# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Evan Harrington - Part 13

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EVAN HARRINGTON; or, HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN.
BY GEORGE MEREDITH.
CHAPTER XVII.IN WHICH EVAN WRITES HIMSELF TAILOR.
The only philosophic method of discovering what a young woman means, and what is in her mind, is that zigzag process of inquiry conducted by following her actions, for she can tell you nothing, and if she does not want to know a particular matter, it must be a strong beam from the central system of facts that shall penetrate her. Clearly there was a disturbance in the bosom of Rose Jocelyn, and one might fancy that amiable mirror as being wilfully ruffled to confuse a thing it was asked by the heavens to reflect: a good fight fought by all young people at a certain period, and now and then by an old fool or two. The young it seasons and strengthens; the old it happily kills off; and thus, what is, is made to work harmoniously with what we would have be.
After quitting Evan, Rose hied to her friend Jenny Graine, and in the midst of sweet millinery talk, darted the odd question, whether baronets or knights ever were tradesmen: to which Scotch Jenny, entirely putting aside the shades of beatified aldermen and the illustrious list of mayors that have welcomed royalty, replied that it was a thing quite impossible. Rose then wished to know if tailors were thought worse of than other tradesmen. Jenny, premising that she was no authority, stated she imagined she had heard that they were.
“Why?” said Rose, no doubt because she was desirous of seeing justice dealt to that class. But Jenny’s bosom was a smooth reflector of facts alone.
Rose pondered, and said with compressed eagerness, “Jenny, do you think you could ever bring yourself to consent to care at all for anybody belonging to them? Tell me.”
Now Jenny had come to Beckley Court to meet William Harvey: she was therefore sufficiently soft to think she could care for him whatever his origin were, and composed in the knowledge that no natal stigma was upon him to try the strength of her affection. Designing to generalise, as women do (and seem tempted to do most when they are secretly speaking from their own emotions), she said, shyly moving her shoulders, with a forefinger laying down the principle:
“You know, my dear, if one esteemed such a person very very much, and were quite sure, without any doubt, that he liked you in return—that is, completely liked you, and was quite devoted, and made no concealment—I mean, if he was very superior, and like other men—you know what I mean—and had none of the cringing ways some of them have—I mean, supposing him gay and handsome, taking—"
“Just like William,” Rose cut her short; and we may guess her to have had some one in her head, for her to conceive that Jenny must be speaking of anyone in particular.
A young lady who can have male friends, as well as friends of her own sex, is not usually pressing and secret in her confidences, possibly because such a young lady is not always nursing baby-passions, and does not require her sex’s coddling and posseting to keep them alive. With Rose love will be full grown when it is once ​avowed, and will know where to go to be nourished.
“Merely an idea I had,” she said to Jenny, who betrayed her mental pre-occupation by putting the question for the questions last.
Her Uncle Melville next received a visit from the restless young woman. To him she spoke not a word of the inferior classes, but as a special favourite of the diplomatist’s, begged a gift of him for her proximate birthday. Pushed to explain what it was, she said, “It’s something I want you to do for a friend of mine, Uncle Mel.”
The diplomatist instanced a few of the modest requests little maids prefer to people they presume to have power to grant.
“No, it’s nothing nonsensical,” said Rose; “I want you to get my friend Evan an appointment. You can if you like, you know, Uncle Mel, and it’s a shame to make him lose his time when he’s young and does his work so well—that you can’t deny! Now, please, be positive, Uncle Mel. You know I hate—I have no faith in your ‘nous verrons.’ Say you will, and at once.”
The diplomatist pretended to have his weather-eye awakened.
“You seem very anxious about feathering the young fellow’s nest, Rosey?”
“There,” cried Rose, with the maiden’s mature experience of us, “isn’t that just like men? They never can believe you can be entirely disinterested!”
“Hulloa!” the diplomatist sung out, “I didn’t say anything, Rosey.”
She reddened at her hastiness, but retrieved it by saying:
“No, but you listen to your wife, you know you do, Uncle Mel, and now there’s Aunt Shorne and the other women, who make you think just what they like about me, because they hate mama.”
“Don’t use strong words, my dear.”
