Hereupon the mottle-faced gentleman lets go of his shirt-frill, bows
to Barnabas and, tossing off his wine, sits down amid loud
acclamations and a roaring chorus of "Beverley! Beverley!"
accompanied by much clinking of glasses.
And now, in their turn, divers other noble gentlemen rise in their
places and deliver themselves of speeches, more or less eloquent,
flowery, witty and laudatory, but, one and all, full of the name and
excellences of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire; who duly learns that he
is a Maecenas of Fashion, a sportsman through and through, a shining
light, and one of the bulwarks of Old England, b'gad! etc., etc., etc.
To all of which he listens with varying emotions, and with one eye
upon the door, fervently hoping for the letter so long expected. But
the time is come for him to respond; all eyes are upon him, and all
glasses are filled; even the waiters become deferentially interested
as, amid welcoming shouts, the guest of the evening rises, a little
flushed, a little nervous, yet steady of eye.
And as Barnabas stands there, an elegant figure, tall and graceful,
all eyes may behold again the excellent fit of that wonderful coat,
its dashing cut and flattened revers, while all ears await his words.
But, or ever he can speak, upon this silence is heard the tread of
heavy feet beyond the door and Barnabas glances there eagerly, ever
mindful of the letter from Hawkhurst; but the feet have stopped and,
stifling a sigh, he begins: "My Lords and gentlemen! So much am I conscious of the profound
honor you do me, that I find it difficult to express my--"
But here again a disturbance is heard at the door--a shuffle of feet
and the mutter of voices, and he pauses expectant; whereat his
auditors cry angrily for "silence!" which being duly accorded, he
begins again: "Indeed, gentlemen, I fear no words of mine, however eloquent, can
sufficiently express to you all my--"
"Oh, Barnabas," cries a deep voice; "yes, it is Barnabas!" Even as
the words are uttered, the group of protesting waiters in the
doorway are swept aside by a mighty arm, and a figure strides into
the banqueting-room, a handsome figure, despite its country
habiliments, a commanding figure by reason of its stature and great
spread of shoulder, and John Barty stands there, blinking in the
light of the many candles.
Then Barnabas closed his eyes and, reaching out, set his hand upon
the back of a chair near by, and so stood, with bent head and a
strange roaring in his ears. Little by little this noise grew less
until he could hear voices, about him, an angry clamor: "Put him out!"
"Throw the rascal into the street!"
"Kick him downstairs, somebody!"
And, amid this ever-growing tumult, Barnabas could distinguish his
father's voice, and in it was a note he had never heard before,
something of pleading, something of fear.