Читать книгу The Essential Jeffrey Farnol Collection - Jeffrey Farnol - Страница 5

A bare little room, or office; the pale, smiling gentleman, who lounged in a cushioned chair, a comb in one hand, and in the other a small pocket mirror, by the aid of which he was attending to a diminutive tuft of flaxen whisker; and a woman, in threadbare garments, who crouched upon a bench beside the opposite wall, her face bowed upon her hands, her whole frame shaken by great, heart-broken, gasping sobs,--a sound full of misery, and of desolation unutterable.

At the opening of the door, the pale gentleman started and turned, and the woman looked up with eyes swollen and inflamed by weeping.

"Sir," said the pale gentleman, speaking softly, yet in the tone of one used to command, "may I ask what this intrusion means?" Now as he looked into the speaker's pallid eyes, Barnabas saw that he was much older than he had thought. He had laid aside the comb and mirror, and now rose in a leisurely manner, and his smile was more unpleasant than ever as he faced Barnabas.

"This place is private, sir--you understand, private, sir. May I suggest that you--go, that you--leave us?" As he uttered the last two words, he thrust out his head and jaw in a very ugly manner, therefore Barnabas turned and addressed himself to the woman.

"Pray, madam," said he, "tell me your trouble; what is the matter?" But the woman only wrung her hands together, and stared with great, frightened eyes at the colorless man, who now advanced, smiling still, and tapped Barnabas smartly on the shoulder.

"The trouble is her own, sir, the matter is--entirely a private one," said he, fixing Barnabas with his pale stare, "I repeat, sir,--a private one. May I, therefore, suggest that you withdraw--at once?"

"As often as you please, sir," retorted Barnabas, bowing.

"Ah!" sighed the man, thrusting out his head again, "and what do you want--here?"

"First, is your name Jasper Gaunt?"

"No; but it is as well known as his--better to a great many."

"And your name is--?"

"Quigly."

"Then, Mr. Quigly, pray be seated while I learn this poor creature's sorrow."

"I think--yes, I think you'd better go," said Mr. Quigly,--"ah, yes--and at once, or--"

"Or?" said Barnabas, smiling and clenching his fists.

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

"Yes?"

"And for your friend the Captain."

"Yes?"

"And you will give this woman more reason for her tears!"

Then, looking from the pale, threatening eyes, and smiling lips of the man, to the trembling fear of the weeping woman, and remembering Slingsby's deathly cheek and shaking hand, a sudden, great anger came upon Barnabas; his long arm shot out and, pinning Mr. Quigly by the cravat, he shook him to and fro in a paroxysm of fury. Twice he raised his cane to strike, twice he lowered it, and finally loosing his grip, Mr. Quigly staggered back to the opposite wall, and leaned there, panting.

Hereupon Barnabas, somewhat shocked at his own loss of self-restraint, re-settled his cuff, straightened his cravat, and, when he spoke, was more polite than ever.

"Mr. Quigly, pray sit down," said he; "I have no wish to thrash you,--it would be a pity to spoil my cane, so--oblige me by sitting down."

Mr. Quigly opened his mouth as if to speak, but, glancing at Barnabas, thought better of it; yet his eyes grew so pale that they seemed all whites as he sank into the chair.

"And now," said Barnabas, turning to the crouching woman, "I don't think Mr. Quigly will interrupt us again, you may freely tell your trouble--if you will."

"Oh, sir,--it's my husband! He's been in prison a whole year, and now--now he's dying--they've killed him. It was fifty pounds a year ago. I saved, and scraped, and worked day and night, and a month ago--I brought the fifty pounds. But then--Oh, my God!--then they told me I must find twenty more--interest, they called it. Twenty pounds! why, it would take me months and months to earn so much, --and my husband was dying!--dying! But, sir, I went away despairing. Then I grew wild,--desperate--yes, desperate--oh, believe it, sir, and I,--I--Ah, sir--what won't a desperate woman do for one she loves? And so I--trod shameful ways! To-day I brought the twenty pounds, and now--dear God! now they say it must be twenty-three. Three pounds more, and I have no more--and I can't--Oh, I--can't go back to it again--the shame and horror--I--can't, sir!" So she covered her face again, and shook with the bitter passion of her woe.

And, after a while, Barnabas found voice, though his voice was very hoarse and uneven.

"I think," said he slowly, "yes, I think my cane could not have a worthier end than splintering on your villain's back, Mr. Quigly."

But, even as Barnabas advanced with very evident purpose, a tall figure stood framed in the open doorway.

"Ah, Quigly,--pray what is all this?" a chill, incisive voice demanded. Barnabas turned, and lowering the cane, stood looking curiously at the speaker. A tall, slender man he was, with a face that might have been any age,--a mask-like face, smooth and long, and devoid of hair as it was of wrinkles; an arresting face, with its curving nostrils, thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, high, prominent brow, and small, piercingly-bright eyes; quick eyes, that glinted between their red-rimmed, hairless lids, old in their experience of men and the ways of men. For the rest, he was clad in a rich yet sober habit, unrelieved by any color save for the gleaming seals at his fob, and the snowy lace at throat and wrist; his hair--evidently a wig--curled low on either cheek, and his hands were well cared for, with long, prehensile fingers.

"You are Jasper Gaunt, I think?" said Barnabas at last.

"At your service, sir, and you, I know, are Mr. Barnabas Beverley."

So they stood, fronting each other, the Youth, unconquered as yet, and therefore indomitable, and the Man, with glittering eyes old in their experience of men and the ways of men.

"You wished to see me on a matter of business, Mr. Beverley?"

"Yes."

"Then pray step this way."

"No," said Barnabas, "first I require your signature to this lady's papers."

Jasper Gaunt smiled, and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Such clients as this, sir,--I leave entirely to Mr. Quigly."

"Then, in this instance, sir, you will perhaps favor me by giving the matter your personal attention!"

Jasper Gaunt hesitated, observed the glowing eye, flushed cheek, and firm-set lips of the speaker, and being wise in men and their ways,--bowed.

"To oblige you, Mr. Beverley, with pleasure. Though I understand from Mr. Quigly that she is unable to meet--"

"Seventy-eight pounds, sir! She can pay it all--every blood-stained, tear-soaked farthing. She should meet it were it double--treble the sum!" said Barnabas, opening his purse.

"Ah, indeed, I see! I see!" nodded Jasper Gaunt. "Take the money, Quigly, I will make out the receipt. If you desire, you shall see me sign it, Mr. Beverley." So saying, he crossed to the desk, wrote the document, and handed it to Barnabas, with a bow that was almost ironical.

Then Barnabas gave the precious paper into the woman's eager fingers, and looked down into the woman's shining eyes.

"Sir," said she between trembling lips, "I cannot thank you,--I--I cannot. But God sees, and He will surely repay."

"Indeed," stammered Barnabas, "I--it was only three pounds, after all, and--there,--go,--hurry away to your husband, and--ah! that reminds me,--he will want help, perhaps!" Here Barnabas took out his card, and thrust it into her hand. "Take that to my house, ask to see my Steward, Mr. Peterby,--stay, I'll write the name for you, he will look after you, and--good-by!"

"It is a truly pleasant thing to meet with heartfelt gratitude, sir," said Jasper Gaunt, as the door closed behind the woman. "And now I am entirely at your service,--this way, sir."

Forthwith Barnabas followed him into another room, where sat the Captain, his long legs stretched out before him, his chin on his breast, staring away at vacancy.

"Sir," said Jasper Gaunt, glancing from Barnabas to the Captain and back again, "he will not trouble us, I think, but if you wish him to withdraw--?"

"Thank you--no," answered Barnabas, "Captain Slingsby is my friend!" Jasper Gaunt bowed, and seated himself at his desk opposite Barnabas. His face was in shadow, for the blind had been half-drawn to exclude the glare of the afternoon sun, and he sat, or rather lolled, in a low, deeply cushioned chair, studying Barnabas with his eyes that were so bright and so very knowing in the ways of mankind; very still he sat, and very quiet, waiting for Barnabas to begin. Now on the wall, immediately behind him, was a long, keen-bladed dagger, that glittered evilly where the light caught it; and as he sat there so very quiet and still, with his face in the shadow, it seemed to Barnabas as though he lolled there dead, with the dagger smitten sideways through his throat, and in that moment Barnabas fancied he could hear the deliberate tick-tock of the wizen-faced clock upon the stairs.

"I have come," began Barnabas at last, withdrawing his eyes from the glittering steel with an effort, "I am here on behalf of one--in whom I take an interest--a great interest."

"Yes, Mr. Beverley?"

"I have undertaken to--liquidate his debts."

"Yes, Mr. Beverley."

"To pay--whatever he may owe, both principal and interest."

"Indeed, Mr. Beverley! And--his name?"

"His name is Ronald Barrymaine."

"Ronald--Barrymaine!" There was a pause between the words, and the smooth, soft voice had suddenly grown so harsh, so deep and vibrant, that it seemed incredible the words could have proceeded from the lips of the motionless figure lolling in the chair with his face in the shadow and the knife glittering behind him.

"I have made out to you a draft for more than enough, as I judge, to cover Mr. Barrymaine's liabilities."

"For how much, sir?"

"Twenty-two thousand pounds."

Then Jasper Gaunt stirred, sighed, and leaned forward in his chair.

"A handsome sum, sir,--a very handsome sum, but--" and he smiled and shook his head.

"Pray what do you mean by 'but'?" demanded Barnabas.

"That the sum is--inadequate, sir."

"Twenty-two thousand pounds is not enough then?"

"It is--not enough, Mr. Beverley."

"Then, if you will tell me the precise amount, I will make up the deficiency." But, here again, Jasper Gaunt smiled his slow smile and shook his head.

"That, I grieve to say, is quite impossible, Mr. Beverley."

"Why?"

"Because I make it a rule never to divulge my clients' affairs to a third party; and, sir,--I never break my rules."

"Then--you refuse to tell me?"

"It is--quite impossible."

So there fell a silence while the wide, fearless eyes of Youth looked into the narrow, watchful eyes of Experience. Then Barnabas rose, and began to pace to and fro across the luxurious carpet; he walked with his head bent, and the hands behind his back were tightly clenched. Suddenly he stopped, and throwing up his head faced Jasper Gaunt, who sat lolling back in his chair again.

"I have heard," said he, "that this sum was twenty thousand pounds, but, as you say, it may be more,--a few pounds more, or a few hundreds more."

"Precisely, Mr. Beverley."

"I am, therefore, going to make you an offer--"

"Which I must--refuse."

"And my offer is this: instead of twenty thousand pounds I will double the sum."

Jasper Gaunt's lolling figure grew slowly rigid, and leaning across the desk, he stared up at Barnabas under his hairless brows. Even Captain Slingsby stirred and lifted his heavy head.

"Forty thousand pounds!" said Jasper Gaunt, speaking almost in a whisper.

"Yes," said Barnabas, and sitting down, he folded his arms a little ostentatiously. Jasper Gaunt's head drooped, and he stared down at the papers on the desk before him, nor did he move, only his long, white fingers began to tap softly upon his chair-arms, one after the other.

"I will pay you forty thousand pounds," said Barnabas. Then, all in one movement as it seemed, Gaunt had risen and turned to the window, and stood there awhile with his back to the room.

"Well?" inquired Barnabas at last.

"I--cannot, sir."

"You mean--will not!" said Barnabas, clenching his fists.

"Cannot, sir." As Gaunt turned, Barnabas rose and approached him until barely a yard separated them, until he could look into the eyes that glittered between their hairless lids, very like the cruel-looking dagger on the wall.

"Very well," said Barnabas, "then I'll treble it. I'll pay you sixty thousand pounds! What do you say? Come--speak!" But now, the eyes so keen and sharp to read men and the ways of men wavered and fell before the indomitable steadfastness of unconquered Youth; the long, white hands beneath their ruffles seemed to writhe with griping, contorted fingers, while upon his temple was something that glittered a moment, rolled down his cheek, and so was gone.

"Speak!" said Barnabas.

Yet still no answer came, only Jasper Gaunt sank down in his chair with his elbows on the desk, his long, white face clasped between his long, white hands, staring into vacancy; but now his smooth brow was furrowed, his narrow eyes were narrower yet, and his thin lips moved as though he had whispered to himself "sixty thousand pounds!"

"Sir,--for the last time--do you accept?" demanded Barnabas.

Without glancing up, or even altering the direction of his vacant stare, and with his face still framed between his hands, Jasper Gaunt shook his head from side to side, once, twice, and thrice; a gesture there was no mistaking.

Then Barnabas fell back a step, with clenched fist upraised, but in that moment the Captain was before him and had caught his arm.

"By Gad, Beverley!" he exclaimed in a shaken voice, "are you mad?"

"No," said Barnabas, "but I came here to buy those bills, and buy them I will! If trebling it isn't enough, then--"

"Ah!" cried Slingsby, pointing to the usurer's distorted face, "can't you see? Don't you guess? He can't sell! No money-lender of 'em all could resist such an offer. I tell you he daren't sell, the bills aren't his! Come away--"

"Not his!" cried Barnabas, "then whose?"

"God knows! But it's true,--look at him!"

"Tell me," cried Barnabas, striving to see Gaunt's averted eyes, "tell me who holds these bills,--if you have one spark of generosity--tell me!"

But Jasper Gaunt gave no sign, only the writhing fingers crept across his face, over staring eyes and twitching lips.

So, presently, Barnabas suffered Captain Slingsby to lead him from the room, and down the somewhat dark and winding stair, past the wizen-faced clock, out into the street already full of the glow of evening.

"It's a wonder to me," said the Captain, "yes, it's a great wonder to me, that nobody has happened to kill Gaunt before now."

So the Captain frowned, sighed, and climbed up to his seat. But, when Barnabas would have followed, Billy Button touched him on the arm.

"Oh, Barnaby!" said he, "oh, Barnaby Bright, look--the day is dying, the shadows are coming,--in a little while it will be night. But, oh Youth, alas! alas! I can see the shadows have touched you already!" And so, with a quick upflung glance at the dismal house, he turned, waved his hand, and sped away on noiseless feet, and so was gone.

CHAPTER XXXVI

OF AN ETHICAL DISCUSSION, WHICH THE READER IS ADVISED TO SKIP

Oho! for the rush of wind in the hair, for the rolling thunder of galloping hoofs, now echoing on the hard, white road, now muffled in dewy grass.

Oho! for the horse and his rider and the glory of them; for the long, swinging stride that makes nothing of distance, for the tireless spring of the powerful loins, for the masterful hand on the bridle, strong, yet gentle as a caress, for the firm seat--the balance and sway that is an aid to speed, and proves the born rider. And what horse should this be but Four-legs, his black coat glossy and shining in the sun, his great, round hoofs spurning the flying earth, all a-quiver with high courage, with life and the joy of it? And who should be the rider but young Barnabas?

He rides with his hat in his whip-hand, that he may feel the wind, and with never a look behind, for birds are carolling from the cool freshness of dewy wood and copse, in every hedge and tree the young sun has set a myriad gems flashing and sparkling; while, out of the green distance ahead, Love is calling; brooks babble of it, birds sing of it, the very leaves find each a small, soft voice to whisper of it.

So away--away rides Barnabas by village green and lonely cot, past hedge and gate and barn, up hill and down hill,--away from the dirt and noise of London, away from its joys and sorrows, its splendors and its miseries, and from the oncoming, engulfing shadow. Spur and gallop, Barnabas,--ride, youth, ride! for the shadow has already touched you, even as the madman said.

Therefore while youth yet abides, while the sun yet shines,--ride, Barnabas, ride!

Now as he went, Barnabas presently espied a leafy by-lane, and across this lane a fence had been erected,--a high fence, but with a fair "take-off" and consequently, a most inviting fence. At this, forthwith, Barnabas rode, steadied Four-legs in his stride, touched him with the spur, and cleared it with a foot to spare. Then, all at once, he drew rein and paced over the dewy grass to where, beneath the hedge, was a solitary man who knelt before a fire of twigs fanning it to a blaze with his wide-eaved hat.

He was a slender man, and something stooping of shoulder, and his hair shone silver-white in the sunshine. Hearing Barnabas approach, he looked up, rose to his feet, and so stood staring as one in doubt. Therefore Barnabas uncovered his head and saluted him with grave politeness.

"Sir," said he, reining in his great horse, "you have not forgotten me, I hope?"

"No indeed, young sir," answered the Apostle of Peace, with a dawning smile of welcome. "But you are dressed very differently from what I remember. The quiet, country youth has become lost, and transfigured into the dashing Corinthian. What a vast difference clothes can make in one! And yet your face is the same, your expression unchanged. London has not altered you yet, and I hope it never may. No, sir, your face is not one to be forgotten,--indeed it reminds me of other days."

"But we have only met once before," said Barnabas.

"True! And yet I seem to have known you years ago,--that is what puzzles me! But come, young sir,--if you have time and inclination to share a vagrant's breakfast, I can offer you eggs and new milk, and bread and butter,--simple fare, but more wholesome than your French ragouts and highly-seasoned dishes."

"You are very kind," said Barnabas, "the ride has made me hungry, --besides, I should like to talk with you."

"Why, then--light down from that great horse of yours, and join me. The grass must be both chair and table, but here is a tree for your back, and the bank for mine."

So, having dismounted and secured his horse's bridle to a convenient branch, Barnabas sat himself down with his back to the tree, and accepted the wandering Preacher's bounty as freely as it was offered. And when the Preacher had spoken a short grace, they began to eat, and while they ate, to talk, as follows:

_Barnabas_. "It is three weeks, I think, since we met?"

_The Preacher_. "A month, young sir."

_Barnabas_. "So long a time?"

_The Preacher_. "So short a time. You have been busy, I take it?"

_Barnabas_. "Yes, sir. Since last we met I have bought a house and set up an establishment in London, and I have also had the good fortune to be entered for the Gentleman's Steeplechase on the fifteenth."

_The Preacher_. "You are rich, young sir?"

_Barnabas_. "And I hope to be famous also."

_The Preacher_. "Then indeed do I begin to tremble for you."

_Barnabas_ (staring). "Why so?"

_The Preacher_. "Because wealth is apt to paralyze effort, and Fame is generally harder to bear, and far more dangerous, than failure."

_Barnabas_. "How dangerous, sir?"

_The Preacher_. "Because he who listens too often to the applause of the multitude grows deaf to the voice of Inspiration, for it is a very small, soft voice, and must be hearkened for, and some call it Genius, and some the Voice of God--"

_Barnabas_. "But Fame means Power, and I would succeed for the sake of others beside myself. Yes,--I must succeed, and, as I think you once said, all things are possible to us! Pray, what did you mean?"

_The Preacher_. "Young sir, into each of us who are born into this world God puts something of Himself, and by reason of this Divine part, all things are possible."

_Barnabas_. "Yet the world is full of failures."

_The Preacher_. "Alas! yes; but only because men do not realize power within them. For man is a selfish creature, and Self is always grossly blind. But let a man look within himself, let him but become convinced of this Divine power, and the sure and certain knowledge of ultimate success will be his. So, striving diligently, this power shall grow within him, and by and by he shall achieve great things, and the world proclaim him a Genius."

_Barnabas_. "Then--all men might succeed."

_The Preacher_. "Assuredly! for success is the common heritage of Man. It is only Self, blind, ignorant Self, who is the coward, crying 'I cannot! I dare not! It is impossible!'"

_Barnabas_. "What do you mean by 'Self'?"

_The Preacher_. "I mean the grosser part, the slave that panders to the body, a slave that, left unchecked, may grow into a tyrant, a Circe, changing Man to brute."

Here Barnabas, having finished his bread and butter, very thoughtfully cut himself another slice.

_Barnabas_ (still thoughtful). "And do you still go about preaching Forgetfulness of Self, sir?"

_The Preacher_. "And Forgiveness, yes. A good theme, young sir, but--very unpopular. Men prefer to dwell upon the wrongs done them, rather than cherish the memory of benefits conferred. But, nevertheless, I go up and down the ways, preaching always."

_Barnabas_. "Why, then, I take it, your search is still unsuccessful."

_The Preacher_. "Quite! Sometimes a fear comes upon me that she may be beyond my reach--"

_Barnabas_. "You mean--?"

_The Preacher_. "Dead, sir. At such times, things grow very black until I remember that God is a just God, and therein lies my sure and certain hope. But I would not trouble you with my griefs, young sir, more especially on such a glorious morning,--hark to the throstle yonder, he surely sings of Life and Hope. So, if you will, pray tell me of yourself, young sir, of your hopes and ambitions."

_Barnabas_. "My ambitions, sir, are many, but first,--I would be a gentleman."

_The Preacher_ (nodding). "Good! So far as it goes, the ambition is a laudable one."

_Barnabas_ (staring thoughtfully at his bread and butter). "The first difficulty is to know precisely what a gentleman should be. Pray, sir, what is your definition?"

_The Preacher_. "A gentleman, young sir, is (I take it) one born with the Godlike capacity to think and feel for others, irrespective of their rank or condition."

_Barnabas_. "Hum! One who is unselfish?"

_The Preacher_. "One who possesses an ideal so lofty, a mind so delicate, that it lifts him above all things ignoble and base, yet strengthens his hands to raise those who are fallen--no matter how low. This, I think, is to be truly a gentleman, and of all gentle men Jesus of Nazareth was the first."

_Barnabas_ (shaking his head). "And yet, sir, I remember a whip of small cords."

_The Preacher_. "Truly, for Evil sometimes so deadens the soul that it can feel only through the flesh."

_Barnabas_. "Then--a man may fight and yet be a gentleman?"

_The Preacher_. "He who can forgive, can fight."

_Barnabas_. "Sir, I am relieved to know that. But must Forgiveness always come after?"

_The Preacher_. "If the evil is truly repented of."

_Barnabas_. "Even though the evil remain?"

_The Preacher_. "Ay, young sir, for then Forgiveness becomes truly divine."

_Barnabas_. "Hum!"

_The Preacher_. "But you eat nothing, young sir."

_Barnabas_. "I was thinking."

_The Preacher_. "Of what?"

_Barnabas_. "Sir, my thought embraced you."

_The Preacher_. "How, young sir?"

_Barnabas_. "I was wondering if you had ever heard of a man named Chichester?"

_The Preacher_ (speaking brokenly, and in a whisper). "Sir!--young sir,--you said--?"

_Barnabas_ (rising). "Chichester!"

_The Preacher_ (coming to his knees). "Sir,--oh, sir,--this man--Chichester is he who stole away--my daughter,--who blasted her honor and my life,--who--"

_Barnabas_. "No!"

_The Preacher_ (covering his face). "Yes,--yes! God help me, it's true! But in her shame I love her still, oh, my pride is dead long ago. I remember only that I am her father, with all a father's loving pity, and that she--"

_Barnabas_. "And that she is the stainless maid she always was--"

"Sir," cried the Preacher, "oh, sir,--what do you mean?" and Barnabas saw the thin hands clasp and wring themselves, even as he remembered Clemency's had done.

"I mean," answered Barnabas, "that she fled from pollution, and found refuge among honest folk. I mean that she is alive and well, that she lives but to bless your arms and feel a father's kiss of forgiveness. If you would find her, go to the 'Spotted Cow,' near Frittenden, and ask for 'Clemency'!"

"Clemency!" repeated the Preacher, "Clemency means mercy. And she called herself--Clemency!" Then, with a sudden, rapturous gesture, he lifted his thin hands, and with his eyes upturned to the blue heaven, spoke.

"Oh, God!" he cried, "Oh, Father of Mercy, I thank Thee!" And so he arose from his knees, and turning about, set off through the golden morning towards Frittenden, and Clemency.

CHAPTER XXXVII

IN WHICH THE BO'SUN DISCOURSES ON LOVE AND ITS SYMPTOMS

Oho! for the warmth and splendor of the mid-day sun; for the dance and flurry of leafy shadows on the sward; for stilly wayside pools whose waters, deep and dark in the shade of overhanging boughs, are yet dappled here and there with glory; for merry brooks leaping and laughing along their stony beds; for darkling copse and sunny upland,--oho! for youth and life and the joy of it.

To the eyes of Barnabas, the beauty of the world about him served only to remind him of the beauty of her who was compounded of all things beautiful,--the One and Only Woman, whose hair was yellow like the ripening corn, whose eyes were deep and blue as the infinite heaven, whose lips were red as the poppies that bloomed beside the way, and whose body was warm with youth, and soft and white as the billowy clouds above.

Thus on galloped Barnabas with the dust behind and the white road before, and with never a thought of London, or its wonders, or the gathering shadow.

It was well past noon when he beheld a certain lonely church where many a green mound and mossy headstone marked the resting-place of those that sleep awhile. And here, beside the weather-worn porch, were the stocks, that "place of thought" where Viscount Devenham had sat in solitary, though dignified meditation. A glance, a smile, and Barnabas was past, and galloping down the hill towards where the village nestled in the valley. Before the inn he dismounted, and, having seen Four-legs well bestowed, and given various directions to a certain sleepy-voiced ostler, he entered the inn, and calling for dinner, ate it with huge relish. Now, when he had done, came the landlord to smoke a pipe with him,--a red-faced man, vast of paunch and garrulous of tongue.

"Fine doin's there be up at t' great 'ouse, sir," he began.

"You mean Annersley House?"

"Ay, sir. All the quality is there,--my son's a groom there an' 'e told me, so 'e did. Theer ain't nobody as ain't either a Markus or a Earl or a Vi'count, and as for Barry-nets, they're as thick as flies, they are,--an' all to meet a little, old 'ooman as don't come up to my shoulder! But then--she's a Duchess, an' that makes all the difference!"

"Yes, of course," said Barnabas.

"A little old 'ooman wi' curls, as don't come no-wise near so 'igh as my shoulder! Druv up to that theer very door as you see theer, in 'er great coach an' four, she did,--orders the steps to be lowered, --comes tapping into this 'ere very room with 'er little cane, she do, --sits down in that theer very chair as you're a-sittin' in, she do, fannin' 'erself with a little fan--an' calls for--now, what d' ye suppose, sir?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"She calls, sir,--though you won't believe me, it aren't to be expected,--no, not on my affer-daver,--she being a Duchess, ye see--"

"Well, what did she call for?" inquired Barnabas, rising.

"Sir, she called for--on my solemn oath it's true--though I don't ax ye to believe me, mind,--she sat in that theer identical chair,--an' mark me, 'er a Duchess,--she sat in that cheer, a-fannin' 'erself with 'er little fan, an' calls for a 'arf of Kentish ale--'Westerham brew,' says she; an' 'er a Duchess! In a tankard! But I know as you won't believe me,--nor I don't ax any man to,--no, not if I went down on my bended marrer-bones--"

"But I do believe you," said Barnabas.

"What--you do?" cried the landlord, almost reproachfully.

"Certainly! A Duchess is, sometimes, almost human."

"But you--actooally--believe me?"

"Yes."

"Well--you surprise me, sir! Ale! A Duchess! In a tankard! No, it aren't nat'ral. Never would I ha' believed as any one would ha' believed such a--"

But here Barnabas laughed, and taking up his hat, sallied out into the sunshine.

He went by field paths that led him past woods in whose green twilight thrushes and blackbirds piped, by sunny meadows where larks mounted heavenward in an ecstasy of song, and so, eventually he found himself in a road where stood a weather-beaten finger-post, with its two arms wide-spread and pointing:

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST

Here Barnabas paused a while, and bared his head as one who stands on hallowed ground. And looking upon the weather-worn finger-post, he smiled very tenderly, as one might who meets an old friend. Then he went on again until he came to a pair of tall iron gates, hospitable gates that stood open as though inviting him to enter. Therefore he went on, and thus presently espied a low, rambling house of many gables, about which were trim lawns and stately trees. Now as he stood looking at this house, he heard a voice near by, a deep, rolling bass upraised in song, and the words of it were these:

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor, Heave, my lads, yo-ho! Why, put him in the boat and roll him over, Put him in the boat till he gets sober, Put him in the boat and roll him over, With a heave, my lads, yo-ho!"

Following the direction of this voice, Barnabas came to a lawn screened from the house by hedges of clipped yew. At the further end of this lawn was a small building which had been made to look as much as possible like the after-cabin of a ship. It had a door midway, with a row of small, square windows on either side, and was flanked at each end by a flight of wooden steps, with elaborately carved hand-rails, that led up to the quarterdeck above, which was protected by more carved posts and rails. Here a stout pole had been erected and rigged with block and fall, and from this, a flag stirred lazily in the gentle wind.

Now before this building, his blue coat laid by, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his glazed hat on the back of his head, was the Bo'sun, polishing away at a small, brass cannon that was mounted on a platform, and singing lustily as he worked. So loudly did he sing, and so engrossed was he, that he did not look up until he felt Barnabas touch him. Then he started, turned, stared, hesitated, and, finally, broke into a smile.

"Ah, it's you, sir,--the young gemman as bore away for Lon'on alongside Master Horatio, his Lordship!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, extending his hand, "how are you, Bo'sun?"

"Hearty, sir, hearty, I thank ye!" Saying which he touched his forehead, rubbed his hand upon his trousers, looked at it, rubbed it again, and finally gave it to Barnabas, though with an air of apology. "Been making things a bit ship-shape, sir, 'count o' this here day being a occasion,--but I'm hearty, sir, hearty, I thank ye."

"And the Captain," said Barnabas with some hesitation. "How is the Captain?"

"The Cap'n, sir," answered the Bo'sun, "the Cap'n is likewise hearty."

"And--Lady Cleone--is she well, is she happy?"

"Why, sir, she's as 'appy as can be expected--under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Love, sir."

"Love!" exclaimed Barnabas, "why, Bo'sun--what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, as she's fell in love at last--

"How do you know--who with--where is she--?"

"Well, sir, I know on account o' 'er lowness o' sperrits,--noticed it for a week or more. Likewise I've heered 'er sigh very frequent, and I've seen 'er sit a-staring up at the moon--ah, that I have! Now lovers is generally low in their sperrits, I've heered tell, and they allus stare very 'ard at the moon,--why, I don't know, but they do,--leastways, so I've--"

"But--in love--with whom? Can I see her? Where is she? Are you sure?"

"And sartain, sir. Only t' other night, as I sat a-smoking my pipe on the lawn, yonder,--she comes out to me, and nestles down under my lee--like she used to years ago. 'Jerry, dear,' says she, 'er voice all low and soft-like, 'look at the moon,--how beautiful it is!' says she, and--she give a sigh. 'Yes, my lady,' says I. 'Oh, Jerry,' says she, 'call me Clo, as you used to do.' 'Yes, my Lady Clo,' says I. But she grapples me by the collar, and stamps 'er foot at me, all in a moment. 'Leave out the 'lady,'' says she. 'Yes, Clo,' says I. So she nestles an' sighs and stares at the moon again. 'Jerry, dear,' says she after a bit, 'when will the moon be at the full?' 'To-morrer, Clo,' says I. And after she's stared and sighed a bit longer--'Jerry, dear,' says she again, 'it's sweet to think that while we are looking up at the moon--others perhaps are looking at it too, I mean others who are far away. It--almost seems to bring them nearer, doesn't it? Then I knowed as 't were love, with a big L, sartin and sure, and--"

"Bo'sun," said Barnabas, catching him by the arm, "who is it she loves?"

"Well, sir,--I aren't quite sure, seeing as there are so many on 'em in 'er wake, but I think,--and I 'ope, as it's 'is Lordship, Master Horatio."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, his frowning brow relaxing.

"If it ain't 'im,--why then it's mutiny,--that's what it is, sir!"

"Mutiny?"

"Ye see, sir," the Bo'sun went on to explain, "orders is orders, and if she don't love Master Horatio--well, she ought to."

"Why?"

"Because they was made for each other. Because they was promised to each other years ago. It were all arranged an' settled 'twixt Master Horatio's father, the Earl, and Lady Cleone's guardian, the Cap'n."

"Ah!" said Barnabas, "and where is she--and the Captain?"

