Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle's averted eyes, and the drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle's whiskers, Barnabas took the purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.
"Mr. Smivvle," said he, "it is a far better thing to take the hand of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new life and—and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit when you reach New York, and—and heaven prosper you."
"Sir—" began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in contemplation of the glory of the morning.
"You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?" inquired
Barnabas.
"Sir," stammered Mr. Smivvle, "sir—oh, Beverley, I can't thank you—I cannot, but—if I live, you shall find I don't forget and—"
"Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!" said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.
In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek—as bright, as glorious as any jewel.
"Good-by, Beverley!" he whispered as their hands met, "good-by, and
I shall never forget—never!"
So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.
But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.