Evan Harrington, Complete

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EVAN HARRINGTON

By George Meredith

CONTENTS:

BOOK 1.
I. ABOVE BUTTONS
II. THE HERITAGE OR THE SOY
III. THE DAUGHTERS OR THE SHEARS
IV. ON BOARD THE JOCASTA
V. THE FAMILY AND THE FUNERAL
VI. MY GENTLEMAN ON THE ROAD
VII. MOTHER AND SON

BOOK 2.
VIII. INTRODUCES AN ECCENTRIC
IX. THE COUNTESS IN LOW SOCIETY
X. MY GENTLEMAN ON THE ROAD AGAIN
XI. DOINGS AT AN INN
XII. IN WHICH ALE IS SHOWN TO HAVE ONE QUALITY OF WINE
XIII. THE MATCH OF FALLOWFIELD AGAINST BECKLEY

BOOK 3.
XIV. THE COUNTESS DESCRIBES THE FIELD OF ACTION
XV. A CAPTURE
XVI. LEADS TO A SMALL SKIRMISH BETWEEN ROSE AND EVAN
XVII. IN WHICH EVAN WRITES HIMSELF TAILOR
XVIII. IN WHICH EVAN CALLS HIMSELF GENTLEMAN

BOOK 4.
XIX. SECOND DESPATCH OF THE COUNTESS
XX. BREAK-NECK LEAP
XXI. TRIBULATIONS AND TACTICS OF THE COUNTESS
XXII. IN WHICH THE DAUGHTERS OF THE GREAT MEL HAVE TO
DIGEST HIM AT DINNER
XXIII. TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF
XXIV. THE COUNTESS MAKES HERSELF FELT
XXV. IN WHICH THE STREAM FLOWS MUDDY AND CLEAR

BOOK 5.
XXVI. MRS. MEL MAKES A BED FOR HERSELF AND FAMILY
XXVII. EXHIBITS ROSE'S GENERALSHIP; EVAN'S PERFORMANCE ON THE SECOND
FIDDLE; AND THE WRETCHEDNESS OF THE COUNTESS
XXVIII. TOM COGGLESBY'S PROPOSITION
XXIX. PRELUDE TO AN ENGAGEMENT
XXX. THE BATTLE OF THE BULL-DOGS. PART I.
XXXI. THE BATTLE OF THE BULL-DOGS. PART II.

BOOK 6.
XXXII. IN WHICH EVAN'S LIGHT BEGINS TO TWINKLE AGAIN
XXXIII. THE HERO TAKES HIS RANK IN THE ORCHESTRA
XXXIV. A PAGAN SACRIFICE
XXXV. ROSE WOUNDED
XXXVI. BEFORE BREAKFAST
XXXVII. THE RETREAT FROM BECKLEY
XXXVIII. IN WHICH WE HAVE TO SEE IN THE DARK

BOOK 7.
XXXIX. IN THE DOMAIN OF TAILORDOM
XL. IN WHICH THE COUNTESS STILL SCENTS GAME
XLI. REVEALS AN ABOMINABLE PLOT OF THE BROTHERS COGGLESBY
XLII. JULIANA
XLIII. ROSE
XLIV. CONTAINS A WARNING TO ALL CONSPIRATORS
XLV. IN WHICH THE SHOP BECOMES THE CENTRE OF ATTRACTION
XLVI. A LOVER'S PARTING
XLVII. A YEAR LATER THE COUNTESS DE SALDAR DE SANCORVO TO HER
SISTER CAROLINE

