Barkilphedro

“ When we add that Josiana was beautiful, great, young, rich, powerful, and illustrious, while Barkilphedro was ugly, little, old, poor, dependent, obscure,—he must necessarily revenge himself for all this as well. When a man is made of darkness, how can he forgive so many beams of light?
Barkilphedro was an Irishman who had denied Ireland,—a bad type. Barkilphedro had but one thing in his favour,—that he had a very big belly. A big belly passes for a sign of kind-heartedness; but this belly was only an addition to Barkilphedro's hypocrisy, for the man was full of malice. ”

“ Barkilphedro excelled in making the cunning discoveries which place the great in the power of the little. His walk in the dark was winding, soft, clever. Like every perfect spy, he was composed of the inclemency of the executioner and the patience of a micograph. He was a born courtier. Every courtier is a noctambulist. The courtier prowls in the night, which is called power. He carries a dark lantern in his hand. He lights up the spot he wishes, and remains in darkness himself. ”

“ Thought is a projectile. Barkilphedro had, from the first day, begun to aim at Josiana the evil intentions which were in his mind. An intention and a carbine are alike. Barkilphedro aimed at Josiana, directing against the duchess all his secret malice. That astonishes you! What has the bird done at which you fire? You want to eat it, you say. And so it was with Barkilphedro.
Josiana could not be struck in the heart—the spot where the enigma lies is hard to wound ”

“ With such a craving, how sad to be powerless! Alas, there is nothing perfect! However, he resigned himself. Not being able to do better, he only dreamed half his dream. To play a treacherous trick is something after all.
What a man is he who revenges himself for a benefit received! Barkilphedro was a giant among such men. Usually, ingratitude is forgetfulness; with this man, steeped in wickedness, it was fury. The ordinary ingrate is full of ashes: what was in Barkilphedro? A furnace,—a furnace walled around with hate, silence, and rancour, awaiting Josiana for fuel! ”

“ For Barkilphedro to be "thee'd" and "thou'd" was a triumph; he was overjoyed by it. He had aspired to this contemptuous familiarity. "Lady Josiana thees-and-thous me," he would say to himself; and he would rub his hands. He profited by this theeing-and-thouing to make further progress. He became a constant attendant in Josiana's private rooms,—in no way troublesome, unnoticed; in fact, the duchess would almost have changed her shift before him. All this, however, was precarious. Barkilphedro was aiming at an assured position. A duchess is only a half-way house ”

“ What he seeks with his lantern is not a man, it is a fool. What he finds is the king.
Kings do not like to see those about them pretend to greatness. Irony aimed at any one except themselves has a charm for them. The talent of Barkilphedro consisted in a perpetual dwarfing of the peers and princes to the advantage of her Majesty's stature, thus increased in proportion. The master-key held by Barkilphedro was made with two sets of wards, one at each end, so as to open the inner apartments in both Josiana's favourite residences—Hunkerville House in London, Corleone Lodge at Windsor. ”

“ In the meantime let us stick our claws into Josiana.
Thus dreamed Barkilphedro. Such were the ragings of his soul. It is the habit of the envious man to absolve himself, amalgamating with his personal grievance the public wrongs.
All the wild forms of hateful passions went and came in the intellect of this ferocious being. At the corners of old maps of the world of the fifteenth century are great vague spaces without shape or name, on which are written these three words, Hic sunt leones. Such a dark corner is there also in man. ”

“ A week afterwards, thanks to Josiana's exertions, thanks to the influence of Lord David Dirry-Moir, Barkilphedro—safe thenceforward, drawn out of his precarious existence, lodged, and boarded, with a salary of a hundred guineas—was installed at the Admiralty.
CHAPTER VII. BARKILPHEDRO GNAWS HIS WAY.
There is one thing the most pressing of all: to be ungrateful. ”

“ Barclay no longer called to it. His eyes were clouded and stupid-looking. He glanced up at Vahana and found that he was being watched. Between the old man and the uncannily moving adder there had developed an affinity. The Fakir's face seemed to have narrowed and sharpened. From the wide cheek-bones down to the chin there were two straight converging lines between which ran the cruel curve of the mouth. The eyes were hard and dead as a basilisk's. But, like the reptile's, they expressed something—a sinister amusement, a soulless, ageless wisdom.
Barclay made a fumbling gesture. ”

“ He swung the lantern high. She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said.
She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward, and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow.
"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not come."
"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each day, after Vespers, I shall be here."
"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. ”

“ Barclay shrugged his shoulders.
"A dying woman——? I can grant you that much."
But even in the midst of his brutal self-assertiveness, a merciless flash of intuition showed him himself as they saw him. His power slipped through his fingers. He looked from Sigrid to Tristram, and knew their immeasurable indifference to all that he could threaten. They were not afraid—almost—they were glad. He could not penetrate their mood—he only felt it as an intolerable hurt—a frustration of that madly aching desire in him. ”

“ Tightly clenched in her hands were fragments of her torn veil.
She beat her knuckles upon the stones with rhythmic regularity; then, when her arms would lift no longer, took up the measure with her toes, in wild imitation of a galloping horse.
As she lay, she repeated with monotonous reiteration: "Trappings of crimson, and silver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a palfrey as white as snow!"
The Prioress entered, closed the door behind her, and looked searchingly at the prostrate figure; then, lifting the master-key which hung from her girdle, locked the door on the inside. ”

“ The door was softly shut, again, after him.
“Let’s creep round,” whispered Hugh, under his breath, “and see if there is a window or anything we can listen through.”
They crawled round to the back of the shed, and, to their joy, saw that there was a hole in the wall of the shed, where some boards had slipped. Under this hole chanced to be a big pile of soiled straw and hay. Climbing softly up on this the Cubs crouched down, keeping their heads low.
“It’s quite safe to light up,” they heard Black Bill say. “No one ever comes this way; there’s no fear of being discovered or overheard.” ”

