EVAN HARRINGTON; or, HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN.
BY GEORGE MEREDITH.
CHAPTER VII.MOTHER AND SON.
Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does. And happily so; for in life he subjugates us, and makes us bondsmen to his ashes. It was in the order of things that the great Mel should be borne to his final resting-place by a troop of creditors. You have seen (since the occasion demands a pompous simile) clouds that all day cling about the sun, and, in seeking to obscure him, are compelled to blaze in his livery: at fall of night they break from him, illumined, hang mournfully above him, and wear his natural glories long after he is gone. Thus, then, these worthy fellows, faithful to him to the dust, fulfilled Mel’s triumphant passage amongst them, and closed his career.
To regale them when they returned, Mrs. Mel, whose mind was not intent on greatness, was occupied in spreading meat and wine. Mrs. Fiske assisted her, as well as she could, seeing that one hand was entirely engaged by her handkerchief. She had already stumbled, and dropped a glass, which had brought on her sharp condemnation from her aunt, who bade her sit down, or go up-stairs to have her cry out, and then return to be serviceable.
“Oh! I can’t help it!” sobbed Mrs. Fiske. “That he should be carried away, and none of his children to see him the last time! I can understand Louisa—and Harriet, too, perhaps! But why could not Caroline? And that they should be too fine ladies to let their brother come and bury his father. Oh! it does seem”
Mrs. Fiske fell into a chair, and surrendered to grief.
“Where is the cold tongue?” said Mrs. Mel to Sally, the maid, in a brief under-voice.
“Please, mum, Jacko!”
