Evan Harrington, Complete

G >> George Meredith >> Evan Harrington, Complete

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''Pon my soul, Harrington, you make me remember I once doubted whether
you were one of us--rather your own fault, you know!' said Harry. 'Bury
that, won't you?'

''Till your doubts recur,' Evan observed; and Harry burst out, 'Gad, if
you weren't such a melancholy beggar, you'd be the jolliest fellow I
know! There, go after Rosey. Dashed if I don't think you're ahead of
Ferdinand, long chalks. Your style does for girls. I like women.'

With a chuckle and a wink, Harry swung-off. Evan had now to reflect that
he had just thrown away part of the price of his bondage to Tailordom;
the mention of Rose filled his mind. Where was she? Both were seeking one
another. Rose was in the cypress walk. He saw the star-like figure up the
length of it, between the swelling tall dark pillars, and was hurrying to
her, resolute not to let one minute of deception blacken further the soul
that loved so true a soul. She saw him, and stood smiling, when the
Countess issued, shadow-like, from a side path, and declared that she
must claim her brother for a few instants. Would her sweet Rose pardon
her? Rose bowed coolly. The hearts of the lovers were chilled, not that
they perceived any malice in the Countess, but their keen instincts felt
an evil fate.

The Countess had but to tell Evan that she had met the insolvent in
apples, and recognized him under his change of fortune, and had no doubt
that at least he would amuse the company. Then she asked her brother the
superfluous question, whether he loved her, which Evan answered
satisfactorily enough, as he thought; but practical ladies require
proofs.

'Quick,' said Evan, seeing Rose vanish, 'what do you want? I'll do
anything.'

'Anything? Ah, but this will be disagreeable to you.'

'Name it at once. I promise beforehand.'

The Countess wanted Evan to ask Andrew to be the very best brother-in-law
in the world, and win, unknown to himself, her cheerful thanks, by
lending Evan to lend to her the sum of one hundred pounds, as she was in
absolute distress for money.

'Really, Louisa, this is a thing you might ask him yourself,' Evan
remonstrated.

'It would not become me to do so, dear,' said the Countess, demurely; and
inasmuch as she had already drawn on Andrew in her own person pretty
largely, her views of propriety were correct in this instance.

Evan had to consent before he could be released. He ran to the end of the
walk through the portal, into the park. Rose was not to be seen. She had
gone in to dress for dinner. The opportunity might recur, but would his
courage come with it? His courage had sunk on a sudden; or it may have
been that it was worst for this young man to ask for a loan of money,
than to tell his beloved that he was basely born, vile, and unworthy, and
had snared her into loving him; for when he and Andrew were together,
money was not alluded to. Andrew, however, betrayed remarkable
discomposure. He said plainly that he wanted to leave Beckley Court, and
wondered why he didn't leave, and whether he was on his head or his feet,
and how he had been such a fool as to come.

'Do you mean that for me?' said sensitive Evan.

'Oh, you! You're a young buck,' returned Andrew, evasively. 'We
common-place business men-we 're out of our element; and there's poor
Carry can't sit down to their dinners without an upset. I thank God I'm a
Radical, Van; one man's the same as another to me, how he's born, as long
as he's honest and agreeable. But a chap like that George Uplift to look
down on anybody! 'Gad, I've a good mind to bring in a Bill for the
Abolition of the Squirearchy.'

Ultimately, Andrew somehow contrived to stick a hint or two about the
terrible dinner in Evan's quivering flesh. He did it as delicately as
possible, half begging pardon, and perspiring profusely. Evan grasped his
hand, and thanked him. Caroline's illness was now explained to him.

'I'll take Caroline with me to-morrow,' he said. 'Louisa wishes to
stay--there 's a pic-nic. Will you look to her, and bring her with you?'

'My dear Van,' replied Andrew, 'stop with Louisa? Now, in confidence,
it's as bad as a couple of wives; no disrespect to my excellent good
Harry at home; but Louisa--I don't know how it is--but Louisa, you lose
your head, you're in a whirl, you're an automaton, a teetotum! I haven't
a notion of what I've been doing or saying since I came here. My belief
is, I 've been lying right and left. I shall be found out to a certainty:
Oh! if she's made her mind up for the pic-nic, somebody must stop. I can
only tell you, Van, it's one perpetual vapour-bath to me. There 'll be
room for two in my trousers when I get back. I shall have to get the
tailor to take them in a full half.'

Here occurred an opening for one of those acrid pleasantries which
console us when there is horrid warfare within.

'You must give me the work,' said Evan, partly pleased with his hated
self for being able to jest on the subject, as a piece of preliminary
self-conquest.

'Aha!' went Andrew, as if the joke were too good to be dwelt on; 'Hem';
and by way of diverting from it cleverly and naturally, he remarked that
the weather was fine. This made Evan allude to his letter written from
Lymport, upon which Andrew said: 'tush! pish! humbug! nonsense! won't
hear a word. Don't know anything about it. Van, you're going to be a
brewer. I say you are. You're afraid you can't? I tell you, sir, I've got
a bet on it. You're not going to make me lose, are you--eh? I have, and a
stiff bet, too. You must and shall, so there's an end. Only we can't make
arrangements just yet, my boy. Old Tom--very good old fellow--but, you
know--must get old Tom out of the way, first. Now go and dress for
dinner. And Lord preserve us from the Great Mel to-day!' Andrew mumbled
as he turned away.

Evan could not reach his chamber without being waylaid by the Countess.
Had he remembered the sister who sacrificed so much for him? 'There,
there!' cried Evan, and her hand closed on the delicious golden whispers
of bank-notes. And, 'Oh, generous Andrew! dear good Evan!' were the
exclamations of the gratified lady.

There remained nearly another hundred. Evan laid out the notes, and eyed
them while dressing. They seemed to say to him, 'We have you now.' He was
clutched by a beneficent or a most malignant magician. The former seemed
due to him, considering the cloud on his fortunes. This enigma might
mean, that by submitting to a temporary humiliation, for a trial of
him--in fact, by his acknowledgement of the fact, loathed though it
was,--he won a secret overlooker's esteem, gained a powerful ally. Here
was the proof, he held the proof. He had read Arabian Tales and could
believe in marvels; especially could he believe in the friendliness of a
magical thing that astounded without hurting him.

He, sat down in his room at night and wrote a fairly manful letter to
Rose; and it is to be said of the wretch he then saw himself, that he
pardoned her for turning from so vile a pretender. He heard a step in the
passage. It was Polly Wheedle. Polly had put her young mistress to bed,
and was retiring to her own slumbers. He made her take the letter and
promise to deliver it immediately. Would not to-morrow morning do, she
asked, as Miss Rose was very sleepy. He seemed to hesitate--he was
picturing how Rose looked when very sleepy. Why should he surrender this
darling? And subtler question--why should he make her unhappy? Why
disturb her at all in her sweet sleep?

'Well,' said Evan. 'To-morrow will do.--No, take it to-night, for God's
sake!' he cried, as one who bursts the spell of an opiate. 'Go at once.'
The temptation had almost overcome him.

Polly thought his proceedings queer. And what could the letter contain? A
declaration, of course. She walked slowly along the passage, meditating
on love, and remotely on its slave, Mr. Nicholas Frim. Nicholas had never
written her a letter; but she was determined that he should, some day.
She wondered what love-letters were like? Like valentines without the
Cupids. Practical valentines, one might say. Not vapoury and wild, but
hot and to the point. Delightful things! No harm in peeping at a
love-letter, if you do it with the eye of a friend.

