah! 'eaven's 'ard! and werry nat'ral too! and vot does 'e get? 'e gets made a corp' afore 'e knows it. No, sir, Fate's a werry wexed problem, sir, and I don't understand it, no, nor ever shall."

"But this was very simple," said Barnabas, slipping his hand in Mr. Shrig's arm, and leading him away from the barn, "very simple indeed, I got here before they came, and hid in the loft. Then, while they were waiting for me down below, you came and frightened them away."

"Ah! So they meant business, did they?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, nodding grimly, "they certainly meant business, --especially Mr. Chich--"

"Ssh!" said Mr. Shrig, glancing round, "call 'im Number Two. Sir, Number Two is a extra-special, super-fine, over-weight specimen, 'e is. I've knowed a many 'Capitals' in my time, but I never knowed such a Capital o' Capital Coves as 'im. Sir, Vistling Dick vas a innercent, smiling babe, and young B. is a snowy, pet lamb alongside o' Number Two. Capital Coves like 'im only 'appen, and they only 'appen every thousand year or so. Ecod! I 'm proud o' Number Two. And talking of 'im, I 'appened to call on Nick the Cobbler, last night."

"Oh?"

"Ah! and I found 'im vith 'is longest awl close 'andy--all on account o' Number Two."

"How on his account?" demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly.

"Vell, last evening, Milo o' Crotona, a pal o' Nick's, and a werry promising bye 'e is too, 'appened to drop in sociable-like, and it seems as Number Two followed 'im. And werry much Number Two frightened that 'andsome gal, by all accounts. She wrote you a letter, vich she give me to deliver, and--'ere it is."

So Barnabas took the letter and broke the seal. It was a very short letter, but as he read Barnabas frowned blacker than ever.

"Mr. Shrig," said he very earnestly as he folded and pocketed the letter, "will you do something for me--will you take a note to my servant, John Peterby? You'll find him at the 'Oak and Ivy' in Hawkhurst village."

"Vich, seeing as you're a pal, sir, I vill. But, sir," continued Mr. Shrig, as Barnabas scribbled certain instructions for Peterby on a page of his memorandum, "vot about yourself--you ain't a-going back there, are ye?" and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the barn, now some distance behind them.

"Of course," said Barnabas, "to keep my appointment."

"D'ye think it's safe--now?"

"Quite,--thanks to you," answered Barnabas. "Here is the note, and if you wish, John Peterby will drive you back to London with him."

"V'y, thank'ee sir,--'e shall that,--but you, now?" Mr. Shrig paused, and, somewhat diffidently drew from his side pocket a very business-like, brass-bound pistol, which he proffered to Barnabas, "jest in case they should 'appen to come back, sir," said he.

But Barnabas laughingly declined it, and shook his chubby hand instead.

"Vell," said Mr. Shrig, pocketing note and weapon, "you're true game, sir, yes, game's your breed, and I only 'ope as you don't give me a case--though good murder cases is few and far between, as I've told you afore. Good-by, sir, and good luck."

So saying, Mr. Shrig nodded, touched the broad rim of his castor, and strode away through the gathering shadows.

And when he was gone, and the sound of his going had died away in the distance, Barnabas turned and swiftly retraced his steps; but now he went with fists clenched, and head forward, as one very much on the alert.

Evening was falling and the shadows were deepening apace, and as he went, Barnabas kept ever in the shelter of the trees until he saw before him once more, the desolate and crumbling barn of Oakshott. For a moment he paused, eyeing its scarred and battered walls narrowly, then, stepping quickly forward, entered the gloomy doorway and, turning towards a certain spot, started back before the threatening figure that rose up from the shadows.

"Ah! So you 've c-come at last, sir!" said Barrymaine, steadying himself against the wall with one hand while he held the pistol levelled in the other, "ins-stead of the weak s-sister you find the avenging brother! Been waiting for you hours. C-cursed dreary hole this, and I fell asleep, but--"

"Because you were drugged!" said Barnabas.

"D-drugged, sir! W-what d' you mean?"

