The Amateur Gentleman Part 84

"No, sir, axing your pardon, it be only me, Jerry Tucker, Bo'sun, --'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy--"

"Bo'sun!" With the word Barnabas was upon his feet. "Why, Bo'sun,"

he cried, wringing the sailor's hand, "how glad I am to see you!"

"Mr. Beverley, sir," began the Bo'sun, red-faced and diffident by reason of the warmth of his reception, "I've come aboard with despatches, sir. I bring you a letter from his Honor the Cap'n, from 'er Grace the d.u.c.h.ess, and from Lady Cleone, G.o.d bless her!"

"A letter from--her!" Then taking the letters in hands that were strangely unsteady, Barnabas crossed to the window, and breaking the seal of a certain one, read this:

DEAR MR. BARNABAS (the 'Beverley' crossed out),--Her Grace, my dear G.o.d-mother, having bullied my poor Tyrant out of the house, and quarrelled with me until she is tired, has now fixed her mind upon you. She therefore orders her dutiful G.o.d-daughter to write you these, hoping that thereby you may be induced to yield yourself a willing slave to her caprices and come down here for a few days. Though the very dearest and best of women, my G.o.d-mother, as you may remember, possesses a tongue, therefore--be warned, sir! My Tyrant at this precise moment sits in the 'round house,' whither he has retreated to solace his ruffled feelings with tobacco. So, I repeat, sir, be warned! And yet, though indeed, 't is strange, and pa.s.sing strange, she speaks of you often, and seems to hold you in her kind regard.

But, for all that, do not be misled, sir; for the d.u.c.h.ess is always the d.u.c.h.ess,--even to poor me. A while ago, she insisted on playing a game of chess; as I write the pieces lie scattered on the floor.

_I_ shan't pick them up,--why should I? So you see her Grace is quite herself to-day. Nevertheless, should you determine to run the risk, you will, I think, find a welcome awaiting you from,

Yours, dear sir,

CLEONE MEREDITH.

P.S.--The Bo'sun a.s.sures me the moon will last another week.

This Postscript Master Barnabas must needs read three times over, and then, quick and furtive, press the letter to his lips ere he thrust it into his bosom, and opened and read the Captain's:

The Gables, Hawkhurst.

Written in the Round-house,

June 29, 18--.

MY DEAR BEVERLEIGH,--How is Fas.h.i.+on and the Modish World? as trivial as usual, I'll warrant me. The latest sensation, I believe, is Cossack Trousers,--have you tried 'em yet? But to come to my mutton, as the Mounseers say.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Camberhurst, having honored my house with her presence--and consequently set it in an uproar, I am constantly running foul of her, though more often she is falling aboard of me. To put it plainly, what with cross-currents, head-seas, and s.h.i.+fting winds that come down suddenly and blow great guns from every point of the compa.s.s, I am continually finding myself taken all a-back, as it were, and since it is quite impossible to bring to and ride it out, am consequently forced to go about and run for it, and continually p.o.o.ped, even then,--for a woman's tongue is, I'm sure, worse than any following sea.

Hence, my sweet Clo, with her unfailing solicitude for me, having observed me flying signals of distress, has contrived to put it into my head that your presence might have a calming effect. Therefore, my dear boy, if you can manage to cast off the grapples of the Polite World for a few days, to run down here and shelter a battered old hulk under your lee, I shall be proud to have you as my guest.

Yours faithfully to serve,

JOHN CHUMLY.

P.S.--Pray bring your valet; you will need him, her Grace insists on dressing for dinner. Likewise my Trafalgar coat begins to need skilled patching, here and there; it is getting beyond the Bo'sun.

Here again Barnabas must needs pause to read over certain of the Captain's scrawling characters, and a new light was in his eyes as he broke the seal of her Grace's epistle.

MY DEAR MR. BEVERLEY,--The country down here, though delightfully Arcadian and quite idyllic (hayricks are so romantic, and I always adored cows--in pictures), is dreadfully quiet, and I freely confess that I generally prefer a man to a hop-pole (though I do wear a wig), and the voice of a man to the babble of brooks, or the trill of a skylark,--though I protest, I wouldn't be without them (I mean the larks) for the world,--they make me long for London so.

