Seymour Jocelyn, Mrs. Evremonde, Drummond, Jenny Graine, and William Harvey, rode with Mr. George in quest of the carriage, and the captive was duly delivered over.
‘But where’s the brush?’ said Lady Jocelyn, laughing, and introducing him to the Countess, who dropped her head, and with it her veil.
‘Oh! they leave that on for my next run,’ said Mr. George, bowing civilly.
‘You are going to run again?’
Miss Carrington severely asked this question; and Mr. George protested.
‘Secure him, Louisa,’ said Lady Jocelyn. ‘See here: what’s the matter with poor Dorothy?’
Dorothy came slowly trotting up to them along the green lane, and thus expressed her grief, between sobs:
‘Isn’t it a shame? Rose is such a tyrant. They’re going to ride a race and a jump down in the field, and it’s break-neck leap, and Rose won’t allow me to stop and see it, though she knows I’m just as fond of Evan as she is; and if he’s killed I declare it will be her fault; and it’s all for her stupid, dirty old pocket handkerchief!’
‘Break-neck fence!’ said Lady Jocelyn; ‘that’s rather mad.’
‘Do let’s go and see it, darling Aunty Joey,’ pleaded the little maid. Lady Jocelyn rode on, saying to herself: ‘That girl has a great deal of devil in her.’ The lady’s thoughts were of Rose.
‘Black Lymport’d take the leap,’ said Mr. George, following her with the rest of the troop. ‘Who’s that fellow on him?’
‘His name’s Harrington,’ quoth Drummond.
‘Oh, Harrington!’ Mr. George responded; but immediately laughed—‘Harrington? ‘Gad, if he takes the leap it’ll be odd—another of the name. That’s where old Mel had his spill.’
‘Who?’ Drummond inquired.
‘Old Mel Harrington—the Lymport wonder. Old Marquis Mel,’ said Mr. George. ‘Haven’t ye heard of him?’
‘What! the gorgeous tailor!’ exclaimed Lady Jocelyn. ‘How I regret never meeting that magnificent snob! that efflorescence of sublime imposture! I’ve seen the Regent; but one’s life doesn’t seem complete without having seen his twin-brother. You must give us warning when you have him down at Croftlands again, Mr. George.’
‘Gad, he’ll have to come a long distance—poor old Mel!’ said Mr. George; and was going on, when Seymour Jocelyn stroked his moustache to cry, ‘Look! Rosey ‘s starting ‘em, by Jove!’
The leap, which did not appear formidable from where they stood, was four fields distant from the point where Rose, with a handkerchief in her hand, was at that moment giving the signal to Laxley and Evan.
Miss Carrington and the Countess begged Lady Jocelyn to order a shout to be raised to arrest them, but her ladyship marked her good sense by saying: ‘Let them go, now they’re about it’; for she saw that to make a fuss now matters had proceeded so far, was to be uncivil to the inevitable.
The start was given, and off they flew. Harry Jocelyn, behind them, was evidently caught by the demon, and clapped spurs to his horse to have his fling as well, for the fun of the thing; but Rose, farther down the field, rode from her post straight across him, to the imminent peril of a mutual overset; and the party on the height could see Harry fuming, and Rose coolly looking him down, and letting him understand what her will was; and her mother, and Drummond, and Seymour who beheld this, had a common sentiment of admiration for the gallant girl. But away went the rivals. Black Lymport was the favourite, though none of the men thought he would be put at the fence. The excitement became contagious. The Countess threw up her veil. Lady Jocelyn, and Seymour, and Drummond, galloped down the lane, and Mr. George was for accompanying them, till the line of Miss Carrington’s back gave him her unmistakeable opinion of such a course of conduct, and he had to dally and fret by her side. Andrew’s arm was tightly grasped by the Countess. The rivals were crossing the second field, Laxley a little a-head.
‘He ‘s holding in the black mare—that fellow!’ said Mr. George. ‘Gad, it looks like going at the fence. Fancy Harrington!’
They were now in the fourth field, a smooth shorn meadow. Laxley was two clear lengths in advance, but seemed riding, as Mr. George remarked, more for pace than to take the jump. The ladies kept plying random queries and suggestions: the Countess wishing to know whether they could not be stopped by a countryman before they encountered any danger. In the midst of their chatter, Mr. George rose in his stirrups, crying:
‘Bravo, the black mare!’
‘Has he done it?’ said Andrew, wiping his poll.
‘He? No, the mare!’ shouted Mr. George, and bolted off, no longer to be restrained.
The Countess, doubly relieved, threw herself back in the carriage, and Andrew drew a breath, saying: ‘Evan has beat him—I saw that! The other’s horse swerved right round.’
