"The gray! It's Carnaby's gray! Carnaby's 'Clasher' wins! 'Clasher'!
'Clasher'!"
But, slowly and by degrees, the cries sink to a murmur, to a buzzing drone. For, what great, black horse is this which, despite Carnaby's flailing whip and cruel, rowelling spur, is slowly, surely creeping up with the laboring gray? Who is this, a wild, bare-headed figure, grim and bloody, stained with mud, rent and torn, upon whose miry coat yet hangs a crushed and fading rose?
Down the stretch they race, the black and the gray, panting, sobbing, spattered with foam, nearer and nearer, while the crowd rocks and sways about the great pavilion, and buzzes with surprise and uncertainty.
Then all at once, above this sound, a single voice is heard, a mighty voice, a roaring bellow, such, surely, as only a mariner could possess.
"It's Mr. Beverley, sir!" roars the voice. "Beverley!
Beverley—hurrah!"
Little by little the crowd takes up the cry until the air rings with it, for now the great, black horse gallops half a length ahead of the sobbing gray, and increases his lead with every stride, by inches—by feet! On and on until his bridle is caught and held, and he is brought to a stand. Then, looking round, Barnabas sees the Marquis rein up beside him, breathless he is still, and splashed with mud and foam, but smiling and debonair as he reaches out his hand.
"Congratulations, Beverley!" he pants. "Grand race!—I caught Carnaby—at the post. Now, if it hadn't been for—my cravat—" But here the numbness comes upon Barnabas again, and, as one in a dream, he is aware that his horse is being led through the crowd—that he is bowing to some one in the gaudy pavilion, a handsome, tall, and chubby gentleman remarkable for waistcoat and whiskers.
"Well ridden, sir!" says the gentleman. "Couldn't have done it better myself, no, by Gad I couldn't—could I, Sherry?"
"No, George, by George you couldn't!" answered a voice.
"Must take a run down to Brighton, Mr.—Mr.—ah, yes—Beverley. Show you some sport at Brighton, sir. A magnificent race, —congratulate you, sir. Must see more of you!"
Then, still as one in a dream, Barnabas bows again, sees Martin at "The Terror's" bridle, and is led back, through a pushing, jostling throng all eager to behold the winner, and thus, presently finds himself once more in the quiet of the paddock behind the "White Hart" inn.
Stiffly and painfully he descends from the saddle, hears a feeble voice call his name and turning, beholds a hurdle set in the shade of a tree, and upon the hurdle the long, limp form of Captain Slingsby, with three or four strangers kneeling beside him.
"Ah, Beverley!" said he faintly. "Glad you beat Carnaby, he—crowded me a bit—at the wall, y' know. Poor old 'Rascal' 's gone, b'gad—and I'm going, but prefer to—go—out of doors,—seems more room for it somehow—give me the sky to look at. Told you it would be a grand race, and—b'gad, so it was! Best I—ever rode—or ever shall. Eh—what, Beverley? No, no—mustn't take it—so hard, dear fellow. B'gad it—might be worse, y' know. I—might have lost, and—lived—been deeper in Gaunt's clutches than ever,—then. As it is, I'm going beyond—beyond his reach—for good and all. Which is the purest—bit of luck I ever had. Lift me up a little—will you, Beverley? Deuced fine day, b'gad! And how green the grass is—never saw it so green before—probably because—never troubled to look though, was always so—deuced busy, b'gad!—The poor old 'Rascal' broke his back, Beverley—so did I. They—shot 'The Rascal,' but—"
Here the Captain sighed, and closed his eyes wearily, but after a moment opened them again.
"A fine race, gentlemen!" said he, addressing the silent group, "a fine race well ridden—and won by—my friend, Beverley. I'll warrant him a—true-blue, gentlemen. Beverley, I—I congratulate—"
Once more he closed his eyes, sighed deeply and, with the sigh,
Captain Slingsby of the Guards had paid his debts—for good and all.