"Out, sir; an' she made him put on 'is best uniform, as he only wears on Trafalgar Day, and such great occasions. She orders out the fam'ly coach, and away they go, 'im the very picter o' what a post-captain o' Lord Nelson should be (though to be sure, there's a darn in his white silk stocking--the one to starboard, just abaft the shoe-buckle, and, therefore, not to be noticed, and I were allus 'andy wi' my needle), and her--looking the picter o' the handsomest lady, the loveliest, properest maid in all this 'ere world. Away they go, wi' a fair wind to sarve 'em, an' should ha' dropped anchor at Annersley House a full hour ago."

"At Annersley?" said Barnabas. "There is a reception there, I hear?"

"Yes, sir, all great folk from Lon'on, besides country folk o' quality,--to meet the Duchess o' Camberhurst, and she's the greatest of 'em all. Lord! There's enough blue blood among 'em to float a Seventy-four. Nat'rally, the Cap'n wanted to keep a good offing to windward of 'em. 'For look ye, Jerry,' says he, 'I'm no confounded courtier to go bowing and scraping to a painted old woman, with a lot of other fools, just because she happens to be a duchess,--no, damme!' and down 'e sits on the breech o' the gun here. But, just then, my lady heaves into sight, brings up alongside, and comes to an anchor on his knee. 'Dear,' says she, with her round, white arm about his neck, and her soft, smooth cheek agin his, 'dear, it's almost time we began to dress.' 'Dress?' says he, 'what for, Clo,--I say, what d'ye mean?' 'Why, for the reception,' says she. 'To-day is my birthday' (which it is, sir, wherefore the flag at our peak, yonder), 'and I know you mean to take me,' says she, 'so I told Robert we should want the coach at three. So come along and dress,--like a dear.' The Cap'n stared at 'er, dazed-like, give me a look, and,--well--" the Bo'sun smiled and shook his head. "Ye see, sir, in some ways the Cap'n 's very like a ordinary man, arter all!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII

HOW BARNABAS CLIMBED A WALL

Now presently, as he went, he became aware of a sound that was not the stir of leaves, nor the twitter of birds, nor the music of running waters, though all these were in his ears,--for this was altogether different; a distant sound that came and went, that swelled to a murmur, sank to a whisper, yet never wholly died away. Little by little the sound grew plainer, more insistent, until, mingled with the leafy stirrings, he could hear a plaintive melody, rising and falling, faint with distance.

Hereupon Barnabas halted suddenly, his chin in hand, his brow furrowed in thought, while over his senses stole the wailing melody of the distant violins. A while he stood thus, then plunged into the cool shadow of a wood, and hurried on by winding tracks, through broad glades, until the wood was left behind, until the path became a grassy lane; and ever the throbbing melody swelled and grew. It was a shady lane, tortuous and narrow, but on strode Barnabas until, rounding a bend, he beheld a wall, an ancient, mossy wall of red brick; and with his gaze upon this, he stopped again. But the melody called to him, louder now and more insistent, and mingled with the throb of the violins was the sound of voices and laughter.

Then, standing on tip-toe, Barnabas set his hands to the coping of the wall, and drawing himself up, caught a momentary vision of smiling gardens, of green lawns where bright figures moved, of winding walks and neat trimmed hedges, ere, swinging himself over, he dropped down among a bed of Sir George Annersley's stocks.

Before him was a shady walk winding between clipped yews, and, following this, Barnabas presently espied a small arbor some distance away. Now between him and this arbor was a place where four paths met, and where stood an ancient sun-dial with quaintly carved seats. And here, the sun making a glory of her wondrous hair, was my Lady Cleone, with the Marquis of Jerningham beside her. She sat with her elbow on her knee and her dimpled chin upon her palm, and, even from where he stood, Barnabas could see again the witchery of her lashes that drooped dark upon the oval of her cheek.

The Marquis was talking earnestly, gesturing now and then with his slender hand that had quite lost its habitual languor, and stooping that he might look into the drooping beauty of her face, utterly regardless of the havoc he thus wrought upon the artful folds of his marvellous cravat. All at once she looked up, laughed and shook her head, and, closing her fan, pointed with it towards the distant house, laughing still, but imperious. Hereupon the Marquis rose, albeit unwillingly, and bowing, hurried off to obey her behest. Then Cleone rose also, and turning, went on slowly toward the arbor, with head drooping as one in thought.

And now, with his gaze upon that shapely back, all youthful loveliness from slender foot to the crowning glory of her hair, Barnabas sighed, and felt his heart leap as he strode after her. But, even as he followed, oblivious of all else under heaven, he beheld another back that obtruded itself suddenly upon the scene, a broad, graceful back in a coat of fine blue cloth,--a back that bore itself with a masterful swing of the shoulders. And, in that instant, Barnabas recognized Sir Mortimer Carnaby.

Cleone had reached the arbor, but on the threshold turned to meet Sir Mortimer's sweeping bow. And now she seemed to hesitate, then extended her hand, and Sir Mortimer followed her into the arbor. My lady's cheeks were warm with rich color, her eyes were suddenly and strangely bright as she sank into a chair, and Sir Mortimer, misinterpreting this, had caught and imprisoned her hands.

"Cleone," said he, "at last!" The slender hands fluttered in his grasp, but his grasp was strong, and, ere she could stay him, he was down before her on his knee, and speaking quick and passionately.

"Cleone!--hear me! nay, I will speak! All the afternoon I have tried to get a word with you, and now you must hear me--you shall. And yet you know what I would say. You know I love you, and have done from the first hour I saw you. And from that hour I've hungered for your, Cleone, do you hear? Ah, tell me you love me!"

But my lady sat wide-eyed, staring at the face amid the leaves beyond the open window,--a face so handsome, yet so distorted; saw the gleam of clenched teeth, the frowning brows, the menacing gray eyes.

Sir Mortimer, all unconscious, had caught her listless hands to his lips, and was speaking again between his kisses.

"Speak, Cleone! You know how long I have loved you,--speak and bid me hope! What, silent still? Why, then--give me that rose from your bosom,--let it be hope's messenger, and speak for you."

But still my lady sat dumb, staring up at the face amid the leaves, the face of Man Primeval, aglow with all the primitive passions; beheld the drawn lips and quivering nostrils, the tense jaw savage and masterful, and the glowing eyes that threatened her. And, in that moment, she threw tip her head rebellious, and sighed, and smiled,--a woman's smile, proud, defiant; and, uttering no word, gave Sir Mortimer the rose. Then, even as she did so, sprang to her feet, and laughed, a little tremulously, and bade Sir Mortimer Go! Go! Go! Wherefore, Sir Mortimer, seeing her thus, and being wise in the ways of women, pressed the flower to his lips, and so turned and strode off down the path. And when his step had died away Cleone sank down in the chair, and spoke.

"Come out--spy!" she called. And Barnabas stepped out from the leaves. Then, because she knew what look was in his eyes, she kept her own averted; and because she was a woman young, and very proud, she lashed him with her tongue.

"So much for your watching and listening!" said she.

"But--he has your rose!" said Barnabas.

"And what of that?"

"And he has your promise!"

"I never spoke--"

"But the rose did!"

"The rose will fade and wither--"

"But it bears your promise--"

"I gave no promise, and--and--oh, why did you--look at me!"

"Look at you?"

"Why did you frown at me?"

"Why did you give him the rose?"

"Because it was so my pleasure. Why did you frown at me with eyes like--like a devil's?"

"I wanted to kill him--then!"

"And now?"

"Now, I wish him well of his bargain, and my thanks are due to him."

"Why?"

"Because, without knowing it, he has taught me what women are."

"What do you mean?"

"I--loved you, Cleone. To me you were one apart--holy, immaculate--"

"Yes?" said Cleone very softly.

"And I find you--"

"Only a--woman, sir,--who will not be watched, and frowned at, and spied upon."

"--a heartless coquette--" said Barnabas.

"--who despises eavesdroppers, and will not be spied upon, or frowned at!"

"I did not spy upon you," cried Barnabas, stung at last, "or if I did, God knows it was well intended."

"How, sir?"

"I remembered the last time we three were together,--in Annersley Wood." Here my lady shivered and hid her face. "And now, you gave him the rose! Do you want the love of this man, Cleone?"

"There is only one man in all the world I despise more, and his name is--Barnabas," said she, without looking up.

"So you--despise me, Cleone?"

"Yes--Barnabas."

"And I came here to tell you that I--loved you--to ask you to be my wife--"

"And looked at me with Devil's eyes--"

"Because you were mine, and because he--"

"Yours, Barnabas? I never said so."

"Because I loved you--worshipped you, and because--"

"Because you were--jealous, Barnabas!"

"Because I would have my wife immaculate--"

"But I am not your--wife."

"No," said Barnabas, frowning, "she must be immaculate."

Now when he said this he heard her draw a long, quivering sigh, and with the sigh she rose to her feet and faced him, and her eyes were wide and very bright, and the fan she held snapped suddenly across in her white fingers.

"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip now, your cheek should burn again."

"But I should not ask you to kiss it,--this time!" said Barnabas.

"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you--for a creeping spy, a fool, a coward--a maligner of women. Oh, go away,--pray go. Leave me, lest I stifle."

But now, seeing the flaming scorn of him in her eyes, in the passionate quiver of her hands, he grew afraid, cowed by her very womanhood.

"Indeed," he stammered, "you are unjust. I--I did not mean--"

"Go!" said she, cold as ice, "get back over the wall. Oh! I saw you climb over like a--thief! Go away, before I call for help--before I call the grooms and stable-boys to whip you out into the road where you belong--go, I say!" And frowning now, she stamped her foot, and pointed to the wall. Then Barnabas laughed softty, savagely, and, reaching out, caught her up in his long arms and crushed her to him.

"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to you that my wife should come to me immaculate--fortune's spoiled darling though she be,--petted, wooed, pampered though she is,--and, by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will some day call you 'wife,'--in spite of all your lovers, and all the roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,--call them if you will." So saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him once,--frowning a little, panting a little,--a long wondering look beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.

CHAPTER XXXIX

IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ALMOST HUMAN DUCHESS

"Very dramatic, sir! Though, indeed, you missed an opportunity, and--gracious heaven, how he frowns!" A woman's voice, sharp, high-pitched, imperious.

Barnabas started, and glancing up, beheld an ancient lady, very small and very upright; her cheeks were suspiciously pink, her curls suspiciously dark and luxuriant, but her eyes were wonderfully young and handsome; one slender mittened hand rested upon the ivory head of a stick, and in the other she carried a small fan.

"Now, he stares!" she exclaimed, as she met his look. "Lud, how he stares! As if I were a ghost, or a goblin, instead of only an old woman with raddled cheeks and a wig. Oh, yes! I wear a wig, sir, and very hideous I look without it! But even I was young once upon a time--many, many years ago, and quite as beautiful as She, indeed, rather more so, I think,--and I should have treated you exactly as She did--only more so,--I mean Cleone. Your blonde women are either too cold or overpassionate,--I know, for my hair was as yellow as Cleone's, hundreds of years ago, and I think, more abundant. To-day, being only a dyed brunette, I am neither too cold nor over-passionate, and I tell you, sir, you deserved it, every word."

Here Barnabas rose, and, finding nothing to say, bowed.

"But," continued the ancient lady, sweeping him with a quick, approving gaze, "I like your face, and y-e-s, you have a very good leg. You also possess a tongue, perhaps, and can speak?"

"Given the occasion, madam," said Barnabas, smiling.

"Ha, sir! do I talk so much then? Well, perhaps I do, for when a woman ceases to talk she's dead, and I'm very much alive indeed. So you may give me your arm, sir, and listen to me, and drop an occasional remark while I take breath,--your arm, sir!" And here the small, ancient lady held out a small, imperious hand, while her handsome young eyes smiled up into his.

"Madam, you honor me!"

"But I am only an old woman,--with a wig!"

"Age is always honorable, madam."

"Now that is very prettily said, indeed you improve, sir. Do you know who I am?"

"No, madam; but I can guess."

"Ah, well,--you shall talk to me. Now, sir,--begin. Talk to me of Cleone."

"Madam--I had rather not."

"Eh, sir,--you won't?"

"No, madam."

"Why, then, I will!" Here the ancient lady glanced up at Barnabas with a malicious little smile. "Let me see, now--what were her words? 'Spy,' I think. Ah, yes--'a creeping spy,' 'a fool' and 'a coward.' Really, I don't think I could have bettered that--even in my best days,--especially the 'creeping spy.'"

"Madam," said Barnabas in frowning surprise, "you were listening?"

"At the back of the arbor," she nodded, "with my ear to the panelling, --I am sometimes a little deaf, you see."

"You mean that you were--actually prying--?"

"And I enjoyed it all very much, especially your 'immaculate' speech, which was very heroic, but perfectly ridiculous, of course. Indeed, you are a dreadfully young, young sir, I fear. In future, I warn you not to tell a woman, too often, how much you respect her, or she'll begin to think you don't love her at all. To be over-respectful doesn't sit well on a lover, and 'tis most unfair and very trying to the lady, poor soul!"

"To hearken to a private conversation doesn't sit well on a lady, madam, or an honorable woman."

"No, indeed, young sir. But then, you see, I'm neither. I'm only a Duchess, and a very old one at that, and I think I told you I wore a wig? But 'all the world loves a lover,' and so do I. As soon as ever I saw you I knew you for a lover of the 'everything-or-nothing' type. Oh, yes, all lovers are of different types, sir, and I think I know 'em all. You see, when I was young and beautiful--ages ago--lovers were a hobby of mine,--I studied them, sir. And, of 'em all, I preferred the 'everything-or-nothing, fire-and-ice, kiss-me-or-kill-me' type. That was why I followed you, that was why I watched and listened, and, I grieve to say, I didn't find you as deliciously brutal as I had hoped."

"Brutal, madam? Indeed, I--"

"Of course! When you snatched her up in your arms,--and I'll admit you did it very well,--when you had her there, you should have covered her with burning kisses, and with an oath after each. Girls like Cleone need a little brutality and--Ah! there's the Countess! And smiling at me quite lovingly, I declare! Now I wonder what rod she has in pickle for me? Dear me, sir, how dusty your coat is! And spurred boots and buckskins are scarcely the mode for a garden fte. Still, they're distinctive, and show off your leg to advantage, better than those abominable Cossack things,--and I doat upon a good leg--" But here she broke off and turned to greet the Countess,--a large, imposing, bony lady in a turban, with the eye and the beak of a hawk.

"My dearest Letitia!"

"My dear Duchess,--my darling Fanny, you 're younger than ever, positively you are,--I'd never have believed it!" cried the Countess, more hawk-like than ever. "I heard you were failing fast, but now I look at you, dearest Fanny, I vow you don't look a day older than seventy."

"And I'm seventy-one, alas!" sighed the Duchess, her eyes young with mischief. "And you, my sweetest creature,--how well you look! Who would ever imagine that we were at school together, Letitia!"

"But indeed I was--quite an infant, Fanny."

"Quite, my love, and used to do my sums for me. But let me present to you a young friend of mine, Mr.--Mr.--dear, dear! I quite forget--my memory is going, you see, Letitia! Mr.--"

"Beverley, madam," said Barnabas.

"Thank you,--Beverley, of course! Mr. Beverley--the Countess of Orme."

Hereupon Barnabas bowed low before the haughty stare of the keen, hawk-like eyes.

"And now, my sweet Letty," continued the Duchess, "you are always so delightfully gossipy--have you any news,--any stories to laugh over?"

"No, dear Fanny, neither the one nor the other--only--"

"'Only,' my love?"

"Only--but you've heard it already, of course,--you would be the very first to know of it!"

"Letitia, my dear--I always hated conundrums, you'll remember."

"I mean, every one is talking of it, already."

"Heigho! How warm the sun is!"

"Of course it may be only gossip, but they do say Cleone Meredith has refused the hand of your grandnephew."

"Jerningham, oh yes," added the Duchess, "on the whole, it's just as well."

"But I thought--" the hawk-eyes were very piercing indeed. "I feared it would be quite a blow to you--"

The Duchess shook her head, with a little ripple of laughter.

"I had formed other plans for him weeks ago,--they were quite unsuited to each other, my love."

"I'm delighted you take it so well, my own Fanny," said the Countess, looking the reverse. "We leave almost immediately,--but when you pass through Sevenoaks, you must positively stay with me for a day or two. Goodby, my sweet Fanny!" So the two ancient ladies gravely curtsied to each other, pecked each other on either cheek, and, with a bow to Barnabas, the Countess swept away with an imposing rustle of her voluminous skirts.

