CALVERT’S first care as he entered his room was to ascertain if his purse was there. It was all safe and untouched. He next lit a cigar, and opening his window, leaned out to smoke. It was a glorious autumn night, still, starry and cloudless. Had anyone from the street beneath seen him there, he might have said, “There is some wearied man of brain-labour, taking his hour of tranquil thought before he betakes himself to rest; or he is one of those contemplative natures who loves to be free to commune with his own heart in the silence of a calm night.” He looked like this, and perhaps—who knows if he were not nearer it than we wot of?
It was nigh daybreak before he lay down to sleep. Nor had he been fully an hour in slumber when he was awoke, and found Barnard, dressed in a morning gown and slippers, standing beside his bed.
“I say, Calvert, rub your eyes and listen to me. Are you awake?”
“Not very perfectly; but quite enough for anything you can have to say. What is it?”
“I am so fretted about that money.”
“Why you told me that last night,” said Calvert, addressing himself, as it were, again to sleep.
“Oh, its all very fine and very philosophic to be indifferent about another man’s ‘tin;’ but I tell you I don’t know what to do, what to say about it I’m not six weeks married, and it’s rather early to come to rows and altercations with a father-in-law.”
“Address him to me. Say ‘Go to Calvert—he’ll talk to you.’ Do that like a good fellow and go to bed. Good night.”
“I’ll not stand this sort of thing, Calvert. I’m no going to lose my money and be laughed at too!”
“You’ll not stand what?” cried Calvert, sitting up in bed, and looking now thoroughly awake.