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 Uploft 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 different 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 loves 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 London 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 Mr. John Raikes in a state of great depression. He explained his case:
“Just look at my frill! No, 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?’ Halloa! 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 in 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 just 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 civilisation, 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!”
