So, with a little difficulty, despite Mr. Smivvle’s ready aid, Barnabas proceeded to invest himself in his clothes; which done, he paced to and fro across the chamber leaning upon Mr. Smivvle’s arm, glorying in his returning strength.
“And so you are going to America?” inquired Barnabas, as he sank into a chair, a little wearily.
“I sail for New York in three days’ time, sir.”
“But what of your place in Worcestershire?”
“Gone, sir,” said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to feel for his whisker. “Historic place, though devilish damp and draughty–will echo to the tread of a Smivvle no more–highly affecting thought, sir–oh demmit!”
“As to–funds, now,” began Barnabas, a little awkwardly, “are you–have you–“
“Sir, I have enough to begin with–in America. Which reminds me I must be hopping, sir. But I couldn’t go without thanking you on behalf of–my friend Barrymaine, seeing he is precluded from–from doing it himself. Sir, it was a great–a great grief to me–to lose him for, as I fancy I told you, the hand of a Smivvle, sir–but he is gone beyond plague or pestilence, or Jews, dammem! And he died, sir, like a gentleman. So, on his behalf I do thank you deeply, and I beg, herewith, to return you the twenty guineas you would have given him. Here they are, sir.” So saying, Mr. Smivvle released his whisker and drawing a much worn purse from his pocket, tendered it to Barnabas.
Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle’s averted eyes, and the drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle’s whiskers, Barnabas took the purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.
“Mr. Smivvle,” said he, “it is a far better thing to take the hand of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new life and–and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit when you reach New York, and–and heaven prosper you.”
“Sir–” began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in contemplation of the glory of the morning.
“You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?” inquired Barnabas.
“Sir,” stammered Mr. Smivvle, “sir–oh, Beverley, I can’t thank you–I cannot, but–if I live, you shall find I don’t forget and–“
“Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!” said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.
In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek–as bright, as glorious as any jewel.
“Good-by, Beverley!” he whispered as their hands met, “good-by, and I shall never forget–never!”
So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.
But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.
Being come to the end of the drive he turned, flourished his shabby hat and so was gone.
CHAPTER LXXIV
HOW THE DUCHESS MADE UP HER MIND, AND BARNABAS DID THE LIKE
“Gracious heavens–he’s actually up–and dressed! Oh Lud, Barnabas, what does this mean?”
Barnabas started and turned to find the Duchess regarding him from the doorway and, though her voice was sharp, her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and she had stretched out her hands to him. Therefore he crossed the room a little unsteadily, and taking those small hands in his, bent his head and kissed them reverently.
“It means that, thanks to you, Duchess, I am well again and–“
“And as pale as a goblin–no, I mean a ghost–trying to catch his death of cold at an open window too–I mean you, not the ghost! And as weak as–as a rabbit, and–oh, dear me, I can’t shut it–the casement–drat it! Thank you, Barnabas. Dear heaven, I am so flurried–and even your boots on too! Let me sit down. Lud, Barnabas–how thin you are!”
“But strong enough to go on my way–“
“Way? What way? Which way?”
“Home, Duchess.”
“Home, home indeed? You are home–this is your home. Ashleydown is yours now.”
“Yes,” nodded Barnabas, “I suppose it is, but I shall never live here, I leave today. I am going home, but before I–“
“Home? What home–which home?”
“But before I do, I would thank you if I could, but how may I thank you for all your motherly care of me? Indeed, dear Duchess, I cannot, and yet–if words can–“
“Pho!” exclaimed the Duchess, knitting her brows at him, but with eyes still ineffably soft and tender, “what do you mean by ‘home,’ pray?”
“I am going back to my father and Natty Bell.”
“And to–that inn?”
“Yes, Duchess. You see, there is not, there never was, there never shall be quite such another inn as the old ‘Hound.'”
“And you–actually mean to–live there?”
“Yes, for a time, but–“
“Ha–a publican!” exclaimed the Duchess and positively sniffed, though only as a really great lady may.
“–there is a farm near by, I shall probably–“
“Ha–a farmer!” snorted the Duchess.
“–raise horses, madam, and with Natty Bell’s assistance I hope–“
“Horses!” cried the Duchess, and sniffed again. “Horses, indeed! Absurd! Preposterous! Quite ridiculous–hush, sir! I have some questions to ask you.”
“Well, Duchess?”
“Firstly, sir, what of your dreams? What of London? What of Society?”
“They were–only dreams,” answered Barnabas; “in place of them I shall have–my father and Natty Bell.”
“Secondly, sir,–what of your fine ambitions?”
“It will be my ambition, henceforth, to breed good horses, madam.”
“Thirdly, sir,–what of your money?”
“I shall hope to spend it to much better purpose in the country than in the World of Fashion, Duchess.”
“Oh Lud, Barnabas,–what a selfish creature you are!”
“Selfish, madam?”
“A perfect–wretch!”
“Wretch?” said Barnabas, staring.
“Wretch!” nodded the Duchess, frowning, “and pray don’t echo my words, sir. I say you are a preposterously selfish wretch, and–so you are!”
“But, madam, why? What do you mean?”
“I mean that you should try to forget yourself occasionally and think of others–me, for instance; look at me–a solitary old woman–in a wig!”
“You, Duchess?”
“Me, Barnabas. And this brings me to fourthly–what of me, sir? –what of me?”
“But, madam, I–“
“And this brings me to fifthly and sixthly and seventhly–my hopes, and dreams, and plans, sir–are they all to be broken, spoiled, ruined by your hatefully selfish whims, sir–hush, not a word!”
“But, Duchess, indeed I don’t–“
“Hush, sir, and listen to me. There are days when my wig rebukes me, sir, and my rouge-pot stares me out of countenance; yes, indeed, I sometimes begin to feel almost–middle-aged and, at such times, I grow a little lonely. Heaven, sir, doubtless to some wise end, has always denied me that which is a woman’s abiding joy or shame–I mean a child, sir, and as the years creep on, one is apt to be a little solitary, now and then, and at such times I feel the need of a son–so I have determined to adopt you, Barnabas–today! Now! This minute! Not a word, sir, my mind is made up!”
“But,” stammered Barnabas, “but, madam, I–I beg you to consider–my father–“
“Is a publican and probably a sinner, Barnabas. I may be a sinner too, perhaps–y-e-s, I fear I am, occasionally. But then I am also a Duchess, and it is far wiser in a man to be the adopted son of a sinful Duchess than the selfish son of a sinful publican, yes indeed.”
“But I, madam, what can I say? Dear Duchess, I–the honor you would do me–” floundered poor Barnabas, “believe me if–if–“
“Not another word!” the Duchess interposed, “it is quite settled. As my adopted son Society shall receive you on bended knees, with open arms–I’ll see to that! All London shall welcome you, for though I’m old and wear a wig, I’m very much alive, and Society knows it. So no more talk of horses, or farms, or inns, Barnabas; my mind, as I say, is quite made up and–“
“But, madam,” said Barnabas gently, “so is mine.”
“Ha–indeed, sir–well?”
“Well, madam, today I go to my father.”
“Ah!” sighed the Duchess.
“Though indeed I thank you humbly for–your condescension.”
