"Congratulate you, Beverley, heartily."
"Thank you, but why?" inquired Barnabas.
"Eh—what? Hasn't Jerningham told you? B'gad, is it possible you don't know—"
"Why, dooce take me, Sling, if I didn't forget!" said the Marquis, clapping hand to thigh, "but his cravat put everything else out of my nob, and small wonder either! You tell him."
"No," answered the Captain. "I upset a cursed apple-stall on my way here—you got in first—tell him yourself."
"Why, then, Beverley," said the Marquis, extending his hand, in his turn, as he spoke, "we have pleasure, Sling and I, to tell you that you are entered for the race on the fifteenth."
"The race!" exclaimed Barnabas, flushing. "You mean I'm to ride then?"
"Yes," nodded the Captain, "but b'gad! we mean more than that, we mean that you are one of us, that Devenham's friend must be ours because he's game—"
"And can ride," said the Viscount.
"And is a man of taste," added the Marquis.
Thus it was as one in a dream that Barnabas beheld the legs of the
Gentleman-in-Powder, and heard the words:
"Dinner is served, gentlemen!"
But scarcely had they taken their places at the table when the
Marquis rose, his brimming glass in his hand.
"Mr. Beverley," said he, bowing, "when Devenham, Slingsby, and I meet at table, it is our invariable custom to drink to one whom we all—hum—"
"Admire!" said the Viscount, rising.
"Adore!" said the Captain, rising also.
"Therefore, gentlemen," pursued the Marquis, "with our host's permission, we will—"
"Stay a moment, Jerningham," said the Viscount,—"it is only right to tell you that my friend Beverley is one with us in this,—he also is a suitor for the hand of Lady Cleone."
"Is he, b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain. "Dooce take me!" said the Marquis, "might have known it though. Ah, well! one more or less makes small difference among so many."
So Barnabas rose, and lifting his glass with the others, drank to—
"Our Lady Cleone—God bless her!"
CHAPTER XXIX
WHICH DESCRIBES SOMETHING OF THE MISFORTUNES OF RONALD BARRYMAINE
Holborn was in full song,—a rumbling, roaring melody, a clattering, rushing, blaring symphony made up of the grind of wheels upon resounding cobble-stones, the thudding beat of horse-hoofs, the tread of countless feet, the shrill note of voices; it was all there, the bass and the treble blending together, harsh, discordant, yet the real symphony of life.
And, amidst it all, of it all, came Barnabas, eager-eyed, forgetful of his companion, lost to all but the stir and bustle, the rush and roar of the wonderful city about him. The which Mr. Smivvle duly remarked from under the curly-brimmed hat, but was uncommonly silent. Indeed, though his hat was at its usual rakish angle, though he swung his cane and strode with all his ordinary devil-may-care swagger, though his whiskers were as self-assertive as ever, yet Mr. Smivvle himself was unusually pensive, and in his bold black eyes was a look very like anxiety. But in a while, as they turned out of the rush of Holborn Hill, he sighed, threw back his shoulders, and spoke.
"Nearly there now, my dear fellow, this is the Garden."
"Garden?" said Barnabas, glancing about. "Where?"
"Here, sir; we're in it,—Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot, you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries once, I believe,—flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a few of 'em still left to—ah—blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's another—a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a blush-rose, but damnably run to seed, like the rest of us. And—ah—talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that we may find him a trifle—queer—a leetle touched perhaps." And Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible glass, and tossed down its imaginary contents with an expression of much beatitude.
"Is he given to—that sort of thing?"
"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "can you blame one who seeks forgetfulness in the flowing bowl—and my friend Barry has very much to forget—can you blame him?"
"No, poor fellow!"
"Sir, allow me to tell you my friend Barry needs no man's pity, though I confess I could wish Chichester was not quite so generous—in one respect."
"How?"
"In—ah—in keeping the flowing bowl continually brimming, my dear fellow."
"Is Mr. Chichester a friend of his?"
"The only one, with the exception of yours obediently, who has not deserted him in his adversity."
"Why?"
"Because, well,—between you and me, my dear fellow, I believe his regard for Barry's half-sister, the Lady Cleone, is largely accountable in Chichester's case; as for myself, because, as I think I mentioned, the hand of a Smivvle once given, sir, is never withdrawn, either on account of plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews, —dammem! This way, my dear fellow!" and turning into Cross Street, up towards Leather Lane, Mr. Smivvle halted at a certain dingy door, opened it, and showed Barnabas into a dingier hall, and so, leading the way up the dingiest stairs in the world, eventually ushered him into a fair-sized, though dingy, room; and being entered, immediately stood upon tip-toe and laid a finger on his lips.
