George Meredith - Evan Harrington. Complete

Mr. Andrew’s hands were working together, and at them, and at his face, the old gentleman continued to look with a firmly interrogating air.

‘Want to know what brings me, Tom? I’ll tell you presently. Hot,—isn’t it?’

‘What the deuce are you taking exercise for?’ the old gentleman burst out, and having unlocked his mouth, he began to puff and alter his posture.

‘There you are, thawed in a minute!’ said Mr. Andrew. ‘What’s an eccentric? a child grown grey. It isn’t mine; I read it somewhere. Ah, here’s the Port! good, I’ll warrant.’

Jonathan deferentially uncorked, excessive composure on his visage. He arranged the table-cloth to a nicety, fixed the bottle with exactness, and was only sent scudding by the old gentleman’s muttering of: ‘Eavesdropping pie!’ followed by a short, ‘Go!’ and even then he must delay to sweep off a particular crumb.

‘Good it is!’ said Mr. Andrew, rolling the flavour on his lips, as he put down his glass. ‘I follow you in Port, Tom. Elder brother!’

The old gentleman also drank, and was mollified enough to reply: ‘Shan’t follow you in Parliament.’

‘Haven’t forgiven that yet, Tom?’

‘No great harm done when you’re silent.’

‘Capital Port!’ said Mr. Andrew, replenishing the glasses. ‘I ought to have inquired where they kept the best Port. I might have known you’d stick by it. By the way, talking of Parliament, there’s talk of a new election for Fallow field. You have a vote there. Will you give it to Jocelyn? There’s talk of his standing.

‘If he’ll wear petticoats, I’ll give him my vote.’

‘There you go, Tom!’

‘I hate masquerades. You’re penny trumpets of the women. That tattle comes from the bed-curtains. When a petticoat steps forward I give it my vote, or else I button it up in my pocket.’

This was probably one of the longest speeches he had ever delivered at the Aurora. There was extra Port in it. Jonathan, who from his place of observation noted the length of time it occupied, though he was unable to gather the context, glanced at Mr. Andrew with a sly satisfaction. Mr. Andrew, laughing, signalled for another pint.

‘So you’ve come here for my vote, have you?’ said Mr. Tom.

‘Why, no; not exactly that,’ Mr. Andrew answered, blinking and passing it by.

Jonathan brought the fresh pint, and Tom filled for himself, drank, and said emphatically, and with a confounding voice:

‘Your women have been setting you on me, sir!’

Andrew protested that he was entirely mistaken.

‘You’re the puppet of your women!’

‘Well, Tom, not in this instance. Here’s to the bachelors, and brother Tom at their head!’

It seemed to be Andrew’s object to help his companion to carry a certain quantity of Port, as if he knew a virtue it had to subdue him, and to have fixed on a particular measure that he should hold before he addressed him specially. Arrived at this, he said:

‘Look here, Tom. I know your ways. I shouldn’t have bothered you here; I never have before; but we couldn’t very well talk it over in business hours; and besides you’re never at the Brewery till Monday, and the matter’s rather urgent.’

‘Why don’t you speak like that in Parliament?’ the old man interposed.

‘Because Parliament isn’t my brother,’ replied Mr. Andrew. ‘You know, Tom, you never quite took to my wife’s family.’

‘I’m not a match for fine ladies, Nan.’

‘Well, Harriet would have taken to you, Tom, and will now, if you ‘ll let her. Of course, it ‘s a pity if she ‘s ashamed of—hem! You found it out about the Lymport people, Tom, and, you’ve kept the secret and respected her feelings, and I thank you for it. Women are odd in those things, you know. She mustn’t imagine I ‘ve heard a whisper. I believe it would kill her.’

The old gentleman shook silently.

‘Do you want me to travel over the kingdom, hawking her for the daughter of a marquis?’

‘Now, don’t joke, Tom. I’m serious. Are you not a Radical at heart? Why do you make such a set against the poor women? What do we spring from?’

‘I take off my hat, Nan, when I see a cobbler’s stall.’

‘And I, Tom, don’t care a rush who knows it. Homo—something; but we never had much schooling. We ‘ve thriven, and should help those we can. We’ve got on in the world…’

‘Wife come back from Lymport?’ sneered Tom.

Andrew hurriedly, and with some confusion, explained that she had not been able to go, on account of the child.

‘Account of the child!’ his brother repeated, working his chin contemptuously. ‘Sisters gone?’

‘They’re stopping with us,’ said Andrew, reddening.

‘So the tailor was left to the kites and the crows. Ah! hum!’ and Tom chuckled.

‘You’re angry with me, Tom, for coming here,’ said Andrew. ‘I see what it is. Thought how it would be! You’re offended, old Tom.’

‘Come where you like,’ returned Tom, ‘the place is open. It’s a fool that hopes for peace anywhere. They sent a woman here to wait on me, this day month.’

‘That’s a shame!’ said Mr. Andrew, propitiatingly. ‘Well, never mind, Tom: the women are sometimes in the way.—Evan went down to bury his father. He’s there now. You wouldn’t see him when he was at the Brewery, Tom. He’s—upon my honour! he’s a good young fellow.’

‘A fine young gentleman, I’ve no doubt, Nan.’

‘A really good lad, Tom. No nonsense. I’ve come here to speak to you about him.’

Mr. Andrew drew a letter from his pocket, pursuing: ‘Just throw aside your prejudices, and read this. It’s a letter I had from him this morning. But first I must tell you how the case stands.’

‘Know more than you can tell me, Nan,’ said Tom, turning over the flavour of a gulp of his wine.

‘Well, then, just let me repeat it. He has been capitally educated; he has always been used to good society: well, we mustn’t sneer at it: good society’s better than bad, you’ll allow. He has refined tastes: well, you wouldn’t like to live among crossing-sweepers, Tom. He ‘s clever and accomplished, can speak and write in three languages: I wish I had his abilities. He has good manners: well, Tom, you know you like them as well as anybody. And now—but read for yourself.’

‘Yah!’ went old Tom. ‘The women have been playing the fool with him since he was a baby. I read his rigmarole? No.’

Mr. Andrew shrugged his shoulders, and opened the letter, saying: ‘Well, listen’; and then he coughed, and rapidly skimmed the introductory part. ‘Excuses himself for addressing me formally—poor boy! Circumstances have altered his position towards the world found his father’s affairs in a bad state: only chance of paying off father’s debts to undertake management of business, and bind himself to so much a year. But there, Tom, if you won’t read it, you miss the poor young fellow’s character. He says that he has forgotten his station: fancied he was superior to trade, but hates debt; and will not allow anybody to throw dirt at his father’s name, while he can work to clear it; and will sacrifice his pride. Come, Tom, that’s manly, isn’t it? I call it touching, poor lad!’

Manly it may have been, but the touching part of it was a feature missed in Mr. Andrew’s hands. At any rate, it did not appear favourably to impress Tom, whose chin had gathered its ominous puckers, as he inquired:

‘What’s the trade? he don’t say.’

Andrew added, with a wave of the hand: ‘Out of a sort of feeling for his sisters—I like him for it. Now what I want to ask you, Tom, is, whether we can’t assist him in some way! Why couldn’t we take him into our office, and fix him there, eh? If he works well—we’re both getting old, and my brats are chicks—we might, by-and-by, give him a share.’