"Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!" said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.
In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek--as bright, as glorious as any jewel.
"Good-by, Beverley!" he whispered as their hands met, "good-by, and I shall never forget--never!"
So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.
But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.
Being come to the end of the drive he turned, flourished his shabby hat and so was gone.
CHAPTER LXXIV
HOW THE DUCHESS MADE UP HER MIND, AND BARNABAS DID THE LIKE
"Gracious heavens--he's actually up--and dressed! Oh Lud, Barnabas, what does this mean?"
Barnabas started and turned to find the Duchess regarding him from the doorway and, though her voice was sharp, her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and she had stretched out her hands to him. Therefore he crossed the room a little unsteadily, and taking those small hands in his, bent his head and kissed them reverently.
"It means that, thanks to you, Duchess, I am well again and--"
"And as pale as a goblin--no, I mean a ghost--trying to catch his death of cold at an open window too--I mean you, not the ghost! And as weak as--as a rabbit, and--oh, dear me, I can't shut it--the casement--drat it! Thank you, Barnabas. Dear heaven, I am so flurried--and even your boots on too! Let me sit down. Lud, Barnabas--how thin you are!"
"But strong enough to go on my way--"
"Way? What way? Which way?"
"Home, Duchess."
"Home, home indeed? You are home--this is your home. Ashleydown is yours now."
"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "I suppose it is, but I shall never live here, I leave today. I am going home, but before I--"
"Home? What home--which home?"
"But before I do, I would thank you if I could, but how may I thank you for all your motherly care of me? Indeed, dear Duchess, I cannot, and yet--if words can--"
"Pho!" exclaimed the Duchess, knitting her brows at him, but with eyes still ineffably soft and tender, "what do you mean by 'home,' pray?"
"I am going back to my father and Natty Bell."
"And to--that inn?"
"Yes, Duchess. You see, there is not, there never was, there never shall be quite such another inn as the old 'Hound.'"
"And you--actually mean to--live there?"
"Yes, for a time, but--"
"Ha--a publican!" exclaimed the Duchess and positively sniffed, though only as a really great lady may.
"--there is a farm near by, I shall probably--"
"Ha--a farmer!" snorted the Duchess.
"--raise horses, madam, and with Natty Bell's assistance I hope--"
"Horses!" cried the Duchess, and sniffed again. "Horses, indeed! Absurd! Preposterous! Quite ridiculous--hush, sir! I have some questions to ask you."
"Well, Duchess?"
"Firstly, sir, what of your dreams? What of London? What of Society?"
"They were--only dreams," answered Barnabas; "in place of them I shall have--my father and Natty Bell."
"Secondly, sir,--what of your fine ambitions?"
"It will be my ambition, henceforth, to breed good horses, madam."
"Thirdly, sir,--what of your money?"
"I shall hope to spend it to much better purpose in the country than in the World of Fashion, Duchess."
"Oh Lud, Barnabas,--what a selfish creature you are!"
"Selfish, madam?"
"A perfect--wretch!"
"Wretch?" said Barnabas, staring.
"Wretch!" nodded the Duchess, frowning, "and pray don't echo my words, sir. I say you are a preposterously selfish wretch, and--so you are!"
"But, madam, why? What do you mean?"
"I mean that you should try to forget yourself occasionally and think of others--me, for instance; look at me--a solitary old woman--in a wig!"
"You, Duchess?"
"Me, Barnabas. And this brings me to fourthly--what of me, sir? --what of me?"
"But, madam, I--"
"And this brings me to fifthly and sixthly and seventhly--my hopes, and dreams, and plans, sir--are they all to be broken, spoiled, ruined by your hatefully selfish whims, sir--hush, not a word!"
"But, Duchess, indeed I don't--"
"Hush, sir, and listen to me. There are days when my wig rebukes me, sir, and my rouge-pot stares me out of countenance; yes, indeed, I sometimes begin to feel almost--middle-aged and, at such times, I grow a little lonely. Heaven, sir, doubtless to some wise end, has always denied me that which is a woman's abiding joy or shame--I mean a child, sir, and as the years creep on, one is apt to be a little solitary, now and then, and at such times I feel the need of a son--so I have determined to adopt you, Barnabas--today! Now! This minute! Not a word, sir, my mind is made up!"
"But," stammered Barnabas, "but, madam, I--I beg you to consider--my father--"
"Is a publican and probably a sinner, Barnabas. I may be a sinner too, perhaps--y-e-s, I fear I am, occasionally. But then I am also a Duchess, and it is far wiser in a man to be the adopted son of a sinful Duchess than the selfish son of a sinful publican, yes indeed."
"But I, madam, what can I say? Dear Duchess, I--the honor you would do me--" floundered poor Barnabas, "believe me if--if--"
"Not another word!" the Duchess interposed, "it is quite settled. As my adopted son Society shall receive you on bended knees, with open arms--I'll see to that! All London shall welcome you, for though I'm old and wear a wig, I'm very much alive, and Society knows it. So no more talk of horses, or farms, or inns, Barnabas; my mind, as I say, is quite made up and--"
"But, madam," said Barnabas gently, "so is mine."
"Ha--indeed, sir--well?"
"Well, madam, today I go to my father."
"Ah!" sighed the Duchess.
"Though indeed I thank you humbly for--your condescension."
"Hum!" said the Duchess.
"And honor you most sincerely for--for--"
"Oh?" said the Duchess, softly.
"And