"Sir," stammered Mr. Smivvle, "sir—oh, Beverley, I can't thank you—I cannot, but—if I live, you shall find I don't forget and—"
"Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!" said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.
In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek—as bright, as glorious as any jewel.
"Good-by, Beverley!" he whispered as their hands met, "good-by, and
I shall never forget—never!"
So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.
But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.
Being come to the end of the drive he turned, flourished his shabby
hat and so was gone.
CHAPTER LXXIV
HOW THE DUCHESS MADE UP HER MIND, AND BARNABAS DID THE LIKE
"Gracious heavens—he's actually up—and dressed! Oh Lud, Barnabas, what does this mean?"
Barnabas started and turned to find the Duchess regarding him from the doorway and, though her voice was sharp, her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and she had stretched out her hands to him. Therefore he crossed the room a little unsteadily, and taking those small hands in his, bent his head and kissed them reverently.
"It means that, thanks to you, Duchess, I am well again and—"
"And as pale as a goblin—no, I mean a ghost—trying to catch his death of cold at an open window too—I mean you, not the ghost! And as weak as—as a rabbit, and—oh, dear me, I can't shut it—the casement—drat it! Thank you, Barnabas. Dear heaven, I am so flurried—and even your boots on too! Let me sit down. Lud, Barnabas—how thin you are!"
"But strong enough to go on my way—"
"Way? What way? Which way?"
"Home, Duchess."
"Home, home indeed? You are home—this is your home. Ashleydown is yours now."
"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "I suppose it is, but I shall never live here,
I leave today. I am going home, but before I—"
"Home? What home—which home?"
"But before I do, I would thank you if I could, but how may I thank you for all your motherly care of me? Indeed, dear Duchess, I cannot, and yet—if words can—"
"Pho!" exclaimed the Duchess, knitting her brows at him, but with eyes still ineffably soft and tender, "what do you mean by 'home,' pray?"
"I am going back to my father and Natty Bell."
"And to—that inn?"
"Yes, Duchess. You see, there is not, there never was, there never shall be quite such another inn as the old 'Hound.'"
"And you—actually mean to—live there?"
"Yes, for a time, but—"
"Ha—a publican!" exclaimed the Duchess and positively sniffed, though only as a really great lady may.
"—there is a farm near by, I shall probably—"
"Ha—a farmer!" snorted the Duchess.
"—raise horses, madam, and with Natty Bell's assistance I hope—"
"Horses!" cried the Duchess, and sniffed again. "Horses, indeed! Absurd! Preposterous! Quite ridiculous—hush, sir! I have some questions to ask you."
"Well, Duchess?"
"Firstly, sir, what of your dreams? What of London? What of Society?"
"They were—only dreams," answered Barnabas; "in place of them I shall have—my father and Natty Bell."
"Secondly, sir,—what of your fine ambitions?"
"It will be my ambition, henceforth, to breed good horses, madam."
"Thirdly, sir,—what of your money?"
"I shall hope to spend it to much better purpose in the country than in the World of Fashion, Duchess."
