But now Peterby, who had been eyeing Mr. Smivvle very much askance, ventured to step forward.
"Sir," said he, "may I remind you of your appointment?"
"I hadn't forgotten, Peterby; and good day, Mr. Smivvle."
"Au revoir, sir, delighted to have had the happiness. If you _should_ chance ever to be in Worcestershire, the Hall is open to you. Good afternoon, sir!" And so, with a prodigious flourish of the hat, Mr. Smivvle bowed, smiled, and swaggered off. Then, as he turned to follow Peterby into the inn, Barnabas must needs pause to glance towards the spot where lay the Viscount's torn glove.
CHAPTER XXVIII
CONCERNING, AMONG OTHER THINGS, THE LEGS OF A GENTLEMAN-IN-POWDER
In that delightful book, "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments," one may read of Spirits good, and bad, and indifferent; of slaves of lamps, of rings and amulets, and talismanic charms; and of the marvels and wonders they performed. But never did Afrit, Djinn, or Genie perform greater miracles than steady-eyed, soft-voiced Peterby. For if the far away Orient has its potent charms and spells, so, in this less romantic Occident, have we also a spell whereby all things are possible, a charm to move mountains--a spell whereby kings become slaves, and slaves, kings; and we call it Money.
Aladdin had his wonderful Lamp, and lo! at the Genie's word, up sprang a palace, and the wilderness blossomed; Barnabas had his overflowing purse, and behold! Peterby went forth, and the dull room at the "George" became a mansion in the midst of Vanity Fair.
Thus, at precisely four o'clock on the afternoon of the third day, Barnabas stood before a cheval mirror in the dressing-room of his new house, surveying his reflection with a certain complacent satisfaction.
His silver-buttoned blue coat, high-waisted and cunningly rolled of collar, was a sartorial triumph; his black stockinette pantaloons, close-fitting from hip to ankle and there looped and buttoned, accentuated muscled calf and virile thigh in a manner somewhat disconcerting; his snowy waistcoat was of an original fashion and cut, and his cravat, folded and caressed into being by Peterby's fingers, was an elaborate masterpiece, a matchless creation never before seen upon the town. Barnabas had become a dandy, from the crown of his curly head to his silk stockings and polished shoes, and, upon the whole, was not ill-pleased with himself.
"But they're--dangerously tight, aren't they, Peterby?" he inquired suddenly, speaking his thought aloud.
"Tight, sir!" repeated Mr. Barry, the tailor, reproachfully, and shaking his gentleman-like head, "impossible, sir,--with such a leg inside 'em."
"Tight, sir?" exclaimed Peterby, from where he knelt upon the floor, having just finished looping and buttoning the garments in question, "indeed, sir, since you mention it, I almost fear they are a trifle too--roomy. Can you raise your bent knee, sir?"
"Only with an effort, John."
"That settles it, Barry," said Peterby with a grim nod, "you must take them in at least a quarter of an inch."
"Take 'em in?" exclaimed Barnabas, aghast, "no, I'll be shot if you do,--not a fraction! I can scarcely manage 'em as it is." Peterby shook his head in grave doubt, but at this juncture they were interrupted by a discreet knock, and the door opening, a Gentleman-in-Powder appeared. He was a languid gentleman, an extremely superior gentleman, but his character lay chiefly in his nose, which was remarkably short and remarkably supercilious of tip, and his legs which were large and nobly shaped; they were, in a sense, eloquent legs, being given to divers tremors and quiverings when their possessor labored under any strong feeling or excitement; but, above all, they were haughty legs, contemptuous of this paltry world and all that therein is, yea, even of themselves, for their very calves seemed striving to turn their backs upon each other.
"Are you in, sir?" he inquired in an utterly impersonal tone.
"In?" repeated Barnabas, with a quick downward glance at his tight nether garments, "in?--in what?--in where?"
"Are you at 'ome, sir?"
"At home? Of course,--can't you see that?"
"Yes, sir," returned the Gentleman-in-Powder, his legs growing a little agitated.
"Then why do you ask?"
"There is a--person below, sir."
"A person?"
"Yes, sir,--very much so! Got 'is foot in the door--wouldn't take it out--had to let 'em in--waiting in the 'all, sir."
"What's he like, who is he?"
"Whiskers, sir,--name of Snivels,--no card!" Here might have been observed the same agitation of the plump legs.
"Ask him to wait."
"Beg pardon, sir--did you say--to wait?" (Agitation growing.)
"Yes. Say I'll be down at once." (Agitation extreme.)
"Meaning as you will--see 'im, sir?" (Agitation indescribable.)
"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes, of course."
The Gentleman-in-Powder bowed; his eye was calm, his brow unruffled, but his legs!!! And his nose was more supercilious than ever as he closed the door upon it.
Mr. Smivvle, meanwhile, was standing downstairs before a mirror, apparently lost in contemplation of his whiskers, and indeed they seemed to afford him a vast degree of pleasure, for he stroked them with caressing fingers, and smiled upon them quite benevolently.
"Six pair of silver candlesticks!" he murmured. "Persian rugs! Bric-a-brac, rare--costly pictures! He's a Nabob, by heaven,--yes he is,--a mysterious young Nabob, wallowing in wealth! Five shillings? --preposterous! we'll make it--ten,--and--yes, shall we say another five for the pampered menial? By all means let us make it another five shillings for the cursed flunkey,--here he comes!"
And indeed, at that moment the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder might have been descried descending the stair rather more pompously than usual. As soon as they had become stationary, Mr. Smivvle directed a glance at the nearest, and addressed it.
"James!" said he.
The Gentleman-in-Powder became lost in dreamy abstraction, with the exception of his legs which worked slightly. Hereupon Mr. Smivvle reached out and poked him gently with the head of his tasselled cane.
"Awake, James?" said he.
"Name of Harthur--_if_ you please, sir!" retorted the Gentleman-in-Powder, brushing away the touch of the cane, and eyeing the place with much concern.
"If, James," continued Mr. Smivvle, belligerent of whisker, "if you would continue to ornament this lordly mansion, James, be more respectful, hereafter, to your master's old and tried friends," saying which Mr. Smivvle gave a twirl to each whisker, and turned to inspect a cabinet of old china.
"Sevres, by George!" he murmured, "we'll make it a pound!" He was still lost in contemplation of the luxurious appointments that everywhere met his view, and was seriously considering the advisability of "making it thirty shillings," when the appearance of Barnabas cut him short, and he at once became all smiles, flourishes and whiskers.
"Ah, Beverley, my boy!" he cried heartily, "pray forgive this horribly unseasonable visit, but--under the circumstances--I felt it my duty to--ah--to drop in on you, my dear fellow."
"What circumstances?" demanded Barnabas, a little stiffly, perhaps.