SECOND DESPATCH OF THE COUNTESS
We do not advance very far in this second despatch, and it will be
found chiefly serviceable for the indications it affords of our
General’s skill in mining, and addiction to that branch of military
science. For the moment I must beg that a little indulgence be granted
to her.
“Purely business. Great haste. Something has happened. An event? I know
not; but events may flow from it.
“A lady is here who has run away from the conjugal abode, and Lady
Jocelyn shelters her, and is hospitable to another, who is more
concerned in this lady’s sad fate than he should be. This may be
morals, my dear: but please do not talk of Portugal now. A fineish
woman with a great deal of hair worn as if her maid had given it one
comb straight down and then rolled it up in a hurry round one finger.
Malice would say carrots. It is called gold. Mr. Forth is in a glass
house, and is wrong to cast his sneers at perfectly inoffensive people.
“Perfectly impossible we can remain at Beckley Court together—if not
dangerous. Any means that Providence may designate, I would employ. It
will be like exorcising a demon. Always excuseable. I only ask a little
more time for stupid Evan. He might have little Bonner now. I should
not object; but her family is not so good.
“Now, do attend. At once obtain a copy of Strike’s Company people. You
understand—prospectuses. Tell me instantly if the Captain Evremonde in
it is Captain Lawson Evremonde. Pump Strike. Excuse vulgar words.
Whether he is not Lord Laxley’s half-brother. Strike shall be of use to
us. Whether he is not mad. Captain E——’s address. Oh! when I think of
Strike—brute! and poor beautiful uncomplaining Carry and her shoulder!
But let us indeed most fervently hope that his Grace may be balm to it.
We must not pray for vengeance. It is sinful. Providence will inflict
that. Always know that Providence is quite sure to. It comforts
exceedingly.
“Oh, that Strike were altogether in the past tense! No knowing what the
Duke might do—a widower and completely subjugated. It makes my bosom
bound. The man tempts me to the wickedest Frenchy ideas. There!
We progress with dear venerable Mrs. Bonner. Truly pious—interested in
your Louisa. She dreads that my husband will try to convert me to his
creed. I can but weep and say—never!
“I need not say I have my circle. To hear this ridiculous boy Harry
Jocelyn grunt under my nose when he has led me unsuspectingly away from
company—Harriet! dearest! He thinks it a sigh! But there is no time for
laughing.
“My maxim in any house is—never to despise the good opinion of the
nonentities. They are the majority. I think they all look up to me. But
then of course you must fix that by seducing the stars. My diplomatist
praises my abilities—Sir John Loring my style—the rest follow and I do
not withhold my smiles, and they are happy, and I should be but that
for ungrateful Evan’s sake I sacrificed my peace by binding myself to a
dreadful sort of half-story. I know I did not quite say it. It seems as
if Sir A.’s ghost were going to haunt me. And then I have the most
dreadful fears that what I have done has disturbed him in the other
world. Can it be so? It is not money or estates we took at all,
dearest! And these excellent young curates—I almost wish it was
Protestant to speak a word behind a board to them and imbibe comfort.
For after all it is nothing: and a word even from this poor thin mopy
Mr. Parsley might be relief to a poor soul in trouble. Catholics tell
you that what you do in a good cause is redeemable if not exactly
right. And you know the Catholic is the oldest Religion of the two. I
would listen to the Pope, staunch Protestant as I am, in preference to
King Henry the Eighth. Though, as a woman, I bear him no rancour, for
his wives were—fools, point blank. No man was ever so manageable. My
diplomatist is getting liker and liker to him every day. Leaner, of
course, and does not habitually straddle. Whiskers and morals, I mean.
We must be silent before our prudish sister. Not a prude? We talk
diplomacy, dearest. He complains of the exclusiveness of the port of
Oporto, and would have strict alliance between Portugal and England,
with mutual privileges. I wish the alliance, and think it better to
maintain the exclusiveness. Very trifling; but what is life!
“Adieu. One word to leave you laughing. Imagine her situation! This
stupid Miss Carrington has offended me. She has tried to pump Conning,
who, I do not doubt, gave her as much truth as I chose she should have
in her well. But the quandary of the wretched creature! She takes
Conning into her confidence—a horrible malady just covered by high-neck
dress! Skin! and impossible that she can tell her engaged—who
is—guess—Mr. George Up———! Her name is Louisa Carrington. There was a
Louisa Harrington once. Similarity of names perhaps. Of course I could
not let her come to the house; and of course Miss C. is in a state of
wonderment and bad passions, I fear. I went straight to Lady Racial, my
dear. There was nothing else for it but to go and speak. She is truly a
noble woman—serves us in every way. As she should!—much affected by
sight of Evan, and keeps aloof from Beckley Court. The finger of
Providence is in all. Adieu! but do pray think of Miss Carrington! It
was foolish of her to offend me. Drives and walks—the Duke attentive.
Description of him when I embrace you. I give amiable Sir Franks
Portuguese dishes. Ah, my dear, if we had none but men to contend
against, and only women for our tools! But this is asking for the
world, and nothing less.
“Open again,” she pursues. “Dear Carry just come in. There are fairies,
I think, where there are dukes! Where could it have come from? Could
any human being have sent messengers post to London, ordered, and had
it despatched here within this short time? You shall not be mystified!
