“It would not become me to do so, dear,” said the Countess, demurely; and inasmuch as she had already drawn on Andrew in her own person pretty largely, her views of propriety were correct in this instance.
Evan had to consent before he could be released. He ran to the end of the walk through the portal, into the park. Rose was not to be seen. She had gone in to dress for dinner. The opportunity might recur, but would his courage come with it? His courage had sunk on a sudden; or it may have been that it was worst for this young man to ask for a loan of money, than to tell his beloved that he was basely born, vile, and unworthy, and had snared her into loving him; for when he and Andrew were together, money was not alluded to. Andrew, however, betrayed remarkable discomposure. He said plainly that he wanted to leave Beckley Court, and wondered why he didn’t leave, and whether he was on his head or his feet, and how he had been such a fool as to come.
“Do you mean that for me?” said sensitive Evan.
“Oh, you! You’re a young buck,” returned Andrew, evasively. “We common-place business men—we’re out of our element; and there’s poor Carry can’t sit down to their dinners without an upset. I thank God I’m a Radical, Van; one man’s the same as another to me, how he’s born, as long as he’s honest and agreeable. But a chap like that George Uplift to look down on anybody! ’Gad, I’ve a good mind to bring in a Bill for the Abolition of the Squirearchy.”
Ultimately, Andrew somehow contrived to stick a hint or two about the terrible dinner in Evan’s quivering flesh. He did it as delicately as possible, half begging pardon, and perspiring profusely. Evan grasped his hand, and thanked him. Caroline’s illness was now explained to him.
“I’ll take Caroline with me to-morrow,” he said. “Louisa wishes to stay—there’s a pic-nic. Will you look to her, and bring her with you?”
“My dear Van,” replied Andrew, “stop with Louisa? Now, in confidence, it’s as bad as a couple of wives; no disrespect to my excellent good Harry at home; but Louisa—I don’t know how it is—but Louisa, you lose your head, you’re in a whirl, you’re an automaton, a teetotum! I haven’t a notion of what I’ve been doing or saying since I came here. My belief is, I’ve been lying right and left. I shall be found out to a certainty: Oh! if she’s made her mind up for the pic-nic, somebody must stop. I can only tell you, Van, it’s one perpetual vapour-bath to me. There’ll be room for two in my trousers when I get back. I shall have to get the tailor to take them in a full half.”
Here occurred an opening for one of those acrid pleasantries which console us when there is horrid warfare within.
“You must give me the work,” said Evan, partly pleased with his hated self for being able to jest on the subject, as a piece of preliminary self-conquest.
“Aha!” went Andrew, as if the joke were too good to be dwelt on; “Hem”; and by way of diverting from it cleverly and naturally, he remarked that the weather was fine. This made Evan allude to his letter written from Lymport, upon which Andrew said: “tush! pish! humbug! nonsense! won’t hear a word. Don’t know anything about it. Van, you’re going to be a brewer. I say you are. You’re afraid you can’t? I tell you, sir, I’ve got a bet on it. You’re not going to make me lose, are you—eh? I have, and a stiff bet, too. You must and shall, so there’s an end. Only we can’t make arrangements just yet, my boy. Old Tom—very good old fellow—but, you know—must get old Tom out of the way, first. Now go and dress for dinner. And Lord preserve us from the Great Mel to-day!” Andrew mumbled as he turned away.