“But it’s abominable!” cried Rose. “They asked mama yesterday what Evan’s being here meant? Why, of course, he’s your secretary, and my friend, and mama very properly stopped them, and so will I! As for me, I intend to stay at Beckley, I can tell you, dear old boy.” Uncle Mel had a soft arm round his neck, and was being fondled. “And I’m not going to be bred up to go into a harem, you may be sure.”
The diplomatist whistled, “You talk your mother with a vengeance, Rosey.”
“And she’s the only sensible woman I know,” said Rose. “Now promise me—in earnest. Don’t let them mislead you, for you know you’re quite a child, out of your politics, and I shall take you in hand myself. Why, now, think, Uncle Mel! wouldn’t any girl, as silly as they make me out, hold her tongue—not talk of him, as I do; and because I really do feel for him as a friend. See the difference between me and Juley!”
It was a sad sign if Rose was growing a bit of a hypocrite, but this instance of Juliana’s different manner of showing her feelings towards Evan would have quieted suspicion in shrewder men, for Juliana watched Evan’s shadow, and it was thought by two or three at Beckley Court, that Evan would be conferring a benefit on all by carrying off the romantically-inclined but little presentable young lady.
The diplomatist with a placid, “Well, well!” ultimately promised to do his best for Rose’s friend, and then Rose said, “Now I leave you to the Countess,” and went and sat with her mother and Drummond Forth. The latter was strange in his conduct to Evan. While blaming Laxley’s unmannered behaviour, he seemed to think that Laxley had grounds for it, and treated Evan with a sort of cynical deference that had, for the last couple of days, exasperated Rose.
“Mama, you must speak to Ferdinand,” she burst upon the conversation, “Drummond is afraid to—he can stand by and see my friend insulted. Ferdinand is insufferable with his pride—he’s jealous of everybody who has manners, and Drummond approves him, and I will not bear it.”
Lady Jocelyn hated household worries, and quietly remarked that the young men must fight it out together.
“No, but it’s your duty to interfere, mama,” said Rose, “and I know you will when I tell you that Ferdinand declares my friend Evan is a tradesman—beneath his notice. Why, it insults me!”
Lady Jocelyn looked out from a lofty window on such veritable squabbles of boys and girls as Rose revealed.
“Can’t you help them to run on smoothly while they’re here?” she said to Drummond, and he related the scene at the Green Dragon.
“I think I heard he was the son of Sir Something Harrington, Devonshire people,” said Lady Jocelyn.
“Yes, he is,” cried Rose, “or closely related. I’m sure I understood the Countess that it was so. She brought the paper with the death in it to us in London, and shed tears over it.”
“She showed it in the paper, and shed tears over it?” said Drummond, evidently repressing an inclination to laugh. “Was her father’s title given in full?”
“Sir Abraham Harrington,” replied Rose. “I think she said father, if the word wasn’t too common-place for her.”
“You can ask old Tom when he comes, if you are anxious to know,” said Drummond to her ladyship. “His brother married one of the sisters. By the way, he’s coming, too. Harrington ought really to clear up the mystery.”
“Now you’re sneering, Drummond,” said Rose: “for you know there’s no mystery to clear up.”
Drummond and Lady Jocelyn began talking of old Tom Cogglesby, whom, it appeared, the former knew intimately, and the latter had known.
“The Cogglesbys are sons of a cobbler, Rose,” said Lady Jocelyn. “You must try and be civil to them.”
“Of course I shall, mama,” Rose answered, seriously.
“And help the poor Countess to bear their presence as well as possible,” said Drummond. “The Harringtons have had to mourn a dreadful mésalliance. Pity the Countess!”
​“Oh! the Countess! the Countess!” exclaimed Rose to Drummond’s pathetic shake of the head. She and Drummond were fully agreed about the Countess. Drummond mimicking the lady: “In verity, she is most mellifluous!” while Rose sugared her lips and leaned gracefully forward with “De Saldar, let me petition you—since we must endure our title—since it is not to be your Louisa?” and her eyes sought the ceiling, and her hand slowly melted into her drapery, as the Countess was wont to effect it.
