Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/258

17, 1860.] There was a wider intelligence in the Countess’s arrested gaze than she chose to fashion into speech.

“I knew,” she said, “I knew how the air of this horrible Lymport would act on you. But while I live, Evan, you shall not sink in the sludge. You, with all the pains I have lavished on you! and with your presence!—for you have a presence—so rare among young men in this England! You, who have been to a Court, and interchanged bows with duchesses, and I know not what besides—nay, I do not accuse you; but if you had not been a mere boy, and an English boy—poor Eugenia herself confessed to me that you had a look—a tender cleaving of the underlids—that made her catch her hand to her heart sometimes: it reminded her so acutely of false Belmaraña. Could you have had a greater compliment than that? You shall not stop here another day!”

“True,” said Evan, “for I’m going to London to-night.”

“Not to London,” the Countess returned, with a conquering glance, “but to Beckley Court—and with me.”

“To London, Louisa, with Mr. Goren.”

Again the Countess eyed him largely; but took, as it were, a side-path from her broad thought, saying: “Yes, fortunes are made in London, if you would they should be rapid.”

She meditated. At that moment Dandy knocked at the door, and called outside: “Please, master, Mr. Goren says there’s a gentleman in the shop—wants to see you.”

“Very well,” replied Evan, moving. He was swung violently round.

The Countess had clutched him by the arm. A fearful expression was on her face.

“Whither do you go?” she said.

“To the shop, Louisa.”

Too late to arrest the villanous word, she pulled at him. “Are you quite insane? Consent to be seen by a gentleman there? What has come to you? You must be lunatic! Are we all to be utterly ruined—disgraced?”

“Is my mother to starve?” said Evan.

“Absurd rejoinder! No! You should have sold everything here before this. She can live with Harriet—she—once out of this horrible element—she would not show it. But, Evan, you are getting away from me: you are not going?—speak!”

“I am going,” said Evan.

The Countess clung to him, exclaiming: “Never, while I have the power to detain you!” but as he was firm and strong, she had recourse to her woman’s aids, and burst into a storm of sobs on his shoulder—a scene of which Mrs. Mel was, for some seconds, a composed spectator.

“What’s the matter now?” said Mrs. Mel.

Evan impatiently explained the case. Mrs. Mel desired her daughter to avoid being ridiculous, and making two fools in her family; and at the same time that she told Evan there was no occasion for him to go, contrived, with a look, to make the advice a command. He, in that state of mind when one takes bitter delight in doing an abhorred duty, was hardly willing to be submissive; but the despair of the Countess reduced him, and for her sake he consented to forego the sacrifice of his pride which was now his sad, sole pleasure. Feeling him linger, the Countess relaxed her grasp. Hers were tears that dried as soon as they had served their end; and, to give him the full benefit of his conduct, she said: “I knew Evan would be persuaded by me.”

Evan pitifully pressed her hand, and sighed.

“Tea is on the table down-stairs,” said Mrs. Mel. “I have cooked something for you, Louisa. Do you sleep here to-night!”

“Can I tell you, Mamma!” murmured the Countess. “I am dependent on our Evan.”

“Oh! well, we will eat first,” said Mrs. Mel, and they went to the table below, the Countess begging her mother to drop titles in designating her to the servants, which caused Mrs. Mel to say:

“There is but one. I do the cooking,” and the Countess, ever disposed to flatter, and be suave, even when stung by a fact or a phrase, added:

“And a beautiful cook you used to be, dear Mamma!”

At the table, awaiting them, sat Mrs. Wishaw, Mrs. Fiske, and Mr. Goren, who soon found themselves enveloped in the Countess’s graciousness. Mr. Goren would talk of trade, and compare Lymport business with London, and the Countess, loftily interested in his remarks, drew him out to disgust her brother. Mrs. Wishaw, in whom the Countess at once discovered a frivolous pretentious woman of the moneyed trading class, she treated as one who was alive to society, and surveyed matters from a station in the world, leading her think that she tolerated Mr. Goren, as a lady-Christian of the highest rank should tolerate the insects that toil for us. Mrs. Fiske was not so tractable, for Mrs. Fiske was hostile and armed. Mrs. Fiske adored the great Mel, and she had never loved Louisa. Hence, she scorned Louisa on account of her late behaviour towards her dead parent. The Countess saw through her, and laboured to be friendly with her, while she rendered her disagreeable in the eyes of Mrs. Wishaw, and let Mrs. Wishaw perceive that sympathy was possible between them;—manœuvring a trifle too delicate, perhaps, for the people present, but sufficient to blind its keen-witted author to the something that was being concealed from herself, of which something, nevertheless, her senses apprehensively warned her; and they might have spoken to her wits, but that mortals cannot, unaided, guess, or will not, unless struck in the face by the fact, credit, what is to their minds the last horror.

“I came down in the coach, quite accidental, with this gentleman,” said Mrs. Wishaw, fanning a cheek and nodding at Mr. Goren. “I’m an old flame of dear Mel’s. I knew him when he was an apprentice in London. Now, wasn’t it odd? Your mother—I suppose I must call you ‘my lady? ”

The Countess breathed a tender “spare me,” with a smile that added, “among friends!”

Mrs. Wishaw resumed: “Your mother was an old flame of this gentleman’s, I found out. So there were two old flames, and I couldn’t help