I do not think I even hinted; but the afternoon walk I had with his
Grace, on the first day of his arrival, I did shadow it very delicately
how much it was to be feared our poor Carry could not, that she dared
not, betray her liege lord in an evening dress. Nothing more, upon my
veracity! And Carry has this moment received the most beautiful green
box, containing two of the most heavenly old lace shawls that you ever
beheld. We divine it is to hide poor Carry’s matrimonial blue mark! We
know nothing. Will you imagine Carry is for not accepting it! Priority
of birth does not imply superior wits, dear—no allusion to you. I have
undertaken all. Arch looks, but nothing pointed. His Grace will
understand the exquisite expression of feminine gratitude. It is so
sweet to deal with true nobility. Carry has only to look as she always
does. One sees Strike sitting on her. Her very pliability has rescued
her from being utterly squashed long ere this! The man makes one
vulgar. It would have been not the slightest use asking me to be a
Christian had I wedded Strike. But think of the fairy presents! It has
determined me not to be expelled by Mr. Forth—quite. Tell Silva he is
not forgotten. But, my dear, between us alone, men are so selfish, that
it is too evident they do not care for private conversations to turn
upon a lady’s husband: not to be risked, only now and then.
“I hear that the young ladies and the young gentlemen have been out
riding a race. The poor little Bonner girl cannot ride, and she says to
Carry that Rose wishes to break our brother’s neck. The child hardly
wishes that, but she is feelingless. If Evan could care for Miss
Bonner, he might have B. C.! Oh, it is not so very long a shot, my
dear. I am on the spot, remember. Old Mrs. Bonner is a most just-minded
spirit. Juliana is a cripple, and her grandmother wishes to be sure
that when she departs to her Lord the poor cripple may not be chased
from this home of hers. Rose cannot calculate—Harry is in
disgrace—there is really no knowing. This is how I have reckoned;
£10,000 extra to Rose; perhaps £1000 or nothing to H.; all the rest of
ready-money—a large sum—no use guessing—to Lady Jocelyn; and B. C. to
little Bonner—it is worth £40,000. Then she sells, or stops—permanent
resident. It might be so soon, for I can see worthy Mrs. Bonner to be
breaking visibly. But young men will not see with wiser eyes than their
own. Here is Evan risking his neck for an indifferent—there’s some word
for ‘not soft.’ In short, Rose is the cold-blooded novice, as I have
always said, the most selfish of the creatures on two legs.
“Adieu! Would you have dreamed that Major Nightmare’s gallantry to his
wife would have called forth a gallantry so truly touching and
delicate? Can you not see Providence there? Out of Evil—the Catholics
again!
“Address. If Lord Lax—’s half-brother. If wrong in noddle. This I know
you will attend to scrupulously. Ridiculous words are sometimes the
most expressive. Once more, may Heaven bless you all! I thought of you
in church last Sunday.
“I may tell you this: young Mr. Laxley is here. He—but it was Evan’s
utter madness was the cause, and I have not ventured a word to him. He
compelled Evan to assert his rank, and Mr. Forth’s face has been one
concentrated sneer since THEN. He must know the origin of the
Cogglesbys, or something. Now you will understand the importance. I
cannot be more explicit. Only—the man must go.
“P.S. I have just ascertained that Lady Jocelyn is quite familiar with
Andrew’s origin!! She must think my poor Harriet an eccentric woman. Of
course I have not pretended to rank here, merely gentry. It is gentry
in reality, for had poor Papa been legitimized, he would have been a
nobleman. You know that; and between the two we may certainly claim
gentry. I twiddle your little good Andrew to assert it for us twenty
times a day. Of all the dear little manageable men! It does you
infinite credit that you respect him as you do. What would have become
of me I do not know.
“P.S. I said two shawls—a black and a white. The black not so
costly—very well. And so delicate of him to think of the mourning! But
the white, my dear, must be family—must! Old English point. Exquisitely
chaste. So different from that Brussels poor Andrew surprised you with.
I know it cost money, but this is a question of taste. The Duke
reconciles me to England and all my troubles! He is more like poor Papa
than any one of the men I have yet seen. The perfect gentleman! I do
praise myself for managing an invitation to our Carry. She has been a
triumph.”
Admire the concluding stroke. The Countess calls this letter a purely
business communication. Commercial men might hardly think so; but
perhaps ladies will perceive it. She rambles concentrically, if I may
so expound her. Full of luxurious enjoyment of her position, her mind
is active, and you see her at one moment marking a plot, the next, with
a light exclamation, appeasing her conscience, proud that she has one;
again she calls up rival forms of faith, that she may show the
Protestant its little shortcomings, and that it is slightly in debt to
her (like Providence) for her constancy, notwithstanding. The
Protestant you see, does not confess, and she has to absolve herself,
and must be doing it internally while she is directing outer matters.
Hence her slap at King Henry VIII. In fact, there is much more business
in this letter than I dare to indicate; but as it is both impertinent
and unpopular to dive for any length of time beneath the surface
(especially when there are few pearls to show for it), we will
discontinue our examination.
The Countess, when she had dropped the letter in the bag, returned to
her chamber, and deputed Dorothy Loring, whom she met on the stairs, to
run and request Rose to lend her her album to beguile the afternoon
with; and Dorothy dances to Rose, saying, “The Countess de Lispy-Lispy
would be delighted to look at your album all the afternoon.”
“Oh what a woman that is!” says Rose. “Countess de Lazy-Lazy, I think.”
The Countess, had she been listening, would have cared little for
accusations on that head. Idlesse was fashionable: exquisite languors
were a sign of breeding; and she always had an idea that she looked
more interesting at dinner after reclining on a couch the whole of the
afternoon. The great Mel and his mate had given her robust health, and
she was able to play the high-born invalid without damage to her
constitution. Anything amused her; Rose’s album even, and the
compositions of W. H., E. H., D. F., and F. L. The initials F. L. were
diminutive, and not unlike her own hand, she thought. They were
appended to a piece of facetiousness that would not have disgraced the
abilities of Mr. John Raikes; but we know that very stiff young
gentlemen betray monkey-minds when sweet young ladies compel them to
disport. On the whole, it was not a lazy afternoon that the Countess
passed, and it was not against her wish that others should think it
was.