Evan Harrington. Complete

‘Decline!’ cried the Countess, melodiously; ‘and do not you?’

‘As far as I am concerned—yes. But I am not to think of myself.’

The Countess meditated, and said: ‘Dear Mr. Duflian has offered me his hospitality. Renegades are not absolutely inhuman. They may be generous. I have no moral doubt that Mr. Duflian would, upon my representation—dare I venture?’

‘Sleep in his house! break bread with him!’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘What do you think I am made of? I would perish—go to the workhouse, rather!’

‘I see you trooping there,’ said the Countess, intent on the vision.

‘And have you accepted his invitation for yourself, Louisa?’

The Countess was never to be daunted by threatening aspects. She gave her affirmative with calmness and a deliberate smile.

‘You are going to live with him?’

‘Live with him! What expressions! My husband accompanies me.’

Harriet drew up.

‘I know nothing, Louisa, that could give me more pain.’

The Countess patted Harriet’s knee. ‘It succeeds to bankruptcy, assuredly. But would you have me drag Silva to the—the shop, Harriet, love? Alternatives!’

Mrs. Andrew got up and rang the bell to have the remains of their dinner removed. When this was done, she said,

‘Louisa, I don’t know whether I am justified: you told me to-day I might keep my jewels, trinkets, and lace, and such like. To me, I know they do not belong now: but I will dispose of them to procure you an asylum somewhere—they will fetch, I should think, L400,—to prevent your going to Mr. Duffian.’

No exhibition of great-mindedness which the Countess could perceive, ever found her below it.

‘Never, love, never!’ she said.

‘Then, will you go to Evan?’

‘Evan? I hate him!’ The olive-hued visage was dark. It brightened as she added, ‘At least as much as my religious sentiments permit me to. A boy who has thwarted me at every turn!—disgraced us! Indeed, I find it difficult to pardon you the supposition of such a possibility as your own consent to look on him ever again, Harriet.’

‘You have no children,’ said Mrs. Andrew.

The Countess mournfully admitted it.

‘There lies your danger with Mr. Duffian, Louisa!’

‘What! do you doubt my virtue?’ asked the Countess.

‘Pish! I fear something different. You understand me. Mr. Duflian’s moral reputation is none of the best, perhaps.’

‘That was before he renegaded,’ said the Countess.

Harriet bluntly rejoined: ‘You will leave that house a Roman Catholic.’

‘Now you have spoken,’ said the Countess, pluming. ‘Now let me explain myself. My dear, I have fought worldly battles too long and too earnestly. I am rightly punished. I do but quote Herbert Duffian’s own words: he is no flatterer though you say he has such soft fingers. I am now engaged in a spiritual contest. He is very wealthy! I have resolved to rescue back to our Church what can benefit the flock of which we form a portion, so exceedingly!’

At this revelation of the Countess’s spiritual contest, Mrs. Andrew shook a worldly head.

‘You have no chance with men there, Louisa.’

‘My Harriet complains of female weakness!’

‘Yes. We are strong in our own element, Louisa. Don’t be tempted out of it.’

Sublime, the Countess rose:

‘Element! am I to be confined to one? What but spiritual solaces could assist me to live, after the degradations I have had heaped on me? I renounce the world. I turn my sight to realms where caste is unknown. I feel no shame there of being a tailor’s daughter. You see, I can bring my tongue to name the thing in its actuality. Once, that member would have blistered. Confess to me that, in spite of your children, you are tempted to howl at the idea of Lymport—’

The Countess paused, and like a lady about to fire off a gun, appeared to tighten her nerves, crying out rapidly:

‘Shop! Shears! Geese! Cabbage! Snip! Nine to a man!’

Even as the silence after explosions of cannon, that which reigned in the room was deep and dreadful.

‘See,’ the Countess continued, ‘you are horrified you shudder. I name all our titles, and if I wish to be red in my cheeks, I must rouge. It is, in verity, as if my senseless clay were pelted, as we heard of Evan at his first Lymport boys’ school. You remember when he told us the story? He lisped a trifle then. “I’m the thon of a thnip.” Oh! it was hell-fire to us, then; but now, what do I feel? Why, I avowed it to Herbert Duffian openly, and he said, that the misfortune of dear Papa’s birth did not the less enable him to proclaim himself in conduct a nobleman’s offspring—’

‘Which he never was.’ Harriet broke the rhapsody in a monotonous low tone: the Countess was not compelled to hear:

‘—and that a large outfitter—one of the very largest, was in reality a merchant, whose daughters have often wedded nobles of the land, and become ancestresses! Now, Harriet, do you see what a truly religious mind can do for us in the way of comfort? Oh! I bow in gratitude to Herbert Duffian. I will not rest till I have led him back to our fold, recovered from his error. He was our own preacher and pastor. He quitted us from conviction. He shall return to us from conviction.’

