“We shall see,” said the Countess, and varied her admiration for the noble creature beside her with gentle ejaculations on the beauty of the deer that ranged the park of Beckley Court, the grand old oaks and beeches, the clumps of flowering laurel, and the rich air swarming summer.
She swept out her arm. “And this most magnificent estate will be yours? How happy will she be who is led hither to reside by you, Mr. Harry!”
“Mine? No; there’s the bother,” he answered, with unfeigned chagrin. “Beckley isn’t Elburne property, you know. It belongs to old Mrs. Bonner, Rose’s grandmama.”
“Oh!” interjected the Countess, indifferently.
“I shall never get it—no chance,” Harry pursued. “Lost my luck with the old lady long ago.” He waxed excited on a subject that drew him from his shamefacedness. “It goes to Juley Bonner, or to Rosey, it’s a toss-up which. If I’d stuck up to Juley, I might have had a pretty fair chance. They wanted me to, that’s why I scout the premises. But fancy Juley Bonner!”
“You couldn’t, upon your honour!” rhymed the Countess. (And Harry let loose a delighted “Ha! ha!” as at a fine stroke of wit.) “Are we enamoured of a beautiful maiden, Señor Harry?”
“Not a bit,” he assured her, eagerly. “I don’t know any girl. I don’t care for ’em. I don’t, really.”
The Countess impressively declared to him that he must be guided by her; and that she might the better act his monitress, she desired to hear the pedigree of the estate, and the exact relations in which it at present stood towards the Elburne family.
Glad of any theme he could speak on, Harry informed her that Beckley Court was bought by his grandfather Bonner from the proceeds of a successful oil speculation.
“So we ain’t much on that side,” he said.
“Oil!” was the Countess’s weary exclamation. “I imagined Beckley Court to be your ancestral mansion. Oil!”
Harry deprecatingly remarked that oil was money.
“Yes,” she replied; “but you are not one to mix oil with your Elburne blood. Let me see—oil! That, I conceive, is grocery. So, you are grocers on one side!”
“Oh, come! hang it!” cried Harry, turning red.
“Am I leaning on the grocer’s side, or on the lord’s?”
Harry felt dreadfully taken down. “One ranks with one’s father,” he said.
“Yes,” observed the Countess; “but you should ever be careful not to expose the grocer. When I beheld my brother bow to you, and that your only return was to stare at him in that singular way, I was not aware of this, and could not account for it.”
“I declare I’m very sorry,” said Harry, with a nettled air. “Do just let me tell you how it happened. We were at an inn, where there was an odd old fellow gave a supper; and there was your brother, and another fellow—as thorough an upstart as I ever met, and infernally impudent. He got drinking, and wanted to fight us. Now I see it! Your brother, to save his friend’s bones, said he was a tailor! Of course no gentleman could fight a tailor; and it blew over with my saying we’d order our clothes of him.”
“Said he was a !” exclaimed the Countess, gazing blankly.
“I don’t wonder at your feeling annoyed,” returned Harry. “I saw him with Rosey next day, and began to smell a rat then, but Laxley won’t give up the tailor. He’s as proud as Lucifer. He wanted to order a suit of your brother to-day; but I said, not while he’s in the house, however he came here.”
The Countess had partially recovered. They were now in the village street, and Harry pointed out the post-office.
“Your divination with regard to my brother’s most eccentric behaviour was doubtless correct,” she said. “He wished to succour his wretched companion. Anywhere—it matters not to him what!—he allies himself with miserable mortals. He is the modern Samaritan. You should thank him for saving you an encounter with some low creature.”
Swaying the letter to and fro, she pursued archly: “I can read your thoughts. You are dying to know to whom this dear letter is addressed!”
Instantly Harry, whose eyes had previously been quite empty of expression, glanced at the letter wistfully.
“Shall I tell you?”
“Yes, do.”
“It’s to somebody I love.”
“Are you in love, then?” was his disconcerted rejoinder.
“Am I not married?”
“Yes; but every woman that’s married isn’t in love with her husband, you know.”
“Oh! Don Juan of the provinces!” she cried, holding the seal of the letter before him in playful reproof. “Fie!”
“Come, who is it?” Harry burst out.
“I am not, surely, obliged to confess my correspondence to you? Remember!” she laughed lightly. “He already assumes the airs of a lord and master! You are rapid, Mr. Harry.”
“Won’t you really tell me?” he pleaded.
She put a corner of the letter in the box. “Must I?”
All was done with the archest elegance: the bewildering condescension of a goddess to a boor.
“I don’t say you must, you know; but I should like to see it,” returned Harry.
“There!” She showed him a glimpse of “Mrs.,” cleverly concealing plebeian “Cogglesby,” and the letter slid into darkness. “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Harry, wondering why he felt a relief at the sight of “Mrs.” written on a letter by a lady he had only known half an hour.
“And now,” said she, “I shall demand a boon of you, Mr. Harry. Will it be accorded?”
She was hurriedly told that she might count upon him for whatever she chose to ask; and after much trifling and many exaggerations of the boon in question, he heard that she had selected