"Cat!" exclaimed the Duchess, shaking her fan at the receding figure; "the creature hates me fervently, and consequently, kisses me--on both cheeks. Oh, yes, indeed, sir, she detests me--and quite naturally. You see, we were girls together,--she's six months my junior, and has never let me forget it,--and the Duke--God rest him--admired us both, and, well,--I married him. And so Cleone has actually refused poor Jerningham,--the yellow-maned minx!"

"Why, then--you didn't know of it?" inquired Barnabas.

"Oh, Innocent! of course I didn't. I'm not omniscient, and I only ordered him to propose an hour ago. The golden hussy! the proud jade! Refuse my grand-nephew indeed! Well, there's one of your rivals disposed of, it seems,--count that to your advantage, sir!"

"But," said Barnabas, frowning and shaking his head, "Sir Mortimer Carnaby has her promise!"

"Fiddlesticks!"

"She gave him the rose!" said Barnabas, between set teeth. The Duchess tittered.

"Dear heart! how tragic you are!" she sighed. "Suppose she did,--what then? And besides--hum! This time it is young D'Arcy, it seems,--callow, pink, and quite harmless."

"Madam?" said Barnabas, wondering.

"Over there--behind the marble faun,--quite harmless, and very pink, you'll notice. I mean young D'Arcy--not the faun. Clever minx! Now I mean Cleone, of course--there she is!" Following the direction of the Duchess's pointing fan, Barnabas saw Cleone, sure enough. Her eyes were drooped demurely before the ardent gaze of the handsome, pink-cheeked young soldier who stood before her, and in her white fingers she held--a single red rose. Now, all at once, (and as though utterly unconscious of the burning, watchful eyes of Barnabas) she lifted the rose to her lips, and, smiling, gave it into the young soldier's eager hand. Then they strolled away, his epaulette very near the gleaming curls at her temple.

"Lud, young sir!" exclaimed the Duchess, catching Barnabas by the coat, "how dreadfully sudden you are in your movements--"

"Madam, pray loose me!"

"Why?"

"I'm going--I cannot bear--any more!"

"You mean--?"

"I mean that--she has--"

"A very remarkable head, she is as resourceful as I was--almost."

"Resourceful!" exclaimed Barnabas, "she is--"

"An extremely clever girl--"

"Madam, pray let me go."

"No, sir! my finger is twisted in your buttonhole,--if you pull yourself away I expect you'll break it, so pray don't pull; naturally, I detest pain. And I have much to talk about."

"As you will, madam," said Barnabas, frowning.

"First, tell me--you're quite handsome when you frown,--first, sir, why weren't you formally presented to me with the other guests?"

"Because I'm not a guest, madam."

"Sir--explain yourself."

"I mean that I came--over the wall, madam."

"The wall! Climbed over?"

"Yes, madam!"

"Dear heaven! The monstrous audacity of the man! You came to see Cleone, of course?"

"Yes, madam."

"Ah, very right,--very proper! I remember I had a lover--in the remote ages, of course,--who used to climb--ah, well,--no matter! Though his wall was much higher than yours yonder." Here the Duchess sighed tenderly. "Well, you came to see Cleone, you found her,--and nicely you behaved to each other when you met! Youth is always so dreadfully tragic! But then what would love be without a little tragedy? And oh--dear heaven!--how you must adore each other! Oh, Youth! Youth!--and there's Sir George Annersley--!"

"Then, madam, you must excuse me!" said Barnabas, glancing furtively from the approaching figures to the adjacent wall.

"Oh dear, no. Sir George is with Jerningharn and Major Piper, a heavy dragoon--the heaviest in all the world, I'm sure. You must meet them."

"No, indeed--I--"

"Sir," said the Duchess, buttonholing him again, "I insist! Oh, Sir George--gentlemen!" she called. Hereupon three lounging figures turned simultaneously, and came hurrying towards them.

"Why, Duchess!" exclaimed Sir George, a large, mottled gentleman in an uncomfortable cravat, "we have all been wondering what had become of your Grace, and--" Here Sir George's sharp eye became fixed upon Barnabas, upon his spurred boots, his buckskins, his dusty coat; and Sir George's mouth opened, and he gave a tug at his cravat.

"Deuce take me--it's Beverley!" exclaimed the Marquis, and held out his hand.

"What--you know each other?" the Duchess inquired.

"Mr. Beverley is riding in the steeplechase on the fifteenth," the Marquis answered. Hereupon Sir George stared harder than ever, and gave another tug at his high cravat, while Major Piper, who had been looking very hard at nothing in particular, glanced at Barnabas with a gleam of interest and said "Haw!"

As for the Duchess, she clapped her hands.

"And he never told me a word of it!" she exclaimed. "Of course all my money is on Jerningham,--though 'Moonraker' carries the odds, but I must have a hundred or two on Mr. Beverley for--friendship's sake."

"Friendship!" exclaimed the Marquis, "oh, begad!" Here he took out his snuff-box, tapped it, and put it in his pocket again.

"Yes, gentlemen," smiled the Duchess, "this is a friend of mine who--dropped in upon me, as it were, quite unexpectedly--over the wall, in fact."

"Wall!" exclaimed Sir George.

"The deuce you did, Beverley!" said the Marquis.

As for Major Piper, he hitched his dolman round, and merely said:

"Haw!"

"Yes," said Barnabas, glancing from one to the other, "I am a trespasser here, and, Sir George, I fear I damaged some of your flowers!"

"Flowers!" repeated Sir George, staring from Barnabas to the Duchess and back again, "Oh!"

"And now--pray let me introduce you," said the Duchess. "My friend Mr. Beverley--Sir George Annersley. Mr. Beverley--Major Piper."

"A friend of her Grace is always welcome here, sir," said Sir George, extending a mottled hand.

"Delighted!" smiled the Major, saluting him in turn. "Haw!"

"But what in the world brings you here, Beverley?" inquired the Marquis.

"I do," returned his great-aunt. "Many a man has climbed a wall on my account before to-day, Marquis, and remember I'm only just--seventy-one, and growing younger every hour,--now am I not, Major?"

"Haw!--Precisely! Not a doubt, y' Grace. Soul and honor! Haw!"

"Marquis--your arm, Mr. Beverley--yours! Now, Sir George, show us the way to the marquee; I'm dying for a dish of tea, I vow I am!"

Thus, beneath the protecting wing of a Duchess was Barnabas given his first taste of Quality and Blood. Which last, though blue beyond all shadow of doubt, yet manifested itself in divers quite ordinary ways as,--in complexions of cream and roses; in skins sallow and wrinkled; in noses haughtily Roman or patricianly Greek, in noses mottled and unclassically uplifted; in black hair, white hair, yellow, brown, and red hair;--such combinations as he had seen many and many a time on village greens, and at country wakes and fairs. Yes, all was the same, and yet--how vastly different! For here voices were softly modulated, arms and hands gracefully borne, heads carried high, movement itself an artful science. Here eyes were raised or lowered with studied effect; beautiful shoulders, gracefully shrugged, became dimpled and irresistible; faces with perfect profiles were always--in profile. Here, indeed, Age and Homeliness went clothed in magnificence, and Youth and Beauty walked hand in hand with Elegance; while everywhere was a graceful ease that had been learned and studied with the Catechism. Barnabas was in a world of silks and satins and glittering gems, of broadcloth and fine linen, where such things are paramount and must be lived up to; a world where the friendship of a Duchess may transform a nobody into a SOMEBODY, to be bowed to by the most elaborate shirtfronts, curtsied to by the haughtiest of turbans, and found worthy of the homage of bewitching eyes, seductive dimples, and entrancing profiles.

In a word, Barnabas had attained--even unto the World of Fashion.

CHAPTER XL

WHICH RELATES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS AT THE GARDEN FTE

"Gad, Beverley! how the deuce did y' do it?"

"Do what, Marquis?"

"Charm the Serpent! Tame the Dragon!"

"Dragon?"

"Make such a conquest of her Graceless Grace of Camberhurst, my great-aunt? I didn't know you were even acquainted,--how long have you known her?"

"About an hour," said Barnabas.

"Eh--an hour? But, my dear fellow, you came to see her--over the wall, you know,--she said so, and--"

"She said so, yes, Marquis, but--"

"But? Oh, I see! Ah, to be sure! She is my great-aunt, of course, and my great-aunt, Beverley, generally thinks, and does, and says--exactly what she pleases. Begad! you never can tell what she' 11 be up to next,--consequently every one is afraid of her, even those high goddesses of the beau monde, those exclusive grandes dames, my Ladies Castlereagh, Jersey, Cowper and the rest of 'em--they're all afraid of my small great-aunt, and no wonder! You see, she's old--older than she looks, and--with a perfectly diabolical memory! She knows not only all their own peccadillos, but the sins of their great-grandmothers as well. She fears nothing on the earth, or under the earth, and respects no one--not even me. Only about half an hour ago she informed me that I was a--well, she told me precisely what I was,--and she can be painfully blunt, Beverley,--just because Cleone happens to have refused me again."

"Again?" said Barnabas inquiringly.

"Oh, yes! She does it regularly. Begad! she's refused me so often that it's grown into a kind of formula with us now. I say, 'Cleone, do!' and she answers, 'Bob, don't!' But even that's something,--lots of 'em haven't got so far as that with her."

"Sir Mortimer Carnaby, for instance!" said Barnabas, biting his lip.

"Hum!" said the Marquis dubiously, deftly re-settling his cravat, "and what of--yourself, Beverley?"

"I have asked her--only twice, I think."

"Ah, and she--refused you?"

"No," sighed Barnabas, "she told me she--despised me."

"Did she so? Give me your hand--I didn't think you were so strong in the running. With Cleone's sort there's always hope so long as she isn't sweet and graciously indifferent."

"Pray," said Barnabas suddenly, "pray where did you get that rose, Marquis?"

"This? Oh, she gave it to me."

"Cleone?"

"Of course."

"But--I thought she'd refused you?"

"Oh, yes--so she did; but that's just like Cleone, frowning one moment, smiling the next--April, you know."

"And did she--kiss it first?"

"Kiss it? Why--deuce take me, now I come to think of it,--so she did,--at least--What now, Beverley?"

"I'm--going!" said Barnabas.

"Going? Where?"

"Back--over the wall!"

"Eh!--run away, is it?"

"As far," said Barnabas, scowling, "as far as possible. Good-by, Marquis!" And so he turned and strode away, while the Marquis stared after him, open-mouthed. But as he went, Barnabas heard a voice calling his name, and looking round, beheld Captain Chumly coming towards him. A gallant figure he made (despite grizzled hair and empty sleeve), in all the bravery of his white silk stockings, and famous Trafalgar coat, which, though a little tarnished as to epaulettes and facings, nevertheless bore witness to the Bo'sun's diligent care; he was, indeed, from the crown of his cocked hat down to his broad, silver shoe-buckles, the very pattern of what a post-captain of Lord Nelson should be.

"Eh, sir!" he exclaimed, with his hand outstretched in greeting, "are ye blind, I say are ye blind and deaf? Didn't you hear her Grace hailing you? Didn't ye see me signal you to 'bring to'?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas, grasping the proffered hand.

"Oho!" said the Captain, surveying Barnabas from head to foot, "so you've got 'em on, I see, and vastly different you look in your fine feathers. But you can sink me,--I say you can scuttle and sink me if I don't prefer you in your homespun! You'll be spelling your name with as many unnecessary letters, and twirls, and flourishes as you can clap in, nowadays, I'll warrant."

"Jack Chumly, don't bully the boy!" said a voice near by; and looking thitherward, Barnabas beheld the Duchess seated at a small table beneath a shady tree, and further screened by a tall hedge; a secluded corner, far removed from the throng, albeit a most excellent place for purposes of observation, commanding as it did a wide view of lawns and terraces. "As for you, Mr. Beverley," continued the Duchess, with her most imperious air, "you may bring a seat--here, beside me,--and help the Captain to amuse me."

"Madam," said Barnabas, his bow very solemn and very deep, "I am about to leave, and--with your permission--I--"

"You have my permission to--sit here beside me, sir. So! A dish of tea? No? Ah, well--we were just talking of you; the Captain was describing how he first met you--"

"Bowing to a gate-post, mam,--on my word as a sailor and a Christian, it was a gate-post,--I say, an accurs--a confoundedly rotten old stick of a gate-post."

"I remember," sighed Barnabas.

"And to-day, sir," continued the Captain, "to-day you must come clambering over a gentleman's garden wall to bow and scrape to a--"

"Don't dare to say--another stick, Jack Chumly!" cried the Duchess.

"I repeat, sir, you must come trespassing here, to bow--I say bah! and scrape--"

"I say tush!" interpolated the Duchess demurely.

"To an old--"

"Painted!" suggested the Duchess.

"Hum!" said the Captain, a little hipped, "I say--ha!--lady, sir--"

"With a wig!" added the Duchess.

"And with a young and handsome,--I say a handsome and roguish pair of eyes, sir, that need no artificial aids, mam, nor ever will!"

"Three!" cried the Duchess, clapping her hands. "Oh, Jack! Jack Chumly! you, like myself, improve with age! As a midshipman you were too callow, as a lieutenant much too old and serious, but now that you are a battered and wrinkled young captain, you can pay as pretty a compliment as any other gallant youth. Actually three in one hour, Mr. Beverley."

"Compliments, mam!" snorted the Captain, with an angry flap of his empty sleeve, "Compliments, I scorn 'em! I say pish, mam,--I say bah! I speak only the truth, mam, as well you know."

"Four!" cried the Duchess, with a gurgle of youthful laughter. "Oh, Jack! Jack! I protest, as you sit there you are growing more youthful every minute."

"Gad so, mam! then I'll go before I become a mewling infant--I say a puling brat, mam."

"Stay a moment, Jack. I want you to explain your wishes to Mr. Beverley in regard to Cleone's future."

"Certainly, your Grace--I say by all means, mam."

"Very well, then I'll begin. Listen--both of you. Captain Chumly, being a bachelor and consequently an authority on marriage, has, very properly, chosen whom his ward must marry; he has quite settled and arranged it all, haven't you, Jack?"

"Quite, mam, quite."

"Thus, Cleone is saved all the bother and worry of choosing for herself, you see, Mr. Beverley, for the Captain's choice is fixed,-- isn't it, Jack?"

"As a rock, mam--I say as an accurs--ha! an adamantine crag, mam. My ward shall marry my nephew, Viscount Devenham, I am determined on it--"

"Consequently, Mr. Beverley, Cleone will, of course, marry--whomsoever she pleases!"

"Eh, mam? I say, what?--I say--"

"Like the feminine creature she is, Mr. Beverley!"

"Now by Og,--I say by Og and Gog, mam! She is my ward, and so long as I am her guardian she shall obey--"

"I say boh! Jack Chumly,--I say bah!" mocked the Duchess, nodding her head at him. "Cleone is much too clever for you--or any other man, and there is only one woman in this big world who is a match for her, and that woman is--me. I've watched her growing up--day by day--year after year into--just what I was--ages ago,--and to-day she is--almost as beautiful,--and--very nearly as clever!"

"Clever, mam? So she is, but I'm her guardian and--she loves me--I think, and--"

"Of course she loves you, Jack, and winds you round her finger whenever she chooses--"

"Finger, mam! finger indeed! No, mam, I can be firm with her."

"As a candle before the fire, Jack. She can bend you to all the points of your compass. Come now, she brought you here this afternoon against your will,--now didn't she?"

"Ah!--hum!" said the Captain, scratching his chin.

"And coaxed you into your famous Trafalgar uniform, now didn't she?"

"Why as to that, mam, I say--"

"And petted you into staying here much longer than you intended, now didn't she?"

"Which reminds me that it grows late, mam," said the Captain, taking out his watch and frowning at it. "I must find my ward. I say I will bring Cleone to make you her adieux." So saying, he bowed and strode away across the lawn.

"Poor Jack," smiled the Duchess, "he is such a dear, good, obedient child, and he doesn't know it. And so your name is Beverley, hum! Of the Beverleys of Ashleydown? Yet, no,--that branch is extinct, I know. Pray what branch are you? Why, here comes Sir Mortimer Carnaby,--heavens, how handsome he is! And you thrashed him, I think? Oh, I know all about it, sir, and I know--why!"

