"Tell me," cried Barnabas, striving to see Gaunt's averted eyes, "tell me who holds these bills,—if you have one spark of generosity—tell me!"
But Jasper Gaunt gave no sign, only the writhing fingers crept across his face, over staring eyes and twitching lips.
So, presently, Barnabas suffered Captain Slingsby to lead him from the room, and down the somewhat dark and winding stair, past the wizen-faced clock, out into the street already full of the glow of evening.
"It's a wonder to me," said the Captain, "yes, it's a great wonder to me, that nobody has happened to kill Gaunt before now."
So the Captain frowned, sighed, and climbed up to his seat. But, when Barnabas would have followed, Billy Button touched him on the arm.
"Oh, Barnaby!" said he, "oh, Barnaby Bright, look—the day is dying,
the shadows are coming,—in a little while it will be night. But, oh
Youth, alas! alas! I can see the shadows have touched you already!"
And so, with a quick upflung glance at the dismal house, he turned,
waved his hand, and sped away on noiseless feet, and so was gone.
CHAPTER XXXVI
OF AN ETHICAL DISCUSSION, WHICH THE READER IS ADVISED TO SKIP
Oho! for the rush of wind in the hair, for the rolling thunder of galloping hoofs, now echoing on the hard, white road, now muffled in dewy grass.
Oho! for the horse and his rider and the glory of them; for the long, swinging stride that makes nothing of distance, for the tireless spring of the powerful loins, for the masterful hand on the bridle, strong, yet gentle as a caress, for the firm seat—the balance and sway that is an aid to speed, and proves the born rider. And what horse should this be but Four-legs, his black coat glossy and shining in the sun, his great, round hoofs spurning the flying earth, all a-quiver with high courage, with life and the joy of it? And who should be the rider but young Barnabas?
He rides with his hat in his whip-hand, that he may feel the wind, and with never a look behind, for birds are carolling from the cool freshness of dewy wood and copse, in every hedge and tree the young sun has set a myriad gems flashing and sparkling; while, out of the green distance ahead, Love is calling; brooks babble of it, birds sing of it, the very leaves find each a small, soft voice to whisper of it.
So away—away rides Barnabas by village green and lonely cot, past hedge and gate and barn, up hill and down hill,—away from the dirt and noise of London, away from its joys and sorrows, its splendors and its miseries, and from the oncoming, engulfing shadow. Spur and gallop, Barnabas,—ride, youth, ride! for the shadow has already touched you, even as the madman said.
Therefore while youth yet abides, while the sun yet shines,—ride,
Barnabas, ride!
Now as he went, Barnabas presently espied a leafy by-lane, and across this lane a fence had been erected,—a high fence, but with a fair "take-off" and consequently, a most inviting fence. At this, forthwith, Barnabas rode, steadied Four-legs in his stride, touched him with the spur, and cleared it with a foot to spare. Then, all at once, he drew rein and paced over the dewy grass to where, beneath the hedge, was a solitary man who knelt before a fire of twigs fanning it to a blaze with his wide-eaved hat.
He was a slender man, and something stooping of shoulder, and his hair shone silver-white in the sunshine. Hearing Barnabas approach, he looked up, rose to his feet, and so stood staring as one in doubt. Therefore Barnabas uncovered his head and saluted him with grave politeness.
"Sir," said he, reining in his great horse, "you have not forgotten me, I hope?"
"No indeed, young sir," answered the Apostle of Peace, with a dawning smile of welcome. "But you are dressed very differently from what I remember. The quiet, country youth has become lost, and transfigured into the dashing Corinthian. What a vast difference clothes can make in one! And yet your face is the same, your expression unchanged. London has not altered you yet, and I hope it never may. No, sir, your face is not one to be forgotten,—indeed it reminds me of other days."
"But we have only met once before," said Barnabas.
"True! And yet I seem to have known you years ago,—that is what puzzles me! But come, young sir,—if you have time and inclination to share a vagrant's breakfast, I can offer you eggs and new milk, and bread and butter,—simple fare, but more wholesome than your French ragouts and highly-seasoned dishes."
"You are very kind," said Barnabas, "the ride has made me hungry, —besides, I should like to talk with you."
"Why, then—light down from that great horse of yours, and join me. The grass must be both chair and table, but here is a tree for your back, and the bank for mine."
So, having dismounted and secured his horse's bridle to a convenient branch, Barnabas sat himself down with his back to the tree, and accepted the wandering Preacher's bounty as freely as it was offered. And when the Preacher had spoken a short grace, they began to eat, and while they ate, to talk, as follows:
Barnabas. "It is three weeks, I think, since we met?"
The Preacher. "A month, young sir."
Barnabas. "So long a time?"
The Preacher. "So short a time. You have been busy, I take it?"
Barnabas. "Yes, sir. Since last we met I have bought a house and set up an establishment in London, and I have also had the good fortune to be entered for the Gentleman's Steeplechase on the fifteenth."
The Preacher. "You are rich, young sir?"
Barnabas. "And I hope to be famous also."
The Preacher. "Then indeed do I begin to tremble for you."
Barnabas (staring). "Why so?"
The Preacher. "Because wealth is apt to paralyze effort, and Fame is generally harder to bear, and far more dangerous, than failure."
Barnabas. "How dangerous, sir?"
The Preacher. "Because he who listens too often to the applause of the multitude grows deaf to the voice of Inspiration, for it is a very small, soft voice, and must be hearkened for, and some call it Genius, and some the Voice of God—"
Barnabas. "But Fame means Power, and I would succeed for the sake of others beside myself. Yes,—I must succeed, and, as I think you once said, all things are possible to us! Pray, what did you mean?"
The Preacher. "Young sir, into each of us who are born into this world God puts something of Himself, and by reason of this Divine part, all things are possible."
Barnabas. "Yet the world is full of failures."
The Preacher. "Alas! yes; but only because men do not realize power within them. For man is a selfish creature, and Self is always grossly blind. But let a man look within himself, let him but become convinced of this Divine power, and the sure and certain knowledge of ultimate success will be his. So, striving diligently, this power shall grow within him, and by and by he shall achieve great things, and the world proclaim him a Genius."
Barnabas. "Then—all men might succeed."
