CHAPTER XXX

THE BATTLE OF THE BULL-DOGS. PART I

At the South-western extremity of the park, with a view extending over

wide meadows and troubled mill waters, yellow barn-roofs and weather-gray

old farm-walls, two grassy mounds threw their slopes to the margin of the

stream. Here the bull-dogs held revel. The hollow between the slopes was

crowned by a bending birch, which rose three-stemmed from the root, and

hung a noiseless green shower over the basin of green it shadowed.

Beneath it the interminable growl sounded pleasantly; softly shot the

sparkle of the twisting water, and you might dream things half-fulfilled.

Knots of fern were about, but the tops of the mounds were firm grass,

evidently well rolled, and with an eye to airy feet. Olympus one eminence

was called, Parnassus the other. Olympus a little overlooked Parnassus,

but Parnassus was broader and altogether better adapted for the games of

the Muses. Round the edges of both there was a well-trimmed bush of

laurel, obscuring only the feet of the dancers from the observing gods.

For on Olympus the elders reclined. Great efforts had occasionally been

made to dispossess and unseat them, and their security depended mainly on

a hump in the middle of the mound which defied the dance.

Watteau-like groups were already couched in the shade. There were ladies

of all sorts: town-bred and country-bred: farmers' daughters and

daughters of peers: for this pic-nic, as Lady Jocelyn, disgusting the

Countess, would call it, was in reality a 'fete champetre', given

annually, to which the fair offspring of the superior tenants were

invited the brothers and fathers coming to fetch them in the evening. It

struck the eye of the Countess de Saldar that Olympus would be a fitting

throne for her, and a point whence her shafts might fly without fear of a

return. Like another illustrious General at Salamanca, she directed a

detachment to take possession of the height. Courtly Sir John Loring ran

up at once, and gave the diplomatist an opportunity to thank her

flatteringly for gaining them two minutes to themselves. Sir John waved

his handkerchief in triumph, welcoming them under an awning where carpets

and cushions were spread, and whence the Countess could eye the field.

She was dressed ravishingly; slightly in a foreign style, the bodice

being peaked at the waist, as was then the Portuguese persuasion. The

neck, too, was deliciously veiled with fine lace--and thoroughly veiled,

for it was a feature the Countess did not care to expose to the vulgar

daylight. Off her gentle shoulders, as it were some fringe of cloud blown

by the breeze this sweet lady opened her bosom to, curled a lovely black

lace scarf: not Caroline's. If she laughed, the tinge of mourning lent

her laughter new charms. If she sighed, the exuberant array of her

apparel bade the spectator be of good cheer. Was she witty, men

surrendered reason and adored her. Only when she entered the majestic

mood, and assumed the languors of greatness, and recited musky anecdotes

of her intimacy with it, only then did mankind, as represented at Beckley

Court, open an internal eye and reflect that it was wonderful in a

tailor's daughter. And she felt that mankind did so reflect. Her

instincts did not deceive her. She knew not how much was known; in the

depths of her heart she kept low the fear that possibly all might be

known; and succeeding in this, she said to herself that probably nothing

was known after all. George Uplift, Miss Carrington, and Rose, were the

three she abhorred. Partly to be out of their way, and to be out of the

way of chance shots (for she had heard names of people coming that

reminded her of Dubbins's, where, in past days, there had been on one

awful occasion a terrific discovery made), the Countess selected Olympus

for her station. It was her last day, and she determined to be happy.

Doubtless, she was making a retreat, but have not illustrious Generals

snatched victory from their pursuers? Fair, then, sweet, and full of

grace, the Countess moved. As the restless shifting of colours to her

motions was the constant interchange of her semisorrowful manner and

ready archness. Sir John almost capered to please her, and the

diplomatist in talking to her forgot his diplomacy and the craft of his

tongue.

It was the last day also of Caroline and the Duke. The Countess clung to

Caroline and the Duke more than to Evan and Rose. She could see the first

couple walking under an avenue of limes, and near them that young man or

monkey, Raikes, as if in ambush. Twice they passed him, and twice he

doffed his hat and did homage.

'A most singular creature!' exclaimed the Countess. 'It is my constant

marvel where my brother discovered such a curiosity. Do notice him.'

