Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/477

464 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, gallopped down the lane, and Mr. George was for accompanying them, till the line of Miss Carrington’s back gave him her unmistakable 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.

can hardly be said that we have here a class too insignificant for study, in our contemplation of the needless mortality of England. Few of our readers may have a precise idea of the actual number of Maids-of-all-Work in our country; but all agree that it must be very large. There are more classes of householders who employ one domestic servant than of those who have even two: and when we look above the ordinary kitchen pair—the cook and housemaid—we find the number of employers diminishing rapidly. The fact is that, at the date of the last census, there were ten times as many maids-of-all-work as there were housemaids: nearly nine times as many as there were cooks, and twenty times as many as there were nursemaids.

When we come to consider, this ought not to surprise us. In the rural districts there are small farms at every step where one servant is kept to do the house business, that her mistress may attend to the dairy and poultry-yard. In villages almost every house between the labourer’s cottage and the squire’s mansion has its single servant. In our towns there is a whole population of shopkeepers, superior artisans, and small manufacturers, who can afford one servant and no more. There are also large classes of the poorer clergy, of retired military and naval officers, of single and widowed ladies who cannot keep two