THE RETREAT FROM BECKLEY
Never would the Countess believe that brother of hers, idiot as by
nature he might be, and heir to unnumbered epithets, would so far
forget what she had done for him, as to drag her through the mud for
nothing: and so she told Caroline again and again, vehemently.
It was about ten minutes before the time for descending to the
breakfast-table. She was dressed, and sat before the glass, smoothing
her hair, and applying the contents of a pot of cold cream to her
forehead between-whiles. With perfect sincerity she repeated that she
could not believe it. She had only trusted Evan once since their visit
to Beckley; and that this once he should, when treated as a man, turn
traitor to their common interests, and prove himself an utter baby, was
a piece of nonsense her great intelligence indignantly rejected.
“Then, if true,” she answered Caroline’s assurances finally, “if true,
he is not his father’s son!”
By which it may be seen that she had indeed taken refuge in the Castle
of Negation against the whole army of facts.
“He is acting, Carry. He is acting the ideas of his ridiculous empty
noddle!”
“No,” said Caroline, mournfully, “he is not. I have never known Evan to
lie.”
“Then you must forget the whipping he once had from his mother—little
dolt! little selfish pig! He obtains his reputation entirely from his
abominable selfishness, and then stands tall, and asks us to admire
him. He bursts with vanity. But if you lend your credence to it, Carry,
how, in the name of goodness, are you to appear at the breakfast?
“I was going to ask you whether you would come,” said Caroline, coldly.
“If I can get my hair to lie flat by any means at all, of course!”
returned the Countess. “This dreadful horrid country pomade! Why did we
not bring a larger stock of the Andalugian Regenerator? Upon my honour,
my dear, you use a most enormous quantity; I must really tell you
that.”
Conning here entered to say that Mr. Evan had given orders for the
boxes to be packed and everything got ready to depart by half-past
eleven o’clock, when the fly would call for them and convey them to
Fallowfield in time to meet the coach for London.
The Countess turned her head round to Caroline like an astonished
automaton.
“Given orders!” she interjected.
“I have very little to get ready,” remarked Caroline.
“Be so good as to wait outside the door one instant,” said the Countess
to Conning, with particular urbanity.
Conning heard a great deal of vigorous whispering within, and when
summoned to re-appear, a note was handed to her to convey to Mr.
Harrington immediately. He was on the lawn; read it, and wrote back
three hasty lines in pencil.
“Louisa. You have my commands to quit this house, at the hour named,
this day. You will go with me. E. H.”
Conning was again requested to wait outside the Countess’s door. She
was the bearer of another note. Evan read it likewise; tore it up, and
said that there was no answer.
The Castle of Negation held out no longer. Ruthless battalions poured
over the walls, blew up the Countess’s propriety, made frightful
ravages in her complexion. Down fell her hair.
“You cannot possibly go to breakfast,” said Caroline.
“I must! I must!” cried the Countess. “Why, my dear, if he has done
it—wretched creature! don’t you perceive that, by withholding our
presences, we become implicated with him?” And the Countess, from a
burst of frenzy, put this practical question so shrewdly, that
Caroline’s wits succumbed to her.
“But he has not done it; he is acting!” she pursued, restraining her
precious tears for higher purposes, as only true heroines can. “Thinks
to frighten me into submission!”
“Do you not think Evan is right in wishing us to leave, after—after—”
Caroline humbly suggested.
“Say, before my venerable friend has departed this life,” the Countess
took her up. “No, I do not. If he is a fool, I am not. No, Carry: I do
not jump into ditches for nothing. I will have something tangible for
all that I have endured. We are now tailors in this place, remember. If
that stigma is affixed to us, let us at least be remunerated for it.
Come.”
Caroline’s own hard struggle demanded all her strength yet she appeared
to hesitate. “You will surely not disobey Evan, Louisa?”