'That man? Raikes?' said the diplomatist. 'Do you know he is our rival?

Harry wanted an excuse for another bottle last night, and proposed the

"Member" for Fallowfield. Up got this Mr. Raikes and returned thanks.'

'Yes?' the Countess negligently interjected in a way she had caught from

Lady Jocelyn.

'Cogglesby's nominee, apparently.'

'I know it all,' said the Countess. 'We need have no apprehension. He is

docile. My brother-in-law's brother, you see, is most eccentric. We can

manage him best through this Mr. Raikes, for a personal application would

be ruin. He quite detests our family, and indeed all the aristocracy.'

Melville's mouth pursed, and he looked very grave.

Sir John remarked: 'He seems like a monkey just turned into a man.'

'And doubtful about the tail,' added the Countess.

The image was tolerably correct, but other causes were at the bottom of

the air worn by John Raikes. The Countess had obtained an invitation for

him, with instructions that he should come early, and he had followed

them so implicitly that the curricle was flinging dust on the hedges

between Fallow field and Beckley but an hour or two after the chariot of

Apollo had mounted the heavens, and Mr. Raikes presented himself at the

breakfast table. Fortunately for him the Countess was there. After the

repast she introduced him to the Duke: and he bowed to the Duke, and the

Duke bowed to him: and now, to instance the peculiar justness in the mind

of Mr. Raikes, he, though he worshipped a coronet and would gladly have

recalled the feudal times to a corrupt land, could not help thinking that

his bow had beaten the Duke's and was better. He would rather not have

thought so, for it upset his preconceptions and threatened a revolution

in his ideas. For this reason he followed the Duke, and tried, if

possible, to correct, or at least chasten the impressions he had of

possessing a glaring advantage over the nobleman. The Duke's second

notice of him was hardly a nod. 'Well!' Mr. Raikes reflected, 'if this is

your Duke, why, egad! for figure and style my friend Harrington beats him

hollow.' And Raikes thought he knew who could conduct a conversation with

superior dignity and neatness. The torchlight of a delusion was

extinguished in him, but he did not wander long in that gloomy cavernous

darkness of the disenchanted, as many of us do, and as Evan had done,

when after a week at Beckley Court he began to examine of what stuff his

brilliant father, the great Mel, was composed. On the contrary, as the

light of the Duke dwindled, Raikes gained in lustre. 'In fact,' he said,

'there's nothing but the title wanting.' He was by this time on a level

with the Duke in his elastic mind.

Olympus had been held in possession by the Countess about half an hour,

when Lady Jocelyn mounted it, quite unconscious that she was scaling a

fortified point. The Countess herself fired off the first gun at her.

'It has been so extremely delightful up alone here, Lady Jocelyn: to look

at everybody below! I hope many will not intrude on us!'

'None but the dowagers who have breath to get up,' replied her ladyship,

panting. 'By the way, Countess, you hardly belong to us yet. You dance?'

'Indeed, I do not.'

'Oh, then you are in your right place. A dowager is a woman who doesn't

dance: and her male attendant is--what is he? We will call him a fogy.'

Lady Jocelyn directed a smile at Melville and Sir John, who both

protested that it was an honour to be the Countess's fogy.

Rose now joined them, with Laxley morally dragged in her wake.

'Another dowager and fogy!' cried the Countess, musically. 'Do you not

dance, my child?'

'Not till the music strikes up,' rejoined Rose. 'I suppose we shall have

to eat first.'

'That is the Hamlet of the pic-nic play, I believe,' said her mother.

'Of course you dance, don't you, Countess?' Rose inquired, for the sake

of amiable conversation.

The Countess's head signified: 'Oh, no! quite out of the question': she

held up a little bit of her mournful draperies, adding: 'Besides, you,

dear child, know your company, and can select; I do not, and cannot do

so. I understand we have a most varied assembly!'

Rose shut her eyes, and then looked at her mother. Lady Jocelyn's face

was undisturbed; but while her eyes were still upon the Countess, she

drew her head gently back, imperceptibly. If anything, she was admiring

the lady; but Rose could be no placid philosophic spectator of what was

to her a horrible assumption and hypocrisy. For the sake of him she

loved, she had swallowed a nauseous cup bravely. The Countess was too

much for her. She felt sick to think of being allied to this person. She

had a shuddering desire to run into the ranks of the world, and hide her

head from multitudinous hootings. With a pang of envy she saw her friend

Jenny walking by the side of William Harvey, happy, untried, unoffending:

full of hope, and without any bitter draughts to swallow!

