“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.”
The possibility of an expedition of ladies now struck Seymour vividly, and, said he: “I’ll be secretary;” and began applying to the ladies for permission to put down their names. Many declined, with brevity, muttering, either aloud or to themselves, “unwomanly;” varied by “unladylike:” some confessed cowardice; some a horror of the noise close to their ears; and there was the plea of nerves. But the names of half a dozen ladies were collected, and then followed much laughter and musical hubbub, and delicate banter. So the ladies and gentlemen fell one and all into the partridge-pit dug for them by the Countess: and that horrible “Hem!” equal in force and terror to the roar of artillery preceding the charge of ten thousand dragoons, was silenced—the pit appeared impassable. Did the Countess crow over her advantage? Mark her: the lady’s face is entirely given up to partridges. “English sports are so much envied abroad,” she says: but what she dreads is a reflection, for that leads off from the point. A portion of her mind she keeps to combat them in Lady Jocelyn and others who have the tendency: the rest she divides between internal prayers for succour, and casting about for another popular subject to follow partridges. Now mere talent, as critics say when they are lighting candles round a genius, mere talent would have hit upon pheasants as the natural sequitur, and then diverged to sports—a great theme, for it ensures a chorus of sneers at foreigners, and so on probably to a discussion of birds and beasts best adapted to enrapture the palate of man. Stories may succeed, but they are doubtful, and not to be trusted, coming after cookery. After an exciting subject which has made the general tongue to wag, and just enough heated the brain to cause it to cry out for spiced food—then start your story: taking care that it be mild; for one too marvellous stops the tide, the sense of climax being strongly implanted in all bosoms. So the Countess told an anecdote—one of Mel’s. Mr. George Uploft was quite familiar with it, and knew of one passage that would have abashed him to relate “before ladies.” The sylph-like ease with which the Countess floated over this foul abysm was miraculous. Mr. George screwed his eye-lids queerly, and closed his jaws with a report, completely beaten. The anecdote was of the character of an apologue, and pertained to game. This was, as it happened, a misfortune; for Mr. John Raikes had felt himself left behind by the subject; and the stuff that was in this young man being naturally ebullient, he lay by to trip it, and take a lead. His remarks brought on him a shrewd cut from the Countess, which made matters worse; for a pun may also breed puns, as doth an anecdote. The Countess’s stroke was so neat and perfect that it was something for the gentlemen to think over; and to punish her for giving way to her cleverness and to petty vexation, “Hem!” sounded once more, and then: “May I ask you if the present Baronet is in England?”
Now Lady Jocelyn perceived that some attack was directed against her guest. She allowed the Countess to answer:
“The eldest was drowned in the Lisbon waters,”
And then said: “But who is it that persists in serving up the funeral baked meats to us?”
Mrs. Shorne spoke for her neighbour: “Mr. Farnley’s cousin was the steward of Sir Abraham Harrington’s estates.”
The Countess held up her head boldly. There is a courageous exaltation of the nerves known to heroes and great generals in action when they feel sure that resources within themselves will spring up to the emergency, and that over simple mortals success is positive.
“I had a great respect for Sir Abraham,” Mr. Farnley explained, “very great. I heard that this lady” (bowing to the Countess) “was his daughter.”
Lady Jocelyn’s face wore an angry look, and Mrs. Shorne gave her the shade of a shrug and an expression implying, “I didn’t!”
Evan was talking to Miss Jenny Graine at the moment rather earnestly. With a rapid glance at him, to see that his ears were closed, the Countess breathed:
“Not the elder branch!—Cadet!”
The sort of noisy silence produced by half-a-dozen people respirating deeply and moving in their seats was heard. The Countess watched Mr. Farnley’s mystified look, and whispered to Sir John: “Est-ce qu’il comprenne le Français, lui?”
It was the final feather-like touch to her triumph. She saw safety and a clear escape, and much joyful gain, and the pleasure of relating her sufferings in days to come. This vista was before her when, harsh as an execution bell, telling her that she had vanquished man, but that Providence opposed her, “Mrs. Melchisedec Harrington!” was announced to Lady Jocelyn.
Perfect stillness reigned immediately, as if the pic-nic had heard its doom.
“Oh! I will go to her,” said her ladyship, whose first thought was to spare the family. “Andrew, come and give me your arm.”
But when she rose Mrs. Mel was no more than the length of an arm from her elbow.
In the midst of the horrible anguish she was enduring, the Countess could not help criticising her mother’s curtsey to Lady Jocelyn. Fine, but a shade too humble. Still it was fine; all might not yet be lost.
“Mama!” she softly exclaimed, and thanked heaven that she had not denied her parent.
Mrs. Mel did not notice her or any of her children. There was in her bosom a terrible determination to cast a devil out of the one she best loved. For this purpose, heedless of all pain to be given, or of impropriety, she had come to