Evan Harrington, Complete

G >> George Meredith >> Evan Harrington, Complete

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'How sparing you English are of your crests and arms! I fully expected to
see the Jocelyns' over my bed; but no--four posts totally without
ornament! Sleep, indeed, must be the result of dire fatigue in such a
bed. The Jocelyn crest is a hawk in jesses. The Elburne arms are, Or,
three falcons on a field, vert. How heraldry reminds me of poor Papa! the
evenings we used to spend with him, when he stayed at home, studying it
so diligently under his directions! We never shall again! Sir Franks
Jocelyn is the third son of Lord Elburne, made a Baronet for his
patriotic support of the Ministry in a time of great trouble. The people
are sometimes grateful, my dear. Lord Elburne is the fourteenth of his
line--originally simple country squires. They talk of the Roses, but we
need not go so very far back as that. I do not quite understand why a
Lord's son should condescend to a Baronetcy. Precedence of some sort for
his lady, I suppose. I have yet to learn whether she ranks by his birth,
or his present title. If so, a young Baronetcy cannot possibly be a gain.
One thing is certain. She cares very little about it. She is most
eccentric. But remember what I have told you. It will be serviceable when
you are speaking of the family.

'The dinner-hour, six. It would no doubt be full seven in Town. I am
convinced you are half-an-hour too early. I had the post of honour to the
right of Sir Franks. Evan to the right of Lady Jocelyn. Most fortunately
he was in the best of spirits--quite brilliant. I saw the eyes of that
sweet Rose glisten. On the other side of me sat my pet diplomatist, and I
gave him one or two political secrets which astonished him. Of course, my
dear, I was wheedled out of them. His contempt for our weak intellects is
ineffable. But a woman must now and then ingratiate herself at the
expense of her sex. This is perfectly legitimate. Tory policy at the
table. The Opposition, as Andrew says, not represented. So to show that
we were human beings, we differed among ourselves, and it soon became
clear to me that Lady Jocelyn is the rankest of Radicals. My secret
suspicion is, that she is a person of no birth whatever, wherever her
money came from. A fine woman--yes; still to be admired, I suppose, by
some kind of men; but totally wanting in the essentially feminine
attractions.

'There was no party, so to say. I will describe the people present,
beginning with the insignifacants.

'First, Mr. Parsley, the curate of Beckley. He eats everything at table,
and agrees with everything. A most excellent orthodox young clergyman.
Except that he was nearly choked by a fish-bone, and could not quite
conceal his distress--and really Rose should have repressed her desire to
laugh till the time for our retirement--he made no sensation. I saw her
eyes watering, and she is not clever in turning it off. In that nobody
ever equalled dear Papa. I attribute the attack almost entirely to the
tightness of the white neck-cloths the young clergymen of the Established
Church wear. But, my dear, I have lived too long away from them to wish
for an instant the slightest change in anything they think, say, or do.
The mere sight of this young man was most refreshing to my spirit. He may
be the shepherd of a flock, this poor Mr. Parsley, but he is a sheep to
one young person.

'Mr. Drummond Forth. A great favourite of Lady Jocelyn's; an old friend.
He went with them to the East. Nothing improper. She is too cold for
that. He is fair, with regular features, very self-possessed, and
ready--your English notions of gentlemanly. But none of your men treat a
woman as a woman. We are either angels, or good fellows, or heaven knows
what that is bad. No exquisite delicacy, no insinuating softness, mixed
with respect, none of that hovering over the border, as Papa used to say,
none of that happy indefiniteness of manner which seems to declare "I
would love you if I might," or "I do, but I dare not tell," even when
engaged in the most trivial attentions--handing a footstool, remarking on
the soup, etc. You none of you know how to meet a woman's smile, or to
engage her eyes without boldness--to slide off them, as it were,
gracefully. Evan alone can look between the eyelids of a woman. I have
had to correct him, for to me he quite exposes the state of his heart
towards dearest Rose. She listens to Mr. Forth with evident esteem. In
Portugal we do not understand young ladies having male friends.