Aunt Bel now came tripping up gaily.

'Take the alternative, 'douairiere or demoiselle'?' cried Lady Jocelyn.

'We must have a sharp distinction, or Olympus will be mobbed.'

'Entre les deux, s'il vous plait,' responded Aunt Bel. 'Rose, hurry down,

and leaven the mass. I see ten girls in a bunch. It's shocking.

Ferdinand, pray disperse yourself. Why is it, Emily, that we are always

in excess at pic-nics? Is man dying out?'

'From what I can see,' remarked Lady Jocelyn, 'Harry will be lost to his

species unless some one quickly relieves him. He's already half eaten up

by the Conley girls. Countess, isn't it your duty to rescue him?'

The Countess bowed, and murmured to Sir John:

'A dismissal!'

'I fear my fascinations, Lady Jocelyn, may not compete with those fresh

young persons.'

'Ha! ha! "fresh young persons,"' laughed Sir John for the ladies in

question were romping boisterously with Mr. Harry.

The Countess inquired for the names and condition of the ladies, and was

told that they sprang from Farmer Conley, a well-to-do son of the soil,

who farmed about a couple of thousand acres between Fallow field and

Beckley, and bore a good reputation at the county bank.

'But I do think,' observed the Countess, 'it must indeed be pernicious

for any youth to associate with that class of woman. A deterioration of

manners!'

Rose looked at her mother again. She thought 'Those girls would scorn to

marry a tradesman's son!'

The feeling grew in Rose that the Countess lowered and degraded her. Her

mother's calm contemplation of the lady was more distressing than if she

had expressed the contempt Rose was certain, according to her young

ideas, Lady Jocelyn must hold.

Now the Countess had been considering that she would like to have a word

or two with Mr. Harry, and kissing her fingers to the occupants of

Olympus, and fixing her fancy on the diverse thoughts of the ladies and

gentlemen, deduced from a rapturous or critical contemplation of her

figure from behind, she descended the slope.

Was it going to be a happy day? The well-imagined opinions of the

gentleman on her attire and style, made her lean to the affirmative; but

Rose's demure behaviour, and something--something would come across her

hopes. She had, as she now said to herself, stopped for the pic-nic,

mainly to give Caroline a last opportunity of binding the Duke to visit

the Cogglesby saloons in London. Let Caroline cleverly contrive this, as

she might, without any compromise, and the stay at Beckley Court would be

a great gain. Yes, Caroline was still with the Duke; they were talking

earnestly. The Countess breathed a short appeal to Providence that

Caroline might not prove a fool. Overnight she had said to Caroline: 'Do

not be so English. Can one not enjoy friendship with a nobleman without

wounding one's conscience or breaking with the world? My dear, the Duke

visiting you, you cow that infamous Strike of yours. He will be utterly

obsequious! I am not telling you to pass the line. The contrary. But we

continentals have our grievous reputation because we dare to meet as

intellectual beings, and defy the imputation that ladies and gentlemen

are no better than animals.'

It sounded very lofty to Caroline, who, accepting its sincerity, replied:

'I cannot do things by halves. I cannot live a life of deceit. A life of

misery--not deceit.'

Whereupon, pitying her poor English nature, the Countess gave her advice,

and this advice she now implored her familiars to instruct or compel

Caroline to follow.

The Countess's garment was plucked at. She beheld little Dorothy Loring

glancing up at her with the roguish timidity of her years.

'May I come with you?' asked the little maid, and went off into a

prattle: 'I spent that five shillings--I bought a shilling's worth of

sweet stuff, and nine penn'orth of twine, and a shilling for small wax

candles to light in my room when I'm going to bed, because I like plenty

of light by the looking-glass always, and they do make the room so hot!

My Jane declared she almost fainted, but I burnt them out! Then I only

had very little left for a horse to mount my doll on; and I wasn't going

to get a screw, so I went to Papa, and he gave me five shillings. And,

oh, do you know, Rose can't bear me to be with you. Jealousy, I suppose,

for you're very agreeable. And, do you know, your Mama is coming to-day?

I've got a Papa and no Mama, and you've got a Mama and no Papa. Isn't it

funny? But I don't think so much of it, as you 're grown up. Oh, I'm

quite sure she is coming, because I heard Harry telling Juley she was,

and Juley said it would be so gratifying to you.'

A bribe and a message relieved the Countess of Dorothy's attendance on

her.

What did this mean? Were people so base as to be guilty of hideous plots

in this house? Her mother coming! The Countess's blood turned deadly

chill. Had it been her father she would not have feared, but her mother

was so vilely plain of speech; she never opened her mouth save to deliver

facts: which was to the Countess the sign of atrocious vulgarity.

But her mother had written to say she would wait for Evan in Fallow

field! The Countess grasped at straws. Did Dorothy hear that? And if

Harry and Juliana spoke of her mother, what did that mean? That she was

hunted, and must stand at bay!

'Oh, Papa! Papa! why did you marry a Dawley?' she exclaimed, plunging to

what was, in her idea, the root of the evil.

She had no time for outcries and lamentations. It dawned on her that this

was to be a day of battle. Where was Harry? Still in the midst of the

Conley throng, apparently pooh-poohing something, to judge by the twist

of his mouth.

The Countess delicately signed for him to approach her. The extreme

delicacy of the signal was at least an excuse for Harry to perceive

nothing. It was renewed, and Harry burst into a fit of laughter at some

fun of one of the Conley girls. The Countess passed on, and met Juliana

pacing by herself near the lower gates of the park. She wished only to

see how Juliana behaved. The girl looked perfectly trustful, as much so

as when the Countess was pouring in her ears the tales of Evan's growing

but bashful affection for her.

'He will soon be here,' whispered the Countess. 'Has he told you he will

come by this entrance?'

'No,' replied Juliana.

'You do not look well, sweet child.'

'I was thinking that you did not, Countess?'

'Oh, indeed, yes! With reason, alas! All our visitors have by this time

arrived, I presume?'

'They come all day.'

The Countess hastened away from one who, when roused, could be almost as

clever as herself, and again stood in meditation near the joyful Harry.

This time she did not signal so discreetly. Harry could not but see it,

and the Conley girls accused him of cruelty to the beautiful dame, which

novel idea stung Harry with delight, and he held out to indulge in it a

little longer. His back was half turned, and as he talked noisily, he

could not observe the serene and resolute march of the Countess toward

him. The youth gaped when he found his arm taken prisoner by the

insertion of a small deliciously-gloved and perfumed hand through it. 'I

must claim you for a few moments,' said the Countess, and took the

startled Conley girls one and all in her beautiful smile of excuse.

'Why do you compromise me thus, sir?'

These astounding words were spoken out of the hearing of the Conley

girls.

'Compromise you!' muttered Harry.

Masterly was the skill with which the Countess contrived to speak angrily

and as an injured woman, while she wore an indifferent social

countenance.

'I repeat, compromise me. No, Mr. Harry Jocelyn, you are not the

jackanapes you try to make people think you: you understand me.'

The Countess might accuse him, but Harry never had the ambition to make

people think him that: his natural tendency was the reverse: and he

objected to the application of the word jackanapes to himself, and was

ready to contest the fact of people having that opinion at all. However,

all he did was to repeat: 'Compromise!'

'Is not open unkindness to me compromising me?'

'How?' asked Harry.

'Would you dare to do it to a strange lady? Would you have the impudence

to attempt it with any woman here but me? No, I am innocent; it is my

consolation; I have resisted you, but you by this cowardly behaviour

place me--and my reputation, which is more--at your mercy. Noble

behaviour, Mr. Harry Jocelyn! I shall remember my young English

gentleman.'

The view was totally new to Harry.

'I really had no idea of compromising you,' he said. 'Upon my honour, I

can't see how I did it now!'