The Countess quoted texts, which I respect, and will not repeat. She descanted further on spiritualism, and on the balm that it was to tailors and their offspring; to all outcasts from Society.

Overpowered by her, Harriet thus summed up her opinions: ‘You were always self-willed, Louisa.’

‘Say, full of sacrifice, if you would be just,’ added the Countess; ‘and the victim of basest ingratitude.’

‘Well, you are in a dangerous path, Louisa.’

Harriet had the last word, which usually the Countess was not disposed to accord; but now she knew herself strengthened to do so, and was content to smile pityingly on her sister.

Full upon them in this frame of mind, arrived Caroline’s great news from Beckley.

It was then that the Countess’s conduct proved a memorable refutation of cynical philosophy: she rejoiced in the good fortune of him who had offended her! Though he was not crushed and annihilated (as he deserved to be) by the wrong he had done, the great-hearted woman pardoned him!

Her first remark was: ‘Let him thank me for it or not, I will lose no moment in hastening to load him with my congratulations.’

Pleasantly she joked Andrew, and defended him from Harriet now.

‘So we are not all bankrupts, you see, dear brother-in-law.’

Andrew had become so demoralized by his own plot, that in every turn of events he scented a similar piece of human ingenuity. Harriet was angry with his disbelief, or say, the grudging credit he gave to the glorious news. Notwithstanding her calmness, the thoughts of Lymport had sickened her soul, and it was only for the sake of her children, and from a sense of the dishonesty of spending a farthing of the money belonging, as she conceived, to the creditors, that she had consented to go.

‘I see your motive, Mr. Cogglesby,’ she observed. ‘Your measures are disconcerted. I will remain here till my brother gives me shelter.’

‘Oh, that’ll do, my love; that’s all I want,’ said Andrew, sincerely.

‘Both of you, fools!’ the Countess interjected. ‘Know you Evan so little? He will receive us anywhere: his arms are open to his kindred: but to his heart the road is through humiliation, and it is to his heart we seek admittance.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harriet inquired.

‘Just this,’ the Countess answered in bold English and her eyes were lively, her figure elastic: ‘We must all of us go down to the old shop and shake his hand there—every man Jack of us!—I’m only quoting the sailors, Harriet—and that’s the way to win him.’

She snapped her fingers, laughing. Harriet stared at her, and so did Andrew, though for a different reason. She seemed to be transformed. Seeing him inclined to gape, she ran up to him, caught up his chin between her ten fingers, and kissed him on both cheeks, saying:

‘You needn’t come, if you’re too proud, you know, little man!’

And to Harriet’s look of disgust, the cause for which she divined with her native rapidity, she said: ‘What does it matter? They will talk, but they can’t look down on us now. Why, this is my doing!’

She came tripping to her tall sister, to ask plaintively ‘Mayn’t I be glad?’ and bobbed a curtsey.

Harriet desired Andrew to leave them. Flushed and indignant she then faced the Countess.

‘So unnecessary!’ she began. ‘What can excuse your indiscretion, Louisa?’

The Countess smiled to hear her talking to her younger sister once more. She shrugged.

‘Oh, if you will keep up the fiction, do. Andrew knows—he isn’t an idiot—and to him we can make light of it now. What does anybody’s birth matter, who’s well off!’

It was impossible for Harriet to take that view. The shop, if not the thing, might still have been concealed from her husband, she thought.

‘It mattered to me when I was well off,’ she said, sternly.

‘Yes; and to me when I was; but we’ve had a fall and a lesson since that, my dear. Half the aristocracy of England spring from shops!—Shall I measure you?’

Harriet never felt such a desire to inflict a slap upon mortal cheek. She marched away from her in a tiff. On the other hand, Andrew was half fascinated by the Countess’s sudden re-assumption of girlhood, and returned—silly fellow! to have another look at her. She had ceased, on reflection, to be altogether so vivacious: her stronger second nature had somewhat resumed its empire: still she was fresh, and could at times be roguishly affectionate and she patted him, and petted him, and made much of him; slightly railed at him for his uxoriousness and domestic subjection, and proffered him her fingers to try the taste of. The truth must be told: Mr. Duflian not being handy, she in her renewed earthly happiness wanted to see her charms in a woman’s natural mirror: namely, the face of man: if of man on his knees, all the better and though a little man is not much of a man, and a sister’s husband is, or should be, hardly one at all, still some sort of a reflector he must be. Two or three jests adapted to Andrew’s palate achieved his momentary captivation.

