A LOVERS’ PARTING
Now, to suppose oneself the fashioner of such a chain of events as this
which brought the whole of the Harrington family in tender unity
together once more, would have elated an ordinary mind. But to the
Countess de Saldar, it was simply an occasion for reflecting that she
had misunderstood—and could most sincerely forgive—Providence. She
admitted to herself that it was not entirely her work; for she never
would have had their place of meeting to be the Shop. Seeing, however,
that her end was gained, she was entitled to the credit of it, and
could pardon the means adopted. Her brother lord of Beckley Court, and
all of them assembled in the old 193, Main Street, Lymport! What matter
for proud humility! Providence had answered her numerous petitions, but
in its own way. Stipulating that she must swallow this pill, Providence
consented to serve her. She swallowed it with her wonted courage. In
half an hour subsequent to her arrival at Lymport, she laid siege to
the heart of Old Tom Cogglesby, whom she found installed in the
parlour, comfortably sipping at a tumbler of rum-and-water. Old Tom was
astonished to meet such an agreeable unpretentious woman, who talked of
tailors and lords with equal ease, appeared to comprehend a man’s
habits instinctively, and could amuse him while she ministered to them.
“Can you cook, ma’am?” asked Old Tom.
“All but that,” said the Countess, with a smile of sweet meaning.
“Ha! then you won’t suit me as well as your mother.”
“Take care you do not excite my emulation,” she returned, graciously,
albeit disgusted at his tone.
To Harriet, Old Tom had merely nodded. There he sat, in the arm-chair,
sucking the liquor, with the glimpse of a sour chuckle on his cheeks.
Now and then, during the evening, he rubbed his hands sharply, but
spoke little. The unbending Harriet did not conceal her disdain of him.
When he ventured to allude to the bankruptcy, she cut him short.
“Pray, excuse me—I am unacquainted with affairs of business—I cannot
even understand my husband.”
“Lord bless my soul!” Old Tom exclaimed, rolling his eyes.
Caroline had informed her sisters up-stairs that their mother was
ignorant of Evan’s change of fortune, and that Evan desired her to
continue so for the present. Caroline appeared to be pained by the
subject, and was glad when Louisa sounded his mysterious behaviour by
saying:
“Evan has a native love of concealment—he must be humoured.”
At the supper, Mr. Raikes made his bow. He was modest and reserved. It
was known that this young gentleman acted as shopman there. With a
tenderness for his position worthy of all respect, the Countess spared
his feelings by totally ignoring his presence; whereat he, unaccustomed
to such great-minded treatment, retired to bed, a hater of his kind.
Harriet and Caroline went next. The Countess said she would wait up for
Evan, but hearing that his hours of return were about the chimes of
matins, she cried exultingly: “Darling Papa all over!” and departed
likewise. Mrs. Mel, when she had mixed Old Tom’s third glass, wished
the brothers good night, and they were left to exchange what sentiments
they thought proper for the occasion. The Countess had certainly,
disappointed Old Tom’s farce, in a measure; and he expressed himself
puzzled by her. “You ain’t the only one,” said his brother. Andrew,
with some effort, held his tongue concerning the news of Evan—his
fortune and his folly, till he could talk to the youth in person.
All took their seats at the early breakfast next morning.
“Has Evan not come—home yet?” was the Countess’s first question.
Mrs. Mel replied, “No.”
“Do you know where he has gone, dear Mama?”
“He chooses his own way.”
“And you fear that it leads somewhere?” added the Countess.
“I fear that it leads to knocking up the horse he rides.”
“The horse, Mama! He is out on a horse all night! But don’t you see,
dear old pet! his morals, at least, are safe on horseback.”
“The horse has to be paid for, Louisa,” said her mother, sternly; and
then, for she had a lesson to read to the guests of her son, “Ready
money doesn’t come by joking. What will the creditors think? If he
intends to be honest in earnest, he must give up four-feet mouths.”
