Evan Harrington, Complete

G >> George Meredith >> Evan Harrington, Complete

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The diplomatist looked into her uplifted visage, that had all the sugary
sparkles of a crystallized preserved fruit of the Portugal clime, and
observed, confidentially, that, with every willingness in the world to
serve her, he did think it would possibly be better, for a time, to be
upon that footing, apart from political considerations.

'I was very sure my brother would apprehend your views,' said the
Countess. 'He, poor boy! his career is closed. He must sink into a
different sphere. He will greatly miss the intercourse with you and your
sweet family.'

Further relieved, the diplomatist delivered a high opinion of the young
gentleman, his abilities, and his conduct, and trusted he should see him
frequently.

By an apparent sacrifice, the lady thus obtained what she wanted.

Near the hour speculated on by the diplomatist, the papers came on board,
and he, unaware how he had been manoeuvred for lack of a wife at his
elbow, was quickly engaged in appeasing the great British hunger for
news; second only to that for beef, it seems, and equally acceptable
salted when it cannot be had fresh.

Leaving the devotee of statecraft with his legs crossed, and his face
wearing the cognizant air of one whose head is above the waters of
events, to enjoy the mighty meal of fresh and salted at discretion, the
Countess dived below.

Meantime the Jocasta, as smoothly as before she was ignorant of how the
world wagged, slipped up the river with the tide; and the sun hung red
behind the forest of masts, burnishing a broad length of the serpentine
haven of the nations of the earth. A young Englishman returning home can
hardly look on this scene without some pride of kinship. Evan stood at
the fore part of the vessel. Rose, in quiet English attire, had escaped
from her aunt to join him, singing in his ears, to spur his senses:
'Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it beautiful? Dear old England!'

'What do you find so beautiful?' he asked.

'Oh, you dull fellow! Why the ships, and the houses, and the smoke, to be
sure.'

'The ships? Why, I thought you despised trade, mademoiselle?'

'And so I do. That is, not trade, but tradesmen. Of course, I mean
shopkeepers.'

'It's they who send the ships to and fro, and make the picture that
pleases you, nevertheless.'

'Do they?' said she, indifferently, and then with a sort of fervour, 'Why
do you always grow so cold to me whenever we get on this subject?'

'I cold?' Evan responded. The incessant fears of his diplomatic sister
had succeeded in making him painfully jealous of this subject. He turned
it off. 'Why, our feelings are just the same. Do you know what I was
thinking when you came up? I was thinking that I hoped I might never
disgrace the name of an Englishman.'

'Now, that's noble!' cried the girl. 'And I'm sure you never will. Of an
English gentleman, Evan. I like that better.'

'Would your rather be called a true English lady than a true English
woman, Rose?'

'Don't think I would, my dear,' she answered, pertly; 'but "gentleman"
always means more than "man" to me.'

'And what's a gentleman, mademoiselle?'

'Can't tell you, Don Doloroso. Something you are, sir,' she added,
surveying him.

Evan sucked the bitter and the sweet of her explanation. His sister in
her anxiety to put him on his guard, had not beguiled him to forget his
real state.

His sister, the diplomatist and his lady, the refugee Count, with ladies'
maids, servants, and luggage, were now on the main-deck, and Master Alec,
who was as good as a newspaper correspondent for private conversations,
put an end to the colloquy of the young people. They were all assembled
in a circle when the vessel came to her moorings. The diplomatist glutted
with news, and thirsting for confirmations; the Count dumb, courteous,
and quick-eyed; the honourable lady complacent in the consciousness of
boxes well packed; the Countess breathing mellifluous long-drawn adieux
that should provoke invitations. Evan and Rose regarded each other.

The boat to convey them on shore was being lowered, and they were
preparing to move forward. Just then the vessel was boarded by a
stranger.

'Is that one of the creatures of your Customs? I did imagine we were safe
from them,' exclaimed the Countess.

The diplomatist laughingly requested her to save herself anxiety on that
score, while under his wing. But she had drawn attention to the intruder,
who was seen addressing one of the midshipmen. He was a man in a long
brown coat and loose white neckcloth, spectacles on nose, which he wore
considerably below the bridge and peered over, as if their main use were
to sight his eye; a beaver hat, with broadish brim, on his head. A man of
no station, it was evident to the ladies at once, and they would have
taken no further notice of him had he not been seen stepping toward them
in the rear of the young midshipman.

The latter came to Evan, and said: 'A fellow of the name of Goren wants
you. Says there's something the matter at home.'

Evan advanced, and bowed stiffly.

Mr. Goren held out his hand. 'You don't remember me, young man? I cut out
your first suit for you when you were breeched, though! Yes-ah! Your poor
father wouldn't put his hand to it. Goren!'

Embarrassed, and not quite alive to the chapter of facts this name should
have opened to him, Evan bowed again.

'Goren!' continued the possessor of the name. He had a cracked voice,
that when he spoke a word of two syllables, commenced with a lugubrious
crow, and ended in what one might have taken for a curious question.

'It is a bad business brings me, young man. I 'm not the best messenger
for such tidings. It's a black suit, young man! It's your father!'

The diplomatist and his lady gradually edged back but Rose remained
beside the Countess, who breathed quick, and seemed to have lost her
self-command.

Thinking he was apprehended, Mr. Goren said: 'I 'm going down to-night to
take care of the shop. He 's to be buried in his old uniform. You had
better come with me by the night-coach, if you would see the last of him,
young man.'

Breaking an odd pause that had fallen, the Countess cried aloud,
suddenly:

'In his uniform!'

Mr. Goren felt his arm seized and his legs hurrying him some paces into
isolation. 'Thanks! thanks!' was murmured in his ear. 'Not a word more.
Evan cannot bear it. Oh! you are good to have come, and we are grateful.
My father! my father!'

She had to tighten her hand and wrist against her bosom to keep herself
up. She had to reckon in a glance how much Rose had heard, or divined.
She had to mark whether the Count had understood a syllable. She had to
whisper to Evan to hasten away with the horrible man.

She had to enliven his stunned senses, and calm her own. And with
mournful images of her father in her brain, the female Spartan had to
turn to Rose, and speculate on the girl's reflective brows, while she
said, as over a distant relative, sadly, but without distraction: 'A
death in the family!' and preserved herself from weeping her heart out,
that none might guess the thing who did not positively know it. Evan
touched the hand of Rose without meeting her eyes. He was soon cast off
in Mr. Goren's boat. Then the Countess murmured final adieux; twilight
under her lids, but yet a smile, stately, affectionate, almost genial.
Rose, her sweet Rose, she must kiss. She could have slapped Rose for
appearing so reserved and cold. She hugged Rose, as to hug oblivion of
the last few minutes into her. The girl leant her cheek, and bore the
embrace, looking on her with a kind of wonder.

Only when alone with the Count, in the brewer's carriage awaiting her on
shore, did the lady give a natural course to her grief; well knowing that
her Silva would attribute it to the darkness of their common exile. She
wept: but in the excess of her misery, two words of strangely opposite
signification, pronounced by Mr. Goren; two words that were at once
poison and antidote, sang in her brain; two words that painted her dead
father from head to foot, his nature and his fortune: these were the
Shop, and the Uniform.

Oh! what would she not have given to have-seen and bestowed on her
beloved father one last kiss! Oh! how she hoped that her inspired echo of
Uniform, on board the Jocasta, had drowned the memory, eclipsed the
meaning, of that fatal utterance of Shop!

CHAPTER V

THE FAMILY AND THE FUNERAL

It was the evening of the second day since the arrival of the black
letter in London from Lymport, and the wife of the brewer and the wife of
the Major sat dropping tears into one another's laps, in expectation of
their sister the Countess. Mr. Andrew Cogglesby had not yet returned from
his office. The gallant Major had gone forth to dine with General Sir
George Frebuter, the head of the Marines of his time. It would have been
difficult for the Major, he informed his wife, to send in an excuse to
the General for non-attendance, without entering into particulars; and
that he should tell the General he could not dine with him, because of
the sudden decease of a tailor, was, as he let his wife understand, and
requested her to perceive, quite out of the question. So he dressed
himself carefully, and though peremptory with his wife concerning his
linen, and requiring natural services from her in the button department,
and a casual expression of contentment as to his ultimate make-up, he
left her that day without any final injunctions to occupy her mind, and
she was at liberty to weep if she pleased, a privilege she did not enjoy
undisturbed when he was present; for the warrior hated that weakness, and
did not care to hide his contempt for it.

Of the three sisters, the wife of the Major was, oddly enough, the one
who was least inveterately solicitous of concealing the fact of her
parentage. Reticence, of course, she had to study with the rest; the
Major was a walking book of reticence and the observances; he professed,
also, in company with herself alone, to have had much trouble in drilling
her to mark and properly preserve them. She had no desire to speak of her
birthplace. But, for some reason or other, she did not share her hero's
rather petulant anxiety to keep the curtain nailed down on that part of
her life which preceded her entry into the ranks of the Royal Marines.
Some might have thought that those fair large blue eyes of hers wandered
now and then in pleasant unambitious walks behind the curtain, and toyed
with little flowers of palest memory. Utterly tasteless, totally wanting
in discernment, not to say gratitude, the Major could not presume her to
be; and yet his wits perceived that her answers and the conduct she
shaped in accordance with his repeated protests and long-reaching
apprehensions of what he called danger, betrayed acquiescent obedience
more than the connubial sympathy due to him. Danger on the field the
Major knew not of; he did not scruple to name the word in relation to his
wife. For, as he told her, should he, some day, as in the chapter of
accidents might occur, sally into the street a Knight Companion of the
Bath and become known to men as Sir Maxwell Strike, it would be decidedly
disagreeable for him to be blown upon by a wind from Lymport. Moreover
she was the mother of a son. The Major pointed out to her the duty she
owed her offspring. Certainly the protecting aegis of his rank and title
would be over the lad, but she might depend upon it any indiscretion of
hers would damage him in his future career, the Major assured her. Young
Maxwell must be considered.

For all this, the mother and wife, when the black letter found them in
the morning at breakfast, had burst into a fit of grief, and faltered
that she wept for a father. Mrs. Andrew, to whom the letter was
addressed, had simply held the letter to her in a trembling hand. The
Major compared their behaviour, with marked encomiums of Mrs. Andrew. Now
this lady and her husband were in obverse relative positions. The brewer
had no will but his Harriet's. His esteem for her combined the
constitutional feelings of an insignificantly-built little man for a
majestic woman, and those of a worthy soul for the wife of his bosom.
Possessing, or possessed by her, the good brewer was perfectly happy.
She, it might be thought, under these circumstances, would not have
minded much his hearing what he might hear. It happened, however, that
she was as jealous of the winds of Lymport as the Major himself; as
vigilant in debarring them from access to the brewery as now the Countess
could have been. We are not dissecting human nature suffice it,
therefore, from a mere glance at the surface, to say, that just as
moneyed men are careful of their coin, women who have all the advantages
in a conjunction, are miserly in keeping them, and shudder to think that
one thing remains hidden, which the world they move in might put down
pityingly in favour of their spouse, even though to the little man 'twere
naught. She assumed that a revelation would diminish her moral stature;
and certainly it would not increase that of her husband. So no good could
come of it. Besides, Andrew knew, his whole conduct was a tacit
admission, that she had condescended in giving him her hand. The features
of their union might not be changed altogether by a revelation, but it
would be a shock to her.

Consequently, Harriet tenderly rebuked Caroline, for her outcry at the
breakfast-table; and Caroline, the elder sister, who had not since
marriage grown in so free an air, excused herself humbly, and the two
were weeping when the Countess joined them and related what she had just
undergone.

Hearing of Caroline's misdemeanour, however, Louisa's eyes rolled aloft
in a paroxysm of tribulation. It was nothing to Caroline; it was
comparatively nothing to Harriet; but the Count knew not Louisa had a
father: believed that her parents had long ago been wiped out. And the
Count was by nature inquisitive: and if he once cherished a suspicion he
was restless; he was pointed in his inquiries: he was pertinacious in
following out a clue: there never would be peace with him! And then, as
they were secure in their privacy, Louisa cried aloud for her father, her
beloved father! Harriet wept silently. Caroline alone expressed regret
that she had not set eyes on him from the day she became a wife.

'How could we, dear?' the Countess pathetically asked, under drowning
lids.

'Papa did not wish it,' sobbed Mrs. Andrew.

'I never shall forgive myself!' said the wife of the Major, drying her
cheeks. Perhaps it was not herself whom she felt she never could forgive.

Ah! the man their father was! Incomparable Melchisedec! he might well be
called. So generous! so lordly! When the rain of tears would subside for
a moment, one would relate an anecdote or childish reminiscence of him,
and provoke a more violent outburst.

'Never, among the nobles of any land, never have I seen one like him!'
exclaimed the Countess, and immediately requested Harriet to tell her how
it would be possible to stop Andrew's tongue in Silva's presence.

'At present, you know, my dear, they may talk as much as they like--they
can't understand one another one bit.'

Mrs. Cogglesby comforted her by the assurance that Andrew had received an
intimation of her wish for silence everywhere and toward everybody; and
that he might be reckoned upon to respect it, without demanding a reason
for the restriction. In other days Caroline and Louisa had a little
looked down on Harriet's alliance with a dumpy man--a brewer--and had
always kind Christian compassion for him if his name were mentioned. They
seemed now, by their silence, to have a happier estimate of Andrew's
qualities.