‘I fear,’ said Mrs. Evremonde, ‘Mr. Harrington has had a fall. Don’t be alarmed—it may not be much.’
‘A fall!’ exclaimed the Countess, equally divided between alarms of sisterly affection and a keen sense of the romance of the thing.
Miss Carrington ordered the carriage to be driven round. They had not gone far when they were met by Harry Jocelyn riding in hot haste, and he bellowed to the coachman to drive as hard as he could, and stop opposite Brook’s farm.
The scene on the other side of the fence would have been a sweet one to the central figure in it had his eyes then been open. Surrounded by Lady Jocelyn, Drummond, Seymour, and the rest, Evan’s dust-stained body was stretched along the road, and his head was lying in the lap of Rose, who, pale, heedless of anything spoken by those around her, and with her lips set and her eyes turning wildly from one to the other, held a gory handkerchief to his temple with one hand, and with the other felt for the motion of his heart.
But heroes don’t die, you know.
CHAPTER XXI. TRIBULATIONS AND TACTICS OF THE COUNTESS
‘You have murdered my brother, Rose Jocelyn!’
‘Don’t say so now.’
Such was the interchange between the two that loved the senseless youth, as he was being lifted into the carriage.
Lady Jocelyn sat upright in her saddle, giving directions about what was to be done with Evan and the mare, impartially.
‘Stunned, and a good deal shaken, I suppose; Lymport’s knees are terribly cut,’ she said to Drummond, who merely nodded. And Seymour remarked, ‘Fifty guineas knocked off her value!’ One added, ‘Nothing worse, I should think’; and another, ‘A little damage inside, perhaps.’ Difficult to say whether they spoke of Evan or the brute.
No violent outcries; no reproaches cast on the cold-blooded coquette; no exclamations on the heroism of her brother! They could absolutely spare a thought for the animal! And Evan had risked his life for this, and might die unpitied. The Countess diversified her grief with a deadly bitterness against the heartless Jocelyns.
Oh, if Evan dies! will it punish Rose sufficiently?
Andrew expressed emotion, but not of a kind the Countess liked a relative to be seen exhibiting; for in emotion worthy Andrew betrayed to her his origin offensively.
‘Go away and puke, if you must,’ she said, clipping poor Andrew’s word about his ‘dear boy.’ She could not help speaking in that way—he was so vulgar. A word of sympathy from Lady Jocelyn might have saved her from the sourness into which her many conflicting passions were resolving; and might also have saved her ladyship from the rancour she had sown in the daughter of the great Mel by her selection of epithets to characterize him.
Will it punish Rose at all, if Evan dies?
Rose saw that she was looked at. How could the Countess tell that Rose envied her the joy of holding Evan in the carriage there? Rose, to judge by her face, was as calm as glass. Not so well seen through, however. Mrs. Evremonde rode beside her, whose fingers she caught, and twined her own with them tightly once for a fleeting instant. Mrs. Evremonde wanted no further confession of her state.
Then Rose said to her mother, ‘Mama, may I ride to have the doctor ready?’
Ordinarily, Rose would have clapped heel to horse the moment the thought came. She waited for the permission, and flew off at a gallop, waving back Laxley, who was for joining her.
‘Franks will be a little rusty about the mare,’ the Countess heard Lady Jocelyn say; and Harry just then stooped his head to the carriage, and said, in his blunt fashion, ‘After all, it won’t show much.’
‘We are not cattle!’ exclaimed the frenzied Countess, within her bosom. Alas! it was almost a democratic outcry they made her guilty of; but she was driven past patience. And as a further provocation, Evan would open his eyes. She laid her handkerchief over them with loving delicacy, remembering in a flash that her own face had been all the while exposed to Mr. George Uplift; and then the terrors of his presence at Beckley Court came upon her, and the fact that she had not for the last ten minutes been the serene Countess de Saldar; and she quite hated Andrew, for vulgarity in others evoked vulgarity in her, which was the reason why she ranked vulgarity as the chief of the deadly sins. Her countenance for Harry and all the others save poor Andrew was soon the placid heaven-confiding sister’s again; not before Lady Jocelyn had found cause to observe to Drummond:
‘Your Countess doesn’t ruffle well.’
But a lady who is at war with two or three of the facts of Providence, and yet will have Providence for her ally, can hardly ruffle well. Do not imagine that the Countess’s love for her brother was hollow. She was assured when she came up to the spot where he fell, that there was no danger; he had but dislocated his shoulder, and bruised his head a little. Hearing this, she rose out of her clamorous heart, and seized the opportunity for a small burst of melodrama. Unhappily, Lady Jocelyn, who gave the tone to the rest, was a Spartan in matters of this sort; and as she would have seen those dearest to her bear the luck of the field, she could see others. When the call for active help reached her, you beheld a different woman.
