So down they sat forthwith and, despite the Viscount's arm, and the Marquis of Jerningham's cravat, a very hearty and merry meal they made of it.
But lo! as they prepared to rise from the table, voices were heard beyond the door, whereupon the Viscount sat up suddenly to listen.
"Why—egad!" he exclaimed, "I do believe it's my Roman!"
"No, by heaven!" said the Marquis, also listening, "dooce take me if it isn't my great-aunt—her Graceless Grace, by Jove it is!"
Even as he spoke, the door opened and the Duchess swept in, all rustling silks and furbelows, very small, very dignified, and very imperious. Behind her, Barnabas saw a tall, graceful figure, strangely young-looking despite his white hair, which he wore tied behind in a queue, also his clothes, though elegant, were of a somewhat antiquated fashion; but indeed, this man with his kindly eyes and gentle, humorous mouth, was not at all like the Roman parent Barnabas had pictured.
"Ah, gentlemen!" cried the Duchess, acknowledging their four bows with a profound curtsy, "I am here to wish you success—all four of you—which is quite an impossible wish of course—still, I wish it. Lud, Captain Slingsby, how well you look in scarlet! Marquis—my fan! Mr. Beverley—my cane! A chair? thank you, Viscount. Yes indeed, gentlemen, I've backed you all—I shall gain quite a fortune if you all happen to win—which you can't possibly, of course,—still, one of you will, I hope,—and—oh, dear me, Viscount, how pale you are! Look at him, Bamborough—it's his arm, I know it is!"
"Arm, madam?" repeated the Viscount with an admirable look of surprise, "does your Grace suggest—"
But here the Earl of Bamborough stepped into the room and, closing the door, bowed to the company.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I have the honor to salute you!
Viscount—your most dutiful, humble, obedient father to command."
"My Lord," answered the Viscount, gravely returning his father's bow, "your Lordship's most obliged and grateful son!"
"My dear Devenham," continued the Earl solemnly, "being, I fear, something of a fogy and fossil, I don't know if you Bucks allow the formality of shaking hands. Still, Viscount, as father and son—or rather son and father, it may perhaps be permitted us? How are you, Viscount?"
Now as they clasped hands, Barnabas saw the Viscount set his jaw grimly, and something glistened upon his temple, yet his smile was quite engaging as he answered:
"Thank you, my Lord,—never better!"
"Yes," said his Lordship, as he slowly relinquished the Viscount's hand, "your Grace was right, as usual,—it is his arm!"
"Then of course he cannot ride, Bamborough—you will forbid it?"
"On the contrary, madam, he must ride. Being a favorite, much money has changed hands already on his account, and, arm or no arm, he must ride now—he owes it to his backers. You intend to, of course, Horatio?"
"My Lord, I do."
"It's your right arm, luckily, and a horseman needs only his left.
You ride fairly well, I understand, Viscount?"
"Oh, indifferent well, sir, I thank you. But allow me to present my friend to your Lordship,—Mr. Beverley—my father!"
So Barnabas shook hands with the Viscount's Roman parent, and, meeting his kindly eyes, saw that, for all their kindliness, they were eyes that looked deep into the heart of things.
"Come, gentlemen," cried the Duchess rising, "if you have quite finished breakfast, take me to the stables, for I'm dying to see the horses, I vow I am. Lead the way, Viscount. Mr. Beverley shall give me his arm."
So towards the stables they set forth accordingly, the Duchess and Barnabas well to the rear, for, be it remarked, she walked very slowly.
"Here it is, Barnabas," said she, as soon as the others were out of ear-shot.
"What, madam?"
"Oh, dear me, how frightfully dense you are, Barnabas!" she exclaimed, fumbling in her reticule. "What should it be but a letter, to be sure—Cleone's letter."
"A letter from Cleone! Oh, Duchess—"
"Here—take it. She wrote it last night—poor child didn't sleep a wink, I know, and—all on your account, sir. I promised I'd deliver it for her,—I mean the letter—that's why I made Bamborough bring me here. So you see I've kept my word as I always do—that is—sometimes. Oh, dear me, I'm so excited—about the race, I mean—and Cleone's so nervous—came and woke me long before dawn, and there were tears on her lashes—I know because I felt 'em when I kissed them—I mean her eyes. And Patten dressed me in such a hurry this morning—which was really my fault, and I know my wig's not straight—and there you stand staring at it as though you wanted to kiss it—I mean Cleone's letter, not my wig. That ridiculous Mr. Tressider told Cleone that it was the best course he ever hoped to ride over—meaning 'the worst' of course, so Cleone's quite wretched, dear lamb—but oh, Barnabas, it would be dreadful if— if you were—killed—oh!" And the Duchess shivered and turned away.
"Would you mind? So much, madam?"
"Barnabas—I never had a son—or a daughter—but I think I know just how—your mother would be feeling—now!"
"And I do not remember my mother!" said Barnabas.
"Poor, poor Joan!" sighed the Duchess, very gently. "Were she here I think she would—but then she was much taller than I, and—oh, boy, stoop—stoop down, you great, tall Barnabas—how am I ever to reach you if you don't?"
Then Barnabas stooped his head, and the Duchess kissed him—even as his own mother might have done, and so, smiling a little tremulously, turned away. "There! Barnabas," she sighed. "And now—oh, I know you are dying to read your letter—of course you are, so pray sir,—go back and fetch my fan,—here it is, it will serve as an excuse, while I go on to look at the horses." And with a quick, smiling nod, she hurried away across the paddock after the others. Then Barnabas broke the seal of Cleone's letter, and—though to be sure it might have been longer—he found it all sufficient. Here it is:
The Palace Grange,
Eltham,
Midnight.
Ever Dearest,—The race is to-morrow and, because I love you greatly,
so am I greatly afraid for you. And dear, I love you because you are
so strong, and gentle, and honorable. And therefore, here on my knees