'Oblige me by walking less in the neighbourhood of those fat-faced

glaring farm-girls,' the Countess spoke under her breath; 'and don't look

as if you were being whipped. The art of it is evident--you are but

carrying on the game.--Listen. If you permit yourself to exhibit an

unkindness to me, you show to any man who is a judge, and to every woman,

that there has been something between us. You know my innocence--yes! but

you must punish me for having resisted you thus long.'

Harry swore he never had such an idea, and was much too much of a man and

a gentleman to behave in that way.--And yet it seemed wonderfully clever!

And here was the Countess saying:

'Take your reward, Mr. Harry Jocelyn. You have succeeded; I am your

humble slave. I come to you and sue for peace. To save my reputation I

endanger myself. This is generous of you.'

'Am I such a clever fellow?' thought the young gentleman. 'Deuced lucky

with women': he knew that: still a fellow must be wonderfully,

miraculously, clever to be able to twist and spin about such a woman as

this in that way. He did not object to conceive that he was the fellow to

do it. Besides, here was the Countess de Saldar-worth five hundred of the

Conley girls--almost at his feet!

Mollified, he said: 'Now, didn't you begin it?'

'Evasion!' was the answer. 'It would be such pleasure to you so see a

proud woman weep! And if yesterday, persecuted as I am, with dreadful

falsehoods abroad respecting me and mine, if yesterday I did seem cold to

your great merits, is it generous of you to take this revenge?'

Harry began to scent the double meaning in her words. She gave him no

time to grow cool over it. She leaned, half abandoned, on his arm. Arts

feminine and irresistible encompassed him. It was a fatal mistake of

Juliana's to enlist Harry Jocelyn against the Countess de Saldar. He

engaged, still without any direct allusion to the real business, to move

heaven and earth to undo all that he had done, and the Countess implied

an engagement to do--what? more than she intended to fulfil.

Ten minutes later she was alone with Caroline.

'Tie yourself to the Duke at the dinner,' she said, in the forcible

phrase she could use when necessary. 'Don't let them scheme to separate

you. Never mind looks--do it!'

Caroline, however, had her reasons for desiring to maintain appearances.

The Countess dashed at her hesitation.

'There is a plot to humiliate us in the most abominable way. The whole

family have sworn to make us blush publicly. Publicly blush! They have

written to Mama to come and speak out. Now will you attend to me,

Caroline? You do not credit such atrocity? I know it to be true.'

'I never can believe that Rose would do such a thing,' said Caroline.' We

can hardly have to endure more than has befallen us already.'

Her speech was pensive, as of one who had matter of her own to ponder

over. A swift illumination burst in the Countess's mind.

'No? Have you, dear, darling Carry? not that I intend that you should!

but to-day the Duke would be such ineffable support to us. May I deem you

have not been too cruel to-day? You dear silly English creature, "Duck,"

I used to call you when I was your little Louy. All is not yet lost, but

I will save you from the ignominy if I can. I will!'

Caroline denied nothing--confirmed nothing, just as the Countess had

stated nothing. Yet they understood one another perfectly. Women have a

subtler language than ours: the veil pertains to them morally as bodily,

and they see clearer through it.

The Countess had no time to lose. Wrath was in her heart. She did not

lend all her thoughts to self-defence.

Without phrasing a word, or absolutely shaping a thought in her head, she

slanted across the sun to Mr. Raikes, who had taken refreshment, and in

obedience to his instinct, notwithstanding his enormous pretensions, had

commenced a few preliminary antics.

'Dear Mr. Raikes!' she said, drawing him aside, 'not before dinner!'

'I really can't contain the exuberant flow!' returned that gentleman. 'My

animal spirits always get the better of me,' he added confidentially.

'Suppose you devote your animal spirits to my service for half an hour.'

'Yours, Countess, from the 'os frontis' to the chine!' was the exuberant

rejoinder.

The Countess made a wry mouth.

'Your curricle is in Beckley?'

'Behold!' said Jack. 'Two juveniles, not half so blest as I, do from the

seat regard the festive scene o'er yon park palings. They are there, even

Franko and Fred. I 'm afraid I promised to get them in at a later period

of the day. Which sadly sore my conscience doth disturb! But what is to

be done about the curricle, my Countess?'

'Mr. Raikes,' said the Countess, smiling on him fixedly, 'you are

amusing; but in addressing me, you must be precise, and above all things

accurate. I am not your Countess!'

