‘He will soon be here,’ whispered the Countess. ‘Has he told you he will come by this entrance?’
‘No,’ replied Juliana.
‘You do not look well, sweet child.’
‘I was thinking that you did not, Countess?’
‘Oh, indeed, yes! With reason, alas! All our visitors have by this time arrived, I presume?’
‘They come all day.’
The Countess hastened away from one who, when roused, could be almost as clever as herself, and again stood in meditation near the joyful Harry. This time she did not signal so discreetly. Harry could not but see it, and the Conley girls accused him of cruelty to the beautiful dame, which novel idea stung Harry with delight, and he held out to indulge in it a little longer. His back was half turned, and as he talked noisily, he could not observe the serene and resolute march of the Countess toward him. The youth gaped when he found his arm taken prisoner by the insertion of a small deliciously-gloved and perfumed hand through it. ‘I must claim you for a few moments,’ said the Countess, and took the startled Conley girls one and all in her beautiful smile of excuse.
‘Why do you compromise me thus, sir?’
These astounding words were spoken out of the hearing of the Conley girls.
‘Compromise you!’ muttered Harry.
Masterly was the skill with which the Countess contrived to speak angrily and as an injured woman, while she wore an indifferent social countenance.
‘I repeat, compromise me. No, Mr. Harry Jocelyn, you are not the jackanapes you try to make people think you: you understand me.’
The Countess might accuse him, but Harry never had the ambition to make people think him that: his natural tendency was the reverse: and he objected to the application of the word jackanapes to himself, and was ready to contest the fact of people having that opinion at all. However, all he did was to repeat: ‘Compromise!’
‘Is not open unkindness to me compromising me?’
‘How?’ asked Harry.
‘Would you dare to do it to a strange lady? Would you have the impudence to attempt it with any woman here but me? No, I am innocent; it is my consolation; I have resisted you, but you by this cowardly behaviour place me—and my reputation, which is more—at your mercy. Noble behaviour, Mr. Harry Jocelyn! I shall remember my young English gentleman.’
The view was totally new to Harry.
‘I really had no idea of compromising you,’ he said. ‘Upon my honour, I can’t see how I did it now!’
‘Oblige me by walking less in the neighbourhood of those fat-faced glaring farm-girls,’ the Countess spoke under her breath; ‘and don’t look as if you were being whipped. The art of it is evident—you are but carrying on the game.—Listen. If you permit yourself to exhibit an unkindness to me, you show to any man who is a judge, and to every woman, that there has been something between us. You know my innocence—yes! but you must punish me for having resisted you thus long.’
Harry swore he never had such an idea, and was much too much of a man and a gentleman to behave in that way.—And yet it seemed wonderfully clever! And here was the Countess saying:
‘Take your reward, Mr. Harry Jocelyn. You have succeeded; I am your humble slave. I come to you and sue for peace. To save my reputation I endanger myself. This is generous of you.’
‘Am I such a clever fellow?’ thought the young gentleman. ‘Deuced lucky with women’: he knew that: still a fellow must be wonderfully, miraculously, clever to be able to twist and spin about such a woman as this in that way. He did not object to conceive that he was the fellow to do it. Besides, here was the Countess de Saldar-worth five hundred of the Conley girls—almost at his feet!
Mollified, he said: ‘Now, didn’t you begin it?’
‘Evasion!’ was the answer. ‘It would be such pleasure to you so see a proud woman weep! And if yesterday, persecuted as I am, with dreadful falsehoods abroad respecting me and mine, if yesterday I did seem cold to your great merits, is it generous of you to take this revenge?’
Harry began to scent the double meaning in her words. She gave him no time to grow cool over it. She leaned, half abandoned, on his arm. Arts feminine and irresistible encompassed him. It was a fatal mistake of Juliana’s to enlist Harry Jocelyn against the Countess de Saldar. He engaged, still without any direct allusion to the real business, to move heaven and earth to undo all that he had done, and the Countess implied an engagement to do—what? more than she intended to fulfil.
Ten minutes later she was alone with Caroline.
‘Tie yourself to the Duke at the dinner,’ she said, in the forcible phrase she could use when necessary. ‘Don’t let them scheme to separate you. Never mind looks—do it!’
Caroline, however, had her reasons for desiring to maintain appearances. The Countess dashed at her hesitation.
‘There is a plot to humiliate us in the most abominable way. The whole family have sworn to make us blush publicly. Publicly blush! They have written to Mama to come and speak out. Now will you attend to me, Caroline? You do not credit such atrocity? I know it to be true.’