"Then," said Barnabas, somewhat taken aback, "you'll know he deserved it, madam."

"Mm! Have you met him since?"

"No, indeed, nor have I any desire to!"

"Oh, but you must," said the Duchess, and catching Sir Mortimer's gaze, she smiled and beckoned him, and next moment he was bowing before her. "My dear Sir Mortimer," said she, "I don't think you are acquainted with my friend, Mr. Beverley?"

"No," answered Sir Mortimer with a perfunctory glance at Barnabas.

"Ah! I thought not. Mr. Beverley--Sir Mortimer Carnaby."

"Honored, sir," said Sir Mortimer, as they bowed.

"Mr. Beverley is, I believe, an opponent of yours, Sir Mortimer?" pursued the Duchess, with her placid smile.

"An opponent! indeed, your Grace?" said he, favoring Barnabas with another careless glance.

"I mean--in the race, of course," smiled the Duchess. "But oh, happy man! So you have been blessed also?"

"How, Duchess?"

"I see you wear Cleone's favor,--you've been admitted to the Order of the Rose, like all the others." And the Duchess tittered.

"Others, your Grace! What others?"

"Oh, sir, their name is Legion. There's Jerningham, and young Denton, and Snelgrove, and Ensign D'Arcy, and hosts beside. Lud, Sir Mortimer, where are your eyes? Look there! and there! and there again!" And, with little darting movements of her fan, she indicated certain young gentlemen, who strolled to and fro upon the lawn; now, in the lapel of each of their coats was a single, red rose. "There's safety in numbers, and Cleone was always cautious!" said the Duchess, and tittered again.

Sir Mortimer glanced from those blooms to the flower in his own coat, and his cheek grew darkly red, and his mouth took on a cruel look.

"Ah, Duchess," he smiled, "it seems our fair Cleone has an original idea of humor,--very quaint, upon my soul!" And so he laughed, and bowing, turned away.

"Now--watch!" said the Duchess, "there!" As she spoke, Sir Mortimer paused, and with a sudden fierce gesture tore the rose from his coat and tossed it away. "Now really," said the Duchess, leaning back and fanning herself placidly, "I think that was vastly clever of me; you should be grateful, sir, and so should Cleone--hush!--here she comes, at last."

"Where?" inquired Barnabas, glancing up hastily.

"Ssh! behind us--on the other side of the hedge--clever minx!"

"Why then--"

"Sit still, sir--hush, I say!"

"So that is the reason," said Cleone's clear voice, speaking within a yard of them, "that is why you dislike Mr. Beverley?"

"Yes, and because of his presumption!" said a second voice, at the sound of which Barnabas flushed and started angrily, whereupon the Duchess instantly hooked him by the buttonhole again.

"His presumption in what, Mr. Chichester?"

"In his determined pursuit of you."

"Is he in pursuit of me?"

"Cleone--you know he is!"

"But how do you happen to know?"

"From his persecution of poor Ronald, for one thing."

"Persecution, sir?"

"It amounted to that. He found his way to Ronald's wretched lodging, and tempted the poor fellow with his gold,--indeed almost commanded Ronald to allow him to pay off his debts--"

"But Ronald refused, of course?" said Cleone quickly.

"Of course! I was there, you see, and this Beverley is a stranger!"

"A stranger--yes."

"And yet, Cleone, when your unfortunate brother refused his money,--this utter stranger, this Good Samaritan,--actually went behind Ronald's back and offered to buy up his debts! Such a thing might be done by father for son, or brother for brother, but why should any man do so much for an utter stranger--?"

"Either because he is very base, or very--noble!" said Cleone.

"Noble! I tell you such a thing is quite impossible--unheard of! No man would part with a fortune to benefit a stranger--unless he had a powerful motive!"

"Well?" said Cleone softly.

"Well, Cleone, I happen to know that motive is--yourself!" Here the Duchess, alert as usual, caught Barnabas by the cravat, and only just in time.

"Sit still--hush!" she whispered, glancing up into his distorted face, for Mr. Chichester was going on in his soft, deliberate voice:

"Oh, it is all very simple, Cleone, and very clumsy,--thus, see you. In the guise of Good Samaritan this stranger buys the debts of the brother, trusting to the gratitude of the sister. He knows your pride, Cleone, so he would buy your brother and put you under lasting obligation to himself. The scheme is a little coarse, and very clumsy,--but then, he is young."

"And you say--he tried to pay these debts--without Ronald's knowledge? Are you sure--quite sure?"

"Quite! And I know, also, that when Ronald's creditor refused, he actually offered to double--to treble the sum! But, indeed, you would be cheap at sixty thousand pounds, Cleone!"

"Oh--hateful!" she cried.

"Crude, yes, and very coarse, but, as I said before, he is young--what, are you going?"

"Yes--no. Pray find my guardian and bring him to me."

"First, tell me I may see you again, Cleone, before I leave for London?"

"Yes," said Cleone, after a momentary hesitation.

Thereafter came the tread of Mr. Chichester's feet upon the gravel, soft and deliberate, like his voice.

Then Barnabas sighed, a long, bitter sigh, and looking up--saw Cleone standing before him.

"Ah, dear Godmother!" said she lightly, "I hope your Grace was able to hear well?"

"Perfectly, my dear, thank you--every word," nodded the Duchess, "though twice Mr. Beverley nearly spoilt it all. I had to hold him dreadfully tight,--see how I've crumpled his beautiful cravat. Dear me, how impetuous you are, sir! As for you, Cleone, sit down, my dear,--that's it!--positively I'm proud of you,--kiss me,--I mean about the roses. It was vastly clever! You are myself over again."

"Your Grace honors me!" said Cleone, her eyes demure, but with a dimple at the corner of her red mouth.

"And I congratulate you. I was a great success--in my day. Ah me! I remember seeing you--an hour after you were born. You were very pink, Cleone, and as bald as--as I am, without my wig. No--pray sit still,--Mr. Beverley isn't looking at you, and he was just as bald, once, I expect--and will be again, I hope. Even at that early age you pouted at me, Cleone, and I liked you for it. You are pouting now, Miss! To-day Mr. Beverley frowns at me, and I like him for it,--besides, he's very handsome when he frowns, don't you think, Cleone?"

"Madam--" began Barnabas, with an angry look.

"Ah! now you're going to quarrel with me,--well there's the Major,--I shall go. If you must quarrel with some one,--try Cleone, she's young, and, I think, a match for you. Oh, Major! Major Piper, pray lend your arm and protection to a poor, old, defenceless woman." So saying, the Duchess rose, and the Major, bowing gallantly gave her the limb she demanded, and went off with her, 'haw'-ing in his best and most ponderous manner.

Barnabas sat, chin in hand, staring at the ground, half expecting that Cleone would rise and leave him. But no! My lady sat leaning back in her chair, her head carelessly averted, but watching him from the corners of her eyes. A sly look it was, a searching, critical look, that took close heed to all things, as--the fit and excellence of his clothes; the unconscious grace of his attitude; the hair that curled so crisp and dark at his temples; the woeful droop of his lips;--a long, inquisitive look, a look wholly feminine. Yes, he was certainly handsome, handsomer even than she had thought. And finding him so, she frowned, and, frowning, spoke:

"So you meant to buy me, sir--as you would a horse or dog?"

"No," said Barnabas, without looking up, and speaking almost humbly.

"It would have been the same thing, sir," she continued, a little more haughtily in consequence. "You would have put upon me an obligation I could never, never have hoped to repay?"

"Yes, I see my error now," said Barnabas, his head sinking lower. "I acted for the best, but I am a fool, and a clumsy one it seems. I meant only to serve you, to fulfil the mission you gave me, and I blundered--because I am--very ignorant. If you can forgive me, do so."

Now this humility was new in him, and because of this, and because she was a woman, she became straightway more exacting, and questioned him again.

"But why--why did you do it?"

"You asked me to save your brother, and I could see no other way--"

"How so? Please explain."

"I meant to free him from the debt which is crushing him down and unmanning him."

"But--oh, don't you see--he would still be in debt--to you?"

"I had forgotten that!" sighed Barnabas.

"Forgotten it?" she repeated.

"Quite!"

Surely no man could lie, whose eyes were so truthful and steadfast.

"And so you went and offered to--buy up his debts?"

"Yes."

"For three times the proper sum?"

"I would have paid whatever was asked."

"Why?"

"Because I promised you to help him," answered Barnabas, staring at the ground again.

"You must be--very rich?" said Cleone, stealing another look at him.

"I am."

"And--supposing you had taken over the debt, who did you think would ever repay you?"

"It never occurred to me."

"And you would have done--all this for a--stranger?"

"No, but because of the promise I gave."

"To me?"

"Yes,--but, as God sees me, I would have looked for no recompense at your hands."

"Never?"

"Never--unless--"

"Unless, sir?"

"Unless I--I had dreamed it possible that you--could ever have--loved me." Barnabas was actually stammering, and he was looking at her--pleadingly, she knew, but this time my lady kept her face averted, of course. Wherefore Barnabas sighed, and his head drooping, stared at the ground again. And after he had stared thus, for perhaps a full minute, my lady spoke, but with her face still averted.

"The moon is at the full to-night, I think?"

_Barnabas_ (lifting his head suddenly). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (quite aware of his quick glance). "And--how do you like--the Duchess?"

_Barnabas_ (staring at the ground again). "I don't know."

_Cleone_ (with unnecessary emphasis). "Why, she is the dearest, best, cleverest old godmother in all the world, sir!"

_Barnabas_ (humbly). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (with a side glance). "Are you riding back to London to-night?"

_Barnabas_ (nodding drearily). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (watching him more keenly). "It should be glorious to gallop under a--full-orbed moon."

_Barnabas_ (shaking his head mournfully). "London is a great way from--here."

_Cleone_ (beginning to twist a ring on her finger nervously). "Do you remember the madman we met--at Oakshott's Barn?"

_Barnabas_ (sighing). "Yes. I met him in London, lately."

_Cleone_ (clasping her hands together tightly). "Did he talk about--the moon again?"

_Barnabas_ (still sighing, and dense), "No, it was about some shadow, I think."

_Cleone_ (frowning at him a little). "Well--do you remember what he prophesied--about--an 'orbed moon'--and 'Barnaby Bright'?"

_Barnabas_ (glancing up with sudden interest). "Yes,--yes, he said we should meet again at Barnaby Bright--under an orbed moon!"

_Cleone_ (head quite averted now, and speaking over her shoulder). "Do you remember the old finger-post--on the Hawkhurst road?"

_Barnabas_ (leaning towards her eagerly). "Yes--do you mean--Oh, Cleone--?"

_Cleone_ (rising, and very demure). "Here comes the Duchess with my Guardian--hush! At nine o'clock, sir."

CHAPTER XLI

IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A SURPRISING DISCOVERY, THAT MAY NOT SURPRISE THE READER IN THE LEAST

Evening, with the promise of a glorious night later on; evening, full of dewy scents, of lengthening shadows, of soft, unaccountable noises, of mystery and magic; and, over all, a rising moon, big and yellow. Thus, as he went, Barnabas kept his eyes bent thitherward, and his step was light and his heart sang within him for gladness, it was in the very air, and in the whole fair world was no space for care or sorrow, for his dreams were to be realized at a certain finger-post on the Hawkhurst road, on the stroke of nine. Therefore, as he strode along, being only human after all, Barnabas fell a whistling to himself under his breath. And his thoughts were all of Cleone, of the subtle charm of her voice, of the dimple in her chin, of her small, proud feet, and her thousand sly bewitchments; but, at the memory of her glowing beauty, his flesh thrilled and his breath caught. Then, upon the quietude rose a voice near by, that spoke from where the shadows lay blackest,--a voice low and muffled, speaking as from the ground:

"How long, oh Lord, how long?"

And, looking within the shadow, Barnabas beheld one who lay face down upon the grass, and coming nearer, soft-footed, he saw the gleam of silver hair, and stooping, touched the prostrate figure. Wherefore the heavy head was raised, and the mournful voice spoke again:

"Is it you, young sir? You will grieve, I think, to learn that my atonement is not complete, my pilgrimage unfinished. I must wander the roads again, preaching Forgiveness, for, sir,--Clemency is gone, my Beatrix is vanished. I am--a day too late! Only one day, sir, and there lies the bitterness."

"Gone!" cried Barnabas, "gone?"

"She left the place yesterday, very early in the morning,--fled away none knows whither,--I am too late! Sir, it is very bitter, but God's will be done!"

Then Barnabas sat down in the shadow, and took the Preacher's hand, seeking to comfort him:

"Sir," said he gently, "tell me of it."

"Verily, for it is soon told, sir. I found the place you mentioned, I found there also, one--old like myself, a sailor by his look, who sat bowed down with some grievous sorrow. And, because of my own joy, I strove to comfort him, and trembling with eagerness, hearkening for the step of her I had sought so long, I told him why I was there. So I learned I was too late after all,--she had gone, and his grief was mine also. He was very kind, he showed me her room, a tiny chamber under the eaves, but wondrous fair and sweet with flowers, and all things orderly, as her dear hands had left them. And so we stayed there a while,--two old men, very silent and full of sorrow. And in a while, though he would have me rest there the night, I left, and walked I cared not whither, and, being weary, lay down here wishful to die. But I may not die until my atonement be complete, and mayhap--some day I shall find her yet. For God is a just God, and His will be done. Amen!"

"But why--why did she go?" cried Barnabas.

"Young sir, the answer is simple, the man Chichester had discovered her refuge. She was afraid!" Here the Apostle of Peace fell silent, and sat with bent head and lips moving as one who prayed. When at last he looked up, a smile was on his lips. "Sir," said he, "it is only the weak who repine, for God is just, and I know I shall find her before I die!" So saying he rose, though like one who is very weary, and stood upon his feet.

"Where are you going?" Barnabas inquired.

"Sir, my trust is in God, I take to the road again."

"To search for her?"

"To preach for her. And when I have preached sufficiently, God will bring me to her. So come, young sir, if you will, let us walk together as far as we may." Thus, together, they left the shadow and went on, side by side, in the soft radiance of the rising moon.

"Sir," said Barnabas after a while, seeing his companion was very silent, and that his thin hands often griped and wrung each other, --that gesture which was more eloquent than words,--"Sir, is there anything I can do to lighten your sorrow?"

"Yes, young sir, heed it well, let it preach to you this great truth, that all the woes arid ills we suffer are but the necessary outcome of our own acts. Oh sir,--young sir, in you and me, as in all other men, there lies a power that may help to make or mar the lives of our fellows, a mighty power, yet little dreamed of, and we call it Influence. For there is no man but he must, of necessity, influence, to a more or less degree, the conduct of those he meets, whether he will or no,--and there lies the terror of it! Thus, to some extent, we become responsible for the actions of our neighbors, even after we are dead, for Influence is immortal. Man is a pebble thrown into the pool of Life,--a splash, a bubble, and he is gone! But--the ripples of Influence he leaves behind go on widening and ever widening until they reach the farthest bank. Oh, had I but dreamed of this in my youth, I might have been--a happy man to-night, and--others also. In helping others we ourselves are blessed, for a noble thought, a kindly word, a generous deed, are never lost; such things cannot go to waste, they are our monuments after we are dead, and live on forever."

So, talking thus, they reached a gate, and, beyond the gate, a road, white beneath the moon, winding away between shadowy hedges.

"You are for London, I fancy, young sir?"

"Yes."

"Then we part here. But before I bid you God speed, I would know your name; mine is Darville--Ralph Darville."

"And mine, sir, is Barnabas--Beverley."

"Beverley!" said the Preacher, glancing up quickly, "of Ashleydown?"

"Sir," said Barnabas, "surely they are all dead?"

"True, true!" nodded the Preacher, "the name is extinct. That is how the man--Chichester came into the inheritance. I knew the family well, years ago. The brothers died abroad, Robert, the elder, with his regiment in the Peninsula, Francis, in battle at sea, and Joan--like my own poor Beatrix, was unhappy, and ran away, but she was never heard of again."