The demonstrativeness the Countess thirsted for was afforded her by Juley Bonner, and in a measure by her sister Caroline, who loved Evan passionately. The latter was in riding attire, about to mount to ride and meet them, accompanied by the Duke. Caroline had hastily tied up her hair; a rich golden brown lump of it hung round her cheek; her limpid eyes and anxiously-nerved brows impressed the Countess wonderfully as she ran down the steps and bent her fine well-filled bust forward to ask the first hurried question.
The Countess patted her shoulder. ‘Safe, dear,’ she said aloud, as one who would not make much of it. And in a whisper, ‘You look superb.’
I must charge it to Caroline’s beauty under the ducal radiance, that a stream of sweet feelings entering into the Countess made her forget to tell her sister that George Uplift was by. Caroline had not been abroad, and her skin was not olive-hued; she was a beauty, and a majestic figure, little altered since the day when the wooden marine marched her out of Lymport.
The Countess stepped from the carriage to go and cherish Juliana’s petulant distress; for that unhealthy little body was stamping with impatience to have the story told to her, to burst into fits of pathos; and while Seymour and Harry assisted Evan to descend, trying to laugh off the pain he endured, Caroline stood by, soothing him with words and tender looks.
Lady Jocelyn passed him, and took his hand, saying, ‘Not killed this time!’
‘At your ladyship’s service to-morrow,’ he replied, and his hand was kindly squeezed.
‘My darling Evan, you will not ride again?’ Caroline cried, kissing him on the steps; and the Duke watched the operation, and the Countess observed the Duke.
That Providence should select her sweetest moments to deal her wounds, was cruel; but the Countess just then distinctly heard Mr. George Uplift ask Miss Carrington.
‘Is that lady a Harrington?’
‘You perceive a likeness?’ was the answer.
Mr. George went ‘Whew!—tit-tit-tit!’ with the profound expression of a very slow mind.
The scene was quickly over. There was barely an hour for the ladies to dress for dinner. Leaving Evan in the doctor’s hand, and telling Caroline to dress in her room, the Countess met Rose, and gratified her vindictiveness, while she furthered her projects, by saying:
‘Not till my brother is quite convalescent will it be adviseable that you should visit him. I am compelled to think of him entirely now. In his present state he is not fit to be, played with.’
Rose, stedfastly eyeing her, seemed to swallow down something in her throat, and said:
‘I will obey you, Countess. I hoped you would allow me to nurse him.’
‘Quiet above all things, Rose Jocelyn!’ returned the Countess, with the suavity of a governess, who must be civil in her sourness. ‘If you would not complete this morning’s achievement—stay away.’
The Countess declined to see that Rose’s lip quivered. She saw an unpleasantness in the bottom of her eyes; and now that her brother’s decease was not even remotely to be apprehended, she herself determined to punish the cold, unimpressionable coquette of a girl. Before returning to Caroline, she had five minutes’ conversation with. Juliana, which fully determined her to continue the campaign at Beckley Court, commence decisive movements, and not to retreat, though fifty George Uplofts menaced her. Consequently, having dismissed Conning on a message to Harry Jocelyn, to ask him for a list of the names of the new people they were to meet that day at dinner, she said to Caroline:
‘My dear, I think it will be incumbent on us to depart very quickly.’
Much to the Countess’s chagrin and astonishment, Caroline replied:
‘I shall hardly be sorry.’
‘Not sorry? Why, what now, dear one? Is it true, then, that a flagellated female kisses the rod? Are you so eager for a repetition of Strike?’
Caroline, with some hesitation, related to her more than the Countess had ventured to petition for in her prayers.
‘Oh! how exceedingly generous!’ the latter exclaimed. How very refreshing to think that there are nobles in your England as romantic, as courteous, as delicate as our own foreign ones! But his Grace is quite an exceptional nobleman. Are you not touched, dearest Carry?’
Caroline pensively glanced at the reflection of her beautiful arm in the glass, and sighed, pushing back the hair from her temples.
‘But, for mercy’s sake!’ resumed the Countess, in alarm at the sigh, ‘do not be too—too touched. Do, pray, preserve your wits. You weep! Caroline, Caroline! O my goodness; it is just five-and-twenty minutes to the first dinner-bell, and you are crying! For God’s sake, think of your face! Are you going to be a Gorgon? And you show the marks twice as long as any other, you fair women. Squinnying like this! Caroline, for your Louisa’s sake, do not!’