“ The water of the Bering Sea was a deep blue-black, thought the Major, and he watched carefully the ship-made waves: black when with the sea mass, then varying shades of clear blue as they swept up into the large waves, exploding at last in sudden whiteness. When he had the time, Major Barkison appreciated beauty. ”

“ Yonder that deep gash in the sod at the left hides a woman's face—pale, wasted, dead on her pillow; and that clean black streak on the ebony cane—that is a tear, and in the tear is a girl's face and back of hers shimmers a boy's countenance. All of John Barclay's life and hopes and dreams and visions are spread out before him on the ground. So he closes his eyes, and braces his soul, and then, having risen, whistles as he limps lightly—for a man past fifty—down to the boat. ”

“ A red bird was calling in the woods near by, and the soft south wind had spring in it as it blew across the veil of waters that hid the dam. John Barclay's head was full of music, and he was lounging across the bridge from the mill on his way home to try his new pipe organ. He had spent four hours the day before at his organ bench, [Pg 320] trying to teach his lame foot to keep up with his strong foot. So when General Ward overhauled him, Barclay was annoyed. He was not the man to have his purposes crossed, even when they were whims. ”

“ The syce made no answer. He stroked the velvet nose of his charge and the stranger became aware from his attitude that they were no longer alone. She turned sharply, and the woman standing at the head of the steps immediately behind her returned her stare with a faint smile.
"Do you want Mr. Barclay?" she asked quietly.
"Yes, I do." The Eurasian hesitated. The fair-haired fragile-looking woman in the dark riding-habit seemed to frighten her.
"I've come all the way from Calcutta," she stammered.
"That's a long way. I'm sorry—Mr. Barclay is away—has been away for many weeks. ”

“ Barclay had made no pretence of being a cavalryman on the strength of his assignment to that arm. He started with the assertion that he had everything to learn, and then surprised his subaltern by an extensive knowledge of what we then called "the tactics." He was certainly not as much at home in saddle as on foot, and did not pretend to be, but he was by no means a poor or ungraceful rider. He had a light, gentle hand, at least,—a thing much harder for most men to acquire than a good seat. ”

“ And when the Spawer grows equal to it, it becomes a daily obligation for them to wander across the intervening stubble and pasture to Barclay's farm—where the sails of his reaper can be seen churning the blue sky above the hedge level, like the paddle of a steamer—just to give Barclay's stocks a turn, and show themselves not forgetful of their deliverer. The time comes, of course, when they must cease thanking him with their lips, but Pam's mere gaze upon him is a gratitude, and Barclay would have missed it, if she failed him one day, as he would miss his pipe or his "lowance." ”

“ Let me go, or our Lady knoweth I shall even now fail in the task which lies before me."
"Our Lord, Who knoweth the heart of a man," she said, "hath made my man so strong that he will not fail."
But she let him go; and rising, the Knight stood before her.
"The letter brought to me by Brother Philip," he began, "told me something of that which I am about to tell thee. But I could not speak of it to thee until I knew it in fullest detail, and had consulted with the Bishop concerning its possible effect upon thy future. Hence my instant departure to Worcester. ”

“ Her Little Boy Blue had come back to her. Oh, bliss unutterable! Why worry about the future?
"How silly we were, dear!" he said. "How silly to suppose we could part like that—you and I!" Then his sudden merry laugh rang out—oh, such music! such sweet music! "I say, Christobel," he said, "it is all very well now to say 'Stop, and be good.' But on the seventh day, when the walls fall down, and I march up into the citadel, I shall give you millions of kisses—or will it be billions?"
"Judging from my knowledge of you, Boy dear," she said, "I rather think it would be billions." ”

“ The World and the Flesh have called; the Reverend Mother will not come back. . . . Stir the broth well, but flavour it to thine own taste. Thou wilt sup on it thyself this night. When the World and the Flesh call loudly enough, the best of women go to the Devil."
"Liar!" said Mary Antony, brandishing her wooden spoon. "Get thee behind me—nay, rather, get thee in front of me! I have had thee skulking behind me long enough. Also in front of me, just now, being into the fire, thou wilt feel at home, Master Devil! Only, put not thy tail into the Reverend Mother's broth." ”

“ The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock ceased, seemed hours.
Then the Knight spoke.
"Give me the lantern," he said.
She met his eyes. Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her.
Again it was sweet to obey.
He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his.
"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling clover. To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them. We are under the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand beside thee in the grave. ”

“ However Barclay urges and pleads with her, her reply still is "I must go by my light." "I cannot submit to the opinions or practice of others, though they have more light than myself." [24]
[24] Not that Barclay aimed at proselytising, but he wished her to take the course which seemed to him the necessary outcome of her views. "I pretend to be no sect master," he writes, "and disgust all such."
At Herford, Barclay left his friends and returned to Amsterdam. In September we find him in London, using his influence with the Duke of York to procure liberty for Friends in Scotland. ”

“ Barclay?" Tristram interposed.
Barclay remained with his eyes on Sigrid's face.
"If you will come with me, Sigrid, Major Tristram can go back to Gaya."
She seemed scarcely to hear him. He heard Tristram laugh.
"Isn't this all rather melodramatic, Barclay? Do you really imagine I am anxious to save my life on such terms? Why don't you get on with things?"
Barclay swung round on his heel.
"And does my offer really amuse you? Are you amused at the death of a score or so of your countrymen up there in Gaya? That's what it amounts to. Mrs. Boucicault is giving a dinner to the station tonight. ”