"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad—bean't it, Barnabas?"
Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and more threatening.
"Throw him out!"
"Pitch the fellow downstairs, somebody!"
"Jove!" exclaimed the Marquis, rising and buttoning his coat, "if nobody else will, I'll have a try at him myself. Looks a promising cove, as if he might fib well. Come now, my good fellow, you must either get out of here or—put 'em up, you know,—dooce take me, but you must!"
But as he advanced, Barnabas lifted his head and staying him with a gesture, turned and beheld his father standing alone, the centre of an angry circle. And John Barty's eyes were wide and troubled, and his usually ruddy cheek showed pale, though with something more than fear as, glancing slowly round the ring of threatening figures that hemmed him in, he beheld the white, stricken face of his son. And, seeing it, John Barty groaned, and so took a step towards the door; but no man moved to give him way.
"A—a mistake, gentlemen," he muttered, "I—I'll go!" Then, even as the stammering words were uttered, Barnabas strode forward into the circle and, slipping a hand within his father's nerveless arm, looked round upon the company, pale of cheek, but with head carried high.
"My Lords!" said he, "gentlemen! I have the honor—to introduce to you—John Barty, sometime known as 'Glorious John'—ex-champion of England and—landlord of the 'Coursing Hound' inn—my father!"
A moment of silence! A stillness so profound that it seemed no man drew breath; a long, long moment wherein Barnabas felt himself a target for all eyes—eyes wherein he thought to see amazement that changed into dismay which, in turn, gave place to an ever-growing scorn of him. Therefore he turned his back upon them all and, coming to the great window, stood there staring blindly into the dark street.
"Oh, Barnabas!" he heard his father saying, though as from a long way off, "Barnabas lad, I—I—Oh, Barnabas—they're going! They're leaving you, and—it's all my fault, lad! Oh, Barnabas,—what have I done! It's my fault, lad—all my fault. But I heard you was sick, Barnabas, and like to die,—ill, and calling for me,—for your father, Barnabas. And now—Oh, my lad! my lad!—what have I done?"
"Never blame yourself, father, it—wasn't your fault," said Barnabas with twitching lips, for from the great room behind him came the clatter of chairs, the tread of feet, with voices and stifled laughter that grew fainter and fainter, yet left a sting behind.
"Come away, John," said a voice, "we've done enough to-night—come away!"
"Yes, Natty Bell, yes, I be coming—coming. Oh, Barnabas, my lad, —my lad,—forgive me!"
Now in a while Barnabas turned; and behold! the candles glowed as brightly as ever, silver and glass shone and glittered as bravely as ever, but—the great room was empty, that is to say—very nearly. Of all that brilliant and fashionable company but two remained. Very lonely figures they looked, seated at the deserted table—the Viscount, crumbling up bread and staring at the table-cloth, and the Marquis, fidgeting with his snuff-box, and frowning at the ceiling.
To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was hoarse and by no means steady:
"My Lords," said he, "why haven't you—followed the others?"
"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see—speaking for myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I—hum!—the fact is—ha!—that is to say—oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing, with a muffled curse after every sneeze.
"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be less—conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."
"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend, and—there's my hand—Barnabas."
"Mine—too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over the—'ffects of this s-snuff—with a curse to it!"
"Oh Dick!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis—"
"Name's Bob to—my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his handkerchief. "Oh, damn this snuff!"
"Why, Bev," said the Viscount, "don't take it so much to heart, man. Deuced unpleasant, of course, but it'll all blow over, y' know. A week from now and they'll all come crawling back, y' know, if you only have the courage to outface 'em. And we are with him—aren't we, Jerny?"
"Of course!" answered the Marquis, "dooce take me—yes! So would poor old Sling have been."
"Sirs," said Barnabas, reaching out and grasping a hand of each, "with your friendship to hearten me—all things are possible—even this!"
But here a waiter appeared bearing a tray, and on the tray a letter; he was a young waiter, a very knowing waiter, hence his demeanor towards Barnabas had already undergone a subtle change—he stared at Barnabas with inquisitive eyes and even forgot to bow until—observing the Viscount's eye and the Marquis's chin, his back became immediately subservient and he tendered Barnabas the letter with a profound obeisance.
With a murmured apology Barnabas took it and, breaking the seal, read these words in Cleone's writing:
"You have destroyed my faith, and with my faith all else. Farewell."
Then Barnabas laughed, sudden and sharp, and tore the paper across and across, and dropping the pieces to the floor, set his foot upon them.
"Friends," said he, "my future is decided for me. I thank you deeply, deeply for your brave friendship—your noble loyalty, but the fiat has gone forth. To-night I leave the World of Fashion for one better suited to my birth, for it seems I should be only an amateur gentleman, as it were, after all. My Lords, your most obedient, humble servant,—good-by!"
So Barnabas bowed to each in turn and went forth from the scene of his triumph, deliberate of step and with head carried high as became a conqueror.
And thus the star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, waxed and waned and
vanished utterly from the Fashionable Firmament, and, in time, came
to be regarded as only a comet, after all.
CHAPTER LXIII
WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS HEARD THE TICKING OF A CLOCK
It was a dark night, the moon obscured as yet by a wrack of flying cloud, for a wind was abroad, a rising wind that blew in fitful gusts; a boisterous, blustering, bullying wind that met the traveller at sudden corners to choke and buffet him and so was gone, roaring away among roofs and chimneys, rattling windows and lattices, extinguishing flickering lamps, and filling the dark with stir and tumult.
But Barnabas strode on heedless and deaf to it all. Headlong he went, his cloak fluttering, his head stooped low, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, taking no thought of time or direction, or of his ruined career, since none of these were in his mind, but only the words of Cleone's letter.
And slowly a great anger came upon him with a cold and bitter scorn of her that cast out sorrow; thus, as he went, he laughed suddenly, —a shrill laugh that rose above the howl of the wind, that grew even wilder and louder until he was forced to stop and lean against an iron railing close by.
"An Amateur Gentleman!" he gasped, "An Amateur Gentleman! Oh, fool! fool!" And once again the fierce laughter shook him in its grip and, passing, left him weak and breathless.
Through some rift in the clouds, the moon cast a fugitive beam and thus he found himself looking down into a deep and narrow area where a flight of damp, stone steps led down to a gloomy door; and beside the door was a window, and the window was open.
Now as he gazed, the area, and the damp steps, and the gloomy door all seemed familiar; therefore he stepped back, and gazing up, saw a high, flat-fronted house, surely that same unlovely house at whose brass-knockered front door Captain Slingsby of the Guards had once stood and rapped with trembling hand.
