The Amateur Gentleman Part 117

To all of which he listens with varying emotions, and with one eye upon the door, fervently hoping for the letter so long expected. But the time is come for him to respond; all eyes are upon him, and all gla.s.ses are filled; even the waiters become deferentially interested as, amid welcoming shouts, the guest of the evening rises, a little flushed, a little nervous, yet steady of eye.

And as Barnabas stands there, an elegant figure, tall and graceful, all eyes may behold again the excellent fit of that wonderful coat, its das.h.i.+ng cut and flattened revers, while all ears await his words.

But, or ever he can speak, upon this silence is heard the tread of heavy feet beyond the door and Barnabas glances there eagerly, ever mindful of the letter from Hawkhurst; but the feet have stopped and, stifling a sigh, he begins:

"My Lords and gentlemen! So much am I conscious of the profound honor you do me, that I find it difficult to express my--"

But here again a disturbance is heard at the door--a shuffle of feet and the mutter of voices, and he pauses expectant; whereat his auditors cry angrily for "silence!" which being duly accorded, he begins again:

"Indeed, gentlemen, I fear no words of mine, however eloquent, can sufficiently express to you all my--"

"Oh, Barnabas," cries a deep voice; "yes, it _is_ Barnabas!" Even as the words are uttered, the group of protesting waiters in the doorway are swept aside by a mighty arm, and a figure strides into the banqueting-room, a handsome figure, despite its country habiliments, a commanding figure by reason of its stature and great spread of shoulder, and John Barty stands there, blinking in the light of the many candles.

Then Barnabas closed his eyes and, reaching out, set his hand upon the back of a chair near by, and so stood, with bent head and a strange roaring in his ears. Little by little this noise grew less until he could hear voices, about him, an angry clamor:

"Put him out!"

"Throw the rascal into the street!"

"Kick him downstairs, somebody!"

And, amid this ever-growing tumult, Barnabas could distinguish his father's voice, and in it was a note he had never heard before, something of pleading, something of fear.

"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad--bean't it, Barnabas?"

Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and more threatening.

"Throw him out!"

"Pitch the fellow downstairs, somebody!"

"Jove!" exclaimed the Marquis, rising and b.u.t.toning his coat, "if n.o.body else will, I'll have a try at him myself. Looks a promising cove, as if he might fib well. Come now, my good fellow, you must either get out of here or--put 'em up, you know,--dooce take me, but you must!"

But as he advanced, Barnabas lifted his head and staying him with a gesture, turned and beheld his father standing alone, the centre of an angry circle. And John Barty's eyes were wide and troubled, and his usually ruddy cheek showed pale, though with something more than fear as, glancing slowly round the ring of threatening figures that hemmed him in, he beheld the white, stricken face of his son. And, seeing it, John Barty groaned, and so took a step towards the door; but no man moved to give him way.

"A--a mistake, gentlemen," he muttered, "I--I'll go!" Then, even as the stammering words were uttered, Barnabas strode forward into the circle and, slipping a hand within his father's nerveless arm, looked round upon the company, pale of cheek, but with head carried high.

"My Lords!" said he, "gentlemen! I have the honor--to introduce to you--John Barty, sometime known as 'Glorious John'--ex-champion of England and--landlord of the 'Coursing Hound' inn--my father!"

A moment of silence! A stillness so profound that it seemed no man drew breath; a long, long moment wherein Barnabas felt himself a target for all eyes--eyes wherein he thought to see amazement that changed into dismay which, in turn, gave place to an ever-growing scorn of him. Therefore he turned his back upon them all and, coming to the great window, stood there staring blindly into the dark street.

"Oh, Barnabas!" he heard his father saying, though as from a long way off, "Barnabas lad, I--I--Oh, Barnabas--they're going! They're leaving you, and--it's all my fault, lad! Oh, Barnabas,--what have I done! It's my fault, lad--all my fault. But I heard you was sick, Barnabas, and like to die,--ill, and calling for me,--for your father, Barnabas. And now--Oh, my lad! my lad!--what have I done?"