Lady Jocelyn laughed, but said: “You’re too hard upon the Countess. The female euphuist is not to be met with every day. It’s a different kind from the Précieuse. She is not a Précieuse. She has made a capital selection of her vocabulary from Johnson, and does not work it badly, if we may judge by Harry and Melville. Euphuism in ‘woman’ is the popular ideal of a Duchess. She has it by nature, or she has studied it: and if so you must respect her abilities.”
“Yes, Harry!” said Rose, who was angry at a loss of influence over her rough brother, “any one could manage Harry! and Uncle Mel’s a goose. You should see what a ‘female euphuist’ Dorry is getting. She says in the Countess’s hearing: ‘Rose! I should in verity wish to play, if it were pleasing to my sweet cousin?’ I’m ready to die with laughing. I don’t do it, mama.”
The Countess, thus being discussed, was closeted with old Mrs. Bonner: not idle. Like Hannibal in Italy, she had crossed her Alps in attaining Beckley Court, and here in the enemy’s country the wary general found herself under the necessity of throwing up entrenchments to fly to in case of defeat. Sir Abraham Harrington of Torquay, who had helped her to cross the Alps, became a formidable barrier against her return.
Meantime Evan was riding over to Fallowfield, and as he rode under black visions between the hedgeways crowned with their hop-garlands, a fragrance of roses saluted his nostril, and he called to mind the red and the white the peerless representative of the two had given him, and which he had thrust sullenly in his breast-pocket: and he drew them out to look at them reproachfully and sigh farewell to all the roses of life, when in company with them he found in his hand the forgotten letter delivered to him on the cricket-field the day of the memorable match. He smelt at the roses, and turned the letter this way and that. His name was correctly worded on the outside. With an odd reluctance to open it, he kept trifling over the flowers, and then broke the broad seal, and these are the words that met his eyes:—
“Mr. Evan Harrington.
“You have made up your mind to be a tailor, instead of a Tomnoddy. You’re right. Not too many men in the world—plenty of nincompoops.
“Don’t be made a weathercock of by a parcel of women. I want to find a man worth something. If you go on with it, you shall end by riding in your carriage, and cutting it as fine as any of them. I’ll take care your belly is not punished while you’re about it.
“From the time your name is over your shop, I give you 300l. per annum.
“Or stop. There’s nine of you. They shall have 40l. per annum a-piece. 9 times 40, eh? That’s better than 300l., if you know how to reckon. Don’t you wish it was ninety-nine tailors to a man! I could do that, too, and it would not break me; so don’t be a proud young ass, or I’ll throw my money to the geese. Lots of them in the world. How many geese to a tailor?
“Go on for five years, and I double it.
“Give it up, and I give you up.
“No question about me. The first tailor can be paid his 40l. in advance, by applying at the offices of Messrs. Grist, Gray’s Inn Square, Gray’s Inn. Let him say he is tailor No. 1, and show this letter, signed Agreed, with your name in full at bottom. That will do—money will be paid—no questions one side or other. So on—the whole nine. The end of the year they can give a dinner to their acquaintance. Send in bill to Messrs. Grist.
“The advice to you to take the cash according to terms mentioned is advice of
“A Friend.”
“P.S. You shall have your wine. Consult among yourselves, and carry it by majority what wine it’s to be. Five carries it. Dozen and half per tailor, per annum—that’s the limit.”
It was certainly a very hot day. The pores of his skin were prickling, and his face was fiery; and yet he increased his pace, and broke into a wild gallop for a mile or so; then suddenly turned his horse’s head back for Beckley. The secret of which evolution was, that he had caught the idea of a plotted insult of Laxley’s in the letter, for when the blood is up we are drawn the way the tide sets strongest, and Evan was prepared to swear that Laxley had written the letter, because he was burning to chastise the man who had injured him with Rose.
Sure that he was about to confirm his suspicion, he read it again, gazed upon Beckley Court in the sultry light, and turned for Fallowfield once more, devising to consult Mr. John Raikes on the subject.