CHAPTER I

ABOVE BUTTONS

Long after the hours when tradesmen are in the habit of commencing
business, the shutters of a certain shop in the town of
Lymport-on-the-Sea remained significantly closed, and it became known
that death had taken Mr. Melchisedec Harrington, and struck one off the
list of living tailors. The demise of a respectable member of this class
does not ordinarily create a profound sensation. He dies, and his equals
debate who is to be his successor: while the rest of them who have come
in contact with him, very probably hear nothing of his great launch and
final adieu till the winding up of cash-accounts; on which occasions we
may augur that he is not often blessed by one or other of the two great
parties who subdivide this universe. In the case of Mr. Melchisedec it
was otherwise. This had been a grand man, despite his calling, and in the
teeth of opprobrious epithets against his craft. To be both generally
blamed, and generally liked, evinces a peculiar construction of mortal.
Mr. Melchisedec, whom people in private called the great Mel, had been at
once the sad dog of Lymport, and the pride of the town. He was a tailor,
and he kept horses; he was a tailor, and he had gallant adventures; he
was a tailor, and he shook hands with his customers. Finally, he was a
tradesman, and he never was known to have sent in a bill. Such a
personage comes but once in a generation, and, when he goes, men miss the
man as well as their money.

That he was dead, there could be no doubt. Kilne, the publican opposite,
had seen Sally, one of the domestic servants, come out of the house in
the early morning and rush up the street to the doctor's, tossing her
hands; and she, not disinclined to dilute her grief, had, on her return,
related that her master was then at his last gasp, and had refused, in so
many words, to swallow the doctor.

'"I won't swallow the doctor!" he says, "I won't swallow the doctor!"'
Sally moaned. '"I never touched him," he says, "and I never will."'

Kilne angrily declared, that in his opinion, a man who rejected medicine
in extremity, ought to have it forced down his throat: and considering
that the invalid was pretty deeply in Kilne's debt, it naturally assumed
the form of a dishonest act on his part; but Sally scornfully dared any
one to lay hand on her master, even for his own good. 'For,' said she,
'he's got his eyes awake, though he do lie so helpless. He marks ye!'

'Ah! ah!' Kilne sniffed the air. Sally then rushed back to her duties.

'Now, there 's a man!' Kilne stuck his hands in his pockets and began his
meditation: which, however, was cut short by the approach of his
neighbour Barnes, the butcher, to whom he confided what he had heard, and
who ejaculated professionally, 'Obstinate as a pig!' As they stood
together they beheld Sally, a figure of telegraph, at one of the windows,
implying that all was just over.

'Amen!' said Barnes, as to a matter-of-fact affair.

Some minutes after, the two were joined by Grossby, the confectioner, who
listened to the news, and observed:

'Just like him! I'd have sworn he'd never take doctor's stuff'; and,
nodding at Kilne, 'liked his medicine best, eh?'

'Had a-hem!--good lot of it,' muttered Kilne, with a suddenly serious
brow.

'How does he stand on your books?' asked Barnes.

Kilne shouldered round, crying: 'Who the deuce is to know?'

'I don't,' Grossby sighed. 'In he comes with his "Good morning, Grossby,
fine day for the hunt, Grossby," and a ten-pound note. "Have the kindness
to put that down in my favour, Grossby." And just as I am going to say,
"Look here,--this won't do," he has me by the collar, and there's one of
the regiments going to give a supper party, which he's to order; or the
Admiral's wife wants the receipt for that pie; or in comes my wife, and
there's no talking of business then, though she may have been bothering
about his account all the night beforehand. Something or other! and so we
run on.'

'What I want to know,' said Barnes, the butcher, 'is where he got his
tenners from?'

Kilne shook a sagacious head: 'No knowing!'

'I suppose we shall get something out of the fire?' Barnes suggested.

'That depends!' answered the emphatic Kilne.

'But, you know, if the widow carries on the business,' said Grossby,
'there's no reason why we shouldn't get it all, eh?'

'There ain't two that can make clothes for nothing, and make a profit out
of it,' said Kilne.

'That young chap in Portugal,' added Barnes, 'he won't take to tailoring
when he comes home. D' ye think he will?'

Kilne muttered: 'Can't say!' and Grossby, a kindly creature in his way,
albeit a creditor, reverting to the first subject of their discourse,
ejaculated, 'But what a one he was!--eh?'

'Fine!--to look on,' Kilne assented.

'Well, he was like a Marquis,' said Barnes.