Polly spelt just a word when a door opened at her elbow. She dropped her
candle and curtsied to the Countess's voice. The Countess desired her to
enter, and all in a tremble Polly crept in. Her air of guilt made the
Countess thrill. She had merely called her in to extract daily gossip.
The corner of the letter sticking up under Polly's neck attracted her
strangely, and beginning with the familiar, 'Well, child,' she talked of
things interesting to Polly, and then exhibited the pic-nic dress. It was
a lovely half-mourning; airy sorrows, gauzy griefs, you might imagine to
constitute the wearer. White delicately striped, exquisitely trimmed, and
of a stuff to make the feminine mouth water!

Could Polly refuse to try it on, when the flattering proposal met her
ears? Blushing, shame-faced, adoring the lady who made her look adorable,
Polly tried it on, and the Countess complimented her, and made a doll of
her, and turned her this way and that way, and intoxicated her.

'A rich husband, Polly, child! and you are a lady ready made.'

Infamous poison to poor Polly; but as the thunder destroys small insects,
exalted schemers are to be excused for riding down their few thousands.
Moreover, the Countess really looked upon domestics as being only
half-souls.

Dressed in her own attire again, Polly felt in her pockets, and at her
bosom, and sang out: 'Oh, my--Oh, where! Oh!'

The letter was lost. The letter could not be found. The Countess grew
extremely fatigued, and had to dismiss Polly, in spite of her eager
petitions to be allowed to search under the carpets and inside the bed.

In the morning came Evan's great trial. There stood Rose. She turned to
him, and her eyes were happy and unclouded.

'You are not changed?' he said.

'Changed? what could change me?'

The God of true hearts bless her! He could hardly believe it.

'You are the Rose I knew yesterday?'

'Yes, Evan. But you--you look as if you had not slept.'

'You will not leave me this morning, before I go, Rose? Oh, my darling!
this that you do for me is the work of an angel-nothing less! I have been
a coward. And my beloved! to feel vile is agony to me--it makes me feel
unworthy of the hand I press. Now all is clear between us. I go: I am
forgiven.'

Rose repeated his last words, and then added hurriedly:

'All is clear between us? Shall I speak to Mama this morning? Dear Evan!
it will be right that I should.'

For the moment he could not understand why, but supposing a scrupulous
honesty in her, said: 'Yes, tell Lady Jocelyn all.'

'And then, Evan, you will never need to go.'

They separated. The deep-toned sentence sang in Evan's heart. Rose and
her mother were of one stamp. And Rose might speak for her mother. To
take the hands of such a pair and be lifted out of the slough, he thought
no shame: and all through the hours of the morning the image of two
angels stooping to touch a leper, pressed on his brain like a reality,
and went divinely through his blood.

Toward mid-day Rose beckoned to him, and led him out across the lawn into
the park, and along the borders of the stream.

'Evan,' she said, 'shall I really speak to Mama?'

'You have not yet?' he answered.

'No. I have been with Juliana and with Drummond. Look at this, Evan.' She
showed a small black speck in the palm of her hand, which turned out, on
your viewing it closely, to be a brand of the letter L. 'Mama did that
when I was a little girl, because I told lies. I never could distinguish
between truth and falsehood; and Mama set that mark on me, and I have
never told a lie since. She forgives anything but that. She will be our
friend; she will never forsake us, Evan, if we do not deceive her. Oh,
Evan! it never is of any use. But deceive her, and she cannot forgive
you. It is not in her nature.'

Evan paused before he replied: 'You have only to tell her what I have
told you. You know everything.'

Rose gave him a flying look of pain: 'Everything, Evan? What do I know?'

'Ah, Rose! do you compel me to repeat it?'

Bewildered, Rose thought: 'Have I slept and forgotten it?'

He saw the persistent grieved interrogation of her eyebrows.

'Well!' she sighed resignedly: 'I am yours; you know that, Evan.'

But he was a lover, and quarrelled with her sigh.

'It may well make you sad now, Rose.'

