"First," said Barnabas, "I will relieve you of that—encumbrance," and he pointed to the pistol yet gripped in Mr. Chichester's right hand. Without a word Mr. Chichester rose, and leaving the weapon upon the table, turned and walked to the window, while Mr. Dalton, having unlocked the door, hurried away to the stable-yard, and was now heard calling for the ostlers.
"Peterby," said Barnabas, "take this thing and throw it into the horse-pond; yet, no, give it to the gentleman who just went out."
"Yes, sir," said Peterby, and, taking up the pistol, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Chichester still lounged in the window, and hummed softly to himself; but as for Barnabas, he sat rigid in his chair, staring blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes wide, his lips tense, and with a gleam of moisture amid the curls at his temples. So the one lounged and hummed, and the other glared stonily before him until came the grind of wheels and the stamping of hoofs. Then Mr. Chichester took up his hat and cane, and, humming still, crossed to the door, and lounged out into the yard.
Came a jingle of harness, a sound of voices, the slam of a door, and the chaise rolled away down the lane, farther and farther, until the rumble of its wheels died away in the distance. Then Barnabas laughed—a sudden shrill laugh—and clenched his fists, and strove against the laughter, and choked, and so sank forward with his face upon his arms as one that is very weary. Now, presently, as he sat thus, it seemed to him that one spoke a long way off, whereupon, in a little, he raised his head, and beheld Clemency.
"You—are not hurt?" she inquired anxiously.
"Hurt?" said Barnabas, "no, not hurt, Mistress Clemency, not hurt, I thank you; but I think I have grown a—great deal—older."
"I saw it all, through the window, and yet I—don't know why you are alive."
"I think because I was so very much—afraid," said Barnabas.
"Sir," said she, with her brown hands clasped together, "was it for—if it was for—my sake that you—quarrelled, and—"
"No," said Barnabas, "it was because of—another."
Now, when he said this, Clemency stared at him wide-eyed, and, all in a moment, flushed painfully and turned away, so that Barnabas wondered.
"Good-by!" said she, suddenly, and crossed to the door, but upon the threshold paused; "I did pray for you," she said, over her shoulder.
"Ah!" said Barnabas, rising, "you prayed for me, and behold, I am alive."
"Good-by!" she repeated, her face still averted.
"Good-by!" said Barnabas, "and will you remember me in your prayers—sometimes?"
"My prayers! Why?"
"Because the prayers of a sweet, pure woman may come between man and evil—like a shield."
"I will," said she, very softly. "Oh, I will," and so, with a swift glance, was gone.
Being come out of the inn, Barnabas met with his valet, John Peterby.
"Sir," he inquired, "what now?"
"Now," said Barnabas, "the Tenterden coach, and London."
CHAPTER XXIV
WHICH RELATES SOMETHING OF THE "WHITE LION" AT TENTERDEN
Of all the lions that ever existed, painted or otherwise, white lions, blue lions, black, green, or red lions, surely never was there one like the "White Lion" at Tenterden. For he was such a remarkably placid lion, although precariously balanced upon the extreme point of one claw, and he stared down at all and sundry with such round, inquiring eyes, as much as to say:
"Who are you? What's your father? Where are you going?" Indeed, so very inquisitive was he that his very tail had writhed itself into a note of interrogation, and, like a certain historical personage, was forever asking a question. To-night he had singled out Barnabas from the throng, and was positively bombarding him with questions, as:
"Dark or fair? Tall or short? Does she love you? Will she remember you? Will she kiss you—next time? Aha! will she, will she?"
But here, feeling a touch upon his arm, Barnabas turned to find Peterby at his elbow, and thus once more became aware of the hubbub about him.
"Box seat, sir; next to the coachman!" says Peterby above the din, for voices are shouting, horses snorting and stamping, ostlers are hurrying here, running there, and swearing everywhere; waiters and serving-maids are dodging to and fro, and all is hurry and bustle, for the night mail is on the eve of departure for London.
Throned above all this clamor, calmly aloof, yet withal watchful of eye, sits the coachman, beshawled to the ears of him, hatted to the eyes of him, and in a wondrous coat of many capes; a ponderous man, hoarse of voice and mottled of face, who, having swallowed his hot rum and water in three leisurely gulps, tosses down the glass to the waiting pot-boy (and very nearly hits a fussy little gentleman in a green spencer, who carries a hat-box in one hand and a bulging valise in the other, and who ducks indignantly, but just in time), sighs, shakes his head, and proceeds to rewind the shawl about his neck and chin, and to belt himself into his seat, throwing an occasional encouraging curse to the perspiring ostlers below.
"Coachman!" cries the fussy gentleman, "hi, coachman!"
"The 'Markis' seems a bit fresh to-night, Sam," says Mottle-face affably to one of the ostlers.
"Fresh!" exclaims that worthy as the 'Marquis' rears again, "fresh, I believe you—burn 'is bones!"
"Driver!" shouts the fussy gentleman, "driver!"
"Why then, bear 'im up werry short, Sam."
"Driver!" roars the fussy little gentleman, "driver! coachman! oh, driver!"
"Vell, sir, that's me?" says Mottle-face, condescending to become aware of him at last.
"Give me a hand up with my valise—d'ye hear?"
"Walise, sir? No, sir, can't be done, sir. In the boot, sir; guard, sir."
"Boot!" cries the fussy gentleman indignantly. "I'll never trust my property in the boot!"