“Hum!” said the Duchess.
“And honor you most sincerely for–for–“
“Oh?” said the Duchess, softly.
“And most truly love and reverence you for your womanliness.”
“Oh!” said the Duchess again, this time very softly indeed, and with her bright eyes more youthful than ever.
“Nevertheless,” pursued Barnabas a little ponderously, “my father is my father, and I count it more honorable to be his son than to live an amateur gentleman and the friend of princes.”
“Quite so,” nodded the Duchess, “highly filial and very pious, oh, indeed, most righteous and laudable, but–there remains an eighthly, Barnabas.”
“And pray, madam, what may that be?”
“What of Cleone?”
Now when the Duchess said this, Barnabas turned away to the window and leaning his head in his hands, was silent awhile.
“Cleone!” he sighed at last, “ah, yes–Cleone!”
“You love her, I suppose?”
“So much–so very much that she shall never marry an innkeeper’s son, or a discredited–“
“Bah!” exclaimed the Duchess.
“Madam?”
“Don’t be so hatefully proud, Barnabas.”
“Proud, madam–I?”
“Cruelly, wickedly, hatefully proud! Oh, dear me! what a superbly virtuous, heroic fool you are, Barnabas. When you met her at the crossroads, for instance–oh, I know all about it–when you had her there–in your arms, why didn’t you–run off with her and marry her, as any ordinary human man would have done? Dear heaven, it would have been so deliciously romantic! And–such an easy way out of it!”
“Yes,” said Barnabas, beginning to frown, “so easy that it was–wrong!”
“Quite so and fiddlesticks!” sniffed the Duchess.
“Madam?”
“Oh, sir, pray remember that one wrong may sometimes make two right! As it is, you will let your abominable pride–yes, pride! wreck and ruin two lives. Bah!” cried the Duchess very fiercely as she rose and turned to the door, “I’ve no patience with you!”
“Ah, Duchess,” said Barnabas, staying her with pleading hands, “can’t you see–don’t you understand? Were she, this proud lady, my wife, I must needs be haunted, day and night, by the fear that some day, soon or late, she would find me to be–not of her world–not the man she would have me, but only–the publican’s son, after all. Now–don’t you see why I dare not?”
“Oh, Pride! Pride!” exclaimed the Duchess. “Do you expect her to come to you, then–would you have her go down on her knees to you, and–beg you to marry her?”
Barnabas turned to the window again and stood there awhile staring blindly out beyond the swaying green of trees; when at last he spoke his voice was hoarse and there was a bitter smile upon his lips.
“Yes, Duchess,” said he slowly, “before such great happiness could be mine she must come to me, she must go down upon her knees–proud lady that she is–and beg this innkeeper’s son to marry her. So you see, Duchess, I–shall never marry!”
Now when at last Barnabas looked round, the Duchess had her back to him, nor did she turn even when she spoke.
“Then you are going back–to your father?”
“Yes, madam.”
“To-day?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then–good-by, Barnabas! And remember that even roses, like all things else, have a habit of fading, sooner or later.” And thus, without even glancing at him, the Duchess went out of the room and closed the door softly behind her.
Then Barnabas sank into a chair, like one that is very tired, and sat there lost in frowning thought, and with one hand clasped down upon his breast where hidden away in a clumsily contrived hiding-place a certain rose, even at that moment, was fading away. And in a while being summoned by Peterby, he sighed and, rising, went down to his solitary breakfast.
CHAPTER LXXV
WHICH TELLS WHY BARNABAS FORGOT HIS BREAKFAST
It was a slender little shoe, and solitary, for fellow it had none, and it lay exactly in the middle of the window-seat; moreover, to the casual observer, it was quite an ordinary little shoe, ordinary, be it understood, in all but its size.
Why, then, should Barnabas, chancing to catch sight of so ordinary an object, start up from his breakfast (ham and eggs, and fragrant coffee) and crossing the room with hasty step, pause to look down at this small and lonely object that lay so exactly in the middle of the long, deep window-seat? Why should his hand shake as he stooped and took it up? Why should the color deepen in his pale cheek?
And all this because of a solitary little shoe! A quite ordinary little shoe–to the casual observer! Oh, thou Casual Observer who seeing so much, yet notices and takes heed to so little beyond thy puny self! To whom the fairest prospect is but so much earth and so much timber! To whom music is but an arrangement of harmonious sounds, and man himself but a being erect upon two legs! Oh, thou Casual Observer, what a dull, gross, self-contented clod art thou, who, having eyes and ears, art blind and deaf to aught but things as concrete as–thyself!
But for this shoe, it, being something worn, yet preserved the mould of the little foot that had trodden it, a slender, coquettish little foot, a shapely, active little foot: a foot, perchance, to trip it gay and lightly to a melody, or hurry, swift, untiring, upon some errand of mercy.
All this, and more, Barnabas noted (since he, for one, was no casual observer) as he stood there in the sunlight with the little shoe upon his palm, while the ham and eggs languished forgotten and the coffee grew cold, for how might they hope to vie with this that had lain so lonely, so neglected and–so exactly in the middle of the window-seat?
Now presently, as Barnabas stood thus lost in contemplation of this shoe, he was aware of Peterby entering behind him, and instinctively made as if to hide the shoe in his bosom, but he checked the impulse, turned, and glancing at Peterby, saw that his usually grave lips were quivering oddly at the corners, and that he kept his gaze fixed pertinaciously upon the coffee-pot; whereat the pale cheek of Barnabas grew suffused again, and stepping forward, he laid the little shoe upon the table.
“John,” said he, pointing to it, “have you ever seen this before?”
“Why, sir,” replied Peterby, regarding the little shoe with brow of frowning portent, “I think I have.”
“And pray,” continued Barnabas (asking a perfectly unnecessary question), “whose is it, do you suppose?”
“Sir,” answered John, still grave of mouth and solemn of eye, “to the best of my belief it belongs to the Lady Cleone Meredith.”
“So she–really was here, John?”
“Sir, she came here the same night that you–were shot, and she brought Her Grace of Camberhurst with her.”
“Yes, John?”
“And they remained here until today–to nurse you, sir.”
“Did they, John?”
“They took turns to be with you–day and night, sir. But it was only my Lady Cleone who could soothe your delirious ravings,–she seemed to have a magic–“
“And why,” demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly, “Why was I never told of her presence?”
“Sir, it was her earnest wish that you were not to know unless–“
“Well, John?”
“Unless you expressly asked for her, by name. And, sir–you never did.”
“No,” sighed Barnabas, “I never did. But perhaps, after all, it was just as well, John? Under the–circumstances, John?”
But seeing Peterby only shook his head and sighed, Barnabas turned to stare out of the window.
“And she–left this morning–with the Duchess, did she?” he inquired, without looking round.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where for?”
“For–London, as I understood, sir.”
Hereupon Barnabas was silent for a time, during which Peterby watched him solicitously.
“Is ‘The Terror’ still here?” Barnabas inquired suddenly.
“Yes, sir, and I took the liberty of sending for Gabriel Martin to look after him.”
“Quite right, John. Tell Martin to have him saddled at once.”
“You are–going out, sir?”
“Yes, I am going–out.”
