The Amateur Gentleman

"For which I can never be sufficiently grateful, both to her--and to

you!" said Barnabas, who sat with his chin propped upon his hand,

gazing through the open lattice to where the broad white road wound

away betwixt blooming hedges, growing ever narrower till it vanished

over the brow of a distant hill. "Not as I holds wi' eddication

myself, Barnabas, as you know," pursued his father, "but that's why

you was sent to school, that's why me an' Natty Bell sat by quiet

an' watched ye at your books. Sometimes when I've seen you

a-stooping your back over your reading, or cramping your fist

round a pen, Barnabas, why--I've took it hard, Barnabas, hard,

I'll not deny--But Natty Bell has minded me as it was her wish and

so--why--there y' are."

It was seldom his father mentioned to Barnabas the mother whose face

he had never seen, upon which rare occasions John Barty's deep voice

was wont to take on a hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that were

usually so steady, would go wandering off until they fixed themselves

on some remote object. Thus he sat now, leaning back in his elbow

chair, gazing in rapt attention at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss

above the mantel, while his son, chin on fist, stared always and

ever to where the road dipped, and vanished over the hill--leading

on and on to London, and the great world beyond.

"She died, Barnabas--just twenty-one years ago--buried at Maidstone

where you were born. Twenty-one years is a longish time, lad, but

memory's longer, an' deeper,--an' stronger than time, arter all, an'

I know that her memory will go wi' me--all along the way--d' ye see

lad: and so Barnabas," said John Barty lowering his gaze to his

son's face, "so Barnabas, there y' are."

"Yes, father!" nodded Barnabas, still intent upon the road.

"And now I come to your uncle Tom--an' speaking of him--Barnabas my

lad,--what are ye going to do wi' all this money?"

Barnabas turned from the window and met his father's eye.

"Do with it," he began, "why first of all--"

"Because," pursued his father, "we might buy the 'White Hart'--t' other

side o' Sevenoaks,--to be sure you're over young to have any say in

the matter--still arter all the money's yours, Barnabas--what d' ye

say to the 'White Hart'?"

"A very good house!" nodded Barnabas, stealing a glance at the road

again--"but--"

"To be sure there's the 'Running Horse,'" said his father, "just

beyond Purley on the Brighton Road--a coaching-house, wi' plenty o'

custom, what d' ye think o' the 'Running Horse'?"

"Any one you choose, father, but--"

"Then there's the 'Sun in the Sands' on Shooter's Hill--a fine inn

an' not to be sneezed at, Barnabas--we might take that."

"Just as you wish, father, only--"