# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Evan Harrington - Part 17

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EVAN HARRINGTON; or, HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN.
BY GEORGE MEREDITH.
CHAPTER XXIII.TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF.
Running through Beckley Park, clear from the chalk, a little stream gave light and freshness to its pasturage. Near where it entered, a bathing-house of white marble had been built, under which the water flowed, and the dive could be taken to a paved depth, and you swam out over a pebbly bottom into sun-light, screened by the thick-weeded banks, loose-strife and willow-herb, and mint, nodding over you, and in the later season long-plumed yellow grasses. Here at sunrise the young men washed their limbs, and here since her return home English Rose loved to walk by night. She had often spoken of the little happy stream to Evan in Portugal, and when he came to Beckley Court, she arranged that he should sleep in a bed-room overlooking it. The view was sweet and pleasant to him, for all the babbling of the water was of Rose, and winding in and out, to east, to north, it wound to embowered hopes in the lover’s mind, to tender dreams, and often at dawn, when dressing, his restless heart embarked on it, and sailed into havens, the phantom joys of which coloured his life for him all the day. But most he loved to look across it when the light fell. The palest solitary gleam along its course spoke to him rich promise. The faint blue beam of a star chained all his longings, charmed his sorrows to sleep. Rose like a fairy had breathed her spirit here, and it was a delight to the silly luxurious youth to lie down, and fix some image of a flower bending to the stream, on his brain, and in the cradle of fancies that grew round it, slide down the tide of sleep.
From the image of a flower bending to the stream, like his own soul to the bosom of Rose, Evan built sweet fables. It was she that exalted him, that led him through glittering chapters of ​adventure. In his dream of deeds achieved for her sake, you may be sure the young man behaved worthily, though he was modest when she praised him, and his limbs trembled when the land whispered of his great reward to come. The longer he stayed at Beckley the more he lived in this world within world, and if now and then the harsh outer life smote him, a look or a word from Rose encompassed him again, and he became sensible only of a distant pain.
At first his hope sprang wildly to possess her, to believe that, after he had done deeds that would have sent ordinary men in the condition of shattered hulks to the hospital, she might be his. Then blow upon blow was struck, and he prayed to be near her till he died: no more. Then she, herself, struck him to the ground, and sitting in his chamber, sick and weary, on the evening of his mishap, Evan’s sole desire was to obtain the handkerchief he had risked his neck for. To have that, and hold it to his heart, and feel it as a part of her, seemed much.
Over a length of the stream the red round harvest-moon was rising, and the weakened youth was this evening at the mercy of the charm that encircled him. The water curved, and dimpled, and flowed flat, and the whole body of it rushed into the spaces of sad splendour. The clustered trees stood like temples of darkness; their shadows lengthened supernaturally; and a pale gloom crept between them on the sward. He had been thinking for some time that Rose would knock at his door, and give him her voice, at least; but she did not come; and when he had gazed out on the stream till his eyes ached, he felt that he must go and walk by it. Those little flashes of the hurrying tide spoke to him of a secret rapture and of a joy-seeking impulse; the pouring onward of all the blood of life to one illumined heart, mournful from excess of love.
Pardon me, I beg. Enamoured young men have these notions. Ordinarily Evan had sufficient common sense and was as prosaic as mankind could wish him; but he has had a terrible fall in the morning, and a young woman rages in his brain. Better, indeed, and “more manly,” were he to strike and raise huge bosses on his forehead, groan, and so have done with it. We must let him go his own way.
At the door he was met by the Countess. She came into the room without a word or a kiss, and when she did speak, the total absence of any euphuism gave token of repressed excitement yet more than her angry eyes and eager step. Evan had grown accustomed to her moods, and if one moment she was the halcyon, and another the petrel, it no longer disturbed him, seeing that he was a stranger to the influences by which she was affected. The Countess rated him severely for not seeking repose, and inviting sympathy. She told him that the Jocelyns had one and all combined in an infamous plot to destroy the race of Harrington, and that Caroline had already succumbed to their assaults; that the Jocelyns would repent it, and sooner than they thought for; and that the only friend the Harringtons had in the house was Miss Bonner, whom Providence would liberally reward.
Then the Countess changed to a dramatic posture, and whispered aloud, “Hush: she is here. She is so anxious. Be generous, my brother, and let her see you.”
“She?” said Evan, faintly. “May she come, Louisa?” He hoped for Rose.
“I have consented to mask it,” returned the Countess. “Oh, what do I not sacrifice for you!”
She turned from him, and to Evan’s chagrin introduced Juliana Bonner.
“Five minutes, remember!” said the Countess. “I must not hear of more.” And then Evan found himself alone with Miss Bonner, and very uneasy. This young lady had restless brilliant eyes, and a contraction about the forehead which gave one the idea of a creature suffering perpetual headache. She said nothing, and when their eyes met she dropped hers in a manner that made silence too expressive. Feeling which, Evan began:
“May I tell you that I think it is I who ought to be nursing you, not you me.”
