Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/450

12, 1860.] phlegmatic philosophy. She said: “Quelle enfantillage! I dare say Rose was at the bottom of it: she can settle it best.”

“Indeed, Emily,” said Mrs. Shorne, “I desire you, by all possible means, to keep the occurrence secret from Rose. She ought not to hear of it.”

“No; I dare say she ought not,” returned Lady Jocelyn; “but I wager you she does. You can teach her to pretend not to, if you like. Ecce signum.”

Her ladyship pointed through the library window at Rose, who was walking with Laxley, and showing him her pearly teeth in return for one of his jokes: an exchange so manifestly unfair, that Lady Jocelyn’s womanhood, indifferent as she was, could not but feel that Rose had an object in view; which was true, for she was flattering Laxley into a consent to meet Evan half way.

The ladies murmured and hummed of these proceedings and of Rose’s familiarity with Mr. Harrington; and the Countess in trepidation took Evan to herself and spoke to him seriously; a thing she had not done since her residence in Beckley. She let him see that he must be on a friendly footing with everybody in the house, or go: which latter alternative Evan told her he had decided on.

“Yes,” said the Countess, “and then you give people full warrant to say it was jealousy drove you hence; and you do but extinguish yourself to implicate dear Rose. In love, Evan, when you run away, you don’t live to fight another day.”

She was commanded not to speak of love.

“Whatever it may be, my dear,” said the Countess, “Mr. Laxley has used you ill. It may be that you put yourself at his feet;” and his sister looked at him, sighing a great sigh. She had, with violence, stayed her mouth concerning what she knew of the Fallowfield business, dreading to alarm Evan’s sensitiveness; but she could not avoid giving him a little slap. It was only to make him remember by the smart that he must always suffer when he would not be guided by her.

Evan professed to the Jocelyns that he was willing to apologise to Laxley for certain expressions; determining to leave the house when he had done it. The Countess heard and nodded. The young men, sounded on both sides, were accordingly lured to the billiard-room, and pushed together: and when he had succeeded in thrusting the idea of Rose from the dispute, it did seem such folly to Evan’s common sense that he spoke with pleasant bonhommie about it; saying, as he shook Laxley’s hand: “Is this my certificate of admission into your ranks?”

Laxley thought it sufficient to reply that he was quite satisfied; which, considering the occasion, and his position in life, was equal to a repartee.

Then Evan, to wind up the affair good-humouredly, said:

“It would be better if gentlemen were to combine to put an end to the blackguards, I fancy. They’re not too many, for them to begin killing each other yet;” and Seymour Jocelyn for the sake of conviviality, said: ’Gad, a good idea!” and Harry called Evan a trump, and Laxley, who had even less relish for commerce in ideas than in cloths, began to whistle and look distressfully easy.

It will not be thought that the Countess intended to permit her brother’s departure. To have toiled, and yet more, to have lied and fretted her conscience, for nothing, was as little her principle, as to quit the field of action till she is forcibly driven from it is that of any woman.

“Going, my dear?” she said coolly. “To-morrow? Oh! very well. You are the judge. And this creature—the insolvent to the apple-woman, who is coming, whom you would push here—will expose us, without a soul to guide his conduct, for I shall not remain. And Carry will not remain. Carry!” The Countess gave a semi-sob, “Carry must return to her brute”—meaning the gallant Marine, her possessor.

And the Countess, knowing that Evan loved his sister Caroline, incidentally related to him an episode in the domestic life of Major and Mrs. Strike.

“Greatly redounding to the credit of the noble martinet for the discipline he upholds,” the Countess said, smiling at the stunned youth.

“I would advise you to give her time to recover from one bruise,” she added. “You will do as it pleases you.”

Evan was sent rushing from the Countess to Caroline, with whom the Countess was content to leave him.

The young man was daintily managed. Caroline asked him to stay, as she did not see him often, and (she brought it in at the close) her home was not very happy. She did not entreat him, but looking resigned, her lovely face conjured up the Major to Evan, and he thought, “Can I drive her back to him?”

Andrew, too, threw out genial hints about the brewery. Old Tom intended to retire, he said, and then they would see what they would see! He silenced every word about Lymport; called him a brewer already, and made absurd jokes, that were nevertheless serviceable stuff to the Countess, who deplored to this one and to that the chance existing that Evan might, by the urgent solicitations of his brother-in-law, give up diplomacy and its honours for a brewery and lucre!

Of course Evan knew that he was managed. The memoirs of a managed man have yet to be written; but if he be honest he will tell you that he knew it all the time. He longed for the sugar-plum; he knew it was naughty to take it: he dared not for fear of the devil, and he shut his eyes while somebody else popped it into his mouth, and assumed his responsibility. Being man-driven or chicaned, is different from being managed. Being managed implies being led the way this other person thinks you should go: altogether for your own benefit, mind: you are to see with her eyes, that you may not disappoint your own appetites: which does not hurt the flesh, certainly; but does damage the conscience; and from the moment you have once succumbed, that function ceases to perform its office of moral strainer so well.

After all, was he not happier when he wrote himself tailor, than when he declared himself gentleman?

So he thought, till Rose, wishing him “Good