It was well past noon when he beheld a certain lonely church where many a green mound and mossy headstone marked the resting-place of those that sleep awhile. And here, beside the weather-worn porch, were the stocks, that "place of thought" where Viscount Devenham had sat in solitary, though dignified meditation. A glance, a smile, and Barnabas was past, and galloping down the hill towards where the village nestled in the valley. Before the inn he dismounted, and, having seen Four-legs well bestowed, and given various directions to a certain sleepy-voiced ostler, he entered the inn, and calling for dinner, ate it with huge relish. Now, when he had done, came the landlord to smoke a pipe with him,—a red-faced man, vast of paunch and garrulous of tongue.
"Fine doin's there be up at t' great 'ouse, sir," he began.
"You mean Annersley House?"
"Ay, sir. All the quality is there,—my son's a groom there an' 'e told me, so 'e did. Theer ain't nobody as ain't either a Markus or a Earl or a Vi'count, and as for Barry-nets, they're as thick as flies, they are,—an' all to meet a little, old 'ooman as don't come up to my shoulder! But then—she's a Duchess, an' that makes all the difference!"
"Yes, of course," said Barnabas.
"A little old 'ooman wi' curls, as don't come no-wise near so 'igh as my shoulder! Druv up to that theer very door as you see theer, in 'er great coach an' four, she did,—orders the steps to be lowered, —comes tapping into this 'ere very room with 'er little cane, she do, —sits down in that theer very chair as you're a-sittin' in, she do, fannin' 'erself with a little fan—an' calls for—now, what d' ye suppose, sir?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"She calls, sir,—though you won't believe me, it aren't to be expected,—no, not on my affer-daver,—she being a Duchess, ye see—"
"Well, what did she call for?" inquired Barnabas, rising.
"Sir, she called for—on my solemn oath it's true—though I don't ax ye to believe me, mind,—she sat in that theer identical chair,—an' mark me, 'er a Duchess,—she sat in that cheer, a-fannin' 'erself with 'er little fan, an' calls for a 'arf of Kentish ale—'Westerham brew,' says she; an' 'er a Duchess! In a tankard! But I know as you won't believe me,—nor I don't ax any man to,—no, not if I went down on my bended marrer-bones—"