HOW BARNABAS SET OUT FOR LONDON TOWN
It was upon a certain glorious morning, some three weeks later, that
Barnabas fared forth into the world; a morning full of the thousand
scents of herb and flower and ripening fruits; a morning glad with
the song of birds. And because it was still very early, the dew yet
lay heavy, it twinkled in the grass, it sparkled in the hedges, and
gemmed every leaf and twig with a flaming pendant. And amidst it all,
fresh like the morning and young like the sun, came Barnabas, who,
closing the door of the "Coursing Hound" behind him, leapt lightly
down the stone steps and, turning his back upon the ancient inn, set
off towards that hill, beyond which lay London and the Future.
Yet--being gone but a very little way--he halted suddenly and came
striding back again. And standing thus before the inn he let his
eyes wander over its massive crossbeams, its leaning gables, its
rows of gleaming lattices, and so up to the great sign swinging
above the door--an ancient sign whereon a weather-beaten hound,
dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that, by common
report, was held to be a hare. But it was to a certain casement that
his gaze oftenest reverted, behind whose open lattice he knew his
father lay asleep, and his eyes, all at once, grew suffused with a
glittering brightness that was not of the morning, and he took a
step forward, half minded to clasp his father's hand once more ere
he set out to meet those marvels and wonders that lay waiting for
him over the hills--London-wards. Now, as he stood hesitating, he
heard a voice that called his name softly, and, glancing round and up,
espied Natty Bell, bare of neck and touzled of head, who leaned far
out from the casement of his bedchamber above.
"Ah, Barnabas, lad!" said he with a nod--"So you're going to leave us,
then?"
"Yes!" said Barnabas.
"And all dressed in your new clothes as fine as ever was!--stand
back a bit and let me have a look at you."
"How are they, Natty Bell?" inquired Barnabas with a note of anxiety
in his voice--"the Tenderden tailor assured me they were of the very
latest cut and fashion--what do you think, Natty Bell?"
"Hum!" said the ex-pugilist, staring down at Barnabas, chin in hand.
"Ha! they're very good clothes, Barnabas, yes indeed; just the very
thing--for the country."
"The country!--I had these made for London, Natty Bell."
"For London, Barnabas--hum!"
"What do you mean by 'hum,' Natty Bell?"
"Why--look ye now--'t is a good sensible coat, I'll not deny,
Barnabas; likewise the breeches is serviceable--but being only a
coat and breeches, why--they ain't per-lite enough. For in the world
of London, the per-lite world, Barnabas, clothes ain't garments to
keep a man warm--they're works of art; in the country a man puts 'em
on, and forgets all about 'em--in the per-lite world he has 'em put
on for him, and remembers 'em. In the country a man wears his clothes,
in the per-lite world his clothes wears him, ah! and they're often
the perlitest thing about him, too!"
"I suppose," sighed Barnabas, "a man's clothes are very
important--in the fashionable world?"
"Important! They are the most importantest part o' the fashionable
world, lad. Now there's Mr. Brummell--him as they call the
'Beau'--well, he ain't exactly a Lord Nelson nor yet a Champion of
England, he ain't never done nothing, good, bad, or indifferent--but
he does know how to wear his clothes--consequently he's a very
famous gentleman indeed--in the per-lite world, Barnabas." Here
there fell a silence while Barnabas stared up at the inn and Natty
Bell stared down at him. "To be sure, the old 'Hound' ain't much of
a place, lad--not the kind of inn as a gentleman of quality would go
out of his way to seek and search for, p'r'aps--but there be worse
places in London, Barnabas, I was born there and I know. There, there!
dear lad, never hang your head--youth must have its dreams I've heard;
so go your ways, Barnabas. You're a master wi' your fists, thanks to
John an' me--and you might have been Champion of England if you
hadn't set your heart on being only a gentleman. Well, well, lad!
don't forget as there are two old cocks o' the Game down here in Kent
as will think o' you and talk o' you, Barnabas, and what you might
have been if you hadn't happened to--Ah well, let be. But
wherever you go and whatever you come to be--you're our lad
still, and so, Barnabas, take this, wear it in memory of old
Natty Bell--steady--catch!" And, with the word, he tossed
down his great silver watch.
"Why, Natty Bell!" exclaimed Barnabas, very hoarse of voice.
"Dear old Natty--I can't take this!"
"Ah, but you can--it was presented to me twenty and one years ago,
Barnabas, the time I beat the Ruffian on Bexley Heath."
"But I can't--I couldn't take it," said Barnabas again, looking down
at the broad-faced, ponderous timepiece in his hand, which he knew
had long been Natty Bell's most cherished possession.
"Ay, but you can, lad--you must--'t is all I have to offer, and it
may serve to mind you of me, now and then, so take it! take it! And,
Barnabas, when you're tired o' being a fine gentleman up there in
London, why--come back to us here at the old 'Hound' and be content
to be just--a man. Good-by, lad; good-by!" saying which, Natty Bell
nodded, drew in his head and vanished, leaving Barnabas to stare up
at the closed lattice, with the ponderous timepiece ticking in his
hand.
So, in a while, Barnabas slipped it into his pocket and, turning his
back upon the "Coursing Hound," began to climb that hill beyond
which lay the London of his dreams. Therefore as he went he kept his
eyes lifted up to the summit of the hill, and his step grew light,
his eye brightened, for Adventure lay in wait for him; Life beckoned
to him from the distance; there was magic in the air. Thus Barnabas
strode on up the hill full of expectancy and the blind confidence in
destiny which is the glory of youth.
Oh, Spirit of Youth, to whose fearless eyes all things are matters
to wonder at; oh, brave, strong Spirit of Youth, to whom dangers are
but trifles to smile at, and death itself but an adventure; to thee,
since failure is unknown, all things are possible, and thou mayest,
peradventure, make the world thy football, juggle with the stars,
and even become a Fine Gentleman despite thy country homespun--and
yet--
But as for young Barnabas, striding blithely upon his way, he might
verily have been the Spirit of Youth itself--head high, eyes a-dance,
his heart light as his step, his gaze ever upon the distance ahead,
for he was upon the road at last, and every step carried him nearer
the fulfilment of his dream.
"At Tonbridge he would take the coach," he thought, or perhaps hire
a chaise and ride to London like a gentleman. A gentleman! and here
he was whistling away like any ploughboy. Happily the road was
deserted at this early hour, but Barnabas shook his head at himself
reproachfully, and whistled no more--for a time.
But now, having reached the summit of the hill, he paused and turned
to look back. Below him lay the old inn, blinking in its many
casements in the level rays of the newly risen sun; and now, all at
once, as he gazed down at it from this eminence, it seemed, somehow,
to have shrunk, to have grown more weather-beaten and worn--truly
never had it looked so small and mean as it did at this moment.
Indeed, he had been wont to regard the "Coursing Hound" as the very
embodiment of what an English inn should be--but now! Barnabas
sighed--which was a new thing for him. "Was the change really in the
old inn, or in himself?" he wondered. Hereupon he sighed again, and
turning, went on down the hill. But now, as he went, his step lagged
and his head drooped. "Was the change in the inn, or could it be
that money can so quickly alter one?" he wondered. And straightway
the coins in his pocket chinked and jingled "yes, yes!" wherefore
Barnabas sighed for the third time, and his head drooped lower yet.
Well then, since he was rich, he would buy his father a better
inn--the best in all England. A better inn! and the "Coursing Hound"
had been his home as long as he could remember. A better inn! Here
Barnabas sighed for the fourth time, and his step was heavier than
ever as he went on down the hill.