Peterby bowed and crossed to the door, but paused there, hesitated, and finally spoke:
“Sir, may I ask if you intend to ride–Londonwards?”
“No,” answered Barnabas, stifling a sigh, “my way lies in the opposite direction; I am going–back, to the ‘Coursing Hound.’ And that reminds me–what of you, what are your plans for the future?”
“Sir,” stammered Peterby, “I–I had ventured to–to hope that you might–take me with you, unless you wished to–to be rid of me–“
“Rid of you, John!” cried Barnabas, turning at last, “no–never. Why, man, I need you more than ever!”
“Sir,” exclaimed Peterby, flushing suddenly, “do you–really mean that?”
“Yes, John–a thousand times, yes! For look you, as I have proved you the best valet in the world–so have I proved you a man, and it is the man I need now, because–I am a failure.”
“No, no!”
“Yes, John. In London I attempted the impossible, and today I–return home, a failure. Consequently the future looms rather dark before me, John, and at such times a tried friend is a double blessing. So, come with me, John, and help me to face the future as a man should.”
“Ah, sir,” answered Peterby, with his sudden radiant smile, “darkness cannot endure, and if the future brings its sorrows, so must it bring its joys. Surely the future stands for hope and–I think–happiness!”
Now as he ended, Peterby raised one hand with forefinger outstretched; and, looking where he pointed, Barnabas beheld–the little shoe. But when he glanced up again, Peterby was gone.
CHAPTER LXXVI
HOW THE VISCOUNT PROPOSED A TOAST
“Oh–hif you please, sir!”
Barnabas started, raised his head, and, glancing over his shoulder, beheld Milo of Crotona. He was standing in the middle of the room looking very cherubic, very natty, and very upright of back; and he stared at Barnabas with his innocent blue eyes very wide, and with every one of the eight winking, twinkling, glittering buttons on his small jacket–indeed, it seemed to Barnabas that to-day his buttons were rather more knowing than usual, if that could well be. Therefore Barnabas dropped his table-napkin, very adroitly, upon a certain object that yet lay upon the table before him, ere he turned about and addressed himself to the Viscount’s diminutive “tiger.”
“What, my Imp,” said he, “where in the world have you sprung from, pray? I didn’t see you come in.”
“No, sir–’cause you jest ‘appened to be lookin’ at that there little boot, you did.” Thus Master Milo, and his eyes were guileless as an angel’s, but–his buttons–!
“Hum!” said Barnabas, rubbing his chin. “But how did you get in, Imp?”
“Froo de winder, sir, I did. An’ I ‘ve come to tell you ‘is Ludship’s compliments, and ‘e’s a-comin’ along wiv ‘er, ‘e is.”
“With–whom?”
“Wiv my lady–‘er.”
“What lady?”
“Wiv ‘is Ludship’s lady, ‘is Vi-coun-tess,–‘er.”
“His Viscountess!” repeated Barnabas, staring, “do you mean that the Viscount is–actually married?”
“‘T ain’t my fault, sir–no fear, it ain’t. ‘E went and done it be’ind my back–s’morning as ever was, ‘e did. I didn’t know nothin’ about it till it was too late, ‘e done it unbeknownst to me, sir, ‘e did, an’ she done it too a’ course, an’ the Yurl went an’ ‘elped ’em to do it, ‘e did. So did the Cap’n, and the Doochess an’ Lady Cleone–they all ‘elped ’em to do it, they did. An’ now they’re goin’ into the country, to Deven’am, an’ I’m a-goin’ wiv ’em–an’ they’re a-drivin’ over to see you, sir, in ‘is Ludship’s noo phayton–an’ that’s all–no, it ain’t though.”
“What more, Imp?”
“Why, as they all come away from the church–where they’d been a-doin’ of it, sir–I met the little, old Doochess in ‘er coach, an’ she see me, too. ‘Why it’s the little Giant!’ she sez. ‘Best respex, mam,’ I sez, an’ then I see as she’d got Lady Cleone wiv ‘er–a fine, ‘igh-steppin’, ‘andsome young filly, I call ‘er, an’ no error. ‘Where are you goin’, Giant?’ sez the Doochess. ‘I’m a-goin’ to drop in on Mr. Bev’ley, mam, I am,’ I sez. ‘Then give ‘im my love,’ she sez, ‘an’ tell ‘im I shan’t never forget ‘is pride and ‘is selfishness,’ she sez,–an’ she give me a crown into the bargain, she did. An’ then–jest as the coach was a-drivin’ off t’other ‘un–the young ‘un, give me this. ‘For Mr. Bev’ley,’ she sez in a whisper, and–here it be, sir.”
Saying which, Master Milo handed Barnabas a small folded paper whereon, scribbled in Cleone’s well-known writing, were these three aphorisms:
1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
2. Selfishness shall find its own reward.
3. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings.
Long stood Barnabas devouring these words with his eyes; so puzzled and engrossed was he indeed, that not until Master Milo ventured to touch him on the arm did he look up.
“‘Ere’s ‘is Ludship, sir,” explained Milo, jerking his thumb towards the open window, “a-drivin’ up the av’noo, sir, in ‘is phayton, and wiv ‘is noo Vi-coun-tess along of him–and a reg’lar ‘igh-stepper she looks, don’t she? Arter all, I don’t blame ‘im for goin’ an’ doin’ of it, I don’t. Ye see, I allus ‘ad a tender spot for Miss Clemency, mam, I ‘ad, and a fine, proper, bang up Vi-coun-tess she do make, an’ no error, sir–now don’t she?”
“Surely,” nodded Barnabas, looking where Milo pointed, “surely she is the handsomest, sweetest young Viscountess in all England, Imp.”
So saying, he strode from the room with Master Milo trotting at his heels, and being come out upon the terrace, stood to watch the phaeton’s rapid approach.
And, indeed, what words could be found in any language that could possibly do justice to the gentle, glowing beauty of Mistress Clemency Dare, transformed now, for good and all, into Beatrix, Viscountess Devenham? What brush could paint the mantling color of her cheek, the tender light of her deep, soft eyes, the ripe loveliness of her shape, and all the indefinable grace and charm of her? Surely none.
And now, Master Milo has darted forward and sprung to the horses’ heads, for the Viscount has leapt to earth and has caught at Barnabas with both hands almost before the phaeton has come to a stand.
“Why, Bev–my dear old fellow, this is a joyful surprise! oh, bruise and blister me!” exclaimed the Viscount, viewing Barnabas up and down with radiant eyes, “to see you yourself again at last–and on this day of all days–this makes everything quite complete, y’know–doesn’t it, Clemency? Expected to find you in bed, y’know–didn’t we, Clem, dear? And oh–egad, Bev–er–my wife, y’know. You haven’t heard, of course, that I–that we–“
“Yes, I’ve just heard,” said Barnabas, smiling, “and God knows, Dick, I rejoice in your joy and wish you every happiness!” And, speaking, he turned and looked into the flushing loveliness of Clemency’s face.
“Mr. Beverley–oh, Barnabas–dear brother!” she said softly, “but for you, this day might never have dawned for us–” and she gave both her hands into his. “Oh, believe me, in my joy, as in my sorrow, I shall remember you always.”
