The Amateur Gentleman | Page 4

lattice to where the broad white road wound
away betwixt blooming hedges, growing ever narrower till it vanished
over the brow of a distant hill. "Not as I holds wi' eddication myself,
Barnabas, as you know," pursued his father, "but that's why you was
sent to school, that's why me an' Natty Bell sat by quiet an' watched ye
at your books. Sometimes when I've seen you a-stooping your back
over your reading, or cramping your fist round a pen, Barnabas,
why--I've took it hard, Barnabas, hard, I'll not deny--But Natty Bell has
minded me as it was her wish and so--why--there y' are."
It was seldom his father mentioned to Barnabas the mother whose face
he had never seen, upon which rare occasions John Barty's deep voice
was wont to take on a hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that were usually
so steady, would go wandering off until they fixed themselves on some
remote object. Thus he sat now, leaning back in his elbow chair, gazing
in rapt attention at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss above the mantel,
while his son, chin on fist, stared always and ever to where the road
dipped, and vanished over the hill--leading on and on to London, and
the great world beyond.
"She died, Barnabas--just twenty-one years ago--buried at Maidstone
where you were born. Twenty-one years is a longish time, lad, but
memory's longer, an' deeper,--an' stronger than time, arter all, an' I
know that her memory will go wi' me--all along the way--d' ye see lad:
and so Barnabas," said John Barty lowering his gaze to his son's face,
"so Barnabas, there y' are."
"Yes, father!" nodded Barnabas, still intent upon the road.
"And now I come to your uncle Tom--an' speaking of him--Barnabas
my lad,--what are ye going to do wi' all this money?"
Barnabas turned from the window and met his father's eye.
"Do with it," he began, "why first of all--"
"Because," pursued his father, "we might buy the 'White Hart'--t' other
side o' Sevenoaks,--to be sure you're over young to have any say in the

matter--still arter all the money's yours, Barnabas--what d' ye say to the
'White Hart'?"
"A very good house!" nodded Barnabas, stealing a glance at the road
again--"but--"
"To be sure there's the 'Running Horse,'" said his father, "just beyond
Purley on the Brighton Road--a coaching-house, wi' plenty o' custom,
what d' ye think o' the 'Running Horse'?"
"Any one you choose, father, but--"
"Then there's the 'Sun in the Sands' on Shooter's Hill--a fine inn an' not
to be sneezed at, Barnabas--we might take that."
"Just as you wish, father, only--"
"Though I've often thought the 'Greyhound' at Croydon would be a
comfortable house to own."
"Buy whichever you choose, father, it will be all one to me!"
"Good lad!" nodded John, "you can leave it all to Natty Bell an' me."
"Yes," said Barnabas, rising and fronting his father across the table,
"you see I intend to go away, sir."
"Eh?" exclaimed his father, staring--"go away--where to?"
"To London!"
"London? and what should you want in London--a slip of a lad like
you?"
"I'm turned twenty-two, father!"
"And what should a slip of a lad of twenty-two want in London? You
leave London alone, Barnabas. London indeed! what should you want
wi' London?"

"Learn to be a gentleman."
"A--what?" As he spoke, John Barty rose up out of his chair, his eyes
wide, his mouth agape with utter astonishment. As he encountered his
son's look, however, his expression slowly changed from amazement to
contempt, from contempt to growing ridicule, and from ridicule to
black anger. John Barty was a very tall man, broad and massive, but,
even so, he had to look up to Barnabas as they faced each other across
the table. And as they stood thus eye to eye, the resemblance between
them was marked. Each possessed the same indomitable jaw, the same
square brow and compelling eyes, the same grim prominence of chin;
but there all likeness ended. In Barnabas the high carriage of the head,
the soft brilliancy of the full, well-opened gray eye, the curve of the
sensitive nostrils, the sweet set of the firm, shapely mouth--all were the
heritage of that mother who was to him but a vague memory. But now
while John Barty frowned upon his son, Barnabas frowned back at his
father, and the added grimness of his chin offset the sweetness of the
mouth above.
"Barnabas," said his father at last, "did you say a--gentleman,
Barnabas?"
"Yes."
"What--you?" Here John Barty's frown vanished suddenly and,
expanding his great chest, he threw back his head and roared with
laughter. Barnabas clenched his fists, and his mouth lost something of
its sweetness, and his eyes glinted through their curving lashes, while
his father laughed and laughed till