It was a small and exquisitely furnished, yet comfortable room,
whose luxurious appointments,--the rich hangings, the rugs upon the
floor, the pictures adorning the walls,--one and all bore evidence
to the rare taste, the fine judgment of this one-time poacher of
rabbits, this quiet-voiced man with the quick, bright eyes, and the
subtly humorous mouth. But, just now, John Peterby was utterly
serious as he glanced across to where, bowed down across the
writing-table, his head pillowed upon his arms, his whole attitude
one of weary, hopeless dejection, sat Barnabas Beverley, Esquire. A
pen was in his lax fingers, while upon the table and littering the
floor were many sheets of paper, some half covered with close writing,
some crumpled and torn, some again bearing little more than a name;
but in each and every case the name was always the same. Thus, John
Peterby, seeing this drooping, youthful figure, sighed and shook his
head, and went out, closing the door behind him.
"Is that you, John?" inquired Barnabas, with bowed head.
"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 Duchess, and from Lady Cleone, God 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
god-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 god-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 god-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 passing 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 Duchess is always
the Duchess,--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.