“Fourteen-feet, ma’am, you mean,” said Old Tom, counting the heads at
table.
“Bravo, Mama!” cried the Countess, and as she was sitting near her
mother, she must show how prettily she kissed, by pouting out her
playful lips to her parent. “Do be economical always! And mind! for the
sake of the wretched animals, I will intercede for you to be his
inspector of stables.”
This, with a glance of intelligence at her sisters.
“Well, Mr. Raikes,” said Andrew, “you keep good hours, at all
events—eh?”
“Up with the lark,” said Old Tom. “Ha! ’fraid he won’t be so early when
he gets rid of his present habits—eh?”
“Nec dierum numerum, ut nos, sed noctium computant,” said Mr. Raikes,
and both the brothers sniffed like dogs that have put their noses to a
hot coal, and the Countess, who was less insensible to the aristocracy
of the dead languages than are women generally, gave him the
recognition that is occasionally afforded the family tutor.
About the hour of ten Evan arrived. He was subjected to the hottest
embrace he had ever yet received from his sister Louisa.
“Darling!” she called him before them all. “Oh! how I suffer for this
ignominy I see you compelled for a moment to endure. But it is but for
a moment. They must vacate; and you will soon be out of this horrid
hole.”
“Where he just said he was glad to give us a welcome,” muttered Old
Tom.
Evan heard him, and laughed. The Countess laughed too.
“No, we will not be impatient. We are poor insignificant people!” she
said; and turning to her mother, added: “And yet I doubt not you think
the smallest of our landed gentry equal to great continental seigneurs.
I do not say the contrary.”
“You will fill Evan’s head with nonsense till you make him knock up a
horse a week, and never go to his natural bed,” said Mrs. Mel, angrily.
“Look at him! Is a face like that fit for business?”
“Certainly, certainly not!” said the Countess.
“Well, Mother, the horse is dismissed,—you won’t have to complain any
more,” said Evan, touching her hand. “Another history commences from
to-day.”
The Countess watched him admiringly. Such powers of acting she could
not have ascribed to him.
“Another history, indeed!” she said. “By the way, Van, love! was it out
of Glamorganshire—were we Tudors, according to Papa? or only Powys
chieftains? It’s of no moment, but it helps one in conversation.”
“Not half so much as good ale, though!” was Old Tom’s comment.
The Countess did not perceive its fitness, till Evan burst into a
laugh, and then she said:
“Oh! we shall never be ashamed of the Brewery. Do not fear that, Mr.
Cogglesby.”
Old Tom saw his farce reviving, and encouraged the Countess to
patronize him. She did so to an extent that called on her Mrs. Mel’s
reprobation, which was so cutting and pertinent, that Harriet was
compelled to defend her sister, remarking that perhaps her mother would
soon learn that Louisa was justified in not permitting herself and
family to be classed too low. At this Andrew, coming from a private
interview with Evan, threw up his hands and eyes as one who foretold
astonishment but counselled humility. What with the effort of those who
knew a little to imply a great deal; of those who knew all to betray
nothing; and of those who were kept in ignorance to strain a fact out
of the conflicting innuendos the general mystification waxed apace, and
was at its height, when a name struck on Evan’s ear that went through
his blood like a touch of the torpedo.
He had been called into the parlour to assist at a consultation over
the Brewery affairs. Raikes opened the door, and announced, “Sir Franks
and Lady Jocelyn.”
Them he could meet, though it was hard for his pride to pardon their
visit to him there. But when his eyes discerned Rose behind them, the
passions of his lower nature stood up armed. What could she have come
for but to humiliate, or play with him?
A very few words enabled the Countess to guess the cause for this
visit. Of course, it was to beg time! But they thanked Evan. For
something generous, no doubt.
