# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Evan Harrington - Part 4

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EVAN HARRINGTON; or, HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN.
BY GEORGE MEREDITH.
CHAPTER VII.MOTHER AND SON.
Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does. And happily so; for in life he subjugates us, and makes us bondsmen to his ashes. It was in the order of things that the great Mel should be borne to his final resting-place by a troop of creditors. You have seen (since the occasion demands a pompous simile) clouds that all day cling about the sun, and, in seeking to obscure him, are compelled to blaze in his livery: at fall of night they break from him, illumined, hang mournfully above him, and wear his natural glories long after he is gone. Thus, then, these worthy fellows, faithful to him to the dust, fulfilled Mel’s triumphant passage amongst them, and closed his career.
To regale them when they returned, Mrs. Mel, whose mind was not intent on greatness, was occupied in spreading meat and wine. Mrs. Fiske assisted her, as well as she could, seeing that one hand was entirely engaged by her handkerchief. She had already stumbled, and dropped a glass, which had brought on her sharp condemnation from her aunt, who bade her sit down, or go up-stairs to have her cry out, and then return to be serviceable.
“Oh! I can’t help it!” sobbed Mrs. Fiske. “That he should be carried away, and none of his children to see him the last time! I can understand Louisa—and Harriet, too, perhaps! But why could not Caroline? And that they should be too fine ladies to let their brother come and bury his father. Oh! it does seem——”
Mrs. Fiske fell into a chair, and surrendered to grief.
“Where is the cold tongue?” said Mrs. Mel to Sally, the maid, in a brief under-voice.
“Please, mum, Jacko——!”
​“He must be whipped. You are a careless slut.”
“Please, I can’t think of everybody and everything, and poor master——”
Sally plumped on a seat, and took sanctuary under her apron. Mrs. Mel glanced at the pair, continuing her labour.
“Oh, aunt, aunt!” cried Mrs. Fiske, “why didn’t you put it off for another day, to give Evan a chance?”
“Master ’d have kept another two days, he would!” whimpered Sally.
“Oh, aunt! to think!” cried Mrs. Fiske.
“And his coffin not bearin’ of his spurs!” whimpered Sally.
Mrs. Mel interrupted them by commanding Sally to go to the drawing-room, and ask a lady there, of the name of Mrs. Wishaw, whether she would like to have some lunch sent up to her. Mrs. Fiske was requested to put towels in Evan’s bedroom.
“Yes, aunt, if you’re not infatuated!” said Mrs. Fiske, as she prepared to obey, while Sally, seeing that her public exhibition of sorrow and sympathy could be indulged but an instant longer, unwound herself for a violent paroxysm, blurting between stops:
“If he’d ony ’ve gone to his last bed comfortable! . . . If he ’d ony ’ve been that decent as not for to go to his last bed with his clothes on! . . . If he ’d ony ’ve had a comfortable sheet! . . . It makes a woman feel cold to think of him full dressed there, as if he was goin’ to be a soldier on the Day o’ Judgment!”
To let people speak was a maxim of Mrs. Mel’s, and a wise one for any form of society when emotions are very much on the surface. She continued her arrangements quietly, and, having counted the number of plates and glasses, and told off the guests on her fingers, she sat down to await them.
The first who entered the room was her son.
“You have come,” said Mrs. Mel, flushing slightly, but otherwise outwardly calm.
“You didn’t suppose I should stay away from you, mother?”
Evan kissed her cheek.
“I knew you would not.”
Mrs. Mel examined him with those eyes of hers that compassed objects in a single glance. She drew her finger on each side of her upper lip, and half smiled, saying:
“That won’t do here.”
“What?” asked Evan, and proceeded immediately to make inquiries about her health, which she satisfied with a nod.
“You saw him lowered, Van?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Then go and wash yourself, for you are dirty, and then come and take your place at the head of the table.”
“Must I sit here, mother?”
“Without a doubt you must, Van. You know your room. Quick!”
In this manner their first interview passed.
Mrs. Fiske rushed in to exclaim:
“So, you were right, aunt—he has come. I met him on the stairs. Oh! how like dear uncle Mel he looks, in the militia, with that moustache. I just remember him as a child; and, oh, what a gentleman he is!”
At the end of the sentence Mrs. Mel’s face suddenly darkened: she said in a deep voice:
“Don’t dare to talk that nonsense before him, Ann.”
