Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/239

25, 1860.] The hour was now eleven, and the Countess thought it full time to retire to her entrenchment in Mrs. Bonner’s chamber. She had great things still to do: vast designs were in her hand awaiting the sanction of Providence. Alas! that little idle promenade was soon to be repented. She had joined her sister, thinking it safer to have her up-stairs till they were quit of Evan. The Duke and the diplomatist loitering in the rear, these two fair women sailed across the lawn, conscious, doubtless, over all their sorrows and schemes, of the freight of beauty they carried.

What meant that gathering on the steps? It was fortuitous, like everything destined to confound us. There stood Lady Jocelyn with Andrew, fretting his pate. Harry leant against a pillar. Miss Carrington, Mrs. Shorne, and Mrs. Melville, supported by Mr. George Uploft, held watchfully by. Juliana, with Master Alec and Miss Dorothy, was in the back-ground.

Why did our General see herself cut off from her stronghold, as by a hostile band? She saw it by that sombre light in Juliana’s eyes, which had shown its ominous gleam whenever disasters were on the point of unfolding.

Turning to Caroline, she said: “Is there a backway?”

“Too late!” Andrew called.

“Come along, Louisa. Just time, and no more. Carry, are you packed?”

This in reality was the first note of the retreat from Beckley; and having blown it, the hideous little trumpeter burst into scarlet perspirations, mumbling to Lady Jocelyn: “Now, my lady, mind you stand by me.”

The Countess walked straight up to him.

“Dear Andrew! this sun is too powerful for you. I beg you withdraw into the shade of the house.”

She was about to help him with all her gentleness.

“Yes, yes. All right, Louisa,” rejoined Andrew. “Come, go and pack. The fly’ll be here, you know—too late for the coach, if you don’t mind, my lass. Ain’t you packed yet?”

The horrible fascination of vulgarity impelled the wretched lady to answer: “Are we herrings?” And then she laughed, but without any accompaniment.

“I am now going to dear Mrs. Bonner,” she said, with a tender glance at Lady Jocelyn.

“My mother is sleeping,” her ladyship remarked.

“Come, Carry, my darling!” cried Andrew.

Caroline looked at her sister. The Countess divined Andrew’s shameful guet-à-pens.

“I was under an engagement to go and canvass this afternoon,” she said.

“Why, my dear Louisa, we’ve settled that in here this morning,” said Andrew. “Old Tom only stuck up a puppet to play with. We’ve knocked him over, and march in victorious—eh, my lady?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Countess, “if Mr. Raikes shall indeed have listened to my inducements!”

“Deuce a bit of inducements!’” [sic] returned Andrew. “The fellow’s ashamed of himself—ha! ha! Now then, Louisa.”

While they talked, Juliana had loosed Dorothy and Alec, and these imps were seen rehearsing a remarkable play, in which the damsel held forth a hand and the cavalier advanced and kissed it a loud smack, being at the same time reproached for his lack of grace.

“You are so English!” cried Dorothy, with perfect languor, and a malicious twitter passed between two or three. Mr. George spluttered indiscreetly.

The Countess observed the performance. Not to convert the retreat into a total rout, she, with that dark flush which was her manner of blushing, took formal leave of Lady Jocelyn, who, in return, simply said: “Good bye, Countess.” Mrs. Strike’s hand she kindly shook.

The few digs and slaps and thrusts at gloomy Harry and prim Miss Carrington and boorish Mr. George, wherewith the Countess, torn with wrath, thought it necessary to cover her retreat, need not be told. She struck the weak alone: Juliana she respected. Masterly tactics, for they showed her power, gratified her vengeance, and left her unassailed. On the road she had Andrew to tear to pieces. O delicious operation! And O shameful brother to reduce her to such joys! And, O Providence! may a poor desperate soul, betrayed through her devotion, unremunerated for her humiliation and absolute hard work, accuse thee? The Countess would have liked to. She felt it to be the instigation of the devil, and decided to remain on the safe side still.

Happily for Evan, she was not ready with her packing by half-past eleven. It was near twelve when he, pacing in front of the inn, observed Polly Wheedle, followed some yards in the rear by John Raikes, advancing towards him. Now Polly had been somewhat delayed by Jack’s persecutions, and Evan declining to attend to the masked speech of her mission, which directed him to go at once down a certain lane in the neighbourhood of the park, some minutes were lost.

“Why, Mr. Harrington,” said Polly, “it’s Miss Rose: she’s had leave from her Ma. Can you stop away, when it’s quite proper?”

Evan hesitated. Before he could conquer the dark spirit, lo, Rose appeared, walking up the village street. Polly and her adorer fell back.

Timidly, unlike herself, Rose neared him.

“I have offended you, Evan. You would not come to me: I have come to you.”

“I am glad to be able to say good-bye to you, Rose,” was his pretty response.

Could she have touched his hand then, the blood of these lovers rushing to one channel must have made all clear. At least he could hardly have struck her true heart with his miserable lie. But that chance was lost: they were in the street, where passions have no play.

“Tell me, Evan,—it is not true.”

He, refining on his misery, thought, “She would not ask it if she trusted me:” and answered her: “You have heard it from your mother, Rose.”

“But I will not believe it from any lips but yours, Evan. Oh, speak, speak!”