plation 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 admit that I myself am not insensible to the effects of that first glass of champagne. I feel the earthly muse escaping me, and a desire for the larger-eyed heavenly muse. The poetry of my 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 anyone. 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: poor distant hope, meagre and shapeless like herself. Her most anxious thoughts concerned the means of getting money to lock up 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 fête!”
“I suppose we ought to lie down à 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 Uploft 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