Evan Harrington, v2
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George Meredith >> Evan Harrington, v2
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'The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt.'
'Just tell him that you're putting by the bones for him. He 'll want
'em.'
Then Andrew with another glance at the clouds, now violet on a grey sky,
said he must really be off. Upon which Tom observed: 'Don't come here
again.'
'You old rascal, Tom !' cried Andrew, swinging over the table: 'it's
quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more. 'Gad!--no, we
won't though! I promised--Harriet. Eh? What say, Tom?'
'Nother pint, Nan?'
Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way. Andrew, from a
shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the two
brothers--a jolly picture.
The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom's remark, that
he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging, left the
Aurora; and he left it singing a song. Tom Cogglesby still sat at his
table, holding before him Evan's letter, of which he had got possession;
and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the forefinger, to the
tune of, 'Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, 'pothecary, ploughboy, thief';
each profession being sounded as a corner presented itself to the point
of his nail. After indulging in this species of incantation for some
length of time, Tom Cogglesby read the letter from beginning to end, and
called peremptorily for pen, ink, and paper.
CHAPTER IX
THE COUNTESS IN LOW SOCIETY
By dint of stratagems worthy of a Court intrigue, the Countess de Saldar
contrived to traverse the streets of Lymport, and enter the house where
she was born, unsuspected and unseen, under cover of a profusion of lace
and veil and mantilla, which only her heroic resolve to keep her beauties
hidden from the profane townspeople could have rendered endurable beneath
the fervid summer sun. Dress in a foreign style she must, as without it
she lost that sense of superiority, which was the only comfort to her in
her tribulations. The period of her arrival was ten days subsequent to
the burial of her father. She had come in the coach, like any common
mortal, and the coachman, upon her request, had put her down at the
Governor's house, and the guard had knocked at the door, and the servant
had informed her that General Hucklebridge was not the governor of
Lymport, nor did Admiral Combleman then reside in the town; which
tidings, the coach then being out of sight, it did not disconcert the
Countess to hear; and she reached her mother, having, at least, cut off
communication with the object of conveyance.
The Countess kissed her mother, kissed Mrs. Fiske, and asked sharply for
Evan. Mrs. Fiske let her know that Evan was in the house.
'Where?' inquired the Countess. 'I have news of the utmost importance
for him. I must see him.'
'Where is he, aunt?' said Mrs. Fiske. 'In the shop, I think; I wonder
he did not see you passing, Louisa.'
The Countess went bolt down into a chair.
'Go to him, Jane,' said Mrs. Mel. 'Tell him Louisa is here, and don't
return.'
Mrs. Fiske departed, and the Countess smiled.
'Thank you, Mama! you know I never could bear that odious, vulgar little
woman. Oh, the heat! You talk of Portugal! And, oh! poor dear Papa!
what I have suffered!'
Flapping her laces for air, and wiping her eyes for sorrow, the Countess
poured a flood of sympathy into her mother's ears and then said:
'But you have made a great mistake, Mama, in allowing Evan to put his
foot into that place. He--beloved of an heiress! Why, if an enemy
should hear of it, it would ruin him--positively blast him--for ever.
And that she loves him I have proof positive. Yes; with all her
frankness, the little thing cannot conceal that from me now. She loves
him! And I desire you to guess, Mama, whether rivals will not abound?
And what enemy so much to be dreaded as a rival? And what revelation so
awful as that he has stood in a--in a--boutique?'
Mrs. Mel maintained her usual attitude for listening. It had occurred to
her that it might do no good to tell the grand lady, her daughter;
of Evan's resolution, so she simply said, 'It is discipline for him,' and
left her to speak a private word with the youth.
Timidly the Countess inspected the furniture of the apartment, taking
chills at the dingy articles she saw, in the midst of her heat. That she
should have sprung from this! The thought was painful; still she could
forgive Providence so much. But should it ever be known she had sprung
from this! Alas! she felt she never could pardon such a dire betrayal.
She had come in good spirits, but the mention of Evan's backsliding had
troubled her extremely, and though she did not say to herself, What was
the benefit resulting from her father's dying, if Evan would be so base-
minded? she thought the thing indefinitely, and was forming the words on
her mouth, One Harrington in a shop is equal to all! when Evan appeared
alone.
'Why, goodness gracious! where's your moustache?' cried the Countess.
'Gone the way of hair!' said Evan, coldly stooping to her forehead.
'Such a distinction!' the Countess continued, reproachfully. 'Why, mon
Dieu! one could hardly tell you; as you look now, from the very
commonest tradesman--if you were not rather handsome and something of a
figure. It's a disguise, Evan--do you know that?'
