The Amateur Gentleman Part 115

The star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, was undoubtedly in the ascendant; no such radiant orb had brightened the Fas.h.i.+onable Firmament since that of a certain Mr. Brummell had risen to scintillate a while ere it paled and vanished before the royal frown.

Thus the Fas.h.i.+onable World turned polite eyes to mark the course of this new luminary and, if it vaguely wondered how long that course might be, it (like the perspicacious waiter at the "George") regarded Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, as one to be flattered, smiled upon, and as worthy of all consideration and respect.

For here was one, not only young, fabulously rich and a proved sportsman, but a dandy, besides, with a nice taste and originality in matters sartorial, more especially in waistcoats and cravats, which articles, as the Fas.h.i.+onable World well knows, are the final gauge of a man's depth and possibilities.

Thus, the waistcoats of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, or their prototypes to a b.u.t.ton, were to be met with any day sunning themselves in the Mall, and the styles of cravat affected by Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, were to be observed at the most brilliant functions, bowing in all directions.

Wherefore, all this considered, what more natural than that the Fas.h.i.+onable World should desire to make oblation to this, its newest (and consequently most admired) ornament, and how better than to feed him, since banquets are a holy rite sanctified by custom and tradition?

Hence, the Fas.h.i.+onable World appointed and set apart a day whereon, with all due pomp and solemnity, to eat and drink to the glory and honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire.

Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for, though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and cambric fas.h.i.+on required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom became the mode.

No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days pa.s.sed. Therefore, being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if such a thing might be.

The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most fickle of all G.o.ddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in n.o.ble houses, in clubs and h.e.l.ls, he sought her. Calm-eyed, grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged a.s.siduity; he became a familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.

Thus a fortnight has elapsed, and to-night the star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, has indeed attained its grand climacteric, for to-night he is to eat and drink with ROYALTY, and the Fas.h.i.+onable World is to do him honor.

And yet, as he stands before his mirror, undergoing the ordeal of dressing, he would appear almost careless of his approaching triumph; his brow is overcast, his cheek a little thinner and paler than of yore, and he regards his resplendent image in the mirror with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes.

"Your cravat, sir," says Peterby, retreating a few paces and with his head to one side the better to observe its effect, "your cravat is, I fear, a trifle too redundant in its lower folds, and a little severe, perhaps--"

"It is excellent, John! And you say--there is still no letter from--from Hawkhurst?"

"No, sir, none," answered Peterby abstractedly, and leaning forward to administer a gentle pull to the flowered waistcoat. "This coat, sir, is very well, I think, and yet--y-e-es, perhaps it might be a shade higher in the collar, and a thought tighter at the waist. Still, it is very well on the whole, and these flattened revers are an innovation that will be quite the vogue before the week is out. You are satisfied with the coat, I hope, sir?"

"Perfectly, John, and--should a letter come while I am at the banquet you will send it on--at once, John."

"At once, sir!" nodded Peterby, crouching down to view his young master's shapely legs in profile. "Mr. Brummell was highly esteemed for his loop and b.u.t.ton at the ankle, sir, but I think our ribbon is better, and less conspicuous, that alone should cause a sensation."

"Unless, John," sighed Barnabas, "unless I receive a word to-night I shall drive down to Hawkhurst as soon as I can get away, so have the curricle and grays ready, will you?"

"Yes, sir. Pardon me one moment, there is a wrinkle in your left stocking, silk stockings are very apt to--"

But here the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted themselves quivering on the threshold to announce:--

"Viscount Devenham!"

He still carried his arm in a sling, but, excepting this, the Viscount was himself again, Bright-eyed, smiling and debonair. But now, as Peterby withdrew, and Barnabas turned to greet him, gravely polite--he hesitated, frowned, and seemed a little at a loss.

"Egad!" said he ruefully, "it seems a deuce of a time since we saw each other, Beverley."

"A fortnight!" said Barnabas.

"And it's been a busy fortnight for both of us, from what I hear."

"Yes, Viscount."

"Especially for--you."

"Yes, Viscount."

"Beverley," said he, staring very hard at the toe of his varnished shoe, "do you remember the white-haired man we met, who called himself an Apostle of Peace?"

"Yes, Viscount."

"Do you remember that he said it was meant we should be--friends?"

"Yes."

"Well I--think he was right,--I'm sure he was right. I--didn't know how few my friends were until I--fell out with you. And so--I'm here to--to ask your pardon, and I--don't know how to do it, only--oh, deuce take it! Will you give me your hand, Bev?"

But before the words had well left his lips, Barnabas had sprang forward, and so they stood, hand clasped in hand, looking into each other's eyes as only true friends may.

"I--we--owe you so much, Bev--Clemency has told me--"

"Indeed, d.i.c.k," said Barnabas, a little hastily, "you are a fortunate man to have won the love of so beautiful a woman, and one so n.o.ble."

"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, very solemn, "it is so wonderful that, sometimes, I--almost fear that it can't be true."

"The love of a woman is generally a very uncertain thing!" said Barnabas bitterly.

"But Clemency isn't like an ordinary woman," said the Viscount, smiling very tenderly, "in all the world there is only one Clemency and she is all truth, and honor, and purity. Sometimes, Bev, I feel so--so deuced unworthy, that I am almost afraid to touch her."

"Yes, I suppose there are a few such women in the world," said Barnabas, turning away. "But, speaking of the Apostle of Peace, have you met him again--lately?"

"No, not since that morning behind the 'Spotted Cow.' Why?"

"Well, you mentioned him."

"Why yes, but only because I couldn't think of any other way of--er--beginning. You were so devilish high and haughty, Bev."

"And what of Clemency?"

"She has promised to--to marry me, next month,--to marry me--me, Bev.

Oh, my dear fellow, I'm the very happiest man alive, and, egad, that reminds me! I'm also the discredited and disinherited son of a flinty-hearted Roman."

"What d.i.c.k,--do you mean he has--cut you off?"

"As much as ever he could, my dear fellow, which reduces my income by a half. Deuced serious thing, y' know, Bev. Shall have to get rid of my stable, and the coach; 'Moonraker' must go, too, I'm afraid.

Yes, Bev," sighed the Viscount, shaking his head at the reflection of his elegant person in the mirror, "you behold in me a beggar, and the cause--Clemency. But then, I know I am the very happiest beggar in all this wide world, and the cause--Clemency!"

"I feared your father would never favor such a match, d.i.c.k, but--"

"Favor it! Oh, bruise and blister me!--"

"Have you told Clemency?"