Miss Bonner replied by lifting her eyes and dropping them as before, murmuring subsequently, “Would you do so?”
“Most certainly, if you did me the honour to select me.”
The fingers of the young lady commenced twisting and intertwining on her lap. Suddenly she laughed:
“It would not do at all. You won’t be dismissed from your present service till you’re unfit for any other.”
“What do you mean?” said Evan, thinking more of the unmusical laugh than of the words.
He received no explanation, and the irksome silence caused him to look through the window, as an escape for his mind, at least. The waters streamed on endlessly into the golden arms awaiting them. The low moon burnt through the foliage. In the distance, over a reach of the flood, one tall aspen shook against the lighted sky.
“Are you in pain?” Miss Bonner asked, and broke his reverie.
“No; I am going away, and perhaps I sigh involuntarily.”
“You like these grounds?”
“I have never been so happy in any place.”
“With those cruel young men about you?”
Evan now laughed. “We don’t call young men cruel, Miss Bonner.”
“But were they not? To take advantage of what Rose told them—it was base!”
She had said more than she intended, possibly, for she coloured under his inquiring look, and added: “I wish I could say the same as you of Beckley. Do you know, I am called Rose’s thorn?”
“Not by Miss Jocelyn herself, certainly!”
“How eager you are to defend her! But am I not—tell me—do I not look like a thorn in company with her?”
“There is but the difference that ill health would make.”
“Ill health? Oh, yes! And Rose is so much better born.”
“To that, I am sure, she does not give a thought.”
​"Not Rose? Oh!"
An exclamation, properly lengthened, convinces the feelings more satisfactorily than much logic. Though Evan claimed only the handkerchief he had won, his heart sank at the sound. Miss Bonner watched him, and springing forward, said sharply:
"May I tell you something?"
"You may tell me what you please."
"Then, whether I offend you or not, you had better leave this."
"I am going," said Evan. "I am only waiting to introduce your tutor to you."
She kept her eyes on him, and in her voice as well there was a depth, as she returned:
"Mr. Laxley, Mr. Forth, and Harry, are going to Lymport to-morrow."
Evan was looking at a figure, whose shadow was thrown towards the house from the margin of the stream.
He stood up, and taking the hand of Miss Bonner, said:
"I thank you. I may, perhaps, start with them. At any rate, you have done me a great service, which I shall not forget."
The figure by the stream he knew to be that of Rose. He released Miss Bonner's trembling. moist hand, and as he continued standing, she moved to the door, after once following the line of his eyes into the moonlight.
Outside the door a noise was audible. Andrew had come to sit with his dear boy, and the Countess had met and engaged and driven him to the other end of the passage, where he hung remonstrating with her.
"Why, Van," he said, as Evan came up to him, "I thought you were in a profound sleep. Louisa said—"
"Silly Andrew!" interposed the Countess, "do you not observe he is sleep-walking now?" and she left them with a light laugh to go to Juliana, whom she found in tears. The discovery of one lie always impelled the Countess to a fresh and a bolder one, and she was quite aware of the efficacy of a little bit of burlesque lying to cover her retreat from any petty exposure.
Evan soon got free from Andrew. He was under the dim stars, walking to the great fire in the East. The cool air refreshed him. He was simply going to ask for his own, before he went, and had no cause to fear what would be thought by any one. A handkerchief! A man might fairly win that, and carry it out of a very noble family, without having to blush for himself.
I cannot say whether he inherited his feeling for rank from Mel, his father, or that the Countess had succeeded in instilling it, but Evan never took Republican ground in opposition to those who insulted him, and never lashed his "manhood" to assert itself, nor compared the fineness of his instincts with the behaviour of titled gentlemen. Rather he seemed to admit the distinction between his birth and that of a gentleman, admitting it to his own soul, as it were, and struggled simply as men struggle against a destiny. The news Miss Bonner had given him sufficed to break a spell which could not have endured another week; and Andrew, besides, had told him of Caroline's illness. He walked to meet Rose, honestly intending to ask for his own, and wish her good-bye.
Rose saw him approach, and knew him in the distance. She was sitting on a lower branch of the aspen, that shot almost from the root, and stretched over the intervolving rays of light on the tremulous water. She could not move to meet him. She was not the Rose whom we have hitherto known. Love may spring in the bosom of a young girl, like Helper in the evening sky, a grey speck in a field of grey, and not be seen or known, till surely as the circle advances the faint planet gathers fire, and, coming nearer earth, dilates, and will and must be seen and known. When Evan lay like a dead man on the ground, Rose turned upon herself as the author of his death, and then she felt this presence within her, and her heart all day had talked to her of it, and was throbbing now, and would not be quieted. She could only lift her eyes and give him her hand; she could not speak. She thought him cold, and he was; cold enough to think that she and her cousin were not unlike in their manner, though not deep enough to reflect that it was from the same cause.
She was the first to find her wits: but not before she spoke did she feel, and start to feel, how long had been the silence, and that her hand was still in his.
"Why did you come out, Evan? It was not right."