'And I 've parted with it--that 's all,' said Evan. 'No more disguises
for me!'
The Countess immediately took his arm, and walked with him to a window.
His face was certainly changed. Murmuring that the air of Lymport was
bad for him, and that he must leave it instantly, she bade him sit and
attend to what she was about to say.
While you have been here, degenerating, Evan, day by day--as you always
do out of my sight--degenerating! no less a word!--I have been slaving in
your interests. Yes; I have forced the Jocelyns socially to acknowledge
us. I have not slept; I have eaten bare morsels. Do abstinence and
vigils clear the wits? I know not! but indeed they have enabled me to
do more in a week than would suffice for a lifetime. Hark to me. I have
discovered Rose's secret. Si! It is so! Rose loves you. You blush;
you blush like a girl. She loves you, and you have let yourself be seen
in a shop! Contrast me the two things. Oh! in verity, dreadful as it
is, one could almost laugh. But the moment I lose sight of you, my
instructions vanish as quickly as that hair on your superior lip, which
took such time to perfect. Alas! you must grow it again immediately.
Use any perfumer's contrivance. Rowland! I have great faith in Rowland.
Without him, I believe, there would have been many bald women committing
suicide! You remember the bottle I gave to the Count de Villa Flor?
"Countess," he said to me, "you have saved this egg-shell from a crack by
helping to cover it"--for so he called his head--the top, you know, was
beginning to shine like an egg. And I do fear me he would have done it.
Ah! you do not conceive what the dread of baldness is! To a woman death
--death is preferable to baldness! Baldness is death! And a wig--
a wig! Oh, horror! total extinction is better than to rise again in a
wig! But you are young, and play with hair. But I was saying, I went to
see the Jocelyns. I was introduced to Sir Franks and his lady and the
wealthy grandmother. And I have an invitation for you, Evan--you
unmannered boy, that you do not bow! A gentle incline forward of the
shoulders, and the eyes fixed softly, your upper lids drooping
triflingly, as if you thanked with gentle sincerity, but were
indifferent. Well, well, if you will not! An invitation for you to
spend part of the autumn at Beckley Court, the ancestral domain, where
there will be company the nobles of the land! Consider that. You say it
was bold in me to face them after that horrible man committed us on board
the vessel? A Harrington is anything but a coward. I did go and because
I am devoted to your interests. That very morning, I saw announced in
the paper, just beneath poor Andrew's hand, as he held it up at the
breakfasttable, reading it, I saw among the deaths, Sir Abraham
Harrington, of Torquay, Baronet, of quinsy! Twice that good man has come
to my rescue! Oh! I welcomed him as a piece of Providence! I turned and
said to Harriet, "I see they have put poor Papa in the paper." Harriet
was staggered. I took the paper from Andrew, and pointed it to her. She
has no readiness. She has had no foreign training. She could not
comprehend, and Andrew stood on tiptoe, and peeped. He has a bad cough,
and coughed himself black in the face. I attribute it to excessive bad
manners and his cold feelings. He left the room. I reproached Harriet.
But, oh! the singularity of the excellent fortune of such an event at
such a time! It showed that our Harrington-luck had not forsaken us.
I hurried to the Jocelyns instantly. Of course, it cleared away any
suspicions aroused in them by that horrible man on board the vessel.
And the tears I wept for Sir Abraham, Evan, in verity they were tears of
deep and sincere gratitude! What is your mouth knitting the corners at?
Are you laughing?'
Evan hastily composed his visage to the melancholy that was no
counterfeit in him just then.
'Yes,' continued the Countess, easily reassured, 'I shall ever feel a
debt to Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay. I dare say we are related to
him. At least he has done us more service than many a rich and titled
relative. No one supposes he would acknowledge poor Papa. I can forgive
him that, Evan!' The Countess pointed out her finger with mournful and
impressive majesty, 'As we look down on that monkey, people of rank and
consideration in society look on what poor dear Papa was.'
This was partly true, for Jacko sat on a chair, in his favourite
attitude, copied accurately from the workmen of the establishment at
their labour with needle and thread. Growing cognizant of the infamy of
his posture, the Countess begged Evan to drive him out of her sight, and
took a sniff at her smelling-bottle.
She went on: 'Now, dear Van, you would hear of your sweet Rose?'
'Not a word!' Evan hastily answered.
'Why, what does this indicate? Whims! Then you do love?'
'I tell you, Louisa, I don't want to hear a word of any of them,' said
Evan, with an angry gleam in his eyes. 'They are nothing to me, nor I to
them. I--my walk in life is not theirs.'
