LX. WHICH TELLS OF A RECONCILIATION…

LX. WHICH TELLS OF A RECONCILIATION

"Oh, Lord God of the weary and heavy-hearted, have mercy upon me! Oh, Father of the Sorrowful, suffer now that I find rest!"

Barnabas opened his eyes and stared up at a cloudless heaven where rode the moon, a silver sickle; and gazing thither, he remembered that some one had predicted a fine night later, and vaguely wondered who it might have been.

Not a sound reached him save the slumberous murmur that the River made lapping lazily against the piles, and Barnabas sighed and closed his eyes again.

But all at once, upon this quiet, came words spoken near by, in a voice low and broken, and the words were these:

"Oh, Lord of Pity, let now thy mercy lighten upon me, suffer that I come to Thee this hour, for in Thee is my trust. Take back my life, oh, Father, for, without hope, life is a weary burden, and Death, a boon. But if I needs must live on, give me some sign that I may know. Oh, Lord of Pity, hear me!"

The voice ceased and, once again, upon the hush stole the everlasting whisper of the River. Then, clear and sharp, there broke another sound, the oncoming tread of feet; soft, deliberate feet they were, which yet drew ever nearer and nearer while Barnabas, staring up dreamily at the moon, began to count their steps. Suddenly they stopped altogether, and Barnabas, lying there, waited for them to go on again; but in a while, as the silence remained unbroken, he sighed and turning his throbbing head saw a figure standing within a yard of him.

"Sir," said Mr. Chichester, coming nearer and smiling down at prostrate Barnabas, "this is most thoughtful--most kind of you. I have been hoping to meet you again, more especially since our last interview, and now, to find you awaiting me at such an hour, in such a place,--remote from all chances of disturbance, and--with the River so very convenient too! Indeed, you couldn't have chosen a fitter place, and I am duly grateful."

Saying which, Mr. Chichester seated himself upon the mouldering remains of an ancient wherry, and slipped one hand into the bosom of his coat.

"Sir," said he, leaning towards Barnabas, "you appear to be hurt, but you are not--dying, of course?"

"Dying!" repeated Barnabas, lifting a hand to his aching brow, "dying,--no."

"And yet, I fear you are," sighed Mr. Chichester, "yes, I think you will be most thoroughly dead before morning,--I do indeed." And he drew a pistol from his pocket, very much as though it were a snuff-box.

"But before we write 'Finis' to your very remarkable career," he went on, "I have a few,--a very few words to say. Sir, there have been many women in my life, yes, a great many, but only one I ever loved, and you, it seems must love her too. You have obtruded yourself wantonly in my concerns from the very first moment we met. I have always found you an obstacle, an obstruction. But latterly you have become a menace, threatening my very existence for, should you dispossess me of my heritage I starve, and, sir--I have no mind to starve. Thus, since it is to be your life or mine, I, very naturally, prefer that it shall be yours. Also you threatened to hound me from the clubs--well, sir, had I not had the good fortune to meet you tonight, I had planned to make you the scorn and laughing-stock of Town, and to drive you from London like the impostor you are. It was an excellent plan, and I am sorry to forego it, but necessity knows no law, and so to-night I mean to rid myself of the obstacle, and sweep it away altogether." As he ended, Mr. Chichester smiled, sighed, and cocked his pistol. But, even as it clicked, a figure rose up from behind the rotting wherry and, as Mr. Chichester leaned towards Barnabas, smiling still but with eyes of deadly menace, a hand, pale and claw-like in the half-light, fell and clenched itself upon his shoulder.

At the touch Mr. Chichester started and, uttering an exclamation, turned savagely; then Barnabas struggled to his knees, and pinning his wrist with one hand, twisted the pistol from his grasp with the other and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, faced him, still upon his knees, but with levelled weapon.

"Don't shoot!" cried a voice.

"Shoot?" repealed Barnabas, and got unsteadily upon his legs. "Shoot--no, my hands are best!" and, flinging the pistol far out into the River, he approached Mr. Chichester, staggering a little, but with fists clenched.

"Sir," cried the voice again, "oh, young sir, what would you do?"

"Kill him!" said Barnabas.

"No, no--leave him to God's justice, God will requite him--let him go."

"No!" said Barnabas, shaking his head. But, as he pressed forward intent on his purpose, restraining hands were upon his arm, and the voice pleaded in his ear:

"God is a just God, young sir--let the man go--leave him to the Almighty,"

And the hands upon his arm shook him with passionate entreaty. Therefore Barnabas paused and, bowing his head, clasped his throbbing temples between his palms and so, stood a while. When he looked up again, Mr. Chichester was gone, and the Apostle of Peace stood before him, his silver hair shining, his pale face uplifted towards heaven.

"I owe you--my life!" said Barnabas.

"You are alive, young sir, which is good, and your hands are not stained with a villain's blood, which is much better. But, as for me--God pity me!--I came here to-night, meaning to be a self-murderer--oh, God forgive me!"

"But you--asked for--a sign, I think," said Barnabas, "and you--live also. And to-night your pilgrimage ends, in Clemency's loving arms."

"Clemency? My daughter? Oh, sir,--young sir, how may that be? They tell me she is dead."

"Lies!" said Barnabas, "lies! I spoke with her tonight." The Apostle of Peace stood a while with bowed head; when at last he looked up, his cheeks were wet with tears.

"Then, sir," said he, "take me to her. Yet, stay! You are hurt, and, if in my dark hour I doubted God's mercy, I would not be selfish in my happiness--"

"Happiness!" said Barnabas, "yes--every one seems happy--but me."

"You are hurt, young sir. Stoop your head and let me see."

"No," sighed Barnabas, "I'm well enough. Come, let me take you to Clemency."

So, without more ado, they left that dreary place, and walked on together side by side and very silent, Barnabas with drooping head, and his companion with eyes uplifted and ever-moving lips.

Thus, in a while, they turned into the narrow court, and reaching the door of Nick the Cobbler, Barnabas knocked and, as they waited, he could see that his companion was trembling violently where he leaned beside him against the wall. Then the door was opened and Clemency appeared, her shapely figure outlined against the light behind her.

"Mr. Beverley," she exclaimed, "dear brother, is it you--"

"Yes, Clemency, and--and I have kept my promise, I have brought you--" But no need for words; Clemency had seen. "Father!" she cried, stretching out her arms, "oh, dear father!"

"Beatrix," said the preacher, his voice very broken, "oh, my child, --forgive me--!" But Clemency had caught him in her arms, had drawn him into the little shop, and, pillowing the silvery head upon her young bosom, folded it there, and so hung above him all sighs, and tears, and tender endearments.

Then Barnabas closed the door upon them and, sighing, went upon his way. He walked with lagging step and with gaze ever upon the ground, heedless alike of the wondering looks of those he passed, or of time, or of place, or of the voices that still wailed, and wrangled, and roared songs; conscious only of the pain in his head, the dull ache at his heart, and the ever-growing doubt and fear within him.

LXI. HOW BARNABAS WENT TO HIS TRIUMPH

The star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, was undoubtedly in the ascendant; no such radiant orb had brightened the Fashionable Firmament since that of a certain Mr. Brummell had risen to scintillate a while ere it paled and vanished before the royal frown.

Thus the Fashionable World turned polite eyes to mark the course of this new luminary and, if it vaguely wondered how long that course might be, it (like the perspicacious waiter at the "George") regarded Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, as one to be flattered, smiled upon, and as worthy of all consideration and respect.

For here was one, not only young, fabulously rich and a proved sportsman, but a dandy, besides, with a nice taste and originality in matters sartorial, more especially in waistcoats and cravats, which articles, as the Fashionable World well knows, are the final gauge of a man's depth and possibilities.

Thus, the waistcoats of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, or their prototypes to a button, were to be met with any day sunning themselves in the Mall, and the styles of cravat affected by Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, were to be observed at the most brilliant functions, bowing in all directions.

Wherefore, all this considered, what more natural than that the Fashionable World should desire to make oblation to this, its newest (and consequently most admired) ornament, and how better than to feed him, since banquets are a holy rite sanctified by custom and tradition?

Hence, the Fashionable World appointed and set apart a day whereon, with all due pomp and solemnity, to eat and drink to the glory and honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire.

Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for, though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and cambric fashion required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom became the mode.

No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days passed. Therefore, being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if such a thing might be.

The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most fickle of all goddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in noble houses, in clubs and hells, he sought her. Calm-eyed, grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged assiduity; he became a familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.

Thus a fortnight has elapsed, and to-night the star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, has indeed attained its grand climacteric, for to-night he is to eat and drink with ROYALTY, and the Fashionable World is to do him honor.

And yet, as he stands before his mirror, undergoing the ordeal of dressing, he would appear almost careless of his approaching triumph; his brow is overcast, his cheek a little thinner and paler than of yore, and he regards his resplendent image in the mirror with lack-lustre eyes.

"Your cravat, sir," says Peterby, retreating a few paces and with his head to one side the better to observe its effect, "your cravat is, I fear, a trifle too redundant in its lower folds, and a little severe, perhaps--"

"It is excellent, John! And you say--there is still no letter from--from Hawkhurst?"

"No, sir, none," answered Peterby abstractedly, and leaning forward to administer a gentle pull to the flowered waistcoat. "This coat, sir, is very well, I think, and yet--y-e-es, perhaps it might be a shade higher in the collar, and a thought tighter at the waist. Still, it is very well on the whole, and these flattened revers are an innovation that will be quite the vogue before the week is out. You are satisfied with the coat, I hope, sir?"

"Perfectly, John, and--should a letter come while I am at the banquet you will send it on--at once, John."

"At once, sir!" nodded Peterby, crouching down to view his young master's shapely legs in profile. "Mr. Brummell was highly esteemed for his loop and button at the ankle, sir, but I think our ribbon is better, and less conspicuous, that alone should cause a sensation."

"Unless, John," sighed Barnabas, "unless I receive a word to-night I shall drive down to Hawkhurst as soon as I can get away, so have the curricle and grays ready, will you?"

"Yes, sir. Pardon me one moment, there is a wrinkle in your left stocking, silk stockings are very apt to--"

But here the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted themselves quivering on the threshold to announce:--

"Viscount Devenham!"

He still carried his arm in a sling, but, excepting this, the Viscount was himself again, Bright-eyed, smiling and debonair. But now, as Peterby withdrew, and Barnabas turned to greet him, gravely polite--he hesitated, frowned, and seemed a little at a loss.

"Egad!" said he ruefully, "it seems a deuce of a time since we saw each other, Beverley."

"A fortnight!" said Barnabas.

"And it's been a busy fortnight for both of us, from what I hear."

"Yes, Viscount."

"Especially for--you."

"Yes, Viscount."

"Beverley," said he, staring very hard at the toe of his varnished shoe, "do you remember the white-haired man we met, who called himself an Apostle of Peace?"

"Yes, Viscount."

"Do you remember that he said it was meant we should be--friends?"

"Yes."

"Well I--think he was right,--I'm sure he was right. I--didn't know how few my friends were until I--fell out with you. And so--I'm here to--to ask your pardon, and I--don't know how to do it, only--oh, deuce take it! Will you give me your hand, Bev?"

But before the words had well left his lips, Barnabas had sprang forward, and so they stood, hand clasped in hand, looking into each other's eyes as only true friends may.

"I--we--owe you so much, Bev--Clemency has told me--"

"Indeed, Dick," said Barnabas, a little hastily, "you are a fortunate man to have won the love of so beautiful a woman, and one so noble."

"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, very solemn, "it is so wonderful that, sometimes, I--almost fear that it can't be true."

"The love of a woman is generally a very uncertain thing!" said Barnabas bitterly.

"But Clemency isn't like an ordinary woman," said the Viscount, smiling very tenderly, "in all the world there is only one Clemency and she is all truth, and honor, and purity. Sometimes, Bev, I feel so--so deuced unworthy, that I am almost afraid to touch her."

"Yes, I suppose there are a few such women in the world," said Barnabas, turning away. "But, speaking of the Apostle of Peace, have you met him again--lately?"

"No, not since that morning behind the 'Spotted Cow.' Why?"

"Well, you mentioned him."

"Why yes, but only because I couldn't think of any other way of--er--beginning. You were so devilish high and haughty, Bev."

"And what of Clemency?"

"She has promised to--to marry me, next month,--to marry me--me, Bev. Oh, my dear fellow, I'm the very happiest man alive, and, egad, that reminds me! I'm also the discredited and disinherited son of a flinty-hearted Roman."

"What Dick,--do you mean he has--cut you off?"

"As much as ever he could, my dear fellow, which reduces my income by a half. Deuced serious thing, y' know, Bev. Shall have to get rid of my stable, and the coach; 'Moonraker' must go, too, I'm afraid. Yes, Bev," sighed the Viscount, shaking his head at the reflection of his elegant person in the mirror, "you behold in me a beggar, and the cause--Clemency. But then, I know I am the very happiest beggar in all this wide world, and the cause--Clemency!"

"I feared your father would never favor such a match, Dick, but--"

"Favor it! Oh, bruise and blister me!--"

"Have you told Clemency?"

"Not yet--"

"Has he seen her?"

"No, that's the deuce of it, she's away with her father, y' know. Bit of a mystery about him, I fancy--she made me promise to be patient a while, and ask no questions."

"And where is she?"

"Haven't the least idea. However, I went down to beard my Roman, y' know, alone and single handed. Great mistake! Had Clemency been with me the flintiest of Roman P's would have relented, for who could resist--Clemency? As it was, I did my best, Bev--ran over her points--I mean--tried to describe her, y' know, but it was no go, Bev, no go--things couldn't have gone worse!"

"How?"

"'Sir,' says I--in an easy, off-hand tone, my dear fellow, and it was after dinner, you'll understand,--'Sir, I've decided to act upon your very excellent advice, and get married. I intend to settle down, at once!' 'Indeed, Horatio?' says he,--(Roman of eye, Bev) 'who is she, pray?' 'The most glorious woman in the world, sir!' says I. 'Of course,' says he, 'but--which?' This steadied me a little, Bev, so I took a fresh grip and began again: 'Sir,' says I, 'beauty in itself is a poor thing at best--' 'Therefore,' says my Roman (quick as a flash, my dear fellow) 'therefore it is just as well that beauty should not come--entirely empty-handed!' 'Sir,' says I--(calmly, you'll understand, Bev, but with just sufficient firmness to let him see that, after all, he was only a father) 'Sir,' says I, 'beauty is a transient thing at best, unless backed up by virtue, honor, wisdom, courage, truth, purity, nobility of soul--' 'Horatio,' says my father (pulling me up short, Bev) 'you do well to put these virtues first but, in the wife of the future Earl of Bamborough, I hearken for such common, though necessary attributes as birth, breeding, and position, neither of which you have yet mentioned, but I'm impatient, perhaps, and these come at the end of your list,--pray continue.' 'Sir,' says I, 'my future wife is above such petty considerations!' 'Ah!' says my Roman, 'I feared so! She is then, a--nobody, I presume?' 'Sir--most beautiful girl in all England,' says I. 'Ha!' says my Roman, nodding, 'then she is a nobody; that settles it.' 'She's all that is pure and good!' says I. 'And a nobody, beyond a doubt!' says he. 'She's everything sweet, noble and brave,' says I. 'But--a nobody!' says he again. Now I'll confess I grew a little heated at this, my dear fellow, though I kept my temper admirably--oh, I made every allowance for him, as a self-respecting son should, but, though filial, I maintained a front of adamant, Bev. But, deuce take it! he kept on at me with his confounded 'nobody' so long that I grew restive at last and jibbed. 'So you are determined to marry a nobody, are you, Horatio?' says he. 'No, my Lord,' says I, rising, (and with an air of crushing finality, Bev) 'I am about to be honored with the hand of one who, by stress of circumstances, was for some time waiting maid at the 'Spotted Cow' inn, at Frittenden.' Well, Bev--that did it, y' know! My Roman couldn't say a word, positively gaped at me and, while he gaped, I bowed, and walked out entirely master of the situation. Result-- independence, happiness, and--beggary."

"But, Dick,--how shall you live?"

"Oh, I have an old place at Devenham, in the wilds of Kent,--we shall rusticate there."

"And you will give up Almack's, White's--all the glory of the Fashionable World?"

"Oh, man!" cried the Viscount, radiant of face, "how can all these possibly compare? I shall have Clemency!"

"But surely you will find it very quiet, after London and the clubs?"

"Yes, it will be very quiet at Devenham, Bev," said the Viscount, very gently, "and there are roses there, and she loves roses, I know! We shall be alone in the world together,--alone! Yes, it will be very quiet, Bev--thank heaven!"

"The loneliness will pall, after a time, Dick--say a month. And the roses will fade and wither--as all things must, it seems," said Barnabas bitterly, whereupon the Viscount turned and looked at him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Why, Bev," said he, "my dear old Bev,--what is it? You're greatly changed, I think; it isn't like you to be a cynic. You are my friend, but if you were my bitterest enemy I should forgive you, full and freely, because of your behavior to Clemency. My dear fellow, are you in any trouble--any danger? I have been away only a week, yet I come back to find the town humming with stories of your desperate play. I hear that D'Argenson plucked you for close on a thousand the other day--"

"But I won fifteen hundred the same night, Dick."

"And lost all that, and more, to the Poodle later!"

"Why--one can't always win, Dick."

"Oh, Bev, my dear fellow, do you remember shaking your grave head at me because I once dropped five hundred in one of the hells?"

"I fear I must have been very--young then, Dick!"

"And to-day, Bev, to-day you are a notorious gambler, and you sneer at love! Gad! what a change is here! My dear fellow, what does it all mean?"

Barnabas hesitated, and this history might have been very different in the ending but, even as he met the Viscount's frank and anxious look, the door was flung wide and Tressider, the thinnish, youngish gentleman in sandy whiskers, rushed in, followed by the Marquis and three or four other fine gentlemen, and, beholding the Viscount, burst into a torrent of speech:

"Ha! Devenham! there you are,--back from the wilds, eh? Heard the latest? No, I'll be shot if you have--none of you have, and I'm bursting to tell it--positively exploding, damme if I'm not. It was last night, at Crockford's you'll understand, and every one was there--Skiffy, Apollo, the Poodle, Red Herrings, No-grow, the Galloping Countryman and your obedient humble. One o'clock was striking as the game broke up, and there's Beverley yawning and waiting for his hat, d' ye see, when in comes the Golden Ball. 'Ha, Beverley!' says he, 'you gamble, they tell me?' 'Oh, now and then,' says Beverley. 'Why then,' says Golden Ball, 'you may have heard that I do a little that way, myself?' Now you mention it, I believe I have,' says Beverley. 'Ha!' says Golden Ball, winking at the rest of us, 'suppose we have a match, you and I--call your game.' 'Sir,' says Beverley, yawning again, 'it is past one o'clock, and I make it a rule never to play after one o'clock except for rather high stakes,' (Rather high stakes says he! and to the Golden Ball,--oh curse me!) 'Do you, begad!' says Golden Ball, purple in the face--'ha! you may have heard that I occasionally venture a hundred or so myself--whatever the hour! Waiter--cards!' 'Sir,' says Beverley, I've been playing ever since three o'clock this afternoon and I'm weary of cards.' 'Oh, just as you wish,' says Golden Ball, 'at battledore and shuttlecock I'm your man, or rolling the bones, or--' 'Dice, by all means!' says Beverley, yawning again. 'At how much a throw?' says Golden Ball, sitting down and rattling the box. 'Well,' says Beverley, 'a thousand, I think, should do to begin with!' ('A thou-sand,' says he, damme if he didn't!) Oh Gad, but you should have seen the Golden Ball, what with surprise and his cravat, I thought he'd choke--shoot me if I didn't! 'Done!' says he at last (for we were all round the table thick as flies you'll understand) --and to it they went, and in less than a quarter of an hour, Beverley had bubbled him of close on seven thousand! Quickest thing I ever saw, oh, curse me!"

"Oh, Bev," sighed the Viscount, under cover of the ensuing talk and laughter, "what a perfectly reckless fellow you are!"

"Why, you see, Dick," Barnabas answered, as Peterby re-entered with his hat and cloak, "a man can't always lose!"

"Beverley," said the Marquis, proffering his arm, "I have my chariot below; I thought we might drive round to the club together, you and Devenham and I, if you are ready?"

"Thank you, Marquis, yes, I'm quite ready."

Thus, with a Marquis on his right, and a Viscount on his left, and divers noble gentlemen in his train, Barnabas went forth to his triumph.

LXII. WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS TRIUMPHED IN SPITE OF ALL

Never had White's, that historic club, gathered beneath its roof a more distinguished company; dukes, royal and otherwise, elbow each other on the stairs; earls and marquises sit cheek by jowl; viscounts and baronets exchange snuff-boxes in corners, but one and all take due and reverent heed of the flattened revers and the innovation of the riband.

Yes, White's is full to overflowing for, to-night, half the Fashionable World is here, that is to say, the masculine half; beaux and wits; bucks and Corinthians; dandies and macaronis; all are here and, each and every, with the fixed and unshakable purpose of eating and drinking to the glory and honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire. Here, also, is a certain "Mr. Norton," whom Barnabas immediately recognizes by reason of his waistcoat and his whiskers. And Mr. Norton is particularly affable and is graciously pleased to commend the aforesaid flattened revers and riband; indeed so taken with them is he, that he keeps their wearer beside him, and even condescends to lean upon his arm as far as the dining-room.

Forthwith the banquet begins and the air hums with talk and laughter punctuated by the popping of corks; waiters hurry to and fro, dishes come and dishes vanish, and ever the laughter grows, and the buzz of talk swells louder.

And Barnabas? Himself "the glass of fashion and the mould of form," in very truth "the observed of all observers," surely to-night he should be happy! For the soaring pinions of youth have borne him up and up at last, into the empyrean, far, far above the commonplace; the "Coursing Hound," with its faded sign and weatherbeaten gables, has been lost to view long and long ago (if it ever really existed), and to-night he stands above the clouds, his foot upon the topmost pinnacle; and surely man can attain no higher, for to-night he feasts with princes.

Thus Barnabas sits among the glare and glitter of it all, smiling at one, bowing to another, speaking with all by turns, and wondering in his heart--if there is yet any letter from Hawkhurst. And now the hurrying tread of waiters ceases, the ring and clatter of glass and silver is hushed, the hum of talk and laughter dies away, and a mottle-faced gentleman rises, and, clutching himself by the shirt-frill with one hand, and elevating a brimming glass in the other, clears his throat, and holds forth in this wise:

"Gentlemen, I'm an Englishman, therefore I'm blunt,--deuced blunt--damned blunt! Gentlemen, I desire to speak a word upon this happy and memorable occasion, and my word is this: Being an Englishman I very naturally admire pluck and daring--Mr. Beverley has pluck and daring--therefore I drink to him. Gentlemen, we need such true-blue Englishmen as Beverley to keep an eye on old Bony; it is such men as Beverley who make the damned foreigners shake in their accursed shoes. So long as we have such men as Beverley amongst us, England will scorn the foreign yoke and stand forth triumphant, first in peace, first in war. Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Beverley, as he is a true Sportsman I honor him, as he is an Englishman he is my friend. Mr. Beverley, gentlemen!"