CHAPTER LIV
WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF CHIEFLY WITH A LETTER
And now, the "Galloping Countryman" found himself famous, and, being so, made the further, sudden discovery that all men were his "warmest friends," nay, even among the gentler sex this obtained, for the most dragon-like dowagers, the haughtiest matrons, became infinitely gracious; noble fathers were familiarly jocose; the proudest beauties wore, for him, their most bewitching airs, since as well as being famous, he was known to be one of the wealthiest young men about town; moreover His Royal Highness had deigned to notice him, and Her Grace of Camberhurst was his professed friend. Hence, all this being taken into consideration, it is not surprising that invitations poured in upon him, and that the doors of the most exclusive clubs flew open at his step.
Number Five St. James's Square suddenly became a rendezvous of Sport and Fashion, before its portal were to be seen dashing turn-outs of all descriptions, from phaetons to coaches; liveried menials, bearing cards, embossed, gild-edged, and otherwise, descended upon St. James's Square in multi-colored shoals; in a word, the Polite World forthwith took Barnabas to its bosom, which, though perhaps a somewhat cold and flinty bosom, made up for such minor deficiencies by the ardor of its embrace. By reason of these things, the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder were exalted,—that is to say, were in a perpetual quiver of superior gratification, and Barnabas himself enjoyed it all vastly—for a week.
At the end of which period behold him at twelve o'clock in the morning, as he sits over his breakfast (with the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted, statuesque, behind his chair), frowning at a stupendous and tumbled pile of Fashionable note-paper, and Polite cards.
"Are these all?" he inquired, waving his hand towards the letters.
"Them, sir, is—hall!" answered the Gentleman-in-Powder.
"Then ask Mr. Peterby to come to me," said Barnabas, his frown growing blacker.
"Cer-tainly, sir!" Here the Gentleman-in-Powder posed his legs, bowed, and took them out of the room. Then Barnabas drew a letter from his pocket and began to read as follows:
The Gables,
Hawkhurst.
MY DEAR BARNABAS,—As Cleone's letter looks very long (she sits opposite me at this precise moment writing to you, and blushing very prettily over something her pen has just scribbled—I can't quite see what, the table is too wide), mine shall be short, that is, as short as possible. Of course we are all disappointed not to have seen you here since the race—that terrible race (poor, dear Captain Slingsby,—how dreadful it was!) but of course, it is quite right you should stay near the Viscount during his illness. I rejoice to hear he is so much better. I am having my town house, the one in Berkeley Square, put in order, for Cleone has had quite enough of the country, I think, so have I. Though indeed she seems perfectly content (I mean Cleone) and is very fond of listening to the brook. O Youth! O Romance! Well, I used to listen to brooks once upon a time—before I took to a wig. As for yourself now, Barnabas, the Marquis writes to tell me that your cravats are 'all the thing,' and your waistcoats 'all the go,' and that your new coat with the opened cuff finds very many admirers. This is very well, but since Society has taken you up and made a lion of you, it will necessarily expect you to roar occasionally, just to maintain your position. And there are many ways of roaring, Barnabas. Brummell (whom I ever despised) roared like an insolent cat—he was always very precise and cat-like, and dreadfully insolent, but insolence palls, after a while—even in Society. Indeed I might give you many hints on Roaring, Barnabas, but—considering the length of Cleone's letter, I will spare you more, nor even give you any advice though I yearn to—only this: Be yourself, Barnabas, in Society or out, so shall I always subscribe myself:
Your affectionate friend,
FANNY CAMBERHURST.
3 P.M.—I have opened this letter to tell you that Mr. Chichester and Ronald called here and stayed an hour. Ronald was full of his woes, as usual, so I left him to Cleone, and kept Mr. Chichester dancing attendance on me. And, oh dear me! to see the white rage of the man! It was deliciously thrilling, and I shivered most delightfully.
"You sent for me, sir?" said Peterby, as Barnabas re-folded the letter.
"Yes, John. Are you sure there is no other letter this morning from—from Hawkhurst?"
"Quite, sir."
"Yet the Duchess tells me that the Lady Cleone wrote me also. This letter came by the post this morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no other? It's very strange!"
