Evan Harrington — Complete. George Meredith

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      Mrs. Mel examined him with those eyes of hers that compassed objects in a single glance. She drew her finger on each side of her upper lip, and half smiled, saying:

      'That won't do here.'

      'What?' asked Evan, and proceeded immediately to make inquiries about her health, which she satisfied with a nod.

      'You saw him lowered, Van?'

      'Yes, mother.'

      'Then go and wash yourself, for you are dirty, and then come and take your place at the head of the table.'

      'Must I sit here, mother?'

      'Without a doubt—you must. You know your room. Quick!'

      In this manner their first interview passed.

      Mrs. Fiske rushed in to exclaim:

      'So, you were right, aunt—he has come. I met him on the stairs. Oh! how like dear uncle Mel he looks, in the militia, with that moustache. I just remember him as a child; and, oh, what a gentleman he is!'

      At the end of the sentence Mrs. Mel's face suddenly darkened: she said, in a deep voice:

      'Don't dare to talk that nonsense before him, Ann.'

      Mrs. Fiske looked astonished.

      'What have I done, aunt?'

      'He shan't be ruined by a parcel of fools,' said Mrs. Mel. 'There, go! Women have no place here.'

      'How the wretches can force themselves to touch a morsel, after this morning!' Mrs. Fiske exclaimed, glancing at the table.

      'Men must eat,' said Mrs. Mel.

      The mourners were heard gathering outside the door. Mrs. Fiske escaped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mel admitted them into the parlour, bowing much above the level of many of the heads that passed her.

      Assembled were Messrs. Barnes, Kilne, and Grossby, whom we know; Mr. Doubleday, the ironmonger; Mr. Joyce, the grocer; Mr. Perkins, commonly called Lawyer Perkins; Mr. Welbeck, the pier-master of Lymport; Bartholomew Fiske; Mr. Coxwell, a Fallow field maltster, brewer, and farmer; creditors of various dimensions, all of them. Mr. Goren coming last, behind his spectacles.

      'My son will be with you directly, to preside,' said Mrs. Mel. 'Accept my thanks for the respect you have shown my husband. I wish you good morning.'

      'Morning, ma'am,' answered several voices, and Mrs. Mel retired.

      The mourners then set to work to relieve their hats of the appendages of crape. An undertaker's man took possession of the long black cloaks. The gloves were generally pocketed.

      'That's my second black pair this year,' said Joyce.

      'They'll last a time to come. I don't need to buy gloves while neighbours pop off.'

      'Undertakers' gloves seem to me as if they're made for mutton fists,' remarked Welbeck; upon which Kilne nudged Barnes, the butcher, with a sharp 'Aha!' and Barnes observed:

      'Oh! I never wear 'em—they does for my boys on Sundays. I smoke a pipe at home.'

      The Fallow field farmer held his length of crape aloft and inquired: 'What shall do with this?'

      'Oh, you keep it,' said one or two.

      Coxwell rubbed his chin. 'Don't like to rob the widder.'

      'What's left goes to the undertaker?' asked Grossby.

      'To be sure,' said Barnes; and Kilne added: 'It's a job': Lawyer Perkins ejaculating confidently, 'Perquisites of office, gentlemen; perquisites of office!' which settled the dispute and appeased every conscience.

      A survey of the table ensued. The mourners felt hunger, or else thirst; but had not, it appeared, amalgamated the two appetites as yet. Thirst was the predominant declaration; and Grossby, after an examination of the decanters, unctuously deduced the fact, which he announced, that port and sherry were present.

      'Try the port,' said Kilne.

      'Good?' Barnes inquired.

      A very intelligent 'I ought to know,' with a reserve of regret at the extension of his intimacy with the particular vintage under that roof, was winked by Kilne.

      Lawyer Perkins touched the arm of a mourner about to be experimental on Kilne's port—

      'I think we had better wait till young Mr. Harrington takes the table, don't you see?'

      'Yes,-ah!' croaked Goren. 'The head of the family, as the saying goes!'

      'I suppose we shan't go into business to-day?' Joyce carelessly observed.

      Lawyer Perkins answered:

      'No. You can't expect it. Mr. Harrington has led me to anticipate that he will appoint a day. Don't you see?'

      'Oh! I see,' returned Joyce. 'I ain't in such a hurry. What's he doing?'

      Doubleday, whose propensities were waggish, suggested 'shaving,' but half ashamed of it, since the joke missed, fell to as if he were soaping his face, and had some trouble to contract his jaw.

      The delay in Evan's attendance on the guests of the house was caused by the fact that Mrs. Mel had lain in wait for him descending, to warn him that he must treat them with no supercilious civility, and to tell him partly the reason why. On hearing the potential relations in which they stood toward the estate of his father, Evan hastily and with the assurance of a son of fortune, said they should be paid.

      'That's what they would like to hear,' said Mrs. Mel. 'You may just mention it when they're going to leave. Say you will fix a day to meet them.'

      'Every farthing!' pursued Evan, on whom the tidings were beginning to operate. 'What! debts? my poor father!'

      'And a thumping sum, Van. You will open your eyes wider.'

      'But it shall be paid, mother—it shall be paid. Debts? I hate them. I'd slave night and day to pay them.'

      Mrs. Mel spoke in a more positive tense: 'And so will I, Van. Now, go.'

      It mattered little to her what sort of effect on his demeanour her revelation produced, so long as the resolve she sought to bring him to was nailed in his mind; and she was a woman to knock and knock again, till it was firmly fixed there. With a strong purpose, and no plans, there were few who could resist what, in her circle, she willed; not even a youth who would gaily have marched to the scaffold rather than stand behind a counter. A purpose wedded to plans may easily suffer shipwreck; but an unfettered purpose that moulds circumstances as they arise, masters us, and is terrible. Character melts to it, like metal in the steady furnace. The projector of plots is but a miserable gambler and votary of chances. Of a far higher quality is the will that can subdue itself to wait, and lay no petty traps for opportunity. Poets may fable of such a will, that it makes the very heavens conform to it; or, I may add, what is almost equal thereto, one who would be a gentleman, to consent to be a tailor. The only person who ever СКАЧАТЬ