‘I never can believe that Rose would do such a thing,’ said Caroline.’ We can hardly have to endure more than has befallen us already.’
Her speech was pensive, as of one who had matter of her own to ponder over. A swift illumination burst in the Countess’s mind.
‘No? Have you, dear, darling Carry? not that I intend that you should! but to-day the Duke would be such ineffable support to us. May I deem you have not been too cruel to-day? You dear silly English creature, “Duck,” I used to call you when I was your little Louy. All is not yet lost, but I will save you from the ignominy if I can. I will!’
Caroline denied nothing—confirmed nothing, just as the Countess had stated nothing. Yet they understood one another perfectly. Women have a subtler language than ours: the veil pertains to them morally as bodily, and they see clearer through it.
The Countess had no time to lose. Wrath was in her heart. She did not lend all her thoughts to self-defence.
Without phrasing a word, or absolutely shaping a thought in her head, she slanted across the sun to Mr. Raikes, who had taken refreshment, and in obedience to his instinct, notwithstanding his enormous pretensions, had commenced a few preliminary antics.
‘Dear Mr. Raikes!’ she said, drawing him aside, ‘not before dinner!’
‘I really can’t contain the exuberant flow!’ returned that gentleman. ‘My animal spirits always get the better of me,’ he added confidentially.
‘Suppose you devote your animal spirits to my service for half an hour.’
‘Yours, Countess, from the ‘os frontis’ to the chine!’ was the exuberant rejoinder.
The Countess made a wry mouth.
‘Your curricle is in Beckley?’
‘Behold!’ said Jack. ‘Two juveniles, not half so blest as I, do from the seat regard the festive scene o’er yon park palings. They are there, even Franko and Fred. I ‘m afraid I promised to get them in at a later period of the day. Which sadly sore my conscience doth disturb! But what is to be done about the curricle, my Countess?’
‘Mr. Raikes,’ said the Countess, smiling on him fixedly, ‘you are amusing; but in addressing me, you must be precise, and above all things accurate. I am not your Countess!’
He bowed profoundly. ‘Oh, that I might say my Queen!’
The Countess replied: ‘A conviction of your lunacy would prevent my taking offence, though I might wish you enclosed and guarded.’
Without any further exclamations, Raikes acknowledged a superior.
‘And, now, attend to me,’ said the Countess. ‘Listen:
You go yourself, or send your friends instantly to Fallow field. Bring with you that girl and her child. Stop: there is such a person. Tell her she is to be spoken to about the prospects of the poor infant. I leave that to your inventive genius. Evan wishes her here. Bring her, and should you see the mad captain who behaves so oddly, favour him with a ride. He says he dreams his wife is here, and he will not reveal his name! Suppose it should be my own beloved husband! I am quite anxious.’
The Countess saw him go up to the palings and hold a communication with his friends Franko and Fred. One took the whip, and after mutual flourishes, drove away.
‘Now!’ mused the Countess, ‘if Captain Evremonde should come!’ It would break up the pic-nic. Alas! the Countess had surrendered her humble hopes of a day’s pleasure. But if her mother came as well, what a diversion that would be! If her mother came before the Captain, his arrival would cover the retreat; if the Captain preceded her, she would not be noticed. Suppose her mother refrained from coming? In that case it was a pity, but the Jocelyns had brought it on themselves.
This mapping out of consequences followed the Countess’s deeds, and did not inspire them. Her passions sharpened her instincts, which produced her actions. The reflections ensued: as in nature, the consequences were all seen subsequently! Observe the difference between your male and female Generals.
On reflection, too, the Countess praised herself for having done all that could be done. She might have written to her mother: but her absence would have been remarked: her messenger might have been overhauled and, lastly, Mrs. Mel—‘Gorgon of a mother!’ the Countess cried out: for Mrs. Mel was like a Fate to her. She could remember only two occasions in her whole life when she had been able to manage her mother, and then by lying in such a way as to distress her conscience severely.
‘If Mama has conceived this idea of coming, nothing will impede her. My prayers will infuriate her!’ said the Countess, and she was sure that she had acted both rightly and with wisdom.
