Hereupon the pedler of books rose to his feet and rather diffidently
clasped the proffered hand. So Barnabas smiled down at him, nodded
and rode upon his way, but as for the Pedler, he stood there,
staring after him open-mouthed, and with the yellow coins shining
upon his palm.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS CAME HOME AGAIN, AND HOW HE AWOKE FOR THE FOURTH TIME
Evening was falling as Barnabas came to the top of the hill and, drawing rein, paused there to look down at a certain inn. It was a somewhat small and solitary inn, an ancient inn with many lattices, and with pointed gables whose plaster and cross-beams were just now mellowed by the rosy glow of sunset.
Surely, surely, nowhere in all broad England could there be found just such another inn as this, or one more full of that reposeful dignity which only age can bestow. And in all its length of days never had "The Coursing Hound" looked more restful, more comfortable and home-like than upon this early Autumn evening. And remembering those two gray-headed men, who waited within its hospitable walls, eager to give him welcome, who might, perchance, even now be talking of him one to another, what wonder if, as our Barnabas gazed down at it from worn steps to crooked chimney, from the faded sign before the door of it to the fragrant rick-yard that lay behind it, what wonder (I say) if it grew blurred all at once, and misty, or that Barnabas should sigh so deeply and sit with drooping head, while the old inn blinked its casements innocently in the level rays of the setting sun, like the simple, guileless old inn that it was!
But lo! all at once forth from its weather-beaten porch issued two figures, clean-limbed, athletic figures these—men who strode strong and free, with shoulders squared and upright of back, though the head of each was grizzled with years. On they came, shoulder to shoulder, the one a tall man with a mighty girth of chest, the other slighter, shorter, but quick and active as a cat, and who already had gained a good yard upon his companion; whereupon the big man lengthened his stride; whereupon the slighter man broke into a trot; whereupon the big man fell into a run; whereupon the slighter man followed suit and thus, neck and neck, they raced together up the hill and so, presently reaching the summit, very little breathed considering, pulled up on either side of Barnabas.
"Father!" he cried, "Natty Bell! Oh, it's good to be home again!"
"Man Jack, it's all right!" said Natty Bell, nodding to John, but shaking away at the hand Barnabas had reached down to him, "our lad's come back to us, yes, Barnabas has come home, John, and—it is our Barnabas—London and Fashion aren't spiled him, John, thank God!"
"No," answered John ponderously, "no, Natty Bell, London aren't spiled him, and—why, Barnabas, I'm glad to see ye, lad—yes, I'm—glad, and—and—why, there y'are, Barnabas."
"Looks a bit palish, though, John!" said Natty Bell, shaking his head, "but that's only nat'ral, arter all, yes—a bit palish, p'r'aps, but, man Jack—what o' that?"
"And a bit thinnish, Natty Bell," replied John, "but Lord! a few days and we'll have him as right as—as ever, yes, quite right, and there y' are, Natty Bell!"
"P'r'aps you might be wishful to tell him, John, as you've had the old 'Hound' brightened up a bit?"
"Why, yes, Barnabas," nodded John, "in honor o' this occasion—though, to be sure, the sign would look better for a touch o' paint here and there—the poor old Hound's only got three legs and a tail left, d' ye see—and the hare, Barnabas, the hare—ain't!"
"P'r'aps we'd better take and let him see for hisself, John?"
"Right, Natty Bell, so he shall."
Thus, presently, Barnabas rode on between them down the hill, looking from one to the other, but saying very little, because his heart was so full.
"And this be the 'oss you wrote us about—hey, Barnabas lad?" inquired Natty Bell, stepping back and viewing 'The Terror' over with an eye that took in all his points. "Ha—a fine action, lad—"
'Pray haven't you heard of a jolly young coal-heaver
Who down at Hungerford used for to ply—'
"A leetle—leggy? p'r'aps, Barnabas, and yet—ha!"
'His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye—'
"His cannons'll never trouble him, Barnabas, come rough or smooth, and you didn't say a word too much in your letter. Man Jack—you behold a 'oss as is a 'oss—though, mark you, John, a leetle bit roundish in the barrel and fullish in the shoulder—still, a animal, John, as I'm burning to cock a leg over."
"Why, then, Natty Bell, so you shall," said Barnabas, and forthwith down he swung himself and, being a little careless, wracked his injured shoulder and flinched a little, which the slow-spoken, quick-eyed John was swift to notice and, almost diffidently drew his son's arm through his own. But, Natty Bell, joyful of eye, was already in the saddle; whereat "The Terror," resenting the change, immediately began to dance and to sidle, with, much rearing up in front and lashing out behind, until, finding this all quite unavailing, he set off at a stretching gallop with Natty Bell sitting him like a centaur.
"And now, Barnabas," said John slowly, "'ow might your shoulder be, now?"
"Nearly well, father."
"Good," nodded John, "very good! I thought as you was going to—die, Barnabas, lad. They all did—even the Duchess and Lady—the—the doctors, Barnabas."
"Were you going to say—Lady Cleone, father?"
"Why," answered John, more ponderously than ever, "I won't go for to deny it, Barnabas, never 'aving been a liar—on principle as you know, and—and—there y'are, my lad."
"Have you ever—seen her, then?"
"Seen her," repeated John, beginning to rasp at his great square chin, "seen her, Barnabas, why, as to that—I say, as to that—ah!—here we be, Barnabas," and John Barty exhaled a deep breath, very like a sigh of relief, "you can see from here as the poor old 'Hound' will soon be only tail—not a leg to stand on. I'll have him painted back again next week—and the hare."
So, side by side, they mounted the worn steps of the inn, and side by side they presently entered that long, panelled room where, once on a time, they had fronted each other with clenched fists. Before the hearth stood John Barty's favorite arm-chair and into this, after some little demur, Barnabas sank, and stretched out his booted legs to the fire.
"Why, father," said he, lolling back luxuriously, "I thought you never liked cushions?"
"No more I do, Barnabas. She put them there for you."
"She, father?"
"One o' the maids, lad, one o' the maids and—and there y'are!"
"And now, father, you were telling me of the Lady Cleone—"
"No, I weren't, Barnabas," answered his father hastily and turning to select a pipe from the sheaf on the mantel-shelf, "not me, lad, not me!"
"Why, yes, you spoke of her—in the road."
"In the road? Oh, ah—might ha' spoke of her—in the road, lad."