Mrs. Fiske looked astonished.
“What have I done, aunt?”
“He shan’t be ruined by a parcel of fools,” said Mrs. Mel. “There, go! Women have no place here.”
“How the wretches can force themselves to touch a morsel, after this morning!” Mrs. Fiske exclaimed, glancing at the table.
“Men must eat,” said Mrs. Mel.
The mourners were heard gathering outside the door. Mrs. Fiske escaped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mel admitted them into the parlour, bowing much above the level of many of the heads that passed her.
Assembled were Messrs. Barnes, Kilne, and Grossby, whom we know; Mr. Doubleday, the ironmonger; Mr. Joyce, the grocer; Mr. Perkins, commonly called Lawyer Perkins; Mr. Welbeck, the pier-master of Lymport; Bartholomew Fiske; Mr. Coxwell, a Fallowfield maltster, brewer, and farmer; creditors of various dimensions all of them. Mr. Goren coming last, behind his spectacles.
“My son will be with you directly, to preside,” said Mrs. Mel. “Accept my thanks for the respect you have shown my husband. I wish you good morning.”
“Morning, ma’am,” answered several voices, and Mrs. Mel retired.
The mourners then set to work to relieve their hats of the appendages of crape. An undertaker’s man took possession of the long black cloaks. The gloves were generally pocketed.
“That’s my second black pair this year,” said Joyce. “They’ll last a time to come. I don’t need to buy gloves while neighbours pop off.”
“Undertakers’ gloves seem to me as if they’re made for mutton fists,” remarked Welbeck; upon which Kilne nudged Barnes, the butcher, with a sharp “Aha!” and Barnes observed:
“Oh! I never wear ’em—they does for my boys on Sundays. I smoke a pipe at home.”
The Fallowfield farmer held his length of crape aloft, and inquired: “What shall do with this?”
“Oh, you keep it,” said one or two.
Coxwell rubbed his chin. “Don’t like to rob the wider.”
“What’s left goes to the undertaker?” asked Grossby.
“To be sure,” said Barnes; and Kilne added: “It’s a job:” Lawyer Perkins ejaculating confidently, “Perquisites of office, gentlemen; perquisites of office!” which settled the dispute and appeased every conscience.
A survey of the table ensued. The mourners felt hunger, or else thirst; but had not, it appeared, amalgamated the two appetites as yet. Thirst was the predominant declaration; and Grossby, after an examination of the decanters, unctuously deduced the fact, which he announced, that port and sherry were present.
​“Try the port,” said Kilne.
“Good?” Barnes inquired.
A very intelligent “I ought to know,” with a reserve of regret at the extension of his intimacy with the particular vintage under that roof, was winked by Kilne.
Lawyer Perkins touched the arm of a mourner about to be experimental on Kilne’s Port:
“I think we had better wait till young Mr. Harrington takes the table, don’t you see?”
“Yes,—ah!” croaked Goren. “The head of the family, as the saying goes!”
“I suppose we shan’t go into business to-day?” Joyce carelessly observed.
Lawyer Perkins answered:
“No. You can’t expect it. Mr. Harrington has led me to anticipate that he will appoint a day. Don’t you see?”
“Oh! I see,” returned Joyce. “I ain’t in such a hurry. What’s he doing?”
Doubleday, whose propensities were waggish, suggested “shaving,” but half ashamed of it, since the joke missed, fell to as if he were soaping his face, and had some trouble to contract his jaw.
The delay in Evan’s attendance on the guests of the house was caused by the fact that Mrs. Mel had lain in wait for him descending, to warn him that he must treat them with no supercilious civility, and to tell him partly the reason why. On hearing the potential relations in which they stood towards the estate of his father, Evan hastily, and with the assurance of a son of fortune, said they should be paid.
“That’s what they would like to hear,” said Mrs. Mel. “You may just mention it when they’re going to leave. Say you will fix a day to meet them.”
“Every farthing!” pursued Evan, on whom the tidings were beginning to operate. “What! debts? my poor father!”
“And a thumping sum, Van. You will open your eyes wider.”
“But it shall be paid, mother,—it shall be paid. Debts? I hate them. I’d slave night and day to pay them.”
Mrs. Mel spoke in a more positive tense: “And so will I, Van. Now, go.”