“Disobey?” The Countess amazedly dislocated the syllables. “Why, the
boy will be telling you next that he will not permit the Duke to visit
you! Just your English order of mind, that cannot—brutes!—conceive of
friendship between high-born men and beautiful women. Beautiful as you
truly are, Carry, five years more will tell on you. But perhaps my
dearest is in a hurry to return to her Maxwell? At least he thwacks
well!”
Caroline’s arm was taken. The Countess loved an occasional rhyme when a
point was to be made, and went off nodding and tripping till the time
for stateliness arrived, near the breakfast-room door. She indeed was
acting. At the bottom of her heart there was a dismal rage of passions:
hatred of those who would or might look tailor in her face: terrors
concerning the possible re-visitation of the vengeful Sir Abraham:
dread of Evan and the efforts to despise him: the shocks of many
conflicting elements. Above it all her countenance was calmly, sadly
sweet: even as you may behold some majestic lighthouse glimmering over
the tumult of a midnight sea.
An unusual assemblage honoured the breakfast that morning. The news of
Mrs. Bonner’s health was more favourable. How delighted was the
Countess to hear that! Mrs. Bonner was the only firm ground she stood
on there, and after receiving and giving gentle salutes, she talked of
Mrs. Bonner, and her night-watch by the sick bed, in a spirit of
doleful hope. This passed off the moments till she could settle herself
to study faces. Decidedly, every lady present looked glum, with the
single exception of Miss Current. Evan was by Lady Jocelyn’s side. Her
ladyship spoke to him; but the Countess observed that no one else did.
To herself, however, the gentlemen were as attentive as ever. Evan sat
three chairs distant from her.
If the traitor expected his sister to share in his disgrace, by
noticing him, he was in error. On the contrary, the Countess joined the
conspiracy to exclude him, and would stop a mild laugh if perchance he
looked up. Presently Rose entered. She said “Good morning” to one or
two, and glided into a seat.
That Evan was under Lady Jocelyn’s protection soon became generally
apparent, and also that her ladyship was angry: an exhibition so rare
with her that it was the more remarked. Rose could see that she was a
culprit in her mother’s eyes. She glanced from Evan to her. Lady
Jocelyn’s mouth shut hard. The girl’s senses then perceived the
something that was afloat at the table; she thought with a pang of
horror: “Has Juliana told?” Juliana smiled on her; but the aspect of
Mrs. Shorne, and of Miss Carrington, spoke for their knowledge of that
which must henceforth be the perpetual reproof to her headstrong youth.
“At what hour do you leave us?” said Lady Jocelyn to Evan.
“When I leave the table, my lady. The fly will call for my sisters at
half-past eleven.”
“There is no necessity for you to start in advance?”
“I am going over to see my mother.”
Rose burned to speak to him now. Oh! why had she delayed! Why had she
swerved from her good rule of open, instant explanations? But Evan’s
heart was stern to his love. Not only had she, by not coming, shown her
doubt of him,—she had betrayed him!
Between the Countess, Melville, Sir John, and the Duke, an animated
dialogue was going on, over which Miss Current played like a lively
iris. They could not part with the Countess. Melville said he should be
left stranded, and numerous pretty things were uttered by other
gentlemen: by the women not a word. Glancing from certain of them
lingeringly to her admirers, the Countess smiled her thanks, and then
Andrew, pressed to remain, said he was willing and happy, and so forth;
and it seemed that her admirers had prevailed over her reluctance, for
the Countess ended her little protests with a vanquished bow. Then
there was a gradual rising from table. Evan pressed Lady Jocelyn’s
hand, and turning from her bent his head to Sir Franks, who, without
offering an exchange of cordialities, said, at arm’s length: “Good-bye,
sir.” Melville also gave him that greeting stiffly. Harry was perceived
to rush to the other end of the room, in quest of a fly apparently.
Poor Caroline’s heart ached for her brother, to see him standing there
in the shadow of many faces. But he was not left to stand alone. Andrew
quitted the circle of Sir John, Seymour Jocelyn, Mr. George Uplift, and
others, and linked his arm to Evan’s. Rose had gone. While Evan looked
for her despairingly to say his last word and hear her voice once more,
Sir Franks said to his wife:
“See that Rose keeps up-stairs.”