She put on her armour of smiles: she plunged into the thick of the enemy. Since they would not allow her to taste human happiness—she had asked but for the pic-nic! a small truce! since they denied her that, rather than let them triumph by seeing her wretched, she took into her bosom the joy of demons. She lured Mr. George Uplift away from Miss Carrington, and spoke to him strange hints of matrimonial disappointments, looking from time to time at that apprehensive lady, doating on her terrors. And Mr. George seconded her by his clouded face, for he was ashamed not to show that he did not know Louisa Harrington in the Countess de Saldar, and had not the courage to declare that he did. The Countess spoke familiarly, but without any hint of an ancient acquaintance between them. ‘What a post her husband’s got!’ thought Mr. George, not envying the Count. He was wrong: she was an admirable ally. All over the field the Countess went, watching for her mother, praying that if she did come, Providence might prevent her from coming while they were at dinner. How clearly Mrs. Shorne and Mrs. Melville saw her vulgarity now! By the new light of knowledge, how certain they were that they had seen her ungentle training in a dozen little instances.
‘She is not well-bred, ‘cela se voit’,’ said Lady Jocelyn.
‘Bred! it’s the stage! How could such a person be bred?’ said Mrs. Shorne.
Accept in the Countess the heroine who is combating class-prejudices, and surely she is pre-eminently noteworthy. True, she fights only for her family, and is virtually the champion of the opposing institution misplaced. That does not matter: the Fates may have done it purposely: by conquering she establishes a principle. A Duke adores her sister, the daughter of the house her brother, and for herself she has many protestations in honour of her charms: nor are they empty ones. She can confound Mrs. Melville, if she pleases to, by exposing an adorer to lose a friend. Issuing out of Tailordom, she, a Countess, has done all this; and it were enough to make her glow, did not little evils, and angers, and spites, and alarms so frightfully beset her.
The sun of the pic-nic system is dinner. Hence philosophers may deduce that the pic-nic is a British invention. There is no doubt that we do not shine at the pic-nic until we reflect the face of dinner. To this, then, all who were not lovers began seriously to look forward, and the advance of an excellent county band, specially hired to play during the entertainment, gave many of the guests quite a new taste for sweet music; and indeed we all enjoy a thing infinitely more when we see its meaning.
About this time Evan entered the lower park-gates with Andrew. The first object he encountered was John Raikes in a state of great depression. He explained his case:
‘Just look at my frill! Now, upon my honour, you know, I’m good-tempered; I pass their bucolic habits, but this is beyond bearing. I was near the palings there, and a fellow calls out, “Hi! will you help the lady over?” Holloa! thinks I, an adventure! However, I advised him to take her round to the gates. The beast burst out laughing. “Now, then,” says he, and I heard a scrambling at the pales, and up came the head of a dog. “Oh! the dog first,” says I. “Catch by the ears,” says he. I did so. “Pull,” says he. “‘Gad, pull indeed!”, The beast gave a spring and came slap on my chest, with his dirty wet muzzle on my neck! I felt instantly it was the death of my frill, but gallant as you know me, I still asked for the lady. “If you will please, or an it meet your favour, to extend your hand to me!” I confess I did think it rather odd, the idea of a lady coming in that way over the palings! but my curst love of adventure always blinds me. It always misleads my better sense, Harrington. Well, instead of a lady, I see a fellow—he may have been a lineal descendant of Cedric the Saxon. “Where’s the lady?” says I. “Lady?” says he, and stares, and then laughs: “Lady! why,” he jumps over, and points at his beast of a dog, “don’t you know a bitch when you see one?” I was in the most ferocious rage! If he hadn’t been a big burly bully, down he’d have gone. “Why didn’t you say what it was?” I roared. “Why,” says he, “the word isn’t considered polite!” I gave him a cut there. I said, “I rejoice to be positively assured that you uphold the laws and forms of civilization, sir.” My belief is he didn’t feel it.’
‘The thrust sinned in its shrewdness,’ remarked Evan, ending a laugh.
‘Hem!’ went Mr. Raikes, more contentedly: ‘after all, what are appearances to the man of wit and intellect? Dress, and women will approve you: but I assure you they much prefer the man of wit in his slouched hat and stockings down. I was introduced to the Duke this morning. It is a curious thing that the seduction of a Duchess has always been one of my dreams.’
At this Andrew Cogglesby fell into a fit of laughter.
‘Your servant,’ said Mr. Raikes, turning to him. And then he muttered ‘Extraordinary likeness! Good Heavens! Powers!’
