Filled with pleasing emotions at the thought of the service in the quiet village church, and worshipping in the principal pew, under the blazonry of the Jocelyn arms, the Countess sealed her letter and addressed it, and then examined the name of Cogglesby; which plebeian name, it struck her, would not sound well to the menials of Beckley Court.  While she was deliberating what to do to conceal it, she heard, through her open window, the voices of some young men laughing.  She beheld her brother pass these young men, and bow to them.  She beheld them stare at him without at all returning his salute, and then one of them—­the same who had filled her ears with venom at Fallow field—­turned to the others and laughed outrageously, crying—­

‘By Jove! this comes it strong.  Fancy the snipocracy here—­eh?’

What the others said the Countess did not wait to hear.  She put on her bonnet hastily, tried the effect of a peculiar smile in the mirror, and lightly ran down-stairs.

CHAPTER XV

A CAPTURE

The three youths were standing in the portico when the Countess appeared among them.  She singled out him who was specially obnoxious to her, and sweetly inquired the direction to the village post.  With the renowned gallantry of his nation, he offered to accompany her, but presently, with a different exhibition of the same, proposed that they should spare themselves the trouble by dropping the letter she held prominently, in the bag.

‘Thanks,’ murmured the Countess, ‘I will go.’  Upon which his eager air subsided, and he fell into an awkward silent march at her side, looking so like the victim he was to be, that the Countess could have emulated his power of laughter.

‘And you are Mr. Harry Jocelyn, the very famous cricketer?’

He answered, glancing back at his friends, that he was, but did not know about the ‘famous.’

’Oh! but I saw you—­I saw you hit the ball most beautifully, and dearly wished my brother had an equal ability.  Brought up in the Court of Portugal, he is barely English.  There they have no manly sports.  You saw him pass you?’

‘Him!  Who?’ asked Harry.

’My brother, on the lawn, this moment.  Your sweet sister’s friend.  Your uncle Melville’s secretary.’

‘What’s his name?’ said Harry, in blunt perplexity.

The Countess repeated his name, which in her pronunciation was ‘Hawington,’ adding, ’That was my brother.  I am his sister.  Have you heard of the Countess de Saldar?’

‘Countess!’ muttered Harry.  ‘Dash it! here’s a mistake.’

She continued, with elegant fan-like motion of her gloved fingers:  ’They say there is a likeness between us.  The dear Queen of Portugal often remarked it, and in her it was a compliment to me, for she thought my brother a model!  You I should have known from your extreme resemblance to your lovely young sister.’