“I want to speak to her,” was her ladyship’s answer, and she moved to
the door.
Evan made way for her, bowing.
“You will be ready at half-past eleven, Louisa,” he said, with calm
distinctness, and passed from that purgatory.
Now honest Andrew attributed the treatment Evan met with to the
exposure of yesterday. He was frantic with democratic disgust.
“Why the devil don’t they serve me like that; eh? ’Cause I got a few
coppers! There, Van! I’m a man of peace; but if you’ll call any man of
’em out I’ll stand your second—’pon my soul, I will. They must be
cowards, so there isn’t much to fear. Confound the fellows, I tell ’em
every day I’m the son of a cobbler, and egad, they grow civiller. What
do they mean? Are cobblers ranked over tailors?”
“Perhaps that’s it,” said Evan.
“Hang your gentlemen!” Andrew cried.
“Let us have breakfast first,” uttered a melancholy voice near them in
the passage.
“Jack!” said Evan. “Where have you been?”
“I didn’t know the breakfast-room,” Jack returned, “and the fact is, my
spirits are so down, I couldn’t muster up courage to ask one of the
footmen. I delivered your letter. Nothing hostile took place. I bowed
fiercely to let him know what he might expect. That generally stops it.
You see, I talk prose. I shall never talk anything else!”
Andrew recommenced his jests of yesterday with Jack. The latter bore
them patiently, as one who had endured worse.
“She has rejected me!” he whispered to Evan. “Talk of the ingratitude
of women! Ten minutes ago I met her. She perked her eyebrows at
me!—tried to run away. ‘Miss Wheedle’: I said. ‘If you please, I’d
rather not,’ says she. To cut it short, the sacrifice I made to her was
the cause. It’s all over the house. She gave the most excruciating
hint. Those low-born females are so horribly indelicate. I stood
confounded.”
Commending his new humour, Evan persuaded him to breakfast immediately,
and hunger being one of Jack’s solitary incitements to a sensible
course of conduct, the disconsolate gentleman followed its dictates.
“Go with him, Andrew,” said Evan. “He is here as my friend, and may be
made uncomfortable.”
“Yes, yes,—ha! ha! I’ll follow the poor chap,” said Andrew. “But what
is it all about? Louisa won’t go, you know. Has the girl given you up
because she saw your mother, Van? I thought it was all right. Why the
deuce are you running away?”
“Because I’ve just seen that I ought never to have come, I suppose,”
Evan replied, controlling the wretched heaving of his chest.
“But Louisa won’t go, Van.”
“Understand, my dear Andrew, that I know it to be quite imperative. Be
ready yourself with Caroline. Louisa will then make her choice. Pray
help me in this. We must not stay a minute more than is necessary in
this house.”
“It’s an awful duty,” breathed Andrew, after a pause. “I see nothing
but hot water at home. Why—but it’s no use asking questions. My love to
your mother. I say, Van,—now isn’t Lady Jocelyn a trump?”
“God bless her!” said Evan. And the moisture in Andrew’s eyes affected
his own.
“She’s the staunchest piece of woman-goods I ever—I know a hundred
cases of her!”
“I know one, and that’s enough,” said Evan.
Not a sign of Rose! Can Love die without its dear farewell on which it
feeds, away from the light, dying by bits? In Evan’s heart Love seemed
to die, and all the pangs of a death were there as he trod along the
gravel and stepped beneath the gates of Beckley Court.
Meantime the gallant Countess was not in any way disposed to retreat on
account of Evan’s defection. The behaviour toward him at the
breakfast-table proved to her that he had absolutely committed his
egregious folly, and as no General can have concert with a fool, she
cut him off from her affections resolutely. Her manifest disdain at his
last speech, said as much to everybody present. Besides, the lady was
in her element here, and compulsion is required to make us relinquish
our element. Lady Jocelyn certainly had not expressly begged of her to
remain: the Countess told Melville so, who said that if she required
such an invitation she should have it, but that a guest to whom they
were so much indebted, was bound to spare them these formalities.