From a state of depression, Mr. Raikes—changed into one of bewilderment. Evan paid no attention to him, and answered none of his hasty undertoned questions. Just then, as they were on the skirts of the company, the band struck up a lively tune, and quite unconsciously, the legs of Raikes, affected, it may be, by supernatural reminiscences, loosely hornpiped. It was but a moment: he remembered himself the next: but in that fatal moment eyes were on him. He never recovered his dignity in Beckley Court: he was fatally mercurial.
‘What is the joke against this poor fellow?’ asked Evan of Andrew.
‘Never mind, Van. You’ll roar. Old Tom again. We ‘ll see by-and-by, after the champagne. He—this young Raikes-ha! ha!—but I can’t tell you.’ And Andrew went away to Drummond, to whom he was more communicative. Then he went to Melville, and one or two others, and the eyes of many became concentrated on Raikes, and it was observed as a singular sign that he was constantly facing about, and flushing the fiercest red. Once he made an effort to get hold of Evan’s arm and drag him away, as one who had an urgent confession to be delivered of, but Evan was talking to Lady Jocelyn, and other ladies, and quietly disengaged his arm without even turning to notice the face of his friend. Then the dinner was announced, and men saw the dinner. The Countess went to shake her brother’s hand, and with a very gratulatory visage, said through her half-shut teeth.
‘If Mama appears, rise up and go away with her, before she has time to speak a word.’ An instant after Evan found himself seated between Mrs. Evremonde and one of the Conley girls. The dinner had commenced. The first half of the Battle of the Bull-dogs was as peaceful as any ordinary pic-nic, and promised to the general company as calm a conclusion.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE BATTLE OF THE BULL-DOGS. PART II
If it be a distinct point of wisdom to hug the hour that is, then does dinner amount to a highly intellectual invitation to man, for it furnishes the occasion; and Britons are the wisest of their race, for more than all others they take advantage of it. In this Nature is undoubtedly our guide, seeing that he who, while feasting his body allows to his soul a thought for the morrow, is in his digestion curst, and becomes a house of evil humours. Now, though the epicure may complain of the cold meats, a dazzling table, a buzzing company, blue sky, and a band of music, are incentives to the forgetfulness of troubles past and imminent, and produce a concentration of the faculties. They may not exactly prove that peace is established between yourself and those who object to your carving of the world, but they testify to an armistice.
Aided by these observations, you will understand how it was that the Countess de Saldar, afflicted and menaced, was inspired, on taking her seat, to give so graceful and stately a sweep to her dress that she was enabled to conceive woman and man alike to be secretly overcome by it. You will not refuse to credit the fact that Mr. Raikes threw care to the dogs, heavy as was that mysterious lump suddenly precipitated on his bosom; and you will think it not impossible that even the springers of the mine about to explode should lose their subterranean countenances. A generous abandonment to one idea prevailed. As for Evan, the first glass of champagne rushed into reckless nuptials with the music in his head, bringing Rose, warm almost as life, on his heart. Sublime are the visions of lovers! He knew he must leave her on the morrow; he feared he might never behold her again; and yet he tasted bliss, for it seemed within the contemplation of the Gods that he should dance with his darling before dark-haply waltz with her! Oh, heaven! he shuts his eyes, blinded. The band wheels off meltingly in a tune all cadences, and twirls, and risings and sinkings, and passionate outbursts trippingly consoled. Ah! how sweet to waltz through life with the right partner. And what a singular thing it is to look back on the day when we thought something like it! Never mind: there may be spheres where it is so managed—doubtless the planets have their Hanwell and Bedlam.
I confess that the hand here writing is not insensible to the effects of that first glass of champagne. The poetry of our Countess’s achievements waxes rich in manifold colours: I see her by the light of her own pleas to Providence. I doubt almost if the hand be mine which dared to make a hero play second fiddle, and to his beloved. I have placed a bushel over his light, certainly. Poor boy! it was enough that he should have tailordom on his shoulders: I ought to have allowed him to conquer Nature, and so come out of his eclipse. This shall be said of him: that he can play second fiddle without looking foolish, which, for my part, I call a greater triumph than if he were performing the heroics we are more accustomed to. He has steady eyes, can gaze at the right level into the eyes of others, and commands a tongue which is neither struck dumb nor set in a flutter by any startling question. The best instances to be given that he does not lack merit are that the Jocelyns, whom he has offended by his birth, cannot change their treatment of him, and that the hostile women, whatever they may say, do not think Rose utterly insane. At any rate, Rose is satisfied, and her self-love makes her a keen critic. The moment Evan appeared, the sickness produced in her by the Countess passed, and she was ready to brave her situation. With no mock humility she permitted Mrs. Shorne to place her in a seat where glances could not be interchanged. She was quite composed, calmly prepared for conversation with any one. Indeed, her behaviour since the hour of general explanation had been so perfectly well-contained, that Mrs. Melville said to Lady Jocelyn:
‘I am only thinking of the damage to her. It will pass over—this fancy. You can see she is not serious. It is mere spirit of opposition. She eats and drinks just like other girls. You can see that the fancy has not taken such very strong hold of her.’
