CHAPTER IX

THE COUNTESS IN LOW SOCIETY

By dint of stratagems worthy of a Court intrigue, the Countess de Saldar

contrived to traverse the streets of Lymport, and enter the house where

she was born, unsuspected and unseen, under cover of a profusion of lace

and veil and mantilla, which only her heroic resolve to keep her beauties

hidden from the profane townspeople could have rendered endurable beneath

the fervid summer sun. Dress in a foreign style she must, as without it

she lost that sense of superiority, which was the only comfort to her in

her tribulations. The period of her arrival was ten days subsequent to

the burial of her father. She had come in the coach, like any common

mortal, and the coachman, upon her request, had put her down at the

Governor's house, and the guard had knocked at the door, and the servant

had informed her that General Hucklebridge was not the governor of

Lymport, nor did Admiral Combleman then reside in the town; which

tidings, the coach then being out of sight, it did not disconcert the

Countess to hear; and she reached her mother, having, at least, cut off

communication with the object of conveyance.

The Countess kissed her mother, kissed Mrs. Fiske, and asked sharply for

Evan. Mrs. Fiske let her know that Evan was in the house.

'Where?' inquired the Countess. 'I have news of the utmost importance for

him. I must see him.'

'Where is he, aunt?' said Mrs. Fiske. 'In the shop, I think; I wonder he

did not see you passing, Louisa.'

The Countess went bolt down into a chair.

'Go to him, Jane,' said Mrs. Mel. 'Tell him Louisa is here, and don't

return.'

Mrs. Fiske departed, and the Countess smiled.

'Thank you, Mama! you know I never could bear that odious, vulgar little

woman. Oh, the heat! You talk of Portugal! And, oh! poor dear Papa! what

I have suffered!'

Flapping her laces for air, and wiping her eyes for sorrow, the Countess

poured a flood of sympathy into her mother's ears and then said:

'But you have made a great mistake, Mama, in allowing Evan to put his

foot into that place. He--beloved of an heiress! Why, if an enemy should

hear of it, it would ruin him--positively blast him--for ever. And that

she loves him I have proof positive. Yes; with all her frankness, the

little thing cannot conceal that from me now. She loves him! And I desire

you to guess, Mama, whether rivals will not abound? And what enemy so

much to be dreaded as a rival? And what revelation so awful as that he

has stood in a--in a--boutique?'

Mrs. Mel maintained her usual attitude for listening. It had occurred to

her that it might do no good to tell the grand lady, her daughter; of

Evan's resolution, so she simply said, 'It is discipline for him,' and

left her to speak a private word with the youth.

Timidly the Countess inspected the furniture of the apartment, taking

chills at the dingy articles she saw, in the midst of her heat. That she

should have sprung from this! The thought was painful; still she could

forgive Providence so much. But should it ever be known she had sprung

from this! Alas! she felt she never could pardon such a dire betrayal.

She had come in good spirits, but the mention of Evan's backsliding had

troubled her extremely, and though she did not say to herself, What was

the benefit resulting from her father's dying, if Evan would be so

base-minded? she thought the thing indefinitely, and was forming the

words on her mouth, One Harrington in a shop is equal to all! when Evan

appeared alone.

'Why, goodness gracious! where's your moustache?' cried the Countess.

'Gone the way of hair!' said Evan, coldly stooping to her forehead.

'Such a distinction!' the Countess continued, reproachfully. 'Why, mon

Dieu! one could hardly tell you; as you look now, from the very commonest

tradesman--if you were not rather handsome and something of a figure.

It's a disguise, Evan--do you know that?'

'And I 've parted with it--that 's all,' said Evan. 'No more disguises

for me!'

The Countess immediately took his arm, and walked with him to a window.

His face was certainly changed. Murmuring that the air of Lymport was bad

for him, and that he must leave it instantly, she bade him sit and attend

to what she was about to say.

While you have been here, degenerating, Evan, day by day--as you always

do out of my sight--degenerating! no less a word!--I have been slaving in

your interests. Yes; I have forced the Jocelyns socially to acknowledge

us. I have not slept; I have eaten bare morsels. Do abstinence and vigils

clear the wits? I know not! but indeed they have enabled me to do more in

a week than would suffice for a lifetime. Hark to me. I have discovered

Rose's secret. Si! It is so! Rose loves you. You blush; you blush like a

girl. She loves you, and you have let yourself be seen in a shop!