It mattered little to her what sort of effect on his demeanour her revelation produced, so long as the resolve she sought to bring him to was nailed in his mind; and she was a woman to knock and knock again, till it was firmly fixed there. With a strong purpose, and no plans, there were few who could resist what, in her circle, she willed; not even a youth who would gaily have marched to the scaffold rather than stand behind a counter. A purpose wedded to plans may easily suffer shipwreck; but an unfettered purpose that moulds circumstances as they arise, masters us, and is terrible. Character melts to it, like metal in the steady furnace. The projector of plots is but a miserable gambler and votary of chances. Of a far higher quality is the will that can subdue itself to wait, and lay no petty traps for opportunity. Poets may fable of such a will, that it makes the very heavens conform to it; or, I may add, what is almost equal thereto, one who would be a gentleman, to consent to be a tailor. The only person who ever held in his course against Mrs. Mel, was Mel,—her husband; but, with him, she was under the physical fascination of her youth, and it never left her. In her heart she barely blamed him. What he did, she took among other inevitable matters.
The door closed upon Evan, and waiting at the foot of the stairs a minute to hear how he was received, Mrs. Mel went to the kitchen and called the name of Dandy, which brought out an ill-built, low-browed, small man, in a baggy suit of black, who hopped up to her with a surly salute. Dandy was a bird Mrs. Mel had herself brought down, and she had for him something of a sportsman’s regard for his victim. Dandy was the cleaner of boots and runner of errands in the household of Melchisedec, having originally entered it on a dark night by the cellar. Mrs. Mel, on that occasion, was sleeping in her dressing-gown, to be ready to give the gallant night-hawk, her husband, the service he might require on his return to the nest. Hearing a suspicious noise below, she rose, and deliberately loaded a pair of horse-pistols, weapons Mel had worn in his holsters in the heroic days gone; and with these she stepped down-stairs straight to the cellar, carrying a lantern at her girdle. She could not only load, but present and fire. Dandy was foremost in stating that she called him forth steadily, three times, before the pistol was discharged. He admitted that he was frightened, and incapable of speech, at the apparition of the tall, terrific woman. After the third time of asking he had the ball lodged in his leg, and fell. Mrs. Mel was in the habit of bearing heavier weights than Dandy. She made no ado about lugging him to a chamber, where, with her own hands (for this woman had some slight knowledge of surgery, and was great in herbs and drugs) she dressed his wound, and put him to bed; crying contempt (ever present in Dandy’s memory) at such a poor creature undertaking the work of housebreaker. Taught that he really was a poor creature for the work, Dandy, his nursing over, begged to be allowed to stop and wait on Mrs. Mel; and she who had, like many strong natures, a share of pity for the objects she despised, did not cast him out. A jerk in his gait, owing to the bit of lead Mrs. Mel had dropped into him, and a little, perhaps, to her self-satisfied essay in surgical science on his person, earned him the name he went by.
When her neighbours remonstrated with her for housing a reprobate, Mrs. Mel would say: “Dandy is well-fed and well-physicked: there’s no harm in Dandy;” by which she may have meant that the food won his gratitude, and the physic reduced his humours. She had observed human nature. At any rate, Dandy was her creature; and the great Mel himself rallied her about her squire.
“When were you drunk last?” was Mrs. Mel’s address to Dandy, as he stood waiting for orders.
He replied to it in an altogether injured way: “There, now; you’ve been and called me away from my dinner to ask me that. Why, when I had the last chance, to be sure.”
​“And you were at dinner in your new black suit?”
“Well,” growled Dandy, “I borrowed Sally’s apron. Seems I can’t please ye.”
Mrs. Mel neither enjoined nor cared for outward forms of respect, where she was sure of complete subserviency. If Dandy went beyond the limits, she gave him an extra dose. Up to the limits he might talk as he pleased, in accordance with Mrs. Mel’s maxim, that it was a necessary relief to all talking creatures.
“Now, take off your apron,” she said, “and wash your hands, dirty pig, and go and wait at table in there;” she pointed to the parlour-door. “Come straight to me when everybody has left.”
“Well, there I am with the bottles again,” returned Dandy. “It’s your fault this time, mind! I’ll come as straight as I can.”
Dandy turned away to perform her bidding, and Mrs. Mel ascended to the drawing-room to sit with Mrs. Wishaw, who was, as she told all who chose to hear, an old flame of Mel’s, and was besides, what Mrs. Mel thought more of, the wife of Mel’s principal creditor, a wholesale dealer in cloth, resident in London.