‘I can’t agree with you,’ replied her ladyship. ‘I would rather have her sit and sigh by the hour, and loathe roast beef. That would look nearer a cure.’
‘She has the notions of a silly country girl,’ said Mrs. Shorne.
‘Exactly,’ Lady Jocelyn replied. ‘A season in London will give her balance.’
So the guests were tolerably happy, or at least, with scarce an exception, open to the influences of champagne and music. Perhaps Juliana was the wretchedest creature present. She was about to smite on both cheeks him she loved, as well as the woman she despised and had been foiled by. Still she had the consolation that Rose, seeing the vulgar mother, might turn from Evan: a poor distant hope, meagre and shapeless like herself. Her most anxious thoughts concerned the means of getting money to lockup Harry’s tongue. She could bear to meet the Countess’s wrath, but not Evan’s offended look. Hark to that Countess!
‘Why do you denominate this a pic-nic, Lady Jocelyn? It is in verity a fete!’
‘I suppose we ought to lie down ‘A la Grecque’ to come within the term,’ was the reply. ‘On the whole, I prefer plain English for such matters.’
‘But this is assuredly too sumptuous for a pic-nic, Lady Jocelyn. From what I can remember, pic-nic implies contribution from all the guests. It is true I left England a child!’
Mr. George Uplift could not withhold a sharp grimace: The Countess had throttled the inward monitor that tells us when we are lying, so grievously had she practised the habit in the service of her family.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Melville, ‘I have heard of that fashion, and very stupid it is.’
‘Extremely vulgar,’ murmured Miss Carrington.
‘Possibly,’ Lady Jocelyn observed; ‘but good fun. I have been to pic-nics, in my day. I invariably took cold pie and claret. I clashed with half-a-dozen, but all the harm we did was to upset the dictum that there can be too much of a good thing. I know for certain that the bottles were left empty.’
‘And this woman,’ thought the Countess, ‘this woman, with a soul so essentially vulgar, claims rank above me!’ The reflection generated contempt of English society, in the first place, and then a passionate desire for self-assertion.
She was startled by a direct attack which aroused her momentarily lulled energies.
A lady, quite a stranger, a dry simpering lady, caught the Countess’s benevolent passing gaze, and leaning forward, said: ‘I hope her ladyship bears her affliction as well as can be expected?’
In military parlance, the Countess was taken in flank. Another would have asked—What ladyship? To whom do you allude, may I beg to inquire? The Countess knew better. Rapid as light it shot through her that the relict of Sir Abraham was meant, and this she divined because she was aware that devilish malignity was watching to trip her.
A little conversation happening to buzz at the instant, the Countess merely turned her chin to an angle, agitated her brows very gently, and crowned the performance with a mournful smile. All that a woman must feel at the demise of so precious a thing as a husband, was therein eloquently expressed: and at the same time, if explanations ensued, there were numerous ladyships in the world, whom the Countess did not mind afflicting, should she be hard pressed.
‘I knew him so well!’ resumed the horrid woman, addressing anybody. ‘It was so sad! so unexpected! but he was so subject to affection of the throat. And I was so sorry I could not get down to him in time. I had not seen him since his marriage, when I was a girl!—and to meet one of his children!—But, my dear, in quinsey, I have heard that there is nothing on earth like a good hearty laugh.’
Mr. Raikes hearing this, sucked down the flavour of a glass of champagne, and with a look of fierce jollity, interposed, as if specially charged by Providence to make plain to the persecuted Countess his mission and business there: ‘Then our vocation is at last revealed to us! Quinsey-doctor! I remember when a boy, wandering over the paternal mansion, and envying the life of a tinker, which my mother did not think a good omen in me. But the traps of a Quinsey-doctor are even lighter. Say twenty good jokes, and two or three of a practical kind. A man most enviable!’
‘It appears,’ he remarked aloud to one of the Conley girls, ‘that quinsey is needed before a joke is properly appreciated.’
