"Thank you, Clemency," he answered, "but why are you—so sure?"
"A woman's intuition, perhaps, Barnabas, or perhaps, because if ever a man deserved to be happy—you do, dear brother."
"Amen to that!" added the Viscount, who had at length adjusted the trace to his own liking and Master Milo's frowning approval. "Good-by, Bev," he continued, gripping the hand Barnabas extended. "We are going down to Devenham for a week or so—Clemency's own wish, and when we come back I have a feeling that the—the shadows, y' know, will have passed quite away, y'know,—for good and all. Good-by, dear fellow, good-by!" So saying, the Viscount turned, rather hastily, sprang into the phaeton and took up the reins.
"Are you right there, Imp?"
"All right, m'lud!" answers that small person with one foot posed
negligently on the step, waiting till the last possible moment ere
he mounts to his perch behind. So, with a last "good-by" the
Viscount touches up his horses, the light vehicle shoots forward
with Master Milo swinging suspended in mid-air, who turns to Barnabas,
flashes his eight buttons at him, touches his hat to him, folds his
arms, and, sitting very stiff in the back, is presently whirled out
of sight.
CHAPTER LXXVII
HOW BARNABAS RODE HOMEWARDS, AND TOOK COUNSEL OF A PEDLER OF BOOKS
It was well on in the afternoon when Barnabas, booted and spurred, stepped out into the sunshine where old Gabriel Martin walked "The Terror" to and fro before the door.
"Very glad to see you out and about again, sir," said he, beaming of face and with a finger at his grizzled temple.
"Thank you, Martin."
"And so is the 'oss, sir—look at 'im!" And indeed the great, black horse had tossed up his lofty crest and stood, one slender fore-leg advanced and with sensitive ears pricked forward, snuffing at Barnabas as he came slowly down the steps.
"He doesn't seem to have taken any hurt from the last race we had together," said Barnabas.
"'Arm, sir—lord, no—not a bit, never better! There's a eye for you, there's a coat! I tell you, sir, 'e's in the very pink, that 'e is."
"He does you great credit, Martin."
"Sir," said Martin as Barnabas prepared to mount, "sir, I hear as you ain't thinking of going back to town?"
"To the best of my belief, no, Martin."
"Why, then, sir," said the old groom, his face clouding, "p'r'aps I 'd better be packing up my bits o' traps, sir?"
"Yes, Martin, I think you had," answered Barnabas, and swung himself somewhat awkwardly into the saddle.
"Very good, sir!" sighed old Martin, his gray head drooping. "I done my best for the 'oss and you, sir, but I know I'm a bit too old for the job, p'r'aps, and—"
But at this moment Peterby approached.
"Sir," he inquired, a little anxiously, "do you feel able—well enough to ride—alone?"
"Why, bless you, John, of course I do. I'm nearly well," answered Barnabas, settling his feet in the stirrups, "and that reminds me, you will discharge all the servants—a month's wages, John, and shut up this place as soon as possible. As for Martin here, of course you will bring him with you if he will come. We shall need him hereafter, shan't we, John? And perhaps we'd better offer him another ten shillings a week considering he will have so many more responsibilities on the farm."
So saying, Barnabas waved his hand, wheeled his horse, and rode off down the drive; but, glancing back, when he had gone a little way, he saw that Peterby and the old groom yet stood looking after him, and in the face of each was a brightness that was not of the sun.
On rode Barnabas, filling his lungs with great draughts of the balmy air and looking about him, eager-eyed. And thus, beholding the beauty of wooded hill and dale, already mellowing to Autumn, the heaviness was lifted from his spirit, his drooping back grew straight, and raising his eyes to the blue expanse of heaven, he gloried that he was alive.
But, in a while, remembering Cleone's note, he must needs check his speed, and taking the paper from his bosom, began to con it over:
1. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
2. Selfishness shall find its own reward.
3. Journeys end in lovers' meetings.
Now as he rode thus at a hand-pace, puzzling over these cryptic words, he was presently aroused by a voice, somewhat harsh and discordant, singing at no great distance; and the words of the song were these:
"Push about the brisk bowl, 't will enliven the heart
While thus we sit down on the grass;
The lover who talks of his sufferings and smart
Deserves to be reckoned an ass, an ass,
Deserves to be reckoned an ass."
Therefore Barnabas raised his head and, glancing to one side of the way, beheld the singer sitting beneath the hedge. He was a small, merry-eyed man and, while he sang, he was busily setting out certain edibles upon the grass at his feet; now glancing from this very small man to the very large pack that lay beside him, Barnabas reined up and looked down at him with a smile.
"And pray," he inquired, "how do books sell these days?"
"Why, they do and they don't, sir. Sermons are a drug and novels ain't much better, poems is pretty bobbish, but song-books is my meat. And, talking o' songbooks, here's one as is jest the thing for a convivial cock o' the game—a fine, young, slap-up buck like you, my Lord. Here's a book to kill care, drive away sorrer, and give a 'leveller' to black despair. A book as'll make the sad merry, and the merry merrier. Hark to this now!"
So saying, the Pedler drew a book from his pack, and opening it at
the title-page, began to read as follows, with much apparent unction
and gusto:
THE HEARTY FELLOW:
OR
