Yours ever, etc.,
DICK.
P.S. My love and service to the Duchess, Cleone and the Capt.
Now here Barnabas looked at Cleone, and sighed, and Cleone sighing also, nodded her head:
"You must go," said she, very softly, and sighed again.
"Yes, I must go, and yet—it is so very soon, Cleone!"
"Yes, it is dreadfully soon, Barnabas. But what does he mean by saying that people are talking of you to your disparagement? How dare they? Why should they?"
"I think because I, a rank outsider, ventured to lay a wager against
Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"Do you mean you bet him that you would win the race, Barnabas?"
"No,—only that I would beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"But, oh Barnabas,—he is the race! Surely you know he and the
Viscount are favorites?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then you do think you can win?"
"I mean to try—very hard!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little.
"And I begin to think," said Cleone, struck by his resolute eyes and indomitable mouth, "oh, Barnabas—I begin to think you—almost may."
"And if I did?"
"Then I should be very—proud of you."
"And if I lost?"
"Then you would be—"
"Yes?"
"Just—"
"Yes, Cleone?"
"My, Barnabas! Ah, no, no!" she whispered suddenly, "you are crushing me—dreadfully, and besides, that boy has terribly sharp eyes!" and Cleone nodded to where Master Milo stood, some distance away, with his innocent orbs lifted pensively towards the heavens, more like a cherub than ever.
"But he's not looking, and oh, Cleone,—how can I bear to leave you so soon? You are more to me than anything else in the world. You are my life, my soul,—my honor,—oh my dear!"
"Do you—love me so very much, Barnabas?" said she, with a sudden catch in her voice.
"And always must! Oh my dear, my dear,—don't you know? But indeed, words are so small and my love is so great that I fear you can never quite guess, or I tell it all."
"Then, Barnabas,—you will go?"
"Must I, Cleone? It will be so very hard to lose you—so soon."
"But a man always chooses the harder course, doesn't he, Barnabas?
And, dear, you cannot lose me,—and so you will go, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll go—because I love you!"
Then Cleone drew him deeper into the shade of the willows, and with a sudden, swift gesture, reached up her hands and set them about his neck.
"Oh my dear," she murmured, "oh Barnabas dear, I think I can guess—now. And I'm sure—the boy—can't see us—here!"
No, surely, neither this particular brook nor any other water-brook, stream or freshet, that ever sang, or sighed, or murmured among the reeds, could ever hope to catch all the thrilling tenderness of the sweet soft tones of Cleone's voice.
A brook indeed? Ridiculous!
Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible, and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings, and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable, ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true, but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.
"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"
Milo of Crotona turned and—looked at her. And though his face was as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.