"And her name was Joan?" said Barnabas slowly, "Joan--Beverley?"

"Yes."

"Sir, Joan Beverley was my mother! I took her name--Beverley--for a reason."

"Your mother! Ah, I understand it now; you are greatly like her, at times, it was the resemblance that puzzled me before. But, sir--if Joan Beverley was your mother, why then--"

"Then, Chichester has no right to the property?"

"No!"

"And--I have?"

"If you can prove your descent."

"Yes," said Barnabas, "but--to whom?"

"You must seek out a Mr. Gregory Dyke, of Lincoln's Inn; he is the lawyer who administered the estate--"

"Stay," said Barnabas, "let me write it down."

"And now, young sir," said the Preacher, when he had answered all the eager questions of Barnabas as fully as he might, "now, young sir, you know I have small cause to love the man--Chichester, but, remember, you are rich already, and if you take this heritage also,--he will be destitute."

"Sir," said Barnabas, frowning, "better one destitute and starving, than that many should be wretched, surely."

The Preacher sighed and shook his head.

"Young sir, good-by," said he, "I have a feeling we may meet again, but life is very uncertain, therefore I would beg of you to remember this: as you are strong, be gentle; as you are rich, generous; and as you are young, wise. But, above all, be merciful, and strive to forgive wrongs." So they clasped hands, then, sighing, the Preacher turned and plodded on his lonely way. But, long after he had vanished down the moonlit road, Barnabas stood, his fists clenched, his mouth set, until he was roused by a sound near by, a very small sound like the jingle of distant spurs. Therefore, Barnabas lifted his head, and glanced about him, but seeing no one, presently went his way, slow of foot and very thoughtful.

CHAPTER XLII

IN WHICH SHALL BE FOUND FURTHER MENTION OF A FINGER-POST

The hands of Natty Bell's great watch were pointing to the hour of nine, what time Barnabas dismounted at the cross-roads, and tethering Four-legs securely, leaned his back against the ancient finger-post to wait the coming of Cleone.

Now being old, and having looked upon many and divers men (and women) in its day, it is to be supposed that the ancient finger-post took more or less interest in such things as chanced in its immediate vicinity. Thus, it is probable that it rightly defined why this particular long-legged human sighed so often, now with his gaze upon the broad disc of the moon, now upon a certain point of the road ahead, and was not in the least surprised to see Barnabas start forward, bareheaded, to meet her who came swift and light of foot; to see her pause before him, quick-breathing, blushing, sighing, trembling; to see how glance met glance; to see him stoop to kiss the hand she gave him, and all--without a word. Surprised? not a bit of it, for to a really observant finger-post all humans (both he and she) are much alike at such times.

"I began to fear you wouldn't come," said Barnabas, finding voice at last.

"But to-night is--Barnaby Bright, and the prophecy must be fulfilled, sir. And--oh, how wonderful the moon is!" Now, lifting her head to look at it, her hood must needs take occasion to slip back upon her shoulders, as if eager to reveal her loveliness,--the high beauty of her face, the smooth round column of her throat, and the shining wonder of her hair.

"Cleone--how beautiful you are!"

And here ensued another silence while Cleone gazed up at the moon, and Barnabas at Cleone.

But the ancient finger-post (being indeed wonderfully knowing--for a finger-post) well understood the meaning of such silences, and was quite aware of the tremble of the strong fingers that still held hers, and why, in the shadow of her cloak, her bosom hurried so. Oh! be sure the finger-post knew the meaning of it all, since humans, of every degree, are only men and women after all.

"Cleone, when will you--marry me?"

Now here my lady stole a quick glance at him, and immediately looked up at the moon again, because the eyes that could burn so fiercely could hold such ineffable tenderness also.

"You are very--impetuous, I think," she sighed.

"But I--love you," said Barnabas, "not only for your beauty, but because you are Cleone, and there is no one else in the world like you. But, because I love you so much, it--it is very hard to tell you of it. If I could only put it into fine-sounding phrases--"

"Don't!" said my lady quickly, and laid a slender (though very imperious) finger upon his lips.

"Why?" Barnabas inquired, very properly kissing the finger and holding it there.

"Because I grow tired of fine phrases and empty compliments, and because, sir--"

"Have you forgotten that my name is Barnabas?" he demanded, kissing the captive finger again, whereupon it struggled--though very feebly, to be sure.

"And because, Barnabas, you would be breaking your word."

"How?"

"You must only tell me--that, when 'the sun is shining, and friends are within call,'--have you forgotten your own words so soon?"

Now, as she spoke Barnabas beheld the dimple--that most elusive dimple, that came and went and came again, beside the scarlet lure of her mouth; therefore he drew her nearer until he could look, for a moment, into the depths of her eyes. But here, seeing the glowing intensity of his gaze, becoming aware of the strong, compelling arm about her, feeling the quiver of the hand that held her own, lo! in that instant my lady, with her sly bewitchments, her coquettish airs and graces, was gone, and in her place was the maid--quick-breathing, blushing, trembling, all in a moment.

"Ah, no!" she pleaded, "Barnabas, no!" Then Barnabas sighed, and loosed his clasp--but behold! the dimple was peeping at him again. And in that moment he caught her close, and thus, for the first time, their lips met.

Oh, privileged finger-post to have witnessed that first kiss! To have seen her start away and turn; to have felt her glowing cheek pressed to thy hoary timbers; to have felt the sweet, quick tumult of her bosom! Oh, thrice happy finger-post! To have seen young Barnabas, radiant-faced, and with all heaven in his eyes! Oh, most fortunate of finger-posts to have seen and felt all this, and to have heard the rapture thrilling in his voice:

"Cleone!"

"Oh!" she whispered, "why--why did you?"

"Because I love you!"

"No other man ever dared to--"

"Heaven be praised!"

"Upon--the mouth!" she added, her face still hidden.

"Then I have set my seal upon it."

"And now,--am I--immaculate?"

"Oh--forgive me!"

"No!"

"Look at me."

"No!"

"Are you angry?"

"Yes, I--think I am, Barnabas,--oh, very!"

"Forgive me!" said Barnabas again.

"First," said my lady, throwing up her head, "am I--heartless and a--coquette?"

"No, indeed, no! Oh, Cleone, is it possible you could learn to--love me, in time?"

"I--I don't know."

"Some day, Cleone?"

"I--I didn't come to answer--idle questions, sir," says my lady, suddenly demure. "It must be nearly half-past nine--I must go. I forgot to tell you--Mr. Chichester is coming to meet me to-night--"

"To meet you? Where?" demanded Barnabas, fierce-eyed all at once.

"Here, Barnabas. But don't look so--so murderous!"

"Chichester--here!"

"At a quarter to ten, Barnabas. That is why I must go at--half-past nine--Barnabas, stop! Oh, Barnabas, you're crushing me! Not again, sir,--I forbid you--please, Barnabas!"

So Barnabas loosed her, albeit regretfully, and stood watching while she dexterously twisted, and smoothed, and patted her shining hair into some semblance of order; and while so doing, she berated him, on this wise:

"Indeed, sir, but you're horribly strong. And very hasty. And your hands are very large. And I fear you have a dreadful temper. And I know my hair is all anyhow,--isn't it?"

"It is beautiful!" sighed Barnabas.

"Mm! You told me that in Annersley Wood, sir."

"You haven't forgotten, then?"

"Oh, no," answered Cleone, shaking her head, "but I would have you more original, you see,--so many men have told me that. Ah! now you're frowning again, and it's nearly time for me to go, and I haven't had a chance to mention what I came for, which, of course, is all your fault, Barnabas. To-day, I received a letter from Ronald. He writes that he has been ill, but is better. And yet, I fear, he must be very weak still, for oh! it's such poor, shaky writing. Was he very ill when you saw him?"

"No," answered Barnabas.

"Here is the letter,--will you read it? You see, I have no one who will talk to me about poor Ronald, no one seems to have any pity for him,--not even my dear Tyrant."

"But you will always have me, Cleone!"

"Always, Barnabas?"

"Always."

So Barnabas took Ronald Barrymaine's letter, and opening it, saw that it was indeed scrawled in characters so shaky as to be sometimes almost illegible; but, holding it in the full light of the moon, he read as follows:

DEAREST OF SISTERS,--I was unable to keep the appointment I begged for in my last, owing to a sudden indisposition, and, though better now, I am still ailing. I fear my many misfortunes are rapidly undermining my health, and sometimes I sigh for Death and Oblivion. But, dearest Cleone, I forbid you to grieve for me, I am man enough, I hope, to endure my miseries uncomplainingly, as a man and a gentleman should. Chichester, with his unfailing kindness, has offered me an asylum at his country place near Headcorn, where I hope to regain something of my wonted health. But for Chichester I tremble to think what would have been my fate long before this. At Headcorn I shall at least be nearer you, my best of sisters, and it is my hope that you may be persuaded to steal away now and then, to spend an hour with two lonely bachelors, and cheer a brother's solitude. Ah, Cleone! Chichester's devotion to you is touching, such patient adoration must in time meet with its reward. By your own confession you have nothing against him but the fact that he worships you too ardently, and this, most women would think a virtue. And remember, he is your luckless brother's only friend. This is the only man who has stood by me in adversity, the only man who can help me to retrieve the past, the only man a truly loving sister should honor with her regard. All women are more or less selfish. Oh, Cleone, be the exception and give my friend the answer he seeks, the answer he has sought of you already, the answer which to your despairing brother means more than you can ever guess, the answer whereby you can fulfil the promise you gave our dying mother to help

Your unfortunate brother,

RONALD BARRYMAINE.

Now, as he finished reading, Barnabas frowned, tore the letter across in sudden fury, and looked up to find Cleone frowning also:

"You have torn my letter!"

"Abominable!" said Barnabas fiercely.

"How dared you?"

"It is the letter of a coward and weakling!"

"My brother, sir!"

"Half-brother."

"And you insult him!"

"He would sell you to a--" Barnabas choked.

"Mr. Chichester is my brother's friend."

"His enemy!"

"And poor Ronald is sick--"

"With brandy!"

"Oh--not that!" she cried sharply, "not that!"

"Didn't you know?"

"I only--dreaded it. His father--died of it. Oh, sir--oh, Barnabas! there is no one else who will help him--save him from--that! You will try, won't you?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, setting his jaw, "no one can help a man against his will, but I'll try. And I ask you to remember that if I succeed or not, I shall never expect any recompense from you, never!"

"Unless, Barnabas--" said Cleone, softly.

"Unless--oh, Cleone, unless you should--some day learn to--love me--just a little, Cleone?"

"Would--just a little, satisfy you?"

"No," said Barnabas, "no, I want you all--all--all. Oh, Cleone, will you marry me?"

"You are very persistent, sir, and I must go."

"Not yet,--pray not yet."

"Please, Barnabas. I would not care to see Mr. Chichester--to-night."

"No," sighed Barnabas, "you must go. But first,--will you--?"

"Not again, Barnabas!" And she gave him her two hands. So he stopped and kissed them instead. Then she turned and left him standing bareheaded under the finger-post. But when she had gone but a little way she paused and spoke to him over her shoulder:

"Will you--write to me--sometimes?"

"Oh--may I?"

"Please, Barnabas,--to tell me of--my brother."

"And when can I see you again?"

"Ah! who can tell?" she answered. And so, smiling a little, blushing a little, she hastened away.

Now, when she was gone, Barnabas stooped, very reverently, and pressed his lips to the ancient finger-post, on that spot where her head had rested, and sighed, and turned towards his great, black horse.

But, even as he did so, he heard again that soft sound that was like the faint jingle of spurs, the leaves of the hedge rustled, and out into the moonlight stepped a tall figure, wild of aspect, bareheaded and bare of foot; one who wore his coat wrong side out, and who, laying his hand upon his bosom, bowed in stately fashion, once to the moon and once to him.

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

"Do you remember, Barnaby Bright, how I foretold we should meet again--under an orbed moon? Was I not right? She's fair, Barnaby, and passing fair, and very proud,--but all good, beautiful women are proud, and hard in the winning,--oh, I know! Billy Button knows! My buttons jingled, so I turned my coat, though I'm no turn-coat; once a friend, always a friend. So I followed you, Barnaby Bright, I came to warn you of the shadow,--it grows blacker every day,--back there in the great city, waiting for you, Barnaby Bright, to smother you--to quench hope, and light, and life itself. But I shall be there, --and She. Aha! She shall forget all things then--even her pride. Shadows have their uses, Barnaby, even the blackest. I came a long way--oh, I followed you. But poor Billy is never weary, the Wise Ones bear him up in their arms sometimes. So I followed you--and another, also, though he didn't know it. Oho! would you see me conjure you a spirit from the leaves yonder,--ah! but an evil spirit, this! Shall I? Watch now! See, thus I set my feet! Thus I lift my arms to the moon!"

So saying, the speaker flung up his long arms, and with his gaze fixed upon a certain part of the hedge, lifted his voice and spoke:

"Oho, lurking spirit among the shadows! Ho! come forth, I summon ye. The dew is thick amid the leaves, and dew is an evil thing for purple and fine linen. Oho, stand forth, I bid ye."

There followed a moment's utter silence, then--another rustle amid the leaves, and Mr. Chichester stepped out from the shadows.

"Ah, sir," said Barnabas, consulting his watch, "you are just twenty-three minutes before your time. Nevertheless you are, I think, too late."

Mr. Chichester glanced at Barnabas from head to foot, and, observing his smile, Barnabas clenched his fists.

"Too late, sir?" repeated Mr. Chichester softly, shaking his head, "no,--indeed I think not. Howbeit there are times and occasions when solitude appeals to me; this is one. Pray, therefore, be good enough to--go, and--ah--take your barefooted friend with you."

"First, sir," said Barnabas, bowing with aggressive politeness, "first, I humbly beg leave to speak with you, to--"

"Sir," said Mr. Chichester, gently tapping a nettle out of existence with his cane, "sir, I have no desire for your speeches, they, like yourself, I find a little trying, and vastly uninteresting. I prefer to stay here and meditate a while. I bid you good night, sir, a pleasant ride."

"None the less, sir," said Barnabas, beginning to smile, "I fear I must inflict myself upon you a moment longer, to warn you that I--"

"To warn me? Again? Oh, sir, I grow weary of your warnings, I do indeed! Pray go away and warn somebody else. Pray go, and let me stare upon the moon and twiddle my thumbs until--"

"If it is the Lady Cleone you wait for, she is gone!" said Youth, quick and impetuous.

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Chichester, viewing Barnabas through narrowed eyes, "gone, you say? But then, young sir," here he gently poked a dock-leaf into ruin, "but then, Cleone is one of your tempting, warm, delicious creatures! Cleone is a skilled coquette to whom all men are--men. To-night it is--you, to-morrow--" Mr. Chichester's right hand vanished into his bosom as Barnabas strode forward, but, on the instant, Billy Button was between them.

"Stay, my Lord!" he cried, "look upon this face,--'t is the face of my friend Barnaby Bright, but, my Lord, it is also the face of Joan's son. You've heard tell of Joan, poor Joan who was unhappy, and ran away, and got lost,--you'll mind Joan Beverley?" Now, in the pause that followed, as Mr. Chichester gazed at Barnabas, his narrowed eyes opened, little by little, his compressed lips grew slowly loose, and the tasselled cane slipped from his fingers, and lay all neglected.

"Sir," said Barnabas at last, "this is what I would have told you. I am the lawful son of Joan Beverley, whose maiden name I took for--a purpose. I have but to prove my claim and I can dispossess you of the inheritance you hold, which is mine by right. But, sir, I have enough for my needs, and I am, therefore, prepared to forego my just claim--on a condition."

Mr. Chichester neither moved nor spoke.

"My condition," Barnabas continued, "is this. That, from this hour, you loose whatever hold you have upon Ronald Barrymaine,--that you have no further communication with him, either by word or letter. Failing this, I institute proceedings at once, and will dispossess you as soon as may be. Sir, you have heard my condition, it is for you to answer."

