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.
"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty child!"
Surely no cherub--especially one in such knowing top-boots--could be reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew positively murderous.
"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he coldly, and with his most superb air.
"Groom?" said the Duchess, staring, "what a very small one, to be sure!"
"It ain't inches as counts wiv 'osses, mam,--or hany-think else, mam, --it's nerves as counts, it is."
"Why, yes, you seem to have plenty of nerve!"
"Well, mam, there ain't much as I trembles at, there ain't,--and when I do, I don't show it, I don't."
"And such a pretty child, too!" sighed the Duchess.
"Child, mam? I ain't no child, I'm a groom, I am. Child yourself, mam!"
"Lud! I do believe he's even paying me compliments! How old are you, boy?"
"A lot more 'n you think, and hoceans more 'n I look, mam."
"And what's your name?"
"Milo, mam,--Milo o' Crotona, but my pals generally calls me Tony, for short, they do."
"Milo of Crotona!" repeated the Duchess, with her eyes wider than ever, "but he was a giant who slew an ox with his fist, and ate it whole!"
"Why, mam, I'm oncommon fond of oxes,--roasted, I am."
"Well," said the Duchess, "you are the very smallest giant I ever saw."
"Why, you ain't werry large yourself, mam, you ain't."
"No, I fear I am rather petite," said the Duchess with a trill of girlish laughter. "And pray, Giant, what may you be doing here?"
"Come up on the coach, I did,--box seat, mam,--to take Mr. Beverley back wiv me 'cause 'is 'oss ain't safe, and--"
"Not safe,--what do you mean, boy?"
"Some coves got in and tried to nobble 'Moonraker' and 'im--"
"Nobble, boy?"
"Lame 'em, mam,--put 'em out o' the running."
"The wretches!"
"Yes'm. Ye see us sportsmen 'ave our worritting times, we do."
"But where is Mr. Beverley?"
"Why, I ain't looked, mam, I ain't,--but they're down by the brook--behind them bushes, they are."
"Oh, are they!" said the Duchess, "Hum!"
"No mam,--'e's a-coming, and so's she."
"Why, Barnabas," cried the Duchess, as Cleone and he stepped out of the shadow, "what's all this I hear about your horse,--what