“And I too, Bev!” added the Viscount.
“And,” continued Clemency, her voice a little tearful, “whatever happiness the future may hold will only make that memory all the dearer, Barnabas.”
“Gad, yes, that it will, Bev!” added the Viscount. “And, my dear fellow,” he pursued, growing somewhat incoherent because of his earnestness, “I want to tell you that–that because I–I’m so deucedly happy myself, y’ know, I wish that my luck had been yours–no, I don’t mean that exactly, but what I meant to say was that I–that you deserve to–to–oh, blister me! Tell him what I mean, Clemency dear,” the Viscount ended, a little hoarsely.
“That you deserve to know a love as great, a joy as deep as ours, dear Barnabas.”
“Exactly!” nodded the Viscount, with a fond look at his young wife; “Precisely what I meant, Bev, for I’m the proudest, happiest fellow alive, y’ know. And what’s more, my dear fellow, in marrying Clemency I marry also an heiress possessed of all the attributes necessary to bowl over a thousand flinty-hearted Roman P’s, and my Roman’s heart–though tough, was never quite a flint, after all.”
“Indeed, sir–he would have welcomed me without a penny!” retorted Clemency, blushing, and consequently looking lovelier than ever.
“Why–to be sure he would!” said Barnabas. “Indeed, who wouldn’t?”
“Exactly, Bev!” replied the Viscount, “she cornered him with the first glance, floored him with a second, and had him fairly beaten out of the ring with a third. Gad, if you’d only been there to see!”
“Would I had!” sighed Barnabas.
“Still there’s always–the future, y’ know!” nodded the Viscount. “Ah, yes, and with an uncommonly big capital F, y’ know, Bev. It was decreed that we were to be friends by–well, you remember who, Bev–and friends we always must be, now and hereafter, amen, my dear fellow, and between you and me–and my Viscountess, I think the Future holds more happiness for you than ever the past did. Your turn will come, y’ know, Bev–we shall be dancing at your wedding next–shan’t we, Clem?”
“No, Dick,” answered Barnabas, shaking his head, “I shall never marry.”
“Hum!” said the Viscount, fingering his chin and apparently lost in contemplation of a fleecy cloud.
“Of that I am–quite certain.”
“Ha!” said the Viscount, staring down at the toe of his glossy boot.
“But,” continued Barnabas, “even in my loneliness–“
“His loneliness–hum!” said the Viscount, still contemplating his resplendent boot. “Clemency dear, do you suppose our Barnabas fellow will be groaning over his ‘loneliness’–to-morrow, say?” Hereupon, the Viscount laughed suddenly, and for no apparent reason, while even Clemency’s red lips curved and parted in a smile.
“But,” said Barnabas, looking from one to the other, “I don’t understand!”
“Neither do we, Bev. Only, dear fellow, remember this, ‘there is a destiny which shapes our ends,’ and–occasionally, a Duchess.” But here, while Barnabas still glanced at them in perplexity, John Peterby appeared, bearing a tray whereon stood a decanter and glasses.
“Ha!–most excellent Peterby!” cried the Viscount, “you come pat to the occasion, as usual. Fill up for all of us, yes–even my small Imp yonder; I have a toast to give you.” And, when the glasses brimmed, the Viscount turned and looked at Barnabas with his boyish smile. “Let us drink,” said he, “to the Future, and the Duchess’s move!”
So the toast was drunk with all due honors: but when Barnabas sought an explanation, the Viscount laughed and shook his head.
“Pray ask my Viscountess,” said he, with a fond look at her, and turned away to rebuckle a trace under the anxious supervision of Master Milo.
“Indeed, no, Barnabas,” said Clemency, smiling, “I cannot explain, as Dick well knows. But this I must tell you, while you lay here, very near death, I came to see you often with my dear father.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Barnabas, “then you met–her?”
“Yes, I met Cleone, and I–loved her. She was very tired and worn, the first time I saw her; you were delirious, and she had watched over you all night. Of course we talked of you, and she told me how she had found my letter to you, the only one I ever wrote you, and how she had misjudged you. And then she cried, and I took her in my arms and kissed away her tears and comforted her. So we learned to know and love each other, you see.”
“I am very glad,” said Barnabas, slowly, and with his gaze on the distance, “for her sake and yours.”
Now as she looked at him, Clemency sighed all at once, yet thereafter smiled very tenderly, and so smiling, gave him both her hands.
“Oh, Barnabas,” said she, “I know Happiness will come to you, sooner or later–when least expected, as it came to me, so–dear Barnabas, smile!”
Then Barnabas, looking from her tearful, pitying eyes to the hand upon whose finger was a certain plain gold ring that shone so very bright and conspicuous because of its newness, raised that slender hand to his lips.
“Thank you, Clemency,” he answered, “but why are you–so sure?”
“A woman’s intuition, perhaps, Barnabas, or perhaps, because if ever a man deserved to be happy–you do, dear brother.”
“Amen to that!” added the Viscount, who had at length adjusted the trace to his own liking and Master Milo’s frowning approval. “Good-by, Bev,” he continued, gripping the hand Barnabas extended. “We are going down to Devenham for a week or so–Clemency’s own wish, and when we come back I have a feeling that the–the shadows, y’ know, will have passed quite away, y’know,–for good and all. Good-by, dear fellow, good-by!” So saying, the Viscount turned, rather hastily, sprang into the phaeton and took up the reins.
“Are you right there, Imp?”
“All right, m’lud!” answers that small person with one foot posed negligently on the step, waiting till the last possible moment ere he mounts to his perch behind. So, with a last “good-by” the Viscount touches up his horses, the light vehicle shoots forward with Master Milo swinging suspended in mid-air, who turns to Barnabas, flashes his eight buttons at him, touches his hat to him, folds his arms, and, sitting very stiff in the back, is presently whirled out of sight.
CHAPTER LXXVII
HOW BARNABAS RODE HOMEWARDS, AND TOOK COUNSEL OF A PEDLER OF BOOKS
It was well on in the afternoon when Barnabas, booted and spurred, stepped out into the sunshine where old Gabriel Martin walked “The Terror” to and fro before the door.
“Very glad to see you out and about again, sir,” said he, beaming of face and with a finger at his grizzled temple.
“Thank you, Martin.”
“And so is the ‘oss, sir–look at ‘im!” And indeed the great, black horse had tossed up his lofty crest and stood, one slender fore-leg advanced and with sensitive ears pricked forward, snuffing at Barnabas as he came slowly down the steps.
“He doesn’t seem to have taken any hurt from the last race we had together,” said Barnabas.
“‘Arm, sir–lord, no–not a bit, never better! There’s a eye for you, there’s a coat! I tell you, sir, ‘e’s in the very pink, that ‘e is.”
“He does you great credit, Martin.”
“Sir,” said Martin as Barnabas prepared to mount, “sir, I hear as you ain’t thinking of going back to town?”
“To the best of my belief, no, Martin.”
“Why, then, sir,” said the old groom, his face clouding, “p’r’aps I ‘d better be packing up my bits o’ traps, sir?”
“Yes, Martin, I think you had,” answered Barnabas, and swung himself somewhat awkwardly into the saddle.