The letter had a smack of crabbed age hardly counterfeit. The savour of an old eccentric’s sour generosity was there. Evan fell into bitter laughter at the idea of Rose glancing over his shoulder and asking him what nine of him to a man meant. He heard her clear voice pursuing him. He could not get away from the mocking sound of Rose beseeching him to instruct her on that point. How if the letter were genuine? He began to abhor the sight and touch of the paper, for it struck division cold as death between him and his darling. He saw now the immeasurable hopes his residence at Beckley had lured him to. Rose had slightly awakened him: this letter was blank day to his soul. He saw the squalid shop, the good, stern, barren-spirited mother, the changeless drudgery, the existence which seemed indeed no better than what the ninth of a man was fit for. The influence of his mother came on him once more. Dared he reject the gift, if true? No spark of gratitude could he feel, but chained, dragged at the heels of his fate, he submitted to think it true; resolving ​the next moment that it was a fabrication and a trap: but he flung away the roses.
As idle as a painted cavalier upon a painted drop-scene, the figure of Mr. John Raikes was to be observed leaning with crossed legs against a shady pillar of the Green Dragon; eyeing alternately, with an indifference he did not care to conceal, the assiduous pecking in the dust of some cocks and hens that had strayed from the yard of the inn, and the sleepy blinking in the sun of an old dog at his feet: nor did Evan’s appearance discompose the sad sedateness of his demeanour.
“Yes; I am here still,” he answered Evan’s greeting, with a flaccid gesture. “Don’t excite me too much. A little at a time. I can’t bear it!”
“How now? What is it now, Jack?” said Evan.
Mr. Raikes pointed at the dog. “I’ve made a bet with myself he won’t wag his tail within the next ten minutes. The tail is that animal’s tongue. ’Tis thus we talk. I beg of you, Harrington, to remain silent for both our sakes.”
Evan was induced to look at the dog, and the dog looked at him, and gently moved his tail.
“I’ve lost!” cried Jack, in languid anguish. “He’s getting excited. He’ll go mad. We’re not accustomed to this in Fallowfield.”
“You’ve been lonely, I suppose, Jack?”
“Have I? Oh, that’s it!” Mr. Raikes ironically laughed, in the pride of a malady that defied penetration.
“Wake up, old boy! wake up!” said Evan.
“The cock bids me do the same at two a.m., punctually every morning, and I comply!” returned Jack. “It’s afternoon, now!”
Evan dismounted and gave him a shake, which he endured with the stolidity of a dummy.
“Why, where’s old Jack? I’ve news for you. Jack, capital news.”
“Then if you don’t want to see me burst—give it me by degrees,” Mr. Raikes roared out the latter part of his sentence. “Instil it. Don’t remove my brain-pan and put it all in at once.”
“The news is this,” said Evan; but his attention was distracted by the sight of Rose’s maid, Polly Wheedle, splendidly bonneted, who slipped past them into the inn; after repulsing Jack’s careless attempt to caress her chin; which caused Jack to tell Evan that he could not get on without the society of intellectual women.
Evan called a boy to hold the horse.
“Have you seen her before, Jack?”
In the tones of tragedy Jack replied: “Once. Your pensioner up-stairs she comes to visit. I do suspect there kinship is betwixt them. Ay! one might swear them sisters. Plainly, Harrington, her soul is prosaic. I have told her I am fain, but that fate is against it. She has advised me to get a new hat before I consider the question. These country creatures are all for show! She’s a relief to the monotony of the petrified street—the old man with the brown-gaitered legs and the doubled-up old woman with the crutch. Heigho! I heard the London horn this morning.”
Evan thrust the letter in his hands, telling him to read and form an opinion on it, and went in the track of Miss Wheedle.
Mr. Raikes resumed his station against the pillar, and held the letter out on a level with his thigh. Acting (as it was his nature to do off the stage), he had not exaggerated his profound melancholy. Of a light soil and with a tropical temperament, he had exhausted all lively recollection of his brilliant career, and, in the short time since Evan had parted with him, sunk abjectly down into the belief that he was fixed in Fallowfield for life. His spirit pined for agitation and events. The horn of the London coach had sounded distant metropolitan glories in the ears of the exile in rustic parts.