Here the three regarded each other, and laughed, though not loudly. They
instantly checked that unseemliness, and Kilne, as one who rises from the
depths of a calculation with the sum in his head, spoke quite in a
different voice:

'Well, what do you say, gentlemen? shall we adjourn? No use standing
here.'

By the invitation to adjourn, it was well understood by the committee
Kilne addressed, that they were invited to pass his threshold, and
partake of a morning draught. Barnes, the butcher, had no objection
whatever, and if Grossby, a man of milder make, entertained any, the
occasion and common interests to be discussed, advised him to waive them.
In single file these mourners entered the publican's house, where Kilne,
after summoning them from behind the bar, on the important question, what
it should be? and receiving, first, perfect acquiescence in his views as
to what it should be, and then feeble suggestions of the drink best
befitting that early hour and the speaker's particular constitution,
poured out a toothful to each, and one to himself.

'Here's to him, poor fellow!' said Kilne; and was deliberately echoed
twice.

'Now, it wasn't that,' Kilne pursued, pointing to the bottle in the midst
of a smacking of lips, 'that wasn't what got him into difficulties. It
was expensive luckshries. It was being above his condition. Horses!
What's a tradesman got to do with horses? Unless he's retired! Then he's
a gentleman, and can do as he likes. It's no use trying to be a gentleman
if you can't pay for it. It always ends bad. Why, there was he,
consorting with gentlefolks--gay as a lark! Who has to pay for it?'

Kilne's fellow-victims maintained a rather doleful tributary silence.

'I'm not saying anything against him now,' the publican further observed.
'It 's too late. And there! I'm sorry he's gone, for one. He was as kind
a hearted a man as ever breathed. And there! perhaps it was just as much
my fault; I couldn't say "No" to him,--dash me, if I could!'

Lymport was a prosperous town, and in prosperity the much-despised
British tradesman is not a harsh, he is really a well-disposed, easy
soul, and requires but management, manner, occasional instalments--just
to freshen the account--and a surety that he who debits is on the spot,
to be a right royal king of credit. Only the account must never drivel.
'Stare aut crescere' appears to be his feeling on that point, and the
departed Mr. Melchisedec undoubtedly understood him there; for the
running on of the account looked deplorable and extraordinary now that
Mr. Melchisedec was no longer in a position to run on with it, and it was
precisely his doing so which had prevented it from being brought to a
summary close long before. Both Barnes, the butcher; and Grossby, the
confectioner, confessed that they, too, found it hard ever to say 'No' to
him, and, speaking broadly, never could.

'Except once,'said Barnes, 'when he wanted me to let him have a ox to
roast whole out on the common, for the Battle of Waterloo. I stood out
against him on that. "No, no," says I, "I'll joint him for ye, Mr.
Harrington. You shall have him in joints, and eat him at home";-ha! ha!'

'Just like him!' said Grossby, with true enjoyment of the princely
disposition that had dictated the patriotic order.

'Oh!--there!' Kilne emphasized, pushing out his arm across the bar, as
much as to say, that in anything of such a kind, the great Mel never had
a rival.

'That "Marquis" affair changed him a bit,' said Barnes.

'Perhaps it did, for a time,' said Kilne. 'What's in the grain, you know.
He couldn't change. He would be a gentleman, and nothing 'd stop him.'

'And I shouldn't wonder but what that young chap out in Portugal 'll want
to be one, too; though he didn't bid fair to be so fine a man as his
father.'

'More of a scholar,' remarked Kilne. 'That I call his worst
fault--shilly-shallying about that young chap. I mean his.' Kilne
stretched a finger toward the dead man's house. 'First, the young chap's
to be sent into the Navy; then it's the Army; then he's to be a judge,
and sit on criminals; then he goes out to his sister in Portugal; and now
there's nothing but a tailor open to him, as I see, if we're to get our
money.'

'Ah! and he hasn't got too much spirit to work to pay his father's
debts,' added Barnes. 'There's a business there to make any man's
fortune-properly directed, I say. But, I suppose, like father like son,
he'll becoming the Marquis, too. He went to a gentleman's school, and
he's had foreign training. I don't know what to think about it. His
sisters over there--they were fine women.'