'Hamilton Jocelyn--all politics. The stiff Englishman. Not a shade of
manners. He invited me to drink wine. Before I had finished my bow his
glass was empty--the man was telling an anecdote of Lord Livelyston! You
may be sure, my dear, I did not say I had seen his lordship.

'Seymour Jocelyn, Colonel of Hussars. He did nothing but sigh for the
cold weather, and hunting. All I envied him was his moustache for Evan.
Will you believe that the ridiculous boy has shaved!

'Then there is Melville, my dear diplomatist; and here is another
instance of our Harrington luck. He has the gout in his right hand; he
can only just hold knife and fork, and is interdicted Port-wine and
penmanship. The dinner was not concluded before I had arranged that Evan
should resume (gratuitously, you know) his post of secretary to him. So
here is Evan fixed at Beckley Court as long as Melville stays. Talking of
him, I am horrified suddenly. They call him the great Mel! 'Sir Franks is
most estimable, I am sure, as a man, and redolent of excellent
qualities--a beautiful disposition, very handsome. He has just as much
and no more of the English polish one ordinarily meets. When he has given
me soup or fish, bowed to me over wine, and asked a conventional
question, he has done with me. I should imagine his opinions to be
extremely good, for they are not a multitude.

'Then his lady-but I have not grappled with her yet. Now for the women,
for I quite class her with the opposite sex.

'You must know that before I retired for the night, I induced Conning to
think she had a bad head-ache, and Rose lent me her lady's-maid--they
call the creature Polly. A terrible talker. She would tell all about the
family. Rose has been speaking of Evan. It would have looked better had
she been quiet--but then she is so English!'

Here the Countess breaks off to say, that from where she is writing, she
can see Rose and Evan walking out to the cypress avenue, and that no eyes
are on them; great praise being given to the absence of suspicion in the
Jocelyn nature.

The communication is resumed the night of the same day.

'Two days at Beckley Court are over, and that strange sensation I had of
being an intruder escaped from Dubbins's, and expecting every instant the
old schoolmistress to call for me, and expose me, and take me to the dark
room, is quite vanished, and I feel quite at home, quite happy. Evan is
behaving well. Quite the young nobleman. With the women I had no fear of
him; he is really admirable with the men--easy, and talks of sport and
politics, and makes the proper use of Portugal. He has quite won the
heart of his sister. Heaven smiles on us, dearest Harriet!

'We must be favoured, my dear, for Evan is very
troublesome--distressingly inconsiderate! I left him for a day-remaining
to comfort poor Mama--and on the road he picked up an object he had known
at school, and this creature, in shameful garments, is seen in the field
where Rose and Evan are riding--in a dreadful hat--Rose might well laugh
at it!--he is seen running away from an old apple woman, whose fruit he
had consumed without means to liquidate; but, of course, he rushes bolt
up to Evan before all his grand company, and claims acquaintance, and
Evan was base enough to acknowledge him! He disengaged himself so far
well by tossing his purse to the wretch, but if he knows not how to--cut,
I assure him it will be his ruin. Resolutely he must cast the dust off
his shoes, or he will be dragged down to their level. By the way, as to
hands and feet, comparing him with the Jocelyn men, he has every mark of
better blood. Not a question about it. As Papa would say--We have
Nature's proof.

'Looking out on a beautiful lawn, and the moon, and all sorts of trees, I
must now tell you about the ladies here.

'Conning undid me to-night. While Conning remains unattached, Conning is
likely to be serviceable. If Evan, would only give her a crumb, she would
be his most faithful dog. I fear he cannot be induced, and Conning will
be snapped up by somebody else. You know how susceptible she is behind
her primness--she will be of no use on earth, and I shall find excuse to
send her back immediately. After all, her appearance here was all that
was wanted.

'Mrs. Melville and her dreadful juvenile are here, as you may
imagine--the complete Englishwoman. I smile on her, but I could laugh. To
see the crow's-feet under her eyes on her white skin, and those ringlets,
is really too ridiculous. Then there is a Miss Carrington, Lady Jocelyn's
cousin, aged thirty-two--if she has not tampered with the register of her
birth. I should think her equal to it. Between dark and fair. Always in
love with some man, Conning tells me she hears. Rose's maid, Polly,
hinted the same. She has a little money.

