"But—can't you see, if you force him to expose you it will mean your social ruin?"
"But then I gave—Her—my promise."
"Oh, Barnabas," said the Duchess, looking up at him with her young, beautiful eyes that were so like Cleone's, "what a superb fool you are! And your father is only a village inn-keeper!"
"No, madam,—he was champion of all England as well."
"Oh!" sighed the Duchess, shaking her head, "that poor Sir Mortimer Carnaby! But, as for you, sir, you 're a fool, either a very clumsy, or a very—unselfish one,—anyhow, you're a fool, you know!"
"Yes," sighed Barnabas, his head hanging, "I fear I am."
"Oh yes,—you're quite a fool—not a doubt of it!" said the Duchess with a nod of finality. "And yet, oh, dear me! I think it may be because I'm seventy-one and growing younger every day, or perhaps because I'm so old that I have to wear a wig, but my tastes are so peculiar that there are some fools I could almost—love. So you may give me your arm,—Barnabas."
He obeyed mechanically, and they went on down the road together in silence until they came to a pair of tall, hospitable gates, and here Barnabas paused, and spoke wonderingly:
"Madam, you—you surely forget I am the son of—"
"A champion of all England, Barnabas. But, though you can thrash Sir Mortimer Carnaby, Wilfred Chichester is the kind of creature that only a truly clever woman can hope to deal with, so you may leave him to me!"
"But, madam, I—"
"Barnabas, quite so. But Wilfred Chichester always makes me shudder, and I love to shudder—now and then, especially in the hot weather. And then everything bores me lately—Cleone, myself,—even Whist, so I'll try my hand at another game—with Wilfred Chichester as an opponent."
"But, Duchess, indeed I—"
"Very true, Barnabas! but the matter is quite settled. And now, you are still determined to—confess your father to Cleone, I suppose?"
"Yes, I dare not speak to her otherwise, how could I, knowing myself an—"
"Impudent impostor, sir? Quite so and fiddlesticks! Heigho! you are so abominably high-minded and heroic, Barnabas,—it's quite depressing. Cleone is only a human woman, who powders her nose when it's red, and quite right too—I mean the powder of course, not the redness. Oh! indeed she's very human, and after all, your mother was a Beverley, and I know you are rich and—ah! there she is—on the terrace with the Captain, and I'm sure she has seen you, Barnabas, because she's so vastly unconscious. Observe the pose of her head,—she has a perfect neck and shoulders, and she knows it. There! see her kissing the Captain,—that's all for my benefit, the yellow minx! just because I happened to call him a 'hunks,' and so he is—though I don't know what I meant,—because he refused to change that dreadful old service coat. There! now she's patting his cheek—the golden jade! Now—watch her surprise when she pretends to catch sight of us!"
Hereupon, as they advanced over the smooth turf, the Duchess raised her voice.
"My bird!" she called in dulcet tones, "Clo dear, Cleone my lamb, here is Barnabas, I found him—under the finger-post, my dove!"
My lady turned, gave the least little start in the world, was surprised, glad, demure, all in the self-same minute, and taking the arm of her Tyrant, who had already begun a truly nautical greeting, led him, forthwith, down the terrace steps, the shining curls at her temple brushing his shabby coat-sleeve as they came.
"Ha!" cried the Captain, "my dear fellow, we're glad—I say we're all of us glad to see you. Welcome to 'The Gables,'—eh, Clo?"
And Cleone? With what gracious ease she greeted him! With what clear eyes she looked at him! With what demure dignity she gave him her white hand to kiss! As though—for all the world as though she could ever hope to deceive anything so old and so very knowing as the ancient finger-post upon the London road!
"Clo dear," said the Duchess, "they're going to talk horses and racing, and bets and things,—I know they are,—your arm, my love. Now,—lead on, gentlemen. And now, my dear," she continued, speaking in Cleone's ear as Barnabas and the Captain moved on, "he simply—adores you!"
"Really, God-mother—how clever of you!" said Cleone, her eyes brim full of merriment, "how wonderful you are!"
"Yes, my lady Pert,—he worships you and, consequently, is deceiving you with every breath he draws!"
"Deceiving me—!"
"With every moment he lives!"
"But—oh, God-mother—!"
"Cleone,—he is not what he seems!"
"Deceiving me?"
"His very name is false!"
"What do you mean? Ah no, no—I'm sure he would not, and yet—oh,
God-mother,—why?"
"Because—hush, Cleone—he's immensely rich, one of the wealthiest young men in London, and—hush! He would be—loved for himself alone. So, Cleone,—listen,—he may perhaps come to you with some wonderful story of poverty and humble birth. He may tell you his father was only a—a farmer, or a tinker, or a—an inn-keeper. Oh dear me,—so delightfully romantic! Therefore, loving him as you do—"
"I don't!"
"With every one of your yellow hairs—"
"I do—not!"
"From the sole of your foot—"
"God-mother!"
"To the crown of your wilful head,—oh, Youth, Youth!—you may let
your heart answer as it would. Oh Fire! Passion! Romance! (yes, yes,
Jack,—we're coming!) Your heart, I say, Cleone, may have its way,
because with all his wealth he has a father who—hush!—at one time
was the greatest man in all England,—a powerful man, Clo,—a famous
man, indeed a man of the most—striking capabilities. So, when your
heart—(dear me, how impatient Jack is!) Oh, supper? Excellent, for,
child, now I come to think of it, I'm positively swooning with hunger!"
CHAPTER XLVI