“Very good, sir!” sighed old Martin, his gray head drooping. “I done my best for the ‘oss and you, sir, but I know I’m a bit too old for the job, p’r’aps, and–“
But at this moment Peterby approached.
“Sir,” he inquired, a little anxiously, “do you feel able–well enough to ride–alone?”
“Why, bless you, John, of course I do. I’m nearly well,” answered Barnabas, settling his feet in the stirrups, “and that reminds me, you will discharge all the servants–a month’s wages, John, and shut up this place as soon as possible. As for Martin here, of course you will bring him with you if he will come. We shall need him hereafter, shan’t we, John? And perhaps we’d better offer him another ten shillings a week considering he will have so many more responsibilities on the farm.”
So saying, Barnabas waved his hand, wheeled his horse, and rode off down the drive; but, glancing back, when he had gone a little way, he saw that Peterby and the old groom yet stood looking after him, and in the face of each was a brightness that was not of the sun.
On rode Barnabas, filling his lungs with great draughts of the balmy air and looking about him, eager-eyed. And thus, beholding the beauty of wooded hill and dale, already mellowing to Autumn, the heaviness was lifted from his spirit, his drooping back grew straight, and raising his eyes to the blue expanse of heaven, he gloried that he was alive.
But, in a while, remembering Cleone’s note, he must needs check his speed, and taking the paper from his bosom, began to con it over:
1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
2. Selfishness shall find its own reward.
3. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings.
Now as he rode thus at a hand-pace, puzzling over these cryptic words, he was presently aroused by a voice, somewhat harsh and discordant, singing at no great distance; and the words of the song were these:
“Push about the brisk bowl, ‘t will enliven the heart While thus we sit down on the grass;
The lover who talks of his sufferings and smart Deserves to be reckoned an ass, an ass, Deserves to be reckoned an ass.”
Therefore Barnabas raised his head and, glancing to one side of the way, beheld the singer sitting beneath the hedge. He was a small, merry-eyed man and, while he sang, he was busily setting out certain edibles upon the grass at his feet; now glancing from this very small man to the very large pack that lay beside him, Barnabas reined up and looked down at him with a smile.
“And pray,” he inquired, “how do books sell these days?”
“Why, they do and they don’t, sir. Sermons are a drug and novels ain’t much better, poems is pretty bobbish, but song-books is my meat. And, talking o’ songbooks, here’s one as is jest the thing for a convivial cock o’ the game–a fine, young, slap-up buck like you, my Lord. Here’s a book to kill care, drive away sorrer, and give a ‘leveller’ to black despair. A book as’ll make the sad merry, and the merry merrier. Hark to this now!”
So saying, the Pedler drew a book from his pack, and opening it at the title-page, began to read as follows, with much apparent unction and gusto:
THE HEARTY FELLOW:
OR
JOYOUS SOUL’S COMPANION.
BEING A
Chaste, Elegant, and Humourous COLLECTION OF SONGS,
for the ENTERTAINMENT of:
The TENDER MAID, the PINING LOVER, the CHOICE SPIRIT, the DROLL DOG, the JOVIAL SPORTSMAN, the DARING SOLDIER and the ROUGH, HONEST TAR: and for all those who would wish to render themselves agreeable, divert the Company, kill Care, and be joyous; where the high-seasoned WIT and HUMOUR will be sufficient Apology for a bad Voice, and by which such as have a tolerable one will be able to Shine without repressing the Laugh of the merrily disposed, or offending the Ear of the chastest Virgin.
To which is added:
A complete Collection of the Various TOASTS, SENTIMENTS, and HOB-NOBS, that have been drank, are now drinking, and some new Ones offered for Adoption.
“There you are, sir–there’s a book for you! A book? A whole li-bree–a vaddy-mekkum o’ wit, and chock full o’ humor! What d’ ye say for such a wollum o’ sparkling bon mots? Say a guinea, say fifteen bob? say ten? Come–you shall take it for five! Five bob for a book as ain’t to be ekalled no-how and no-wheer–“
“Not in Asia, Africa or America?” said Barnabas.
“Eh?” said the Pedler, glancing sharply up at him, “why–what, Lord love me–it’s you, is it? aha! So it did the trick for you, did it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mean, sir? Lord, what should I mean, but that there book on Ettyket, as I sold you–that priceless wollum as I give you–for five bob, months ago, when the larks was a-singing so inspiring.”
“Yes, it was a lovely morning, I remember.”
“Ah! and you left me that morning, a fine, upstanding young country cove, but to-day–ah, to-day you are a bang up blood–a gent, inside and out, a-riding of a magnificent ‘oss–and all on account o’ follering the instructions in that ‘ere blessed tome as I sold you–for five bob! And dirt-cheap at the money!”
“And I find you exactly as you were,” said Barnabas thoughtfully, “yes, even to the bread and cheese.”
“There you are wrong, sir–axing your pardon. This time it’s ‘alf a loaf–medium, a slice o’ beef–small, and a cold per-tater–large. But cold per-taters is full o’ nourishment, if eat with a contented mind–ah, there’s oceans o’ nourishment in a cold per-tater–took reg’lar. O’ course, for them as is flush o’ the rhino, and wants a blow-out, there’s nothin’ like two o’ leg o’ beef with a dash o’ pea, ‘alf a scaffold-pole, a plate o’ chats, and a swimmer–it’s wholesome and werry filling, and don’t cost more than a groat, but give me a cold per-tater to walk on. But you, sir,” continued the Pedler, beginning to eat with great appetite, “you, being a reg’lar ‘eavy-toddler now, one o’ the gilded nobs–and all on account o’ that there priceless wollum as I–give away to you–for five bob! you, being now a blue-blooded aris-to-crat, don’t ‘ave to walk, so you can go in for plovers or pheasants or partridges, dressed up in hartichokes, p’r’aps, yes–frogs’-legs is your constant fodder now, p’r’aps–not to mention rag-outs and sich. Oh, yes, I reckon you’ve done a lot, and seen a lot, and–eat a lot since the morning as I give you a priceless wollum worth its weight in solid gold as was wrote by a Person o’ Quality–and all for five bob! jest because them larks ‘appened to be singing so sentimental–drat ’em! Ah well,” sighed the Pedler, bolting the last morsel of beef, “and ‘ow did you find London, young sir?”
“Much bigger than I expected.”
“Ah, it is a bit biggish till you get used to it. And it’s amazing what you can see–if you looks ‘ard enough, like the tombs in St. Paul’s Churchyard, f’r instance. I knowed of a chap once as spent over a week a-looking for ’em, and never see so much as a single ‘eadstone–but then, ‘e were born stone-blind, so it were only nat’ral as ‘e _should_ miss ’em, p’r’aps. But you, young sir, ‘ow did you pass your time?”
“Principally in dressing and undressing.”
“Ah, jess so, jess so–coats cut ‘igh and coats cut low! But what more?”
“And in eating and drinking.”
“Ah, French hortolons, p’r’aps, with a occasional tongue of a lark throwed in for a relish, jess so! But what more–did ye marry a duchess, f’r instance?”
“Alas, no!”
“Elope with a earl’s daughter, then?”