'But my sympathies have been excited by a little cripple--a niece of Lady
Jocelyn's and the favourite grand-daughter of the rich old Mrs.
Bonner--also here--Juliana Bonner. Her age must be twenty. You would take
her for ten. In spite of her immense expectations, the Jocelyns hate her.
They can hardly be civil to her. It is the poor child's temper. She has
already begun to watch dear Evan--certainly the handsomest of the men
here as yet, though I grant you, they are well-grown men, these Jocelyns,
for an untravelled Englishwoman. I fear, dear Harriet, we have been
dreadfully deceived about Rose. The poor child has not, in her own right,
much more than a tenth part of what we supposed, I fear. It was that Mrs.
Melville. I have had occasion to notice her quiet boasts here. She said
this morning, "when Mel is in the Ministry"--he is not yet in Parliament!
I feel quite angry with the woman, and she is not so cordial as she might
be. I have her profile very frequently while I am conversing with her.

'With Grandmama Bonner I am excellent good friends,--venerable silver
hair, high caps, etc. More of this most interesting Juliana Bonner
by-and-by. It is clear to me that Rose's fortune is calculated upon the
dear invalid's death! Is not that harrowing? It shocks me to think of it.

'Then there is Mrs. Shorne. She is a Jocelyn--and such a history! She
married a wealthy manufacturer--bartered her blood for his money, and he
failed, and here she resides, a bankrupt widow, petitioning any man that
may be willing for his love AND a decent home. AND--I say in charity.

'Mrs. Shorne comes here to-morrow. She is at present with--guess, my
dear!--with Lady Racial. Do not be alarmed. I have met Lady Racial. She
heard Evan's name, and by that and the likeness I saw she knew at once,
and I saw a truce in her eyes. She gave me a tacit assurance of it--she
was engaged to dine here yesterday, and put it off--probably to grant us
time for composure. If she comes I do not fear her. Besides, has she not
reasons? Providence may have designed her for a staunch ally--I will not
say, confederate.

'Would that Providence had fixed this beautiful mansion five hundred
miles from L-----, though it were in a desolate region! And that reminds
me of the Madre. She is in health. She always will be overbearingly
robust till the day we are bereft of her. There was some secret in the
house when I was there, which I did not trouble to penetrate. That little
Jane F----was there--not improved.

'Pray, be firm about Torquay. Estates mortgaged, but hopes of saving a
remnant of the property. Third son! Don't commit yourself there. We dare
not baronetize him. You need not speak it--imply. More can be done that
way.

'And remember, dear Harriet, that you must manage Andrew so that we may
positively promise his vote to the Ministry on all questions when
Parliament next assembles. I understood from Lord Livelyston, that
Andrew's vote would be thought much of. A most amusing nobleman! He
pledged himself to nothing! But we are above such a thing as a commercial
transaction. He must countenance Silva. Women, my dear, have sent out
armies--why not fleets? Do not spare me your utmost aid in my extremity,
my dearest sister.

'As for Strike, I refuse to speak of him. He is insufferable and next to
useless. How can one talk with any confidence of relationship with a
Major of Marines? When I reflect on what he is, and his conduct to
Caroline, I have inscrutable longings to slap his face. Tell dear Carry
her husband's friend--the chairman or something of that wonderful company
of Strike's--you know--the Duke of Belfield is coming here. He is a
blood-relation of the Elburnes, therefore of the Jocelyns. It will not
matter at all. Breweries, I find, are quite in esteem in your England. It
was highly commendable in his Grace to visit you. Did he come to see the
Major of Marines? Caroline is certainly the loveliest woman I ever
beheld, and I forgive her now the pangs of jealousy she used to make me
feel.

