Conversation, though in itself a blessed and delightful thing, yet
may be sometimes out of place, and wholly impertinent. If wine is a
loosener of tongues, surely food is the greatest, pleasantest, and
most complete silencer; for what man when hunger gnaws and food is
before him--what man, at such a time, will stay to discuss the
wonders of the world, of science--or even himself?
Thus our two young travellers, with a very proper respect for the
noble fare before them, paid their homage to it in silence--but a
silence that was eloquent none the less. At length, however, each
spoke, and each with a sigh.
The Viscount. "The ham, my dear fellow--!"
Barnabas. "The beef, my dear Dick--!"
The Viscount and Barnabus. "Is beyond words."
Having said which, they relapsed again into a silence, broken only
by the occasional rattle of knife and fork.
The Viscount (hacking at the loaf). "It's a grand thing to be hungry,
my dear fellow."
Barnabas (glancing over the rim of his tankard). "When you have the
means of satisfying it--yes."
The Viscount (becoming suddenly abstracted, and turning his piece of
bread over and over in his fingers). "Now regarding--Mistress Clemency,
my dear Bev; what do you think of her?"
Barnabas (helping himself to more beef). "That she is a remarkably
handsome girl!"
The Viscount (frowning at his piece of bread). "Hum! d'you think so?"
Barnabas. "Any man would. I'll trouble you for the mustard, Dick."
The Viscount. "Yes; I suppose they would."
Barnabas. "Some probably do--especially men with an eye for fine
women."
The Viscount (frowning blacker than ever). "Pray, what mean you
by that?"
Barnabas. "Your friend Carnaby undoubtedly does."
The Viscount (starting). "Carnaby! Why what the devil put him into
your head? Carnaby's never seen her."
Barnabas. "Indeed, I think it rather more than likely."
The Viscount (crushing the bit of bread suddenly in his fist).
"Carnaby! But I tell you he hasn't--he's never been near this place."
Barnabas. "There you are quite wrong."
The Viscount (flinging himself back in his chair). "Beverley, what
the devil are you driving at?"
Barnabas. "I mean that he was here this morning."
The Viscount. "Carnaby? Here? Impossible! What under heaven should
make you think so?"
"This," said Barnabas, and held out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
The Viscount took it, glanced at it, and his knife clattered to the
floor.
"Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, and sat staring down at the
crumpled paper, wide-eyed. "Sixty thousand!" he repeated. "Is it
sixty or six, Bev? Read it out," and he thrust the torn paper across
to Barnabas, who, taking it up, read as follows:---felicitate you upon your marriage with the lovely
heiress, Lady M., failing which I beg most humbly to remind
you, my dear Sir Mortimer Carnaby, that the sixty thousand
pounds must be paid back on the day agreed upon, namely
July 16, Your humble, obedient Servant, JASPER GAUNT.