"Chichester drugged the brandy--"

"Chichester?"

"He meant to murder me while you slept and fix the crime on you--"

"Liar!" cried Barrymaine, "you came here to meet my s-sister, but instead of a defenceless girl you meet me and I'm g-going to settle with you--once and for all--t-told you I would, last time we met. There's another pistol in the c-case yonder--pick it up and t-take your ground."

"Listen to me," Barnabas began.

"N-not a word--you're going to fight me--"

"Never!"

"Pick up that pistol--or I'll sh-shoot you where you stand!"

"No!"

"I'll c-count three!" said Barrymaine, his pale face livid against the darkness behind, "One! Two!--"

But, on the instant, Barnabas sprang in and closed with him, and, grappled in a fierce embrace, they swayed a moment and staggered out through the gaping doorway.

Barrymaine fought desperately. Barnabas felt his coat rip and tear, but he maintained his grip upon his opponent's pistol hand, yet twice the muzzle of the weapon covered him, and twice he eluded it before Barrymaine could fire. Therefore, seeing Barrymaine's intention, reading his deadly purpose in vicious mouth and dilated nostril, Barnabas loosed one hand, drew back his arm, and smote--swift and hard. Barrymaine uttered a cry that seemed to Barnabas to find an echo far off, flung out his arms and, staggering, fell.

Then Barnabas picked up the pistol and, standing over Barrymaine, spoke.

"I--had to--do it!" he panted. "Did I--hurt you much?"

But Ronald Barrymaine lay very white and still, and, stooping, Barnabas saw that he had struck much harder than he had meant, and that Barrymaine's mouth was cut and bleeding.

Now at this moment, even as he sank on his knees, Barnabas again heard a cry, but nearer now and with the rustle of flying draperies, and, glancing up, saw Cleone running towards them.

"Cleone!" he cried, and sprang to his feet.

"You--struck him!" she panted.

"I--yes, I--had to! But indeed he isn't much hurt--" But Cleone was down upon her knees, had lifted Barrymaine's head to her bosom and was wiping the blood from his pale face with her handkerchief.

"Cleone," said Barnabas, humbly, "I--indeed I--couldn't help it. Oh, Cleone--look up!" Yet, while he spoke, there came a rustling of leaves near by and glancing thither, he saw Mr. Chichester surveying them, smiling and debonair, and, striding forward, Barnabas confronted him with scowling brow and fierce, menacing eyes.

"Rogue!" said he, his lips curling, "Rascal!"

"Ah!" nodded Mr. Chichester gently, "you have a pistol there, I see!"

"Your despicable villainy is known!" said Barnabas. "Ha!--smile if you will, but while you knelt, pistol in hand, in the barn there, had you troubled to look in the loft above your head you might have murdered me, and none the wiser. As it is, I am alive, to strip you of your heritage, and you still owe me twenty thousand guineas. Pah! keep them to help you from the country, for I swear you shall be hounded from every club in London; men shall know you for what you are. Now go, before you tempt me to strangle you for a nauseous beast. Go, I say!"

Smiling still, but with a devil looking from his narrowed eyes, Mr. Chichester slowly viewed Barnabas from head to foot, and, turning, strolled away, swinging his tasselled walking cane as he went, with Barnabas close behind him, pistol in hand, even as they had once walked months before.

Now at this moment it was that Cleone, yet kneeling beside Barrymaine, chanced to espy a crumpled piece of paper that lay within a yard of her, and thus, half unwitingly, she reached out and took it up, glanced at it with vague eyes, then started, and knitting her black brows, read these words:

My Dear Barnabas,--The beast has discovered me. I thought I only scorned him, but now I know I fear him, too. So, in my dread, I turn to you. Yes, I will go now-- anywhere you wish. Fear has made me humble, and I accept your offer. Oh, take me away--hide me, anywhere, so shall I always be

Your grateful,

CLEMENCY.