The conviviality of the mourners did not disturb the house. Still, men who are not accustomed to see the colour of wine every day, will sit and enjoy it, even upon solemn occasions, and the longer they sit the more they forget the matter that has brought them together. Pleading their wives and shops, however, they released Evan from his miserable office late in the afternoon. His mother came down to him, and saying, “I see how you did the journey—you walked it,” told him to follow her.
“Yes, mother,” Evan yawned, “I walked part of the way. I met a fellow in a gig about ten miles out of Fallowfield, and he gave me a lift to Flatsham. I just reached Lymport in time, thank Heaven! I wouldn’t have missed that! By the way, I’ve satisfied these men.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Mel.
“They wanted—one or two of them—what a penance it is to have to sit among those people an hour!—they wanted to ask me about the business, but I silenced them. I told them to meet me here this day week.”
Mrs. Mel again went “Oh!” and, pushing into one of the upper rooms, said, “Here’s your bed-room, Van, just as you left it.”
“Ah, so it is,” murmured Evan, eyeing a print. “The Douglas and the Percy: ‘he took the dead man by the hand.’ What an age it seems since I last saw that. There’s Sir Hugh Montgomery on horseback—he hasn’t moved. Don’t you remember my father calling it the Battle of Tit-for-Tat? Gallant Percy! I know he wished he had lived in those days of knights and battles.”
“It does not much signify whom one has to make clothes for,” observed Mrs. Mel. Her son happily did not mark her.
“I think we neither of us were made for the days of pence and pounds,” he continued. “Now, mother, sit down, and talk to me about him. Did he mention me? Did he give me his blessing? I hope he did not suffer. I’d have given anything to press his hand,” and looking wistfully at the Percy lifting the hand of Douglas dead, Evan’s eyes filled with big tears.
“He suffered very little,” returned Mrs. Mel, “and his last words were about you.”
“What were they?” Evan burst out.
“I will tell you another time. Now undress, and go to bed. When I talk to you. Van, I want a cool head to listen. You do nothing but yawn yard-measures.”
The mouth of the weary youth instinctively snapped short the abhorred emblem.
“Here, I will help you, Van.”
In spite of his remonstrances and petitions for talk, she took off his coat and waistcoat, contemptuously criticising the cloth of foreign tailors and their absurd cut.
“Have you heard from Louisa?” asked Evan.
“Yes, yes—about your sisters by-and-by. Now, be good, and go to bed.”
She still treated him like a boy, whom she was going to force to the resolution of a man.
Dandy’s sleeping-room was on the same floor as Evan’s. Thither, when she had quitted her son, she directed her steps. She had heard Dandy tumble up-stairs the moment his duties were over, and knew what to expect when the bottles had been in his way; for drink made Dandy savage, and a terror to himself. It was her command to him that, when he happened to come across liquor he should immediately seek his bedroom and bolt the door, and Dandy had got the habit of obeying her. On this occasion he was vindictive against her, seeing that she had delivered him over to his enemy with malice prepense. A good deal of knocking, and summoning of Dandy by name, was required before she was admitted, and the sight of her did not delight him, as he testified.
“I’m drunk!” he bawled. “Will that do for ye?”
Mrs. Mel stood with her two hands crossed above the apron-string, noting his sullen lurking eye with the calm of a tamer of beasts.
“You go out of the room; I’m drunk!” Dandy repeated, and pitched forward on the bed-post, in the middle of an oath.
She understood that it was pure kindness on Dandy’s part to bid her go and be out of his reach; and therefore, on his becoming so abusive as to be menacing, she, without a shade of anger, and in the most unruffled manner, administered to him the remedy she had reserved, in the shape of a smart box on the ears, which sent him flat to the floor. He rose, after two or three efforts, quite subdued.
“Now, Dandy, sit on the edge of the bed.”
Dandy sat on the extreme edge, and Mrs. Mel pursued: “Now, Dandy, tell me what your master said at the table.”
“Talked at ’em like a lord, he did,” said Dandy, stupidly consoling the boxed ear.
“What were his words?”
Dandy’s peculiarity was, that he never remembered anything save when drunk, and Mrs. Mel’s dose had rather sobered him. By degrees, scratching at his head haltingly, he gave the context.