Hereupon the mottle-faced gentleman lets go of his shirt-frill, bows to Barnabas and, tossing off his wine, sits down amid loud acclamations and a roaring chorus of "Beverley! Beverley!" accompanied by much clinking of glasses.

And now, in their turn, divers other noble gentlemen rise in their places and deliver themselves of speeches, more or less eloquent, flowery, witty and laudatory, but, one and all, full of the name and excellences of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire; who duly learns that he is a Maecenas of Fashion, a sportsman through and through, a shining light, and one of the bulwarks of Old England, b'gad! etc., etc., etc.

To all of which he listens with varying emotions, and with one eye upon the door, fervently hoping for the letter so long expected. But the time is come for him to respond; all eyes are upon him, and all glasses are filled; even the waiters become deferentially interested as, amid welcoming shouts, the guest of the evening rises, a little flushed, a little nervous, yet steady of eye.

And as Barnabas stands there, an elegant figure, tall and graceful, all eyes may behold again the excellent fit of that wonderful coat, its dashing cut and flattened revers, while all ears await his words. But, or ever he can speak, upon this silence is heard the tread of heavy feet beyond the door and Barnabas glances there eagerly, ever mindful of the letter from Hawkhurst; but the feet have stopped and, stifling a sigh, he begins:

"My Lords and gentlemen! So much am I conscious of the profound honor you do me, that I find it difficult to express my--"

But here again a disturbance is heard at the door--a shuffle of feet and the mutter of voices, and he pauses expectant; whereat his auditors cry angrily for "silence!" which being duly accorded, he begins again:

"Indeed, gentlemen, I fear no words of mine, however eloquent, can sufficiently express to you all my--"

"Oh, Barnabas," cries a deep voice; "yes, it is Barnabas!" Even as the words are uttered, the group of protesting waiters in the doorway are swept aside by a mighty arm, and a figure strides into the banqueting-room, a handsome figure, despite its country habiliments, a commanding figure by reason of its stature and great spread of shoulder, and John Barty stands there, blinking in the light of the many candles.

Then Barnabas closed his eyes and, reaching out, set his hand upon the back of a chair near by, and so stood, with bent head and a strange roaring in his ears. Little by little this noise grew less until he could hear voices, about him, an angry clamor:

"Put him out!"

"Throw the rascal into the street!"

"Kick him downstairs, somebody!"

And, amid this ever-growing tumult, Barnabas could distinguish his father's voice, and in it was a note he had never heard before, something of pleading, something of fear.

"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad--bean't it, Barnabas?"

Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and more threatening.

"Throw him out!"

"Pitch the fellow downstairs, somebody!"

"Jove!" exclaimed the Marquis, rising and buttoning his coat, "if nobody else will, I'll have a try at him myself. Looks a promising cove, as if he might fib well. Come now, my good fellow, you must either get out of here or--put 'em up, you know,--dooce take me, but you must!"

But as he advanced, Barnabas lifted his head and staying him with a gesture, turned and beheld his father standing alone, the centre of an angry circle. And John Barty's eyes were wide and troubled, and his usually ruddy cheek showed pale, though with something more than fear as, glancing slowly round the ring of threatening figures that hemmed him in, he beheld the white, stricken face of his son. And, seeing it, John Barty groaned, and so took a step towards the door; but no man moved to give him way.

"A--a mistake, gentlemen," he muttered, "I--I'll go!" Then, even as the stammering words were uttered, Barnabas strode forward into the circle and, slipping a hand within his father's nerveless arm, looked round upon the company, pale of cheek, but with head carried high.

"My Lords!" said he, "gentlemen! I have the honor--to introduce to you--John Barty, sometime known as 'Glorious John'--ex-champion of England and--landlord of the 'Coursing Hound' inn--my father!"

A moment of silence! A stillness so profound that it seemed no man drew breath; a long, long moment wherein Barnabas felt himself a target for all eyes--eyes wherein he thought to see amazement that changed into dismay which, in turn, gave place to an ever-growing scorn of him. Therefore he turned his back upon them all and, coming to the great window, stood there staring blindly into the dark street.

"Oh, Barnabas!" he heard his father saying, though as from a long way off, "Barnabas lad, I--I--Oh, Barnabas--they're going! They're leaving you, and--it's all my fault, lad! Oh, Barnabas,--what have I done! It's my fault, lad--all my fault. But I heard you was sick, Barnabas, and like to die,--ill, and calling for me,--for your father, Barnabas. And now--Oh, my lad! my lad!--what have I done?"

"Never blame yourself, father, it--wasn't your fault," said Barnabas with twitching lips, for from the great room behind him came the clatter of chairs, the tread of feet, with voices and stifled laughter that grew fainter and fainter, yet left a sting behind.

"Come away, John," said a voice, "we've done enough to-night--come away!"

"Yes, Natty Bell, yes, I be coming--coming. Oh, Barnabas, my lad, --my lad,--forgive me!"

Now in a while Barnabas turned; and behold! the candles glowed as brightly as ever, silver and glass shone and glittered as bravely as ever, but--the great room was empty, that is to say--very nearly. Of all that brilliant and fashionable company but two remained. Very lonely figures they looked, seated at the deserted table--the Viscount, crumbling up bread and staring at the table-cloth, and the Marquis, fidgeting with his snuff-box, and frowning at the ceiling.

To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was hoarse and by no means steady:

"My Lords," said he, "why haven't you--followed the others?"

"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see--speaking for myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I--hum!--the fact is--ha!--that is to say--oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing, with a muffled curse after every sneeze.

"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be less--conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."

"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend, and--there's my hand--Barnabas."

"Mine--too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over the--'ffects of this s-snuff--with a curse to it!"

"Oh Dick!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis--"

"Name's Bob to--my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his handkerchief. "Oh, damn this snuff!"

"Why, Bev," said the Viscount, "don't take it so much to heart, man. Deuced unpleasant, of course, but it'll all blow over, y' know. A week from now and they'll all come crawling back, y' know, if you only have the courage to outface 'em. And we are with him--aren't we, Jerny?"

"Of course!" answered the Marquis, "dooce take me--yes! So would poor old Sling have been."

"Sirs," said Barnabas, reaching out and grasping a hand of each, "with your friendship to hearten me--all things are possible--even this!"

But here a waiter appeared bearing a tray, and on the tray a letter; he was a young waiter, a very knowing waiter, hence his demeanor towards Barnabas had already undergone a subtle change--he stared at Barnabas with inquisitive eyes and even forgot to bow until--observing the Viscount's eye and the Marquis's chin, his back became immediately subservient and he tendered Barnabas the letter with a profound obeisance.

With a murmured apology Barnabas took it and, breaking the seal, read these words in Cleone's writing:

"You have destroyed my faith, and with my faith all else. Farewell."

Then Barnabas laughed, sudden and sharp, and tore the paper across and across, and dropping the pieces to the floor, set his foot upon them.

"Friends," said he, "my future is decided for me. I thank you deeply, deeply for your brave friendship--your noble loyalty, but the fiat has gone forth. To-night I leave the World of Fashion for one better suited to my birth, for it seems I should be only an amateur gentleman, as it were, after all. My Lords, your most obedient, humble servant,--good-by!"

So Barnabas bowed to each in turn and went forth from the scene of his triumph, deliberate of step and with head carried high as became a conqueror.

And thus the star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, waxed and waned and vanished utterly from the Fashionable Firmament, and, in time, came to be regarded as only a comet, after all.

LXIII. WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS HEARD THE TICKING OF A CLOCK

It was a dark night, the moon obscured as yet by a wrack of flying cloud, for a wind was abroad, a rising wind that blew in fitful gusts; a boisterous, blustering, bullying wind that met the traveller at sudden corners to choke and buffet him and so was gone, roaring away among roofs and chimneys, rattling windows and lattices, extinguishing flickering lamps, and filling the dark with stir and tumult.

But Barnabas strode on heedless and deaf to it all. Headlong he went, his cloak fluttering, his head stooped low, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, taking no thought of time or direction, or of his ruined career, since none of these were in his mind, but only the words of Cleone's letter.

And slowly a great anger came upon him with a cold and bitter scorn of her that cast out sorrow; thus, as he went, he laughed suddenly, --a shrill laugh that rose above the howl of the wind, that grew even wilder and louder until he was forced to stop and lean against an iron railing close by.

"An Amateur Gentleman!" he gasped, "An Amateur Gentleman! Oh, fool! fool!" And once again the fierce laughter shook him in its grip and, passing, left him weak and breathless.

Through some rift in the clouds, the moon cast a fugitive beam and thus he found himself looking down into a deep and narrow area where a flight of damp, stone steps led down to a gloomy door; and beside the door was a window, and the window was open.

Now as he gazed, the area, and the damp steps, and the gloomy door all seemed familiar; therefore he stepped back, and gazing up, saw a high, flat-fronted house, surely that same unlovely house at whose brass-knockered front door Captain Slingsby of the Guards had once stood and rapped with trembling hand.

The place was very silent, and very dark, save for one window where burned a dim light, and, moved by sudden impulse, Barnabas strode forward and, mounting the two steps, seized the knocker; but, even as he did so the door moved. Slowly, slowly it opened, swinging back on noiseless hinges, wider and wider until Barnabas could look into the dimness of the unlighted hall beyond. Then, while he yet stood hesitating, he heard a sound, very faint and sweet, like the chime of fairy bells, and from the dark a face peered forth, a face drawn, and lined, and ghastly pale, whose staring eyes were wide with horror.

"You!" said a voice, speaking in a harsh whisper, "is it you? Alas, Barnaby Bright! what would you--here? Go away! Go away! Here is an evil place, a place of sin, and horror, and blood--go away! go away!"

"But," said Barnabas, "I wish to see--"

"Oh, Barnaby Bright,--hear me! Did I not tell you he was marked for destruction, that evil begetteth evil, and the sword, the sword? I have watched, and watched, and to-night my watch is ended! Go away! Go away!"

"What is it? what do you mean?" demanded Barnabas.

With his eyes still fixed and staring, and without turning his head, Billy Button raised one hand to point with a rigid finger at the wall, just within the doorway.

"Look!" he whispered.

Then, glancing where he pointed, Barnabas saw a mark upon the panelling--a blur like the shadow of a hand; but even as he stared at it, Billy Button, shuddering, passed his sleeve across it and lo! it was gone!

"Oh, Barnaby Bright!" he whispered, "there is a shadow upon this place, as black as death, even as I told you--flee from the shadow, --come away! come away!"

As he breathed the words, the madman sprang past him down the steps, tossed up his long arms towards the moon with a wild, imploring gesture, and turning, scudded away on his naked, silent feet.

Now after a while Barnabas stepped into the gloomy hall and stood listening; the house was very silent, only upon the stillness he could hear the loud, deliberate tick of the wizen-faced clock upon the stairs, and, as he stood there, it seemed to him that to-night it was trying to tell him something. Barnabas shivered suddenly and drew his long cloak about him, then, closing the door, took a step along the dark hall, yet paused to listen again, for now it seemed to him that the tick of the clock was louder than ever.

"Go--back! Go--back!"

Could that be what it meant? Barnabas raised a hand to his brow and, though he still shivered, felt it suddenly moist and clammy. Then, clenching his teeth, he crept forward, guiding himself by the wall; yet as he went, above the shuffle of his feet, above the rustle of his cloak against the panelling, he could hear the tick of the clock--ever louder, ever more insistent:

"Go--back! Go--back!"

He reached the stairs at last and, groping for the banister, began to ascend slowly and cautiously, often pausing to listen, and to stare into the darkness before and behind. On he went and up, past the wizen-faced clock, and so reached the upper hall at the further end of which was the dim light that shone from behind a half-closed door.

Being come to the door, Barnabas lifted his hand to knock, yet stood again hesitating, his chin on his shoulder, his eyes searching the darkness behind him, whence came the slow, solemn ticking of the clock:

"Come--back! Come--back!"

For a long moment he stood thus, then, quick and sudden, he threw wide the door and stepped into the room.

A candle flared and guttered upon the mantel, and by this flickering light he saw an overturned chair, and, beyond that, a litter of scattered papers and documents and, beyond that again, Jasper Gaunt seated at his desk in the corner. He was lolling back in his chair like one asleep, and yet--was this sleep?

Something in his attitude, something in the appalling stillness of that lolling figure, something in the utter quiet of the whole place, filled Barnabas with a nameless, growing horror. He took a step nearer, another, and another--then stopped and, uttering a choking gasp, fell back to the wall and leaned there suddenly faint and sick. For, indeed, this was more than sleep. Jasper Gaunt lolled there, a horrid, bedabbled thing, with his head at a hideous angle and the dagger, which had been wont to glitter so evilly from the wall, smitten sideways through his throat.

Barnabas crouched against the wall, his gaze riveted by the dull gleam of the steel; and upon the silence, now, there crept another sound soft and regular, a small, dull, plashing sound; and, knowing what it was, he closed his eyes and the faintness grew upon him. At length he sighed and, shuddering, lifted his head and moved a backward step toward the door; thus it was he chanced to see Jasper Gaunt's right hand--that white, carefully-tended right hand, whose long, smooth fingers had clenched themselves even tighter in death than they had done in life. And, in their rigid grasp was something that struck Barnabas motionless; that brought him back slowly, slowly across that awful room to sink upon one knee above that pale, clenched hand, while, sweating, shuddering with loathing, he forced open those stiffening fingers and drew from their dead clutch something that he stared at with dilating eyes, and with white lips suddenly compressed, ere he hid it away in his pocket.

Then, shivering, he arose and backed away, feeling behind him for the door, and so passed out into the passage and down the stairs, but always with his pale face turned toward the dim-lit room where Jasper Gaunt lolled in his chair, a bedabbled, wide-eyed thing of horror, staring up at the dingy ceiling.

Thus, moving ever backwards, Barnabas came to the front door, felt for the catch, but, with his hand upon it, paused once more to listen; yet heard only the thick beating of his own heart, and the loud, deliberate ticking of the wizen-faced clock upon the stairs. And now, as he hearkened, it seemed to him that it spoke no more but had taken on a new and more awful sound; for now its slow, rhythmic beat was hatefully like another sound, a soft sound and regular, a small, dull, plashing sound,--the awful tap! tap! tap! of great, slow-falling drops of blood.

LXIV. WHICH SHOWS SOMETHING OF THE HORRORS OF REMORSE

With this dreadful sound in his ears, Barnabas hurried away from that place of horror; but ever the sound pursued him, it echoed in his step, it panted in his quickened breathing, it throbbed in the pulsing of his heart. Wherever he looked, there always was Jasper Gaunt lolling in his chair with his head dangling at its horrible angle,--the very night was full of him.

Hot-foot went Barnabas, by dingy streets and silent houses, and with his chin now on one shoulder, now on the other; and thus, he presently found himself before a certain door and, remembering its faulty catch, tried it but found it fast. Therefore he knocked, softly at first, but louder and louder until at length the door was plucked suddenly open and a woman appeared, a slatternly creature who bore a candle none too steadily.

"Now then, owdacious," she began, somewhat slurring of speech. "What d'ye want--this time o' night--knocking at 'spectable door of a person?"

"Is Mr. Barrymaine in?"

"Mist' Barrymaine?" repeated the woman, scattering grease-spots as she raised the candle in her unsteady hand, "what d'ye wan' this time o'--"

Here, becoming aware of the magnificence of the visitor's attire, she dropped Barnabas a floundering curtsy and showered the step with grease-spots.

"Can I see Mr. Barrymaine?"

"Yes, sir--this way, sir, an' min' the step, sir. See Mist' Barrymaine, yes, sir, firs' floor--an' would you be so good as to ax 'im to keep 'is feet still, or, as you might say, 'is trotters, sir--"

"His feet?"

"Also 'is legs, sir, if you'd be so very obleeging, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"Come an' listen, sir!" So saying, the woman opened a door and stood with a finger pointing unsteadily upwards. "Been a-doing of it ever since 'e came in a hour ago. It ain't loud, p'r'aps, but it's worriting--very worriting. If 'e wants to dance 'e might move about a bit 'stead o' keeping in one place all the time--'ark!" And she pointed with her quavering finger to a certain part of the ceiling whence came the tramp! tramp! of restless feet; and yet the feet never moved away.

"I'll go up!" said Barnabas, and, nodding to the slatternly woman, he hurried along the passage and mounting the dark stair, paused before a dingy door. Now, setting his ear to the panel, he heard a sound--a muffled sound, hoarse but continuous, ever and anon rising to a wail only to sink again, yet never quite ceasing. Then, feeling the door yield to his hand, Barnabas opened it and, stepping softly into the room, closed it behind him.

The place was very dark, except where the moon sent a fugitive beam through the uncurtained window, and face downward across this pale light lay a huddled figure from whose unseen lips the sounds issued--long, awful, gasping sobs; a figure that stirred and writhed like one in torment, whose clenched hands beat themselves upon the frayed carpet, while, between the sobbing and the beat of those clenched hands, came broken prayers intermingled with oaths and moaning protestations.

Barnabas drew a step nearer, and, on the instant, the grovelling figure started up to an elbow; thus, stooping down, Barnabas looked into the haggard face of Ronald Barrymaine.

"Beverley!" he gasped, "w-what d'you want? Go away,--l-leave me!"

"No!" said Barnabas, "it is you who must go away--at once. You must leave London to-night!"

"W-what d' you mean?"

"You must be clear of England by to-morrow night at latest."

Barrymaine stared up at Barnabas wide-eyed and passed his tongue to and fro across his lips before he spoke again:

"Beverley, w-what d' you--mean?"

"I know why you keep your right hand hidden!" said Barnabas.

Barrymaine shivered suddenly, but his fixed stare never wavered, only, as he crouched there, striving to speak yet finding no voice, upon his furrowed brow and pallid cheek ran glittering lines of sweat. At last he contrived to speak again, but in a whisper now:

"W-what do you mean?"

"I mean that tonight I found this scrap of cloth, and I recognized it as part of the cuff of your sleeve, and I found it clenched in Jasper Gaunt's dead hand."

With a hoarse, gasping cry Barrymaine cast himself face down upon the floor again and writhed there like one in agony.

"I d-didn't mean to--oh, God! I never m-meant it!" he groaned and, starting to his knees, he caught at Barnabas with wild, imploring hands: "Oh, Beverley, I s-swear to you I n-never meant to do it. I went there tonight to l-learn the truth, and he th-threatened me--threatened me, I tell you, s-so we fought and he was s-strong and swung me against the w-wall. And then, Beverley--as we s-struggled--somehow I g-got hold of--of the dagger and struck at him--b-blindly. And--oh, my God, Beverley--I shall never forget how he--ch-choked! I can hear it now! But I didn't mean to--do it. Oh, I s-swear I never meant it, Beverley--s-so help me, God!"

"But he is dead," said Barnabas, "and now--"

"Y-you won't give me up, Beverley?" cried Barrymaine, clinging to his knees. "I wronged you, I know--n-now, but don't g-give me up. I'm not afraid to d-die like a g-gentleman should, but--the gallows--oh, my God!"

"No, you must be saved--from that!"

"Ah--w-will you help me?"

"That is why I came."

"W-what must I do?"

"Start for Dover--to-night."

"Yes--yes, Dover. B-but I have no money."

"Here are twenty guineas, they will help you well on your way. When they are gone you shall have more."

"Beverley, I--wronged you, but I know now who my c-creditor really is--I know who has been m-my enemy all along--oh, blind f-fool that I've been,--but I know--now. And I think it's t-turned my brain. Beverley,--my head's all confused--wish D-Dig were here. But I shall be better s-soon. It was D-Dover you said, I think?"

"Yes,--but now, take off that coat."

"B-but it's the only one I've got!"

"You shall have mine," said Barnabas and, throwing aside his cloak, he stripped off that marvellous garment (whose flattened revers were never to become the vogue, after all), and laid it upon the table beside Barrymaine who seemed as he leaned there to be shaken by strange twitchings and tremblings.

"Oh, Beverley," he muttered, "it would have been a good th-thing for me if somebody had s-strangled me at birth. No!--d-don't light the candle!" he cried suddenly, for Barnabas had sought and found the tinder-box, "don't! d-don't!"

But Barnabas struck and the tinder caught, then, as the light came, Barrymaine shrank away and away, and, crouching against the wall, stared down at himself, at his right sleeve ripped and torn, and at certain marks that spattered and stained him, here and there, awful marks much darker than the cloth. Now as he looked, a great horror seemed to come upon him, he trembled violently and, stumbling forward, sank upon his knees beside the table, hiding his sweating face between his arms. And, kneeling thus, he uttered soft, strange, unintelligible noises and the table shook and quivered under him.

"Come, you must take off that coat!"

Very slowly Barrymaine lifted his heavy head and looked at Barnabas with dilating eyes and with his mouth strangely drawn and twisted.

"Oh, Beverley!" he whispered, "I--I think I'm--"

"You must give me that coat!" persisted Barnabas.

Still upon his knees, Barrymaine began to fumble at the buttons of that stained, betraying garment but, all at once, his fingers seemed to grow uncertain, they groped aimlessly, fell away, and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, while upon his lip was something white, like foam.

"I--oh I--Beverley, I--c-can't!"

And now, all at once, as they stared into each other's eyes, Barnabas leaning forward, strong and compelling, Barrymaine upon his knees clinging weakly to the table, sudden and sharp upon the stillness broke a sound--an ominous sound, the stumble of a foot that mounted the stair.

Uttering a broken cry Barrymaine struggled up to his feet, strove desperately to speak, his distorted mouth flecked with foam, and beating the air with frantic hands pitched over and thudded to the floor.

Then the door opened and Mr. Smivvle appeared who, calling upon Barrymaine's name, ran forward and fell upon his knees beside that convulsed and twisted figure.

"My God, Beverley!" he cried, "how comes he like this--what has happened?"

"Are you his friend?"

"Yes, yes, his friend--certainly! Haven't I told you the hand of a Smivvle, sir--"

"Tonight he killed Jasper Gaunt."

"Eh? Killed? Killed him?"

"Murdered him--though I think more by accident than design."

"Killed him! Murdered him!"

"Yes. Pull yourself together and listen. Tomorrow the hue and cry will be all over London, we must get him away--out of the country if possible."

"Yes, yes--of course! But he's ill--a fit, I think."

"Have you ever seen him so before?"

"Never so bad as this. There, Barry, there, my poor fellow! Help me to get him on the couch, will you, Beverley?"

Between them they raised that twitching form; then, as Mr. Smivvle stooped to set a cushion beneath the restless head, he started suddenly back, staring wide-eyed and pointing with a shaking finger.

"My God!" he whispered, "what's that? Look--look at his coat."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "we must have it off."

"No, no--it's too awful!" whimpered Mr. Smivvle, shrinking away, "see--it's--it's all down the front!"

"If this coat is ever found, it will hang him!" said Barnabas. "Come, help me to get it off."

So between them it was done; thereafter, while Mr. Smivvle crouched beside that restless, muttering form, Barnabas put on his cloak and, rolling up the torn coat, hid it beneath its ample folds.

"What, are you going, Beverley?"

"Yes--for one thing to get rid of this coat. On the table are twenty guineas, take them, and just so soon as Barrymaine is fit to travel, get him away, but above all, don't--"

"Who is it?" cried Barrymaine suddenly, starting up and peering wildly over his shoulder, "w-who is it? Oh, I t-tell you there's s-somebody behind me--who is it?"

"Nobody, Barry--not a soul, my poor boy, compose yourself!" But, even as Mr. Smivvle spoke, Barrymaine fell back and lay moaning fitfully and with half-closed eyes. "Indeed I fear he is very ill, Beverley!"

"If he isn't better by morning, get a doctor," said Barnabas, "but, whatever you do--keep Chichester away from him. As regards money I'll see you shan't want for it. And now, for the present, good-by!"

So saying, Barnabas caught up his hat and, with a last glance at the moaning figure on the couch, went from the room and down the stairs, and let himself out into the dingy street.

LXV. WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS DISCHARGED HIS VALET

It was long past midnight when Barnabas reached his house in St. James's Square; and gazing up at its goodly exterior he sighed, and thereafter frowned, and so, frowning still, let himself in. Now, late though the hour, Peterby was up, and met him in the hall.

"Sir," said he, anxious of eye as he beheld his young master's disordered dress and the grim pallor of his face, "the Marquis of Jerningham and Viscount Devenham called. They waited for you,--they waited over an hour."

"But they are gone now, of course?" inquired Barnabas, pausing, with his foot on the stair.

"Yes, sir--"

"Good!" nodded Barnabas with a sigh of relief.

"But they left word they would call to-morrow morning, early; indeed they seemed most anxious to see you, sir."

"Ha!" said Barnabas, and, frowning still, went on up the stair.

"Sir," said Peterby, lighting the way into the dressing-room, "you received the--the letter safely?"

"Yes, I received it," said Barnabas, tossing aside his hat and cloak, "and that reminds me,--to-morrow morning you will discharge all the servants."

"Sir?"

"Pay them a month's wages. Also you will get rid of this house and furniture, and all the carriages and horses--except 'The Terror,' --sell them for what they will fetch--no matter how little, only--get rid of them."

"Yes, sir."

"As for yourself, Peterby, I shall require your services no longer. But you needn't lack for a position--every dandy of 'em all will be wild to get you. And, because you are the very best valet in the world, you can demand your own terms."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, I think that is all, I shan't want you again tonight--stay though, before I go to bed bring me the things I wore when I first met you, the garments which as clothes, you told me, didn't exist."

"Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Oh, yes--if you wish," sighed Barnabas, wearily.

"Are you leaving London, sir?"

"I'm leaving the World of Fashion--yes."

"And you--don't wish me to accompany you, sir."

"No."

"Have I--displeased you in any way?"

"No, it is only that the 'best valet in the world' would be wasted on me any longer, and I shall not need you where I am going."

"Not as a--servant, sir?"

"No."

"Then, sir, may I remind you that I am also a--man? A man who owes all that he is to your generosity and noble trust and faith. And, sir, it seems to me that a man may sometimes venture where a servant may not--if you are indeed done with the Fashionable World, I have done with it also, for I shall never serve any other than you."

Then Barnabas turned away and coming to the mantel leaned there, staring blankly down at the empty hearth; and in a while he spoke, though without looking up:

"The Fashionable World has turned its polite back upon me, Peterby, because I am only the son of a village inn-keeper. But--much more than this--my lady has--has lost her faith in me, my fool's dream is over--nothing matters any more. And so I am going away to a place I have heard described by a pedler of books as 'the worst place in the world'--and indeed I think it is."

"Sir," said Peterby, "when do we start?"

Then, very slowly, Barnabas lifted his heavy head and looked at John Peterby; and, in that dark hour, smiled, and reaching out, caught and grasped his hand; also, when he spoke again, his voice was less hard and not so steady as before:

"Oh, John!" said he, "John Peterby--my faithful John! Come with me if you will, but you come as my--friend."

"And--where are we going, sir?" inquired John, as they stood thus, hand in hand, looking into each other's eyes.

"To Giles's Rents, John,--down by the River."

And thus did Barnabas, in getting rid of the "best valet in the world," find for himself a faithful friend instead.

LXVI. OF CERTAIN CON-CLUSIONS DRAWN BY MR. SHRIG

Number Five St. James's Square was to let; its many windows were blank and shuttered, its portal, which scarcely a week ago had been besieged by Fashion, was barred and bolted, the Gentleman-in-Powder had vanished quite, and with him the glory of Number Five St. James's Square had departed utterly.

Barnabas paused to let his gaze wander over it, from roof to pavement, then, smiling a little bitterly, buried his chin in the folds of his belcher neckerchief and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, turned and went his way.

And as he went, smiling still, and still a little bitterly, he needs must remember and vaguely wonder what had become of all that Polite notepaper, and all those Fashionable cards, embossed, gilt-edged, and otherwise, that had been wont to pour upon him every morning, and which had so rejoiced the highly susceptible and eloquent legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder.

Evening was falling and the square seemed deserted save for a solitary man in a neckcloth of vivid hue, a dejected-looking man who lounged against the wall under the shade of the trees in the middle of the square, and seemed lost in contemplation of his boots. And yet when Barnabas, having traversed Charles Street and turned into the Haymarket, chanced to look back, he saw that the man was lounging dejectedly after him. Therefore Barnabas quickened his steps, and, reaching the crowded Strand, hurried on through the bustling throng; but just beyond Temple Bar, caught a glimpse of the vivid neckcloth on the opposite side of the road. Up Chancery Lane and across Holborn went Barnabas, yet, as he turned down Leather Lane, there, sure enough, was the man in the neckcloth as dejected as ever, but not twelve yards behind.

Half-way down crowded Leather Lane Barnabas turned off down a less frequented street and halting just beyond the corner, waited for his pursuer to come up. And presently round the corner he came and, in his hurry, very nearly stumbled over Barnabas, who promptly reached out a long arm and pinned him by the vivid neckcloth.

"Why do you follow me?" he demanded.

"Foller you?" repeated the man.

"You have been following me all the way."

"Have I?" said the man.

"You know you have. Come, what do you want?"

"Well, first," said the man, sighing dejectedly, "leggo my neck, will ye be so kind?"

"Not till you tell me why you follow me."

"Why, then," said the man, "listen and I'll tell ye."

"Well?" demanded Barnabas.

But, all at once, and quick as a flash, with a wrench and a cunning twist, the man had broken away and, taking to his heels, darted off down the street and was gone.

For a moment Barnabas stood hesitating, undecided whether to go on to Barrymaine's lodging or no, and finally struck off in the opposite direction, towards Gray's Inn Lane and so by devious ways eventually arrived at the back door of the "Gun," on which he forthwith knocked.

It was opened, almost immediately, by Corporal Richard Roe himself, who stared a moment, smiled, and thereupon extended a huge hand.

"What, is it you, sir?" he exclaimed, "for a moment I didn't know ye. Step in, sir, step in, we're proud to see ye."

So saying, he ushered Barnabas down two steps into the small but very snug chamber that he remembered, with its rows upon rows of shelves whereon a whole regiment of bottles and glasses were drawn up in neat array, "dressed" and marshalled as if on parade; it was indeed a place of superlative tidiness where everything seemed to be in a perpetual state of neatness and order.

In a great elbow chair beside the ingle, with a cushion at his back and another beneath one foot, sat Mr. Shrig puffing at a pipe and with his little reader open on the table at his elbow. He looked a little thinner and paler than usual, and Barnabas noticed that one leg was swathed in bandages, but his smile was as innocent and guileless and his clasp as warm as ever as they greeted each other.

"You must ax-cuse me rising, sir," said he, "the sperrit is villing but natur' forbids, it can't be done on account o' this here leg o' mine,--a slug through the stamper, d' ye see, vich is bad enough, though better than it might ha' been. But it vere a good night on the whole,--thanks to you and the Corp 'ere, I got the whole gang, --though, from conclusions as I'd drawed I'ad 'oped to get--vell, shall ve say Number Two? But Fate was ag'in me. Still, I don't complain, and the vay you fought 'em off till the Corp and my specials come up vas a vonder!"

"Ah! that it were!" nodded the Corporal.

"Though 'ow you wanished yourself avay, and v'ere you wanished to, is more vonderful still."

"Ah, that it is, sir!" nodded the Corporal again.

"Why," explained Barnabas, "I was stunned by a blow on the head, and when I came to, found myself lying out on the wharf behind a broken boat. I should have come round here days ago to inquire how you were, Mr. Shrig, only that my time has been--much occupied--of late."

"Veil, sir," said Mr. Shrig, puffing hard at his pipe, "from all accounts I should reckon as it 'ad. By Goles! but ve vas jest talking about you, sir, the werry i-dentical moment as you knocked at the door. I vas jest running over my little reader and telling the Corp the v'y and the v'erefore as you couldn't ha' done the deed."

"What deed?"

"V'y--the deed. The deed as all London is a-talking of,--the murder o' Jasper Gaunt, the money-lender."

"Ah!" said Barnabas thoughtfully. "And so you are quite sure that I--didn't murder Jasper Gaunt, are you. Mr. Shrig?"

"Quite--oh, Lord love you, yes!"

"And why?"

"Because," said Mr. Shrig with his guileless smile, and puffing out a cloud of smoke and watching it vanish ceilingwards, "because I 'appen to know 'oo did."

"Oh!" said Barnabas more thoughtfully than ever. "And who do you think it is?"

"Vell, sir," answered Mr. Shrig ponderously, "from conclusions as I've drawed I don't feel at liberty to name no names nor yet cast no insinivations, but--v'en the other traps (sich werry smart coves too!) 'ave been and gone an' arrested all the innercent parties in London, v'y then I shall put my castor on my napper, and take my tickler in my fib and go and lay my 'ooks on the guilty party."

"And when will that be?"

"Jest so soon as my leg sarves me, sir,--say a veek,--say, two."

"You're in no hurry then?"

"Lord, no, sir, I'm never in an 'urry."

"And you say you think you know who the murderer is?"

"V-y no, sir,--from conclusions as I've drawed I'm sure and sartin 'oo did the deed. But come, sir, vot do you say to a glass o' the Vun and Only, to drink a quick despatch to the guilty party?"

But the clock striking eight, Barnabas shook his head and rose.

"Thank you, but I must be going," said he.

"V'y if you must, you must," sighed Mr. Shrig as they shook hands; "good evening, sir, an' if anything unpleasant should 'appen to you in the next day or two--jest tip me the vord."

"What do you mean by unpleasant, Mr. Shrig?"

"Vell, took up p'r'aps, or shall ve say--arrested,--by some o' the other traps--sich werry smart coves, too!"

"Do you think it likely, Mr. Shrig?"

"Vell, sir," said Mr. Shrig, with his placid smile, "there's some traps as is so uncommon smart that they've got an 'abit of arresting innercent parties verever found, d'ye see. But if they should 'appen to lay their 'ooks on ye, jest tip me the office, sir."

"Thank you," said Barnabas, "I shan't forget," and, with a final nod to Mr. Shrig, turned and followed the Corporal into Gray's Inn Lane.

Now when Barnabas would have gone his way the Corporal stayed him with a very large but very gentle hand, and thereafter stood, rubbing his shaven chin with his shining hook and seeming very much abashed.

"What is it, Corporal?" Barnabas inquired.

"Well, sir," said the soldier diffidently, "it's like this, sir, my pal Jarsper and me, 'aving heard of--of your--altered circumstances, sir, wishes it to be understood as once your pals, ever your pals, come shine, come rain. We likewise wish it to be understood as if at any time a--a guinea would come in 'andy-like, sir--or say two or three, my pal Jarsper and me will be proud to oblige, proud, sir. And lastly, sir, my pal Jarsper and me would 'ave you to know as if at any time you want a friend to your back, there's me and there's 'im--or a roof to your 'ead, why there's ever and always the 'Gun' open to you, sir. We wishes you to understand this and--good evening, sir!"

But, or ever the blushing Corporal could escape, Barnabas caught and wrung his hand:

"And I, Corporal," said he, "I wish you both to know that I am proud to have won two such staunch friends, and that I shall always esteem it an honor to ask your aid or take your hands,--good night, Corporal!"

So saying, Barnabas turned upon his heel, and as he went his step was free and his eye brighter than it had been.

He took an intricate course by winding alleys and narrow side-streets, keeping his glance well about him until at length he came to a certain door in a certain dingy street,--and, finding the faulty latch yield to his hand, entered a narrow, dingy hall and groped his way up the dingiest stairs in the world.

Now all at once he fancied he heard a stealthy footstep that climbed on in the darkness before him, and he paused suddenly, but, hearing nothing, strode on, then stopped again for, plain enough this time, some one stumbled on the stair above him. So he stood there in the gloom, very still and very silent, and thus he presently heard another sound, very soft and faint like the breathing of a sigh. And all at once Barnabas clenched his teeth and spoke.

"Who is it?" he demanded fiercely, "now, by God--if it's you, Chichester--" and with the word, he reached out before him in the dark with merciless, griping hands.

The contact of something warm and soft; a broken, pitiful cry of fear, and he had a woman in his arms. And, even as he clasped that yielding form, Barnabas knew instinctively who it was, and straightway thrilled with a wild joy.

"Madam!" he said hoarsely. "Madam!"

But she never stirred, nay it almost seemed she sank yet closer into his embrace, if that could well be.

"Cleone!" he whispered.

"Barnabas," sighed a voice; and surely no other voice in all the world could have uttered the word so tenderly.

"I--I fear I frightened you?"

"Yes, a little--Barnabas."

"You are--trembling very much."

"Am I--Barnabas?"

"I am sorry that I--frightened you."

"I'm better now."

"Yet you--tremble!"

"But I--think I can walk if--"

"If--?"

"If you will help me, please--Barnabas."

Oh, surely never had those dark and dingy stairs, worn though they were by the tread of countless feet, heard till now a voice so soft, so low and sweet, so altogether irresistible! Such tender, thrilling tones might have tamed Hyrcanean tigers or charmed the ferocity of Cerberus himself. Then how might our Barnabas hope to resist, the more especially as one arm yet encircled the yielding softness of her slender waist and her fragrant breath was upon his cheek?

Help her? Of course he would.

"It's so very--dark," she sighed.

"Yes, it's very dark," said Barnabas, "but it isn't far to the landing--shall we go up?"

"Yes, but--" my lady hesitated a moment as one who takes breath for some great effort, and, in that moment, he felt her bosom heave beneath his hand. "Oh, Barnabas," she whispered, "won't you--kiss me--first?"

Then Barnabas trembled in his turn, the arm about her grew suddenly rigid and, when he spoke, his voice was harsh and strained.

"Madam," said he, "can the mere kiss of an--inn-keeper's son restore your dead faith?"

Now when he had said this, Cleone shrank in his embrace and uttered a loud cry as if he had offered her some great wrong, and, breaking from him, was gone before him up the stair, running in the dark.

Oh, Youth! Oh, Pride!

So Barnabas hurried after her and thus, as she threw open Barrymaine's door he entered with her and, in his sudden abasement, would have knelt to her, but Ronald Barrymaine had sprung up from the couch and now leaned there, staring with dazed eyes like one new wakened from sleep.

"Ronald," she cried, running to him, "I came as soon as I could, but I didn't understand your letter. You wrote of some great danger. Oh, Ronald dear, what is it--this time?"

"D-danger!" he repeated, and with the word, turned to stare over his shoulder into the dingiest corner: "d-danger, yes, so I am,--but t-tell me who it is--behind me, in the corner?"

"No one, Ronald."

"Yes--yes there is, I tell you," he whispered, "look again--now, d-don't you see him?"

"No, oh no!" answered Cleone, clasping her hands, and shrinking before Barrymaine's wild and haggard look. "Oh, Ronald, there's--no one there!"

"Yes there is, he's always there now--always just behind me. Last night he began to talk to me--ah, no, no--what am I saying? never heed me, Clo. I--I asked you to come because I'm g-going away, soon, very s-soon, Clo, and I know I shall n-never see you again. I suppose you thought it was m-money I wanted, but no--it's not that, I wanted to say good-by because you see I'm g-going away--to-night!"

"Going away, Ronald?" she repeated, sinking to her knees beside the rickety couch, for he had fallen back there as though overcome by sudden weakness. "Dear boy, where are you going--and why?"

"I'm g-going far away--because I must--the s-sooner the better!" he whispered, struggling to his elbow to peer into the corner again. "Yes, the s-sooner the better. But, before I go I want you to promise--to swear, Clo--to s-swear to me--" Barrymaine sat up suddenly and, laying his nervous hands upon her shoulders, leaned down to her in fierce eagerness, "You must s-swear to me n-never to see or have anything to do with that d-devil, Chichester, d' ye hear me, Clo, d' ye hear me?"

"But--oh, Ronald, I don't understand, you always told me he was your friend, I thought--"

"Friend!" cried Barrymaine passionately. "He's a devil, I tell you he's a d-devil, oh--" Barrymaine choked and fell back gasping; but, even as Cleone leaned above him all tender solicitude, he pushed her aside and, springing to his feet, reached out and caught Barnabas by the arm. "Beverley," he cried, "you'll shield her from him--w-when I'm gone, you'll l-look after her, won't you, Beverley? She's the only thing I ever loved--except my accursed self. You will shield her from--that d-devil!"

Then, still clutching Barnabas, he turned and seized Cleone's hands.

"Clo!" he cried, "dearest of sisters, if ever you need a f-friend when I'm gone, he's here. Turn to him, Clo--look up--give him your hand. Y-you loved him once, I think, and you were right--quite r-right. You can t-trust Beverley, Clo--g-give him your hand."

"No, no!" cried Cleone, and, snatching her fingers from Barrymaine's clasp, she turned away.

"What--you w-won't?"

"No--never, never!"

"Why not? Answer me! Speak, I tell you!"

But Cleone knelt there beside the couch, her head proudly averted, uttering no word.

"Why, you don't think, like so many of the fools, that he killed Jasper Gaunt, do you?" cried Barrymaine feverishly. "You don't think he d-did it, do you--do you? Ah, but he didn't--he didn't, I tell you, and I know--because--"

"Stop!" exclaimed Barnabas.

"Stop--no, why should I? She'll learn soon enough now and I'm m-man enough to tell her myself--I'm no c-coward, I tell you--"

Then Cleone raised her head and looked up at her half-brother, and in her eyes were a slow-dawning fear and horror.

"Oh, Ronald!" she whispered, "what do you mean?"

"Mean?" cried Barrymaine, "I mean that I did it--I did it. Yes, I k-killed Jasper Gaunt, but it was no m-murder, Clo--a--a fight, an accident--yes, I s-swear to God I never meant to do it."

"You!" she whispered, "you?"

"Yes, I--I did it, but I swear I never m-meant to--oh, Cleone--" and he reached down to her with hands outstretched appealingly. But Cleone shrank down and down--away from him, until she was crouching on the floor, yet staring up at him with wide and awful eyes.

"You!" she whispered.

"Don't!" he cried. "Ah, don't look at me like that and oh, my God! W-won't you l-let me t-touch you, Clo?"

"I--I'd rather you--wouldn't;" and Barnabas saw that she was shivering violently.

"But it was no m-murder," he pleaded, "and I'm g-going away, Clo--ah! won't you let me k-kiss you good-by--just once, Clo?"

"I'd rather--you wouldn't," she whispered.

"Y-your hand, then--only your hand, Clo."

"I'd rather--you didn't!"

Then Ronald Barrymaine groaned and fell on his knees beside her and sought to kiss her little foot, the hem of her dress, a strand of her long, yellow hair; but seeing how she shuddered away from him, a great sob broke from him and he rose to his feet.

"Beverley," he said, "oh, Beverley, s-she won't let me touch her." And so stood a while with his face hidden in his griping hands. After a moment he looked down at her again, but seeing how she yet gazed at him with that wide, awful, fixed stare, he strove as if to speak; then, finding no words, turned suddenly upon his heel and crossing the room, went into his bed-chamber and locked the door.

Then Barnabas knelt beside that shaken, desolate figure and fain would have comforted her, but now he could hear her speaking in a passionate whisper, and the words she uttered were these:

"Oh, God forgive him! Oh, God help him! Have mercy upon him, oh God of Pity!"

And these words she whispered over and over again until, at length, Barnabas reached out and touched her very gently.

"Cleone!" he said.

At the touch she rose and stood looking round the dingy room like one distraught, and, sighing, crossed unsteadily to the door.

And when they reached the stair, Barnabas would have taken her hand because of the dark, but she shrank away from him and shook her head.

"Sir," said she very softly, "a murderer's sister needs no help, I thank you."

And so they went down the dark stair with never a word between them and, reaching the door with the faulty latch, Barnabas held it open and they passed out into the dingy street, and as they walked side by side towards Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw that her eyes were still fixed and wide and that her lips still moved in silent prayer.

In a while, being come into Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw a hackney coach before them, and beside the coach a burly, blue-clad figure, a conspicuous figure by reason of his wooden leg and shiny, glazed hat.

"W'y, Lord, Mr. Beverley, sir!" exclaimed the Bo'sun, hurrying forward, with his hairy fist outstretched, "this is a surprise, sir, likewise a pleasure, and--" But here, observing my lady's face, he checked himself suddenly, and opening the carriage door aided her in very tenderly, beckoning Barnabas to follow. But Barnabas shook his head.

"Take care of her, Bo'sun," said he, clasping the sailor's hand, "take great care of her." So saying, he closed the door upon them, and stood to watch the rumbling coach down the bustling street until it had rumbled itself quite out of sight.

Chapter LXVII

WHICH GIVES SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD

A bad place by day, an evil place by night, an unsavory place at all times is Giles's Rents, down by the River.

It is a place of noisome courts and alleys, of narrow, crooked streets, seething with a dense life from fetid cellar to crowded garret, amid whose grime and squalor the wail of the new-born infant is echoed by the groan of decrepit age and ravaging disease; where Vice is rampant and ghoulish Hunger stalks, pale and grim.

Truly an unholy place is Giles's Rents, down by the River.

Here, upon a certain evening, Barnabas, leaning out from his narrow casement, turned wistful-eyed, to stare away over broken roof and chimney, away beyond the maze of squalid courts and alleys that hemmed him in to where, across the River, the sun was setting in a blaze of glory, yet a glory that served only to make more apparent all the filth and decay, all the sordid ugliness of his surroundings.

Below him was a dirty court, where dirty children fought and played together, filling the reeking air with their shrill clamor, while slatternly women stood gossiping in ragged groups with grimy hands on hips, or with arms rolled up in dingy aprons. And Barnabas noticed that the dirty children and gossiping women turned very often to stare and point up at a certain window a little further along the court, and he idly wondered why.

It had been a day of stifling heat, and even now, though evening was at hand, he breathed an air close and heavy and foul with a thousand impurities.

Now as he leaned there, with his earnest gaze bent ever across the River, Barnabas sighed, bethinking him of clean, white, country roads, of murmuring brooks and rills, of the cool green shades of dewy woods full of the fragrance of hidden flower and herb and sweet, moist earth. But most of all he bethought him of a certain wayside inn, an ancient inn of many gables, above whose hospitable door swung a sign whereon a weather-beaten hound, dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that by common report was held to be hare; a comfortable, homely inn of no especial importance perhaps, yet the very best inn to be found in all broad England, none the less. And, as he thought, a sudden, great yearning came upon Barnabas and, leaning his face between his hands, he said within himself:

"'I will arise, and go to my father!'"