“No.”
“Well–did ye fight any dooels?”
“Not a single one.”
“Lord, young sir–you ‘ave been a-missing of your opportunities, you ‘ave, playing fast and loose wi’ Fortun’, I calls it–ah, fair flying in the face o’ Providence! Now, if instead o’ selling books I took to writing of ’em, and tried to write you into a novel, why, Lord, what a poor thing that there novel would be! Who’d want to read it?–why, nobody! Oh, I can see as you’ve been throwing away your opportunities and wasting your chances shocking, you ‘ave.”
“Now I wonder,” said Barnabas, frowning thoughtfully, “I wonder if I have?”
“Not a doubt of it!” answered the Pedler, swallowing the last of his potato.
“Then the sooner I begin to make up for it, the better.”
“Ah!” nodded the Pedler. “I should begin at once, if I was you.”
“I will,” said Barnabas, gathering up the reins.
“And how, sir?”
“By going my allotted way and–striving to be content.”
“Content!” exclaimed the Pedler, “lord, young sir, it’s only fools as is ever content! A contented man never done anything much worth ‘aving, nor said anything much worth ‘caring as ever I ‘eard. Never go for to be content, young sir, or you’ll never do nothing at all!”
“Why, then,” said Barnabas, smiling ruefully, “it is certain that I shall achieve something yet, because–I never shall be content!”
“That’s the spirit, young sir–aim ‘igh. Jest look at me–born in the gutter, but I wasn’t content wi’ the gutter so I taught myself to read and write. But I wasn’t content to read and write, so I took to the book trade, and ‘ere I am to-day travelling the roads and wi’ a fairish connection, but I ain’t content–Lord, no! I’d like to be a dook a-rolling in a chariot, or a prince o’ the blood, or the Prime Minister a-laying down the law. That’s the sperrit–shoot ‘igh, ah! shoot at the sun and you’re bound to ‘it summat if it’s only a tree or a ‘ay-stack. So, if you can’t be a dook or a prince, you can allus be–a man–if you try ‘ard enough. What–are ye going, young sir?”
“Yes,” answered Barnabas, leaning down from the saddle, “good-by, and thank you for your advice,” and he stretched out his hand.
Hereupon the pedler of books rose to his feet and rather diffidently clasped the proffered hand. So Barnabas smiled down at him, nodded and rode upon his way, but as for the Pedler, he stood there, staring after him open-mouthed, and with the yellow coins shining upon his palm.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS CAME HOME AGAIN, AND HOW HE AWOKE FOR THE FOURTH TIME
Evening was falling as Barnabas came to the top of the hill and, drawing rein, paused there to look down at a certain inn. It was a somewhat small and solitary inn, an ancient inn with many lattices, and with pointed gables whose plaster and cross-beams were just now mellowed by the rosy glow of sunset.
Surely, surely, nowhere in all broad England could there be found just such another inn as this, or one more full of that reposeful dignity which only age can bestow. And in all its length of days never had “The Coursing Hound” looked more restful, more comfortable and home-like than upon this early Autumn evening. And remembering those two gray-headed men, who waited within its hospitable walls, eager to give him welcome, who might, perchance, even now be talking of him one to another, what wonder if, as our Barnabas gazed down at it from worn steps to crooked chimney, from the faded sign before the door of it to the fragrant rick-yard that lay behind it, what wonder (I say) if it grew blurred all at once, and misty, or that Barnabas should sigh so deeply and sit with drooping head, while the old inn blinked its casements innocently in the level rays of the setting sun, like the simple, guileless old inn that it was!
But lo! all at once forth from its weather-beaten porch issued two figures, clean-limbed, athletic figures these–men who strode strong and free, with shoulders squared and upright of back, though the head of each was grizzled with years. On they came, shoulder to shoulder, the one a tall man with a mighty girth of chest, the other slighter, shorter, but quick and active as a cat, and who already had gained a good yard upon his companion; whereupon the big man lengthened his stride; whereupon the slighter man broke into a trot; whereupon the big man fell into a run; whereupon the slighter man followed suit and thus, neck and neck, they raced together up the hill and so, presently reaching the summit, very little breathed considering, pulled up on either side of Barnabas.
“Father!” he cried, “Natty Bell! Oh, it’s good to be home again!”
“Man Jack, it’s all right!” said Natty Bell, nodding to John, but shaking away at the hand Barnabas had reached down to him, “_our_ lad’s come back to us, yes, Barnabas has come home, John, and–it _is_ our Barnabas–London and Fashion aren’t spiled him, John, thank God!”
“No,” answered John ponderously, “no, Natty Bell, London aren’t spiled him, and–why, Barnabas, I’m glad to see ye, lad–yes, I’m–glad, and–and–why, there y’are, Barnabas.”
“Looks a bit palish, though, John!” said Natty Bell, shaking his head, “but that’s only nat’ral, arter all, yes–a bit palish, p’r’aps, but, man Jack–what o’ that?”
“And a bit thinnish, Natty Bell,” replied John, “but Lord! a few days and we’ll have him as right as–as ever, yes, quite right, and there y’ are, Natty Bell!”
“P’r’aps you might be wishful to tell him, John, as you’ve had the old ‘Hound’ brightened up a bit?”
“Why, yes, Barnabas,” nodded John, “in honor o’ this occasion–though, to be sure, the sign would look better for a touch o’ paint here and there–the poor old Hound’s only got three legs and a tail left, d’ ye see–and the hare, Barnabas, the hare–ain’t!”
“P’r’aps we’d better take and let him see for hisself, John?”
“Right, Natty Bell, so he shall.”
Thus, presently, Barnabas rode on between them down the hill, looking from one to the other, but saying very little, because his heart was so full.
“And this be the ‘oss you wrote us about–hey, Barnabas lad?” inquired Natty Bell, stepping back and viewing ‘The Terror’ over with an eye that took in all his points. “Ha–a fine action, lad–“
‘Pray haven’t you heard of a jolly young coal-heaver Who down at Hungerford used for to ply–‘
“A leetle–leggy? p’r’aps, Barnabas, and yet–ha!”
‘His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity, Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye–‘
“His cannons’ll never trouble him, Barnabas, come rough or smooth, and you didn’t say a word too much in your letter. Man Jack–you behold a ‘oss as is a ‘oss–though, mark you, John, a leetle bit roundish in the barrel and fullish in the shoulder–still, a animal, John, as I’m burning to cock a leg over.”
“Why, then, Natty Bell, so you shall,” said Barnabas, and forthwith down he swung himself and, being a little careless, wracked his injured shoulder and flinched a little, which the slow-spoken, quick-eyed John was swift to notice and, almost diffidently drew his son’s arm through his own. But, Natty Bell, joyful of eye, was already in the saddle; whereat “The Terror,” resenting the change, immediately began to dance and to sidle, with, much rearing up in front and lashing out behind, until, finding this all quite unavailing, he set off at a stretching gallop with Natty Bell sitting him like a centaur.
“And now, Barnabas,” said John slowly, “‘ow might your shoulder be, now?”
“Nearly well, father.”
“Good,” nodded John, “very good! I thought as you was going to–die, Barnabas, lad. They all did–even the Duchess and Lady–the–the doctors, Barnabas.”
