A PAGAN SACRIFICE
Three steps from the Countess’s chamber door, the knot of Evan’s
resolution began to slacken. The clear light of his simple duty grew
cloudy and complex. His pride would not let him think that he was
shrinking, but cried out in him, “Will you be believed?” and whispered
that few would believe him guilty of such an act. Yet, while something
said that full surely Lady Jocelyn would not, a vague dread that Rose
might, threw him back on the luxury of her love and faith in him. He
found himself hoping that his statement would be laughed at. Then why
make it?
No: that was too blind a hope. Many would take him at his word; all—all
save Lady Jocelyn! Rose the first! Because he stood so high with her
now he feared the fall. Ah, dazzling pinnacle! our darlings shoot us up
on a wondrous juggler’s pole, and we talk familiarly to the stars, and
are so much above everybody, and try to walk like creatures with two
legs, forgetting that we have but a pin’s point to stand on up there.
Probably the absence of natural motion inspires the prophecy that we
must ultimately come down: our unused legs wax morbidly restless. Evan
thought it good that Rose should lift her head to look at him;
nevertheless, he knew that Rose would turn from him the moment he
descended from his superior station. Nature is wise in her young
children, though they wot not of it, and are always trying to rush away
from her. They escape their wits sooner than their instincts.
But was not Rose involved in him, and part of him? Had he not sworn
never to renounce her? What was this but a betrayal?
Go on, young man: fight your fight. The little imps pluck at you: the
big giant assails you: the seductions of the soft-mouthed siren are not
wanting. Slacken the knot an instant, and they will all have play. And
the worst is, that you may be wrong, and they may be right! For is it,
can it be proper for you to stain the silvery whiteness of your skin by
plunging headlong into yonder pitch-bath? Consider the defilement!
Contemplate your hideous aspect on issuing from that black baptism!
As to the honour of your family, Mr. Evan Harrington, pray, of what
sort of metal consists the honour of a tailor’s family?
One little impertinent imp ventured upon that question on his own
account. The clever beast was torn back and strangled instantaneously
by his experienced elders, but not before Evan’s pride had answered
him. Exalted by Love, he could dread to abase himself and strip off his
glittering garments; lowered by the world, he fell back upon his innate
worth.
Yes, he was called on to prove it; he was on his way to prove it.
Surrendering his dearest and his best, casting aside his dreams, his
desires, his aspirations, for this stern duty, he at least would know
that he made himself doubly worthy of her who abandoned him, and the
world would scorn him by reason of his absolute merit. Coming to this
point, the knot of his resolve tightened again; he hugged it with the
furious zeal of a martyr.
Religion, the lack of which in him the Countess deplored, would have
guided him and silenced the internal strife. But do not despise a
virtue purely Pagan. The young who can act readily up to the Christian
light are happier, doubtless: but they are led, they are passive: I
think they do not make such capital Christians subsequently. They are
never in such danger, we know; but some in the flock are more than
sheep. The heathen ideal it is not so very easy to attain, and those
who mount from it to the Christian have, in my humble thought, a firmer
footing.
So Evan fought his hard fight from the top of the stairs to the bottom.
A Pagan, which means our poor unsupported flesh, is never certain of
his victory. Now you will see him kneeling to his Gods, and anon
drubbing them; or he makes them fight for him, and is complacent at the
issue. Evan had ceased to pick his knot with one hand and pull it with
the other: but not finding Lady Jocelyn below, and hearing that she had
retired for the night, he mounted the stairs, and the strife
recommenced from the bottom to the top. Strange to say, he was almost
unaware of any struggle going on within him. The suggestion of the
foolish little imp alone was loud in the heart of his consciousness;
the rest hung more in his nerves than in his brain. He thought: “Well,
I will speak it out to her in the morning”; and thought so sincerely,
while an ominous sigh of relief at the reprieve rose from his
over-burdened bosom.
Hardly had the weary deep breath taken flight, when the figure of Lady
Jocelyn was seen advancing along the corridor, with a lamp in her hand.
She trod heavily, in a kind of march, as her habit was; her large
fully-open grey eyes looking straight ahead. She would have passed him,
and he would have let her pass, but seeing the unusual pallor on her
face, his love for this lady moved him to step forward and express a
hope that she had no present cause for sorrow.
Hearing her mother’s name, Lady Jocelyn was about to return a
conventional answer. Recognizing Evan, she said:
“Ah! Mr. Harrington! Yes, I fear it’s as bad as it can be. She can
scarcely outlive the night.”
