TRIBULATIONS AND TACTICS OF THE COUNTESS
“You have murdered my brother, Rose Jocelyn!”
“Don’t say so now.”
Such was the interchange between the two that loved the senseless
youth, as he was being lifted into the carriage.
Lady Jocelyn sat upright in her saddle, giving directions about what
was to be done with Evan and the mare, impartially.
“Stunned, and a good deal shaken, I suppose; Lymport’s knees are
terribly cut,” she said to Drummond, who merely nodded. And Seymour
remarked, “Fifty guineas knocked off her value!” One added, “Nothing
worse, I should think”; and another, “A little damage inside, perhaps.”
Difficult to say whether they spoke of Evan or the brute.
No violent outcries; no reproaches cast on the cold-blooded coquette;
no exclamations on the heroism of her brother! They could absolutely
spare a thought for the animal! And Evan had risked his life for this,
and might die unpitied. The Countess diversified her grief with a
deadly bitterness against the heartless Jocelyns.
Oh, if Evan dies! will it punish Rose sufficiently?
Andrew expressed emotion, but not of a kind the Countess liked a
relative to be seen exhibiting; for in emotion worthy Andrew betrayed
to her his origin offensively.
“Go away and puke, if you must,” she said, clipping poor Andrew’s word
about his “dear boy.” She could not help speaking in that way—he was so
vulgar. A word of sympathy from Lady Jocelyn might have saved her from
the sourness into which her many conflicting passions were resolving;
and might also have saved her ladyship from the rancour she had sown in
the daughter of the great Mel by her selection of epithets to
characterize him.
Will it punish Rose at all, if Evan dies?
Rose saw that she was looked at. How could the Countess tell that Rose
envied her the joy of holding Evan in the carriage there? Rose, to
judge by her face, was as calm as glass. Not so well seen through,
however. Mrs. Evremonde rode beside her, whose fingers she caught, and
twined her own with them tightly once for a fleeting instant. Mrs.
Evremonde wanted no further confession of her state.
Then Rose said to her mother, “Mama, may I ride to have the doctor
ready?”
Ordinarily, Rose would have clapped heel to horse the moment the
thought came. She waited for the permission, and flew off at a gallop,
waving back Laxley, who was for joining her.
“Franks will be a little rusty about the mare,” the Countess heard Lady
Jocelyn say; and Harry just then stooped his head to the carriage, and
said, in his blunt fashion, “After all, it won’t show much.”
“We are not cattle!” exclaimed the frenzied Countess, within her bosom.
Alas! it was almost a democratic outcry they made her guilty of; but
she was driven past patience. And as a further provocation, Evan would
open his eyes. She laid her handkerchief over them with loving
delicacy, remembering in a flash that her own face had been all the
while exposed to Mr. George Uplift; and then the terrors of his
presence at Beckley Court came upon her, and the fact that she had not
for the last ten minutes been the serene Countess de Saldar; and she
quite hated Andrew, for vulgarity in others evoked vulgarity in her,
which was the reason why she ranked vulgarity as the chief of the
deadly sins. Her countenance for Harry and all the others save poor
Andrew was soon the placid heaven-confiding sister’s again; not before
Lady Jocelyn had found cause to observe to Drummond:
“Your Countess doesn’t ruffle well.”
But a lady who is at war with two or three of the facts of Providence,
and yet will have Providence for her ally, can hardly ruffle well. Do
not imagine that the Countess’s love for her brother was hollow. She
was assured when she came up to the spot where he fell, that there was
no danger; he had but dislocated his shoulder, and bruised his head a
little. Hearing this, she rose out of her clamorous heart, and seized
the opportunity for a small burst of melodrama. Unhappily, Lady
Jocelyn, who gave the tone to the rest, was a Spartan in matters of
this sort; and as she would have seen those dearest to her bear the
luck of the field, she could see others. When the call for active help
reached her, you beheld a different woman.
The demonstrativeness the Countess thirsted for was afforded her by
Juley Bonner, and in a measure by her sister Caroline, who loved Evan
passionately. The latter was in riding attire, about to mount to ride
and meet them, accompanied by the Duke. Caroline had hastily tied up
her hair; a rich golden brown lump of it hung round her cheek; her
limpid eyes and anxiously-nerved brows impressed the Countess
wonderfully as she ran down the steps and bent her fine well-filled
bust forward to ask the first hurried question.
