'Holloa, Bernard!' said a cool voice.
'De la Poer!' and Bernard stood transfixed, not even joining at first in the general clamour of, 'So shocked!' 'You here!' 'How could we miss you?' 'I never was so sorry!' 'It was all my own fault!' 'Oh, never mind,' &c.; but when his voice was heard again, 'Lady Caergwent, if I had been there, this should never have been! These brothers of mine!'
'Not a word more till she is safely housed,' interposed Felix. 'Don't you see how drenched she is?—Will you trust yourself to me after this inexcusable neglect, Lady Caergwent?'
'I told you it was I who lost myself,' she said, with a most forgiving radiance in her eyes, glancing through the dark hair that flew about her hatless head.
They wrapped her in the cloak they had brought, and tied the hood down over her hair with a handkerchief; but when Bernard would have proffered his arm on the side unengrossed by Felix, he found himself forestalled, and could only fume in the rear—such of his denunciations of the general barbarous carelessness as were not blown down his throat again by the wind being received by Will Harewood, with comical little sounds that nettled him exceedingly.
The contention with wind, rain, stones, and torrents, was far too severe for any one else to attempt speaking, while the blast swept round the hill side as if trying to whirl them off their feet; and even when the lee side of the barn was reached, Lady Caergwent was too breathless to do anything but gasp out that Mr. Underwood must not blame himself—it was her own fault, and all right.
A whole cluster of anxious faces crowded the deep porch, to receive the dripping figures that came in, looking, as the delighted Kester said, like the cats that became pools in Strewelpeter. Some used their first breath for laughter, others for the long pent-up apologies, which were cut short by Wilmet and Robina bearing the young lady up-stairs to be dried.
The room was homely, for their hostess was not of the advanced order, and had no fine daughters. She appealed to Mrs. Harewood on the expediency of bed, warm water, and something hot; but the Countess, her eyes dancing through her plastered elf-locks, laughed all to scorn, only begging for the loan of some clothes. However—will she, nill she—while struggling with the soaked adhesive sleeves of her jacket, a foot-bath and big ewer, and a tray of various beverages, made their appearance, putting her into fresh fits of mirth, as Robina tugged at the refractory garment, and Mrs. Hodnet endeavoured to add lumps of sugar at every polite refusal of the negus.
'Lady Caergwent, the bed or the negus?' said Wilmet, at last, with full authority.
'The dagger or the bowl? The bowl then, if you please, when my hand comes out. I'm like Agamemnon now. Oh!—there!—thanks, Copsey. I hope the rest of the coats of the onion will come off easier. Thank you! oh, so much, Mrs. Hodnet! That will be beautiful!'