Читать книгу The Amateur Gentleman - Jeffery Farnol - Страница 27

Conversation, though in itself a blessed and delightful thing, yet may be sometimes out of place, and wholly impertinent. If wine is a loosener of tongues, surely food is the greatest, pleasantest, and most complete silencer; for what man when hunger gnaws and food is before him—what man, at such a time, will stay to discuss the wonders of the world, of science—or even himself?

Thus our two young travellers, with a very proper respect for the noble fare before them, paid their homage to it in silence—but a silence that was eloquent none the less. At length, however, each spoke, and each with a sigh.

The Viscount. "The ham, my dear fellow—!"

Barnabas. "The beef, my dear Dick—!"

The Viscount and Barnabus. "Is beyond words."

Having said which, they relapsed again into a silence, broken only by the occasional rattle of knife and fork.

The Viscount (hacking at the loaf). "It's a grand thing to be hungry, my dear fellow."

Barnabas (glancing over the rim of his tankard). "When you have the means of satisfying it—yes."

The Viscount (becoming suddenly abstracted, and turning his piece of bread over and over in his fingers). "Now regarding—Mistress Clemency, my dear Bev; what do you think of her?"

Barnabas (helping himself to more beef). "That she is a remarkably handsome girl!"

The Viscount (frowning at his piece of bread). "Hum! d'you think so?"

Barnabas. "Any man would. I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."

The Viscount. "Yes; I suppose they would."

Barnabas. "Some probably do—especially men with an eye for fine women."

The Viscount (frowning blacker than ever). "Pray, what mean you by that?"

Barnabas. "Your friend Carnaby undoubtedly does."

The Viscount (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into your head? Carnaby's never seen her."

Barnabas. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."

The Viscount (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist). "Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't—he's never been near this place."

Barnabas. "There you are quite wrong."

The Viscount (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what the devil are you driving at?"

Barnabas. "I mean that he was here this morning."

The Viscount. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should make you think so?"

"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper. The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the floor.

"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:—

—felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely July 16,

Your humble, obedient Servant,