But little by little he became aware that the clamor below had ceased and, glancing down into the court, beheld two men in red waistcoats, large men, bewhiskered men and square of elbow. Important men were these, at sight of whom the ragged children stood awed and silent and round of eye, while the gossiping women drew back to give them way. Yes, men of consequence they were, beyond a doubt, and Barnabas noticed that they also stared very often at a certain window a little further up the court and from it to a third man who limped along close behind them by means of a very nobbly stick; a shortish, broadish, mild-looking man whose face was hidden beneath the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat. Nevertheless at sight of this man Barnabas uttered an exclamation, drew in his head very suddenly and thereafter stood, listening and expectant, his gaze on the door like one who waits to meet the inevitable.

And after a while, he saw the latch raised cautiously, and the door begin to open very slowly and noiselessly. It had opened thus perhaps some six inches when he spoke:

"Is that you, Mr. Shrig?"

Immediately the door became stationary and, after some brief pause a voice issued from behind it, a voice somewhat wheezing and hoarse.

"Which your parding I ax, sir," said the voice, "which your parding I 'umbly ax, but it ain't, me being a respectable female, sir, name o' Snummitt, sir--charing, sir, also washing and clear-starching, sir!"

Hereupon, the door having opened to its fullest, Barnabas saw a stout, middle-aged woman whose naturally unlovely look had been further marred by the loss of one eye, while the survivor, as though constantly striving to make amends, was continually rolling itself up and down and to and fro, in a manner quite astonishing to behold.

"Which my name is Snummitt," she repeated, bobbing a curtsy and momentarily eclipsing the rolling eye under the poke of a very large bonnet, "Mrs. Snummitt, sir, which though a widder I'm respectable and of 'igh character and connections. Which me 'aving only one heye ain't by no manner of means to be 'eld ag'in me, seeing as it were took away by a act o' Providence in the shape of another lady's boot-'eel sixteen summers ago come Michaelmas."

"Indeed," said Barnabas, seeing Mrs. Snummitt had paused for breath, "but what--"

"Which I were to give you Mr. Bimby's compliments, sir, and ax if you could oblige him with the loan of a wine-glass?"

"Mr. Bimby?"

"Over-'ead, sir--garret! You may 'ave 'eard 'im, now and then--flute, sir, 'armonious, though doleful."

"And he wants a wine-glass, does he?" said Barnabas, and forthwith produced that article from a rickety corner-cupboard and handed it to Mrs. Snummitt, who took it, glanced inside it, turned it upside-down, and rolled her eye at Barnabas eloquently.

"What more?" he inquired.

"Which I would mention, sir, or shall we say, 'int, as if you could put a little drop o' summat inside of it--brandy, say--'t would be doing a great favor."

"Ah, to be sure!" said Barnabas. And, having poured out a stiff quantum of the spirit, he gave it to Mrs. Snummit, who took it, curtsied, and rolling her solitary orb at the bottle on the table, smiled engagingly.

"Which I would thank you kindly on be'alf o' Mr. Bimby, sir, and, seeing it upon the tip o' your tongue to ax me to partake, I begs to say 'Amen,' with a slice o' lemming cut thin, and thank you from my 'eart."

"I fear I have no lemon," began Barnabas.

"Then we won't say no more about it, sir, not a word. 'Evings forbid as a lemming should come betwixt us seeing as I am that shook on account o' pore, little Miss Pell."

"Who is Miss Pell?"

"She's one as was, sir, but now--ain't," answered Mrs. Snummitt and, nodding gloomily, she took down the brandy in three separate and distinct gulps, closed her eyes, sighed, and nodded her poke bonnet more gloomily than before. "Little Miss Pell, sir, 'ad a attic three doors down, sir, and pore little Miss Pell 'as been and gone and--done it! Which do it I knowed she would."

"Done what?" inquired Barnabas.

"Five long year come shine, come rain, I've knowed pore Miss Pell, and though small, a real lady she were, but lonesome. Last night as ever was, she met me on the stairs, and by the same token I 'ad a scrubbing-brush in one 'and and a bucket in the other, me 'aving been charing for the first floor front, a 'andsome gent with whiskers like a lord, and 'oh, Mrs. Snummitt!' she sez and all of a twitter she was too, 'dear Mrs. Snummitt,' sez she, 'I'm a-going away on a journey,' she sez, 'but before I go,' she sez, 'I should like to kiss you good-by, me being so lonesome,' she sez. Which kiss me she did, sir, and likewise wep' a couple o' big tears over me, pore soul, and then, run away into 'er dark little attic and locked 'erself in, and--done it!"

"What--what did she do?"

"'Ung 'erself in the cupboard, sir. Kissed me only last night she did and wep' over me, and now--cold and stiff, pore soul?"

"But why did she do it?" cried Barnabas, aghast.

"Well, there was the lonesomeness and--well, she 'adn't eat anything for two days it seems, and--"

"You mean that she was hungry--starving?"

"Generally, sir. But things was worse lately on account of 'er heyes getting weak. 'Mrs. Snummitt,' she used to say, 'my heyes is getting worse and worse,' she'd say, 'but I shall work as long as I can see the stitches, and then, Mrs. Snummitt, I must try a change o' scene,' she used to say with a little shiver like. And I used to wonder where she'd go, but--I know now, and--well--the Bow Street Runners 'as just gone up to cut the pore soul down."

"And she killed herself--because she was hungry!" said Barnabas, staring wide-eyed.

"Oh, yes, lots on 'em do, I've knowed three or four as went and done it, and it's generally hunger as is to blame for it. There's Mr. Bimby, now, a nice little gent, but doleful like 'is flute, 'e's always 'ungry 'e is, I'll take my oath--shouldn't wonder if 'e don't come to it one o' these days. And talking of 'im I must be going, sir, and thank you kindly, I'm sure."

"Why, then," said Barnabas as she bobbed him another curtsy, "will you ask Mr. Bimby if he will do me the pleasure to step down and take supper with me?"

"Which, sir, I will, though Mr. Bimby I won't answer for, 'im being busy with the pore young man as 'e brought 'ome last night--it's 'im as the brandy's for. Ye see, sir, though doleful, Mr. Bimby's very kind 'earted, and 'e's always a-nussing somebody or something--last time it were a dog with a broke leg--ah, I've knowed 'im bring 'ome stray cats afore now, many's the time, and once a sparrer. But I'll tell 'im, sir, and thank you kindly."

And in a while, when Mrs. Snummitt had duly curtsied herself out of sight, Barnabas sighed, and turned once more to stare away, over broken roof and crumbling chimney, towards the glory of the sunset. But now, because he remembered poor little Miss Pell who had died because she was so friendless and hungry, and Mr. Bimby who was "always hungry" and played the flute, he stifled his fierce yearning for dewy wood and copse and the sweet, pure breath of the country, and thought no more of his father's inn that was so very far from the sordid grime and suffering of Giles's Rents, down by the River; and setting the kettle on the fire he sank into a chair and stretching out his long legs, fell into a profound meditation.

From this he was roused by the opening of the door, and, glancing up, beheld John Peterby. A very different person he looked from the neat, well-groomed Peterby of a week ago, what with the rough, ill-fitting clothes he wore and the fur cap pulled low over his brows; the gentleman's gentleman had vanished quite, and in his stead was a nondescript character such as might have been met with anywhere along the River, or lounging in shadowy corners. He carried a bundle beneath one arm, and cast a swift look round the room before turning to see the door behind him.

"Ah," said Barnabas nodding, "I'm glad you're back, John, and with plenty of provisions I hope, for I'm amazingly hungry, and besides, I've asked a gentleman to sup with us."

Peterby put down the bundle and, crossing to the hearth, took the kettle, which was boiling furiously, and set it upon the hob, then laying aside the fur cap spoke:

"A gentleman, sir?"

"A neighbor, John."

"Sir," said he, as he began to prepare the tea in that swift, silent manner peculiar to him in all things, "when do you propose we shall leave this place?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, John, I had almost determined to start for the country this very night, but, on second thoughts, I've decided to stay on a while. After all, we have only been here a week as yet."

"Yes, sir, it is just a week since--Jasper Gaunt was murdered," said Peterby gently as he stooped to unpack his bundle. Now when he said this, Barnabas turned to look at him again, and thus he noticed that Peterby's brow was anxious and careworn.

"I wish, John," said he, "that you would remember we are no longer master and man."

"Old habits stick, sir."

"And that I brought you to this dismal place as my friend."

"But surely, sir, a man's friend is worthy of his trust and confidence?"

"John Peterby, what do you mean?"

"Sir," said Peterby, setting down the teapot, "as I came along this evening, I met Mr. Shrig; he recognized me in spite of my disguise and he told me to--warn you--"

"Well, John?"

"That you may be arrested--"

"Yes, John?"

"For--the murder of Jasper Gaunt. Oh, sir, why have you aroused suspicion against yourself by disappearing at such a time?"

"Suspicion?" said Barnabas, and with the word he rose and laying his hands upon John Peterby's shoulders, looked into his eyes. Then, seeing the look they held, he smiled and shook his head.

"Oh, friend," said he, "what matters it so long as you know my hands are clean?"

"But, sir, if you are arrested--"

"They must next prove me guilty, John," said Barnabas, sitting down at the table.

"Or an accessory--after the fact!"

"Hum!" said Barnabas thoughtfully, "I never thought of that."

"And, sir," continued Peterby anxiously, "there are two Bow Street Runners lounging outside in the court--"

"But they're not after me yet. So cheer up, John!" Yet in that moment, Peterby sprang to his feet with fists clenched, for some one was knocking softly at the door.

"Quick, sir--the other room--hide!" he whispered. But shaking his head, Barnabas rose and, putting him gently aside, opened the door and beheld a small gentleman who bowed.

A pale, fragile little gentleman this, with eyes and hair of an indeterminate color, while his clothes, scrupulously neat and brushed and precise to a button, showed pitifully shabby and threadbare in contrast with his elaborately frilled and starched cravat and gay, though faded, satin waistcoat; and, as he stood bowing nervously to them, there was an air about him that somehow gave the impression that he was smaller even than Nature had intended.

"Gentlemen," said he, coughing nervously behind his hand, "hem!--I trust I don't intrude. Feel it my obligation to pay my respects, to--hem! to welcome you as a neighbor--as a neighbor. Arthur Bimby, humbly at your service--Arthur Bimby, once a man of parts though now brought low by abstractions, gentlemen, forces not apparent to the human optic, sirs. Still, in my day, I have been known about town as a downy bird, a smooth file, and a knowing card--hem!"

Hereupon he bowed again, looking as unlike a "smooth file" or "knowing card" as any small, inoffensive gentleman possibly could.

"Happy to see you, sir," answered Barnabas, returning his bow with one as deep, "I am Barnabas Barty at your service, and this is my good friend John Peterby. We are about to have supper--nothing very much--tea, sir, eggs, and a cold fowl, but if you would honor us--"

"Sir," cried the little gentleman with a quaver of eagerness in his voice and a gleam in his eye, both quickly suppressed, "hem!--indeed I thank you, but--regret I have already supped--hem--duck and green peas, gentlemen, though I'll admit the duck was tough--deuced tough, hem! Still, if I might be permitted to toy with an egg and discuss a dish of tea, the honor would be mine, sirs--would be mine!"

Then, while Peterby hastened to set the edibles before him, Barnabas drew up a chair and, with many bows and flutterings of the thin, restless hands, the little gentleman sat down.

"Indeed, indeed," he stammered, blinking his pale eyes, "this is most kind, I protest, most kind and neighborly!" Which said, he stooped suddenly above his plate and began to eat, that is to say he swallowed one or two mouthfuls with a nervous haste that was very like voracity, checked himself, and glancing guiltily from unconscious Barnabas to equally unconscious Peterby, sighed and thereafter ate his food as deliberately as might be expected of one who had lately dined upon duck and green peas.

"Ah!" said he, when at length his hunger was somewhat assuaged, "you are noticing the patch in my left elbow, sir?"

"No indeed!" began Barnabas.

"I think you were, sir--every one does, every one--it can't be missed, sir, and I--hem! I'm extreme conscious of it myself, sirs. I really must discard this old coat, but--hem! I'm attached to it--foolish sentiment, sirs. I wear it for associations' sake, it awakens memory, and memory is a blessed thing, sirs, a very blessed thing!"

"Sometimes!" sighed Barnabas.

"In me, sirs, you behold a decayed gentleman, yet one who has lived in his time, but now, sirs, all that remains to me is--this coat. A prince once commended it, the Beau himself condescended to notice it! Yes, sirs, I was rich once and happily married, and my friends were many. But--my best friend deceived and ruined me, my wife fled away and left me, sirs, my friends all forsook me and, to-day, all that I have to remind me of what I was when I was young and lived, is this old coat. To-day I exist as a law-writer, to-day I am old, and with my vanished youth hope has vanished too. And I call myself a decayed gentleman because I'm--fading, sirs. But to fade is genteel; Brummell faded! Yes, one may fade and still be a gentleman, but who ever heard of a fading ploughman?"

"Who, indeed?" said Barnabas.

"But to fade, sir," continued the little gentleman, lifting a thin, bloodless hand, "though genteel, is a slow process and a very weary one. Without the companionship of Hope, life becomes a hard and extreme long road to the ultimate end, and therefore I am sometimes greatly tempted to take the--easier course, the--shorter way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, there are other names for it, but--hem!--I prefer to call it 'the shorter way.'"

"Do you mean--suicide?"

"Sir," cried Mr. Bimby, shivering and raising protesting hands, "I said 'the shorter way.' Poor little Miss Pell--a lady born, sir--she used to curtsy to me on the stairs, she chose 'the shorter way.' She also was old, you see, and weary. And to-night I met another who sought to take this 'shorter way'--but he was young, and for the young there is always hope. So I brought him home with me and tried to comfort him, but I fear--"

Peterby sprang suddenly to his feet and Mr. Bimby started and turned to glance fearfully towards the door which was quivering beneath the blows of a ponderous fist. Therefore Barnabas rose and crossing the room, drew the latch. Upon the threshold stood Corporal Richard Roe, looming gigantic in the narrow doorway, who, having saluted Barnabas with his shining hook, spoke in his slow, diffident manner.

"Sir," said he, "might I speak a word wi' you?"

"Why, Corporal, I'm glad to see you--come in!"

"Sir," said the big soldier with another motion of his glittering hook, "might I ax you to step outside wi' me jest a moment?"

"Certainly, Corporal," and with a murmured apology to Mr. Bimby, Barnabas followed the Corporal out upon the gloomy landing and closed the door. Now at the further end of the landing was a window, open to admit the air, and, coming to this window, the Corporal glanced down stealthily into the court below, beckoning Barnabas to do the like:

"Sir," said he in a muffled tone, "d' ye see them two coves in the red weskits?" and he pointed to the two Bow Street Runners who lounged in the shadow of an adjacent wall, talking together in rumbling tones and puffing at their pipes.

"Well, Corporal, what of them?"

"Sir, they're a-waiting for you!"

"Are you sure, Corporal? A poor creature committed suicide to-day; I thought they were here on that account."

"No, sir, that was only a blind, they're a-watching and a-waiting to take you for the Gaunt murder. My pal Jarsper knows, and my pal Jarsper sent me here to give you the office to lay low and not to venture out to-night."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown.

"My pal Jarsper bid me say as you was to keep yourself scarce till 'e's got 'is 'ooks on the guilty party, sir."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, again, "and when does he intend to make the arrest?"

"This here very night, sir."

"Hum!" said Barnabas thoughtfully.

"And," continued the Corporal, "I were likewise to remind you, sir, as once your pals, ever and allus your pals. And, sir--good-night, and good-luck to you!" So saying, the Corporal shook hands, flourished his hook and strode away down the narrow stairs, smiling up at Barnabas like a beneficent giant.

And, when he was gone, Barnabas hurried back into the room and, taking pen and paper, wrote this:

You are to be arrested to-night, so I send you my friend, John Peterby. Trust yourself to his guidance.

BEVERLEY.

And having folded and sealed this letter, he beckoned to Peterby.

"John," said he, speaking in his ear, "take this letter to Mr. Barrymaine, give it into his hand, see that he leaves at once. And, John, take a coach and bring him back with you."

So Peterby the silent thrust the note into his bosom, took his fur cap, and sighing, went from the room; and a moment later, glancing cautiously through the window, Barnabas saw him hurry through the court and vanish round the corner.

Then Barnabas turned back to the table, and seeing how wistfully Mr. Bimby eyed the teapot, poured him out another cup; and while they drank together, Mr. Bimby chatted, in his pleasant way, of bitter wrong, of shattered faith and ideals, of the hopeless struggle against circumstance, and of the oncoming terror of old age, bringing with it failing strength and all the horrors of a debtor's prison. And now, mingled with his pity, Barnabas was conscious of a growing respect for this pleasant, small gentleman, and began to understand why a man might seek the "shorter way," yet be no great coward after all.

So Mr. Bimby chattered on and Barnabas listened until the day declined to evening; until Barnabas began to hearken for Peterby's returning footstep on the uncarpeted stair outside. Even in the act of lighting the candles his ears were acutely on the stretch, and thus he gradually became aware of another sound, soft and dull, yet continuous, a sound difficult to locate. But as he stood staring into the flame of the candle he had just lighted, striving meanwhile to account for and place this noise, Mr. Bimby rose and lifted a thin, arresting hand.

"Sir," said he, "do you hear anything?"

"Yes. I was wondering what it could be."

"I think I can tell you, sir," said Mr. Bimby, pointing to a certain part of the cracked and blackened ceiling; "it is up there, in my room--listen!"

And now, all at once Barnabas started and caught his breath, for from the floor above came a soft trampling as of unshod feet, yet the feet never moved from the one spot.

"Indeed," sighed Mr. Bimby, "I greatly fear my poor young friend is ill again. I must go up to him, but first--may I beg--"

"Sir," said Barnabas, his gaze still fixed upon a certain corner of the ceiling, "I should like to go with you, if I may."

"You are very good, sir, very kind, I protest you are," quavered Mr. Bimby, "and hem! if I might suggest--a little brandy--?" But even as Barnabas reached for the bottle, there came a hurry of footsteps on the stair, a hand fumbled at the door and Mr. Smivvle entered with Peterby at his heels.

"Oh, Beverley!" he exclaimed, tugging nervously at his whiskers, "Barry's gone--most distressing--utterly vanished! I just happened to--ah--pop round the corner, my dear fellow, and when I came back he'd disappeared, been looking for him everywhere. Poor Barry--poor fellow, they've got him safe enough by now! Oh Gad, Beverley! what can I do?"

"Sit down," said Barnabas, "I think he's found." So saying he turned and followed Mr. Bimby out of the room.

LXVIII. CONCERNING THE IDENTITY OF MR. BIMBY'S GUEST

It needed but a glance at the huddled figure in the comfortless little attic to assure Barnabas of the identity of Mr. Bimby's "poor young friend"; wherefore, setting down the candle on the broken table, he crossed the room and touched that desolate figure with a gentle hand.

Then Ronald Barrymaine looked up and, seeing Barnabas, struggled to his knees:

"Beverley!" he exclaimed, "oh, thank God! You'll save her from that d-devil--I tried to kill him, b-but he was too quick for me. But you--you'll save her!"

"What do you mean? Is it Cleone? What do you mean--speak!" said Barnabas, beginning to tremble.

"Yes, yes!" muttered Barrymaine, passing a hand across his brow. "Listen then! Chichester knows--he knows, I tell you! He came to me, three days ago I think--while D-Dig was out, and he talked and talked, and questioned me and questioned me, and s-so I--I told him everything--everything! But I had to, Beverley, I had to--he made me--yes he, Jasper Gaunt. So I told C-Chichester everything and then--he laughed, and I t-tried to k-kill him, but he got away and left me alone with--him. He's always near me now--always c-close behind me where I can't quite s-see him, only sometimes I hear him ch-choke, oh, my God, Beverley!--like he did--that night! I r-ran away to escape him but--oh Beverley!--he's followed me, he was here a moment ago--I heard him, I t-tell you! Oh, Beverley, don't l-look as if you thought me m-mad, I'm not! I'm not! I know it's all an illusion, of c-course, but--"

"Yes," said Barnabas gently, "but what of Cleone?"

"Cleone? Oh, God help me, Beverley, she's going to g-give herself to that devil--to buy his silence!"

"What--what," stammered Barnabas. "What do you mean?"

"I got this to-day--read it and see!" said Barrymaine and drew from his bosom a crumpled letter. Then Barnabas took it, and smoothing it out, read these words:

Ronald dear, I'm sorry I didn't let you kiss me good-by. So sorry that I am going to do all that a woman can to save you. Mr. Chichester has learned your awful secret, and I am the price of his silence. So, because of my promise to our dying mother, and because life can hold nothing for me now, because life and death are alike to me now, I am going to marry him to-night, at his house at Headcorn. Good-by, Ronald dear, and that God may forgive and save you in this life and hereafter, is the undying prayer of

Your Sister, CLEONE.

Barnabas refolded the letter and, giving it back to Barrymaine, took out Natty Bell's great silver watch.

"It is a long way to Headcorn," said he, "I must start at once!"

"Ah! You'll g-go then, Beverley?"

"Go? Of course!"

"Then, oh Beverley, whatever happens--whether you're in time or no, you'll--k-kill him?"

"I think," said Barnabas, putting away his watch, "yes, I think I shall."

"The house is called Ashleydown," continued Barrymaine feverishly, "a b-big house about a m-mile this side the village."

"Ashleydown? I think I've heard mention of it before. But now, you must come with me, Smivvle is downstairs, you shall have my rooms to-night."

"Thanks, Beverley, but do you m-mind--giving me your arm? I get f-faint sometimes--my head, I think, the faintness came on me in the s-street to-night, and I f-fell, I think."

"Indeed, yes, sir," added Mr. Bimby with a little bow, "it was so I found you, sir."

"Ah, yes, you were kind to me, I remember--you have my g-gratitude, sir. Now, Beverley, give me your arm, I--I--oh, God help me!" Barrymaine reached out with clutching fingers, swayed, twisted sideways and would have fallen, had not Barnabas caught him.

"Poor boy!" cried Mr. Bimby, "a fit, I think--so very young, poor boy! You'll need help, sir. Oh, poor boy, poor boy!" So saying, the little gentleman hurried away and presently returned with John and Mr. Smivvle. Thus, between them, they bore Ronald Barrymaine downstairs and, having made him as comfortable as might be in the inner room, left him to the care of the faithful Mr. Smivvle.

Then Barnabas crossed to the narrow window and stood there a while, looking down at the dim figures of the Bow Street Runners who still lounged against the wall in the gathering dusk and talked together in gruff murmurs.

"John," said he at last, "I must trouble you to change coats with me." Peterby slipped off the garment in question, and aided Barnabas to put it on.

"Now, your fur cap, John."

