Now in a while Barnabas turned; and behold! the candles glowed as
brightly as ever, silver and glass shone and glittered as bravely as
ever, but--the great room was empty, that is to say--very nearly. Of
all that brilliant and fashionable company but two remained. Very
lonely figures they looked, seated at the deserted table--the
Viscount, crumbling up bread and staring at the table-cloth, and the
Marquis, fidgeting with his snuff-box, and frowning at the ceiling.
To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was
hoarse and by no means steady: "My Lords," said he, "why haven't you--followed the others?"
"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder
than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see--speaking for
myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I--hum!--the fact
is--ha!--that is to say--oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he
actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing,
with a muffled curse after every sneeze.
"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be
less--conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."
"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme
if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend,
and--there's my hand--Barnabas."
"Mine--too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over
the--'ffects of this s-snuff--with a curse to it!"
"Oh Dick!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis--"
"Name's Bob to--my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his
handkerchief. "Oh, damn this snuff!"
"Why, Bev," said the Viscount, "don't take it so much to heart, man.
Deuced unpleasant, of course, but it'll all blow over, y' know. A
week from now and they'll all come crawling back, y' know, if you
only have the courage to outface 'em. And we are with him--aren't we,
Jerny?"
"Of course!" answered the Marquis, "dooce take me--yes! So would
poor old Sling have been."
"Sirs," said Barnabas, reaching out and grasping a hand of each,
"with your friendship to hearten me--all things are possible--even
this!"
But here a waiter appeared bearing a tray, and on the tray a letter;
he was a young waiter, a very knowing waiter, hence his demeanor
towards Barnabas had already undergone a subtle change--he stared at
Barnabas with inquisitive eyes and even forgot to bow until--observing
the Viscount's eye and the Marquis's chin, his back became immediately
subservient and he tendered Barnabas the letter with a profound
obeisance.
With a murmured apology Barnabas took it and, breaking the seal,
read these words in Cleone's writing: "You have destroyed my faith, and with my faith all else. Farewell."
Then Barnabas laughed, sudden and sharp, and tore the paper across
and across, and dropping the pieces to the floor, set his foot upon
them.
"Friends," said he, "my future is decided for me. I thank you deeply,
deeply for your brave friendship--your noble loyalty, but the fiat
has gone forth. To-night I leave the World of Fashion for one better
suited to my birth, for it seems I should be only an amateur
gentleman, as it were, after all. My Lords, your most obedient,
humble servant,--good-by!"