'Sad? no, that does not make me sad. No; but my hands are tied. I cannot
defend you or justify myself; and induce Mama to stand by us. Oh, Evan!
you love me! why can you not open your heart to me entirely, and trust
me?'

'More?' cried Evan: 'Can I trust you more?' He spoke of the letter: Rose
caught his hand.

'I never had it, Evan. You wrote it last night? and all was written in
it? I never saw it--but I know all.'

Their eyes fronted. The gates of Rose's were wide open, and he saw no
hurtful beasts or lurking snakes in the happy garden within, but Love,
like a fixed star.

'Then you know why I must leave, Rose.'

'Leave? Leave me? On the contrary, you must stay by me, and support me.
Why, Evan, we have to fight a battle.'

Much as he worshipped her, this intrepid directness of soul startled
him-almost humbled him. And her eyes shone with a firm cheerful light, as
she exclaimed: 'It makes me so happy to think you were the first to
mention this. You meant to be, and that's the same thing. I heard it this
morning: you wrote it last night. It's you I love, Evan. Your birth, and
what you were obliged to do--that's nothing. Of course I'm sorry for it,
dear. But I'm more sorry for the pain I must have sometimes put you to.
It happened through my mother's father being a merchant; and that side of
the family the men and women are quite sordid and unendurable; and that's
how it came that I spoke of disliking tradesmen. I little thought I
should ever love one sprung from that class.'

She turned to him tenderly.

'And in spite of what my birth is, you love me, Rose?'

'There's no spite in it, Evan. I do.'

Hard for him, while his heart was melting to caress her, the thought that
he had snared this bird of heaven in a net! Rose gave him no time for
reflection, or the moony imagining of their raptures lovers love to dwell
upon.

'You gave the letter to Polly, of course?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, naughty Polly! I must punish you,' Rose apostrophized her. 'You
might have divided us for ever. Well, we shall have to fight a battle,
you understand that. Will you stand by me?'

Would he not risk his soul for her?

'Very well, Evan. Then--but don't be sensitive. Oh, how sensitive you
are! I see it all now. This is what we shall have to do. We shall have to
speak to Mama to-day--this morning. Drummond has told me he is going to
speak to her, and we must be first. That 's decided. I begged a couple of
hours. You must not be offended with Drummond. He does it out of pure
affection for us, and I can see he's right--or, at least, not quite
wrong. He ought, I think, to know that he cannot change me. Very well, we
shall win Mama by what we do. My mother has ten times my wits, and yet I
manage her like a feather. I have only to be honest and straightforward.
Then Mama will gain over Papa. Papa, of course, won't like it. He's quiet
and easy, but he likes blood, but he also likes peace better; and I think
he loves Rosey--as well as somebody--almost? Look, dear, there is our
seat where we--where you would rob me of my handkerchief. I can't talk
any more.'

Rose had suddenly fallen from her prattle, soft and short-breathed.

'Then, dear,' she went on, 'we shall have to fight the family. Aunt
Shorne will be terrible. My poor uncles! I pity them. But they will come
round. They always have thought what I did was right, and why should they
change their minds now? I shall tell them that at their time of life a
change of any kind is very unwise and bad for them. Then there is
Grandmama Bonner. She can hurt us really, if she pleases. Oh, my dear
Evan! if you had only been a curate! Why isn't your name Parsley? Then my
Grandmama the Countess of Elburne. Well, we have a Countess on our side,
haven't we? And that reminds me, Evan, if we're to be happy and succeed,
you must promise one thing: you will not tell the Countess, your sister.
Don't confide this to her. Will you promise?'

Evan assured her he was not in the habit of pouring secrets into any
bosom, the Countess's as little as another's.

'Very well, then, Evan, it's unpleasant while it lasts, but we shall gain
the day. Uncle Melville will give you an appointment, and then?'

'Yes, Rose,' he said, 'I will do this, though I don't think you can know
what I shall have to endure-not in confessing what I am, but in feeling
that I have brought you to my level.'