'Oh! a fine family, every one of 'em! and married well!' exclaimed the
publican.

'I never had the exact rights of that "Marquis" affair,' said Grossby;
and, remembering that he had previously laughed knowingly when it was
alluded to, pursued: 'Of course I heard of it at the time, but how did he
behave when he was blown upon?'

Barnes undertook to explain; but Kilne, who relished the narrative quite
as well, and was readier, said: 'Look here! I 'll tell you. I had it from
his own mouth one night when he wasn't--not quite himself. He was coming
down King William Street, where he stabled his horse, you know, and I met
him. He'd been dining out-somewhere out over Fallow field, I think it
was; and he sings out to me, "Ah! Kilne, my good fellow!" and I, wishing
to be equal with him, says, "A fine night, my lord!" and he draws himself
up--he smelt of good company--says he, "Kilne! I'm not a lord, as you
know, and you have no excuse for mistaking me for one, sir!" So I
pretended I had mistaken him, and then he tucked his arm under mine, and
said, "You're no worse than your betters, Kilne. They took me for one at
Squire Uplift's to-night, but a man who wishes to pass off for more than
he is, Kilne, and impose upon people," he says, "he's contemptible,
Kilne! contemptible!" So that, you know, set me thinking about "Bath" and
the "Marquis," and I couldn't help smiling to myself, and just let slip a
question whether he had enlightened them a bit. "Kilne," said he, "you're
an honest man, and a neighbour, and I'll tell you what happened. The
Squire," he says, "likes my company, and I like his table. Now the Squire
'd never do a dirty action, but the Squire's nephew, Mr. George Uplift,
he can't forget that I earn my money, and once or twice I have had to
correct him." And I'll wager Mel did it, too! Well, he goes on: "There
was Admiral Sir Jackson Racial and his lady, at dinner, Squire Falco of
Bursted, Lady Barrington, Admiral Combleman--our admiral, that was; 'Mr.
This and That', I forget their names--and other ladies and gentlemen
whose acquaintance I was not honoured with." You know his way of talking.
"And there was a goose on the table," he says; and, looking stern at me,
"Don't laugh yet!" says he, like thunder. "Well, he goes on: Mr. George
caught my eye across the table, and said, so as not to be heard by his
uncle, 'If that bird was rampant, you would see your own arms, Marquis.'"
And Mel replied, quietly for him to hear, 'And as that bird is couchant,
Mr. George, you had better look to your sauce.' Couchant means squatting,
you know. That's heraldry! Well, that wasn't bad sparring of Mel's. But,
bless you! he was never taken aback, and the gentlefolks was glad enough
to get him to sit down amongst 'em. So, says Mr. George, "I know you're a
fire-eater, Marquis," and his dander was up, for he began marquising Mel,
and doing the mock polite at such a rate, that, by-and-by, one of the
ladies who didn't know Mel called him "my lord" and "his lordship."
"And," says Mel, "I merely bowed to her, and took no notice." So that
passed off: and there sits Mel telling his anecdotes, as grand as a king.
And, by and-by, young Mr. George, who hadn't forgiven Mel, and had been
pulling at the bottle pretty well, he sings out, "It 's Michaelmas! the
death of the goose! and I should like to drink the Marquis's health!" and
he drank it solemn. But, as far as I can make out, the women part of the
company was a little in the dark. So Mel waited till there was a sort of
a pause, and then speaks rather loud to the Admiral, "By the way, Sir
Jackson, may I ask you, has the title of Marquis anything to do with
tailoring?" Now Mel was a great favourite with the Admiral, and with his
lady, too, they say--and the Admiral played into his hands, you see, and,
says he, "I 'm not aware that it has, Mr. Harrington." And he begged for
to know why he asked the question--called him, "Mister," you understand.
So Mel said, and I can see him now, right out from his chest he spoke,
with his head up "When I was a younger man, I had the good taste to be
fond of good society, and the bad taste to wish to appear different from
what I was in it": that's Mel speaking; everybody was listening; so he
goes on: "I was in the habit of going to Bath in the season, and
consorting with the gentlemen I met there on terms of equality; and for
some reason that I am quite guiltless of," says Mel, "the hotel people
gave out that I was a Marquis in disguise; and, upon my honour, ladies
and gentlemen--I was young then, and a fool--I could not help imagining I
looked the thing. At all events, I took upon myself to act the part, and
with some success, and considerable gratification; for, in my opinion,"
says Mel, "no real Marquis ever enjoyed his title so much as I did. One
day I was in my shop--No. 193, Main Street, Lymport--and a gentleman came
in to order his outfit. I received his directions, when suddenly he
started back, stared at me, and exclaimed:

'My dear Marquis! I trust you will pardon me for having addressed you
with so much familiarity.' I recognized in him one of my Bath
acquaintances. That circumstance, ladies and gentlemen, has been a lesson
to me. Since that time I have never allowed a false impression with
regard to my position to exist. I desire," says Mel, smiling, "to have
my exact measure taken everywhere; and if the Michaelmas bird is to be
associated with me, I am sure I have no objection; all I can say is, that
I cannot justify it by letters patent of nobility." That's how Mel put
it. Do you think they thought worse of him? I warrant you he came out of
it in flying colours. Gentlefolks like straight-forwardness in their
inferiors--that's what they do. Ah!' said Kilne, meditatively, 'I see him
now, walking across the street in the moonlight, after he 'd told me
that. A fine figure of a man! and there ain't many Marquises to match
him.'

To this Barnes and Grossby, not insensible to the merits of the recital
they had just given ear to, agreed. And with a common voice of praise in
the mouths of his creditors, the dead man's requiem was sounded.

CHAPTER II

THE HERITAGE OF THE SON

Toward evening, a carriage drove up to the door of the muted house, and
the card of Lady Racial, bearing a hurried line in pencil, was handed to
the widow.

It was when you looked upon her that you began to comprehend how great
was the personal splendour of the husband who could eclipse such a woman.
Mrs. Harrington was a tall and a stately dame. Dressed in the high waists
of the matrons of that period, with a light shawl drawn close over her
shoulders and bosom, she carried her head well; and her pale firm
features, with the cast of immediate affliction on them, had much
dignity: dignity of an unrelenting physical order, which need not express
any remarkable pride of spirit. The family gossips who, on both sides,
were vain of this rare couple, and would always descant on their beauty,
even when they had occasion to slander their characters, said, to
distinguish them, that Henrietta Maria had a Port, and Melchisedec a
Presence: and that the union of a Port and a Presence, and such a Port
and such a Presence, was so uncommon, that you might search England
through and you would not find another, not even in the highest ranks of
society. There lies some subtle distinction here; due to the minute
perceptions which compel the gossips of a family to coin phrases that
shall express the nicest shades of a domestic difference. By a Port, one
may understand them to indicate something unsympathetically impressive;
whereas a Presence would seem to be a thing that directs the most affable
appeal to our poor human weaknesses. His Majesty King George IV., for
instance, possessed a Port: Beau Brummel wielded a Presence. Many, it is
true, take a Presence to mean no more than a shirt-frill, and interpret a
Port as the art of walking erect. But this is to look upon language too
narrowly.