'Andrew, I hope, has received the most kind invitations of the Jocelyns.
He must come. Melville must talk with him about the votes of his
abominable brother in Fallow field. We must elect Melville and have the
family indebted to us. But pray be careful that Andrew speaks not a word
to his odious brother about our location here. It would set him dead
against these hospitable Jocelyns. It will perhaps be as well, dear
Harriet, if you do not accompany Andrew. You would not be able to account
for him quite thoroughly. Do as you like--I do but advise, and you know I
may be trusted--for our sakes, dear one! I am working for Carry to come
with Andrew. Beautiful women always welcome. A prodigy!--if they wish to
astonish the Duke. Adieu! Heaven bless your babes!'

The night passes, and the Countess pursues:

'Awakened by your fresh note from a dream of Evan on horseback, and a
multitude hailing him Count Jocelyn for Fallow field! A morning dream.
They might desire that he should change his name; but "Count" is
preposterous, though it may conceal something.

'You say Andrew will come, and talk of his bringing Caroline. Anything to
give our poor darling a respite from her brute. You deserve great credit
for your managing of that dear little good-natured piece of obstinate
man. I will at once see to prepare dear Caroline's welcome, and trust her
stay may be prolonged in the interest of common humanity. They have her
story here already.

'Conning has come in, and says that young Mr. Harry Jocelyn will be here
this morning from Fallow field, where he has been cricketing. The family
have not spoken of him in my hearing. He is not, I think, in good odour
at home--a scapegrace. Rose's maid, Polly, quite flew out when I happened
to mention him, and broke one of my laces. These English maids are
domesticated savage animals.

'My chocolate is sent up, exquisitely concocted, in plate of the purest
quality--lovely little silver cups! I have already quite set the fashion
for the ladies to have chocolate in bed. The men, I hear, complain that
there is no lady at the breakfast-table. They have Miss Carrington to
superintend. I read, in the subdued satisfaction of her eyes (completely
without colour), how much she thanks me and the institution of chocolate
in bed. Poor Miss Carrington is no match for her opportunities. One may
give them to her without dread.

'It is ten on the Sabbath morn. The sweet churchbells are ringing. It
seems like a dream. There is nothing but the religion attaches me to
England; but that--is not that everything? How I used to sigh on Sundays
to hear them in Portugal!

'I have an idea of instituting toilette-receptions. They will not please
Miss Carrington so well.

'Now to the peaceful village church, and divine worship. Adieu, my dear.
I kiss my fingers to Silva. Make no effort to amuse him. He is always
occupied. Bread!--he asks no more. Adieu! Carry will be invited with your
little man .... You unhappily unable .... She, the sister I pine to see,
to show her worthy of my praises. Expectation and excitement! Adieu!'

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.'

Coarse food, but then Harry was a youthful Englishman; and the Countess
dieted the vanity according to the nationality. With good wine to wash it
down, one can swallow anything. The Countess lent him her eyes for that
purpose; eyes that had a liquid glow under the dove--like drooping lids.
It was a principle of hers, pampering our poor sex with swinish solids or
the lightest ambrosia, never to let the accompanying cordial be other
than of the finest quality. She knew that clowns, even more than
aristocrats, are flattered by the inebriation of delicate celestial
liquors.

'Now,' she said, after Harry had gulped as much of the dose as she chose
to administer direct from the founts, 'you must accord me the favour to
tell me all about yourself, for I have heard much of you, Mr. Harry
Jocelyn, and you have excited my woman's interest. Of me you know
nothing.'

'Haven't I?' cried Harry, speaking to the pitch of his new warmth. 'My
uncle Melville goes on about you tremendously--makes his wife as jealous
as fire. How could I tell that was your brother?'

'Your uncle has deigned to allude to me?' said the Countess,
meditatively. 'But not of him--of you, Mr. Harry! What does he say?'

'Says you're so clever you ought to be a man.'

'Ah! generous!' exclaimed the Countess. 'The idea, I think, is novel to
him. Is it not?'

'Well, I believe, from what I hear, he didn't back you for much over in
Lisbon,' said veracious Harry.

'I fear he is deceived in me now. I fear I am but a woman--I am not to be
"backed." But you are not talking of yourself.'