'Does it not raise me?' she cried.

He shook his head.

'But in reality, Evan--apart from mere appearances--in reality it does!
it does!'

'Men will not think so, Rose, nor can I. Oh, my Rose! how different you
make me. Up to this hour I have been so weak! torn two ways! You give me
double strength.'

Then these lovers talked of distant days--compared their feelings on this
and that occasion with mutual wonder and delight. Then the old hours
lived anew. And--did you really think that, Evan? And--Oh, Rose! was that
your dream? And the meaning of that by-gone look: was it what they
fancied? And such and such a tone of voice; would it bear the wished
interpretation? Thus does Love avenge himself on the unsatisfactory Past
and call out its essence.

Could Evan do less than adore her? She knew all, and she loved him! Since
he was too shy to allude more than once to his letter, it was natural
that he should not ask her how she came to know, and how much the 'all'
that she knew comprised. In his letter he had told all; the condition of
his parents, and his own. Honestly, now, what with his dazzled state of
mind, his deep inward happiness, and love's endless delusions, he
abstained from touching the subject further. Honestly, therefore, as far
as a lover can be honest.

So they toyed, and then Rose, setting her fingers loose, whispered: 'Are
you ready?' And Evan nodded; and Rose, to make him think light of the
matter in hand, laughed: 'Pluck not quite up yet?'

'Quite, my Rose!' said Evan, and they walked to the house, not quite
knowing what they were going to do.

On the steps they met Drummond with Mrs. Evremonde. Little imagining how
heart and heart the two had grown, and that Evan would understand him,
Drummond called to Rose playfully: 'Time's up.'

'Is it?' Rose answered, and to Mrs. Evremonde

'Give Drummond a walk. Poor Drummond is going silly.'

Evan looked into his eyes calmly as he passed.

'Where are you going, Rose?' said Mrs. Evremonde.

'Going to give my maid Polly a whipping for losing a letter she ought to
have delivered to me last night,' said Rose, in a loud voice, looking at
Drummond. 'And then going to Mama. Pleasure first--duty after. Isn't that
the proverb, Drummond?'

She kissed her fingers rather scornfully to her old friend.

CHAPTER XXVI

MRS. MEL MAKES A BED FOR HERSELF AND FAMILY

The last person thought of by her children at this period was Mrs. Mel:
nor had she been thinking much of them till a letter from Mr. Goren
arrived one day, which caused her to pass them seriously in review.
Always an early bird, and with maxims of her own on the subject of rising
and getting the worm, she was standing in a small perch in the corner of
the shop, dictating accounts to Mrs. Fiske, who was copying hurriedly,
that she might earn sweet intervals for gossip, when Dandy limped up and
delivered the letter. Mrs. Fiske worked hard while her aunt was occupied
in reading it, for a great deal of fresh talk follows the advent of the
post, and may be reckoned on. Without looking up, however, she could tell
presently that the letter had been read through. Such being the case, and
no conversation coming of it, her curiosity was violent. Her aunt's face,
too, was an index of something extraordinary. That inflexible woman,
instead of alluding to the letter in any way, folded it up, and renewed
her dictation. It became a contest between them which should show her
human nature first. Mrs. Mel had to repress what she knew; Mrs. Fiske to
control the passion for intelligence. The close neighbourhood of one
anxious to receive, and one capable of giving, waxed too much for both.

'I think, Anne, you are stupid this morning,' said Mrs. Mel.

'Well, I am, aunt,' said Mrs. Fiske, pretending not to see which was the
first to unbend, 'I don't know what it is. The figures seem all dazzled
like. I shall really be glad when Evan comes to take his proper place.'

'Ah!' went Mrs. Mel, and Mrs. Fiske heard her muttering. Then she cried
out: 'Are Harriet and Caroline as great liars as Louisa?'

Mrs. Fiske grimaced. 'That would be difficult, would it not, aunt?'