The Countess patted her shoulder. “Safe, dear,” she said aloud, as one
who would not make much of it. And in a whisper, “You look superb.”
I must charge it to Caroline’s beauty under the ducal radiance, that a
stream of sweet feelings entering into the Countess made her forget to
tell her sister that George Uplift was by. Caroline had not been
abroad, and her skin was not olive-hued; she was a beauty, and a
majestic figure, little altered since the day when the wooden marine
marched her out of Lymport.
The Countess stepped from the carriage to go and cherish Juliana’s
petulant distress; for that unhealthy little body was stamping with
impatience to have the story told to her, to burst into fits of pathos;
and while Seymour and Harry assisted Evan to descend, trying to laugh
off the pain he endured, Caroline stood by, soothing him with words and
tender looks.
Lady Jocelyn passed him, and took his hand, saying, “Not killed this
time!”
“At your ladyship’s service to-morrow,” he replied, and his hand was
kindly squeezed.
“My darling Evan, you will not ride again?” Caroline cried, kissing him
on the steps; and the Duke watched the operation, and the Countess
observed the Duke.
That Providence should select her sweetest moments to deal her wounds,
was cruel; but the Countess just then distinctly heard Mr. George
Uplift ask Miss Carrington.
“Is that lady a Harrington?”
“You perceive a likeness?” was the answer.
Mr. George went “Whew!—tit-tit-tit!” with the profound expression of a
very slow mind.
The scene was quickly over. There was barely an hour for the ladies to
dress for dinner. Leaving Evan in the doctor’s hand, and telling
Caroline to dress in her room, the Countess met Rose, and gratified her
vindictiveness, while she furthered her projects, by saying:
“Not till my brother is quite convalescent will it be adviseable that
you should visit him. I am compelled to think of him entirely now. In
his present state he is not fit to be, played with.”
Rose, stedfastly eyeing her, seemed to swallow down something in her
throat, and said:
“I will obey you, Countess. I hoped you would allow me to nurse him.”
“Quiet above all things, Rose Jocelyn!” returned the Countess, with the
suavity of a governess, who must be civil in her sourness. “If you
would not complete this morning’s achievement—stay away.”
The Countess declined to see that Rose’s lip quivered. She saw an
unpleasantness in the bottom of her eyes; and now that her brother’s
decease was not even remotely to be apprehended, she herself determined
to punish the cold, unimpressionable coquette of a girl. Before
returning to Caroline, she had five minutes’ conversation with Juliana,
which fully determined her to continue the campaign at Beckley Court,
commence decisive movements, and not to retreat, though fifty George
Uplofts menaced her. Consequently, having dismissed Conning on a
message to Harry Jocelyn, to ask him for a list of the names of the new
people they were to meet that day at dinner, she said to Caroline:
“My dear, I think it will be incumbent on us to depart very quickly.”
Much to the Countess’s chagrin and astonishment, Caroline replied:
“I shall hardly be sorry.”
“Not sorry? Why, what now, dear one? Is it true, then, that a
flagellated female kisses the rod? Are you so eager for a repetition of
Strike?”
Caroline, with some hesitation, related to her more than the Countess
had ventured to petition for in her prayers.
“Oh! how exceedingly generous!” the latter exclaimed. How very
refreshing to think that there are nobles in your England as romantic,
as courteous, as delicate as our own foreign ones! But his Grace is
quite an exceptional nobleman. Are you not touched, dearest Carry?”
Caroline pensively glanced at the reflection of her beautiful arm in
the glass, and sighed, pushing back the hair from her temples.
“But, for mercy’s sake!” resumed the Countess, in alarm at the sigh,
“do not be too—too touched. Do, pray, preserve your wits. You weep!
Caroline, Caroline! O my goodness; it is just five-and-twenty minutes
to the first dinner-bell, and you are crying! For God’s sake, think of
your face! Are you going to be a Gorgon? And you show the marks twice
as long as any other, you fair women. Squinnying like this! Caroline,
for your Louisa’s sake, do not!”
Hissing which, half angrily and half with entreaty, the Countess
dropped on her knees. Caroline’s fit of tears subsided. The eldest of
the sisters, she was the kindest, the fairest, the weakest.
