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118 Mrs. Mel was heard by the Countess to say: “Her ladyship does not know how to treat madmen.”

Nor did Sir Franks and Sir John. They began expostulating with him.

“A madman gets madder when you talk reason to him,” said Mrs. Mel.

And now the Countess stepped forward to Lady Jocelyn, and hoped she would not be thought impertinent in offering her opinion as to how this frantic person should be treated. The case indeed looked urgent. Many gentlemen considered themselves bound to approach and be ready in case of need. Presently the Countess pressed between Sir Franks and Sir John, and with her hand put up, as if she feared the furious cane, said:

“You will not strike me?”

“Strike a lady, madam?” The cane and hat were simultaneously lowered.

“Lady Jocelyn permits me to fetch for you a gentleman of the law. Or will you accompany me to him?”

In a moment Captain Evremonde’s manners were subdued and civilised, and in perfectly sane speech he thanked the Countess and offered her his arm. The Countess smilingly waved back Sir John, who motioned to attend on her, and away she went with the Captain, with all the glow of a woman who feels that she is heaping coals of fire on the heads of her enemies.

Was she not admired now?

“Upon my honour,” said Lady Jocelyn, “they are a remarkable family,” meaning the Harringtons.

What farther she thought she did not say, but she was a woman who looked to natural gifts more than the gifts of accident; and I think Evan’s chance stood high with her then. So the battle of the bull-dogs was fought, and cruelly as the Countess had been assailed and wounded, she gained a brilliant victory: yea, though Demogorgon, aided by the vindictive ghost of Sir Abraham, took tangible shape in the ranks opposed to her. True, Lady Jocelyn, forgetting her own recent intrepidity, condemned her as a liar; but the fruits of the Countess’s victory were plentiful. Drummond Forth, fearful perhaps of exciting unjust suspicions in the mind of Captain Evremonde, disappeared altogether. Harry was in a mess which threw him almost upon Evan’s mercy, as will be related. And, lastly, Ferdinand Laxley, that insufferable young aristocrat, was thus spoken to by Lady Jocelyn.

“This letter addressed to Lawson, telling him that his wife is here, is in your hand-writing, Ferdinand. I don’t say you wrote it—I don’t think you could have written it. But, to tell you the truth, I have an unpleasant impression about it, and I think we had better shake hands and not see each other for some time.”

Laxley, after one denial of his guilt, disdained to repeat it. He met her ladyship’s hand haughtily, and, bowing to Sir Franks, turned on his heel.

So, then, in glorious complete victory, the battle of the bull-dogs ended!

Of the close of the pic-nic more remains to be told.

For the present I pause, in observance of those rules which demand that after an exhibition of consummate deeds, time be given to the spectator to digest what has passed before him.

eager hand Hope deftly weaves The mantles that our pride would don, While busy-finger’d Care unreaves The garments as we put them on. We rear our palaces of joy, And tread them with exulting shout, Till, crumbling round, ’tis plainly found Some corner-stones have been left out. And thus we play the game of Life, Shadow and substance ever blending; ’Mid flowers of Peace and tares of Strife Gaily beginning, sadly ending.

The maiden greets her swain to-day, They jar to-morrow, and she flouts him; Now she believes whate’er he’ll say, A month has gone,—alas! she doubts him; The lover hangs upon a glance, With glowing trust and earnest sueing; Next year he rouses from his trance, And scorns the one he late was wooing. And thus we play the game of Life, Our dreams dispell’d, our plans defeated, And when we’ve lost with pain and cost, Still stand, as ready to be cheated.

The cooing infant’s rosy mouth Aptly receives the sweeten’d potion; When waves are calm, and winds are south, None see the death-rocks in the ocean. The rich man toils to “gather up,” Meaning to bask in Fortune’s clover, And while he pours into his cup, Perceives not it is running over. And thus we play the game of Life, Now simply snared, now wisely brooding, Now bribed by smiles, now spreading wiles, Living deluded and deluding.

The Poet prattles to the stars, Philosophers dissect the thunder, But both are stopp’d by crystal bars, And stand outside to watch and wonder. We moralise on battle-plains, Where blood has poured, and fame was won, We turn and see the baby’s glee Over his mimic sword and gun. And thus we play the game of Life, ’Twixt holy Thought and fearful Deed. Some only stay to work and pray, And some but live for Crime and Greed.

Our feet of clay trip up each other, Our wings of ether seek the sky; We breathe—we are—child follows mother, Yet none can tell us “How?” or “Why?” Our hearts, like clocks, keep ticking fast, We climb and laugh, we fall and weep, Till, tired of guessing, at the last We solve the riddle in a sleep. And thus we play the game of Life, In motley garbs of Grief and Pleasure, Till we are drest in that green vest For which the sexton takes our measure.