'And I have been telling everybody that my son is in town learning his
business, when he's idling at a country house, and trying to play his
father over again! Upon my word, what with liars and fools, if you go to
sleep a minute you have a month's work on your back.'

'What is it, aunt?' Mrs. Fiske feebly inquired.

'A gentleman, I suppose! He wouldn't take an order if it was offered.
Upon my word, when tailors think of winning heiresses it's time we went
back to Adam and Eve.'

'Do you mean Evan, aunt?' interposed Mrs. Fiske, who probably did not see
the turns in her aunt's mind.

'There--read for yourself,' said Mrs. Mel, and left her with the letter.

Mrs. Fiske read that Mr. Goren had been astonished at Evan's
non-appearance, and at his total silence; which he did not consider
altogether gentlemanly behaviour, and certainly not such as his father
would have practised. Mr. Goren regretted his absence the more as he
would have found him useful in a remarkable invention he was about to
patent, being a peculiar red cross upon shirts--a fortune to the
patentee; but as Mr. Goren had no natural heirs of his body, he did not
care for that. What affected him painfully was the news of Evan's doings
at a noble house, Beckley Court, to wit, where, according to the report
of a rich young gentleman friend, Mr. Raikes (for whose custom Mr. Goren
was bound to thank Evan), the youth who should have been learning the
science of Tailoring, had actually passed himself off as a lord, or the
son of one, or something of the kind, and had got engaged to a wealthy
heiress, and would, no doubt, marry her if not found out. Where the
chances of detection were so numerous, Mr. Goren saw much to condemn in
the idea of such a marriage. But 'like father like son,' said Mr. Goren.
He thanked the Lord that an honest tradesman was not looked down upon in
this country; and, in fact, gave Mrs. Mel a few quiet digs to waken her
remorse in having missed the man that he was.

When Mrs. Fiske met her aunt again she returned her the letter, and
simply remarked: 'Louisa.'

Mrs. Mel nodded. She understood the implication.

The General who had schemed so successfully to gain Evan time at Beckley
Court in his own despite and against a hundred obstructions, had now
another enemy in the field, and one who, if she could not undo her work,
could punish her. By the afternoon coach, Mrs. Mel, accompanied by Dandy
her squire, was journeying to Fallow field, bent upon things. The
faithful squire was kept by her side rather as a security for others than
for, his particular services. Dandy's arms were crossed, and his
countenance was gloomy. He had been promised a holiday that afternoon to
give his mistress, Sally, Kilne's cook, an airing, and Dandy knew in his
soul that Sally, when she once made up her mind to an excursion, would
go, and would not go alone, and that her very force of will endangered
her constancy. He had begged humbly to be allowed to stay, but Mrs. Mel
could not trust him. She ought to have told him so, perhaps. Explanations
were not approved of by this well-intended despot, and however beneficial
her resolves might turn out for all parties, it was natural that in the
interim the children of her rule should revolt, and Dandy, picturing his
Sally flaunting on the arm of some accursed low marine, haply, kicked
against Mrs. Mel's sovereignty, though all that he did was to shoot out
his fist from time to time, and grunt through his set teeth: 'Iron!' to
express the character of her awful rule.

Mrs. Mel alighted at the Dolphin, the landlady of which was a Mrs.
Hawkshaw, a rival of Mrs. Sockley of the Green Dragon. She was welcomed
by Mrs. Hawkshaw with considerable respect. The great Mel had sometimes
slept at the Dolphin.

'Ah, that black!' she sighed, indicating Mrs. Mel's dress and the story
it told.

'I can't give you his room, my dear Mrs. Harrington, wishing I could! I'm
sorry to say it's occupied, for all I ought to be glad, I dare say, for
he's an old gentleman who does you a good turn, if you study him. But
there! I'd rather have had poor dear Mr. Harrington in my best bed than
old or young--Princes or nobodies, I would--he was that grand and
pleasant.'

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