​“‘Gentlemen, I hear for the first time, you’ve claims against my poor father. Nobody shall ever say he died, and any man was the worse for it. I’ll meet you next week, and I’ll bind myself by law. Here’s Lawyer Perkins. No; Mr. Perkins. I’ll pay off every penny. Gentlemen, look upon me as your debtor, and not my father.’”
Delivering this with tolerable steadiness, Dandy asked, “Will that do?”
“That will do,” said Mrs. Mel. “I’ll send you up some tea presently. Lie down, Dandy.”
The house was dark and silent when Evan, refreshed by his rest, descended to seek his mother. She was sitting alone in the parlour. With a tenderness which Mrs. Mel permitted rather than encouraged, Evan put his arm round her neck, and kissed her many times. One of the symptoms of heavy sorrow, a longing for the signs of love, made Evan fondle his mother, and bend over her yearningly. Mrs. Mel said once: “Dear Van; good boy!” and quietly sat through his caresses.
“Sitting up for me, mother?” he whispered.
“Yes, Van; we may as well have our talk out.”
“Ah!” he took a chair close by her side, “tell me my father’s last words.”
“He said he hoped you would never be a tailor.”
Evan’s forehead wrinkled up. “There’s not much fear of that, then!”
His mother turned her face on him, and examined him with a rigorous placidity; all her features seeming to bear down on him. Evan did not like the look.
“You object to trade, Van?”
“Yes, decidedly, mother—hate it; but that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Didn’t my father speak of me much?”
“He desired that you should wear his Militia sword, if you got a commission.”
“I have rather given up the army,” said Evan.
Mrs. Mel requested him to tell her what a colonel’s full pay amounted to; and again, the number of years it required, on a rough calculation, to attain that grade. In reply to his statement, she observed: “A tailor might realise twice the sum in a quarter of the time.”
“What if he does—double, or treble?” cried Evan, impetuously; and to avoid the theme, and cast off the bad impression it produced on him, he rubbed his hands, and said: “I want to talk to you about my prospects, mother.”
“What are they?” Mrs. Mel inquired.
The severity of her mien and sceptical coldness of her speech, caused him to inspect them suddenly, as if she had lent him her eyes. He put them by, till the gold should recover its natural shine, saying: “By the way, mother, I’ve written the half of a History of Portugal.”
“Have you?” said Mrs. Mel. “For Louisa?”
“No, mother, of course not: to sell it. Albuquerque! what a splendid fellow he was!”
Informing him that he knew she abominated foreign names, she said: “And your prospects are, writing Histories of Portugal?”
“No, mother. I was going to tell you, I expect a Government appointment. Mr. Jocelyn likes my work—I think he likes me. You know, I was his private secretary for ten months.”
“You write a good hand,” his mother interposed.
“And I’m certain I was born for diplomacy.”
“For an easy chair, and an ink-dish before you, and lacqueys behind. What’s to be your income, Van?”
Evan carelessly remarked that he must wait and see.
“A very proper thing to do,” said Mrs. Mel; for now that she had fixed him to some explanation of his prospects, she could condescend, in her stiff way, to banter.
Slightly touched by it, Evan pursued, half-laughing, as men do who wish to propitiate common sense on behalf of what seems tolerably absurd: “It’s not the immediate income, you know, mother: one thinks of one’s future. In the diplomatic service, as Louisa says, you come to be known to Ministers—gradually, I mean. That is, they hear of you; and if you show you have some capacity——Louisa wants me to throw it up in time, and stand for Parliament. Andrew, she thinks, would be glad to help me to his seat. Once in Parliament, and known to Ministers, you—your career is open to you.”
In justice to Mr. Evan Harrington, it must be said, he built up this extraordinary card-castle to dazzle his mother’s mind: he had lost his right grasp of her character for the moment, because of an undefined suspicion of something she intended, and which sent him himself to take refuge in those flimsy structures; while the very altitude he reached beguiled his imagination, and made him hope to impress hers.
Mrs. Mel dealt it one fillip. “And in the meantime how are you to live, and pay the creditors?”
Though Evan answered cheerfully, “Oh, they will wait, and I can live on anything,” he was nevertheless floundering on the ground amid the ruins of the superb edifice; and his mother, upright and rigid, continuing, “You can live on anything, and they will wait, and call your father a rogue,” he started, grievously bitten by one of the serpents of earth.