Sighing heavily, Jack opened the letter, in simple obedience to the wishes of his friend; for he would have preferred to stand contemplating his own state of hopeless stagnation. The sceptical expression he put on when he had read the letter through must not deceive us. Mr. John Raikes had dreamed of a beneficent eccentric old gentleman for many years: one against whom, haply, he had bumped in a crowded thoroughfare, and had with cordial politeness begged pardon of; had then picked up his walking-stick; restored it, venturing a witty remark; retired, accidentally dropping his card-case; subsequently, to his astonishment and gratification, receiving a pregnant missive from that old gentleman’s lawyer. Or it so happened, that Mr. Raikes met the old gentleman at a tavern, and, by the exercise of a signal dexterity, relieved him from a bone in his throat, and reluctantly imparted his address on issuing from the said tavern. Or perhaps it was a lonely highway where the old gentleman walked, and Mr. John Raikes had his name in the papers for a deed of heroism, nor was man ungrateful. Since he had eaten up his uncle, this old gentleman of his dreams walked in town and country—only, and alas! Mr. Raikes could never encounter him in the flesh. The muscles of his face, therefore, are no index to the real feelings of Mr. Raikes when he had thoroughly mastered the contents of the letter, and reflected that the dream of his luck—his angelic old gentleman—had gone and wantonly bestowed himself upon Evan Harrington, instead of the expectant and far worthier John Raikes. Worthier inasmuch as he gave him credence for existing long ere he knew of him, and beheld him manifest.
Mr. Raikes retreated to the vacant parlour of the Green Dragon, and there Evan found him staring at the unfolded letter, his head between his cramped fists, with a desperate contraction of his mouth. Evan was troubled by what he had seen up-stairs, and did not speak till Jack looked up and said, “Oh, there you are.”
“Well, what do you think, Jack?”
“Yes—it’s all right,” Mr. Raikes rejoined in most matter-of-course tone, and then he stepped to the window, and puffed a very deep breath indeed, and glanced from the straight line of the street to the heavens, with whom, injured as he was, he felt more at home now that he knew them capable of miracles.
“Is it a bad joke played upon me?” said Evan.
Mr. Raikes upset a chair. “It’s quite childish. You’re made a gentleman for life, and you ask if it’s a joke played upon you! It’s perfectly maddening! There—there goes my hat!”
​With a vehement kick, Mr. Raikes despatched his ancient head-gear to the other end of the room. saying that he must have some wine, and would, and very disdainful was his look at Evan, when the latter attempted to reason him into economy. He ordered the wine; drank a glass, which coloured a new mood in him; and, affecting a practical manner, said:
“I confess I have been a little hurt with you, Harrington. You left me stranded on the desert isle. I thought myself abandoned. I thought I should never see anything but the lengthening of an endless bill on my landlady’s face—my sole planet. I was resigned till I heard my friend ‘to-lootl ’ this morning. He kindled recollection. I drank a pint of ale bang off to drown him, and still do feel the wretch’s dying kicks. But, hem! this is a tidy port, and that was a freshish sort of girl that you were riding with when we parted last! She laughs like the true metal. I suppose you know it’s the identical damsel I met the day before, and owe it to for the downs—I’ve a compliment ready made for her. Well, you can stick up to her now.”
“Will you speak seriously, Jack?” said Evan. “What is your idea of this letter?”
“I have,” returned Mr. Raikes, beginning to warm to his wine, “typified my ideas eloquently enough, Harrington, if you weren’t the prosiest old mortal that ever hood-winked Fortune. I tell you you may marry the girl: I kick out the crown of my hat. I can do no more.”
“You really think it written in good faith?”
“Look here.” Mr. Raikes put on a calmness. “You got up the other night, and said you were a tailor—a devotee of the cabbage and the goose. Why the notion didn’t strike me, is extraordinary—I ought to have known my man. However, the old gentleman who gave the supper—he’s evidently one of your beastly rich old ruffianly republicans—spent part of his time in America, I dare say. Put two and two together.”
“You’re too deep for me, Jack,” said Evan.
“Oh, you can afford to pun,” Jack pursued, painfully repressing his wrath at Evan’s dulness and luck.
But as Harrington desired plain prose, Mr. Raikes tamed his imagination to deliver it. He pointed distinctly at the old gentleman who gave the supper as the writer of the letter. Evan, in return, confided to him his history and present position, and Mr. Raikes, without cooling to his fortunate friend, became a trifle patronising.
“You said your father—I think I remember at old Cudford’s—was a cavalry officer, a bold dragoon?”
