"But, madam, I am firmly resolved—I'm quite determined to get up, at once—"
"Quite so, dear Barnabas—lay your head back on the pillow! Dear me, how comfortable you look! And now, you are hungry you say? Then I'll sit here and gossip to you while you take your chicken broth! You may bring it in, Mr. Peterby."
"Chicken broth!" snarled Barnabas, frowning blacker than ever, "but, madam, I tell you I won't have the stuff; I repeat, madam, that I am quite determined to—"
"There, there—rest your poor tired head—so! And it's all a delicious jelly when it's cold—I mean the chicken broth, of course, not your head. Ah! you may give it to me, Mr. Peterby, and the spoon—thank you! Now, Barnabas!"
And hereupon, observing the firm set of her Grace's mouth, and the
authoritative flourish of the spoon she held in her small, though
imperious hand, Barnabas submitted and lying back among his pillows
in sulky dignity, swallowed the decoction in sulky silence, and
thereafter lay hearkening sulkily to her merry chatter until he had
sulked himself to sleep again.
III
His third awakening was much like the first in that room, was full of sunshine, and the air vibrant with the song of birds; yet here indeed lay a difference; for now, mingled with the piping chorus, Barnabas was vaguely conscious of another sound, soft and low and oft repeated, a very melodious sound that yet was unlike any note ever uttered by thrush or blackbird, or any of the feathered kind. Therefore, being yet heavy with sleep, Barnabas yawned, and presently turning, propped himself upon his elbow and was just in time to see a shapeless something vanish from the ledge of the open window.
The sun was low as yet, the birds in full song, the air laden with fresh, sweet, dewy scents; and from this, and the profound stillness of the house about him, he judged it to be yet early morning.
Now presently as he lay with his eyes turned ever towards the open casement, the sound that had puzzled him came again, soft and melodious.
Some one was whistling "The British Grenadiers."
And, in this moment a bedraggled object began to make its appearance, slowly and by degrees resolving itself into a battered hat. Inch by inch it rose up over the window-ledge—the dusty crown—the frayed band—the curly brim, and beneath it a face there was no mistaking by reason of its round, black eyes and the untamable ferocity of its whiskers. Hereupon, with its chin resting upon the window-sill, the head gently shook itself to and fro, sighed, and thereafter pronounced these words:
Devilish pale! Deuced thin! But himself again. Oh, lucky dog! With Fortune eager to dower him with all the treasures of her cornucopia, and Beauty waiting for him with expectant arms, oh, lucky dog! Oh, happy youth! Congratulations, Beverley, glad of it, my dear fellow, you deserve it all and more. Oh, fortunate wight!
But, as for me—you behold the last of lonely Smivvle, sir, of bereaved Digby—of solitary Dig. Poor Barrymaine's star is set and mine is setting—westwards, sir—my bourne is the far Americas, Beverley.
"Ah, Mr. Smivvle!" exclaimed Barnabas, sitting up, "I'm glad to see you—very glad. But what do you mean by America?"
"Sir," answered Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head and sighing again, "on account of the lamentable affair of a month ago, the Bow Street Runners have assiduously chivvied me from pillar to post and from perch to perch, dammem! Had a notion to slip over to France, but the French will insist on talking their accursed French at one, so I've decided for America. But, though hounded by the law, I couldn't go without knowing precisely how you were—without bidding you good-by—without endeavoring to thank you—to thank you for poor Barry's sake and my own, and also to return—"
"Come in," said Barnabas, stretching out his hand, "pray come in—through the window if you can manage it."
In an instant Mr. Smivvle was astride the sill, but paused there to glance about him and twist a whisker in dubious fingers.
"Coast clear?" he inquired. "I've been hanging about the place for a week hoping to see you, but by Gad, Beverley, you're so surrounded by watchful angels—especially one in an Indian shawl, that I didn't dare disturb you, but—"
"Pooh, nonsense—come in, man!" said Barnabas. "Come in, I want your help—"
"My help, Oh Gemini!" and, with the word, Mr. Smivvle was in the room. "My help?" he repeated. "Oh Jupiter—only say the word, my dear fellow."
"Why, then, I want you to aid me to dress."
"Dress? Eh, what, Beverley—get up, is it?"
"Yes. Pray get me my clothes—in the press yonder, I fancy."
"Certainly, my dear fellow, but are you strong enough?" inquired
Mr. Smivvle, coming to the press on tip-toe.
"Strong enough!" cried Barnabas in profound scorn, "Of course I am!" and forthwith sprang to the floor and—clutched at the bedpost to save himself from falling.
"Ha—I feared so!" said Mr. Smivvle, hurrying to him with the garments clasped in his arms. "Steady! There, lean on me—I'll have you back into bed in a jiffy."
"Bed!" snorted Barnabas, scowling down at himself. "Bed—never! I shall be as right as a trivet in a minute or so. Oblige me with my shirt."
So, with a little difficulty, despite Mr. Smivvle's ready aid, Barnabas proceeded to invest himself in his clothes; which done, he paced to and fro across the chamber leaning upon Mr. Smivvle's arm, glorying in his returning strength.
"And so you are going to America?" inquired Barnabas, as he sank into a chair, a little wearily.
"I sail for New York in three days' time, sir."
"But what of your place in Worcestershire?"
"Gone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to feel for his whisker. "Historic place, though devilish damp and draughty—will echo to the tread of a Smivvle no more—highly affecting thought, sir—oh demmit!"
"As to—funds, now," began Barnabas, a little awkwardly, "are you—have you—"
"Sir, I have enough to begin with—in America. Which reminds me I must be hopping, sir. But I couldn't go without thanking you on behalf of—my friend Barrymaine, seeing he is precluded from—from doing it himself. Sir, it was a great—a great grief to me—to lose him for, as I fancy I told you, the hand of a Smivvle, sir—but he is gone beyond plague or pestilence, or Jews, dammem! And he died, sir, like a gentleman. So, on his behalf I do thank you deeply, and I beg, herewith, to return you the twenty guineas you would have given him. Here they are, sir." So saying, Mr. Smivvle released his whisker and drawing a much worn purse from his pocket, tendered it to Barnabas.
Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle's averted eyes, and the drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle's whiskers, Barnabas took the purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.
"Mr. Smivvle," said he, "it is a far better thing to take the hand of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new life and—and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit when you reach New York, and—and heaven prosper you."
"Sir—" began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in contemplation of the glory of the morning.
"You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?" inquired
Barnabas.
