"Sir," cried the little gentleman with a quaver of eagerness in his
voice and a gleam in his eye, both quickly suppressed, "hem!--indeed
I thank you, but--regret I have already supped--hem--duck and green
peas, gentlemen, though I'll admit the duck was tough--deuced tough,
hem! Still, if I might be permitted to toy with an egg and discuss a
dish of tea, the honor would be mine, sirs--would be mine!"
Then, while Peterby hastened to set the edibles before him, Barnabas
drew up a chair and, with many bows and flutterings of the thin,
restless hands, the little gentleman sat down.
"Indeed, indeed," he stammered, blinking his pale eyes, "this is
most kind, I protest, most kind and neighborly!" Which said, he
stooped suddenly above his plate and began to eat, that is to say he
swallowed one or two mouthfuls with a nervous haste that was very
like voracity, checked himself, and glancing guiltily from
unconscious Barnabas to equally unconscious Peterby, sighed and
thereafter ate his food as deliberately as might be expected of one
who had lately dined upon duck and green peas.
"Ah!" said he, when at length his hunger was somewhat assuaged,
"you are noticing the patch in my left elbow, sir?"
"No indeed!" began Barnabas.
"I think you were, sir--every one does, every one--it can't be missed,
sir, and I--hem! I'm extreme conscious of it myself, sirs. I really
must discard this old coat, but--hem! I'm attached to it--foolish
sentiment, sirs. I wear it for associations' sake, it awakens memory,
and memory is a blessed thing, sirs, a very blessed thing!"
"Sometimes!" sighed Barnabas.
"In me, sirs, you behold a decayed gentleman, yet one who has lived
in his time, but now, sirs, all that remains to me is--this coat. A
prince once commended it, the Beau himself condescended to notice it!
Yes, sirs, I was rich once and happily married, and my friends were
many. But--my best friend deceived and ruined me, my wife fled away
and left me, sirs, my friends all forsook me and, to-day, all that I
have to remind me of what I was when I was young and lived, is this
old coat. To-day I exist as a law-writer, to-day I am old, and with
my vanished youth hope has vanished too. And I call myself a decayed
gentleman because I'm--fading, sirs. But to fade is genteel;
Brummell faded! Yes, one may fade and still be a gentleman, but who
ever heard of a fading ploughman?"
"Who, indeed?" said Barnabas.
"But to fade, sir," continued the little gentleman, lifting a thin,
bloodless hand, "though genteel, is a slow process and a very weary
one. Without the companionship of Hope, life becomes a hard and
extreme long road to the ultimate end, and therefore I am sometimes
greatly tempted to take the--easier course, the--shorter way."