"Nobody, Barry--not a soul, my poor boy, compose yourself!" But, even as Mr. Smivvle spoke, Barrymaine fell back and lay moaning fitfully and with half-closed eyes. "Indeed I fear he is very ill, Beverley!"
"If he isn't better by morning, get a doctor," said Barnabas, "but, whatever you do--keep Chichester away from him. As regards money I'll see you shan't want for it. And now, for the present, good-by!"
So saying, Barnabas caught up his hat and, with a last glance at the moaning figure on the couch, went from the room and down the stairs, and let himself out into the dingy street.
CHAPTER LXV
WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS DISCHARGED HIS VALET
It was long past midnight when Barnabas reached his house in St. James's Square; and gazing up at its goodly exterior he sighed, and thereafter frowned, and so, frowning still, let himself in. Now, late though the hour, Peterby was up, and met him in the hall.
"Sir," said he, anxious of eye as he beheld his young master's disordered dress and the grim pallor of his face, "the Marquis of Jerningham and Viscount Devenham called. They waited for you,--they waited over an hour."
"But they are gone now, of course?" inquired Barnabas, pausing, with his foot on the stair.
"Yes, sir--"
"Good!" nodded Barnabas with a sigh of relief.
"But they left word they would call to-morrow morning, early; indeed they seemed most anxious to see you, sir."
"Ha!" said Barnabas, and, frowning still, went on up the stair.
"Sir," said Peterby, lighting the way into the dressing-room, "you received the--the letter safely?"
"Yes, I received it," said Barnabas, tossing aside his hat and cloak, "and that reminds me,--to-morrow morning you will discharge all the servants."
"Sir?"
"Pay them a month's wages. Also you will get rid of this house and furniture, and all the carriages and horses--except 'The Terror,' --sell them for what they will fetch--no matter how little, only--get rid of them."
"Yes, sir."
"As for yourself, Peterby, I shall require your services no longer. But you needn't lack for a position--every dandy of 'em all will be wild to get you. And, because you are the very best valet in the world, you can demand your own terms."
"Yes, sir."
"And now, I think that is all, I shan't want you again tonight--stay though, before I go to bed bring me the things I wore when I first met you, the garments which as clothes, you told me, didn't exist."
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Oh, yes--if you wish," sighed Barnabas, wearily.
"Are you leaving London, sir?"
"I'm leaving the World of Fashion--yes."
"And you--don't wish me to accompany you, sir."
"No."
"Have I--displeased you in any way?"
"No, it is only that the 'best valet in the world' would be wasted on me any longer, and I shall not need you where I am going."
"Not as a--servant, sir?"
"No."
"Then, sir, may I remind you that I am also a--man? A man who owes all that he is to your generosity and noble trust and faith. And, sir, it seems to me that a man may sometimes venture where a servant may not--if you are indeed done with the Fashionable World, I have done with it also, for I shall never serve any other than you."
Then Barnabas turned away and coming to the mantel leaned there, staring blankly down at the empty hearth; and in a while he spoke, though without looking up:
"The Fashionable World has turned its polite back upon me, Peterby, because I am only the son of a village inn-keeper. But--much more than this--my lady has--has lost her faith in me, my fool's dream is over--nothing matters any more. And so I am going away to a place I have heard described by a pedler of books as 'the worst place in the world'--and indeed I think it is."
"Sir," said Peterby, "when do we start?"
Then, very slowly, Barnabas lifted his heavy head and looked at John Peterby; and, in that dark hour, smiled, and reaching out, caught and grasped his hand; also, when he spoke again, his voice was less hard and not so steady as before:
"Oh, John!" said he, "John Peterby--my faithful John! Come with me if you will, but you come as my--friend."
"And--where are we going, sir?" inquired John, as they stood thus, hand in hand, looking into each other's eyes.
"To Giles's Rents, John,--down by the River."
And thus did Barnabas, in getting rid of the "best valet in the world," find for himself a faithful friend instead.
CHAPTER LXVI
OF CERTAIN CON-CLUSIONS DRAWN BY MR. SHRIG
Number Five St. James's Square was to let; its many windows were blank and shuttered, its portal, which scarcely a week ago had been besieged by Fashion, was barred and bolted, the Gentleman-in-Powder had vanished quite, and with him the glory of Number Five St. James's Square had departed utterly.
Barnabas paused to let his gaze wander over it, from roof to pavement, then, smiling a little bitterly, buried his chin in the folds of his belcher neckerchief and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, turned and went his way.
And as he went, smiling still, and still a little bitterly, he needs must remember and vaguely wonder what had become of all that Polite notepaper, and all those Fashionable cards, embossed, gilt-edged, and otherwise, that had been wont to pour upon him every morning, and which had so rejoiced the highly susceptible and eloquent legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder.
Evening was falling and the square seemed deserted save for a solitary man in a neckcloth of vivid hue, a dejected-looking man who lounged against the wall under the shade of the trees in the middle of the square, and seemed lost in contemplation of his boots. And yet when Barnabas, having traversed Charles Street and turned into the Haymarket, chanced to look back, he saw that the man was lounging dejectedly after him. Therefore Barnabas quickened his steps, and, reaching the crowded Strand, hurried on through the bustling throng; but just beyond Temple Bar, caught a glimpse of the vivid neckcloth on the opposite side of the road. Up Chancery Lane and across Holborn went Barnabas, yet, as he turned down Leather Lane, there, sure enough, was the man in the neckcloth as dejected as ever, but not twelve yards behind.
Half-way down crowded Leather Lane Barnabas turned off down a less frequented street and halting just beyond the corner, waited for his pursuer to come up. And presently round the corner he came and, in his hurry, very nearly stumbled over Barnabas, who promptly reached out a long arm and pinned him by the vivid neckcloth.
"Why do you follow me?" he demanded.
"Foller you?" repeated the man.
"You have been following me all the way."
"Have I?" said the man.
"You