“What am I to do?”
The Countess turned piteously to the diplomatist’s wife.
She answered, retiringly: “Indeed I cannot say.”
Upon this, the Countess accepted Melville’s arm, and had some thoughts
of punishing the woman.
They were seen parading the lawn. Mr. George Uplift chuckled
singularly.
“Just the old style,” he remarked, but corrected the inadvertence with
a “hem!” committing himself more shamefully the instant after. “I’ll
wager she has the old Dip. down on his knee before she cuts.”
“Bet can’t be taken,” observed Sir John Loring. “It requires a spy.”
Harry, however, had heard the remark, and because he wished to speak to
her, let us hope, and reproach her for certain things when she chose to
be disengaged, he likewise sallied out, being forlorn as a youth whose
sweet vanity is much hurt.
The Duke had paired off with Mrs. Strike. The lawn was fair in sunlight
where they walked. The air was rich with harvest smells, and the scent
of autumnal roses. Caroline was by nature luxurious and soft. The
thought of that drilled figure to which she was returning in bondage,
may have thrown into bright relief the polished and gracious nobleman
who walked by her side, shadowing forth the chances of a splendid
freedom. Two lovely tears fell from her eyes. The Duke watched them
quietly.
“Do you know, they make me jealous?” he said.
Caroline answered him with a faint smile.
“Reassure me, my dear lady; you are not going with your brother this
morning?”
“Your Grace, I have no choice!”
“May I speak to you as your warmest friend? From what I hear, it
appears to be right that your brother should not stay. To the best of
my ability I will provide for him: but I sincerely desire to disconnect
you from those who are unworthy of you. Have you not promised to trust
in me? Pray, let me be your guide.”
Caroline replied to the heart of his words: “I dare not.”
“What has changed you?”
“I am not changed, but awakened,” said Caroline.
The Duke paced on in silence.
“Pardon me if I comprehend nothing of such a change,” he resumed. “I
asked you to sacrifice much; all that I could give in return I offered.
Is it the world you fear?”
“What is the world to such as I am?”
“Can you consider it a duty to deliver yourself bound to that man
again?”
“Heaven pardon me, my lord, I think of that too little!”
The Duke’s next question: “Then what can it be?” stood in his eyes.
“Oh!” Caroline’s touch quivered on his arm, “Do not suppose me
frivolous, ungrateful, or—or cowardly. For myself you have offered more
happiness than I could have hoped for. To be allied to one so generous,
I could bear anything. Yesterday you had my word: give it me back
to-day!”
Very curiously the Duke gazed on her, for there was evidence of
internal torture across her forehead.
“I may at least beg to know the cause for this request?”
She quelled some throbbing in her bosom. “Yes.”
He waited, and she said: “There is one—if I offended him, I could not
live. If now I followed my wishes, he would lose his faith in the last
creature that loves him. He is unhappy. I could bear what is called
disgrace, my lord—I shudder to say it—I could sin against heaven; but I
dare not do what would make him despise me.”
She was trembling violently; yet the nobleman, in his surprise, could
not forbear from asking who this person might be, whose influence on
her righteous actions was so strong.
“It is my brother, my lord,” she said.
Still more astonished, “Your brother!” the Duke exclaimed. “My dearest
lady, I would not wound you; but is not this a delusion? We are so
placed that we must speak plainly. Your brother I have reason to feel
sure is quite unworthy of you.”
“Unworthy? My brother Evan? Oh! he is noble, he is the best of men!”
“And how, between yesterday and to-day, has he changed you?”
“It is that yesterday I did not know him, and to-day I do.”
Her brother, a common tradesman, a man guilty of forgery and the utmost
baseness—all but kicked out of the house! The Duke was too delicate to
press her further. Moreover, Caroline had emphasized the “yesterday”
and “to-day,” showing that the interval which had darkened Evan to
everybody else, had illumined him to her. He employed some courtly
eloquence, better unrecorded; but if her firm resolution perplexed him,
it threw a strange halo round the youth from whom it sprang.