Hissing which, half angrily and half with entreaty, the Countess dropped on her knees. Caroline’s fit of tears subsided. The eldest of the sisters, she was the kindest, the fairest, the weakest.
‘Not,’ said the blandishing Countess, when Caroline’s face was clearer, ‘not that my best of Carrys does not look delicious in her shower. Cry, with your hair down, and you would subdue any male creature on two legs. And that reminds me of that most audacious Marquis de Remilla. He saw a dirty drab of a fruit-girl crying in Lisbon streets one day, as he was riding in the carriage of the Duchesse de Col da Rosta, and her husband and duena, and he had a letter for her—the Duchesse. They loved! How deliver the letter? “Save me!” he cried to the Duchesse, catching her hand, and pressing his heart, as if very sick. The Duchesse felt the paper—turned her hand over on her knee, and he withdrew his. What does my Carry think was the excuse he tendered the Duke? This—and this gives you some idea of the wonderful audacity of those dear Portuguese—that he—he must precipitate himself and marry any woman he saw weep, and be her slave for the term of his natural life, unless another woman’s hand at the same moment restrained him! There!’ and the Countess’s eyes shone brightly.
‘How excessively imbecile!’ Caroline remarked, hitherto a passive listener to these Lusitanian contes.
It was the first sign she had yet given of her late intercourse with a positive Duke, and the Countess felt it, and drew back. No more anecdotes for Caroline, to whom she quietly said:
‘You are very English, dear!’
‘But now, the Duke—his Grace,’ she went on, ‘how did he inaugurate?’
‘I spoke to him of Evan’s position. God forgive me!—I said that was the cause of my looks being sad.’
‘You could have thought of nothing better,’ interposed the Countess. ‘Yes?’
‘He said, if he might clear them he should be happy!
‘In exquisite language, Carry, of course.’
‘No; just as others talk.’
‘Hum!’ went the Countess, and issued again brightly from a cloud of reflection, with the remark: ‘It was to seem business-like—the commerciality of the English mind. To the point—I know. Well, you perceive, my sweetest, that Evan’s interests are in your hands. You dare not quit the field. In one week, I fondly trust, he will be secure. What more did his Grace say? May we not be the repository of such delicious secresies?’
Caroline gave tremulous indications about the lips, and the Countess jumped to the bell and rang it, for they were too near dinner for the trace of a single tear to be permitted. The bell and the appearance of Conning effectually checked the flood.
While speaking to her sister, the Countess had hesitated to mention George Uplift’s name, hoping that, as he had no dinner-suit, he would not stop to dinner that day, and would fall to the charge of Lady Racial once more. Conning, however, brought in a sheet of paper on which the names of the guests were written out by Harry, a daily piece of service he performed for the captivating dame, and George Uplift’s name was in the list.
‘We will do the rest, Conning-retire,’ she said, and then folding Caroline in her arms, murmured, the moment they were alone, ‘Will my Carry dress her hair plain to-day, for the love of her Louisa?’
‘Goodness! what a request!’ exclaimed Caroline, throwing back her head to see if her Louisa could be serious.
‘Most inexplicable—is it not? Will she do it?’
‘Flat, dear? It makes a fright of me.’
‘Possibly. May I beg it?’
‘But why, dearest, why? If I only knew why!’
‘For the love of your Louy.’
‘Plain along the temples?’
‘And a knot behind.’
‘And a band along the forehead?’
‘Gems, if they meet your favour.’
‘But my cheek-bones, Louisa?’
‘They are not too prominent, Carry.’
‘Curls relieve them.’
‘The change will relieve the curls, dear one.’
Caroline looked in the glass, at the Countess, as polished a reflector, and fell into a chair. Her hair was accustomed to roll across her shoulders in heavy curls. The Duke would find a change of the sort singular. She should not at all know herself with her hair done differently: and for a lovely woman to be transformed to a fright is hard to bear in solitude, or in imagination.
‘Really!’ she petitioned.
‘Really—yes, or no?’ added the Countess.
‘So unaccountable a whim!’ Caroline looked in the glass dolefully, and pulled up her thick locks from one cheek, letting them fall on the instant.
‘She will?’ breathed the Countess.
‘I really cannot,’ said Caroline, with vehemence.
The Countess burst into laughter, replying: ‘My poor child! it is not my whim—it is your obligation. George Uplift dines here to-day. Now do you divine it? Disguise is imperative for you.’
Mrs. Strike, gazing in her sister’s face, answered slowly, ‘George? But how will you meet him?’ she hurriedly asked.
‘I have met him,’ rejoined the Countess, boldly. ‘I defy him to know me. I brazen him! You with your hair in my style are equally safe. You see there is no choice. Pooh! contemptible puppy!’
‘But I never,’—Caroline was going to say she never could face him. ‘I will not dine. I will nurse Evan.’
‘You have faced him, my dear,’ said the Countess, ‘and you are to change your head-dress simply to throw him off his scent.’
As she spoke the Countess tripped about, nodding her head like a girl. Triumph in the sense of her power over all she came in contact with, rather elated the lady.
Do you see why she worked her sister in this roundabout fashion? She would not tell her George Uplift was in the house till she was sure he intended to stay, for fear of frightening her. When the necessity became apparent, she put it under the pretext of a whim in order to see how far Caroline, whose weak compliance she could count on, and whose reticence concerning the Duke annoyed her, would submit to it to please her sister; and if she rebelled positively, why to be sure it was the Duke she dreaded to shock: and, therefore, the Duke had a peculiar hold on her: and, therefore, the Countess might reckon that she would do more than she pleased to confess to remain with the Duke, and was manageable in that quarter. All this she learnt without asking. I need not add, that Caroline sighingly did her bidding.
‘We must all be victims in our turn, Carry,’ said the Countess. ‘Evan’s prospects—it may be, Silva’s restoration—depend upon your hair being dressed plain to-day. Reflect on that!’
Poor Caroline obeyed; but she was capable of reflecting only that her face was unnaturally lean and strange to her.
The sisters tended and arranged one another, taking care to push their mourning a month or two ahead and the Countess animadverted on the vulgar mind of Lady Jocelyn, who would allow a ‘gentleman to sit down at a gentlewoman’s table, in full company, in pronounced undress’: and Caroline, utterly miserable, would pretend that she wore a mask and kept grimacing as they do who are not accustomed to paint on the cheeks, till the Countess checked her by telling her she should ask her for that before the Duke.
After a visit to Evan, the sisters sailed together into the drawing-room.
‘Uniformity is sometimes a gain,’ murmured the Countess, as they were parting in the middle of the room. She saw that their fine figures, and profiles, and resemblance in contrast, produced an effect. The Duke wore one of those calmly intent looks by which men show they are aware of change in the heavens they study, and are too devout worshippers to presume to disapprove. Mr. George was standing by Miss Carrington, and he also watched Mrs. Strike. To bewilder him yet more the Countess persisted in fixing her eyes upon his heterodox apparel, and Mr. George became conscious and uneasy. Miss Carrington had to address her question to him twice before he heard. Melville Jocelyn, Sir John Loring, Sir Franks, and Hamilton surrounded the Countess, and told her what they had decided on with regard to the election during the day; for Melville was warm in his assertion that they would not talk to the Countess five minutes without getting a hint worth having.
‘Call to us that man who is habited like a groom,’ said the Countess, indicating Mr. George. ‘I presume he is in his right place up here?’
‘Whew—take care, Countess—our best man. He’s good for a dozen,’ said Hamilton.
Mr. George was brought over and introduced to the Countess de Saldar.
‘So the oldest Tory in the county is a fox?’ she said, in allusion to the hunt. Never did Caroline Strike admire her sister’s fearful genius more than at that moment.
Mr. George ducked and rolled his hand over his chin, with ‘ah-um!’ and the like, ended by a dry laugh.
‘Are you our supporter, Mr. Uplift?’
‘Tory interest, ma—um—my lady.’
‘And are you staunch and may be trusted?’
‘‘Pon my honour, I think I have that reputation.’
‘And you would not betray us if we give you any secrets? Say “‘Pon my honour,” again. You launch it out so courageously.’
The men laughed, though they could not see what the Countess was driving at. She had for two minutes spoken as she spoke when a girl, and George—entirely off his guard and unsuspicious—looked unenlightened. If he knew, there were hints enough for him in her words.
If he remained blind, they might pass as air. The appearance of the butler cut short his protestation as to his powers of secresy.
The Countess dismissed him.
‘You will be taken into our confidence when we require you.’ And she resumed her foreign air in a most elaborate and overwhelming bow.
She was now perfectly satisfied that she was safe from Mr. George, and, as she thoroughly detested the youthful squire, she chose to propagate a laugh at him by saying with the utmost languor and clearness of voice, as they descended the stairs:
‘After all, a very clever fox may be a very dull dog—don’t you think?’
Gentlemen in front of her, and behind, heard it, and at Mr. George’s expense her reputation rose.
Thus the genius of this born general prompted her to adopt the principle in tactics—boldly to strike when you are in the dark as to your enemy’s movements.