'Faint heart! faint heart!' the Countess lifted a proverbial forefinger.
'Thank heaven, I shall have the consolation of not going about, and
bowing and smirking like an impostor!' Evan exclaimed.
There was a wider intelligence in the Countess's arrested gaze than she
chose to fashion into speech.
'I knew,' she said, 'I knew how the air of this horrible Lymport would
act on you. But while I live, Evan, you shall not sink in the sludge.
You, with all the pains I have lavished on you! and with your presence!--
for you have a presence, so rare among young men in this England! You,
who have been to a Court, and interchanged bows with duchesses, and I
know not what besides--nay, I do not accuse you; but if you had not been
a mere boy, and an English boy-poor Eugenia herself confessed to me that
you had a look--a tender cleaving of the underlids--that made her catch
her hand to her heart sometimes: it reminded her so acutely of false
Belmarafa. Could you have had a greater compliment than that? You shall
not stop here another day!'
'True,' said Evan, 'for I'm going to London to-night.'
'Not to London,' the Countess returned, with a conquering glance, 'but to
Beckley Court-and with me.'
'To London, Louisa, with Mr. Goren.'
Again the Countess eyed him largely; but took, as it were, a side-path
from her broad thought, saying: 'Yes, fortunes are made in London, if you
would they should be rapid.'
She meditated. At that moment Dandy knocked at the door, and called
outside: 'Please, master, Mr. Goren says there's a gentleman in the shop-
wants to see you.'
'Very well,' replied Evan, moving. He was swung violently round.
The Countess had clutched him by the arm. A fearful expression was on
her face.
'Whither do you go?' she said.
'To the shop, Louisa.'
Too late to arrest the villanous word, she pulled at him. 'Are you quite
insane? Consent to be seen by a gentleman there? What has come to you?
You must be lunatic! Are we all to be utterly ruined--disgraced?'
'Is my mother to starve?' said Evan.
'Absurd rejoinder! No! You should have sold everything here before
this. She can live with Harriet--she--once out of this horrible element
--she would not show it. But, Evan, you are getting away from me: you
are not going?--speak!'
'I am going,' said Evan.
The Countess clung to him, exclaiming: 'Never, while I have the power to
detain you!' but as he was firm and strong, she had recourse to her
woman's aids, and burst into a storm of sobs on his shoulder--a scene of
which Mrs. Mel was, for some seconds, a composed spectator.
'What 's the matter now?' said Mrs. Mel.
Evan impatiently explained the case. Mrs. Mel desired her daughter to
avoid being ridiculous, and making two fools in her family; and at the
same time that she told Evan there was no occasion for him to go,
contrived, with a look, to make the advice a command. He, in that state
of mind when one takes bitter delight in doing an abhorred duty, was
hardly willing to be submissive; but the despair of the Countess reduced
him, and for her sake he consented to forego the sacrifice of his pride
which was now his sad, sole pleasure. Feeling him linger, the Countess
relaxed her grasp. Hers were tears that dried as soon as they had served
their end; and, to give him the full benefit of his conduct, she said:
'I knew Evan would be persuaded by me.'
Evan pitifully pressed her hand, and sighed.
'Tea is on the table down-stairs,' said Mrs. Mel. 'I have cooked
something for you, Louisa. Do you sleep here to-night?'
'Can I tell you, Mama?' murmured the Countess. 'I am dependent on our
Evan.'
'Oh! well, we will eat first,' said Mrs. Mel, and they went to the table
below, the Countess begging her mother to drop titles in designating her
to the servants, which caused Mrs. Mel to say:
'There is but one. I do the cooking'; and the Countess, ever disposed to
flatter and be suave, even when stung by a fact or a phrase, added:
'And a beautiful cook you used to be, dear Mama!'
At the table, awaiting them, sat Mrs. Wishaw, Mrs. Fiske, and Mr. Goren,
who soon found themselves enveloped in the Countess's graciousness. Mr.
Goren would talk of trade, and compare Lymport business with London, and
the Countess, loftily interested in his remarks, drew him out to disgust
her brother. Mrs. Wishaw, in whom the Countess at once discovered a
frivolous pretentious woman of the moneyed trading class, she treated as
one who was alive to society, and surveyed matters from a station in the
world, leading her to think that she tolerated Mr. Goren, as a lady-
Christian of the highest rank should tolerate the insects that toil for
us. Mrs. Fiske was not so tractable, for Mrs. Fiske was hostile and
armed. Mrs. Fiske adored the great Mel, and she had never loved Louisa.