"Sir," said Peterby all anxiety in a moment, "you are never thinking of going out, tonight--it would be madness!"

"Then mad am I. Your cap, John."

"But--if you are arrested--"

"He will be a strong man who stays me tonight, John. Give me your cap."

So Peterby brought the fur cap and, putting it on, Barnabas pulled it low down over his brows and turned to the door. But there Peterby stayed him.

"Sir," he pleaded, "let me go for you."

"No," said Barnabas, shaking his head.

"Then let me go with you,"

"Impossible, John."

"Why?"

"Because," answered Barnabas, grim-lipped, "tonight I go to ride another race, a very long, hard race, and oh, John Peterby--my faithful John, if you never prayed before--pray now, that I may win!"

"Sir," said Peterby, "I will!"

Then Barnabas caught his hand, wrung it, and striding from the room, hurried away down the dark and narrow stair.

LXIX. HOW BARNABAS LED A HUE AND CRY

The shadows were creeping down on Giles's Rents, hiding its grime, its misery and squalor, what time Barnabas stepped out into the court, and, turning his back upon the shadowy River, strode along, watchful-eyed, toward that dark corner where the Bow Street Runners still lounged, smoking their pipes and talking together in their rumbling tones. As he drew nearer he became aware that they had ceased their talk and guessed rather than saw that he was the object of their scrutiny; nor was he mistaken, for as he came abreast of where they stood, one of them lurched towards him.

"Why, hullo, Joe," exclaimed the man, in a tone of rough familiarity, "strike me blue if this ain't fort'nate! 'Ow goes it, Joe?"

"My name isn't Joe," said Barnabas, pausing, for the man had lurched in front of him, barring his way.

"Not Joe, eh?" growled the man, thrusting his head unpleasantly close to Barnabas to peer into his face, "not Joe, eh? Why then p'r'aps it might be--Barnabas, eh? P'r'aps it might be--Beverley, eh? Barnabas Beverley like-wise, eh? All right, Ben!" he called to his mate, "it's our man right enough!"

"What do you mean?" inquired Barnabas, casting a swift glance about him; and thus, he saw a moving shadow some distance down the court, a furtive shape that flitted towards them where the gathering shadows lay thickest. And at the sight, Barnabas clenched his fists and poised himself for swift action.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his gaze still wandering, his ears hearkening desperately for the sound of creeping footsteps behind, "what do you want with me?"

"W'y, we wants you, to be sure," answered Runner No. 1. "We wants you, Barnabas Beverley, Esk-vire, for the murder of Jasper Gaunt. And, wot's more--we've got ye! And, wot's more--you'd better come along nice and quiet in the name o' the--"

But in that moment, even as he reached out to seize the prisoner, Runner No. 1 felt himself caught in a powerful wrestling grip, his legs were swept from under him, and he thudded down upon the cobbles. Then, as Barnahas turned to meet the rush of Runner No. 2, behold a dark figure, that leapt from the dimness behind, and bore No. 2, cursing savagely, staggering back and back to the wall, and pinned him there, while, above the scuffling, the thud of blows and the trample of feet, rose a familiar voice:

"Run, sir--run!" cried John Peterby, "I've got this one--run!"

Incontinent, Barnabas turned, and taking to his heels, set off along the court, but with No. 1 (who had scrambled to his feet again) thundering after him in hot pursuit, roaring for help as he came.

"Stop, thief!" bellowed No. 1, pounding along behind.

"Stop, thief!" roared Barnabas, pounding along in front.

Round the corner into the street of tumble-down houses sped yelling Barnabas, scattering people right and left; round the corner came No. 1 Hard in his rear.

"Stop, thief!" bellowed No. 1, louder than ever.

"Stop, thief!" roared Barnabas, louder still, and running like the wind. Thus, No. 1 continued to bellow along behind, and Barnabas ran on roaring before, by dint of which he had very soon drawn about him divers other eager pursuers who, in their turn, taking up the cry, filled the air with a raving clamor that grew and ever grew. On sped Barnabas, still yelling "thieves," and with a yelling rabblement all about him, on he went by crooked ways, plunging down gloomy courts, doubling sudden corners, leading the pursuit ever deeper into the maze of dark alleys and crooked back streets, until, spying a place suitable to his purpose, he turned aside, and darting down a dark and narrow entry-way, he paused there in the kindly shelter to regain his breath, and heard the hue and cry go raving past until it had roared itself into the distance. Then, very cautiously and with no little difficulty, he retraced his steps, and coming at length to the River, crossed Blackfriars Bridge and hurried west-wards; nor did he stop or slacken his swift pace until he found himself in that quiet, back-street at the end of which his stables were situated. Being come there, he hammered upon the door which was presently opened by old Gabriel Martin himself.

"Martin, I'm in a hurry," said Barnabas, "have 'The Terror' saddled at once, and bring me a pair of spurred boots--quick!"

Without wasting time in needless words, the old groom set the stable-boys running to and fro, and himself brought Barnabas a pair of riding-boots, and aided him to put them on. Which done, Barnabas threw aside the fur cap, stripped off Peterby's rough coat, and looked about for other garments to take their place.

"If it be a coat as you're wanting, sir, there be one as you wore at the race," said Martin, "I keep it upstairs in my room. It be a bit tore, sir, but--"

"It will do," said Barnabas, nodding, "only--hurry, Martin!" By the time the old groom had returned with the scarlet hunting-frock and helped Barnabas into it, "The Terror" was led out from his box, and immediately began to snort and rear and beat a ringing tattoo with his great, round hoofs to a chorus of chirruping and whoa-ing from the stable-boys.

"A bit fresh-ish, p'r'aps, sir!" said Martin, viewing the magnificent animal with glistening eyes, "exercised reg'lar, too! But wot 'e wants is a good, stretching, cross-country gallop."

"Well, he's going to have it, Martin."

"Ah, sir," nodded the old groom, as Barnabas tested girth and stirrup-leathers, "you done mighty well when you bought 'im--theer ain't another 'oss 'is ekal in London--no, nor nowheers else as I knows on. 'E's won one race for you, and done it noble, and wot's more sir--"

"Tonight he must win me another!" said Barnabas, and swung himself into the saddle. "And this will be a much harder and crueller race than he ran before or will ever run again, Martin, I hope. Pray what, time is it?"

"Nigh on to 'alf-past eight, sir."

"So late!" said Barnabas, grim-lipped and frowning as he settled his feet in the stirrups. "Now--give him his head there--stay! Martin, have you a brace of pistols?"

"Pistols! Why yes, sir, but--"

"Lend them to me."

Forthwith the pistols were brought, somewhat clumsy weapons, but serviceable none the less.

"They're loaded, sir!" said Martin as he handed them up.

"Good!" nodded Barnabas, and slipping one into either pocket, gathered up his reins.

"You'll not be back tonight, sir?"

"Not tonight, Martin."

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, Martin."

"Are you ready, sir?"

"Quite ready, Martin."

"Then--stand away there!"

Obediently the stable-boys leapt aside, freeing "The Terror's" proud head, who snorted, reared, and plunged out through the open doorway, swung off sharp to his right and thundered away down the echoing street.

And thus "The Terror" set out on his second race, which was to be a very hard, cruel race, since it was to be run against no four-legged opponent, no thing of flesh and blood and nerves, but against the sure-moving, relentless fingers of Natty Bell's great, silver watch.

LXX. WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS RODE ANOTHER RACE

Over Westminster Bridge and down the Borough galloped Barnabas, on through the roaring din of traffic, past rumbling coach and creaking wain, heedless of the shouts of wagoners and teamsters and the indignant cries of startled pedestrians, yet watchful of eye and ready of hand, despite his seeming recklessness.

On sped the great, black horse, his pace increasing as the traffic lessened, on and on along the Old Kent Road, up the hill at New Cross and down again, and so through Lewisham to the open country beyond.

And now the way was comparatively clear save for the swift-moving lights of some chaise or the looming bulk of crawling market-wagons: therefore Barnabas, bethinking him always of the long miles before him, and of the remorseless, creeping fingers of Natty Bell's great watch, slacked his rein, whereat "The Terror," snorting for joy, tossed his mighty crest on high and, bounding forward, fell into his long, racing stride, spurning London further and further into the dimness behind.

Barnabas rode stooped low in the saddle, his watchful eyes scanning the road ahead, a glimmering track bordered by flying hedges, and trees that, looming ghost-like in the dusk, flitted past and, like ghosts, were gone again. Swift, swift sped the great, black horse, the glimmering road below, the luminous heaven above, a glorious canopy whence shone a myriad stars filling the still night with their soft, mysterious glow: a hot, midsummer night full of a great hush, a stillness wherein no wind stirred and upon whose deep silence distant sounds seemed magnified and rose, clear and plain, above the rhythmic drumming of "The Terror's" flying hoofs. Presently, out of the dimness ahead, lights twinkled, growing ever brighter and more numerous and Bromley was before him; came a long, paved street where people turned to stare, and point, and shout at him as he flashed by, and Bromley was behind him, and he was out upon the open road again where hedge, and barn, and tree seemed to leap at him from the dark only to vanish in the dimness behind.

On swept the great, black horse, past fragrant rick and misty pool, past running rills that gurgled in the shadows, by wayside inns whence came the sound of voices and laughter with snatches of song, all quickly lost again in the rolling thunder of those tireless galloping hoofs; past lonely cottages where dim lights burned, over hill, over dale, by rolling meadow and sloping down, past darkling woods whence breathed an air cool and damp and sweet, on up the long ascent of Poll Hill and down into the valley again. Thus, in a while, Barnabas saw more lights before him that, clustering together, seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, and, with his frowning gaze upon these clustering lights, he rode up that long, trying hill that leads into the ancient township of Sevenoaks.

At the further end of the town he turned aside and, riding into the yard of the Castle Inn, called for ale and, while he drank, stood by to watch the hissing ostlers as they rubbed down "The Terror" and gave him sparingly of water. So, into the saddle again and, bearing to the right, off and away for Tonbridge.

But now, remembering the hill country before him, he checked his pace, and thus, as he went, became once more aware of the profound stillness of the night about him, and of a gathering darkness. Therefore lifting his gaze to the heavens, he saw a great, black cloud that grew and spread from east to west, putting out the stars.

Now, with the gathering cloud, came sudden fear to clutch at his heart with icy fingers, a shivering dread lest, after all, he be too late; and, clenching sweating palms, Barnabas groaned, and in that moment "The Terror" leapt snorting beneath the rowelling spur.

Suddenly, as they topped River Hill, out of the murk ahead there met him a puff of wind, a hot wind that came and so was gone again, but far away beyond the distant horizon to his left, the sombre heaven was split and rent asunder by a jagged lightning flash whose quivering light, for one brief instant, showed him a glimpse of the wide valley below, of the winding road, of field and hedgerow and motionless tree and, beyond, the square tower of a church, very small with distance yet, above whose battlements a tiny weather-vane flashed and glittered vividly ere all things vanished, swallowed up in the pitchy dark.

And now came the wind again and in the wind was rain, a few great pattering drops, while the lightning flamed and quivered upon the horizon, and the thunder rolled ever louder and more near.

Came a sudden, blinding flame, that seemed to crackle in the air near by, a stunning thunder-clap shaking the very firmament, and thereafter an aching blackness, upon whose startled silence burst the rain--a sudden, hissing downpour.

Up--up reared "The Terror," whinnying with fear, then strove madly to turn and flee before the fury of wind, and flame, and lashing rain. Three times he swerved wildly, and three times he was checked, as with hand, and voice, and goading spur, Barnabas drove him on again--on down the steep descent, down, down into the yawning blackness of the valley below, on into the raging fury of the storm.

So, buffeted by wind, lashed by stinging rain, blinded by vivid lightning-flash, Barnabas rode on down the hill.

On and ever on, with teeth hard clenched, with eyes fierce and wide, heedless alike of wind and wet and flame, since he could think only of the man he rode to meet. And sometimes he uttered bitter curses, and sometimes he touched and fondled the weapons in his pocket, smiling evilly, for tonight, if he were not blasted by the lightning or crushed beneath his terrified horse, Barnabas meant this man should die.

And now upon the rushing wind were voices, demon voices that shrieked and howled at him, filling the whirling blackness with their vicious clamor.

"Kill him!" they shrieked. "Whether you are in time or no, kill him! kill him!"

And Barnabas, heedless of the death that hissed and crackled in the air about him, fronting each lightning-flash with cruel-smiling mouth, nodded his head to the howling demons and answered:

"Yes, yes, whether in time or no, tonight he dies!"

And now, uplifted with a wild exhilaration, he laughed aloud, exulting in the storm; and now, crushed by fear and dread, and black despair, he raved out bitter curses and spurred on into the storm. Little by little the thought of this man he meant to slay possessed him utterly; it seemed to Barnabas that he could actually hear his soft, mocking laughter; it filled the night, rising high above the hiss of rain and rush of wind--the laugh of a satyr who waits, confident, assured, with arms out-stretched to clasp a shuddering goddess.

On beneath trees, dim-seen, that rocked and swayed bending to the storm, splashing through puddles, floundering through mire, slack of rein and ready of spur, Barnabas galloped hard. And ever the mocking laughter rang in his ears, and ever the demons shrieked to him on the howling wind:

"Kill him! kill him!"

So, at last, amidst rain, and wind, and mud, Barnabas rode into Tonbridge Town, and staying at the nearest inn, dismounted stiffly in the yard and shouted hoarsely for ostlers to bring him to the stables. Being come there, it is Barnabas himself who holds the bucket while the foam-flecked "Terror" drinks, a modicum of water with a dash of brandy. Thereafter Barnabas stands by anxious-eyed what time two ostlers rub down the great, black horse; or, striding swiftly to and fro, the silver watch clutched in impatient hand, he questions the men in rapid tones, as:

"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?"

"'Eadcorn, sir? Why surely you don't be thinking--"

"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?" repeats Barnabas, scowling blackly; whereat the fellow answers to the point and Barnabas falls to his feverish striding to and fro until, glancing from the watch in his hand to "The Terror's" lofty crest, observing that his heaving flanks labor no more and that he paws an impatient hoof, Barnabas thrusts watch in fob, tightens girth and surcingle and, having paid his score, swings himself stiffly into the saddle and is off and away, while the gaping ostlers stare after him through the falling rain till he has galloped out of sight.

Away, away, down empty street, over rumbling bridge and so, bearing to the left, on and up the long hill of Pembury.

Gradually the rain ceased, the wind died utterly away, the stars peeped out again. And now, upon the quiet, came the small, soft sound of trickling water, while the air was fragrant with a thousand sweet scents and warm, moist, earthy smells.

But on galloped the great, black horse, by pointed oast-house, by gloomy church, on and ever on, his nostrils flaring, his eye wild, his laboring sides splashed with mire and streaked with foam and blood; on he galloped, faltering a little, stumbling a little, his breath coming in sobbing gasps, but maintaining still his long, racing stride; thundering through sleeping hamlets and waking echoes far and near, failing of strength, scant of breath, but indomitable still.

Oh, mighty "Four-legs"! Oh, "Terror"! whose proud heart scorns defeat! to-night thou dost race as ne'er thou didst before, pitting thy strength and high courage against old Time himself! Therefore on, on, brave horse, enduring thy anguish as best thou may, nor look for mercy from the pitiless human who bestrides thee, who rides grim-lipped, to give death and, if need be, to taste of its bitterness himself, and who, unsparing of himself, shall neither spare thee.

On, on, brave horse, endure as best thou may, since Death rides thee to-night.

Now, in a while, Barnabas saw before him a wide street flanked on either hand by cottages, and with an ancient church beyond. And, as he looked at this church with its great, square tower outlined against the starry heaven, there came, borne to his ears, the fretful wailing of a sleepless child; therefore he checked his going and, glancing about, espied a solitary lighted window. Riding thither, he raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, tapped upon the panes; and, in a while, the casement was opened and a man peered forth, a drowsy being, touzled of head and round of eye.

"Pray," said Barnabas, "what village is this?"

"Why, sir," answered the man, "five an' forty year I've lived here, and always heard as it was called Headcorn."

"Headcorn," said Barnabas, nodding, "then Ashleydown should be near here?"

"Why, sir," said the man, nodding in turn, "I do believe you--leastways it were here about yesterday."

"And where is it?"

"Half a mile back down the road, you must ha' passed it, sir. A great house it be though inclined to ruination. And it lays back from the road wi' a pair o' gates--iron gates as is also ruinated, atween two stone pillars wi' a lion a-top of each, leastways if it ain't a lion it's a griffin, which is a fab'lous beast. And talking of beasts, sir, I do believe as that theer dratted child don't never mean to sleep no more. Good night to ye, sir--and may you sleep better a-nights than a married man wi' seven on 'em." Saying which, he nodded, sighed, and vanished.

So back rode Barnabas the way he had come, and presently, sure enough, espied the dim outlines of the two stone columns each with "a lion a-top," and between these columns swung a pair of rusted iron gates; and the gates were open, seeing which Barnabas frowned and set his teeth, and so turned to ride between the gates, but, even as he did so, he caught the sound of wheels far down the road. Glancing thither he made out the twinkling lights of an approaching chaise, and sat awhile to watch its slow progress, then, acting upon sudden impulse, he spurred to meet it. Being come within hail he reined in across the road, and drawing a pistol levelled it at the startled post-boy.

"Stop!" cried Barnabas.

Uttering a frightened oath, the postilion pulled up with a jerk, but as the chaise came to a standstill a window rattled down. Then Barnabas lowered the pistol, and coming up beside the chaise looked down into the troubled face of my Lady Cleone. And her checks were very pale in the light of the lanterns, and upon her dark lashes was the glitter of tears.

Chapter LXXI

WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS, IN HIS FOLLY, CHOSE THE HARDER COURSE

"You! Is it you--Barnabas?" she whispered and thereafter sighed, a long, quivering sigh. "I--I've been hoping you would come!"

And now, as he looked at her, he saw that her cheeks were suffused, all at once, with a warm and vivid color. "Hoped?" said Barnabas, wondering.

"And--prayed!" she whispered.

"Then, you expected me? You knew I should come?"

"Yes, Barnabas. I--I hoped you would see my--letter to Ronald--that was why I wrote it! And I prayed that you might come--"

"Why?"

"Because I--oh, Barnabas, I'm afraid!"

"You were going to--Chichester?"

"Yes, Barnabas."

"You don't--love him, do you?"

"Love him!" she repeated, "Oh, God!"

And Barnabas saw her shudder violently.

"Yet you were going to him."

"To save my brother. But now--God help me, I can't do it! Oh, it's too hateful and--and I am afraid, Barnabas. I ought to have been at Ashleydown an hour ago, but oh, I--I couldn't, it was too horrible--I couldn't! So I came the longest way; I made the post-boy drive very slowly, I--I was waiting--for you, Barnabas, praying God that you would come to me--"

"Because you--were afraid, my lady."

"Yes, Barnabas."

"And behold, I am here!" said Barnabas. But now, seeing the quiver of her white hands, and the light in her eyes--a sudden glow that was not of the lanterns, he turned his head and looked resolutely away.

"I am here, my lady, to take you back home again," said he.

"Home?" she repeated. "Ah, no, no--I have no home, now! Oh, Barnabas," she whispered, "take me, take me away--to my brother. Let us go away from England to-night--anywhere, take me with you, Barnabas."

Now, as she spoke, her hands came out to him with a swift gesture, full of passionate entreaty. And the lanterns made a shining glory of her hair, and showed him the deep wonder of her eyes, the quick surge of her round, young bosom, the tender quiver of the parted lips as she waited his answer; thus our Barnabas beholding the witchery of her shy-drooping lashes, the scarlet lure of her mouth, the yielding warmth and all the ripe beauty of her, fell suddenly a-trembling and sighed; then, checking the sigh, looked away again across the dim desolation of the country-side, and clenched his hands.

"My lady," said he, his voice hoarse and uncertain, "why do you--tempt me? I am only--an amateur gentleman--why do you tempt me so?" As he spoke he wheeled his horse and motioned to the flinching postboy. "Turn!" he commanded.

"No!" cried Cleone.

"Turn!" said Barnabas, and, as the post-boy hesitated, levelled his pistol.

But now, even as the postilion chirruped to his horses, the chaise door was flung open and Cleone sprang down into the road; but even so, Barnabas barred her way.

"Let me pass!" she cried.

"To Chichester?"

"Yes--God help me. Since you force me to it! Let me go!"

"Get back into the chaise, my lady."

"No, no! Let me pass, I go to save my brother--"

"Not this way!"

"Oh!" she cried passionately, "you force it upon me, yes--you! you! If you won't help me, I must go to him! Dear heaven! there is no other way, let me go--you must--you shall!"

"Go back into the chaise, my lady."

Barnabas spoke very gently but, as she stared up at him, a movement of his horse brought him into the light of the lanterns and, in that moment, her breath caught, for now she beheld him as she had seen him once before, a wild, desperate figure, bare-headed, torn, and splashed with mud; grim of mouth, and in his eyes a look she had once dreamed of and never since forgotten. And, as she gazed, Barnabas spoke again and motioned with his pistol hand.

"Get back into the chaise, my lady."

"No!" she answered, and, though her face was hidden now, he knew that she was weeping. "I'm going on, now--to Ashleydown, to save Ronald, to redeem the promise I gave our mother; I must, I must, and oh--nothing matters to me--any more, so let me go!"

"My lady," said Barnabas, in the same weary tone, "you must get back into the chaise."

"And let Ronald die--and such a death! Never! oh never!"

Barnabas sighed, slipped the pistol into his pocket and dismounted, but, being upon his feet, staggered; then, or ever she knew, he had caught her in his arms, being minded to bear her to the chaise. But in that moment, he looked down and so stood there, bound by the spell of her beauty, forgetful of all else in the world, for the light of the lanterns was all about them, and Cleone's eyes were looking up into his.

"Barnabas," she whispered, "Barnabas, don't let me go!--save me from--that!"

"Ah, Cleone," he murmured, "oh, my lady, do you doubt me still? Can you think that I should fail you?

"Oh, my dear, my dear--I've found a way, and mine is a better way than yours. Be comforted then and trust me, Cleone."

Then, she stirred in his embrace, and, sighing, hid her face close against him and, with her face thus hidden, spoke:

"Yes, yes--I do trust you, Barnabas, utterly, utterly! Take me away with you--tonight, take me to Ronald and let us go away together, no matter where so long as--we go--together, Barnabas." Now when she said this, she could feel how his arms tightened about her, could hear how his breath caught sudden and sharp, and, though she kept her face hid from him, well she knew what look was in his eyes; therefore she lay trembling a little, sighing a little, and with fast-beating heart. And, in a while, Barnabas spoke:

"My lady," said he heavily, "would you trust yourself to--a publican's son?"

"If he would not be--too proud to--take me, Barnabas."

"Oh, my lady--can't you see that if I--if I take you with me tonight, you must be with me--always?"

Cleone sighed.

"And I am a discredited impostor, the--the jest of every club in London!"

Cleone's hand stole up, and she touched his grimly-set chin very gently with one white finger.

