"You are alive, young sir, which is good, and your hands are not stained with a villain's blood, which is much better. But, as for me—God pity me!—I came here to-night, meaning to be a self-murderer—oh, God forgive me!"
"But you—asked for—a sign, I think," said Barnabas, "and you—live also. And to-night your pilgrimage ends, in Clemency's loving arms."
"Clemency? My daughter? Oh, sir,—young sir, how may that be? They tell me she is dead."
"Lies!" said Barnabas, "lies! I spoke with her tonight." The Apostle of Peace stood a while with bowed head; when at last he looked up, his cheeks were wet with tears.
"Then, sir," said he, "take me to her. Yet, stay! You are hurt, and, if in my dark hour I doubted God's mercy, I would not be selfish in my happiness—"
"Happiness!" said Barnabas, "yes—every one seems happy—but me."
"You are hurt, young sir. Stoop your head and let me see."
"No," sighed Barnabas, "I'm well enough. Come, let me take you to
Clemency."
So, without more ado, they left that dreary place, and walked on together side by side and very silent, Barnabas with drooping head, and his companion with eyes uplifted and ever-moving lips.
Thus, in a while, they turned into the narrow court, and reaching the door of Nick the Cobbler, Barnabas knocked and, as they waited, he could see that his companion was trembling violently where he leaned beside him against the wall. Then the door was opened and Clemency appeared, her shapely figure outlined against the light behind her.
"Mr. Beverley," she exclaimed, "dear brother, is it you—"
"Yes, Clemency, and—and I have kept my promise, I have brought you—" But no need for words; Clemency had seen. "Father!" she cried, stretching out her arms, "oh, dear father!"
"Beatrix," said the preacher, his voice very broken, "oh, my child, —forgive me—!" But Clemency had caught him in her arms, had drawn him into the little shop, and, pillowing the silvery head upon her young bosom, folded it there, and so hung above him all sighs, and tears, and tender endearments.
Then Barnabas closed the door upon them and, sighing, went upon his
way. He walked with lagging step and with gaze ever upon the ground,
heedless alike of the wondering looks of those he passed, or of time,
or of place, or of the voices that still wailed, and wrangled, and
roared songs; conscious only of the pain in his head, the dull ache
at his heart, and the ever-growing doubt and fear within him.
CHAPTER LXI
HOW BARNABAS WENT TO HIS TRIUMPH
The star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, was undoubtedly in the ascendant; no such radiant orb had brightened the Fashionable Firmament since that of a certain Mr. Brummell had risen to scintillate a while ere it paled and vanished before the royal frown.
Thus the Fashionable World turned polite eyes to mark the course of this new luminary and, if it vaguely wondered how long that course might be, it (like the perspicacious waiter at the "George") regarded Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, as one to be flattered, smiled upon, and as worthy of all consideration and respect.
For here was one, not only young, fabulously rich and a proved sportsman, but a dandy, besides, with a nice taste and originality in matters sartorial, more especially in waistcoats and cravats, which articles, as the Fashionable World well knows, are the final gauge of a man's depth and possibilities.
Thus, the waistcoats of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, or their prototypes to a button, were to be met with any day sunning themselves in the Mall, and the styles of cravat affected by Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, were to be observed at the most brilliant functions, bowing in all directions.
Wherefore, all this considered, what more natural than that the Fashionable World should desire to make oblation to this, its newest (and consequently most admired) ornament, and how better than to feed him, since banquets are a holy rite sanctified by custom and tradition?
Hence, the Fashionable World appointed and set apart a day whereon, with all due pomp and solemnity, to eat and drink to the glory and honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire.
Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for, though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and cambric fashion required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom became the mode.
No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days passed. Therefore, being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if such a thing might be.
The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most fickle of all goddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in noble houses, in clubs and hells, he sought her. Calm-eyed, grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged assiduity; he became a familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.
Thus a fortnight has elapsed, and to-night the star of Barnabas
Beverley, Esquire, has indeed attained its grand climacteric, for
to-night he is to eat and drink with ROYALTY, and the Fashionable
World is to do him honor.
And yet, as he stands before his mirror, undergoing the ordeal of dressing, he would appear almost careless of his approaching triumph; his brow is overcast, his cheek a little thinner and paler than of yore, and he regards his resplendent image in the mirror with lack-lustre eyes.
"Your cravat, sir," says Peterby, retreating a few paces and with his head to one side the better to observe its effect, "your cravat is, I fear, a trifle too redundant in its lower folds, and a little severe, perhaps—"
"It is excellent, John! And you say—there is still no letter from—from Hawkhurst?"
"No, sir, none," answered Peterby abstractedly, and leaning forward to administer a gentle pull to the flowered waistcoat. "This coat, sir, is very well, I think, and yet—y-e-es, perhaps it might be a shade higher in the collar, and a thought tighter at the waist. Still, it is very well on the whole, and these flattened revers are an innovation that will be quite the vogue before the week is out. You are satisfied with the coat, I hope, sir?"
"Perfectly, John, and—should a letter come while I am at the banquet you will send it on—at once, John."
"At once, sir!" nodded Peterby, crouching down to view his young master's shapely legs in profile. "Mr. Brummell was highly esteemed for his loop and button at the ankle, sir, but I think our ribbon is better, and less conspicuous, that alone should cause a sensation."
"Unless, John," sighed Barnabas, "unless I receive a word to-night I shall drive down to Hawkhurst as soon as I can get away, so have the curricle and grays ready, will you?"
"Yes, sir. Pardon me one moment, there is a wrinkle in your left stocking, silk stockings are very apt to—"
But here the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted themselves quivering on the threshold to announce:—
"Viscount Devenham!"
