It will perhaps be expected that, owing to this unhappy state of affairs, Barnabas should have found sleep a stranger to his pillow; but, on the contrary, reaching London at daybreak, he went to bed, and there, wearied by his long ride, found a blessed oblivion from all his cares and sorrows. Nor did he wake till the day was far spent and evening at hand. But, with returning consciousness came Memory to harrow him afresh, came cold Pride and glowing Anger. And with these also was yet another emotion, and one that he had never known till now, whose name is Doubt; doubt of himself and of his future—that deadly foe to achievement and success—that ghoul-like incubus which, once it fastens on a man, seldom leaves him until courage, and hope, and confidence are dead, and nothing remains but a foreknowledge and expectation of failure.
With this grisly spectre at his elbow Barnabas rose and dressed, and went downstairs to make a pretence of breaking his fast.
"Sir," said Peterby, watching how he sat staring down moodily at the table, "sir, you eat nothing."
"No, John, I'm not hungry," he answered, pushing his plate aside. "By the way, did you find the cottage I mentioned in my note? Though, indeed, you've had very little time."
"Yes, sir, I found one just beyond Lewisham, small, though comfortable. Here is the key, sir."
"Thank you, John," said Barnabas, and thereafter sat staring gloomily at the key until Peterby spoke again:
"Sir, pray forgive me, but I fear you are in some trouble. Is it your misunderstanding with Viscount Devenham? I couldn't help but overhear, and—"
"Ah, yes—even the Viscount has quarrelled with me," sighed Barnabas, "next it will be the Marquis, I suppose, and after him—Gad, John Peterby—I shall have only you left!"
"Indeed, sir, you will always have me—always!"
"Sir, when you—gave a miserable wretch another chance to live and be a man, you were young and full of life."
"Yes, I was very, very young!" sighed Barnabas.
"But you were happy—your head was high and your eye bright with confident hope and purpose."
"Yes, I was very confident, John."
"And therefore—greatly successful, sir. Your desire was to cut a figure in the Fashionable World. Well, to-day you have your wish—to-day you are famous, and yet—"
"Sir, to-day I fear you are—not happy."
"No, I'm not happy," sighed Barnabas, "for oh! John Peterby, what shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his soul!"
"I mean—the Lady Cleone, John. Losing her, I lose all, and success is worse than failure."
"But, sir,—must you lose her?"
"I fear so. Who am I that she should stoop to me among so many? Who am I to expect so great happiness?"
"Sir," said Peterby, shaking his head, "I have never known you doubt yourself or fortune till now!"
"It never occurred to me, John."
"And because of this unshaken confidence in yourself you won the steeplechase, sir—unaided and alone you won for yourself a place in the most exclusive circles in the World of Fashion—without friends or influence you achieved the impossible, because you never doubted."
"Yes, I was very confident, John, but then, you see, I never thought anything impossible—till now."
"And therefore you succeeded, sir. But had you constantly doubted your powers and counted failure even as a possibility, you might still have dreamed of your success—but never achieved it."
"Why then," sighed Barnabas, rising, "it seems that Failure has marked me for her own at last, for never was man fuller of doubt than I."