Thus, in a while, when Barrymaine opened his eyes it was to see Cleone kneeling beside him with bent head, and with both hands clasped down upon her bosom, fierce hands that clenched a crumpled paper between them. At first he thought she was weeping, but, when she turned towards him, he saw that her eyes were tearless and very bright, and that on either cheek burned a vivid patch of color.

"Oh, Ronald!" she sighed, her lips quivering suddenly, "I--am glad you are better--but--oh, my dear, I wish I--were dead!"

"There, there, Clo!" he muttered, patting her stooping shoulder, "I f-frightened you, I suppose. But I'm all right now, dear. W-where's Chichester?"

"I--don't know, Ronald."

"But you, Cleone? You came here to m-meet this--this Beverley?"

"Yes, Ronald."

"D'you know w-what he is? D'you know he's a publican's son?--a vile, low fellow masquerading as a g-gentleman? Yes, he's a p-publican's son, I tell you!" he repeated, seeing how she shrank at this. "And you s-stoop to such as he--s-stoop to meet him in s-such a place as this! So I came to save you f-from yourself!"

"Did you, Ronald?"

"Yes--but oh, Cleone, you don't love the fellow, do you?"

"I think I--hate him, Ronald."

"Then you won't m-meet him again?"

"No, Ronald."

"And you'll try to be a little kinder--to C-Chichester?" Cleone shivered and rose to her feet.

"Come!" said she, her hands once more clasped upon her bosom, "it grows late, I must go."

"Yes. D-devilish depressing place this! G-give me your arm, Clo." But as they turned to go, the bushes parted, and Barnabas appeared.

"Cleone!" he exclaimed.

"I--I'm going home!" she said, not looking at him.

"Then I will come with you,--if I may?"

"I had rather go--alone--with my brother."

"So pray s-stand aside, sir!" said Barrymaine haughtily through his swollen lips, staggering a little despite Cleone's arm.

"Sir," said Barnabas pleadingly, "I struck you a while ago, but it was the only way to save you from--a greater evil, as you know--"

"He means I threatened to s-shoot him, Clo--so I did, but it was for your sake, to sh-shield you from--persecution as a brother should."

"Cleone," said Barnabas, ignoring Barrymaine altogether, "if there is any one in this world who should know me, and what manner of man I am, surely it is you--"

"Yes, she knows you--b-better than you think, she knows you for a publican's son, first of all--"

"May I come with you, Cleone?"

"No, sir, n-not while I'm here. Cleone, you go with him, or m-me, so--choose!"

"Oh, Ronald, take me home!" she breathed.

So Barrymaine drew her arm through his and, turning his back on Barnabas, led her away. But, when they had gone a little distance, he frowned suddenly and came striding after them.

"Cleone," said he, "why are you so strange to me,--what is it, --speak to me."

But Cleone was dumb, and walked on beside Ronald Barrymaine with head averted, and so with never a backward glance, was presently lost to sight among the leaves.

Long after they had gone, Barnabas stood there, his head bowed, while the shadows deepened about him, dark and darker. Then all at once he sighed again and, lifting his head, glanced about him; and because of the desolation of the place, he shivered; and because of the new, sharp pain that gripped him, he uttered a bitter curse, and so, becoming aware of the pistol he yet grasped, he flung it far from him and strode away through the deepening gloom.

On he went, heeding only the tumult of sorrow and anger that surged within him. And so, betimes, reached the "Oak and Ivy" inn, where, finding Peterby and the phaeton already gone, according to his instructions, he hired post-horses and galloped away for London.

Now, as he went, though the evening was fine, it seemed to him that high overhead was a shadow that followed and kept pace with him, growing dark and ever darker; and thus as he rode he kept his gaze upon this menacing shadow.

As for my lady, she, securely locked within the sanctuary of her chamber, took pen and paper and wrote these words:

"You have destroyed my faith, and with that all else. Farewell."

Which done, she stamped a small, yet vicious foot upon a certain crumpled letter, and thereafter, lying face down upon her bed, wept hot, slow, bitter tears, stifling her sobs with the tumbled glory of her hair, and in her heart was an agony greater than any she had ever known.

