The Amateur Gentleman

The whiskers of Mr. Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed

their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they

might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped

likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.

He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to the

cheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire.

At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeing

Barnabas, sank back again.

"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again--that is

to say--" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner,

"that is to say,--I mean--ah--in short, my dear Beverley, I'm

delighted to see you!"

"Pray what do you mean by safe?"

"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his

whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean--safe, sir,--a

very natural wish, surely?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"

"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,--"why,

yes, of course--"

"At least, the Viscount told me so."

"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,--very!"

"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's

hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was

evidently a bedroom.

"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it.

You have hit the nail exactly--upon the nob, sir." Here, having

found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it,

and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the

heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore

doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,--it is

a bitter cud, cursedly so,--wherein the milk of human kindness is

curdled, sir, curdled most damnably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my

friend Barry--wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the

hammer of Adversity alone can weld,--scorning Friendship's holy

obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,--upon Digby,--upon

faithful Dig, and--in short has--ah--hopped the mutual perch, sir."

"Do you mean he has left you?"

"Yes, sir. We had words this morning--a good many and, the end of it

was--he departed--for good, and all on your account!"

"My account?"

"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages,

and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"

"But how on my account?"

"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine

is cursed proud, but so am I--as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a

Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart

of a Smivvle,--as all the world knows,--becomes a--an accursed flint,

sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I

can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand

to--ah--pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to

remember if you fastened the front door securely?"