Hence, she scorned Louisa on account of her late behaviour toward her
dead parent. The Countess saw through her, and laboured to be friendly
with her, while she rendered her disagreeable in the eyes of Mrs. Wishaw,
and let Mrs. Wishaw perceive that sympathy was possible between them;
manoeuvring a trifle too delicate, perhaps, for the people present, but
sufficient to blind its keen-witted author to the something that was
being concealed from herself, of which something, nevertheless, her
senses apprehensively warned her: and they might have spoken to her wits,
but that mortals cannot, unaided, guess, or will not, unless struck in
the face by the fact, credit, what is to their minds the last horror.
'I came down in the coach, quite accidental, with this gentleman,' said
Mrs. Wishaw, fanning a cheek and nodding at Mr. Goren. 'I'm an old flame
of dear Mel's. I knew him when he was an apprentice in London. Now,
wasn't it odd? Your mother--I suppose I must call you "my lady"?'
The Countess breathed a tender 'Spare me,' with a smile that added,
'among friends!'
Mrs. Wishaw resumed: 'Your mother was an old flame of this gentleman's,
I found out. So there were two old flames, and I couldn't help thinking!
But I was so glad to have seen dear Mel once more:
'Ah!' sighed the Countess.
'He was always a martial-looking man, and laid out, he was quite
imposing. I declare, I cried so, as it reminded me of when I couldn't
have him, for he had nothing but his legs and arms--and I married Wishaw.
But it's a comfort to think I have been of some service to dear, dear
Mel! for Wishaw 's a man of accounts and payments; and I knew Mel had
cloth from him, and, the lady suggested bills delayed, with two or three
nods, 'you know! and I'll do my best for his son.'
'You are kind,' said the Countess, smiling internally at the vulgar
creature's misconception of Evan's requirements.
'Did he ever talk much about Mary Fence?' asked Mrs. Wishaw. '"Polly
Fence," he used to say, "sweet Polly Fence!"'
'Oh! I think so. Frequently,' observed the Countess.
Mrs. Fiske primmed her mouth. She had never heard the great Mel allude
to the name of Fence.
The Goren-croak was heard
'Painters have painted out "Melchisedec" this afternoon. Yes,--ah!
In and out-as the saying goes.'
Here was an opportunity to mortify the Countess.
Mrs. Fiske placidly remarked: 'Have we the other put up in its stead?
It 's shorter.'
A twinge of weakness had made Evan request that the name of Evan
Harrington should not decorate the shopfront till he had turned his back
on it, for a time. Mrs. Mel crushed her venomous niece.
'What have you to do with such things? Shine in your own affairs first,
Ann, before you meddle with others.'
Relieved at hearing that ' Melchisedec' was painted out, and unsuspicious
of the announcement that should replace it, the Countess asked Mrs.
Wishaw if she thought Evan like her dear Papa.
'So like,' returned the lady, 'that I would not be alone with him yet,
for worlds. I should expect him to be making love to me: for, you know,
my dear--I must be familiar--Mel never could be alone with you, without!
It was his nature. I speak of him before marriage. But, if I can trust
myself with him, I shall take charge of Mr. Evan, and show him some
London society.'
'That is indeed kind,' said the Countess, glad of a thick veil for the
utterance of her contempt. 'Evan, though--I fear--will be rather
engaged. His friends, the Jocelyns of Beckley Court, will--I fear--
hardly dispense with him and Lady Splenders--you know her? the
Marchioness of Splenders? No?--by repute, at least: a most beautiful and
most fascinating woman; report of him alone has induced her to say that
Evan must and shall form a part of her autumnal gathering at Splenders
Castle. And how he is to get out of it, I cannot tell. But I am sure
his multitudinous engagements will not prevent his paying due court to
Mistress Wishaw.'
As the Countess intended, Mistress Wishaw's vanity was reproved, and her
ambition excited: a pretty doublestroke, only possible to dexterous
players.
The lady rejoined that she hoped so, she was sure; and forthwith (because
she suddenly seemed to possess him more than his son), launched upon
Mel's incomparable personal attractions. This caused the Countess to
enlarge upon Evan's vast personal prospects. They talked across each
other a little, till the Countess remembered her breeding, allowed Mrs.
Wishaw to run to an end in hollow exclamations, and put a finish to the
undeclared controversy, by a traverse of speech, as if she were taking up
the most important subject of their late colloquy. 'But Evan is not in
his own hands--he is in the hands of a lovely young woman, I must tell
you. He belongs to her, and not to us. You have heard of Rose Jocelyn,
the celebrated heiress?'
'Engaged?' Mrs. Wishaw whispered aloud.
The Countess, an adept in the lie implied--practised by her, that she
might not subject herself to future punishment (in which she was so
devout a believer, that she condemned whole hosts to it)--deeply smiled.