Chapter LVII

BEING A PARENTHETICAL CHAPTER ON DOUBT, WHICH, THOUGH UNINTERESTING, IS VERY SHORT

It will perhaps be expected that, owing to this unhappy state of affairs, Barnabas should have found sleep a stranger to his pillow; but, on the contrary, reaching London at daybreak, he went to bed, and there, wearied by his long ride, found a blessed oblivion from all his cares and sorrows. Nor did he wake till the day was far spent and evening at hand. But, with returning consciousness came Memory to harrow him afresh, came cold Pride and glowing Anger. And with these also was yet another emotion, and one that he had never known till now, whose name is Doubt; doubt of himself and of his future--that deadly foe to achievement and success--that ghoul-like incubus which, once it fastens on a man, seldom leaves him until courage, and hope, and confidence are dead, and nothing remains but a foreknowledge and expectation of failure.

With this grisly spectre at his elbow Barnabas rose and dressed, and went downstairs to make a pretence of breaking his fast.

"Sir," said Peterby, watching how he sat staring down moodily at the table, "sir, you eat nothing."

"No, John, I'm not hungry," he answered, pushing his plate aside. "By the way, did you find the cottage I mentioned in my note? Though, indeed, you've had very little time."

"Yes, sir, I found one just beyond Lewisham, small, though comfortable. Here is the key, sir."

"Thank you, John," said Barnabas, and thereafter sat staring gloomily at the key until Peterby spoke again:

"Sir, pray forgive me, but I fear you are in some trouble. Is it your misunderstanding with Viscount Devenham? I couldn't help but overhear, and--"

"Ah, yes--even the Viscount has quarrelled with me," sighed Barnabas, "next it will be the Marquis, I suppose, and after him--Gad, John Peterby--I shall have only you left!"

"Indeed, sir, you will always have me--always!"

"Yes, John, I think I shall."

"Sir, when you--gave a miserable wretch another chance to live and be a man, you were young and full of life."

"Yes, I was very, very young!" sighed Barnabas.

"But you were happy--your head was high and your eye bright with confident hope and purpose."

"Yes, I was very confident, John."

"And therefore--greatly successful, sir. Your desire was to cut a figure in the Fashionable World. Well, to-day you have your wish--to-day you are famous, and yet--"

"Well, John?"

"Sir, to-day I fear you are--not happy."

"No, I'm not happy," sighed Barnabas, "for oh! John Peterby, what shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his soul!"

"Ah, sir--you mean--?"

"I mean--the Lady Cleone, John. Losing her, I lose all, and success is worse than failure."

"But, sir,--must you lose her?"

"I fear so. Who am I that she should stoop to me among so many? Who am I to expect so great happiness?"

"Sir," said Peterby, shaking his head, "I have never known you doubt yourself or fortune till now!"

"It never occurred to me, John."

"And because of this unshaken confidence in yourself you won the steeplechase, sir--unaided and alone you won for yourself a place in the most exclusive circles in the World of Fashion--without friends or influence you achieved the impossible, because you never doubted."

"Yes, I was very confident, John, but then, you see, I never thought anything impossible--till now."

"And therefore you succeeded, sir. But had you constantly doubted your powers and counted failure even as a possibility, you might still have dreamed of your success--but never achieved it."

"Why then," sighed Barnabas, rising, "it seems that Failure has marked me for her own at last, for never was man fuller of doubt than I."

LVIII. HOW VISCOUNT DEVENHAM FOUND HIM A VISCOUNTESS

Night was falling as, turning out of St. James's Square, Barnabas took his way along Charles Street and so, by way of the Strand, towards Blackfriars. He wore a long, befrogged surtout buttoned up to the chin, though the weather was warm, and his hat was drawn low over his brows; also in place of his tasselled walking-cane he carried a heavy stick.

For the first half mile or so he kept his eyes well about him, but, little by little, became plunged in frowning thought, and so walked on, lost in gloomy abstraction. Thus, as he crossed Blackfriars Bridge he was quite unaware of one who followed him step by step, though upon the other side of the way; a gliding, furtive figure, and one who also went with coat buttoned high and face hidden beneath shadowy hat-brim.

