"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 élite 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."