Contrast me the two things. Oh! in verity, dreadful as it is, one could

almost laugh. But the moment I lose sight of you, my instructions vanish

as quickly as that hair on your superior lip, which took such time to

perfect. Alas! you must grow it again immediately. Use any perfumer's

contrivance. Rowland! I have great faith in Rowland. Without him, I

believe, there would have been many bald women committing suicide! You

remember the bottle I gave to the Count de Villa Flor? "Countess," he

said to me, "you have saved this egg-shell from a crack by helping to

cover it"--for so he called his head--the top, you know, was beginning to

shine like an egg. And I do fear me he would have done it. Ah! you do not

conceive what the dread of baldness is! To a woman death--death is

preferable to baldness! Baldness is death! And a wig--a wig! Oh, horror!

total extinction is better than to rise again in a wig! But you are

young, and play with hair. But I was saying, I went to see the Jocelyns.

I was introduced to Sir Franks and his lady and the wealthy grandmother.

And I have an invitation for you, Evan--you unmannered boy, that you do

not bow! A gentle incline forward of the shoulders, and the eyes fixed

softly, your upper lids drooping triflingly, as if you thanked with

gentle sincerity, but were indifferent. Well, well, if you will not! An

invitation for you to spend part of the autumn at Beckley Court, the

ancestral domain, where there will be company the nobles of the land!

Consider that. You say it was bold in me to face them after that horrible

man committed us on board the vessel? A Harrington is anything but a

coward. I did go and because I am devoted to your interests. That very

morning, I saw announced in the paper, just beneath poor Andrew's hand,

as he held it up at the breakfast-table, reading it, I saw among the

deaths, Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay, Baronet, of quinsy! Twice

that good man has come to my rescue! Oh! I welcomed him as a piece of

Providence! I turned and said to Harriet, "I see they have put poor Papa

in the paper." Harriet was staggered. I took the paper from Andrew, and

pointed it to her. She has no readiness. She has had no foreign training.

She could not comprehend, and Andrew stood on tiptoe, and peeped. He has

a bad cough, and coughed himself black in the face. I attribute it to

excessive bad manners and his cold feelings. He left the room. I

reproached Harriet. But, oh! the singularity of the excellent fortune of

such an event at such a time! It showed that our Harrington-luck had not

forsaken us. I hurried to the Jocelyns instantly. Of course, it cleared

away any suspicions aroused in them by that horrible man on board the

vessel. And the tears I wept for Sir Abraham, Evan, in verity they were

tears of deep and sincere gratitude! What is your mouth knitting the

corners at? Are you laughing?'

Evan hastily composed his visage to the melancholy that was no

counterfeit in him just then.

'Yes,' continued the Countess, easily reassured, 'I shall ever feel a

debt to Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay. I dare say we are related to

him. At least he has done us more service than many a rich and titled

relative. No one supposes he would acknowledge poor Papa. I can forgive

him that, Evan!' The Countess pointed out her finger with mournful and

impressive majesty, 'As we look down on that monkey, people of rank and

consideration in society look on what poor dear Papa was.'

This was partly true, for Jacko sat on a chair, in his favourite

attitude, copied accurately from the workmen of the establishment at

their labour with needle and thread. Growing cognizant of the infamy of

his posture, the Countess begged Evan to drive him out of her sight, and

took a sniff at her smelling-bottle.

She went on: 'Now, dear Van, you would hear of your sweet Rose?'

'Not a word!' Evan hastily answered.

'Why, what does this indicate? Whims! Then you do love?'

'I tell you, Louisa, I don't want to hear a word of any of them,' said

Evan, with an angry gleam in his eyes. 'They are nothing to me, nor I to

them. I--my walk in life is not theirs.'

'Faint heart! faint heart!' the Countess lifted a proverbial forefinger.

'Thank heaven, I shall have the consolation of not going about, and

bowing and smirking like an impostor!' Evan exclaimed.

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 Belmarafa. 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, Mama?' 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 Mama!'

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 to 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 toward 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;

manoeuvring 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 thinking!

But I was so glad to have seen dear Mel once more:

'Ah!' sighed the Countess.

'He was always a martial-looking man, and laid out, he was quite

imposing. I declare, I cried so, as it reminded me of when I couldn't

have him, for he had nothing but his legs and arms--and I married Wishaw.

But it's a comfort to think I have been of some service to dear, dear

Mel! for Wishaw 's a man of accounts and payments; and I knew Mel had

cloth from him, and, the lady suggested bills delayed, with two or three

nods, 'you know! and I'll do my best for his son.'

'You are kind,' said the Countess, smiling internally at the vulgar

creature's misconception of Evan's requirements.

'Did he ever talk much about Mary Fence?' asked Mrs. Wishaw. '"Polly

Fence," he used to say, "sweet Polly Fence!"'