Then again, the Captain (though a truly dear soul, and the most gallant of hosts) treats me very much as though I were a s.h.i.+p, and, beside, he is so dreadfully gentle.

As for Cleone, dear bird, she yawns until my own eyes water (though, indeed, she has very pretty teeth), and, on the whole, is very dutiful and quarrels with me whenever I wish. 'T is quite true she cannot play chess; she also, constantly, revokes at Whist, and is quite as bad-tempered over it as I am. Cards, I fear, are altogether beyond her at present,--she is young. Of course time may change this, but I have grave doubts. In this deplorable situation I turn to you, dear Mr. Beverley (Cleone knew your address, it seems), and write these hasty lines to ntreat,--nay, to command you to come and cheer our solitude.

Cleone has a new gown she is dying to wear, and I have much that you must patiently listen to, so that I may truly subscribe myself'

Your grateful friend,

f.a.n.n.y CAMBERURST.

P.S.--I have seen the finger-post on the London Road.

And now, having made an end of reading, Barnabas sighed and smiled, and squared his stooping shoulders, and threw up his curly head, and turning, found the Bo'sun still standing, hat in fist, lost in contemplation of the gilded ceiling. Hereupon Barnabas caught his hand, and shook it again, and laughed for very happiness.

"Bo'sun, how can I thank you!" said he, "these letters have given me new hope--new life! and--and here I leave you to stand, dolt that I am! And with nothing to drink, careless fool that I am. Sit down, man, sit down--what will you take, wine? brandy?"

"Mr. Beverley, sir," replied the Bo'sun diffidently, accepting the chair that Barnabas dragged forward, "you're very kind, sir, but if I might make so bold,--a gla.s.s of ale, sir--?"

"Ale!" cried Barnabas. "A barrel if you wis.h.!.+" and he tugged at the bell, at whose imperious summons the Gentleman-in-Powder appearing with leg-quivering prompt.i.tude, Barnabas forthwith demanded "Ale,--the best, and plenty of it! And pray ask Mr. Peterby to come here at once!" he added.

"Sir," said the Bo'sun as the door closed, "you'll be for steering a course for Hawkhurst, p'r'aps?"

"We shall start almost immediately," said Barnabas, busily collecting those scattered sheets of paper that littered floor and table; thus he was wholly unaware of the look that clouded the sailor's honest visage.

"Sir," said the Bo'sun, pegging thoughtfully at a rose in the carpet with his wooden leg, "by your good leave, I'd like to ax 'ee a question."

"Certainly, Bo'sun, what is it?" inquired Barnabas, looking up from the destruction of the many attempts of his first letter to Cleone.

"Mr. Beverley, sir," said the Bo'sun, pegging away at the carpet as he spoke, "is it--meaning no offence, and axing your pardon,--but are you hauling your wind and standing away for Hawkhurst so prompt on 'account o' my Lady Cleone?"

"Yes, Bo'sun, on account of our Lady Cleone."

"Why, then, sir," said the Bo'sun, fixing his eyes on the ceiling again, "by your leave--but,--why, sir?"

"Because, Bo'sun, you and I have this in common, that we both--love her."

Here the Bo'sun dropped his glazed hat, and picking it up, sat turning it this way and that, in his big, brown fingers.

"Why, then, sir," said he, looking up at Barnabas suddenly, "what of Master Horatio, his Lords.h.i.+p?"

"Why, Bo'sun, I told him about it weeks ago. I had to. You see, he honors me with his friends.h.i.+p."

The Bo'sun nodded, and broke into his slow smile:

"Ah, that alters things, sir," said he. "As for loving my lady--why?

who could help it?"

"Who, indeed, Bo'sun!"

"Though I'd beg to remind you, sir, as orders _is_ orders, and consequently she's bound to marry 'is Lords.h.i.+p--some day--"

"Or--become a mutineer!" said Barnabas, as the door opened to admit Peterby, who (to the horror of the Gentleman-in-Powder, and despite his mutely protesting legs), actually brought in the ale himself; yet, as he set it before the Bo'sun, his sharp eyes were quick to notice his young master's changed air, and brightened as if in sympathy.

"I want you, John, to know my good friend Bo'sun Jerry," said Barnabas, "a Trafalgar man--"

"'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four!" added the Bo'sun, rising and extending his huge hand.