"I came to speak to you. I shall leave early to-morrow, and may not see you alone."
"You are going——?"
She checked her voice, and left the thrill of it wavering in him.
"Yes, Rose, I am going; I should have gone before."
"Evan!" she grasped his hand, and then timidly retained it. "You have not forgiven me? I see now. I did not think of any risk to you. I only wanted you to beat. I wanted you to be first and best. If you knew how I thank God for saving you! If you knew what my punishment would have been!"
Till her eyes were full she kept them on him, too deep in emotion to be conscious of it.
He could gaze on her tears coldly.
"I should be happy to take the leap any day for the prize you offered. I have come for that."
"For what, Evan?" But while she was speaking the colour mounted in her cheeks, and she went on rapidly: "Did you think it unkind of me not to come to nurse you. I must tell you, to defend myself. It was the Countess, Evan. She is offended with me—very justly, I dare say. She would not let me come. What could I do? I had no claim to come."
Rose was not aware of the import of her speech. Evan, though he felt more in it, and had some secret nerves set tingling and dancing, was not to be moved from his demand.
"Do you intend to withhold it, Rose?"
"Withhold what, Evan? Anything that you wish for is yours."
​“The handkerchief. Is not that mine?”
Rose faltered a word. Why did he ask for it? Because he asked for nothing else, and wanted no other thing save that.
Why did she hesitate? Because it was so poor a gift, and so unworthy of him.
And why did he insist? Because in honour she was bound to surrender it.
And why did she hesitate still? Let her answer.
“Oh, Evan! I would give you anything but that; and if you are going away I should beg so much to keep it.”
He must have been in a singular state not to see her heart in the refusal, as was she not to see his in the request. But Love is blindest just when the bandage is being removed from his forehead.
“Then you will not give it me, Rose? Do you think I shall go about boasting ‘This is Miss Jocelyn’s handkerchief, and I, poor as I am, have won it?’”
The taunt struck aslant in Rose’s breast with a peculiar sting. She stood up.
“I will give it you, Evan.”
Turning from him she drew it forth, and handed it to him hurriedly, with her head still averted.
It was warm. It was stained with his blood. He guessed where it had been nestling, and now, as if by revelation, he saw that large sole star in the bosom of his darling, and was blinded by it and lost his senses.
“Rose! beloved! I love you!”
Her hand, her arm, her waist, he seized, bending over her. And like the flower of his nightly phantasy bending over the stream, he looked and saw in her sweet face the living wonders that encircled his image; she murmuring: “No, no; you must hate me. I know it.”
Anything but a denial, and he might have retrieved his step, but that she should doubt his strong true love plunged him deeper.
“I love you, Rose. I have not a hope to win you; but I love you. My heaven! my only darling! I hold you a moment—and I go; but know that I love you and would die for you. Beloved Rose! do you forgive me?”
She raised her face to him.
“Forgive you for loving me?” she said, smiling the soft inward smile of rarest bliss.
Holy to them grew the stillness: the ripple suffused in golden moonlight: the dark edges of the leaves against superlative brightness. Not a chirp was heard, nor anything save the cool and endless carol of the happy waters, whose voices are the spirits of silence. Nature seemed consenting that their hands should be joined, their eyes intermingling. And when Evan, with a lover’s craving, wished her lips to say what her eyes said so well, Rose drew his fingers up, and, with an arch smile and a blush, kissed them. The simple act set his heart thumping, and from the look of love, she saw an expression of pain pass through him. Her fealty—her guileless, fearless truth—which the kissing of his hand brought vividly before him, conjured its contrast as well in this that was hidden from her, or but half suspected. Did she know—know and love him still? He thought it might be: but that fell dead on her asking:
“Shall I speak to mama to-night?”
A load of lead crushed him.
“Rose!” he said; but could get no farther.
Innocently, or with well-masked design, Rose branched off into little sweet words about his bruised shoulder, touching it softly, as if she knew the virtue that was in her touch, and accusing her selfish self as she caressed it: “Dearest Evan! you must have been sure I thought no one like you. Why did you not tell me before? I can hardly believe it now! Do you know,” she hurried on, “they all think me cold and heartless,—am I? I must be, to have made you run such risk; but yet I’m sure I could not have survived you.”
Dropping her voice, Rose quoted Ruth. As Evan listened, the words were like food from heaven poured into his spirit.
“To-morrow,” he kept saying to himself, “to-morrow I will tell her all. Let her think well of me a few short hours.”
But the passing minutes locked them closer: each had a new 1ink—in a word, or a speechless breath, or a touch: and to break the marriage of their eyes there must be infinite baseness on one side, or on the other disloyalty to love.
The moon was a silver ball, high up through the aspen. Evan kissed the hand of Rose, and led her back to the house. He had appeased his conscience by restraining his wild desire to kiss her lips.
In the hall they parted. Rose whispered, “Till death!” giving him her hands. She was then warm beneath his mouth, and one eternal kiss hung ripe for him. The force of his passion plucked him down, but his lips rested on her forehead.
(To be continued.)