Again he stood alone: his chance was gone. How could he speak to her in
her affliction? Her calm sedate visage had the beauty of its youth,
when lighted by the animation that attends meetings or farewells. In
her bow to Evan, he beheld a lovely kindness more unique, if less
precious, than anything he had ever seen on the face of Rose. Half
exultingly, he reflected that no opportunity would be allowed him now
to teach that noble head and truest of human hearts to turn from him:
the clear-eyed morrow would come: the days of the future would be
bright as other days!
Wrapped in the comfort of his cowardice, he started to see Lady Jocelyn
advancing to him again.
“Mr. Harrington,” she said, “Rose tells me you leave us early in the
morning. I may as well shake your hand now. We part very good friends.
I shall always be glad to hear of you.”
Evan pressed her hand, and bowed. “I thank you, madam,” was all he
could answer.
“It will be better if you don’t write to Rose.”
Her tone was rather that of a request than an injunction.
“I have no right to do so, my lady.”
“She considers that you have: I wish her to have, a fair trial.”
His voice quavered. The philosophic lady thought it time to leave him.
“So good-bye. I can trust you without extracting a promise. If you ever
have need of a friend, you know you are at liberty to write to me.”
“You are tired, my lady?” He put this question more to dally with what
he ought to be saying.
“Tolerably. Your sister, the Countess, relieves me in the night. I
fancy my mother finds her the better nurse of the two.”
Lady Jocelyn’s face lighted in its gracious pleasant way, as she just
inclined her head: but the mention of the Countess and her attendance
on Mrs. Bonner had nerved Evan: the contrast of her hypocrisy and vile
scheming with this most open, noble nature, acted like a new force
within him. He begged Lady Jocelyn’s permission to speak with her in
private. Marking his fervid appearance, she looked at him seriously.
“Is it really important?”
“I cannot rest, madam, till it is spoken.”
“I mean, it doesn’t pertain to the delirium? We may sleep upon that.”
He divined her sufficiently to answer: “It concerns a piece of
injustice done by you, madam, and which I can help you to set right.”
Lady Jocelyn stared somewhat. “Follow me into my dressing-room,” she
said, and led the way.
Escape was no longer possible. He was on the march to execution, and
into the darkness of his brain danced John Raikes, with his grotesque
tribulations. It was the harsh savour of reality that conjured up this
flighty being, who probably never felt a sorrow or a duty. The farce
Jack lived was all that Evan’s tragic bitterness could revolve, and
seemed to be the only light in his mind. You might have seen a smile on
his mouth when he was ready to ask for a bolt from heaven to crush him.
“Now,” said her ladyship, and he found that the four walls enclosed
them, “what have I been doing?”
She did not bid him be seated. Her brevity influenced him to speak to
the point.
“You have dismissed Mr. Laxley, my lady: he is innocent.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because,”—a whirl of sensations beset the wretched youth, “because I
am guilty.”
His words had run ahead of his wits; and in answer to Lady Jocelyn’s
singular exclamation he could but simply repeat them.
Her head drew back; her face was slightly raised; she looked, as he had
seen her sometimes look at the Countess, with a sort of speculative
amazement.
“And why do you come to tell me?”
“For the reason that I cannot allow you to be unjust, madam.”
“What on earth was your motive?”
Evan stood silent, flinching from her frank eyes.
“Well, well, well!” Her ladyship dropped into a chair, and thumped her
knees.
There was lawyer’s blood in Lady Jocelyn’s veins: she had the judicial
mind. A confession was to her a confession. She tracked actions up to a
motive; but one who came voluntarily to confess needed no sifting. She
had the habit of treating things spoken as facts.
“You absolutely wrote that letter to Mrs. Evremonde’s husband!”
Evan bowed, to avoid hearing his own lie.
“You discovered his address and wrote to him, and imitated Mr. Laxley’s
handwriting, to effect the purpose you may have had?”
Her credulity did require his confirmation of it, and he repeated: “It
is my deed.”
“Hum! And you sent that premonitory slip of paper to her?”
“To Mrs. Evremonde?”
“Somebody else was the author of that, perhaps?”
“It is all on me.”
“In that case, Mr. Harrington, I can only say that it’s quite right you
should quit this house to-morrow morning.”
Her ladyship commenced rocking in her chair, and then added: “May I
ask, have you madness in your family? No? Because when one can’t
discern a motive, it’s natural to ascribe certain acts to madness. Had
Mrs. Evremonde offended you? or Ferdinand—but one only hears of such
practices towards fortunate rivals, and now you have come to undo what
you did! I must admit, that taking the monstrousness of the act and the
inconsequence of your proceedings together, the whole affair becomes
more incomprehensible to me than it was before. Would it be unpleasant
to you to favour me with explanations?”