“I did,” replied Evan. “I told a lie.”
Mr. Raikes whistled. “That’s very wrong, you know, Harrington.”
“Yes. I’m more ashamed of the lie than of the fact. Oblige me by not reverting to the subject. To tell you the truth,” added Evan with frank bitterness, “I don’t like the name.”
Quoth Jack: “Truly it has a tang. I should have to drink at somebody else’s expense to get up the courage to call myself a sn— a shears-man, say.”
Evan had to bear with the sting of similar observations till he begged Jack to tell him the condition of his father, and the limit of the distance between them.
“Pardon me, pardon me,” said Jack. “I forget myself.”
Even firmly repeated his request for the information.
“He is an officer, Harrington.”
“In what regiment?”
“Government employ, friend Harrington.”
“Of course. Where?”
“In the Customs—high up.”
Mr. Raikes stooped from the announcement to plunge at Evan’s hand and shake it warmly, assuring him that he did not measure the difference between them; adding, with a significant nod, “We rank from our mother;” as if the Customs scarcely satisfied the Raikes-brood.
Then they talked over the singular letter uninterruptedly, and Evan, wanting money for the girl up-stairs, for Jack’s bill at the Green Dragon, and for his own immediate requirements, and with the bee buzzing of Rose in his ears: “She does not love you—she despises you,” consented ultimately to sign his name to it, and despatch Jack forthwith to Messrs. Grist, a prospect that brought wild outcries of “Alarums and Excursions!—hautboys!” from the dramatic reminiscences of Mr. John Raikes.
“You’ll find it’s an imposition,” said Evan, for having here signed the death-warrant of his love, he passionately hoped it might be moonshine.
“No more an imposition than it’s 50 of Virgil,” quoth the rejected usher.
“It must be a plot,” said Evan.
“It’s the best joke that will be made in my time,” said Mr. Raikes, rubbing his hands.
“And now listen to your luck,” said Evan, “I wish mine were like it!” and Jack heard of Lady Jocelyn’s offer. He heard also that the young lady he was to instruct was an heiress, and immediately inspected his garments, and showed the sacred necessity there was for him to refit in London, under the hands of scientific tailors. Evan then wrote him out an introduction to Mr. Goren, counted out the contents of his purse (which Jack had reduced in his study of the pastoral game of skittles, he confessed), and calculated in a niggardly way, how far it would go to supply Jack’s wants; sighing, as he did it, to think of Jack installed at Beckley Court, while Jack, comparing his luck with Evan’s, had discovered it to be dismally inferior.
“Oh, confound those bellows you keep blowing!” he exclaimed. “I wish to be decently polite, Harrington, but you annoy me. Excuse me, pray, but the most unexampled case of a lucky beggar that ever was known—and to hear him panting and ready to whimper—it’s outrageous. You’ve only to put up your name, and there you are—an independent gentleman! By Jingo! this isn’t such a dull world. John Raikes! thou livest in times. I feel warm in the sun of your prosperity, Harrington. Now listen to me. Propound thou no inquiries anywhere about the old fellow who gave the supper. Humour his whim—he won’t have it. All Fallowfield is paid to keep ​him secret. I know it for a fact. I plied my rustic friends every night. ‘Eat you yer victuals, and drink yer beer, and none o’ yer pryin’s and peerin’s among we!’ That’s my rebuff from farmer Broadmead. And that old boy knows more than he will tell. I saw his cunning old eye cock. Be silent, Harrington. Let discretion be the seal of thy luck.”
“You can reckon on my silence,” said Evan. “I believe in no such folly. Men don’t do these things.”
“Ha!” went Mr. Raikes, contemptuously.
Of the two he was the foolishest fellow; but quacks have cured incomprehensible maladies, and foolish fellows have an instinct for eccentric actions.
Telling Jack to finish the wine, Evan rose to go.
“Did you order the horse to be fed?”
“Did I order the feeding of the horse?” said Jack, rising and yawning. “No, I forgot him. Who can think of horses now?”
“Poor brute!” muttered Evan, and went out to see to him.
“Poor brute, indeed!” echoed Mr. Raikes, indignantly; for to have leisure to pity an animal, one must, according to his ideas, be on a lofty elevation of luck, and Evan’s concealment of his exultation was a piece of hypocrisy that offended him.
“Poor brute! yes; we’re all poor brutes to him now. His coolness is disgusting! And look at me! No hat!”
Mr. Raikes surveyed his garments—thought of his refit, and the shining new hat, flew to the heiress awaiting him, and was soon drawn into pleasanter sensations.
The ostler fortunately had required no instructions to give the horse a good feed of corn. Evan mounted and rode out of the yard to where Jack was standing, bare-headed, in his old posture against the pillar, of which the shade had rounded, and the evening sun shone full on him over a black cloud. He now looked calmly gay.
“I’m laughing at the agricultural Broadmead,” he said: “‘None o’ yer pryin’s and peerin’s!’ There is no middle grade in rustic respect. You’re their lord, or you’re their equal. So it is. Though I believe he thought me more than mortal. He thought my powers of amusing prodigious. ‘Dang ’un, he do maak a chap laugh!’ Well, Harrington, that sort of homage isn’t much, I admit.”
“Eh? where are you now?” said Evan.
“Merely reflecting that these rustics are acute in their way,” Jack pursued. “I’m not sure I shan’t feel a touch of regret . . . ."
Mr. Raikes rubbed his forehead like one perplexed by self-contemplation.
“I fancy,” said Evan, trying to be shrewd, “you’re a man to be always regretting the day you’ve left behind you.”
Too deep in himself to answer, if indeed he did not despise his friend’s little penetrative insight, Mr. Raikes silently accepted his last instructions about the presentation of the letter to Messrs. Grist, and even condescended to be quiet while the behaviour he was bound to adopt as tutor to a young lady was outlined for him by his companion.
“Even so,” he assented, abstractedly. “As you observe. Just as you observe. Exactly. The poets are not such fools as you take them to be, Harrington!”
Evan knitted a puzzled brow at Jack, beneath him.
Jack pursued: “There’s something in a pastoral life, after all.”
“Pastoral!” muttered Evan. “I was speaking of you at Beckley, and hope when you’re there you won’t make me regret my introduction of you. Keep your mind on old Cudford’s mutton-bone.”
“I perfectly understood you,” said Jack. “I’m presumed to be in luck. Ingratitude is not my fault—I’m afraid ambition is!”
These remarks appeared to Evan utterly random and distraught, and he grew impatient.
It was perhaps unphilosophical to be so, but who can comprehend the flights of an imaginative mind built upon a mercurial temperament? In rapidity it rivals any force in nature, and weird is the accuracy with which, when it once has an heiress in view, however great the distance separating them, it will hit that rifle-mark dead in the centre. The head whirls describing it. Nothing in Eastern romance eclipsed the marvels that were possible in the brain of John Raikes. And he, moreover, had just been drinking port, and had seen his dream of a miracle verified.
When, therefore, Mr. Raikes, with a kindly forlorn smile, full of wistful regret, turned his finger towards the Green Dragon, and said: “Depend upon it, Harrington, there’s many a large landed proprietor envies the man who lives at his ease in a comfortable old inn like that!” it was as the wind that blew to Evan; not a luminous revelation of character; and he gave Jack a curt good-bye.
Whither, with his blood warmed by the wine, and his foot upon one fulfilled miracle, had Mr. John Raikes shot? What did he regret? Perhaps it was his nature to cling to anything he was relinquishing, and he accused his invitation to Beckley Court, and the young heiress there, as the cause of it. Now that he had to move, he may have desired to stay; and the wish to stay may have forced him to think that nothing but a great luck could expel from such easy quarters. Magnify these and consecutive considerations immensely, and you approach to a view of the mind of Raikes.
But he looked sad, and Evan was sorry for him, and thinking that he had been rather sharp at parting, turned halfway down the street to wave his hand, and lo, John Raikes was circling both arms in air madly: he had undergone a fresh change; for now that they were separated, Mr. Raikes no longer compared their diverse lucks, but joined both in one intoxicating cordial draught; and the last sight of him showed him marching up and down in front of the inn, quick step, with inflated cheeks, and his two fists in the form of a trumpet at his mouth, blowing jubilee.
(To be continued.)