"I am become a thing for the Fashionable World to sharpen its wits upon," he continued, keeping his stern gaze perseveringly averted. "And so, my lady--because I cannot any longer cheat folks into accepting me as a--gentleman, I shall in all probability become a farmer, some day."

Cleone sighed.

"But you," Barnabas continued, a little harshly, "you were born for higher and greater fortune than to become the wife of a humble farming fellow, and consequently--"

"But I can make excellent butter, Barnabas," she sighed, stealing a glance up to him, "and I can cook--a little."

Now when she said this, he must needs look down at her again and lo! there, at the corner of her mouth was the ghost of the dimple! And, beholding this, seeing the sudden witchery of her swift-drooping lashes, Barnabas forgot his stern resolutions and stooped his head, that he might kiss the glory of her hair. But, in that moment, she turned, swift and sudden, and yielded him her lips, soft, and warm, and passionate with youth and all the joy of life. And borne away upon that kiss, it seemed to Barnabas, for one brief, mad-sweet instant that all things might be possible; if they started now they might reach London in the dawn and, staying only for Barrymaine, be aboard ship by evening! And it was a wide world, a very fair world, and with this woman beside him--

"It would be so--so very easy!" said he, slowly.

"Yes, it will be very easy!" she whispered.

"Too easy!" said he, beginning to frown, "you are so helpless and lonely, and I want you so bitterly, Cleone! Yes, it would be very easy. But you taught me once, that a man must ever choose the harder way, and this is the harder way, to love you, to long for you, and to bid you--good-by!"

"Oh! Barnabas?"

"Ah, Cleone, you could make the wretchedest hut a paradise for me, but for you, ah, for you it might some day become only a hut, and I, only a discredited Amateur Gentleman, after all."

Then Barnabas sighed and thereafter frowned, and so bore her to the chaise and setting her within, closed the door.

"Turn!" he cried to the postilion.

"Barnabas!"

But the word was lost in the creak of wheels and stamping of hoofs as the chaise swung round; then Barnabas remounted and, frowning still, trotted along beside it. Now in a while, lifting his sombre gaze towards a certain place beside the way, he beheld the dim outline of a finger-post, a very ancient finger-post which (though it was too dark to read its inscription) stood, he knew, with wide-stretched arms pointing the traveller:

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST.

And being come opposite the finger-post, he ordered the post-boy to stop, for, small with distance, he caught the twinkling lights of lanterns that swung to and fro, and, a moment later, heard a hail, faint and far, yet a stentorian bellow there was no mistaking. Therefore coming close beside the chaise, he stooped down and looked within, and thus saw that Cleone leaned in the further corner with her face hidden in her hands.

"You are safe, now, my lady," said he, "the Bo'sun is coming, the Captain will be here very soon."

But my lady never stirred.

"You are safe now," he repeated, "as for Ronald, if Chichester's silence can save him, you need grieve no more, and--"

"Ah!" she cried, glancing up suddenly, "what do you mean?"

"That I must go, my lady, and--and--oh, my dear love, this harder way--is very hard to tread. If--we should meet no more after tonight, remember that I loved you--as I always have done and always must, humble fellow though I am. Yes, I think I love you as well as any fine gentleman of them all, and--Cleone--Good-by!"

"Barnabas," she cried, "tell me what you mean to do--oh, Barnabas, where are you going?" And now she reached out her hands as though to stay him. But, even so, he drew away, and, wheeling his horse, pointed towards the twinkling lights.

"Drive on!" he cried to the post-boy.

"Barnabas, wait!"

"Drive on!" he cried, "whip--spur!"

"Barnabas, stay! Oh, Barnabas, listen--"

But as Cleone strove desperately to open the door, the chaise lurched forward, the horses broke into a gallop, and Barnabas, sitting there beneath the ancient finger-post, saw imploring hands stretched out towards him, heard a desolate cry, and--he was alone. So Barnabas sat there amid the gloom, and watched Happiness go from him. Very still he sat until the grind of wheels had died away in the distance; then he sighed, and spurring his jaded horse, rode back towards Headcorn.

And thus did Barnabas, in his folly, forego great joy, and set aside the desire of his heart that he might tread that Harder Way, which yet can be trod only by the foot of--A Man.

LXXII. HOW RONALD BARREYMAINE SQUARED HIS ACCOUNT

A distant clock was striking the hour as Barnabas rode in at the rusted gates of Ashleydown and up beneath an avenue of sombre trees beyond which rose the chimneys of a spacious house, clear and plain against the palpitating splendor of the stars. But the house, like its surroundings, wore a desolate, neglected look, moreover it was dark, not a light was to be seen anywhere from attic to cellar. Yet, as Barnabas followed the sweep of the avenue, he suddenly espied a soft glow that streamed from an uncurtained window giving upon the terrace; therefore he drew rein, and dismounting, led his horse in among the trees and, having tethered him there, advanced towards the gloomy house, his gaze upon the lighted window, and treading with an ever growing caution.

Now, as he went, he took out one of the pistols, cocked it, and with it ready in his hand, came to the window and peered into the room.

It was a long, low chamber with a fireplace at one end, and here, his frowning gaze bent upon the blazing logs, sat Mr. Chichester. Upon the small table at his elbow were decanter and glasses, with a hat and gloves and a long travelling cloak. As Barnabas stood there Mr. Chichester stirred impatiently, cast a frowning glance at the clock in the corner and reaching out to the bell-rope that hung beside the mantel, jerked it viciously, and so fell to scowling at the fire again until the door opened and a bullet-headed, square-shouldered fellow entered, a formidable ruffian with pugilist written in his every feature; to whom Mr. Chichester appeared to give certain commands; and so dismissed him with an impatient gesture of his slim, white hands. As the door closed, Mr. Chichester started up and fell to pacing the floor only to return, and, flinging himself back in his chair, sat scowling at the fire again.

Then Barnabas raised the pistol-butt and, beating in the window, loosed the catch, and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, opened the casement and stepped into the room.

For a long moment neither spoke, while eyes met and questioned eyes, those of Barnabas wide and bright, Mr. Chichester's narrowed to shining slits. And indeed, as they fronted each other thus, each was the opposite of the other, Barnabas leaning in the window, his pistol hand hidden behind him, a weary, bedraggled figure mired from heel to head; Mr. Chichester standing rigidly erect, immaculate of dress from polished boot to snowy cravat.

"So," said he at last, breaking the ominous silence, "so it's--yes, it is Mr.--Barty, I think, unpleasantly damp and devilish muddy, and, consequently, rather more objectionable than usual."

"I have ridden far, and the roads were bad," said Barnabas.

"Ah! and pray why inflict yourself upon me?"

"For a very good and sufficient reason, sir."

"Ha, a reason?" said Mr. Chichester, lounging against the mantel. "Can it be you have discerned at last that the highly dramatic meeting between father and son at a certain banquet, not so long ago, was entirely contrived by myself--that it was my hand drove you from society and made you the derision of London, Mr. Barty?"

"Why, yes," sighed Barnabas; "I guessed that much, sir."

"Indeed, I admire your perspicacity, Mr. Barty. And now, I presume you have broken into my house with some brutal idea of pummelling me with your fists? But, sir, I am no prizefighter, like you and your estimable father, and I warn you that--"

"Sir," said Barnabas softly, "do not trouble to ring the bell, my mission here is--not to thrash you."

"No? Gad, sir, but you're very forbearing, on my soul you are!" and Mr. Chichester smiled; but his nostrils were twitching as his fingers closed upon the bell-rope. "Now understand me--having shown up your imposture, having driven you from London, I do not propose to trouble myself further with you. True, you have broken into my house, and should very properly be shot like any other rascally thief. I have weapons close by, and servants within call, but you have ceased to interest me--I have other and weightier affairs on hand, so you may go, sir. I give you one minute to take yourself back to your native mud." As he ended, Mr. Chichester motioned airily towards the open window. But Barnabas only sighed again and shook his head.

"Sir," said he, more softly than before, "give me leave to tell you that the Lady Cleone will not keep her appointment here, to-night."

"Ah-h!" said Mr. Chichester slowly, and staring at Barnabas under his drawn brows, "you--mean--?"

"That she was safe home three-quarters of an hour ago."

Mr. Chichester's long, white fingers writhed suddenly upon the bell-rope, released it, and, lifting his hand swiftly, he loosened his high cravat, and so stood, breathing heavily, his eyes once more narrowed to shining slits, and with the scar burning redly upon his cheek.

"So you have dared," he began thickly, "you have dared to interfere again? You have dared to come here, to tell me so?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas, shaking his head, "I have come here to kill you!"

Barnabas spoke very gently, but as Mr. Chichester beheld his calm eye, the prominence of his chin, and his grimly-smiling mouth, his eyes widened suddenly, his clenched fingers opened, and he reached out again towards the bell-rope. "Stop!" said Barnabas, and speaking, levelled his pistol.

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Chichester, falling back a step, "you mean to murder me, do you?"

"I said 'kill'--though yours is the better word, perhaps. Here are two pistols, you will observe; one is for you and one for me. And we are about to sit down--here, at the table, and do our very utmost to murder each other. But first, I must trouble you to lock the door yonder and bring me the key. Lock it, I say!"

Very slowly, and with his eyes fixed in a wide stare upon the threatening muzzle of the weapon Barnabas held, Mr. Chichester, crossed to the door, hesitated, turned the key, and drawing it from the lock, stood with it balanced in his hand a moment, and then tossed it towards Barnabas.

Now the key lay within a yard of Barnabas who, stepping forward, made as though to reach down for it; but in that instant he glanced up at Mr. Chichester under his brows, and in that instant also, Mr. Chichester took a swift, backward step towards the hearth; wherefore, because of this, and because of the look in Mr. Chichester's eyes, Barnabas smiled, and, so smiling, kicked the key into a far corner.

"Come, sir," said he, drawing another chair up to the table, "be seated!" saying which, Barnabas sat down, and, keeping one pistol levelled, laid the other within Mr. Chichester's reach. "They are both loaded, sir," he continued; "but pray assure yourself."

But Mr. Chichester stood where he was, his eyes roving swiftly from Barnabas to the unlatched window, from that to the door, and so back again to where Barnabas sat, pale, smiling, and with the heavy weapon levelled across the narrow table; and as he stood thus, Mr. Chichester lifted one white hand to his mouth and began to pull at his lips with twitching fingers.

"Come," repeated Barnabas, "be seated, sir."

But Mr. Chichester yet stood utterly still save for the petulant action of those nervous, twitching fingers.

"Sir," Barnabas persisted, "sit down, I beg!"

"I'll fight you--here--and now," said Mr. Chichester, speaking in a strange, muffled tone, "yes--I'll fight you wherever or whenever you wish, but not--not across a table!"

"I think you will," nodded Barnabas grimly. "Pray sit down."

"No!"

"Why, then, we'll stand up for it," sighed Barnabas rising. "Now, sir, take up your pistol."

"No!"

"Then," said Barnabas, his teeth agleam, "as God's above, I'll shoot you where you stand--but first I'll count three!" And once more he levelled the pistol he held.

Mr. Chichester sighed a fluttered sigh, the twitching fingers fell from his mouth and with his burning gaze upon Barnabas, he stepped forward and laid his hand upon the chair-back, but, in the act of sitting down, paused.

"The candles--a little more light--the candles," he muttered, and turning, crossed to the hearth and raised his hand to a branched silver candlestick that stood upon the mantel. But in the moment that his left hand closed upon this, his right had darted upon another object that lay there, and, quick as a flash, he had spun round and fired point-blank.

While the report yet rang on the air, Barnabas staggered, swayed, and, uttering a gasp, sank down weakly into his chair. But, as Mr. Chichester watched him, his eyes wide, his lips parted, and the pistol yet smoking in his hand, Barnabas leaned forward, and steadying his elbow on the table, slowly, very slowly raised and levelled his weapon.

And now, as he fronted that deadly barrel, Mr. Chichester's face grew suddenly livid, and haggard, and old-looking, while upon his brow the sweat had started and rolled down, glistening upon his cheeks.

The fire crackled upon the hearth, the clock ticked softly in the corner, the table creaked as Barnabas leaned his weight across it, nearer and nearer, but, save for this, the place was very quiet. Then, all at once, upon this silence broke another sound, a distant sound this, but one that grew ever nearer and louder--the grind of wheels and the hoof-strokes of madly galloping horses. Mr. Chichester uttered a gasping cry and pointed towards the window--

"Cleone!" he whispered. "It's Cleone! She's coming, in God's name--wait!"

The galloping hoofs drew rapidly nearer, stopped suddenly, and as Barnabas, hesitating, glanced towards the window, it was flung wide and somebody came leaping through--a wild, terrible figure; and as he turned in the light of the candles, Barnabas looked into the distorted face of Ronald Barrymaine.

For a moment he stood, his arms dangling, his head bent, his glowing eyes staring at Mr. Chichester, and as he stood thus fixing Mr. Chichester with that awful, unwavering stare, a smile twisted his pallid lips, and he spoke very softly:

"It's all r-right, Dig," said he, "the luck's with me at l-last-- we're in time--I've g-got him! Come in, D-Dig, and bring the tools--I--I've g-got him!"

Hereupon Mr. Smivvle stepped into the room; haggard of eye he looked, and with cheeks that showed deadly pale by contrast with the blackness of his glossy whiskers, and beneath his arm he carried a familiar oblong box; at sight of Barnabas he started, sighed, and crossing hastily, set the box upon the table and caught him by the arm:

"Stop him, Beverley--stop him!" he whispered hurriedly. "Barry's gone mad, I think, insisted on coming here. Devil of a time getting away, Bow Street Runners--hard behind us now. Means to fight! Stop him, Beverley, for the love of--Ah! by God, what's this? Barry, look--look here!" And he started back from Barnabas, staring at him with horrified eyes. "Barry, Barry--look here!"

But Ronald Barrymaine never so much as turned his head; motionless he stood, his lips still contorted with their drawn smile, his burning gaze still fixed on Mr. Chichester--indeed he seemed oblivious to all else under heaven.

"Come, Dig," said he in the same soft voice, "get out the barkers, and quick about it, d' you hear?"

"But, Barry--oh, my dear fellow, here's poor Beverley, look--look at him!"

"G-give us the barkers, will you--quick! Oh, damnation. Dig, y-you know G-Gaunt and his hangman are hard on my heels! Quick, then, and g-get it over and done with--d'you hear, D-Dig?" So saying, Barrymaine crossed to the hearth and stood there, warming his hands at the blaze, but, even so, he must needs turn his head so that he could keep his gloating eyes always directed to Chichester's pale face.

"I'm w-warming my pistol-hand, Dig," he continued, "mustn't be cold or s-stiff tonight, you see. Oh, I tell you the luck's with me at last! He's b-been so vastly clever, Dig! He's dragged me down to hell, but--tonight I'm g-going to-take him with me."

And ever as he spoke, warming himself at the fire, Ronald Barrymaine kept his burning gaze upon Mr. Chichester's pale face, while Barnabas leaned, twisted in his chair, and Mr. Smivvle busied himself with the oblong box. With shaking hands he took out the duelling-pistols, one by one, and laid them on the table.

"We'll g-give him first choice, eh, Dig?" said Barrymaine. "Ah--he's chosen, I s-see. Now we'll t-take opposite corners of the room and f-fire when you give the word, eh, Dig?"

As he spoke, Barrymaine advanced to the table, his gaze always upon Mr. Chichester, nor did he look away even for an instant, thus, his hand wandered, for a moment, along the table, ere he found and took up the remaining pistol. Then, with it cocked in his hand, he backed away to the corner beside the hearth, and being come there, nodded.

"A good, comfortable distance, D-Dig," said he, "now tell him to take his g-ground."

But even as he spoke, Mr. Chichester strode to the opposite corner of the long room, and turning, stood there with folded arms. Up till now, he had uttered no word, but as Mr. Smivvle leaned back against the wall, midway between them, and glanced from one to the other, Mr. Chichester spoke.

"Sirs," said he, "I shall most certainly kill him, and I call upon you to witness that it was forced upon me."

Now as his voice died away, through the open window came a faint sound that might have been wind in the trees, or the drumming of horse-hoofs, soft and faint with distance.

"Oh, g-give us the word, D-Dig!" said Barrymaine.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Smivvle, steadying himself against the panelling with shaking hands, "the word will be--Ready? One! Two! Three--Fire! Do you understand?"

An eager "Yes" from Barrymaine, a slight nod from Chichester, yet Mr. Smivvle still leaned there mutely against the wall, as though his tongue failed him, or as if hearkening to that small, soft sound, that might have been wind in the trees.

"The word, Dig--will you give us the word?"

"Yes, yes, Barry, yes, my dear boy--certainly!" But still Mr. Smivvle hesitated, and ever the small sound grew bigger and louder.

"S-speak! Will you s-speak, Dig?"

"Oh, Barry--my dear boy, yes! Ready?"

At the word the two pistols were raised and levelled, almost on the instant, and with his haggard eyes turned towards Barrymaine's corner, Mr. Smivvle spoke again:

"One!--Two!--Three--"

A flash, a single deafening report, and Ronald Barrymaine lurched sideways, caught at the wall, swayed backwards into the corner and leaned there.

"Coward,--you fired too soon!" cried Smivvle, turning upon Mr. Chichester in sudden frenzy, "Villain! Rouge! you fired too soon--!"

"S-stand away, Dig!" said Barrymaine faintly.

"Oh, Barry--you're bleeding! By God, he's hit you!"

"Of c-course, Dig--he never m-misses--neither do I--w-watch now, ah! hold me up, Dig--so! Now, stand away!" But even as Barrymaine, livid of brow and with teeth hard clenched, steadied himself for the shot, loud and clear upon the night came the thudding of swift-galloping horse-hoofs.

And now, for the first time, Barrymaine's gaze left Chichester's face, and fixed itself upon the open casement instead.

"Ha!" he cried, "here comes G-Gaunt at last, D-Dig, and with his hangman at his elbow! But he's t-too late, Dig, he's too l-late--I'm going, but I mean to take our friend--our d-dear friend Chichester w-with me--look now!"

As he spoke he raised his arm, there came the stunning report of the pistol, and a puff of blinding smoke; but when it cleared, Mr. Chichester still stood up rigid in his corner, only, as he stood he lifted his hand suddenly to his mouth, glanced at his fingers, stared at them with wide, horrified eyes. Then his pistol clattered to the floor and he coughed--a hideous, strangling sound, thin and high-pitched. Coughing still, he took a swift pace forward, striving to speak, but choked instead, and so choking, sank to his knees. Even then he strove desperately to utter something, but with it still unspoken, sank down upon his hands, and thence slowly upon his face and lay there very still and quiet.

Then Barrymaine laughed, an awful, gasping laugh, and began to edge himself along the wall and, as he went, he left hideous smears and blotches upon the panelling behind him. Being come to that inanimate figure he stood awhile watching it with gloating eyes. Presently he spoke in a harsh whisper:

"He's dead, D-Dig--quite dead, you see! And he was my f-friend, which was bad! And I trusted him--which was w-worse. A rogue always, Dig, and a l-liar!"

Then Barrymaine groaned, and groaning, spurned that quiet form weakly with his foot and so, pitched down headlong across it.

Now as they lay thus, they together made a great cross upon the floor.

But presently shadows moved beyond the open window, a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat projected itself into the candle light, and a voice spoke:

"In the King's name! I arrest Ronald Barrymaine for the murder of Jasper Gaunt--in the King's name, genelmen!"

But now, very slowly and painfully, Ronald Barrymaine raised himself upon his hands, lifted his heavy head and spoke in a feeble voice.

"Oh, m-master Hangman," he whispered, "y-you're too l-late--j-just too late!" And so, like a weary child settling itself to rest, he pillowed his head upon his arm, and sighing--fell asleep.

Then Mr. Shrig stepped forward very softly, and beholding that placid young face with its tender, smiling lips, and the lashes that drooped so dark against the dead pallor of the cheek, he took off his broad-brimmed hat and stood there with bent head.

But another figure had followed him, and now sprang toward Barnabas with supporting arms outstretched, and in that moment Barnabas sighed, and falling forward, lay there sprawled across the table.

LXXIII. WHICH RECOUNTS THREE AWAKENINGS

The sunlight was flooding in at the open lattice and, as if borne upon this shaft of glory, came the mingled fragrance of herb and flower and ripening fruit with the blithe carolling of birds, a very paean of thanksgiving; the chirp of sparrows, the soft, rich notes of blackbirds, the warbling trill of thrushes, the far, faint song of larks high in the blue--it was all there, blent into one harmonious chorus of joy, a song that spoke of hope and a fair future to such as were blessed with ears to hear. And by this, our Barnabas, opening drowsy eyes and hearkening with drowsy ears, judged it was yet early morning.

He lay very still and full of a great content because of the glory of the sun and the merry piping of the birds.

But, little by little, as he hearkened, he became conscious of another sound, a very gentle sound, yet insistent because of its regularity, a soft click! click! click! that he could in no wise account for. Therefore he would have turned his head, and straightway wondered to find this so difficult to accomplish; moreover he became aware that he lay in a bed, undressed, and that his arm and shoulder were bandaged. And now, all at once he forgot the bird-song and the sunshine, his brow grew harassed and troubled, and with great caution he lifted his free hand to his neck and began to feel for a certain ribbon that should be there. And presently, having found the ribbon, his questing fingers followed it down into his bosom until they touched a little, clumsily-wrought linen bag, that he had fashioned, once upon a time, with infinite trouble and pains, and in which he had been wont to carry the dried-up wisp of what had once been a fragrant, scarlet rose.

And now, having found this little bag, he lay with brow still troubled as one in some deep perplexity, the while his fingers felt and fumbled with it clumsily. This was the little bag indeed; he knew it by reason of its great, uneven stitches and its many knots and ends of cotton; yes, this was it beyond all doubt, and yet? Truly it was the same, but with a difference.

Now as he lay thus, being full of trouble because of this difference which he could in no wise understand, he drew a deep sigh, which was answered all at once by another; the soft clicking sound abruptly ceased and he knew that some one had risen and now stood looking down at him. Therefore Barnabas presently turned his head and saw a face bent over him, a face with cheeks suspiciously pink, framed in curls suspiciously dark and glossy, but with eyes wonderfully young and bright and handsome; in one small, white hand was a needle and silk, and in the other, a very diminutive piece of embroidery.

"Why, Barnabas!" said the Duchess, very gently, "dear boy--what is it? Ah! you've found it then, already--your sachet? Though indeed it looks more like a pudding-bag--a very small one, of course. Oh, dear me! but you're not a very good needlewoman, are you, Barnabas? Neither am I--I always prick my fingers dreadfully. There--let me open it for you--so! Now, while I hold it, see what is inside."

Then, wondering, Barnabas slipped a clumsy thumb and finger into the little bag and behold the faded wisp had become transfigured and bloomed again in all its virgin freshness. For in his hand there lay a great, scarlet rose, as sweet and fresh and fragrant as though--for all the world as though it had been plucked that very morning.

"Ah, no, no, no," cried the Duchess, reading his look, "it was no hand of mine worked the transformation, dear Barnabas."

"But," murmured drowsy Barnabas, speaking with an effort-- "it--was--dead--long ago--?"