While the three sisters sat mingling their sorrows and alarms, their
young brother was making his way to the house. As he knocked at the door
he heard his name pronounced behind him, and had no difficulty in
recognizing the worthy brewer.

'What, Van, my boy! how are you? Quite a foreigner! By George, what a
hat!'

Mr. Andrew bounced back two or three steps to regard the dusky sombrero.

'How do you do, sir?' said Evan.

'Sir to you!' Mr. Andrew briskly replied. 'Don't they teach you to give
your fist in Portugal, eh? I'll "sir" you. Wait till I'm Sir Andrew, and
then "sir" away. You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly, my
boy?'

Mr. Andrew rubbed his hands to express that state in himself. Suddenly he
stopped, blinked queerly at Evan, grew pensive, and said, 'Bless my soul!
I forgot.'

The door opened, Mr. Andrew took Evan's arm, murmured a 'hush!' and trod
gently along the passage to his library.

'We're safe here,' he said. 'There--there's something the matter
up-stairs. The women are upset about something. Harriet--' Mr. Andrew
hesitated, and branched off: 'You 've heard we 've got a new baby?'

Evan congratulated him; but another inquiry was in Mr. Andrew's aspect,
and Evan's calm, sad manner answered it.

'Yes,'--Mr. Andrew shook his head dolefully--'a splendid little chap! a
rare little chap! a we can't help these things, Van! They will happen.
Sit down, my boy.'

Mr. Andrew again interrogated Evan with his eyes.

'My father is dead,' said Evan.

'Yes!' Mr. Andrew nodded, and glanced quickly at the ceiling, as if to
make sure that none listened overhead. 'My parliamentary duties will soon
be over for the season,' he added, aloud; pursuing, in an under-breath:

'Going down to-night, Van?'

'He is to be buried to-morrow,' said Evan.

'Then, of course, you go. Yes: quite right. Love your father and mother!
always love your father and mother! Old Tom and I never knew ours. Tom's
quite well-same as ever. I'll,' he rang the bell, 'have my chop in here
with you. You must try and eat a bit, Van. Here we are, and there we go.
Old Tom's wandering for one of his weeks. You'll see him some day. He
ain't like me. No dinner to-day, I suppose, Charles?'

This was addressed to the footman. He announced:

'Dinner to-day at half-past six, as usual, sir,' bowed, and retired.

Mr. Andrew pored on the floor, and rubbed his hair back on his head. 'An
odd world!' was his remark.

Evan lifted up his face to sigh: 'I 'm almost sick of it!'

'Damn appearances!' cried Mr. Andrew, jumping on his legs.

The action cooled him.

'I 'm sorry I swore,' he said. 'Bad habit! The Major's here--you know
that?' and he assumed the Major's voice, and strutted in imitation of the
stalwart marine. 'Major--a--Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned from
China! covered with glory!--a hero, Van! We can't expect him to be much
of a mourner. And we shan't have him to dine with us to-day--that's
something.' He sank his voice: 'I hope the widow 'll bear it.'

'I hope to God my mother is well!' Evan groaned.

'That'll do,' said Mr. Andrew. 'Don't say any more.'

As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.

A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them. He
returned after some minutes.

'How do you think Harriet's looking?' asked Mr. Andrew. And, not waiting
for an answer, whispered,

'Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?'

Evan's brow was dark, as he replied: 'They are not decided.'

'Won't Harriet go?'

'She is not going--she thinks not.'

'And the Countess--Louisa's upstairs, eh?--will she go?'

'She cannot leave the Count--she thinks not.'

'Won't Caroline go? Caroline can go. She--he--I mean--Caroline can go?'

'The Major objects. She wishes to.'

Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, 'the Major!'--a compromise
for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in
an explosion against appearances.

'I'm a brewer, Van. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? Not while I brew good
beer, my boy!--not while I brew good beer! They don't think worse of me
in the House for it. It isn't ungentlemanly to brew good beer, Van. But
what's the use of talking?'

Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, 'Poor girl! poor girl!'

The allusion was to his wife; for presently he said: 'I can't see why
Harriet can't go. What's to prevent her?'

Evan gazed at him steadily. Death's levelling influence was in Evan's
mind. He was ready to say why, and fully.

Mr. Andrew arrested him with a sharp 'Never mind! Harriet does as she
likes. I'm accustomed to--hem! what she does is best, after all. She
doesn't interfere with my business, nor I with hers. Man and wife.'

