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."