The hour was now eleven, and the Countess thought it full time to
retire to her entrenchment in Mrs. Bonner’s chamber. She had great
things still to do: vast designs were in her hand awaiting the sanction
of Providence. Alas! that little idle promenade was soon to be
repented. She had joined her sister, thinking it safer to have her
upstairs till they were quit of Evan. The Duke and the diplomatist
loitering in the rear, these two fair women sailed across the lawn,
conscious, doubtless, over all their sorrows and schemes, of the
freight of beauty they carried.
What meant that gathering on the steps? It was fortuitous, like
everything destined to confound us. There stood Lady Jocelyn with
Andrew, fretting his pate. Harry leant against a pillar, Miss
Carrington, Mrs. Shorne, and Mrs. Melville, supported by Mr. George
Uplift, held watchfully by. Juliana, with Master Alec and Miss Dorothy,
were in the background.
Why did our General see herself cut off from her stronghold, as by a
hostile band? She saw it by that sombre light in Juliana’s eyes, which
had shown its ominous gleam whenever disasters were on the point of
unfolding.
Turning to Caroline, she said: “Is there a back way?”
Too late! Andrew called.
“Come along, Louisa, Just time, and no more. Carry, are you packed?”
This in reality was the first note of the retreat from Beckley; and
having blown it, the hideous little trumpeter burst into scarlet
perspirations, mumbling to Lady Jocelyn: “Now, my lady, mind you stand
by me.”
The Countess walked straight up to him.
“Dear Andrew! this sun is too powerful for you. I beg you, withdraw
into the shade of the house.”
She was about to help him with all her gentleness.
“Yes, yes. All right, Louisa,” rejoined Andrew. “Come, go and pack. The
fly’ll be here, you know—too late for the coach, if you don’t mind, my
lass. Ain’t you packed yet?”
The horrible fascination of vulgarity impelled the wretched lady to
answer: “Are we herrings?” And then she laughed, but without any
accompaniment.
“I am now going to dear Mrs. Bonner,” she said, with a tender glance at
Lady Jocelyn.
“My mother is sleeping,” her ladyship remarked.
“Come, Carry, my darling!” cried Andrew.
Caroline looked at her sister. The Countess divined Andrew’s shameful
trap.
“I was under an engagement to go and canvass this afternoon,” she said.
“Why, my dear Louisa, we’ve settled that in here this morning,” said
Andrew. “Old Tom only stuck up a puppet to play with. We’ve knocked him
over, and march in victorious—eh, my lady?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Countess, “if Mr. Raikes shall indeed have listened
to my inducements!”
“Deuce a bit of inducements!” returned Andrew. “The fellow’s ashamed of
himself—ha! ha! Now then, Louisa.”
While they talked, Juliana had loosed Dorothy and Alec, and these imps
were seen rehearsing a remarkable play, in which the damsel held forth
a hand and the cavalier advanced and kissed it with a loud smack, being
at the same time reproached for his lack of grace.
“You are so English!” cried Dorothy, with perfect languor, and a
malicious twitter passed between two or three. Mr. George spluttered
indiscreetly.
The Countess observed the performance. Not to convert the retreat into
a total rout, she, with that dark flush which was her manner of
blushing, took formal leave of Lady Jocelyn, who, in return, simply
said: “Good-bye, Countess.” Mrs. Strike’s hand she kindly shook.
The few digs and slaps and thrusts at gloomy Harry and prim Miss
Carrington and boorish Mr. George, wherewith the Countess, torn with
wrath, thought it necessary to cover her retreat, need not be told. She
struck the weak alone: Juliana she respected. Masterly tactics, for
they showed her power, gratified her vengeance, and left her
unassailed. On the road she had Andrew to tear to pieces. O delicious
operation! And O shameful brother to reduce her to such joys! And, O
Providence! may a poor desperate soul, betrayed through her devotion,
unremunerated for her humiliation and absolute hard work, accuse thee?