"Yet behold it is alive again!" said the Duchess. "And oh, Barnabas dear, if a withered, faded wisp may bloom again--so may a woman's faith and love. There, there, dear boy! Close your eyes and go to sleep again."

So, being very weary, Barnabas closed his eyes and, with the touch of her small, cool fingers in his hair, fell fast asleep.

II

Now as Barnabas lay thus, lost in slumber, he dreamed a dream. He had known full many sleeping visions and fancies of late, but, of them all, surely none had there been quite like this.

For it seemed to him that he was lying out amid the green, dewy freshness of Annersley Wood. And as he lay there, grievously hurt, lo! there came one hasting, light-footed to him through the green like some young nymph of Arcady or Goddess of the Wood, one for whom he seemed to have been waiting long and patiently, one as sweet and fresh and fair as the golden morning and tender as the Spirit of Womanhood.

And, for that he might not speak or move because of his hurt, she leaned above him and her hands touched him, hands very soft, and cool, and gentle, upon his brow, upon his cheek; and every touch was a caress.

Slowly, slowly her arms came about him in a warm, clinging embrace, arms strong and protecting that drew his weary head to the swell of a bosom and pillowed it sweetly there. And clasping him thus, she sighed over him and wept, though very silently, and stooped her lips to him to kiss his brow, his slumberous eyes, and, last of all, his mouth.

So, because of this dream, Barnabas lay in a deep and utter content, for it seemed that Happiness had come to him after all, and of its own accord. But, in a while, he stirred and sighed, and presently opened dreamy eyes, and thus it chanced that he beheld the door of his chamber, and the door was quivering as though it had but just closed. Then, as he lay watching it, sleepy-eyed, it opened again, slowly and noiselessly, and John Peterby entered softly, took a step towards the bed, but, seeing Barnabas was awake, stopped, and so stood there very still.

Suddenly Barnabas smiled, and held out a hand to him.

"Why, John," said he, "my faithful John--is it you?"

"Sir," murmured Peterby, and coming forward, took that extended hand, looking down at Barnabas joyful-eyed, and would have spoken, yet uttered no other word.

"John," said Barnabas, glancing round the faded splendors of the bed-chamber, "where am I, pray?"

"At Ashleydown, sir."

"Ashleydown?" repeated Barnabas, wrinkling his brow.

"Sir, you have been--very ill."

"Ah, yes, I was shot I remember--last night, I think?"

"Sir, it happened over three weeks ago."

"Three weeks!" repeated Barnabas, sitting up with an effort, "three weeks, John?--Oh, impossible!"

"You have been very near death, sir. Indeed I think you would have died but for the tender nursing and unceasing care of--"

"Ah, God bless her! Where is she, John--where is the Duchess?"

"Her Grace went out driving this morning, sir."

"This morning? Why, I was talking with her this morning--only a little while ago."

"That was yesterday morning, sir."

"Oh!" said Barnabas, hand to head, "do you mean that I have slept the clock round?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hum!" said Barnabas. "Consequently I'm hungry, John, deuced sharp set--ravenous, John!"

"That, sir," quoth Peterby, smiling his rare smile, "that is the best news I've heard this three weeks and more, and your chicken broth is ready--"

"Chicken broth!" exclaimed Barnabas, "for shame, John. Bring me a steak, do you hear?"

"But, sir," Peterby remonstrated, shaking his head, yet with his face ever brightening, "indeed I--"

"Or a chop, John, or ham and eggs--I'm hungry; I tell you."

"Excellent!" laughed Peterby, nodding his head, "but the doctor, sir--"

"Doctor!" cried Barnabas, with a snort, "what do I want with doctors? I'm well, John. Bring me my clothes."

"Clothes, sir!" exclaimed Peterby, aghast. "Impossible, sir! No, no!"

"Yes, yes, John--I'm going to get up."

"But, sir--"

"This very moment! My clothes, John, my clothes!"

"Indeed, sir, I--"

"John Peterby," said Barnabas, scowling blackly, "you will oblige me with my garments this instant,--obey me, sir!"

But hereupon, while Barnabas scowled and Peterby hesitated, puckered of brow yet joyful of eye, there came the sound of wheels on the drive below and the slam of a coach door, whereat Peterby crossed to the window and, glancing out, heaved a sigh of relief.

"Who is it?" demanded Barnabas, his scowl blacker than ever.

"Her Grace has returned, sir."

"Very good, John! Present my compliments and sa'y I will wait upon her as soon as I'm dressed."

But hardly had Peterby left the room with this message, than the door opened again and her Grace of Camberhurst appeared, who, catching sight of Barnabas sitting up shock-headed among his pillows, uttered a little, glad cry and hurried to him.

"Why, Barnabas!" she exclaimed, "oh, Barnabas!" and with the words stooped, quick and sudden, yet in the most matter-of-fact manner in the world, and kissed him lightly on the brow.

"Oh, dear me!" she cried, beginning to pat and smooth his tumbled pillows, "how glad I am to see you able to frown again, though indeed you look dreadfully ferocious, Barnabas!"

"I'm--very hungry, Duchess!"

"Of course you are, Barnabas, and God bless you for it!"

"A steak, madam, or a chop, I think--"

"Would be excellent, Barnabas!"

"And I wish to get up, Duchess."

"To be sure you do, Barnabas--there, lie down, so!"

"But, madam, I am firmly resolved--I'm quite determined to get up, at once--"

"Quite so, dear Barnabas--lay your head back on the pillow! Dear me, how comfortable you look! And now, you are hungry you say? Then I'll sit here and gossip to you while you take your chicken broth! You may bring it in, Mr. Peterby."

"Chicken broth!" snarled Barnabas, frowning blacker than ever, "but, madam, I tell you I won't have the stuff; I repeat, madam, that I am quite determined to--"

"There, there--rest your poor tired head--so! And it's all a delicious jelly when it's cold--I mean the chicken broth, of course, not your head. Ah! you may give it to me, Mr. Peterby, and the spoon--thank you! Now, Barnabas!"

And hereupon, observing the firm set of her Grace's mouth, and the authoritative flourish of the spoon she held in her small, though imperious hand, Barnabas submitted and lying back among his pillows in sulky dignity, swallowed the decoction in sulky silence, and thereafter lay hearkening sulkily to her merry chatter until he had sulked himself to sleep again.

III

His third awakening was much like the first in that room, was full of sunshine, and the air vibrant with the song of birds; yet here indeed lay a difference; for now, mingled with the piping chorus, Barnabas was vaguely conscious of another sound, soft and low and oft repeated, a very melodious sound that yet was unlike any note ever uttered by thrush or blackbird, or any of the feathered kind. Therefore, being yet heavy with sleep, Barnabas yawned, and presently turning, propped himself upon his elbow and was just in time to see a shapeless something vanish from the ledge of the open window.

The sun was low as yet, the birds in full song, the air laden with fresh, sweet, dewy scents; and from this, and the profound stillness of the house about him, he judged it to be yet early morning.

Now presently as he lay with his eyes turned ever towards the open casement, the sound that had puzzled him came again, soft and melodious.

Some one was whistling "The British Grenadiers."

And, in this moment a bedraggled object began to make its appearance, slowly and by degrees resolving itself into a battered hat. Inch by inch it rose up over the window-ledge--the dusty crown--the frayed band--the curly brim, and beneath it a face there was no mistaking by reason of its round, black eyes and the untamable ferocity of its whiskers. Hereupon, with its chin resting upon the window-sill, the head gently shook itself to and fro, sighed, and thereafter pronounced these words:

Devilish pale! Deuced thin! But himself again. Oh, lucky dog! With Fortune eager to dower him with all the treasures of her cornucopia, and Beauty waiting for him with expectant arms, oh, lucky dog! Oh, happy youth! Congratulations, Beverley, glad of it, my dear fellow, you deserve it all and more. Oh, fortunate wight!

But, as for me--you behold the last of lonely Smivvle, sir, of bereaved Digby--of solitary Dig. Poor Barrymaine's star is set and mine is setting--westwards, sir--my bourne is the far Americas, Beverley.

"Ah, Mr. Smivvle!" exclaimed Barnabas, sitting up, "I'm glad to see you--very glad. But what do you mean by America?"

"Sir," answered Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head and sighing again, "on account of the lamentable affair of a month ago, the Bow Street Runners have assiduously chivvied me from pillar to post and from perch to perch, dammem! Had a notion to slip over to France, but the French will insist on talking their accursed French at one, so I've decided for America. But, though hounded by the law, I couldn't go without knowing precisely how you were--without bidding you good-by--without endeavoring to thank you--to thank you for poor Barry's sake and my own, and also to return--"

"Come in," said Barnabas, stretching out his hand, "pray come in--through the window if you can manage it."

In an instant Mr. Smivvle was astride the sill, but paused there to glance about him and twist a whisker in dubious fingers.

"Coast clear?" he inquired. "I've been hanging about the place for a week hoping to see you, but by Gad, Beverley, you're so surrounded by watchful angels--especially one in an Indian shawl, that I didn't dare disturb you, but--"

"Pooh, nonsense--come in, man!" said Barnabas. "Come in, I want your help--"

"My help, Oh Gemini!" and, with the word, Mr. Smivvle was in the room. "My help?" he repeated. "Oh Jupiter--only say the word, my dear fellow."

"Why, then, I want you to aid me to dress."

"Dress? Eh, what, Beverley--get up, is it?"

"Yes. Pray get me my clothes--in the press yonder, I fancy."

"Certainly, my dear fellow, but are you strong enough?" inquired Mr. Smivvle, coming to the press on tip-toe.

"Strong enough!" cried Barnabas in profound scorn, "Of course I am!" and forthwith sprang to the floor and--clutched at the bedpost to save himself from falling.

"Ha--I feared so!" said Mr. Smivvle, hurrying to him with the garments clasped in his arms. "Steady! There, lean on me--I'll have you back into bed in a jiffy."

"Bed!" snorted Barnabas, scowling down at himself. "Bed--never! I shall be as right as a trivet in a minute or so. Oblige me with my shirt."

So, with a little difficulty, despite Mr. Smivvle's ready aid, Barnabas proceeded to invest himself in his clothes; which done, he paced to and fro across the chamber leaning upon Mr. Smivvle's arm, glorying in his returning strength.

"And so you are going to America?" inquired Barnabas, as he sank into a chair, a little wearily.

"I sail for New York in three days' time, sir."

"But what of your place in Worcestershire?"

"Gone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to feel for his whisker. "Historic place, though devilish damp and draughty--will echo to the tread of a Smivvle no more--highly affecting thought, sir--oh demmit!"

"As to--funds, now," began Barnabas, a little awkwardly, "are you--have you--"

"Sir, I have enough to begin with--in America. Which reminds me I must be hopping, sir. But I couldn't go without thanking you on behalf of--my friend Barrymaine, seeing he is precluded from--from doing it himself. Sir, it was a great--a great grief to me--to lose him for, as I fancy I told you, the hand of a Smivvle, sir--but he is gone beyond plague or pestilence, or Jews, dammem! And he died, sir, like a gentleman. So, on his behalf I do thank you deeply, and I beg, herewith, to return you the twenty guineas you would have given him. Here they are, sir." So saying, Mr. Smivvle released his whisker and drawing a much worn purse from his pocket, tendered it to Barnabas.

Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle's averted eyes, and the drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle's whiskers, Barnabas took the purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.

"Mr. Smivvle," said he, "it is a far better thing to take the hand of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new life and--and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit when you reach New York, and--and heaven prosper you."

"Sir--" began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in contemplation of the glory of the morning.

"You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?" inquired Barnabas.

"Sir," stammered Mr. Smivvle, "sir--oh, Beverley, I can't thank you--I cannot, but--if I live, you shall find I don't forget and--"

"Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!" said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.

In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek--as bright, as glorious as any jewel.

"Good-by, Beverley!" he whispered as their hands met, "good-by, and I shall never forget--never!"

So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.

But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.

Being come to the end of the drive he turned, flourished his shabby hat and so was gone.

Chapter LXXIV

HOW THE DUCHESS MADE UP HER MIND, AND BARNABAS DID THE LIKE

"Gracious heavens--he's actually up--and dressed! Oh Lud, Barnabas, what does this mean?"

Barnabas started and turned to find the Duchess regarding him from the doorway and, though her voice was sharp, her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and she had stretched out her hands to him. Therefore he crossed the room a little unsteadily, and taking those small hands in his, bent his head and kissed them reverently.

"It means that, thanks to you, Duchess, I am well again and--"

"And as pale as a goblin--no, I mean a ghost--trying to catch his death of cold at an open window too--I mean you, not the ghost! And as weak as--as a rabbit, and--oh, dear me, I can't shut it--the casement--drat it! Thank you, Barnabas. Dear heaven, I am so flurried--and even your boots on too! Let me sit down. Lud, Barnabas--how thin you are!"

"But strong enough to go on my way--"

"Way? What way? Which way?"

"Home, Duchess."

"Home, home indeed? You are home--this is your home. Ashleydown is yours now."

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "I suppose it is, but I shall never live here, I leave today. I am going home, but before I--"

"Home? What home--which home?"

"But before I do, I would thank you if I could, but how may I thank you for all your motherly care of me? Indeed, dear Duchess, I cannot, and yet--if words can--"

"Pho!" exclaimed the Duchess, knitting her brows at him, but with eyes still ineffably soft and tender, "what do you mean by 'home,' pray?"

"I am going back to my father and Natty Bell."

"And to--that inn?"

"Yes, Duchess. You see, there is not, there never was, there never shall be quite such another inn as the old 'Hound.'"

"And you--actually mean to--live there?"

"Yes, for a time, but--"

"Ha--a publican!" exclaimed the Duchess and positively sniffed, though only as a really great lady may.

"--there is a farm near by, I shall probably--"

"Ha--a farmer!" snorted the Duchess.

"--raise horses, madam, and with Natty Bell's assistance I hope--"

"Horses!" cried the Duchess, and sniffed again. "Horses, indeed! Absurd! Preposterous! Quite ridiculous--hush, sir! I have some questions to ask you."

"Well, Duchess?"

"Firstly, sir, what of your dreams? What of London? What of Society?"

"They were--only dreams," answered Barnabas; "in place of them I shall have--my father and Natty Bell."

"Secondly, sir,--what of your fine ambitions?"

"It will be my ambition, henceforth, to breed good horses, madam."

"Thirdly, sir,--what of your money?"

"I shall hope to spend it to much better purpose in the country than in the World of Fashion, Duchess."

"Oh Lud, Barnabas,--what a selfish creature you are!"

"Selfish, madam?"

"A perfect--wretch!"

"Wretch?" said Barnabas, staring.

"Wretch!" nodded the Duchess, frowning, "and pray don't echo my words, sir. I say you are a preposterously selfish wretch, and--so you are!"

"But, madam, why? What do you mean?"

"I mean that you should try to forget yourself occasionally and think of others--me, for instance; look at me--a solitary old woman--in a wig!"

"You, Duchess?"

"Me, Barnabas. And this brings me to fourthly--what of me, sir? --what of me?"

"But, madam, I--"

"And this brings me to fifthly and sixthly and seventhly--my hopes, and dreams, and plans, sir--are they all to be broken, spoiled, ruined by your hatefully selfish whims, sir--hush, not a word!"

"But, Duchess, indeed I don't--"

"Hush, sir, and listen to me. There are days when my wig rebukes me, sir, and my rouge-pot stares me out of countenance; yes, indeed, I sometimes begin to feel almost--middle-aged and, at such times, I grow a little lonely. Heaven, sir, doubtless to some wise end, has always denied me that which is a woman's abiding joy or shame--I mean a child, sir, and as the years creep on, one is apt to be a little solitary, now and then, and at such times I feel the need of a son--so I have determined to adopt you, Barnabas--today! Now! This minute! Not a word, sir, my mind is made up!"

"But," stammered Barnabas, "but, madam, I--I beg you to consider--my father--"

"Is a publican and probably a sinner, Barnabas. I may be a sinner too, perhaps--y-e-s, I fear I am, occasionally. But then I am also a Duchess, and it is far wiser in a man to be the adopted son of a sinful Duchess than the selfish son of a sinful publican, yes indeed."

"But I, madam, what can I say? Dear Duchess, I--the honor you would do me--" floundered poor Barnabas, "believe me if--if--"

"Not another word!" the Duchess interposed, "it is quite settled. As my adopted son Society shall receive you on bended knees, with open arms--I'll see to that! All London shall welcome you, for though I'm old and wear a wig, I'm very much alive, and Society knows it. So no more talk of horses, or farms, or inns, Barnabas; my mind, as I say, is quite made up and--"

"But, madam," said Barnabas gently, "so is mine."

"Ha--indeed, sir--well?"

"Well, madam, today I go to my father."

"Ah!" sighed the Duchess.

"Though indeed I thank you humbly for--your condescension."

"Hum!" said the Duchess.

"And honor you most sincerely for--for--"

"Oh?" said the Duchess, softly.

"And most truly love and reverence you for your womanliness."

"Oh!" said the Duchess again, this time very softly indeed, and with her bright eyes more youthful than ever.

"Nevertheless," pursued Barnabas a little ponderously, "my father is my father, and I count it more honorable to be his son than to live an amateur gentleman and the friend of princes."

"Quite so," nodded the Duchess, "highly filial and very pious, oh, indeed, most righteous and laudable, but--there remains an eighthly, Barnabas."

"And pray, madam, what may that be?"

"What of Cleone?"

Now when the Duchess said this, Barnabas turned away to the window and leaning his head in his hands, was silent awhile.

"Cleone!" he sighed at last, "ah, yes--Cleone!"

"You love her, I suppose?"

"So much--so very much that she shall never marry an innkeeper's son, or a discredited--"

"Bah!" exclaimed the Duchess.

"Madam?"

"Don't be so hatefully proud, Barnabas."

"Proud, madam--I?"

"Cruelly, wickedly, hatefully proud! Oh, dear me! what a superbly virtuous, heroic fool you are, Barnabas. When you met her at the crossroads, for instance--oh, I know all about it--when you had her there--in your arms, why didn't you--run off with her and marry her, as any ordinary human man would have done? Dear heaven, it would have been so deliciously romantic! And--such an easy way out of it!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, beginning to frown, "so easy that it was--wrong!"

"Quite so and fiddlesticks!" sniffed the Duchess.

"Madam?"

"Oh, sir, pray remember that one wrong may sometimes make two right! As it is, you will let your abominable pride--yes, pride! wreck and ruin two lives. Bah!" cried the Duchess very fiercely as she rose and turned to the door, "I've no patience with you!"

"Ah, Duchess," said Barnabas, staying her with pleading hands, "can't you see--don't you understand? Were she, this proud lady, my wife, I must needs be haunted, day and night, by the fear that some day, soon or late, she would find me to be--not of her world--not the man she would have me, but only--the publican's son, after all. Now--don't you see why I dare not?"

"Oh, Pride! Pride!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Do you expect her to come to you, then--would you have her go down on her knees to you, and--beg you to marry her?"

Barnabas turned to the window again and stood there awhile staring blindly out beyond the swaying green of trees; when at last he spoke his voice was hoarse and there was a bitter smile upon his lips.

"Yes, Duchess," said he slowly, "before such great happiness could be mine she must come to me, she must go down upon her knees--proud lady that she is--and beg this innkeeper's son to marry her. So you see, Duchess, I--shall never marry!"

Now when at last Barnabas looked round, the Duchess had her back to him, nor did she turn even when she spoke.

"Then you are going back--to your father?"

"Yes, madam."

"To-day?"

"Yes, madam."

"Then--good-by, Barnabas! And remember that even roses, like all things else, have a habit of fading, sooner or later." And thus, without even glancing at him, the Duchess went out of the room and closed the door softly behind her.

Then Barnabas sank into a chair, like one that is very tired, and sat there lost in frowning thought, and with one hand clasped down upon his breast where hidden away in a clumsily contrived hiding-place a certain rose, even at that moment, was fading away. And in a while being summoned by Peterby, he sighed and, rising, went down to his solitary breakfast.

LXXV. WHICH TELLS WHY BARNABAS FORGOT HIS BREAKFAST

It was a slender little shoe, and solitary, for fellow it had none, and it lay exactly in the middle of the window-seat; moreover, to the casual observer, it was quite an ordinary little shoe, ordinary, be it understood, in all but its size.

Why, then, should Barnabas, chancing to catch sight of so ordinary an object, start up from his breakfast (ham and eggs, and fragrant coffee) and crossing the room with hasty step, pause to look down at this small and lonely object that lay so exactly in the middle of the long, deep window-seat? Why should his hand shake as he stooped and took it up? Why should the color deepen in his pale cheek?

And all this because of a solitary little shoe! A quite ordinary little shoe--to the casual observer! Oh, thou Casual Observer who seeing so much, yet notices and takes heed to so little beyond thy puny self! To whom the fairest prospect is but so much earth and so much timber! To whom music is but an arrangement of harmonious sounds, and man himself but a being erect upon two legs! Oh, thou Casual Observer, what a dull, gross, self-contented clod art thou, who, having eyes and ears, art blind and deaf to aught but things as concrete as--thyself!

But for this shoe, it, being something worn, yet preserved the mould of the little foot that had trodden it, a slender, coquettish little foot, a shapely, active little foot: a foot, perchance, to trip it gay and lightly to a melody, or hurry, swift, untiring, upon some errand of mercy.

All this, and more, Barnabas noted (since he, for one, was no casual observer) as he stood there in the sunlight with the little shoe upon his palm, while the ham and eggs languished forgotten and the coffee grew cold, for how might they hope to vie with this that had lain so lonely, so neglected and--so exactly in the middle of the window-seat?

Now presently, as Barnabas stood thus lost in contemplation of this shoe, he was aware of Peterby entering behind him, and instinctively made as if to hide the shoe in his bosom, but he checked the impulse, turned, and glancing at Peterby, saw that his usually grave lips were quivering oddly at the corners, and that he kept his gaze fixed pertinaciously upon the coffee-pot; whereat the pale cheek of Barnabas grew suffused again, and stepping forward, he laid the little shoe upon the table.

"John," said he, pointing to it, "have you ever seen this before?"

"Why, sir," replied Peterby, regarding the little shoe with brow of frowning portent, "I think I have."

"And pray," continued Barnabas (asking a perfectly unnecessary question), "whose is it, do you suppose?"

"Sir," answered John, still grave of mouth and solemn of eye, "to the best of my belief it belongs to the Lady Cleone Meredith."

"So she--really was here, John?"

"Sir, she came here the same night that you--were shot, and she brought Her Grace of Camberhurst with her."

"Yes, John?"

"And they remained here until today--to nurse you, sir."

"Did they, John?"

"They took turns to be with you--day and night, sir. But it was only my Lady Cleone who could soothe your delirious ravings,--she seemed to have a magic--"

"And why," demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly, "Why was I never told of her presence?"

"Sir, it was her earnest wish that you were not to know unless--"

"Well, John?"

"Unless you expressly asked for her, by name. And, sir--you never did."

"No," sighed Barnabas, "I never did. But perhaps, after all, it was just as well, John? Under the--circumstances, John?"

But seeing Peterby only shook his head and sighed, Barnabas turned to stare out of the window.

"And she--left this morning--with the Duchess, did she?" he inquired, without looking round.

"Yes, sir."

"Where for?"

"For--London, as I understood, sir."

Hereupon Barnabas was silent for a time, during which Peterby watched him solicitously.

"Is 'The Terror' still here?" Barnabas inquired suddenly.

"Yes, sir, and I took the liberty of sending for Gabriel Martin to look after him."

"Quite right, John. Tell Martin to have him saddled at once."

"You are--going out, sir?"

"Yes, I am going--out."

Peterby bowed and crossed to the door, but paused there, hesitated, and finally spoke:

"Sir, may I ask if you intend to ride--Londonwards?"

"No," answered Barnabas, stifling a sigh, "my way lies in the opposite direction; I am going--back, to the 'Coursing Hound.' And that reminds me--what of you, what are your plans for the future?"

"Sir," stammered Peterby, "I--I had ventured to--to hope that you might--take me with you, unless you wished to--to be rid of me--"

"Rid of you, John!" cried Barnabas, turning at last, "no--never. Why, man, I need you more than ever!"

"Sir," exclaimed Peterby, flushing suddenly, "do you--really mean that?"

"Yes, John--a thousand times, yes! For look you, as I have proved you the best valet in the world--so have I proved you a man, and it is the man I need now, because--I am a failure."

"No, no!"

"Yes, John. In London I attempted the impossible, and today I--return home, a failure. Consequently the future looms rather dark before me, John, and at such times a tried friend is a double blessing. So, come with me, John, and help me to face the future as a man should."

"Ah, sir," answered Peterby, with his sudden radiant smile, "darkness cannot endure, and if the future brings its sorrows, so must it bring its joys. Surely the future stands for hope and--I think--happiness!"

Now as he ended, Peterby raised one hand with forefinger outstretched; and, looking where he pointed, Barnabas beheld--the little shoe. But when he glanced up again, Peterby was gone.

LXXVI. HOW THE VISCOUNT PROPOSED A TOAST

"Oh--hif you please, sir!"

Barnabas started, raised his head, and, glancing over his shoulder, beheld Milo of Crotona. He was standing in the middle of the room looking very cherubic, very natty, and very upright of back; and he stared at Barnabas with his innocent blue eyes very wide, and with every one of the eight winking, twinkling, glittering buttons on his small jacket--indeed, it seemed to Barnabas that to-day his buttons were rather more knowing than usual, if that could well be. Therefore Barnabas dropped his table-napkin, very adroitly, upon a certain object that yet lay upon the table before him, ere he turned about and addressed himself to the Viscount's diminutive "tiger."

"What, my Imp," said he, "where in the world have you sprung from, pray? I didn't see you come in."

"No, sir--'cause you jest 'appened to be lookin' at that there little boot, you did." Thus Master Milo, and his eyes were guileless as an angel's, but--his buttons--!

"Hum!" said Barnabas, rubbing his chin. "But how did you get in, Imp?"

"Froo de winder, sir, I did. An' I 've come to tell you 'is Ludship's compliments, and 'e's a-comin' along wiv 'er, 'e is."

"With--whom?"

"Wiv my lady--'er."

"What lady?"

"Wiv 'is Ludship's lady, 'is Vi-coun-tess,--'er."

"His Viscountess!" repeated Barnabas, staring, "do you mean that the Viscount is--actually married?"

"'T ain't my fault, sir--no fear, it ain't. 'E went and done it be'ind my back--s'morning as ever was, 'e did. I didn't know nothin' about it till it was too late, 'e done it unbeknownst to me, sir, 'e did, an' she done it too a' course, an' the Yurl went an' 'elped 'em to do it, 'e did. So did the Cap'n, and the Doochess an' Lady Cleone--they all 'elped 'em to do it, they did. An' now they're goin' into the country, to Deven'am, an' I'm a-goin' wiv 'em--an' they're a-drivin' over to see you, sir, in 'is Ludship's noo phayton--an' that's all--no, it ain't though."

"What more, Imp?"

"Why, as they all come away from the church--where they'd been a-doin' of it, sir--I met the little, old Doochess in 'er coach, an' she see me, too. 'Why it's the little Giant!' she sez. 'Best respex, mam,' I sez, an' then I see as she'd got Lady Cleone wiv 'er--a fine, 'igh-steppin', 'andsome young filly, I call 'er, an' no error. 'Where are you goin', Giant?' sez the Doochess. 'I'm a-goin' to drop in on Mr. Bev'ley, mam, I am,' I sez. 'Then give 'im my love,' she sez, 'an' tell 'im I shan't never forget 'is pride and 'is selfishness,' she sez,--an' she give me a crown into the bargain, she did. An' then--jest as the coach was a-drivin' off t'other 'un--the young 'un, give me this. 'For Mr. Bev'ley,' she sez in a whisper, and--here it be, sir."

Saying which, Master Milo handed Barnabas a small folded paper whereon, scribbled in Cleone's well-known writing, were these three aphorisms:

1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

2. Selfishness shall find its own reward.

3. Journeys end in lovers' meetings.

Long stood Barnabas devouring these words with his eyes; so puzzled and engrossed was he indeed, that not until Master Milo ventured to touch him on the arm did he look up.

"'Ere's 'is Ludship, sir," explained Milo, jerking his thumb towards the open window, "a-drivin' up the av'noo, sir, in 'is phayton, and wiv 'is noo Vi-coun-tess along of him--and a reg'lar 'igh-stepper she looks, don't she? Arter all, I don't blame 'im for goin' an' doin' of it, I don't. Ye see, I allus 'ad a tender spot for Miss Clemency, mam, I 'ad, and a fine, proper, bang up Vi-coun-tess she do make, an' no error, sir--now don't she?"

"Surely," nodded Barnabas, looking where Milo pointed, "surely she is the handsomest, sweetest young Viscountess in all England, Imp."

So saying, he strode from the room with Master Milo trotting at his heels, and being come out upon the terrace, stood to watch the phaeton's rapid approach.

And, indeed, what words could be found in any language that could possibly do justice to the gentle, glowing beauty of Mistress Clemency Dare, transformed now, for good and all, into Beatrix, Viscountess Devenham? What brush could paint the mantling color of her cheek, the tender light of her deep, soft eyes, the ripe loveliness of her shape, and all the indefinable grace and charm of her? Surely none.

And now, Master Milo has darted forward and sprung to the horses' heads, for the Viscount has leapt to earth and has caught at Barnabas with both hands almost before the phaeton has come to a stand.

"Why, Bev--my dear old fellow, this is a joyful surprise! oh, bruise and blister me!" exclaimed the Viscount, viewing Barnabas up and down with radiant eyes, "to see you yourself again at last--and on this day of all days--this makes everything quite complete, y'know--doesn't it, Clemency? Expected to find you in bed, y'know--didn't we, Clem, dear? And oh--egad, Bev--er--my wife, y'know. You haven't heard, of course, that I--that we--"

"Yes, I've just heard," said Barnabas, smiling, "and God knows, Dick, I rejoice in your joy and wish you every happiness!" And, speaking, he turned and looked into the flushing loveliness of Clemency's face.

"Mr. Beverley--oh, Barnabas--dear brother!" she said softly, "but for you, this day might never have dawned for us--" and she gave both her hands into his. "Oh, believe me, in my joy, as in my sorrow, I shall remember you always."

"And I too, Bev!" added the Viscount.

"And," continued Clemency, her voice a little tearful, "whatever happiness the future may hold will only make that memory all the dearer, Barnabas."

"Gad, yes, that it will, Bev!" added the Viscount. "And, my dear fellow," he pursued, growing somewhat incoherent because of his earnestness, "I want to tell you that--that because I--I'm so deucedly happy myself, y' know, I wish that my luck had been yours--no, I don't mean that exactly, but what I meant to say was that I--that you deserve to--to--oh, blister me! Tell him what I mean, Clemency dear," the Viscount ended, a little hoarsely.

"That you deserve to know a love as great, a joy as deep as ours, dear Barnabas."

"Exactly!" nodded the Viscount, with a fond look at his young wife; "Precisely what I meant, Bev, for I'm the proudest, happiest fellow alive, y' know. And what's more, my dear fellow, in marrying Clemency I marry also an heiress possessed of all the attributes necessary to bowl over a thousand flinty-hearted Roman P's, and my Roman's heart--though tough, was never quite a flint, after all."

"Indeed, sir--he would have welcomed me without a penny!" retorted Clemency, blushing, and consequently looking lovelier than ever.

"Why--to be sure he would!" said Barnabas. "Indeed, who wouldn't?"

"Exactly, Bev!" replied the Viscount, "she cornered him with the first glance, floored him with a second, and had him fairly beaten out of the ring with a third. Gad, if you'd only been there to see!"

"Would I had!" sighed Barnabas.

"Still there's always--the future, y' know!" nodded the Viscount. "Ah, yes, and with an uncommonly big capital F, y' know, Bev. It was decreed that we were to be friends by--well, you remember who, Bev--and friends we always must be, now and hereafter, amen, my dear fellow, and between you and me--and my Viscountess, I think the Future holds more happiness for you than ever the past did. Your turn will come, y' know, Bev--we shall be dancing at your wedding next--shan't we, Clem?"

"No, Dick," answered Barnabas, shaking his head, "I shall never marry."

"Hum!" said the Viscount, fingering his chin and apparently lost in contemplation of a fleecy cloud.

"Of that I am--quite certain."

"Ha!" said the Viscount, staring down at the toe of his glossy boot.

"But," continued Barnabas, "even in my loneliness--"

"His loneliness--hum!" said the Viscount, still contemplating his resplendent boot. "Clemency dear, do you suppose our Barnabas fellow will be groaning over his 'loneliness'--to-morrow, say?" Hereupon, the Viscount laughed suddenly, and for no apparent reason, while even Clemency's red lips curved and parted in a smile.

"But," said Barnabas, looking from one to the other, "I don't understand!"

"Neither do we, Bev. Only, dear fellow, remember this, 'there is a destiny which shapes our ends,' and--occasionally, a Duchess." But here, while Barnabas still glanced at them in perplexity, John Peterby appeared, bearing a tray whereon stood a decanter and glasses.

"Ha!--most excellent Peterby!" cried the Viscount, "you come pat to the occasion, as usual. Fill up for all of us, yes--even my small Imp yonder; I have a toast to give you." And, when the glasses brimmed, the Viscount turned and looked at Barnabas with his boyish smile. "Let us drink," said he, "to the Future, and the Duchess's move!"

So the toast was drunk with all due honors: but when Barnabas sought an explanation, the Viscount laughed and shook his head.

"Pray ask my Viscountess," said he, with a fond look at her, and turned away to rebuckle a trace under the anxious supervision of Master Milo.

"Indeed, no, Barnabas," said Clemency, smiling, "I cannot explain, as Dick well knows. But this I must tell you, while you lay here, very near death, I came to see you often with my dear father."

"Ah!" exclaimed Barnabas, "then you met--her?"

"Yes, I met Cleone, and I--loved her. She was very tired and worn, the first time I saw her; you were delirious, and she had watched over you all night. Of course we talked of you, and she told me how she had found my letter to you, the only one I ever wrote you, and how she had misjudged you. And then she cried, and I took her in my arms and kissed away her tears and comforted her. So we learned to know and love each other, you see."

"I am very glad," said Barnabas, slowly, and with his gaze on the distance, "for her sake and yours."

Now as she looked at him, Clemency sighed all at once, yet thereafter smiled very tenderly, and so smiling, gave him both her hands.

"Oh, Barnabas," said she, "I know Happiness will come to you, sooner or later--when least expected, as it came to me, so--dear Barnabas, smile!"

Then Barnabas, looking from her tearful, pitying eyes to the hand upon whose finger was a certain plain gold ring that shone so very bright and conspicuous because of its newness, raised that slender hand to his lips.

"Thank you, Clemency," he answered, "but why are you--so sure?"

"A woman's intuition, perhaps, Barnabas, or perhaps, because if ever a man deserved to be happy--you do, dear brother."

"Amen to that!" added the Viscount, who had at length adjusted the trace to his own liking and Master Milo's frowning approval. "Good-by, Bev," he continued, gripping the hand Barnabas extended. "We are going down to Devenham for a week or so--Clemency's own wish, and when we come back I have a feeling that the--the shadows, y' know, will have passed quite away, y'know,--for good and all. Good-by, dear fellow, good-by!" So saying, the Viscount turned, rather hastily, sprang into the phaeton and took up the reins.

"Are you right there, Imp?"

"All right, m'lud!" answers that small person with one foot posed negligently on the step, waiting till the last possible moment ere he mounts to his perch behind. So, with a last "good-by" the Viscount touches up his horses, the light vehicle shoots forward with Master Milo swinging suspended in mid-air, who turns to Barnabas, flashes his eight buttons at him, touches his hat to him, folds his arms, and, sitting very stiff in the back, is presently whirled out of sight.

Chapter LXXVII

HOW BARNABAS RODE HOMEWARDS, AND TOOK COUNSEL OF A PEDLER OF BOOKS

It was well on in the afternoon when Barnabas, booted and spurred, stepped out into the sunshine where old Gabriel Martin walked "The Terror" to and fro before the door.

"Very glad to see you out and about again, sir," said he, beaming of face and with a finger at his grizzled temple.

"Thank you, Martin."

"And so is the 'oss, sir--look at 'im!" And indeed the great, black horse had tossed up his lofty crest and stood, one slender fore-leg advanced and with sensitive ears pricked forward, snuffing at Barnabas as he came slowly down the steps.

"He doesn't seem to have taken any hurt from the last race we had together," said Barnabas.

"'Arm, sir--lord, no--not a bit, never better! There's a eye for you, there's a coat! I tell you, sir, 'e's in the very pink, that 'e is."

"He does you great credit, Martin."

"Sir," said Martin as Barnabas prepared to mount, "sir, I hear as you ain't thinking of going back to town?"

"To the best of my belief, no, Martin."

"Why, then, sir," said the old groom, his face clouding, "p'r'aps I 'd better be packing up my bits o' traps, sir?"

"Yes, Martin, I think you had," answered Barnabas, and swung himself somewhat awkwardly into the saddle.

"Very good, sir!" sighed old Martin, his gray head drooping. "I done my best for the 'oss and you, sir, but I know I'm a bit too old for the job, p'r'aps, and--"

But at this moment Peterby approached.

"Sir," he inquired, a little anxiously, "do you feel able--well enough to ride--alone?"

"Why, bless you, John, of course I do. I'm nearly well," answered Barnabas, settling his feet in the stirrups, "and that reminds me, you will discharge all the servants--a month's wages, John, and shut up this place as soon as possible. As for Martin here, of course you will bring him with you if he will come. We shall need him hereafter, shan't we, John? And perhaps we'd better offer him another ten shillings a week considering he will have so many more responsibilities on the farm."

So saying, Barnabas waved his hand, wheeled his horse, and rode off down the drive; but, glancing back, when he had gone a little way, he saw that Peterby and the old groom yet stood looking after him, and in the face of each was a brightness that was not of the sun.

On rode Barnabas, filling his lungs with great draughts of the balmy air and looking about him, eager-eyed. And thus, beholding the beauty of wooded hill and dale, already mellowing to Autumn, the heaviness was lifted from his spirit, his drooping back grew straight, and raising his eyes to the blue expanse of heaven, he gloried that he was alive.

But, in a while, remembering Cleone's note, he must needs check his speed, and taking the paper from his bosom, began to con it over:

1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

2. Selfishness shall find its own reward.

3. Journeys end in lovers' meetings.

Now as he rode thus at a hand-pace, puzzling over these cryptic words, he was presently aroused by a voice, somewhat harsh and discordant, singing at no great distance; and the words of the song were these:

"Push about the brisk bowl, 't will enliven the heart While thus we sit down on the grass; The lover who talks of his sufferings and smart Deserves to be reckoned an ass, an ass, Deserves to be reckoned an ass."

Therefore Barnabas raised his head and, glancing to one side of the way, beheld the singer sitting beneath the hedge. He was a small, merry-eyed man and, while he sang, he was busily setting out certain edibles upon the grass at his feet; now glancing from this very small man to the very large pack that lay beside him, Barnabas reined up and looked down at him with a smile.

"And pray," he inquired, "how do books sell these days?"

"Why, they do and they don't, sir. Sermons are a drug and novels ain't much better, poems is pretty bobbish, but song-books is my meat. And, talking o' songbooks, here's one as is jest the thing for a convivial cock o' the game--a fine, young, slap-up buck like you, my Lord. Here's a book to kill care, drive away sorrer, and give a 'leveller' to black despair. A book as'll make the sad merry, and the merry merrier. Hark to this now!"

So saying, the Pedler drew a book from his pack, and opening it at the title-page, began to read as follows, with much apparent unction and gusto:

THE HEARTY FELLOW:

OR

JOYOUS SOUL'S COMPANION.

BEING A Chaste, Elegant, and Humourous COLLECTION OF SONGS, for the ENTERTAINMENT of:

The TENDER MAID, the PINING LOVER, the CHOICE SPIRIT, the DROLL DOG, the JOVIAL SPORTSMAN, the DARING SOLDIER and the ROUGH, HONEST TAR: and for all those who would wish to render themselves agreeable, divert the Company, kill Care, and be joyous; where the high-seasoned WIT and HUMOUR will be sufficient Apology for a bad Voice, and by which such as have a tolerable one will be able to Shine without repressing the Laugh of the merrily disposed, or offending the Ear of the chastest Virgin.

To which is added:

A complete Collection of the Various TOASTS, SENTIMENTS, and HOB-NOBS, that have been drank, are now drinking, and some new Ones offered for Adoption.

"There you are, sir--there's a book for you! A book? A whole li-bree--a vaddy-mekkum o' wit, and chock full o' humor! What d' ye say for such a wollum o' sparkling bon mots? Say a guinea, say fifteen bob? say ten? Come--you shall take it for five! Five bob for a book as ain't to be ekalled no-how and no-wheer--"

"Not in Asia, Africa or America?" said Barnabas.

"Eh?" said the Pedler, glancing sharply up at him, "why--what, Lord love me--it's you, is it? aha! So it did the trick for you, did it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mean, sir? Lord, what should I mean, but that there book on Ettyket, as I sold you--that priceless wollum as I give you--for five bob, months ago, when the larks was a-singing so inspiring."

"Yes, it was a lovely morning, I remember."

"Ah! and you left me that morning, a fine, upstanding young country cove, but to-day--ah, to-day you are a bang up blood--a gent, inside and out, a-riding of a magnificent 'oss--and all on account o' follering the instructions in that 'ere blessed tome as I sold you--for five bob! And dirt-cheap at the money!"

"And I find you exactly as you were," said Barnabas thoughtfully, "yes, even to the bread and cheese."

"There you are wrong, sir--axing your pardon. This time it's 'alf a loaf--medium, a slice o' beef--small, and a cold per-tater--large. But cold per-taters is full o' nourishment, if eat with a contented mind--ah, there's oceans o' nourishment in a cold per-tater--took reg'lar. O' course, for them as is flush o' the rhino, and wants a blow-out, there's nothin' like two o' leg o' beef with a dash o' pea, 'alf a scaffold-pole, a plate o' chats, and a swimmer--it's wholesome and werry filling, and don't cost more than a groat, but give me a cold per-tater to walk on. But you, sir," continued the Pedler, beginning to eat with great appetite, "you, being a reg'lar 'eavy-toddler now, one o' the gilded nobs--and all on account o' that there priceless wollum as I--give away to you--for five bob! you, being now a blue-blooded aris-to-crat, don't 'ave to walk, so you can go in for plovers or pheasants or partridges, dressed up in hartichokes, p'r'aps, yes--frogs'-legs is your constant fodder now, p'r'aps--not to mention rag-outs and sich. Oh, yes, I reckon you've done a lot, and seen a lot, and--eat a lot since the morning as I give you a priceless wollum worth its weight in solid gold as was wrote by a Person o' Quality--and all for five bob! jest because them larks 'appened to be singing so sentimental--drat 'em! Ah well," sighed the Pedler, bolting the last morsel of beef, "and 'ow did you find London, young sir?"

"Much bigger than I expected."

"Ah, it is a bit biggish till you get used to it. And it's amazing what you can see--if you looks 'ard enough, like the tombs in St. Paul's Churchyard, f'r instance. I knowed of a chap once as spent over a week a-looking for 'em, and never see so much as a single 'eadstone--but then, 'e were born stone-blind, so it were only nat'ral as 'e should miss 'em, p'r'aps. But you, young sir, 'ow did you pass your time?"

"Principally in dressing and undressing."

"Ah, jess so, jess so--coats cut 'igh and coats cut low! But what more?"

"And in eating and drinking."

"Ah, French hortolons, p'r'aps, with a occasional tongue of a lark throwed in for a relish, jess so! But what more--did ye marry a duchess, f'r instance?"

"Alas, no!"

"Elope with a earl's daughter, then?"

"No."

"Well--did ye fight any dooels?"

"Not a single one."

"Lord, young sir--you 'ave been a-missing of your opportunities, you 'ave, playing fast and loose wi' Fortun', I calls it--ah, fair flying in the face o' Providence! Now, if instead o' selling books I took to writing of 'em, and tried to write you into a novel, why, Lord, what a poor thing that there novel would be! Who'd want to read it?--why, nobody! Oh, I can see as you've been throwing away your opportunities and wasting your chances shocking, you 'ave."

"Now I wonder," said Barnabas, frowning thoughtfully, "I wonder if I have?"

"Not a doubt of it!" answered the Pedler, swallowing the last of his potato.

"Then the sooner I begin to make up for it, the better."

"Ah!" nodded the Pedler. "I should begin at once, if I was you."

"I will," said Barnabas, gathering up the reins.

"And how, sir?"

"By going my allotted way and--striving to be content."

"Content!" exclaimed the Pedler, "lord, young sir, it's only fools as is ever content! A contented man never done anything much worth 'aving, nor said anything much worth 'caring as ever I 'eard. Never go for to be content, young sir, or you'll never do nothing at all!"

"Why, then," said Barnabas, smiling ruefully, "it is certain that I shall achieve something yet, because--I never shall be content!"

"That's the spirit, young sir--aim 'igh. Jest look at me--born in the gutter, but I wasn't content wi' the gutter so I taught myself to read and write. But I wasn't content to read and write, so I took to the book trade, and 'ere I am to-day travelling the roads and wi' a fairish connection, but I ain't content--Lord, no! I'd like to be a dook a-rolling in a chariot, or a prince o' the blood, or the Prime Minister a-laying down the law. That's the sperrit--shoot 'igh, ah! shoot at the sun and you're bound to 'it summat if it's only a tree or a 'ay-stack. So, if you can't be a dook or a prince, you can allus be--a man--if you try 'ard enough. What--are ye going, young sir?"

"Yes," answered Barnabas, leaning down from the saddle, "good-by, and thank you for your advice," and he stretched out his hand.

Hereupon the pedler of books rose to his feet and rather diffidently clasped the proffered hand. So Barnabas smiled down at him, nodded and rode upon his way, but as for the Pedler, he stood there, staring after him open-mouthed, and with the yellow coins shining upon his palm.