“Not,” said the blandishing Countess, when Caroline’s face was clearer,
“not that my best of Carrys does not look delicious in her shower. Cry,
with your hair down, and you would subdue any male creature on two
legs. And that reminds me of that most audacious Marquis de Remilla. He
saw a dirty drab of a fruit-girl crying in Lisbon streets one day, as
he was riding in the carriage of the Duchesse de Col da Rosta, and her
husband and duena, and he had a letter for her—the Duchesse. They
loved! How deliver the letter? ‘Save me!’ he cried to the Duchesse,
catching her hand, and pressing his heart, as if very sick. The
Duchesse felt the paper—turned her hand over on her knee, and he
withdrew his. What does my Carry think was the excuse he tendered the
Duke? This—and this gives you some idea of the wonderful audacity of
those dear Portuguese—that he—he must precipitate himself and marry any
woman he saw weep, and be her slave for the term of his natural life,
unless another woman’s hand at the same moment restrained him! There!”
and the Countess’s eyes shone brightly.
“How excessively imbecile!” Caroline remarked, hitherto a passive
listener to these Lusitanian _contes_.
It was the first sign she had yet given of her late intercourse with a
positive Duke, and the Countess felt it, and drew back. No more
anecdotes for Caroline, to whom she quietly said:
“You are very English, dear!”
“But now, the Duke—his Grace,” she went on, “how did he inaugurate?”
“I spoke to him of Evan’s position. God forgive me!—I said that was the
cause of my looks being sad.”
“You could have thought of nothing better,” interposed the Countess.
“Yes?”
“He said, if he might clear them he should be happy.”
“In exquisite language, Carry, of course.”
“No; just as others talk.”
“Hum!” went the Countess, and issued again brightly from a cloud of
reflection, with the remark: “It was to seem business-like—the
commerciality of the English mind. To the point—I know. Well, you
perceive, my sweetest, that Evan’s interests are in your hands. You
dare not quit the field. In one week, I fondly trust, he will be
secure. What more did his Grace say? May we not be the repository of
such delicious secresies?”
Caroline gave tremulous indications about the lips, and the Countess
jumped to the bell and rang it, for they were too near dinner for the
trace of a single tear to be permitted. The bell and the appearance of
Conning effectually checked the flood.
While speaking to her sister, the Countess had hesitated to mention
George Uplift’s name, hoping that, as he had no dinner-suit, he would
not stop to dinner that day, and would fall to the charge of Lady
Racial once more. Conning, however, brought in a sheet of paper on
which the names of the guests were written out by Harry, a daily piece
of service he performed for the captivating dame, and George Uplift’s
name was in the list.
“We will do the rest, Conning—retire,” she said, and then folding
Caroline in her arms, murmured, the moment they were alone, “Will my
Carry dress her hair plain to-day, for the love of her Louisa?”
“Goodness! what a request!” exclaimed Caroline, throwing back her head
to see if her Louisa could be serious.
“Most inexplicable—is it not? Will she do it?”
“Flat, dear? It makes a fright of me.”
“Possibly. May I beg it?”
“But why, dearest, why? If I only knew why!”
“For the love of your Louy.”
“Plain along the temples?”
“And a knot behind.”
“And a band along the forehead?”
“Gems, if they meet your favour.”
“But my cheek-bones, Louisa?”
“They are not too prominent, Carry.”
“Curls relieve them.”
“The change will relieve the curls, dear one.”
Caroline looked in the glass, at the Countess, as polished a reflector,
and fell into a chair. Her hair was accustomed to roll across her
shoulders in heavy curls. The Duke would find a change of the sort
singular. She should not at all know herself with her hair done
differently: and for a lovely woman to be transformed to a fright is
hard to bear in solitude, or in imagination.
“Really!” she petitioned.
“Really—yes, or no?” added the Countess.
“So unaccountable a whim!” Caroline looked in the glass dolefully, and
pulled up her thick locks from one cheek, letting them fall on the
instant.
“She will?” breathed the Countess.
“I really cannot,” said Caroline, with vehemence.
The Countess burst into laughter, replying: “My poor child! it is not
my whim—it is your obligation. George Uplift dines here to-day. Now do
you divine it? Disguise is imperative for you.”
Mrs. Strike, gazing in her sister’s face, answered slowly, “George? But
how will you meet him?” she hurriedly asked.
“I have met him,” rejoined the Countess, boldly. “I defy him to know
me. I brazen him! You with your hair in my style are equally safe. You
see there is no choice. Pooh! contemptible puppy!”
“But I never,”—Caroline was going to say she never could face him. “I
will not dine. I will nurse Evan.”
