Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/192

 25, 1860.] duties will soon be over for the season,” he added, aloud; pursuing, in an under breath: “Going down to-night, Van?”

“He is to be buried to-morrow,” said Evan.

“Then, of course, you go. Yes: quite right. Love your father and mother! always love your father and mother! Old Tom and I never knew ours. Tom’s quite well—same as ever. I’ll,” he rang the bell, “have my chop in here with you. You must try and eat a bit, Van. Here we are, and there we go. Old Tom’s wandering for one of his weeks. You’ll see him some day, Van. He ain’t like me. No dinner to-day, I suppose, Charles?”

This was addressed to the footman. He announced: “Dinner to-day at half-past six, as usual, sir,” bowed, and retired.

Mr. Andrew pored on the floor, and rubbed his hair back on his head. “An odd world!” was his remark.

Evan lifted up his face to sigh: “I’m almost sick of it!”

“Damn appearances!” cried Mr. Andrew, jumping on his legs.

The action cooled him.

“I’m sorry I swore,” he said. “Bad habit! The Major’s here—you know that?” and he assumed the Major’s voice, and strutted in imitation of the stalwart marine. “Major—a—Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned from China! covered with glory!—a hero, Van! We can’t expect him to be much of a mourner, Van. And we shan’t have him to dine with us to-day—that’s something.” He sunk his voice: “I hope the widow’ll bear it.”

“I hope to God my mother is well!” Evan groaned.

“That’ll do,” said Mr. Andrew. “Don’t say any more.”

As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.

A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them. He returned after some minutes.

“How do you think Harriet’s looking?” asked Mr. Andrew. And, not waiting for an answer, whispered, “Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?”

Evan’s brow was dark, as he replied: “They are not decided.”

“Won’t Harriet go?”

“She is not going—she thinks not.”

“And the Countess—Louisa’s up-stairs, eh?—will she go?”

“She cannot leave the Count—she thinks not.”

“Won’t Caroline go? Caroline can go. She—he—I mean—Caroline can go?”

“The Major objects. She wishes to.”

Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, “the Major!”—a compromise for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in an explosion against appearances.

“I’m a brewer, Van. Do you think I’m ashamed of it? Not while I brew good beer, my boy!—not while I brew good beer! They don’t think worse of me in the House for it. It isn’t ungentlemanly to brew good beer, Van. But what’s the use of talking?”

Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, “Poor girl! poor girl!”

The allusion was to his wife; for presently he said: “I can’t see why Harriet can’t go. What’s to prevent her?”

Evan gazed at him steadily. Death’s levelling influence was in Evan’s mind. He was ready to say why, and fully.

Mr. Andrew arrested him with a sharp “Never mind! Harriet does as she likes. I’m accustomed to—hem!—what she does is best, after all. She doesn’t interfere with my business, nor I with hers. Man and wife.”

Pausing a moment or so, Mr. Andrew intimated that they had better be dressing for dinner. With his hand on the door, which he kept closed, he said, in a business-like way, “You know, Van, as for me, I should be very willing—only too happy—to go down and pay all the respect I could.” He became confused, and shot his head from side to side, looking anywhere but at Evan. “Happy now and to-morrow, to do anything in my power, if Harriet—follow the funeral—one of the family—anything I could do: but—a—we’d better be dressing for dinner.” And out the enigmatic little man went.

Evan partly divined him then. But at dinner his behaviour was perplexing. He was too cheerful. He pledged the Count. He would have the Portuguese for this and that, and make Anglican efforts to repeat it, and laugh at his failures. He would not see that there was a father dead. At a table of actors, Mr. Andrew overdid his part, and was the worst. His wife could not help thinking him a heartless little man.

The poor show had its term. The ladies fled to the boudoir sacred to grief. Evan was whispered that he was to join them when he might, without seeming mysterious to the Count. Before he reached them, they had talked tearfully over the clothes he should wear at Lymport, agreeing that his present foreign apparel, being black, would be suitable, and would serve almost as disguise, to the inhabitants at large; and as Evan had no English wear, and there was no time to procure any for him, that was well. They arranged exactly how long he should stay at Lymport, whom he should visit, the manner he should adopt towards the different inhabitants. By all means he was to avoid the approach of the gentry. For hours Evan, in a trance, half stupefied, had to listen to the Countess’s directions how he was to comport himself in Lymport.

“Show that you have descended among them, dear Van, but are not of them. You have come to pay the last mortal duties, which they will respect, if they are not brutes, and attempt no familiarities. Allow none: gently, but firmly. Imitate Silva. You remember, at Doña Risbonda’s ball? When he met the Comte de Dartigues, and knew he was to be in disgrace with his Court on the morrow? Oh! the exquisite shade of difference in Silva’s behaviour towards the Comte. So finely, delicately perceptible to the Comte, and not a soul saw it but that wretched Frenchman! He came to me ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘is a question permitted?’ I replied, ‘As many as you please, M. le Comte, but no answers promised.’ He said: