"But indeed I was--quite an infant, Fanny."
"Quite, my love, and used to do my sums for me. But let me present
to you a young friend of mine, Mr.--Mr.--dear, dear! I quite
forget--my memory is going, you see, Letitia! Mr.--"
"Beverley, madam," said Barnabas.
"Thank you,--Beverley, of course! Mr. Beverley--the Countess of Orme."
Hereupon Barnabas bowed low before the haughty stare of the keen,
hawk-like eyes.
"And now, my sweet Letty," continued the Duchess, "you are always so
delightfully gossipy--have you any news,--any stories to laugh over?"
"No, dear Fanny, neither the one nor the other--only--"
"'Only,' my love?"
"Only--but you've heard it already, of course,--you would be the
very first to know of it!"
"Letitia, my dear--I always hated conundrums, you'll remember."
"I mean, every one is talking of it, already."
"Heigho! How warm the sun is!"
"Of course it may be only gossip, but they do say Cleone Meredith
has refused the hand of your grandnephew."
"Jerningham, oh yes," added the Duchess, "on the whole, it's just as
well."
"But I thought--" the hawk-eyes were very piercing indeed. "I feared
it would be quite a blow to you--"
The Duchess shook her head, with a little ripple of laughter.
"I had formed other plans for him weeks ago,--they were quite
unsuited to each other, my love."
"I'm delighted you take it so well, my own Fanny," said the Countess,
looking the reverse. "We leave almost immediately,--but when you
pass through Sevenoaks, you must positively stay with me for a day
or two. Goodby, my sweet Fanny!" So the two ancient ladies gravely
curtsied to each other, pecked each other on either cheek, and, with
a bow to Barnabas, the Countess swept away with an imposing rustle
of her voluminous skirts.
"Cat!" exclaimed the Duchess, shaking her fan at the receding figure;
"the creature hates me fervently, and consequently, kisses me--on
both cheeks. Oh, yes, indeed, sir, she detests me--and quite
naturally. You see, we were girls together,--she's six months my
junior, and has never let me forget it,--and the Duke--God rest
him--admired us both, and, well,--I married him. And so Cleone has
actually refused poor Jerningham,--the yellow-maned minx!"
"Why, then--you didn't know of it?" inquired Barnabas.
"Oh, Innocent! of course I didn't. I'm not omniscient, and I only
ordered him to propose an hour ago. The golden hussy! the proud jade!
Refuse my grand-nephew indeed! Well, there's one of your rivals
disposed of, it seems,--count that to your advantage, sir!"
"But," said Barnabas, frowning and shaking his head, "Sir Mortimer
Carnaby has her promise!"
"Fiddlesticks!"
"She gave him the rose!" said Barnabas, between set teeth. The
Duchess tittered.
"Dear heart! how tragic you are!" she sighed. "Suppose she did,--what
then? And besides--hum! This time it is young D'Arcy, it seems,--callow,
pink, and quite harmless."