On a more intimate acquaintance with the couple, you acknowledge the
aptness of the fine distinction. By birth Mrs. Harrington had claims to
rank as a gentlewoman. That is, her father was a lawyer of Lymport. The
lawyer, however, since we must descend the genealogical tree, was known
to have married his cook, who was the lady's mother. Now Mr. Melchisedec
was mysterious concerning his origin; and, in his cups, talked largely
and wisely of a great Welsh family, issuing from a line of princes; and
it is certain that he knew enough of their history to have instructed
them on particular points of it. He never could think that his wife had
done him any honour in espousing him; nor was she the woman to tell him
so. She had married him for love, rejecting various suitors, Squire
Uplift among them, in his favour. Subsequently she had committed the
profound connubial error of transferring her affections, or her thoughts,
from him to his business, which, indeed, was much in want of a mate; and
while he squandered the guineas, she patiently picked up the pence. They
had not lived unhappily. He was constantly courteous to her. But to see
the Port at that sordid work considerably ruffled the Presence--put, as
it were, the peculiar division between them; and to behave toward her as
the same woman who had attracted his youthful ardours was a task for his
magnificent mind, and may have ranked with him as an indemnity for his
general conduct, if his reflections ever stretched so far. The
townspeople of Lymport were correct in saying that his wife, and his wife
alone, had, as they termed it, kept him together. Nevertheless, now that
he was dead, and could no longer be kept together, they entirely forgot
their respect for her, in the outburst of their secret admiration for the
popular man. Such is the constitution of the inhabitants of this dear
Island of Britain, so falsely accused by the Great Napoleon of being a
nation of shopkeepers. Here let any one proclaim himself Above Buttons,
and act on the assumption, his fellows with one accord hoist him on their
heads, and bear him aloft, sweating, and groaning, and cursing, but proud
of him! And if he can contrive, or has any good wife at home to help him,
to die without going to the dogs, they are, one may say, unanimous in
crying out the same eulogistic funeral oration as that commenced by
Kilne, the publican, when he was interrupted by Barnes, the butcher,
'Now, there's a man!--'

Mrs. Harrington was sitting in her parlour with one of her married
nieces, Mrs. Fiske, and on reading Lady Racial's card she gave word for
her to be shown up into the drawing-room. It was customary among Mrs.
Harrington's female relatives, who one and all abused and adored the
great Mel, to attribute his shortcomings pointedly to the ladies; which
was as much as if their jealous generous hearts had said that he was
sinful, but that it was not his fault. Mrs. Fiske caught the card from
her aunt, read the superscription, and exclaimed: 'The idea! At least she
might have had the decency! She never set her foot in the house
before--and right enough too! What can she want now? I decidedly would
refuse to see her, aunt!'

The widow's reply was simply, 'Don't be a fool, Ann!'

Rising, she said: 'Here, take poor Jacko, and comfort him till I come
back.'

Jacko was a middle-sized South American monkey, and had been a pet of her
husband's. He was supposed to be mourning now with the rest of the
family. Mrs. Fiske received him on a shrinking lap, and had found time to
correct one of his indiscretions before she could sigh and say, in the
rear of her aunt's retreating figure, 'I certainly never would let
myself, down so'; but Mrs. Harrington took her own counsel, and Jacko was
of her persuasion, for he quickly released himself from Mrs. Fiske's
dispassionate embrace, and was slinging his body up the balusters after
his mistress.

'Mrs. Harrington,' said Lady Racial, very sweetly swimming to meet her as
she entered the room, 'I have intruded upon you, I fear, in venturing to
call upon you at such a time?'

The widow bowed to her, and begged her to be seated.

Lady Racial was an exquisitely silken dame, in whose face a winning smile
was cut, and she was still sufficiently youthful not to be accused of
wearing a flower too artificial.

'It was so sudden! so sad!' she continued. 'We esteemed him so much. I
thought you might be in need of sympathy, and hoped I might--Dear Mrs.
Harrington! can you bear to speak of it?'

'I can tell you anything you wish to hear, my lady,' the widow replied.
Lady Racial had expected to meet a woman much more like what she
conceived a tradesman's wife would be: and the grave reception of her
proffer of sympathy slightly confused her. She said:

'I should not have come, at least not so early, but Sir Jackson, my
husband, thought, and indeed I imagined--You have a son, Mrs. Harrington?
I think his name is--'

'Evan, my lady.'

'Evan. It was of him we have been speaking. I imagined that is, we
thought, Sir Jackson might--you will be writing to him, and will let him
know we will use our best efforts to assist him in obtaining some
position worthy of his--superior to--something that will secure him from
the harassing embarrassments of an uncongenial employment.'

The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a smile
of gratitude. She replied: 'I hope my son will return in time to bury his
father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.'

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