"Yes, sir."
"Where for?"
"For—London, as I understood, sir."
Hereupon Barnabas was silent for a time, during which Peterby watched him solicitously.
"Is 'The Terror' still here?" Barnabas inquired suddenly.
"Yes, sir, and I took the liberty of sending for Gabriel Martin to look after him."
"Quite right, John. Tell Martin to have him saddled at once."
"You are—going out, sir?"
"Yes, I am going—out."
Peterby bowed and crossed to the door, but paused there, hesitated, and finally spoke:
"Sir, may I ask if you intend to ride—Londonwards?"
"No," answered Barnabas, stifling a sigh, "my way lies in the opposite direction; I am going—back, to the 'Coursing Hound.' And that reminds me—what of you, what are your plans for the future?"
"Sir," stammered Peterby, "I—I had ventured to—to hope that you might—take me with you, unless you wished to—to be rid of me—"
"Rid of you, John!" cried Barnabas, turning at last, "no—never. Why, man, I need you more than ever!"
"Sir," exclaimed Peterby, flushing suddenly, "do you—really mean that?"
"Yes, John—a thousand times, yes! For look you, as I have proved you the best valet in the world—so have I proved you a man, and it is the man I need now, because—I am a failure."
"No, no!"
"Yes, John. In London I attempted the impossible, and today I—return home, a failure. Consequently the future looms rather dark before me, John, and at such times a tried friend is a double blessing. So, come with me, John, and help me to face the future as a man should."
"Ah, sir," answered Peterby, with his sudden radiant smile, "darkness cannot endure, and if the future brings its sorrows, so must it bring its joys. Surely the future stands for hope and—I think—happiness!"
Now as he ended, Peterby raised one hand with forefinger outstretched;
and, looking where he pointed, Barnabas beheld—the little shoe. But
when he glanced up again, Peterby was gone.
CHAPTER LXXVI
HOW THE VISCOUNT PROPOSED A TOAST
"Oh—hif you please, sir!"
Barnabas started, raised his head, and, glancing over his shoulder, beheld Milo of Crotona. He was standing in the middle of the room looking very cherubic, very natty, and very upright of back; and he stared at Barnabas with his innocent blue eyes very wide, and with every one of the eight winking, twinkling, glittering buttons on his small jacket—indeed, it seemed to Barnabas that to-day his buttons were rather more knowing than usual, if that could well be. Therefore Barnabas dropped his table-napkin, very adroitly, upon a certain object that yet lay upon the table before him, ere he turned about and addressed himself to the Viscount's diminutive "tiger."
"What, my Imp," said he, "where in the world have you sprung from, pray? I didn't see you come in."
"No, sir—'cause you jest 'appened to be lookin' at that there little boot, you did." Thus Master Milo, and his eyes were guileless as an angel's, but—his buttons—!
"Hum!" said Barnabas, rubbing his chin. "But how did you get in, Imp?"
"Froo de winder, sir, I did. An' I 've come to tell you 'is
Ludship's compliments, and 'e's a-comin' along wiv 'er, 'e is."
"With—whom?"
"Wiv my lady—'er."
"What lady?"
"Wiv 'is Ludship's lady, 'is Vi-coun-tess,—'er."
"His Viscountess!" repeated Barnabas, staring, "do you mean that the
Viscount is—actually married?"
"'T ain't my fault, sir—no fear, it ain't. 'E went and done it be'ind my back—s'morning as ever was, 'e did. I didn't know nothin' about it till it was too late, 'e done it unbeknownst to me, sir, 'e did, an' she done it too a' course, an' the Yurl went an' 'elped 'em to do it, 'e did. So did the Cap'n, and the Doochess an' Lady Cleone—they all 'elped 'em to do it, they did. An' now they're goin' into the country, to Deven'am, an' I'm a-goin' wiv 'em—an' they're a-drivin' over to see you, sir, in 'is Ludship's noo phayton—an' that's all—no, it ain't though."
"What more, Imp?"
"Why, as they all come away from the church—where they'd been a-doin' of it, sir—I met the little, old Doochess in 'er coach, an' she see me, too. 'Why it's the little Giant!' she sez. 'Best respex, mam,' I sez, an' then I see as she'd got Lady Cleone wiv 'er—a fine, 'igh-steppin', 'andsome young filly, I call 'er, an' no error. 'Where are you goin', Giant?' sez the Doochess. 'I'm a-goin' to drop in on Mr. Bev'ley, mam, I am,' I sez. 'Then give 'im my love,' she sez, 'an' tell 'im I shan't never forget 'is pride and 'is selfishness,' she sez,—an' she give me a crown into the bargain, she did. An' then—jest as the coach was a-drivin' off t'other 'un—the young 'un, give me this. 'For Mr. Bev'ley,' she sez in a whisper, and—here it be, sir."
Saying which, Master Milo handed Barnabas a small folded paper whereon, scribbled in Cleone's well-known writing, were these three aphorisms:
1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