He said: ‘Gad, I never kissed you in my life, Louy.’

And she, with a flavour of delicate Irish brogue, ‘Why don’t ye catch opportunity by the tail, then?’

Perfect innocence, I assure you, on both sides.

But mark how stupidity betrays. Andrew failed to understand her, and act on the hint immediately. Had he done so, the affair would have been over without a witness. As it happened, delay permitted Harriet to assist at the ceremony.

‘It wasn’t your mouth, Louy,’ said Andrew.

‘Oh, my mouth!—that I keep for, my chosen,’ was answered.

‘Gad, you make a fellow almost wish—’ Andrew’s fingers worked over his poll, and then the spectre of righteous wrath flashed on him—naughty little man that he was! He knew himself naughty, for it was the only time since his marriage that he had ever been sorry to see his wife. This is a comedy, and I must not preach lessons of life here: but I am obliged to remark that the husband must be proof, the sister-in-law perfect, where arrangements exist that keep them under one roof. She may be so like his wife! Or, from the knowledge she has of his circumstances, she may talk to him almost as his wife. He may forget that she is not his wife! And then again, the small beginnings, which are in reality the mighty barriers, are so easily slid over. But what is the use of telling this to a pure generation? My constant error is in supposing that I write for the wicked people who begat us.

Note, however, the difference between the woman and the man! Shame confessed Andrew’s naughtiness; he sniggered pitiably: whereas the Countess jumped up, and pointing at him, asked her sister what she thought of that. Her next sentence, coolly delivered, related to some millinery matter. If this was not innocence, what is?

Nevertheless, I must here state that the scene related, innocent as it was, and, as one would naturally imagine, of puny consequence, if any, did no less a thing than, subsequently, to precipitate the Protestant Countess de Saldar into the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church. A little bit of play!

It seems barely just. But if, as I have heard, a lady has trod on a pebble and broken her nose, tremendous results like these warn us to be careful how we walk. As for play, it was never intended that we should play with flesh and blood.

And, oh, be charitable, matrons of Britain! See here, Andrew Cogglesby, who loved his wife as his very soul, and who almost disliked her sister; in ten minutes the latter had set his head spinning! The whole of the day he went about the house meditating frantically on the possibility of his Harriet demanding a divorce.

She was not the sort of woman to do that. But one thing she resolved to do; and it was, to go to Lymport with Louisa, and having once got her out of her dwelling-place, never to allow her to enter it, wherever it might be, in the light of a resident again. Whether anything but the menace of a participation in her conjugal possessions could have despatched her to that hateful place, I doubt. She went: she would not let Andrew be out of her sight. Growing haughtier toward him at every step, she advanced to the strange old shop. EVAN HARRINGTON over the door! There the Countess, having meantime returned to her state of womanhood, shared her shudders. They entered, and passed in to Mrs. Mel, leaving their footman, apparently, in the rear. Evan was not visible. A man in the shop, with a yard measure negligently adorning his shoulders, said that Mr. Harrington was in the habit of quitting the shop at five.

‘Deuced good habit, too,’ said Andrew.

‘Why, sir,’ observed another, stepping forward, ‘as you truly say—yes. But—ah! Mr. Andrew Cogglesby? Pleasure of meeting you once in Fallow field! Remember Mr. Perkins?—the lawyer, not the maltster. Will you do me the favour to step out with me?’

Andrew followed him into the street.

‘Are you aware of our young friend’s good fortune?’ said Lawyer Perkins. ‘Yes. Ah! Well!—Would you believe that any sane person in his condition, now—nonsense apart—could bring his mind wilfully to continue a beggar? No. Um! Well; Mr. Cogglesby, I may tell you that I hold here in my hands a document by which Mr. Evan Harrington transfers the whole of the property bequeathed to him to Lady Jocelyn, and that I have his orders to execute it instantly, and deliver it over to her ladyship, after the will is settled, probate, and so forth: I presume there will be an arrangement about his father’s debts. Now what do you think of that?’

‘Think, sir,—think!’ cried Andrew, cocking his head at him like an indignant bird, ‘I think he’s a damned young idiot to do so, and you’re a confounded old rascal to help him.’

Leaving Mr. Perkins to digest his judgement, which he had solicited, Andrew bounced back into the shop.

