Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/449

436 descend on Evan. “Don’t understand,” he observed, removing his cigar, and swinging round carelessly.

“I’ll assist your intelligence,” said Evan. “You must go, or I will: if I go I will wait for you.”

“Wait for me?”

“Which implies that I intend to call you to account for your very silly conduct, and that you shall not escape it.”

Laxley vented an impatient exclamation, and seeming to command a fit of anger by an effort of common sense, muttered some words, among which Evan heard, “Appeal to a magistrate;” and catching at the clue, a cloud came over his reason.

“You will appeal to a magistrate if a man beneath your own rank horsewhips you? You will be famous, Mr. Laxley! But remember, I give you a chance of saving your reputation by offering you first the weapons of gentlemen.”

“Of gentlemen!” returned Laxley, who, in spite of the passion arising within him, could not forbear the enjoyment of his old advantage.

“And,” continued Evan, “I will do this for the sake of the honour of your family. I will speak to the Duke and two or three others here to get them to bring you to a sense of what is due to your name, before I proceed to ulterior measures.”

Laxley’s eyes grew heavy with blood. The sarcasm was just on a level with his wits, but above his poor efforts at a retort.

“What gentleman fights tailors?” was so very poor and weakly uttered, that Evan in his rage could laugh at it; and the laughter convinced Laxley that his ground was untenable. He, of all others, was in reality the last to suspect Evan of having spoken truth that night in Fallowfield; otherwise would he have condescended to overt hostility, small jealousies, and the shadows of hatred?

“You really would not object to fight a gentleman?” said Evan.

Laxley flung down his cigar. “By Jove! as a gentleman you owe it me—you shall fight me.”

“I thank you,” said Evan. “You require the assurance? I give it you. Now, will you tell me what you propose to do?”

A shout of derision interrupted the closing of the pretty quarrel. It had been seen by two or three on the lawn that a matter was in hand between the youths. Drummond stood by, and Harry Jocelyn pitched against them, clapping them both on the shoulders.

“Thought you’d be on to each other before the day was over, you pair of bantam-cocks! Welcome the peacemaker. Out with your paw, Harrington—Ferdinand, be magnanimous, my man.”

Harry caught hold of their hands.

At this moment the Duke, holding Mrs. Strike in conversation, hove in sight. The impropriety of an open squabble became evident. Laxley sauntered off, and Evan went to meet his sister. Drummond returned laughing to the side of Mrs. Evremonde, nearing whom, the Countess, while one ear was being filled by Harry’s eulogy of her brother’s recent handling of Laxley, and while her intense gratification at the success of her patient management of her most difficult subject made her smiles no mask, heard, “Is it not impossible to suppose such a thing?” A hush ensued—the Countess passed.

Harry continued the praises that won him special condescension from the fascinating dame:

“Harrington’s a cunning dog! he measures his man before he comes to close quarters. He—"

“What English you talk! ‘Measures his man! ” interposed the Countess, in a short-breathed whisper. Before she spoke she had caught an inexplicable humorous gleam travelling over Drummond’s features: at which her star reddened and beamed ominously on her. She had seen something like it once or twice in company—she had thought it habitual with him: now, and because she could not forget it, the peculiar look interpreted Mrs. Evremonde’s simple words in the Countess’s suspicions nature. She drew Harry, nothing loth, from the lawn to the park, and paid him well for what he knew of the private histories of Mrs. Evremonde and Drummond Forth.

In the afternoon the Jocelyns, William Harvey, and Drummond met together to consult about arranging the dispute; and deputations went to Laxley and to Evan. The former was the least difficult to deal with. He demanded an apology for certain expressions that day; and an equivalent to an admission that Mr. Harrington had said, in Fallowfield, that he was not a gentleman, in order to escape the consequences. All the Jocelyns laughed at his tenacity, and “gentleman” began to be bandied about in ridicule of the arrogant lean-headed adolescent. They paid Evan the compliment of appealing to his common sense, and Evan was now cool: for which reason he resolved that he would have all that his hot blood had precipitated him to forfeit he knew how much for; in other words, he insisted upon the value for his lie.

“I bear much up to a certain point,” he said; “beyond it I allow no one to step.”

It sounded well. Though Harry Jocelyn cried, “Oh, humbug!” he respected the man who held such cavalier principles.

Drummond alone seemed to understand the case. He said (and his words were carried faithfully to the Countess by her dog): “Harrington has been compelled by Laxley to say he’s a gentleman. He can’t possibly retract it without injuring his ancestors. Don’t you comprehend his dilemma? You must get Ferdinand to advance a step closer.”

Ferdinand refused; and the men acknowledged themselves at a dead lock, and had recourse to the genius of the women. Lady Jocelyn enjoyed the fun, and still more the serious way in which her brothers-in-law regarded it.

“This comes of Rose having friends, Emily,” said Mrs. Shorne.

The Countess heard that Miss Carrington added: “People one knows nothing about!” and the Countess smiled wickedly, for she knew something about Miss Carrington.

There would have been a dispute to arrange between Lady Jocelyn and Mrs. Shorne, had not her ladyship been so firmly established in her