“Good Heaven, mother! what are you saying?”
“That they will call your father a rogue, and will have a right to,” said the relentless woman.
“Not while I live!” Evan exclaimed.
“You may stop one mouth with your fist, but you won’t stop a dozen, Van.”
Evan jumped up and walked the room.
“What am I to do?” he cried. “I will pay everything. I will bind myself to pay every farthing. What more can I possibly do?”
“Make the money,” said Mrs. Mel’s deep voice.
Evan faced her: “My dear mother, you are very unjust and inconsiderate. I have been working, and doing my best. I promise——what do the debts amount to?”
“Something like 5000l. in all, Van.”
“Very well.” Youth is not alarmed by the sound of big sums. “Very well—I will pay it.”
​Evan looked as proud as if he had just clapped down the full amount on the table.
“Out of the History of Portugal, half written, and the prospect of a Government appointment?”
Mrs. Mel raised her eyelids to him.
“In time—in time, mother!”
“Mention your proposal to the creditors when you meet them this day week,” she said.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then Evan came close to her, saying:
“What is it you want of me, mother?”
"I want nothing, Van—I can support myself.”
“But what would you have me do, mother?”
“Be honest; do your duty, and don’t be a fool about it.”
“I will try,” he rejoined. “You tell me to make the money. Where and how can I make it? I am perfectly willing to work.”
“In this house,” said Mrs. Mel; and, as this was pretty clear speaking, she stood up to lend her figure to it.
“Here?” faltered Evan. “What! be a——”
“Tailor!” The word did not sting her tongue.
“I? Oh, that’s quite impossible!” said Evan. And visions of leprosy, and Rose shrinking her skirts from contact with him, shadowed out and away in his mind.
“Understand your choice!” Mrs. Mel imperiously spoke. “What are brains given you for? To be played the fool with by idiots and women? You have 5000l. to pay to save your father from being called a rogue. You can only make the money in one way, which is open to you. This business might produce a thousand pounds a-year and more. In seven or eight years you may clear your father’s name, and live better all the time than many of your bankrupt gentlemen. You have told the creditors you will pay them. Do you think they’re gaping fools, to be satisfied by a History of Portugal? If you refuse to take the business at once, they will sell me up, and quite right too. Understand your choice. There’s Mr. Goren has promised to have you in London a couple of months, and teach you what he can. He is a kind friend. Would any of your gentlemen acquaintance do the like for you? Understand your choice. You will be a beggar—the son of a rogue—or an honest man who has cleared his father’s name!”
During this strenuously-uttered allocution, Mrs. Mel, though her chest heaved but faintly against her crossed hands, showed by the dilation of her eyes, and the light in them, that she felt her words. There is that in the aspect of a fine frame breathing hard facts, which, to a youth who has been tumbled headlong from his card-castles and airy fabrics, is masterful, and like the pressure of a Fate. Evan drooped his head.
“Now,” said Mrs. Mel, “you shall have some supper.”
Evan told her he could not eat.
“I insist upon your eating,” said Mrs. Mel; “empty stomachs are foul counsellors.”
“Mother! do you want to drive me mad?” cried Evan.
She looked at him to see whether the string she held him by would bear this slight additional strain: decided not to press a small point. “Then go to bed and sleep on it,” she said—sure of him—and gave her cheek for his kiss, for she never performed the operation, but kept her mouth, as she remarked, for food and speech, and not for slobbering mummeries.
Evan returned to his solitary room. He sat on the bed and tried to think, oppressed by horrible sensations of self-contempt, that caused whatever he touched to sicken him.
There were the Douglas and the Percy on the wall. It was a happy and a glorious time, was it not, when men lent each other blows that killed outright; when to be brave and cherish noble feelings brought honour; when strength of arm and steadiness of heart won fortune; when the fair stars of earth—sweet women—wakened and warmed the love of squires of low degree. This legacy of the dead man’s hand! Evan would have paid it with his blood; but to be in bondage all his days to it; through it to lose all that was dear to him; to wear the length of a loathed existence!—we should pardon a young man’s wretchedness at the prospect, for it was in a time before our joyful era of universal equality. Yet he never cast a shade of blame upon his father.
The hours moved on, and he found himself staring at his small candle, which struggled more and more faintly with the morning light, like his own flickering ambition against the facts of life.
(To be continued.)