She saw the pain her question gave him, and, passing it, said:
“Of course you need not be told that Rose must hear of this?”
“Yes,” said Evan, “she must hear it.”
“You know what that’s equivalent to? But, if you like, I will not speak
to her till you have left us.”
“Instantly,” cried Evan. “Now—to-night! I would not have her live a
minute in a false estimate of me.”
Had Lady Jocelyn’s intellect been as penetrating as it was masculine,
she would have taken him and turned him inside out in a very short
time; for one who would bear to see his love look coldly on him rather
than endure a minute’s false estimate of his character, and who could
yet stoop to concoct a vile plot, must either be mad or simulating the
baseness for some reason or other. She perceived no motive for the
latter, and she held him to be sound in the head, and what was spoken
from the mouth she accepted. Perhaps, also, she saw in the complication
thus offered an escape for Rose, and was the less inclined to elucidate
it herself. But if her intellect was baffled, her heart was unerring. A
man proved guilty of writing an anonymous letter would not have been
allowed to stand long in her room. She would have shown him to the door
of the house speedily; and Evan was aware in his soul that he had not
fallen materially in her esteem. He had puzzled and confused her, and
partly because she had the feeling that this young man was entirely
trustworthy, and because she never relied on her feelings, she let his
own words condemn him, and did not personally discard him. In fact, she
was a veritable philosopher. She permitted her fellows to move the
world on as they would, and had no other passions in the contemplation
of the show than a cultured audience will usually exhibit.
“Strange,—most strange! I thought I was getting old!” she said, and
eyed the culprit as judges generally are not wont to do. “It will be a
shock to Rose. I must tell you that I can’t regret it. I would not have
employed force with her, but I should have given her as strong a taste
of the world as it was in my power to give. Girls get their reason from
society. But, come! if you think you can make your case out better to
her, you shall speak to her first yourself.”
“No, my lady,” said Evan, softly.
“You would rather not?”
“I could not.”
“But, I suppose, she’ll want to speak to you when she knows it.”
“I can take death from her hands, but I cannot slay myself.”
The language was natural to his condition, though the note was pitched
high. Lady Jocelyn hummed till the sound of it was over, and an idea
striking her, she said:
“Ah, by the way, have you any tremendous moral notions?”
“I don’t think I have, madam.”
“People act on that mania sometimes, I believe. Do you think it an
outrage on decency for a wife to run away from a mad husband whom they
won’t shut up, and take shelter with a friend? Is that the cause? Mr.
Forth is an old friend of mine. I would trust my daughter with him in a
desert, and stake my hand on his honour.”
“Oh, Lady Jocelyn!” cried Evan. “Would to God you might ever have said
that of me! Madam, I love you. I shall never see you again. I shall
never meet one to treat me so generously. I leave you, blackened in
character—you cannot think of me without contempt. I can never hope
that this will change. But, for your kindness let me thank you.”
And as speech is poor where emotion is extreme—and he knew his own to
be especially so—he took her hand with petitioning eyes, and dropping
on one knee, reverentially kissed it.
Lady Jocelyn was human enough to like to be appreciated. She was a
veteran Pagan, and may have had the instinct that a peculiar virtue in
this young one was the spring of his conduct. She stood up and said:
“Don’t forget that you have a friend here.”
The poor youth had to turn his head from her.
“You wish that I should tell Rose what you have told me at once, Mr.
Harrington?”
“Yes, my lady; I beg that you will do so.”
“Well!”
And the queer look Lady Jocelyn had been wearing dimpled into absolute
wonder. A stranger to Love’s cunning, she marvelled why he should
desire to witness the scorn Rose would feel for him.
“If she’s not asleep, then, she shall hear it now,” said her ladyship.
“You understand that it will be mentioned to no other person.”
“Except to Mr. Laxley, madam, to whom I shall offer the satisfaction he
may require. But I will undertake that.”
“Just as you think proper on that matter,” remarked her philosophical
ladyship, who held that man was a fighting animal, and must not have
his nature repressed.
She lighted him part of the way, and then turned off to Rose’s chamber.
Would Rose believe it of him? Love combated his dismal foreboding.
Strangely, too, now that he had plunged into his pitch-bath, the guilt
seemed to cling to him, and instead of hoping serenely, or fearing
steadily, his spirit fell in a kind of abject supplication to Rose, and
blindly trusted that she would still love even if she believed him
base. In his weakness he fell so low as to pray that she might love
that crawling reptile who could creep into a house and shrink from no
vileness to win her.