The star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, was undoubtedly in the
ascendant; no such radiant orb had brightened the Fashionable
Firmament since that of a certain Mr. Brummell had risen to
scintillate a while ere it paled and vanished before the royal frown.
Thus the Fashionable World turned polite eyes to mark the course of
this new luminary and, if it vaguely wondered how long that course
might be, it (like the perspicacious waiter at the "George")
regarded Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, as one to be flattered, smiled
upon, and as worthy of all consideration and respect.
For here was one, not only young, fabulously rich and a proved
sportsman, but a dandy, besides, with a nice taste and originality
in matters sartorial, more especially in waistcoats and cravats,
which articles, as the Fashionable World well knows, are the final
gauge of a man's depth and possibilities.
Thus, the waistcoats of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, or their
prototypes to a button, were to be met with any day sunning
themselves in the Mall, and the styles of cravat affected by
Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, were to be observed at the most
brilliant functions, bowing in all directions.
Wherefore, all this considered, what more natural than that the
Fashionable World should desire to make oblation to this, its newest
(and consequently most admired) ornament, and how better than to
feed him, since banquets are a holy rite sanctified by custom and
tradition?
Hence, the Fashionable World appointed and set apart a day whereon,
with all due pomp and solemnity, to eat and drink to the glory and
honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire.
Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for,
though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the
glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his
brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong
fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and
cambric fashion required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in
all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom
became the mode.
No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever
of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble
supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter
reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days passed. Therefore,
being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some
word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days
lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if
such a thing might be.
The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most
fickle of all goddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely
by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in
noble houses, in clubs and hells, he sought her. Calm-eyed,
grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged assiduity; he became a
familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was
highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to
circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm
indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.