"Never blame yourself, father, it--wasn't your fault," said Barnabas with twitching lips, for from the great room behind him came the clatter of chairs, the tread of feet, with voices and stifled laughter that grew fainter and fainter, yet left a sting behind.

"Come away, John," said a voice, "we've done enough to-night--come away!"

"Yes, Natty Bell, yes, I be coming--coming. Oh, Barnabas, my lad, --my lad,--forgive me!"

Now in a while Barnabas turned; and behold! the candles glowed as brightly as ever, silver and gla.s.s shone and glittered as bravely as ever, but--the great room was empty, that is to say--very nearly. Of all that brilliant and fas.h.i.+onable company but two remained. Very lonely figures they looked, seated at the deserted table--the Viscount, crumbling up bread and staring at the table-cloth, and the Marquis, fidgeting with his snuff-box, and frowning at the ceiling.

To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was hoa.r.s.e and by no means steady:

"My Lords," said he, "why haven't you--followed the others?"

"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see--speaking for myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I--hum!--the fact is--ha!--that is to say--oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing, with a m.u.f.fled curse after every sneeze.

"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be less--conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."

"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend, and--there's my hand--Barnabas."

"Mine--too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over the--'ffects of this s-snuff--with a curse to it!"

"Oh d.i.c.k!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis--"

"Name's Bob to--my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his handkerchief. "Oh, d.a.m.n this snuff!"

"Why, Bev," said the Viscount, "don't take it so much to heart, man.

Deuced unpleasant, of course, but it'll all blow over, y' know. A week from now and they'll all come crawling back, y' know, if you only have the courage to outface 'em. And we are with him--aren't we, Jerny?"

"Of course!" answered the Marquis, "dooce take me--yes! So would poor old Sling have been."

"Sirs," said Barnabas, reaching out and grasping a hand of each, "with your friends.h.i.+p to hearten me--all things are possible--even this!"

But here a waiter appeared bearing a tray, and on the tray a letter; he was a young waiter, a very knowing waiter, hence his demeanor towards Barnabas had already undergone a subtle change--he stared at Barnabas with inquisitive eyes and even forgot to bow until--observing the Viscount's eye and the Marquis's chin, his back became immediately subservient and he tendered Barnabas the letter with a profound obeisance.

With a murmured apology Barnabas took it and, breaking the seal, read these words in Cleone's writing:

"You have destroyed my faith, and with my faith all else. Farewell."

Then Barnabas laughed, sudden and sharp, and tore the paper across and across, and dropping the pieces to the floor, set his foot upon them.

"Friends," said he, "my future is decided for me. I thank you deeply, deeply for your brave friends.h.i.+p--your n.o.ble loyalty, but the fiat has gone forth. To-night I leave the World of Fas.h.i.+on for one better suited to my birth, for it seems I should be only an amateur gentleman, as it were, after all. My Lords, your most obedient, humble servant,--good-by!"

So Barnabas bowed to each in turn and went forth from the scene of his triumph, deliberate of step and with head carried high as became a conqueror.

And thus the star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, waxed and waned and vanished utterly from the Fas.h.i.+onable Firmament, and, in time, came to be regarded as only a comet, after all.

CHAPTER LXIII

WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS HEARD THE TICKING OF A CLOCK

It was a dark night, the moon obscured as yet by a wrack of flying cloud, for a wind was abroad, a rising wind that blew in fitful gusts; a boisterous, bl.u.s.tering, bullying wind that met the traveller at sudden corners to choke and buffet him and so was gone, roaring away among roofs and chimneys, rattling windows and lattices, extinguis.h.i.+ng flickering lamps, and filling the dark with stir and tumult.

But Barnabas strode on heedless and deaf to it all. Headlong he went, his cloak fluttering, his head stooped low, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, taking no thought of time or direction, or of his ruined career, since none of these were in his mind, but only the words of Cleone's letter.