“You have faced him, my dear,” said the Countess, “and you are to
change your head-dress simply to throw him off his scent.”
As she spoke the Countess tripped about, nodding her head like a girl.
Triumph in the sense of her power over all she came in contact with,
rather elated the lady.
Do you see why she worked her sister in this roundabout fashion? She
would not tell her George Uplift was in the house till she was sure he
intended to stay, for fear of frightening her. When the necessity
became apparent, she put it under the pretext of a whim in order to see
how far Caroline, whose weak compliance she could count on, and whose
reticence concerning the Duke annoyed her, would submit to it to please
her sister; and if she rebelled positively, why to be sure it was the
Duke she dreaded to shock: and, therefore, the Duke had a peculiar hold
on her: and, therefore, the Countess might reckon that she would do
more than she pleased to confess to remain with the Duke, and was
manageable in that quarter. All this she learnt without asking. I need
not add, that Caroline sighingly did her bidding.
“We must all be victims in our turn, Carry,” said the Countess. “Evan’s
prospects—it may be, Silva’s restoration—depend upon your hair being
dressed plain to-day. Reflect on that!”
Poor Caroline obeyed; but she was capable of reflecting only that her
face was unnaturally lean and strange to her.
The sisters tended and arranged one another, taking care to push their
mourning a month or two ahead and the Countess animadverted on the
vulgar mind of Lady Jocelyn, who would allow a “gentleman to sit down
at a gentlewoman’s table, in full company, in pronounced undress: and
Caroline, utterly miserable, would pretend that she wore a mask and
kept grimacing as they do who are not accustomed to paint on the
cheeks, till the Countess checked her by telling her she should ask her
for that before the Duke.
After a visit to Evan, the sisters sailed together into the
drawing-room.
“Uniformity is sometimes a gain,” murmured the Countess, as they were
parting in the middle of the room. She saw that their fine figures, and
profiles, and resemblance in contrast, produced an effect. The Duke
wore one of those calmly intent looks by which men show they are aware
of change in the heavens they study, and are too devout worshippers to
presume to disapprove. Mr. George was standing by Miss Carrington, and
he also watched Mrs. Strike. To bewilder him yet more the Countess
persisted in fixing her eyes upon his heterodox apparel, and Mr. George
became conscious and uneasy. Miss Carrington had to address her
question to him twice before he heard. Melville Jocelyn, Sir John
Loring, Sir Franks, and Hamilton surrounded the Countess, and told her
what they had decided on with regard to the election during the day;
for Melville was warm in his assertion that they would not talk to the
Countess five minutes without getting a hint worth having.
“Call to us that man who is habited like a groom,” said the Countess,
indicating Mr. George. “I presume he is in his right place up here?”
“Whew—take care, Countess—our best man. He’s good for a dozen,” said
Hamilton.
Mr. George was brought over and introduced to the Countess de Saldar.
“So the oldest Tory in the county is a fox?” she said, in allusion to
the hunt. Never did Caroline Strike admire her sister’s fearful genius
more than at that moment.
Mr. George ducked and rolled his hand over his chin, with “ah-um!” and
the like, ended by a dry laugh.
“Are you our supporter, Mr. Uplift?”
“Tory interest, ma—um—my lady.”
“And are you staunch and may be trusted?”
“’Pon my honour, I think I have that reputation.”
“And you would not betray us if we give you any secrets? Say ‘’Pon my
honour,’ again. You launch it out so courageously.”
The men laughed, though they could not see what the Countess was
driving at. She had for two minutes spoken as she spoke when a girl,
and George—entirely off his guard and unsuspicious—looked
unenlightened. If he knew, there were hints enough for him in her
words.
If he remained blind, they might pass as air. The appearance of the
butler cut short his protestation as to his powers of secresy.
The Countess dismissed him.
“You will be taken into our confidence when we require you.” And she
resumed her foreign air in a most elaborate and overwhelming bow.
She was now perfectly satisfied that she was safe from Mr. George, and,
as she thoroughly detested the youthful squire, she chose to propagate
a laugh at him by saying with the utmost languor and clearness of
voice, as they descended the stairs:
“After all, a very clever fox may be a very dull dog—don’t you think?”
Gentlemen in front of her, and behind, heard it, and at Mr. George’s
expense her reputation rose.
Thus the genius of this born general prompted her to adopt the
principle in tactics—boldly to strike when you are in the dark as to
your enemy’s movements.