'Oh! I think so. Frequently,' observed the Countess.

Mrs. Fiske primmed her mouth. She had never heard the great Mel allude to

the name of Fence.

The Goren-croak was heard

'Painters have painted out "Melchisedec" this afternoon. Yes,--ah! In and

out-as the saying goes.'

Here was an opportunity to mortify the Countess.

Mrs. Fiske placidly remarked: 'Have we the other put up in its stead? It

's shorter.'

A twinge of weakness had made Evan request that the name of Evan

Harrington should not decorate the shopfront till he had turned his back

on it, for a time. Mrs. Mel crushed her venomous niece.

'What have you to do with such things? Shine in your own affairs first,

Ann, before you meddle with others.'

Relieved at hearing that 'Melchisedec' was painted out, and unsuspicious

of the announcement that should replace it, the Countess asked Mrs.

Wishaw if she thought Evan like her dear Papa.

'So like,' returned the lady, 'that I would not be alone with him yet,

for worlds. I should expect him to be making love to me: for, you know,

my dear--I must be familiar--Mel never could be alone with you, without!

It was his nature. I speak of him before marriage. But, if I can trust

myself with him, I shall take charge of Mr. Evan, and show him some

London society.'

'That is indeed kind,' said the Countess, glad of a thick veil for the

utterance of her contempt. 'Evan, though--I fear--will be rather engaged.

His friends, the Jocelyns of Beckley Court, will--I fear--hardly dispense

with him and Lady Splenders--you know her? the Marchioness of Splenders?

No?--by repute, at least: a most beautiful and most fascinating woman;

report of him alone has induced her to say that Evan must and shall form

a part of her autumnal gathering at Splenders Castle. And how he is to

get out of it, I cannot tell. But I am sure his multitudinous engagements

will not prevent his paying due court to Mistress Wishaw.'

As the Countess intended, Mistress Wishaw's vanity was reproved, and her

ambition excited: a pretty doublestroke, only possible to dexterous

players.

The lady rejoined that she hoped so, she was sure; and forthwith (because

she suddenly seemed to possess him more than his son), launched upon

Mel's incomparable personal attractions. This caused the Countess to

enlarge upon Evan's vast personal prospects. They talked across each

other a little, till the Countess remembered her breeding, allowed Mrs.

Wishaw to run to an end in hollow exclamations, and put a finish to the

undeclared controversy, by a traverse of speech, as if she were taking up

the most important subject of their late colloquy. 'But Evan is not in

his own hands--he is in the hands of a lovely young woman, I must tell

you. He belongs to her, and not to us. You have heard of Rose Jocelyn,

the celebrated heiress?'

'Engaged?' Mrs. Wishaw whispered aloud.

The Countess, an adept in the lie implied--practised by her, that she

might not subject herself to future punishment (in which she was so

devout a believer, that she condemned whole hosts to it)--deeply smiled.

'Really!' said Mrs. Wishaw, and was about to inquire why Evan, with

these brilliant expectations, could think of trade and tailoring, when

the young man, whose forehead had been growing black, jumped up, and

quitted them; thus breaking the harmony of the table; and as the Countess

had said enough, she turned the conversation to the always welcome theme

of low society. She broached death and corpses; and became extremely

interesting, and very sympathetic: the only difference between the

ghostly anecdotes she related, and those of the other ladies, being that

her ghosts were all of them titled, and walked mostly under the burden of

a coronet. For instance, there was the Portuguese Marquis de Col. He had

married a Spanish wife, whose end was mysterious. Undressing, on the

night of the anniversary of her death, and on the point of getting into

bed, he beheld the dead woman lying on her back before him. All night

long he had to sleep with this freezing phantom! Regularly, every fresh

anniversary, he had to endure the same penance, no matter where he might

be, or in what strange bed. On one occasion, when he took the live for

the dead, a curious thing occurred, which the Countess scrupled less to

relate than would men to hint at. Ghosts were the one childish enjoyment

Mrs. Mel allowed herself, and she listened to her daughter intently,

ready to cap any narrative; but Mrs. Fiske stopped the flood.

'You have improved on Peter Smithers, Louisa,' she said.

The Countess turned to her mildly.

'You are certainly thinking of Peter Smithers,' Mrs. Fiske continued,

bracing her shoulders. 'Surely, you remember poor Peter, Louisa? An old

flame of your own! He was going to kill himself, but married a Devonshire

woman, and they had disagreeables, and SHE died, and he was undressing,

and saw her there in the bed, and wouldn't get into it, and had the

mattress, and the curtains, and the counterpanes, and everything burnt.

