№was to her, and, at the bottom of all, that doubt we choose to encourage of the harm in a pleasant sin unaccomplished; these might be read in the rich dim gleam that swept like sunlight over sea-water between breaks of cloud.
“Dear Van! do you love her so much?”
Caroline knew too well that she was shutting her own theme with iron clasps when she once touched on Evan’s.
Love her? Love Rose? Let the skylark go up and sing of her. It became an endless carol with Evan. Caroline sighed for him from her heart.
“You know—you understand me; don’t you?” he said, after a breathless excursion of his fancy.
“I believe you love her, dear. I think I have never loved any one but my one brother.”
His love for Rose he could pour out to Caroline: when it came to Rose’s love for him his blood thickened and his tongue felt guilty. He must speak to her, he said,—tell her all.
“Yes, tell her all,” echoed Caroline. “Do, do tell her. Trust a woman utterly, if she loves you, dear. Go to her instantly.”
“Could you bear it?” said Evan. He began to think it was for the sake of his sisters that he had hesitated.
“Bear it? bear anything rather than perpetual imposture. What have I not borne? Tell her, and then, if she is cold to you, let us go. Let us go. I shall be glad to. Ah, Van! I love you so.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “I love you so, my dear. You won’t let your new love drive me out? Shall you always love me?”
Of that she might be sure, whatever happened.
“Should you love me, Van, if evil befel me?”
Thrice as well, he swore to her.
“But if I—if I, Van Oh! my life is intolerable! Supposing I should ever disgrace you in any way, and not turn out all you fancied me. I am very weak and unhappy.”
Evan kissed her confidently, with a warm smile. He said a few words of the great faith he had in her: words that were bitter comfort to Caroline. This brother who might save her, to him she dared not speak. Did she wish to be saved? She only knew that to wound Evan’s sense of honour and the high and chivalrous veneration for her sex and pride in himself, and those of his blood, would be wicked and unpardonable, and that no earthly pleasure could drown it. Thinking this, with her hands joined in pale dejection, Caroline sat silent, and Evan left her to lay bare his heart to Rose. On his way to find Rose, he met Harry Jocelyn slouching about the grounds, and Harry linked his arm in Evan’s and plunged with extraordinary spontaneity and candour into the state of his money-affairs. What the deuce he was to do for money, he did not know. From the impressive manner in which he put it, it appeared to be one of Nature’s great problems that the whole human race were bound to set their heads together to solve. A hundred pounds—Harry wanted no more, and he could not get it. His uncles? they were as poor as rats; and all the spare money they could club was going for Mel’s election expenses. A hundred and fifty was what Harry really wanted; but he could do with a hundred. Ferdinand, who had plenty, would not even lend him fifty. Ferdinand had dared to hint at a debt already unsettled, and he called himself a gentleman!
“You wouldn’t speak of money-matters now, would you, Harrington?”
“I dislike the subject, I confess,” said Evan.
“And so do I.” Harry jumped at the perfect similarity between them. “You can’t think how it bothers one to have to talk about it. You and I are tremendously alike.”
Evan might naturally suppose that a subject Harry detested he would not continue, but for a whole hour Harry turned it over and over with grim glances at Jewry.
“You see,” he wound up, “I’m in a fix. I want to help that poor girl, and one or two things”
“It’s for that you want it?” cried Evan, brightening, to him. “Accept it from me.”
It is a thing familiar to the experience of money-borrowers, that your “last chance” is the man who is to accommodate you; but we are always astonished, nevertheless; and Harry was, when notes to the amount of the largest sum named by him were placed in his hand by one whom he looked upon as the last to lend.
“What a trump you are, Harrington!” was all he could say; and then he was for hurrying Evan into the house, to find pen and paper, and write down a memorandum of the loan; but Evan insisted upon sparing him the trouble, though Harry, with the admirable scruples of an inveterate borrower, begged hard to be allowed to bind himself legally to repay the money.
“’Pon my soul, Harrington, you make me remember I once doubted whether you were a gentleman,” said Harry. “You’ll bury that, won’t you?”
“Till your doubts recur,” Evan observed; and Harry burst out, “Gad, if you weren’t such a melancholy beggar, you’d be the jolliest fellow I know! There, go after Rosey. Dashed if I don’t think you’re ahead of Ferdinand, long chalks. Your style does for girls. I like women.”
With a chuckle and a wink, Harry swung off. Evan had now to reflect that he had just thrown away part of the price of his bondage to Tailordom; the mention of Rose filled his mind. Where was she? Both were seeking one another. Rose was in the cypress walk. He saw the star-like figure up the length of it, between the swelling tall dark pillars, and was hurrying to her, resolute not to let one minute of deception blacken further the soul that loved so true a soul. She saw him, and stood smiling, when the Countess issued, shadow-like, from a side path, and declared that she must claim her brother for a few instants. Would her sweet Rose pardon her? Rose bowed coolly. The hearts of the lovers were chilled, not that they perceived any malice in the Countess, but their keen instincts felt an evil fate.
The Countess had but to tell Evan that she had met the insolvent in apples, and recognised him under his change of fortune, and had no doubt that at least he would amuse the company. Then she asked her brother the superfluous question,