"Yes—no. Pray find my guardian and bring him to me."
"First, tell me I may see you again, Cleone, before I leave for
London?"
"Yes," said Cleone, after a momentary hesitation.
Thereafter came the tread of Mr. Chichester's feet upon the gravel, soft and deliberate, like his voice.
Then Barnabas sighed, a long, bitter sigh, and looking up—saw
Cleone standing before him.
"Ah, dear Godmother!" said she lightly, "I hope your Grace was able to hear well?"
"Perfectly, my dear, thank you—every word," nodded the Duchess, "though twice Mr. Beverley nearly spoilt it all. I had to hold him dreadfully tight,—see how I've crumpled his beautiful cravat. Dear me, how impetuous you are, sir! As for you, Cleone, sit down, my dear,—that's it!—positively I'm proud of you,—kiss me,—I mean about the roses. It was vastly clever! You are myself over again."
"Your Grace honors me!" said Cleone, her eyes demure, but with a dimple at the corner of her red mouth.
"And I congratulate you. I was a great success—in my day. Ah me! I remember seeing you—an hour after you were born. You were very pink, Cleone, and as bald as—as I am, without my wig. No—pray sit still,—Mr. Beverley isn't looking at you, and he was just as bald, once, I expect—and will be again, I hope. Even at that early age you pouted at me, Cleone, and I liked you for it. You are pouting now, Miss! To-day Mr. Beverley frowns at me, and I like him for it,—besides, he's very handsome when he frowns, don't you think, Cleone?"
"Madam—" began Barnabas, with an angry look.
"Ah! now you're going to quarrel with me,—well there's the Major,—I shall go. If you must quarrel with some one,—try Cleone, she's young, and, I think, a match for you. Oh, Major! Major Piper, pray lend your arm and protection to a poor, old, defenceless woman." So saying, the Duchess rose, and the Major, bowing gallantly gave her the limb she demanded, and went off with her, 'haw'-ing in his best and most ponderous manner.
Barnabas sat, chin in hand, staring at the ground, half expecting that Cleone would rise and leave him. But no! My lady sat leaning back in her chair, her head carelessly averted, but watching him from the corners of her eyes. A sly look it was, a searching, critical look, that took close heed to all things, as—the fit and excellence of his clothes; the unconscious grace of his attitude; the hair that curled so crisp and dark at his temples; the woeful droop of his lips;—a long, inquisitive look, a look wholly feminine. Yes, he was certainly handsome, handsomer even than she had thought. And finding him so, she frowned, and, frowning, spoke:
"So you meant to buy me, sir—as you would a horse or dog?"
"No," said Barnabas, without looking up, and speaking almost humbly.
"It would have been the same thing, sir," she continued, a little more haughtily in consequence. "You would have put upon me an obligation I could never, never have hoped to repay?"
"Yes, I see my error now," said Barnabas, his head sinking lower. "I acted for the best, but I am a fool, and a clumsy one it seems. I meant only to serve you, to fulfil the mission you gave me, and I blundered—because I am—very ignorant. If you can forgive me, do so."
Now this humility was new in him, and because of this, and because she was a woman, she became straightway more exacting, and questioned him again.
"But why—why did you do it?"
"You asked me to save your brother, and I could see no other way—"
"How so? Please explain."
"I meant to free him from the debt which is crushing him down and unmanning him."
"But—oh, don't you see—he would still be in debt—to you?"
"I had forgotten that!" sighed Barnabas.
"Forgotten it?" she repeated.
"Quite!"
Surely no man could lie, whose eyes were so truthful and steadfast.
"And so you went and offered to—buy up his debts?"
"Yes."
"For three times the proper sum?"
"I would have paid whatever was asked."
"Why?"
"Because I promised you to help him," answered Barnabas, staring at the ground again.
"You must be—very rich?" said Cleone, stealing another look at him.
"I am."
"And—supposing you had taken over the debt, who did you think would ever repay you?"
"It never occurred to me."
"And you would have done—all this for a—stranger?"
"No, but because of the promise I gave."
