Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/95

21, 1860.] Sir John, who both protested that it was an honour to be the Countess’s fogy.

Rose now joined them, with Laxley morally dragged in her wake.

“Another dowager and fogy!” cried the Countess, musically. “Do you not dance, my child?”

“Not till the music strikes up,” rejoined Rose. “I suppose we shall have to eat first.”

“That is the Hamlet of the pic-nic play, I believe,” said her mother.

“Of course you dance, don’t you Countess?” Rose inquired, for the sake of amiable conversation.

The Countess’s head signified: “Oh, no! quite out of the question:” she held up a little bit of her mournful draperies, adding: “Besides, you, dear child, know your company, and can select; I do not, and cannot do so. I understand we have a most varied assembly!”

Rose shut her eyes, and then looked at her mother. Lady Jocelyn’s face was undisturbed; but while her eyes were still upon the Countess, she drew her head gently back, imperceptibly. If anything, she was admiring the lady; but Rose could be no placid philosophic spectator of what was to her a horrible assumption and hypocrisy. For the sake of him she loved, she had swallowed a nauseous cup bravely. The Countess was too much for her. She felt sick to think of being allied to this person. She had a shuddering desire to run into the ranks of the world, and hide her head from multitudinous hootings. With a pang of envy she saw her friend Jenny walking by the side of William Harvey, happy, untried, unoffending: full of hope, and without any bitter draughts to swallow!

Aunt Bel now came tripping up gaily.

“Take the alternative, douairière or demoiselle?” cried Lady Jocelyn. “We must have a sharp distinction, or Olympus will be mobbed.”

“Entre les deux, s’il vous plait,” responded Aunt Bel. “Rose, hurry down and leaven the mass. I see ten girls in a bunch. It’s shocking. Ferdinand, pray disperse yourself. Why is it, Emily, that we are always in excess at pic-nics? Is man dying out?”

“From what I can see,” remarked Lady Jocelyn, “Harry will be lost to his species unless some one quickly relieves him. He’s already half eaten up by the Conley girls. Countess, isn’t it your duty to rescue him?”

The Countess bowed, and murmured to Sir John:

“A dismissal!”

“I fear my fascinations, Lady Jocelyn, may not compete with those fresh young persons.”

“Ha! ha! ‘fresh young persons, ” laughed Sir John: for the ladies in question were romping boisterously with Mr. Harry.

The Countess inquired for the names and condition of the ladies, and was told that they sprang from Farmer Conley, a well-to-do son of the soil, who farmed about a couple of thousand acres between Fallowfield and Beckley, and bore a good reputation at the county bank.

“But I do think,” observed the Countess, “it must indeed be pernicious for any youth to associate with that class of woman. A deterioration of manners!”

Rose looked at her mother again. She thought: “Those girls would scorn to marry a tradesman’s son!”

The feeling grew in Rose that the Countess lowered and degraded her. Her mother’s calm contemplation of the lady was more distressing than if she had expressed the contempt Rose was certain, according to her young ideas, Lady Jocelyn must hold.

Now the Countess had been considering that she would like to have a word or two with Mr. Harry, and kissing her fingers to the occupants of Olympus, and fixing her fancy on the diverse thoughts of the ladies and gentlemen, deduced from a rapturous or critical contemplation of her figure from behind, she descended the slope.

Was it going to be a happy day? The well-imagined opinions of the gentleman on her attire and style, made her lean to the affirmative; but Rose’s demure behaviour and something—something would come across her hopes. She had, as she now said to herself, stopped for the pic-nic, mainly to give Caroline a last opportunity of binding the duke to visit the Cogglesby saloons in London. Let Caroline cleverly contrive this, as she might, without any compromise, and the stay at Beckley Court would be a great gain. Yes, Caroline was still with the duke; they were talking earnestly. The Countess breathed a short appeal to Providence that Caroline might not prove a fool. Over night she had said to Caroline: “Do not be so English. Can one not enjoy friendship with a nobleman without wounding one’s conscience or breaking with the world? My dear, the duke visiting you, you cow that infamous Strike of yours. He will be utterly obsequious! I am not telling you to pass the line. The contrary. But we continentals have our grievous reputation because we dare to meet as intellectual beings, and defy the imputation that ladies and gentlemen are no better than animals.”

It sounded very lofty to Caroline, who accepting its sincerity, replied:

“I cannot do things by halves. I cannot live a life of deceit. A life of misery—not deceit!”

Whereupon, pitying her poor English nature, the Countess gave her advice, and this advice she now implored her familiars to instruct or compel Caroline to follow.

The Countess’s garment was plucked at. She beheld little Dorothy Loring glancing up at her with the roguish timidity of her years.

“May I come with you?” asked the little maid, and went off into a prattle: “I spent that five shillings—I bought a shilling’s worth of sweet stuff, and nine penn’orth of twine, and a shilling for small wax candles to light in my room when I’m going to bed, because I like plenty of light by the looking-glass always, and they do make the room so hot! My Jane declared she almost fainted, but I burnt them out! Then I only had very little left for a horse to mount my doll on; and I wasn’t going to get a screw, so I went to papa, and he gave me five shillings. And, oh,