wanting. Slacken the knot an instant, and they will all have play. And the worst is, that you may be wrong, and they may be right! For is it, can it be proper for you to stain the silvery whiteness of your skin by plunging headlong into yonder pitch-bath? Consider the defilement! Contemplate your hideous aspect on issuing from that black baptism!
As to the honour of your family, Mr. Evan Harrington, pray of what sort of metal consists the honour of a tailor’s family?
One little impertinent imp ventured upon that question on his own account. The clever beast was torn back and strangled instantaneously by his experienced elders, but not before Evan’s pride had answered him. Exalted by Love, he could dread to abase himself and strip off his glittering garments; lowered by the world, he fell back upon his innate worth.
Yes, he was called on to prove it; he was on his way to prove it. Surrendering his dearest and his best, casting aside his dreams, his desires, his aspirations, for this stern duty, he at least would know that he made himself doubly worthy of her who abandoned him, and the world would scorn him by reason of his absolute merit. Coming to this point, the knot of his resolve tightened again: he hugged it with the furious zeal of a martyr.
Religion, the lack of which in him the Countess deplored, would have guided him and silenced the internal strife. But do not despise a virtue purely Pagan. The young who can act readily up to the Christian light are happier, doubtless: but they are led, they are passive: I think they do not make such capital Christians subsequently. They are never in such danger, we know; but some in the flock are more than sheep. The heathen ideal it is not so easy to attain, and those who mount from it to the Christian have, in my humble thought, a firmer footing.
So Evan fought his hard fight from the top of the stairs to the bottom. A Pagan, which means our poor unsupported flesh, is never certain of his victory. Now you will see him kneeling to his gods, and anon drubbing them; or he makes them fight for him, and is complacent at the issue. Evan had ceased to pick his knot with one hand and pull it with the other: but not finding Lady Jocelyn below, and hearing that she had retired for the night, he mounted the stairs, and the strife recommenced from the bottom to the top. Strange to say, he was almost unaware of any struggle going on within him. The suggestion of the foolish little imp alone was loud in the heart of his consciousness; the rest hung more in his nerves than in his brain. He thought: “Well, I will speak it out to her in the morning;” and thought so sincerely, while an ominous sigh of relief at the reprieve rose from his over-burdened bosom.
Hardly had the weary deep breath taken flight, when the figure of Lady Jocelyn was seen advancing along the corridor, with a lamp in her hand. She trod heavily, in a kind of march, as her habit was; her large fully-open grey eyes looking straight ahead. She would have passed him, and he would have let her pass, but seeing the unusual pallor on her face, his love for this lady moved him to step forward and express a hope that she had no present cause for sorrow.
Hearing her mother’s name, Lady Jocelyn was about to return a conventional answer. Recognising Evan, she said:
“Ah! Mr. Harrington! Yes, I fear it’s as bad as it can be. She can scarcely outlive the night.”
Again he stood alone: his chance was gone. How could he speak to her in her affliction? Her calm, sedate visage had the beauty of its youth, when lighted by the animation that attends meetings or farewells. In her bow to Evan, he beheld a lovely kindness more unique, if less precious, than anything he had ever seen on the face of Rose. Half exultingly, he reflected that no opportunity would be allowed him now to teach that noble head and truest of human hearts to turn from him: the clear-eyed morrow would come: the days of the future would be bright as other days!
Wrapped in the comfort of his cowardice, he started to see Lady Jocelyn advancing to him again.
“Mr. Harrington,” she said, “Rose tells me you leave us early in the morning. I may as well shake your hand now. We part very good friends. I shall always be glad to hear of you.”
Evan pressed her hand, and bowed. “I thank you, madam,” was all he could answer.
“It will be better if you don’t write to Rose.”
Her tone was rather that of a request than an injunction.
“I have no right to do so, madam.”
“She considers that you have: I wish her to have a fair trial.”
“Madam!” His voice quavered. The philosophic lady thought it time to leave him.
“So good-bye. I can trust you without extracting a promise. If you ever have need of a friend, you know you are at liberty to write to me.”
“You are tired, madam?” He put this question more to dally with what he ought to be saying.
“Tolerably. Your sister, the Countess, relieves me in the night. I fancy my mother finds her the better nurse of the two.”
Lady Jocelyn’s face lighted in its gracious pleasant way, as she just inclined her head: but the mention of the Countess and her attendance on Mrs. Bonner had nerved Evan: the contrast of her hypocrisy and vile scheming with this most open, noble nature, acted like a new force within him. He begged Lady Jocelyn’s permission to speak with her in private. Marking his fervid appearance, she looked at him seriously.
“Is it really important?”
“I cannot rest, madam, till it is spoken.”
“I mean, it doesn’t pertain to the delirium? We may sleep upon that.”
He divined her sufficiently to answer: “It concerns a piece of injustice done by you, madam, and which I can help you to set right.”
Lady Jocelyn stared somewhat. “Follow me into my dressing-room,” she said, and led the way.
Escape was no longer possible. He was on the march to execution, and into the darkness of his brain danced Mr. John Raikes, with his grotesque