heard her muttering. Then she cried out: “Are Harriet and Caroline as great liars as Louisa?”
Mrs. Fiske grimaced. “That would be difficult, would it not, aunt?”
“And I have been telling everybody that my son is in town learning his business, when he’s idling at a country house, and trying to play his father over again! Upon my word, what with liars and fools, if you go to sleep a minute you have a month’s work on your back.”
“What is it, aunt?” Mrs. Fiske feebly inquired.
“A gentleman, I suppose! He wouldn’t take an order if it was offered. Upon my word, when tailors think of winning heiresses it’s time we went back to Adam and Eve.”
“Do you mean Evan, aunt?” interposed Mrs. Fiske, who probably did not see the turns in her her aunt’s mind.
“There—read for yourself,” said Mrs. Mel, and left her with the letter.
Mrs. Fiske read that Mr. Goren had been astonished at Evan’s non-appearance, and at his total silence; which he did not consider altogether gentlemanly behaviour, and certainly not such as his father would have practised. Mr. Goren regretted his absence the more as he would have found him useful in a remarkable invention he was about to patent, being a peculiar red cross upon shirts—a fortune to the patentee; but as Mr. Goren had no natural heirs of his body, he did not care for that. What affected him painfully was the news of Evan’s doings at a noble house, Beckley Court, to wit, where, according to the report of a rich young gentleman friend, a Mr. Raikes (for whose custom Mr. Goren was bound to thank Evan), the youth who should have been learning the science of Tailoring, had actually passed himself off as a lord, or the son of one, or something of the kind, and had got engaged to a wealthy heiress, and would, no doubt, marry her if not found out. Where the chances of detection were so numerous, Mr. Goren saw much to condemn in the idea of such a marriage. But “like father like son,” said Mr. Goren. He thanked the Lord that an honest tradesman was not looked down upon in this country; and, in fact, gave Mrs. Mel a few quiet digs to waken her remorse in having missed the man that he was.
When Mrs. Fiske met her aunt again, she returned her the letter, and simply remarked: “Louisa.”
Mrs. Mel nodded. She understood the implication.
The General who had schemed so successfully to gain Evan time at Beckley Court, in his own despite and against a hundred obstructions, had now another enemy in the field, and one who, if she could not undo her work, could punish her. By the afternoon coach, Mrs. Mel, accompanied by Dandy her squire, was journeying to Fallowfield, bent upon desperate things. The faithful squire was kept by her side rather as a security for others than for his particular services. Dandy’s arms were crossed, and his countenance was gloomy. He had been promised a holiday that afternoon to give his mistress, Sally, Kilne’s cook, an airing, and Dandy knew in his soul that Sally, when she once made up her mind to an excursion, would go, and would not go alone, and that her very force of will endangered her constancy. He had begged humbly to be allowed to stay, but Mrs. Mel could not trust him. She ought to have told him so, perhaps. Explanations were not approved of by this well-intended despot, and however beneficial her resolves might turn out for all parties, it was natural that in the interim the children of her rule should revolt, and Dandy, picturing his Sally flaunting on the arm of some accursed low marine, haply, kicked against Mrs. Mel’s sovereignty, though all that he did was to shoot out his fist from time to time, and grunt through his set teeth: “Iron!” doubtless to express the character of her awful rod.
Mrs. Mel alighted at the Dolphin, the landlady of which was a Mrs. Hawkshaw, a rival of Mrs. Sockley of the Green Dragon. She was welcomed by Mrs. Hawkshaw with considerable respect. The great Mel had sometimes slept at the Dolphin.
“Ah, that black!” she sighed, indicating Mrs. Mel’s dress and the story it told.
“I can’t give you his room, my dear Mrs. Harrington,—wishing I could! I’m sorry to say it’s occupied, for all I ought to be glad, I dare say, for he’s an old gentleman who does you a good turn, if you study him. But, there! I’d rather have had poor dear Mr. Harrington in my best bed than old or young—princes or nobodies, I would—he was that grand and pleasant.”
Mrs. Mel had her tea in Mrs. Hawkshaw’s parlour, and was entertained about her husband up to the hour of supper, when a short step and a querulous voice were heard in the passage, and an old gentleman appeared before them.
“Who’s to carry up my trunk, ma'am? No men here?”
Mrs. Hawkshaw bustled out and tried to lay her hand on a man. Failing to find the growth spontaneous, she returned and begged the old gentleman to wait a few moments and the trunk would be sent up.
“Parcel o’ women!” was his reply. “Regularly bedevilled. Gets worse and worse. I’ll carry it up myself.”
With a wheezy effort he persuaded the trunk to stand on one end, and then looked at it. The exertion made him hot, which may account for the rage he burst into when Mrs. Hawkshaw began flutteringly to apologise.
“You’re sure, ma'am, sure—what are you sure of? I’ll tell you what I’m sure of—eh? This keeping clear of men’s a damned pretence. You don’t impose upon me. Don’t believe in your pothouse nunneries—not a bit. Just like you! when you are virtuous it’s deuced inconvenient. Let one of the maids try? No. Don’t believe in em.”
Having thus relieved his spleen the old gentleman addressed himself to further efforts and waxed hotter. He managed to tilt the trunk over, and thus gained a length, and by this method of progression arrived at the foot of the