On strode Barnabas, all unconscious, with his mind ever busied with thoughts of Cleone and the sudden, unaccustomed doubt in himself and his future that had come upon him.

Presently he turned off to the right along a dirty street of squalid, tumble-down houses; a narrow, ill-lighted street which, though comparatively quiet by day, now hummed with a dense and seething life.

Yes, a dark street this, with here and there a flickering lamp, that served but to make the darkness visible, and here and there the lighted window of some gin-shop, or drinking-cellar, whence proceeded a mingled clamor of voices roaring the stave of some song, or raised in fierce disputation.

On he went, past shambling figures indistinct in the dusk; past figures that slunk furtively aside, or crouched to watch him from the gloom of some doorway; past ragged creatures that stared, haggard-eyed; past faces sad and faces evil that flitted by him in the dark, or turned to scowl over hunching shoulders. Therefore Barnabas gripped his stick the tighter as he strode along, suddenly conscious of the stir and unseen movement in the fetid air about him, of the murmur of voices, the desolate wailing of children, the noise of drunken altercation, and all the sordid sounds that were part and parcel of the place. Of all this Barnabas was heedful, but he was wholly unaware of the figure that dogged him from behind, following him step by step, patient and persistent. Thus, at last, Barnabas reached a certain narrow alley, beyond which was the River, dark, mysterious, and full of sighs and murmurs. And, being come to the door of Nick the Cobbler, he knocked upon it with his stick.

It was opened, almost immediately, by Clemency herself.

"I saw you coming," she said, giving him her hand, and so led him through the dark little shop, into the inner room.

"I came as soon as I could. Clemency."

"Yes, I knew you would come," she answered, with bowed head.

"I am here to take you away to a cottage I have found for you--a place in the country, where you will be safe until I can find and bring your father to you."

As he ended, she lifted her head and looked at him through gathering tears.

"How good--how kind of you!" she said, very softly, "and oh, I thank you, indeed I do--but--"

"But, Clemency?"

"I must stay--here."

"In this awful place! Why?"

Clemency flushed, and looking down at the table, began to pleat a fold in the cloth with nervous fingers.

"Poor little Nick hasn't been very well lately, and I--can't leave him alone--" she began.

"Then bring him with you."

"And," she continued slowly, "when I wrote you that letter I was--greatly afraid, but I'm--not afraid any longer. And oh, I couldn't leave London yet--I couldn't!"

Now while she spoke, Barnabas saw her clasp and wring her hands together, that eloquent gesture he remembered so well. Therefore he leaned across the table and touched those slender fingers very gently.

"Why not? Tell me your trouble, my sister."

Now Clemency bowed her dark head, and when she spoke her voice was low and troubled: "Because--he is ill--dangerously ill, Milo tells me, and I--I am nearer to him here in London. I can go, sometimes, and look at the house where he lies. So you see, I cannot leave him, yet."

"Then--you love him, Clemency?"

"Yes," she whispered, "yes, oh yes, always--always! That was why I ran away from him. Oh, I love him so much that I grew afraid of my love, and of myself, and of him. Because he is a great gentleman, and I am only--what I am."

"A very good and beautiful woman!" said Barnabas.

"Beauty!" she sighed, "oh, it is only for that he--wanted me, and dear heaven! I love him so much that--if he asked me--I fear--" and she hid her burning face in hands that trembled.

"Clemency!"

The word was hoarse and low, scarcely more than a whisper, but, even so, Clemency started and lifted her head to stare wide-eyed at the figure leaning in the doorway, with one hand outstretched to her appealingly; a tall figure, cloaked from head to foot, with hat drawn low over his brows, his right arm carried in a sling. And as she gazed, Clemency uttered a low, soft cry, and rose to her feet.

"My Lord!" she whispered, "oh, my Lord!"

"Dearest!"

The Viscount stepped into the room and, uncovering his head, sank upon his knees before her.