CHAPTER XLV. IN WHICH THE SHOP BECOMES THE CENTRE OF ATTRACTION

Under the first lustre of a May-night, Evan was galloping over the moon-shadowed downs toward Beckley. At the ridge commanding the woods, the park, and the stream, his horse stopped, as if from habit, snorted, and puffed its sides, while he gazed steadily across the long lighted vale. Soon he began to wind down the glaring chalk-track, and reached grass levels. Here he broke into a round pace, till, gaining the first straggling cottages of the village, he knocked the head of his whip against the garden-gate of one, and a man came out, who saluted him, and held the reins.

‘Animal does work, sir,’ said the man.

Evan gave directions for it to be looked to, and went on to the doorway, where he was met by a young woman. She uttered a respectful greeting, and begged him to enter.

The door closed, he flung himself into a chair, and said:

‘Well, Susan, how is the child?’

‘Oh! he’s always well, Mr. Harrington; he don’t know the tricks o’ trouble yet.’

‘Will Polly be here soon?’

‘At a quarter after nine, she said, sir.’

Evan bade her sit down. After examining her features quietly, he said:

‘I ‘m glad to see you here, Susan. You don’t regret that you followed my advice?’

‘No, sir; now it’s over, I don’t. Mother’s kind enough, and father doesn’t mention anything. She’s a-bed with bile—father’s out.’

‘But what? There’s something on your mind.’

‘I shall cry, if I begin, Mr. Harrington.’

‘See how far you can get without.’

‘Oh! Sir, then,’ said Susan, on a sharp rise of her bosom, ‘it ain’t my fault. I wouldn’t cause trouble to Mr. Harry, or any friend of yours; but, sir, father have got hold of his letters to me, and he says, there ‘s a promise in ‘em—least, one of ‘em; and it’s as good as law, he says—he heard it in a public-house; and he’s gone over to Fall’field to a law-gentleman there.’ Susan was compelled to give way to some sobs. ‘It ain’t for me—father does it, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘I tried to stop him, knowing how it’d vex you, Mr. Harrington; but he’s heady about points, though a quiet man ordinary; and he says he don’t expect—and I know now no gentleman ‘d marry such as me—I ain’t such a stupid gaper at words as I used to be; but father says it’s for the child’s sake, and he does it to have him provided for. Please, don’t ye be angry with me, sir.’

Susan’s half-controlled spasms here got the better of her.

While Evan was awaiting the return of her calmer senses, the latch was lifted, and Polly appeared.

‘At it again!’ was her sneering comment, after a short survey of her apron-screened sister; and then she bobbed to Evan.

‘It’s whimper, whimper, and squeak, squeak, half their lives with some girls. After that they go wondering they can’t see to thread a needle! The neighbours, I suppose. I should like to lift the top off some o’ their houses. I hope I haven’t kept you, sir.’

‘No, Polly,’ said Evan; ‘but you must be charitable, or I shall think you want a lesson yourself. Mr. Raikes tells me you want to see me. What is it? You seem to be correspondents.’

Polly replied: ‘Oh, no, Mr. Harrington: only accidental ones—when something particular’s to be said. And he dances-like on the paper, so that you can’t help laughing. Isn’t he a very eccentric gentleman, sir?’

‘Very,’ said Evan. ‘I ‘ve no time to lose, Polly.’

‘Here, you must go,’ the latter called to her sister. ‘Now pack at once, Sue. Do rout out, and do leave off thinking you’ve got a candle at your eyes, for Goodness’ sake!’

Susan was too well accustomed to Polly’s usage to complain. She murmured a gentle ‘Good night, sir,’ and retired. Whereupon Polly exclaimed: ‘Bless her poor dear soft heart! It ‘s us hard ones that get on best in the world. I’m treated better than her, Mr. Harrington, and I know I ain’t worth half of her. It goes nigh to make one religious, only to see how exactly like Scripture is the way Beckley treats her, whose only sin is her being so soft as to believe in a man! Oh, dear! Mr. Harrington! I wish I had good news for you.’

In spite of all his self-control, Evan breathed quickly and looked eagerly.

‘Speak it out, Polly.’

‘Oh, dear! I must, I suppose,’ Polly answered. ‘Mr. Laxley’s become a lord now, Mr. Harrington.’

Evan tasted in his soul the sweets of contrast. ‘Well?’

‘And my Miss Rose—she—’

‘What?’

Moved by the keen hunger of his eyes, Polly hesitated. Her face betrayed a sudden change of mind.

‘Wants to see you, sir,’ she said, resolutely.

‘To see me?’

Evan stood up, so pale that Polly was frightened.

‘Where is she? Where can I meet her?’

