"Honored, sir," said Sir Mortimer, as they bowed.
"Mr. Beverley is, I believe, an opponent of yours, Sir Mortimer?" pursued the Duchess, with her placid smile.
"An opponent! indeed, your Grace?" said he, favoring Barnabas with another careless glance.
"I mean—in the race, of course," smiled the Duchess. "But oh, happy man! So you have been blessed also?"
"How, Duchess?"
"I see you wear Cleone's favor,—you've been admitted to the Order of the Rose, like all the others." And the Duchess tittered.
"Others, your Grace! What others?"
"Oh, sir, their name is Legion. There's Jerningham, and young Denton, and Snelgrove, and Ensign D'Arcy, and hosts beside. Lud, Sir Mortimer, where are your eyes? Look there! and there! and there again!" And, with little darting movements of her fan, she indicated certain young gentlemen, who strolled to and fro upon the lawn; now, in the lapel of each of their coats was a single, red rose. "There's safety in numbers, and Cleone was always cautious!" said the Duchess, and tittered again.
Sir Mortimer glanced from those blooms to the flower in his own coat, and his cheek grew darkly red, and his mouth took on a cruel look.
"Ah, Duchess," he smiled, "it seems our fair Cleone has an original idea of humor,—very quaint, upon my soul!" And so he laughed, and bowing, turned away.
"Now—watch!" said the Duchess, "there!" As she spoke, Sir Mortimer paused, and with a sudden fierce gesture tore the rose from his coat and tossed it away. "Now really," said the Duchess, leaning back and fanning herself placidly, "I think that was vastly clever of me; you should be grateful, sir, and so should Cleone—hush!—here she comes, at last."
"Where?" inquired Barnabas, glancing up hastily.
"Ssh! behind us—on the other side of the hedge—clever minx!"
"Why then—"
"Sit still, sir—hush, I say!"
"So that is the reason," said Cleone's clear voice, speaking within a yard of them, "that is why you dislike Mr. Beverley?"
"Yes, and because of his presumption!" said a second voice, at the sound of which Barnabas flushed and started angrily, whereupon the Duchess instantly hooked him by the buttonhole again.
"His presumption in what, Mr. Chichester?"
"In his determined pursuit of you."
"Is he in pursuit of me?"
"Cleone—you know he is!"
"But how do you happen to know?"
"From his persecution of poor Ronald, for one thing."
"Persecution, sir?"
"It amounted to that. He found his way to Ronald's wretched lodging, and tempted the poor fellow with his gold,—indeed almost commanded Ronald to allow him to pay off his debts—"
"But Ronald refused, of course?" said Cleone quickly.
"Of course! I was there, you see, and this Beverley is a stranger!"
"A stranger—yes."
"And yet, Cleone, when your unfortunate brother refused his money,—this utter stranger, this Good Samaritan,—actually went behind Ronald's back and offered to buy up his debts! Such a thing might be done by father for son, or brother for brother, but why should any man do so much for an utter stranger—?"
"Either because he is very base, or very—noble!" said Cleone.
"Noble! I tell you such a thing is quite impossible—unheard of! No man would part with a fortune to benefit a stranger—unless he had a powerful motive!"
"Well?" said Cleone softly.
"Well, Cleone, I happen to know that motive is—yourself!" Here the Duchess, alert as usual, caught Barnabas by the cravat, and only just in time.
"Sit still—hush!" she whispered, glancing up into his distorted face, for Mr. Chichester was going on in his soft, deliberate voice:
"Oh, it is all very simple, Cleone, and very clumsy,—thus, see you. In the guise of Good Samaritan this stranger buys the debts of the brother, trusting to the gratitude of the sister. He knows your pride, Cleone, so he would buy your brother and put you under lasting obligation to himself. The scheme is a little coarse, and very clumsy,—but then, he is young."
"And you say—he tried to pay these debts—without Ronald's knowledge?
Are you sure—quite sure?"
"Quite! And I know, also, that when Ronald's creditor refused, he actually offered to double—to treble the sum! But, indeed, you would be cheap at sixty thousand pounds, Cleone!"
"Oh—hateful!" she cried.
"Crude, yes, and very coarse, but, as I said before, he is young—what, are you going?"