'Oh! never mind me,' was Harry's modest answer.

'But I do. Try to imagine me as clever as a man, and talk to me of your
doings. Indeed I will endeavour to comprehend you.'

Thus humble, the Countess bade him give her his arm. He stuck it out with
abrupt eagerness.

'Not against my cheek.' She laughed forgivingly. 'And you need not start
back half-a-mile,' she pursued with plain humour: 'and please do not look
irresolute and awkward--It is not necessary,' she added. 'There!'; and
she settled her fingers on him, 'I am glad I can find one or two things
to instruct you in. Begin. You are a great cricketer. What else?'

Ay! what else? Harry might well say he had no wish to talk of himself. He
did not know even how to give his arm to a lady! The first flattery and
the subsequent chiding clashed in his elated soul, and caused him to deem
himself one of the blest suddenly overhauled by an inspecting angel and
found wanting: or, in his own more accurate style of reflection, 'What a
rattling fine woman this is, and what a deuce of a fool she must think
me!'

The Countess leaned on his arm with dainty languor.

'You walk well,' she said.

Harry's backbone straightened immediately.

'No, no; I do not want you to be a drill-sergeant. Can you not be told
you are perfect without seeking to improve, vain boy? You can cricket,
and you can walk, and will very soon learn how to give your arm to a
lady. I have hopes of you. Of your friends, from whom I have ruthlessly
dragged you, I have not much. Am I personally offensive to them, Mr.
Harry? I saw them let my brother pass without returning his bow, and they
in no way acknowledged my presence as I passed. Are they gentlemen?'

'Yes,' said Harry, stupefied by the question. 'One 's Ferdinand Laxley,
Lord Laxley's son, heir to the title; the other's William Harvey, son of
the Chief Justice--both friends of mine.'

'But not of your manners,' interposed the Countess. 'I have not so much
compunction as I ought to have in divorcing you from your associates for
a few minutes. I think I shall make a scholar of you in one or two
essentials. You do want polish. Have I not a right to take you in hand? I
have defended you already.'

'Me?' cried Harry.

'None other than Mr. Harry Jocelyn. Will he vouchsafe to me his pardon?
It has been whispered in my ears that his ambition is to be the Don Juan
of a country district, and I have said for him, that however grovelling
his undirected tastes, he is too truly noble to plume himself upon the
reputation they have procured him. Why did I defend you? Women, you know,
do not shrink from Don Juans--even provincial Don Juans--as they should,
perhaps, for their own sakes! You are all of you dangerous, if a woman is
not strictly on her guard. But you will respect your champion, will you
not?'

Harry was about to reply with wonderful briskness. He stopped, and
murmured boorishly that he was sure he was very much obliged.

Command of countenance the Countess possessed in common with her sex.
Those faces on which we make them depend entirely, women can entirely
control. Keenly sensible to humour as the Countess was, her face sidled
up to his immovably sweet. Harry looked, and looked away, and looked
again. The poor fellow was so profoundly aware of his foolishness that he
even doubted whether he was admired.

The Countess trifled with his English nature; quietly watched him bob
between tugging humility and airy conceit, and went on:

'Yes! I will trust you, and that is saying very much, for what protection
is a brother? I am alone here--defenceless!'

Men, of course, grow virtuously zealous in an instant on behalf of the
lovely dame who tells them bewitchingly, she is alone and defenceless,
with pitiful dimples round the dewy mouth that entreats their
guardianship and mercy!

The provincial Don Juan found words--a sign of clearer sensations within.
He said:

'Upon my honour, I'd look after you better than fifty brothers!'

The Countess eyed him softly, and then allowed herself the luxury of a
laugh.

'No, no! it is not the sheep, it is the wolf I fear.'

And she went through a bit of the concluding portion of the drama of
Little Red Riding Hood very prettily, and tickled him so that he became
somewhat less afraid of her.

'Are you truly so bad as report would have you to be, Mr. Harry?' she
asked, not at all in the voice of a censor.

'Pray don't think me--a--anything you wouldn't have me,' the youth
stumbled into an apt response.

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