she wept for a father. Mrs. Andrew, to whom the letter was addressed, had simply held the letter to her in a trembling hand. The Major compared their behaviour, with marked encomiums of Mrs. Andrew. Now this lady and her husband were in obverse relative positions. The brewer had no will but his Harriet’s. His esteem for her combined the constitutional feelings of an insiguificantly-built little man for a majestic woman, and those of a worthy soul for the wife of his bosom. Possessing, or possessed by her, the good brewer was perfectly happy. She, it might be thought, under these circumstances, would not have minded much his hearing what he might hear. It happened, however, that she was as jealous of the winds of Lymport as the Major himself; as vigilant in debarring them from access to the brewery as the Countess could have been. We are not now dissecting poor dear human nature: suffice it, therefore, from a mere glance at the surface, to say that, just as moneyed men are careful of their coin, women who have all the advantages in a conjunction, are miserly in keeping them, and shudder to think that one thing remains hidden, which the world they move in might put down pityingly in favour of their spouse, even though to the little man ’twere naught. She assumed that a revelation would diminish her moral stature; and certainly it would not increase that of her husband. So no good could come of it. Besides, Andrew knew, his whole conduct was a tacit admission, that she had condescended in giving him her hand. The features of their union might not be changed altogether by a revelation, but it would be a shock to her. These ladies had from childhood conceived and nursed a horror of the shop.
Consequently, Harriet tenderly rebuked Caroline for her outcry at the breakfast-table; and Caroline, the elder sister, who had not since marriage grown in so free an air, excused herself humbly, and the two were weeping when the Countess joined them and related what she had just undergone.
Hearing of Caroline’s misdemeanour, however, Louisa’s eyes rolled aloft in a paroxysm of tribulation. It was nothing to Caroline; it was comparatively nothing to Harriet; but the Count knew not Louisa had a father: believed that her parents had long ago been wiped out. And the Count was by nature inquisitive: and if he once cherished a suspicion he was restless; he was pointed in his inquiries: he was pertinacious in following out a clue: there never would be peace with him! And then Louisa cried aloud for her father, her beloved father! Harriet wept silently. Caroline alone expressed regret that she had not set her eyes on him from the day she became a wife.
“How could we, dear?” the Countess pathetically asked, under drowning lids.
“Papa did not wish it,” sobbed Mrs. Andrew.
“I never shall forgive myself!” said the wife of the Major, drying her cheeks. Perhaps it was not herself whom she felt she never could forgive.
Ah! the man their father was! Incomparable Melchisedec! he might well be called. So generous! so lordly! When the rain of tears would subside for a moment, one would relate an anecdote, or childish reminiscence of him, and provoke a more violent outburst.
“Never, among the nobles of any land, never have I seen one like him!” exclaimed the Countess, and immediately requested Harriet to tell her how it would be possible to stop Andrew’s tongue in Silva’s presence.
“At present, you know, my dear, they may talk as much as they like—they can’t understand one another a bit.”
Mrs. Cogglesby comforted her by the assurance that Andrew had received an intimation of her wish for silence everywhere and towards everybody; and that he might be reckoned upon to respect it, without demanding a reason for the restriction. In other days Caroline and Louisa had a little looked down on Harriet’s alliance with a dumpy man—a brewer—and had always sweet Christian compassion for him if his name were mentioned. They seemed now, by their silence, to have a happier estimate of Andrew’s qualities.
While the three sisters sat mingling their sorrows and alarms, their young brother was making his way to the house. As he knocked at the door, he heard his name pronounced behind him, and had no difficulty in recognising the worthy brewer.
“What, Van, my boy! how are you? Quite a foreigner! By jingo, what a hat!”
Mr. Andrew bounced back two or three steps to regard the dusky sombrero.
“How do you do, sir?” said Evan.
“Sir to you! Mr. Andrew briskly replied. “Don’t they teach you to give your fist in Portugal, eh? I’ll ‘sir’ you. Wait till I’m Sir Andrew, and then ‘sir’ away. ’Gad! the women’ll be going it then. Sir Malt and Hops, and no mistake! I say, Van, how did you get on with the boys in that hat? Aha! it’s a plucky thing to wear that hat in London! And here’s a cloak! You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly, eh, my boy?”
Mr. Andrew rubbed his hands to express that state in himself. Suddenly he stopped, blinked queerly at Evan, grew pensive, and said, “Bless my soul! I forgot.”
The door opened, Mr. Andrew took Evan’s arm, murmured a “hush!” and trod gently along the passage to his library.
“We’re safe here,” he said. “There—there’s something the matter up-stairs. The women are upset about something. Harriet—” Mr. Andrew hesitated, and branched off: “You’ve heard we’ve got a new baby?”
Evan congratulated him; but another inquiry was in Mr. Andrew’s aspect, and Evan’s calm, sad manner answered it.
“Yes,”—Mr. Andrew shook his head dolefully—“a splendid little chap! a rare little chap! a—we can’t help these things, Van! They will happen. Sit down, my boy.”
Mr. Andrew again interrogated Evan with his eyes.
“My father is dead,” said Evan.
“Yes!” Mr. Andrew nodded, and glanced quickly at the ceiling, as if to make sure that none listened overhead. “My parliamentary