"But? Oh, I see! Ah, to be sure! She is my great-aunt, of course, and my great-aunt, Beverley, generally thinks, and does, and says--exactly what she pleases. Begad! you never can tell what she' 11 be up to next,--consequently every one is afraid of her, even those high goddesses of the beau monde, those exclusive grandes dames, my Ladies Castlereagh, Jersey, Cowper and the rest of 'em--they're all afraid of my small great-aunt, and no wonder! You see, she's old--older than she looks, and--with a perfectly diabolical memory! She knows not only all their own peccadillos, but the sins of their great-grandmothers as well. She fears nothing on the earth, or under the earth, and respects no one--not even me. Only about half an hour ago she informed me that I was a--well, she told me precisely what I was,--and she can be painfully blunt, Beverley,--just because Cleone happens to have refused me again."
"Again?" said Barnabas inquiringly.
"Oh, yes! She does it regularly. Begad! she's refused me so often that it's grown into a kind of formula with us now. I say, 'Cleone, do!' and she answers, 'Bob, don't!' But even that's something,--lots of 'em haven't got so far as that with her."
"Sir Mortimer Carnaby, for instance!" said Barnabas, biting his lip.
"Hum!" said the Marquis dubiously, deftly re-settling his cravat, "and what of--yourself, Beverley?"
"I have asked her--only twice, I think."
"Ah, and she--refused you?"
"No," sighed Barnabas, "she told me she--despised me."
"Did she so? Give me your hand--I didn't think you were so strong in the running. With Cleone's sort there's always hope so long as she isn't sweet and graciously indifferent."
"Pray," said Barnabas suddenly, "pray where did you get that rose, Marquis?"
"This? Oh, she gave it to me."
"Cleone?"
"Of course."
"But--I thought she'd refused you?"
"Oh, yes--so she did; but that's just like Cleone, frowning one moment, smiling the next--April, you know."
"And did she--kiss it first?"
"Kiss it? Why--deuce take me, now I come to think of it,--so she did,--at least--What now, Beverley?"
"I'm--going!" said Barnabas.
"Going? Where?"
"Back--over the wall!"
"Eh!--run away, is it?"
"As far," said Barnabas, scowling, "as far as possible. Good-by, Marquis!" And so he turned and strode away, while the Marquis stared after him, open-mouthed. But as he went, Barnabas heard a voice calling his name, and looking round, beheld Captain Chumly coming towards him. A gallant figure he made (despite grizzled hair and empty sleeve), in all the bravery of his white silk stockings, and famous Trafalgar coat, which, though a little tarnished as to epaulettes and facings, nevertheless bore witness to the Bo'sun's diligent care; he was, indeed, from the crown of his cocked hat down to his broad, silver shoe-buckles, the very pattern of what a post-captain of Lord Nelson should be.
"Eh, sir!" he exclaimed, with his hand outstretched in greeting, "are ye blind, I say are ye blind and deaf? Didn't you hear her Grace hailing you? Didn't ye see me signal you to 'bring to'?"
"No, sir," answered Barnabas, grasping the proffered hand.
"Oho!" said the Captain, surveying Barnabas from head to foot, "so you've got 'em on, I see, and vastly different you look in your fine feathers. But you can sink me,--I say you can scuttle and sink me if I don't prefer you in your homespun! You'll be spelling your name with as many unnecessary letters, and twirls, and flourishes as you can clap in, nowadays, I'll warrant."
"Jack Chumly, don't bully the boy!" said a voice near by; and looking thitherward, Barnabas beheld the Duchess seated at a small table beneath a shady tree, and further screened by a tall hedge; a secluded corner, far removed from the throng, albeit a most excellent place for purposes of observation, commanding as it did a wide view of lawns and terraces. "As for you, Mr. Beverley," continued the Duchess, with her most imperious air, "you may bring a seat--here, beside me,--and help the Captain to amuse me."
"Madam," said Barnabas, his bow very solemn and very deep, "I am about to leave, and--with your permission--I--"
"You have my permission to--sit here beside me, sir. So! A dish of tea? No? Ah, well--we were just talking of you; the Captain was describing how he first met you--"
"Bowing to a gate-post, mam,--on my word as a sailor and a Christian, it was a gate-post,--I say, an accurs--a confoundedly rotten old stick of a gate-post."
"I remember," sighed Barnabas.
"And to-day, sir," continued the Captain, "to-day you must come clambering over a gentleman's garden wall to bow and scrape to a--"
"Don't dare to say--another stick, Jack Chumly!" cried the Duchess.
"I repeat, sir, you must come trespassing here, to bow--I say bah! and scrape--"
"I say tush!" interpolated the Duchess demurely.
"To an old--"
"Painted!" suggested the Duchess.
"Hum!" said the Captain, a little hipped, "I say--ha!--lady, sir--"
"With a wig!" added the Duchess.
"And with a young and handsome,--I say a handsome and roguish pair of eyes, sir, that need no artificial aids, mam, nor ever will!"
"Three!" cried the Duchess, clapping her hands. "Oh, Jack! Jack Chumly! you, like myself, improve with age! As a midshipman you were too callow, as a lieutenant much too old and serious, but now that you are a battered and wrinkled young captain, you can pay as pretty a compliment as any other gallant youth. Actually three in one hour, Mr. Beverley."
"Compliments, mam!" snorted the Captain, with an angry flap of his empty sleeve, "Compliments, I scorn 'em! I say pish, mam,--I say bah! I speak only the truth, mam, as well you know."
"Four!" cried the Duchess, with a gurgle of youthful laughter. "Oh, Jack! Jack! I protest, as you sit there you are growing more youthful every minute."
"Gad so, mam! then I'll go before I become a mewling infant--I say a puling brat, mam."
"Stay a moment, Jack. I want you to explain your wishes to Mr. Beverley in regard to Cleone's future."
"Certainly, your Grace--I say by all means, mam."
"Very well, then I'll begin. Listen--both of you. Captain Chumly, being a bachelor and consequently an authority on marriage, has, very properly, chosen whom his ward must marry; he has quite settled and arranged it all, haven't you, Jack?"
"Quite, mam, quite."
"Thus, Cleone is saved all the bother and worry of choosing for herself, you see, Mr. Beverley, for the Captain's choice is fixed,-- isn't it, Jack?"
"As a rock, mam--I say as an accurs--ha! an adamantine crag, mam. My ward shall marry my nephew, Viscount Devenham, I am determined on it--"
"Consequently, Mr. Beverley, Cleone will, of course, marry--whomsoever she pleases!"
"Eh, mam? I say, what?--I say--"