"True, Jack; but then both he and I reckoned without my father. My father had the bad taste to--er--disagree with me, hence I am late, Jack, and breakfastless, and my friend Mr. Beverley is as hungry as I am. Bev, my dear fellow, this is a very old friend of mine--Jack Truelove, who fought under my uncle at Trafalgar."
"Servant, sir!" says Jack, saluting Barnabas.
"The 'Belisarius,' Seventy-four!" smiled Barnabas.
"Ay, ay," says Jack, with a shake of his round head, "the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer'--But, Lord love me! if you be hungry--"
"Devilish!" said the Viscount, "but first, Jack--what's amiss with Clemency?"
"Clemency? Why, where be that niece o' mine?"
"She's run away, Jack. I found her in tears, and I had scarce said a dozen words to her when--hey presto! She's off and away."
"Tears is it, my Lord?--and 'er sighed, too, I reckon. Come now--'er sighed likewise. Eh, my Lord?"
"Why, yes, she may have sighed, but--"
"There," says Jack, rolling his round head knowingly, "it be nought but a touch o' love, my Lord."
"Love!" exclaimed the Viscount sharply.
"Ah, love! Nieces is difficult craft, and very apt to be took all aback by the wind o' love, as you might say--but Lord! it's only natural arter all. Ah! the rearing o' motherless nieces is a ticklish matter, gentlemen--as to nevvys, I can't say, never 'aving 'ad none _to_ rear--but nieces--Lord! I could write a book on 'em, that is, s'posing I could write, which I can't; for, as I've told you many a time, my Lord, and you then but a bye over here on a visit, wi' the Bo'sun, or his Honor the Cap'n, and you no older then than--er--Mr. Milo, though longer in the leg, as I 've told you many a time and oft--a very ob-servant man I be in most things, consequent' I aren't observed this here niece--this Clem o' mine fair weather and foul wi'out larning the kind o' craft nieces be. Consequent', when you tell me she weeps, and likewise sighs, then I make bold to tell you she's got a touch o' love, and you can lay to that, my Lord."
"Love," exclaimed the Viscount again, and frowning this time; "now, who the devil should she be in love with!"
"That, my Lord, I can't say, not having yet observed. But now, by your leave, I'll pass the word for breakfast."
Hereupon the landlord of "The Spotted Cow" opened the lattice, and sent a deep-lunged hail across the yard.
"Ahoy!" he roared, "Oliver, Penelope, Bess--breakfast ho!--breakfast for the Viscount--and friend. They be all watching of that theer imp--axing his pardon--that theer groom o' yours, what theer be of him, which though small ain't by no means to be despised, him being equally ready wi' his tongue as his fist."
Here entered two maids, both somewhat flushed with haste but both equally bright of eye, neat of person, and light of foot, who very soon had laid a snowy cloth and duly set out thereon the beef, the bread and cheese, and a mighty ham, before which the Viscount seated himself forthwith, while their sailor host, more jovial than ever, pointed out its many beauties with an eloquent thumb. And so, having seen his guests seated opposite each other, he pulled his forelock at them, made a leg to them, and left them to their breakfast.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH FISTS ARE CLENCHED; AND OF A SELFISH MAN, WHO WAS AN APOSTLE OF PEACE
Conversation, though in itself a blessed and delightful thing, yet may be sometimes out of place, and wholly impertinent. If wine is a loosener of tongues, surely food is the greatest, pleasantest, and most complete silencer; for what man when hunger gnaws and food is before him--what man, at such a time, will stay to discuss the wonders of the world, of science--or even himself?
Thus our two young travellers, with a very proper respect for the noble fare before them, paid their homage to it in silence--but a silence that was eloquent none the less. At length, however, each spoke, and each with a sigh.
_The Viscount_. "The ham, my dear fellow--!"
_Barnabas_. "The beef, my dear Dick--!"
_The Viscount and Barnabus_. "Is beyond words."
Having said which, they relapsed again into a silence, broken only by the occasional rattle of knife and fork.
_The Viscount_ (hacking at the loaf). "It's a grand thing to be hungry, my dear fellow."
_Barnabas_ (glancing over the rim of his tankard). "When you have the means of satisfying it--yes."
_The Viscount_ (becoming suddenly abstracted, and turning his piece of bread over and over in his fingers). "Now regarding--Mistress Clemency, my dear Bev; what do you think of her?"
_Barnabas_ (helping himself to more beef). "That she is a remarkably handsome girl!"
_The Viscount_ (frowning at his piece of bread). "Hum! d'you think so?"
_Barnabas_. "Any man would. I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."
_The Viscount_. "Yes; I suppose they would."
_Barnabas_. "Some probably do--especially men with an eye for fine women."
_The Viscount_ (frowning blacker than ever). "Pray, what mean you by that?"
_Barnabas_. "Your friend Carnaby undoubtedly does."
_The Viscount_ (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into your head? Carnaby's never seen her."
_Barnabas_. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."
_The Viscount_ (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist). "Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't--he's never been near this place."
_Barnabas_. "There you are quite wrong."
_The Viscount_ (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what the devil are you driving at?"
_Barnabas_. "I mean that he was here this morning."
_The Viscount_. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should make you think so?"
"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper. The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the floor.
"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:--
--felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely July 16,
Your humble, obedient Servant,
JASPER GAUNT.
"Jasper Gaunt!" exclaimed the Viscount. "Sixty thousand pounds! Poor Carnaby! Sixty thousand pounds payable on July sixteenth! Now the fifteenth, my dear Bev, is the day of the race, and if he should lose, it looks very much as though Carnaby would be ruined, Bev."
"Unless he marries 'the lovely heiress'!" added Barnabas.
"Hum!" said the Viscount, frowning. "I wish I'd never seen this cursed paper, Bev!" and as he spoke he crumpled it up and threw it into the great fireplace. "Where in the name of mischief