"Love," exclaimed the Viscount again, and frowning this time; "now, who the devil should she be in love with!"
"That, my Lord, I can't say, not having yet observed. But now, by your leave, I'll pass the word for breakfast."
Hereupon the landlord of "The Spotted Cow" opened the lattice, and sent a deep-lunged hail across the yard.
"Ahoy!" he roared, "Oliver, Penelope, Bess—breakfast ho!—breakfast for the Viscount—and friend. They be all watching of that theer imp—axing his pardon—that theer groom o' yours, what theer be of him, which though small ain't by no means to be despised, him being equally ready wi' his tongue as his fist."
Here entered two maids, both somewhat flushed with haste but both
equally bright of eye, neat of person, and light of foot, who very
soon had laid a snowy cloth and duly set out thereon the beef, the
bread and cheese, and a mighty ham, before which the Viscount seated
himself forthwith, while their sailor host, more jovial than ever,
pointed out its many beauties with an eloquent thumb. And so, having
seen his guests seated opposite each other, he pulled his forelock
at them, made a leg to them, and left them to their breakfast.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH FISTS ARE CLENCHED; AND OF A SELFISH MAN, WHO WAS AN APOSTLE OF PEACE
Conversation, though in itself a blessed and delightful thing, yet may be sometimes out of place, and wholly impertinent. If wine is a loosener of tongues, surely food is the greatest, pleasantest, and most complete silencer; for what man when hunger gnaws and food is before him—what man, at such a time, will stay to discuss the wonders of the world, of science—or even himself?
Thus our two young travellers, with a very proper respect for the noble fare before them, paid their homage to it in silence—but a silence that was eloquent none the less. At length, however, each spoke, and each with a sigh.
The Viscount. "The ham, my dear fellow—!"
Barnabas. "The beef, my dear Dick—!"
The Viscount and Barnabus. "Is beyond words."
Having said which, they relapsed again into a silence, broken only by the occasional rattle of knife and fork.
The Viscount (hacking at the loaf). "It's a grand thing to be hungry, my dear fellow."
Barnabas (glancing over the rim of his tankard). "When you have the means of satisfying it—yes."
The Viscount (becoming suddenly abstracted, and turning his piece of bread over and over in his fingers). "Now regarding—Mistress Clemency, my dear Bev; what do you think of her?"
Barnabas (helping himself to more beef). "That she is a remarkably handsome girl!"
The Viscount (frowning at his piece of bread). "Hum! d'you think so?"
Barnabas. "Any man would. I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."
The Viscount. "Yes; I suppose they would."
Barnabas. "Some probably do—especially men with an eye for fine women."
The Viscount (frowning blacker than ever). "Pray, what mean you by that?"
Barnabas. "Your friend Carnaby undoubtedly does."
The Viscount (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into your head? Carnaby's never seen her."
Barnabas. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."
The Viscount (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist). "Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't—he's never been near this place."
Barnabas. "There you are quite wrong."
The Viscount (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what the devil are you driving at?"
Barnabas. "I mean that he was here this morning."
The Viscount. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should make you think so?"
"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper. The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the floor.
"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:—
—felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely July 16,
Your humble, obedient Servant,
JASPER GAUNT.
"Jasper Gaunt!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Sixty thousand pounds! Poor Carnaby! Sixty thousand pounds payable on July sixteenth! Now the fifteenth, my dear Bev, is the day of the race, and if he should lose, it looks very much as though Carnaby would be ruined, Bev."
"Unless he marries 'the lovely heiress'!" added Barnabas.
"Hum!" said the Viscount, frowning. "I wish I'd never seen this cursed paper, Bev!" and as he spoke he crumpled it up and threw it into the great fireplace. "Where in the name of mischief did you get it?"
"It was in the corner yonder," answered Barnabas. "I also found this."
And he laid a handsomely embossed coat button on the table.