"Oh, Clemency," said he, "the door was open and I heard it all--every word. But, dearest, you need never fear me any more--never any more, because I love you. Clemency, and here, upon my knees, beg you to honor me by--marrying me, if you will stoop to such a pitiful thing as I am. Clemency dear, I have been ill, and it has taught me many things, and I know now that I--cannot live without you. So, Clemency, if you will take pity on me--oh! Clemency--!"

The Viscount stopped, still kneeling before her with bent head, nor did he look up or attempt to touch her as he waited her answer.

Then, slowly, she reached out and stroked that bowed and humble head, and, setting her hands upon his drooping shoulders, she sank to her knees before him, so that now he could look into the glowing beauty of her face and behold the deep, yearning tenderness of her eyes.

"Dear," said she very gently, "dear, if you--want me so much you have only to--take me!"

"For my Viscountess, Clemency!"

"For your--wife, dear!"

And now, beholding their great happiness, Barnabas stole from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Then, being only human, he sighed deeply and pitied himself mightily by contrast.

LIX. WHICH RELATES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, HOW BARNABAS LOST HIS HAT

Now as Barnabas stood thus, he heard another sigh, and glancing up beheld Mr. Shrig seated at the little Cobbler's bench, with a guttering candle at his elbow and a hat upon his fist, which he appeared to be examining with lively interest.

"Sir," said he, as Barnabas approached, wondering, "I'm taking the liberty o' looking at your castor."

"Oh!" said Barnabas.

"Sir, it's a werry good 'at as 'ats go, but it's no kind of an 'at for you to-night."

"And why not, Mr. Shrig?"

"Because it ain't much pertection ag'in windictiveness--in the shape of a bludgeon, shall ve say, and as for a brick--v'y, Lord! And theer's an uncommon lot of windictiveness about to-night; it's a-vaiting for you--as you might say--round the corner."

"Really, Mr. Shrig, I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"Sir, d' ye mind a cove o' the name o' 'Vistling Dick,' as got 'isself kicked to death by an 'orse?"

"Yes."

"And d' ye mind another cove commonly known as 'Dancing Jimmy,' and another on 'em as is called 'Bunty Fagan'?"

"Yes, they tried to rob me once."

"Right, sir,--only I scared 'em off, you'll remember. Conseqvently, p'r'aps you ain't forgot certain other coves as you and me had a bit of a turn-up vith v'en I sez to you 'Run,' and you sez to me 'No,' and got a lump on your sconce like an 'ard-biled egg according?"

"Yes, I remember of course, but why--"

"Sir, they 're all on 'em out on the windictive lay again to-night, --only, this time, it's you they 're arter."

"Me--are you sure?"

"And sartin! Corporal Richard Roe, late Grenadiers, give me the office, and Corporal Richard's never wrong, sir. Corporal Dick's my pal as keeps the 'Gun' in Gray's Inn Lane, you may remember, and the 'Gun' 's a famous chaffing-crib for the flash, leary coves. So, v'en the Corp tipped me the vord, sir, I put my castor on my sconce, slipped a barker in my cly, took my stick in my fib--or as you might say 'daddle,' d' ye see, and toddled over to keep a ogle on you. And, sir, if it hadn't been for the young gent as shadowed ye all the way to Giles's Rents, it's my opinion as they'd ha' done you into a corp as you come along."

"But why should they want to do for me?"

"V'y, sir, they'd do for their own mothers, j'yful, if you paid 'em to!"

"But who would employ such a gang?"

"Vell, sir, naming no names, there's a party as I suspect from conclusions as I've drawed, a party as I'm a-going to try to ketch this here werry night, sir--as I mean to ketch in flay-grant de-lick-too, vich is a law term meaning--in the werry act, sir, if you'll help me?"

"Of course I will," said Barnabas, a little eagerly, "but how?"

"By doing eggs-actly as I tell you, sir. Is it a go?"

"It is," nodded Barnabas.

"V'y, then, to begin vith, that theer coat o' yours,--it's too long to run in--off vith it, sir!"

