tribulations. It was the harsh savour of reality that conjured up this flighty being, who probably never felt a sorrow or a duty, and whose extremest burden was the attachment of a tin plate. The farce Jack lived was all that Evan’s tragic bitterness could revolve, and seemed to be the only light in his mind. You might have seen a smile on his mouth when he was ready to ask for a bolt from heaven to crush him.
“Now,” said her ladyship, and he found that the four walls enclosed them, “what have I been doing?”
She did not bid him be seated. Her brevity influenced him to speak to the point.
“You have dismissed Mr. Laxley, madam: he is innocent.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, madam,”—a whirl of sensations beset the wretched youth,—“because I am guilty.”
His words had run a-head of his wits; and in answer to Lady Jocelyn’s singular exclamation he could simply repeat them.
Her head drew back; her face was slightly raised; she looked, as he had seen her sometimes look at the Countess, with a sort of speculative amazement.
“And why do you come to tell me?”
“For the reason that I cannot allow you to be unjust, madam.”
“What on earth was your motive?”
Evan stood silent, flinching from her frank eyes.
“Well, well, well!” Her ladyship dropped into a chair, and thumped her knees.
There was lawyer’s blood in Lady Jocelyn’s veins: she had the judicial mind. A confession was to her a confession. She tracked actions up to a motive; but one who came voluntarily to confess needed no sifting. She had the habit of treating things spoken as facts.
“You absolutely wrote that letter to Mrs. Evremonde’s husband!”
Evan bowed, to avoid hearing his own lie.
“You discovered his address and wrote to him, and imitated Mr. Laxley’s handwriting, to effect the purpose you may have had?”
Her credulity did require his confirmation of it, and he repeated: “It is my deed, madam.”
“Hum! And you sent that premonitory slip of paper to her?”
“To Mrs. Evremonde, madam?”
“Somebody else was the author of that, perhaps?”
“Madam, it is all on me.”
“In that case, Mr. Harrington, I can only say that it’s quite right you should quit this house to-morrow morning.”
Her ladyship commenced rocking in her chair, and then added: “May I ask, have you madness in your family? No? Because when one can’t discern a motive, it’s natural to ascribe certain acts to madness. Had Mrs. Evremonde offended you? or Ferdinand—but one only hears of such practices towards fortunate rivals, and now you have come to undo what you did! I must admit that, taking the monstrousness of the act and the inconsequence of your proceedings together, the whole affair becomes more incomprehensible to me than it was before. Would it be unpleasant to you to favour me with explanations?”
She saw the pain her question gave him, and, passing it, said:
“Of course you need not be told that Rose must hear of this?”
“Yes,” said Evan, “she must hear it.”
“You know what that’s equivalent to? But, if you like, I will not speak to her till you have left us.”
“Instantly,” cried Evan. “Now—to-night, madam! I would not have her live a minute in a false estimate of me.”
Had Lady Jocelyn’s intellect been as penetrating as it was masculine, she would have taken him and turned him inside out in a very short time; for one who would bear to see his love look coldly on him rather than endure a minute’s false estimate of his character, and who could yet stoop to concoct a vile plot, must either be mad or simulating the baseness for some reason or other. She perceived no motive for the latter, and she held him to be sound in head, and what was spoken from the mouth she accepted. Perhaps, also, she saw in the complication thus offered an escape for Rose, and was the less inclined to elucidate it herself. But if her intellect was baffled, her heart was unerring. A man proved guilty of writing an anonymous letter would not have been allowed to sit long by her side. She would have shown him to the door of the house speedily; and Evan was aware in his soul that he had not fallen materially in her esteem. He had puzzled and confused her, and partly because she had the feeling that this young man was entirely trustworthy, and because she never relied on her feelings, she let his own words condemn him, and did not personally discard him. In fact, she was a veritable philosopher. She permitted her fellows to move the world on as they would, and had no other passions in the contemplation of the show than a cultured audience will usually exhibit.
“Strange,—most strange! I thought I was getting old!” she said, and eyed the culprit as judges generally are not wont to do. “It will be a shock to Rose. I must tell you that I can’t regret it. I would not have employed force with her, but I should have given her as strong a taste of the world as it was in my power to give. Girls get their reason from society. But, come! if you think you can make your case out better to her, you shall speak to her first yourself.”
“No, madam,” said Even, softly.
“You would rather not?”
“I could not.”
“But, I suppose, she’ll want to speak to you when she knows it.”
“Then she will—madam! I can take death from her hands, but I cannot slay myself.”
The language was natural to his condition, though the note was pitched high. Lady Jocelyn hummed till the sound of it was over, and an idea striking her, she said:
“Ah, by the way, have you any tremendous moral notions?”
“I don’t think I have, madam.”
