The Amateur Gentleman

It needs not here to describe more fully this journey whose tedium

was unnoticed by reason of good-fellowship. Nor of the meal they ate

at the "Chequers" Inn at Tonbridge, and how they drank (at the

Bo'sun's somewhat diffident suggestion) a health "to his Honor the

Cap'n, and the poor old 'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four."

And thus Barnabas, clad in purple and fine linen and driving his own

blood horses, talked and laughed with a one-legged mariner, and

sought the companionship of his own valet; which irregularity must

be excused by his youth and inexperience, and the lamentable fact

that, despite his purple and fine linen, he was, as yet, only a man,

alas!

Thus, then, as evening fell, behold them spinning along that winding

road where stood a certain ancient finger-post pointing the wayfarer: TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST At sight of which weather-worn piece of timber. Barnabas must needs

smile, though very tenderly, and thereafter fall a-sighing. But all

at once he checked his sighs to stare in amazement, for there,

demurely seated beneath the finger-post, and completely engrossed in

her needlework, was a small, lonely figure, at sight of which

Barnabas pulled up the bays in mid-career.

"Why--Duchess!" he exclaimed, and, giving Peterby the reins, stepped

out of the phaeton.

"Ah! is that you, Mr. Beverley?" sighed the Duchess, looking up from

her embroidery, which, like herself, was very elaborate, very dainty,

and very small. "You find me here, sitting by the wayside,--and a

very desolate figure I must look, I'm sure,--you find me here because

I have been driven away by the tantrums of an undutiful god-daughter,

and the barbarity of a bloodthirsty buccaneer. I mean the Captain,

of course. And all because I had the forethought to tell Cleone her

nose was red,--which it was,--sunburn you know, and because I

remarked that the Captain was growing as rotund as a Frenchman,

which he is,--I mean fat, of course. All Frenchmen are fat--at least

some are. And then he will wear such a shabby old coat! So here I am,

Mr. Beverley, very lonely and very sad, but industrious you see,

quite as busy as Penelope, who used to spin webs all day long,--which

sounds as though she were a spider instead of a classical lady who

used to undo them again at night,--I mean the webs, not the spiders.

But, indeed, you're very silent, Mr. Beverley, though I'm glad to

see you are here so well to time."

"To time, madam?"

"Because, you see, I 've won my bet. Oh yes, indeed, I bet about

everything nowadays,--oh, feverishly, sir, and shall do, until the

race is over, I suppose."