‘Please don’t take it so, Mr. Harrington.’

Evan commanded her to tell him what her mistress had said.

Now up to this point Polly had spoken truth. She was positive her mistress did want to see him. Polly, also, with a maiden’s tender guile, desired to bring them together for once, though it were for the last time, and for no good on earth. She had been about to confide to him her young mistress’s position toward Lord Laxley, when his sharp interrogation stopped her. Shrinking from absolute invention, she remarked that of course she could not exactly remember Miss Rose’s words; which seemed indeed too much to expect of her.

‘She will see me to-night?’ said Evan.

‘I don’t know about to-night,’ Polly replied.

‘Go to her instantly. Tell her I am ready. I will be at the West park-gates. This is why you wrote, Polly? Why did you lose time? Don’t delay, my good girl! Come!’

Evan had opened the door. He would not allow Polly an instant for expostulation; but drew her out, saying, ‘You will attend to the gates yourself. Or come and tell me the day, if she appoints another.’

Polly made a final effort to escape from the pit she was being pushed into.

‘Mr. Harrington! it wasn’t to tell you this I wrote.

Miss Rose is engaged, sir.’

‘I understand,’ said Evan, hoarsely, scarcely feeling it, as is the case with men who are shot through the heart.

Ten minutes later he was on horseback by the Fallow field gates, with the tidings shrieking through his frame. The night was still, and stiller in the pauses of the nightingales. He sat there, neither thinking of them nor reproached in his manhood for the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Presently his horse’s ears pricked, and the animal gave a low neigh. Evan’s eyes fixed harder on the length of gravel leading to the house. There was no sign, no figure. Out from the smooth grass of the lane a couple of horsemen issued, and came straight to the gates. He heard nothing till one spoke. It was a familiar voice.

‘By Jove, Ferdy, here is the fellow, and we’ve been all the way to Lymport!’

Evan started from his trance.

‘It ‘s you, Harrington?’

‘Yes, Harry.’

‘Sir!’ exclaimed that youth, evidently flushed with wine, ‘what the devil do you mean by addressing me by my Christian name?’

Laxley pushed his horse’s head in front of Harry. In a manner apparently somewhat improved by his new dignity, he said: ‘We have ridden to Lymport to speak to you, sir. Favour me by moving a little ahead of the lodge.’

Evan bowed, and moved beside him a short way down the lane, Harry following.

‘The purport of my visit, sir,’ Laxley began, ‘was to make known to you that Miss Jocelyn has done me the honour to accept me as her husband. I learn from her that during the term of your residence in the house, you contrived to extract from her a promise to which she attaches certain scruples. She pleases to consider herself bound to you till you release her. My object is to demand that you will do so immediately.’

There was no reply.

‘Should you refuse to make this reparation for the harm you have done to her and her family,’ Laxley pursued, ‘I must let you know that there are means of compelling you to it, and that those means will be employed.’

Harry, fuming at these postured sentences, burst out:

‘What do you talk to the fellow in that way for? A fellow who makes a fool of my cousin, and then wants to get us to buy off my sister! What’s he spying after here? The place is ours till we troop. I tell you there’s only one way of dealing with him, and if you don’t do it, I will.’

Laxley pulled his reins with a jerk that brought him to the rear.

‘Miss Jocelyn has commissioned you to make this demand on me in her name?’ said Evan.

‘I make it in my own right,’ returned—Laxley. ‘I demand a prompt reply.’

‘My lord, you shall have it. Miss Jocelyn is not bound to me by any engagement. Should she entertain scruples which I may have it in my power to obliterate, I shall not hesitate to do so—but only to her. What has passed between us I hold sacred.’

‘Hark at that!’ shouted Harry. ‘The damned tradesman means money! You ass, Ferdinand! What did we go to Lymport for? Not to bandy words. Here! I’ve got my own quarrel with you, Harrington. You’ve been setting that girl’s father on me. Can you deny that?’

It was enough for Harry that Evan did not deny it. The calm disdain which he read on Evan’s face acted on his fury, and digging his heels into his horse’s flanks he rushed full at him and dealt him a sharp flick with his whip. Evan’s beast reared.

‘Accept my conditions, sir, or afford me satisfaction,’ cried Laxley.

‘You do me great honour, my lord; but I have told you I cannot,’ said Evan, curbing his horse.

At that moment Rose came among them. Evan raised his hat, as did Laxley. Harry, a little behind the others, performed a laborious mock salute, and then ordered her back to the house. A quick altercation ensued; the end being that Harry managed to give his sister the context of the previous conversation.