The Countess would have liked to. She felt it to be the instigation of
the devil, and decided to remain on the safe side still.
Happily for Evan, she was not ready with her packing by half-past
eleven. It was near twelve when he, pacing in front of the inn,
observed Polly Wheedle, followed some yards in the rear by John Raikes,
advancing towards him. Now Polly had been somewhat delayed by Jack’s
persecutions, and Evan declining to attend to the masked speech of her
mission, which directed him to go at once down a certain lane in the
neighbourhood of the park, some minutes were lost.
“Why, Mr. Harrington,” said Polly, “it’s Miss Rose: she’s had leave
from her Ma. Can you stop away, when it’s quite proper?”
Evan hesitated. Before he could conquer the dark spirit, lo, Rose
appeared, walking up the village street. Polly and her adorer fell
back.
Timidly, unlike herself, Rose neared him.
“I have offended you, Evan. You would not come to me: I have come to
you.”
“I am glad to be able to say good-bye to you, Rose,” was his pretty
response.
Could she have touched his hand then, the blood of these lovers rushing
to one channel must have made all clear. At least he could hardly have
struck her true heart with his miserable lie. But that chance was lost:
they were in the street, where passions have no play.
“Tell me, Evan,—it is not true.”
He, refining on his misery, thought, She would not ask it if she
trusted me: and answered her: “You have heard it from your mother,
Rose.”
“But I will not believe it from any lips but yours, Evan. Oh, speak,
speak!”
It pleased him to think: How could one who loved me believe it even
then?
He said: “It can scarcely do good to make me repeat it, Rose.”
And then, seeing her dear bosom heave quickly, he was tempted to fall
on his knees to her with a wild outcry of love. The chance was lost.
The inexorable street forbade it.
There they stood in silence, gasping at the barrier that divided them.
Suddenly a noise was heard. “Stop! stop!” cried the voice of John
Raikes. “When a lady and gentleman are talking together, sir, do you
lean your long ears over them—ha?”
Looking round, Evan beheld Laxley a step behind, and Jack rushing up to
him, seizing his collar, and instantly undergoing ignominious
prostration for his heroic defence of the privacy of lovers.
“Stand aside”; said Laxley, imperiously. “Rosey so you’ve come for me.
Take my arm. You are under my protection.”
Another forlorn “Is it true?” Rose cast toward Evan with her eyes. He
wavered under them.
“Did you receive my letter?” he demanded of Laxley.
“I decline to hold converse with you,” said Laxley, drawing Rose’s hand
on his arm.
“You will meet me to-day or to-morrow?”
“I am in the habit of selecting my own company.”
Rose disengaged her hand. Evan grasped it. No word of farewell was
uttered. Her mouth moved, but her eyes were hard shut, and nothing save
her hand’s strenuous pressure, equalling his own, told that their
parting had been spoken, the link violently snapped.
Mr. John Raikes had been picked up and pulled away by Polly. She now
rushed to Evan: “Good-bye, and God bless you, dear Mr. Harrington. I’ll
find means of letting you know how she is. And he shan’t have her,
mind!”
Rose was walking by Laxley’s side, but not leaning on his arm. Evan
blessed her for this. Ere she was out of sight the fly rolled down the
street. She did not heed it, did not once turn her head. Ah, bitter
unkindness!
When Love is hurt, it is self-love that requires the opiate. Conning
gave it him in the form of a note in a handwriting not known to him. It
said:
“I do not believe it, and nothing will ever make me.
“JULIANA.”
Evan could not forget these words. They coloured his farewell to
Beckley: the dear old downs, the hopgardens, the long grey farms walled
with clipped yew, the home of his lost love! He thought of them through
weary nights when the ghostly image with the hard shut eyelids and the
quivering lips would rise and sway irresolutely in air till a shape out
of the darkness extinguished it. Pride is the God of Pagans. Juliana
had honoured his God. The spirit of Juliana seemed to pass into the
body of Rose, and suffer for him as that ghostly image visibly
suffered.