saw it by the mouth. Not quite natural. You have been moody ever since—just a little. I suppose it’s our manly pride. But I’m losing time. Will you promise me not to brood over that occurrence? Think of me. Think everything of me. I am yours; and, dearest, if I love you, need you care what anybody else thinks? We will soon change their opinion.”
“I care so little,” said Evan, somewhat untruthfully, “that till you return I shall go and sit with my mother.”
“Oh, she has gone. She made her dear old antiquated curtsey to mama and the company. ‘If my son has not been guilty of deception, I will leave him to your good pleasure, my lady.’ That’s what she said. Mama likes her, I know. But I wish she didn’t mouth her words so precisely: it reminds me of—” The Countess, Rose checked herself from saying. “Good-bye. Thank heaven! the worst has happened. Do you know what I should do if I were you, and felt at all distressed? I should keep repeating,” Rose looked archly and deeply up under his eyelids, “‘I am the son of a tradesman, and Rose loves me,’ over and over, and then if you feel ashamed, what is it of?”
She nodded adieu, laughing at her own idea of her great worth; an idea very firmly fixed in her fair bosom, notwithstanding. Mrs. Melville said of her, “I used to think she had pride.” Lady Jocelyn answered: “So she has. The misfortune is, that it has taken the wrong turning.”
Evan watched the figure that was to him as that of an angel—no less! She spoke so frankly to them she passed; or here and there went on with a light laugh. It seemed an act of graciousness that she should open her mouth to one! And, indeed, by virtue of a pride which raised her to the level of what she thought it well to do, Rose was veritably on higher ground than any present. She no longer envied her friend Jenny, who, emerging from the shades, allured by the waltz, dislinked herself from William’s arm, and whispered exclamations of sorrow at the scene created by Mr. Harrington’s mother. Rose patted her hand, and said: “Thank you, Jenny dear, but don’t be sorry. I’m glad. It prevents a number of private explanations.”
“Still, dear!” Jenny suggested.
“Oh! of course, I should like to lay my whip across the shoulders of the person who arranged the conspiracy,” said Rose. “And afterwards I don’t mind returning thanks to him, or her, or them.”
William called out, “I’m always on your side, Rose.”
“And I’ll be Jenny’s bridesmaid,” rejoined Rose, stepping blithely away from them.
Evan debated whither to turn when Rose was lost to his eyes. He had no heart for dancing. Presently a servant approached and said, that Mr. Harry particularly desired to see him. From Harry’s looks at table, Evan judged that the interview was not likely to be amicable. He asked the direction he was to take, and setting out with long strides, came in sight of John Raikes, who walked in gloom, and was evidently labouring under one of his mountains of melancholy. Jack affected to be quite out of the world; but finding that Evan took the hint in his usual prosy manner, was reduced to call after him, and finally to run and catch him.
“Haven’t you one single spark of curiosity?” he began.
“What about?” said Evan.
“Why, about my amazing luck! You haven’t asked a question. A matter of course!”
Evan complimented him by asking a question; saying that Jack’s luck certainly was wonderful.
“Wonderful, you call it,” said Jack witheringly. “And what’s more wonderful is, that I’d give up all for quiet quarters in the Green Dragon. I knew I was prophetic. I knew I should regret that peaceful hostelry. Diocletian, if you like. I beg you to listen. I can’t walk so fast without danger.”
“Well, speak out, man. What’s the matter with you?” cried Evan impatiently.
Jack shook his head: “I see a total absence of sympathy,” he remarked. “I can’t.”
“Then stand out of the way.”
Jack let him pass, exclaiming, with cold irony. “I will pay homage to a loftier Nine.”
Mr. Raikes could not in his soul imagine that Evan was really so little inquisitive concerning a business of such importance as the trouble that possessed him. He watched his friend striding off, incredulously, and then commenced running in pursuit.
“Harrington, I give in; I surrender; you reduce me to prose. Thy nine have conquered my nine!—pardon me, old fellow! I’m immensely upset. This is the first day in my life that I ever felt what indigestion is. Egad, I’ve got something to derange the best digestion going!
“Look here, Harrington. What happened to you to-day, I declare I think nothing of. You owe me your assistance, you do, indeed; for if it hadn’t been for the fearful fascinations of your sister—that divine Countess—I should have been engaged to somebody by this time, and profited by the opportunity held out to me, and which is now gone. Gone, I say! I’m disgraced. I’m betrayed. I’m known. And the worst of it is, I must face people. I daren’t turn tail. Did you ever hear of such a dilemma?”
“Ay,” quoth Evan, “what is it?”
Mr. Raikes turned pale. “Then you haven’t heard of it?”
“Not a word.”
“Then it’s all for me to tell,” returned Jack, groaning. “Harrington, I called on Messrs. Grist. I dined at the Aurora afterwards. Depend upon it, Harrington, we’re led by a star. I mean, fellows with anything in them are. I recognised our Fallowfield host, and thinking to draw him out, I told our mutual histories. Next day I went to Messrs. Grist for tailor No. 2,—had to go nine days, you know. They proposed the membership for Fallowfield, five hundred a year, and the loan of a curricle, on condition. It’s singular, Harrington; before anybody knew of the condition I didn’t care about it a bit. It seemed to me childish. Who would think of minding wearing a tin plate? But now!—the sufferings of Orestes—what are they to mine? He wasn’t tied to his