needed, for he had the Countess's radiant
full visage alone. Her senses were dancing in her right ear, which had
heard the name of Lady Racial pronounced, and a voice respond to it from
the carriage.

Into what a pit had she suddenly plunged! You ask why she did not drive
away as fast as the horses would carry her, and fly the veiled head
of Demogorgon obscuring valley and hill and the shining firmament, and
threatening to glare destruction on her? You do not know an intriguer.
She relinquishes the joys of life for the joys of intrigue. This is her
element. The Countess did feel that the heavens were hard on her. She
resolved none the less to fight her way to her object; for where so much
had conspired to favour her--the decease of the generous Sir Abraham
Harrington, of Torquay, and the invitation to Beckley Court--could she
believe the heavens in league against her? Did she not nightly pray to
them, in all humbleness of body, for the safe issue of her cherished
schemes? And in this, how unlike she was to the rest of mankind! She
thought so; she relied on her devout observances; they gave her
sweet confidence, and the sense of being specially shielded even when
specially menaced. Moreover, tell a woman to put back, when she is once
clearly launched! Timid as she may be, her light bark bounds to meet the
tempest. I speak of women who do launch: they are not numerous, but, to
the wise, the minorities are the representatives.

'Indeed, it is an intricate game!' said the Countess, at the conclusion
of the squire's explanation, and leaned over to Mrs. Shorne to ask her
if she thoroughly understood it.

'Yes, I suppose I do,' was the reply; 'it--rather than the amusement
they find in it.' This lady had recovered Mr. Parsley from Rose, but had
only succeeded in making the curate unhappy, without satisfying herself.

The Countess gave her the shrug of secret sympathy.

'We must not say so,' she observed aloud--most artlessly, and fixed the
squire with a bewitching smile, under which her heart beat thickly. As
her eyes travelled from Mrs. Shorne to the squire, she had marked Lady
Racial looking singularly at Evan, who was mounting the horse of Bob the
groom.

'Fine young fellow, that,' said the squire to Lady Racial, as Evan rode
off with Rose.

'An extremely handsome, well-bred young man,' she answered. Her eyes met
the Countess's, and the Countess, after resting on their surface with an
ephemeral pause, murmured: 'I m