‘I like fun,’ said she, but had not apparently discovered it.
What did that odious woman mean by perpetually talking about Sir Abraham? The Countess intercepted a glance between her and the hated Juliana. She felt it was a malignant conspiracy: still the vacuous vulgar air of the woman told her that most probably she was but an instrument, not a confederate, and was only trying to push herself into acquaintance with the great: a proceeding scorned and abominated by the Countess, who longed to punish her for her insolent presumption. The bitterness of her situation stung her tenfold when she considered that she dared not.
Meantime the champagne became as regular in its flow as the Bull-dogs, and the monotonous bass of these latter sounded through the music, like life behind the murmur of pleasure, if you will. The Countess had a not unfeminine weakness for champagne, and old Mr. Bonner’s cellar was well and choicely stocked. But was this enjoyment to the Countess?—this dreary station in the background! ‘May I emerge?’ she as much as implored Providence.
The petition was infinitely tender. She thought she might, or it may be that nature was strong, and she could not restrain herself.
Taking wine with Sir John, she said:
‘This bowing! Do you know how amusing it is deemed by us Portuguese? Why not embrace? as the dear Queen used to say to me.’
‘I am decidedly of Her Majesty’s opinion,’ observed Sir John, with emphasis, and the Countess drew back into a mingled laugh and blush.
Her fiendish persecutor gave two or three nods. ‘And you know the Queen!’ she said.
She had to repeat the remark: whereupon the Countess murmured, ‘Intimately.’
‘Ah, we have lost a staunch old Tory in Sir Abraham,’ said the lady, performing lamentation.
What did it mean? Could design lodge in that empty-looking head with its crisp curls, button nose, and diminishing simper? Was this pic-nic to be made as terrible to the Countess by her putative father as the dinner had been by the great Mel? The deep, hard, level look of Juliana met the Countess’s smile from time to time, and like flimsy light horse before a solid array of infantry, the Countess fell back, only to be worried afresh by her perfectly unwitting tormentor.
‘His last days?—without pain? Oh, I hope so!’ came after a lapse of general talk.
‘Aren’t we getting a little funereal, Mrs. Perkins?’ Lady Jocelyn asked, and then rallied her neighbours.
Miss Carrington looked at her vexedly, for the fiendish Perkins was checked, and the Countess in alarm, about to commit herself, was a pleasant sight to Miss Carrington.
‘The worst of these indiscriminate meetings is that there is no conversation,’ whispered the Countess, thanking Providence for the relief.
Just then she saw Juliana bend her brows at another person. This was George Uplift, who shook his head, and indicated a shrewd-eyed, thin, middle-aged man, of a lawyer-like cast; and then Juliana nodded, and George Uplift touched his arm, and glanced hurriedly behind for champagne. The Countess’s eyes dwelt on the timid young squire most affectionately. You never saw a fortress more unprepared for dread assault.
‘Hem!’ was heard, terrific. But the proper pause had evidently not yet come, and now to prevent it the Countess strained her energies and tasked her genius intensely. Have you an idea of the difficulty of keeping up the ball among a host of ill-assorted, stupid country people, who have no open topics, and can talk of nothing continuously but scandal of their neighbours, and who, moreover, feel they are not up to the people they are mixing with? Darting upon Seymour Jocelyn, the Countess asked touchingly for news of the partridges. It was like the unlocking of a machine. Seymour was not blythe in his reply, but he was loud and forcible; and when he came to the statistics—oh, then you would have admired the Countess!—for comparisons ensued, braces were enumerated, numbers given were contested, and the shooting of this one jeered at, and another’s sure mark respectfully admitted. And how lay the coveys? And what about the damage done by last winter’s floods? And was there good hope of the pheasants? Outside this latter the Countess hovered. Twice the awful ‘Hem!’ was heard. She fought on. She kept them at it. If it flagged she wished to know this or that, and finally thought that, really, she should like herself to try one shot. The women had previously been left behind. This brought in the women. Lady Jocelyn proposed a female expedition for the morrow.
‘I believe I used to be something of a shot, formerly,’ she said.
‘You peppered old Tom once, my lady,’ remarked Andrew, and her ladyship laughed, and that foolish Andrew told the story, and the Countess, to revive her subject, had to say: ‘May I be enrolled to shoot?’ though she detested and shrank from fire-arms.
‘Here are two!’ said the hearty presiding dame. ‘Ladies, apply immediately to have your names put down.’