He still carried his arm in a sling, but, excepting this, the Viscount was himself again, Bright-eyed, smiling and debonair. But now, as Peterby withdrew, and Barnabas turned to greet him, gravely polite—he hesitated, frowned, and seemed a little at a loss.
"Egad!" said he ruefully, "it seems a deuce of a time since we saw each other, Beverley."
"A fortnight!" said Barnabas.
"And it's been a busy fortnight for both of us, from what I hear."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Especially for—you."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Beverley," said he, staring very hard at the toe of his varnished shoe, "do you remember the white-haired man we met, who called himself an Apostle of Peace?"
"Yes, Viscount."
"Do you remember that he said it was meant we should be—friends?"
"Yes."
"Well I—think he was right,—I'm sure he was right. I—didn't know how few my friends were until I—fell out with you. And so—I'm here to—to ask your pardon, and I—don't know how to do it, only—oh, deuce take it! Will you give me your hand, Bev?"
But before the words had well left his lips, Barnabas had sprang forward, and so they stood, hand clasped in hand, looking into each other's eyes as only true friends may.
"I—we—owe you so much, Bev—Clemency has told me—"
"Indeed, Dick," said Barnabas, a little hastily, "you are a fortunate man to have won the love of so beautiful a woman, and one so noble."
"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, very solemn, "it is so wonderful that, sometimes, I—almost fear that it can't be true."
"The love of a woman is generally a very uncertain thing!" said
Barnabas bitterly.
"But Clemency isn't like an ordinary woman," said the Viscount, smiling very tenderly, "in all the world there is only one Clemency and she is all truth, and honor, and purity. Sometimes, Bev, I feel so—so deuced unworthy, that I am almost afraid to touch her."
"Yes, I suppose there are a few such women in the world," said Barnabas, turning away. "But, speaking of the Apostle of Peace, have you met him again—lately?"
"No, not since that morning behind the 'Spotted Cow.' Why?"
"Well, you mentioned him."
"Why yes, but only because I couldn't think of any other way of—er—beginning. You were so devilish high and haughty, Bev."
"And what of Clemency?"
"She has promised to—to marry me, next month,—to marry me—me, Bev. Oh, my dear fellow, I'm the very happiest man alive, and, egad, that reminds me! I'm also the discredited and disinherited son of a flinty-hearted Roman."
"What Dick,—do you mean he has—cut you off?"
"As much as ever he could, my dear fellow, which reduces my income by a half. Deuced serious thing, y' know, Bev. Shall have to get rid of my stable, and the coach; 'Moonraker' must go, too, I'm afraid. Yes, Bev," sighed the Viscount, shaking his head at the reflection of his elegant person in the mirror, "you behold in me a beggar, and the cause—Clemency. But then, I know I am the very happiest beggar in all this wide world, and the cause—Clemency!"
"I feared your father would never favor such a match, Dick, but—"
"Favor it! Oh, bruise and blister me!—"
"Have you told Clemency?"
"Not yet—"
"Has he seen her?"
"No, that's the deuce of it, she's away with her father, y' know. Bit of a mystery about him, I fancy—she made me promise to be patient a while, and ask no questions."
"And where is she?"
"Haven't the least idea. However, I went down to beard my Roman, y' know, alone and single handed. Great mistake! Had Clemency been with me the flintiest of Roman P's would have relented, for who could resist—Clemency? As it was, I did my best, Bev—ran over her points—I mean—tried to describe her, y' know, but it was no go, Bev, no go—things couldn't have gone worse!"
"How?"
"'Sir,' says I—in an easy, off-hand tone, my dear fellow, and it was after dinner, you'll understand,—'Sir, I've decided to act upon your very excellent advice, and get married. I intend to settle down, at once!' 'Indeed, Horatio?' says he,—(Roman of eye, Bev) 'who is she, pray?' 'The most glorious woman in the world, sir!' says I. 'Of course,' says he, 'but—which?' This steadied me a little, Bev, so I took a fresh grip and began again: 'Sir,' says I, 'beauty in itself is a poor thing at best—' 'Therefore,' says my Roman (quick as a flash, my dear fellow) 'therefore it is just as well that beauty should not come—entirely empty-handed!' 'Sir,' says I—(calmly, you'll understand, Bev, but with just sufficient firmness to let him see that, after all, he was only a father) 'Sir,' says I, 'beauty is a transient thing at best, unless backed up by virtue, honor, wisdom, courage, truth, purity, nobility of soul—' 'Horatio,' says my father (pulling me up short, Bev) 'you do well to put these virtues first but, in the wife of the future Earl of Bamborough, I hearken for such common, though necessary attributes as birth, breeding, and position, neither of which you have yet mentioned, but I'm impatient, perhaps, and these come at the end of your list,—pray continue.' 'Sir,' says I, 'my future wife is above such petty considerations!' 'Ah!' says my Roman, 'I feared so! She is then, a—nobody, I presume?' 'Sir—most beautiful girl in all England,' says I. 'Ha!' says my Roman, nodding, 'then she is a nobody; that settles it.' 'She's all that is pure and good!' says I. 'And a nobody, beyond a doubt!' says he. 'She's everything sweet, noble and brave,' says I. 'But—a nobody!' says he again. Now I'll confess I grew a little heated at this, my dear fellow, though I kept my temper admirably—oh, I made every allowance for him, as a self-respecting son should, but, though filial, I maintained a front of adamant, Bev. But, deuce take it! he kept on at me with his confounded 'nobody' so long that I grew restive at last and jibbed. 'So you are determined to marry a nobody, are you, Horatio?' says he. 'No, my Lord,' says I, rising, (and with an air of crushing finality, Bev) 'I am about to be honored with the hand of one who, by stress of circumstances, was for some time waiting maid at the 'Spotted Cow' inn, at Frittenden.' Well, Bev—that did it, y' know! My Roman couldn't say a word, positively gaped at me and, while he gaped, I bowed, and walked out entirely master of the situation. Result— independence, happiness, and—beggary."
"But, Dick,—how shall you live?"
"Oh, I have an old place at Devenham, in the wilds of Kent,—we shall rusticate there."
"And you will give up Almack's, White's—all the glory of the
Fashionable World?"
"Oh, man!" cried the Viscount, radiant of face, "how can all these possibly compare? I shall have Clemency!"
"But surely you will find it very quiet, after London and the clubs?"
"Yes, it will be very quiet at Devenham, Bev," said the Viscount, very gently, "and there are roses there, and she loves roses, I know! We shall be alone in the world together,—alone! Yes, it will be very quiet, Bev—thank heaven!"
"The loneliness will pall, after a time, Dick—say a month. And the roses will fade and wither—as all things must, it seems," said Barnabas bitterly, whereupon the Viscount turned and looked at him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Why, Bev," said he, "my dear old Bev,—what is it? You're greatly changed, I think; it isn't like you to be a cynic. You are my friend, but if you were my bitterest enemy I should forgive you, full and freely, because of your behavior to Clemency. My dear fellow, are you in any trouble—any danger? I have been away only a week, yet I come back to find the town humming with stories of your desperate play. I hear that D'Argenson plucked you for close on a thousand the other day—"
"But I won fifteen hundred the same night, Dick."
"And lost all that, and more, to the Poodle later!"
"Why—one can't always win, Dick."
"Oh, Bev, my dear fellow, do you remember shaking your grave head at me because I once dropped five hundred in one of the hells?"