'Really !' said Mrs. Wishaw, and was about to inquire why Evan, with
these brilliant expectations, could think of trade and tailoring, when
the young man, whose forehead had been growing black, jumped up, and
quitted them; thus breaking the harmony of the table; and as the Countess
had said enough, she turned the conversation to the always welcome theme
of low society. She broached death and corpses; and became extremely
interesting, and very sympathetic: the only difference between the
ghostly anecdotes she related, and those of the other ladies, being that
her ghosts were all of them titled, and walked mostly under the burden of
a coronet. For instance, there was the Portuguese Marquis de Col. He had
married a Spanish wife, whose end was mysterious. Undressing, on the
night of the anniversary of her death, and on the point of getting into
bed, he beheld the dead woman lying on her back before him. All night
long he had to sleep with this freezing phantom! Regularly, every fresh
anniversary, he had to endure the same penance, no matter where he might
be, or in what strange bed. On one occasion, when he took the live for
the dead, a curious thing occurred, which the Countess scrupled less to
relate than would men to hint at. Ghosts were the one childish enjoyment
Mrs. Mel allowed herself, and she listened to her daughter intently,
ready to cap any narrative; but Mrs. Fiske stopped the flood.
'You have improved on Peter Smithers, Louisa,' she said.
The Countess turned to her mildly.
'You are certainly thinking of Peter Smithers,' Mrs. Fiske continued,
bracing her shoulders. 'Surely, you remember poor Peter, Louisa? An old
flame of your own! He was going to kill himself, but married a
Devonshire woman, and they had disagreeables, and SHE died, and he was
undressing, and saw her there in the bed, and wouldn't get into it, and
had the mattress, and the curtains, and the counterpanes, and everything
burnt. He told us it himself. You must remember it, Louisa?'
The Countess remembered nothing of the sort. No doubt could exist of its
having been the Portuguese Marquis de Col, because he had confided to her
the whole affair, and indeed come to her, as his habit was, to ask her
what he could possibly do, under the circumstances. If Mrs. Fiske's
friend, who married the Devonshire person, had seen the same thing, the
coincidence was yet more extraordinary than the case. Mrs. Fiske said it
assuredly was, and glanced at her aunt, who, as the Countess now rose,
declaring she must speak to Evan, chid Mrs. Fiske, and wished her and
Peter Smithers at the bottom of the sea.
'No, no, Mama,' said the Countess, laughing, 'that would hardly be
proper,' and before Mrs. Fiske could reply, escaped to complain to Evan
of the vulgarity of those women.
She was not prepared for the burst of wrath with which Evan met her.
'Louisa ,' said he, taking her wrist sternly, 'you have done a thing I
can't forgive. I find it hard to bear disgrace myself: I will not
consent to bring it upon others. Why did you dare to couple Miss
Jocelyn's name with mine?'
The Countess gave him out her arm's length. 'Speak on, Van,' she said,
admiring him with a bright gaze.
'Answer me, Louisa; and don't take me for a fool any more,' he pursued.
'You have coupled Miss Jocelyn's name with mine, in company, and I insist
now upon your giving me your promise to abstain from doing it anywhere,
before anybody.'
'If she saw you at this instant, Van,' returned the incorrigible
Countess, 'would she desire it, think you? Oh! I must make you angry
before her, I see that! You have your father's frown. You surpass him,
for your delivery is more correct, and equally fluent. And if a woman is
momentarily melted by softness in a man, she is for ever subdued by
boldness and bravery of mien.'
Evan dropped her hand. 'Miss Jocelyn has done me the honour to call me
her friend. That was in other days.' His lip quivered. 'I shall not
see Miss Jocelyn again. Yes; I would lay down my life for her; but
that's idle talk. No such chance will ever come to me. But I can save
her from being spoken of in alliance with me, and what I am, and I tell
you, Louisa, I will not have it.' Saying which, and while he looked
harshly at her, wounded pride bled through his eyes.
She was touched. 'Sit down, dear; I must explain to you, and make you
happy against your will,' she said, in another voice, and an English
accent. 'The mischief is done, Van. If you do not want Rose Jocelyn to
love you, you must undo it in your own way. I am not easily deceived.
On the morning I went to her house in town, she took me aside, and spoke
to me. Not a confession in words. The blood in her cheeks, when I
mentioned you, did that for her. Everything about you she must know--how
you bore your grief, and all. And not in her usual free manner, but
timidly, as if she feared a surprise, or feared to be wakened to the
secret in her bosom she half suspects--"Tell him!" she said, "I hope he
will not forget me."'
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