But, as he ended, Billy Button pointed a shaking finger downwards at the grass midway between them, and spoke:

"Look!" he whispered, "look! Do you not see it--bubbling so dark, --down there among the grass? Ah! it reaches your feet, Barnaby Bright. But--look yonder! it rises to his heart,--look!" and with a sudden, wild gesture, he pointed to Chichester's rigid figure. "Blood!" he cried, "blood!--cover it up! Oh, hide it--hide it!" Then, turning about, he sped away, his muffled buttons jingling faintly as he went, and so was presently gone.

Then Barnabas loosed his horse and mounted, and, with never a glance nor word to the silent figure beneath the finger-post, galloped away London-wards.

Now, had it been possible for a worn and decrepit finger-post to be endued with the faculty of motion (which, in itself, is a ridiculous thought, of course), it is probable that this particular one would have torn itself up bodily, and hastened desperately after Barnabas to point him away--away, east or west, or north or south,--anywhere, so long as it was far enough from him who stood so very still, and who stared with such eyes so long upon the moon, with his right hand still hidden in his breast, while the vivid mark glowed, and glowed upon the pallor of his cheek.

CHAPTER XLIII

IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A BET, AND RECEIVES A WARNING

The fifteenth of July was approaching, and the Polite World, the World of Fashion, was stirred to its politest depths. In the clubs speculation was rife, the hourly condition of horses and riders was discussed gravely and at length, while betting-books fluttered everywhere. In crowded drawing-rooms and dainty boudoirs, love and horse-flesh went together, and everywhere was a pleasurable uncertainty, since there were known to be at least four competitors whose chances were practically equal. Therefore the Polite World, gravely busied with its cards or embroidery, and at the same time striving mentally to compute the exact percentage of these chances, was occasionally known to revoke, or prick its dainty finger.

Even that other and greater world, which is neither fashionable nor polite,--being too busy gaining the wherewithal to exist,--even in fetid lanes and teeming streets, in dingy offices and dingier places still, the same excitement prevailed; busy men forgot their business awhile; crouching clerks straightened their stooping backs, became for the nonce fabulously rich, and airily bet each other vast sums that Carnaby's "Clasher" would do it in a canter, that Viscount Devenham's "Moonraker" would have it in a walk-over, that the Marquis of Jerningham's "Clinker" would leave the field nowhere, and that Captain Slingsby's "Rascal" would run away with it.

Yes, indeed, all the world was agog, rich and poor, high and low. Any barefooted young rascal scampering along the kennel could have named you the four likely winners in a breath, and would willingly have bet his ragged shirt upon his choice, had there been any takers.

Thus, then, the perspicacious waiter at the "George" who, it will be remembered, on his own avowal usually kept his eyes and ears open, and could, therefore, see as far through a brick wall as most, knew at once that the tall young gentleman in the violet coat with silver buttons, the buckled hat and glossy Hessians, whose sprigged waistcoat and tortuous cravat were wonders among their kind, was none other than a certain Mr. Beverley, who had succeeded in entering his horse at the last possible moment, and who, though an outsider with not the remotest chance of winning, was, nevertheless, something of a buck and dandy, the friend of a Marquis and Viscount, and hence worthy of all respect. Therefore the perspicacious waiter at the "George" viewed Barnabas with the eye of reverence, his back was subservient, and his napkin eloquent of eager service, also he bowed as frequently and humbly as such expensive and elegant attire merited; for the waiter at the "George" had as just and reverent a regard for fine clothes as any fine gentleman in the Fashionable World.

"A chair, sir!" Here a flick of the officious napkin. "Now shall we say a chop, sir?" Here a smiling obeisance. "Or shall we make it a steak, sir--cut thick, sir--medium done, and with--"

"No, thank you," said Barnabas, laying aside hat and cane.

"No, sir? Very good, sir! Certainly not, sir! A cut o' b'iled beef might suit, p'raps,--with carrots? or shall we say--"

"Neither, thank you, but you can bring me a bottle of Burgundy and the Gazette."

"Burgundy, sir--Gazette? Certainly, sir--"

"And--I'm expecting a gentleman here of the name of Smivvle--"

"Certainly, sir! Burgundy, Gazette, Gent name of Sniffle, yessir! Hanythink else, sir?"

"Yes, I should like pens and ink and paper."

"Yessir--himmediately, sir." Hereupon, and with many and divers bows and flicks of the napkin, the waiter proceeded to set out the articles in question, which done, he flicked himself out of the room. But he was back again almost immediately, and had uncorked the bottle and filled the glass with a flourish, a dexterity, a promptness, accorded only to garments of the very best and most ultra-fashionable cut. Then, with a bow that took in bestarched cravat, betasselled Hessians, and all garments between, the waiter fluttered away. So, in a while, Barnabas took pen and paper, and began the following letter:

* * * * *

MY DEAR FATHER AND NATTY BELL,--Since writing my last letter to you, I have bought a house near St. James's, and set up an establishment second to none. I will confess that I find myself like to be overawed by my retinue of servants, and their grave and decorous politeness; I also admit that dinner is an ordeal of courses,-- each of which, I find, requires a different method of attack; for indeed, in the Polite World, it seems that eating is cherished as one of its most important functions, hence, dining is an art whereof the proper manipulation of the necessary tools is an exact science. However, by treating my servants with a dignified disregard, and by dint of using my eyes while at table, I have committed no great solecism so far, I trust, and am rapidly gaining in knowledge and confidence.

I am happy to tell you that I have the good fortune to be entered for the Gentlemen's Steeplechase, a most exclusive affair, which is to be brought off at Eltham on the fifteenth of next month. From all accounts it will be a punishing Race, with plenty of rough going,-- plough, fallow, hedge and ditch, walls, stake-fences and water. The walls and water-jump are, I hear, the worst.

Now, although I shall be riding against some of the best horsemen in England, still I venture to think I can win, and this for three reasons. First, because I intend to try to the uttermost--with hand and heel and head. Secondly, because I have bought a horse--such a horse as I have only dreamed of ever possessing,--all fire and courage, with a long powerful action--Oh, Natty Bell, if you could but see him! Rising six, he is, with tushes well through,--even your keen eye could find no flaw in him, though he is, perhaps, a shade long in the cannon. And, thirdly, I am hopeful to win because I was taught horse-craft by that best, wisest of riders, Natty Bell. Very often, I remember, you have told me, Natty Bell, that races are won more by judgment of the rider than by the speed of the horse, nor shall I forget this. Thus then, sure of my horse, sure of myself, and that kind Destiny which has brought me successfully thus far, I shall ride light-hearted and confident.

Yet, my dears, should I win or lose, I would have you remember me always as

Your dutiful, loving

BARNABAS.

* * * * *

Now, as Barnabas laid down his pen, he became aware of voices and loud laughter from the adjacent coffee-room, and was proceeding to fold and seal his letter when he started and raised his head, roused by the mention of his own name spoken in soft, deliberate tones that he instantly recognized:

"Ah, so you have met this Mr. Beverley?"

"Yes," drawled another, deeper voice, "the Duchess introduced him to me. Who the deuce is he, Chichester?"

"My dear Carnaby, pray ask Devenham, or Jerningham, he's their protege--not mine."

"Sir," broke in the Viscount's voice, speaking at its very iciest,-- "Mr. Beverley is--my friend!"

"And mine also, I trust!" thus the Marquis.

"Exactly!" rejoined Mr. Chichester's smooth tones, "and, consequently, despite his mysterious origin, he is permitted to ride in the Steeplechase among the very lite of the sporting world--"

"And why not, b'gad?" Captain Slingsby's voice sounded louder and gruffer than usual, "I'll warrant him a true-blue,--sportsman every inch, and damme! one of the right sort too,--sit a horse with any man,--bird at a fence, and ready to give or take odds on his chances, I'll swear--"

"Now really," Mr. Chichester's tone was softer than ever, "he would seem to be a general favorite here. Still, it would, at least, be--interesting to know exactly who and what he is."

"Yes," Sir Mortimer's voice chimed in, "and only right in justice to ourselves. Seems to me, now I come to think of it, I've seen him somewhere or other, before we were introduced,--be shot if I know where, though."

"In the--country, perhaps?" the Viscount suggested.

"Like as not," returned Sir Mortimer carelessly. "But, as Chichester says, it _is_ devilish irregular to allow any Tom, Dick, or Harry to enter for such a race as this. If, as Sling suggests, the fellow is willing to back himself, it would, at least, be well to know that he could cover his bets."

"Sir Mortimer!" the Viscount's tone was colder and sharper than before, "you will permit me, in the first place, to tell you that his name is neither Tom, nor Dick, nor Harry. And in the second place, I would remind you that the gentleman honors me with his friendship. And in the third place, that I suffer no one to cast discredit upon my friends. D'you take me, Sir Mortimer?"

There followed a moment of utter stillness, then the sudden scrape and shuffle of feet, and thereafter Carnaby's voice, a little raised and wholly incredulous:

"What, Viscount,--d'you mean to take this fellow's part--against me?"

"Most certainly, if need be."

But here, before Sir Mortimer could reply, all five started and turned as the door opened and Barnabas appeared on the threshold.

"Viscount," said he, "for that I thank you most sincerely, most deeply. But, indeed, it will not be necessary, seeing I am here to do it for myself, and to answer such questions as I think--proper."

"Ah, Mr.--Beverley!" drawled Sir Mortimer, seating himself on the tale and crossing his legs, "you come pat, and since you are here, I desire a word with you."

"As many as you wish, sir," answered Barnabas, and he looked very youthful as he bowed his curly head.

"It would seem, Mr. Beverley, that you are something of a mystery, and I, for one, don't like mysteries. Then it has been suggested that you and I have met before our introduction, and, egad! now I come to look at you more attentively, your face does seem familiar, and I am curious to know who you may happen to be?"

"Sir," said Barnabas, looking more youthful than ever, "such rare condescension, such lively interest in my concerns, touches me--touches me deeply," and he bowed, lower than before.

"Suppose, sir," retorted Sir Mortimer, his cheek flushing a little, "suppose you answer my question, and tell me plainly who and what you are?" and he stared at Barnabas, swinging his leg to and fro as he awaited his reply.

"Sir," said Barnabas, "I humbly beg leave to remark, that as to who I am can concern only my--friends. As to what I am concerns only my Maker and myself--"

"Oh, vastly fine," nodded Sir Mortimer, "but that's no answer."

"And yet I greatly fear it must suffice--for you, sir," sighed Barnabas. Sir Mortimer's swinging foot grew still, and he frowned suddenly.

"Now look you, sir," said he slowly, and with a menace in his eyes, "when I trouble to ask a question, I expect an answer--"

"Alas, sir,--even your expectations may occasionally be disappointed," said Barnabas, beginning to smile aggressively. "But, as to my resources, I do not lack for money, and am ready, here and now, to lay you, or any one else, a thousand guineas that I shall be one of the first three to pass the winning-post on the fifteenth."

Sir Mortimer's frown grew more ominous, the flush deepened in his cheeks, and his powerful right hand clenched itself, then he laughed.

"Egad! you have plenty of assurance, sir. It is just possible that you may have ridden--now and then?"

"Sufficiently to know one end of a horse from the other, sir," retorted Barnabas, his smile rather grim.

"And you are willing to bet a thousand guineas that you ride third among all the best riders in the three kingdoms, are you?"

"No, sir," said Barnabas, shaking his head, "the bet was a rash one, --I humbly beg leave to withdraw it. Instead, I will bet five thousand guineas that I pass the winning-post before you do, Sir Mortimer."

Carnaby's smile vanished, and he stared up at calm-eyed Barnabas in open-mouthed astonishment.

"You're not mad, are you?" he demanded at last, his red under-lip curling.

"Sir," said Barnabas, taking out his memorandum, "it is now your turn to answer. Do you take my bet?"

"Take it!" cried Sir Mortimer fiercely, "yes! I'll double it--make it ten thousand guineas, sir!"

"Fifteen if you wish," said Barnabas, his pencil poised.

"No, by God! but I'll add another five and make it an even twenty thousand!"

"May I suggest you double instead, and make it thirty?" inquired Barnabas.

"Ha!--may I venture to ask how much higher you are prepared to go?"

"Why, sir," said Barnabas thoughtfully, "I have some odd six hundred thousand pounds, and I am prepared to risk--a half."

"Vastly fine, sir!" laughed Sir Mortimer, "why not put it at a round million and have done with it. No, egad! I want something more than your word--"

"You might inquire of my bankers," Barnabas suggested.

"Twenty thousand will suit me very well, sir!" nodded Sir Mortimer.

"Then you take me at that figure, Sir Mortimer?"

"Yes, I bet you twenty thousand guineas that you do not pass the winning-post ahead of me! And what's more,--non-starters to forfeit their money! Oh, egad,--I'll take you!"

"And I also," said Mr. Chichester, opening his betting-book. "Gentlemen, you are all witnesses of the bet. Come, Viscount,--Slingsby,--here's good money going a-begging--why not gather it in--eh, Marquis?" But the trio sat very silent, so that the scratch of Sir Mortimer's pencil could be plainly heard as he duly registered his bet, which done, he turned his attention to Barnabas again, looking him up and down with his bold, black eyes.

"Hum!" said he musingly, "it sticks in my mind that I have seen you--somewhere or other, before we met at Sir George Annersley's. Perhaps you will tell me where?"

"With pleasure, sir," answered Barnabas, putting away his memorandum book, "it was in Annersley Wood, rather early in the morning. And you wore--"

"Annersley--Wood!" Sir Mortimer's careless, lounging air vanished, and he stared at Barnabas with dilating eyes.

"And you wore, I remember, a bottle-green coat, which I had the misfortune to tear, sir."

And here there fell a silence, once more, but ominous now, and full of menace; a pregnant stillness, wherein the Viscount sat leaned forward, his hands clutching his chair-arms, his gaze fixed upon Barnabas; as for the Marquis, he had taken out his snuff-box and, in his preoccupation, came very near inhaling a pinch; while Captain Slingsby sat open-mouthed. Then, all at once, Sir Mortimer was on his feet and had caught up a heavy riding-whip, and thus he and Barnabas fronted each other, eye to eye,--each utterly still, yet very much on the alert.

But now upon this tense silence came the soft, smooth tones of Mr. Chichester:

"Pray, Mr. Beverley, may I speak a word with you--in private?"

"If the company will excuse us," Barnabas replied; whereupon Mr. Chichester rose and led the way into the adjoining room, and, closing the door, took a folded letter from his pocket.

"Sir," said he, "I would remind you that the last time we met, you warned me,--indeed you have a weakness for warning people, it seems,--you also threatened me that unless I agreed to--certain conditions, you would dispossess me of my inheritance--"

"And I repeat it," said Barnabas.

"Oh, sir, save your breath and listen," smiled Mr. Chichester, "for let me tell you, threats beget threats, and warnings, warnings! Here is one, which I think--yes, which I venture to think you will heed!" So saying, he unfolded the letter and laid it upon the table. Barnabas glanced at it, hesitated, then stooping, read as follows:

DEAR LADY CLEONE,--I write this to warn you that the person calling himself Mr. Beverley, and posing as a gentleman of wealth and breeding, is, in reality, nothing better than a rich vulgarian, one Barnabas Barty, son of a country inn-keeper. The truth of which shall be proved to your complete satisfaction whenever you will, by:

Yours always humbly to command,

WILFRED CHICHESTER.

Now when he had finished reading, Barnabas sank down into a chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the table, hid his face between his hands; seeing which, Mr. Chichester laughed softly, and taking up the letter, turned to the door. "Sir," said he, "as I mentioned before, threats beget threats. Now,--you move, and I move. I tell you, if you presume to interfere with me again in any way,--or with my future plans in any way, then, in that same hour, Cleone shall know you for the impudent impostor you are!" So Mr. Chichcster laughed again, and laid his hand upon the latch of the door. But Barnabas sat rigid, and did not move or lift his heavy head even when the door opened and closed, and he knew he was alone.

Very still lie sat there, crouched above the table, his face hidden in his hands, until he was roused by a cough, the most perfectly discreet and gentleman-like cough in the world, such a cough, indeed, as only a born waiter could emit.

"Sir," inquired the waiter, his napkin in a greater flutter than ever, as Barnabas looked up, "sir,--is there hanythink you're wanting, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, heavily, "you can--give me--my hat!"