Sir Franks took him aside, and returning remarked to his wife that she
perhaps would have greater influence with him. All this while Rose sat
talking to Mrs. Andrew Cogglesby, Mrs. Strike, and Evan’s mother. She
saw by his face the offence she had committed, and acted on by one of
her impulses, said: “Mama, I think if I were to speak to Mr.
Harrington—”
Ere her mother could make light of the suggestion, Old Tom had jumped
up, and bowed out his arm.
“Allow me to conduct ye to the drawing room, upstairs, young lady.
He’ll follow, safe enough!”
Rose had not stipulated for that. Nevertheless, seeing no cloud on her
mother’s face, or her father’s, she gave Old Tom her hand, and awaited
a movement from Evan. It was too late to object to it on either side.
Old Tom had caught the tide at the right instant. Much as if a grim old
genie had planted them together, the lovers found themselves alone.
“Evan, you forgive me?” she began, looking up at him timidly.
“With all my heart, Rose,” he answered, with great cheerfulness.
“No. I know your heart better. Oh, Evan! you must be sure that we
respect you too much to wound you. We came to thank you for your
generosity. Do you refuse to accept anything from us? How can we take
this that you thrust on us, unless in some way—”
“Say no more,” he interposed. “You see me here. You know me as I am,
now.”
“Yes, yes!” the tears stood in her eyes. “Why did I come, you would
ask? That is what you cannot forgive! I see now how useless it was.
Evan! why did you betray me?”
“Betray you, Rose?”
“You said that you loved me once.”
She was weeping, and all his spirit melted, and his love cried out: “I
said ‘till death,’ and till death it will be, Rose.”
“Then why, why did you betray me, Evan? I know it all. But if you
blackened yourself to me, was it not because you loved something better
than me? And now you think me false! Which of us two has been false?
It’s silly to talk of these things now too late! But be just. I wish
that we may be friends. Can we, unless you bend a little?”
The tears streamed down her cheeks, and in her lovely humility he saw
the baseness of that pride of his which had hitherto held him up.
“Now that you are in this house where I was born and am to live, can
you regret what has come between us, Rose?”
Her lips quivered in pain.
“Can I do anything else but regret it all my life, Evan?”
How was it possible for him to keep his strength?
“Rose!” he spoke with a passion that made her shrink, “are you bound to
this man?” and to the drooping of her eyes, “No. Impossible, for you do
not love him. Break it. Break the engagement you cannot fulfil. Break
it and belong to me. It sounds ill for me to say that in such a place.
But Rose, I will leave it. I will accept any assistance that your
father—that any man will give me. Beloved—noble girl! I see my
falseness to you, though I little thought it at the time—fool that I
was! Be my help, my guide—as the soul of my body! Be mine!”
“Oh, Evan!” she clasped her hands in terror at the change in him, that
was hurrying her she knew not whither, and trembling, held them
supplicatingly.
“Yes, Rose: you have taught me what love can be. You cannot marry that
man.”
“But, my honour, Evan! No. I do not love him; for I can love but one.
He has my pledge. Can I break it?”
The stress on the question choked him, just as his heart sprang to her.
“Can you face the world with me, Rose?”
“Oh, Evan! is there an escape for me? Think Decide!—No—no! there is
not. My mother, I know, looks on it so. Why did she trust me to be with
you here, but that she thinks me engaged to him, and has such faith in
me? Oh, help me!—be my guide. Think whether you would trust me
hereafter! I should despise myself.”
“Not if you marry him!” said Evan, bitterly. And then thinking as men
will think when they look on the figure of a fair girl marching
serenely to a sacrifice, the horrors of which they insist that she
ought to know: half-hating her for her calmness—adoring her for her
innocence: he said: “It rests with you, Rose. The world will approve
you, and if your conscience does, why—farewell, and may heaven be your
help.”
She murmured, “Farewell.”
Did she expect more to be said by him? What did she want or hope for
now? And yet a light of hunger grew in her eyes, brighter and brighter,
as it were on a wave of yearning.