Pausing a moment or so, Mr. Andrew intimated that they had better be
dressing for dinner. With his hand on the door, which he kept closed, he
said, in a businesslike way, 'You know, Van, as for me, I should be very
willing--only too happy--to go down and pay all the respect I could.' He
became confused, and shot his head from side to side, looking anywhere
but at Evan. 'Happy now and to-morrow, to do anything in my power, if
Harriet--follow the funeral--one of the family--anything I could do:
but--a--we 'd better be dressing for dinner.' And out the enigmatic
little man went.

Evan partly divined him then. But at dinner his behaviour was perplexing.
He was too cheerful. He pledged the Count. He would have the Portuguese
for this and that, and make Anglican efforts to repeat it, and laugh at
his failures. He would not see that there was a father dead. At a table
of actors, Mr. Andrew overdid his part, and was the worst. His wife could
not help thinking him a heartless little man.

The poor show had its term. The ladies fled to the boudoir sacred to
grief. Evan was whispered that he was to join them when he might, without
seeming mysterious to the Count. Before he reached them, they had talked
tearfully over the clothes he should wear at Lymport, agreeing that his
present foreign apparel, being black, would be suitable, and would serve
almost as disguise, to the inhabitants at large; and as Evan had no
English wear, and there was no time to procure any for him, that was
well. They arranged exactly how long he should stay at Lymport, whom he
should visit, the manner he should adopt toward the different
inhabitants. By all means he was to avoid the approach of the gentry. For
hours Evan, in a trance, half stupefied, had to listen to the Countess's
directions how he was to comport himself in Lymport.

'Show that you have descended among them, dear Van, but are not of them.
Our beautiful noble English poet expresses it so. You have come to pay
the last mortal duties, which they will respect, if they are not brutes,
and attempt no familiarities. Allow none: gently, but firmly. Imitate
Silva. You remember, at Dona Risbonda's ball? When he met the Comte de
Dartigues, and knew he was to be in disgrace with his Court on the
morrow? Oh! the exquisite shade of difference in Silva's behaviour
towards the Comte. So finely, delicately perceptible to the Comte, and
not a soul saw it but that wretched Frenchman! He came to me: "Madame,"
he said, "is a question permitted?" I replied, "As-many as you please, M.
le Comte, but no answers promised." He said: "May I ask if the Courier
has yet come in?"--"Nay, M. le Comte," I replied, "this is diplomacy.
Inquire of me, or better, give me an opinion on the new glace silk from
Paris."--"Madame," said he, bowing, "I hope Paris may send me aught so
good, or that I shall grace half so well." I smiled, "You shall not be
single in your hopes, M. le Comte. The gift would be base that you did
not embellish." He lifted his hands, French-fashion: "Madame, it is that
I have received the gift."--"Indeed! M. le Comte."--"Even now from the
Count de Saldar, your husband." I looked most innocently, "From my
husband, M. le Comte?"--"From him, Madame. A portrait. An Ambassador
without his coat! The portrait was a finished performance." I said: "And
may one beg the permission to inspect it?"--"Mais," said he, laughing:
"were it you alone, it would be a privilege to me." I had to check him.
"Believe me, M. le Comte, that when I look upon it, my praise of the
artist will be extinguished by my pity for the subject." He should have
stopped there; but you cannot have the last word with a Frenchman--not
even a woman. Fortunately the Queen just then made her entry into the
saloon, and his mot on the charity of our sex was lost. We bowed
mutually, and were separated.' (The Countess employed her handkerchief.)
'Yes, dear Van! that is how you should behave. Imply things. With dearest
Mama, of course, you are the dutiful son. Alas! you must stand for son
and daughters. Mama has so much sense! She will understand how sadly we
are placed. But in a week I will come to her for a day, and bring you
back.'

So much his sister Louisa. His sister Harriet offered him her house for a
home in London, thence to project his new career. His sister Caroline
sought a word with him in private, but only to weep bitterly in his arms,
and utter a faint moan of regret at marriages in general. He loved this
beautiful creature the best of his three sisters (partly, it may be,
because he despised her superior officer), and tried with a few smothered
words to induce her to accompany him: but she only shook her fair locks
and moaned afresh. Mr. Andrew, in the farewell squeeze of the hand at the
street-door, asked him if he wanted anything. He negatived the
requirement of anything whatever, with an air of careless decision,
though he was aware that his purse barely contained more than would take
him the distance, but the instincts of this amateur gentleman were very
fine and sensitive on questions of money. His family had never known him
beg for a shilling, or admit his necessity for a penny: nor could he be
made to accept money unless it was thrust into his pocket. Somehow his
sisters had forgotten this peculiarity of his. Harriet only remembered it
when too late.

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