say, was my fault! Truly so. But what woman can be civil to a low-bred, pretentious, offensive man?’
Mrs. Melville, again appealed to, smiled perfect sympathy, and said, to account for his character:
‘Yes. He is the son of a small shopkeeper of some kind, in Southampton, I hear.’
‘A very good fellow in his way,’ said her husband.
‘Oh! I can’t bear that class of people,’ Rose exclaimed. ‘I always keep out of their way. You can always tell them.’
The Countess smiled considerate approbation of her exclusiveness and discernment. So sweet a smile!
‘You were on deck early, my dear?’ she asked Evan, rather abruptly.
Master Alec answered for him: ‘Yes, he was, and so was Rose. They made an appointment, just as they used to do under the oranges.’
‘Children!’ the Countess smiled to Mrs. Melville.
‘They always whisper when I’m by,’ Alec appended.
‘Children!’ the Countess’s sweetened visage entreated Mrs. Melville to re-echo; but that lady thought it best for the moment to direct Rose to look to her packing, now that she had done breakfast.
‘And I will take a walk with my brother on deck,’ said the Countess. ‘Silva is too harassed for converse.’
The parties were thus divided. The silent Count was left to meditate on his wrongs in the saloon; and the diplomatist, alone with his lady, thought fit to say to her, shortly: ‘Perhaps it would be as well to draw away from these people a little. We ‘ve done as much as we could for them, in bringing them over here. They may be trying to compromise us. That woman’s absurd. She ‘s ashamed of the brewer, and yet she wants to sell him—or wants us to buy him. Ha! I think she wants us to send a couple of frigates, and threaten bombardment of the capital, if they don’t take her husband back, and receive him with honours.’
‘Perhaps it would be as well,’ said Mrs. Melville. ‘Rose’s invitation to him goes for nothing.’
‘Rose? inviting the Count? down to Hampshire?’ The diplomatist’s brows were lifted.
‘No, I mean the other,’ said the diplomatist’s wife.
‘Oh! the young fellow! very good young fellow. Gentlemanly. No harm in him.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said the diplomatist’s wife.
‘You don’t suppose he expects us to keep him on, or provide for him over here—eh?’
The diplomatist’s wife informed him that such was not her thought, that he did not understand, and that it did not matter; and as soon as the Hon. Melville saw that she was brooding something essentially feminine, and which had no relationship to the great game of public life, curiosity was extinguished in him.
On deck the Countess paced with Evan, and was for a time pleasantly diverted by the admiration she could, without looking, perceive that her sorrow-subdued graces had aroused in the breast of a susceptible naval lieutenant. At last she spoke:
‘My dear! remember this. Your last word to Mr. Jocelyn will be: “I will do myself the honour to call upon my benefactor early.” To Rose you will say: “Be assured, Miss Jocelyn ‘Miss Jocelyn—’ I shall not fail in hastening to pay my respects to your family in Hampshire.” You will remember to do it, in the exact form I speak it.’
Evan laughed: ‘What! call him benefactor to his face? I couldn’t do it.’
‘Ah! my child!’
‘Besides, he isn’t a benefactor at all. His private secretary died, and I stepped in to fill the post, because nobody else was handy.’
‘And tell me of her who pushed you forward, Evan?’
‘My dear sister, I’m sure I’m not ungrateful.’
‘No; but headstrong: opinionated. Now these people will endeavour—Oh! I have seen it in a thousand little things—they wish to shake us off. Now, if you will but do as I indicate! Put your faith in an older head, Evan. It is your only chance of society in England. For your brother-in-law—I ask you, what sort of people will you meet at the Cogglesbys? Now and then a nobleman, very much out of his element. In short, you have fed upon a diet which will make you to distinguish, and painfully to know the difference! Indeed! Yes, you are looking about for Rose. It depends upon your behaviour now, whether you are to see her at all in England. Do you forget? You wished once to inform her of your origin. Think of her words at the breakfast this morning!’
The Countess imagined she had produced an impression. Evan said: ‘Yes, and I should have liked to have told her this morning that I’m myself nothing more than the son of a—’
‘Stop! cried his sister, glancing about in horror. The admiring lieutenant met her eye. Blandishingly she smiled on him: ‘Most beautiful weather for a welcome to dear England?’ and passed with majesty.
‘Boy!’ she resumed, ‘are you mad?’
‘I hate being such a hypocrite, madam.’
‘Then you do not love her, Evan?’
This may have been dubious logic, but it resulted from a clear sequence of ideas in the lady’s head. Evan did not contest it.
‘And assuredly you will lose her, Evan. Think of my troubles! I have to intrigue for Silva; I look to your future; I smile, Oh heaven! how do I not smile when things are spoken that pierce my heart! This morning at the breakfast!’
Evan took her hand, and patted it.
‘What is your pity?’ she sighed.
‘If it had not been for you, my dear sister, I should never have held my tongue.’
‘You are not a Harrington! You are a Dawley!’ she exclaimed, indignantly.
Evan received the accusation of possessing more of his mother’s spirit than his father’s in silence.
‘You would not have held your tongue,’ she said, with fervid severity: ‘and you would have betrayed yourself! and you would have said you were that! and you in that costume! Why, goodness gracious! could you bear to appear so ridiculous?’
The poor young man involuntarily surveyed his person. The pains of an impostor seized him. The deplorable image of the Don making confession became present to his mind. It was a clever stroke of this female intriguer. She saw him redden grievously, and blink his eyes; and not wishing to probe him so that he would feel intolerable disgust at his imprisonment in the Don, she continued:
‘But you have the sense to see your duties, Evan. You have an excellent sense, in the main. No one would dream—to see you. You did not, I must say, you did not make enough of your gallantry. A Portuguese who had saved a man’s life, Evan, would he have been so boorish? You behaved as if it was a matter of course that you should go overboard after anybody, in your clothes, on a dark night. So, then, the Jocelyns took it. I barely heard one compliment to you. And Rose—what an effect it should have had on her! But, owing to your manner, I do believe the girl thinks it nothing but your ordinary business to go overboard after anybody, in your clothes, on a dark night. ‘Pon my honour, I believe she expects to see you always dripping!’ The Countess