He bowed profoundly. 'Oh, that I might say my Queen!'

The Countess replied: 'A conviction of your lunacy would prevent my

taking offence, though I might wish you enclosed and guarded.'

Without any further exclamations, Raikes acknowledged a superior.

'And, now, attend to me,' said the Countess. 'Listen:

You go yourself, or send your friends instantly to Fallow field. Bring

with you that girl and her child. Stop: there is such a person. Tell her

she is to be spoken to about the prospects of the poor infant. I leave

that to your inventive genius. Evan wishes her here. Bring her, and

should you see the mad captain who behaves so oddly, favour him with a

ride. He says he dreams his wife is here, and he will not reveal his

name! Suppose it should be my own beloved husband! I am quite anxious.'

The Countess saw him go up to the palings and hold a communication with

his friends Franko and Fred. One took the whip, and after mutual

flourishes, drove away.

'Now!' mused the Countess, 'if Captain Evremonde should come!' It would

break up the pic-nic. Alas! the Countess had surrendered her humble hopes

of a day's pleasure. But if her mother came as well, what a diversion

that would be! If her mother came before the Captain, his arrival would

cover the retreat; if the Captain preceded her, she would not be noticed.

Suppose her mother refrained from coming? In that case it was a pity, but

the Jocelyns had brought it on themselves.

This mapping out of consequences followed the Countess's deeds, and did

not inspire them. Her passions sharpened her instincts, which produced

her actions. The reflections ensued: as in nature, the consequences were

all seen subsequently! Observe the difference between your male and

female Generals.

On reflection, too, the Countess praised herself for having done all that

could be done. She might have written to her mother: but her absence

would have been remarked: her messenger might have been overhauled and,

lastly, Mrs. Mel--'Gorgon of a mother!' the Countess cried out: for Mrs.

Mel was like a Fate to her. She could remember only two occasions in her

whole life when she had been able to manage her mother, and then by lying

in such a way as to distress her conscience severely.

'If Mama has conceived this idea of coming, nothing will impede her. My

prayers will infuriate her!' said the Countess, and she was sure that she

had acted both rightly and with wisdom.

She put on her armour of smiles: she plunged into the thick of the enemy.

Since they would not allow her to taste human happiness--she had asked

but for the pic-nic! a small truce! since they denied her that, rather

than let them triumph by seeing her wretched, she took into her bosom the

joy of demons. She lured Mr. George Uplift away from Miss Carrington, and

spoke to him strange hints of matrimonial disappointments, looking from

time to time at that apprehensive lady, doating on her terrors. And Mr.

George seconded her by his clouded face, for he was ashamed not to show

that he did not know Louisa Harrington in the Countess de Saldar, and had

not the courage to declare that he did. The Countess spoke familiarly,

but without any hint of an ancient acquaintance between them. 'What a

post her husband's got!' thought Mr. George, not envying the Count. He

was wrong: she was an admirable ally. All over the field the Countess

went, watching for her mother, praying that if she did come, Providence

might prevent her from coming while they were at dinner. How clearly Mrs.

Shorne and Mrs. Melville saw her vulgarity now! By the new light of

knowledge, how certain they were that they had seen her ungentle training

in a dozen little instances.

'She is not well-bred, 'cela se voit',' said Lady Jocelyn.

'Bred! it's the stage! How could such a person be bred?' said Mrs.

Shorne.

Accept in the Countess the heroine who is combating class-prejudices, and

surely she is pre-eminently noteworthy. True, she fights only for her

family, and is virtually the champion of the opposing institution

misplaced. That does not matter: the Fates may have done it purposely: by

conquering she establishes a principle. A Duke adores her sister, the

daughter of the house her brother, and for herself she has many

protestations in honour of her charms: nor are they empty ones. She can

confound Mrs. Melville, if she pleases to, by exposing an adorer to lose

a friend. Issuing out of Tailordom, she, a Countess, has done all this;

and it were enough to make her glow, did not little evils, and angers,

and spites, and alarms so frightfully beset her.