He told us it himself. You must remember it, Louisa?'

The Countess remembered nothing of the sort. No doubt could exist of its

having been the Portuguese Marquis de Col, because he had confided to her

the whole affair, and indeed come to her, as his habit was, to ask her

what he could possibly do, under the circumstances. If Mrs. Fiske's

friend, who married the Devonshire person, had seen the same thing, the

coincidence was yet more extraordinary than the case. Mrs. Fiske said it

assuredly was, and glanced at her aunt, who, as the Countess now rose,

declaring she must speak to Evan, chid Mrs. Fiske, and wished her and

Peter Smithers at the bottom of the sea.

'No, no, Mama,' said the Countess, laughing, 'that would hardly be

proper,' and before Mrs. Fiske could reply, escaped to complain to Evan

of the vulgarity of those women.

She was not prepared for the burst of wrath with which Evan met her.

'Louisa,' said he, taking her wrist sternly, 'you have done a thing I

can't forgive. I find it hard to bear disgrace myself: I will not consent

to bring it upon others. Why did you dare to couple Miss Jocelyn's name

with mine?'

The Countess gave him out her arm's length. 'Speak on, Van,' she said,

admiring him with a bright gaze.

'Answer me, Louisa; and don't take me for a fool any more,' he pursued.

'You have coupled Miss Jocelyn's name with mine, in company, and I insist

now upon your giving me your promise to abstain from doing it anywhere,

before anybody.'

'If she saw you at this instant, Van,' returned the incorrigible

Countess, 'would she desire it, think you? Oh! I must make you angry

before her, I see that! You have your father's frown. You surpass him,

for your delivery is more correct, and equally fluent. And if a woman is

momentarily melted by softness in a man, she is for ever subdued by

boldness and bravery of mien.'

Evan dropped her hand. 'Miss Jocelyn has done me the honour to call me

her friend. That was in other days.' His lip quivered. 'I shall not see

Miss Jocelyn again. Yes; I would lay down my life for her; but that's

idle talk. No such chance will ever come to me. But I can save her from

being spoken of in alliance with me, and what I am, and I tell you,

Louisa, I will not have it.' Saying which, and while he looked harshly at

her, wounded pride bled through his eyes.

She was touched. 'Sit down, dear; I must explain to you, and make you

happy against your will,' she said, in another voice, and an English

accent. 'The mischief is done, Van. If you do not want Rose Jocelyn to

love you, you must undo it in your own way. I am not easily deceived. On

the morning I went to her house in town, she took me aside, and spoke to

me. Not a confession in words. The blood in her cheeks, when I mentioned

you, did that for her. Everything about you she must know--how you bore

your grief, and all. And not in her usual free manner, but timidly, as if

she feared a surprise, or feared to be wakened to the secret in her bosom

she half suspects--"Tell him!" she said, "I hope he will not forget me."'

The Countess was interrupted by a great sob; for the picture of frank

Rose Jocelyn changed, and soft, and, as it were, shadowed under a veil of

bashful regard for him, so filled the young man with sorrowful

tenderness, that he trembled, and was as a child.

Marking the impression she had produced on him, and having worn off that

which he had produced on her, the Countess resumed the art in her style

of speech, easier to her than nature.

'So the sweetest of Roses may be yours, dear Van; and you have her in a

gold setting, to wear on your heart. Are you not enviable? I will

not--no, I will not tell you she is perfect. I must fashion the sweet

young creature. Though I am very ready to admit that she is much improved

by this--shall I call it, desired consummation?'

Evan could listen no more. Such a struggle was rising in his breast: the

effort to quench what the Countess had so shrewdly kindled; passionate

desire to look on Rose but for one lightning flash: desire to look on

her, and muffled sense of shame twin-born with it: wild love and leaden

misery mixed: dead hopelessness and vivid hope. Up to the neck in

Purgatory, but his soul saturated with visions of Bliss! The fair orb of

Love was all that was wanted to complete his planetary state, and aloft

it sprang, showing many faint, fair tracts to him, and piling huge

darknesses.

As if in search of something, he suddenly went from the room.

'I have intoxicated the poor boy,' said the Countess, and consulted an

attitude by the evening light in a mirror. Approving the result, she rang

for her mother, and sat with her till dark; telling her she could not and

would not leave her dear Mama that night. At the supper-table Evan did

not appear, and Mr. Goren, after taking counsel of Mrs. Mel, dispersed

the news that Evan was off to London. On the road again, with a purse

just as ill-furnished, and in his breast the light that sometimes leads

gentlemen, as well as ladies, astray.