CHAPTER XXXVIII

IN WHICH WE HAVE TO SEE IN THE DARK

So ends the fourth act of our comedy.

After all her heroism and extraordinary efforts, after, as she feared,

offending Providence--after facing Tailordom--the Countess was rolled

away in a dingy fly unrewarded even by a penny, for what she had gone

through. For she possessed eminently the practical nature of her sex; and

though she would have scorned, and would have declined to handle coin so

base, its absence was upbraidingly mentioned in her spiritual outcries.

Not a penny!

Nor was there, as in the miseries of retreat she affected indifferently

to imagine, a Duke fished out of the ruins of her enterprise, to wash the

mud off her garments and edge them with radiance. Caroline, it became

clear to her, had been infected by Evan's folly. Caroline, she

subsequently learnt, had likewise been a fool. Instead of marvelling at

the genius that had done so much in spite of the pair of fools that were

the right and left wing of her battle array, the simple-minded lady wept.

She wanted success, not genius. Admiration she was ever ready to forfeit

for success.

Nor did she say to the tailors of earth: 'Weep, for I sought to

emancipate you from opprobrium by making one of you a gentleman; I fought

for a great principle and have failed.' Heroic to the end, she herself

shed all the tears; took all the sorrow.

Where was consolation? Would any Protestant clergyman administer comfort

to her? Could he? might he do so? He might listen, and quote texts; but

he would demand the harsh rude English for everything; and the Countess's

confessional thoughts were all innuendoish, aerial; too delicate to live

in our shameless tongue. Confession by implication, and absolution; she

could know this to be what she wished for, and yet not think it. She

could see a haven of peace in that picture of the little brown box with

the sleekly reverend figure bending his ear to the kneeling Beauty

outside, thrice ravishing as she half-lifts the veil of her sins and her

visage!--yet she started alarmed to hear it whispered that the fair

penitent was the Countess de Saldar; urgently she prayed that no

disgraceful brother might ever drive her to that!

Never let it be a Catholic priest!--she almost fashioned her petition

into words. Who was to save her? Alas! alas! in her dire distress--in her

sense of miserable pennilessness, she clung to Mr. John Raikes, of the

curricle, the mysteriously rich young gentleman; and on that picture,

with Andrew roguishly contemplating it, and Evan, with feelings regarding

his sister that he liked not to own, the curtain commiseratingly drops.

As in the course of a stream you come upon certain dips, where, but here

and there, a sparkle or a gloom of the full flowing water is caught

through deepening foliage, so the history that concerns us wanders out of

day for a time, and we must violate the post and open written leaves to

mark the turn it takes.

First we have a letter from Mr. Goren to Mrs. Mel, to inform her that her

son has arrived and paid his respects to his future instructor in the

branch of science practised by Mr. Goren.

'He has arrived at last,' says the worthy tradesman. 'His appearance in

the shop will be highly gentlemanly, and when he looks a little more

pleasing, and grows fond of it, nothing will be left to be desired. The

ladies, his sisters, have not thought proper to call. I had hopes of the

custom of Mr. Andrew Cogglesby. Of course you wish him to learn tailoring

thoroughly?'

Mrs. Mel writes back, thanking Mr. Goren, and saying that 'she had shown

the letter to inquiring creditors, and that she does wish her son to

learn his business from the root. This produces a second letter from Mr.

Goren, which imparts to her that at the root of the tree, of tailoring

the novitiate must sit no less than six hours a day with his legs crossed

and doubled under him, cheerfully plying needle and thread; and that,

without this probation, to undergo which the son resolutely objects, all

hope of his climbing to the top of the lofty tree, and viewing mankind

from an eminence, must be surrendered.

'If you do not insist, my dear Mrs. Harrington, I tell you candidly, your

son may have a shop, but he will be no tailor.'

Mrs. Mel understands her son and his state of mind well enough not to

insist, and is resigned to the melancholy consequence.

Then Mr. Goren discovers an extraordinary resemblance between Evan and

his father: remarking merely that the youth is not the gentleman his

father was in a shop, while he admits, that had it been conjoined to

business habits, he should have envied his departed friend.

He has soon something fresh to tell; and it is that young Mr. Harrington

is treating him cavalierly. That he should penetrate the idea or

appreciate the merits of Mr. Goren's Balance was hardly to be expected at

present: the world did not, and Mr. Goren blamed no young man for his

ignorance. Still a proper attendance was requisite. Mr. Goren thought it

very singular that young Mr. Harrington should demand all the hours of

the day for his own purposes, up to half-past four. He found it difficult

to speak to him as a master, and begged that Mrs. Harrington would, as a

mother.

The reply of Mrs. Mel is dashed with a trifle of cajolery. She has heard

from her son, and seeing that her son takes all that time from his right

studies, to earn money wherewith to pay debts of which Mr. Goren is

cognizant, she trusts that their oldest friend will overlook it.

Mr. Goren rejoins that he considers that he need not have been excluded

from young Mr. Harrington's confidence. Moreover, it is a grief to him

that the young gentleman should refrain from accepting any of his

suggestions as to the propriety of requesting some, at least, of his rich

and titled acquaintance to confer on him the favour of their patronage.

'Which they would not repent,' adds Mr. Goren, 'and might learn to be

very much obliged to him for, in return for kindnesses extended to him.'

Notwithstanding all my efforts, you see, the poor boy is thrust into the

shop. There he is, without a doubt. He sleeps under Mr. Goren's roof: he

(since one cannot be too positive in citing the punishment of such a

Pagan) stands behind a counter: he (and, oh! choke, young loves, that

have hovered around him! shrink from him in natural horror, gentle

ladies!) handles the shears. It is not my fault. He would be a Pagan. If

you can think him human enough still to care to know how he feels it, I

must tell you that he feels it hardly-at all. After a big blow, a very

little one scarcely counts. What are outward forms and social ignominies

to him whose heart has been struck to the dust? His Gods have fought for

him, and there he is! He deserves no pity.

But he does not ask it of you, the callous Pagan! Despise him, if you

please, and rank with the Countess, who despises him most heartily.

Dipping further into the secrets of the post, we discover a brisk

correspondence between Juliana Bonner and Mrs. Strike.

'A thousand thanks to you, my dear Miss Bonner,' writes the latter lady.

'The unaffected interest you take in my brother touches me deeply. I know

him to be worthy of your good opinion. Yes, I will open my heart to you,

dearest Juliana; and it shall, as you wish, be quite secret between us.

Not to a soul!

'He is quite alone. My sisters Harriet and Louisa will not see him, and I

can only do so by stealth. His odd other little friend sometimes drives

me out on Sundays, to a place where I meet him; and the Duke of Belfield

kindly lends me his carriage. Oh, that we might never part! I am only

happy with him!

'Ah, do not doubt him, Juliana, for anything he does! You say, that now

the Duke has obtained for him the Secretaryship to my husband's Company,

he should not thing, and you do not understand why. I will tell you. Our

poor father died in debt, and Evan receives money which enables him by

degrees to liquidate these debts, on condition that he consents to be

what I dislike as much as you can. He bears it; you can have no idea of

his pride! He is too proud to own to himself that it debases him--too

proud to complain. It is a tangle--a net that drags him down to it but

whatever he is outwardly, he is the noblest human being in the world to

me, and but for him, oh, what should I be? Let me beg you to forgive it,

if you can. My darling has no friends. Is his temper as sweet as ever? I

can answer that. Yes, only he is silent, and looks--when you look into

his eyes--colder, as men look when they will not bear much from other

men.

'He has not mentioned her name. I am sure she has not written.

'Pity him, and pray for him.'

Juliana then makes a communication, which draws forth the following:--

'Mistress of all the Beckley property-dearest, dearest Juliana! Oh! how

sincerely I congratulate you! The black on the letter alarmed me so, I

could hardly open it, my fingers trembled so; for I esteem you all at

Beckley; but when I had opened and read it, I was recompensed. You say

you are sorry for Rose. But surely what your Grandmama has done is quite

right. It is just, in every sense. But why am I not to tell Evan? I am

certain it would make him very happy, and happiness of any kind he needs

so much! I will obey you, of course, but I cannot see why. Do you know,

my dear child, you are extremely mysterious, and puzzle me. Evan takes a

pleasure in speaking of you. You and Lady Jocelyn are his great themes.

Why is he to be kept ignorant of your good fortune? The spitting of blood

is bad. You must winter in a warm climate. I do think that London is far

better for you in the late Autumn than Hampshire. May I ask my sister

Harriet to invite you to reside with her for some weeks? Nothing, I know,

would give her greater pleasure.'

Juliana answers this--

'If you love me--I sometimes hope that you do--but the feeling of being

loved is so strange to me that I can only believe it at times--but,

Caroline--there, I have mustered up courage to call you by your Christian

name at last--Oh, dear Caroline! if you do love me, do not tell Mr.

Harrington. I go on my knees to you to beg you not to tell him a word. I

have no reasons indeed not any; but I implore you again never even to

hint that I am anything but the person he knew at Beckley.

'Rose has gone to Elburne House, where Ferdinand, her friend, is to meet

her. She rides and sings the same, and keeps all her colour.

'She may not, as you imagine, have much sensibility. Perhaps not enough.

I am afraid that Rose is turning into a very worldly woman!

'As to what you kindly say about inviting me to London, I should like it,

and I am my own mistress. Do you know, I think I am older than your

brother! I am twenty-three. Pray, when you write, tell me if he is older

than that. But should I not be a dreadful burden to you? Sometimes I have

to keep to my chamber whole days and days. When that happens now, I think

of you entirely. See how I open my heart to you. You say that you do to

me. I wish I could really think it.'

A postscript begs Caroline 'not to forget about the ages.'

In this fashion the two ladies open their hearts, and contrive to read

one another perfectly in their mutual hypocrisies.

Some letters bearing the signatures of Mr. John Raikes, and Miss Polly

Wheedle, likewise pass. Polly inquires for detailed accounts of the

health and doings of Mr. Harrington. Jack replies with full particulars

of her own proceedings, and mild corrections of her grammar. It is to be

noted that Polly grows much humbler to him on paper, which being

instantly perceived by the mercurial one, his caressing condescension to

her is very beautiful. She is taunted with Mr. Nicholas Frim, and

answers, after the lapse of a week, that the aforesaid can be nothing to

her, as he 'went in a passion to church last Sunday and got married.' It

appears that they had quarrelled, 'because I danced with you that night.'

To this Mr. Raikes rejoins in a style that would be signified by 'ahem!'

in language, and an arrangement of the shirt collar before the

looking-glass, in action.