Juley—but it’s no use. He’s a low, vulgar adventurer.”
“Dear Harry,” said Juliana, softly; “don’t bring your aunts with you when you come to see me.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Juley. It’s enough that he’s a beastly tailor.”
“Quite enough,” she responded. “And he is neither a fool nor a scoundrel.”
Harry’s memory for his own speech was not quick. When Juliana’s calm glance at him called it up, he jumped from his chair, crying: “Upon my honour, I’ll tell you what, Juley! If I had money to pay him to-morrow, I’d insult him on the spot.”
Juliana meditated, and said: “Then all your friends must wish you to continue poor.”
This girl had once been on her knees to him. She had looked up to him with admiring love, and he had given her a crumb or so occasionally, thinking her something of a fool, and more of a pest; but now he could not say a word to her without being baffled in an elder sisterly tone that exasperated him so far that he positively wished to marry her, and coming to the point, offered himself with downright sincerity, and was rejected. Harry left in a passion. Juliana confided the secret to Caroline, who suggested interested motives, which Juliana would not hear of.
“Ah,” said the Countess, when Caroline mentioned the case to her, “of course the poor thing cherishes her first offer. She would believe a curate to be disinterested! But mind that Evan has due warning when she is to meet him. Mind that he is dressed becomingly.”
Caroline asked why.
“Because, my dear, she is enamoured of his person. These little unhealthy creatures are always attracted by the person. She thinks it to be Evan’s qualities. I know better: it is his person. Beckley Court may be lost by a shabby coat!”
The Countess had recovered from certain spiritual languors into which she had fallen after her retreat. Ultimate victory hung still in the balance. Oh! if Evan would only marry this little sufferer, who was so sure to die within a year! or, if she lived (for marriage has often been as a resurrection to some poor female invalids), there was Beckley Court, a splendid basis for future achievements. Reflecting in this fashion, the Countess pardoned her brother. Glowing hopes hung fresh lamps in her charitable breast. She stepped across the threshold of Tailordom, won Mr. Goren’s heart by her condescension, and worked Evan into a sorrowful mood concerning the invalid. Was not Juliana his only active friend? In return, he said things which only required a little colouring to be very acceptable to her. The game waxed exciting again. The enemy (the Jocelyn party), was alert, but powerless. The three sisters were almost wrought to perform a sacrifice far exceeding Evan’s. They nearly decided to summon him to the house: but the matter being broached at table one evening, Major Strike objected to it so angrily that they abandoned it, with the satisfactory conclusion that if they did wrong it was the Major’s fault.
Meantime Juliana had much on her conscience. She knew Evan to be innocent, and she allowed Rose to think him guilty. Could she bring her heart to join them? That was not in her power: but desiring to be lulled by a compromise, she devoted herself to make his relatives receive him; and on days of bitter winds she would drive out to meet him, answering all expostulations with—“I should not go if he were here.”
The game waxed hot. It became a question whether Evan should be admitted to the house in spite of the Major. Juliana now made an extraordinary move. Having the Count with her in the carriage one day, she stopped in front of Mr. Goren’s shop, and Evan had to come out. The Count returned home extremely mystified. Once more the unhappy Countess was obliged to draw bills on the fabulous; and as she had recommenced the system, which was not without its fascinations to her, Juliana, who had touched the spring, had the full benefit of it. The Countess had deceived her before—what of that? She spoke things sweet to hear. Who could be false that gave her heart food on which it lived?
One night Juliana returned from her drive alarmingly ill. She was watched through the night by Caroline and the Countess alternately. In the morning the sisters met.
“She has consented to let us send for a doctor,” said Caroline.
“Her chief desire seems to be a lawyer,” said the Countess.
“Yes, but the doctor must be sent for first.”
“Yes, indeed! But it behoves us to previse that the doctor does not kill her before the lawyer comes.”
Caroline looked at Louisa, and said: “Are you ignorant?”
“No—what?” cried the Countess eagerly.
“Evan has written to tell Lady Jocelyn the state of her health, and—”
“And that naturally has aggravated her malady!” The Countess cramped her long fingers. “The child heard it from him yesterday! Oh, I could swear at that brother!”
She dropped into a chair and sat rigid and square-jawed, a sculpture of unutterable rage.
In the afternoon Lady Jocelyn arrived. The doctor was there—the lawyer had gone. Without a word of protest Juliana accompanied her ladyship to Beckley Court. Here was a blow!
But Andrew was preparing one more mighty still. What if the Cogglesby Brewery proved a basis most unsound? Where must they fall then? Alas! on that point whence they sprang. If not to Perdition—Tailordom!
MORBID MEMORY.
There are very few thoughtful persons to whom the question has not presented itself, What is the nature of the operation of that extraordinary psychological phenomenon, memory? With a very slight effort of will we are enabled to recall, at a moment’s notice, long past events with startling vividness. We fold up and carry in our cerebrum the scenes and incidents of years of travel; we
