Having at last succeeded in reducing her four-footed torments to such a measure of obedience that, when thoroughly tired of scampering and scratching, they condescended to follow her, Alice entered a grass field, and had walked half across it ere she discovered the alarming fact that there were some cows grazing in it; one of which she, to her intense discomposure, immediately decided to be a bull, because, as she afterwards graphically described it, “it moo’d so low down its throat that it almost growled at her.” Of course all bulls being mad, and a mad bull being enough to frighten anybody, Alice began to run; which feat of activity (or activity of feet, if any reader should prefer the phrase so transposed) charmed the dogs—who thought she did it for their express delectation—to such an extent, that they began to bark furiously, which frightened the cow (for despite her base voice, she was a “very” cow after all, and fortunately a quiet one into the bargain), so that, exalting her tail, and twisting it like a corkscrew for the greater effect, she also set off running, thereby adding to Alice’s terror to such a degree, that, if a providential stile had not mercifully rescued her, the consequences might have been serious. This last “spirt,” however, brought her to Markum’s cottage, where she found the baby in a great state of slobbering splendour—very red, ugly, and promising, and altogether (as an assistant old lady, not to say hag, rather the worse for something that had dropped into her tea out of the gin-bottle, and who, from the accident, was in an extensive condition of maudlin and inappropriate Christianity, piously observed), a “little crowing mercy.” Having done her duty by this young child—that is, having said it was very pretty, which, to speak mildly, was untrue—and a very fine child, which, as far as regarded its dress, it certainly was—and exactly like its father, which was an awful——well, never mind, pious fraud we’ll call it,—Alice tipped the inappropriate Christian half-a-crown (in exchange for which she received a tipsy blessing), and took leave, having obtained geographical instructions by which she might, on her homeward route, avoid the proximity of the basso profundo cow.
The walk back (with the trifling exception of an episode wherein Ginger disturbed the tenants of a wasps’-nest) proved singularly uneventful, and Alice, in her secret soul, pronounced the whole expedition a failure—which, as it had cured her headache, was very ungrateful of her; but she was so engrossed by a little pain about the heart, which nothing but her husband’s return could cure, that she had entirely forgotten her headache.
The hall clock struck four as its mistress entered—four o’clock, two long hours to dinner-time! the time when Harry would, that is, ought to, return; for she daresay’d he would be late, and that they should not sit down to table till half-past six, at the very earliest. What should she do to fill up this unharmonious interval? Why, as she had worked so hard all the morning, surely she had a right to amuse herself now. She would read some entertaining book, which would make her laugh and raise her spirits; for, despite her best endeavours, she was getting decidedly miserable. So to this end she opened a parcel of books from the library, and began upon a new novel, by that very talented lady, Mrs. Bluedeville, and read how a “fair and gentle girl,” brought up by a select coterie of fiendish relations, and subjected from infancy to a series of tortures, sufficient to have expended the stoutest negro, developed, under these favourable circumstances, into a perfect Houri of Paradise, with the “additional attraction” of possessing the mind, manners, erudition, and phraseology of an old Divine of the Church of England. This interesting young martyr, released from her educational Bastile, and turned out to grass for a brief space in a pleasant meadow, wherein pastured a gallant, but very moral, officer of dragoons, naturally falls in love with the same, who fortunately does not resent the liberty. Angelica, taken up from her month’s run and put to work much too heavy for her, becomes better and better, until, as might have been expected, she overdoes the thing, and getting too good to live, has nothing left for it but to die, which she accordingly does on the arrival of the post which brings an account of the bold dragoon (in whom, from a fancied resemblance to Harry, Alice had taken the deepest interest) having fallen a victim to his dauntless courage, which, leading him to kill sixteen mounted Sikhs in single combat, had failed to preserve him from the vindictive fury of the seventeenth evil-disposed survivor. Strange to say this talented work, delightful as it was, failed to render Alice much more cheerful; but it succeeded in occupying her till it was time to go and dress for dinner, and for this she was grateful to the genius of Mrs. Bluedeville.
By six o’clock Alice, ready for dinner in more senses than one, betook herself to the drawing-room, where she waited patiently for half-an-hour, reading up sundry parts of Mrs. Bluedeville, which, in her rapid flight through that lady’s instructive romance, she had failed to peruse. At seven o’clock she rang the bell, and inquired of the butler whether his master had come in, or whether, if not, anything definite was known of his whereabouts. The reply was unsatisfactory in the extreme.
Master had not returned, he (Wilkins) could form no idea where he was likely to be; but, as a general maxim, considered shooting to be a highly dangerous amusement. Would Mrs. Coverdale obligingly condescend to ring the bell when she wished the dinner to be brought up?
Shooting a dangerous amusement! Yes, of course, so it was—guns constantly went off of their own accord, and shot those who were carrying them. How was it she had never thought of this before? and she had been blaming Harry, when, perhaps——the idea was too horrible to clothe in words, but it had occurred to her, and for Alice now there was no peace.
Mrs. Bluedeville was thrown aside with no more ceremony than if she had been a penny-a-liner; and with flushed cheeks and a beating heart the anxious young wife began to pace up and down the apartment. As the minutes crept by (so slowly!) Alice’s fear increased, until, at half-past seven, the suspense grew intolerable; and, ringing the bell, she was just giving incoherent orders for two mounted grooms to set off in utterly useless directions, when bang! bang! went a double-barrelled gun in the stable-yard, and Wilkins (an amiable but timid London servant) and his mistress nearly jumped into each other’s arms.
Still haunted by the conviction that something untoward must have happened, Alice hastened to meet her husband as he entered the hall. “Oh, Harry dearest, how glad I am you are safe!” she exclaimed; “but tell me,” she continued, referring to the mysterious cause of his prolonged absence, “tell me—what is it?”
“Sixteen brace of birds, three hares, two couple of rabbits, a landrail, and a woodpigeon; and a very fair bag I call it for one gun,” was the unexpected reply.
Relieved, yet slightly provoked, Alice resumed: “But what has made you so late? I have been dreadfully frightened about you—”