The sun of the pic-nic system is dinner. Hence philosophers may deduce

that the pic-nic is a British invention. There is no doubt that we do not

shine at the pic-nic until we reflect the face of dinner. To this, then,

all who were not lovers began seriously to look forward, and the advance

of an excellent county band, specially hired to play during the

entertainment, gave many of the guests quite a new taste for sweet music;

and indeed we all enjoy a thing infinitely more when we see its meaning.

About this time Evan entered the lower park-gates with Andrew. The first

object he encountered was John Raikes in a state of great depression. He

explained his case:

'Just look at my frill! Now, upon my honour, you know, I'm good-tempered;

I pass their bucolic habits, but this is beyond bearing. I was near the

palings there, and a fellow calls out, "Hi! will you help the lady over?"

Holloa! thinks I, an adventure! However, I advised him to take her round

to the gates. The beast burst out laughing. "Now, then," says he, and I

heard a scrambling at the pales, and up came the head of a dog. "Oh! the

dog first," says I. "Catch by the ears," says he. I did so. "Pull," says

he. "'Gad, pull indeed!", The beast gave a spring and came slap on my

chest, with his dirty wet muzzle on my neck! I felt instantly it was the

death of my frill, but gallant as you know me, I still asked for the

lady. "If you will please, or an it meet your favour, to extend your hand

to me!" I confess I did think it rather odd, the idea of a lady coming in

that way over the palings! but my curst love of adventure always blinds

me. It always misleads my better sense, Harrington. Well, instead of a

lady, I see a fellow--he may have been a lineal descendant of Cedric the

Saxon. "Where's the lady?" says I. "Lady?" says he, and stares, and then

laughs: "Lady! why," he jumps over, and points at his beast of a dog,

"don't you know a bitch when you see one?" I was in the most ferocious

rage! If he hadn't been a big burly bully, down he'd have gone. "Why

didn't you say what it was?" I roared. "Why," says he, "the word isn't

considered polite!" I gave him a cut there. I said, "I rejoice to be

positively assured that you uphold the laws and forms of civilization,

sir." My belief is he didn't feel it.'

'The thrust sinned in its shrewdness,' remarked Evan, ending a laugh.

'Hem!' went Mr. Raikes, more contentedly: 'after all, what are

appearances to the man of wit and intellect? Dress, and women will

approve you: but I assure you they much prefer the man of wit in his

slouched hat and stockings down. I was introduced to the Duke this

morning. It is a curious thing that the seduction of a Duchess has always

been one of my dreams.'

At this Andrew Cogglesby fell into a fit of laughter.

'Your servant,' said Mr. Raikes, turning to him. And then he muttered

'Extraordinary likeness! Good Heavens! Powers!'

From a state of depression, Mr. Raikes--changed into one of bewilderment.

Evan paid no attention to him, and answered none of his hasty undertoned

questions. Just then, as they were on the skirts of the company, the band

struck up a lively tune, and quite unconsciously, the legs of Raikes,

affected, it may be, by supernatural reminiscences, loosely hornpiped. It

was but a moment: he remembered himself the next: but in that fatal

moment eyes were on him. He never recovered his dignity in Beckley Court:

he was fatally mercurial.

'What is the joke against this poor fellow?' asked Evan of Andrew.

'Never mind, Van. You'll roar. Old Tom again. We 'll see by-and-by, after

the champagne. He--this young Raikes-ha! ha!--but I can't tell you.' And

Andrew went away to Drummond, to whom he was more communicative. Then he

went to Melville, and one or two others, and the eyes of many became

concentrated on Raikes, and it was observed as a singular sign that he

was constantly facing about, and flushing the fiercest red. Once he made

an effort to get hold of Evan's arm and drag him away, as one who had an

urgent confession to be delivered of, but Evan was talking to Lady

Jocelyn, and other ladies, and quietly disengaged his arm without even

turning to notice the face of his friend. Then the dinner was announced,

and men saw the dinner. The Countess went to shake her brother's hand,

and with a very gratulatory visage, said through her half-shut teeth.

'If Mama appears, rise up and go away with her, before she has time to

speak a word.' An instant after Evan found himself seated between Mrs.

Evremonde and one of the Conley girls. The dinner had commenced. The

first half of the Battle of the Bull-dogs was as peaceful as any ordinary

pic-nic, and promised to the general company as calm a conclusion.