Barnabas smiled, but off came the long, befrogged surtout.

"Now--my castor, sir" and Mr. Shrig handed Barnabas his famous hat. "Put it on, sir, if you please. You'll find it a bit 'eavyish at first, maybe, but it's werry good ag'in windictiveness."

"Thank you," said Barnabas, smiling again, "but it's too small, you see."

"That's a pity!" sighed Mr. Shrig, "still, if it von't go on, it von't. Now, as to a vepping?"

"I have my stick," said Barnabas, holding it up. Mr. Shrig took it, balanced it in his grasp and passed it back with a nod of approval.

"V'y then, sir, I think ve may wenture," said he, and rising, put on his hat, examined the priming of the brass-bound pistol, and taking the nobbly stick under his arm, blew out the candle and crossed to the door; yet, being there, paused. "Sir," said he, a note of anxiety in his voice, "you promise to do eggs-actly vot I say?"

"I promise!"

"Ven I say 'run' you'll run?"

"Yes."

"Then come on, sir, and keep close behind me."

So saying, Mr. Shrig opened the door and stepped noisily out into the narrow court and waited while Barnabas fastened the latch; even then he paused to glance up at the sombre heaven and to point out a solitary star that twinkled through some rift in the blackness above.

"Going to be a fine night for a little walk," said he, "Oliver vill be in town later on."

"Oliver?" inquired Barnabas.

"Ah! that's flash for the moon, sir. Jest a nice light there'll be. This vay, sir." With the words Mr. Shrig turned sharp to his left along the alley towards the River.

"Why this way, Mr. Shrig?"

"First, sir, because they're a-vaiting for you at t'other end o' the alley, and second, because v'en they see us go this vay they'll think they've got us sure and sartin, and follow according, and third, because at a certain place along by the River I've left Corporal Dick and four o' my specials, d'ye see. S-sh! Qviet now! Oblige me with your castor--your 'at, sir."

Wonderingly, Barnabas handed him the article in question, whereupon Mr. Shrig, setting it upon the end of the nobbly stick, began to advance swiftly where the shadow lay blackest, and with an added caution, motioning to Barnabas to do the like.

They were close upon the River now, so close that Barnabas could hear it lapping against the piles, and catch the indefinable reek of it. But on they went, swift and silent, creeping ever in the gloom of the wall beside them, nearer and nearer until presently the River flowed before them, looming darker than the dark, and its sullen murmur was all about them; until Mr. Shrig, stopping all at once, raised the hat upon his stick and thrust it slowly, inch by inch, round the angle of the wall. And lo! even as Barnabas watched with bated breath, suddenly it was gone--struck away into space by an unseen weapon, and all in an instant it seemed, came a vicious oath, a snarl from Mr. Shrig, the thud of a blow, and a dim shape staggered sideways and sinking down at the base of the wall lay very silent and very still.

"Run!" cried Mr. Shrig, and away he went beside the River, holding a tortuous course among the piles of rotting lumber, dexterously avoiding dim-seen obstacles, yet running with a swiftness wonderful to behold. All at once he stopped and glanced about him.

"What now?" inquired Barnabas.

"S-sh! d'ye 'ear anything, sir?"

Sure enough, from the darkness behind, came a sound there was no mistaking, the rush and patter of pursuing feet, and the feet were many.

"Are we to fight here?" demanded Barnabas, buttoning his coat.

"No, not yet, sir. Ah! there's Oliver--told you it vould be a fine night. This vay, sir!" And turning to the left again, Mr. Shrig led the way down a narrow passage. Half-way along this dim alley he paused, and seating himself upon a dim step, fell to mopping his brow.

"A extra-special capital place, this, sir!" said he. "Bankside's good enough for a capital job, but this is better, ah, a sight better! Many a unfort'nate wictim has been made a corp' of, hereabouts, sir!"

"Yes," said Barnabas shivering, for the air struck chill and damp, "but what do we do now?"