CHAPTER XLIV

OF THE TRIBULATIONS OF THE LEGS OF THE GENTLEMAN-IN-POWDER

The Gentleman-in-Powder, aware of a knocking, yawned, laid aside the "Gazette," and getting upon his legs (which, like all things truly dignified, were never given to hurry), they, in due season, brought him to the door, albeit they shook with indignant quiverings at the increasing thunder of each repeated summons. Therefore the Gentleman-in-Powder, with his hand upon the latch, having paused long enough to vindicate and compose his legs, proceeded to open the portal of Number Five, St. James's Square; but, observing the person of the importunate knocker, with that classifying and discriminating eye peculiar to footmen, immediately frowned and shook his head:

"The hother door, me man,--marked 'tradesmen,'" said he, the angle of his nose a little more supercilious than usual, "and ring only, _if_ you please." Having said which, he shut the door again; that is to say,--very nearly, for strive as he might, his efforts were unavailing, by reason of a round and somewhat battered object which, from its general conformation, he took to be the end of a formidable bludgeon or staff. But, applying his eye to the aperture, he saw that this very obtrusive object was nothing more or less than a leg (that is to say, a wooden one), which was attached to the person of a burly, broad-shouldered, fiercely bewhiskered man in clothes of navy-blue, a man whose hairy, good-natured visage was appropriately shaded by a very shiny glazed hat.

"Avast there!" said this personage in deep, albeit jovial tones, "ease away there, my lad,--stand by and let old Timbertoes come aboard!"

But the Gentleman-in-Powder was not to be cajoled. He sniffed.

"The hother door, me good feller!" he repeated, relentless but dignified, "and ring only, _if_ you pl--"

The word was frozen upon his horrified lip, for Timbertoes had actually set his blue-clad shoulder to the door, and now, bending his brawny back, positively began to heave at it with might and main, cheering and encouraging himself meanwhile with sundry nautical "yo ho's." And all this in broad daylight! In St. James's Square!

Whereupon ensued the following colloquy:

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (pushing from within. Shocked and amazed). "Wot's this? Stop it! Get out now, d'ye hear!"

_Timbertoes_ (pushing from without. In high good humor). "With a ho, my hearties, and a merrily heave O!"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (struggling almost manfully, though legs highly agitated). "I--I'll give you in c-charge! I'll--"

_Timbertoes_ (encouraging an imaginary crew). "Cheerily! Cheerily! heave yo ho!"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (losing ground rapidly. Condition of legs indescribable). "I never--see nothing--like this here! I'll--"

_Timbertoes_ (all shoulders, whiskers and pig-tail). "With a heave and a ho, and up she rises O!"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (extricating his ruffled dignity from between wall and door). "Oh, very good,--I'll give you in charge for this, you--you feller! Look at me coat! I'll send for a constable. I'll--"

_Timbertoes_. "Belay, my lad! This here's Number Five, ain't it?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (glancing down apprehensively at his quivering legs). "Yes,--and I'll--"

_Timbertoes_. "Cap'n Beverley's craft, ain't it?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (re-adjusting his ruffled finery). "_Mister_ Beverley occipies this here res-eye-dence!"

_Timbertoes_ (_nodding_). "Mister Beverley,--oh, ah, for sure. Well, is 'e aboard?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (with lofty sarcasm). "No, 'e ain't! Nor a stick, nor a stock, nor yet a chair, nor a table. And, wot's more, 'e ain't one to trouble about the likes o' you, neether."

_Timbertoes_. "Belay, my lad, and listen. I'm Jerry Tucker, late Bo'sun in 'is Britannic Majesty's navy,--'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four. D'ye get that? Well, now listen again. According to orders I hove anchor and bore up for London very early this morning, but being strange to these 'ere waters, was obleeged to haul my wind and stand off and on till I fell in with a pilot, d'ye see. But, though late, here I am all ship-shape and a-taunto, and with despatches safe and sound. Watch, now!" Hereupon the Bo'sun removed the glazed hat, held it to his hairy ear, shook it, nodded, and from somewhere in its interior took out and held up three letters.

"D'ye see those, my lad?" he inquired.

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (haughtily). "I ain't blind!"

_Timbertoes_. "Why then--you'll know what they are, p'raps?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (witheringly). "Nor I ain't a fool, neether."

_Timbertoes_ (dubiously). "Ain't you, though?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (legs again noticeably agitated). "No, I ain't. I've got all _my_ faculties about _me_."

_Timbertoes_ (shaking head incredulously). "Ah! but where do you stow 'em away?"

_The Gentleman-in-Powder_ (legs convulsed). "And--wot's more, I've got my proper amount o' limbs too!"

_Timbertoes_. "Limbs? If it's legs you're meaning, I should say as you'd got more nor your fair share,--you're all legs, you are! Why, Lord! you're grow'd to legs so surprising, as I wonder they don't walk off with you, one o'these here dark nights, and--lose you!"

But at this juncture came Peterby, sedate, grave, soft of voice as became a major-domo and the pink of a gentleman's gentleman, before whose quick bright eye the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder grew, as it were, suddenly abashed, and to whom the Bo'sun, having made a leg, forthwith addressed himself.

"Sarvent, sir--name o' Jerry Tucker, late Bo'sun, 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four; come aboard with despatches from his Honor Cap'n Chumly and my Lady Cleone Meredith. To see Mr. Barnabas Beverley, Esquire. To give these here despatches into Mr. Beverley Esquire's own 'and. Them's my orders, sir."

"Certainly, Bo'sun," said Peterby; and, to the Gentleman-in-Powder, his bow was impressive; "pray step this way."

So the Bo'sun, treading as softly as his wooden leg would allow, stumped after him upstairs and along a thickly carpeted corridor, to a certain curtained door upon which Peterby gently knocked, and thereafter opening, motioned the Bo'sun to enter.

It was a small and exquisitely furnished, yet comfortable room, whose luxurious appointments,--the rich hangings, the rugs upon the floor, the pictures adorning the walls,--one and all bore evidence to the rare taste, the fine judgment of this one-time poacher of rabbits, this quiet-voiced man with the quick, bright eyes, and the subtly humorous mouth. But, just now, John Peterby was utterly serious as he glanced across to where, bowed down across the writing-table, his head pillowed upon his arms, his whole attitude one of weary, hopeless dejection, sat Barnabas Beverley, Esquire. A pen was in his lax fingers, while upon the table and littering the floor were many sheets of paper, some half covered with close writing, some crumpled and torn, some again bearing little more than a name; but in each and every case the name was always the same. Thus, John Peterby, seeing this drooping, youthful figure, sighed and shook his head, and went out, closing the door behind him.

"Is that you, John?" inquired Barnabas, with bowed head.

"No, sir, axing your pardon, it be only me, Jerry Tucker, Bo'sun, --'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy--"

"Bo'sun!" With the word Barnabas was upon his feet. "Why, Bo'sun," he cried, wringing the sailor's hand, "how glad I am to see you!"

"Mr. Beverley, sir," began the Bo'sun, red-faced and diffident by reason of the warmth of his reception, "I've come aboard with despatches, sir. I bring you a letter from his Honor the Cap'n, from 'er Grace the Duchess, and from Lady Cleone, God bless her!"

"A letter from--her!" Then taking the letters in hands that were strangely unsteady, Barnabas crossed to the window, and breaking the seal of a certain one, read this:

DEAR MR. BARNABAS (the 'Beverley' crossed out),--Her Grace, my dear god-mother, having bullied my poor Tyrant out of the house, and quarrelled with me until she is tired, has now fixed her mind upon you. She therefore orders her dutiful god-daughter to write you these, hoping that thereby you may be induced to yield yourself a willing slave to her caprices and come down here for a few days. Though the very dearest and best of women, my god-mother, as you may remember, possesses a tongue, therefore--be warned, sir! My Tyrant at this precise moment sits in the 'round house,' whither he has retreated to solace his ruffled feelings with tobacco. So, I repeat, sir, be warned! And yet, though indeed, 't is strange, and passing strange, she speaks of you often, and seems to hold you in her kind regard. But, for all that, do not be misled, sir; for the Duchess is always the Duchess,--even to poor me. A while ago, she insisted on playing a game of chess; as I write the pieces lie scattered on the floor. _I_ shan't pick them up,--why should I? So you see her Grace is quite herself to-day. Nevertheless, should you determine to run the risk, you will, I think, find a welcome awaiting you from,

Yours, dear sir,

CLEONE MEREDITH.

P.S.--The Bo'sun assures me the moon will last another week.

This Postscript Master Barnabas must needs read three times over, and then, quick and furtive, press the letter to his lips ere he thrust it into his bosom, and opened and read the Captain's:

The Gables, Hawkhurst.

Written in the Round-house,

June 29, 18--.

MY DEAR BEVERLEIGH,--How is Fashion and the Modish World? as trivial as usual, I'll warrant me. The latest sensation, I believe, is Cossack Trousers,--have you tried 'em yet? But to come to my mutton, as the Mounseers say.

The Duchess of Camberhurst, having honored my house with her presence--and consequently set it in an uproar, I am constantly running foul of her, though more often she is falling aboard of me. To put it plainly, what with cross-currents, head-seas, and shifting winds that come down suddenly and blow great guns from every point of the compass, I am continually finding myself taken all a-back, as it were, and since it is quite impossible to bring to and ride it out, am consequently forced to go about and run for it, and continually pooped, even then,--for a woman's tongue is, I'm sure, worse than any following sea.

Hence, my sweet Clo, with her unfailing solicitude for me, having observed me flying signals of distress, has contrived to put it into my head that your presence might have a calming effect. Therefore, my dear boy, if you can manage to cast off the grapples of the Polite World for a few days, to run down here and shelter a battered old hulk under your lee, I shall be proud to have you as my guest.

Yours faithfully to serve,

JOHN CHUMLY.

P.S.--Pray bring your valet; you will need him, her Grace insists on dressing for dinner. Likewise my Trafalgar coat begins to need skilled patching, here and there; it is getting beyond the Bo'sun.

Here again Barnabas must needs pause to read over certain of the Captain's scrawling characters, and a new light was in his eyes as he broke the seal of her Grace's epistle.

MY DEAR MR. BEVERLEY,--The country down here, though delightfully Arcadian and quite idyllic (hayricks are so romantic, and I always adored cows--in pictures), is dreadfully quiet, and I freely confess that I generally prefer a man to a hop-pole (though I do wear a wig), and the voice of a man to the babble of brooks, or the trill of a skylark,--though I protest, I wouldn't be without them (I mean the larks) for the world,--they make me long for London so.

Then again, the Captain (though a truly dear soul, and the most gallant of hosts) treats me very much as though I were a ship, and, beside, he is so dreadfully gentle.

As for Cleone, dear bird, she yawns until my own eyes water (though, indeed, she has very pretty teeth), and, on the whole, is very dutiful and quarrels with me whenever I wish. 'T is quite true she cannot play chess; she also, constantly, revokes at Whist, and is quite as bad-tempered over it as I am. Cards, I fear, are altogether beyond her at present,--she is young. Of course time may change this, but I have grave doubts. In this deplorable situation I turn to you, dear Mr. Beverley (Cleone knew your address, it seems), and write these hasty lines to ntreat,--nay, to command you to come and cheer our solitude. Cleone has a new gown she is dying to wear, and I have much that you must patiently listen to, so that I may truly subscribe myself'

Your grateful friend,

FANNY CAMBERURST.

P.S.--I have seen the finger-post on the London Road.

And now, having made an end of reading, Barnabas sighed and smiled, and squared his stooping shoulders, and threw up his curly head, and turning, found the Bo'sun still standing, hat in fist, lost in contemplation of the gilded ceiling. Hereupon Barnabas caught his hand, and shook it again, and laughed for very happiness.

"Bo'sun, how can I thank you!" said he, "these letters have given me new hope--new life! and--and here I leave you to stand, dolt that I am! And with nothing to drink, careless fool that I am. Sit down, man, sit down--what will you take, wine? brandy?"

"Mr. Beverley, sir," replied the Bo'sun diffidently, accepting the chair that Barnabas dragged forward, "you're very kind, sir, but if I might make so bold,--a glass of ale, sir--?"

"Ale!" cried Barnabas. "A barrel if you wish!" and he tugged at the bell, at whose imperious summons the Gentleman-in-Powder appearing with leg-quivering promptitude, Barnabas forthwith demanded "Ale,--the best, and plenty of it! And pray ask Mr. Peterby to come here at once!" he added.

"Sir," said the Bo'sun as the door closed, "you'll be for steering a course for Hawkhurst, p'r'aps?"

"We shall start almost immediately," said Barnabas, busily collecting those scattered sheets of paper that littered floor and table; thus he was wholly unaware of the look that clouded the sailor's honest visage.

"Sir," said the Bo'sun, pegging thoughtfully at a rose in the carpet with his wooden leg, "by your good leave, I'd like to ax 'ee a question."

"Certainly, Bo'sun, what is it?" inquired Barnabas, looking up from the destruction of the many attempts of his first letter to Cleone.

"Mr. Beverley, sir," said the Bo'sun, pegging away at the carpet as he spoke, "is it--meaning no offence, and axing your pardon,--but are you hauling your wind and standing away for Hawkhurst so prompt on 'account o' my Lady Cleone?"

"Yes, Bo'sun, on account of our Lady Cleone."

"Why, then, sir," said the Bo'sun, fixing his eyes on the ceiling again, "by your leave--but,--why, sir?"

"Because, Bo'sun, you and I have this in common, that we both--love her."

Here the Bo'sun dropped his glazed hat, and picking it up, sat turning it this way and that, in his big, brown fingers.

"Why, then, sir," said he, looking up at Barnabas suddenly, "what of Master Horatio, his Lordship?"

"Why, Bo'sun, I told him about it weeks ago. I had to. You see, he honors me with his friendship."

The Bo'sun nodded, and broke into his slow smile:

"Ah, that alters things, sir," said he. "As for loving my lady--why? who could help it?"

"Who, indeed, Bo'sun!"

"Though I'd beg to remind you, sir, as orders _is_ orders, and consequently she's bound to marry 'is Lordship--some day--"

"Or--become a mutineer!" said Barnabas, as the door opened to admit Peterby, who (to the horror of the Gentleman-in-Powder, and despite his mutely protesting legs), actually brought in the ale himself; yet, as he set it before the Bo'sun, his sharp eyes were quick to notice his young master's changed air, and brightened as if in sympathy.

"I want you, John, to know my good friend Bo'sun Jerry," said Barnabas, "a Trafalgar man--"

"'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four!" added the Bo'sun, rising and extending his huge hand.

"We are all going to Hawkhurst, at once, John," continued Barnabas, "so pack up whatever you think necessary--a couple of valises will do, and tell Martin I'll have the phaeton,--it's roomier; and I'll drive the bays. And hurry things, will you, John?"

So John Peterby bowed, solemn and sedate as ever, and went upon his errand. But it is to be remarked that as he hastened downstairs, his lips had taken on their humorous curve, and the twinkle was back in his eyes; also he nodded his head, as who would say:

"I thought so! The Lady Cleone Meredith, eh? Well,--the sooner the better!"

Thus the Bo'sun had barely finished his ale, when the Gentleman-in-Powder appeared to say the phaeton was at the door.

And a fine, dashing turn-out it was, too, with its yellow wheels, its gleaming harness, and the handsome thorough-breds pawing impatient hoofs.

Then, the Bo'sun having duly ensconced himself, with Peterby in the rumble as calm and expressionless as the three leather valises under the seat, Barnabas sprang in, caught up the reins, nodded to Martin the gray-haired head groom, and giving the bays their heads, they were off and away for Hawkhurst and the Lady Cleone Meredith, whirling round corners and threading their way through traffic at a speed that caused the Bo'sun to clutch the seat with one hand, and the glazed hat with the other, and to remark in his diffident way that:

"These here wheeled craft might suit some, but for comfort and safety give me an eight-oared galley!"

CHAPTER XLV

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

"Sir?"

"Do you know the Duchess of Camberhurst well?"

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

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

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

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

"Ay, sir--that she is!"

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

"You are very silent, John."

"I am--your valet, sir!"

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

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

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

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

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

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST

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

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

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

"To time, madam?"

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

"Indeed, Duchess?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

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

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

"To tell me what?"

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

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

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

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

"Let us say--truthful, madam!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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