Page:ONCE A WEEK JUL TO DEC 1860.pdf/12

4 he cannot bear worry—but I must say, that if you do not listen to me, he must be spoken to.”

“Why not mama?”

“I should naturally select my brother first. No doubt you understand me.”

“Any distant allusion to Mr. Harrington?”

“Pertness will not avail you, Rose.”

“So you want me to do secretly what I am doing openly?”

“You must and shall remember you are a Jocelyn, Rose.”

“Only half, my dear aunt.”

“And by birth a lady, Rose.”

“And I ought to look under my eyes, and blush, and shrink, whenever I come near a gentleman, aunt!”

“Ah! my dear. No doubt you will do what is most telling. Since you have spoken of this Mr. Harrington, I must inform you that I have it on certain authority from two or three sources, that he is the son of a small shopkeeper at Lymport.”

Mrs. Shorne watched the effect she had produced.

“Indeed, aunt?” cried Rose. “And do you know this to be true?”

“So when you talk of gentlemen, Rose, please be careful whom you include.”

“I mustn’t include poor Mr. Harrington? Then my grandpapa Bonner is out of the list, and such numbers of good, worthy men?”

Mrs. Shorne understood the hit at the defunct manufacturer. She said: “You must most distinctly give me your promise, while this young adventurer remains here—I think it will not be long—not to be compromising yourself further, as you now do. Or—indeed I must—I shall let your parents perceive that such conduct is ruin to a young girl in your position, and certainly you will be sent to Elburne House for the winter.”

Rose lifted her hands, crying: “Ye Gods!—as Harry says. But I’m very much obliged to you, my dear aunt. Concerning Mr. Harrington, wonderfully obliged. Son of a small! Is it a t-t-tailor, aunt?”

“It is—I have heard.”

“And that is much worse. Cloth is viler than cotton! And don’t they call these creatures sn-snips? Some word of that sort?”

“It makes little difference what they are called.”

“Well, aunt, I sincerely thank you. As this subject seems to interest you, go and see mama, now. She can tell you a great deal more; and, if you want her authority, come back to me.”

Rose then left her aunt in a state of extreme indignation. It was a clever move to send Mrs. Shorne to Lady Jocelyn. They were antagonistic, and rational as Lady Jocelyn was, and with her passions under control, she was unlikely to side with Mrs. Shorne.

Now Rose had fought against herself, and had, as she thought, conquered. In Portugal Evan’s half insinuations had given her small suspicions, which the scene on board the Jocasta had half confirmed: and since she came to communicate with her own mind, she bore the attack of all that rose against him, bit by bit. She had not been too blind to see the unpleasantness of the fresh facts revealed to her. They did not change her; on the contrary, drew her to him faster—and she thought she had completely conquered whatever could rise against him. But when Juliana Bonner told her that day that Evan was not only the son of the thing, but the thing himself, and that his name could be seen any day in Lymport, and that he had come from the shop to Beckley, poor Rosey had a sick feeling that almost sank her. For a moment she looked back wildly to the doors of retreat. Her eyes had to feed on Evan, she had to taste some of the luxury of love, before she could gain composure, and then her arrogance towards those she called her enemies did not quite return.

“In that letter you told me all—all—all, Evan?”

“Yes, all—religiously.”

“Oh, why did I miss it!”

“Would it give you pleasure?”

She feared to speak, being tender as a mother to his sensitiveness. The expressive action of her eyebrows sufficed. She could not bear concealment, or doubt, or a shadow of dishonesty; and he, gaining force of soul to join with hers, took her hands and related the contents of the letter fully. She was pale when he had finished. It was some time before she was able to get free from the trammels of prejudice, but when she did, she did without reserve, saying: “Evan, there is no man who would have done so much.” and he was told that he was better loved than ever. These little exaltations and generosities bind lovers tightly. He accepted the credit she gave him, and at that we need not wonder. It helped him further to accept herself, otherwise could he—with his name known to be on a shop-front—have aspired to her still? But, as an unexampled man, princely in soul, as he felt, why, he might kneel to Rose Jocelyn. So they listened to one another, and blinded the world by putting bandages on their eyes, after the fashion of little boys and girls.

Meantime the fair being who had brought these two from the ends of the social scale into this happy tangle, the beneficent Countess, was wretched. When you are in the enemy’s country you are dependent on the activity and zeal of your spies and scouts, and the best of these—Polly Wheedle, to wit—had proved defective, recalcitrant even. And because a letter had been lost in her room! as the Countess exclaimed to herself, though Polly gave her no reasons. The Countess had, therefore, to rely chiefly upon personal observation, upon her intuitions, upon her sensations in the proximity of the people to whom she was opposed; and from these she gathered that she was, to use the word which seemed fitting to her, betrayed. Still to be sweet, still to smile and to amuse,—still to give her zealous attention to the business of the diplomatist’s election, still to go through her church-services devoutly, required heroism; she was equal to it, for she had remarkable courage; but it was hard to feel no longer one with Providence. Had not Providence suggested Sir Abraham to her? killed him off at the right moment in aid of her? And now Providence had turned, and the assistance she had formerly