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, as they were secure in their privacy, Louisa cried aloud for her father, her beloved father! Harriet wept silently. Caroline alone expressed regret that she had not set 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 one bit.’
Mrs. Cogglesby comforted her by the assurance that Andrew had received an intimation of her wish for silence everywhere and toward 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 kind 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 recognizing the worthy brewer.
‘What, Van, my boy! how are you? Quite a foreigner! By George, 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. You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly, 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 duties will soon be over for the season,’ he added, aloud; pursuing, in an under-breath:
‘Going down to-night, Van?’
‘He is to be buried to-morrow,’ said Evan.
‘Then, of course, you go. Yes: quite right. Love your father and mother! always love your father and mother! Old Tom and I never knew ours. Tom’s quite well-same as ever. I’ll,’ he rang the bell, ‘have my chop in here with you. You must try and eat a bit, Van. Here we are, and there we go. Old Tom’s wandering for one of his weeks. You’ll see him some day. He ain’t like me. No dinner to-day, I suppose, Charles?’
This was addressed to the footman. He announced:
‘Dinner to-day at half-past six, as usual, sir,’ bowed, and retired.
Mr. Andrew pored on the floor, and rubbed his hair back on his head. ‘An odd world!’ was his remark.
Evan lifted up his face to sigh: ‘I ‘m almost sick of it!’
‘Damn appearances!’ cried Mr. Andrew, jumping on his legs.
The action cooled him.
‘I ‘m sorry I swore,’ he said. ‘Bad habit! The Major’s here—you know that?’ and he assumed the Major’s voice, and strutted in imitation of the stalwart marine. ‘Major—a—Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned from China! covered with glory!—a hero, Van! We can’t expect him to be much of a mourner. And we shan’t have him to dine with us to-day—that’s something.’ He sank his voice: ‘I hope the widow ‘ll bear it.’
‘I hope to God my mother is well!’ Evan groaned.
‘That’ll do,’ said Mr. Andrew. ‘Don’t say any more.’
As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.
A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them. He returned after some minutes.
‘How do you think Harriet’s looking?’ asked Mr. Andrew. And, not waiting for an answer, whispered,
‘Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?’
Evan’s brow was dark, as he replied: ‘They are not decided.’
‘Won’t Harriet go?’
‘She is not going—she thinks not.’
‘And the Countess—Louisa’s upstairs, eh?—will she go?’
‘She cannot leave the Count—she thinks not.’
‘Won’t Caroline go? Caroline can go. She—he—I mean—Caroline can go?’
‘The Major objects. She wishes to.’
Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, ‘the Major!’—a compromise for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in an explosion against appearances.
‘I’m a brewer, Van. Do you think I’m ashamed of it? Not while I brew good beer, my boy!—not while I brew good beer! They don’t think worse of me in the House for it. It isn’t ungentlemanly to brew good beer, Van. But what’s the use of talking?’
Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, ‘Poor girl! poor girl!’
The allusion was to his wife; for presently he said: ‘I can’t see why Harriet can’t go. What’s to prevent her?’
Evan gazed at him steadily. Death’s levelling influence was in Evan’s mind. He was ready to say why, and fully.
Mr.