“Were you going to say–Lady Cleone, father?”
“Why,” answered John, more ponderously than ever, “I won’t go for to deny it, Barnabas, never ‘aving been a liar–on principle as you know, and–and–there y’are, my lad.”
“Have you ever–seen her, then?”
“Seen her,” repeated John, beginning to rasp at his great square chin, “seen her, Barnabas, why, as to that–I say, as to that–ah!–here we be, Barnabas,” and John Barty exhaled a deep breath, very like a sigh of relief, “you can see from here as the poor old ‘Hound’ will soon be only tail–not a leg to stand on. I’ll have him painted back again next week–and the hare.”
So, side by side, they mounted the worn steps of the inn, and side by side they presently entered that long, panelled room where, once on a time, they had fronted each other with clenched fists. Before the hearth stood John Barty’s favorite arm-chair and into this, after some little demur, Barnabas sank, and stretched out his booted legs to the fire.
“Why, father,” said he, lolling back luxuriously, “I thought you never liked cushions?”
“No more I do, Barnabas. She put them there for you.”
“She, father?”
“One o’ the maids, lad, one o’ the maids and–and there y’are!”
“And now, father, you were telling me of the Lady Cleone–“
“No, I weren’t, Barnabas,” answered his father hastily and turning to select a pipe from the sheaf on the mantel-shelf, “not me, lad, not me!”
“Why, yes, you spoke of her–in the road.”
“In the road? Oh, ah–might ha’ spoke of her–in the road, lad.”
“Well–do you–know her, father?”
“Know her?” repeated John, as though asking himself the question, and staring very hard at the pipe in his hand, “do I know her–why, yes–oh, yes, I know her, Barnabas. Ye see–when you was so–so near death–” But at this moment the door opened and two neat, mob-capped maids entered and began to spread a cloth upon the table, and scarcely had they departed when in came Natty Bell, his bright eyes brighter than ever.
“Oh, Natty Bell!” exclaimed John, beckoning him near, “come to this lad of ours–do, he’s axing me questions, one a-top of t’ other till I don’t know what! ‘Do I know Lady Cleone?’ says he; next it’ll be ‘how’ and ‘what’ and ‘where’–tell him all about it. Natty Bell–do.”
“Why then–sit down and be sociable, John,” answered Natty Bell, drawing another chair to the fire and beginning to fill his pipe.
“Right, Natty Bell,” nodded John, seating himself on the other side of Barnabas, “fire away and tell our lad ‘ow we came to know her, Natty Bell.”
“Why, then, Barnabas,” Natty Bell began, as soon as his pipe was in full blast, “when you was so ill, d’ ye see, John and me used to drive over frequent to see how you was, d’ ye see. But you, being so ill, we weren’t allowed to go up and see you, so she used to come down to us and–talk of you. Ah! and very sweet and gentle she was–eh, man Jack?”
“Sweet!” echoed John, shaking his head, “a angel weren’t sweeter! Gentle? Ah, Natty Bell, I should say so–and that thoughtful of us–well, there y’ are!”
“But one day, Barnabas,” Natty Bell continued, “arter we’d called a good many times, she _did_ take us up to see you,–didn’t she, John?”
“Ah, that she did, Natty Bell, God bless her!”
“And you was a-lying there with shut eyes–very pale and still, Barnabas. But all at once you opened your eyes and–being out o’ your mind, and not seeing us–delirious, d’ ye see, Barnabas, you began to speak. ‘No,’ says you very fierce, ‘No! I love you so much that I can never ask you to be the wife of Barnabas Barty. Mine must be the harder way, always. The harder way! The harder way!’ says you, over and over again. And so we left you, but your voice follered us down the stairs–ah, and out o’ the house, ‘the harder way!’ says you, ‘the harder way’–over and over again.”
“Ah! that you did, lad!” nodded John solemnly.
“So now, Barnabas, we’d like the liberty to ax you, John and me, what you meant by it?”
“Ah–that’s the question, Barnabas!” said John, fixing his gaze on the bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung over the mantel, “what might it all mean–that’s the question, lad.”
“It means, father and Natty Bell, that I have been all the way to London to learn what you, being so much wiser than I, tried to teach me–that a sow’s ear is not a silk purse, nor ever can be.”
“But,” said John, beginning to rasp at his chin again, “there’s Adam–what of Adam? You’ll remember as you said–and very sensible too. Natty Bell–you’ll remember as you said–“
“Never mind what I said then, father, I was very young. To-day, since I never can be a gentleman, I have come home so that you may teach me to be a man. And believe me,” he continued more lightly as he glanced from the thoughtful brow of Natty Bell to the gloom on his father’s handsome face, “oh, believe me–I have no regrets, none–none at all.”
“Natty Bell,” said John ponderously, and with his gaze still fixed intently upon the blunderbuss, “what do you say to that?”
“Why I say, John, as I believe as our lad aren’t speaking the truth for once.”
“Indeed, I shall be very happy,” said Barnabas, hastily, “for I’ve done with dreaming, you see. I mean to be very busy, to–to devote my money to making us all happy. I have several ideas already, my head is full of schemes.”
“Man Jack,” said Natty Bell, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, “what do _you_ say to _that_?”
“Why,” answered John, “I say Natty Bell, as it be my belief as our dear lad’s nob be full o’ only one idee, and that idee is–a woman. Ah, and always will be and–there y’are, Natty Bell.”
“For one thing,” Barnabas went on more hastily than before, “I’m going to carry out the improvements you suggested years ago for the dear old ‘Hound,’ father–and you and I, Natty, might buy the farm next door, it’s for sale I know, and go in for raising horses. You often talked of it in the old days. Come, what do you say?” he inquired, seeing that neither of his hearers spoke or moved, and wondering a little that his proposals should fall so flat. “What do you think, Natty Bell?”
“Well,” answered Natty Bell, “I think, Barnabas, since you ax me so pointed-like, that you’d do much better in taking a wife and raising children.”
“Ah–why not, lad?” nodded his father. “It be high time as you was thinking o’ settling down, so–why not get married and ha’ done with it?”
“Because,” answered Barnabas, frowning at the fire, “I can love only one woman in this world, and she is altogether beyond my reach, and–never can be mine–never.”
“Ha!” said Natty Bell getting up and staring down into the fire, “Hum!”
‘Since boxing is a manly game
And Britain’s recreation,
By boxing we will raise our fame
‘Bove every other nation.’
“Remember this, Barnabas, when a woman sets her mind on anything, I’ve noticed as she generally manages to–get it, one way or t’ other. So I wouldn’t be too sure, if I was you.” Saying which, he nodded to John, above his son’s drooping head, winked, and went silently out of the room.
Left alone with his son, John Barty sat a while staring up at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss very much as though he expected it to go off at any moment; at last, however, he rose also, hesitated, laid down his pipe upon the mantel-shelf, glanced down at Barnabas, glanced up at the blunderbuss again and finally spoke:
“And remember this, Barnabas, your–your–mother, God bless her sweet soul, was a great lady, but I married her, and I don’t think as she ever–regretted it, lad. Ye see, Barnabas, when a good woman really loves a man–that man is the only man in the world for her, and–nothing else matters to her, because her love, being a good love, d’ ye see–makes him–almost worthy. The love of a good woman is a sweet thing, lad, a wondrous thing, and may lift a man above all cares and sorrows and may draw him up–ah! as high as heaven at last, and–well–there y’ are, Barnabas, dear lad.”