"V'y, sir, I'll tell you. Ve sit here, nice and qviet and let 'em run on till they meet my four specials and Corporal Richard Roe, late Grenadiers. My specials has their staves and knows how to use 'em, and the Corp has 's 'ook,--and an 'ook ain't no-vise pleasant as a vepping. So, ven they come running back, d' ye see, theer's you vith your stick, an' me vith my barker, an' so ve 'ave 'em front and rear."

"But can we stop them--all?"

"Ah!" nodded Mr. Shrig, "all as the Corp 'as left of 'em. Ye see they know me, most on 'em, and likevise they knows as v'en I pull a barker from my cly that theer barker don't miss fire. Vot's more, they must come as far as this passage or else drownd theirselves in the River, vich vould save a lot o' trouble and expense, and--s-sh!"

He broke off abruptly and rose to his feet, and Barnahas saw that he held the brass-bound pistol in his hand. Then, as they stood listening, plain and more plain was the pad-pad of running feet that raced up to the mouth of the alley where they stood--past it, and so died down again. Hereupon Mr. Shrig took out his large-faced watch and, holding it close to his eyes, nodded.

"In about vun minute they'll run up ag'in the Corp," said he, "and a precious ugly customer they'll find him, not to mention my specials--ve'll give 'em another two minutes." Saying which, Mr. Shrig reseated himself upon the dim step, watch in hand. "Sir," he continued, "I'm sorry about your 'at--sich a werry good 'at, too! But it 'ad to be yours or mine, and sir,--axing your pardon, but there's a good many 'ats to be 'ad in London jest as good as yourn, for them as can afford 'em, but theer ain't another castor like mine--no, not in the U-nited Kingdom."

"Very true," nodded Barnabas, "and no hat ever could have had a more--useful end, than mine."

"V'y yes, sir--better your castor than your sconce any day," said Mr. Shrig, "and now I think it's about time for us to--wenture forth. But, sir," he added impressively, "if the conclusion as I've drawed is correct, theer's safe to be shooting if you're recognized, so keep in the shadder o' the wall, d' ye see. Now, are ye ready?--keep behind me--so. Here they come, I think."

Somewhere along the dark River hoarse cries arose, and the confused patter of running feet that drew rapidly louder and more distinct. Nearer they came until Barnahas could hear voices that panted out fierce curses; also he heard Mr. Shrig's pistol click as it was cocked.

So, another minute dragged by and then, settling his broad-brimmed hat more firmly, Mr. Shrig sprang nimbly from his lurking-place and fronted the on-comers with levelled weapon:

"Stand!" he cried, "stand--in the King's name!"

By the feeble light of the moon, Barnabas made out divers figures who, checking their career, stood huddled together some yards away, some scowling at the threatening posture of Mr. Shrig, others glancing back over their shoulders towards the dimness behind, whence came a shrill whistle and the noise of pursuit.

"Ah, you may look!" cried Mr. Shrig, "but I've got ye, my lambs--all on ye! You, Bunty Fagan, and Dancing Jimmy, I know you, and you know me, so stand--all on ye. The first man as moves I'll shoot--stone dead, and v'en I says a thing I--"

A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening report, and, dropping his pistol, Mr. Shrig groaned and staggered up against the wall. But Barnabas was ready and, as their assailants rushed, met them with whirling stick.

It was desperate work, but Barnabas was in the mood for it, answering blow with blow, and shout with shout.

"Oh, Jarsper!" roared a distant voice, "we're coming. Hold 'em, Jarsper!"

So Barnabas struck, and parried, and struck, now here, now there, advancing and retreating by turns, until the flailing stick splintered in his grasp, and he was hurled back to the wall and borne to his knees. Twice he struggled up, but was beaten down again, --down and down into a choking blackness that seemed full of griping hands and cruel, trampling feet.

Faint and sick, dazed with his hurts, Barnabas rose to his knees and so, getting upon unsteady feet, sought to close with one who threatened him with upraised bludgeon, grasped at an arm, missed, felt a stunning shock,--staggered back and back with the sounds of the struggle ever fainter to his failing senses, tripped, and falling heavily, rolled over upon his back, and so lay still.