“Take my hand once,” she faltered.
Her hand and her whole shape he took, and she with closed eyes let him
strain her to his breast.
Their swoon was broken by the opening of the door, where Old Tom
Cogglesby and Lady Jocelyn appeared.
“’Gad! he seems to have got his recompense—eh, my lady?” cried Old Tom.
However satisfactorily they might have explained the case, it certainly
did seem so.
Lady Jocelyn looked not absolutely displeased. Old Tom was chuckling at
her elbow. The two principal actors remained dumb.
“I suppose, if we leave young people to settle a thing, this is how
they do it,” her ladyship remarked.
“’Gad, and they do it well!” cried Old Tom.
Rose, with a deep blush on her cheeks, stepped from Evan to her mother.
Not in effrontery, but earnestly, and as the only way of escaping from
the position, she said: “I have succeeded, Mama. He will take what I
offer.”
“And what’s that, now?” Old Tom inquired.
Rose turned to Evan. He bent and kissed her hand.
“Call it ‘recompense’ for the nonce,” said Lady Jocelyn. “Do you still
hold to your original proposition, Tom?”
“Every penny, my lady. I like the young fellow, and she’s a jolly
little lass—if she means it:—she’s a woman.”
“True,” said Lady Jocelyn. “Considering that fact, you will oblige me
by keeping the matter quiet.”
“Does she want to try whether the tailor’s a gentleman still, my
lady—eh?”
“No. I fancy she will have to see whether a certain nobleman may be
one.”
The Countess now joined them. Sir Franks had informed her of her
brother’s last fine performance. After a short, uneasy pause, she said,
glancing at Evan:—
“You know his romantic nature. I can assure you he was sincere; and
even if you could not accept, at least—”
“But we have accepted, Countess,” said Rose.
“The estate!”
“The estate, Countess. And what is more, to increase the effect of his
generosity, he has consented to take a recompense.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Countess, directing a stony look at her
brother.
“May I presume to ask what recompense?”
Rose shook her head. “Such a very poor one, Countess! He has no idea of
relative value.”
The Countess’s great mind was just then running hot on estates, and
thousands, or she would not have played goose to them, you may be sure.
She believed that Evan had been wheedled by Rose into the acceptance of
a small sum of money, in return for his egregious gift.
With an internal groan, the outward aspect of which she had vast
difficulty in masking, she said: “You are right—he has no head. Easily
cajoled!”
Old Tom sat down in a chair, and laughed outright. Lady Jocelyn, in
pity for the poor lady, who always amused her, thought it time to put
an end to the scene.
“I hope your brother will come to us in about a week,” she said. “May I
expect the favour of your company as well?”
The Countess felt her dignity to be far superior as she responded:
“Lady Jocelyn, when next I enjoy the gratification of a visit to your
hospitable mansion, I must know that I am not at a disadvantage. I
cannot consent to be twice pulled down to my brother’s level.”
Evan’s heart was too full of its dim young happiness to speak, or care
for words. The cold elegance of the Countess’s curtsey to Lady Jocelyn:
her ladyship’s kindly pressure of his hand: Rose’s stedfast look into
his eyes: Old Tom’s smothered exclamation that he was not such a fool
as he seemed: all passed dream-like, and when he was left to the fury
of the Countess, he did not ask her to spare him, nor did he defend
himself. She bade adieu to him and their mutual relationship that very
day. But her star had not forsaken her yet. Chancing to peep into the
shop, to intrust a commission to Mr. John Raikes, who was there doing
penance for his career as a gentleman, she heard Old Tom and Andrew
laughing, utterly unlike bankrupts.
“Who’d have thought the women such fools! and the Countess, too!”
This was Andrew’s voice. He chuckled as one emancipated. The Countess
had a short interview with him (before she took her departure to join
her husband, under the roof of the Honourable Herbert Duffian), and
Andrew chuckled no more.