Evan Harrington. Complete

‘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.’

‘Make a brewer of him? Ha! there’d be another mighty sacrifice for his pride!’

‘Come, come, Tom,’ said Andrew, ‘he’s my wife’s brother, and I’m yours; and—there, you know what women are. They like to preserve appearances: we ought to consider them.’

‘Preserve appearances!’ echoed Tom: ‘ha! who’ll do that for them better than a tailor?’

Andrew was an impatient little man, fitter for a kind action than to plead a cause. Jeering jarred on him; and from the moment his brother began it, he was of small service to Evan. He flung back against the partition of the compound, rattling it to the disturbance of many a quiet digestion.

‘Tom,’ he cried, ‘I believe you’re a screw!’

‘Never said I wasn’t,’ rejoined Tom, as he finished his glass. ‘I ‘m a bachelor, and a person—you’re married, and an object. I won’t have the tailor’s family at my coat-tails.’

Do you mean to say, Tom, you don’t like the young fellow? The Countess says he’s half engaged to an heiress; and he has a chance of appointments—of course, nothing may come of them. But do you mean to say, you don’t like him for what he has done?’

Tom made his jaw disagreeably prominent. ‘‘Fraid I’m guilty of that crime.’

‘And you that swear at people pretending to be above their station!’ exclaimed Andrew. ‘I shall get in a passion. I can’t stand this. Here, waiter! what have I to pay?’

‘Go,’ cried the time-honoured guest of the Aurora to Jonathan advancing.

Andrew pressed the very roots of his hair back from his red forehead, and sat upright and resolute, glancing at Tom. And now ensued a curious scene of family blood. For no sooner did elderly Tom observe this bantam-like demeanour of his brother, than he ruffled his feathers likewise, and looked down on him, agitating his wig over a prodigious frown. Whereof came the following sharp colloquy; Andrew beginning:

I ‘ll pay off the debts out of my own pocket.’

‘You can make a greater fool of yourself, then?’

‘He shan’t be a tailor!’

‘He shan’t be a brewer!’

‘I say he shall live like a gentleman!’

‘I say he shall squat like a Turk!’

Bang went Andrew’s hand on the table: ‘I ‘ve pledged my word, mind!’

Tom made a counter demonstration: ‘And I’ll have my way!’

‘Hang it! I can be as eccentric as you,’ said Andrew.

‘And I as much a donkey as you, if I try hard,’ said Tom.

Something of the cobbler’s stall followed this; till waxing furious, Tom sung out to Jonathan, hovering around them in watchful timidity, ‘More Port!’ and the words immediately fell oily on the wrath of the brothers; both commenced wiping their heads with their handkerchiefs the faces of both emerged and met, with a half-laugh: and, severally determined to keep to what they had spoken, there was a tacit accord between them to drop the subject.

Like sunshine after smart rain, the Port shone on these brothers. Like a voice from the pastures after the bellowing of the thunder, Andrew’s voice asked: ‘Got rid of that twinge of the gout, Tom? Did you rub in that ointment?’ while Tom replied: ‘Ay. How about that rheumatism of yours? Have you tried that Indy oil?’ receiving a like assurance.

The remainder of the Port ebbed in meditation and chance remarks. The bit of storm had done them both good; and Tom especially—the cynical, carping, grim old gentleman—was much improved by the nearer resemblance of his manner to Andrew’s.

Behind this unaffected fraternal concord, however, the fact that they were pledged to a race in eccentricity, was present. They had been rivals before; and anterior to the date of his marriage, Andrew had done odd eclipsing things. But Andrew required prompting to it; he required to be put upon his mettle. Whereas, it was more nature with Tom: nature and the absence of a wife, gave him advantages over Andrew. Besides, he had his character to maintain. He had said the word: and the first vanity of your born eccentric is, that he shall be taken for infallible.

Presently Andrew ducked his head to mark the evening clouds flushing over the court-yard of the Aurora.

‘Time to be off, Tom,’ he said: ‘wife at home.’

‘Ah!’ Tom answered. ‘Well, I haven’t got to go to bed so early.’

‘What an old rogue you are, Tom!’ Andrew pushed his elbows forward on the table amiably. ‘Gad, we haven’t drunk wine together since—by George! we’ll have another pint.’

‘Many as you like,’ said Tom.

Over the succeeding pint, Andrew, in whose veins the Port was merry, favoured his brother with an imitation of Major Strike, and indicated his dislike to that officer. Tom informed him that Major Strike was speculating.

‘The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt.’

‘Just tell him that you’re putting by the bones for him. He ‘ll want ‘em.’

Then Andrew with another glance at the clouds, now violet on a grey sky, said he must really be off. Upon which Tom observed: ‘Don’t come here again.’

‘You old rascal, Tom!’ cried Andrew, swinging over the table: ‘it’s quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more. ‘Gad!—no, we won’t though! I promised—Harriet. Eh? What say, Tom?’

‘Nother pint, Nan?’

Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way. Andrew, from a shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the two brothers—a jolly picture.

The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom’s remark, that he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging, left the Aurora; and he left it singing a song. Tom Cogglesby still sat at his table, holding before him Evan’s letter, of which he had got possession; and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the forefinger, to the tune of, ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, ‘pothecary, ploughboy, thief’; each profession being sounded as a corner presented itself to the point of his nail. After indulging in this species of incantation for some length of time, Tom Cogglesby read the letter from beginning to end, and called peremptorily for pen, ink, and paper.