Having said this, the longest speech Barnabas ever heard his father utter, John Barty laid his great hand lightly upon his son’s bent head and treading very softly, for a man of his inches, followed Natty Bell out of the room.
But now as Barnabas sat there staring into the fire and lost in thought, he became, all at once, a prey to Doubt and Fear once again, doubt of himself, and fear of the future; for, bethinking him of his father’s last words, it seemed to him that he had indeed chosen the harder course, since his days, henceforth, must needs stretch away–a dismal prospect wherein no woman’s form might go beside him, no soft voice cheer him, no tender hand be stretched out to soothe his griefs; truly he had chosen the harder way, a very desolate way where no light fall of a woman’s foot might banish for him its loneliness.
And presently, being full of such despondent thoughts, Barnabas looked up and found himself alone amid the gathering shadows. And straightway he felt aggrieved, and wondered why his father and Natty Bell must needs go off and leave him in this dark hour just when he most needed them.
Therefore he would have risen to seek them out but, in the act of doing so, caught one of his spurs in the rug, and strove vainly to release himself, for try how he would he might not reach down so far because of the pain of his wounded shoulder.
And now, all at once, perhaps because he found himself so helpless, or because of his loneliness and bodily weakness, the sudden tears started to his eyes, hot and scalding, and covering his face, he groaned.
But lo! in that moment of his need there came one, borne on flying feet, to kneel beside him in the fire-glow, and with swift, dexterous fingers to do for him that which he could not do for himself. But when it was done and he was free, she still knelt there with head bent, and her face hidden beneath the frill of her mob-cap.
“Thank you!” he said, very humbly, “I fear I am very awkward, but my shoulder is a little stiff.”
But this strange serving-maid never moved, or spoke. And now, looking down at her shapely, drooping figure, Barnabas began to tremble, all at once, and his fingers clenched themselves upon his chair-arms.
“Speak!” he whispered, hoarsely.
Then the great mob-cap was shaken off, yet the face of this maid was still hid from him by reason of her hair that, escaping its fastenings, fell down, over bowed neck and white shoulders, rippling to the floor–a golden glory. And now, beholding the shining splendor of this hair, his breath caught, and as one entranced, he gazed down at her, fearing to move.
“Cleone!” he breathed, at last.
So Cleone raised her head and looked at him, sighing a little, blushing a little, trembling a little, with eyes shy yet unashamed, the eyes of a maid.
“Oh, Barnabas,” she murmured, “I am here–on my knees. You wanted me–on my knees, didn’t you, Barnabas? So I am here to ask you–” But now her dark lashes fluttered and fell, hiding her eyes from him, “–to beg you to marry me. Because I love you, Barnabas, and because, whatever else you may be, I know you are a man. So–if you really–want me, dear Barnabas, why–take me because I am just–your woman.”
“Want you!” he repeated, “want you–oh my Cleone!” and, with a broken, inarticulate cry, he leaned down and would have caught her fiercely against his heart; but she, ever mindful of his wound, stayed him with gentle hand.
“Oh, my dear–your shoulder!” she whispered; and so, clasping tender arms about him, she drew his weary head to her bosom and, holding him thus, covered him with the silken curtain of her hair, and in this sweet shade, stooped and kissed him–his brow, his tearful eyes, and, last of all, his mouth. “Oh, Barnabas,” she murmured, “was there ever, I wonder, a man so foolish and so very dear as you, or a woman quite so proud and happy as I?”
“Proud?” he answered, “but you are a great lady, and I am only–“
“My dear, dear–man,” sighed Cleone, clasping him a little more closely, “so–when will you marry me? For, oh, my Barnabas, if you must always choose to go the harder way–you must let me tread it with you, to the very end, my dear, brave, honorable man.”
And thus did our Barnabas know, at last, that deep and utter content which can come only to those who, forgetful of soul-clogging Self and its petty vanities and shams, may rise above the cynical commonplace and walk with gods.
Now, in a while, as they sat together in the soft glow of the fire, talking very little since Happiness is beyond speech, the door opened and closed and, glancing up, Barnabas was aware of the Duchess standing in the shadows.
“No, no–sit still, dear children,” she cried, with a hand out-stretched to each, “I only peeped in to tell you that dinner was almost ready–that is, no, I didn’t. I came here to look for Happiness and, thank God, I’ve found it! You will be married from my house in Berkeley Square, of course. He is a great fool, Cleone, this Barnabas of ours–give him a horse and armor and he would have been a very–knightly fool. And then–he is such a doubting Jonah–no, I mean Thomas, of course,–still he’s not quite a fool–I mean Barnabas, not Thomas, who was anything but a fool. Ah! not my hand, dear Barnabas, I still have lips, though I do wear a wig–there, sir. Now you, Cleone. Dear Heaven, how ridiculously bright your eyes are, child. But it’s just as well, you must look your best to-night. Besides, the Marquis is coming to dinner, so is the Captain–so awkward with his one arm, dear soul! And the Bo’sun–bless his empty sleeve–no, no–not the Bo’sun’s, he has an empty–oh, never mind, and–oh Lud, where am I? Ah, yes–quite a banquet it will be with ‘Glorious John’ and Mr. Natty. Dear Heaven, how ridiculously happy I am, and I know my wig is all crooked. But–oh, my dears! you have found the most wonderful thing in all this wonderful universe. Riches, rank, fame–they are all good things, but the best, the greatest, the most blessed of all is–Love. For by love the weak are made strong, and the strong gentle–and Age itself–even mine–may be rejuvenated. I’m glad you preferred your own father to an adopted mother, dear Barnabas, even though she is a duchess–for that I must kiss you again–there! And so shall Cleone when I’m gone, so–I’ll go. And oh, may God bless you–always, my dears.”
So, looking from one to the other, the Duchess turned away and left them together.
And, in a while, looking down at Cleone where she knelt in his embrace, beholding all the charm and witchery of her, the high, proud carriage of her head, the grace and beauty of her shapely body, soft and warm with life and youth, and love, Barnabas sighed for very happiness; whereupon she, glancing up and meeting this look, must needs droop her lashes at him, and blush, and tremble, all in a moment.
“But–you are mine,” said Barnabas, answering the blush. “Mine, at last, for ever and always.”
“For ever and always, dear Barnabas.”
“And yet,” said he, his clasp tightening, “I am so unworthy, it almost seems that it cannot possibly be true–almost as if it were a dream.”
“Ah no, Barnabas, surely the dream is over and we are awake at last to joy and the fulness of life. And life has given me my heart’s desire, and for you, my brave, strong, honorable man–the Future lies all before you.”
“Yes,” said Barnabas, looking deep into her radiant eyes, “for me there is the Future and–You.”
And thus did happiness come to our Barnabas, when least expected, as may it come to each of us when we shall have proved ourselves, in some way, fit and worthy.