Part 52 (1/2)
”Here, sir; we're in it,--Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot, you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries once, I believe,--flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a few of 'em still left to--ah--blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's another--a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a blush-rose, but d.a.m.nably run to seed, like the rest of us.
And--ah--talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that we may find him a trifle--queer--a leetle touched perhaps.” And Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible gla.s.s, and tossed down its imaginary contents with an expression of much beat.i.tude.
”Is he given to--that sort of thing?”
”Sir,” said Mr. Smivvle, ”can you blame one who seeks forgetfulness in the flowing bowl--and my friend Barry has very much to forget--can you blame him?”
”No, poor fellow!”
”Sir, allow me to tell you my friend Barry needs no man's pity, though I confess I could wish Chichester was not quite so generous--in one respect.”
”How?”
”In--ah--in keeping the flowing bowl continually br.i.m.m.i.n.g, my dear fellow.”
”Is Mr. Chichester a friend of his?”
”The only one, with the exception of yours obediently, who has not deserted him in his adversity.”
”Why?”
”Because, well,--between you and me, my dear fellow, I believe his regard for Barry's half-sister, the Lady Cleone, is largely accountable in Chichester's case; as for myself, because, as I think I mentioned, the hand of a Smivvle once given, sir, is never withdrawn, either on account of plague, poverty, pestilence, or Jews, --dammem! This way, my dear fellow!” and turning into Cross Street, up towards Leather Lane, Mr. Smivvle halted at a certain dingy door, opened it, and showed Barnabas into a dingier hall, and so, leading the way up the dingiest stairs in the world, eventually ushered him into a fair-sized, though dingy, room; and being entered, immediately stood upon tip-toe and laid a finger on his lips.
”Hus.h.!.+ the poor fellow's asleep, but you'll excuse him, I know.”
Barnabas nodded, and, softly approaching the couch, looked down upon the sleeper, and, with the look, felt his heart leap.
A young face he saw, delicately featured, a handsome face with disdainful lips that yet drooped in pitiful weariness, a face which, for all its youth, was marred by the indelible traces of fierce, ungoverned pa.s.sions. And gazing down upon these features, so dissimilar in expression, yet so strangely like in their beauty and lofty pride, Barnabas felt his heart leap,--because of the long lashes that curled so black against the waxen pallor of the cheek; for in that moment he almost seemed to be back in the green, morning freshness of Annersley Wood, and upon his lips there breathed a name--”Cleone.”
But all at once the sleeper stirred, frowned, and started up with a bitter imprecation upon his lips that ended in a vacant stare.
”Why, Barry,” cried Mr. Smivvle leaning over him, ”my dear boy, did we disturb you?”
”Ah, Dig--is that you? Fell asleep--brandy, perhaps, and--ha,--your pardon, sir!” and Ronald Barrymaine rose, somewhat unsteadily, and, folding his threadbare dressing-gown about him, bowed, and so stood facing Barnabas, a little drunk and very stately.
”This is my friend Beverley, of whom I told you,” Mr. Smivvle hastened to explain. ”Mr. Barnabas Beverley,--Mr. Ronald Barrymaine.”
”You are--welcome, sir,” said Mr. Barrymaine, speaking with elaborate care, as if to make quite sure of his utterance. ”Pray be seated, Mr. Bev'ley. We--we are a little crowded I f-fear. Move those boots off the chair, Dig. Indeed my apartment might be a little more commodious, but it's all I have at p-present, and by G.o.d!”
he cried, suddenly fierce, ”I shouldn't have even this but for Dig here! Dig's the only f-friend I have in the world--except Chichester.
Push the brandy over, Dig. Of course there's--Cleone, but she's only a sister, after all. Don't know what I should do if it wasn't for Dig--d-do I, Dig? And Chichester of course. Give Mr. Bev'ley a chair.
Dig. I'll get him--gla.s.s!” Hereupon Mr. Smivvle hurried forward with a chair which, like all the rest of the furniture, had long ago seen its best days, during which manoeuvre he contrived to whisper hurriedly:
”Poor Barry's decidedly 'touched' to-day, a little more so than usual, but you'll excuse him I know, my dear fellow. Hus.h.!.+” for Barrymaine, who had crossed to the other end of the room, now turned and came towards them, swaying a little, and with a gla.s.s in his hand.
”It's rickety, sir, you'll notice,” said he, nodding. ”I--I mean that chair--dev'lish rickety, like everything else 'bout here--especially myself, eh, Dig? B-but don't be alarmed, it--will bear you, sir. D-devil of a place to ask--gentleman to sit down in, --but the Spanswick hasn't been round to clean the place this week--d.a.m.n her! S-scarcely blame her, though--never gets paid--except when Dig remembers it. Don't know what I should do without D-Dig,--raised twenty pounds yesterday, damme if I know where!
said it was watch--but watch went weeks ago. Couldn't ever pay the Spanswick. That's the accursed part of it--pay, pay! debt on debt, and--n-nothing to pay with. All swallowed up by that merciless bloodsucker--that--”
”Now, Barry!” Mr. Smivvle expostulated, ”my dear boy--”
”He's a cursed v-vampire, I tell you!” retorted Barrymaine, his pale cheeks suddenly flushed, and his dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng in swift pa.s.sion, --”he's a snake.”