The Amateur Gentleman

"Hush! the poor fellow's asleep, but you'll excuse him, I know."

Barnabas nodded, and, softly approaching the couch, looked down upon

the sleeper, and, with the look, felt his heart leap.

A young face he saw, delicately featured, a handsome face with

disdainful lips that yet drooped in pitiful weariness, a face which,

for all its youth, was marred by the indelible traces of fierce,

ungoverned passions. And gazing down upon these features, so

dissimilar in expression, yet so strangely like in their beauty and

lofty pride, Barnabas felt his heart leap,--because of the long

lashes that curled so black against the waxen pallor of the cheek;

for in that moment he almost seemed to be back in the green, morning

freshness of Annersley Wood, and upon his lips there breathed a

name--"Cleone."

But all at once the sleeper stirred, frowned, and started up with a

bitter imprecation upon his lips that ended in a vacant stare.

"Why, Barry," cried Mr. Smivvle leaning over him, "my dear boy, did

we disturb you?"

"Ah, Dig--is that you? Fell asleep--brandy, perhaps, and--ha,--your

pardon, sir!" and Ronald Barrymaine rose, somewhat unsteadily, and,

folding his threadbare dressing-gown about him, bowed, and so stood

facing Barnabas, a little drunk and very stately.

"This is my friend Beverley, of whom I told you," Mr. Smivvle

hastened to explain. "Mr. Barnabas Beverley,--Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."

"You are--welcome, sir," said Mr. Barrymaine, speaking with

elaborate care, as if to make quite sure of his utterance. "Pray be

seated, Mr. Bev'ley. We--we are a little crowded I f-fear. Move

those boots off the chair, Dig. Indeed my apartment might be a

little more commodious, but it's all I have at p-present, and by God!"

he cried, suddenly fierce, "I shouldn't have even this but for Dig

here! Dig's the only f-friend I have in the world--except Chichester.

Push the brandy over, Dig. Of course there's--Cleone, but she's only

a sister, after all. Don't know what I should do if it wasn't for

Dig--d-do I, Dig? And Chichester of course. Give Mr. Bev'ley a chair.

Dig. I'll get him--glass!" Hereupon Mr. Smivvle hurried forward with

a chair which, like all the rest of the furniture, had long ago seen

its best days, during which manoeuvre he contrived to whisper

hurriedly: "Poor Barry's decidedly 'touched' to-day, a little more so than usual,

but you'll excuse him I know, my dear fellow. Hush!" for Barrymaine,

who had crossed to the other end of the room, now turned and came

towards them, swaying a little, and with a glass in his hand.

"It's rickety, sir, you'll notice," said he, nodding. "I--I mean

that chair--dev'lish rickety, like everything else 'bout

here--especially myself, eh, Dig? B-but don't be alarmed, it--will

bear you, sir. D-devil of a place to ask--gentleman to sit down in,

--but the Spanswick hasn't been round to clean the place this

week--damn her! S-scarcely blame her, though--never gets

paid--except when Dig remembers it. Don't know what I should do

without D-Dig,--raised twenty pounds yesterday, damme if I know where!

said it was watch--but watch went weeks ago. Couldn't ever pay the

Spanswick. That's the accursed part of it--pay, pay! debt on debt,

and--n-nothing to pay with. All swallowed up by that merciless

bloodsucker--that--"