should, when treated as a man, turn traitor to their common interests, and prove himself an utter baby, was a piece of nonsense her great intelligence indignantly rejected.
“Then, if true,” she answered Caroline’s assurances finally,” “if true, he is not his father’s son!”
By which it may be seen that she had indeed taken refuge in the Castle of Negation against the whole army of facts.
“He is acting, Carry. He is acting the ideas of his ridiculous empty noddle!”
“No,” said Caroline, mournfully, “he is not. I have never known Evan to lie.”
“Then you must forget the whipping he once had from his mother—little dolt! little selfish pig! He obtains his reputation entirely from his abominable selfishness, and then stands tall, and asks us to admire him. He bursts with vanity. But if you lend your credence to it, Carry, how, in the name of goodness, are you to appear at the breakfast?”
“I was going to ask you whether you would come,” said Caroline, coldly.
“If I can get my hair to lie flat by any means at all, of course!” returned the Countess. “This dreadful horrid country pomade! Why did we not bring a larger stock of the Andalusian Regenerator? Upon my honour, my dear, you use a most enormous quantity; I must really tell you that.”
Conning here entered to say that Mr. Evan had given orders for the boxes to be packed and everything got ready to depart by half-past eleven o’clock, when the fly would call for them and convey them to Fallowfield in time to meet the coach for London.
The Countess turned her head round to Caroline like an astonished automaton.
“Given orders!” she interjected.
“I have very little to get ready,” remarked Caroline.
“Be so good as to wait outside the door one instant,” said the Countess to Conning, with particular urbanity.
Conning heard a great deal of vigorous whispering within, and when summoned to re-appear, a note was handed her to convey to Mr. Harrington immediately. He was on the lawn; read it, and wrote back three hasty lines in pencil.
“Louisa. You have my commands to quit this house, at the hour named, this day. You will go with me. E. H.”
Conning was again requested to wait outside the Countess’s door. She was the bearer of another note. Evan read it likewise; tore it up, and said that there was no answer.
The Castle of Negation held out no longer. Ruthless battalions poured over the walls, blew up the Countess’s propriety, made frightful ravages in her complexion. Down fell her hair.
“You cannot possibly go to breakfast,” said Caroline.
“I must! I must!” cried the Countess. “Why, my dear, if he has done it—wretched creature! don’t you perceive that, by withholding our presences, we become implicated with him?” And the Countess, from a burst of frenzy, put this practical question so shrewdly, that Caroline’s wits succumbed to her.
“But he has not done it; he is acting!” she pursued, restraining her precious tears for higher purposes, as only true heroines can. “Thinks to frighten me into submission!”
“Do you not think Evan is right in wishing us to leave, after—after—” Caroline humbly suggested.
“Say, before my venerable friend has departed this life,” the Countess took her up. “No, I do not. If he is a fool, I am not. No, Carry: I do not jump into ditches for nothing. I will have something tangible for all that I have endured. We are now tailors in this place, remember. If that stigma is affixed to us, let us at least be remunerated for it. Come.”
Caroline’s own hard struggle demanded all her strength: yet she appeared to hesitate. “You will surely not disobey Evan, Louisa?”
“Disobey?” The Countess amazedly dislocated the syllables. “Why, the boy will be telling you next that he will not permit the Duke to visit you! Just your English order of mind, that cannot—brutes!—conceive of friendship between high-born men and beautiful women. Beautiful as you truly are, Carry, five years more will tell on you. But perhaps my dearest is in a hurry to return to her Maxwell? At least he thwacks well!”
Caroline’s arm was taken. The Countess loved an occasional rhyme when a point was to be made, and went off nodding and tripping till the time for stateliness arrived, near the breakfast-room door. She indeed was acting. At the bottom of her heart there was a dismal rage of passions: hatred of those who would or might look tailor in her face: terrors concerning the possible re-visitation of the vengeful Sir Abraham: dread of Evan and the effort to despise him: the shocks of many conflicting elements. Above it all her countenance was calmly, sadly sweet: even as you may behold some majestic lighthouse glimmering over the tumult of a midnight sea.
An unusual assemblage honoured the breakfast that morning. The news of Mrs. Bonner’s health was more favourable. How delighted was the Countess to hear that! Mrs. Bonner was the only firm ground she stood on there, and after receiving and giving gentle salutes, she talked of Mrs. Bonner, and her night-watch by the sick-bed, in a spirit of doleful hope. This passed off the moments till she could settle herself to study faces. Decidedly, every lady present looked glum, with the single exception of Miss Current. Evan was by Lady Jocelyn’s side. Her ladyship spoke to him; but the Countess observed that no one else did. To herself, however, the gentlemen were as attentive as ever. Evan sat three chairs distant from her.
If the traitor expected his sister to share in his disgrace, by noticing him, he was in error. On the contrary, the Countess joined the conspiracy to exclude him, and would stop a mild laugh if perchance he looked up. Presently Rose entered. She said “Good morning” to one or two, and glided into a seat.
That Evan was under Lady Jocelyn’s protection