"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad--bean't it, Barnabas?"
Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard
upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and
more threatening.
"Throw him out!"
"Pitch the fellow downstairs, somebody!"
"Jove!" exclaimed the Marquis, rising and buttoning his coat,
"if nobody else will, I'll have a try at him myself. Looks a
promising cove, as if he might fib well. Come now, my good fellow,
you must either get out of here or--put 'em up, you know,--dooce
take me, but you must!"
But as he advanced, Barnabas lifted his head and staying him with a
gesture, turned and beheld his father standing alone, the centre of
an angry circle. And John Barty's eyes were wide and troubled, and
his usually ruddy cheek showed pale, though with something more than
fear as, glancing slowly round the ring of threatening figures that
hemmed him in, he beheld the white, stricken face of his son. And,
seeing it, John Barty groaned, and so took a step towards the door;
but no man moved to give him way.
"A--a mistake, gentlemen," he muttered, "I--I'll go!" Then, even as
the stammering words were uttered, Barnabas strode forward into the
circle and, slipping a hand within his father's nerveless arm,
looked round upon the company, pale of cheek, but with head carried
high.
"My Lords!" said he, "gentlemen! I have the honor--to introduce to
you--John Barty, sometime known as 'Glorious John'--ex-champion of
England and--landlord of the 'Coursing Hound' inn--my father!"
A moment of silence! A stillness so profound that it seemed no man
drew breath; a long, long moment wherein Barnabas felt himself a
target for all eyes--eyes wherein he thought to see amazement that
changed into dismay which, in turn, gave place to an ever-growing
scorn of him. Therefore he turned his back upon them all and, coming
to the great window, stood there staring blindly into the dark street.
"Oh, Barnabas!" he heard his father saying, though as from a long
way off, "Barnabas lad, I--I--Oh, Barnabas--they're going! They're
leaving you, and--it's all my fault, lad! Oh, Barnabas,--what have I
done! It's my fault, lad--all my fault. But I heard you was sick,
Barnabas, and like to die,--ill, and calling for me,--for your father,
Barnabas. And now--Oh, my lad! my lad!--what have I done?"
"Never blame yourself, father, it--wasn't your fault," said Barnabas
with twitching lips, for from the great room behind him came the
clatter of chairs, the tread of feet, with voices and stifled
laughter that grew fainter and fainter, yet left a sting behind.
"Come away, John," said a voice, "we've done enough to-night--come
away!"
"Yes, Natty Bell, yes, I be coming--coming. Oh, Barnabas, my lad,
--my lad,--forgive me!"