"My dear Beverley," said he, staring down into the empty grate, "if you 're ever in need--if you're ever reduced to--destitution, then, in heaven's name, go quietly away and--starve! Deuced unpleasant, of course, but it's--sooner over, b'gad!"
At this moment the smiling person reappeared at a different door, and uttered the words:
"Captain Slingsby,--if _you_ please." Hereupon the Captain visibly braced himself, squared his shoulders, took off his hat, crossed the room in a couple of strides, and Barnabas was alone.
Now as he sat there waiting, he gradually became aware of a sound that stole upon the quiet, a soft, low sound, exactly what he could not define, nevertheless it greatly perturbed him. Therefore he rose, and approaching that part of the room whence it proceeded, he saw another door. And then, all at once, as he stood before this door, he knew what the sound was, and why it had so distressed him; and, even as the knowledge came, he opened the door and stepped into the room beyond.
And this is what he saw:
A bare little room, or office; the pale, smiling gentleman, who lounged in a cushioned chair, a comb in one hand, and in the other a small pocket mirror, by the aid of which he was attending to a diminutive tuft of flaxen whisker; and a woman, in threadbare garments, who crouched upon a bench beside the opposite wall, her face bowed upon her hands, her whole frame shaken by great, heart-broken, gasping sobs,--a sound full of misery, and of desolation unutterable.
At the opening of the door, the pale gentleman started and turned, and the woman looked up with eyes swollen and inflamed by weeping.
"Sir," said the pale gentleman, speaking softly, yet in the tone of one used to command, "may I ask what this intrusion means?" Now as he looked into the speaker's pallid eyes, Barnabas saw that he was much older than he had thought. He had laid aside the comb and mirror, and now rose in a leisurely manner, and his smile was more unpleasant than ever as he faced Barnabas.
"This place is private, sir--you understand, private, sir. May I suggest that you--go, that you--leave us?" As he uttered the last two words, he thrust out his head and jaw in a very ugly manner, therefore Barnabas turned and addressed himself to the woman.
"Pray, madam," said he, "tell me your trouble; what is the matter?" But the woman only wrung her hands together, and stared with great, frightened eyes at the colorless man, who now advanced, smiling still, and tapped Barnabas smartly on the shoulder.
"The trouble is her own, sir, the matter is--entirely a private one," said he, fixing Barnabas with his pale stare, "I repeat, sir,--a private one. May I, therefore, suggest that you withdraw--at once?"
"As often as you please, sir," retorted Barnabas, bowing.
"Ah!" sighed the man, thrusting out his head again, "and what do you want--here?"
"First, is your name Jasper Gaunt?"
"No; but it is as well known as his--better to a great many."
"And your name is--?"
"Quigly."
"Then, Mr. Quigly, pray be seated while I learn this poor creature's sorrow."
"I think--yes, I think you'd better go," said Mr. Quigly,--"ah, yes--and at once, or--"
"Or?" said Barnabas, smiling and clenching his fists.
"Or it will be the worse--for you--"
"Yes?"
"And for your friend the Captain."
"Yes?"
"And you will give this woman more reason for her tears!"
Then, looking from the pale, threatening eyes, and smiling lips of the man, to the trembling fear of the weeping woman, and remembering Slingsby's deathly cheek and shaking hand, a sudden, great anger came upon Barnabas; his long arm shot out and, pinning Mr. Quigly by the cravat, he shook him to and fro in a paroxysm of fury. Twice he raised his cane to strike, twice he lowered it, and finally loosing his grip, Mr. Quigly staggered back to the opposite wall, and leaned there, panting.
Hereupon Barnabas, somewhat shocked at his own loss of self-restraint, re-settled his cuff, straightened his cravat, and, when he spoke, was more polite than ever.
"Mr. Quigly, pray sit down," said he; "I have no wish to thrash you,--it would be a pity to spoil my cane, so--oblige me by sitting down."
Mr. Quigly opened his mouth as if to speak, but, glancing at Barnabas, thought better of it; yet his eyes grew so pale that they seemed all whites as he sank into the chair.
"And now," said Barnabas, turning to the crouching woman, "I don't think Mr. Quigly will interrupt us again, you may freely tell your trouble--if you will."
"Oh, sir,--it's my husband! He's been in prison a whole year, and now--now he's dying--they've killed him. It was fifty pounds a year ago. I saved, and scraped, and worked day and night, and a month ago--I brought the fifty pounds. But then--Oh, my God!--then they told me I must find twenty more--interest, they called it. Twenty pounds! why, it would take me months and months to earn so much, --and my husband was dying!--dying! But, sir, I went away despairing. Then I grew wild,--desperate--yes, desperate--oh, believe it, sir, and I,--I--Ah, sir--what won't a desperate woman do for one she loves? And so I--trod shameful ways! To-day I brought the twenty pounds, and now--dear God! now they say it must be twenty-three. Three pounds more, and I have no more--and I can't--Oh, I--can't go back to it again--the shame and horror--I--can't, sir!" So she covered her face again, and shook with the bitter passion of her woe.
And, after a while, Barnabas found voice, though his voice was very hoarse and uneven.
"I think," said he slowly, "yes, I think my cane could not have a worthier end than splintering on your villain's back, Mr. Quigly."
But, even as Barnabas advanced with very evident purpose, a tall figure stood framed in the open doorway.
"Ah, Quigly,--pray what is all this?" a chill, incisive voice demanded. Barnabas turned, and lowering the cane, stood looking curiously at the speaker. A tall, slender man he was, with a face that might have been any age,--a mask-like face, smooth and long, and devoid of hair as it was of wrinkles; an arresting face, with its curving nostrils, thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, high, prominent brow, and small, piercingly-bright eyes; quick eyes, that glinted between their red-rimmed, hairless lids, old in their experience of men and the ways of men. For the rest, he was clad in a rich yet sober habit, unrelieved by any color save for the gleaming seals at his fob, and the snowy lace at throat and wrist; his hair--evidently a wig--curled low on either cheek, and his hands were well cared for, with long, prehensile fingers.
"You are Jasper Gaunt, I think?" said Barnabas at last.
"At your service, sir, and you, I know, are Mr. Barnabas Beverley."
So they stood, fronting each other, the Youth, unconquered as yet, and therefore indomitable, and the Man, with glittering eyes old in their experience of men and the ways of men.
"You wished to see me on a matter of business, Mr. Beverley?"
"Yes."
"Then pray step this way."
"No," said Barnabas, "first I require your signature to this lady's papers."
Jasper